Sarah says:

Gianni Capodimonte —il Sarto per eccellenza— one morning that he had groped me all his heart’s content while he adorned me with a myriad of unfailing pins —and I still smiled like a daisy— listened to my plea that he should consider the sartorial case of the new talk of the realm —much more fluently in French, where the use of the genderless pronoun “iel” doesn’t bustle the phrases like that of “they” in English— all the more under the undisputed influence of our Aviatrix, whom Gianni revered and clothed, in all of his touchy-feely manners, with the most rewarding success; thus he agreed to meet Sasha.
The impeccably old tailor was literally awestruck when I lovingly undressed our new unreachable living grace, and I could read on his Neapolitan face the ancient echo of bygone cults to grace and youth. As I held a nude Sasha by the hand to incite them to let their sublime body express itself all around our living room, it was discussed what gamut of genre clichés to play with, not so far from my own, with nonetheless the ability to urinate standing. I had my own idea, with an illimited budget, of where to order bespoke fanciful ultimate shoes at Laurel’s, where Theo, our poet from Oz, had his coloured two-tone Fred Astaire Oxfords made.
Sasha had never worn any manner of skirt; they would continue in trousers and briefs, and I trusted Gianni on his inventive palette. They would remain dwelling on the Melchior side of the general maze, Gauthier had done so well with their pretty labyrinthine den, and Melchior’s means had made built an exascale satellite to the TRÆVIX nexus and its ultra-secret New York connexion.
A discreet expedition had been set, comprising Melchior, Michelle, Camille, Sasha, and Delff, who did marvels as Sasha’s life coach and occasional lover. Nobody in the 60 Hudson or the Long-Distance buildings took any offence as to the apparently disparate team of TRÆVIX’s and SEVEN STREAMS joint brain trust. Mr Phanage, SEVEN STREAMS’ chief operative, happened to be gay and fell for Sasha before they intertwined neurons, following a few hours of brainstorming with Melchior aboard his Albatros. The outworldly angel demonstrated a brisk focus on the tech solutions at work on both shores of the Atlantic. They went for dinner in the newly reopened Chrysler Spire restaurant, where Jørn Hartvig offered what Camille called a pricey, impeccable cuisine; she did not know if Melchior had bought the whole tower.
Thanks to Delff’s elven manners, and Gauthier’s dainty passion, Sasha soon grasped the polyamorous game that ran incessantly through our realm like electrons in a processor, and they had not forgotten my chaste visit in their perch. One golden afternoon, when Alfred, our block’s suzerain blackbird, mocked me alone in the studio, I received a message from Sasha telling me they would relish meeting me at the door by the gym, and I felt like them. We both wore fluffy tracksuits, they were barefoot, rich vanilla yellow, and I was powder blue with a big aslant “MORE” patch across the chest. They took my hand along the corridors, with a few devilish kisses in the crooked nooks.
Besides the unconditional love stream by Delff, Sasha had been seeing Cynthia at length and again, so as to ascertain they weren’t no manner of monsters whatsoever; and the Doctor was becoming a world reference on their shared nature. Gauthier had ferreted out grand tour micromosaic landscapes in quaint black and gilt frames, that looked like benign heirlooms near the bedroom door. But what enthused them most was a gift by Melchior of a painting by Lyonel Feiniger of New York Harbour in a cubist view and low-key tones, and they said they could hear the music; they had a vivid imprint of the voyage to New York; Melchior is such a leader of souls.
They would shy no more when I slid my hand under the thick cotton to fiddle with their nicely erect little boy. I wasn’t ignorant of nature’s whims, I knew how to spin their shuttle, as puny it be. They were overjoyed, they avowed that Cynthia had advised them to let me woo them to whatever end, and she had herself, quite a few times, and taught me some.
Sasha ordered finger food and fruit salads; they were literally worshipped at A&S, and a pretty box of candied violets wasn’t on the tab. They brewed Dong Ding tea in a stump-shaped Yiking pot. I couldn’t tire of watching them nude on their Japanned chair while fiddling with their feet.
They recounted how Gauthier took them, just as he did me, and I offered that they buggered me, too, for dessert; I knew that angels of their kind prefer it that way. But I didn’t feel tip-top ready as such; they laughed and said they had obviously all it took to proceed to a proper enema they would use with their numerous lovers, wouldn’t they? They watched me from a distance, I liked the mild obscenity of it. Then they asked me to climb on all fours on the bed, to watch my bottom while using my bumhole, I helped myself with my wet fingers to trigger my own climax.

Sasha’s cosy study had been unavoidably furnished with new slim tech contraptions; they sat me on their lap, on a silver Aeron chair, in front of the desk and two large monitors showing the usual tapestry of coloured diagrams. They joshed that they still were monitored by Michelle, the principal processors being installed in the room under where we stood —waving at a thick yellow cord that ran from their console and from there to the black steel cabinets in the TRÆVIX’s palace cellars.
They smelled of something benign like frangipane or calissons as I licked their balmy-skinned neck before I sensed their mind was being gripped by some detail on the monitors. Insensibly, I crept out to fetch my togs and sneakers, then headed out through the maze, reached the gym and the pool, and joined the holy fray. I was overjoyed to see Fulgence come out of the shower room and jump in the water, and he wouldn’t mind finding me in it, craving for a proper friendly shag. I was more than willing to be buggered like a floating frog.
I had not visited his workman’s pad up a crooked flight of narrow stairs, past a door marked Eric Vandour, his old pal, at the tip of the building. Besides moaning under his vigourous hands’ continuing avid dismantling of my puppety carnal envelope, I had to own to him that he had evolved greatly in his lifestyle. He dwelled in a typical orgy drey mainly furnished with low moss-green velvet divans and an oak round breakfast table and café chairs; the kitchen was separate. He would probably work elsewhere because I couldn’t see any of his work displayed or stacked.
After he had peeled off my rudimentary clothes and kissed me all over he stopped and stared at me with funny eyes to say that, in all this time, I had never cared to visit him for a friendly shag, had I? He mocked me as an unapologetic aristocrat with the most arrogant bottom. He fetched sundry tins of all the cookies he had found at the Bon Marché and warned me that all he knew brewing was coffee, like Cecile, on whom we shared the most lustful of praises. Natalia had helped him the most in settling camp elegantly as she had been a keen regular since the days when Eric and himself had played minders for her among the wolfpacks, imaginary or not, in the venues of academia —before she began sleeping around with all the bigwigs at Liselotte’s instigation, garnering all manners of rewards, and money.
His coffee, from an Italian percolator, was indeed grandiose. He confided that he bought the beans, triple roast, from the wholesaler who served the most demanding cafés, and he paid it an arm and a leg just like them.
After we had lustfully tangled in the pool’s purified waters, he smelled of his own tickling animal spices, and stood valiantly ready to ease my inner itches, thus, I offered him my beaded slit he had always vaunted as a sassy violet. He took me sideways, I had always easily thrown my leg over up —since I was taught by Gallo Fuks, our gym coach in Saint Loup, how to ease my hips— to ease for deep, slow penetration, whichever the pathway they chose. That once, Fulgence made me blush of contentment, burying me under a cartload of compliments while he kept stirring in my womb. And what moved me most was what he said the other boarders said of me when he lured them to this den —all of them.
There was a stark, slate-clad shower room with a zinc ceiling, a black enamelled pillar sink with a matching bidet, and a pair of bleached stools. The floor slabs were finely polished. He asked me to sit with my thighs parted.
In his crash room, over the sage-green waxed walls and cornices, on one side hung a collection of exuberant bawdy etchings by the Australian Norman Lindsay in sleek palm wood frames; on the side, sundry risqué lithographs by Alberto Vargas, and on the third wall, in white gilt frames, the ten engravings by Hans Bellmer and Cecile Reims for “Le Petit Traîté De Morale”, a present of Camille’s, said he. On the third wall was hung a large sequin embroidery of a passing tiger against a flowers-strewn black background, inside a heavily ornate border, a gift of Gauthier’s, which attuned with the stylised tigerskin on the Tibetan carpet. A large square ottoman table was upholstered with kilim, and he joshed I was one who had not yet laid upon it, I betted I might, I liked his garçonnière.
By the bye, I spoke of my fling with Sasha, whom he had heard of in an extraordinary manner by all those who had seen them. He wondered a tad ironically what it might be to make love to some sort of overgrown child, so I tried to comprise it would pertain more to the lesbian realm than what was only just going to happen to me —as I was holding his rekindled firebrand. He avowed he had buggered Apolline a few times, but she played her part feminine, although she asked that her cherub diddle be sucked. That said, he fetched a tube of KY under the sofa and shagged me like a boy.

Fulgence carried me away to his small bedroom, almost entirely filled with a thick square bed that smelled of him and pomander, with a fluffy comforter. In the morning, Alfred could hardly police me out of my cloud, and the artist was gone. I found a gentle brief on the table saying we would keep close, me and my posse; also, there would be some finishing jobs to tweak in Sasha’s, and he would recall what I said about them.
I went directly to the studio —to pull the wool over Alfred’s eyes— and brew some strong Darjeeling. I grabbed a fistful of sunflower seeds for Alfred’s feeder, knowing it would make me look guilty of something, which I wasn’t, but it kept him silent for a while, would he call on the Mrs?
While I chased elusive fireflies in the blank of the paper, I listened to generative music on < saintloup.art >, a fantom site of the old confederacy of lakeshore computer buffs Ayla had somehow reconnected with. Sofia, back from the terraces of Ravello, snuck in with a bag of the legendary limoni, worthy of Zurbaran’s, scented like tinkle bells, but she said they wouldn’t keep, and I should make kombucha.
She had tanned beautifully, only just a slight shade, Hugo having unfailingly massaged her with costly sun cream, telling her all the tales she wished to hear, answering all her dangling interrogations. They had foretold together a smooth future, and he had incited her to follow freely whatever attraction she would sense towards any one of our easy flock. The Laforest twins’ realm had been her manner of novitiate in a proper bawdy house, to which she would probably like to return at whim with some of us. Now on, regardless of her otherwise carnal fantasies, she would need a room of her own and the means of material independence, notwithstanding the ways she would see fit in our own walks of life. She had been wearing a willow-green cashmere ensemble, and she stood with her pants pulled halfway down, she joshed at the futon askew near the sofa like some battlefield, indeed, as I tipped her over and we wrestled kindly. Her spangly silver eyes under her black lashes and swift brows cast a quiet mystery as she let herself lay confident. I feasted on her pale moist labia and clit, she wasn’t shy to gush a swig of pleasure tears upon my mouth that I lapped up with a greedy smile.
Unsurprisingly, we were caught by the gentle fairies who were instantly smitten, and since that touted futon had somehow become their usual cloud, they kicked off their shoes and jumped onboard with litanies of kisses. Fayelle wriggled out of her long mullein-yellow knitted gown and sided with Sofia as she grilled her with questions, repeating that she, herself, had turned up once from the sidewalks of despair —she spared her the axolotl episode, as of yet. As we had come to picnic carelessly in the raw on the futon, Sofia could ask all the meddling questions that came to mind regarding the economic backing of all these desirable creatures she had been meeting in our surroundings, and the answer was the picture of some open-air cult, operating merely above regulatory radars, and resting on the monitoring of epidemiology in consenting adult members. Nigh worldwide, the possessors of the sesame credential processor included in a black seemingly blank credit card could practise high-safety prostitution far from the sleazy skin trade Annabelle and Fayelle had been forced into as younglings. The rewards came directly into the service providers’ accounts.
I sensed that Hugo, besides the very situation he had taken Sofia in those few heavenly days, had rested on me and the good souls in the mill to educate, some would say groom, the silver-eyed newbie in the ways of the realm. While we all cuddled her already most pampered body, we described all we thought of the sundry venues of debauchery she would access with her black pass, and she had an appointment later in the day where she craved I escort her.
The thistle sisters —but Fayelle had never yet set her dainty foot in Scotland— were expected at James’, Annabelle’s purported father, for a private gathering with Lord Zak Duveen and his posse, at the whimsical hillside mansion in Montmartre; they expected all devious but caring excesses; they left us, to go harness themselves accordingly.
Walking to the clinic, Sofia confessed she had needle phobia; there was no other manner; they would need to fill at least four phials of her blood before injecting all necessary vaccines against all known STDs. I asked the Doctor if she could crunch a Xanax that would quiet her in ten minutes; he smirked and said he would tell the machine not to scan for it in her blood. Nevertheless, she was sweaty when we went to the gynaecology exam room, where she did not want me to leave her, although the procedure of taking a cervical smear was utterly harmless. I showed her to feel my own progestin contraceptive implant below my armpit and told her I had chosen it for long-term peace of mind and no estrogen. After less than a minute of soul-searching, she asked for the same.

In our casual tracksuits, Sofia’s apricot-sherbet patched of a big powder-blue Z on the chest, mine turquoise-blue with a ruby-dotted line embroidered across at an angle, our Chuck Taylor sneakers reciprocally mismatched light purple and mint, we went for tea in A&S backyard conservatory salon. We ate rhubarb and raspberry pie under the attentive eye of Agnete and her staff; I was so proud of my catch.
We bought dinner for what I reckoned could be a possible impromptu gathering, Sofia would only gather her card the next day —calling my attention to the fact that she had not thus been hired fully at Laforest, and Hugo might have knowingly brushed past risks.
Back home, in the mellow mid-season sunset, Alfred was busy cursing away any contender to his fiefdom with the most mellifluous style, Sofia laughed her head out at my praise of His Little Lordship. Cecile returned from work, carrying scents of aspic oil in her hair, and she was enthraled at once by the good looks of my candid recruit whom she recognised from Laforest’s. As she stood attending to her coffee machine, she offhandedly let her fingers crawl in Sofia’s curls, and pressed the willing head upon her tummy while she rummaged in her sweatshirt. She sat close and wanted to hear about our day, while dipping langues de chat. I would have craved we go out on the town, but it was safer to bunker up in my bed and watch a Terry Gilliam movie.
In the morning, my brain still obsessed with the music theme of Brazil, both of us wearing loose nightshirts, I began to enumerate the possibilities of our next night, starting with a joyride at Philippe’s and already Sofia’s eyes rounded; when I described Speck’s, The Panopticon, and Liselotte’s ramifications, she felt like Pinocchio lured to Pleasure Island by Honest Sarah. I cooked French toast and fetched cinnamon syrup and faked almonds, so her silver pupils sparkled. I explained that Cecile had been unfailingly at work since dawn, and we would climb up to the studio waiting for the lab to call up.
The Heather Fairies exhaled Scotland’s wild fragrances when they invaded us in their Glaswegian-style flimsy gowns, barefoot. Sofia already lay across the futon with a fresh pillow that Fayelle hurried to come share. They were obviously proud of their night, and the rings to their eyes told why. Annabelle avowed she had been stunned by the audacity of her purported father’s saturnalia in honour of his guests.
Lord Isaak, an all-time abettor of James’, had descended upon the Montmartre’s estate with his brigade of colourful young flunkeys with the most gracious sans-gène, overjoyed to bustle a tad the old rakehell, Baron Wigmore, such as he knew him. They had brought heaps of victuals in order to escape the vegan diet of his friend and his muses, of whom he nonetheless did not ignore the boisterous past, having advised him wisely at the time he adopted Annabelle. So, the feast happened on two separate buffet tables in James’ grand salon, the five mixed origins lackeys given free rein to buzz around the house girls once their appetite sated. They drank champagne and thus kept a respirable breath when they wooed the ladies.
The two noblemen had lost the jacket and sat in a pair of easy fauteuils à la Reine, expecting the sight of young vigour. The boys were dressed in thin wool black trimmed suits, Parma striped Russian-style shirts, and polished black ankle boots; their legs showed impatience, but they kept a pleasant badinage with classless received pronunciation that told of Lord Isaak’s care of his unwonted entourage. They did not know of the chaotic upbringing of the damsels, Annabelle had long squashed out any hint of lowlife Glaswegian accent, and Fayelle kept only so much of French je ne sais quoi that tingled the boys’ crotch. They didn’t know yet that, under the ladylike, razed velvet flared shirtdresses, thistle blue on Annabelle and peachy rose on Fayelle, nothing would repel their eyes or hands from the laser-sleek complexions of James’ precious pets, bar the matched colour holdup stockings.
For a while, the innocent libertines’ hemlines kept hidden the smooth knees, but they didn’t help anything from slowly sliding up their legs, till the paleness of their nude bloom above the stockings became a mute consent to let them unbutton the dresses. Lord Isaak warned not to rush on, and James claimed that all was available if obtained gainly soft and smooth, and anyhow untucked their long-tails shirts out of their loosened trousers.
James’ sofas are deep, moss-green, down-filled mohair velvet cocoons large enough for boundless lovemaking. Our literati fairies reacquainted with hellfire as if they had never stepped out, with the trifle of excitement of pure vice, no other constraint than pleasing their benefactors and garnering as much pleasure as they knew how to reap in the sinewy loins of unfettered hunkies. Sofia lapped up every word as if it extended her perspectives in unabashed depravity.

Sofia had been so flagrantly in awe that Annabelle, while relishing her young shivers, had devised a plot for us to turn ourselves at Lord Isaak’s suite at the Dune Belvedere, not only was he a very generous patron, but his troupe of slender big cats was well worth the pelvic thrust. It was swiftly designed so that we go, in the morrow afternoon, to this left bank’s supreme hotel, in walking distance of us.
After a tenderly bustled night haunted by the fairies’ recounts, Cecile was long gone when we dawdled to the breakfast table and pondered what outfits would suit two grand-style Parisian lorettes for rent. Sofia craves to rummage in our one-of-a-kind wardrobe, and her feet size is more or less 39, A~B, like Kate and I.
Out of the shower, and the proper courtesan grooming, pricey body lotion and nails varnished silver for her and night blue for me, I followed a hunch of costuming her as a white Ziegfeld cavalier, easy-dropped white satin French culotte, white silk knee-high stockings, an untucked rich white frilled shirt, and an authentic white woollen cloth spencer jacket with all the ostentatious silver braided trimmings. I would have dreamt of white cavalier boots but white patent opera pumps worthily set off her shapely calves and slender feet. On a whim, I gave her a palladium moonstone ring I had bought once at Goodwill’s in New York, a wide polished band with a bezel-set gem, she was about to weep, so I asked her to help me.
The mood was set on vaudeville’s military; she would be the white cavalier, and I would thus play the sexy black evil. I had this black velvet tailcoat trimmed with purple piping and strewn with silver buttons, whose lapels hid enough of my flat chest and drollberries. I slid on a black satin pair of high-waist knee breeches with a fall front in case His Lordship was in haste, black silk stockings and black patent flats. I clipped on a black velvet choker with an oval amethyst cabochon set in platinum; I put on a tad more purple eye shadow and sprayed some high note of gardenia to alleviate the boylike demeanour; Sofia wore that incestuous haze of rose and jasmine I craved to trail into her promised intimacy.
As we would walk on the brink of dusk, we’d better wrap ourselves in evening trench coats —albeit I was long well-known for our sartorial eccentricities. The concierge in a powder blue livery with golden Brandenburgs blinked insensibly when we announced ourselves for His Highness; he called room 23 on the phone, mimicked a silent assent and showed us the lifts. Sophia seized my arm and mumbled something about the depth of the carpets, it wasn’t long since she had weaved in and out on demand, in a black bodysuit, under the eye of the unfazed cameras.
His Lordship reminded me of Hugo, in a long vermillion velvet robe with padded shawl lapels, open on a long white nightshirt, white silk stockings and vermillion velvet slippers embroidered with his monogram. A younger woman sat in an armchair, blonde and rose in one of those impeccable tailleurs, slim and pert, showing a little of her elegant legs and feet in black silk stockings and sleek bicolour pumps.
Lord Isaak, gallantly helping us to hang our coats in the closet, had read us at once and guessed who was the shiest one, thus he seized Sofia’s waist to bring us to Lady Elfim and introduce us as Paris’ finest courtesans, which earned us a candidly interested smile, why not?
A collation table offered sundry savouries, sweets, and fruit lemonades in crystal pitchers —His Lordship had recalled our diet— a bottle of champagne stood in a silver cooler, all amidst the sparkling tableware. The music was a muted light-hearted baroque, and the subdued lights grazed Sophia’s when he made her turn slowly with obvious lust. He turned to me and asked me to pull her culotte down graciously so she would show her bottom; I unbuttoned and began to pull down the silk on her nudity, to the comments of both our patrons. I saw Lady Elfim’s knees part imperceptibly, but I could briefly tell she wore no knickers, letting me think she wasn’t here to suffer.
Lord Isaak told Sofia to untie the jabot and open her shirt, while I finished sliding off her culotte. He pushed a chair before Lady Elfim and told Sofia to spread her legs towards his wife while he stuck his tongue greedily into my cavalier’s mouth, and she kindly held his neck. Then he told me to bare my arse, too, and go kiss the Lady if I would. I complied gracefully, and I surmised that my sweet delta was also to her Ladyship’s taste, so I walked to her side, and I stood indecently until she touched me; her husband then called her Flim and asked her if we weren’t magnificent animals to pet at her whim before he called his tribe of island flunkies to rape us?
The Lady was, at least, an educated lesbian who succeeded at giving me thrills; I could barely sneak a hand under her skirt, but when she crept a bit forward I knew she was all wet and willing; she led me to a nearby sofa and let me rid of her pricey tweeds and linens, she was a sporty, laser-smooth, honey-skinned, boarding school kind of a woman. Her ash-blond, left-parted bob hairstyle with a short nape and her dark green stare, once the armour was rid of, let bloom a pretty palatable filly, to my taste.

The Lord had gone on petting the girl in her frills and over-the-knees stockings like he wouldn’t allow himself further, but he relished Sofia’s pouty mouth, and then he summoned some invisible crew onboard, with a fine smirk. A corner door slung open, and the five expected hunks pranced in, vested in mere ribbons, plonks to the wind, sniggering like street rascals and showing no more regard for nobility than for my own coochie —but, after all, didn’t I debase a heap of quarters myself?
Flim wouldn’t let go of me while the greedy cubs began holding my feet high to nibble at my sensitive rims, although she was first being skewered like a Bankside crumpet, as for a London socialite. It was a whirlwind of cinnamon devils; the sofa moaned like a cart of rubbles; we all ran to the full-size bed in the next room, and His Lordship wallowed in a low Régence armchair to touch himself into the creases of his regalia watching Sofia busied in all her slits. Next, he would come to graze on my neck as my head dangled backwards at the edge of the bed, being filled by a stiff morsel, while a cohort rummaged through my bumhole to the hilt.
It really went as the Heather Sisters had recounted, innumerable rampancy of brutal ravage, for the pure delectation of the jubilating vermillion tamer, though he remained physically aloof. When he eventually scattered their panting herd to the depth of a truly grand suite, the bed was soaked and crumpled, it smelled like the wrestlers’ cloakroom in Saint Loup; we dawdled to the totally anachronical Calacatta marble bathroom with a double-sized white enamel tub and abundant gilt plumbing, the three of us women. We mingled in the bath like otters in a puddle, Her Ladyship gently voluble about our grace and complacency, asking how many boarders lived in our convent, rounding her eyes when I portrayed a few. She said they had been card-carrying libertines for a while in Britain, but they had only started exploring Paris resources; I addressed her to Sami and advised a visit to Quai d’Anjou where Udo would understand a reference in my name.
When we went back to redress, all the mess had been tidied, and the cleaning boy stood looking at us unabashed before pushing the cart of dirty laundry over which he might well now wank out. We noticed the fat wads in our pockets, Lord Isaak nodded; he smelled of Jermyn Street.
In the lift, as Sofia cuddled on my bare bosom, I told her it might well not be over yet, and with her knowledge of hotel mores, be it the top crop ones when it came down to pretty flappers, she foresaw what ensued. The night concierge, who commanded all the CCTV, stood by the doors and ushered us to the far end of the landing, behind a private door, in a dark muffled staff room where he hastily ordered Sofia to suck him while he opened wide my lapels and groped me up and down. It was swift; he soon grabbed Sofia’s head and muttered that she gulp all, and she wisely did. The bastard checked in the mirror there wasn’t any stain on his trousers.
It was a full moon over Paris when we walked back; Sofia couldn’t help sliding her hand on the bundle of money in the pocket over her heart; I joshed it could as well be monkey money, but she already knew it was hard cash.
We slept the whole morning, and Kate took a fancy to Sofia before I returned from my flights over the Øresund silver glints, showing me the fiery cub she was. I preferred to keep on gliding on the island drafts of our aristocratic night, and I brewed a pot of Oriental Beauty of Taiwan, my latest fad in teas. The northern doves were eager to hear our explicit report and were thrilled to hear about a Lady Elfim, at all. His Lordship had questioned them about other commendable floozies available; thus, we pondered about who could go along with Cecile to ride the cinnamon platoon with grace, and eventually, she decided on Adèle.
The novelty had come up timely; Lauritz currently revelled in Ibiza’s lupanars, searching for yet another wayfarer in despair to shack her up with the other kittens in his discreet back alley refuge for Speck’s performers, hence Cecile missed her mentor’s whimsical inventivity as for lubricity, hence this unforeseen opportunity of rich whoremongery, and moreover Adèle had long been broken in the service to rich old clients as much as to a herd of colourful flunkies.
Now Kate fantasised about taking Sofia along to Speck’s, and I wouldn’t sour their fling, I didn’t own the narrow-hipped hotel mouse, did I? While the gossip went buzzing about His Lordship’s shenanigans, I read a message from Hector who eventually invited me out like old times; it wasn’t that he merely needed company, he claimed he missed our manner of wakeful lechery, and Louis had phased out of his grand style expenses, making do with simpler ceremonies with the foundlings that Hector rescued here and there. Therefore, would I care for a surprise trip inside the ritzy carriage?

Cecile had nurtured the finest of sartorial tastes, transmogrifying in a jiffy from a butchy working gal into a classy tartlet deploying her spells. She donned an ankle-long maroon velvet panne halterneck, slit up to the hip, like a Shanghai courtesan’s, black sequined Egyptian sandals, and a Viennese Secession platinum, onyx, and white jade choker. She outrageously smelled of lethal white blooms, the likes of tuberose, magnolia, and orange blossom, she had sunk her troubling gaze under a heavy dash of eye shadow.
Her accomplice had an unabashed taste for silk jersey; her villainous pimp father had always decked her out with pricey teasing rags, in the gilded cage where she awaited the johns. Now that the aftermaths of the scandal had waned, she kept no hurting grudge about that criminal manner of an upbringing —she had fruitfully exchanged with Fanny and Gwen; she went to therapy twice a week with one of Dr Méant’s colleagues, after they had sorted out the legal ties of her situation as a more or less fugitive. Her intricate dawn-coloured pattern shirt dress was buttoned only down to the top of her thighs, which could become troubling if she sat down with no undies, but she possessed all the postures of the savvy courtesan. She wore dainty cornflower blue suede Mary-Janes, a thin golden chain did sundry turns to her neck, and she smelled of a lady lime tree in may.
They ran lightheartedly, expecting a saraband of unfettered lewdities; I craved to hear their morrow impressions. Thinking of Hector’s velvet berline, wherever it might glide, I surmised that I could as well travel bare, as in Violette Leduc’s “Taxi”. After a thorough toilet, I chose a double-breasted tuxedo with one sequined lapel, lined with purple silk princess satin. With one piece, I was decked to the nines, plus black velvet slippers embroidered with silver Jolly Rogers, and a strass skull on a black velvet choker —never wear the real stuff to unchartered adventures, mind.
Although I learned to drive in Saint Loup, I seldom practice from home, like the whole household. Hector’s regular chauffeur operated cooly the smooth electrical nave southward on the Raspail Boulevard up to Montsouris quarter, as usual, glancing at my simplistic outfit with a smirk, we went back ages, didn’t we? As for Hector, he greeted my knees with a blazing smile as I wallowed next to him in the back seat. He smelled of oud and black oolong, like a warm beast; he avowed he had been erect since he had seated in the car; that which deserved an instant favour sideways, one knee pulled up —I wished the chauffeur used auto-pilot.
He gushed in deep not long before we reached a three-storey nondescript building with two garage doors, in a small alleyway. He gave me a potent mint drop and a tissue, thanking me with a loving glare.
He tapped into an app on his phone and typed a few codes so that a door flipped up to let us in a curved path leading down to parking spaces already filled with rows of limousines like ours until we found an empty spot to park. The clean, anonymous space reminded me of previous encounters I had let myself be played with. At the ceiling were affixed wires and pipes, sprinklers, lamps and cameras, all white; the walls were tiled peacock green, and the floor was metaphysically checkered. A steel door opened on a mirrored lift car. The chauffeur, a black man whose I didn’t remember the name, albeit however the whole rest of his person vividly, was glancing at me sideways with a greedy smirk; I leaned back upon Hector who had slid a hand in my jacket.
We landed in a fully oak-panelled hall, lit by four Dutch chandeliers with subdued faux candles and carpeted in thick moss-green wool with a strewn-flowers pattern. A stern character in black tails and patent Oxfords led me by the hand to a discreet door that opened on a dark wooded vestibule to another door and a corridor where he told me to disrobe and unshoe, took all with consideration and left me there, in the raw, after sneaking out through another side door —it was beginning to feel like an Escher maze.
From behind me, a tall man wearing a black glove-skin helmet with big oval mirror glass goggles, letting the lower half of his face free, breathed on my neck as he frankly groped my buttocks, pushing me thus towards the far end of the hallway. He smelled of forest undergrowth with box trees and honeysuckle. He was nude to the belt of old-style fall-front trousers —I could feel why— white stockings and black Repettos. I responded willingly to his handling, and he could not ignore that I was ready for any whim of his. He seized me a few times to kiss me like a famish schoolboy, his dick wooden-stiff under the fabric, but he was like impatient to lead me to the end door.

Still so much in Escher’s manner, The architecture unfurled in no logic with what I had briefly discerned on arrival, and we walked into a tall-ceiling room, still warm and airy, lushly carpeted like a Norsk forest, dark as a nightly cathedral. Now hovered a handpan drum’s infinite melody that wriggled in my plexus and spine like I would have dropped some weird atoms. A feeble light emanated from faux candles in polished copper sconces aligned on the dark oak panels alternated with high-shaped open-work sculpted giltwood frame black bevelled mirrors in which I liked to see myself, and so did the other handful of masked prowlers whose proud penises jolted in the air like a herd of gryphons.
Without a word, at the pace of the ghostly drums, they steered me to a well-identifiable black leather padded bench upon which I was firmly laid and at once used and forced with craftiness and all necessary lubricant. Amidst the carnal bedlam of me, I heard in my ear the soft voice of Hector asking if that was what I had craved, and not to fear the wolfpack; they were vetted connoisseurs better left anonymous. Lord Isaak’s hirelings had only been gentle spars compared to the gust of jizz I was intaking in both my slits and my throat.
I was carried to a steamy green marble hammam, lathered up with orange blossom water, and hosed, in and out, till I was reborn pristine. Some ribald gossip cropped up about my androgynous allure, although one alpha-sounding voice praised the pertness of my pleasurable chinks and the slenderness of my features, I heard the chord of higher authority — like I had witnessed sometimes in my Far’s wake.
The lead stag kept his liking of me when we returned to the banquet hall where I had just been the main course; his ways of handling my body concurred with the manship of his charisma. I realised I had been embroiled in some shadow political shenanigan —so far so good, however. He sat me on his lap, buttoned back up. Little treats had been arranged on side tables and on the prop of my recent lewdnesses. Fat silver tea and coffee pots shone on a tray among frail porcelain cups. I was forbidden to close my legs; they all could tell I was again shamelessly wet.
A pair of nude twin nymphets were introduced in the same manner I had been, unabashedly groped by each of the carefree clubmen. The girls were picture-perfect long reed blond-haired, blue-grey eyes Friesian elves. Sateen and Pearl Van Armel —as it sounded— smelled of rose marzipan; the shortest one wore a strand of her eponymous beads; my tamer forced me —as if I would baulk— to enlace Sateen and kiss her deep as she was already fingering me. (There had been a rear season at the lakeshore when such a pair of indiscernible beauties had enthralled all of us, and they did not return after Xmas. Ayla later said they prospered in a Munich house)
With long, sleek legs and feet, my stupid heart was set at once. Hector would have to steer them to our gallant court at any cost, all the more than they revealed a taste for unfettered abandon, in turns upon the sundry large armchairs where craving thrived. My own stag contrived a figure in which he buggered me, wide open, back on him, while Sateen twiddled my clit with her tongue, and cohorts took turns in her offered slits.
After we had enjoyed reciprocally pissing over ourselves and in our mouths, I could speak with them a bit, in that same messy parler Gwen and Dagmar bantered with, that —totally unerotic to our ears— Germanic hotchpotch so funny to hear in their beloved mouths. Hector had received loud and clear my otherwise silent demand, and thus, there were four of us caring for his Peter at the back of the ritzy gliding vessel, and he insisted we tip the chauffeur in kind, somewhere he knew amidst the Cité Universitaire. The strapping black lad chose to mount Pearl against the hood, and I sussed she was in for sensations —having myself served the bastard more than once in public, I knew the size and bluntness of his black rod— and he did not take a once as his fill; after he splurted copiously into Pearl’s kitty, he ordered Sateen to hitch up her flared jersey dress, bend over, and he forced his still drooly dick into her back hatch, long enough for a second salvo. There were keen cheers from the spontaneous audience, but Hector barely left time for the proud fouteur to clean his black shaft that we closed in, watching the splurts of cum dripping on the car windows.
So, that new pair of Northern sylphs were altogether as depraved as our own kind, sussed I as I licked semen from their however minute holes which had just been right out defiled. Hector wouldn’t own to having devised the encounter, but he was so happy as to make me ride his dick backwards while the Van Armels returned the favour of their keen tongues.
I was overwhelmed to bring back home such an amazing loot. After a last Geranium-Orange shower, I took them to our bed, and they swore they would never want to leave, whatever the ransom.

They slept snuggled together, Sateen keeping her sister on her bosom, and I embraced their peaceful dream. It had been Hector’s call, so it was not just a lucky happenstance like it would neither have been, quite a few times before. Next would come another moving tale of runaway angels he would have captured, like Nabokov’s Blue Karners. And they would spin the long yarn of a misgiven upbringing that the soul of the hive would help ward off, with the spume of carefree days.
In the morning, I was unsurprisingly first on deck; Kate and Sofia had not returned from their lustful ventures, and Cecile was undoubtedly already at work; I would show her my living trove downstairs later, and I bet Cyprien would be thrilled, too. I put myself turning slices of lame brioche into golden French toast, the scent of which pulled my foundlings out bare-bottomed in old faded Xtina and Avril tee shirts. They were wired and overjoyed to have washed out on our shore. They didn’t know what tea was, they wanted to dip their toast in bowls of sweetened black coffee. I abided by so.
It was transfixing to confront the double eager gaze of candid smiling faces. They licked their tapered fingers and tiny nails with kittenish evocative application. My soul hardly figured out all the pretty misbehaving I had seen them smile through that last night, but then we played footsy, and I summarised what manner of a lustful trap they had stepped into, bar they could flee anytime they would.
They appreciated my frank biography, but we soon moved to the sofas for naughty intermedes. They, too, were born to a bigwig father, a high-ranking Martian who sort of kept them so long as they didn’t bear his name. They had come into the world in Willemstad on Curaçao Island, where their father had been briefly stationed, then they moved to Tucson, Arizona, with the whole Dutch household that fell apart two years later on the endless misbehaving of their mother who couldn’t stand the misalliance she had fallen into at eighteen and finally fled to California with a rock band. The twins had been repatriated to The Hague to their father’s family and a host of nannies and au pairs until they were sent to separate boarding schools on the advice of a weird psychiatrist hired by their father, until after multiple runaways and suicide attempts alerted the health services, and they were withdrawn from the father’s and grandparents’ custody, whatever clout would they own. For one, the weight they had thinned down to was alarming, and they had both become totally mute.
They were put in a mild institution where, apparently left to themselves, they eventually agreed to speak to others and reveal they possessed a full-fledged intellectual capacity. Only they could not have survived the separation from each other. Their father, made aware that they would only thrive by their own whimsical logic, summoned the representative to the Child Welfare System and offered a definitive modus vivendi for them. They should follow the normal academic cursus in a System’s institution, at least till their majority, then change their family name and be granted a trust fund, estranged from him.
The System’s officers, leaving to their majority the possibility for legal action against their progenitor, sensed a useful incite to bring the twins to the A-level, beyond which it would be up to them to decide their fate. Thus, on their eighteenth birthday, the notary read them a proper contract, not concealing that it could be deemed faulty by the Courts, granting them, Sateen and Pearl van Armel —not that far from the original name— an honest monthly allowance. They were all too happy to sign, even if they could not de jure renounce their natural filiation.
The twins had imagined, having learned French at school, moving to Paris, going to college and having fun. They rented a small apartment in Rue des Martyrs and went out on the town so big. They had a season in the coolest VIP rooms and private petrodollar parties; they were not in the least aware of what they drank and who they slept with, only they always clung firmly to each other.
They happened to learn the hard way that their natural charms were far worthier than their mere money when they found themselves trapped for good in a house on the Belgian frontier, locked nude in a pink padded cell not unlike those of an asylum, with a grand bed, a shower room with a loo, and cameras in every angle and a UV lamp on the ceiling. Drugged to the gills with all they ate or drank, they made clients around the clock, woken or not, cleaned if need be by some flunky.
One regular who fancied a submissive patient but retained a sliver of moral sense heard them once speak to each other in Dutch about their helpless condition and the fact that they had not eaten any of the laced food they dumped in the toilet, nor drink, sustaining themselves hardly drinking the shower water. Of course, that client was all the more excited by their thinner allure, but he eventually sobered up on his whims and called Hector, whom he trusted on such matters.

Dreamlike twins in their prime are not like fish in the sea; Hector had known them up close on the night scene before they vanished, and he had suspected of any such bad encounter; he took note of the whereabouts and drove up at once with a pair of well-built partners, in fear the girls might be sold away on the dark market and packed away inside some container. His partners and he wreaked havoc in the unassuming joint until the girls were brought out naked and their wallets, passports, and telephones surrendered. They had run off minutes before the police circled the sleazy hovels and found enslaved women of all ages, the nexus of a large blackmail operation, and the servers of unlawful pornography.
Hector was known in the best legal brothels of Flanders, so he brought the twins stealthily to the Bumble Queen so they could be dressed properly and served some hearty food to their want. He did not let the management there make professional offers but drove the sleeping twins back to the ground-floor guest lodgings in Louis’ mansion and called the doctor for the wee hours, and they stayed until then, willingly as they had been entrusted with a key that they had tried.
Since their stay at the State institution, they had received all the necessary vaccinations, and thus it appeared they had come out safe from their long season in forced prostitution, spared by HIV although not provided with condoms. They underwent all tests in our prevention network, of which Louis is one of the founders, and were chaperoned by Hector through his overlord’s realm, They came to know intimately all of Louis’ associates, among them Hugo and Melchior, in a succession of gallant debaucheries to which they abided willingly, valiantly expunging the memories of the slaughterhouse as a mere peripeteia they could have otherwise enjoyed, given their naturally licentious temperament.
During one of their encrypted chatroom conclaves, these out-and-out rich seasoned libertines acknowledged that the twins would fruitfully join our suave little republic; thus, it was delegated to our generous mentors to whomp up some dignified double lodging, once they would have bewitched everyone in the bustling hive, what they had begun to accomplish with flying colours.
After the plate of my fried toast was wiped clean, they seemed only concerned with my spry little body, but I knew better, and I craved to take them downstairs in Cecile’s workshop. With a plethora of sneaky fondlings, I instilled in their shared mind the idea of having their nude portrait drawn by Cyprien in the traditional manner, and we would keep chatting, to Cecile’s own arousal —the draughtsman was more of a mystery, at that.
I gave them whatever clean sweatsuits they liked, and let them choose in the sneakers drawer, as we happened to share a nigh identical foot size; they willfully mismatched colours between washed yellow and waned blue. I slid on old cashmere hazy-coloured leggings, one oversized ink-blue sweat, and royal blue velvet slippers embroidered with the sun and the moon they envied.
Our unwearying Geranium-Orange shower scent smelled good on them in the lift, as they snuck kind hands into my thin boxers. I did not yet show them all the subterranean realm, Cecile awaited, in a scent of Arabica, but someone nude lay on the sofa, posing for Cyprien, whom I soon identified as our middlesex genie, and introduced to the twins all so simply, telling them the mere truth while they read my eyes to make sure. Being some sort of human artefact themselves, they did not shy at the idea of another such living rarity, so they made small talk about nothing with their usual candid smile, while the other two feasted their eyes on them, Cecile staring at Sateen’s loosening waistband, unable to refrain the urge to strip them —for obvious artistic reasons, needless to say— and expose their dainty double grace au naturel, to what they agreed playfully, enjoying the warmth of the floor slab, inviting Sasha to dance close with them, like the fine libertines they were.
Our preternatural genie made no fuss telling them what they were, and how they had become addicted to the music that played during the posing sessions. They would soon have installed in his own oratory, the same state-of-the-art sound system, just like he had heard also in Michelle’s control room. They all had coffee, and the twins passed the test of swift-dipping the langues-de-chat. Cyprien showed some of his drawings and floated the idea that they pose along with Sasha in a baroque trio; they liked that, all the more that they knew how smooth Sasha’s skin was and their winnie inoffensive. Cyprien arranged them together by hand, going back and forth from his viewpoint to their heavenly bodies. When he was satisfied, he turned the music back up, and the angels took flight for him.
I followed Cecile into her cubbyhole, and we cuddled each other. I summarized what I knew of Sateen and Pearl and that they were probably here to stay with us —to what I caught a sparkle in her eye.

She had fresh news from Lauritz’, who was smitten with a Daphné de Rhuys he tried to persuade to join the backstreet sparrows, given where he had ferreted her out, wasting her young life in the dance clubs’ backyards and frying her synapses with meth or worse, en route to the brothels of Andalusia —nothing alike our own gently licentious faction, obviously. We sniggered, self-consciously.
Delffan, in an ingenuous mullein-yellow sweat suit, barefoot, had snuck in to attend her current paramour in their Bach hovering session, and they found themselves in awe with the scene that now graced the vermillion velvet drape on the sofa. Cecile, who went homely bottomless, like me, started the coffee machine for the upcoming pause; I brewed some of the tea I was keeping in her cupboard.
When Cyprien rested his pencils, Delff let out a heartfelt couplet of laudation for the empyrean surprise. Their Nini Theillade’s Midsummer Night Dream goldy head charmed the wonder twins at once. While asserting their closeness with Sasha, they wooed the pair, telling them the core of who they were, with their signature aplomb and smile. As it always does, it spawned happy faces for all of us. They thought revolting that my kittens redress in the least, and Cecile concurred.
The draughtsman begged for more time with the twins, for he knew it was Sasha’s last session before a while, as they craved to soon be able to navigate the arcanes of their connected planetary genius to the holy scansion of Bach throughout their own system —and Delff, who still slept from time to time at the Aviator’s feet, along with Trine, possessed the ways of soothing geniuses when their synapses overheated.
Cecile had grabbed Pearl when she had kissed hello and fondled her diminutive breasts affettuoso as she had carefreely thrown her arm behind her neck. Sateen’s thigh sided mine as I grazed her soft wavy abs, pondering that they would like the complete gym room. Confident the twins would agree to a few more sessions for him —and Cecile— he praised us all with a namaste and a peaceful glare and fled swiftly.
Like a house pet, Delff had discovered the faster way to Sasha’s den from downstairs, hence no need for shoes; on their way out, they asked if the twins had seen the pool and the dance floor; that touched a simultaneous nerve in the girls’ mind, they claimed that dance had been the greatest relish in their school reclusion after they had attended some Nederlands Dans Theater beginners courses and other therapy-oriented dance practice.
Bien entendu, they raved more and more as we showed them the extravagant subterranean realm, the gym, the glasshouse stage floor where luckily Josephine and Emeline were practising their telepathic routines on Finlan’s pace, in their usual costume. We snuck to the far edge and sat silent. The dancers did not kill their effort, but they had noticed some diverting novelty, and so their bodily ad-lib waned off, thus they swooped upon us and squatted casually at hands-reach, asking about the awestruck sisters. I always relished the scent of their heated effort, but very soon, they pulled the newbies down to the glimmering pool and helped them disrobe in lust. After a messy petting in the shower, we all dived, and the exuberant twins demonstrated all the fluidity of the mythological Pisces, lending themselves for any manner of caresses before letting themselves be caught by our house otters. Then the local big cats Fulgence, Erik, and Gauthier showed up unaware, probably in the idea shagging a dancer, given the erections they displayed. Finlan had called on his buddy Mathurin Marleaux, whom I realised I had never favoured yet and was worthy of a blink, indeed.
Once we all had enough soiled the waters, never mind the filters, Fulgence buggering one in Josephine’s arms while Erik christened the other one to black fervour in his pet Emeline’s, the twins didn’t show any sign of weariness, so thus I threw the idea of nibbling upstairs and get further acquainted. I had gently tasted Mathurin’s worthy spear both ways, while Cecile floated on the tip of Finlan’s ginger shaft, and all this aquatic debauchery gave me lewd ideas.
Agnete & Sanne had time to bake the stash of sundry little stuffed rolls in their refrigerators. Now, I reckoned that if it were a refined relish to watch them cavort unabashedly, I myself might well be left carnally wanting, and that wouldn’t fit me. Among the names in my directory, one sort of winked at me, I texted the great-great-grandson of Stenka Razin, who needed not many words; I sussed he would also summon some of his own swashbucklers. Meanwhile, that delivery boy from A&S was gently gay, and so Gauthier abducted him to his upstairs lair, from which his minion Philippe had eloped. I wouldn’t know what was with Sergei, but he showed up in buff whipcord riding breeches, a fitted tweed jacket and a Russian white shirt, toying with a thin braided leather crop —that gave my buttocks a thrill— against riding boots that he would certainly not care to unshoe for a shag. Yaguil had certainly vacationed somewhere in the far South, so showed tanned skin set off by a fresh white tee shirt in his crumpled Perfecto jacket I wouldn’t help kissing languorously. He smelled of juniper and angelica like a shot of London gin, a giddy fineness to be found in a well-hung steppen wolf. And it was at once too lush to tease my best Cossack with his plain-cloth pal. He explained a bunch of them had spent a whole month naked on a Seychelles islet, invited by a burly old magnate with a flock of complacent asian fiancées (and yes, they had checked his blood on the return).
As I took hold of his tough lapels, I pondered whether it would be easier to pull him to our bed and wallow on that skin, but I wanted to watch the angels pinned upon the studs’ merciless dicks. Our darling heart looters might very well have been boozing earlier, they wouldn’t ferret out a single drop in our cote to hamper their stamina, only raw desire on both sides. It had been a harsh argument between us and the Zaporozhian nigh brutes that we had won with the sway of our narrow hips. Meanwhile, if Fulgence and his posse had cavorted with an easy drunkard Kate, they had never known me drunk on alcohol, even in dishevelled orgies, and I was a fundamentalist on that matter, I could tell of so many young fates we had salvaged mainly from booze in their misery. At worst, they would call me and my cohorts headfast teetotallers, but they craved our most deliberate lechery.
Yaguil relished my almost flat and muscular chest; he made no fuss. My boyishness excited him as by a schoolday’s nostalgia, and I could relate to that. I made haste with the metal buttons of his fly, sucking him half-seated on the table’s edge while I sat wide open on my chair. Then he asked to swap and made me spin on his shaft while he kissed me like a schoolboy. I had the smell of box trees all over my mind.
Sateen had unzipped Sergei’s fly so as to free the vigorous weaponised want that she let bonk deep down her throat —like a savvy whore, to the bastard’s marvelling— and hurried the release of his spooge first load she gulped in whole. Next, in a pleasing swashbuckler scene, she grasped a first riding boot and strived to pull it away —thus showing adorable moves of her butt— and then the other one, earning cuddles from an unkempt Cossack soon denuded and enraged anew.
On the facing sofa, our impeccably gallant Fulgence had known to disrobe in a jiffy and hurl himself to Pearl’s quim he licked like a mad puppy, her feet high in the air. Kneeling upon a cushion, he then assailed the drenched slit with his stubborn scarlet spear. He couldn’t help muttering how the hell we always found more of these heavenly sylphs so willing, but I was too busy to answer. In the other corner, Emeline was filled to the rim with Erik’s thunderstaff she had been well acquainted with before; like their usual trainer, she said she loved black men with manners, and Erik was one of those, for their febrile dedication to their partner’s response. I remembered when I had entrusted Natalia to the black and white pair, and how she became the untouchable queen of the Sorbonne, all the more that she slept with her main professor in art history, to whom she had been procured by Liselotte. Emeline had revelled in Natalia’s confidences, and craved her mentorship, although she did not aim at real superior studies.

 

Cecile says:

This Mathurin Marleaux had been dawdling about for some time with the dance floor posse; I had a hunch he might also get jiggy with pretty pansexual Finlan, and when he had come posing for Cyprien, I had sensed a chink of static between the frankly bonny young lad and the coy seasoned esthete. The portraits had been beauteous but had swiftly disappeared from the portfolio Cyprien showed visitors or hesitant possible models.
With the gang orgy in full swing, as I wished to stay and keep feasting my eyes on the lewd goings-on, I went wallow in a maroon mohair velvet easy chair by the windows and seized Mathurin’s dick to suck as he straddled the armrest. Finlan made me throw my leg up so as to reach my drooling slits and lick my ember clit. They had been finely trained by the subterranean tribe, and the British-y chair was compliant —generously stuffed with down— to our lascivious manoeuvers, and thus I let burst a bracing orgasm at Finlan’s mouth before gulping myself Mathurin’s spoonful of bitter jizz. And that was nowhere enough —mind you— in a jolt of their young nerve, they persisted in their carnal frenzy, all for my tireless yearning.
While elsewhere in the bustling scene everyone swapped partners to rekindle the fires, my two younglings mindfully upturned my shivering carcass so that I would take them both in —once a good soul passed the bottle of Swiss Navy over to us. Thus, I lay back with Finlan’s firebrand deep in my bumhole, spreading my legs on the armrests in order to greet Mathurin’s hammer in my drenched holy crack, so we could slog on into our indeed mutual relish.
When Kate, along with Sofia, crept in after who knew which adventures, to drink something warm before bed, they described our troupe as that of Le Radeau De La Meduse. Scantily clad in sundry shawls and foulards, we stargazed if ever, after the last lukewarm water games. The twins had reunited and dozed, half nude in a Kashmir shawl; Sergei had passed along a vape full of a mellow THC strain, and I gazed at the grimaces in a Unica Zurn genie framed on the wall.
Yaguil crept to Sofia’s feet and pulled off her Chelsea boots, breathed her cashmere socks and eventually her freed long toes, not without further intention. They had returned to the Laforest palace and served to the best of their talents a handful of mighties, and also a few corridor prowlers. Sofia’s quim was warm as a nested squab, and she had long lost her knickers. The Cossack hitched up her mauvish paisley pleated jersey dress to sip dew at her labia between her parted legs on the chair. They were both beyond the turmoil of fevers, but she accepted a lazy extraneous quiver as to please a Tatar adorer.
My clock was set: I wanted Emeline to join me in the God Crow’s vessel, I knew she liked to sleep with me, even stoned as a diamond; we snuck out in a smile. Under the homunculus gaze, in a silk jersey tee-shirt that left her bare-arsed, I chose rich drone music to fill our sails, but she still wanted to know if Mathurin was worth the try.
Not so early the next morning, she was all crumpled into the comforter, but she was offering her buttocks, and I couldn’t help but slide the tip of my tongue to the pleated bud if only to hear her moan in her dream before I went. In the workshop, the fairies had vacuumed and tidied the kitchen. I read my messages, firstly the news from Lauritz, who was en tête à tête with his new fling Daphne in the citrus groves in Amalfi —and she has agreed to go back with him, and our lifeways. Otherwise, a word by Armand Lunel, the majordome of the Mendelsohn mansion, who needed to discuss with me about Zev’s bed.
Monsieur Armand had finely reckoned that my work in the Mendelsohn estate would grant me my marshall’s staff, and he had devised that I could not forgo procuring to the half-wit heir Zev’s bed needs, that were copious, nor his own share of droit de seigneur. All in all, neither of them smelled bad, and they shagged properly in the mystic nooks of that rich bazaar where they spent their eerie life. I would figure out another trustworthy harlot to earn fat fees in Zev’s silken sheets, a true undercover mission that would nonetheless not spare me Monsieur Armand’s whims when I went to check the inventory.
Emeline might revel in being a full-time whore for a rich well-hung retard who could barely keep it in his briefs. Seresine had done it a week long and became rich enough to afford a few whims, but she had bored shagging alone with a dick that wouldn’t speak. I would ask Rose or Sofia, or both; they had pretty staunch loins. As of now, I dressed up stern chic like a career girl on assignment —or a bar torpedo, for that matter; real posh johns want their meat camouflaged.
My vintage Vuitton attaché case in hand, I rang pertly at the service door nearing Monsieur Armand’s casual quarters —he detested answering at the main entrance to familiar people like me, although he would always thoughtfully take my hand.  He had at his disposal this warm little lodge with a barred window onto the garden and a white-tiled complete bathroom I knew well. A pictorialist photo of Lord Daniel in a severe frame overlooked a stern oak and maroon leather office furniture and a maroon velvet daybed. The not-less maroon carpeting was plush enough so that I would kneel upon it if need be, and see myself giving head like a streetwalker in a large sorcerer’s mirror at sundry stages of naked.

Once that I had delivered by hand, in his neighbouring 7S offices, a small unknown painting of Lucretia by Lucas Cranach I had painstakingly restored for him, Melchior had offhandedly undressed me and induced intimate conversation, such that I had bitterly confessed of Monsieur Armand’s manners with me. Melchior had stared at me first with a smirk; wasn’t it what every man in the least of power over me would ever want to do, just as he was himself doing right then?
Having set up the erotic painting I had done magic for, he had asked me to sit on his lap, covered with the usual long white shirt; he had caressed me like the most precious artefact around and asked if Armand was a bad lovemaker, with all possible details, to the point I had been aroused and he had told me to part my thighs wide and successfully wanked me so as I surrendered, panting. He kept me thus after I had climaxed, his shirt wetted by my gushes.
I had eventually agreed that Monsieur Armand was not the only gatekeeper I bought complacency from in that manner and that I craved the playlike humiliation he had forced me into, as far as it had gone yet. Melchior had relished my candid confession and had enwrapped me inside his padded kaftan, twiddling with my wet labia. Since then, Monsieur Armand had made lay a new thicker carpeting. The reward for my work on the Cranach had been astronomical; Sarah had called me a majestic whore and taken me to Speck’s.
That pale morning, the whimsical wind smelled of the dead leaves in the park nearby. I was happy I wore trousers. A maid I instantly had a hunch Armand would casually abuse answered the door with a mild South Asian accent on her faultless French. Armand closed the door of his hideaway and immediately groped and kissed me, however, not striping me nude. On the new tone of libertine complicity that probably meant that he was enthralled elsewhere —the new maid most certainly— he explained that the emergency was with Zev, who had not shagged for a week and roamed the house, howling after a female so all of them remained locked downstairs. Would I venture and tame the beast? Hadn’t I done it before?
That wasn’t a spine-chiller, actually, and as soon as Zev saw me in the raw for good, ready to dive into his desires, he became sweet as a puppy only with a hell of a truncheon jolting its tip. Thankfully, I knew where the lube tube was, and I smeared both of us rim-to-bottom. He kept licking my face, but when I lay wide open for him he buried the plunger to the balls with a demented grin and spurted a first load before I could think of it, not waning in the least. I decided he too, would give me rapture, and so I made him resent my vagina constrictions, just like my bygone rapist had forced me to learn, long ago, on his middle finger. We became both unabashedly noisy and rabid, I had two long nervous episodes before he flipped me over to drill my frowning hole till I swooned, nose in the sheets.
I sussed Armand had been peeping on us, good for him, for he brought a colation on a butler’s tray once we quieted, ogling what I did not try to hide. He did not look down on me, but he would certainly have liked a turn in my slits. Zev was satiated; his sticky dick was not any more monstrous than many, in its bush of black curls; he wasn’t even circumcised.
His bathroom was Victorian state-of-the-art, all clad with turquoise tiles. Before the tub was filled, he was back in my lesser alleyway, stubborn but caring, laughing when he saw me spinning lather on my clit. It lasted until the water was hot; I had to negotiate my retreat after a last salvo. It was obvious that I would have to procure him ardent fuckstresses if I wanted to achieve my work in his house, since he was living amidst the collections.
I made sure to avoid Armand on my way out, but was it him panting afar, in measure with another lighter cry? In the car back home, feeling shivers around my butt, I smelled of Zev’s expensive Cologne. I decided I should ask Natalia for advice; she was all in all as savvier in all aspects of such a situation than me; and the money was aplenty. She came by in the afternoon, with sunbleached blond curls, her golden green eyes set off by her honey tan, and a denim boy’s shirt open on her kiddie tits. Cyprien had gone home.
I made coffee and recounted my frantic matinée, so she craved to feel my battered kitty and gently ripped me bare as I confided the details all in her taste, although she would embody the exact sunny opposite of my shady upbringing, wouldn’t she? At once, she fantasised herself going through the whole shebang, from the shady aparté complying for Monsieur Armand —she was drenched already as I took off her jeans— to Zev’s magnificent burrow; she begged me to take her along and used all her spells to wring out a promise that we would go next afternoon. At dinner time, she ran to one of her bigwig sponsors, and she joshed that my story would inspire her night’s prestation, were we not sluts?

Sarah was all enamoured with Sofia; they were chatting around a cup of tea when I returned upstairs, mostly about what kind of a future the pretty grey-eyed novice could envision from now. She smelled me, and although I had changed clothes and freely caroused with Natalia in my cubbyhole, she detected the Cologne on my nape and sussed about my day. She, too, had experienced the Mendelsohn protocol, and she might still have a go once in a while, all the more if it helped me.
We ordered a morel pie and a coconut carrot cake. With our hands all over her, our debutante opened round eyes under her bangs while I told Sarah my hectic day; she was subjugated by our freewheeling mores, and I could tell she was aroused when I slid a hand into her sweatpants. She was also scared of losing grip of her life to some whoremaster of sorts Hector had warned her about.
Not unintentionally, as Sarah wanked her on her chair on and off, I answered all her questions about my day’s follies, repeating a few times one of us could take her along to the ogre’s den. How big a member had she ever shagged? Did she know that lubricant does magic for our shy holes? Didn’t Sarah ever fist her front and back? I didn’t even conceal that I was firstly interested in keeping the fool’s bed peopled with fairies and the majordome drooling for more. I explained my work there, supervised by some dicastery of potent figures, among which our main mentor I might introduce her to some time —he would love me unveiling the blushing newbie for his relish.
Sarah’s blood had been stirred beyond what cuddles in Sofia’s neck could heal. She proposed we call on the black and white upstairs studs, I said I needed no more humping until the morrow, but I would certainly crave watching Sofia’s narrow arse ravaged by some burly workman, and she lovingly blushed again. Fulgence had hastily put on shorts and a white crumpled shirt, Erik some jeans and a white tee shirt stamped with a lone black chick. They drank coffee and liked the cake, both minds set on Sofia’s brave little smile as Sarah uncovered her perfect midriff. Putting my bare feet on the table, I claimed I had had my fill of dick for the day, and that earned me a flight of dirty jokes, enough to loosen the angst and allow Fulgence to rummage over in Sofia’s sweatshirt before lifting it away and kissing her deep —I figured her pert little nipples would madden Monsieur Armand.
Sarah had disrobed in a wink and was already straddling Erik’s lust beacon, her heels clung to the seat’s edge, legs parted wide, bouncing gently. Fulgence had carried Sofia away to a sofa and was giving her most devout cunnilingus —I knew the taste of her, I wanted to help her not fear her own debauched pulsions, so I went to nibble her toes and graze her shapely legs. Fulgence called me names as he revelled in sharing with me. I played tongues with her, and her young mouth pouted like a rosy snapdragon flower.
Now Sarah stood on all fours on the rug, intaking the rugged humpings of Erik’s merciless shaft like a seasoned harlot. Embracing Sofia and annoying her pointed tits, I offered on the side a wide view of my all-spent crotch as Fulgence wanked Sofia’s clit with the tip of his glans and she meowed already. When he bumped on the edge of her womb, and again, with dainty restraint, she fluted her higher notes in unfettered passion, raising her feet higher to give deeper access, and she spurted together with him. Sarah was huffing and puffing under unending assaults, I could see her squirt down her thighs; she was beastly beautiful.
Sofia mumbled little yaps when she grasped that her tormentor was trying on her pleated bud. I jumped and fetched the KY tube in the kitchen flatware drawer, in time to ease the way fully, to her young surprise. I guessed that Louis and Hector had kept that part discreet, because I could not figure them, both out-and-out buggers, not using her in that manner. Now she seemed to harmonise notes upon a new sensation, and it sounded lovely; I reached her clit with the tip of my tongue, long enough to watch another crisis gush on the balls of the proud tamer.
She collapsed, arms and legs spread wide, a wandering smile on her face, trustful and released as I drew her to the shower, where Fulgence groped us both in the lather. I was still sensitive in my frowned little back slit. Sarah and her victor joined us, even half bent he remained impressive as I incited Sofia to flatter the beast kindly, bantering that she would soon sheathe it in her lovely entrails, like all of us.
The boys disbanded, hinting they would have a train attack in the morning. We laughed, bar Sofia, who dreamt already. I lured them both to the God Crow’s watch, for the greater relish of the febrile homunculus. Alfred was recounting blackbird lullabies in some neighbour’s garden.

Sarah says:

I woke alone with my almost virgin buddy sound asleep upon my heart; I snaked out to the loo, but I snuck back in her air; she smelled of faraway roses amongst box trees. She ended up sensing I was awake, she assailed my forehead with kisses, like my forever babies on the shore.
Someone had left a pouch of pastries and some fruit amidst the table; while the tea brewed, we spoke all the good we felt for Cecile. As of late, I had grown a fad for Taiwan’s tea Oriental Beauty, a random miracle caused by a minute bug which, sometimes, may trigger a chemical response in the tea trees and thus obtain a warm, balmy flavour in the mild roast tea leaves. These ones I had bought in the Grande Epicerie, and my stash was waning. Sofia listened with enamoured eyes; yes, she would follow me to the giant store.
We dressed in streetwise chic, my Wired black and police-yellow hoodie still fitted me, black moleskin shorts, tights, and Chelsea boots, just like I could run in a split second; Sofia had not yet explored our vast timeless vestiary, and she was about the right size, shoes and all. She agreed to a powder blue corduroy bomber, clouds-printed cashmere leggings, and off-white chucks, no top. She said she felt as brazen as Kristen Stewart. She sprayed some fruity Cologne, I fetched the same boyish muscatel-neroli the hoodie still exuded.
Unglamorous but pristine fresh-faced, we rushed into the taxi I had called, and the driver ogled Sofia’s chest at each traffic light. I played bodyguard, and she snuck her hands onto my skin. In the posh-patronised marketplace, our style would not strike as incongruous, all the more when I ordered the whole stock of an expensive tea. Then, because warm days would be waning away, I drew Sofia to that pricey shop where the leggings she wore came from. I had an idea to try an oversized twelve-thread granite-blue cashmere jumper Dagmar also loved, and new leggings for her.
I knew this would do that she stand naked in the fitting salon, at the hands of the shop attendant. One cowl-neck model answered perfectly my search, I did a legerdemain trick to hide its price, then also when she chose six pairs of leggings. I wasn’t unknown at the cashier’s desk, and after she looked at Sofia, the stern manager granted me an approval glance, while my credit card did its magic. So we already carried bulky chic bags when we reached that hosiery emporium to stuff our drawers with all denier grades expendable silk, from prudish opaque tights to opened bodystockings, schoolgirl socks to mid-thigh stay-ups, all baits for febrile hands. Another fever stroke for my little plastic fortune she should not know of.
Lastly, shoes were on my kinky agenda, namely a couple of snazzy loafers, Hermance and Walton was the place; she earned thick-heeled black patent leather, misty-blue grey suede flats, and also navy blue striated-leather ankle-laced boots, perfect match on her new style board.
It had all gone swiftly, I decided we could try and visit Camille nearby; in the taxi, she was overwhelmed, and she chased for my gaze, almost weeping. I whispered in her ear to not even fantasise about repaying the whims of my own for her. Camille laughed her heart out seeing our bags of spree. She instantly liked Sofia, who was again bedazzled by all the luxury. We brewed some of my newly looted special tea. I frankly told Sofia that Camille had been my first mistress when I first shored in Paris and more or less groomed me into courtesan life ways before she made me move in at Hugo’s after Kate eloped to her perdition in Berlin, from which we all conspired at rescuing her.
Camille approved my summary, but her mind was already set on Sofia, and she mused that she would crave to see these new rags on her, requesting permission to unzip the bomber and pull down the leggings to her feet she had already unshoed, to feel the thick carpeting. While Camille walked her, holding her by the fingers, around her faultless Art Deco set, I spun an introduction to Sofia’s young life, and Camille relished the hotel mouse part, confiding, in a lower tone, of her own freelance harlotry since the age of thirteen, until the sheerest happenstance of being procured at Hugo’s, who, amongst the numerous hirelings he typically took the fancy of, engineered materially for her to endeavour to study for good and eventually earn an academic title in art history, and thus be able to manage the art gallery he had long envisioned. The irony of fate had done that, once she had soundly established herself in partnership with Hugo, she inherited in America from the only surviving uncle in her exterminated kin, and now she was one of the insanely rich she had serviced for years, with a fervent taste for wayward souls in gracious bodies. She bestowed her miscreant blessing on our dreamy liaison and said she would also see to helping the pretty hotel mouse burrow a hole of her own amidst our buzzing hive.

Camille had been nude under a lichen-green alpaca jersey lounge gown, barefoot. Bringing a silver tray of nibbles, her stern black butler saluted us without flinching the least at the immodesty of our allure; that was all Camille’s wonder realm and the greying man was undoubtedly royally remunerated.
She had revelled at the tip of Sofia’s pink tongue on her clit, and read my delectation by proxy for her youthful rapture. Long in the know of our posse’s libertine expeditions in the most private rendez-vous establishments, she hinted at a new such address on the Quai de la Tournelle, where I could certainly relish my new fling in full-fledged debauchery, the patronage, according to Fanny’s reports, was much similar to Speck’s, the management cosmopolitan and the staff most palatable, we would garner fortunes as a couple. Needless to say, we would obviously have to tip in kind the marshalling minders, but as to that, I knew the drill full well, and so did the hotel mouse.
She dolled us up like pricey escorts, her vestiary outclassed ours by far; she pulled a striking halterneck glistening dark blue-green opalescent jersey long-sleeved minidress, hold-up lace-rim silk stockings which left a swath of nude thigh, and night blue patent leather flat court pumps. I wore a purplish and blue changing taffeta shirt dress nigh too short to cover my quim, open-crotch black tights, and black patent leather flats with marcasite bows. She had been the inventor of the secret armpit pocket that frees a working girl’s moves in scabrous situations. There we stood, two lewd-minded warriors on the move. She let us choose among pricey perfume samples of perfumes, enough for a frantic evening, Sofia a subdued genderless hesperides-jasmin, and me a velvety dark amber-tuberose. Eventually, considering us much in her taste, she slid on an open-front, long-sleeved black sequined fourreau knees-long dress, black veil holdups and black patent leather pumps. Her bronze-glimmer heavy hair curls gathered from the back of her head, and she smelled of yellow honeyed marigold and Virginia tobacco. We put on fancy black-glazed or glittery raincoats to be able to roam on town. On the grey velvet seat of her chauffeured gliding salon car, she couldn’t let go of an awestruck Sofia.
It was a low gothic door under a small arcade walk; we had had to call first and give our credentials to receive a code. A second door comported a bronze plate engraved ‘FORTUNAT’ in lean capitals, and a slit for both our black cards and then opened on a clear ashlar stone corridor carpeted in dark crimson wool. From the moment the doorman saw her, I sussed she owned the place, and she knew what big cats she was about to feed us to. The majordome was a stolid middle-aged Asian with combed-back hair who could hardly look away from my eyes and dared a sleight caress on my uncovered mons as we rid of our coats to the parade, and I knew he would tilt me over any time, which happened as I went for the loo, unfazed, and he pushed me in muffed sort of closet further in the vestibule —and I earned his unfettered faithfulness, also most of his kinsmen’s.
Camille kissed me for that, sliding a hand to my familiar coochie and then stealthily smelling her fingers; Sofia had not hunched anything, yet. I whispered she go finger my freshly shagged slit and warned her to expect the same in every nook from any of the minders. She retorted softly she had known such customs in the palaces she served and that it wasn’t the harshest part of the job, candidly pouting her lips for a kiss.
They had wallowed upon the deep-purple velvet cushions of one of the straight-designed banquettes in the beamed, low-ceiling lounge, surrounded by a visionary painted decor by Michel Henricot like the eerie ceremonies in an Egyptian tomb, without a dash of morbidity.
In a spot of soft, warm light, a slender nude girl with dishevelled dark hair played mezzo voce on a fretless bass guitar plugged into a mighty system; she stood on a Persian silk rug, half-seated on a black leather bar stool and bore precious anklets and sundry jewels. She played slow, unfurled melodies with Jaco harmonics, she swayed her hips in an unending invite. Camille said her name was Azul de Bénévent, and I could have her for a moment, later, but she could be expensive. So thus, her music began to flourish in my womb.
But someone came to sit at my left and carelessly slid a hand on my thigh. I looked up and liked the cypress-green silk velvet suit he wore with a multicolour-stars-embroidered collarless purple silk shirt. Short black hair, moon-pale complexion, he stared at me with squinted coffee-brown eyes, pouting his lips like a girl for a kiss. Risking my hand on his bulging fly, I responded I would only go with my little sister, if he could afford us. Sofia, whose dress was hitched up on her parted thighs, giggled at my words, and we followed this snazzy john to the lifts. Scattered across the tiered levels of the room, wide enough for two or three dozen couples, only a few then listened to Azul in various attitudes of obscene. The women looked young, natural and laidback, most johns exhibited their carnal pride; the scent of lust floated amongst the sundry rich perfumes. Camille waved goodbye.
The unfazed waiter gave our man the key card to number 17 against a go of his credit card, with a faint smirk. Then it was a one-storey course, but time enough for Sofia’s dress to fall down. I gathered the strewn waves of cloth at her feet; on the landing, he pinned her to the wall with a long greedy kiss.

The rooms had evocative, redundant, soundproof doors, as you encounter in secretive offices, and brothels. A rich coffered ceiling of walnut wood, ornate with whimsical red, blue, and gold chimaeras struck in contrast with the raw stone, uneven old bricks, and other timber-framed walls. The carpeting was of a mellow gold Persian garden pattern, and the expected grand square bed was covered with clean umber-brown padded velvet. The buttoned headrest stood against a centre partition behind which a glass cube sheltered a shower, a sink and a toilet, all in honey-gold tone. A Bluetooth sound system gave a quasi-infinite choice of playlists, among which was a Jon Hassel mix that befitted my erotic mood and did not annoy the gallant musketeer who dazed Sofia with gusts of kisses. A well-educated lovemaker, mind you, who, once Sofia lay stretched out on the bed, turned to me, peeled me nude, granted me a kind share of petting, and told me to make love to my little sister, which I willingly obliged. He told me to kneel by the bed’s edge, part my thighs and arch my back. Then I sensed a few fingers applying generous lube in my slits, letting me foresee what came in next, which was long, bouncy, and adventurous in both my benign overtures. The lube smelled slightly of frangipane and coumarin as he told us to swap positions and he smeared Sofia’s feasty holes.
As he saw Sofia’s hands deliciously slim, he schemed a Pierre Louÿs’ delight for three. With all gracious hand plays and kisses, he lay back on the bed, told me to impale my bumhole upon his staff, legs wide apart, then told Sofia to lubricate her hand, sheathe in me with it, and take hold of his dick through my rectum’s wall. And so thus it was done, carefully, as he licked my earlobes and called me little names, until I sensed the thrusts of warm jizz deep in my loins, and that was some novelty! Sofie was shied and feared for my entrails, but I made her look that there were no funny traces on the delicate hand she had fisted me with.
That green jester was a gentleman; we played in the shower box, and he relished giving us each an enema to get neat for the next rider, he joshed —stowing us back on the harlots’ shelf, it seemed.
Our stockings had been soiled, and it showed, while our dainty skin was all the more freshened, and thus we returned downstairs bare-legged and a bit unkempt, like proper whores.
Camille had made her move towards Azul who was taking a break perched on her stool, a glass in hand, and she had quit the sequins. She sported a fiery arse, in all, and swayed her hips like a cowgirl. I might have tipped her to wear a lace mask, but anyway, 7S wasn’t public, and her shareholders had all slept with her. In the fashion of undress that we displayed, the gazes we shared with the other thin-skinned hirelings were more plainly matter-of-fact, little did they know what we, privileged libertines, sought after on their turf. As they could see, the place was not lacking attractive bait or well-heeled amateurs. We ordered fruit mocktails in sleek Martini glasses, and we behaved like bona fide polyamorous floozies in Berlin heydays, avering we were solely available as a pair.
We saw Camille leaving arm-in-arm with the musician who had boxed her instrument to rest in a long black box. A little bird told me there might soon be a fruitful encounter between two languorous nude improviser musicians.
Some bulky American admiral type in a black dinner jacket with satin lapels shored next to us, with fantastic silver brows and a Florida-blue gaze. He waved me to unbutton my last one and Sofia to pull her dress up her waist; his grin wasn’t too vain, his massive hands were manicured, and his shoes were likely bespoke and polished. He breathed in Sofia’s ear to slide her little hand inside his button fly. He smelled of Bond Street Cologne, he pushed us by the butt towards the lift and chatted overtly about the looks of us with the waiter who was charging his credit card, wondering if he had tried us, to what the witty young man answered with a hopeful ‘not yet, sir’, and pocketed a folded dollar bill. The room was 207; in the lift car, we were stuck between the mirrors and his corpulence, but his breath was faultless when he devoured my mouth.
That room possessed a bronze-colour mirrored vestibule and was even bigger than previously, with an oak-beamed ceiling, and honey-gold waxed rendering walls. Two tall windows were shuttered with subdued yellow bourrette curtains, the carpeting was rosewood-hue thick wool. The grand bed was covered with plush fawn faux fur, and the high headrest was Asian mythological, gilt, sculpted openwork wood, depicting the adventures of possibly prankster demigods. On the main wall, hung an oil-painted oblong panel showing a delegation of hi-ranking Turks in a Venetian decor which I had seen Cecile restore last year, and lastly, facing the bed, a large monitor and a manner of console for those who needed to watch some porn, probably.
A sleek and auspicious tall gilt angel by Hans Arp floated between the windows. Two Ruhlman armchairs brought a modern touch of high luxury, Macassar, bronze, and beige skin. He sat in and asked that we undress him. I unlaced his statutory shoes; he wore high silk socks. He had visibly popped some kind of pill to fuel a turgid pole such as this, out of his shirttails. He seized my nape and gently forced me to intake it down in my throat. He was a quality client; even down here, he smelled suave, as he hurled his want into my desecrated mouth while manhandling Sofia’s abandoned body. Without warning, he spurted a salty spoonful of bodily sap I wouldn’t toss back, sir.
He carried a considerable paunch under his white singlet —like my Christiansøe uncle admiral who spent his time ogling me-devil but sent me back to my mother’s when I got caught naughty with my boyfriend in a rowboat adrift. And now I had grown into a full-blown self-aware slut, and I sucked admirals for money I did not need.
Like a playful grizzly bear, he moved around his mass with impressive grace; he rested flat on the bed and ordered Sofia to slide him up her bumhole and wriggle the samba, while he would return me the courtesy with his tongue in my pretty holes if I would sit upon his moustache. He frankly did not conceal his bliss, and he growled heartfelt insanities as the moustache bristles tickled my clit and Sofia became panting.
The bathroom was floored with blond slabs, the walls clad in mosaic spirals of ochre hues, and the ceiling of copper leaves. in the wide, tepid flow of a central shower, the bear played on with our slippery bodies, and it was as joyously lustful as Klimt’s ondines, in the blessed little while. We then applied ourselves to wiping the heavy beast who giggled and to dressing him back up impeccably as we still gambolled in the raw, and he relished that. before he went, he put a fistful of extra dollar bills on the bed. It was not negligible, but I taught Sofia that it brought good luck if we left the tip to the maids who cleaned the miasms of two privileged sluts who had already been paid for their charms; she nodded, we slid on our togs and ran downstairs.
A nude hangpan player had replaced Azul, cross legs with three drums, letting show a yummy chubby mons. The bass player wore a tight black leather set, Camille and her had waited for us to return to our place and meet Malo. Azul carried the impressive black box. Seen up close in the car, the musician looked younger, I would have craved to wipe off all makeup from her face, and I hinted that it would all dissolve if we came to play in the pool. Through the little web, Camille had reached Malo and vaunted the musician who had played at Fortunat just lately and revealed not only a carefree physical beauty but true improvisational skills. Malo had answered that she certainly wasn’t one to refuse anything to Camille, but also there was nothing to lose, meeting a pretty girl who played bass.
First, we needed to change; there were enough sweatsuits in my vestiary for all who wanted —and I took my time, boasting my bare arse to Azul I had a sudden crush on, yet not shunning Sofia aside —she might also learn sharing my crushes, we all did. It amused Camille to wear a sage-green tracksuit of Kate’s that smelled slightly of her perfume, and to let her own flat midriff show.
Unsurprisingly, Azul wondered where on earth she had ended up, and she was not only a tad gobsmacked to discover in which manner of grand lifestyle some club flappers like us, moreover oddly teetotallers, were living; but she was young and was impressed by Camille’s attentions for her —having sussed through the Fortunat’s staff attitudes and comments what powerful lady she was, in earnest.
In the lift back downstairs, we looked like roadies for a showy rock star, although, seen up close, her chestnut-brown eyes cast witty gazes. She could not notice my wandering hand on the black leather she wore nude, the only idea of that I felt lewd as such. And she must have begun to beware of some dire entrapment, noticing we were reaching the basement. On a hunch, I said in her neck not to worry, she was here for music. With her long black case in hand, she followed us through the gym and the corridors to the dance room where Malo awaited, nude on a fancy padded chair, her cello between her knees. She greeted us with some sliding chords, and invited Azul to help herself plug her instrument into the amplifier behind her, but asking her to unshoe her ankle boots to walk on the dance floor. Her feet moved me; I had not seen them thoroughly to my taste in the dark salon at the Fortunat’s. She set herself swiftly around the high-end electronics, tuning the wireless connexion with resounding chords of her own, and lowering the volume to that of a classic double bass. Then, not raising her face out of her unfurled nigh black hair strands, she wandered through random motives of slow virtuosity, dancing about with the weapon-black shiny instrument hung to her shoulder.
No one had told her it would be some kind of an audition, but she was impressed by Camille’s clout, money, and sweetness. Malo was kind of awestruck by the prodigy she didn’t battle yet, waiting for Azul to pause. When it happened, shaking her mane back, Camille asked if she wouldn’t play in the nude, just like Malo; she rested her instrument on a chair, unzipped her jacket, letting my greedy eyes see some dew drops on her plexus, and unbuttoning the trousers that stuck to her thighs so I ran to her help, pulling them off and eventually kissing her toes. She smelled of an offbeat virile fragrance of tobacco, tonka, and luxe leather which, in my perverted mind, lustfully defiled her splendid star youth. Returning to my place, I saw gleefully that the girls had slipped off clothes, and Camille tenderly groped Sofia bent upon her crossed legs.
Resting the blond cello on its stand, Malo stood and hugged Azul, softly swaying, murmuring secrets in her ear. Now I craved her young buttocks, I knew I would watch her be buggered in my arms, in some warm shady nook at Philippe’s or elsewhere. They sat next to each other, and Malo pulled the first notes of alchemy so beyond my rational grasp, but right through my emotional bliss, and I could very well figure our slinky ballerinas improvising on these endless volutes.
It happened that Finlan and Mathurin had heard an unusual sonority on their way to the pool, and so they stood at the threshold, spellbound. Finlan wished to join, on the bulky Hammond organ that had been brought there for him, so Malo raised her brows sideways as a welcome sign, but for a few seconds, Finlan only gazed at the new wonder girl. Soon, the jam went as smooth as a may breeze; he had found the settings to thread seamlessly among the girls’ ad-lib. Camille gently turned to me and whispered we might have found ourselves another new neighbour, as it seemed; Melchior should hear and see that.
When Azul eventually bowed out, exhausted, Malo proposed a dip in the pool, to what the girl rounded her eyes, asking which pool? So Malo embraced her and led her towards the lower floor, and we all dived into the pristine water.
Camille had found Azul through Fanny and Dagmar, who had been invited to some posh party at one of Fanny’s fellow student’s. Azul played bass in a proto-indie band called ‘Morton Babes’ and had been bustled by drunk louts before our two blondes intervened; they took lessons together in kickboxing. Azul had been a wayfarer kid, merely eighteen, to whom some music producer had afforded that state-of-the-art instrument against edgy favours she had so hardly condoned that she jumped on Fanny’s invitation to come and stay at their apartment. The three of them had naturally fallen in love together, and Camille had invited Azul to play in her salon upon her girls’ commendations, and fell for her like we all did at first sight.
Following Lauritz’s extravagant lead, Camille had bought this age-old building on the Seine front, which had previously served as almost anything one could think of —not unlike Hugo’s dovecote with its eerie underground— with the pet project of installing another Maison de Rendez-Vous in her taste. The name ‘Fortunat’ was pure happenstance, a name she had read in some research papers she had funded to give some of Fanny’s school buddies a paid work about this house, and it sounded fine to her ears.
Azul de Bénévent never knew her father; her wayward mother had been a long-time groupie who did not bother who shagged her in the tour buses, and had been pregnant beyond her wits, luckily in times when her only excess was with marijuana and did not affect her baby. Laurentine de Bénévent —aka Nancy Carbone— had been born to a far-fetched branch of a famous French family, so when she was sordidly murdered at a squat house in Spain, Azul was sent to her next of kin, an uncle who was at least ill-prepared to raise a little girl. She had lived in that once prestigious mas along the canal in Aix-En-Provence, mothered by the old housekeeper Noélie, despite the continuing abuse by the uncle who allegedly committed suicide when she was fourteen, drinking a dissolved handful of aspirin in a glass of whisky. Her cousins had taken over the mas, and one of the sons her age learned the guitar and dragged her along to his lessons, trading a cheap guitar for blow jobs, as he called that. She had had a long training at it with her past uncle, and she craved to learn music; thus, she reckoned it wasn’t too harsh a price to pay; the boy was clean and smelled of frank soap. Therefore the teacher wondered at her fervent dedication and did not count her hours.
I wouldn’t have bet on what enthused Malo most in this new windfall recruit, musical genius or elfin candour; all the more now that the water frolics had washed away the dark makeup Azul had been wearing to cheat on her age. However, Camille incited her to spend the night at Malo’s and see if she would return to Fortunat’s in the evening.
There would be heaps to rave on, about our shopping spree turned night on town. Sofia could hardly let go of her mind on the pillow, and I had to find words to alleviate her qualms. She had been enthralled with Camille’s serene mastery, not averse to some quiet lust.
Kate returned later, after a blithesome expedition at Speck’s along with Adèle and Rose; she was overjoyed to hear the news of a new parlor house nearby, owned by one of our orchard’s queen bees. She vowed to go sniff out there, in gala dress, the next night. We also boasted of having met Camille’s new prodigy girl catch that we expected to see play for our ballerinas after she slept in Malo’s bed.

 

Kate says:

My last night Japanese clients had dismantled all my circuitry like some ludicrous would-be Major Motoko, but anyhow, my lustful ghost could manage even worse, mind you. As I figured this morning, my bedfellows neither had been miserly in their carnal expenses, now they clung to each other like Oregon otters in a blissful dream.
It appears it is the migrating season on our safeguarded nesting cliffs; the same unexplained ethereal waves that steer flocks of unwavering birds, whatever cosmic storms unfurl the auroras in the northern skies. And good Sarah hatching a pretty mouse into a red light kitten. Their hair smelled of dead leaves under a Tuscan poplar grove at dawn.
Yesterday, my ever-so-torn brother had insisted that I introduce him at Speck’s; he said it would turn him on to watch me whore myself in public, even be it to the likes of his now peers; the very name —albeit unadvertised— of the venue itself still weighing large in Hamburg, where Simon had become a notorious figure. He snapped already for my damsels in waiting, most intrigued by what Rose let see between the cute-ish lapels of her water-lily some sauvage loose shirt-dress, white-hot aroused to see the hand plays with Adèle in loose dawn-gradient pleated twill.
I’m still not sure Rose had known all Simon and I shared when she followed him upstairs, what the hell. Adèle had hardly time to grab her fill of the appetising nibbles on the buffet table —the constant succulence of which was not an unimportant bait to lure wayfarer tramps like us back to the clubmen’s playground— that she was firmly steered towards the lift by a befitted pinstripe banker type whose sideburns would no doubt soon tickle her inner thighs. As for me, I took my risk to the silver-and-gold mosaic powder room the stage butler couldn’t ignore. I opened my thighs to show him my stream, then conceded my mouth to his whimsical short-lived fantasy: on my way back, a hunky Rechtsanwalt from Lübeck courteously seized my waist for a few dance steps on the easy swing of the muted piano; he smelled of citrus and wet undergrowth: I sensed the pang of delicious infamy.
I wouldn’t know if he would crave my being German at all, I went ahead in my educated French, not losing any of the muttered names he feverishly garlanded me with. My buttocks in hand, he had asked the dispatcher for his usual, dark oak, dimmed lights room with a deep maroon velvet high bed he strewed me upon, my head dangling so as to easily gulp his stiff Buddenbrook staff, and he ordered me to swallow the belching smirch.
Recomposing his manners, he tasted his own flavour on my tongue and lips while pinching my tits, then he demonstrated he would not disdain my own elation, poking his professional liar’s tongue all over my holy brooklet with eloquence, and he saluted when I freely splurted to his face. He muttered I was going to repay for that, gentlemanly fetching the lube tube from the bedside table’s drawer. He revelled burrowing the whole length of his unflinching spur into my back lesser slot, as a reminder that chemicals have blessed our generation of tireless vigour. It might happen that I be bustled by flashbacks of ancient angst, bygone shades of miscalculated abuse they fished me out of timely, bless Sarah’s soul.
And he bragged he had afforded a third leg, as he rang for champagne I wouldn’t touch —Gerolsteiner be fine, your Grand Highness. I vowed a lewd thought to Sarah when I saw coming the invite to the waiter, a young Mediterranean-type slender cutie pirate I had acquainted with before; he was in the buff and at attention in no time, his circumcised spear jolting about like a puppy. That über-vaseline in the clear tube was another wonder of modern science, they both rammed their spouts mercilessly at pace, alternately and gracefully, like courteous swordsmen, and I squirted like a gargoyle. Herr Anwalt emptied all his carnal rhetorics with breathless glee and tipped the boy like Xmas. He sang salacious lieder of his own make under the flows of tepid water in the red marble bathroom, then he wiped me all so kindly. He took my number for eventually next monthly games.
Back downstairs, I didn’t search for eye contact for a while, I was famish, and new finger bites had been displayed. My younglings were busy, and I did not see coming the team of yakuza on both sides with nine hands each. They let me drink my fill of delicious mocktails, and they found the proper buttons to press to make me follow them, not knowing how many they were, carried away by the popularity.
The dispatcher raised an eyebrow when he saw me on the verge of going with five bustling salarymen, but I didn’t look so foolhardy, and he allotted them in a large far-end, top-floor room. It was somewhat of an antique cabinet filled with erotic curiosa and framed vintage photographs taken covertly on the premises —I recalled once Hugo had demanded such contrivance should be put to an end, but Lauritz could not swear he wasn’t still spying on the rooms, all the more now that digital cameras could sneak into any crack, unnoticed.

We tacitly had passed up Hugo’s rightful moral reluctance about the debauchers’ image, entrusting our turpitudes to Lauritz’s goodwill, whatever our future bore; Victor, my passed extravagant boyfriend, had also recorded me in demented situations, before finally erasing his whole cloud, possibly due to Michelle’s victory in their never recounted exaflop war.
My spry gang of tanukis felt likely high on something joyous as well as stiff-inducing. I felt like a drunk ostrich amidst a party of chimps —with all due respect, they smelled like a duty-free store on a busy day— drinking jizz to the rim. After my binge of Northern and Mediterranean splodge, the Asian module, as frenetic as it may be, was all I could befit myself to, happily. They cleared the carpet to take hold on all sides together with dexterity and ardour so as I lost sense of time and ultimately passed out on the rug. When I came back, I was alone, drooly and sticky, with dollars stacked on the corner of the bed we had not used. I had a thought for the cleaning lady who deserved them, rightfully. I took my time to shampoo, and rinse my entrails in the antique-tiled shower room —the toiletries at Speck’s are most classy.
My faux suivantes had carelessly defaulted and left a note on a napkin that they had enough, so why would I blame them? Seeing me dishevelled in the cloakroom, Herr Udo felt otherwise, and my recount of the samurai binge he had been made aware of aroused him so that I had to fob him off with a last bucking over his little desk —and run.
The new silver-eyed mouse revelled in Sarah’s dance attendance; she did not shun my playing footsie under the breakfast table; she seemed an easygoing little harlot, a keeper. They longed to go watch the first encounter between Camille’s new find of that willingly nude evanescent girl bass player and the rest of the telepathic poetry troupe that was rarely on deck before mid-afternoon. I killed time wooing Sarah’s flame just like everyone in the house would, wouldn’t they?
It was sunny outside; under the frosted glass roof, the midday light became unreal as a Yves Tanguy set. The three of us left our shoes outside the sanctuary and went to kiss nude Malo, who rested her cello against her parted thigh, and Azul, alluring beauty behind a glossy black bass guitar with silver strings, both quietly tuning their instruments. In the back corner, tousled-haired Finlan gave the tone on his bulky Hammond organ. Insensibly, like the legendary lark, Malo’s soul ascended into the light, alone, soon to be chased after by the tight-wired chords of Azul’s tendrils, amidst the clouds of the organ drones.
Malo had long aroused our fluttering goldy swashes in orgy moments, whatever high we rode upon. Then she had met Josephine, haphazardly shored among us from Gibraltar’s back alleys, who had naturally embodied an earthly idea of her ethereal soul, and then Emeline who hurled her survivor instinct after her providential soul mate Josephine’s steps. Whatever score that laid out, they had flabbergasted a crowd of dance buffs, gathered in a new extravagant venue of Melchior’s, and who wondered still what they had witnessed.
Irresistibly drawn by the new colours in Malo’s music they had heard from afar, the two pixies were seduced by a new character who befitted the part seamlessly with a faultless ear. All tingly, the pretty goblins popped out of their raspberry and mauve sweatsuits and pranced about the dancefloor, eager to catch up with the new dynamics of the sound stream. Sarah is so truly obsessed about feet, especially young girls’, as Bruno Schulz in his Booke Of Idolatry. like two fawns tasting the water at a brooke’s shore, in nigh synchronicity, they tiptoed amongst the trio’s wisps, who seemed to try modulating in accordance with them, in running response.
To measure up with Malo’s sleight upon the simplissime contraption of glued-together wooden sculpture of her cello, Azul twiddled with the array of little knobs at hand on the flat polished body of her graceful hobby horse, and so the rich complexity of the covert circuitry in the black canvas-clad box behind her, with tiny coloured pin-lamps flickering. Malo was giving the keyword, sensitively embodied by Josephine’s whizzy whirls upon her unflinchingly sure feet, while Emeline unfurled the beaded counterpoint of airy accolades, all in a suffused pace to Malo’s whimsical lead.
Azul seized on a clearing for a solo play, and we knew she could withhold endless attention as we had heard her do in Fortunat’s dark lounge; she offered the seemingly offhanded dryads the free air for elaborate couple figures they had devised with love, all of that unprepared, though, as went Josephine’s intuition.
Finlan had wholly invested the antiquated machine he played on with the ingenuousness of a thicket of hawthorns at the edge of the open field where the carefree does frisked. The sounds he fed to the monumental speaker hovered like the spring morning mist, filled with the chirpings of teeming hatchlings.

Dawdling by in the idea of a morning swim, some TRÆVIX’s boarders had heard the unusual depth of the tone in the otherwise customary music in the dance venue. Apolline, Trine, and Gwen sat with us in their bathing suits, which merely consisted of their telephones. I texted Adèle and Rose, who soon joined our eager audience for the acme of boundless synchronicity in the final embrace of our wunderkinder étoiles. We cheered warmly, and most of us followed the exhausted ballerinas to the downstairs pool, in the hope they could help massage the transfigured, gracile bodies.
Mathurin was a tad miffed he missed the wonder surprise treat of the day, so Finlan mocked him, but foretold many other sets, all the more if Melchor had seen a recording, why wouldn’t he, there were cameras in every angle?
I climbed up to the studio, leaving the two playboys to their enviable fate. Sarah was casting shreds of a daydream upon a paper pad while Sofia, at her feet, skimmed through an album about the Fontainebleau School, which had baulked to return on its shelf. At a little distance, what seemed to be rumpled-up knickers lay on the rug, though I wouldn’t think either of them had worn one this morning.
My attention fluttering like a wandering moth, I started an online chat about storming Fortunat that night, after warning Camille, who insisted we brought our lads, not as clients, but as what she called “boute-en-train”, they would only shag some of us for the voyeur lazy johns, at what the whole clique enthused. Natalia came by opportunely, along with our wayfarer Ksyusha, who had considerably improved her French in some gallivanter attorney’s bed to whom Sami had procured her after a rambunctious week in Philippe’s maze. She was fresh and racy like a free cheetah; her affluent barrister owned a seaside estate in Corsica, attended by a gang of tanned do-gooders. She had grabbed her swag and fled like she always did, only this time she returned to what she might call her home port, eventually.
Camille beamed as the whole squadron reached port with gourmet offerings. Lauritz’s backstreet foundlings had joined, too; Dagmar, Gwen, Fæbian, Lizon, and others had heard the jungle drums, and Camille was smitten with Ksyusha. She had rounded up all available beau monde, including Sami and Hector in their multiversal capacity, so to speak.
Whereas Fortunat’s entrée des artistes opened on the much-trodden quayside, patrons were introduced through a discreet
blurred stained-glass reception office on the side street, after they identified with the scan of their QR codes at the door; a third service door of black-lacquered steel opened on a paved yard a little further. Less sternly formal than Speck or whimsically labyrinthine than Philippe, Fortunat stood like an unassuming fortress, a bleak hub of Secret Services with no parking spaces.
Here again, Gauthier and his staff had fired up their brains to befit the connoisseurship of Camille’s, and the main salon extolled the sheer genius of Henricot’s murals, haunted by pure desire creatures as a backdrop to the lush maroon velvet banquettes where our herd of does soon wallowed, au naturel, bar a few well-furtive jewellery.
As nude as ever, Malo and Azul stood on high black leather stools in a low dramatic light bubble, lulling all want by treading their fantasy chords amongst the harmonics of the grand piano merely grazed by Finlan, in a glistening mellow yellow outfit. It smelled like a gala night at the Italian Embassy, with an extra dash of animality. Camille begged Josephine and her acolyte to dance for us, so they simply ditched whoever was lusting upon their cheeky little arses and offered us the acme of their telepathic routine almost in place, as a pair of courting swans.
Our hostess was obviously overjoyed to see most of the usual punters in disarray as to the fierce capriccio embodied by the possessed little witches, who nonetheless emphasised the most deliberate of poses without falling into a mere coarse exhibition. She had seized Dagmar, slenderer than ever, and seemed to idolise her cherubic profile, as the tall fairy rubbed her wings in the cushions, innocently flaunting her lingering smile.
I felt intrigued as to how the landlady would respond to some proper invite, if any, but then it wasn’t baffling to see her give her hand to some greying dapper clubman; she might feel missing the gap of incertitude none of the power brains she hired would procure, although she wouldn’t shun letting one of her Yale’s hunks try to deprave her —putting the crystal of her soul to the test.
The latest sensation to date, the Dutch Terrible Twos, swung in with giggles out of the majordome’s cubbyhole and bowed deep down to the ballerinas, showing us their perfect buttocks; then, seeking space to perch on, they tiptoed to some free back spot where black and white clad bumblebees congregated at once to ogle up close the double despair of their uptight genitor, and so they purred.

Lauritz paid a courtesy visit, holding hands with a slinky, tanned bohemian too young to be frowned upon. Before she stumbled into self-conscience, I stood up to greet my old-time pal and thus grope his new catch, who did not wear undies under a fluid Gipsy dress. That would be Daphne; she still smelled of Amalfi hesperides, and she knew what genre of club her saviour had brought her to. I enlaced her and murmured I was going to let her dress fall down, as she wouldn’t side with the buyers, would she?
While I gently wrung her shy tits, I made her confess she was French, the shame of a swanky Faubourg Saint Germain family, enough to make me crave to dive into another family drama to provide a gentile soul with the company of sundry others, for that resilience endeavour she would owe to a shapely carnal appearance —and the squashing of all a wrongly education, mind you. The 911 alpha male had bestowed her into the herd; would she prefer we pander together, that night? Lauritz ostensibly cheered on that, ol’ Moggy.
Long time no see Rachel de Contilly —whom Gauthier had hired to play the violin for us libertines in the woodland pavilion of his Chevillon estate— was now daring to show her gracile rump in the raw, kept on a leash by the essential Liselotte, a gleaming chain clipped to a black thick padded collar with a saddlery grade ring, laser-sleek and groomed like a Meissen shepperdess; Cecile sat by and asked for the leash handle, which Liselotte confided gracefully.
Lizon and Fæbian had flown in from their Konstanz hunting grounds, and they wore flawless diamonds. They had a good influence on each other, and they obviously worked out these yummy abs. I remembered Lizon as a pale pavement tramp, under another name, when Camille had fished her out, and Sarah had schooled her all over Paris on ways of rich harlotry.
James W. Manner had long been one of the fervent faux-uncles of Camille’s even before she went to school properly. He had brought his current magical nieces —he called the Thistle Fairies because he had salvaged Annabelle from the damp Glaswegian slums— who lived studiously under the roofs of our dovecote, a place I had once settled for my more-than-brother Simon. Annabelle’s companion, Fayelle, had once encountered Julio Cortazar’s axolotl during what turned out to be a deadly cerebrovascular stroke to what she owed to still bear a titanium patch on her skull, and a taste for research in the aesthetics field, just like her soulmate. Nevertheless, they had never abjured their libertinism, all the more now that they shared the same social protection as all of us in the Hellfire club. James sat next to Hugo, revelling in the proper chamber ballet spun out by the antique-worthy cast with no veils.
My new pet girl and I caused a major crush with a bespoke double-breasted pinstripe ash grey suited crew cut, blue eyes, self-assured conqueror who did not flinch in asking for immediate favour from Rachel who knelt down between his parted thighs and unbuttoned his fly, still bound with my leash. He had grabbed that we would team, and he gladly could afford both of us. He told me to stick my tongue, tasted me, and he liked it while humping in Rachel’s modest mouth, eventually forcing her to swallow his triple splurt like a pricey professional. Pulling her up on his lap after he had sheathed back, he thanked her, well aware she was more of a debutante, and tasted his own in her mouth, then steered us to the lift.
Camille’s caprice had been carried out lavishly, it felt like every nook was intended for cuddling up, but the room we entered surpassed all the lupanars I had been taken to —bar Speck: the jury was out. That was a superb male, doubtlessly living in grand style, muscular and trim like a statue, hands and feet spruced up, I deduced he must live a life of ease on a yacht deck. Once all naked, he wanted to focus on Rachel’s exultation before using her shy brooklet to burrow in her womb. He had finely seen that she was moved by being ordered things against her upbringing, thus he told her to lay spread on the duck-green plush velvet bed cover and lift her legs so as to offer all her intimacy to his eager devouration, while she would repay the same favour to me, demonstrating unexpected skills and obstination as I straddled her nigh candid mouth I wouldn’t spare to spatter.
He succeeded in making her surrender with touching spasms and spurts, heartening him to aim at her lesser hole he kept smearing with the available lubricant and foraging in with two or three fingers. Once her slits were slidy like seaweeds, he waggled his shaft around the rim of her jolly slits, bracing with little jolts the unflinching penetration of both ways made easy, to the damsel’s surprise. When he had sheathed in her lesser hole to the hilt, he sniggered and watched her wriggle at his whim, then he hurled his renewed discharge in the deepest of her entrails.
She collapsed like a rag doll, breath short, sweaty. I kissed her drenched little face and licked her eyes clean as she palpated her nether parts as if to assess any damages. Ken had soon done expediting a shower in the adjoining bathroom, dressed up in a wink, poked at his forehead with two fingers, and ran. Rachel shrugged and smirked, leaving a pretty wet spot on the velvet.
The bathroom was clad in green marble, with jade-green porcelain fixtures. The rain-like shower poured freely in the centre, we massaged each other; she bragged of having withstood a full-grown stag; I owned to him he had behaved in better manners than a stag; she should see that as the furthest possible tolerance; she was a gracile doe with an artist so
The room was hung with verdigris crushed velvet, with a pair of tall oxidised mirrors, framed in silvered sculpted-through wood, in which we looked like timeless floozies in a green pit of debauchery under a contorted opalescent Murano chandelier. Across the bed, between the celadon green moiré armchairs, on a silvered console, lay a handful of Euros; I told Rachel the unwritten vow of libertines like us, which was to leave our extra premiums for the maids who cleaned our lewd havoc after us; Rachel loved that, she knew what her reward be.
She stretched on the plump cushion of the armchair, I couldn’t help but walk on all fours to her holy brooklet —sacrilege be hailed— still emotional with the stark storming in its frail innards she avowed was not a first, but a whole new sensation. There again, an abusive brother bereft of any wisdom as to proper lovemaking manners but furiously inflamed between his legs, had commanded that mere saliva and clear pre-ejaculate sufficed to his inconsequential pleasure in her lesser hole. Indeed, but he denied her suffering, and she knew no one to dare turn to.
Moreover, when her violin teacher enticed her to audition for orchestra positions —bar those new blind ones where her good looks would not intervene— she had to learn not to shun wandering hands if she coveted an engagement. For her and her partners, meeting Gauthier had been a blessing, although sleeping with him, too, had certainly prevailed in his decision to help them, but, as careless he seemed, he had groomed her into an easygoing libertine walk of life and permitted that she dwelled in a matchless small apartment overlooking the river and the Louvre where she would allow, now and again, the use of her buttocks to Gauthier’s pansexual acquaintances in the moving lights of the bateaux-mouches, and other amateurs Liselotte purveyed since they had met in Chevillon. She had also played her fiddle for Camille and her Cologne-smelling American hunks, along with Natalia whom she endeared fondly.
The night was young, and the after-dinner crowds would round up like wolves. Only Finlan kept his tapered hands running on the clavier. Malo cuddled a petite garçonne whom Rachel told me was one of her colleagues, Azul had been taken away to the upper floors the minute she had rested her instrument. Sarah wandered back from service, smelling of Scilly daffodils like a London virgin, with a hint of her last trick’s tobacco in her hair. She slid at once a deft hand on Rachel’s pubis, complimenting me on my taste. She overtly wooed my date of the moment, and soon she could have told of her latest sin, although not trying to steer her away from my wing. I sussed she had just jotted Rachel’s name on her dance card.
A soft-spoken South European gent murmured a request on Rachel’s nape, not intending to have us both. I felt a delicious pang letting her part like a true floozie in her prime, and she had given me all her clues to pursue our conversation some other night. Sarah preceded a rugby-tighthead who grappled her butt, not knowing what fiery mount he had chosen. I turned away, casually, not in the least keen to form an opinion on the patrons who might give me an eye; my part was to sway my hips.
Cecile and Charlotte, in the far corner, conspired with Sateen and Pearl who might not, as of yet, have fathomed what game was rolling on, naked in public on spacious banquettes so soft, like they had posed for days in Cyprien’s eye. Charlotte was kindly demonstrative and knew the pair wouldn’t shun sisterly wanking each other, thus arousing the whole attendance; she just instilled the merely mundane idea of making rich patrons pay for sharing the privilege of some of their lustful moments. Sateen said they had long grasped our goings-on, only they wouldn’t yet dive alone, and separately. So far, so good; Cecile let Charlotte tout the trio to valliant customers. Some tuxedoed German ancestor with a pricey smile and a moustache came to sit backwards before them, bedazzled by the forgetful pair’s nonnies and by gracile Charlotte’s daring vice, as she taunted him with her cunning little foot under his nose for a kiss. Their bustling exit to the lift didn’t go unnoticed. Cecile came to console herself on my shoulder; she said the twins crowded her mind.

 

Cecile says:

No wonder the van Armel twins would be incandescent baits; I had bitten to it first-hand, hadn’t I? And the workshop had glowed like embers at the risk of paling the colours of Richter’s piano. I wouldn’t bet all my cookies on the seasoned beau who hired them, so they might also meet some diligent flunkies, in all debauchery. Kate didn’t actually beam nor set her splendid mechanics in motion; when she excused herself, I snitched on her to one of the hunky house goons, so thus she blushed when she returned and called me slut, in a smile.
Leaning on the closed grand piano, I sensed a warm hand rummaging in my bum crack with some gentleness, so I let be. The operator revealed to be some sort of candid geek with faux tortoise glasses frames over pale-fawn eyes. I turned to him and agreed to a long unprofessional kiss while he checked all my buttons.
I must have been personally tracked because in our assigned dull-terracotta velvet room hung two paintings I had primped up for Camille, lively ribald flemish scenes we suspected had been painted by a famous anonymous. To cut short the lecture I was inclined to offer him, he told me to fetch one of the pillows on the oxblood velvet bed, kneel on it and open my mouth wide as he detailed the bedlam of the merrymakers’ crowd on the panels. It suited me fine to debase myself in some whoredom, I would not tell him I was the one who had revived the paintings; I made him spurt and howl like a bona fide aesthete.
Now relieved, he ordered me to pose, mainly so as to offer him my bumhole, but he took his time complimenting all my features; like an unapologetic trull, I peddled all the tricks of my indecent half to his gauche lust, revelling in sensing his moral bolts crack open. My beloved mentors had rightfully convinced me of the convenience of deploying my deliberate seductive manoeuvres in the anonymity of a parlour house —my dear friend Annachiara who whored in Venice while working on and off at a lingerie shop had explained to me that she feared bringing clients to fall for her or become obsessed. As my geek licked my arse fondly, I promised myself to call Annachiara or go along with someone to shop for Italian lingerie. When he tried to force his way in, however, I had to ask him to fetch some lube from the bedside drawer; he was not that savvy, yet. Now he was enthralled looking at what his Peter did, shily pistoning into my bottom as I was lying out spread-eagled for him, at the edge of the bed. I knew what kind of stare would bolster his want and help him not sink into self-conscience, I played bitch like no one would ever know.
But then, he happened to be one of 7S’ workhorses, half boy, half solid state, a candid money wizard; which meant he could trace me at a click. I had better confess my weakness to Camille in case I might hurt her baby who had not seemed all aware I had been for hire. However, like most men, once their balls are drained, he had politely excused himself and returned to whatever screens he lived on.
In the salon, a sylphic nudity I had met somewhere played a hangpan rested upon her crossed legs, on a comfy cushion. After a while of waving into her improvised lullaby, I acknowledged she had been playing at Louis’ country club on the frantic night when we had met Rambling Rose. Her long auburn strands caressed her toyish tits, her slender belly taut as a sack of rice, and her fluttering fingers knitted a fluffy veil of harmonics over the sighs of the continued orgy.
Three new merry beauties, dressed as for a worldly event, were ushered in, and I singled out Mellie Rose, a movie starlet, Phoebe Lane, a reputable porn actress, and a pretty deb with a pearly smile and a weightless skirt, no undies. They ordered champagne. As the etiquette would allow in a bawdy house, I sat next to the shier one and introduced myself offhandedly, soon laying a hand on one dainty knee. Her name was Plum Sybil, said Phoebe Lane as she spoke only Moldovan; she had found her in Prague, on a porn set, she added with a wink. My hand had been sliding up, causing no fuss, and I began to wonder if I could borrow Plum for a trick, while Phoebe seemed at Mellie’s whim.
Things went the best of my wishes when a well-heeled patron recognised the actresses and asked them out; Phoebe looked me up and said I could have my way with Plum, who grabbed nought of the deal as I hitched up her skirts. She had a slightly cockeyed coffee-brown stare, a petal pale complexion and an overall stray expression. She let me disrobe her; she didn’t look like your average Moldovan country girl; her nails were neat, and her feet were soft. She did not resist my kiss and let me wank her kindly. Some fortyish American diplomat who smelled of airport hesperides came to sit aside Plum and asked if he could play with us. He stared at me with endorphin-blue eyes. I seized Plum’s free hand and lay it upon his fly; she knew perfectly what to do. Soon, we walked to the lift; I had gathered her things and left them with a waiter —who profited so to finger my arse behind a curtain, casually.

Mr Steel cornered us in the bronze-coloured mirror-clad lift car, speaking in a funny gibberish Plum anyhow answered to; he would embody that polyglot agent whom I had figured among the worldly gossip in my old magazines, just as smooth-mannered. In the few fleeting seconds, she seemed a bit comforted, and her gaze bloomed in a comely heed which, although it did not address me, clicked a crush on yet another mystery vagrant nugget.
Matter-of-factly, I favoured Mr Steel’s lust for her all the way to a vast deep-purple bed in that faux-malachite painted room with polished mahogany and deep-buttoned padded furniture, the whole like some Victorian sanctuary, under a high dark beamed ceiling and four dimmed Tiffany chandeliers. Our bodies shone like porcelain amidst seaweeds. He sported tanned sinewy shoulders, but he held back his grip. He asked me if I was the antique connoisseur for Ms Stern, and I retorted I was blessed so; he said my Parisian English was all arousing, but it was Plum’s fruit he gnawed on feverishly. Meanwhile, she responded to my kisses like one of those convent boarders locked up till eighteen she certainly wasn’t. She had already wetted the velvet of the bedcover when he presented his considerable weapon at the pearly gates and sheathed it in effortlessly as she cast her feet high up to ease him in deep. I recalled where Phoebe had said they had been coming from. He was a deft swordsman, too; she wriggled and moaned like an otter kitten. He panted when he gushed in her womb, and she grabbed his hips to keep him deep, muttering words I couldn’t gather but sure did not sound plaintive.
As he staked out his whole advantage, he told me to straddle over and show my bum that he smeared again with lube. His spur felt as in the upper average of the condottiere scale, and his gait feline as that of a spadassin taking his time in my guts. Plum had snaked down so as to lick my pearl like I would be Mother Superior. No wonder I reached elation and squirted in my novice’s mouth while the tremours brought our cavalier to another proud discharge.
The bathroom was clad in iridescent forest-green bevelled tiles, the ceiling of aglow stained glass, the floor a graphic whirl of spiralling black and white triangles. The tepid rain poured from a large bronze sunflower. As in most bawdy houses we patronised, there was no tub, only a green marble toilet bowl, a bidet, and a column sink with choice toiletries and perfume miniatures. Mr Steel left us with our hands doing the talking; Plum sussed full well I would take her home; she mimicked that she had no proper bond with the other two, only some sort of free-use agreement she did not complain for.
In all synchronicity, we crossed Sarah in the corridor, weary-eyed, smelling of iris and violet. She needed no explanation as she stole Plum —she loved that name— from my wing to taste her mouth: weren’t we sisters? She said we had tribesgirls who would speak whatever vernacular my pretty catch did; we braced ourselves to confront Mellie and Phoebe, but then it happened they had conveniently deserted; Camille would tell us about her guests.
Plum looked all the happier to come along with us. However weird it might sound, she was nevertheless not a perfect stranger, even if her documents bore another name, Lidia Netosi, of Roma origin, and she had registered a brand new black card, along with her pseudonym. She blushed when I insisted she take all of our gain.
In a taxi jump, we brought her, with her bag, home, and she was exhilarated. Sarah disrobed her and worshipped her feet while I made coffee. It was late, but I thought exotic flappers like Dagmar, Fæbian, or Fanny, might possess enough understanding of Middle-European vernaculars to share beyond cuddling with Plum.
Camille wanted news of the lovely wayfarer she had seen only in a video sent to her by Phoebe. I recounted my windfall tryst with Plum and one of her hi-wired operatives: she laughed and bantered she couldn’t have schemed better, good for me. She had met the pair Mellie and Phoebe at a dishevelled party Natalia had lured her to, so she had reckoned they might dignify Fortunat’s parterre with their libertine swank, as they wouldn’t fear being singled out amidst a handpicked crowd. Plum had not been in the deal, Phoebe had lifted her up on a porn set; she was already a junior asset in Sami’s farm, only she spoke nought other than body language. Camille agreed that if I was so smitten as to foster her, the other wayfarers from the eastern barbary fringes might help her acclimate to our vicinities. Remained that she carried a Moldovan passport, but the 7S Arcana did wonders, so long as it did not camouflage some human trafficking; she would play candidly with her liaisons in the authorities.

Sarah and I took Plum to bed under the God Crow’s homunculus eagerliest gaze than ever; our Gipsy runaway cast Sarah in her box tree thicket mood, and they eventually fell asleep entwined. At Alfred’s call, I didn’t jump up; like all others, the Carpathian Fairy would sit for Cyprien’s unfailing eye, and probably for our sponsors’ collections, whatever music she would hover to. Sarah was smiling against her merely allusive breast, in the scent of the night’s sweats.
I went to make coffee; the stash of langues de chat had been stocked up. I posted a request in the hive’s chatroom about a Gipsy stray princess who spoke only Barbaric, if anyone could help translate her tale, and I mentioned she was gorgeous. She would be sitting all day in the nude in my workshop. I had not yet dipped a half-dozen biscuits that Fanny wrote she would join in the afternoon, and Dagmar said she thought that Fæbian be certainly the most knowledgeable —having been trafficked by a Roma gang long enough— but Dagmar wasn’t assured she would be in Paris.
They emerged, fresh and pampered in sweatsuits and socks, Sarah in light grey with big blue SK patches, Plum in peach fuzz with lime trimmings I had never seen before. Sarah had brushed Plum’s mid-long auburn to give some volume, she was totally smitten.
Before we moved down, Camille had written that Fæbian was on her way to fly in before dinner time and she was eager to help. Plum liked the workshop, and she was intrigued by the bewitching simplicity of the well-tempered clavier. She grabbed at once what was expected of her when Cyprien, bright-eyed, showed her his portfolios, and so she complied easily, letting him manipulate her like she were a precious puppet; she withstood a few forty-five minutes rotations; she could see me touch-up a little portrait of a young lady I couldn’t help somewhat force towards Plum’s kinship traits, which did not escape to Sarah, with some irony.
Dagmar showed up in one of her now signature cashmere jumper dresses that let her mood be seen at whim. Perched on a chair, she also wooed Plum unabashedly, making her wonder in what Faerie she had shored. Master Cyprien adored Dagmar’s long pictural body after the next pause, he begged her to lay behind Plum as a sisterly tableau, which dawdling Gwen happened to admire, along with the chords of Arnold Schoenberg’s Verklaerte Nacht I had wished to play, following Bach.
Fæbian texted from Le Bourget, and Ayla was with her; she had jumped on the flight on a whim, and besides, she might help Plum spin her tale, Sarah already fantasising about a villegiatura in the Zürich house of pleasures, where indeed many Carpathian damsels also spoke sundry vernaculars. She ordered a worthy feast that neither Camille’s brood nor ours would miss, bestowing Plum some unforeseen stardom she could not complain from.
The Swiss libertines had both revelled in the snowscapes with not much of a costume on, poster girls for Engadin. At once, around tea, coffee, and maccarons they had brought, they found words to wring out some story of Plum she let candidly unfurl.
She had been born to a tribe of Roma, that is in the lowest caste of vagrants in the Rumanian ethnicity. Although fate would rarely provide her with only shoes to go begging in city streets, she had been blessed, or doomed, with great beauty that, rumour had it, wasn’t her purported father’s fault; but well before she had any dash of breasts or pubic hair, this one decided to sell her as a virgin bride —an atrocious custom Europe should be ashamed of. Her mother, who could show anyone other than her husband the legs and rump of a ballerina, had a protector in the local police; thus, come what may, she organised Plum’s elopement to Ukraine, Poland, and Czechia, at the unavoidable cost of her virginity but a thin chance to come good where she stood now, after a budding career in Prag porn platforms and the goodwill help of another porn actress, Phobe Lane.
Camille had arrived with Fanny, who understood full well Plum’s ordeal, and also that she might have her family’s henchmen after her, reckoned that her documents were properly done, and she would obtain an entirely untraceable identity, just like her, to what Camille concurred. Everybody was enthralled with the runaway Gipsy, although we concluded she had better forget these origins for some time. Hugo ogled all her rapacious suitors would unveil bit by bit until they all ended in the raw, but, as always, he maintained some modesty under an ikat kaftan and a long white shirt. I knew Sarah and Ayla would bring him Plum in his lair to get further acquainted —if she cared to stay among us. Dagmar was overjoyed to reunite with Fæbian; they chatted endlessly in German. Ayla suggested some of us visit Switzerland, too, to measure up the class of her hencoop Caroline’s compared to these Parisian new clubs she would experiment by herself the next day. Seresine and Natalia came late with weary eyes, they had let themselves be played with at Mendelsohn’s —at a price.

 

Sarah says:

And so we revel in the finicky protocol that rules our Immeasurable Landlord’s court. Hugo was overjoyed to see unforeseen Mistress Ayla, barefoot as us upon his precious rugs. The conjuncture afore His Grace was tiered in sundry manners, and each one foliated as voluptuously as a Syracuse cannoli. It had all started with Cecile’s blistering crush on some harlotry comrade at Camille’s new parlour house. Like herself, the girl sported no special traits, but the serene candour of an as-yet-spared youth put up for hire upon a velvet banquette. And then also, Cecile’s film was mute; the stranded fairy only talked in Volapuk, if in an overwhelming mellow deep tone attuned to her slightly cockeyed black gaze.
Made aware of the situation, the new whimsical empress Camille offered a private flight to our long-time polyglot couch-linguists Fæbian and my own Ayla to make a chink of sense of Plum’s parlance —what a poetic fairy name, coined by actress Mellie Rose, who had first fished her out of the sleazy brooks of show business. Fæbian, a runaway from the heavenly shores of Lake Konstanz, had sadly been trafficked by shady half-gypsy gangs all around Austria, and thus she would gibber some of the middle-European slangs, where Plum seemed to be originated.
As Ayla made out in grand style with Plum for Hugo’s eyes, I played the house girl and served house-made fruit kombucha in fine crystal goblets. I could tell that, under his ample linen shirt, Hugo was wildly aroused. Plum couldn’t tell where she had been born; her oldest remembrances were those of a roadside urchin, the happy, bustled womb of the warm caravan, the spirited pride of a persecuted nation. But long before she began shaping out of a mere twig, she had read the gazes of the brutish males, and of who she knew as her father. Her mother had begun teaching her how much to fear those and probably sowed the ulterior motive of fleeing as soon as she would be tall enough to spit in their eye. It went as far as to let her know there were gadjo-style clothes stacked deep in the cupboard. She saw her sisters and others casually abused by the older men, to no serious reprimand in the group, but when she grasped, eavesdropping on the conversations, the reason why she was more or less spared sexually, that is to keep her a virgin so as to be auctioned as such at the Gipsy festival, her soul froze, she lost her appetite, and she began staring at the waters in the rivers they crossed, waiting for one deep enough to dive in.
Her mother used to take her along panhandling on the sidewalks of country towns because her wild beauty was an incentive to easier give them petty change. Once, she spilt the dirty pebbles for her, telling her deep in her eyes it was time to put on jeans, sneakers, leather jacket and run to a rich gadjo she had known in that town. It had been a thunderstrike down Plum’s spine. That night, when men went to drink out the money they had gathered, she grabbed her bundle, changed herself in a thicket along the road after a cat’s toilet, and headed to the address her mother had taught her.
She couldn’t actually read, but the door plate was well-polished. An impressive woman in a white coat answered, and she repeated what her mother had told her to say. The person led her to some small pristine room like those they build in shop windows for Christmas. She had never sat on such a delicate seat, she reckoned that her jeans were clean enough. Just enough time for her heart to quiet, a jovial white-haired doctor, his white coat open on a dark suit, took her by the hand to his surgery and asked her in Romani who she was and why she was there.
Fearing there wouldn’t be another occasion to speak out her angst, she poured her soul like a storm gully, and he didn’t show any manner of prejudice to it. When she felt she had told the gist of her young life, he kindly said he would play doctor with her, and asked her to disrobe entirely, which she did in anguish, all the more that she wasn’t so proud of her overworn underwear. She had never seen a doctor, she hardly knew the word. She underwent the palpations and the cold thrill of the stethoscope just like her worst sexual fears, and however, even after he lay her on the examination table, asked her to spread her legs open and swiftly looked at her coochie, nothing weird happened to her. Nothing more than thoughtless fondling while he explained she was in perfect health and also complimented her on her good teeth. When her boyish jeans were back on, he asked to see her bare feet, and she too had sussed there was nought medical about it.
Doctor Solomon invited her to dinner with roast chicken and potatoes in a precious dining room with Chinese lacquer screens and soft-coloured paintings. He explained that since she was so young, she couldn’t stay more than a few days, after which one of his friends would drive her to some place west, as an unofficial au pair in a family where she would learn a Gadjo language, supposedly.

The doctor, seeing that she almost dozed upon her slice of cherry pie, had led her to a bedroom all of her own where she woke, still numb, all nude under the comforter, not sure what had happened or where she was, but she needed the loo. The room was daffodil yellow, and the light was softened by chutes of white veils; she found the first bathroom she ever saw, all of white earthenware with what she figured out was a toilet bowl, and she giggled at the silly noise her pee made, then daring to press the flush button.
For the very first time, she saw herself full-length in the mirror, and she liked that. She remembered her mother had insisted, the day before, on washing her head and cutting her toenails.
She jolted when she realised the doctor stood there, in shirtsleeves, eyeing her whole with a cute smile; she showed him some dance moves like she had seen her elders do. He sat on the tub’s edge and asked her if she wanted to take a bath, letting the waters all out, testing its warmth on the back of his hand, then sowing perfumed salts into the flow, causing a cloud of lather she stepped into. He rubbed her with a big sponge, massaged every crease of her softened skin, wanking her kindly, wondering if she was so much of a virgin, anyhow. Holding the showerhead, he told her to tilt her head back for shampoo and a new haircut. He could not see her weep out of elation.
He gave her a marigold yellow bathrobe and watched her savour her toasts with apricot jam and coffee; raising her leg, she let him knead her toes under the table. He said she would go shopping with the maid for whatever she could carry along. They spoke about the nonsense of that custom of selling virgin brides, he offered to make disappear once and for all that possibility in her coochie, not for his own sake, whatsoever. So, in the meantime, she followed the maid in the best stores, dressed in her tomboy outfit, her hair in a bun under a cap, and snazzy sunglasses, to buy brand names underwear, tee shirts and two other sets of modern clothes that gipsy girls wouldn’t wear.
After lunch in town and an afternoon trying on her new looks, the doctor took her to his surgery and, after complimenting her tastes, gave her a full lecture on sexual matters, with photos and diagrams, asking if she was ready to do over with that virginity detail many women went without anyhow —I concurred on that point. He told her to undress and lay on the examination table, legs spread while she looked at the chandelier. She felt a little sting in her labia, then nothing at all, and that was it. He told her to keep a sanitary pad for the night. While they were at it, he inserted in place a contraceptive implant, telling her to go to the family planning in three years to replace it and not worry about having any more periods.
We confirmed it had been a wise decision. She reckoned it had saved her from a lot of useless hassles, and she thought her mother would agree. That night, after sausages and peas, they watched television together; she was seated on his lap, in her knickers, no trace of bleeding —even when she went to the loo— he fondled her nigh flat chest endlessly in front of a series of music videos she needed not understanding. The doctor never dropped his trousers down, she dozed out in his arms.
Two days later, a young Czech man came to drive her to Prague. It would be twelve hours through the Hungarian Puszta, but they would sleep in some highway motel halfway. She had a new ID
with a portrait photo the doctor had taken of her with his telephone among a batch of nude ones she had let him take carelessly. She wore slim black jeans, a red number twenty-three tee shirt under a black and red tartan shirt, and black chucks. The doctor hugged her fondly when they left the apartment.
Her driver of a silver Audi was Jiri, and he hardly spoke Romani, but he showed he liked her a lot. They had some borders to cross, but there were few chances her elopement had been declared. They listened to some cool-pop playlist, and he bought her chips and Coke; she checked her pad, and there was no blood. They stopped at an all-new motel near Bratislava, she ate spaghetti and meatballs and chocolate ice cream; Jiri was fond of watching her eat, and she was hitting on him wildly. The room was minimal and clean, and the TV played MTV; before the end of the first song they were undressed, and they shagged like no tomorrow, but again in the morning.
In Prague, Jiri lived in a fifth-floor apartment with a view of Saint Nicholas Tower. Before dinner, they screwed again wildly, and so again after a quick burger and Coke. She craved the way he looked at her, and she adored who she had become; it felt like Doctor Solomon had given permission to a lifelong vindication, free rein for a windfall lovemaker extraordinaire to transmogrify the dirty panhandler into a beaming sex bomb.

I still saw and listened to Ayla’s embodying Plum’s funny mishmash of a parlance with the same fascination she had exerted over me since that first breakfast on the Swiss lakeshore when I had pranced in the school’s canteen with my purported Newyorkese prestige. I could still sense my pulse against the braided bracelet she —a pretty tanned pipsqueak at the time— had derisively ensnared me with and which had worn away a wink too soon, hadn’t it?
Hugo keenly recorded the whole precious rant, taking Plum’s healthy glow as a token that her tale wouldn’t sour in a moment. Had her fate sustained its course one or two more seasons —my Far would have supported her farther than she had figured— Ayla would have become a powerful therapist, instead of a high-flyer escort guru, but, as thus, she had, willy-nilly, encompassed the dispassionate Swiss regulation for sex work to the betterment of innumerable lost souls, bigotry be damned.
The weather had been fair over Prague’s roofs; Jiri remained heedful and breathable, never indulging in fits of mansplaining towards the however forbidden sex doll he had a torrid affair with. He nevertheless came to avow the truth of his social whereabouts, he showed Plum the porn videos he produced, directed, or acted in. Candidly aroused, she asked him if she wasn’t as attractive as the models in the videos, and she asked him to show her anal sex like most of them seemed to relish.
He told her that, instead of a bleak au pair position in a conventional household, earning merely enough to buy a pair of knickers a month, but fed and lodged while she learned Czech, she could, given the sensuous capital he believed she owned, make a minister’s earnings in a day of shagging for paying voyeurs. But he told her it supposed a whole background of precautions, in short, the requisites of establishing a black card for her, with regular check-ups and all necessary vaccines; no more of the risks he had induced her to take with him in their sexcapade.
Although he could not resist giving her, at once, a taste of anal sex, he played fair in that he went with her to the medical appointments necessary for constituting the files of her vademecum pass, and it took her a heap of attention to believe there were so many evils out there avid to breach into her bloodstream and tissues. Thankfully, the nurse who extracted her blood samples was of Roumanian descent and took her hand to alleviate her fears, and she made no comments as to her obvious young age.
During the necessary delays, they did not quiet their incessant lovemaking, Plum was hooked on reproducing the prowesses in the videos, and Jiri could show her the seemingly innumerable crowds of models, a good many trained dancers from Russia, in the ceaselessly renewed exercise of the same routine by different bodies and expressions. Enthralled in the carnal game she had just only discovered, she could not suspect further manipulations of her soul; she had been raised in the wilderness and the grime, in a hostile world they cursed daylong.
Jiri invited one of his long-time accomplices, a gorgeous slender woman he had known as a high-school dropout, his first so-to-speak muse in the shady business of porn. Her usual name was Cloee; she had that disarming cornflower-blue gaze and a dainty frame, all the more when she had acted with Jiri before the legal age; he had foretold her she would fall for Plum, bigly. If only to show some precedence in lasciviousness, she unclothed at once for Plum’s eyes, onto the bed where she lay spent and engaged in lesbian conversation. Plum was new to such commerce, but she had seen scenes in Jiri’s videos; she let Cloee guide her, and it was plain easy, delectable. She gained a Gadji big sister whom she knew would never betray her. They lived a fusional moon which facilitated public apparitions, if any. With mostly automatic GoPro cameras, they shot their best canoodling and edited a short video to post on Jiri’s private news. His buddies warned him he frankly skimmed borderline paedophilia, so he kept Plum on the back burner, but once she had been vetted for good, she followed Cloee and him on the shooting sets where she revelled in the trouble she spawned among the lurking testosterone freaks, and Cloee lured her in behind-the-scenes monkey business that became proverbial with Jiri’s entourage, unaffecting his desire for Plum whom he found all the more desirable when she reeked of the boys’ semen, and Cloee had known that.
Because Plum, who progressed beautifully in Czech, longed to make her own money, Cloee showed her how to advertise her skills in chatrooms she knew of, and how to sell tricks in a vacant apartment she would rent in cash, anonymously. It went smoothly for a whole season until someone tipped Jiri he was under watch because of her, and thus they decided she should move to a house in Leipzig with discreet outbuildings where Cloee and her churned out highly lucrative routines for another season until she followed Phoebe, whom she had met in the brothel’s nooks, to Paris, taking a romantic night train from Berlin to Paris, where Mellie, a friend of Camille’s took them to Fortunat where Cecile had a crush on Plum.

I saw the dilemma coming up between carousing at Ayla’s Zürich bombonnière or settling in our buzzing hive she had yet only visited a small fraction of. I devised that a promise we would visit Caroline’s, along with Plum, in the lilacs’ season, would justify Ayla’s impromptu flight of which Hugo was overjoyed —certainly as much as whoever peeped on the jet’s cameras.
We left Ayla with her old faithful acquaintance Hugo and climbed back up, where Cecile sulked, drinking coffee with Dagmar, who missed Fæbian she had merely seen yet. They were relieved to see us back. All of us nude on a sofa, we retold them the gist of Plum’s adventures. Our madchen went emotional about the house in Leipzig where they had plied the trade offhandedly with some word-of-mouth acclaim. I craved it when Dagmar thought of herself as a whore; I burrowed my nose into her blond thighs while Cecile pulled Plum and her amorous translator Fæbian to the God Crow’s altar.
Ayla was on a mission; she snuggled us up in the comforter while Alfred sang out his belly full of seeds and worms. She was on to bring Plum to see the almighty as to her becoming. Since the ugly catastrophe with Esther, Ayla remained a regarded conduit in Melchior’s so private affairs, which was firstly her main competence, obviously. She wouldn’t dare barge into Cecile’s room, but that one was another early bird, only she usually snuck down to her workshop.
And yet, we wouldn’t budge, and she became curious about whom I was hugging. Ayla always owned the gift of waking up princesses. She uncovered the long slim dreamer and knew she would need the loo. If one could brag of connoisseurship in damsels, it was the lady of Caroline’s. She sensed an ancient efflorescence of craquelures on her soul’s sheen in Dagmar’s first gaze, as she sat before her, innocently peeing. She behaved matter-of-factly, and Dagmar sussed her kind recoil; I revelled in watching her approach an angel of redemption without flustering the morning harmony; we had lived a languorous trip of a night, I would suppose the same in her.
Probably not comparable to ours, Cecile had nonetheless stuffed her closets with a resourceful wardrobe at each of her escapades, whenas she beautifully wore casual as she worked. Fæbian had played doll with Plum, making her wear maroon and black aslant wide-striped satin pyjamas, herself in a raspberry sweatsuit embroidered with a splatter of wildflowers across the chest. Both went barefoot like they were in the mood to return to bed soon. But the rumour of the Gypsy girl had flown, and first, Adèle and Rose came up to fondle her feet, for want of spoken words. Plum was enthralled with what she was welcome to discover in Rose’s black twill blouse. Nobody contested we would all acquaint ourselves more fluently au naturel in the water, and thus we climbed down to the subterranean realm, not all at once in the lift car.
As if it were a matter of convincing a penniless runaway that our nursery was an appurtenance of the earthly paradise, we all boasted pride in the innumerable amenities we had free disposal of. It would take some time in her street urchin’s soul to own up that all this was real. On the upper level, the dancers had been practising for good with their black muscular coach with a persuasive tone of voice; they smelled of fresh hay, and they invited Plum to follow them to the dance floor, where they dared her to join in their improvisation. Off with the pyjamas, Gypsy Belle showed how they fired it up on the river bank with her cousins when the lads were looking elsewhere; now she wooed the coach, and it worked; she earned compliments on her supple loins and her firm balance. They tried a trio on some Steve Reich ostinato that first spooked Plum until she saw what they did of it and she responded with her idiosyncrasy that left us speechless. There was a lot of rizz in this narrow rump, said the coach, who was from Baltimore.
It lasted a few suspended minutes, and Josephine hugged her, in a volte, then led her downstairs to the pool, into which we all jumped with a big splash. And here came the TRÆVIX kittens in their diverse genres, to what I would think Plum did not know frankly what to think but did not show any sign of worry. As they happened to swim nearby, I enlaced Apolline and told them That Plum would probably be slightly spooked by their transnature, the quicksilver whirls of the element we floated in made it easier to acknowledge and feel even without the reasoned words we use to play down the queerness in the first encounters. The most eloquent object lesson be to embrace our unarguably suave, forever middlescent neighbour amidst us, with offhanded foreplay if not much more were to expect. I knew Apolline by heart as a peerless kisser, and Plum could see their kindly impromptu went unnoticed amidst the watery bustle.
Still enthralled by her windfall affair with Sasha, and probably some affective diplomacy with The reigning Aviatrix, Delff, who was TRÆVIX’s house fairy, had not yet been apprised about my unforeseen wildfowl catch.

After we dried ourselves, and Apolline was welcome to hang on with Plum and me, we climbed up to fetch some easy sweatsuits. Plum dug up a maroon oversized top, with marigold yellow trousers, Apolline snatched a sage green stretch velvet ensemble that let frankly guess their tootle, and I donned an ash-grey suit with a large sapphire blue patch “S” aslant across the chest. We rummaged through the slipper drawer to make up mismatched pairs. Plum revelled in Apolline’s cuddles, she had wiped off any manner of preconception.
We returned downstairs in merry humour and walked across the gym, with Fæbian and Dagmar, to the underpass leading to TRÆVIX palace, and Apolline did the honours of yet another grandiose decor —after Hugo had bedazzled her on sundry couches in the nifty nooks of his lair. The grand salons were tidied up and smelled of pomander; scarlet amaryllis trumpeted in silver vases, the precious golden timepiece rang like tinker bell in the Zuber merryland.
Michelle had just done an hour of cardio intensive and taken a prairie-fragrant shower with Trine, her pet nymphet who wore nought under the sky-blue tee shirt embroidered with what looked like a Tibetan musical score. The large screens in front of the cantilever main console with Michelle’s attached seat flickered as ever like a Las Vegas billboard gone awry; only, the mastermind running the machine did not look in the least like a prankster,
behind her gold-mounted crystal spectacles. However, she was a sweet loving demiurge on the polyamorous planet she had spawned; with her piercing stare, she embraced Plum while I let Fæbian do the go-between in their pas de trois, and there were hand games and deep stares.
That fille de rien I had picked up on a brothel banquette worked wonders in our multiverse, with the flair of a seasoned courtesan who wouldn’t interfere in Michelle and Trine’s obvious bond, but let Michelle’s hand slide into her pants. I found it smarter at the moment to lead Trine away to another place and make out with her on some sofa; I knew full well she wouldn’t be jealous of Plum whatever they did, everybody did with Michelle, at her whim.
After a station in Louis’ most extravagant quarries, hosting guests, in the nude, on a landing mid-stairs, behind a delicate Bugatti desk, where she had learned to shiver in the concupiscent gaze of debauchers on their way to a subterranean orgy, below the deep shade of an unspoiled forest. But yet, I suppose it had been Trine’s indefectible candour that had let her share Michelle’s secretive company.
Although we kept making out heatedly, she made me recount the appearance of the Aviatrix among our easy-living troupe. I recalled the epic mishap at Hector’s —Kate’s mentor, the most extravagant finance wizard in Paris, whose bunker across the Eiffel Tower sheltered our deviant pastimes— when we exfiltrated Michelle from the tech burrows where he had assaulted her uninvited. We had instantly bonded with the four-eyed cherub, whom we had nicknamed the Aviatrix because of her clear Aviator Ray-Bans.
Our most precious souvenir was when she headstrongly set camp in our studio “behind the red sofa”, on a futon she had ordered, next to our connection wall socket she had tweaked to befit her needs. Of course, we took tender turns pulling down her sweatpants; she already smelled of our Geranium-Orange from Neal’s Yard Remedies she had found in the studio’s bathroom; we agreed as to which radio to plug while working. Alfred and we weren’t yet so intimate.
Trine revelled in the details of the legendary blonde geek, we agreed she would write the book. Between fits of licking one another’s petals, she explained how she had adapted to the new life on the silent control room floor, studying languages and the gist of computer science on a powerful laptop her lover had concocted for her, with sessions of workout in the gym and the pool, and dreamy carnal parentheses. Every other day, Michelle thought she should practice her English with handpicked lawyers from next-door offices —and she had tested most of the clean-looking ones.
Trine was a happily fulfilled pet girl. The two slender mädchen, after their somersaults on another sofa, had keenly listened to the legend episodes of the house lady. Trine suggested we go downstairs for a bite in the Lee JinJee room. Time to warm up some nibbles; and the impeccable black suit servants displayed a few platters of golden delicacies, unfazed serving four beauties in the buff —they had already shagged each of us in their overtime. Trine remained on my lap; she was as light as Ayla had been in our blessed Saint Loup days.
Dagmar cried in her napkin; an overload of bliss woke the thorny black critters on the murky path of her childhood. In smooth German, Fæbian consoled her, swearing she would spend days listening to her. In these moments, Dagmar cast unfathomable glares. Trine wanted me to hug her all the tighter.

Michelle and Plum joined us, they smelled of a meadow next spring, and Plum was beaming under Michelle’s thoughtful smile. My runaway windfall came to sit next to us and groped Trine ever so gently, mumbling some shreds of a song. Then she showed peckish, too, and gleaned puffed nibbles here and there, asking Fæbian if it would be vegan, too. I think Fæbian answered she would be surprised, though. She moved to their side: she was fascinated by Dagmar, who could make her laugh.
Apolline came up, and then Natalia, arm in arm with Sofia, who complimented on our perfect outfits. Apolline did not pull off her knickers. A white jacket boy had brought the samovar cart along. Plum went to sit on Fæbian’s lap, it seemed together they had cobbled up some funny gibberish, making liberal use of their hands.
Delff and Sasha came on a grapevine hunch, bright-eyed and sharp, Sasha overjoyed to see all of us again; wearing a deep purple sweatsuit with five silver stars embroidered on the left side of the chest. Delff, as usual, tight-fitted in a light buttercup gold-threaded silk suit and a flimsy white tee shirt which gave me urges to tinkle on her abs. They connived with Michelle about some already threading online affinity, and Sasha beamed like a Botticelli.
For all I knew of Michelle, she was delighted with our affectionate gathering, but she winked at me, murmuring there were so many girls, taunting me to retort that she had troupes of devoted hunks in voice reach, hadn’t she? In the meantime, Cecile and Charlotte had had a busy day at Mendelsohn’s; Charlotte said Zev was worth a whole platoon by himself, and Cecile had had to earn Armand’s complacency to open a few more closets in the mansion; all in all, she was fulfilled with their day, if not so to say expired; they still had the stamina to woo the new wayfarer, after a cup of tea.
Matthew and consorts had put on hold whatever exegesis of the jurisprudence they had been polishing for the firm and reported for the suavest of duties, given who had placed the call.
Pulling a chair behind us, Matthew mumbled that it had been long since he had seen Trine au naturel apart from her mistress, to what we simpered like Ziegfeld daisies while Michelle, who had turned to Sasha and Delff, told him not to fawn girls like a bad boy. Taking advantage of the hustle and bustle stirred by the happening of the top TRÆVIX crew whom the girls’ chorus hurried unbuttoning, we pulled Matthew to the next salon, where we found some soft sofa corner to frolic in.
Since the hectic days when Michelle and us had set camp at the far end of a corridor upstairs at 60 Hudson Street, Matthews had dedicated himself body and soul to Camille and Michelle’s operation, and I had been overjoyed to find myself a goodwill extra in that becoming realm. Now it looked like he had tanned in the buff somewhere liberal; his pubic curls gleamed of paradise blond. It wouldn’t be my turn, though, as he devoured Trine’s gracile body with maddened gazes. I was all too well greedy not to help; he was handling her like a bunch of lilies, as I knew what a pretty consummate floozie she was, at heart. He was an even-tempered ploughman, he awaited her chosen gait while savouring her mouth, so I felt pointless there.
But one detail had not slipped my mind if I were swift enough. I knew my way through the commons, and to fetch the new samovar boy, no one could take offence to see me dawdle, again in the raw, into their workplace. The cook and an older butler looked the other way when I hit on him like a puss in heat and drew him to that vacant vestiary next to the guest restroom. I understood he wouldn’t shun a windfall, he kissed like a mad puppy. Even before he had finished his interior design commission on Michelle’s orders, Gauthier had shown me in practice what he had thought such a cosy vestibule would be convenient for. The boy’s name was Javier, he had smooth cinnamon skin and a bustling spear of a toy to play with. He had probably escaped from some cruise ship and was gentle-mannered; he smelled of Zanzibar soap. He laid spread like a gigolo on the rose and gold damask sofa, letting me tinker with his nigh bald appendages, not losing a drop onto the cushion silk, and he tasted like weed raw sap. He looked like thanking me, but he wanted more and made me stand down on all fours on the carpet, at once repaying me the favour of a skilled tongue. I revelled in what proved to be a lucky strike —with indeed some lustful prospects in the place— when he took possession of my drenched coochie like a real tropical swashbuckler, I slid into a magnificent crisis, and we joined together in a ticklish burst of carnal embers.
I led him to the bathroom next door, and we pampered each other in the shower as I promised myself to come back for more. In the main salon, the orgy was upbeat, bar the Queen and her trans minions who had probably retired to the command room. Trine jumped at me, eager to know where I had obviously gone to shag someone.

I texted our hostess to laud her exquisitely diligent samovar boy in chosen terms. In a swift answer, she agreed heatedly, so I knew the boy had already earned a position among the TRÆVIX beauties. It appeared that Plum and Fæbian had bonded beyond the mere chat; they were heartfully serving a couple of muscular attorneys and had found a common language to appraise the performances. I felt like doing thus, along with Dagmar, who had cast a nonchalant glance my way. She told me a team of frustrated tax wizards had exhausted her in every manner possible, with manners; I relished licking her tepid slits, and then we snuck out for a swim with the dance room crew.
Dagmar is a great person to sleep together with, all the more after such a boundless carnal expenditure. The house was serene, and Alfred was spirited; insensibly, we initiated the day in German, and I relished her peculiar accent, deliciously more restrained than her practical French or English —for she had followed Fanny’s educated example and Natalia’s quickwit oversight; she had shown the best of dispositions becoming a lettered courtesan. She mocked me staring at her in that shabby bluish oversized singlet, her skin still miraculously honey-toned from whatever escapade she might have surreptitiously flown away to.
Before I would wonder where Plum might have crashed, after the flamboyant corps-à-corps we had admired her in, Fæbian and her yawned their way out of the vacant Fayelle’s room, asking me for some rags to put on; I gave Fæbian a beautifully faded bluish and white horizontal-striped marinière, and a raspberry cream long tee shirt for Plum, thus we all looked like a family vacation cliché. There was enough pain brioché to bake French toast in my manic manner, with brown sugar and seedless raspberry jam. The big pumpkin Yiking teapot was all too happy to serve some Taiwan’s Oriental Beauty; no one requested coffee.
Dagmar kept her quarters in TRÆVIX’s attics floor, so she ran to dress for school in time. Plum and Fæbian relished my recounting the tryst with the samovar boy; they decided they would spend their day in the studio, laying at my feet on the unrolled futon, finding their words on a tablet —or making out all their fill. We did not need any more clothes.
I texted Fanny begging her to see my gipsy wayfarer. She retorted that was all gipsies are, of all times, but she could ask at her old school that Plum be cared for and taught proper gadjo. She would see us in the afternoon: she brought macarons from Zenia’s, a new budding salon in rue Monsieur Le Prince. Once hung her pricey cream coat and her black and white slanted-striped alpaca scarf onto the parrot coat hanger, she kicked her natural suede Chelsea boots and jumped beside the nigh naked harlots on the red printed flannel tucked futon. She wore a short rosewood wool crepe shirt dress and rib-knit cashmere vanilla tights she could obviously not keep on long.
Amidst the gentle shenanigans of which I could relish three pairs of insolent feet, Fanny, helped by Fæbian who visibly craved her, explained roughly what she came from in a Mittel-European mish-mash that Plum found convincing. Visibly, she wondered if a Roma runaway would abide to settle in, be it in our luxurious way of life, but I couldn’t nose out an ulterior motive in her. And anyhow, didn’t we all live in fortresses?
After they splashed one another under the shower, they smelled of the Aviatrix’s preferred Geranium-Orange fragrance, and I could embrace a good once our Venetian foundling who said she ought to run home. Plum was proud of all the talking about her own fate, and Fæbian had seen all there is to a lone pretty girl’s life on the road. I had kept to my seat while they had gambolled like fawns; now I was aroused like a Messalina, and I proposed we go have dinner and more at Speck.
I dolled them up like rich debutantes, Fæbian in a ruffled Chantilly shirt, kinky slit white silk tights and white suede Maryjanes, Burgundy nails, fingers and toes; Plum in a mauve layered muslin waistless dress a tad too short, rose holdup stockings, black patent leather flats with strass clips, and deep purple nails. I fetched out a night blue silk velvet shirt, matched stockings and black suede Chelsea boots, black lacquered nails. I opened the fantaisie jewels drawer, gave Plum an amethyst choker and bracelet, three strands of white pearls for Fæbian, and deep blue velvet for me, with a strass studded bee clasped on it. Fæbian and I are used to underlining our gazes and lips and also warming up our city girls’ pallor with blush, for Plum, whose pointed chin and oriental eyes caught the attention brashly enough already, but our amateur savoir-faire showed her a persona she hadn’t yet dreamt of and that she burned to put in use.
Fæbian preferred the masculine fragrances in Colognes, shrouding the complexity of frankincense in veils of hesperides; Plum went for some Florentine powdery iris and tuberose in full-strength extract, that made her an intriguing aventurière; I set for an ambiguous Londonish neroli.

When we touched hands with the majordome Udo, I wasn’t sure Plum had grabbed what other sort of venue Speck was, although I had flushed her in a bona fide parlour house. But the unsaid rule in the grand usher’s eye was a delegation of the Droit de Seigneur in his secretive little red velvet nook. Telling Fæbian to come show herself upstairs, I held Plum’s hand to the far end of the vestibule. I wasn’t sorry to watch my pretty urchin comply with the greying man’s whim as he also revelled in being watched.
He kissed both of us, rummaging in our scant outfits; he was one to like flat chests. All too glad he had us both, he told me to sit on the small desk and make her lick my willing gash, while he found hers disposed to a swift bounty ride. He wisely chose to spaff into a kerchief, letting her, like me, appropriately moist for our clientèle.
She wasn’t bothered the least; in the lift, she slid her hand on my coochie and swiftly sniffed it up.
Nonetheless, we were a tad famish, and the buffet was abundant. The backstreet sparrows were already pecking and giggling in the most transparent attire. I introduced Plum as a wayfarer who spoke only Moldo-walaque Roma only Fæbian might have heard of. Dorothy let her hands do the talking and earned the appropriate answer; her tight buttocks in the black lace needed no spoken words.
Although she looked like one of the Lake Constance well-bred mädchen, Fæbian was a seasoned courtesan and soon had flushed out a pair of eager clubmen who did not fear fondling her nether belly openly until she agreed to follow them upstairs. I kept Plum up close, even when that tuxedoed salt-and-pepper dilettante offered her his arm in sundry parlances. I dared retort it should be us two, albeit he paid for one, for I liked to watch. He looked up in my shirt and embraced us both; I sussed he was some bigwig psycho-wizard in Berlin; it stirred some mixed memories in Dahlem.
Another room on the fourth floor with a majestic green William Morris acanthus motive carpeting, oak-panelled walls, and exposed dark beams ceiling. The hip-height square maroon stitched velvet-clad bed was inviting, as were the à la Reine armchairs and settee upholstered in floral petit point tapestry that did not show how many spurts of jizz they had been blessed with in the course of lustful ages. Dr Müller told me to undress entirely and sit, legs parted in one of the armchairs, enticing me to wank gently my dewy clit. Meanwhile, he took off Plum’s flimsy dress but liked the thigh-high stockings with a lace swath, bent her back on the bed’s edge and nosed as a connoisseur in her holy brook, vaguely moaning.
In Berlinerisch, he told me to come undress him while he fondled Plum’s thighs, then slid off her stockings to gnaw at her toes. Once in his silk black socks, he told me to climb and straddle her mouth with my muschi. He held her ankles high and tried to force his way into her bumhole, thus I told him in my best Schweizerdeutsch to fetch some Swiss Navy in the bedside drawer; he looked up at me, and I nodded towards the place he would find what Mother Nature would never provide. Once he grabbed the wordplay, he gave me a stare I was proud of, while Plum savoured my labia; I explained to who earned his living like Sigmund lecturing anxious damsels on their sex life how to smear Plum’s willing playhole with enough gel to insert three fingers, then his dignified phallus on all its length. She was no virgin back there; he could bugger her with all the ardour he fostered. I guessed his previous flings had devised some manner to prepare themselves, but what about a candid patient too pretty to be spared? After he gushed with demonstrative huff-and-puff, he did not consider Plum’s mood and went straight to the shower, out of his socks. He re-dressed in a sleight that let me guess he did more than once in a day’s practising. He left a few big-figure Euros and pilfered the bottle of Swiss Navy —I knew where the stash would be.
The bathroom was a blue rapture; all walls were clad in sundry patches of salvaged azulejos, and the floor in opus incertum of bluish slate slabs; even the toilet fixtures were white earthenware decorated in Delft blue. Plum relished that sensitive decor, and I strived in the tepid flow to repay the blissful instant she had licked me. Pampered and perfumed anew, thanks to our pocket phials, we returned arm in arm to the salon after leaving a meaningful tip for the cleaner staff.
Plum was happy like a snazzy courtesan, and I guessed eager to discover the different bedrooms. Around puffs and nibbles, Dorothy recounted her john, a military buff, had made her circle around in harness with a horse tail in her butt and a bit in her mouth, wishing he could have special fetish boots made for her. Anyhow, he was mounted like a donkey and had toiled fiercely to make her exult intensely. She begged for a turn with Plum in pairs, and I let them go for it, they already let their hands do the talking.

I agreed they made up for a rich ticket if the post-dinner johns felt like affording it. As for myself, I dawdled among the gawkers in black suits, showing enough of my swaying buttocks, a glass of peach fizz in hand. Some old fogey played a cool romance on the muffed piano. Unsurprisingly, some virile hand seized one of my butt cheeks and tickled my jacksy like it was his own. It was my returning Admiral, and I let him play for show.
We had a room on the second floor, with greenish crown-glass windows opening on the backyard. The walls were hung with teal blue crushed velvet, the cornices and the sunray ceiling were white gold leaf, and a reverse-dome crystal chandelier glimmered faintly, creating a sort of winter fantasy. A large naturalistic painting depicted a swan making an impression, another one some faerie castle in the moonlight with a white many-horn stag at the door; I was disrobed in no time to prance about on the greyly silk rugs. My white moustachioed mock uncle took his time in the tall-back silver leaf armchair, detailing all the traits he craved in me, not just my feet. Then he beckoned me to kneel on a convenient cushion between his parted legs. His trousers were cut in the finest wool twill, and his fly had horn buttons.
His dick was a genial returning horse to me, loaded with bravery, and I licked the clear drop of syrup on the eyelet of its glans before mouthing it frankly, letting him hold and hump my head unfettered, sensing it would come good, affrettando. He watched me duly swallow his meagre spoonful like they made me with cod liver oil eons ago; all ageing Admirals have something Danish to me. He pulled me up and told me to pretend I slept across the bed, so he could touch me at his fantasy. That was what he did best as if there would be some manner of electrical induction out of his hands. He said nought, but I spaced out willingly as he softly tried all my joints and my bliss buttons and tidily anointed my slits. Then he lay alongside my back and pulled my leg up to ease into my tewel like a valiant sailor, bantering that this was the most cosy little cove. He rammed in ever so deftly without sweating but calling me names in the shell of my ear, wanking my hooded pearl so skillfully that I climaxed just before him.
The bathroom was clad in rustic glazed greenish sandstone tiles, with a large tin bathtub both of us fitted in not caring our time. He was making me feel beautiful.
Like a bona fide military man, he was all dressed while I still lagged in the buff. He asked to kiss my arse one last time, and he fled. And before I gathered myself together to come down, a seemingly butler in a black suit rushed inside the room and pushed me against the wall in a fit of rage. That was one of those black-eyed, long-lashes oriental animals that sluts like us exasperate, a panther that devoured my mouth before I could think of resisting him. I asked him if he would rape me, he said no with a cute levantine accent, but I would serve him like all the men in the house, like a covetted whore, wouldn’t I?
I stopped resisting him and looked up, for he was worth it, and worthy of me, too. I had not yet paid attention, but he had watched me. He pushed me face down on the bed, holding my wrists in my back while he emptied the lube where he aimed at to releasing his rage. I heard his belt buckle fall with his trousers, and then I sensed a much bigger calibre forcing inexorably into my guts, like a Cossack. He knew I was coming again and that made him gush deep in my rumps, jolting and panting. Then, arrogantly, he turned me over and ordered that I suck him clean, the acme of lewd while our juices dripped down my thighs. He was still stiff while he buckled up; he stared at me and joshed there would be other fillies to ride before morning. He dared me to say I hadn’t liked our surreptitious little sparring bout. I returned bravely to pamper myself before going back to the parade salon.
Adèle was dancing with Plum, nude with stockings, to an exaggeratedly slow “Tea For Two” elegantly driven by a young black pianist in a white tee shirt and tuxedo. Plum’s word salad and her swaggering attitude won her all hearts; her guise of a black-eyed, dark-haired honey complexion slender foolhardy nymphet wouldn’t tell of any origin whatsoever, only a gem of wandering genes, secured in time against the woes, in Faerieland. Anyhow, when a bald, stilted character became an inapposite nuisance, she waved him off decisively in that kind of slang every girl speaks intuitively.
Soon after, our supreme posse intuited we had done enough —although we might be aroused courting some new palatable floozies for ourselves— so we headed for the backstreet sparrows’ perch. I could tell everyone was content with the loot; I recounted my free trick with the Levantine rapist, in a manner that made the sisters secretly wet. Obviously, Lauritz had emulated Hugo’s lodging scheme for appealing wayfarers, and I ushered in a new night along with Dorothy and Carine.

In the morning, Adèle and Rose had snuck out; it might have been a school day, in my guess. The apartment smelled of pomander, and also, next to the bathroom, an Asian woman was ironing some laundry with lavender steam —not coy about seeing us stroll about, nigh naked— but a subtler scent hovered in that open living room, a girly animality that I had revelled in for breakfast at Saint Loup.
Foreseeably, Lauritz popped in with a box of fresh pastries and a new face, Daphne de Rhuys, in full Ibiza bloom, a tad daunted, albeit none of us raised a brow. Nought of her looks denoted where Lauritz had fished her out from, and he had taken time to groom her back to a natural attitude, whatever glint might flutter in her thistle-blue eyes.
Unthinkingly, I pulled a chair for her between Plum and me, close enough to cuddle her arm. She had delicate hands, freshly manicured in some starred hotel she had followed Lauritz to, and she wore a brand-new gold band ring with a bezel-set aquamarine cabochon. Her off-white cotton piquet tank dress was short enough so I could see her white knickers on a rounded pubis; a golden peach fuzz gleamed on her slender thighs; she was in all the same species of this thicket’s band of tits, and her body language led to think she would swiftly bind along seamlessly; that was Lauritz’ design, wasn’t it? Once it was all set with the flock that Daphne could lodge in one of the spare rooms, he called for her bags to be brought in, but there was an unmissable servitude to abide firstly, in Cecile’s well-tempered emporium. Fæbian felt in love with the sunlight in the birdscote, and the three of them; she decided to stay, or go together with them shopping for fineries or shoes.
It was a fair day, Plum, Daphne, and I sat at the back while Lauritz watched us from the front seat. It was a short ride, however, enough for Plum’s hand to slide up the new vagabond’s legs while I explained what manner of wayfarer she was beyond her weird parlance. She willingly let herself be done; she smelled of a dry pathway through the scrubland, with helichrysum, sage, and rockrose, and she let her head be jolted over my shoulder so that I could kiss her gracile neck.
We found Cecile busy with petty chores, her hair tied in a kerchief and her hands in big work gloves. She had known we were coming with a new Lauritz foundling he had not sent her photos of, to enjoy her surprise. In a wink, she transformed into a comely hostess in sand bourette wide-legged trousers fitted to set off her witty butt, and a tan jersey tank top that moulded her timid breasts; she wore new grey suede monogrammed slippers. The ultimate sound system softly diffused Bach’s piano French suites from the four corners of the ceiling, which tended to make the younglings giggle, so Cecile gently took hold of Daphne and led her to dance in a sudden lustful embrace which delighted Lauritz and all of us; then she began to hike up the light dress all the way up, revealing a shapely frame, well-drawn abs, and tight buttocks that Plum hastened to uncover, pulling down the white cotton knickers.
When Cyprien walked in with a packet of new drawing pads under his arm, he was candidly overjoyed with the tableau of the two nymphs frolicking with Cecile. Around some coffee and auspicious langues de chat, he discussed with Daphne and explained that he wished that she pose for a few drawings in such a glorious outfit, and also together with Plum in complicity, would she? We all concurred, bar Plum who could only suss by reading our eyes, while Lauritz busied his hands over her, that something impish was cooking.
Cecile then was in no mood for work on the doubly exciting piece of an ancient amber chalice she had brought in from Mendelsohnn’s, which was anything but a religious artefact, entirely sculpted with the most explicit bacchanale, a true princely masterpiece made up of many reddish amber scales that she had unearthed from the bottom of another closet while Seresine was happily lending her rump to the innocent wealthy brute. Thus, Cecile invited us to her cubbyhole, where she had decidedly installed a real bed and where we could chatter any old how, after some intimate preparation in the bathroom nearby.
We recalled our inaugural romps in the rented apartment ablaze with the projectors on the tourist’s barges, when these two had conjured their fates against all odds, well beyond my own depravity. While we fondled each other, he told us how at first Daphne had hustled him amidst a dance floor and led him to a shabby hotel for a usual short trick, becoming scared when he told her he wanted much more. Taking her by the hand, he told her to take him to the one she worked for, a junky ruffian who pretended to be cross and that Daphne was his. Lauritz understood it was for real, and Daphne was shaking; the pimp kept her telephone and her ID she had disembarked with six weeks before, along with a French scumbag who had eventually sold her for some drug.

Not that she would have been destined to such a low life any more than whoever in our cute confederacy, mind you, Daphne was the only daughter of a well-to-do surgeon who had married one of the nurses in his clinic, and easily forgot himself around sexual wants. Not only had he made his wife’s life utterly miserable, as that of most of his underlings, but starting about second-grade age, he had insidiously sexualised Daphne’s person in a terrifying manner, all in the socially alluring lifestyle of a notable household.
Daphne’s father had indulged in cocaine forever, not impairing his capacity among the team at the hospital; she had never been curious as to what kind of speciality her dad worked into. Her mother also obviously lived under the influence of whatever substances, and Daphne had seen, once, weird bondage contraptions in her parent’s apartments. All attempts to communicate with her mother had dried out besides small talk and mere table manners; Polish maids attended to her daily needs.
Her father would barge into her isolated third-floor bedroom any time without warning, in sundry levels of nervous exaltation and dilatated pupils. Whatever she had been at, he demanded she stand in the middle of the carpet in her pyjamas while he sniffed compulsively her sheets and pillows, and then stay in different stages of undress, most often her trousers lowered mid-thighs while he masturbated in a kerchief. He also relished sodomising her with his lubricated forefinger, later she should lay on the bed across him and trample his genitals.
Under abstruse explanations, he blocked her puberty with some injections, to make sure she would grow tall, and he lectured her on the sublimity of rangy elegance. At twelve, he made sure, under anaesthesia, that her hymen be anatomically hospitable, after some days of soothing salve. And straddling her father’s dick once or twice a week was not worse than the rest of what he did to her.
No one questioned that she be home-schooled by sundry vetted students, albeit one Scottish elfish damsel garnered more in her father’s bed than at her side, although they, too, finished in bed after a while —and she avowed the father paid her for that, too.
They had a holiday house in Saint Lunaire, Brittany, where her mother and her would be monitored through online cameras and chosen young staff from the father’s hospital who had all to gain sleeping with Daphne after the day at the beach. He would join them for weekends.
And it was there, on that magnificent beach, that she acquainted Marc, her age, a few months before her eighteenth birthday. The boy and his posse lived in an old refrigerated lorry on which boat portholes and vents had been installed, and which was painted shabby blue, helter-skelter. Daphne became their trip slut, high on psychedelic drugs and music, washing the salt of their skins in the cold waters of the nearby river. When the blue lorry vanished, so did she, to a rambunctious peregrination of rave parties all over France. She easily became the group’s main earner in the back seats of random clients —she was a tempting Lolita with enough remains of a middle-class upbringing. Then Marc took her to Ibiza after he fell into harder drugs, whoring her out to the crowd of gawkers with a budget for that, and ending up owing her to his dealer, from whom Lauritz had bought her.
Lauritz was smitten for another round after he moved her to safer grounds, refreshed her hairstyle, and accoutered her with expensive rags and shoes. Nonetheless, he needed to have her vetted for any physical addictions to drugs. For that, they went to the well-documented local hospital where she showed no serious signs, except for easy-to-fend-off minor STDs. They went on a full-throttle honeymoon trip under the Mediterranean sun.
Meanwhile, in his paranoid priggishness, Daphne’s father had abided by the gendarmes’ advice that they would not cast a missing person appeal for Daphne who was an adult and had been seen cavorting with scallywags her age. Dad fumed for a day, then took sweet revenge with the au pair in a white powder binge.
Only Lauritz slipped on a pair of jeans out of the cubbyhole for a coffee pause. Daphne sensed he had spilt her pretty marbles, but now she was reciprocally enthralled with the silken-skin Gypsy girl and to sit still against her had been a refined torture. Nonetheless, they were flattered with the results of Cyprien’s pencils Lauritz asked to buy. Bach went on with the Missae brevis by the young Pygmalion ensemble, but Daphne floated a request for some more contemporary soundscape, so Cecile obliged by plugging in an ambient music web radio, arguing that it would be difficult to play beat when the two nymphets, who were now making out on one chair, would be required not to move.
Cecile sympathised with the beaming young blood and proposed we elders go swim, but Lauritz was so captivated by the tableau that he preferred remaining crouched in an armchair, keeping his erection in his jeans.

 

Cecile says:

All too certain Lauritz would carry away the lovebirds into one of his signature grand tours, and after we had worked out a bit, sweated in the sauna and swam like trouts, Sarah threw the idea we go back to Laforest and avail our pretty selves to some unknown, otherwise vetted, diplomats. The Maître d. Kreisler Oswald answered most favourably to our request, and the twins would meet us later in the evening.
Sarah would don one of her black blazers, double-breasted, wool crepe with one lapel sequinned night blue, lined with purple satin; I chose the counterpoint in white with some icy satin peak lapels, lined with wisteria printed silk twill. She slid on crotchless tights and black suede Chelsea boots; I chose the same tights in pale mauve and flat white suede loafers. Fæbian, the savviest of Hetæras, caught us dressing ourselves up as worldly whores and wanted in. She is about my size; I took her to the vestiary and found it amusing to dress her in a combination of both, with an oversized black and white checkered plush jacket, tiny silver shorts and bicolour loafers. She had more breasts to show than both of us. Lauritz had always overindulged me with pricey perfumes I would only wear when I would somehow go hustle somewhere; Sarah owned a collection of the rarest fragrances there is, all concocted with love by Hugo; she gave a one-night tester of an elaborate jasmine absolute to Fæbian, who sprayed her pubis first in a fit of laughter. I wore one of my fetish irises —rekindling my tropes towards the shady Uffizi. Sarah would smell of silver lime bloom, which made her eyes bluer. What an inspiring bevy of amateur princesses for hire!
A statutory chauffeured company car from next door picked us up and glided towards the rich West. The chauffeur did not know what we were headed for, but there were lots to ogle at in the back seat; Obviously, he had driven to Laforest before and knew how to get the glistening black grand portal to open for the car.
Kreisler met us at the porch, at once intrigued by Fæbian’s aventurine glare, making clear, in a courteous manner, that she would first have to follow him into the maroon velvet shades. He was a handsome hunk with a quiet stare and manicured hands; any of us would follow him on a greeting pass. The Laforest overdone Golden Age antrum bathed in the wittingly remote Erik Satie music, played on the gilded Erard piano by some young student in a borrowed tuxedo, the fantasy of a Koi fish in a lily pond.
The attendance was your average devil-may-care sparse off-duty suited crowd shuffling with half-nude temptresses. The Laforest twins were, to say the least, pushy about the feminine casting of their club, and they did not take extraneous commendations and certificates. Thus, the damsels in different manners of undress could all compare to our gang. Many Russian beauties had scoured the brothels of Europe before conquering a perch in our pricey orchards. Once their status was granted, we could see them at Philippe’s or Speck’s, splendidly fit and free.
Sarah singled out a dear partner in lust she had once mentored through the wealthy backwaters of hi-life society. They clicked instantly; Lizon was a delicate, pepper-black-haired, marsh-green-eyed, gracile, offhanded girl who ditched her flirt to run and wallow with us on the outrageously plump cushions of the Louis sofa, showing me her laser-smooth underbelly as an icebreaker. Facing me sideways for Sarah’s amusement, she cropped up dainty slender feet with deep crimson nails and seized the button of my blazer, suggesting I ease out of my shorts.

Sarah clenched her chin in Lizon’s neck from the back to make a general introduction. We were both of similar social extraction, and I knew Sarah sincerely praised that, not exonerating us from being bona fide harlots. And by the bye, we were actually putting on a show, as a pair of pinstripe bankers across would think, waggling out their bespoke shoes until Sarah responded and went carelessly yield her person between them.
Twiddling a pretty toe ring with a lively garnet set on it, I watched around the corner of my eye how Sarah surreptitiously vetted the two clubmen whose sleek hands already worked all over her and had pilfered her tights; they must have smelled of Bond Street humour thus she agreed to follow them upstairs, swaying her hips as she winked at us —wasn’t it exactly what we had come for?
Lizon kissed like head over heels, with yet childishness in her candid eyes. She was ostensibly wet. A bulky cream tuxedo touched down so close behind me that I sensed his erection through the silken trousers. He was unexpectedly mild-mannered and asked for a private conference with us both. We walked enlaced, for the feast of his eyes, to the staircase in the next room where he mumbled his bliss of watching us climb. The bedecked bedrooms were open on the gallery, bar those where some hanky-panky went on; he chose an undergrowth green damask one with turquoise sheets on a pompous gilded framed bed. He demanded we go on our own affair and let him use whatever he fancied of our bodies, which indeed befitted our fantasy.
Having ever so playfully unclothed us, and himself stripped down to his shirt and socks, he began skillfully poking his tongue hither and tither down my loins and between my buttocks, leaving no doubt on his intentions I did not object to, and then incidentally I sensed the cool gel he was smearing my arse with. Without much further ado, he was forcing a headstrong glans against my yet still frowned rosette, and I let him do his act in all ardour, arching to meet his efforts. Lizon was overjoyed to hold me thus ploughed, and she blessed me with funny monikers and grabbed the bull by the balls between my thighs; he was in a full œstrus —had Hugo once taught me. It was good carnal fun, for him, but would I expect any more than being neatly used? He belched out his load, and that would be it, except he must have been single-handedly some big pharma affiliate; thus, he could demand we wriggle in such a way as to offer him Lizon’s holy brook available for a redouble shot in lustful equity.

I felt as besmeared as I had long ago —before I had slaughtered the dragon in my sneaky manner— so now I could sprawl willingly in the dripping anonymous jizz. I fantasised about a bison as he humped my slanky comrade at a good pace, and I straddled her mouth for a chance to gush on her pretty face. He was in her wet twinkle, a mite pacified already but still ravenous; we all erupted gloriously in unison to his unabashed pride. We were soaked.
We lathered up one another with good humour under the tepid rain of a wide showerhead; I wouldn’t know what language he spoke, but he sounded elated. He largely tipped the maid under the feet of a Demetre Chiparus dancer I would love to restore. Once he was back up neat and tidy, he gave us each a voracious smooch and walked. Now we smelled of the magnolia whim the twins let lie around in the bathrooms, a real call for rape, whimsical and expensive.
At the collation table, stood, as one may think, a new samovar girl with an ajar modest black shirt under a fancy frilled white apron. She was looking down as I asked for coffee, and when she went to fetch some in the kitchen, I noticed her black skirt was slit to the waist, revealing slender nude legs. She wore black velvet strapped flats. Lison joshed that I looked smitten. Her thick hazel hair was styled in a French bob; it could have been a perverted pleasure to keep her blush at our swaying nude bellies. Lizon fingered my butt and pretended she had someone to see.
I asked the girl, who knew better than her demeanour, what her name was. She mumbled Vilma, from Lithuania; she had been here only recently, so she apologised for her accent which I found delicious as I rested my cup and steered her backwards to the kitchen door and the staff rooms. She wore no undies; Sisi and Bowie had suggested encounters like this might happen to her. She was easy to unwrap, the smoothest of debutantes. In the laundry room, I sat her on the ironing table, in the moonlike shade. She tasted of vanilla cream. She spoke French honourably, not only with her hands. She knew perfectly what went on in that opulent house; she had been a webcam model for a while; she wanted to stay in Paris or go to the US. Amid gusts of kisses, I assured her she had made the cleverest move in following the cunning twins since she had chosen to monetise her obvious charms beforehand. Had she not secured her phone, passport, and documents? She understood what I meant, she laughed.
I soldiered on licking that pearl in her creases and cramming my fingers in both holes until she quivered a good once, howling. My turn could wait. Then I followed my whim and steered her back on the main stage in her new princely attire, looking for one of the two hostesses. At once, my catch made a purring impression on Lizon, who had found a good soul to brush up her coiffure. I found Sisi in a yellow moire déshabillé —although they could boast of the same physical charms as the best of us, the fanciful twins had nonetheless a persona to stand apart, which did not forbid some overt hand plays— and I complimented her on the new samovar damsel, floating a whim I had fostered to bring her back home. Sisi smirked, watching her Wilma promoted to proper courtesanship at Fæbian’s hands on the nearby sofa; she said the girl couldn’t have landed to a better mooring in Paris; a vicious band of dirty cops had already targeted the lovely Bambi girl before she was brought to Laforest by some distinguished clubman. Only, said Sisi, lowering her gaze over onto me, there would be a slight fare to settle personally, if I deigned to follow her to their private apartments. The place could have wowed the fussiest horizontal glories in Paris since Sarah Bernhardt, bar the polar bear skin to frolic onto. Amid the turquoise and lapis lazuli inlaid woodwork and the embroidered drapes stood two bronze sculptures by Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux of Neapolitan ragazzini posing with shells, a girl and a boy in their sylphic immature perfection, polished by generations of devotees. There hung a collection of paintings by the wrongly outdated Beaux-Arts glories later shunned by the self-conscious clientèle. Sisi and Bowie had repatriated many nigh soft-porn punctilious nudes from the family’s New York storage vaults.

I wouldn’t know what made me tell Sisi from her sibling; close together, she was the tallest. For the rest, I was smitten by the bulk of their traits; they enjoyed being one. She drew me onto a loveseat enwrapped in a throw of peach-gold plush, threw off her gown, and imperiously seized my head against her coochie that tasted of fennel, so I grabbed her buttocks and took revenge in her pleated bud. She came on to squirting in my face, with jolting laughter, and joshed I deserved my new pet, by all means. Now she nailed me down and forced my legs open while grabbing a silver bell at the sound of which a hunky young black boy fully armed jumped to our side bouncing, asking who would be first.
To my surprise, she showed him her back and told him to smear her as usual while she began devouring my rosy slit. Visibly, the boy was a happy regular of her lascivious rump, and she threw me a couple of proud glances. The novelty of the game made for a quickfire conclusion, and Sisi meowed at my splashes while she was obviously filled with bliss. But it wasn’t the end for the healthy swashbuckler who wanted to pin both our flowers on his sleeve. Sisi helped tilt me over, feet in the air, and he was drooly enough to thread me in at no effort. I realised how dire a menace he was that our lithesome hostess had entertained like a feather, and Domenico was a damn fine dancer making my entrails swirl, keeping up a carefree smile as he gushed deep up my loins. I promised myself to add his name to our list of desirable guests, if the twins allowed him in town.
The bathroom was a masterpiece of Alphonse Mucha glazed ceramics, a true testament that the mansion had been an exclusive parlor house since the crazy times of Belle Epoque. It had a vast celadon green bath and Art Nouveau fixtures and furniture. One cumbersome contraption amused me, a sort of white high padded bench with indented sides, and at one end’s corners two kneeling nude figures holding up cushioned sorts of offerings, a manner of delirious obstetric apparatus that I soon could carnally sense along my own spine, confounded by the over-costly creativity of the profligate rich, in the wake of many a crowned head in Petersburg or else. Sisi suggested that I try it myself, so she and her Domenico would comfortably feast on my lustful rill. There would be convenient cranks to secure my floating position, depending on which of the holes was coveted. Handy grips in the shape of Herculean penises, and a padded headrest allowed the patient to release all muscles bar the pelvic apparatus, so to speak. Like a pretty and mischievous operator, she handled me, head to toe, in complete rest while gently wanking me in wait for another assault of rekindled Domenico who chose the dripping slit he had not yet used. I thought of Michelle, who could ask her minions to service her while resting on her motorised seat, in front of the arcane figures of the planetary traffic on her wall; she then opened such a lovely quim I couldn’t resist quenching my lust, probably causing turmoil at the other end of the butterfly effect.
Standing stiff at the exact momentum point, he kept humping freely upon my womb’s door into my tightened and drenched sheathe. I could fantasise about being let thus at the will of the other clubmen, so endless became the shivers.
In the car on our wee-hours course back home, I was proud of my catch, who willingly passed hands to hands of our lustful brigade. Fæbian had willingly submitted herself in the subterranean dungeon when she had understood the size of the reward, Lizon had contented three healthy merrymakers till they dropped, and Sarah had fallen for Wilma once I went paying for her ransom, but I claimed the right to sleep with her in the homunculus’ eye, knowing we would end many, as a purring brood eventually —when giving orders about our furnishings, Gauthier always insisted on indestructible British bed bases and frames.
In the loose nightshirt that I gave her, Will, with a V, showed shapely thin legs and slender feet that enthralled Sarah once more, though I couldn’t say her whimsical heart had ever beaten wrong, in Italy or elsewhere. Eventually, with Fæbian clutched to my wing, the night was rich —according to Alfred who had a taste for orgies. In the morning, Sarah was tasteful enough to wake up first and make breakfast, which included coffee and langues de chat she kept a stash somewhere. Once the pyramid of French toast was baked, she didn’t need to call us on. I had distributed fresh mismatched sweatsuits and our size fitted everyone, but Will could hardly fend off wandering hands; she sat on my lap; she owned a pair of elusive little breasts that made her quiver. Sarah told her to try raspberry jam on her toast.
I had first been in her shoes, and I recalled the self-conscious angst when Sarah went all smitten with me and showed me around the wonder hive. Firstly, she wouldn’t skip a visit to the noble-floor magician, possibly to the All-Mighty himself, and she would probably shag everyone around. But I anticipated most when I would introduce her to Lauritz, be it along with his new redeemed drifters, but then I would root for her, if ever. For the time being, she could settle with the God Crow which had not scared her; her luggage had been flimsy to bring about. We all decided on a visit to the realm and the playgrounds. I didn’t know where Plum and Daphne were, but we received a glamorous picture of them enlaced in front of Mediterranean houses clung on a seaside cliff.
She was absolutely the no-fuss girl, and her desirable feet were a perfect size, the same as Sarah’s and her boatloads of footgear, I told her not to care about matching the sneaker’s colours. I kissed her all the way down in the lift and led her to my workshop so she began to fathom some more about me, and thus what she would discover in the maze. Cyprien wasn’t there, and the place was as tidy as a workshop may be. The cubbyhole was a tad messier, as my last shuffling through books and magazines had been left, but I couldn’t resist pushing her across the bed and pulling her trousers down. She couldn’t find the word “insatiable” in French, but she meant it, with a smooth voice.
Next, she hardly believed residents like me could use the gym and its funny contraptions at their whim, but she owned a bit of savvy about them; she had practised some before. Finlan’s inspired ballabile on the Hammond organ unfurled through the corridor and charmed her pearly ears, so I took her by the waist to the dance studio, ready to see her jaw drop. Josephine and Emeline were in a mock minimalist mood, but visibly, news of Wilma had buzzed already through the invisible grapevine; their dainty feet flew to us, and they gently simpered until Wilma stripped down in grace. The two whimsical telepaths smelled of their mysterious body oil and were wired like Gibraltar Barbary monkeys. Wil was beguiled; the day was fair over the room’s frosted glass roof, and she could show pliancy, along with graceful character. She watched a few wing flutters of our beloved phenomenons and risked some mindful steps in pace with Finlan’s ritornello. That would not compose a trio, but it spawned enough good humour to send us all to the pool, and that, even the Laforest didn’t have one, yet.
Decidedly, that samovar windfall amazed me like a besotted schoolgirl; she could swim as fast as the dolphins Lauritz had promised he would show me. When Finlan joined in, it wasn’t long before she grabbed hold of his proud staff, reading my gaze as if she needed permission.
Apolline and Dagmar dawdled by and felt like a dive into the fray. Each blessed time we salvaged another random tramp, a key question would be their appreciation of our middlesex beauties — nothing to do with British geography. It would typically behove to Delff’s talent to defuse the unasked questions, but they were currently head over heels in love with the latest geniuses who were probably spinning the world from a perch an apple’s throw from here.
Dagmar had had a restful sleep, and her gaze was immense; after she swam in deep a few lengths, she returned to Apolline and cuddled her up in her wings with a smile to Wilma, asking her to come closer and say who she was, briefly commenting that she would be no different from any angel in this holy aviary, only she would have to get acquainted with our flying rarities of undetermined essence whom we claimed the honour to shelter with love if only she gave a whisper of patience. In her typical outlandish accent, she offered a swarm of well-phrased compliments to the floating newbie, while I cuddled up with our unassigned fairy.
Through the eddies, one couldn’t tell the difference, even if their dandy pink spur was aroused; but since Kate had recounted to us of her young passion with Cynthia, we had given room in our judgement on the matter, allowing our partners in debauchery to forward such souls in need towards us and our mellow syndicate. Neither Dagmar nor I enticed the two to kiss afloat.
Once the gentle court wiped and spruced up, Apolline wished to do Wil the honours of the TRÆVIX realm, and some kaffeeklatsch. The ballet troupe, though dwellers of another wing, followed casually. Wilma was already a tad flummoxed, so she clung to my wing as we passed the gleaming metal doors, and her face was scanned too; it always is a moving moment bringing a new stray angel to the Aviatrix’s palace. With some self-consciousness, she could see she had really stepped through the looking glass when she saw the samovar boy push his cart in.
Trine greeted us all, announcing would join us, along with Sasha and Delff who had been visiting. I wouldn’t need to describe who Delff was; the surprise would be delicious and harmless, but I told Wilm about the essential difference about these two. I could see the bespectacled, unassuming, barefoot impish blonde was overjoyed to see us all in her private imaginarium. The round table in the silver room was magically covered with plates of sundry bite-size pastries and confections. Spiced tea or coffee was served in colour-beaded glass cups I hardly could dip some Italian almond cookies in.
Befogged by the unfurling rash of novelty, Wil had no clear idea as to who came and wooed her, hiking up a dainty foot upon her chair corner. They spoke about Lithuania and its thriving communication network in the wings of NATO, which Wil had never heard of, but she let Michelle slide a caress in her pants. Seconds later, after winking for my approval, they fled hand in hand.

Trine wore cream black-trimmed satin pyjamas, and she had sussed out Wil’s careless move, leaving me with my cookies. We had tender memories together; she came to sit next to me and wondered who was the new brunette. Forsaking the ricciarelli, I first gave her a taste of my mouth, then grazed the sumptuous fabric on her sassy pointed breasts. She grinned at yet another tall tale with a pretty face every foundling brought to our pond, true as the moon.
We moved to a silver damask loveseat, where one of Sha Sha Higby’s spooky creatures was staring at us virulently from the corner. Hadn’t we been gently ousted by Aviatrix decree? The one who owns all keys by Droit de Seigneur, house fairy Natalia found us such, no trousers on, and she crouched at our knees, hassling us to come misbehave with her among the Liselotte clientele. Dubbed at a tender age by Louis, whose limitless hospitability had fostered her polymorphous libido to our shores, Trine would not haggle her trust, once granted; she agreed to come by all the more that Natalia was already lapping at her dinky brooklet.
We tiptoed out and up to the vestiary, not knowing what lustful plot Natalia was cooking. She was wearing glistening white glove skin ultra shorts and a rainbow long-sleeve net Lurex crop top, bare legs in white suede Egyptian sandals, and a golden charm anklet to her left foot. Her eyelids and nails were subtly iridescent. We found black patent leather flat pumps with a grosgrain knot to complete Trine’s ever-so-tempting outfit. I fetched a short variegated jazzy-pattern silk jersey long-sleeved dress bought in Italy; Natalia decided I wear nothing else but lace-hemmed hold-up stockings and black suede Chelseas. She called whoever it was and said a car would pick us up in ten minutes. I couldn’t help thinking she had designed her scheme beforehand.
Wrapped in unassuming overcoats, we jumped into the night-blue, tainted windows, sedan car that waited on the quay Anatole, and it glided west. The glass partition behind the driver’s seat had become opaque when the car moved. As dusked loomed, we saw less of the real world unrolling through the darkened windows, only the carousel of lights. Then we hovered through the forest undergrowth, Trine had lost her trousers, and her shirt was unbuttoned; she was a cuddly pet aroused to return to the pleasure sojourns she had come from.
The three-story wood gingerbread mansion with Victorian pinnacles stood close by a lone pond, and the golden moon was rising afar. The chauffeur opened the car door, not ignoring the unkempt state we tried to tidy up. The all-wooden house with a wraparound porch was painted indigo-blue. Two torches burned on each side of the steps to the front door. A sombre valet with black sideburns, black silk frock and breeches and silver buckles on his black erstwhile loafers, stood manspread between a pair of impassible grey Weimaraner dogs with natural uncut ears. The three sported the same smile while mentally stripping us. I am not comfortable with dogs, but these stood so offhandedly that I let them ogle under my skirt, unfazed.
The stained glass doors opened on the heady fragrance of the cedar wood the house was made of. The layered Persian carpets invited us to kick off our shoes. The dim lights gleamed in the mother-of-pearl decor of rich Anglo-Indian furniture. Like in the dignified clubhouses that Lauritz had shown me in, deep leather Chesterfield sofas composed a dark maze punctuated with big bouquets of crimson peonies in silver buckets.
The twins Cerberus and their goon had returned to their kennel with the scent of our quims in mind; a tall hunker hailed Natalia gracefully, already drooling for Trine’s dainty feet and the swath of bare skin at my upper thigh. He ushered us to a vacant nook in the midst of the salon, letting us uncover many a lewd tableau in every corner of the warm shadows. A new scent meant some opium was being burnt, a general slackening of the poses told of drug use. One platinum blonde pale tramp I had met before at Speck’s let a bulky punter use her loose bud while half-dreaming with a smile.
Natalia’s snazzy gonk had seized Trine’s feet, capsizing her over the plump cushion —I understood that— so she deftly grabbed my dress hem and hiked it up to over my breasts, not without my help. Natalia busied herself disrobing the cavalier who revelled with Trine’s toes while we made out like schoolgirls. I recalled the only crush I ever lured inside my cubbyhole, a blue-eyed babe in the woods who betrayed me in a confession to her priest —and thus was abused in the seedy sacristy, judging by the shameful gazes she had later turned my way, whenas I could have at once forgiven her, little did she know.
Natalia is the utmost libertine; she had ferreted out the bottle of lube and was caringly smearing Trine’s holy crack as well as the considerable menace that jolted against her milky buttocks. Then she was burrowed through in one headstrong go.

Trine’s song did not fail to bring on some eager lizards over the backrest, and since there was lyric poetry going, we others were soon taken to task as well. Natalia let be wriggled out of her bright moulding shorts, still bent over Trine’s ticklish nipples, she thus offered a wider angle to anyone who had just prepared her slits, winking at me. And that would be an over-sizeable specimen; not pretty —what would she care— but unremitting, who wrung damnedly cries from her while hurling himself at her womb’s bottom like a possessed madman.
As for myself, I had known that sprawling over the armrest to kiss Trine deep, I was putting my arse on the chopping block, come what may, understood the princess had brought us to such mannerly paddock of sorts not on the merits of our conversation. My bull smelled of burnt spices, and I sensed that he had taken risks with his heart, popping magic pills. He sowed me in, with hearty grunts, relenting slowly till I expelled him out, wriggling.
A bevvy of amateurs had gathered, commenting on our carnal talents like bloodthirsty Spaniards at the arena, kindling the worse of my depravity. They congratulated Natalia on her good catches; lasses were the raunchiest at lewdly handling our drippy slits and drinking out our souls from our lips. The word went out to bring us to the cellar, so we were steered away to a stairway down to a moist and warm vaulted pit with a thick round rug in its centre. All fondled and groped by expert hands, the remains of my wits foresaw the worse coming when we were forced down on all fours and our holy sheaths were smeared again with rose-smelling goo. Natalia kept wriggling her buttocks under the cajoling strokes; Trine sighed with bliss as a tattooed slut wanked her; some taut shaft burrowed in my throat while the rumpus heated up around.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the lanky lackeys in erstwhile black silk suits keeping on short leash the two grey panting Weimaraners, fitted with odd rawhide manners of boots I only comprehended when the beasts were unleashed at us under the obscene cheers of the stirred coven of libertines.
The scent of our buttocks line maddened the silky and sinewy animals, properly trained to mate with depraved fornicatrix like us. I was quivering as he lapped at my crotch with a rough tongue, and then he straddled my rump and hurled his spur hither and nither until I shamelessly adjusted myself to his height, as I would have for a man. He sheathed in my quim with frenzy, and it was nothing like I had ever seen; a sturdy stump in a fit of rage, spurting ladlefuls of heated liquid in me as he became still. It was dripping down my thighs, and I told myself it wasn’t worse than Zev Mendelsohn’s assaults in the depths of his den, with dues for Mr Armand’s favours on the way out.
However, I relished seeing Natalia arch her smooth loins to the jolts of the grey beast; Trine was humped on both ends by likewise beastly creatures with wincing faces. As I drew back from the ring, other girls were offering themselves for service, and they called the animals their names, so as I guessed they were regulars to these games. Natalia drew us to a rustic water room paved with stone slabs, where she injected tepid water into our naughty holes and we pissed on one another to the relish of interested players not yet satiated to whom I could hardly refuse a go into my narked slits, standing against the sink. We had demonstrated our unfettered debauchery, so now it was a free-use orgy.
In the car back home, we smelled of sheer luxury, like dawn in Vita’s garden. Our stockings and Natalia’s shorts had been stolen as keepsakes. The reward for our outlandish trick was phenomenal, but Trine regretted not having been serviced like a beast, too: Natalia promised to remember that. How would she dare tell Michelle of what she had seen? And, as a matter of course, I told them there would be a sneaky stop in the forest for the sake of the chauffeur who ignored nought of our conduct that night. Trine wanted to be the victim, I refused, but she would be the one with the chauffeur’s dick in her bumhole. And thus it happened. A herd of deer watched us from afar.
In the blue hour, nobody in our street could have guessed we were nigh nude in our flimsy trenches. Before we nested under my duvet, Natalia gave us a pensive stare, wondering if we would forgive her, once the fever settled. I retorted that, as for now, she should give Trine a thorough enema and then lull her into the God Crow’s floating attention.

 

Sarah says:

I had been listening to Alfred’s inspired rave from under the quilt, not keen on anything when Trine snaked in along my back and snuggled in my neck. She hadn’t yet paid attention to our tiny black oracle bird. She whispered she had some monstrous tale to tell me and slid a shy hand on my tickle berries.
Over tea and toasts, I felt a tad dumbstruck by what she described, although I could sense we were both aroused anyway. That manner of games had pertained to Kate’s confessions when she lost her marbles in Berlin long ago; it had taken place in Victor’s empire of deviances, and Natalia, who had lived with Beryl —Victor’s cook’s daughter roaming free behind the scenes— knew best about the extents of human depravity. What was most nagging was that now the idea of wallowing myself in such a perversion would buzz inside my devious brain. And Trine, who spared no details, was obviously wet as a rill. Her thighs opened on my lap, she rested assured I had made no fuss of the big girls’ deviant practices; no one had been forced nor hurt. It remained to guess what Michelle could intake of all this from Sirius’ point of view; chances were she would keep mum.
Fæbian and Plum came up; they had valiantly entertained a winning polo team at Fortunat’s. Fæbian was still bemused by the carefreeness of Plum at the hands of a quatuor of hungry hunks; she had properly coached them at her whims, said a veteran of all mitteleuropean brothels. Trine revelled in the smell of Plum, but she couldn’t do without Michelle’s aura, would there be some other pet at her feet, and thus she fled.
We moved to the studio. The polo fans liked the idea of wallowing on our futon. They would probably doze out to the music or nibble my toes under the table. And so they abode by the plan until Cecile came up casually. It took her no time to spill the pearls offhandedly. She wore a peach-fuzz sweat suit and purple velvet slippers I hadn’t known. She stood close like a pet cat; I could smell anise in her beloved breath. She murmured it had been so vertiginous to follow Natalia’s unabashed deviance and let go of herself on all fours, to the cheers of rewildered lads holding on to their dicks.
Fæbian, too, turned up wild eyes listening to my little sister’s exploit, how she had been terrified with the unexpected size of what the hellhound had sunk into her, and how he stood in hooked, gushing a full cup of smelly liquid as evidence of her damnedly transgression. Only the sight of sylphic Natalia arching her back to the unfazed creature humping her had whipped up Cecile’s inner devilry. She was easy to strip; I needed to check on her beloved hide; she smelled of heavenly white petals
I couldn’t tell if I would ever go along one night with them to the house by the pond, but she had aroused me in the wickedest manner. The pretty Wustlinge pair had another appointment with the polo team; I texted Sami that Cecile and I were ready for one of his renowned private sessions. Meanwhile, I pulled Cecile on the red sofa and tasted every nook of her like one greedy vixen.
He had said we would visit one of Melchior’s richest clients, and he should rest assured we felt our best debauched mood.
After the sacrosanct thorough ablutions in the bathroom, we set ourselves to the key of all foreplays, the sartorial trump card. She brought up a bona fide treasure she had been able to beguile Gianni Capodimonte to sew up for her by hand, with all the manual fitting he would, a fitted long single breast riding jacket cut in an erstwhile length of silk petit point herbalist motive cloth, lined with dusty-rose paisley silk twill, buttoned with old silver-mounted garnet carbuncles. No shirt. I could still sense the emotional pinch of when I had unwrapped her from her drab overalls on Speck’s workings, after having watched her manicure the grand metal and glass clouds lighting sculpture on the main salon’s ceiling. She could have gone bare-arsed, but she had gleaming black silk tights that would open all the way at a whim. She put on Astaire bicolour thick-sole oxfords. I gave her a choker of alternate garnets and pearls.
As for me, Sami’s tone had inspired me. I fetched my genuine re-fitted vermillion red Danish postman double-breasted jacket, lined with black and white striped cotton satin, strewn with gold buttons, that smelled of coumarin like old pipe tobaccos. I merely slid on black lace knickers, lace-hemmed black silk stockings, and a pair of black suede Chelseas. I also wore a choker of tumbled clear rutile quartz beads —from a fling in Saint Loup— and my nails were lacquered black, hers of dark crimson.
Cecile was proud of her pricey perfumes —bitch— and gardenia was fatal, worn on her skin. I tried myself to follow the reminiscent note of my livery, tweaking with a Zanzibar woods-and-vanilla Hugo had once invented to lure me into his bed. and their couldn’t be a better omen.
In the car, Sami broke the routine; he asked me to sit next to the chauffeur —that same comely black hunk I had shagged a few times en route to outlandish debaucheries.

Not that he would let the smooth-gliding carriage drive by itself, but the chauffeur 2.0 has a lot of leeway, bar one hand and one foot. No sooner had he watched me land in the passenger seat than his fly went bulging big. I wouldn’t know if he was left-handed, but his right hand was already parting my lapels and twiddling with my mouse-snout nipples, calling me a pale freckled tomboy who needed no knickers. I had plenty of time to play and suck up on his imposing schlong, then gulp the salty outcome as a well-bred damsel, making his eyes twinkle. There would be a journey back.
In the back seat, Cecile’s black silk bottom was slit wide open, and she lay aslant against the armrest while Sami’s depilated rod burrowed in her entrails, rocked by the car’s gentle tossings. She contorted gracefully to offer a greedy tongue to kiss, one leg thrown over the headrest, altogether obscene and touching. He said it would be wiser not to gush in her bunghole, so, unabashedly, he hurried her to finish him in her mouth. Jokingly, the chauffeur conveniently proposed harsh mints to purify our breaths. The tone was set. In a concealed compartment behind the backseat, Sami fetched wrapped, clean little towels and wiped up Cecile’s arse before pulling up the zippers.
The car had stopped in a round limestone colonnade opened to all winds atop a ledge overseeing a plain crowded with high windmills; a stern classical building stood tangent to the void circle, all amidst an unattended wilderness, a stone throw from the forest edge, the inner ground laid with clean stone slabs. One might wonder what such a three-storied Florentine revival-ish villa did in the midst of that boundless solitude, further below, the mills slowly churning above deserted wheat fields.
Dusk was settling; a gentle thermal breeze was tousling the nearby foliages, to the exclamations of some jay birds. Nobody showed; only faint gleams far beyond the shimmering and rippled glazings behind the wrought iron grates seemed to rove around ghostly. We spoilt sluts clung to one another; Sami kept a fine smile as he pulled a doorbell handle.
A greying black butler in bespoke tails and patent leather oxfords; he keenly considered each of us and sentenced we were a tad over-dressed, weren’t we? He asked for our shoes and stockings, and then let his manicured hand rove onto our nether parts like we were indeed pretty whores to sell. He didn’t dissimulate a penchant for Cecile; he cuddled her inside her jacket and took possession of her minty mouth in a long free kiss.
Sami had snuck away; the dark crimson, green and black Turkish pattern carpet felt lush to my toes; the house smelled of yesteryear benzoin with a hint of fornication, leaving no doubt that we weren’t astray. The scarce lighting emanated from polished copper sconces hung to the stern and dark panelling or the paintings’ striplights among which I could tell a few mystifyingly sensual Nerdrums.
The elegant Cerberus had not pursued his feast of Cecile’s complacency further, so we were left alone to roam nigh bare, arm in arm, in the maze of sundry salons, all with deep malachite-green velvet sofas and kilim-upholstered low tables. Groups of indolent characters, in various manners of lewdness, composed careless indecent tableaus and smiled at us, possibly sliding a furtive hand between our legs.
The women obviously all pertained to the same distinguished crew we habitually mingled with on our hunting grounds, all of them fit and willing for the luckiest breed of powerful johns, not all male, but as of then, we were out for some famish dicks, possibly. Once we had ogled many obscene hugs, we rested alone in front of a large Ljuba depicting, in my view, the ultimate throes of carnal passion in wise of a multiversal feminine persona blooming in a wealth of hysterical jewellery. Cecile very much agreed with my senseless metaphors.
As it ought to be, we were tracked by a fine team of three Nordisk mates in shirt sleeves but still trousers on, in case we would disappoint them. They took our hands in an unruly baisemain and asked our little names. I let unwind the comments they did of us as they pulled open our lapels and grazed our anatomies, with friendly nudges in our common vernacular. They were somewhat secretive about their position, but that was the kind of realm I had been raised in, so I made clear we were well-educated party girls, for a hefty reward they did not baulk at.
Odd numbers are more fun, it shuffles the pleasures we give and take. They craved to try each and every bit of licence we let be allowed, and as they were gentlemen libertines, that meant all they could shag or lick —provisions of lubricant were handy on the side tables. There also stood sundry coloured crystal bombonnières containing Californian gums and boner pills, the night was far from over.

With the gums was a pretty round leaflet explaining the colour code, from lime-green “!” to deep purple “!!!!!”. Take your pick. The reverse of the other pill box simply read “one at a time.” Cecile had no experience with THC, and not only can it trigger back long forgone angst but also render nightmarish escorting a newbie gone awry. She felt adventurous and free, and I let her swallow a bright red double “!”, but I took none, knowing that attending to her induced affective ramblings would wake enough of my own recurrent mental swirls while allowing me enough reason for her sake; besides, another pillbox contained Xannies in case of a panic attack.
Our hunker Danes showed redoubled rouse as to shagging a first-time tripper, but they sounded savvy enough on the matter. Two of them gulped the advertised strong stuff, and all of them took a blue pill with a high ball of banana shake some nude woman in apron had brought. Now Sami and his also denuded chauffeur had found us —not to bring us home— and though they did not fuss with the funny candies, it promised a bumpy lullaby for our candid souls.
In a matter of minutes, the kilim coffee table, large enough to hold my little sister and me, was cleared so we could offer ourselves to their whims while Cecile began to feel weirdly warped and ticklish. As my fellow countrymen obsessed with all of her warm slits, I managed a tête-à-tête between 2.0 and his boss in the depths of my blessed Danish brook. I could see Cecile had threaded her natural propensity into the new ardour that tingled along her spine, all of her chakras ablaze.
I woke in Sami’s arms. He smiled and carried me to a deserted subterranean hammam, where 2.0 was already soothing Cecile’s loins and heart with patient massages on a padded table while she peacefully smiled at slumbers. He brought me into the ashlar vaulted heat room where he rubbed me with fresh leaves and laurel soap, which I hauled myself to return to his beloved muscular animal machine until he moaned that his erection hurt.
Cerberus only found our jackets and shoes, the rest had probably been flatteringly stolen. In the blue hour, Cecile lay nigh nude next to our smitten chauffeur 2.0; I rested in Sami’s arms, my legs spread to his lazy caress when the last party animals standing beckoned the limousine, so as to catch a glimpse of us. Before I enwrapped Cecile to run to our door, I begged Sami to fetch us some of these gummies, and he smirked.
We rolled together under the homunculus’ gaze, and Alfred made a mockery ruckus about what he obviously knew of our extravagant night. As a perfect nanny, I took time to apply soothing balsam to Cecile’s harrowed private parts, and mine.
In the morning, I woke to a masterful orgasm, but it wasn’t of Cecile’s doing, it was Natalia’s, and she was licking my scents on her lips. She only wore a carmine and blue silk Ikat gown of which the belt had slipped. Her perfect body struck me once more, which we had long relished as the pervasive, delicious forbidden fruit.I sussed she had expected to find Cecile, and the sentiment about their previous night in the house by the pond redounded in my soul —although after our Dansk orgy of late, I was no longer coy about it, whatever she might abandon herself into, and even drag Cecile along with her. As I peed on the toilet, holding her fine legs, I asked her if she would have lured me too in that cellar? She laughed and retorted she would.
Lauritz had texted that he was en route to Hamburg to sort out some business chores, and so he sent us his little new crush from Ibiza’s dodgy alleys, with the commendation she was worthy of our attention and needed some manner of mentorship. I warned Natalia not to go awry on the kid, so she gave me the perfect stun-kiss —such as she might get high with.
The two baby tramps barged in, splendidly suntanned Amalfitan way, scantily clad in candy-coloured spandex. They smelled of spritely lemony blossom; I fantasised about the Neapolitan fresh bellhops in the luxury suites they had pervaded at Lauritz’s expense. With their nobiliary particles —how wouldn’t I take a decadent notice?— they tasted of that extra smidgen of imaginary flavour like my school pet bestie turned madam, Ayla, was enthralled with, in her pretty entourage of sex angel friends.
I took Daphne on my lap, and we made out like we had partied all night, already. Regardless of what Lauritz had said of her, I did not feel her like a dishevelled drug fiend. As Natalia and I couldn’t help our hands all over them, I had the hunch to retell what Cecile and I had spent most of our night doing and being done to. I listened out for what they said about drugs, and that, along with the loving freedom she granted me of her immaculate golden skin, convinced me she was candid as a baby tramp could be. She had indulged in about all the psychedelia as we all, unscathed and wiser. Besides, they partied with such tough cookies as Gwen and the gang, and they had come with me to give all her samples to the gentle nurse.
Across the table, Azul and Natalia’s apparent instant idyl seemed rooted further than a made-up breakfast encounter; they necked like long-time cunning accomplices. Since she had followed in Camille’s footsteps for her higher education, it seemed that Natalia kept a good head start when it came to nice socialities, to the greater pride of her mother and Hugo’s.

 

Cecile says:

The night had been heavenly peaceful —Sarah sleeps like a lily in a pond, and I know where her soul flies to. I hadn’t been haunted by any of my nightly demons, and my lower belly felt like a tit’s nest. Alfred must have been busy finding his breakfast; I snuck out as I was, in that flimsy tee shirt, whoever could be in the lift. The weather had been untimely warm. I had a thought for Lauritz in the scent of the citrus groves, with a pair of nubile harlots.
My stash of biscuits was all spent, and I couldn’t not run to the shop for more. One baker ten minutes away could sell me some; I slid on a mismatched tracksuit and a pair of sneakers; anyone could have pushed me under a porch and easily rape me —a weird fantasy I put to the waning account of the gummies’ effect. The streets were quiet, the nearby boulevard wasn’t yet roaring. They gave me a large paper bag full of my langues de chat and also some ladyfingers. I garnered some well-deserved interested stares; I smiled at everyone, which might have been a symptom. Proud with my loot in hand, I could verify that a cute student was actually ogling my midriff and lower, to what I smiled but I did not stop.
Cyprien would be working at his place unless a new angel came alight on the freshly changed crimson velvet. I put on Bach’s French suites and considered my bakery stock, but eventually, nothing beat the langues de chat for dipping. Some magazines had arrived, and one showed Art Deco metalwork in America by the likes of Paul Chambellan and Edgard Brandt to what I stuck a tag, in case of some new expedition there. I received a message from Armand Lunel telling me Zev Mendelsohnn and himself were dying in the desert these days, and he waited for me morrow noon for a surprise. Both of them were worth a visit; the Maître d for his sneaky manners, and the mad Master for his unending obsessions and his considerable truncheon. I did not need to answer the reminder, I was knowingly bound to the realm of that otherworldly mansion in the midst of Paris, and I had come to like that.
I would have fondly greeted a visit by my wry new psychedelic nanny, but as I was ever so slowly readying myself to boot, Sarah dawdled by with two drop-dead beautifully tanned darlings in loose singlets and shorts. I didn’t, myself, wear much else than drab leggings under my work apron, and I didn’t bother to change that. Seen up close, I had already caught a glance of Azul at Fortunat’s playing her bass, au naturel, along with Malo. The other one, Daphné, the well-bred stray kitten fished out of Ibiza’s chillout rooms by Lauritz, had bustled my sympathetic strings before. In the course of our babble, Sarah shrewdly suggested I show Daphne my cubbyhole, of which the baby had no idea what it meant, while she would go take a dive in the pool with Azul.
Pulling off my apron with a quip about our respective chests, I casually prepared another tray of coffee and biscuits, then steered her gently towards the spider’s trap. By luck, she needed the loo, but she ended up in the bathroom, peeing on my feet and all over, reciprocally —a trick Sarah has taught me.
Daphné enjoyed our frivolous little sports, and she liked my choice of pricey perfumes; she sprayed some of Mayfair’s ambiguity which demonstrated a trait of self-awareness and left me head over heels enamoured. Before the Ibiza shipwreck, she had not sailed the polyamorous seas, and, like myself once, she had not revelled in the boarding schools’ culture of lesbian streams about which Sarah had keenly enlightened me. And she was a fast learner at that, too, although I made no demands. I showed her the sublime naiads of Klimt’s after we shored at the bejewelled thresholds; she tasted of dew pearls, and I drank oblivion at her armpits’ weeds.
The lustful idea took me to bring her to the Montceau citadel and prostitute her for treasure. I would teach her the utter pride of free rein libertinage beyond the sore fate of romantic opera lionesses, damn it. Like our slender sister nymphets in these blissful quarters, she would soon be rich and fearless. She did not shun my shady intrigue, we went upstairs to prep up.
Like most of us, she was a seven-ish —or thirty-nine— size in clothes, and the fairies’ infinite array of shoes fit her perfectly. Her ideally smaller head spun to the scent of all the garments in the closets as we rollicked, once again nude, in the mirific vestiary that some guardian angel tidied up tirelessly. Her honey blond bob hairstyle had brightened a tad in the Italian sun after the gloomy Spanish nights. Her neck was stunningly gracile and long, I had the whim she would borrow Sarah’s erstwhile parade white cadet jacket with gold trimmings and a double row of buttons —she sometimes said it was just revenge to flaunt our pretty tits in this prideful militaria that did not necessarily keep its promises later, whatever she meant. White spandex leggings moulding her arrogant little quim, white and gold petit point flat slippers, green pearls anklet and choker to pair up with her aventurine green eyes, and the magic was onset.

The game being to make ourselves fit to be shagged in a wink, I fetched a maroon and crimson changing taffeta frilled shirt dress one could either hike up or unbutton, a flat onyx choker, waist chain and anklet, maroon suede Egyptian sandals, and so the trick was done —never mention my uncle. Lastly, I figured the peony scent recalled the colours of my dress.
Trench coats as flimsy as dragonfly wings would shield us on the way to Bluebeard’s lair. I had texted Armand as soon as I had caught the glint in Daphné’s eyes. The car was a glistening night-blue whale. It had begun to drizzle, the air bore a hint of petrichor scent. Our chauffeur, a fiery-eyed mid-eastern type young man, checked on us at every traffic light.
We tip-toed to the service door, like a pair of pixies to a rabbit hole; I would have bet Armand had been pacing in the corridor. Daphné bedazzled him; no sooner our coats hung in his private office than, rough-and-ready, I went for his fly and found him stiff as a stake as he held her head in awe. While he devoured her lips avidly —easy access was all he was dying for— he tilted her back upon that desk I had blessed quite a few, and slid off her leggings in one go. I held up her back, pulling aside her lapels, and he ordered me to open up my dress. A finger of sunlight touched us when he gushed ablaze in Daphné’s shy little slit, and he ran for a towel as I showed her the bathroom. Once he made sure he bore no stains, he folded up her leggings and rested them aside; no need for them in the house, nor the rest of our costumes. He took a minute to push me against the wall and finger my arse adroitly, as ever; then he ushered us upstairs through one of the sundry service paths, which meant he had to follow us in a spiral stairway and therefore lick our arses a few times.
Daphné was dumbstruck by the magnificence of the place, and we had not seen the stately entrance yet. Just like M. Armand, I revelled in watching her buttocks amidst the breathtaking decor, as the walking gold standard of all vanities.
The beast was crouched on the rug, in his nightshirt, apparently sleeping. A hint of feminine scent hovered in the room. Armand avowed that our Seresine had been there until midnight; he liked Seresine, too. The dumb ogre saw my feet first; he clucked and grabbed them, ever so kindly. He was used to worship them, not unlike Sarah. Then, from the corner of his eye, he noticed the glistening slippers and meowed something; enlacing her, I murmured for her to take off her shoes; there was no danger whatsoever; Zev was a master foot cuddler.
Then it dawned on him that there were two of us, nude and certainly complacent, a very promising windfall. He stood up, his considerable ramrod protruding straight forth, a blissful grin on his erratic face on which a boundless desire candidly shed some irrefrangible light. In his convoluted manner, trampling the plumpy percales of his realm of slumbers, he was beaming with the subtle harmonics in the rich alluvium his lonely years had strewn all around his derisory master snare.
Daphne was caught in sideration, as we all had been when Armand Lunel, the armed wing of the secret covenant invigilating over the Mendelsohnn trove, led fresh greedy adventurous harlots to the threshold of this mad imaginarium. And I was the self-interested lure in the whole mystery, under the pervasive eye of the triumvirate, affording my shady trade with my own skin —for as long as the minotaur took a fancy for me and my protégées.
Yes, amidst the magnificent stuff of Zev’s cocoon, Daphné’s feet aroused exaltation, ideally shaped means of the easy perambulations of a privileged youngling gone astray. Zev lept up in a sudden dazzle and ran to fetch a precious casket of intricately sculpted boxwood which he rummaged maniacally until he picked out an antique golden ring, set with a colourful and contorted, baroque abalone pearl, that he threaded exactly on Daphné’s right middle toe; and then he made the box disappear at once, away from my too keen eyes —nothing that I wouldn’t consent so as to peep again into that box.
As yet a tad dizzy after our preliminary visit to Armand’s cachette, Daphné let herself languidly be done by Zev’s frenzy, and her cries were but delight and bliss. Her tormentor let me pilfer, hither and dither, shreds of her shivers. When she begged for ultimate mercy, he handled me onto her and forced his unwaning might into my lesser bumhole to the hilt like the laughing donkey; and my ravaged wisp of fireflies murmured tender words in my neck.
After one last salvo in my drenched entrails, he eructed a final groan and capsized, stunned, breathing like an elephant. We crept out to the bathroom for a well-deserved lotus bath. M. Armand appeared holding us towels; he bore a contented smile, but he demanded a final favour at Daphné’s blooming lips, and I helped him release, mollycoddling his balls. He fetched two fat envelopes from his chest pocket and congratulated Daphné on her new toe ring. It was obvious the show had been a success, she would soon receive an invitation to meet with the higher-up. In the car back through the melancholy of the soaked city, she couldn’t help counting in the mauve envelope. We dozed out enlaced before the God Crow, more impressive than ever.

 

Sarah says:

Daphné was light-headed, but I knew where they had spent a long evening and what kind of beast they had been with. As per usual, Cecile was already downstairs at work, and it would behove to me to enlighten Lauritz’s pretty foundling about where they had been. In the meaningful light of that hefty sum I knew she must have already counted, and the recollection I had myself washed ashore a few times in the lustful creases of Zev’s cocoon, I retold the uniqueness of the Mendelsohnn collection and its patrimonial status.
It didn’t escape me that Daphné’s attention was all the more sustained that my hands were also helping between her thighs. She smelled of faraway lotus. In the air, the rain had woken the fragrances from the tiny gardens downstairs, and Alfred didn’t run out of breath claiming king in his world. We went up to the studio. She didn’t know what to drink, so I brewed some of my newer fad, Bai Hao oolong, in my funny pumpkin teapot.
We had some illustrated albums on aspects of the Mendelsohnn trove; Zev’s genitor had never parted from any piece in his collections; his protean genius encompassed as much of the gist of global trade as the sharpest of art connoisseurship; his fortune at his death had been so incommensurable that the palace had been trusted to the triumvirate comprising the Grand Rabbi of France, the French Ministry of Finances, and our Melchior Panado, who had been Daniel Mendelsohnn’s closest friend, and by the way she said she had received a message from Melchior proposing she awaited in the subterranean pathway that evening, someone would show her in the imperial maze. I assured her this was good news for her, whatsoever.
Fæbian and Plum had been looking for us; with Fanny’s relations, Plum had met that woman who spoke something close to her language, and they had sorted a program by which she might speak French in less than a year, and thus obtain a residence permit, when the matter of her birthplace be solved. Plum was smitten with Daphné; they rollicked across the decidedly convenient futon, while Fæbian came to fondle me in my chair.
This idea had been nagging in my brain since Daphné’s tale had aroused me. I would offer to go, possibly with Fæbian, to visit Zev in his dungeon. I knew M. Armand liked me in all manners, and Fæbian had never known the thrill, so I won an invitation. Plum should now run downstairs and woo Cecile in no words; that was not beyond her magic, was it?
Fæbian and I had time to make ourselves irresistible in Prince Ugly’s court. She borrowed the silk twill pyjamas printed with the Twelve Monkeys and the white Jodhpur ankle boots that fit her. I fetched her the snazzy white padded dog collar with a gold O ring; she sniggered to the mirror, her little pointed tits mocking me under the silk. Opposite to that drop-dead gorgeous flair, I went back to my old radical chic and pulled out my most patched-up erstwhile Boro coat, and black, high-ankle, heavy-sole laced boots; it would be difficult not to flash my quim in any position, but that’s what floozies do in paradise, don’t they? My body was all laser-smooth; I put on a most sophisticated Art Deco platinum, onyx and sapphire choker, and a dash of masculine iris and tar Cologne; I wasn’t cheap.
She bore that shickaria-turned-whore killer gaze, impeccable complexion, long-legged supple loins attitude that set Monte Carlo ablaze, too. She smelled of a chill capture of marsh haze and santal ashes with a violet afterbeat; she was a gleaming poison.
Nought about us escaped our chauffeur, I felt compelled to tip him heavily. The purple sunset was waning, but the air was mild. Petrichor scents effused from the nearby park. Scarce glimmers indwelled afar in the massive ornamental fortress akin to its Newyorchese counterparts, as seen through a little girl’s eyes.
Armand Lunel greeted us politely at the entrée des artistes, struggling to read our style at first, but soon beguiled by our offhanded indecency. My coat held shut with a mere knot. He moaned as I lay back on the little desk, legs up, and Fæbian stood with her trousers mid-thighs. He grasped some lube in the drawer and kindly smeared my holes, as he told Fæbian to climb up the desk and straddle my face so I would lick her while he threaded me in, sucking her tongue. She was trained in imaginative exercises, and she eased her crotch over my mouth so as to profit from my keenness and soon drenched my face with her holy waters, inducing Armand’s discharge and mine.
He was soon in the bare and pulled us into the bathroom, asking us to piss upon him before rinsing ourselves. He was indeed a savvy concierge, wasn’t he? Pampered afresh, on him a new impeccable shirt, we headed towards the master’s lodgings, and we passed a pretty bellboy who certainly knew what to think of us and slid a deft hand to my quim, casually, before his boss chased him off. Heated as we were in these shady panelled walkways, I would have let almost anyone jostle me over.

Alfred must have been busy elsewhere, and it couldn’t be anywhere near early in the day. I felt rattled but elated —and rich, too— in the wake of our all-out night. Somebody gracile and perfumed had crept between us in the bed; it was Plum; when I opened my eyes, she gave me an Eskimo kiss and cuddled up to my belly until I really needed the loo. She was wired; we had done that before; she straddled me on the toilet and peed with me, laughing her heart out. There wouldn’t be room for three; Fæbian waited that we stand in the shower to piss along our legs. We all ended with the scent of Geranium Orange that she also relished on Michelle.
As I made the necessary French toasts with purposely stale brioche, Plum fetched the new toy Fanny had given her, it was a brand-new iPad, and she had already taught her a lot of its magic. Of course, Google Translate didn’t speak Romani, but anyway, all she could read was Romanian, thanks to her mother’s stealthy education which had led her to primary school. And whilst they had frolicked in the sheets with the wonder screen, Fanny had found that she would undoubtedly make giant steps into the Western World. We approved heatedly, and we started the game of telling her what we had spent our night at; thus, indeed, she progressed spectacularly. She would begin classes in French, and possibly English, the following week. Fanny was well ahead of us.
There was a message from Daphné; she was on a big blue boat with Melchior, sailing the Riviera. Fæbian yawned she would return to Mendelsohnn’s that night; I had personally had enough, even if compared with a submissive sex worker’s night, it would seem a mere tickle, and Fæbian confirmed —first hand. Sniffing something fishy, Plum wanted in; Fæbian asked me for Armand’s number.
For then, I felt like a sauna, exercise, and a dive in the pool, maybe.
A sound drew me to the dance cage. Finlan had unearthed a new instrument, and he played along with Azul, ideally nude with her black mirror bass guitar. Josephine and Emeline whirled in their best costume, too, and Plum was awestruck. We hadn’t thought of covering ourselves back, Plum had restless legs at the sight of our godlike grasshoppers whose routines had insensibly evolved into some scored sequences with bouts of synchronicity, the whole adjusted with a proper musical language. The ten-minute pieces were no longer haphazard drafts, they could be recorded and bettered. However, our dancers had kept their immarcescible spell and the feathery touch of their dainty feet. Plum stood bewitched with her arms crossed in her back, hips swayed; Josephine ended up remarking her and unfurled a sequence so as to graze her thin belly and engage in conversation, which didn’t catch on in words, but did not deter their glares. Josephine offered her hand to steer that spry newbie to the centre of the dance floor and dared her to move along with her. Emeline was watching, and Finlan rekindled his Prophet eolian chords at a simpler pedestrian pace that did wonders. Obviously, Plum had been dancing since ever, just like our pretty goblins, on tables and in the dirt of campfires, so it was a moment de grâce for us all, all the more when Finlan threw in loops and motives at his whim.
They ended up in a spirited embrace, and they fled, without further ado, to Malo’s quarters where that dancers’ tribe dwelled. Fæbian had been graciously summoned at Mendelsohnn’s on my commendation, I snuck to Cecile’s, who had been manicuring a black and gold lacquer screen by Jean Dunand, depicting an out-framed heron in flight over a stern architectural cliff. There was my girl, wrapped up in overwashed work drabs, silk gloves and headband magnifiers, the sluttiest bitch of all, mind you. She called it a day and smiled at my unsaid perplexity, then undertook to strip down in the heady mix of aspic oil and Bach’s headstrong Suites Anglaises. Once she tidied her stuff on her work chair, she stood in thin flesh-tone underwear and reckoned the effect it had on me. We rollicked on the crimson sofa; Alfred mocked us while rummaging for worms, and Natalia found us in the sweetest of disarrays. Our lady of the lecherous fantasies wore boyfriend jeans and a poppy red tartan shirt loose upon her shy nipples. She sat at Cecile’s side, throwing a leg over the armrest. She straightaway owned to be a wretched perverted slattern drawn to the utmost transgressive sexual practices, but she ironised that no one had been hurt in the game, and I could taste my soul sister’s quim and find it unscathed, wouldn’t I? As she bantered as a true-to-life floozie, she released quietly the buttons on her shirt, then turned her back to expose her back marked with fresh long lashes, and she quivered as Cecile grazed upon them. Moreover, we wouldn’t believe the angel smile of the girl who did that to her, and the precise ravages they both went through afterwards.

Besides the moral delectation of surrendering her aching back to us, and she had taken heed of my distraught expression, she needed our help smearing some of Hugo’s salve she knew Cecile kept in her pharmacy amongst solvents and varnishes. She knelt nude against the sofa and spread her arms. Her tormentor had not spared her buttocks or her inner thighs, she had certainly rightfully suffered all day of her foolish whims. But as I was overjoyed to massage her burning skin, noticing it had not been deeply scarred, I was overall in two minds, because I had myself willingly tasted flogging a few times, and thus reached depths of abandon, but I knew not what to make of being served by a beast, however clean and mastered it be.
She had pulled off Cecile’s thin underwear. We lazed about in the dimmed lights, ordering a rhubarb and ginger pie with elderberry soda. Hugo’s mixture had done marvels on her hide. Eventually, I did not utterly forswear to being lured to the house by the pond, which already haunted my afterthoughts, damn you.
Anyhow, the night was young, and we had been discussing lewd over Natalia’s devilish bum, listening to the splendid miscreant Jon Hassel that Cecile knew where to find. We agreed to go and try to spark off an orgy at Fortunat’s. Cecile pulled out a long high-slit, variegated jersey, backless gown. I lent Natalia a black silk panne mid-thigh shirt with bishop sleeves, that she would not care to shut. I slid on the easiest night-blue rib-knit silk tank dress. I wore onyx plate choker, bracelet and anklet. Cecile wore a breast-long abalone pearl necklace and matching anklet. I buckled to Natalia’s neck a shiny black over-stitched leather collar with chrome rings, with matching bracelets to her wrists and ankles. We all wore light evening slippers and worldly perfumes, we took on some flimsy cloaks for the taxi ride.
A new ceremonious black butler in tails stared keenly at each of us and asked for our pass cards, after scanning which he became a heap more friendly, and, not knowing better, grabbed Natalia’s bum in a courtesy manner, pushing her apart. She came back later holding a glass of Indian Tonic, I could assert she did not taste bad. The most explicit manner to advertise we wished to stay together was to make out openly, with smiles. Many clubmen we met in rich parlour houses wandered by in herds (whereas, however, my best shots had been lone riders —if not lone wolves)
Those were Swedish attorneys, I could greet them in counterfeit Stockholmer that my Admiral uncle had spoken in. As my little dress was somewhat hitched up, the ice was broken at once, and a deal was settled before my girls knew it; we piled up in the lift car. Maurice, the butler, had given us a large room on the third floor. Bare ashlar Paris stone, Dutch painted leather screens, verdigris velvet plump armchairs more like exercise props, fake fox fur square bed, large tapestry ottoman and teal-grey carpeting, the acme of a brothel playing field was bathed in the shimmering light of silver sconces.
They might have been cute in their seafarer youth, blond and tanned to the balls; now, they kept fit between bureaucratic hurdles, and we were part of the program. As the senior alpha male had seized me and slid off my dress in one move, he soon unmasked me as a weird kind of Copenhagener, as they commonly think of us. Therefore, I mixed on in German, French, English and American, like a seasoned UN upper east side slut.
There were four of them. Natalia, whose whip marks had waned off, had taken on a pair that looked like brothers and to whom she was teaching the necessity of lubricant; the harnessing accessories did wonders on her tapered features. Once our studs were assured of our unfettered pliancy, they shared boner pills and offered us MDMA, but we refused, lying that we had random blood checks —there had been ugly accidents at Philippe’s, Sami had warned us. My burly cavalier did not insist; he was calling me a boyish Dane and made me try poses in the armchair; he liked licking the thinner nooks of my skin, in the popliteal fossa, the armpits, the nape, and all around my smooth coochie, he was unquenchable. Tightening my wrists in my back, he pushed me over the chair’s rounded headrest and buggered me like a sailor, raving about my tight white arse. Unsurprisingly, he spewed his jizz long before I could feel him, and it wasn’t any of his care, was it? He went to the bathroom to wash his taut rod and came back to shove it in Cecile’s mouth, tilted back at the edge of the bed. I, too, went to the bidet, a pretty polished tin pan with copper taps, and suddenly this jester was pissing on me, laughing his head off, pushing his peen downwards on me. He wasn’t unsightlier than the rest; he bent down to kiss me deeply and led me to the wide shower, hugged me and danced me around like a fiancé. He led me back to the fur bed and asked me to straddle his pole, which I did fiercely, aiming for my own orgasm, damn it.
And our clocks ticked so that we exulted in unison, and he took great pride in being wetted by my gushes. In the bathroom, Natalia was dancing all lathery, and they told us to slither on each other like mermaids, like eels. Her whip-inflamed loins quivered at my hands as we offered the punters a sight of candid passion. The bellwether called it quits, in Swedish, they would have an early flight the next morning. Cecile joined us in the stream, and we pampered ourselves for another leg.

Downstairs, after we left our shoes at the vestiary, we secured an envelope with our bulky common wad in a safe. A thin, young, long blond, curly-haired guitarist was weaving the gossamer furls of his inspiration with an Ebow upon his strings. He wore a college ring with a deep red stone. His instrument was a Koa wood electro-acoustic guitar, and he tapped now and then on a command pad for loops and effects; he was taking possession of the salon space like a starling murmuration.
We allowed ourselves some tea brewed by yet another samovar maid, in a mere apron, whom Cecile had an instant crush on —black eyes, pale complexion, another hopeful runaway from whatever ghetto. She also dispensed macarons; her hands were manicured and had not been damaged by squalid chores, and her nails were black.
Natalia had got rid of her clothes, setting off her accessories and thus, her nudity. A pair of laidback black buddies clicked on our obvious attitude and hurried us to some privacy, but we forced them to savour the macarons first. They offered champagne, but we explained our comfort in the clear teetotaller stance which never hindered our natural lechery. Cecile had eloped with the maid; she still possessed some ingrained class codes that would circumvent the rightful caginess of her prey, who had anyhow stepped as far as teasing clients half-nude in a brothel, mind you. I had a fair idea of how that whimsical fling would end.
Meanwhile, we led our drooling amorous pair to room twenty-one, in the hardy wake of the Swedish Navy. They called themselves Tord and Erland. They were Norwegian junior lawyers who had been referred by our neighbours at 7S; they had already visited Philippe’s, and it was their last night in Paris. As they were disputing in their language as to who would shag who, I couldn’t resist telling them in Danish that they could have both. They knew the brothels of Copenhagen, where they spent many of their weekends; I didn’t look like a Danish whore, they said, to what I retorted they didn’t look like Norwegian lawyers.
The room was hung in grey velvet, with a square mauve padded satin bed, and Art Deco leather club armchairs to bounce on. The tall marquetry headboard stylised a palace porch open on an opulent park with lightly dressed leisurely women watching antelopes drinking in a pond. Silvery satin drapes at the two windows produced the illusion of a waterfall reflected in a majestuous Venetian mirror across the room. On the fourth wall hung a modern mannerist portrait of a lady in a silk stole as her only vesture, holding a white cockatoo, against dark stormy skies. I had a hunch that her eye concealed a camera.
Our johns wore steel and charcoal grey bespoke suits, silk shirts with college stripes ties, and impressive-size dark-mocha shoes. They were hung like beasts and smelled of Belgravia Flair; I could fancy them in Camille’s bed. But meanwhile, I could hardly swallow a beakhead that formidable. They wanted to watch us performing cunnilingus while humping hard into our loins, which was a win-win arrangement, so to speak. They managed to last long enough to swap a few times, so we girls gushed at each other’s faces like we do. Having stretched our passages for their massiveness, I thought it could quickly become addictive; I had never sensed that much with our Erik. They were the methodical kind, they did not lag after they filled up our entrails, thus it felt. They dressed up as fast as military men, after a blitz wash-up. We were still enlaced when they fled.
No wonder Cecile had eloped with the personnel; we knew how to water our horses from the towering gilded contraption. There was excitement foreseeing yet another shy capture out of the famed cubbyhole or the ward of a God Crow. Now that the Opera had shut, the ruling class stags would be aroused by Violetta’s death, and thus, in need of willing flesh to assuage their fantasies before sailing back homeward to whatever drab career we wouldn’t care to know of, they would shore into our velvet anchorages, with musing smiles.
Two prominent clubmen in black silk tailcoats with white piquet vests looked like escapees from a première herd; however, they had manners and manicured hands. They smelled of costly scents. They sipped Pimm’s N°1 in hopes not to zonk out. They had confabulated on our looks —we were both casually naked, now— and attitudes; they came to sit on both sides, and Albert rested a soft hand upon my thigh. They had grasped we came as a pair.

A volubile team of Italians were celebrating some business success, and finding us wallowing au naturel had whipped their senses, but our johns took us to N°27 by the stairs, fondling our butts tenderly. They were cousins, in aeons; they overtly vaunted our shapeliness as they would have with their horses, manipulating our bodies and kneading our joints with skill, so I came to think they were surgeons. We continued our affectionate lesbian number like we didn’t bother about their oafishness, but it was time to pull out their plain manhood to light. After the Norwegian ravage, we unbuttoned two honourable staffs of noble wood I did not shun to gobble up while the bearer stood in silk socks. Bold and doubtless, he soon gushed in deeply, no sooner lauding my stoic dedication and promising a steadier course after this needed dick starter.
Insidiously, these offhanded comments were beginning to drain my nerves, reminding me of my own loathed brother with his mates and what, in hell, had ensued for me. In Natalia’s ear, I wondered if these two weren’t a tad too oafish. She agreed, and we began to give the boys the cold shoulder, to their dismay because I could tell they craved our snazziness. Olivier, the other one, overtly called for a truce but asked us if we were hirelings or not, for our price had been bulky, in the least.
I dropped they might be refunded and risk being noted as poor bedfellows, for what they cared, we weren’t streetwalkers nor junkies. Good sport, they improvised a pantomime and came on their knees to lick our pretty feet. Like savvy swordsmen, they knew how to defuse the tension, thus they repaid in kind our self-worth. Albert licked greedily my haughty, though propensity-prone, quim still stirred by Norwegian wood. There was no manner of apologies, but the forthright endeavour to bow our best chords and trigger our best smiles.
That room was clad in peach-fuzz moire with black-striped window drapes and grey Art Deco pattern carpeting. The bed was thrown with fake beige mink; two plump ash-grey leather armchairs offered their rounded armrests to spirited acrobatics. Once unclothed, our French rakes showed no older than us, and were play-worthy, like our own home squad —only they were born to pay. After the rude telling-off, they nonetheless earned a thorough cavalcade with each of us unabashed courtesans.
In the precious mosaic bathroom, I was nigh on the verge of spilling the pearls about ourselves, but I did nought on that way. We groomed them back in their outlandish vestures, and let them venture a goodbye handful. Maurice had spared our clothes, but he demanded a fair last moment of fondling our butts and tasting our mouths. He confirmed that Cecile had abducted the tea damsel with the blessing of the landlady. We pocketed our well-earned hefty stash, and we called a car. I begged Natalia to sleep with me, whoever might join us in the course of what was left of the night. Alfred was already rapping in bird gossip.

When I touched down from the land of green steeples, I was outright alone in the house. I went to Cecile’s, her door was open, and the bed smelled of bliss. As I peed pensively, I decided to slip on a tracksuit and climb up straight to the studio. It had been tidied up, the futon rolled back into the closet, and fresh towels in the shower room. I brewed some Oriental Beauty and played Jon Hassell. My labia and anus were touchy; I fetched the pot of magic salve and blessed Hugo.
Sipping my tea, I cleared my list of messages. Fæbian had reckoned at Mendelsohn’s that she be a bigger slut than she had thought; she thanked me for whatever I did not suss out. Most importantly, my old Saint Loup school captain Julia Grant announced she would be at the Parkside-Rivoli hotel along with her memorable twin nephews in a week’s time, and she hoped we would rejoice, for old time’s sake. You bet.
Plum cropped up in artfully overwashed shorts and striped singlet, barefoot, and wired. We made out instantly, and I stole her shorts. She smelled of Malo’s peonies, her thighs were smooth as porcelain. We did not pull the futon out yet, but she remained bare-arsed, with a smile. Pulling Kate’s chair, she sat close to me with her precious vibes.
With whatever shreds of Mid-European languages I knew from my most cosmopolitan schooling, we tentatively combobulated our nights. She had swam in bliss with the holy telepaths, and left them to their dedicated training in the morning, counting on me to dress her up for her day on town with Fanny. She knew I was the general costume provider, bar the naked ballerinas, of course.
There, it wouldn’t be a matter of wooing her future teachers, as of yet, anyway. She agreed to a neat black pantsuit, a white shirt, and a black and white striped tie, with black loafers and white socks—something as far as possible from her vagabond youth, to frame her socially with whoever she would rub elbows with in the nonetheless easy-going institution. Fanny called from downstairs; it would be a busy day. She had seen the money I had tucked in her little wallet.

Now, Daphné was back from her introductory cruise trip with the Benefactor himself. She was overjoyed at how easy it was to please the old man, and thus she would be permanently dwelling in an apartment next door to Adèle and Rose’s. Gauthier had been commissioned for the interiors; he would, no doubt, appoint a visit in his company; he was always partial to M.’s new patronages.
Sunbathing nude on the yacht’s decks, she had gained a lovely honey tint; M. had constantly applied suncream upon her precious skin, listening to her personal tale. She had won him over. M. made no mystery that he had peeped at her rollicking along with me or others and that he would probably keep on because she was so naturally gracious at it. I made fun of that we all knew we were spied on for kinky reasons, the only matters we could possibly share with the nanoverse mogul who otherwise extensively monitored his high-voltage realm. In that manner, I retold her some dishevelled orgies we had candidly fired up onboard the sundry 7S aeroplanes we flew at no other costs. However, there had never been any evidence that our apartment be wired, but M.’s technological might was limitless, and, after all, if he liked watching me do the naughty for his own relish, I wouldn’t object. I had been the long-time lover of Camille, M.’s windfall associate in the SEVEN STREAMS almighty conglomerate, and I trusted her on my life about our global protection, provided we wouldn’t go wander unattended territories.
Natalia had stealthily returned from her appointments and was bedazzled by Daphné’s supreme youth. She added in a gourmand manner that the vetted network we pertained to offered enough unfettered opportunities to feed our inner dragons; she would reckon. Say we call Liselotte, a most forgettable school budy of Kate and Sarah’s turned most acquainted procurer in worldly power circles, any mid-afternoon, to avail ourselves to a gainly cinq à sept, chances were we end up being expended in the most poetic happenstances without risking our lives or health, which are not expendables.
Liselotte had said we should dress like well-to-do bourgeoises abducted outside the Bon Marché, no undies. The air was fair. I dressed up the debutante as a society cygnet, a powder blue moiré taffeta shirt dress, mid-thigh, left open, fluttering over the lace hem of her white stockings. I did not remember any of us wearing these pale blue suede Maryjanes, but they befitted totally, and voilà! Natalia loved my sartorial compulsions, since always. She laughed and told us that, still in high school, she had once read about Natalie Barney raiding the fitting booths at the Bon Marché for fresh white geese, and thus, she had, looking slightly more than her age, cruised candidly the lingerie department until she was eventually wooed by some lady who smelled expensive. She had long crept by herself into our bed here, and she hadn’t missed any of our teachings, therefore she had been a most successful Bon Marché jailbait for a few seasons before Liselotte managed her academic cursus. She borrowed a close-fit terracotta rib-knit silk short dress, she preferred to go bare legs in raw-hide Greek sandals; Daphné couldn’t help her hands on her thighs.
As for me, I knew all too well how to look urbanite chic, and I could have hit on pill-popper swans in Bergdorf-Goodman’s salons undetected. I sussed what Liselotte meant; that was her taste, anyhow. Avoiding the too-obviously provocative blazer nudie, I pulled a midnight blue silk velvet midthigh five-button redingote lined in poppy red and black striped satin, black taffeta corset, black veil stockings, black suede Chelseas, the whole torpedo shebang. We exuded rare nightly blooms, amber, and irresistible quintessential pheromones. From the front seat, Liselotte was amused by the living result of her altogether baroque dress code suggestion. She had an instant crush on Daphné.
It hadn’t been a long ride. Then, we had driven down some no-through pathway leading to a three-story mansion in ashlar Paris limestone, implanted askew, with four classical open façades to an inscrutable rewildered park. A golden glow from the high windows hardly grazed the ivy overgrowth in which stone nymphs drowned. Liselotte announced us to the camera at the front door, and only an electric buzz responded. As we stepped in, the lock clacked drily.
We crossed a small greyish faux marbre entry, a second door opened when the first closed, and we had slid our pass cards in a slot. In the striking black and white marble foyer with a windrose motive on the floor, the heat surprised us. Liselotte sniggered that we wouldn’t stand remaining dressed long, and she enlaced Daphné to begin stripping her deftly. Two sorts of prim theatrical lackeys in black twill vests and breeches, frilled white shirts, black knee-high stockings, and court pumps with silver buckles, rounded us in an impressive en dehors walk with the silent intention to disrobe Natalia and me.

Once our clothing was tucked away on hangers in a side closet, they beckoned us to move on to whichever of the three doors between the white marble Greek columns. They did not avoid gazing longingly at our thus exposed charms. On the walls, framed silhouette medallions depicted the libertine mores of ideal shepherdesses and fauns. While cuddling Daphné in her wing, Liselotte explained swiftly that the place had been a posh parlour house for more than two centuries, run by some unassailable dicastery through hassles and revolutions, notwithstanding a legend of unaccounted-for disappearances.
Arm in arm, we followed Liselotte on the right in a salon lit by faux candles in gilded candelabras, entirely painted with a whirlwind of celestial beings lifted in heavenly debauchery —another unbridled revenge by the cohorts of migrant Italian artists bored with the prudish decors they earned their living with, in churches and theatres, as we had seen in Isidore Pointarien’s extravagant, untouched erotic theatre on the Boulevard Du Crime.
In the many purple-black buttoned tufted wool velvet daybeds and sofas thrown with dark faux fur plaids, sundry nude nymphs, much to our taste, wallowed at the hands of caring men of all ages
—more or less covering their indecency under light robes— languidly offering them the treasure nature had blessed them with. in casual immodesty.
Time to garner hearty cheers from those who cared to look around and saw us, we had not, at once, noticed some pretty boys being freely fondled, and more, by their elders, nor had we relished the sight of that young milky complexion nymphet simply held on a leash by a silver short-haired lady in a black lace slit bodystocking. Liselotte was pervertedly passing on Daphné from hand to hand, but not so ostentatiously as to make it a heavy-minded chore; I did not need to intervene, as the girl was amusing herself, too; her audience had manners.
Some distinguished rakes recognised Natalia as one of the rouée bitches they had watched being served by the Weimaraners at the bottom pit of depravity. Such encounters had been bound to happen, as Natalia is not one to be forgotten, and she wouldn’t shun the wandering hands —soft, unspoiled, manicured hands of privileged debauchers she grew on, like the wisteria on a cypress tree. She assumed her uber-deviant prestige with spunk and mischief —she knew we would die for her.
A limitless oceanic electroscape hovered around in high-resolution sensuality. I was swiftly wrestled aside by a pair of burly thicksets, unerringly buggered with my arms in the back —as if I wouldn’t have relented— and another stiff dick wildered in my throat. They felt utterly vigourous; thus, although I barely rested my knees on the bed, I fleeted weightless between their hands and weapons, the perfect willing ragdoll belching splattering noises, soon to be soiled like a carnal mop.
One of my satiated bulls gallantly carried me away to an extensive water room clad in bevelled mint-green glazed tiles under a faintly lit stained glass ceiling, so he could play on with my limbs and joints like the sensuous prestidigitator, hug and shag me more in the tepid rain of a wide shower head. As I could read his face in the running water, I recalled he had possessed me before, possibly in the bustling bath cellars at Philippe’s or other subterranean steam rooms where Liselotte procured us safely at our whim.
When he had his fill of me, I dawdled randomly in a darker room wholly painted with an unleashed vision of Saint Anthony’s temptations once he had yielded altogether. In a nightly decor of tumbling architectures and rocks, à la Monsu Desiderio, herds of unabashed sinners flew in swaths of obscene embrace, as a backdrop to some other restless tangible carnal games of all genders amidst which Daphné suffocated on an oversized schlong between mischievous teammates; and I knew, when I went to check on her, that I would be caught for yet another round for the sake of Saint Anthony.
Back by the mild inexhaustible waterfall, they circled us and asked us to kiss and piss on each other while they, too, hosed us, laughing. Then we splashed us all with orange blossom water, and they carefully rinsed our entrails like savvy connoisseurs. Liselotte found us on the way out, just recovering herself from a heated corps à corps. She was overjoyed that Daphné looked still so fresh, although I told her what she had boldly withstood.
Our matron led us to yet another decor of Arcadian dawn with a pearly round of fluffy clouds over the serene pediments of erstwhile temples as dreamt by the Esprits des Lumières, and troupes of demigods fornicating with nubile vestals and ephebes, amidst the wildflower. A couple of comely maids in mere aprons gently dispensed beverages and unassuming little bites. I smiled at the thought of our recurrent Samovar girl syndrome, but I could hardly help myself touching under the apron and reckonning they weren’t insensitive, whatsoever.

Liselotte also mislaid a hand under the starched lace, telling me that these vetted interns, though fiercely coveted, were strictly off-limits for male visitors, but given the nature of what they witnessed, they could find some release with willing slaves like us, said she while forcing her victim to lay beside her while wanking her expertly. Daphné wouldn’t dare slide a hand, but I sussed the girl had a little crush on my not-so-innocent companion, whom she could have seen used together by a bunch of avid jockeys moments ago. As I fondled her buttocks, the apron happened to flutter aside under Daphné’s nose, and I winked so she could seize the instant to graze the smooth virginal-looking pubis; then I managed that they roll together on the furry couch. They necked like schoolgirls; I nuzzled my way between the bare thighs till I could lap at her clit and make her sing, then led Daphné down in the wide-open thighs to claim an easy win.
Her name was Oona Brahe, she spoke Finn, Swedish and street urchin English. Liselotte mocked me, and our appeal to slanky tramps; this one had been vamped up to my taste, moreover. I retorted I would owe her big-time if she negotiated Oona’s transfer to my team, for Baltic sake. She said the nipper was free to go nest anywhere else with her recommendation. As of then, I had had my fill of fireflies buzzing in my underbelly, I rid Oona of her laces and took a dive into Baltic parlance.
She wasn’t shy around me; whatever submissive routine she had played by with the clientèle, she liked being hustled softly, and so it went with me. I drew her to a shady corner and subjected her to questioning, mezzo voce. She was born in Helsinki to a castaway branch of a noble family. Her father, Göran Brahe, a praised software designer, had been diagnosed with autistic spectrum disorder; her mother, Karolin Arenberg, had died of a Fentanyl accident before Oona was one year old. Like most little imps we had collected, because of their beauty, she had been raised in the turmoil of a dysfunctional family and sundry limbs of an institutional octopus.
She wasn’t the Slavic type, with thick chestnut hair and light tea eyes. Willy-nilly, she had been educated by morally sound teachers and educators in the best school system in the world, until she bloomed early into the adolescence crisis, which led her on a ferry to Tallinn and a nigh deadly voyage through Europe as an underage backseat toy. She had been left for dead on a roadside in Zingst, Germany, the first time a swine injected her heroin, which, however, saved her from a junkie life.
The police had taken her, soaked and reeking, to the hospital in Stralsund, where a woman intern from Berlin had fallen for her and brought her home after the summer season. She was bang eighteen, and she refused to be repatriated to Finland, but she would neither be a house pet. With enough German pidgin, she worked as a waitress in Prenzlauerberg but soon ended in a much more lucrative position in a bona fide brothel where the owner of this historic Maison where we were now chattering, enlaced, had found her and brought her back in his luggage.
Finding that I was so curious about her fate, she retorted a heap of questions about me, who she said did not feel like the other visiting harlots. Without unfurling my whole curriculum, I told her we were independent libertines, acquainted with the cream of meta-finance and I could take her to our elitist phalanstery in the heart of the City Of Lights.
On my wink, Liselotte came to cuddle with us and said I could bring back Oona home if she wished. Although, by vice, I would have relished watching her shag one or two clubmen on the spot, she led me through service corridors to the closet where we dressed up. She wore a long black jersey gown that moulded her tight pretty bum, and black Chucks. She admired my sole velvet redingote and murmured I had no more breasts than she. Liselotte had gathered the troops, bar Natalia who had encountered one of her rich regulars. Oona had caught Daphné’s eye, they hugged delicately, and Daphné couldn’t button up her dress. Liselotte let us go, musing she had a flurry of lustful ideas with my kittens.
Shortly after, on our sidewalk, I thought I had a moment. The streetlights were extinct, the moon was hidden, and seldom stars twinkled in the night. The girls looked up, and I nosed in Oona’s gracile neck; she smelled of love in a haystack. A tad because I wished to bedazzle a good once Oona’s judgement about our standing, I proposed we take a dive in the pool. She wouldn’t know it was for real. She was a bit scared of our subterranean realm, we stopped a few times to kiss in the mirrored corners, and then she watched us undress by the still waters. I helped her pull off her dress as Daphné unlaced her shoes. She was an excellent swimmer and noticed the absence of chlorine. Once she had unstretched her nerves, she came to swirl around us, overjoyed to learn that we could dip ourselves anytime we liked.

Oona was more amazed by our installations than the extravagant decor where we had brought her from. As we wiped each other, her hands came very much alive, and so did her smiles. I was happy and worn out, but I needed a last cup of tea. In the lift, I found myself loaded with clothes and shoes while the kitties made out frankly. While I brewed tea, Daphné showed her fling around, except the God Crow temple which was closed. I served them before the sofa where they revelled in each other, and I went to bed. The next morning, when Alfred called me back from the Tudor terraces, there were three of us huddled together under the comforter. I went to pee and meditate on the responsibilities of parenting. Was I breeding a team of cosmopolitan harlots?
Daphné came on and, as we had done before, straddled me on the toilet and pissed over my quim while kissing me. Her mouth tasted of fennel. We realised that Oona stood wondering what went on. I laughed and took us to the shower where I hugged her and told her to piss along my thighs, and she did; with abandon.
They both showed touching rings to their eyes. Oona’s frame was narrower than Daphné’s, with not much fat over flat muscles, and no more breasts than me. Daphné was, on the whole, smoother, with dove-wings breasts and blushing areolas. Neither had rounded hips, and Oona showed arousing drawn abs. Daphné’s feet were arched like Canova graces’, while Oona’s were slender and tapered. They honoured my toasts.
We browsed our mail nonchalantly. Cecile sent a photo of a faceless gracile body, commenting that Lourénie would be on stage that day. Daphné explained what Cecile meant, and who Lourénie must be. Oona laughed at the idea that we collected the Samovar girls on their good looks, however blushing to include herself in that category. I shunned the idea of visiting the workshop now, sitting sessions were a bore; I proposed we go upstairs where they could lay together on the futon while I would scribble my soul away, waiting for Cecile and her crush.
From a nearby gable top, Alfred buoyantly approved of the new trainees, which earned him a handful of raisins and peanuts on the studio roof ledge. Kate made a surprise return from where she did not say, and she warmly approved of the new pair she joined on the ground after a shower. The younglings heard a flowery version of our long relationship, and they were amazed to understand that Simon was Kate’s own brother. We showed it wasn’t a matter. Kate was perfectly tanned, like what you get running in the northern dunes. She was overjoyed babbling with fresh newbies, whatever seasons they had forgone in their budding lives; we had heard a few before, hadn’t we?
And Kate lit up expectations for the kittens’ new life of unfettered polyamory, as she could already tell. Cecile and Lourénie showed up with rhubarb and ginger pie at tea time. Lourénie wore a mismatched almond green and peach rose sweatsuit embroidered with “Strawberry Fields” in silver threads. She was more relaxed—and for a good reason—than I had caught a glimpse of at Fortunat’s. Had Cecile cut that fringe?
Lourénie Dupas was born in Bordeaux; her parents lived in Ambès —nothing to long for, but children find treasure in wastelands. She had been told her mother had gone before she reached her first birthday, so she was raised by her grandparents, who owned a hotel in Montalivet, ten minutes from the naturist beaches, and did nothing to bring up that she wasn’t their child, she had never seen her dad before she was twelve and it went wrong. Until then, in the heady scents of pine groves and the ocean, she had been a candid, popular nymphet in the naturist community, but as her dad moved in to help at the hotel Dupas, she became his sick obsession, unbeknown to his own parents. He was a sturdy and sly man, he would stand on the lookout for her in the old house’s nooks with his penis drooling, and he had developed a habit before she found the courage to tell her grandma. A fit of ugly anger burst among the family, which ended at the bottom of the cellar’s stairs, where her father lay in death throes for three hours before they called for help. No investigation was ordered. They shut the hotel, and they remained in their endless shame.
Lourénie was sent away to a Christian boarding school, where her grown easiness about nudity caused some turmoil until she ran away and fell at the hands of a young Czech lorry driver, with whom she lived passionately until he put her to work at a lorry park on the German border. She did not relent to alcohol or drugs, she was in high demand, but being underage, she couldn’t have found safety in a German or Swiss brothel. She needed proper contraception, and thus she was singled out by a male doctor who lured her to his home and treated her as his mistress servant until he was killed by her previous pimp. The murderer was caught, but not her. She had stolen enough money to reach Paris, where a snazzy woman flushed her out on the Canal Saint Martin’s banks, brought her to Fontange’s, where Natalia, more or less, had bought her out, to her willing consent, and brought her to Camille’s, and henceforth to Fortunat’s, for a try.

Kate, who had already disrobed to wallow along with my girls, offhandedly pulled down Lourenie’s trousers and poked her nose in the pale lower belly, forcing her down on the sofa edge for yet another homage to her already swollen quim. Trine called on the private chatroom; Michelle thought of throwing a last-minute party, with boys. When I told them there were three newbies they were thrilled. I did a presentation on our all-important neighbour and her entourage for our adventure-avid nymphets, mentioning that they would probably meet quality non-binary persons, a situation of which they had vaguely heard, mostly in the manner of transvestites, of what we undeceived them.
And so was time to dress up, be it to undress so soon, as they did not guess yet. Dapné would go nigh bare in a swarm of gold flakes on a dawn yellow silk shirt and tight-fit grey spandex shorts, black- -lacquered nails. Oona went bare in a so-short, flimsy, creased, black silk jersey fourreau, black-lacquered nails. I went bare in an iridescent, purplish silk jersey mini dress that hitched up already at any lesser move, deep-purple lacquered nails. We didn’t need shoes, said I. I let them choose their perfume, warning that these were strong extracts and thus one puff here and there was more than enough. Daphné’s skin di wonder with perfume, like adding a natural evocative musk; Oona smelled like the magic in a British hedge after the rain in May, to what a Florence iris brought the carnal tease. I sprayed some of that dark-minded gardenia with a boyish pencil-shavings afterthought. Kate put on a light layered beryl-green waistless chiffon bloom, nigh flush to her pubis, like a not-so-candid Victorian fairy. Like us, she went barefoot. She wore her misty marsh lily charm and kept fondling Oona. Lourénie came back from Cecile’s room in an oversized glazed indigo Tuareg shirt and a thin black yoga short she would soon lose. Seeing us, she kicked off her sandals, her nails were shiny black. Cecile wore an antique cream linon and lace see-through lady nightshirt she gave to ironing in one of Paris’ last true blanchisseries; she was indeed the barest of us all, and Lourénie craved that, crouching down to slide up a gentle hand. Cecile smelled of some extravagantly expensive scent once worn by Evelyn Nesbit. She breathed in my ear that now she needed dick.
The lift car was too narrow, so we did it in two trips, and I found myself able to grope Lourénie’s bum at whim, with a promising smile. They did not grasp why we continued downstairs as we led them in the mysterious underground passage along the sinister oubliette, nonetheless walking on thick velvety wool carpeting and through armoured steel doors that we commanded with our fingertips, towards more and more luxurious spaces and up to the real TRÆVIX palace and its outworldly decors.
We had visibly nought to hang in the vestiary, but the Middle Eastern Maître d stood watching in awe. Would it happen that he might eventually help in some manner? As for me, he had, more than once before, beautifully. A bunch of the usual culprits stood already in the grisaille salon, where the most refined fruit drinks, lemonades, and kombuchas were poured into blown-glass tumblers. We made a foreseeable sensation with our scantily clad damsels, as much with the savage hunks and the Cossacks as with the little court princesses,
Gauthier, in an ecru flax befitted suit, off-white tee-shirt, and blond Oxfords, looked enamoured seeing Daphné, his most urgent client, did he lie dashingly, and I had the hunch they had shagged like animals on the cardboard floors, in her future home. I went moist to that thought; she was no babe in the woods. When we moved to the grand panoramic salon, Oona was stricken dumb like a toddler in front of the Xmas displays, so much so that Delff, in a tight golden suit and no shirt, took her hand to show her around with funny comments.
Serguei, in jeans and a golden-brown corduroy jacket, with walnut brown jodhpur boots, had found words to entertain Plum, enough to slide his hand up her thigh. Gwen, in a one-shoulder ash grey alpaca jumper dress as short as a haiku, has caught my gaze from an embrasure; together, we reckoned that an age of wide-eyed Samovar girls might bury us alive, albeit here, at TRÆViX, officiated a Samovar boy. We sniggered, but we admitted, while petting each other fondly against the armoured glass pane, that we wanted dick. She recalled the time when she whored at a quaint quayside hotel in Brugge where from Kate and that Heather fairy had charmed her away, with her elusive companion Finlan, the Irish Dane who now played keyboards here with the dancers’ posse.
New sleek-hairdo American graduates appeared in grey Armani garb, silk socks and Allen Edmonds mahogany loafers. I reckoned they couldn’t be Michelle’s employees. Therefore, it should be an initiative from a higher altitude, with her blessing and for our enjoyment. Gwen reacquainted herself with her long-lived memories.

My Zaporozhian cavalier friend had apparently been snubbed by our Roma wayfarer, whose tradition was to fear them, especially women. He went after Natalia when he saw her prance in wearing a simple white linen blazer, but she had already clutched her gaze onto the new kids, and she spoke chic Newyorkese. So, Serguei took a risk of offending me, putting me in the role of the vieille maîtresse, but I knew how to mystify him to my own carnal relish, nude and randy, through the service door in the silver third room and the private den next to the guests’ bathroom, where he could manhandle me all his whims, short of leaving accusing marks. He had been furiously aroused by Plum’s tightened little quim and arse. I knew where to fetch the Swiss Navy in the drawer of one of the side tables —I was some regular. Once amply released, Cossacks are abundant, he honoured me with another round, standing in the shower streams, calling me wild names. Now I would smell of TRÆVIX carnation, and every astute little lass would know what it meant.
Back in the pearly dining room, I took notice of the young waiter who had stolen the Samovar girls’ job, but as slutty as I might be, my slits cried for some rest, only Oona could have appeased me, but now she was probably in the Queen’s observatory, tasting of Delff’s niceties. However, I gaught a smile of Sasha’s revelling in front of a cherry maccarons plate. they wore snazzy azurite blue satin pyjamas trimmed of vermillion tubing, with assuredly cat manners. They had befriended with all the sublime animals in the Royal Farm, and searched their soul with Cynthia. They had gained accès to levels of TRÆVIX’s exascale computers, Delff spinning hither and tither in utter wisdom between their two solitudes. They asked we touch each other, I turned towards them, thighs parted, and begged for a cherry kiss.
Apolline didn’t ask for a trans pronoun, she’d rather play the home daughter, with a funny twist. she came to us and finely mused that I had already been somewhat naughty and smelled of the curtesy shower gel; she wouldn’t dare hit on the new hunks, as aroused she be. I saw Elvire dawdling in detachment though I knew she must savour the suave company. I nodded insensibly for Apolline to go ruffle the long petal-strewn maroon gown of her forsaken soul mate and bring her around.
Oriented talks with Cynthia had not yet fully unwrapped Apolline’s persona, although she wouldn’t cramp the lives of others, and even enjoy some intimate endeavours once in a while. Natalia still accounted for her well being with her poetically perverted father who had now ensnared another young niece to silently attend the peculiar readings of his writings he was paying Natalia for. Eventually, the two sweet creatures snuck out to privacy.
One sensitive squire, as of yet unknowned to me, toffee blond short-nape styled and cute oat speckles, came sit next to Sasha, letting me guess some manner of relationship, looking me up with an Oxford accent.
Matthew Mulder was looking for coffee, he seized my waist while the percolator huffed, he smelled of West Indian Bay Rum and kissed me in the neck. Although I was myself already in my Eden outfit, I knew he would hardly shag me in one of the pearly love seats under Jin Ju Lee’s characters impassible gazes, so, once his espresso sipped, giving him the mocha kiss, I pulled him too towards the service door, only to find the boudoir was already peopled. I wanted to draw him anywhere umpstairs, but he fancied me on the staircase and the carpeting was plush, so I expertly unbuckled his trousers and we composed a most interesting tableau. I did not know where he dwelled, I noted to ask. He gave me the fully fit quarterback treatment, I think I howled like a Valkirie. We did a certified success. In the ensuing shower, we encountered Daphné and Gauthier in the mellowest of moods. We swapped caresses; I introduced them to each other and told Matthew where she dwelled.
We returned to the main scene, all females had pink cheeks, a handful of well endowed professonals came on goggling as much at my crotch as at the plentiful sensational curiosities. Among them, I singled out a face that oddly evoked some Bemelman drawing before the whole sequence of a lustful journey to New York and the Hotel Carlyle twinkled along my chakras. Branwell Cerebus, same old chevau-léger in Melchior’s pay beamed a candid smile and a sun-kissed face crowned with thatch-gold hair. He wore a cornflower flax suit and snazzy bicolour shoes. Together, we went back long and easy; and he was overjoyed to find me nude already, same as in M.’s albatross.
He was a regular of the house, he knew his way to the first-floor guest rooms. We stole a couple of tender peeps hither and tither in sundry rooms before I could undress him and play with his arrogant blond fool’s bauble. As I pumped yet again, I was thinking how I would revel watching him shag our new dainty damsels.
It was a frilled Pompadour love nest. He chased me up on about all the perches and gushed a good thrice with flying honours —never mind the kittens.

When I woke up, Oona was cuddled up in my arms, and she smelled of Geranium Orange. I needed the loo. Things frankly didn’t add up, but I did not want to bustle away the shreds of my waning dream. Then I found a torn sheet of paper written “I Love You Sarah. B.” at the hand of a porcelain shepherd on the chimney ledge. In earnest hindsight, what a night to recall.
Oona was thrilled to share her romp with the real Aviatrix, Delff, and Trine. I knew what she meant, recalling times when, days on, I had seen Michelle’s dainty feet poking out beyond our sofa’s edge while she ensnared Victor’s world from her laptop, on a futon, in our own studio.
She slid back on her little black dress, I wouldn’t know where I had lost mine, and we headed down to the orgy scene. Everything had been tidied up, the herds had moved on. The dinner table in the pearly room was dressed up in grey damask, white porcelain, and silver. The warm samovar stood unattended, the blend of tea was from Taiwan’s chilled peaks valleys. The maître d. came over, as much to oggle me than to bring my dress. We granted him our finest smiles.
I mulled that I should be entitled to visit Cecile who had been somewhat elusive since she owned a new toy fairy. I didn’t care to clothe to run back home, it amused Oona. Downthere on the way, we saw the wonder telepathes at work in pace with the metronome; I thought I knew their magic well, and there, having not noticed us, they threaded the flimsiest gossamer duo ever, Oona was awestruck but we kept silent. I wouldn’t know if they, too, had scattered their bodies and souls in the general effusion.
Upthere, Kate was lagging in be with Daphné, whom I had seen gracefully naughty with distinguished stags. I blew them kisses.
we slid on simple knickers and sweatsuits, Oona wore a big silver 0% against turquoise blue on her chest; she fitted in our sneakers. I would hardly take a rebuff, but I called Cecile to ask if she would willingly see us; she gleefully said than Lorénie was sitting for Cyprien and they wouldn’t shun an audience like us.
I had espied a bit of the girl she kept in hiding, Oona liked her, too. There she lay in a slightly indecent pose, one leg folded up, onne hand cupping her qum, the other over her head. She was pale an willowy, her hands and feet tapered. Cecile called for a pause and brewed coffee and tea, fetched a pack of snappy biscuits. Lorénie was freed to stretch out and walk; she stood beautifully straight and she would probably catch the eye of the dancers. After a few moves, she did an easy handstand, I foresaw somersauts and backflips on the dance floor.
Cecile had brushed up her espresso curls, she swayed her hips way more than in the club. She invited Oona for a dance, telling her to pledge even less than 0%. The air was a most ballabile French Suite of Bach’s. Cecile and I were moved like cherry trees, Cyprien wept. Cecile rummaged in a drawer of her stuff, then she knelt down and caught one of Oona’s feet to clasp a golden charms anklet to it.
Before such a mellow mood, Cyprien called it a day but bargained the promise that the nymphets pose together on the morrow, there was a thin chance they would not. A hunch took me that Hugo had not feasted his eyes last night and might wonder how come; so I proposed we offer him dinner in his lair and introduce the new breed of shakti girls, as the unwritten etiquette went. Kate and Daphné might also like to join, parties with the landlord were never sad.
Hugo didn’t think twice before rejoicing to my proposition; yes, he had felt a tittle forsaken at first, but then he had called Sami who had sent a pretty nigh jailbait only just vetted. He teased me with that he could also introduce her in the dovecote, she had entertained him with a singular tale.
We moved upstairs, all cuddled up in the lift car. Oona, inebriated in Lourénie’s scent, proposed to re-christen her as Lou. I gave a thought to Apollinaire’s epistolary romance I promised to ask Fayelle to read for us. The wolf echo might have escaped my ingenuous compatriot, but she enthused when I spelled it for her, she said she kept a passion for Princess Mononoke.
Kate and Daphné were still wallowed in bed with a breakfast tray. They agreed to our idea. Agnete and Sanne had time to concoct some princely dinner, they knew our preferences better than ourselves. Scattered on the sofas, cuddling whoever was at hand, we summed up the legend of our mentor for the newcomers, who stood mum, a tad incredule. It would be a rare delight for Hugo to enlighten them in his own mental maze.
Cecile’s head over heels crush aside, Lou was just only washing ashore on Pleasure Island without Jiminy to cry fool. She had lived along the edges unscathed till then, she only might feel dizzy later, once she settle somewhere in these holy walls.
We had time, the tremours of last night barely appeased, the play would be that of courtesans and odalisks, we began with the harrowing wax where needed —I promised to take Oona to the laser treatment very soon, Lou wanted in, too— the pricey body oils in mutual massages, and the bright enamels to the nails.

Then, we would choose from our rich collection of lounging gowns, most of which are Hugo’s gifts, vintage Uzbek Ikat silk robes, heavy satin kimonos that would slide slowly down the shoulder, linon déshabillés fluttering around a quivering young skin, the infinite genre of one-minded fineries, if not the Emperor’s new robe, as the tale goes. Oona is again flabbergasted at the wealth of our vestiary. I have to reassure her that she is not yet in a lifeway so as to spend at whim on frivolities, though sartorial creativity is indeed a serious concern. I will doll her up until she tires of it. Meanwhile, she stashes her rightfully deserved rewards in a private safe and keeps away from any addiction, alcohol being the fiercest because it lies rampant freely.
Oona would wear candid and fresh honeysuckle, Lou a timid masquerade of violets after the rain, Daphné the incest of muguet and roses. Kate exhaled of sacred marsh lily, and Oona has chosen for me the souvenir of a wisteria dawn.
Hugo was overjoyed to see our dainty bare feet upon his precious Tabriz rugs, and the simple knots to our belts. In the foyer, he was proud to show us a recent acquisition of a collection of Mughal erotic paintings on silk, in repoussé gilt metal frames. He said he relished the lilac circles to our eyes evoking last night’s abandons. He did not mention that the Ikat chapans we wore were gifts of his, he discovered the fresh faces of Lou and Oona; he had met Daphné before, it showed in the span of a marked baisemain; she wore a bellflower blue and marigold yellow twirls Ikat robe already gaping on her slight breasts. She was recaling some episode; she blushed. Lou was less bedraggled in a smooth silk indigo waves printed kimono which moulded her loins. Oona was terrified —she told me that later— in the poppy red and mint green silk Ikat chapan robe that waved about her gracile waist.
I garnered my share of grazing on my lower belly, under the shimmering night blue silk panne robe I didn’t care to keep shut. Kate stood languidly in the fluttering array of embroidered linon and lace veils of a rich cocotte’s déshabillé that cost half a day’s work ironing.
On the side tables in the corners of the salon’s three sofas burst armfuls of crimson peonies in repoussé silver buckets, embalming the room with their heady scent. On the large kilim-clad low table were silver trays with Agnette and Sanne’s edible prowesses. Hugo sat besie each of us to help with our plates, and ease out our belts. As foreseeable, his desire was bulging under the long white shirt he wore in a gold embroidered purplish silk velvet gown. He said he did not feel wanting about our grand orgy compared to the scene we were offering him.
On the peach-fuzz colour moiré walls hung a pair of unpublishable lberto Vargas nudes with meticulous details, two Lev Tchistovsky gorgeously languid sleeping hetairas, a large explicit brothel scene by Winterhalter with dashing little vulvas amidst shiny satin creases, and a frankly reprehensible embrace between a debagged uniformed dragoon and a hitched up distraught girl by Mihaly Zichy we had savoured in Cecile’s workshop.
About the matter of sexual submission, our new lorettes had not endured it long enough to be left morally maimed, the worse of their trauma had occured long before, whatsoever; was it then some manner of wild therapy to retell some random episodes they had lived through, undecided between good and evil? It was obvious that reviving those moments they had willingly not erased from their memories aroused them. Bar the accident that had eventually led her to the madhouse, of which she didn’t recall much, Kate revelled in the affective word salad of border sado-masochism they played together, at the expense of many a lout left pants-down at one moment or another. She avowed that she had craved being literally given away to the unknown by a rich dominator who finished badly, anyhow. I felt compelled to help morally my long soul-mate, not rekindling any ember of the Victor conflagration she had survived. I knew she was on the path to darn the voids in the gossamer membrane her brother and her had sheltered in during their exceptional childhood, I hunched the return of Cynthia —Who had been Kate’s triangular girlfriend in high school while she still slept with her brother— was giving her some defusing wisdom as to her unpredictable haywire impulses.
Long before our plates were empty, Hugo took us all on a tour of his undefinite maze, capsizing one or the other upon the sundry beds we encountered in the savant penumbra of his cavern. Having literally tasted each one with meticulous delectation, visited every youngling’s mouth with ahis imperious firebrand, Oona offered her spread legs under Mr Finch’s shivering giant moths ceiling. We couldn’t think better than preparing the other twos at the tip of our tongues, as we knew the Sultan’s quasi-limitless resources.