Cécile says:

His Imperial Grace had summoned the Court —and the rear yard, too— to that new venue on Saint Geneviève Hill, in the vicinity of the Pantheon temple. Through a porch under a nondescript Haussmann tenement, attended by the well-acquainted hunks of our liege’s security detail. A deep purple doormat had been drawn to the doorstep, followed by a stylised river mosaic floor, with jumping fish. A red and yellow ocher Pompeian faux-marbre decor with stucco pillars, scattered with whimsical swirls, and a disorderly fauna of monkeys and paradise birds, altogether the umpteenth degree of a pastiche, under apocalyptical skies painted on the ceiling. It smelled of all Gauthier’s mastery, in the flickering light of fake silk flames in bright copper sconces.
I was proud of my Hanseatic cavalier, who had definitively vindicated the fierce little girl behind the low expanded-metal grid, the only smelly air vent to the cubbyhole where she read her discarded magazines, swanning with me, nude on a leash at the Panopticum, at Albertine’s, or in King Solomon’s Mines, where the most cunning Trine had been the hostess, on Louis’s estate, a wing stroke from Paris. Lauritz wouldn’t have done that on his own turf, at Speck’s, where he taped my exploits, unbeknownst to Hugo or anyone but Sarah.
Once upon a night in the Seine’s cruise boats’ lights, lucubrating at pauses in a still blood-whipping episode, he had fantasised about unabashedly advertising me as the available pleasure slave, under his watch; I would wear this purple maroquin mask he had commissioned bespoke a few months back —letting me suss it was some long-haul fantasy— with see-through bee’s-like eyes and eventual shuttering lids. Thus I had been duly belt-flogged, bound and done all the nasty manhandling that powerful brutes crave, like pissing into my mouth and butthole. When I had thrown in the towel, he had thoroughly rinsed me, still in my harness, and driven his silent car to those meeting places where I would again show my arse behind the armoured glass while swallowing his ultimate discharge.
Seeing me dip my morning biscuits in my sloven overalls Would Cyprien ever surmise how depraved my nights were? It had been good fun when I had lured Jana, another gainly catch of Sarah’s when she had earnestly worked three days at Caroline’s, the pleasure house in Zürich, set up by her school bestie Ayla —probably underwritten by His Limitless Grace, whom she had come to know when he had taken care of her companion Esther, who had been trashed by a mad cokehead in a hotel room. Jana had been born a harlot, the daughter of a harlot with the UN peacekeepers in Macedonia; her beauty was more a lucky strike by a Northern Slavic gene brought by the soldiers than the likeness with the Ancient blond Greeks. Once she had dropped her tracksuit, and swayed her hips, the constant draughtsman had yawned in awe. It had been fun to watch, but I had sensed I should clear any misunderstanding, thus I drew her to the kitchen table for coffee and tell her that Cyprien had portrayed all the fauna in our magic garden, in such a manner that she grasped he did not shag them in return. Jana was a brilliant little tramp.
Somewhat revived by Lauritz’s massages along my loin —and a wildflower-smelling oil he had used— I relished the whimsical decor that led us to some manner of a round foyer, behind glass doors, with two opposite counters attended to by tempting young extras in white shirts. Faded red trompe-l’oeil curtains were painted between faux-marbre columns, and a gilded cornice framed a fairytale sky with multicoloured ribbons fluttering from a flying flower wreath. A flock of free blue butterflies flitted around us; for Delff’s little gang of imps, they had already unclothed to sense the flying jewels land upon their bare chest, and their toyish diddle shivered up so prettily that I wanked it playfully. Lauritz was exhilarated, he had not yet really acquainted with Michelle’s closer entourage, the genteel, though discombobulated little court who haunted the princely attics, at most times au naturel. Delff had become the undisputed chamberlain of the game Michelle relished to sense around her when she unplugged her immeasurable brain —she knew perfectly what manner of shelter she bestowed the pretty gang of misfits, Sarah had seen her weep at Delff’s earlier misfortunes.
A black usher beckoned us into a sort of dim-lit Disney ballroom surrounded by rows of gilded columns supporting a portico beyond which unfurled a furious orgy worthy of Giulio Aristide Sartorio across the one-flight vaulted ceiling. The room was the size of a tennis court, I could not believe Gauthier, even with the limitless might of His Gracious Whims, had engineered such a grand folly, but there we stood, sitting in three rows of separate new mohair armchairs —just like those you find at the Théatre Des Champs Elysées— staring at a bare navy black polished floor. I caught myself smiling at the crowds, tentatively sorting who might have not yet frigged me.

Some manner of a low podium was raised in the middle of the far side, with a grand piano and sundry musicians’ pieces of equipment, among which Malo’s sleek white cello box. Now I twigged that Delff had snuck into the chair on Lauritz’s left, and I sniggered apart that it served him right, and I knew the little devil was a cunning lovemaker, to say the least. At the first glance that she turned at me, I winked and nodded.
When the amused rustle in the rows started to soothe down —and Delff’s dainty hand was already in Lauritz’s fly— the concealed lines of lights in the cornice dawned up a mite, and I sussed that the earnestly splendid decor on the vault might be a huge digital print pasted up, I had read that about the Venetian Hotel in Las Vegas. Not my trade, but I had to concede that, seen from some distance, it was worth the trick, and Gauthier would seldom botch an effect; as a matter of fact, as we all awaited idle, we applauded. Melchior sat across from us, wooing his current paramour Jana, merely clad in diamonds and pearls, as fit.
In a hazy beam of aquamarine light, Malo walked onstage, holding Rachel’s hand, both naked as daffodils. Rachel wore her hair braided with gold foliages and a twinkling anklet; Malo let her dark acajou long strands flow upon her shoulders. They were greeted heartily; behind them appeared Finlan, in a fitted violet velvet suit, and a marigold yellow tee shirt. I heard Gwen heckling about her love for him.
To my almost well-tempered ears, that loose logic trio had practised in their mannerism. As a soloist —a bush-telephone commendation for habitués of high-rolling artsy debauchery— Malo had hovered, unleashed in crystalline spheres, with the bow sleight of a lone glass-blower; then she had yielded to the cravings of that foolhardy violinist whom Gauthier had randomly hired for a concert at his château warming, of sorts.
Then, it had happened that Malo’s cello twirls had wakened sympathetic strings in Josephine’s nerves and, by a contagion of souls, to the carnivorous sprightliness of parricide angel Emeline. After Malo’s brilliant initial, soon underlined by Rachel’s acute harmonies and Finlan’s muted chords. Our pet dancers pranced into the light, scantily dressed in multicoloured ribbons tied to their braided coifs.
Albeit the troupe’s training floor be close to my workshop, and just a storey above the swimming pool where I go frolic and flirt quite easily when I have my fill of painstaking brushwork, I had not been made aware of their inspirational and technical evolution, and all I had paid attention to was the assiduous presence of ginger Finlan on electric piano —because I had not yet cornered him into the privacy of my cubbyhole, and his laid-back attitude caused me a big crush— also when he would shag the dancers in the water, letting filaments of clotted semen floating, slack little rascal he was.
Like all I could sense of the audience, all of them more or less obligated to Melchior’s might, and already in the know of his infatuation for this eerie manner of ballet —many of us had seen some early stages at the Laforest sisters’— was gleeful awe. The girls were as nymphic as Lalique’s crystal pipe dreams, and their allures as deliberate as those of a hunting cheetah.
Like most, I had effusive memories of these gracile bellies, they had come pose on my sofa to be drawn by Cyprien at Melchior’s generous expense, hadn’t they? And I had exhausted every chakra in me to see them squirt upon my private rug, I kept them legendary among my recollections, a speck of me was whirling into the light, now.
Insensibly, Finlan had drifted to an electronic instrument beside him and snaked along Malo’s spinning phrases, like gold in Mucha’s arabesques. The sylphic little tramps then gave us sequences of striking synchronicity, waking our minds from the mere fish tank meditation we had indulged in, like mouthing secrets to the magical axolotls in the Jardin Des Plantes.
Had they really written a proper score? Or had they invented some mnemonics to unfurl their tale of beauty through our mesmerised souls? The audience went breathless —bar Lauritz who was deep into Delff’s throat, I let my hand rummage through her short curls. That lasted the time for happy tears to roll down many friendly cheeks, and eventually concluded in complete black, through which we hurled our bravos.
I might have been emotional, and the chairs on my left were now empty. A smooth hand slid along my neckline while another pulled me up aside, and I let myself along with a masked black-suited unknown who smelled of rich Cologne and was drawing me irresistibly to the fire escape door. Brusque adventures weren’t unheard of in such portentous gatherings, and the sight of a duo of fluttering smooth labia caught in the crystal of music had unnerved my will to the point of longing for a secret cellar session with a merciless truncheon.

The transport was on par with the best elopements I had enjoyed since I had joined this libertine confederacy. It was a silent midnight blue berline with an impassive black driver, and no sooner had I penetrated the cabin than I found myself swiftly denuded on the plush blue velvet. Under the fitted black mat mask, he showed closely shaven luscious lips, faultless teeth, and a swirling rosy tongue that wouldn’t shy from my tight bud.
Calling me my name, he had fetched in his thin wallet a black card I knew very well, and my app greenlighted it. Anyhow, the whole setup had been so neat that my only question was who had sold me out to that stag I craved to shag full steam anyhow. Under the dickey of a silken collarless shirt, the young stud grew gentle black hair, and I did not waver to unbutton my way down to his manhood in full swing. Unexpectedly, we stopped at a traffic light, and the driver of a nearby truck could take a happy eyeful at us in the act.
We must have reached some highway, the ride became steadier; the chauffeur kept a keen eye on me, too, when my captor ordered me to straddle his considerable spur rearwards, exposing my middle parts in bloom. In my lustful savvy, that foreboded the black stooge wouldn’t sit driving for always.
He had made me splash twice before discharging in the depth of my entrails with a bear grunt. The car had stilled in the moonlight in the middle of a dark farmyard. He called “his boy Gaetan”, warning him not to spoil his livery, meaning I saw coming a splendid black sheeny phantom who began a strain to encroach into my womb with a slippery cosh I had probably better not have seen at first. Rubbing against his boss’ weapon through my guts linings at the same pace as his relaxed driving, he made us both whine like maddened puppies before gushing his peppered goo.
I could have cuddled up and dozed out, not caring about whatever I might let drip onto these unexpected luxuries, but two vigorous arms bore me inside the austere main abode through a low-lintel heavy door. What looked like a guards’ room, all neat ashlar limestone under a beamed ceiling, scarce stained-glass windows, and time-worn slabs surprisingly warm and clean. Nought of any decor; concealed lighting responded indolently to a hand clapping.
I took off my shoes, and a redressed Gaetan took them with the rest of my belongings into a closed storage room. Spent and sticky, I felt somewhat miserable stretching my loins at my victor’s fingertips, but he led me to a water room where he joined me under a tepid rain shower and lathered my every nook, bar my vagina, and asked me to piss upon him casually. The mask held to the water, and in the dry corner were stacks of multicoloured towels, the soap had left a scent of cut hay. He had remained erect, asking for my mouth a few times, holding my hands as I sat down on my heels like a well-trained girl, and then hugging me and necking endlessly like a schoolboy.
Passed an obscure vestibule, we entered a larger hall furnished with sundry Chesterfield maroon sofas and Persian rugs just like your customary boy’s club. And indeed, a dozen masked gents wallowed in the raw, sipping their glasses, each with a girl of pleasure just like me, looking down like guilty innocents. They wore different manners of restraints, padded harnesses, arrays of chains, or leather corsets; all were beautiful and looked aroused to see me. I was shown around under my name, smelled, palpated, and then harnessed with luxury saddlery, dog collar, belt, cuffs and anklets equipped with many metal rings and locked. I was spared the snaffle that I saw a blonde desperately bite.
I was then seized by a gang of the other girls and swiftly attached by means of snap links onto a large ottoman, my head maintained like a horse’s between two chains, my thighs wide open. The girls, who had doubtlessly lived through the same retribution, did not refrain from manhandling at their whim whatever I could no more defend, bantering about my being naughty in the car trip. I sensed agile tongues in my bumhole, with comments that it tasted of someone’s semen.
My mouth was forced by a sturdy stump out of a thorny bush as the brute held my nape; he had been so aroused by my submission that he soon splurted his acme with a taste of soapy cardamom. Only time to gulp in and he was replaced by a longer, circumcised one, who had heard his heated comments in some unrecognisable sabir. Meanwhile, I was relentlessly buggered with puffs, panting, and mannerly lewd comments. Some applied themselves to trigger more orgasms, and feminine hands twiddled my clit like rich boarders to the same end.
After a wild round of being the pommel horse, I passed out. And I woke back tied face up, my head dangling at the edge, my pubis flush at the other end, and the feel of the enema hose in my arse. With the belt attached, I could move even less than before. My return was hailed with bawdy compliments and fluttering girly kisses.

I was sleeping in that breeze of a car with Gaetan at the wheel, clothed just as I remembered, smelling of jasmine and rose, my crotch fresh and quiet, when my telephone rang the first measures of the well-tempered clavier. I never felt like making it stop, but I needed to communicate with a real someone, no offence to a black stooge. Sarah had been anxious about my total eclipse, and my telephone was off. She ran down and saw me in that extravagant carriage which glided away as soon as I was on foot.
Sarah looked hard at me and sussed a fraction of what I had been embroiled into, she joshed that I had interesting rings to my eyes and called me slut; I had been incommunicado for two full days. She said my breath was light as a litchi sherbet. I was famished, we hurried to the workshop where Cyprien was overjoyed to see me alive. I started the percolator and fetched a box of langues de chats.
In the darkness that fell at the end of the ballet, nobody had seen anything of my elopement, the emergency door was unguarded, and the CCTV was not yet functional. Thus, the only clue I had was that my raptor carried a black card and I had checked for it, we would ask Sami about the masked bugger, once I could cope with another trip to Philippe’s. Listening to the details that re-emerged, I sensed Sarah’s mind was split between the angst I had begotten and the excesses she could have hurled herself into as rashly.
All I had been let to gulp down in the course of my brainless defilement had been semen, piss, and plain water, plus likely hazardous pills, thus my regained soaked biscuits tasted of godly confectionary —just like when my offish parents allowed that I took my mug and cookies to my hideaway. Thinking of that, right after recounting my total abandon, must have made me look dotty, but Cyprien kept mum as always when it came to our many hijinks. Upon the second pack of langues de chat, he floated we might consider posing together for him on the sofa, and he wouldn’t mind us chattering our hearts free.
When Sarah disrobed me, she was relieved to behold no sores or bruises upon my mere body, attesting that my captors wouldn’t have been called boors, at least. That sofa, on which I endeavoured to lure all the pretty little arses that the lustful republic reaped afield constantly, had been as elaborately engineered as that of the Princess on a so-called pea that had fascinated my unfortunate childhood in a dingy copy of Edmund Dulac’s picture book for the Red Cross I kept in my burrow; it was basically a bed, a bourgeois boat bed with a buttoned backboard, fitted with priceless bespoke base and mattress, covered with puffy eiderdown cushions, all Gauthier could fetch to incentivise all of us to let drown in Bach’s faerie counterpoint and harmony.
Cyprien patiently explained the pose he wished, notwithstanding the unavoidable effect my coffee would exert on our morning innards, sooner or later; Sarah lived beyond such contingencies, her father had taught her tea, only she relished playing pee in the shower.
I had seldom been a model in Cyprien’s eye, he wouldn’t dare divert me from my work for which he still sensed a drive for responsibility, under Camille’s oversight; but he knew Sarah had clout as to my free will, and for once he savoured the sight of a body he usually forgot, bundled-up into my overalls, even at times when I let be seen I was naked inside. Thus, this morning, when we came back from the water room, and we had wedged ourselves pretty, Sarah pressed along my back, our legs entwined and her hand on my tummy, Cyprien looked so intense Sarah whispered he should be in love with me.
I dozed out quite a few times, and none of my daydreams was nightmarish, were it not for our beloved ballerinas dancing above a solitary lake, ogled at by a mixed tribe of icicles creatures tinkling like a harpsichord, my constant fright being the crystals shattering at any wrong note.
Delff came up, with a box of honey-dripping pistachio puff pastries. They had worried, too, when nobody knew where I was. At the end of the show, they had followed Lauritz to his ritzy island lust emporium, thus their notion of the 911 knight had evolved to that of a palatable playmate, and they pulled out all the stops for him, then Delff had called herself a car back home, once he had cried for mercy.

Sarah says:

Certainly no manner of a babe in the woods myself, I wondered what would click me to follow some unexpected Fantomas to his extravagant berline and possibly fall into definitive slavery. Right, Cecile was let vet the raptor’s black card, plus he smelled good and possessed an irresistible sleight, to start with.
Now, lightly enlaced in her own made bird trap, I could smell a hint of depravity in her hair, or was it the scent of her mind? Delff had made a white and gold apparition, so as not only to check on Cecile, but also to brag about having tickled swords with Lauritz in his lair, they were an amazing jack of all trades.
By the time Cyprien had surrendered his dainty arms, I was resolute to meet Sami —whatever aside— and scrutinise Fantomas’s records, and that new Covenant-in-the-fields everything-goes stag club. Once her fog had lifted, all Cecile needed to coffer another purgatory night was my company. The weather was mellow, we dressed as worldly savages, her in a maroon moiré double-breasted blazer with satin lapels, black veil hold-up stockings with lace welt, snazzy black patent leather penny loafers, a black silk velvet dog collar with an onyx cameo stitched to it —she was little more than nude. I donned one of my military gala jackets, refitted by our Gianni, black whipcord, high collar, silver swash trimmings and buttons, violet twill lining; same stockings as hers, black patent flat opera pumps, and a black Victorian beadwork choker.
We pulled out the potent perfume extracts, she had been whelmed with expensive fragrances by her flamboyant paramour, cleverly inspired around Russian leather and pipe tobacco, iris and innocence. I unearthed a splendid creation by Hugo himself in my own name, some metrosexual magnet concocted at the time Camille had let go of me to his home, and he had blessed me with only a spun-glass-like obsession; in these days, Katherine was squandering her life in the extravagant realm of Victor and his mindboggling drugs —she was about to flee to Berlin along with that Vogel bitch. Anyhow, I had stopped wearing that fragrance because it acted like a free pass for all these students I had no appetite for; I had preferred to smell British soaps and pretend I loved girls —which wouldn’t be false. Now it worked in the original manner with Cecile, but did we need this?
We literally panicked our driver to the Palais Royal, who almost went into hyperventilation, I tipped him on top of letting him obsess his eyeballs for the night. The dining room downstairs was full and promising, Sami ushered us to the low ceiling entresol, where we could have access to the secret stairs as well. He served us poached eggs with creamed morels and polenta, then crisp chestnut mousse with vanilla curd in small tartlets, along with a pitcher of chilled oolong tea. In her corner of the banquette, Cecile let her jacket gape, a young waiter returned for nothing a few times.
Sami led us to his cramped personal office, where I could take a glance for the first time at the intricate array of security contraptions plugged into some manner of private back-office management behind firewalls. As we watched, while fondling each other, his operating legerdemain, I quivered to learn that all of my delectable customary moral slackness had been recorded —the matter would be: for whom? Besides all the convenient two-way mirrors. Sami joshed that it was all encoded, only in case of a mishap. He asked for my bestie’s card and disclosed the inquiry Cecile had made to vet her raptor, who had been cleared a week before in a London clinic; The machine wouldn’t tell who he was, but Sami had an idea what this stag club was, but all intel about it was restricted, it would entertain real powerful men and expensive escorts —as showed the balance of our secret accounts. For a reason, he seized my waist under my blazer, embraced me, and said I should ask myself the One Almighty how an abduction could have been engineered from his own gala room and not be for his personal benefit, Sami said that I and all of my best buddies were held in particularly attentive consideration, thus, we should go taunt him in this flair of attire we wore that night.
He asked Cecile to undress and show herself, so she obliged but accounted that although they had been more than a mad dozen, they had not bruised or injured her, using all the proper preparations, then she also confessed to having orgasmed indefinitely till swoon, only waking conveniently at our door in that night-blue otherworldly carriage driven by a most dashing black man. Sami wondered if she had served him, too, thus she recounted the prelude to her instant moral dismemberment, and laughed before he understandably embraced her, and I freed his beloved circumcised dick that tasted of bitter almond.
There existed a leather bed in a recess behind the office, of the kind I had experimented with hotels’ key holders —and let be wallowed on, lecherously, half-willingly. He licked over Cecile’s candid face, mumbling she was all my sisterly, not wearing disgusting paint to her skin, nor anywhere.

After he had satiated himself of Cecile’s febrile jewels, and showed us to a bijou washroom that he bantered it had been like so since before the French Revolution, he offered to introduce us to the new salon, restored after Phillipe’s Consortium bought and reclaimed a block of tinkered apartments in the volume of a glory days brothel; there might happen we know who was fanning the gossip about the novelty herein.
Indeed, they had reclaimed an inner volume with a distressed Pompeian decor, patched and mended like a multi-centenary Boro Coat, artfully touched up and dusted to render it breathable, furnished with gracefully mismatched Parisian set replicas, like basket-sofas with puffy down cushions, wingback tufted loveseats, cushioned voyeur chairs, and sundry japaned legged trays supporting the samovar or the wine coolers. A British burgundy and tan acanthus pattern carpeting achieved a Belle Epoque schmalzy taste fit for the prelude to wantonness.
In the vertiginous, heavy, loose kimono of a bona fide madam, my suave temptress Liselotte leapt up to us amidst the orchard of available graces of whom I could already name a few.
Liselotte embraced Cecile and rummaged unabashedly under our jackets. Then she decided we looked a trifle too candid for the trade, thus she drew us to the soon-to-be-famous powder room, entirely clad with rose-gold mosaics, where she helped us exaggerate the bit of mascara and kindle up the blush, we only accepted some lip gloss, I hate lipstick kisses. She found Cecile’s coochie irresistible, capsized her into my arms to steal a taste, and hummed that she had been used just newly.
In the Salon, all manners of gentlemen prowled around our immodest comrades letting their merry slots be glanced at; one of them took pride in being pumped standing by some valiant girl, who happened to be our Seresine, at the risk of earning a soiled fly to his trousers, which did not happen, Liselotte’s girls officiate properly.
After she deftly demonstrated to the male attendees that we owned valid slut cred, she let us cuddle each other in an oxblood velvet tufted sofa, until an Asian man, straddling a voyeur chair, asked us to do things and part our legs. His hands were feathery soft on our thighs, I recognised him as Gwen’s yachtsman, and he read that in my eyes, mutely. He took us both to one of those bijou rooms of Philippe’s where he peeled us fully to start with nibbling our toes in front of the mirrors making Cecile wriggle like a puppy, then he told her to poke her tongue in my butt as he buggered her to the rim of his tautened rattle, then he told her to lick him while he served me the same arietta, unfailingly; she fancied to tickle my rosy bit while she made him yowl at the tip of her tongue, so eagerly that she made me overflow like Tivoli, no less.
He revelled in bathing with us, the turquoise bathtub in the same colour faceted tiled-clad bathroom held us all three. He wanted us to tell Gwen how fondly he remembered her, and we find a way to bring her over, the next night. He had granted a fat fare to entertain us, it wouldn’t let Gwen shy, anyhow. He ordered some tea and chit-chated about what we let him figure out of our life, he recounted his cruise life on his yacht from Greece to the Baltic, and his hunt for ship’s girls, it had been such a feast when he had boarded Gwen —nobody knew her age, anyway. I thought about which kind of a lifestyle Gwen had put her in Kate’s armsway, and fancied that she might agree to score again an old saviour, possibly with me.
Cecile had a message from Lauritz she sussed as some licentious invite to a private party at Speck’s, expanding his invite to me also, for more fun. I told Sami of all the praise we sensed about the new venue, and that we would be back soon. Our fragrances might have been less heady, in the car towards the island, but it was fortunate that the chauffeur had not much to watch for bar his panoramic rearview, we even granted him a heartfelt sapphic intermezzo. Once arrived, he ran to hold the door to us, for a last free peep.
The majordome ushered us swiftly to the noble ballroom where Cecile and I had met, a few ravishing seasons back, this was the place, if any, where I felt the proudest of her, and I soughed it to her pretty ear. We made a palpable impression on the swanky crowd in costly togs, we pecked a few amuse-gueules under a spay of white lupines that hailed my still elfish heart. Pitchers of Kombucha marked a win for Cecile who had represented that pretty damsels needed not to be drunk so as to fornicate properly, hence bottles of the fuzzy beverage had been ordered at Agnete og Sanne.
Lauritz wore black, a collarless suit of the most superlative blend of Italian fabric and tailoring, and a clasped-up shirt with onyx buttons; I had not shagged him so often, I swayed my hips in my jacket’s gap. Cecile read that and laughed. A few of the well-heeled amateurs, not yet fixed by another pretty tramp, gave us the eye as they would in all gallantry, but there were other ventures on our mood board, so it seemed.

Once he sensed we had binged enough, with regards to our silhouette —he would never say that— he walked us to the private apartment one flight up, where I realised I had never partied. Under the original willow green ceiling roamed by life-size stucco water nymphs —tending to suggest a long-time vocation of the house —or at least its owners. The walls were panelled with straw marquetry that Cecile had spent months mending, sizing, and burnishing new straw she had ordered, tincted, split, and flattened ready. As she couldn’t help grazing the sheeny surface, I was reminded of the chrysalide I had wooed at first when she was perched on a scaffold, and I saw nought of her, proper.
Lauritz asked we quit our shoes and stockings, I couldn’t agree more. A tourist barge drifted by beyond the poplar trees and cast shards of otherworldly lights, Lauritz reminded our first night together. He beckoned us to stretch down next to him in one of the two vieux-rose mohair velvet four-sitter sofas; from behind Dunand black and gold “angels fight” lacquered screens hovered some slow gamelan threnody. From the centre of the ceiling hung a large, arborescent patinated bronze chandelier, bearing agate fruit and gold-touched bent-out leaves, low enough not to shy off the nymphs. It projected phantasmatic shadows in the course of the running rays; somewhat jaded, Lauritz mumbled these would be the last ones tonight.
If we could have fancied affording him a grand special, he forewarned we expected visitors. Soon, soft knocks from the vestibule called him up, leaving us like the pair of night ladies we enjoyed playing. Two stone-face, crew-cut hunks in black polyester suits and college ties avoided looking at us while searching the room with eager eyes, and then one couldn’t help a split-second peep at my crotch before they ran.
Two mild-mannered German corporate types followed, probably on the greenlight of their security detail, rubbing hands at the sight of us, cuddling for show. They spoke in mock Schleswigisch, so I retorted in mock Sydslesvigdansk, which stunned them and broke the ice, although I wasn’t as fluent as I bragged. Lauritz introduced them as Alfvir and Egill, school buddies of his, influential politikers, stationed in Brussels. As they helped us disrobe entirely, a waiter knocked and pushed a cart with drinks and snacks; I knew the boy, he had been a kind lovemaker once or twice with each of us, in the wee hours, Lauritz condoned that, it made the staff all the more trustworthy —if we enjoyed it.
They sipped champagne from a silver cooler, and Lauritz served us elderflower Kombucha in crystal highballs. One of them had a crush on my Danish feet with midnight blue nails, the other already nuzzled into Cecile’s crotch and groaned at how delicious she was. Lauritz had slunk away in a breath. My Edelman knew of a bedroom in the Master suite, he led me to it by the hand.
The ceiling was also in Italian stucco, a lifesize Venus hovering in drapes with her hips aslant, an adolescent cherub daringly kissing her nipple, causing her to roll her eyes like a Roman Maddalena. The fringed hems of the plaster drapery rimmed the cornice unevenly, atop the vermillion moire of the walls, upon which were hung a collection of ribald reverse paintings on glass, in gilt frames. The low square bed pushed against a black satin deep button-tufted headrest; in the head corners stood a pair of seated gilt bronze bodhisattvas absorbed in contemplative gestures, half-life-size, ready to condone the weirdest of yoga. The small window was blocked by lewd-motives gilt claustra panels and the copper air vents figured dancing Shiva in open work. It smelled of sweet benzoin, the bed throw was of stitched black terry, falling down to the maroon carpet.
My polite Ritter watched me detail the decor, and I sussed there would be cameras at every angle, at Lauritz’s whim. He returned to a more civil German accent to vaunt my androgynous plastic in all angles before I unclothed him. He wore dark blue paisley trunks from where his Balmung already escaped with a pearly drop at the tip. He rummaged in my curls and pinched my chin, wondering where I might have grown up, thus I served him chapter and verse of my cosmopolitan glory, letting only a slight hunch of my lineage fog my banter. I would suspect that such a modern restatement of Das Narrenschiff as our beloved Saint Loup would not befit his German Geist. His eyes drifted aside from my stare, his own flight of dark birds had raised over the fir hilltops.
Meandering over my body and limbs, licking the veins under my skin, unhurried to assume any reciprocal coition, albeit I could handle his very tauten want, he stuttered eventually that I reminded him of a long-bygone passion he had fostered for a younger student boy at his Gymnasium, although he had never tried to reach out, if bizarre might seem his repeated insensibly longer glances than normal. I jested about a case of transfantasy.

I dropped matter-of-factly that he wouldn’t vex or hurt me if he treated me like a boy, I could revel in both ways, if well done. He played dumb, but when I nonchalantly presented my candid bottom and suggested where the Swiss Navy hid, I heard his breath jostle. It took him no time, amongst the sparse furniture, to guess for the small drawers in the Bodhisatwas’ plinths. He still murmured all the nasty words he would never had spoken to his younger age bashful passion. Since he had smothered me with compliments, I could afford him some of what I had been told of being good at, as Lauritz would have probably foreseen.
About the time when he dared bugger me goodly, the other two merrymakers came to wallow next to us, top to tail as Cecile wanted to lick my coochie in reciprocate while her Knappe boy had no qualms threading her beloved rosette as they found the Leman fleet on the bed. She was a furious little cub, I responded as a wired nipper with a lolly, wriggling our bums with eleganz and then letting ourselves unleash the timely spurts attuned with the lava flows in our entrails.
My paramour let his heart flutter unabashedly out of its cage, calling me corny names and frizzing my curls under the shower where we displayed some heartfelt sapphic figures and let them overbid their want in a vice-versa manner. My buddy pouted in despise, hoping I would not swap; I bantered lightly that my friend Cecile also made a brilliant tomboy, with only these two pert little macarons around her rosy sugar tits I never grew myself.
Alfvir, my new cavalier, fetched the tray and they had Champagne, Cecile had grasped Egill’s little caprice, thus she swanked her bum and acted like a no-fuss working girl. But howbeit his disappointment towards me, He would not either frankly shun the candid little buns on her chest. My Alfvir seized my feet as his toys and read my relish; his aquamarine eyes drilled into mine fixedly,I wondered if we had already met somehow, but he woke back to life and playfully crept up to my quim. Of a dry sinewy build, he cast an impression of mastery, and Cecile’s mood had shown he was a delicate swordsman against whom she hadn’t had to fend, but merely dance, unsweating. Now she played yet a different ship’s boy to alleviate another same uncurable nostalgia in a rich Norseman’s soul.
Mine asked me to revive the failing spear, and I took that as a reproach, thus I betted my pride in pumping it back alive till he made me stop and open my thighs, if only to show his comrade the glory of shagging a pretty jewel slot, full-face. And indeed, he was a skilled swordsman, he slid in with grace, in a few thrusts, to go bustle the smile of my womb. A proud smile bloomed on his mouth when I gushed the froth of my pleasure, triggering his deep inner flow. Still erect in me, he collapsed nicely so as to face me up and read my eyes as he dwindled; I mumbled I might relish seeing him again, thus he pressed his forehead on mine.
Visibly, Cecile regretted the swap; after she had cooed with a gallant Adonis, she resented being used like a slag, although she had played the part many times for Lauritz’s vice. I cuddled her in the running streams and promised I would sleep with her. Lauritz appeared in a mottled silk robe, saying the two huskies at the door were losing their patience, hence our odd pair slipped in their threads and shoes and clicked their heels. Lauritz was amused by our puzzled faces, we pretended to keep wiping each other; he pushed us to a sofa, cajoled each one lightly and casually told us that we wouldn’t need or want to know who the Ritters were, but they had granted us a copious reward, in that fat manila envelope. He rejoiced himself that we had serviced two offsprings of the higher-ups with such skills, and he hurled himself to suck Cecile’s pearly slit rabidly.
Homunculus looked radiant upon us, but Cecile wasn’t happy. She said I sounded irresistible in German but she had felt shunned, or scorned, fucked like a mop. It was a bedtime comedy, she loved me in the mighty face of the Crow God. She proposed that we spent our hard-earned stash in Italy, from the Pinacoteca Brera to the legendary town of Pienza with a main stopover in Siena and others at will. Would I drive? Done.
On waking, she was gone, leaving me her nightshirt to sniff and a little note on the kitchen table; she needed three days to put her work on standby. I cooked some French toasts like there was a family around, and effectively, the smell of cooking butter, vanilla, and cinnamon brought a half-gruffly butt-naked Kate, followed by Emeline and Gwen sleepwalking; they all smelled like naughty brats in the box trees, they almost stole the wind out of my sails, as I was trying to make sense of the train routes to Milan. Kate had a better knowledge of escapade planning, as a matter of fact, Gwen and she had pins and needles in their legs, lately. With sugar on her desirable lips, she advised me to go ask for the Melchior Phoenix.

His Worldly Highness summoned me that night, manner to afford our airfare, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to bring on my travel mate, he had noticed her closer at the Mendelssohnn mansion while appraising the collection —and he had sussed she wallowed in Zev’s sheets, by chance. It was warm, and knowing what we were headed to, she slid on the flimsiest of silk jersey tank dresses of purplish blue sheen, a priceless whim of her ever paramour, and barefoot sandals only to jump the gutter. She smelled of magnolia like a dream on Isola Bella, her nails were deep purple; I helped her clasp an Années Folles choker of small platinum plates beset with celestial aquamarines. Thus, I would have bought her for all the kerosene in the desert. I donned a papal white Super 200s double-breasted wool blazer, lighter than a dandelion ball, and one-strap white suede flat sandals; my nails were iridescent black, I smelled of Fiorentine iris, and I put on a necklace of proud sapphires and onyx in white gold with the matching anklet.
Cecile craved fondling me under the gold satin lining; no sooner had we jumped into the majestic carriage than I lifted her hem to the waist. The chauffeur gave us a connoisseur’s eye. In a matter of a short pantomime, we stopped in a garden somewhere high above the rustling city. From the lower cobbled yard, gentle brick steps led to a maze of rose tunnels, mauve and white wisterias, morning glory, honeysuckle, and clematis, not forgetting the datura trumpets and their otherworldly scent.
A shy half-moon was rising afar in the suspicious breath of the town, but a simpering breeze through the trellis let us gaze in simple bliss. Melchior sat amidst an arbour of peachy cream Martha Stewart roses, in an elaborate white wicker furniture set of loveseats and pedestal tables bearing rococo bronze chandeliers and frosty crystal ewers.
In a muffed tone of his otherwise imperious voice, he coquetted already about our faultless elegance. He sat us on both sides of him, on chintz cushions, mislaying his hands recklessly, like he owned us, no doubt. He asked us about our travel, thus Cecile recounted all the Italian riches she craved to imprint in her mind, and besides she was excited to go in couple with me again, recalling our conquest of Florence with fond memories. Melchior was chuffed and agreed to our program, he added there would be a Tesla car waiting for us in Milan, and he began to hitch up Cecile’s dress entirely, for what she wriggled to help. He begged for kisses, she obliged willingly.
Melchior wore an ample dark gold satin robe over a pristine white linen shirt to his feet in white stockings and monogrammed slippers, as he held Cecile’s chin at his fingertips, I went fetch for his faltering manhood because that’s what we do, isn’t it? Then I sensed my vesture being gently peeled off and some skilled hands kneading my bum. That was the etiquette, although I could assert my efforts weren’t in vain, I should be served by one of his perfect hunks, and so would Cecile as willingly. He might demand a second lip service later, but he relished first watching the squad ride us.
When all you have to care about is following the waltz head over heels, you may feel like the chords in a guitar and fly, and smile indefinitely to the puppetmaster. He wouldn’t indulge in requiring creepy chores, and none of us ever returned from his multiverse peeved. I did not notice when he left the garden, the whole corps de ballet was unleashed, they could lull me all their wish. So foreseeably, we woke in the wee hours at our door with our threads duly folded aside, and the chauffeur showed no hurry to see us leave.
Cecile said she had biscuits in her workshop, which I dipped in tea just like her, and that doll’s collation was enough to zonk us out, we enlaced on the sofa and dozed out. Needless to say, Cyprien was radiant when we woke, he said we had found the most natural poses by ourselves, lovingly. Time to hone his work, he would propose a portfolio to Melchior, and we couldn’t agree more.
It was a treat watching Cecile dress up in black yoga shorts and a tee shirt in her stained white overalls, so that only her little head remained, just like the first glance I took of her. I floated the idea that Cyprien should sketch her thus, once, but she hated standing still.
The Phoenix wing would take off the next afternoon, we were awaited at the Savinio Hotel, in walking distance from the Brera Gallery, the owner being a trusted friend of Melchior’s. And thus His Master’s Voice would smooth the road all the way down to Pienza, where an apartment would be ready with an infinite view over the untouched hills.
Cecile’s chinoiserie marquetry work was finished and required some hardening of the glue before being sent to the final varnishing cabin, she felt happily idle. I pulled her upstairs to the studio where all the books on Italy were stored, to forecast our trip. The Heather Fairies had set camp on the rug, as they liked; they greeted Cecile in her almost immodest Spandex outfit.

The Glaswegian Pearl showed her shapely legs and slender feet with nonchalance, Cecile sat in the easy pose in order to cajole them daintily enough so that she did not make her put down her book. I was brewing tea in the large Yixing pumpkin pot, and I could observe the manoeuver; after our unbridled overspending, a restful all-girls party was befitted.
This cunning dawn-sprinkled-haired damsel had slyly steered her gracile feet onto Cecile’s belly and was playing unnoticed with the belt of her shorts. My rescapee tinhead doll wore a fuzzy marigold, less-than-weightless chiffon gown which hid nought of her; She pulled me to her once I lay the tray for tea. She smelled of Zelda peony in all the carnal undertone.
They had travelled with James through Germany to inaugurate their new driving licence; he wanted to see the treasure of the Green Room in Dresden. Fayelle was enthused about our Italian escapade under the blessing of His Munificence, all the more so as she figured out how we had earned the favour. As she noticed that Annabelle had yielded to Cecile’s clemency as the shorts still clung mid-bum while they embraced, she hitched the oversized tee shirt I wore up and licked my tickleberries while I stole her gossamer threads.
The afternoon was waning, we fetched Michelle’s futon and pillows of fond memory, and we entwined aimlessly, other than seeing ourselves thus. Fayelle, who was pursuing a PhD under Prof. Gourdon —on both sides of the chair— reminded us of our beyond-the-mirror readings, and thus she offered to read Valery Larbaud’s Diary of A. O. Barnabooth which author pertained to her coming memoir —Adagio Cortesemente— on literary translation. I remembered the delicious amorous of Fermina Márquez, even though my love fervours happened in a windmill of unfettered passion.
I ordered boxes of petits feuilletés, the fresh specials of the day, and harlequin macarons; Fayelle never tired of reading —her academic tutor relished her tone of voice, too, as Prof. Y. and his sweet daughter did of Natalia’s. The Packard smooth phrase of Larbaud in the easy cosmopolitan Grand Tour careless culture not shunning the bliss in the wildflower on the edge of a dusty Italian road while the chauffeur clears the carburettor, feverish aficionado above any cause, carrying Houbigant sachets in his Moynat bespoke luggage, bargaining a petticoat lace in haste for a tiny gold Louis.
Cecile and Annabelle dozed out in each other’s arms; I rewarded my dear axolotl spy with a mumming tirade in her peachy shell.
We woke lain every which way, under unremembered shawls, comforted by the night we just had. Alfred the alfa Blackbird we appertained to, had begun his virtuoso aubade long before we heard it; Cecile fed them in the minute garden opposite her workshop’s windows.
While the tea rested, Annabelle and I played watersports in the shower like wild. Cecile and Fayelle were sweetening each other’s mouths with more macarons; tea was a special muscatel vintage Darjeeling. Fayelle switched on her laptop and answered a Duo call from Prof. Gourdon, standing at the ready in a plaid shirt; I couldn’t tell if she forgot purposedly, but her tutor stood mum discovering the four of us au naturel before she turned around the camera. I knew where to find sunglasses, and then I sat next to Fayelle casually, grazing her unassuming tits. Taken aback, the Professor thanked us for this morning’s glory hoping he would meet the boy sometime; at his question, I said my name was Alfred.
Cecile was overjoyed, we packed our bags like careless kids, the weather forecast was auspicious. Although we might need some tan, we donned easy sportswear, white shorts and tanks, mine with bold yellow and black trimmings, hers with the same in jade and purple, and we found the mismatched sneakers and socks to go with. I still kept a fat hanger of beach varsity jackets, all vintage now, but we fitted in; a white one with turquoise lettering bought at a Talk Talk concert for her, a dark gold satin one embroidered two Z, a present from Julia Grant —a whim of taking Cecile to New York one day, before someone else did. The chauffeur called from ten minutes away, we smelled of Botticelli.
The bold, unlabelled air frigate awaited in its chocks, the pilots coveted our bare legs, with a penchant for Cecile’s whom they had not yet savoured as well as myself. Impromptu, a pristine white car hurtled on the tarmac, bringing the veteran voyagers Branwell and Bloom —and lustful New York memories— plus a pretty, younger, curly dark-auburn-haired geek with tortoise-shell spectacles and freckles that I intuited was Brit, too.
They were dressed as putty-coloured Irish linen executives and white oxfords, Bloom in the requisite skirt suit of mauvish grey bourette, white twill shirt unbuttoned low, and grey suede flats, made me tinglish so as to find if anyone had already stolen her knickers. She smelled just as I remembered her English Rose. Branwell accosted Cecile like she was an actual butt-buddy of his, drilling his stare into hers to appraise any damage, before sliding his hand under the jacket on her loins.

He teased her clearly enough that we all headed to the Savinio, didn’t we? She wasn’t impressed, but Branwell is a hunky cavalryman of the kind she freely hobnobs with no strings attached, just like me. I fantasised that our Liege desired a few more unleashed videos of us —no offence taken.
We boarded and sat on the convenient grey velvet double seats; Branwell put himself at brewing some subtle Taiwan Oolong tea, ostensibly to demonstrate he had not forgotten any previous fling with me, or Kate, and thus my new travel mate should fear nought from his manners. Incidentally, Cecile looked at ease in her fitted tank, she also had caught the Captain’s eye, for that matter, but it would take a bigger leap to let her visit the cockpit in detail (I felt the pang for more New York follies in Julia’s new penthouse with her mad twin cousins)
The pretty blushing geek was called Elmer, Elmer Fleetwood, mind you, and no sooner had he crashed down than he popped open a pro laptop; he wore rainbow-striped socks, fitted black chinos and a vague maroon and black houndstooth shirt open on a white tee-shirt, he reminded me of Finlan von Blåskove in the matter of musculature —but I recalled having revelled with Gwen’s lean mascot all over in our swimming pool. He jolted when he found the plane’s wifi hotspot.
The aeroplane took off swiftly through the Parisian pollution, already time for Cecile to let go of her shorts, and Bloom raved about the allure in the mere tee-shirt, so Elmer checked sideways and pushed the spectacles up his nose, lifting a brow. Branwell had grasped that Cecile was worth better than a cheap shot on the flight when we would dispose of the full night on arrival, but he relished the sight, like all of us, and meanwhile, she kissed as a natural diva.
At my side, the picture of an English Rose, also nude in the white untidiness of her shirt was a heart-throbber while I kneaded her feet. And, up there in the blue, she stunned us, unaware, starting singing with a childish voice “Here, There And Everywhere” the Beatles song, and more, the two boys harmonised along, readily, well attuned, bright-eyed for the awe they saw us in. Cecile was transfixed, she fetched her chorister’s main attribute and pumped allegedly in time, spreading open his fly to ward off the drippings. After a glorious “Lucy In The Sky”, the alps were almost hopped, and we tidied ourselves for the landing, uplifted in grace.
The car was parked on the tarmac, I took the key and kept Bloom at my side, Cecile would sit between two elated boys, no knickers on. In the muffled bubble of the car, we all sang other Beatles glories, from “LoveMe Do” to “Eleanor Rigby”, I found that Cecile had a moving singing voice, as she wanked the nonchalant geek’s joystick, bustling down to gulp the outcome.
At the Savinio, we were indeed expected in a way that left no wonder as to who was the owner of the place, suites had been connected to make a spacious apartment with a view of the Milano sunset, as golden as the communal shower where we sang “yellow submarine” and helped each other with a rich Cologne lather. Without specs, Elmer questioned my eyes before groping me almost bluntly, before being treated like a girl by Branwell as a whim. We found stacks of the second-best towels in the world.
Cecile and I carried real satin pyjamas —like dignified cats— trimmed with contrasted tubing. She wore a turquoise one with rainbow trimmings, I wore a midnight blue one with silver trimmings. In the eagerness of our wants, we almost avoided the trousers. There was a private dining room with a table set for five, and mixed flower bouquets in silver vases on consoles. The decor was gently dimmed in balance with the sunset outside the large panes where we could revel in our own image. Prints by Alberto Savinio —Chirico’s smart brother— were hung on the bleached wood-panelled walls, the same as used on the round backrest chairs upholstered with peachy velvet. The tablecloth had two layers, a festooned-hemmed top resting on the pale mauve floor-long skirt.
Branwell wore a flashy gold-flecked white vest and fitted white twill trousers with a buttoned fly, nobody wore shoes. Bloom wore a high-gathered hawthorn chiffon Margaret Mackintosh gown as transparent as the English mist. Elmer, as smooth-faced as me, wore à vanilla tracksuit embroidered with vivid blue code lines. We paused our flirting when the butler discreetly coughed at the opened door.
Our three companions were decidedly carnivorous, they opted for chicken roast pasta au gratin, whenas Cecile and I asked for a vegetarian silken tofu risotto mix, with asparagus tips, mushrooms, and pine kernels. The butler, obviously overjoyed to be let ogle not only our feet, took some time swearing that the Swiss chef mastered vegan cuisine. He looked palatable enough, in case of a cisgender whim, did I josh, sliding my hand into Elmer’s trousers and promptly sensing a purely analogue jolt in response to my mischief.

By the time a young waiter in an impeccably pressed white no-collar tunic pushed in the cart with five covered plates, Cecile’s pyjama was already untidied, but she obviously liked Branwell’s manners around her, and she granted the boy a kind eye when he asked her which cuisine she would eat, there were tiny coloured tapes out of the edge of the silver bell to indicate the different diets.
Food was interesting enough to quiet more carnal goings-on for a short while, but Elmer’s fly remained gaping while his telephone worked on mutely lain on the tablecloth. He showed dainty table manners, he promised smooth bed manners, and Bloomed appeared to concur. The red lemonade was utterly fresh, and the nougat ice cream in nougatine beakers with a side of crystalised redcurrants on mint leaves made me feel like a ten-year-old at the Four Season, with my Far, for Xmas.
Bloom and I captured our genie to that grand bed, he reminded me of another creature who had nested behind our studio sofa for a whole season with her screens but had let me revel on her backside all my content; this one offered a snazzy tool, too. Firstly, he had unscrambled a wire to plug his telephone alive on the rug, then he had let me rip off his trousers and trunks, but Bloom beat me gulping the peachy-rose glans she had been accustomed to, so I gave a try at offering my wet noonie to his girly mouth, and he was liking the taste of it, as a worthy boarder of an ideal lakeside house. Then the English Rose was munificent and swapped, guiding his tauten toy to my pouty slit while she attempted a rose leaf. It was a well-tempered spear I squeezed with ardour, and he had the stamina; I soon gushed over Bloom’s face, and she burst into laughter. When, later, he dabbled at buggering Bloom’s shy bumhole, I fetched the convenient travel flask of the Swiss Navy in my stuff, to help.
In the morning, the trio had fled, to work, said a note with everyone’s wishes and baci. Cecile and I met dawdling in the tidied dining room, smiling at what the personnel might have seen of us, not to mention Melchior’s cameras. Amidst a new smooth tablecloth, we ordered a sleek silver vacuum flask of the best coffee in the world —she retold me of her escapade with Hugo in Venice— a plate of Lingue Di Gatto biscotti, and top-grade strong Darjeeling tea. She floated the idea of a video call with Hugo, wherever he was, she tilted her telephone against the carafe of crimson juice, so he would see us as candid as Gabrielle d’Estrée and her sister posing for His Majesty.
He wore one of his Ikat kaftans, he had been in bed with Elvire who showed her gracile chest at his side. He was overjoyed we called, and he approved totally of our travel plan. He congratulated Cecile for her shadow eye rings, and we hummed randomly. He owned up to having missed bringing us to places like the Brera, but reckoned there remained so many treasures for us to revere, and still, we would skip Rome on this one! Knowing he would be recording, we gave him the sight of our most tender embrace.
Visiting important collections is a hard-skilled trade demanding the proper outfit, just like trekking. Cyclist shorts and easy shirts, stealthy socks and black sneakers would do most. We had found these tear-proof, neck-hanging pouches, enough to carry thin telephone, wallet and cash. When we set sail, the streets were already bustling with heaps of stylish young people; Cecile swaggered at my side, retelling me that Branwell had threaded her again in her sleep, causing her a weird dream in that indelible cellar where however she saw no trace of a ladder nor a door, letting herself surrender to the sensation of weird connivance that led her to espouse the thumps till completion, and wallow blind in imaginary dirt while her rapist kindly wiped her. She had returned to that wasteland, where the only trace left of her childhood was that dark pit ripped open where the buddleia grew. She was unfazed, she wouldn’t tell Branwell any of it.
We reached that massive brick-and-stone neo-classical fortress, flush with the street pavement. Scattered groups of students dawdled, each waiting for someone. I was to ask for a Dr Vannelli, and I had to insist more than once with the reception bureaucrats only to let the word of our presence be passed on. It was a blaring victory when Dr Vannelli himself came to greet us, with a dash of surprise as to our mere attire, but then at once, too, a thrill of lust. He was one svelte and mellow-mannered Cavaliere with silver-strewn curls and coffee-dark eyes. It felt like M. had heartily recommended us to him. He ushered us into a second-row office, where a lady with an impressive hairdo did the passes for the house, she asked twice about the range of leeway we should be bestowed. Dr Vannelli insisted we should freely access all public spaces of the institution. She made us step one by one in front of the machine, and so after a few clicks and buzzes it spurt out laminated cards with our weary smiles on them; with a carnivorous smile, the Dottore let us know we could walk in all museums in Milan, big or small. However, he said bluntly that he would not cicerone us around the collections, but we agreed that we dine together: as he sussed we weren’t ones to dress for society venues, he proposed some cool vegan joint where we could merely walk to from our hotel.

There were at least two iconic pictures I expected to meet in the vastitude of the Milanese trove, one because it had been diverted from its intended destination in Venice —and I will remain a bona fide Venetian buff— as a monumental scene of San Marco’s legend in the Scuola Grande, same sort of revolt as when I see “Le Nozze Di Cana” in the Louvre, properly stolen by Bonaparte, and the arrogance of the French purporting that the painting is too fragile to travel back to its legit place ( and everybody saw that when it was unhung from the main staircase, the movers let it drop a few meters, without damage?)
Anyhow —Cecile began thinking I was digressing a tad too long— this huge canvas was also stolen from Venice by the same tyrant who hated the Serenissima Republic so much that he flamed the Buccentoro in front of the Doge’s Palace. She had turned on the third eye-scanning vision and was giving me the cold shoulder, thus I stopped my babble and let her lead the stroll, fantasising inside of Branwell, unable to refrain from a last shot at her tight rosebud. She wouldn’t tire, like everywhere I had seen her honing her expertise. At the core of my wits, I personally couldn’t turn a blind eye to Catholic iconography that I saw as a nauseous chore in the bulk of ancient art. That made the exceptions relishable, like the preternatural scenography by Veronese who dwarfed the goons of the Inquisition in a famous retort, the visionary Faerie of Carpaccio, or the carnal Wonderland of Botticelli, under the wing of the Medici grandeur.
I would have offered her a mint green Bluetooth headset and the whole well-tempered spring, but such devices were forbidden. As for myself, I let hurry towards the Bellini loot, if only to drive one more nasty nail in Napoleon’s coffin. As I found it, I wallowed on the bench in front, unconvinced by the backgrounds —I have always been seduced by Carpaccio’s manner of soil textures, like in the foreground of San Giorgio’s fight— I was turning petty, wasn’t I?
Sne arrived with company, she had let that tall long-blond-haired -student-kind woo her, and his mate stood three steps behind. His English accent sounded Dutch or German, they came to sit next to me, and she said I was her sister. It was instantly out of the question that we chatted in there, though they were attractively young and they knew. The tallest nodded aside, and I stood up, giving them the eye. Thus that was slickly conducted, and we let them hold our hands like eighth graders.
As students, they carried a pass, too, we followed them in a narrow street nearby with a shaded terrace, either Via de Fiori Oscuri? or Di Fiori Chiari. They smelled of some candid Cologne and their nails were clean. The second one, who grabbed hold of me gallantly, wore a mane of thick tea-brown hair and a beard, his big toffee eyes begging for attention. They wore oversized, tumble-dried plaid shirts with toned-down colours, distressed jeans and Chuck Taylors. They were design students from Eindhoven.
The tall blond one, called Kees, let out that they were staying at a hostel nearby, and added low they had weed. I retorted we did not have time to get stoned, and moreover, we did not smoke; but since they already had their hands all over us, did we need anything? They paid for our iced tea, and we went; passing a vending machine for condoms, I wondered if we needed some.
We climbed ancient resounding stairs, my shorts half-down, tangling our tongues on every landing. They lived on the top floor, in an old-style attic with an austere shower in a corner, and a hot tank next to it. They opened all the windows behind the closed shutters; pigeons somewhere cooed and bustled.
I was denuded in a blink, Cecile was laid down naked too, on one of the two uncovered beds, by the lissome athlete who had set his want on her. My avid captor pummelled my belly with a considerable dick before I knelt to gulp it because it smelled yummy until he seized my neck to kiss and asked me to unroll a condom on it if I liked being ploughed through now, which I did.
Soon both of us moaned in bliss as the boys panted. By the immediacy of that snappy random fling, we were both ready to gush our souls out as they filled their cum balloons and tied them off, letting us clean their unabated shafts.
They made lemonade in a tin pitcher for us teetotalers, and it was carelessly that they swapped us, as good friends do. And by the way that Flying Dutch hunk turned me up and poked his tongue, it was clear which bungus he looked to. By means of the required lubricant, it might not have felt as real as the naked truth, but a stubborn hump by a sleek unremitting shark soon triggered another quiver of bliss, moreover with the crafty tremolo of an ardent finger.
We played in the shower and let out plans to possibly meet again in Paris. I fantasised to recruit full-blooded Dutch buggers in our roundabout —provided that they test right. I played the worldly slut expected at dinner. Thus, we fled down the stairs laughing.
On the joyous way to the hotel, we passed a snazzy shop that kindled our acquisitive instinct, simply our buying penchant, damn it, Milano is the Mecca of textiles in style. There were those silk jersey easy-fit dresses to cry for, with a tailoring finish properly manic. Cecile chose a plum-grey-black chevron-knit tank mini dress as tenuous as the cocoa sprinkling on a tiramisu, the young attendant blushed as she couldn’t help touching her.
I found a foppish, zigzag multi-blue, Mandarin collar, mid-thigh, French sleeve, shirt dress that I could figure wearing open to the four winds. Then again, the attendant, who flaunted proudly rounded breasts in not much of a bra, would not resist grazing my sleek chest and finding my tickle berries, I just let her, casually. She sported uncommon anise green eyes, spoke good French, and her hands were preened with her nails polished. What would she infer, when I pulled my Infinite card, and it gobbled up the hefty bill?
I felt guilty, Cecile had kept mum, and I kept babbling to the door, asking finely Where we should look for the shoes to go with our dresses. I was intentionally thorough, thus we had to sit down, in our sports outfits, she had to show me a map on my telephone, and then, eventually, enter by herself her number, with her name — Adele— and take mine in writing because she could not bring her telephone inside the shop. She fled before the manager would frown.
Further in the street, our big orange paper bags flagging us as rich kids —or bitches— Cecile asked me if I realised I might have trampled into the girl’s fate. Looking her in the eye, I retorted with a quiet yes, because that was what we do, don’t we?

Cecile was proud of us slappers, willful dunces of the class tour, she proposed we trap the Dottore, who might not have known we needed not any restaurant to acquaint with him. He would come to pick us up, she would seduce him to a cosy nook while I would enrapture the pretty waiter. Deal. She had trained in the grand jeu of luxury room service.
We cavorted like lustful otters in the shower, then sang “Creep” at the wall-wide mirror behind the double-sink console while brushing mascara on our lashes. I loved her Van Dyck pebble eyes, all the more with purplish rings to them, but we had this expensive balsam to wipe that like a long sleep, and blush to pimp up our smiles. Our outfits smelled virginal and felt for their worth, princely.
Our own Gianni couldn’t have possibly overbid that —neither paled, whatsoever.
We still had two bedrooms at our spoiled disposal, Cecile devised that when she would have hooked the gentleman, I would slink away and let the pretty boy improve his French. The Dottore called in from the desk at the cocktail hour, and Cecile took her magazine tone to invite him up. If he was a trifle uneasy on the proposition, I could tell he revised his judgement when he saw us dressed up and strutting easily in one of the best suites of the hotel, with a grand sunset terrace. She suggested that we could as well dine under the stars.
He nodded and regained his composure, telling us he knew well the paintings here and there in this hotel, authentic futurist pieces by the likes of Severini and Balla that have been there always. As our preferred waiter brought him a Martini, and strawberry lemonade for us, along with tiny bites. The elegant wicker armchairs, with fuzzy puff chintzy cushions, were wide enough to allow Cecile to throw her legs over the armrests, and thus let glances of her nudity, she teased even me. Dr. Vanelli must have felt aroused so much more than in a bustling restaurant. He wore a thin statutory beige suit with an off-white silk shirt he had not worn in his office, thus he bestowed us some reverence before Cecile cast her net.
They purveyed us vegan treats for dinner, asparagus and morels in cashew cream, curried tofu frittata with artichoke hearts and cauliflower, and fennel and truffle salad; since he avowed not sharing our food mystique, we afforded the Cavaliere a turbot Hollandaise with fresh tarragon and celery mash. And we all ended with a raspberry puff, at a time when he had grasped what manner of a trap he had fallen into, Cecile’s skirt hitched up to the waist and her thighs parted.
The boy reappeared for coffee, not minding what went under the tablecloth hems; he cleared the table and came back with a steaming espresso caffetiera, but Luchino, as he had told that we call him, suggested we asked for barbagliate, of coffee, chocolate and whipped cream, seizing my hand to seat me on his right side. So the bugger was daring, and I let him unclutch my couture buttons one by one while he tickled Cecile’s jewels. Hence, her scheme proved too narrow for the bold Condottiere who confided he was also a card-carrying gentleman, and Melchior had made explicit commendations about us; he also knew that Cecile was an expert into the Mendelsohn trove that captivated the Internationale of curators.
Cecile and I had put aside our new garbs, it was time to further the game, so we all dawdled to a bedroom, leaving no trace on the terrace. He had grown a row of wispy hairs up to his navel, and his most Italian penis stood stiff as Justice. He inquired if we were lovers in life, so we said yes, and also polyamorous, at any chance. He laughed and went south on Cecile who raised her legs high. He asked me to let her eat my quim, thus I straddled her pretty face, showing my bottom smile. When he urged threading her, he told me to turn and he kissed me, as he braced himself against the edge of the bed, humping her like a bull. She gushed forcefully and mumbled in my coochie, he roared half-bestially a number of times, and then he laughed as he wrested her from my thighs. But he was relentless, he tilted me over so that I offered the lesser hole, and, still drooly, began to force his way inside. He was slidy enough to sheathe entirely and bump his pelvis upon my arse; that was deeply resounding, and when Cecile wriggled her fingers on my clit I let go a few salvos before I sensed he was blessing my entrails with Italian maestria.
He fell back, in bliss, his arms thrown upwards, while we were lapping each other’s outpourings, by vice. When the three of us were letting the shower’s tepid water soothe our bodies —purring to Luchino’s rave about us— the thunder began to roll afar; he said it would clear the city air for a while, but he hurried to dress and run. Naked as angels, we walked out on the terrace. All cushions had been taken, and the awnings cropped up. I began to wonder if we might have been peeped upon, but that was the secret life of palaces, and then I dozed in Cecile’s arms before the rain reached Milan.

In the morning, most of our nerves had simmered down, and the storm had waned on the world, the terrace returned to its quiet shadows. It took a few unravelled seconds to make me aware I was sitting in the raw in front of our half-smiling ragazzo standing at attention. Caught in the act as a nasty tease, I did not flinch long, his gaze was candid. I swayed an eye towards the second bedroom and walked to it, nonchalantly, so that he sussed. I grabbed him in the curtains and kissed him deeply while my hands worked at untangling his polyester pants. He could brag of a fierce dick, sitting on my heels, holding his thighs, I mouthed like the puppy its bone, then withstood the dire humping of his youth down my throat where he released a full measure, and none was spilt. I made sure he was correct again, and I ran.
Cecile was on the terrace, at the unset enamelled lava table, dipping biscotti; I murmured that I had sucked the boy, she retorted that I smelled like it, but she kissed me and said she would beat me at shagging him. It was he who brought my tea, I had slid into a light silk nightgown I should have been wearing in the first place, though he wouldn’t think that.
There was some bustle, another waiter was acting the delivery of a consequent fruit basket in which we picked a blank card with a hand-written L., a matter for snuggles and hummings. And no sooner had we relished the scent of the hand-wiped fruit than a third musketeer rolled in a magnificent armful of irises in a silver bucket. I knew what Cecile was fantasising.
Lucchino had texted a prettily transparent message, and he also recommended we went visit the Museo Del Novecento. That seemed fit. I also had a fragile little word from Adèle, whose French could lead to think she was lovestruck; I thought I had till the end afternoon to answer. I fetched a short, navy blue and white polka dots shirt-dress and flesh-tone seamless knickers, one-strap navy suede flat sandals. Cecile wore a teal silk ribbed jersey mini dress and grey suede Egyptian sandals, she agreed my mostly invisible manner of underwear was a kill.
Somebody once said that if there was one thing the Fascist regime did not botch, it would be architecture, even the train stations. These singular buildings that now stand across the weirdness of the Duomo, stun the eye with the noble boldness of the stance, and now clearly befit that of the museum’s collections. Lucchino had said our passes would work as well.
Not long after we began strolling by, we needed the loo, time to scroll through messages and notice another one by Adèle, from the same manner of pause, swearing she wasn’t any babe in the woods and she needed guidance whatever the cost. What had I done? I answered we would meet her at the end of her day’s work, wherever she saw fit. She retorted —I could fantasise her, seated on the bowl, too— that she would wait at seven at the back of Caffè Venus, in the Galleria.
I felt besotted with the idea of leading another candid debutante astray, in the sense that she would certainly attend no more shop if she came to follow our walk of life. She was awfully pretty. Cecile mocked me, but we reckoned I had never entailed any of my girls’ crushes to proper hardship, did I? She concurred, but retorted that people like Charlotte and Emeline had been bogged in a deadly trap when she hit on her at the garden store, and then, would she shun the little sister? She confessed she wouldn’t shun gracile Adele either, but we didn’t even know her age.
And this damsel who had once let me voodoo her all the way to a Porsche hell-horse smiled with pearly teeth and switched on the third eye for the fanfares of a genial band of cokeheads. Personally, I had considered this disruptive trend somewhat less demanding morally than Dada and Surrealism —André Breton never set foot in Italy. All I knew was in books, that don’t tell of the actual presence of the art pieces, or our rambling in the magnificent Ca’ Pesaro when there was nobody to grope stealthily by the magical windows or anywhere in the palazzo. Chances were that the Milano collection would soon surpass any other display of futurism. We reached my physical stroll tolerance level in a little more than two hours, she noted the books to order, had a doppio coffee with lingue di gatto, and then we decided to kill time in the Duomo until seven-ish.
This Behemoth of a monument was hellishly warm inside, and we were greeted by a sculpture of Barthelemy holding his skin, another of the Catholic horror stories they raise their kids with. When Seresine retold her poisonous upbringing in the shade of Notre Dame, I felt the craving to go and confess nasty shenanigans to the priest in the booth, and ensure him I resented no remorse whatsoever. That, and an earnest therapist, plus, independently, the dissolute life she led at Philippe’s, seemed to have cured her when I crossed her in the swimming pool, she was well worth it.

Do all forlorn does have a despicable tale to tell through their tears, or am I still the lakeside slut luring the pretty pixies to the laundry rooms? Cecile gave me the get-go if I should follow up after my wooing a young shop attendant, she would still love me anyhow.
Precisely, Tinker Bell sat on the lookout in the dark end of Venus’, in front of an empty cup of chioccolata. It was a round booth, and she slid back to let us sit on both sides of her. We ordered an orgeat lemonade that the waiter swore was homemade. She was mildly conversational, but we did not broach the matter in her texting.
She wore a beige crepe blouse fleeting over black velvet shorts, and she smelled of a gingerly bigarade with an afterthought of tonka bean, I let myself drift in her neck, so she swayed and began to weep. Nothing frightening but it felt genuine, and we wouldn’t untangle her sorrows in a café corner, thus I proposed she dines with us on our terrace, after a little stroll around the piazza to dry our eyes. We held her hand in turn, already trying to make her piece together our way of life, waiting for her questions to confess our most questionable manners, but with the firm dedication not to conceal any of our transgressions, if those were not obvious.
I watched her barefoot sandals and her perfect feet, she walked like someone who found what she wanted. A thin golden down shone on her skin.
She wouldn’t imagine we walked into our luxurious timely dwelling, she almost blushed under the personnel’s gazes. I profited from the lift to hug her a tad closer and poke my tongue between her lips. The apartment, all magnolia-white and gold with the iris armful and the cornucopia of fruit in the centre salon impressed her beyond reason, so I pushed her upon our bed and told her right away that rich men paid for all this, and not selflessly, capisce?
No, no, not that, Adèle, we are free in any manner, but we trade our favours, like high-rolling escorts, if you see what that means.
Unfazed, she said that was what her boss had commented about us, and why she texted, now she was wired. I did not rush upon her, although my hand sensed impatience for sliding inside her shorts. She questioned where we lived, and how we became what we were, a prosecutor wouldn’t have asked more. When she eventually suggested we were prostitutes, I said yes, earnestly, but I was also a known artist, and Cecile was a world-renowned art expert and restorer.
In the meantime, the table had been set for three on the terrace and ewers of the pink lemonade brought up. Adèle wondered if it was an honest drink, so we drank from both pitchers and let her pick her glass. I also ordered a sealed bottle of elderflower lemonade. That fuss triggered a long confidence from her. She was eighteen; she had been hired at this high-end shop more for her good looks than any other competence, by its owner, proper, not by the manager we had seen. This man was her father-in-law, and her mother had fled to Argentina four years previous and had not been heard from since, moreover, there was a judgement on her for abandonment.
She had found herself alone with this well-to-do fifty-something in a stately apartment in Porta Nuova. At fourteen, her all-conventional lifestyle had been disrupted; her father-in-law had declared his passion for her, to the point when he began lacing her drinks and food with drugs to rape her in her sleep. She had tried to get help from the family practitioner, begging him to do a rape test one morning she had faked a bad cough, but all she earned was another predator plainly in cahoots with her father.
Hence the reason for her suspecting the drinks, as she could tell we had views on her mutandine, so to speak, hadn’t we? We did not try to deny, Cecile was enthralled by this new little sister who popped the cap of her humble San Benedetto bottle, and then told her in the eye everything was fine.
The kitchen had built a colourful chartreuse with vegetables in jelly and lemony cream sauce and cumin bread, grilled sweet peppers in olive oil and capers, grilled tofu with a tomato and green salad, and I swore my soul no GHB. The Plombière ice cream with candied fruit was my idea, I asked Adèle to pick her lidded cup herself.
As the table was being cleared by my favourite waiter, who gave me the eye, I soughed in Adèle’s ear what I had done to him, she rounded her eyes.
So then she was still alive for us, and she let willingly my hand on her thigh, but she had not yet ended her story. When we had shown off at the store, like casually doing trials topless and flaunting our sensuousness, we had unwittingly exposed the routine she had become to condone, where she was the sex slave of a man she loathed. She had fantasised she fled with us, whatever the outcome, as an obedient pet if we wanted, her suitcase was in a locker at the central station. She added funnily that she was broke, but pretty, according to a nation of stalkers, and she had never done it with girls, albeit she would.

Her eyes were still damp and longing, I told her we had reaped many other souls in pain before, mostly for the sake of their beauty, selfishly, and she would have to give, first, what never had cost her any, to convince us she wasn’t a honeytrap. My fingertips crept to her waist buckle and her gaze wouldn’t flinch, nor when I loosened the three concealed buttons. We lay low on the wider wicker sofa, and Cecile had joined us, for the game was taking a truer turn. She had not first believed the pretty salesperson, now she would put her to the test just like I had done her.
And so Adèle lay beautifully bare-arsed with her blouse undone and did not see our unnamed ragazzo bringing espresso and sweets to our table. A sudden fever took me to whisper to the boy to show our pretty niece where we had been together before, and he was close enough that I grazed his fly with the back of my hand. Adèle read my gaze with fright, but I nodded to show her where to go. Cecile was awestruck and slid her hand in Adèle’s crack as she stood up for the boy and tiptoed after him towards the bedroom. I was shaking by my own audacity, we spied from the opened French window and saw the boy licking the sparsely-haired coochie of the said niece who wriggled on the bed, then showing her his dick she did no fuss to gulp, sitting on the bed’s edge. We were drenched to the core, and when she did her hardest to swallow all of the young spritzes, she felt like one of ours. When the boy ran, we jumped to comfort her and lick the drips which tasted of fennel and turmeric. We returned to our coffee in the raw, she was as lithesome as Cecile who kept licking her as a puppy. I announced what the schedule was; the next day, a four-hour drive to Siena and the Albergo Piccolomini, Adèle jumped for joy when I told her we drove an electric car, then she clung to me and cried she was mine, and she dozed between us.
I would have bet my knickers against a fistful of cherries that our ragazzo would stand on deck for breakfast with a cute smirk on his beardless face. In a mere tee shirt, Adèle was red as a peony as he stared at her legs and elsewhere. Still bustled by my demons, I breathed in Cecile’s ear that she was last not to have tipped our boy; she sniggered, dipped another cookie, stood up stretching, and reached out to the boy like a magazine princess to lead him to the bedroom. I seized Adèle gently and showed her where to stand on the lookout, and I couldn’t help rummaging in her pretty arse while pinching her nipples. For breakfast time, Cecile prefered lowering the boy’s trousers and showing him her behind to use, and that aroused Adèle abundantly although it did not last long. When she came back for another cup, I swore we had relished her trick. She grabbed Adèle, kissed her deeply and asked her if she still was going with us, to what the new angel slid a hand to Cecile’s wet labia. Together, they dipped the rest of the biscuits, there was one more in the coffee team.
It promised to be warm, we all wore thin tee shirts and cotton shorts. Our boy insisted to help us with the luggage, and he told us he was called Marcello Esposito and would never forget; I gave him a fat bundle of notes that he swiftly buried in his trousers pocket, and then we thanked thus the staff, ending with the valet who told us the batteries were full and explained which best way to reach the A1 highway southwards. But first, adèle guided us to her luggage, and it was a pretty well-stacked car that headed to Tuscany. She had never travelled in an electric one, and she was amazed we could talk in a casual tone of voice. Cecile drove, and I left Adèle at the front, fondling her tangerine breasts from time to time. With her bag in our trunk, she had succeeded in her escape, and I would see to it.
She sang, with a thankfully attuned and pretty voice, love stories by Giorgia but also we all could unexpectedly do “Bad Guy” by Billie Eilish, mind you, then a host of pop gibberish that became lovely because of her. We had to stop in Bologne because the air conditioning was straining the battery. The Supercharger was entwined among the by-ways but the onboard computer drove us smoothly to it. We had time for coffee —my stack of tea was deep in the trunk. In that ugly roadside café, we realised we were a bunch of lethal teases for truckers, but we acted like kids on the lam and afforded slices of deadly Certosina and sweet Mocha. Before the tempers stirred up too badly, my telephone rang to tell us the charge was done, thus we moved on like ZZ girls (that one for my Far).
There would be two more hours through the mountains and Florence, but Cecile preferred to keep the wheel, and I thought I sussed why —Adèle’s thighs would leave Canova pensive— and thus I dozed in the back seat. When I woke up, shortly before Siena, Adèle wore no more shorts or panties, and Cecile had her hands free. Adèle contorted back to give me a wet kiss and dressed back up. Our hotel was near the Duomo.

The manager, Signor Bertini, came to greet us while the bell boy stacked his cart with our bags, and the valet rushed into the scents we had just left in the car. Sig. Bertini pretended to be sorry for not having been warned of a third guest, but we reassured him that the arrangements would be all fine.
No sooner had we set foot in that cosy terracotta pied-à-terre, ornate with panels inspired by the Siena School in an abstract decorative modus, than our new foundling ran around in the raw to check out our luxuries and stirred up rain in the jolly harlequin-tiles-clad shower room where we could soon gather all.
I fetched a flimsy periwinkle-blue linen ensemble of a vest and loose shorts, Cecile sported a mullein-yellow buttoned tank short dress, and Adèle charmed us in a dawn-rainbow fine jersey straight slip dress two-fingers lower than her wicked rabbit muff. None of us flinched when the door was knocked on. A smiling hunk in terracotta livery pushed a butler’s cart bearing a large pitcher of crimson carcadè with marshmallow flowers —It snuck into my mind to watch Adèle piss on me. In a swift tour d’horizon, the tanned handsome ragazzo had reckoned the kinky availabilities, and they seemed to his liking; Adèle swung up her leg idly, which knowingly showed some more of her coochie, and it was noticed.
We went out in the balmy air; it had been raining lately, and it smelled of wild herbs fragrances. We skirted as of yet the strange vessel of the uncompleted Duomo, sparing the visit for morrow morning. Then, we let be drawn to the Plazza, the most brilliant place in the known world, and we were swept in the rumour of altogether children at play, the shrieking swallows, and the conversations on the bustling terraces. We pretended Adèle craved ice cream.
While I sat, awestruck, at the Concha gelateria, sipping a jasmine granita on her wise advice, I sensed a tingle for something yet unaccounted to my conscience, like I would sense something like an empty Deja Vu. Fearing an attack of otherworldly axolotls, I confided my fear to Cecile who sniggered finely, muttering there were two of Melchior’s hunks seated two tables on my right. After gulping the glass of water that faced me, I breathed deeply and bantered that It would begin to be sporty, then, and I seized Adèle’s thigh in a quiet manner. That was no alarm, they had never moved the pinky unasked for. She was unquieted, I promised I would tell all on the way back.
Approved by Cecile, whose half-smile meant she foresaw encounters of well-known manners —but I dared not go taste her greedy slit— I elaborated all sorts of precautionary tales to enlighten witty Adèle as to Melchior’s mentoring of us and the scope of it. I presented her a version of my asking for his sponsoring of our trip, to eventually warn her that she would be royally courted because she was young and lovely, and he had access to all the security cameras in the hotels we would stay at, and belonged to him, close or afar, and we had known that all along. He probably had had a crush on her, just like me. For the rest, she could spurn any advances and fly with us unscathed to Paris, otherwise, it would never mean anything worse than shag a few of his well-vetted bodyguards of the kind we had spotted at the gelateria, would she freak out?
The day was still young, we took the long way back, and she retold us some more of her eerie life. At the moment of her mother’s desertion, she had been thirteen and in legal custody of her father-in-law; all the time when the judiciary was debating as to destitute her failing mother, he had behaved faultlessly —he had always eyed her in the bathroom or when she undressed at night. On the very day when he had received the final decision on her guardianship, he served the sushis she liked and diet coke; she half-woke in the deep of the night, nude along him, in his bed, sensing liquid dripping from each of her intimacies.
She had cried aloud, although she wasn’t truly hurt and all she garnered was another romp, as cautious were it. She had been forced to live a full week in his bed at his whims until she learned to shed her self-respect and climax beyond all shame. Cunningly, he made all manners of damning photos of her giving in to his nastiest tastes, blackmailing her not to tell anything. It was morally despicable but not altogether deadly, and the family practitioner was his partner in crime.
Beyond her tamed attitude, obtained by his crafty mental manipulations, and his notwithstanding attentive lovemaking, she lived the seamless life of an aloof teen, reputed asocial. Her teachers took no alarm. At home, she was spared all chores, the maid had schedules never to meet her, and no visitor wandered about the vast apartment.
Each school day, she would disrobe first entirely and buckle herself in a padded leather collar with a leash attached. Then, she was allowed a cup of cioccolata calda while she botched her homework, after what, Zanni —as she began to call him— demanded she rinsed her vagina with fresh water and injected watered milk into her anus with the enema pear. It was time for TV news, he would hold her like a pet animal, asking for short favours in her mouth.

Incidentally, we had come back to the apartment, and we wanted to hear the whole affair from whom already sounded like another member of the tribe. I needed to nuzzle on her womb, so I unbuttoned the fluid dress, she smelled of wildflowers.
Her masterful tamer always let her choose what they ate, but she never knew what was in her drinks. On the biggest possible screen, he would show her all manners of porn, wanking her skilfully to make her avow she liked to watch others shag. He used a movie projector above their bed and bound her all spread to film her watching porn, with dildos in her.
Then, after a year or so of that willy-nilly modus vivendi, she sensed he drugged her more often, or her memory possibly waned, until one evening he unwittingly let her see the video of her being used by a man she did not know. That, or the drugs he had forced on her, made her stop eating, whatever he served. He did not cave, he explained that he would keep selling her to his most vetted clients, and the videos of the dozed girl were in big demand on his chatroom, besides, the leaner she was the sexier she looked.
The Dr, who played with her in the shower once in a while, made her injections that kept her afloat, eventually, she fed herself again but remained fashionably skinny for over a year, while she lived the life of an expensive underage prostitute. She even accepted to do it willingly if they stopped drugging her. They had never injected her with opiates or the kind you never un-hook from.
She became a hot topic in some secret chatrooms, she had to give herself up to many big names of the Milanese elite; their visits to Zanni’s apartment would ever seem self-evident, Zanni being first and foremost a wealthy investor in diverse fields.
It was nonetheless time to dine, and as per usual the kitchen had known what to serve us. Again, creamed morels and artichoke hearts —mocked Cecile— curried tofu with braised fennel, Toscan fruit salad in raspberry broth. Adèle was so overjoyed she had found confidants for her outlandish upbringing that she overlooked that she was regaling the waiter with her minute tuft. Then, one by one, appeared our handsome minions, willing to catch my eye for consent. I explained afterwards to Adèle that we would probably shag these boys like we had done numerous times before. Would she swear to be safe to shag, when was her last checkup? She pulled out her telephone and opened the medical app where her figures dated little more than a week before we met. She allowed me to upload her files to our main hub —and M. would scrutinise the whole Italian operation, if need be— meanwhile, I showed her a black card, not the infinite this time, and explained how it worked. She admired the perspective, and asked if I would make her one.
I received the green light for her and I imagined who had written it. Now the one that had kept me for hours once brought coffee and stood idle for five seconds, thus I nodded for Adèle to dawdle herself slowly towards the second bedroom where she was followed.
Cecile wanted some dick, I did see neither the arrow nor the Indian, but she was gone and laughed somewhere. Remained the waiter who had peeped at us since mid-afternoon. There was a rest bed on the terrace; to cut short I undressed frankly and walked to it, waving my hand. It might have been the moon, but he was petrified, and though, he was mounted like the top tier of my personal tally. Thus, showing him the bulk of me, I unclenched his belt and pulled down his trousers while he took off his jacket and shirt. As a seasoned fornicator, I sussed he wouldn’t lag long, and indeed he gushed a long splatter, holding my head firmly till I coughed in. He was manly released, and he might have thought of running bowing, as they do, but I would have found it rude to leave me carnally disregarded, thus I seized him by his handle and led him to the meridienne, lay him sidewise behind me and raised my leg up to give him way to whichever hole he liked, but the Swiss Navy being already on a mission, he found sufficient squeeze in my wet coochie where he sheathed a good measure and humped on the blind knob of my womb. He was no more desperate to unload his want, I drove the dance and brought him to complete elation just as I splashed the moon.
Adèle stood watching at the door’s threshold, with a Khmer smile on her face; I beckoned her and she came to sit next to my partner’s nose. She said her warrior had been expedient more than once, but he had kept his watch that chirped every so often, she sniggered. She kindly bent to give the boy a swift lick on his lips, but like the two others, he wasn’t on a vacation, he collected his togs and ran. The three of us gathered under the wide shower, and then cuddled together in one bed.
In the morning, Guido it was, pushed the cart to the terrace, followed by the three of us in the raw, it was only time for fleeting kindnesses, Cecile had long read all about the Libreria Piccolomini which was two steps away in the Duomo.

Adèle wore a daffodil-white, thin strapped, festoon-patterned crochet mini skirt over invisible jersey briefs, so the beadle wouldn’t grumble about immodesty. Cecile wore a bistre cotton ribbed tank top and creased desert-sand cotton shorts, no undies beadle-wise, I chose a vague raw linen man’s shirt over a flesh-tone boxer. I wore beige low-cut sneakers, Adèle some spaghetti-strap sandals, and Cecile her thin ecru beach sneakers.
Same as with anyone, after the frustration of walking on the protective masonite of the legendary pavement —wouldn’t one wish for a glass walkway?— the entry through that small door to the Papal library was a renewed properly carnal bedazzlement, so much so that Adèle remained clenched to my wing, and it was a relish, she smelled of roses in the boxwoods.
Cecile was scribbling notes, my disciple of late leaned her beloved head on my shoulder, and it was no one else’s business. I tried to alleviate the strain of whatsoever bygone iconography and let her free to consider at her whim, the painter’s and his cohorts’ mannerisms, for starters, the way Pinturiccio represented men’s crotches on frescoes which figure the life of an arrant libertine, who later became Pope Pio II, gazes, hands too, the whole shebang of invented subtext, we almost made out in there.
She was thrilled it went that way, after her moonrise peripatetic rant on the utter abuse she had undergone, I began to hunch that the monster might not have been worse to her than the bulk of common husbands, the bastard.
She withstood almost two hours, as much as my loins, anyhow. And Cecile agreed we would have to return. The idea of another cup on our terrace was vital, and home was just around the corner. Only one bum note awaited us at the desk; the police had inquired about Adèle, who was said to be a fugitive from Milan, and thus they might return to check on her. In the lift, I rubbed her back to help her from bursting into sobs.
I had read her ID, she was over eighteen, in my world, that meant freedom to move, period. But I knew not of Italian legal subtleties. Collapsed onto the terrace sofa, pressing her upon my chest, I fetched my telephone to call for rescue from higher up, but the text message was already there, from ultimasapiens@7streams, explaining that some Gianni Mercanesi had filed a report for suspicious disappearance of his daughter-in-law Adèle D’Albano. M. had now sent Avvocado Bertini to speak with the police and put the procedure to rest. But nonetheless, it appeared that Mercanesi had all manners of connexions across Italy, thus, beyond our delightful lifeways, we should not be worried when we be followed by security guards who, of all persons, knew so well, and who would make sure to bring us back safe to the big bird after our stay in Pienza.
Adèle grasped nought of what I showed her on my telephone, but she showed shivers. Coffee and biscotti revived her. Another pair of dedicated hunks had attuned to the hotel’s harmony key, wearing grege silk tweed and still available for whatever service. Sig. Bertoni knocked at the doorjamb to tell us that the police had said they weren’t inquiring anymore, and he granted Adèle a slightly concupiscent gaze, but she had seen heaps.
I fetched my laptop and cuddled her while we browsed Amazon for books on Pinturiccio and the Duomo di Siena, and I ordered all of them thrice, first for Adèle who did not even know yet where she would stack them, second for Cecile’s workshop Where Adèle would have to pose for Cyprien’s keen pencil, the last for our own studio’s library.
We rinsed our sweats and rubbed, only to fall three on the bed and let our detail peep all they cared. It was time to go stroll in the Palazzo Pubblico. Adèle had squirted all she knew in Cecile’s happy mouth, before experimenting with her novel vice all around my clit, and that, she knew how to trigger; then, equity obliged that I satisfy Cecile like I knew how, mind you, and poke my tongue all over her womb as she regaled of Adèle’s mouth. We would probably smell of fresh sex, but no worse.
The Plazza was in full ebullience, and all tables were overloaded with timeless motherly cuisine, only to bring up wondering of what did Europeans use in cooking umami before the Aztek holocaust brought them the tomato and the peppers?
Now Adèle was keeping ostentatiously mum and queried the eyes of her play partner, now offish as a big cat. I took her to a bench under the wall of the bad government and enquired about whatever difficulty made her look like a hunted doe.
She said Zanni would flood all the porn sites in the world with her name and her lewd complacency and it would stick to her as meat flies. Moreover, he would know from his confederates in the police where she was currently, and he had sworn to have her killed if she ever left. I held her hands and explained that, for all I knew, the high powers that had taken charge of us had probably already stripped Zanni of all his prickles and wiped all virtual memories he might upload. It was a capacity at the core of SEVEN STREAMS operations, wasn’t it?

She said she was sensing oppressed in the frescoed venues, she couldn’t release herself in the sublime forgiveness of Duccio’s Maesta. Thus, I told Cecile and the guards that we climbed up to the Loggia Dei Nove, to take a big chestful of Toscan air., but she remained clenched to my wing, huddled on one of the step stones at the foot of a column. Cecile was enthralled with the Siena School, she sat at Adèle’s feet and snuggled to her legs, our security barred a tourist to take a picture of us, with a stern stare.
Later, back on our terrace, after having stretched all our anxious fledgling’s strings under the tepid shower, and kneaded off all the lactic from her dainty muscles, we popped open our laptops to rummage the web for Adèle’s news. Someone good-hearted had sent me links to different Milanese newspapers’ sites, showing that early morning, Gianni Mercanesi had been arrested for multiple embezzlements, and all his properties had been totally pillaged and left empty. It was probable that a fraudulent confederacy had split, and all his social connexions were inquired. She was gobsmacked, she asked who we were, I joshed we wouldn’t paint a fresco to tell, and she would soon acquaint further with our perfumed gang. She appeared baffled for a jiffy, then, in the candour of her nudity, walked straight to her watchdog and pulled him inside, there was no doubt as to what they did.
She reappeared a wink before the moon rose over Siena, soothed and endearing as her normal self, thus we ordered dinner and tracked the news channels on TV so she could zap herself, and she confirmed that all the indicted ones they showed had used her at Zanni’s apartment, she was elated. Journalists in the know said it was troubling that all Mercanesi archives had disappeared into thin air, his cloud account erased.
There were beetroot and sweet onion pie, morels in cashew cream tagliatelle, red fruit salad with almond ice cream, cold Japanese tea and strawberry lemonade. She was restless on her chair, she had noticed that the watchdog had changed, if not our waiter. she wiped a trace of cream on her lip and returned to the second bedroom. A whole squad of Melchior hunks had been assigned to our favours, and I would bet they had been busy in Milan the night before. Cecile and I went arm in arm to our bedroom, waving welcome to the new pair who kept their aloof gaze while they grabbed hold of our lesser statures.
Mine smelled of cinnamon, tonka bean and neroli, his hands were unfailing and high-strung, he mastered the skill of wanking a girl, he was black, with a pointed glans. I called the Swiss Navy, and so did Cecile who straddled a bold spear backwards, offering a slit in bloom. My bugger read that and took a liking to watch me lick my sister while humping in my complacent rosette. They had training coordinating their moves, it felt unearthly as Kind Of Blue once more. Then supervened Adèle and her indefatigable cheetah who might scent a dip of different females. He pushed me aside to thread into Cecile’s wet slit of all his length; my merciless Nubian unsheathed me to try on the runaway newbie who was already all slithery inside. The third jock was eager to spurt a shot, he capsised me, held high my ankles, and slid merrily up my coochie to tickle the eye of my womb and gush like a stag, earning a jolly splash of me on his balls.
Outside, the table had not been cleared, I surmised our boy had been peeping at us, and thus I uncovered him in the window curtain drapes with his dick in hand, ready to pair up on Adèle with the black bugger while she gulped another doodle in her mouth. I reckoned we had unbeknown to us stolen a hot property, but M., who was undoubtedly watching his team perform at this moment, had by the by been served a master shot in the Mercanesi anthill, that I wouldn’t want to know more about.
They left us to piss on each other’s feet like nasty brats; Adèle retold having pissed on men’s faces she just saw on TV. We covered our wet damages and soon slumbered like a litter of puppies. Early the next morning, a knock on our door caught our attention to prepare to leave for our next stage. Our worldly detail, in spooky grey suits and desert boots, smirked gently at our drowsy gazes when we sat, decked in mere silk tees, at the faultless breakfast table —though I missed a plate of French toast. Adèle couldn’t help browsing for Milanese news, the dirt spread through social layers but she was ignored all along, since the Mercanesi apartment had been thoroughly mopped out.
Our bags filled after a fashion, and Adèle’s was the heaviest, we found two gleaming pearl-grey Rivian SUVs awaiting us and our detail. I took time to amply tip our dedicated boy. Though it was an easy up-to-date electric car, Cecile let me drive it as she lured Adèle in the backseat with her. I would have foreseen cuddling my catch myself, but I simply tinkered with the onboard commands to find a means to connect to Tidal and chose a Biosphere album.

It would be one hour, this heavy machine flew like a breeze, and the sound system was crystal pure. Of all of the girls’ scents in the cabin, It was Cecile’s Iris that reigned, or was it some syntony with the new car’s scent? Meanwhile, I would have bet my hat that they would doze happy in ten minutes.
The meditative cypresses impress me like forlorn sentinels of a bygone war, sometimes in cohorts. It is said that they keep the memory of the Etruscans. Anyhow, one roadside seemed a convenient place to pass water next to the wildflowers, as agreed by one of our mercenaries who did the same a tad closer than he probably should have, but we were pals, weren’t we? I did not move, bare-arsed face to the sunbathed shrubs, but I waved him to near his raising dick, just like any tart. In no time, I put myself to gulp two of them, they tasted like soapy soup. In the car, where my foundlings had not budged, I fetched the panforte that Sig. Bertini had offered us on the depart, rich confectionary with almonds and candied fruit, tougher than nougat, to sweeten my mouth.
We parked outside of the ideal village, as it would be called, and walked to a small pristine seminary, an outhouse of the much bigger Papal residence next to it. The entrance opened in an austere square cloister edged with four rows of simple circular vaults, like a stern schoolyard with shrubs in terracotta planters.
Signor Mancini greeted us with a dash of grovelling —and an unconcealed wink of lust.
Unexpectedly, the suite was magnificent, with an infinite view of a preserved valley, noble space proportions, and an unobtrusive attempt at decoration. Our dedicatory hunks would set camp around us with permanent devices watching our door. Something might be cooking about our derailing venture, but hadn’t we read with reward about the three princes of Serendippo?
The most outstanding feature of the resort was this vast overlooking terrace at the rear, a place to watch my foundlings dip biscotti while I resigned myself to ask for an Americano to avoid harsh dust tea. Then we discovered a sizeable swimming pool tucked against the terrace embankment, in the sun. We went fetch towels, and we dared swim and laze in the raw, under the unfazed eye of our dissuasive detail in black shorts, which made clear they were here to care for us, bringing lemonade and clearing after us. Adèle had carried her tablet with her, the news-and-trash channels still rummaged into Zanni’s dubious laundry, they let infer that some of the aristocracy were involved; in retrospect, she grasped how valued she had been appraised, in her rabbit hutch; she asked us to help her spread sun cream.
For dinner, they served us asparagus omelettes, roasted artichokes, and rich Plombière ice cream full of candied fruit. We remained on the garden terrace for a last cup of barbagliata, waiting for the moon, when Adèle read the news that Zanni had killed himself in his cell at the Palazzo da Giustizia. All TV channels were ablaze. She ran to the bathroom to puke, and Cecile took her to our room to wash and change; one of our minders came up with light lemonade and a small goblet, telling her not to drink more than one every ten minutes, a colleague of his had brought up an anti-acid syrup. She recovered.
She brushed her teeth and went to bed with Cecile who recounted her own struggle out of a boor’s grip that had finished with his accidental death on the dirt floor of a cellar. Unless one of Zanni’s peculiar patrons snitches, for whatever motive, of his despicable trafficking of his own daughter, the whole affair summarised in vulgar crookery and extorsion, and she did not even bear his name.
I thought Cecile was the proper confidant, she had herself successfully walked the paths of redemption back and forth, and she had some practice with abused maidens.
I left them in tête à tête and shuffled off, in my best pyjamas, to the next door in the corridor. He did not care about not wearing more than his spandex boxers, and he read my gaze on them. As a matter of composure, he waved at the computer’s screen and told me the girl’s worries should settle fast, only remained what the johns she had met might attempt to shut her off, and thus it should be wiser for us to fly back to Paris on the morrow. I allowed his hand on my thigh and swayed —like I do. It was only an elastic waistband and two buttons, he said he liked me.
I whored as much for the computer’s webcam as for him, M. had told me once that he would peep at us anytime, like bluetits in the bird’s box, it was petty coercion of our lifestyle —as for many other lucky younglings. I pulled his trunks, I knew what to expect, we had romped like animals at TRÆVIX’s, and nothing had soured that souvenir of mine. At the edge of the bed, he pushed up my thighs and licked my whole blissful furrow frantically —full frame. He educed such a vibrant vigour that I let myself be handled at his mighty whim, somewhere far away an owl hooted.

As he flipped me up, still his shaft deep in my entrails, I twigged that another one of his mates was eagerly gazing, trunks off. While pinching my titberries to make me wriggle upon his abs, he invited his pal to join the merriment as I stretched a chink further to welcome his additional peen. Only time to figure it out, two hands caught hold of my head, and yet another rod was shoved up my mouth.
Soaked as a mop, they carried me ever so easily to the rustic but efficient shower, preening my every crease meticulously, when an imperative chirp somewhere rattled their nerves as they had overlooked their guard for my pretty arse. On the split screen of the computer app, one could see a waiter bringing some drinks to my pals, and that was what should not have happened. One of my tender buggers was already dressed and running into the room, talking with the young boy who looked dumbstruck. He tipped him amply and let him go after he noticed that the girls had unwittingly let their bathrobes yawn.
Breakfast was brought by one of the team, whenas I might have figured having it by the pool. But events were dashing again, he told us to watch the news, and soon Adèle screeched in fright, seeing a photograph of a man said to have been shot dead in the night; he had been a regular at Zanni’s, a mild-mannered gent who smelled of Cologne. Hence the plans had been jostled, the aeroplane would await us in three hours at Florence Amerigo Vespucci to repatriate the whole tribe to Paris, out of Italian radars. The sole fact that Adèle could recognise these men was reason enough to hide her, we had done this before.
It was a faster road, and this Rivian car was a beast. I took the wheel and couldn’t do but recount my escapade in the boy’s lair, they relished the details, themselves had merely talked of their bygone fate. Inevitably, Adèle tinkered with the radio to listen to the Italian news and became stunned by the ruckus. It would seem that a thorny bramble was being unravelled and there were reasons she could be caught amidst the spin.
However, the albatross stood on the lookout at Amerigo Vespucci, and that was enough to rekindle Adèle’s confidence as she saw the six of us being boarded on the magnificent machine while the cars were returned to their station. Our minders brought up the printed press, for Adèle they eyed as another of the boss’s whims they would serve too at a given time. Before sitting across from the sisterly doves, still feeling the three men about me, I didn’t shun a random hand up in the leg of my shorts, I had been fair game, hadn’t I?
I played kinky housegirl, making coffee and tea for the somewhat short leap, and I thought of the pilots in their deck, and I knew I would be cooked if I proposed coffee, because they had known me a few times before. In all kindness, they pulled my shorts down and told me to show my arse on the third seat where I would gently gulp them, the Captain first. The aeroplane did not flinch, albatrosses love sluts.
The Parisian skies were in bright tatters when we three hurried into the stately salon car as the chauffeur saw to our luggage. The tinted windows made the nondescript suburb feel like a Wim Wenders emotional travelling shot. Cecile said that I tasted dirty.
The usual chauffeur, his eyes drifting about my person, which I did not shun, said that since they might have traced my payment at Adèle’s shop, and Italian journalists had smelled blood, we should run in through Cecile’s entrance, in any event. M.’s spooks had done their homework thoroughly.
Upstairs, Kate, Gwen, Natalia, and the Heather Fairies had ordered fruit pies. I was obsessed with brushing my teeth, first.

 

Kate says:

Hugo had summoned us to recount Adele’s misfortunes, thus we expected the new Italian nymphet to greet her with freshly baked fruit pies from Agnete Og Sanne and whatever she would like to drink. Thus, we saw that slinky lass, green-eyed, tousled dark blond bob hair, thin as a model, pale as a recluse, and easy with her body like any of us, here. Knowing what she escaped from, I felt like snuggling her as Cecile did.
Sarah took it upon herself to bluntly let out that their foundling feared being judged a whore, which made us all gently laugh and reach out —the Milanese threats once warded off, she would feel at home among us. Around the table, she sat next to Cecile as they browsed the news; Natalia snuck at their side and rummaged in Adèle’s shirt so that we all could relish her tangerine breasts as she savoured the creamy rhubarb and strawberry pie; she had hitched up her own khaki ribbed tank mini dress that I called her cheat, but her bare narrow hips were irresistible if she would.
The depth of the matter was to let her settle either somewhere in our realm, or let her choose her own perch elsewhere, which was not an option for a penniless teen whatsoever, even hard-working. Hugo called, naturally, to meet her with her finders, whenever later. But before climbing down, she had heard a summary of Gwen’s, Fayelle’s, and Annabelle’s kind of upbringing, not in a cry-for-shame way, everybody so far was safe and dry, put apart Fayelle’s bout with axolotls she had a funny way to tell, lending her titanium skull to touch, for luck. Only Sarah and I had had privileged infancies, and beautiful Natalia, who was already nude, then, was born downstairs to Hugo’s longtime housekeeper.
Once they had gone, our goodwill mission would be to scour the all-news channels, except that only Sarah would have spoken Italian, but international websites gave updates on the Mercanesi affair; some of the big game was still on the lam, no search on Adèle’s name garnered anything, the shop manager where she had been put on live display for would-be johns had not known her real name, and the relation to Mercanesi would be too far-fetched. Nonetheless, this stub for a thriller aroused us, as we had been about Fanny and the Montenegrin mob, perverse tattlers.
The Heather Fairies returned to their heights to binge on Netflix or worse; Natalia, Gwen and I decided to go parade of ourselves in the new salon at Philippe’s. We dressed accordingly in airy Margaret MacDonald style hi-gathered, layered, hazy gowns and gilt barefoot sandals, what else?
Sami was happy, he had not fondled Gwen for aeons, and he knew us inside out since ever. He said we would have time to laze around before the usual late hour of idling clients, and he drew Gwen to one of his hidey-holes. Natalia and I wallowed like lionesses for hire on the maroon mohair velvet of the sofas; she had been moved by Adèle’s destiny, obviously because of her beauty, and the wistful shade that would fly on her jade-green gaze. Could we travel anywhere and not fall for heart-wrenching caged birds? And yes, whenas she was there whoring for bespoke-clad barrons probably robbers, too, she was still obsessed with Adèle’s thighs she had caught a furtive glimpse of.
Reclined on the rounded backrest, she had gathered up the frilled hems of her dress over her bum, like a Belle Epoque courtesan, and I was answering her with my thighs parted among the eddies of pulled-up chiffon, making eyes behind the frosted rim of my high-ball of kombucha. The first-comer of the clubmen still in evening attire couldn’t resist sitting by Natalia’s bottom and revelling at her lasciviousness; he was ready to afford her whimsical gameplay, she showed him to a velvety niche hung with richly framed dark mirrors.
Gwen came back, smelling of Egyptian jasmine, rushing to lick my jewels and showing her tiny butt. A pair of habitue buddies fancied a partie carrée and took us to the low-ceiling purple plush box with angled black mirror panes at the top of the four walls, and a large crimson acanthus pattern carpeted square bed in the centre. They had called on a young house servant who helped us rid of our frills and hang them aside, then peel the gents to their slightly less advantageous allure, although they stiffened for our amour-propre. As it ought to, in a corner stood a little black sacristy cabinet holding the holy lube and the kinky pharmacopoeia; I refused any drug, but Gwen was tempted by THC gummies.
Whatever ran in their blood, they showed truly considerate, moreover when they summoned the pretty boy to let loose upon us, which he did frantically. They eventually waned out, like excessive bons vivants. Still, they followed us to the bathroom to practice the joys of watersports, and one had the nerve to piss in my arse, helping me to gush noisily into the bowl. The boy was still enraged at Gwen that he buggered again in the rain as the other clubman pinched her rosy tits. It was easier for us to hop back into our gowns and slink out.

Natalia sported a Gioconda smile, she affected to sniff my crotch and compliment us, but we decided it would be enough for the night. Sami confided that he had watched our little gathering, and it had made him spurt in the throat of a young debutante that he foresaw we would crave, too, when he would have ended up freeing her from her diverse shackles.
Windows down, the cabby told us we smelled rich, but he wasn’t cool enough so as we sniff him back; he wasn’t sad at our tip. Back home, there was a meringue lemon pie and Sarah’s sublime teas. We had racked back our gowns, Gwen still was my little whore from Bruges with an angelic body. We laughed at our white moustaches.
Sarah and Cecile came back with weird expressions on their faces. They grabbed a laptop and opened CNN, a third associate of Mercanesi had been found hanging in his Venice Canal Grande house. As expected, Hugo had been enthralled with our Italian fugitive to whom he showed the Mister Finch moth room —as they waited outside, hearing sighs and giggles— Adèle needed all the care and long-term support, too. As Sarah foresaw, Melchior had brought delicacies after dinner —along with his brigade— and later kindly abducted her to the realm we all knew, didn’t we?
Sarah, who was the only one speaking Italian, believed that Adèle would be left aside of the Mercanesi scandal, at least that was Melchior’s opinion, in the light of what he could survey through the networks. There was an entanglement of forged financial operations, going on for many years, and Adèle might have served as the matter of blackmail, but all documents, physical and virtual, pertaining to Mercanesi’s affairs had vanished, much like in Victor’s case around here.
There would be multiple choices to nest a new protégée in our love-wielded grid, Natalia had visited plenty, with Fulgence and his cohorts, as the workings went in the newly acquired chunks of the SEVENSTREAMS Paris operation, and furthermore, there were cosy places on the other side of the new staircase that led to Cecile’s entry; thus Adèle would dwell closer to us.
Now Cecile ogled Gwen, still wired after Sami’s passion romp, she winked her out towards her room, where I knew she called on Fulgence and Eric by any chance and they came, till morning.
Sarah found stupefying gobbledygook on the Italian news sites, and she owed us more about the manner it apparently fired up from the time that she had wooed that babe in a chic store and let her flee along with them out of blind faith. Now she began to suss out how a mere pebble had caused the avalanche, and M. had not cared to conceal he had overseen our little vacation since we had first embarked. Given the weight of his bear paws, the manoeuvers to cover Adéle’s flight had inexorably pulverised Zanni’s house of cards, and cost their lives to the most exposed players.
Adèle came at breakfast time, along with Gauthier who had been summoned to show her, among other amenities, some available comfy bedsits to be fitted at her will. It was obvious they might have tested the carpeting like rabbits, she showed bright eyes like a mischievous brat. She had chosen a capacious self-contained bedsit upstairs in the newly opened stairwell, with communication to that of Gauthier, Natalia, and many of those who never thought of moving. As they had been imagining the furnishings and decoration like I could figure out our copperhead knight doing with a new peridot-green-eye little whore, he had been casually sending his orders to his emergency teams who were already running.
Ostensibly sitting her on his lap at the table, to taste the only cooking skill of Sarah’s with blueberry jam, he told us it would be on us to provide soul props for Adèle’s nest, once she would have visited in all manners the many hideouts in the château. He had his hand slid into her shorts. Hanging her apron, Sarah proposed to show Adèle around, she knew she had been impressed in Hugo’s galleries where she had allowed him all manners of favours, ever so smoothly. She also craved our Aladdin’s cave, and she had seen bathrooms wide enough to dance in all the places Gauthier showed her to. By the way, she went to the loo, and Gauthier ran to his duties. When she came back, she avowed to having shagged him during the tour, she was a frank comrade, wasn’t she?

 

Sarah says:

Adèle and I needed a visit to the checkup lab, mainly to create her black card. Thus we took a thorough shower like manic otters, with perfumed enemas out of respect for the operators, in any event. She asked if I would stay with her, because she had a phobia of needles, probably caused by Zanni’s abuse of her veins. And so we stood arm in arm, au naturel, before the young short-haired blond nurse— I wouldn’t bet a free ride she wore something under her white coat. At the end of the day, she saw all possible specimens of humans, thus she was all the most amused to see me cajole that pretty Italian filly while she searched for a tiny artery in the crook of her elbow. Next, the gynaecologist, who would prefer tête-à-tête confessions, did not speak Italian, but he heard the confounding story of an outright abuse by a culprit who happened to be defunct now, hence her professional obligation to signal the case was aimless, and Adèle was major. As our doctor, she knew all about the lifestyles in our outlandish hive, thus she was not worried for Adèle, she proposed a long-term contraceptive implant, and Adèle did not see the syringe.
For the good humour of the desk nurse, we slid back into our black yoga shorts and white boys’ shirts, wooing her in Italian; Adèle’s card was ready in twenty minutes. It was a Miyazaki sky, I took her to the Senghor footbridge, and we looked at a few bateaux-mouches, I asked her if she felt like selling her favours to other scented rich johns in a place where the lights of these boats ran shadows across the walls? She answered she would do anything with Cecile and me, and so we kissed unabashedly.
Back home, Cecile had texted she had been looking for us, I took Adèle to the workshop, knowing full well what effect she would produce on Cyprien; but the matter was that Armand Lunel had called her to recriminate as to her long absence at Zev’s side, and it was turning sour in the poor boy’s mind. There were heaps of money to be earned easily, for someone trained at satisfying men, and this one was a phenomenon she would have some pleasure to introduce her to, so to speak. I had myself let be done a few nights in the ogre’s silken sheets, thus after the carefree confessions the doctor had asked be repeated a few times, she might as well withstand the otherwordly beast in the eerie Mendelsohn mansion. There was no schedule on Zev’s planet, Cecile announced their coming, and spoke of Adèle in terms she knew Armand would drool to take a taste of; altogether nought as harsh as what Adèle had been submitted to her life long, as Cecile had heard from her.
I spent time browsing for Milanese news, mostly images of the Palazzo Di Giustizzia’s front steps with bursts of fury when notables came or went, not a word of the captive, it might even remain untold, now that Zanni was dead, albeit the wife sought some media from Argentina.
I fetched a double-breasted peak-lapels night-blue sequined blazer, long of a hand below my quim, and black patent leather flat pumps with matching blue strass barrettes. My own allusion to the wandering lights on the river Seine had gone to my brain, I felt elated to go sell my turpitude on my own, after a week of babysitting on eggshells, knowing that Adèle was in for a massive tremor. After these few hours at the outdoor swimming pool, I opted for mere Neals Yard Body Balm, calling Natalia for help, even should it mean I lick her for an hour. But she wasn’t mean, and she found my idea snazzy; she was going to her music buff client on Butte Bergeyre, and she had not yet teased him naked in an evening jacket. We had time to preen each other like doves and rinse our entrails to the rim. She asked me how much I would churn at Speck’s, it depended on how many johns I would take, but the figures made her wish we went together some night.
I liked to return to Neals Yard Geranium Orange from time to time, and most men liked me with it, inoffensive and genderless if they needed to keep our gambols discreet. It had become the signature scent of Michelle’s since she had once set camp in our studio and she had found some in the shower room. I asked Natalia when she had made love to Michelle last, and she answered it had been a winter day, they had not switched on the lights, to watch the snow fall blue.
As expected, the cab driver couldn’t seem to drive slowly enough, his gaze stuck to my pubis; the warm weather had made me overlook the use of some kind of overcoat. It wasn’t a long ride, I tipped him swiftly, he looked like I had made the remnant of his day. Then the head butler was bedazzled, and I knew the drill, I had had the complacency to yield, once, so he pushed me to the door beyond the elevator, and he was greedily kind, pushing me over the small desk it seems all doormen possess. He used proper lube to hump me deep to the tune of three minutes, and he gushed his load in a hail of jolts. Then he wiped himself and showed me the small, but clean, bathroom.

With that stirring sensation of a slidy bumhole, I welcomed the dimmed lighting randomly torn by the roaming projectors of the loaded barges of strollers. All the more in my role, I wandered about towards the buffet to get tonic and blueberry, a blue inoffensive beverage the barista had invented for girls like me. As I drank, I felt a hand checking on my underwear, and thus finding the place likeable. It belonged to a mature, elegant diplomatic-type character with curls on his nape and embers in his black eyes, who ranted muffed obscenities in my ear about taking his turn in my bumhole, to what I murmured there would be no rebuff if he could afford his wants. It felt truly arousing to indulge brazenly among hand-picked A-listers and dolled-up escorts with natural hairdos and no underwear. My whisperer wouldn’t let go of me, I granted him a casual stroking on his fly, and I found him stiff as a parrot, thus I reckoned he might be next. A mild-mannered attendant —who looked me up, unflinching, whenas he had used me unabashedly a month ago— gave us the key to a third-floor niche, and pocketed some bills from my admirer who relished to let be seen my lower belly around.
Already in the lift, he would speak less ostentatiously vulgarly in my neck, he avowed he had revelled watching my face under his trash diatribe. He guessed I wasn’t some grown-up street urchin, but I had no confession to grant him, that would be off the trade.
At the far end of the corridor that smelled of benzoin, the mahogany door opened on a gold and green boudoir with a large square banquette upholstered with a petit-point tapestry showing sacred fish in a lotus pond, sided by four malachite-green sofas, for hair-rising parties. The same green velvet covered the walls, and the ceiling was clad in reddish gold leaf, with a bursting cloud of metalwork and pressed glass —in the same vein as the one I caught Cecile working on, at the beginning of our friendship— casting a lustfully subdued lighting.
My suitor took away my blazer and ordered me to quit my shoes and sway gently, upon the banquette, to the sound of the slow cool electro mix. Now he was wheedling about my allure, my boyish features, bar my chubby pube. He wanted me to retell how the Maitre d took advantage of me and how I liked it. On each wall, gilded sculpted wood panels showed scenes of the bygone colonial era, explicitly outrageous, like these shapely hunters carrying a nude woman tied to a spear, elsewhere nubile slaves attending opium smokers’ pipes, squatting so as to also present their quims amidst the dreamers’ paraphernalia, fantasmatic Asian whores in odalisk poses, in short, nothing ever possible to put up for a public sale, but as of here and now, the guiltiest of delectation.
In the raw, he wasn’t so repulsive, he was fully tanned and only grew hair on the chest. He had appreciated the skit I had told of, in the maître d’s booth, he was in shape for a master’s turn, he asked me to stand on all fours, obviously, and I was as gliding as a bobsleigh slope. He was a fast shooter, he made me turn over and clean his johnson with my mouth, all the way moaning I was a gifted whore.
He remained cranked up, he might have been loaded on something, or he was in love. He lay down and told me to straddle him face to him and widespread so he could watch his shaft come and go in my slit; he held my hands, and I felt I could let flow, he relished that, too, and spurt some more. Then he passed out. They say things like that occur, but I was dumbstruck. First, I fetched a towel to wipe him clean; I dared listen to his breathing, it was feeble but steady. When I was about to call for help, he woke suddenly, and it took him a minute to remember who I was, then again finding me sexy and eventually presenting excuses. Recovering his wits, he said he would need more of me, on Thursday nights around nine, if I cared. The tip could suffice to buy Adèle a whole new wardrobe, and she had tastes.
As I returned to the salon with indefectible curiosity, I crossed the Maître d who pinned me to the wall only to tell me I was a born enchantress and I’d better be there next Thursday, then he lightly grazed inside my half-costume.
There were two or three very young tasty angels dressed in fragile nothingness, thus I went to woo them and tell them to take their shoes off, as they would at a party their age —they did not reckon yet as to where they happened to be, on what down to earth purpose. One sported very short Mia Farrow hair, I enlaced her in a lazy dance, and she was startled when she felt I was naked at her hand while I tilted her head in a long kiss. I told her to slip off her knickers, and what remained of the haywire schoolgirl blushed. A silver-templed German aristocrat was dawdling near us with bright eyes, I told Coline —that was the name she would bear— to use lube she would find in the bedstead drawer. She had platinum-blue eyes, I would take care of her shoes, and her knickers.

The two others had witnessed my pass at their buddy, they were close sisters, shapely lean, a dash smaller than me without shoes, appetising toes with black lacquered nails, coffee-black doe eyes with lively white, same cinnamon curly short hairdo they had cut for one another. One, Carine —said she— was the elder, she looked downwards when I asked for her pants, she tasted lemony on her pulpy lips, and she wore a short purplish lurex kind of tank dress; I easily reached her close-shaved pubis as I nailed her against the pillar partitioning the salon, so as two young corporate studs came on to sniff at her curls, muttering they would crave sharing her in a comfy nook. I gave her the same advice as I had to Coline, she stuttered she had never done that, I joshed welcome to the trade —they did not look fierce anyhow.
The last was delicious and barely of age, she called herself Dorothy, and wore no knickers, already. She slid her hand under my lapel and to my back. She had grasped my play with the two others, she wanted to show herself as the daredevil, and she stuck two agile fingers into my arse. She smelled of a daffodil, and I fumbled into her neck. She wore a hazy-blue jumble-printed poplin waistless flared dress, it was easy to find she was ablaze. A towering figure of a patriarch bruskly seized us both and dragged us to the lift. He told us to keep on our kittenish romp.
The room was all panelled with carved wood of grotesque singeries on a willow-green background that greatly amused Dorothy as I pulled off her dress. The Commander told her to unclothe him, he wore Saville Row bespoke and sported sturdy loins; he remained half-bent, I told her to suck him hard while I would eat her on the edge of the grand green bed, she parted her legs like a dancer. He grabbed her joujou head and spurted straight in her throat, like obviously she had not expected at all, and he was overjoyed with how she coughed. I devoured her tongue and explained that in rich houses, girls did not spit off, and said thank you to their johns. That one had sussed he had bought a peppy debutante together with a cunning returning horse, he commanded me to prepare profusely the damsel’s jacksie and embrace her top to tail so we could lick our slits while he would ravage her pale hibiscus. I held her firm and poked my devilish tongue upon her proud clit and her labia. I saw the glistening pointed glans push upon the shy rosette I just had slathered with slidy gel —not my favourite fleet’s, though— and I spurted to her crafty little mouth as I could see her surrender. Once she took on the bulk of the menace —and I guessed it wouldn’t be the inaugural visitor in the pink diverticulum— into her bumhole that I helped prised open with both hands, she began to wave in rhythm with the bastard’s growls, just like a rich courtesan. I strived with all my want to make her climax while he gushed another load into her, and she shivered upon my womb with long moans. After an after-party in the bathroom, where Dorothy learned a rich customer may fancy pissing in a pretty girl’s mouth, or vice versa, we dressed him up —as he went on fingering Dorothy’s arse— we thanked him for the princely tip.
I had a crush on Dorothy and her sisters, I was afraid Hugo would scold me for not keeping my whims on leash. Lain aside her on the velvet, drowning in her black eyes, I recalled the days when a whole school lost their underwear in a small boxwood bosket.
Lauritz barged in, all black and silky as per usual, and he sat casually near Dorothy, asking how it was being a softy-skinned hireling. He kissed us both on our bloomy lips and asked us to wait for him, ordering drinks if we will, on the house. The waiter knew there wasn’t time whatsoever, but he relished the few thrusts I let him make in my slutty mouth, for Dorothy’s loveliest eyeful.
Things had gone diversely for Coline and Carine, the latter having sustained all harmless manners of intimate relations, some she wouldn’t dare fantasise. Yes, she had followed my advice, when it became certain they would use her, Heads and Tails. She had discovered the double penetration, either side up, she even had drank semen and piss, whatever repulsive taste they have. In short, she was proud she had reconnoitred her limits. She had pretty creases across her flat belly, and sassy brown tits, she would make a killing in our dovecot.
Coline had inherited a crackpot, a sweet one, that is, who wanted to play house with her keeping a furry tail in her bum, returning after each imaginary housekeeping chore to sucking his dick on all fours under a dressed table. He too, had taken care of blocking her head when he spurted the goo thrice. He had been grateful, he had never glanced at her quim whatsoever. She was troubled the sisters sounded like they had eventually come to like what they had been done to, and she looked disabused, at the least.
Lauritz had undressed, his staff upright, four nude loot girls ready for anything, bar one chagrined pretty blonde, lying on one of his beds.

He was certainly not a boor, and Coline seemed to know then; he schemed some arrangement where I would toy with her pouty mouth, the sisters each with a nascent breast, and him in where the tail dildo had eased the way. He was an accomplished swordsman, and it sure wouldn’t be the first time he buggered Coline. Seeing an opportunity, I crept to her benign slit to enkindle her clit while I sat low upon her mouth to receive the same blessing. I had stolen access to Coline’s tits, but nevertheless, I earned a second tongue in my own rosette. Lauritz warned he would fire his load, Coline gushed in my mouth as I did in hers. Next, I jumped on Carine and crooked two fingers into her vagina, finding the eye of Dr Graftenberg and making her leak folly waters.
Lauritz had been to the countryside, cruising about in shabby nightclubs, as he did in Sylt, in the 911. At the Nonstop in Saint Quentin, he hit on Coline who dawdled offishly and sucked well-to-do offspring in their cars for money. The second night, she let him drag her to his hotel room, and she cried when he ripped her bare. She was ashamed of her clothes, her underwear was frayed. She had dropped out of college, she lived in a garret with no running water, she had shunned pushing drugs around clubs, she was direly depressed, but madly beauteous au naturel, and so young that, after three days in the 911, as-you-will shopping and body care in expensive hotels, she was ripe to accept anything for him. Only that he wasn’t a pimp. He had stargazed with Cecile, and also Camille, about using his power and social skills to simply fish out these forlorn wayfarers and dip them into his open network. He had been mulling over taking over an apartment building behind Speck’s that Gauthier’s enterprises were currently refurbishing, all this at a thoughtless capital loss, bar the listed property, and moreover the windfall of Cecile’s success. The key had been the uncovering that this Hotel bearing his name in the middle of Paris had been a concealed whorehouse for a century.
As for Coline personally, she had been raised almost properly in a small brick house near the old Laon, and then it started to unfurl from terrible to worse. Her father was a simple roofer, and a common alcoholic, who fell from a roof he worked on, six storeys high. To make her fate even more dreadful, her father had been working uninsured and all accountable people vanished. Her mother received a tiny compensation that lasted less than a year, she was badly depressed and couldn’t work; she eventually found a new partner, who treated her so awfully that she abused her medications. That man unsurprisingly became besotted by Coline who ran away at thirteen and thus was sent to an institution near Lyon, where again she was stalked by an education adviser. She tried to protest, only to be sent to a worse discipline structure. Meanwhile, her mother had succeeded in suicide with her own pills, her companion had left her long ago. Eventually, she was sent to Saint-Quentin where she was an on-and-off fast-food attendant. She sold what remained of her parent’s house and became a back-seat whore.
Currently, Lauritz paid for a small bedsit on Saint Louis island, like American parents do for their would-be-writers offspring, only Coline was a whore, a very pretty one at that. I fiddled with the mad idea of lodging her with Adèle, but that was inspired by mere lust.
As for Carine and Dorothy, they had been born in Montluçon, to the very conventional couple of a police officer and a dull housemaker. There was a thirteen months difference between them. The exotic name came from a long-time English pen pal of their mother.
Fate struck in the first year of primary school, when their unassuming father shot up his skull with his service weapon, at his work desk, leaving no explanation. The man had been a remote character, the girls did not recall having ever been held up in his arms, and he smelled of the black tobacco stench. Their waning mother outlasted six other months before swallowing an old rat poison. Kept away from most of the adult tragedy, the girls were sent to their paternal uncle’s farm, near Moulins. They were horrified by the treatment of animals and the omnipresence of shit, they withered away so fast that the services were called and the girls were put in a catholic boarding school. For two years, they abided by the morbid rule of the nuns and let do nightly shenanigans, all was better than the farm’s ordure. Although many measures were taken to separate them, they kept mentally close as if twins. Eventually, as the nuns prepared whatever religious pump to be held in the chapel the sisters hated, they snuck in before daybreak, threw on the pavement the two enormous armfuls of lilies and fled with their derisory bundle. They were already tall enough not to catch the attention, they grasped fast enough how to hoodwink the truck drivers with tall tales, and paid their fare in kind. With their features and some tan, they could pass for Roma, and that is what happened.

One truck driver, not worse than many, had taken them to an automatic hotel to let them use the shower and clip their nails, sort of. He had a penchant for Dorothy, and they slept like fugitives. Seeing them nude, he had a doubt about their age. He bought breakfast and told them they could try to get hired to pick apples, where he headed to. Fruit growers do not ask for ID, nor if they speak French. A band of Roma were already at work, the foreman mumbled they were pretty, as Gypsies. They broke their backs picking apples on low-pruned trees, and at the end of the day, they were cheated, and they whinged, at what the foreman walked out, shouting work began at seven.
No sooner had he gone than a couple of thugs, who mostly served as taskmasters on their own people, pulled them away to a van and drove a kilometre or two. They were three brutes, with paws big as manure forks. They did not rip their clothes, but they made them undo one by one, growling at each new swathe of nude skin, manhandling them like dead meat. They used oil to rape them; they were mounted like asses, but they obviously did not want to break anything, and for a cause, they learned.
From then on, they were sold as back alleys prostitutes, in cars, in sordid shacks. They no longer had shoes or underwear, old women came to wash them and comb their hair; they planned suicide. Fate struck again, their pimp lost them at a card play, he refuted violently and was shot dead along with his goons. They were bound with plastic ties, stacked together in the trunk of a town car, and injected with something in the butt cheek.
We woke hazily on a clean bed, rocked by sea swaying we could not discern from drug drowsiness, we clutched to each other, but we couldn’t tell we weren’t dead. It was pitch black, but we eventually found a light switch and a door to a tiny bathroom if only to pee, because we had been thoroughly washed, and we smelled at each other in detail.
They were in a large boat on the high seas, a yacht called Hopi, long enough to run on. A crewman in no shoes, white shorts and tee shirt, unlocked the door and waved them out. He did not speak French, and when They signed that they needed clothes, he laughed and meant they would wear none. He was kind, but he touched them at all times, even more intrusively than he would have a pet, because one doesn’t finger a dog’s privates.
The ship flew the flag of the Caiman islands, in George Town. The owner was a beautiful young man who had hired them the day before he killed their Roma captor. He looked like King Tut, his name was Georges Nader. Without any ado, he sat them at his feet on a silk rug and told them they were sex slaves, and their only concern was to remain beauteous and available. He bragged about being a faithless orphan nomad, and he made Dorothy suck him right away, before sharing his collation.
Their nascent souls had been ground by aeons of maltreatment in sordid hovels or on a mere mattress in the back of a truck, their only lifeline their sisterhood. They complied, and it was no hassle, though every male onboard could demand their service at a whim, on the condition it would not wound the girls. In the all-male Philippine staff, a few boys knew how to do their nails and hair, they were fine-featured and slender, and the higher-ups would use them sexually, too.
It had been an unreal parenthesis, in tepid waters, amidst the dolphins and sharks, and never a solid ground in sight. It ended in the shape of a Royal Navy patrol ship, the arrest of Georges Nader, a multifaceted trafficker who might pretty well have groomed them for sale, as they do with horses.
They were being re-dressed in British fatigues, brought on-land in the Akrotiri base on Cyprus, and then questioned extensively by a kind woman intelligence specialist who wrote their edifying biography with many innuendos. They returned to France in a student residence near Orleans where they did not mingle well with others they found childish or bothersome, but passed their driving licence. They had a few months to get by before they could fly their own wings.
Lauritz found them just in time, as they began selling backseat blowjobs at a middle-of-nowhere club with a vast parking lot where they had been in the crosshairs of a local pimp. After a midnight escapade in the 911, pills-induced narrative, and moonlight sex, he brought them tentatively to Coline’s bedsit, where they sisternised and cuddled in the same bed, waiting to inaugurate Speck’s back farm. No one wanted to go serve fries or muffins for a mean pay, they had known otherwise and knew their worth just like Lauritz in the first place. He sent them to the medical practice where we all go, and offered them their black Sesame and their first year of bimonthly updates. Before testing their talents in Speck’s grand salon, Lauritz took them to Philippe’s in short zigzag jersey waistless thin-strapped dresses, and black patent leather flats, leaving it to Sami to confiscate the panties.

A tad giddy with all these poignant adventures, I granted Lauritz that he displayed a seducing hunting table, I made him promise to bring them to Cecile’s workshop next afternoon —if only to show them to Cyprien who might crave to draw them— and I would show them around the beehive, perhaps to suggest a perspective on diverse manners of self-redemption. Besides, they would prettily panic the whole hive and assert their self-worth, wouldn’t they?
I took a car back home, not shy of what the driver could see, and found Natalia in our bed; her audiophile had left her wanting, she said it was better in twos. I only confided that Lauritz had fished three young kittens out of the desolation pond and they would frolic with us the next afternoon, I promised I would go with her to trick her doctorate’s master, and then I cuddled her as we had always done.
In the morning I was alone, and some thin rays of sun snuck through the shutters. I brewed some tea and stretched my joints on the rug, listening to Daddy’s ELO. Then all last night’s emotions bloomed aback, and I felt the urge to beam in daytime mode to keep up with young rescapées. I fetched an off-white Irish linen oversize shirt and white cotton shorts. I needed sandals to dawdle in Cecile’s workshop, like chalk-grey suede sandals.
My three new crushes had arrived and were showing their nudity, as I would have figured, the sisters reclining on the sofa, Dorothy upfront, and Coline standing up, relaxed and dreamy. Cecile stared at me to acknowledge that she had not had the heart to turn her back to the marvels. Cyprien had tiny dew pearls on top of his forehead, and a glass full of honed pencils ready. How could the girls have known such mind broderies as Bach’s timeless Klavier? I was thrilled by what I read in their gaze, and I sent a flock of air kisses.
I wouldn’t know if Cyprien had posed Coline standing thus, easy on her balance, arms loosen, her gaze vaguely slanted aside. What Cecile craved was her spine, butt, and shapely legs; I wouldn’t know if the little fugitive had been running so far as to model up such harmonious muscles, I went on to share Cecile’s silence.
The delivery boy from A&S had seen oodles of bewildering scenes around us, but there, he was so frankly flabbergasted by the careless elegance of our candid pixies that he almost forgot to pick his material money tip.
The youths had like some ants in their legs after hours of immobility, I floated the suggestion to make them explore the whole realm where they would meet goblins just like them. Cecile held Coline in her wing, I flirted with the Hopi pets. We visited the gym where Apolline had been sweating on a black torture apparatus, and she gave an eager smile while wiping herself; she was taller than Carine, and she wooed her at once, grazing her shirt offhandedly. The scent of embrocations and other sports pharmacies made for a weird eroticism. Apolline took off her brassière and shorts, thus letting us see all of her peculiar anatomies while taking a shower behind a glass wall, I dropped she was one of our angels, and we moved on to the pool, which was crowded. I showed the kids the vestiary to hang their clothes, and they were noisily greeted in the broth that smelled like a lavender field.
Dorothy cried she couldn’t swim, thus Dagmar took hold of her from the back, kissing her neck and ear, which was what the drowning damsel had hoped for. Apolline had run to join Carine, and Cecile wouldn’t let go of Coline. I dived and grabbed the only boy’s feet, and let Finlan confide his Dane dick in me while swimming.
Now, Adèle and her decorators’ staff had been taking delivery of the main element of her furniture, a grand bed, that is, and thus she was beaming between Gauthier and Fulgence as she dived. And it was also time to see our dancers Josephine and Emeline already in the bare, as they would practice thus, and also Ksyusha who had laid Kate somewhere.
It was a pure Cranach phantasmagoria, and furthermore, Fulgence was gallantly buggering Dorothy in front of my eyes, while Adèle caught up with Cecile and shared cuddles with Coline, trying to say in pidgin French that she felt Milan was far away.
Entered Delff in all their immodesty, asking if we would agree to pursue our rampages in the TRÆVIX salons, wouldn’t we? They were about to order a feast, Agnete and Sanne stood at order by their stoves. It was a resounding YES, and I was overjoyed to introduce the new faces —and further delicacies— in the suave society.
There would be a dress code of nought, and the Laforest twin had awaited such an orgy on our side. Meanwhile, we climbed up to ultimately rinse our entrails, suffuse one another’s skin with Hugo-approved nourishing cream, paint our nails and lashes, and chose perfumes to make sure to end up with a dick up where we wanted it. We played dolls with Lauritz’s orphanage and Adèle, paring them like odalisks, with velvet chokers and tantalising anklets, Cecile even stuck a catchy blue crystal gem into Coline’s lesser hole, I recalled having worn it for one of Natalia’s connoisseurs.

I knew Michelle would crush on Dorothy if the little sex pet raised a dark eye on her, wouldn’t she? Adèle was fascinated by the younger devil. We had not had time to catch up after her seemingly well-auguring visit. Yes, she had been transported to Beyond Land to meet with the Blue Fairy and the Terrible Dogfish, shagged a battalion of black silk suits, all that by my fault, she joshed, the bigger M. had never seen her coming! Notably, she wore a new vivid spring green bezel-mounted peridot ring, as a token of salute.
The lifts overworked to bring flows of nude living playthings like a deluge of truth, even Liselotte had had to undress, and she was still pretty much in my taste, she darted down on the freshers with greedy eyes, and I reassured her that the fillies would be hers to groom, sooner or later; she pinned me to the wall and kissed me direly, whispering “bring them to the headsman, bitch!” in my ear, to what I retorted that “they would beat him, poodle!’ I told my buttercups that this girl would procure them to rich fogeys, so they laughed, not upset in the least, and Liselotte rolled her hungry eyes.
Save for the usual brigade of Adonis hunks, male attendees had barely lived up to the mood board, keeping their persona under some dash of textile. Elders like Hugo and Melchior would deck out their potbellies with rare drapes on which they convened lively graces to come wallow along the richly crafted hems. Delff had finely weened that Cyprien deserved to be let loose in the fragrant aviary, as a wandering stylite of l’art pour l’art —he happened to be so hirsute that, sitting on the rug cross-legged holding a large spiral sketch pad, that it made no difference as to his guise.
Melchior waved at me and told me to lie immodestly at his side, massaging me quiet. He lauded my serendipitous rescue of a forlorn beauty, miraculously threaded into the Italian ramble he had schemed for us, under his keen scrutiny. The Mercanesi house of cards, well beyond the disgrace of using his daughter for blackmail, had remained unnoticed long enough, but it disintegrated as soon as SEVENSTREAMS radars focused on it, and the bolt of lightning had perfused like melted metal into an ant tower, causing more desperate moves than foreseen. As of now, he had tasted of Adèle’s nurtured capacities, her soul as a precious bonzaï tree, and her boundless love for Cecile and me. She was destined to perch in my holy bosque of box trees and roses, though I wouldn’t know where he learned that. I congratulated him on Adèle’s new peridot outfit.
It was obvious that Camille had been working out like a beast —a lovely one, that is, not in view of this spontaneous gathering— and she was overwhelmed by so many shirk-less freshers, bar Carine who kept her knees crossed. I wanted her to hear Adèle, in the wake of what she had accomplished with Fanny. She agreed to keep her house open, but she would need a translator while the nestling would learn French. She suggested that Natalia, who had been disappointed with New York, could also mentor Adèle, with her escort of minders, until she would set her own sails. By the bye, it sounded that the burly Matthew, whom I had greedily tasted ever since our memorable farewell to the Tudor Angels, and who was currently fully erect since he had walked in among us, spoke airworthy Italian and let it be known as soon as he heard Adèle was a Milanese. Good for Camille, too, as long as he would stay off the clock.
The westward grisaille salon, through which guests arrived, be it from the subterranean realm or the front yard junction between TRÆVIX and SEVENSTREAMS Paris, was lit with dimmed clusters of LED candles, in the ceiling and table silver chandeliers. Pyramids and domes of freshly baked puff bites and sundry platters of tiny veggie pies, all flaunted the craftsmanship of A&S whose capacity had notably extended since the installation of the Parisian phalanx of Melchior’s virtual war hounds. Half a dozen side tables allowed whoever to sit and savour, with an elaborate choice of non-toxic beverages, meaning a teetotaller rule that would surprise nobody.
The median panoramic salon had enriched with three true-to-life wooden statues of nude young models not posing, two girls and a boy, about twelve, digitally reproduced in utter detail, with agate stone blue or green eyes in place, gazing afar from the top of square shoulder-height heavy crystal-clear lucite pedestals. The tender lime wood had been keenly sanded and primed —Michelle having dithered as to ordering them gilded or not. Their stern presence against the candidly decorative landscape let be felt a sphere of silence amidst the court dance that went in the spacious vermillion sofas.
New Maori Tikis in polished jade stone with jewel eyes probably concealed wireless cams and reminded me of Cecile’s homunculus watching her bed. A few Haida and Yup’ik delirium masks here and there castigated the self-conscience of the carnal sore losers if there be.

The staff were cognizant of the probable goings-on in the reception rooms and the peripherals. Because of the premiums, and their personal tastes, they had petitioned to allow themselves to be freely used like the guest; only they would wear an apron over their nudity until the due time, and it was all the more arousing to look at the samovar girl in the pearly eastern salon not conceal her pert bottom until ten.
Three new bold paintings by artist Jinju Lee, entertained by Sha Sha Higby’s shamanic corner sentinels, under a floating white-gold-stained bush illuminated by a swarm of tiny luminous petals, over a central round table dressed in nacreous grey moire, crowded with silverware overwhelmed with all manners of confectionery, offered the intimate dreamscape for the random fervour of carnal whims. In this whiter shade of pale, on one of the dove-coloured velvet loveseats, Coline was already buggered by Matthew in Cecile’s arms, and Carine had not shunned being shared by a pair of dedicated Cossacks. At the sweet sounds of puffing and panting, I went, as for me, graze the bum cheeks of the new samovar girl, and learned that she was a friend of M. Hector, her name was Fanchon, she cast a bluebell gaze under a fall fern fringe, her tea was inviting, but she turned to one of the muscular Corporate Attorneys. Behind them, an unfolded white-gilt engraved wood screen concealed access to the commons.
In a corner of the grand salon sofas, Adèle straddled Hector tirelessly, and now she donned the peridot anklet and bracelet matched to the ring Melchior had given, My guess being that a choker would come up anytime. One of Sissi or Bowie was humped in by one of those special M. forces at his side, while he groped the other, it went to show a serene state of affairs; I knelt so to poke my tongue between the offered velvety bum cheeks of a Laforest cherub, as the hand of Melchior through my curls let me know he relished the smile I caused to her face.
I sensed a familiar touch to the pair of hands which were grasping my hips, waking the fantasy of straw and whip, thus I let my never-waning Cossack carry me away to the first floor where filibusters of his species awaited in one of the east wing rooms above the commons. They blindfolded me at once, and I heard the doubled door be shut, I knew what kind of round I was in for, and I wouldn’t have ran from. I had confessed to Serguei whom he reminded me of, and the nerve-curling pleasures I had expired from at the tip of his dessage whip. The manner I had reminisced about this repressed region of my privileged adolescence had allowed him to rekindle the stirs of the borderline possession he had experienced himself, in his father’s stables, where the foreman and the personnel of eastern migrants had shown him how to break-in —as they did with emotional animals— the whores that they had lured in for their fun. All my time at the Beaux-Arts I had steadily despised him, and he had taunted me with insults about my flat chest, bantering with his buddies on my feminity. Now they had me fettered up from a hook and manhandled my carcass waiting for the lash. I think they took turns, and Sergei ordered their flogging be restrained, not to mark my hide.
They brought me to screeching out for good, laughing out loud names I did not need translation for, I was gushing down my thighs like one of Charcot’s patients —if such a thing ever existed. Then Sergei kissed me deeply, holding my head soaked in sweat, they unhung me, only to tie me spread out across a bed and begin to use me as a flesh spillway, upfront, and then back up, and I climaxed indefinitely, until their alpha orders them to go wash. I would never know who they were, it felt like I had been raped by the GPU.
Sergei uncovered my eyes and ushered me to a bathroom, where I dared not watch how they had disfigured my hide, whereas the wounds were altogether imaginary and the burn evaporated in the lather of his gentle rub. We wiped each other, the room showed no trace of my gutting, it must have been of the utmost theatre, I queried a cuddle on the padded bed, and he fiddled with a long horse lash.
On the way back, I couldn’t not notice some rustle coming from Michelle’s sanctum, why our reclusive host had wished to meet the new faces, and more, on the Olympus. She had not foreseen such a pretty litter, and she let them steal her white cotton tracksuit to gambol upon the futon thrown haphazardly under the console cantilever saddle which excited Dorothy, moreover, when Michelle snuck between her legs, and thus she realised she could totally let go of herself on the seat.
As shaken up as I remained from my free ride, I couldn’t swipe off my memory the merry mouthfuls we gave her cheeky bottom when she had taken refuge at the cable hub behind our studio sofa, thus she arched her back while she devoured Dorothy’s blooming slit. Then, unsurprisingly, a disharmonic tinkle insisted in the speakers, so she pivoted back to face the wall of monitors which had been randomly improvising fractal visuals in the idle time and now instantly displayed gazillions lines of abstruse flickering characters only Michelle’s brain could make sense of, and it had ever been thus.

Dorothy climbed down and swapped pleasures, Michelle resting her dainty feet on the edge of the console; she fitted her head with noise-cancelling two-way headphones and so she went into orbit with a pretty kitten licking her pink knob, she even closed her eyes a microsecond when she wetted Doruthy’s mouth.
From experience, I could tell Michelle had zapped on us, and her abstraction could last hours. Little pixie Delff pushed us to the other cardinal end of the stage where an array of daybeds and meridiennes awaited our slight romps. Someone had passed the word of our flight into the orgy cloud, all clad in changing silk taffeta gleaming in alternate pink and green colours like the abalone shell.
All idle men of any language discovered the hazy light that fell from a wall-to-wall white papier-mâché vine, strewn with LED points oscillating in the same pink-to-green light. Enough to fan the ardours of our uncountable heart, within the dishevelled carillon of three shrub-like, airy, silver jingle-bells clusters contraptions, perched atop alabaster spiral columns, livened by the mills of mechanical coils, winded-up by the confederacy of the resident pixies.
Hence, while at West an unassuming princess balanced the chart of worldwide exchanges, the Orient honed the pearls in the choir of angels. Trine, the escaped guardian angel of the subterranean carnival, grasped my hand to draw me upstairs in the attics rooms where the deep beds stood askew under the dormers, she wanted me to retell of the murders of crimson crows amongst the fierce copper-green pinnacles of the Kings of Denmark.
The sun woke me, three of us, Dorothy, Carine and me under a mere white sheet. The rest of the deserted house was claimed by Alfred, the reigning blackbird, in the garden trees. Not that we smelled other than trails of the rich fragrances we had wallowed upon, but the simple tepid rain in the spacious pink marble shower room wedged back our minds to the idea of French toasts and marmalade.
Nobody caught us butt-naked running through the subterranean path and the lift to our apartment where a gaggle of souls dreamt in all beds. We shut all doors, I knew were soundproof, and they called Lauritz whom they woke and who sent baci from his pillow; he said Ksyusha slept at his side.
There was a ready stale loaf of sliced milk bread, organic eggs and milk, and vanilla sugar. They rolled their eyes at some apricot jam with bitter almonds in it. They had no idea if they had clothes when they came, I recalled the sessions on Cecile’s sofa. They eventually dared say they prefer coffee, so the black dwarf would puff while I pan-fried a wheelbarrowful of mellow slices I would roll into powdered sugar.
They were overjoyed by the hullaballoo they had survived with flying colours, Carine wondered if that would be a sustainable walk of life, and I answered that I knew of no demand for them to overspend their charms and exhaust their lifestream for the sake of money, they might as well branch off towards whatever trend they find appropriate, and no one would shepherd them back to the flock to kowtow, they might even go back to school, in earnest.
It couldn’t have been the scent of coffee that brought Cecile dawdling by, but perhaps the chuff of the machine faintly echoed through the shutters. She never cast more charm than in worn-out togs like this discoloured nightshirt, moreover watching Dorothy rummage under it. Her mouth tasted of fresh water, she grazed my mons pubis as if to prove to me she wasn’t jaded with our shenanigans, and she asked in the air if the sugar-frosted-mouthed foundlings were ready for another exhausting day of listening to Bach, enlaced on her sofa?
They did not lag long, and the few other boarders in the staircase will always regret not having met them three in the lift in their most truthful attire, Cecile kept her smocks downstairs. Now, Coline’s curls were dewy and smelled of Covent Garden tangerines, I kneaded her spine as she straddled backwards on the chair; she moaned she had never shagged so many people in a night, but inside, she was smooth as a baby and ready for some more. She sat on my lap, pecked some bites, and mostly wanted to know who they all had been. She had the talent to sketch characters in a few words, and I would tell their tags as fast as it came, bar Melchior’s special forces she had revelled with, of course, but I could testify they had always been around to make the show with us.
Adèle had recovered from her debauchery in our spare room, the nearest perch to her ongoing workings, one floor up. She was grateful that I kept her near me, because of the language. Fanny would set up meetings at her old Parisian school where she had first learned French, Adèle was very popular in Camille’s orb, she was invited that evening. She liked tea my way, like most she saw me do, albeit she had never touched a woman before we happened to walk into her shop. She let Dorothy rummage in the finery she wore.

 

Cecile says:

Cyprien had been rightfully infatuated with the novel trio, they had gone for a quick dip before appearing at the workshop in their native grace and wet hair. He played Matthaus’ Passion, for a change, “Kommt Ihr Töchter, helft mir klagen”, with the uncanny effect of making our girls dance, in the godly manner of Botticelli’s Allegory of Spring’s Graces that I knew for sure they had never seen. A stroke of cosmic synchronicity led me to cry in awe, and I wouldn’t swear Cyprien did not.
They sat on the cherry-red velvet cover, overjoyed with their effect, posed as if they were the musician angels. The Draughtsman decided he would try and sketch details of the faces, asking them to freeze in their moves, as in the street game of one, two, three, sun. I ran to the bathroom to wash my face and my tears.
I had put myself to work on a pair of gallant miniatures from the secret compartment in a Louis XV bonheur-du-jour desk from the Mendelsohn trove, the painstaking operation would be enough to keep me from ogling at Coline’s heavenly tits. Adèle knocked just in time for a coffee pause, she was bringing almond tiles; Gauthier had taken her shopping for furniture, and he had shown her his bedroom, too. Time for the paints to dry in her home, Melchior was taking her on vacation somewhere in Ireland or Scotland, weather permitting, she joshed about the many lovers she’d be having there, no doubt. She had acclimatised better and faster than I would have thought, but I did not know what mantra Melchior had breathed into the seashell of her ear.
After a few bursts of laughter escapades to the bathroom, it became obvious they were tired of posing, they wanted to join the dancers, Cyprien could cotton on that, and he knew he could hone his strokes on his own. They didn’t even mention clothing. Adèle remained, she wore a short black light silk crepe polka dots shirt-dress over yoga shorts, and snazzy two-tone black-and-white loafers with mini white socks. She came to stand next to me, she smelled of Gauthier’s Cologne. I put down my wad handle, screwed on my chemicals jars, pulled off my gloves and slid my hand under her dress, telling her we would go in my cubbyhole. I cropped up from my apron and smock all bare —Cyprien had seen me thus every day— and bent over to unlace my sneakers.
I refused to shower ahead, she smelled of a trace of lovemaking, I certainly smelled of a day’s sweats, and I could tell she was unwittingly aroused by our mixed scents. Pants down, she was discovering my hideaway, my burrow in the magazine collections, of which she had soon sorted out the porno ones with their motley covers, she laughed that Zanni had been giving her plenty. Bach had certainly gone home, she breathed her words when she retold Gauthier and Philippe had shared her with the window wide open, and afterwards they had crossed Natalia with hungry eyes. I told her I would arrange a date with Natalia our house fairy as soon as I would have made her moan with my tongue, and I aroused her by telling of which manner she would traffic her to her rich clients.
Josephine and Emeline had been practising some nifty synchronous adjective moves they wanted to be threaded into the main piece we had seen at their gala —as if only to wipe off the idea that it was all improvised, just like in Jazz, Finlan had taught them. Josephine maintained her sacrosanct rule of mere nudity while dancing, as it had dawned upon her listening to Malo, and thus regaling us, without further ado, with her bine tendril moves. Adèle was awestruck to see them, and she herself would seem to possess the features to make a graceful sujet, her captor Zanni had never risked to entrust her to a school, hence, she had merely shaped her young body doing carpet gymnastics in her prison. The duettists had called it a day, they smelled of whatever liniment they anointed their pretty joints with.
Now it seemed Josephine’s pidgin Spanish, as spoken in the shady alleys of Gibraltar, connected funnily to the Milanese slang Adèle’s johns eructated in her gaol, and moreover, the mutual touching made more sense anyhow. Emeline lay her ear on my heart, as on the day we let her big sister jump on the 911 back to the château gone wild, not knowing of a steadfast little wildflower sister in her wake. And all the deadly confessions we shared under the crinkled sheets had sealed an unwaning sisterhood.
That tight-knit gang dawdled down to the pool, followed by Finlan who could no longer hide the full-fledged erection we caused him, I said to Emiline the boy deserved some attention, and thus we swam around him so he would choose which one of us to play in. Having assumed the human metronome for them all day, he tasted for sweet revenge in Emeline’s tight bum as I kept her embraced. He was a good swimmer, she was mumbling happily.

We shared eggplant parmigiana and cashew cream tagliatelle, coconut little pyramids and Mocha. Sarah was on a jaunt with Lauritz’s foundlings, Kate gathered lingonberries on Sylt with Gwen. Josephine wanted to go whore at Philippe’s, but I felt like some wilderness along with Emeline, wired as an eight-year-old. I called Hector, he said he could take all of us to some no-holds-barred party at one of Louis’ relatives, for a hefty reward. Finlan was also welcome, the house was extremely wealthy and attracted many libertine graces.
Josephine and Emeline were well-trained doxies, Finlan a girl’s dream of a slender, pale Nicholas Hilliard persona with a faintless rosy manhood, all the same. Laying the telephone flat on the table, I questioned Adèle about letting herself available to a herd of well-heeled wolves endowed by the Swiss Navy? She asked me if I had done that often, and I answered that I had never been betrayed by Hector, whatever kinky whim he dragged me into. She said she wanted to obey me, in any shenanigan I would see fit for myself. Hector gave us an hour to dress thinly and powder our noses.
One exciting prelude was to go rummage through our elders’ vestiary, one could even dress up Finlan because he fitted the same sizes as Sarah, except for his gentle crotch, which would visibly bulge into some girl’s trousers. He agreed to wear a three-piece night-blue pinstripe suit with a Parma silk shirt and deep-purple bowtie and socks, patent-leather Oxfords. He might need black spandex boxers, we had that, too. As for us courtesans, we merely needed any rags to walk from our door to the car. Emeline found a high-gathered, fuzzy cornflower blue Tana-lawn shirt dress, with poet sleeves, ruffled collar and wrists, the hem not higher than that, and white suede ankle-strap sandals. Josephine found a purplish gleamy ribbed thin jersey tank dress that gave her a star derriere, and bejewelled black-strap sandals. Adèle had fetched in her luggage a loose dawn-gradient silk tee dress and iridescent ballet flats. She said she had whored in that outfit, sometimes. I pulled out a simple oversized, white, peasant shirt with a turquoise-clad Zuni concho belt and slim turquoise Egyptian sandals.
But first, we rubbed ourselves with the pricey body cream Sarah had advised me to use, so gentle in any crease of the skin, and mostly odourless. I detained a collection of expensive perfumes — Lauritz loved that, and it impressed the clubmen at Speck’s. Josephine transcended a famous rose and jasmine apocalypse at its most, Emeline had fallen in a legendary valley of lilies, and Adèle did not dither with another all-time demon in the most recognisable phial of all since 1925 with the blue stopper —she avowed Zanni insisted she touch close to her labia with two drops of it, even were it not for him to sniff. I had kept for myself the present from Dottore Flavio Di Luccia, Curator at the Uffizi Museum — encountered during the all-inspired trip Sarah and I had done to Florence— a subtle composition once invented for the Medici family, they say, around a soul of petitgrain bigarade, perverted with the stiff debauchery of London dry gin, mellowed by shavings of sacred woods and mystified by olibanum, altogether a shady and potent Cologne for the kind of tomboys as Sarah and I.
The iridescent night-blue minivan picked us up in a breath at our door. Hector in a lightweight wool black suit and a silk turtleneck watched our butt cheeks as we jumped in the velvet seats. He whistled with contentment, telling us we were beyond expectations. He spotted the boy in the club with a short nod, Josephine said he was their piano player, so Hector just retorted he was a lucky guy. At a traffic light stop, he jumped to our side, as I read he was aroused by our newbies. His hands were overworked upon so many new smooth legs.
We headed west, to the opposite of my dioxin origins, first to the corporate vainglory of La Défense and its subterranean pathways, and a void all-white space that Hector bragged would startle us. And I knew what, he told us to disrobe and cavort heads or tails, an empyrean litter of kittens for the lubricious eyeful of a company of voyeurs who had gathered around our carriage, membrum in hand, with nude slaves on leash.
Hector was easy to undress, and he was drooling for the one he had not yet tried, while she lapped the crotch of Josephine upon her face. Emeline and I never bored together, and she had long known the best manner to display her spread hips to my merry tongue. He gasped when Adèle cunningly yanked his discharge off, while the windows were adorned with dripping spittles. He had a shipload of floozies, he gave the signal to set sail, and we were followed by a motorcade of unnerved sportsmen out of that giant cube of nought.
Smiling his heart’s content, he fetched us some convenient hot lemony towels from inside the so-called privacy partition —though I wouldn’t deny shagging that black driver once in a while. Then he buckled up each of us, bar Finlan, with some black, striated, padded leather, ochre yellow trimmed, dog collars, equipped with steel rings —keeping the key to the locks clipped to a bracelet he wore. Each of us had known that kind of contraption before, and we had seen the other girls on leash.
I could sense the spin of that new game, as he clasped long leather straps to each collar lock. We would be jaunted around, curbed by the neck, at the whim of dominants, like other pleasure animals, probably cuffed, shackled, and flogged, too.

The ride wasn’t long, up some slope stood a steep rampart with an archway through it, iron doors spread open, and a last bend led to a vast bailey amidst four asymmetrical constructions standing upon colonnades. The whole structure exuded more of an outdated rigour than worldly elegance, albeit the stone of the ashlar walls be honey-gold white. The smooth clean stone pavement displayed an array of abstruse geometric figures much like a sunken astrolabe.
The cars had parked under the archways on one side; the stylish owners of restrained pretty human beasts approached and looked up at us. I was traded by some likely knight of industry, against a languorous Slavic blonde who did not speak and followed Hector willingly. Our little dedicated sorority was instantly dispersed, too, on a whatsoever tacit agreement and polite grins.
In a corner, behind opened massive steel doors, a vestibule led to low-step marble stairs most of the muses climbed with grace, like trained chorus girls in the Ziegfeld age. It led up to a single oak-panelled hall under a high wooden barrel vault that cast echoes of the eerie sounds that spawned from a mysterious installation on an elevated stage at the far end of the room; a long black-haired musician in a witch costume and a top hat was all busied on a Prophet 10 machine, before a black wall of speakers.
On both sides of the entrance, partitioned stalls served as cloakrooms, and passageways seemed to lead to bathrooms. Our holders tied our lunges to appropriate steel hooks aside from their individual lockers and asked us to help them change attires. As for mine, he smelled of alluded hesperidium, Turkish tobacco, and amber; he had gone shopping on Old Bond Street. He sported a muscular bum that foretold of ravaging jolts. He was well worked out, with pectorals and abs, and a sizeable dick already so tense as to show a pearl of desire at its glans’ tiny slot. The proper sportswear style would consist of silken black open-crotch tights and a scooped neck, long sleeves singlet. As I bent to help him pull in thin black Russian dancer calf boots, I sensed skilful fingers wandering in my ready slits, and I sipped the drip at the tip of his dick.
The hall was scarcely lit, furnished with malachite green buttoned velvet loveseats and meridiennes offering large armrests, and extensive stool tables clad with colourful kilims. Otherwise, not any decorative accent in the room, the scarce randomly placed embrasures were occulted in cul de bouteille stained glass. Persian rugs were strewn upon the time-polished stone slabs.
Louis and his cohorts awaited, draped in satin capes —probably to conceal their sullen Majesties. He cheered at Hector’s unexpected cast as we were keenly presented to the seniors. He called me the pretty curator as he recognised me, borrowing my buttocks for a tender swift pass, he called Josephine her name as one of Melchior’s dancers, and then he relished Emeline in her best most-obedient expression and also asked for her name. When it came down to Adèle, he groaned of lust and asked her handler to make her turn around to eye her gentle behind, whistling of envy. Finlan did not wear the club outfit, he kept trampling idly with his Peter so jolly stiff that I took hold of it and my john told me to keep it warm.
He led us to a wide-armed sofa, his legs apart, pulling me to make me gulp his febrile dong, while he kindly groped the astray Dane boy who shunned not away. He told him to pick up the flask of lube and prepare us for an easy shag. Unsurprisingly, he ordered me to impale myself backwards deep on his shaft, while Finlan would sheathe my coochie to the hilt. I lay flat on the bed of muscles, legs in the air, he murmured insanities in my ear and pinched my nipples. Finlan went staccato into my womb, his panting warned of the merry crisis, and so the main man grabbed my haunches and hurled himself in the whirl of my entrails to gush in time with my boy. As I convulsed in his burly neck, I squirted wholeheartedly.
A gentle brigade of Goth mixed-sex characters, with tattoos and piercings, in mere black vinyl aprons, came running from behind the musician stand, bringing hot towels and fresh drinks, not shied of erring hands. My Ferdinand grabbed the pretty one who had just brought a tray with a large ewer of fruity drink onto the ottoman table next to us and told her to lick me clean. Her hair was dyed raven black, her skin moonshine white, and her eyes jay blue. She bore finely designed black rambling roses all the way from her mons pubis up to her bosom; as she went on bringing me to another rapture, Finlan was testing her bumhole with two fingers of lube, and she parted her butt cheeks with her hands to help him penetrate her; once he had discharged another wad, she ran away, dripping come down her shapely legs and on the rug. I took notice to ask Hector where she had been found.

Rambling Rose had properly sucked me clean, and I would willingly have returned the favour, mind you. Now she had been called on to Louis’, no apron on, and he made her display her whole picture empaled backwards, legs up and feet on his thighs. She was indeed flamboyant, the outcome of days on end suffering the vibrating needle.
Once he was finished, he told her to lie upon a large ottomane and spread her legs, offered to whoever. I made the move to pull on my collar like an aroused beast, and it amused my Ferdinand. I naturally walked on all fours to go wallow in her crotch and exasperate her clit, while my handler used her mouth sideways, she had not squandered it with soot like some in her style do. So then I could not shun what I sensed in my own rosebud, I was lent to another valiant spear, and eventually pushed aside from the rose bush wherin the cavaliers craved a ride.
Amidst the thorns and foliage engraved in her smooth skin, my mouth found her modest nipples which nonetheless made her screech among the moans she owed to the gusts stricken through her guts.
Not far from us, Adèle had also let herself cast abandoned on a bed, and they had called the waiters to frazzle her, and they did, relentlessly, heads or tails. Further aside, Emeline, who was a long-trained toy vixen, dared dance upon the low table as she had at one time done for her dad’s buddies, and nonetheless, she was gently floored and tipped over.
There would be more hullabaloo about Josephine, who ended with cuffs and anklets, tied and quartered by means of chains lowered from the vault and floor anchoring rings. She was gagged and blindfolded, and Hector managed the whole set. I stared at Louis, not really taking a taste in the scene, but he beckoned me and asked my rein to Ferdinand who was more aroused by attending a round of flogging anyhow. He had kept Rambling Rose at his side, in a casually lewd pose, thus I noticed her limber-looking feet, arched like a Thorwaldsen fairy’s, noticing what Louis said I could have her home, if I wished. Her name was Rose, hence the decor, and she was ostensibly aroused to watch a lovely girl be whipped, but she slid her coquet hand up my thigh for a smidgen of my dripping shame. She whispered that she had been such a patient more than once, because it earned the most in libertine parties. I sensed Louis’ fingers fickle in my back alley, then a lash cracked on Josephine’s bum, and again a dozen times, at the hand of a fully masked sporty girl. Standing near to her well-beloved partner, Emeline was being buggered standing and chuffed with pleasure —she too, had endured the whip by the ruthless boors— even Sarah returned avidly to her Cossacks and came back stiff and achy, sleeping days on end, overjoyed.
Louis kept raving low in my ear that my ballerina darling was garnering heaps of money right there, but he would spend twice that amount to watch me in the throes before shagging me.
Another faceless gymnast-type girl took turns, with a cat-o’-nine-tails, on all sides to make Josephine twirl in her bonds until she gave up and hung still over a shallow pool of urine. Two of the Goth servants dashed to free her and rub some lotus-scented unguent all over her, then laid her onto a nearby bed, at the whim of the rekindled wolfpack she couldn’t fight against, thus she was abundantly served, while the subservient creatures continued massaging where they reached. Born a harlot, this had been a harsh episode, but she moaned truthfully with dicks wherever they slid into. One martyrdom would be enough, all the restless male loins had been fired up, and the scene turned to another ‘Meduse raft”, thus we were ushered to some manner of a hammam, and Hector unleashed us, before asking me for another go in my docile bumhole; he was a master swordsman, and no one had mishandled me that night, he succeeded making me squirt some more, and our new Rose lapped up all the pretty spendings.
And so I was trapped, and there were five of us perditas, and a pretty rake, in the van back home, cuddling an overspent Josephine who was nevertheless serene —and rich. I dared not fathom what Sarah would make of a Rambling Rose, and I did not even know which other way she made a living. She wore a black corsetted dress scooped out so as to let see one of the black flowers engraved in her dainty skin and sturdy black ankle Docs; Adèle was smitten, and she kept her hand on the roots of the roses.
It was the crack of dawn, I beseeched Josephine to grant me a final deep wet kiss and not foster any rancour nor shame; she might all the same use the vice in her art. She was a person of many returns, she only dropped she would show me her back next morrow. They fled to their nest with the wandering playboy, while the lift gobbled up Adèle and Rose.

As per usual, I was up after a few hours of deranged sleep, the real flogging of Josephine bore on my conscience in some gloomy manner. I slid on ecru leggings, a tee shirt, and sneakers, then headed down with the intention of hugging our punished prima ballerina. From the gym room level, I could hear delicate footsteps amidst the silence, Finlan wasn’t there yet.
I was relieved to observe Josephine’s back and bottom fresh as the dawn, and her moves unhampered precise in her bearings. When I made myself seen, the pair unstitched the crewel work of their carnal meditation to come to circle me and let me palm Josephine’s muscles. She said she had dreamt of infinite wings and crystal thorns. She smelled of lavender and petitgrain, she rummaged in my pants and said she would lash me for all to relish and pirouetted back to Emeline’s loving counterpoint.
A fluttering cluster of flimsy notes ventured in the nymphs’ footsteps, from the antipodal standpoint of received ballet, the musician in multicoloured striped pyjamas followed the dancers’ incarnate score. I went to hug him from the back, and let my hands wander about.
Upstairs, the shades in my room appeared quiet, whenas the crumpled sheets rustled with soft chirps. The new foundlings invented the language of their caresses with unheard words, and I grabbed their feet. From the depth of her bed, Sarah had had the feeling of an unknown girl speaking in French, she was wowed discovering the Rambling Rose in the wake-up shower and thus threw her shirt and joined us, the Goth princess at once victim of her glory.
Cyprien would have been longing for his new Milanese crush, thus I embarked the gang down to the workshop in mismatched rags. The Draughtsman had been catering saucers of dog food granulate for Alfred and his family amidst the sparse ivy of our well-bottom garden, and the witty blackbird loved it, the RSPB had said so, with King Charles of the realm of birds. —I suspected Cuprien had been rummaging in my magazine piles.
He was awestruck when Sarah pulled off Rambling Rose’s shirt for him to see her transfigured body, and he kept mum, coming nearer to feel the engraved motive, grazing her smooth cheek, and staring at her kaleidoscopic azurean gaze through the black fern lashes, a wilder version of Sarah’s, who wondered where the prodigy came from.
I had a stash of Langues-de-chat, the coffee scent made us touch the ground after the somewhat ethereal moment. I relished hearing Rose laugh at my manic cookie dipping that she cutely failed. Cyprien was earnestly troubled. As much as his drawing idiosyncrasy projected ad infinitum Adèle’s traits, so did this impressive black efflorescence across the milky complexion of a candid maiden leave him in a stupor.
Sarah was utterly smitten, and sussed awkwardness coming, thus she cuddled the Goth Madonna, while Adèle took the standing pose, her elbow resting on books piled upon a fern column, her head swayed aside on her hand, the other picking some falling shawl, like she would have just denuded herself.

 

Sarah says:

This windfall prodigy enthralled my feeble soul as the last straw in the camel’s heart, Cecile had all reasons to bring home this nonetheless boggling specimen of fashion. She had been born Rose Schmidt, to a Swiss-German-origin hotel concierge whose dubious manners had hampered the career, and who lost her properly to a pimp, at twelve, in a gambling scam, and Jacinta Moroes, a former Spanish chambermaid of republican descent, who chose to sacrifice herself for Rose’s sake, and died an early death. At thirteen, Rose had been raptured by some wanton English aristocrat who designed and paid for her tattoo, during a whole season in Bangkok, aboard his boat Wandering Rose. Except for being tied down for days on end and manhandled by the tattoo artist, while her captor was mostly too high to breathe, it had been a quieter period in her life, once the tattoo gun was put to rest, and she had also been thoroughly laser-depilated, not to interfere with what the artist claimed as his masterpiece.
Her owner had been overjoyed and paid an oriental dance teacher so she could roll her hips for his friends who paid him drugs for her forced favours. He did a deadly overdose, and the yacht’s captain chose to avoid the juridic hassles, so he sailed southward to Australia, putting Rose in his bunk, casually. He sunk the body in the high seas, with a heap of old chains around it.
The captain acted as if the owner’s ghost still lived onboard, forging all the codes for transferring the necessary money to pursue his navigation. He wanted to establish himself on the Australian Gold Coast and prostitute Rose, as a start. He was arrested in Bali having tried to refuel while the banks had sussed their client was no more. She found herself forlorn on the shore near Bualu, begging to be brought to the police, to whom it was gruelling to explain who she was, but she was lucky enough that someone called a British diplomat who was interested to hear about the Rambling Rose and brought her to the British consulate.
No one had any trace of her, neither in the British nor in the French services, but her tale of her becoming aboard the Rambling Rose was faultlessly eloquent, she knew of the bulk of details to prove she was not lying, and besides, what benefit would it have been to her? She spent two weeks at His Majesty’s expense in a seafront hotel, meeting British detectives daily and lazing on the perfect beaches, although she wouldn’t yet dare show her illuminated body. From Monaco to Bangkok, all her memories were asserted, and eventually, she was transferred to the French Embassy in Singapore, and then to Paris.
They found traces of her at her school until the age of twelve, they were diligent in providing her with an ID card and taking detailed photos of her whole body. Her pitiable father was arrested on the street and put in jail prior to a trial he did not attend because he died of cancer after a mere few weeks, she never wanted to see him. And for her pimp, he was tracked to Nice where he had thrived procuring for some foreign residents. She testified anonymously, among a few others, and he was served a twenty-year sentence.
She was sixteen, an orphan with no more than her skin to call hers, thus she was legally placed in a foyer near Montparnasse Station and chose to go to school, the psychologist having deemed her wise enough. She wanted to speak English and Spanish; as for the rest, she did not see the point for her, except it counted in the notation. She was surprised to pull excellent marks in French when she pocketed her A levels in the literary section. They helped her find a place in college, but she found more fun and reward in exhibiting her treasures online in a corner of a hotel room, until Hector and his squad offered really big money to sell her beauty to safe, rich libertines and she could live in free and gorgeous places. Then, a few days ago, after a warm-hearted session with Hector, he had promised he would tip her off when she would have to mingle with our gang to her advantage. It had been a few months while she had been vetted in view of a black card, and she had fostered a taste for this so-to-speak educated libertinage, and so she hoped I liked her too.
As I paid keen attention to the twists and turns of her whatsoever picaresque tale, seeing up close the vivacity of her rosiness, I had jaunted her around our realm, to finish upstairs in our studio, letting the dusk light wane, pecking cookies and sipping tea as she had known aboard the Rambling Rose.
In my turn, I sketched the genesis of a rich poet’s endeavour and all the branchings it set off. She agreed to meet the Landlord along with me, she nibbled my tinyberries when I warned her we all had paid our rent upfront, and she grinned she was a spendthrift in these matters.

We texted our whereabouts to Cecile and the others and went to the vestiary to invent some evening wrapping for the new sensation. I told her that my knowledge of tattoos went no further than what flourished in porn and it was rarely overwhelming. She approved, but she gave excuses to the models who could not afford such work as she bore, it had cost an arm to her john, and plus she had had to shag him after each session.
What she looked like, with her makeup removed, I insisted she was nothing short of stellar, and should no more blacken her pouty mouth. I necked with her against the wall to assert that she would respond willingly with the truth on her lips. Same for her hair, mind you, her natural hue was close to mine, I could tell by the roots, I offered to take her to the best stylist in the Carré d’Or to reverse that mistake, and each other week for a year of reviving her shock. As per usual, it was what I did best with unkempt runaways, listening carefully to their ordeal, and letting them relent their unessential bonds, given that our rescapees had already widened their moral scope unto the sex trade and would ease back into it, wouldn’t they?
One elephant we wouldn’t allow in our pretty rooms was lethal addiction. That would be an utter dire medical problem, far beyond the reach of language; and our black card regular check-ups screened for these products —though not the recreative Learyan mind expander kind, and cocaine was certainly at the edge, is it not?
I would concur the colour black befitted her; moreover harmonised with the roses she heralded. So, there was this buttoned little dress in purplish-raven silk panne velvet, its frilled hem slit upfront, bejewelled with jet-black facetted marquise beads —the whole shebang, I had worn that once in a masquerade thrown by Liselotte. For then, I dried up on the matter of adorning her lovely feet, I wouldn’t want her bulky Docs upon Hugo’s precious rugs, but on the other hand, she wore two sizes smaller than us, hence we wouldn’t even find Cinderella’s slippers in these cupboards, and she would go downstairs deliciously barefoot.
We both lacquered our nails black, brushed a dash of eyeshadow, and deep purple mascara on her thick lashes —that made me envious— and sapphire on my Kettelær gaze. She was such a treasure to fondle, apart from her walking emblem.
I put on a bridegroom black matte silk, tiny-beads-strewn, double-breasted evening jacket with satin wide peak lapels, and I needed no shoes either. If he ever was in a vesture mood, Hugo would be all too glad to provide timeless eccentricities. Rose sniggered at my fashionista drivel.
As it ought to happen, Hugo had pulled from his museum hangers pieces befitted and mended for him. He wore aniline purple thin iron-worked Morrocan leather dancer boots, as seemed to have become in fashion in the upper-crust libertine circles, a long white linen satin collarless shirt buttoned all the way with gold-rimmed amethyst cabochons, and a fitted maroon kaftan embroidered tone-on-tone of pervasive scrollwork in so many layers it became low-relief sculpture.
He vaunted a new delivery he had of the mysterious Oriental Beauty crop of Taiwan tea, the unpredictable magic of a tiny bug on the tea trees. We followed him into his bejewelled kitchen, he was lately proud of an oblong ceramic plate, purportedly by the Della Robbia workshop, depicting Verità in the shape of a nude maiden thigh-high in the water, embedded amidst other marvels of the main wall.
As he brewed the tea in a baroque pumpkin yellowish Yiking earthenware, we were seated on Thonet stools bearing the stencil mark of a famous Années Folles brothel. I was proud of my mentor, although I could tell he stood on tenterhooks facing my pretty alley cat of whom his good chum Louis might already have retold the bulk of her biography, and thus he knew she was one of the foundlings he revelled redeeming. A few days before, he had spent the night with Adèle, and she had been all quietened in the morning and since. Camille had retold me intimately how Hugo had fished her out of the last extreme while she sold her desperate hide.
He kept staring frankly at Rose’s eponymous face, but he casually busied his hands under my jacket’s flaps, granting me the tiny shivers of being shown for the unabashed floozie I am. When he seized the heavy silver tray to bring it into a low diwan room clad with golden pink Turkish lampas and circled with engraved Venetian mirrors, a diffracted light sprayed out of the gilded lanterns, I chose my moment to hug Rose from the back and begin to unbutton her dress, almost playfully. Hugo became all smiles, his mouth, yawning with awe when I robbed it all and helped her sway her candid hips.
All facets of his yearning soul were ablaze, he excused himself for a minute and ran back with his spectacles on his nose. He kept Rambling Rose’s hands for long minutes and danced his dance around her just like I had figured.

The maid Bohdana, new under Lena’s supervision, brought finger food on covered antique silver plates, and lace doilies; the young widow with a tight blond bun showed no attention to our unavoidable nudities. Rose, wallowed in the Maja pose, agreed to his homage, letting way to his famished greed for the mere fleshly slit at the nascence of the shivering bush of her.
I helped her retell her epic, knowing what his literary bend was thirsty for —taking for granted she would not return to wandering at the edges of social wastelands. And I wouldn’t care play gooseberry, I kept gnawing at her Pompadour feet as if I was the favourite’s bow-wow. He pulled off his carapace, unbuttoned the shirt and showed the straight stalk I also knew so deeply. In the gleam of his linen wings, his connoisseur eyesight binged on the iconic metaphor he kept humping wholeheartedly, so much so that she let gush her abandon to the four winds, moaning like a princess; it let Hugo chuff out his own bliss as he bumped unrelentingly upon her mons pubis. He embraced her, and they rolled, so that I could lick whatever was offered to my pointed tongue, and I could poke a warning in her anus that it would be next for the bull’s rage, and I knew how daring her apple-shaped bottom looked. He let his wings fleet away, and he asked me for the easy gel I smeared into her shy rosette —though I had keenly witnessed what vigorous truncheons she would intake thus at no peril. While I wriggled my way to give her my clit to bustle, Hugo counted on my lustful skills to rekindle his pride, but the view of her shapely loins and perfectly firm bottom, plus our intimate girly micmacs already stiffened his wand in my mouth.
For all I knew of her, she kept following a carnal intuition, for none of her episodes could have taught her such cunning lovemaking, and it was a heave in my plexus to watch her squeeze and wriggle a dick so gracefully, indefinitely, while I came squirting in her busy mouth.
We chose to sleep on our own in the studio, as I posted to the others, on Michelle’s futon, under the last flickering stars, she had liked Hugo’s grand flair; I promised her she had earned a lifelong asset, just like us, but she retorted she was no Tudor angel, however. We slept with her head resting upon my chest. I carried her over to the land of verdigris steeples, through the murmuration of the crimson crows.

 

Cecile says:

Although Italian and French be diametrically divergent as to their linguistic genius, there has always hovered some incestuous manner of communication amongst us Latin catholic herds. I read that verbose ponder once in a magazine, and I thought it concurred with my own enlightening adventures in bedazzling Italy.
There, we fostered two raised harlots deprived of other social company than captors and johns, and they went along in any manners of vernaculars, including a heap of hand play and dishevelled cryptophasia.
Unsurprisingly, Lauritz smouldered with lust at the idea of two more gems to encounter and possibly mount on his crown. He proposed a party in his private salon at Speck’s, and we had pleasant memories of our recent romps there. Sarah explained to Adèle and Rose what kind of a windmill Speck’s was, only that night would be on Lauritz’s private invitation, which we reckoned would not make much of a difference for us, eventually.
Josephine and Emeline would do dancing elsewhere, along with Finlan’s free reins, and more if it happened, at a party at one of Natalia’s admirers’, and she recounted that Liselotte longed for succulent news from us.
Sarah had embarked Rambling Rose on a shopping privateering, which meant she had earned a credit line as long as the rue Saint Honoré —and Gianni would imagine the follow-up later. As of then, it was mainly an affair of bootmakers, but firstly an emergency session with our best hairstylist to redeem Rose’s natural softer black hue. I wondered what bijoux Hugo would have fetched for her in his vault.
When we all appeared at Speck’s porch, we looked like the carnet pages of Vogue magazine, except not. As per usual, the majordome needed to be tipped upfront —he was handsome and sweet-mannered— so he pushed Adèle towards the velvet drapes beyond the lift for a thoughtful touch-up she would not complain about. She wore a glistening marigold-yellow-to-white string-strapped trapeze mini-dress, and he stole the assorted thong. Lauritz knew of the routine, it was a means to afford the utter loyalty of his game warden, the hirelings in his command would only serve on specific demands.
Rose’s new looks mystified us. Her dark Auburn hair formed a tousled fringe that overcast her stormy blue stare and grazed her shoulders, her fleshy little mouth had regained its natural flowery taste. She wore a geometric patterned platinum, onyx, diamonds, and sapphire triangles choker with the assorted bracelet —Yes, Hugo had been so smitten, how would it go for Melchior? Her demented body imagery was yet hidden in a cobalt blue silk twill Nehru collar shirt dress with rounded tails. She had found dark blue suede flat-heeled loafers, and her legs were smooth as a breeze; she would be the season sensation at Speck’s —if she pleased.
The foundlings’ gang knew of the marvel, the male posse had only twigged rumours. However, our munificent host had spread the word of sartorial prink, to start with. Our unflagging Valparaiso copper-headed herald donned a close-fitting three-piece suit in pale gold, silver, and mauve Einstein-pattern silk Jacquard on a collarless mauve tana lawn shirt, mauve socks and suede loafers; his subtle blond companion Philippe looked even younger in a pontifical-white gossamer wool suit, pinstripe white poplin shirt, white socks and white linen Oxfords. Fulgence manspread candidly in black silk twill peg trousers, black silk tee shirt, loose plum bold chevron-textured blazer with bronze buttons, and black cloth derby shoes. His mate Erik played even blacker in a wide-fit black-on-black patched Horus eye varsity jacket over pristine black jeans, tee shirt, and brand new low Chucks. As a token of Sarah’s indulgences, Sergei and other Cossacks swaggered about in colourful foulard shirts and tight black satin low-waisted trousers letting guess their knouts. Everybody sported wide smiles, even the hirelings who brought the zakuski and ogled frankly under the damsels’ wings. Dorothy cavorted nude in a high-gathered vermillion shantung flared dress, her sister in a frilled fuzzy-printed bluish shirt dress that flouted modesty, Coline teased the Zaporog Brotherhood in a dungaree dress of rosy silk crepe. As for us almost housegirls, Sarah let float a shaded midnight-blue halter pleated swing dress on her prideful rump, I was all snugly fitted in a spinel-red ribbed jersey tank mid-thigh dress under which anything would have been a fault, in Lauritz’s compelling taste.
Seated on the rug, Sarah had pulled off Rose’s new shoes and preyed on her pretty toes, Lauritz necked with Adèle as lazily as she would let him upon Loren Nerell’s hazy bells low on the sound system. Before the festivities unfurled beyond mere foreplay, I went up to Rose and invited her to dance up, breathing to her ear that I would strip her down for all to see and swoon. The blaring light of the barges’ projectors across the room still inspired me as they had in my first nights in Lauritz’s passion.

I pulled the small zipper under her arm and slid aside the thin straps to feel the layers of silk glide along her back. I still hid her front side in a loving embrace, but Fulgence let out that he had already wanked himself looking at her on a video chat, more than once, said he with a greedy tone. Thus I pivoted her ever so gently holding her arms behind her back, like I put her up for sale, like in the most phantasmatic scenes of XIXth century French pompier painters, except it would be more of a free-for-all revelry, with manners.
Clutched to my wing, she gracefully showed what she began to believe was not merely a funfair attraction —as for me, I would never forget seeing the tendrils poke out of the black latex apron. Fulgence softened his tone as he confirmed that he had been assiduous at watching her webcam routine with one hand, like possibly millions counting the cheaters; he came near with the smile of a twelve-year-old meeting Billie Eilish in the flesh.
Lauritz was gobsmacked, he said he would have been smitten in her own merits, but who the hell was this man who would inflict such long enduring pain on an innocent nymph? It was up to me to advertise the subject of Rambling Rose’s epics, querying assent in her cunning stares. Sussing more than she would tell, Adèle came on to cuddle up to the other side of Rose, and we composed a true mise-en-abyme scene worthy of a canvas hung in a Jockey Club brothel. They had heard such awful tales before, beginning with mine, obviously, but none yet which wouldn’t reap a happy ending in our stealthy empyrean.
Whatever deviances I retold of her life, she knew full well all these compassionate crotches were all stiffened with lust, and after all, there she was in, so to speak, full bloom, at the mercy of the direst homages, wasn’t she? The pretty foundlings understood she was no less of a strumpet than themselves or Adèle, thus they gathered around Rambling Rose to make merry, in all homeliness, with a future comrade in their kind of league.
As the carnal scents simmered up, the lucky herd of galliards rid their squandersome fripperies to appear in the glorious truth of their birth and the boldness of their want, but our host had already pulled back the walking metaphor on the couch and asked me to summon the Swiss Navy so as to empale her, face-up, open at the mercy of all, and I knew she feared not such excesses, otherwise she would tell me.
Queuing for gardening thus would not befit the usual fraternity, they cheered when Fulgence burrowed into the magic roots of the metaphor, but decided that since they would doubtlessly randomly deserve such bliss another time, we, damsels in wait, would not bargain for a treat. Dorothy had already set her sights on the honey-blond skin of half-coyly Philippe, whose bent-up dick showed real enthusiasm at her and thus she took aside.
There was still that thing between the Cossack and Sarah hence they could not near one another without hurling at their throats first; she was lavishly lewd being buggered standing like a Burne Jones Andromeda with lesser tits. Elsewhere, it was simply obvious that Adèle lusted after Gauthier since when he had undertaken her boss’ favourite love nest arrangements at Melchior’s expense —and willfully under the array of spycams, she bantered she had lived her whole life under pervert monitoring, and Gauthier wouldn’t shun a man’s peep at his nudity; he had such a depraved deal with Melchior regarding Adèle, he wouldn’t know if the planetary capacities of SEVEN STREAMS gave him similar access in Speck’s, as far as I knew, no one had ever complained of his ubiquitous curiosity.
Coline had triggered Erik’s black lust, and she had never encountered a truncheon that enormity, but I knew first-hand how he would persuade her it was what she needed above all, with a smidgen of our friends the freshwater sailors’ salve; and so she swooned in bliss.
It left Carine and me, circled by the last pair of legendary horsemen, those who had ransacked and raped to the sound of the Radetsky March —how came Joseph Roth’s novels had washed ashore in my magazine closet? We played shy damsels tenderly huddled against the fright, letting them lust over our defenceless bums while we revelled in kissing like schoolgirls. And so they let us frolic laid together when they fingered in the holes they coveted; she wasn’t exactly a white goose in the woods, she gathered up her leg aside to offer him the way in just as she sensed I did too, and we huffed in each other’s ear under the barbaric assaults.

Sarah says:

We needed three cars to return home, the newbies had gambolled all their fill, and everyone around had played smoothly. Now the barges had gone, and the island had come back to a still. The gang of foundlings had a safe pathway to their hideout, I wasn’t sure they would find the courage to kick off their shoes before dozing out.
Even my best evocative Zaporogue had danced with such zazz I thought he was in love with Rambling Rose. Had he danced? Little did she care, she found her thrill on the studio futon, and we snugged listening to Alfred’s early declamations; did Michelle sleep with her earphones?
There still remained a stash of that enlightened batch of a morning Darjeeling tea, and an unopened tin of Rumpelmayer vanillekipferls if my runaway felt peckish. I switched on the computer perfunctorily, there was no need for music, and began to check my mail, instantly grabbed by the most customary address, that of Kate, whom I knew was up north with Gwen, with the subject “mourn”. She said briefly that her father had died in the Bahamas and the funeral was that day in Hamburg’s Saint Michael church, and the burial in Buxtehude with his ancestors. She made no comments, I sussed what kind of social chore it meant, she simply had never loved her father, merely bonding with him through her brother, for whatever legal opportunities.
Hence, I retold Adèle the advent of the formidable friendship between two privileged art school posers sleeping around uselessly. She was captivated by the dire peripetiae of the Berlin escape, though I remained soft in the recount —only be said it had sealed our common teetotaller oath. I would not insist on the swashbuckling tales through German psychiatry, whenas Kate’s father had played a mean part, by the bye.
I hurried my narrative towards the happy untangling of the catastrophe, glossing over Simon’s ordeal and whatever scars he might foster in his soul, today he was heir to a family empire, and his father had whatsoever prepared him for that, stealthily, through the forceful network of German engineer schools, away from Kate’s drifting.
Adèle asked me if I had, too, slept with my brother, and that brought a welcome opportunity to shower her with the yarn of my own hectic life, full of unabashed debauchery, but not any manner of genuine incest per se, put apart my father’s —my Danish Far—delicious compulsion with my feet since the days of my birth. I told her how I despised my cowardly brother, against whom I conjured the murder of crimson crows that I encountered in my dreams, flying over legendary Denmark.
We played watersports in the shower room that I told her Hugo had built for us; she cried she was overjoyed that her heart had hurled her at me, when the wind had pushed us into that shop, and suddenly her scheme had taken shape. She described how she had never imagined a friendship like Cecile and I shared in her whole little shrivelled life, and how she had felt relieved reckoning she wouldn’t have to account for the trials and tribulations of her intimate sexuality, Cecile had been such an earnest sister in that seminary roon in Pienza she would never forget. Yes, she still had moments when she doubted the reality of her becoming, but her previous life had not revealed itself any more truthful, whatever ginormous tragedy ensued. Eventually, she had revelled in the manner Melchior had considered her, and I asserted he never lied, be it to obtain favours.
Alfred had gone to another peak of his territory, and we agreed on some music. She had no idea of spacey ambient soundscapes, most of her culture had been Italian television, say no more. At first, she cringed at some sounds she said drew her back to the drug-induced moods they had inflicted on her, although she avowed it had happened the same when she had let be done lovemaking on her, and waned when she had witnessed us openly lewd, in a genteel civil manner, under none other authority.
The heather fairies sniffed the bliss of our night when they found us, and Annabelle sat down at Adèle’s side with bright eyes. She knew a bit of Italian from work she had done around Lord Byron’s correspondence, but she soon better let her hands do the talking when she read Adèle’s laid-back attitude and gazes. The Princess of Axolotls rejoiced that we had unfolded the futon, and she took possession of the dainty Italian feet.
Annabelle’s ample teal paisley print Laura Ashley vintage dress did not conceal too long that she wore nothing else, as Adèle dared hitch it up to respond to a mild elfin rape that would not extract me from my inspired doodles, except when Fayelle set out to please my toes to exhort me to tell them who and what was the new nymphet, there. I told them briefly that Cecile and I had fallen smitten with the pretty fanciulla, raptured her in our private aeroplane, and caused a crisis in the Italian government, Honest!
Annabelle was already too enthralled with Adèle’s lower belly, but Fayelle, to whom her titanium skull must have granted some clairvoyance, did not buy my hot air. I let out that the ragazza was dangerously on the lam but in view and care of our tutelary gods.

The thistle elves had been hired for some shady dinner party at some Liselotte’s patron, why they wore such dapper nails, fingers and toes of emerald green and amethyst purple. They left a trail of lavender drizzle and broom flower’s hopeful solace. Gauthier had been looking for his highly-recommended client, whose apartment only awaited an array of furniture, possibly from his and Hugo’s repositories, at whim.
The new stately accommodation for the elusive Milanese trappola-di-miele opened across our back landing and spanned till a further staircase on different levels of floor, oak or terracotta. Like in a grand suite, a foyer contained a built-in closet and a toilet, led to a complete living room with a counter kitchen, lit by three windows overlooking old roofs, or a corridor towards two bedrooms, one at the top of a narrow crooked staircase, both with full water room and Italian shower. If the need was, another room accessed from the main room had been left void, it was part of yet another house.
We couldn’t help frolicking upon the only material piece of furniture, the über-thick mattress of the Las Vegas grade mattress where these two had already met a few sweet times. Gauthier’s fancy jeans had a buttoned-up fly, we swapped the furtive torture, he spurted in Adèle’s mouth, who gulped every drop and kissed me.
He had also invited Cecile and Hugo because of their sure taste and ability to supply. Cecile brought up Rambling Rose who had spent the day lying on the sofa twirling Cyprien’s brains with her living double-dare. They caught us, but if it was easy for sluts to pull back down their lounge gowns, it took more time to button up Gauthier’s sophisticated jeans, however nought to blush for, lucky lad.
Hugo accessed this staircase from the lower floors, he rang at the door. I explained the little unrest he sensed he relished the cause for, thus he enlaced Adèle and kissed her mouth, then he granted her a beaming smile and listened to what that apartment inspired in her, and he soon reckoned she was still all enthralled with his own style of dwelling, if asked. I almost foresaw that he would take her back onto her grand bed; he relished babbling in Italian, it was altogether good omen as for her setting up. He knew about Kate’s mourning.
Natalia called, she said Liselotte had one of her schemes with plenty of received morals breaches between vetted adults, a tad raunchier than Philippe’s corridors. The runaways asked me if I would go, and I retorted I rarely shunned Natalia’s invites and she was one of Liselotte’s best accomplices. As for Rose, it couldn’t be harsher than where I had found her, and Adèle would eagerly let herself at my cravings.
Natalia came on with swagger, in tight-fit black twill jeans and a one-button free-floating loose white poplin shirt, on flat heels black suede Chelseas, just like I could have. Since I sussed we would likely end disrobed no sooner than the threshold would be crossed —we came a long way with Liselotte’s clientèle of greedy academics and worldly psychopomps, the rewards were always stratospherically for, altogether, some easy parts to play— I preferred the crime-inciting one-piece outfits, such as my oversize blazers or the butterfly-thin shirt dresses. Adèle could go merely bare in a scarf or two, Rose might want to set off an effect, keeping her shirt closed as a start. Cecile wore tiny black shorts and a silk harlequin bomber jacket with casual black Chucks. Rose was proud of her black-and-white loafers, and Adèle chose silver ballet flats. I liked my black patent opera pumps with a nifty grosgrain bow.
There was a limousine service, a long-chassis black six-door U-boat with a white-gloved chauffeur. Natalia was wired like in her ten-year-old days, same ferreting hands and candid gaze, that living miracle. It suddenly smelled like the cloakroom of the pool in Saint Loup, and Adèle cuddled in my wing. From the depth of the black leather seats, the shaded windows didn’t show much of the cityscape, only that it did not last long. We found ourselves in the high-covered inner yard of a prewar stone and brick six-floor building entirely walled off with gypsum blocks, under the moonlight and some feeble indicator lamps. The floor was remarkably clean, those yellowish ceramic bevelled tiles you might expect to find in such a place.
The place was spacious enough to allow a U-turn of our ride, and then two double doors clanged shut. Two beautiful black well-built men in expensive black suits and shirts walked out the only open door and down the three steps of a perron, beckoning us to follow them inside, and shutting the doors in our footsteps. It was lugubrious as a dead bank, a deserted Brazilian administration. All roll-down shutters were closed, and deadly echoes flew like eerie bats. Two more nondescript bruisers appeared, and we were pushed towards a lift big enough for us all. Adèle and I were pressed against the shoulder of one of the quiet black handlers.

The man must have had pupils like saucers, he sported Oakleys, and his sleight wasn’t under my flaps by accident. He smelled of clove, tonka bean and cinnamon in Neroli, he was impassibly deft, he could allow himself any whim. He also gently wanked Adèle’s bumhole.
Somewhere in the upper floors, we were led like a troupe of floozies to an oak-panelled kind of cloakroom with a large centre table, and told to bare entirely and collect our things in the suitcases we saw, while our four minders evaluated our respective merits under the mere emergency yellow lamps. Then they seized us all, arm in arm, and pushed us into the next room, where not a single speckle of light would let us accommodate our vision. Thus, would it be some game of hide-and-seek in a deserted Ministry of Debauchery?
Adèle was torn from me in a beastly huff, and I was pulled by whom I sensed was a nude interesting man, wearing night-vision goggles, who smelled of expensive Cologne and made me run to some kind of bed amidst the blind maze, pushed me on my knees, stretched my bumhole with some cream and buggered me holding my arms back with might while another dick was forced down in my throat. I heard Gobbledygook comments and then squawks when I had to take in their inaugural jizz.
It would be one of these Liselotte lewd excentricities she sold to her who’s who of influent luminaries. I was held a hot towel and told to clean, then I rested near the scent we had strewed on the bed. I heard a dubious cry somewhere afar, but I scrabbled towards it, finding a door and a smell of lilies, feminine hands searching my bumhole for a filthy scent, then pulling me down to drenched labia and ordering me to lap.
The carpeting was soft, and the randomly arranged beds and whatever padded furniture one could be tipped upon, to be made available, comprised no sharp feet or stands so as to hurt one’s toes. At times, I was seized by the arm and brought elsewhere, a piano played nostalgic complaints, possibly Satie, but it seemed there were crowds of stiff assailants of different manners and fragrances, even some addressing me like they knew me.
I was mugged on carpeted stairs, thrown upon a grand feather bed and shared indefinitely, toileted like a newborn, and ultimately thrown in an apparently still eager multitude, and realised they no longer wore night vision devices and bumped randomly just as me. Then it was another kind of fun, keeping pace against clumsier antagonists, until mighty steel pliers clutched on my arm, and I sniffed the minder in the lift, and let him do me. I couldn’t be so certain in the obscurity, but it sure felt like it. I was already rattled and wrung, he had no effort to bring me to a wall and daze my mouth in a long kiss, then let slide his back down, still clutching me till he began stretching my coochie with his matchless cosh, and I started to moan.
I woke up in the colossus’ arms, the crowds, except for our exhausted gang, and the two black minders —the other one then cuddling both Natalia and Rose— had vanished. Three night lights on the ceiling showed a considerable venue entirely void. Adèle would dare approach me in fear of my giant, I held out my hand to invite her onto his lap, and he told her in English not to fear, but she quivered when she saw the size of what still rested on my thigh.
They showed us to slate-clad showers and massaged everyone in the lather. Once rinsed, they fetched us lavender-scented bath towels, brushes and combs, and eventually, they left us in a vestiary with our suitcases.
Our chauffeur reappeared and led us to the humming U-boat, the yard was otherwise totally silent, the roof glazing was turning mauve. In the cabin, we packed like puppies on the back seat, Natalia asking how many shags we had taken, and we were all in the blur past the two dozen. Natalia stole Adèle and told her she knew access to so many such shenanigans —if she would.
In the morning, Alfred had given up waking us, we were three in the grand bed, Natalia and Adèle enlaced, with angelic faces, nothing uncanny, this bed had been Natalia’s playground for years, and she retained her prerogatives, whatsoever. After such inconsiderate carnal expenses, I felt like cooking French toasts, and was overjoyed to find our maid had renewed our little supplies. I betted at least Adèle would come running at the smell of sweet cinnamon; I won, and moreover, Natalia came to rub her mons pubis on my bum cheeks, making Adèle mull that she found women in love so moving —she wouldn’t have thought that possible until lately.
I had never heard a doorbell from the new wing’s side, and I went to answer candidly, only to find a man in blue overalls who could not spit a word, til I ran to cover myself almost modestly and excused myself wholeheartedly. He was bringing a heavy piece of decoration sent by Hugo and needed instructions from Ms Adèle. I ran and told her to slip into any dress she would and go help the workman.

On a sturdy low cart, the man pushed a man-height crate into Adèle’s living room, pulled out an electric screwdriver and began opening the box. Amidst serious support props and paddings, there was a radiant Della Robbia Virgin with Child, as she had just admired one in Hugo’s kitchen, in a round wreath of different orchard branches. She stood tense in disbelief, and the mover was in no hurry to see her no longer show herself in that flimsy gown. She finally asked if it could go to her room upstairs, and it wasn’t a problem; from the foot of the stairs, after checking the path to follow, he told us to move back, seized the piece against his chest and walked up like he had carried a baby that he lay upon the bed. He asked where she would like it hung, she said across her bed. It happened that room was part pale yellow wash, part pearl grey. The tondo fit perfectly over the grey background. She was elated, but the workman had moved on before we could thank him. Natalia inaugurated the Holy Virgin by pushing Adèle onto her bed and hitching her dress up, so much she worshipped her little peach.
She would learn how far a night with the magician would begin to reverberate in her daily life, like most of ours, and he wasn’t the only good genie. A man we had known of before, in cases of threatened damsels called me, to see us both in private, and I thought the studio would do, if we rolled the futon away and post a sign on the door. I translated the whole Milanese affair from Adèle’s measly point of view. He assured that the Italian services had no official knowledge of her, so far, so good. Since Fanny’s case, he had seen a few of our pretty foundlings; he was cautious, on a secretive mission, but he knew there never was a mistake or fallacy in return. He offered Adèle a new identity, anyhow she hardly had any before, as the inquiries showed. They proposed Adèle Foscari, born a month later in Siena’s hospital, to Fulvio Foscari, who died in the fire of his trattoria in Pienza and left not much of a trace, when she was three and brought to Milano in adoption by a friend of his father’s, Benedetto Montarchi, now missing, and Angela Ferracci, deceased. She agreed and signed the demands for ID and passport that he would transmit to the Italian Consulate. He asked for a white wall to take portraits with his telephone. He wished all the best to Adèle Foscari, he had been enthralled by her legs the whole time, but he knew we would not take offence, would we? I showed him to the street door he had come by, in the lift, I gave him the Bacall gaze, I would swear I could feel an erection.
Once the agent had left, Adèle avowed she was flabbergasted, like I would be some kind of a master spy. She helped me to unroll back the futon and pull her dress off. The window cleaner made a beaming smile, and he finished his work to better ogle us, was he some kind of spy, too? Natalia found us and pulled out of her jeans before I could tell about the window cleaner.
There were heaps to be relived, whores of us, of that furious night. I had been a tad frustrated in the black, I loved to watch my buddies fuck, like we did at Philippe’s behind the double-view mirrors. Adèle wondered what Philippe’s was, and I summarised since the Orleans years, the Revolution and eventually the clandestine corridors. Natalia decreed that, if our loins withstood, we should take our new neighbour to Philippe’s that night. I agreed and texted an ambiguous poem to Sami who promised me the finest of dinners.
There was a message from Kate, evoking a never-ending ceremony with a eulogy that taught her most of what she had never known about her father, otherwise, she had mostly held her mother’s hand. Lauritz, too, had supported his mother. Her half-sister had only shown up at Buxtehude cemetery, beautifully tanned and impatient. Since then, every day was another meeting with direly serious people, and she was all too happy to trust Simon to take the reins. She had met his wife, Ada, who looked like her and made the first move with a frank stare, Kate thought she probably knew of the bond with her brother. They had gone sailing on the Alster one evening, she had felt she might very well do Ada. The empire was in Simon’s hands, her mother would keep the house on the Alster shore, and the swans. The cottage on Sylt remained undivided. She had regretted not flying back with Lauritz, it would be a matter of days, now.
Natalia borrowed one of my black dinner jackets, which was even sexier on her because it did not fully cover her baby breasts; she slid on black silk veil tights and black suede loafers. She borrowed that boyish cuir Cologne that made her smell like a schoolgirl. I put on a midnight blue sheen twill waistless shirt dress, French sleeves, no collar, embroidered with randomly scattered vivid coloured capital letters, with black hold-up stockings and navy suede chelseas, I dropped dashes of woody narcissus and roses around my groin, armpits and neck.

Adèle looked heavenly elfin, in a blur striped gradient opal silk jersey, cut in a fluid tunic, wrapping her shapes closely, so thin one could feast one’s eyes at her bum crack, and armholes so deep one couldn’t help sliding a hand upon her timid breast. She wore silvery Greek sandals.
We had time to take a turn at the arcade gallery, most regretting the modern vandalising of all the southern end, stripping the Galerie d’Orleans of its glazed roof and all the shops under it, then fifty years later crowding the Palace’s backyard with an inane array of bulky black and white cement stumps. Lucky are we to have preserved the civil elegance of the other three sides Philippe II d’Orléans completed before the Revolution during which he voted for the beheading of his cousin the King, before being shortened himself two years after. Under the lineage of the Orleans princes, the common law did not apply within the limits of the domain, putting it off the scrutiny of the Royal police. As we know, like many monuments built in the immemorial handcrafted manner, rich clients, bound solely by the facade’s layout, devised whatever arrangements and circulations within, concealing as many concealed pathways and stairways that fitted their whims.
To Adèle, this antique venue did not stand in comparison with the Galleria Victorio Emmanuele in Milan, although she scarcely knew it. She might have been right to think I had rambled a bit, while onlookers took an eyeful of all we showed of ourselves. Sami met us at the door and ushered us to a table in a nook on the entresol, near a half-moon window. He demonstrated how fully he grasped what I had forewarned him about my Italian foundling, and she noticed. They had prepared hibiscus kombucha which had a jot of acidity to it, and a grilled tofu and peppers, mushrooms, and pineapple salad interspersed with chiselled parsley, coriander, tarragon, in lime, cashew and soy dressing, and a side of grilled polenta slices.
I remembered our first visit, with Kate and Hugo, in that same room. She was recovering from her Berlin fiasco, still under the spell of Dr Schubert. We had an inkling about a small door marked “private” in the bathroom, I would have sworn it had been slightly ajar while I was peeing.
Now, Adèle knew that beyond the crooked staircases that we would climb deep inside the massive walls, she might unabashedly be groped by anyone she would meet, or further if she let. This impressive monument was still no less than a bawdy house patronised by a conspiracy of oh-so prophylactically vetted libertines ready to share and be shared, albeit as of then, she would merely be on a tour, behind the two-way mirrors.
We had all naked wild strawberries in leaf imitation porcelain plates and tiny silver spoons to savour them one by one, just like in the forest undergrowth, before the wolf ate us.
Natalia went stealthily to the loo, Adèle and me a minute later, and found we now had to use our black card to unlock the private door. Natalia awaited at the first bend, necking with Sami. As we all had been before her, Adèle was a tad spooked in the narrow vaulted ashlar stone corridor deeply carpeted in maroon wool. And I knew Sami would stand at the small landing to grab a feel of her, I helped him by hitching up her flimsy dress, whispering to let be done.
Natalia led us to the vestiary, joking it would be wiser to secure our togs now rather than losing them all over the place —we had our essentials in concealed pockets in some hems. Though we knew the maze eyes closed, Sami pretended to guide us, and Adèle in particular. It was time for the early romps, most of the booths along the mirrors alley were busy, I spotted a known actress offering her bumhole to a grizzled gent in a shirt with all her talent. Girls from legal to no age helped diverse types of clients exult sans soucis.
As cunning big sisters, we knew that at the end of the corridor were some salons to the reverse use, where Sami would ploy to hustle our young Italian pixie he did not know had been raised as a captive bait and thus knew all about the pelvic thrust. Unsurprisingly, after so many gracious eyefuls —all the libertine girls in the rooms knew they were being peeped at— Adèle was aroused, wet, and granted Sami a swerving tango that left him so stunned he wouldn’t let go of her before buggering her legs up, using his own spurt out of her coochie as lube.
We had offered a lesbian counterpoint to potential amateurs who knew where to corner us after our playful shower. Sami well drained and on the run, we were cheerfully accosted by four musketeers that let us not ignore their bouncy swords, so narrow was the path towards another salon, with a padded square stage in the middle, where we lay welcoming in all indecency, and it was obvious Adèle reaped all the wants. One of them called me by my name as he thrust into my bumhole made slidy by his benevolence. I heard my sisters moan eloquently, Adèle busied three bulls on her slinky own.

I knew how to curb the assault, however flattering it be; we climbed down a spiral stairwell to the subterranean premises, and there I put a call for Sami through the interphone, then went to the warm pool, resolute to calm things down, if they ever wanted to see Adèle’s shapely rump again. It was in those low vaulted ashlar cellars, who knows how many levels there are, besides the sewer tunnels and the metro?
Two nymphs lounged already in the tepid waters of the small mosaic pool, although wide enough to swim a breaststroke or two, they called themselves Angelina and Victoria, one spoke Neapolitan, the other as many tongues as there are in Switzerland. Angelina stroke Adèle’s pointed tits and said she could tell that she had only just been carefully jostled, as she bore no bruises; then she learned she was talking to a newcomer, and she showed a greedy smile. She was willowy and tanned, she confessed they lived in a penthouse and basked in the sun on every occasion, their terrasse big enough to work out daily. They did not do much else than rent out their niceties to select clubmen, wouldn’t either we? I pinched Adèle when I had the hunch she was about to unwrap her own story.
We had been taking flying steps, and Adèle had all the rights to ignore the turmoil at the core of which she had been the fateful glitch. Now, as for other foundlings we fostered, she would have to edit the whole narrative of her mistaken life, keeping the nuggets out of the dregs.
In the morning, some sleek-suited envoy from the Italian Consulate set siege to our beloved fortress until he found help from Cecile, who offered coffee, so dumbstruck he was looking at Rambling Rose, hardly covered in the studio —Cyprien finally having engrammed that her transgressive beauty wouldn’t poison his own sensitivity— but merely took him up to the apartment, while we hurried down from our unassailable futon, in whatever shapeless nigh tee-shirt we had found that made him smile candidly at our legs and feet, he was the acme of an Italian Cavaliere, the three of us could have melted for his charm. He was personally bringing Adèle’s new vademecum and a few re-issued forms for her to sign, all the more lightly than she had never done anything of the sort. Then the pressure had risen so high as he accepted Cecile’s coffee, and she swayed her gaze to make me wit on that I was showing my privates by hiking my foot up on the seat. But he had visibly been briefed at the highest level, and what he saw did not feel like the underworld. He liked Cecile’s espresso, and he had a tight-knit conversation with Adèle, not mentioning her would-be trade activities all legal in Italy, making sure she had no part in the current political scandal. Not forgetting my morning absent-mindedness —I was so proud I would have blushed— he took our numbers, knowing we might very well shut out our telephones, shook hands and followed Cecile, in her work smock, in the lift. Adèle was overwhelmed by holding her authentic ID and passport, she remembered how her picture had been taken on a telephone, I prepared tea and held her head as she cried all over my crazy shirt.
Kate barged in with her don’t-hustle-me-no-more eyes, she, too, needed my womb to cuddle on, but she was stunned by that new just-out-of-bed kind of imp who wouldn’t speak. It became instantly so much more urgent to hear me explain how the Confederacy had scavenged yet again two more imps —one from Milan, the other by the good graces of Louis— than what I supposed she had to bear with, in the ranks of a family and caste she had never mingled with before. Gwen had been terrified and remained in the Alster house, feeding the cygnets with fruit. Now she was in the pool downstairs with her TRÆVIX buddies, they had flown ever so fast back from Hamburg.
A&S told me they had fresh cinnamon-rolls-apple pies, I ordered one to be delivered at Cecile’s, and we went, Adèle in white short shorts and tanks, Kate in slinky mauve yoga shorts and cropped top, and me in a myosotis-blue thin one-piece. I saw frank relief on Rambling Rose’s pouty face, and then curiosity towards whom she couldn’t mistake for other than Kate, and I read she was at once beguiled with her manners and the way we behaved together —which she later said gave her the key to our eerie world.
Out of the carton, the pie smelled of bygone afternoons in the wide light of the Østersund shore, and to Kate the cottage in Sylt’s dunes. Cyprien quitted his penetrated gaze and looked at us like living things. Cecile peeled off her work togs, but Rose took off everything at Kate’s request and even risked coming to sit on her lap, deciding she smelled good, and she spoke smoothly.
Cecile, wearing a mere grey slip with a light camisole, enlaced Adèle and tried her best to ask about the night at Philippe’s, and she grasped, mostly with faces and hands, that she had been favourably impressed, and also copiously honoured.

She floated the idea of asking the Laforest twins if they wished for a boundless quintet in their majestuous salons, thus the maitre d welcomed her and whoever she saw fit off his own bat, Their Lordships being currently furiously occupied, and Cecile remembered precisely what that meant. As for myself, I kept a spiky recollection of a dedicated turn in the whipping cellar, utmostly troubling, though heftily rewarded, did I warn the damsels if we were en route to the most extravagant clubhouse I knew in Paris.
Together, we thoroughly pampered each other all the way to the enemas, for sure. An undetectable touch-up with eye shadow, mascara, blush, and gloss to look a tad grown-up, then we pillaged the perfume cabinet hoping our driver wouldn’t suffocate.
I sensed that Kate was overjoyed to cock a snook, so to speak, at the shareholders who would never know of her whatsoever, she graciously unclothed for us and went fetch possibly the most shameless outfit in her repertoire, and there be. She found a jade green satin tunic, slit to the hip, with waves of aquamarine beadings at the hem, and silvery flat maryjanes, she couldn’t sit without showing her sinful slit. I dressed Adèle in a Gilberte Swann mullein-yellow twill flared, tiered, dress under which she would have no fineries to show but white hold-ups and new white suede ballet flats. Cecile remembered a black Shantung long sleeves shirt dress with ruffled collar and wrists, rounded tails and red trimmings that would set off the marvel on Rambling Rose’s body while being craftily unbuttoned; she wore quirky black shined ankle-boots and red-stripe-trimmed over-the-knees black stockings. Cecile herself liked snap-studded Okinawa-style varsity satin jackets like this double-dragon embroidered on crimson and black one over unavoidable black satin little shorts. She pulled on black thigh-high stockings and black suede flats, she would always be my infalling crafts girl from the magazines closet.
I would still be in two minds as to let myself flogged, whatever the reward, but I sussed Rose liked her thorns rich, so it might, and I had seen Cecile gush under pain before. I chose a sapphire-amethyst changing silk taffeta double-breasted blazer with white gold Venetian mask buttons, and I wore patent leather deep-purple penny loafers.
They had sent a huge statutory schickerei-grey berline that awaited our snazzy troupe on the quay and ran to take care we don’t stray from the outer door, his hand on my butt. He drove ever so slowly, and I sussed what he would be trying when he parked near that horrendous insult to a human tragedy that wallows behind the Paris Musée Des Beaux Arts. He was a handsome grizzled stud who knew perfectly why we went to his bosses’ lair, and he purported to be served a chink afore our debauchery, although I would have bet I had seen him cavorting amidst the guests at our last worldly fiesta.
He kept staring at Cecile as no mistake, so she squarely asked if he wanted a blowjob, and he retorted she had a lovely mouth, that I kissed to tease him. Cars are perfect scenes for depravity; no sooner had she bent on him, her shorts lowered, than at least two gawkers stood at the window wanking, and in the back, we did not remain quiet, Kate wanted to acquaint with my mute ragazza who used her hands. After he had been cleaned out, the chauffeur tidied up but told Cecile to stay indecently undone, so, not only this impressive carriage caught the eyes at traffic lights, but some sharp-eyed onlookers were given away some eyefuls. I knelt on the jump seat and helped her swallow the mouthful.
The maitre d sported the stiff smile of one who is breaking new shoes, but we knew him by heart. As he kissed Cecile who let him, I joshed he was tasting the chauffeur’s last spurt, and he could have as much from me. He asked if it had been a fault from him, but we laughed.
Sissi and Bowie came up in light foulard-printed robes, we could tell they had just lately been shagged as they liked. They walked us to the grand salon where linen veilings subdued the slanted dusk light. It smelled like the glasshouses in Kew Gardens, with wild animals in black on the loose. I remembered the treachery of the sofas in which one easily tipped, showing all the clubmen had expected. As in any truly good continental club, one of the gents spoke Italian with a northern accent, thus appropriating Adèle whose skirt had flown up.
I called the twins, who were overjoyed to see us back, and I warned them of an exquisite speciality inside my neighbour’s dress, beginning to undo the buttons one by one for them, crouched near us. I pulled away the shirt completely as Rose let me do, taking her on my bare chest. I did my best to embellish the narrative of the captive on a wayward yacht, months of half-torture under the needle gun of a perversely mad artist, and eventually, an operation of Interpol that had brought Rambling Rose —also the name of the yacht whose owner had died of an overdose of alcohol and Oxy— back to our bedazzled waters.

It wasn’t long before she quits her bold pair of brodequins and pranced around on her dainty feet with crimson nails. Our dermatologist had wished to determine what kind of ink her tormentor had used, and it turned out it was genuine Japanese Kuro Sumi ink used for centuries. The doctor had prescribed an unguent that smelled of fresh weed and gave a gentle contrast to the motive in the skin. Rose felt at ease with her illustrated body.
If it seemed assured there would be a dispute as to whom would shag the living picture, there wasn’t any as the Cavaliere drew Adèle to the bedrooms upstairs, her dress and shoes in hand. The maitre d had taken a fancy for Cecile, probably because she had avowed to being an easy slut with the chauffeur, and thus he had pulled her to his private nook I had known of, too. Kate let herself be wooed in German without telling that she spoke it, and it went smoothly upstairs, too. Three contenders to Rambling Rose’s indulgence eventually agreed to share her, since she would not disapprove, why would she? It left me with the Fairy Twins, and they did not fuss about letting me unclothe them too. When Cecile came back from her quick pass, she still smelled of raw turpitude, and she wore that so well. Bowie took her by the hand towards the bathroom where she wanted to play with her. I remained entwined with Sissi amidst the emerald green velvet of the sofa until an antique beau with white fluffy sideburns invited us to a room upstairs. And what a vigorous senior he revealed himself to be! Sissi had known all along, and she let me be played in and out, the considerable shaft still capable of making me squirt in a way he loved while she discreetly left. He wanted to know my name, and he kneaded all my bones while he used all my holes, then he pulled me into the bathroom and told me to wash with him, and we laughed with the enema hose. I helped him dress up like a good girl as nude as can be, he asked for my hand, and he put three gold coins in it.
Back downstairs, where some new visitors had escaped their boring obligations, I asked Bowie where Cecile would be, and her embarrassed answer confirmed what I hunched, she had been taken away to the cellar. Bowie finely proposed we could watch through the mirrors, like Marie Antoinette. I liked that, as if I would help spare her the worst, but, in the narrow peepers’ corridor, Sissi pinched my madberries and asked me if it was not frankly delicious to watch, as long as there would be no scars?
As if by chance, nude sportsmen tiptoed on both sides of us, eager to watch us watch and busy with their hands. As for me, it was obvious I would be ready at a whim, and thus I complied, with my bum arched, to a stark standing shag, while looking at Cecile wriggling under the lash, and so did Bowie. They left me dripping and panting, and now Cecile too, was humped in both sides, stretched upwards in cross bonds, and Bowie had run, giving way to give way to a new pair of implacable rams whom I could not avoid in that cramped little trap where they had to bear me with my legs up in the air to reach both my slits. It sent me back to my laundry cellar’s memories, the all but naive excesses in the sewers of paradise. This time I pursued one of my assailants, and I reached a recess in a white tiles-clad bathroom, with a large tub in its midst steaming with lotus. Bowie soon led Cecile by the hand, crying and drooling, smeared in jizz all over. We let ourselves sink in the sacred fragrance, and she laughed at my distraught face.
In that gliding vessel of a car back home, The chauffeur asked Rambling Rose to show herself nude on the front seat. She was exhausted, a battalion of greedy amateurs had succeeded one another in her living metaphor, but that one here did not claim for the last straw, he parked somewhere near the Arc De Triomphe, for a quiet while. Kate shied from touching Cecile, but the twins had anointed her burns with miracle balsams, she let her jacket open on her tormented breasts and begged for kisses.
Back home, Adèle happily cuddled herself in our bed between Kate and me, Cecile and Rose ran to entrust their souls to the Crow God, under the sarcastic grin of the homunculus. Sometime in the night, Natalia was all too happy to lie aside Kate.
As ever, Cecile woke up at Alfred’s order, put on a tracksuit and headed to her workshop. She left Rambling Rose in the safe bushes of the undergrowth, like a doe her fawn. She was involved in the restoration of a spectacular, painted multi-panelled screen by Jean Dupas, a master of Art Deco flair, star aboard the last of the truly luxurious French transatlantic ships, sadly sabotaged in New York harbour.
Natalia had a crush on Adèle, mainly because of all she had managed to read about the Scandalo Milanese and the fortitude she sensed in the pretty rescued orphan from a bygone planet who steadily reshaped her foundations with our not-so-gratuitous guidance. With Fanny in mind, we agreed that professional help like Dr Méant had been providing would keep Adèle on safer tracks, I promised to go ask the Doctor for recommendations.

At break time, Cecile came up to chat around the late breakfast table. Even coffee had been made for a moony Rambling Rose. I couldn’t help pulling down gently Cecile’s pants, as though to assess the damages, and she frankly took off everything to let us reckon that she was intact after all, thus I sat her on my lap and poked my nose in her armpit.
Then she joined Rose to play dip with cat tongues, she wore a prefaded blue tank top from Cecile’s and nothing more, she wouldn’t know what fuss I was making about Cecile’s loins. Through tea’s evocative savours, I tried to sort out the situations around the table hic et nunc. I re-threaded our conversation with Natalia in front of Adèle, and she asked who Fanny was. I agreed it would be enlightening to summon Fanny and Dagmar to dinner, and also Fayelle if she was in Paris, to retell her guided soul-searching after the axolotls’ episode.
Cecile’s world had never encompassed any manner of confession, she had told me that I was the only person she revealed her secret to, and she had never disappointed me either. She thought that Fanny and Dagmar could actually give Adèle a heap of clues if she agreed to go to school, for one. She would keep Rose in her bed as long as she needed unless Adèle shared her place with her.
Natalia had gone, promising she would be there for dinner. I felt like playing doll along with my buddy Kate, for the good of our foundlings who might crave to possess some new rags of their own.
We scoured the rue du Bac all the way up to the Bon Marché, the biggest antiphrasis to stand up in Paris. We stopped when it became obvious we needed two cars to go back. The girls had ferreted out oodles of snazzy lingerie and teased all the young attendants in the trying booths. Kate’s and mine cards knew no limitations, but we had messages about the double security of our payments. Camille asked if she would be welcome with us, she craved to have a look at our new debutantes —I sussed Natalia had spread the word of our windfalls.
The light was uplifting, with beautifully torn clouds and a whimsical breeze, we decided to walk to Agnete og Sanne’s open kitchen, to choose our feast’s food in the same manner our little tramps had raided through the fashion chichis. We looted one of each pie of the day, salted, sweet, and in-between, boxes of little puffy nibbles, and an army of fruit-mix paper cups. They also had different kombuchas and mostly the elderberry. It all went in the delivery boy’s tricycle who knew how to ask for the door where he was well known. Not only was he not disappointed with the tip, but he could almost drool at the girls’ legs on the stairs when we crossed.
Camille brought a family-sized box of Sadaharu Aoki’s confectionery, Rambling Rose made no fuss showing herself wholly, as she was so incentivised by all the village to take pride in what she had resented before as defiling or awkward. Not letting her get dressed again, Camille kept her clenched to hear her legend, marvelling at her smooth skin over the elaborate black lines, she praised the unguent Rose used.
But I needed her to hear a harsher story, and thus I enlaced Adèle who hardly grasped what I would retell once more, pointing analogies to the past situations of Fanny and Dagmar as for their legal establishment in France. Fanny spoke broken Italian and wasn’t insensitive to Adèle’s polite smile, the same she had herself turned to Kate in the Venice little store, and had eventually brought her to us, distraught and hunted. She asked her if wanted to stay and thrive here, beyond turning tricks that wouldn’t be enough to make her a bona fide citizen. She explained how she, an abused foundling out of the Balkan wars, had been enrolled at school to speed-learn French and then Art History and aesthetics, just as Camille had done long ago, and Natalia.
She also put forth the long-haul soul-searching with Dr Méant, unwilling to manage two similar cases in the same extended family of sorts, might consider addressing her to some reliable colleague, though experience showed it wasn’t an easy quest in Paris, she might find a method to scour through all the crooked roots of her soul and prune the hampering morbid ones, then set them in the new order, easier said than done, agreed most of the suave assembly. Hugo knew all varieties of psychopomp professionals in less than a two-minute walking radius.
The pies took a turn in the oven according to Agnete’s advice, no one scorned any, nor the puff nibbles. We also had different sauces to pour on, Adèle wondered if we ever did some actual cooking. Fanny said neither did they.
Camille longed to pull away that breathing picture at her side, probably nodding a blessing to a mad lord RIP, in the least to a needlemongering virtuoso. She summoned all of us to her quarters, to the cheers of her current boarders, and I knew she would bring precious support to our damsels in distress.

Kate had disrobed Dagmar before dessert, and both cooed happily despite regretting the absence of the proper herd stags. Natalia gloated in echo and fetched her telephone to call well-known names to the vote, then send them unequivocal messages. I wouldn’t tell what Taras Bulba and his band of pleasant stooges had been at, but they dismounted at once to come and pip Fulgence —who had been watching Bambi on Youtube with Erik— at the post. First, all the plates were cleaned, coffee and tea were brewed, and Camille’s present was put on display.
But all the talk was about a drawing by this unknown Thai artist whose name must be dissimulated in some abugida among the rootlets above Rambling Rose’s labia. She said he might as well have been Japanese. She purred to the as-of-yet moral caresses of this keen scrum of fresh Cologne-smelling hunks. Camille played promoter, and Rose liked that.
One slanky new Zaporozhian nerd remained standing behind a sofa, and his sun-bleached strand across his face appealed to me, as he reminded me of one we shared unabashedly, Ayla and me, in the steamy cellars. Memories whipped up my rump and, as he looked at the tea I was pouring, I nodded candidly so he took the seat at my left. His name was Stephen, he was Irish from Cork University College and a junior Conference Interpreter with European institutions. He wore outdated baggy jeans and a loose white cotton shirt. After I served him tea he wanted explanations for, I did not waste much time reaching for his fly, showing by my stare that I knew what I was doing.
While I explained the miracle of some Taiwan teas, altogether more suited for evening, he returned the gentle fondlings all the more easily that I had dropped my pants. He asked if we had met before, as I was pressing his noticeably noncomplying Irish penis, for size, as go the sayings. Over there, Sergei had nuzzled his way up to the mound of Rose’s and was licking like a greedy wolf while she was still hugged in Camille’s embrace. Fanny revelled in Erik’s muscular handling of her honey-hued limbs while she nibbled at his balls.
To Kate’s relief, Sergei had also rung up three of our old school buddies we had hardly seen since the time of our orgiastic vernissage, and she seemed fit for taking on the three of them, had she been alone. In the weirdest moments at her paramour Victor’s parties in his insanely artsy venues, we would say that women were all the better in debauchery if outnumbered. She had been such a foolhardy creature of grace.
So then she confiscated two Armenian brothers and led them to our bed, and I reckoned I should make my own move if I did not want to shag upon a mere dining chair, thus I took my crush away to the studio where he beamed a grin watching me unroll the futon, his jeans on his arm. I may brag, but he was so truly desirable that I pumped him dry in a furious swig and then let him return the favour wherever he would prefer, but for a while, he relished ogling me all spread, mumbling in whatever otherworldly parlance. He too, made me gush in no time, crooking two fingers into my coochie. Out of the blue, I asked him if he had already been to Philippe’s, only to know if he had complied with the screening, and thus could mingle further with my bodily humours; he frankly laughed and fetched his wallet to show me his card, where was mine? Downstairs. I duly did penance, sneaking on tiptoes to the counter where my wallet was. It seemed everyone was getting humped, and Camille tasted the Cossack jolt; Rambling Rose being gently shared nearby on the sofa. I returned to my walking playboy, with proof of my innocuousness. He rubbed my ribs, protesting he had believed me: he asked if I had checked my number on the web. He opened my laptop and searched for his number on Google, which led to a black screen and a query for a personal code, and thus to a mere blinking green psychedelic light and his full name, Stephen Leopold Fuddlesome, then he clapped the machine, already too famish of my womb. I handed him the bottle of Swiss Navy.
Early in the morning, to Alfred’s great dismay, I was pulled out of a conference with the swarm of crimson birds over the garden of Tycho Brahe on Ven, in the Øresund by stubborn humps to my frenzied womb, one split second before I responded willingly to the Irish green eyed wanderer. He was so beguiled by my smiling yawn that he let go of an irrepressible gush in unison with mine, just like we had reached a perfect gameplay at no effort at all. Under the shower, I retold him where he had fished me out from. While rubbing me dry, he assured me he was interested in my dream, and he asked permission to record me telling while we drank the morning Darjeeling tea, under Alfred’s perfect sarcasm. He used my computer, saving the file on his cloud, thus I spared him nought of my long-time tribulations with frozen angels and the murders of crimson crows. He eventually avowed being a writer.

 

Kate says:

I woke up between Dagmar and Natalia, it was a fresh summer morning after a stormy night. No one was in sight in the living room, and the wonder maid had cleared our petty damages, what would she know of our unmentionable shenanigans? I made tea, although I would have preferred it be brewed by a Danish angel. She had reappeared sneakily on tiptoes to fetch whatever and return to wherever. I understood she would have slept in the studio, Michelle’s futon had recently reappeared.
Natalia and Dagmar had played in the shower, they were scented of our traditional Geranium-Orange, Dagmar came sway her hips to my face, how could an angel show a navel? Right away, she claimed to love the new ones. She said Camille had snatched Rambling Rose away with her, and Fanny was in bed with Adèle in Fayelle’s old room. Natalia had been gently playing footsie with me, she said she would help Fanny manage some kind of cursus for the young ones, from what I understood she would introduce them to influent Dons, a path Camille and Liselotte had taught her at a profit. Dagmar too, had learned French that way, and now she held some esoteric position with TRÆVIX; would that mean keeping Michelle’s feet warm at fatidic moments.
They had a lunch appointment at the Baltimore, and I guessed it wouldn’t be talking equities; Natalia made for such a splendid hireling, and Dagmar figured the perfect sister, at that; they offered a most expensive pair, by Jove!
I did not dress, and I climbed up to the studio, discreetly so as not to wake her, if ever. There was this funny scene where the young slinky lad with a sun-bleached strand across his face sat nude in Sarah’s chair while she pranced, also nude, about the creased futon, rapping on her familiar Slumberland universe while he seemed to record her in her computer —is there a copyright on dreams?
It smelled like together they had ignited the whole night, and I thought nobody other than me had ever heard the whole tale of the verdigris pinnacles of Denmark and the murder of crimson crows, I retired before she summon the Tudor angels. I had a hunch he could not avoid also sleeping with me, so entwined our souls are.
Now Hugo texted he would love to see me in the afternoon, indeed I wished to update him on my circumstances, Camille and him had often been sole navigators onboard my drifting barque, and I entrusted my shaky soul to him. I wanted to surprise him by climbing down in the raw, a reminiscence of our early days on both sides of a camera, before my Berlin wreckage and Sarah’s call for rescue. He knew what flimsy relations I had had with my father, I enticed him to fondle me, telling him how I had misbehaved most of the night, during that gentle gathering we had set to figure out our foundlings’ future. He said he had met them both privately and they should honour our symphonic bouquet, and then he pulled me to the shadows of the silver-black bedroom.
Complying with Hugo’s long-acquainted wants, beyond the pleasure honed with years of trustful lovemaking, diffusely brought some closure to the days I had gone through, following Simon into notary offices and the board room overlooking the Elbe, signing all he told me to, before eventually, we met in that empty apartment in the moonlight, as frenzied as we had ever been in our endless realm on Sylt. He had announced he would soon marry, as a means to reconcile with his scattered body; his wife only knew the official version of the accident, in which I was totally exonerated. He said he doubted he would once dare tell her about us two, but I remained free to behave my own way at the cottage, with whom I liked.
At dinner time, Cecile, Adèle, Sarah and I ordered fried zucchini blossoms with a side of mustard sauce, grilled tofu and mushroom salad, and a perfect fruit mix with bananas. I knew Adèle was far from what she looked like, a quiet little lamb. Her skin was uncomparably smooth, and she let me graze her nascent breasts. We all bragged about the homages we garnered on the night before, so much so that Cecile floated the idea that we go sell our hides at Speck’s. I disregarded that Lauritz’s address book was probably filled with my father’s classmates, but at worse they had seen me at the funerals in one of my brother’s suits, overshadowed by one of my father’s hats.
We all dressed like floozies. Sarah put on a vintage round-tail white cotton shirt and a small black moleskin vest, nude legs and patent leather thin-strapped sandals. Adèle wore a dawn-mauve layered chiffon gathered dress that let all be seen with two-strapped white suede sandals. Cecile pulled a stern-cut black Duchess satin skirt suit, open and slit on nothing, with patent-leather flat loafers. Sarah fetched one of her cadet tailcoats, black with gilt buttons, and white spandex shorts she said she might pull off if the mood was up; she wore perverted black knee-high true cavalier boots. I put on a gold-pinstriped white serge double-breasted jacket, with padded shoulders and sharp white satin lapels, lined in silver satin; and white patent ankle-strapped boots.

It couldn’t have been a long ride, I was seated next to the chauffeur, and he couldn’t keep his eyes on the street. Sarah told me I had been supremely skilful not showing all. It was still early, no wonder that, once he checked our credentials, the head butler would pick his reward among us, and no wonder either he took Adèle by the hand towards the velvet curtain at the far end of the corridor. We climbed the first flight of stairs and entered the grand salon, like Lysistrata in Aubrey Beardsley’s boudoir. Soon enough, Adèle ran up, unfazed in her twirling frills. She told Sarah it had been only a courteous antipasto, as she could taste. There was refreshing kombucha available on the buffet.
Lauritz’s new kittens weren’t yet onstage, or else they were at work upstairs. Again, Adèle was solicited and warned that she spoke Italian, which made an elegant patron walk up and speak her language, to the dismay of the prime bidder, but we weren’t there to police the customers, who quieted anyhow, and she went with the Cavaliere for a while. The shunned client took a sudden taste in Cecile’s boots and did not need to talk to take her hand.
Came the quick-witted Dorothy in a mere sapphire blue lace caraco, the epitome of a late-night working girl and she read my eyes to offer me a kiss and slide a hand to my warm quim, so I hitched up her laceworks over a pale bum. That scene aroused more than one John, and I was pushed by the waist towards the lift by a Cuir de Russie who already rummaged in my neck and my lower belly as the lift slowly went up.
That room smelled of colonies times, camphor wood and polished lacquer, opium, lotus. In a flap of wings, I was all nude with a prim silver-templed corporate head who tricked me with a few questions where he skidded to German, and I answered thus, blushing as if it were more shameful to whore in my father’s tongue. He might not have done it on purpose, being a party pal of Lauritz’s, he must have felt kind of Heimelig.
There was enough space around a black quilted satin bed and two low flat-rest armchairs to make me sway around like an expensive slut. The carved wood panels depicted wall-sized exotic dancers of red gold against black polished lacquer, like in some opium-era Shanghai brothel. Spot lamps were affixed to the shiny caput mortuum ceiling casting sheens on my moving body. Like to a beast, he ordered that I come near and untie his trousers while he threw his jacket and tie upon a backrest.
He sure was well-hung, straight and sturdy, and a pearl of clear jizz dripped from the eye of his glans, thus I showed him what I had trained at since kindergarten, taking authority to push him back on the bed. In retaliation for his arrogance, I sucked him clean in one go, not enough to make him falter, though. He wasn’t repelled that I breathed of his male scent, he granted me a flow of admittedly inventive slur and ordered me to stand like a dog at the bed’s edge, on my parted thighs. He found a tube of lotus-scented lubricant to prepare me like a daring gentleman —I wouldn’t have soaked myself enough, in his unsettling Volksmund mind stance, but eventually, that was what I had sought around here, a frank beastly shag. Nonetheless, he bestowed me with some carnal pride handling my spine and butt with appreciative comments before sheathing me easily to the tip of my womb and humping in so fiercely that I let gush with throaty cries that earned me some arousing butt slaps. He wasn’t ready yet for his second blow, he pressed on my rump to make me arch and offer the rosy corolla of my lesser slit already eased and greased at all avail. He was a careful bugger, a dignified peer of our usual riders, and he soon tickled my stretched ring with Bismark’s moustache, then pumping like a Krupp steam engine. I squirted in elation again and again, before I sensed his warm jizz gush in deep. We were spent, and collapsed on the side; I did not shy about letting him see how fulfilled I was, like it were what he had paid for, and I did not know his little name.
The ensuite bathroom was clad to the ceiling with greenish-flamed tiles where a wide rain shower had been installed behind a glass pane —Sarah had explained to me once that brothel patrons should not waste time in a tub— where I saw him whole and he explained he had been a champion swimmer in the wattenmeer, but now he swam in Berlin lakes. Eventually, he dropped he was called Bernhardt, I told him I had harsh memories of Berlin.

Duly rinsed off any carnal traces, I walked back proudly into the salon feeling a tad peckish, so I gulped a few of those banana-cherry-chocolate bites along with a glass of vanilla milkshake —the next contender would find me a childish mouth. Coline stood there in a simple blue-striped shirt merely buttoned; she would have needed an afternoon in the sun rays or a dash of blush, but it seemed she had herself shadowed her eyes with dark blue, not to look too infantile. A sinewy type in a bespoke black dinner jacket stealthily burrowed a finger into her buttocks crack before I would start figuring myself out as the john.

I found the manner a tad gross, even with a young harlot, but she looked back and called him his name before they ran. Some clients can’t help falling for pretty boarders. Two or three unknown girls in suggestive attire advertised the high taste of the house, letting go in lewd attitudes over older patrons’ laps.
As I dawdled back to the main stage, my tummy once comforted, one of those short fidgety young half-bald conquerors in a bespoke silky no-collar suit, slid a tentative finger under my lapel, lauding my nudity amidst rich bulls. He spoke with some Mittel-European accent, he smelled of cedar wood and muttered his impatience. I followed him to another bedchamber on the second floor.
It was a viridian lampas total decor with a curtained posted bed, Anglo-Persian crimson and flowers-strewn carpeting and white gold leaf ceiling. A small desk covered with a jade-green silk prayer rug, just only convenient to push me onto it, letting my head dangle so as to make me gulp a long shaft while he stroke my unassuming but sensitive tits. The desktop was just long enough for me to rest my feet and open my drawn-back legs.
He had disrobed entirely, proud of a well-strained abdominal belt and a forward-tense penis. He was a sharpshooter, all his first jizz offload went straight through my back throat while he eructed gibberish in a high-pitched tenor tone. He was gallant altogether, he offered me a drink when all was gulped in, and there was tonic in a small icebox. He kneaded me all over in search of the absent body fat, but I knew my worth. He seized my wrists in the back, and I knew what was to come, he pressed me face down upon the soft pile and found my bunghole obedient to a three fingers anointment. With seemingly Swabian language comments, he rubbed his glans against my rosebud to niggle in further and further, and he was skilled at the game, thus I responded by wriggling my bum the way he liked it all the way to the tickling muff. I certainly soiled the precious rug, but then it was none of my concerns, I climaxed carelessly like a boundless brook as he gushed with tremours, deep in my entrails.
He cuddled me in the scented creases of the shadowy bed, and I must have dozed out, for I woke all sticky and smelly. I ran to the black marble and silver bathroom; on the stained desk was a small bundle of cash, with a card engraved W. D. I took the card and left the money under my glass for whoever would have to clean my mess, and that made me feel righteous; I had seen these workladies in black sportswear and sneakers.
Having rinsed my bareness in details, I strutted back as well as I could in the salon, where Sarah stood in a recess naked, hugging Carine who showed appealing rounded buttocks but looked moody. A client had been rough with her, too glad he could take advantage of her unseasoned youth. That wasn’t game, for a clubman. They could indulge in plenty of lewd manners with sluts like us, but hurting a newbie who showed me her swollen cheek, would have consequences in all the network. A waiter brought a pouch of ice, and he looked moved, though altogether aroused by Carine sitting with the pouch on her cheek, bare naked.
And so the spell was broken for the night, we called the maitre d. to lend us his office to wait for the other girls while they officiated. Sarah had texted Lauritz a furious report of what Carine had endured. There wasn’t excess commotion, we fetched our threads and snuck to the lift, asking a waiter to tell Cecile and Adèle on the one hand, and Coline and Dorothy, on the other hand, where we were, at their next intermission.
Howbeit, as the situation was taking place in a house of loose pleasure, and thus it wasn’t so inappropriate to see Udo Wenzell’s hand grazing Carine’s tapered thighs rather than helping her dress. We all had allowed him liberties as some extended droit de seigneur, like all key-holders exert a way or another. Anyhow, she was terrorised, thus Sarah did something utterly debauched, she took out Udo’s stiff candy stick to defuse the tension, telling the man after she forced him to gush that he would be granted many other occasions to use Carine in all ways. The doe-eyed little harlot saw the mayhem wane, and the rest of the light brigade rejoined them one by one, and then Lauritz, who had something of a sit-down strike on his hands.
Udo took our defence but now was time for bigwig customers out of theatres, and they had been teased in earlier messages, thus it would be unwelcomed to ask them to go elsewhere. Cecile was Lauritz’s trusted confidante, she designed a goodwill arrangement in which Carine would go home with either of her friends, while the bulk of us would greet the genteel guests a while longer. Lauritz promised he would report the boor with the higher Ways And Means commission, asking for no less than a three-month suspension, in addition to a perpetual bar from Speck’s.
To all of us, Carine’s mishap was of an unheard kind among the milieu we mingled with. Thus we returned to the pond out of which we would be fished, like frogs.

 

Sarah says:

It had happened twice, in the Tudor days, chimney swifts became lured to our windows and knocked themselves out on the terrace, motionless. My nanny had taught me to bear them upon a clean kerchief and try to give them water from a spoon. When I had come back from school, the kerchief was empty, and I felt a pang, but my Far explained that birds are not meant to stay with us, were they touching with their witty eyes, furthermore now all the swifts that I would see foraging around at dusk would possibly be twitting hello to me in memory of what I had given them. Swifts have disappeared from our deadly cities, only pigeons survive, like rats and crimson crows.
We had saved Lauritz’s pride before an areopagus of well-heeled amateurs with fine manners. I caught the eye of a light-ginger Van Dyck with long slender hands and something of a morphine habit —although I couldn’t detect any injection spot on his transparent skin along the visible veins. So long as he did not entice me into his damnation, he could toy with me as he did for a splendorous price.
In that room upholstered entirely of carnelian silk damask, after he had hugged me like a buoy in the low-dimmed lights, he had asked that I help him unclothe. He owned that his erection was whimsical, but I should not worry, he could behave as the perfect lesbian only to watch me climax. He smelled of Florentine September, cypress and iris in a cloud of ambergris, like one time-forsaken Bright Young Thing on the Grand Tour.
The hips-high terracotta cotton piqué bed would have offered some convenient support to being shagged in whatever way —I kept that in mind for later; it was room 29— but he hauled himself across and asked me to lie spread and come pull my tongue to his face and let him lick, fiddle with my pretty quim and gush, thinking of the laundry cellar’s foals —from my masturbatory repertoire— so Alastair had a hunch and bought me to tell, with more and more details, my debauched sex life in Paradise, as he fiddled his capricious tool. Eventually, he ordered me to suck him, and I did, with all diligence, regardless of his indecisive pulse, to a meagre end that nonetheless sounded like death throes of him. He fuddled asking for his pillbox in his jacket, and soon I grasped it wasn’t so as to quiet any faintness, but all the opposite to worsen the crisis I had procured him.
He coughed some manner of excuse and thanked me as one of the best girls he had ever hired. Speaking like an antiquarian —Lauritz later told me he was a renowned Renaissance expert— he detailed my all-disposed person like he would a sculpture, and I took poses. He said that had he met me in the laundry cellar he would have buggered me and again.
He followed me into the golden-rose marble bathroom, where he begged me to piss upon him seated on the bowl, and then we lathered up one another in the shower. He left a notable tip for the maid. I would flag him as a commendable gentleman, with certain mannerisms of his own. I passed in the cloakroom to perfume my sweetest nooks and weaved in to the stage in my fluttering shirt.
I was told Kate and Cecile had just found some company, which left me available once more at least, Adèle was in all likelihood experimenting on the vanity of spoken words in a trade she knew best, didn’t she? The waiter I let grope me to keep him talking told me she had never rested docked for long, and then he asked I go wait for him in the toilets near the lift.
A trio of gala-vested gentlemen without a speckle of dirt on their patent leather shoes held congress in some Finno-Hugric parlance, circling me and lifting my shirt, becoming overexcited at my attitude. Eventually, one of them asked me in German if I were slut enough for three, they took one key and chivvied me into the lift car. They smelled of Lexington chic with a dash of Jo Malone London, I let myself be done.
I wouldn’t remember having been worshipped before in this room, with a large gilded bronze statue of dancing Goddess Kali overlooking a square black satin bed —I would have loved to see her in our home day life. The gleaming oxblood brocade repeated the flammêche motive as if they were set in motion by the many hands of the dancer, under a bronze tiles ceiling where hung another one of these glassed wrought iron lighting fixtures, figuring thunder skies with purple bolts out of golden clouds, casting mystic rays of light around the room.
They had casually disrobed like clubmen before a squash game, boasting their stiffened cocks in a manner that hinted it wasn’t their first trio by long and they would rip me open like a piñata. They raved to no end while triturating my body like a meat-tenderiser, however not so brutally. They drank my mouth off, not nosing out the young waiter’s odour —he had served me a spicy ginger drink afterwards.
They made me wallow across the bed on my own, and I fantasised that Lauritz’s cameras would capture my lewdest moves. One of the players was gifted at massaging feet.

Another stubby one, dark-haired all over, crouched down to make me taste his impatient drippings and let me mould my mouth onto his harsh root for the nth time of the day, I be damned. The others pulled one of my legs high, so as to access the rillet they were thirsty for, both sides. It went smoothly thus, and I took no more care of what I would gush than he warned me of what he spurted in my throat, calling me in his gibberish while holding my head firm. No wonder he was at once replaced at a game that had gone so infallibly to success, thank whom? Only time to gulp and a thankfully leaner Peter headed seemingly a notch further down my throat with an implacable drill move, and he was straddling the limit beyond which I would belch up ungraciously. A tap of my hand on his made him hold back a bit while his want spurted with due arrogance. They burst into bortsch laughter as I expected the third bitter purge of an impenitent slut, but that one was busy buttering up my lesser hatch like a steam engine piston, and then bustling inside with one of my best friends.
That wouldn’t do enough, he rolled over and made me spread eagle, hand kneading these ticklish perineal adductors, from under. The smaller thick one had recovered enough to come in upfront, and he preferred to help Mother Nature with slidy salve, thus I felt instantly filled at no strain. When my back rider cried release, I was capsized again to offer my gaping ring for free.
Once they had wisened up their inner beasts, and though they seemed to revel in the carnal mess they had made of me, they discussed, still manipulating my overworked remains, and eventually carried me to the maroon and gold mosaic bathroom where they all three pissed upon me like haywire scallywags —had this ever happened in the Jutland dunes? After that, we washed away all the stench and looked at each other frankly only I had not much to cover myself back.
My buddies in vice had been waiting for me, only conceding foraging hands to their parted thighs, for free. We fled like a flock of sparrows when Udo called to say a car was there for us. He granted us a keen bye look. Lauritz must have ended in bed with a spent Dorothy. The driver knew full well what we were, but no one sat at his side for the short ride.
Cecile had a message telling her that Charlotte was in her bed. The other three of us cuddled up with Adèle, yawning but altogether gratified with her encounters; unassumingly, she had the skills not to let herself be pillaged and raped, so long as she would not end trapped in with a loaded boor like the one who had hurt Carine. She had served three johns, under Udo’s electronic eye for a double reason, and she would be particularly greeted next time she would feel like going. Alfred would soon take moral power upon his patch, Adèle turned her buttocks on me, and Kate showed that quiet smile as in the times.
In the morning, Charlotte dawdled somewhat idly waiting for me to brew tea in the big Yi Xing pumpkin. I was yet too dizzy to bake toasts. She said that Liselotte had sent her to a prosperous soul-tweakster for the rich, Dr Jacoby, two streets from us. She had been greeted by a muscular black woman in a black slim-fit training suit and sneakers, knowingly courteous, who ushered her through a maze of untidy rooms she joshed pleasantly she wasn’t allowed to touch.
The Doctor waited in a bistre long gathered smock and a black bowl hat. A lorgnette hung at his neck. She knew at once that he wore not much under the plastician smock. He agitated long slender hands with randomly changing ostentatious rings, he wore thin patent skin bottines. He asked her how much the den mother had afforded her and nodded, leaving her ditched as a mooring pole on a rich Persian garden rug.
The room was a low beamed ceiling with odd knickknacks dangling here and there though she could tell one or two real jewels all the same. Books were piled, stacked, and tucked aside with notes poking out. He was slouched upon a medieval armchair, fiddling whimsically with the lorgnette.
Under Liselotte’s instructions, she had been wearing a long Tana Lawn night-purplish gathered dress strewn of tiny flowers, with short sleeves and buttoned front. She had slid on black ribbed over-the-knee stockings with lace rims, she wore round-toed black flat Maryjanes. No underwear.
Having been raised on a butcher’s unabashed incestuous whims, it would take a lot more deviant fancies than what she had seen coming to unsettle her. He asked her to undo her dress’ buttons one by one, so she did from the bottom, and then she played like unwillingly with the dress tails hide-and-seek on her nudity, in case the fickle warlock would indulge such tastes as country brutes, and as in a matter of dick, she sussed he would. But he yelled she moved too much, the dress should fall slowly from the shoulders and then unveil her timely, he had paid dearly for the whole night, would she behave like a mere streetwalker?

Little did the fanciful Doctor know what he was calling for, the butcher’s daughters know what raw meat is like, and the brain fiddler was served, offhandedly, as she recalled. He probably had been under the influence of a more potent substance than the herds of gendarmes her father had entertained, thus when she unleashed all the vice she had been raised for, his paradoxical dilections were looking up at her quim from the splattered rug while she pissed in his mouth.
She gloated like a thoroughbred strumpet overjoyed with her cunning, she had left the conceited snake oil mentalist quivering in his sheets. She dreaded Liselotte’s damage report from her client, though, and it struck sooner than she had expected. Jacoby had had what he called a seminal dream after she had left, and he was now writing about it in a novel structural form. He wanted to have her every possible Tuesday, or any other day, weekly. Liselotte added he was a wealthy bastard, and from what she heard, she complimented Charlotte on her skills. We laughed our heads off.
Now it would be delivery day at Adèle’s, Gauthier had warned that workmen would need space to carry out their magic, in other words, she wasn’t needed for the day.
At the same level that we dwelled, with a trick to pass through the lift car, Hugo had promised there would be an apartment for Charlotte, he had announced that decision in the scent of Corfou’s Hesperides garden, and Cecile had promised to oversee the finishing. For the time being, she shared Cecile’s neighbourhood with Rose, in the vacant Fayelle’s room, among places.
Since the lugubrious pilgrimage to Hamburg, Kate had gone through understandable wafts of spleen. She had been bustled between fits of bygone déjà-vu, flash-backs of drug-induced hyper-consciousness, and —like the sandbanks in the coastal tides— unsettled spans of familiar strangeness that she associated with the forgotten conversation with Dr Schubert who was now dead.
After she sulked for some time on her cooling cup, and untimely sighs I read too well, I suggested it was time to climb up to the studio, where the routines of her graphic loiterings would reset her soul. I was musing about the idea of another jaunt to New York, as shambolic and off-the-wall as my farewell to the Tudor Angels, of haywire memory. Julia Grant, our natural school captain in Saint Loup, repeatedly invited us to her new apartment on fifth avenue. We had so noisily showered our girls with our Newyorkese exploits that Natalia, when she stayed in Camille’s prestigious penthouse, had come back not amused. She could have a drooling pack of hunky American lawyers with no qualms next door, at SEVENSTREAMS. Julia might have shown her some funky byways and a famous pair of twins.
Summer had furthered the heat, Charlotte convinced Adèle to follow her to the pool, I slid on an ultramarine silk jersey tank top and black lycra shorts, Kate a sage green short-sleeves liberty shirt and white cotton shorts. We climbed up to the studio like in the times, letting the idea of a New York spree niggle in the back of our minds.
I brewed a big pot of black Taiwan oolong, and switched on Soma FM in the ambient realm. She busied herself with menial routines, in such moments she found solace in sharpening her pencils, while she could not yet focus on the white of paper. Now then, she was so deeply disorientated that I could not pretend to set my course on my side of the desk, thus I decided to paint her toenails anew, just in case we went again whoring ourselves somewhere unknown. We chose iridescent malachite green, I needed to do the hands, too, and we ended up on the carpet.
We called Liselotte, offhandedly, an hour or so later, and shared good humour about Charlotte’s performance, and she said she had not paid attention to the girls’ origin, all she had grasped was their seduction, and the sassy manner Charlotte had hustled Cecile and the garden shop to hop into their car; Liselotte said she had cornered Charlotte in one of the parc’s gazebos and she had found that she was truly worth of our company, if that was what she craved. She had also cast an eye on the younger sister, of course, and now she would manoeuvre to bring her somewhere cosy and make her tell their story if I would assert in some way that Liselotte was trustworthy.
She kept the line with a tone of voice I knew altogether, and precisely why I had called. She went on, suggesting I, or we, could pocket an honest fortune in pleasing someone she knew at the core of the city, what was once called “The Boulevard Of Crime”, so many were the theatres in which were treaded the darkest intrigues with the most horrific means. Her friend had inherited a chunk of this most popular neighbourhood —as can be seen on the oldest photographic print in the world— and still owned, nowadays, a small venue for his private delectation, which had probably been part of a luxurious brothel that had been torn down at the end of the 1800s, after the horrendous slaughtering of the owner and most of his family in an upstairs apartment. The murderer had never been caught, the scene had been appalling, with real flesh and blood. Only one of the heirs happened to have been in Spain, it took him two years to have the scene cleaned. Isidore was born in 1990, the sole heir of an opulent fortune; his parents had left him, among a pervasively built heritage in Paris’ affluent districts, this bizarre construction, now encased amidst ordinary tenements, under baroque glazed roofs. His father Aristide Pointarien had spent lavishly on the restoration of this small theatre he liked to compare with that of Queen Marie-Antoinette at Trianon, in that it is entirely built of wood, stucco, and papier-maché, like all other comparable premises along the boulevard. It comprises sixty seats between the parterre and the stalls, plus hidden private hidy holes above the cornice. Chances are it was used —like Trianon’s by the way— for private immoral performances.

It was a long prologue, thus Kate also followed with amusement. The narrative reached an apex when she said that Isidore, a bright young thing, crashed himself riding a motorcycle and was left a paraplegic in a wheelchair for life. He had long been a hellbent whoremonger, and so he could not accept his sexual handicap because his brain was still as famish of vice. He spent gazillions with American research hospitals which obtained a ghost of erection in patching the spinal cord with stem cells until he gave up because of the pain and the side effects of the painkillers.
Simultaneously with the butchering of his loins, he had met in Los Angeles a sexual coach who, at a cost, had taught him esoteric manners of sexual satisfaction with consenting (i.e. expensive) escorts, and brought him back to some sort of creative life he esteemed he deserved and could afford.
Liselotte had submitted in person to some of the diverse improvisations Isidore organised in the family theatre, onstage or otherwise. He had acquired some reputation among the rich-smelling nightbirds, and the most finicky of investigations had never proved any disloyal or criminal attitude toward what went on in the fantastical realm, haunted by the original unexplained massacre and now leisurely mastered by a rakehell on wheels.
Kate had time to clean and paint my nails in iridescent night blue, and we had time to mull over a theatrical vesture. Gianni had recently made a spectacular double-breasted, padded shoulders harlequin blazer, mounted up with contrasted coloured pieces of crisp silk taffeta —like a Vorticist manifesto inhabited by a Burne-Jones nude— and golden sandals would do. I would pair with her as a shadow, donning a black wool crepe tuxedo with a shawl grosgrain collar, one side over-embroidered with black scrollwork like a Spanish Hearse. I wore flat black suede slippers with jet roses. We would cover our modesty with those unearthly iridescent TPU trench coats, at least until we reach the theatre foyer, though not to run unnoticed, anyhow.
Liselotte wouldn’t send us to an unsavoury ambush, would she? It wasn’t your average romp, and she had not given physical practicalities, but the curiosity of a preserved antique folly of the bygone bedevilled times when money was spent unabashedly for private exceptions without the frame of social fiscality —our predecessors in debauchery chucking their lives to the wolves’ pit.
We called a car, and it took some thirty minutes with a nice Maghrebi man who could have busied a dentist for his own sake, he could not perceive we went bare naked in the multicolour sheens.
Bang in the middle of a nondescript tenement building stood an anonymous two-storey high Mars-violet lacquered carriage door, and a video entryphone with a simple keyboard where I punched the number Liselotte had said. A croaky voice asked us first to step back one stride, and then come and push the smaller pedestrian door, one was wary.
We found ourselves in a dark oak-panelled hall paved with end-grain timber. It led to a second dark oak double door, with another pedestrian entry held open by some black comedy lackey wearing a white wig, a red and blue livery, white breeches and stockings, and black patent opera pumps with square silver buckles. He ushered us into a bright-lit foyer in the manner of a peristyle encircled by a dozen gilded columns figuring twirls of swimming undines emerging progressively out of the water whirls like would the Fontainebleau caryatides freed along the cornices. The presentation was altogether gracious, and the attitudes knowledgeably erotic. None of the conventional prudish artifices masked the painstakingly rendered details of the feminine anatomies, no waterweeds nor inopportune errant kerchiefs the centuries-old war on nudity has imposed on our greedy eyes. On the wall behind the massive columns was painted a hazy Arcadia where nymphs and fauns coupled afar in total ignorance of an original sin whatsoever. Bunches of clear-coloured crystal bathed the whole scene in a euphoric gleam. Above all the scene, skies of golden green volutes, like the bedlam of an opium den, made my brains unfurl in mid-aquatic streams, if ever Alphonse Mucha saw any such thing.

After we gave the charming usher our dragonfly chrysalis coats, he reckoned there wouldn’t be much more to peel. Moreover, he seemed to find the random game of our exposure to his connoisseur taste.
Then he pulled open the second big door, carved and gilded on its outer side with a farandole of nude wanderers and musicians. An actual organ began to distort time with savant melodies of Satie’s carefully transcribed, as a savoury perversion of church music.
A thick maroon carpeted alley between rows of old-rose velvet upholstered armchairs led our steps once our shoes were confiscated.
A black-chrome motorised wheelchair pivoted towards us, revealing a richly curled blond being, seated in a Royal Blue velvet robe with quilted satin shawl lapels and golden Brandenburgs who introduced himself as Isidore Pontderien and invited us to sit next to him and tell of our lives, though he mentioned that Liselotte had already pitched the bulk of it.
He fiddled with a luxurious riding switch, and used it to pull apart our lapels and tease our nipples and the rest. He made me rest one foot on the seat and show him my jewellery. He was only offhanded, he summarised briefly the aftermaths of a greasy road and the umpteen surgical attempts that had left him with partial control of his intimate functions, and a fierce addiction to painkillers.
But nevertheless, his soul had never abdicated the passion for sex that had driven his life since forever. He said he had scoured the brothels, everywhere they exist, to peep on every manner of nuptial parades human beings inflict or indulge together. One day, a notary had come up with an alert about the roof of this place, that he owned without caring.
After what Liselotte has said of you, I bet you have been stunned by the utter quality of the workmanship and the subtlety of inspiration. In times when Europe was feverishly adorned with idiotic allégories girded in mandatory diapers, the word had run in expatriate Italian circles of what they came to call “Il Ponte de Niente” where the most talented brought their young models they also would prostitute to wealthy clubmen when their posing was ended. The clientele of the Opera foyer, renowned purveyor of slender anatomies and docile characters raised under the discipline stick, would not shun these ignorant little contadini who lived their days au naturel amidst the worksite and they could rent for a ride in their curtained carriages. There even existed a word-of-mouth ring to foretell HRH the Prince Of Wales when new ones awaited deflowering.
Isidore had probably stood above average before he had been whacked, and he still sported a resplendent mane à la Led Zeppelin. He showed us with a twirl of the switch to let our jackets go, and near. His gaze was lively, he grabbed my nape gently while he uncovered a proud dick, muttering that fate had left him the tool, if not the handle to play with it, and he asked me for a mouth favour, after a minty kiss.
Beyond an ornate border of footlights, a proper stage slanted upwards to the backdrop paintings depicting a marine cave, the centre stage setting off to a giant oyster, its rim dripping of glitter and pearls —He asked Kate to take her turn sucking, bantering he would be a long way till he spurt, but he loved getting acquainted with his actresses. He said we should go lie on the pink satin tongue-shaped cushions and play together inside the closed shell, behind the stage curtain, while the spectators, who had been kept amused in a private foyer, would come and sit to watch us do our part till we swooned —to thay, Liselotte had vaunted our boundless talent.
We followed the costumed gopher —who could hardly deny the effect our rounded bums had inside his breeches— to the giant oyster that smoothly snarfed us up while it closed. It wasn’t a fool device, it comprised enough concealed vents for us to breathe, and listen to the stage silence in the eerie overture of the organ music. Kate and I joked that it wasn’t much of a theatrical intrigue so far In her neck, I invented a fragrance of coumarin and almond, where Isidore had licked her.
Only some shivering sheen shone upon us when the lid raised insensibly, at the sound of Debussy’s Arabesque played on a glass organ, before the pitch-dark space in which sparse glimmers flew from jewellery. We earned a round of applause when a voice from under told us to loosen our act and open our legs —at the game of exhibition, we sure were no debutantes— so we dedicated to our audience some real climaxes, before the giant mollusc tossed our lewd wrecks on a carpet of velvet corals and burrowed itself out of sight.
From the fly loft, prop boys swung long banderoles figuring out the maritime depth, and coral bushes cropped up, as fantastic creatures styled from Ernst Haeckel’s drawings with aquamarine-blue open-crotch dance tights gambolled gracefully around us. The convenient mossy rocky shapes offered a proper stand for our rumps.
There’s nothing more fulfilling than a hellbent assault from a trained dancer, whichever slit he chooses. The first one wore a sequined mask with blue goggles stitched on, leaving his mouth free. He tilted one leg in the air so as to reach the edges of my womb and rummage in there like a wild boar, causing me to splash out at the audience’s cheers.
Although I had one in my anus and another in my mouth, I could discern moves afar in the public’s rows, and some legs were thrown up at a steady pace. After half a dozen obliging tritons ended their filling us to the rims, the lights went up as the music, which had turned to what I assumed to be Ravel, played offhandedly but not vulgarly, revealing the bountiful soul of this improbable organ.
I felt soaked, despite the hot towels little fish-costumed pages had brought me, but the lonely Prince of the orgy insisted that I jump over the footlight and come to him at once. He craved my beasty scent, and he was imperially erect, so he ordered me to sit empaled on him and sway my hips as he had seen me do just then, and it succeeded, with huge roars and cheers from his guests.
He kept me clasped into his open robe, letting me drip over his poor thighs. Kate understood what just happened, she sat at his inert feet. He said we had randomly replaced people we outworthed greatly, thus he begged we keep his address in our books, and let his minders roll him out. We asked for the bathroom, and we were shown into a grand water room with an oversized ceramic basin filled with tepid lotus lather. A few male guests, back in their black tuxes, came to politely watch us; to their quests of seeing more of us, we told them to speak with Liselotte.
Back home under Alfred’s taunt, we found an armful of yellow Mrs Meilland roses in the biggest of our silver buckets. No card to read, no riddle to solve, we thought like a pair of clogs. I needed a final enema, Kate thought it was the idea, so we helped each other at that and not long after, whatever chatter Alfred, I enlaced my best friend inside a pearly shell of arabesques.
In the morning —rather say hazy lunchtime— in the mood of not speaking on my telephone, I had baked my toasts, waiting for Kate to dawdle about with weary grey eyes. Natalia barged in, wearing her usual flannel cat’s pyjamas, and forgot why she had come down straight from her bed when she smelled the plate of apricot marmalade of hot French toast I pushed under her pretty nose. There was an overwhelming scent to the creases she had slept in, I gently rubbed her flanks in the childish fabric, my ear pressed to her tranquil heartbeat on her back. Suddenly she asked why I wouldn’t answer the umpteenth message Liselotte had clogged my number with since the last two hours. I affected to be more captivated by what I found under the top buttons on her chest, mumbling about the night we had survived.
Liselotte needed to know what we had done at Isidore’s theatre. Pulling a chair close to Natalia’s body that I was quietly disrobing, I gave my report, on all proviso, of what we had committed at Isidore’s expense, so much so that Natalia’s hands crept up under my shirt. Liselotte, who now spoke to all around the table, retold how Isidore was enthralled with our manners, All the more that I, personally, had procured him sensations he had thought existed no more for him. He was begging us to return, I read on Kate’s face she wasn’t too keen, I only joshed it had been a very demanding performance, even though we had been treated with manners. Natalia seized the opportunity to flaunt she wasn’t shy to confront such a stage, judging by what was left of me a few hours later, to what Kate asserted Isidore would crave her, once overspent, drippy, and smelly. Liselotte did her best to temporise, explaining there would be different tableaux, although the part wasn’t each time very different to fathom, indeed. Moreover, Isidore afforded extensive means of production. Eventually, Liselotte sent a private message with the actual figures we had made in one night; I wouldn’t be that vain, but I was kind of gobsmacked.
Now Natalia wooed me openly, and it was true I had keenly teamed with her in some of Liselotte’s most scabrous shenanigans, for the most salacious of memories and an earnest bond of whorish camaraderie. I sensed that Kate was currently more inclined towards more intimate tricks like the private encounters at Speck’s. What she had heard of our comments on Isidore’s realm had grabbed Natalia’s flammable brains, she followed us upstairs to listen to as much as we had been conscious enough to remember.
She reclined on the red sofa, her black knickknacks-strewn flannelette pyjama shirt artfully wide open —hadn’t she a precedence birthright to feel at home around here over all of us? She was crafting her questions about Isidore’s secret historical premises —indeed worthy of her academic knowledgeability— obviously piqued by the whim to go whore over there with me.

Kate enjoyed the morning (it must have been well into afternoon, mind you) ramble of her elective niece of sorts, who had enjoyed, during her adolescent blooming, sneaking stealthily into her side of our grand bed so magically that we would miss her, now that she proudly exhausted the pair of her hunky black and white minders next to her door, Fulgence and Erik eternally at her whim. Kate, thus, joined our house fairy and stole her trousers, intoxicating herself first by nuzzling the rag ball they did in her hands. While taking a strong dose of the nightly scents of our most literate whore, she assured her she might go taunt with her sublime bumhole to the wealthiest of a crippled soul in his private opera, and I would introduce her in all due perversity.
She witnessed my arrangement call with Liselotte while she licked my naughty feet. Then, while I brewed a large pot of oolong and cracked open a pack of ladyfinger biscuits, I asked her to keep on her childish attire and not shower yet.
Cecile did not knock and was overjoyed with all she caught us doing, firstly savouring Natalia’s laisser-aller, attesting to the irresistibleness of her wild scent, then bantering about the incapabillity of ladyfingers to be dipped, except in a fruit charlotte while Natalia swiftly pulled her jeans to get a whiff of what she smelled of.
Cecile was still personally more or less engaged in the wuthering needs of the Mendelsohn realm, sending to Zev’s appetite whomever of the colony felt a need for a frenzied shagging topped with the inescapable favours due to Armand Lunel by the service door. Natalia had not yet heard the Parc Montceau’s sirens, but she would, undoubtedly, the Mendelsohn trove was finding its way to the connoisseur’s press, inexorably, and besides, she wasn’t one to shun a furious bed as Zev’s.
Nevertheless, she nosed some new lode she might find fruitful to her growing professional clout, and so did we, albeit she might have to acquit the same manner of a toll to get access, as we explained we had done. Isidore, another crippled demiurge, would certainly not grant an enchantress as her access to his lascivious sanctus sanctorum without laying whatever he still could on her bare body, and thus I explained in detail why he was crying for my return.
And thus we teased our younger sisters with our circus exploits, and Liselotte was negotiating a trio for two days later, if they would. In the meantime, dusk had crept over Alfred’s realm, and we felt unmotivated to order dinner home. If the clubmen allowed, food was fine at Speck’s, so Cecile called Udo to announce our descent upon the gilded salon, and Kate longed to see the pretty foundlings again.
So much had we raved about our possible performance onstage at Isidore’s that we decided to pass on sartorial necessities, wearing mere trenches to reach the quay. I lent the transparent chrysalis to Cecile, whom we saw too often in streetwear —albeit she would still excite me thus— with flat silver ankle boots. Natalia kicked arse in a black oilskin double-breasted, belted, square shoulders, mid-thigh trench, her summer blond straight bob jolting above the high collar, black patent Chelseas promising to kill once she will prance in the nude. Kate boasted some Lauren Bogart flair in a crisp beige silk raincoat with arrogant lapels, on sandy grosgrain bottines. I wrapped myself in a flimsy, navy-night, buttonless duster loosely tied up at the waist with matching silk Jodhpur strapped boots.
Perfumes were ignited in the weatherproof garbs. In the car, an instant fragrance blend of Damask rose, tuberose, iris and feminine fervour took to our heads as we reached in no time the stern classical facade of our playground where Udo awaited our gang but wasn’t aware of our overture when we checked in at the vestiaire and our black cards did the talking themselves by stealth RFID. After we stowed away our boots, he pushed the four of us in his velvety booth and pulled his trousers down; we took turns on his presentable dick, and it was Natalia who gulped the bitter swig. We had a pungent sip of ginger extract and kissed each other with fiery lips inside the lift car. We devised not more than two or three romps, nights at Speck’s had become endless.
There rolled a soft hubbub cheering at our candid brazenness, and the next-door nymphets began handing their togs to the waiter so as to dance skin to skin with us for the steepest arousal of the clubmen. Adèle, who revelled whoring along with the island colony when her daily schooling was done, grabbed me in Italian and made me promise we would remain a pair, whatever clients we hooked, she casually let out that Fanny was already somewhere upstairs.
We meandered towards the buffet, in spite of all the hands busy at our bums. There was a house cook, now, a young Moroccan woman conveniently at odds with her unauspicious suburban background and regularly installed in the restored kitchen and lodgings on the ground floor.

She had trained with the dance team and their too-polite coach —no one complained, even in secrecy— thus, she had shaped up irresistible abdominal muscles and straightened up her shoulders. She was thrilled to meet Cecile and me again in that prestigious venue where she exerted what skills she possessed off her own bat. As I feasted upon lickerish bits, some hands insisted about my lower waist, a tad more lovingly than the rest of them, so much so that I glanced who did. It happened to be the three-Louis tipper, of mellow memories, asking me out again. I pressed Adèle on my heart and explained our whim of the night. He smiled but then mused he might then hire some help to make do with us. He relished hearing me translate for Adèle whom he began to think he had grossly overlooked. He leisurely pushed us by our bums towards the lift, on the way to the third floor, he said we would go on with our collation in the bedroom, and he has such memory as to have ordered a pot of oolong tea —he had all intentions to let us piss.
We helped him to unclothe down to his long tail shirt and knee-high socks, his properly seasoned weapon looming up from his neat linen. That room was panelled in hand-sized palm wood diamond points, under a varnished martelé red copper plates ceiling. Above the usual square bed of russet quilted velvet, a large layered cutout baroque-shaped moth of multicoloured long stitch embroidery, in the midst of which a polished black Venus threw her arms high in the manner of antennae. Seen closer, her eyes were orange gemstones. Across the room, above a gilt wood and Sienna marble console, hovered an arm-span wide battered steel tricephalous eagle, with the same gems for eyes, holding gold and garnets storm shards in its claws.
He purred like an old Maine Coon in the savant-sucking of Adèle’s, and he asked me to press the service knob three short strokes, which called one of the young impeccable gophers who needed not an invite to take hold of me right away while ridding of his clean livery. As I grabbed his tauten circumcised cock, I saw he couldn’t help trifle with Adèle’s bum as well, and so I smirked, he was a boy of the world.
When we all collapsed onto the bed, he had yet held back his outpour —or I wasn’t first served— but he took time to play my piccolo with affectionate lips before molto ballabile bow strokes for what he had gingerly applied lubrication so as I let myself totally be done in deep carelessness, turning to kiss Adèle’s quiet little face. They gushed in quasi unison like on command of the burly Admiral —his bearing so much similar to my old Christiansøe uncle I should have better shagged— who then ordered us to enlace so as to let them, unwaning, burrow into our rosebuds sideways. I relished cajoling Adèle’s abandon to the bustling of our masters on the clock, she was unwittingly teaching me to be a better whore.
The spectacular bathroom was all red copper, smooth and warm to the body. Before the shower, the gold-florin Admiral ordered us to hug him and piss all we knew along his thighs, it smelled of sunburnt chamomile. He helped us thoroughly clean for the next client, joshing he might peep on us, some other time. He gave us each three fifty-pesos Mexican gold coins, kissed our heads fatherly and ran, wishing he met us again.
The handy boy lay in wait around a corner in the corridor, and when I offered him one of my coins, he showed me his, and he begged for a wet kiss from both of us. In the lift car, we sniggered at ourselves, merely clad in perfume, holding that treasure in our fists. Having bucked our ideas up but still enlaced, we danced our way across the rich carpet through waves of free petting. Our duettists had left us famish, and we sailed towards the buffet, followed by keen eyes who tried to fathom what we had just been done to.
Dorothy stood by the table, mildly shunning clients’ offers, visibly charmed by a lightly covered, long-haired, apparent colleague who happened to be none other than Seresine de Chalandin, one of the rare island natives we had fished out at Philippe’s. As I called her by her name, she turned and was mostly drawn to Adèle’s smile, probably guessing the cause for it. I joshed that she could no longer remain as a civilian —some clients would bring in their bright-eyed spouses, though, forcing them into immodest postures for all to see before choosing another woman to play with— and thus I began to casually unlace the fuzzy navy-and-rose printed twill vintage fit and flare dress, helped by the two barefoot nymphets who relished to discover she wore nothing other. A waiter, one of those we might very well find shagging us at the rich whim of a client, took great care of the dress and the blue suede loafers. Unsurprisingly, no sooner did Seresine appear in her slender grace than a pair of merry partners I had personally acquainted with before, manoeuvered on both sides, and took her upstairs with not much of a chat. We explained to Dorothy how it would be in reverse what we had just done and made us so hungry.

Dorothy was accosted by a near-potbellied senior, richly clad, with white sideburns, who promised her enough so that she followed him, her pretty bum just level for his ferreting fingers. Then it was Adèle’s turn, a British-sounding, ginger moustachioed lean thirty-ish elegantly creased linen-clad, made valorous endeavours in Italian to prise her loose from my grip and walk her to the lift.
I went to sit on a dark rose velvet Paul Iribe sofa, opening my legs like a sailor while watching the ceiling where Cecile had appeared first when I sensed a wandering hand upon my thigh that I let crawl to my blooming quim. He sported black eyes, black curls, and faultless white teeth in an inciting smile. He knowledgeably fiddled with my clit and labia, and he forced me to give him access to my lesser hole and tried its suppleness. He joshed we were intimate enough to slip out somewhere cosy, thus I followed him.
In the lift, he gave me a tongue-twirling kiss that only lovers dare give. The room had a low ceiling with stucco figures engaged in a pastoral orgy where fauns and sundry animals copulated unashamedly. I had never seen that scandalous piece, lying all spread to his taste on a sage green velvet quilt, I relished the delicate handiwork on a subject matter worthy of the Inquisition’s ire at the seemingly Regence times —but the Hotel von Speck was probably extraterritorial in these times, is it not still?
The decor seemed epochal, upholstered in ancient verdigris moiré silk, each wall haunted with heavy silver framed engraved Venetian mirrors. My Middle Eastern type client disrobed swiftly and told me his name was Nuriel Gadlani, from Berlin. He asked me to stand and walk around in my normal tomboyish way, he was stiff as a donkey, and I began to look around the room for lubricant. He said the little bird had told him that I wasn’t a working girl by necessities of life or the strong-arm tactics of anyone, was I? I swayed my hips in approval.
He danced with me on the overlapping silk rugs to his soft crooning before he capsized us upon the bed. With a grin that let me think he read my mind, he fetched in the silver-clad bedstand drawer a black and gold tube of clear gel that smelled of coumarin, opened it deftly with one hand, and wanked my slits with some of it, without spilling any.
He commented drolly on my holy streamlet that now smelled a hint of my Far’s tobacco pouch in faraway lands. He wanted to know if I ever had grown hair down there, so I made him happy retelling my affairs with the laser geishas. He was a skilled tosser on my nerve edges, he liked the tales of the box trees and roses, the Tudor City squirrels, and eventually he buggered me ever so slowly to heart.
Dawn blinked when my light-handed wayfarer left me in the grey marble bathroom after a last squirt of piss over me under the shower. He had used and served me a number of times, I couldn’t fathom where time had drifted. When I dawdled down to the salon, my cousins had retired, leaving a funny note on my telephone. Workladies in black sportswear were cleaning the place with windows wide open for the song of some of Alfred’s colleagues. To anyone walking the street at that early hour, I would embody the privileged party animal.
Kate was alone in our bed, and Alfred mocked me, but a glance in the mirror showed me that the dark circles at my eyes were sexy. I snuggled up in her arms, she mumbled some in German.
I woke in an empty house, fresh as a daisy. After a gentle while with my tea, it was Rambling Rose who dragged herself by as nude as I since she thought she was alone. She came to sit on my lap and drank from my cup, I could tell she had had a busy night, too. She smelled of Iris and Neroli like a princely mistress, and she let me taste her humidity. She had been flown away in Lauritz’s copter to the seashore under the moonlight, he had been insatiable but kind; she was overjoyed we took her along. I retold her of our nude jaunt at Speck’s, and she wanted to pair with me, too, one of these days. I told her about Isidore’s, where she would doubtlessly make a kill. She was straddling me on the chair as I proposed another number to our forecast performance at the theatre to Liselotte, who had heard of our appearance the night before. She craved Rambling Rose, and she would love to see her dance for the luminaries of demi-monde.
The weather felt heavy, and soon it poured a summer rain —the kind that would have sent us nude on the lakeshore lawn in Saint Loup. And so I had to explain some bits of my paradise to the picture girl. We climbed upstairs, the whole house bathed in the petrichor scent of a nearby garden, Alfred too busy rummaging into the newly moist earth. I did not have the heart to let Rose sit alone on the sofa while I drew; she wasn’t the kind yet to read or browse images, so I unpacked the futon, and we cajoled the time away. Then Adèle came up hoping for some tea, so they necked like schoolgirls and made me shamelessly wet. I could tell these two would share the apartment the workmen were burnishing at Melchior’s wish, across the landing at our back door.

Kate returned from the swimming pool in a minimal almond green ribbed jersey tank dress and nought more, she idolized the little thorny root ball. Liselotte called, she had sold the principle that she only dealt altogether with exceptional persons of exceptional beauty and appeal, thus she called from her car downstairs, if we would.
Kate proposed that we attune ourselves to the burlesque splendour of Isidore’s premises —not that far unlike from the Garnier poudrier ostentation, were it not for immodest details— and browse into my collection of vintage undergarments and froufrous from my family’s wardrobes in Copenhagen. All that expensive finery had been laundered and ironed like new, and more had come from sundry shops in Antwerp or Geneva.
Only Irish linon would haze lightly enough over Rose’s bush, under a Bayros frilled déshabillé. The rest of us finagled our way to cover our butts in the less troubling manner with openwork bodices and blouses letting appear the truth at every step. There were boxes of white seamed stockings with black-striped hem you see in vintage porn.
It was still early, the big whale car looked like a bride’s basket full of orange blossom and laughs. Liselotte wore her signature asymmetrical black and white patterns, she wore black patent leather flats whereas white suede made our feet fluttersome. There wasn’t a breath of wind, but it was a flickering flock of doves that was gulped into a banal side pedestrian entry, leaving one or two onlookers fazed.
We accessed the parterre on the side, and guests in evening garb wandered in from other sides, at once keen to watch us hanging along the front row. The stage curtain was down, glimmering like a royal train, strewn with crystal pearl whirls, draped in the lights like a psychedelic rush. Isidore did not keep us waiting, he was rolled down the centre alley to his usual standpoint and greeted us to the round of seats close to him.
He singled me out and waved me to come near, not losing time before rummaging into my pleats, and he told me I wouldn’t go lie into the shell because he couldn’t let me afar. Liselotte had devised that our two younglings would sparkle up there, and this phenomenal illustrated girl would unveil her self-masterpiece at her whim. He donned bright red satin with gold-yellow padded lapels, he sure had all the spectre colours hanging in his wardrobe, for what I guessed. He was gripping my hand like a drowning child, and he joshed to Liselotte it was some kind of a school she roamed with, all of us perched on stilts and as flat as choirboys, she nodded finely and mummed about birds of a feather…
The organist had plundered whatever medicine chest, his spirits ascending like the lark, come what may. The lights dimmed, and Isidore in aparté offered me a fortune if I performed again what I had granted him the other night. We, floozies, had all been plucked off our frills, with hasty manners, long before the curtain raised to the sound of wobbled trumpets and the troupe of Rhinemaidens came wriggling their hips to the footlights.
There was a sospiro when the rich cardboard shell lid lifted up upon the embrace of our last foundlings who did not have to cheat about their cuddles and offered only truthful tenderness, for that once. And Rambling Rose found a simple solace showing what she had been supremely made into, at the whim of a madman. I sussed she wouldn’t pursue a career at that.
Meanwhile, I had necessarily turned my pretty back to the stage to service Isidore’s imploring stalk while sensing a caring hand bedaubing my lower byways with lotus balsam, and a mindful warm staff test the suppleness of my fleshes, till adding some of his very own spice deeply in my entrails. This Isidore’s torment chair was sturdy and wide enough to let me climb up backwards so as to impale myself, crouching over him, stepping on both sides. He muttered loving litanies to my heart as I did all the selfless drill moves while a pair of his pretty seafood frolicked around the valid part of him —my bet would be they could as well play my part.
Charivari time, no one could draw apart Adèle from Rose, but they let different pairs of good friends in sundry states of undress enjoy all the knowledgeable manners of their talents, as long as they could keep a loving eye on each other. The shimmering satin of the giant mollusc became the cradle of many figures of lechery, to the sound of the organ’s unleashed amphigory, when at last Isidore yowled in his attainment, clutching at me out of my breath.
Somewhere beyond the scene was a spacious shower arena, round and glittery, in tone with the house’s glamour, where all the pretty birds rinsed the moral and bodily expenses of the bygone clients. Isidores’ boarders were young and bubbly. They said they all had left harsh backgrounds, they owned black cards now and enough money if needed, but the life at Isidore’s, one or two gigs a week, was easily bearable.

Since they owned a black card pass, we asked if they patronised places like Philippe’s, they smirked and said they knew all about Sami and his cohorts, but the trouble was that some of them were tracked by evildoers, pimps, husbands, or family; thus it was all the safer to remain nested with Isidore, who demanded quasi-nil, out of letting him watch their willing romps. Liselotte was enthralled with the new recruits of long-legged elves she would have glibly leased to the starred names in her directory.
Two or three of these runaways badly tickled my fancy, tall shapely tomboy build with next-to-none tits, and that flaunted manner of candour in spite of what we had just been indulged in. One dark-eyed, bold-eyebrows, pale swanky ambiguous creature who sat showing a quaint little quim asked me if we stayed over there. I told her that, from what I heard, their gang were safer boarding in a high-end club rather than roaming the hedges for random encounters. Her thighs felt smooth, Erin confided she had been forced long enough to scour in the shady undergrowth for trickle money not to be tempted. I retold her of the roses in the box trees bosket, but she understood it had not been for money, so she embraced me, and I promised to be back. As I couldn’t help fiddling with her feet and ankles, she let out that they practised on most mornings in gymnastic dance with a real coach who was also teaching them how to shag properly, she laughed.
We were all taken on a guest tour of the Gynaeceum, rather a jumble nursery that smelled of jasmine marshmallow and recalled the so special TRÆVIX’s attics where reigned a will-o’-the-wisp called Delff. The daylight flowed down from the frosted-glazed roof that kept away the city hubbub and the neighbours’ indiscretions. For more theatrical fancy, three paunchy crystal chandeliers lit up at bedtime, casting sparkles among the russet-painted nerves of the Eiffel framework. A long gangway ran around the light well at the step of the lodgings’ doors and windows, implying some sophisticated controlled mechanical ventilation, as I did not sense any other stress on my lungs than that of the emotion of contemplating Erin’s bum —lodgings at Guise’s Familistère all had openings towards the open air.
The overall allure of this other cote was that of an aristocratic convent in Pietro Longhi’s times, put aside the sordid underbelly of the Venetian Carnevale that historians have debunked. Had it been a crass dump of disposable skin, we wouldn’t have been allowed in freely. Isidore was proud of his timeless establishment and would tell nought about the security it maintained for its boarders, whatever licentious the performances onstage and beyond be.
Not so innocently, Erin drew me to a room in the corner of the walkway, a yew-green velvet burrow with a mirrored ceiling over a square divan and running couches along the walls, under large bronze lion heads with black crystal eyes that I would bet my virtue concealed cameras. Altogether a proper romping arena where she said the girls could invite their acquainted clubmen at their whim on their account. Yes, Erin reckoned she was already rich, and she wasn’t wrong.
I wouldn’t guess when the communal shower rooms had been installed, all clad in green marble with glimmering antique pipings. Kate was there dancing like the New York kids in the gush of an unlocked sidewalk firehose Erin pulled me to the rain, kissed me and pissed along my thighs as if she knew, thus I responded.
In the shy morning, she woke me with amusement at my first surprise; we had cuddled away in her posted bed veiled in white organza, she said it was breakfast time. At one end of the walkway, a centred double door led to a communal eat-in kitchen where my comrades all had pretty company, and Rambling Rose much more than one. Tea was congenial, Cecile was discreetly gazed at as she dipped some sort of speculoos cookies in her big bowl of coffee, and Kate was head over heels in love with a golden blonde Slavic elve who spoke with pearls in her mouth. Adèle had found a black-eyed Italian runaway just like her with long braided dark hair, and she seemed to learn a lot about the Parisian underworld. Liselotte did not let go of her telephone adding new faces to her encrypted cloud, with heaps of aliases but real black card numbers. She kept snuggling with a wild-eyed Greek escapee who looked not much older than legal. Later in the car back home, Liselotte told me about Evi, who had been hunted down by one of the villagers who had already sold her for traffic to the Montenegrin mob. She had been eighteen and three months, and her mother had helped her with an ID card. She had whored for the price of her travel to Corfu, Venice, Milan, and sundry places in Switzerland before a concerned client brought her to Isidore’s where he knew first-hand that she might be warm and safe and he would meet her again. Four of them learned French with a student who blushed when she saw they wore no knickers, but who was all the more motivated that Isidore paid well and lodged her in one of his many properties.
In her well-established practice of procuring talents to vetted, morally stable, worldly characters, Liselotte understood that Isidore’s brigade of Chevau-légers wouldn’t go roaming the lairs of her patrons as we, for some, did, and furthermore, we could assert that Isidore’s establishment offered more congeniality than Philippe’s velvety corridors —albeit libertines like me had their urges for sweaty promiscuity, once in a moon phase.
Adèle and Rambling Rose were in tender cahoots, in spite of having debauched all night in effusive company, causing Cecile to brood over the pair with motherly devotion. She confided to me, for whom she had read Isidore’s marked preference, that she would return, were it only to document the origin of such a peculiar venue where, besides the sustained homages by vetted mild-mannered unknowns, she had discerned the touch of some Belle Epoque champions of decorative extravagance, the schools of Italian maestros who had spawned from the Church’s counter-reform and rambled on from the Holy Roman Empire of Germanic Nations to the marshes of Saint Petersburg. My yellow armoured working girl to whom only a random kiss-curl at her temple had hooked my heart one hazy morning amidst the river Seine had thrived into that renowned expert with a delicious butt I could worship in my ancestors’ fineries. I mulled over taking her to New York before they killed all the treasures they possessed like they had the Ziegfeld Theatre.
The bulk of Adèle’s deliveries were in, and Gauthier in person was on deck, overjoyed to see Adèle, for whom he already had a marked penchant, together with the illustrated maiden, both draped not more than Madame Récamier, charmingly still hazed by a feisty night. They would not dispute the architect’s ideas, only Adèle made clear that Rose would share the apartment and sleep in the upper bedroom. Hugo visited, too; he had envisioned the co-habitation, and since his tête-à-têtes with both the windfall foundlings, he had devised decorative propositions, considering another plate by the Della Robbia for her bedroom, he showed Rose a photo of an honest reproduction of one of the “Innocenti”, that which was unswaddled till below his pert little weenie and could be alleviated of any religious weariness.
While offhandedly in bed —the only piece of furniture as of yet in her house— with the copper-headed archangel we had all had a taste of, she had gleefully let him carte blanche, like she knew he had had for most of our niches, in hope he would like the way back again. Here we stood in our floozies’ garbs until I sussed that the workmen did little else than drool over our niceties, thus I invited the other two temptresses up to the studio, while Hugo made plans with Gauthier.
Next door, we stopped in the laundry room to drop off our embroidered gauze veilings, of which none had seriously suffered, thanks to our attitude of going bare at once. The housekeeper knew how to maintain our timeless threads, would she sniff at them like I just did? Hot weather had crashed the city, we played under a shower and remained unclothed. The roof was well-isolated, and we could let the drafts run in blocking the windows. In the middle of the snuggles that we couldn’t help rekindle, a sudden cry of Alfred’s convinced me that he ought to be thirsty, I was trying to devise some manner of a birdbath on the flat of the roof, but Rose told me their was one outside of Cecile’s and she had seen Alfred and others frisk in it at whim. I called Cecile who avowed her tenderness for the blackbird she did not know had a name, and she retorted me that he also had a numerous harem who also bathed in the same basin. I told her I had a box of ladyfingers and none of us wore clothes.
It was like she had not seen the girls for days, whenas we had only unboarded the car. She had gone to swim in the hope there might be anyone to grope, but the water was still and crystalline, she only cracked all her joints; the dancers were in The Hague to worship the Nederlands Dans Theater Then she recalled the idea I had thrown up of a trip to New York City, and then it was too late to keep that from the babies’ ears, and also, Natalia would never let us go without her, serious —she had once tried in the SEVENSTREAMS network but apart shagging other hunky lawyers she could have next door here, she had found zilch of what Kate and I had described of our memorable jaunt with Julia. My money was on that she would barge in at dinner time with the same idea she would have heard through the grapevine.
We could morally afford to bring on the kids, whatever accommodation we found, but neither owned a passport, and that was a matter of high politics —or pillow intrigue. Under the eager eyes of my impatient buddies, I called the number I had for such occasions and left a sibylline message on a more flirty mode, if he ever wanted to seize that ball. I knew Kate had velleities about the Tudor City squirrels and Julia’s twin nephews, I left a message in her box, too.

Hoping to surprise us in our natural indecency, Gauthier had walked up to the studio unannounced and wasn’t dissatisfied by the tableau on the futon. It was to vaunt that the team had achieved their work in Adèle’s apartment, bar the decoration and the definitive light fixtures. Gauthier had chosen the witty bone china crockery and the simple flatware. It was decided we would have the first dinner there, with sundry pies. A dining set of six blond bentwood Hoffman chairs and the original round table ravished the girls; for a while, we thought we had lost them in the upper room.
As I foresaw, prideful Natalia snuck her pretty nose and admired the work done nearly as much as the girls’ nonchalant nudity, owning that the heat was unbearable, although she wore merely black gym shorts and cropped top. I grabbed her on my lap —the chair did not budge— and began groping her, she smelled of honeysuckle, and then she preferred to pull off her shorts. I retold my fleeting whim of a visit to Julia’s in her new penthouse on Fifth Avenue, across the Metropolitan Museum where the God crow had told Cecile to go. It was easy, only a matter of providing a passport for the enamoured foundlings. Natalia was wired, she swore that Hugo had all the necessary connections. After dinner, the babies disappeared into whichever bed they had, Natalia had a word to say to the God Crow, and the bright archangel led me to his bed so as to daintily share me with his boy Philippe.
They had used me offhandedly, just like I needed, I woke up in their deserted bed and dawdled down home. Nude and peppy, I made tea and browsed my messages. Julia wrote she was overjoyed and asked for a video talk. She moaned her want when she realised my attire, I promised the other four were far snazzier than I, and younger. There was an urgent call from the service I had solicited, I missed my switch and answered the young officer I knew in my birth costume, he made no remark, listened to me, and I twigged too late to excuse myself, after all, he might have seen me thus more often than I would ever know. He had Adèle’s file, and it wouldn’t take long to find Rose’s, so we would have their passports the next morning. As he saw it, Adèle would be from now on French. I retorted she could come and assert her consent to that in the minute. I ran to fetch her, and they both came running so my correspondent had to tilt into panoramic mode to regal himself, and he asked far more questions than needed, obviously enthralled by the rambling roses.
When I returned to Julia, she whistled at our morning trio. I retold what the officer had just said, she lived in the same world, only she did not do it in the nude. She warned me the terrible twins were at Yale, a mere two-hour trip from hers. Then she panned around her penthouse to show us the huge terraces under the dawn skies, and our damsels were overexcited. Remained to know when we would be transported, and that might cost a visit to the higher-up, but that did not seem to annoy the passengers.
I texted our request to that link I had, saying who would like to travel, and we went up to the studio. Kate said she would go to Hamburg and Sylt with Gwen, she had to take care of her mother with the succession. Alfred taunted us when he heard us, but now I knew Cecile was providing him and his family with all the freshwater they needed.
Now that the machine had been set, I couldn’t do anything other than roll on the futon or frolic in the shower with the foundlings, waiting for some summoning call. Token of the appeal they were bestowed upon, the answer asked us if a car could come to fetch us four at dinner time. They were no babes in the woods, they had a clear notion that the meeting would turn into an orgy, we rambled on about the extravagant tastes of our main mentor, and what could await us in the skyways. Not unlike Isidore, who couldn’t achieve much by himself —or inexplicably with me, it seemed— Melchior would throw us defenceless to his horny hirelings who had a licence to anything except hurt and tear us. Of course, experience had taught me that these impressive bullyboys rarely stood more than three or four humps and listened to what we condoned or not. All in all, it came down to the eeriness of the settings, and of that, Adèle had no idea yet, besides Isidore’s.
We had coordinated outfits old enough to look new again like a ballooning geranium taffeta shirtdress over-stitched with random calligraphy swashes that I had worn shortly once I wanted to look like a girl, with the matching flats that fitted Adèle’s darling feet. To Rambling Rose, a parme charmeuse satin, high-waisted, gathered, buttoned-up, French sleeves dress trimmed with rows of night-blue velvet ribbon one would frenziedly unbutton to see a living legend, with patent little flats for her tapered feet. Cecile had one of those flimsy-looking variegated silk jersey long-sleeved mini-dress, under which one could plainly see her mons pubis and her nipples —but we weren’t going to take the A train, were we? Natalia borrowed one of the crisp, rounded tails men’s nightshirts with Delft blue cross-stitched swaths to the collar and the wrists, that she buckled up with the blue and red stable belt and my Swedish uncle’s gilt three-crown buckle. She wore invisible gold strap sandals.

The big hearse awaited us upon Cecile’s reserved parking space at her door. The ride was utterly silent, were it not for some hypnotic muted saxophone loops which brought me back to my lakeshore heaven when we grooved on the lawn with somebody’s boombox. It was visibly the chauffeur’s taste, a neat black man in a night-blue suit and salmon pink shirt, with Oakley shades.
For Adèle, the cruise in Wonderland continued with all the new tokens of luxury, while for Rambling Rose, it was a tad more routine. We came to stop near an impressive black helicopter waiting amidst a lawn circled with whirling red lights. An all-black-clad attendant opened our car door next to the passengers’ stairs. Adèle had never flown one, she clutched at my arm, and I joshed that she wait for the turbines to fire up, but I knew that beast was soundproofed.
We flew for some twenty minutes and landed on top of a hexagonal tower, next to a big round construction under a low, glazed metallic cupola, like a fortress amidst a limitless forest. On the horizon, a herd of wind turbines rotated slowly with red beacons at the tips of their blades. Once our copter quieted, we did not feel any breeze, only the breath of the forest and the cry of an owl. Beyond a railing, a stone stairway led down to what felt like some outdated military outpost for a forgotten war, cut millstone, and limestone borders, the same apparatus you find along the railways.
Passed an open massively armoured door, a vaulted rotunda entirely clad with bevelled blue-enamelled tiles and floored with a vertiginous concentric gold, purple and green mosaic maze, adjoined to a vaulted corridor in the same decor, the mosaic figuring a running river crowded of shimmering fish. I had told our younglings not to fear black silk-donned Melchior hunks that awaited us with stony expressions, they would remain thus as long as we did not hint otherwise, and wouldn’t we? —I retold Adèle the bulk of my exploits in Mustique’s cellars.
The river led to a round pool, several arm-span wide, edged of dark green marble, with a gushing spring out of a dragon’s mouth in its centre. Arched windows opened all around the room, over the timberline, beyond a steep moat, but stained glass let see through only the top of the panes the early stars of a perfect day.
Across the pond, hidden wallowed in an old gold silk damask robe like a burnished Buddha amidst the openwork of black wood couch rococo side-rests, on a mattress of purplish velvet, altogether like an opium dream bed, Melchior watched us perambulate in our insubstantial attires as we skirted the rim of the pool towards him and his entourage of stern black hunks. He seldom kept feminine servants next to him, he had other perspectives on the matter.
We sat on the sundry sculpted seats of the elaborate ensemble, and he told Cecile these had been in some unnamed Venetian palazzo gone broke before a rich American heiress fell for them and eventually resold them. She lay down, not only to show her own anatomy, but to try and look at the craftsman’s mark in the wood of the underside of the rail. It amused our host, who asked in his best Italian Adèle to help unclothe la curiosa, as a signal we should all disrobe.
At once he grabbed Rose by her hand and sat her between his thighs, petting her ever so lightly, asking her to crop up her thighs in a mannerly tone of voice which let her be done. Natalia had seen the water was deep, she asked if it was swimmable. Melchior told her it was, and since forever, the well had been harnessed in antique days and girdled as we saw it by Neo de Bellerives, one of the richest courtesans of the so-called Belle Epoque when a weapons trafficker had bankrolled this priceless folly and died before he could see his mistress swim. Nobody saw her cry. In her heydays, she scoured the finest brothels of Europe in search of new younglings before HRH snapped them and taught them whoring —that herself did all the same while revelling in their prime season, making a point of giving them a profitable career.
Natalia swam like a dolphin, she came to tell us the waters were an endless tepid caress, but Melchior couldn’t let go of his Rambling Rose whom he wanked smoothly. We slid into the bath, perceiving at once that it was bottomless down along the central column. We could keep our eyes wide open in the soft flows, the black mosaic walls augmented the apparent vertiginous depth of the abyss.
Expectedly, all the tritons of the inner circle appeared among us inoffensively, but soon our laisser-faire signalled that we hadn’t changed, and the softness of the water allowed easy intrusions, then the exhilarating weightless penetrations at their whims. Lastly, he let Rose go dive amidst the lecherous shoal and her captor let her legendary escutcheon float wide atop while he gently buggered her gracile body.

As per Imperial usual, He had disappeared in a whiff, leaving a detailed schedule in my mailbox of our flight and stay in New York from the next day at 10:00. To see these sinewy hunks in dance attendance, rubbing black towels down to our feet, was certainly one of the extravagant luxuries of this planet; and the copter awaited. Three of them climbed aboard with us, unshy as to what we had to offer in the next twenty minutes.
One of our black angels was Italian, and flaunted a fierce cazzo Adèle wouldn’t disesteem after the nautical fantasia. Natalia did not dither straddling the blue-chin, bald-headed, green-eyed Janissary I had almost drowned myself for, so deftly had he wielded the sabre. The third musketeer had soon impaled the rose bush by the roots, Cecile and I regaled with her pearl-adorned slit and the peppery twinkles of her nipples.
Next morning, it seemed everyone was on deck early, and Natalia, who had slept with me, had already cooked nutmeg and honey French toast that no one dared compare to mine. We had decided not to pack bulky bags, I knew we would shop like panthers on the least occasion.
The pretty lovebirds —who then had been cheating all night— were hi-voltage and foot stamping, brandishing their newly delivered European passports I had an idea would impress the US customs. Natalia and Cecile beamed, one in flecked russet silk work trousers, tan ankle boots, a willow-green ribbed tank, and a rust corduroy hi-waisted —her butt a major asset— mock biker jacket with a massive dull-yellow N in the back, the other a radical black 200 pinstripe suit and a see-through black mandarin collar shirt, black suede Chelseas. Rose had donned two man’s shirts, one black and red tartan, the other black with white polka dots, over a distressed white tee shirt, boyfriend jeans, and black Chucks. Adèle wore a putty natural creased flax suit, a white leotard, white socks and white Cecil Beaton Oxfords; she smelled of New Bond Street and said she had thought of me, I deduced she was a perfect listener. As for myself, I knew what I wished would happen on that flight if it happened we had company, were it, again, for the ship owner’s eyes. Although I kept powder-blue sweatshirt and shorts in the cabin bag, I donned a flimsy silken night-blue double-breasted pantsuit, fitted by Gianni’s unsurpassable hand, no shirt —are we private or not? Patent leather loafers. I had felt like exhaling that haunting Iris and Gelsomino fragrance we had brought back from our Florentine Pietredure follies with Cecile, and thus she too ran and fetched the travel spray she kept from the same escapade, a whiff of a boundless haze of ambergris through the legendary woodlands, the depth of our carnal complicity. Adèle liked to think of herself as an orange-blossom girl, Rose as a rose as a rose. Natalia the whiff of a seashore bright spell with all the broom flowers on the pulsing vein of her neck.
The impassive metal albatross stood at orders, airstairs down. As they had filled out the flight manifest, I did not see our usual crew, but a pair of young women with the same greedy look upon us and introduced themselves as pilot Agata Waldstein, a freckled lean athletic poney-tailed dark blonde, hazel-brown eyes, copilot Beata von Thun, dark boyish crew-cut, eager flax-flower-blue eyes that unclothed me as well as my pretty posse. Both were Czech, and they had served in the Air Force, they wore fitted uniforms with bright stripes on the epaulettes. A new flight attendant smiled with a pretty cleft chin, and stalk-blond short tousled hair, she might well have caught the owner’s eye, just like mine.
I did not know the two college boy-type passengers who rushed in a tad breathless, but it felt like one of Melchior’s teases, and Natalia couldn’t help snigger. There was room in the big bird’s bosom. One was limber in his Irish tweed suit, squared white shirt and white socks in rust suede loafers; he was Latvian like his pal, going back to Columbia Law School, his name was Niks Vasilijs, blond like the Baltic shore’s weeds, eyes grey like the winter noon. The other one wore mid-long bark-brown straight hair, tanned skin and rimmed green eyes; black chinos and tee shirt, a suede shirt-jacket, and dark ankle boots, he looked like a college czar at the same Columbia Law School. His name was Maris Jansons. He spoke some Italian.
Aboard, the attendant shily asked that we sit one in each seat during take-off, whatever we did further. Natalia sat opposite the boys with an innocent grin, I took Adèle beside me, and Cecile wooed Rose. All straps were buckled. Soon, when the pilot called to relax, I went to the toilet and changed, which gave every one of us a need to lose their pants, Rose to show her chest, and Natalia her splendid legs!
Our foundlings sussed that even twelve kilometres high, Melchior’s pixie dust still tickled their loins unabashedly, but Natalia was first to lure a Latvian to the banquette on the way to the loo.

In the uplifting hyperborean light, elves didn’t fuss about covering their pretty nether parts, nor did Natalia about waving up her legs in the fire of the action. I walked up to the galley to feel out the nerves of the attendant about our attitudes, and all I earned was to be properly hit on, and I wouldn’t shun her, she had a separate bunk, and she smelled of Royal Oud. She whispered the co-pilot would peep at us. As a matter of fact, it was the pilot herself who came and groped me as I had dozed after the twirls of a stubborn Baltic tongue: she did not unclothe, but she wanked me till I gushed like a bustled can of soda. She never lost control, she made me feel a drifting whore.
Meanwhile, the orgy had thrived on the back divans, the Latvian studs were overspent, Cecile was snuggled-up with Rose, and Natalia took a studious lesson in Italian. We were already overflying the Canadian coast, so, after a needed fast shower, I re-clothed myself and called on the rest of the flock. The zealous attendant Irene served us a last cup before Teterboro. Everybody was eventually relieved of their instant dates, the two musketeers would rewind their expensive studies under our well-acquainted team colours.
At the customs desk, they could flash their F1 visas, whereas we had to hold a bit of conversation with immigration. As expected, the CIA was tickled by the —properly— unaccustomed form of the unimpressed pair of foundlings’ documents, that were scanned to central control for green light. We earned a nonetheless puzzled welcome smile and pushed our cart towards the black sleek minibus of which the black chauffeur waved a 7S sign.
We were told we headed to the Chambord Merlin on Central Park South, a stern classic pink granite facade hotel with high terraces as I crave, bless Melchior. Our suite would be on the seventeenth floor, with a vast balcony overlooking the park, and there were fresh flowers in the vases. The decor was Rockefeller Deco in cream and beige The air outside was as warm and thick as I remembered; we ordered pitchers of lemonade for the stunned newcomers. Natalia leaned above the balustrade like a she-wolf on the prowl in a graphic novel.
Thanks to 7S —for short— our telephones operated on eSIM cards and VPN, I called Julia who soon sent me what we looked like in her telescope on her penthouse terrace. She pressed us to come over to party with a bunch of her innumerable cousins: we could easily walk through the park up to her home.
I received a greeting message from M. with flattering comments on our cruise, asking about my educated appreciation of the Latvian crew, and warning that we all had service links in the 7S app on our telephones. I wondered where the cameras hid in this luxurious apartment. I understood Natalia was having a conversation with Camille, I sent a message to our Aviatrix who retorted she would hack my phone to watch us, and she would send us her lawyers for non-work time.
An all-around sight from that most enormous playground would do fine as a preamble to visiting the otherworldly metropolis. I, myself, had not yet confronted the disproportionate needle towers that loomed just behind the first row of dignified facades on the south side. —As an old Tudor city Squirrel, I mulled that unable to conquer the left bank of the East River, the city fathers had let it grow upwards regardless of simple practicability, so fifty-seventh street had lost its flair.
At a food truck, I bought a handful of nut pouches, warning that we would probably be attacked by my little furry friends. Adèle told them a lot of gibberish in Italian, not letting them rip her off too fast. As we approached the museum, the needle-scrapers began to look like industrial vents just as the Edison chimneys we had in front of our terrace long ago.
Julia’s perch stood effectively across the Met, a stern citadel with a canopy and a bedecked ex-wrestler doorman; the lift wouldn’t run higher than Ms Grant’s place, said he. She awaited us, surrounded by her cousins, fit men in tumble-crumpled cotton attires who smelled of Jo Malone just for us. Julia’s apartment spanned the two last floors under the massive water tower. The terraces ran along all sides with sundry pergolas and awnings under which to wallow on divans and chaises longues.
The reception rooms were in the well-off rustic lodge mood of the Great Northern Hotel in Twin Peaks, with pine-planked walls inscribed with wide figures of the God Crow that made Cecile dance like a Disney native; Julia fell for her, but she owned I had come with an impressive phalanx, like old times, and she had grasped that she should summon the stables mates ready to worship the fillies like they did in the box trees, didn’t they? She said that since we were six hours ahead, she had not planned a proper dinner but only bites, and she kept the carnivorous ones in the breakfast room, at the far end. It wasn’t long before she hugged and groped Cecile who had made out with almost everyone all day, anyhow.

Julia wanted me to meet a thin blond boy, upright and on the lookout, who ruffled my temper at first with his fixed iron gazes. Things were, as he spoke in my deep-down vernacular, he knew more about me, as I was relieved to hear in Danish. He was Heine Wedell-Schuling, the son of another diplomat with the UN nebula, he knew my name all the more, having been with my brother at Yale. And there he saw I averted my eyes and prepared to turn away, he read that I could shun him off in a whiff.
As he wriggled his attitude, he reeled his phrases off, swearing he believed all Julia had retold of my drama, on what I trusted Julia on my life. A tad stiffened, I walked towards the terrace, yet not totally barring him from following me, but properly self-willed to somewhat make him pay for having woken ghosts in this very place. I rekindled my family accent, knowing how it could bear on interlocutors’ nerves —I had adored my Far when he did that— and I asked him about his growing up. Unavoidably, he had gone to one of these aristocratic hotbeds, fierce bastions against the thriving social democracy the whole world credits us with. Then he had been at Saint Andrew’s in times when HRH trained in received pronunciation, then Yale the Sanctum Sanctorum of class dominance.
Irresistibly overwhelmed by the spectacle of the grand toppling of lights at sunset seen above the verdigris roofs of the enormous museum, I let him nearer, and I spoke English only to concur with all the good Julia had claimed about our lakeshore paradise. I sensed he had not been thrilled over my brother’s tales and whatever scorn he vowed me.
Around us, behind a maze of flower planters, couples made the stars blush. I wasn’t complicated to peel, Heine twitched my tinkleberries with a pleasurable sleight, and I did not feel when he unbuckled my pants. He had been wearing bulgy shorts; he was tooled with an enviable dick. I collected my togs and drew him to a rest bed where I awaited his homage wide-parted like a worldly slut. He was devilishly skilled, he kneaded all my muscles muttering greedy compliments; he licked me so that I squirted on his chin, and then he said he carried the card if I would let him shag me, and thus he made me climax more than once, as if having stirred the shards in the sands of my long gone nightmares had flushed out my nerves, and while he filled my entrails with jizz, he muttered what a Fyrstinde I was.
He knew where to find a bathroom through a side door, and Rose was already playing with the twin Clayton under the shower; I asked Heine to piss on me, and I splashed upon his feet. The rest of the gang was camping around the platters of elaborate nibbles. His staff to the wind, a Canadian hunk came offhandedly to ask Heine about my temper, as he would have about a horse, reminding me of my Cossack fetish, so I defied him, so convinced they would all try on me before long, as he palpated my bum.
But my fellow Dane was so smitten that we had to evade before dessert to yet another side of the terrace where he romantically bent me over the balustrade to bugger me wildly, face to the night.
And it could have lasted, if only for the spectacular location for an orgy, but we were hours ahead, and Julia eagerly wanted to show us the new Grant rooms in the Met in the morning, thus I launched the 7S app to see if they would transport us at midnight, and a silver and black minibus did at midnight. Every one of us was spent, Cecile wanted to know more about Julia who seemed so colossally rich and how she had acquired these collections, so true was that they had not lost time babbling, together, and she said some American Indian friend of Julia’s had properly torn her to tatters for Julia to watch up close.
I sensed we must have looked like some rock band while the reception smiles led us to the lift. We had six grand beds, but we merely filled three, I retold Cecile my dalliance in reminiscence, and how it had been some perverse delight to demonstrate that my brother’s little sister was indeed an accomplished libertine, and she understood that. She smelled of some expensive body lotion.
I had ordered a continental breakfast with orange juice, tea, coffee, pastries and thin cookies for Cecile, otherwise leaving it to my buddies to order at their whim, and Natalia felt up to a slice of pecan pie. I feared the quality of the tea, but like aboard the Albatross, higher orders probably had done that it was a faultless Darjeeling like one at the Claridge —who the hell had shagged me in such a place?
At nine in the morning, the air wasn’t any fresher, mind you, but our gym tights, sneakers and banana belts were all the more couleur locale. Julia had insisted that we did not dress up for the museum visit and that we wear easy shoes. Only Heine of the boys was there in the bustling hall, we were all bestowed membership cards which gave us all access for a year. He said he shivered to see the cleft of my labia in the spandex, I wondered if they had genderless toilets.

I was beginning to fear he might fall for me a tad too far, I mulled over letting him watch me frolic with the rest of the gang so as he reckoned by himself I wasn’t ready to commit, except for my chosen sisters —and my unfailing mentors. I kept firmly arm-in-arm with Cecile, who was moved to walk into that utterly celebrated place that I guessed she already knew by heart in many forms of photos. The other ones were looked at.
Julia wore a colourful zigzag knit jersey dress and a beaded vest, she told me she preferred to keep some level of social status in her position of donator, but that did not mean we had to, nobody would dare question her invitees.
I knew someone in her forebears had constantly acquired all he could find of the so-called “ledger” art, named thus because it had thrived on lots of discarded accounting books salvaged by good-hearted American ladies and given away to the First Nations women deported in the infamous “Trail Of Tears”, to give land to the cotton grower settlers. We had admired these reborn books on our last visit to the West side of Central Park, and Julia confided to me she had yet only donated half of the trove. Her belief was that since art on paper can only be seldom exposed to light, she would install a top-of-the-art scanner in her home —she had unused space for that— and would publish the drawings with a scientific commentary vetted by the tribes.
One could say it wasn’t your average ethnographic presentation, but a dignified art vindication after one of the worst genocides of modern times, bar the Jewish Holocaust. And Julia ostensibly dedicated her introduction to Cecile, whom she casually held by the waist, wouldn’t she? Natalia remained at an intimate distance and demonstrated her best education in the art field —perhaps mulling a novel attempt at earning some situation in New York— as well as the easiness of her tight rounded rump. As for me, I devoted myself to translating into Italian and French the importance of recovering the first American Arts, as both had undergone the benediction of the God Crow in Cecile’s most hospitable sheets —for the frenzied satisfaction of the homunculus inside the beak.
The blessed orphans still felt kind of levitating after the dazing warmth of the welcome they had been pleasured with after the no less dazing transoceanic orgy leap, but they reassured me they would easily dance for another round, in these manners. They were candidly impressed by the northwestern woodwork and mainly incantatory paraphernalia and masks. They were stunned to hear that for a long time, ancestral dances and ceremonies had been prohibited by the ruling colonial state.
Julia had ample matter to be proud of and felt generations of her lineage were vindicated rightfully, whatever her singular walk of life. One big hour later, we walked to the museum cafeteria to sit down and talk loose. Cecile did not shun stealthy hand-play as she explained her work with the Mendlsohnn trove, including the lustful compromises she had to concede, but wasn’t she a loose woman since always? The reward was considerable, in any manner.
Natalia had pushed her pawns wisely, gleaning cheer gazes from me, who had sussed she was trying to sell her skills to Julia, and I did not bargain my help, whatever her aim. Julia liked her, and Cecile quietly dipped her cookies. My foundlings wriggled their bums on their chairs, they would rather go shopping on my bottomless account.
Now holding Natalia’s innocent hand, Julia proposed an all-time Newyorkese must, a back-and-forth trip on the Staten Island ferry, to say hello to Miss Liberty. I called for transport, thus before we could start feeling time passing, the minibus awaited at the corner of the transverse —letting me wonder where it spawned from, imagining them on standby at Hudson Street. On the blue velvet seats, Julia already let Natalia squeeze up to her and breathed her air, smiling, while she retold the Parisian Surrealists’ passion for Amerindian art —she had wandered among such collections, she added finely. Cecile now cuddled up with Rose, a hand grazing her uncovered belly, telling her whatever tales of the God Crow she had slept to. While we reached West Highway, I lectured in Italian about Julia’s dedication to her family’s heirlooms and refusal to let spiritual artwork be considered ethnographic artefacts. Reckoning that she probably merely listened to the sound of my voice, I diverted to how Julia and I had met in Saint Loup, Adèle was fascinated by my stories in paradise, instead of the hollow Berlusconian pantomimes she had endured on TV while waiting for her abusers. My inner bet was that she would wipe her memory slate clean, gradually, like Cecile and others had, rewriting her magazines in her own affective spacetime.
Julia showed them the upper stern deck where they packed against the railing to take pictures before the receding Manhattan skyline, sundry dispositions all comprised the merry foundlings embraced in blooming smiles.

They knew perfectly my deviant tastes, and so did our Rambling Rose; they bantered that their grandma listened regularly to her Nat King Cole records, so they recalled:
“Ramblin’ rose, ramblin’ rose
Why you ramble, no one knows
Wild and wind blown, that’s how you’ve grown
Who can cling to a ramblin’ rose?”
And they pissed on her and me, yapping like fox cubs before we showed them we could too, hiking up our labia: and the stench was awful till we released the rain and they buggered us enlaced, with the lather. And unavoidably, they spurted in unison while Rose and I helped each other join them in.
Still wet, they took us afar to a blond-maple bedroom where a bed left only a narrow alley to move around; face to it was hung the magnificent hide on which had been painted the map of a cavalry battle of the”Indian Wars” times that Julia had not yet donated to the Met. The bedcover was made of sewn patches of leather. They pushed us top to tail so we could keep kissing while they licked our holy brooklets as our feet fluttered high up in the air. I sensed my bumhole dripping, then my coochie was again duly filled, but a trifle more snugly than the previous hour, if nevertheless terribly bustling. Furthermore, although I still couldn’t tell one from the other, we benefited double.
There was a copper-clad bathroom behind the bedstead, where we could rinse together with the soothed Katzenjammer twins, then go rally our party to call bedtime. Adèle was prettily spent, she had endured the throes of lust with the other black bull who could not have bent her ears with lament but did not spare his instant passion for her cheeky mons veneris and deployed the most graceful manners at her pleasure’s sake, she was quite smitten indeed. Cecile and Natalia did not count how many sportsmen had ridden their supple rumps, and Julia had sunk the enema cannula in their ploughed ring holes for a last washout.
Julia thought we weren’t fit for a night stroll back to the hotel, and she joined us in an Uber she had ordered. Our bouquets had been freshened up, and she insisted on sleeping with Cecile and Natalia, whenas I cuddled up with my exhausted foundlings and dreamt of a warm wind through the laundry cellars where a flock of crammed pelicans quacked while ogling me sideways. Near the shore glid some paper sailboats scribbled over like antique testaments.
Breakfast with fresh cinnamon rolls, rice pudding, and French toast kept the tone of an immature diet, said Julia whose bustling cousins would crave eggs, bacon, and fries with coffee, and nevertheless shagged you like distinguished baboons, wouldn’t they? We unpacked our loungewear finds with renewed eagerness, only Rose wondered who had footed the tab, and she agreed it would be the albatross, too.
Julia proposed we spend our day in the MOMA, where there was a Calder hoopla, big mobiles and tiny toys. She bought tickets for all online. We dressed up spoiled kids’ style, brand-new sneakers, easy-go chino shorts, tees or tanks and shirt jackets, all in off-white and sand shades, not to insult the artwork harmonies, said Julia wisely. We walked down the Golden Mile down to the corner of Saint Thomas, by pairs of affinities, the foundlings inventing, as it came, a somewhat Newyorkese traditional pidgin, the Parisian scholars comforting each other in the wake of what they had seen each other friskily enjoy all evening, and us, alumni of the box trees sisterhood, who couldn’t help evoking our miraculous areopagus on the unspoiled lawns of Neverland. Yet I took a kinky pleasure in retelling Ms.Grant shortly what popular Ayla had endeavoured amidst the liberal Swiss wisdom, and the enraged trip we had done to Zürich in her distinguished villa. I had not yet vaunted to her the luxuries of the Quai d’Anjou.
Now the two libertine ingenues had found the perfect unspoken communication to go by, arm in arm, each listening to the audio guide in their language, on the same subjects, the timing being set with beacons in each room, each work. Julia was smitten by the little courtesans and wondered why I had become to mentor them. I could only tell her that it would take a whole rainy day of talking to explain how this informal family of ours did not only foster the random wayward orphans worthy of our self-interested fancy, but also provide for their living and dwelling, free for them to keep on their mercenary trade made so easy, safe and rewarding. I might remind my old undisputed school captain that my pretty jailbaits never had a secret service to mind them out there in the jungle.
Cecile and Natalia had found common ground in front of the magnificent display of cubist works, thanks to the Rockefeller collection. Cecile fell under the House Fairy’s spell, like she sensed pixie dust in her loins, and I was so proud of them both. Not that Julia would be blasé in any manner, but she hurried us a bit towards the Calder show, in fear we might not sustain enough heed when the time would come.

Thankfully for us all, Calder ploughed his trail like a beautiful workhorse insomuch that we don’t feel deprived of his genius altogether, but in the space of the new pristine halls and the caress of the dainty lightings, Calder’s multiverse vibrated like one big enchanted soul in suspension, bestowing our perambulating cohort a candid elegance, aeons from the fashion chic standard. Julia, in her natural habitat with the badge of Distinguished Donor to one of the city’s renowned institutions, felt bustled by my crew’s carefree flair, but eventually, she dropped that she couldn’t fathom what a society girl like me did with, for what she had grasped, were earnest courtesans on tour.
I repressed a rash of indignation and told her bluntly that we orbited far beyond the rickety precepts of American society, and we would have flown in our private Falcon before we cared to make an impression, we did not belong in Elite Model Look. I added I had no reservations about bringing my little harlots to my father’s home, and he would not inquire which prep school they had attended. Nevertheless, I owned her that she held the snazziest boheme orgies on New York terraces, where no lost angel would furthermore come crashing.
She acknowledged that without her terrible cousins —whom she admitted shagging since like forever— and the endless parade of healthy frat boys they invited to her bedside, she would have fled New York and bought some penthouse near us and my runaways. We went to the expresso bar, where Cecile found house-made cookies to dip, imitated by the double-entendre babies; They made some honest English blend tea.
Julia proposed we walk five minutes to another gift of Standard Oil to the city, the Rockefeller Center had been restored in all its glory, and she was sure Cecile —of whom she was grazing her smooth thighs— would appreciate especially the restored decorative metal plates, by Hildreth Meiere, an Art Deco giant in America’s 1930s. We would also try to cast an eye to the monumental lobby, where Jose Maria Sert had unleashed a coalition of brownish titans, but since I had contemplated his gigantic manner of an art form when my Far had taken me to the Palais Des Nations in Geneva, and I learned that the painter was a dedicated Franquist, I would rather snub the muscular stances of his model brutes, albeit I sussed Cecile would find fodder for thought to that spectacle.
Along the way, the pairs of us had shuffled, and Julia recalled her spoken Italian to let herself wooed by a redeemed sex slave with a fresh nose and a bouncy gait. The weather was fair down Fifth Avenue, but Rose felt repressed, dwarfed by the outlandish proportions of the city. I clenched her to my wing and retold her I had lived along these cliffs at six, transported from the most possible horizontal scape of the shores of Denmark, chaperoned by security who watched me nibble my ice cream cones. Eventually, flirting openly amidst the bustling crowd resettled her mood —although nought of the wares in the windows appealed to her. I raved joyfully about the innumerable opportunities among the multitudes, but she joshed that she needed not more than we had already in our village. In the summertime, the central sunken plaza became a huge café terrace under the clemency of Paul Manship’s golden Prometheus who kept a towel over his manhood in Rose’s impish spite. The pretty professionals were impressed by the relief plates of Meiere, Cecile said she would research her works; Natalia was gradually realising that she would find more futurity near Cecile than in Julia’s roof garden —unless perhaps she captured a doctorate at Columbia while dwelling at Camille’s New York penthouse.
Hearing Cecile’s enthusiasm, Julia proposed that we keep on down to Forty-second Street to watch the Chrysler Building and across it the poetic Chanin Buiding. Our gang of unleashed lesbians pranced gaily down to Bryant Park, and, on foot, I no longer knew the city I had considered mine a while; I let myself listen to Rose’s prejudices and sent a message asking for the possibility of a flight the next day. She said we lived like princesses and gave me a heartfelt kiss.
Inside Chrysler’s lobby, we made a candid bunch of lasses, getting attention from the desk clerks while helping each other contort looking up at the stunning ceilings in their fresh colours depicting hunky workers in action, the epic genre of magnifying the automobile industry —until it collapses like Detroit— nonetheless a true national heirloom, endeavoured in most dire times. Rambling Rose was not so impressed.
Natalia wooed some kind of livery-clad attendant to hear the bulk of common banalities about the Chrysler temple and be confirmed that there would be nought else to visit in the privately leased building. A society club that had once existed inside the spire had been demolished and cleared out for security reasons. The man said they would find a heap of books about the building and the decoration prowesses.

As we admired the glitzy lift doors, she dared the well-turned-out man to take her to the top floor; he was too glad to oblige, and she left us there, not so surprised. Adèle and Rose resumed the course of their exchanges, in which their hands bore as much meaning as their tentative broken French; they had not paid attention to Natalia’s escapade. Julia took my arm to tell me she admired our arrangements, and she sussed that our utopia thrived beyond our little flock here; I mused she would be amazed what our privileged dovecote had become, did she remember Michelle the Aviatrix?
No doubt Natalia smelled of bad weed sap; and that pride of a carefree brat she sported reminded me of the nosy little mouse who snuck into our bed any time and copied all our tantalising misbehaviours, under the radars —or not?
A two-tone silver minibus took us back up Park Avenue. New York heat was having another spike, the strange odour of air conditioners hovered in the streets. Upthere, in the Babylonian splendour of extraneous architecture, we rid ourselves bare and ran to the rain shower before it was tepid, in persistent visions of stylised subaquatic flora. Then we were unanimously hailed while parading in our towels and forgetting our togs.
Julia asked for drinks and tea, and although it would be cooler inside, we preferred idling nude in the dusk magic as I remembered our Gothic pinnacles overlooking the river —I knew nowadays they would be sunk under black glass cliffs as if the Donald had plagued the whole city.
Heine hit on me in Danish, and with wandering hands that I did not shun, but I freshly told him he was obsessing on a bird that would have flown away in the morrow. Following me and my cup of tea to a west-looking lounger, he made me open wide and risked that he would follow me, I retorted that even if I would gladly let him shag me once upon a shooting star, I wouldn’t like to make him sorry at our armoured door. I feared he craved for a wife, possibly a mother, and I had no bend toward that, whatsoever; I had been busy enough fostering astray kits he would have no compassion for in a mundane life, raising his own.
Having put away my cup, he seized my ankles and lifted my legs apart so as to kiss and lap my holy brooklet as a famished wolf, enraged to make me spurt at his face, against the New York sunset lights. Somewhere afar, someone played a moody saxophone. As if my rebuff had whipped up his want, he threaded me deftly and thumped on my womb as hard as I wanted while the Chanin fish escaped in the golden Chrysler realm, like a reshoot of my best psychedelic trips. I sensed him gush altogether beastly while I did not seem to cease climaxing, and that allowed him to force easily the lesser path as I offered myself in a happy somersault and I dripped upon my own face. He lasted a while at a fierce gait before thrusting another load in deep.
As he released my legs and I felt sparkles in my entrails, I saw the smile of Natalia peeking over us, with some opportunist serving her the same, and I sent her an air kiss. Heine showed me a side door to a bathroom where Rose was already letting herself be washed by a crew-cut sailor, so we hugged and kissed in whoever’s hands, I felt ready for the whole Danish army.
There was a grand platter of crudités and crackers with bowls of sundry dressings. Everybody looked spent and smirked. My stud remained clenched to my back in spite that I had told him I would probably shag another one for the fun, and one of the new wrestlers seemed justly appropriate, staring at me from across the low table with a noticeable hard-on; he might have missed the first round, I answered his glances and returned to the garden where I leaned innocently over the balustrade, waiting for a caress.
He was another offspring of the Grant tribe, called on by his cousins, he had driven down from Boston, enticed by the news of a flock of European party girls. The twins had vaunted me as the tomboy they had endlessly shagged together, said he while seizing my bum. I turned around and felt his dripping glans on my navel. He looked boyish, too, short dark blond hair, grey eyes, square jaw, and upright shoulders, he sported an irresistibly candid smile; He was called Dana.
He had watched us root and fallen for my shapely rump, said he, I understood he wanted most to bugger me, thus I told him to fetch us some lube, but he had a tube of KY ready, that was first-degree craving. The nook where I had just left my stains was now busy, Natalia riding on top of a black bull; my quarterback pulled me to the far end where he must have known stood a double lounger. He wasn’t the brute I could have feared, he gave me an ornate intermezzo with his virulent tongue and complimented my blooming apertures; I showed him I could contort so as to gulp his shivering staff, so he groaned of bliss. He couldn’t help shooting a thick prelude down my long-used throat, and I strained to gulp it all like a toddler would her medicine.

At the Customs check, officers had greedy eyes on us, undoubtedly differently clad than the usual private clientèle, but they queried about the obviously lightweight contents of our bizarre tubes we feared they ask to unroll; luckily, they scanned all of our luggage and could see exactly what we had said we carried. Then they became furiously intrigued by what Rose let see in her half-open shirt. We waited in an elegant lounge for the pilots to show up and do the last-minute inspection of the big bird.
It would be the same crew who had brought us, and they ogled us with renewed reciprocated want. By one of the High Power’s whims, three pinstripe junior executives were to keep us company, probably as a token of gratification, which put us all in our slutty shoes, didn’t it? All it did was make us prattle on the allure worth of the available bespoke-attired gents, and none failed to our connoisseur glance, they would all play for the boss’ peep show. Moreover, they had probably learned that we dwelled next door to the 7S offices in Paris —if ever they took a taste for one of us.
Onboard, Cecile, the foundlings and I took the double seats, Natalia was all too happy to pick the fourth corner of the singles’ square, at once letting be admired her discreet pubis hugged into dawn-coloured spandex.
No humbug in the conniving smiles of our flight buddies, some of us knew their good manners, and our pupils didn’t foster preconceptions, it would be a matter of dancing on the right foot, ten miles high. As a phalanx of seasoned nanosecond swordsmen on their off-grid time, they hund their jackets and ties, then rolled up their sleeves in no haste, we all would soon have tiny crystal plastic cups filled with creamed delights, and our favourite drinks. On our side, we freed our pretty toes so as to squat prettily upon the precious upholstery, the rest of our elfin features weren’t arduous to guess.
Our very comely assistant asked if I wanted to brew the tea myself, I wouldn’t know if it was a pretext to feel my bum, but she did, standing in the galley, inasmuch we had cavorted merrily in her private booth three days before. Now, three pairs of keen eyes relished our gentle playing, all the more when she dared pull my shorts half down, letting all know the easy slut I will be. I could hardly bring my tray back to my place; a green-eyed, tanned Hidalgo-type, Cologne-perfumed, deft-handed cavalier offered me his lap and stole my shorts.
And so Natalia could hardly refuse to leave her corner to go sit on the knees of the ruffled-blond slender playboy whose desk must have been on the sunny side, and she fetched his noticeable dick out of his silky trunks to play with as he twirled his tongue in her mouth. She would always make a cunning point of honour to go faster than me with foreplays.
The third musketeer would certainly not remain a dope in his seat, he wandered towards the rest of our party, where the kids necked happily in a corner while across the table Cecile awaited company. Given the gait things went, the tall curly ginger beanpole didn’t waste time and proposed a straight pink staff that needed some care, and that did not rebuff Cecile who licked the clear drop at its tip, then gradually gulped the whole length. He wasn’t at all intimidated to fuck a lovely face in front of the pair who had by then bared their little arses.
My caballero put me on my feet as if I weighed nought, so as to pull off his trousers and briefs. He sported a thick donger with big furred balls that let me foresee some frisky ploughing. He tasted spicy, I fancied taking him to the aft divan where I spread my thighs wide for him —if ever, I knew where to fetch the Swiss Navy in the toilet. As he tickled my labia with his glans, he said the kindest things about what he saw me, a tight tomboy with silky skin and happy freckles, and his penis thumped in my womb with ardour.
Naturally, Natalia led her surfer boy next to us, and we kissed as she stood on all fours; I said where the lube was when he attempted to force his way in, and even an enema douche; they had a good laugh in the toilet —would there be a camera behind the mirror? Back with us, it was obvious they had already played the point, and we gave them a show of our lesbian tenderness, like trained courtesans, and by the bye, it was what was happening for the bliss of the ginger man on the other side.
Like children in the candy store, they kept in mind to garner a taste of each insolent bum they saw, even if their eyes were bigger than their balls. My rider had a greedy eye for Adèle, thus after a while of rekindling his want by watching us orgasm with our own means, he went grab her and took her to the toilet in her turn. The beach boy liked me wide split on the couch edge.
Then those rakes realised we were three hours to Paris, so they fetched blankets and went tilt their seats back while we took all the bunk space cuddled up with each other. Rose and I rubbed noses.

It had been raining snakes and frogs over Paris; we had to splash in the puddles to reach the terminal, and we looked weird in our light outfits. To say the least, we felt frankly dazed; luckily, no one asked about our big tubes, they must have been flagged as inoffensive somehow. Two statutory berlines awaited with chauffeurs and umbrellas. Our elusive partners had not even asked our names, and they ran like loots; I swore I would report that to the big seven over the clouds —although once re-cuddled with my sweet sisters, I did not feel embittered having whored among the stars.
Charlotte had bought langues de chat for Cecile and all of us; there was a stale brioche to bake French toast. On a whim, I craved to see Natalia in her chief headdress, which she unwrapped and shooed her head with, mind you, and then in the nude, too! No matter what, she deserved to live with that, I sent a video of her, like so, to Julia.
Now, we risked witnessing wreckage in Cecile’s coffee, we longed for bed, the love birds snuck with their precious luggage, and Charlotte embraced Cecile to lead her to the God Crow realm. I begged Natalia to sleep with me, her adornment found a convenient stand over the perroquet coat stand, overlooking our irrepressible embrace —but I told her not to sleep in the nude and gave her a silk shirt.
The next morning, after a double turn of the clock, I had an enthused comment from Julia, who warned me, however, that my compatriot suitor would be on his way to Paris, although he had taken his lesson about having me, and she had lured him into lustful situations to make him own he wasn’t doomed after all. Another short one came from a higher-up who wished to meet me in person late afternoon, and that had never been a bad omen.
Charlotte asked for French toast, Cecile had been downstairs at work since the wee hours, as usual. Once she had had her treat, she wiped her hands to slide them under my shirt til I sat on her and she wanked me good. Natalia called us sluts, she was fresh as a daffodil in April, and she went downstairs to the gym. Charlotte said the dance crew were back and kicking, I invited her to the studio; we would be waiting for a heap of new picture books about New York from Amazon. The heather fairies had returned in all their beauty Charlotte was happy to play with their feet while wallowing on the futon that remained there for pretty passengers. Annabelle gave me news of James who had undertaken writing a long-forethought metafiction, thus he had warned his pixies they would entertain in a better company by the river shore.
I spoke with Kate, who was reviving her youth in the house of the swans with her brother whose marriage had gone awry, just like that of their parents, I understood they could not envision life separately, whatsoever. Simon had bought their stepsister’s apartment beyond the Tuileries Park, there they would shelter their dotted passion because Kate knew nevertheless she belonged with us in the dovecote, while Simon had not been able to cope with our polyamorous ways. Moreover, from now on he mainly governed a shipping giant on the Elbe shores, but on that, we already dealt with sundry serious wheeler-dealers, didn’t we? Their fickle stepsister lived a happy life in the Caribean with the trust fund their father had left her.
The storms above Paris let exhale the petrichor note from Alfred’s gardens and did not preclude the tiny emperor from warbling, so we let a window open, whatever the splatters.
A little later, I went down to dress up to meet our arch-sponsor who had probably been watching my pretty loins all along, bar the romps on Julia’s Babylonian terrasses. It wouldn’t be a society chitchat, a simple shuffle-zodiac night printed silk twill shirt dress would give him the tiny thrill that he could bare the whole me in a sigh. Matched hold-up stockings and black patent leather opera pumps would underscore my nudity with flair. Charlotte had helped me lacquer my nails, and she was wowed, more so when I donned the platinum, onyx, and sapphire choker and wristband the big 7S had offered me. I needed not more than a dash of blush and eyeliner, lip gloss would make sucking look richer. I had to promise Charlotte a full night of snuggles.
There would be no massive berline with a peeping chauffeur, I was told a lackey awaited at the subterranean path to SEVENSTREAMS offices beyond the TRÆViX palace, and I had no idea how far they went. On my way, I heard there was fauna in the pool, but I met no one till that metal door I had never seen open, next to that leading to Michelle’s Neverland.
The usher displayed no visible gender, although they wore the usual masculine livery, but beamed that manner of unsettling beauty I would unfailingly fall for. They smelled of lime tree bloom, they casually gave me the eye as we roamed the utmost silent metal and grey velvet-clad corridors with a striated black marble floor and a luminous frosted glass ceiling. It crossed my depraved mind to corner them and rummage into their trousers.

Before opening the last door, they neared closed and whispered they dwelled only a few steps from us. Their long blond hair was gathered in a loose bun.
It was a vast salon with a high wooden coffered ceiling, stained glass windows, and an endless, intricate Isfahan rug overlapped with other smaller silk flowery ones. On a side, my boy Finlan was playing on a massive wood-cased organ-like instrument with a separate big wooden speaker box, the soundscape he commanded was a subdued, random melopeia as if he ad-libbed for himself alone, and I wished that the eerie laments of Jon Hassell would thread through that pearly haze from where they had flown away to. The big seven was wallowed in a deep, buttoned, maroon leather sofa, of a group of three, in an old-gold silk satin lounge gown over a floor-long white linen shirt, white stockings in ornate petit-point slippers.
I was still startled by the encounter I had in the crooked corridor, so I did not notice Melchior spoke about them right away, telling me he had bought them from Liselotte, not even on a carnal whim —like that he would sense for me then, bestowing me to sit on the adjacent sofa— so enthralling was the beauty of Sasha he had merely admired in her shower; he promised he would arrange a close encounter for us, possibly under his eager scrutiny, as I would know. They dwelled in a neighbouring house that Gauthier had just finished decorating, with independent access to the street, and inner communication with 7S offices.
An Asian boy in black brought a cart bearing a sparkling gold samovar, glass cups, and three plates under golden bell covers. His Lordship waved at Finlan to join us, so he put the machine seemingly in generative mode, so it continued seamlessly with the same harmonies and tempo. The delicate wayfarer whom I had come to know as Gwen’s protégé when she was whoring in Bruges had transfigured under the ascendancy of our nude performance dancers and Malo. Now he sported oat-blond curls unfurling over his eyes, fitted rosy gold silk brocade suits over white tee shirts, marigold yellow sneakers and socks. He smelled of red Lebanese.
The black-clad boy served us tea that I preferred dark because I knew It would be the utter best Taiwan crop, and then he lifted the cover bells, producing a merry carillon. There were sundry sorts of tiny pâtés, and it smelled of faraway spices. Mr M. did not eat, but he turned to me and said pontifically that I would not remember who I had gambolled with on that flight back other than my lovely posse, and he kept his greyish eyes jooked in mine for a hefty count of seconds while Finlan wolfed plenty of nibbles, however silently. I sussed it would rest on me to invent whatever tale to erase a heap of pretty souvenirs in our babies’ minds, at least convince them our different ones. I grasped we had dealt with hi-voltage operatives, under M.’ cover, in full knowledge of our usual complacency. That was it, he furrowed in his pocket and fetched a gleaming black leather box that he handed to me. It contained a ring with a deep-coloured sapphire the size of my middle fingernail, emerald cut, bevel mounted into a rounded platinum chevalière, and he joked he knew I would wear my parure, the stone was genuine Kashmiri, it rooted into my soul instantly.
His expression returned to his omnipotent goodwill, he rested his head on the sofa’s back and waved vaguely towards my waist, as in please, undress. I reclined and parted my thighs, so Finlan neared to graze over the edge of my stocking, and I knew M. had devised to watch us make love to each other. I freed the black glass buttons of my dress in no hurry, I had made out with the laid-back rake a few good times, and I let him denude me, thinking of how Gwen had rightfully chosen him as companion, there was some immature grace in both, and they had thrived among us.
I knelt before him to untie his coloured silk-braided belt and unleash his pretty stiff dick I did not wait to gulp while I pulled the trousers away. He was delicious in his mere tee shirt, I supposed M. was wanking at this sight and my bumhole in the air.
As a provident amateur harlot, after I had cleaned my innards, I had thought of carrying a small tube of lube, I knew there would be a need for sodomy anyhow. I straddled Finlan in reverse and let him bugger me legs wide open, my feet upon his knees. He was a nimble player, I could feel his blondish tuft tickle my butt crack, and I was first to spurt some, and again, before he gushed up to my kidneys with pleasant meows.
I rested my back into his arms, contorting sideways to kiss his mouth, when M. called me urgently, he wanted to come in my mouth, and I took that as an honour, but he tasted no different than the rest of his genre, after all. He called on Finlan and told him to shag me on his lap, spread open and ready, in my pink fore slit, and he passed him a pot of surgical wipes, mind you, it wouldn’t have dawned on my lustful mind. I noted he fondled the boy as much as I, but all I cared about was that he sheathed his hard candy deep into my dripping coochie and stumped it straight against my womb’s bottom.

And then as he had attained bliss to himself, he left us, splashed and messy like playful animals, reassuring us of his unswerving blessing and, to me, that I should go try his new hotel in London along with my pretty cubs, any time. As we caught our breath, hugging each other, unhurried upon the sticky leather, Sasha was here, waiting for orders with her dreamy smile; they carried our stuff to a grand bathroom, a round vaulted mosaic room depicting the wonders of a coral reef haunted by a profusion of sundry fish in semi-precious stones. They remained on dry land but looked at us unabashedly, rinsing our intimates, rubbing each other with the big natural sponges brimming with expensively perfumed lather, and then helping us to wipe in opulent towels, with their patient indiscreet hands. Some time along the corridor, I squeezed them, all gently, against the wall and told them what His Lordship had said concerning them; so, they returned my stare and asked if I would be certain of what I suggested, and I could tell the benignity of their desiring toy, they were one of those delicious unaccomplished beings, like our own Apolline —and many that entrusted their souls to Cynthia, next door— and who had also avoided the lure of the final butchery. In all kindness, (weren’t we birds of the same cloud? ), they confided to us their number, come what may, and responded to some unequivocal kisses, before hurrying us to our own customary burrows. Once they gave the final baci, the steel door shut with a sigh, and I thought we would hardly tell which one it was the next morning. After a last complicit embrace, Finlan ran to the dancers’ lair, and I took the lift to my floor.
Cecile and Charlotte sat in the buff at the dining table, sharing a rhubarb and ginger meringue pie over coffee; I couldn’t help retelling what we had been doing, except what I did not remember already. Cecile shared my tastes for undetermined grace, (on what Charlotte still kept wondering), thus she relished my all-fresh description of Melchior’s sublime usher, suspecting they had done the honours only for my sake. She surmised there would soon appear another new passenger on her couch, transfixed in Cyprien’s stare, with all I knew she would deploy afterwards to entrap them in her cubbyhole, and so in the lustful web of the God Crow homunculus!
After a fleeting voyage in which mingled the Chambellan realm and the tireless return of the Chrysler demanding men, the Manling chimaeras, I woke like a daisy with an urge to write a poem in Sasha’s mailbox, after I baked a stack of French toast. But I saw the flag on a word by Hugo that slightly implied he might enjoy my recount, too —I wondered if he might have nattered with a Rambling Rose he craved so much.
Eventually, Sasha and I talked. They were still in bed, the Almighty would be absent, and they owned their time. They had all the leeway to possibly cavort with whoever in the company orb —and I heard that included me, holy rain!— only they had never dared. They were born in Kersiguenou, on the Crozon peninsula, Brittany, nineteen years before, under a boy’s name, their parents teachers in psychology and literature at Renne’s university. A small village in the cold season, and a bustling resort in the fair months, they were an outgoing nature boy spending their time on the sprawling beach or the wild woodland around the hamlets. Their parents had fallen for a crooked granite old farm, and only wished to spend their life there from then on.
Until about thirteen, when the mockery about their tiny sexual appendages became unbearable, and they were exposed nude during recurring bullying. Thus, one afternoon, they swallowed a whole box of paracetamol to end their miserable life. It had been a stormy afternoon, their father had sussed something anomalous with the noises he heard from his son’s room, saw the emptied blisters and heard his son calling for death. The stomach pump took an hour to arrive, and the father had forced some milk down his oesophagus and made them vomit most of the sixty capsules, fearing that most had begun to dissolve. They had to swallow heaps of activated charcoal, they forgot about dying, and they slept in their parents’ bed.
Their father inquired, and he hated what he heard in smatterings. The schoolteachers called the affair a fuss about not much, there were nigh-on fistfights, the university don was accused of dolling their single offspring, irremediable words were spoken, thus the family moved instantly to Rennes and put the farm up for sale. They settled in a pretty townhouse with apple trees in the garden and dedicated the time they had earned by not commuting anymore, to homeschooling their lovely phenomenon.
Doctors found that Sasha would never be receptive to testosterone so as to develop a male body and sexual organs. Along with them, and with the help of a therapist sympathetic to the situation, the family decided to let Sasha become their apparent feminine self, rather than botch a hopeless simulacra. In any event, Sasha would enjoy the same manner of sex life as millions of happy homosexual people.

They were accepted in dance class as a she, provided their appearance and manners did not intrigue the other pupils, and she skipped the showers as she lived nearby. But when it came down to taking scholar exams, there should be a positive identification, and if the administration had accepted the name change from “Luc” to “Sasha” to comply with a medically proven ambiguity, France had not yet admitted a neutral sexual identity case, thus, Sasha passed the A levels as a boy and went on studying psychology with a girl student card.
I made the remark that they never spoke of their mother; they explained that, though she was a dedicated and loving ally, she had never frankly coped with the incongruity of Sasha’s situation; she would have easily fallen in the lure of the reassignment procedures that would have tortured her child every other year to no avail whatsoever. She owned that she was in no capacity to confront Sasha’s father, who had moreover exchanged with a host of colleagues and practitioners to build a solid case file —without involving Sasha, nominally. The recurring issue kept meandering in the marshes of Parliament. There had been laws to protect, incompletely, the intersex babies from the butchers, but the high court had brandished the fundamental principles of the republic so as to refuse the non-binary identity. In Europe, only Germany and Austria allowed undetermined passports, as of yet.
They had been a brilliant bachelor student, but she had crossed people who raised an eyebrow at their relationship with their father, who had become a potent don in the field. It might have been capricious, but when a private psychiatrist they had impressed —not with their science— in social gatherings at the family home, told them of some open position at 7S with a profusion of benefits, they had applied online and gone through Melchior’s weird untraceable routines, until after three months of pleasant online meeting whenas they never saw him but was offered a bona fide contract they could authenticate with the family notary. Their father did not feel he should intervene openly, but he garnered all info that was given to him overtly. M; told them he was sending a car unless they chose to take the fast train.
They had arrived two months before, in one of the guests’ suites while Gauthier’s teams arranged an apartment to their taste. As I would have bet, they had conversations to all extents, and eventually, they unveiled all their secrets to the copper-headed knight I told them was the best intuition they had ever had. I told them we all had shagged, in one way or another, the beautiful artist. He had sworn that no one, ever, in the tiny society they were about to discover, would even whisper a word of scorn for their being, and they would learn to sleep with their carnal peers, even. One thing They would not escape was the awe their beauty struck on whoever discovered them.
At Melchior’s instigation, they met with Cynthia, she had to walk down the street to find her door; she told her she had found it easier to exist as a she, although she possessed the apparatus to shag nicely with understanding girls. She told them she, or her staff, would be there for her at any puzzlement their condition would arise in their private or social life, and she advised them, anyhow, to afford a confidant therapist compatible with their state of being. They proposed to wait for me at the discreet door on morrow night, and I took that as a win, for my self-esteem.
The weather had freshened, thus I donned a brand-new white tracksuit I had brought back from New York, no undies, to climb down barefoot to Hugo’s for plenty of delicious gossip. I was all enthralled by my conversation with Sasha, the new peach tree in our neighbour’s garden, a promise for many sweet seasons, I craved to cuddle their feet. Hugo laughed to see me thus and rummaged into the thick new fleece that smelled of my petitgrain spiritual Cologne. We had golden truffle pâtés dripping with cashew cream, roasted peppers in hazelnut oil with pistachios, and pomelos and litchees salad in rose syrup. He couldn’t rest as I retold our carnal expenses on the terraces of Babylon, his familiar shaft quivering out of his long white shirt. He shagged me andantino, asking me to describe the many manners I had danced on, in the fragrant maze, the many dicks I had contented as a princely courtesan.
And then, after he had manipulated my body in the tepid rain in his bathroom, I wallowed indecently across the precious silk carpets, and I recounted the amazement of my foundlings in the Art Deco follies of the American fury, so much so that he was mulling a trip there, with Cecile, I understood that. We browsed through a period portfolio in heliogravure of Chambellan’s work for the Chanin that rekindled my visions as he buggered me again, chuffing.
I returned home to find Cecile, Adèle, and Rose bustling Charlotte’s brains with our transatlantic extravagances around a late-night cup and cookies, so much so that the poor girl began to hatch a plan where Lauritz would take her there, along with one or two of his own foundlings.

At my calling, the blind steel panel swivelled smoothly, and Sasha invited me in, stealthily. They bore their abundant hair strands free over the shoulders, and they wore a glistening dark variegated knitwear adjusted jumpsuit, with black slip-on shoes —they had long, slender feet. After all they had confided to me on the phone, I felt some carnal proximity just like with anyone on my side of the labyrinth, but I saw some jolt of distress when my hand wandered upon the silk a tad too low.
They hasted through that crooked corridor I feared I would never memorise right, but what was the risk? I had tried to compose a snazzy outfit with a rusty brown Prince de Galles silk tweed double-breasted blazer on a straight, short 200 wool black skirt, silk veil holdup stockings and black patent strap flats. We met sundry gold-toned mirrors, and I liked all I saw in them, my invisible makeup did set off my eyes. I wore my best sapphires, too.
We passed a few doors, and we stepped into a lift where I could sniff in her neck a musky wisteria one must have purchased at Floris’ and did not tell of a boy. They gave me that first timid kiss.
The wonky little penthouse had been dolled up by the dedicated craftsmen Gauthier kept busy, it had some feel of Trianon village, of princely rusticity, I said Cécile would love to enrich it, if they invited her. The walls were hung with probably digital reprints of toned-down botanic wealth historic wallpapers, on best-quality stock, with trompe-l’oeil cornices, plinths and mouldings, like in a time-spared playhouse, reaffirmed by a delicate antique military ordinance furniture of thin japanned steel, the kind that had roamed over Europe in Napoleonic turmoils. All the woodwork and closets had been adjusted and waxed in their best patina, and an Axminster carpeting with a reddish Smyrna pattern had been stretched so that I felt like taking my shoes off, expecting them to do so.
In the bedroom, a big padded maroon bed had pride of place in the middle of a dark luxuriant jungle representation with no discernible motive repeat, giving the feel of those tropical wells, and the night blue star-spangled ceiling evoked some mad opium den I craved to trip in with them, indeed. The jumpsuit opened on the front, I dared pull the tiny tab down, but they shifted aside, without pulling it back up.
The bathroom, which had been another bedroom once, was fully clad with stamped copper plates, and floored with bright blue azulejos, and matched loo, bidet and column sink; a wide shower head promised plenty of water fun; two tiny windows sheltered repoussé gold ivy bouquets. They needed my word to believe in their luck. My hands were so keen to slide on their chest.
Opposite the bedroom was a wood-panelled study with glazed closets packed with esoteric textbooks in English, a stern little desk invaded by sleek computer contraptions, two rounded-back caned chairs, and an oxblood red buttoned sofa, upon the same reddish oriental carpeting. It smelled of wax and cinnamon, I pulled them down on my lap and denuded their shoulder as I garnered a full-hearted kiss. Looking into their eyes, I asked if our bright knight had been kind to them in that other manner, because he always had been to me, and I tickled them softly.
In the nude, they were utterly splendid, their winnie straight fore like a candy cane, and it tasted as good. They were as tall as I, shapely long legs and rounded bum, slender hands and ticklish feet. But I saw their mouth turning bitter, and tears were near, so I shuffled my mood and asked them if they had ever touched a genuine girl, putting their hand on my doodleberry. I apologised for being too hurried, asking if they wanted to hear my life for a change, and that made them snigger a chink. There were blankets in the closet, it was softer to sit on, but I did not let them hide themselves, however, and it made them smile again.
They heard most of the shebang of my wayfarer youth, the confederacy of the Tudor squirrels, and the snow angels. She literally adored my Saint Loup saga, the boxwood grove, and the laundry cellars, although they protested I exaggerated on the slutty side. I envied their virginal candour, I told them that made her all the more desirable, when they wished for it. I went on till they dozed and I helped them to the grand bed, all They needed was a silent white cloud, for now. Hoping I would make my way back, I remember there was an exit on the floor level, and my telephone could open our back access. I was stirred like a debutante, and proud of my holding back, this was not a seasoned alley-cat, and watching them would be all the more delicious. I wondered if Cynthia would accept to counsel me around them. I went to the pool and met Percy who had not shagged me in aeons.

A young delivery boy from the Rue du Bac flower shop brought a bunch of sunflowers mid-morning, so I fetched the heavy teal blue barbotine vase and displayed my token of gallantry for anyone to know. While I brewed some Taiwan delight, I wrote a makeshift poem to our new sylphic neighbour. Kate wrote she would arrive that evening. Charlotte trundled about and avowed she had had a bustled evening at Speck’s with three insatiable Swedes I seized her waist to listen how she would moan, but found that she was merely a bit achy in her loins, which did not forebode a quieter tonight. She asked about the flowers, so I explained I had earned them by not forcing my way on someone I craved. She sat on my lap, drank from my cup, and promised she wouldn’t tell. She had never betrayed my trust, so I told her what she would learn sooner or later, I sussed it had been M.’s intention by showing them to me, and sending her after me —after Gauthier had introduced her to the real world, pianissimo. She knew all the mysteries of the lovely creatures who dwelled in TRÆVIX’s attics; she had gambolled a few kindly nights up there, and she feared not indecisiveness. She wondered what was with Sasha, and I could only tell of preternatural beauty, which meant I had been lovestruck by M;’s young usher, so much so that I had let her sleep. Charlotte listened and then begged me to knead her loins like she knew I could do magic, it was rightful, and we went on the bed, but I told her all the same I had shagged Percy in the water before going to sleep.
Sasha and I chatted all day with held-back words, so she surrendered by five, agreeing to come up to ours for dinner, not worse. I told her the dress code would be scruffy chic and barefoot, we were all vegan, and teetotallers; I would wait for her at eight before the concealed door. I promised we would not exceed seven guests, and I ordered Charlotte, whose back was healed, to keep mum. Delff and Apolline understood obviously. I warned Cecile, but Kate was somewhere en route, and Sasha knew her long connivance with Cynthia.
They wore baggy jeans and an untucked dark indigo shirt, gently tousled hair and bare feet. I noticed their natural brows never were manly, and I had not seen any makeup in the apartment. I hugged and kissed them casually —we had gone thus far, hadn’t we?— and I kept them clutched to my wing as we walked to our side’s lift. They exclaimed when seeing the swimming pool afar with nude beauties splashing around, but they shied off when I proposed we go see them, thus I ushered them to the lift, watching their slender feet. A lift car is a place where people kiss, they let be done.
Charlotte was setting the table, in a mere Tana Lawn blouse. It was a treat to see her jolt as she looked at Sasha, her connoisseur stare piercing through the pair of jeans; she held their hand just a tad too long —and Sasha already had no more footing. Cecile burst in, just out of the shower, exhaling a whiff of snazzy man’s Cologne, well done. She too, was awestruck before the Big 7’s treasure —I clenched them tighter at my side to avoid them a quiver of awkward self-conscience. Cecile has cunning moves when inspired, she stepped kindly upon Sasha’s foot, telling them they would look so overwhelming in a portrait by her workshop buddy, and she called them Lady Hamilton.
Delf wore gold lamé jeans and a cropped rainbow-dyed top, in all, Apolline a long-tails maroon milleraies shirt, and gold bangles to their wrists and ankles. As their usual, Delf was gently demonstrative, a bubble of ginger tangerine who stole Sasha from me and slid their hand to their tummy. Sasha had never encountered any of her kind, and they were light-struck. Nevertheless, the two ambiguous imps knew their practice by heart, asserted by a long soul-searching with Cynthia, thus they obtained reddition of Sasha’s jeans, revealing faultless tapered legs and letting Delf’s hands stroke the precious ratchet I had sucked last night.
Gwen appeared in an oversized lichen-green jumper, she had another part to hold, although not apparently as ambiguous. Sasha liked them all and retold her life story to an eager audience, although it sure wasn’t a smidgen as tragic as theirs. Kate disembarked from her Alster shore palace in Hamburg, she naturally kissed everyone, and then was taken aback as I introduced Sasha, who was already scantily clad in their blue shirt already buttoned Monday to Tuesday. She read a shade of alarm, thus she muffed her voice to say who she was and we had long lived together like atypical swans. Sasha let be hugged again, tamed for good. Then Kate went to our quarters to drop her bag, and came back in a simple ribbed sage tank minidress that let ignore none of her shapes. She nonchalantly told Sasha she was altogether an ordinary woman. They chuckled.
I had fried bread slices to load them with cashew cream with morels, a secret of mine prepared by Agnete&Sanne who sold it to worthy customers of our privileged streets.

Sasha insisted on hearing the guests’ life stories, since they said we all sounded like out of the dire waters of strangeness. They were amazed by the light-heartedness with which young, desirable, impish characters retold sordid ordeals they had undergone, and they owned that they had been favoured with a father like theirs, I concurred, for I felt a rare one with a righteous dad, too.
I unmoulded colourful vegetable chartreuses, along with tasty sauces and lab-grown spicy baby salads sprayed with lemon juice and hazel oil.
I warned Sasha there was more to our carefree ways of life, and to our polyamorous philosophy. Not only were we sharing our unfettered promiscuity in our little utopia, but we all belonged to some planetary network of transmissible disease control behind which we could have free rein over our sex life all the way to safe prostitution without latex sheath. Their jewel eyes rounded wide, this was beyond their rational mind, although they had studied all manners of human behaviour, in their academic cursus, they had never confronted the actual motivations in the living flesh and that, a righteous father doesn’t do, incest is too heavy a burden to carry on, as I saw it.
We all swore that they would never be forced to abide by any sexual behaviour; even one of the most potent men in the world had not violated their will, and neither would we. For the time being, their great beauty was enough to secure a niche inside a richissime realm, and they would comprehend more bits of the inner workings with every new turn of the clock. As for hic et nunc, didn’t they relish my kneading their feet under the table?
Dessert was a real Empress Rice Pudding with sundry candied fruit scattered in it, moulded in a baroque Victorian edifice. It seemed timely for the two foundlings to barge in, ready to devour the bulk of it, before they noticed the impressive delicate new guest they couldn’t tell if it was a Lord or a Lady, the shirt ajar on a pale flat chest. We all turned the introductions into comedy, and the pudding was utterly delicious. It happened that Sasha spoke a bit of broken Italian, and Adèle fell instantly smitten by them, eventually easing her narrow bum on their chair, and grasping ever so fastly whoever she was wooing thus, her little harlot hand down between Sasha’s thighs.
We had ten of these unfailing historic Windsor chairs that had kissed endless crowds of arses, clothed or bare, and on they went. Adèle charmed Sasha while twiddling their toy bauble that stood upwards, and naturally, she told of her astounding upbreeding and how, haphazardly, we abducted her to freedom and caused a domino effect collapse in her hometown. There, she met my eyes and changed seamlessly the matter to how we had misbehaved in luxury hotels. She had been wearing her dawn-gradient lounge dress, they ended in the nude swapping spoonfuls of vanilla white surprise, while Kate fondled the whole shrub of Rose’s.
Sasha needed nought more than a subito Italian romance, I noded she should accompany her lover to her lair, while Kate craved for a horticultural fling. Charlotte and Cecile felt the call of the God Crow, and the attic children took pity on me and pulled me to the shower where they pissed in my mouth, to start with.
I woke in my bed alone, not totally miffed, but a tad defeated. Sasha returned to the breakfast table and kissed me like never before, not shying her pretty crotch away. I wore my new white sweatsuit, they sat next to my left and slid a hand into my pants, and I was stunned. Her hair smelled of Adèle’s kisses, it dawned on my tea that they had broken all the hampering emotional bondings, and so she returned to me, unscathed, I went fetch her a maroon and cream sweatsuit she liked. She agreed she had been shivering cold. Once garbed into my scent, she gathered up her legs sideways to rest her feet against my thigh for me to stroke them.
Kate sniggered when she joined the table as if the scene were so obvious; she reached for Sasha’s hand to tell her they would remain among us all they liked and I was her fair anchor. Rather than brew another pot, I proposed we climb up to the studio. I gave Sasha funny Norwegian socks because they took some two sizes bigger than us, I bantered we were in for another round of shopping, but I reassured them that it would be free.
I hoped the heather fairies would come, and they did, in their usual thistle blue style, although Fayelle was an imaginary Scot with a titanium skull welded over the dream of the axolotls —She quivered at the sight of the Chanin frieze in a book— but she also sported finely white feet on the futon we had decidedly no reason to remove, now.
Being the tea maid, I mused it would be time to acquire a Samovar, like TRÆVIX’s —I told Sasha it was certain we would be invited to the palace that night— but Annabelle complained that she loved the big pumpkin Yixing pot, didn’t I? The object pleased Sasha like a fairytale genie. The newcomer had to yield to the marvelled curiosity of our poet ladies.

They announced they were genderless by birth but had been happy in their seaside village until the age of common puberty, which their metabolism skipped. Thankfully, their father rebuffed the quack sorcerers and took sides with their inner being that needed no pharmacopoeia tricks; were they pleasant enough for northern shepherdesses? That would be a signal to unleash a flurry of snuggles and fondlings, gently agreed with; Sasha lost their socks again.
Sweet Kate, all too happy being in her real home again, feasted her eyes all her fill; she mused that if Sasha took a taste in carnal games, it would be wiser to coin a black card, too. Sasha did not know about that, thus Kate fetcher hers and showed it, then opened her laptop, opened the proper site, that is, a blank black page with an invite blinking, and, under Sasha’s eyes —they rubbed their body against Kare’s warmth— punched the long number on the black plastic card, and the screen turned to blue-green fractal animation around a button labelled “status”, which opened the mention of the next limit date. Groping their bum, Kate said they might go together in the afternoon, the clinic was five minutes away; it would be a simple blood test in conjunction with their Social Security carte vitale, and the genuine doctors would propose all available means of prevention against all transmissible illnesses, ie sundry vaccinations, but Sasha said they thought they were up to date on that level. Thus, an appointment was made for us three, in the afternoon, through the same swarming site.
As expected, a message from Delff rang on my telephone, inviting the household to a friendly party in their salons. I translated it might mean two dozen mixed party animals awestruck before their ethereal beauty, all of them highly desirable and available, in earnest. I promised I would let her shy away under my wing if they dared not woo anyone else in the assembly, or let anyone woo them, which would not miss to happen.
At the homelike clinic, after they filled the forms and signed an authorisation to read in their carte vitale, we all gave samples, and it was simpler for them, who wouldn’t have cycles. No questions were asked, they supposed a special code in their numbers set them aside in a class of their own. But they would own a black card in the morrow with possible notification of a vaccine to take.
That accomplished, we went to the A&S tea room, where the waitresses rolled their eyes like marbles. I warned Sasha that the whole staff would come up, only to peek a glance at them, and it did not fail. Nonetheless, we took rhubarb and mulberry, tangerine and raspberry, and almond and pear pies, a few brioches in view of future French toasts. I warned we would not be home that night, and we carried the boxes up to the studio, where the heather spirits salivated.
Later, after the feast of heavenly pastries, Sasha wept when Annabelle let out the tale of her Glaswegian childhood —if it might be called thus— and her career as a young backyard trull. But she did not avoid telling of the onset of complacent licentiousness through the thorny byways of her destitute fate, until she was raptured by her forever soulmate and liberal lover, who brought her to Paris and supported her generously, although she no longer dwelled in his wisteria-ridden estate in Montmartre to enjoy the delights of unabashed wantonness at a few steps down their rent-free comfortable nest. Fayelle had once become a depressed sidewalk floozie before Camille, an affluent, redeemed fellow wayward badweed, singled her up in her gallery and gave her a warm shower before cuddling her in her bed where I came to know her and showed her to acclimate with us all and follow Annabelle back to school and into her perch.
During the yarn of the lost damsels’ redemption, Sasha had let their trousers slide and enjoyed the rosy lips of the one who wasn’t talking, which tickled Kate’s unfettered fancy as she crept down and gnawed the angel’s toes before overtaking their angel’s pretty groin and earning a sip of angel’s materiality, underscored with a deep sigh. Alfred pretended not to be amused.
That is the scene our Natalia came to discover after the throes of lust had appeased. Hugging my back on my seat, she firstly saw a heavenly face beyond the desk edge, then her gaze embraced the whole angel not caring for modesty, and was, like we all had, awestruck. She dropped her jeans and crept to frolicking on the futon at the semi-god’s feet. I wasn’t tired yet to do the presentation in Sasha’s presence, and anyhow, it was like their day, wasn’t it? Natalia complimented them candidly, grazing along their smooth body features, casting spells they remained thus forever.
Sasha had not then explored our part of the subterranean province, I showed them all from the bottom up, the timeless foundations with the crypt of the dead, the pool, the gym, the dance floor, and the golden corridor to TRÆVIX palace were awaited black-clad ushers.

Most of Michelle’s minders came from families in the ancient French Indian trading ports, of dark complexion and self-awareness, like the personnel of Paris museums —only later on into the night could they unveil a more lustful side of their characters, as in the roaring twenties society, although as of dinner time, one could not tell that.
As it was a no-code mingle gathering, and we had had no time to go shopping for basics like evening slippers for Sasha, we remained in the new sweatsuits I had bought in New York, and white socks. They were bewitched by the cornucopia-style mix of decor, and they asked if Gauthier was also managing these installations they felt they belonged to. The underground round hall was now lacquered a dark shade of vermillion, on the checkered pavement stood a new gilded bronze dancer, a sister to the famous one by Rudolf Belling, on a black marble plinth.
We met Camille’s entourage walking on the ground floor, Dagmar, blond straight bob hairstyle, wrapped in one big grey unspun wool loose knitted jumper with a slanted cowl neckline, setting off her long tapered legs wearing grey suede Tod’s Gominos, who jumped at Sasha’s side to hold their hand kindly; Fanny in an open white shirt and an undone powder blue tie, white Jodhpur boots, short, curly wheat-blond curly hair; Camille, warned by Fayelle, tousled light-ginger mane, Emilie Flögel mint green panne velvet tunic dress and assorted crocodile loafers, totally mesmerized by Sasha’s face and allure, an omen to the talk of the gathering that made us clench tighter to each other.
Gauthier appeared in a grand bow salute and dashed at Sasha’s lips, stealing them off me like a prey of his, who they obviously were, I had visited their hideout. I console myself knowing that the copper knight would return the angel as fresh as we had found them. He tasked himself with the honours of the house.
The grisaille salon had been peopled with a collection of grand Delft earthenware chinoiserie jars that glistened under the cloud-like chandelier, upon ebonised wood stands, all along the pastoral scape; as for grand gatherings, tables were dressed with amuse-gueules and pitchers of coloured kombucha and lemonade. I had lied to Sasha, the whole tribe had come running only for them, and I should stand at the ready.
In the Turqueries grand salon, I noticed at once that a choice had been made to gilt the wooden fac-simile life-size nymphets, and it reminded me of the pretty priestesses guarding the canope vases for King Thut in Cairo’s museum, against the soft-coloured gouache-like panorama, I liked them in all their golden details. In the sumptuous dawn-gradient skies, a new Venetian etched mirror, bevel-mounted in a repoussé gold monument, hovered too high for anyone to gaze at oneself in it.
Sasha chaired, blushing, next to their lover on the central vermillion sofa, coveted by the pretty crowds, Delff in their fitted daffodil yellow suit cajoling their bared feet upon a crimson silk velvet cushion. Apolline and the Thistle sisters retold ad infinitum Sasha’s becoming story, freed of provincial pettiness, dubbed by M. with selfless largesse.
As the meeting reached full swing, Delff nodded at Gauthier and pulled Sasha all the way upstairs, unavoidably to meet the grand hostess, and I thought I could see that. Delff did not avoid kissing their kindred on the grand staircase, while I watched, holding the bronze rail. In the anteroom, Josephine and Emeline danced nude to the music of Malo, who played an unusual instrument, a half-breed of a cello and a guitar, an arpeggione. Gwen and Finlan, Charlotte and Cecile, Fæbian and Lizon, all in the nude, but Cyprien, only barefoot in his nondescript greyish outfit and holding a drawing pad, communed with the dancers in the scattered light of the cosmic chandelier.
Sasha stood stunned and dazed at the sight of our inhabited pixies, I stole them back from their beautiful deflowerer, and I asked them to squat and watch in my embrace, my hand stealthily in his trousers. They leaned on my shoulder kindly, and all the lovely faces cast us mellow smiles. The pair paused and came to us, seated on their heels, still wired with inspiration, offering their coochies to see, accepting Sasha’s heartfelt compliments, and inviting them anytime to the dance floor.
I led them towards the sanctum sanctorum of the metaconnexions, the Aviatrix was practising her own yoga flavour upon her cantilever seat, in front of her meta-keyboard, her pretty pet nymph Trine in lotus posture on the carpet below. Delff went stealthily to Michelle’s feet and exerted some kind of massage, with no apparent avail. I was groping Sasha’s tight apple of an arse.
Resettling her balance in the craned armchair, Michelle took a deep breath and turned to us, at once smiling at Sasha, who was bedazzled by the whole wall of screens blinking with innumerable spots and signals, the Aviatrix wiped her spectacles, and I could admire her disarming, youthful unglazed face for a short glance.

As she feasted her eyes upon the new wonder on the block her partner cum neighbour had warmly alerted her about, she beckoned them nearer and graze their smooth cheek with the back of her hand. She spoke softly as her hand wandered about, promising Sasha would be safe forever.
Naturally, our eyes returned ceaselessly to the agitated charts she commanded on the wall —it reminded me of Victor’s copper-clad room where he once shagged me in front of the Xmas-like twinkles of his market watch. Suddenly, Sasha asked abstruse questions, as for my understanding, but not for Michelle’s, who seemed to answer straightly and engaged in a heated disputation, before suddenly swivelling her seat to face such an angel full of surprises I had taken til then as studying philosophy.
For her, too, casual meant a vague tracksuit, more of a childish pyjama of white fleece randomly embroidered with soft-coloured mathematical symbols I sussed had cost somebody’s arm and leg. She invited Sasha to sit down with her on the carpet, as Trine pulled me by my sleeve out of the room, back to hear Malo play on her new instrument. Further, in the dim-lit chill-out salon, Finlan was shagging Emeline in Josephine’s arms, and Trine wondered if that inspired me to cuddle with her in one of the white brocard loveseats.
Trine is a delicate lovemaker, we lingered in the cuddly shades, but then a gang of blood-thirsty Cossacks came out of the woods and found us ripe to their taste, and Sergei knew my needs, as one of his cohorts dragged away my sweetheart. They had come to gang bang Cecile and Charlotte, too, it soon was a concert of huffs and puffs, to which a reunion of Natalia and her faithful minders joined spiritedly.
After I had passed out at the hands of one urban savage, I made my way to a whirly mosaic bathroom where I could rinse away the off-spurts of the vandal army, while a bergamot and lavender bath ran, in which I dozed out. I woke back shivering with cold, thus I ferreted out for my fleece. On the other side of the storey, glazed and veil-strung doors had been shut on Michelle’s private lair. I wouldn’t know about Sasha, and the staff was doing their best to clean up around the scattered party guests, exhausted, in lewd poses. I helped move them into easier attitudes and covered them with some unused tablecloths.
Kate had brought Mathurin back to our bed, and they both smelled like an Italian daybreak in the sun. I couldn’t help fiddling with the boy’s dick that straightened all right but did not wake him. My hazy mind began conspiring that Melchior had played three-cushion billiard to put Sasha, whom, he could not ignore, was a proper undercover nerd, possibly level with the Queen of them all, into her might-wielding pants.  I ended up chasing rain frogs, barefoot in the grass of Tycho Brahe’s Star Castle observatory on Ven Island, cawed at by the murder of crimson crows who have known me forever.
At dawn, my bedfellows shagged back to life, I knew Kate’s moans so well, I watched them, wanking myself unfazedly before going to cook breakfast. Cecile, who never slept and was a bit of a seer, came up and slid her hand into my trousers casually, she yawned that it had been a fine spend, and wondered what had become of Sasha. I retold her that they had flown with Michelle to some Fibonacci multiverse, and it had escaped me that they might well be an autistic savant, the computer in their studio should have alerted me. Anyhow, I wouldn’t change an iota my attitude towards them, and I still craved creeping into their bed, alive. Cecile said that Cyprien had fallen headfirst for their beauty, and we should help bring them on the workshop’s sofa, listen to Bach in the nude, shan’t we?
Around noon in the studio, a pear-and-sweet-pea trio brought fresh cinnamon-raisins rolls, Apolline, Delff, and Sasha giggled. I dived into their more-than-ever-deep gaze, while my hands wandered into the maroon and cream fleece, and they did not flee, seeing what the attics puppies left us to reconcile alone together. Yes, Melchior had known all along they had been diagnosed a mild case autistic savant, and informatics wunderkind, which they hated to advertise in fear they be singled out as a total monster, would I?
As it had turned during my visit to their pad, I unclothed them on the futon and asked how it had gone with the queen, they sniggered and said I knew she was a sweet bee, even with odd specimens. Once they had spurted their swig into my mouth and owned that it felt wonderful, I suggested they might agree to pose for a truly great artist, in Cecile’s workshop —they loved Cecile— in the nude. I added that Cyprien would show him his portraits of all of us, exposed, including our middlesex darlings.
After a brief shower, I led them to Cecile’s world, and they liked it, and moreover, the untiring pearly strands of Bach in the perfect speakers. Cecile prepared some coffee, and Cyprien, who visibly was intimidated, showed his drawings, Apolline and Delff and Gwen, obviously immature, among our lovely troupe. Unexpectedly, they agreed to show themselves standing, nude, and Cyprien wept.

I sensed the music transported them —Cyprien’s good meditative path, which had given Cecile the peace and the persistence, whatever Lauritz’s glitzy debauchery in devotion to her— and they let me handle their pose upon the burgundy plush velvet on the sofa, arrange their blond strands, thinking of Gustave Moreau’s languid adolescents. The well-tempered backwash would return endlessly, and Cecile fetched kerchiefs for Cyprien.
I returned to TRÆVIX’s, as, since always, I had free access to Michelle’s rarefied propinquity —besides, I loved to play with Trine’s slender body, on the command room’s carpet or else their undone futon. The house had been thoroughly tidied, and the heating adjusted so the resident elves could wander unclothed if the whim took them thus.
Michelle wore an ecru pyjama, her small feet —which for months had been all I saw sneaking out from under our red studio sofa— resting upon the edge of her metakeyboard. A buff Yi-Xing earth, finely allusive-shaped peach and branch teapot, and a glass cup, waited on a side tray. At this minute, she was totally invested in whatever operation was happening beyond my comprehension at the core of her machines, I thought I could have sucked her toes, and she wouldn’t have noticed.
She turned aside to pour some tea, and she smiled at me, making a gentle comment on my new ambiguous fling so beautiful. She asked for details about their provenance, she had been stunned by their fluent savvy in computing logic, but she refuted that they be any more autistic than herself, being metabolically undecided was widely enough to explain their cute weirdnesses, wasn’t it?
Certainly, her omnipotent partner had found it amusing to send them as a curveball and wait that it veer her course, he had not trusted Gauthier for that, he had known the copper knight had shagged them the first night.
To hell with menial jobs, were it in 7S grand style, Sasha would collect doctorates, be it at Michelle’s expense, the die was cast. She was amused to hear they were posing for Cyprien, she said she would buy the drawings if he sold them. She let me cuddle her on her workhorse, but her eyes had returned to the battlefield. She had cut her hair short, she smelled of mellow hesperides, I slid a hand into her pants.
Back upstairs in the studio, Kate was at work, and the fairies read Monsieur Songe by Robert Pinget. I was thinking they would spend the night in Cecile’s magazines’ cubbyhole; I had their number, I proposed we go shopping the next day, I wouldn’t let them with Cyprien for days on, all the more that Hugo was wondering what strange rumours unfurled about in the house.
Not comfortable in Mr Songe’s front yard, I went to loiter near Adèle’s only to find them a tad dishevelled after a party of Cossacks had ended the night in their beds. They were bare-arsed, and they smelled funny, I went frolicking in the shower with them. They assailed me with questions about the shy angel. They had played with the attics’ imps, they knew what intersex meant in its sundry flavours.
Gauthier had arranged the Mola panels into black reverse moulding frames and then assembled them against a red ochre wall behind an opulent vermillion wool velvet sofa and armchairs, the perfect setting for a Cossack orgy. On a new ebonised wood antique side table, in an engraved copper tray, stood a fully functional electrified samovar, out of which Rose poured, with pride, a respectable Russian-blend tea; Sergei was not only a bad boy.
Fanny dropped by, she did not shun the pretty nudity of everybody, but there was an appointment at Adèle’s future French school, so the ragazza put on light-colour flourished leggings, a short tunic dress, a grey corduroy bomber and grey patent loafers and they ran, Fanny sported a navy trench, black ankle-boots and knee-socks; she smelled of costly fruity Chypre.
Rose said the weather was too dull to stroll about, and she did not feel like shopping, so I sat on the rich, maroon with sundry motives, Persian rug to begin kissing her feet, smelling of the Neal’s Yard Geranium-Orange much in use in the tribe. She wallowed like the odalisk at my whim, and then we tried all the lewdest postures on their sofa. She said I should go with them at Speck’s that night; she felt whorish.
Cecile texted they would go in aparté for the night at Sasha’s, would I take Charlotte with me anywhere? Rose liked Charlotte. Adèle and Fanny came back whisked by the early season wind, Fanny ran to Dr Méant’s, it had become an addiction, hadn’t it? Adèle rejoiced we went together to sell our hides to rich clubmen, it was some weird vindication for her upbringing, said she. Now then, she knew enough of French to negotiate the limits of her prestation, like a well-bred harlot.

We went early —food is excellent and plentiful for Speck’s damsels.
Adèle wore that gleamy dark blue variegated jersey bodycon dress, and it was easy to see there was nought else in it. It was Rose who allowed the majordome Udo Wenzell his tip in kind, unfazed; she wore a purplish and black mish-mash painted silk shirt dress and black silk hold-up stockings with black velvet slippers embroidered with silver roses. I sported a 200s wool blend double-breasted blazer with satin peak lapels, hold-up veil stockings with large hems, and patent opera pumps.
The attendance was cosmopolitan, while we tasted fresh vegan tiny pies from the rue Saint Louis, we fell under the radar of a bunch of Japanese executives with expensive watches. Adèle followed the obvious alpha, who apparently spoke Italian, Rose, already well-tuned, agreed on the deal with a pair of well-spoken bow-tied perverts, and I let a fourth inscrutable character slide his hand between my lapels before leading him to the dispatch desk where many indicators were lit.
He groped me in the lift car and tortured my mulberries so that I feared I had followed a sadist, thanks but no thanks, not that way. Come what may, Since he was here, he had seen the conditions of use, and I knew the sundry security recourses. But now he was massaging my chest in a way that the pinch I had felt diffused deliciously straight to my chakras.
That fourth-floor room was a manner of baroque singerie in the Margravine taste, the walls scattered with framed mirror shards around which played a colony of delicately painted macaque monkeys. I wondered if Cecile had also worked on these —and shagged her boss in there, she still had a sweet taste for Gauthier, she might as well have tested all the rooms. My present NERV boss spoke awfully broken English, but his gestures were so expressive that I could feel like a puppet and see a shallow zircon smile when my pose fit his want. There were two painted chairs, a marsh green wool velvet club armchair, and the expected square bed sprawled with padded willow green satin. He feasted his eyes making me contort so as to offer my bumhole upon the furniture. He disrobed of his Armani bespoke suit and his Yuki silk shirt and trunks. He sported that conspicuous truncheon of a dick that made me wish for lube at first. He pushed me to the bathroom, a soft-green marble cube with gilded apparatus, where he showed me that I rinse my bowels with the disposable enema hose, straddling the bowl. Once he decided I was clean, as he rubbed me softly into a thick towel, he kept muttering in Japanese, and I sensed he was slathering my slits with the commendable Swiss Navy like he would have greased his personal gun, and I did not conceal that he was pleasuring me. He led me back to the bed’s edge and showed me to kneel back like a bitch, arching my loins the most to expose my bumhole. He had handled me smoothly, I was no more misgiven as to being used for what I had come for, as he did, deep and easy like I were a fine-tuned Gold Wing en route to bliss, I splashed him and again unabashedly. He growled as he spurted jizz all over my entrails, collapsed over me and kept silent as I felt I dripped. When his spear waned, he pulled me back to the bathroom and pushed me gently under the shower, as the fluids added veins to those of the marble tray. He massaged me as no one ever had, and kissed me deep in the tepid rain. Eventually, I was utterly puzzled when he left, throwing a handful of bills upon the stains we had left on the bed, of which I pulled a couple for the cleaning help.
I smirked that was a good thing he had made me pull off my stockings before making me squirt down my thighs. As a trained harlot, I carried a slim spray of that expensive King Street Myrrh and Tonka Cologne, so as not to smell like a return mare. The Japanese fleet had set sails, and I felt peckish, little canapés with wild asparagus on egg fit, with a full tumbler of elderberry kombucha.
I heard a melodious barytone on my nape while piano fingers rummaged my jacket back slit. I was told to eat my fill, at my pace, before letting myself be drawn to a quiet place. He was a tall, curly black-haired, honey-skinned, and almond black eyes Middle Eastern cavalier that gave me a brief deja-vu pang; I thought I might have shagged him before, as it was bound to happen someday, in another pleasure stable.
In the lift, he ferreted out my clit and wanked me, I was already limp when he opened the door. That room was entirely clad with grey waxed zinc sheets, bar a full-length mirror, with a huge luminous white feather ball above a padded black velvet bed tucked with black toile. Two patinated steel chairs and a black velvet footboard bench were the possible props for our dance party, and the coal grey carpeting was deep.
As he went for the nightstand drawer, he asked me my name and liked it, but he didn’t tell me his. I hung my jacket to a coat peg and asked if he liked my stockings, he looked me up and told me to pull them off. He seized my arms in my back and watched me in the mirror, thus I unzipped his trousers and caught hold of a sizeable circumcised penis as adroitly as a seasoned harlot.

He joshed about Adonis with a vagina —I had heard that one since about 8th grade, and I liked that, everybody wanted to shag me, anyhow. He undressed behind me as I still wanked him hard. He knew how to start music with a command he had fetched in the drawer, he chose a laid-back electronic station, I preferred the Steve Roach mix to live through what we were about to do, and he agreed.
He told me to sit on my heels, wide-opened, and suck him once afore, and watching my relaxed bumhole aroused him such that he seized my nape when he couldn’t help gushing a fast shot deep into my throat. I gulped all neat, so he admired and kissed me in his own bitterness. He said he could see I had been buggered lately, I nodded and said he could make it easy with lube, for I had no taste for pain. He laid me on my back, took the tube from the nightstand and told me to hold my legs high, wide apart. He sniffed, liked my pubis scent, and went on to licking with dedication and ardour as he wanted me to splash for him, so I didn’t hold back, and he liked it. He had stuck his gooey fingers into my anus and coochie all that time, so now his penis glided in both my pathways. He was beautiful, his hair had fluffed like that of a Hollywood swashbuckler, I exulted a few more times before he gushed deep into my loins.
The bathroom was also smooth-waxed zinc —like the old rustic tubs we played with on sunny days in Taarbæk, aeons ago. He took leisurely pleasure handling me in the lather of a Bay Rum body shampoo, then he pulled himself back together, combed his curls back, threw a few dollar bills on the sink console, kissed me and called me my name, so I stood dumb, I still had no idea who he was. I rinsed my arse, I hoped my own fragrance would mix well with the spices in my hair, I left the money on the nightstand for the maid, and I strolled downstairs.
Rose sat on a bronze velvet Iribe Nautile loveseat, eating a chocolate éclair over a gold-rimmed plate, her shirt merely tied with one button, eyes gently swayed. She told me about the double tornado with the pair of Japanese rabid dogs, frightening but eventually entertaining, even and odd at the same time, politely executed, anyhow, and they had swapped sides under the shower. Then she had pumped a short-breathed senior who had not undressed of his three-piece suit, only pulling a shaky dickie and touching her all over, fingering her arse, then asking her to suck. His jizz tasted of a spiderweb, would she say.
I told her we should dance languorously together, and it might inspire a clubman with a double wallet, and that is what happened. But first, one white bow-tie fogey had to be shunned for the redhibitory cause of a boozy breath, to the benefit of a comely senior don type with white sideburns who enthused for our duet, atwitter fondling two butt cracks at once while watching, up close in the lift car, our tongues twirl together.
He led us to a last-floor room upholstered in a singular edition of Toile de Jouy, off-white printed in coral red of pastoral ribald scenes between nymphs, cherubs, and fauns, enough to send the makers to the Bastille, but perfect for the scholar’s lyricism. Stucco scenes of sundry obscene couplings peopled the pale pistachio green ceiling, and moreover, the petit point tapestry upholstery on the bed’s headboard and a pair of Régence armchairs depicted diverse crude Olympian raptures. Nowhere could the eye escape the obsession for whichever kind of fornication, bar the toned-down Savonnerie carpet.
With flitting hands, he disrobed us both down to our toes and made us dance while he took his trousers off, remaining hidden in his shirt’s tails; and black high socks in his polished black Oxfords. Once he had released his collar, manspreading in his armchair, he waved me to bend to him, and he tied his white bow to my neck in a swift sleight, then he made me spin, and I sensed his tongue poking in my bumhole, so I found appropriate to further the favour to Rose who spread her bum cheeks graciously.
He might well be ancient, show rosacea and hold his loins when he stood, but he sported nonetheless a stiff root full of heated blood. He arranged us upon the bed, me on my back, with my head over the edge, Rose face to me, spreading wide enough to give me her quim to lick, and reciprocally. Then he fetched a tube of KY to prepare his way into Rose’s slits, and so he foraged whimsically between the three manners, coming back in my mouth and asking me to drool on him. He reached his peak in Rose’s lesser hole, banging his balls on my eye, mumbling whatever in what sounded like Latin.
He congratulated our prowess and invited us to the bathroom, with an antique hammered copper tub, big enough for the three of us, like fish in the saumonière, said he, as he took off his shirt. He was still half erect, as he sunk his belly into the jasmine-scented water. He told me to turn my arse to him and crouch upon his dick I would soon revive with my skilled hand; Rose would straddle the rim of the tub and piss on his face if she felt so. Her arsehole dripped jizz among the lather on the bath water, the john laughed, and he hardened again at my own sluthole’s edge.

Back in the salon, I still sported the white bow tie, Charlotte and Adèle had been waiting for us to flee, they had had their fill of rich depravity. Lauritz’s foundlings and some new well-turned nymphets were up there, performing. Udo asked me for a goodbye favour, and my posse came with me in his private hideout, offering all he wished while I sucked him dry and clean. He told me to kiss Cecile for him.
As always, after a seance —which wasn’t beyond a good libertine romp— the polyglot sisters felt rich, and exhausted. Adèle had managed a dozen humpings altogether, but she smelled all dewy as they returned to their nest. Charlotte recounted to me she had shagged a truncheon so thick she felt torn; we went to bed so I could have a look, all frightened. I could fist her easily, but I saw no tear, the monster had manners, and probably some experience. She couldn’t tell if it had been any more enjoyable, but she had orgasmed, eventually. As we rummaged in our rumpled slits, I wondered how I would have withstood such a massive assault, she offered to fist me, some other night.
In the morning, as we took our breakfast, Charlotte and me, her quim almost healed, Delff came on a mission. Michelle wondered where Sasha was, because she did not answer her messages. I suggested they would be at Cecile’s workshop, posing for Cyprien, and I was certain Michelle would love to buy a portrait of Sasha. But our aviatrix had mulled over the wunderkind’s future, and chatted with Melchior in their private encrypted forum about it. Sasha should meet Prof. Siegfried Alphand, of Paris Sciences et Lettres University, and hear what they could aim for in the global realm of fundamental research, as they had let Michelle understand. Prof. Alphand would be at TRÆVIX house for dinner the next day, it was not the kind of appointments Natalia ran to. To be certain, the best way was to go downstairs and tell them to switch on their phone. Charlotte was eager to peep at Sasha posing nude, it was such a novelty. We went in a pretty delegation, and I loved how Delff groped me in the lift car.
Effectively, the Bach capsule had been orbiting incommunicado, it was time for a coffee pause. Sasha asked permission to lock herself in Cecile’s cubbyhole, and from the planted alley, Alfred signalled that he saw no objection, he had scattered twigs and dead leaves on the pavement. Half an hour later, Sasha came back with an ingenuous smile on their lovely face. Delff jumped at her in her puppy manners, we did not debate what we knew of the matter, they would meet Professor Alphand the next day. Before that, we would go scour the Bon Marché for the best togs and shoes. Delff floated the idea that Sasha meet Michelle a little later today, to review what to explain to the bigwig don, would they not? That one did not know of Melchior, but he had consideration for Michelle, whom he had long seen trace her course like a shooting star.
I corralled the Sasha worshippers back to the upper studio, the wunderkind’s track was cleared, and Delff returned to her hi-spirited attics. Charlotte had witnessed Cecile’s fascination for the new sofa passenger, in any event, she went diving. Kate was probably at her brother’s on the other bank. I sent a probe line towards Natalia, and she showed up the next minute; she wore a black silk velvet, fitted, mid-thigh, low back-line tank dress with a black opal cabochon on the strap, and a black silk trench that she threw on the sofa’s armrest. I understood she was going whoring, and she wanted me along. We climbed down to the vestiary, to dress me as a worthy sidekick. Once I was undressed she showed me I still aroused her, and she was wet. She said it would be lewd-chic, with no undies. I had this new night-bluish mish-mash painted silk twill round-tailed shirt, with long tube sleeves and a high mandarin collar, it was easy to see I was nude in it, and the black onyx buttons were gamely to undo. I slipped on black veil open-crotch tights and black patent opera pumps. I took a peak-lapels belted black satin trench. I sprayed some orris, bergamot, and amber from Hugo’s piano before closing my dress.
She called an Uber, we went to a mansion close by the Parc Montceau, where she punched a code on her phone to open the smaller door. Under the classic stone porch, the lanterns were gleaming, but the light was mean. On the right side, rich-carpeted steps led to an oak-panelled vestibule where a black man in dull blue tails took our trenches in a closet and felt us all over with a light smirk, and dexterity, and then ushered us into a sombre foyer, hung with Belle Epoque, full-length nigh-porn depiction of languorous women, a collector gallery. It was the same boundless wealth epoch as the Mendelsohn mansion, in a worthless minor mode, only the intricate walnut woodwork was impressive. Another black man in the same livery came through a double door hidden by a tapestry and waved us to approach, offhandedly gathering a handful of our butts at our passage.

A long walnut-panelled, gold-enhanced corridor ran to more darkness, and the pair of dressed-up goons must have known they had leeway to profit from us, thus we both finished kneeling on the deep carpet, sucking sturdy shafts that smelled of lavender soap, in turns, with nonetheless gentle comments, it was the common tithe of harlotry, like the concierge’s in-kind tip at posh hotels. We couldn’t do other than gulp thoroughly and try to suck in the scent before meeting our john. We kissed each other as a test, and it amused our profiteers, who also tidied up each other.
At the end of the hallway, a double door opened on some kind of an opium den of the roaring decade, with divans on three sides, strewn with glitzy shawls and stoles. It smelled of frankincense, sacred wood and red Lebanese, a dishevelled thirty-something, wallowed barefoot amidst gleaming silk cushions, was smoking from a silver contraption, smirking at us. He inquired if the Toundeh brothers had gently abused us, and nodded that it wouldn’t be forgotten.
He was wrapped in a yellow Ikat fabric robe with a padded gold satin shawl collar. He said he was called Joel, and he asked for our names, wanting to know who was first supposed to show up. Playfully, he wanted to see a little bit more of us at a time, to decide if we made a worthy pair. Once we were bared, his solid staff was emerging from the rumpled fabrics, at his hand. He told me to show that I could gulp it whole, while he dared Natalia to poke her tongue into my little starfish, that for what I spread my thighs all the wider. On his part, he was shoving fingers in her bumhole with lube, and she meowled graciously.
A third young black man he called Yaro had appeared on the sly and prepared to bugger Natalia with a rod the size of her arm, right under the nose of our john, thus I thought, for my part, that this Joel might well have hired the whole kinship at our avail, and apropos, someone was lubricating my back alleys with keen diligence, in readiness for some serious carnal endeavour, which I would not decry in its kind awareness.
Now, I could sense the actual thumps upon my willing chuff that had been woken by a fairy’s tonguing, and what a piston it was, inexorable like a heavy machine, attuning my inner clockwork to his frenzy, driving me to wish for a full-blown gush together with his manly expense, the most exquisite whirlwind to the soul.
Would the two ushers have conveniently dropped their livery, that made four stallions crazed on our lively holes, and Joel, who had firstly fast-fired into my mouth, revelled amidst the fragrant chaos happening upon him.
After the joyous quartet couldn’t besmirch any more our defaced anatomies, the patron stood up and ordered the orgy scrum to the bathroom. It was the same overload of Belle Epoque nudities, well nigh obscene, on glazed ceramic panels, an alliance of Alphonse Mucha and Frantz von Bayros, overran with gilded pipeworks and esoteric contraptions. The client revealed a decent physique, if not as sinewy as a sportsman’s, healthier than one would expect for a rich bedridden rake. As blond Natalia was all the rage of the black mandingos, Joel still had his fancy for me, and he handled my joints and limbs adroitly. In the multiple heads shower, he showed me where to hold while he buggered me in the warm flow, effortlessly after the considerable carthorse’s schlongs he had unhitched on us. But he felt ideally tooled, taking his time while handling my flanks, twitching my quailberries, raving in my nape a garland of metaphors.
We all wiped each other and went to some dimmed-down dining room, after the bright sparkle of the water games. Natalia confided that her bunghole ached a bit, but they still twiddled with any piece of her they would grab. As I sat at a grand oval table laden with delicate nibbles, someone demonstrated a furious talent sucking my toes, thus earning his path to my quim where he triggered a few spurts so he laughed.
Joel spoke a strange sabir to apparently tell them they had had enough, so they scarpered, giggling, and we remained, feet on the table, overspent. I could not learn who had put up the collection, he bantered we should come back and confront his Massai lions, we had been extraordinary sports, so to speak. Now, we wouldn’t have any idea where our togs had lain, there was this relation between our indecency and that of the fantasy depicted on the licentious side of the otherwise prudish Salon corporation which officially made its honey in adorning society watering holes and official venues with bland pictorial bluettes, like as many faux nez on the sordid sequels of the unbridled universal prostitution and industrial alcoholism.
He laughed, and approved of my cute tirade on social hypocrisy, adding that we still did not have free access to reports on the corruption of our diplomatic corps in the faraway colonies, whenas, apropos, they still played bigot Paul Claudel’s catholic balderdash at the Comedie Française.

Natalia had joined me close on the chair, he was revelling in fondling our thighs and feet, all throes appeased. He answered me with the remark that the universally revered figurative seminal painting of the past century was a brothel scene: Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, the most visited picture in the New York MoMA —a gift of the aptly named Lilly Bliss’— although no one had known that for decades.
I asked Joel if he knew of Isidore Ponderien’s private venue on the Boulevards, a glorious pictorial antithesis of Opera houses, comique or not. In any event, we could possibly consecrate ourselves —no pun intended— to introduce him, given there was a thin chance he met Isidore wherever, due to his physical condition.
Now we began dozing out, he called one of our buggers to bring us our togs, which he obeyed diligently, not without a last keen peep at our coochies he had used and abused shortly before. Natalia wanted to sleep the rest of the night with me, and Charlotte was already there, thus we cuddled up around her. She sighed and frowned, eyes closed on my shoulder.
We were woken by Cecile and Sasha, one in a casual oatmeal cotton sweatsuit, and colour-stained sneakers, the other in a cloud-blue-striped silk bourette Mao simplism suit, and Gainsborough skies Stubbs&Wooton velvet slippers. There was an air of candid camaraderie about them, whatever they had shared in bed. Sasha still shied before these unabashed nudities, but as Cecile sat amongst us, they couldn’t avoid being pulled down on Natalia’s pillow, and being animally sniffed at in a tickle game. Then Cecile said Cyprien must have been waiting, and they ran.
Natalia dreamt aloud of Sasha’s beauty, and then she perceived a shade of unease in Charlotte’s gaze.
Were it sour grapes, she could follow them downstairs and offer to pose, skin-to-skin, with this preterhuman sensation. She had gently cavorted with any of us, and now she felt disowned by Cecile’s offhandedness. When tea was made, I took her on my lap, resolute to give our beloved parricide all I knew of Sasha’s mystery, beyond the awestriking beauty that brought Cyprien to tears. Through the thorny shrubs where they had grown up torn by lack of compassion, they had never lacked their father’s faith in them, then this serendipitous opportunity to solicit a shred of attention from someone in Melchior’s entourage, then using me as a conduit to Michelle’s attention. None of us ever had to demonstrate any uncommon mathematical genie, but it would be ours to help Michelle foster this one because she had never failed us, whatever the weird lifestyle she had led, first at our feet, behind the red sofa, before she happened to own the world.
Natalia inquired if she, and her posse, could help chaperon Sasha through the social chores of whatever academic cursus they needed to complete —without afterthoughts. Sasha answered that Michelle and TRÆVIX would see to their security, full-time, here and abroad, possibly. But what Michelle counted on was our common selfless comprehension, beyond the unavoidable lust.
Cecile had spent a full circadian spin along with them, as chaste as a bottle of water, and she concurred that the available specific support by Cynthia’s team, and a highly vetted therapist in Dr Méant’s acquaintances would set Sasha on a course Michelle foresaw as bold as hers. Besides, being installed right on top of a major communication node, they would never find themselves in need of bandwidth. From the apartment I had visited, there were secured accesses to 7S executive suites, to the street, and directly to the subterranean facilities, like the gym, the dance floor, and the pool —that attracted them most. For the time being, They revelled in the dreamy atmosphere of the workshop, languidly resting upon the red velvet, possessed by the sublime anagrams formulated on Bach’s piano, thanks to Sviatoslav Richter. Only the attic’s elves dared sneak in, bringing tins of ladyfingers or langues de chat. Imaginarily, Alfred liked Sasha; Cyprien had taught them what to feed him, the supreme treat being simple raw oats they poured into a bird feeder unfit for pigeons. Alfred would bring his brownish ladies; sparrows, robins, and tits were welcome.
That evening, Cecile and Sasha would have dinner with Elvire, the shy transgirl we had met at one of Natalia’s “literary” clients’, and preferred to live as a “she”.
Among my daily messages, one by Seresine caught my eye. She said she had been living on Ile Saint-Louis with Lauritz’s own pretty foundlings, but she proposed we go somewhere kinky together; she craved to see me get naughty. I showed that to Natalia, in case she had an inspiration. She mused for a minute

 

Cecile says:

Delff had taken over as the governess of my workshop, along with her areopagus of undetermined younglings, and I could tell the release it bestowed upon still fragile souls like Sasha’s and, lately, Elvire’s. But it wouldn’t turn to regressive bedlam, and while I regaled of all their pretty attitudes, having turned my easel the other way, I could see Cyprien gently undeterred, with a rare smidgen of a smile in his eyes, all the more when Delff convinced Elvire, who did not nest in the attics, to rise up from the long gipsy skirts she donned and enlace Sasha’s pose —for the draughtsman, naturally.
The measure of time was ordered by the cycles of Bach’s twenty-four preludes and fugues series in the Well-Tempered Clavier books, or any humanly bearably long ensemble of piano pieces Richter had deigned to record. There were entr’actes when anyone fawned for a chance to rub some shimmer cream on the models’ bodies, and the two abandoned their aloofness at the spell of the fairy’s dust. The workshop’s heating was mild enough to let anyone undress, and Delff had no issue pulling her kin bare.
Sarah and Charlotte appeared before dinner time, and ordered whatever whim the angels fancied in the realm of pies and puffs, a tad more of the bulk on the sweet side. Fruit Kombucha was delivered, but most drank warm tea or coffee. As per usual, Cyprien had fled to some mysterious home of his. Charlotte smelled of a Jermyn Street Fougère, a mental tour de force she had known would bust me. She had earned somewhere a gold and purplish spinel stones anklet, I ended up asking her if she had been jealous, more than when I wallowed for Lauritz.
Sarah schemed to knit bonds between the two timid ambiguous beauties who devoured each other with their eyes, and I agreed they might support each other, in addition to making a beauteous couple to watch. Gwen and Finlan had snuck in, the only wholesome male in the barnyard; he had eyes on Sasha, but they were already plotting to flee to their pretty den where they had already let me pilfer all in her carnal county.
Then the attic birds felt like splattering around in the pool, and Sarah claimed our pearly slits needed thoughtful nursing other than dormitory games. At Speck’s, there might be dick for anyone, but not as frankly depraved as some public orgy, I floated we had not visited the Laforest twins in a while, and their house was some real fairground for well-heeled rakehells, and Sarah was even ready to afford the entry toll, so much the cooing of the angels had stirred her lower belly.
She heard the Maitre d would be a successor, but he had her whereabouts on a confidential file, and he would call the Ladies for her. It made no difference which one she talked to, she, and whoever she liked, were most welcome in their caravanserai. She asked me some ninety minutes —it was still only dusk— to send proper alerts in her regulars’ mailboxes, and for us to groom. She wished we find a few more of our lovelies, there would always be manna to garner.
I flagged whoever I thought might be idle and ready for a posh orgy elsewhere, and Dagmar, Natalia, Adèle, Rose, Seresine, Emeline, and Ksyusha answered with a touching ensemble. Finlan promised to act as feminine as he knew, dressed in daffodil-rose adjusted jeans and jacket, he could wear our white Jodhpur boots and Jo Malone Complicity. As ever, Dagmar showed her intolerably shapely legs out of a vague pearl-grey knitted unspun wool shawl-collar sweater dress, and fresh new grey low-top chucks, and she exhaled tuberose, Virginia tobacco, and cuir. Rambling Rose concealed her skin-deep masterpiece in a wealth of white linon ironing frills and innumerable pearly buttons; over-the-knees white lace stockings let guess a swath of pale skin, and she wore white suede Maryjanes; she impersonated the embrace of Bulgarian rose, Egyptian jasmine, and Florentine Iris, whatever an alchemist had laced them with. She was held close by Adèle in a peach-rose twill, waistless, high-gathered minidress with French sleeves, matched stockings and ballet flats; she smelled of Bergamot, incense, and sun-baked scrubland. Natalia sported a fluid shirt dress cut in bold meli-melo printed twill scarfs; as likely, she was the most provocative of the flock, her whole body shimmered with the unguent that Hugo provided to her tanned skin —she was the only one who sunbathed on our roof— she exhaled chamomille and neroli, she wore thin gold-strap flat sandals, and ultramarine nails. Ksyusha, who had learned a lot of French at Philippe’s, and sundry Sami’s joints, wore twenty-one grams of variegated chiffon held by string straps. She was still slender as the Japanese wisteria she smelled, and Sarah couldn’t help but seize her supple waist; she wore iridescent Egyptian sandals. Seresine wore a short collarless shirt dress of indigo-dyed glazed Tuareg cotton with half-sleeves, black veil stockings, and slim flat ankle boots —she showed evocative rings under her dark eyes, she had been a couple of weeks at the Mendelsohn mansion, of her own will.

Owing to where we were awaited, Sarah donned a midnight shimmer blue panne velvet shirt with bishop sleeves and rounded tails, Berlin blue stockings, and black patent court pumps with a Lazuli grosgrain bow; her nails Admiral blue. I craved to dance with her in the twins’ classy ballroom —knowing she wore nought else, underly, than a whiff of gardenia— at the yearning of unknown club members. I chose a maroon silk jersey dos nu little dress nigh-short of covering my black silk stockings welts, and maroon ballet flats; my nails were black lacquer, and I had sprayed myself with Italian lucciole.
Everyone was wrapped in some manner or another of flimsy wind coats, if only to cross the sidewalk and hop into a ritzy black whale. The city season was waking back, but the breeze still felt like a lover’s brushing. Adèle confided in my ear she was so grateful for the life we lived, not that she had not been treated as a pricey harlot then, but now she had a whole swarm of us to love, follow, and emulate.
Bowie and Sissi —I never knew which one of the pair was a notch taller— proudly greeted us at the foot of the grand stairs. The black-clad, pearly-grey tie gophers, reckoning their future after-hours preys with a concealed smirk. They took our elytron-like coats with aggravated greed, no doubt we were like groomed fillies at the horse fair.
In the grand salon, a black man in a Navy blue tuxedo played dampened smooth standards, with the lid closed. Sarah mumbled Moon River and gave the pianist the eye. Some two dozen people watched us wander in, wallowed at random in the pompous sofas and armchairs like a posh wedding party. Many were in gracious company, like young coy spouses or otherly apparent nieces in not much more attire than our own brood.
A white damask-dressed table held a choice of puff nibbles, canapés, and pastries amidst a gilded paper garden. Sissi took me aside to confide that the bulk of the night’s gathering was held by a club of well-to-do rakehells bringing their wives, or whoever they pleased, to debauch them, one or two of them skirting nigh-close to worldly incest. They averted their gaze like blushing daisies when I was interested in what their proud hubbies rummaged between their thighs. One of them beckoned me to sit alongside the preppy blonde he groped and dared me to show my knickers, having sussed I wore none. My dress was hiked up above the waist, and as if that was not rude enough, I picked up the hem of her white twill flared skirt and began to pull it upwards, only to see that her pristine white thong and tights already stood mid-thigh. I left her that way for all to watch, she obviously deserved a good whiff of candid shame, and the shivers of dainty fingers upon her lower belly, to start. I thought she might very well end the night strapped on the flogging contraption in the dungeon downstairs, and that was a delightful fantasy.
One silver-haired onlooker had fancied both my lower belly and seized my elbow to pull me up aside; he was slim and muscly, more than his temples would have induced —and the pianist hovered like Thomas Newman— he slid my dress shoulders down and let me wriggle out of it, naked in my stockings, then called a waiter to take it away. He wore a hazy blue silk suit, and he smelled of coumarin, I undid his jacket’s button and stroked his tight abs, foreseeing some ostinato thumps in my womb if he took me onto some of these available day beds and he didn’t dither long.
Sarah had swooped on a curly dark-haired gracile and gauche princess, a nigh-look-alike the sort she can’t help wooing furiously, letting her own white butt tease freely amidst blue crumples. As she forced the bashful damsel to throw up her tapered legs while she begged her cavalier for a sideways kiss, some bald black stud reached into her rosy bum crack and devoured her creased bud.
My distinguished punter had gratified me with a glinting smile and left me all sticky, I snuck towards the restroom and couldn’t help but peep through a door left ajar to the small office where the new maitre d had capsised Rose upon a small desk where he was pounding her in while admiring her treasure; she saw me and winked, the new captain was up to his task.
The bathroom was of the same grandeur standing as the rest of the palace, with peculiar attentions as to the special goings-on most probably occurring, like this gold-rimmed porcelain jar filled with disposable cannulas next to the coiled hose on the wall behind the bowl. The decor was glazed ceramic tiles in the kitschiest Opera Comique taste, with a profusion of unveiled nubile models.
Back in the velvety arena, escaping the grip of one ambushed dexterous valet —whom I left with later expectations— I relished the sight of the kind of lascivious murmuration under the dimmed golden brown light of the chandeliers. Bowie was nude at the hands of two imposing black compadres in tuxedos, vests, and bow ties, their imposing dongs out against her muscular belly —there ought to be an efficient gym room in the palace.

Not the least more clothed than her twin, Sissi was pleasantly helping a distraught novice with a fringe take a full-grown pike into her shy back hatch, while hers was steadily humped by a bugger in socks. A third well-off scoundrel, seeing an opportunity over the armrest the young harlot cried upon, opened his white satin-lined trousers and stuffed his masterly dick in the pretty open mouth, bringing the debutante to surrender her anus made slippery, anyhow, with the proper lubrication. And the beastly ensemble found a fluent gait, interrupted when that who was shagging her throat took hold of her neck to gush deeper, inescapably, inciting the rear bugger to unload with long chuffs of bliss while Sissi meowed of content as her screwer arched against her hind.
Natalia had let her hem hike up above the modesty line next to a fine-mannered black man, and another slimmer one came by aside her who could be his son, grazing her thigh with long dainty fingers. Besides the obvious, they seemed to relish her babble —she’s unbeatable at innuendo— and they searched for the tiny black onyx buttons of her charivari dress. Flaunting her slight breasts with a haughty smile, she let them devour her face with urging greed. She wriggled animally, but she did not bother to undress them, and she hailed Ksyusha, whom she saw across was already in the nude but scunnered off her suitor in her clunky vernacular. The black hunks swiftly unleashed their belts at the sight of the two felines enlaced close at hand, furiously willing. The dance became gradually rambunctious with two fierce truncheons of silky flesh on the loose, and Ksyusha loved that, although her supple slight waist would seem at risk. She tasted each of the dark glans with mock reflection, which owed her to be lifted up onto its hardness while her hospitability remained slightly too tight.
Enraptured by the sight of a gracile Polak blonde on the verge of being speared apart by a black mandingo club, I suddenly grasped it would mean carnage, thus I lept to take hold of the tackle and copiously smeared it with KY from a tube that lied conveniently on a coffee table. Only then, all the way kindly masturbating the shuddering menace and the sister’s cootie, did I let him glide in to go bump onto the womb’s door and execute the tremor dance, foreseeing his second attack would burrough much deeper through the lesser hatch, at a dearer expense, but I had seen Ksyusha withstand worse before.
Natalia had thankfully gotten hold of the lube as she lay on top of her muscular champion, and she chose to shove him into her own well-trained rosebud —she did not revel at being hammered on the bottom of her vagina. In my posture on all fours attending to the blondes, I sensed someone preparing the takeover of my own jacksy with some delicacy, thus I responded by constricting my rectum to his sliding measure of bliss.
I needed the loo; and no wonder I was followed by some smirking hireling who, no sooner had I sat on the toilet, dropped his trousers and grazed my lips with a circumcised tearful penis of his. I sucked him clean, and he thanked me, watching me inject water into my arse through the cannula, then he tidied his allure and combed his black hair back neat. He was called Eldar, from Bosnia.
When Dagmar dawdled a few steps upon the Royal Savonnerie at the pace of the piano inspiration, she was instantly followed by an upstraight cavalier whom she whiffed over her shoulder before sliding a hand upon his fly. They had been stealthily tracked by a slanky valet who grabbed the dandy clothes to go hang them safely; While she already kneaded her punter’s glans, she ostensibly looked the boy in the eye, as for a reminder.
But her current paramour had seen all and muttered naughty ideas in her ear while tackling her against the panelling to bugger her standing, with style. He was a well-worked-up stud, had not kept his socks on, and was pleasurable to watch while humping my sweet friend.
Rose was far from throwing in the towel, on her way back from the powder room —and it was obvious she must have been cornered, some way or another, by the two beaming goons who followed her afterwards— walking with a rolling gait to the buffet table where a pretty maid, whose apron hardly dressed her nudity, attended to a monumental gilded samovar. At a doubtlessly well-turned compliment on Rose’s splendour, this one skirted the table to slide her hands under the maid’s pinny from behind, rubbing her lower belly onto the rounded bum cheeks. The girl was black-haired with a thick fringe, fair-skinned and grey-eyed. Her hands looked like she had never worked otherly than filling enamelled glass cups, and her nails were lacquered burgundy.
The tableau they presented was suchly attuned to the gathering that the demand for tea —stealthily intended to lead the guests to the water room and pee a little more— sensibly grew while they played hands. I winked at Rose, the girl was called Sofia, from Romania, and I knew right away that, unless some dissension raised by the twins, Lauritz would buy her out and install her into his backyard dovecote.

All nude with her night-blue nails, Seresine looked like her usual submitted princess from a Hayez fantasised painting, as she came to the waterhole, taking a peek at the lustful servants. She enlaced me while we walked back with our cups to a deep crimson sofa that shrieked of all the turpitudes it had comforted for aeons. We joshed we would make a lascivious second course to the taste of those swordsmen we had not yet tried.
Meanwhile, the piano ad-lib swirled like creases in the velvet, and she rolled her black eyes like a Bernini while sending her leg to the clouds to offer herself at my fervent tongue, and that enticed a pair of crew-cut-haired German hunks to invite themselves into her parted lips, and in my easy slit, not faster than I slid my tongue on Seresine’s clit, fit like lock and key while he twirled upon my lesser breasts. They could have been brothers, keeping pace as they mutually swapped postures.
There would be some sort of constant traffic jam in the bathroom, rustling with lewd babbles, where men had no other choice than piss upon whoever stood in the shower. Bowie had fetched a dispenser of clear soothing gel for the strained innards, thus you could go back and peddle your pretty wares to fresh troops. A time came when proper clubmen had called it a night, but the armada of pretty personnel pranced back from their vestiary clad in classless livery, frothing at the mouth.
Their new master, Kreisler Oswald, had allowed himself to the prime of our follies and kept his fitted black suit to tame the herd inside the range of human courtesy, so to speak, inasmuch as we retained our absolute free will. Emeline came out of the shower lightheaded, she told Charlotte that at least three firebrands had conjured to kill her with pleasure, and they well nigh did, without causing any tear, whatsoever no tears, the AstroGlide manner. She let herself be pulled by a gallant specimen in solid tension, and Charlotte sighed as we dawdled back to the salon. Apart from a few diehards, of which one persisted in giving Dagmar what she craved, remained the offhanded pianist who continued filling the heady air of our debauchery with angel dust. Charlotte fantasised it had not been fair, she snuck beside the slender harmonizer and did not ask for reaching to his fly and wank the carnal metronome. None heard the affetuoso flexion in the ad-lib festoons, neither when she bent as to gulp all she could of the eleventh note.
Refusing some untimely advances, if only to assert I could, I went hunting for Sofia, the samovar girl of that night, whose bangs rested on my mind. The water in the vermeil urn had gone tepid, and the unlikely vestal vanished. I pushed the two-way door with an oval porthole I sussed led to the scullery. Indeed there was a suite of oak-cupboard-lined rooms that attested to the past splendour of the house, and I sensed there should be a linen room with piles of ironed laundry; my hunch was right, there she stood on a chair in a corner of the dim-lit windowless den, redressed in a stern black dress, black tights and sneakers, and a simple white apron.
Although I had read in her stare that she was no manner of a babe-in-the-woods, forced to wait, nigh-nude, at a buffet table, she did not move when I neared, looking me up like the fawn that knows no better than freeze. I went and sat on her lap casually, and kissed her tentatively. She responded calmly, her hands warm over me. I untied the apron knots behind her nape and her waist. I told her I had brokered some sweet deal with the twins, given that we had clicked together —whenas she would have made me drink Ty-Phoo in lieu of Bai Hao— in that manner I fall, once in a rose moon, for that spell of a gaze, that sway of the hips under a fancy lace apron. She would come over with me to the dedalistic realm where we thrived in random kinship, and return to Laforest palace anytime she rather, earnest.
She had these wondrously tapered fingers with natural short nails lacquered black that she wandered about me and my face while I sketched a candid canvas of my fate so far, so as she would not figure we were all wayward heiresses. She answered nonchalantly —what the hell— on her own lousy breeding, said she. She was born amidst beetroot fields, in a white stone hamlet with a nigh-destitute primary school and three uncertain shops, all with smoke-stained drinking troughs. Sofia’s mother had been pregnant at fourteen, and hid her belly under make-do and mend togs from the family attic. She had come to light with the sole help of a retired nurse neighbour who nevertheless called for the firemen’s ambulance, when all was properly over. It was a full moon after Xmas. The parents were a sore cliché of helpless wretchedness, her own mother had been knocked-up, behind a hedge of petals-sprinkling hawthorns, by a well-built farm boy who bluntly hurt her. When the county Doctor told the culprit he could nevertheless escape his responsibilities, a marriage was pronounced hastily by the Mayor, who was the schoolteacher and had unabashedly groped the bride since the lesser grades, as it turned out.
She wore a light black twill trench with black gunmetal buttons, black tights and ankle boots. After walking the barren trails of misfortune, she had been dwelling on the thick pile of palace carpets; now, she discovered the discombobulating charm of bohème luxury, as I pushed her to my room through the dim-lit foyer where the dislocated puppet girl by Hans Stangl smiled amidst her playful hurly-burly. Charlotte already slept under the exploded face of God Crow, to the grand excitement of the inner homunculus. I thought if anyone spied through his crystal eyes, they were in for a delightful novelty.
Charlotte wasn’t in the least surprised to see me unwrap my pretty catch, she had read my moves all night about the fringed bait at the samovar —like it would be set up just for Sarah and me. She cuddled up to the new passenger as I did, too, top-to-tail.
It is my constitution not to need long sleep, I left the girls in slumbers and went for coffee and biscuits, my main sustenance. No one was up, yet, I opened the window to listen to Alfred’s rambling rant. Through the ajar door, I saw Seresine enlaced with Sarah, both sound asleep, so I closed the door. Dagmar dawdled by in a hazy blue sweatsuit, she smelled of Geranium-Orange, and a loose waistband let see her smooth midriff that she brushed my face against, begging for some of my coffee. I pushed the biscuit tin to her side and joshed about our excesses. She had lost count of her expenses, but she had scored her money’s worth, said she in her cute Sächsicher English. She was overjoyed when my bedfellows raised up and strolled on over, wearing whatever tracksuits they had found in my closet, exhaling marsh lilies. Sofia would be the talk of the house, but no way could she skip posing for the Master draughtsman, so she would be my plaything for a few days, bar a courtesy visit —at least— to our beloved mentor and Landlord.
There would be no bed she wouldn’t be toppled over if she let it, but I warned around that she, too, had a harrowing tale to tell and it would earn her some relief to be listened to, as it had to most of us. Then Sarah had sensed the hustle, so she barged wet in her bathrobe, soon followed by Seresine in ample navy blue satin pyjamas. Sarah had not foreseen I would snatch the samovar girl with the twins’ blessing, she parted her robe and gave the newbie a wet hug upon her belly, then put herself to brewing tea.

 

Sarah says:

I wouldn’t tell of some largesse by our beloved twins or a masterstroke of Cecile’s, or a spell of one girl with fringes, or else of altogether human trafficking, but finding the latest samovar girl dipping biscuits at my breakfast table bustled my still northern brain —from a recent flight with the crimson birds.
Indeed, at first, I had melted a fuse at the sight of the flimsy apron and the shy grey gaze, the tapered fingers handing me a cup, but then I had been elsewhere so bustily courted and humped that the samovar had been removed, and I wasn’t so besotted as Cecile to go trail the game in the service alleys.
Cecile is my true kindred, while Kate is across the river sorting her soul. I guessed Sofia had been telling some dire tale of her fate —besides lowering her gazes as Seresine did. Now she would bathe a day on in the well-tempered waters of a kind of day’s work, wouldn’t she? A token to enter the ritzy monastery of our boundless tribe.
When the new soulmates headed down to bewonder Cyprien again, I took Seresine upstairs for whatever need she sensed. Since the futon had been unrolled again, next to the sofa, the heather Fairies had returned more willingly, and they might just foster the new little princess harlot thus as she needed. Outside, it would be raining, and Alfred was annoyed. The Thistle sisters snuck in gently, once they had seen a light down from their high window.
As I doodled randomly and honed my pencils, after the YiKing pumpkin pot was filled, I watched Fayelle getting enthralled with Sérésine’s thin and pale feet —whose nails I had helped paint maroon— while listening to last night’s follies, with reminiscences such as to make the girls regret having not followed the troupe. Not so long ago, all of them had spent their lives in debauchery, I dared them to go places with me.
Before their eyes, I called Liselotte and recounted to her what we would make ourselves available for. She needed an hour to sort her options. We had time to go drape ourselves as a saraband à la McQueen —except for the torture shoes— wrapped in city raincoats and suave fragrances. The usual minibus crossed the river at the Pont Royal and headed easterly.
Reading glints of lust in our gazes, Sofia wondered where we took her, in mere almond-green silk velvet pyjamas and matched English embroidered slippers, no undies, that made her feel more undressed than attired for outgoing somewhere. Cecile explained that, thankfully, the Laforest mansion wasn’t unique in its kind where wealthy raptors could afford themselves what had become rightfully unfeasible for free in their employee entourage.
I explained that Liselotte, who was one of my Beaux-Arts buddies, had the knack for instigating inventive situations of libertinage between consenting adults, so to speak, unrepentant of their debauchery on either side. Sofia concluded that would be called prostitution, and I could hardly rebuff, only she couldn’t help reckoning she had enjoyed her life of hotel mouse, bar the yoke of the numerous male hierarchy. A go-between like Liselotte, who had long kept files as colourful as Edgar Hoover’s, managed to cost money at the right end of the deal, and so did other entrepreneurs she might have, given the capital she owned, the pleasure to consort with.
At my phone call, the tall portal opened, and we landed in a paved courtyard at the stone steps of a perron where a stern gent with silver sideburns welcomed us with grey gloves. We did three couples, Seresine not much more assured than Sofia, as I grazed her bum in the plum, flared pleated jersey dress she was nude in. The hall was clad in bumpy mirror panels, plinths and cornices in which the checkered paving reflected distorted in a whimsical infinite landscape. Four ceiling-high oak trees of dark green patinaed bronze grew from huge, ornate, bronze Medicean pots. Bothered by our presence, a flock of colourful macaws prattled through the metal foliage. A grand hemispheric cut crystal chandelier was adjusted under its blurred half to make an impressive light ball. Sofia whispered wondering how this wondrous decor was kept clean, and Cecile retorted that probably the birds did.
When the maître d opened the door to the next hall, some immaterial Mozart music raised, quieting the parrots’ rumpus. A young slender boy in a stylised black moire court dress with a snowy linon jabot was standing above the glass harmonica, grazing the crystal bowls spindled on a shaft, that he made rotate half in water by means of a pedal. The curly blond, short-nape boy beamed an unfazed smile and wore a diamond at his left pinky.
After the serious grizzled man scanned our cards in a thin reader he put back in his vest, we were ushered up low steps grand winder stairs in the whirling echoes. Scattered on the ashlar walls fluttered a flock of nude beribboned angels of both sexes, chasing butterflies, in coloured and gilt ceramic. At the ceiling, a stained glass cupola gathered swarms of the magical iridescent Lepidoptera in the dizzy spell of musical harmonics.

We clung to the massive polished bronze handrail supported by green patinaed scrollwork to sense the whirl from the wind-rose pattern of the coloured marble pavement up to the bedazzling dome of backlit shimmering shards. At the round landing of the crimson-carpeted upward stairs curve stood another smiling youngling in grey silk velvet habit, vest, culottes, stockings, and gloves, like an inspired ballet moth, with brushed-upwards blond curls, like a Chelsea schoolboy.
The last crystal echoes waned as we entered a realm of muffed percussions, long-breath clusters of xylophones and celesta threading into the endless maze of a giant polished bronze gong excited by another moth grey livery undetermined genre operator. It was a tens of steps long venue with a high vaulted ceiling painted of angel bedlam both genres, in an utmost unruly composition, an ultimate rebuff to Sant’Ignazio, in the grand style of a Jean Delville.
On a misaligned dais covered with Royal Savonnerie sat a very old man in a golden and blood-red robe on a tall gilded baroque throne padded with crimson velvet. Our pretty moth informed us it was His Excellency’s Anyday —he knew not when he was born, having been found a naked toddler on a street after the Warsaw destruction.
Tall gilded girandoles holding profusions of candles were dispersed at random above sundry assemblies, wallowed upon rich rugs and cushions, more or less denuded in the hazes of psychedelia and the scent of incense from antique Japanese dragoon burners.
From afar, confined in a pandemonium of cushions, His Unnamed Excellency beckoned us around with a dazzling smile, and then some of the dreamers came to us and helped us disrobe slowly —if we would. The male part boasted evidence of their welcoming us, Sofia was a heated success, but Seresine, whom I had seen so lascivious at Philippe’s, remained clenched to my wing although many hands wandered over our nudity.
We were offered candy laced with sundry psychoactive substances of the mellow range, and a sober physician monitored everyone’s well-being, which did not mean he wasn’t lustfully interested in our lower bellies. Our band dislocated between spacey groups, keen to watch us take flight and loosen our self-conscience in the flow. Seresine and I knew our preferred blend to start with, thus the mild-mannered monitor told us which ones to chew and gratified me with a promising caress.
Once again, I was flabbergasted by Liselotte’s resources about Parisian life. I told Seresine how, still at school, we had shunned for no reason that baby Louise Brooks type who seemed to befriend every doable student. Then, how she had lured me to sell myself to some perverse teacher and on, although I had no financial needs. Seresine also confessed to being a born harlot, beyond the rampant abuses she had endured among her degenerate family.
Came the moment when the all-gracile population on the ceiling spoke to our understanding, as well as a few well-hung slow dancers who claimed possession of my mouth and my brooklet they anointed with intrusive salve before offering to root in so easily both ways. Such was the quality of the magic we had chewed that I became one big orgasm like the gong that pulsed like a storm cloud —until I passed out.
When I woke out, I heard Seresine being humped in her turn, while a green-eyed elve with intricately braided hair was offering me a plate of almond and dates confectionery, but first I needed to rinse myself of all the sticky goo they had blessed me with. She showed me to a bathroom as wide as Mme de Montespan’s with a large round rose marble basin where a few merrymakers twiddled with each other in tepid orange blossom water. The room was entirely clad with Majolica tiles depicting naiads and tritons doing the naughty, in bold colours. A large frosted crystal conch at the ceiling radiated soft lighting upon the wet mingled bodies. My new companion, a Swede called Bodil, avowed she craved to grope me, and she was amazed when she realised I had answered her in her own Scanian accent I had once taken on my Admiral uncle’s. We laughed and bantered in Øresund vernacular, so much so that we ended buggered in the water by Baltic pirates.
After more enema injections, I was famished, and so were my roommates who had lived on the same trip as us. No manners of caresses diverted us from eating. I introduced my nigh-compatriot, and she loved all of us, with a little crush on Sofia, still a bit shy after what she had just done. The monitor came back and concurred with Bodil on what we could chew on, now.
That triangular purplish black sweet knocked me down into a bag of marshmallows, just like the monitor expected, and the greater relish of Bodil who watched, holding Sofia’s timid breasts. The dedicated pharmacist exhibited a considerable desire and smeared cream in my carnal alleys with two fingers while the breath of a gigantic pipe organ enwrapped me in a cocoon of purple fairy dust.

I recall vaguely that the monitor and others used me endlessly as I flew around in my dust cloud along with the lively circus I had joined through the ceiling. I retold myself that I had never had such a smooth high ride. Three virgin-looking nude musicians lulling handpan drums on their crossed legs spun exactly the tunes I dreamt. I might have been carried away in some attentive arms to another bathroom in a stars-strewn lazuli mosaic dome where I expelled torrents of sundry residues and danced in a tepid rain.
We were stoned and wasted like mops in a bucket, but Cecile and I conjured it was time to corral our own and go back home. The cleverest idea I found when a pretty moth I had not violated let me find my stuff and my phone in it to speed-dial Liselotte and let her decide to send for us. There were fits of laughter while trying to sort out the right shoes. Sofia was frankly exhausted, Cecile almost carried her to the coach, which leery chauffeur feared for his seats but relished how we looked like at the first red light.
We had taken a few tins of sundry gums, the instructions for use could be found on the website. I was still swaggering about in my cape of magic dust, Seresine let gleaming hummingbirds drink at all her flowers. Afar on the roofs, Alfred pleasantly spun the yarn of our misbehavings.
Kate did not wake us when she returned in the morning; she undressed and slid along sleeping Seresine, whom she had not hobnobbed with much yet, and found her skin so softer than imagined. I inferred the intensity of fraternal ardour she had lived when I saw her enplaned for a long quiet flight, while the princess and I felt surprisingly fresh. I took the tins of magic gums I had left on the kitchen table and went to camouflage them in the back of my personal drawer. I guessed Cecile and her new crush would creep downstairs stealthily, and Sofia would soon lose the few clothes she wore.
The Thistle sisters, too, showed purple-ringed eyes, but they smiled like the Angkor dancers. Annabelle sighed that she had never had it so devastatingly fulfilling as far as she remembered, Fayelle said she had been thus mistreated before, but not in such an enjoyable manner.
Liselotte called, en route to come visit us, and she was at once proud of her naughty scheme’s success. She explained that she had known Adalbert de Bellechassagne since high school days, affected by cerebral palsy, long before he inherited that palace he lived in, interlocked amidst generations of mismanagement, behind curtained windows. He still owned a few antique masterpieces that caused some stir when they went up for auction and sufficed to sustain the lifestyle we had just enjoyed some demonstration of. At the name she had told, Seresine said candidly that it had been evoked time and again in her own native feudal enclave, when her own monstrous brother wanted her to woo the poor Adalbert for greed. They had forced all kinds of subterfuges on her, but she had never agreed to meet him, the name would go escheat anyhow.
Cecile and Sofia, in off-white sweatsuits and sneakers, came up sooner than usual, with touching sleepy eyes, the model had dozed out, for the pleasure of the artist. Liselotte was bewitched by our new foundling, she jumped to her side and allowed herself to fiddle with her waistband. Sofia checked stealthily that we did not disapprove of this risqué behaviour by one she didn’t know yet. But Liselotte had manners for white geese; pulling her by the hand to sit on a sofa, she stared at the grey gaze while quietly unlacing the sneakers, so as to fondle the gracile feet like a pair of doves. She wore a silk taffeta shirt with bold black and white aslant swaths, and a black taffeta gathered skirt that hiked up immodestly. She was groomed like a porcelain doll, her short nails were lacquered black.
She offhandedly pulled away the sweatpants and raised her brows in awe, unaffectedly shooting the breeze as to our carnal expenses with chemical liberalities, Gaspard, the gathering’s monitor, had reported all the praise he resented about our little troupe —and I should particularly blush, said she. And these Californian confectioneries won all the contests in the US liberal states.
They ordered pies from A&S, but it was time Sofia came down with me to Hugo’s empyreal forestland —I craved these inaugural moments when I would smoothly introduce a new irreligious proselyte, heart and soul still in my dream, to the allegiance of our boundless mentor.
The weather was mild, we ran barefoot down the stairs carpet, nude in long flared silk dresses, hers changing pearl grey taffeta, mine midnight blue twill, just like two boarders in a ritzy parlor house. At the door, Hugo noted our deliberate feet, and he kept Sofia’s hand as we passed under the multicolour crystal sparks of the spherical chandelier under the mirror-clad ceiling of the vestibule, and passed the heavy Silkroad tapestries, in the corridor recently enriched with a dozen exquisite Victorian pornographic reverse paintings hung over emerald green chiselled velvet.

Hugo wore an open Uzbek kaftan over a long, ample white cotton and silk shirt that could not conceal his arousal for long. In a yellow jade and gold cassolette, slowly smoked sandalwood and benzoin, we followed him to the decorated earthenware tiled kitchen, with the Della Robbia Mother And Child, circled with a garland of fruit on branches, to see him brew some Taiwan tea and filter the kefir in silver enribboned ewers.
Sofia was bedazzled by the profusion of mindfully ornate artefacts in a live situation, she admired another detailed plum YiKing earth teapot, with leaves, tendrils and bugs. We carried the trays to the salon while he took out baking plates of golden bites from the oven to fill silver chargers. I decided we sat on the sides of him and cut short to approaches, behaving like the headless floozies we had been the last night, with manners.
As he asked Sofia her whereabouts, true or not, I rummaged into his robes and fetched a proud nob that I quietly wanked while he was so kind as to let her summarise candidly how she became a nigh-nude samovar girl at Laforest’s whom we took away, some nights ago. Hugo liked the part where she did the hotel mouse and hardly concealed that she liked it. His hands crept up from the dainty feet on the shapely legs and the smooth thighs she parted with a willing smile. As I stood to go help her disrobe, he swiftly unbuttoned me so my dress fell down too. I seized her nape to guide her to come suck the very ripe dick.
Like a well-trained harlot, she gulped all with no fuss and let me taste her kiss before drinking a tumble of fruity kefir. As I had foreseen, Hugo was smitten, and Sofia would earn a perch in our tree. She wallowed in bloom upon the silken cushions, and I couldn’t help but go gather the nectar in her holy creases, offering my bumhole to Hugo, who could neither resist.
I knew how to make her spurt in my face, she tasted like elderberry flowers, while I wriggled my innards to make my bugger come again, and I orgasmed twice on the way. Then I supposed it was time to let him make the acquaintance of the hotel mouse at length, I tossed a playful goodnight, grabbed my dress and ran back upstairs.
Liselotte had befriended Seresine, the kind of sensuous obedient girl she lent to cerebral notabilities for hefty ransoms. The lovebird neighbours had found the rhubarb and blueberry pie to their taste, and they didn’t wear much else than open silk pyjama tops. I needed the loo and a shower, obviously, Adèle followed me with intentions. No sooner were we walked undressed into the water room than she enlaced me and I sensed warm pee along my legs to which I responded likewise while the rain heated up and we kissed as we always had. I washed the enema pear hose and rinsed my little back furnace in the toilet bowl, we wiped each other in a whiff of Cologne.
Now Liselotte had promised a pretty loot to Rose if she came over with her only, in that mauvais genre black lambskin dress zipped up to the neck, no underwear, laced ankle boots. Liselotte’s intuitions weren’t the king to overlook. Before they left us, she gave me a number to call for me and Adèle. Cecile and Seresine had been summoned to the Mendelssohn mansion. The Heather Fairies probably read a chapter of a timeless saga.
I had spoken on the phone with a polite barytone who took at once a most welcoming inflexion when I mentioned Liselotte’s name. The address was on the eastern outskirts of the city, along the Marne River, and I thought I had never been. The man had said to come casual, no fuss, but we decided to play it a tad more tweedy than elastic waistbands. Anyhow, there would happen a libertine contrivance, so we pampered each other like the floozies we were. We smelled of nothing cheap, in our 200s pinstriped night-blue or black power suits, and black patent leather loafers.
The building was a blind buff brick parallelepiped a few steps from an impressive outer wall comprising a blank portal and a walk-in door with a keypad and a lens. I had a code to punch so the lights in the empty lot led us to the building’s glazed air lock entry vestibule floored with warm black arabesque marble slabs, walls clad with sandstone plates, under a dim luminous ceiling, and dome cameras in the corners. It would evoke anything like a prison, a bank, or any evil secret operation, but not the kind of follies Liselotte patronised.
Little LEDs on the doorframes turned green when we could push on, and there was a puff sound when they closed. It smelled like an exotic garden, a layered ambient soundscape fluttered low in long reverb, ebbing away the angst, although Adèle had gripped my arm. The walls became ultra-fine holographic screens which triggered my fear of heights or showed us luxuriant places beyond the lushness of Catherine’s Amber Room, the Topkapi Harem or the Sistine Chapel.
In the midst of the maze, all lights went out, and any locks to the doors we stood between showed a red diode. A light zone dawned in the centre of the room where we stood, and a voice, that I had heard on the phone, said we should disrobe entirely, and tidy all our belongings upon the wire metal contraptions resembling bird cages, hanging down from nowhere, like those in mine changing rooms. We wore no jewels, the mute valets were hauled up, and we remained clung to each other in the dark, as it became somewhat souring, to our taste. Whenabout I became ready to protest that silly game, my arms were seized from behind by strong paws that joggled me like a bag of rags despite my cries, and I didn’t hear Adèle long, these doors were airtight, and the music was dogged.
Manhandled by more than two men, I was hooded with a tough rubber device, locked at my nape, which covered my eyes and gave me a weird hearing. I was strapped with heavy padded bonds at my ankles, knees, waist, elbows, wrists and neck; then, I was laid down on some sturdy stuffed bench and secured with my legs spread open. Someone entwirled my tongue in a convincing passionate kiss, while his cohort set my carnal pearl ablaze with as much fury, and all the more that I could not move. Rife with lubricant, I was used like a soulless rag of flesh beyond my wits and still sensed fits of gushing bliss through me.
I woke in one piece, still blinded, on a jumble of thick terry cloth, efficiently massaged with scented oil, unscathed and ready or more, as artful fingers prepared my holes for. Another body was then clung to mine, I recognised Adèle, told her I did not know what had happened, and kissed her mouth to the relish of our distinguished tormentors. With the help of proper thumb kneading, our legs were stretched like candy at the fairground, overhanging enough to bring us to sheathe us at their whim, so they did, innumerably though not to completion, as if to ascertain that nought of our dearest privacies had been torn or bruised. We were deftly unlocked, unhooded, and pushed, dazed as we were, into another dark room with a green light pin blinking, and thus back to the one where our stuff hung, each of us with a fat pink envelope. A white silent car awaited at the street door. On the dashboard, we read that the night was nigh over; we were famished, and I had no clue what might remain in our cupboards.

 

Cecile says:

Since Melchior had acquired the high hand on the Mendelssohn estate, and entrusted me as Missus Dominicus while the inextricable succession was amicably appraised by the fiscal authorities, my stealthiest attribution had become to keep Lord Daniel’s heir Zev’s innermost burrow populated with fresh willing nymphets, and furthermore to follow the majordome in his private cubbyhole to offer him my bare bottom at a desk’s edge. Zev was nigh mute, due to Lord Daniel’s treatment when he had been the shameful offspring of an unauspicious union. The innocent had survived, vetted to be His Highness’ blood, with the complacency of a family of servants in the kitchen and diverted pathways.
Most of our libertine brood had lent for a while their pretty skins to the candid ogre in his Italian sheets, and they all said it had been beastly but altogether worthy and harmless —I knew that first hand. That night, Mr Armand had caught a fancy on her after she had tamed the beast. I had done my most to let him shag me a farewell, but he was smitten by Seresine’s bashed gazes, and so he buggered her hastily in my bosom on a table corner. I cleaned her, and later she dozed out in the cab.
Upstairs, Charlotte was buried under the comforter, she mumbled vaguely when we cuddled up on each side of her. Early in the grey dawn, in these solitary moments when Alfred pontificates unabashedly, somebody knocked at the door in a well-known manner. Delff held Sasha’s hand, both in ecru jersey sweatsuits and petit-point slippers, she said Michelle wanted more portraits of Sasha, in the more immodest manner he had done sometimes with complacent models. When Cyprien arrived, Delff was quick to grasp that Sasha was seated at the border-fussy master’s south-western corner of the table, thus, without a word, they made them come sit on the southeast, and they finely understood when seeing a hint of a smile as Delff pushed his full warm cup to his routine corner. Cyprien was smitten with Sasha, all the more when he saw the buzzcut pixie let their hands wander free.
No one had ever mistaken my north-by-northwest stronghold, but I’m sure I would have shared it with Sasha. Now that Michelle had helped them hatch beyond preconceptions, and also frolicked with them on her futon just as she did with Delff, Sasha had embodied their angelic persona in their own right, and it was striking. For the time being, new wires had been drawn to the jewel box where they lived, but the odds were their genius would soon spawn in another square of the neighbouring draughtsboard, tight close to TRÆVIX’s connexion.
Cyprien was enthused about depicting the full nudity of Sasha’s nature, all the most on Michelle’s commission, whom he worshipped; and anyhow, the presentation of his work in Camille’s connoisseur’s gallery concerned a screened audience. Besides whoring to the most demanding johns, Natalia had developed a flair for public relations regarding Camille’s art cult, all the more deliberate that the gallery supported her artists financially.
And Sasha had been coached by Delff physically, as well, so when they pulled off the outfits and pranced around the workshop, it was a renewed wonderment. My night amongst a pandemonium of innumerable collectables had not blunted my covetousness for live perfection. We had finished dipping golden langues de chat; Cyprien typically took away his cup with him until it went cold; Delff plumped up the cushions on the deep sofa and installed their buddy cutely immodestly posed so as she wouldn’t tire for hours. I went to start the Well-Tempered Soul of Richter gently up —and watched Sasha’s gaze focus afar. Delff murmured in my neck that I took them to my cubbyhole.
They —contrary to Apolline, whom, however, she lived along with— preferred that improbable pronoun that makes writing about them rather goofy, but can’t we afford to sound off-worldly, can we? Making love to Delff was at once infantile and animal, but they laughed like a bird and tasted like a fresh almond. Dew pearled at their temples when I let them penetrate me and gush down my brooklet. They also were the best clit-pecker this side of Paradise.
Once contented, they liked to frisk around in my oversized shower room and my array of expensive body care bought by Lauritz in our hotel romps. They fluttered away stealthily, Sasha hovered beautifully amongst the spheres, they would soon become as impalpable as Michelle.
From my exclusive excavations into the Mendelssohn tumulus, I had brought back, at the price of complying with Mr Armand’s sexual caprices —Melchior had spoken of sacred prostitution, and duly rewarded— a most intriguing parcel which had let me see by one of the corners that it contained an old painting on a stretcher since aeons, roughly the size of an in quarto. The wrapping was made of glue-sized big printed folios and string, apparently spared by any worms or bugs.
I undeniably needed the expertise of Cyprien before any attempt to unpack whatever it was.

I lifted up the headrest of my tilted techno seat and joined the others in Bach’s serenity until Sasha possibly needed the loo, which eventually happened. We had another cup and cookies together, and I brought the parcel to the middle of the wide table. Cyprien confirmed it had been sealed sometime at the turn of the eighteenth century. It was clean, it had been rested in a box with sundry old papers.
Sasha refused a shawl on their shoulders, they seemed fine and rested, and I couldn’t help but softly stroke her back. Cyprien fetched a scalpel he used to hone his leads, and cut the strings. The old wrapping wasn’t oxidised, and the layers of book paper unfolded upon a dark manner of landscape on canvas mounted on a stretcher. He asked me for a pad of aspic oil to rub the brownish surface without damage and eventually muttered the name Seghers which made me run to my collection of magazines and bring back an old issue about that very obscure artist, predecessor of Rembrandt —who had once unabashedly retouched a landscape of his that hung in his dining room.
I explained to Sasha it could mean we held a true rarity in our hands and thus I felt I should refer to my tutors, Camille and Melchior. While the oil was wet, we could read a fantasmagorical landscape of the kind Seghers, who never travelled, could never have seen in the Netherlands’ reality, and then it waned back to dirty. I re-wrapped the board in its paper folds, slid the whole in a padded manila envelope and secured it on the upper shelves.
While Cyprien installed back Sasha into their own creases, I went into my lair to call Camille and Melchior about the eventual trove. There was work in waiting, but I couldn’t put myself to it. Sasha had asked the Well-Tempered Clavier, from the top again, and I kept watching them breathe.
Camille knew the codes but knocked gently so I went to open the door, telling Sasha not to bother. Camille had heard of a new angel but had not yet seen them, so she was as stunned as us all, hung her trench to the Thonet clothes tree, and, after having swiftly kissed Cyprien and me, crouched down beside Sasha, out of Cyprien’s view angle. As the magician she is, she sussed there shouldn’t be a conversation, the angel was in flight posing, and she rolled her eyes in awe towards me, as if I should have warned her.
I beckoned her to follow me in my study, and her expression in return told me that she needed a few more instants looking at Cyprien’s model. Richter condoned that, and Alfred was absent. When I pulled out the brownish packet from the envelope, on my little desk, Camille’s eyes turned greener, and her face beamed when I repeated applying the aspic oil.
Cyprien was leaving, he thanked Sasha keenly. Camille proposed we order some treats and stay at the workshop where she felt homey —she obviously blessed the occasion to see Sasha, all the more that they were not hurried reclothing, but they said they had promised Gauthier to spend the evening together, might they call him on here with us? I knew their discreet affair, I concurred that it would do a merry gathering, and Camille wasn’t bothered anyhow. Sasha texted the invite, I called Agnete and Sanne.
Seghers no longer mattered, Camille feasted her eyes on the empire’s new prodigy, sitting next to them and stroking their shoulder while evoking their needs in cutting-edge technology and space. Sasha said Michelle had been totally straightforward on material prospects, but also the candid crowd that peopled her house and the whole realm physically connected with felt like what she had always missed, bar in the intimacy with their father. They only feared the Pinocchio mirage, eventually. We laughed at the parable which gave Camille a chance to caress their still small nose and their perfect face.
The delivery of fresh finger food was brought into the front room, along with a few seasonal pies. Gauthier was enchanted to find Sasha still in the raw with us, he said the scene was a new metamorphose of Le Déjeuner Sur L’ Herbe, a far-fetched one admittedly, and I had to find Manet’s image among my documents. Sasha shied from being mocked, but Camille was swifter to bustle the angst with her kiss, while Gauthier knelt down to worship Sasha’s feet, I foresaw I would divert my excitement at Speck’s. When Gauthier reached up Sasha’s pink trinket, Camille remembered a visit she had promised Michelle, she saw me wrap back the Seghers and said offhandedly that I should keep it for myself if I liked it. We all parted ways, I went upstairs to deck myself out desirably.
I didn’t yearn for a surprise romp with Lauritz, but I texted him of my intention, to what he retorted from Ibiza that he had been following a runaway little devil. He recommended that I watch over his brood of babes in arms if I crossed them. As I was ointing myself with a priceless moisturiser offered by Lauritz, Sarah heard me and saw I was on the warpath, she came on as denuded as I was, and mused I wouldn’t shun her company if I were to go hustle somewhere ritzy, would I?
Such synchronicity was no odd between us two; I related my rather idle day, passed mostly contemplating our Adonis windfall, posing immodestly on my sofa for Cyprien, a commission of Michelle’s. I avowed I had been aroused by watching Gauthier pleasing the wunderkind with his greedy mouth, while Camille kissed Sasha madly.
Inevitably, Sofia had eloped with Hugo, and we would receive news from a distinguished place on earth, but Sarah missed the samovar girl. There were dozens of cauldrons around Paris in which we could have our flesh broiled, and Liselotte’s endless repertoire, Hector and Sami, but Speck’s was more homey to us, where we had truly met, and she had rushed me into Lauritz sheets, in the light of the tourists’ barges. And as of now, I had not gotten shagged, yet, in all the decors of the house.
She was never more enticing than in her phantasmic blazers, and she could parade bare legs in a brothel salon. She wore a double-breasted black grain-de-poudre with only one of the shard lapels of blue-gleaming black sequins, with black patent Opera pumps with a grosgrain bow. I helped tie a deep Royal blue velvet choker with a tiny pearly white gold bee stitched to it. She had sprayed deadly Tuberose, she had some more in her pocket in case of other rounds.
I donned an asymmetrical one-button black silk princess satin shirt dress with half-sleeves and a bold platinum chain necklace. I went bare legs in black suede Chelseas. My fragrance would be a dash of impalpable lilac-in-the-shade-of-a-cypress-tree, said she, and it bloomed wonderfully around my quim. She had eventually persuaded me to use my painterly workmanship around my eyes, after she showed me once that my brown eyes could kill, too; but I still begged her for the last touch —would it mean to call her a forger?
In our excited carelessness, we had not taken much heed to the driver’s seemliness, he frankly took us for whores, but he only said we smelled rich and gobbled up a staunch tip. The proficient majordome awaited us with a smile, but pointedly blocked the way, showing us to the reserved area where he minded his own affairs. Lauritz had long granted him the most liberal leeway towards visitors our kind, with manners. He would usually shag his whim paying utmost attention not to stain his pristine outfit. That night he fancied I looked while Sarah sucked him dry, my legs thrown open, on some chair. She swallowed his bitter spoonful, but he asked we kiss over it, and we did, in all lustfulness; then he made us rinse our mouths with blackcurrant cordial which made our lips crimson.
We made our entrée in the grand salon arm-in-arm; the music was prewar mellow, and we acted like an amateur should afford us both, which befitted a regular patron, a German trendsetter journalist who, in turn, wished to treat some visibly well-off acquaintance of his. They both were well-built greying lads, I relished square dances when I could watch Sarah spend herself loose with paying strangers, unfazed.
The room was on the second floor, I remembered having disassembled the large bronze and pâte de verre storm cloud chandelier to restore it. The ceiling and cornices were original palladium leaf, the walls were upholstered in nacre grey moire. I knew intimately the three paintings by Jean Dupas, with long, pale damsels and racy animals in the sunrise light, which had been commissioned by the then-owner of the house, in the thoughtless twenties. Over the headrest hung a sculpted white-gilt wood panel depicting nubile Asian dancers in a ceremonial row, above the silver-gleam padded velvet bed. Matched Art Deco armchairs, white-gilt little furniture, and cypress-green carpeting made the class of this reserved-floor playroom.
Günther appreciated speaking Danish with Sarah, whom he had known as Jensen —guessing all along it was an assumed style, and hearing full well the Kettelærs’ manner of speaking— so thus, since Dieter was the guest and took a liking in my waistline, we all spoke French impeccably. No sooner had we pranced in the cool ambience of this decor, than we flaunted our nudities and began with demoting the Savile Row perfect jackets upon some chairs backs.
A gentle knock on the door preceded the pretty cinnamon-skinned waiter —that we had both carnally enjoyed before on other incalls— pushing a cart with a bottle of Champagne in a wine cooler. Sarah played showing the boy how fit she was and winked, while Günther slid a tip note.
We refused to drink, they asked us to dance together and twirl our tongues, to conclude they would shag each of us alternately anyhow, and Dieter was first to unleash his fresh Johnson to tickle us with. Without further ado, we stripped them prestissimo, Dieter’s silk socks smelled of petitgrain, too; he seized my nape as I gulped the whole length of his proud boyish cudgel, sitting on my heels, my knees wide apart. Some men relish being sucked standing, they would never guess how I learned so efficiently, would they?

As she had taken the bit on her side, Sarah fiddled in my arse at Günther’s relish, and they gave us lewd little names. They swapped before the full fruition, and I was crammed with the warm broth that always reminded me of the stench of spilt beer on dirt. Like worthy courtesans, Sarah and I shared a kiss drenched with the semen of our rakehells, who revelled in our filthy games.
They threw us, legs up, upon the gemütlich bed, they preferred to taste our pearly slits and sneaky rosebuds and compare our tastes, like bona fide connoisseurs. They agreed that I tasted a tad like Rockefeller oysters, whereas Sarah evoked the Copenhagen gravlax, but they weren’t so famished as to make us gush in their mouth in revenge, Dieter was all the more aroused when he saw us keeping on our enamoured kiss, he seized my haunches and sheathed his rekindled staff into my coochie to the balls, as Sarah grabbed my nipple, and I flew through the silver haze, hearing afar the godlike homunculus laugh at me.
Sarah had tilted over to suckle my tits while Günther shagged her wild, arse up. Almost out of steam, I suspected our Teuton knights to run on weird molecules in their systems —who knows, nowadays— but I wouldn’t spend the morrow patching things up in my body and soul, so I gently held back the reins, asking Dieter for some lube, a message that he was overstraining my heed. They agreed to a pause and fetched the Swiss Navy in the nightstand drawer to ease our heated chinks in depth. Dieter proposed pills, but we both refused; the furthest we ever went would be a safe dose of THC but no unicorn drugs in the wind.
They called service instead, for tea which was the top standard at Speck’s. Our pretty cinnamon boy came back rolling a butler tray with a silver samovar and glass tea set. As we all lay wallowed, undressed across the bed, it wasn’t that shocking when Sarah crept a hand on his trousers up to the fly, and the boy was nude in a jiffy, he didn’t wear much under his livery. As Günther went on ointing her slits, she welcomed the dark spear to her throat, gamely.
Dieter asked me kindly if four fingers made me suffer, now. I had a thought for the sweaty swine who had long been using margarine onto me before his untimely demise, but I offered a lickerish kiss for a truce before he capsized me over, to resume buggering me, smoothly, as I smiled to bygone hardships I had seen swept in rubbles with all my old wretched neighbourhood. Now Dieter gasped that I had been so right complaining while drenching my slutty entrails with tepid fudge.
Enticed to it by Günther, Sarah was enlaced upon Ganesh, legs wide apart so that both her pampered slits be speared, and she gasped like a beast til Dieter gave her the stake he had hafted me with to gulp, remained for me to straddle over and give Günther my dripping bumhole to lick. It went in a diligent quintet so skanky that semen promptly poured again and Sarah was properly soaked.
The bathroom was a small cosy teal and silver mosaic twirls rotunda in which we swarmed upon each other in a tepid rain and balmy lather, salacious hands in every nook of our expensive skins.
Ganesh had thankfully left us with the tea fountain, and our dignified ritters had dumped princely tips above the lustful stains on the silver velvet, we called each other sleazy names. Wallowed indecently in the armchairs, we relished one another, I dared profer I had evoked the sordid cellar where I had nonetheless experienced my first ignoble orgasm. Sarah looked up at the chandelier I had rekindled once and said I would remain the same fairy she had unzipped bare off my overalls on that famous day. We agreed the night was still young, and that we might wander another go near the buffet table, like a pair of pricey fillies. On the landing, Udo sniffed us and kissed his fingertips, pulling us beyond a heavy velvet to taste our mouths and else; he suggested it would then be timely to stroll around in our sole perfect skins; a few well-heeled diplomats had excused themselves from their family dinners, only for us. I granted him a real tongue-twirling kiss, and when he caught his breath he called me an artist. We handed him our outfits and walked back carelessly into the precious arena, like prideful whores.
On the dignified grand piano, some great-grandson of Count Basie lulled the crowds into a warm dusky mood. Our little backstreet cousins luxuriated in gilt and dawn Paul Iribe loveseats, nude at the hands of stern-suited patrons, some adorned with black silk stockings and luxury pumps, the others only nail lacquer. We made sure everyone saw us together, swaying our hips like dancers before we stood, gracious and attentive, near the watering hole. Nibbling my little rolls, I could sense many manicured hands grazing along my bum crack, and then it was a more insidious feminine caress, Coline had ditched an untoward fogey who tasted like his last cigar. She was overjoyed to meet us whoring just like them, and she kissed me so lasciviously as to arouse the wandering males nearby.
That Cavaliere seemed to have been ogling Coline’s apple-shaped buttocks, and our candid display of tenderness piqued his want, not to our dislike. His combed-back black curls were strewn with silver, and his tanned high forehead set off his keen espresso gaze, his smile was precious Carrara white, and he spoke French with a Florentine accent that woke sparkles in my rump. Sarah heard that, and so she let a pair of German bankers sweep her along on their way.
Our Cavaliere wasn’t solo either, He introduced us to his cousin Tiziano, a self-conscious avvocato whose flat hairstyle did not hamper the carnivorous smile; they twiddled our bumholes a while to make sure we weren’t shy that manner before pressing us towards the lift to one only room.
That third-floor room is black, with thin velvet on the walls, black-lacquered cornices and skirtings, dark crimson ceiling and carpeting. An embrace-wide, repoussé yellow copper round platter depicted fauns and nymphs fornicating frankly in the style of Viennese Secession, hung at mid-height and amused Coline, who wriggled her bottom upon Ludovico’s fly.
The gentle Signori embodied Italian sartorial wit; with all the tailoring skills and the ultimate Milanese drapery, it was enthralling to undress them and tidy their togs upon the japanned chairs. While Tiziano licked up all of Coline’s against the wall, Ludovico had pushed me down on the golden plush bed; he was armed with an impressive flesh spear and tight-hung balls, and his muff was silky. He smelled of the most distinguished Cologne that Italy might educe.
Then they wanted us ragazzi to get jiggy together as they would glean their pleasure at random, whatever we offered. At this hour, we were both willingly easy shags, and the condottiere foraged about gallantly to finish, nigh ensemble, in our impish bumholes, with tenor dialect imprecations. They relished making us lick each other’s arse like sows, the lowest depravity like a dare Coline and I shared, suckling each other’s tongues, and then we ran to the bathroom, behind the headboard.
It was a palladium-leaf-clad alcove with a nest of lit quartz spikes on the vaulted ceiling over a large moulded glass tub, on ball feet. The floor unfurled blue-to-green spirals of mosaics interspersed with agate eyes. As in all the house, the water flow was abundant; the lather smelled of fresh hay. They scrubbed us thoroughly like babies while we sucked them as a goodbye, and they dressed up as fast as servicemen, leaving a handful of blessings on a console that we gave up to the maids, owing up to be already costly sluts, weren’t we?
As we went into the vestiary to perfume ourselves again like real women, Udo begged for a swift pass in our devilish mouths, having heard something funny from our Cavaliere. Sarah was stealthily gratifying the pianist, who did not rest his play while she was sucking him, while Dorothy and Carine did the same to some senior late-nighters who did not wish to go upstairs. Coline whispered around that we would all be on the go soon.
In the car back to our place, the driver let Dorothy sit in front next to him, in her little sequined black tank dress, which wouldn’t conceal her naked quim. He only regretted the fare was too short. We drank a nightcap of tea and coffee, I had received a message from Sofia, with a photo of her, nude, before a gothic window over the Tyrrhenian sea, in Gore Vidal’s Rondinaia villa in Ravello, Italy.
We woke unwittingly up Kate, but she wasn’t displeased to meet the pretty troupe of back street girls again, and she guessed at once what kind of disport we had spent our night, all nigh nude at our late tea party. She took a fancy for Dorothy, whom she asked to sit on her lap and retell her the pearls of our night’s shady commerce, so much so that she swept the little tart to our bed, and we still heard puffs and giggles. I took Coline to see the God Crow, and we heard Sarah and Carine in the axolotl bedroom.

 

Sarah says:

Carine was the shy one, and nonetheless a bona fide whore like us, only with a dishevelled soul, a deserted self behind a fluid persona. It had been Coline’s will to put her in Lauritz’s car when they eloped from the sleazy backlot where he had been hunting at random. To strangers, they pretended to be sisters.
Fayelle’s room smelled of Eglish sachet, rose and lavender; the bed was tucked afresh, and the pillows were alive with axolotl dreams. We had fetched some of those overwashed teeshirts that seem to sit in any of the house’s closets and feel smoother than silk, and Carine snuggled on my bosom, in the mood to speak. She had come aware that, in Speck’s salon, she was sought after by as many Johns as her sisters, mainly those uncertain characters who feared confronting an unknown woman head-to-head and thus preferred to seek solace in the shadowy love seats of the grand salon, behind lacquered screens; on average, she had to gulp half a dozen spurts on the sly, while exhibiting herself lewdly, and it made her as rich as the others who climbed up exotic trees in the bedrooms upstairs. However, she did not refuse to follow those who wanted to shag her outright; only she had felt a tad dumb —but they liked that.
I sunk my memories again on my Neverland lakeshore when I lured to my single bed a host of bustle-minded virgins when there wasn’t any single-minded pirate already flaunting a pretty peen against my belly, asking for directions. I had certainly not schooled the whole bunch of those wayward privileged kids into becoming bona fide sluts, but I had smuggled some keys to let them thrive on their own. When my little bestie turned a professional, I never knew how fate had struck her, and eventually, she became a righteous sister to whom I could entrust a foundling like Carine, couldn’t I?
We woke mid-afternoon; the weather had chilled a bit, I took my little fling of sorts to the vestiary to array her with hazy blue paisley cashmere leggings and an oversized jumper; some natural rustic socks did marvel on her slender feet. Cecile had already trapped Coline in her workshop —if Sasha showed up, it would garner them a free taste of a fine girl’s hide. I inferred all that because there were no traces of anyone’s breakfast, same for Kate and Dorothy, who would likely be upstairs in the studio.
Installed on the futon at the feet of the Heather Fairy, Fayelle had been reading aloud Isabelle Of Egypt, by Achim von Arnim, embraced by Dorothy in a carnelian tracksuit, her hand under Fayelle’s ample saffron yellow wool jersey gown. The Thistle Sisters greeted Carine with overt lust, Annabelle beckoned her to sit by her side on the red sofa; Isabelle returned beyond the desert sands, and Dorothy stole Fayelle’s lips. I was overjoyed and I put myself to brew fresh tea.
With a dash of mischief, I set out to narrate how the back street foundlings had ended in our beds, in a manner of literary pastiche. The Dovecote Ladies had already heard what Dorothy had let, and they were most educated about bawdy houses’ lifeways, but they relished some further enlightenment about Speck’s where they had not yet monetised their pretty freckles. I kept in mind to let Carine speak for herself and what she had reckoned of our debaucheries, and I saw Dorothy loved me for that, while Annabelle’s deft wings fluttered through Carine’s easy wear. As Venus shone in a pure dusk, Alfred commented on our immodest raves.
As the clock went, Annabelle unveiled they were expected in Montmartre to a friendly wake of Finneganomics at James’ along with burly tweedmasters for whom they played the envoys of Plurabelle —and possibly more. Kate was nigh frenzied about following Dorothy to Speck’s; thus I remained as the sole companion to Carine, Cecile having texted that Coline and herself were going to the Palais Royal. I called on Liselotte.