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, stroked 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 stroking 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 stroking 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 claimed they were sixteen, and Buin eighteen, as she showed me. We promised to meet 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 fondled 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 faintly 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 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 stroked 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. Sofia, 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. Sofia 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 her 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 expensive cream 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 back 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 our Principality was gender-fluid would make for a first initiation of Sofia, and she did not baulk at that. 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 within 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.

Cecile says:

I wouldn’t even know her name; toffee-blond, golden eyes, perfect teeth, sun-kissed complexion, square shoulders tall Swede tramp, with a high-nape curly bob, she talked some shardy French in a womb-churning mezzo tone, and called herself Sheva, despite what her passport read. She sported expressive hands and feet with perfect garnet-lacquered nails like the pricey whore she was.
My realm, scarcely lit like a Neapolitan church, impressed her, to my greedy pride, and we were denuded before we reached the table for coffee and biscuits. She loved the polished slabs under her feet, and I could tell she had been a dancer in school. The sound system was set to an appeased version of Erik Satie’s Gnossiennes, and she responded like the willow’s hair in the river. I was taking my time watching her play with the cookie basket as she kept her feet on mine.
I didn’t want a shower; she smelled of vanilla cream and the kitten’s belly, but I wanted her to piss on me like a naughty brat, which made her laugh like a drunk sailor. So she grasped why my bathroom was so wide, and she let me leak on her candid smile before she took fierce revenge. We rinsed ourselves in tepid flows and wiped our hides in plush velvet before she offered wide her dripping sanctum for me to devour. She was a fountain angel and tasted of watercress.
We dozed out, eventually, on the grand stage bed in my cubbyhole; she was an easy lay and a trusting kid, I needed to watch her breathe. I jolted when I noticed her eyes weren’t closed, but obviously unresponsive. It was as scary as death, although I could hear her heart kindly drumming. When I had reassured myself that she needed no medical intervention, I went online to reach Kate and ask her if she knew of any Sheva’s condition, and meanwhile, I found a resource at Johns Hopkins University, which somewhat quieted me . Eventually, Kate answered and apologised for not warning, although she hadn’t known who would eventually take Sheva to bed, and if she would agree to clarion her little oddity. Kate said that Sheva carried a phial of eyedrops in her bag, if I were loving enough to dip some in her eyes. And so I actually found a stash of tiny bottles she had not dared mention before I exhaust her. I snuggled up to her back with birds chirping inside my chest. I felt somewhat proud of having cared for the defenceless darling. I wondered if that kind of sleep mask they give you aboard aeroplanes would fit her case. I mulled over consulting one of our top doctors about her.
I was late in the morning. Sheva had made coffee and stood nude, in conversation with Cyprien about his drawings; she fell on my neck with ardour because she had found the phial of eyedrops on the side table. She owned that she should have warned me; I only retorted that I had experienced a dire fright, and I kissed her. She told Cyprien about her weird manner of sleeping; he kept mum, only looking at her perfect body. I switched on Die Kunst Der Fugue and placed her across the dedicated crimson couch for Cyprien’s delight. We wouldn’t even notice if she happened to doze off.
As for me, I was still embattled with the restoration of a life-size portrait of a swooning young woman, in coloured wax, real auburn hair, glass green eyes, white glass teeth, all set in a glazed box of gilt baroque rococo swirls. One dedicated craftswoman in England had fashioned wax flowers to replace the missing ones after the photographs I had sent her. A handwritten label applied to the back panel said the model was Luisa De Filippis, niece of Cardinale Giuseppe Dall Sendagna, at the time of her death, aged thirteen. Hugo, who had purchased the piece at a house auction in Piedmont, was certain the girl had been the Monsignore’s mistress and had been returned to her birth mountains once she became pregnant, which made the portrait more palatable after all. She might have also enjoyed a fate comparable to that of the Royal models painted by François Boucher, who raised a bunch of healthy bastards at a tender age, one of whom, Marie Louise O’Murphy, surviving no less than four successive husbands.
Delff came by with an armful of fresh baskets of almond tiles. They had been looking for exactly Sheva, whom they had spotted at the pool. Naughty as a raccoon, they proposed sitting together with Sheva in a tableau, testing my sylph-like Swede’s reaction. Sheva, well awake, answered that she would be delighted to hump against such a sweet looking genderqueer imp, letting know she wasn’t no babe in the woods. And so it happened in a jiffy, Delff swiftly hiding their bijou erection at the rim of Sheva’s bumcrack..Cyprien liked Delff’s pas-de-deux; it had happened quite a few times, and the ambiguous faun had a natural elegance for poses.
I turned my back to finish pasting flowers around the slanted head of Luisa, imagining that those were her real hair beyond the centuries; I had revived the wig using powder baby shampoo and a gentle vacuum without causing damage. I would hide a small tin box of camphor with a punctured lid behind the nape.

We shifted upstairs to the God Crow’s oratory in our birth costumes — no one we might meet would feel otherwise than delighted to see us. Delff had slid back on their impish, daffodil-yellow-adjusted little suit with matching suede Chelsea boots. Sheva loved to misbehave in a mirrored lift car. She was dumbstruck to follow me into, yet again, a new den of wonders. I told her to woo the wincing homunculus in the god’s throat because that’s how she would be recorded, somewhere. Delff helped her sway her hips for possibly no one, and we laughed.
I opened my closet to fetch her some lustful enough outfit, knowing it would readily become useless at a TRÆVIX party. Delff approved of a revisited garçonne-style, pearly shuffled of gold and blue, sleeveless, thin-strapped tunic, which did not hide much of her thighs, and she fitted in golden mules. I gave her a hammered bronze bangle, but none underwear —that she did not claim for. She was deliciously easy, and Delff was ecstatic. I offered Sheva a choice between a Damask rose and a sunny broom shrub. She chose the latter, and Delff approved vibrantly.
I chose a matching style, coffee-brown silk panne, low neckline, thin-strapped, waistless skirt, and no underwear either. I put on black patent flats with jet beads jewels, and slid on a collection of dark wood and horn bracelets. Delff ordered we re-paint our nails, night blue for Sheva and black for mine, while they were texting orders. They put the last touch of Mascara and blush to our naughty faces, while I twiddled with their funny toylet. I sprayed some of the murderous iris that Lauritz had bought with me via Tornabuoni all over me. I craved dick.
Downstairs, we met Bryony in a parm taffeta frilled shirt, barefoot with silver charm ankle bracelets, and Sheva could see she went otherwise bare-arse, like us. After the impressive deep pathway, the lift took us to the grand foyer, my hand in Bryony’s bum crack. The gang of Cossacks just walked in from the street. Delff took Sheva to the front yard to let her admire the art pieces while they kindly fondled her underbelly. My surprising bed fellow returned astounded, to the relish of Serguei and consorts in black silk collarless suits, to whom she gave her best glance. She was indeed an easy lay, but she could prance as a panther, so Serguei fell instantly, and he wouldn’t be a lousy choice.
Bryony had responded to my caresses, rummaging under my hem, and I remembered what Sarah had taught me about the little powder room nearby, so I pushed her to the toilets and the little kinky door. She smelled of Bond Street after the rain, a perverted boyish fragrance which spun my mind. I pulled her upstairs to the umbrageous salon where nobody would find us, yet. On a plush velvet loveseat, she let me pillage all the sobs of her pulpy vagina, and drink the splashes of her pleasure so as she would fly for more, but she repaid me in full as I spread open for her upon the thick carpet. We were caught by Trine, who had heard our ruckus from the other wing, but she did not shun our double homage before ushering us into the sanctum where the almighty Aviatrix smelled out our sins and grabbed hold of Bryony, whose dress fell at once. I watched them, Trine cuddled on my lap, licking my labia.
Once she set her network on autopilot, Michelle wished to greet her guests, and she slid into a stretchy, gold-strewn white jumpsuit that moulded all the details of her adolescent anatomy. I understood once more why Sarah was so enthralled with her feet, all the more that it had long been the only part of her that would stick out of their studio’s red sofa, when they had sheltered her like an astray kitten that would rule the world. She read me up from behind her Aviator crystals, and rolled me a furious smooch that left me dumb, head over heels in love.
Downstairs, in the Grisaille room, the buffet tables offered a cornucopia of colourful crudités and antipasti, soups, pasta, and gratins, all under silver bells. Impassible liveried waiters did not flinch at the guests’ gross immodesty, knowing full well their time would happen. Visibly, Sarah had already had a moment in the cosy little salon. She wore nought, bar some black costume jewellery, a purplish blue-stones-set choker, wrist and ankle cuffs and a wide belt, but she did not bear whip tracks. From behind, I let my finger glide swiftly to her warm little conchlet and whispered in her ear she was the most desirable slut this side of madness. She rubbed my pubis with her bum and confided she had alredy shagged three devoted swindlers, unscathed. She asked me what my night had been like; I told her it would take long to keep her updated. She wondered if she should try for herself. I breathed a fervent yes, only the baby slept with eyes wide open, and it was most impressive, but she carried eyedrops with her, if you knew how to dip them into her eyes.

Opportunely, I sensed I was deftly searched by delicate hands which found my dress zipper and managed to make it fall off. Then Sheva breathed on my neck that I should get a shag, and Sarah concurred. The music was probably Wendy Carlos’s, unfettered through the state-of-the-art sound system. In the panorama salon, Michelle’s blond coochie was beeing stubbornly devoured by a muscular hunk and she had lost her spectacles. The pack of superlative attorneys who nonetheless worked for her were set on the loose.
After they both had their wombs humped, Sarah and Sheva were sharing fluid tenderness. Suddenly, a fragrant wall of male flesh stood before my face, and a fiery tongue forced into my mouth. For all I could see, he was black with squinted eyes, and he was well-mannered. I had been overly aroused seeing the Aviatrix and her tight little belly getting shagged by one of her wolves. I went for the expected truncheon that would pitilessly ravage my innards and wanked it the best I knew. Then he carried me upstairs to one of the private bedrooms and threw me across a grand bed.
I was soaked ready for a beastly humping, little did I care others were at it next to us in the dark. It was Petra’s voice that greeted us welcome in that wobbly manner, and then she found my mouth for a sisterly smooch. After a whirly night of tonguely devotion on undefatigable Sheva, I was given both with a happy fulfilled vagina as I sensed the heated flow of his splodge pour in me. Foreseeably, they wanted to swap, for that’s what they do, don’t they? Now they wanted us on all fours, and couldn’t wait to sodomise us with gooey dongs. As for me, I have been, so to speak, raised that way, but Petra sounded to suffer a tad more until she relaxed her sphincter. She smelled of a kitten. They left us soiled heads and tails and took to the shower like comrades before running. Blameless efficacy.
When we walked down, arm in arm, blurry but ready for more, the herds had fled, and the exhausted game lay hither and thither as unfazed personnel gathered the trash. It would seem Sheva meditated in a corner of the huge red sofa, but I told Petra she slept. We had not brought her eyedrops, so I tried something benign. We cuddled her along, and I caressed her face, laying a hand upon her eyes to close them, and she did not flinch. Petra said bluntly that we could as well blindfold her with a light scarf. We asked an amused servant for shawls or covers, but he offered to carry Sheva in his arms to a proper bed, that he did, and Petra knotted a pair of stockings upon her eyes. She was lovestruck; she licked the sleeper’s lips.
We all slept in good conscience; that bedroom must have been soundproofed. Delff ferretted us out with coffee and Danish pastries. It took Sheva a shiver of fright before Petra untied the blindfold and covered her face with butterflies. Sheva admitted that the blindfold was the simplest solution, only she rarely could tell when she would doze out. Once done with breakfast, she responded to Petra’s demonstrations, and Delff said they couldn’t resist girls entwined like kittens in a basket, so she undressed.
But Cyprien had waited, touching up his sketches. He sniggered, noticing Sheva had a new courtier who would be overjoyed to pose. To shuffle pleasures and let Petra cherish her crush quietly, I roped in Delff to help with Luisa in her flowers. Delff was the epitome of adolescent grace, ambiguous and immature. She (they) had astute, slender hands and feet, a rounded arse and a flat belly. She did very well pasting the flowers in place and remarked that Luisa slept like Sheva. I couldn’t help pulling her white track pants down. Unbeknownst to others, I wanked the little boy until she wetted her thighs.
We all went together to the appointment at our usual clinic, and Delff did her best pixie number to soothe the edge of our chutzpah. Beyond the regular blood and urine sampling, I needed medical advice on Sheva’s inconvenient, and eventually, it seemed that our solutions were right, and harmless. The doctor told Petra, who seemed the keenest, that she would find a heap of sundry designs for blindfolds on the internet, and Sheva would decide which to wear. He wrote a new prescription for eye drops and absolved us for our invasion.
We went to the Pharmacy nearby, made a bit of a fuss trying on blindfolds for Sheba, and bought an array of them. The lady pharmacist was compassionate; she, too, fell for Sheba.
On the way home, we stopped at A&S’s kitchen to gather fresh pies and whatever they would recommend. Everyone at the counter was enthralled by our little candid troupe —and our address was one of the faithful ones— mostly when they learned that Sheva was Swedish. I did not want to steal the delivery boy’s job; that was a rather large delivery, with bottles, so we let him do it, with a tip.
Unsurprisingly, the rest of the McVies’ doves invited themselves for dinner. Sheva’s sensation had reached Belle Haven’s attics; I loved to see my bedfellow blush.

 

Sarah says:

That reed-blonde Swede Cecile had gently spirited away deserved all the talk stirred about her, beyond the oddity that she didn’t blink in her sleep, although I could understand the fright of witnessing her thus. She spoke a familiar Skansk dialect from the Øresund shores; she was delightfully laid-back, an easy lay, Cecile teased for the relish of the McVies’ fireflies, whom Petra had rounded up.
Cecile had wisely brought the case to our usual clinic and was duly quieted after having spent a night regularly pouring drops into the candid hazel eyes. She had a thing for the lanky tramp, and so did Petra. Unsurprisingly, Delff, whom Cecile allowed anytime in her workshop like some magic cat, had sniffed out something unusual, had posed enlaced with Sheva —to the great relish of Cyprien’s— but profited so as to demonstrate to Cecile her dainty manner of lovemaking.
After the night’s charivari, the mood was fluid, and the hands felt like wandering. I had lost my whimsical crush to an elevated cause, notwithstanding a pang in my womb, but who falls for a fancy girl? Meanwhile, Sheva lent her gracile feet to my fantasy. She had travelled to Madeira with Kate; she said she was forever uprooted.
Natalia switched on a playlist that started with Radiohead’s “High And Dry” from “The Bends”. She said it tingled her underbelly to bring the damsels to Liselotte’s naughty inventions. I had a language edge with Sheva in recounting our madam’s propensity for her patrons’ expensive fantasies. She said she would crave that kind of twisted trade if the money were matching. Natalia asked around, Petra was go along with Sheva, the McVie girls shied. We ended four in the homunculus’ eye, and Natalia followed the Belle Haven harlots to their chirpy cloud.
A purple blindfold did marvel for Sheva’s eyes.Natalia joined us at breakfast. Fern and Ashler Mcvie had taken her in their stately bedroom while the fireflies escaped upstairs. She had reviewed her opinion of the twins for the better, she said Ashler’s weaponry was dignified and enduring, she had used some soothing salve. She sat next to Sheva and groped her under the nightshirt saying Liselotte had tweake a program for us five, that evening at seven; and she brought up a hefty reward to earn. She went out to work, I proposed we rescend upon the Grand Mall and spend some cash ahead.
We had played doll with the imps who had stirred some various interests in the stores, and stuffed their bags. The time coming, we did the grand courtesan ablutions and prepared, perfumed in every possible nook of our anatomy. Sheva had admired Cecile’s vestiary, she stood dumbstrunk amidst ours. With her naturally aloof head-bearing, i saw a white summer parade cadet jacket with a display of gilt buttons, just long enough to wear nought else, lined in mellow yellow twill, a cadet cap to go with. I had myself made a few kills wearing it. She had just bought sturdy white patent leather ankle boots. She liked what she saw in the mirror.
To go along with the immaculate Adonis figure, I fetched a black velvet gathered dress hemmed and trimmed of gold-embroidered braids, fluttering about Petra’s perfect little bum, and light gold-strapped sandals. Cecile and I put on double-breasted tuxedoes, white and randomly bejewelled for her, night blue with ice rhinestones on one lapel for me, both lined of striking satin, gold here and silver there. We wore the same sort of patent court pumps with a grosgrain or a moiré bow. Natalia had unearthed a flamboyant cornflower and poppy coloured fanfare uniform with gold buttons and trimmings.
Once sprayed with jaunty scents, all we needed were assorted silk veil stockings, hung up or not, white for blondes and black for us darks, and there was a drawer full of festive garter belts. We caused a near commotion to the young limousine driver whose gold locks sprung out of a crooked cap. He dangerously tended not to watch the road. Thankfully, the heavy silver carriage seemed to shy the common vehicles away.
The road we followed became more rustic, suddenly, Natalia told the chauffeur to park and joined him up front. It was her charitable moment, she had soon unwrapped a tauten stake to pump like a candy cane. She came back to us sucking on a mentos with a candid smile. I kept my hand snug in Sheva’s adjusted jacket, Cecile had hers between her thighs. We reached a wooded patch amidst poisonned fields. A remote controled portal was slung open on a downwards path to an arched steel door in a buhrstone wall, which our chauffeur called to be openned.
It was one of those defence forts Bismark had led us to build around Paris, before warfare became airborne. Some of them of moderate dimensions had been redsigned for private or public use. This one sheltered a central yard, where we parked, which had been glazed over like a greenhouse, planted of exotic trees harbouring colourful birds. The air was mellow and the sunset extended its sensitive hues through the frosted glass panes.
Sporting an approving kind of grin, a senior usher in a burgundy tail coat led us towards one of the enamelled stained-glass arched panels, featuring summer clouds like those of Maxfield Parrish. On the other side, a long, vaulted gallery offered a saraband of sundry dragons against the splendid gradients of a perpetual dawn.
At one end, a band of musicians in brightly coloured, tightly fitted sequined bodysuits played on esoteric percussion instruments with spectacular resonators and crystal rods, while three nude sylphs were crouched on wide cushions, playing Hang drums; another one, merely wrapped in her bountiful hair as the Magdalena,, beat clusters of crystaline notes on silver bells hung in a cascade. The harmonious divagation returned in a long echo, the Hang rolling drone like a vaulting lullaby.
A handful of middle-aged men smiled vaguely, watching us come in, from the depths of dark green velvet divans, attired in creased soft silks and white open-crotch tights, sporting their erections nonchalantly, waiting for more of us. Obviously, Natalia was accustomed to the club’s mores, she beckonned us to a pietre dure round table onto which frosted, elaborate ewers and goblets awaited with fruit juices, besides facetted liquor carafes, Champagne in a silver bucket, and also enigmatic little goldsmithery pill boxes.
Cecile was at once captivated by the display of handcrafted wealth, so incongruous in a bygone wars bunker. As she bent over to admire the precious materials, she froze at the feel of a fearless hand fondling her holy brooklet, it was brusk, but undubitably timely, and she insensibly parted her feet, giving way to the deft intruder. We had all been circled, at the eerie music’s pace. As I raised my glass of cherry juice, from behind, a hand slid in between my lapels I had kept lose and caressed my whole array of chakras from my throat to my mons veneris, slow and unfazed.
I saw that Petra’s dress was hitched up over her breast and she turned over to garner a kiss whiie being wanked softly. The slender cadet was enlaced inside her jacket on the verge of falling off and was responding lasciviously to a perfect unknown who knew how to kiss. Natalia was already kneeling down, serving one vibrant staff with her mouth, while an extra punter took interrest in her backside. Two complicit swordsmen had stripped Petra bare and considered shagging her together heads and tails, that she would not baulk at.
My glass swallowed, my handler pushed me over the closest head rest, but I demanded some preparation, which didn’t mean bad omen for his pleasure, was it? A handy tube was passed on by the galliard who held Sheva’s legs with her white boots up in the air, swinging softly, so far.
Upon his lovemaking manners, I figured my buster must be a stunner, and he went straight to fifth base, unflinching. I could feel a long stem through my complcent anus and rack my guts, firmly but kindly, then he unsheathed and called on somebody Maurice, vaunting my arseplay worthy to try, and so I remained, one leg hitched up, gaping available to whoever Maurice was. Followed Gerard, and Nathan, all appreciative of my laisser faire, as I squeezed their baubles in the walls of my rectum, I was the acme milking machine. Once that I brimmed over, I could hardly keep the flow in as I ran to the rest room and splurt in the bowl, to the best amusement of the Hang player who pressed my face to her quim that smelled of patchouli. She handed me an enema syringe full of orange blossom water while she rested her foot up on the near sink to let me lick her juicy slit.
We crossed Petra who was also dripping all the way and told me the fresh troupes were up and kicking. My musician smirked as she returned to her drum, I was seized by two new playboys in black leather open front tights to let their full-fledged manhood dangle in the wind. Exchanging about my body like I be an animal, they handled me to the limit of hurting Albert, Marc-Aurèle et Gentile conspired a triple trick, they said, but they all wanted to finish in my lesser hatch, one said with a smirk, so I offhandedly said they should do turns, although they might fire sooner than they thought. I do not look like an artful courtesan, but Hugo has since long written the lauds of my bum in all flavours of vocabulary; only my close lovers always owned I may trigger a spurt in my throat in almost a blink of an eye.
Nearby, Sheva straddled a well hung cangaceiro who held her strapped so as to offer her intimate bulls’eye at random, and unfazed garimpeiros took turns in the Brazil well of honey. Petra and Cecile must have been passed on with the flow, and here I stood, impaled like a wind vane, feet in the air, at once pegged solid by a William Sublette who sweated his soul so I wouldn’t forget his name.
A black storm had built up, and the heavy rain began beating the stainglass bays, oozing through the seals. Our chauffeur was back with a considerate smile, he took us to a subterranean bath with a round basin clad in decorated earthenware of aquatic fauna. The water was deliciously lukewarm, and our lewd effusions did iridescent swaths that eventually waned off miraculously.

In the morning, I was alone in my bed, and Petra had fled. Alfred had snuck into my dream and spoke in some intelligible parlance about the space-time dimension before my conscience tried to catch up, and all lucubrations had been wiped up, leaving me with a slightly itching arse, and we have salve for that. having baked myself brioche French toast, that I loaded with apricot marmalade, I texted Liselotte my report of the war front. She did not conceal that she had already seen the videos, and she called us little names, owning that Natalia had not exaggerated about the allure of our newbies. She never missed an occasion to remind me how stiff-nosed I had been towards her in our school days, until she had ensnared me into my own lustfulness she had long spotted on her radar. She bantered that she could have me any time, now, and I reckoned she might be right, and it didn’t repel me. I conceded she was the cunningest string puller I ever entrusted myself to. We talked about the newcomers’ reaction; she wondered if the reward had been as grandiose as it had been set at first. She jumped to a proposition that I go let some of my time be spent in that suite at the Brillon, for yet another rich godsent, and the name she dropped wriggled my spine.
Preened as a criminal, I slid on a power costume fit to roam in secluded corridors under the watch of armed minders. I sensed the pang of useless guilt that related me back to some scented laundry cellars and boxwood overgrowth. Yet I needed to retell Hugo, who greedily heard my confessionand made me promise I would go to him first afterwards, be it in the dead of the night. So, with the stripping eye in mind, I put on black silk over-the-knee-high socksrimmed with three white bands, a fluttering black twill boxer, a white-dotted purple band-collar silk shirt, a fitted, platinum line-drawn, night blue wool mix boy suit with a ready buttoned fly, and sleek navy suede Chelseas. I smelled of Grand Duke Iris all the way down to my perineum. I wore a thin platinum, onyx and diamond Art Deco choker, my grand mother’s tank watch, and a Cartier deometric-pattern platinum, sapphire, and diamond ring I wouldn’t normally sport at an arranged rendez-vous, when black lacquered nails suffice.
I knew I couldn’t beat the sharp eye of a palace concierge, he wouldn’t let me reach that suite on my own, he ushered me swiftly to the service pathways, and I knew what kind of search I would undergo. They had probably been genned up from upstairs and it wouldn’t cramp my allure. He was brawny and he smelled of the best Cologne, he could have been some ex-military hunk, and he pushed me inside a muffled storage cubbyhole he had the key for. A low gold light fell from a ceiling globe. He said I was deadly beautiful and he forced his tongue in my mouth, then he ordered I unclothe fast, showing me hangers. He moaned when he saw my bum, but I sussed he could only use my mouth, so I sat on my heels and gulped a full-sized weapon I bet would fire promptly and clean.
He sniffed me in all crease, played a finger or two in my anus, then helped me efficiently to redress. Before the last kiss, he said I was other than a whore, and I must cost dear. He could get me tricks if I needed. I took his card and I patted his trousers front, telling him he certainly was a good shot. In the service corridor, he kept smoothing out my outfit and fashioning my hair like a good mother, who had nonetheless spurted a load of jizz into my throat minutes ago. He gave me a strong mint. He had blue eyes.
He knocked at a door and let me in a kitchen where another front man looked up on me, reading the concierge’s face. That one only slid a hand on my lowly breast, whispering I was a lovely boy indeed, and checking to my crotch. All these shenanigans at a swift pace, in good manners, and I was wet like a puppy kiss. I was passed on to a geeky young las who whistled looking at me and led me to another one, barefoot, in loose shorts and Edgar Poe teeshirt, in sukhasana in a period bergère.
He beamed like an ocean of crypto money. He beckoned me to his vis-à-vis and asked what tea I drank. Taken aback, I answered Taiwan, did he also know what I had just done in the closet? Obviously yes. He explained that he had been enjoying phone-sex with Liselotte and that it had been mostly about me. Would I please disrobe? The first laidback mate, named Allen, had brought a valet stand, but I knew enough not to hurry, taking off my shoes, unbuttoning my shirt, sliding down my trousers, my boxers, and keeping on my socks. He liked that, and I did not cross my legs.
A young woman barefoot in jeans an tee shirt brought a round tray with a napkin, bearing a blue earthenware pot and two cups. She glanced at me unequivocally, and I watched her feet, her misty green eyes and her purported boss’s, enough to reach out for her waist button. She was honey-gold blond with no tan lines. I liked it that it was staged, I pulled her between my legs and helped the trousers down I liked it that it was staged, I pulled her between my legs and helped the trousers down. Her pristine boy briefs were half pulled on a laser-smooth pubis, she turned a notch as if to let her boss see what I did. She showed a candid, pouty face and a pulpy little mouth.

I liked it that it was staged, I pulled her between my legs and helped the trousers down. Her pristine boy briefs were half pulled on a laser-smooth pubis, she turned a notch as if to let her boss see what I did. She showed a candid, pouty face and a pulpy little mouth. He called her Malin, would she not rather take me to bed? And he stared at me, I was not stealing Marlin from him, would I?
We were followed by that other geek I saw first in the kitchen, who might have been Malin’s paramour she would share obligingly, or was it a free-wheeling shenanigan my client Mr B. relished, seated on a corner of the grand bed? He had fetched a jewel blue guilloché pill box filled with peach rose tabs he praised as mellow candyflip made to order for orgies. I recalled Victor’s blue powder we had basked in relentlessly. They took one of these each. I had no reason to baulk. I chased it with a long drink.
She had stripped the sun-kissed laddie down to his proud man-toy she twiddled, looking at me. So be it, I bent down to kiss and lick it, offering B. a plain view of my brooklet. As I gulped deep the kuk she had offered me —and I sussed they must be compatriots— she sneakily busied herself smearing my lesser hatch with slidy cream so B. could exult in it at no damage.
Now the sun swept upon our debauchery, Malin had engulfed her mate Orvar in her merry slit and steered me so that I offered B. mine. As he gently eased glans through my anus, my vision slightly distorted as in a crystal window wirith frozen iridescent swirls and elusive rims of refraction. I had lived the symptoms before, that pill was formulated to perfection, so was the balsam Malin had ointed in my whole back hatch with. Our tongues clutched together as our faces fondled in the creases of the rich bedding with the same giddiness she had lured me into.
I woked in the dark, alone. I must have swooned away into the wreaths of that unforeseen pharmacopea, and it could have unearthed a long looming angst, but I didn(t hear the crimson crows croak. I giggled on myself recalling Malin’s sunkissed toes sneaking out of her skilfully distressed jeans, the cause of my absent-minded laisser-aller. I went to pee; I felt eerily serene, and I figured I had slept a full cycle away. The whole suite had been tidied, new roses radiated in the crystal vase. My telephone rested upon a fat powder blue enveloppe holding an impressive wad of banknotes and a card on which Malin had scribbled that I could stay a long as I pleased, and explore the unrestricted resources of room service. She also had written her number. First, I needed tea, and a bath.
When she answered my call, later, I could tell Liselotte felt naughty. She pretended not to know about pills, or so few, but she taught me that B. was the owner of the Brillon and a few other worldly crash pads across the universe. Since the days when I had travelled along with my Far to places as dreary as Moskow or Shanghei, top-notch hotels life had stirred Eloïsean demons in my solar plexus, under the complacent watch of the security detail.
In the wealth of the white hotel peignoir, I had a morel omelet with freshly backed croissants, then I dressed up with the intention to buy one of these robes for home. Whatever the day, it was past midnight. Another concierge greeted my request with a Buddha grin, saying my order would be delivered later in the day, and he refused my money, but nonetheless granted me a longer than cordial stare that took me off guard. He sported boyish blond streams and rimmed green eyes, I didn’t give it a thought to follow him to where I knew. We were nude in a jiffy, he handled me like the slut someone had told him I was, or not? I bet the wole palace was riddled with eager eyes; wasn’t I worth it?
the hotel limousine brought me back home. I brewed some Oriental Beauty and first went to undress in the vestiary. A hunch led me to Fayelle’s room where I saw Oona snuggled up in the comforter, but I did not wake her.
My soul was still dangling amongst Mr B.’s cryptic molecules; and I knew where to call if I wanted more, didn’t I? By magic, Alfred suddenly descended upon the void outide our windows and bustled away my hollow supputations. A slight shiver reminded me to join the sweet dormeuse who wouldn’t bar me from her dreams.

Cecile says:

On a whim, Lauritz took Sheva and me to Corfu to visit a brothel that one of the regulars at Speck’s had told him about. Showing us in his newly acquired jet itched him, and Greece was only three hours away. After checking the weather report, we packed elegant bags with summer wares, although a little bird told me we wouldn’t wear much. It was a magnificent silver bird with a flair of brazen nakedness; the previous owner, a media mogul, had died at a biblical age without flying other than his mistresses. It smelled of cedar wood and tobacco, it flew smoothly, and I revelled in watching Lauritz hitching up Sheva’s variegated silk jersey dress on her sleek abs.
While they shagged, I went casually to the cockpit and tried to make myself likeable in the third seat without hitting on men at work; I wore jeans and a tan Mexican shirt with maroon embroideries, and the captain tried anyway to assess about my elusive breasts. As we flew over Venice, I could snake in to the window, thus letting the captain offhandedly slide a hand in my shirt.
Lauritz had rented a silver Mercedes-Benz electric sedan, Sheva wallowed in her seat showing the kitty he had just ramsacked. She was a glorious slut indeed. With nothing much to do, he held me a hand as an implicit invitation to share his boon. I wanted a lewd photo to send Sarah. In some ten minutes we reached an white Austrian Belle Epoque villa overlooking a forest of green oaks and cypresses over a skirting of rose laurels. No expansive terraces, only a roses pergola ran along the facade. The groundfloor windows were fitted with delicately engraved blue enamelled glass panes, upstairs, the shutters were closed with a lower flap up. We parked under some trees, along with a dozen foreign cars.
The house was ran by a mature woman with middle-eastern traits, an elaborate chignon probably combed up by her pet girl, and a sharp gaze when she disaproved of my trousers. She ordered us to unclothe right away on the foyer’s white marble floor and tidy our wares on an armchair next to the one Where Lauritz relished the scene. Sheva was nude in a twist of her sculptural loins, but once I had pulled my jeans, she asked to see my knickers, ostensibly to test my coyness, so I gave her my best ladylike, from-under gaze, as she sniffed my quim odors. Turning to Lauritz, she unleashed a heap of compliments on his taste in women while she dared finger my anus ever so deftly. She needed to scan our IDs and health cards, which a blonde in a blue-striped, white pantsuit went to proceed somewhere, not without garnering a greedy eyeful of us. Then Ms Zane seized Sheva by the arm and tongued her pretty mouth, saying that she smelled of beastly lust and she would crave to devour her after a night’s throes. After having asked if we allowed sodomy, she set our fees to a palatable height, pointing that the house remunerated itself with the patrons.
She ordered us to make out with a look of ardour, that we did heartily, so she sussed we had been lovers, obviously. Still adressing Lauritz, she wondered if we could officiate right away. Keeping his role, he said he thought so, and followed us, enlaced as we were on each side of the madam who smelled of tuberose, on the fluffy carpets to the showing salon. She seemed happy with us, she made us prance around in the dimly lit room unfailingly furnished with crimson velvet, mahogany and bronze, only this one was lashed with the prismatic sunrays that stroke the crafted glass of the windows.
It was deliciously warm but airy, under the dark wood coffered ceilings ornate with gilded volutes, large fans turned in silence. The patrons, hither and tither, were dressed light, some in shirtsleeves, in gallant company, some in immodest allure. Each of us held by madam’s hand were trotted to a small ring in mellow crosslights. No sooner had we displayed our best attitude than two braggarts claimed the glory of being first with us.
Sheva earned herself the goofy manners of a balding ginger bespectacled gnome, whereas I was snatched up by some kind of antartic exlorer who smelled of woodfire when he carried me upstairs in his mighty arms. His kiss was wholesome and fresh he was muscular as a kangaroo, he used me front and bottom before I could make the least move of my own, I felt like a geisha at the mercy of a raging warrior, I let my flows gush, which wasn’t a professional attitude, was it?
The room opened amidst the branches of an orange tree and made for a Golden Age jewel box, with an elaborate upholstery of ornate swaths of dark purple and turquoise interlacings enhanced with gold accents, the whole in the Wittelsbach’s taste, and I was laying on the rich percale sheets like a defiled princess. But the period doll’s toilet consisted of a mere array of painted porcelain bowl, bidet, and sink, while my next trick was already waiting in the raw. I was throwing a towel over the wet stains when he tried already to bugger me dry. Not knowing what language he spoke, I fetched the ready tube of KY and applied it myself on his vigourous fuckpole and in my dainty sheath, he felt so elated that he stuffed me right away and went on in my wetting slit.  

Thus went the true-life brothel experience, and I thought the madam wanted to teach us a lesson, at least to me, who was nought other than a vicious amateur. After a half dozen of hurried shaggings, I felt famish and parched. I hurried to make my toilet, wiped the sweat, and snuck out looking for service stairs that would lead me to a kitchen. It actually did, and two happy-go-lucky debutantes in light camisoles looked at me, wondering how many tricks I had turned, in an awful broken English.
But Ms Zane wolfed in and pushed me against a closet door to sniff me up and suck my tongue like a mad nun. She and extra-paying clients had peeked at me letting be done, and they had so loved it that they took turns on me. She wanted to taste my enduring vagina and anus, so she pushed me upon the table in front of the youths who grabbed a little taste for their own in my mouth and breasts so kindly that I blessed the boss lady with yet another happy squirt.
Afraid of stains on her grey crepe blouse, and concealing she had wanked to my health, the madam left me on the table at the mercy of the two lovely brats who had lost their togs; they tasted of almond milk.
hile I dipped koulourakias —as they called these braided cookies— in a deep cup of black coffee, they recounted they were cousins, from Zadar in Croatia, and they had disembarked from a random sailboat only a few months after their eighteenth birthday. Some sort of tout had sold them to Zane only for their better merriment as they had figured they would hustle their living thus with tourists and this house was beyond their dreams. Seized by demonic fantasies, I floated the idea of marketing their charms in a luxury parlour house I knew in Paris, and I saw twinkles in their naïve chestnut eyes.
They convinced me I had churned enough dicks for the day, they gave me a Totoro pouch to carry my stash, and took me to the upstairs place where harlots recuperate, and where we lathered ourselves together first in a griffin-legged bathtub. We must have dozed in bliss not long after we exhausted the scissors-sisters, and we woke at the tip of dawn, entwined like a litter of kittens. We pissed, and injected milk in our cleared buttholes. We brushed our hair, touched our lashes with Mascara, brushed our teeth and put on some gloss. Their toyish little nails were laquered of dark madder. I certainly wished Sarah could see their pixie feet, and i fantasised them in tableaus for Cyprien, but we were still in Greece.
They agreed not to wear anything for the day. All three of us were wet like dew. They told me we would entertain cooler morning patrons at a quieter pace, they had their regulars. We had more coffee in the crimson sofas. Luckily, Lauritz and Sheva beamed up soon and saw me with my new buddies, and I gloated reading Lauritz’s expression. Letting Sheva woo the cousins, I jumped on my paramour’s lap and whispered my scheme in his ear. I could tell that he grew stiff at once, so I slid my hand to grope his rod.
The irresistible pair had been picked together by some greying marine officer in a white cap. When Zane showed up, she made me stand and fondled my nethers. Without further ado, Lauritz’s style, he told her sottovoce that we wanted the girls and we would pay for them. She said that she had sussed that watching us play in the kitchen, and she knew they would run anthow sometime. She mused a tidy sum, arguing that the snazzy little monkeys were quite popular with her patronage. Lauritz joshed that he couldn’t renounce a present that would make me happy. Sheva had overheard, and she pinched my butt.
Slava and Isa crasped the gist of the deal about them in the blink of an eye They were still impressed by my own Holsteiner Prinz, but they quickly realised that it was me they had conquered without knowing it. Before we pack up, Zane wanted a word with me, so she cornered me in her small office. I wore a white silk twill man’s shirt and half thigh black yoga shorts she pulled down to feast on my quim. She had grasped how to trigger my spark, and she did another last once.
The cousins wore black jeans, sweats and sneakers. Isa with a big bumble bee in white and yellow, Slava with Calvin as Spaceman Spiff in a killer grin. over all, they sported good quality Perfectos I supposed contained all their wealth. They lugged around fake branded luggage like any ragazzi, not used to have it carried for them. I was moved by their talent to find the perfect fit in jeans.
As I held Sheva clutched to my side, we relished warching Lauritz vaunting his silver bird to the stunned cousins, floating lousy excuses as to his carbon footprint the girls didn’t figure anyway. they proudly produced croatian identity cards to a suspicious customs officer who scanned all our documents and waited for some results on his monitor. Lauritz was already tickling Spiff’s nose. The Bumble Bee sneaked herself between Sheva and me and let her slide a hand under her sweatshirt; she wanted to know more of our bonds with the Prince, whose scepter was already in Slava’s mouth.
But soon, it would be hers to tell their singular tale. They were the daughters of twin mothers, and suspected they shared their father, so untalkative had been their mothers on the matter, and so numerous would be their adventures, ever so often with the same lover. The saying went that it was due to the Venetian influence along the Costa dello Schiavone. They had grown up in the same household and witnessed their mothers’ turpitudes unfazed until they joined, unabashedly on either part. Hence, the trouble I had sensed in their spellbinding sisterhood of twins by proxy, so to speak. After having tasted for herself in the inaugural weeks, Zane had been advertising their easy carnal complicity to her affluent patronage of blasé aesthetes, and it had thrived like I knew it would, too, on our elegant shores.
Mid-afternoon, we landed at rainy Le Bourget, and the police were also suspicious of Lauritz’s merry equipage. The Bellezze Schiavonesi, though tall as Sheva and I, cast a spell of immature candour that must intrigue the officers, or whatever recent case of human trafficking had put the airport on edge . Besides, this shiny aeroplane wasn’f yet a regular fixture. Anyhow, we were all citizen of the Schengen Area with bona fide ID documents, even if their files listed a herd of pretty girls next to Lauritz von Speck’s name. That officer was the vindicative type, or else he wanted souvenirs for himself, so he took portraits of us all, and I restrained to pull my tongue like Olivia Rodrigo.
We kept making out on the blue banquettes of the long silent car driven by a capped chauffeur. Lauritz wanted us to meet the backstreet sparrows first, he called to tell them, and the response was gleeful. The little harlots’ realm smelled of an English garden, with pieces of clothing strewn all over. They had brewed coffee, tea, and cocoa to go along with fresh pastries from a next door bakery. They all knew Lauritz’s manners around little stray birds, they jumped to the new faces in carnal greed. The three novel younglings were stripped bare in no time. Lauritz and I watched, so aroused that I let my cookie sink.
After sound interior workings led by Gauthier on the building, there were many possible perchs for new jailbaits —as it seemed, but Lauritz corrected the impression— so for the time being they opted for a crooked beams roof cote upholstered with blue indienne fabric with a large bed, and they said they had always shared their bed; of course, the bathroom offered an italian shower for at least two, sink, bowl and bidet in indigo glazed porcelain. Suddenly, the bed withstood at least five wriggling bodies.
Slava and Isa agreed to show themselves in Speck’s grand presentation salon. I posted on the community board that, fresh from Corfu, new damsels would make their debut at Speck’s that night, with a photo of them enlaced. Lauritz did the same towards the first circle of his regular and rich clients. There was a pleasant ruckus under the shower, and a thorough review of details at many hands, also a tepid milk enema. Coming from the famest whorehouse on the paradisiacal fortress of Corfu, raised in the secret of Venetian tradition of refined harlotry, the troubling cousins couldn’t be other than spotless, from the enamel of their teeth —they had amply rewarded, in kind, Zadar’s most reputable dentist all along their childhood— to their tapered little toes and their toylike nails, not ruined by long standing up chores, obviously. In their hosts’ cupboards waited a princely assortment of fragrances to choose from to transfigure their holy groins and armpits.
A private subterranean passage led form the perfumed cot to Speck’s cellar, they could have strolled about in the nude and reach Mr Udo’s vestible climbing a service stairs, and he would have been overjoyed. Dorothy preferred them lightly clad with freshly ironed antique linon chemise with a sly open crotch in the creases she knew first hand aroused the patron. She dressed Sheva and I thus, too, so it was a Victorian lingerie bouquet who circled Lauritz on the way to his so peculiar family heritage.
Neither the cousins nor Sheva harrumphed to Udo’s wandering hands boding to their success. He feverishly scanned Sheva’s and the cousins’ documents and showed them a safebox in the vestiary. He couldn’t help steal a kiss from Isa The long tall black pianist improvised a ragtime galop to salute the bright-eyed squadron. The buffet was still young, with vegan prowesses from Carlotta’s in rue Saint Louis en l’Ile. But we didn’t have quite time to nibble, a flock of black elegant monkeys assaulted our frilled troupe at their fingertips, asking where the newbies were from. Our cast thawed off like hailstones in summer, Sarah and Oona missed the overture but the night was only started. Anyhow, Lauritz took Oona and left there, teasing some polite liers who smelled of the Burlington Arcade. I let be fondled by a submarine officer, promising Sarah a full account of our Grecian safari later, warning her she would swoon at the sight of the cousins we had brought back with us.

Sarah says:
Before running with her pussy-hungry bubblehead, Cecile had seemed a tad transfixed about their trip’s outcome, although it had become customary for Lauritz to bring back pretty tramps from his expeditions. I was thrilled she had flushed out the girls, unforeseen, at a pause in the brothel’s kitchen. I knew how sharp her eye was for beauty in the wild, and all she described next made me slaver to see them. No wonder they had enthralled Lauritz, who must have coughed a heap to bring them back.
At Cecile’s warning, Dagmar and Gwen had dragged Apolline into that well of unfettered masculine want, and they already had educated Udo’s fantasies about the dodgy angels we lived with. It hadn’t scared the ageing gatekeeper who had, this very moment, willfully participated in a kinky tableau, and dared bugger our middlesex wonder. Now, Apolline wore some manner of little bloomer panties just fit to shelter a toylike willy under a gathered camisole. Bar for stale bigots, her unadulterated character and her smooth complexion would tickle clients’ fancy, since they would shag her like a boy anyhow, I knew that full well. I took a bet I would sell her openly to one of the clubmen who were at present considering us. One was ogling my thighs and my flat chest in that familiar manner. We had partied agreably before, I could gently introduce Apolline as a dear friend with a sweet twist. He understood, but then he was ready to hire both of us to teach him. We were given a muffed room in the back wing, upholstered in old rose crushed velvet with large polished tin sconces in the shape of puffy clouds out od which nubile angels held out electric candles. The square bed was a darker burgundy plush, and the carpet a rich Turkish pattern. The silver beams at the ceiling were ornate with rambling roses.
I pranced a while bare, and stripped Apolline slowly, making sure she stiffened some in her knickers. Mr Foggy in his white singlet was enthralled with my bum, who wouldn’t? He tried not to pay attention to my buddie’s allure, as I lowered the last piece of cloth down her smooth body and showed him her rounded behind. She had been taking hormones since before puberty, she sported more breast than I, not that I would envy. Her peen was that of a twelve-year-old, with two mitrabelle plums in a crumpled sack. She smelled of jasmine and lowered her hazel gazes behind true girly lashes. I was ready to busy myself on her in case he shun her marvels.
She sported a straight forward erection with an uncovered carnelian glans, like the little boy who didn’t grow up, in a slender girl’s body. She leaned back on me, letting Mr Foggy fondle her breasts and belly. She had worked out a lean musculature, under the fostering of the gentle flock and the expertise of the coach who didn’t conceal the bend he had for her —some said they had seen him giving her a fellatio, and that was just what I saw Mr Foggy longing to do. He wasn’t an overly endowed gunner, and I foresaw that if she spurted her little droplet into his mouth, he would gladly retort by shagging her cheeky bum, or else granting me the favour. He topsided her over me, and seized her ankles to lift her legs and expose her pink rosette. He had fetched the swiss Navy and wriggled two fingers in her anus. She was wired as a school virgin but he threaded her like a pearl. I kept wanking her as she rolled her tongue on mine. Mr Foggy did not overlast and huffed as he unleashed a fiery load into Apolline’s entrails.
The bathroom was all clad in green historiated earthenware tiles presenting rolicking marmousets, flying flocks in the clouds on the barrelled ceiling, more schoals of the same swimming amongst waves on the ground. We playfully gave her an orange blossom enema, Mr Foggy was all enthralled by her immature body, he said he would call her again.
Back downstairs, she had to let be fleetingly fondled by Udo, we were proud of her, even if I was left wanting. Cecile’s wunderkinder were pecking at the buffet, and I did not dither rubbing hips to them, frankly, like old pals, and I told them my name. They said they had heared of me in mouthwatering manners, and they wondered who I was enlacing. I told her Apolline was one of my transgender neighbours and we had just enlightened a client’s opinions to the best of Apolline’s benefits. The sisters were intrigued by that little king of bloomer in which they discovered the magic toy with their dainty hands. The night was done over, They craved we all went to the dovecote for an exciting object lesson.
Dorothy and Coline were having an after-show supper in their chiffon déshabillés. They had seen Apolline here and there in the suave society, but never so close privately, Bar with Delff, Apolline wouldn’t let it all out in public, until now, for she was still in the emotional numb of having let be buggered after a real fellatio. She remained cluched to my wing as the two lighthearted Croatian nymphets pulled down the finicky curtains and feasted of the shy nestling. 

But the scope of their migration wouldn’t be thorough yet if Cecile and I didn’t acquaint them with the mother colony. Cecile and I, in some manner of seniority, floated the necessity for the cousins to practice the whole protocol, and for instance, spend sitting time in Cyprien’s eye while Bach would win their souls, in Cecile’s workshop, no later than tomorrow. That would be the course of aggregation for the spellbinding Schiavone pair, and Lauritz knew, in any case. We organised a midnight transport to our main metaphoric maze, as everyone could witness on the bulletin board, and an invitation from the highest-up wouldn’t tarry long.
The night was fair, and Alfred was inspired; four of us mingled on the grand bed and dozed off. I woke up, unsurprisingly alone, and a tad dizzy. I walked up to the studio and recounted the whole affair to Kate, who had posted a misty blue shore. She had seen the proxy twins in my cryptic posts of the night and called me lucky. She would crave seeing them on Sylt, but she wasn’t travelling for now. Upon the magical notes of my Oriental Beauty liquor, Natalia came by, intrigued by the new wunderkinder. She had spent the night with one of the A listed crackpots of Liselotte’s patronage. She had done shrooms; we unrolled the futon, she smelled of Botticelli.
I served her tea, and undressed her, recounting what Cecile had confided me of the Schiavoni kids, who, at this hour, must be sleeping on the crimson sofa downstairs under Cyprien’s watch. Natalia’s first whimsical reaction was to wish she went to Corfou extol her butt to Kaiser Franz Joseph’s curtiers. She had hustled in Vienna’s poshest brothels along with Dagmar and Fæbian and kept a weird souvenir à la Thomas Bernhard. We called Liselotte who was eager to hear about Lauritz’s burglering Zane’s bijoux box. She proposed us a much rewarding trick in a mansion on the Champ de Mars near the Eiffel Tower. She had a hunch Lauritz would take Cecile and the Schiavone girls on some inaugural fantasy trip.
We ought to dress as —sic— hi-ranking attachés on a mission, and that wasn’t less fun than parading in hi-fashion, was it? Natalia had thinned a mite, my pantsuits fleeted kindly on her muscular midriff. She chose an austere graphite cashmere flannel double breasted suit lined in royal blue satin, same colour twill trunks, and a band-collared white silk shirt with pearly buttons. She slid on black silk socks and borrowed a pair of navy blue suede Chelseas. Her nails were lacquered dark madder, and a tiny touch of liner, shade and mascara made her sparkle in a wink. I stood nude in front of the vestiary’s mirror, I still saw her as our happenstance little sister, and I gave her a pair of diamond stud ear nails she enlivened.
I felt like the flashier platinum pinstripe black matte cashmere three-piece, double breasted, lined in purple twill, which still smelled of my previous innumerable misbehavings, with a white wing tip collar shirt, no tie, and also black silk trunks, though the trousers’ lining went down to my knees. I slid on black silk socks and patent leather loafers. My nails were shiny black, my hair was roughly tousled.
We certainly looked like diplomatic torpedoes when we tapped the door code under the scrutiny of cameras at this Art Deco bulky mansion’s wrought-iron garden gate. A peremptory buzz responded swiftly releasing the lock. Neither of us ever had set foot in the highly-maintained property .The arched entrance door, doubled in geometric acid-frosted motive glass, opened by itself before us. A stiff, Asian, penguin-clad usher bowed, at the rim of a vast Orphic looking carpet in the center of a seldom-furnished ashlar stone foyer.
Somewhere afar, a piano cuddled something like Ravel’s Miroirs. Since the clap of the lock, it felt the city had waned off. He asked us to go barefoot, and took our shoes and socks wih undissimulated pleasure. The piano was paused, some woody toned voice sounded from the far end of the hall, bantering that we my find it unjust that our host allow himself to wear chaussons, then; but our toes looked so gracious upon that listed masterpiece of a rug, would he mean.
Baron Ludwig Caldecotte looked thin as a drug fiend, in a black velvet, quilted lapels smoking jacket, black satin pyjamas, and thin black slippers. He looked us up with that familiar kind of grin, but I treaded my toes into the thick pile as I would have in the shore sand, to bring his gaze back down on them. He knew our names and reputation, I figured he had gossiped with Liselotte before summoning us to his precious rug. After a casual baise-main, he sniffed us up without departing from his fleeting grin.
He mulled he had known me and my boyish allure, and my taste for juvenile girls, though I could sexually withstand a host of Cossacks, wouldn’t I? He turned to Natalia, whose shirt buttons had magically parted, and mumbled she must be his friend Hugo’s precious goddaughter, wasn’t she? Not caring for answers, he led us upstairs to a stately salon, pushing up our butts offhandedly.
His Lordship must be Master of the improbable, or party planner extraordinaire, for only what we could wish for was set on a round labradorite table, and silver trays. I poured highballs of what seemed to be kombucha, and tasted of pineapple and litchi. Somewhat scalded after my extempore trip in Mr B.’s bed, I cast a candid blue glare at the Baron’s face and asked him ex-abrupto if he would be drugging us, by any chance? Glass in hand, I said Liselotte had not mentioned any such liberty in the contract. He smirked all along and promised he would keep his medicine to himself. But my brusk freshness emboldened him to slide a hand into Natalia’s shirt and breathe in her nape.
The piano, crouched in a corner like a malicious elephant, resumed the unabashed fantasy of a pianola Ravel as Lord Trampletoe lauded finding a boy’s fly unto a complacent tramp of glorious beauty. The far end wall was fully covered with an exotic wood relief worthy of the old ocean liners’ colonial dream, brimming with luscious vegetation and haunted by golden nudities of none ethnical identity, this once. Between two doors, a full-height tapestry depicted a Fontainebleau Diana amidst a round of genderless creatures, against a Beaudelairean landscape, above the cove between three night-blue orgiastic sofas and a round immense camel hide ottoman onto which we would all probably end wallowing.
Natalia’s trousers foreseeably fell, and all but her boxer. A black picker in a black silk tuxedo dashed in to gather her vestments and then stood by me as I was told to disclothe as well. Like a true stripper, I kept Ravel’s implied moves until I teased with my trunks’ waist band, swaying my hips for the boy I had a hunch would soon ravage me at his own want.
The whole salon was basically of eggshell matte rendering, with a coffered ceiling, and lit by a monumental pressed cristal chandelier of dawn golden colour, in a spectacular feathering bouquet, dimmed as in a theatrical intermission, pouring that luscious sheen upon our nudity. The fitted rug was a Sissinghurst rêverie at our feet, under the golden rain of the drawn window drapes. Opposite the funeral mass of the piano towered a black burnished bronze of a stylised lifesize horse, up in a fiery courbette, mane to the wind of the bygone instant in which the mechanical Ravel was charting its diamond tears.
Lord Ducklington, while handling the slender body of my soul sister, and kissing her sensuous lips, ordered me to crouch down at his service, and indeed there was help needed between his legs where I unleashed a dignified command staff, in tears already, that smelled of the Hamamelis in the Venetian winter mists, enough for me to busy my mouth over it. His Grace must have been so frustrated that it wasn’t long before I had to swallow my slutty pride. He seized me by the hair and made me stand, so I could give Natalia a bitter taste of an entitled seminal spurt.
Abandoning all of his sartorial vanities, his Lordship drew us to an ebony veneered console to offer us a black-footed glass of cassis cordial which ensnared our tongues —it had been a fixture of family good times in Denmark, before I learned at my expense that it could be used to mask a dose of alcohol.
Lord Windermere was far more shapely than I would have thought, and he must have worked out seriously. As expected, he sat Natalia on the edge of the tough leather ottoman and made her offer the passage to her inner trail of chakras, as he would say, after ointing the way with salve. And, as expected, I could feel two strong hands holding my haunches from behind, pulling me aside for the same blessing Natalia was receiving, and long fingers explored my willing slits. Pushing me face down on the oud-smelling leather, he held my wrists together in my back and parted my thighs aside with his knee, opening my wells to his linstock, and he chose my drooling sheath to fire. Natalia didn’t look less of a possessed Loudun nun, sheathed to the hilt by Anglo-Saxon nobility.
Lord Wilsford had a whim and wanted to swap mount after I had been gorged over. He fancied my lesser hatch after a few tosses in his liege boy’s feats. He was deft, and I squeezed him in my flesh scabbard ever so gently, earning moans in an eerie vernacular, and this once, he endured long enough to reset my brains a few times. Natalia kept howling, I had miscalculated the caliber of the menace she was engulfing; he had to lube her more, but it looked like he was skewering her through to heart until the boy’s last word was gushed.
The bathroom in the basement was round and vaulted in white ashlar stone, a lift had brought us, soaked and drooling, and we rinsed our nooks before simming in the round little pond tesselated in sapphire and turquoise coloured glass with golden swirls. Not that we would mind keeping on fornicating afloat, but Lord Bournemouth confessed that his peen would ache, so he made do with kissing and wanking us like water babies. He was proud the water we frolicked in was, like the whole house, warmed for free by a geothermal drilling at some 500 metres depth.  His Grace even shared the resource with his neighbour,  the consulate of Saint Vincent and The Grenadines.

The limousine service brought us back home, unscathed, except for the underwear we had surrendered to Lord Marlborough before we left. Cecile’s bedroom was locked and silent. We disrobed in the vestiary and paraded ourselves in the tall mirror, proud of our wantonness. Natalia looked altogether candid as ever with her jeans and shirt on her arm as she fled to her upstairs flat, she wouldn’t have minded meeting someone in the lift.
Alfred kept telling the neighbourhood our worldly exploits while I dawdled out of my lazy slumbers, listening to my peeing in the bowl. Tea was glorious, nothing wrong had happened to us, except the chopping down of Ravel’s music. I was merrily reporting our starstruck harlotry at the feet of the Eiffel Tower to Liselotte when a message from Hugo flickered. He was overjoyed at a chance find he had just made through his network. He had bought an album of artistic photos of Violette Nozière in the nude, collected by some anonymous adorer who had apparently come to somewhat support her in her later family life, gathering clues as to where to find the pictures she had posed for with all manners of people, and she had shown some talent ineed to it.
I had joined him in mere star spangled silk satin pyjamas, he was nostalgic about the lame excuse he had once used to lure Kate and I to his lair, he said he still was moved to watch my almost brazen expressions I had cast before he eventually dared touch me. That morning, we shagged in front of a redeemed Violet, and I cast a thought to a girl in the gunky cellar of a suburb café.
After a shower, he offered me a rare Lalique bottle with dancing nymphs containing a perfume for me, a costly metaverse built on true ambergris, oud and iris in a robe of neroli with tinkles of Hugo’s random carnal whatnots; I knew I would make a killing wearing it at Philippe’s.
It was one of those powdery bright Parisian mornings, perhaps was it aleviated by the forbidding of diesel engines privileged like us had lobbied for.
The Estonian housemaid was in our flat, I climbed to the studio, set the samovar and switched on Soma FM —which Alfred didn’t like. Except one toilet pause and a look at my mails, I doodled about in colour pencils while sniggering at Lord Bumblebrock’s long shot witticisms and wriggling upon my sensitive bumhole. Late afternoon, Cecile brought the well-nigh twins with an idea to risk them at Philippe’s, under our ward in case they might become too trustful with whoever. They had cruised on the Seine along with two of Lauritz’s old buddies, and knackered them out with their unfailing appeal and stamina. And it appeared they wanted more.
They were amused by my scribbles as much as by my scant outfit and my perfume. I had a fleeting doubt about the current consistence of my work, and the bygone synergy Kate and I had once knotted. And nonetheless I called Sami, who happened to answer me; my request wheted his indefatigable carnal appetite, so he said there would be a table for us at dinner time. No need to spell it out, I knew Philippe’s dress code; we had heaps of light flutter dresses of sundry colours in our closets, above all easy to toss off if the mood was right. A collection of waistless, gathered Liberty print cotton dresses with peasant sleeves, we could make for a dissipated object lesson class. One crucial detail was about shoe sizes, the nigh twins sported smaller feet in their cuteness. Just time to call a Uber and rush to the Bon Marché to buy slippers. The attendant selling Stubbs & Wooton granted us a beaming smile when I flashed my card on four pairs of embroidered; we had running cheetahs on royal blue velvet, zebras on black velvet, pink and sage needlepoint, golden bumblebees on black. They were baffled with the price tag. I told them I was in love.
It must have been nine when we showed up at the Palais Royal with our light-headed victims. One wore a blue petald strewn black Tana Lawn gathered chest dress, the other a maroon, fuzzy-print of the same stuff flared mid thigh dress. Cecile fetched a purplish black bourette miniskirt with a white col Claudine and white three-striped hems. I pulled out a short black poplin shirt dress strewn with random embroidered ultramarine stars and celestial whatnots.
Sami was obviously stunned by our gentle pair of jailbaits, but he asked for genuine ID, with a smile. When he came back, he sat next to Slava and didn’t keep his hands. He was skilled in broken English. We were offered a carousel of antipasti on a lazy Suzan, with creamed morels on toast especially for me. We drank fruit kefir and I knew what Sami fantasised about watersports with freewheeling nymphets.
Cecile played warm hand with Isa while I played footsie with her much courted cousin. Our table had been sheltered behind a painted screen of a birds-crowded jungle, to conceal our withdrawal through the little door. We let the younglings walk upfront on the crooked stairs and show their naked bums in the reddish light.

As per usual, Sami grabbed Slava on a landing with a convenient small crimson velvet bench, and he marvelled that she was, at once, nude once her dress was pulled off. She let him feast of her discreet quim as Cecile and I disrobed Isa and showed her to suck the jolting dick. It was a muffed intermezzo on the way to a venue I hadn’t known yet.
Under one spare corner of an antique ceiling, with a restored massive cornice and the painting of a reclining woman reaching out to the walled-off part, scantily dressed in a white muslin in the taste of the ladies who had cruised in the downstairs galleries at night once the Revolution was over, a Romantic arsenic-green decor of bombastic foliage motives, mock doors under heavy gilt capitals cut off their lower part. Malachite green rest beds surrounded a square, padded black leather stage, the use of which easy to figure. Ebonised wood screens encased with erotic grotesque paintings masked the dark corners, to one of which Sami carried out our clothes once we were all stripped down. A languid string music, part Pucell and part Shoenberg, poured out of nowhere, unfurling an injunction to lust.
Guests clad in tight-fit, black kidskin, open crotch outfits began to dawdle in and fiddle with our bodies as if they owned us, displaying their privates bravely, trying us in turns like the Governor’s ball. Some of them knew me and spoke crudely of my butt we knew would be taken advantage of to the thread, among all niceties. Sami was singing the praises of the two Schiavone twins, calling for a smidgen of restraint if the gentlemen ever wanted to taste them again. He demanded that the ready lube be generously used and displayed tubes on each corner.
Isa was first being pushed on the stage bed at the mercy of the wolves’s fangs, but unexpectedly she did well enough taming her assailors and give them flesh for their want, being soiled four times ahead of us. Slava joined her proxy twin and was ravaged as thoroughly, not departing of a cocky grin.
One gutsy German middle-aged hunk seized me and called me my name before granting me a mind-boggling kiss; I liked that, it buzzed in my chest; but I did not grasp what he was monkeying about in my back, until the other fellow began forcing my funky ring with so much goo that it went through like a hot spindle and bugger me standng while the first one stared at my smile until I sensed the warm discharge in my guts. And he asked if it had been painful, to what I sniggered, so he turned me around and buried another sturdy pole even further. I never saw his partner, he shagged me again up front and it was shattering, I gushed half-a-dozen times, for his rightful pride. He followed me to the bathroom and helped me wash out all he had filled my arse with, and then he ran off, after begging me to wait for him next night at Speck’s. I thought he might be mistakening me, but he also said to give Kate his fond regards.
Back in the arena, Sami had called for a truce and led us downstairs to the eerie subterranean baths where the remote thunder of metro trains could be heard and sensed, causing tiny ripples when the water was still in the round, variegated blue glazed tiles, parsed with gold slivers, lukewarm pond. Nobody was bruised or torn, though the Zadar kids had whithstood a serious hiding. Sami had a cure-all salve for beaten flesh he applied handsomely, while they showed unfazed fortitude and that smile they had earned with in-kind payments. I greedily claimed for a dose of the kinky balsam about my own fun slit and slot.
Sami put us in a long black Sedan with a capped chauffeur, it had started raining, the Seine banks were deserted, we all smelled of neroli. Cecile was in a haste to wrap up her brood under the God Raven’s mercy. The clubmen had not overtired me out, I kept browsing on a tablet while sipping the last cuppa. Ayla had made a video of her salon showing a cast of appealing persons, warning that it would be de-activated after my visit. The Mcvie’s pets were on Emma, a private chatroom, where they spun the tales of their day’s turpitudes, in their naked youth, laying on precious stuffs nonchalantly crinkled. They has brought back Coline and Dorothy, Adèle and Rose were online, too; Fanny looked elated and high. I told them I was sorry not to show them the new sensations whom Cecile had spirited away after the romp at Philippe’s I was summoned to recount, and I did in such manner they would all besiege Cecile’s workshop like bees on a cake. Dagmar an Gwen popped up after a stampede with the Cossacks —that showed— and asked if anyone would join in a moonlight bath; her tapered legs were gathered up and her feet cast aside her blooming quim; that was enough to send me ruinning down to the bottom pit of our private luxury, dive into the pure, tepid water. I wouldn’t know how we came to wash our hair in the shower and mutually knead our lustful joints and trinkets before going to dive and swim in a Klimt fantasy.

Cecile says:

The rumour had tickled Camille’s sensors; she had a large wicker basket of crisp pastries delivered to my workshop at the precise breakfast time, to the charming surprise of my still yawning bedwarmers, ready to sit for Cyprien. My most attentive sponsor showed up soon and was bedazzled, daring not to sit close to the famished sprogs who sniggered together in their pebbly parlance. She took note of Zane’s existence, if it would be the place to fish out such gems.
Cyprien drank a swift cup; he was hurried to pick up the semblance of the twins on his paper, and, by the way, Camille to put them up for sale in her cosy gallery. When the girls put off their nightshirts, she couldn’t help but gather them upon her face, and, so well-versed they be in harlotry, they let her poke her tongue unto their white midriff, after checking for the agreement of my smile. When they saw Cyprien waiting, they flew to the crimson bed the cleaner had tidied up. They knew how to display themselves; Cyprien would only tell them to stop moving at a given moment. They reacted smoothly to the Goldberg variations played on a grand virtual piano, I think they said somebody called Petar played this before, and their eyes sparkled.
Camille was enthralled, she was already plotting, in her mind, an arrangement with Lauritz moneywise, and she would mission Fanny to teach them languages and philosophy. That would be a proper school in the MacVies’ attic —if we could only let them some breathing air to themselves, thought I, watching one irresistible foot at the edge of the bed they lay on.
Camille was troubled, and I didn’t feel either like putting on my overalls and scrub some dirt somewhere. I took her by the hand to my cubbyhole, and let her undress me. Then, I recounted our expedition in Madam Zane’s jewel box she pledged she would visit. Only when the whole Golberg cycle ended, and the silence returned so blunt they could hear the lead strokes on Cyprien’s velum, that they broke the sitting and rushed in with us. They were overjoyed to find us in the same manner of apparel as them, and they smelled of almond.
Camille was avid for the smooth fresh fount at the same little chubby mound they did not secret the least away, and in return, they relished the famed savoir faire of the ginger mistress of all shivers who gorged herself with their holy dew. It was decided of a grand gathering in her place at the end of that day, invitation extended to the übersexual brigade of Ivy League refugees who waged daily war for 7S, but also the leather-strapped tribes of errand Cossacks who smelled of Sarah’s most imparted secrets. It would be one of those dishevelled inauguration parties Paris was designed for, and it behoved to Camille to throw it.
The twins were wired up, having spent the day wallowed on velvet and licked to no end, and they had no idea where their clothes were. As Camille went home to set up the orgy, I took them upstairs to fetch them worthy outfits for their début. Not so surprisingly, Delff flushed us out by deduction and, after fluttering gold flies in the twins’ gaze and unveiled all the ambiguity out of her, or his, person, enlighted them a bit using the unnumerable vernaculars they had made love to in TRÆVIX’s realm.
I showed the unfettered affection we vowed to the lean whimsical Wincklerian marvel who was wooing them in a perfume of dawn flowers, not asking for more than offhanded smiles. I recalled my own perplexity discovering the eerie combobulation of a fundamental duality we all grow up with, bar fairy tales and Baroque areopaguses. And Delff held back fromm buggering either one of the double Croatians. My currently high-praised pets —who might very well decide to join Fanny’s balmy classroom under the roof of Belle Haven embassy, or the picturesque TRÆVIX palace, or the magnificent bedrooms at Speck’s to forever roll in the luxury hay— were undoubtedly female, pansexual if anything, and bankrolled by my amant de coeur Lauritz.
Amidst the desirable fauna Camille would have corralled for their grace only, that pair of Schiavoni dedicated harlots would need to exuberate their candid lustfulness. Out of Lauritz’s lavish expenses on me during our debauched tours —when he would surrender my hide to eager clubmen only to watch them have me— we fished out appropriate tack for these exceptional samples of cobbled-up genomes gone magic. They would do marvel, bare-arsed in those mid-thigh, sleeveless party dresses, purple night sequined, and mere patent opera flats I knew where to borrow. I wouldn’t know which one wore the reddish strass strewn one, or the other gold sprinkled. I figured it all apropriately put them right in Lauritz’s spectrum, so he might feel acknowledged in his personal gesture towards the nigh twins. Their nails would be stone black, and one would smell of narcissus, the other of Melba peach, one would wear a jet anklet, and the other grenats. The skin of their legs was smooth and satiny, The skin of their legs was smooth and satiny. I had spent a fortune on the finest of day creams to make their bodies resplendent in the lightings, just like I had read they do before the photocalls.

I slid on a mushroom brown silk panne so light they couldn’t help graze my mons, weren’t we sisters? Chestnut patent thin-strapped Mary Janes Lauritz liked round-toed nerdy, and finally vintage tortoiseshell spectacles with amber lenses; I love to be cast against type. Anyhow, I had the educated hunch no one would remain dressed long. Last and not least, I had sprayed this Amalfitan dusk Fleur de Citronnier I had been offered in Florence.
In Camille’s lavish marron-glacé tones of thick velvet carpet and seats, ivory satin and sleek dark palm wood chests and tables, my baby harlots kicked off their slippers to feel their toes sink in. Wearing a mere vintage plastron men’s cream shirt, her shapely legs amidst the creases of stuff, no shoes, Fanny was all too happy to gossip and flirt with her fellow Croatian foundlings, and their trio gathered all the carefully dishevelled birds upon the convenient arm and head rests, in a hotchpotch of neat little feet which made Sarah dizzy, as I could tell. Two Asian extras in white livery busied themselves displaying carafes and ewers of pale-coloured drinks and colour-dotted Murano tumblers.
Camille had posted a code for the entrance door to all her devotees, of all genres, and I guessed the big wigs might feel enticed to take a look.
Natalia and the whole exotic birds in the back wing had shared a taxi with Fulgence and Gauthier. I was thrilled to see my neighbours drressed to the nines and ready to kill. Adèle the pensive recluse of Monte Napoleone was fired up by my deceiving attire, and snaked a hand up my thigh, to make sure who I was. Rose pranced in layers of black lace over the thorns of her living image, and she wasn’t really buttoned, in case the Ivy League Elite from TRÆVIX wouldn’t know.
Malo was here, in her famed costume, attended by two new auburn long-haired elves, cross legged on a pillow, beating the hangpans in the same invisible outfit while she played a conventionnal cello sideways like a guitar and the ethereal telepaths, and Sofia, all slinky under the frizzy gold mane, ready to fly. For the time being, their show was of kisses and handplays in a bubble of bliss.
Delff must have done handstands to convince Michelle to transport her court to her associate’s salon, she knew the Aviatrix relished to see her walk on her hands for a cause. She wore a slim white crepe collarless pant suit stitched i gold with a hawk in the back, an easy excuse fotr Sarah to grab hold of her and steal a proper deep kiss, not an easy feat with the elfin Master of the wires. I knew there had existed tender mysteries behind the red sofa.
Dagmar, Gwen, Trine and all the suave boarders at TRÆVIX, styled by our undisputable Gianni, smelled of a Miyazaki spring time in their light, finely ironed, white, layered linon déshabillés. Only Apolline and Elvire wore puffy underpants in case one would ignore their secret.
Lauritz had rallied the flock of the island sparrows, Dorothy, Coline, Carine, Carmen, Daphne, and probably one or two cunning queue-jumpers. He came to me and inquired about his aquisitions. I waved towards the gentle throng they were causing, having shed their glitter fineries. He wore a black silk houndstooth grosgrain tuxedo and a band collar titanium grey shantung shirt, and I knew how to make him stiff inside his trousers. I promised I would scheme that he shag any of the twins before they go to sleep, but I warned that Camille was head over heels already and she would bid heavily to keep them. Which wouldn’t forbid him to lay them on occasion. He smirked, and suddenly grabbed the hand of one of the sparrows he did not recon, a dirty blond bob on a slender neck, a black leather biker and miniskirt, black mesh tights and black ankle boots. He was aroused catching a cheater, and she was worth a detour, under a straight fringe. She sported wide marsh-green eyes in a pale narrow face, and she wore naught in her jacket, which electrocuted my chakras. She shied away but he kept clutching her wrist. I stood up and reached for a nipple, asking for her name in French. She answered: Desirée;, like she had made that up, but I noded, and though she was ready to go, prideful, I kept my hands on her breasts and told her she would make a killing around here, if she started with telling me her legend.
I could see Lauritz was on edge for this godsent wayfarer the harlotees had probably flushed up on the quays and Udo had deemed her a worthy slag and sent to her health check before selling her to the connoisseurs, with a hunch Lauritz would crave her narrow hips. She was barely eighteen and came from the same blue-collar whereabouts as myself, the upstream shores of Vitry, shy of the incinerator. Raised by care attendants parents from Moldova, she had benefited of faultless social structures, thrived at school, and fostered a passion for gymnastics and dance, until a vicious coach with political clout put her in his cross-hairs. At sixteen she had run away and ended up as the bitch of a biker gang.
At the slightest opportunity, she had followed a well-dressed middle-aged man who had assaulted her in a café toilet with manners. Her main angst was that she must smell bad. He had led her through the back alley and into a taxi to a tower in the new west. Assured that she agreed to his heavy petting, he had taken her to a chic corner studio flat, denuded her at once and filled a bath with foamy scents. Joining her, nicely erect, he had preened every nook of her, wiped off the cracked varnish on her nails, and shaved her pubis sleek.
Once dry, in the dusk light, he had told her to spread her legs open on the couch under the big windows circling the room, and fetched a plastic pouch of white powder and a tightly rolled dollar bill. She had done coke before with the bikers, but then she had met the higher gods, and shagged till she swooned. In the morning, she lay in a lush fur bed. She went to the loo and then looked for her knickers and shirt, but all her belongings had vanished, and the door was locked and soundproofed. She was captive, nude, in full daylight at the seventeenth floor.
She had lived the harem life, at her abductor’s disposal. He was a prim sinewy character, most always erect, generous with his kind of coke, furious whe I had not hoovered. He taught me to shag, let be buggered, swallow semen thoroughly. she thinked he was some doctor, by the smell she knew from her parents on his shirt, sometimes. He made her thin, he was enthralled. It all ended one morning, when she suddenly saw the window cleaner outside, at first much amused, to whom she wrote her situation upon a tissue, and let him take an eyeful of her while he called the building managment and uploaded them a video of me.
He was arrested. There was no missing person appeal about her, she had texted her mother now and then, and her father was depressed and drank. The police who freed her paid more attention to her now oversize jeans than her age. They gave her the money they had found along with her ID in her captor’s pocket. She walked randomly upstream, stopped in a McDonald where she ate donuts and coffee while he phone was charging. Eventually, it was Daphne who hit on her, down on the quay and invited her to their cote. She was no babe in the woods, mind you, but neither a proper prostitute as all of them, and she was underage.
Udo wanted to meet her on the quay, and took her to a small quaint flat he owned, to relish a taste of her, with artful manners. She remained there almost a year, groomed to prostitution and sold to chosen patrons who smelled of pricey Cologne. She oned a key, but they came with one. She saw a serious doctor every fortnight who also took advantage of her. She made enough money to buy clothes downstairs in trendy shops, although she didn’t care for other than jeans. Daphne took her to les Halles to buy her leather jacket like Sarah had done for me, once. Lauritz’s sparrows visited her for long lunches, they brought delights from Berthillon. It happened that some Udo’s envoy found them in interresting posture, and it never was a matter.
Came the time when she could advertise her candid quim in the resplendent salon at Speck’s and pile up banknotes. Udo did her a long, fervent sodomy on his fetish little desk, and gave her a thorough perfumed enema, bidding she would need it.
Now, Camille’s oasis of all beige velvets was peopled with a most decorative Arcadian cast and the impassible extras had brought in elegant coat racks. Our friendly watchdogs and the lyric steppenwolves that had been rounded up to service our graces didn’t flinch long to shed their best attires, and swaggered around for those novelties they had not shagged yet. The Corfu sisters showed their long mastery of harlotry and aimed at the straight-gaze alpha males in scenes worthy of Bruno Schulz. I bantered they were worth every penny of their ransom, and Lauritz was already licking Desirée’s toes anyhow.
Carmen waved at me low, slightly nodding at whom she was cuddling, partly wrapped in a soft-blue scarf. It was a mid-length curly hairdo on a dainty white body frame, and slender inviting feet. Now that Desiree followed course with her de facto sponsor, and Daphne had let a frisky cavalier rolick between her thighs, I crept to that bait of sneaking fetish fantasy feet before Sarah saw them. Their owner jolted, but my hand was already snaking under the silk upon the tiny down of her tapered leg. Incidentally, Carmen’s sweetheart was quietly nude, and the profile I saw was most enticing, although one should beware of partial views. But Carmen’s taste was unerring, and when her shy pet wanted a glance of who was unabashedly roaming her holy brook, I was instantly dumbstruck by periwinkle eyes rimmed in thick black lashes and brows. And the mouth turned me a shy smirk, in a perfect libertinage token. Carmen said softly her name was Perinne, and she had been brought to Speck’s by Udo on her eighteenth birthday, having been perfectly vetted, to play a well-rewarded part —after one last turn upon the little office desk.
She tasted of stale mineral water I had been drinking in my father’s café, but soon she gushed pure girl’s jizz I lapped clean. Another one of Udo’s picked tenants. She had fled from the northern borders, where her Italian lineage had all died of the black lungs before the carnage had stopped. She had always caught everyone’s eye with her beauty and wasn’t allowed to play in the street of the dark brick tenement they dwelt in, as if there wouldn’t be worse evil at home. She had always seen her father unemployed and drunk with cardboard-gallon wine, his hands in her knickers or her elder sisters’. Some evenings, his mates and he would play heated belote, and then she was forced to attend in her flannel pyjamas. She had been a lanky brat, but her stinky, drunkard dad couldn’t resist when she pushed him from the top of the stairs, aged thirteen. He had begun demanding more than groping her. He had died upon the cement landing, skull cracked open. She went to live with her eldest sister, who had married at sixteen and sold drugs in her miner’s cottage to make a living, with her blond, Flemish, no-good husband. She persisted attending high school and volunteer all available activities, but there was no boarding, and her brother in law began fiddling with the idea of selling her in the back alley. First, he invited his best mates for a defloration party after they forced her to gulp shots of hard liquor. She woke up on the back seat of her sister’s dickey car, wrapped in a distressed bathrobe with a towel between her legs. They drove to Noyon, where her sister knew a doctor. At first, he was a kind man; he tentatively examined her and found no fatal damage, only the riddance of what Perinne’s father had not breached. He provided a salve and let my sister apply it.
Next morning, the housemaid told us there was fresh coffee for us in the kitchen, and fresh bread with butter. The doctor came in a spotless white coat and he offered Perrine to stay. He was divorced and had no children. And so she lived the life of a well-off kid, unfettered up to high school and A levels. Until the roof fell off once more. It had begun with funny smells about her privates, so much so she bought some spy camera which recorded greenish images of the doctor, nude, carefully raping her in her bed. It wasn’t painful, she had endured worse, and he was all the more attentionnate with her. She let go, she wanted to succeed her A levels, and watched him use her with her legs high-up. One of her class mates was obsessed with her, more than many others. She had schemed to take her to Paris where her godmother lived in the chic Marais quarter. That girl was sweet, she let her wander into her jeans. One night, after avoiding the juice she suspected, she let a letter on her opened bed, along with a flashcard with some of the green videos, telling her rapist that she kept all elements to sue him if he did not let go.
Sylvie, the godmother, ran a special lingerie shop in a quaint little street. She had instantly a huge crush on Perrine, and relished that her goddaughter slept with her. She had a mansarde with an ensuite for them. She showed them around in reputed eateries, Perinne was a sensation, Debbie made sure people knew she was hers. Sylvie offered a serious sum for them to pose for a catalogue of her wares. It was mostly leather harnesses for kinky sex, and they looked wonder on Perinne’s butt. It became a success per se, Sylvie was a gifted photographer.
Perinne was attending college at Paris III, near the Paris Mosque, but one fine day, she met Udo on the quay while she read Shakespeare in the winter sun, wrapped in a black wool houpelande, black leggings and ankle boots. He offered a hot cocoa at Bertillon’s and wooed her all the way up to his jailbaits’s perch. She had become weary of Debbie’s passion, she accepted Udo’s offer, only time to gather the cusp of her most precious things. Debbie understood her move, she called her a bitch longing for dick, but she remained a friend on facebook.
After a period of time when Udo convined her she was a gifted lovemaker, he gradually enlighted her on his activies, and, during the moments when she lay offered on her bed to all his want, he convinced her to try and let sell herself safely for price of her freedom and ease. Once the culprits began sneaking in, while she studied, half naked, in the perfect armchair Udo had gifted her, she began to feel rich and settled, and his patrons weren’t difficult to allay, whatsoever.
She wouldn’t know if Carmen had been spearheaded to convince her to bring her at Speck’s, but she described the routine as pleasurable, as long as they had the glimmer of youth to offer, but two or three tricks a day wouldn’t wreck them, would it?
Carmen avowed that Udo had paid her to woo Desiree, he knew she craved reading on the quay, and she wouldn’t scorn a pretty girl who let her haphazardly see her knickers, would she? They even liked being caught by a client in the middle of an embrace.

The merrymaking went ever so smoothly hither and thither, and the dyed-in-the-wool libertines had found themselves. I even dared slide a hand under the hangpan of one of the lovely players I couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t let go at a moment or another, and I was overjoyed to feel she was wet, and no knickers. She looked at me, but she did not relent her soft beating on the metal. She was amused when, crouched on all fours to touch her, someone took advantage to finger my arse with some lube, and I could not shy him off under the nose of my pretty prey, who sounded in tempo with the humping in my loins by a boy in a hurry, which soon granted me no more than a spoonful of haste.
So much for a visit to the Sienna-marble-clad bathroom, but on the way back, I was moved by the familiar scene of Sarah, swaying her hips for Camille’s unmistakably endearing new samovar maid, in a shady recess, though her black outfit under the white apron, amidst the carnival of candid nudities, left all to the imagination. But one, the suavity of a kittenish face with Irish green eyes, and two, the slenderness of her silhouette combined with what we knew of Camille’s well known tastes, made me want to beg for a cup of Russian blend and purr to her sweet stuttering.
She was called Gaelle, she had come to Paris ith a truckload of artichokes, from Etel, near Lorient, in Brittany, after a hair-pulling tragedy that ended in an abortion after a summer fling with a sunkissed blond dutch boy who had vaporised in his parents’ car and the september light. Uneducated, a minor, some erring star had placed her as a servant with a neighbour of Camille’s, spotted out by Fanny, and, after some spying work, put Camille, all eyes, on Gaelle’s way to the Luxembourg, where she saw no evil to Camille’s propositions, far higher than a mere servant position, for she had sussed the girl wasn’t a simple dope. After a few trysts in Camille’s grand bedroom, the girl had resigned her job and endured some bitter comments from her previous boss, and had been instated as Camille’s new pet, and groomed to the nines at her beauty salon. Now, the mistress wanted to see her properly shagged and had planted her as the traditional tea attendant, and tipped off her long time acomplice Sarah to feed her to the wolves, in her company.
All this, after the other confessions I just heard, piqued my instincts, so I snaked behind the young Breton babe, who smelled of a mere fresh Cologne drizzle, obviously chosen by Camille, and which kept us on edge. I spoke in her neck and stealthily palmed her buttocks. She mumbled that Camille, whom she called Mademoiselle in a breath, had warned her we would besiege her, and that she relished that. At her demand, there was naught under the fine jersey of the black sheath dress. I pulled her to the small grey and blue bedroom nearby, doubtlessly where Camille had set her cameras, and Sarah and I slid the dress up over her head before pushing he unto the bed as lightly as we could. It wasn’t only artfully made if she felt so smooth, she was blessed with the smoothest skin and her traits designed to perfection from her curls to the toes Sarah gnawed. In the bluish dark afar from the hustle, she lay like in a moment of Leonardo fever.
She wasn’t mean of caresses, Camille had taught her to share a body she had been training like a dancer, but we strewed her nerves about like lewd wolves and she cried for mercy. Then, Matthew who must have been tipped off, surreptitiously joined us in a whiff of male musk. He was no carnal stranger to Sarah or me, even perhaps to Desiree we had left panting. Although he had been raised in a bottle of testosterone and sported an impressive neck, we knew first hand he would be a grace to look at him holding back his shots at the dainty doe. he crept aside her, pushing me behind his back.
Matthew is a chivalrous mate who cares for a woman’s needs all the more when they pertain to his boss’ household. Demure Gaelle threw her arms each side over our heads and began wriggling her hips under the champion”s touch, in much the same unbound indecency as any of us, and we helped holding her thighs apart in the air. On the opposite wall, a feminine ghost by Toyen blinked in its silver frame. Left to us to lick clean the outpour of the galliard, and the unassuming servant was just another naked libertine to hustle, with manners, for any of the rogue artists or lawyers who still gallivanted about the oasis.
Natalia had brought a soulful cinnamon gleam protégée she kept at arms reach like her faun in the clearing, so many leers had poured down Buin’s willowy spine upon her heart-shaped buttocks she couldn’t hide. Her lecherous scheme was to nestle the almond-eyed nymphet in Camille’s bosom, and that is what she had succeeded with her seamless manners. And so the Lady of the House had vanished, and Natalia wooed a Harvard laureate with a soft blond crewcut and muscular shoulders.

Melchior and Hugo made their appearance along with Liselotte and a couple of black-clad hunks when debauchery had loosened all ends. I was beckoned closer, although I was, anew, chasing for dick. The patriarch, in a long black textured silk cape, had an eye for me; he had said I was the most valuable of Lauritz’s assets, and he glided his manicured fingers in my happy crease. Many of the guests, whatever they were currently taking part in, had noticed the eerie character who sat along with Liselotte and Hugo, they knew full well, to whom I was offhandedly lending my intimacy to pet.
Hugo would always indulge a near-incestuous bend for Natalia, who had so freely thrived in the core of his made-up viscountcy. She knew by heart what he craved, and so, in concert, we eased Their Infinite Indulgence’s most precious to free air and played of the tongue, until Desiree was called on, and so I bowed out.
Melchior’s security detail was always reputable for its wide range of efficiency, from holding doors to cajoling anyone who asked. This one I had let bustle me before, I didn’t remember where, which gave him nerve to itemise me from toes to navel. Given the general laisser-aller, as I lay on the comfortable carpet, I just had to pose a little more slutty to lure him further apart and stand to my orders. He wore black silk crepe, tailored pleated trousers with a gator belt. I sat up on my heels to free a thick staff I remembered well. In a wink, he stood in his socks as I pumped him while the extra tidied his duds on a hanger. He wouldn’t pretend to drill my throat, I know my act and he was pleasantly aroused so to gush without asking. He didn’t treat me as a slag, he knew better, and he proved it to my long-trained twinkle. He smelled of warm vanila neroli, overt and expensive. He kissed like an artist and he slid in deep making me squeal like an otter.

 

Sarah says:

On top of introducing us to these two nigh jailbaits, from Fanny’s old shores —that Camille was close to die for— the Island sparrows had uncloseted their seasonal foundlings with hair-rising stories, all in street French. I wasn’t fully confident that Udo’s edgy hunting plot be airtight legit, but the game, now sharply vetted, looked fully alive and spotless, on dry land. Sheva asked me who was that cinnamon pixie sitting next to Hugo and Natalia. All I knew was to trust Natalia, who had brought back the walking gem from an Andalusian escapade.
The rolling beat of the hanghang drums and the scansion of Malo’s rêverie had charmed the telepaths like snakes on a Jaipur terrace. Josephine wore an opal belly chain, and Emeline gold-charm anklets. The crowd of rakes had made some space near the musicians, contrary to their usual routines, the dancers did not cast ample gestures, but twiddled some sort of expressionist duo, which triggered Sofia to stand up and respond with surprising grace, causing a flurry of enthused lazzis, before they reached a gracious solution, giving Malo’s young helpmeets a manner to stand in their natural spark as they tiptoed towards the buffet table.
I had no idea who they might be, amidst the throng of suave libertines, but I was enthralled with that firm little butt I cuddled unabashely. She smelled of Nosy Be and she was wet like a dream. Sofia joined us, a crawling Cossack was licking the goddess’ feet. She and her sister, Swiss from had met Malo last winter in Goa where they had followed a cousin who was a barman in a posh hotel there. Christophine and Liesl were Swiss, from Rorschach where their family ran a castle-hotel, and they played their weird Swiss native instruments as two blond, counter-exotic, blue-eyed, fair-sknned sylphids. It had taken them long to allow themselves to play along with Malo in the same lack of attire as her, but eventually Goa was light-years from Lake Constance, and Malo, who was smitten with both, prevailed, and the trio became all the rage in the most select venues during a fruitful season. They had only just returned to Malo’s discreet haunt when Camille hired them on a whim for this improvised debutantes shower party.
As the male herds did what they do best, flaunting their taunt appendages to our unfettered longings, Fanny had gathered this bastion of exotic-speaking pixies and did not spare laughs or hand plays, to the greater greed of Camille who’s bed is boundless, and the patience untiriring when she covets someone, all the more a pair of proxy twins, isn’t it?
As of now, I knew places in the velvet labyrinth no one would have found before Christophine and I, might there be any need to hide, she had not seemed to fear the overt debauchery they had lulled at their pretty feet. Liesl was being languidly shared between a cavalty man and a steely attorney over the headrest of a transatlantic sofa, and though her mouth and coochie were overstuffed, she gave no sign of distress. I had known this cozy hideaway since the days I dwelled on and off in Camille’s bed, before Kate and I moved together above Hugo’s flat. It was used as a reserve for the gallery, also as a private salon for the clientèle of collectors, hence the commodity of a sizeable convertible sofa.
She kissed beautifully, and she was wet as the dew, but I reckoned I would be imposing myself upon her youth, even if flying to Goa to play the Hang in a decadent ballroom wasn’t exactly your average Swiss coming of age experience for barely legal teens. She was groomed to the nines, her legs laser smooth and her soles petal pink. I let myself prattle about all that her dainty person triggered in my wants, trying not to make her feel like I feasted upon her selfishly.
She wondered why I spoke Schweizerdeutsch, so I granted her a short version of my paradise memories, and made her proud of her country. As we stood tattling in the utmost impudicity, I confided of my escapades to the Zürich own house of my long time soul mate, the daughter of a heavy metal wreck, who had fled her shame from our nirvana when her tuition went unpaid. Befuddled by my endless fondling and naughty tales, Christophine mumbled she might not have the nerve to chat up strangers, even if her body was showing otherwise. I promised to teach her in one of Paris’ proper clubs.
Sheva found us under the shower and loved my playmate. She said she had just been upturned in a major manner by that Indian lawyer with a suave voice, and she needed a thorough spurt of tepid water in her guts, to what I helped my best over the toilet bowl.
Christophine was scared, we had to convince her that Sheva had not been violented, and most courtesans I knew practiced anal sex of their own will, not only to comply to Mr Donatien’s priciples of contraception. All in all, she wanted a comprehensive explanation of what she could do and let be done of her virgin secondary hole, at her convenience, or mere greed, come what may.