3 – Katherine Sophie – Perfect Fifths

©Sarah von Ketteler - Plexus
Sarah von Ketteler – Plexus ©katherine sophie

Hugo says:

Camille wanted to stop at her place near the Luxembourg park, my two antelopes were gently moony on the back seat of the rented car amongst their many luggage. The  driver smiled when I tried to wake them from my front seat. They had to collect the precious cargo to the house hall where Lena the caretaker helped carry it upstairs.

They joined me in the kitchen where we drank Ferrarelle waiting for sushis. We did not care to take the rolls out of the glossy black boxes, we picked like storks. The house had been cleaned and polished and smelled of roses and wood. I felt some new bonding between the girls and refrained my attitude to watch it happen with eyes, hands, shoulders, there even was a very simple kiss.

Katherine came to sit on my lap and told me how she was grateful for the trip and all that she enumerated to Sarah’s amusement. I touched her adored skin under the shirt and let her head rest in my neck. Sarah said we were appealing, we all wanted our bed.


Sarah says:

On an eye signal by Hugo, I pull her gently towards the bathroom and undress her with method, strip down myself and hold her under the shower with puppy bites wherever I can reach. Mutual shampoo gives an astringent taste to kisses while many fingers chase the traces of the day all over the magic land of skin. The hot water is endless, we take time for the loofah thrill, the razor and the nail clipper, then it’s time for a generous serving of soothing baby milk and patiently drying her hair in the scent of geranium-orange. She lays face down on the fresh bed and lazily plays with my crotch as I spread her strands around in the warm air. My own locks are easily dried through her fingers while I try to make her succumb to enjoyment. Nosing each other all over across the lavender linen we drown holding together in the whirl  of slumbers, my mouth still kissing her ear.


Katherine says:

In my dream, a little girl plays a diamantine little Bach fugue on a concert grand piano. My father is sitting on a gilded chair, in a black suit, with a handkerchief over his face and a small dog on his lap. I can’t see the girl’s face but I recognise a satchel under the stool and it’s mine. My mother arrives pushing a baby stroller, I run to her as I want to climb into the pram, but it crumbles in my hands into a flurry of toilet paper that soon fill my mouth and choke me.

As I wake up, I realize Sarah’s shirt stifles me as I have been sliding under her arm. I jump back shaking my head and she moans. I throw the sheet away and watch her, pointing her arrogant little round butt to me.  From her slim feet to her boyish head she sprawls in a secret province where my fingers dance so lightly she will not even wake up.

She is the one who will hold my head like a casket of gems, a tureen full of birds, a basket full of eggs, a poem of my whims, heavenly or deadly. This morning she smells like a riverside childhood, as I leave our enchanted bed I kiss her feet and pull back the sheet over her up to the nape.

In the kitchen, I can’t decide between coffee and tea, the generous motherly smell of arabica or the intimate ceremony of Darjeeling leaves. I put on a sweatshirt and tights, grab a bag and rusk to the bakery for fresh croissants and to the newsstand for some magazines. Back to the nest I make coffee because now I need to dip the croissants. Opening the window I note the sound of Bach somewhere and I remember the girl wore a grey gown but no shoes on the piano pedals.

Inevitably, a rumpled and tousled Sarah appears as soon as the coffee scent has spread in the apartment and catches my head on her warm vale as my magazine falls. We stay embraced
for a minute then i sing to her belly a silly rhyme on one of the Bach lines, sailor, sailor wants to fuck, open your creepy little ass, she bursts and presses her tongue in my mouth while she twists my tits.

She comes sit on me as we dip and drink from the same bowl and read the same magazine and we rub our heads against each other for shivers.


Sarah says:

After a short warm-up in the gym room and a duckling fight in the shower, we donned jeans and shirts and climbed to the studio with our Venetian booty of books and paper. It was clean and tidy, with boxes and bags on the tables and around. First we made some more coffee and she put on The Well-Tempered Clavier she had taken from Hugo’s collection.

We sit across that huge heavy table, the day is bright and one wall is splashed with light, I pull a white veil across the sunlight. No sooner a critical issue raises, inasmuch we both are right-handed albeit there is one window, hence we swivel the table a tad and roll the chairs on the same side. No wonder our concentration capacity is in danger, but we have seen through this.  At worse, there would be room for two tables.  As we cogitate architecture, I lay my feet on her lap and she grinds my toes in her lively hands.

There are easels along one wall and floor lamps but not seats for anyone else except at out feet, it will require some conspiracy to obtain comfortable installations, no doubt we can do.

As she was reviewing the notes she had jolted on the Venetian books, I fetched my pad and opened my mail. Apart from all the messages that went straight to the spam box, there was a small poem from Hugo

Lilac and bees know not sleep nor sorrow in the newfound garden of your silent sheets. Music to my eyes and wind in the dream you run as I suckle your toes and your lover soughs a lace of colours on your temple. Languages have flown with the brood and the flags again gesticulate in despair while our kisses shutter the fields of dawn in a spiral of never ending chemistries. I want to die on the pearly rainbow inside the heart of hearts, let the echoes roll to the end of your words.

By the time it was sent we can tell the author hasn’t slept long. Katherine has received it too and reads it slowly for me so softly so I need her smell and I dive for it.

then  some news from Gauthier, who expresses his passion for our recent games and says he will be in Paris four days later and wishes we could be together again.

She has cancelled all presence on the web since the last days of Berlin, I feel she might  quietly start a new life in the networks now, after a good formatting of her laptop, or even from a new pad. We discuss the technicalities but she shows no enthusiasm, She begs me to keep playing  proxy for her in that realm, her eyes straight into mine but focussed on her faraway fears. She drops her pen and comes to me, kneels down and pushes her head in my crotch, breathing deeply, warming me as I hold her tight between my opened thighs. She doesn’t cry, she now pulls me up and takes a firm kiss on my willing mouth, dancing on Richter’s spell. Then we start mumbling in each other’s neck and finally laugh and put the coffee machine to work.


Sarah says:

We opened the considerable catalogues we had brought from the Biennale and soon we rummaged through the articles and images as we had done for years, only now I could not help groping her like a squirrel on a tree.

Sssh, she said, letting me do, and we read for a moment, aloud, in turns. When I reached her waist button, she called me slut in German with her childhood Hamburg accent to what I told her she was a Frenchman’s bitch and ripped her of her pants. She pulled me on the table and disrobed me in a matter of seconds. I excited her with schoolyard dirty talk and she played serious, giving an imitation of her father speaking like a butcher while biting my thighs and fig with foolish rage.

Back to reason, we invade the catalogues with each our post-it notes, she scribbles quantities of notes in her notebooks. I’m obsessed with her butt and I write on the cheeks a delirium she can’t read. When the sun has turned we draw the veil off and we celebrate the powdered sunlight on the Paris roofs with the Louvre afar. I tell her many times how deeply I love her, that I can’t think of any project she would not be acquainted to. She asks me not to make her cry, grabs my hands behind my back and make me surrender. She mutters I will scare her guts if I need her so

Small quick knocks at the door and Camille comes in with faint cries of admiration, she jumps on us two with murmurs of indulgence and finds herself stripped according to the current rule.  Her fragrance of wisteria, lime tree and amber fills the room, her opulent hair is a deluge of sensations on my breast as she lays me down on the scattered books. The other tall bird again takes advantage of my feet. When she’s had her satisfaction, she asks if we have been working and rummages amongst our papers with signs of approval, she burst in laughters when she sees Katherine butt cheeks covered in writing! We end in the running water with the disorderly application of feline care, no gentle cove left unexplored. After the blessing of thick tuft we gleam like glorious children, we run to our apartment to dress and give our faces a tad more sinful allure.


Hugo says:

They have sprung up like a stream on moss, splashing little drops of joy all over my palace. My precious Berliner antelope right away showed me her behind written over with arty sentences and lewd appreciations, I had to sit down but took a bite on it.

I had ordered dinner, in their short dresses they unpack, warm prepare and draw up, then we display a Baudelairian cacophony of porcelains, crystal and ancient silver all carefully mismatched. Katherine lights up the candles with a disarming gravity while I crave for her graffiti ass.

James arrives with a large portfolio and tell the youth there will be good paper to waste. He gets kisses on the cheeks and tells each perfume with implied flattery. We sit around the table and tell our day up to the point he has to fetch his glasses to read the caboose oracle by himself and arranges to be granted freedom of a little grazing, at the pretended outcry of the table. She hides her living archive and laughs it would not go in the shower so Sarah will have to lick it off, everybody offers some help at that.

The Coulibiac is a princely miracle, Camille has poured the clarified butter in the little paper funnels. A Meursault giggles on the papillas as I contemplate my dreamy tramp in the rich light. Sarah and Camille bring a “suite baroque” of desserts on a large silver tray while we change the plates for Murano glass and I open an old château Pernaud that reminds me of my father. Spirits are high, the pastry girls lick each other’s fingers and James watches in awe.

Then I see in her eyes the fog rising and her face lose any liveliness, I stand and reach quietly for her hands, draw her to a silk couch she knows well, kneels down and press her silently, giving a small sign to the others not to pay attention. Espying the grip of liquor into the filigree of her parched plexus, I tempt to untie her hands’ nerves and feel the angst loosen its grasp. Eyes closed, she lets me spread her wings and knead her dread like heavenly dough till I read more serene shades on her candid face.

In an awful German speaking who always made her tender, I tell her to cry on me, which she does, abundantly, making the two sisters hasten to her, helping the crisis with a feather-light devotion. She unburdens her soul without restraint and I selfishly rejoice she did not move away from my arms. Now we need the tissues, her eyes capsize in the flow, I kiss her forehead, Sarah sneaks in to drink her tears, she reaches for her mouth and mine, she kisses her life back, she quivers and recovers her breath and, damned, I’m aroused!

Blooming again in the full youth of redemption, her soul will remain unguarded when faced with the venom side of alcohol; the cure has untangled the reason from the prickles of remorse but also rinsed and bared out the chemistry of exhilaration. Incidentally she kept a slight but fierce addiction to a very common anxiolytic drug but, now on, after the Berlin lunacy, will have to keep aware of consciousness back firings, which seemingly spare her lewd penchants blossoming on clear water.

Has she sensed her own echoes in the rhapsodies of the Corderia? She acted struck on her course and since then glints have loomed up like fireflies around her adulated head.


Camille says:

We should know, this was coming, she twirls in her emotions and snaps like a baby. Perhaps these are happy tears as long as she can find us to cry on.  when her sobs eased off she wants long deep kisses from Hugo and sways on him with a deliciously indecent energy, opens her thighs and reaches for his cock as we are all interested in the show.

Aroused, Sarah slides a hand to my crotch and starts to play, she’s intense and willowy, I always admired her hands and feet and her nape under the short hair, I want her to hold me as she firmly does. Releasing the tension of the dinner, she throws herself onto my skin and disrobes me with a beautiful know-how (she will be a skilled craftswoman of her own design once she finds her choices). For now, I have found her ass and love it, I want to make her moan with my tongue.

James is puzzled first, he leans and caresses my hair, then ventures on Sarah’s coy breasts and finally falls down on her mouth and kisses her until she throws a hand back to his fly. In no time he is in the raw. On the most precious silk Ottoman,  Hugo, his clothes scattered, is fucking the fairy queen in a grand figure of abandon, legs and arms thrown apart, her eyelids still swollen and pink. Sarah is indefatigable, she reaches my joy more than once then James wants a piece of our turmoil and puts his flute on my lips, presuming I know how to play, he’s not long before he cums in my throat and I respectfully swallow the outcome. Thankful, he kisses me and tastes his own taste on my tongue. She too comes back to my face and tells me I smell like a whore, i clutch her hands behind her rump with a napkin and tell James to hold her legs apart, which he does only to suck her feet and toes, I ruthlessly campaign around her firm belly, under her arms where she cries grace, and back to her ridiculously small nest of shivering urges and the arrogant little pearl to achieve the abolition of her will in a long thrill out of my invincible caress.

Katherine is back with us in the recovered calm, Hugo plays on the system an untied nordic plaint with a foggy trumpet and a flock of seagulls, we snuggle in each other and the two old friends cuddle our beautiful bodies.


Katherine says:

Fate’s white arse has hit my face again out of the blue, it would seem, only tonight I fell in many caring hands. Wine still tastes as love’s happy tears but soon freezes over my startled mind like the winter mist at dawn. I slide like a rag puppet down to a windy junkyard full of ripped books and withered clothes and flowers, paralysed in the cold waiting for the rats to ravage my innards Any sense of my own misery I mock like the little girl on the high bridge spits on the passing cars. That scarf I bought on the morning I fled the white bed of the hospital and I tested like an idiot if it would support my weight. That smell of petrol and fluorescent ghosts seizing my body as deftly as the butcher boning a carcass with a smile in the light air of the Wattenmeer. Obscene exhibitions in the clouds across the thin skies as I shudder when the needle finds a waiting vein in my strapped arm and my soul flutters like linen on strings in Frau Hansen’s yard as a walloping orgasm erases me from myself.

Liquor wisdom etches an easy pattern in the pane of the revolving soul, as do other psychotropes, for wonderment or deception. Before I probably died, I mixed more than I could remember on top of booze, Nirvana style. Hugo loved it when I rolled up high as ghost on his lecherous scenes and asked me to wear his collections; he could have ripped me inside out any time but he proffered an endless respect even when he touched up some drops of hellish dew with a pad on my vacant face or my pouting lily.

I knew Von K. wallowed in cloudy waters, too, and her narrow hips waded into frenzied frays other than Camille’s satins and silks; they wanted me and lurked with suggestive poses, witty wordplays and troubling attentions enshrouded in the compelling magic of her tranquil blue gaze over the course of all events. Victor rampaged my soul, then, in the sleek sty where his mean prick required my bitter mouth rather than my womb while he snorted enough snow for a Xmas tree.

Sarah merely lowered her eyes when I fetched strong drinks, typically she jostled me hopelessly and ventured a sly hand on my jeans but then took off with the kind of crew Gauthier cruised with.

Nonetheless I still kept rather fresh and never reached the innermost damage of drinking at dawn other than aspirin, I liked Sarah and her scrawny little visage, her gracile and deft figure; I always craved her hands and feet and fantasized about them in an unsullied Neverland, albeit most of me is an easy sluttish harlot and the mix of V and vodka stretched my comprehension beyond all restraint in the private plushy shades my physique drew me in, lured by Ann who probably pimped me to high-flyers for dope.

Berlin had been the obvious playground for my useless skin, my father let me the apartment in Kreuzberg where Ann dared not fully operate because of Simon’s visits, and I had enough regular money to float, until the reaper showed me his grim arse up so close.


Camille says:

We did not re-shuffle the pairs after James went, Sarah took me to the girl’s bed and fell asleep with her muzzle in my bosom, I softly ruffled her boyish curls and vanished in a golden whirl.

Coffee smell drew me from a scene on a white vaporetto where a herd of excited schoolgirls sang such a beautiful song in a sparkling mist, I had to tie the knot to the landing pontoon, but the rope refused and writhed like a snake and then I was holding her fine wrist and she kissed my lips.

Katherine popped in all pampered and wearing an intricately knit multicoloured  jersey we touched in and out, she brought croissants and felt peaceful, I had some kindness under the water with Sarah then we went for our busy day.


Sarah says:

She carried the heavy portfolio brought by James to the studio and we delved into it. There were wads of different papers, wrapped carefully in a way to make it possible to close them back. James is a careful man besides being a sensitive lover, I said just before he arrived, greeted by laughters. He gave us tender hugs and held her head peering into the misty lake of her eyes for any wavelets, as he perceived none he gave us a few little kisses on the mouth and said it was time to play.

Searching around the room he said he could not see any pot, basin, vase, pan, bucket, pail, to blend and brew the colours, out, he said, we go buy cheese… We followed him down, he was wearing a timeless unbleached linen coat, jeans and leather boots. Everyone greeted him at the cheese shop and he explained we needed cheese for our lunch but also all the empty containers they might give us for paint. We chose Camembert, Pont-l’Evêque, Sainte-Maure, Comté and Saint-Nectaire, some Charente butter too, and followed a lady to a back room where she gave us choice between tens of different cream and cheese containers, we gathered what we could carry, James took care of the cheeses, on the way back we stopped to let him buy bread.  So the day started with a perfect cheese on baguette feast.

Katherine fetched our teapot for James who said coffee was too ruthless to his nerves, and some Oolong leaves, I was making coffee. She put an adamant resurrection symphony by Mahler on the system. Wearing old shirts and jeans from school days, I could tell she had slimmed, I liked the baggy look on her butt, James liked it too and could not resist his fine hands.

We show him the medias from Venice and recapitulate the whole shebang for him who walks around the room like a bear around two hives. He is eager to follow our flitting minds and mislay his hands on us, yet keeping the thread of our reasoning. It is hard to tell if his cheerfulness arises from our enlightening agreement or the ransacking of our attires. He peels me off and asks me to lay on the table so as he may sit down and lick my treasure trove. Katherine is folding my shirt in a pad under my head and kisses my mouth greedily until I feel her tears again. She says she missed me, she betrayed me and she loves me. As I raise my hands to part her hair and read her eyes, she slips down in my armpits and laps my morning sweat while James achieves the two-fingers sonata.


James says: 

Schooling the larks in mid air like an old fox pulling a mock feather kite in the blazing sunlight of oblivion, dear, they sing around my skull an epiphany of flickering embers and steal my wits like cotton-candy from the helpless peddler. Are they beauty, for all my precious remembrance, I cried at the source for the rainbow flies and they twirl around, conjured up in Hugo’s legend!

I want to read the skies of their windfall origins and lay the charts in gemstones. In all the forthrightness of their gaze at each other awaits a pearl nowhere to be found. Moreover, as aroused am I like a deer bellowing, my chest pounces at the thought of interweaving our webs for the while, on paper or gold for that dream.

I would watch out for any heavy step in the crystal gazebo, but they show an adamant surge onto their cleared out pathway so then I won’t lament on so much lost academic rubbish. For they confirm and argue their will to disavow the plain cathéchism of official art communication in which they have willy-nilly mastered, although I retain my doubts on this, too.

Of course, with the poisonous rhetorics they have been more or less fed upon during these enchanted years, they might themselves ruin the mental gossamer needlework that truly bedazzled them in Venice, all the more so that the journey enfolded Katherine’s atonement amidst the holy areopagus, exposing her denuded heart to the thistles and shards as well as the rose petals.

In their grace glimmers an immemorial victory that my dear friend Hugo has worshipped ceaselessly along with our indefectible friends, live or dead, the inner light of pure gift one wishes to pour over the soul from behind the impassable mirror, the glint in a winning metaphor at the sanctified hands of the wandering child in the horrifying tale of life.


Katherine says: 

James’ charm comforts me being an eight-years-old again, his coddling touch and voice make me flutter like a wavy cherry tree. He talks colours and shapes in the same breath he asks me to unbend on his knees, elaborates on composition invariants with Sarah’s patient laisser aller of her fern-like wings from the immarcescible point of intention into her womb, the applicable fondling of the course body arousing none other than consenting tremor and floral dehiscence with a fermata on it, as he sings.

We both happen to have learned once frame geometry in other dull terms and James brings up that whatever slant we would fabricate now to join the fray of the wild visionaries might show through and lose any moral necessity. Stroking our contours as he would a stolen Madonna, he tells about the great Max Ernst that he went to see as a young artist and how he freed a whole new school of followers when he landed in America aboard the Capitaine Paul Lemerle in 1941. Starting on the ostensive off-beat to whatever we reluctantly learned at school is as brilliant an idea as nesting under Hugo’s wing, the most infallible stronghold in Paris.

Well aware of our universal leeway besides our inextinguishable debauchery, James appraised our artistic prospects according to our daydreams but missed the tragic pages in the book. He gently reviewed our portfolios and mixed one for the other but appreciated the shared work trying to sort the hands in them, still losing his own. He asked about tools and material as he did not see much around yet, he asked us to love each other on the table for viewing pleasure.  

I feel like I have all the tokens of gold and heavenly metals my heart kept hidden and i crave Sarah’s tight little ass like a well in the sand. We told Hugo we would go out with him, but I want a little sip first. James is gone to meet Camille, I grab my pageboy and invade her ever trusted mouth with a demented tongue and then in her pale moon until she sings my song. She has no time to reward me, she makes my hair in one of her extravagant buns with old tortoise pins and a tiger eye. Watching myself in the mirror, I spy any rumour of an outbreak when she carefully reaches my plexus with her tight fist and gently rubs out the angst.

( … )


Katherine says: 

It’s a gentle evening with some easy swirls of wind. We wear both Tana Lawn Liberty gowns  like country maids and invisible sandals, she is jay blue sprinkled with tiny ultramarine venialità, I am lichen grey sprayed with an indigo murmur. Hugo wears a night blue pinstripe suit on a white crew neck shirt and looks like a writer. I want Sarah’s hand, kiss the wrist where sways the line of gemstones over the shades of her veins and I like to sense her pulse with my lips. Our realm at the suspended second when all lights balance with the raising Venus over the favrile Grand Palais shimmers under the watch of the heavily seated family in white byzantine drags of the Sacré-cœur. We cross the Seine on the passerelle Senghor and walk through the Tuileries to the Palais Royal garden where the city noise vanishes.

At Germain’s a table waits for us at the entresol, in the willow green and off-white luxury of a lookout near an opened window. Ironed tablecloth, silverware and crystal exhibit their glistening turpitudes in the shining of rock crystal chandeliers like flagrant sexual preliminaries, foremost when Sarah surreptitiously hands a teensy frill of silk to Hugo who scents the oblation and slides it on his heart; he inquires about James’ visit and we tell all, snitching about the free rides he allowed himself on our defenceless epidermis. He sees that as a pledge of commitment to us should we require any.

When the waiters feel they can approach they uncover some witty compositions exhaling the whiff of seaweed, I am recalled to my dunes and the summer games with Achim and Simon. I have to tell Hugo those sketches of my childhood not to seem sad at our dinner, entire days nude in the cosmic light, as playful as a family of otters. The food is fresh, lively, diverse and surprising, I do not drink any of the Chablis but my jay boy and me are so excited when a parade of sherbets lands in the middle of us.


Sarah says: 

As Hugo seems regaled with our afternoon master class, I tell him my interview with our professor Y. regarding my graduating memoir. Liselotte – at that name Katherine muffles a laugh – had told me in confidence he could help sort out ideas in the desirable order, if I went to meet him privately. She said he wasn’t as mean as he seemed. I asked for an appointment at the secretariat and appeared at his office with my suitcase of drafts and sketches, unsure of any philosophical conviction whatsoever. He wryly asked the point of my visit, tacitly acknowledging that I had never given the slightest hunch of being a diligent disciple of his. He was one of the outdated critics of the Ecole De Paris era, and some of the disbanded groups of the eighties, but the rumour had that he kept an intellectual influence amongst the ambient anomie of our days, and I could use any. I chose to lay my cards on the table and he remained silent.

After more than a minute, he went to the door and turned the key, so I began to guess I was going to get shagged on the rag by another senior but I did not budge. He quietly offered his guidance for my work under some minute conditions I could easily refuse at any moment, and the first one was to pull down my jeans to the knees and then my knickers. I was slightly dumbfounded for sometime while he waited behind me, then I hesitantly unbuttoned my pants and pulled them down as he pleased, then my white panties. My black shirt was now covering me down half-thighs so he asked that I strip it off too. I had many buttons to undo and I felt rather violated albeit I had been exposed numerous times before, even with unknown onlookers.

He walked to his desk and asked me to show my documents. I was awkwardly impaired but he did not seem to care, only he watched me drag my feet stupidly towards him and display the contents of my case without much conviction. He removed his tweed jacket and hung it neatly to a bentwood coat hanger, without ever losing sight of me and my pubis which started to moisten.

He told me to fetch post-it pads in the drawer on his side, forcing me to turn around again for him who stepped backwards some. He asked if I carried some pen, I didn’t, so he said I would find a new one in the center drawer. I started to reckon he wanted to leave no physical traces on me or my belongings, so besides the humiliating dance he required, and the thought that I was printing my hands all over his desk, I executed his demands easier. He had eased a notable willy out of his fly but he did not come any closer to my jolting bum.

One by one, I browsed my best attempts at contemporary communication and he distributed the posts according to the colours from red, which meant avoid, to blue, good or green, put to annex. on the yellow papers he made me scribble quotes and references, from Kant to Deleuze with their precise use in my essay, and I began to consider he was really helping me out, put apart my ass he was jerking to.

Suddenly, he told me to sit down in his chair and open my mouth, held my head and reamed down to my throat a few times and spurted his cum so deep I had to swallow, which was not very new to me. When he was sure I wouldn’t spit he released me and we had our first eye contact. Straight away he said the work wasn’t finished, but that I could take off my shoes and pants. He had wiped his now limping drill and closed his fly. He told me to sit on my papers and spread my legs open, giving me the best of tongue recital I could think of, asking me to expose my little frowned snail, which I found was a brilliant metaphor.

Two days later I cornered Liselotte in the deserted plaster cast storeroom and with some upper hand I retained over her, I unbuttoned her pants and bared her bottom before we speak. She understood the reason of my rage and mumbled some excuses, saying she had thought I was beyond getting offended by such games, Y having been a tad more demanding on herself. She was prettier than I had considered, with a dark fringe over short-sighted green eyes in thick rimless glasses, I verified her bushy delicacy and found it quite wet but I left it there.

When I asked for my next appointment with professor Y. I was quite taut and adamant that he owed me that conclusion. He looked conceitedly intrigued when he saw me at his door wearing a floppy down to the knee sleeveless black dress and sleek ballerines, but he turned the key in the lock. He cleared his throat and said there would be a new arrangement to our small artistic trade, if I agreed. Considering my silence during a few breaths he mildly ordered me to pull up my dress to the waist and nervously noticed that I wore nothing over my impeccably waxed pubis. He asked me to stand in the middle of the rug and part my legs slightly, the black wool rolled into my arms. He stood long silent minutes behind me, I guessed by tiny swishes he had already freed his slim flesh rod. He ordered me out of the dress, which I obeyed in one quiet movement, walking to a distant chair to lay it on the back, then back to the previous position, opening my thighs a tad more. I had seen him beginning to wank softly.

He said he had been thinking of my ideas and after all reckoned they worked rather well. It was a metaphoric prospecting of the human skull, mainly mine in the visuals, intentionally mingled with the vocabularies of inner conscience and psycho-babble. He wanted to know how I obtained such an hypnotic blue on black prints of an eerie scientific imagery. Matter-of-factly I answered that Professor Wolfsohn was a friend of mine and I had been his preferred guinea-pig for a publication about the role of skull bones in different pathologies. Noticing my patience and amusement when laying nude inside different scanners at Lund’s university, he had given me a full suitcase of of my own head and body as a blue phantom.

Now I was wondering how Y. would have memorized my messy draft so well, and a shiver in my exposed body made me search for a camera eye which I spotted through the base of the ceiling light, then three possible angles around the room packed with books and stuff. I said he was recording me, he did not answer, but told me there was a twelve page sales pitch readily printed by an unidentifiable printer and software if I wanted it. I kept silent for at least three minutes, thinking of my attitude in the video, and he came close to my ear, making me smell a perfect mix of lavender and ylang-ylang, and feel the beat of his fist against my butt. He told me to walk to his desk’s drawer and open the lowest on the left, thus making me show my secret cleft open. Inside was an oblong maroon leather box he told me to open, It contained a hank of black horsehair clamped inside a heavy piece of black wood I didn’t take long to comprehend.

He told me there was a bottle of very sweet slippery balsam in the drawer, so I could anoint the precious ebony before I slid it inside my young eyelet to hold my lustful tail like a proud filly. He would have been disappointed to learn how many times I had been diddled in my gentle cinnamon twatty, but I acted as if it was new and painful, contorting and retrying until the long strand caressed my shanks. He commanded me to walk and trot around the room and the tail remained in place in my toy gap. He said there was a grey envelope in the center drawer of the desk for me. I fetched it and read, in the pure deliberately priggish prose, my own claim to a unique intellectual distribution of unforeseen affects, influences and impacts. Anyone would find food for the mind, only remained to find the means to print my material wall-high.

I laughed and swaggered, he told me to open the third drawer on the right, take a refined black leather leash and collar to buckle to my neck, a little more tightly than I first did. He asked for the handle and guided me from one corner to the other, then leaving me standing. and finally ordering me on all fours. The carpet was soft enough for my knees, he held the rein short and patted my buttocks as a reward for my frank laughs at his bout of critique pastiche. He caressed my breasts and complimented my reactive nipples, forced his hand to my dripping glory, palpating my thighs and belly like I was merry meat at his will. He wanted my legs more open, my back more arched, I felt he was pulling the shaft of the tail out of my stretched bung and no sooner took its place, still pulling on the collar while tumbling fast my aghast womb. He drenched my whole entrails while I squirted on the rug in all liveliness, I stood annihilated with my butt in the air as he was using perfumed wipes to clean himself then me like a mother cat her kitten. When I left with the brilliant paper in the grey envelope, the tail was still huddled up on the carpet with the leash I had been wearing, there was a noticeable stain in the middle of it. On the way to my home I stopped at a café to wipe my tingling bell and check my face, my eyes had their whorish glow so I went back to school and found Fulgence in a studio, I let him know like a bitch in heat that he could have me any way he wished.

Although some of the Olympian Areopagus scented a sway in my essay “Pantheon Of The Wastelands”, it was lauded by all. I did not go back to Y. office, nor did he show any interest in me, but I ravaged the body and the mind of Liselotte one night when she told me all the shenanigans Y. made her do, and who else in the school had trotted around with a tail up their arses, stood with their butts up in a corner swallowed or wanked the spiritual wand of their master. She boasted that he took her out to parties at outer Paris houses where she herself was kept on leash with the tail in place and she had to follow him on all fours, dragged from masked guest to the next for being used till she dropped. Some nights she had served more than twenty times, having been cleansed a few times by other girl slaves. These depraved carousels were the apogee of her season, watching Sarah on video had been a milder thrill. Anyway she reckoned I had not been cheated in the deal and made me admit, with her fist inside my fanny, that I was not injured.


Katherine says: 

A piano has started to improvise, I realise that I never paid attention to the otherwise ducky Liselotte, and now her lecherous traffic providing Y. with student slaves arouses me, I tell Sarah I would probably have booked an appointment if she had disclosed the scheme to me, then. She reminds me we weren’t sharing such perilous secrets then and that it took a while to creep into each other’s pants.

Hugo takes his little notebook and scribbles the details of what we say, obviously enthralled by the game he discovers. He asks Sarah if she gathered any idea of whom the players would be, apart from Liselotte he sure now would ardently wish he knew. She has no idea but understands the request and promises she will inquire around, Gauthier might even know where to find her.

One of the waiters has a keen eye on me through the maze of antique mirrors; black haired and dark skinned, he is cut like a Nubian warrior in his immaculate livery, holding hands in his back. I walk to the restroom with my best German demarche. I sit and pee and caress my bunny in the mind of Sarah’s tales when I notice a tiny gap at the small door labelled private where a black eye is eagerly peeping. Feeling suddenly a tad reckless I plainly show my leaking cunt by opening my thighs, causing the door to gape enough to let me see a memorable shaft he tosses with diligence. His eyes sway sideways to invite me nearer and then he asks me to help while he hold my chiffons up. His erection is bold and fiery, I wield the circumcised courage in due celerity so that no sooner he grabs his cute glans to shoot his wad safely. He still holds my frock and draws my mouth to his and sucks my crazed tongue. While he wipes his hands the scent of sperm goes to my dizzy head. He whispers in my ear that I could meet rich men down the narrow stairs behind him, at once surprised, I smile and take back my candid garment and return to my seat.

. I must have been quite a show because he soon ejaculates inside my throat, choking me red. He kisses my forehead while zipping up and leaves. I wipe my lips at both ends, his jizz has the bitterness of weeds you should not put in your mouth when you are a kid, it becomes more palatable after I swallow my saliva a few times, then Sarah comes in. I tell her I just sucked a dick, her eyes darken, she holds my head and tastes my mouth, her hand tries my wet clam, so I push two fingers in hers and make her sing to the surprise.

Back to our table, Hugo senses something, she pull her chair next to him and tells him and laughs to his round eyes. He wants to taste her mouth, too. He picks his notebook and writes the details with her, then he kisses her hand and the other one goes under the tablecloth.


Sarah says:

She is fully a slut, and it makes her beautiful. She has a radar for vice. I would have liked to see the scene in the toilets, maybe somebody did from behind a mirror. Back on the Senghor footbridge she holds Hugo’s arm and I take her waist and we walk the same step as the night’s sighs rummage our near nakedness.  At halfway we lean on the glass guardrail and contemplate the waters and the cityscape crowned by the glassed vessel of the palace now full of the amusements glitters of roundabouts, towers and carousels, making the foolish verdigris quadriges flee the turpitude in the air . A bateau-mouche sails under us ablaze with floodlights, turning the river banks into a ballet of salt figures with long blue shadows surrounded by the dubious glare of a sodium city. The golden Pegasuses of the pompous Alexander bridge proclaim whatever they rut for in their own pure beams. The sensitive new moon follows Venus down to where men will never know.

No sooner back in Hugo’s lair he denudes us and and washes our feet in the bathroom, kneeling down on the tiles as we embrace like honeysuckle lianas. Robed in a deep purple robe, he leads us to an oriental room where Lena has cleaned and hoovered the carpets so smooth to walk on. The lights are dim and strewn about.  We sit together and he worships our feet keenly, she falls asleep on my breast, I caress her face, her forehead like she was a child. He slowly unfolds her legs across the leather couch and drinks at her mystic vale as I feel her loosen her strengths and weigh all abandonment on me.

Pulling her at the edge of the cushion he slowly swives her quiet night lily, wangling some faraway murmurs I drink from her lips. Then he reckons that she’s gone and turns to me, I am still titillated by the remembrance of Y’s nifty manoeuvers thus he finds my hooded refuge frantically hospitable under the Fairy Queen’s enchanted haystack of a sleeper. He gives me a good humping and I come very soon as he goes on and she rolls into a ball with an ass. He shoots deep into my vibrating womb, freezes his tension for a minute and sits back on his feet with a great smile grabbing one of my feet. Then he draws me to the bathroom and cleans my body thoroughly with mock religious manners,  entering me with his careful fingers better than I would myself, or so I get the impression.  Back to the couch Katherine sleeps with a naïve smile, so I decide to entangle myself in her and sleep there too, on the narrow sofa, until maybe we drop. Hugo spreads an Ikat quilt over us.


Katherine dreams:

My mother has let go of my hand and she has disappeared, only a puddle of water is left on the tiling of brown and grey arabesques of the vast room. One side opens on a thick, dark forest where silent whirls shake the tiny foliages. From the shady ceiling hang infinite rows of yellowish lamps around which moths stir dust making noise and some sort of backwards music.  The left wall is lined with a long queue of coats on hangers, under tall windows with black curtains. On the end wall is a décor of small cut-outs representing clouds and air planes and birds. There is a massive desk and a lot of brooms leaning on the wall. Looking at the forest, I can smell the odour of rain. Faint giggles come from the desk, on whereupon pigeons have arisen. I want to go and check but my shoes are stuck to the floor so I draw my feet out and lose my beige socks. The pavement feels like tickles and I run to a group of boys, Werner, Hans and Gunther from my class in kindergarten who circle me showing their tiny stiff penises and ask to see my bird. Lifting my dress and lowering my panties in a cumbersome maneuver,  I tell them it is not a bird, it is an eye. They touch my little chubby slit with doubtful sounds, I refuse Gunther because he has dirty hands so he calls me a parakeet. Werner says he needs to pee, I say I need to pee too so we walk towards the forest, and I wake up holding Sarah nested in my neck.


Sarah says;

She woke me in the middle of the night with a tender kiss and jamming her knuckles on my plexus, we went to pee and somehow wiped each other, then she drew me by one of my nipples to our bed upstairs and spread out for me to lay on her. She had dragged me  out of a rich dream I wanted to return to, but I had lost all the clues.

There only remained the Cypress and Musk fragrance of everything Hugo which invariably transported me to San Miniato overlooking Florence. On a September day with Lawson just before I joined the Beaux-Arts and later met Katherine, as It was the first time I lived full time with a man and he showed a very expansive passion, our days all arranged to a fuck, he had wanted fellatio in the small cemetery by the church, the air was lewd as such and carried the fragrance of the cypress trees. He exploded in my mouth and held my head firmly while he penetrated as far as he could to ooze in; I was no rookie to that sport and had learned the soapy stale flavour of cum, said I, and he laughed. After that week I deemed the boy wanting, again someone was merely using me as a wimp and I was deprived of my share. I tried to make him comprehend but all he did was to look at me as a nymphomaniac. I masturbated alone thinking of my Saint Loup lovers and preys, then headed to Paris as perverted as a society maiden. Long after when I sucked Hugo dry in his perfume I beamed when he dared bless my mouth with a sway kiss, then devour me in a well earned return which rattled every nerve to the tip of my wings and radiated a stardust of echoes.

At the UN international school we had an art teacher in the small grades. I figured he was in love with me. He was Ecuadorian and a glorious mix of many bloods, his long black hair combed back and his almond shaped eyes inviting a young tomboy to confide blindly. Once he said my skin was so white it certainly tasted sugary and I was overwhelmed for the rest of the year. At the time I was so thin I kept the same jeans while my legs grew tall, my butt was firm and round and some of the boys would grab it. Apart from the art teacher I watched girls, my height giving me some edge on younger girls. Rufino Would take us out to the Museums and try to pass on some arcane to a herd of bright kids. A school bus would carry us along the straight cliffs of Manhattan to the temples of metropolitan beauty. Along with a few of us, I was the keenest to listen to his explanations as a mean of seducing him, but as he was always checking back what we had understood, I had to really follow his teaching otherwise I would have found myself dumb and blushed dead. I did not know he was a hell of a teacher, but today I relive emotions he let quietly blossom while I was in the vaporous realm of childish fascination. Only once did he hold my hand in front  of “The Rest On The Flight Into Egypt” by Gerard David, which he said brought him to tears and I watched his eyes, as a little brat I was.

I do not sleep, my dream has escaped, she sleeps like a rose, I worry. The first time I saw her she was overlooking the Seine from one of the school’s studios windows on the quay. Someone had told me she was the other German student, only I wasn’t one. By the way she was holding her head I shuddered and swallowed my saliva. The tips of her fingers on the glass, she had her quiet gaze I could only see from an angle. That day she smelled of lavender lily, In German I spoke in my father’s family, I made a comment on the view, she moved her head but not the shoulders, her back was straight, her neck fascinated me. She granted me of one of her princely glances and the conversation clutched up in French.

We chatted all the way to the Rabat-Joie, a café near Saint-Germain l’Auxerrois  where we traded all our whereabouts and gossip. At the time I lived in the Cité Universitaire near Montsouris and she rented a flat near the Père Lachaise cemetery. That day, I could not leave her, I had entirely forgotten my schedule, she gave no signal of boredom. I wanted her but It took some time to get closer to each other. We had success each on our side and we were not shy. Older students or even teachers would get in our pants almost for free but not for long. Sensitive types like Gauthier remained off our scan during our parading months.

I met Camille at a vernissage the UNESCO sent me to and she offered me a well paid part-time job with a lodging near the school, eventually a snug nest in her well frequented bed. Katherine began to see me at the gallery often, we were a decorative pair touching our computers at the front desk and the owner liked it. l peeped at her cleavage and pants, her bloomy complexion panicked a whole army of my pulsions when she moved near.

My first victory occurred on one evening when some bounder had slipped a date and she was vexed. She drank a little too much and I invited her to my room in Camille’s grand apartment. I gave her some Indian tonic because she smelled of beer, we peed each our turn while chatting in the bathroom and that aroused me hence I devoured her mouth before she could button back up her fly. She was stunned for a few minutes, then her mouth responded and her hand went for my coochie, so I started to pull down her jeans which made us fall on the bed and rush to strip down everything; she was moaning joyously. I had pined her so fervently and now there she was offered, availed with no restraint so as I turned her top down and back to front at will for my hungry mouth. I offered her two or three sex toys I had and I exhausted all the batteries in her garden’s waterholes, on that first night I was the one who ravaged her and she was the one who enjoyed. We finally fainted out, I slept my face into her hair.

Someone is biting my toes and licking the soles of my feet. I growl happily. She draws me out of the bed, I want to pee, she reaches my frowned rillet and then tastes and kisses my mouth with the salty flavour. In the kitchen there are one bowl of coffee and croissants, I sit on her and she calls me a boy with tits. She cuddles my flat chest and raves about my skin, I wish she was a boy, too.

( … )


Sarah says:

James arrives with a bag full of goodies and books with a wealth reproductions we already knew for the most part, the point being to populate our new den with that stratum of civilization we reportedly craved during our Biennale trekking. We aren’t rookies by long, but as James says, we have been corrupted all the way to cynicism by the spin doctors of modern communication and our souls hang by a gossamer net of small intuitions its ours to keep. We engage in a game in which we review random artists in the pile with  crude market criteria and we flatten all of them like hayseeds in a ballroom. Our experience at Camille’s “L’Etoile Amusée” has mainly born upon collected pieces by a private clientèle of highly-educated patrons to whom secrecy added motivation to their scouting; as quiet attendants, we gathered little science about the core arcane trade she masters. She never shows at auctions and doesn’t speak to critics and journalists, until Hugo contrived his conspiracy of free deliberate outcasts, she would keep her communication as sibylline as politeness allows, or delve deeper with a prospective customer behind closed doors.

He brought along a collection of wood, metal and plastic pencils of graphite and colours he says were given to him as samples. I don’t know where my own toolbox was misplaced, and Kate wants new toys. in any case it has became easy to shop for nifty supplies on the internet when our crafty minds will sail.

James insists he solely wants to help because we are breathtakingly beautiful and gifted and that we should not hear his professional tone, whereas his hand ransacks my pants. Gradually, we commune again together on 25K art because it shimmers in Kate’s morass as the grail she needs to quench her cloaked despair. When she scans inwardly some of the works we brought back from Venice, she turns to me and secures her feverous forehead in my neck.

Around twelve, James runs for supplies at the utmost fresh vegan deli and brings up three green boxes. He grumbles again about the missing chair and puts me on his lap with distinction, letting his hand under my shirt to my twin mulberries. Kate brews some very clear tea. She says she wants to draw, in a way to wipe off the years of conditioning she breathed willy nilly since art school, or gather a papier-maché circus of all those who skimmed past her, or fill boxes with ex-votos as repositories to love gone by, a soul inside her chest. She wants to join the faculty of the errant prospectors for crafted metaphors of perpetual redemption. Grasping the ghost of her thought, she swallows and runs to the shower where we hear her cries in the flow. Leaving James slightly taken aback I join her and manipulate all of her dismayed plaything back to order, under James’ delighted eyes.


James says:

Hugo was right, he has garnered new treasure, not only the carnal delight and the alternative guise, but the sheer fondness of their relationship. I could help them, they have been through the trappings and delusions of art teaching and they are still alive, I would assuredly attempt a few remedial sleight of my own hand. Katherine is the one who summoned the fevers. Camille and Hugo recounted her sadly predictable ordeal and the recuperative conjuration. I don’t know who redeemed the poor soul but I could send him a lot of clientele. Now the lost one has a devoted team and she doesn’t seem to resent it. I could make plans about them, but I should cautiously reveal my field of practice, let them gather some crystals, first.


Sarah says:

we assembled downstairs around shiny black boxes of Japanese food and tea in Imperial red porcelain. Hugo questioned indefatigably about our reflections and pledges, unbridled fantasies and golden slumbers, he scrawled notes on one of his logbooks without commenting; I can’t read his handwriting. Camille joined, in a colourful American Indian inspired dress short enough to display her thin thighs, I wore a white men’s shirt on black leggings and Kate sported a black tank top which merely kept the twins home. We did not really know what we ate, only it was fresh, green, maritime and spicy, we traded the boxes.

At the end of the picnic, Hugo went to look for a small, young, dark red garçonne cut haired girl carrying a bizarre cello case. She had wide dark eyes and a triangular face with a small butterfly of a smile. Hugo introduced her as Malo and disposed an ornate black chair covered in red velvet in the centre of the room, and started to take one by one all of her clothes, which she let him do, responding to kisses on her little mouth. Her body was slender, her waist high and her insolent sprouting nipples caught the light as opaline doves . She showed no abashment and when she crouched to arrange the small metal plank where the cello’s end pin would rest, I liked her demure runnel vale. She seated and parted her legs around the glistening wooden playfellow, held the bow and neck in one hand while she slowly unfolded the wee smile to her exposed lips with the other hand, looking at me.

Candle chandeliers warmly bathed the room, and when the bow touched the strings for a baroque volute we were all struck. In the smothered acoustics of the room, she liberated an intimate voice flow from the weightless board, her finger touch firm on the ebony shaft, as little vibrato as needed. After a few heartwarming pieces, she flew on improvised patterns while her audience behaved according to Hugo’s example who was conscientiously undressing the languid dryad beside me so as to delve deeper into her sensitivity stealthily in the long shadows. James had already entered Indian territory and Camille had widely surrendered the holy well in the vale to his feverish devouring.

Malo governed the lento debauchery at the will of her dexterous hands and I radiated the frenzied intentions of my unleashed petty sanctum to her keen eyes. However she tamed the snake pit of our canoodling and the whispers vanished for the stirred motives of her heady slides, although the stags remained erected like little boys in joy. She threw her arabesques like silk ribbons through an appeased evening snow and the little girl outlines the dancing colour with tentative moves of her red mittens under the lonely light bulb of a Danish farmyard and I could not hold back a poor snuffling.

The magician had grasped my submission to her spell, and so she flew me to the land of my blue chimeras and griffins, her gaze suffusing my indolent body with impalpable harmonies like drug-induced raptures still looming in my brain waves from the moon pond of innocence. The creatures sailed across rippled azure prairies where pizzicati sprouted in swarms of incandescent carbuncles, dragons flaunting splendorous nymphaions of satiny flesh or shuddering linchpins gushing pearly swirls all around the vault of my resonating skull, like a ballet of swans astray in the deserted dome of my windy head.

Katherine rolled over my side and kissed my teary face, rescuing my languorous wreck from the metaphoric swamp of bygone pipedreams. As Hugo humped her quietly from behind he held my head and made us kiss while Malo stitched a counterpoint of arpeggios to the sway and swoon of our frantic heads; she preened my sweaty dove making me tilt my legs up, inducing a sensuous glissando as if the musician was already playing me in the flesh.

She finished diminuendo to our rave flatteries, she rested her instruments and shut the bullet proof case. Hugo, still inside the elfin sheath, held an open palm towards her cunning smile and asked her in. She knelt against Hugo’s back and pulled a small lecherous tongue he tasted. Katherine spread her thighs so as to let Malo fiddle in the idler garden iris so drenched she soon pushed her fine hand onto the wriggling hammer concealed in the warm silk folds. Climbing over she reached my mouth with her soaked hand while threading the other one into my own blithe flowerage, hurrying my wail with a winning grin.

James had coveted a galant opportunity as Malo offered her pale rump as smooth as a grand magnolia flower, drawing Camille to the main disturbances, he skewered the virtuosa so swiftly she screeched and no sooner moaned on the push, her hands into both of us. As she was rammed ostinato by James’ considerable bow, she fell over me and dived into my eyes madly, sucking my tongue out and mumbling her desire. I recognised Camille’s gentle way into my back alley and squirted my holy froth into the brazier together along with the willowy charmer.

As both men raged into Malo’s talented rills, I jumped on Katherine’s face and straddled upon her gaping visage for one of her thoughtful talks and she translated live what Camille was infusing her inwards with, her hand into the other nest box. She was so convincing that I poured a little drop more on her lips.

The astounding stampede left us all dumbfounded, ecstatic and heavenly redolent. Hugo’s shower was overcrowded like an aviary on a marketplace and some frantic deity still had fingers in my every self. We filled the cleansing enema with rosewater and serviced each other like nuns. We shared a celestial supper of petits fours, macarons and fruits rafraîchis, Malo’s performance was the talk, Hugo and her had obviously known each other for a while and he sounded proud of her instrument. Everyone wished to caress her again but she sat on my lap. Later, she went to Hugo’s bed and I pushed my Lady to ours.

Kate dreams:

I’m sitting on a bench at Sophie-Charlotte Platz station in the Berlin U-Bahn. I’ve been waiting for a long time and no train comes. Two men, but identical, walk swiftly and silently to my bench, in grey overcoats as if they were in a black and white film. Now they wear hats and I can’t remember if they did before. They take shiny steel devices from their pockets and move symmetrically to one another. One hat falls and rolls to the tracks, now my fists are tied with the metal contraptions I cannot watch as I lay on a heavy table in front of a panel representing a dull yellow train. Hands tear my clothes back but the twins don’t move, then one of them comes down to look at my face very near, and puts a finger on my mouth, it smells like a pencil. The hands rummage between my legs until I pee on them. I see tiny black bugs running on my belly while the men, who are now three, spread sugar on my body keeping their eyes closed. I hear the rain in the tunnel and a wooden merchandise train arrives with the noise the lift made when we went to see Grandpa when I was little, and my dad wore new black gloves of refined leatherware. The wagon door opens and dogs jump out barking around the table at the grey men who became an army and walk back in order. The dogs come at me and eat the bugs that are now as big as my toes and come out of my vagina as a girl quiets me down and kisses my eyes; each of her kisses spawns a grey moth tepid and smooth over my skin, she runs with a clickety sound across the now immense bricks and dust room but I can’t follow her because the moths have threaded into ropes that tie me loosely to the table. Simon looms up from behind my heavy head, he wears faded blue shorts and his knees are tanned, he holds a camera stuck into dust and wears one of the old hats from the attic, sun bleached strands flutter on his forehead; one of his eyes stays fixed as a spinning wheel is reflected in the dilated pupil, he smiles on broken bloody teeth and turns away. Like under an invisible rainfall on the gigantic wall appears a fading fresco depicting a raging battle and it moves like a film; little nude girls brandishing wooden daggers run after wafer-thin cavaliers, reminding me of an all too familiar sentiment when I look down to my crotch and see a tiny weeny dick that terrifies me. Simon ran to a door which opens against the far corner, followed by a squad of mismatched technicians in yellow overalls reading unintelligible formulas whereas the little girls jump from the stormy battlefield and dance in the thick grit. A yellow train sweeps in on a concealed track from which Sophie-Charlotte gets off with a pack of hounds that mingle with the girls who ride them with piercing shrills and tiny laughs, she walks to my side as I try to move from a heavy mantle bustling with large moths and kiss my hand when her wig rolls and she falls asleep on the bench; I can’t tell she is Sarah von K.

Remains a hook of distress because these are the first images of Berlin since I left. I slept upon my left arm so I seem unable to move it but life flows in and the moths vanish. I ask the crouched animal there if she has ever been in the U Bahn but she mumbles she was born with an equipage, which is a favorite quote of her Dad quoting his own. She says she liked the rough smell of the New York subway but she rarely needed it and took buses and taxis. She wants to know why I asked, so I make up a digest of my dream as she crawls over to listen, only at the end she bursts in laughters and declaims that she would be Queen Philosopher!

Suddenly I need to check I haven’t peed in bed, but I escape to the bathroom to do. Sarah feels randy and follows me to play with my waters so I call her a beast. She whispers in my ear that Gauthier should arrive today, so I tilt my head back and open my mouth to her kiss while she still fiddles my little stream. My heart is ringing to the tune of the golden kid, I rape Her Majesty who deserves it well.


Sarah says:

By the time we came back from gym, there was turmoil in the staircase, Hugo and his architect supervising the installation of fibre optics in the house up to our nest, and some delivery had occurred in large cartons that were being brought out. We were told to run atop and see what was there for us. A  plush sofa upholstered in vermilion wool velvet had been disposed as if it had ever been there, and a deep matching armchair. Bursting in laughters, she jumped on the couch and held out her arms to me. Hugo swore he didn’t know where the gift came from, so we scented a hunch in the art world.

Under the Bach canons, having dipped a few madeleines in black coffee, she jots down specks of her sly wit in a new notebook as a way of endlessly trying utensils or procrastinate among the fugues until I will become aware of her again. In the lamp’s reflection, she becomes a goddess of serenity quietly managing the pencils and brushes and showing her kiddy breasts through the sweat shirt’s neckline. I wonder if I will ever get enough of watching her like a natural marvel. She glances absent mindedly a few times before knowing I watch, then she flashes a dazzling smile and draw her tongue. Her neck is loosed and her head rolls on her eyes like a tousled egret bird.

I got overwhelmed, I went to pee and I made some tea, which is a better companion to a day long search of mind forms. She whispered a deep approval, stretched, stood up, came to me, grabbed my head and kissed me deep. I would have liked to faint. She said she would run to the Swedish smørgasbrød shop.

During our lunch, we petted again on the new couch when Hugo knocked, he was with Gauthier. He considered us and said this settee was a pretty good idea.  She drew the golden sailor by his pants and assaulted his mouth with her loutish tongue. From behind the sofa I tousled the rich dawn flooded helmet and leered at their tongue duet

But there was a lot of talking to do, we heard about Frankfurt and a job he would probably do there about mental art in Germany before the thirties. She had sucked his pecker out of its nest, but Hugo tempered the squall and said we should go back to work, he would take Gauthier see one of his friends who was something in the museums realm and could help a career, so we agreed to chill off a tad and went back to our roosts on the promise he would be with us for dinner.

Hugo peeked at our work and could not help venture his hands into her neckline, before withdrawing along with the orderly knight. I drew her chair next to mine and enticed her into our messy journal wishing she wore a more hospitable frock.


Katherine says:

Aren’t we frustrated he took the Reinhardt from under our notoriously sultry noses! Our chairs have wheels, she drew me near and started a session in our note book. I hold my skull against hers, her dark silken locks frame her narrow, chiselled, astute face with a high forehead, a straight little nose, designed lips and a gently square chin. I’m all fidgety and we smell of depraved saliva, her abs feel so ready and smooth when I pull the drawstring. She finishes a little red star in the corner and stretches back to let me take ways on her. When she’s peeled off she tilts the convenient chair back and rests her feet up, holding my head upon the merry glen of lilies until she bursts and quench my want and very soon pushes me kneeling on the red settee, roughly tears my tights and drills the satin pit in my feverish brooklet with her tongue and fingers so as I skeet in my bawdy lingerie.

Here we breathe again and dance embraced to the shower where she pees on me straight, stretching the lips with two fingers, until I respond and note my go is more flowery in a wild way, which makes her crack up in laughs.

When James asks to come up, we decide to let him savour his success, as it could not possibly be anyone else’s, and we remain in the raw as she cautiously combs my hair on the canapé. We have both indulged in the most innocent geranium, neroli and lavender skin oil when he applauds enthused and ensconces himself in his armchair. Then he spots the crumpled up clothes and jumps to seize them, almost entranced in our scents. He wants a detailed account of our excesses and hears them in diligent style while we gratefully offer our still fervent lips to his unleashed cutlass for a quite lengthy prelude and Sarah receives the salvo conscientiously. I snog her perfect muzzle and James joins in, tasting his own raspy jizz out of our mouths.


James says:

A merry pair of lively otters fidgeted with the bear amidst a crystalline stream in the wolf’s lair on a never-happen day. They dressed of nothing but light and grace, they spoke miraculum prodigium ostentum and the furry butch toppled over his back in the waters and recognised its dream.

They have already strewed the specks of a dancing intuition across the journals and the pads, they can jump back on threads anywhere anytime and spell the rime of their envisioned theater; their youth and freedom broadcast an electrical meshing of sense they share like celestial twins.

As they lean on their work half naked, it doubles my wish to run along their lines, as I did their angelic contours, in the most tangential gab so as not to wake them from their lookout. They smell as an armful of daisies, poppies and cornflowers on the beating heart of my cousin at the wild edge of the park, the hair of another one astray in the summer bathed library when I caught her while the other children hunted our silent pair, a strand of sweat on the nape of her neck when I lured her in the dark basement. I have long toppled the sweet abandons of these unattended amazements without spoiling a petal, lucky me.

Aeons of coaching the tatty herds of art school louts only required arm long distance in most circumstances, all the more so as the media overflowed the available attention in the green skulls. Gemlike specimens as the two hereby coveted fairies would have fled the idle brain crowds in my allocated studio rooms. I preyed however here and there upon uncovered sweet humanity under a lame cultural conditioning and kept a few good names in my book.

Sarah says: Gianni Capodimonte and his aide barge in, carrying folding cases of unexpected refitted sublime chiffons he needs to try on us, so we are soon off what we just had slipped on. Gianni is very gay but likes to fondle anyway, we only have to let him.

He had promised me a power suit and he shows two, one in black alpaca satin faille pinstriped with silver threads and lavishly lined in purple satinette. As he feels every nook of my body through the stuff he teaches his apprentice in Italian and nevertheless the boy gently gropes my sparrow. Because we are close, Gianni soughs to my ear he would better have me wear underpants, for the lining, he winks. Kate runs downstairs and fetches deep blue jokey drawers. She wishes to test the buttoned fly herself and shows the boy how to do it with a gal, he blushes crimson and Gianni says Katherine will have her turn.

I walk to James and sit on his lap, he is enthralled with the purple lining and professes I should never wear shoes with that suit, Gianni concurs. Katherine, in a white cotton slip, eases into grain-de-poudre trousers and a black and white pied-de-poule one button jacket, lined with vermillion cotton satin, that stuns me as a film noir demon lady. I cry out and the tailor purrs with pride, the boy has a reckless hand on Katherine’s breasts and I’m about to reach for his prick I found as stiff as a bamboo when his boss, who is an excellent dancer, steps in and pats my butt. James is glowing of all the swift emotions before his eyes, Kate’s pants are spacious enough for his stealthy hand.

After a few stitches in white thread, Gianni slips a Prince-Of-Wales high-breast vested suit, lined with Sèvres blue satinet on a lewd passive me who plays offering kisses to the boy until a needle derails into my ribs. The pants have been cut nicely short roaring twenties style, the jacket is masterfully fitted over the butt-parts, we look like Berliner tomboys. The shiny black buttons all have slits to rest in, five for each cuff.

Katherine now dons a pearl-grey mohair and silk barathea three piece costume lined with light mauve satin thinly striped of pastel blue, the boy displays her strands on her shoulders as she seeks his shy gaze. The outfit will be resplendent with a cherry-blossom shirt, it skims her whole body with imperceptible hisses and sighs just as in a maddening foreplay . At her feet, the straight pleated pants let a furtive glance of the lining. Ferreting about in the fluffy stuffs I reveal the new label for Gianni, “Teatro Dei Sogni” in gold on black silk in the inside pocket.

As Gianni packs back up for the shop, he gives advice for the upcoming half- season, we casually display our sleazy charms for the visibly sensitive boy, but we gallantly set the master free as he says everything will be ready in two days and the girls’ fineries for the week after, in the meantime our usual rags wouldn’t spoil our beauty, says he sliding a hand in my pants in retaliation for my hitting on the boy with no name.

All these dazzling riches mainly originate from Gianni’s long devotion to some of the most elegant and powerful families in Paris who wouldn’t hoard past days still unused wardrobes. Smug inside some lucky boy’s leftovers, we won’t mind the buttons on the wrong side, and some of the sister’s attires still scent of Joy as we frolic in them.

She pulls my knickers down and gloats about Gianni being aware of the few drops I have doubtlessly dripped, hence I dash a valiant tongue into the source of her, while James has already stripped me to the raw and feasts on my defenceless silky petunia. My mind is off in a twilight jostling pirouette at the whim of her skillful fingers, then a truce is settled and James worships our feet with endless laudibus while we two hold each other’s head in an ecstatic elegy.

An agenda of inventive dinner, intensive corporel grooming and random bed cruising sounds as right as a children’s novel. An athletic redhead girl with an outlandish accent brings an array of multi colour packets and leers at our display but decides to keep her job with a kind gratuity. Charlus sent warm potato nests sheltering poached eggs and smoked salmon ribbons, shivering mounds of purslane, sea fennel and skinned walnuts consommé with two bottles of his own fruit kéfir and a bag of jade green ginger macarons for dessert, a cellophane sachet of candied violets for bedtime. Once the regale set in black and silver lacquer, we reduce in no time the wrappings to the smaller volume and feast in front of the new media carousel Hugo has made possible with fibre optics.

I need a little waxing, soon the balmy smell of hot torture exudes from the small shiny black stove and the killer grin dawns on her innocent face. However I swoon a few minutes later with the soothing salve she spreads endlessly so much she trips on the scent of camomille and I want it in my little clench but I want to rasp our soles with the diamond dust of the electric grinder, so we perform an acrobatic doll-up on the shower floor as she can’t have enough of my newly smooth offered fruit while I polish her rosy feet and vice versa.

Pampered like royal harlots, we try some new porn videos on the bedroom screen but I see her eyes sway sideways to nowhere land, therefore I lay my ear on her womb and listen.


Katherine dreams:

I’ve been waiting for the tramway interminably under a grey drizzle. On both sides of the avenue stand hospital buildings of bricks the colour of dried blood. I feel the damp grass between my toes when the two-cars tram stops smoothly. There are lots of free seats on the left side. I walk cautiously, retaining my coat because all my buttons have fallen. My pants are undone but I sit down before anyone sees. My left hand is clutched on the large pair of scissors I have purloined from that shabby woman’s office with the dull green curtains, just like the colour of the tram’s seats and I do not know if I even have a ticket, but the scissors feel warm and safe. In the other row, two young boys kiss each other and smile to me for witnessing. I wonder if they have grasped my awkward dishevelment. My shoes are peeling off so I shake them from my feet under the next seat. I feel naked, the window is only made of shiny drops and we traverse barren fields strewn with rusty intricate machinery. I hold my hand through the tinkling beads and clap the scissors at busy ravens in the bushes; seemingly flesh tatters drip from their nimble beaks as they return to their feast. Half-concealed by a clenched bramble stands a metal cabin with blue glass shields. My bare feet hurt on the corroded scraps that cover the floor between the many rails as I stumble towards the cabin where a light flickers. Crows attack me but my shears cut them fast for they are made of paper and blood. The two boys are already squatted inside the derelict cubicle, their sharp-looking faces lit by a white flame in a tin hooked in the rods and cogs erected distraught in the middle. It rains hard now, the metal roof sounds like the bells over Hamburg as I crouch next to the boys clung to each other and tousle their black and bark hair with fondness. The flame flickers and dies, we huddle in a corner under the blue gleam, a choir hums through the waves of crowing, I rest my head upon their warm breathing, they smell of licorice and sweat. A shabby whiffy reddish dog forages in and looks at us with Kaiser Wilhelm’s eyes then sits. A policeman with a lamp on his forehead looms in, growls and holds us chocolate fish in a brown paper bag. The lighter haired boy gives one to the dog that yaps for more. There is a young girl too, now with them, in a bleached out blue hoodie, she asks for a sweet, she looks like younger Sarah as I saw her on a photo taken in a New York street and overwritten “bitch”. They strap over the cabin in the shaky lights of big military equipment and lift the whole of us in the horrified howl of the Kaiser. The policeman with the lamp helmet stands on the cabin’s top as we are transported through the wasteland to a shore where a ship glitters like fairy lights. Baby Sarah is with me and fixes my pants with bits of electric wire, the boys ensconced in a shady recess and the Kaiser shakes on its legs. We are uploaded on the ship amidst bales of rags, disparate luggage, mattresses and pillows overran by monkeys that annoy the dog at once. The boys sidle out to a small hatch and call us through the monkey bedlam. The engine room is lit in crimson red and the heat is breathtaking as we follow a pathway to a sign with an arrow towards the left while white beams search around from down below. We reach a heavy door to a stairwell than slams behind me. I am alone suddenly in the dim lit shaft with emergency lanterns at each landing. I want to call baby Sarah but I remain mute as the sweat burns my eyes and I sob and climb endlessly. I reach a corridor leading to a faraway purple glow. Rats scent my feet and squeak when I kick them, they feel like plush toys. I fly to the light and find my lassie pixie seated on a red velvet bench with the Kaiser trying to lick her muzzle. She now wears a loose buttoned white shirt over jeans shorts and I can tell her feet by heart. The Kaiser greets me like his next cousin and licks my feet with dedication, I wonder what I stepped in. The two boys rush in from a corner and call us, they wear harlequin costumes, theatre makeup and they cuddle each other overtly to the gamine’s amusement. In a mirror framed of gilded grotesques I see myself in the dirty ripped drags and my face shows my skull through the thin grey skin. I wonder where I left the scissors but baby Sarah already began to slice up what’s left of my clothes into shrieking bats with them and it amuses the Kaiser woofing as it climbs the walls. The randy scoundrels paw each other and poke tongues when the beacon policeman smashes down a partition with a long axe, jumps in and seizes the nude me in a headlock while baby Sarah embraces my feet as we are swung through corridors to a breach in the hull as a religious portal opening on a blue garden lit by cinema projectors showing the flocks of bats and silver owls chasing them. On the pearly lawn swagger the multicoloured laughing rascals clutched together on a ghostly grey horse with a mane to the ground. Behind the flashlight, I can’t discern the face of the giant as he hands me down on the velvety grass where Sarah soothes me with gems in her eyes, fetches a knot of black string from inside her hoodie and ties it to my arm so as every turn she does makes me younger and smaller. Once I reach her size we run, the towering lantern man wig-wags over the moonlit beach that edges the prairie where the Kaiser and a majestic owl call for us. Sarah scissors out patches of landscape to put up a tunic on my skinny self when I wake up in the standing tram and the Kaiser laps my hand. I am cold and draw my scarf tighter, trying to recognise the view outside the misty panes. The Kaiser pulls on the black string I hold as a leash and I follow it somehow stumbling. The wattman snores on his seat guarded by the golden-eyed owl which squawks at the Kaiser but I cannot find the door command when I notice wavelets outside and reckon that the trail is flooded. I turn around and hear a metallic ting as I step on the scissors that I want to grab in the dark but I feel a hand seizing mine and pulling fiercely from under the tram seats. The Kaiser barks madly when Sarah draws me inside the  warm nest of our bed and I wake up in sweats.

She lulls me back to my wits as I still hear the Kaiser bark. I sob ridiculously trying to tell the dream she patiently tries to unfurl with me. As it is far from morning she puts on some hypnotic music and we elaborate about the beacon man and the nasty boys. I keep to myself the scarily familiar thoughts about the Kaiser.