Cecile says:

Fern had kept an eye on Petra’s moves, and she was overjoyed to see her return with Fanny in high spirits. Decidedly, Lauritz was led to reckon with me that his worries about the redeemed princess were behind him. Herself beguiled by Fanny’s convincing charm, she hatched a plan in which the irresistible blonde would move in with Petra in the Belle Haven embassy and be paid as preceptor of the house pet girl. They would thus pertain to the subterranean network, from the possibly Roman foundations up to Alfred’s observatory, did I banter.
Beethoven’s Hymn To Joy played in the golden steeple when Lauritz let himself shag the girl from Graz in some tender mêlée where Fern and Ashler scattered Fanny to all winds of lust. I reckoned it was time for me to whisk Irène away to my room.
Brought around with some protocols by Gauthier and the McVies, Michelle and her entourage visited the workplace the next morning, and I had never met the elusive Sasha, the trans wunderkind who had raised inasmuch to team up with Michelle on multiversal coding I believe they were sole to grasp. However, just as her cohort, she was a most comely geek person I wouldn’t baulk taking to bed and did not wear spectacles. Keltic-black curls and milky complexion strewn with freckles, she was the androgynous lanky type I craved to undress out of her slim-fit corduroy jeans and lumberjack shirt, the delicacy of her ankles and the thickness of her lashes were enough signs that made me sway my hips like an art school diva.
In the ground floor ballroom, we had unveiled the first wall of the Arcadian rêverie, waiting for an ultimate coat of Carnauba wax. Our intervention against offensive prudishness had done marvel, and Gauthier predicted a word-of-mouth sensation if connoisseur trend-setters became in the know, but it would be none of the McVies’ yen. Fern pirouetted for me in awe, yet another bait for my unbridled morning lust, it would seem. Sarah and Lauritz were overtly thrilled with the charming outcome of the party at TRÆVIX, and they meted out all credit to Michelle’s liberality, but beyond the sparkling crystal of her eyepieces, the Aviatrix was all eyes for Petra and Fanny when they climbed down from their nest box.
Most timely, a green British lorry had parked in the front yard, delivering a number of the ultimate beds, the two handsome bruisers ready to set them in place with kid gloves. Fern did not grasp much of their accent, but Gauthier managed the manoeuvre and was eventually granted a smirk while they ogled our gracious little soldiers. Gauthier told the McVies the noria of deliveries would start in the next days for all they had already ordered in the catalogues. Hence, we, art practitioners with extras Cyprien had summoned for help, should put our headphones back on and restart the respirators.

Sarah says:

In want of better arguments, I would let my hands do the talking and let Irène rely on my mellow craftiness, as Liselotte calls it, and so we pertinently called on her to cast us in a doubtless sexual quid pro quo, her flamboyant speciality. But, beforehand, she had sussed some je-ne-sais-quoi as to my bond with Irène, and so she asked to meet her, in a dinner for three. So I booked a cosy table at A&S, better than a plain home dinner.
We should dress, as expensive-looking as we could. I reckoned that the brunt of little Irène’s jolts of anxiousness was, in all, the lack of a perch of her own and a proper wardrobe. She had seen Petra apparently top off the McVie estate in a sway of loins while she couldn’t even talk —truth be said, she would have greedily laid her, too, in the McVie’s maid rooms.
I lent her a multicoloured Art Deco printed twill shirt dress without many buttons, black holdup stockings with a mid-thigh lace rim, and black patent round-toe Maryjanes. She would wrap herself outside in a black ciré trench. She almost blushed when I refused her some knickers. She felt expensive. she would smell of sunny hesperides.
I donned a flared deep-purple silk panne velvet dress, black veil holdup stockings, and strass barrette court pumps, nought else. I sprayed some nightly Gardenia. Her nails were lacquered black, mine deep purple. Neither of us needed more than a touch of blush, mascara, and lipgloss —She was wet already.
Faithful to her image, Liselotte came on in a Vorticist burst of contrasted blue and silver stripes, black side-angled bob haircut, Berlin-drawn eyes and milky complexion. She sported her signature smirk, but I could see she had an instant crush on Irène, which made me proud and aroused. We had a Thai herbs consommé and tofu mushrooms pâtés, then the ginger-rhubarb cream of rice, with fruit kombucha. Inevitably, at a time, Liselotte rummaged under Irène’s dress in professional legerdemain, forcing her to open her thighs a smidgen more under the gaze of the waitress, who winked.
After a round of gossip in which Irène learned how Liselotte had ensnared me despite our school days’ mismatch, she kept twiddling with her phone, and then she said a car was waiting for us, and she turned her smile to the waitress, who blushed.
It wasn’t a cab; the chauffeur held us the doors and then did not attempt to let us know he had ogled our privates. It was a short drive south to Alesia, a quiet townhouse in a small cobbled cul-de-sac. A sleek modern facade with a plain oak door and an embedded steel keypad with a camera, the light fell from a round porthole above us. The door buzzed, and we were greeted by an elegant, greying gentleman I recognised as the publicised thrillers author Norbert Genetan. He looked more dapper than the intellectual type I had mingled with; he wore black velvet slippers embroidered with a mask and a feather, black trousers and a black velvet smoking jacket with satin shawl lapels. His opened pristine white shirt let see a coquette fluff of grey hair.
In a studied, low-tone voice, he complimented Liselotte’s taste while kissing our hands. He took his phone and sent our entrance to Liselotte’s mailbox; then, he ushered us to a garden-level salon furnished with plump Jean-Michel Frank style taupe mohair sofas and black-and-gold lacquer screens of colonial elegance one wouldn’t want to make nowadays. Ultimate luxury, the ceiling was clad with straw marquetry and reflected the copper tone of the light cast from stylised gilt palm trees. Norbert bragged this decor had seen Suzy Solidor smoke opium with corps de ballet’s fallen angels like his own mother. He played the most attuned Piazzola music on a spacy-sounding hi-fi. He stopped short of offering drugs.
It would be true to say that Irène’s dress jarred a bit with the decor, but it was a matter of seconds before she appeared in her indisputable grace, and the tintamare silk go snake upon a chair. He threaded what must have been theatrical quotes which weren’t exaggerated as to Irène’s charms, but he didn’t forget she was a whore when fingering her butthole. Holding her by the waist from behind, he told her to pick up my dress while he stared into my eyes and then that we fondle each other close, as he fantasised about his mother, in the days.
It was no composition role, since we had been just doing that the whole day. Suddenly, he was in the buff, a well-worked stud sneaking a notable spear between us two, tonguing our feverish mouths. He smelled of Bond Street sandalwood and burned spices I had never been bustled with. He made us all capsize into the down cushions and called right away the Swiss Navy to Irène’s rescue, joshing he liked to go smooth.
I showed her to spread wide on top of his pole, and I niggled her beloved pink pearl to the tune of her singing, and I tickled Norbert’s furry balls to his beastly grunt. He twiddled her benign nipples and licked up her neck to make her wriggle.

When the double crisis fired up, he was quick to fetch towels behind a cushion so not a drop stain the mohair. If, for my part, I had greedily gulped all the liquor Irène had blessed me with, it went otherly as to the gush he had engulfed in her lesser hatch and brimmed over already. He was methodical; he brought us to a sumptuous bathroom all clad in golden micro-tiles like a byzantine cupola. The Persian blue earthenware apparatuses offered gilt commodities like the douchette and the enema, so we returned fresh and new to be used again.
He had made flavoury coffee with lemon peels; he revelled watching us, telling Irène she was a gifted apprentice with a most cunning courtesan, wasn’t I? For the better of his writer’s psychology, I owned it that Irène was the best of a debutante, tasting the thrill of harlotry like dipping her toe in the river, and she would never, under my ward, and Liselotte’s for that matter, become a mere working girl, she tasted too good for that.
He smirked, like he would be taking notes. Beyond the tall glass panes, the garden was a well-kept bamboo pit, with a golden Tanzerin of Rudolf Bellng’s, the size of a young girl, in a ray of light. at her feet, a small basin kept a school of goldfish. He must have been somewhat loaded; he told me to suck his hard again dick while he handled Irène wallowed open next to him. He didn’t warn me when he discharged in my whory mouth, and he told Irène to taste semen on my lips. She did not baulk and kept on a serene smirk.
The reward was sizeable; he had no reason not to abuse our time. After a subtle cardamom coffee, he took a well-deserved fancy for my rosebud, lay Irène on the thick-pile rug, and made me rub my quim to her mouth while he prepared my easy butthole. It would be the third salvo, and he wasn’t a ragazzo anymore, so I expected a long lamento, but it was actually a perky ride under a cautious cavalier while Irène and I went on pleasuring ourselves mutually. Once he had spurted his last spoonful, he began yawning. Another same car brought us back to our paddock, with well-lined pockets. The grand bed was fresh and available.
On the opposite side from the new McVie Xanadu,  Fulgence came to say there were flats ready in the neighbourhood of the new cosmopolitan boarders, and I let him, for a good reason, take Irène for a visit. When they came back to the studio a few hours later, it was obvious they had experienced all angles of the dwellings and the amenities. Irène smelled of wantonness, exactly like I had foreseen. She had a bend for the upper floor three rooms flat with dormer windows overlooking old roofs of Alfred’s realm, and a tiny pointed shed atop some narrow stairs. And they had met Adèle and Rose, who knew Fulgence by heart, and had left them the peace to christen the new mattress in its cover. I had dwelled in such a fairy tale perch above Camille’s stately abode, although most of the time, I rather slept in her vast bed, whoever there was in.
Adèle and Rose dragged her along to houses of debauchery, and taught her to earn the support of string pullers in her favour, as well as the unwritten etiquette in usage in rooms and corridors. They also taught her to manage her easy money and spend it valuably. She began to stuff her closets with fine haberdashery and all the finery of an expensive girl. They introduced her to their beauty salon, their dentist and their laser specialist. They went together to the mandatory visits to the clinic where their personal microchip would be updated. Most of all, Cecile dared her to visit the legendary Zev at Mendelsohnn’s, and comply with the whims of the doorkeeper, who would use them both anyhow, casually. She remained inside the frantic pandemonium for a mad decade, exhausted but not hurt, idolised by Zev, who shagged her beyond her sleep. Cecile had relished seeing her undone with purple circles at her eyes, but she exfiltrated her in a cab when she had proof she had been rewarded as much as she once had. From then on, she had been appraised a dyed-in-the-wool harlot to count with.
She remained on her own in her quaint hideout, visited at night when she was not in town, or anytime by the likes of Gauthier and Fulgence, who brought her precious tokens like porcelain dolls she soon had a full wall of. She was also a perfect stooge for some farfetched shenanigans that Liselotte schemed with Natalia, where she would craftily re-enact her not-so-bygone candour. Utter perversion, she returned willingly to Zev’s cabinet of curiosities. She earned, bit by bit, a whole scene of Nevers’ glass figurines and accessories Gauthier helped her reconstruct, and that meant, before all, days of patient dedication. Rose, for one, had fled Mendelsohnn’s barefoot through a toilet window; Adèle had given away M. Lucien her butthole to let her go while the ogre slept. Otherwise, Plum and Fæbian had lined their pockets with Zev’s fat envelopes and wouldn’t shun a few more; they befriended wholeheartedly the gracile Irène.

That morning, Cecile invited me to see over the McVies’ salons ready for reception, all gleamy-waxed and empty, bar a massive pair of architectural wooden swans, whitewashed, withholding bushes of white roses on each side of the door to the garden. In a black silk, metal pinstripe pantsuit, white polka dots, black silk shirt, and black suede Chelsea boots, she looked so desirable that I confided her about a fantasy I had been mulling over, which was to pay a visit to Ayla in Zürich for a few exotic days. She retorted the sybilline quip that she was right in wearing knickers. She gave me the get-go to ask for a swift flight to Oster Schweiz.
Gauthier sported an Iceland sweater; the McVies wore white. Fern was in a white cashmere varsity patch-sewn with big golden-rimmed upside-down question marks, a white silk jersey tee shirt most indiscreet on her tits, white shantung jeans, and white spotless new sneakers. Ashler sported the same outfit, with the question mark right up. I felt a bit plain in my out-of-bed periwinkle fleece tracksuit and royal blue velvet slippers, except Fern found it funny to slide a hand inside, between two doors.
A whim seized me to take the McVies to Zürich; what be the harm? I whispered that to Cecile while peeing in a nobility toilet bowl, and she sniggered they could enjoy it both ways, Fern made for a highly desirable whore indeed. Hence, I manoeuvred so as to find myself trousers down with Fern in one of the attic’s rooms, cuddling her delicate head, and I floated my fantasy as we rolled over the bare new mattress, and I made her lose her nerves. Her quim smelled of marshmallow rose like a Rahat Loukoum.
Grand festivities were set for the week next, with the telepathic sylphs nude on the polished floors to the music of the inspired wanderers. Agnete & Sanne had already placed their orders. It left a window of opportunity to go taste the Swiss snow. The Falcon would be at orders the next morning if we liked.
We did not need bulky bags, but Ayla had said it was bitterly cold. Cecile wore a black down anorak, a thick-knit, variegated-rusty cashmere jumper, and saffron fluffy leggings in big laced ankle boots. I had fetched my thick purple-black cashmere overcoat and a black baby cashmere ensemble turtle-neck and trousers, with black cavalier mid-calf boots. Fern wore a dove-grey cashmere trenchcoat, a maroon cashmere officer jacket, and a custard cashmere turtle neck; hash grey cashmere trousers and mahogany laced thick-sole ankle boots. Ashler sported a dead-leave, fuzzy-checkered tweed Inverness overcoat and a russet flannel sports suit with rustic Chelsea boots.
In the double-banquette minibus, Ashler pulled me next to him and soon grasped how easy it was to slide a hand to my quim. I smelled of priceless Florentine iris, my idea of a cosmopolitan courtesane’s fragrance. His fly was already unbuttoned, proud Peter was begging for cuddles. Our driver was somewhat impressed, but he didn’t baulk at the hefty tip. The embarkment controls went easy, the officer making a muddled comment about twins.
We wouldn’t have a flight assistant; the captain and the co-pilot were comely middle-aged women. It would be a mere one-hour leap. After hanging our heavy coats and shoes, we reached the aft banquettes to continue making out like teens, opposite Cecile and Fern, whose pants were pulled mid-thighs; she wore snazzy cream Angora socks.
From Kloten airport to Ayla’s cosy nunnery, there was not any sign of snow. We had hired a luxury minivan, and in twenty minutes, she waited at the door for us; I had warned her of our extra-special company.
As a temperate marshall of a household of brazen tramps, she aged nicely, with no detectable artifices. She wore a long, glowing red zigzag jersey gown with an asymmetrical neckline that left one shoulder in the cold. This was the stage door, and she ushered us in a messy vestiary that smelled like the duty-free shop we had just passed through.
She said she needed, firstly, to see us all in the buff, and she showed us a closet with a coat rack inside. Others were locked. She helped Fern in particular, like her first trick of the day, envying the perky little tits, and down to the prim slender feet she crouched to denude herself, sniffing her socks in connoisseuse. She let out that twins were highly appraised, all the more the incestuous ones. She handled Ashler’s prideful weaponry and asked Fern to suck it for her, which she did unflinchingly, as she had always done.
Lustfully delighted, she considered our unabashed little troupe of luxury slappers and claimed we were there to quench rich men’s wants and not only tease. Most of them were regulars; all were sanitarily vetted and carried a black card. She dressed us up with flimsy white linon shirts, hardly covering our bums, with no buttons. She demanded we never cross our legs and behave somewhat more lewdly than usual; no one would snitch to Mom. We wouldn’t wear mules, the house was entirely carpeted, and our bare feet would give our clients a delusion of dominance. Technically, said she with a smirk, we would find bottles of Swiss Navy in any drawer at arms’ length; we weren’t supposed to accept painful penetration, and our clients should know. As for Ashler, Ayla handed him a dark-coloured harlequin dance-tight and matched leotard, slit at the crotch to unleash the privates or to allow sodomy, if thus the angels would go.

We followed the one-in-a-million identicals who cuddled each other’s bums while swaggering in the meet-and-leer salons lit by an array of lamps behind scallops on gilded sconces, casting a mellow tone to our impudent young skins, scantily veiled. The salons felt bigger than I remember, still entirely red, with lacquered ceilings, wide motives lampas upholstery, mahogany panelled doors, and Persian pattern carpeting. Deep garnet red velvet armchairs and sofas, buttoned, with wide arms and headrests to lay upon.
A cosmopolitan gathering of dapper male suave-smelling individuals, already wooed by boarders as little clad as us —and letting admire their blooming quims in easy postures— all turned heads to feast their eyes upon the Belle Haven angels who pranced by in the alleys. They were hailed in German by a blond hunk in a slate-blue Italian suit who could hardly conceal his erection. She sat close to him, still toying with her brother’s dick, letting the master lose himself fondling her. It was brief; the three walked, arm in arm, towards the little desk beside the lift where a prim matron gave them a key. I saw him hold Ashler’s scepter while they boarded the lift.
Cecile and I, enlaced, helped one another behave like docile hookers, and my indefectible affection for her must have made it arousing for a public of distinguished whoremongers. She said Lauritz might ask us to disrobe entirely to demonise a chink the girls’attitudes at Speck’s. But there we were offering our arses in a lawful brothel, not a maison de rendez-vous with rooms. As we were making out, our way, I sensed a dainty hand exploring my bum cleft, and I was ready to oblige, so I folded my leg up to make him way. He seized my arm and pulled me away, telling Cecile he was in love with her sister.
He smelled of Ravello lemons, wore a Parma silk shirt with a sage green striped silk tie. His suit was of grey, tweedy wool-silk blend, double-breasted three piece. His shoes were Berlutti ankle boots. He was given number thirteen. In the lift, he pressed me against his insolent pickaxe; he swore he had shagged me before in Berlin or elsewhere, and he had never could forget my eyes. I reckoned he could be right.
The room was muffed in silvery Art Deco satin with a view on the barren winter park beyond the wooden blinds. He sporte an Opera-buff style, with pulled-back grey curls and a fine à la Benedetti moustache. He wore a Swiss watch with a gold band, and an antique emerald intaglio ring showing an octopus. I told him his underwear was baby-smooth as I took possession of his fleshy stake. He told me to lay back across the mauve satin quilted bed and let my head hang out so as he would shag it in deep. I had done that a host of times, like it or not, and he wasn’t oversized anyhow, I let him hurl his glans into my throat and I drooled like a dog before he spurted a good dose of spaff.
I gulped bravely, but I was all gooey-faced. He found some fluffy towel and wiped me with meticulous care. He tasted of stale cucumber, he ordered some tea. A young maid in a short costume brought Earl Grey in silverware and translucent bone china. She wore a slanted bob hairstyle, had gleaming black eyes and a creamy white complexion. She spoke badly broken English. I couldn’t tell if it was entirely set up, but Erminio offhandedly grabbed her by her thigh and showed me she wore no mutande and her privates were crisply depilated. There she stood before the nude of us, he told me to reach to her back and unbutton her. She was a tad shorter than me; she had been wearing slight heels Maryjanes. She smelled of vanila apple pie and was as flat as me, with shy-rose areolas.
She felt like another jailbait I wouldn’t resist, and he revelled in watching us make out, waiting for his vigour to return. Her name was Karolina, she must have been one of those baby-gymnast sprites. Her abdominals were tense and shapely, and she kissed like a rose. Erminio made us lay down and continue while he fingered our slits con amore. She wasn’t like enduring the whims of a rich couple in lust, and she acted as if to convince me of her lechery. Erminio fetched the lubricant, and he prepared both of us front and behind thoroughly. She liked that, she raged upon my mouth while he forced her anus like a hardened harlot’s.
He arranged us top-to-tail, telling me to lick her tiny clit while he would make her taste a little sodomy. I writhed like a frog with my legs up to let her return me the service, which she granted me eloquently. Erminio alternated playfully in both slits, deftly letting the petals stretch.
I was foreseeably blinded again in their repeated spurts as she was nailing me on the bed at the tip of her tongue. Eventually, we all collapsed in a mixup of moans and whispers. I was once again enthralled with a random wayfarer. I began thinking Erminio might have had his eyes bigger than his dick, for he remained lain his nose in the bed cover. But Karolina and I, as if we had known each other for ages, had better chimaeras to chase eye-to-eye, and he could well doze out awhile to catch his breath, couldn’t he?

I took Karolina to the bathroom, and we snuggled in the tepid water flow. I couldn’t even really ask her what she was doing in that rich bawdy house. But I couldn’t deny she had nested there in my plexus, unannounced. And so, to hell, she wouldn’t be the last. When we returned to the bedroom, Erminio was still sound asleep, breathing imperceptibly, and his heart was quiet. Anyhow, I asked to speak to Ayla, but I understood she was, so to giggle, momentarily incommunicado. Karolina had fast put her costume back on and fled.
At the least, I felt dumb. I groomed him like the heavy poodle he was, and then I went down calmly to tell someone my dismay that my client had possibly passed out. Ayla appeared in the same costume as me, and took me by the hand to number thirteen. Erminio was alive and kicking; he had showered and dressed up, he bantered it seemed he had taken a little impromptu nap, hadn’t he? He enlaced Ayla, who was still my rambunctious nymphet school days crush, and complimented her on the maids she sent with tea; he wanted to reward Karolina. Taking me aside and offhandedly fondling my bum crack, he said he would like to meet me again. I mumbled that I didn’t stay in Zürich and eventually let out I was a Parisian. Not in the least befuddled after his instant slumber moment, he jolted at the epiphany that it was where he had shagged me before, at Philippe’s. He said he would find me again and embraced us both.
Ayla was overjoyed with my crush on Karolina; she said it was her gift, and I could take her home to teach her better English and French —for the rest, Karolina was not in want of many skills. Back to the salon, Cecile was a tad mystified to find me in utmost intimacy with that unknown pale stray cat, but she quickly sussed I was at it again, like your average cat lady, and only to grasp suddenly that she would eventually land to her shore, and she was obviously much to her taste.
One sprightly American cavalier happened in our midst and queried about Karolina, who turned to me, not sure what to do. I explained we were a team and the whole was greater than the sum of its parts, if he would. He gathered up the side of Karolina’s hair and she gave him that black glance and pouted, not blushing. He offhandedly slid a hand between our thighs, as if to verify we were what we showed, grazed our boyly chests and asked if we let ourselves done up the arse, to what I winked a yes.
We were granted number twenty-two, a spacious room upholstered in rose satin spangled with precious little seashells. Silver sconces with pearly light shades gave us a bonny complexion. His name was Drake; he was a pilot. He was all sunkissed, and his hair shone golden. His dick wasn’t spectacular but protruded like a vessel’s ram. he rolled with Karolina upon the moss-green padded velvet bed, holding her shapely legs up while devouring her pearly bud. I helped with the Swiss Navy. I could have inserted my whole hand in her butthole, but he shoved me aside in exasperation. I straddled her wily mouth and sensed her lively tongue along my frills and creases; she was all mine, with a brigand in her coochie. His climax made her squirt like a peach as I dripped in her greedy mouth.
He told me to suck him clean; his stamina wasn’t waning; I hoped he would fancy slaying my rosebud open. We swapped, and she gave me her holy brook to tongue again while Drake planted his flesh dagger to the hilt into my guts. He was an endurant swashbuckler; he made me swill over twice before gratifying me with a long-simmered spill.
Sweat looked good on his Hawaiian tan; we cuddled under the infinite lukewarm shower. He said we were so unalike the garden-variety whores, unable to climax, that I burst laughing, holding tight my instant fiancée in the flow. I caught him reading the time, so I helped him tidy his look and let him run. He left a goodwill tip for the maid, and we went down with him.
An older woman in black with a white apron brought us tea and Swiss cookies. She looked up, kind of jaded, to Karolina, of whom she could have been her mother. One leg up on the cushion, my recruit confided she had never whored before, and that woman was her compatriot and had told her of all the girls from Baltic states rushing in Europe to sell themselves. I said I would show her how to do with it and thrive undashedly to the face of the world. I revelled, wallowing indecent in the red shadows, along with a fresh rookie who smelled of the English Rose soap we had used.
The Belle Haven breeze too, had lost their disguises. Fern drank from my cup; she was flabbergasted when I introduced Karolina as my sudden apprentice and told her she would soon appreciate too how gifted she was. A hunch told me that Ashler, momentarily flabby, would return to glory watching Fern making out with the girl and twiddle her quim. Fern enthused it would make a perfect companion to Petra in any of the attic’s bedrooms, wouldn’t she? And actually, as the three of us, she was falling for the new little tramp.

Cecile had been servicing a prim sort of Swiss attorney with pernickety fetishes, and she was hardly keeping her cool. This one had brought specific lingerie and hosiery from another age for her to wear, sitting on a chair; then, he had engaged in some kind of botched ceremony which put him in sweats, and he had eventually pulled out a miserable Peter and ejaculated on her face, trousers down, mumbling in a weird tongue. He had sobbed for a little while, cleaned himself with a kerchief, claimed his relics back, and run, as straight-faced as he had come. She had taken a thorough shower, sensing a troubling kind of filth upon her. Now she would need dick.
It was dinner time for us; Ayla took us to a dining room downstairs, wood-panelled in Swiss pine, smelling of creamed mushroom, as a nod towards our initial encounter in Saint Loup’s cafeteria. The cook, on Ayla’s demand, had found big loaves of raisins-based sourdough bread and fine preserved Jura morels. I hardly held back my tears. There had been three sorts of soufflés, vegan or not. Italian truffles, goat cheese, and zander, which Ayla relished. A profusion of oil-free chips, and hydroponic baby salad in balsamic dressing. The acme of cooking for amateur harlots was the three-colours chocolate mousse, black, milk, and blond, layered in a crystal bowl.
The mood was that of a Maxfield Parrish fantasy gone kinky, nudies in the golden light and the patinated woods. The cook was called on, a tubby mama in a checkered apron, who wouldn’t let us ignore she had once been a whore like us, and she loved to see us eat from her work. She raised brows, singling out the new maid now in the harlot’s costume, being twidled by a real-life angel, but said nought.
The McVies, Karolina, and I longed to sleep; there were common quarters for that on the fourth floor, and Ayla’s bed for me, with precious memories. Cecile was going back to the salon where clients would dawdle by all night, in the hope of a vengeful truncheon to play with.
I woke up alone; we had gossiped to no end like old days. The duvet was like a huge cloud, and the whole bed felt like down; I was reminded of my days in Denmark. I went to pee. Something was eldritch in the day, though not so worrying, only another reminder of something elusive. The world was muffed; the house had drifted to lost shores. Downstairs on the street, a car had stopped and gone in a ghostly breath. Finally, it seized me that it had snowed. I ran to the shutter and recovered that sensation of being nude, gazing upon the rounded shapes of the snow in the park.
Someone warm huddled to my back; she hummed something graceful in my neck, and I embraced my northern pupil. The door was open, another of Karolina’s lovers tiptoed to us, and we kissed. Off with all the routines, we had yet nothing to wear in the house of lust. Ashler joined, and we took the lift down to the common room. We had some Royal Blend tea, pancakes and mountain honey. Other boarders must already be on deck, and for once, Cecile wasn’t first up.
A Titian blonde from the Polish border asked for white coffee. She flaunted splendid breasts and offered me to cuddle them for free. She had heard of our Parisian troupe and teased Karolina that she wanted to go off with us, so she blushed, and I clutched her to my wing. The night had not waned our young bond. The Polish girl was Iwona; she had flourished in Ayla’s realm for two years, a nigh virgin from the depths of godly Poland. She had a hearty laugh and a shapely body; she proudly bantered she was in high demand around Zürich. She smelled of English carnation.
We scattered among the Burgundy seats in the salon illuminated from below through the blinds, my junior at my side. Clients were pulling their rubber overshoes in the vestibule. We had not awaited to make out gently; one Swiss bald-top blue-eyes in a coal-grey three-piece suit sat next to us and babbled about the snow while grazing Karolina’s other thigh. He queried if we offered the lesser hole, too. We were assigned to room twenty-six; he said it was his regular.
It was an Arts and Crafts ambience upholstered in William Morris Willow Bough and furnished in mock-bamboo American pine. Herr Dietmar told us to keep frolicking together while he tidied his clothes upon a valet. He sported a springy long schlong which promised sensations.
He was enthralled with our lovemaking, probably because we didn’t have to fake it. When he asked for our little names, he sussed that Karolina wasn’t exactly a polyglot, but he was, and he surprised her in what sounded like fluent double Dutch to my ear. All titillated to offer my girl an audience, he feasted on all bits of her body in my arms, crazed with her legs and feet, devouring her little blooming pink capucine. He was an expert whoremonger; he wouldn’t fool himself by believing he made a girl wet herself instantly just because he paid. He took a benevolent smirk and carefully ointed our offered slits like he would feel homely without damages.

At the corner of the sand velvet bed, he asked me to hold Karrie’s legs high while he fondled her quim with the tip of his glans, then her defenceless threshold and eventually the whole length of his spear to the neck of her womb, causing her a deep sigh in all candour. Meanwhile, I was playing tongue with her, unrestrained, and she gave Herr Dietmar more than he paid for.
It was obvious that he was, so to speak, chemically loaded. His cautious key visited unrelentingly all of our sensitive locks; he was overjoyed to cause us spillovers more often than his. When his unfailing watch marked that he was about to run out of schedule, he dressed up, came to us at the dry edge of the bed, and said in both languages he would see us in Paris if we would. He wanted to keep Karolina, and I joshed everyone wanted to keep Karolina; she had a radiant future, hadn’t she?
We rinsed our pink twinkles and took a lilac bath with the glorious light of the frosted-glass stained window, and then we dawdled down, only to learn The Albatross would await in some three hours in Kloten. The McVies were entertaining two gents, and Cecile had flushed out a football star. We dressed up in the vestiary, Karolina in jeans and fleece, her little smart butt in a plain white cotton knicker. She showed me her Lithuanian passport; I knew how harsh the Russian occupation had been to her people.
The McVies pranced in their natural superb, and I sussed that Karolina was somewhat squashed seeing the refinement of our attires. Cecile had been vindicated, shagging a powerhouse of testosterone; she understood my concern for the baby whore she kept an eye on, too. It was she who floated the idea we should all give her our present earnings as a greeting gift since we all wanted to shag her anyhow. There was a hearty burst of laughter, and the girl found herself with a handful of fat envelopes. Other than that, she only carried a lean sports bag, but she looked rapturous.
Ayla, too, gave the leaving tramp a hefty handshake. The yellowish skies announced more snow, but the neighbourhood was still caught in sublime icing. The black van had put on snow tyres, and Switzerland looked like a sleepy postcard. The McVies had captured the little blackbird between them.
We were in the Schengen area, but the customs didn’t miss a discrepancy between our cashmeres and Karolina’s wayfarer sneakers, so they scanned her passport as if she were a fugitive and eventually gave it back with no comments. She had no idea what these VIP lounges were, though we didn’t have time to go shopping. A minibus took us to Melchior Airlines’ Albatross. The pilot, her blond hair gathered in a braided chignon, greeted us aboard, telling us it would be a smooth flight.
Cecile was swift enough to capture Karolina in the best forward-looking double seat, I crashed in an armchair, still stirred of our matinée. I slept through the whole flight. The road from Le Bourget under the drizzle was more depressing than ever. I wished I had Saul Leiter’s eye. I turned back and leered at Cecile’s licking Karolina’s apple. I anticipated the reactions of a countryside fugitive before all we had to let her enjoy besides the carnal bonfire.
She loved our flat, the comfort and the endless outer extensions. To abuse her arousing candour, I trapped her in our vestiary and robbed her of her vagabond outfit, and she let me do it. I gave her a choice in a heap of sundry distressed sweatsuits to wear without the knickers —that I kept. She felt homey, and a pair of teal velvet slippers befitted her. In a long embrace with our trousers mid-thigh, she mused we must be so rich. I retorted it was even more, but she would be part of it, and we were not even running a brothel —if we went in some, sometimes.
She liked Cecile’s bedroom and had to show her kitty to the cringed homunculus, leaning against Cecile, who was stroking her abs all the way down. The McVies returned to their hotel, thanking us for an unmatched tour of Switzerland, promising Karolina a mountain of new delights. Petra had known of our return, but she was startled by a new easy-going nymphet in a world she was still yet only attempting to grasp.
Foreseeing a host of evening guests, I ordered a shipload of A&S specialities and a crate of elderberry kombucha. Karolina reckoned she wouldn’t be expected to do other than to let herself be done lustfully. Espying whatever fear of having been taken to serve in menial works, I took Petra on my lap and, offhandedly, began to slowly grope her while Gwen and Dagmar devoured the new girl with their eyes. Dagmar was her own style, bare feet and bluish-grey, broad-knit, cowl neck jumper dress, not shy to let see her beloved coochie by grabbing up her leg, with a beaming smile and periwinkle eyes. Petra wore a thin black silk jersey tank dress and no undie, barefoot, too. Gwen wore a vague sage-green silk bourette smock dress with a boat neckline and mid-length sleeves. It wasn’t tricky to catch a glimpse of her twinkle when she wiggled.

Irène and Bryony had sweated all demons at the gym and sauna; they smelled of heavenly honeysuckle oil and were famished. They devoured half the rhubarb and raspberry pie with custard, wondering who was the mute brune in Cecile’s arms. The tale that I would have lifted the pretty maid in a Swiss bawdy house amused the whole table. I made up we had the highest powers’ approval and an extent of newly found Lebesraum to people, like the heights of the new Belle Haven colony west of paradise. And Karolina couldn’t keep her feet away from Gwen’s cuddles.
The next morning, Cecile had left behind her little crush. The finishing works in McVies’ mansion were at their finicky ending, and a kingly loot of furnishing treasures was being delivered by assiduous transports from a galaxy of warehouses Like those of Florenz Marc as for the period concerned, and Hugo’s for Art Deco and spirit-inducing excentric conversation pieces in lieu of the synchronic banalities the bygone generations had lived with.
After a taste of my French toasts, Petra took Karolina on a journey through our tunnels and the venues she would explore at will. She was startled by the daily routine of the nude dancer telepaths, all the more when they noticed the younger audience and came up to greet them and exhibit their sculptural anatomies under their noses. They smelled of orange blossom. Emeline knew Petra well already, but Josephine took a liking to Karolina and drew her in a few easy steps on the dance floor, just short of disrobing her. She led her to her stuff and used her phone to decipher who they were and swap numbers. They obviously clicked.
We reached the McVies’ basement. The kitchen had swiftly been refurbished with chef appliances, and the pantry rooms refreshed —which triggered a slutty fantasy of another visit to Mendelsohnn’s. Petra wanted, above all, to show her room to Karolina and make her choose one, too. Josephine had shown them how to use the translator on their telephones, and they totally forgot me.
I was wearing a night-blue velvet lounge set strewn with random embroidered multicolour stars. Gauthier, while overseeing the flux of hunky movers, took that as a daring tease and cornered me behind a door only to check if I wore anything else under. He reckoned I owed him one. Upstairs, a pale sunbathed a candid scene of nude girls busy reading each other on their telephones, their pretty butts exposed. I understood there was a third party in their translations; Herr Dietmar had not let another morning pass, and he was keen to meet Petra, too. They had evoked Speck or Fortunat. I gambolled in Karolina’s holy brooklet until I grasped she wouldn’t leave her conversation. They had been making plans. Nonetheless, they agreed that I go fetch some food and a tea set; then I returned to my studio.
Alfred was in the midst of a homily of which argument he had digressed since morning. There was a sweet message from Ayla wishing Karolina a hassle-free destiny in our fraternal nexus. She would find a way to summon me next time she salvaged some worthy maid. As of now, the McVies were in charge of a pair of windfall birds with flimsy strings attached and a sprawling safety net. They were talking of a vibrant housewarming party in a few days, and the herds of Cossacks were honing their teeth.
Cecile came up in want of a prospect for the night. I made her coffee and gave her langues de chat. Of the three usual debauchers, we bet on Sami, who vaunted a newly opened underpass to another Roman crypt patronized, of yet, by the suavest elite and serviced by the keenest of opera stage beasts; he promised we would be ploughed like Versailles’ rose gardens.
Better come up in easy-to-strip outfits. Cecile slid on a purplish black glimmer pleated jersey sheath mini dress; I wore a black twill shirt mini dress trimmed with electric blue piping and sapphire strass buttons. In such expeditions, costume jewellery was the most we could wear; we had heaps of it. Jet lace choker and belt I could wear in the nude, Cecile with a few strands of labradorite. Silk over-the-knee socks with lace trims and black patent opera pumps were enough of a tease under the glittery trenches on the move. She smelled of the most expensive incest of Himalayan musk rose and Egyptian jasmine in a dream of ambergris; I sprayed some of that transcended Florentine iris we had brought back from the penumbra of Lorenzo the Magnificent’s cellars. It was still drizzling over Paris; the snow was already afar.
Sami was high-spirited. From a vaulted stairway down into the moist cold, he showed us to a likely new little door with a sophisticated lock. It took some trust to follow him, but he was already groping us each step of the crooked corridors. We ended up at a little bare stainless metal door with an inlaid keypad. It looked smartly anachronical but set with what Sami had promised us. It swivelled with a buzz, and warm air enfolded us with relief. A carpeted wooden pathway led to a large space under a white concrete slab.
Hung platforms and pathways hovered above a vast preserved mosaic showing unfettered Pompeian motives fit for some lupanar, couples overtly shagging in sundry manners, surrounded by trompe-l’oeil accessories like beribboned genitalia and theatrical masks, the overall salacity explaining probably why it wasn’t open to the public —which merely deserves the inanity of aligned, aimless striped stumps, as we know— like Neaples’ Gabinetto Segetto.
As soon as we reached a platform on which were disposed some sorts of ceremonial cardinal red velvet beds overloaded with fat cushions of looking leopard skin, where impassible older men reclined in long white togas, we were seized by various coloured hunks wearing no more than scarves to their strenuous loins to keep the dingle from dangle. Cecile was hailed for the swiftness of her change; I had these few buttons to be taken care of. I had already had a taste of some in other venues of the domain; I had only giddy spells to expect from their ardour —for the relish of some unknown mighties; after the Swiss episodes of frank whoredom, it was what I longed for.
They must have all been some manner of freelance sujets with ballet schooling and untamed instincts; I would have relished seeing some of them respond to the figures of our telepaths other than carnal knowledge, for example, that one who bent me backwards over his knee to expose my lean midriff and the angle of my thighs. But so, then, were he a dancer, I wasn’t wood, was I? His balletic stooge on the wait to lube my slits and a third to thread me through like a circus martyr. The puffy sponsor senator was all thumbs up.
On her side, Cecile could no more cry for dick, alternately stuffed gracefully in different holes by a triad of shapely acrobats; she was spared the godly chore buts sparged in all-earthly jizz she responded to like a Bernin Magdalena. Now, the mock tyrants, one hand busy in their toga, asked for a smell of us, so we were only quickly wiped and brought on a velvet litter near the masters’ couches, where I was licked like candy.
Another crew of ballet hunks were pushing in an old acquaintance of us, in all her Slavic blondeness, the indefatigable Ksyusha who roamed the same pleasure fields as us; she was a pet of Sami’s when not adrift under sunnier skies. She was resplendent, sun-kissed and laser-sleek. Schooled as a gymnast, she must pursue the routines that kept her supple as a cat. She waved at us as she was warily straddling a tough-masted black stud after they lubed her unassuming little slits, opening the way for another pirate and turning over to swallow a pitiless cutlass. This was taking place on a wide bronze gryphon legs stool befitted to the grandiose backdrop, to the sounding relish of Ksyusha. That figure must have stirred humours behind my back because I sensed velleities to transgress my lesser threshold, so to speak. Some higher-up was descending upon us; after the throes of the firebirds, nothing much ado in the scales of my chakras, but we happened to feel some of one another. Nature is complacent.
Ksyusha was soaked and frantic like a Shiva dancer; someone told us about a nearby à la Roman bath. It was an all-new construction amidst the layout of the actual villa, not fully anachronical if referred to some Pompeii examples, said one of the guests who leered at my just only buggered caboose. It was a shoulder-deep basin clad in silver tesserae and motives of fluttering sexual appendages with little wings; in all likelihood, it had been constructed sometime in the twentieth century, with all the modern comfort. We amused ourselves, scrubbing our naughty nooks before diving into the quicksilver-like pool, followed by the bravest of the swordsmen who wouldn’t fear water.
It was the splashing finale for our most important patrons; Sami was back in his black suit and led us to our togs; we took Ksyusha with us; she was even more knackered than us, in her overwashed jeans, slate blue hoodie sewn with Cyrillic letters patches, and heavy black laced ankle boots Cecile went straight to her bed, I was enthralled with Ksyusha’s smooth blondeness, I took my time to undress her, we smelled of sun-baked herbs along the via Flaminia.
She was coffee and cookies, she had progressed in English and French, Kate had funded classes for her, and she had lived in the Palais Royal attics thanks to Sami and the Covenant. Now she wanted to understand better the ecosystem of our phalanstery. I bantered she would have to shag a whole army of angels to grasp the principles of gravitation in our little galaxy.
I lent her a poppy red sweatsuit and begged her to stay barefoot with me in the studio. Despite the bleak skies that wouldn’t snow, Alfred was overjoyed. Ksyusha loved my Alfred stories; we ended entwined nude on the futon, and her kiss was a Leonid Kogan solo. I did not switch on the big lights; I fetched a soft cherry red shawl.

Gauthier caught us in the slumber realm; he must have watched us a while, and then he had moved to go pee. At first, he wouldn’t know that shapely blonde on the futon with me, re-dressing from the chills. She addressed him in German, with a whirl of the hips, and went to the loo, too. She had something of Kate’s when she still had that hint of an accent, in my garret at Camille’s. I brewed some strong Oriental Beauty while he crouched to cajole her thighs and nuzzle in her coochie. Then he kept his hands in her trousers while we recounted our expedition in the Roman bawdy house.
He said the McVies threw a dinner party to test the new cook, who was happy not to do with meat. They had received a grand dinner set of innumerable black lacquered and gold-adorned Klismos chairs with an expandable table. They wished to acquaint themselves with more of the privileged birds of the orchard, who were all excited anyhow about the new aviary at the rabbit hole’s end. Adèle, Rose, Seresine, and Plum had scoured the chic thrift boutiques with quick-wit savvy, and the little bird had sung that the lesser, the better, so Rose let fleet her chiffon camisole above her illustrated chest, above black sequined short shorts with thick black patent Oxfords. Adèle wore a one-shoulder little silk jersey striped aslant cornflower and wheat, flared minidress, with powder blue suede Maryjanes and cream tights. Plum wore a tank sheath minidress, black veil tights and black patent loafers. Elvire’s knee-long skin-tight purplish black faux snakeskin dress was slit up to the armpits and held with thin strings, as an astute tease that she wore nothing on her little secret, with black thin-strapped sandals. Apolline, on the opposite, wore glitzy cherry red cropped top and shorts with fishnet tights and black laced ankle boots. Oona wore a mushy-stone green foulard printed silk twill boy shirt spangled with scarlet diamond dots and verdigris suede flats. Bryony was in an oversized collarless lichen and ash shirt dress with rolled-up sleeves and low-cut raw linen sneakers; I saw she wore no undies. Seresine was all moulded in a purple silk velours panne knee-long dress, barefoot.
Our telepath angels had dared their work costume, but they found other gracile nymphs wore nought more than they did, including our guests. Fern and Ashler were attired with Grecian curly hairstyle and antique revival gold collar, earrings, bracelets and rings that looked godly on her; he wore a spectacular Scythian style gold pectoral and armbands and cuffs only his youth condoned, I had tasted of his momentarily nonchalant thingy, I would certainly fawn for another turn. Fanny could pretend having coached her pupils in languages, she wasn’t much more clad than them, and it was tender to watch. Ksyusha would also have better joined the nude fashionistas, but she wore a fussy red painted silk shirt dress short enough to do justice of her tapered thighs, mind you, and golden strap sandals. As for myself, my creamy tuxedo was embroidered mariachi-style on the left side, with one pearly button.
Then happened the male counterpart to our cavalcade of graces, apart from Ashler and Gauthier, who boasted a mint green bejewelled hat like mad. Fulgence, Eric, and a couple of hard-working craftsmen avid of our rosy complexions. The nomadic herd of the svelte Cossacks had just only dismounted and were kissing all hands keenly. Finlan and Marceau, who had reappeared from the clouds, couldn’t help playing musketeers for the telepaths; Sergei cast phosphoric glances on Emeline’s buttocks, but who wouldn’t?
On the west side was the kilometric white span of lace-trimmed tablecloth I wondered who might wash, with the elegant ballet of sabre-legged chairs and the gathering of suavities. Three opulent Rezzonico bouquet Murano chandeliers enlivened the grand parquet towards three vast buttoned crimson velvet sofas not that different from those in Ayla’s nest, were they? Two servants in white livery displayed the dishes on the table at arm’s reach without any more fuss; we all had silverware and naughty porcelain plates to peck from. Fern was proud of the architectural chartreuses they had built in a collection of moulds they had found in the deep kitchen cupboards. For the not-so-vegetarian Cossacks, a whole salmon Koulibiac shone in its crust amidst a bed of sorrel leaves.
Josephine studiously listened to the hardly sensible snippets Fanny collected from Karolina and Petra, but the whole table listened while letting their hands run. There wasn’t bitter acrimony, only the certitude they all had brushed past the worst evil.
Fern cried on my bosom, under my jacket. I sensed I had once stepped in her soul after our encounter at Speck’s, and I wasn’t sorry I did. All on a hunch of a prophet adrift in a Boston pub. I hinted they should take the girls on vacation, one by one, and spoil them with heartfelt vanities, but also hire Fanny as their preceptor. As for anyone, their fate depended on a sound language, possibly with the help of a good enough therapist.

I suppose they had tipped off His Stealth Omnipotence of the most elegant pre-inaugural gathering amidst the nigh achieved refurbishing works. He crept in on gum shoes, alone and filled with wonder for the seamless harmony between the setting and the impish capriccio, which was thus being played, all smiles. As for the McVies, he was overjoyed with his intuition to induct them into our Utopia nexus. Nimbler than his usual, in a deliberate move, he polled a chair next to Karolina’s, facing her, softly taking her hand. To her great astonishment, he spoke to her in her language, mezzo voce, petting her amiably as she wiggled like a kitten. We never knew what they chattered about; it was all too fast and too low for anyone to grasp, but she was beaming like the party Queen, and she was never afterwards the same again. When I recounted the episode to Hugo, he recalled a hunch someone had said of Melchior’s birthplace in the Baltic provinces, but it had remained a vague speculation. She eventually sat on his lap to kiss him before he left after kindly touching Petra’s thigh a few times. Karolina noticed she had become the point of all gazes.
Serguei and consorts weren’t so much in the know of powers that be in our savoury realm, bar the aviatrix because of her shapely silhouette and unpredictable carnal whims. They had noticed, in any case, the new imps and their lustful handgames; they thought they could win any gay beauty to their vibrant lovemaking, and in that case, it was only a doddle.
Petra had spoken with Fanny and Camille about what she sensed as devious craving urges rooted in the slavery ordeal she had been thrust into. The kindly mentors had advised her not to go hustle on her own, as of yet, but to enjoy all she would within her angst-free zone. Dr Méant, Fanny’s long time therapist, had said she would hardly find professional help in her language, but he would try and collect books for her. More realistically, she would find all the help needed with two survivors like her, and so it would for Karolina.
Serguei had set his want on the girls and casually taken Melchior’s seat once he had left Karolina’s side. He wouldn’t even speak Russian, but he knew how to sway his green eyes eloquently, and he smelled of oud. Querying for some sort of nod on my part, she did not shy from his grazing her arm and up to her neck. Fulgence had stood on the lookout, so when they danced away to a red velvet corner, he jumped at Petra’s knees and found no unwillingness to open the gentle gates.
I sussed the cavalry had somewhat plotted about me when I pretended to go refresh in the petal pink powder room next to the McVies’ grand bedroom, and two smirking hoodlums followed me nonchalantly. They did not ask permission to wring my loins on the convenient satin banquette and try to force themselves in. I rebuffed and showed them the frosted crystal pot of vaseline on the make-up shelf, after what we whirled an agreement on our confrontation so they could revive their ancestral fury to my highest bliss. As for me, they could have galloped the night away, but I knew they would fall dry and replete while I wiggled in the adjoined shower. They owned it Serguei had not lied to them; I let them wipe me dry, and I borrowed some of the rich hesperides essence that Fern had just been offered.
A few knowledgeable smirks greeted me back to the table where the game of musical chairs had operated, and there was traffic with the upper floor. Now, Fern wouldn’t let go of Erik’s tallywag, of which she probably had entertained a few rounds already., while Ashler was exploring the dainty commerce of Elvire’s. Cecile had acquainted with a pair of Ukrainian brothers with sharp obsidian eyes but civilised manners, and she had slumped in bitchy romps with no restraints amidst the mute triumph of her craft. Would they know? Now she bore that offish expression and smelled like a street urchin who won’t cry. She vanished into the cloud of sighs and came back, wet as a trout, spry and famished. The brothers felt shied and so went to freshen up. In the lustful by-and-by the McVies seemed inclined towards, a plain mixed shower room would fit best; in the meantime, it be safer to carouse in the attic rooms, like those who shared the nudies’ gang.
Thinking of which, the swimming pool was a flower’s throw away and did not require that we dress. Fern had relished being shagged amidst the flows; she led the scruffy troupe to the crystal pond, like Messalina and her slaves. I suspect she had texted someone on the 7S side for a trio of square-jawed attorneys cropped up in nought attire, Matthew up front, not so surprised by his boss’s new crush’s mores, noting she was still doodling with the black truncheon, keeping him shy off her privacy perimeter. Now he had pushed me in the sinewy smile of one of the boys who smelled of the Grenadines nights, and I felt slutty again. I preferred he finish me off cooly; I led him upstairs to my room and let myself be used like a slag.

My jacket had been discreetly brought back. I didn’t know the name of my last handler, only a scent on the pillow and stains on the sheets. I was knackered but intact and thirsty. I brewed a large pot of Oriental Beauty and put my feet up on the table. I put myself to read the mail on the e-pad. Kate had sent a picture of their Alster shore garden with Herr Schwan taking the sun, taken from upstairs. She said her mother was peacefully dying in her room and needed her because she spoke no longer German.
I wouldn’t even know where my own mother was. She had been in Seattle once. She had always resented me, I had never tried to win her back. I was overjoyed when Ksyusha dawdled in with her childish morning smile. She was quick wit enough to operate the coffee machine while her buttocks winked at me, then she sat across and grabbed my feet to grant me a damn fine rubbing. I wondered if she would stay with us. She gave me an idle stare and said she never knew, but she loved me and the flock so much. I told her about Kate. She said she had met the old lady; she seemed genuinely pained, although Hamburg wasn’t a fond memory.
We fetched out mismatched sweatsuits, cotton socks and slippers and climbed to the studio where we were greeted by Alfred’s rants. The futon had been refolded, but I understood she missed it. She smelled of apple blossom, like Easter in Denmark. I let her unravel in German the yarn of her long escape from a life which let me think she could fly. I feasted on her, we played water sports, we ordered a rhubarb and ginger pie, and we called Liselotte.
The client lived on Place des Vosges, which always made me think of Bob Dylan. Ksyusha had chosen a royal blue shantung mid-thigh sheath dress I owned that looked better on her —or was it that I was smitten with the small of her back? And an ink-blue wool velvet flight jacket, indigo opaque stockings and dark blue suede Chelseas. She had the good taste of fitting in our shoe size. She would smell of Nile jasmine and Scilly daffodils like the bridesmaid you wish you topple over in the vestiary.
I donned a night blue silk panne velvet flared short dress with long sleeves, crotchless ink blue silk tights, and black patent loafers. I slid on an oversized couture zipped varsity jacket of sapphire black velvet appliqué of a big Larimar-blue letter “S” trimmed of silver front and back, and black heavy satin raglan sleeves, with wide, knit sapphire and white striped belt, cuffs, and collar. I smelled of that English peony with a wake of Virginia tobacco I had first tried on my Far and was ambiguous enough for this manner of visit.
From the vaulted sidewalk, it all emanated money like a Swiss bank. The venerable architecture had been brushed and pointed anew in its timeless colours. We rang on the steel pad so the massive door buzzed open. On the side of a cobbled yard with a trio of magnolias like those of the McVies, a glazed door opened on a checkered paved gallery with a stone staircase of noble proportions, the kind you run up in a breath, with an iron masterwork railing. Two flights up, a burly middle-aged man in a fir-green velvet robe watched us come up on the Turkish design carpeted stairs.
He smelled of Neapolitan Cologne. The band collar of his shirt was pristine white; from under the luxurious robe, he wore cream cashmere trousers and dark green slippers. He wasn’t potbellied and held his shoulders back; he made me think of a cavalryman with a fierce loins thrust; Ksyusha would appreciate that. He greeted to his apartments with a keen gaze, asking us to put off our shoes without any ado in a square foyer hung in red-printed indienne and laid with Persian rugs. A pair of baroque polished oak framed portraits of young half-clad women in the manner of Peter Lely’s Windsor Ladies faced each other around a heavy cupboard whose upper half was glazed, clad with teal velvet, lit from inside, and displayed a considerable collection of exotic shells and corals. From the painted beams ceiling hung electrified copper chandeliers.
He took an understandable liking for Ksyusha’s feet, and so, having sighted that we went bare arse, told us to take off the stockings right away, too.
A parqueted corridor laid with runner rugs and panelled in dark oak led to the main reception room overlooking the square. He wasn’t the genre to hurry us to private rooms. I would have liked Cecile’s sharp eye to tell me if the numerous light-hearted feminine beauties we had passed by were genuine in painting. I noted to tell Liselotte to send her to sell her shapely allure about here. That grand salon, dominated by a monumental fireplace where arm-long logs were already crackling, was hung with fanciful motives Beauvais tapestries in warm tones. The tall windows were in rustic, wavy stained glass for privacy. A larger-than-life, frankly indecent, wooden winged siren from a bygone sailship was taking flight from the windows side in scraps of gold. Our guest spoke in a mellifluous tenore di grazia tone of voice, with an accent. He rolled the Rs.

Gently anachronic because Henri IV of France did not revel in wallowing elsewhere than a welcoming bed, three English Georgian maroon leather easy chairs awaited our complacent exposure, as he said, pulling off our attires and sitting on a stool to knead Ksyusha’s feet. She was a craftier slut than I; she bore that unwaning, mischievous smile she had sported through Europe since her long escapade.
Peter, as he called himself, rang a silver tinkle to call a dark-skin Indian waiter and asked us what we would like. Ksyusha asked for coffee; I preferred tea. He had been warned of the teetotaller predicate, although Ksyusha did not know fully what it meant. The servant brought steaming silverware and white porcelain cups on silver trays to our intricately sculpted cherry wood side tables. Suresh came from a Tamil family in Pondicherry whose men were often museum attendants in France, but Peter had beat the administration on the benefits. The fine-featured young man did not deprive himself of leering our indecent anatomies, but it did not make his hand falter while he poured in our cups. Fireflies warned me in my womb.
Peter had been wearing sailor’s trousers with a fall front, and his dick was suddenly up at attention for Ksyusha’s supple feet to play with. She did not rest her cup for that much. The mellow music of a somewhat Brazilian guitar made me hope there was another accomplice in the shadows. Once my cup of strong Darjeeling sipped, he told me to kneel aside sweet Ksyusha and present my buttocks up, arching so as to open the butt furrow for him to rummage in. I was ready to beg for some salve lubricant, but he proposed opium suppositories, swearing it would double the pleasure for all of us. Kate had told me of these with an eye-roll, and Ksyusha, who understood clearer than usual, was enthused.
My coochie was all moist, I sensed the finger pushing one, two, three melting lumps up my anus, and more buttery matter to make me feel ready for a platoon of Renaissance goons.
Ksyusha had slid forth while he held her feet high up. She moaned at his humpings as we twirled our tongues like a knot of eels, and then my own radiating rosette in bloom felt easily forced and drilled in deep, making it obvious that Suresh had joined the master and did not dislike my arse. Whatever drug it was, it indeed befuddled the nerves in my womb and all of my lower belly, reminding me of the glass masters’ magic in Murano’s furnaces, so intense it was.
Suresh nude was splendid, intensely black, sinewy and smooth, with a sizeable truncheon that had flourished my whole entrails. He flipped me aside, legs spread, letting my arse drool on the rug, rekindling his weapon in my stirring vagina, pounding me to no end at the edge of swooning.
Meanwhile, in the dead of night, big fluttering flakes had begun to fall, and the trees beyond the railings were adorned with heavenly laces. The taxi driver drove safely and liked what he saw of us, two half-drunk expensive harlots on the job, enough to fuel a lonely wanking, and I tipped him princely. Upstairs, Cecile was in bed with someone. We played and rinsed our stunned innards in the tepid flows. Ksyusha was enamoured and I did not shun that. She avowed that she had lifted the box of suppositories; I schemed we should confide it to Hugo, whom she had not yet shagged, to learn what was into them and possibly copy them.
She was the best of bedfellows; we slept like replete poppies. Mid-morning, the muting coat was still there, the wonder glow seeped up the shutters, and Alfred didn’t like it all. Ksyusha was awake, wary of what mood I would be in. When I cuddled her and patted her belly, like I wouldn’t forget the good time with her. She adored the snow, it reminded her of bygone times home when her life had not yet turned sour. As we cuddled up together in flimsy nightshirts, she overread I was texting Hugo, and she wondered about him, as I had said she would shag him. So, with the help of the translator to a language I had never paid attention to, I told her the gist of our relation to our landlord par excellence, letting her know we all had shagged him quite a few times, and I would go with her to introduce her and more. I gave her the whole of our easily earned reward; she sniffed and pretended she needed the loo.
Irène had slept with Cecile who had found herself somewhat disconcerted, alone with the cringy homunculus in the god Crow’s beak, and she wore an antique silver bangle she didn’t know. I told her to come sit between us. She wore a thin jersey nightgown, and Ksyusha liked her timid breast. I told her about the snow, which was mystifying the city because Ksyusha and I had been overly naughty in a Renaissance lair where I could sell her to, some night. I explained Cecile had clasped a silver spell to her wrist because she was such a devilish wanker; I knew that.
She told Ksyusha that Hugo was a master lovemaker in a spell-binding realm she would return to any time, and she slid her hand between her parted thighs. Hugo answered he would be thrilled to see us and the magic arse-treats at dinner time.

We revelled in the studio as the lazy flakes flew on, and Alfred took patience —his feeder was loaded. Irène and Ksyusha, on the futon, wore no longer more than wool socks, and it annoyed me not to see their feet and Ksyusha’s in particular. I agreed to take Irène along to Hugo’s with us, I would care for her if Hugo took Ksyusha to one of the otherworldly bedrooms. I knew he might relish pyjamas smarts — without the trousers. Silky princess satin navy blue, scarlet piping trimmed for Ksyusha, malachite green for Irène, black for me. We had time to wash our hair, paint our nails and prepare ourselves like warpath harlots, most nights, that is.
After tea, coffee, and all things that make girls leak, we ran down to the Master’s door. We wouldn’t have time to catch a cold. His kaftan cast a tutti-frutti sparkle above the creases of his long white silk bourette shirt, white stockings and purple slippers. A true Samarkand trafficker with a majestuous oval emerald intaglio set in gold at his middle finger, which felt warm as it glided upon our lower belly. He had displayed gold foil foliage bouquets in heavy cobalt-blue crystal vases, blue filligrania Murano glass goblets, and ewers awaited sparklingly on the chiselled silver tray on the coffee table before the maroon velvet banquettes.
While he would be dazzled by all our bare legs, he lent an ear to our soirée at Place des Vosges and the wonder suppositories, of which he picked one, placed it in a small sample bottle and said it would go to a pharmaceutical laboratory he trusted the next morning. As foreseeably, he regaled listening to the jumbled description by Ksyusha of her sensations all along her spine when Peter had buggered her with the drug in her anus.
Hugo knew Peter Slaszevich, one of those Mittel-European influence agents in another life, filthy rich and protected as we could guess. They had adressed girls in need to each other in good faith, in the times, like Louis or others. Now Liselotte managed these matters competently, didn’t she? As he kissed Ksyusha’s foot, he winked at me. I was opening wide Irène’s jacket, exposing her sublime pallor and her petal-pink coochie, feeling the blush heat on her cheek.
When he ushered us to the dining table, our silks had flown off, and we shone in the warm gleam of the copper sconces. Ksyusha’shair was golden and tousled. Hugo said it must have recalled bygone days to Peter, beyond the iron curtain. On the lazy susan was assembled a collection of decorated little earthenware marmites with truffled cashew cream risotto, roasted tofu and jackfruit, pistaccio ratatouille, honey walnut stuffed cabbage, and mint chocolate mousse, all from Sundarrajan’s in rue de Verneuil, white pineapple, grapes, and baked apples on toast.
Ksyusha was easygoing in Hugo’s imaginarium, candidly wiggling like a queen kitten at his hands, and she was a treat to the eye; Irène was a tad self-conscious, so I played a bit footsie and turned to her. Ksyusha scarcely pecked, a key reason for her tight, flat abs; I could tell they would soon vanish in the depth of the wonder cave, and he would have set his lustful traps we all enjoyed now and then. I took Irène for a little museum tour; there was a novel erotic Venetian eglomised glass scenes collection, with outrageously thick truncheons in Casanovesque little cunnies from the perdition cabinets of some long gone ridotto. The etching in the glass was arachnoidly detailed like a long, annealed obsession, and the silver sparkle gave the lewdness a brisk mental aura like it would have a religious parable. My erotic digressions aroused Irène; she asked me if I would take her to such parties that make the snow fall.
Somewhere afar in that luxuriant maze that I could roam, eyes closed, a most recognisable ruckus, and I knew how to peep on. Set like an artful bawdy house for who knows whose depravity —after all, Hugo’s lair has more than one means of access— A narrow, padded vestibule offered a view of what went on in the adjoining crimson bedroom through a one-way Marie-Antoinette mirror. There was more to watch the Grand Vizir adore that lustful blonde goddess through that stealth contrivance than to plainly participate along, like I had the night last in the Renaissance. We stood in the ruby light of some stolen altar lamp, Irène was instantly drenched, and I revelled in her natural talents while Ksyusha squeezed Hugo’s staff into her pale hibiscus in bloom and helped herself with a swift finger. .
I also took Irène to Mister Finch’s fluffy moths congress, where I took pride in making her swoon like a little girl. There, we were caught by His Grace and his bedazzling slut, but we let ourselves doze out like a litter of kittens. The next morning, I had a message they were on a flight to Syracuse. Back upstairs, I baked French bread, and Irène liked it. I chatted with Liselotte, who was proud of her Renaissance connection. She said she might tweak some other adventure for Irène and me.

The snow had held. The city was slidy, but the sidewalks had been swept clean. We went shopping like spoiled brats; cashmere tights are not eternal, and novel shirts and scarves can be irresistible, and we let ourselves be groped by expensive-perfumed ladies we lured to the fitting rooms. Irène was like wired about the idea we go together whore ourselves in an unknown nook of the city. I told her how Natalia did such every so often and she would be pleased to show her around, too. I wondered if she would stoop to getting rich in the Mendelsohnn scheme; most of us had, bar the nonconforming fairies. I would tell Cecile. Having tea at Celimène’s on the roof, I told my pupil, among other follies we do, the gist of a rich heir so obsessed with sex he couldn’t leave his bed in a unique Capharnaûm of artefacts, the least of which was coveted by first plan institutions. I knew Cecile was always in dire straights when she needed the precious archives that were stored in the enormous mansion. Not only had she had to comply with the nonetheless almost good-looking heir’s wants, but the Majordomo who held the door demanded to be tipped in kind in his office.
I was taking a perverse pleasure, causing Irène’s eyes to open wide, unveiling unsuspected facets of her beloved Cecile. I knew she had been hooked; I let candidly that I could show her to the den of the forty thieves if she dared shag the flesh-and-bone Ali Baba, would she? We had spent infinitely on gentle winter underwear, tickling the fancy of a Saas Fee vacation I had promised myself since ever. Back home with our loot, I saw a message from Liselotte telling us a car would pick us up at eight. As most times, the dress code was rive-gauche posh, easiest-to-strip.
After a thorough professional grooming, and pruning of her fringe, painting her nails bigarreau-red, she chose that spicy rose, iris, and oud that would exacerbate her natural blood orange note, which we had bought with Cecile in our memorable flight over the Arno with a party of irresistible Italian males she still studied with assiduously when the Albatross would kindly take her.
Irène had bought black thick-sole ankle boots, black Angora blend leggings, a multicolour-speckled black tweed culotte skirt and the matched high-waist sports jacket, a thin silk black cable-stitched tight-fit round-collar jumper that played with her breasts, and one of my silver and turquoise bejewelled Yuni belts. It was a treat to chase her nipples under the knitted silk. She would wrap herself in the trapeze black worsted wool sleek Burberry raglan overcoat I had bought vintage in London long ago. She looked like Twiggy’s brune younger daughter, and I helped her with the mascara.
I relished the feel of silk and cashmere ribbed holy night blue leggings on my intimate skin. I slid on the matching tight-fit collarless jumper, so I looked like a hotel thief. I slid on indigo satin tight short shorts, and I donned an azurean silk velvet blazer. I put on my purplish navy Johdpur ankle boots. I would throw on a glazed midnight blue trench, only to hop over the dirty snow ridge to the car and back. I had sprayed the true Medicean Iris clouded in ambergris and fringed of violet as if I would go shag the Pope.
It was a heavy statutory berline with a capped chauffeur who stepped out to hold us the door. No more virginal peace, like when you couldn’t help breaking the crust of the cake. Except for the Square Boucicaut, it was the dirty realm of slush before it ice up again. Irène said she had no memory of the snow, but she relished roaming in a luxury car at the hands of a lover, like she had with the Laforest twins one by one. We were heading south.
I had seen that before, a small road along the high wall of a private estate, and I hated the idea of a hunting reserve. A prideful gate stood on a half-moon recess, in the headlights; it opened slowly at a command by the chauffeur, tapped on a virtual keypad in the dashboard. High trees looked like returning, skinned ghosts, petrified in the white undergrowth. I told Irène, cuddled warmly in my wing, that I wasn’t so sure I wanted to come out of the car.
Through the windshield, at the far end of a straight alley lined with plane trees, we saw a whitish country house in the Victorian Rothchild manner, overlooking a frozen pond in the moonlight. The car drove under an ashlar stone vault and stopped at a doormat before tall glazed doors. It smelled of cedar wood. Another one of these leering ushers, burly in a black silk livery and patent leather shoes and a faultless wing tip collar and white bow, held the door in such a way that I could feel raped, if not so brutalised after all.
My nerves resettled when music that sounded like Erik Satie on the celesta twinkled afar, and we gave up our coats and shoes, as the Cerberus required. The carpet was plain vermillion and voluptuous to our toes. The man complimented us on our feet, as to make us feel like fair game, which indeed we were, weren’t we?

Foreseeably, after letting us prance a bit for his relish, he considered our shorts and leggings that we slid off in a blink. He lifted his brow as he sniffed through the moist wool, and he went on, complimenting our legs and buttocks. Anyhow, we wore nought else down below, now. He seized Irène by the waist and took a deep kiss while he made her wiggle out of her jacket. He groped her tiny breasts and stripped off the jumper deftly, as she deserved.
Ogling us all sides, he led us to some vestiary alcove, where he tidied our wares neatly and, inevitably, pushed us through a small porte dérobée. It was a tiny windowless resting room with merely a padded red velvet daybed and upholstered in a peacock feather print. It was a genre must, like the wine taster. He lay Irène down and told me to straddle her mouth like I liked while his trousers dropped, and he rubbed some lube on his glans. He wouldn’t waste time. She wasn’t fully accustomed to being so easily threaded, like beyond her will, but she kept tonguing me with devotion, making me drool on her chin, and she eventually climaxed upon his broad staff before he let go of his manly discharge. There was an adjoining toilet room with a fully equipped bidet, but he wanted me to suck him clean. He tasted of turmeric yoghurt. He told us to lube our arses once the enema was done. I told him we were ready, but he retorted that wouldn’t be enough, and he sounded like a film sergeant.
He harnessed us with serious black, padded collar, belt, wrists and ankles firmly buckled restraints —still groping and fingering us at whim, letting out this was all a game, as we knew. He clasped long leashes at our necks and pushed us to the grand staircase, making us climb first so he could leer our butts.
Whoever built this folly must have been some arms dealer or his banker, such was the unmatched pretence of that high ceiling staircase in ashlar stone vault adorned with gilt bronze reliefs of idling nymphs on peaceful clouds. The carpet, held by shiny copper bars, was, however, richly ornate in vivid colours; it led to a landing before polished, exotic wood doors, with a lackey standing at attention. Irène looked at me, not knowing if it was funny or scary. She was, of course, go for all sorts of carnal shenanigans, but not for tedious ceremonies.
Beyond the door, the salon was too dark to fathom its dimensions, and only that there was painterly decor and gilt up to the ceiling where crystal chandeliers glowed scarcely. It smelled of cinnamon vin brûlé and gingerbread, all comfy scents. Howbeit, strong-armed stooges seized us and shackled our wrists together in our backs, omitting neither to fondle us offhandedly.
A beautiful nude woman with bountiful curly dark hair continued to release Satie’s meditations on her celesta; next to her stood a lonely glimmering harp. The lush carpeting and most of the furnishing were upholstered in cypress green mohair velvet, obviously on another luxury brothel grand layout, with all the sofas, cushions, and sturdy banquettes required, as well as side tables and convenience stools. I did not see any exorbitant torture accessories, only the sprightly pink spur of a standing swordsman right in my face as I was kneeling on a cushion, and I sucked.
Irène had been spread-tied, her back on a padded bench, her head dangling at a designed edge to shag her throat deeper; a party of merrymakers in dancers’ suits, the fly opened, were already feasting on her every nook. I had to gulp down a ladle of a weird sorrel soup, and she belched out most of hers. I was then tied astride on another kind of bench, my head in a chin rest to keep on feeding me muck, the other end protruding to offer whichever of my slit’s free access. And it was no decorative prop, indeed, I was used like a proper workhorse, gushed and pissed in, relentlessly, hinting at my bustle brains that what they amply smeared my slits with was no more innocent than what Peter had slid in our bumholes with our consent.
When the troupes admitted they had spurted all the sap of their bones, they carried us merely conscious to a spacious azulejos-clad bathroom, busying themselves at purging and washing our poor mortal remains, nonetheless intact, so to speak. We were wiped and dabbed like babies, massaged with sublime ointments, titillated into bliss. In a grandiose dining room, a faultless collation was served; Liselotte had passed some instructions.

After such mercyless thrashing, it felt like a vibrant renascence, we cuddled each other to the sniggers of our handlers, but I whispered to Irène that night had been all but normal. On the way back, the sloche had frozen again, but the heavy carriage didn’t bother. I singled the chauffeur as one of the burlier assailors; he let a prudent smile fleet on his lips. I told him I was not resentful, and Liselotte knew what to make of us. Once upstairs, we disrobed, fetched our nightshirts, and sunk, embraced, into the silence.

Cecile came to pull me out of an orgiastic dream so my first move was to pull her along with us. But she murmured to my ear that she wanted me to get up and follow her. Kate’s mom had passed. Gauthier and Fulgence were on deck, and the plane was leaving in one hour; she said I smelled clean and needed nought other than pee and dress up in warm black. The news had been posted; the cremation would happen the next morning.
The wild horde had actually been efficient at healing the hassles they had caused, and my hair looked good, but the purple circles to my eyes made me look like a whore, was I not? I fetched eyeshades and a black fedora —my whimsical morning mind thought of a voilette, as for mourning in an Italian movie.
In the car, I would text Irène to wait for me; she did not need to attend a funeral. We went to pick up Camille and Fanny. The day was leaden, we were going north. Onboard, I found what to make some English breakfast tea, and Cecile brewed coffee. The leap to blue skies took us off guard, and the sun behind us was bright gold.
Camille and Fanny made the utmost formal couple in pinstripe suits, black shirts and black Oxfords, all the sexier to my mood. I had been Camille’s pet when Kate had begun to lose her marbles.
Gauthier wore a grey tweed Nehru suit with a collarless black and white striped shirt and dark brown boots. Fulgence sported that timeless cavalier collar black corduroy jacket over a black turtleneck, black jeans and boots; he came to me and said I looked terrific as a mob widow. Cecile had on a high-waisted black cashmere fitted jacket and worsted tight trousers on her narrow butt, a black silk twill shirt, and black Chelseas.
The Krematorium was minutes from the airport; we needed three taxis; I noted that Gauthier was clutching Cecile, who let him, and I was discreetly groped by Fulgence. The living lust was scorning death. A badge-carrying usher led us to a meeting room where Kate, in a plain black wool suit, was supported by Cynthia and Simon. Lauritz was here, and Hugo too, in a crowd of older greying boomers. Fanny went to hug Kate, and they cried; the usher offered grey handkerchiefs.
The ultimate room was adorned with bouquets a sculpture of a lifesize swan couple standing on a dark blue plinth. The maroon-lacquered coffin rested upon a black slab before a bold-coloured stained glass wall. The Debussy Arabesques were played, and the casket slowly lowered into the ground, and another slab slid and concealed the void. Debussy lulled us back with a rêverie, Kate and Simon began to thank the mourners in good grace, and outside, the snow began to whirl again.
Gauthier, who had been messaged, said the plane should fly soon. Kate promised she would be with us in a little while; Fanny remained with her, and Hugo joined us. Up there, it was night. We brewed some more coffee and tea; Cecile and Gauthier necked as high-schoolers. Hugo embraced me; he was head over heels for Ksyusha. He would settle her in the new flats.
The Arabesques still hovered in my brain. Tomorrow, the carnal traces of a singular life would dissolve in the numb waters of the Nordzee. I texted Irène to order pies and stuff for a late dinner. Snow had not yet returned to Paris and Le Bourget. In the minibus, Camille managed to sit next to Cecile and Gauthier; she joined in the handplays, and Cecile let be. As Fulgence had opened my fly, I told him about our bone-racking night, and Hugo listened; I told him he could question Irène a while before returning to where Ksyusha was.
Most of us were peckish, and Irène had been chatting with Saane, ordering treats for a regiment. We stuffed the oven before we unwound our emotions on each other. Hubo had been aroused with what I had said of Irène, but I told him he had been blinded by Ksyusha’s spell when she had been in his home, and we had been naughty peeping on him from the concealed cabinet as he shagged the Belarussian wonder. Now, he acknowledged his miss and sat my pupil, who merely wore pale green William Morris willow flannel pyjamas, upon his lap, letting his hands roam.
Our place was becoming a heady perfumed mess. Fulgence had rid of my boots and pulled my leggings, which he said smelled of magic squirrel. Most of us, sluts, ate with bare butts and fluttering shirts. When Kate called in video, Fanny was nude at her side, and she whistled when I showed her Irène trousers down. She said she missed all of us, gang and she would be back soon.
I could tell Hugo reckoned that Irène was on par with Ksyusha as for lechery as they frisked on the far end of a sofa, and I had not seen Hugo in the buff for ages; I was happy to find him so fit. Fulgence buggered me valiantly on the opposite one and granted me a large smelly blessing. In the other corner, Camille had not revelled in Cecile’s arms so intensely for aeons, and Gauthier took advantage of whatever slit he could shag. As a burly workman, Fulgence did not concede after a first salvo, and I was proud of my nasty womb.

The video showed Simon quietly rinsing the urn with the tiny backwash; Kate and Cynthia standing barefoot in the foam. No hint of who held the camera. It ended with a long shot on the flat waters. Simon said he would return the urn. Everyone on the Slack thread would see.
Irène had slept with me; I had lent her a goldfish kimono; she wore big wool socks. She had smeared apricot jam on the French toast. Later this morning, Pablo, the new gym coach, would take over the iron-pumping abyss. He had chosen that name because his real Wolof patronym was too complicated for Europeans. Delf had missioned him so that it wouldn’t be unethical to succumb to the charm of the training clients inasmuch he would assert proper consent and not a mere silence, which could mean fear on the woman’s part. And he had also acknowledged he could have to deal with genderless persons such as Delf, who by no means were evil, were they?
Pablo was tall and lanky; he owned a certification as a sports monitor and masseur, he operated in other dance schools, and he liked the fees TRÆVIX offered. He wore flashy cyclist shorts which left no doubts as to his manhood. That first session, he showed us where, in our gracile frame, we would have to suffer and, most of all how to maintain flat abs.
After sweats, sauna, and diving, we climbed up to the studio, and we brewed tea and coffee. The snow plates were falling from the roofs, and Alfred was confused. I loaded the feeder, and he called for the Mrs. We had slid on the thickest sweatsuits; Irène wore vermillion and marigold, I wore ink-blue with a big teal “S’, one purple Chuck, the other pink. We couldn’t do much other than nap on the futon and pull a fluffy shawl over us. Later, Natalia did not wake us; she enlaced Irène and was caught in our dream.
It was night when we emerged back. The studio was under the ward of sundry indicator lights. Natalia craved warm skin, and I opened her flannel shirt to nibble her pointed nipples. Downstairs, we still had delicacies piled in the fridge. Cecile had texted she was with Lauritz, others were under the McVies’ roof.

Natalia says:

The last few days had roared even more hectic than my normal, whenas it seemed there had been rattle-and-hum events about Kate’s mother, and now this poignant video in Sylt. But when I returned from my Spanish escapade —was it even in Spain?— I found Sarah asleep in the daytime in Irène’s arms, on the studio’s futon, and they smelled of bliss.
One of Lislotte’s A-list patrons had “heard” of me. She had booked me for an intersidereal fee, and I suppose her cut must be fat, too. A paunchy berline with an Asian, capped chauffeur, picked me up to Le Bourget, where a black jet awaited me. Liselotte had recommended the Marlene tuxedo flair, I borrowed from Sarah’s endless resources a platinum thread pinstripe black grain de poudre wool double-breasted suit that fit me, and the trousers were lined in cream princesse satin; so I slid on black silk boxers. Black shirt and bowtie made it for the wicked blonde femme. And black chelseas, worsted trench, and grey leopard scarf, to ward off the snow.
All there was in the minibar were alcohol and Ramlösa water, and the pilot, when he came to try me, sounded Swedish, too. He must have been drunk; I didn’t let him a chance. The low sun gilded the herd of clouds; we were headed south. We landed in Malaga after two and a half hours of British fashion magazines left by some other wayfarer. The air was mellow, and I liked the insidious scent of kerosene. Poul von Rosenkranz, a bald and burly man, stood wrapped in a coal-grey cashmere fleeting coat. He claimed his galanterie and led me to a statutory chauffeured smoke-grey berline.
He spoke smooth German, smelled of expensive Cologne, and wasted no time vetting what he had paid for. He relished that my fly had buttons; he joshed that it reminded him of boarding school. I let him rummage in my slit underwear; he overtly sniffed up his fingers and moaned with a glance at his dark-rimmed green eyes. He glided a hand on my breast and pulled me for a deep kiss he had not learned at school. The music was the romantic Schonberg. He asked where a blonde like me came from; I told him my parents were from Ukraine, but I had been born and raised in France.
The estate was stunning; atop the olive groves, a bold-coloured Baragan set of concrete blocks with a long silver-mosaic pool amidst a lonesome landscape. He took me along contrasted corridors until I had lost all my vestments, tided hither and dither on chairs and sculptures. He pushed me on a fuschia mohair bed, and he lapped up at my holy brooklet as if it was the only spring in a desert. When I felt like responding and unclothing him, he ordered me to lay still, open wide my thighs and let be. He mumbled Pierre Louÿs’ erotic verses in French.
He was already stiff as a stick when he made me lick his rosy glans, then shovelled the whole length of the staff down to my throat, without hurting any, as my head was reclined back over the bed’s ledge. Half knelt in a slant position, he spurted his spritz beyond my throat as not many had before him, leaving me dumbstruck while it made its way to my stomach. At a call in some language, a young Asian wearing a thin peach brassière and some flimsy rose wrap skirt, barefoot, brought a lacquer tray bearing a bottle of Ramlösa, two glasses, and a bronze bowl. She was aloof and coy, with an Angkor smile, but he slid a hand into the front fold of the skirt, if only to show me what she was to him, and she let do.
Resting the tray for us to drink, she took the bowl, which contained a transparent jelly, bypassed the bed and sat between my thighs. I soon sensed she was smearing my slits with the lube, as it was, and inserted her small hands as deep as she would in me, heads and tails, slowly shagging with irresistible insistence, knowing I would topple out in bliss before I knew it, all the more that I liked what she did. When I resurged and looked back at her, she was nude, still smiling and ready to keep on. It seemed her whole arms went deep in me, and I spurted like a leaked wineskin.
When I swooned, he must have made her stop, but she was still there as he buggered me delectably, and, seeing me smile, she crouched upon my face and rubbed it with her wet little bloom, starting me tonguing her labia and clit like I knew how.
Sensitive as if a gang of brutes had harrowed my entrails, I howled when he poured warm jizz in deep, although the little goddess squirted in my mouth. Later, in the white marble bathroom, Pusa —cat, in Filipino, it was her name— helped me rinse my bowels in the bidet with a convenient enema cannula, and then we swam in a sunk little pool full of scented lukewarm water. Poul watched us, and I could tell he wasn’t finished. He wanted to show me he could also thread the kitten at no damage —and he wouldn’t be first or last— and so he quietly did as we kissed like bosom buddies.
When we sat in the yellow and red vast dine-in kitchen, yet another feline, lightly clad, hip-swaying deity was there to serve us an exotic jackfruit hotpot and maize bread, and Pusa unclothed her, too. She swiftly reported apparently to her friend about me, for I could read relief in her so fresh eyes.

Another plain colours room, bluish-purple and fir-green, was furnished in sunny yellow upholstered bed and chairs, and a wall of glass opened unto the nightly dry landscape. One line of white light ran the top edge of the only white wall. Poul pushed us towards the bed, his mast again fully erect, and he said we would play such as he dared not with the Filipinas alone in fear of breaking their dainty womb. Pusa smeared me again in her delicate manner so that he could impale me, my back to him. The two cinnamon birds knew where that led, and they sniggered lightly.
He told Pusa to go handle him through my vagina wall, and no one had ever done me that, indeed. I sensed her minute hand properly masturbating him as a double as if my rectum had fingers. It must have been supreme in his already maddened penis, and the girls swapped before he blew a last major crisis and spurt the ultimate drops of his distillate.
My telephone buzzed beside my head, and the sun bathed me on that yellow bed. I answered nonchalantly. Poul said he was on a flight to a business appointment, but I could fly home in two hours after a healthy breakfast. I had been the ideal spar; he would dream of keeping me thus. I would see the transfer on my account. He would most certainly hire me again.
I saw no trace of the Filipinas, only one young cleaning man in white overall happened to look me up, and nodded with a smile and said all my affairs were in the bathroom. I thought this disorderly villa must be much more spread-out than it looked. The chauffeur surprised me lazing in the weak winter sun by the shimmering pool; he suggested we get going to Malaga airport. I could still feel my bones hum.
The pilot didn’t come to sniff me. The sun was setting over Le Bourget, where patches of snow remained on the bordering prairies. Another bulky berline got entangled in the evening hassle for my lone selfish person; the music was Mendelsohn. Back home, I wandered a while in my shirt and socks; then I texted Liselotte, who called and said right away she was proud of me. I said I had been doing things and felt uber-cool all over. I asked her about the Filipina girls. She took a pause and told me Poul brought prostitutes he fell for in Manilla, used them like I had enjoyed, too, and schooled them to become European citizens. Liselotte said I could meet some of them, slightly older —who had not become chambermaids— if I had enjoyed the Filipina touch. I trusted Liselotte, and in hindsight, I couldn’t smell a rat.
The sunset was Parrish blue and gold, I saw a faint light in Sarah’s studio. All traces of snow had waned, and Alfred was back on his grandstand. I tried to find something on Netflix, but I dozed out on the sofa in the red cashmere plaid Beryl had offered me. In the morning, my naughty instincts were back at it, but I had sworn I would redraft at least ten pages of a memoir on Marie-Louise O’Murphy, one of Louis XV’s young mistresses, made famous on a risqué painting by François Boucher, and who survived four husbands, no less.
I lugged myself around my words, still creased inside. A text from some ‘Buin apropos Liselotte’ caught my eye. It was from one of Poul von Rosenkranz’s pupils who offered to meet me, no strings attache. We agreed to meet at seven at the Pont Royal bar. I might cross some of my patrons, but it didn’t matter. I was ten minutes ahead, I wore jeans and a bulky tartan lumberjack coat, but that slender blue tweed and terracotta turtleneck singled me out and waved a gracious little hand at me.
She smelled of the ardent extract of rose and jasmine that signs either the Minister’s wife or the priceless escort. She wore tight-fitting night blue trousers, and she read my designer jeans and my vermillion silk bourette shirt, too. We clicked. She had heard about me from Andalucia; she said she craved Pusa, too. We sipped some Earl Grey, and I proposed we climbed to my perch; Liselotte had told her to trust me.
Already in the lift car, I couldn’t restrain myself from kissing her and sliding a hand at her waist, and she let be. She liked the bohème chic allure of our roof floor; she envied our sleek space and all the amenities; she exclaimed at the size of our Italian shower, and all the while, she was losing pieces of vestment. She acknowledged my bed was the best brand just before I toppled her and took a long kiss while I unzipped her fly. She was a supreme lovemaker, so we blessed each other with holy waters more than once.
Then we talked, we nibbled and talked. She was wooed that I could call on the phone for a fresh-baked dinner and not only an Uber burger and chips. She grabbed that we ate as animal-free as we could, bar for the eggs and some cheese, an easy manner to steal some digestible proteins without stomach-churning cruelty to animals, had we conveniently decided. So, we had a mushroom and olive flan paté, a jellied chartreuse of peas, beans, orange and carrots, a custard rhubarb and ginger pie.
Nude in an oversized mullein-yellow cashmere cardigan, she was a feast for the eye.

This fetish refuge of distinguished knitwear had snuggled on other beloved shoulders, the likes of Dagmar or Gwen, and it would, too, cause them to caress themselves in autoerotic shivers, as Buin did instinctively. She had gathered up her dainty feet on the chair; her quim was still as beaded as mine.
She said girls like them were whoring from the age of eleven, depending on their body frame. It dates from the American occupation. She was a half-breed. Like many of them, their mothers had reckoned that light skin was more valued, and they counted on that for a better retirement. It made a jolly mess in the DNA sites. As for the age, their passports showed they were sixteen, and Buin eighteen, as she showed me. We promised to see again, and when we dozed out on the sofa, I took her to bed, where she huddled like a canary.
In the morning, I vaguely saw her take off before daylight; the mullein cardigan would cuddle other frail wings. I lazed all my fill browsing the net about the Philippines; then I called Liselotte. She reckoned we should be talking on eggs, about the filippinas and Poul’s traffic. We concluded it might make sense to make somehow Buin and Fanny to meet. I craved them both, and Fanny had, in her own right, the discreet connexions with the powers that be, if need be. Testifying from the depth of my guts, so to speak, I did not fear anything fishy whatsoever.
The conversation ended as it should, Liselotte taking her gourmet tone to tell me to be ready around eight. Outside, after a timidly mellow afternoon, it froze frankly again. In any probable event, I did a thorough toilet, sprayed that insolent Cologne crossbred of Morrocan Neroli and English lavender Sarah taught me to dare, and still turns Fulgence into a beast of desire. I slid on eggshell cashmere leggings and bodysuit, in a thick, fuzzy cornflower caban, with Air Force blue Chelseas, and a grey Pacino Homburg hat.
The chauffeur was a bulky black man in a graphite black suit. I couldn’t help fantasising he rape me, like many such times. He looked me up all right, but he kept aloof. Who was I to leer on the first well-built man I saw? T needed dick, obviously. It wasn’t far, in our neck of the woods, a non-descript back facade and a squeaking iron door. A lean old man with white sideburns, in a strict black suit and impeccably white shirt, bent to a salute and asked me to follow the way in.
A stentorian voice yelled from afar I come in, please. The pathway was cinematographically lit with antique filament bulbs amidst white enamel disks; it made a rusty light and long graphical shadows. The barren place was sullen but awfully clean. A weird antediluvian electrical meter rambled and clicked, although I could tell it wouldn’t be possible. It was the gloomy opposite of Philippe’s kinky gangways where Sami relished to tup us in warm nooks.
After a bout of Fritz Lang tremors, I saw a door opening at the top of steep stairs and a man in stage attire and makeup waving impatiently. When he could grab me, he pulled off my coat, sniffed me, and a contorted small woman of no age helped him strip me bare, raving about my perfume. He combed my hair in curly strands, wanked me a bit, and hurled me into a circle of light, on the stage of a forlorn theatre, to the recorded applauds of an absent audience.
I had done that, amidst my literature cursus, along with Erik and Fulgence, a course on theatrical improvisation. There, in that silent vacuum of oblivion, I revived the timeless seasons in the shadows of Hugo’s realm my mother kept, mimicking what he made the little harlots do for him, then Kate and Sarah, who eventually ferreted me out with grace and let me sneak in their bed. I fantasised my windfall fairies in the audience, whereas I saw the rows of empty backrests, and I heard inner shreds of Ravel’s Tombeau de Couperin I had seen Sarah dance for Hugo, nude as a daffodil.
I played the Damsel in the light well, but it wasn’t much of a surprise when a hunky black nude dancer jumped in from the dark and circled me with a smile. He was fully taut and probably read some of Ravel’s in my cack-handed moves. He took the lead, and I couldn’t, therefore, follow whatever else than his hip-sways and garner what I was here for. But the guet-apens went more heroic when a pair of sinewy, white slender acolytes joined us, and my fantom music veered to The Rite Of Spring.
I no longer improvised, di i? And they certainly didn’t either. They played me like a statuary Pietà group gone awry, the fictitious curée of the maddened pack. They weren’t novices at the game; although I did not touch the ground, none of my joints cracked as I let go of myself the most graciously. I hadn’t seen how the Swiss Navy had rolled at their feet, but they made great expense of it, to my sweetest rapture, until I swooned in their holding. It must not have been long, I heard a weird chorus of vivas and applauds from the back rows of seats and boxes I had not seen before, and my tormentors gently wiped me of all the jizz they had blessed me with.

The tamers bowed out, and the usher came to embrace me, announcing the climax of the show. Three studs together were a mere hors d’oeuvre for a shooting star like me, were they not? He led me in rounds like a toy and frankly called for bids on my hide. The audience was mainly a busload of Japanese executives with a few escorts. The bustle, through translators, was dense, and I did not grasp which currency they bid. I began to protest I wished I had my say about the sale of my arse. The thin-moustachioed mock auctioneer leaned to my ear and uttered a figure that made my underbelly rock. ‘It’s for you, my gracious” said he, “we have our cut already”. He tapped on his phone and claimed the sale closed.
As he took me by the hand, I said I needed the loo.
Not so inconceivably, he walked with me in the bathroom and watched me drip off my slits. He waved to an enema hose and disposable cannulas. At the moment I inserted the thing, he had already unpacked his winky and forced it in my mouth, bragging it wouldn’t be long. He tasted of raw mushroom, I made no fuss and gulped it all.
We climbed stairs up, and he wanted to lick my bumhole, not worse than all the lackeys I had found myself nude with, and Liselotte had taught me it was not uncondonable, to a limit. We reached a landing with an Art Deco wall gilded plaster relief showing a taller than life élégante walking a pair of Barzoïs, and she looked like Kate. He knocked on a maroon-lacquered door. A Japanese woman in a pinstripe grey tailleur opened and stepped back, making me feel a tad indecent.
A true-to-life Japanese executive in a white stretch cotton boxer came forward with his crotch proudly bulging. He asked that I take my phone to proceed to the transfer, but it was is the room where I had been unclothed, in my coat’s pocket. Moustache had to run while mister Hideki tickled my chakras and fingered my arsehole, and Mrs Formal Grey looked me up like some astray sloth. When my stuff came up, he made me sit next to him, give him my IBANN, show him my black card, and the colossal, for me, transfer was done.
He began sniffing me all over. I understood he relished I hadn’t taken a shower after my onstage acrobatics. After he released his shaft, he made me sit up against pillows and shagged me in the throat till he splurt what had simmered since my naughty cabrioles. He watched me gulp, then he toppled me on the pillows and parted my legs wide to give me a long Japanese insinuation I had never enjoyed yet, and the rose leaf Moustache had botched. Then he anointed my slits with something that smelled of cut hay, and whatever poison I couldn’t avoid any more and made my entrails smile when he shagged me. It lasted tirelessly; I had herds of bison running up my spine, I howled with wolves in a snowstorm, and I dozed out in oblivion.
In the morning, because a bull’s eye was lightened, the room was squeaky clean and tidy. I found a complete bathroom and took a boyish scent shower; my lower belly felt great. Back in the room, I found a grey chambermaid with a breakfast tray, and I could do with coffee, for once. Moustache appeared, probably disappointed to find me all set; he looked at me as some prize of war, but the game was over. Down the front staircase, the chauffeur didn’t want to know what he had missed, and I was in a hurry to recount my night to Sarah, but Liselotte called; she said I had upended a most important Japanese boss who was thinking of buying a Paris flat to meet me without witnesses. I told her I would be at her place to recount my improbable night. That was all Liselotte would relish; she brewed some tea and began to unclothe me.

Sarah says:

She was overjoyed to find me alone in the studio; Natalia had tales to tell, and Irène was gone with Fanny. She wore one of her flannel shirts, the first ones she stole from Fulgence. She had spent the afternoon in Liselotte’s bed; she was in bloom, so I pulled off her jeans to rekindle the embers.
That manner of exhibition on the theatre stage was indeed tempting, as she urged me to offer myself to Liselotte for it, including the auction conclusion, provided the auctioneers vetted the participants. But so then, she had another fruitful address somewhere in the beaux quartiers of Paris.
She smelled of Neapolitan vice. The Malaga escapade ensued with a princess at our door had some zest to it, and my inner maniac clockwork was clicking as far as taking Buin with us two for a bare-arse snow vacation in Zürich, and I craved watching Natalia in the raw, wooing global finance. She was enthused, I put an option for the Albatross the next few days before knowing if Buin would come with us.
As for now, on the wing of our wants, I suggested we go undress ourselves at Speck’s and offer some double games to secret agents. She said she was go, if we would stay together, even for only one jock. I had not dared do that with Irène. Alfred signalled the weather was fierce; we fetched many threads cashmere leggings and leotards. She wore that soft-blue, fluffy thick wool coat over that mellow slender oatmeal figure, and Havanna Chelseas; I did samely in a periwinkle cable-stitched bodysuit and a night blue silky down coat, with navy Jodhpurs boots.
Udo was in for a thrill when we told him we would wear nought, were it not some Swarovski’s show bling. He must have drained his balls with some sassy debutante, but he asked us to put on some show upon the leather of his desk, which only use it were. Once he had his eyeful, we passed in the bathroom for an ultimate review, and we went prance across the grand salon in the Empress new dress, at the connoisseur nods of many tuxedo old boys.
The buffet had just been reloaded with finger bites, and our bums were politely visited as they should. The indefectible Swedish admiral took a moment reckoning that the pair of us might be over budget but not over his want, so he pushed us to the lift and number twenty-seven. He did not believe me when I said Natalia was my daughter. The chambermaid had just finished with the room; she was pushing her cart through the door. She was some halfbreed graceful who could have worked the trade fruitfully, and come to that, our guy knew her so well he groped her cavalierly, calling her Nina. He said she came from Pemba Island near Zanzibar and had come in the luggage of some diplomat; she was still undocumented, not even an ID. Lauritz, who liked her, was looking into her case.
The admiral wore Savile Row. We hung his trousers in the pleat; Natalia cherished the furry chest; he wanted to know her true blonde origin. I was on my knees pumping. He lay back on the lavender bed, hugging her tight; I helped her straddle the command staff, and then I jumped and crouched upon his face, rubbing my labia on his nose and mouth. When he had spurted, he made me lay and suckle what Natalia was spitting off and tasted of seaweed. Magic or not, she still aroused him enough, so he came and forced the lesser hole, making her call for the Swiss Navy, and he knew where to fetch it.
His balls dangled upon my eyes, but I glanced at the mighty shaft hurling into that petal pink rosette I had relished forever, and I gobbled up one more swig of the bitter jizz from hour house fairy’s arsehole —for even Tinkle Bell has a bum hole, Peter. He never was a stroller; once fulfilled, after a brief toilet, he took sail, leaving a tip to Nina. Natalia was content, but I was left hungry, lazing on the bed when Nina returned with her cart. I gave her her tip that she hid somewhere behind her apron, and she wondered why I stood up close to her until I pulled her by the waist, at Natalia’s smirk in the armchair. Nina mumbled something in coarse Pidgin, but she didn’t pull away. She had a finely drawn mouth and regular teeth, and she let be kissed. Given where we were, I dared ask her fee, and it was damn low, so I doubled it and swore my money was downstairs. Anyhow, the line had been crossed, thus she was as much of a harlot as me.
She was easy to disrobe once the apron untied, and she wore no knickers —that I could put to Udo’s account. We found a dry patch on the bed, and I enlaced her; she smelled of her island. Natalia joined us; she poked her tongue all the way down to the fluffy black bush and forced the tapered thighs apart, revelling in the fruity savour of the girl’s quim. To see the blond mane into the toffee-golden smooth legs and the dainty feet resting on the turquoise bedspread, I bent to nibble the girly nipples and make her moan like a litter of kittens.
Letting Nina with Natalia’s skills, I ran down to the vestiary, told Udo I would take away Nina, and I was groped in the lift with my money in my hand; good for me, thought I.

Nina came out through the service door, your average street kid, baggy jeans, a red duffle coat, a black hoodie flocked with the yellow Mack truck logo with the bulldog, black high-top Converse sneakers, and a vermillion knit beanie. In the taxi, I could tell there was nothing under the sweatshirt. It was an elopement —with eventual consequences— like we were used to thinking we would pull through.
Upthere, Cecle had been mulling over a last cookie dipping; she did not grasp what we were doing with that all-too-willing beauty, but she had a crush of her own. She had been dawdling in a burgundy silk dressing gown that split open when she stood to kiss hello to our find. Keeping Nina in my wing, I recounted our encounter in pounded words so at least she could trust I wasn’t fuddling her. Using a drawn sketch showing Speck’s, with Udo and Lauritz, an arrow showed our fortress with many little Indians.
It was actually warm; Natalia was again nude first, and Nina lastly conceded to pull off the hoodie and drop her trousers, keeping on her white sports briefs and sneakers. There was no treachery in Cecile’s crouching down to unlace the shoes, slide off the white socks, and cuddle the really fine feet. Nina was thirsty like she had run a mile, so I left my place to Cecile and went to brew tea.
From a worn aniline purple wallet, she daintily unfolded a paper sheet on which a Nina Ramadhani was granted passage with European authorities as a humanitarian refugee from Tanzania. Another sheet was a mostly undecipherable certificate of birth where the date was wiped off. With mostly semaphoric Pidgin over my sketch, she explained she had been living in the Speck hotel commons, and Lauritz had been sweet to her. Eventually, we understood she had been sentenced to four years in prison for homosexuality with a French diplomat who had been since expelled.
There was nothing in her case our usual legal team could not deal with, and I would see with Lauritz that we keep her warm with us, and I could not imagine she being arrested in our streets. Yet, it would still be too dangerous to go frolic with her in our habitual playgrounds. Under the table, Cecile had overcome the cumbrous briefs, and she was licking the beaded capucine with conviction. We all moùved to the grand bed; Nina was weeping with joy and drank to all the rills. She dozed on my bosom after Natalia and Cecile vanished.
It made another pupil for Fanny and her team of secret suitors; meanwhile, I would relish presenting Nina as a new boarder to our landlord. After a split-second amazement at this black tea gaze, I rewound the whole windfall romance and rubbed Nina’s smooth vanilla belly. She shied a bit when I reached to touch her pee; I loved to watch her feel awkward for me. She tasted my toast with apricot jam, and she liked my tea.
When I took her to my vestiary, she rounded her eyes and asked if I held a shop. She was a tad leaner than today’s me, I rummaged in my schooldays’ hangers section, I wanted sassy blue. I found an ultramarine thin cashmere jersey tank mini dress and an ink-blue twill shirt with bishop sleeves. Her dainty feet were one or two sizes smaller than ours, so I decided she could run down to Hugo’s barefoot, to her advantage, was it not? It was only when I showed her I wouldn’t wear undies in my own oversized Volubilis-blue knit cowl neck jumper dress that she conceded to go see a landlord nigh-bare.
She liked running barefoot on the stairs rich carpet like she wouldn’t have dared at Speck’s. To enhance her lovely timidity, I frankly caressed her quim, waiting for the master in his sumptuous salon. He must have peeped at us some way; he looked radiant in an Ikat kaftan and a long white shirt, undoubtedly erect already. Now then, the divans were covered with silk rugs and thus low that we could hardly hide our nethers; I didn’t try for mine.
Hugo did well in Pidgin, and he sat closer and closer. It came to my mind that he had already spoken with Lauritz about the pretty runaway. He seemed only interested in watching the caramel body, and he massaged her feet. Unforeseeably, he gently told me to disrobe and expose myself, like he would spare the gayelle bijou but show her how I liked to be shagged. In a blink, I was open spread for a humping, and I lay my head resting on her lap where I could have licked her. She was game; she parted her thighs almost indecently, gathering up one leg aside.
My pride was flattered that Hugo would still stiffen for me next to a shapely gazelle, but I reckoned he must have been tipped off the maiden would be a willful virgin —which I knew she wasn’t. And so we shagged softly under the creases of his hitched-up shirt, and we made each other burst —as a lesson. She wasn’t fully a babe in the woods; she had cleaned the beddings in a pleasure house and even sometimes been paid to stand watching perverts try to shock her. Until now, I had not seen her cringe. She pulled off her togs and rested her hands back, letting the light run down her toffee-blond skin.

She let be petted by both of us, and she followed us to the kind of stately bathroom, all clad in salvaged decorative tiles, like a Lord Leighton folly. She volunteered to foam Hugo’s genitals unabashedly, and I could tell she was runny —were it the rush of transgression— and Hugo remained utterly mellow, telling her he would shag her rosy little shell when she like.
We begged her not to redress; we ordered a creamed asparagus pie and a prune and orange puff, and we drank Taiwan mountain tea. Hugo made clear she could consider herself at home, and we would see for her documents. Kindly wanking her, and he knew the drill; he did not further his advantage with her. We ran back up with our clothes on our arms like mischievous kids.
Cecile nearly dropped an almond tile when we burst in. She looked up at Nina before she could think of putting something back on. Embracing her waist and kissing her navel, she wondered if she had shagged, and I said no, but we had shown her how it works. Cecile did not let go of the little gazelle, and eventually, she took her to her room to visit the God Crow. Hugo had resettled my soul and dealt Nina a quiet trump; the cogs of her freedom would be ticking either fateful way. I went into my room to snuggle in the smell of Irène.
I dreamt Alfred spoke Old Norse and mocked my passion for Koi carps in Rosenborg moat, and only when I heard myself pee in the toilet did I shrug off making sense of that discombobulated allusion to feeling cuckold of Nina. Winter had thawed into lead-grey doldrums, and I needed to switch on the lamps at midday. I brewed my Oriental Beauty and browsed the Stubbs & Wooton catalogue, taking a chance ordering embroidered slippers one and a half size smaller than mine for Nina; if that was a blunder, I could return this most luxurious footwear for a beauteous recluse. And I felt pathetic.
I went up to the studio, switched the lights and filled the bird feeder; Mrs Alfred skedaddled a little less fastly than before and soon came back for seeds. I supposed her husband was downstairs, lurking in Cecile’s shrubs to watch the toffee gold girl posing nude for Bach. I started the computer and plugged in Radio Stockholm; they played Mendelssohn’s violin concerto; I had a pang for Hilary Hahn. I fetched a bristol board and azimuted the perfect centre, and then I let my pencil drift.
Kate’s chair would remain empty. She was the new attendant for the Alster swans; she would dwell in the bloated Jugendstil villa on the shore, feeding the sacred birds. Until she finds a druggie hunk in the season disco on Sylt. This time, she would be rich and utterly savvy debauchée, with Simon’s goons on the watch. The radio went on ad infinitum industrial ambient now, and the sky was dirty black. I went to cry and pee under the shower. Alfred was not amused.
Cecile and Nina had been dipping langues de chat in coffee, waiting for me. Nina wore a becoming, ample moss-green tracksuit and no shoes, crouched on her chair. She nuzzled in my midriff; she smelled of petitgrain. A neat ash-grey parcel had been delivered to my name, and I think I blushed as to what. It was the three boxes with the lush footwear I had ordered on a whim for Nina. And the devil had been forgetful, for they fit the bijou feet. One pair was cornflower-blue velvet with flying dandelion seeds embroidered in symmetry; another was terracotta velvet embroidered with little blue lizards; the third was almond-green and details of pale pink peonies. Nina was overjoyed and pranced upon the coffee table. I felt relieved, like absolved of my misdeed, and Cecile sussed my little pricey scheme; she pulled me to her side and flattered my midriff.
Fanny and Natalia turned up at dinner time, so we ordered a rich miso soup with roasted tofu and walnuts, then almond custard for dessert. They applauded at the island princess’ feet, and it wasn’t long before Natalia couldn’t help making out again with her. Fanny was in couture fatigues and heavy army-style boots. Her pallour was all the more striking; hence, I let myself tweak the buttons of her shirt and find a precious singlet over her shy breasts. Cecile would be left alone as the other two were skirting third base in the sofa for the luck of the blue lizards; I beckoned her with us, and soon Fanny was left with her mere singlet, at our hands. I told her Cecile had cuckolded me for art’s sake; I had cried my heart out in the shower and taken my revenge by ordering the precious slippers. A little bird had told me the size. She fastly let flow her waters to my face while devouring Cecile’s bloom —that I saw she had shared ardently in the secret of her cubbyhole— and Fanny liked it.
We sipped the microwaved soup all bare, all eyes on the pair of caramel candy drops we all had tasted, eventually. Cecile said Nina had mostly slept her time for Cyprien, and she liked Bach. Fanny, without singlet, sat near to her and, with the help of sketches, tried to detangle the princess’ situation. I made my peace with Cecile and told the girls the heartbreaking empty seat in the studio. Fanny missed her saviour, too, she was mulling over a summer vacation on Sylt.

When Fanny slid her singlet back on, Natalia said she would walk her back home; she had concerns of her own that Fanny could help her with. Not long after, we barred Nina from clearing the kitchen, telling her it was someone else’s job, and we brokered a tender truce upon her belly in Cecile’s bed. In the morning, I was hugging Nina like one of my Saint Loup cygnets. In teal satin pyjamas we had found in Cecile’s closet, she was in love with her storied feet.
Lauritz came by around breakfast, all smiles. He sat next to Nina and showed that he knew her intimately. I wondered if he might have devised our encounter in Speck’s lustful maze. He looked at me frankly and said he was good with our fostering the pretty refugee, and he had no doubt he would see her again in Speck’s salons someday, not as a chambermaid. And then, after a mocha ristretto, he fled on a fine smile.
In the studio, Nina climbed upon Kate’s chair and wondered if I listened to Bach, too. I answered yes, but it wouldn’t silence Alfred, who was like the tik-tok of my soul. She had a chime-like laugh, and I played The Well-Tempered Klavier, which was what she had slept on the crimson velvet for Cyprien. I told her to go lay on the sacred futon, and she tidied her slippers close by.
Mid-afternoon, Fanny called on us to come and meet her Services connection at Camille’s, and bring any bit of official paper Nina might have. She slid back on the refugee attire, but the sneakers were only slightly worn, and the jeans the same style as those of some of the posh high schoolers we crossed. She liked the oversized navy-blue suedette bomber jacket, lined with polar fur, that I gave her, and it had pockets all over.
Camille was instantly smitten, I knew that gaze. She offered us a large wicker and lace tray of multicoloured macarons, along with Taiwan Iced Mountains Tea in a big Yiking clay russet pumpkin teapot Nina loved. Mr Michel, as they called him, ogled our protégée and inspected the papers she had. He made no comments and asked permission to sit at a round rosewood side table to open his black leather briefcase, pull out a laptop and connect to some hotspot of his own. He wore elegant mahogany-brown Oxfords and a grey Irish tweed suit. He said he knew the diplomat who had helped Nina before being sent to the French Los Angeles consulate. He fetched a crystal paper envelope from the briefcase, where he slipped Nina’s documents he noted on a label and on a new printed form on which he filled some blanks and asked Nina to sign —I wouldn’t know she could write. Looking around, he chose an off-white wall to take pictures of her, not smiling. He asked Fanny and me to fill in some other forms to assert that Nina lived with us permanently. Eventually, he gave Nina a fully stamped six-month permit and the envelope to keep in safe and carry only copies, saying she should soon receive a European Passport at my address. When Mr Michel folded up his briefcase, his gaze for Fanny hinted more than politeness. He asked me some news of Hugo’s, kissed our hands and ran. He smelled of Via Appia under the rain.
I could sense angst on Nina’s tummy; I feared she might vomit. I took her to the immense bathroom to refresh her face, and she held on. Letting her snuggle onto my bosom, I recounted to Camille and Fanny how we had kidnapped the chambermaid at Speck’s. When the macarons had, notwithstanding, almost disappeared, it was time for a silver tray bearing sundry warm puff pastries, some bestrewn with truffle shavings.
Before we left, While Camille eventually stole a long smooch on the threshold, Fanny confided to me it might be an exotic season for us, and I recalled Natalia’s adventure in the Spanish Hills. As we walked back with the precious vademecum upon her chest, she breathed a tad more freely, and she gazed at the windows of the closed shops. It was past the time for shopping, and we headed back home. Natalia texted she wanted us to meet her new Filipina friend Buin. I ordered dinner for a full table, whatsoever.
Natalia was stunning, bare feet in a royal blue and white striped twill shirt dress, all eyes for a young honey skin, onyx black eyes, oval face, dark mane, gracile gamine in a flared gathered cream wool jersey dress and maroon thigh-high stockings and matched rounded Maryjanes. That was Buin, a halfbreed from Manila She had come to know through her Andalusian sexcapade, and who didn’t try to hide she wore no undies. Upon her traits, one might have thought she was Brazilian, beautiful and radiant in any manner.
Be it a hunch in their radar, or a tip from Natalia, our beloved stags cropped up all smiles, smelling of appealing Cologne after a hard day’s work for the McVies’. Gauthier and Fulgence had settled all sundry antagonisms spawning from the school years’ feuds, and working in a team had eventually set a camaraderie. At the sight of our exotic pearls, they were a bit stifled, all the more that our hunky mates made them a tad bitchy, like the jailbaits they had been groomed as, in the first place.

We filled in the lift car at maximum capacity, although far from overload. The newcomers ought to comprehend where they had landed, and Buin did not dither stripping off when she saw the pool, signal for we all take a plunge like a party of otters. If Buin was overtly frisking and romping about with readily armed swordsmen, Nina still clung to my flippers with wild eyes.
Inevitable smoke signals must have twirled through the pervasive CCTV, for Delff was all of a sudden standing on the ledge in their nonpareille elegance, feasting their eyes upon the honeyed islanders. There would be two unassuming tests about tolerance of existential incongruity in others, like minor traits of complexion colour or the disparity in chance encountering of possibly diverse genitalia. With my school buddy Elsie, we had collectively wiped off the tacky memory of the “one drop of blood” inane rule. And Elsie —my father’s mistress for a while— had a career with the UN. What would there be if a manner of “language school for the mixed salvaged souls” happened in the attics of the Belle Haven embassy?
In any event, Delff had outlived the crass of obloquy with verve before she became Michelle’s house genie and otherwise a free agent for His Grace. Nina trusted me as for Delff’s boundless goodwill besides their cunning lascivity —as they lived by the arcane of both worlds. They had grasped a lifeline between Nina and me, and they didn’t try to untie it, be it for a sweet aparté, but we fell into the water and there, like a frog, she succeeded at buggering the little toffee gold arse.
Buin was a wiggling little fish, but she didn’t shun when the brawny tritons impaled both her slits together amidst the flows. They weren’t in want of libertine virtues, that the lusciousness of our venues inspired and fired up. When the sting of passion was tamed a bit, Gauthier proposed to call the attics’ fireflies, telling them we had gracile oriental guests fresh from the pool. Petra answered, then muffed the mike for a minute, then said Fanny had already raved about the islander and they would relish to greet us in whatever attire, bar them three up there, the house was splendidly deserted and the McVies were in Venice.
Gauthier was proud of the tunnel’s new design, floor-to-ceiling panes of Parrish clouds on a golden mirror background, rainbow-oxidised metal Escher’s birds-shaped tiles on the ceiling, and random-pebbles textured, agate-hues-coloured carpet, like the bed of a dreamy brook. Our pixie feet hopped on the little soft tufts. Our stags’ fingers knew the lock codes without thinking; we found ourselves in a new bright basement and met Fanny, Petra, and Viktoria in the vast professional kitchen where they found a whole buffet’s worth of cold delicacies and fruit.
Petra floated the whimsical idea to call for security, that is, to invite some of the idle crews from the indefinite 7S resources next door through another tunnel of theirs. I understood they already had paid a visit to whoever, the other way, His Grace has refined neighbouring manners. Anyhow, I sussed it wouldn’t bring unwelcome surprises in the course of seasons; I had certainly shagged all the doable studs in the black-clad hosts of hunks.
Buin, who had obviously confronted other such perils before at no real damage, still clung to my wing when three tanned henchmen walked in as in conquered territory; to think the exascale machines they used to watch downstairs gave them that bronze complexion. Those three reminded me of that expedition to Mustique island and a severe banging in the coral stone basement where I had ferreted them playing cards, and I had become the overflowing trump. They singled me out like honed professionals, but on their instinct, they sniffed at the two overseas nymphets.
It took two carloads of the newly set going lift to bring up the party to wondercloud where an enfilade of sundry mansards had been tastefully rehabilitated and set up with convenient shower rooms, as Gauthier had done before in the TRÆVIX palace. A middle-aged lady in black tee shirt, jeans, and sneakers had been tidying the hoover in a closet and disappeared, and all the lavish beds were made and smelled of Provence.
Petra seized Nina in the very arms of the hunk she had let herself with and pulled them both into a mullein room with pale yellow walls and greenish grey curtains and carpet. In another room, it was a more intricate bedful altogether feasting on Buin’s honeyed thrills, the two other spooks already exerting a deep heads and tails savagery while Karolina offered her dripping rillet to the lain accomplice while lapping at Delff’s elaborate array of ticklish treats. I followed Fulgence and his jolting spur; he told me where to fetch the Swiss Navy, which name still amused him. We were kind of bestially aroused by our unfettered proximity, same with the copper-headed hero who didn’t ask permission to join into my spurting coochie. All in all, the McVies could be proud of their feat.

Whatsoever, I had no less than duties to fulfil towards frail only just blooming souls under my libertine lullabies. Karolina felt self-conscious, morally jostled like a sparrow in a perfume shop. I took her in my wing and told Natalia we were returning to my bed, and that she should pay heed for the Malaga nymphets. She cast me a discombobulated stare, but eventually sussed the matter, watching Karolina clutched under my arm.
So there, she had been an all-out harlot in my friend’s brothel. Once upstairs, she rummaged in the closet and threw on a blue tartan flannel pyjama —like the cat— and warm cashmere socks. I love to fondle a flannel girl. I brewed us a last cup of tea. Perhaps because I had found her at Ayla’s, she smelled of Saint Loup’s sleepovers, and she rounded herself like a squirrel.
In the morning, Natalia was warm and nude under the comforter, and Alfred liked that. She had washed her hair with chamomille, and she smelled of the via Appia in the summer. She was resplendent of all the vice she had spent in the new palace. We decided to go for a full beauty treat at Monique’s salon, in a second-floor flat on the rue du Pré Aux Clercs. Karolina loved that; she would be fiery for the next three days. Natalia suggested that we tell Liselotte of our ultimate grooming, in case she could sell us for some well-heeled bachelor party.
It was a chauffeured paquetboat-sized vintage black American automobile with black leather seats. We had dolled Karolina in a glistening peacock blue pleated silk jersey nude-back long sleeve mid-thigh dress I had not worn so long at Laforest’s one night and nought else but patent court pumps with jet buckles. Natalia borrowed that extravagant, all-over-bouquet-motive sequin blazer, nigh short of indecency, that none of us had worn with trousers but expensive day cream on laser smooth legs. I was neither far from nude in a spotted night blue rich twill jabot shirt and, in all, Navy suede Chelseas. One might think we were going to some televised gala, or we were obviously pricey harlots in black oilskin trenches.
Minutes beyond the Opera, a Mars Violet lacquered double door with interdiction lights let us in a long, narrow, spiralling down runway to a neat black mirror-clad landing like a Trump kindergarten. An impressive black hunk guarded glass doors gilded with the full height letters CHIRON. He helped us take off our trenchs. It was conveniently mild. A dim lit, round, vaulted room clad in blue-glazed earthenware bevelled tiles gathered sundry golden polished elevator doors. On the floor radiated an imperturbable coloured marble and bronze compass rose.
Again, Karolina was impressed that we stood nigh naked in such a sumptuous venue, on our own. I clutched her and said there would be heaps of such wonder lairs in Liselotte’s connections, and there would be no trappings for pretty harlots on her books. The lift car didn’t sense like moving, and the usher kept ogling us in the polished golden walls. We reached some whitish, disorderly medieval excavations left by ancient quarries according to the lodes of building stone, more or less consolidated through ages, on a number of storeys. It did not smell fusty, and it did not breathe dusty, voices and laughs rang afar.
A blue, wavy patterned carpet ran its way into the maze, to a dark sculpted Gothic oak door. It was somber, and it smelled of churchly scents. In a beam of light, a lanky, black clad musician played something like a Baschet crystal with huge metal foil resonators organ in long dishevelled chords. Three mature men in mere Roissy-style open culottes, not so aroused yet, stood up for us and mumbled their pleasure as they soon found out our fashion of unclothed easiness. When their savvy helped them pull down our attires completely in a sleight of hands, they relished our consummated art of harlotry.
The wide divans were thrown with silk rugs on which we complacently wallowed with our legs spread open to let any one of them taste our blooming ardour, and they hummed. They were tasteful whoremasters, I could tell by the smell and feel of that famous lubricant. And I obediently turned on all fours when he urged me to offer my frowned petunia and found myself set to tongue Viktoria’s pink pearl above the deeply buggered back alley.
In hindsight, it felt like endless bliss, but was it the effect of the relentless sliding layered music or the magic of the venue, I saw more than three faces revelling in us. Natalia eventually deduced the drug had been in the lubricant, and we could barely walk when the chauffeur, after having requested his toll in kind with Veronika and a sightful of our arses, in the quiet of a posh avenue nearby. He smelled of turmeric and he did’t hustle my little pet girl, under the greedy eyes of whoever he had called on to fap outside of the gleaming sedan. Back home, we hastily dozed off in the scents of our satiated beastliness, Veronika clutched under my wing.

In the morning, I found myself hugging a pillow; my delicious fledgling had fled. Later, as I sipped my Oriental beauty, I could find a nude selfie of her between the telepath dragonflies, and I reckoned she needed no spoken words to dance along with them, if ever. Their smiles warmed me up. Another message rang a tinkle in my misty wakening; it claimed ” Eröffnung des Heiligen Wolfes” and was posted by Kate herself. She requested I attend the opening of a new venue on Sylt that she had endeavoured with me in mind. I should ask Lauritz for transportation and to bring along some tasty companions.
So, in the jet he had fetched who knows where, he revelled already with Cecile, Gwen and Dagmar Kate had requested, as Natalia and I reached the tarmac. It was raining cats and dogs. We had dressed like torpedoes; Natalia ready to slip off her skin-tight oatmeal cashmere jumpsuit under a periwinkle-checker textured, double-breasted blazer lined in princess satin, wrapped in a mastic Egyptian cotton trench, shoed in baby blue suede loafers. As for me, I wore night blue silk mesh stockings under an oversized strass strewn, spike satin lapels tropical night lounge jacket; in black patent Chelseas, under a black taffeta trench. We smelled of a perverted acacia spell.
The long legged cousines adorned their signaure broad-knit unspun wool ample jumper dresses of willow green and lichen grey over ash lace hemmed stockings just enough too short to let me guess their intimate nudity; one wore cream thin ankle-laced bottines, the other egg-shell cross-strapped ballet flats; they smelled of the morning sun upon an olde English hedge.
Cecile had cut a low fringe, and the purplish rings to her eyes let me guess her lovers’ last night whims. Lauritz gazed fondly over what her side-slit black moiré silk sheath dress let see above her black veil stockings hem. She wore black patent pumps with velvet knots; she smelled of Blue Gardenia. As the aeroplane leapt away, she sat next to Dagmar and snaked a hand in her thighs in a stealthy courtesan manner while Natalia breathed in Gwen’s neck while rummaging in her creases.
Inevitably, I ended up crossing Lauritz’s eyes and reckoned I wouldn’t sit quietly amidst the tender shuffle. Natalia, having dragged Gwen to the aft couch, I swapped seats and teased him to savour me. Piqued lately by my fluttering liaison with Veronika, I had returned to the gym, and I liked what I was offering of me. He spread me wide open and tongued me like a big cat over all the Netherlands before we dived towards the Wattenmeer. Now, everybody was ready to honour Kate’s new playhouse in the dunes.
She had purchased an old Danish-style spa house with a vast thatch roof and a sizeable swimming pool. She had built two new wings and sundry lesser bungalows sheltered with evergreen shrubs and lattice panels. Lauritz and I reckoned she had probably forked out passionately, but having indulged thus himself, he was rather blasé on the matter. He predicted it might cater finely for Hamburg’s loaded shickeria, just an hour’s train from there.
The lobby we were ushered to was bathed in a low honey-tone glow, but we were ogled like fair game, and I did not dislike that. Most patrons sported towels around their cosy bellies, and nude young things let themselves be fondled here and there. It was a posh modern German bordell with free-willing harlots doing their trade under lawful supervision. It would appear many of the girls were escapees from Russia.
Kate made no ceremony to greet us in her quarters. She wore a mostly unbuttoned, ritzy tweed dress, and she pulled me into a corner of the oak-panelled salon to feel me up while a butler pushed a cart of teetotaller refreshments and nibbles. She was overjoyed to meet up with Gwen and Dagmar, more willing than ever. She knew to pull up the fluffy dress over Gwen’s head, and find her open and moist. She joshed that she might make a success in the VIP room with the elite of Hamburg’s rich libertines, just as she had entertained in Flanders. Gwen said her long, tall blonde playmate Dagmar was less than enthralled to hear Plattdeutsch spoken, and she would pretend to be a Kiwi traveller. Kate loved that idea and embraced her.
The mist in Kate’s gaze had waned in time; she looked more deliberately lecherous as I had seen her about Victor’s orgies. She fetched a thin metallic mask and set it on the upper half of her face, letting her the liberty of her greedy mouth. She asked us if we needed to disguise ourselves, too, but we did not. She said our luxury stockings and shoes would be appraised as accessories in the game we might enjoy playing thence.
Through a different velvet-clad pathway, letting her hands wander upon each one, she ushered us back into the club where a slight tone-down greeted our bare arses company. Not that the garnet banquettes wouldn’t already be peopled with noticeable graces in less than modest poses next to thriving keen patrons in sundry manners of laid-back indecency. A trio of young black musicians in white outfits, piano, bass and drums were reviving the wits of cool in the fragrance of lust.

Kate introduced us to Franziska Reemtsma, an athletic, short-haired blond Frisian girl in bluish-grey spandex tight-fit shorts and top, which wouldn’t let ignore she was depilated, as the head stewardess for female talents, independently of the club management. The girls, ready to sell their pricey charms to mannerly patrons, applied on their own, mostly on word-of-mouth recommendations, many of them skirting the legal age. Franziska also happened to fish out pretty fool-headed stranded teens in her snazzy coupe car from some well-known shady alleys and —together with Kate— did not take long to groom them into blooming sane harlots for their better good. And altogether, the club was duly frequented by uncompromising authorities.
Lauritz stood all ears, despite the rolling techno music, while offering Cecile’s candid nudity to all, rubbing his tense desire upon her butt and pulling back her arms, and she cracked the most desirable smirk in front of the parterre of shameless available damsels. Turning to him, Kate caressed Cecile’s faultless body and made her nipples prick up. She said she probably should own that he had been an inspiration for them to open an adult venue amidst their youth’s playground. He retorted he might possibly take his pick among her house cast to offer them a season on the Seine’s banks, to what she said there was no shortage of migrating doves, if he pleased.
Dagmar and Gwen had already let their feet licked by well-to-do gents. Gwen beckoned a pretty, dark-curled, blue-eyed onlooker to join and get rid of her last shreds of rags. It was a Schleswiger runaway country girl with a shy, fluffy pubis, still a rookie in the trade of looking expensive. Gwen made her spread her sleek, tapered legs; her feet did not show wear like a farm girl’s; she must have been one lazy lass, shunning food, possibly abused by a parent, who had fled the night of her eighteenth birthday and slept her way to Sylt and Franziska’s coupe. Gwen negotiated a pretty fee for them both with a well-groomed cavalier who ushered them towards the bedrooms’ quarters.
Dagmar relished in puzzling a bulky artilleryman with her smoothly dishevelled German parlance while he grazed down her silky thighs and whispered he would cough up whatever she would ask to treat her like a boy. Adroitly seated sideways, showing her holy brooklet to dawdlers, Natalia, too, had crushed for a Polish debutante, afraid to expose herself, with big blue eyes and a blond, short-nape pixie haircut. They chattered low in gentle Pidgin about what she was going to do anyhow since she was sitting nigh nude in a brothel lobby, wasn’t she? And Natalia revelled in winning each of the four buttons of her jean shorts after confiscating the tight little teeshirt off the pointed sun-kissed nipples. Once the dune savage was all nude, Kate went to collect her paltry rags and shamelessly let herself breathe the pair of white socks, then begged a real smooch that did not look like a first.
I followed Lauritz and Cecile to the pool in the moonlight. A few creatures already frolicked in the illuminated water. Lauritz dived bravely while we cautiously stepped down the stairs at one end. A slender, cinnamon-skinned, lanky swimmer came up to look me up with big black eyes. I’m a good swimmer, I seized her by the waist and forced my tongue in her mouth just like she wanted. Olivia spoke Swedish, thus, she was overjoyed to have found me. She had been born in a Kurdish refugee family, and she had fled when the matter of her marriage became pervasive at home. With help by a lawyer, she changed her name to Bergvall and tried to move to Copenhagen, at first regrettably following some random hustlers into booze, drugs and painful tricks in sleazy crash pads, till one godsend client took her away to some clear waters in Hamburg, where she eventually met a nice working girl who was herself en route to Sylt.
Lauritz had listened to a sadly not uncommon story among Middle Eastern refugee populations; he was wary of the so-called honour code that fell on educated girls and led to intolerable assassinations in cases of rebellion. He was certainly not a candidate to sainthood, mind you, but I knew he was secretly funding a European network of support to women fleeing traditional barbarity without even seeing any of them. However he fell for the amber complexion of the one I was enlaced with, and he suggested we go dry ourselves in one of the bedrooms. As Franziska had reminded us, we all carried our black cards with our telephones and whatnots, in a flurry of warm hands, we could summon our accounts on a computer console in the room, applauding to each other’s greenlight. Olivia told us the doctor, a woman friend of Franziska’s, lived on the ground floor of the boarders quarters, next to other reassuring neighbours, in case of invasion.
Olivia became smitten with Lauritz’s tauten staff, and I sussed it wouldn’t be the last I would relish of her bum, so I sneaked out to go sell myself to some random civilised clubman.

The big-rounded-stones walls seemed ready to shove me off, reminding me of some naughty games in disused barracks on Christiansø island with the rude boys. My Far had enchanted memories of vacations on the island with the cousins; only he had not measured that I was a burgeoning woman. My nth cousin, a retired Swedish admiral, couldn’t keep up with me;, I finished the season as the dissipated pet in my mother’s posh Falsterbø spa, where Dr Wolfsohn taught me my body in detail.
Kate beckoned me to meet a guest in white trousers and a navy blazer. I sensed she had known the greying, blue-eyed, strapping character intimately and wanted to share him with me. I could tell he was troubled to see me at ease, nude in front of him, turning my bum matter-of-factly to him.
Now, a nigh beastly scent hovered in the lobby; the damsels had lent their easy gills a few times, and most were being fondled by new seekers haggling their favours. A tall blonde in a cream satin lounge gown had taken over the white piano and ad-libbed a lustful lullaby, her belt untied and her feet bare on the pedals.
I wouldn’t be cheap, but Vincent didn’t flinch, taking my arm to lead me to the private cabinets. We crossed some visibly swollen vaginas to whom I smiled, Franziska had decidedly a good taste. The room was all clad in reclaimed shipwood; it smelled of tar and turpentine. He devoured my mouth, and talked in Danish, giving me names and waking my puny breasts at the tip of his tongue, joshing that the admiral had missed that. I helped him pull out of his posh attire, his peen was peeking out of his silk trunks with a shiny drop of impatience, I licked off. He sniffed every nook of me, and he licked my playful rillet.
I could feel his glans nuzzling into my furrow as we were sliding our cards into the console, and he bunched up behind me.
I threw my arms over his shoulders as he kissed me with youthful ardour, but he grabbed the service phone and ordered refreshments, that is the house kombucha Kate had the idea for, and a bottle of Swiss Fendant in an ice bucket, like my Far would have. The Oriental-type waiter who pushed the service cart spoke German, was pretty like like a model, and wore obviously nought under the white cotton collarless jacket. He did not hold back ogling me head to toes and it made me feel sluttish.
At once, not minding his protruding erection, my cavalier asked the boy if he cared to join, taunting a folded euro bill of the right colour. As the boy pocketed his tip, Vincent pushed me forward to him and told me to do him, as if it were obvious. He stood quietly as I unbuttoned the jacket and saw the smooth amber skin on the taut pectorals. As the boy stepped out of his fallen trousers, Vincent pushed me down to his briefs from where I unleashed a sizeable circumcised dick I did not baulk at teasing with my shameless tongue, seated on my heels.
I sussed it had been schemed with my ever bestie, and deft manly fingers were reaching for my playful rosette as I gulped the whole length of the willful young staff and the inevitable consequences that tasted of salty herbal broth.
Then I was carried to the bed and my slits were smeared with the necessary slidy slime, so then impaled like a weather vane, waiting legs all spread for the unwaning spur I had just swallowed the bitter from. I wallowed like an omelette in a sandwich, letting the boys buoyantly fence inside my innards, busying myself to exult carnally, of which I did not waste a sliver, for Kate’s sakes. And my vagina spurted impudently when Vincent ordered me to flip for a swap and I covered his close shaven face with drool.
He thanked the Levantine swordsman, but we remained inert, face to face, as I leaked all over his thighs and soaked the bedcover. Later, in the shower, he called me a phenomenon, just like Kate had told him. He wanted to see me again, but I told him to ask her as to where I would be available in Paris, since now on, she was some sort of a madam. Before he ran, he watched me preen my feathers, I thanked him for doubling my pleasure and not sparing the good lube. I was hardly worn, ready for some other round, dawdling back to the lobby holding my mere vademecum, I grazed the rounded boulders of the wall, like I had won them over.
It was after-party time, with unkempt younger patrons. They had been shunned elsewhere and cried for a shag. A sunbleached Danish blond hailed me as a twig of old times but complimented my legs and feet, so I showed him my bum, and he stood up in his Mexican boots and seized my elbow. My fee didn’t spook him; he only stuttered in my neck that I had better measure up to the value. Kate must have been indulging a share of the merrymaking in her den, so a slim ginger sinner in a loose coral red kimono was sitting at the desk, and she gave us the go to room 17, and winked at me. I wished I would end the night with her, I let my body talk to her, thus she watched me walk at my steamer’s arm, nodding at my bum.

Our aeroplane had flown us back to capacity, and the baggage hold was stuffed with wayfarers’ duffle bags. Kate had known all along that we would elope with some of her pets; she could have foretold which ones. Sonia, the rose gold mane syren, had waited until my half-baked poseur finish his not-so-despicable homage in all available manners —anyhow, he had revealed himself palatable, once in the nude. A medical student returning from a vacation in Belize, he had a smooth hide and a proud peter with furry plums. She agreed, letting me guess she also had tested his talents.
Our friendship with Kate, our altogether nonchalant attitude, the private plane, and the luxury coach waiting, Sofia grasped less and less of our walk of life but dared not ask. While enjoying the silent rocking of the car, rummaging into her plush coral-red tracksuit —no knickers— I sensed she was growing self-conscious as to find herself a misfit in our world. I explained that now that she had jumped aboard, she was only bound to explore our realm and leave if she wished, like one on a vacation, just like she had left Sylt on a whim. Albeit prostitution in France was illegal, she could hustle in another kind of private club, and I knew she would be in great demand —if she cared. We were amateur courtesans serving a vetted patronage and making ourselves rich. She returned my fondles, and the car’s mellow sway reminded me of some bus trips across Switzerland. She smelled of Sylt’s dog rose.
Expectedly, Lauritz took Olivia to his Saint-Louis haunt, and Cecile dragged her willing catch into her metaversal poetry. Sonia revelled in the eyes of Gwen, Dagmar, and Natalia. She couldn’t keep on her plush coral outfit at the hands of the avid, suave gang.
During the inaugural week-long fling with Kate —not everyone was greeted thus— Sofia had heard of our appointed caterers and was expecting the pies and salads we had ordered. The three veteran courtesans had their guesses as to which unguent gave her that sublime complexion all over. I was playing footsie as she listened to our flourished legend in Northern Pidgin.
Merely dressed in pricey bedside-safari-style crock-rags, we packed in the lift car with the scent of a summer drizzle on Sylt roses. Downstairs, Finlan was ad-libbing afar on the grand Hammond organ, Trine was gently pulling iron in the gym, Delff was kittenishly splashing in the pool with Apolline, but she spotted the new face amongst her attic’s sisters. That would make for a first initiation of Sofia, that our Principality was gender-fluid; she did not baulk at that like a hillbilly brute. She gave in to Delff’s advances and dived in along the metanormal naiads with us. Our whimsical genie was never more kicky than in surprise trysts, and they taught at once our new capture to sing.
Next door, the telepathic angels were still at a late session, so we sat at the edges, and I kept watch of Sofia’s reactions to some demonstration the likes of which she had never seen. Was she spooked, or else, or a reaction to her nautical experiments, she showed goosebumps while the two smooth, weightless performers cast their spell. I dared her to join them; she was all wired after Delff’s voodoo on her nerves, she frankly disrobed and walked to the sizzling monogram the witches unfurled to Finlan’s arabesques.
It went like that memorable time when Emeline had first seen Josephine whirl in Chevillon’s chapel. Sofia treaded her candid moves seamlessly into the invisible cloud of ping echoes the other two sprinkled in the air gleefully like pollen in the sun. If two had been an endless loose pas de deux, three was at once a ballet per se, and we were flummoxed to bliss, so to speak. Now, on the other side of the Grand Parquet, gathered the McVie belles and their best boys, Gauthier and Fulgence, gobsmacked on their own, the copper-headed Knight seeing the Chevillon miracle rewind.
It didn’t outlast our wonderment, wrapping up in an acme of svelteness and candid smiles, underscored with a subtle swash of Finlan’s organ. It seemed I would be losing my new pet, but I gave it one from the heart. Emeline was radiant, having sensed a whole new geometry in her magnetic energy, new intuitive perspectives. Josephine kept fondling all she could grasp of that new reflexive body, which had insinuated into their unfurling chant in harmony.
They eloped to the privacy of Malo’s eyrie —which few of us had ever visited— under a gentle round of applause. Then we recounted our jaunt to the scented dunes of the Wattenmeer, and Veronika wished they go on a depraved vacation of Freikörperkultur, for a change, and neither Dagmar nor Gwen would disagree, who drew them out to TRÆVIX palace.
That left us four like old times, and my womb cried for dick. I picked up the empty coral fleece and wooed a taut Fulgence towards the lift along with Natalia already wanking Gauthier, who joshed he craved sandy bitches. I had a thought that the evening’s performance would have repercussions with the higher-ups.