The trailing veils of the virgin fascinated Stanley's primitive eye, and he rubbed his groin with lascivious calculation. Before anyone had a chance to recover his wits, the ape sprang from his place into the twisting folds of the bridal gown. The Duke's gallop had carried him beyond the scene, enabling the ape to clutch poor Maggie like a sack of meat and leap into the group of worried Hussars. He was gone with his prey in a blur of black hair and flying veils.
"It is an unfortunate anatomical fact that the sexual orifice of the female is located between two orifices of excretion...."
-L. Radl, M.D. (Illustrated Guide to Sex Happiness in Marriage.)
"Pardon me, wife: Henceforth do what thou wilt...."
-W. Shakespeare (The Merry Wives of Windsor)
CHAPTER ONE
When Sir Oliver Mottke-Wrench discovered his wife, Lady Mottke-Wrench, in the most flamboyant disarray, viciously turning her buttocks beneath his butler's presumptuous cock, he withdrew to his den, where, after a minute's deep thought, he retrieved the ancient, silver-barreled musket of his grandfather, inserted the last remaining bullet in the weapon, and returned to the bedroom of infidelity.
His aim could hardly have been fallible, for he pointed the ornate muzzle at the butler's hairy scrotum from a distance of one finger's length, and keeping the sights trained on the jerking sack, pulled on the trigger with all his force. A deafening report rang through the house as the avenging lead went through the coupled genitalia.
His honor appeased, he threw down the musket and retired to his den, where he prepared an ad for the morrow's edition of the Times. The mutilated cunt and shattered balls he later removed to be hung in his trophy room.
It was through that advertisement I met the vigorous old Lord and, three days after verdict in his favor had been given, I entered into his service to fulfill the functions of the defunct butler.
I packed his bags and trunks and finished the preparations for his trip to the Continent, for, as he said, the smell of gunpowder and adulterated pussy still lingered in the house and a change of scene would do him good.
We duly embarked and arrived in Paris in the best of spirits and took up lodgings in a fashionable hotel on the Rue de Rivoli, occupying a suite of rooms concomitant with his condition in life.
He was a taciturn and eccentric man, who refused to alter his established beliefs, and as these were all centered on a mode of life fully fifty years back, my existence became a curious anomaly, both in my eyes and in those of the world. Thus it was, that like himself, I began to grow a set of whiskers which were a daily topic of interest between ourselves. He himself favored sideburns but offered no resistance to my choice of a full-grown beard.
He seemed to know the full complement of nobility no matter where he went, and received numerous visits every day. I went about my duties methodically, serving tea and biscuits to the occasional marquises and duchesses who found their way into the salon, unaware that one day my service to these ladies would take a radically different tack.
It was perhaps two months after our arrival and when my beard was fully grown, that a certain Mr. Samuel Griffin paid us a call. He was, as I later learned, no less than the personal butler of the Grand Duke Cosimo de Beaucouillon. My visage made a strong impression on him and he questioned my master about my origins. He returned the following day and the two of them engaged in a long consultation which bore solely on myself and the Duke de Beaucouillon. Mr. Griffin's extraordinary interest in my person centered on the incredible resemblance I bore to his "patron" and he concluded a deal with Sir Oliver which they both concealed from me at the time.
This Mr. Griffin went away, and, for all I knew, the affair was closed. Sir Oliver said nothing according to his habit, and I gave the incident no thought.
He went out that night for a reception at Prince Paul-Jonah's town house, and returned very late, minus his hat and tie, and babying a beautiful lady. Clad in my nightgown, I let the giggling couple in and set about preparing his nightly grog.
When I brought the steaming drinks to his room, I saw the lady's thigh reclining in Milord's lap. his big, ruddy hand exploring its milk-white flesh.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" I stammered, which only made them laugh.
She was playfully kicking her heels in the air, brushing her hands through this hair and calling him "Oily," while his Lordship tickled her crotch. The apparition of the pontifical Lord sprawled in his chair, his face puffed like a hairy Bacchus, and groping under the flimsy robes of his partner had a profoundly disquieting effect on my blood cells. I set the glasses down and left, feeling rather foolish in the coarse linen gown that flapped against my ankles.
"Let us now have intercourse," I heard his pompous voice rumble from the other side of the door.
Though I fought against it, I could not resist the temptation to glance through the keyhole. My curiosity was fully aroused. Never, I thought to myself, have I seen a member of the aristocracy perform that most intimate and delightful sport, but there was little to indicate the social status of the participants. An upraised leg, a stocking half-furled around the calf, the hind parts of Sir Oliver and a rapid glimpse of the lovely thigh.
The doorbell rang, cutting short my indiscretion, and I was suddenly alarmed, for it was already three in the morning and a visitor at such an hours was like an evil omen.
The individual, clutching a bowler hat, was as nervous as myself.
"Is," he whispered, glancing hastily over his shoulder, as if he feared he had been followed, "is Lady Hottham here?"
"I am sorry," I answered, "I know no Hottham. This is the residence of Sir Mottke-Wrench," and proceeded to close the door.
"No, no," he insisted, placing one foot in the way, "I don't mean does she live here, I mean is she here?"
"I cannot say," I answered, "nor do I see any earthly reason why I should tell you."
"There is every good reason, let me tell you. If you value the life of your master you had better get her out. Her husband is on the way up! Good-night."
He disappeared down the corridor.
"Hell of a mess," I grumbled, "if he's lying I'll lose my job, if not, the Master will lose his life."
I tossed a coin to decide my course of action, but the sound of footsteps convinced me the man had been telling the truth, and losing no time, I rushed into the bedroom.
The Lady's lips were busily drawing up and down the Lord's penis. Underneath her crotch, on the far side, Sir Oliver's tongue was probing between her labia.
"Sir Oliver," I shouted, "for Christ's sake, get her out immediately!"
They were both far too gone to hear anything, or care for anything other than the moist genitals they were bathing. I had the most unenviable task of disengaging the Lord's prick from Her Ladyship's mouth and of prying apart the hungry cunt from his tongue. No sooner would I release one end when the other would rejoin. The lascivious sounds of lapping and sucking interspersed with Sir Oliver's muffled curses on my person and the Lady's whine of displeasure.
Despairing of ever dissociating the perspiring bodies, I thought rapidly how I might best conceal them.
Staggering beneath their combined weights, I lifted them from the bed, still in position 69, and deposited them in the massive armoire which stood against the wall. Not for a moment did they let up their sucking and slobbering, nor did they note the change of decor, for even in the darkness of the armoire they continued their lascivious caresses.
I straightened the bed, put the light out, and went to await Lord Hottham. An hour passed with no sign of life and I fell off to sleep.
When dawn's light traced long, faint shadows across the floor, I was awakened by my master's bellowing.
I jumped from my place and ran to let them out. Sir Oliver and the Lady tumbled at my feet, dragging half the contents of the closet with them.
His Lordship was at a loss as to how he and his charming friend had found their way into the armoire.
"Bejesus," he said with an awed tone, "I sure put one on last night! Get some liniment and rub my back, will you?"
His body was still cramped and twisted from the fornicating position in which he had spent the night. Lady Hottham was equally bent, but snored away peacefully on the floor.
"Ah, that's good, that's better. You might rub her down too. You know, I think I'm getting old, my prostrate glands aren't what they used to be."
"You mean prostate, Sir."
"I know very well the glands I mean, I don't fuck with my liver!"
"Sir, I must confess, it was I who put you in the armoire."
"You did?"
"Someone said her husband was looking for her. I tried to tell you, but...."
"Husband? What husband? The lady has been husbandless for a fortnight!"
"I'm sorry, sir, a man in a bowler hat...."
"Tut, tut, never you mind. You're a faithful servant but a little naive. Fetch me some brandy and put this creature to bed."
A half-hour later he went out, not yet able to stand fully erect.
I picked up Lady Hottham and placed her in bed and began to rub her back with liniment. I didn't rub so briskly on her tender skin. I also paid more attention to certain parts of her anatomy not necessarily affected by the cramp. I massaged her buttocks for quite some time and then decided to restore the vitality to her muscles in front. I rolled her over and started to rub her titties but my nightgown kept getting in the way, so I removed the clumsy garment and continued the massage, kneeling over her naked form, keeping industriously to my task, until I reached her little fur patch.
Here was an enigma. Was the lady suffering from cramp inside? And how was one to tell? Well, I reasoned, if one doesn't have a cramp, a massage does no harm. Perhaps it is even beneficial. What faults I possess, I am known to be a man of logic.
She turned over on her side, so I lay down beside her after rubbing some liniment on my cock.
For a long while my fingers dallied lovingly in the twisting, wiry curls. Then, when my curiosity about the length and breadth of the pubic mound had been satisfied, my fingers took the ridges of her slit and felt along the agreeable lips, sometimes stopping for a slow massage, which soon caused the first drops of mucous to pour out of her awakened glands. At times, also, a deep sigh escaped from her half-open mouth, but she slept soundly all the while I played with her pussy.
The cheeks of her warm ass squeezed tightly round my cock, followed by a slow revolving of her buttocks over the nub, mashing it pleasurably between its fat rolls. Then, like in an erotic dream, her thigh went up and the proximity of my cock to her snatch was such that the merest push put its head between the vulva, and from there to entering the meaty walls was the matter of an extra shove. From then on I let have at her with my most fiery drives whose thrills penetrated her somnolent being with the beautifully relaxed and luxurious sensations of a morning fuck.
The hot and splashing orgasm swirled into the maelstrom of her secreting glands, and, coming together with me, her thigh fell down again to hold my organ fast in place.
Not once in the exciting play had her eyelids opened and, while I was getting ready to plug her a second time, I heard the key turn in the lock outside.
When Sir Oliver entered, I was polishing the table lamp with the liniment.
"Griffin is waiting for you downstairs," he said. "You are to go with him and do as he says. No questions."
He undressed and jumped into bed, his prick already hard for action.
"And lock the door," he called out as his cock slid into Lady Hottham's glowing pussy.
CHAPTER TWO
Samuel Griffin's puffy eyes were compressed into dark, conspiratorial slits. When I came out on the street he hurried to my side without introduction and led me swiftly around the comer where a luxurious, red Hispano-Suiza awaited us silently. He whispered his instructions to the chauffeur, darting his invisible eyes up and down the street as if he feared someone watching.
I was further impressed and not a little troubled when he rolled down the curtains. The coat-of-arms of the Grand Duke de Beaucouillon was engraved on each window, embroidered in the upholstery in gold braid and shone on brass plaques on each door. Not once in our drive did Mr. Griffin offer an explanation of any sort. The only contact we had was through the offices of a whiskey flask passed between us regularly every two minutes. I was going to offer the chauffeur a drink but the butler's hand restrained me showing the pint bottle on the driver's seat.
He brought me into the library and served me from a bottle of the finest Scotch.
"If you would like to familiarize yourself with a bit of the Duke's past," he said, extracting an enormous tome from the shelf, "just glance through here. The Duke will be down shortly."
He left on his unsteady feet as I began leafing through the book.
Even a summary perusal of that curious volume revealed the incredible bedlam of the Grand Duke's "family tree. The first pages alone disgorged a half dozen rapes, twenty-one poisonings, and thirty stabbings. I counted forty-seven cases of dap and sixteen known incestual relations in four paragraphs. I lost track of the bastards after counting up to sixty-three. Adultery was a major activity in between the masked balls and gigantic feasts. A score of murders flourished in each generation and even the warped branch of imbeciles who cropped up regularly acquitted themselves honorably in the family tradition. Rare were the deaths due simply to old age. There was a running battle through the centuries to see who could tally the most deflowered virgins to his credit. The ambitions of the females were hardly less vicious. Without exception, they had all attempted to sleep their way to the throne. A certain Mathilde, a precocious Renaissance adolescent, boasted that she had enjoyed the favors of every European monarch. She was the most traveled of the lot, and were it not for an untimely death while crossing the Black Sea in her projected assault of Asia, she might easily have added a list of Eastern crowns to her laurels. Her murder by a rival branch of the family, all bastards, touched off the cruelest of incestuous vendettas in history.
There was one other individual in the library, a certain Conte D'Avino and close friend of the family as I was to learn later, who was hidden from view in a large armchair poring over some ancient works. At his feet lay a briefcase and pages of a manuscript. His back being turned, I could not see his thin, haggard face and peaked mustache. He was far too absorbed in his books and the wine nearby to pay attention to anyone else.
A maid entered and smiled sweetly in my direction, walking with a pleasing roll of her buttocks as she crossed the room. I watched her curiously as she went back and forth, arranging books and emptying ash trays.
The observation of her charms began to take effect on my sensitive prick.
I glanced over at the Conte but apparently he had fallen asleep. The cigarette smoke no longer floated over his chair and his head was out of sight. The maid was exciting me beyond control and I sought for some way to get her in a comer alone. With the preoccupied air of one searching a book, I went to the shelves and let fall several volumes.
"Oh, leave them to me, Sir!" she cried, coming to my side.
"So clumsy," I mumbled, regarding the luscious buttocks bending down in front of me.
The aphrodisiacal odor of her body, added to the view, put an end to my patience. Moving round behind her I grabbed the hem of her skirt and flung it over her head, exposing the frail panties stretched tight over the generous mounds. Caught by surprise, she was for the first precious moments completely at my mercy. The panties came slithering down to her ankles. I burrowed my head between the curving crack and felt with my tongue for the intimate hairs of her cunt. She shuddered with fear as the bold attack attained the region of pleasure. I pushed my advantage all the way.
While my tongue went deeper into the warmth of her crotch, my hands undid my trousers and released the throbbing club with its inflamed head. I next pulled off the restraining panties, allowing her thighs to spread apart for reception of my tool. The tongue had prepared the way by thoroughly lubricating her organ, abetted by her own natural flow of mucous. Raising my head from the dark region. I flung my body against hers and felt the intense drive of the shaft as it sped inward to the mark. With my arms bound round her small waist she was securely locked and unable to thwart the blow which seared into her vagina. Everything hinged on a rapid entry, for I counted on the overpowering thrill of the male organ to reduce her last bit of will to resist. The accuracy of my aim and the driving strength which plummeted the head into her deep, assured my success, and I began to fuck in earnest, clamped like a bull to her back. The long sighs issuing from beneath her skirt told me she had given herself up to the sensations and, not content with simply receiving, she twisted her ass in sensuous convolutions to grasp every possible combination of excitation from the slimy rod. We galloped to a rapid climax, performing a perfect example of the "Coup en Robe" so much in favor with our ancestors.
A loud fanfare of trumpets greeted our finish and the door burst open as the Grand Duke strode in and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of us on the floor.
He reared back on his boots and pulled nervously at his beard. I was prepared for a roar of rage, and the trembling maid, waiting for the ducal explosion, did not dare bring her head out of her skirts.
The fanfare had roused the Conte from his slumber and his mustache grazed the arm of the chair as he rubbed his eyes, yawned, and turned to see who had arrived. He put on his glasses hastily when he saw my dripping hose extracting from the maid's hole.
I pulled up my trousers, attempting to restore a semblance of dignity to the situation.
The Duke stepped forward and, to my surprise, examined the charming globes of his maid. He ran an expert hand about the rosy surface, pinching the cheeks at the end, and straightening up, looked me up and down.
He placed a confidential hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear:
"Is she," he asked, "a good lay? I had her hired only yesterday."
"Yes," I whispered back, forgetting my fears in my enthusiasm. "Quite good, considering the circumstances."
"Yes, yes, of course, rather hasty, I suppose?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
The Conte had risen from his chair, finished off his Burgundy, and joined our little group.
"What do you think?" the Duke asked him.
"I didn't see a thing."
I saw that both he and the Duke were slyly unbuttoning their flies as they spoke, in what looked like a race for the servant's ass.
The Duke having lost, he begrudgingly stepped aside for the trouser-less Conte, who dropped to his bony knees and spat into the seam of her ass.
"He's so meticulous," commented the Duke.
The Conte rammed his tool into the maid and began to heave into her with noble fury. The Duke ordered me to wait for him upstairs, no doubt a little displeased that a commoner should be observing the amorous play of nobles.
CHAPTER THREE
While I had been beading about his past, the Grand Duke lay astride his bed upstairs, blowing fragrant smoke rings in the air. All about him lay a disordered array of feminine apparel, as if cast off in the greatest haste. The room was thick with the smoke of his long Havanas and the pungence of Oriental perfumes. At the foot of the bed reposed a half-empty case of Slivovitz.
On the couch opposite were two naked females entwined in heavy sleep, their bodies glistening with tiny drops of perspiration.
The Grand Duke's cock hung limply out of his carelessly buttoned fly, glowing a ruddy pink from its recent exertions. He was on the verge of falling asleep when Griffin entered to announce my presence.
The Duke listened to the butler's words, then, smiling, leaped out of bed and ordered him to "clean up a bit."
"What about them?" asked Griffin, indicating Lady Worthington and her close friend, the Duchess of Ischitbay.
The Duke glanced at the rosy buttocks of the Duchess, then shrugged his shoulders.
"Just cover them up, the good ladies need rest."
Griffin's "cleaning up" consisted in downing the remainder of a bottle and shoving the case under the bed. It was he who led me to this chamber for my change of clothing but apparently found it unnecessary to mention the presence of the women, scarcely visible in the confusion.
I first saw the buttocks when I removed my trousers. Startled, I stared unbelieving at what I was sure was a hallucination, a retroactive vision of the maid's lovely behind. Since the vision persisted, and my doubts increased with its permanence, I approached the bed to pinch the troubling epidermis.
The Duchess murmured something incoherent, eradicating my doubts, and awakening my lust anew. Taking my cue from the general atmosphere, I flung my trousers over a chair, kicked off my shoes and socks, and, stripped to the skin, climbed in bed next to her. I set to work immediately to find her pussy. The good dame, feeling the stiff member between her legs, stretched wide her thighs to let me slip between. Her lovely firm tits were encompassed by my hands as I felt her own fingers grasp my prick and place it where it belonged. The tight cunt gave away all around and she moaned as she felt the turgid snake weaving into her.
Our erotic scrambling woke Lady Worthington from her slumbers. She having been totally hidden from sight all this time, it was a bit of a shock to me to see another face appearing out of nowhere over the shoulder of the woman I was vigorously plugging.
It was no surprise to her that we should be thus engaged, for she took me for the Duke and kissed me pertly on the nose.
The Duchess complained with irritation that Irene was distracting me.
"Not in the least," I objected, affirming my statement with a series of rock-'n'-roll that had her panting deliriously and unconscious of all else but the libidinous immersion of our genitals. Lady Irene exchanged her ass where her face had been, offering me a carefully brushed and perfumed pussy. My tongue lapped hungrily on the juicy lips while I inserted a finger in the bung which poised but an inch above the Duchess' nose.
My spanking balls produced their sperm in a hot shuddering blast which convulsed the Duchess' cunt into its spasm of liberation. Lady Irene's titillated clitoris brought her to her pleasure at the same time and the three of us swooned in the raptures of orgasm.
The fanfare of trumpets sounded from a distant part of the house, and I nearly snapped my member extracting it from the Duchess. Those horns had a way of blowing every time I got laid and I half expected the entrance of an angry Duke, outraged at my cavalier treatment of his women.
"You're not leaving!" cried Lady Irene, chagrined that she was not to have a taste of my cock.
"Just for a piss," I lied.
I ransacked the closet, pulling out the first articles that came to hand, and left the room with my arms full, hardly troubling to close the door.
I had not been a moment too soon. From my hiding place at the end of the hallway I saw the Grand Duke appear at the head of the stairway and disappear immediately in the chamber I had just vacated.
Still clutching the clothing and debating my next move, I noticed with horror that the little room into which I had ducked began to move. Good God, I thought in panic, just my luck to run into an elevator.
I began to dress as fast as I could hoping it would go far enough to give me time to make myself presentable. It did not. It stopped and the door opened while I was on the floor struggling into some shoes.
A pile of sheets and pillowcases were flung in my face, nearly smothering me, and the person I judged to be the laundress, who by some miraculous turn of fate had not seen me, entered the cabin and we began to descend.
My fright vanished when I saw my good fortune. The laundress was a large woman who was breathing heavily from her exertions. Behold, there was now the biggest ass of all before me. Ages of lechery were behind me drowning out the feeble voice of prudence. Enough of me emerged from the sheets to present a fighting front and I took the woman's skirts in my hands and lifted them up to her waist. This one wore no underwear at all, and the fat, chubby flesh rolled round in two giant pink balls. My prick snuggled in between while I leaned my head on her shoulder as her startled eyes turned halfway round to see what had happened.
The elevator went down to the cellar, then went right back up to the top floor. It repeated the voyage several times, enough for the two of us to finish off nicely.
The stocky laundress walked out all smiles on the bottom floor and nearly forgot to pull her dress down in her abstraction. I threw the sheets out after her and went up to the next floor.
When I stepped out and saw myself in the light I found I was clothed in the resplendent uniform of the royal hussars, with a chest full of decorations and the insignia of a colonel proudly gleaming on my shoulders.
Griffin almost passed right by me, bearing some bottles he had brought up from the cellar.
"Oh Griffin," I cried, catching him by his coattails, "listen, I think I have made some kind of a faux pas."
"Nonsense," he replied categorically. "That is impossible."
The butler's confidence reassured me, though I couldn't help a slight discomfort at the confusion in the Duke's chamber.
"Our first concern is to strip you of your plebeian mentality. The Duke's plot depends on that."
"He has a plot?"
"My dear fellow, what good is a Duke without a plot? The aristocracy is simply ridden with intrigue. Keeps them on their toes, you know."
"I see. But isn't it a little risky?"
"That depends on your wits. If you have dull days, as sometimes happens to the Duke, let me know. But you needn't worry for no one is more qualified to be a duke than a butler. Butlers are silent people whom very few understand. They have a natural snobbism which often has to be taught to the nobility."
"This is all very intriguing," I answered, accepting the drink he offered, "not to say mysterious. It sounds very much as if I am involved in his `plot'."
His puffy eyes lit up strangely and he actually grinned at me in a knowing way, as if to say, "We don't talk about such things," I saw immediately that the old fellow fairly doted on intrigue, probably going so far as to improvise on his own, should there be a dearth of plots in the manor house. Yet, though he was sparse with his information, I understood that I had been brought here to play an important role in the Duke's scheming. He let fall a hint on what that role would be before letting me into the apartment meant for me.
"The protocol of our hierarchy is strict and disciplined and an impersonation on this level calls for extreme conviction. Remember, a Grand Duke in no wise resembles ordinary men."
I could think of nothing to say. The whole thing sounded so fantastic.
"And one last bit," he finished, "under no circumstances are you to show your head outside your apartment. Absolute secrecy ... Absolute!"
The door closed silently on his fat finger pressed in warning against his lips.
I sat at a mahogany table covered with damask and laden with fine porcelain and heavy silverware. The walls were covered with ancient tapestries and solemn portraits. Beneath those hoary ancestors I stirred my spoon morosely in the soup, hearing the noise of a joyous company in the banquet hall which only aggrieved my loneliness. I imagined the brilliant warmth in that room with its dancing couples and the amorous play that was passing in secret beneath the table and was later discomfited by certain squeals that issued from their midst as the night wore on.
Notwithstanding Griffin's remarks on butlers, I felt an alternating apprehension and elation at the sudden turn my life had taken.
"Duke," I said aloud, tapping the porcelain cup for emphasis, "GRAND DUKE! ... COSIMO ... It is a beautiful name ... it has a fourteenth-century ring. The Borgias and the Medicis ... Don John of Austria...."
I fell asleep with the noble names caressing me and dreamed of gorgeous masked ladies waltzing at a Venetian Ball.
In the days that followed, Griffin was my sole companion, spending hours on my transformation. One by one my familiar habits dropped away. I became a refined connoisseur of wines, wrinkling my nose on a trial sip of Chateau de la Pompe '89. Dried herring, shark's fin and whale blubber drew the saliva from my mouth. Spices, which once would have burned my taste buds to ash, became an ordinary staple at my table.
My stance was altered to conform to the slight list of the Duke's right shoulder and a riding crop was always in my hands, which in frequent bursts of anger was to be struck against my boots. At such times I had to remember to produce a suspicion of foam about the lips.
My beard was trimmed to a V-cut and a monocle hung from a chain about my neck. So thorough was the butler that I feared he intended to oversee my most private functions, and would hardly have been surprised if he attempted to change the timbre of my farts.
Then, one morning, I was awakened by the ducal fanfare and sat up to behold His Grace erupt in the room. He paced the floor a moment, then flung himself into a chair.
"I am informed you are ready to go on stage," he said in a peremptory tone. "Let us see if it is so."
With a curse for the world's stupidity and kicking the sheets back in disgust, I jumped from the bed, yelled for my boots and snatched up the bathrobe on the floor. Yesterday's shirt was flung out of the windows along with some dirty socks. I emptied the contents of a whiskey flask and ordered the butler to serve me in the bath my breakfast of raw yolk of egg, Hindu toast and hot camel milk, the sexual, fortifying par excellence.
I returned from the bath and jumped into bed to await the flow of correspondence and visitors which would finish up the morning.
The Duke sat all the while puffing on his fragrant Havana and studying my performance with gravity. But the finish was executed with such brio he could not refrain an enthusiastic "Bravo!" emphasized by a cut of the riding crop.
"Bravo," he repeated, stamping out his cigar beneath his spins. "Well done, old boy, well done. In fact," he continued holding his head, "it's rather like a hallucination."
He kicked a chair out of the way, as I knew he would, and left, mumbling over and over, "Hallucinating ... hallucinating."
CHAPTER FOUR
Through the multi-colored panes of the stained-glass windows, the beams of sunlight shattered into all the hues of the prism. The gold and red escutcheon carved in the ceiling glinted in my waking eyes. From somewhere, I heard the morning music of horns and flutes greeting me on my first ducal day. I gazed in awe at the luxury which had so suddenly and unaccountably become my own. The puzzle of this extraordinary metamorphosis did not trouble my thoughts as I bathed in the joyous sensation.
"I was a caterpillar only yesterday, and today I am a butterfly!"
I rang for breakfast and settled back on the silk to await its coming. A pretty blonde entered, dressed in the ducal colors and carrying a silver tray crammed with steaming dishes. She removed the covers and showed me a succulent tournedos Rossini, a tender poussin en cocotte, garnished with champignons a la Couillon, and flanked by a small mountain of crepes suzette, biscuits en forme de queue de chat, and genuine Persian almond cakes swimming in honey. Towering over all were the bottles of wine, the cognac flask, a box of long Havanas, Russian Blacks and a plug of Conte d'Avino's Noble-Grade chewing tobacco.
She tied a silk napkin round my neck and began uncorking the bottles.
"Bon appetit, Your Lordship," she said with a chipper smile, pouring my first drink in the crystal glass. I nodded my head and downed the drink, then hurled the glass across the room where it smashed against the bust of my father.
I glanced up at her out of the comer of my eye to see if I was doing all right. She noticed nothing strange in my behavior. So far, so good, I thought, and went on with the meal.
I removed the almonds from the Persian cakes and ate them, ignoring the rest as if it was poison. I offered her the Poussin, which was an innovation of my own, but she shook her head, saying it was most irregular.
"Who runs this joint, anyway?" I barked. "I decide what's regular or not."
She accepted the food and soon we were both eating and drinking heartily, guzzling the wine in long draughts and throwing the empty bottles to right and left.
I was annoyed at not knowing her name, which proved a certain defect in Griffin's briefing, but she didn't mind my calling her different names with each drink.
Soon I had her balanced precariously on my lap, playing with my beard and sipping from my glass. Her robust limbs flung carelessly over the blankets, unfolding her skirt to reveal the soft white thighs beneath. My monkish life during my apprenticeship had sharpened my desire and the sight of those healthy limbs excited the penis which had lain far too long dormant.
While I regaled her with a joke I recalled rather vaguely, I situated one hand strategically under the folds of her skirt and began to fondle the firm flesh of her ass. I tried to remember the end of the story, but the wine and my preoccupation with finding the crack between her legs hindered my memory. In order to divert her attention I probed my other hand into her bosom.
"Oh, Your Lordship, you're tickling me! Stop it, oh, tee hee...."
I ceased the tickling only to extract one of the luscious fruits, a tit as white as snow and topped with a nipple redder than usual from my manipulation.
I had only to bend my head a trifle to enclose the pap in my mouth.
"And then, what did the lady say?" she asked, referring to my story.
All she got for answer was the smacking of my lips on her titty. In any case, she cared as little as I did about the interrupted story. Her hand went beneath the blanket and found my tool in a high state of erection.
We caressed each other for long delicious minutes, she with her eyes shut in bliss and I with a tongue busily engaged in worrying the lovely tit into excitement. Finally I stopped, and pointing to the crevice of her bosom and then to my cock, indicated what we should do next.
In the state she was in, no second invitation was necessary. She held her tits together while I placed the cock in her cleft. Several times I ran it back and forth between the soft downy skin, butting her chin with the head and feeling my balls flop against the close-pressed nipples.
When it struck her chin she let go of her tits and clutched my cock, holding it steady while she brought her crimson lips full over the bulge of the tip.
"Now my turn," I said, and swung round to confront her legs spread akimbo over the bed. I pulled back the obstructing skirt and down on the panties. She raised her buttocks high, offering me her pussy to tongue and suck while she planted my rod as far as it would go in her throat.
The room was filled with our lascivious lapping and sucking until both cock and cunt erupted the fiery sperm and mucous of passion.
I realized the extent of my imprudence when the door swung open and an angry woman entered, blasting us both with a string of invective worthy of a seaman.
With my face plunged deep in the opened cunt before me, it was impossible to invent any plausible excuse for my behavior and the blonde was choking on the member tapping her windpipe.
Resigned therefore to take the wrath manfully, I removed my tongue from the dripping orifice and, wiping my mouth, looked up to see my accuser, forget ting the blonde who was endeavoring to dislodge my obstinate prick.
The peripeteia of my job were enough to convince me that the life of a Grand Duke was far from simple. Helping the blonde to release herself, I sat up and shielded as much of her as I could. The spectacle must have been droll but I did what I could. I was seated on the belly of my partner, whose legs and mine ran off from what looked like the same starting point, which is to say, at the point where my prick hung limply down over her cunt. One may find in those curious tomes of the Middle Ages certain demons or monsters to whom we now bore a close resemblance.
The intruder did not appreciate such things in the least.
"You have a foul tongue," I said, trying to decide her relation to the Duke. It was plainly a case of jealousy and wounded vanity that I should be in bed with a servant.
"Not half so foul as your own," she said, "from what I've seen."
"Careful," I warned, "or I shall have you whipped."
"There's no question of making up," she sneered. "Keep your love for the scullery!"
She looked like a real fiery piece of ass, trembling and shaking in anger. First of all, it was her extraordinary breastworks which met the eye. After that it was difficult to have the eye roam anywhere else. I noticed that when she grew vehement they shook in rhythm with her lips, giving the impression they were hinged by invisible strings, in the manner of a marionette. Yet she was not at all fat-far from it, and her waist was thinner than it ought to be after the sight of the tits. Her hips flared out in a luscious S-curve, falling away on thighs which modulated finely down to her limbs, and the line wove gracefully to end in delicately turned ankles which hardly seemed capable of supporting her. Yes, a completely different category of female, rich in curves to whose provocation I could not long resist, and the bludgeon lying betwixt the blonde's thighs began to rise in homage. It poked its thick red head up at her like an impertinent child insulting its elder. She was grinding out the curses like a player piano, not letting me get in a single word of defense, when the erection growing up caught her eye. The mouth continued for a while but the eye never left the swelling thing and it seemed to dilate proportionally with my organ. The player piano ran down, dwindled to an innocuous mumble, and finally the only noise which came from her throat were suspicious gurgling sounds of unmistakable animal origin. I let her gaze like that for a moment or two and then gave her an invitation to come closer and talk matters over with me. Mechanically, as if she was thrown off her will, she did as I asked. When she was in arm's reach I caressed her head and then her formidable bubbies which fascinated me as much as my cock intrigued her. With a shudder, as if she hated herself for her weakness, she fell headlong on the stiff prick, grasping it tight in her hands and rubbing it against her cheeks with all the rapture of an infant and its lollypop.
When I felt she had played with it long enough, I told her to strip and show me her wonderful tits. I have to confess that though my curiosity was genuine, the softness of her mouth and the expert way in which she sucked on my cock threatened to bring me to my climax before I wished.
She was reluctant to leave it go, being of that particularly tempestuous type called Phallus-Worshipers. Highly volatile by nature, they literally explode when confronted with an erect male organ. Their dreams are not couched in the vague subterfuge of another, dreamier sort who find their voluptuous sensuality expressed in the banal symbols of snakes, pipes, horns, sticks, rams, pylons, towers, and skyscrapers. She was of the realist school, the true earthy devotees, who shy from sham and respond unfailingly at the original, the living, the present and throbbing male penis.
Therefore, reluctant, as I said, to quit the tense, vital staff she had lubricated, she had become soft and manageable from desire and the once raving, henpecking female was transformed into the docile, loving instrument of my wishes.
She undressed to her skin and I marveled at the excellent breadth and stamina of her bubbies, which dropped not an inch when she released her restraining brassiere. She had no need for special constructions, or of those spurious imitations of female charm in sponge rubber and elastic bands.
I received her with open arms, stepping off the bed and relieving the blonde of my weight. I headed straight for those tits and began a lusty massage of their paps which made them grow long and hard. Our stomachs touched, sending delicious shivers through the contact of warm flesh.
A libertine finger probed for her clitoris and throbbed it to and fro, working the appetite of her cunt until she begged me to put in my cock.
She held herself poised like a statue, that I might take in to the full the bold outlines of her chest, but there was a limit to patience. I swung her around to give the blonde the thrill of seeing our coupling genitals.
My new partner commanded Lola, as she called her, to get behind me and play with my balls. The blonde, happy at the change of heart and stimulated by the fornication taking place before her, jumped off the bed and proceeded to dally my balls with gusto, rubbing her cheeks over them and finally trying to grasp them in her mouth as they swung to and fro.
The gurgling and rippling, the babble and splashing was music to my ears, and soon the nectar of love began to flow, culminating in the ardent spurts which drowned us in joy.
Sighing and moaning, we sank to the floor, missing the blonde by a crotch-hair, who was so entranced with my balls. The door creaked open slightly and the enigmatic head of the Conte leaned in, a quizzical expression playing over his twitching mustache.
"Splendido!" he cried. "Adultery! Corruzione! Che bella pischetta!"
He threw his card at the woman in a romantic gesture, whispering as if I were not there "Sta sera, Cara ... Camera numero sette ... Ciao!" then disappeared with his bottle and briefcase for the library.
The unknown woman, whom I suspected was a houseguest from a previous celebration, had to be lifted into bed, for she had not yet reached consciousness. I told the maid to have my correspondence brought in and climbed back into bed to enjoy the big warm titties of the adulteress.
CHAPTER FIVE
Vladimir Iyitch Khratchevich, a tall, gaunt renegade of the Imperial Court, watched with wide, staring eyes behind the closet keyhole. An envoy of some insidious Countess I was soon to meet, he had, in the course of his espionage, unearthed a juicy tidbit of his own private life, for the lascivious woman in bed with me was none other than his wife. He bit his lips and cursed, observing her amorous comportment with secret delight. While my prick went back and forth into Madame Kratchevich's hole he rubbed his balls and cock with a singular ecstatic fury, keeping in rhythm with our movements, until, as if he had been perfectly synchronized, his prick ejaculated against the door when his wife clamped her thighs and shrieked her orgiastic release.
With knees buckled in weakness his weeping eyes lifted once more to the keyhole. The creaking bedsprings warned that we had begun anew. Unable to ejaculate again, his cock chafed and sore from his hand, he rushed out of the closet and fell on us with great gasping sobs. Instinctively I recoiled from the attack, but the weak, spongy back of the masochist calmed my fears, and I would have readily left off screwing his wife except that she held me prisoner between her legs and frantically pumping torso. She fucked all the harder, in a rage of sadism, tearing and scratching at his tear-streaked cheeks and cursing him with long, choppy phrases, punctuating each stinging verbal assault with a violent grind of her groin. He lay as limp as a dummy, flopping over my copulating form, crying unashamedly to his "adored little Nadia" who tore at his hair with each endearment. The bitter tears of the outraged husband trickled into my hair, ran down my cheeks to drip into the volcanic orifice of his Nadia.
He was like some wasted, crumbling moth, being consumed alive in the cannibal flames of her lust.
"You scum! You shit!" was followed by "Nadia, Oh Nadia, Nadia, Nadia...."
I began to feel like a communicant vessel between their irreconcilable depravities. Into the hornet's nest of Nadia's cunt my shaft plunged with redoubled vigor, exalting her voluptuous rhythm into its black, fiery paradise. Vladimir's body went soaring backward in the upheaval, coming to rest, a ridiculous cloth doll, against the headboard.
Completely spent and exhausted from the emotional explosion, the three of us lay like stranded fish, drinking in the strange intensity of the moment.
Recovering the first, I slipped out of Nadia's arms, leaving the weird couple to affront each other.
Griffin was waiting with the morning correspondence and seemed impatient that I attend to it.
"I'm in no mood for reading," I answered curtly, not having gotten Nadia and Vladimir out of mind.
"But there is a luncheon date with the Countess Rubilovsky and the Duke never disobliges her."
"Well he will this time," I answered, "I don't want to meet any more people for a while."
"Sire, this liaison goes back to his father, a very delicate affair."
"In that case we'll hire someone to fuck the old bag."
"She is very jealous, and powerful people are at her command. We cannot risk trouble with her."
"I say, Griffin, this can be a very tiring business; why can't we send Conte d'Avino as a good-will delegate? If the worse comes to worst he can invite her to camera numero sette."
"I heard that!" barked the Conte's voice from the armchair in which he had been sleeping. "No thank you, Cosimo, Grazie tante, but she is your strictly personal affair. I wouldn't fuck that if it meant the Royal Academy. You had better go, because Kratchevich, her spy, is in the house."
"Yes," chimed in the butler. "And he is as crafty as she."
My protests were to no avail, for they knew the situation better than I and convinced me at last that the heinous Countess had to be appeased.
I strode out of the house, cape flying and riding crop striking my thighs. The Hispano-Suiza turned over and I left to join the Countess.
The uniformed gatekeeper recognized me with a low, respectful bow which nearly toppled his powdered wig from his head. Barely returning his greeting, I traversed the flagstone court with dragging steps, loitering before a statue of a beautiful nude whose cunt had been drilled and lined with fur. The gatekeeper blushed and tried to avoid my eyes.
"The night watchman did that," he mumbled.
Another servant in livery and wig conducted me through the halls, beneath a row of ponderous chandeliers and phallic candelabras. The rugs were woven in a hairy substance which resembled a dense pubic growth. All of the servants were men of fifty or more, each uglier than the other, but endowed with a massive bulge in the crotch. I wondered if it was they who had scribled the obscene verse than ran all the way up the walls to the second floor.
"Aha, so this is the Countess Rubilovsky's palace!"
I was halted before a door on which a gigantic penis, painted in life-like colors, sprang from the balls at the door and raced upward to the top with a mass of veins threading its surface, until the eye came to rest on the initial R reposing saucily on its tip.
I heard a voice like scraping metal ask me to come in, and entering, was assailed by the cloying odor of opium. The Countess' head was buried in a mass of pillows, and only the long tip on her ivory opium pipe between two pudgy, deep-stained fingers betrayed its position.
The arid locks of her wig jiggled as she nodded a grinning welcome.
"Ah, mon tres cher Due," I heard the rasping voice say, "Comme je suis ravie de vous voir. How sweet of you not to have forgotten your `petit amour.` "
I advanced gingerly to the bed, trying to find the correct phrases to palliate the old dame who was playing coquette.
Her general coloration was of some sick shade between mouse-gray and tinge of pus. There was not a single hair in her eyebrows, and two jagged black lines traced their existence halfway up her forehead, giving her an air of perpetual shock. Her nose and cheeks were veined like a cabbage leaf over which thick, crusted layers of powder cracked and fell as she spoke. The mouth was like a gangrenous wound in which her black teeth swam in the most unsavory juices.
"Come, sit next to me and tell me what naughty little Dukichins has been up to these last days. Come, mon petit, and tell me of your awful deeds."
Good God, I thought how on earth can the Duke get himself to fuck THAT! Must have been one of those one makes in youth.
"Now, now, little cheater," she croaked, "come and tell mama all about it. Now weren't you with that big-titted Nadia this morning? For shame! Come and confess, because Mama knows all!"
Her venom was ill-concealed and I realized that Griffin had been right, she could be a terrible enemy. "Well, but really," I lied, "I was seduced."
She shot me a look of vehemence that convinced me it was worthless to keep up the farce. It was then I noticed the peculiar hump in the bed just where her crotch ought to be. Waving the opium fumes away, I seized the sheets and pulled them down. Between her gnarled limbs there projected the stub of a huge leather cock, jabbed in as far as it could go in the smelly reaches of her orifice. The tool was as hideous as herself, studded with thick, wart-like nodules, which provided her jaded cunt with extra thrills. The fat, hard lips of her pussy seemed to be made of the same old leather as the phony dick.
"Pigskin!" I snorted in disgust. "You should talk, accusing me of infidelity!"
She cringed in humiliation, the artificial prick denting her belly. Her voice took on a ludicrous whine of apology.
"Dukichins, don't, don't make me suffer. You know I can't be without it. I just can't stand it empty."
"Even so, you ought to let it air out once in a while. That thing is going putrid in there."
"You are too upset," she answered, "you must take a drag of this."
She handed the opium pipe over to me, after taking a long, intense pull on the weed.
I decided to try it, eager to escape the sordid reality. A sudden warmth of pleasure invaded my nerves, accompanied by a strange singing choir in my brain. The windows seemed to shoot up into endless space, taking with them the dancing wallpaper of scarlet cherries ballooned into watermelons. The floor began to sag under my feet, and yet my weight diminished into nothing as if I were bobbing in the bosom of a tepid lake. The Countess' face stretched and flattened into bulbous, undulating shapes, swelling her cheeks into buttocks with a wide, painted anus. The veins and powder seemed to splinter into the rambling fissures of a ruined wall, and when she spoke they wriggled on her skin like a pile of tortured snakes.
Slowly her ugliness vanished as she became less and less real, evolving into a series of erotic pictures swimming around my eyes. Her voice itself tinkled like fragile crystal, coming in on my senses at times like distorted music of an ancient phonograph. Everything seemed to partake of the same sweet softness, rolling and coiling in a veiled promiscuity. Her face floated toward me, sometimes revealing a glittering eye through the mists, then paling away into vague fumes of ether. Was she touching me? I did not know. Rather it seemed I was being folded into a slippery envelope which stole around my softness like a cloud.
Suddenly the atmosphere grew dense, crushing me from all sides, in a gigantic, palpitating wall of pink, glistening like humid mucous with a thousand ridges of pulp, caressing me lightly at first, then, growing enamored, increasing their pressure until they throbbed in a mounting passion over evely inch of my skin. From between my legs an answering turgescence rose to meet the ethereal sheath, drawing the rest of me with it to feed its growing flesh. I felt myself lifted suddenly and bolted headlong, like an arrow, through the surging mass, flying madly at its heart where I burst into hot, spinnning balls of fire showering into the night.
A rasping voice echoed in my ears, crying a woman's name with hatred, a name I did not know. "Sonia! Sonia!" the voice repeated, and the bitter venom with which it spewed the name brought me brutally back to consciousness.
The Countess was sputtering with rage, a jealous twinge tweaking her ugly mouth as she spoke, sweeping away the last vestige of my dream...." Never see that Sonia again, promise!"
I nodded hazily in agreement, thinking only of getting away. Her plans were different, however, and I saw there was no chance of leaving.
I pleaded hunger, fatigue, neurasthenia, impotency, and finally syphilis, first stage. She would have none of it. She dreaded nothing, and craved cock. Oh God, I cried inwardly, what must I not do for the house of Beaucouillon! I read aloud, as a further pretext for delay, the Spanish text engraved over her bed:
En este luger sagrado Por donde pasa tanta gente Saca fuerzas cobarde Y secagh elmos valiente.
I heard her removing the dildo, heard it drop on the other side on the floor with a heavy, sodden sound. She leaned back with a grotesque leer of triumph and expectation, emitting tender sighs that broke into wheezes. She held a tit in one hand and with the other extracted a long wire curl from the pap. I heard her scratch herself in the different uncomfortable regions of her carcass.
Her nose came between my buttocks, and caressed my anus with long, fragrant breathing. An unexpected fart brought an ecstatic answer from her lips. That fart inadvertently saved my prick.
The heinous Countess implored me to give her a good "juicy one." Her head lay beneath my ass, mouth opened wide, compressed on my asshole.
I left her, a quarter of an hour later, lighting her opium, feeing a strange mixture of disgust and relief.
"At least," I thought, as the Hispano-Suiza drove me home, "at least I had a good bowel movement...." Griffin said I acted nobly and the Duke would not forget me.
"Let the matter drop," I answered, "I am disappointed with his connections."
"You shouldn't be," he replied, "you have just had the bitter. You will soon have the sweet ... Tonight you will sleep with your wife."
CHAPTER SIX
"My wife!"
"Yes, Sire, your wife."
"You never told me I had a wife!"
"Whoever speaks about wives? In this respect the Duke is quite like other men."
I paced the floor in agitation and discomfort.
"Where has she been all this time? What is she doing? It's not normal for a wife to be so absent!"
"She is with her mother, Your Grace. I think there was a dispute, begging your pardon. While you were at the Countess' a telegram came saying she would be home tonight."
"Is that so? Why hasn't she written? Away all that time and not a word, not even a postcard. What's wrong? Doesn't she love me any more? I tell you, Griffin, the little bitch has gone and gotten herself a lover. I can smell the bastard!"
"No, Sire, you must not take on so. Treat her cold, like the Duke. It's the only way to keep them hot."
"Tell me, Griffin, is she good-looking?"
"Oh, like that, Sire!" He described the curving shape of a female with his hands. It seemed to me his tongue was hanging a little too far out in homage.
"That will do, Griffin. I'll ring for you later."
Alone in my study I paced the floor, smoking endlessly, consuming shot after shot of cognac, brooding on my marital condition. All the gaiety went out of me, chased also, it must be admitted, by the luncheon affair with the Countess.
"Things are getting rotten around here," I groaned. The paintings turned drab, the gold lost its glint, and I might have been, for all the difference it would have made, striding the gloomy halls of a funeral parlor. "Conjugal love!" I shivered at the idea.
I ransacked the closets to find new clothing, something bright, to help change my mood. I tossed out uniform after uniform, stopping at one which suddenly caught my imagination. It was of deep scarlet, lined with ermine, covered with braid and bore the mark of a Moscow tailor.
"Tiens," I thought, "that's funny. I didn't know the Duke was a Cossack." I searched through the others, examining the marks of origin, and discovered it was a collection from every cavalry unit in Europe.
"I shall don myself as a Don Cossack tonight. Might as well greet the little woman in style."
Whatever Griffin thought when he saw me, his red face gave no clue.
"Thank you, Griffin, for your courtesy. It's Russian night tonight. Send up vodka and herrings, have sad music play, and break a window downstairs now and then."
"We have no more vodka. Our last delivery was a Balkan thing: Slivovitz, Ouzo, and Retzina."
"No vodka," I groaned. "What a day this is! Send up the Slivovitz then, drink the Ouzo, and bum the Retzina."
He went out to hire a bunch of Bulgar musicians and I settled back with my bottles to wait for my spouse.
I kept the door open so that I could see her from a distance as well as hear the plaintive melodies better. Time passed, I finished one bottle, and got sadder and sadder.
Then, when I was considering the bottle I would honor next, I heard the sharp clicking of high heels. I grabbed the nearest bottle, rammed the neck down on the table and bolted a shot down.
A gorgeous redhead leaned over the threshold and smiled. She was covered with diamonds and gold.
"May I come in?"
"She IS beautiful, I thought, feeling the sadness fall away.
"But my dear," I cried, "of course you may! What a question!"
She offered her hand to be kissed, and I did so, for protocol is protocol, even between man and wife.
"Why all the gloom?" she asked. "They have the saddest group downstairs. Just to see them makes you cry."
"Oh," I replied, "a whim, my dear, just a whim. When I am lonely I like to feel it to the core. But now that you're back I feel much better."
I put my arm around her familiarly, the way any husband would, but it seemed to give her a start. She's not used to me yet, I thought, been away too long.
"Come, my pet," I said, "take off things and I'll give you a real hello."
"Why ... the idea!" she replied, looking really shocked.
"Pish and tosh," I said. "Pooh, pooh, pooh, come little sugar bun, don't be shy. I know it's been a long time, but even so...."
"Whatever in the world are you trying to do?" she asked anxiously. I was steering her to the bed, my hand already under her skirt, feeling her ass.
"Now don't be bashful. Perhaps you'd rather I undress you?"
I didn't wait for her answer, since the male has got to be forceful when his wife is shy, and lifted her skirt up. She brought her hands down to hold it back and her face was livid with anger.
The momentary lifting of the skirt had shown me more than I needed under the circumstances. Beneath the transparent panties the triangular patch was clearly visible and the shape of her hips well defined against the background.
"My darling," I panted, "don't stop me, for heaven's sake, don't stop me. You know you love it, why resist?"
"But this is vile, an outrage! Do you hear, an outrage! Stop what you're doing this minute!"
What kind of a woman had the Duke married? I couldn't believe my ears. I became angry in my turn, though now, looking back on it all, I know I was racked with lust.
I threw her to the bed, loving her kicking legs which threw her skirts back and revealed once more the adorable little pussy hiding in her pants. My Cossack trousers here proved of inestimable value. Those gallant riders wore flies with flaps which no doubt served the very purpose to which I put my own. No more than a shake of my hip was needed and my cock was out straight, brandished hard and powerful against the hairy slit my brutal hand uncovered. She hammered and pounded on my shoulders and head but the irresistible force in my loins drove the head into place, after which it was a simple matter for the rest of the shaft to slide in. How good it was! How rich a sensation, the voluptuous ride into the warmth and the moist, the sensual peace inside and the wild beating all around! Again and again I forced my spear in and gradually the beating subsided, the yelling died down and from tearing my hair she turned to caressing it. Soon sighs of pleasure came forth and the struggling legs gave up and closed gently round me, and her hips met mine with each entry until the bed creaked in a steady rhythm of her total and willing surrender.
The Cossack pants shivered and trembled in the orgasm. She pulled me in as tight as she could with her arms and her legs, as if fearing to lose a drop of the hot bath I shot into her.
From afar I heard the mournful notes of a sad chant of the steppes. The moon was high, splintered in eerie shapes on the panes, fire crackled in the chimney and the world and I were at peace once more.
CHAPTER SEVEN
"Do you realize you left the door open?"
"What do we care, honey? We're married."
"Married?" she cried. "Are you mad?"
Something so genuine in her voice made me start. "Well," I asked simply, "aren't we?"
"Good heavens!" she exclaimed.
"Good God, you're NOT my wife!"
"How do you dare have the effrontery to do this to me when she might walk in at any moment?"
"Better get up," I said, "I was just thinking the same thing."
She adjusted her clothing while I poured out some drinks.
"By the way," I asked, "was there anything special you wanted to see me about?"
"It was you yourself who invited me! I do believe something is wrong with you, Cosimo. Don't you remember the St. George Night?"
"Oh that's it, yes, hmm, the St. George Night, yes, why, hmm, of course...."
By Jove, I thought, what in the name of Christ is a St. George Night?
"You've lost your mind!" she accused.
"Oh no, oh no, my dear, you mustn't think that, I am hardly so light-headed. The little lady is coming back, back, tonight and I just couldn't concentrate on St. George."
"You weren't concentrating on her either, a moment ago!" she said with biting sarcasm.
"Ah, infidelity, infidelity! Such a curse ... And I try my best!"
"You sniveling Don Juan!"
She was going to tell me a few more things about my character, suffering from wounded pride, but the unmistakable sound of another pair of high heels coming down the corridor interrupted her.
"Oh Christ, that's her now!" I cried. "For God's sake, don't let her catch you here!"
She was as alarmed as I was, for her clothing was wrinkled in a telltale manner. She fled into the next room as the new heels stopped at the doorway. "Cosimo?"
"Yes, dear! Ah, what a joy it is to see you at last!" A tall brunette confronted me. I felt a moment's hesitation about taking her in my arms because of my first mistake, but it didn't look right for a husband to be so cold on such an occasion, so I took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and kissed her.
"My," she said, "but you're getting familiar!"
Oh, oh, I thought, another visitor for the St. George Night, and was glad I had controlled my impetuous nature.
"Why," I asked, as a feeler, "aren't you in the family?"
"Of course, I am, silly!"
Ah! That's my wife. No doubt about it, they always call their husbands that. I looked her up and down, and found her quite as nice as the first Grand Duchess, though her hair was slightly gray in places. The Duke had married an older woman. A very wise move, I thought. She is more stable, more learned, easier to deal with.
"You haven't changed a bit," I said, smiling warmly at her bust.
"You're a darling, Cosimo, just a dear. I know you don't mean it, but it's sweet of you just the same."
"I do mean it," I answered. "I am sincere. I've never seen you looking better!"
For all the lying I had to do, I certainly told a lot of truth.
This time I closed the door.
"Let's not waste any more time," I cried, my voice thick with passion. "At last we are alone and I can do what I want with you. Think not of me in any way but as a lover. Forget laws and papers, certificates and taboos, and give yourself up to me."
It was a pretty speech, I thought, which would have melted the heart of the most difficult wife, flattered to feel that her charms had not diminished after years of conjugal life.
She laughed as if she were highly amused.
"I am afraid, dear Cosimo, that those taboos are far too strong."
"Nonsense! Sheer absurdity! We are a lover and his lass! All the rest is trash!"
"Cosimo, you've been drinking!"
"Tut, tut, my dear, a few harmless drops ... Oh, how I love you!"
"You're absolutely drunk!"
"If you think my ardor is false, that it comes from bottles instead of testicles...."
"You don't know what you're saying. Come, come, behave."
Ah, so she was the cold, intellectual type. Perhaps, for all I knew, she ruled the Duke with an iron hand. With a flip, I released the hardened penis from its prison, presenting it to her startled gaze with a cry.
"Does that look drunk to you?" I asked. "Does it? Answer me. Can you doubt my feelings?"
She looked at the adamant bone in a mixture of shock, confusion, fear, and ill-concealed desire.
Not content with letting her see it, and counting on the inflammatory sensation of touch, I placed her hand on it. Her lips parted in unmistakable emotion for the turgid phallus. I fell on her with wild caresses, storming the confines of her dress, aggravating her breasts and thighs with fingers now expert in their work. Elastic, silk, lace and nylon gave way before the amorous attack. Her dress, low cut in the back, offered a simple solution of stripping. The garter belt and panties went to the floor dragging her stockings brusquely with them. She floundered beneath the ferocious impetuosity which reduced her resistance to nothing and her thighs spread out before me, abandoning the channel of love to Priapus. I dropped the trousers, wishing this time to feel our nakedness everywhere.
Before spreading wide the mucous-covered mound, I lapped my tongue fervently in the crotch, breathing in the pungent odor of her sex until, half-crazed with its excitation, I jammed the rammer-head through the soft humidity.
We came together. Her cries and moans drowned all else out in my ears. I smothered her with grateful kisses, then rose to fortify myself for a second assault. She lay spread out over the bed, awaiting, murmuring her pleasure.
The second time I had her on her hands and knees, and with my hands over her buttocks, placed the staff at the very tip of her cunt hairs and let it play lightly, tantalizing the sensitive region with its suggestive movements.
Such was our position when a knock on the door destroyed the mood and threw her into a panic.
"Darling," I cried, "there is nothing to fear; what is more natural than that I be with my wife?"
"Wife? Good heavens, that is probably your wife now at the door!"
I helped her gather up the scattered clothing, as panicky as she.
"One moment," I remembered to shout. "Be right there."
I escorted her through the door where the redhead had dodged, imagining the strange reunion that would take place, jumped into bed and said "Come in" in as ordinary a voice as I could manage.
CHAPTER EIGHT
It was no third candidate for wife-hood that entered, but my faithful butler, supporting with one arm the red-eyed Vladimir whom he dragged into the room and deposited in a chair.
"He is inconsolable," said Griffin dryly. "His wife had run away."
"This is great," I said, ironically. "His runs away and mine walks in every twenty minutes with a different face. Go ahead, take a look for yourself, if you don't believe me. I've got a first-class harem starting up in that room."
"Good lord!" he exclaimed, his puffy eyes opening wide. Vladimir looked up and, seeing the butler at the keyhole, rose by a conditioned reflex to do the same.
"Well," I asked, "what is it? Polygamy?"
"You mean you slept with both of them?"
"We didn't sleep," I retorted testily, "we hardly had time to screw! What's more, I am sure they are impostors."
Vladimir looked up from the keyhole.
"They are not impostors," he said, wiping his eyes. "One is your Aunt Tillimond von Moyle, and the other your cousin Ulla di Fantina."
"Incest," mumbled Griffin.
"Ignorance," I replied.
"Ignoble," countered Vladimir.
"Intrigue!" I barked back at him. "What are you doing here in my house? I've had enough of your prying eyes and prattling mouth! If you...."
"One moment, Sire," cautioned Griffin. "Let me handle him. He is a very sensitive man."
As if to prove my butler's assertion, tears began to flow once more down Vladimir's soggy cheeks.
"What a bore you are," I cried. "Your wife is a little bitch, a two-bit slut, and you carry on as if she were the paragon of virtue!"
Whatever Vladimir was going to reply, and it didn't look like it would be anything sweet, he was interrupted by the Conte's head through the open door.
"Anything for camera sette?" he asked, looking around the room for a woman.
"Go in there," I said. "There's a couple of relatives I don't need. And if you're through with her, I wish you'd give Vladimir back his Nadia."
The Conte whisked into the room where Aunt Tillimond and Cousin Ulla were sitting nervously, waiting for events to take their course.
"Bravo! Bravo!" I heard him cry, "Arohi-bravo! Una grand festa fa prepara...."
Vladimir turned on his heels and followed the horny Conte into the room, intent on retrieving his wayward wife.
"What are they all doing here?" I asked Griffin. "Why can't I get my real wife?"
"They are part of the welcoming party, Sire. There will be more very shortly."
"Why the devil do I have to pump things out of you? What party are you talking about?"
"For your wife, Sire. She dislikes returning to an empty house and asked all her friends to be here when she comes. I came to inform you that it's time for you to go down and receive them."
"I am not a social man," I answered. "So just go back down and tell them I'm ill."
"Neither is the Duke, but one has to put up with these things."
Griffin induced me to "play the game" as he called it, strengthening my resolve with liberal doses of Slivovitz.
"But, you're not going to appear in THAT!" he cried, pointing with misgiving at my Cossack pants.
"Fuck protocol," I snarled. "I like these pants. I feel at home in them."
"Sometimes," he said, "you are SO much like the Duke...."
Out on the Grand Staircase I looked down on a scene of magnificence, of hundreds of people chatting in a busy hum, dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns, and realized that my wife was a social climber.
The Bulgars had been replaced by a thirty-piece orchestra which struck up the regal theme of Handel's Water Music as I descended. Everyone snapped to attention and waited with respect for the Grand Duke to enter their midst. Perhaps I didn't show it-I made a tremendous effort to conceal it-but my head was reeling from the Slivovitz, and my feet wobbled unsteadily on the marble steps.
"Keep your dignity," I kept repeating to myself. "Keep your dignity."
That I did not fall was a miracle. I took three steps on sliding heels but caught up in time on the fourth and they never noticed a thing because it fell right in with the music. The fanfare ceased at the bottom step and gave way to a round of applause which I acknowledged by a bow that nearly rolled me over. Everything was whirling in my head, and I shook hands with a dozen people at a time, or so it looked to me. Diamonds, followed by rubies, pearls, and jewels too numerous to mention flashed by in quick succession.
However impressive the wealth in that room, it was no more than decoration to me. The sparkling gems set off the enigmatic beauty of soft female flesh, the seductive decollate of the bosoms of the marquises, the duchesses, the wives of earls and of viscounts, of Knights of the Garter, Pythias and Columbus, all the ravishing companions of laird, seignior, and margrave, the most titled aristocracy that ever bore cordon, coronet, star and garter, proud and lofty in their bearing, as they did me reverence in my turn.
Oh the ringlets and curls of wavy blonde hair, the chignons of henna and sable, of coquettish bangs tracing their frivolous lines over the alabaster skin, white as driven snow, touched artfully with a dab of rouge, of a hint of powder and the whole resumed in the heady odors of musk which emanated like an aura of libido around each silhouette.
"Charmed,"
"My deah,"
"So nice to see you again,"
"Delighted,"
"Your Ladyship,"
"Madame,"
"Chere Madame." Round in the tourbillon I swam, dizzy, with dark, sensual eyes staring at me beneath long, silky lashes like caressing feathers, buoying me up in a constellation of volatile bodies.
The promise of scandal bubbled and whispered in the rustle of their gowns, seemed the very core of their cosmos, as corporeal, as fleshly incarnate as themselves.
"Prepare a spread for these people," I said to the ever-present Griffin as he held me from falling. "And let go of my arms. I'm perfectly at ease."
"The tables are already set, Your Lordship. I do hope you're well."
"Leave go of me," I said, angered that he should think me so weak. "And bring in more Slivovitz."
I probably would have collapsed were it not for my wounded vanity at finding myself supported in my butler's arms, yet I had pushed my bravado to the limit and was the first to arrive at the tables and start the consumption of alcohol.
My folly was soon public knowledge. The trumpets announced the Grand Duchess and the front doors swung open with a flourish for her and her coterie of dames to sweep brilliantly into the ballroom.
"Your wife is here, Sire."
"Ah! At last. Where is she? Whesh tha litta woman?"
The last thing I saw was Griffin's horrified face and my wife's scandalized eyes, as I sank, sweetly drunk, to the floor.
The Spanish tongue received a major alteration through the defective speech of a king. That night, a similar homage, albeit on a lesser scale, was paid to the Grand Duke de Beaucouillon, when the aristocracy followed their leader's move to the floor. Not a soul was standing in the house as long as I remained in the prone position.
Though they were greatly handicapped to dance the mazurkas and polkas struck up by the orchestra, they did their best. Griffin succeeded in reviving me with smelling salts and when I saw the couples weaving on the floor I presumed I had not yet come to my senses. This presumption was to have a regrettable repercussion on the events that followed.
The Grand Duchess had fled the ballroom in mortification. My first inclination was to get up and seek her out, but when I noticed a forlorn wallflower lying alone, watching the couples enviously, I slithered up to her and invited her to dance.
She was very young, a princess of the Crimea, as she said-one of the few who did not know me. She had long, almond eyes that fluttered coyly when she spoke. She was a virgin without a doubt, clad in white with a collar buttoned chastely up to her neck.
I began on my side like all the others but found it less comfortable than when I shifted atop her. My prick, finding itself in a familiar position, which generally meant only one thing, flew through the flap and wobbled around her cunt, hidden beneath the voluminous gown.
It was all very new to her and very agreeable.
Looking around and seeing the general absorption in the dance, I took the liberty of pushing up her skirts as we moved, adroitly, so as to keep her in the dark. All was going with precision until my heart sank on discovering that instead of panties she was wearing old-fashioned bloomers. I would have given up, had not the head of my cock blundered against a hard round object which I identified as a button. The ancient garment was fitted with a fly. One cannot question the customs of other countries: I accepted the oddity with sang-froid, concentrating on poking the hot meat-head around till it would find the space between the first and second button. The bloomer fly formed an odd cloth-cunt over my prick and served as a guide to the warm, fleshy one below.
The raptures of the dance I did over her pubic region showed in the glow that came to her cheeks. Not that she knew what was happening-she was far too innocent for that, and probably assumed the others were doing the same.
The mazurka was obliging long and tres mouvementee. Under its influence I pushed gently, delicately, and the rude male instrument performed the most weightless, the most ethereal fuck of its career. So tender, as if it weighed not an ounce, it literally teased the obstructing hymen out of existence, rending it as if it were a wisp of gossamer.
The sperm waltzed into the green vagina as the final notes of the music died away. I kissed my prostrate partner and sprang to my feet, my cock slinging back through the flap, warm in my groins from the sensual dance and revived to full strength once more.
Everyone rose with me, dusting each other and laugh ing with one accord, highly amused at the novelty. A stocky general with sideburns noticed the Princess still lying where I left her, and since he was an underling I commanded him to take her to the rest room.
"I believe," I whispered in his ear as he lifted her in his arms, "I believe the fumes on my breath were rather strong."
He nodded assent dumbly, pulling down her disarranged gown to make her presentable and carried her out. I'm sure he noticed the blood on her bloomers, but since I was above suspicion, he took it for her period, and had a maid provide her with a box of sanitary napkins.
I inquired to right and left for my elusive spouse, but no one knew where she had gone.
"On with the dance," I cried, solicitous of my guests' pleasure who were ready to join in my search.
I ran up the stairway, overjoyed that at last she and I would be alone. I tried to recall her face but all that came to mind was the cupid bow of her lips.
"Oh well, no matter," I reasoned. "She'll recognize
CHAPTER NINE
The intimate boudoir of the Grand Duchess was sacrosanct and forbidden to males, including her husband. In the soft lights of the drawing-room where she received her visitors were a dozen oir so of her ladies-in-waiting and most personal friends. They walked about on the thick rug, which their long slender heels marked with the firmness of their step.
Some were powdering their faces, adjusting their corsages and stockings in all the careless liberty of women alone amongst themselves.
The charming sight aided my patience to wait for my wife, which they insisted I must do. I sat down on the sofa and watched then enthralled.
So many bosoms, I thought, so many thighs and lovely legs, so many this and that which unfailingly assails the masculine temperament and provokes it in a thousand different ways.
The blood began to pump in my veins, notably in the region of my pubes, not yet dry with the tiny drops of the virgin's blood.
There was no intention of infidelity on my part, nor perhaps any outward design on my susceptibility on theirs, and yet the lubricity of their movements was like secret messages to consort with their pleasures.
"Excuse me," I began, addressing a succulent brunette who was refitting her brassiere in place, "I seem to have forgotten your name."
"Oh, Cosimo," she answered, "what a buffoon you are!"
Crap, I thought, another member of the family! The De Beaucouillons simply abounded in females.
"My dear," I said, pressing closer and looking slyly into her eyes, "we mustn't be so serious all the time. You must laugh now and then or you will become as stiff as Uncle Hubert there."
The sober-faced portrait I referred to hung over the mantel. The uncle in question had acquired the harmless but characteristic malady of somber natures in the nobility called ptosis, or inability to raise the upper eyelid. The portrait represented faithfully the brow sunk heavily over the old voyeur's eyes, and brought her to laughter immediately.
Someone else joined in the discussion of sad Uncle Hubert and shortly the girls and I were laughing about many things unrelated to the ancestor.
In the course of things, one who was in her negligee complained of a draught. I picked up the phone and spoke to the superintendent.
"Start up the furnaces."
"Now?" came the surprised voice.
"Of course now, we're freezing up here. The only people comfortable are those with clothes on."
The massive pipes of the heating system whirred into action and the wall thermometers began to rise slowly in unison. Warm, relaxing waves of heat began to circulate amongst the charming circle, raising body temperatures and libido as well. This latter could be gauged by the increased gaiety and freer movements of their legs and arms. The talk was the glib and catty chatter of females alone, for they so outnumbered me that I hardly interfered with the feminine quality of the surroundings.
I might have learned a good deal about the private lives of many a duchess and countess were I not so occupied devouring with my eyes every advantage they offered to view. But not for long was I content merely to gaze on them. A big blonde in a pink slip bent down before me to adjust a garter, her curving buttocks provokingly grazing my cheek. Perhaps, I thought to myself, as my nose pressed into the soft silk draped over the lovely spheres, perhaps she is a cousin of mine. The aroma of her flesh came through the fine fibers, of a sweetness so overwhelming and intoxicating that I nearly lost my head, but she was saved from assault by her own escaping movement and the unexpected proximity of a pair of tits half-exposed to view. My disappointment at losing the perfumed ass was atoned for in part by the smaller globes at hand. Yet, here again, as I made for them, to feel their tender fruits, they eluded my grasp and followed their owner into the crowd.
I bore the taunting and teasing manfully, but no amount of will-power sufficed to put down the vitalization that flamed through my love-staff. Their numbers increased as other guests came in to refresh themselves and learn the latest gossip of the salons. The newcomers were unaware of my presence, for I was literally swamped and hidden from view and even half-forgotten by those who had received me. The talking went on at a furious pace, consuming their entire attention and interest. A discussion began about the questionable virtue of a certain Comtesse de Montaucul whom I did not know and I, the lost male, might stray between two jabbering females as much as if I were invisible for all the notice I received. Feeling rather a social failure for not having been capable of retaining their interest in my person, I began to run my hands across thighs and asses, fondling small waists, the curve of a hip and even managed to toy with the nipple of one who impatiently pushed me aside to drive home her point in the argument with her neighbor.
My fury mounted, spurred by wounded vanity and my aggravated groins. The blonde whose asshole had smelled so sweet was combing her hair and haranguing another blonde who had criticized the color of her tresses. I advanced through the crowd as oblivious of them as they were of me, intent on one thing: the blonde target of my lust.
My cock was out, flipping and sliding across the buttocks that opposed my path caressing that organ involuntarily with their voluptuous billows. I came up against her and immediately nuzzled my rod between the desired cheeks. Over her shoulder I saw the red lips of the other moving mechanically in the steady stream of conversation. Kneeling slightly, I reached for the hem of the slip and lifted it to her waist. I felt her soft belly, warm and fuzzy to the touch, and just below it the beginning of her crotch-hairs. I ran my fingers through their midst, feeling for the cunt-lips they concealed. Her shoulders rotated with the regular rhythm of her combing and she parted her legs unconsciously for the pleasurable sensations of my caressing fingers. It was enough to allow the male rod entry between her thighs. I brought my hands back and grasped the spongy mass of her cheeks and spread them apart to reveal the tiny aperture of her anus nestled securely in her crack. The head of the organ I buttressed against the muscle of the hole, so like a puckered mouth in appearance, and bracing myself for the effort, shoved it through in one sudden mighty heave. So great was the blow that it parted the resisting anus and slithered into her bowels right up to the hilt without stopping an instant. The surprise and smoothness of my attack was really remarkable. Her arm rested motionless in mid-air, comb poised, like a statue, staring at her friend with wide-open eyes and suspended jaw. The other had no idea of what had happened and, presuming from the rather stupid stare that she had won her point in the argument, redoubled the flow of words.
I pulled back the shaft till the nub reached the restraining ring of the anus and then let it slide forward again. These first luscious sensations in her bowels held her a willing prisoner to my lust. No doubt there was the added thrill of our secret fornication in the midst of all her friends which spiced the physical delights of our contact.
In order to make sure we should not be noticed I put my hands in my pockets and gazed distractedly around the room, shoving in and out from time to time in the casual manner of one standing on a street comer rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, waiting for the light to change.
She, in her turn, resumed her combing and found thereby a ready pretext for moving her ass in time with my rocking.
"I simply cannot abide the vulgar person," I heard someone say close by. For one terrible moment I imagined the reference was addressed to me, that someone had discovered our scandalous act; but turning, I saw that I had merely caught the fragment of a conversation revolving around somebody else's morals. The dissolute, painted eye of a woman in her mid-forties, rather portly and ample-breasted, met my own. With the light of recognition in that eye, she made her way to my side and addressed me.
"But, my dear Duke," she began, "How perfectly divine to meet you again after all these years! And to think that we should find ourselves once more in a dressing room."
I managed a rather tame smile, for at the very moment my thick erection was spewing rich flows of sperm in the blonde's bowels. It was impossible to rein myself in and check the tide. For that matter, the blonde herself was moaning deliriously, straining with all her might to keep her cries down at a decent level.
"De-de-ooh, deelighted," I nearly screamed. "Delighted indeed to see you! How have you BEEN!"
On the last word I gave my final shove and grasped the raised hand of the newcomer and kissed it passionately as the flood raced through the clamped cheeks of the blonde.
"Oh, ever gallant!" cried the other, "toujours galant!"
"Aah," I sighed, "ah, what a PLEASURE to see you, what a pleasure-you'll never know. What a pleasure!"
The trouble was the difficulty in turning full face to her as is properly done when meeting people, but fortunately I had adequate excuse for being rammed up tight against the blonde in the crowded quarters. However, when I began to extract the muceous-laded shaft the dissolute eye glared downward and too late I saw that it beheld the swollen member. It widened considerably at the sight, leaving no doubt as to the effect on her emotional being.
The eye glanced up again and looked into my own and I thought I saw a rapid wink. Whether that was so or not, her hand stole forward to the cock and she grasped it firmly in her fist and, giving it a jerk, helped me to remove it from the blonde. Her other hand was in the process of lifting her skirts, and with the two acts, accomplished simultaneously, she shoved my prick directly into her cunt, so that I didn't miss a stroke.
The blonde turned her head to smile at me and found me busily engaged with Madame Dissolute, as I called her in lieu of her right name. I shrugged my shoulders helplessly, indicating to the one whose buttocks I had just serviced that matters were out of my control and that if I were alone I would not desert her as simply as all that. Apparently she understood and I received another wink, this time from her, and she left me to finish my new task.
"Just like old times," she whispered in my ear, wagging her head wickedly. "There's nothing like fucking in public, eh old boy?"
"Heh, heh," I muttered, "Quite so, old girl. I say, can't you move your ass better than that?"
"But my dear," she complained, "you don't realize that I am jammed in here. The whole ballroom seems to have emptied out. Why in heaven's name does every last duchess have to go and pee at the same time?"
"Society," I answered, giving a good thrust to my weapon. "Society, my dear, is like that!"
She grunted with pleasure and answered with as forceful a riposte as was permitted under the circumstances. Though many around us heard her they mistook the sound for that of some chronic disorder and continued their loquacious effusion. Only the blonde heard the licentious note and she burst out in sudden laughter. She won her argument as a result, for her opponent, stung to the quick by what she presumed was derision, left her on the spot.
I fucked her with short, hard strokes, endeavoring to keep the upper part of my body motionless while working from the groin an exciting belly-dance in the Moroccan style. My partner got the idea but her dipping hip movement was based on the free swing of the rumba. At any rate the combination was an interesting innovation, and penis and clitoris dabbled and tippled about each other's heads until the awaited climax came with a suddenness that threw her into my arms, and in three violent heaves she came over the cock that was spitting all over her vagina.
"Oh," she sighed, "terribly good, my dear, such an improvement over last year!"
"Thank you," I replied, "I have been following an excellent and special diet."
She wanted me to go into details but I had to warn her to first unwrap her arms from around my neck. The door opened and someone went out but, before it closed I heard a laugh that was strange, almost chilling in character, resound from the hallway.
Madame Dissolute clutched my arm when she heard it and began whispering hurriedly in my arm.
"Sonia," she snarled, "that goddamned Sonia! Did you know she was here? Answer me, did you?"
Her eye flared with hatred and I recalled that the Countess Rubilovsky had spoken of Sonia in just the same way. I tried to see over the milling tresses, the shining locks of red and gold, the beautiful tresses of brown and black, but I was able to catch no more than the glimpse of a well-filled bosom disappearing down the hall.
"I did not." I answered, "I most certainly did not know she was here."
"Oh you horrid, weak man," she replied, "do you want me to believe that your 'wife' invited her?"
"I am not lying," I answered. "She must have sneaked in here."
It is not necessary to repeat here what she answered and the names she called me. Suffice it to say that only her good breeding prevented her from going so far as to spit in my face. She added before leaving that she would rather a thousand times over be fucked by Thomas or even Stanley than by my unworthy person. I retained my composure throughout the tirade which was delivered sotto voice, and was turning over in my mind the question of Sonia. I didn't give a damn about either Thomas or Stanley, considering that whoever they were, they must certainly be unworthy rivals, for if I had had no connections at all with the ill-famed Sonia, I would remain in the number one position.
She pulled down her skirts, swiping her hand over her cunt to remove the sperm now in dishonor, and stalked out with her head held high and looking neither to left nor right. Ordinarily I would have been humiliated by such treatment in front of so many acquaintances, but my curiosity was fully aroused and now running on a double track. I was impatient to meet my wife and take her away from the social buzzing, and I had also a very strong desire to meet the greatly redoubted Sonia.
My distraction was such that I forgot to replace my prick in my pants and simply stood there like an oaf in the midst of the jabbering beauties; debating my next move.
CHAPTER TEN
I met me a strange man last night
and taken'm home with me....
Strange man, strange man,
Where can you be?
I listened to the blues number downstairs wafted into the over-heated room each time the door swung open. Taffeta and silk rustled and swished with each entry and departure of the females. The faces of all were flushed and gleaming from the pleasurable exertions of the dance and the loosening effect of glass after glass of Burgundy and Slivovitz. Cries of recognition greeted each arrival, who immediately found herself surrounded by her friends. They exchanged con fidences of a most intimate nature, letting their hair down figuratively and literally in the atmosphere they thought was one hundred per cent feminine. Perspiring profusely, they disrobed and washed, powdered and perfumed their full-grown anatomies with all the ease and abandon of simple peasants, and it was only with a certain effort that I was able to look upon them as the daughters and wives of the most prominent nobles.
"But my dear, that's so frightfully bourgeois!"
It was the near stentorian tones of an imposing dowager which interrupted my bland reverie. The woman was tall, long-jawed, and carried her lorgnettes in her hand like a threatening needle pointed at her companion, a short, heavy-set female of eighteen.
"But not at all, ma chere," retorted the other, turning red at the insult, "all my friends are going."
"You are all silly geese. I knew your kind in my day. Always fainting, going into hysterics, shrieking at mice and the rest of that rubbish. The fashion has changed today and you put on men's trousers and tell each other of your complexes and neuroses. Not one of you has the brains to see that all that's wrong is a Good Fuck."
"But, Aunt Hagerty...."
"Enough, my child, I know what I'm talking about, believe me. I've had my problems like everyone else but whenever I felt like screaming or going into a tantrum I opened my legs instead. Ah, dearie, nothing can equal the peace of mind one gets around a man with a decent cock. It's cock, that's all, just cock, I tell you. Boil Freud down and what do you get? A piece of ass! Fiddle-faddle for your psychoanalysts and your psychiatrists and all the rest of that crew of head merchants. The best thing your analyst can do for you-and mark my words, if he's a good one he'll do it-is to throw up your skirts and give that nervous pussy of yours a good thrashing with his prick. Honey, one time alone will rid you of half your problems."
"Oh aunt Hagerty, you're just old-fashioned, that's what! You don't have the remotest idea how complicated women are. You sound like a farmer's daughter with your damned female cure-all. Modern women aren't like that in the least."
"I know, I know, honey, I've heard it before and I suppose it won't be the last time either. Oh you make me so angry, you upstarts, and when I think I once had faith in you! You had all the advantages of the liberation your mother and myself fought so hard to win, and what did you do with it? Did you go out and get laid the way we would have done? Did you make use of your liberty? Only so you could use four-letter words and then run to the analyst to find out that you should have let cousin Albert stick his dick into you. Oh, what a frightful mess!"
Aunt Hagerty adjusted a hanging brassiere strap and left her niece before the latter could reply. She fumed and stamped her feet, seeking some outlet for her rebuffed feelings. I tinned my head away, not wishing to be taken for an eavesdropper, but the robust ideas of the aunt had tickled my dangling penis and it now stood out a good nine inches ahead of me and felt like it would grow some more. The niece put her foot on a chair to adjust her stocking and in so doing her eye fell on the protruding organ. She started, rearing back in surprise at the unexpected sight. I think she doubted its authenticity, for she put her foot down and edged nearer to it for a better look. It was then I realized where it was. My only hope at the moment was that she wouldn't break out into screams, but, remembering her aunt's words, I reflected that most likely she would hurry off to phone her analyst to explain the emotions in her breast.
It may very well have been her first impulse, but apparently the harsh words of her aunt came to mind, for she did not rush out or scream but instead wound her way through the crowd, never losing sight of the penis for an instant, and when she was next to me fell suddenly to her knees and, grasping it in both her hands, shoved the "cure-all" headlong into her mouth.
Her lunges were long and greedy, fairly sloppy in fact, for her teeth dug in on the sensitive skin and the brutal pain nearly drove me to kick her in the chest, but I gritted my teeth and bided my time. She sucked on it and lapped at it with such a loud smacking I was ready for all heads to turn and see her there at my crotch. Fortunately the gossip was getting more and more scandalous and the women were all busily lapping the mental filth they traded back and forth.
At this point the door of my wife's boudoir opened and all the cackling ceased and the ladies gave her an ovation. Her sudden appearance in our midst threw me into consternation and I tried to extricate my penis from the neurotic, but she held it mercilessly while she ran her lips up and down its shaft. The Grand Duchess made her way through the bowing ladies, acknowledging them with brief nods of her head, and passed but a few feet away from where I was held prisoner. I watched, in despair, unable to see more of her than the diamond tiara that graced her head as it weaved out the door followed by her train of ladies-in-waiting.
"Go fuck your psycho!" I growled at the creature who had thwarted my meeting my wife. "Fuck, not suck, goddamn it! Didn't you hear what your aunt said?"
Her eyeballs rolled pitifully as she shot me a glance of humility and rapture intermingled.
She let go of the instrument and fell backward on the floor, her head colliding against the shapely limbs of her neighbor.
"Then fuck me," she begged. "Please fuck me!"
"Fuck you?" I cried, indignation making me forget where I was.
She grabbed my legs and held them desperately while she sobbed over and over. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...."
The worst had happened. It was bound to, I knew it all the time, and the scandal I had dreaded broke out in the dressing room.
Everyone toned at her cries and the nearest ones saw immediately the erection in their midst and the twitching legs of the niece who had lost all control.
"Now wait," I cried out in alarm. "Don't get any wrong ideas!"
"Wrong indeed!" snapped one. "Humph! There's no mistake about that!"
The room was in an upheaval impossible to soothe. Indignation, shock and disgust predominated and my one thought for the moment was to escape from the uproar.
"Will you be calm, for Heaven's sake? I was only looking for the Duchess!"
Disbelief glared out at me from every face. On those of the more vicious I saw the secret gloating in their souls, enjoying a pre-taste of the scandal they would spread.
Someone laughed and soon a hellish chorus of jeers and taunts broke out. To make matters worse, the neurotic niece went into a tantrum, beating and flailing her fists on the floor, on my legs, on anything that came in her reach. Trying to restrain her and at the same time make the insensate females listen to reason, I was sure that I too would go out of my mind. From far away, the blues went on like a curious counterpoint to the agitated dressing room. "He got somethin' that I really crave...."
Great beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and the blood drained from my face. The heat had become well-nigh unbearable which, with my present predicament, produced a sickening feeling in my stomach. The situation had gotten thoroughly out of hand, and only firm action could save the day. The handle of a long, thin unbrella caught my eye. I seized it instantly and, stepping forth into the midst of hysteria, began swinging it to left and right, aiming at every available pair of buttocks. The laughter and hooting gave way to screams and shrieks. Again and again I brought the improvised whip down on the mounds of tender flesh. When several of them made for the door I beat them back and turned the key in the lock. Nearly two score wailing females were at my mercy, but I spared no one her beating.
It was then a strange phenomenon took place. Instead of falling on their knees and begging me to stop as I had expected, a number of them were raising their skirts and stripping their panties down their thighs, and even though they continued to cry out in pain, they deliberately exposed their naked behinds to the wild umbrella. It enraged me all the more to see that the punishment I meted out was actually desired, and I redoubled the force of the blows. Not a single ass remained white. First pink, then red and finally violet; ugly scars appeared on behinds of every description. The fat flabby ones turned color fastest and rippled under each whack. Thin bony behinds gave back a dull thud as the metal and cloth struck them. On some, the anus was clearly visible, nearly jutting out of the crack of the cheeks, while on others one might have split the buttocks clean apart before finding the tiny defecator. My prick, which had long gone down under the stress and strain, began once more to rise erect. Perhaps it was the bent-over postures and the lifted buttocks, or the lascivious groans, or the vision of skirts thrown back, or the tiny black curls just visible between their legs-but whatever it was, and it may very well have all of these exciting views together, my prick came up straight, and passion fired up suddenly, burning out my anger with lust. I saw the ass I desired, and flinging the umbrella away, leaped over a sprawling figure and clamped my arms solidly round the waist of the lady, conscious of her weakened condition and quickened breathing.
She succumbed deliciously to my attack, spreading her legs out wide and pushing her ass against my groin in search of my cock. I did not trouble to find her cunt with my hand but rammed my hard penis in the area. Warm, moist lips, heated to boiling point, greeted the shoving head and in it went like a greased rod into a tube, clear up to the clitoris and beyond.
I fucked her madly, wildly, like a bull on a cow, ramming each blow in with a curse and shivering with pleasure as I removed the phallus for the next push.
I was aware of more commotion around me but concentrated solely on fucking. One of them had retrieved the umbrella and was swinging it as I had done. Nylon ripped where their knees scraped, and dresses and gowns fell all about me in a heap, with long strings of pearls and diamond brooches, tiaras and coronets filling the hot room with the evanescent vapors of perfume and musk.
The one with the whip stood above them with her hair flying in every direction, a satanic grin framed by her red lips. A new smell of blood invaded my nostrils, for the protecting cloth of the umbrella had been ripped to shreds, and the thin metal rods of the frame tore mercilessly into their flesh.
The convulsions of orgasm rocked my victim and the last of her strength fled from her exhausted body. She fell flat on the pile of gowns, emitting a long sigh of appeasement.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I Kicked my way through the bloody turmoil of beaten behinds, narrowly escaping the clutches of a screaming fury whose ass wasn't red enough for her taste, and made my way to the door and safety. The traffic of amorous couples, passing languidly to and fro in the corridor, contrasted strangely with the vicious holocaust I shut out behind me. Above their heads hung a velvet canopy leading to another chamber of my wife's apartment. The leathery visage of Countess Rubilovsky soared out from the door, the tip of her marihuana butt narrowly singeing my beard.
"Ah, cher Due! Encore! Quel plaisir!"
The smell of rotting flesh emanated from her armpits and I drew back in distaste.
"Enchante," I lied. "Er, is my wife inside?"
"Ah, how touching, you are looking for your wife. Tiens tiens! Well, step inside, mon cher, I am going down for a waltz. You will join me later, no?"
She leaned alarmingly close and whispered in her conspiratorial manner, "Never, never get constipated, promise?"
The painted eyebrows moved coyly up the rest of her forehead.
"It would be far worse," I answered, passing beyond her pungent shoulder, "if I should get diarrhea."
Her reply was drowned in the passing crowd, but I noted with satisfaction a twinge of horror on her face as I entered the canopied door.
The new room was so un-likely an affair that I forgot her immediately and my search as well. The walls were hung with photos in black frames, stacked from floor to ceiling like a gallery. The only article of furniture on the far side was a simple cabinet. The immediate impression of all the photos was that they were one and all of the same subject, as if an obsession had taken hold of the photographer. From a distance they resembled the portrait of the Duke with his rather triangular-shaped head and pointed beard. The only thing wrong was that the beard was too full and one saw practically nothing of the face. Upon confronting the first one I saw that far from being a ducal portrait, the image was of a very bushy cunt, seen head on. On a gold plaque beneath it was imprinted the name of a woman, its owner no doubt. The third one in line I recognized even before I saw the name of Lady Hottham below. Further on I encountered the familiar curls of Lady Worthington. Someone had scratched up the image of Rubilovsky's organ. But when I came to the one labeled "Sonia" I stopped and stared with admira tion. Growing hot all over and rubbing my itchy balls, I leaned forward to study it.
"Magnificent!" I exclaimed. "Now THAT'S a cunt!"
There were in all about three hundred photos.
My curiosity about this room was now fully aroused and I opened the cabinet to see what surprises it held in store. Needless to say, I had already formed certain notions about its possibilities and was therefore completely taken aback when I saw that it was absolutely barren. Somewhat disappointed, I started to close the door, when my eye caught the glint of a tiny button. Seeing no reason why an empty cabinet should have an electric light, I pressed the button. The back wall of the cabinet swung away like magic and showed into another room.
I passed through the cabinet, shutting the door behind me. There was only a table, a sink, and some towels for furnishings. On the wall a printed notice was nailed up, headed instructions for female massage.
Before I could continue my investigations I heard voices outside coming my way. There was no place to hide and I cursed myself for having closed the cabinet door. The only place of concealment was the table, which was covered with sheets that fell to the floor.
Lifting a sheet on one end I perceived that the table was of a very special construction. A long box, which can only be compared to a coffin, was directly under the top. The bottom of the box was covered with a soft mattress and built-in springs. Having no time to deliberate, I slid into the box and dropped the sheet down.
The outer door opened and two chatting female voices sounded over the shuffle of their slippered feet. I lay perfectly still and listened. The box was not at all uncomfortable and I began to wonder about it.
One woman was obviously undressing, the sounds being unmistakable, and the other went to wash her hands. They spoke some more, and then the one who had undressed climbed onto the table to prepare herself for her rubdown.
An amazing thing happened when she lay down. The box rose upward, bringing me flush with the surface, which for the first time I saw was nothing but a strong plastic cover. As her weight came down on the cloth, I was pressed up, until my body formed a mattress for her own. I could feel her cheeks flat against mine and the pressure of her two tits hard on my chest. The close contact of our abdomens began to excite my penis. The images of the three hundred cunts were still fresh in my mind and paraded like little devils in my hiding place.
The masseur approached the table and began to work on the body above me.
Her energetic pounding and kneading of the flesh beyond the plastic drove her patient up and down against my cock as if the woman above me was in the act of getting laid. The suggestive movements were torture to my emprisoned cock and I had to let it out of my fly. A delirious shock of delight shot through me. While unbuttoning my fly my fingers rubbed against what felt to be a zipper in the plastic.
A moment's exploration proved me right, and I pulled the zipper back, exposing a hairy mound directly above my cock. The masseur's pounding did not rest.
The powerful springs pushed my ass upward and my happy prick went gliding into the vibrating cunt above. My only fear was that the massage wouldn't last long enough, but I had not counted on the pleasurable reactions of my unknown partner. Whatever she might have thought when she felt the thing going in, she kept her opinions to herself. Furthermore, the rubbing she was getting had stimulated her sensual cravings and she gave herself up to the unexpected thrills.
With a gadget like this, I thought, one could fuck all day long. All the work was going on upstairs, the beating and pushing and panting, while I lay perfectly relaxed, getting an invigorating male massage.
The pussy in the plastic began to hug my penis tighter and tighter. Its masticating fronds gripped round the knob like tiny hands and worked the sperm into a froth till it gushed from my balls and spattered into the gurgling juices of her orgasm.
"Ooh," she sighed. "That's enough. Oooh, enough."
The masseuse wanted her to turn over so she could rub her chest, which struck me as a fine idea, but I think she guessed my notions because she desisted on grounds of being a little tired.
The professional pride of the masseuse was hurt and she answered her curtly, saying, "Very well, we can consider the seance over."
My companion got up prematurely, before I could draw my cock in, and the masseuse had the shock of her life on seeing a ponderous male organ projecting upward from her massage table.
"Tired, is it?" she said to the other sarcastically. "Where did that thing come from?"
"I don't know, it isn't mine," replied the embarrassed patient.
"No, not much," came the contemptuous retort. "Don't you think you're a little too old for masturbation?"
The offended lady burst into tears, and grabbing her clothing, ran from the room.
The angered masseuse went on making caustic reflections on "that little pervert." The incriminating organ began to settle, bit by bit, cutting short the masseuse's recriminations. For the first time she saw that here was no fake instrument for female pleasure.
"Oh, now, wait a minute," she cried, "just a minute there, not so fast!"
Before my cock went any lower she seized it in her hand and held it prisoner.
"I don't know where you came from, or how you got here, but now that I've got you, I'm gonna use you, you little bastard!"
She put her mouth to it and sucked away with short flying strokes. Being a masseuse, she was an expert in the art, and her whipping tongue lashed the carnal appetite of my prick into flames.
"Ah," she sighed, "that's fine. Now don't go down, just stay like that a second."
I heard her skirts rustling and the swish of her panties down her legs, and like she said, in a second she had bounded on the table, straddling her legs over the sides, while she shoved the organ deep into her cunt.
The lusty woman would have fucked on my cock all morning long if a ringing bell hadn't stopped her as she was beginning her third round.
"Oh, my God," she exclaimed, "I nearly forgot the gym class!"
She jumped down and adjusted her clothing.
"Listen, Cock," she said, giving my prick a parting kiss, "see you tomorrow, same time, okay?"
The cock leaned over on its side and collapsed on the plastic cover.
The extreme laziness I had inherited from the Duke made me reluctant to move from my temporary seclusion from the world. The table was removed from the room and wheeled halfway down the hallway before I realized what was happening. Unknown voices conversed in whispers above my head and, growing alarmed at my predicament, I decided to bolt from my hiding place. Hardly half my body was extricated from the secret box before the astonished men recovered their wits. They wasted no time when they recognized me and clamped their arms about me brutally and smothered my face in the sheets. I had no more idea about who they might be than why they had attacked me, and the problem was done away with by a furious blow on my head. My last conscious thought was that the wily Duke had saved his life at the expense of my own.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The clear, incisive accent of a woman of noble birth sounded from far away, drowned out at intervals by the heavy clap of thunder. Rain beat against the panes, keeping up a steady rattling which must have started late at night. I opened my eyes but all was darkness.
My forehead seemed weighed down beneath hot iron, throbbing with a dull pain. I discovered I was lying in a bed of quality, the largest I had ever seen, and surmounted by tall columns which held a sheaf of drapes that fell about the limits of the bed. They were of brilliant red and I was astonished to see the familiar blazon of the De Beaucouillon family adorning their elegant folds. It was only natural that I believed myself in the hands of their enemies and that, more than anything else, contributed to my rapid gain of consciousness.
The woman went on in a voice I did not recognize, and hearing no answer during her pauses, I realized she was talking over the telephone. Parting the drapes, I found myself in a comfortable boudoir furnished in the capricious manner of the Rococco. An instant later the mysterious woman swooped in.
She was extremely tall, svelte and sinewy as a dancer, with a complexion predominantly olive in shade and reminiscent of certain transparent stones one finds no Mediterranean shores. Her brow was high, though not intellectual, and was partially concealed by a row of jet black ringlets, all equal in size and running methodically round her face like one of her Rococco frames. Her nose, aquiline in form, with long, slender nostrils, predominated over the rest of her features with an imposing arch. A wide neck thrust upward from the steep slope of her shoulders. The chest was high and strong, supporting two charming titties thinly concealed in her silken blouse. The muscles of her long limbs rippled when she walked, sending quivering vibrations through her haunches.
Covered with precious stones that sparkled against her skin, she was the last word in schooled degeneracy, the most superbly wanton female I had ever encountered. Nor for a moment did I doubt that I was in the hands of the much hated queen of mistresses, the fabulous Sonia, the envy of all her rivals.
She did not speak, but words were superfluous before the intuitive sensual wave that emanated from her being. Her eyes flashed passionately at me, burning my groin with spontaneous lust and desire.
The silence was electrified with the suggestive rustling of her skirts and the movements of her limbs.
My heart pounded out of control as I watched her undo her blouse and expose the gorgeous fruits of her body. Her skirt slipped languorously down her thighs, letting me revel in the firm shape of her belly round which were stretched a pair of rose-colored panties. I saw several of her pussy hairs pierced through the cloth as if they were trying to escape from the rich mass beneath.
The family coat-of-arms was woven in red directly over the pubic triangle and stood out in contrast to the black patch. The motif was repeated on her garters, interspersed with a floral design and the same again appeared at the top border of her stockings. As if that were not enough, when she turned her back to me to place her panties on the table I saw the emblem once again, larger than all the others. The Duke had undoubtedly passed many an agreeable hour running his prick between the shield of his family. I made a mental note to do the same at the proper time. She lifted her sturdy thighs with ease and stepped into bed, standing over me with outspread legs. Instinctively I grasped that the ceremony was to start with an introductory kiss on the labia.
I came forward and clasped the backs of her knees as my tongue came out to tickle the forward hairs of her famous cunt. These latter were so long that a handful stuck in my nostrils and caused me to sneeze. The blast parted the coils which guarded the pink furled lips. I saw that they were unusually long, running far back between her legs leaving but a tiny gap between that fissure and the round muscle of her anus.
The most pleasing thing about her cunt was the absence of the ordinary pungent odor. I could not recall ever meeting a cunt as well-treated as hers. The texture of the hair itself was rich and sleek and gave off a faint smell of olives and ginger. The lips were a high-toned pink, unblemished, and fascinatingly smooth to the touch. When I peeled them back to view the second row inside they were as well-formed as those of the exterior but gave off a different kind of smell which I could not identify although it was close to the fragrance of mellow fruit. The thick, fatty walls of the cunt itself were smooth and gleamed in the light from her rich lubricating secretions.
She gave as much attention to the care and appearance of her cunt as most women do for their coiffures and consequently I could not stop from kissing it, from feeling the palpy lips between my fingers and inhaling long sensual draughts from its depths. She stood there along time, head thrown back and eyes shut, quivering in rapture from the tantalizing sensations of my fondling.
The first part of the ritual terminated, she turned round and exhibited her sumptuous buttocks to my delighted eyes. Then she got down on her hands and knees and backed up, bringing her anus flush with my face, while she clasped my sex in her hands. She covered the nub with short exciting kisses which seemed to pump more life into the straining muscles, and the head swelled out like a mushroom over the staff. I looked up at the long curving slit above me and resumed my tonguing. Before long the extending clitoris reached the tip of the intruding tongue and she shook her ass harder as a result. The warmth of her mouth sent electric bolts through my staff as the upper part of the penis filled into its opening.
When all this lavish preparatory playing had brought her cunt into heat, she swung round without losing hold of my cock and, placing it squarely between the folds of her lips, came down with all her weight on its length, moaning deeply as the tremendous waves of penetration soared upward and through her being. The sounds in the room would have driven an eavesdropper mad. The soft creaking of the bedsprings, her breath and mine leaving our parted lips with long sighs, the splash and gurgle of the vagina's mucous sliding up and down the glistening prick and the muffled slap of her buttocks on my thighs, all joined in the delirious chorus of copulation.
When the onrushing orgasm ejected from my cock I felt the stupendous closing of her muscles round the girth and breadth of its pole and she pushed herself down on it in a series of uncontrolled, passionate drives and the sperm erupted into the inflamed recesses which suddenly discharged the built-up flood of her nectar.
Her eyeballs rolled up in their sockets and she fell, spent and gasping on my chest, grabbing my body in her arms. The hat and perspiration bathed us in its euphoric spell and the sweet void of sleep enveloped the two of us immediately.
Sonia was the first to awake. Fully refreshed, she began to drag her tits back and forth across my chest. The large paps swung through my hairs and provoked my prone organ into erection. I let her play that way for a while until the sensations roused my desire to full pitch, then I threw her down and climbed over the beautiful flesh, hungrier than ever to have my rod drive in again through the meat of her cunt.
She flung out her legs and brought them up high over my head and instantly my cock went into the parted slit. Her legs came down criss-cross over my back and she heaved up her ass with each lunge I gave her.
The springs groaned this time from the furious shaking and bouncing and a new sound filled the air, that of my balls thudding heavily on her buttocks. At the propitious moment I heightened her thrills by raising her in the air and shoving a finger up her ass. The plugging of her second hole threw her into ecstasy and she literally flung her cunt flying over my cock, gripping me tighter in her powerful thighs and arching her back to receive the torrid spray I shot into her.
We lay thus entwined in our euphoric silence, the spell of her bewitching eyes holding me a willing captive in her arms.
"Sonia," I breathed into her ear, "Sonia, why do you have me slugged to come to you?"
A dark look invaded her eyes and she rose suddenly from the bed as if my question had affronted her. A jealous frown distorted her features.
"It was not because of Rubilovsky, you may be sure," she hissed, lighting the coals in her samovar. "But as for Kashka, that slimy vixen, well, I know how to deal with her!"
Her words made absolutely no sense whatever to me, rather did they complicate matters all the more with the addition of this new personage in my life. My response was cagey, couched in the vaguest terms, in order to draw out of her some enlightenment on my connections. But for all my trouble, all that became evident was that this particular Kashka, whoever she was, was as terrifying a rival as Sonia herself was to all the others. It also appeared that neither Sonia nor Kashka would hesitate to resort to violence to gain their ends.
I began to appreciate the Duke's strategy in having a double to help him cope with the confusing tangle of his private life. As for myself, it was impossible to calculate my moves beforehand and I lay back to await the return of my mistress. It was then I noticed for the first time a small double photo on the night table encircled by a garter with a rose clip. Picking it up I saw the portrait of the Duke and Sonia across which was scrawled the legend "To my captivating sister, Cosimo."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I Was comfortably installed beneath the covers reading from Conte D'Avino's treatise, the Precepts and Maxims of Dukedom, which far surpassed the wily Machiavelli in Machiavellianism. It was surely the Duke's favorite book, for it stayed always by the bedside of his number one mistress, which alone is proof enough, and its diabolical philosophy was undoubtedly necessary for his very survival in such a precarious existence. What I gleaned from the first pages convinced me to do away with Kashka to prevent my own destruction. I settled back to read with great satisfaction, for at last I had come to grips with my life.
The shrill blasts of trumpets smashed through my peace of mind. With a sudden chill I recognized the fanfare of the Duke. I had hardly put the book down when he erupted into the room, jacket unbuttoned, his pants falling away to this knees, and a gigantic erection bursting through his shorts.
"Sonia, my little black dove, I am here!"
I had just enough time to roll over the side of the bed and disappear from sight as he parted the drapes. His "little black dove" was at the moment washing her little black pussy in the toilet. He sighed impatiently, finished undressing and got in to bed to wait for his sister.
She was not aware of the change in personnel nor did he have the slightest idea that I was in the house. I lay beneath them, listening to the bed resume its joyful pounding and creaking. When it became unbearable I crawled away with my clothing, dressing as I went downstairs.
"No fanfare, please," I said to the trumpeters and ordered the Hispano-Suiza to return home. When we reached the ducal mansion I sent the entourage back to Sonia's, enjoying the astonishment they would have when the Duke came down.
I found Griffin in my room, tapping his fingers nervously on a messy sheet of foolscap.
"It sounds like blackmail," he said, handing me the infantile-looking page, "and is obviously the work of an ignorant person."
I took the curious paper and began to read:
"Tinks hav hapened wile yu wuz away o brud Tinks nastywise and othirwise Tinks I wud not say to pertyers, "But yuz is ditry heers So freely i mah tawk. Yuv heerd yer wif waz not so rite En so i tels it so. Beeliv me brud ide never lie, saw hep me nawt ta yu, Or soona die than tel yu wun; Cum fast myside and lust tha wurd Wat like to spik ma mind; Yer derlin tru shur liks ta screw And tacks wat cock mite cum, Her pity bud was al abloom (For nits an yu wer gun)
An Hors wut on this strit do rut Hav lef for ither strits, For wel tha no a mans a fool Ta pay his dong, wen freely Can be had
The puss at nummer nine.
She swore ta me shed Hor fa me If only id nut tel, So swor i did and lair as well (For iv bin brawk yu no)
But she for me can go ta hell i tol yu wat i dim, If i wuz yu id by a gun An shoot hur in da bum."
"Whom do we know," I asked him, "who is that ignorant?"
"Look at this," he said, ignoring my question. "This is Rubilovsky's writing."
"Why, except for the spelling, it is the same hand!"
"Yes," he answered grimly. "She is up to something ... Excuse me, Your Grace, I nearly forgot ... I shall return in a moment."
The telephone interrupted my reflections.
"Cosimo?"
"Yes?"
A long mocking laugh answered.
"Who's laughing?" I shouted.
Griffin returned just then and I .beckoned him hurriedly to the phone. He put down a briefcase and a strange iron collar and came to my side.
"Kashka!" he whispered, turning pale. "It's a bad omen when Kashka laughs."
"For God's sake," I cried, "put down that phone and tell me what is going on around here!"
"Sire," he answered, closing the receiver on the insane laughter, "I understand your predicament but I have no authority to divulge the Duke's private affairs."
He placed the iron collar on my neck as he spoke. In my distraction it was only when he had turned the last bolt that I realized my head was held erect, chin forward, and that I was obliged to turn my body to see at my sides.
"What is this?" I asked.
"The tempestuous Sonia!" he answered, opening the briefcase.
"She breaks his neck and I have to wear the collar!"
He shrugged his shoulders fatalistically.
"I am lucky he wasn't castrated! And what are those envelopes? Don't tell me we're throwing another party!"
"They are invitations...."
"But I still haven't met my wife from the last one!"
"Oh, I suppose I ought to inform you ... You are not married, Your Grace."
"What!"
"Well, not yet, shall we say?"
"Oh indeed! What is it that all of a sudden I am the butt of everyone's jokes? I am slammed on the head, receive idiotic blackmail letters, am choked in an iron cage and finally you decieve me about my wife! Who is the phantom duchess I've been chasing?"
"Oh, Sire," he cried, moved at my plight. "It is a terrible, terrible mess, and before it is over I am sure there will be bloodshed."
"Here," I said, handing him the Slivovitz, "it's very kind of you to worry about the blood because it will no doubt be my own."
"Yes," he slobbered, "I, I'm afraid so."
He seemed to be in a painful debate with his conscience, till suddenly, taking pity on my situation, he" decided to reveal the infamous plot.
"To begin with," he said, clearing his throat after a royal slug, "you might as well know that the Duke is absolutely penniless. Yes, yes," he emphasized at my look of incredulity, "it is absolutely true."
"But all this...." I stammered, waving my arm around the room.
"Let me explain. We are living on credit. For a month it's been that way and you can imagine the expenses we have. Over and over I tried to have him cut down on things but you know his style, his extravagance. 'Magnificence,' he would answer me, 'Magnificence, toujours magnificence!' His sister retired to the ancient ruin, being more prudent than he.
Things got to the point where he was threatened with the loss of his Duchy."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Where is the Duchy?"
"Oh, a wee little thing on the Mediterranean. We used to meet expenses with the gambling houses, but so many Americans showed up we had to install crap games and they broke the bank five times in a row. Since they threatened to boycott us if we removed the crap games, we had to keep them going merely for the influx of tourists, but it was all a losing proposition. Then Father Kelly had a brilliant idea to save us from ruin."
"Father Kelly?"
"The Duke's spiritual adviser. Anyway, he offered to find a wife for the Duke."
"I don't quite see...."
"Oh," he spluttered impatiently. "Don't you understand? He'd get the Duke some fabulously wealthy American. He said it would be easy as pie. What the hell are all those wealthy cunt looking for when they come to Europe? What has Europe got that America hasn't? Titles. Father Kelly assured him that not only would she be rich but beautiful as well. Naturally the Duke couldn't resist for long, not that he was very happy about the whole thing because he doesn't want a wife and far less an American."
"Ah," I exclaimed, "I begin to see where I fit in."
"Yes, do you? I am glad. It's a clever scheme, if he can only make it work. The marriage takes place with you as the groom. The Duke comes into the inheritance and then at the right moment exposes the substitution which automatically annuls the marriage. The girl returns home with her title intact, which is all she wanted anyway, plus the added advantage of a spectacular-divorce which guarantees her success in the States. The Duke's replenished fortune saves the Duchy and he gets stupendous royalties from the films which will be made on his life. I might also add, that though the whole thing has been kept in utter secrecy up to now, it will shortly break out in the press and I warrant you, you will see a wave of publicity and bullshit like you have never seen in your life. The public will get its share in the party. We intend to hold the front pages of every newspaper in the world with day-by-day accounts of the movements of the two lovers plus long-detailed stories of their lives, and their families' lives, and so on."
"Incredible. It's too fantastic. This sort of thing could only come out of Hollywood!"
"Well, in a sense it did. The girl is a movie star and so of course her studio is going in with us right from the start. Everyone is going to make a fortune out of it and it would all be hunky-dory if there wasn't Kashka."
"Ah, at last!"
"She is a demon, that is the only word for her. She would kill her sister to keep the Duke for herself. Even Rubilovsky fears her!"
"Her sister, you say?" I replied, prey to misgiving. "Who is her sister?"
"The Duke's finest, the most...."
"Sonia!" I blurted out.
Griffin was as startled by my revelation as I was myself.
"But how did you know?"
"Never mind that," I answered. "Go on with your story."
But he was slumped down on the floor, all the strength gone out of him, feebly trying to bring the bottle to his lips. Together we lay there, the bottle gurgling on his shirt-front, drugging him into a profound stupor, and I, too weary to rescue its wasting liquid, stretched out my limbs and suffered the pangs of melancholy, for the harder I sought my evasive Duchess, the more she eluded my grasp.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The train whistle blew three times, steam hissed, and I appeared on the platform as I had been told to do, and a hundred flash-bulbs went off simultaneously from the front of the waving throng. Again and again the lights went off, tracking my every move, each minute gesture, and ovation after ovation went up from the crowd, the first plebeians I had seen for along time. I looked at them curiously and I saw they looked back just as intrigued. Relations with my subjects, I felt, would pose no problem.
I was whisked away by the castle guards when the Royal band had finished the national hymn, a rather stirring thing which roused the fires of patriotism in my breast. I wanted to make a speech and tell them how much I loved them, but some Chancellor took me stiffly by the arm muttering coldly in my ear that duty called. They seemed to sense that I left unwillingly and to show me their devotion walked the twelve miles to the castle and took up their place outside the walls which they never left. One night, I think it was the second after my arrival, I caught some kind of dysentery, being unused to the food, and when they saw the light in the toilet go on, even though it was one in the morning, they broke out in cheers and sang the national hymn again. I had to show my head at the window, which was rather heroic on my part since my bowels were emptying at a furious rate all over the bowl and floor. My grimace of pain was not very clear in the dark but when the morning papers printed the flash shots everyone commented on the "intense emotion" of the Grand Duke before his subjects.
I will not attempt a description of the castle, for to do so would call for the prowess of a Balzac, the romantic fury of a Hugo and the combined lyricism of every bard that ever sang of England. When the cropped-headed Hollywoodians arrived, however, its splendor did not phase them in the least, and Marvin Bimbo, the famous actor-director, did not hesitate to draw up plans for considerable alteration. Only the combined action of my ministers and myself prevented them from tearing the place apart.
As will be shortly seen, the pace of life picked up and soon I was obliged to dose myself with special drugs to keep my eyelids up. These same drugs not only replenished my stamina, they had a most intense effect on my genitals as well, and the mere sight of a skirt was enough to put the thunder in my balls and send my penis shooting skyward with lust. The hot sun, the moist smell of the sea and the lovely stream of ladies that began to show up, strolling along the boardwalk, bathing on the beach or entering the massive dining room in gowns of the latest fashion revealing their soft round shoulders, the pure white skin with the significant cleft of the bosom barely covered, completed the frontal assault on my senses.
The first time I saw Maggie Choates was in a magazine. She was a beautiful girl clad in a bathing suit which said "Miss Something" (the print being rather bad) and she was kissing a photo of me in a similar magazine, the same one which had been printed the week before. Just as I discovered the picture a dozen flashes went off and the photos were radioed to America to show the "languishing" Duke returning the paper kiss. It was shown on television, which paritally filled the Duke's coffers from his contract with the "Blueblood Sanitary Napkin Company" of New Jersey.
"It is time to write a love letter to your intended," announced Griffin, glancing at his watch.
"But I wrote one this morning," I protested.
"Gallantry, gallantry," said he somberly.
"Remember your gallantry."
His upraised forefinger had a chastening effect.
"Medieval balderdash," I muttered with a scowl.
"We cannot fail your public who live every burning moment of your ardor. "Twas ever thus," he sighed, opening the door for me. "The responsibilities of a Lord."
In the writing chamber I had to wait while he forced the photographers to give me room. I blew up at them finally and ordered them out.
"Dear Maggie," the letter began, "I am burning with impatience to hold you in my arms." I crossed out "Dear Maggie" and substituted "Honey." Then I decided "desire" was superior to 'impatience' and 'clasp' more ardent than 'hold' and finally threw the sheet away and started all over again.
Her picture in the bathing suit was propped up in front of me and I kept looking at it for inspiration, but I was thwarted at not being able to see what her tits really looked like.
"For all I know they probably flop down to her belly when she takes off the containers."
A maid-servant entered, after a timid knock, to bring me my tea.
"Wait a minute," I said, "I'm having trouble here."
I took my hand out of my fly and caught her by the waist.
"Sit down here and tell me how this sounds to you."
"I think," she said, after I had finished reading, "that it's just a little bit cold, don't you?"
"Yes, I do," I agreed, "but I don't even know what she's like. She's just a photograph to me."
I looked at the maid's preponderant bosom, and the sight of its ample volume bulging through her dress brought the inspiration I needed.
"You write it," I said. "Go ahead, just write the sort of letter you'd like your lover to send you."
"Oh, that wouldn't be fair, it's got to come from you."
"Oh shit, how in the hell will she ever know? You won't say anything and I won't. Here, go ahead and write."
I shoved the pen in her hand and drew her closer to me on my lap. She began writing something really gushy and to keep from getting bored I flipped my fingers around the hem of her skirt. The little lace underthing seemed to invite further investigation, so while she mumbled about "so passionately,"
"my lonely nights,"
"tender,"
"sweet,"
"kiss," and so forth, I pushed her skirts back and examined her strong thighs. They were so solid looking, and the pressure of her ass so placed, that the crack was parted by the evil nub of my prick, lurking in my pants like a hungry beast.
"How do you spell 'sensation'?" she asked, just when I had gotten a grip on her panties.
"Oh, just put down 'kicks,' she's American, ain't she?"
"Hmmm, perhaps." She bent forward to write and I finished pulling her panties away from her crotch. Shifting my legs on some pretext, I was able to clear away the skirts from the erotic area and tore off the buttons of my fly for a quick entry into her exposed cunt.
She let out a screech, overturning the ink bottle and falling backward on me so that the two of us slid off the chair and rolled onto the rug. Though I was startled at her scream I nevertheless kept my head and when we landed on the floor I was above her with my great cock making its way into her bush at full speed.
It was a joy the way her lusty peasant thighs spread to receive my cock. Her legs waved in the air like branches tossed by the wind. Her tiny hands, the pen still enclosed in one, lay open on the floor at the weak extremities of her arms. She moaned and sighed, thrilling with each juicy taste of the savory flesh. At the climax I plunged in to the hilt, sucking and biting on her lips, stifling her groans with my tongue.
Just as I finished I saw a man's shoe not two feet away from me, and looking up, I met the disapproving eye of Griffin.
"You might at least," he said, "have finished the letter first. The afternoon mail has already left."
"Forgive me, Griffin," I mumbled, helping the maid to cover her overheated thighs, "I guess I was distracted. Was there anything else you wanted to see me about?"
"Yes, Sire, a case of 'Cuisage.' And with your permission, I should like to attend to my wife."
"Why surely, what a question! Where is your wife?"
"That's her, Your Grace, you're sitting on her belly. Get up off the floor, Louisa!"
"Forgive me, Griffin, honestly, I didn't know ... it was all my fault."
"I quite understand," he answered, giving his spouse a hefty boot in the rear as she escaped out of the door.
I made it up to him with a case of Colonel Kaner's Kentucky Bourbon, though he bore me some resentment for the next few days.
"Well, and what is this 'Cuissage' you mentioned?"
"It is not obligatory, Your Grace. The girl is to be wedded to a sailor and, according to our custom, the lord of the realm has the sacred privilege of defloration."
He showed in a buxom woman of forty and her virgin daughter of half her years. I looked at the young blushing thing whose lemon-shaped tits protruded viciously through her brassiere and considered with pleasure the waspish waist and full hips set on a pair of long and sexy limbs.
Her mother regarded me anxiously, perhaps fearing I would not find her daughter attractive enough to perform the ritual. She sat back with relief when she saw my nodding head of approval.
"In petticoat, Sire, or natural?"
"No, no, have her strip."
"Very good, Your Grace."
She stepped out of her panties, her white flesh glowing incandescent in the drab room. Griffin left to mail my letter, and the atmosphere grew charged with suspense.
Her mother sat in the comer and twisted her handkerchief into knots, watching everything with her big, watery eyes filled with maternal apprehension and the recollection of her own ordeal in this very room some two decades back.
I ordered the girl to sit on the bed while I undressed in my turn. She began to tremble when my shorts went down, leaving the penis hanging in air, a long, dolorous-looking weapon which took on a vicious look when it began to go into erection.
She watched it rising and swelling and turned pale from the menace.
"Mother," she screamed, scrambling off the bed and rushing to the shelter of her arms, "Oh mother, I can't, I can't! It looks so dreadful. Don't let him touch me with that awful thing!"
Her mother tried to calm her, as wrought up as her daughter, but not at all for the same reasons.
"Come, come," she soothed, "I've been through it. It hurts a little, to be sure, but that passes and you don't feel a thing. I mean, of course you do feel, but you won't regret it. Hush, my little Pea, and don't keep the Duke waiting."
I stood there, hands on hips, my prick jutting all the way out, feeling like a stud horse, and not knowing what to do next.
The mother looked at me as if to say "Be patient, she doesn't understand, the poor little innocent."
"But look how BIG it is," the girl bawled.
"You don't have to look at it," advised her mother. "And it's better than your finger. Now do as I say! Go and spread your legs for the man!"
"I'll be very careful, Ma'am," I promised.
"Honey, put the pillow in your mouth and bite real hard!"
She watched enviously as the fat knob of my prick made a few tentative swirls around the green slit. Her cunt-lips were parched dry and penetration was out of the question. The eagle-eye of the mother spotted the crisis and she came to our aid. Beneath my balls I felt her head brush through and she began to lap vigorously at the dry labia of her offspring. A minute's liberal massage provided a working lubrication. She grabbed my shaft and injected it herself between her daughter's gash, helping it cautiously into the membranous halls of love. She was extremely affected, and remained behind my back, giving encouragement to her daughter and playing with her own wet pussy.
The hymen refused to give way under anything but the most violent pressure. I grasped her shoulders firmly and, with my loins tightened like a coiled spring, unleashed the powerful blow that slashed the virgin tissue to shreds and sent the entire length of my shaft into her cunt. The girl let out a blood-curdling howl and fainted dead away. The voluptuous thrills of penetration demanded more and more blows, and shortly I was pumping into her bloody cunt with snorts and swearing, spurred on by her mother's lascivious tongue lashing of my balls.
The sheets grew sticky with blood and the carmine fluid on my prick and balls spattered onto my groin, giving forth acidic odors that whetted my animal lust into sadistic frenzy. I lost my head and would probably have pounded the poor creature to a pulp if the ejaculation had not come when it did.
When I retreated from the bed, the panting mother was sprawled partly on the floor, legs akimbo and frigging herself with short pleading cries.
With what a lavish, ecstatic intensity did her sexual cravings affect me. Only the most crusted, crabbed and senile male could have resisted the begging arabesques of her thighs and amorous side-glances at the dripping cock. Each falling of the hefty limbs against the floor produced a tremorous shaking of the soft flesh, fanning the flames of my chafing loins and worked-up penis.
I fell to my knees between the peppery crotch and wrenched her hand away from the bubbling orifice, pulled her ass up against my navel and rubbed the bloody cock over the hot mucous blubber of the lovelips. Her body arched into a lecherous tunnel for my lubricious drive. With hardly two. great shoves into her furnace she released the hissing juices over the still fresh secretions of her daughter, and, in her turn, fell into a swoon, not of pain, but of the most delicious rapture.
The ex-virgin was sitting, astride the large blood clot, both hands copped over her chafed vagina, regarding her wanton mother with fixed curiosity. Now that she had had carnal knowledge of the male she was trying to bridge the gap between her own painful experience and the unsurpassable delight of her mother. There was less horror in her eyes as she took in the silhouette of my receding organ, cleansed now of her blood and quite handsome in its semi-erect posture. With sudden resolve, she leaped from the bed and came to me, asking me in her hushed peasant accents if I would deflower her once more.
My senses were far from drugged. The continually shifting form of seduction, from violation to abandoned lust and thence to the tender plea of charming naivete, achieved my third erection in short order.
Even though in her inexperience she did no more than lie beneath me to receive the long splendid inroads of the novel thing, I was intoxicated by the total concentration of her mind and being, so much like an infant examining a new toy, and I fucked her newly broken-in vagina with appropriate delicacy, intending that she feel to the full the wealth of male turgescence.
"Well, you girls must be hungry after that little 'cuissage,' " I laughed, taking them both in my arms. "What do you say we step down to the kitchen for a snack and some 'Shai'?"
They clapped their hands with delight and the three of us sailed down the corridor with tripping feet and giggles resounding in our wake.
Albertina, the cook, resembled her sister, Christina (the buxom laundress I had fucked in the elevator), so that at first I thought she was the latter and my prick responded with a mighty heave in my pants. When my back was turned the wily Conte slipped in and gave his card to the mother and daughter waiting for their tea. He whispered in a flash. They were so desirous to have some more of the treatment from another prick that they left rather unceremoniously to steal up to his camera numero sette.
The laundress came in, and seeing me, threw the sheets she was carrying over her head and raised her skirts. Her big ass, on a level with the table, let loose an explosion that rattled my cup and saucer. Annoyed, I picked up a thick bologna and rammed it into her anal horn.
"Oh," she cried, "I didn't know you liked it there!"
The sphincter licked up the meat hungrily, as if it were actually devouring it. Albertina walked out of the pantry then and was a little put out to see me shove her spiced meat into a pile of sheets. I beckoned to her with a little smile, and she advanced, tricking her curls daintily. She was built in every way like her hidden sister, and proved to have similar tastes.
After some rudimentary coaxing, she bent down, facing her enormous mounds against those of her sister. I rolled back her skirts and directed the other end of the bologna into her cunt, and then, seating myself on Christina's broad back, I shoved the head of my cock directly into her wide, rosy anus and began to rock away on their juggling behinds in the first hobby horse fuck of my career.
At the end, the laundress' blubbering anus began to lose its grip on the meat, and just when I shot into her sister's bung she collapsed in her sheets and the three of us went down in a tossing pile of asses, skirts, sheets and bologna.
When their heads finally appeared out of the confusion they were both grinning joyfully from ear to ear. They wanted to play some more, since we were all so wonderfully disposed, I with my cock out, they with their pantie-less limbs spread rakishly over the sheets. We rolled around on the floor like frisky bear cubs, where I fucked Christina while she lay on top of her obliging sister.
"It would be just ducky if he had two pricks," said Albertina, who soon tired of playing mattress for our sport. To even things up they changed places and we laughed at Christina's grunts which punctuated each of my drives into Albertina.
Neither Albertina nor her sister ever wore panties because, as they said, they enjoyed nothing more than a fuck on the spur of the moment. At the end of each day they would recount how often they had been screwed. Christina had the odds in her favor, because as a laundress, she was continually roaming in and out of bedrooms, getting a chance fuck from an overnight guest or some unoccupied servant. She said that on one great day it had taken her an hour and three quarters to get from one end of the second floor hall to the other. Furthermore, most of the men who "dicked" her were members of the aristocracy.
"They like this big ass," she said, smacking her hand against her solid flesh. "It makes a change from that thin meat they get all the time."
Her sister had to content herself with a more cruder sort of lover. Most of the time she was banged by delivery boys, gas and electric men, plumbers, carpenters, and, on rare occasions, like this one, with a hungry baron or count.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
A big cunt with a rose garter round its lip floated in heavy mists. From the center of its vortex my anxious face looked out on the world as if I were just being born. Far above, the masked face of its owner smiled in triumph. Diamonds spelled the name of KASHKA over the black panties that darkened my view. A demoniacal laugh echoed in the vaginal walls, redoubling my fear and torment.
Sweating thickly, I awoke from the nightmare, clutching the iron collar around my neck as if I were being strangled.
"Oh God," I groaned, "why doesn't his damned neck heal so I can take his monstrosity off?"
I arose and looked out of the window. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, where the line of ships heading our way was streaking a white path through the sea.
I doused some water on my head, shivering from the icy drops that trickled beneath the iron, then, dressing in a hurry, I went down to the kitchen and ordered Albertina to serve me in the garden.
Griffin found me there, carrying a packet of letters in his hand.
"They are from the Duke," he whispered, looking round to see that we were alone.
"Ah, fine, let me see what he has to say."
I opened the red and gold trimmed envelope and began to read.
"Dear Cosimo, "What a pleasure and relief to be alone at last in the city! There is no one here, not even that bedridden Rubilovsky, and I am making the most of my time. Ah, what a crowd of lovely things I have met in the last few days! Fantastic ... just the most gorgeous women I have ever met! I have made some fruitful excursions into the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Pres to try some brainy cunt for a change ... Delicious! Do me a favor, will you, and try to have the ceremonies drag on as long as you can. I am sure you will think of something, anything, it doesn't matter so long as you keep things hanging. No, in answer to your question, I am sorry to say that my neck is still bad and the collar yet in place. Patience, friend, patience. Believe me, nothing gives one such an imposing allure as a stiff neck and I am sure you are being treated with greater respect than usual. You must be careful, though, for I have found my monocle cracked from banging against the iron. Remember to remove the glass when you fuck.
"A bientot, mon vieux, "COSIMO."
A second letter was not so gay in tone. It began with a curt
"Cosimo, "Why didn't you have Kashka invited down? She is making things hot for me here. Thank God Sonia is away or I would have to leave myself. One is enough! For heaven's sake, man, write to Kashka and ask her down. Write to me at the same time so that I can fake my leaving. If she gets in your way have Griffin take her to Stanley or Thomas.
"I'm counting on you, old man, "Yours as ever, "COSIMO."
I gave the letters to Griffin and told him to act accordingly. Since I had taken to using a typewriter for all my correspondence, I no longer had the bother of writing letters, leaving that matter in the hands of the worthy butler.
"Your guests, the first ones anyway," he said, "are expected this morning."
"Yes, I know, I saw the ships."
"Please, Sire," he cautioned, "try to restrain yourself. You know, there will be a lot of reporters and photographers on hand."
"If you don't mind," I answered coldly, getting up and stamping my napkin into the ground, "I am the Duke around here."
Among the first guests to arrive was a famous female violinist and her father. They came in with the flowers sent from all over the world and which transformed the castle into a gigantic hothouse. She held her violin case under one arm and the other was in a perpetual embrace of the pater. He was greatly powdered and perfumed, and basked in the warm love of his daughter shamelessly, even with a bit of challenge to the world, as if to say, you should all love your daughters as I do mine. She excelled in playing Tchaikowsky in half the usual time.
"I give you more for the money," she said, smiling endearingly into her father's healthy face.
Our conversation was continually interrupted by the enormous sacks of mail which began to appear. I had to have them diverted into the yard and dumped on the ground. That night we lit a bonfire of thanks to our well-wishers, while Lily Raki, the sweet violinist, serenaded us with "Home Sweet Home" in double time. The audience sat, intently regarding their watches as she played, and applauded the sensational rendition which lasted no longer than twenty-two seconds!
When the ceremony was over, I took them with me on an inspection of the female apartments. We examined the bidets scrupulously, knowing they were of prime concern to the occupants, and Lily and her father played like children at a fountain on these basins. I checked the bed springs and mattresses, the thick rugs, the mirrors over the beds; the bavinets supplied with jellies and creams, unguents, powders, pro-kits and syringes.
Everything was fit, and yet it seemed to me the women were not satisfied. When night fell they tossed in their beds, downed sleeping pills, or read long passages from the bibles furnished by a hotel chain in America. In spite of all these things, the agitation did not cease to gnaw away in the secret hollows of their vulvas. The ennui was overtaking the men as well, and not infrequently I would cross a sour-faced baron pacing the halls, chewing in discontent on a damp cigar, and eyeing me with disgust.
Conte D'Avino, who had accompanied me on the tour, addressed me privately when Lil and her father went tripping off to bed.
"Sapristi," he exclaimed, "we can't fuck them all, come with me."
I followed him down to the cellar where, by the light of a candle, he revealed the leather boxes stacked from floor to ceiling, containing in each a perfect model of the male organ.
"They work, you know," he said, "just like ours! Look!"
He opened a box and removed a plastic prick made in Japan, and showed me the clever manner in which it operated.
"You can use anything inside, warm water for healthy cunts, cream for the anemic ones."
We placed them in the night tables next to the chamber pots.
"Well," I said, rubbing my hands, "that takes care of them for a while. Now, what do we do with the pederasts?"
"That's no problem," smiled the Conte, his Machiavellian eyes shining in the dark. "No problem at all.
Just send them over to Parliament."
"The Prime Minister," he explained, "has already buggered the whole lower house. Now that he has altered their tastes, we send in our nobles and win an easy majority in BOTH houses!"
"I see," I answered admiringly, "why you are such a powerful 'Eminence Grise.' A most crafty mixture of sex and politics!"
He disappeared to set the machinery in motion, and I returned to my office. There was a note from Griffin that I was to review the models of my wife's gowns in the morning. Too exhausted to get up, I fell asleep on one of the sofas.
I was still lying there, fully dressed, when the clarion sounded the hour of dawn. Sonia's beautiful cunt had haunted my morning slumber, the way it had of cropping up when a certain languor stole over my body. A sunbeam flicked on the dome of my prick growing out of my pants like a tower.
My eyes opened slowly and I was concerned about the eretcion when the door opened and a tall girl, clad in a brassiere, panties and high-heels, glided in, and began turning this way and that to show me the merits of the underwear.
"You people start work pretty early, don't you?" I yawned.
"Well, the early bird catches the worm. That's our motto."
"Do you," I asked the disciple of Poor Richard, "do you also model your cunt?"
She was put out by my words and thrusting cock but continued nevertheless to strut around the room.
"It's an excellent idea," I went on, stroking my member leisurely. "You pay so much attention to the female's external appearance and neglect her most vital part. Do you realize how many marriages are ruined because of shabby, ill-kept cunts?"
"I have no idea," she answered coldly.
"As long as you keep those little snatches out of sight, the male lets his imagination run riot beneath your skirts. Oh, the cunts I have imagined! For you, the cunt is a horrid crack between your legs, and you treat it that way. What a shame! Ah, my dear, if you but half realized the fatal fascination of that crack! It's not a chink in a wall to be plastered; we don't even think of the 'peepee' that comes out of it. Some men fear it as they would a hidden bear trap, imagining that its lips mask a deadly row of teeth ready to snap off the first cock that dares to get inside. As a result, when they fuck they do it in a state of nervous apprehension. How could such a fuck ever bring a woman to the full realization of her passion? A cunt should be tender and soft to the eye as it is to the touch. The warmth of its supple interior should be expressed throughout the surface of the Mons Venus. Enticing red cupid's bows are drawn with laboring patience on your lips. Your eyes are mascared with infinite care and the redness of the nose is concealed beneath a dab of powder. To what end all these pains? How ridiculous it is to entice the male by your care of that which is permitted to be revealed in public and to leave in scornful abandon that which brings you your greatest pleasure!"
She looked at me strangely all the while I delivered my speech. For the first time in her life she was actually thinking.
"You talk very well," she answered, emboldened enough to speak frankly. "But why don't you look at yourselves first? That, for example," and she pointed to my prick. "That THING between your legs! It's far worse than the ugliest cunt. A cunt at least is modest. What is there to it really but a bit of a triangle with a cut running down? It is neither offensive nor aggressive and even the worst are far more esthetic than that piece of hose hanging over a bag with balls knocking between your thighs. How utterly ridiculous!"
"Ah," I smiled in agreement. "When it hangs down limp and flabby who really gives a damn about it? Hanging down, it is an insult to every woman. As for its looks, it is certainly unaesthetic, as you say. But then, we men make little pretention to having esthetic appeal. The prick is a strictly working instrument and its aspect in the air is like some malformation. Unlike the cunt, what we admire in it is its visible functionalism. Here, just look at the difference!"
I placed her hand around my sleeping cock.
"Just rub it a little, up and down, yes, like that, yes, that's it, very good, mm mm, yes...."
The smooth touch of her fingers was like balm to the sensitive shaft and her hesitant, timid movements were like the special thrill of a virgin's caress. Under the spell of her palm my cock began to fill with hot blood, expanding with naughty jerks into its full length. She swallowed hard several times, visibly affected by the transformation.
In absorbed silence we contemplated the miraculous change that had taken place. She was seated on the couch next to me, and kept her naked legs crossed tight as if she were guarding her cunt with all her might. A slightly different shade of black that appeared at the extreme point of her panties informed me that in spite of her efforts the reactions of her pussy at the image of a potential violator had been immediate and forceful.
"Ugly, isn't it?" I cracked.
"Terribly," she murmured, but her hand did not leave the pulsing organ.
"If you keep that up," I said, "you'll waste some valuable energy."
Her legs uncrossed and recrossed, in obvious agitation. Things were happening inside the much-discussed pussy, which had become extremely self-conscious from our talk. The patch of escaping mucus grew large in her crotch.
Suddenly, with an impetuous movement, her head came down on my prick and she opened her beautifully painted lips and placed their warm moisture round the excited tip of my cock. Her tongue flew over its nub with the hurried confusion of a moth darting in and out of a flame.
But the head alone was not sufficient and I pushed the shaft upward into her mouth till the swollen head touched the soft membranes of her throat. Her head began to move faster, with longer drives, shaking her hair loose carelessly. The lids of her eyes were shut tight in her intense concentration on the meat-rod.
Her crossed thighs were moving in rhythm with her head, massaging her own titillating organ. When I saw her legs move apart at last to let her hand move in and play in between the lips of her cunt which now demanded more than the vague excitation of her limbs, I knew the time was approaching for the entry of the only thing which could satisfy her awakened desire.
It was she herself who grasped the edge of her panties and pulled them down her legs. Not till the panties had been completely removed did she take her mouth away from my cock, and groaning madly, she nearly threw me from the couch in her leap to ram the cock-head through her pussy's lips.
With great heavings of her lithe body she pumped her ass furiously up and down, digging her nails deep into my flesh.
"Oh my God," she wailed, "oh Cock, OH COCK!"
Each voluptuous shove was accompanied by her cry of "COCK! COCK!"
I grabbed her titties from inside my wife's intended brassiere and flopped them out to suck on their long nipples and increase her spasmodic thrills. Her ass moved all the harder under this last provocation and I felt the boiling muscles of my prick swell beyond the possible, and when her climatic jab came sliding down, the head opened wide and spit its long burst of love into the wide-open muff of her sweet cunt-channel.
My arms grasped her dose in the final coupling of orgasm.
She collapsed with a long sigh of deliverance on my shoulders and we lay there tasting the slow-dying heat of our organs.
I heard my ubiquitous butler's sardonic cough.
He was seated in the middle of the group of models waiting patiently for their turn. As there were no magazines, everyone had a hand in his neighbor's crotch. With their heads leaning back on the sofa, legs outspread beneath the costly gowns, they frigged away as quiet as mice, no other sound disturbing the silence but the gentle swirling and swishing in their cunts.
Two female hands were pumping my butler's prick with such vigor that when I looked up I saw its taut, palpitating head open its hole and ejaculate high in the air. Everyone sighed in a chorus of pleasure as the streams of their come poured out of their panties to go dripping down their legs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Flanked by the heralds with their medical horns bedecked in colors of the house, and seconded by the First Imperial Fife and Drum Corps, the guard of honor from the Fourth Battalion of the Royal Hussars, plus the ageing, but nonetheless brilliant, "Elite Guard" of Conte D'Avino, the only living friend of De Beaucouillon, I stood erect, hand on sword, monocle gleaming in my eye, to receive the stupendous ovations that rocked the giant columns of the hall; soberly, as I had been taught, with a curt, Prussian-style clicking of my heels which sent my spurs jangling, and stepped forward, with the ear-shattering horns and drums blasting to the world the ducal entry, to march across the marble into the assembly.
To right and left, splendor and beauty shone from the gigantic horseshoe table, groaning from the mass of tankards, bottles, dishes, silverware and flowers it bore.
Except for the two award winners from the Forthright Foundation who were doing extensive research in "Advanced Onanism, Its Cause and Spread," plus of course the inevitable Hollywoodians who manage to crash parties of this sort, we were everyone of us full-blooded nobles. A quick glance round at the long, thin noses, the tall necks, the eyebrows arched over eyes set deep in their hollows, cheeks drawn and pinched from a natural contempt for regular eating, was enough to prove the quality of those present.
They toasted me and I toasted them and the meal officially began. Maggie's throne, on my right, was covered with roses and ribbons, and beyond its imposing form, Conte D'Avino slumbered peacefully in his chair. On my left, bald-pated Prince Paul-Jonah, the suavest and most elegant noble of all, sat inhaling from his long cigarette-holder, eyeing the women with a knowing eye. A reputed cocksman, his address books were the envy of all. The heavy bags under his eyes seemed larger than usual, and I attributed it to his boredom. There was scarcely a woman amongst the hundreds around whom he had not fucked, violated or abused. He tapped the ashes from his cigarette, looked at me wryly and sighed.
"Listen, P. J.," I whispered, "we hired a new batch of servants today."
He grunted approvingly.
We sat back and regarded the luscious duchesses and marquises who were vying with each other to attract our attention. One could easily tell those who were up-to-date by the distance between nipples. The older ones kept their tits hugged close together, perhaps from force of habit, but many a youthful comtesse had the swept-apart look now in vogue.
The house-lights dimmed and a red spotlight illumined an aerial stage of glass which floated in beneath the hidden television cameras. An orchestra of a hundred unclad females offered a delightful treat for my guests, presenting a hundred different views of the female anatomy seen from an unusual angle.
The audience sat spellbound, listening to the soft music of the dryads. At the beginning of the second number an equal amount of nude waitresses danced in with the whiskey pudding. The pale blue flames swished amongst the guests as they deposited the facsimile heads of John the Baptist at each place.
This little feature intrigued P. Jonah, and he leaned over my way to say that the choice was excellent. His perfumed prick (which always hung out of his pants at dinner, because, as he said, "It chokes me. Yes, just literally chokes me to keep it inside.") began to stretch forward and swell. I sighed with relief, for Griffin had explained how "Paul's Balls" were the barometer of an evening's success.
"When a woman wants to get laid," he had added, "her cunt gets into a hell of a state. You know, they itch, they chafe, it runs with all kinds of secretions and goo, and the muscles twitch and everything irritates it and teases it and it gets cranky, and, oh Christ, a regular vibrating starts up, and if a cock don't get in there soon and put an end to all that fuss and fluster the whole fucking works blows up in her system. Well, Prince Paul's cock, you'd swear it has a built-in divining rod. When one of those irritating cunts gets within forty feet of the bastard, it goes smack up in the air and points right at that hungry, begging hole."
The trumpets sounded anew and the Royal Hussars marched in again escorting the bridal virgins who announced the long-awaited arrival of Miss Maggie Choates in a floral bombardment of the room.
A lot of guests were peeved at what they considered an interruption of the sensational striptease and began yelling at the intruders to leave. They threw back chicken bones and great chunks of pudding in return for the flowers.
P. J. shook his head.
"Very badly timed," he said.
The virgins withdrew in terror to regroup outside. The gourmets and the epicures resumed their guzzling and gorging and the lechers among us went back to feeling the behinds of the waitresses.
Opposite me sat the Baroness Lechequeux. Her vicious fingers were playing suggestively over the fly of Albert, le Conte de Bitebande. The latter's organ responded to the licentious tickling and flopped out of his striped trousers full into the moist palm of the Baroness.
Next to Albert was a woman of dark complexion and black hair bound in a knot behind. The silver and diamond tiara of a countess shone brilliantly in her dark tresses. Though I didn't know her, she had a familiar look about her. Sue enough, not far from her was her sister, none other than the Princess of Crimea I had deflowered in the Town House.
"Who made out the invitations?" sneered Prince
P. J. He was looking at a stocky marquise with a most bestial expression on her face. Black hairs escaped from her flared nostrils and when she smiled long incisors flashed below her lips.
"Why?" I asked simply.
"If Van Bloutte is here, then that God-damned Stanley ain't far away."
Well, I thought to myself, if P. J. is worried about Stanley, maybe that guy has something, and made a mental note to watch the companions of the Marquise Van Bloutte.
The talk and repartee flew lightheartedly through the flickering candelabras. Wine and laughter seemed to pour as one from the gurgling bottles, running endlessly as a fountain during the banquet. The sharp, heady tingle of the wine spurred the eagerness of the men to make themselves brilliant. The delighted females teased them with smiling lips and half-formed promises in their eyes.
Even Rubilovsky's wig seemed to shine with unusual luster, though I suspected it had been heavily greased that afternoon. Aunt Tillimond and Cousin Ulla had met a pair of barons who were flushed to the gills with hope and wine and gradually removing the plaintive Vladimir from their presence. I did not see his wife, Nadia, anywhere in the crowd, which only meant she was offering her skirts somewhere in the remote chambers of the castle.
Lady Hottham, whom I hadn't seen since my old butler days, was resting coyly on Sir Mottke-Wrench's shoulder, darting her dove-eyes into his at every chance. Across from them sat Lady Worthington, and something in her eye showed her own designs of him.
"A brilliant evening!" cried Prince Paul.
"Certo Cosimo, e brilliante!" echoed the Conte. "Ma piace qui ... ma guard un po' ... Look at this cock!"
"Shit," said Paul-Jonah, "I can look at my own!"
The two of them sat and regarded their rigid poles pointing to the chandeliers.
Griffin leaned over my shoulder.
"Begging your pardon, Sire, but you might have a look at mine."
He extracted his erection carefully to show me its proportins and both Prince Paul and the Conte leaned over to see.
"Magnifico!" exclaimed D'Avino.
Prince Paul took it in hand, weighed it, bounced it, snapped his fingers against its hard tissue, and then looking up at my butler with pure admiration, exclaimed in his turn:
"By Jove, Sam Griffin, if I didn't know your father I would say you were a full-blooded noble!"
Griffin blushed proudly at his words.
"Oh thank you, Sire. Everyone knows I'm a bastard."
"Couldn't have better proof ... so am I!
The Baroness Lechequeux, observing us all the time, had not missed an inch of Griffin's sizable organ, nor a stroke of that of Albert, Te Conte de Bitebande. Her eyebrows moved suggestively in the direction of my butler, who blushed all the harder when he saw her.
"Perhaps," she said, leaning forward to speak to me, "perhaps you might lend me your butler one day, eh?" Albert grew peeved at her request, but her stroking hand kept his passions in a sexual plane.
"Perhaps," I answered with a grin, "but is there anything wrong with yours?"
"Who, Big Jack?" she asked. "He was good until his disgustingly democratic ideas spoiled his taste.
Imagine preferring a chambermaid to a baroness! He just wasn't cut out to be a butler."
After Griffin admitted that he wouldn't mind pinch hitting in the Baroness' household he leaned back satisfied and devoted her full attention to Albert anew.
The Royal Hussars attempted another entry of the hall. The fanfare sounded and the great doors swung apart, this time to let in the pink and blue sedan chair on which Maggie reclined. She was absolutely invisible in the voluminous billows of her gown, which floated around her like the sails of a ship in a languid breeze. The porters were about to set the chair down when another barrage of food flew on them from all parts of the room. The Royal Hussars retreated once more, bearing back with them my frightened fiancee.
Paul looked my way and scowled.
"Dreadful violation of protocol!"
The sensuous fever was mounting with the speed of electricity, communicating its carnal excitement from male to female round and round the bubbling table.
While above-board people laughed and joked, underneath, coarse, immodest hands began to stray. They dallied their prurient fingers over lush thighs, pulled slyly on the folds of satin and silk till the raised hem was slid back exposing the nylon band and the clasp that joined it to the garter. The smooth, tender forms of dimpled knees sheathed in skin-tight stockings transmitted the daring thrills through the warm, receptive bodies, brimming with anticipation. The hands toyed in the intimate secrecy of frilly panties, wandered into the lecherous nests between legs beginning to spread from the agreeable sensations. Zippers, buttons and snaps were all undone with the same sensual conspiracy, and long, hard erections broke forth to be caressed by finer hands, less bold, but equally moist with desire. Like wily border thieves in the dark, the illicit commerce plied back and forth its clandestine lust.
With beating heart I recognized my sister enjoying the quips of a gang of hungry counts. Further to her left, Lady Worthington's fleshy posterior was trembling with nervous tension. Nearly everyone seemed to be eating with but one hand, the other carefully dissimulated beneath the table.
I saw a dancing pump fall from a pretty foot to be followed by a stocking trailing gently downward. Garter belts and undies made their appearance beneath the table wherever the more impetuous couples were seated.
A band of wild and wailing Oriental dancers dashed out on the floor, jumping high in the air with their transparent, bloomer-like pants flapping over their visible genitals. Their fantastic leaps thrilled the female guests to the core, for the spotlights picked up the flopping cocks and balls which seemed to be straining for the nude females in the orchestra directly above them.
I turned to Paul but my words were directed into the cunt of a waitress who was filling my glass. The pubic smell shot through my nose with a heady pique. My tongue instinctively flew out and flapped against her perspiring lips. I grabbed the cheeks of her ass and propelled her underneath. From the edge of my chair I placed the fiery tip of my cock against her cunt. While I sat still, she took upon herself the thrilling labors of running her cunt back and forth over the penetrating penis.
P. J.'s legs made matters difficult for her. She tried to shove them out of the way, lost her balance and dragged me with her under the table.
The sperm blast of Albert, le Conte de Bitebande, winged over my head as I came down. The Baroness' pumping hand had brought him to his climax and his wobbling rod was going off not three inches from my partner's face.
With shirts trussed up at her waist and exposing her buttocks to a shaft pierced in from behind, I recognized my old friend, Lady Worthington, more from her curls than from her face, which was hidden from view between the thin legs of Sir Mottke-Wrench. No other female I knew had such an insatiable appetite for male sperm. When the palpitating muscles of his tool began to erupt in her mouth not a drop of the seminal fluid escaped through her sucking lips.
While the waitress was bringing me in my turn to the halls of Nirvana I was vaguely trying to determine whether the long prick going into Lady Worthington was stuck in her swept-back cunt or protruding asshole. From where I was it looked like it had a bit of both.
The view around me surpassed anything I had ever seen. I seemed to be in some strange erotic tunnel flanked with hairy pussies and braced erections alternately spaced down the line. Lovely limbs squirmed in the delicious treats received from wiggling fingers, and the cocks strained harder and harder, bulging red and blue, puffed with the bubbling steam they wanted to spit through the dribbling lips of the cunts.
Cries of "Vive Thomas! Vive Stanley!" sang out from the table. I hadn't realized the mysterious personages were so well known, and unable to control my curiosity, pushed the waitress before me, fucking her all the while. I came in her burning pussy as the second round of applause broke over our heads in honor of Thomas and Stanley.
Bosoms rose and fell in that moment, mouths opened in the sudden need for air pumping faster in hoppedup bodies. Eyes turned everywhere, everyone was being watched by everyone else. The performers ended their number and regarded the room with awe. Our breathing was like the sound of wind blowing through the rushes, rising into a gale.
A stunted bull and a portly ape were standing sheepishly in the center of the floor. The thunderous applause in their honor had rurned them to stone.
"If that's Stanley and Thomas," I thought, "the competition is going to be stiff tonight."
The female eyes were big with lust as they sought out the gigantic works of the beasts. Thomas' prick lay like a fireman's hose on the floor while his nervous tail flicked across his ass. Stanley kept his meat-hook in his hand, abstractedly caressing it as his beady red eyes watered at the sight of all the women.
The Hussars made another attempt to accompany the bridal chair into our midst. With the waitress lying prostrate beneath me, my head poked out beneath the white damask doth, I had a full front view of the ape and the bull, bewildered by the shouting assembly and the helmeted Hussars gaining on them, surmounted by the flowing veils of my bride who was crouched in fear on her pillows.
Before the guests had a chance to react, the clatter of hooves thundered in the entry, and a great white horse galloped in, and to everyone's astonishment, Cosimo, the Grand Duke himself, rode in with a conquering smile and swinging sword.
His dramatic dash fell like a bomb on the stunned audience. All heads swung with one accord in my direction.
"The foolhardy ass has gone and fucked things up proper!"
I had just time enough to duck back under the table, prey to a thousand misgivings. But the empty chair seemed to convince them they had not seen him slink away to make this picturesque entry with his bride.
The lecherous intentions of Lechequeux and Van Bloutte were thwarted in the commotion. The trailing veils of the virgin fascinated Stanley's primitive eye, and he rubbed his groin with lascivious calculation. Before anyone had a chance to recover his wits, the ape sprang from his place into the twisting folds of the bridal gown. The Duke's gallop had carried him beyond the scene, enabling the ape to clutch poor Maggie like a sack of meat and leap boldly into the group of worried Hussars. He was gone with his prey in a blur of black hair and flying veils.
The most indescribable pandemonium broke out. The whinnying stallion's cry and the bellows of the bull joined in the chorus of "Rape!" that echoed to the rafters. The Hussars fled in panic, the empty sedan chair wobbling crazily in their center, closely followed by the angry Duke on his charge.
Lady Worthington's dumbfounded face appeared under the damask, eyeing me like a ghost.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lady Worthington caved in under Prince Paul's prick. The Marquise Van Bloutte lay flat on her back with the flabby end of Thomas' hose in her mouth, attempting with all her art to raise that prodigal organ high. Spitting and kissing the bovine's balls, Baroness Lechequeux was egging her on, anxious to see the exciting spectacle take place. Through her widespread legs, Griffin's organ made its way between the cheeks and into the steaming lips beyond.
The Princess from the Crimea was teaching Sir Mottke-Wrench how to dance the mazurka and the old guy thought she was an extremely witty girl.
Above their heads, the female musicians were throwing away their instruments and calling to the operator to have the platform lowered. Already several of them were lying on the grass, frigging their cunts furiously.
I had crawled out from the table, under cover of the general confusion, seeking to join the Duke, but before I had taken two steps, a strange woman grabbed my arm and arrested my course. She was wearing a velvet mask embedded with rubies and a large red bow was tied about her neck. I had never seen as daring a gown as hers. It stopped short below her naked tits, so abruptly, I thought at first it had been tom apart. The breasts themselves were tattooed with strange symbols-so thickly covered, the nipples were difficult to locate. When the eye finally did perceive them it remarked a cleverly placed ruby in the recess of each nipple. The black gown was split from the waist to the floor to reveal in flashes the rabies and diamonds that graced the contours of her muff.
"I see you got all dressed up to fuck."
"Take care," said the female Svengali. A racking laugh escaped from her lips, which my stupefaction fed like fuel. This "femme fatale" with burning eyes and insane laugh was Kashka Vamishkas, the cruel, malicious Kashka. It was clear she had unearthed the plot and was prepared to foil our plans.
The second chapter of Conte D'Avino's Precepts and Maxims flashed through my brain. "To shut a woman's mouth, keep her vagina full." With an inward salutation for the Conte, I lashed out my weapon and pressed it against her belly. Her reaction was instant and brutal. A thin, Silician vendetta blade menaced my throat. She looked up at me, trying to find the fear in my eyes. The penis grazed the ruby-dotted patch and found the bitch's hole wet and spongy with unappeasable desire. The menacing stiletto reared back for the plunge. My cock shot forward into the wealth of hair and jewels and went rocketing up the vagina as the blade streaked to my neck.
I felt our pubes meet with a shock and heard the ring of metal as her dagger struck the iron collar and went flying into space. My turtleneck sweater had concealed the support from view, and the Duke's broken neck had saved my own.
The thwarted Kashka was now fully in my power, for her insatiable lust drove murder and vengeance from her mind.
We were under the Renaissance archway where a group of fornicators were playing a game called "Historical Fucks." The servants had brought them full-length figures of Henry the Fourth, Catherine de Medici, and the other, hornier, Catherine of Russia, Lucrezia Borgia, Czar Alexander, Queen Victoria, Madame Pompadour, Louis XVI and others.
Fully naked, I saw a charming duchess enter the body of Catherine the Great and bend over stiffly to receive the pork of a second-rate count. Roaring hilariously, Sir Mottke-Wrench fell on his back, enclosed in the figure of Louis XV, and it was a moving sight to see that noble king receive the squat legged attentions of Queen Victoria.
In all this time Van Bloutte had not ceased to suck away on Thomas' prick. Finally despairing of getting it up, she pulled the tube out of her mouth, rubbed it lasciviously over her steaming pussy then, trembling with aggravation, crammed the limp hose in her cunt.
Her friend, Lechequeux, was on her knees, her bowels opened wide over Griffin's butting cannon. Her squeals and shrieks joined those of her neighbors whose bodies were thudding nearby.
Exasperated cocks lunged for the tortured dripping pussies, accompanied by cries, growls, grunts and squeals rending the air, as chairs overturned and bottles and glasses spilled their contents over the rich cloths of the gowns that flurried upward, revealing the soft, downy skin of alabaster bellies indented with navels like dimples, buttons and seams, through which elastic drew red criss-cross marks, the elastic of gay organdy and lace, tracing the panties' edge over large, fleshy thighs and hidden crotches, suddenly confronted by long, hairy scrotums dangling beneath turgid shafts with zig-zag veins, which many a female seized and plunged in her mouth, while others toppled to the floor or were thrown upon the table amongst skidding forks and platters, grasped by hands that were strong or pulpy, fat or thin, all in a fury at the touch of hot, meaty buttocks beneath their mashing and kneading fingers, preparing the way for the heavy nubs with their tiny, deadly holes, jerking like stallions at the succulent lips of love and soaring through the voluptuous ridges of the female channel which hugged the thin-skinned invaders in ecstasy.
"Oh, where will this all end!" I heard a female voice wail. O lechery! O abomination! Is this what we have come to?"
Though I heard her voice quite clearly, in fact even admired its noble timbre and sincerity, I could not locate her in the mass of wriggling females and pumping males. Kashka and I had become to passionately involved to remain for long in the standing position, and I had bent her supple back down on the table. Her feet were planted on two chairs. I was in the middle, partially erect, partially on her tattooed chest. When I heard the condemning voice I found a human, fucking structure of the Pharaohs. How it had started, no one could say, but Lechequeuex and Van Bloutte were at the bottom of it all, abetted by a suddenly aroused Thomas. The growing amorous structure seemed to be built entirely of hairy assholes and female legs. Through the fleshy crevices a hand might steal round and twiddle the swinging balls to excite their rhythm. Tits were mashed under palms, the pressure swelling their cherry tips to peaches. Groans and sighs escaped from the carnal oven and long, plopping globules of released spem dripped from thigh to stomach, rolled into the sweat of armpits and fell like a Roman fountain in a steady gurgle from top to bottom. At the peak, the anguished woman continued her lamentations, supporting herself on hands and knees on the back of a male pumper, her ass buckled under the raging shaft of Prince Paul.
"Fe, fe, fe, fe, ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour-la grande affaire! Vere is dat knave, Rugby?"
"O diable, diable! Vat is in my closet?-Villainy!"
"This punk is one of Cupid's carriers! Clap on more sails. Pursue, up with your flights!"
"I love thee, and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here!"
The brusque evolution of the soiree had hindered our Shakespeare Group from performing the "Merry Wives of Windsor," but, like true actors who live but partly in this world, the lines escaped from their lips as they pursued their wanton way in the orgy. The last coherent snatch I heard was Sir Evans' song of the final act.
"Fye on sinful fantasy!
Fye on lust and luxury!
Lust is but a bloody fire.
Kindled with unchaste desire, As thoughts do blow them ... blow ... BLOW!"
The lady sucking at the actor's dick routed his song into bellows as she lapped his pulsing rod into orgasm. "The old balls have come again! Vive les couilles!"
"Oh, I am degraded," sobbed the Prince's partner. "Finished! Oh life, oh irony, I am become a pleasure hold of a depraved Prince."
The gesticulating Prince astride the baroque mass of humanity called for more ass and less poetry. With hands on hips he surveyed the awful scene with an imperious, devilish eye. Not a comer of the room was bare of a hussar's discarded uniform, of a baron's undershirt or a lady's crumpled corset. The sexes in fury were clasped in debauch on the floor, in chairs that rocked dangerously with their straggling copulation, against pillars, where a wild-eyed countess' legs were spread ecstatically before a hunched-up hussar and his thrilling weapon.
Perverts in the pyramid began to piss, in long curving arcs, or ejected a passionate turd in the mouth of a blissful companion. A stream of shit, piss and sperm wallowed down the slopes of buttocks and dripped to the floor with obscene sounds.
The prime Minister was lashing the streaked buttocks feverishly, his other hand pulling on his red cock with extraordinary violence.
Beneath them all, Thomas suddenly came to life, and the greatest organ in the house began to rise solemnly to its full capacity. The enraptured Marquise felt it swelling through her slobbering walls, filling her to the hilt with a voluptuous paroxysm beyond compare.
Above the bull's quivering back, the structure began to sway dangerously with his lunges, but instinctively each human molecule of the mass changed its rhythm with his, and for a second I had the illusion of a gigantic phallus jutting from the floor to the rafters, swaying gently to and fro, as if searching for the phenomenal cunt that could receive it.
The Duke had long since re-entered the banquet hall, and wherever he saw a bearded male he lifted the head in hope he had found me at last. Kashka's braced legs went back as she pushed her pussy flat against my groin and the wild, hungry sucking of her vagina pulled the orgasm from my cock.
She dropped her legs around my back and fainted in the wave of thrills that shivered her sensual frame.
I felt that Duke's hand on my shoulder and, winking, he motioned me out of her nest, where he immediately thrust his saucy pecker.
"She'll never complain about this fuck," he grinned. "And maybe she'll even forgive my marriage. Don't go too far, and save some sperm. You're going back in when I'm through."
"Very clever, old boy," I said, "very clever indeed. We'll keep her busy for quite a while."
"Right-o! We'll fuck the bitch to death!"
"Right! Just fart when you're through."
"Right-o!"
I was glad to be free on the floor again. Kashka was a damned good fuck, no doubt about that, but those kind of fucks I wanted to save for my weekends and long winter nights. Right now there was such a multitude of pussy, one felt the insane craving to get at them all. The varieties of vaginas alone was a voluptuous sight. Black-haired, blond and red; curled, long, short, or not at all, the time had come to taste them all; to prick the fat, rosy lips of the matrons and the thin, delicate sheaves of the maidens; to ram long drives into women of experience, and short, testy spurts into youth. I wanted to hear the breath of passion, the way it busts like a locomotive gathering speed until the onrushing juices drown the tongue in the explosive gasps of delirium and feel the working vulva and cock clasped in their drunken orgasm.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When Stanley abducted Maggie he had no trouble in leaving his pursuers far behind. He had been clever enough to avoid the bedrooms in favor of an obscure lavatory on the third floor.
There, on the black and white tiles, the frail, civilized cunt was faced with the long, cone-headed jungle shaft. The crapulous beast wallowed into the chaste trousseau like a pig, a trough, tossing her petticoats into a lacy frame for his ass.
The glistening head of his cock stabbed at the mucous fronds of her pussy in a scalding lunge. His powerful testicles whipped the soft human sweetmeats to white heat, and the thrills he threw into her body reduced her puritan shell to dust.
In an ecstasy she had never known, provoked as much by the stinging odor of his fur and the blasting fire of his nostrils, as by the formidable organ dipping and plunging into her excited glands, she threw up her ass with joy to help him provoke the voluptuous sensations.
Humiliated at first by the ignoble rape of his bride, the authentic Duke ran from room to room, bloody revenge twisting his features into a horrible mask. His agile mind, however, moved at a quicker pace, and he soon saw how the catastrophe could be turned to his advantage.
So it was that when he walked into the lavatory to take a piss and was faced with the spectacular tableau of his future wife moaning and squirming in her fantastic thrills he stood, with his cock out, urinating on the tiles and studying the ape's heaving form with a faraway look. He flipped away the last drops, replaced his prick, tapped Stanley amicably on his stony balls and closed the door on corruption.
He descended to the kitchen for a stimulant, where he was mystified by his laundress' ass poking out at him from beneath his dirty shirts, the ripple of her laughter issuing from their depths.
His friend and author, le Conte D'Avino, rippling the pages of his next manuscript, was seated by the stove, surrounded by a sea of bottles.
"E stupendo! E Meravigilioso!" he cried through his thin, peaked mustache. "Duco, e formidabile! This soiree has revolutionized my work!"
"Do you never stop work?" asked the Duke.
The chipper Count laughed and waved his manuscript in the air.
"Now! Now, I can fuck! It's done, finished ... outmoded!"
He lifted the grate of the oven and hurled the papers into the flames, saluted the Duke with a low bow and skipped out of the room, unbuttoning his fly as he made for the Grand Ball Room.
The Duke walked over and looked at the bottles. He shook his head in amazement, then followed in his footsteps, leaving his pants in the hall where he found the others.
After the Duke had taken over for me on Kashka's sweating body, I wandered through the room, picking out of plates to appease a growing hunger, and watching the battling multitude consume their forces one by one.
"Excuse me, Your Grace," I heard a timid voice at my elbow. A thin fellow, fully dressed and carrying a satchel, was holding my arm and staring with incredulous eyes at the Rabelaisian crowd.
"Yes?" I asked, wondering where he had come from. He obviously wasn't a noble and looked like he was about to shit in his pants from fear.
"I, I, have some important news for you! ... I was warned to keep my mouth shut, but I know my duty, and ... and...."
A big female leg fell on his toe as a woman succumbed to her seething orgasm. The man who had screwed her got up, and pushed the little fellow tight against the table. His face drained of all its color.
"Well?" I asked, chewing on the leg of a turkey and rather annoyed at the interruption, "go on, tell me your news."
He tried to squeeze between the crushing buttocks and the table, but the man who had just finished was rushed by the Crimean Princess, who had yet to learn that a prick has got to be stiff before a woman can use it. She leaped in the air and came flying flat against his groin, her outspread legs barring the way completely for the little fellow.
Escape was further complicated by the sudden appearance of Rubilovsky's evil snout between his legs. I don't know what she had been doing all alone under the table. When she lifted the cloth a sickening odor of shit and sweet marihuana floated out. She started tugging at his fly while he was getting belted in the stomach by the couple in front of him.
"For Christ's sake, talk, will you?" I bellowed. "What the hell do you want?"
As his prick came out in the Countess' palm he shouted back, sounding like he was crying for help. "It's about Miss Choates, Your Grace. I came to tell you about Miss Choates. Her Doctor ... OOH ... I said ... And you should ... OOh Know. Oh ... Maggie Oh, Oh, has ... OOOOh, syphilis, OH!"
"Syphilis!" echoed the gossip, "Maggie has syphilis!"
"Poor Stanley!" I said, throwing the chicken leg away. "Poor Stanley...."
Father Kelly's eyes bulged at my indifference. From below, Rubilovsky pulled on his trousers. His head was nearly snapped off between the table and the pumping ass as he went sliding down.
When I came back, the Duke was on the table, one knee in a salad bowl, punching crazily into Kashka's asshole. His plan to fuck her to death seemed to be making headway, for she was already so punch drunk she opened her mouth for my cock, having completely forgotten who was buggering her from behind.
We addressed each other over her back.
"Cosimo," I said to the Duke, "you needn't have gone to the trouble of all that plotting. I have just learned that Maggie is a bag of disease."
"I am thinking of Stanley," he answered, raising his voice over Kashka's rising wail.
"Yes," I replied, shoving my pecker well into her mouth. "It is a shame. He's too impetuous,"
"Nature," shrugged the Duke. "Well, we'll have him treated. I need that ape."
He then told me the plan he had in mind. "Stanley is priceless," he said. "Once he gets into a woman, he's all she wants. That simian prick of his will keep peace at last with all the females I have to fuck. Think of the free time I'll have for new pussy!"
His words grew hurried at the end as his sperm began to jelly into Kashka. Her throat opened wide to emit her ecstatic moan but the head of my cock went down and gagged her.
"I don't know if she was fucked or sucked to death ... Perhaps a little of both."
The two Dukes rose up on the table, straddling the collapsed mistress and turned to survey the room.
The enormous phallus began to lean heavily to one side, and suddenly, with the ultimate rocking orgasm streaming through their organs and accompanied with the mad cries of lust appeased, it toppled over and collapsed to the floor, a wriggling turmoil of limbs, groins, pussies, cocks, assholes, mouths, and rolling tits all churned into a thick and odorous cream which poured over the marble like a foaming wave on the beach, then settled gradually into the euphory of dozing sun-bathers, the flabby cocks shrinking back to their pouches and the overheated pussies choking for air and rest.
Father Kelly crawled from under the table when the noise had stopped and looked in horror at the carnage. But the worst was when the poor man perceived the two Cosimos on the banquet table, laughing at a monstrous ape carrying in his arms the adoring figure of Miss Choates. He placed her on the back of the exhausted bull and the three of them left the palace in a dreamy mood, like some strange apparition of Europa.
Father Kelly fell headlong into a cooling cunt, victim of an apoplectic stroke.
The warm aroma of sperm and female mucus hovered in the giant room, wafted through the columns in long, pungent draughts. The fornication had reached its apogee and passed into animal snores of contentment.
Cosimo hugged my shoulder, as delighted as an infant with the success of his ball.
"I can die now, Cosimo," he said with a warm tear of human love. "I can die as befits my condition. Others may try, but they can never equal what we have accomplished here tonight. We have fucked the world, I tell you, fucked it once and for all!"
And watching the formidable sea of sperm that floated in and out amongst the prostrate couples I could not help but agree.
"It's going to be hard, Cosimo," I said, observing Sir
Mottke-Wrench crawling toward Lady Hottham with his tongue hanging out. "It's going to be hard to return to civilian life."
