Did she dare?
Would her family care? “Why, I don’t believe we’ve properly met,” Constance said. “So I will have to say not just yet with regard to your request.”
“Is pleasure beyond measure, my senorita, to introduce yourself to my highness Arturo Mondragon Bourbon-myself-at your illustrious service.”
“Learn to speak English.”
“Fuck you.”
“See how easy it is?”
“Join me in this tango.”
“As you suggest,” Constance lifted her wrist to be kissed. “But remember this, you brute. I never fuck. I just watch.”
She casually slid the bottle of Lafirte Rothschild from her bum.
Sucked down a slug.
“A fine vintage,” Arturo said. “Have you tried the Margaux of the same year?”
“In my mouth or my rear?”
Constance lifted her legs above her head.
Her asshole worked lividly. She drained the remainder of the red claret into her intestines. Snapped the empty bottle from her rump.
Constance gave a tap to her bloated belly.
Her asshole sputtered and thumped.
Richly colored liquid ran like fruit juice. Spurts from her asscrack piped down the sides of the marble pedestal as a gaggle of servants rushed to attendance.
They tossed several crystal decanters full of mineral water between the lady’s cavorting legs and rinsed out her squeaking bowels. The nearly naked slaveys then wiped down the body and the marble with snow-white towels.
“I think I’m almost ready for the dance,” Constance said with a cock of her head.
“As you wish.”
“But first I must take a piss.”
A slave girl in Grecian-styled gauze knelt between Constance’s knees.
The girls parted Constance’s pubes. Pressed open her slushing pussylips.
Shimmers of glittering liquid crystal blistered the nymph’s face to freckles.
Constance drenched the gamine’s piss-bleached tresses with a fine hissing mist.
“Look, milady,” Arturo said, pointing with eyes alight. “Such inspiration.”
Constance espied the three pissladieres Trevor, Alistair, and Nigel.
Their ballocks dangled low.
They sizzled the air with drizzles of puzzle cascading in platinum and gilt curtains into wide mouthed goblets of cut crystal.
The spewing urine reflected the subtle light. Prismatic refractions of piss in motion attracted the attention of ladies too numerous to mention individually.
These women knelt to heft the brimming goblets in a mock toast.
The three men pissed down their evening gowns. Drenched tresses of blonde, henna, and brown with fragrant froth.
Then there was Tristan Channing, the society shrink-his oinker was rooting up the hiney of dainty Isolde Peck. He had a hold of her by the neck and stood spread-legged.
Her asshole squealing as she speared herself upon it with clutching ruts of her rectum.
Now the sylphlike Veronica drifted over the floor, in the embrace of the woman Constance had seen arrive with the noble-however ignoble he may eventually prove-Arturo Mondragon. “May I ask who is that?” Constance nearly spat.
“My spiritual sister Morrigana,” Mondragon said. “Of the Lafayette branch of the French Bourbon trunk. Where I come from they are considered junk. But some would conceive of me the same way.”
“Which is why you guinea wetback spic mick Brit frog wogs all hang out in the US of A anyway. In Europe you’re treated like skunks-here your specious titles are most endeared.”
“On another subject, eef I may. I admire your blondy-blonde girlfriend-friend’s brassiere.”
“Oh, dear,” Constance said, slanting a glance toward the two women’s torrid tango. “I am afraid my friend Veronica is not wearing one, Arturo. You do mean bodice-do you not?”
“Ah, your devotion is already improving my language skills. What are those,” he worked his finger in a circular motion, “little hills on her chest? Ah. They are the tits.”
“Breasts.”
“Ah, yes. I will keep my mind on that.” Constance floated her eyes over Morrigana’s lurid form.
Her limbs were as warm over Veronica like a spider at feed on prey.
Castanets chattered above the white-gold and blue-emerald tiara in the woman’s dark hair.
The space between Morrigana’s crisp paps was revealed and framed by a gem-powdered bodice plunging deep below her waist.
Adorned by another emerald stone, Morrigana’s navel signaled the outlines of her whim.
Ultra-white foothills of the Venus Mount.
Pale opalescence of juices running within their Casing of absolutely colorless skin.
And the blue-green iridescence of eyes whose flame challenged that of the stones in her crown and whose daring was far greater even than the spareness of her gown.
Suddenly Veronica went down.
Her tongue lapped the place between Morrigana’s tits. Face suctioned the navel.
Teeth clattering upon the setting of the gemstone inset there.
Nose nudging the hitherto unseen stubble of sheared pubic hair.
“I don’t care to join in,” Constance mused. “Nor do I mind if you prefer to, Arturo Mondragon of- did you say Aragon?”
“Until I may claim the throne of Spain-my realms are in Miami and Nueva York now. I will join you, Constance, in watching the ladies suck. I fuck my seester Morrigana until she blistered already. But that is for little kids. I like the way your girlfriend Veronica kisses her.”
The attractive young Englishman man Constance knew as Lance Fondulac had arrived upon the scene. He kissed both tangoing trollops.
Slid himself in between their frolics.
His length of lingam curved between Veronica’s lips. Bounced beneath Morrigana’s tits.
Tip of prick appearing like the head of a spear. Glancing off the sides of the women’s faces.
Lipstick traces running from pricktip down the haft to where the ballocks grew like the dewy bloom of rare wild orchids.
Lance grappled with four tits as his prong was kissed. He stooped gallantly and licked the women’s boobs.
Toured his tongue down Morrigana’s middle and sniffed a tuft of pubes.
Lubed Veronica’s underarms with licks.
His mouth sprayed a mist amidst the drizzling kisses he applied to the misses.
“And who, may I ask,” Antoine said, “is that- how do you say-brash young chap?”
“You mean my escort of the night? The future Lord Farnsworth, presently a knight.”
Constance knew there was an element missing from this unrehearsed scene.
She needed a foil endowed with unflappable restraint among the libertines.
A man whose thoughts were dreams.
Whose actions were extreme.
And at odds with his place.
A new face.
Neither noble nor humble.
Obscuring his wit with cultivated bumbling. Speech alternately clear and mumbling.
“Everything okay?” he addressed Constance. “I mean, this is your show, after all. I’m only the security you hired ma’am. If you don’t give a damn about their balling at the ball-”
“That will be all,” Constance smiled. “The events are well in hand. But thank you for your interest in the welfare of my guests.”
Constance watched the private dick walk quickly from one end of the room to the next.
Keen eyes.
Lean thighs.
His evening clothes an obvious disguise.
Pose of gentrihood an evident ruse.
Simply an excuse for the man under cover to remain alienated from his surroundings, of which he was neither in awe nor contemptuous.
Aroused, Constance kissed Arturo’s cheek with An unexpected rush. Antoine flushed. Returned the buss. Trussedher bosom with his paws.
“We are destined to become lovers,” he said.
“Not yet.”
“Would you care to bet?”
“This isn’t Monte Carlo.”
“Who says no?”
“It’s my show.”
“What am I-a dog, a mutt? Do I have to prove my pedigree to rut with every bitch in heat?”
“How sweet.”
“I yam not only of the most regal lineage-”
“I had a pedigreed Akita I called King-”
“I yam a banker, financier-a man of commerce as well. Being a businessman is a very noble and ancient calling.”
“So is the world’s oldest profession.”