Alistair had a champagne-debauched debutante in slit gown stretched across his shoulders sidesaddle. She slung one leg over his head as he inserted his tongue into her spread.
Nigel coughed down chunks of cuntcome from a deb with low-slung tits while a bombed-out WASP bitch twitched his backside with her headhair.
Kroughleigh dismounted from his tandem of equestrian beauties and flew into a rage. His hands were all over the women’s ribcages, twisting titties and pulling nipples to blazing redness.
He shed his vest.
The fillies did the rest.
One split her thighs and sat on his chest, pussy pooched toward his tongue.
The other snitched off his breeches and licked at his dick.
“Suck meaner, Antoinette,” Kroughleigh cackled. “You’re too kind for a marquise.”
His face was now plastered in pussy. He tolled his tongue about the labyrinthine folds of labia.
Took hold of the clit by his teeth. Rolled his tongue over the hub.
“Now, Candida,” Kroughleigh chewed out, “since I’m slicking your cunny and you’re a baroness, I’m not certain of the proper form of address.”
“Tonguelashing will do, kind sir,” Candida cooed as her pussy mewed through its whiskers.
Antoinette sat on Kroughleigh’s belly.
Her twat slipped on over the knot at the tip of Kroughleigh’s prick as though it were made of jelly. His juices jumped into her immediately.
Seed scattered from Antoinette’s wrenching slit. Cuntcome foamed at Kroughleigh’s mouth as he pursued the scampering clit of Candida.
Antoinette’s come-larded quim was seized from behind by Trevor’s riding crop.
He gave her clitoris a bop and then on he hopped.
Alistair and Nigel tore Candida away from Kroughleigh’s face. Twarfur stippled Kroughleigh’s drooling maw as he gave chase.
“Quite a bust,” Griffith said to the bathed and newly clad Constance as she walked up to observe the festivities.
“Suits me fine,” she said. “You know me. I never fuck. I just lust.”
“I thought you watched too.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Got pearls strung from your rump to your pussy underneath that gown?”
“You can see they’re around my neck.”
“But maybe the other pair-”
“They’re there. Where you like them. Want to play detective with me?”
“Let’s see.”
Griffith got to his knees.
Snaked his tongue up the insides of Constance’s bare legs. Head hidden within the silken drapery of Constance’s gown, he popped black pearls from her pussy and bum with shakes of his head.
“Just a second, sis,” Griffith said, cutting his twatgobble short. “This makes three.”
“Three sets of black pearls now, Griffith.”
“The ones we played with earlier-”
“Those are the ones I took from my lingerie to take to London-when I took them with me I was of course not certain whether they or the ones then in the safe were the real ones-or if indeed either set was.”
“Right. Either way-we didn’t want Morrigana or Veronica-being the primary suspects in the pearl switch-to know anyone was at least hall-wise.”
“Well, just now I fetched the ones in the safe- thought I’d make use of them to supplement my auctioned-slave girl stunt tonight. So then, just for the fuck of it I looked through my underwear-what did I encounter but yet another strand of black beads.
“I didn’t know pearls could breed.”
“What do you make of that?”
“Have to think about it. While we make it.”
“Make it sharp and snappy. Remember, whatever you do has to read well.”
How about if I start with my fingers?”
“Higher. On the clitoris.”
“Fingernails? Fist?”
“Knuckles.”
Her legs buckled.
Scum scuttled from her labia.
Griffith wedged his leg up between her asscheeks. Broke out his stiffened member.
As he stoked it into her cunt, it sizzled like a burning ember embedded in boiling liquid.
“You have to come inside me now, Griffith. I need that pearly liquid of yours right in my curlies. Fuck me, luck me, luck-luck-luck me till I die-diedie in orgasmic oblivion.”
“Save that prertytalk for your books, toots. I’m just six-shooting grime in your slimeslit jimjam so far as I’m concerned, ma’am.”
Chapter VIII
Artfully parted arsecheeks perched astride saddles strapped to the backs of sporting libertines, Morrigana and Veronica rode into the ballroom at Charity House. They were the mounted escorts of Lady Constance, who lay amitst a swirl of black Belgian lace and strands of multitinred pearls on a feather-canopied palinquin borne upon the shoulders of a set of highstrung dudes with thick pects, oiled and stripped to the waist.
Griffith was in place to the side of the lady, symbolically clad in the hooded garb of a lord-high executioner. “Bunch of rubes,” Griffith muttered to his mistress. “But has to be this way.”
“Judging from recent events, Griffith,” Constance murmured, “I may need your protection tonight more than ever.”
“Look. I better tell you right now where I’m coming from and where this is going. You say to me confidentially that you sponsor these charity flings to help clear your name of your former association with King Con of Cuba so maybe you can get your mitts on some more of your family’s mazuma-”
“Playing the society game.”
“But it turns real crisp when your biggest contributions come through the clandestine offices of your former mate, who’s using your foundation as a washroom for his loot.”
“You know, Griffith, dear. I think you knew all that from the start. If you knew I was being used, why didn’t you tell me earlier than you did?”
“I didn’t really catch the drift until I was dredging the pearlies up from your buns. Before London I wasn’t sure how it all fit together.”
“But your tone of voice-”
“Sorry about that-but something else just hit me-when I saw all those people out on the polo field horsing around. But it really wasn’t crystallized in my mind until you had me put on this medieval hatchetman outfit. See, to me in my profession, I like for there to be a distinction between being a knight-errant and a hit-man.”
“Don’t you think that’s a bit over-romantic?”
“Oh, I think it’s totally unrealistic. But I’m that type of guy. I put up with as well as participate in a lot of activity that is certainly questionable on any moral or spiritual level. But when I see a chance to invoke some version of justice or retribution in this merciless world-”
“So go ahead andsave mefrom thedragon. I should qualify as maiden in distress.”
“You may mock me, milady-but please do not make any attempt to play innocent on me. It won’t do your virtue any good at this point.”
As Constance lapsed into silence, Griffith peered toward the dais. Sandor Kroughleigh was in charge of displaying the auction lots and was presently demonstrating the effectiveness of a gold-worked, opal-encrusted dildo embossed with furls of leonine pudhairs about the balls.
Tristan Channing, calling the auction, let an article of his clothing drop from his person at crucial points in the bidding.
As the antique dildo was claimed by its prickly new owner, Sandor Kroughleigh celebrated the sale by stoking his dick down Isolde Peck’s neck.
He bounced his hefty ballocks on her silicongrown knobbies.
A bauble of come wobbled across the top of her titmounts. Clattered against her face.
Tristan dragged Kroughleigh off the bawdy Isolde and pushed him toward the next exhibit. Kroughleigh hauled the wares up above his head. For sale was a pair of gender-specific Indonesian puppets equipped for the fiick and suck.
Constance was silent, wavihg her arms and smiling at the assemblage of ritz rakehells and society strumpets as her train wove through the dancefloor on its way toward the stage.
“Look, Constance. I don’t want to spoil your party and I don’t care if you knew all about it all along,” Griffith said. “But you know it’s got to stop. Now.”
“What could lead you to suspect-?”
“I know you hold personal title to Charity House, pi course-it was the only digs your family would let loose to you-their bohemian bitch princess who wanted to hang out with the artistic set. This abandoned chateau was in shambles when you took over-and restoration costs run high, especially for this kind of quality. I also understand that family funds can be strictly limited when doled to a supposedly dizzy dolly like you.”