Claire was also afraid but, at the same time, she was like a child running wild in a candy store. All these beautiful bodies. She couldn't decide which one she wanted first. The blonde girl in the chair had beautiful tits and her cunt, through the tight material of her dress, pooched provocatively. Claire imagined spooning juices from it with her tongue. She had also noticed the long length of meaty hose running down Mark Lester's inner thigh. Her cunt had started dripping the second she had realized that his cock was soft; my God, she thought, what would it be like hard?
But why, she wondered, hadn't any one of them made some kind of an advance to her? She couldn't very well just go up and ask them if they wanted to fuck. It wasn't ladylike and, after all, it just wasn't done.
"Good evening."
All heads turned towards the doorway. He stood, like an image from the middle of the sixteenth century, calm, cool, cosmopolitan and beautiful. His dress was impeccable from the silk cravat at his throat to the highly polished slippers on his feet. Between was a maroon smoking jacket and a pair of tailored gray trousers with a crease that could slice a finger.
He strolled into the center of the room with catlike grace, his weight, like an athlete's, on the balls of his feet. In his left hand he held an expensive, gold cigarette holder, in his right, a glass of wine, which he sipped while he talked. His voice was low, sensual, and seemed to flow from his throat in a lulling, hypnotic way.
"For those of you who don't already know me, I am your host, Count Domino LeBarron. For the remainder of the weekend, and indeed for as long as we are acquainted, I do hope that can be shortened to 'Dom'."
"Now, I'm sure all of you have a semblance of an idea what our little weekend will be like. Usually my wife, the Countess Donea, would aid me in this little introduction speech, but at the moment she is highly indisposed. She tried to fuck one of the ponies in the stable last night and the beast broke his harness and almost killed the poor girl. She's upstairs soaking the results right now."
There was general nervous laughter following this piece of news, but still no one bothered to check anyone else's real reaction. The Count refilled his glass and continued.
"You all have several things in common. That's why you were asked here this weekend. Among these things are physical beauty far above the ordinary, and a need for sex, equally above the ordinary. Sex, my friends, whether you want to admit it or not, is what you, along with myself, worship above all else. And why not? Since the beginning of time, men and women have strived for sex, killed for it, and died for it. It is the basic human drive and is sublimated to the other basic drives only because society dictates it be so."
"This weekend, I not only plan to show you the ignorance of society, but also the way to profit from that ignorance… as a matter of fact, a great deal of profit."
"To be perfectly frank, we are, all of us in this room, probably neurotic and perverted in a sense. At the same time, all of you are a little fearful of that perversion, even though it's what you really live for. That is why the incredible orgy you are about to experience will relieve your worries and frustrations and allow you to return to your lives in a better and, as I mentioned, more profitable frame of mind."
"Being with, and reacting to, other aimless souls, like yourself, tends to strengthen your life… give it meaning and purpose. You have all indulged in every conceivable sexual act, but never felt at ease doing it without having a gun pointed at your head, so to speak."
"After this weekend, you will be able to not only taste erotica, but live it. In the past you have all considered your strange sexual drives a problem. Most of you have consulted psychiatrists about your 'problem'… and, in all cases, to no avail."
"This is normal. No one is brought up to think this way; our moral codes definitely condemn flagrant and perverted use of sex. The church, the schools, the parents for the most all preach and teach only 'normal' sex. Anything deviating from the norms is dirty and the doer should be punished… but how many practice what they preach? How many are pure? How many go to church on Sunday and sin the rest of the week? I don't know the answer, but I'm sure the percentage of the righteous is very small."
"I propose to show you, this weekend, that you are actually very normal. When you leave here, you will leave as normal, well-adjusted people with not only no fear of sex, but also with the open love and admiration for it that brings you from the bottom of the rest of the society to the very top."
Here the Count paused, letting the silence, add emphasis to his words. He looked around the room, smiling. It was obvious that all of them had questions. But no one spoke. They did, however, start to examine one another, although strangely.
"And now we come to the catch, so to speak," the Count continued, "which is really no catch at all."
"I thought we'd get around to it," murmured Gray Hendricks. "I'll bet it's something to do with profit."
"Correct, Mr. Hendricks. I applaud you for speaking out. Congratulations. But before I explain, I must mention the one other thing all of you have in common. Each of you…" Here he stopped and once again let his eye roam the room, pausing as he looked deeply into each of their souls. "Each of you currently indulges in the use of sex for your livelihood, and each of you hates it. I propose to do away with that hate."
Here his voice dropped an octave and became very stem, commanding, almost accusing.
"Miss Allison Dare, you are a prostitute, plying your trade from a luxury, East Side Manhattan apartment. Yet you feel so guilty about it that for each man you collect a fee from, you search out another and perform for free. Stupid, Miss Dare, frightfully stupid."
The blush started at her hairline and went clear down to the ample cleavage at the front of her dress.
"But you're not alone, Miss Dare," he continued. "Gray Hendricks, you search out old women, married, widowed, or divorced, and do menial labor for them as a livelihood, when your real livelihood lies in your pants. You perform a sexual service for them for a few presents which you later hock so you can indulge in your favorite pastime, being a burn. Your problem, Mr. Hendricks, is that you sell yourself too short, because you feel guilty about your trade. You take money for fucking women you detest so you can fuck younger, more beautiful women for free. You should be making a profit from both of them. As a gigolo, you are a terrible failure, Mr. Hendricks."
"Don't smile, Mark Lester, your case is even worse. You make a pittance for what you do, as does your wife. I know people in Europe who would gladly donate two thousand dollars an evening to your favorite charity if you and your wife would merely attend one of their parties. Needless to say, the favorite charity begins at home. Anyone wasting a fourteen-inch cock on the general public should be ashamed."
This revelation brought a sudden, new surge of interest in Mark Lester by everyone else in the room, particularly the women.
Lori Lester smiled. "I've been telling him that for years."
"And then we come to you, Claire Laurenz. Tall, a red-haired angel with the body of a movie star, the exotic beauty of a queen, and the desires of an alley cat. And rather than feed those desires, you put on cheap little shows for even cheaper men who, in actuality, would be afraid to have sex with you under what they would consider normal conditions. Have you ever wondered why you are subject to arrest for your little shows, when the men who view and pay for them are not? I'm sure Miss Dare has often wondered. It's because the men she serviced for money only buy her once a week. The other failing in its upright members condones that kind of failing in its, upright members. You, Claire Laurenz, are temptation, and temptation must be erased because it might win."