Cecile says:
Kate’s chosen architect for the revamp of her hotel, Wilhelm von Thann, was one of those special alums of Sarah’s from Saint Loup whom she had bumped into at Speck’s and who turned out to be such a remarkable lovemaker that she addressed him to Kate. The trio had soon evolved beyond paid libertinage, be it the kind of flavour Kate always craved. When he wisely took on the works, under Gauthier’s high-handed supervision, he established for himself a private cubbyhole not unlike my own, in which I had tested the limits of his carnal generosity, as a service I owed Kate, you may say.
Wilhelm is the poster boy of your Baltic blond, and he must have access to some rooftop solarium like the one he has already sold the idea of to Kate —to my own relish. Impossible to suspect any ulterior motive in those straightforward myosotis blue gazes, I let him guess, nonetheless, that I wore nothing under my maroon tracksuit, that after-work informal talk we had about my businesses branching out into the old stables and carriage sheds facing my curen workshop at the ground floor o Kate’s hotel, as roughly envisionned with her, already.
We needed to lay flat the human factor, and I reckoned he would revel in the laid-back disorderliness of the workshop to share some warmed pies from our unmatched Danish caterers, Agnete and Sanne, whom Kate also swore by, during their impromptu trysts —and she had been seen climbing down the stairs cantily clad to collect dinner at the entrance door, it confered a certain Regence to an otherwise gloomy venue.
Kate had already painted a flattering image of me, and I did not wish to let the bygones of my desolate life cramp my desirable present. He was actually more enthralled by my white socks than hearing me bless whatever fortunate circumstances which had built my realm as he could see it. Only I slipped the mention of my fatidic meeting with Sarah, but he knew that already.
As for him, he had been born in Lucern, to a couple of overworked physicians of the time-honoured high-society. He was an only child and impossibly spoiled by his nurses who would certainly not oppose the long curly gold mane pervert angel. He had been feared all over the quaint, antiquated little town soulfully redeemed by the world envied Festival.
At the age of seven, he could read, count, and speak in the three national languages, but no school would keep him longer than a semster, even the most expensive ones. Having craftily abused of his young private schoolmistresses, he had developped an appetite for lechery they wouldn’t even dare report to the rather repressed mother. Once, at a coffee chat in his old boys’ club, some eminent psychiatrist evoked that singular experience, after the British fad of Summerhill schools, where children of UN diplomats thrived in apparent harmony ( it happened to be the heaadmaster’s name, too.). It was set in Versoix, near Geneva, in an old estate called Saint Loup. Their psychological referent was famed Prof. Achenbach, their academic scores landed steadily in the upper middle tier.
After summer camp kayaking the Bodensee and fondling his buddies under the tents at night, he disembarked at Saint Loup in the mellow air of a Seotember day, and he knew at once hec ould cope with the shool Captain, a radiant American girl in jeans and sneakers, as well as Ms Harmony, the headmaster. Altogether, the premises were comely and breathable. He met Sarah von Kettelær, that popular, cosmopolitan Danish aristocrat who had grown mostly in New York because her dad was a UN diplomat, the works. She was older, had a room in the coed building where I wasn’t allowed, but she looked so much better than my buddies in the open showers. The estate comprised a vast park returned to agrestic chaos, with many hideouts where she taught him polyamorous happiness —most of the boarders were easily doable. In a tour they made i the nearby Lausanne Polytechnique, he was hit on by an assistant teacher so as he envisionned applying for an architecture cursus for which his gay crush tutored him in all manners, and Sarah warmly approved.
Once granted the hard-earned diploma, he reckonned that his mentor had crushed on another younger green student, and by the bye he met Gauthier at some professional bash, learned the perfect metrosexual attitude in life, joined the Hellfire club, and bought himself a black card. That is how he found himself at Speck’s, standing before Sarah von Kettelær, stark nude bar some rhinestone trinklets, ready and willing for whatever he craved.
I told him it was her who had fixed me into Lauritz’ pants —after I had worked for months restoring the Art Deco treasures of his house, which had remained closed after the great war— at a time when I would hate myself trading that part of me which had been trampled for years, even though I knew that although i dressed like a tramp, I made heads turn, for that matter, and Sarah’s to begin with.

He had done justice to my Panama coffee —a constant gift from Lauritz— and to the inspired pies by our beloved Dane couple. I had let go of my simple togs. He had fiddled with my toes under the table like a mild maniac. Playing low on our sophisticated system, Arve Henriksen made me feel gently sluttish, that Lauritz had groomed me to relish during the passionate and inventive outings with him. And while considering the current picture in treatment on the easel, a metaphysical landscape by Yves Tanguy, he had already discovered I was naked in my sweatsuit, telling me I was the typical Saint Loup kitten, had he known.
I pulled him into my cubbyhole and loosened his togs. He smelled of Acqua di Parma with a hint of his personal musk, but he suggested we shower, which I agreed to, holding his free springy staff with an urge. He said I felt like Sarah’s little sister, and amidst the lather of the soap, he buggered me standing right away like he would any boy, spurting the overflow of his tight balls while biting my ear. He was still drooling in my mouth as I was rinsing my arse out in the bowl, making fun of the assault.
He revelled in watching me spread wide over my square bed, and he rushed to munch on my carnal frills. Beyond his brusque overture, he was a true Saint Loup graduate lovemaker, and he made me proud that he liked what I tasted when I leaked. As he compared to his tryst with Sarah, I told him he would have us two together any time, the most I outbid her were these shy titties, if he cared.
He was proud he had repaid me one, and he was anew standing at attention, if I would. I moaned as he licked my whole body, from my toes to my armpits, and since I lay passive and stunned like a stuffed doll, he threaded me again, my vagina readily swollen and fruity. The old ceiling beams peopled with whitish clinking little spirits while the great white wolf ploughed my womb, like ever since Lauritz had healed my soul.
On the other shore of the soothing tide, I slid on that silk velvet robe, souvenir of a Venetian debauchery bout with Hugo, and I found my novel stud, scrolling his mail in front of a new pot of coffee. I felt all the more nude as I was wrapped in the peony-scented peignoir, at the mercy of his wandering hands. I did not baulk, but my tone had turned almost brotherly, and so it went, as I fetched into my stash of sundry cookies he had not dared rummage for. And not averse to all innuendos, the air squared back on the Goldberg clock, he assessed his full understanding of the envisioned workshop’s extension. The arrival of CYprien, who smelled of cedar wood and had caught a drizzle, freshened our babble but as on a whim, I recalled Willhelm of our dinner-time date. He kept his sangfroid but I read a glint in his gaze as he fled, not without sliding a discreet finger into my crotch.
Sarah had written she hoped to bring us a new Sami’s foundling, a stray blonde youngling with an already bustled past, despise an angelic allure. Youngest of three in a long established name in Würtemberg, Germany. At thirteen, she had been found nude, unconscious, on her bed in the Ravensburg family home, while her parents lay dead at the other end of the corridor. She had been sheltered with allied parents in Friedrichshafen, by the lake, from where she disappeared sooner than next year.
She had since offhandedly hustled among the Konstanz set, judging her curtiers cred by the price of their cars, and she could throw a panic at any naturist spot. She had grown slender an shapely, she could steal much younger brats’ jeans and let show fine ankles in white socks. She was expensive, with long sunbleached curls, honey complexion and singular golden eyes. She had appeared in Paris, with a British model scout, out of a sleeper train with fake IDs and cash in the lining of her duffle bag. In lieu of casting calls, she had found herself put up for sale in oil barons’ five stars suites, her stash stolen, coerced into forced prostitution. And thus she soon appeared on the rim of Sami’s web, and her would-be pimp found nude in the woods, his apartment emptied.
Of course, Sami had a major crush on her and made her rich in almost a month, time to see the doctors, the dentist, and a German speaking attorney to recover her true personality, leaving all the hassles to those who had maintained the amily name.
Sarah, who had visibly taken her to bed that night, introduce her as Franziska von Alsing (berg), she wore an oversize Paul Klee style Harlequin fleece tracksuit they had dug up from the vestiary, probably left behind by a one-night stand jokey —what had he worn,leaving? Odd teal and pink chucks, she was Sarah’s size but it looked bigger on her.
Sarah had brought fruit cake, and she brewed tea, I made a pot of blue mountain which triggered Franziska’s smile to me; I was eager to see her togs fall, and Sarah knew it. I loved her tone when she talked German to recount what we expected from her.

I sported that still anonymous and unique demiparure of a choker and a bracelet, with oval purple spinels, sleekly mounted in palladium, a gift of Hugo’s —which incidentally had impressed Lauritz and all my best troupe of lovers— who had found it inside a sealed chagrin skin trunk he had won at some exclusive auction in London.
Whereas one hand was hitching my silks over my belly, unscrupulously as to the chauffeur, who kept that conniving smirk, Wilhelm was captivated by the design of my uncommon adornments that I must own I had at once felt deeply as mine. He smelled of Neapolitan passion, the travel was comely short, across the Seine and beyond the Trocadero to one of these Gilded Age promenade avenues, and an eclectic grandeur bourgeois apartment fortress, with one of those hydraulic column lifts to the third floor, all in a flurry of coloured faux marbles.
The doorbell sounded like a stray lamb’s jingle bell afar in the forest, while we kissed on the landing. A slender Asian man in a maroon and bronze slant wide striped vest made me fancy about nightly Flander shutters. The adept butler deftly picked up the long-fringed Burgundy shawl I had thrown upon my shoulders and left us in the inviting scent of that “Papier d’Arménie” my mother had used in our upstairs flat, to fight against the stuffy stench of our bistro —as for me, I had an air vent in my shack. There also hovered the scent of Lebanese Hash I had encountered a few times before.
So, there we stood on our own amidst a hushed orgy in a most classical French dwelling, untill a tall blond girl merely clad in a lace-trimmed apron approached us asking if we would care for a drink, adding lower all would be bottled and capped to avoid sleazy poisonous shenanigans. Her gaze and attitude led me to fondle her buttocks, so she said this was her pleasure, too. She suggested we might consider to unclothe, too, and her hand knew already the nought I was wearing under my eerie costume. She showed us to the vestiary, explaining we keep the key to our locker at our wrist. At her accent, I guessed she must have been some eastern slavic having fled Putin’s hell. Once I stood naked, she unleashed a swarm of kisses and tickles over me, while Wilhelm made his way into her bumhole. I wasn’t yet fully persuaded that the glorious latex-free sexual bonanza boomers ranted about was back with us, but my black card was up to date and I believec in science, and, at any rate, Wilhelm was, too, obviously. Before she went get our drinks, Eva told me they all did that, didn’t they? But she avise I leave my jewels in a concealed hideaway., that stealth pocket in the armpit’s seam Sarah had shown me about. We followed her to the altogether plainly oversized bathroom, thus telling of the venue’s current destination. Amidst the steamy buzz, I was frankly fondled all over by many unknown before a langourous-eyed slinky creature enlaced me and pissed down my thighs just like Sarah had taught me. My cavalier reckoned i was no babe in the wood, moreover when some firm-handed chancer seized me from behind with the obvious intention to shag me standing, making me recline in his neck as he was deft-mannered and his penis covered in slippery lather.
Will said all my friends had told him I was more of an easy lay than I looked, and he was proudly erect, so I teased him to follow my act among the elegant livestock cruising by. At one en of the enfilade of salons, a rotunda room overlooked a corner of the house, with a spacious low round sofa strewn with sundry nonchalant nudities in various glimmers of bliss, not all so simply natural, judging by the chemical paraphernalia displayed on Morrocan copper trays and coloured glass bombonnières. Since my years in Art School, I had experienced most drugs, not always fruitfully, and I knew I needed a nanny enjoy myself with that, beyond cannabis and cocain.
Anyhow, some sinewy black hunk was already grabbing my leg to make me capsize next to him down into the velvety corolla, and Will dived between the thighs of a pale redheaded dancer. Five tall French windows mid height sand-etched merely let see a few artsy zinc pinnacles against the gloomy city glow, a thin moon crescent peeped on our debauchery. On the walls ran a vegetal flurry in tone down colours, behind a profusion of papier mâché exotic greenery and amused plush monkeys. All this circus was paainstakingly soulful, some young gawpers whom I enticed to near my fondling hands; they hardly believed I enjoyed such a stark truncheon so deep in my bumhole and not whine or cry; at the tips of my fingers, I could feel it would take some training to let open these tiny hatches of theirs. My bugger was overthrilled when I sweet-talked that slinky jailbait to climb the backrest and offer her cache of carnal treasures to my famish tongue, and she found herself properly stretched by a man’s fully stilff licker. I dared her to pick a taste at my overflowing arse.