“In Europe you can get away with that.”
“I’m not exactly royalty-”
“He wasn’t either-not really. Was he?”
“That remains to be seen. In any event, I won’t let it happen again-”
“You haven’t yet.”
Constance drank from the glass Veronica passed. “Since then,” Constance said with a smoky gleam to her eyes, “I’ve managed to keep my love life and my married life separate.”
“And your being Lady Farnsworth has to mean a lot, Constance-”
“Ah, Veronica. You must understand. There are lords and there are lords. My husband has a title, he is rich-but he’s not among the idle. He really does have a heavy load of diplomatic duties.”
“Least it keeps him away from you.”
“True.”
“And you do have your own independent career to tend, my dear.” Veronica cast her eyes at the small tape recorder. “Working?”
“Trying out first lines. Here.”
She snaggled on the machine.
A crackly version of Constance’s voice chewed out: “I never fuck. I just watch.”
“Omigosh,” Veronica twittered. “That’s delicious, doll. What’s it about?”
“I don’t know yet. I have a lot of thoughts on the cassette now. I should give it to Morrigana and let her figure it out.”
“Yeah, Constance. You’ve done enough work for today. Pack it away.”
“Okay. Talked me into it.”
“Want to take a dip with me?”
“I think not. That kind of exercise doesn’t seem to appeal to me right now. But thanks for the thought, dear one.”
“Yeah, well, anyway,” Veronica said. “I almost forgot. There’s this dude down at the big house waiting to see you.”
“Huh?”
“Morrigana told me when she saw me coming out here. I thought I had his card somewhere with me.” She puzzled her brow. Crinkled her nose. “Where the fuck is that?”
A bright look passed across her face. She reached around to the back of her waist Slid her digits between her asscheeks.
Brought out a mildly moist rectangle of cardboard. Held it aloft. Wafted it under Constance’s nose.
Constance read with utterly no interest to be traced on her face.
The card was embossed in the center with letters of the classic Roman order spelling out the name GRIFFITH POINDEXTER. In the lower left corner, set in small italic type, was the single word consultations.
“I know him,” Constance said slowly. “Or I know who he’s supposed to be. Didn’t expect him so soon. He’s a private dick I’m thinking of bringing in for the charity ball.”
“Something go wrong?”
“Not yet. Not as far as I know. But I think it’s a good idea to have a little house security on my side as a preventive measure.”
“Sure blows me away,” Veronica said. “But then, you’re the smarty-pants around here.”
“If you actually think that, Veronica, you are doing yourself a great disservice. You just need a bit more experience in certain areas.”
“Gee, thanks, Constance.”
“Stick around me, sis, and you’ll become a prodigy in a jiffy.”
“Yes! I want to! I want to be a-a-genius! What I wouldn’t do for you!”
“Can you do my back for me now?”
“Sure. I love to give you rubdowns. But what about that dude that’s waiting around? Tell him to kiss off or what?”
“Shit. I’ll see him.”
“Shall I send him up?”
“No. I’ll have to get dressed before I meet him.”
“But, like, Constance. He’s not one of us, you know. He’s like-almost like a servant. You shouldn’t have to care whether something like that sees you naked.
I mean, you wouldn’t care if a hound were around while you took a shit.-”
“I’m afraid I do have to treat the poor boy as if I think he’s half human. I need his good graces in light of the occasion.”
“Too bad.”
“Oh?”
“In more ways than one. I caught a look at him while he was talking to Morrigana in the foyer-he didn’t see me-and if he weren’t so common he might be a bit of fun.”
“Hmmmmm. That’s one thing you can begin to learn, Veronica.”
“Huh?”
“You don’t have to forgo sleeping with someone simply because of their social status or dearth of family background. There may well be limits as to your eventual involvement with them. But they’re not strictly off-limits sexually.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The two young women sidled together side by side toward the door leading off the rear porch.
Veronica put her arm around Constance.
Leaned her mouth into her head and whispered into her ear cup. “As long as the conversation’s getting a little personal, Constance-just what was it that drove you to-uh-love Arturo?”
“In how many words?”
The pillow-talk routine.
Arturo’s favorite. Regardless of whether it was in the back of a Bentley, the cabin of a Lear Jet decorated whorehouse style.
Or as now. On the deck of one of Arturo’s more casual medium-sized yachts.
Anchored within telescoping range of the tit-bedazzled beach on the French Riviera slightly to the east of Saint Tropez.
Constance held her eyes shut.
Her lips were open.
Arturo’s member slithered between.
He talked away on the phone in a mixture of Spanish, English, French, and Arabic.
Constance had found out shortly after their first meeting that Arturo liked to be sucked off during overseas conference calls.
“Sheik,” he said, adjusting the focus on his telescope as Constance choked down his dingdong. “No hashish, man-no guns. You gotta understand my customers’ needs.”
Constance cocked her ears. Took prick in deeper.
“And, Mister Ambassador. That airplane that went down with nobody around. Just a bungle in the jungle. No. The cargo didn’t just disappear. Somebody has to have it. Finders keepers. But I might could get it back for you maybe if the price is all right. It’s just papers-huh?”
Constance choked on the slickness pestering her maw. The ballocks loomed up, increasing in size by the second.
The magenta tip of Arturo’s twanger wailed away inside her mouthcheeks.
Billowing scrotum wafted like a hot-air balloon. As the come coursed on down her chest, Constance swooned into his nest.
She felt the hot rush of jissom in her face. slugged down draughts of his joy juice.
Quaffed come into her tam-turn.
Inside her stomach, the jissom boiled.
Her snatch was a patch of hot oils.
Arturo wiggled his pecker.
A few snaggles of jizz traced the angle of her nose. Constance gnawed nuggets.
Played with his hose.
“So they got hostages in-where?” Arturo paused. “No hay problem, man.”
He wrapped his legs about Constance’s face. Brought her head up underneath his rump.
She sucked his asshole ravenously. Eating out anus about the crinkled rim.
His body jumped like a trout.
Constance’s fingers wormed in and out.
Her fingers hooked into the cranny of his fanny. Thumb banged on the outer edge of his asshole.
Corked right in.
“Awk! That’s a zinger,” Arturo stuttered, pulsing his buns. “Tell you what to do, though, man. Invite that father-fucking prime minister over for dinner.
Find out what he really, really likes. Then maybe you can take him aside. Get him addicted to drugs or little girls. You become his supplier, and, man- you be in like Flynn.”
Constance thumbed his bung as his ballocks bounced in her face.
She lapped the seam between his ass and his scrotum. Snapped teeth at his testicles.
Blew up his bottom until his legs spasmed weakly. Flailing her own clit maniacally.
Constance’s face was straining in the agony of her incipient orgasm.
Screaming clit touched off a frenzy from her toes to her brain.
Come rained from her cunny.
Pussy puled for attention.
Purring pussy, hungering for birdmeat. Mewing, stewing, fretting like a kitten.
Constance slashed her legs apart.
Rutted up into the air at his face.
Displaying widespread labia.
Pink, open lips.
Attempting to kiss.
Arturo’s mindless ranting excited her all the more. She suffered because she was ignored by her husband. Mental rough staff.