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 Adele.
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 Adele 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 to Speck’s with her, 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, snuck 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 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, 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, already dreaming. 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. She couldn’t let go of an awestruck Sofia on the grey velvet seat of her chauffeured gliding salon car.
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, showing 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.
Finlan and Mathurin had heard an unusual sonority on their way to the pool, 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 Finlan only gazed at the new wonder girl for a few seconds. 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 as 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 Adele 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 Adele 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. Adele 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 Adele 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 resting 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, Adele 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 aeons 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 cosiest 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 for 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-lashed oriental animals that sluts as we exasperate, a panther that devoured my mouth before I could think of resisting him. I asked him if he would rape me, and he said no with a cute Levantine accent, but I would serve him like all the men in the house, like a coveted 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 release 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.
Adele 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, Adele 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 Mendelsohn’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 Mendelsohn 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 Mendelsohn 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 Mendelsohn 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 Mendelsohn’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 Mendelsohn’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 Mendelsohn’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 Adele 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 Oona back 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. Daphné 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 caught a smile of Sasha’s revelling in front of a cherry maccaron 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 unknown to me, toffee blond short-nape styled and cute oat speckles, came to 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 Valkyrie. 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 about how I would revel in 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 ogle 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. Down there on the way, we saw the wonder telepaths 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 Lourénie 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 somersaults 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, and 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 little 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 spelt 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 incredulous. 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 only just washing ashore on Pleasure Island without Jiminy to cry fool. She had lived along the edges unscathed until then; she might feel dizzy later, once she settles 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 a candid and fresh honeysuckle scent, Lou a timid masquerade of violets after the rain, Daphné the incest of muguet and roses. Kate exhaled of sacred marsh lily; Oona had chosen for me the souvenir of a wisteria dawn. and Cecile wore a tweedy manner of British Cologne like she were nude in a biker jacket.
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 chapan gowns we wore were gifts of his; he discovered the fresh faces of Lou and Oona, acknowledging each their bonds to Cecile and I.  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 recalling some episodes; 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, which 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 came sit beside 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 Alberto 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 occurred 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 she 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 indefinite 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 and visited every youngling’s mouth with his 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.

After a tender, refreshing episode in the bathroom, he keenly wanted to see us in the newly installed frenzied mirror room by Stephen Cavallo, entirely clad, floor to ceiling, with bespoke pressed and polished mirror glass mouldings and slabs, reflecting a ghostly and playful image of our fragile nudities. A grand boat bed upholstered and tufted in fish grey mohair velvet was large enough for us all in one embrace. It wouldn’t surprise Kate or myself that he would craftily achieve at buggering gentle Lou in Cecile’s very arms, til the proper deep ending. In the flurry shapes that we projected in the infinite ceiling, I could fantasise about a deliciously sinful response to the utmost delirious jesuitic baroque efflorescences.
The ensuite water room added the tour de force of an oval layout with an encased window at an angle on Alfred’s garden —Gauthier’s team must have used virtual modelling to build a replica in New York, where the mirrors were cast. The palladium-plated plumbing in vegetal shapes did not offend the overall design; it could have been set aboard the Nemi ships —Hugo savoured the compliment, albeit he loathed the Roman eroticism and their use of slaves.
We paused for refreshments in the Moroccan-style salon surrounded with low sofas tucked with silk rugs, the walls clad of vivid-coloured geometric ceramics, the intricately worked cedar ceiling exhaled a warm spell and rich openwork chiselled silver potpourris the soul of roses and jasmine. Hugo fetched a heavy purple shagreen box in which he picked up three bejewelled gold anklets that he clipped to whichever foot they would hold out to him. He loved this manner of gratuitous gestures towards the women he played with —we, elders, already owned enough of them to adorn a Xmas tree. He listened to more of the intertwined stories of the two wrecked runaways only woes had ever sought after —and whom he had just tumbled— on the furthest imaginable shores of utter luxury. Under his eyes, I kept cuddling Oona, just as Cecile did with Lou, to ward off whatever thought would swerve into sad self-conscience. Daphné, who wouldn’t ever forget the words she had been told lately, in view of Capri Island, was enlaced with Kate in the far corner, visibly not worried either about the new muses’ future welfare.
Now understandably satiated, he told the damsels it was entirely to us, elders, to arrange their fate the manner they wished. Furthermore, they would meet a lively battalion of their fellow creatures to hear them reckon their way of life among us. Money was no longer the matter. We didn’t try and skip the trivialities of the threshold, which oftentimes contain the hidden gist of what met souls may eventually happen to share. Hugo was a grand Master of such clairvoyance —commensurate with the hospitability of his bed, mind you.
As Oona wanted to sleep along with Lou, I followed them to Cecile’s bed, under the frantic eyes of the God Crow’s homunculus. The bed smelled of warm kittens.
Alfred might have been calling for hours when I collected myself from Tycho’s garden on Ven Island, where the crimson crows had flown me. I spoke Danish in Oona’s ear to ask about her night, and she mumbled in the same Nordisk parlance that I had been speaking naughty in my sleep. She was cuddled back against me. I hardly wanted to move, but I needed the loo. She came taunting me, pissing upright in the shower, I joined her for a wakeup drizzle as Lou watched, unsure she wanted to join. As usual, Cecile had snuck away earlier.
I relished the morning tableau of unkempt little brats watching me do breakfast. Lou could tell Alfred was a blackbird; she asked about the God Crow, hence, I recounted the few I knew of the legend, and also how it had appeared before Cecile’s bed, and the suspicion we had that the edgy-looking homunculus in the throat of the wide open double beak concealed some camera for Lauritz to watch Cecile’s romps with other lovers.
Kate and Daphné dawdled by, drawn by the sweet aroma of French toast in the pan. Daphné didn’t wear a thing. The girls pulled a chair between theirs and began stealthily fondling her before diving into their phones’ news of the day. Kate yawned to me that she would be joining Simon on the other bank for a couple of days; I didn’t ask for further details of their complicated life. She had been more serene lately.
Yes, we would go shopping in the afternoon, but I wanted to spend time in the studio, where they could, by any chance, read us the legend of the God Crow. Only, Gauthier supervened. He ought to speak with our later foundlings about options for their dwellings if they chose to stay with us, which he showed he personally hoped for. Taking Lou on his lap with condoned wandering hands, he evoked how he was in charge of the firm’s acquisitions into the close neighbourhood easily connected to the subterranean playgrounds. He proposed we ask for a visit to Rose and Adele to see the gist of what could be done for them, too.

However, a message from downstairs reminded the two windfall sparrows that Cyprien was ready, waiting for them to pose enlaced on the crimson sofa, as promised. Keen to keep their word, they slid into random sweatsuits and ran. Therefore, I wasn’t so sure where Gauthier was taking Daphné to, but she smiled. I envisioned a tranquil day in the studio.
I let my phone live anyway, which earned me a lively conversation with Liselotte while scribbling loose across my pad. She complimented me about taking the running orphans in our wings, although I conceded it had much to see with Camille’s dedication to forlorn innocent kids. She mused about our past together, rather well-to-do, misplaced animals in the wild cats’ pit and the number Kate, and I did to ward them off in their despise of lesbians, and that, too, had been the doing of Camille, with whom I had been living for some time, and eventually installed us both at Hugo’s. Liselotte concluded that she had plenty of schemes involving the newcomers, but first, I had an idea to bring them to Speck’s.
Cecile called later. The darlings had not forgotten about the shopping tour. We could take them to the Bon Marché for a gentle spree and then to Speck’s in their full grown-girl capacity.
The car, with the suited exotic driver, was hired for the evening. We made a nifty stop at Stubbs & Wooton, I had the urge to play spoiling Auntie watching them try on these extravagant embroidered velvet slippers, beyond all seduction codes for pricey hirelings. The attendant was a tad taken aback when I flashed my limitless card to afford the pile of boxes to go, and the authorisation did not take minutes. They kept on, Lou, the deep blue velvet ones with jellyfish filaments, Oona, the mole-grey ones with silver blue siding chrysanthemums, and they appeared so precious, suddenly, without the trying socks. Cecile had a bend for their petit point Carpaccio style. I fell for the new Colefax & Fowler bouquets on pigeon-blue velvet. But we, big birds, did not flaunt them yet; we were on the warpath, jeans, ankle boots, and a shabby chic army jacket, Perfecto, tee shirts.
We left some attendants bewildered in the Boucicaut emporium, judging by our looks. But a younger one grasped the taste of our attitude and sniffed out we were not fooling around. Visibly as much awe-stricken as ourselves when the kittens disrobed in the fitting room, she showed flair, proposing some black-sequined fitted jacket and tight shorts which made Lou an instant sensation with fishnets and see-thru blouse —and she earned a pass to misplace her hands kindly. Although she showed no more boobs than I, Oona made an impression in a Bardot marinière probably not intended to be worn alone, was it?
Neither of our girls had ever figured out a venue like this one, however, they learned the trick really fast. Cecile beat me to the cashier with a card I had not seen yet. The total, with sundry whimsical fineries, was plush, and so was the gratuity for the helping girl whom I wouldn’t let slip my mind. Some bellboy helped carry our loot to the waiting car in the back street. The kids were left sort of breathless, not even imagining how to thank us. I cleared my throat to bolster that we were the rich ones repaying for their candid ingenuousness, and we did not expect submission, except for kinky gameplays, eventually. As we pampered to go, the girls ignored nought of what we would be doing of ourselves at Cecile’s affluent boyfriend’s, but Lou joshed that they had worked the lorry parks, not so long ago. I reassured them we would play in teams, for a start; clients would pay for that, too.
Udo Wenzel awaited us on the landing, and his eyes twinkled like a Tex Avery wolf’s on our thighs, but something held him back from pushing Lou towards the red curtains of his private booth. That meant Lauritz was in the house. Having hung our evening trenches, we walked into the grand salon, eager to capture the twitches of emotion on the darlings’ faces. Indeed, they were kind of wide-eyed, and I kept Oona to my wing while Cecile recounted to Lou how I had hit on her while she was restoring the chandelier, standing up on a scaffolding in full work attire and safety goggles.
Nonchalantly, we sailed towards the buffet table by the tall windows to the sound of real cool jazz piano played by some lanky blond musician hidden in his long hair streams. I wore only a night blue double-breasted blazer with satin pointed lapels, strict veil holdup stockings, and patent leather black pumps with a grosgrain band. When I asked, Oona said I looked expensive. In the mole mohair velvet armchairs, the clients stopped conversations as we went for nibbles and drinks.
It was the returning Swedish admiral who was first at groping our buttocks. He smelled of Tonka Cologne and had a good breath. He guessed I would come along with that irresistible new niece of mine with no undies. Only time to finish the elderberry lemonade, and we followed him.

It was a fourth-floor room with a river view, hence the ballet of lights across the ceiling when a tourist barge passed on down. It was set in timeless beige and marron glacé velvet subdued elegance, except for a striking Armand Albert Rateau’s black and gold screen depicting the garden of Eden I had admired in Cecile’s workshop when she had refreshed it.
He asked if that was my little sister, and I retorted in my kind of Swedish that Oona was a windfall of a Finn cousin. He was overjoyed and hitched up the marinière at once, uncovering her gracile nudity. Against my fears, she was shrewd in answering the dirty daddy’s questions while he fondled our quims and asked that we make out before him, at what we obeyed keenly. He transported her to the greige quilted-satin covered bed’s edge, telling me to lick her sweet brooklet while he forced his stake into her mouth holding her head, albeit not that cruelly, and she had endured worse in lorries back bunks. He gushed sensibly fast, ensuring that she gulped the whole spoonful, like the toddler his cod liver oil.
Like the seasoned seaman —or the modern pill-popper old rake— he changed sides to come and bugger me before I could call the Swiss Navy to help, but I knew where to fetch it in the bedstand drawer. He told Oona to topple around and offer me her wide-spread thighs. I knew his merciless chuck already that humped deep in my womb, he had probably feared to unleash its might in the lesser slits of a younger body. He was straight and long, if not too broad, and he gave me more than one climax while I knew how to make Oona exult.
And he was a cunning regular, so while we caught our breath, he rang for the waiter for some Champagne and other drinks, also for him to ogle us, and agree to give help. While he told me to straddle his indefatigable rod, which I toggled in my vagina, he ordered Oona to undress the boy who offered a considerable, circumcised dick she did not shy from seizing and wanking like in the old times quickies. But seeing that, the Commodore told him to shag the girl any old way, using the lubricant not to break her, and I knew she would not baulk at that.
I wouldn’t tell if he spurted another once in me, but he gallantly brought me to yet another orgasm. The waiter did as told front and rear, cuddled Oona shily, grabbed his togs to the bathroom, pocketed his tip, and ran out. The big fish wanted a bath with us. The bathroom was all clad in brushed red copper, and the tub was hammered in the same metal. He couldn’t tire of fingering our slits, but having exhausted what a pill could let him. He had been in service a few times in Rannikkoprikaati, he knew a bit of kinky slang. We rubbed him dry and helped him tidy himself up. The tip was fat, but I explained to Oona that the actual reward would appear much bigger on her card account. We left the stash under the lamp’s foot, for the cleaners of our debauchery.
Back down, Udo, who couldn’t help fondling Oona’s butt in deft legerdemain, told us we were expected in Lauritz’s private apartment. On the upper floor, the lights were muffed, and it smelled of hashish. The three of them lay wallowed on the wide silk divan, waiting for the next flight of phantasmagorical projection of the passing boats’ lights through the quay trees’ foliages. We undressed and joined them. The THC in the vape wasn’t scarce; it kicked me back to the mental adventures in Victor’s staggering hallucinarium —when I would find young Beryl in bed with me in the end.
Lou snuggled up with Oona, who had never drawn on a vape. I took hold of them, too, with enough self-awareness; I remembered such trips spinning out of control and ending in shivering angst. Cecile lay cuddled up on the maidens’ feet, she murmured slowly that they had what was needed in case of a wrong take-off.
Lauritz was roving on the high seas with owl-like gazes, but he asked me to pump him back to life, if ever. He wasn’t too long to show he liked me, but it was Oona he wanted. She was already dumbstruck, adrift at everybody’s hands, giggling like a baroque angel. She willingly parted her thighs when he pulled them gently within the chaotic embrace. She swooned with the knight’s spear deep in her already prepared bumhole, Cecile nibbling at her toes, Lou sucking her tits, and I, twirling tongues in our mouths.
We woke long after the boats had moored far away. It smelled of stables, I found myself enlaced with Lou under an unending shower in a round azulejos-clad room I had not yet seen. The thought of Oona loomed through the haze. I found her snuggled against Cecile’s bosom, morally exhausted but still in one piece, and she smiled at me feebly.
The air was fair, but we weren’t dressed for a walk; the taxi brought us home in no time. Lauritz had fled; Cecile took Lou to the workshop, and Oona needed to sort thoughts out. She spread raspberry marmalade on the French toast. Alfred’s aubade made a smidgen more sense.

Given the price she had heard, she wouldn’t wear her new slippers for the daily shuffles, so she had wrapped them back in the tissue in the box. She could spare her new things in the vacant Fayelle’s room and continue to wear my distressed tracksuits that fit her apple-firm butt. It was a tad overwhelming morning for her, she gazed around differently. First, she had verified she was notably richer, and she conceived a new idea of the Swedish marine. She told me she could now sense another zeitgeist in our decor, she wondered if we had been regular users of psychedelic stuff and such.
As for myself, I explained I had experienced almost every non-addictive drug out there, documented in the cool press, during the mad years Kate and I became close, at the Beaux Arts and Camille’s gallery L’ Etoile Amusée. As fiercely had I been scarred by early consumption of alcohol, along with my brother’s buddies in Denmark’s sands, ending in a despicable gang rape, never, up to now, had I regretted these punctual mind-expanding trips, although I would not recount that to my Far.
She nodded. She had a sad recall when some john she had been sold to had injected her with his poison mix and left her crawling on a bed soaked with piss. I joshed it had served her a useful lesson in the first degree. Kate had been eavesdropping; she said she could tell an even much direr story, which I had rescued her from, and then she shrugged off and I knew why. Daphné was still drowsy; she didn’t need to know what we talked about. Lou bragged we had been to Speck’s, how luxurious it was to get shagged in there; Kate sniggered and told her they could go anytime, too; Daphné almost lived in the place, it was a haunt for old boys; Oona recounted about our burly Swedish Admiral, and we all laughed.
Gauthier came to take us on a tour of different possible installations for Oona and Lou. Then he would take them to the most exclusive end of the maze to meet Mr M. and his possibly inordinate requests. On the other side of the back landing, past Adele and Rose’s door, was that other one he fetched the keys to. It opened on a disorderly suite of bare rooms that he told them could be made into a comfortable two-bedroom apartment if they chose to cohabitate, as he had sussed. The windows gave onto yet another off-white province of Alfred’s realm, with only friendly vis-à-vis. Gauthier flirted openly with the girls as he fired up suggestions for the layout of their eventual home. He dwelled one flight up in the next building.
We would soon learn Melchior had taken them to some idyllic villegiatura in a wingbeat. I climbed up to the studio, brewed some more tea, and hitched up my feet on the table to browse my inbox. Julia Grant had arrived at the Brighton Palace with her twin nephews; they expected us for dinner. I answered a heartfelt yes, not knowing who I might bring on with. I spoke with Adele, who did not refuse some pro bono palace adventure to the sound I gave her of the terrific twins, and Rose agreed. The dress code was urban mellow.
Adele wore a pistaccio green varsity jacket patched with a big white and red WILD on the back, a white tee shirt, maroon moleskin shorts, white socks and black patent oxfords. Rose went in a peachy taffeta shirt dress mid-butt, skin-tone yoga shorts, and mauve Chuck Taylors. I was nude in an alpaca rib-knit jumper dress and black lace-up boots. The taxi embalmed like a duty-free shop. The nippers dreamt of New York City.
Floodlit on the Avenue, the Brighton extended its clear ashlar stone facade against the mellowing dusk, the city around still bustling. We weren’t the first rich brats the concierge saw storm in the lobby. He addressed us in English, Ms Grant occupied a high-floor suite, as always. The lift boy said nought but his gaze glittered in the mirrors, Adele noticed.
Paramore blasted through the TV system. Julia kissed us in the foyer, after shouting for some quiet. Soon after, the two unkempt barefoot Katzenjammer twins stood at attention, full of playful remembrances, and ogling the Parisian new recruits. They behaved all the most gently, ushering us into a salon overlooking old Paris roofs. They had spent a year in Lausanne learning administrative French, so they spoke out of phase with their offhanded bodily attitude, though they hadn’t yet overtly disrobed.
My old school captain had always possessed a knack for steering souls with a freethinking balance attuned to Saint Loup principles and the moral toolbox of good Prof. Achenbach.
Julia ordered tea, and now, the indistinguishable twins both held hands with one of my maids of certain honour. They added abruptly that, having done the maths, they had also invited two other American postgraduates to the Sorbonne they totally vouched for, more or less implying we, elders, would accommodate the strangers while they entertained the youth. And conveniently, Rose’s dress buttons were being released, revealing the daunting tip of her living marvel, while the monkey’s paw was testing the elasticity of Spandex.

She had gotten over with the circus freak sensation a mad Britton had wanted to be inscribed in her skin forever. We all had spent wholehearted hours convincing her that, whatsoever, the damned piece of graphic creation she bore upon her did not deface her, though it did not hamper seeing the gracile animal through it. She let the twins drop their jaws, and she could see the immediate bulging of their trousers. Julia couldn’t help grazing. Hugo had provided a salve to enhance the truly uncommon quality of the living masterpiece.
Adèle was used to be left overlooked when Rose appeared in full, but she remained the treasure we had abducted from the sleazy Milanese backstage. I undressed her in the sunset light so that the twins stopped fighting for Rose. The other two accomplices knocked at the door, I couldn’t help being gobsmacked when I saw the two hunky black players already all smiles at the sight of our indecency. Julia was overjoyed seeing me gape in awe. They spoke perfect French, with a dash of Newyorkese accent I relished as much as the delicate but firm manner one of them called Javon seized me and made me feel his dick on my belly. The other one had no better choice than to seize Julia.
The twins danced their way to the adjoined bedroom, holding their catches, enlaced. I soon found myself kneeling between Javon’s legs, wrestling to pull down his fly zipper. It wouldn’t be my first African experience, but I wished Julia carried some lubricant in her bags. Since I had first met the twins in the Majestic’s art-packed apartment, no time had ever been wasted til proper fornication when we saw each other, and Auntie Julia had abode by this modus as far as no one was hurt physically or morally.
Eructations and laughs rose from the bedroom, Jason kept trying my throat’s depth at a gracious pace, and Julia was foraged in by a merciless truncheon, in the suave gradient to another promising night. It felt like we all exulted together in a frenzied chorus, suddenly aware of stains on the old gold lampas of the seats. In true palace style, the bathroom felt as big as the rest of the suite, and the eight of us reshuffled our pairings, Javon and Randell instantly rekindled for the candid faunesses, and I was ready to play double with the twins while Julia helped wherever she could. They granted me a wholesome lecture in quantum physics.
The hotel vaunted its vegan salads on its website; we cleared the bulk of our ravages and ordered avocados, cashews and mushrooms in lots of green. There were only two peignoirs in the bathroom.
Visibly, the princesses had had their fill of romping. We promised there would be other festivities at our place and that we would advertise their team. In the taxi back home, they stretched like kittens. We went downstairs for a sauna and massaged each other, blissfully.
As I brewed tea, Oona and Lou returned from their visit to higher places and further Gauthier’s sneaky hideouts, radiant and fulfilled. They would share a four-room planet in which they could also harbour another friend if needed. They had heard the mission given to Gauthier to make things urgently. Also, they would fly to Mustique the next evening. They had shagged at least three of Gauthier’s assistants before Mr M’s eager eyes; they smelled of iris and lotus; I nuzzled into Oona’s armpit. They took me to the shelter of the God Crow, where I recounted our American challenge and they begged me to introduce them.
Cecile appeared in the dead of night, as raddled as us. Lauritz had celebrated a cousin of his, Leonard von Gildensturm, at Speck’s, who had taken a taste for her, rather than all the back street nymphets he had been offered to ride. He had been a surefire bugger time and again, pestering Lauritz to sell her to him, at a possibly extravagant price. While Lauritz wouldn’t let go of her, she had come to fear for her life, although Lauritz never relented the high hand and whispered in her ear that Leo was out of his game, anyhow, and she should only use him for as long as it pleased her. Udo had helped her flee.
We slept like a sated brood of puppies. When I awoke, Cecile had gone, and the kids lay enlaced. After a stop in the privy, under Alfred’s boisterous congratulations, I made breakfast wearing nought, for the air was balmy. I did not remember if it was a Sunday morning, so I fetched my telephone.
A very recognizable message confirmed that my protégées would fly to Mustique that evening and did not need more luggage than a basic overnight bag. This probably implied the Caribbean climate and some shopping opportunities along the trip if they let him play dolls on them. Gauthier surprised me in my best costume. He would concoct apartment layouts with the spoiled brats when they would come awake.
I wasn’t merely proud that he took a fancy to my buttocks and kissed my neck while I reached for his fly in my back; he was his same old copper-headed playboy. He couldn’t force me in his preferred way, but he slid at once into my morning coochie, pushing me over the table at the risk of knocking the teapot over.

Legs parted, on tiptoes, I adjusted accurately to his ruthless push, unfazed by his offhanded whim. No wonder the sweet brats came to leer upon us, and cheered when I collapsed amid breakfast. They hadn’t dressed either, and they battled to suck the master’s dick clean while I went to rinse myself while Alfred kept mum. Gauthier was man enough to clutch me to his wing and soothe the shreds of my emotion.
Upon that, I had the blissful honour of announcing the girls’ holidays. I could detail all that we had revelled in the exclusive paradise of Mr M.’s villa, not omitting the men in black. Neither girl had ever flown private without the airport chores. Hurricane season had not yet begun, and anyhow, the house was built on spacious cellars. It was visible that Gauthier had shagged both lately; he hurried them to come to visit their workings; men were already at work. They threw on tee shirts, shorts, and sneakers, losing nought of their appeal.
Julia and the nephews could barge in at any time, so I put on a royal blue spandex bodysuit with a slim pantyliner and climbed up to the studio. Alfred had taken a bath in the sundry fountains Cecile and neighbours maintained for birds in their yards. They rang around midday. Now, I could open the door from my telephone. They were bringing a big vermillion box of macarons, and decidedly, the twins relished the touch of spandex. They wore the bohemian seaman attire, short-sleeved sunbleached cotton shirts and string-tied slacks with distressed Chuck Taylors. They reminded me of some Mustique crews, and I told myself I wouldn’t see the girls goodbye.
Julia wore a sunlight-blare, crumpled-flared skirt and a marigold singlet with Navajo jewelled flat sandals. She boasted of a smidgen more breasts than I, she hadn’t put on a chink of weight since our halcyon days on the lake shore. She was proud to see an extensive section about Amerindian art in our copious library, and she nodded at the dozen Kashina dolls on a high shelf, aligned like Lares gods watching over us when we worked; she said one of them was a rarity, to what I replied we could consider a donation if she asked.
Perched in my Aeron seat, I was already in the hands of the twins, but I had another idea. I told them about the new subterranean playground with a pool and herds of disinhibited youth. However, I warned that not everyone down there lived on the binary grid, and it was preferable not to make their lives more difficult than they already were. Anyhow, in the pool, there were no surprises as to whom you were talking to. The twins said they oftentimes went to a club in Queens with an LGBTQ-welcome nude swimming pool indoors, and they had learned the whole shebang painlessly, albeit they would rather relish tomboys my kind.
They approved of the up-to-date gym, then they were stuck by the two gracile dancers practising in the buff with their coach, a slender black man in grey yoga pants. They kept quiet, yawning in awe. Julia murmured to ask who owned this venue. Josephine and Emeline needed concentration, thus I steered my guests down to the pool, where a handful of the TRÆVIX angels rollicked afloat.
Apolline and Elvire, here at home, wouldn’t shun cis guests; it might happen that Gauthier bring on educated collaborators for a bit of fun, and it had never turned sour. Obviously, Dagmar, lazing on a chaise longue, electrocuted their neurons, as Trine’s tight buttocks also did when she emerged, interested.
Nude in a wink, I helped them disrobe, not avoiding flattering their taut membra, like a naughty tease, for everyone to see they were civilised partners. Dagmar took a dive, the angels didn’t shy away, Natalia and Cecile, updated in the private chatroom, joined the lustful bash. When the dancers wouldn’t keep away any more, there would be a shortage of dicks, unless Fulgence and Erik quit their job early.
As for now, it would seem the Grant boys had traded their interest in tomboys for the sylphic allure of Dagmar, teaming up to catch her in the water, and it looked like it was not a first. She certainly didn’t cry for help, however, and soon found herself moored port and starboard. Trine joshed that the water would be soiled for a few hours, then, and Julia might enjoy a visit upstairs on TRÆVIX, side, wouldn’t she?
No doubt she would. We left the otters frolic and guided Julia to the most exclusive salon in Paris, should one abide by a certain libertine elegance. Would she abide by the indigenous customs? I had participated in some furious bacchanals on her terrasses over Central Park, for that matter.
This whole happenstance had not been staged, but anyhow, the TRÆVIX grandiose and secure lifestyle condoned such impromptu waywardness, provided none of the chosen graces be hurt, morally or emotionally. Michelle’s soul hovering in the metaverse of global finance, she keeps, hobeit, a minute awareness of her empire’s polyamorous harmony.

Delff had been back at Michelle’s feet. I supposed Sasha was now all set by themselves in their corner of the cobweb, aboard their own quantum galaxy. They didn’t rush to meet my captain; they were on their turf. Meanwhile, Apolline and Elvire had put Julia’s tolerance to the test by casually dawdling by in the nude of their singularity, only to garner candid gazes and conversation. We had already had our nonbinary dandys in Saint Loup.
We had nonetheless merely draped our modesty for the formal visit of the outstanding TRÆVIX palace. Julia had heard the quirky genesis of that name before. Now, the four corners of the front yard were haunted by potent psyches, the mystifying golden orange tree sent by Victor in a last otherworldly bow, the all-victorious dancing Nana by Nikki de Saint Phalle, a gilded bronze lifesize copy of Isamu Noguchi’s Undine, and a five-meter high gilded column by Constantin Brancusi. New in the foyer with the striking black and white marble rosace on the floor, nested in the curve of the grand staircase, a pristine white marble life-size nude slave girl in chains by Albert-Ernest Carrier-Belleuse, opposite a copy of Jean-Baptiste Carpeaux La Danse.
The two house fairies played out the proximity of these unthinkable marvels in a private home ever so finely, and Julia was already reconsidering her appraisal of Michelle’s might before we entered the reception rooms. What is that place? She mutters low, as the two forever adolescents sway their hips with pride. Upon a black lacquered oval presentation table are displayed sundry silverware masterpieces, prestigious centrepieces, salt cellars and pepper mills, and ewers, all with a common vocabulary of concealed pornography, from the French Régence to the Belle Epoque, a silver and gold toy-brothel of sorts.
While Julia wondered about a tad more light, so Apolline went to the switch of the cloudlike white gold foliages and porcelain flowers chandelier, Elvire was hitting on me, ostensibly grazing my hip with her butt, which I did not ignore. The remote trans girl we had taken among us with heaps of precautions had quietly thawed in the company of other midair creatures, under Natalia’s stealthy watch. She —as her preferred pronoun went— under the light-handed guidance of Cynthia, and thus probably some work with a vetted psychologist, she had cut a fringe to cast sideways glances as she had seen us do. I did not deter my draw to her while Julia was captivated by the trove of inspired craftsmanship; we made out like schoolgirls, and she had that properly unorthodox erection for me. Furthermore, in that course of events, Delff arrived, exquisitely dressed in a primrose yellow Spandex bodysuit, as ebullient as ever, which whipped up my want to pull Elvire to the guests’ powder room and its quaint little salon. As Natalia had told me, Elvire’s reassignment had been undertaken in due time, and none of the unwelcome secondary markers of puberty had yet started; her body was slick and smooth like a Canova angel, and, like Delff, she boasted a valiant little spur she craved to dip in my brooklet or elsewhere, albeit she did not offer labia and vagina in lieu of her tiny testicles. She smelled of almond and coumarin, her hands were swift and thoughtful, her feet slender with long toes. On that familiar little sofa, I drove her to play her boyish part in my still-rested kitty to prove that size is not all, and our embrace transported me back to my snug little room in Saint Loup. As a reward, I asked her to lap my clit, in which she demonstrated all her savoir faire, enhanced by novelty.
After a brief cat’s toilet, we smelled a tad beastly, but she didn’t want to budge from my bosom, and she made herself flimsily breathable; thus, I wouldn’t think of breaking the cloud we hovered in. She wondered how disappointed I would be, for she had watched me straddle merciless riders the likes of Serguei with breathless fervour. With long twirlings in her pearled mouth, I tried my best to convince her that I was anything but single-minded in my love life, as she had witnessed, too. I knew I was so lustfully convincing that she returned for another successful round in my willing kitty. I promised her she would always be welcome back, be it amidst the bustling brood of our bed.
In the shower, she could pee much further than I could. Her fluting laughs poured away heaps of old angst. I had a lukewarm thought for Elvire’s daddy, I wondered if Natalia still earned fortunes reading, in the nude, the Professor’s charades. I relished going along with her to Liselotte’s kinky arrangements. I asked Elvire if she would come with me and sell our debauchery to rich older men like her own. She retorted she didn’t have much to offer, so I taught her that most of the time, they wished nothing more from me, and I fondled her tight rosette, telling her that if she was ready for utterly complete libertinage, I might educate her on that slope. She kept pensively mum.

Julia looked relieved that I had come back with my happenstance fiancée, of whom Apolline had foretold her the mysteries, for good reason. Besides, given the conversation and the mellow waning daylight, Delff was graciously nude as she proposed a buffet in the silver room, echoing the distraught characters in Jin Ju Lee’s paintings and Sha Sha Higby’s warriors. The twins were logically distraught, and Dagmar was amused by the familiar pep of our undeniable pet polymath juggler.
My post on the virtual bulletin board had been duly noted, and it wouldn’t be unheard of an open house at TRÆVIX —for those the seamless security in the subterranean pathway would have vetted, or others whom Delff would have signalled at the street porch. The visit by my worldly school captain and her two hectic twin nephews was news enough.
However, Julia had fallen under Apolline’s spell, which I could certainly understand and knowingly cheer on. They soon eloped to some cuddly cloud. Camille sent a trove of chocolates and marzipan, and Cecile lace-paper platters covered with fresh tuiles, but she was half-hearted with the flight of her latest flame. The samovar boy brewed heavenly mocha and vintage Darjeeling tea. The telepaths had instantly wooed the twins, and they sat, in eggshell white silken leotards, barefoot, on the twins’s lap, at the round table in the silver room, a few buttons short of exacerbation, some fine smile wafting on their dreamy faces.
In the centre salon, a silver-and-gold Moon and Sun intertwined shield had taken its stand in the sublime gradient of the dawny skies. Some unknown short-haired hunker, probably picked in the next-door fauna, gave me the pang of a serious dick need, in short. He wasn’t shied when I fell next to him on the red sofa. We stuttered a bit, and we started in German, with a funny Schlewigisch hint in his voice, like some folks around Sylt, but he spoke perfect Yale English, too. Soon, his hands did most of the talking, and he called me “hübscher Wildfang”, which aroused him. Albeit the growing laisser-aller around us, I sensed he wouldn’t dare shag me publicly, though I was already nude and indecently posed, so I brought him, too, swiftly in that nifty privy box next to the toilets not everyone knew of —albeit I had a hunch it was being spied upon— under Elvire’s jaded glaze. Swen smelled of Zanzibar spices and was membered like a bull deer in September, with manners. His steel grey eyes feasted on my body like a toddler the birthday cake. I was frantically avid to seize his taut rod and stuff its ardent firebrand in my mouth. He growled and moaned like an expiring baboon, but that was not merely enough; manhandling my effusive carcass, he parted my legs so as to expand my octopussy womb drooling with exhilaration and, wresting his staff out of my throat, he shoved it exactly into my blooming interstice with measurely ardour my inner monkey enthused for, lashing out all the flux of my sparkling chakras. I wasn’t yet blackened out; in the corner of my eye stood Elvire in a shadowy shard, polishing her dear little pearl, to whom I would teach her lesson. Wiggling out my hips at a worse angle, I made it all the easier for my stag bull to bugger me, all drippy as he was. I could tell Elvire all the pleasure was mine. When I took in the long pouring of raw truth in depth, I was contorting like the kitten in flight, proud to show Elvire how to let be overcome herself my sneaky way.
Swen’s crisis was resolved. He mended my stray abattis and cuddled me upon his vigorous chest, then turned to Elvire, back to her near prostration, beckoning her to join us on the small sofa. I took her in my wing, revealing more of her tinkered nature to my full-blown stag who had just claimed me through and through. I reached for her snotty waning toy, not foreseeing the plain male reaction, but he wasn’t maddened, calling us secretive little brats, and did not loath to twiddle with her wet winnie, pinching her prepuce on and off, telling her he would crave shagging her too.
With his funny entomologist intonation, he explained that being a dedicated attorney at law, he forbade himself any such judgement as to decry the modern visibility of sexual nonconformity in some persons in total freedom, all the more when it went along with physical beauty, did he add like for himself.
Apolline, seasoned trans fairie and Elvire’s mentor was overjoyed when we returned, a bit unkempt, to the heated wilderness. They had proved their worth to either one of the twins and let him gently pant for more. Julia had frisked under Serguei’s moral whip and keenly panted for more. Fulgence found that I swaggered lewdlier than my best, and gave Elvire a feel of his spear before pulling her to one of the cosy loveseats around the silver room.
Swen still smelled enticing, so I kept him near. He broke out to me that he would be dying to see the legendary hostess, and I found that entertaining to bring him upstairs in such party disarray.

I looked for Delff and winked at them, I sussed she would relish bringing Michelle a chink of the debauchery that went on in her own home at her feet. It wouldn’t raise an eyebrow because she loved me and knew all about my polyamorous libertinage. Not letting Swen wear more than his trousers and an open shirt, I pulled him up the stairs, still in the raw, ready to woo the Aviatrix to roll down on her own rug in front of a full-fledged bull unable to ignore her tight little arse.
After a frantic moment when I spent my lewd ardour trying to make Swen lose his self-awareness, Delff, their kinky spur up, led us to find Michelle nude on her legendary futon tucked of vermillion percale, knelt beside Azul resting on an elbow, legs half-parted. Pushing up the gold-rimmed spectacles, she bantered that Swen was awkwardly attired and that he’d better show off his obvious emotion, to which I helped him kindly, and then I grabbed him from the back, cupping his prideful balls. Michelle inquired rapidly of his whereabouts in the firm and complimented him for making me so cheeky, then smiled to Delff who showed us out, holding his togs. He was shaking, coming back to his senses in a strike of self-consciousness, for he knew whom and what he had addressed.
Delff hummed something about being aware of what one wishes for, but they remained with us on a sofa in front of a large Dado’s lightly coloured nightmare, toying expertly with Swen’s jester’s bauble. He would certainly avoid retelling what he had endured at the arms of Tinker Bell and the Tomboy at the court of the bespectacled Queen, but for a couple of hours, I had never seen our whimsical little genie so inspired. When we reached a bathroom, we were glazed with jizz from toes to ears. The stag bull had earned our private numbers —and an awestriking souvenir of his real boss.
Cecile had reacquainted with Charlotte, and they had lured the twins to the attention of the God Crow. No sooner did Seresine show her candid face than she was hogged by a pair of young Cossacks she had merely smiled to, and disappeared in the depths of the palace, said Elvire to Natalia, who came to sleep with me.
In the morning, Alfred wondered if we were still alive. I found myself alone with the twins. Julia texted me, saying she was at her hotel and wondered about her nephews. Michelle sent an encrypted note saying I was still her best boy, but Delff would tweak a manner for her to steal my fiancé —Swen was on a slippery slope.
In my back, as I was brewing some Oriental Beauty, the duplicate brothers announced themselves in a whiff of Geranium Orange. Cecile had consistently disappeared, and Charlotte was recovering from their tender mischiefs. I realised that my tee shirt was too short to keep them ogling my buttocks and mumbling in their syncretic parlance. Now they relished my front side, and I sat down on my trouble. I wouldn’t lie that I saw an opportunity to grapple lustfully with both of them in private and lose with honours. Neither would they, at once playing footsie with me under the table, avowing they’d rather drink coffee. It was fair game, they would again feast their eyes on my butt while I set the percolator, and one stood to grope it and slowly pull off my shirt. I kept a fond memory of the first time they had shared me, in the Majestic; they made a peaceful pair around their prey, and they were lusty. I crouched to unbutton them and suck their already drooling dicks white they savoured the mocha. I knew the drill; between deep mouthfuls, I asked them to use the all-available Swiss Navy. I was handled with precise care, upturned and stretched like pizza dough, I could deliciously lose all control and finish filled with pure American semen.
From the doorstep, Charlotte had seen all, masturbating herself. She walked in casually and poured herself some tea, watching us wrecked across the sofas. She guessed there wouldn’t remain any cartridge for her before some time, and called me selfish, but she admitted she had known the double Grant whammy before, with fervour. Julia called up her troupe, and she guessed what had happened to me, owning me kudos for still being able to walk. They were flying home in the afternoon, she insisted we should return to her terrasses in the Indian Summer. When the culprits had left, Charlotte pestered me to retell how things had gone at Julia’s. Eventually, I told her we could invite Javon and Randell, the damning black cohorts the twins had summoned to their hotel on the first night, I had tasted some, and I promised she would have them both, as a top-magnitude slut. We climbed up to the studio, but I dozed out on the futon. She engineered to call on Fulgence and Erik and joined them in Lou’s nest workings.
I woke in the blue of dusk, I didn’t switch the lights up to go pee. My womb was still humming like a master bell. I watched the ghost of me in the dark foot mirror and caressed at length that lanky tomboy I was proud of.

Cecile says:

Our amateur wayfarers came in the afternoon to boast their new Caribbean legs, out of snazzy, overwashed shorts. Their jaunt to Mustique had visibly been quieter than previous ones, but their new swagger allure told me they had received the princely treatment, to my better agreement. Beyond adulation for their radiant youth, they had been bestowed entitlement they missed, like all of us.
Cyprien wouldn’t ask them to sit, yet he was working on retouching his drawings. I brewed coffee and tea, and cracked open a pack of biscuits. Whatever heated night we had been through here, I craved to caress these honeyed thighs, before drawing them into my cubbyhole, as they knew well.
The season was becoming warmer, even in our pit. I had been wearing only cotton knickers under my overalls, thus I was at once nude and ready, dipping my cookies with my deliciously jet-lagging nymphets. I had been cleaning a portrait of a Puritan Dutch bourgeoise to whom I had gifted a smidgen of lust in the stare, it smelled of aspic oil, and I fantasised about showing myself nude to the unfazed lady, reason enough to also unbutton Lou’s shorts and shirt.
Once they were all peeled, Cyprien congratulated them on the absence of tan lines and wondered if they would agree to come sit on the morrow; they did not promise. As I alluded to the turbulent night we had lived greeting Sarah’s old school captain and her twin nephews, they sniggered and retold there had not been one in M’s highly trained security detail whom they had not been toyed by during that flight and the rest of the sojourn, however with manners; nothing overly new for them baby harlots. I knew that we would doze out in my time capsule; I only warned Sarah that they were home, safe and resplendent.
Early the next morning, I couldn’t help but watch them in the eerie light of a lone multicoloured garland I never switched off. Gauthier was looking for them to show the state of the workings. Sarah had been at Fortunat’s with Adèle and Rose. I had a psychic epiphany that I understood Alfred’s cosmic poetry, but then I forgot what he meant in a snap, and it was not a good omen for the planet. I dipped a whole packet of biscuits under the sneaky glare of the Dutch lady.
Not long later, I had to jump in my overalls to take delivery of a small painting that looked like a study for Franz von Stuck’s Salome, albeit it was very dark. I put away the lady, face to the wall to wait for a coat of varnish, and installed Salome on an easel. Firstly, there would be work pulling it from the frame. In any case, I needed Cyprien’s advice, if he would stop for a minute obsessing over my boytoys.
When I heard the toilet flush again, I hurried to play with my puppies in the tepid cascade. They were rested and happy but famish. I told them to eat me alive. I had ordered pastries from the crossroads shop. They were overjoyed with Gauthier’s proposition, and they dunked their croissants continental-style. Then we Go upstairs to dress up decently, not to overly tease the workmen.
The new apartment has a triple-level layout. The main entry from the lift landing opens on a mirrored room hiding closets, then a low-ceiling living room, floored with antique red honeycomb tiles, with a counter kitchen and on one side a door to stairs upwards, on the other side stairs downwards. The room upstairs is within the roof beams with small dormer windows, and a shower room big enough for six. The one downstairs is the average Parisian two-bedroom apartment, hardwood floored, with a white marble bathroom, a glazed shower and a large clawfoot tub, in lieu of the old kitchen. Gauthier said the extra room could become a cosy bedroom with an ensuite bathroom, should they need it for someone.
Obviously, the workmen did not hesitate to ogle at us, especially the tourist fairies’ legs; they were the ones who operated in all nooks of the heavenly quarter, and they had known me as a free-minded coworker at Speck’s, ending for good in the owner’s bed. They knew full well what beauty may operate in life. Specialists of high-wire workings, they earned money in due consequence, and Gauthier addressed them respectfully, even in regards to their appreciations of the future dwellers they might have spotted him a tad more than polite with. Grand beds would be introduced first, even should it mean breaking down a wall, should it? Bed bases may come in halves, and mattresses bend.
Gauthier invited the pair to his perch, where he kept volumes of decoration documents. I returned to my day pampering Salome. Natalia came by, black spandex shorts and a variegated loose tee shirt, sneakily dragging me into one of her Liselotte-induced sneaky academic manoeuvres. A good serving of the kinky pleasure was in the candid manner she wooed me to come hustle with her; I had not even had time to slip back into my overalls.
It was in a private alley of the New Athens quarter, a preserved patch of Romantique elegance. The sturdy park gratings were overgrown with ivy, but the door did not creak, and the cobbled grounds under the evergreens were neatly cured. A creamish ashlar stone classical mansion stood in the clearing, under the blurred stars, enlaced by a lusty wisteria that had extended from a nearby cypress tree.

The fragrance was so heady that Natalia took hold of me in a slow embrace. She had wanted me to wear nought under that ultramarine silk velvet panty short tank dress. She wore a long black see-thru mesh blouse and thin black jersey shorts. We wore black suede strap flat sandals. Hither and thither, dim gold lights shone through the veil curtains. When the glazed entry door opened, plush organ chords suffused in the still air.
A lusty black man in a formal black suit and black t-shirt nodded at us and ushered us onto a profusion of oriental rugs, hand in hand. In a gallant tone of voice, he asked us to undress entirely, showing a coat rack. He poured us lotus tea, in jade cups. It tasted of the suavest dragoon kiss I couldn’t drink enough of.
The whole decor was ornate dark noble wood and sheeny dark crimson lampas. He showed us to a high-ceiling salon where the wall-wide pipe organ stood, played by a thin middle-aged man in a cardinal red velvet outfit, back to us, staring into a mirror hung above the keyboard.
Natalia knew the routine, she had probably been initiated by Liselotte. As the player unleashed a stampede of delirious musical ornaments worthy of Captain Nemo, she bent and stretched me over and out like the tamer, and I let her do of me like a seaweed in the backwash, to end up strewing me across a large scarlet velvet padded bed and devouring my offered quim.
The ceiling was a neogothic barrel fan vault in which echoes flew, and consistently to my hunch, a gigantic crystal chandelier figured a majestic, glowing, unfurling octopus. Along the walls, sitting stalls alternated with lewd grotesque sculptures à la Rupert Carabin, and some pivoted so as to let in live characters, dressed as colourfully as the English ambassadors in Carpaccio’s panels of St Ursula’s legend, erect, panting.
The first one though would have better played an envoy of the Great Moghol with the Middle Eastern long jet lashes and a circumcised spear Natalia took in, with some lube. In and out, a lustful troupe appeared in ballet attire and profited of us in whichever manner they fancied. The extravagant harmonisations with all the organ’s registrations, the glowing tentacles of the chandelier, and the mathematical maze of the ceiling around Natalia’s and my unbound expense, were it not for the dimness of the lights, made up the most ravageous of all films ever.
I woke in Natalia’s arms, both nude inside a fluffy cover, on the back seat of a Phantom Rolls Royce stationed in the rising sun at the top of Montmartre, until the first herd of jet-lagging tourists shooed us away to home. I had never been so early to our pool, Natalia thought it was a brilliant idea. First, we drank tides of coffee with biscuits in my workshop, then we climbed down to sweat our souls out in the sauna, and piss ourselves enlaced in the shower, breathless with laughter. Then, we played otters floating like logs, and she said we should think of an Epsom salt bath to slumber in after such unfettered nights. I took her to the cubbyhole, and we drowned in perfect silence.
Much later, as I went to the loo, I noticed it was late afternoon, and I grinned to myself in the mirror. Natalia had received a text from Liselotte sending her a link to a video, with kudos. She called me, I opened my laptop and clicked on it. First, the music, then, gradually the whole shebang of our full-fledged debauchery —video has made giant technical steps, indeed. Liselotte promised it would never be streamed outside The Hellfire Club, she had sound warranties. Meanwhile, we had earned some cosy pillow.
Natalia stayed, I waited for my wily foundlings that she might like a whiff of. I ordered a spinach and pecan pie, a mushroom eggplant cheese pie, and a rhubarb ginger pie, to which Natalia added banana yoghurt and joshed that it wasn’t an innuendo.
I could tell they both had shagged Gauthier, Lou retorted she had also done the plumber, and she could tell we both had had a long night. They were overjoyed that the two uber-lush beds would be delivered in the morrow, with a heap of household linen. They had not yet settled on who went where, so thus they would sleep alternately together in each room until a solution existed. After dinner, Natalia left us to attend one of her lucrative tête-à-tête. The foundlings wanted to know more about their elder’s walk of life, so I followed them to the bed in the roof loft and I recounted what I reckoned I could of the House Fairy’s tale.

We had slept with the dormers open, the smells of fresh paints tolerable. At the break of dawn, I dreamt Alfred was calling me weird names. It was time to stand up, I noticed I could see Kate and Sarah’s studio window nearby. Lou was talking gibberish in her sleep.
It had long been the only silent moment I had in my old days cubbyhole. The night before, the cleaner woman would have stacked up the chairs, thrown bleach-smelling sawdust and swept the whole miasm very fast into a tied plastic bag and into the bin. Once in a while, she would wash the cheap tan jasper-impressed cracked tiles, but every night it needed to be rid of ashes, butts and torn losing tickets they had left all over. Who was I anyway, a worthless little bitch my uncle drew to the cellar to soil her at his whim. Now I know my helpless mother was the only one who believed what this teacher had said of me.
To say the least, we are altogether bons clients of Agnette and Sanne. Sarah held them in high esteem as soon as she heard of their practice in that quiet yard from where they cater for all our addresses with inventive modern cuisine. I guess Sarah told them of my maniac craving for biscuit dunking and my taste for langues de chats, so thus they tried themselves to it, hence these rosy paper pouches they newly deliver in pretty wicker baskets. Lauritz patronises his island, Camille her shore of the Boulevard. We, ie Hugo’s and mighty connivances, since Kate and Sarah’s debut exhibition —were it on Camille’s turf— before she unearthed me in my overalls, among Lauritz’s Speck workings, have been happily faithful to the Danish girls and their brigade. Plum had cried when she saw the baskets, she said girls in their tribes made them and lived a sad life. I told Agnete I preferred to pay and keep them.
I had not yet switched on Bach, and Stück’s Salomé defied me and the rest of the world —what an ugly plot. Not so long ago, when I could not afford to live in these neighbourhoods, I would have nonetheless thought of the bookstore Fischbacher to provide me with the best documentation on Franz von Stück. Now, being a richly kept biscuit-dipping girl, I wrote a note to my 911 protector, Fischbacher is gone forever, and I didn’t feel like scrolling in Abebooks. Lauritz answered swiftly that he was on a wisteria terrace on Lake Cuomo with yet another lost child from the Habsburg Empire, but my request would be fulfilled with utmost diligence. His fling was called Carmen, mind you.
As a matter of Goldberg variations, I endeavoured to disjoin the small painting from its frame to which it was glued. Gloves on, it was the kind of chore that would clear my crowded mind.
Mid-afternoon, a young leather-clad biker brought a hefty package of art books on the Munich Secession and Stück. He was proud of himself and liked my place, so I offered him coffee. He neither wore much in his black leather suit trimmed in red. It wouldn’t hurt him to pull my zippers, too. He smelled of sweaty Cologne, his underwear was neat, and he pouted with Brando’s lips. I pulled the whole of us and our carapaces to my burrow and lay him flat as I sucked his blond crankshaft. He spoke German-ish and I knew enough; it was a perfect circumstance and I took all the risks. We did it again under the tepid shower. He neither scorned a cash tip. I heard the roaring engine from the sidewalk when he left.
It seemed Gauthier took his mission with the Mustique girls at heart, I did not hear more from any of them. Salomé was looking at me out of her frame. I called Sarah and recounted my afternoon fling and it turned us on; we should ask Liselotte for another trick. We dined on a salad with hard-boiled eggs and avocados; we ended nude, kissing. At nine, she called and asked us to be at ten at the Grand Régent, near the Etoile, room 72, dess code expensive lingerie
No tomboy quickie. Eyeliner, blush, gloss. She wouldn’t pretend she had breasts with a corset, but she helped me tie one like a wasp. My “X” cups looked like twelve-year-olds, some like that; she would wear a night-blue see-thru blouse and boast her nipples; her knickers were hi-end Italian lace, so her pull-up stockings. As for myself, I chose not to wear knickers above the garters that held up back-seam veil stockings; I slid on a thin maroon crepe blazer dress, and Bordeaux suede sandals. She put on a black satin miniskirt and a white crepe double-breasted blazer, black and white patent flat loafers. The driver couldn’t keep his eyes on the road.
I knew that gaze in the concierge’s eyes, but our client must have been a mighty figure, he didn’t try any trick on us. Unsurprisingly, there were at least four bulky men in shirtsleeves wallowed in taupe mohair velvet Pullman armchairs, ogling at our legs, and the alpha male beckoned us to sit on the flat armrests, at once finding my quim to play with, making a comment that Liselotte never mistook her point. Sarah couldn’t help sighing when the other one pinched her tinkleberries.

They smelled costly, musk and Greek brush; I recalled the lively sweat of my afternoon romp, I felt slutty. I was cheered when I appeared bare-arsed and black moire frills. They were soft-spoken, they might be media tycoons, producers, or arms dealers. They had a way of making us act lewd before the young waiter who served champagne we dared refuse, compensating by rummaging in their flies. Nevertheless, we weren’t cheap streetwalkers, and I required a cushion when asked to kneel down between a pale pair of legs, soon to be drilled in both ends, as it also happened to Sarah. I had to gulp a ladle of bitter broth not worse than a young biker’s while I sensed a sleazy warmth in the deep of my loins. My handler made me stand and sit back upon his respectable shaft, profiting from the dripping goo to slide in deep, unwaning. I rested wide my feet on the armrests while the hypo who had just used Sarah’s mouth purported to fill up my coochie.
There was a truce; we all went to the bathroom to rinse and catch our breath. They got rid of their rags and immediately looked less pitiful. They were fit, heavy bears with proven efficient tools, weren’t they? The leader said we weren’t out of trouble, if so, because the next generation pawed the ground at our door, now that they had seen us with their fathers. Our only appointment was Liselotte’s word; we could not call it quits. Sarah asked how many offspring they had, and he retorted we should do with three of them.
They awaited us in the bedroom side of the suite, wrapped in peignoirs, prideful stags of a stray herd, or was it? They groped us casually and spoke like graduates, we might well be some kind of prize reward in kind, used ahead to mark us as whores in their naive minds, making the play a tad more perverse for us. We made up a pleasant story on the fly, we were cousins of a decadent lineage, our great, great grandma having been raped by Napoleon, the consequent offspring becoming the mistress of the Pope, and so on till we slept with three Presidents of France and such and such, Sarah was inspired, and she bragged a very presidential butt.
Their fathers sipping Armagnac in their armchairs, they dared all they had only read about in books, or seen in videos, yet. They had the stamina to imprint us in their brains forever. They wisely used condoms, albeit I could swear any white goose would have woken pregnant by accident. They relished that we would allow them in our arses so easily, Sarah said our great aunties had learned that while being Princely Mistresses in White Hall. They gushed again and again till the alpha rang the retreat. We never knew who they were, only that they oozed money.
We needed a bath, and we lathered each other with the hotel’s complimentary luxuries. Predictably, the concierge cropped up to catch us still in the water, asking for his tithe in kind, unzipping his fly and letting out a vigourous eighth staff he chose me to suck first while he fingered Sarah’s bum crack and then buggered her mercilessly, not letting a drop fall on his fly. He wouldn’t have found any money, it all had been wired beforehand.
It was midnight when I pulled Sarah to my bed where we woke Charlotte who guessed we had been real naughty. She massaged our spent carcasses to make us talk. She complained her johns at Speck’s had been lame foggies, we cuddled her and said we would talk to Liselotte on her behalf.
Next morning was balmy, I crept out in the raw and was caught as thus at ground level in the lift car by a young workman in street attire who was swift enough to block the lift and breathe in my neck. He smelled of a brand of soap I had known at home, he kept his hands smooth; I told him to shush and follow me to my box. He was candid and proud, he kissed me as long as I liked, and then I lay spread in his dazed eyes and took him in my runny brooklet like the easy slut I was. He roared like a big cat and collapsed in my arms for a couple of exquisite minutes, then I showed him the bathroom, and he wasn’t late for work in our foundling sluts’ home.
Cyprien had not yet seen the novelty of the wicker baskets; he was moved, even if he thought the Danish girls’ love was mostly commerce. But when I recounted what Plum had said, he repressed a sob. He told me I smelled so good that I wondered if it was that boy’s whiff. I met Baptiste on and off since, time to let him know what kind of wayfarer I am in life, but he shagged me better and better. I asked Natalia and Fulgence to enlighten him somewhat. Eventually, he found some girl he wouldn’t let me see, and the workings of the staircase ended. I didn’t ask Gauthier about him.
Lauritz had brought back Carmen in his bags and established her next to the other sparrows in good intelligence, in the Saint-Louis Island birdhouse. He invited me to see her. I sensed a massive pang, she was shatteringly beauteous after a week on Lake Como terraces, and when he disrobed her, I saw not any tan mark. She had that rich sun-blonde mane.

Her skin was evenly amber-honey, and she bore no traces of any kind. She tasted like raw almond, and I made her quim wet in a stroke of my tongue. She had been born to a couple of corrupt police officers; her mother had been shot dead when she was three; she had spent most of her childhood in police orphanages, spared the worst treatments because her father was renowned. He had been a high-roller gambler and a drunk. She had been ahead of her age and a gifted gymnast, which gave her a sleek allure and a yummy midriff. Her father began to take her out and reckoned what she provoked in men. Once, in a sordid chain of events, he sold her to a clandestine prostitution ring, and she disappeared. When he sobered up months later, he wanted to find her but was eventually fished out in the Danube with a bullet in the head. She had no real ID and worked mostly online because she was so photogenic, but gradually she earned a reputation for being cursed because her pimps died one after the other violently, without any clue of her responsibility whatsoever.
At fifteen, she was, so to speak adopted by an old Magyar aristocrat who paid the research for her real identity and died of natural causes after taking a boner pill. His estate expelled her, and she was back on the sleazy paths when an Italian Marquis, a friend of Silvio Berlusconi’s, fell for her, head over heels, before he died, literally on her, in his villa in Portofino, before she would inherit anything else than hatred from the sons who even reclaimed her car. In the Marquis’ entourage had been that French girl, younger than her and indefinitely beauteous who hooked her up with the Italian shady aristocracy on the Riviera as the purported Hungarian heiress she easily seemed like. Only, she remained in the power of her French pimp and her pervasive henchmen, until finally Lauritz saw her in a bustling party at Pierluigi Farnese’s and killed her watchdog neat and clean.
She spoke German, like the richest clients in Budapest, English like anyone, and she had learned French at school. Lauritz insisted that she went to school for languages, along with others of our foundlings, were it for her legal status here. Eventually, she would do what her beauty allowed, come what may; Lauritz did not wish to add his name to the death list.
She was properly stunning, with long tapered fingers and gently arched feet like the miracles of Romanticism. Gustave Moreau’s disappearing model. And she let me sense her slow heartbeat. She took me with her to the grand salon where the city diners had taken refuge with Armagnac snifters, for a lesson in high-stakes prostitution, if ever. I wore a black silk velvet panne long dress, slit up to the waist and thin black strap sandals; she wore golden mules, gilt leather anklets, bracelets, a dog collar, and a glimmering crystal in her arsehole. She offered the flimsy chain to her necklace with a childish matter-of-fact grin. It was all out of some magazine pages, but I was amused to stand as foil to her. As she raised bids among heated tournament golfers, Gerald, a regular, was sliding his hand in for my pubis and wondered who the golden girl was, I told him she was trouble. He took me to number twenty-seven and gave me a stellar cunnilingus before flipping me over on the edge of the bed. He was one who had seen through my persona and liked it better not to shag a professional arse. He could afford his time; he told me his wife did the same as he did elsewhere, and they shared impressions. He also confided he shagged his daughter in a discreet parlour house in Montmartre, but she was nineteen. He was on the track of one of his nieces who might fall for her own independent flat against licentious rendez-vous, but he would like that better in a club, under the eyes of others, and that scared her. Contrary to Carmen, I had not been a child whore, but only an abused and muffed neglected little brat in a bygone nightmare. Now I was Sarah’s soul sister, better than her privileged schoolmates, bar Kate, whom she would kill for. All Gerald knew was that his perversions excited me, and thus I did not refuse to chaperone his niece to the backrooms of the beau Monde. He doubled my reward, gave me his niece’s number, and told me to prepare her for her debut at Philippe’s. When he left, I was all wet, and I let a gracious Hidalgo choose me for an hour.
The Munich School of Painting is altogether rigorous, technically speaking. Removing oxidised varnish on the von Stuck study was a no-brainer. It became thorny when I lost my oversight in layers of contradicting glazes, the painter having equivocated about Salomé’s nudity, which I sensed had been lewder before it had been blurred over in sfumato. I needed Cyprien’s candour, for I remained in Gerald’s spell with a niece I would escort to the clinic for her fatidic tests; as totally useful they be, I knew what they would allow the new girl into. I was relieved that Cyprien agreed that I should strip Salomé of all her prude glazings, and I ran to my appointment with that niece Babette.

I loved her altogether at once. I grasped why her uncle had asked me on that shady mission with her. She could easily pass for my sister, same chestnut eyes, Thick curly fringe, pale complexion, and lanky allure. All, and striped marinière, leather jacket, worn jeans, and ankle Docs. I could tell she liked me, too. She had been turned on by her dirty uncle’s proposition. She had slept with him a few times for money, and she let herself fantasise about becoming a rich whore. She smelled of a man’s Cologne; she let me fondle her; she was wet.
I knew the lab operator; we both knew what Babete was there for. She was real snazzy in the nude, she possessed the wittiest loin curve and buttocks I could tell, and slender long legs and feet Sarah would crave. Her pubis was still bushy, but she was little or not hairy; I foresaw a mere hour at the institute. After the blood phials and the smear test, she went alone with the gynaecologist and came back twenty minutes later rubbing her forearm. She received a series of the same injections I had had to ward off a heap of common hazards in a promiscuous life. Her card would be ready in a couple of hours, we went to meet Jasmine and her depilation lasers, but first, they shaved Babette’s quim close. She felt awkward at first, also around her dainty butthole, but I showed mine, and she couldn’t help grazing a bit, so we went on down the thighs and the legs, then the armpits. The arms were gentle like that. Walking out, she grabbed my arm and said she felt like obscene already. I told her that blushing was the sexiest make-up she could wear.
Back to the workshop, I stripped her bare and made her coffee, devouring her with my stares. It was a delight forcing her to open her smooth thighs and blush. Later, in the shower, I used ladles of precious creams wanking her; she was easy prey; she had been in boarding school. I washed and dried her hair, put a dash of mascara on her lashes, same as for me; rubbed a hint of blush at the cheekbones, kissed her fondly, and smeared some lip gloss on her pouty lips. We really looked like lustful sisters.
We went up to dress up, though I told her it wouldn’t last long. I lent her a hickory brown rib-knit one-shoulder mid-thigh dress, no undies. She had never played thus, so she would deliciously move self-consciously. I donned a deep purple moleskin double-breasted blazer with nought else, and then she realised she had changed worlds. My black strap flat sandals fit her, and I put on matching purple suede ones. We wore no stockings either. She picked up her new black card on the way, I had just only time in the taxi to tell her why she needed one, now that she was a freelance escort. We laughed aloud to the driver’s relish; he was ogling my quim.
Sami had been expecting us, and Gerald was on his way. The maître d. was dazzled by Babette’s youth sparkle, indeed I was proud of her. I hunched that he was already erect; he ushered us to the first floor and a round, dressed table half hidden behind a comedia dell’arte motive painted screen. He swiftly scanned our cards and kept mum. I had loosened my blazer’s lapels. Babette blushed. I had shown her the discrete armpit pocket to stash the cards and the money. We were served fruity lemonade and almonds.
Gerald was stunned, almost to the point of wondering if I had not overbid on his wishes, but he couldn’t refrain long from sliding his hand up Babette’s thigh and feeling the metamorphosis as she playfully parted her legs. She called him tonton. She joined me with the vegetarian chartreuse with cream of mushrooms. Gerald ate filets of sole with caviar and fennel gratin. He drank champagne. Proud of my new teetotaller convert, I fondled her timid breasts while he was grazing her rosette. The ice cream was filled with candied fruit, but we didn’t lag long before stealthily disappearing behind the pale green velvet curtain where narrow carpeted stairs climbed up, and Gerald was keeping his hands busy after us. We reached a landing where a varnished door stood ajar. Gerald pushed it open on a low ceiling over-ornate mirrored salon with four black wood and crimson tufted-velvet sofas around a low square obvious exhibition bed I had been amply shagged and gushed upon, sometime. Three elegant clubmen sat wallowed watching us, their flies undone. Gerald introduced Babette and hitched up her dress to the waist, relishing the cheers, and he told me to leave my jacket on a side chair. It was swiftly done, and I came near Babette to hold up her dress and whisper in her ear that nothing other than lustful would happen to her unless she said stop. One of the men who knew me well enough heard me and concurred aloud while walking up with his dick pointed to Babette’s lower belly. I thought it wouldn’t help to dither the playing, so I kindly slid her dress off and cuddled her as lewdly as I felt.
Expensive suits fleeted about like flags at Azincourt, and nude gents fought for patches of our sweet skins. Gerald seized Babette and clutched her to his wing while telling the rest of the pack to show upon my hide all that his beloved niece could let be done to earn her leisurely life.

The drooling compadres were no sore louts; they ransacked me inasmuch as I would still want to look at them in the eye. And Babette wouldn’t think they would all want to bugger me outright to the hilt; she had not watched exactly the videos her friends had been sending her —She had mostly been wanking on bikini models teens though not calling herself a lesbian. Under her widened eyes, I was being willingly manhandled just like she might be asking for, sooner than she had thought.
I let myself be filled up any slit and opening any old way these venerable walls had ever resounded with, and Gerald smeared his own kinship with our modern days’ antinatural lubricant, hailing the Cardinal de Richelieu —à son corps défendant, so to judiciously speak— builder of the original palace, whose mummified head, desecrated by the great French Revolution, knew the most farcical of destiny for two centuries before being purportedly sealed in some secret place of the Sorbonne chapel where Natalia and her minders held their miscreant sabat.
As one may thus see, the Cardinal’s last wills evaded the Louises’ grip to profit in the Philippes’ profligacy —as in my arse, mind you— and off with their heads, too. Families before the DNA went thus that one Philippe re-emerged in most mercantile France in the days of steam railways and colonial bloodbaths, but the Palais-Royal had then attained its liberal status, all carnal expenses enshrined.
Babette could see that my tormentors, once their venomous sap gushed, had not soured my smile, smeared all over may it be. She sensed Gerald’s warm incestuous semen flush her guts, and then he pushed her loose at his cronies’s whims; defenceless at my side, she mumbled she was fine. The bathroom contained a vestige wall of some sculpted decor, and a wide central shower in which we all lathered up the new rakish brat to the club. I pushed delicately two fingers into her lesser hatch and found her pink creases inflamed but thankfully intact.
Gerald begged me to keep Babette with me, as it was time for her new dwellings to be fine-readied. It was obvious he was late to go home to his family —a very usual husband, was he not?
Charlotte had been sleeping, lurking for us, and she demanded the full recount as she deployed a wealth of cuddles with her deft little hands. She liked that uncle shenanigan, although she would keep on the watch, now that he had defiled Babette through and through. I swore I feared nought, she would be welcome with us, should he fail her, eventually.
In the morning, Cyprien adored the long silhouette à la Fontainebleau, said he, of Babette who looked me up wondering about this poetic-looking artist who took his time handling her into a pose on the crimson sofa. She responded to the well-tempered clavier she knew, she was a well-bred damsel to the core, charlotte had come down with us, under her spell. My soul was still enthralled in the impressions of her at the hands of the monkey gang, and hence her dissolute bravery. I could hardly admit to having been the conduit for her easy-going depravity, although I kept in mind the manner Sarah had steered my soul into Lauritz’s most coveted wants. Charlotte wisely busied herself tidying about the workshop; I had never seen her so impressed, was Babette a magician?
Alfred had his usual Dada rant, but he found my nuts tasty. Mid-afternoon, Lauritz and Carmen dropped in after a raid at the Bon Marché. She was elegant to the nines, with astounding teal velvet peony slippers from Stubbs and Wooton, a slate-blue linen suit, and a mullein-yellow silk tee shirt she took off after we had a mocha round. Laritz was startled by Babette. He had missed the whole change of wind in my behaviour the other night at the club. I could hardly avoid retelling the adventure, bar the details that might hurt Cyprien’s feelings, weird abstainer amidst a host of libertines. I sensed Lauritz had a low opinion of Gerald, but he kept mum. Carmen and Babette, embraced and nude, instantly fell for each other, which warmed everybody’s soul, and allowed Cyprien to arrange them in the cushions. I thought Charlotte would cry. I stole a kiss from Lauritz’s.
That last drawing was beautifully heartfelt, it would end up in one of Speck’s rooms. We planned dinner upstairs; Sarah wanted to see the newbies. We had boiled eggs in green cream, artichoke and mushroom pie, and black cherry flan, which gave Carmen purple lips. Sarah had been dumbstruck by yet another pair of spring chicks. Babette had slid on white satin, gold and red-trimmed boxers with a matching loose singlet which didn’t even graze her tiny breasts, and Sarah obsessed with stealing her white cotton socks. At Lauritz’s hands, Carmen lost pieces of her new outfit, remaining in knickers and the tee shirt for a while, then cunningly bare-arsed on Charlotte’s lap. For another round, we retold our night at Philippe’s, damn the French monarchy.

Carmen and Babette, despite the raw hazing they had survived, would still shy from responding to direct passes. However, they fondled each other lightly since they had held longing poses for Cyprien’s and our eyes. Charlotte knew, as ever, how to patronise kindly the 911 engine in Lauritz’s trousers; the stag did not scorn some skilful fellatio while watching the fillies become easy on each other. Sarah had crept down at Carmen’s feet; Babette kept giving me the eye while Carmen licked her baby breasts.
Lauritz told Charlotte to dress up a bit with Sarah’s help. He would think of some nasty scheme to do on town. He asked Babette to keep him updated with her uncle’s plans, with a smidgen of doubt. All Charlotte needed to borrow was a black rib-knit mid-length dress and mismatched sneakers, and thus she might inflame a whole dance floor.
Sarah acted like she had incanted that the four of us be left together. She steered the quartet to the grand bed and helped tear all remaining rags off the litter of cubs.
Whereas Babette was some kind of runaway boarder, with a newly revealed carnal appetite, Carmen was a seasoned harlot with a hardened soul, but a bend for pretty wanderers that she might help stave off the slidy sewer just around the corner. At a young age, she had already been rescued herself a few times.
Whatever Alfred might cackle about, I pulled Babette along in the wee hours, helped her wrap in a tracksuit, and made her follow me down. She was already my girl; on top of heartfelt tenderness, although it might still be a tad early yet, I had earned her young trust, and she begged me to let her stay in fairyland with me. I could do with that, though she would soon be propositioned in much savourer manners than her uncle’s, and thus drift away from my cubbyhole, notwithstanding as many returns as we would sense the urge for, wouldn’t we?
After the well-tempered coffee and dip, Cyprien was overjoyed to be allowed to let Babette sit any pose she would. Carmen joined us a couple of hours later, while Sarah had climbed back to her studio. Gerald did not manifest in any manner. Babette asked us to check her telephone, but as far as we saw, everything worked, and we had an up-to-date signal repeater. Late afternoon, Sami texted an invitation to dinner at Philippe’s; libertine shenanigans aside, he had elements to tell us viva voce.
Albeit visually abstracted in Salomé’s seven glazes, instinctively watching the tint of my cleansing pad at every move, vetted by Cyprien’s keen eye each time he went to the loo, the hunch of some mishap in the clockwork of our tranquil depravity itched at a corner of my well-tempered brain like a hidden clinker in the score.
We dressed up almost middle-classy; the weather looked moody, but our pliable carcasses deserved some chic laisser-aller in Umber and mummy brown fine knitwear, ribbed for Babette, mid-calf dress, laced hickory brown ankle boots and Oxfords, mocha stockings, no undies for Philippe, and an unassuming waist pouch to carry the compulsory necessities.
Sami waited for us; he ushered us to a curved alcove in a private salon and offered us melon lemonade, otherwise knowing what we would eat for dinner. He couldn’t help groping our free buttocks. He smelled of Capri Lemon and West Indies spices. He sat with us and looked at Babette, holding her hand. He wondered about the actual relationship between Gerald and Babette, because the uncle was in deep depts towards the club and the availing members, and now he was selling his niece around, on the testimony of three stooges she had serviced along with me as a purported ingenue libertine. Sami said he had reported the incorrect attempt and wanted to know our attitude. Cuddled in my wing, Babette kept mum, petrified with angst. I knew Sami would trust me, not only for the sake of my partnership with Lauritz, but my long habitude at Philippe’s since Sarah had referred me in. Gerald also had a relenting slate at Speck’s.
I asserted that Babette, who had run from her family quagmire only to fall into my arms at Gerald’s incite, was unaware of her uncle’s schemes and did not know his whereabouts since that orgy upstairs here. Sami’s software soon ferreted out Gerald’s telephone in Brussels, he had been living in a mere bedsit in an otherwise stately building on the Champ de Mars.
My babe in the woods cried out of shame, but it made her all the more desirable, as I lapped up the salt of her eyes. It wouldn’t be the only mishap she would overcome in her only beginning career as a desirable girl. The lout was now flagged; she was still a gem. My hand slowly hitched up her dress’ hem on her freshly smoothed legs. She had nuzzled her face into my neck, and she greeted my deep kiss while throwing her leg aside on the banquette, offering Sami her quim —for free. She was my girl, and he could have a taste of her, and so he did, thus abiding by my de facto sponsorship.

No need to find a spare room; furthermore, when the waiter brought some coffee, his boss invited him to join, so that I play more than hold the overthrown angel, like in Michelangelo’s Pietà the purported virgin. The seeming Phenician pirate had visibly expected no less and asked me permission to untie my shoes and uplift my dress entirely, while Babette already panted at Sami’s expert licking.
I took hold of that unflinching circumcised penis and gulped it outright, to the meowings of the avid hireling.
He pulled away the table, and it was time to slather our slits and swap their mounts like dogged merrymakers and handle us over as rag puppets. Yet, it dawned she was so languidly easygoing that she was more of my kind than I had thought; I kept in mind to play truth with her, sometime.
Sami might be called a connoisseur of sorts, and he too was smitten by the tapered ankles and wrists, the long neck, the altogether shapely forms and the arched loins. She did not lend her arse like some mere beginner, and she reared up prettily when he couldn’t help gushing in awe. Meanwhile, my barbarian had hailed the moon twice, unflinching, and stood still taut in my mouth as I sat, letting his hommage flush down the toilet bowl, forcing me to gulp.
Sami joshed that he had other cats to whip, that night, and that we should keep updated in the morrow on family matters. He asked us to enlace once more before he went, kissing his fingertips. He told Babette she would very soon have the best share of Paris at her feet.
In the taxi back home, we decided to go swimming. Oona and Carmen were already in the water fighting the counter-current pump to recuperate after a hectic episode at Speck’s. They stopped the engine to consider the novel foundling I brought. It started as frank camaraderie; Babette swam faster but let herself caught and fondled. We rollicked around like merry otters, and then I proposed dunking midnight biscuits at the workshop, and they all liked that. I said it was warm enough to remain in that beautiful nude, sure they all revelled showing off what they had and not. The pair did not inquire, they were too busy recounting their hunt with Gauthier for furniture and stuff to arrange their first apartment; that’s how we ended up flirting about in every nook of the new animal abode, testing the grand lupanar beds. I was certain that the idea of lodging Babette in the third vacant room bloomed in some manner, but I manifested my tender grasp on her, for now. They bantered on how many of their neighbours had shagged them there yet, besides some merry happenstances, I thought.
It must have been hatching season, Alfred was taking a slightly different tone, I might find some younglings roaming in the ivy of the yard’s flowerbeds. I put on blurry-printed leggings, a giant David’s Eye tee shirt brought back from Florence, and raw linen sneakers. I had never met anyone at this hour of the day, but Gauthier was there, and we were so taken aback that he grabbed my innocent tits and instantly kissed my minty mouth. As he could tell I wore no undies, I mumbled he might like some coffee in my earth that he had known in that manner a number of times before. I loved the way he threaded me without much further ado, then he found genteel words to speak of my childish spell I hid under unassuming attires. I said Sarah had taught me so, and she was rarely wrong, was she?
He admired the wicker baskets and the peach-banded pouches of almond tiles. I told him about my new fling and the weird manner in which it had entrapped me. He said I made it lickerish, and Sami would debunk the final word of the affair, but I should let my little tramp spill out the marbles of her story. He was fond of my flat belly, he left me standing with my leggings mid-thighs.
Babette had found these oversized maroon satin pyjamas and rang the door barefoot, I told her she would give Sarah goosebumps if she saw her thus. The outfit belonged to Lauritz, and the fly was devilishly gaping. She said I smelled plain sex, wasn’t I? I confessed unabashedly. She wondered if I would condone her being so slutty. I heard the need to spin her tale; I sat her on my lap, my hand in her trousers.
Indeed, she was Gerald’s niece, but then again there was more to it than meets the eye. She was the daughter of a general practitioner in the posh quarters of the Porte d’Auteuil whose wife had vanished into thin air when she was four. She had tentatively been raised by her paternal grandmother in Versailles and had soon been placed in boarding schools where most appeal dwelled in other girls’ white ribbed knickers, or the direr perversions of the watch ladies, in their private booths, at night. In the muttered gossip of the soap-smelling venues, she was reputed as the bitchiest hypocrite, but she was tall and shapely enough to shush the jealousy. She had long despised the religious spiel, and she sussed out the mental trappings of the mandatory weekly confession, preferring to cast the persona of a near-obtuse retard with the priest who was known to force defenceless girls into sweaty fellatio. She never needed absolution.

The educational farce met its limit —though she did fine intellectually— when a sweet playmate of hers committed suicide by jumping head-first from the third floor after the Friday confession. She ran away from the school and went to the Gendarmerie, accusing the priest of moral and physical abuse leading to the girl’s desperate gesture. She was looked down on by the authorities, who sent her back to her father’s as a deranged minor. The priest, as the routine goes, was sent to a faraway region, armoured in the secrecy of intolerable confession.
Her father, overworked, called her a shitty stick no one could hold. One rainy Sunday afternoon, he listened to her, with that suspended attention doctors serve you when you bore them with pathos. She dared cleave the armour insensibly, so as he reckoned selfishly that he could slide a hand in her jeans. She had been gobsmacked, unable to fend off her father’s unfazed assurance, inasmuch he promised her free rein on her life. She quietly took rank among the doctor’s mistresses, even allowed to peep into the others’ sexual prowesses. Her father was a skilled lovemaker, and incest aroused his waning libido.
That not-so-unique as such situation didn’t escape her father’s brother who had wooed her for years. Out of her bearings, confused by her father’s psychiatric rants, she began cheating the brothers one with the other, unfazed, until Gerald conspired a scheme to make her earn money for him, until he hit Sami’s brick wall. In due return, I tried to paint our general walk of life by which few of us’ loins would ache at the end of the day. She had grasped that, but she had seen me work. I told her no one would bar her from working if she decided, but there were simply other ways to earn money, and that, she knew.
We were satiated with orgasms, for then, I knew means to ensure her confidence in me and my ways. I took her on a shopping tour. For a start, the Bon Marché was the perfect plateau where all the must-brands shone in easy reach, and she would probably cross beauties like her, spending money they had seldom earned working. Along the way, I told her candidly of my own scary fate, but I stopped before she would stare up at me in fright. When we gave up, plenty of bags in each hand, she was stunned by what I had coughed up unflinchingly. I mocked her, who had flashed her arse at least three times to overjoyed clients she might probably have followed for a fee. She said it concurred with what Gerald had told her. We repatriated our loot, and we found a heap of tender messages from the girls who craved Babette, and also Gauthier.
Sarah came first, and she ordered dinner; Babette was stunned that we never ate meat, only seldom cheese, and free-range eggs. We said that we were hardened snobs, not willing to support cruelty to animals, and besides, it was a good diet and eco-friendly. Oona and Carmen, Adèle and Rose rejoiced to find the newbie on and off in the raw; they all approved of our purchases. Adèle, who read the tags, declared I was head over heels besotted.
Babette found it eventually comforting that none of the pretty damsels’ life stories be fitted to lay out at a friendly dinner. Even Sarah, who would sound like she gently walked down from paradise, kept a hard black stone encrusted in her heart; but she owned the unconditional love of a spotless international Danish father, and when you read about the ordeals the new generation of abused women won’t keep schtum anymore, you find almost unfailingly an unworthy father looming over their destiny.
The night was young, and the fluttering fireflies wouldn’t remain in the jar; one pair would go make Speck’s clientèle freak out, the other dispense quivers on Fortunat’s deep banquettes, Sarah and I would doll up The last comer, and who knew whom of the ravenous cavalry she might summon.
The overflow of lovely feminine buttocks had probably triggered Sarah’s thirst for dick, she ushered in Serguei and a couple of fierce cohorts she had unabashedly baited to my lair. Not that I despise Cossacks, I had willingly haunted their rustic stables, of stinging memories. Yaguil and Bochko were neither mad dogs, Sarah was a princess in their realm, and an easy-lay once dismounted. She revelled in watching us nigh naked on my famous sofa, under the stare of the startled posse, but, knowing Sarah’s mind, they quietly sat beside us, once Serguei had chosen Babette’s blushing rose. Yaguil smelled of leather soap and English lavender, he had been wearing gloves, so his touch was smooth. I figured him making me trot in circles, with a long tail plugged in my arse, a whip in hand. Serguei had sensed a submissive penchant in Babette, like in most boarding school victims, however, he played it only verbally, like ordering her abruptly to take him in her mouth, with an imperious stare; or making her kneel low to lick Sarah’s bumhole while he flogged her with his belt. Little games, enough yet to make her dripping wet when he decided to sheathe his spear into her. But the final Acme would be when all three cavaliers would slog in her three febrile ways, with all the female complicity that we were all too excited not to help at. The scoundrel uncle had not been mistaken; Babette was an orgy animal —just like us. Sarah saw a future in the filly’s temperament. Serguei wanted her on his lap for a last cup of coffee, and he quit his horse buff number to discuss her prospects while grazing her skin all over. Sarah was proud of her idea, and I noted Bochko’s number.
We slept like three satiated sluts in the eye of the homunculus that kept cringing in the God Crow’s throat. Alfred called me ever so early to Salomé’s bloody veils, I left the other two enlaced; life was running its course.

Sarah says:

Contrary to what Alfred sang, we weren’t late for anything, only we needed the loo. The new pixie smelled of sweat and dirty smears; I blessed Cecile for having let us alone in the shower. Babette was a bit short-breathed when I leaked along her thighs, asking her for the same; she still laughed as I wiped her clean in the scent of wildflowers. I kept in mind her way to submit to Serguei’s whims, but I craved the tender share of her.
She liked my French toast, and I fetched her an antique decal earthenware bowl for her coffee. She didn’t know about tea, but Cecile bought the best mocha in the world, according to Le Gourmet magazine. Babette wore a loose tee shirt with David’s frowned-eye printed I had a hard time keeping my hand out of her leggings. She retold the uncle’s mishap; she looked like the irresistible runaway. While I kneaded her feet and toes on my lap, she retold me her sorry life, and I cursed religious rule, as I had with many of our soul sisters. I took her upstairs, and she liked my work, which she found more profound than my behaviour would have led her to expect. I blushed with delight.
The futon was left unrolled, I lay her down and stripped her. Like all boarding school damsels, she came intensely but silently. In the shower, she, too, succumbed to the fragrance of Geranium-Orange; it reminded me of the Aviator’s little butt. She had no news of her uncle, but Sami said she should get a new phone entirely and give him the old one. We went down to the vestiary, we slid on vague shorts, bleached cropped tops, a tan rolled-up sleeves linen jacket, and a cornflower blue boy’s shirt for me. We mixed parme and pale yellow sneakers because we could and it amused her. We went on the Boulevard and I bought a new snazzy phone on my account, asking the nerdy boy to transfer her data. He smirked but said that her old phone was bugged. His boss wanted to have a look at her ID, only to see if she was an adult. Nerd boy did wonders, she could not feel any difference. We snapped out the SIM card and taped it outside the box.
It felt like a crime movie. We took a taxi to the Palais Royal to give it to Sami. He was overjoyed to see her and joshed that she already had a new fiancée. He pulled us behind a curtain to grope her like an old mate of his. I promised she would be back as soon as the uncle matter was settled, one way or another.
Cecile was now reassured about the telephone. She confessed she had not been able to refuse to go out with Lou who had felt somewhat betrayed. She counted on me, she knew I had been smitten by Babette the second I had seen her. She hoped we would come back to her bed later.
Babette feared we would pass her one to the other like a toy. She was obviously aroused by our libertine plays, but she also had whiffs of angst when she feared we might ditch her any time. I owned up that Cecile had been jammed up with her commitments. I recounted who Lou was and how Cecile had lured her away from a modest position in one parlour house we patronised. I also explained how Cecile considered me her alter ego. Babette was free to shuffle me off her life as if I would guilefully profit from her affection for Cecile only to do her. It became silly and even physical; she could not deny she liked me fondling her, I called her a heavenly bitch. She relented, for now.
I told her she had long overcome the mundane moral boundaries, but only just like us, and with us. I made her a bet that if we went now to the parlour house where Lou had wooed Cecile, hard money on her account would heal her puffs of angst.
I dressed her to Laforest standards, and she already liked feeling a whore. It would be a seaweed green silk panne velvet low-back short, sleeveless dress, lined with matching silk twill. Fondling her in the fluid fabric, I explained she was blessed to be my size and conformation because these garments were handmade to my measurements, like real couture. When I showed her she couldn’t wear knickers un it, she sniggered and called me a traitor. I donned a midnight blue silk velvet, strewn with silver embroidered little stars, nude back short dress I couldn’t sit down modestly in, damn you. I had plenty of black patent leather flat pumps to tread on Laforest’s rich carpeting, even some with a deep green grosgrain knot and others with a strass barrette. Black veil hold-up stockings would unfailingly drive gazes to the nude swath of thighs and the pubis, were we not sluts? She was lost as for perfumes; I sprayed her with Irish Rose Absolute that, in my view, justified her frank immorality, just like I would wear a Sombre Tuberose. I taught her not to wear jewels in such libertine venues, but a cypress green velvet choker marked a dash of sophistication. Finally, flimsy black silk trenches would allow us to roam across town without being arrested. Eventually, my keen dedication to her beloved body had alleviated her crucial doubts.

In proof of my good faith towards her, I told her in the car that she would pocket the whole earnings we would make together. I perceived she wasn’t sure what I meant, but I let be a dose of mystery. The chauffeur was unwittingly asserting my sartorial choices, and Babette made no effort to appear any more pudic.
It was a new Maître d. Sisi told us to call him Ben, for Benjamin Jarrow, and as soon as she was called away, leaving us unwrapping our coats, he was, all the same, a groper as his colleagues elsewhere. He fancied Babette, but I did not let go of her, showing him I had manners, seizing his dick out of his fly while he slid a hand between Babette’s butt. I crouched and gulped his appropriately stiff dong in an efficient teamwork with a taste of salty dill. He was duly impressed. I had made a friend.
I was happily surprised to see sweet Rachel Contilly play her violin in the nude by the piano where a black boy in a tuxedo let her insinuate delicate cavatine through his velvety chords. Since Chevillon, she had thinned and rid of bodily hair, she noticed I was approvingly ogling and listening to her. I managed to let her see my quim.
We drank bubbly elderflower in highball glasses. A middle-aged sportsman asked if he could sit with us, on Babette’s side. His greedy eyes drawn to the pale swath of our thighs, his arm thrown over on the backrest, he did not flinch at the exorbitant figure I uttered while he was sniffing in Babette’s neck, and she cast me a dumbfounded stare. Having snuck a hand into her skirt as if to make sure we meant it, he soughed we might find a room upstairs.
With Babette’s dress already hitched up, he pulled a wad of Franklin bills he had expected to spend that I spirited away in a sleight of hand, and then I helped him disrobe my girlfriend. He asked me too, he had liked my lower belly. It would be in one of those Belle Epoque bedrooms, upholstered in gold and rose “du Barry” brocade, a high, plump bed and violet wood furniture, for which he had already afforded the night fare.
He asked us if we were lovers, thus he wanted to see wether we were truthful, and he relished what we showed him. He had tidied up his clothes on a chair and knew where to fetch the Swiss Navy, at our service. He revelled gazing at our playful mouths while he spread the clear salve in our slits with two caring fingers, garnering auspicious shudders. His taut shaft found my bum cleft first and needed no fuss burrowing deep with undisputed alacrity, he was a proficient rider, and it was bliss to oblige him.
No sooner had he gushed his fever broth into my guts than he threaded on into Babette’s rosebud incessantly, to another arietta she wouldn’t tire of, she was some relentless mount, for he had already unloaded the warning shot. Rolling over, she arched her loins to ease him further in, and she splashed twice on my face which had snaked to her pink pearl.
The bathroom was spacious and ornamented, clad and furnished in enamelled porcelain depicting contorted mauve poppies. The bathtub was wide enough for the three of us and clouds of lotus-fragrant lather. Our cavalier was spent; we were languid, ready for more. Suddenly, he went kind of bent out stiff, not responding, frightening. I jumped on the intern telephone and cried for help, so it was Bowie who stormed in, threw her gown and stepped in the bath, yelling at Balthazar and slapping his face turned grey. She thinly revived the old boy, shouting that he had done whatever it was again, and they would forbid him to come scare the ladies, nigh dead in such a fine venue. By the way, Bowie’s bottom was delicious as she kept bustling the client’s distraught face. She told us the Commodore insisted on taking these substances like candy, against his doctor’s advice, secretly wishing to die thus after a last orgasm. She called him a selfish prick who thought his riches would buy him a merrier death.
We freshened up in a hurry, dressed up each other like our normal light-hearted floozies, and returned to the salon where Rachel had been waiting for us, leaving not-so-indefatigable Balthasar to the care of Bowie and her maids. Rachel was all too happy to see me to ask for the reason for our slight commotion. She was still nude and garnered flocks of fluttering eyeballs around her hips. She said it wouldn’t surprise her that took Babette for a first visit to Laforest’s. She had been a regular for a few months, and it had, all in all, afforded her a pretty apartment in Montceau —also by means of weekly visits by her rich sponsor, she said it was far more liveable than what she had endured while a fee-chasing session musician. I wondered why she had not tried to associate with Malo; she said she had been too impressed, and besides, it was Malo who had settled her here at Laforest.
Two elegant tuxedos dawdled near our easy company, and they agreed to the sum for taking us all three to some quiet playground. That was what Rachel expected for frisking under Babette’s skirt.

We went up to the studio. Alfred had been entertaining Lou and Cecile by taking a bath in a shallow basin in the yard. I had called them to tell of our follies. They had made a triumph at the Panopticon, and Lou was exhausted. Meanwhile, Kate had barged in, back from Sylt, sun-kissed but discontent. However, she liked Babette and lay down alongside her on the futon, hardly keeping her hands to herself, but I joshed it happened everywhere and that it didn’t sour her humour. Kate showed us her tanned body and covered the gracile foundling with kisses. She had been bitter with a new breed of young, arrogant Teutons who belched their despise of fellow Europeans, and mainly Eastern girls hunting for money. It smelled crass. She had shown them scorn and gone out with Baltic beauties. She remembered well Rachel as nude as her violin; I let my candid Babette speak of her in her own words, and I concluded that we should see more of her. Kate agreed that she would pay a visit to Laforest’s that night; I could figure.
Babette had grasped the fine-tuning of Rachel’s situation as a kept mistress; she had envied the pretty apartment and found the price of rent not exorbitant, as far as she could judge. Now, just like for Lou, I should firstly introduce her to Hugo, who might not neglect her. I said I would go down with her and leave them to acquaint one another, as I could tell she had grasped the gist of libertine manners and Hugo might have enough of me chaperoning the new foundlings in need each and every time.
It had been a while since I hadn’t spent a solitary evening in the studio. Snug in a cornflower-blue sweat suit and velvet slippers, I pulled out an unfinished drawing and brewed some Oriental Beauty, I wasn’t hungry. Turning around the board, I found inspiration here and there in the intricacy of the previous layers, with help from Jon Hassell’s kneading of spacetime. I could have used THC gummies, but our stash was spent.
Kate returned in the dead of night, sighing with satisfaction. I did not hear Alfred before it was broad sunlight. Babette wasn’t coming back, I wasn’t surprised to learn Hugo had taken her to Venice. I went downstairs with the intention of sweating a bit. The telepath wonders were on the machine with their coach, suffering. I sent air kisses and went to swim against the Fluvo, just what I needed. Malo joined me, but I didn’t recognise her at first because she wore a maroon bonnet. Once we paused, I told her I had met Rachel at Laforest’s, and she thought of her kindly. She did not know her sponsor had settled her richly, she said she would have invited her to play with the dancers, but nothing had happened.
On a hunch, I climbed up to the studio and found Fayelle reading Bruno Schulz. She taught me James was dying in the villa of the Wisteria, and Annabelle had sent her down to live among us. As we had done before, she wiped her eyes and read aloud the dreamlike life in the Street Of The Crocodiles, which I mapped on my paper with subdued colours. She drifted constantly to recounting the life they had lived with the old Baronet. Then we embraced fondly on the futon because there was no better thing to do.
Later, we were sharing a creamed morel pie with Kate when the message rang that it was all finished on the butte Montmartre, so we all dressed in stern colours and went to console the heather fairy. She recounted how James had fished her out of her Glasgow misery and bestowed her a new soul. He had made her promise she would dwell in the Wisteria villa and summon all of us to pagan celebrations as he had so loved to watch. She was legally his widow in the universal community of assets, there was no succession to act out. The cremation would happen two days later.
There was a packed crowd at the dull crematorium building, but a splendid pipe band played outside under the lead of a proud pipe Master. The heather fairies took away the black-lacquered urn in a black gliding British limousine. Camille invited all of us to her gallery where James’ miniatures were showcased in precious frames.
Natalia was crossed. James had been a delicate mentor for her, too, in times when she was our corridor mouse. She proposed we pay a hommage to our British rakehell in one of those places it seemed she could whomp up at will.
Leaving the mourning assembly, we went home to bedeck ourselves in a manner James would relish. Kaye slid on a layered, waistless Margaret McDonald-style gown, beaded with long glass sautoirs, over a peach-white slit body stocking and white suede Maryjanes. Natalia borrowed a Royal blue Chintz pyjama bordered by a marigold yellow ribbon and thin-strapped patent leather sandals. I went with an indigo silk velvet, spike satin lapels, double-breasted blazer lined with scarlet satin, and black patent leather round-toed flats.
It was a nondescript white ashlar stone three-storeyed building with a garage door at street level on a sloping terrain above the Seine, west of Paris. The blind metal door lifted at the chauffeur’s phone call. Then the car entered and stopped further on a royal blue carpet.

The spacious garage was evenly clad in slick black square panels interspersed with luminous ones in the ceiling. A somewhat dozen shiny dark cars stood aligned, some with feeble lights inside. Our doors flung open. Not once had the chauffeur turned to us. In a cloud of light, the carpet bordered a wall of dark sapphire blue glass panes, which slid sideways for us to walk in.
A long corridor sunk forward in the hillside, under an infinite animated disorderly debacle of senseless elusive shapes on a seamless swath of digital screen, with left and right diversions, a silent decor of a subterranean playground. Hither and thither, sundry characters of all genres and states of dress or undress, lazily trying to reach out under our togs, beckoning us to join in eclectic figures with masked nigh nubile nymphets, as they seemed.
Kate bantered that it felt like Victor had gone underground, as we, too, had all been stoned in the times, and jailbaits had been fed to the nerds’ debauchery. At the least, no one sounded coerced or under the age of consent, whatever it be at this depth. Natalia’s trousers were gripped down by a boyish blond offhanded creature reclining on a bronze and cypress green velvet meridienne, and she reckoned it was too late to pull them back up. Besides, the dandy showed a long taut dick she took a taste for, so she let him free the buttons of her shirt. A low tone of voice assailed me from the back, sliding an easy hand into my jacket and calling me lewd appropriate names, I sensed a stiff spur on my buttocks as he pushed me towards a shadowy velvet burrow at the far end of a dark tunnel. As he took away my jacket, I could tell more than two hands, and I discerned the sheens of night-vision goggles focused on me. I wish I could watch what they easily did of me; they were slow, collected, and thorough; eager to see me blow my top and splash the couch. I was too busy already to count them before I passed out.
I woke up in a total projective cube amidst gold-strewn summer clouds, lying on peach-white percale, carefully fondled by two or three of the free-going nymphets I had noticed before. Thus, rather than hovering in Maxfield Parrish’s cumulus, I was brought back in the maze of my beloved box trees invaded by wild roses, along with the sparkling eyes of fluttering angels, and that scent might have been quintessentially mental, indeed; I didn’t want to wake.
A pair of nude hunkers with long, outdated curly hair, didn’t shoo off the sky creatures I played with like a devil in a moonlit Jesuit church. They took part in the merrymaking with the kind of weaponry only I could withstand, for then, in the flock. Cute cheers of awe and more tongue tickles on my holy berries made my womb sizzle at the tip of the firebrands the savages stirred in me deep, with a smile.
When the wildflowers esteemed that I was beyond my wits, they drew me to the lukewarm fountains, rinsing me outright like a trampled doll, and Kate and Natalia didn’t look any better themselves. I couldn’t help grabbing and fingering the slender cherubs who guffawed all the louder.
In the limousine back home, we tortured Natalia so she would tell us what and where that had been. She possessed an encrypted app on her phone through which she could offer herself and her guests. She could not transfer the app. She had used it a few times, and it had always been as overwhelming.
Kate said she had met a litter of wolf cubs in the enchanted forest of Mononoke Hime, and she had fallen prey to a herd of red-antlered stags, but she reckoned it might have been a flashback of her loaded past, only she still sensed the stags’ reality in her womb.
Natalia had swum over the gems of a coral reef swarming with sleek-shaped creatures and yearning tritons wringing her around like a blonde seaweed. She was proud to see us literally befogged. We had all earned a new application on our telephones.
Babette disembarked in the morning, still spellbound by the wavering drafts inside the bubble out of spacetime Hugo had let her ramble into; from Carpaccio’s disturbing familiarity to the Orsennian vastitude of the lagoon’s indiscernible fringes; her comprehension of Venice had been strikingly otherwise from sundry such capriccios Hugo might have whomped up. I wondered if it had been intentional, and by whom? However, she described their short divagation. They had stayed on the Grand Canal, in the Palazzo Sant Angelo, and she had fallen for the vaporettos, like most children, and Hugo had not tried to discourage her from going up and down the water avenue one last time before going to bed. He had promised her security and independence, taken her to that finest lingerie shop where Annachiara no longer pretended to work —he had been told she had moved to Switzerland. In the suggestive photos he had made her pose for, he had shown her what beauty he worshipped, if only for her self-awareness, whatever she would make of it, or not.

He had told her she would be invited to meet the higher-up and assert her opportunities. I told her to consider that offhandedly. The host was beyond forceful; too many people spent their time trying to guess his thoughts. She was light enough to fly on his breath.
Alfred buoyantly concurred that she should lie naked on the futon, reading about the Serenissima Repubblica in Zorzi’s books. She dozed out in Broglio after a few centuries of murder. I found it to be wiser before she would show up at the mystery maze door, downstairs.
Kate couldn’t have helped cuddle Babette’s juvenile buttocks, they went to play watersports in the shower and pamper the bride before her rendez-vous. Cecile texted, proposing that I join her with Lou and Oona to a harvest at Fortunat’s, come what may. That sounded fruitful. Laughs and chatter rose from the bathroom; I closed my pad and went down to dress like an expensive courtesan.
The new neighbours and Cecile were appetising, smooth, and fragrant like magnolia petals; I wished Camille would appraise how we valued her rich folly—and I knew she could spy most of what went on in her pleasure dome.
Oona wore a wool lilac and cream varsity jacket with a big white “A” on the left front side, and “alphas rule” in script on the back, with black moleskin shorts. Lou wore a space-dyed in sunset-hues fluid jersey cross-chested mini-dress, and Cecile sported a maroon glazed cotton oversized man’s shirt with a Navajo Concho belt. I had fetched a military-style black faille tunic trimmed and lined in vermillion silk, with a back slit up to my loins, and silver buttons.
At Fortunat’s door, Maurice winked at me to come aside, and I was almost flattered he wouldn’t have rather picked one of the gamines. But that once, he only wanted to ask if our pretty party would agree to dine with half a dozen Japanese representatives and be part of their thorough tasting of Pierre Hermé’s palette. The reward was hefty, and the mission was ever so simple. His breath smelled of anise, he was releasing the last two buttons of my tunic. They all agreed to the geisha part, only we wouldn’t eat dead animals or drink alcohol, at any price. Maurice smirked.
The party would happen in an oak-panelled, coffered-ceiling room furnished with petit-point tapestry-upholstered Louis giltwood chairs and sofas, with a grand acanthus’ leaves Savonnerie rug. Large beaten-silver sconces and hand-engraved frame Venetian mirrors surrounded two sizeable gallant paintings of princely courtesans, wallowing nude in voluptuous creases of shimmery dawn-coloured fabrics, Boucher’s manner. A double door opened on a more obvious romping salon, low divans and a floor covered with Turkish silk rugs, enough to make me feel like rollicking in the nude. All windows, on the silent side of the house, were fit with intricate, privacy-keeping stained glass.
We sat, as modestly as possible, close to the entrance, waiting for Their Lordships of the Rising Sun. They wore bespoke silk tuxedoes, smelled of woody Cologne, and spoke in Oxbridge parlance with the received pronunciation. I must have been the most obviously indecent one of the pack, so it earned me a first fondling on the inner thigh with a smooth-manicured hand, along with a sharp black stare into my porcelain-blue irises. Oona was letting her jacket open but had willingly snaked out of her shorts, Cecile’s shirt gaped down to her navel, her suitor had not yet made sense of the silver plates on her belt. Lou’s dress was hitched up to her breast, and she stood legs wide apart on the edge of the armchair, furiously wanked by another cool-mannered stooge.
We changed hands in an odd manner of quadrille, our partners exchanging Japanese appreciations for our allures and scents with restrained placidity. Waiters in white jackets took care of our unneeded clothing —I knew both of them intimately— before steering a service cart loaded with coloured boxes next to the dining table and displaying a kaleidoscope of gourmet bites on silver chargers, Champagne in repoussé silver coolers, and ewers of fruity lemonade for the teetotaller courtesans. They had been given detailed menus, in the manner of scorecards on which they started to scribble.
Kate and I had been enthusiasts of the chef since our school days, before it became a global enterprise. His delights had regularly adorned the side tables at Victor’s beyond-dawn orgies. Now there, amidst our pale allures at the mercy of black silk-clad studs, I couldn’t tell, bar the legendary macarons, what were these edible netsukes we had been offered.
My close neighbour had endeavoured to dip into a chocolate-covered trinket which bled crimson, while he seized my hand and brought it to his bulging crotch. They all did so, they had a report to fill, and we would be the shadow dancers behind it. I did not wait for a request to gulp in his tense spur, but I decided first to peel off the beast raw, and he thanked me for it. He showed a splendid sleek musculature and a tousled black thicket around his stiff manhood.

They had seated Cecile and Lou next to each other and asked them to love themselves like French whores. Whatever it meant, it was easy; they not only knew each other by heart, but they craved to show it, be it for free. I was still so proud of my worker-girl crush turned lioness. She savoured Lou’s prime glint, not caring for the john’s awe —she was indeed an expensive number. Oona wriggled at the whim of the sporadic feast her two devotees took at her mouth, her feet, and her juvenile peach bloom —had they said.
I squirmed in the clenches of my Toshiro Mifune paramour, he liked my armpits, my neck, my eyes, and I smelled of his saliva. Then he fetched out a small frost-glass jar of a white salve he made me try on the back of my hand. It smelled of water lily and seeped into the skin like macadamia oil. Diverted from edible delights, his fingers crept up slowly along my arm strings, elbow, and shoulder like those of a cellist chasing the wolf tone, and he might very well flush out a whole horde of them, for that matter.
I willfully contorted myself to his rifling about my shimmying body, throwing up my foot onto the table while I headed out from under the armrest, trying to get to suck him right.
It happened long ago that I groove to a Japanese fling, or to a much-revered animé tale of Miyazaki’s; thus, I know for sure one cannot infer a hint base on intonations of the speaker. However, the word went, and we soon all exhaled of water lily scent and wallowed around in languid poses —not that it be a novelty for dedicated sluts like us. Before I could shape an idea of what they might be doing to us, the nonetheless spacious suite we were romping in seemed a tad more lively with new amber-skinned merrymakers. Not that I would take fright of a stampede bound to happen regarding our evanescent animalities, would I?
His Lordship Mifune revelled in having me spread over him, leisurely impaled on his turgid spur, effortlessly sheathed in my pale hibiscus, while the seven greedy samurais tickled my fancies and nibbled on my toes. All I could grab of them were steel muscles and tauten desire, and the Louis joinery of the chair did not squeak, although our tableau had become most acrobatic.
Around the table, my sisters in debauchery wouldn’t rest outdone. The dignified seats had been drawn to give access to the capsized fairies, triturated like brioche dough and sighing like a litter of kittens. A solo violin was heard from higher grounds, grazing our most libertine theatre in a dishevelled Purcell intonation. From the corner of my eye, I could watch Lou’s narrow belly row in the midst of her wide-spread thighs, before another acrobat climbed up so as to sheathe a vibrant dick down my throat, clinching one foot atop the Louis backrest.
The chair upon which a trio of acrobats shared Cecile’s delights began to creak ominously, thus they carried her to the bedroom to keep on with their carnal plundering. Hearing the ensuing hummings and moanings made me wish to have myself brought over there, too. And the bed had four corners, I found myself kissing Oona’s already fiery lips; we tasted of the same sour broth, for what we cared.
My quim disgorged of Mifune’s swig, but it did not hinder his cohort to pull me up on his steely spur and press my loins tight, therefore offering my arse to any returning beast. The rumpus went on, unwaning, in such lustiness that I wouldn’t swear I didn’t sense larger calibres when the lights were dimmed down in that semen-scented orgy, but wouldn’t it abide by the Hell Fire rules to invite the extras for our finishing round?
The silver tub in the bathroom was filled up with Mifune and a couple of minions, but I revelled at the febrile hands of those who preferred to play with us in the lukewarm rain of a large showerhead. As expected, the rich lather exuded heavenly fragrances, once we had rinsed our innards into the most anachronic toilet bowl, and I took a nifty pleasure pumping the milky concoction in my sisters’ loosened anuses.
Back in his corporate garb, Mifune hailed our lustful bravery and ladled out the rewards, grazing an afterthought upon my flat belly, to what I swayed my hips as if to mean I would remain to his whim. They retreated in order, leaving the apartment soaked and soiled. I sniggered; Cecile and I gave our tip shares to the newcomers. We weren’t frazzled, though, but I concurred that the Rising Sun horde had raddled our loins.
As we landed downstairs, gazing up in the air, Maurice beckoned Lou to come aside and recount to him what he had gathered hints about. They soon disappeared into the velvet shadows of his lair. A lanky blond boy was thoughtfully cuddling the piano. Cecile and Oona agreed that we would be fit for some other play. Money had made the Nordic elf’s eyes twinkle, so when a greying clubman sat to her side and stroked her thigh, she recovered the timid tone of voice she knew she could apparently affect. He enlaced her as they walked towards the desk, where Maurice hurried awkwardly to give her a key, and returned swiftly to the back room.

When Lou returned with a smirk, her breath obviously smelled of peppermint —We both had cajoled Maurice’s dick once in a while, in a good manner of whoring— and he had suggested she remain au naturel on the salon’s burgundy banquette, and now she proposed that we undo ourselves likewise. Maurice was amused.
The samovar had been left unattended but stood shining aside like a Pushkin witness; Lou made us tall cups of a brown spicy blend, her pert little arse immediately the craving of a level-headed tweedy philosopher, and we air-kissed her good luck.
Cecile raved about her thing for fountain maids; she lucubrated on how farfetched it related to her own brutalised childhood at the margin of a saw-dust watering hole. We fantasised about Lou’s willowy loins manhandled at a crazed poet’s whim. After the blitz of the seven samurais, we were only waiting for the light brigade, lauding the delicacy of the house’s toiletries, and I nosed after fragrances in her armpits.
Our little games did not deter some black-curled mannerly diplomat from claiming Cecile’s attention, which she bestowed with style after a swift but thorough scan of the proposal. She did not cross her legs when he ventured a manicured hand onto her. I shifted aside and showed that I was savouring my tea while he drew her to the desk, and Maurice winked.
The pianist was inspired, thus I laid back, my feet up on the next headrest, a dare for the gent with white sideburns who seized them just my Far’s manner. He smelled of perverted Jermyn Street lavender, and he was rich enough for a go. In the lift, he twiddled a finger or two into my bumhole, moaning his appreciation. He wore a prim silky blend banker suit, and he was stiff as a boar. No sooner had we stepped into that cosy Ming blue hideaway that smelled of sandalwood than I told him I needed the loo. He begged me to wait, and in no time, he boasted a prosperous white belly overcasting a dignified johnson, ordering me to come piss on him —just as I had figured. The bathroom was teal and tin, enamelled stoneware and burnished metal; he sat legs apart on the toilet bowl, and I let myself leak upon his master staff. He called me inventive little names, nibbled at my trifle berries and asked if I would let him bugger my shy petunia. Meanwhile, he took a foretaste, ejaculating at the threshold of my quim.
The bed was wrapped with sheeny, padded Chinese blue silk; he prefered me face-down, buttocks-up, and spread; I had handed him a vial of the Swiss Navy, hence he dived in me ever so smoothly while I squinted upon the intricate motives in the silk. He took his time, as talkative as a fair huckster, and he finger-tapped deftly at my ribs. He eventually hurled in a full load, howling all hell, collapsing on me like a dead horse, soon whisked out of my gurgling arse.
Not that I would suffocate in the fluffy cover, but I was passing out, so I shrugged him aside, slumbering, and ran to flush myself clean. When I returned, he awaited on his back, widespread, little johnson flaccid. He buoyantly put on the act of reproaching me for what I would have done of his pride, and all I should do was to clean and revive the sad puppet. He had not bargained his fare, thus I felt compelled to gulp my disgust and suck on the bitter stick till it regained its arrogance. Men of modern ages have means to rebound like fresh Cossacks, and once he was fully rekindled, he kissed me so thoroughly that all bitterness waned.
After he danced me around singing some terrible guardroom song, he decided he would entertain in my holy pod and try to see me climax. The most practical posture was for me to avail myself at the edge of the bed, legs up, resting on my elbows. He could hump me with all his vigour standing on his feet, watching my flat belly he relished. And he was savvy enough to trigger my ultimate tremours, and again, holding up my ankles to reach the wall of my womb and eventually disgorge another ladle of his soup.
The room was wallpapered over with chinoiseries and Grecian cornices in tones of blue. Four alabaster bowl chandeliers diffused a subdued light under the pearly grey ceiling. The bespoke thick carpeting rimmed the walls with the same Grecian motive. The two inevitable silver-foil fauteuils à la Reine were upholstered in chinoiserie indigo chiselled silk velvet, on one of which he took me on his lap and kept making out like a college boy. He playfully implied that Maurice had purposedly sent us to this room because of my eyes. He revelled holding me, wallowed with my heels resting on each side, as he continued wanking wanking me over his listless soldier. He truly fancied me, he said I was the best of two worlds, and I should visit him at his home, along with the friend he had had time to give a peep at when we had petted to the music on the banquette. I replied Mr Maurice could see to that. He smirked and ran. That was a pretty wad of money that I left on the soiled bed cover for the maids. I had no pocket, anyhow.

Maurice kindly took hold of me as I dawdled back down and pulled me into the velvety nook. It was his dead-of-night demon, when he figured out what the girls he craved had been doing or done to, and I knew he liked me. He had probably shagged all his heart’s content already, but he revelled fondling me some in the dark with sweet talk, and then he told me Ms Stern awaited me in the private salon.
They were all simply nude; Camille cuddled the new foundlings with a radiant smile, and she asked me to turn around to show my back. She claimed she was proud of me ever since I shored at her doorstep, once.
The room was obviously Camille’s signature, with spacious taupe mohair velvet armchairs and ottomans. The huge misty verdigris deep-pile carpet figured seaweeds and fish, upon which the dainty feet invited to worshipping. Precious and sleek Art Deco palm wood side tables and chests, inlaid of ebony and ivory, displayed the remnants of the Pierre Hermé feast in stylish silverware, but Camille had none other appetite than the exhausted bodies of the new stranded little whores. I snaked to Cecile’s feet and loved them unabashedly. We decided to part ways; Camille called for a car, and the hastily clad trio eloped to her realm. She had wanted us to know what she had just done with our stray kittens.
In our taxi, Cecile had roughly clasped her belt over her gaping shirt, and I had been too tired to button up my tunic; we were in bloom at dawn, and the driver had no regret. I loved the smell in the God Crow temple; Alfred lulled us, enlaced, away to Slumberland.
Aeons later, I woke up alone in the sniggering face of the homunculus, as I would expect in Cecile’s realm. As I scented of her on the cold pillow, I reckoned how the enormous magic contraption had happened to the foot of her bed, and fireflies buzzed in my plexus while I figured her touching the veils of Salome with her tiny aspic pads, at the steady pace of the well-tempered scales.
I went to pee, touched myself and smelled my fingers; I splashed my face with cold water, and I liked the lilac circles under my eyes. Beyond the shutters, one could hear the cacophony of a busy season and the unleashed tenore di grazia in Gauthier’s Italian brigade at work in the new angels’ dwellings.
I treated myself with French toasts and Oriental Beauty, fantasising someone would catch me thus, in the raw. It did not happen. I plugged my laptop that I had left to run flat and browsed my messages. Kate was on Sylt, overjoyed in the sunny garden where Cynthia had visited her for a few memory days, and Simon had met a Scottish therapist who kept an open mind as to their timeless relationship. Their mother had almost lost sight, and wouldn’t leave the Alster shore, where she spoke French to the swan ghosts.
The Grant twins sent a nudie, arm in arm, with a copious hard-on and a disarming smile. The Heather Fairies had scattered James’ ashes in the shallow brook of his first emotions, precisely where he had asked, and the damselflies had danced. They did not know what to make of the empty urn. My last night sideburns paramour had ferreted out my address, and he wrote wittily about my licentious manners, pressing me to let him patronise my delicious lower belly. Cecile had agreed to come along, she wasn’t afraid of paunchy rich fogeys on pills. We agreed he could send for us at our street corner at nine.
Up in the studio, I plugged in the Drone Zone and hovered on one of my tiny galaxies in progress with a range of blue leads. I had put on loose white satin shorts and a ribbed tank top, both trimmed with powder blue satin.
Daphné called and asked if they could come up. They had enjoyed a kinky sauna with Finlan and Marceau, and swam. They brought pots of tutti frutti ice cream, and they smelled of expensive roses. Rose wore a crisp white shirt and crimson yoga shorts. I released all her buttons and caressed her legend. She kissed like moonlight. Daphné’s lips, chilled and sugary, evoked our first nights on Italian terraces; I couldn’t help pulling down her shorts. As we rollicked on the futon, they recounted that Melchior had flown them along to Zürich in Ayla’s parlour house to watch them whore themselves with the Germanic elite. They had befriended my devilish little sister and learned plenty of adorable details of my bubbly Swiss life, but they called me a princess. They had run about the villa in the nude for three days and earned a royal ransom. They had shagged between none and seven well-groomed Herren at their whim, peeped on by the greedy Kingpin who eventually had let them fly back on their own in his Albatross. They had also met Eastern European beauties who had fled the odious fresh meat traffic they had themselves, more or less, encountered once in their lives. The girls’ private quarters under the roof with its spacious common shower room was the free playground they missed the most. Their neighbour Natalia would take them that evening on a magical mystery tour; I laughed and told them we had about the same kind of program ourselves. Between gentle romps, we looked up the best means of transportation from Paris to Zürich. They left early to dress up as preppy little devils, just like Natalia had requested.

Cecile read the email from a Ivor de Landry, and that of Maurice, who had forwarded the invitation by the vetted client to my address. We googled him, and it returned a flawless profile of social prominence and a high-end publishing business. In a precaution call, Liselotte knew only of flattering gossip about the man’s refined carnal appetite, but he did not patronise her network, yet. She, herself, had haphazardly shored amidst a furious orgy supposedly in his dwelling, but she had ended squarely wasted on the backseat of a limousine, at her own doorstep. Like a well-meaning tattler, she reminded us to leave our trackers alive in our phones; I replied that our black cards did precisely just that, too.
Cecile had spent the workday amidst Salomé’s seven veils, but did not abide by “killing that woman”; she felt utter respect for Stück’s talent and inspiration, and so did Cyprien, who had fetched his expert’s glasses to unscramble the glazes on the painting, and discern the precise nudity under the browned oils. I would visit her the next day, but presently we needed to make for exciting harlots of ourselves.
Firstly, Agnete, on the phone, suggested we taste their fresh rhubarb and plum pie, along with almond and rice cream, as an early collation, and that was utmost brilliant. And nonetheless, Cecile ground and percolated some mocha, to get along with a basket of almond tiles, the fad of which she dared say she had initiated at A&S, and that I found not offensive towards my own Taiwan tea, although I did not dunk.
The season was gracious; we allowed ourselves one-piece suits and nought other, that is, roaring twenties dinner jackets with spike satin lapels, purplish black silk faille and satin for her, Luxor night blue for me, with matching princess satin linings. She was as laser-smooth as I; we needed no stockings. Black satin pumps and ballet flats would do, and we put on party jewels like onyx, moonstone, and amethyst anklets and chokers. She chose to smell of Burlington rose, I put on the Iris de Tornabuoni.
In sharp time, the silent black saloon car glided silently by our corner, and an outdated chauffeur in a mouse-grey livery hurried to come open the door for us. The music was of Purcell’s, some ancient-tuned court music, said Cecile, which responded to the sunset in the Grand Palais’ crystal domes. I bit her earlobe, saying how enthralled I was to debauch along with her.
We headed west, beyond the posh suburbs, and I lost track in some forest where eventually, a narrow cobbled road ended in front of a massive greyish gate at the foot of a wooded hillside. On the chauffeur’s tapped command on his phone, the door lifted on a dark subterranean pathway, and the car parked near a boldly protruding ashlar stone illuminated portico, with a vermillion lacquered portal. We walked on polished slabs, met by that same Ivor I had shagged with the night before, and who complimented me about my partner he readily fondled under her jacket. He stood fit and smelled of brisk Cologne, sideburns curled up and his eyes flitting upon us.
In the polished Portugal rose marble vestibule stood three copper doors in which we looked like flaming ghosts. The middle one was for the lift. Although the car was spacious, he pressed us into a back corner to ask Cecile if she would love me. I could tell he was already all worked up. We reached a less stately gallery with peachy waxed walls and giltwood Art Deco consoles that caught Cecile’s eye while her jacket was already half-withdrawn. Our host gently suggested we rest our garbs in the closet after we processed our cards mutually —once again, our fare was sky-high. The most uplifting feature was the vaulted ceilings ran over with relief golden pampres and grape bunches like a famous tomb in Luxor. Embracing my paramour unrestrainedly, he explained that this venue went somewhat back to antiquity and had been refurbished time and again by his ancestry, mostly to shelter away their asocial walks of life and their despise of religion. The quarries had hidden Jewish families en route to exile in nazi times.
As he had overthrown Cecile upon a leopard motive silk velvet ottoman, and was passionately quenching his thirst in her holy brooklet, I sensed a pang of déjà-vu, and I sussed this estate was neighbour to Louis’, where we had abducted Trine from her outworldly sculpted staircase. When she became all keyed up, he asked me to take off his pants, would I? And fetch the Swiss Navy in a nearby drawer. Then I would make her lap at my labia and clit —which she would do anytime, anyhow— while he humped her deep, steadily. It might have been his first draft that night, so it drew a sound growl from him, and a crashed huff from her. He grabbed me and forced me to clean his unrelenting baton and Cecile’s gaping hole, and I didn’t baulk. He kept mumbling shreds of old bawdy songs and kissed me like pre-code Hollywood. A nude Nubian-type hunk pushed in a cart of fresh drinks and let us squint upon his vigorous tool.

As we caught our breath and drank fresh tonic, in pauses which had an inevitable effect in our silk-skinned teaser, but then Ivor returned, in a magnificent sulphur-yellow brocade robe over his potbelly, and giggling about the boy’s daring appendix, led us to a Bele Epoque silver and gold foil sculpted wood door, showing a modern God Shiva dancing, holding a huge tear-shape ruby in his hand. He asked Cecile to press the fiery stone, causing the door to swivel onto a pitch-black corridor where the interesting Nubian pushed us, in an irresistible embrace, grabbing our bums in a rage of vindication.
It was some anechoic void that smelled of sweat and musky oleander like a dancers’ cloakroom. Many hands took firm hold of our bodies. The sounds of massive gongs began shattering my chakras into pearly galaxies of shivers, kneading my diaphragm like a bag of candies, and dislocating the plates of my skull just like in the long time memory of Prof. Wolfsohn’s illustrations. And greedy tongues rummaged in every nook of our nerves as we were suspended by an array of bonds, so as we floated, all spread at a convenient height for the easier use of all our accesses. I was soon effortlessly shagged thrice at once while my toes and nipples were nibbled on. I had Rubensian visions of a human cascade in an apotheosis of lust. They must have worn night-vision goggles; the gestures were precise and implacable, and I climaxed to no end, drooling out pints of semen. Both of us eventually passed out.
We woke back in the tepid waters of a large silver basin, our black angel keeping our heads afloat under the snickering scrutiny of Ivor seated on a mock Egyptian throne, a gold switch in his hand. He told us we had been exceptional martyrs, climaxing longer than many. When our southern minder had set us back on our feet, Ivor, groping and kissing us like a big cat, drew us to a dark room filled with monitors and showed us the greenish images of our über-debauchery trip at the whim of an army of night-goggle-wearing well-hung anonyms —Ivor swore they had all been vetted like ourselves— and it wouldn’t be a surprise that bits of embers be stirred again in our wombs as I enlaced Cecile. He was proud of his gong collection, the mother of them all, that which had made us like sense our bone sutures, was taller than a man, hung to a sculpted portico. As he was, again, poking his tongue onto our lower bellies, I floated that we might not be ready to die through his exquisite tortures, so he laughed out loud and avowed he had not expected that much.
I didn’t hear Alfred, it should be blaring afternoon behind the shutters; I had repelled all covers, and our homunculus seemed to approve of that. I fostered a monumental pee urge —I loved to ponder on Cecile’s toilets— I reckoned I was still in one piece, after the carnal cataclysm we had been paid to withstand, and the no-name Nubian had chased all traces of lactic acid in our joints. The fantasy dawned in my brain that we should buy him out of Ivor’s fortress, but meanwhile, I wished for all of our holly areopagus to spend a shred of their glorious youth at Ivor’s bunker.
Oona came by as I sipped my tea. Lou was at school; I warned her I would probably recount outlandish prowesses, to what she smirked, and floated that she might overbid me. The three had been picked up on the quay, at dusk, in a sleek black mammoth of a bus, the kind productions use to cater for their stars. On the side, a door swished aside to give way to a reception lounge where a stairway led to the upper platform and a front panoramic view from deep low, sprawled banquettes. Natalia had confiscated all their togs and shoes and told them to sit wherever they liked since they were the tour’s attraction. Indeed, elegant passengers made room for best-view seats, caring little about the outside.
It was the boheme chic crowd, and Natalia had warned that the money was fluent. They were attired in that couture-conscious paraphernalia from the borders of sanitarily eligible society, the bustling fray of nepo babies that smelled of jasmine and pot. Not long ago, Oona had cruised among them in the northern territories, under different ominous whips; hence, she had not been nonplussed, only now she was one of the available sex hirelings on her own account.
It was no more than a posh VIP room on wheels, a wild mix of silken 200s and Rodeo Drive designer jeans. She admired how Natalia would deploy her fantasy legs to the noses of awestruck society brats. Lou had let herself be chosen by some more conventional black-sheen tuxedo and was sucking his febrile penis bravely, while she offered a tempting bottom to an already unkempt jester who would not content himself with wanking a headstrong Peter, and lube was at hand on the side shelves.
She had been cornered by a couple of fiddle-fit libertines, graceful enough to let it all out unabashedly. The girl was Swedish from Gothenburg. A golden down shivered on her sun-kissed skin amidst the crumpled creases of her hitched-up petticoats.

Her frizzy black-haired paramour, though fair-speckled-skinned like many Celts in Nordic realms —to hell with misguided nazis who worshipped the proper Slavic features— craved shagging her while she serviced his blond princess, and thus she couldn’t oblige more eagerly, and so she parted her thighs and arched her loins to offer up her behind, hearing him mutter in his bliss.
Now she was straddling me, on my chair, and she kindly dripped upon my wet quim. I told her about that dong in my womb and gong in my bones commotion, and the soft recovery at expert handling, whisking away all strain —I would bet Cecile was currently at her top efficiency shedding light on Salome’s privates.
Oona couldn’t tell where the mystery vessel had glided on, there had been stations, new snazzy passengers keen for a taste of them, wives and fiancees enticed to whore themselves; the black card crew was obviously outdoing the antivax retards. Champagne had been utterly pricey and unnecessary; trendy spice drinks were free. She was still amused by the number of party animals who craved to see her piss on whatever in the convenient shower booth.
We went upstairs; Alfred was happy to see us, and he received a handful of nuts. It was a hot day; she lay nude on the futon and smiled. While I followed my hand on the pad paper, I asked her to describe the travellers. She and Lou had paid keen attention to the youngish princesses who seemed in bliss, being led on the leash to debauch themselves, speaking like posh boarders on the lam. They smelled of their fathers’ Cologne and licked like baby does. Eventually, Lou called and told Oona they would spend the evening at Camille’s with Fanny, who had intentions for them —that I found appropriate; unless they planned to merely sell their skin forever, for they neither had rich fathers to plunder. And howbeit, we should acknowledge that the multitude at large fill up the scary so-called social architectures with tiny fates and bland lives, don’t they?
Cecile was content with Salome, and she had listened to Richard Strauss, though a quick reading of Wilde’s chiselled play had left her wanting on the gist of the matter she deemed mundane religious gobbledygook good for Rita Hayworth. Now the small panel would, said she, probably infuriate the bigoted onlookers, and that was what she craved. She said Lauritz had called her to see her, in terms she could hardly look down on. I reckoned it might be one Admiral’s day; besides, I craved a chat with Carmen.
As we cuddled under the shower, I recounted Oona and Lou’s nightly odyssey, and it rekindled her bawdy spirits. She said she had read about rogue busses in trash magazines, and thought she had seen some near Porte Dauphine when Sami took them to tease the voyeurs after libertine adventures.
Lauritz had obviously inflamed her perverted soul; she slipped on a featherweight black see-thru layered shirt dress and nought else than black patent flats and a black glittery bow tie on a grosgrain swath. I envied her. I fetched a collarless, tight-fitted, narrow shoulder, purplish-blue sequined open short dress I, too, intended to wear open. I put on matched velvet slippers with silver damselflies embroidered on them. I wore a thin sapphire bead anklet and a four-row choker. She would smell of that Florentine iris we had chosen together near the Palazzo Vecchio; I sprayed myself with Hugo’s Angelica and Petitgrain. We had some black twill trenches to camouflage ourselves on our way in the taxi. We carried our thin vade mecum in the stealth underarm pocket.
Bets were on whom of us Udo would pull behind the velvet curtains, and Lauritz had granted him leeway as to Cecile if he liked, unless he had already spent his pocket change with the cunning sparrows from back street who had been the talk of the club. He was glad to see us both, respectfully took our coats, and invited me to watch as Cecile pumped his professional staff and made us share the bitterness he had spurted in her beloved mouth. Newly invented alcohol-free gin would cure that naughty whim’s side effect.
In the grand salon where I had once singled her, Cecile took my arm and swayed her happy hips. To the lust of the early clubmen present, our nigh nudity was inspiring. The black pianist improvised some salute, and returned to his glamouring chords. I knew he liked the job, and the tips in kind we might grant him later. In the front room, two tables offered either vegan or carnivorous finger food. Clubmen did not need to be diet-restricted to shag the animal liberationist, teetotaller harlots, mind you.
Lauritz was in a conversation with my admiral, and a flight of lights from a tourists’ barge on the river downstairs conferred an operatic turn to their most masculine comments of our allures. New girls smiled errantly, enticed by our daring stance. We kissed gently, and one pretty German brunette risked a hand on my lower belly, so I whispered in Schleswigian that she would be welcome later, but my Admiral regular was already careening towards me. Her name was Hermine, she had witty hazel eyes and a dark blond, short nape hairstyle. She followed some soft-spoken diplomat, in English.

Fredrik Morse, as I called him, was overjoyed to see me in beautiful dispositions; I was his beloved tomboy, and Charlene, my regular stylist, had shortened my bob hairdo a mite. I knew it behoved to me to disrobe him, and it was urgent, obviously. He wasn’t so much the type to revel in being sucked patiently, although he savoured watching whatever princess he had fantasised in me submit on my knees and pull my tongue for his dick to play with.
But I knew he would culminate in relish shoving it in my pale rosette with the unfailing Swiss help I had called for, though it be harsh for a high seas sailor like him; he had conceded the point. Between the two requisite salvos that his honour requested, he chatted; he said I weren’t an ordinary strumpet, and he tried to break my secret. I crafted tall tales that would rekindle his want; until he set sail.
When I walked from the lift, Udo beckoned me along. He liked it when we resurfaced from a romp with a client, only a furtive licking over his little desk; most girls let him. He said a Sofia had been asking about me, and she was in the salon.
Plum and all the back street sparrows were offhandedly putting to avail their young fruit on a new wave of black silken laps. I almost missed Sofia in her new swallow-head short hair. She ditched her courtier to jump at my neck and grope me overtly since I displayed myself thus. she wore a simple white open twill shirt. She recounted she had stayed a whole week in Zev Mendelsohn’s bed, with mandatory favours to Armand. It had profited her greatly, and the shagging had been utterly voluptuous, but now she was on a mission to find another odalisk for the Sultan. The reward was incommensurate, and the task was supremely simple. Zev was no ogre, only he didn’t sleep much. I had myself enjoyed his manners a couple of times, to help Cecile, who needed to rummage through the collection’s archives. But I feared that the pretty foundlings of Speck’s back alley wouldn’t stand the constant gust of manly desire in the warmth of the Capharnaum. All our seasoned harlot sisters had given time already.
Plum was currently offering a gracefully lewd pose to a pair of buddies. I joined the tableau as if I had missed Plum for so long, thus letting my easy bum up for grabs. Hence, the decision to go somewhere cosier and let unravel their inspiration. The lift car was at capacity, and my Moldovan was prettily frenzied. She had already improved her cosmopolitan pidgin while keeping a fresh complexion, and I wondered who had tutored her around here.
Our cavaliers looked brave in the buff, the working-out type with honourable headstrong peters, and they were served their utmost fantasy as we made out like schoolgirls while they frolicked at our rolling backs, lubricating their weapons. We were up to the house’s demanding standards, they could breathlessly bugger a couple of enlaced lesbians like in a living Klimt masterpiece, and we didn’t fake either way. When they dared swap us, they sounded like being in the throes of death.
We had been in the rare François Boucher style fantasy red-printed on cream fabric room with enticing nubile nymphets in large openwork giltwood frames, but the pair of distinguished fauns who had overspent their purses in our entrails didn’t notice. They drew us to the shower for a lather fight like frank buddies. The tip was considerable, but we had considerably soiled the bed. I tied back their knots like my Far had taught me long ago, and I returned to Plum.
She had known Zev’s realm and unquenchable thirst already, as well as Mr Armand’s tactics. She could do with the money, but she went to school in the afternoon, thus she would ask me to come along, first, and square things with Mr Armand. I agreed, and I texted him about our visit the next night; there was a warm answer.
Meanwhile, there was a buzz when we reappeared, enlaced, in the grand salon. There had been a symposium on the new economy in the Senate’s venues, the kind of crowd tricky to survive. I barely had time to tell Plum to come to our home in the evening, I didn’t even know where she dwelled.
As she was snatched away by a curly black-haired hidalgo, I let myself be grabbed by some long-faced Brit with reed-blond sideburns. The shiver of randomness still stirred embers in my womb —so long as I wasn’t forced to it—. He had delicate, manicured hands and flax-blue eyes; he couldn’t yet be fortyish. But he spoke in a nigh-offending Eton accent I mischievously imitated while he fondled me over like a cellist his instrument.
We were assigned a Swiss-minded pine-clad third-floor room with harlequin curtains and upholstered furniture. He sat me aslant in one of the plump colourful armchairs, one knee over the armest, my head resting on my opposite fist, gently lewd as possible. Now he fetched out his telephone and two sleek little boxes of Bluetooth earpieces, with the boyish smile of a tweedy scholar on the lam, and he daintily fitted us both with one pair.
All fears steered aside, I knew that all-English drill he streamed in from the top notes. It had been Tudor Weiss’ core anthem in Saint Loup’s art class when the mischief had rested. Jacqueline Dupré was even more of a sublime generational martyr than Kathleen Ferrier; and even my bustling Ayla Naveen quieted when, once in a mellow sunlight flooding the studio, he played Elgar’s concerto for us through his Rogers monitors.
Not that Tudor Weiss would abuse any of his students, apart from a few off-grid occasions when he had corraled our groups on cultural trips, and I might have enticed him onto my young skin. This young squire, presently nude in his freckled glory, ale-golden sideburns and rosy dick, bid fair to hump me up to the music, in old days’ sake.
He smelled of Bond Street fern, and he had not forgotten to spray his russet muff, as he bustled my throat with his glans. He might have risen in the drafty corridors of college gay life, he was in the least a gifted bi swordsman. He avowed on his own that he craved tomboys like me; bulky breasts and haunches unsettled him, as they did me. Anyhow, he buggered me like a boy, but most men do, don’t they?
As he succeeded in pulling me into an unruly orgasm, my fantasy was haunted by these BBC grainy images of the angel’s concert with her unbearably flaunting Kadosh husband who would desert her no sooner than her illness set in.
Udo caught me on the fly and told me that Cecile awaited me in the private apartment. She had entertained a mannshaft of Lauritz’s freunde practising a totally different game, in plain sight, along with Carmen and Dorothy. The boys had been elated; now she was devouring stuffed dates from a silver charger. I wooed Carmen, who showed dainty feet with black-lacquered nails; Dorothy bantered to be first, but in the end, it was Carmen, in a marled linen jersey fit and flare mini dress, who sat next to me in the taxi. Lauritz had winked good night, and Cecile was proud of her manoeuvre. She didn’t like sleeping over at Speck’s.
I took Carmen to our grand bed, she was enthused with our pandemonium that Lauritz had foretold, and she wanted in. I assured her that from where she stood, no possibility was barred, and then we dozed out. Much later, The House Fairy came to sprinkle our slumbers with her magic dust. Natalia was jolly aroused by the Ibiza little tramp Lauritz had vaunted in the grapevine, and she had unclothed to sneak to her back, taking great care not to wake us yet. I needed the loo, thus I let them greet a new day heralded by a boisterous Alfred.
Hugo says the once-teeming city birds have deserted our yards, and the scraping of the monuments has discouraged the swallows, hence the republic of blackbirds is a last recourse before the complete reign of the pigeons he calls flying rats. I brew my tea and find some pie in the fridge. I knew Natalia wouldn’t re-schedule her day on a whim, but she would certainly infatuate herself enough to scheme another one of her kinky ventures with the fresh rookie. They came up in the buff and cleared out the rest of the mirabelle pie with the tea in my pot. I poured a second fill of water onto it. Then Natalia said she would call later; she put on her jeans, a Bertrand Russell tee-shirt, blue tartan shirt and chucks, and fled after heartfelt kisses.
I had mulled about returning to the black-and-white sorrow of Jacqueline Dupré and why not a flight of the Lied Von Der Erde by the great Kathleen, but I would certainly not risk spooking away that stray maiden Lauritz had entrusted me with. Merely clad in light fantasy printed flannelette pyjamas, hers with random multicoloured letters over a sage-green background, mine with toys and whatnot over powder blue —Kate and I had played kinky games in those— we climbed up to the studio. She liked my Drone Zone web station, like techno with no beat, so inducing to wandering hands, but she had never seen so many books at a time in someone’s house, and she needed no advice to ferret out the smutty ones.
She had long lived a hustled-and-bustled life only a seriously trained psychologist could attempt to sort out. But along the course of my careless entitled upbringing under the wing of a distant flawless father, then in the cuddly bed of an exceptionally resilient survivor of all ordeals, Camille’s, I could fearlessly bear the brunt of pretty damsels’ confidences, as long as they shared my libertine lifeways. Were it engrained in their genes or their planets’ configuration, tides brought un-chipped, desirable souls to our shores from unthinkable backgrounds. Whatever treasons Carmen had confronted, she had miraculously prevailed —nonetheless sowing her trail with corpses we would not bereave for
Having fished out the richly crimson leather-bound volume of Bayros’s über-decadent paedophile fantasies, she said it had been commonplace in her father’s entourage to sell pre-nubile girls to powerful perverts.I told her she would draw the attention of Natalia, who had grown amidst Hugo’s house in the skirts of her mother, the housekeeper there. She had had all access even to our quarters, and we regularly found her nude in our bed in the morning. She was an irresistible kitten, and she became that splendid panther among us, unabashed with all the tricks she had copied from Hugo’s mistresses, all the way to becoming one of the most cunning.

She recounted what had become of the little harlots she had known and loved in Budapest’s backyard circles. Many had sunk into alcohol and drugs; the others had been trafficked to the rich West, or to a more sordid fate in the Middle East. It was godsent Lauritz found her astray in Ibiza.
I reached my melting point, reckoning that I had only been contemplating her dainty feet on the futon, out of the flannelette pants, unable to put down the lesser scribble on the paper. Natalia caught us entwined in Carmen’s confessions, true or embellished, madly arousing, for what she saw. I suggested Natalia should help her write down all this, and I knew she might. They left Carmen’s pyjamas for me to sniff in and they went to Natalia’s to dress for some unavowable ploy. I did not question, but the Hungarian sorceress had flamed up that sensitive point in my mind.
Having told Carmen of our own windfall-salvaged cherubs, I haphazardly texted a tender haiku to Dagmar’s box, and she beamed up in one of these loose-knit linen jumpers she finds in men’s sportswear. She said she, too, had felt dumped after Azul, who had let her in her secrets, had returned to Malo’s realm and the dancing elves. She had been with Gwen on the Japanese’s yacht in Sardinia; she was all sun-kissed and gleamed of all her baby golden down. She smelled of wildflower honey; she gushed shamelessly to my face. After a tomato, egg, and basil salad and pretty mounds of juicy fruit trifle, all with witty white tea, we decided to confide our fate to whichever of the usual culprits. Hector won.
It would be a warm evening. I proposed she merely wrap herself up in a pale blue and gold silk zigzag knit mini tank dress, with matched blue suede Egyptian sandals, a triple strand necklace of white opal beads and an assorted anklet. I chose a round-tails fluid night blue silk twill man shirt, and assorted silk velvet slippers embroidered with silver monkeys. I clasped a fiery opal to my black velvet collar and donned a black pearl anklet. She blessed herself with a hint of Misty Dawn Iris —her blond skin transcends all fragrances in a dazzle. I pulled out a tomboy woody Cologne I knew she would fall for.
The car was a sleek silent night-blue luxury custom van with one-way glazing. Hector was clean-shaven and smelled of petitgrain, he wore a snazzy midnight blue silk suit and a white banded-collar shirt. We spread out on the back seat, facing him most immodestly. He seized Dagmar’s foot at once like a played bashful lover. We crossed the river and calmly drove north, making me think we were headed to Le Bourget and some private flight, but we bifurcated towards the non-descript industrial jungle and eventually one big grey vaulted-roofed railway warehouse. Our van seemed shrunk as we passed a tall side doorway.
Inside was a clean minimal train station with a few shiny coaches along a red-tiled platform, under the soft light of a line of hanging lampshades. We stopped in front of the second car after a toy-like yellow and black electrical locomotive. The whole train was navy blue, black and gold, with a blank black ending truck. Contrary to most passenger trains, we didn’t need to climb to walk in; the platform was level with the coach floor.
In a sapphire blue silk velvet tuxedo, Louis greeted us in the reception car, a frank statement of Art Decorative faith, that frail utopia which died long ago under the hobnailed boot of a sterile drug addict. A lively cascade of lighting poured all over through sculpted crystal plaques, like the waters in Tivoli gardens, upon a sensuous ordinance of polished satinwood and chiselled mohair velvet, in a bronze to mauve and grey colour palette, oversewn in old gold.
In his quaint accustomed manner, he let his manicured hands wander as I threw my arm over his shoulder.
Afar in the train, a piano suffused an easygoing mix of Erik Satie’s unconditional tenderness. Louis smelled of Egyptian tobacco. A young black waiter brought some tea in a silver pot —it reminded me of my first visit to Louis, and the necessity to drink much. We sat on both sides, on a shallow sofa, which forced us to offer ourselves nearer the edge
Another black stealth berline accosted before the pair of orange trees which marked the entrance. Louis buckled back up and went to greet a pair of long-legged does, none other than twins Sateen and Pearl van Armel we had lost sight of, short-clad in beaded straight tunics and mid-thigh stockings. They had visibly thrived under some mighty wing; the one I danced with wore not much more than I. As a third luxury automobile approached, Hector ushered us further into the train, showing us the closets where to hang our soon-to-be-useless attires. Indeed, a crowd of merrymakers eager to shimmy with us continued to invade the pleasure convoy. I was captured by a resolute black curled dragoon with a firm grip who pulled me into a cosy cabin and asked me my name. From the bunk, I could see the smart clubmen queueing to embark; Among them, a good many of the alley cats seen at Louis’ previous merrymakings, in sundry manners of undress, light on their feet with twinkling eyes.

He spoke in a light east-Indian accent; he looked up at my deliberate pose while he unbuttoned himself completely. He was brandy-gold-skinned and tightly muscular. His dick was already so taut that I couldn’t see if he was circumcised or not, and little did I care. He did not shy off my mouth as I played whore. Unhoped for, the train loosened its brakes just while my Playboy of the Eastern World filled me with all the length of his worldly lingam, both ever so smoothly, as a blessing of Louis’ munificence.
The palace on wheels glided indifferently through the nightly void, only slashed by the regular floods of white light. The small shag box was lined with marquetry panels depicting fauns humping nymphs in numerous ways, ad I could watch myself like the pinned butterfly when he toppled me up thus. And then, we hustled each other into the narrow ornate enamelled metal shower, not knowing each other’s names.
As the train picked up some cruising speed on antique tracks, it swayed gently, enough to push the travellers onto passers-by like me, in all randomness, like the blond Norsk stud whose arms I fell in. I could tell by that Norwegian Cologne he wore, if not much else. I went for his fly while he devoured my lips, along a farandole to find a free sleeper booth. We ended up in a twin-bed compartment upholstered in maroon moiré silk and satinwood incrusted violet wood in Art Nouveau volutes. The beds and pillows were still fresh and smelled of lavender. He was stunned when I spoke Danish.
He was a musician, a classical double-bass player. He told me there was a whole symphonic phalanx onboard the train, including most of the ladies, wearing masks as a start.
He was a practising nudist, hence his sunkissed body strewn over with a golden down, and a wreath of golden curls around his balls. He wasn’t overly endowed, but his bow was stiff, and above all, he was a melodious kisser and an overcautious handler who craved to see me climax in my wolf tone. He found some clear gel to lubricate my lesser path and thread in, scherzando. His speedwell-blue eyes, under the sunbleached brows, slightly squinted in his boyish smile. He proudly made me climax before he gushed in deep and collapsed in my neck.
A window in the corridor had been opened, and the train was passing through a forest, and the air was balmy. My virtuoso had felt somewhat peckish and had run to the buffet. A moustachioed mature man in a black and red livery and a cap came on and gestured if he should leave the window open, only to eye me up close. As I waved my head in the gentle wind, he seized me and tickled me on the neck with his moustache, before showing me he could kiss smoothly. He likely spoke in Croatian, he wanted to know if I would shag him.
He drew me to the next car, in an Art Nouveau padded crimson velvet, black lacquered wood, and gilt bronze box with a wider bed. He pulled down the window and pushed me on the bed as he took off his uniform. He was a furry animal, with a daunting shaft already weeping a clear droplet. Some Cossacks I have acquainted with are hairy to the toes, and though I would always prefer a satiny girl’s skin, it doesn’t hurt feeling a hirsute beast in the heat of the moment. That one had manners; he told me to turn up on all fours, thighs parted, relished the sight of my freshly dredged holy brooklet, and took a nosedive in it with a fierce tongue, lashing out blasphemies in Volapük when he caught back his breath. I felt wholesomely appreciated as another beast of pleasure, I curved my loins to offer my crotch unfettered. I splashed on his face more than once and eventually sensed his fingers twirling in my already compliant liberal anus with most certainly obscene comments and warnings. He was some heck of a straddler and made me bite the pillow, but then he wanted a face-to-face and nibbling on my toes. He bellowed rashly while he hurled his load into the deep end of my entrails, remaining welded to my quivering hole for an unwaning length of time.
Then, unexpectedly, though not abnormally on such a trip, I noticed we had a peeper, right there in the warm shadow, nude, skinny, cock in hand. Still foraging into my arsehole, my Croatian bear read my eyes and bruskly turned over his shoulder, heckling the young voyeur, but at once giving him the way to my gaping bootyhole while he fancied to disparage me so deep than to make me suckle his drippy penis just out of my arse —I dare say I had let belittle myself by doing such obscenities since the laundry cellars of Saint Loup, of all frenetic memory, Ayla. The successor floundered a mite in the goo my bowels were pushing away, but in all vicious effort, I squeezed his leaner staff in, making him huff and puff and last not long, while soon I gulped another blessing from the Carpathian bear. Now the sneaky pipsqueak had sheathed in my neglected vagina, and I welcomed him in, to the scorn of his cohort who was re-buttoning back up, griping his tauten dick in a string of orgasms.

I remained for a while in the tepid stream of the pink enamelled shower booth. I was spent out. I found a burgundy velvet bathrobe and watched a transparent moon quarter rise over the nondescript plain beyond the closed window. I felt numb. I wondered about Dagmar, and I went to fetch her. I snuck in the compartments and saw scenes of abandonment worthy of the Medusa. There were offhanded caresses under the thick fabric with promises of later embraces, but they barely licked my lips.
I found Dagmar passed out, spread out on a madly devastated bed, and I feared for her. Not only did she breathe calmly, but I sensed she dreamt of swans in flight, and she tipped her tongue to a kiss. I enwrapped her in my robe, and we dozed out in the big swank sway. Out of some discombobulating dream, some Bernini Hector came to twiddling my feet in the smoothest manner, and I let him, and so did Dagmar. He was seated on the bed, and someone light was on his lap. Dagmar looked up and smiled. There was a long-blond-hair, lean-framed elve snug at his side, straddling his thigh, her gaze peering under a thick fringe, her pouty mouth between two minds. She didn’t look like a party brat.
The name was Bryony Carlisle, mind you, from Northumberland shores, but she tried to speak BBC-neutral with pretty slips in the multiethnolect. Reading Hector’s eyes, I sussed where he had fished her out from, and I did not question —Dagmar, given her godly origines, never asked. It was another case of a fallen angel, born to young wayfarers, between Leeds and Glastonbury, a miracle survivor of her teen mother’s abstinent year before her father’s overdose and the following pain chain through the under-funded social institutions. No wonder Hector had bought her on her good looks at the rim of a sewer, and Louis and him wanted me and the gang to adopt her, like all the others before her.
Like us, she smelled of a vague carnal melee. Her eyes were misty green, highlighted by witty darker eyebrows and lashes. Her skin was heavenly smooth, bringing up the hunch of some all-heal stay with Louis in the Empyrean; she sure wasn’t raw from the jungle. She wasn’t unfazed by our attitude when I pulled off the robe, and Dagmar had an obvious crush on her. She was only slightly shied as we allowed ourselves liberties on her. Hector was visibly overjoyed with his lustful manoeuvre; Bryony wasn’t the first foundling his boss would entrust us with, and they had probably taken time to revel in her company. She would certainly soon find herself transported to the lemon groves of the Posillipo or the terraces of Gotham City.
By now, she let herself be shared gracefully. She had toylike childish feet, and I could tell she had shagged all her fill, heads and tails, undeterred. Hector called for some warm finger food and drinks. He went to fetch our clothes, Bryony slid on a short teal and purple zigzag jersey, French sleeves, dress and thin-strips sandals; she was as tall as I; Dagmar was head over heels in love; it would lead them to the attics rooms at TRÆVIX.
Louis must have been asleep somewhere, Hector led us to the same van in the still-blue dawn; Bryony, between us, asked nought. Her skirt was soon hitched up while we made out like schoolgirls and Dagmar drank at the holy well. Back home, we crashed on my grand bed, and she laughed at Alfred’s heckles.
Late in the morning, I taught Bryony, who needed the loo, to piss on me and be pissed on in the shower; she said she had done so with Louis and Hector, proud to show she wasn’t such a babe in the woods, but I gave her the bespectacled rabbit tee-shirt and grey spandex yoga shorts that moulded her quim. Dagmar had found some loose nightshirt; I sported ribbed knit fitted singlet and knickers with ultramarine trimmings. Natalia came up, in jeans shorts and an open white cotton shirt; she was charmed by our live novelty, and although Dagmar was a tad monopolising, she pulled a chair so near as to mingle in her legs, with that bright smile.
It took pots of tea and coffee, but Bryony wanted to know who we were and what we had lived, and she joshed we were nowhere near the plain Jane type. Dagmar now spoke perfect English, but she certainly had the most complicated biography to spill out in shreds, so Bryony, who was a confirmed atheist, was gobsmacked by what she heard had happened at the core of the almighty German church, although she had herself crossed other likewise manners of institutional abuse in the course of her orphan life. I just laid out that I was a cosmopolitan privileged brat, and Natalia said she had always been the pet of the most libertine of all households.
I proposed we show our new Brit girl around, and I warned her we would meet a host of desirable creatures and that she rest assured she befitted in beautifully. Dagmar couldn’t help kissing her deep, in the lift. She was foreseeably left speechless before the subterranean realm and the dance floor where Josephine and Emeline repeated their moves in the utmost nudity to the Hammond ad-libs by Finlan.

Like anyone, Bryony had seen pictures of luxury houses, but when she discovered the swimming pool, she stood gaping. Natalia was first diving and dared us to join. The Brit was some swimmer, and a delight to watch and a delight to chase after. When our dancers came over, there were no palavers to hand plays; they craved that sylphic elegance at once. She was our it girl for the day, a regal present of Louis’.
Dagmar wanted to keep her chance with Bryony, and that was adorable to look at. She insisted the newcomer follow her into the TRÆVIX palace to some random delicacies. I wanted to attend, and so did Natalia and Emeline. Nude as Rococo angels, they roamed the steel corridors and red carpeting til the reception salons, and Dagmar knew that we would stun the personnel with awe, be them long used to the house’s many fantasies. Bryony was flabbergasted; that much she could not ever have seen in magazines, following a night of debauchery aboard an otherworldly train.
And not only Dagmar couldn’t quench her thirst for a lanky princess, but she dragged her along to the sanctum sanctorum upstairs, to pay homage to the worldly bandwidth witch. I was keen to watch the gaze behind the aviator glasses when the new prodigy would be introduced to her in the command room, unannounced. Michelle wore a daffodil yellow bodysuit, and Trine, at her feet, a sleeveless marigold shirt and nothing else. Whatever the fascination of the twinkling wall of monitors, and I wouldn’t know what happened on them, it was the all-candid Aviatrix who turned to us and beckoned the newcomer to her side. Must have been she had secured her positions for a minute, or she really liked Bryony. I knelt on the futon to kiss Trine.
I retold the gist of who she was, but knowing she was introduced by Louis was mostly enough, as had been for Trine or so many. Michelle let Dagmar show some passion for Bryony, but she begged for a kiss anyhow. The grand samovar had been brought to the upper tearoom where new silver foil screens had been deployed in the willow-green decor. There stood little pyramids of Turkish pastries on Ming plates, and dark tea was served in enamelled glasses by a white jacket waiter. It was naturally up to me to introduce Michelle as deftly as I could, not to mention how we had met, more from the makeshift of TRÆVIX in New York and the heights of 60 Huson Street, as far away as it sounded. I could tell that Bryony did not yet believe that the frail little blonde who was actually groping her was the Lady of this new shimmering realm, but she had lately been hustled through so many amazing places and situations that she overlooked any reasonable reckoning, as of yet.
Visibly, Michelle did not lay claim to any more than sharing mere whiffs of Dagmar’s crush on Bryony, it would be just another polyamorous romance, wouldn’t it? Neither did we.
After the night we had dreamt through, I needed a breath, thus I dawdled back up and to the studio, where Alfred mocked me, so I switched on my playlist on Bandcamp, and brewed some Oriental Beauty. A thunderstorm was cooking over Paris, just what I needed to reset my mind. In the black omen before thunder, Cecile came on with Lou and asked me for coffee. We would have to walk down, then, and Lou suddenly realised my nakedness. Alfred had taken cover.
I love thunderstorms, although it makes me homesick for my fantasy angels on the Tudor terraces. Lou said she was scared, so she ended up seated butt-naked on my lap. Cecile was enthralled by the tale I made of the fabulous orgy train, so I advised her to call Hector and bring Lou over. Meanwhile, there was a fresh message by Serguei claiming his buddies and he would gladly get soaked only to see us. Cecile was go, and she represented Lou the beastly manners of that gang, howbeit gallant they be. I was certainly not deprived of dick, but I owed these bad boys a few heated remembrances in the smell of stables, didn’t I? I responded before they would get a bite elsewhere.
The delivery boy from A&S wore a bright red storm attire complete with Wellingtons. He brought sundry pies and cartons of fresh drinks. The Kossacks would still abide by abstinence so as to be let to shag our damn sort of arses; that was heartwarming. I tipped Natalia just in case.
Serguei had a fit of laughter when he saw us naked in the steamy atmosphere. They had only tiptoed in from two blocks away and did not regret their hunch. When he came to grope Lou on my lap, he smelled of a campfire in the Toundra. He was quickly done over with his jeans and shirt, and played poking his tauten dick about Lou’s face until she gulped the daring glans, and then he led her to the sofa. Now Yaguil sat on Cecile’s lap and made out fiercely, while two other yet unknown scoundrels took possession of me.
Natalia had not overlooked my message, and she knew the gang well. She disrobed in haste and came to my rescue, to rather choose one of the plains roamers to her taste.
Knowing my chances, I warned that a bottle of Swiss Navy was in the sofa end table drawer, so it was sent over. Knelt backwards upon the Windsor chair lip serving one tauten dick, I was offering a contrite target to the other one. They had not brought switches or crops, but the fury was all there, and the unfettered judder. After the first volley of friendly fire, we packed in the shower and changed hands; I had cum down to my feet. Lou was shaking, but she did not faint; it was only one chink ahead into smuttiness.

Lou, Cecile, and I ended up lying in front of the grinning homunculus, strewn upon the unkempt bed. As per usual, only Lou and I woke in each other’s arms to Alfred’s clear notes. She was wondering if anything in her womb had been bruised or torn, so we properly fingered each other before going to pee on ourselves, enlaced.
I put myself to cook French toast when Carmen burst in after Michelle had returned, unforeseen, into the blinking arrays of her giant mind. She had roved in the deserted palace, bar the busy houseboys who eyed her nevertheless. She had remembered that the maidens lived in the attics, and she ferreted out Dagmar sound asleep in another girl’s arms. Back downstairs, she had met Trine, who figured out she’d rather return to me, and gently helped her through the subterranean maze. She showed charming lilac rings to her eyes. There had been a pot of apricot marmalade, they agreed to come over to the studio.
Invented impromptu for Michelle in troubled times, the futon remained a fixture in the studio; likewise, the red armchair brought in by James with the idea to ogle us comfortably, and the red sofa in which the Heather Fairies had tied their new fates.
After the Apolinian drench, the air was fairer, but clothes were still frankly optional, and Alfred concurred. The two nymphs decided to take care of their hands and feet. Over time, all the necessary toiletries had accumulated on our bathroom shelves. I heard them pumice their soles and heels and tickle each other in a splash. Then they spread a white towel on the carpet, just like I would, clipped and filed their nails to shape, polished the tiny claws gently, and applied the black varnish impeccably in slow touches.
I made more tea; I was considering setting up a samovar of our own. I had seen some snazzy ones in the antique shops around us, and I knew one could easily electrify them. I missed Kate; I would ask her about the samovar. Dagmar called; she had plotted an evening at Camille’s and wanted us to join, wouldn’t we? A team of 7S lawyers were currently in Paris; Camille was overjoyed to see Carmen, Bryony and the little gang of jailbaits.

Cecile says:

Now that Salome had been painstakingly debunked as a too-lovable fickle brat ready to die for a whim, I was released with the initiative of a gathering at Camille’s. Unfailingly, Sarah had played doll with talent, knowing how to entice her one-time steady lover with a windfall fresh spawn. Lou had been styled mid-length, in tousled curls, and she liked herself, as I read in her bright eyes. She wore a stiff-ironed white pinstripe antique collarless shirt with a breastplate and long tails, the sleeves rolled up, and nothing else than white suede Egyptian sandals. Oona let flutter a white embroidered linon waistless mid-thigh Saint-Sulpice altar boy dress and wore one of Sarah’s pairs of celestial blue velvet slippers. Carmen sported a long white faille, fitted, red band collar and cuffs, boys’ music band uniform, from Sarah’s immemorial family camphorwood coffers, the lowest gilt button flush to her pussy, and she wore white patent Chelseas.
Dagmar wore a widely draped cowl neck golden sheen mesh jumper short dress, aslant upon one shoulder, and golden thin strap sandals. Sarah donned a black crepe double-breasted, moiré lapels blazer with platinum mirror buttons; and flat grosgrain loafers. I had fished out a tissue-thin, tobacco-brown Prince of Wales double-breasted man’s suit, all lined with purple twill. Gianni had refitted the belt size but kept the width, like a wartime days Zoot suit. I wore black and white Oxfords. Sarah slid a hand into my fly I had left open; she joshed that she was smitten with me.
We stopped at the flower shop rue Monsieur Le Prince and bought five bouquets of appropriate peach fuzz roses so Camille could put her collection of Lalique vases on display. Fanny and Natalia played housegirls, one in dawn-mix jersey leggings and crop top, the other in a white one-piece sailor shirt trimmed with black. The apparent Madam was nude in lily cream Miyake elaborate biais sails; she clung her gaze on Bryony, and she wanted to hear the whole story, cuddling the bonnie lass aside. I couldn’t tell her wrong, I knew the last of Louis’ foundlings would sooner or later lie nude on my sofa, first for Cyprien’s pencil. That one sported a splendid sunny honey thick mane and fringe.
I had not in some time regaled my eyes on Dagmar’s thighs; she knew of a patch on TRÆVIX roofs to sunbathe —and the right sun care. The fellowship with Fanny, who affectionately mentored her at school in English and French, had made her a beaming damsel with a glint of vice for what she was much sought after in Swiss seasons when she deigned.
Along with Gauthier, Fulgence and other well-groomed regulars, a distinguished platoon of Ivy League suits, well-styled, and perfect teeth introduced themselves in first names, Clayton, Griffin, Wesley and the likes, and who knows what they expected at a bachelors roundup in one of their richest clients’ Parisian dwelling. Totally estranged from their usual conversational topics, but right out charmed by the offhanded elegance of our distinguished coterie, they behaved candidly, not having to wonder if the money was real.
On her mighty concealed sound system, Camille played Blue Note cool and Northern Euro dreamy jazz fitted for her low taupe mohair design salon, fumoir style with wide flat armrests, and a thick-pile abstract motive rug from the Aga Khan’s villa. Although bottles of rare spirits lined up in a lacquered tray, sided with crystal sniffers and heavy-bottom tumblers, they were wise enough to notice that none of us touched alcohol, sipping elaborate lemonades from fantasia Murano high goblets.
We obviously had a frank success; ties and Brooks Brothers jackets were soon hung aside, and Dagmar’s secret garden beguiled new eager eyes. Gradually, the Hudson Street team sussed that it was College again and no need to get drunk to get laid. Bryony was first to be totally denuded at Camille’s hands but gave the eye to a black-curled Ashton to whom Camille had winked.
Lou’s shirt was easily hitched up like in a royal effusion by François Boucher, although her mouth was taken backwards by another one. Sarah Half-seated on an armrest had let release the only one button over her slender, pale ambiguous nude allure for a speckled tousled reed-blond boy she had transfixed. He must have been breathtaken when she reached for his respectable dick and let his trousers fall down.
Gauthier was astounded by my queer garb and invited me to dance softly, confiding he would have craved to find a dick in my fly; I knew that, and it did not help me from seizing his own famous wand while he did not scorn the smoothness of my lesser breasts under the silk. Carmen sat on a crew-cut cinnamon-skin champ who fiddled with her ticklish abs and down to her tight lower belly, And she opened her thighs gracefully. Her twirling toes in the air like gratuitous flourishes of her youthful and shapely legs.
Seeing the predictable twist of events, Oona tiptoed around and did a gracious cartwheel before pulling her flimsy dress over her head and flinging it over to us.
She pranced about kittenishly from hand to hand, unabashedly. Lauritz made me proud of him. I would suggest to Gauthier to have her full body 3D scanned, then carved in wood, like Michelle’s gilt sentinels in her grand salon. Despite a worse-than-deplorable fate, Oona stood at the miracle balance point of beauty, and lustful aesthetes like me could keep a full-dimensional image of it, with crystal eyes. One fast-handed punter seized her by the wrist, and she did not baulk when he enlaced her waist; she wallowed upon his lap with an absent grin, letting him poke his tongue between her lips.
I had never earned yet the favours of Fanny, the reedy blonde whom I sensed a prestige through the manner Natalia referred to her, and who was unassumingly keeping an eye on the housekeeping in these delicate circumstances, making sure everyone had all they needed, stewarding one or two exotic matrons to that end. That would not bar her from showing her apple bottom in the raw under my nose, letting me take liberties, like an elusive homage to her satiny skin. Not saying a word, she leaned back on me and nuzzled my neck. She said my suit reminded her of someone, and slid her dreamy hand on my breasts. She unbuckled my belt, let my trousers fall and asked, staring me up close, if I liked girls. She knelt and pushed me down upon the armrest, thighs parted so she could lap at my pink pearl. Fulgence relished the tableau and felt familiar enough to join us, pecking my ajar mouth while releasing his familiar schlong off his jeans. Were it Fanny’s skills or the hushed luxury mood of the gathering, I couldn’t help cumming into her mouth and quiver at her gulping whatever I squirted out. Then she told Fulgence to skewer me while she gave me a taste of her. I sensed the arty staff I wasn’t a stranger to obeying the order to the hilt as Fanny straddled my complacent mouth over the headrest, showing the shagger the flip side of the moon. Our trio was finely tuned, and thus, we reached orgasm with spirit. She came down to taste my mouth and so found herself buggered by the same not yet satisfied cavalier all slidy of my juices.
On the opposite velvet shore, Camille was teaming the same manner with Natalia, opposite a pair of Yallies in full shape. The newbies were relentlessly shared all the way to the grand bathroom, where splashy laughter resounded. But when they thought fit to return to their hotel, they swiftly gathered their corporate garb, avoiding any more look upon our lascivious poses, and kissed Camille’s hand goodbye. The salon was suffused of carnal fragrances, and she was overjoyed; she took Bryony on her lap and made her speak out her soul like we all had, once, with her.
Carmen snuggled in Dagmar’s wing, their tapered legs gathered up; she had heaps of catching up to do. Sarah and Oona probably threaded Nordic wordplays, fondling each other across a sofa. Fulgence, who worked early, had dozed out. Gauthier still wanked Lou kindly. Camille disappeared stealthily. Fanny promised to visit me in my workshop; I warned her she would have to pose for Cyprien, possibly from the back, her face looking over frontwards, for my collection; she laughed, helped me dress and cuddled me to the door.
Back home, Lou came to bed with me, not in the least exhausted; she, so I made fun of her wanted to know exactly what we had been doing so I made fun of her, explaining that the benevolence towards the clean-cut, highly functional Yallies had been for free, like an in-kind retainer for what they might help us with someday, pro bono. I recounted how, as a lone craftswoman in Lauritz von Speck’s work site, I had entrusted my fate to Sarah, who had been head over heels for me, and thus ended in Lauritz’s many beds, and eventually funded and supported in my personal venture.
While wanking her again, I retold her matter-of-factly that she could walk away from us all any time, but otherwise, she would be expected to offer herself the most lustfully with reigning figures like Lauritz, Hugo, and Melchior. I, for one, had not regretted my own, so to speak, whoring, to them. And so was the simple destiny of pretty samovar girls.
The next morning, as I dunked my langues de chat in the finest Mocha, a conference call by an axolotl avatar conveyed the invitation to Wigmore castle on Montmartre Hill. The days of bereavement had ended; it was time to hail James’ memory in the proper manner. Fayelle promised there would be boys. We would have to warn the likes of Lou that this one, too, was for the fun only. I had been pondering taking Lou along with me on my next visit to Mendelsohn’s, to make her stash fatten, if she were up to intense copulation, to say the least, although not life-threatening.
Dusk had spread a golden varnish over the endless city when our caravan reached the house now called Wigmore Manor. We were bringing boxes of vegan delicacies, pies and little patés, enough to hold a siege up here. The house was still a vivid metaphor for the quaint old bard who had hovered on Paris in the merry company of so many little harlots he never harmed.

The russet Brittany sandstone cobbled alleys had been swept off the last years’ seasons, keeping their little moss clumps until the blackbirds upturned them to peck whatever swarmed underneath. Annabelle had told me they, too, had a meistersinger who dwelled in the tall Virginian tulip tree, which grew before the back-end retaining wall covered with ivy. She did not call him by a name; I had suggested Horatio, and she laughed.
James’ blessed heiresses had asked Sami to provide a fine brigade of vetted extras, as they didn’t fully trust the crowds in college. Lou and Oona hardly believed me when I laid out our hosts’ history, from their destitute childhood to the ordeal of abuse and to the sewers of this world, where a James Wigmore Manner, or a Sami, had fished them out from. Gossip says cats do not make dogs; both girls had been whores young enough to keep a moral pleat as to their affective lives, but just like others in our hive, and with support from our close sponsors, they had garnered enough academic credentials to spit in anyone’s eye, for James’ ultimate pride.
From the gate on the sloping lane, guarded by a hunky black suit, multicoloured garlands on the ground led to the porch stairs where familiar graces lay in chaise-longues chatted, in different stages of undress, attended by keen suitors, in the summer breeze. Amidst dedicated staff from Philippe’s, Sami organised the festivities and took charge of our boxes of delicacies.
Annabelle took a quick liking to our short-clad blushing debutantes and wooed them away to a sofa under painted papier-mâché palms to listen to their adventures while peeling them off the foulard printed twill shirt dresses, and raving at their delicate beauty. Hector too, was on the lookout, on friendly territory, in case he might introduce new bait in Louis’ wonderland —where no smile ever turned sour. He had brought Sarah and a battalion of next-door darlings, Adèle, Rose, Daphné, and Carmen. Natalia, on her side, had ushered the TRÆVIX’s attics posse in the likes of Dagmar and Apolline, also Fanny she kept in her heart always. If Sarah donned a regal Judy Garland night blue silk velvet tuxedo, lined with turquoise satin that she would hardly keep buttoned up, the rest of her court were losing their shirts at the hands of Sami’s paid hunkers.
On three floors and an attic, the collections were staggering. James’ inherited fortune had been made in armouries and the making of navigation timepieces, hence there were none of these to be seen in the whole house.
Young James had been a boarder at a posh public school. After the horrendous suicide of his closest beloved classmate, wrongly accused by some hereditarily untouchable offspring of having made some queer advances on him, he ran away to Paris where his mother’s sister lived in the shame of a homosexual liaison, and supported him while he went to study in the Sorbonne until his father’s liver collapsed and so he liquidated the family’s assets to settle in this townhouse —once built before that obscene neo-whatever obese pastry that now wallows at the top of the hill— for an aspiring artist who had died of an overdose of morphine before he could move in.
From his family’s properties —bar the industrial artefacts he put up for auction or donated to the British Museum— he had gathered heaps of collectable marvels, such as shells, corals, pearls, and also jewellery and objets de vertu, stones and all intriguing whatnots. He funded a foundation for the abolition of sexual preference criminalisation, but above all, he spent money with prostitutes, which led him to adopt Annabelle, whom he had found on the rough pavements of Glasgow.
He had been overjoyed when Fayelle and Annabelle had wished to set up house together under his old friend Hugo’s hunched roof —atop the studio in the apartment Kate had wished her brother Simon would live in— as long as he would see and cuddle them, once in a while. The doctor he had chosen softened his last year, along with a dedicated nurse who would not see he had spared more than enough poisons to make a smooth end.
Like most of us, I had visited the third-floor studio purportedly to pose for the old aesthete, that is to whore for him in a haunted lair not unlike the Mendelsohn crypts. Like his bygone master Pierre Louÿs, he took heaps of risqué photographs in weird costumes and harnesses before eventually making me swallow his meagre discharge, for a princely fee. The costumes were still in the wardrobes, and Lou had followed me, nude, up there. I did not resist trying some barbaric vestures on her young allure, as I remembered doing for James, finding words to make her exhibit herself ever so lewdly, eventually promising her money. Sami had shadow-trailed us, and he read when to step in and wield his firebrand, for he knew both of us liked dick as much as kittenish games. I regret not having a photo of the tableau where she sucked his taut puppet while bursting forth from a heavy black inside-out fur coat strewn with silver nails, and one thigh hitched high, sideways.
But it was far too warm to frolic on theatrical fur, mind you, braided silk harnesses would make far enough of a teasing costume and an optional horse tail thrust into the most coveted narrow rear hole of her gracile allure. All enthralled in submitting my dear trainee, I fell caught out in my own game when one of Sami’s cohorts, who perpetually trailed him thus, seized me defenceless in a savoury third-degree. Letting me sense the urgency of the menace physically as he held my arms from the back and commented on our arousing pantomime —in a manner to let us appreciate that Philippe’s gamesters were no boors— while wondering aloud where the Swiss Navy might be lurking. It was Lou, a considerable tail plug in her arse, who told him it would be mere KY from a tube on the side table. My handler had grabbed contention bracelets to bind my arms in my back, and he pushed me against Lou who didn’t need an order to kiss me while I was masterfully buggered standing, just like her. Sami gave a deep tempo, saying we needed not to be set in sweats and his accomplice played more like the adagio double bass than the pizzicato violin, to my all-pagan rapture. On the convenient daybed that James had set there, not unlike the red couch in my own workshop, we could lick each other’s gaping rills clean like unabashed slags and still breathe yummy in our kisses. Before running to sniff other new bum cracks, Sami complimented us about our melodious play, not unforeseen in our exquisite tribe. He fondled Lou again a little more and promised her some astonishing nights at Philippe’s.

I wouldn’t know who tipped Lauritz off about the surprise event; I suppose Carmen did. He appeared on the porch with an armful of apropos pink lilies and a flock of barely dressed island sparrows, at a time they had already made their day at Speck’s but shimmied to the novelty. Annabelle greeted the 911 knight amidst the ruckus of the seraphic menagerie and was subjugated by Dorothea’s candid insolence along with her youthful daintiness, all this according to Lauritz’s forecast to fit in Annabelle’s good books. He found Wigmore Manor to stand on par with Speck’s, and filled with most palatable blowsabelle he might nevertheless have encountered in his own salons. Once his lilies were secured in a repoussé silverware bucket bearing Wigmore’s arms, he took a fancy for Lou, who was just only started.
Fayelle had rounded up most of the crews, through Liselotte’s intelligence service. Delffan, Fæbian, Adèle, Rose, Plum, Josephine, Charlotte, Emeline, Gwen, and Seresine, all and more in the eager sight of the duly vetted pride of hunkers. James’ soul quivered in the immemorial salons now teeming with bright young skin, and I wondered if the old aristocrat ever saw such an outpouring of bounty in his galleries, of his whole life.
It had been long, and I wooed Rambling Rose, who hardly withstood the curiosity of the drooling packs on her own, and kept a sweet remembrance of her stay at the workshop, where the best of her portraits by Cyprien still hangs in my cubbyhole. We played it distant, like blasé lesbians in their sphere, although we couldn’t help a young vanilla skin boy to come drink at the well in the rose bush’s roots, and then shag her lain upon me, spread open. Liselotte had crept nearby, and she sucked the two lovers clean, then making me taste her mouth and telling me, all of a sudden, that Sarah had not been mistaken about me.

Sarah says:

I had these few delicious minutes before I could tell where I was and why. The morning herald was simply not our Alfred. As not unwonted, I was cuddling somebody’s smooth feminine back, dreaming in the distant fragrances of Brittany brooms and musky roses. Then, vaguely bewildered, sitting on the toilet bowl, I tried to patch together the tatters in my chest after the carnal feast, and I had been some careless kitten, hadn’t I?
In the days when I dwelled in the bed of a sought-after courtesan —our beloved Camille— fresh from the holy boxwood boskets of earthly paradise, James had been an eager fixture at Hugo’s revelries and a keen sponsor of our studio’s endeavour, but, until he suddenly spilt the beans of his purported Scottish daughter at our great vernissage gathering, Annabelle, the Fairy of redemption. Little did he uncloak his own Xanadu of these Parisian heights steeped in history. And after all, Annabelle herself preferred to move in with us and fall for Fayelle whom she supported through the straits of her notorious “axolotl” aneurism.
Now I wandered as I was in the shaded galleries; sundry matrons of exotic types in sporty tracksuits and sneakers were at work tidying up after a night of deliberate looseness. They looked up at me and said all the scattered clothes had been hung in good order, downstairs. I told them about another kind guest still sleeping back there, and dawdled downstairs, knowing I could trust our hostess about tea.
This whole finely metaphysical flea market reminded me, all things considered, that gem of a documentary film made in André Breton’s atelier on Boulevard de Clichy that deplorable authorities did not put together to keep it such, bar one wall rebuilt in the Pompidou Centre; and the City of Paris, at the claws of a sleazy Christophe Girard, shamefully did not budge a smidgen after the death of Breton’s widow. Anyhow, my soulmates and I had been living in such a displayed wealth of moveable artistry that James might have preferred to keep his reverie to himself and descend on us only like he had long patronised the brothels —and he had always been a fair game companion.
From the landing where a salacious assembled-coral sculpture on a shelf of a triton considerably shagging a contorted defenceless nymph amidst a mother-of-pearl bouquet sought vindication from the sore piousness of the famed Trapani production, I was carnally lassoed by the irresistible scent of fresh croissants. In the kitchen, all clad in mismatched reclaimed earthenware tiles, Fayelle jumped on me after pulling off her nightshirt, and we made out like no tomorrow, under the keen eye of the Glaswegian fairy.
My comments on that improvised Midsummer night made them rightfully proud. Tea was first flush, Puttabong Darjeeling garden, brewed by a diaphanous, dishevelled English ginger harlot in a silver Georgian teapot, poured in odd cups of antique flowery bone china. Fayelle, the once-destitute suburban pavement flower, tugging louts in the backseats not to die, miracle survivor with a titanium skull, season of our soul on Cortazar’s account. Only we could have told, and we hadn’t.
Oona shuffled in, like a Beardsley nymph in a genius frame, bending to lick up the crumbs on Fayelle’s breasts. Annabelle was interested in her buttocks, and she waited until she turned. They begged to hear the gist of her runaway tale on the Baltic shores, and nigh death in a German ditch, and they hardly could keep their tears. Annabelle made a pass at her, floating the idea she might come to dwell with them and square up her destiny somewhat, whatever she would with her lovely arse, just like among us. But I knew she had already reckoned the snazzy lifestyle of these birds in the back staircase, and lent illimited favours to Gauthier in vue of being bestowed a niche in these quarters. She would inevitably pay a visit to the Hudson Street Emperor and wiggle her narrow hips usefully, in good intelligence. Gauthier had been smitten with her smell he naively associated with the birch forest in the snow. She was a gifted lovemaker, and I knew he had given her the best advice.
In the taxi, where our evening garb looked indeed quirky, I texted a word to Hugo, whom I thought was back from a treasure-hunting trip to London, and I let her read my proposition for a date that evening and the visibly joyous and heartfelt acceptance of it. It gave us time to review what she knew about our beloved landlord, but first, she felt the urge to wash her hair, and thus, she drew me to the bathroom. We made out in the tepid flow, and then I told her to piss on me, that we did, like mischievous brats. Her strands of hair clung down on her shoulders, I worked the shampoo in a rich lather; foreseeably, she, too, loved the Covent Garden Geranium-Orange scent, as all the damsels who happened to unclothe with me. It procured a peculiar pleasure to give her the full courtesan toilet, remembering my own inauguration with Hugo, a good while back, at the instigation of Camille, who garnered some nigh jailbaits like us, around her gallery.

After an afternoon tea with almond rice pudding, tousling her hair strands while they dried naturally, mine needed no care; we chose her desirable garb, while I would merely go in a satin indigo pyjama jacket to play stylish matchmaker. A country-simple cornflower blue waistless Irish linen loose dress with open armpits would tingle the aesthete’s fingertips as much as mine. She would smell of a seashore jonquil, perhaps in the hope he would rapture the reed-blond gamine to the Isles Of Scilly. She needed no shoes, only sapphire nails, a dash of subtle eyeliner, and a puff of blush.
The Grand Vizir, overjoyed to find an occasion to don one of his prestigious imperial Kaftans over a long white linen shirt, was, without any ado, smitten by our dainty feet on his precious silken rugs. He seized her hands, and I was out before the entrance door shut back.
I fetched myself yoga shorts as if to stay seated in my work chair for a good while. No sooner had I heard Alfred’s daily dedication, and set in place the necessities of my meditation —Taiwanese tea, spacey music, and a hoard of drawing tools in sundry kinds of trays— than my telephone streamed out Joe Hisashi’s “One Summer Day”, and so I knew whom to cry for at once. But Princess Kate announced she would return in no more than a week or so. She needed to reset her mind and so did Simon. She hoped Cynthia could take on the chore, in old days’ sake. In the quaint Sylt house, with an unusually bright season, she had reckoned that she would never tread such an affective life as the one she is still the yet involuntary moral fulcrum, around here. And beyond an immersive carnal legend —she once believed she had gravely maimed— with her brother Simon, all the bearing of a moral reshuffling was on him, if he ever could involve a therapist bold and savvy enough.
We sure had a long tattle, mind you, with racy details of our latter nights, and I was the one to tell it wasn’t the whirl to perdition, was it? When I went down, naked, for a dip, the subterranean realm was deserted, nought barred me from soliciting every muscle on my carcass; only missed a vigorous massage the likes Fulgence and Eric knew to give, at a price. The thorough grinding of every tendon of mine, along with the extensive use, still after we ate the gratinée onion and croûtons soup, of their unending resource, could have brought us beyond reason, but thankfully they had long workdays, so they put me to bed one last once for the day.
The next morning —Alfred had been exerting his freedom of ruckus in another backyard— and I would have wanted to confide with Natalia, but she was in town. However, I had a notification in my mailbox from the highest-up, who summoned me at the maze door at dinnertime. That would give me a perspective. Kate announced she would take me in her arms the next day. I stole some of Cecile’s biscuits in a basket —that raised a hint of Plum’s stories— and I put my feet upon the table. I had to admit I had never believed the glorious siblings of Sylt could re-start anew, even if Simon’s scars had been almost erased at huge costs; something of his soul had blurred, like frost in a diamond. Regaining his sister had not healed his sufferings.
After a nigh maniacal grooming, in a mist of jasmine absolute, I planted myself in the middle of the vestiary, waiting for a hunch. It would be that black silk gaberdine vintage shirt embroidered all over with strands of seed pearls in volutes, trimmed with silver piping, and buttoned with easy silver snaps. I put on black silk velvet slippers embroidered with my family crest: a silver hand pointing up to a blue five-spike star. I wondered if a sheen black open-crotch bodystocking would complete my dedicated toy-slut impersonation, but His Higher Discretion hated the sensation of losing His time as much as I knew he liked my tomboy body, and it had fittingly been tuned up by a pair of experts all evening, did He know?
Gianni had touched up the vestment in finicky details and lined it with violet silk twill; only looking at myself in it made me wet; I could expect envy on my way down. Yes, I had to parade a bit in front of the invisible steel door; the whole gang wanted to peck my cheeks. Charlotte said I smelled like Greta Garbo.
It was Delff who stood on the threshold, in a white bodysuit threaded with gold, their wee-wee delicately moulded in the spandex, and they were so easy to make stiffen; they claimed they could do me whatever they fancied in the corridors, to what I wasn’t one to object. They smelled of Zanzibar, and I wanted to lick them. They slid their hands all over me; they tickled my clit and whispered they had been thinking of shagging me, however dinky it be.
Melchior was wearing a dark gold brocade robe over a long Parma linen shirt. I did not remember the room we stood in. Supple black polished terrazzo floor, sheeny cinnamon cream Venetian lime rendered walls, maroon mohair low buttoned sofas, and Persian silk rugs, all in the metaphysical lighting from two high-arched stain glass bays which I wouldn’t know whereupon they looked, he told me to toss my slippers and dance about, in the flutters of my open shirt.

His Graceful Altitude wore palladium-rimmed spectacles to watch me for a trifle of seconds, and then he beckoned me to come to his side and kissed my neck. He had always relished my head, said he, and that I smelled heavenly. Delff brought covered dishes on a silver tray, and then they helped me pull off my shirt and fold it aside, expressing her greed for my soft boyishness. They had been visibly erect, and they stood teasing, close at hand, thus I twiddled with the birdie, like I had done oftentimes since the days they showed off naked on any occasion, and that night when we had enraptured them. He relished what we were doing, he suggested they disrobe, they were so damn pretty.
They were fun to gulp, but I knew they would gush off their tasty spitting from the lower part of their double orchid. They flaunted this mischievous disarming smile. I drank it all. At some kind of hint I must have missed, they ran with their rags on their ar, their dainty little feet on their toes. Pushing me back, Melchior tasted my mouth; Delff had told him I was the sweetest, to what I protested that all souls on the block were sweeter than me.
He implied that he had cast an eye on our last novices doing the niceties with me, and he complimented my deftness. Besides groping me like a free-use pet, his point was to keep me updated on the ever-growing estate capacities of the unassuming consortium buying out its neighbours, thus not worrying as to where to lodge the worthy recipients, however not setting up a coercive tit-for-tat strategy, the confederacy would not misguide anyone.
As the lights waned in the heaven-and-hell stained glass, twinkling in details cut into favrile glass, he asked me to recount my dalliances with our salvaged little harlots, those he would rapture in his wings to a tryst in some fantasyland. I had fished out of the creases of linen his venerable staff; all I needed to do was to suck on his glans like a dedicated harlot; I had done it uncountable times, and I always succeeded. Eventually, he said that Gauthier oversaw the domain and would accommodate our fillies. He would invite Bryony to someplace not too far from an airfield.
Back to my bed, I took a deep dive into Slumber Lake, whatever Alfred’s comment. Even in the warm season, it is not recommended to sleep in the nude, all the more a thoroughly depilated person like me, but it is customary that my guardian ghost, or Alfred, throws a simple sheet over me before the dawn shivers. That morning, I revelled in the not-so-rare feeling of a déjà-vu dream, back to the early days of our installation here. Beyond the trail of some costly perfume, I could sense the forever scent of Kate’s, and indeed there she was, alive and tepid, dreaming of white horses in the dunes.
Like old days, our perfect telepathic imp Natalia soon climbed over us, scandalously tantalising in white spandex shorts and crop top.
She smelled of wildflower and neroli, she had partied until the wee hours, but she was wide awake listening to her childhood fairy so perfectly sunkissed. And Alfred buoyantly reported to whom it might concern.
Kate was overwhelmed to find her rightful place unchanged, only she could not put a name on the dozy new face with a reedy fringe and freckles, although she could guess why she had turned up on my lap, and she said Bryony was a name in harmony. I brewed Oriental Beauty in the big pumpkin pot, and they kindly demanded that I bake French toast, to which I advised to worsen with Danish blackberry jam from Agnete & Sanne. There wasn’t much to be said; we all knew the spell of Sylt, even Bryony, it seemed, who had grown on the opposite shores. Kate, who had become filthy rich, had thought of dying of boredom, and she did not even make Simon happy when he returned on weekends. Even Lauritz had fled. She had bought a snazzy electric car and cruised in the new seasonal nightclubs, gotten shagged in the moonlight, but the fear of depression had resettled with a stubborn ugly face. With Simon’s admission, they had put an end to the reunion, and she had driven through Anvers and Bruges in the same quaint inn where she had slept with Fayelle and embarked Gwen and Finlan back here, persuaded to please us, wasn’t she?
More than any, Natalia knew how to resettle her big soul sister, and so she asked where she was parked. Kate slipped on a sage green spandex bodysuit which daintily moulded her beloved quim, put on mismatched mint and mauve chucks, and so they air-kissed us and ran, back in synch. Bryony was all cuddly. She had been given the grand tour of Hugo’s fantasies, and she had sensed new synchronicities. I taught her she would not only travel with Hugo —I recommended Venice, mulling a meeting with Annachiara— but also with His Exascale Emminence anywhere in the civilised world, and he keenly awaited her that evening, a magic elve would guide her through the subterranean maze, I explained how to behave with an intersex wonder without hurting their feelings. She asked how many they were.

I dressed the latest foundling shrewdly, with a shorter-than-short smoke-blue hem-lace camisole, and she didn’t flinch when I suggested she needed nought else than a touch of expensive Iris Mist. I lacquered her nails in ultramarine, outlined her lids in granite blue eyeliner, and warmed her lips with rosy gloss. Her complexion was of a preraphaelite muse. Delff waved at me afar when she took possession of the new pixie. I went to watch the telepathic dancers; Finlan’s ad-lib on the Hammond was enticing. I wouldn’t be alone in the raw. Like jazz artists, the twirling sisters fine-tuned their elfin passes endlessly. When they took a break, I followed them to the bathroom to piss on their glorious feet, and Emeline loved that.
Afterwards, we all climbed down for a dive, and I proposed an alternate massage like they had taught me. I invited them to dinner; in the lift, we plotted to put ourselves up for a shag with our best males. Serguei and Fulgence answered the call. I said there were three of us, but Kate and Natalia were around. Josephine, too, was in heat, and blessed me with a gentle squirt to my face, as an omen to one of our makeshift bacchanales.
Toying with their whole warmed-up bodies, I sensed how they did not wear out muscles and joints in return for their spectacular pirouettes, and so their feet remained seraphic —under the watch of a Melchior-appointed massage therapist, mind you.
Agnete recommended sundry pies, like creamed asparagus tips, creamed morels —Ayla forever— Swiss chards and walnuts, and rhubarb and plums in almond custard; They could send fruit kefir, too, in big demijohn we would return when empty. The Cossacks always brought delicacies, and it might happen that Fulgence brought flowers. Serguei and his hoodlums brought fresh courgette flower fritters with a pot of lemon mayonnaise, and a big jar of Kosher Dill Pickles. They sported worn jeans shorts and distressed tee shirts they all tossed out in the second, like their sneakers. They were splendid; they had played volleyball in their briefs, all tanned, and they smelled of bay leaf, ginger, and grapefruit.
The tall Danish delivery girl wasn’t disappointed by our nudity, and I bantered in our common vernacular, tipped her in the app and wished her a great season in the neighbourhood. Hearing me chatter in Danish had aroused Serguei, so he couldn’t help but seize me for a long kiss while I sensed his dick rear up. I knew he craved me, but there I had gone all in, damn! He carried me to the bed, and he ravaged me, just as I needed. That did not deter the fluttering damsels from grabbing a piece of the hot-blooded cavaliers.
When Kate and the House Fairy returned from the traffic jam, they held hands. None of us had commented on Kate’s disappearance, but now it blared obvious that it had been of some concern. Fulgence and Eric, no shoes, having been last to show up, put forth their never-questioned position of customary minders of Their Graces in touchy situations to ease out the ladies to the same state of unclothe as we others. Ever since the peace pipe had been smoked between Fulgence and us, thanks to Liselotte, who pushed us into the hot bath unannounced, the random sexual attraction between us had never waned, and Natalia’s freshman year at the Sorbonne, when they helped impose some manners to bullies towards her —although she soon slept her way into a safer cursus and brilliant titles.
At the sure black hand of Erik’s, Kate was reborn as my slutty soul sister, still ever so desirable and styled, chewing on my toes as he humped in her loins like Token plays the bass. That hearty bit of scrum came to an all-out splash and its fragrance of bad weeds, so we ran for the bathroom, where, thanks to the geothermal genius, the tepid flows were inexhaustible.
We reheated the zucchini fritters, and I unfailingly brewed tea. It still was some jeering wonderment among Serguei’s stooges, Stenka, Pavel, and Peter, that we lived abstinent. Serguei ostensibly grabbed hold of my buttocks and clamoured it wasn’t new, and it had all along been worth it. They all guffawed.
There were clear knocks at the main door, it was Delff, short-breathed, bare feet in a buttercup spandex yoga suit. Michelle had just told them that HIV was beaten flat; GILEAD labs had discovered a two-shots-a-year medicine that not only had proved to fend off new infections but also cleared the virus from infected patients. Although it wasn’t a vaccine as such, it would clear the way to unhampered lust life for billions of us, not overlooking other lesser plagues like hepatitis, syphilis, chlamydiae, gonorrhoea, papillomavirus, etc, which had gradually been defeated, too.
That said, they sat unabashed on Andrej’s lap and told him they were some genderless wonder, since they owned both, and he had free rein to check by himself. They snorted with laughter seeing everyone searching the news about LENACAPAVIR and finding that it was true. Andrej didn’t resist long against Tinker Belle’s dust and slid his hand over their smooth little belly.

I had seen them do the nasty in sundry delicate manners, but eventually not the girl’s way, at which the Cossack succeeded rather bravely, leaving them properly drenched and apparently stunned. I grasped he might be some doctor, a tactful one, anyhow. He did not distance himself, once satisfied, and bore them to the shower in his arms. We heard giggles.
When the glutted hordes retreated, we had hardly any nerve left. Cecile returned from Speck’s along with Lou and Oona; all three still enamoured after what they called a carrousel with the Italian winning team of fencing, followed by an American air squadron, and concluded with a multinational board of pharma Niebelungen whose private jets were already warming up at Le Bourget. I retorted we only had confronted a raid of the Zaporozhian hoodlums and their horses, and they could see no one was hurt.
Cecile introduced Kate as the tutelary fairy of this baroque dovecote, returning from the Schleswigian fringes her ancestors took from mine in a bygone shady war. Now, the trio was awaited by the wincing homunculus in the God Crow’s mouth, and Alfred would soon lull them out with his pearled cosmogony, just like us.
I had to dismount the blue goose I had been straddling with the rest of the flock around the green pinnacles of Rosenborg and climb down endless flights of waxed stairs to eventually beach upon Kate’s back, who had been sobbing. She would not explain, and I would not question. Cecile’s foundlings had made coffee and dunked some boudoirs they had ferreted out. Pale mauve circles under their eyes told of unabashed delights while they sorted out the mess in their sophisticated telephones. They smelled of Amalfitan lemon blossom from Cecile’s shower shelf.
Bryony was posting selfies, and I could tell the villa on Corfou, above the cliffs and the solitary sand beaches, that most of us had enjoyed, once in a while. She posed in next to nothing of flimsy Miyake white etamine panes with a serene smile under the tousled fringe. She wanted to show me that nothing unbearable was expected from her, bar prancing about kittenishly at hand length of the security hunks in black —like joshed the two giggling brats at my side.
Kate shuffled back from the bathroom, yawning that it felt good at home, tousling Lou’s curls. She mumbled my tea was as poetic as a walk in the fallen poplar leaves at dusk in the drizzle, and that was a quote between us, not knowing who said it first. Picking up my phone, she asked who it was in the Corfou villa before recognising the little Brit nymphet of the North Sea. She pleasingly added that it looked like she would return among us all sun-kissed.
Lou and Oona wished to go watch a day training of the metaphysical dancers, they put on clean worn bodysuits from our stuffed drawers. One bore a Swiss team scutcheon; I had no memory of where it had spawned from. I dragged Kate up with me, where she belonged, promising we would have a naughty Liselotte night, and I sent a pledge for it to her address.
Alfred pretended not to notice Kate’s return, although I still believed he nurtured a penchant for her. But she was concerned with what she read in her laptop’s mailbox, visibly, and then she typed long messages. On my side, there was a flag for a picture from Bryony daring us, on a patch of clear sand amidst some rocks, along with three of the security detail I had entertained someday on Mustique, stark ready to team up with her, with a smile one would seldom see with their bald heads. I transferred it to Kate, and it appeared to wake her from sad mulling. She asked if Liselotte had answered. She did, after a matter of minutes, promising some kinky amusement.
The mood board was the diplomatic pillow, the dress code restrained couture and, it goes without saying, no undies.
Kate revelled in reacquainting with our crafty licentious routines, we primped up each other in high spirits; Liselotte always knew what she did. Kate picked an ample almond-green mid-thigh silk jersey shirt patched over with meandering silver satin swaths, ready to show off her pale honey belly belted with a strand of pearls; three more rows at her neck and ankle, thin silver strap sandals. She smelled of lofty white violette. I donned one of Gianni’s most impressive inspirations. It had been a court jacket for a scion of one of the cornerstones of the Imperial British banking system that had come with a shedload of regal rags in camphor wood trunks. From the first fitting, nude in the old gay tailor’s stare, I had sensed the long-dead patrician’s soul shivering along my spine. It was cut in azurite-blue silk velvet, double-breasted with black princess satin spiked lapels, the upper one bejewelled at Gianni’s fantasy with Hollywood sapphires and rhinestones. All I needed was that new pair of black patent leather Chelseas adorned with a big strass buckle. I felt so corruptible. I touched myself over with Iris Silver Mist, as the garment already remembered. I clasped the diamond pave choker and bracelet, and a line of diamonds to my waist. We looked like boundless gold diggers, howbeit we might have found some beforehand.

She said she loved me, but I deserved a final touch of lipgloss and mascara to stun whoever Liselotte had schemed to send us to. As a matter of fact, the peacock-blue Faraday Future car was silently awaiting at our dropped curb, flashing its warning lights. The driver, black suit and white band collar shirt, looked fearlessly upon us as he held the door, and I let him see all he liked as I sat in.
We glided smoothly south towards Orleans, and the car must have been on autopilot, for the driver’s eyes weren’t on the road, were they?
Anyhow, we reached a dark, massive, fortified farm on the edge of a forest where the driver commanded the opening of a sturdy wooden gate, and drove in a wide square cobbled yard under the moonlight, to some open shed where a side door was lightened. As we walked out on the spotless pavement, a stern character wearing a grey-striped vest and black shone shoes came out and greeted us with a Germanic accent, gauging us like mere recruits, just short of demanding we turn around. When our stares clicked, he lowered his eyes as he wasn’t first in line, anyhow.
He ushered us into a vast lobby, layed in polished flagstones, hung with big grimacing faces of Dado’s over rough stone walls. The air was fair; it smelled of my Far’s pipe tobacco —although he swore he never smoked of my life. Dark wood Romanesque tables and chests were scattered, bearing crimson roses in repoussé copper vases, surrounded by sleek modern lounge chairs, a vindication for centuries of aching loins. A collection of Turkish rugs blessed our steps toward an intricately sculpted Islamic portal adorned with vivid-coloured glass panes.
Like the chauffeur before him, I knew the sullen-face usher was nonetheless erect as a donkey. He pulled a panel of the ornate door, and I grabbed Kate’s arm in a pang of awe. There stood Ebenezer Bergman, a schoolmate of our Beaux-Arts days, one of those we had tortured with false hopes —and Liselotte knew first-hand what heartless bitches we had been. Our host revelled in our amazement; he wore an immaculate court garb cut in a toned-down mauve intricate silk brocade strewn with a random fall of flower embroideries; the vest —and our timeless suitor hadn’t grown any ancien régime potbelly— was made of poignant old-gold luscious satin on which the bejewelled buttons cast furtive blinks. He wore black silk-faille breeches and black stockings in the most alluring patent leather pumps on which black stone-set buckles had nested like stylish beetles. His erection was willfully apparent behind the fall-front of his culotte, and the idea that a tear of cum would soon show through the fabric made me smile; he had not missed noticing where my eyes wandered.
From a most precious ebony, footed cabinet the small drawers of which were illuminated with micromosaic miniatures, in a lustfully gracious en-dehors move, he fetched one of those outrageously ornate snuff boxes we both had been acquainted with in Victor’s bygone lascivious imaginarium; and the blue powder in it was apparently the same. Ebenezer did not shirk at the question he calculated in our attitude and nonchalantly avowed that somehow his family had procured Victor the special spice. He protested he was in no way involved in the metaverse kingpin’s downfall; a war of cosmic dimension had occurred online, and he had been grossly bucked off, arse overhead, too sadly for his manner of ego. Who did that must have been direr than the devil, mustn’t they?
He smelled of ambergris in San Miniato cypresses, he noticed that I had neared to sniff him like a brazen alley cat. He held the blue powder in its gold cradle under my nose while the other hand already rummaged towards my vagina. He murmured he had watched us times and again snorting blue spice in all phantasmal attitudes at times when he had been granted access to Jupiter’s private network of cameras. He also said he had madly fallen for Beryl, the elusive jailbait who had been quivering in the shades and led the light-headed debauchers to her own nooks and her pleasures, didn’t she?
Kate had moved back a tad. Neither that she would fear the blue spice, nor that I was letting myself be done like a worse whore, anyhow Ebenezer sensed there might be the onset of angst. Not pulling his hand off my quim, he deftly clapped up the treasure box and made it disappear in a one-handed sleight, with a fine snigger that meant how he had grown up since his wanker days. He led us further under the impressive whitewashed carpentry which left a free expanse where he had set elegant islets by means of lacquered screens.
Three deep burgundy velvet sofas with high headrests formed some sort of spacy decor, and once we capsized in the plump cushions, we forgot any chance to cover ourselves the least, and I liked the Hoggar-blue charmeuse satin lining of my sole piece of clothing. He nosed into my pits with muffed chuckles, while I grasped one by one the three jewels that held his culotte closed.
He emblazoned a taunt, circumcised spear with a pointed glans that would burrough anywhere he fancied, and he made sure we would envision the possibilities. At the tinkle of a silver bell, Mr Sad showed up at attention, with a glint to his undaunted stare that meant he still would own me in the end. I stared back below his belt. He brought fruit lemonade in white swirl-striped Venetian glassware and a bottle of Champagne in a crystal cooler. The little bejewelled box was on the silver tray, again, along with sundry manners of ornately crafted gold and silver pill boxes.
Seemingly for the benefit of Mr Sad, he begged Kate to come suck him the same way he had leered her do for hoards of rich punters, would she? Slip sliding out of her dress, she crept to Ebenezer’s staff, caring to strike a candidly lewd pose towards the frozen commander before teasing the drooling glans with the tip of her tongue, seasoned harlotry style. He kept necking fiercely with me like the famish lamb, and he must have beckoned the silent witness so as I heard crumpling sounds and sensed my arse being politely lubricated, to what I wriggled, bitchy style. All Ebenezer craved was to stare me in the eye while his lackey used me as his pommel horse, and I didn’t baulk at giving him what he liked. When updated, Liselotte would reckon she had stricken a masterful curveball sending us to a long bashful lover of us, possibly a vindication to her own rebuff before we took a taste of the twists and turns of her traffic.
Mr Sad kept buggering me ever so mindfully and made me come a couple of times before gushing all hell deep in my entrails, letting out a mere whisper. When I dripped over him, he didn’t care to wipe himself, but he seized Kate’s nape to splurt at the back of her throat. While Mr Sad stood back anew in his glum attitude, as I would have figured, the chauffeur, aloof, in shirtsleeves and Wayfarer shades, stood at the ready behind Kate’s princely arse. I had been sharing our comrade’s semen from her mouth, and I saw the hunky stooge pick some goo in one of the precious boxes to thoughtfully root through in my partner’s butthole and then sheathe a considerable shaft up to her stomach. We went on kissing with the taste of bitter sap, and she moaned languidly and again as he machined her loins with muttered plaints until he growled eventually, holding her haunches like the plough handles as he humped her in with gurgling noises.
It all had been deliciously crude; Ebenezer mused we might like to piss warm on him, wouldn’t we? He filled our glasses to the rim and offered his stooges champagne, asking us if they had been good sports, to which we assented airily.
Commensurate with what we had yet seen, the bathroom contained a sizeable swimming pool, just like ours, clad in rosy shades of mosaic with wavy swaths of different golds. The resonant vaulted room was all warm travertine marble. Above a light slump and a drain grid, a large gilded showerhead promised to rinse off all excesses. A golden toilet bowl stood on some pedestal slightly aside. They all had disrobed, and Ebenezer ordered us to piss on them above the drain, Mr Sad opening a wide mouth to be quenched, and then we hugged on the floor in their smelly streams before the tropical rain came to dissolve all traces and we dived in a wealth of pure drinkable water.
Soon enough, our unforeseen swashbucklers were back in shape wanting more, and thus we tried to dive away if only to play an escape. They too, were trained swimmers, so Kate was captured first by our host and shagged upfront in a floating embrace, while the other two, who looked much more palatable in the raw, nailed me heads and tails as I pleased —it goes gleefully easy in the water— Mr Sad affording a compliment on the alacrity of my vagina that I rewarded with an inner squeezing trick they both raved at. We weren’t new at such games, we had a school of burly tritons in our own pond; it wasn’t long before we spawned fine dribble fillets on the surface. All in all, they played fair —indeed, Liselotte was trustworthy.
And like the new Boccioni in a spirited display, glistening gym contraptions awaited some human flesh to chew on. Knackered enough for the while, however, we walked into a cherry-red salon, under an unexpected cedar coffer ceiling adorned with ribald scenes of nymphs and fauns. Three maroon velvet sofas circled a large low, kilim upholstered, table on which were displayed silver chargers full of delicacies. A majestic Turkish rug delimited the islet framed with deployed vermillion lacquered screens. I couldn’t help my left brain deducting that there must be other active people in the house because some of the food there was warm.
Au naturel, Ebenezer was well worth the Cossack hunks physically, and so his flunkeys, once rid of their funny personas. Not unlike Liselotte, at school, he had pertained to that caste of petit bourgeois pretenders that we, purported outworldly sexed animals, had amply overlooked.
He acknowledged having played the wrong snobbery part, then, while he masturbated to every little chip of carnal teasing I would let fly off my tree. After he had taken possession of his inheritance, Liselotte kept procuring him expensive nymphets, but she knew he preferred wanking to stealth videos of Kate and I debauching ourselves he bought from Victor, his client for blue spice he had maintained the formula.
Kate had already yielded, after watching her minions peck their noses in the treasure casket she wouldn’t swear not having seen before at Victor’s, and she recognised the familiar onset in her brain and down her chakras, triggering back her utmost luscious slack I had once craved. At the cost of benign familiarities with my own body from the yapping hounds, I crawled to my most significant other’s mouth to reckon the damage, if any. I had to own it that it be the genuine stuff we had dusted our sinuses with, in Victor’s imaginarium heydays, and I had not been shy around it. I picked up the tiny golden spoon and snorted as much as I had seen Kate do. What are friends for?

Ebenezer knew his trick; he seized me and massaged me in a pulp until I panted like a fuck-puppet, mumbling senseless depravities until he sheathed in my ringpiece again while the chauffeur strived at making me gulp his truncheon. Overturning me like some doormat, he told that one to come shimmy with him on the other side of my entrails. He had obligingly lubed the pathways of my womb, I could freely wallow in the tango moves of their loins and squirt like a gargoyle in a whirl of colours.
It was full-blown Kodachrome Pleasure Island all over again, and little did I worry to bray like a donkey; Jiminy was on vacation.
We woke in heavenly lavender Venetian percale sheets; we smelled of a lesser cousin of oleander and rose hip, and Kate perspired in her holy sleep. I remembered waking back then in Beryl’s arms and the smoothness of her skin. I snuck up to go pee. I sensed no strain whatsoever, although I could tell they had worn us to the rope and beyond our swooning out. Not feeling self conscious, I did an enema. That bathroom was clad in wide panes of blue marble under a Moorish work cedar ceiling. A spacious tin tub stood tempting in the middle, and other accessories like the bowl I had used were also made in polished white metal. The bedroom was upholstered in teal moiré fabric, under another cedar intricate Moorish woodwork ceiling. The four-poster bed was draped with silver-threaded flax-blue velvet, and I was walking upon overlapped silk Kashmir rugs. Bunches of silver foliage holding biscuit luminous tulips alternated with rich shell-framed mirrors. A life-size nude feminine figure with à la Fontainebleau legs in a silver-framed smooth varnished panel stood half-turned in the beckoning attitude to lead the onlooker towards the dark; she showed a moving apple-shaped bottom.
Kate was looking up at me, hoping for some courage, but her Baltic-blue eyes still swayed in a lustful reverie. I did what I had always done, I furiously caressed her honey-kissed body till she begged for mercy and ran to the loo.
With a tiny tinkle of porcelain, Mr anew-Sad pushed in a service cart of tea and fresh pastries. He wore a formal mouse grey habit and white gloves, but he did not keep his eyes off our lower bellies, understandably. On the tray were two fat sealed peach fuzz envelopes stamped with the initials E. B. and bearing our names penned in elegant cursive. Amidst a lively little bouquet of sweet peas in a silver goblet was perched a hand-written bristol to say how overwhelmed he was to have finally reunited with us, and he wished we would let him entertain us again. A young servant boy with an auburn curly top held our night outfits and also a big bright red tote showing which Mr Sad said we might prefer to slide on casual tracksuits and sneakers on that mid-morning. The car would be at the ready. As I rummaged in the bag and found a fresh cornflower blue suit along with another perfect almond green one, I sensed deftly fingers toying in my bum crack, and I did not protest.
The weather was fair, the car flew through the forest and some hobgoblin instilled his mischief in my gently hustled mind. I candidly asked the chauffeur to find a clearing, to pee on the grass. All the birds cheeped when I showed my buttocks; not long after, I sensed a male hand on my nape, and a taut johnson grazing my cheek, naturally. Kate neared and pulled down her trousers, too. We certainly did such a bucolic tableau that he couldn’t help spurting the bitter load to my throat. Hugging us both butt-naked, he mumbled heartfelt thank yous.
Back home, we realised how rich the night had made us. Lou and Bryony had slept in our bed, to Alfred’s apparent dismay. It promised to be warm, we all denuded before climbing up to the studio. While I brewed some tea in the biggest grapevine Yiking pot. I ranted we should acquire a Samovar of our own, and the girls applauded.

Now that I had let slip out about our hard-earned good fortune, no doubt they would not grant us peace unless we recounted our prowesses. Incidentally, Bryony joshed that I smelled of unfettered fornication —it was a word someone had taught her not long ago on some pillow— to what I admitted, although the men had been only three. I had to promise I would take her once for a taste of the blue spice. I fetched a footed ventilator we had at the far end of a closet. It was pure bliss to watch them wallow on the futon in the drafts.
I called Liselotte with a hunch that she already knew all of our jinks, but she revelled hearing me, as much as the rest of the room, for that matter, and Lou came to lick my feet under the table. Liselotte taught me that Ebenezer would be away for a month or so, but if I wanted to bring my fillies to some worldly debauchery by an outside pool, she would have the word in a couple of hours. Everybody jumped for joy.
Ksyusha, the fearless Baltic wayfarer, came up and was aroused to show us it had been her depilation day —she was too blond for definitive laser— and she rollicked with the younglings who ended all wet. Liselotte was overjoyed there would be five of us in good spirits; the car would pick us up at nine. As for the dress code, the lighter, the better, and the hosts were unfathomably rich and blasé. Ksyusha was less than impressed, though; she kept painful memories of the super mighties for whom she had sometimes found herself being a mere disposable amusement. Kate beckoned her to her bosom; she promised to stay with her whatever they would stumble into, and they would pull out together unscathed; Liselotte did not procure to mean-hearted patrons, were it for loads of monies
Natalia popped up in style. As of bien entendu, something through the grapevine had given a tip-off about Ksyusha roaming in our undergrowth. The two had connived ever since a famous escapade to Sylt where they brought the bedevilled Varangian wayfarer from. I suspected the pair to haunt bizarre venues like gilded state corridors, not convinced they would not operate for close-by us incites. I could fantasise what the shenanigans would look like on His Metagrandeur’s monitors. Judging by the glint in the house fairy’s eye, it was one of those peri-political vaudevilles she needed her abettor’s multifaceted talent, and so they fled, after promising our bewitched little fillies a carousel all of their own, soon; Ksyusha lost herself licking Bryony pearly labia, but Natalia gently pulled her away.
Besides our newly garnered tracksuits, piles of machine-fresh others smelled just as fine, with a choice of colours and lousy jokes patched over the chest. Lou chose a powder blue one with a big vintage Dairy Fresh cream logo across the chest and mismatched yellow and navy chucks, a white spandex boxer for now. Bryony was inspired to take a marigold suit embroidered with a big golden ellipse like a wandering aureole, vermillion Chucks and boxers. Wherever we headed, we looked snazzy, and we smelled rich. Liselotte knew what she ordered.
The car was one of these black, sleek, dark-glazed luxury vans, not even purring while gliding westerly to the scattered remnants of a selfish, leisurely civilisation, for all I knew. As it had happened about Louis’ dispersed domains, we reached a stately portal onto a savantly neglected road sided with an endless buhrstone wall overgrown with ivy. I had kept my hand under Bryony’s elastic waistband, just like Kate had done with Lou. The greying chauffeur showed no nosiness; he pulled out his telephone, tapped in some app, and the portal was enlighted and swivelled backwards.
On a winding cobbled road, we passed a brick and limestone telegraph steeple with a faintly lit small window on the second floor. On the whole, the park dispensed an impression of calculated neglect; wildflower prairies ran between random old trees, Bryony spotted a herd of unfazed deer, and I nuzzled on her fidgety belly.
We reached a vast half-moon promontory onto a steep rift filled, at the bottom of grey limestone rock walls, with dense wilderness. A stone bridge led to some strikingly baroque concatenation of architectural manners huddled together upon a spectacular pillar of rock. The far end of the rift opened on a forest overview.
The site might have been the farfetched whim of a yesteryear quarry owner, touched by the Ludwigian fervour. We should cross that bridge on foot. Built by the pure canon of design and thus probably unconcerned with desperate visitors, the sculpted stone gothic balustrade was at arm’s height and free from the kind of mesh nettings that make a stroll in today’s Buttes Chaumont feel like a visit in a cage. I knew Kate, among other angst, was subject to vertigo; she did not want to look down on the black overgrowth from where owls’ hootings began to rise. Bryony candidly said that should someone fall, nothing would ever be recovered. I muttered I would put her on a leash.

The gilt steel flourished hinges ran all over the black oak double portal, a blacksmith’s masterstroke. As we neared, a door’s leaf swivelled in a swish, giving way to a polished geometric pavement of sundry stone colours. The porter, a smiling hump-back clad in a dissymmetrical vest with black and red aslant stripes on one side and vertical purple and green on the other side, remained hidden behind the door as we walked in the high vaulted romanesque ashlar stone hall. Fontainebleau-style marble graceful nymphs on round porphyry plinths had been installed in essential spots, like the solisti of a never-ending silent oratorio. Tall arched bays of frosted-like stained glass showing apocalyptic tableaux of free-falling nudities —or were they merely in flight?— diffused the colour of the waning dusk.
A dapper, thin character entered with the flows of a tuning-up orchestra, also dressed in mixed halves, boots, trousers, vest and jacket, black or white in opposite layers. He bore fastuous greying hair and sideburns, gold-rimmed sapphire blue spectacles, and a conspicuous red stone at his right ring finger. He spoke in a deep, articulated voice to say his name was Hyacinthe, and we should take off our clothes at once, waving at a greedy-eyed servant pushing a coat rack on wheels. Once the shoelaces were untied, we were done in a blink of an eye, Lou’s knickers too.
Hyacinth pranced around us, tossing compliments, all the more when our girls snuggled against us, but he did not shy about taking a feel of our buttocks and grazing Bryony’s lesser breasts, knowing how to make us giggle with a tickle of his sideburns. He showed manners, and I responded by taking hold of the dignified penis in his satiny trousers, hearing Kate calling me a slut, which made Hyacinth burst into laughter. Having fingered our intimacies to all his content, he pushed us towards the music like a herd of does.
The big room was on a pentagonal layout, with a low riser for the orchestra in the void-facing corner, next to another frost-stained-glass bay depicting flights of undetermined angels in perpetual dawn. It was floor-to-ceiling hard maple, with Persian rugs abundantly scattered at the foot of deep, curved divans turned towards the musicians, a brilliant cohort of lightly vested professionals straightaway interested in our presentation. There had not been any sensitive discontinuation in their apparent prestation I would dare call discrete stochastic system if I weren’t such a crass in mathematics.
Wallowed immodestly with Bryony on the tight-woven fallow velvet, we chattered mezzo voce on the seduction merits of each musician, be they of either gender. Bryony sussed that the girls wore no undies, and thus some had deftly flashed their quim at her. Nonetheless, it was a crackerjack chamber ensemble, along with the built-in pipe organ, which could unleash thunder. I couldn’t help fantasising about what synergy they would make if they ever met our areopagus of telepathic dancers, and I took note to submit the hunch to Liselotte, who had sent us there.
Hyacinth had been beckoning elegant amateurs to come near and sniff up the novel guest stars, and I already had a worshiper of my feet. A monumental samovar had been rolled in, attended —for Lou’s intimate tenderness— by a slight, pale, black-straight-haired maiden merely vested with a black lace apron, visibly aware of what was expected of her. She had limpid blue eyes, and her name was Coline Boisjoli. She served a delicate brew, and my unsurprising mind was made up. I confided to Lou, who granted me a fervent kiss about it.
The music whirled on smoothly like a dizzy teetotum, and well-mannered men silently came assailing to woo us, to the slily indecent violinists’ delight. They were singularly dressed in tailored attires and smelled of neroli, coumarin, and Zanzibar. The Pontifical serge the costumes were cut in spawned the gradient of dawn beyond the rainbow, like a farandole that never was. The satin linings teased the eye with an off-key palette like the angelic chord in a sensual lamento. Many snuck behind Coline to slide their hands under the lace of her persona, and she remained ever so affable, filling up the enamelled cups with the spicy blend while manicured paws grazed her bare tushies. Stealthily, the breaths became deeper, and I, like my sisters, was eventually strewn in, back and forth, with the help of the convenient Swiss Navy.
Be it the spectacle of our unfettered debauchery, or thanks to it, the small chamber ensemble met a solution after a long-held note, and Hyacinth took possession of the organ’s commands, leering in the turpitude pit by means of a round looking glass. That blond violinist who had given me the eye and more under her skirt didn’t flinch coming up to my pitifully drenched self, taking my hand to lead me to the bathroom, disrobing along the way. It was the epitome of an orgiastic water playroom, all gold mirror-clad and portor marble floor, a running water wall for whoever wanted to piss standing.

In an erratic layout consistent with that of the whole château, a labyrinthine cove sheltered a lukewarm rain where she wanted to dance with me and piss along my thighs. She became enthralled and said in German that she had known me before, the sluttiest tomboy she had ever tasted. A hunky black man stood at the ready, watching us, his truncheon in hand, lathered up like a runner horse and visibly not inclined to move away. My instant lover turned my back ostensibly to the menace he taunted, and thus I soon sensed a dire pressure on my already distended anus and the unabashed course of male arrogance nailing me in the musician’s arms. It was nothing less than prodigious; she called him Didi and told of what an arrant slut I was, and she had seen me quench the gushes of maddened gangs. She kept returning to my giddy mouth until I growled at the feel of a fierce gush deep in my loins, and she let us collapse on the marble floor in the splatters of the shower.
In French, I told her I had had my fill; she pulled me along a contorted corridor to a round-ish, low-ceiling, panelled room with a whale-shaped warm-sand velvet divan on which Bryony was already moaning at the hands of two of the colourful merrymakers stuffing her mouth and bumhole, thankfully more humanly sized than Didi. My lead pushed me next to the carnal scuffle, bantering I was the girl’s lover, and they should use me too, that they did, without me baulking the least, making me straddle the sweet face so she would do with her tongue what I had taught her, leaving my rosy petunia available for the assault once more, and she reached out to Bryony’s pretty pink pearl to help her exult, some.
Somewhat frustrated, my violinist disappeared, leaving us gorged with semen anew but unharmed. I seized her wrist and pulled her back to the bathroom to fetch a new cannula for the enema that we shared with laughter. Back in the auditorium, Hyacinth still improvising on his tall vessel, the others were returning from sundry directions, and Kate had visibly contented a boisterous party of aesthetes to whom she vaunted my boyish manners, which owed me a new flight of keen hands.
Lou had earned kudos; she was enlaced with the night’s samovar girl and ready to bring her back to where somebody had probably surreptitiously destined her. Completely unveiled, she looked all the more gracile. In the closet where our tracksuits lay, she found a large multicoloured bathrobe and violet slippers her size, enough to cross our sidewalk. The chauffeur was asleep in the most easy chair of his service booth, but he would hardly budge on our order to bring us back, would he? He might only agree to drive us if Bryony took her pants off and gently sat on his suddenly awoken dick, and we all show our treasure troves within reach while he shagged my girl. Lastly, before driving, he demanded that Coline sit in the front seat with the robe open, commenting that he knew what us sluts had been doing all evening, hadn’t we? I chose to laugh it out, wondering if I would snitch to Liselotte.
At our door, we were all asleep except Coline, whom he still fondled like a mad dog. I said it had been enough, and I wasn’t sure he might ever do thus again. I pulled my fillies, and we ran to the lift, where I cornered Coline and read her aquamarine eyes while we groped each other. She tasted of the bastard’s semen, and It wouldn’t deter me from devouring her pretty mouth.
Up here, I took Lou and Coline to the old Fayelle room, and we all brushed our teeth with guests’ supplies. Bryony wasn’t too sorry to sleep with Kate, who had greedily unclothed her. Coline had been little more than a month on show in Hyacinth’s auditorium on the rocky pillar, overtly offered to the carnal whims of mighty, if not unbearable, chosen patrons. Liselotte had warned her that unless she called it quits, no offence taken, she would eventually meet us, and she could not miss us.
She was born in Levallois-Perret, a close suburb north of Paris, to a teen mother, an accounting clerk at a Supermarket and too pretty for the bleak life her subway driver husband and she had put together in a nonetheless correct Council Estate apartment. The husband was demoralised about any professional prospect and had gradually sunk into a depression no one helped him with, bar inoffensive medications that would become lethal when jumbled up with alcohol. She was eight when her father hurled himself down from the eleventh floor. It had been a bland morning; her dad’s nondescript bag stood on the same chair we never used since Grandma had renounced travelling from Glacière to see them, or was she? Coline —her mother had heard that name on the radio— had remained alone till night; her mother had learned the harsh truth late, from the caretaker, when her current fling, some middle manager at the store, had dropped her at the door. She had seen her mother fetch out these primly printed, indestructible plastic Tati bags the poor use to carry their bulky stuff and begin to pack all of her deceased husband’s belongings so as to put them on the sidewalk the next day for collect.

Coline had known that her dad wasn’t expected at work that day. A woman had jumped to her death under his train the day before, leaving him shaky for the rest of his shift; he would be on leave and in therapy before he could work again, perhaps not as a conductor. Coline’s mother didn’t know that. Coline had made herself a packet soup, salty like tears, and watched The Voice on TV. She hadn’t slept till the wee hours. When she woke and dawdled to the living room, she had heard her mother shagging. Not long after, a man in expensive shoes had twiddled her ponytail, and she had not answered. They had piled the three bags in the lift and disappeared. She was eight, and she could cope. At school, she didn’t tell. It would be gymnastics day, and she loved that.
The coach, a midsize, thinly muscled, shaven-headed Eurasian young man, had a penchant for her; she reckoned he touched her more than the other girls, and she knew why and let herself be done. He trained her on the apparatuses and wished to meet her mother about starting inter-school competitions. He grasped the little office slut’s game and tried his luck. Coline had watched them shag in the coach’s cloakroom, but right after that, he had winked and enkindled her loins. There were chances her mother would guess what went on when he took Coline in his car to a competition, and she was good; she was constantly with the frontrunners. He was enthralled with her lithe body; he took her to sundry friends’ pads for skilful quickies. He had told her he had shagged her mother only to gain free rein with her, and that was what was happening.
Just before her tenth anniversary, she found blood in her knickers; she didn’t tell her mostly absent mother, but she called Kim, who taught her the nitty-gritty of being a woman, and at once had buggered her softly in a school basement closet. He began managing the sequence of pills and shots for her. She seldom saw unexpected blood again.
Things changed. She was growing tall. She suspected Kim’s interest in a new kitten, a ravishing Portuguese imp with firing black eyes called Leona, but she could weirdly not blame him. One day, when there wasn’t even a sports pretext for a field trip, he drove her with lots of petting to a friend’s bedsit, and the tenant was in. They had cornered her right away and stripped her entirely before overthrowing her on the narrow bunk. Kim had said he would come back to pick her up, and the unknown bloke had certainly not done worse to her than Kim, who drove her back home, and, her mother having texted she would not be there, shagged her whom he now called a baby whore with a renewed zeal.
She was tall, flat and beautifully arched. Kim was paying for the total depilation and classy shoes and preppy attires which made her look slightly older than she was. No one guessed she was a teen prostitute, except her mother and, perhaps, Leona, who had begun being driven around in Kim’s new car, hadn’t she? For holidays, Kim took her to Almeria, where she made a success among wealthy Germans and sunbathed in her mild pimp’s care, who trained her thoroughly every night in the scent of her turpitudes, making sure she kept taking the preventive treatment and other mysterious pills. She never did more than three clients per day, and she liked that.
Until one fateful day when a burly client of Kim’s, who had made her howl in bliss for two hours, killed Kimm when he returned, breaking his neck in an armlock and pulling her along to a fast car, the apartment wasn’t his, and he was never caught. Kim had a pristine reputation; the mystery was opaque, all the more that she had disappeared to Austria under a fake ID. There, she had known more demanding workdays of roughly ten tricks, but her new owner, a Dane called Ove, still made her scream with his irresistible spear. Like a few of our freelance hookers, she had lived a few months of hard labour and developed a phobia of alcoholic drinking, finely pretending to be under the influence and avoiding kisses on the mouth.
Before total despair ground her soul to clinker, on a good day when none of the other girls in the whorehouse complained, she had caught a spry French patron’s eye, and he ended up paying for the whole story, not to Ove’s content, who forced her to watch him shag another girl, and drink all she let drip afterwards as if she would detest that. Next morning at seven, the police closed the mousetrap and dragged everyone away. Coline’s john was an Interpol officer, he found a minute to tell her he would meet her in France. She had a long yarn to spin, back to her dad’s desperate flight. After a few weeks in a manner of hostel for repentant prostitutes, her saviour took her to Liselotte’s, who taught her the samovar scheme and took her to the clinic for a complete check-up and the creation of a black card.
Ove was eventually found guilty of murder and sent to prison for life. Her mother married the store director, and they lived a modern swinger’s life. They had not met again.

It was sunny when we dozed out; she was overwhelmed by having been able to go through the bulk of her young story she had not sensed short. It was hot, and we did not dress for breakfast. Kate, Lou, and Bryony thought we were right. I prepared French Toast like a mother hen they said I did not look like. I floated the idea that Coline was a keeper, and she had a story much like our own. After that night whispering in the bushes, I was rediscovering how beauteous she was, and her fate made her all the more desirable, now that she was, so to speak, out of the water.
Natalia showed up, like one who knew the whole affair. She was her splendid self, a mere pair of jeans shorts half-covering her apple butt and a crop top blinking on her tiny tits. She charmed Coline and pulled a chair next to her. She smelled of a Bond Street Cologne; she wooed yet another samovar girl with frank laughter, telling her she would meet her kind all over the house, devouring her with avid eyes. Then, acknowledging Coline had not the faintest idea of where she was, she insinuated that might be a good motive for a little uncostumed carnival evening with salads and pies, might it not?
Considering our vestiary, she fell on her butt and gaped. Kate and I rolled on the floor with her, telling her, like the mischievous fox in the story, that she would certainly wear all of these —and Kate slid a hand over her smooth bosom— but not at once. We made her a flurry of tongue poking in every sensitive nook until she surrendered, breathless. We had been looking for thin yoga outfits, and she picked an arousing powder blue mid-thigh outfit with matched low sneakers. Kate slid on the same in almond green, Bryony in mullein yellow, Lou in black, and I in porcelain blue. Coline and I, facing legs up against each other, pressed our soles together so as to confirm we sized the most average 40, like all the girls in the room, more or less, depending on the make, and I owned three bespoke pairs of oxfords for great causes.
Squeezed up in the lift car, Lou covered Coline’s face with butterfly kisses. Down to the gym, they held hands, and our freshman’s periwinkle peepers went wired at the sight of the apparatuses, including the uneven bars she had excelled on before Kim’s death, but once she found the box of chalk, she showed us she still could handle the bars all the way to the big swing. We heard cries in our back; the telepath lovelies had never dared that, and they wondered who that slim brunette beauty was. After checking all the machines were in good order —as if she were recovering a significant share of the sky— We asked the naked swans to dance a little welcome for the newbie, so Finlan obliged and seemed to draw inspiration from Coline’s very eyes to incite the vivacious poetic whirlwinds on dainty little feet. Our debutante, snuggled into Lou’s wing, was unwittingly moved to tears beyond anything she had ever seen, and that was a grace to watch. Then, grasping it was a first tour of their magic kingdom, they led Coline down to the pool and pulled off her flimsy blue suit to make her dive, and she was quite a diver. Emeline was all aroused after Coline’s crotch and begged Lou to share a smidgen of her.
There were sundry heartfelt tableaus on the chaises longues, and Emeline poked her tongue in Coline’s rosette, commenting that she was certainly not a virgin in any manner, to what I laughed and slapped her butt. Almost everyone had once been in Coline’s place for a day, as they would eventually learn head-to-head on some pillow. For now, some impromptu emissary from the TRÆVIX realm, in person, Dagmar wishing to splash about on a hot day, also fell for the new samovar duckling and summoned all the heavenly party to the palace she lived in for a Sans, Soucis picnic.
I fought tooth and nail to grab Coline aside and warn her that all she was going to see was genuine and hospitable, and she could as well choose to dwell there, a wing flap from us, in the ethereal entourage of one of the most elevated powers in the metaverse, a nigh immaterial fairy I, for one, had rescued from an ugly trap she was lost in, no so long before her legend spawned in the fiberoptics.
Coline saw the others following Dagmar in all carefreeness, and so I gave her a boundless gaze and told her to pay a visit to Tinker Bell; there wasn’t any other threat but surprise. Now, the long blond angel had the lanky acrobat in her wing, and, in her expensive French parlance Fanny had mentored her to learn, along with English, at Their Highnesses’ expense, she punctuated Coline’s every amazement with her unforgettable kisses.
Somewhat lagging behind, Bryony lingered in hazy melancholy. I took her to the grand silver salon under the fierce grimace of Sha Sha Higby idols and Lee Jinju wasteland patches and, under the pretty boys in white livery’s eyes, in a pearly grey loveseat, I let her cry on me like a baby, asking the samovar boy for a handkerchief. To imaginary orphans, small talk can be as sharp as broken glass, but I had years of heartfelt complacency in the roses-overgrown boxwoods, hadn’t I?

As Dagmar showed Coline around and the crafty goblins descended from the heavenly attics, I kept Bryony close and healed her red eyes with rosewater as if we played doctor. The new fad of almond tiles in wicker baskets had gained ground. Somewhere afar in foggy plains, the tribes were setting up a basketry empire, and our nearby Danish master cooks hired little hands to stack delicacies in crisp tissue paper. Bryony rekindled with nibbling on the next-to-nothing pastries; she was drenched with tears, then as good to go in the buff, said I, and if so, she pulled off everything, she would tell I said so.
Then came up the house’s genie, not more visibly clad than the season demanded, and they sat upon Bryony’s enviable lap, their tickly little pintle under her nose. They asked a flurry of futile questions only to hear the tone of her voice, which they happened to like, and I had no fear letting them go all the way up to the mistress’ cabin under a whirl of candid acclaims.
Lou, not a seasoned courtesan in these wonder surroundings, fell prey to Apolline’s advances; whatever her hand groped under the flowery chiffon skirt, she liked lending her offered quim to the arpeggi of the trans-fairy, the alpha mood board came to rule. With my cup filled and a basket of sweet nothings, I wallowed in one of the grand salon’s red sofas au naturel, apropos new manners. Natalia joined and shared my bird’s luncheon, seated at my feet after she got rid of her jeans and shirt. I suggested she call the suitably masculine hordes to stir up our full-blown fantasies; I felt longing for Cossack nonchalance, and so she agreed.
The vibes of some lustful kind of open bar reached some authorised shores. Not only Serguei’s affiliates and Natalia’s devoted minders Fulgence and Eric, but hand-picked Ivy League elites, not shunning the Californians, from the neighbouring mastodon network operation. In the meantime, she smelled of Ravello’s forbidden terraces.
Plum, Azul, Daphné, and Trine had been roasting somewhere on the roof, and they found appropriate the afternoon nudity and the tea offering. The samovar boy had reckoned the position was a double windfall. A fine-featured Philipino, he had escaped hard labour aboard a monster cruise ship and had roamed the edges of criminal pathways speaking only bad international pidgin. Michelle’s maitre d, a Philipino himself, had flushed him out during a night walk on the quays, first out of mere lust, then righteous empathy. The army of attorneys at hand had swiftly regularised his status, and just like our lot of speechless jailbaits. Datu was quietly bisexual, but he soon became a happy toyboy for the palace’s fauna and his saviour abided by his so-easy penchants. He knew that a few hours of faction behind the gleaming contraption would unfailingly lead to bliss in one of the house’s muffed nooks. That, plus a union salary, proper lodging and food, made him forget the backstreets of Manilla.
I had not seen Charlotte in aeons, weeks, that is. She had been at Ayla’s cosy gasthaus along with Fæbian, then a few days on a private pebble in Seychelles with a German press magnate; she looked like gold, with tight, smooth abs and sun-kissed labia. She said she would call Cecile, whoever she was with.
The scent of freshly baked nibbles drew the herd to the tables, and anyhow, I couldn’t keep my hands quiet, about what no one protested. A kindly rumour buzzed while Michelle appeared in the Empress’ new clothes, which was certainly not an effect of her vanity, mind you. Unsurprisingly, she had taken a fancy for Coline, and Dagmar had not even slightly begun to sulk about it; Michelle was above love contingencies, and she would not deprive Dagmar a smidgen of her affection.
Whatever she had sensed of Coline’s soul, she kept her clutched at her wing, and she sussed the bond, as young were it, that we had threaded, as she had never forgotten her catastrophic landing behind or red sofa, and the seasons on the extraterritorial futon. From behind her aviatrix crystal spectacles, she was resplendent, honey-gold, like each time she could touch down on a candid soul, and anything they did, she would never haggle her blessing again.
The Zaporozhians were flabbergasted, like they had been high on something; Serguei took me aside gallantly to be put in the know; was it cool to touch? I retorted only if he disrobed himself, and so I helped him; he smelled of Balkan cigarettes.
I didn’t wish to perform while all the others ate, but I had a fierce need for dick, and I knew his. I pulled him firmly to the little boudoir next to the powder room I had used thus so many times. He was exhilarated; he pugged me like living clay and made use of the Swiss Navy I knew where to fetch. He made me groan in bliss and filled me deep and long as was his manner. In the following shower that smelled of Bayrhum —and would tell everyone about our fast whim— he asked me about the new fancy in court, so I told him she was a gymnast we had just found behind a samovar in a castle of legend but that he should let the aviatrix revel with her a moment before he rears his horses. And she was no babe in the woods.

Serguei ought to be proud of himself, and I did not deny. Cecile had arrived with Oona and Daphné, and the upper floors had been informed. Lou had talked about our divertimento con spirito in the Thousand and Second Night’s palace and thus the periwinkle-eyed episode of the samovar frenzy Cecile relished so much. That one sniffed me around and rounded her eyes in awe of what she sussed I had already indulged in. I retorted I knew she, too, could handle the cavalry, couldn’t she?
Michelle and Coline had vanished upstairs, and I could figure how my all-new pet acrobat would feel on the futon at the foot of the blinking world, but I also knew Michelle was attentionate in love, so much so that Coline returned, all smiles after the lone high-flier had promised there would be other sweet moments between them, albeit for now, she was understandably into me, and time wasn’t yet to play pool. Delff, all colours out, had sussed Michelle’s move and minded that it wasn’t taken in sad part. Coline trusted my unconditional attitude towards Delff. In aparte, she whispered that I smelled different; hence, I told her I had irrepressibly fooled around with a long-time comrade she would inevitably confront too hither or tither, and I showed her Serguei the merry plunderer frigging with Kate; Delff sniggered, telling her the Russian did not like them. She let me draw the gist of their altogether simple double nature —which had once escaped some lurking scalpels— and the choice of pronouns, although, in my tomboyishness, I would rather grant them a tender “she”. Coline said that, up to now, and she had not met any before, middle and trans people had only been sweet to her; Cecile and Oona concurred.
Whatsoever, Delff told her not to grant easy leeway, even to the easygoing crowd that roamed these head-spinning premises, her own yearning for carnal laisser-faire would ripen at her own season, if she were to be as much of a libertine as we craved. I recounted the kinky black lace apron she had been wearing to tease us in Hyacinth’s pagan oratory, and she eventually confessed to having been paid by Liselotte to whore thus. We laughed, and I swore I would repay our preferred matchmaker whatever incentive she had disbursed, pointing out for Delff that my periwinkle wildflower knew apparently a tad more about prostitution than they had presumed.
One scraggy nerd from the 7S troops, oats blond with speckles and tortoiseshell glasses, in flax blue shirt sleeves, not yet as unleashed as his colleagues, took a crush on Coline in my very arms and said he was called Neville Pontiac. His tapered fingers soon grazed Coline’s shoulder as they sat down in a red divan corner not far from where Daphne threw her feet in the air like bustled doves for some black wrestler. Coline long knew how to unbutton a febrile partner, would it be on a car seat; Neville wore sky blue silk socks and smelled of Nantucket Cologne; he sported a stiff, straight staff, jazzed up with the same blond curls around his balls. I had once cruised among that type of greenhorns in the funky cellars days, and made staunch fuck-buddies out of them, but otherwise, I had no patience for code. However, I sat offhandedly upon the armrest, thighs parted, my wet coochie well awake, so he could gently fiddle me while she pumped his bird.
Cecile had brought along Charlotte, and it looked like they had gracefully thinned; they had been seen sweating in the gym in the early hours. Cecile had had installed a proper sound system to ache on baroque rhythms. They were ogling at the periwinkle newbie, and I took them aside to vaunt to them about our new resident foundling, recounting another samovar fable and the gist of what I knew of her life. Liselotte had eavesdropped on my rave; general nudity amounted to the best camouflage, and once stripped of her signature daring graphics, she became yet another slender bait for the healthy Yalies, and she liked it, too. She turned to my neck and congratulated me for falling in her tender snare; her friend Hyacinthe had been moved to watch it work, and she entrusted me with yet another touching fate. On that, she took a fancy for Charlotte’s feet and maroon lacquered toenails and pulled her away.
Coline was supplely straddling the mathematician, like a dignified pupil of Liselotte’s. Cecile smelled of aspic oil and Florentine iris; she was still the windfall chrysalide I had guessed in her bulky overalls, and among the swarms of kisses, we conspired another jaunt to Italy. She had had news of Lauritz from Aïa Napa in Cyprus; he had succoured yet another kid from the sewer, a British-Polish gadabout sunbleached blonde young enough to keep a chance to kick her addictions. He had taken her to Sylt, and they were sleeping chained together at the ankle. In the photos, she was terrific; he wondered if a complete training course along with the backstreet sparrows might resettle her clock. If the pictures were faithful, Cecile and I might consider participating in the mission. The astray kid might find herself too busy at Philippe’s, under Sami’s eager management of avid clients, to go elsewhere and glean deadly chemicals, and we would share each of her comings and goings.

Now Fulgence and Erik gave way to Carmen and Rose, promptly disrobed and lustfully admired, their reddened eyes telling what they had indulged in. I soon could tell at my fingertips that it had been carnally wild, and Carmen, with a hip sway, did not deny it. Rose would rather catwalk solo at random, enkindling the nerves in the studs’ loins.
In the twinkle of our gazes, Carmen twirled like a little girl and rolled her pretty bum, and thus, it wasn’t long before a square jaw hunker seized her from the back, not even sending us a blink. Meanwhile, Lou had been threaded heads and tails by Swiss twins we had also experimented with some other night and who shagged like clockwork, without sweat, counting their prey’s orgasms before letting go themselves. She smelled of scythed weeds, and I took her to the shower. I left Cecile at the paws of a pure Nubian stallion in full swing, whom she led upstairs.
Although it didn’t sound or show, smartwatches or else, the 7S ceasefire swept like the dusk breeze on the forest, and our valliant Yalies had soon buckled their shoes and ran through the front door, grinning the same ever-sparkling smile and no fanfare. Coline returned from the bathroom with misty eyes and asked if I would go pick a dive with her.
Fulgence and his shadow had nothing better to envy than floating along weightless behind Coline’s bum. They had worked long days in the new fancy dwellings M. had asked Gauthier to design for the recruits he kept seeing breeze in, and he preferred to lodge within reach. Money was abundant, but time was tense, as ever, and anyhow, they had built dream bodies and ferocious wants, although they knew how to behave. Coline deserved the chase they unleashed on her supple hips, and she didn’t cry for help when they nailed her front and rear. Then the Cossack foursome got the word, and they were followed by a bevy of light-hearted maidens they had not all honoured yet. So thus, Coline’s religion was taught at once, and she returned overspent to heal in the salve of my hungry tongue.
When I emerged, so long after Alfred said no more, out of the Østersund mists where some remote Swedish cousins had lured me to play house on their father’s boat, I was alone in Fayelle’s room, and the sun rays stroke the shutters. Kate was having tea while browsing her mailbox. Coline was nowhere around. Eventually, I saw the text with a blue flower signal, telling me she went down with Cecile. It was so obvious. Now, she would probably doze out on the Well-Tempered Clavier in Cyprien’s stare after having dunked innumerable almond tiles in Cecile’s divine espresso. I texted Cecile she was an out-and-out thief, and that I would mull on my revenge all day.
I brewed a big pot of Oriental Beauty; then Bryony shuffled in and cuddled with both of us, mumbling that it had been one whirl of a night, but our hirelings had manners. Her nipples were reddish and sensitive; they needed to be licked upon again. She needed to talk about Coline, and know that we did not command a chessboard where one crush chased another. Kate snuggled her and told her that her heart would quiet when she moved into her own pad and kept shagging the whole population in the realm. And there would be other Albatros wing flaps towards the hesperides gardens; had she not been a fulfilled little harlot?
Liselotte wrote that she had carried on the festivities in some shared apartment with the Bostonians till exhaustion, and she was only then back to her home, strained muscles and dizzy head. I sent her more Kudos for another flawless Samovar contender, indeed.
We began to worry for Alfred. The bottle of the birdbath was still half-full. Natalia found us in the studio and disrobed so as to rollick tenderly with Bryony on the futon, and it was inspiring to watch. Kate put on a full-length live recording by Jon Hassell in Frankfurt. Alfred came back with abstruse explanations but soon returned to his dusk adlibs that winded beautifully around the wired trumpet’s intuitive yarn.
In earnest, Bryony’s candid seashore peepers had kept harbouring the same nexus of wonderings, all the more that it appeared she was the only one, amidst this tribe of privileged libertines, to discern the weird general unsocial bend of a teetotaller, almost vegan way of life that recalled the boomers’ utopia, crowned with the overlooked pervasion of hi-tech, was it not?
She had sussed that Natalia would be the person to niggle with her discomfort, although she would never want to return to abiding by alcohol-suffused chaos, even if she had never indulged more than rum in the baba sauce. Natalia diverted the pass to us big sisters, who she had always known as sane and sweet-smelling; she had always owned free access to our bed, whatever went on in it.
As for myself, I promised I would recount to her how my privileged upbringing had miraculously spared me the throes of self-destruction, and Kate sighed that she had needed me to haul her out of the mire of despair.

Bryony would come to know Camille, Hugo’s long-time protégée, born to incurably soul-sickened holocaust survivors gone heavy drinkers who had left her defenceless in their sick hovel at thirteen, with a trail of horrendous images to cope with. Sent by another patron to Hugo’s door as a skinny but moving prostitute, she had ended up teaching the rich writer the delight of redeeming adrift souls. They had founded a gallery on some chic street, where Cecile had fished up runaways before it went sour for them, and entrusted them to Hugo, who did not need to pimp anyone and did not trample his own life with toxic substances.
Fresh from my mirabulous boarding school in Switzerland, admitted to the National Beaux Arts School, my Far had rented an apartment for me a stone’s throw from Camille’s gallery “L’ Etoile Amusée”. She and Hugo dealt with surrealist art; I became a regular dawdler and liked her sharp wit and slender waist, so much so that I ended up in her bed and, once upon a time, in Hugo’s, too.
My school buddy was Kate: we were looked down on because we chatted in Nord Deutsche, whenas we were totally fluent in French. I had a big crush on her, but we wouldn’t have dared come out as bi, it wouldn’t have been taken as fashionable, yet. It was Camille who chatted her up first and brought her to our bed.
At school, social binging was the norm, and girls guffawed loudly when drunk. I still don’t know if I missed anything of atelier life, only I looked down on Liselotte, who was already the kinky one who eventually got me.
So, Bryony was served, although I had drifted far westward from our teetotaller lifestyle. I started the samovar and fetched a couple of biscuit baskets. Natalia had been bewitched listening once more to the flipside of her childhood her mother had had the wits not to shy her from, letting her use the keys like magic.
Perched on a stool, letting me frisk about her bum, she discovered Alfred’s dignified allure, and how to fill the feeder. Now, she would condone better his lack of sleep. Her bum crack smelled of the lotion Natalia had used on her.
Liselotte called. There was a heavyweight academic in a suite at the Volbert, and she pronounced a sideral reward for no extravagant demands. Natalia was thrilled to whore along with Kate. They ran downstairs to not-dress themselves. Nonetheless, these literary tycoons could reveal actual raging bulls, so they better foresee pocket buoys of the Swiss Navy, our fetish brand.
Bryony and I were expected, as sparingly clad as possible, at the chaotic study of a renowned psychoanalyst who, for once, needed to pay for his own whims. She was not too sure what she had just heard; she was delicious. I told her she would be the star of the show and I would root for her. She admitted that she would have looked for xannies not to look like a distraught cat, but now, then, the angst was on me, and I did not seem nervous. I hugged her and explained that I trusted Liselotte on my life —ever since she had once cornered me to do what I craved and didn’t dare.
After the last cups, I switched off the samovar, and we followed the other twos, but they had vanished. Liselotte had said to look candid French, like Clemence Poesy, for one. Mere eyeliner, blush, and gloss. Bryony laughed that she was English anyhow, and I retorted it would sound even foxier. We browsed through the hangers on the lighter side, and she sized a lesser M, like most attires in the closet. She went for a frilled prairie print Tana Lawn cotton mid-calf waistless flared dress with nought else but a loose braided multicoloured ribbon vest to have pockets. Her dainty feet found chalk white suede Egyptians.
I donned a knee-length indigo blue rib-knit tank dress that moulded my lower belly and bum and tied thin-strap navy sandals.
Elias Kornhuber’s private lair was situated close to the Gare d’Orsay, overlooking a row of pampered gardens. Dusk was still gleaming, and a tepid breeze whirled up on our thighs. I had as many codes as there were doors up to the low-ceiling attic through low-lightened corridors of the antique sleeping palace. I cornered my pretty acolyte in a nook to feel she was wet, too.
I knew it wasn’t so weird that his door was armoured and burglarproof, but the lock clangs were impressive. Standing in the narrow entry, the fit, half-bald sixty-something looked us in the eyes with pinpoint pupils. He hazarded a hand or two to reckon we were mostly nude, mumbled something in German and locked the door under a heavy tapestry.
He held our bums as we moved on between walls of books. Randomly placed lighting fixtures shed a yellowish glow from under scribbled parchment-like leaves. He wore a maroon velvet indoor jacket, a collarless white shirt, black wool crepe trousers, white silk socks and black velvet slippers embroidered with gold esoteric symbols. I could fantasise about his approaches; he was an expensive soul detangler.

Nonchalantly, as he took time to sniff us in our neckline, he led us to a typical psychiatrist oratory like I had seen a few between the river and the Boulevard. Upon layers of precious rugs, all pieces of furniture were finely mismatched and curated; three easy chairs neared a window ajar behind thin, gathered lace curtains like those my mother demanded at our Taarbaek windows. On a side pedestal, a Russian flourished earthenware tea fountain gurgled at times on a white starched napkin. I sensed a feminine influence in the details, whereas the whole arrangement, books, framed miniature portraits and pornographic tableaux, knick-knack salvaged from human tides, offhandedly cast as bait to the visitors’ wandering mind, and Prof. Achenbach appeared in a small pitted mirror among the books on a shady shelf —In the days, it is true that I had let the old Professor revel in my willing laisser aller, and he had never rebuked my attitudes, be they, in hindsight, a tad outré. But all in all, I seldom wore knickers in Saint Loup.
The tea was of unsurpassed quality, and I sussed what he had in mind making us drink, and again, of the diuretic delight. Bryony played cute and gathered up her naked feet but still under the cover of her dress. The Prof. told us to call him Elias and asked for more of my intimate relationship with good old Achenbach, RIP, particularly when it came to tea parties I had been invited, alone, to at his lakeshore cabin and sunbathed on the planks terrace au naturel.
Bryony did not know what a psychiatrist does, only what men like Elias usually liked her to do. He spoke brilliant, cosmopolitan English, and she was flattered by the manner he asked she should take off her dress. I did so, too. He told us to pose immodestly, insolently, aroused by Bryony’s young career, telling me to masturbate her while she raved on her clients’ whims, and came under my fingers.
He told us to lie on the dedicated divan bed clad with a silk prayer rug —a carnal vindication to the boring rhetorics he spent his days milling, trying to let spark back up in mostly cheating souls. He had laughed at my impressions of the old Professor who had found solace amidst our Summerhill kind of reservation, in the tower of benevolent wisdom.
Bryony’s toyish lower belly needed the loo. Elias licked his lips and ushered us to a wood-panelled bathroom big enough for an Italian shower and blue-glazed apparatuses. In our mixed parlance, he suggested we let ourselves flow in a kindly hug, to which we added an apposite kiss —in the scent of whatever essence he had laced our tea with. Under a vacant gaze, he pulled out his old weenie and pissed all he could upon us, too. He was mumbling in what could be Yiddish, reaching a blissful kind of grin. Then he turned on the shower and watched us dance to it.
Back on the sacrosanct couch, while sedately fiddling with Bryony’s rested body, he pulled out a small nasal spray and swiftly inhaled whatever was in it. He liked my impressions of Achenbach, and we forgot to translate for Bryony, who couldn’t care less. Then, sighing aside, he said it had been an evening to remember and fetched two willow-green envelopes in his desk’s drawer, thanking us. We dressed back up in a wink, and he vaguely rummaged some more under our skirts in a peek-a-boo game. He showed us to his door, and we heard the complicated clangs of the locks.
It was the dead of night on the street, and we hurried. I showed Bryony where to smuggle the envelopes under her left arm in a concealed pocket. I told her to keep both; she would want to spend them on shoes or whatever she craved in her future apartment. She ventured some sharp comments on Elias, but I retorted that he had been a gallant John, generous, and worthy of Liselotte’s commendations. We needed not to inquire any more.

Kate says:

In my idea, to go whoring at the Volbert meant stockings, were they white, and undies optional. Natalia, gently sunkissed blonde, kicked butt in a vintage white officer’s shirt, rolled up sleeves, belted with braided gold rope, not tout à fait thigh-high white holdups, and white patent loafers. I donned a cowl-neck almond green fluid jersey jumper dress with half sleeves, off-white lace hem holdup stockings, and dove grey suede flats. After the meticulous intimate ablutions, we had sprayed the same Ravello Cologne someone had left there. Cecile? In a pinch of minutes, we would smell different.
In the taxi, Natalia was already wet, if she had ever been otherwise since the nights when she kept sneaking into our bed. She showed the raciest of knees, and the driver would agree that Coco was a greedy bitch. We were unfailingly spotted, but number 362 awaited; we weren’t going to avail ourselves at the bar or pay tribute of my lips to the concierge this time.
It was a sun-bathed suite overlooking the grand yard, cream awnings down. It smelled of Zanzibar and coffee. The Don, a bulky greying chap in white satin pyjamas —pants on— did not recognise me, although he had indeed shagged me and more, a while back, in another hotel.
Opulent sofas and loveseats boasted plump, creamy white lampas cushions, overcast with fringed silk shawls, to wallow on; sundry ripple sycamore chests and side tables deployed the reverence of Art Deco curves, supporting some bold fragments of gilded bronze animal sculptures. We had ostensibly no scruple kicking off our shoes on the alabaster-white, moss-clumps structured carpet. At that price, we could safely romp anywhere in the ballroom.
Herminio Diaz de Castillo, a haughty black-curled, blue-eyed, matte complexion, long-established American immigrant lineage, lectured at top-notch universities and, besides, owned boundless farmland in the Midwest, so said Wiki. Here he went barefoot with a naughty grin, and he waved that we hitch up our hems —like that. An impeccably matter-of-fact Middle-Eastern young waiter brought a wide silver tray charged with covered plates of whatever finger food Liselotte must have told him that we would like. The boy did not cringe watching what we had to offer.
Herminio bent over Natalia’s backrest, sniffed in her hair and snaked his hand down her neck to unbutton her shirt and pinch her nipples. She spread lewdly over the fluffy down cushion and looked up to query a kiss. I was dazzled by her light-mannered savoir-faire and the immaculately smooth soles of her dapper feet. His toffee brown staff burst out of the satin creases at her nose, and she preferred to let the trousers slide down before licking the clear drop at its tip. He had all the time; he niggled on the little fairy whore’s lips with the edge of his glans, smiling as he saw me wank lazily.
With a swirl wiggle of the loins, he beckoned us to the vast, crisp white bed and told me to spread open on my back for Natalia to slake her thirst at my rosy brooklet, and thus, he would plunge deep in her rumps. To think of the innumerable times we played so together for free! At the ceiling hoovered a snowy swarm of porcelain shreds concealing tiny white LEDs. She made me gush of bliss for good and lapped up all that taste she knew by heart.
Herminio had fetched in the drawer the well-known blue and white KY tube and also two gold pillboxes, in which he took one, impelling us to take as many as we liked in the other one, albeit my fright of chemicals since a memorable Berlin season. However, Natalia knew the vermillion tablets by their little name and gulped three down with a smile and a glass of lemonade, and she tickled me to do so. To me, Natalia had always been the good genie, so I took three Funny Bobbies not to spoil the game, as the princess said, on the false assumption that if it was not injected, it wasn’t so dire.
Now he wanted me to lick her arse, and his semen tasted of salty sap as she wriggled on my tongue. Visibly wound up, he seized me by the haunches like a heap of moaning laundry and smeared my inners with gel so as to hump me on all fours, all orifices. I could sense Bobbi unfurling through all my veins and making me pliable as the ropes of drawn sugar in the mill’s steel arms on the candy stand at the fairground. Natalia’s petals giggled on my tongue in a taste of violet marshmallow, and I harassed that pink pearl I had known growing freely in our garden.
Time frayed in a chaos of sensations, colours and stranded memories. Exuberant acrobatics on the moonshine sands with Simon and Cynthia, spiralling carnal lucubrations down Hector’s exascale pits, and ultimately, the blazing wisdom of Natalia’s gaze in a string of synchronous happenstances.
Herminio was tireless, or perhaps it didn’t last more than a yawn in all, but the spinning chakras sensation was clear as a mountain stream rolling on opalescent pebbles. When we woke in the morning, he was gone, leaving two neat, loaded envelopes. Before we could run, after a thorough toilet, a bit of hard matter reality existed in the person of the concierge, keys in hand. He complimented us on our morning looks and pushed Natalia offhandedly on the bed’s edge, telling her to uncover and do him the favour of her mouth while I would disrobe too and let him rummage in my bum. It wasn’t worse than casual, with well-paid harlots such as us. When he was released, he reminded us not to forget to tip the hard-working maids.

The concierge wasn’t the bad guy; he offered tea at the bar, and we didn’t look like morning wrecks. Mauve circles at Natalia’s eyes befitted her wayfarer allure. Once I could swear her breath was pure as a breeze, she pulled me to a posh nearby store to burn some cash on snazzy black yoga shorts, and she offered me dove grey ones; we slid them on. It was windy and fair over Paris, and her idea was to walk to the Senghor walkway and look at the bateaux mouches as she had always done, confessing she had never sailed on any. I recounted what Cecile had told me once that Lauritz had taken her on a private boat up and down the stream, naked as a princess. She fantasised about sailing along with them. And Cecile’s ears must have been burning, through Bach, that happy morning.
Howbeit, my mind kept skidding sideways as an aftermath of those Funny Bobbies which had made our night. Natalia said they were the fad these days with the in-crowd. Nobody knew, as of yet, what Nimitz Lindström, the elusive mad chemist, mixed into them, but no one had been reported dead. I recounted our Blue Spice trip at Ebenezer’s and incited her to ask Liselotte to send her; the man was phantasmically doable, and the place simply otherworldly. As for me, I’d rather go hunting the Nordic quail on Sylt.
On our way home, we stopped at Agnete & Sanne’s for a bite. It was past the lunch hour. They made us taste fresh leak and custard pie, and true French wild cherry clafoutis, with melon and ginger kombucha. We had to fight our grounds to pay.
Up in the studio, Sarah had found the proper mix of Taiwan marvel for the samovar, and Plum luxuriated indecently on the futon, granting me an explicit eye. It was warm; the northern panes were agape, and Alfred must be downstairs in the freshness of the planters. Natalia had fled to some mysterious appointment; I disrobed like my sisters and asked them if they knew of Funny Bobbi. Plum said she had been acquainted with it in Prague in the bang-churning gang, and it was, above all, expensive. I still had some intermittent mind sways. I went down to cuddle up with the slinky runaway, who was making singular headway in French and English under Fanny’s loving lead.
I woke later in the dusk breeze under Afred’s jeering. Downstairs, with a smirk, they said no caresses had revived me. Cecile came and said Lauritz was back with a new runaway, from Cyprus, and he would appreciate that we see her before making any plans for her. Bryony and Oona invited themselves to dinner. If need be, we would end the evening at the pool.
Lauritz was more sunbleached than I had ever seen him. He introduced Chloe, a ravishing blond nigh jailbait he had spent on at Missoni’s and else, but she might have somehow inherited the steel and gold Rolex watch. She gave leery lichen-green looks at our gathering of lightly vested floozies, until Bryony sat next to her and chatted her up in the proper accent. I saw that Sarah was playing footsie with her, and she did not shun off. I surmised there wouldn’t be tan lines when we would strip her off.
She had been raised in Bath; her father, Bertrand Arcival, was an important landlord of rented historical properties there. She and her older brother had been attended to by a Pegotty-like nanny while their mother followed musicians on the road and burned her candle at both ends. At six, her father had decided to send them to C.W. Booth’s school, where he had himself suffered. Legit or not, corporal punishment had been in effect there, all the more for blasphemy she would blurt to the face of bone-headed teachers, or the lecherous manners she purportedly inflicted on other girls. All she had gained from the few years there was a Britannic taste for flogging and buggery. Her brother, two years her elder, had soon sussed all out and taken advantage of her devilish little butt.
At thirteen, she had stolen a wad of cash from her father’s desk and boarded the first train to London, where she had roamed around music pubs she was chased from for being underage. She was pretty, curvy, and insolent; soon, lads fought for her, and she became a backstage princess, a trophy for indie celebrities until she landed in Cyprus with a fake passport. As predictably, Lauritz had trailed yet another lost child, willing to estrange her from the Russian mob she seemed to belong with. He spared no means and called on a couple of his Hamburg team for help until, eventually, the mobster agreed to sell her for the price of half his car after spitting on her face. He had laughed she could keep the Rolex —which happened to be the real thing, after all.
All in all, the way things went, Lauritz had fished out another practical orphan from the sleazy Cypriot waters, hadn’t he? Who cares for a Lisbon girl? Chloe had a lot to tell, indeed, and nonetheless, her physical checkup had turned up clean as a new penny. She was adamant about carrying a bright new black card —which schedule was to be modified with the new anti-HIV shots being done every six months only.
Her pointed nipples teasing under the flimsy, zigzag variegated knit of the low-necked jumper, she also let her skirt ride up on her pale turquoise knickers. Weren’t we all nigh naked? She was visibly slightly hairy, and it must have tickled Lauritz’s fancy. No doubt the fiery imagination of drugs-fueled alpha matinee idols must have tripped around her in the wee hours’ roundups on Brighton pebbles.
Cecile had let Lauritz strip her down —knowing that she would be aroused by the Somerset girl, who had taken notice of her saviour’s easy ways with his mistress. In thorny alpha parlance, Bryony initiated her buddy on polyamorous mores, and Sarah crept under the table to sniff between her thighs, pulling away the last chiffon triangle.
Chloe was some foxy brat, and she liked girls, which, as HM Queen Victoria once famously said, doesn’t count as a sin. She appreciated the legendary savoir-faire of the box trees’ genie, whose perfumed curls tickled her thighs. The highly finished attires slid off by itself, and the light virtue of the miscreant angel shone amidst our all-modest feast of which she relished the clafouti, like all of us.
They went carouse on a sofa, and Bryony took over Sarah’s buttocks while this one busied herself about Chloe’s pearly quim. Most intentionally, Lauritz pulled Cecile onto the opposite sofa and shagged her like an armful of roses while Sarah held playfully Chloe’s wrists in her back. Then, Cecile invited the somerset rebel to the bathroom.
All the tohu-bohu was a fine omen for the fate of an opinionated new alpha among us, each of us looking forward to their turn to sniff the sun-kissed buttocks of the runaway wonder. Meanwhile, I had led Plum, as aroused as I was, onto our bed. She surprised me with a feminine daintiness I did not expect from a spirited warrior I had seen straddling the Cossacks. We snickered, hearing the fools peeing each other afar in the bathroom. Plum needed reassurance she had her place among us; I lulled her with my best lullaby.
In the morning, they all had deserted, bar Sarah and Bryony, who came out of Fayelle’s room, still cuddling each other. Plum borrowed some duds from our stocks to run to school, and she queried in my eyes the confidence I did not haggle for. She smelled of Geranium Orange. Bryony was proud of her wild compatriot, although she called her a mad groupie and said that had she lived thus in her Northumberland, she might be dead already, and she begged Sarah for a kiss. She had nothing better to do than practice French with us in the studio. Instead of what we went shopping.

Cecile says:

Lauritz had been overjoyed his new catch so captivated us and foreboded some new harmonies in the parish chorus. He had promised she would come to sit for Cyprien, according to protocol, after the not-much-needed visit to our appointed beauty salon. Here she was, moulded in a refined Milanese microknit ensemble and nought underwear, more of a Bath preppy than a bar diva, was she? I had a hunch that Purcell, in lieu of Bach, might better enkindle her emotional resources, and it worked inasmuch that she was nude and gleaming before we asked, as Lauritz had commended, I supposed. Cyprien was dumbstruck, as he should be. She was proud all her pubic hair was gone. As for me, I had relished the tapered lines in the heat of the tender scuffles, but there, in the cosy pit of oblivion that my mentor and I took great care to maintain, amidst the fetish pandemonium of my cravings, I took time to detail the refinements of her unique embodiment, much like I did for all other new carnal instatement of sorts, with Lauritz’s recruits.
I almost drowned one of my Russian cigarettes in my coffee, so lost was I admiring the legs she had thrown up on the table and the fineness of the joints, the contour of her calves.I recalled the memoirs of a George Romney, discovering young Emma Lyon, a prostitute of fourteen destined to a left-hand ladyship. Cuddled in the eager eye of Cyprien, she was heartily granted permission to doze out, like a Bernini extasis.
When she needed the loo, she wasn’t shy that I went with her and asked that she straddle me backwards on the bowl to piss on my quim. She sneered, kissed me with gluttony and said she had been a tad wary of Cyprien, who kept ogling her all over but remained transfixed. I just let her know the odd craftsman had tutored me with most of my knowledge and was, at worst, a dedicated contemplative; she might be surprised by what he would render of her undisputable beauty. In the cubbyhole, as I feasted on her mirabulous beauties, she dared question me about Lauritz, whom she had guessed was my master, so to speak. She wondered if he would somewhat pimp her. He had described this rich clubhouse he owned by the Seine; would he want to sell her to the patrons? He had said we all prostituted there at our discretion, did I?
There, I revelled striking my J. Worthington Goodfellow pose, bantering that, with that silly skin of mine, I currently whored in many other places than Lauritz’s and made a hell of a lot more pocket money with that than my other trades, and I suggested she come along with me to the biggest bawdy house the Hellfire Club kept under its vetting procedures in Paris, named after the famous Régent and his heirs, Philippe, the last of whom became King between two upheavals in the 1840s. Builders of the finest chunk of urbanism in Paris, the Palais-Royal, they had also engineered it as the craftiest of debaucher Emporium, overclassing Venice as for secrecy labyrinth.
She was amused, and she asked me to appraise a moment of her complacency, and she wouldn’t believe it. So I wriggled my foxiest belly and offered to go and verify together. While in Ayia Napa, under the bratva yoke, she had been put to whore in shady backrooms, though not enough to degrade her physically, and it had been more or less an outcome of her backstage degradation, with direr dangers than Funny Bobbies. Altogether, she reckoned that none of what she had seen of us showed any decrepitude.
Sami was overjoyed; he had arranged a private nook in the entresol salon, with libertine-inspired painted screens. I had vested my pupil in one of my thinnest pinstripe coal-grey power tailleur, with black veil stockings and garters, flat black patent pumps with a grosgrain bow, no shirt or knickers, a spray of Bond Street to amp up the vice. I wore a purplish changing taffeta shirtdress with matching silk hold-ups and ballet flats, nought else. In the taxi, she had been aroused like a little street diva when I slid my hand under her skirt.
I remembered the blessed evening when Sarah had led me to this libertine realm, and I warned Chloe that Sami would be first to shag her in the lustful maze. Just time to savour a rice pudding full of candied fruit glazed with vanilla cream, our all-eyes chaperone steered us through a discreet door to the muffed corridors of perdition, if you will. Ever so fastly, he pushed us into a closet I did not recall having visited, all clad in maroon mohair velvet with a barrow banquette against which he held Chloe, her skirt hitched up to the waist. As he told me to sit and embrace her, I could see, in the sparse light of a tiny frosted glass ball, her smooth rounded arse being tidily buggered, which brought out the frenzied comment that she indeed was no virgin this side of her. She merely giggled and went on moaning in my mouth until the master debaucher unleashed a deep tirade and stood panting a short while before telling me to suck him clean. Behind a curtain was a proper whore toilet with tin sink, bowl and bidet he vaunted had been a first in Paris, a major improvement being the availability of disposable cannulas for a quick enema.
While we tidied up ourselves somewhat in the jam-packed loo, it appeared that another hurried pair had found the muffed nook to let themselves adrift. She was a pretty pampered-up blonde who had lost all her duds except for black stockings, and she was all busy getting shagged by this pants-down, tuxedoed flat-haired attorney type who could nought bar let us help them a mite on our way out, and she was game, indeed.
Sami pulled us away through the discombobulated array of stairs and byways, jazzed by Chloe’s unfazed coolitude. We reached one of the mirrored salons, where he must have tipped off a handful of senior members of the dicastery, who wallowed expectantly on the arsenic-green mohair velvet sofas, sipping their drinks as Sami ushered us amidst their eager circle. It was time to climb up the low, carpeted centre table and prance about in our natural. I had lived through that more than a few times, and I led her in the dance; I knew they would relish watching us kiss, and the novelty was still crisp enough to make for a genuine tableau, as her princely allure still besotted me.
Eloges poured over our heads and butts, Sami making up that it would be Chloe’s unique apparition at Philippe’s, her binds leaning her more to Speck’s as if we wouldn’t sell our hides anywhere at whim. As we were facing a serious charge of perfumed spears, Sami, who had just released his tenor loquacity in the black closet, gave the clubmen a spiel he knew they would drool on —all the more about Chloe, for I already had a career in this venue.
Putting on a brave face as cheer support while they took turns in her fresh orifices, some pragmatist ones choosing to profit from my savoir-faire while ogling the princess’ lecherous ordeal. There was a boundless ejaculation spree, and I had to admit she remained enviable in the worst of smelly sloshes, and she had the nerve to harangue them on; she sure was some backstage queen.
All smiles, Sami fished us out and brought us to a regal-sized bathroom with enough holy water to play Klimt’s river serpents in the tub. Our assailants were barred for the while, and Sami helped us freshen our hair and complexion like seasoned entertainers, and a pot of warm coffee, I wouldn’t know where it popped up from, cleared our breath of all the many semen scents we had gulped, might they feed us in the least. And all wasn’t done over with.
Onlookers had leered upon our indulgence through the one-way mirrors, and not only for wanks; we were the hot number along the corridors, and Sami gave us the choice of a frenzied crowd of dicks we could also view through the voyeurs’ spy scope, and firstly a pair of hunker looking Nordic types already exposing themselves in the raw. They were superb Swedish airmen on a European tour and sported dazzling teeth amidst their smiles. Obviously, after having just seen us let be done the whole shebang, they did not fuss with vain preliminaries, all the more that the fragrant warm waters had, even more, softened our flesh.
That room was dark, circled with black horsehair banquettes around a square bare bed large enough for our boisterous quadrille, ornately framed mirrors running around the maroon-lacquered walls and latticed ceiling, enough light spawned from repoussé gilt copper sconces and magnified our lascivious nudities. With their gravelled parlance, they easily shared the tenderness as much as we did with ourselves naturally, and they blessed us at least once in each hole, mind you. The flygvapnet had special resources, and there was some refreshing camaraderie in the way they handled us with the shower lather afterwards.
The gracious flunkey who brought us more Impératrice rice pudding in a dollhouse rotunda was in obvious distress, and his black eyes ran lost over us like he must have been the victim of some prank. He didn’t budge, even when I took hold of his young manhood to the point when I let him ejaculate in my whorish mouth and gulped a large serving of lemonade to rinse that.
I still wanted to make us rich; hence our following patrons would be white-haired, with sideburns, bulky magistrate characters I had been told haunted these corridors in singlets, pants down. We didn’t have to regret our choice; they happened to be merry companions, and four of them wasn’t a burden. They had an odd whim of plugging rabbit and horse tails up our arses, and they weren’t tiny calibres, but you accommodate, don’t you? They revelled in making us trot by thus, at first grappling wet kisses, then presenting their white-haired willies, to finally play heads and tails and free the lesser hatch to come to spit their blessing in turns. They spoke Mittel-European. After their release, they let us clean ourselves in the all-over blue decor earthenware bathroom, with the funky noises enema. Our tails back in alternate places, they kept waffling on supposedly about us, ordering we keep our thighs conveniently open. They kneaded softly all parts of us, almost putting us to sleep. They eventually thanked us with an extra wad of banknotes, and they cleaned away the funny accessories. We called it a night. We found Sami after so many greedy hands over us in the corridors, re-dressed and then jumped into one of the vacant taxis, the driver knowing full well what we were, keeping his rear-view mirror at a lower angle. I let Chloe have the whole reward, and she felt rich.

Early morning, I bustled her a little to bring her down to the workshop, promising she could sleep on the couch for Cyprien’s eyes. I gave her a chalk-grey tracksuit and willow-green velvet slippers so she found herself seeable to some improbable lift encounter. I said we would have fresh coffee and biscuits —she was a gifted dipper. The fresh baskets of almond tiles were delivered on time. She was convinced Bach was a contemporary. I felt blessed she liked the Well-Tempered Clavier. We combed down our messages, and among them, Lauritz inquired as to our whereabouts. She typed a lengthy response, visibly aroused about our bout of debauchery. He prayed us to come round Speck’s the next night, so please us.
Cyprien organised the cushions for an easy reclining pose, arms overhead, of Bryony he might expect to see doze out, in what case he would spend his dedicated craftsmanship on her delicate feet. I was currently painstakingly removing centuries of brown varnish off a comely young nymphet, which revealed to be some nude Lucretia wielding the dagger I wouldn’t let her use. All I awaited was that Bryony needed the toilets.
Around five, I called it a day. After one or two boxes of ladyfingers, we ran up to the dressing mirror. I had been vaunting the utter style and luxury of Lauritz’s Parisian lair, the oldest German parlor house this side of the Rhine. I confided it was where my life found its upturn as Sarah, in a visit to the restoration workings, had serendipitously fallen for me in my bulky overalls, furthermore causing Lauritz’s dedication of me as the house’s mascot, so to speak. In hindsight, I could tell Lauritz was a faithful polyamorous companion, and he had, along with Hugo and Camille, funded all my current establishment.
All in all, she deserved all my blessing as the new favourite, and she would meet and love quite a few others in the coming days; yes, Speck’s was a prostitution venue, but it did not interfere in the ladies’ trade, the club charged for its services like a hotel would. However, she probably had to get ready to grant complacency towards the chief of staff, once in a while, and take it as a token of her desirability, of sorts. I reassured her that we would team up that night, just as the last. And eventually, there would be a long list of venues where to get rich, nearby. So, first, we did a thorough toilet and perfumed every nook of ourselves.
We had a long enough, Missoni manner multicolour threaded, double-breasted all-in-one costume to wear with thin, lace hemmed, hold-up stockings and patent pumps, like your classy harlot on the move. She guffawed at herself, playing with her flaps, so easy was it to denude herself. To pair along, I fetched a black mixed crepe jacket with heavy satin peak lapels, the overlapping left one, like boys, encrusted with strass jewellery. Black veil holdup stockings nigh up enough, black grosgrain flats, we offered some expensive pair of floozies, and we smelled of Florentine tuberose overtone. Be it only for the swift transfer, we took on light windbreakers, iridescent for her, glazed white for me, that did not help the driver from leering.
Udo liked who I introduced him to, and he ushered us towards the far end of the antechamber, behind the heavy Siena red velvet portière, overjoyed that I would attend his manner of instatement of a new incarnate fantasy in the Speck galaxy. Letting me hold her jacket, after having fiddled in every crease of her English softness, he lay her on the red marocain and held her wrists crossed back while he let his trousers fall. I helped him ease his congenial command staff against Bryony’s wet little brooklet so he could gradually glide in as for a gallant hors d’oeuvre she nodded to. He told me to pull off my jacket and bend to her blooming mouth while he fingered my butt. He was enthused with our spirits, and he gushed in the English rose in a manner of an inconsequent inaugural toast; she was far enough from the backroom sties Lauritz had found her in.
A black, light-hearted pianist threaded an elegant medley of imperishable blue note standards with uneven dotted line rests and nostalgic glances with one singular blue eye. As of yet, he saw us apparently dressed. He must have been tripping in higher scores. The buffet, the primary bait for innocent fillies, was still virtually untouched, and the vegan delicacies neared some quail eggs in sesame cream. All the while, well-meaning, manicured hands wandered through the convenient vents at the backs of our jackets, spawning lyrical praises and invites, only we wouldn’t part, and it made the deal expensive.
Pretty teams of personable fornicatrix in reduced attires let themselves be drawn away by the fingertips, but before, those I knew well asked to be introduced to the new damsel and take a feel of her breasts, asking where she dwelled. The back street sparrows made some flurry entering their playground in mere chiffon gowns before the ornate, frosted stained-glass panes enlightened through by a random tourist barge. I told Bryony who they were and where to find them in their spare time, which wasn’t scarce.

A familiar white-haired diplomat in a silk tuxedo came up to sniff Bryony’s neck so close that she jolted and turned her head right to his mouth. He had observed our manège and invited us both across the salons towards the lifts. No sooner had we stepped into the car than he cornered her for a long kiss, and he turned to me to compliment my tastes; I might have introduced Lou to him once.
The room on the third floor overlooked a yard, and, whatever merrymaking was raging nearby, was silent. It was panelled in sculpted waxed ebonised wood depicting wild animals in the undergrowth. Two straight-back armchairs, a bed foot banquette and the headboard, were upholstered with petit point verdure. Foggy bevelled mirrors in black Dutch frames hung between repoussé silver sconces, casting honey-toned lighting like the painted tole fantasy foliage and birds chandelier. Over the headboard, a panel I had once revived depicted three well-hung angels sustaining a nymph in flight at the tip of their heavenly cocks against golden-rimmed skies.
A regular of our candid clearings, he fell nonetheless head over heels for Bryony and her Somerset accent. I helped him bare down; he was a well-worked-out stud who had lived in the sun unclothed. On the silver-green bed cover, he told me to straddle my girlfriend’s mouth, offering my unabashed bumhole while I let her do the talking. I could sense he took possession of her, and he came to bite my laughing rosebud alternately with her mumbling mouth. He cried a swift victory, but he wasn’t one to spare us at his expense. He asked us to hug with our legs spread, and I sensed he was lovingly smearing our holes with keen, slithery fingers, humming bits of a naughty sailor song. He had joshed some other time about my boyish butt, and he used it thus, handling my haunches manly, like a high-octane motorbike, but it did not hamper us, however, to rub our clits against one another like real girls, but we weren’t any kind of mean, and he could splurge out his balls fill of rage, frothing at the mouth like a maddened stallion, before dozing out with his nose in the pillow.
There was a spacious green marble shower room, and we let him piss on us like a bandit. He said he would query again for us, and he was heftily liberal before leaving. I showed Bryony how we would, in turn, reward the maids in cash.
Udo sniffed us with eyes swaying, and he suggested we might hang our duds inside the closet, were we to return into the m’as-tu-vu for another round we greatly deserved, said he, ever so much enthralled with girls who had just served a client, even though he couldn’t help to steal the first taste each time.
There was some sort of after-party going on, with some shied-off ladies in full garb ogling us unwittingly, so it was a delight to display manners of depravity until they blushed. We grabbed some nibbles and drank some tea, letting all sorts of strokes wander about our skin. Some inquired casually about our fees; one didn’t baulk, and he was in the company of a shy maiden. They were Americans; he had short chestnut curls, hazel eyes and a mat complexion. His smile did not hint at a malicious flaw, but no sooner were we packed in the lift car than he relished watching his purported bride catching her breath in Bryony’s neck.
They sported what Sarah calls Brooks Brothers chic, a fresh, simplistic, sky blue seersucker shirt-dress, knee-long, rolled-up sleeves shirt dress tied on her slender waist. Flimsy white stockings and white suede loafers, all appetising like the preppies I had leered at in my mother’s old society magazines. Her debaucher had undertaken to unbutton her chest, and she wore no bra. She looked up at us; her eyes were of pure flax blue, and now she longed to model her allure on ours. I sussed she had grown up in the proper kind of boarding school. Her mid-length reed-blond hair smelled of musk-rose breeze. Her name was Fern; she wore no panties over her crotchless tights.
We went in that quaint mansarde, looking high above the gliding white blaze of the tourist barges, upholstered in pearl grey palm leaves volubile brocade between the rough, antique bleached beams. Glaring, round repoussé silver platers were hung to the roof slopes, reflecting the spotlight of projectors. The square bed stood under an oval picture of a nude Romantic nymph in flight in a Sturm und Drang kitsch dusk sky, framed in stucco gold, against the triangular wall. Layers of tight-knotted Sarkomand rugs let me feel up that my windfall date had lost her shoes.
Bryony was already freely wiggling to the boy’s kisses, her feet like frisking white doves in the air. The libertine pair defied each other in our arms; I pulled away her dress and tights and forced her into a gently lewd attitude, just like she deserved; she made me believe she wasn’t used to that manner of carnal traffic. I made us collapse on the bed. Bryony wanted a taste of that white goose led astray; I put myself to finish disrobing the cavalier, whose name was Asher.

I let out softly that his fiancée was a dewy peach and was surprised to see them giggle. She blushed, and he soughed they were siblings. As for me, I liked it when Kate recounted her unending idyl with her brother. I forced Fern into avowing her love for Asher, so she endeavoured to provoke me and mouthed her brother’s valiant dick and pumped it for a heartfelt loving while. He explained there had not been a beginning to their story, since they were fraternal twins. They looked alike, same complexion and a typical small straight nose, which reminded Sarah’s.
I envied them, borrowing Asher’s staff so as to wipe off my recalls of growing up in a damped cellar with another manner of dick in my mouth and elsewhere. What these well-to-do siblings searched for on their European tour was to patch up some real-life moderate depravity with their unavowable secret life not even the weirdest of shrinks would allow them to tell aloud. From the top of my self-cobbled wisdom, I encouraged him to further his infatuation for Bryony and shag her while I deployed all the tricks Sarah had taught me to knock his ravishing sister off in bliss.
The bathroom was in the house’s standard, with a room-size shower fully clad in purple slate. They became so aroused that he ended buggering me standing, one foot on the toilet lid. Once we all ended up smelling of Vallauris, they still wanted to keep us, whatever the fee. They sussed we were amateur prostitutes; I let him fantasise about some confederacy of polyamorous orphans sponsored by rich patrons who did not play golf or bet on baby horses. I floated the idea that Fern also needed her fill of dick. I proposed that while Asher would play Bryony’s voyeur husband, Fern come with me to cruise some serious clients in the salon, and I could tell her womb responded with shivers, like mine.
Remained to keep Udo updated, and he did not waste such a late-night trick that smelled so candidly fresh, so he pushed Fern and me to the velvety far end, only to teach her some religion while upon my bosom. I knew we were utterly palatable, but he was only a man and stayed limp in my hand. He said wondrous words of her lightly-haired pubis, bent her over on that red maroquin desk, and licked her shy little arse with a hum of delight.
I told her to leave her dress a tad unkempt, making her taste the word that she was a whore, an expensive one, at that. The eerie pianist noticed that my fiancée had changed; I gave him an eye that could let him expect something if he waited long enough. Presumedly, Asher had already sold Bryony for a turn. Fern and I rummaged in the buffet’s remnants, but she wasn’t hungry; she only drank enough lemonade to make me hope for kinky watersports.
Some genteel, double-breasted pinstripe suited, grizzled Eastern-Europe diplomat took a delicate fancy of my butt and Fern’s dress, asking, in gallant English, if we were married, and I retorted he could try, and so then my girl took the plunge.
He smelled of Medici Cologne. In the lift car, he quickly undid the few remnant buttons below Fern’s waist, and I helped expose her slender figure, pulling the cloth aside. As a seasoned connoisseur, he had grasped the girl’s shyness, and it aroused him. Once the dress had fallen, he nuzzled in to lick her lips while he guided her hand to his fly to release his sturdy bludgeon, and she revealed not so clumsy after all.
That room was all panelled and painted of a risqué singerie I had painstakingly worked upon in the days it was Gauthier who used me like a mad dog any moment of my day’s work. That purportedly gay playboy who supervised the whole workings for Lauritz von Speck had unabashedly abused his position since the day he had surprised me in the buff before I slid on my bulky overall devised to deceive male gazes. Anyhow, he was a gifted lovemaker and a trustworthy boss; he had reconciled me with all the subtleties of carnal shenanigans before his dear friend Sarah singled me out in my war attires and later pushed me into Lauritz’s beds. No one in the conspiracy had ever failed me.
It was a long season in my soul, days on in cleaning the grins of these brilliant little marmosets and at any time letting the copperhead knight use me like his spoiled slave behind these same locked doors. A fierce envy took me to debauch the fresh preppy girl who dared taste these chilly waters with the tip of her delicious foot. Our courtly guest, beyond fiddling with her, had an obvious ulterior motive, which was to see us girls do the nasty about his tense dingle, and I wouldn’t let him high and dry. We took great care stripping the hero, and thus, I reckoned he wasn’t sickening to consider, like if the sun would not have shunned the Baltic coast —in earnest, he rather looked like returning from Thailand.
At the wall’s foot, now, she searched my eyes, and I agreed to take her in my wing morally, so to speak, and I kissed her deep under the client’s nose as she lustily handled his eager bauble.

He knew well enough how to make a well-bred damsel pant while he buggered her chaperone; I agreed that Fern’s nonny tasted of almond milk. She kept mum when he smudged some KY in her bumhole, and she looked nicely terrified when he easily penetrated her a good length, asking me to procure her a diversion on her hooded pearl. She sang in muffled tones and moaned when she sensed shivers she had not known before and when she felt she was wetting the bed. She was befuddled reading my beaming smile, whereas she feared we had somehow wronged her little fragile womb. It took me gentle legerdemain to demonstrate calmly what her holes could be done to, and they craved. I made her insert her hand in my coochie while the Ambassador buggered me to the hilt and told her to seize him through the thin wall of my vagina. She was properly overwhelmed, although His Excellency finally called her to behave like a dignified harlot.
In the warm pinewood bathroom I had so many memories in, I helped her cry in the tepid flows, bringing her to avow she and her brother might have dared a bit too far while I began to suss he had wished to let her be taught a thing or two in that manner. The Polish plenipotentiary was overjoyed with the unique tone of our prestation; he had come more than he had hoped, and the chambermaids wouldn’t complain about Fern’s overflows on the bed cover.
Once we were done pampering each other, we returned to the temple of profligacy, and I did not let her put on her dress back on. Now she knew that the whole rebirth of this stupendous ageless folly had been my personal handiwork and conjointly the theatre of a new slackening of my mores, and I did not regret so far a smidgen of it all. All of which goes to show some lyrical birds one keeps inside the cage of one’s chest may fly unannounced to the pretty face of a perfect stranger one has revelled in, pushing beyond her lewdest imagination, doesn’t it?
But there were volumes of what she might learn about me. Now, she was helplessly besotted with me, and I would gladly bring her home along with Bryony —for the greater content of the God Crow— but she was not your astray orphan kind; she seemingly lived a life of ease and loose morals with her own brother, mind you. I began fantasising about her, posing for Cyprien in Bryony’s arms. Remained to survey the heart and loins of her twin.
Fern clenched at my wing, shunning some eager lazzi as we walked the sumptuous carpet enlivened with her dainty feet, we went to Udo’s quarters to ask him for Lauritz’s whereabouts. From the top of his honed expertise, the maître d sussed at once that my lover had made some discoveries. He took her apart and fiddled her kindly, then said that Lauritz was at his apartment with Bryony and Asher. Indeed, he was watching his newer rescapee frolicking with the American youngling at his feet. He jolted at the sight of Fern, and we joined the orgy, bringing on some more magic to it. I asked him what he knew of the twins; Bryony had not had time to enlighten him much, and he discovered there existed a fraternal twin of desirable grace, apparently totally bustled out of her bearings, though not to shied not to let him graze up her legs. I was proud to teach him the well-bred kids had been living together like bride and groom, and they had been addressed to Speck’s as in some kind of prank, but only, Fern had learned a few unforgettable tricks, as of yet.
Bryony, as that sheer opportunist she had come to be, drew all the exultation she would know from her cavalier, who eventually collapsed, panting, incredulous as his sister had been. After Bryony had taken him briefly to the bathroom, he jumped on his sister, and they rejoiced in some idiosyncratic parlance of their private sphere as we leered at them crying. I had been taking care of Lauritz’s jolting erection, but as they quitted the domain of mere clientele, there was a bit of kinky talking to work out between us.
They were the estranged offsprings of a mighty lineage; the name they went by was an alias, including on their passports. Unbeknown to their socialite parents, they had slept together since long before puberty in the secrecy of the mahogany-clad mansion in Belle Haven, Connecticut. Although they attended separate schools, their unusual bonding never flinched. She was then deemed frigid by her schoolmates despite her nonchalant allure and the knowledge she seemed to possess of things sex. Both of them, A+, rode the straight track to Harvard Law School and lived far away from college life in a very private, detached townhouse with a very protective Caribbean housemaid. They graduated brilliantly and were hired in the same Boston practice where they began to sow questions on their lifeways. Sexy as they both were, their colleagues chopped their teeth trying to get beyond office matters with them. One girl sussed out their secret but kept mum. Another hunky brilliant attorney fell for Fern and eventually resigned. They became stellar fiscal experts.

It happened that one of the investigators at the firm was intrigued by these inaccessible twins and was allowed to inquire discreetly because the bosses already knew about the alias. That investigator wasn’t the rat kind; he cracked the enigma open, but he didn’t tell anyone and reported to his bosses there must be some religious or medical reason for the celibate of the twins.
Nonetheless, he gained some intimacy with the couple, unveiled all he knew and did not try any shenanigan, making clear, though, that he was not insensitive to Fern’s grace. But he had also learned that the time might come when they could own the firm among a heap of more significant assets. Hence, he became their most efficient agent at the office and helped Fern fence off petty gossip and let herself talk a human minimum; she was beautiful enough to impress the gossipers.
At a restaurant, one fair weather night, they unwittingly engaged in a conversation with a French psychoanalyst who was lecturing at Harvard. They were taken off-guard, and they didn’t even know if he had grasped the incongruence of their lifeways, but he convinced them to undertake the European grand tour they had never done, and among the long list of recommendations he texted them was Udo’s number.
She did not ignore, amidst the hovering ballet of tree shadows that swept the room, that Lauritz would claim his turn in her new harlot’s tenderness, and he was some classy character of a man, wasn’t he? Anyhow, I was already engaged with her indefatigable brother, which gave me a clue as to their unbreakable passion. He smelled of Pausilipo lemon bloom they had found in Lauritz’s bathroom. He was close-shaven and offered the same pulpy lips as his sister’s mouth; his body was smooth as that of a teen. Fern couldn’t have found anyone better fitted to what I had tasted of her; besides, I had just seen him drain out his balls like a stag into Bryony’s candid Somerset pink with fiery impetus and no sweats.

Sarah says:

Coline and I had been wryly hearing Alfred’s morning lecture. I wasn’t unhappy with my Oriental Beauty brew. Coline considered me odd around my tea. In the backstreet cote, Lauritz had afforded them a glistening new Italian coffee percolator, and the sparrows knew of three affluent coffee-burning shops in walking distance. That morning, she had used Cecile’s sophisticated athanor and stash; she never feared having to make amends with the dunking witch.
Bryony shuffled in from the god crow’s ward, yawning. She liked my tea; she said coffee was a nerve-wrecking sweetmeat, and Cecile must be steel-strung inside her heart-warming allure. She blatantly wore nary else than this marigold-yellow-trimmed maroon sweatshirt left behind by Lauritz in Ceile’s closet, and she candidly gathered up one foot. She wanted to recount her night at Speck’s, and she made herself clear for Coline’s less-than-scholastic English.
Some swift draughts seemed to stir up the blue mist of her eyes when she first owned up to the sheer luxuriation of going to whore herself in such a fairytale mansion; once gulped down Mr Udo’s unsaid prerogative, Cecile had steered her through a most deliciously depraved journey throughout which she had sensed a high measure of self-worth, and reaped her benefits that she had still ascertained at wake-up.
We knew all along she would thrive along the prosperous alleys her beauty birthright had led her on, like a new Emma Hart. Howbeit, she also related the most singular encounter they had come across, and —although she had heard of Kate’s unusual lifeways— had given her tingles when she learned she was shagging with a couple of beauteous incestuous fraternal twins, and moreover when Cecile had brought them along. We would have some kind of dazzle when she would bring them up after they had posed for Cyprien all day. She forewarned, nevertheless, that there wasn’t a chink of distress in the couple’s situation; they were more than well-off, high-skilled professionals in a field that might trigger some interest in our planetary neighbour. They had washed ashore at Speck’s in the most singular course of events upon the offhanded advice of a reputed French psychoanalyst they had acquainted with in a Boston restaurant while he gave a cycle of lectures at Harvard —I supposed we could track him down. Upon the sybilline recommendation on a vague tear sheet, the sort he might have seen before, Udo had greeted them as paying clients, although Bryony said they did not look older than me and would have done as well in the house’s casting.
They had been staying at the Volendam, a posh boutique hotel they had discovered they owned, amongst the portfolio of their international assets, close by the Arènes de Lutèce, but for now, I texted Cecile that they were expected for dinner —and more— whenever she agreed to release them from her cubbyhole. Meanwhile, to my relish, Coline was enthralled with Bryony, whose feet she had taken hold up at her hips sides on the chair, warming them like kittens. We moved upstairs to the studio; she did not wish to take her aside in a bedroom, and I was overjoyed to leer upon them on the futon —like Alfred clarionned. On my pad, the free-wheeling doodles flew to the vast plains of the Great Manitou while I kept watching the tender congress on the futon beyond the sofa.
Kate came in and marvelled at the ebullient performance on the futon. We had rarely seen Coline so brazenly cute. It led me to think she might thrive a tad happier at a distance from her extrovert sister. Plum had let herself embark on some shady traffic along with Adèle and Lou. I gave Kate a quick recap of Cecile’s lark at Speck’s and the unexpected outcome. She rounded her seashore eyes at the news of a somewhat unhoped-for encounter in the most auspicious background, as they had always feared being looked down on as some psychiatric freaks, and Cynthia had warned her.
Agnete & Sanne sent a warning that they had made genuine summer puddings, and only two were left that I swiftly ordered, along with vanilla ice cream, and also feasty salty pies for dinner and litres of suave bubbly kombucha. Not yet acclimatised to our time zone, the snazzy Bostonians, flabbergasted by the course Cecile had led them through from her basement workshop to our studio in the clouds, showed up in the powdery gilt late afternoon glow, dressed at Cecile’s whim, of an orange-trimmed crimson sweatsuit and black velvet slippers, and a peachy loose hoody tracksuit for Asher. They sat on the sofa and gazed lovingly at the gamines who had been exploring with great care a book of Henri Fuselli’s paintings. Bryony took off Fern’s slipper to cuddle her foot while introducing Coline, whose eyes glinted.
In caring periphrases, to start with, I summed up Kate and Simon’s boundless upraising on the peripheral island of Sylt, famous for its nude-going colonies of nature lovers. I wasn’t embarrassed to herald my deep passion for her legend, and so she acquiesced.

Kate made a non-pareil romance of her subjoined affair with her extraordinary schoolmate Cynthia, who revealed herself to be an intersex person —having chosen her own social gender— of utter beauty and finesse, and ran, nowadays, a practice just beyond our walls, helping those of similar nature to stand up to the frenzy of surgical butchery still ugly commonplace in conformist societies such as France. Cynthia’s own physical particulars had led her parents, both doctors in Hamburg and a private clinic on Amrum, the neighbouring island to Sylt, to slam the door on the German medical establishment and to expatriate to Australia, after they had seen their daughter thrive beautifully, against all the faculty’s curses, inspiring their further academic works welcome in Sydney. Furthermore, Kate joshed that we happily harboured other genderqueer imps, even one hermaphrodite wonder who easily paraded their unassuming nature.
A&S called from downstairs; the shipment was hefty, and I helped pile it up in the lift car. We fetched all our disparate tableware to compose a yummy buffet. Not keen to set some kind of girls’ gouter, I had surreptitiously texted our stag brigade, not yet daring to summon the twins’ colleagues next door. I had been specific in my invitation to the boys that they should spare any rough pass with Fern, for now. Fulgence, though foreseeably impressed, remained circumspect and addressed both siblings with congeniality, letting Fern boast her aristocratic navel to his nose. He, too, kneaded her feet as she spilt out their bag of candid secrets. To make obvious our usual manners of mores, Cecile had casually slid her hand under Asher’s belt, so thus Fulgence didn’t dither long pulling down Fern’s pants, and marvelled at her tiny brooklet. He joshed he had never had a sister in his infancy.
The Cossacks then found us in the customary sloppiness of our attitudes, and Serguei singled out the new fresh little snout to neck with, seizing Fern’s dizzy head over the headrest. But those newbies, still a tad dizzy from their recent exultations, did not frankly let go of themselves at once. Coline had caught Yaguil’s eye, and he was taut forth as a rhino. She steered him to the far end of the sofa and knelt backwards as a frenzied beast, stretching her bum crack while he rubbed gel to her pleated gentle corolla. Peter wouldn’t sneeze at her babbling little mouth that he invaded conscientiously. Cecile ran her keen hands all over, daintily tweaking Coline’s witty nipples.
Once this carnal appetizer greedily savoured by all of us, unabashed voyeurs, we tasted these warm pies of creamed asparagus tips, roasted peppers, or baby artichokes flan, listening to the comparison of withstanding the hurdles that rise against living an utterly deviant walk of life, inasmuch it might concern us. I recalled that weirdissime story I had heard of someone who once bought a derelict country house in the southwestern French deep countryside no one had ever wanted to consider since the death of the heirless owners in the late eighteen century. During one of those evening chats by the fireplace, the would-be purchaser of the escheated estate keenly attended, some ageless raconteur told him that the last occupants had been a couple of siblings who had died in old age and had been found somewhat mummified in rich attires, in the same bed, one fine day, hence causing a swarm of gossip in the locality.
The house had been packed with sundry books, some antediluvian, incunabular or manuscripts, which had been moved to the bishopric library and buried in oblivion. The house had become enshrouded in the overgrowth, and the county notary never found any heir. Centuries later, the French state wanted to sell it.
The curious writer, a nosy folklorist, bought the place without a contestant and began the restoration workings. Though not ostentatious architecturally, it was nothing like a peasant shack and was still standing under its flat tiles roof and a sturdy oak framework. Surprisingly, it had not been pillaged, and the buyer could rejoice there existed more value in the furnishings than what he had paid for the whole lot.
Even Coline and her studs, back from the bathroom, might begin to wonder where I was leading them. The Belle Haven gentry sensed the long thread of my yarn would not lead to any solace. The new landlord contemplated bringing a tad of present-day comfort to the alluring but austere house. All hell broke loose when the workers needed to dig in the walls and floors to lay pipes, and they began to find remains of newborns under each slab, more or less wrapped in rough canvas with red crosses stitched over their heads. When the workings were suspended, the tally was around nine skeletons. The gendarmes wanted nothing to do with the whole thing. The author tried to learn where the two adults had been buried, but he found no mention of them in the parochial ledgers or anywhere else. Not himself a Christian, he nonetheless felt a need to give the little remains a decent solution. In France, DNA analysis can only be carried out on a judge’s order, which would have explored the filiation with a lock of hair found in a medallion that bore the last female dweller’s name. He fetched nine adapted copper boxes, wrapped the eerie little shapes in fireproof cloth, and had them welded after having engraved on the description of the contents. He dug a trench in the far end of what looked like a rewildered garden and planted roses on the resulting mound.

The storyteller’s wife never wanted to sleep in the roughly restored house, but he became compelled to transport his henceforth wired scriptorium to the weird hermitage, where he spent a couple of seasons, mostly breaking his back so as to recompose the surroundings of the house and otherwise painstakingly tracking the elements of its bygone library. He had become obsessed with the dead couple in the bed, and he eventually had unearthed a contemporary diary, handwritten by one aunt who had lived her whole life with the family, in which he found the concealed assertion that the two had been incestuous siblings and estranged themselves in what was called a desert. The elder son had embarked for the New World, never to be heard of again.
The teller had kept producing tales for wise children with imagination in his thriving realm, particularly the little roses’ mound circled with boxwoods at the far end of the orchard. He never could put himself around writing the siblings’ story. Not a forensic specialist, he never knew what the children had died from; they looked like stillborn.
Kate said their mother might have sussed what manner of relationship she and her brother had, and she had made contraceptives casually available from before puberty. Fern matter-of-factly avowed she was conveniently sterile. Coline and Bryony had both undergone abortions before meeting the good ladies of the planned parenthood. As for myself, I had used the morning-after pill quite a few before shoring at my perfect Swiss school on Lake Geneva, which, not too keen on imposed discipline, warned parents to seek a shield manner with a Swiss gynaecologist and sign a discharge or else register their girls at another school. If sex was free rein in Saint Loup, rape was not tolerated. In the days I thrived in the utopian realm, counter-Darwinian moral awareness was the pervasive domain of our beloved school captain, Julia Grant —of the Grants. This all-capable American tomboy spared herself of no concern about the bustling cosmopolitan population of mostly UN-staff offsprings refractory to conventional cursus, like myself, pro bono. Intimately, I was returning from the ugliest sexual episode with my brother that would have made me the textbook therapist bait, whom the sacrosanct triangle of one, a “good-enough” father, two, Alexander Sutherland Neill’s oriented discreetly privileged cot, and three, the caring attention of the seasoned psychologist in the high tower —and that didn’t mean he wasn’t feasting in ogling my fly, mind you. My family narrative was already ridden with a swarm of mishaps better left unsaid, but from the high terraces of Tudor City where we dwelled, my all-Dane Far was the flawless hero gleaming amidst the big glass wall. My brother and mother moved somewhere on the West Coast.
The spotless Belle Haven twins were left somewhat flummoxed, as they sensed their sleek bio wouldn’t feed much of a literature, in what they were wrong, obviously. While Fern did not shy away between Serguei and Yaguil in a classic Cossack encircling, I had entrapped Asher with my Newyorchese diplomatic small talk and revelled in his not-so-virile skin while I made him gush a soapy spoonful into my throat he couldn’t help make excuses for and swearing I was diabolically skilled, I knew that, and I asked for a highball of melon kombucha.
Cecile had revelled in their delicious courtliness in her most private lair and her playful shower, hinting at further attractions in the subterranean maze. After we all had copiously ejaculated in good humour, and Fern couldn’t get over what the Cossacks did in the running flows, I proposed a tour of our Old World vestiges, texting Delff on our delicious novel company. If our genderqueer genie were drawn in, I would exert the introductions.
All sketchily clad, we packed in the lift car in a bustle of hands games. I had foreseen what our extensive subterranean playground would tell our delicious visitors of our wonder realm. Fern pulled off her duds to show us she knew full well the practice of the gym apparatus, and it was gracious to watch, so said Delff, who had rushed over at my invite. They mastered the onsite massage tricks after the workout and also the drifting part further if they liked. I presented Delff, who was already in the buff, as they deserved, and our guests revealed themselves well well-informed and tolerant, moreover sensitive to the imp’s legerdemain, causing the stiffening of the upper half, at that.
On the dance floor, the unaware telepaths did not shy off from us, mostly nude as they were. Delff, who held Fern by the hand, asked the dancers to show us some easy moves. Josephine didn’t expect less, so she went to switch on a recording of random music they had been elaborating on, and I could tell Fern was soon enthralled —with Delff’s astute help. As always, the intermede ended in a burst of laughter, and the pair, not innocently, drew us towards the pool. Delff needed not more to shag Fern their peculiar manner in the water.
And why not dare Asher, a damn good swimmer, at that, to join in a rare experience? —Delff is a spunky devil. The floating trio, a plain natural prowess as such, entailed a charge by the Zaporozhian tribe on the cosmopolitan school, who expected no more. Kate was sealing her umpteenth peace with Fulgence, Cecile and I darning up our never-waning crush in the edges of the turmoils.
Amidst the most cordially crowded subsequent rinsing shower —it would take hours to filter the pool’s soiled water— Delff summoned the lively troupe to the TRÆVIX palace, and Cecile was overjoyed with that means to introduce the well-bred twins into the power sphere, although the only reference we could appraise be their breathtaking charm and their tolerance to debauchery. Michelle would never object to Delff’s whimsical initiatives; whatever went on in the reception parlours, only she would possibly deign to mingle with newcomers in her court of desirable rakehells. She might eventually jolt a word of recommendation to the Grand Puppetmaster next door; there was obviously more than meets the eye to the twins’ personality.
There had been hustle and bustle in the attics, nothing too stressful, though, coming from Delff. Dagmar was radiant, her long, sleek legs showing under a vague Indian shirt; her spacey blue eyes won over the pair of blissful Belle Haven angels, just like Gwen, Apolline, Trine, Seresine, Fæbian —the others probably on a mission, like the twins Sateen and Pearl, in a long-term residence at Mendelsohn’s.
In the grisaille vestibule, three perfumed armfuls of red roses were set in ancient silver wine coolers upon the pearly damask tables, and cinnamon complexion butlers in black brocade Sherwani jackets were arranging the contents of Carette’s vermillion boxes on silver trays. Fern took a fancy for macarons and then let Delff taste her mouth. On a bicycle, the Trocadero was some ten minutes away, but how that gentle imp who looked like Mimi Theillade had they ordered such impromptu festivities? I would probably never come to know. Bubbly lemonades with maraschino cherries were poured into coloured crystal stemmed glasses.
As carnally satiated they be, the Belle Haven envoys could hardly keep a smidgen of cloth upon their delicate skin, but they begged to be let see the baroque splendour, even in their bare natural. I could tell a new wonder in the panorama salon, on a porphyry column, under a glass globe, a two-handspan high amber sculpture of a slender nymph assailed by three full-erect fauns amidst a stunningly detailed shrub, as were the chains that held the overthrown captive; it was exquisite dissimulate Victorian porn, and one had to lean some to see the victim was depictedly buggered.
Fern did not shun keen hands, nor did she cross her legs, all in the euphoria of having crossed another line. Before she could return to the buffet’s temptations, Delff pulled Fern away up the stairs, where the fanfares faded. The Perched Queen smirked like the Cheshire cat. She wore a glitzy canary yellow two-piece gym suit, and twiddled her toes upon the massive console. She reached out to Fern, who stood astounded, back against me, her apple bum on my pubis. She said she had always been a bona fide nerd, and I had been her Good Samaritan in the pit of her worst-ever dismay, hence her settling at the edge of our blackbird Alfred’s territory.
As she twiddled with Fern’s nipples, she waved at the impressive wall of monitors and joshed that no one would ever have figured one would anchor such a pervasive control from where she stood. Fern couldn’t help grazing the dainty blond abdominal shield, and she mused aloud she was a sworn attorney in New York and Connecticut, whatever it implied.
Michelle stood up, I had a raging urge to shag her. She let me slide off her top and shorts. She showed no tan lines, so I deducted there was a sundeck on her roof. Did Alfred know? I thought of Natalia and Dagmar, the sunkissed blondes. She twirled the new bobbysoxer against me. They necked like preppies with no clothes, and it madly smelled of wet skin. Asher had been unquiet as to his better half; he was greeted with an awe-outcry that made Fern giggle. Not breaking their embrace, she spilt all the truth to Michelle’s face, who willingly took it as a candid tale. She had never twitched an eyebrow at Kate’s story; she kept Fern clinched upon her bosom. We all crouched down on the futon, and I applied myself to rekindling the young stud’s ardour in my mouth. When he saw the Royal arse straddling his sister’s mouth and not impeded by the ambient respect, he deserted me to go and try to bugger the all-important petunia on which usually sat a good dose of the planetary trading. It wouldn’t work with my mere spit, but I witnessed something exceptional, such as Michelle’s fateful hand sneaking out to grab the dick and steer it in her coochie, abiding by the Wonder Twins’ fantasy. They were carnally gifted, she gushed in Fern’s eye.

Once they expired momentarily, Michelle led them to her private rooms and gave me an eye that meant I wasn’t wished for. I reckoned the Twins’ hope for an interview with the numinous puppeteer I had alluded to had possibly sprouted up —unless it would merely be some neighbour courtesy they would not complain about anyhow, would they?
Matthew, now a senior executive with 7S, had been tipped off by one in the charm troupes and loitered about looking for someone like me, whatever it meant. We two went back a long time, when Michelle’s entourage had set camp at the far end of Uncle Stern’s office corridors in 60 Hudson on the days of his death, and thus Camille’s windfall inheritance. He was still hunky as a stag and relished to find me gazing vacantly up in my best costume. He bustled my brain with pleasurable, frank compliments and steered me towards one of the bedrooms in the wing that we had all tested once —Michelle maintained them for that purpose.
I woke late and alone, took a Florentine-scented shower and tiptoed back upstairs, where I combed my hair and brewed some tea. Kate, Bryony, and Coline were intertwined in the grand bed, and they smelled of the Bellosgardo Garden in June. No sign of the Wonder Twins; Michelle responded that they were with whom I guessed. A multicoloured armful of roses was delivered to me, with a card bearing Matthew’s name, and so bees twirled in my plexus. I set them in our big ornate silver bucket; their fragrance harmonised with that of the holy brood next door.
Natalia came up, always so fresh. She had chatted with the Heather Fairies on the belvedere, who longed for us now that the wisterias had withered. She wore jeans and sneakers that I pulled off to fondle her feet on my lap as I recounted our unwonted meeting of the previous evening. She was thrilled and asked where the new transgressors who discombobulated me had been sleeping. I had no idea. However, we agreed to fantasise they had snuck through the mazy corridors to meet Melchior, stirred as the Spider Queen had left them, like he preferred his guests be.
Anyhow, we decided to visit the Montmartre Glaswegians, at once joined by the candid brood who had been eavesdropping on us. No need for sartorial effort; the higher grounds fairies would look for their supple, slender, and bare waists anyhow. It was a vivacious end-of-summer day, with a Miyazaki wind chasing fluffy little clouds. Bar Natalia, we all slid on colourful tracksuits from our collections and mismatched sneakers; we looked like some light-hearted field trip. In the taxi, Bryony wanted to know more about Fern. Natalia wooed Coline, her hands rummaging in the flannelette pants. We made a stop at Delaplace to buy some puff brioches and raspberry jam, as Annabelle craved.
The garden had thrived, in James’ spirit; the old mirabelle tree was filled with golden little plums, time to cook innumerable pots of jam. Roses had been trimmed in their boxwood-guarded little patches that smelled just like what Bryony inspired me. We gathered in the old conservatory, on the William Morris cushioned wicker chairs. They brewed some Reesheehat tee in their fattest silver teapot. Fayelle had her eyes on Bryony.
They confided they might have worked more efficiently in their new environment, but they missed the ebullient mingling of Hugo’s attics and, moreover, TRÆVIX’s sheltered debauchery. They had been cruising in lesbian society clubs, but they weren’t hunting grounds for polyamorous courtesans, and Fayelle had taken off Bryony’s shoes, offering to refresh the black varnish on her toenails. Liselotte came visiting in their down-puffed grand bed, and she had overseen Fayelle’s academic achievement alongside sundry smitten tutors. Natalia suggested they let Liselotte procure them for more of her affluent patrons, as she had long done beneficially.
Coline, who had let Annabelle unzip her sweatshirt to graze her shy breasts, quietly said her sister and buddies went to school in the daytime and whored their arses expensively after dinner. She said she had been overjoyed to meet the uncommon Twins, and she hoped to meet them again, on either side of the line. She said that besides the unavoidable favours they had to grant the personnel, which left no traces anyhow, they fulfilled their little trade all willingly and safely, far from what Lauritz had pulled them from, and Bryony concurred heatedly. A confederation of stray cats in a gilded refuge, prophylactic and secured against all sorts of slavery.
The sun had lowered its course, and a golden light bathed our nudities. We listened to Hilary Hahn spinning Waughn Williams’s phrases like it were so easy. It was long since Natalia and Kate had last rekindled their memorable flame.

We dropped Coline at her island’s coop, promising to take her on other field trips under the stars. We, scoundrels, crossed the river to Fortunat, where it should be peak attendance after the worldly galas. Bryony asked me to team with her, and I didn’t baulk; there would be a free premium watching her be done. See if Mr Maurice would let us officiate in the buff, our tracksuits not so suited for a black tie gathering.
I told the aroused Maître d., for whom I held no mystery, that my pet princess was an Anglo-Saxon windfall nigh ripe enough for carousel, to what he cunningly asked to appraise by himself. Clinching Bryony’s shoulders and nonchalantly pulling down her pants enough to let show her quim, I made clear that I wouldn’t let him whisk her out in tête à tête, but I would revel in helping. Waving at a flunkey, he steered us behind the crimson velvet curtains into his private den, and a deep, same velvet sofa offered wide armrests to wallow upon.
Telling us to strip already, he hung his togs to a valet stand and flung himself upon Bryony in my arms to kiss her greedily, his staff jolting against her lower belly.
I sat aside and took him in my mouth, more to wet him, for he was about to force himself into her on the edge of the armrest, just like he had done me at our first encounter. Holding her back on me as her shapely legs flew up in rhythm, I could tell that our girly tricks and treats had left her wanting. Of dick, that is, but Mr Maurice, profession oblige, is a skilled swashbuckler, so she soon gushed in a heartfelt orgasm I envied.
In the pretty bathroom, the proud sprinter asked us to doll him up in case another minx would whim a taste of him. Albeit, nothing as deliciously candid as Bryony, though. It might be somewhat kinky that we used the same Cologne as him, an elaborate Ravello lemony fragrance. He handed us ample, fresh, multicoloured, plush velvet robes, and so we felt instantly priceless.
The grand salon was warmly crowded, Natalia and Kate hither and tither, tattling with sharp-dressed and eager men, as nude as we were. Some middle-aged freeloader was worshipping Natalia’s left foot. Azul de Bénévent was back, white-skinned with her shiny black bass guitar, along with a new lean, black-haired, black-eyed Rhodes piano player with cunning little breasts highlighted with her same dark lipstick. The two deployed effortless loops in a smooth echo box, lulling the audience into laisser-aller.
Sundry new attractive faces bided time to follow patrons, and I wondered who had cast them. When I caught a willowy redhead ogling me unabashedly, I smiled at her and whispered in her ear, like in a kiss, as to who had sent her here, and she breathed it was a woman called Liselotte. I smirked and told her to tell her she had met Sarah. A bulky landlord-type grabbed her hand and took her by the waist to the lift. Her name was Florence.
Natalia was the first to follow a purple-and-yellow striped bowtie who wanted us to see that he held her by her bum crack. We couldn’t keep our robes shut long, obviously, and a big tuxedoed Swede was taken aback to hear me speak his language with a Scanian accent; he said true Nordic prostitutes were seldom seen outside of London or Monaco agencies, and he laughed, letting his hands wander. We followed, clutched together, the coloured bowtie in the lift to the second floor. The previous occupant, a tall, wavy-black-haired panther I had never seen, had left in the car a promising trail of tuberose.
It was a bright, old-gold brocade upholstered room with a black four-posted grand bed fit for monkey business. On the ceiling, a trompe l’ œil of floating angels let little to ignore of their toyish sexualities. Purple-haze bevelled mirrors in massive black Dutch guilloché frames hung to each wall, leaving no doubt as to what peeping contraptions they concealed, so thus, we would hold the first lead in the play —did Hugo know of such practices? Was our Swede under a looming blackmail scheme? I promised myself to twist Camille’s arm on the matter.
In any event, our joyous cavalier was appraising what he had afforded along every seam and, like all married men, showed a fervent passion towards Bryony’s milky rosette and mine, poking his tongue arrogantly in every split of flesh. He had the sleek complexion of a sauna lizard, those I still missed in Falsterbo clubs —whatever age I might have been then. And he was a great kisser, taking his time on Bryony’s candid lips. When he appeared to wish to upturn her, I slyly fetched the Swiss navy bottle that he greeted with a grin. All in all, she might have been more seasoned than him on the battle sheets, and he shot his stroke in her loins before he would care about it, watching her wriggle like an otter.
He liked to tease me in Østersund parlance; he made me rekindle the brandiron in my mouth —like most Nordic studs, he was gallantly sized, and he didn’t trigger vomiting. He told Bryony to flit with her tongue in my brooklet.
He installed us head-to-quim with my bumhole up to him. He was fully reloaded like a teenage stud, ready to thread a barrel of pearls while I pushed my pink pearl to Bryony’s tongue until I gushed to her pretty face, which made me eager to taste the same. Later, in the shower of the white-streaked black marble, he was proud and nigh ready to have another go as we pissed along his legs with scallywag laughter. Like most merrygoers in his generation, he must have been loaded with magic pills, and we would possibly lend our good natures again after some collation, but I was already in the mood to tout for new customers; this one had already spent his pocket money.
Azul had left her sleek black axe on the stand; the lanky keyboardist was still barricaded behind her boxes, so we couldn’t go and twiddle her dark little breast knobs. We ate Morrocan pastries of almonds dripping with honey, and drank Atlas tea with mint and wormwood. Bryony joshed she was still go; she craved watching me thrive while trounced thus pitilessly, and she wished for no less.
Next, the long white-haired silhouette in the flared cape shuffled some memory, but when he held out his hand tentatively to ask us courteously for some tea, it startled me that he was Ferruccio Scardovelli, the world-famous conductor, devouring our refreshed allures with his sharp stare. He relished our shy breasts, calling us Loyola baits like those who float around the altars of Sant Ignazio in Rome, turning his words into feathery strokes.
He enfolded Bryony under his cape, held me by the butt, and we returned to the lift. A name niggled me on the tip of my tongue; I had cried once under his authoritative baton, who was it for? The room was panelled and varnished like an inside-out cello, ornate with heavy Art Deco pressed gold glass portraits of ladies with undulated heads of hair.
Firstly, Bryony unleashed a prideful Italian cock, and I helped peel off the Neapolitan-made tuxedo. The Maestro was perfumed like a marriage in Santa Maria e Donato. He kept us embraced against his vibrating bow and warned that he was mentally enthralled with Mahler’s Das Lied Von Der Erde they would produce in the Théâtre des Champs Elysées soon, we shouldn’t take notice of his apparent attitude of whimsical discombobulation, the utterly complex score was taking over the last particles of his reason, but we would only garner the bubbles of it, because we were so candidly harmonious.
Indeed, it got bubbly, by all means. Nude, he was sinewy and taut. His maestria went as to thread us both alternately in whatever slit he found, pulling us into the same panting his mouth uttered away, muttering scrambles of musical jumble to our better carnal jubilance. He fired two or three times and collapsed, leaving us soaked and in shambles, and then he joined us under the streams of the shower.
He had been a smooth manhandler, and we bore no discernable bruises. He had left his card inviting us to the concert. When we returned to the salon, we smelled of oudh we had found on the lavabo console, and Mr Maurice demanded a whiff of it en passant in Bryony’s brooklet, perched on the high seat behind his counter. He averred that she tasted like a dewy clover, and he asked if we would run another round.
Stylish gold-diggers of the wee hours sat scattered on the lavish velvet couches, sipping sundry beverages while keeping an eye on the clientèle. Some unkempt, sunbleached wayfarer was moodily earning his rent on the keyboards, and something told me it wasn’t the last we would hear of him. Ksyusha, the Baltic runaway, lay nary more clad than us, her quim as puffy as a milk bun. She beckoned us to her side; she spoke better English than we had heard, in a deeper tone that probably meant she had acclimatised in Camille’s realm. She wore teal-lacquered nails, and her feet fidgeted like kittens. Before we knew it, she was rolling her hips towards a sheeny blue-suited prosper Nordic type bloke whom she seemed to have awaited. He probably inquired about us, and he seemed to like what he heard.
The blond keyboard piper at the gates of dawn erred into unchartered harmonies, under the radar. He had spotted Bryony, and I sensed a tiny pang of envy. Then, two Dubliners in Armani suits were sent over to us by Mr Maurice. They sported carnivorous smiles and spoke in received brokers’ parlance that didn’t make Bryony twitch, anyhow. Their hands were manicured, and they smelled of Surabaya Sunrise more than County Mayo. They acted worldly, mild-mannered, and weren’t perceivably drunk; they allowed themselves inoffensive liberties in steering us to the lift. They were my contemporaries, but we had not boarded the same schools.
The room was lichen-grey acanth motive chiselled velvet under a bold sage and pearl grey chevron stripes ceiling. The square bed was covered in tempting faux-wolf fur, and two à la Reine armchairs were upholstered in foliage petit point tapestry. The blurry-patterned historic Persian rug was laid upon an underlay so as to make it gentle to our feet.
Once the jackets dropped over the chairs’ backrests and the college ties rolled in the pockets, they lost themselves in long kisses, already swapping us and jousting in comments on our carnal laisser aller as we went for their cock-a-hoop toys. One was rusty-haired with a freckled, sun-shy complexion; his name was Murray, his curly- copper-furred dick was pale rosy and curved up; it tasted of matzoh. His buddy was called Fergus and was fuzzy-black-hairy on the chest and down to a stubborn straight staff that smelled of crashed hay. They were both alumni of Trinity College, I wouldn’t know of any professional bond with 7S and Camille.
I have never wallowed in real fur, whatever the bygone fantasies — Peta got me as a kid in New York when some resolute fashion models blasted protest blood on the catwalks— but there I was, wriggling my buttocks upon a marvel of science in genuine naughtiness, these night birds inspired me, and they had paid for just that.
It went in the “Kid A goes orgy in Castle Wolfenstein” mode like old times, and they had those nifty candies Bryony called scoobies, and they acted as disinhibited as puppies, also with one another, just as we did ourselves to their obvious relish. So what, beyond our over-expenses, still erupted hyperbolic bliss for the Phoenix sisters?
We dozed out in the bath, and it was daylight when Mr Maurice brought us back to earth. And all giddy we might be, he did not spare us a rightful penance; both of us knelt on a cushion, yawning for his morning erect justice. It must have been coquet to watch, for he didn’t misfire in Bryony’s mouth.
On our way down, offhandedly in the raw, we were mildly hailed by the cleaning personnel. The taxi driver leered at us with fiery eyes. I needed tea above all, and we finished a basket of tiles. Now Camille emailed congratulations on our exploits with exceptional Trinity College Dublin alumni, and they would probably owe us some gratitude once they suss out the branching of the far-fetched network. Now, she would pay some senior jurists to tutor them into the ironclad firm. Just so as to be kind, she mentioned we might escort them on a trip to New York some coming day. I craved acting naughty on a private jet, and Bryony was all wired up.
Alfred greeted us at the studio as if we dared be late, and, as often than not, he was right. Bryony wanted to hear my old electronicum playlist again, at random. She settled on the sofa, in the crimson sweatsuit, bare feet, to browse a catalogue of Botticelli drawings that happened to be there.
Lou came on; she didn’t feel like sitting for Cyprien another day. She wore some kind of long purple and green striped jersey gown she had snapped in Cecile’s closet, and petit point slippers. She sensed we had overspent our nightly inclinations and demanded a confession. She sat cross-legged at Bryony’s feet that she held upon her lap. Our first two episodes didn’t bring up much novelty; Lou was also a regular at Fortunat’s, and she had always condoned Mr Maurice’s liberties —in case he would bespeak of her to the best patrons. She was aroused by a team of bisexual Dubliners in their prime, though I told her chances were that, if Camille hired them, she might be brought to do them pro bono in some of our worldly gatherings.
Cecile texted she had winded up with both Belle Haven Twins, not so amused by their visit to Mendelsohn’s. We plotted one of our disorderly dinners; Agnette proposed a vegetarian lasagna, puffed nibbles, and a green salad for a dozen or so. Fulgence, Erik, and the Cossacks would also provide amicable dick, wouldn’t they? Kate had purportedly gone to Sylt along with the likes of Gwen and Finlan; Natalia might pop up anytime.
Erik and Fulgence had just been out of the shower after a day’s work nearby; they wore casual, frayed attires and giggled when they sussed we wouldn’t wear anything, only a vague nightshirt to receive the delivery. Fulgence pulled his best English to woo Bryony; Erik was already on the best of terms with Lou, who didn’t dither to opening his fly and flattering his formidable staff, which made Bryony simply open round eyes.
I wasn’t the wallflower for too long, if I busied myself with dinner and stole naughty bits to their deliberate petting. I picked up the scent of stables before the lift opened, and the steppenwolves showed their fangs. There were three of them, Yaguil, Peter, and Serguei, overjoyed to see us in the utmost evening outfit already. He took a chair next to me and at once nuzzled gently in my lower belly, until I sit, legs parted, face to him at his convenience. He most often relished that I tell of my freshest abandons while he was taking possession of my shivers, holding back his ardour like he would a shy mare.
Yaguil had seated on the third chair and grazed my loins and butt, then twitched my carbuncle tits while his buddy teased my clit with playful mastery. Their hair smelled of turpentine; they must have spent the day painting in some nook of the ever-thriving maze of the polyamorous utopia we lived in.
By my recount of our Dubliner carousel, two things or more bothered them. Firstly, the Paddies had paid us real dough to fiddle with our willing bouquets, and second, we had no idea what substance we had pecked in their pretty hands, not so much consistent with our teetotaller lifeways. I squealed that Bryony had asserted it were harmless molly like all her Cyprus clients took and had given her liberally. Some airmen from the Akrotiri base smuggled it from Australia. Bryony, whom the Zaporozhians coveted heatedly, was too busy exulting soberly in Fulgence’s arms on the sofa to concur, by then.
Cecile and the McVees shuffled in, merely wearing disparate pieces of sportswear fresh from the tumble-dry, a tender whim of Cecile’s after an afternoon of cavorting in her most private cabinet. I sensed that Serguei, beyond our mutual arousing, was no less than electrocuted on the spot. Fern wore low-waist chalk-grey sweatpants she had probably intentionally not double-tied, so there was a wow instant when it slipped down just enough to show fluffy blond buckles on her pubis. I pushed Serguei and his protruding yardarm against that half of a prodigy who did not shun his jolting homage, and I knew he could abide by courtesy before she would ask for the lash.
Meanwhile, I seized Asher by the waist, and I saw that he was fully erect, be it only the smell of our goings-on. Before he would sit on Serguei’s chair, I had gulped most of his dick and was working it to a frenzy. His sister had knelt backwards on a chair so Serguei could greedily devour all he craved in her blond brooklet. Then I reckoned there was enough space left on a sofa for Asher to do me the same and more, only I wished to keep sight of his tight body while he shagged me after the most educated of lickings I ever resounded to. He was physically nary effeminate than she would be called hoydenish. They offered the same vanilla cream skin with oat bran freckles, and they smelled alike beyond the sunny haze Cologne Cecile had inspiringly blessed them with.
Fern had inveigled her cavalier onto the sofa across, and she hummed in rhythm when she regained some breath. I was enthralled with their tranquil wizardry, though Ashler’s gaze would dive into mine like the sparkle in the sapphire, would I vainly fantasise. Blessed be an old dreamweaver who had happened to dawdle late in a Boston pub and sent the doves our way. The luminous all-time sinner signalled he would imminently inundate my womb with his nonpareil semen, waking all stars in my holy cup, and Fern also echoed thus under the Cossack’s jolts.
Yaguil had been patiently waiting to take a turn on the whirligig, but when his buddy upturned Fern on all fours to bugger her chubby bottom, he couldn’t help proposing his tauten stalk at her blooming lips and find there a while of carnal solace. Natalia turned up discreetly, along with a candid young hunk she unwrapped at once to let flaunt a galliard pink stem. Bryony happened to be on her way to the bathroom, dripping funny juices between her thighs; on the off-chance, she grabbed that new windfall ding-a-ling along with her. Natalia, in jeans and a yellow shirt, had been to some school reunion and got bored, only she had a crush on a Norsk ephebe who lived in a seemly nearby hotel. Although that wouldn’t make a vetted candidate, the recent mandatory preventive treatment against HIV had loosened the angst of strangers; she probably schemed, if the boy revealed worth it, to bring him for a thorough check-up; however, we no longer risked much for ourselves.
When they cleared out of the shower, Bryony floated the idea of transporting the dessert down to the pool for more room. It also provided better opportunities to reshuffle the couplings, and Fern did not seem overly exhausted, for one. The telepath fairies and their bard were overjoyed to see us barge in, not wearing as much as a thong, and they swiftly pointed out new animals to whom they paraded their heavenly physiques. Josephine was faster, grabbing Fern’s sinewy ankle and enswirling her into the flows. Emeline wooed the Norsk stallion, who dived deep under her to resurface at her back with clear intentions she did not shun.
The basin soon looked like Alexander The Great romance’s Fountain Of Life, the depiction of which by Lucas Cranach we had relished with Kate in Berlin’s Gemaldegalerie. On a whim, I bestrode Yaguil’s shashka in the hope someone would seize an opportunity to join us from behind me. I didn’t see who, but it was a dogged counterpoint to the Cossack’s beat, and he kept whispering foreign couplets in my ear. I was flying light upon their fencing spears; Yaguil lapped on my throat and drank to my mouth as I wouldn’t have thought; they reached a climax in unison, triggering an overflow of my juices. Finlan tugged me away from Yaguil’s mooring, my legs wobbling in the stream to the end within our depth; I couldn’t remember such a tender embrace by him.
Unexpectedly, though most plausibly, as we had ventured onto common playgrounds, a couple of genderqueer beauties from TRÆVIX palace supervened, Delff overjoyed seeing they would trouble new guests, pulling blushing Elvire, in a long black pleated gown, by the hand. Before it became apparent, I called out our windfall conquests to ask them if they would share a bath with our nonbinary neighbours. Delff didn’t wait for an answer; they just dropped the canary-yellow tunic, letting be seen their cute apparatus at the ready. Things were more elusive as to Elvire, whose black gazes shifted aside in disarray.
Elvire was still shy about her trans persona and did not ask for the neutral pronoun —TRÆVIX conversations could be weird, sometimes— although she had dwelled among the holy congregation of the attics for some happy time, then, since Natalia had brought her back from a shady corner at one of her rich patrons’, her father. She had gone through the proper transitionning protocol and was a delectable, old-Berlin-style long black fringed haired, pale-faced figure with tapered hands and feet that nobody, bar Natalia whom she had seen whoring a few for her dad, could see in the nude and play with. I could only wonder what went on in Cynthia’s muted office, in another nook of our multiverse.
Not losing her smile, Fern climbed out of the water, like a golden Carl Milles muse of a fountain, and swayed her narrow hips, dawdling towards our black-wrapped shrinking violet while wiping her hair. Still in the hands of my gallant servants satiated of me for some while, I relished the manners of Delff, our beloved tattler imp, to obtain that Elvire shuffle out of her rustling chrysalide, to the unabashed delectation of the Belle Haven princess who dared manipulate the blushing tinker toy she found.
Natalia stood watching, resting her elbows on the pool’s edge, letting Apolline divagate in her easy bumhole. Fern called on her twin, who had just served Emeline up her wriggling chuff, but he was curious to go cuddle up such a successful gender deserter, and Elvire capsized over in their dainty hands. Delff was delighted with a success they had not foreseen; they sat on the rim so as to stick their joujoux in my face, and they were so easy to please. One idea beamed on my mind to call Matthew and tell him we had a pair of rare kind attorneys he might relish interviewing in her born costume, though I did not know —apart shagging them— if they searched for any position at all, it would be a farfetched head hunting whim, wasn’t it?
I had long earned Matthew’s trust, indeed. Amidst the lustful eddy, I didn’t see him mingle in the boisterous crowd, and there he was, fondling Apolline’s booty he long knew and she lent offhandedly. Meanwhile, they could leer at the unusual tableau of Elvire, ravaged by otherworldly creatures, like they say spawn in some Neapolitan churches in the dead of moonless nights. Apolline proudly satisfied him, as showed the strewn whitish filaments on the surface around them. Still holding Apolline, I had time to whisper the gist of our new encounters and the manner we had found ourselves whoring for them at Fortunat’s, then gratuitously to here.
Doubly smitten, for like most, he had never ogled Elvire’s slight figure in the buff, he was artful enough to sneak inoffensively into the trio’s bubble, introducing himself as someone the Twins would decypher at once if they were what I just said. Matthew couldn’t keep his hands away from the temping smooth limbs, not noting whose they were; it was orgy time, whatsoever. But I knew Matthew would extricate a hint of what the double prodigy had been, or not, scheming in a Paris parlour house owned by his bosses. After he tasted the blooming quim Fern nonchalantly offered, he floated the idea of a meeting with the reigning overlord —who probably would have peeped at them already, as we were now unaware, and would firstly agree to meet them on their good looks.
Matthew was head over heels enamoured with Fern’s indolently posed body, and he thrived hard to shag her like the dispensable whore she had paid for while they used Elvire both ways. Chances were that Natalia and Cynthia would appreciate new carnal likings in their protégée; the sulky girl from the kitchen corner had somewhat been broken in like a touchy filly, and she appeared to like that.
I insisted they stay and sleep upstairs with me, but they needed to be at their hotel early; I had a feeling they would not forget our night; they went with Cecile to retrieve their togs. I took Lou and Bryony to bed; we smelled kinky.
In the morning, I was awed to find myself entangled amidst my two leggy cubs. Alfred’s comments did not reach them on their clouds. Cecile had set her sights on Elvire, now that she had opened her legs for all to see her jewels, she would take the pose upon the crimson velvet, too. Kate was still sleeping in the grand bed with someone who smelled like Seresine. I felt like starting my day upstairs in the studio, and Alfred approved.
It was one of those mid-reason mellow, back-to-school days set in my memory on the Lakeshore, along with conker fights and tartines in hot cocoa while recounting the summer journeys and observing the new boarders. As for me, I had always been some kind of privileged exile among my peers, rich misfit kids secured in stimulative surroundings. My little soul-sister had been all along Ayla Naveen, who had clinched her red bracelet to my wrist on the first day I arrived, the stylish daughter of a rockstar and a withered groupie queen, and who stranded away with shame when she understood her parents no longer paid tuition for her —she was drop-dead striking, she went whoring in Geneva’s Pâquis, then held a maison in Zürich, where I would go to squander my soul from time to time.
These sacred memories, conjured up by a mere golden hue upon the nearby roofs, harmonised with that scene when Elvire’s new persona had hatched before our lustful eyes and she had waved like a swan on the Lake. The McVies had returned to their hotel after collecting their civilian outfits in Cecile’s cubbyhole, and it would pain me if they wouldn’t return. That had been a glimmering windfall in our waning season. Alfred was telling me that Matthew had already rung all the bells near the Pontifex Maximus, whom he knew to be, however, sensitive to carnal beauty, that this celestial wonder had descended upon us and, besides other eerie particularities such as being incestuous twins, bore all the credentials needed to join the ranks of 7S operatives. Not that they would have asked that, but given their peculiar walk of life, one Alphonse Deberny, a psychoanalyst currently lecturing at Harvard, whom they had socialised with at a Boston restaurant, had advised them to flee the East Coast where their name was too reputable, and go to Paris where he could recommend them to free-spirited gathering salons where they might thrive in all their singularities, given they obviously wanted for nothing.
I did not switch on the lights, but I played my cultish Saint Loup playlist with Radiohead, Portishead, Massive Attack and others akin, while the splendour of dawn suffused in my cup of Taiwanese magic. I promised myself that I would visit Ayla in Zürich along with Bryony —if not with the WunderTwins right away. I felt comfy in that mismatched thick jersey sweatsuit and columbine blue velvet slippers embroidered with jumping zebras.
Kate had heard “My Iron Lung”, which had been an anthem of her schooldays affair with Cynthia, and picked up my scent of juniper and broom, so she did not switch on the lights and poured herself a cup silently. When it came to Coldplay’s “Yellow”, she needed a hug and clutched me in my chair.
The younglings had scoured the vestiary greedily without a trace, but they had pulled the essence of the day. Bryony flaunting her tapered legs out one of my school days’ low waist tight jean shorts, and a mullein yellow sweatshirt, barefoot because she sized smaller than us. Lou wore an oversized nursery blue sweatshirt patched aslant with a big scarlet 99, and vanilla cashmere leggings. She had ferreted out my royal blue cheetah motive velvet slippers. Cashmere grazing on a girl’s thighs was the happiest sign of a new season.
Kate had slept with Seresine, who shuffled in, yawning, in a long pleated purplish-brown paisley wool cheesecloth gown, Egyptian sandals and nought else, as I could easily tell. She let me grope her on Xtina Aguilera’s “Por Siempre Tu” and slid her hands into my pants. She recounted their night of wantonness in a new venue Hector had led them to.

Seresine says:

We had been making out in some attic at TRÆVIX’s when Kate received a call and chose to answer Hector. Having understood what we were at, he proposed to transport us to a new fancy address, for a considerable reward. I only had tasty memories of Hector’s such impromptu fantasies and his relentless brandiron, I pressed Kate to accept; we had only time to dress, and the code was easy to follow.
Kate’s apartment had been deserted; she led me to their farabulous dressing room. We wanted to look like cocottes. Once done with the thorough, lubricious toilet with a playful enema, we chose easy and lewd outfits of black mesh for me and a thin, opalescent silk jersey for her, all mid-thigh long, with black or silver holdup veil stockings. As she sat to slip on her iridescent flat pumps, her kinky brooklet already seemed so much palatable. I put on patent leather flats with a grosgrain knot. We sure needed trenches to cross only the sidewalk. She sprayed me with some irresistible bedevilled iris and herself with a high-keyed embrace of musk rose and moonlight jasmine. We did a dash of mascara, blush and gloss, nought to be seen; her nails were pearly pale mauve, and mine were glossy black.
Hector stood by the stately night-blue automobile, and he couldn’t help but slide a hand between my thighs as I climbed in. The black driver I had known before drove in complete silence as we wallowed like daisies, legs spread, upon the banquette, across Hector on the courtesy seats, and it owned to me to gulp his spry pink spear for the while, with the road’s random jolts into my throat. It was a modest downpayment, and he asked Kate to finish him as she had so many times before. She was wet as a frog.
It was an opulent Gilded Age folly amidst venerable trees, lit by the flitting gaz flames in frost glass globes lamp posts, like yesteryears. The house was pampered up like an old doweress, with polished bronze details in every nook. Hector walked us to the porch with a fine smile on his face but left us with a stern-looking usher in tails. Beyond theatrical crimson drapes, in the pandemonium of decadent decor, under the gaze of lascivious deities at the claws of fierce chimaeras, the sight of which churned in my womb the longing for ties and chains. We were greeted by another white-tie flunkey like those I had suffered hither and tither during my calamitous upbringing. And that one was the kind to rummage under bewildered little girls’ skirts.
Unfailingly, he showed us the way to a side vestibule beyond panes of engraved crystal, in the muffed silence perfumed like the Cathedral on feverish days. The room was overly rich, upholstered in old rose moiré silk with raspberry chiselled velvet drapes blocking windows and doors, and a maroon and gold acanthus leaves carpeting. On one wall, a large, full-height mirror, like they have in dance studios, that Kate told me the clients stood behind to watch us, so she kissed me for good. The impassible flunkey fetched a coatrack on wheels and prayed us we disrobe entirely, which was, all in all, in good order. Kate was simpering about, and sussed Mr Straightfaced had a visible crush on my bum. She dared graze the penguin’s fly and suggested I might help him release all this tension, not to the audience’s displeasure —if he would, would he?
As far as I know, in the realm of these rich, depraved pavillions we patronise, the custom is to grant a first favour to the Cerberus. Kate and Sarah and all of the other little tramps like me had made me reckon that, for the reward we pocketed, we could also cater thus to the well-dressed stooges; it wouldn’t hurt our precious entrails nor our reputations.
Born in a rakehell family, I sure was no babe in the woods. I knew what poses to show debauchees through the two-way looking glass, so once their employee’s stiff staff out to my mouth, I sat on my heels, turning my arse towards them. Furtive glimpses reassured me that they would relish my spiritual buttocks. Meanwhile, Kate bewitched Mr Serious’ mouth and let him finger her intrepid bum crack. I played a dutiful little whore, and thus when he pulled my head to gush in deep, I gulped the modest bitter bit conscientiously without dribbling. Some of his stern facade had waned; he stared right into our eyes and held us by the fingers as we walked through a padded corridor, and he said we shouldn’t refresh our mouths and other squinty, dewy slits. We reached a small, gloomy recess where he quietly harnessed us with luxury black and red leather saddlery, belts, bracelets, and collars clipped to long leashes. It had happened to me before, and I guessed there would be at least one more accessory in the manner of a horsetail fitted firmly into our bumholes. He clasped our wrists to our belts and allowed himself some liberties about our quims, just to make them grin a bit, said he. I sensed playful and yet somewhat languid, as bygone scenes of my weird education reminisced as embers inside my chest.
We were led around, on the leash, by two hunky lads in sundry-coloured satin costumes whose regard for us left no question as to what they might betide do to us as mounts. The magnificent venue was indefinitely divided into elaborate varnished mahogany cubicles padded with crimson velvet and Turkish carpeting, trimmed with polished bronze details and dimly lit through alabaster flowers. Patrons sat on stuffed banquettes, dressed in multicoloured quilted silk robes, and patted us over in turns with connoisseur’s hands, letting us reckon a considerable number of carnal onslaughts, even if the tone remained easygoing as of yet.
Then, our coquet minders began fiddling randomly with our availabilities, here and there on sundry stuffed stools and apparatuses disposed between ensembles of velvet booths. My tamer had warned me in clunky French not to baulk in the least, showing the cat-o-nine-tails hung at his belt. But he was a skilled swordsman, too, once the front flap of his culotte was down and a stiff peter jolted about my lower belly to take my tail’s place or in any other hole the patrons demanded. They used a lubricant that tasted of Rahat-loukoum; I was diving into timeless capriccios of my enclosed memories, and an Armenian duduk began to unfurl its loops amidst the illuminated ceiling coffers.
When I asked for the loo, they hauled me up on a counter and fetched a shiny, beaten-copper basin for me to piss in, and some greying old boys wanted a taste of my waters. I could hear Kate huff and moan nearby, and I guessed it wasn’t suffering, either. It was a garland of bustling playlets for the desultory desires of wanton clubmen, not infected with a liking to see us suffer beyond that of being tied in obscene postures and be roughly used by their inextinguishable Mirbalais.
I lost count of my irrepressible orgasms. On one adjustable padded contraption, I was tied so that my legs, spread open, gave free access to either of my nether holes while my head rested backwards at a convenient height to use my mouth. And I sensed half-baked old willies by the handful and warm slugs on my feet and nipples. My sight was blurred by all the jizz I couldn’t gulp. Then, I would be groomed up with hot towels and brought on to the next torment in the heady smell of vice. I might be tied, crouching at the edge of a bench, my gaping slits offered and my mouth available for the commodities of the conversation between lecher pals.
Eventually, I woke up naked in Kate’s arms, in the car’s backseat. Hector and the chauffeur profiting from our near coma amidst the open fields, in the misty light of the rising dawn, taking their time. My womb was hollow and wet, and I hardly felt the black man’s ultimate shagging. I didn’t bother to regain my conscience. Next, we were carried upstairs, stealthily wrapped in our trenches, and laid in bed for the day. I dreamt of a hide-and-seek orgy in the cathedral’s underground.

Since she had been sleeping with me, Bryony would not crank up in the morning without French toast and mirabelles jam, and she had enough chutzpah to put me to it, ready to grant me any fantasy in return. Lou was impressed, but I did not love her less. I had a message from Fern. They had spent an otherworldly night in London’s Wallace Collection, no wonder with whom —He was decidedly resourceful. She said they were mulling over moving to someplace close to us, earnest. Lou asked who Ernest was. I would be thrilled to figure out the Wunderkinder dwelled in our most privileged neighbourhood. Gauthier had said that 7S entities had purchased new chunks of the block.
As they surmised that I wanted to work, the younglings decided to go shopping up the Rue du Bac. Money wasn’t an issue. Not knowing where Kate was, I prepared the samovar and started an e-book of Jim Harrison’s full of raw animality, nothing to impress Alfred. I kept musing I could sell myself for a night in the Château de Chantilly, wouldn’t I? When Kate showed up, she had purplish portholes around her eyes; she didn’t want me to cut out the reading; she only let out it had been a furious night, but there would be a new address in town if I felt in the mood, just ask Hector and bring my best chambermaids.
Putting up her racy feet on her side of the desk, she followed up on Harrison’s paused rustic raffishness, recounting their opulent tour amidst yet another Gilded Age surviving den and owned up she had been startled by Seresine’s natural offhandedness at the whimsical wants of at first seemingly jaded company. She enticed me to proffer my hide for a round of such merciless manhandling she had heard me bragging about in my gloomy laundry cellars, and I should inveigle a couple of my chambermaids along to enrich them, too.
Plum showed up with a powder-blue box of macarons. She had
slightly thinned, and it made her eyes wilder. She crouched at my feet and let out she was bushed after a week at Mendesohn’s, not so much the constant fornication with the two house stallions but the bees in Zev’s bonnet. Once Armand had given her due after shagging her on the pantry’s table, she had literally fled, clad in a white smock she had found hanging there, and it had amused the cab driver to see she wore nought else.
At dinner, with asparagus and penny bun pies, Cecile and Elvire joshed like old mates. She had styled her new fad as a Rozencherub Octavian, in a doubly equivocal black twill three-piece suit, white linen jabot, and new black Chelseas. Straight, low-cut bangs sheltered the shy black gazes in the pale, childish face. When Natalia and Gauthier waltzed in like two naughty libertines, they were overjoyed to consider Elvire’s new fashion persona, who they sat between them on a sofa. Natalia joshed Elvire could thus blow her father’s convoluted mind in that double ambiguity, but it wasn’t much in her cravings. Cecile wanted to take her to Florence, and I could indeed fantasise about that, too.
Gautier announced that a jolly chunk of real estate had been subjoined in 7S’ stranglehold on the neighbourhood, with prospects for charming dwellings on the upper floors, since it appeared we would not refrain in evangelising more of the windfall beauties that took refuge in our beds. For the moment, he had crouched on the rug at Elvire’s feet, and was conscientiously stealing her shoes and the purple silk socks, cuddling her toes with black-lacquered nails. His whim was to see her nude, at long last, for he could tell by Cecile’s smile that it would be worth it. He floated the idea that we take a night dip in the pool.
Natalia was the first starkers, explaining we needed not to go down in civilian, rubbing herself upon my belly to whisper that we would soon see a vibrant blond spear surge to Elvire’s modesty, whenas Gauthier had shagged her against the corridor’s wall before they come to join us. It would be rut season for the copper-headed knights. We packed the lift twice, and Elvire didn’t shy off most everybody’s hands upon her smooth body. Her transition had been masterfully fine-tuned, and a couple of nights grooming at Cecile’s hands had done a courteous libertine of her. Her hips swayed unhesitatingly, and Bryony couldn’t help fondling her butt.
In the water, it went like we all craved to watch what wouldn’t fail to happen, and thus she floated back all spread while he shagged her gently, keeping his depth. It wasn’t a boyish chest, but flat and tight with dainty mounds around inspiring little rose buds flush to the wavelets. I suspected Natalia had texted her chums in the far wing; two or three drooling hunks casually came up, asking if they could join. One had been a good shot of mine before, and he made me feel he kept a vivid memory of that, too. He probably had been through a tense day, so he made me come thrice on him before stuffing my vagina like a schoolboy. Then, I showed him Cecile, who was leaning on her elbows at the edge of the pool and sussed where that shark swam from, aroused by his own wantonness.

Alfred had probably tired of calling for us; I could hear him in another of his realm’s yards. Bryony purred in my armpit. Two more backing studs had joined our already soiled waters with all their unspent vigour. Natalia and Cecile had chaperoned Elvire on the off chance, but she had been obviously to the taste of these open-minded swordsmen and made the pride of her godmothers.
The McVies called from the sidewalk; Ashler held an armful of bright sunflowers, a risky bet on our vessel capacities, but we had large silver wine coolers, gifts of Hugo’s, so the yellow fanfare amidst the salon end of our lair blasted as for a festival, and everyone hailed the attention. Fern owned they had not foreseen the power magnitude of our sponsors, to what I retorted no one ever did. They had enjoyed the luxurious madness escapade in London, and they were mulling over a proposition to join the 7S intervention team, having tested the swift means of transportation. I laughed and avowed I had, too, of all manners.
She wore a greyish-blue silk jersey shirt dress and nought else bar blue suede Egyptian sandals. Their artistic romp in Manchester Square had not drained their friskiness. She jumped on my lap and confided that neighbouring our little boundless confederacy of libertines would be the main desirable benefit for them to join the 7S troupes, and Melchior had said so. Up close, she was one of us; no detectable makeup, only a wisk of eye shadow and mascara. She boasted not much more breasts than Elvire, but she owned dewy, warm, festooned-edge secret lips that smelled of Belle Haven honeysuckle.
I promised we would go frolic at Laforest’s if she found it arousing to whore herself to random, though diligently vetted, worldly patrons, and I could tell how wet it already made her. I revelled in watching them straddle that delicious line between being the owner and being owned —Fern’s supernal beauty offering, moreover, all means of moral cheat so long as she kept befriending her mirror.
They adored the studio —Alfred was back in an inspired moment— and why we kept that wonkily spread futon beyond the sofa. She craved to meet Michelle, all the more that I warned her only her beauty could possibly infringe the Aviatrix’s finicky defence protocols, and she might find herself defenceless at the feet of the blond bespectacled mastermind of the planet’s clocks.
Oona showed up, parched for some tea of mine. She was bedazzled by the Twins’ allure and swayed hips like a shameless kitten. She wore a crumpled white pyjama top and flimsy white silk shorts trimmed red, barefoot; she smelled of some lozenge, and it was yummy. With her eyes on Ashler’s fly, she swaggered about her night at Speck’s with three dainty Morrocan diplomats who hadn’t bruised her petals. Ashler took that as an invite to, at least, slide his hands upon her waist and down with her shorts. Then Fern helped with unbuttoning the pyjama, so she swanked with the spry elegance of a bendy reed and garnered keen touches in her sensitive slits; Ashler had been wearing a lightweight thatch-and-rust silk houndstooth suit with rounded front flaps. Teased by his lascivious pause, she unzipped the fly and ferreted out a frenzied stiff dick that she gulped at once, kneeling between his legs, naturally, as for a self-evident afternoon favour to do. And he beckoned Bryony along, who let go of her sweatpants in a wisk and artfully straddled the boy’s deftly tongue.
I was overexcited to lure them astray further yet in debauchery, but all in all, they bore the sharpest credentials to assert they knew what they were doing, didn’t they? I was so thrilled to denude her amidst my collections of priceless togs. But first, we should play silly little games with our naughtily frowned anuses, filling them with tepid sweet milk to be expelled in the toilet bowl with all unseemly gurglings. Otherly, freshwater and dainty fingertips in the vagina were enough to keep our commensal bacteria happy and the scent of our holy brooklets palatable, so thus Asher concurred —after the herds of thirsty monkeys I had let quench this manner of thirst at my tiny source.
Fern blushed a faint bit when she realised I would wear nought else under my midnight blue silk velvet tuxedo jacket with one Lesage embroidered lapel, although she couldn’t help but slide a hand to my lower belly under the caress of satin lining —I knew she wouldn’t be the only one. I explained that, given the standing of Laforest’s venue and the expense the patrons put forth, she would most probably spend most of the evening as indecently uncovered as I was showing her, when she would not be tipped over in one of the puff silky beds, her dainty feet fluttering over.
Melchior had already kindly lectured her after they had confessed their perverted moonshot, and she avowed that from the airport to Hertford Palace and back, she had worn nought and not been allowed to cross her legs. In the museum, M. had told his squad of lackeys to use her like a disposable whore, only not marking or bruising any detail of her precious anatomy; and he had kept his eyes on her —Asher had taken turns on her, too. In the aeroplane back, she had tasted a last meagre gush of semen from their new extravagant mentor.
On a lustful hunch, I fetched her a mid-length party dress of pearly-mist blue silk velvet panne, slit up to the shoulder, held with two thin straps, and that would flit open at every one of her moves. I had worn it for one of Sami’s peculiar amateurs; it was so elusive it had not garnered a single stain. I tied flimsy silver sandals to her slender feet that needed a coat of that pale iridescent blue varnish, didn’t they? That scarlet Royal Guard tunic Gianni had refitted for me befitted Bryony and her slight breasts, and we chose opaque white stockings and black patent jodhpurs; the black satinette lining against her creamy white skin made for a delectable little soldier. Oona chose a loose-fit teal embroidered silk Chinese robe coat Hugo had fancied me in for a mushroom slumber party in his oriental diwanija, with some memorable abandon on my part as a nigh debutante; we found matching silk velvet, open maw dragon embroidered flat slippers and toyish white silk frilled socks. Ashler wasn’t bulkier than his twin, and only the shoulders were a tad squarer; I made him wear one of our bold graphic Ikat chapans, a frilled linon pleated shirt, with front-flap breeches, white silk stockings, and black silver-buckled front antique loafers. Fern made sure at once that his dick wasn’t buried too deep.
Each having chosen a fragrance to transcend their armpits and their groins, we had some sort of dress rehearsal around tea, coffee, and biscuits, so as to relish our common offhanded indecency. Cecile envied our brashness, but as for Elvire and herself, she thought they would be safer at Speck’s for a while, and Elvire loved the Backstreet Sparrows.
We had a silver-top Tyrrenean blue limousine to glide silently across the river towards the enlightened Grand Palais and, further, North by Northwest. The magnificent McVies walked unimpressed with the Laforest pomp like they would have been raised in the Frick mansion, which might have been the case, albeit they didn’t stink of it, but it was undisputably Bryony’s scarlet estafette who pinned Mr Ben Jarrow’s heart to her sleeve and was solely ushered to the shadowy maroon corridor while we were shown in the grand foyer and the reception rooms.
Sisi and Bowie did the conversation at ease in the ritzy decor of the meet and greet salon under the flattering dim gleam of the crystal chandeliers. Sissi answered my nod and scrutinised the new gems in my entourage faster than any penguin of her patronage, sliding her hand into Fern’s fluffy dress before I could tell her name, and she liked what she found. We all sat upon the crimson downy cushions to extol our mutual praiseworthiness, but she was, above all, transfixed by the McVies’ miracle, and thus she cut the palavers and led them to the private boudoir they conceivably retained for Twins’ preliminaries.
Bowie beckoned us to her circle of city bears whom she did not fear to regal with glimpses of her sleek lower belly and introduced us to the random crew of Savile Row-clad seniors who didn’t flinch at our price tags. Oona had already released the sole button that kept her dress closed, and the silk sheen was in itself a tactile bait for some manicured paws. As for me, the same went with my Lesage marvel shivering on my heartbeats.
Oona walked out with a stern-faced Japanese corporate executive, while I was grabbed away by one of the varieties of pinstriped granite-grey flannel I had once candidly honed my teeth on at my father’s informal gatherings, as a Tudor City Squirrel, and I let my flaps flutter freely as I could have cruised with any of these oglers in bespoke shoes. I climbed up the grand stairs with attentionate hands about my buttocks. Like in some fantasyland’s whimsical restroom, the game was to find one door with its little numbered globe lit up, meaning the room was available for a new tryst in some fresh bed linen.
He was smitten, and I swayed my hips as we entered number six, a boldly devised marigold yellow lampas and ultramarine drapes under a vaguely gilded stucco trellis entwined with volubilis vines opening on multicoloured parrots in a sunset sky. Once my bejewelled elytrons laid upon a chair’s backrest, I could dance on the ink-blue spiralled deep-pile carpet until he tilted me over on the bed so as to worship my feet in an oh-so-familiar manner, but are there so many, anyhow? Not that I hadn’t long playfully analysed, with Prof Achenbach, the nano glitter of incest in my Far’s immemorial habits of me, this windfall voluptuousness took me off-guard and entranced me into beyond sluttiness, for the relish of the old boy in shirtsleeves who revelled in my drenched vagina all his whim until I nigh swooned.
When I slowly recollected my spent pieces, I was alone and wallowed in scented moistness, and I shamelessly opened the bedding, promising myself to reward the maid. The bathroom was all clad and furnished with enamelled earthenware in the vein of the bedroom ceiling, and the tepid water in the tub flowed with hurry. I found honeysuckle bath oil and kneaded my feet like a childhood treasure, unabashedly pampering myself for another rich, Cologne-scented, straight-faced stranger.

Back in the salon, I reckoned my glittery armour had better remain in the vestiary, my money wad in the secret pocket. Still in a dizzy high mood, I let myself eye the boy in a striped vest who sat behind the counter reading a biker magazine, and so I casually went to hang my coat myself, and I passed him. He was deft and prompt, seizing my waist and pushing me amidst the hung coats. It must have been my fault, forgetting where I was, and he did not ignore what I was, parading nude as a frog. I negotiated to let him use my mouth; he sported a youthful, circumcised spear, and I did not sweat long, making him spurt into my throat. He tasted of wild Fenel.
Bryony was pecking at a fruit salad, thighs nonchalantly apart. She said I smelled funny and poured me a glass of kombucha. Two or three big cats had been lurking over her scarlet jacket’s overture. Uninvited, I slid my hand to her quim and reckoned she had been a charitable lass already. She said Sisi had revelled watching her shag her best tribesmen in every manner and rewarded her princely, plus a thorough tongue-tip toilet. Now, she obviously didn’t need me to help her brave which one of the courtiers she kept teasing while munching grapes and pineapple cubes, and anyhow, that one with matte complexion and yellow eyes reached for my hand to lead me back upstairs in number twelve. He, too, wanted a chunk of me halfway up, and he devoured the freshly rinsed slit of my butt with a blissful application. He smelled of dawn in Zanzibar groves.
That other bedroom was almond-green and cream like a British dowager with a bouquet of sweet peas in a silver jug; nonetheless, he couldn’t help fondling me all over, with a kind emphasis on my boyish bum. He was undressing methodically, showing a dancer’s worked-out body and a taut-up spear with scruffy balls. I was drawn into the fantasy of having snuck inside Auntie Margit’s room to do the nasty with a distant cousin while kith and kin drank blackcurrant punch afar in the house.
He spun me around to relish the pliancy of my loins, and he raved in Spanish. Nonetheless, I baulked at his intent to buggering me dry and showed him where the Swiss Navy lay moored. As he buried my nose into the misty-green puffy comforter, I could smell the expensive trail of all the carefree tramps who had sold specks of their youth in these silky creases.
He was, so to speak, melodious of the bow, asking me to spread wide and then tighten my knees or crane my arse over the bed’s edge. For what it was worth, I was a success. And I was granted a massive spirt of feverish sap deep up my shivering entrails. So, then, I let him cuddle me close as a forever lover, until I would inevitably drip if I wouldn’t reach the loo. He came with me and watched me let his seminal fluid run in the bowl, then pulled me under the shower bountiful as a tropical rain. He held my wrists clutched at my back and licked my myrtle berries while he masturbated me furiously, giving me a volley of orgasms like in a gust of pizzicati.
The soap smelled of water lilies. He wiped me meticulously, becoming dangerously smitten. I had to tell him I wasn’t interested in wedlock, but since he was a peerless swashbuckler, I could let him ruin himself in venues like this one, but I didn’t give him my number. I helped him dress and asked him to gratify the maids; I could thus tell he was vastly wealthy.
As for me, these cascades of expenses had vivified me; I ran to the maroon velvet nook to burrow my stash like the true Tudor City Squirrel. In the salon, a pale, curly-black-haired, long lashes dark-eyed young pianist was spinning a moody blue gardenia nappe in the lust-ridden, gold-gleaming stage room. The McVies were back, nude as Grecian idols, ever so stunning. Fern cuddled Oona, who looked beautifully pooped lying on the crimson couch with her head on Belle Haven’s sanctum. I crouched at the holy Twins’ feet that smelled of clover and daisies.
Literally astounded by their living legend beyond words, Sissi had eventually lent them carnally to her proper all-handy man Marquès, a muscular wrestler they had brought along from their Newyorkese household and who bore the pride of having deflowered both of them ever so daintily. The Long Island Sound wonders wouldn’t own that they, too, had casually gambolled nightly with one faithful burly hero from the Louisiana delta who didn’t shy off serving Ashler, too. Sissi had been awestruck watching them respond to Marquès’ phenomenal might with a smile worthy of a Bernini Magdalena.
A man in opera pumps and silk socks had drawn a stool next to our tableau and was inquiring who, in our desirable areopagus, would be available for cavort, his arm long enough to let him flatter my bumhole. Eventually, it was Oona’s lasciviousness that won him out, and she swayed like an arrogant queen cat while he led her away, holding her by the rump. I forced Fern to offer me forth her bijou; it smelled of seashore brooms and honey.

After she had quenched my naughty thirst, I reckoned we were a tad overreaching as to eventual patrons, so I trotted my pert little arse to the lesser drawing room, recalling the samovar stood under the stairs and, moreover, had harboured before some attractive new maidservants. Thus, this one was deliciously embarrassed to serve a nude blithe libertine, although it was plain to sense what simmered under the black French bob hairdo. She had looked me up and smirked; I would certainly not impress her.
There were a few Eastern Europe torpedoes around at work with rambling corporate executives on shadowy couches; and other South American corvettes, too, trying to raise their fares without the weapons of high-rated languages. Meanwhile, my novel little fetish bait in the plain black jersey mini-dress and a spotless white lace apron didn’t really know what to do with me, but I knew there was a service door right behind where she stood one foot to the other. She smelled of Bowie’s blue Cologne; she did not resist when I seized her wrist to pull her into that austere corridor I had visited before, and no one would dare interrupt me as I unclothed her; there was an understanding with the Laforest twins about the little tramps they showcased thus, and it wouldn’t be a case of human trafficking.
Irène was a born libertine; she had long reckoned there was no future through hardworking options, and her sales attendant mother had only taught her to meliorate herself and shun the common species of men, bar those who paid her rent for the mere bliss to see her thrive. She had entertained a narrow circle of retired gentlemen who afforded her freedom as the reward for her nude conversation or, at worse, a botched fellatio.
Bowie had found her dawdling in the lingerie department of a posh store where she proffered expensive stockings and fineries if she let her along with her in the fitting room. Irène liked beautiful girls, and the twins were the epitome of bisexual appeal. At first, Bowie took her around in the velvety berline, and she revelled gliding, in her best-ever costume, warm amidst the rainy city. The partition mirror was not always up.
They did not leave the bedroom for two weeks, and Irène could hardly tell who of them two she was frolicking with, and in the course of her Laforest frenzy course, she came to let herself shag Marquès and other of the Twins’ toymen, for more money than she has ever seen. The devilish sisters relished the feat of their depravation work, and Irène was physically thriving, be it at the hands of the house masseuse. But they loved their windfall tramp beyond merely putting her for sale and watch, hence the samovar trick which had operated before, and granted us a few gifted novices who even went to school nowadays and spoke languages.
She liked my blooming coochie and joshed that I had been visibly popular that evening. She tasted like the capucines I ate in the garden at Saint Loup while the Down syndrome rascals kindly shared my arse. She made up her mind to go with me; she had thick black lashes and brows and obsidian irises set in a vivid white rim. She wore no make-up. Her teeth slightly protruded. We watched each other pee and refreshed ourselves fastly in a gloomy white personnel bathroom; she put on her little black dress with a Claudine collar and showed me the service path to the vestiary, where we couldn’t avoid getting caught by Mr Kreisler, the top housemaster, to whom we seemed instantly palatable, and pushed us in the same small office where his underling had shagged me a few hours back. He told me to pull my tongue to his while he pulled Irène’s dress over her shy tits, and eventually, it was she who thanked the Swiss Navy for a slidier quick ravage in her bum while he pinned her over the desk’s red shagreen —nothing extraordinary— and he relished to watch me clean the outcome on both of them, so did Sissi whom he must have texted we would be fleeing, and saw her scheme operate on me. Enlacing Irène exposed up to the armpits, she had told her she expected to see her back soon in the grand salon, along with us and our whimsical entourage; for now, let her not forget her hard-earned stash. Onwards, she should be in good hands, with heaps of merrymaking for a harlot her class.
Oswald Kreisler had called on our satiated cohort of nymphs to return home with our gift. They all wanted a feel of the newbie, like so many armfuls of lustful promises. We packed in the mega-machine cloud, Irène bundled up between Fern and me, yet again her dress pulled up to the breasts. It was then that she recounted the whimsical voyage through Paris with Bowie, so hence, I asked the drowsy chauffeur to take the long way — the partition mirror wasn’t raised. The time was right, and our brood was indeed interesting; the chauffeur, of his own accord, drove us to Voyeur Boulevard and caused a few traffic jams. Then, a golden eye blinked over the Seine under the low vault of clouds.

We dropped the McVies at the Volendam, the younglings overjoyed to come cuddle Irène. The chauffeur, now back sprightly, had only time to repack his furtive erection I pretended not to have seen. Upstairs, Alfred was in a conference with buddies afar in the neighbourhood. Irène was delighted to roam around naked in our lair. The main bed was handsomely occupied, but Fayelle’s old bedroom could cosily hold us four.
It was one long swig of that sweet manner of possibly motherly sleep I remembered of the time Kate had been unwell, part of me on the watch for Irène’s breathing. Later, when she shuffled in at the breakfast table, she sported a loose black tee shirt that smelled of African spices that I wondered where she had fetched. The other two sang shreds of pop-rock songs I didn’t know they must have heard on their telephones while peeing. They were warmly congenial with Irène and rummaged under her shirt, insisting she stay among us. I concurred firmly she should nest among us, by all means, and we gently played footsie.
Cecile had spared Elvire another day posing for Cyprien, not the most entertaining of fellows, while herself was always mentally fueled by the godly clavier further in her finickiest craft. The genderqueer loner, although she had —a feminine pronoun was her own choice— let dawn some carnal proximity with the best of us, would hardly wish to spend her days anymore at Cecile’s feet, so adorable they be.
So, I introduced her, seated on my lap, unsure someone like Irène could come to moral grips with a live trans-essential person? Penny for my thoughts, the pretty rambling tramp had already been schooled on the matter and had chosen a generous open mind. Truth be said, she had never been indoctrinated with biblical mumbo-jumbo at a critical age, as my own Far had shielded me from the native Lutheran remnants in our troubled lineage. And Irène, fortunately, personally appealed to Elvire, another dark-gazing doe, so thus a mild-mannered conspiracy wheedled them to eventually hold hands, while I baked French toasts.
The McVies barged in with blazing smiles, and Elvire was brave enough to introduce herself with an enthused response and a volley of kisses. Our subterranean facilities had turned them on, and I should reckon there were some reasons for that. The breakfast wiped off, we ran downstairs and found the telepathic acrobates in rehearsal, for, contrary to what unaware onlookers might have thought, they scripted their pieces beyond the desultory appearance, and we could watch the same dishevelled routines repeated in all the more grace that we sat captivated. And we didn’t budge, bar a subtle hand by Fern in my track pants and other shenanigans fanned by the dancers’ tight bodies, until they called for a pause themselves, and everybody ran to the pool.
Inevitably, Delff, in her impish little frame, cropped up and singled out the face she had not yet beguiled, dazing Irène into swimming twirls and eventually stealing her a mouthful of kisses. Then, she reckoned that Elvire, who had not been much of a regular nude nymph in the pool, had remained nearby, gazing over Irène, too. She spun about so that the two lovey-dovey found themselves enlaced, making out, which delighted the water fairy who came to me to find cuddles. I agreed we could end such a sylphic day in TRÆVIX Aladin’s imaginarium, but I sussed a few of us would need dick, so to speak. And so it went, while the McVies and the telepathic monkeys clung a little longer to the sparkling gym apparatuses.
As we entered Michelle’s Palacio Mentale, Delff ordered that we remain in the nude, so as not to offend the sublimity of the art gathering on display. Not in whatever move to bustle Elvire away from Irène, I snuck myself in between to tell Irène this wasn’t another whorehouse, only a free-minded private dwelling where to spend our carnal blessings for mere bliss. I grabbed hold of both their rounded derrieres to give Irène a tour of the casa, with all the naughty apartés I could devise.
In the upper foyer, a new art piece stood on a heavy rococo game table topped in black Portoro marble, the gilded bronze half-height, true-to-life statue of Delff, high-kicking while balancing with the arms. The instant scan, probably a trick of Gauthier’s, had captured the minute details I needed to inform Irène before the house genie corner her in a convenient nook; up to now, she had only witnessed the unassuming state of Delff’s anatomy, like that of a hustling puppy, but she might enjoy a more insidious tickle as I had quite a few times, on the fly. Some good soul had conveniently brought a lamppost in front of the little bronze foot pointed forward.
Frine came by from the command room and told us the Queen Bee was asleep; we only had permission for a brief glance whereby the princely buttocks were charmingly uncovered —by Trine’s doing, obviously, and thus she went back. Opposite, the upstairs boudoir had metamorphosed into the manner of an aviary; a swarm of pale featherlight porcelain shreds with a constellation of Murano eyes invading the borderless silver-foil ceiling, whirling out of a central glowing orb.

Beyond a wide silver leaf console holding a collection of pointed rock crystals, three oversized, well-intended, padded dove grey mohair velvet daybeds, with silver rococo-framed arms and backrests, rounded up on the three sides facing to the window of a thick carpet with storm clouds motive. At the far end, two facing multi-foil silver boldly sculpted screens showed vibrant beams in sharp angles like the blitzkrieg searchlights, setting a weird decadent decor in which to let wallow our gracile silhouettes. At random, crystalline whispers of some eolian harp faded like ghostly echoes. Irène succumbed to our frenzy, and Elvire eventually couldn’t help sliding her toyish little sting into her tearful coochie.
Seemingly unaffected by our lustful proclivities, which he had had reasons to condone personally, a dark-skinned Indian servant in a white collarless jacket brought a silver tray holding a tea set and cinnamon rolls that he set on the mother-of-pearl coffee table before I set my foot upon his shoe in an obvious attitude. We had caroused together a few memorable, informal times before, and he was a kindly, complacent cavalier aware of the generous leeway his position allowed. He was very soon disrobed and entwined with me; he smelled of nutmeg caramel, and I knew all of his circumcised candy cane.
The impeccable Suresh unleashed mercilessly the bolts of his unwound ardour and left me shattered in bliss. The three of us did a mutual toilet in the nearby bathroom, and then we snuck out and up to our nook of Alfred’s realm. In the morning, the dark Atlantic clouds felt like day would never break. As I brewed my Oriental Marvel tea, in a plushy ecru jersey sweatsuit embroidered with a Ronald Searle’s cat, I saw the younglings shuffle by, vested in mismatched sweats from our piles in the vestiary, barefoot and ready to gulp a boatload of Fench toasts, which I obliged. They smelled of a Mayfair Autumn. Elvire’s nipples were ticklish.
Kate and Oona appeared in a tender mood, one in a grey hoodie patched with a big yellow K across the chest, the other in a rusty wildflower-printed Liberty shirt which went back to that visit to London I had made with my Far and showed I had been big already. Both donned Morris-like printed cashmere leggings. Bryony had been in Cecile’s bed, and she had dreamt of the God Crow dance in a clearing with Alfred’s calls.
I had nothing left to bake; Natalia showed up and regretted not having joined us at the improvised party. She brought news that the McVies Would be visiting a noble Hôtel further west on our block, with a yard and a garden, and she thought they wouldn’t baulk at the stratospheric price, so in love with our whimsical colony. Gauthier was all worked up at the prospect of unleashing his squads of specialists at a stone’s throw from us. I fantasised about some new subterranean corridors to Belle Haven upon Gauthier’s confidence that he could endeavour a worthy townhouse for the preternatural couple.
About noon, Natalia had brought two kugelhopf cakes from an Alsatian bakery on her way back from an oh-so-harassing night at Mendelsohnn’s. She smelled of musk rose and Egyptian jasmine in her jeans; she envied me fondling Irène’s faun-like feet. Gauthier joined us and dipped pieces of cake in black coffee. He recounted he had left the McVies with His Grace’s lawyers to speed up the acquisition of the Hotel particulier they had eyed, this through a tripartite contract with the 7S land syndicate, and Gauthier had already been commissioned for the decoration workings, heating up over digging a new swimming pool and scheming some extravagant facilities. There could be unassuming pathways between their realm and ours, which might reveal itself useful in case of another global war.
He became enthralled with my new pet; thus, he had seldom varied in his carnal proclivities from those of Natalia’s. I could easily fantasise about them both enkindling the embers in that dark, sweet-smelling head. As it happened, the magnificent gold-strewn knight shook up his copper mane and rolled his owl eyes until Irène followed him on a sofa; Natalia crouched at her most coveted feet. Bryony wasn’t dissatisfied that the peewee danced on her own two feet; she snuggled against me and busied her hands inside my duds. Meanwhile, Sami was trying hard to pull a call through to my elusive aliases’ addresses, so much so that I ultimately answered. As to be expected, he knew about the Belle Haven windfall and, not too oddly, suggested we come carouse in a new venue the Covenant —said he— had acquired and furbished at a stone’s throw from Philippe’s. He was promising that we wouldn’t be disappointed, and the reward for a night of harmless debauchery was unusually considerable. We could also round up whatever troops we might have, for he was procuring for a congress of architects. Personally, I did not foster a wholehearted enthusiasm for architects, and moreover, when in herds: it went back to schooldays, when Gauthier would have been shunned as a sissy. But under Sami’s rule, no pussy was to be taken for granted, whatever the price.
The dress code was bobo-chic-nerdy, a teasing premium for worldly patrons in bespoke 200s wool. I did not doubt as to Sami’s know-how, and I would somehow coach two valued debutantes with a troubling corollary. When the Twins landed in, they hardly touched the ground. The 7S magic and their cosmic wealth had endued them with a genuine classical Maison de rendez-vous, almost unscathed, as Gauthier had appraised for them.
Fern was keen to top off the ebullience of the day with the carnal turmoil I described, with blind faith in Sami they had not met yet. From the height of their shrouded, exquisite social dysfunctionality, they had merely read about the bourgeois-bohème trend in the lifestyle pages of the New York Times, but they revelled in being helped get their foot on the ladder by a bona fide Tudor City Danish millennial squirrel and a squad of snazzy orphans.
While Gauthier seized the opportunity to snatch Asher to his apartment and ultimate Bobo wardrobe, I greeted the Belle Haven unspoiled angel in our millennial vestiary. Nought was to be not shown of her outworldly bellezza, from the shells of her ears to the tip of her toes. I made it clear we were going to be plainly hunted and paid to disrobe, this time, in the utmost manner of quant-à-soi, whatever sweats ensued.
I always revelled in skimming through the hung thrifts on the cedar hangers, mostly the prelude to unfettered masquerades in the shadowy social undergrowth. Since I was thirteen, and I had gripped my vines on the lakeshore’s exuberant parkland, some ingrained metabolism had kept my body unchanged, and I could still wear the WIRED varsity jacket that had flagged me so overtly on the day I walked in Saint Loup, along with my unfailing Far. Hence, having always been well-off enough since, the millennial compendium of my appearances was alive to share, besides that of Kate’s and also volumes of whimsical daily sportswear and fresh underwear.
Having stripped Fern under the otherwise keen stare of Bryony’s, I mulled over what adornment to set the priceless naiad of the exclusive sound, like the Rhineland jewellers set the barocco pearls when I recalled that roughly woven multicolour silk tweed blazer with a purple silk twill lining that Fern slipped into instantly to try her moves in the tall mirror, and she was a natural seductress. Carried out in my perverted aesthetics, I insisted she wear nought else, but she dithered, so we agreed on black sequined short shorts and thigh-high black veil hold-up stockings, so she purred as I was proud of that little swath of white skin flush to her unassuming quim. She fitted in the flat black patent Mary Janes and pranced like a pro; had she fancied heels, she wouldn’t have found any. Kate and I decreed them the epitome of a social chore, and we are both tall enough, whatsoever.
My laser-smooth body had been kindly touched up recently; I picked up a black grain-de-poudre, double-breasted jacket with spiked satin lapels, the left one paved with silver and black crystals fashion jewellery, flat black patent court pumps with grosgrain bows, and nil else. Fern could sense the Judy effect and hardly kept her hand out of my overlap.
Bryony craved to show herself as indecent as I. She knew she could fit my black velvet slippers embroidered with red kissing lips, and she did not wish for much else. I loved her in the cadet militaria that I had ferreted out of the camphorwood trunks in our family attics in the old estate looking on the King’s Park in Copenhagen. There was a Navy blue tailcoat with heaps of red trimmings I would rather have had her wear alone, but the front hardly covered her navel, so we found it funny to complete with cream moleskin fall-front breeches she merely fit in and white stockings. In her spry freshness, with her pale nude abs, we could tell she was irresistibly indecent, too.
Elvire had shied off and followed the boys upstairs. When Ashler returned, he was alone, and Gauthier preferred to snuggle up with a trans dreamer. Oona and Elise had been in Cecile’s good hands, chiffon-style, layered transparent gowns and thin-strapped sandals. They smelled of the expensive collection of perfumes Lauritz took pleasure in spoiling Cecile with.
Cecile had fetched a variegated purplish painted fluid silk jersey shirt dress, which did not betray any of what forms I knew of her in the sense it gave it all easily to be seen. But I recalled I had guessed right when she wore stained, bulky overalls. It was all in her gaze, along with the pliancy of her loins. She wore black leather slave sandals.
Sami came to pick us up in a silver minivan with grey velvet innards. He was overjoyed to reckon we had followed his sartorial directions, and he blinked in awe when Fern returned a smile. He was leaning back from the front seat, and he peeped at the shrubbery of rosy crotches in bloom, bar one bulging fly of wheat-golden wild silk to the male half of the prodigy who stroke on the tapered thigh of Elise, whom a mere whisper had nigh denuded.

There was a nondescript ashlar stone facade with a tall lacquered portal between empty recesses and two blinking warnings against parking in the way affixed high on the doors. It was somewhere between the Palais Royal and the Boulevards. We parked in a modern space between massive concrete columns and random vestiges of antique constructions. A herd of sheeny dark vehicles awaited in line near the elevator doors, plugged into power pillars.
The lift car was all clad in stamped copper, depicting a swarm of whirling bodies explicitly not struck by doomsday. The low-relief plates felt warm when Cecile clutched me in a febrile kiss.
We landed in a round hall under a vault painted of the unnumerable golden beams radiating from the apex, where hung a spectacular Murano chandelier garlanded with multicolour glass flowers and chains. The lighting was warm and muted, with a wealth of candles like in the Palace of the Queen of Night, or nights, would it not?
Well-mannered lackeys of sundry apparent breeds in royal blue, adjusted, comedic tailcoats followed us as we were ushered into some grand-style sitting room like the first class of a bygone liner. Scattered male guests of the type we would entertain in the best cathouses around considered us offhandedly, while the expected class of groomed-up nuns chucking their vows over the mills in different cases of undress.
Upon the thatch-yellow, high-pile carpeting, plump Art Deco armchairs and sofas, upholstered in stylised zebra-motive tapestry, composed a jazzy savanna under the flight of nude sylphs painted across the high vault. Like a herd of gazelles, we chose an available clearing and crashed onto the plump cushions. It smelled of coumarin and vanilla: it was deliberately warm, so I slipped off my jacket, and I stood gazing around like a garden statue. Sami came up and enlaced me, joshing the big cats had noticed us.
We danced to the languorous music of a low-flying trio of a grand piano, double bass, and drum brushes, beckoning Fern to take hold of her reflection. She undressed and took hold of her luminous Eternal in a lustful abandon. To Elise, this was a more spectacular arena for lust than what she had seen of the frilled and fringed Laforest playgrounds. Bryony knew best; she helped her disrobe, and they drifted by to show their booty around better. Cecile pushed Oona over on a headrest and forced her mouth into her dewy bijou, herself offering her parted bums.
Properly buggered from the rear by one of the patrons in a white tee shirt, a slender blonde waved at me, and I recognised our Ksyusha at the top of her shape. Other usual Philippe’s Hetairai had already complied, too, with the more imperious patrons’ lustful whims, as was expected of us. A warm hand I had a hunch about pianoed along my spine and down in my holy gully, and I knew that Swedish voice which wasn’t of an architect. He asked that I unclothe him, and an exotic lackey stood up by to collect his rags and my jacket. In the smooth light of upturned alabaster bowls held by meditative bronze ondines, I shivered for his muscular frame, sun-kissed like that of the Falsterbø crews I had honed my jailbait wants with, aeons ago.
It so appeared it wouldn’t be a pick-me-and-go routine but more an open-space adventure and m’as-tu-vu competition none of our gang feared. Incidentally, all couches were tucked with removable panther velvet, and I felt like Douanier Rousseau’s odalisk in the warm cosiness of a festive soap packaging. My wandering Swede lay me against him, spread open, one foot on the headrest, and he wriggled to reach and twiddle my back alley with some unguent he must have kept at hand as soon as he had seen me coming.
Fern and Ashler had to put themselves on show in a standing, slow, twirling embrace. She held his tauten manhood like it was hers, and it was. They embodied the comparably troubling sameness as these long nymphs in Fontainebleau’s Royal Gallery, enshrouded in a numinous glow amidst the corraling quivers of our unleashed animality. Then, in a daring whisk that the mighties knew should not be contested, they found themselves feverishly palpated and fondled till they lay down and surrendered to the lewdest of carnal tortures, with unadulterated grace, at the whim of these altogether skilful swordsmen.
All this boundless heart flutter wouldn’t spare Cecile and the foxy debutantes their lap of honour; Bryony was singled out at once by one of her previous johns at Specks, and some men appraise all the more a new deal afresh with someone they relished all the way through before. I was proud he preferred to take her in the little boy-soldier uniform, would it mean a shamefully expensive bill at the teinturier’s. It was my fancy for these antiquated vestures and their un-functional model to put in nude nymphets, which made them all the more arousingly transgressive. A whole Empire of sartorial fetish to the scent of a pearly bijou.
As I gawped at my windfall harlot sisters, some hunky blond, sunkissed, young sort of a seaman blessed with a golden fuzz, randomly forced himself into my throat —while joshing in a northern shores parlance I did not fully grasp and probably vaunted me as a pretty, easy kind of a boy— with my older sea wolf still mastering me with cunning blandishments of my girly tootle-berries.

He didn’t take long to inflict me with a ladle of bitter rawfishness I did not belch upon —it might not be the last of the feast. Now, my buggerer steered me on top of his stubborn master shaft, forcing me to spread eagle my legs for the hunky blond to honour what pretty boys can’t offer. They paired in an unflinching duet in which I swooped my haunches like a fountain triton. I climaxed interminably before they shot long squirts into my furnace and eventually waned, breathless.
A leering servant whose culottes bulged like mince pies took me by the hand to the bathroom. I sensed I was dripping along my thighs. The room did not provide for privacy and had obviously been devised recently. It bore the candid influence of what had been called Swedish grace, a more hygienic manner of hedonism my hunky clients reminded me of —my holidays as a cuddled jailbait in a Falserbø sauna house.
As I remembered in Victor’s kitchen, sundry fragmentary patches of Majolica and Azulejos earthenware tiles composed a vividly coloured random imaginarium, including the ceiling, over a black marble floor run by golden veins. Bright golden British fittings, as well as black padded benches and tables, meant more than merely rinsing my drenched holy brooklets. The heady water-lily scent kept me stunned, dripping over the golden toilet bowl as the dark-complexion servant stood watching. He then taught me in his curly French to use the enema douche with one of the wrapped disposable cannulas in a wall-affixed glass.
He was tautened as sugarcane, and his drop front culotte was all easy to open; he instantly nagged my face with his
teary glans until I reckoned how good a girl I was. But he had also witnessed how worse I could condone, so, without further ado, he carried me on top of a convenient height padded bench, and I needed not more lube. My previous companions found me clutched, face to the bench, one leg gathered, and a galliard stuck in my back hatch, smiling.
An impromptu passer-by with a mere desire to ease a leak took a liking for my busy-looking face pressed onto the whitish upholstery. I sussed of another assault in my panting mouth, only that he was mulling over my profile and mumbled he had a long crush on me since a famous all-out orgy at Philippe’s. Still dripping from his last drops of piss, his noticeable schlong levelled up to my mouth as he lucubrated on my slick forehead, my bold black brows, my sculptural Grecian kind of nose, my slightly sunken porcelain blue eyes rimmed with Elizabeth Taylorish lashes, my drawn lips, and my willfully playful chin. He let the wet tip of his glans trifle with my mouth just while I sensed a torrent of boiling sauce splatter in my newly rinsed entrails. I repaid the garland of bombastic compliments he had showered me with in a vigourous suckling I promised myself he wouldn’t forget. He served me a modest spoonful, which tasted of dill and garlic that I gulped with a sneer.
Amidst a swarm of amateurs, the McVies had stirred up a rash of fever, but it was Fern who was relentlessly shagged so much as to swoon. It might turn into a mindless curee, and Sami was elsewhere, under Oona’s spell. I collected my wits and arched my loins; my last rider had known of which soothing balsam to slather my brave little arse after the enema, so I felt valiant enough to reclaim the drenched remnants of the Belle Haven princess and pull her to the bathroom, followed by her double, and I drew the lock.
In her so deliciously quirky accent, she questioned if she had made a fool of herself. I reassured her it would never be the matter anyhow. In such a social gathering, we were just only two most resplendent sluts ready to fly. As I lathered her up in the shower, I could tell her slits had been stretched so wide I could slide my whole hand in, and I told her she could also do me so.
I gave her a much-needed enema, smeared some salve all over, and wanked her for my premium. She was a hell of a good girl, and Ashler was stiffened with pride, so we sucked his pretty manhood like two cool whores and shared the swig.
Arm in arm, our delicious bodies restored and ready, we kept a distance nevertheless, leering at enticing tableaus. I was looking for Sami, and I found him gnawing Oona’s toes while she served one of his regulars. I just let him know, in a low tone, that he might have failed our Long Island fairies and that it crossed me. I demanded we return home, and Fern sighed with relief.
Cecile drummed up for the retreat, and we quit the dishevelled company —with a tad of drama, for I could feel the whirling bees in my womb, and Fern, and all of us, too.
Anyhow, the night was young; Cecile invited us to her workshop-cum-artsy-salon to dunk some biscuits in whatever we chose. She needed to lure the Americans to sit for an intriguing portrait, but she craved to make out with either of the two or both. Upon a text upstairs, I was sure a faithful band of cosmopolitan bohemians would scoot over to our feet, with manners, to make good loving use of what of our debauchery wouldn’t go to sleep as of yet.

Alfred was on our side. Oona, Bryony, and I had slept in deep harmony in Fayelle’s bedroom, in front of a bombastic and glittery sequined tiger. Since Kate had conceded to have to know of a least of the family fortune with Simon, her long incestuous brother, our legendary grand bed was becoming somewhat of a quaint etiquette fixture on which to gambol as in a performance, like a tiny Versailles of sorts. I would see with Gauthier means to refurbish in my taste this bedroom next to Cecile’s.
We had nastily misbehaved, to say the least. After a languorous breakfast, we tiptoed in artfully worn tracksuits down to the gym and the sauna. The flying telepaths were not in sight. A mere hour later, we settled in the studio, smelling of lemony wildflowers. Sitting at Kate’s place, Bryony, who could soften her class accent in English, agreed to read us aloud Anaïs Nin’s “A Spy In The House Of Love”, and she did marvel at giving life to the Lie Detector. Oona, barefoot on the red sofa, watched albums of Roman aristocratic interiors, telling it reminded her of our escapade. We had conspired to set our phones to silent mode, but I read messages from Fern, who had adored their tryst in Cecile’s Captain Nemo cavern. They were seeing His Grace at noon along with some future colleagues at 7S and, without further ado, would visit their new townhouse along with Gauthier, who was, moreover, intensely besotted with them. They wished he kept afoot with the manner of inspiration he had demonstrated all over our Faerie, another safe and sublime aviary for free-minded butterflies of all hues. They would end their day and dine at Hugo’s.
Up here, we became a tad dizzy with Sabina’s refractions. I was brewing some Darjeeling tea when Natalia showed up. She took off her shoes and then decided to take a shower. I grabbed her hourglass waist and asked what went wrong. She merely mumbled it had only been a lame academic afternoon, and she only felt like dragging us along in some kinky shenanigan. I was enthused about such an idea. Since longer than she would own to, she had patronised the elite of Liselotte’s acquaintances, the ones she wouldn’t send me to, on my brash manner, I suppose. Natalia had always been a darling of connected intellectuals in the know, who cautiously traded her name through the shrewdest procuress in Paris. The daughter of Hugo’s housekeeper, she had grown up in our shadows and also in our bed, like the cat fairy, and insensibly up to a doctorate in modern literature, tutored by her first eminent client, Prof. Y. —otherwise father of our trans dreamer Elvire— who happened to be a prominent Don in the matter.
After she did our hair and clipped Bryony’s bangs, she received Liselotte’s green light, so she turned to me and said it would be time to dress up as good, modest girls. On the way to the vestiary downstairs, we found Irène fiddling with her phone, altogether not so comfortable in our offhanded micmacs. She smelled of a boyish Cologne; she wasn’t eventually too difficult to enrol in Natalia’s blind adventure once everyone had helped strip her bare.
Natalia set the tone with an oversized periwinkle blue broad-knit jumper over matching immodest yoga shorts and blue suede loafers. Bryony fished out a vermilion fanfare coat with lots of gold trimmings and vivid ultramarine twill lining, black spandex shorts, and heavy black ankle boots. Oona found one of Dagmar’s preferred misty grey, cowl neck cashmere jumper dresses, ash grey cyclist pants, and two-tone white and grey oxfords I didn’t remember we had. Irène watched us rummage through closets and drawers, naked in the shuffle, so out of her depth that I took her in my arms and told her I am a compulsive hoarder when it comes to rags, and I asked her to measure her foot on mine, she was just a chink shorter. Before I could not refrain myself all over her, there on the floor, I played shop attendant, hinting we would most probably go whore ourselves in some kinky situations, for all I knew of Natalia’s mores, and for none other profit than our own, as far as we should know. She fit in a deep maroon silk jersey, long-sleeve, low neckline, short sheath dress, and crotchless black silky tighs, which made her tantalisingly blush. She found black patent flat pumps with a grosgrain knot. She looked like a Tiffany doll. Lastly, I slipped on a Moroccan-night-blue silk velvet double-breasted jacket studded with rhinestone stars, lined in striped, two hues of purple twill, weightless dark indigo shantung shorts, cosmic-blue hold-up stockings, and ink-blue Chelsea boots. Cecile joined us later, swaggering in a Perfecto-style midnight blue grosgrain jacket, lined with scarlet satin, seriously chrome-studded, over black silk velvet shorts, thigh-high sheen stockings and heavy ankle Docs. She smelled of Knize Ten from a bottle she had ferreted out in a piece of Wiener Werkstatte furniture she had restored for Hugo.
A big black taxi took us and instantly smelled like the duty-free perfume shop of an airport. As I held Irène tight in the rear backseat, Natalia took the other side and met my hand at the sweet place. Choosing to graze the timid breasts under the silk, she explained matter-of-factly to the debutante she obviously coveted, too, the received manners of our libertinage as she had practised since the lesser grades.

Of course, she had not ended amongst us by happenstance, and I could feel our giving into Natalia’s screenplay did not leave her dry. I bantered it could not go worse than the night we entertained a psychoanalyst seminar, so she rounded her eyes. We made out lazily while we drove in the rain beyond the ordinate cityscape, where the concept of the ground floor has been abolished. Natalia had given a certified address, and the GPS brought us to a black-stone-clad landing before a stately black mirror revolving door. A tall porter in a black livery with a flat cap greeted us without a word as we milled into a dramatically lit, desolate black marble foyer paved with a labradorite mosaic.
The lift car, clad in yellow copper, was as vast as your average classroom. Another boy in black leered at us before tapping on an esoteric command panel and then standing at attention, back to us, which did not keep him from ogling at us in the polished metal. For long minutes, we sensed absolutely nought, only a tiny tinkle chime. We could not have told if we were going up or down.
Eventually, the doors slid open onto a vividly coloured landing in the Vorticist manner of camouflage, deceiving graphics painted all over in polished, waxed colours on the concrete, lit by embedded lamps fitted in the design, the whole reminding of the WWII Royal Navy ships. At once, it felt like a mute, warm maze, only the brilliant colours of which kept from angst. A few random black glass dots must have concealed cameras; anyhow, I reckoned we did not stand out as eyesores in the decor.
Two corridors ran on opposite sides; I didn’t know if Natalia knew where to go, so we followed her to the left in the never-ending cacophony. Side passages led to sundry bright-lacquered, crooked-shaped doors of colours. At a bend, we were met by a seeming Master of Ceremony with impressive sideburns vested in a joyfully contrasted harlequin frac. He greeted us in an odd French with rolled Rs and, without further ado, began fondling each of us whom he grabbed. He was a dexterous operator; he was down into my shorts before I could think of it.
He smelled of something like a funfair candy shop, be it for his candyfloss sideburns. Impishly whirling around us like the cartoon fox, he floated a suggestion that we take off our shoes. The floor was tepid; he gathered our shoes with surprising agility —he might have sniffed his loot— to stow them in a convenient niche. Then, his slender and venturous hands rummaging ever so further, he asked for our slightly pudic fineries, inhaled them like a high schooler, and tidied them in the closet. He preferred we took off our stockings, bar Irène, whose dewy pale bloom was so set off in the embrasure in the tights.
The foxy, demonstrative maître à danser fostered a comprehensible liking for shivering buttocks as he steered our lustful troupe through a smaller, crooked corridor. I could sense a deft, attentionate finger twirling into my all but naive petunia. We reached a spacy, still whimsically designed room, which made me think of some giant chaotic geode furnished with a round of tall, crooked armchairs of sundry colours in which a company of masked and cloaked pranksters who made us walk in a round, on the music of a street organ. At first, we paraded in more or less idle good order, then Natalia showed our youths to swagger a bit and roll their hips like wily harlots like us. The attendees began to manifest emotion, flick back their capes, and reveal Carpaccio-style outfits with open crotches and unflinching erections, beckoning us in turns for preliminary kisses and a manual feeling of our anatomies. It was a delectably lewd round; none of the seven not-so dwarfs willing to choose before having tasted every one of us and compared the hospitability of our mouths for a little while. They all smelled of top-shelf fragrances, and the ripples on their skin evoked the prime of life.
Master sideburns collected our clothes as they fell off, hanging them to a theatrical chariot. With all of us au naturel, the tableau reminded all the more of the nigh sacrilegious scenes painted in high demand by the Cranachs. A few young vaudevillian servants in rich liveries brought delicacies on butler trays so we could be fed small bites on the patron’s lap. One could tell the bulge in their black satin breeches. Amidst the loaded silver plates stood the familiar bottles of soothing lubricant.
Irène was the first to be threaded sideways by her blond cavalier, who had fearlessly removed his mask. It became more arousing when he made her spread eagle, face to us, her silken black wings in the air and his shaft to the hilt in her tight arse. It was the overture of the grand carnal chorus, the ronde of assaults for everyone. Furthermore, the return of the pretty lacqueys, in no livery at all, crazed with the willing holes awaiting them. Already copiously filled and stirred, I saw coming a wide-smiling cinnamon-skinned pirate who deftly bustled into my dripping coochie.

Now that the sweet Armageddon had been fired up, Master Sideburns allowed himself into Bryony’s helpless mouth to spurt in a bitter ladle of his balls’ liquor without spilling a drop aside. Sighs followed moans, and the arena began to smell beastly. All the masks had rolled off, and our perpetrators all showed distinguished faces, albeit the weapons now hanging low.
Master Sideburns, grateful towards Bryony, took her by the hand to show the way to a spectacular bath venue, around a smooth-edges blinking crystals basin, surrounded by golden fountains and toilet bowls with all hydrotherapy apparatuses so as to rinse, publicly as it were, all traces of sexual effusions. But the chase was soon rekindled in the tepid waters. A black-moustachioed, tanned, dignified Scot-sounding hunk grappled my arm firmly and let me sense he was stiff anew, his tweedy glare thrust into my innocent pretence he craved for, although my manners told it was all a game, and I handled his spear right where he wanted, letting me float upon his pike. And no sooner had he filled my guts than he let some other brute I could not see take the gargling place even deeper. And so the pearly pond turned a saucy marigot, my crazy womb in tatters.
We all smelled of that Cologne soap when Sideburns helped us re-dress and poured us tea and coffee with plentiful confectionary. The return journey had seemed magically shorter, and Natalia gloated we were all in one piece and nicely richer. She wooed Irène to come and sleep with her. Cecile, who owned she had not been so shagged in weeks, took away Oona, who let be done with a faint smile, and Bryony swooned before I ended up stripping her bare in the bed. She was going to snooze long, so I wrapped her in a fluffy nightshirt. She smelled like a kitten.
The McVies were overjoyed with their evening at Hugo’s. They would never have imagined such inventive wealth still existed. They had allowed our passionate landlord to peep at them on a crimson bed, and he had tongued both of them while they united. Fern wore a strand of Jaipur sapphire pearls he had locked to her neck, not so different to the one I cherished from the early days with him. I sensed Hugo had spoken of me dearly, and they kept fondling me in front of dreamy Bryony. I recounted our nightlong harlequin exploits, unable to reckon how many spurts we had garnered from the special forces, should we say, and Bryony rubbed her lower belly, laughing.
As always, Melchior’s magic had operated. After some tea, we could go and visit the McVies’ new dwelling far from Belle Haven. Gauthier would probably readily roam on-site, mulling over manners to give the holy Twins a worthy showcase for their magnificence. Two numbers beyond the telepaths’ realm, but still on Alfred’s sacred turf, stood up the stern, classical aristocratic hotel built between yard and garden in the best yellowish ashlar stone from the old Parisian quarries. On the street, one-storey, symmetrical Mansart pavilions with a tall portal in the middle opening on a cobbled yard big enough for cars to round, with decorative colonnades on the sides. The facade, two storeys and an attic above the basement windows, five noble bays wide with a central six-step perron and a triangular pediment on top, all was clean and move-in condition.
The glazed double door opened on a square foyer, paved with a black and white wind-rose, the walls clad in plain romantic faux-marbre stucco, polished and waxed, of all textures and colours. In a round painting at the ceiling hovered a solitary eagle in a sunrise sky, and Fern leaned in my arms to look at it. I could thus tell she wore no undergarments in her thistle-blue silk panne flared dress.
Three dove-grey lacquered doors framed in half-columns and Grecian-manner votive pediments led to stairs on the left and an antechamber on the right, both in the same faux-marble stucco work. When we walked into the grand reception room overlooking the verdure-walled garden, the irresistibility of the venue’s seduction was patent. No detail had been spared to make it the Parisian jewel box of the Belle Haven defectors. Gauthier joined us under the spectacular scape of a fantasised New World, which adorned the ceiling beyond a cornice of gilded palm leaves, and he told the new owners that this decor, like the rest of the property, was listed as a historical monument, which meant they could not touch it, but would they? Between the five windows facing the three doors, a masterful, pristine white stucco jungle flourished of antique white crystal sconces that Gauthier showed could be dimmed. The blond Versailles parquet must have seen brilliant turns of waltz and was still waxed to perfection; gold-embroidered curtains rimmed the windows behind the white fringes of the sculpted fantasy wilderness.
Gauthier had a boundless vision of the McVie realm within our wonder continent, and he was head-over-heels smitten with the boon twins. The petaflop aviatrix shouldn’t take umbrage of that new fling of his.
Given the incommensurable amounts of hard currency his proposal for furnishing such a tremendous venue would require, they would need some formal written protocol. Gauthier was accustomed to this work frame, and the eerie Twins were lawyers. Melchior had countersigned the deal, underwriting the carte blanche for Gauthier’s limitless creativity, considering the listed statute of the venue.
Through the left side door, we found the white marble staircase with an agate balustrade and handrail. Light poured from the glass roof behind a stained-glass ceiling depicting feminine angels in flight, bathing the coloured stucco walls. We reached a landing paved in checkered maroon and cream rimmed in black marble. We entered an aerial mood salon under a white stucco ceiling peopled of low-relief winged fairies in a lattice and climbing roses aviary. The parquet was interspersed with exotic hardwoods in sundry labyrinth motives. Fern kicked off her shoes to dance lightly barefoot across the shiny parquet, and I burned with a want to pull off her fluid dress, too. At the far end stood an all-over library with shelves to the ceiling awaiting books. A flock of colourful birds, scattered in a golden sunset, was painted on the ceiling, and strung veilings hid the view on the street.
Above the entrance, a more solemn room must have been a formal dining room, as attested by the dumb waiter in a corner. Four crystal chandeliers hung from a boundless jumble of nude nymphs amidst creased golden draperies. Cecile would decidedly dig out to know who the sculptor was. On top of coloured stucco dadoes, each wall was painted with birdseye views of sundry exotic estates, which went to show the first owners had been some kind of colonists of some notable importance. The parquet floor was another spectacular windrose made of tropical wood essences. Fern told me to take off my shoes and come waltz with her while Ashler embraced Gauthier while rummaging into his trousers.
We were all elated, fantasising about the lifestyle the Wonder Twins would lead in such a venue, in connivance with the elusive higher-up. On the stairs up to the Mansard attic, I could not refrain from stealing Fern’s fluffy dress and tonguing her bumhole like a bitch a few times.
Upthere, a central corridor, lit by dormer windows, served a quainter suite of private rooms, soft-colour painted wood-panelled and floored in chevron parquet with enough space to re-design convenient bathrooms. In the park, two tall evergreen trees of the southern magnolia species must thrive in the reflected sun rays on the south facade. A last one of the meerschaum-white chalice flowers still shied amidst the dark, gleaming foliage. Sat on his heels, Dauthier was sucking on Asher’s tauten spear; Fern made me rest on a window ledge and lapped my clit like hard candy and was proud to give me tremours.
Once the copper-headed wizard’s craft helped them settle in magnificence, those exceptional two would gather bevvies of mannerly orphans and sprightly Cossacks from our society, wouldn’t they? My legs still vibrating with joy, I offered them to climb to the studio and compile books and reviews on the art of home design. I ordered a rhubarb and ginger pie, a box of almond pralines, and fig and grape kombucha.
Oona, Bryony and Irène had taken a dance class with the holy telepaths, which had concluded in the sauna and the pool. They were altogether elated and languorous. And famish. They soon tasted fruity and sweet, much to the liking of the Belle Haven cats. Everybody was in the buff on the futon, admiring sales catalogues and museum collections. Gauthier took notes. Irène whispered she missed me, taking off my tracksuit on my high chair. From a nearby peeping hide, Alfred relished our pagan ritual, and Fern nigh swooned at his song in Bryony’s arms while Ashler was buggering Oona sideways, kissing her lips.

As usual, a slick plank palisade was soon erected up to the roof in front of the McVies hotel, and a temporary sidewalk was built. Swift workers shielded all the precious inner surfaces while work started in the attics. The twin angels had flown to their east coast province in Melchior’s Albatros. They would meet with 7S operatives to learn about the global implantation.
Meanwhile, about here, the new foundlings had moved into a couple of comfy refurbished apartments downstairs from Rambling Rose and the gang. And, therefore, Hugo was insensibly espousing a new life way as he could now candidly lurk on the dainty little herd in their daily mores. The girls had known they lived just across from Hugo’s service windows, and it did not decide them to wear more togs when at home, alone or together with the upstairs fauna and the cosmopolitan ramblers.
Natalia took them out on her special visits one by one, and Cecile made them rich enough through the Mendelshonn routine, which left exciting purplish circles under their weary eyes. Kate sent photos from the Bahamas but said she missed me. Cecile was aware of me building an empty nest syndrome. Alfred encouraged me to accomplish longer dayswork in my portfolio. I relived the whole cycle of Shostakovich’s symphonies and chamber music, and
I swam beyond my breath into my own metaverses. Gauthier came by once; he was thrilled with the McVies’ workings. They had been allowed to tear off the parquets in the attics and sneak all pipings out of sight before nailing them back. He understood I wasn’t fully enthused, so he pulled me onto the futon and shagged me a good heartfelt once.
I called Hector and told him I was in some kind of forlorn mood. He wouldn’t believe that. He joshed I should be especially arousing and told me to don one of my snazziest attires, and he would take me for a ride. The most I did was slather myself with that wonder cream Hugo had formulated for us and wait for it to disappear on my skin. I was amused that I could still contort so as to massage my own back. I fetched a black silk velvet double-breasted tuxedo with one shiny black embroidered peak lapel in the mariachi style, lined in murder violet twill. Gianni had mocked it made me look like a corpse in a hearse, but he had made it fall smartly at my nape. I wore patent opera pumps with strass barrettes, and I smelled of astray tuberose from top to toe.
When I saw the old black Phantom IV with show windows for the princely parade, I knew what manner of carousel we would whirl in. The chauffeur, that stylish black man, had used me quite a few times in sundry vehicles, and he did that with grace. We drove within the ponderous elegance of the timeless machine through the waning bustle of the evening, up the Champs Elysées, passed the Arc De Triomphe —under that incredibly indecent Marseillaise— and down the Avenue Foch although it was still a tad early for trooping the spitsticks. Hector and his ever-so-smooth driver, Antoine, knew that if, after a turn around the Place Dauphine, they drove all the way behind the bleak architectural incongruity of the Russian barracks, we would be followed for my instant fame. Since Kate and I had let play the game with our good natures, the craze of the cell phones had made it tenser, and I had seen Antoine had a gun. The car was impassibly purring, the music was Gato Barbieri, and Hector’s dick smelled of Haymarket snuff. The pack of wankers jolted the stately carriage. I parted my thighs ajar to show them my arrogant anus.
Hector had fired his spurt on my amygdalae; as I gulped, the mighty vehicle hauled out of the scrummage and roared off towards the nearby highway. Hector gave me a spearmint drop and tongued my soiled mouth, as he said, then he wanked me vigorously till climax. Connolly’s hide doesn’t stain after decades of care. We reached a bleak plain with a slight mound amidst the beetroot fields sheltering a military-looking rusty portal which opened at our approach.
Another one of Louis’ peers’ —myself included— dramatic sets for theatrical depravity, and never before had I protested being used in their parties. The vaulted pathway led downwards for a handful of minutes to a dark round parking place with a few black and grey today’s automobiles. Before landing, Hector clasped a ritzy black dog collar around my neck, hooked to a thin, glittering white metal chain he held with a black leather handle he let me keep while he came to open my door. It smelled of mushroom and mould with tyre gum. A meagre halo emanated from an embedded lamp in the vault over a steel door with a glistening lens at sight height that slid into the wall with a swish. A straight black mirror-clad corridor ran deeper and chillier, with blue light spots hither and tither.
We reached an unfathomably vast scape, a boundless embankment running along the shore of that limpid subterranean lake. Hector pulled me by the leash to some sort of ceremonial black gondola with a man-sized, wing-spread seated gryphon on the bow.

Hector handed the leash to a comely middle-aged strapping man wearing dark green dancer tights with a deliberately open crotch; he was half-mast, but I knew what manner of a smile would enkindle his physique. He led me by the hand to a couch under a glazed canopy at the stern, under the gondolier’s stand, and silently, Venetian style, the bark slid on the still water towards the dark end. A glow poured from the rounded top of the ornate covert; my host gently pulled up my jacket’s lap and hummed, seemingly content with what I showed. I pivoted a notch to offer the chubbiest patch of my anatomy, so he mumbled Hector had promised a smooth-skinned, slender-legged tomboy, and he wasn’t disappointed so far.
I was bound in a long-cast spell I had found in old Edmund Dulac images before I even could read, while the night howled behind the double windows of our white fantasy of a mansion in Taarbæk on the Øresund. Now then, the most indecent stranger flaunted a taut appreciation for my attitude; he carefully slid off my jacket and came to lay at my back, at the ready, if he could fetch some scented, helpful salve of sorts. Sharp tinkles echoed across the nightly vault like invisible bats, then more and more of a spacy random music, aeolian harps, shreds of crystal organ, as he skidded his bow into my wicked entrails and bit my earlobe while spurting his feverish drool as deep as he would.
It had not been too much sweat, and he was dedicated to wiping my bumhole with a soft rag. Amidst the flourish of clinks, some tones of an unhinged celesta skimmed over like fleeting standards, and it lulled my slightly shuffled wits. Our gondola was slowly accosting the landing dock of an eerie, calcined wood pleasure bungalow. Some other indecent passenger awaited and took my leash in turn. It wasn’t so obscure to guess my fate; all spread as I rested, laid in the purple glow for the next voyager’s lust.
That one was clear-eyed under dark, bushy brows. He was hairy and sturdy, his Peter already erected out of velvety part green and purple tights. He had a smooth, foreign voice that he didn’t seem to bother I didn’t grasp. He wore a showy golden chain on his bare, furry black chest, with a heavy pendant of a sleeping stag attached. I am not a sex worker; I was still unnerved by my previous tryst, so to speak, but altogether willing to follow that new lead —with proper manners.
That one smelled of Brazilian woods and spices, the Peruvian balsam. He was hungry for the sweats in every pore of my skin, the dubious juices in my tepid slits. He toppled me thus as to shag my mouth while tonguing my candid little florescence, my feet beating up in the air. He soon tasted of a soapy broth I choked on, to his frivolous amusement, before he vigorously turned me back up and patted my back upon his hairy chest. He advised me to drink some champagne, but the silver cooler also offered tonic water.
I had cried, mind you, and he wiped my eyes with a fresh napkin. He asserted that I did not want mascara and casually asked the gondolier for a bathroom. As if obviously, but wasn’t I dreaming? We soon accosted some eerie azulejo ceramic folly, reminding me at once of the monumental stoves in my ancestor’s mansion in Copenhagen. Under some elaborate white and blue toyland pinnacle, lit on its sides by feeble hanging beacons, the boat slid in a narrow path, bringing us to a doll’s house landing. My Brasileiro watched me step in under the gleaming little vault with a blissful gaze. I found myself in a rounded nook all clad with blue-drawn erotic grotesques on earthenware, with clean toilet apparatuses and water-lily soap. Just like your self-aware garden variety trollop, I peed and rinsed my intimacy in and out with all the suave accessories of a top-notch venue. I could not shower; I smelled of the lewd scent of my skin having been licked over; he said he relished that beastly odour on me.
Back to the boat, offhandedly in a puckish tone, he invited the sailor to use me any old way, telling me to exhibit my bum as he knew the hunk’s tastes. I sensed some wonted act of theirs —like Hector offering me to his chauffeur. It was brusque and hasty, followed by an infuriated ticklish samba, which left us in for another visit to the blue-ornate toilet bowls. Then I would have rather nappe for a gentle while, but my anonymous caballero persisted in thinking I had not exulted to the right measure, and thus he kept tonguing my sensitive triggers and lap all I would gush to his face. Nonetheless, he brought me to a sweet state of oblivion.
I woke up under a weightless shawl, at the side of a crew-cut German, tight-bodied, sun-kissed, blue-eye uncle who ran his dainty fingers through my hair. I kept mum, mentally reckoning with my bits and pieces, and I could not help stretching and yawning, letting him uncover me —with a greedy smirk. He must have been tipped off, for on a footed silver tray were an English china teapot and cups, almond shortbreads, and silk irises in a blue crystal vase.

We wore no watches, and the aeolian tinkles and muffed xylophones still erred around the unfathomable vault. His manicured hands fiddled with the details of my intimacy, reminding me of my sojourn in the bathhouse in Falsterbo, where everyone had petted me all the time, not caring about my age. I had a hunch he was a doctor; I held his gaze and asked, in my best-mannered German, if he liked what he could feel of me, just like I would have to any of Ayla’s clients. I saw my winning guess, but he wasn’t the kind to conceal any vicious flaw, and he complimented my deductions, although he couldn’t fathom what little bird could have tipped me off. I quickly returned to libertine manners before his want be deterred. I let him guess I was some cosmopolitan Nordic raised in privilege and whoring for vice; I gave him a princess grin. And some patches of my secret neurons twitched when he kneaded my feet as my Far would, but my little toying with incest was never a concern, was it?
As he seized my head conveniently at the edge of the couch to invade my mouth with a sizeable Junker’s shaft, he knew zilch of me and probably thought I was as literate as a kettle, but he treated me fair and did not lack dexterity in wanking me; I figured he might simply be tired of the sick patients. Then he threaded me like a girl, first in the voyage, and I quivered like a fucking swan, enwrapping him and moaning for real.
He had tasted of steel and bleach, and he poured me some more tea. The boat reached a red and gold chinoiserie with seeming paper lanterns; flocks of tinkles twirled like whistling doves, bells tolled from the depth. He ushered me to a mock temple lavatory and begged me to straddle him backwards and pee upon him while he kissed me so candidly. Then, after a last glance at me doing my toilet, he went to dive into the lake and swam away.
The gondolier, allowing himself some easy liberties, told me it was time to fly home. Fingering my washed petunia, he hoped I would be brought back for another cruise in eternal night. The pontoon appeared in the car’s parking lights. I slid on my jacket and shoes and took Hector’s hand to help me touch the ground; the boat had already gone.
Hector and the chauffeur would be used to these long idle times, but needless to say, I was eagerly awaited, all shagged and ragged by Their Lordships, smelling of my abandons, dirty as they craved. On the deserted plateau, a bluish-grey dawn was pointing; I wallowed obediently nude on the Connolly banquette, and Hector was sniffing me like a bed of roses. I was far overspent, but I could let him use my starry bumhole with the swaying of the road, and then they swapped, as obviously, and Charles took his time —unabashedly.
At home, Alfred mocked me and called me the sluttiest of them all, although I knew it wasn’t true —but my wallet was bulging. Bryony and Oona were sleeping in each other’s arms. I almost swooned in the long shower, but I still did an orange blossom enema before joining the angels.
I woke up mid-afternoon. The flat was empty, and the maid was cleaning. I slid on a tracksuit that smelled of a blonde girl, and I climbed up to the studio. After brewing some Oriental Beauty and filling up the samovar, I perched on my Aeron chair with my feet on the desk, and I tried to sort out that last night between actual and fantasy. Alfred no longer bothered about me. As dusk sank above the zinc roofs, I was seized with a swaying torpor, like on a gondola, until the idea of an almond and rhubarb pie imposed itself, and thus, I ordered dinner.
Irène had spent the day in awe of Cecile’s realm; no sooner had she sat next to me at the dinner table than her hands busied in my pants for my bliss. She smelled of Renaissance Carnation. Oona and Bryony had been spellbound, watching the telepaths and offering them their charms to play with. Oona had seemed the most gifted of the two at improvising; it went back to her young school years. Irène was wet as a runnel, and her nipples were ticklish. Cecile explored Bryony’s flannel pyjamas and Oona’s Spandex shorts. We were making a pretty brood with sneaky hands.
Cecile knew me best; she wanted to know about my night alone with Hector, and so I finished in the buff in the middle of the sofa with puppies chewing my toes and Cecile drinking at my coochie. They hardly believed the altogether suave depravity of my tale. I promised I would recommend them if they dared. Meanwhile, I suggested we watch an Italian porn movie on the grand bed until we dropped, but Cecile flinched and went to her bed.
In front of the well-hung buffoonery of an unfettered Italian orgy, it was Irène’s turn to endure the feminine fury of the other two over my body. It was all the more delicious to fantasise about any of them in the purple light with a Swiss general or a British Don, and being expensively shagged to the bone a good many times. Although they had already worked in the wild, they might want some preparatory training.

When the McVies barged in, we were all still intertwined and dreamy; they were bringing puff brioches and loved catching us in bed. They had landed in the wee hours and longed to see the worksite in their new Parisian home. Fern took a fancy for Irène coming out of the shower; she wore a silk pinstripe cypress green power suit and a rosy twill blouse, chestnut and cream Oxfords; she was princely sexy. Irène, wonderfully nude at Fern’s neck, said she wanted shoes like that, so we disputed who would buy her shoes —and garner her utmost favours. Bryony took Ashler aside by the window and hunkered down to suck his youthful dick to completion like a pro.
Gauthier appeared in spotless overalls and sneakers. He stood marvelled at the tableau of the American angel in honey-golden tweed bedraggled so as to defile the barely legal face of Bryony, and he would hardly tell which of the two he craved most. Once the last spout of bitter blessing gulped, she offhandedly walked to the sink and rinsed her mouth like a seamen’s trull. Gauthier grappled her and gave her a long, sincere kiss. He then told us all he had something exciting to make us visit, but first, we should slide on our most casual sportswear, not to tease the working teams overly.
He took us down to the basement of the girls’ hive in the back, which was dull but clean, and led us to the far end of a coarse stone corridor where fresh masonry framed a new metal door, which opened on a series of nondescript basement hallways and doors, for which he had the keys until we reached a much older vaulted cave where the ashlar stones had just been cleaned.
The three rows of pillars and the disparate slabs on the floor looked like salvaged parts of an older building, so it seemed the house was set upon older ruins, just like those found in the foundations of our sector. In a corner, a round bronze-covered stone rim started to hum, and Gauthier explained there was a modern lifting pump in the well to prevent the underground waters from soaking in the walls. However, since 1910, a lot has been undertaken by the city on a grand scale. A huge mysterious, dull grey box stood in a corner with coloured pipes running into the walls. It was, Gauthier said, the magical geothermal centre which had discreetly, if radically, modified the mansion’s habitability.
One level up were the kitchen and sundry service rooms, all clad in white glazed tiles to the ceiling, with limestone slabs on the floor. The McVies agreed to keep the whole floor as such, adding up-to-date appliances and lighting. Concealed staircases in the depth of the walls led to various places in the noble rooms. So did a system of dumb waiters.
From there on, all stairs and railings had been swathed in clear plastic, and so had the sumptuous walls, columns and cornices. In the ground floor reception room, my forever darling Cecile in white overalls and tee shirt, her hair gathered under a cap and headphones on top, was carefully removing old varnishes with the concoction of turpentine and alcohol. Cyprien and some other help whose gender I could not determine also operated in music. I told Oona to watch and went to seize Cecile by the waist in that manner she wouldn’t jolt at, like old times. I slid a hand discreetly under the tee shirt. She saw there was a whole crowd standing behind us; she pulled the headphones and said hello to all, still intrigued by the owners overtly petting the gamines. Cyprien joined us politely, and they explained that, all in all, the wall paintings had been thoroughly well-preserved and needed not much of a refresh. Cyprien asserted that the previous owners had certainly been educated connoisseurs. I learned later that they had been Swedish diplomats I was related to.
We went on; Gauthier had put on a bright red cap, and we took our chances with the dust. We crossed plenty of professionals with eager eyes on our waists. Fulgence had known we would come and he was all smiles. Oona liked him and swayed her hips unequivocally, so I whispered names in her neck, and she laughed beautifully. I winked at my pal Fulgence.
We reached the Mansard attic, which was almost finished. Seven bedrooms of different sizes all had ensuite shower bathrooms, soundproofing them from one another. Doors and partitions were top-notch hotel-grade, and so were the brand-new beds. Fern relished all that, and she drew Irène to an instant inauguration. They were both ravishingly naked in the blink of an eye, but none of the workforce was troubled, and Fulgence knew he would have his turn. The bedrooms had various light-hue Venetian plaster coatings it had been decided to keep, except for necessary new partitions which had been panelled in wood.
On a pietredure side table, Gauthier presented a catalogue of photos of furniture and other items he had scouted out for the McVies. Ashler assured him his signature alone would secure the purchase, and he said he would make a funds advance that very day.

I was overjoyed that Gauthier be quietly putting our lifeways into practice for the greater delectation of the Belle Haven miracle. And whatever the Twins’ fate in Melchior’s orb, another temple to some new Isis mysteries, attainable through yet another private subterranean path. As of now, we had disrupted enough the course of a hi-octane work site, so to speak; thus, now that Gauthier had his paperwork done, I proposed a morning dip to the devilish pack —and all that sort of things. I went to gather up Fern and Irène on their cloud, and on the way out, I went to hug Cecile tight in her armour.
Everyone back au naturel in the virgin waters of the day, we did certainly not let Fern apart in her crush, and she had to surrender very graciously to all the random fondling.
I would have bet Gauthier would join us, once the teams were set. He wanted to take the McVies on a selected tour of the best art dealers nearby, and, possibly, later dinner with Hugo, of whom he knew first-hand the vast resources in fine taste, if expenses were boundless. But first, he managed to shag Fern in Irène’s very arms while Ashler rewarded Bryony with a long, heartfelt spend, and my Nordic little siren asked for cuddles, so we climbed up to the studio and spaced out on the futon while Alfred raved in the high castle.
That’s how Natalia found us, and she disrobed so as to join us. She knew Oona had a crush on her, too. She smelled of a mild men’s Cologne, just like when she had been spending some tea-time trysts with the Dean, and she cast that foxy glare of hers.
I wouldn’t know if that was her idea beforehand. Still, she suggested we should ask Sami to make us three available together to use freely in a quaint padded salon at Philippe’s. Still, she could tell Oona was instantly beguiled and wet at the idea to go whoring ourselves. No need for fancy outfits, and our hair was fresh from the wash. We sprayed expensive fragrances, donned our snazziest sportswear and called for a cab.
It was a Parisian drizzle, like in a Galien-Laloue. We went in through the little back door on rue de Montpensier, and Sami was bedazzled by Oona’s freshness. He led us to the staff dining room, a quaint, patinated, oak-panelled, shady mezzanine where a table of four lackeys in black tuxedos leered at us heavily while tipping their absent hats; sure they would have us, once or another. They were right and not ugly; I nodded with a smirk. Oona didn’t see them; she was holding my hand.
We were served apple fritters with a sweet and sour sauce, roasted pumpkins and mushrooms, and caramelised pineapple slices, all accompanied by delicious oolong. Sami has a faultless memory for such details; he returned to lead us through the maze of narrow corridors and staircases where I knew he would grapple Oona on one of these small landings, just like he had anyone of us before, and he wasn’t a rough shagger, anyhow. I gave him way so he could take hold of her narrow hips and pull down her trousers. Natalia had climbed ahead; she helped pull up the top while I unbuttoned his fly. He was in splendid shape, tautened at the sight of Oona’s rounded buttocks as Natalia relished her mouth. He wanted her drooling vagina; he asked her to spread as wide as she could and rammed her in one go, making her howl in Natalia’s face. These cumbersome being his favourite, and her already dripping of bliss, he wasn’t long to spurt a ladle of soapy soup at the gates of her womb. It reminded me of our first visits with Kate, not yet accomplished harlots, but resolute sluts we were.
Ever so radiant, he showed us to a bathroom and told us to lay our clothes down, finely musing that we might not recover our knickers at the end. He vetted our cards and said our rewards would be wired, as we had requested. Oona, still shaken by the staircase surprise, was overjoyed to gambol in the nude. She prepared herself as we did: she asked me for a kiss.
It was one of the social salons, with the explicit square crimson carpeted banquette amidst four large malachite-green velvet buttoned sofas with plump armrests. On the walls, upholstered in matched green silk, big motive lampas, stood the big “Marie-Antoinette” one-way mirrors for the shy onlookers. On the floor was a thick British dark burgundy Persian motive carpeting. In a corner was a folding screen painted of bronze green acanthus leaves against a golden field.
Three gents in corporate suits and ties stood up for us and seized us by the waist, waltz manner. Mine was the oriental type with big Indian eyes, a long straight nose, a finely drawn mouth, and long black curls in his nape. He kissed as languorously as a girl, , but he sported a proud jutting spur against my underbelly. The next one was a tad plumper, bald on top, but he smelled of old days’ Craven “A” cigarettes my Far had kept in a red tin box with the famous black cat. He sure knew how to finger a girl. His shoulders were strewn with freckles. The third one immediately bent me over a headrest, as he had done with my pals, and he tongued my bumhole with such frenzy I sang soprano.

They asked us to cavort all we knew on the stage bed, and they weren’t disappointed. One of the livery-clad lackeys cropped up from behind the screen with portable valet stands for their suits, and the show stage withstood the weight of the subsequent scrummage. The pretty cangaceiro was the fastest to mount me like some pillage loot, but he could be fine-mannered. I heard Oona’s typical notes as her feet fluttered in the air. Bryony rested back, pinned on the British fat cat, her thighs parted like a shivering moth.
One and two more amateurs scurried in to help, starkers and taut up already, and I found my nose stuck in a musky tuft while I gurgled on a dogged glans.
Sami must have posted the “complet” sign very soon afterwards, and a waiter trolleyed in a large ice bucket full of champagne and flasks of Philippe’s own kombucha with Boheme multicolour crystal goblets. Once the initial flurry of rut slaked, there was some childish scuttle in the bathroom to rinse away the cloggy broth we were filled and covered with, like the wrestling team with a catch of does. Copiously massaged with the most expensive bath oil, we lay swooned in lewd postures like tossed puppets, knowing it was only yet a respite from the big cats wallowing in the shady sofas.
We had nonetheless cast ourselves in the furnace of the Hellfire Club, of boundless repute, and thus, it wouldn’t be inconceivable that the idea was floated to watch the three of us satisfy carnally our extras who had been pawing on the carpet with bulging breeches. Hence, we were ordered to strip the servants bare and let them use us in any manner they fancied and that we would not baulk at, suavely oiled as we had been.
Of course, the young buggers had known all along that they would have us to play with. It was an all-time Parisian wont, older even than the Régence, which had spawned the venue we were gambolling in. One slender Moorish pirate stood his fly to my nose, waiting. I took the time to slide off the culotte to his feet and some kind of spandex trunks he had already wetted. He smelled of refined oud and was circumcised, his hefty balls tucked high. His shaft was considerable, even for a rakehell slut like me. He granted me a quick swig, and I twigged that he wouldn’t fizzle out any time soon, but he fenced in style and even hailed my own climaxes. They had foreseen plush towels to wipe off our slits in bloom.
After a while of humping in my guts, he nodded at his chum, who had shagged Oona, for a hot swap. That one was a shade darker and even sturdier when he put me on all fours and slid into my arse for a long gust of vigourous jolts, which left me electrocuted and inundated, to the applauds of the senior clubmen who kept their staffs in hand for a foreseeable lap of honour.
The third goon had almost exhausted Bryony back and forth and told her to clean his spear in her mouth. He was a green-eyed Estonian absconder with smooth, wide shoulders whom I had already shagged a few times in my random roamings in this pleasure maze. We spoke dirty in Baltic slang, I grasped he relished having me after the whole battalion had soiled me like a Talinn strumpet; I sniggered, for I knew he had been an art student in Helsinki and, for the while, he couldn’t figure a position where he would make as much money and free shagging. He upturned me and held my feet up, telling me he wanted to read my eyes while buggering me. His name was Feliks, and he forced me to squeeze his tireless drill to wake my nerves in another tremor. I knew I would forget that hoodlum no more, would I?
Sami whistled the end of playtime, and we returned to the bathroom, our thighs awash with running goo. Our clients craved to cuddle our disjointed remains in outrageous poses while sipping the ultimate mocha. The theatre of operations still reeked of sundry gushes, and it didn’t help us from sprawling again in our own vice.
Only half of them still had the stamina to penetrate our lazy holes one last go. Then Sami took us under his wing and gave us back our easy togs, minus the knickers three unrefutable johns had bought out. The taxi driver smirked gently and ogled back Oona at the traffic light. Her waistband was kind of low.
Back home, rich and squandered altogether, we curled up under the comforter unabashedly. My pretty cohorts were proud Sami had singled them out as dyed-in-the-wool libertines, whatever it mean with a worldly go-between like him. If what life walk they contemplated was some kind of a libertine laisser-faire, they would fruitfully entertain a character like Liselotte, and this, our magnificent Natalia could arrange tastefully. Meanwhile, on the lavender pillow, unbeknownst to me, an unconsequential voice had woken words from white nights of yesteryears, asking me if I could still fly, then I must have turned over.

Cecile says:

To think we had been living merely a stone’s throw from such an expenditure of craftsmanship and art was capsizing my partial notions of social history. This whole palace had been built during the turmoil of recurring revolutions, after the King and Queen were beheaded, no less. By luck, none of the worst malediction for art brought back from Egypt by Napoleon’s troupe, the mummy brown that is, was used on these walls as it has been for many desperate works I wouldn’t want to confront.
Now, a two-minute walk from Nataly Barney’s Temple to Friendship, the American money prodigy was back, overbidding on the mores front for our wonderment. I craved the moment when the godlike Twins would sit on our sofa for Cyprien’s pencils, and I would watch. Lauritz texted he’s returning with a newfound expensive fiancée from Bratislava. As usual, the works, a guy from high school took her to the sea she had never seen; they would sleep, at worse, in the car, an old Lada the father had let him. They had shagged in every field on the way to Chernomorets, a beach resort on the black sea, where he suddenly told her she was sold to the two thugs who had shown up, and she now merely possessed the tiny bikini she wore. She had tried to run, only to meet more thugs, and the few bathers were German or Russian and jokingly proposed to her.
After the half dozen thugs had abused her in a secluded old shack with soundproofed apertures, she had been left there, nude, chained to the wall, on a burlap bed with a movers’ blanket, a plastic can of water, a box of cereals and a dirty bucket. She had been raped again and again. Sometimes, the swines brought women along to groom her, cut her nails, shave her pubis and wash her hair. She had been made particularly clean for the visits of the only lout who addressed her with a bullwhip in hand he would eventually use on her anyhow. She had been told she was an asset to the Lepo gang and would be put in a brothel closer to the affluent regions of Europe or sold to the Israelian mob. Her only fate was to squeeze out the johns’ cum in less than fifteen minutes and smell not too dirty.
I kept writing hoards of questions from the snug comfort of my cubbyhole. Lauritz said Petra was asleep in his Parisian flat, amidst yet another philosophy of a brothel. He had met her in Graz, in a so-so pleasure house someone had shown on Telegram. As usual, it had been a sudden crush when he read Petra’s gaze at the bar. He had paid for the “girlfriend” treatment, and they had talked in broken English. Under Petra’s eyes, he had called sundry higher-ups and learned who exactly she must belong to. Eventually, a gaudy blond Trump-style pimp showed up in their room, holding Petra’s ID documents and telephone, asking for the price of a good new car. Naked in one of the house’s red and green striped robes, Lauritz executed the transfer on his phone with an air of lassitude; Petra remained covered in the duvet to the eyes. When the pimp read on his phone that his bank had asserted the transfer, he made a suspicious grin, handed Petra’s belongings and clicked his heels. Lauritz had parked yet another 911 on the hotel’s lot. He carried Petra in a robe to the car and gave her one of his tracksuits and sports socks. He had not even touched her. She was hanging onto her belongings like a shipwrecked kid. She was terrified when she had to show her ID at the Slovenian border. Lauritz told her to put her phone to charge on the car’s plug. They listened to a web-streaming millennial playlist, and she cried to no end. Checking in a five stars hotel in Ljubliana, Lauritz begged her to act as he wasn’t the cause of her tears, but the concierge scanned his passport like a US airport customs officer. She still sniffed now and then. They ordered a nightly supper with caviar à la coque, truffled jellied chicken, and Sacher-torte with whipped cream. And Champagne.
Never in her young life had she been looking at such food, only in James Bond movies, or the like. He asked the desk if they had tee shirts, so a groom brought an assortment, all branded with the hotel’s name. He bought them all so then he could relish her gamine tits before he dared twiddle with her toes. Her phone was alive, but she couldn’t think of who to call, reading the rare messages in her box.
Lauritz thought it unbelievable that a most pretty girl would be so forlorn. Walking on eggs, he used bits and pieces of all the languages he knew to thread the story of Petra’s sorry life. She had been born to a terrified high schooler who had kept her pregnancy a secret before anything could terminate it. Her birth had spawned such devastation in a poor family of obscurantist bend. They made Petra’s mother’s life so miserable that she hurled herself under a train. They considered the little girl a manifestation of evil but did not want to give her up for adoption. It was a compassionate neighbour who put herself to caring for her, only to garner the scorn of the grandparents because of a slight limp she had.

Petra had been the light in Galina’s lonely life, but her biological family had waned from her life. When she crossed her grandparents on the stairs, she did not salute them. The public school administration was so negligent —and she was, thanks to Galina, an excellent pupil— that she could fake all the loose procedures to the end.
It went smoothly till she reached thirteen, when Galina missed a step and was taken unconscious to the hospital. One neighbour told her about the accident, but he did not know where she had been taken to. She had all the keys, and all the mandates to Galina’s little world. There was no rent to pay, no nothing. She settled to wait and went on to the post office to cash Galina’s small pension. She never knew what had become of her beloved substitute mother. She did not go to her grandfather’s funeral when cancer took him, and her grandmother was taken away with Alzheimer’s disease. She saw a tipper full of rubbish take away those of her grandparents’ relics the neighbourhood had not salvaged, holy books and used laundry.
Lauritz had denuded her all right; the few months of prostitution had blunt her modesty, but he needed our conviction about her self-awareness before unleashing his horses. I could imagine my cavalier holding back with a desirable courtesan, nude in a loose robe, in the seat next to his in the car, and when did he jack off?
We dozed out on each end of the line, and I did not reconnect in the morning, dipping the foundations of another day wearing that diving mask while applying solvents; Cyprien had always been obdurate on this, the company delivered the big bottles every other day, and we kept the doors sealed. These days, the motive was an areopagus in light outfits facing some dreamlike Arcadia, and I cheated unabashedly on the bodily traits of the characters, bringing them to my taste, but nothing irreversible, though.
At the end of the afternoon, I had a call from Lauritz, who wished we set a dinner for Petra, rather than seeming to entrap her at Specks, which was whatsoever a brothel of sorts. He had not been so pernickety with the flock of backstreet sparrows, but then he had gathered a gang of unabashedly willing harlots. Petra, in his words, had been repeatedly clobbered by life, and she deserved to meet with all the resilient survivors in the tribe.
They came up with an armful of shy-rose roses that Sarah installed in a big silver wine bucket. Petra was the utmost of what I had figured, dressed in a slate-blue raglan baby cashmere coat, a greyish-blue variegated wavy silk jersey long-sleeves, scoop neckline, mid-thigh dress, transparent veil stockings, and two-tone Audrey flats. Gosh, what a princely debutante! Were these open-crotch tights? I knew first-hand how Lauritz behaved in a clothing shop, but as for me, he had groped me in the fitting room. In any case, Petra was a success.
Undoubtedly, she had a Hepburn face, but with thick bangs. Witty firm brows, long natural lashes, long straight nose, lovely drawn lips, and a small willful chin. Her hands and feet were tapered and classy. Lauritz had seen her nude, and he had gone off his mind. She smelled of a sacred blue lily pond. Sarah, Oona, Bryony, Dagmar, and Gwen were there. All the most inspirational cuisine from Agnete&Sanne had been delivered. Dagmar, who had whored in Austria in one of her lives, explained the bulk of our fashionable vegan lifeway while daring a deft hand between Petra’s thighs without causing apparent dismay, but who could rebuff the big-blue-eyed angel?
Petra was more lively than I had feared. She was visibly overjoyed with our company and the imaginative decor. After hearing the woeful stories of each girl and me, goaded thus by Sarah—who personally owned to having been given a paradisical upbringing—and Lauritz, she decided to try and sketch her doomed destiny. She asked for paper and a pen to draw the layout of her becoming into being, still with the tender help of Dagmar. Lauritz followed up with Graz, a place Dagmar had known, too, and had fled. She could tell Lauritz details on the blond pimp there.
With iced nougat, almond tiles, coffee and tea, Petra became bolder in her questions about our lifeways and soon grasped that we were inveterate rakehells, to say the least, and overjoyed thus. She hardly believed in the independent registration organisation, which supposedly gave us free rein in our debauchery at the service of paying club members. To her, it couldn’t be anything but a police ring or some scheme. Lauritz was brought to confess his own Parisian house was a Maison de Rendez-vous affiliated with the card bearers’ web. By the way, he put forth the simple health prevention reasons for serious data updates in the individual microchips. I added that my personal earnings for sexual services, aka prostitution, transited on this card account, and I wasn’t shy to pay my taxes and the like —but the vice share of the trade was for free, obviously.

The multi-orphan from Sofia was in the least weary reckoning that Lauritz had purely and solely bought her like the others before, and he was a brothel operator, or was he? Meanwhile, hic et nunc, she had drifted from hands to hands with lovable self-styled amateur prostitutes who smelled of the sublime. The dress had a zipper down her loins; we did not tear it. Petra showed an unearthly figure and wore no knickers in her tights, which were swiftly stolen. She did not baulk when Dagmar, suddenly denuded, pulled her onto a sofa and nuzzled down her shaved mons. She sported a tad more tits than me and altogether a rich, white satiny complexion. She had Touareg blue lacquered nails on her feet, which meant she had, be it subconsciously, considered being stripped nude.
Dagmar lapped all she squirted, but she broke in shame and sobbed in Dagmar’s bosom. Sarah joined them and sang an ageless rhyme while cuddling her lovely feet. Oona knew the song as she drank the tears on her face. Petra confessed she had shamefully climaxed unwillingly while she was chained in the filthy shack they had kept her hopeless. I recounted part of my own repeated ordeal in the reeking cellar with my obese uncle, and how a disgusting orgasm had suddenly cut my legs, this until Sarah had singled me out and pushed me into Lauritz’s bed. Every now and then, I still had my fantasies in damp cellars with rotten barrels. Petra drilled her gaze into my soul and eventually begged for a kiss.
Once we were all in the buff, making out some way or another on the cushions, Lauritz said it would be desirable that Petra remained with us, be it to have her portrait drawn for his collection. I acknowledged his elegance and reached for his beloved staff to suck him clean before he ran.
Dagmar and Gwen, two legendary born harlots, took Petra in their wings to the grand bed. Irène needed me as her momentary teddy bear; Sarah had a life with Oona and Bryony in Fayelle’s room. Irène was indeed so skilful with the tip of her tongue, but I had to confess my spirits had wandered away to a bygone cellar when I gushed at her lips. She demanded I redeem that sin in kind, and once she had her long thrill, I did not ask if she had fantasised of a chauffeured stretched sedan car on the rainy boulevards.
At lunchtime, Gauthier brought Petra to the workplace after a tour of the realm that had left her speechless —or would it be that he had cornered her in some nook? There was a curious little scent about her, but then, she was wearing some random sportswear. When Fern met her, there was a mutual moment, and it wasn’t long before they disappeared on the third floor —Fern called it the fourth. I retold her story to Gauthier, who had heard them all; he liked the kitten —I knew he must have shagged her hastily, but he was, notwithstanding, a gifted amorist. On his side, Ashler had been chasing Bryony with marked innuendos before they evaporated, too.
When the princess and her new pet returned, nose in the air and arm in arm, Fern declared that Petra had chosen her future room. A low burr came from the front yard. They were delivering a larger-than-life gilded bronze genie by Paul Manship, leaping aslant, that the McVies had purchased from Switzerland. It was bravely installed on the left side between two windows. It would respond to a thorny-some monumental couple by Philippe Hiquily on the right. Gauthier had other plans for the yard on the back burner.
The specialists were at the transmogrification of some odd anterooms into avant-garde bathrooms for the ethereal guests of the side wings bedrooms on the garden side. There had been conciliabules about the evacuation flow gradients —American humans took frequent longer showers. I had seen the teams execute marvels on our side of the block. When the hardened professionals began to stomp the bears’ dance idly around the ditherer clients, Gauthier suggested they go back to the sports venues, or the young faunesses show the Twins to the Bon Marché and let them spree shop for Petra.
As we had returned to the sanctity of our meticulous scrubbing of the Romantic era fairy tales, under our noise-cancelling bluetooth prosthetics suffusing the Great Leipzig Kantor’s universal perspective, Cyprien beckoned me towards a pastoral assembly on a gentle slope, in the Poussin taste. When he rubbed a turpentine pad upon it, it became obvious the scene had been grossly painted over to dissimulate the original anatomies. It was too good an opportunity for a rightful makeover; from under my bulky overalls, I gestured my vehement approval to wipe off the bigotry without further ado. My hand to the fire that Gauthier would approve once he re-emerge from Petra’s knickers. And so, under Cyprien’s highly trained hand, the originally more lascivious assembly reigned anew in the green pastures. Chances were that we would discover other such misdeeds hither and dither in these undergrowths, and I was certain the Twins would love us all the more. What the heck did we know if these paintings were listed?

Cyprien came up and showed me his watch. We shut off the air regulators, removed the layers of protection we had endured the day in, and removed the white overalls, in which I merely wore knickers. We had a concealed stairway down to the basement showers; Cyprien had seen me naked casually since ever, but that day, he watched me and made a much-praised compliment; he wasn’t in the least erect.
I put on a marigold yellow tracksuit and hoped I would find Irène, but I was put to a stop by a call from Lauritz. He wasn’t his own self about Petra. I suggested he take her to Camille and Fanny’s, but The Twins and the new kid in town had been invited to TRÆVIX’s, so I devised to convey to my beloved initiator that we would appreciate her dropping by for advice as to another of Lauritz’s little tramps’ fate. Trine arranged for Michelle’s understanding of her home invasion, but wasn’t it the whole point of her extravagant setting? To herself alone, a wall of monitors in a bare bunker would always do, but she also loved the mellow skin of the grown nippers she spoiled and rolled on her futon with.
Smoke signals for a new carnal pow-wow in Wonderland were detected in every concerned chatroom as fast as a Russian drone. Delff was a notch above ground, her eyes like meteoric peridots. His Pervasive Highness had endorsed the Belle Haven Twins with his young associate as much-praised, new special recruits, not motivated by money, nigh preterhuman, numinously beauteous. HPH had been head over heels molten.
Delff helped Michelle don one of her golden light costumes that made her look like a glorious saint in a Jesuit temple. It was a moment when she let herself be done and fondled like the matador of no corrida, and she was turned into Delff’s faultless creation.
The Twins, along with Petra and Bryony, were early. They had pillaged the finest shops in the Bon Marché and stored the loot in Petra’s room. Petra wore a Napoleonic gold-on-night-blue acanthus printed silk twill shirt dress; strass adorned black patent opera pumps, and nought else because Fern fondled her at all times. Bryony pawed the rug in a short, purplish-black tank dress and black patent flat Maryjanes, nought else because Ashler liked to grope her apple-ish derrière. He wore black and crimson changing taffeta jeans, a black cashmere varsity jacket trimmed in vermillion and stitched with huge scarlet numbers eight front and back, a black silk jersey tee shirt embroidered with the same number eight, and deep purple suede Chelsea boots. Fern, her hair gathered in a low chignon, a strand of pink pearls at her swanny neck, wore a white taffeta shirt dress embroidered in full with convoluted white swashes, white tights and white suede flats. She brought to my unbridled mind the negative image of a Mexican hearse with a candid smile and a rhinestone belt in the fragrance of a jasmine murmuration.
We sat amidst Jinju Lee’s peaceful fantoms in the pearly dining room; the pictures had been renewed in the same vein of innocent rêverie and black transparent hoses. Apolline, unaware of our impromptu party, had been drawn to the smell of puff petit fours. She wore a man’s pyjama top in maroon silk satin stripe and the most immodest oversized matched trunks. Reading Fern’s intrigued glance, she warned smoothly that she was a middlesex being who preferred a feminine pronoun, and indeed that was how we loved her. Fern did not show awkward and continued to leer unabashedly at what Apolline let see. Petra did not fully grasp the gist of their flirt. Gwen had not departed from her best style; she dawdled by, obviously naked in a broad-knit, oversized cowl-neck almond-green jumper dress and gathered up indecently her tapered legs on the armchair, but she expressed genuine concern for Petra’s sore destiny, in that surprising idiosyncratic parlance she had combobulated in the course of her own deranged upbringing. They heartfully clicked and made a promise to further their mutual tales head-to-head, and Fern encouraged a chance for camaraderie.
Sarah, in a heavy black silk satin pyjama, trimmed with silver piping, and silver mules, like in a long-shot homage to Marlene, had poached out the young Estonian Feliks from Philippe’s, after the other night’s memorable orgy, and thus Bryony and Oona giggled. The grey-eyed hunk strutted in a strict black suit, and Fern was intrigued.
Delff had once been so proud to show me, in the kitchen, the new professional Italian coffee percolator that I had let them do what they wished of my body in the private powder room nearby. That evening, everybody but Sarah drank mocha. Irène became moody, Jinju Lee disquieted her, triggering a phobia of damp earth; I took her to the grand imaginarium landscape salon to get nasty on the red sofas. A new golden miniature Gothic steeple rang a tiny silvery Carillion to a new tune randomly every quarter hour. She became all the more lascivious when Sarah and Feliks wandered about to watch us. Sarah had an open fly.

I have always entertained the idea that Michelle likes me, like she loves Sarah, of whom she says she saved her life. So, I wasn’t surprised to see her sit by us and beam through her crystal lenses. She might have mistaken Irène for the new Lauritz’s flame they wanted to meet Camille and Fanny. For now, Irène’s nonchalant attitude aroused her, and we relished seeing her thus amidst her own extravaganza.
Camille showed up with Fanny. Their spotless closeness dated back to the days when Fanny had fled the Montenegrin mob away from Venice and, no less, helped Interpol liquidate its head. Camille invariably wore all manner of green tweed, so then it was just a long-sleeve, mid-thigh trapeze mini dress with grey pearl buttons, her flamboyant mane covering her shoulders. Petra caught her eye. A redeemed alley cat herself, she had a sense for shattered souls in a gracile figure. Fanny spoke some of the Balkanic tongues; she had been raised by some despicable Serbian officer who had snatched her from a foundling refuge because of her blond curls and blue eyes. Living with Camille under a new identity —she had never had a proper one before— she had found some solace with the righteous therapist Doctor Méant, an acquaintance of Camille’s and Hugo’s, and while she learned French, she had followed course on European languages, hence her multifaceted capacity to somewhat understand the Bulgarian runaway who, by the way, seemed to possess a gift to put everybody under her spell.
Fanny wore a white, long silk Chinese flimsy shirt, and the miniature steeple played Debussy. Camille took me aside, she pretended to ask my advice about the new grand worldly venue on our street. It wasn’t long before the blonde and the brune slip away to the swimming pool Fanny hardly knew. Camille had been essentially enlightened about the Belle Haven prodigy and Melchior’s infatuation, and she might have seen some clips of them taken aboard the Albatross —as we all knew he would. Camille had told me she was thirteen when Hugo fished her out of the slough she had been wading in till someone recommended her to his door, and he eventually groomed her up to a bona fide doctorate in art history from the Sorbonne; however not reneging her long-honed jungle awareness. She played the McVies like a fine-tuned radio, granting them her associate’s trust. She let her fingertips dance on the broderie icicles of Fern’s dress until it slid apart on the gracile figure. No craved creature would ever shy from Camille’s advances.
I understood Hugo had his own secret pathway to TRÆVIX palace. He wore a brilliant Uzbeck chapan coat covered with bold crewel work ornaments over layered white linen shirts and ornate Uzbeck mid-calf boots. He was beaming at the sight of such a refined society. He held fervently Michelle’s hands, but could hardly keep his eyes from Fern’s smooth belly, and Camille was amused. The time would come for sophisticated neighbourly receptions, wouldn’t it?
Ashler had hitched up Bryony’s dress for all’s relish and was buggering her the easy pace while Gwen devoured her mouth. Camille embraced Fern, offering her pink capucine bloom to Michelle’s tongue-tip, who had crouched at her feet. I had stripped Trine in a smooth jiffy, she smelled of sweet laurel and almond, like a cookie fairy dipped in linden tea. Feliks watched us like some wired lynx, but eventually, he seized Dagmar’s foot with grace. Sarah kept exhibiting her boyish buttocks as she had captured and stripped Irène, and therefore, she garnered a lollipop erection by Apolline’s toy.
Lauritz had my keys. He arrived at the end of leg one, in a frenzy of flaring perfumes. He looked sharp as a dancer in a black silk three-piece suit and a white wingtip collar shirt. Reading the disappointment of not seeing Petra, Camille told him where she was for her greater good, with Fanny’s best advice. I beckoned him between Trine and me; thus, he regained his senses, all the more when Trine, whom he had never shagged before, busied her tiny hand about his fly’s buttons. He smelled of his expensive Cologne. Trine’s narrow hips infuriated his staff. He grabbed the tube of gel and made her defenceless to his careful humping until she swayed erratically and gushed her orgasm on his balls before he discharged a flood in her entrails.
When Fanny and Petra came back from their fluid games, Michèle had stolen Irène away to the command room; Natalia, Fulgence, and Gauthier had found us naked and spent, which did not stop Fulgence shagging Trine properly. Petra introduced Fanny to Lauritz. They explained the gist of a life plan they had devised, if Lauritz was willing. The tiny tangerine tits on Fanny’s narrow frame moved him as she tried to explain how she had once been as anguished as Petra was, were it not for the discreet guidance of the secret service and the professional patience of her therapist. Still acting in the tender moment they had just shared, she kept cuddling Petra, and Lauritz relished the scene.