Griffith did a bodyflip, prick now striking out and up, into the assembled revelers.
Morrigana had minced Arturo’s dick with her fidgeting digits and now danced the revolver across her brother-lover’s face.
As Griffith gripped Arturo’s wrists behind his back, Morrigana lowered her gaze. Pulled her gown to her waist.
Fucked her brother in the face.
Veronica jacked Lance’s pecker off to ejaculation in a matter of seconds.
He was gaining on his second erection when Constance was surrounded on the dais by the naked fannies of Trevor, Alistair, and Nigel.
They slid prick into her yip, within hзr fists. Jissom sprayed in an opalescent mist about her tresses as she wiggled from her dress.
Black pearls dangled from her rotund rumphole and swagged below her posterior commissure up again into her golden-tinted twat.
Constance’s breasts displayed their ruby-cqlored nips above the half-cup pushup bustier that encased her midsection within flocculent lace.
Trevor tangled his tongue into her snatch to suck up a taste down the hatch.
Alistair had her asshole in his mouth, twirling the pearlies with his teeth.
Nigel snaked his twanger through Constance’s long blonde locks. His cock barked out another clot of aqueous jizz from the barrel.
Thick fermented cream fizzed Constance’s sweatbeaded brow. A curd of come rolled over her aquiline nose and hung like a bauble from the tip of Constance’s straight tongue.
Constance catapulted into orgasm after orgasm as the pearls were strung out of her bung and her pussy. A tap to her paps with the tip of a pecker brought nectar brimming from her quim.
Trevor and Alistair entered her simultaneously. Trevor’s pecker pondered the labyrinthine labia of her pullulating pussy. Whilst Alistair jabbed her about her arsehole with the snout of his prick.
Nigel cleverly held his weenie aloft so the lady might snap up the jissomic residue that had adhered thereto.
“If these were all poor people,” Griffith croaked, “it might leave one sick.”
“I yam seeck,” Arturo growled as he chowed down his sister’s cunt, “to see my former wife have to whore her way to social respect.”
“Stick it to this greaseball schmeckel, Morrigana,” Griffith gagged. “I’m going to seem if Veronica has gotten the goods on the lord himself.”
Griffith trained his eyes toward the rutting twosome. Laxed out at the view of Veronica gobbling down Lance’s goo.
Constance was buried in rutting asses.
Mixed male and female buttocks bantered against her face. Fingers pumping pearls up poopdecks held the randiers firmly in place.
As Constance balls at the charity ball, her man Griffith reviews the scene.
Some are groveling for the flick, humbled by the suck-others thoroughly erect in their rampant sensual arrogance and pride. But they are all held in sexual thrall-fucksterslaves at the charity ball.
Quite a haul of quim, cash, and the splash of champagne. If Griffith could choose, he would do it all over again.
As his exposed cockmeat grew long; escaped from the codpiece dangling loosely beneath his waist, he shoved the penishead into a debutante’s face.
“Time to break the news,” he said to her as she chewed, “but I’ve paid my dues and it’s time for this boy to turn the screws.”
Some scene.
Big deal.
So far.
Griffith remembered then how ill this Miss Charity gig had boded from the start.
Rich bitch named Constance Hyphenate-It Something-Ritzy gets on a kind of cunt itch. Has lesbo-bimbo secretary call up Griffith’s office to request the presence of a qualified security analyst and investigative specialist. Seems this dish says there’s a matter of some pearls amiss.
The situation is rare.
The mazuma rarer.
Thereupon, for the gobs of gelt involved, said advertised private dick piles the mileage onto his already destitute jalopy of a Lamborghini.
Bat-outof-helling it from Manhattan out to the end of Long Island.
He anticipates being able at least to salvage expenses for playing with the wench.
Griffith thinks he knows the type.
Stale games.
Stale cunt.
But the money up front.
He waltzes into the upper-crusty slit’s joint. Ignored, he has to cool his heels at the door. Is nearly seduced by a bust-of Venus, to be sure. Venus done up in a sado-Sapphic mask is indeed quite a treat. A woman complete-except that she has no tits, no ass, no cunt or cut. And marble in place of her brains.
Then the appearance of the lady of Charity House herseli Constance’s refined hotbod on display- maddeningly naked beneath her slinky kinipno- makes up for what Venus herself lacks.
But then he never thought he’d love her.
Never thought she’d love him.
Circumstantial suspects and conceivable accomplices to the possible crime are on hand and readily accessible. Constance gives him a free hand, the run of the land.
On his honor, Griffith then takes the opportunity to slide his pecker into the haunches of the literary masochist of every man’s dreams. Okay-depends on how sick your dreams are.
Griffith’s are.
After all, the trail after a woman’s tail is a mean street indeed.
When Griffith at length pulls his jimjam from Morrigana Lafayette’s groin, she leads him on a tour of every nook and cranny of every passageway of the small chateau Constance has remodeled into a castle of passion with individual bordello suites as well spacious ballroom facilities.
All manner of whips, chains, restraints, barbed dildos, razor blades turn up.
But nary a bead of the vaunted black pearls Griffith seeks.
Afterwards, Griffith nukes a water nymph in her hiney with fission of jissom.
The rich cunt Constance, lady behind the scene, is at length cornered in her hothouse garden of evil, the truth about the missing marbles reamed out of her by the quickwitted investigator.
Subsequent to that carnival of misdeeds, the real scramble through the brambles begins with a sybaritic soiree among London’s elite. Not just pearls any longer, but international intrigue and whirlpools of bodyheat roll into the scheme. Not a bad scenario, Griffith thought. Believable, even, if one knew the milieu. As a work of fiction, it was certainly the right style. Had Constance planned it this way all the while?
Griffith jerked back his head. The debutante fed upon his prong.
Prickmeat was aswarm with flying jissom. The friction of her tongue beneath the cockhead burned his flesh.
The dick stretched out. Shanked off a current of come out the side of her mouth.
His eyes met Constance’s, who had two dongs dorking her armpits. They narrowed into slits as she slimed a smile across her face at him.
“Got him,” he thought he read her lips.