Оглавление

  • Chapter I
  • Chapter II
  • Chapter III
  • Chapter IV
  • Chapter V
  • Chapter VI
  • Chapter VII
  • Chapter VIII

    Unknown

    Charity Ball


    Chapter I

    “I never fuck,” Constance said into the microphone. “I just watch.” She snicked the tapedeck off with one thumb.

    Nicked her clit with the other.

    Constance lay nude to the face of the sun.

    Buns creamed in cocoa butter.

    She felt her asshole flutter.

    Her snatch water.

    She sensed the movement of the shadows cast by the flock of sandpipers chattering in flight above her. Craned her neck up toward the birds. Lord, how they bored her.

    She tossed down her cigarette.

    Lit up another.

    Constance Charity Eastwick-Westbrook, or Lady Farnsworth if you insist-who had been formerly, allegedly, by right of marriage, the Infanta Bourbon of the pretending faction to the Spanish crown, and who was presently, under the guise of Jasmine Hyacinthe and to the horror of her family, ghostwriter of sensual romantic crime novels of some renown, pushed down her foot and crushed the burning cigarette into the wooden deck. She dusted the ash from the pad of her bare foot, smirked.

    Of course it hurt.

    But the trick in this instance was in not minding that it did hurt.

    Inhaling the smooth tobacco smoke, Constance passed her eyes quickly over the surrounding greenery of the small island constructed in the center of the tiny manmade lake that abutted the miniature chateau Constance called her seaside home. She preferred to take the sun here on that fanciful islet for its seclusion-the privacy it afforded her mind, rather than any reticence about bathing more publicly in the buff.

    Her private domain within her private realm.

    Constance focused her eyes on the minichateau’s tallest tower, where she observed the sunlight slant into the open French doors of one of the house’s guest suites.

    Within, she saw tanned limbs flicker as though jolted alive from the big sleep as the sun’s rays laid a blaze onto the canopy over the bedchamber’s pallet.

    So, Constance’s ward was already awake.

    The long-limbed gamine form of Constance’s houseguest Veronica Van Damme slinked in gray silhouette. Nubile nudity imbued with innocence and grace.

    Veronica took her place in the sunlit slit of the high bedchamber window.

    She brought her arms together above her head. Hips went liquid as her tempered titties slacked against her leonine ribcage.

    “Farewell, my lovely,” Constance sighed.

    She followed Veronica’s glide into the long goodbye. Were Veronica a sister less skilled in the art of the platform dive, it might have been the kiss-off for an act of suicide.

    But make no mistake, the lady in the lake was as at home in the air and the water as she was in the comforts of her bedchamber lair.

    Constance espied Veronica’s primly clipped pubic hair torque in midair. The slash between Veronica’s asscheeks slipped beneath the water’s break.

    Constance then thought she caught a glimpse of another flash of skin hovering within the shaded confines of the guest suite’s bedchamber. From the angle of the dangle, the apparition resembled the tremble of Morrigana’s spread froufrou.

    What was Morrigana doing there in the nude? Of course, one’s own skin was the customary garb when Constance held informal court among the ladies while in residence at Charity House.

    Constance smiled as she lay back to bathe in the rays. Her mind refocused.

    Tracing a circle about one pink nipple, she crinkled the tip with the edge of her fingernail. Once again, she tabbed on the tape recorder.

    “I never fuck. I just lust. Or is that too much? Too vulgar or not vulgar enough?”

    She absently played with her vulva. Curving fingernails into the slit to her cuticles.

    “Maybe if I say that fucking and sucking with cock in mouth, ass, and cunt is nothing to compare with fucking one’s mind-well, that may be too blunt.” She breathed into the mouthpiece. “If so, I’ll come up with another.”

    Opening lines, she thought, should always be sublime. If not-the whole piece was a crime.

    She aligned her body so that she was perpendicular to the oncoming rays of the sun. She knew deep within herself that cultivating an artistic tan took as much talent as anything she or any other literary luminary could write.

    She began to tease her twat with the nub of a platinum swizzle stick.

    A few slips and slides.

    Inside the slit.

    Along the outside of the lips.

    Her labia began a quiet drizzle.

    She sighed at the rise of mild masturbatory dizziness. Recognized the familiar haze that cast a veil over the precision of her vision.

    Then came the comfortable daze.

    The detached ease that framed her consciousness as she applied friction.

    Liquefaction in the rise between her thighs.

    Her mind quickened.

    The plot thickened.

    As did the juices in her quim.

    The voiceover to a sweeping camera panorama of an outrageous orgy in progress inside the marble halls of a charity ball: “I never touch. I just lust.”

    Camera close-up on the moving mouth of one who was not unlike Constance herself. But who indeed had a life of her own in this script.

    This somehow fictional and real Constance found herself fondling a long strand of black pearl beads twined a number of times about her columnular neck. She sucked several of the nacreous globules, playing them with her tongue.

    She let the pearlescent strand drop.

    Between her boobs it slung.

    The camera zoomed in on her bazooms.

    And the lady stripped.

    Constance fingered gingerly her black lingerie trimmed in hand worked Belgian lace.

    Cautiously smoothed her captivating bustier, partially baring rouged boobs.

    She cupped the crotch of inky-dark panties. Touseling the fringed vanity of lacy flocculence that emerged at the apex.

    Constance next checked the seam of her sloe-colored silk stockings.

    Examined the elastic fastenings of her high-rise black garter belt.

    The lady’s tapering toes were secured within the scaffolding of jet lizard skin stiletto-heeled fuck-fuck-fuck-me pumps.

    She gave out with a bump to her rump.

    Fiddled with her fish.

    Observed the fuckfray in sway across the ballroom floor.

    Her heart began to thump at the display.

    Debutante whores.

    Fatuous, amoral bores.

    Evening dress in disarray.

    Pubes piled in the bodices of evening gowns.

    Simpering satyrs prancing arrogantly in tattered top hat, white tie, and tails wailed in the oral embraces of cocksuckering blueblood wenches.

    Constance leapt upon a marble pedestal carved in the form of a truncated lonian column. She crouched as she brought an opened bottle of Lafitte Rothschild 1963 up between her knees.

    Her spike heels lifted from the marble as her asscheeks cracked open.

    Constance took the bung of the wine bottle into her blowhole.

    Twisted it in past the rim.

    “Enough!”

    She chewed her lips to strips as she assfucked herself. Juice of the vine, of fine vintage, sluicing her thirsting innards.

    Constance saw through the bay window the arrival of a yellow Ferrari with her alleged escort, Sir Lance Fondulac trailing his chamois-kid glove in a wave toward the self-flicking Constance.

    She got down on her haunches and drove the bottle of vintage wine farther up her ass. Wiggling her clit, she observed still more revelers as they arrived.

    A dark Daimler limousine ejected a party of men in Middle Eastern garb.

    A female chauffeur in open-breeched livery opened the door to the coach of a sky-blue Rolls Royce Phaeton convertible.

    Top down on the automobile. Tops down on the nubs of nipple inside.

    Constance witnessed this flock of nubile birds as they took flight from the lap of a silver-blond man she didn’t recognize. Even though she was sure she had seen the automobile he rode in arrive once before, earlier.

    “Ah! you are Constance-are you not?” a fair- skinned man with the Latin flair whispered into Constance’s hair. “May I have this dance?” Could he tell her twat was hot?

    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.”

    “And which is that? Remember who introduced the fashion of furs-the cave men and women. What you think those cave ladies did to get those beaver pelts, bearskin rugs, fox, mink, lynx-”

    “So you barter in skinned animals. Furriers are in essence merchants, shopkeepers. Might as well pump gasoline at your own station.”

    “I also peddle pretty baubles. Useless playthings. Jewels. From South America.

    South Africa. The Middle East. Siberia.”

    “Sounds like a cover for drug running and arms smuggling. How chic.”

    “And living jewels-caviar from the Caspian Sea. You know I could not profess to market such fine fish-eggs had I not the confidence of members of the Russian imperial line and the royal succession deriving from the Shah of Iran.”

    “Soviets, Persians-Russkies, rugslingers. Dime a dozen in these parts.”

    “My string of polo ponies-”

    “Could be but an Arabian affectation. Anyone can breed horseflesh.

    Yippee-ay-oh-kay-ay! Ride ‘em cowpoke. How about oil? Another joke.”

    “So you would prefer the English knight.”

    “I never said that.”

    “I see the lust drool from your eyes.”

    “But do you really know for whom the look applies? It could even be for more than one of you. And don’t forget-horses are well hung, but one would never dream of actually sampling their sex. Dream, yes-but-”

    Arturo spoke abruptly.

    “I see the dance ends. I thank you for your courtesy. But do not think for an instant that my lady’s lack of encouragement in these romantic matters will in any discourage me.”

    Arturo turned his rump toward her.

    He approached a strolling baroness and took her by the arm.

    Her mouth dry, Constance shifted her eyes around the ongoing festivities.

    She brought the strand of blue-black pearls through her teeth.

    Saliva-slicked-they were sticky to the taste. She let the baubles drop to her waist.

    Constance’s gaze was caught by the size of Lance’s dong as it drifted in and out of the space between Morrigana and Veronica’s four tits.

    Sheik at Jebal Asani Saba in flowing silk robes sat smack on the back of a stripped-down and oiled black filly. He humped her like a camel. Her nuded buttocks bucked him silly.

    Nikita Stalin-or Nicholas Steel-the Americanized Russian йmigrй, grabbed the nubile Nubian nymph by the dangling black dugs.

    He suckered the chocolaty nipples of her jugs.

    Gave them a tug.

    The Russian-American laughed suavely as the Sheik flew off the back of the cavorting dark-skinned African princess. The three entwined bodies twisted to the floor.

    Blinding flash of ivory, olivewood, and ebony.

    The dusky gal flailed her gams.

    Asani and Nicholas drew their heads up from her muff. Both men sported mouthfuls of nappy kinks of pubic thatch saturated with exudations from the free-running morass of briny quim.

    Asani Saba now laid the length of his twanger down the black woman’s throat.

    While Nick Steel fucked through her froufrou like a goat.

    Constance clicked the pearls against her teeth. She observed closely as Lance pulled forth his dipstick from Veronica’s cunt from the rear. Morrigana slowly minced his balls in her mouth and fingered Veronica’s ass.

    Arturo Mondragon had indeed impressed the baroness. They soon had a duchess in tow as they strolled through the garden.

    Constance saw from the side the size of his hard on.

    He had taken the two titled mills to tangle in seclusion among the rows of roses bushes. But Constance’s view became unobstructed as she passed onto the patio.

    Constance listened as Arturo said, “Blow”

    “That’s right,” Constance heard the baroness whisper. “You learn English well.

    Now see if you can say the word job.”

    “Job.”

    “Okay. This is a blowjob.”

    “Angh.”

    The lips of the baroness spoke, full of thick cock. “Duchess, are you hot?”

    “Naturally. Am I watching?”

    “You can put yourself to good use.”

    “Of course. While your mouth is full, I shall continue our lesson. Arturo, you know what it means to go down? To suck?”

    Constance saw Arturo stab the baroness in the neck with his twanger. His uncovered buttocks stuck out in back.

    Then jacked forward.

    Thorns stuck into his tightened gluteal muscles. Rosepetals caught in his moist pud.

    The baroness sucked on, sloughing the top of her gown down over her arms.

    Pressing her molten breasts to Arturo’s knees. Giving his halls a sensitive squeeze.

    The duchess raised the hem of her dress. Her cut winked like a rosebud.

    Cuntlips curled outward.

    Beckoning.

    Yearning.

    Burning.

    The duchess’s hips began to churn. She kissed along the cheeks of Arturo’s face with the pliant lips of her labia.

    Mouthlips slobbered slobbering cuntlips.

    Arturo’s hands crawled up the backside of the duchess’s haunch.

    Fingers launched into the space between the halved melons of her ass.

    “Yes. Yes. Yesss.”

    The pussy peeled open across the slash of Arturo’s mouth.

    His tongue rummaged within the labyrinthine folds of her labia.

    And his phalanges pinched the wrinkle of her anus with manicured nails.

    Tiny finger dipped in to the cuticle.

    The duchess’s butt hustled.

    Constance saw the woman shudder. The duchess uttered unintelligible sounds of rut.

    “Ululululu.”

    Orgasm swelled over the duchess’s flesh. Arturo’s mouth and fingers did the rest.

    And the hips of that Spanish-speaking caballero continued their thrust.

    Cockhead held tightly in the baroness’s yap. Balls bandying about her neck.

    Arturo bent his knees.

    Shifted his angle.

    “Aiiiii!”

    The baroness seemed to be strangled.

    She gagged, clutching her throat.

    Her cheeks bloated out. Then burst open.

    Globules of jissom rolled over her chin.

    Her stammering jaw dropped in awe.

    Pullulating penis flipped from her maw.

    She seized the penis with her paw.

    Curds of the sweet milky goo glued her jacking hand to Arturo’s stick.

    The duchess hunkered down and gave a lick.

    The last pulses of jizz fizzed on the faces of the suctioning baroness and duchess.

    “My,” Constance said to herself. “They’ve certainly got him in their clutches.”

    She turned her head away.

    Numbly strummed her fingers along the length of her strand of beads.

    Scooped up a flute full of champagne from a passing tray. Walked back within the ballroom to observe the deeds of her other swain.

    Sir Lance Fondulac was giving a whack to Veronica’s back crack with a riding crop. His cock was in his hand as he laid on another layer of roseate patches to Veronica’s blushing hide.

    From her vantage, Constance was at first unaware of the coiled patch of hair intermingling with Veronica’s snapdragon snatch.

    But as Veronica’s sap began to flow faster, Lance flagged his wanger to the point of disaster. He kicked her in the ass with his riding boot. Spurred her cheeks as he shot off.

    And suddenly Morrigana’s face became visible peering over Veronica’s shoulder.

    Catching a faceful of Lance’s lashing come.

    Slime streaked through the air.

    Decorated Morrigana’s hair.

    Galloped up the middle of Veronica’s bare back.

    And Lance leapt through the air.

    Landed on the fleshy stack.

    Veronica was running her fingers along Morrigana’s ribcage. The two women rubbed their vulvas together, working up a heat through friction of their pubic fizz.

    From Lance’s position, he could dip his dong wherever he felt it belonged.

    His hand stroked the shank of his crank. Rubbing it again to randiness.

    Refilling it with the dense blood of erection.

    He stepped back to make his selection.

    Which woman’s mouth?

    Veronica’s or Morrigana’s?

    Or whose ass seemed riper to the touch?

    Whose tits the tastier!

    Or cunt the most lush?

    Or were the women equally well endowed with the attributes of flick and suck?

    There was only one way to prove this.

    Constance watched as Lance’s smile grew.

    “Some frolics, I must admit,” the voice of the house dick assailed Constance’s ears. “Who’s the priest riding the giant dildo?”

    “Sandor Kroughleigh. He’s an artist.”

    “Oh. That must explain it.”

    “Sometimes he dresses like that.”

    “Somehow I thought so.”

    “And you,” Constance spoke without emotion. “How do you feel about drinking on the job?”

    The man drank in her face with his eyes. “I’m carrying.” He tapped twice with stiff fingers beneath his left armpit.

    “What is it?”

    “Browning.”

    “How do I love thee, let me count the ways?”

    “Automatic.”

    “I see you take your work seriously.”

    “I never read on the job either.”

    “But you are supposed to mingle with my guests as part of your job, Mister-I am afraid I’ve forgotten your name-”

    “Poindexter. Griffith.”

    “Mister Griffith, is it? Won’t you have some champagne “

    “Griffith. Poindexter’s the last name. I guess so-about the bubbly stuff. Crazy moniker, no? I mean because it could go either way.”

    Constance snorted silently.

    A pair of waitresses passed their way. One offered up servings of oserta caviar, straight. The other wench wielded her supply of champagne with nimble fingers.

    “To the success of your fund-raising effort,”

    Griffith said with glass near to his chin.

    He tipped the fizzjuice toward her.

    “I am sure this must all seem so lewd to you,”

    Constance said. “But Charity House owes the fame of its name to this tradition.”

    “A fine one, I am certain. But let’s forget about what’s going on behind the curtains. Let’s talk about these.”

    Griffith reached out and up smoothly. Flipped Constance’s pearls between his fingers.

    Lingered his loosely coiled digits between her boobs. Fondled the strand with his hand.

    “Same color as the caviar,” Griffith observed.

    “These black pearls you got here.”

    “Try some.”

    Griffith drew a line of heads across his tongue.

    “Like this?”

    Reining Griffith with her pearly bridle, Constance pulled his face to hers.

    Griffith drew hack. “I can’t kiss someone with fish eggs on their breath.”

    “Wipe it out for me. With your tongue.”

    “Suppose I could.”

    Griffith knocked back a swig of champagne.

    “Beaten egg whites,” he said.

    Constance sucked down some.

    “You’re right. I never noticed that. What else do you taste?”

    “In Dom Perignon,” he said after swallowing another yapful of liquid, “I can taste a trace of sour milk. And a bit of brine.”

    “You are a connoisseur of wines?”

    “I like stuff that bubbles. Seltzer. Beer.”

    “Do tell.”

    Griffith scooped up two more flutes of champagne from a hovering tray.

    “Oh, Taittinger may try,” Griffith resumed. “Bollinger is brave. But the Dom prevails.”

    He toasted toward the frolicking crowd. Lined his mouth with another helping of caviar. Sucked it down as he chugged more bubbly.

    Griffith then wiped the slime from the stubble of his beard with the back of his hand.

    “You’re putting me on,” Constance said. “I think caviar tastes like cunt, myself. The better stuff anyway. Got any cigarettes? Hit me up with one.”

    Constance pondered the scene she had just sketched out verbally into the tape recorder. Amidst a tangled web of international intrigue, the highborn heroine’s conflicting lust for two elegant but rakish suitors causes her to withdraw from them both. The two rejected lovers seek solace in libertinage, flicking every tail within their long reaches. As for the heroine-she now finds herself drawn affectionately toward a commoner. A private detective, no less.

    Constance was pleased. It was a fanciful plot, to be sure. But it was a tale her readers would gobble up. For it went straight to the heart of their fantasies.

    There was a rustle in the wind.

    Someone coming? “Shitfuckcunt,” Constance muttered.

    Interrupting both her sunning and the drumming on her tummy.

    She slipped the swizzle stick from where it had dallied within the wrinkles of her snatch.

    Constance worked her eyes open a peep.

    Creeped her fingers up to her chest.

    Gave her tits a quick twist.

    Fished in her mouth with the swizzle stick.

    Slid it back into the glass among the molten cubes. All that remained of her drink.

    “Hello?” she lowed, adjusting her hair. “Yoo-hoo. Anyone there?”


    Chapter II

    Consommй of cuntjuice ladled along the insides of her thighs, Constance shielded her eyes from the sun. “Hello? Did I hear someone?”

    She gave her clit one last squeeze.

    Closed her knees.

    Reached for the duster of raw silk brocade that lay loosely over the deck beside her. Tossed the lightweight robe over her shoulders.

    Shading her tits.

    Shielding her thighs.

    Obscuring her fanny from prying eyes.

    Constance raised a palm to her face. Replaced a stray strand of gold-dipped hair.

    Cupped her hand above her brow.

    Cocked her ears.

    Scowled.

    What did she hear? Constance made out a few words feeding into the breeze.

    The shift of feet over sandy slats of dry wood. The tinkle of crystal.

    “Veronica?” Constance sighed.

    She let the duster fall open wide.

    “Is that you, Constance? Thought you might be up here.”

    Veronica appeared, “nude.

    Body lubed.

    Sucking an ice cube.

    Pussyfuzz trimmed into the shape of a V.

    Sporting bare clitoris where her labial forest had been defoliated.

    She carried an opened bottle of champagne lazily by the neck, dangling it behind her bare fanny. Held two long crystal flutes against the cranny between her. brightly nipped tits.

    “How’s about some champers, doll?” Veronica jawed slowly. “I’m like so totally awesomely wiped out I need some fizzwater in my veins.”

    “Glad you brought up the bubbly,” Constance said, sucking out the melted liquid in her glass. “I too was in dire need of drink.”

    “Bombs away,” Veronica said.

    The bottleneck foamed. Sparkling liquid overflowed the champagne flutes. Rolled in frothy slips over her breasts.

    Veronica tittered.

    Shivered.

    Shot a snootful of liquid into her gullet as she trained her gaze on Constance’s legs. Drew her eyes along the length of her gams.

    Up past Constance’s partially revealed pubes and boobs, to her face.

    “How’s the sunburn coming, doll?” Veronica drawled. “You in it for the long haul?”

    “What do you think?”

    Constance lifted her leg.

    Showed her ass.

    Pressed a nippletip between thumb and forefinger. Snapped it like a trigger.

    She threw her other arm over her head like a ballerina and aimed a freshly depilated armpit at Veronica’s face.

    “You could use a little more of that below the waist, Constance.”

    “If you insist,” Constance smirked.

    She herky-jerked her clit with her fist.

    “No,” Veronica giggled. “I meant the depilatory, silly dolly. Your pussy’s beginning to look like a mangy collie.”

    “Thought I’d get a trim this afternoon,” Constance mused. “Not that there’s anything to lose. I’ve got nothing pressing lined up.”

    “Still,” Veronica snorted. “You never know when something might pop up.

    Besides. You should always take pride in every aspect of your appearance.

    Endear yourself to yourself, I always say.”

    “Any other criticisms of my physique?”

    “Well, the color of your tan seems a little weak. I mean, it’s even and all that. And I know you’re layering it on slowly-”

    “I still want to look white,” Constance said, reclining back into sunning position. “You know, there are still a lot of people around who think I’m some kind of spic bitch.”

    “Everyone makes mistakes, Constance. And yours was just a little one.”

    “Yeah,” Constance blurted. “I married for love. Tell me about it.”

    “It might have worked out. If he had, like, changed his name to something-less-uh-more. Tee hee! Something like yours.”

    “Right. But you know those Latinos. Arturo Mondragon Bourbon would not have liked to have been known as anything like a Meester Eastwick-Westbrook.”

    “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.

    And.she was no creampuff.

    She could take it.

    Anywhere he gave it.

    She snatched up his cock and waved it. The prong sprang forward.

    Out and up.

    Strutting like a fighting cock.

    She hawked the head down her throat once more. Ate away the dregs of his last coming.

    The dick jammed below her belly.

    Slick underside of Constance’s haunch tickled as Arturo Mondragon Bourbon’s cocktip bounced back and forth between her cunt and her bung.

    The balls swayed as they hung.

    Then the twanger tipped into her front.

    He began to rut.

    The edges of her cunny stung.

    She dropped her chin to her chest. Her tongue tolled forth and hung.

    He pawed her tits as he syruped words into the mouthpiece of the telephone.

    Droning on and on, wheedling deal after deal as he sent his pricktip home.

    Constance felt the cockmeat quest deeper.

    Drilling her to the bone.

    Filling her froufrou with rivulets of rutsweat. Lathered ladyjuice caked the length of his stake. Constance’s cunt quaked.

    Arturo patted the ends of her boobs.

    Suckered them aimlessly in the sides of his mouth as he listened thoughtfully to the long-distance litany of monstrous problems of peculiar complexity. The blood in his erection increased in density. The size engorged to immensity.

    Constance chattered wordlessly as the man’s blind (tick took control. She whirled like a spreading wildfire in the wind.

    Din of orgasm ringing in her ears.

    Sears of pain in her groin as the spear savaged her insides with tear after tear.

    Arturo hunched his shoulders.

    Threw his head back.

    Flipped his eyes up and stared into the back of his brain.

    As his dick drained nacreous sludge into Constance’s rawhide cunt.

    The goo spilled over the rind of her froufrou fruit. Scum syruped between the crack of her ass as Arturo maneuvered fast.

    He had his prick up inside her ass.

    Pumped fast.

    Erection returning as if he were automatic. Crack after crack into her rump.

    He jackknifed forward over Constance’s haunch and peered through the telescope as he simultaneously spoke and lucked ass. He gauged the boob size of several Mediterranean Messalinas slinking along the surf line.

    “What’s the matter?” Constance whispered. “Aren’t there enough tits for you right here?”

    “Fucking gringuita bitch. You don’t never innerup me when I yam een conference.

    Don you fucking laugh at me. Shut your sistersucking face. Theese ees is no something funny!”

    Then Arturo snapped the telephone from his face. He gripped Constance about the waist.

    Pulled her higher onto his cock.

    Yanked her head back by her hair. Pulled it taut.

    Gave her a shot with his knuckles on her chin. Tore her head to the side.

    Pummeled her again.

    “Unh.”

    “I’ll get you for that,” Arturo spat.

    “What?”

    He smacked across her face.

    “What on earth is that for?”

    “Because I am your husband. And I will be king.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    “I talked to that ambassador man. That knight boyfriend of yours-”

    “That was before-”

    “But you see him now.”

    “At parties-”

    “Balls! He said to tell you he sends his best. His best right up your ass!”

    “Ungh. Arturo. I’m telling you. If you hit me one more time when I don’t want you to, I will cut your face to shreds with my fingernails.”

    “And he says that know he is no fucking knight no more. He is a lord! You don’t fucking think I don’t fucking know what the fuck-fuck-fuck that means. I know you whore for the lord!”

    “Arturo, please-”

    “My wife-she a slut. She a fucking whore. Puta. If! yam king, I can have you killed for even looking at another man. But you tuck him-”

    “No-”

    “I know you luck him all the time. But in this tucking gringo country they have laws to protect you tucking cunt criminals. I can’t do tucking nothing to you that I should do.”

    “Do it to yourself from now on, your majesty. I’m gone.”

    “So he really was a good screw, huh?” Veronica said. “Too bad about that temper.”

    “So I did have an affair or two. Shit, Veronica. He was out banging every rotten slice of cuntmeat he could buy.”

    “And he gave you a divorce?”

    “It was my claim-abuse-at first. Then things got worse. The prick countersued, saying I was a prostitute from the first and entrapped him into marriage. Said it was fraud on my part.”

    “Fuckingchrist. And him a fake king. Who won?”

    “Well, no one. It was settled out of court. I guess if anyone won, the lawyers did.”

    “All Jewboys, I bet.”

    “Veronica-please be a bit more open-minded. Yes, coincidentally the attorneys involved did happen to be Jewish. But mine was a woman.”

    “You fuck her, Constance?”

    “You tease. If you didn’t have such tight little titties, Veronica, you’d never get away with half the foul things you say.”

    “And who’s this private dick sucker supposed to be anyway?”

    “He comes most highly recommended to me. He is apparently sensitive to the values people like us hold in our hearts and minds.”

    “Can’t believe that. Are you gonna check him out? I mean, before you hire him for sure?”

    “There is a minor task I have in mind that will assist him in proving his worth, Veronica.”

    “Oh?”

    “I’m going to set him to a little matter that has come up pertaining to some of my pearls.”

    “You mean the pearls you-”

    “Those are the ones I have in mind. After all, it’s the season for the charity ball.”


    Chapter III

    “Leather and lace,” the man mumbled to himself without a trace of irony. He patted the mask of chamois hide and needlework frippery that decorated the face of the sculptured bust of a Roman Venus that stood on a pedestal just inside the peachmarble foyer at Charity House.

    “They get one look at this Halloween outfit,” he said bemusedly, “and it’s an open-and-shut case as far as the police are concerned.”

    His voice echoed unexpectedly loud.

    He shrugged.

    Laughed.

    Gave Venus a hug.

    Peeked under the mask.

    Looked about to make sure no one else was within sight. Bussed Venus’s cheek.

    He then laced the marble face with a quick French kiss. Licked up underneath and into the nostrils of the Goddess of Love.

    “Too bad this tootsie stops just below the neck,” he muttered. “I’d like to get a mitt on some marble tits.”

    “Pardon the wait,” Constance’s voice crystallized behind him. “I see you like the statue.”

    “The mask. I like the mask. Dame’s got not such a bad mug on her, either. But I like that mask.”

    “Try it on?”

    “Oh, no. I don’t go in for any of that kind of stuff. Not for real. But I like to sorta read about it though sometimes.”

    Constance drew her breath in deeply.

    Held it.

    Her tits popped up from between the padded lapels of her hand painted silk kimono.

    Edges of colored nipples were seen.

    There was rounded titflesh as smooth and pure as the marble from which the Goddess of Love had been chiseled. The man chucked his chin thoughtfully. Felt the bristle he had not shaven off again that morning scrape across his finger.

    “Look before you leap,” he peeped.

    His head seemed to clear abruptly. “I don’t know why I said that. Must be a habit.”

    “I know what you mean,” Constance said, extending her hand. “Restraint is always a virtue. Anything unleashed can mean trouble.”

    “Ask any masochist about restraints-that what you call the ones who like to be tied up?”

    “Tut-tut.”

    The man peered back at the pert nips that peeked at him out of Constance’s cleavage. Took her loose fist.

    Shook her wrist.

    “Pleased to meet you,” Constance said. “Me too. Which one are you?”

    “Pardon?”

    “You the rich bitch or the little witch?”

    “Excuse me?”

    “In your books. There’s usually two nifty numbers. One dame’s real cold-calculatingly manipulative. The other gash just makes hash of the arrogant male romantic interest through her naive, offhand sexuality.”

    “You knew?”

    “I’m a fan, Madame.”

    “How did you know?”

    “I get a call in Manhattan to come out and converse with a babe at this address-from your books, I know you’re familiar to some extent with the workings of my profession-so you can probably guess the rest.”

    “So you already-uh-investigated me. Mister-uh-Griffith.”

    “Poindexter. Griffith’s the first name. A lot of people just call me Gruff. It pays me to know who might be hiring me.”

    “I see, Gruff.”

    “I forgot to tell you. I don’t necessarily like for people to call me Gruff-but they do.”

    “Cute. Griffith?”

    “Fine. If it’s all the same to you-”

    “Constance. Although-I guess like you-I’m used to being referred to by my professional name, Jasmine Hyacinthe-”

    “As well as, in other circles, the Lady Farnsworth.”

    “That’s good, Griffith. You do your homework. Tell me. Since you’re such an aficionado of my literary works, what drives you to read about the interior lives of unfaithful wives?”

    “I like that murderous attitude they have. And all those lesbian overtones-you know-between the icy rich bitch and the hot little witch.”

    “I do believe you’re simplifying what I admit is something of a literary formula. No one in my books or even in real life is simply a rich bitch or a whorish witch.”

    “Not simply. But they seem kind of that way as I read it. Sisters in crime and in the head. What else do you need to get someone into bed?”

    “My female characters are often at odds over affections or finances associated with men. I do not recall their having been explicitly portrayed as being hot for each other’s bods.”

    “But it’s in there. That dyke stuff. I’m waiting for you to really show it.

    Maybe in your next book? You know. One of the greatest male fantasies runs something like this. May I?”

    “If you insist.”

    “Hey, man-he says. My girlfriend calls me up last night.”

    “Mind if I smoke?”

    “Go ahead, choke. So the guy says to listen to this, man. His girlfriend says she and her girlfriend were just sitting around sucking down some carbonated grape juice-champagne to you. The two girls-they’re kinda tipsy. Bored. Getting all giggly. They embrace. Start to play kissy-face. Tug-the-titty. Get into a pillow fight. Tackle each other. Wrestle a little. Tear each other’s clothes off. But that’s not enough.”

    “So far, so bland.”

    “Can you get this? These girls-there was a tape they wanted to hear. Or maybe a video they didn’t have. They call up the dude-they know he’s got the tape, say-and tell him they’re both nude. Tell him he might as well come on over for some joy juice and bring along the electronic entertainment while he’s at it.”

    Constance sucked down smoke.

    Piped it from her lips.

    Drew it furling into her nostrils.

    Constance’s mouth flared as she interrupted his speech. “Allow me to complete your dissertation. Our hero walks in on the awful sluts, just oh so gross fucking and sucking on each other. He saves them from their Sapphic affliction-which rather turns him on indeed. Shall I go on?”

    “I wish you would.”

    “You want me to tell you how he realizes that what they really need is some good pure cock? How he flicks them both? “That’s it-”

    “Shoots off into their mouths, up their asses, and creams their cunts in easy succession-all the while maintaining an eternal erection.”

    “Sounds good.”

    “Or maybe he watches them for a while first. They suck each other until their tongues are raw. His hormones are blasting out of control. He rolls his hips.

    There is only one thing our hero can think of to do to save all their souls-”

    “You got it.”

    “Of course. So simple. I could write that easily. But I don’t. I want to hook you the reader by playing to your fantasies. I want to keep you buying my books by never really satisfying you fully. It’s called titillation.”

    “Literary cocktease.”

    “And cuntsqueeze. Most of my readership is female. You a faggot, by the way?”

    “Thought I heard you say-”

    “Queer. You seem to read a lot. That’s suspect these days for real hard guys like you.”

    “I guess you could say I’m gay. But don’t let that get into your way. I’m not real delicate with the poetry these days.”

    “More straightforward.”

    “Guess you could say.”

    “Anyway. Hate to cut off the literary chitchat, Griffith, but it seems there’s real work to be done around here. I’ve got some trouble. A real problem for a change.”

    “Well, trouble is my business. So that’s good to hear. And the main problem I run into is when somebody hires me for no particular reason. Maybe they have too much money and too little to do.”

    “That is a sad state of affairs.”

    “Believe me. Boredom is the root of much evil. These people simply want somebody to have around to play with. Then if they’re romantically inclined they might come up with jacked-off schemes involving undercover work.”

    “Undercover. That is romantic.”

    “Not when you see how it actually works. Or maybe they’ll want me to try to set up dangerous liaisons to entrap their spouse-so they can have documented grounds for divorce. Or else-believe it or not-they might even want to try to seduce me to see how mercenary I can be.”

    “The games the rich do play-”

    “See. I know that all the stuff you write there in your books is not strictly fiction. Cause I’ve seen it myself.”

    “Do you want to hear my situation? Or do you want me to continue to pay you to be my personal literary critic?”

    “Either way. I’m game.”

    “Pearls are a nuisance.”

    “I heard that one before.”

    “If the plot is jaded, Griffith, I’m sure that the money is not.”

    “Correct. Shoot.”

    “The pearls in question were to have been included among the pieces to be auctioned as part of a charity ball I am organizing.”

    “Oh, really. Socially concerned, are you?”

    “That’s neither here nor there. I tell you quite frankly that I am hosting this ball in order to clear my name-so to speak.”

    “Now this is interesting. Have anything to do with your married life?”

    “Mister Griffith-I mean Poindexter. Gruff. Shit-I let it slip. Please pardon me, Griffith, while I blush.”

    “You’re too much.”

    “So of course you know about Arturo.”

    “Claims he should be King of Spain.”

    “Cuban, isn’t he?”

    “Wasn’t sure you knew.”

    “I do.”

    “Maybe you shouldn’t have said those last two words so often.”

    “I married Arturo because of young love. I didn’t care whether he was royalty.

    I have my own money and I did not particularly care to hear about his. It was there.”

    “Didn’t you wonder how he got it?”

    “Not at first. You know all fortunes are first gained through ruthless amorality. Sometimes such activities may be sanctioned as acts of war. But exploitation is part of the heritage of wealth.”

    “Like the nobleman’s private game preserve. The master may pillage wildlife indiscriminately as he pleases. But if you are a hungry peasant-no dice.

    Poaching shall be punished by death. Like the street gangs. Protecting their turf.”

    “I’m sure getting my money’s worth from this discussion. However, Mister Griffith, what do you know about pearls?”

    “They’re for girls.”

    “You know how they can be faked?”

    “Porcelain. Bone china with special glaze. Places in Belgium and East Germany used to do the best duplicating jobs. Now some Swiss and British contacts are first-rate.”

    “Hmmmmm.”

    “Okay. Yours are taken and you weren’t sure they were real anyway. How the insurance reads is actually the more important factor-”

    “Ah, let’s see. t may have only misplaced them. But once they’re recovered, I think they should be kept under guard.”

    “If they weren’t stolen-why now?”

    Constance was silent a split second too long.

    “Let me help you,” Griffith said. “You want to maybe let on to the press that they’re valuable. Tell them how the pearls were recovered and how it was so upsetting that they were lost. Nice little column in the newspaper with a nice big picture of you with the black bangles hanging over your boobs. Draw some big spenders to the charity ball. Am I okay so far-or am I off the wall?”

    “I haven’t announced yet that I’m planning to auction them. I only thought of it, in fact, early this morning. I went to look for them. They were not where I normally keep them-among my lingerie, as I am sure you’d ask anyway. I crashed about for about twenty minutes trying to locate them. Then I asked Morrigana to ring up your office.”

    “Why me?”

    “I knew you were already somewhat familiar with my affairs through your work for Arturo Mondragon during the negotiations for our divorce.”

    “Figured you knew that one.”

    “Since you did such outstanding work peeping on me, I thought you might do the same good deeds spying in my service.”

    “Tough lady.”

    “I use only the best. Whether it’s champagne, bodycream, or private Ds.”

    “Smart lady.”

    “It’s simple logic. Only the best works best for me. What’s that look, Griffith? I assure you that the pearls are not in their usual place. Stolen?

    Misplaced? That’s what you’re here for.”

    “Who’s this Morrigana?”

    “She met you at the door, I believe.”

    “Your-uh-maid?”

    “Secretary. Though I shouldn’t call her that- she’s much more. Morrigana helps me put my books together. Helps me a Lot in other ways too. When I’m out here at Charity House I try to get along without any servants unless I have a larger formal gathering. They’re so much work to managing servants by yourself that they’re sometimes hardly worth the trouble at all.”

    “Until you want to empty the garbage or make the bed. So why do you keep the marbles out here? Kinda wide open spaces, no one around-”

    “Because that particular set of pearls is not really that valuable.

    Monetarily.”

    “You mean besides that they might be fakeroonskies.”

    “The pearls are heirlooms. They’re black. Way out of current fashion.

    Supposedly brought from Europe with the bride of a great-uncle. But that’s hearsay. There are one hundred sixty-seven of them-relatively small, but evenly matched in size and blue-black coloration-on one strand with a lock-type closure in platinum. Simple. Elegant.”

    “I see. So the butler didn’t do it cause there’s no butler.”

    “You don’t think Morrigana-”

    “She’s gotta be covered. And I tell you I have to do it straight. You can warn her first that I’m gonna question her, but don’t let her escape, babe. Hate to do it, but I have to chat her up. Who else you got running around here?”

    “Veronica Van Damme. I know her through my fund-raising work on behalf of international athletics. She’s a synchronized swimmer and diver in the combined watersports events.”

    “Veronica? Did I hear of her? Win any medals? Or is that someone else?”

    “Not the Olympics-yet. But she’s won a lot of other titles. As a swimsuit model she’s been on the covers of quite a few magazines-though perhaps not any that you might lead. She’s highstrung, but I’ve found her to be a simply delightful girl.”

    “And it shall be delightful I am sure to converse with her-relative to the perhaps-purloined string of shiny ballocks. Who else? Maintenance personnel?”

    “Boy comes by for the pool three times a week. Gardener once a week.

    Deliveries-but none of the above ever get in past the door.”

    “That you know of. Maybe they cased the joint.”

    “I thought of that. I have no servants, but I do have the place electronically protected.”

    “But on the other hand, you don’t want to think it’s an inside job. I understand. But I gotta do my job.”

    “Who do you want to start with?”

    “Who’s closest?”

    “Morrigana?”

    “Yes, Constance?”

    “This is Mister Poindexter. Griffith. I believe you two have met?”

    Morrigana leaned back from the computer monitor and keyboard. A set of tight tits started up underneath the sheer blousing that covered from high about the neck down to her ankles.

    “Sorry,” Morrigana said. “I couldn’t hear what you were saying.”

    She pulled the earphones from her ears. Made sure the audiocassette filled with Constance’s morning musings was on hold.

    She took in Griffith’s gaze boldly.

    Coldly.

    Her toes twitched.

    She mechanically dangled a pair of slipper sandals laced in gold piping.

    Crossed her ankles.

    “I don’t know what I should say, Morrigana. But there has been a disappearance here-as you know-about the pearls-uh-”

    “I understand,” Morrigana said. “Griffith wants to talk to me about it.”

    “Enough said,” Constance sighed. “I’ll be outside. On the sundeck.”

    As Constance left, she left the door to the study open wide.

    Griffith took a look around the room.

    “Aren’t you going to close the door?” Morrigana said, burning the end of a cigarette with a fizzing matchstick. “Give us some privacy.”

    “So soon?”

    “Thought I might as well get it over with. Do you want me to record our conversation?”

    “No. I think my memory will do.”

    “Constance thinks the pearls might be fakes. Did she tell you that already?”

    “Do you?”

    “Don’t know. I’ve only seen them once or twice. Constance never wears them.”

    Morrigana blew out a trail of cigarette fumes toward Griffith’s face. “Mind if I smoke?”

    “You know what you like. What were the occasions upon which you viewed the pearls?”

    “Going through some of her things-you know, rummaging through her clothing-”

    “You’re her secretary?”

    “Oh. More like a-her advisor. On literary matters. But, yes-we do have a bit of a personal relationship as well.”

    “Going through each other’s clothing.”

    “Something few men could understand. I have been with Constance for a number of years.”

    “And she seems to find you trustworthy. After all, she did have you call my office to set up this appointment. You didn’t jack that assignment around. You had no hesitation meeting me at the door before. All obvious signs-says to me that you’re innocent. But I gotta go through this routine for the record. Think she lost them?”

    “Misplaced them-I hope.”

    “Want to show me around this office here? Library, study-whatever you call it.”

    “Of course.”

    Morrigana smirked.

    Slid from her seat.

    Sucked the cig real hard.

    Blew out a scarf of smoke through her wide grin.

    “Let’s do a few turns,” Morrigana said. “Tell me where you want to look first.”

    “Under your skirt,” Griffith blurted.

    “Is that your idea of flirting?”

    “It’s called a joke.”

    “Only if it’s funny.”

    “How’s looking where she keeps the money?”

    “Safe,” Morrigana said smoothly. “I can open it for you. Underneath the desk here.”

    Morrigana hunkered down to the floor.

    Griffith inspected the crack of her ass as she bent forward and twiddled with the knobs on the front of the file-drawer-sized metal box. The material of her dress was gauzy enough to show off not only that she wore no underpants but also the wooly contours of her pubic flocculence erupting from underneath her rump.

    Griffith saw her hips pump.

    She grunted once.

    The door to the safe sighed open.

    “Get down, Griffith. Look inside.”

    Griffith stewed in his groin.

    Shot a finger to his nuts. To loosen them up.

    Got down beside her like a pup.

    “Sure enough,” he said. “Lots of bucks. Few little trinkets-diamonds, emeralds.”

    “But no pearls.”

    “Why did she keep them with her lingerie? If she kept her other jewels in here-”

    “You’ll have to ask her.”

    Morrigana’s breath was thick as a fog.

    Hot as a hog in rut.

    But yet Griffith knew she was no slut.

    He said, “Thought maybe you’d know. Being so close to Constance and all.”

    “We’re friends. But not that close.”

    She threw her head back haughtily.

    “Watch your noggin,” Griffith said as Morrigana’s head bumped the underside of the overhanging desk.

    He brought his palm up to cup the back of Morrigana’s head.

    “It’s okay,” Morrigana said. She paused a long second. “But you can kiss it to make it better.”

    Griffith wettened his lips with his tongue. Brought Morrigana’s head forward.

    Applied a kiss to the point of her skull.

    As Morrigana’s head dropped straight into his lap.

    He sucked the back of her brain through her waved tresses. She sucked his cock through the seam of his trousers.

    The zip released his prong with a zinging sound. Griffith felt the wetness descend from the crown to the top of his scrotum.

    Morrigana’s tongue rotated about the tip.

    Then she suckered the entire shaft of Griffith’s dick into her yip.

    She held the dong firmly in her grip.

    As though to prevent him from giving her the slip. Her hands tightened about the neck.

    Prickhead popped out wider beneath her eyes.

    Increasing in size with the ingestion of pulses of the thick blood of erection.

    “Help me come off,” Morrigana wheezed. “I’m dying for an orgasm.”

    “Will it make your day?”

    “My hour, anyway.”

    “Let’s hope.”

    “Reach back into the safe. Way in the back. Feel it? It’s leather and-”

    “Lace,” Griffith said, whisking the mask out into her face.

    “Tie it on me.”

    “Don’t you want to see me?”

    “I want it to be dark.”

    “But-”

    “I want to see. Of course. But it’s more romantic if I want to and I can’t.”

    “Sure. Here goes.”

    “Yesss. Slide it on over my head. Make sure my eyes are covered.”

    “It’s loose enough-”

    “No. Tight.”

    “This all right?”

    “Uh huh. Now do the rest.”

    Griffith grappled with her dress.

    Hiked it over her hiney.

    Morrigana lifted it over her breasts.

    “Now the other accoutrements,” Morrigana seared through her lips. “You’ll find them in with the other valuables, lover.”

    Griffith reached into the interior of the safe. Pulled out twined strips of leather with lace dangles on either end.

    Morrigana wrapped her wrists together behind her back. Whined aloud.

    “Tie them, please,” she breathed.

    “Tight, I take it.”

    “Yesss. So sweet.”

    Morrigana pumped the crack of her rump into the air at Griffith. Shot her heels out, wiggled her toes, and crossed her ankles.

    Griffith began to wrap Morrigana’s feet with two lengths of the braided leather twine.

    Griffith rolled Morrigana out from underneath the fruitwood desk. Trussed her wrists with a strand. of twine down the split of her behind, running it to her tied ankles.

    “You want me to bend you like a pretzel,” Griffith said. “That it?”

    “Aaaaah, yesss,” Momgana slathered. “The best. Give me the best.”

    “There’s another mask in here. Want me to wear it? It’s got eyeholes.”

    “Yes. Put on the black mask. So you can see me. But I can’t recognize you.”

    “You won’t be able to recognize me anyway, with that blindfold mask on you.”

    “It’s the thought that counts. And I’m thinking of your cock. In my cunt. At me front and back and all over.”

    “Stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

    “Inside me. Stick your prick inside me. Fuck my mouth. Fuck my ass. Fuck my cunt.”

    “That all?”

    “Fuck me quickly.”

    “In which order?”

    “Take a spin.”

    Griffith slashed his pelvis in an arc. His prick speared clear into something.

    He felt her body open up.

    His thick prick jerked right up her ass with a rutting shudder.

    Morrigana felt her clit stutter.

    Griffith pulled his twanger from her backside slowly. With no additional lubrication, Morrigana’s ass mucus had proved too little to offset the friction.

    “No!” came Morrigana’s harrowing scream.

    “Shhhhh. I just want to pack my pecker with a little liquid from your slit.

    Then I’ll go right back in.”

    “But I want it to hurt so much,” Morrigana said. “So that it ruptures to the touch.”

    “Sorry. Too late.”

    Griffith struck up inside her cunthide. The lips spread apart.

    His legs spread athwart her hips.

    Morrigana’s bound wrists jacked Griffith off as he fucked her from behind.

    The twine about her ankles scraped his ballocks as she crushed into them with her heels.

    “Now hit me,” Morrigana said.

    “First give me the news.”

    “Beat me to a fucking pulp, you sniveling gumshoe. Blind me with your come first. Then maybe I’ll tell you a story.”

    He smacked her temple gently with his open palm. Continued the rutfuck in her cunt.

    “Unh,” Morrigana sighed.

    “Okay?”

    “Again. Isn’t there a sap in there? A little leather club-the kind that cops use?”

    “Here we go.”

    Thwap! “More.”

    Wap! “Harder.”

    Ssshlat! “Hit me harder, fucker!”

    Zeee-ap! “I’m come-ming!”

    Griffith battered away with his honker up Morrigana’s quim. The cuntjuices ran in flourishes down the insides of his thighs.

    His balls knocked against her bound wrists. She took them in her fists.

    Snapped his testicles as he frigged away. His nuts shook like stirred pudding.

    He felt scum brewing within them.

    Morrigana twirled Griffith’s testicles with her tied ankles. Kicked them with her bound feet.

    The rush of jissom flared first in his brain. Then the train pulled out of his groin.

    Come sped along the track to the engine.

    Fuck-fuck-fuck the cock chugged.

    Jizz whistled into her tunnel.

    “Ana-na.”

    Morrigana’s tied limbs cranked and curlicued uncontrollably. Face hidden by the mask of leather and lace. Limbs bound. Cunt gagged.

    She couldn’t leave him if she tried.

    “Morrigana.”

    “Mmmmm.”

    “Morrigana. Hear what I’m saying?”

    “Hmmm. Oh, fuck. Please whack my bloody brains to jelly, you’re a good fellow.”

    “I can’t get it out of my head that there’s some obvious reason why Constance should have kept that string of gumdrops where she did-and not in the safe. But I can’t for the life of me get a hang on what it is. You wouldn’t be able to help me on that, Morrigana?”

    “I told you I don’t know. Will you fuck me more? I’ll say anything.”

    “Could you take a guess for me? About that pearl nonsense. From what you know about Constance on an Amiga level.”

    He fucked her cunthole.

    “I don’t think so. You’re the private investigator. I’m sure if you take a crack at it you’ll come up with something better than I could ever. That’s your livelihood.”

    “So you really don’t know.”

    “Ask Constance.”

    “I will. But I’m talking to you now. Let’s see. Who besides Constance does know?”

    Morrigana chewed her lips.

    Sucked the damp leather of the mask encasing her face with leather and lace.

    “Maybe only Constance does.” Morrigana mewed.

    Her pussy stewed.

    “How about a little hint, Morrigana?”

    “Ummm-you know I don’t want to implicate anyone. If I were a private dick I’d have to consider everyone in town-not just friends or the people hanging around-”

    “You won’t be implicating anyone, Morrigana. I’m just trying to ascertain our lady’s rationale for her unsafe hiding place.”

    With dick exploding come inside her bound form, Morrigana coughed out.

    “For goodness’ sake. I’m coming off now without even being hit. You really can work that stick. Why don’t you try the lady in the lake?”


    Chapter IV

    Honeysuckle clit-clove shone like a gemstone in the labial centerfolds of the water sprite who floated on the still water. Then the woman’s wily body warped suddenly in a backward circle, sending wavelets skittering across the small lake’s surface.

    Griffith watched, eyes pierced by the direct rays of the sun, as the woman submerged herself beneath the swirling drink.

    Griffith surmised that in the near distance what he was witnessing was the fabled Veronica Van Damme, the lady of the lake, in her favored abode. A watery ring about a tiny island-what could be described, were it on a simpler scale, as a huge tiled pool with garlanded sundeck in the center.

    Beyond, a sweep of greensward and a deliriously cluttered flower garden-which sent floral musk rampant through surrounding air-set off the pool’s pure glare like a liquid gemstone.

    Griffith squinted.

    The pale emerald-tinted facets of the facade of a small greenhouse glinted to the near side of the sundeck where Griffith saw stretched the supine nudity of his hostess and employer Constance Charity Eastwick-Westbrook.

    She too resembled a jewel, for her oiled body shimmered in the scald of the sun.

    What was the diamond, and what was the rough? And who, precisely, was this water nymph bathing in the buff?

    Not that Griffith lent particularly heavy stock to what had been told him about Veronica by Morrigana.-after their strung-out verbal and sensual shadow-box.

    He had planned to interview this houseguest of Constance next anyway. It impressed him neither way that he found her undressed.

    Such was the nature of the place.

    The nature of his business. Morrigana had her own reasons for distancing herself from Constance in her depiction of their relationship. It was Griffith’s job to determine her motivations and how or if they pertained to the situation in question.

    And the same would be true of his upcoming encounter with Veronica.

    Not a bad job, examining misses regarding the whereabouts of missing pearls.

    And anyway, Griffith liked talking to girls.

    “Excuse me,” he called, not bothering to avert his eyes.

    “Oh. You surprised me.”

    Veronica splashed the water to a froth about her bosom as she treaded toward the edge of the pool. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to sneak up on naked women like that?”

    She spumed a spear of water toward him through slightly parted lips.

    The stream snagged him along the leg of his pants. Wet the seam where his ballocks were piled alongside the stirring, coiled-up prick.

    Veronica stuck out her tongue at him.

    Griffith caught a glance of Veronica’s well’-trained nippletips.

    Two panting pups. Standing up, like a pair of begging mutts. “I’m not exactly unannounced,” Griffith said with an inclination of his head.

    “That’s okay,” Veronica said. “I’m only kidding. Help me out?”

    She reached up and caught him about the forearm.

    “Upsy-daisy,” he said.

    “Bullshit.”

    As he pulled upward, Veronica clutched higher on his arm. Kicked one gam out wide and slid her calf back in at an angle about his ankle.

    “The fuck!”

    Veronica jackknifed backward and to the side. Griffith sprang, plummeted into the water, the giggling Veronica splashing furiously.

    She spat more water at him, turned tail and swam away. Her flutter-kick sent foaming water at Griffith’s face in his pursuit.

    “You’ll never be able to catch me,” Veronica said with a snicker. “Not so long as you’ve got on those soaking duds.”

    “We’ll see who’s quicker.”

    “Or slicker. Come on, don’t be an ass-snarfing dweebo. It isn’t fair if I’m the only one bare.”

    “I don’t care about fair,” Griffith said as he closed the gap between them. “Or bare.”

    “Or that you’re a flaming aaaaassssshole! Who can never get a haaaard-on cause he’s got no dingdong and eschews the wearing of balls as an unnecessary vulgarism.”

    He grabbed at her ankle.

    Snapped out toward her wet tresses.

    Snagged a slippery breast.

    Veronica glided away with ease.

    “Just flick yourself off if you’re gonna be like that, Mister Penismouth.”

    Veronica called out gaily. “If you want to talk dirty to me about Constance’s shitty strand of pop-it beads, do it in the nude.”

    “I’m no body beautiful.”

    Veronica crinkled her nose. “I don’t care how crude you are. I like all kinds of naked. Just take off your clothes.”

    “Will you let me catch you then?”

    “That you’ll have to find out.”

    Some little vixen.

    Smooth as quicksand.

    Griffith tore his jacket away. Kicked off his canvas slip-on deck shoes, allowing them to float to the surface. He shoved his wallet into one of the soggy floating shoes and snaggled off his pants and underpants over his legs.

    As he peeled off his teeshirt, Veronica was on him, wrenching his unconstructed duck sports jacket around his neck.

    Veronica swam strongly, pulling the material tight about Griffith’s head and neck.

    His engorging dingdong broke the surface of the water. Veronica tittered when she saw the cockhead bob in the water from side to side.

    When they had attained the side of the pool, Griffith ducked his head. Grabbed a handful of boob and a hank of pubic hair.

    Veronica dipped beneath him.

    Coiled about him and took his dick in her face as her legs choked his neck.

    “Ngh.”

    “Duck yourself, bub.”

    Lance blew air out from his lungs. He sank to the bottom of the pool as Veronica extricated herself from his flesh and hopped up.

    “Come on,” she hollered. “Or have you already had enough?”

    “What game are you playing?”

    Griffith pressed himself up partway out of the water with both arms.

    Veronica let a palm drape over his forehead. Pushed down with all her weight.

    Griffith again sank beneath the surface.

    Sputtering, he clipped both hands about Veronica’s ankles, but lost the angle.

    Veronica’s toes were in his eyes.

    He bit out.

    She kicked him playfully in the snout. Griffith reached his hand aloft. “How about you helping me out this time?” he said. “Make any sense?“

    “I can handle it,” Veronica said offhandedly. “But first get your fucking clothes out of my lake. I don’t like the way they muck up my practice area.

    Looks like seaweed.”

    Griffith paddled about the pool. Gathered up his discarded clothing and piled them on the side.

    Veronica’s tits swayed toward his face as she bent to help lift him from the water.

    Her fingers squeaked along his skin.

    Laughing, Veronica then released.her grip, and he slipped downward.

    Griffith bobbed back up and rubbed his eyes.

    And was thereupon blinded by the liquid slicing inside his eye folds.

    “Na-na-na-na-na.”

    The guzzling sound echoed in his ears. Fizzling noises drummed against his forehead. Griffith dodged left and right. “Yikes!”

    Veronica followed him. Aiming her quim straight into his face.

    Pestering his gaze with trickles of tinkle.

    He pulled a smile.

    His own rictus perpendicular to the crinkled grin of Veronica’s groin.

    “Wheee!” Veronica chirruped. “Whiz-bang. I got you right in the teeth, you geek.”

    Griffith’s jaws chattered.

    His cock was abruptly hard.

    Painfully erect in his grasp.

    As he sizzled in the splash of liquid effervescing from Veronica’s gash.

    His tongue slavered around the ups of his face. Face to face with Veronica’s sheared pubis as urine spumed from her lace.

    He gargled her fresh piss as he stretched forth his neck. Buried his choppers into Veronica’s snatch, spewing and raw.

    Griffith’s dentition tore into her labia like a saw. He worked his head from side to side.

    Sucking in her succulence through her trimmed flocculence.

    Tasting tartness of twat as the last traces of piss raced from her slit.

    “So you like water sports,” Griffith gummed out into her grime.

    Veronica shrugged.

    “Stuff comes easy to me,” she said flatly. “I enjoy doing what I’m good at. How about you, Mister Private Dick? You like working over chicks in the line of business?”

    “No. I’m not very good at it.”

    “Then shut up, you old billygoat and work your chinny-chin-chin on my quimmy-quim-quim.”

    Griffith chucked her thighs apart. Placed his hands athwart her haunch.

    Launched tongue forward with liquid alacrity. Lashed labia with whip action.

    “Not bad for a cad,” Veronica snorted. “Go ahead. Drive me mad.”

    Griffith churned his chin upward.

    Nipped into her clit.

    Slowly, sucking in clam juice from Veronica’s cockleshell, he emerged from the drink. Veronica began to sink to her knees on the surface beside him. Legs glided aside.

    She stretched back her neck.

    Tits beckoned his fingers from her chest.

    “Neaugh.”

    Griffith found boob in his grip. Pulled a nippletip toward his yip.

    “Omigawd, you’re good,” she said with apparently genuine surprise.

    He ate at her breast as though it were a rum soaked sponge cake baba.

    He savored the taste.

    Ground a nipple into his face.

    Then trailed his tongue down between her paps. Thundering the tip along her ribs.

    Nibbling navel.

    Scratching her skin with his two-day stubble of beard. Smearing saliva about her flat tummy.

    Sniffing honey brimming alive from within her nearby hive.

    His tongue tapered like a stinger toward her buzzing clit.

    Veronica flapped her arms like a hovering insect. Several small jets of piss came again from her winsome snatch.

    Dripping micturition from her soaking patch.

    “Sssss,” she hissed through her teeth. “Oooooh. Love that sound.”

    Veronica’s tongue clapped against the top of her pallet. Clacks and sucks echoed through her snout as the snot snorted out.

    There was a cringe in her craw.

    Drool drooped from her yammering jaw.

    Whimpers strained from her gullet.

    Smacking sounds emerged from her smirk.

    And Griffith’s maw remained at work.

    He herky-jerked his head.

    Nuzzling fuzz in a rush of frenzy.

    Nicking clitoris with his heavy stubble.

    Rutsweat slimed from Veronica’s underarms. Her unshaven armpits asked for the fuck as much as did another woman’s slit.

    “You know,” Griffith spoke grimly as he took a sip from her slime slit, “you are the first chickadee I’ve seen today with a monogrammed pip.”

    “You mean the way my pussy is clipped into a V shape? I really like it like that too. I was gonna get a tattoo-”

    “Just the initial? Or Veronica all the way?’ “The latter.”

    “Would be a tight fit.”

    “Always is.”

    “That an invitation?”

    “No-no-no-no-no. I never cuntfuck men. Bad for my training regimen.”

    “But you still go all the way, I take it. Just not that way.”

    “Depends. I just don’t need emotional involvement. I have to save that kind of energy for my athletic training and competition.”

    “Must be very draining.”

    “But I can kiss your dick.”

    “Sure it’s okay?”

    “Yeah. Bombs away!”

    He kicked up his hips, balls in hand. Stuck his stick between her lips.

    “See?” she said. “I can give you head. And, like- who needs flicking when sucking feels so good? And fingers you will agree are more nimble than that prick any time.”

    The penis tooled on down her throat. Ballocks piled over the sides of her chin.

    He rested his palms on the side of her head. fingered her wet tresses as she trussed his pecker within her neck.

    He caressed her chin with the fingerprints of one hand. Ran the other beneath his ballocks and bobbled a boob.

    “Indeed,” she breathed.

    Veronica took hold of his testicles and squeezed. Yanked down hard.

    “Awk!”

    His jimjam jumped in her jaw.

    Prick ramming like an animal on the loose.

    Griffith’s mouthrut increased.

    Then the thrusting subsided.

    Veronica held his hog captive in her maw. Teeth clamped about the base.

    Neck muscles strangling the tip.

    Veronica played her hands along the length of her neck. Jacking the prick inside with wide flails of extended fingernails.

    Griffith began to wail.

    “Pawpaw-pawpaw-pawpaw-pawpaw hmmm maumau. Pah-pah ooohm mau-mau.”

    Nuts clanked together.

    Lather erupted up the wafting scrotum through the twining ejaculatory ducts.

    Smutch tore through a sharp turn in the spermatic cords.

    Bilge bulged at the base of the engorged penis and barreled down the shaft.

    Spermlets raced neck and neck toward the light at the opening of the cockhead.

    Veronica gave the pullulating penis a jab with her tongue.

    Her lips milked the charging bull as it horned deeper, goring her gullet.

    The first pellet of come crackled against her tonsils.

    Dripped slickly to her tum-tum.

    The next blast of jissom was a white-hot splash to the inside of her teeth.

    Seed glistened her smile.

    Prick pumping all the while.

    Veronica knew how to chew in style.

    On the next hump, Griffith shot semen directly into her stomach.

    And piles of gnarled goo tumbled from her chin to her chest.

    She worked the muck into her breasts.

    Melting the nuggets of jissom into her breastflesh. Shellacking her nippletips with tweaking turns of her fists.

    Griffith pried himself from her puss. Peeled his underside from her face.

    Slid on spread haunches over her sperm-caked cookies to rest his asshole like an octopus’s sucker on her bellybutton.

    Coming to rest on her waist.

    He kissed her face.

    “Don’t do that,” Veronica said warily. “I’m not quite in the mood.”

    She winked one eye.

    “Try this instead.”

    She leaned backward.

    Brought her heels up underneath her fanny and turned out her knees.

    “You may kiss me here again if you please.”

    She opened her crack.

    Slinked on her back.

    Undulated like a snake.

    Griffith took the hint.

    His eyes glinted.

    He licked her snatch in the wake of her giggling wriggling.

    Then Veronica twinged.

    Flung all her limbs in a wide arc. Slid onto her stomach and posed with raised rump.

    “Get hold of my hair from back there. But don’t tear it with your teeth.”

    She waggled her meat.

    Turned her head around and stared at him blankly.

    Addressed him frankly.

    “Know what? I’d like you to suck me. And don’t stop till after I come.”

    “As the lady requests.”

    “When you’re done there, stick your tongue inside my asshole and run it around in circles. Then you can stick your prick there.”

    “Dream on,” Griffith said. “I’ve gotten my fillings all caked with your cuntslime already. I’d like to try a new flavor.”

    He pointed toward her torso with a wiggling finger.

    “First, Veronica dear, I’m going to fuck on you right there.”

    “Where?”

    With a stifled yelp, Griffith jammed his penis up the outside of her ribcage.

    The enraged cockhead came to rest in the flap of skin beside her chest.

    Prickmeat petted the inside of Veronica’s armpit. Working in and out as though it were but another orifice.

    “Eeeeeh.”

    Veronica’s underarms were charmed by the squiggling prick. She buckled, tickled half to death, twanger tight by her tit.

    “Such wit,” she stammered. “Now hammer me where it really does some good.”

    Prick curved outward.

    Tight as hardwood.

    Griffith aimed his spear stick at the yammering target of Veronica’s ass.

    Slid into the crack.

    His penis bent.

    Snapped out straight.

    Glanced off the sides of her asscheeks. Twirled around underneath.

    “You’ll never get it in that way,” Veronica crowed. “The chlorine makes my skin go dry.”

    Griffith wiped his fingers through her snatch.

    He daubed the raised rim of Veronica’s anal donut with the slippery goo.

    Then smooched the pink pucker with the flaps of his mouth lips.

    His tongue traveled inside her yielding hide with tapered tip. She wove circles in the air with the torsion of her hips.

    Asshole opened like the mouth of a fish.

    Rim kissing lips.

    Gripping tongue tip.

    The musty flavor of Veronica’s fanny crawled through Griffith’s gullet.

    He pulled his facecheeks reluctantly from between her buttocks. Lanced into her armpit with straight tongue.

    Licked out.

    As his penis snicked the edge of her bung.

    “Aaaaanh.”

    This time the cock squeaked in easily.

    Curved up inside her haunch.

    Lapping Veronica’s underarms in double-time, Griffith axed all the way up Veronica’s buns on the first slide.

    Then he drew back.

    “No.”

    Pulled his dong out.

    Then nuzzled it back in.

    Asshole oinked once.

    Cockhead buried to the neck. “Ahhhh.”

    Fucking and sucking in counterpoint, Griffith anointed the conchlike interior of Veronica’s earcups with the message of his mission.

    “You are familiar, I take it, with the missing beads?”

    “Indeed.”

    “Any guesses where they might have landed?”

    “Didn’t know they flew anywhere. Unh. Keep that fuck going in my rump.”

    “You knew where the pearls were kept?”

    “Pump. Yes. Oh, pump.”

    “Where?”

    “Unh. In Constance’s chest of drawers. In her bedroom. Oh, gawddamnit. Fuck.

    Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck my asshole hard. Harder!”

    “In her drawers?”

    “In-unh-with-unh-her-unh-lingerie. Oh, please. Fuck my ass some more. Break my fucking buns. Just fuck-fuck-fuck me.”

    “Did everybody know where she kept those things?”

    “Just a couple of her friends.”

    “Real close ones, huh? Like you and Morrigana. Her girlfriends. Any men?”

    “Oh, Jee-susss! It’s so yummy with your dick up my ass to my tummy. So Morrigana knew too? Figures. Morrigana’s so nosy. How the flick should I know whether Constance told any dudes?”

    Griffith corkscrewed his cock deeper into Veronica’s easygoing asshole.

    He tugged her jugs as she pressed her cold assmeat into his belly.

    Veronica winced.

    Bouncing like jelly.

    “Shit,” Veronica gagged. “I’m dead.”

    Fission of senses streaked through her head. She heard colors. Saw sounds.

    Orgasm caressed her brain.

    Blowhole babbled in climax.

    Griffith randied her rectum.

    Chattered into Veronica’s straining face, held next to his in embrace.

    “You ever see Constance wear the gewgaws?”

    “Fuck me. Can’t I even come around here? Wear them? Only to some charity affairs.”

    “What’s that?”

    “You gotta fuck that ass with that prick! Just let me come awhile, huh?”

    “Affairs. Constance wore the pearls to affairs.

    “What kind were they?”

    “Oh, fuck. It’s over now, you aaaaasshole. Constance wore those whory-booking black baubles to balls. Dinners. Polo matches or tennis tourneys where they gamble and the pot goes to deserving charities and such.”

    “Noble pastimes.”

    With a sneer, Veronica wrenched her rear end to the side.

    Griffith’s prong squealed from her bung. Her bum nipped shut with a smack.

    “Your haaaaawg’s snout is a dinky pigshit-feeder.” she snapped. “Sowfucker, fuck your piglet brother. You buttered my rump and then wouldn’t let me get over the hump. Go suck a pregnant skunk, man.”

    “Anyone who attends these charitable affairs have a professional interest in pearl diving?”

    “Give me a break. My asshole aches. You got off nicely right down my throat. I have to be satisfied with a few little jolts”

    “About Constance’s habits? She misplace her things-often?”

    Veronica wiped around the rim of her asshole with a finger.

    Sniffed the fingertip in her nostril. Glared straight into Griffith’s face.

    “Try asking the lady herself,” she said. “Isn’t that like something you’re paid to do?”

    “In due time.”

    “Oh, I see,” Veronica said, narrowing her eyes. “Like, first you want to have the all the answers yourself. So you can see if Constance is lying when you pretend to try to get it out of her.”

    “Not necessarily. I simply think people’s rationales for their actions-as well as how they perceive those of others-are more informative than whether they lie per se. Lying is so much a given that in itself it tells you nothing. People sometimes don’t even know they are lying.”

    “So where are you there?”

    “You are primed to find the motive behind the deception-whether the deception is consciously calculated or is self-deception ingrained into their egos as a defense against past deeds.”

    “Fuckingchrist.”

    “Care to hazard a guess?”

    “So, Mister So Clean He Won’t Come Up My Asshole. I see you’re a Sherlock Holmes and a Sigmund Freud rolled into one.”

    “I try to be a bit of a psych-out artist. Part of the package.”

    “Fuuuu-uck you say. Those pearls of hers are not anywhere near as valuable as some of the other jewelry-the stilt Constance keeps locked up. Likes the pearls a lot, though. She tell you they’re heirlooms? Maybe Constance likes to keep them near her person for sentimental reasons.”

    Veronica drifted her gaze away. Played with her headhair as if annoyed with it.

    Griffith continued. “Maybe she’s auctioning the pearls off for sentimental reasons, too.”

    “You don’t understand how things can get when you’re rich,” Veronica sniffed.

    “It’s almost as if your emotions don’t count.”

    “Sorry for you.”

    “Toodle-oo,” Veronica said, leaping to her feet. “Gotta get back to practice now-If I’m gonna be ready to compete on the synchronized swimming team at the next Olympics.”

    “That’s like water ballet?”

    “The shit you say,” she brayed. “It’s a brutally demanding sport. I’m a finely tuned athlete. I’m ordinarily not rude, but if! could fart on cue I’d do it in your face.”

    “Didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just ignorant.”

    “Your ignorance is an insult.”

    “And top of the morning to you, too.”

    Veronica turned toward the pool.

    She jackknifed at the waist.

    Brought her hands together behind her butt.

    Her asscheeks flared open as she crouched slightly in a diving posture.

    Her asshole juddered open.

    “Toot,” she blew through her blowhole.

    Her hinder flews shuddered. Anus stuttered.

    “Craaa-ack!” Veronica hacked out breezily from her rump as she gave it a pump.

    “Here’s another one, dude,” Veronica chewed.

    “Boop!” her asshole chuckled.

    “Talented girl,” Griffith wheezed.

    He saluted Veronica with the still-sticky ‘tips of his fingers.

    Touched his fingers to his lips. Wiped the inside of his mouth.

    Stirred his spittle.

    He slurped up a syrup of residue. Sensed the finny aftertaste of Veronica’s stew.

    “Don’t forget to take your smelly clothes with you,” Veronica cackled as she sailed through the air. “Their presence distracts me.”


    Chapter V

    Baroquely curlicued cockgrin caged in his pants, Griffith Poindexter danced a few jigsreps in place on the crest of the hillock overlooking the greenhouse off to the side of the uninhabited sundeck. He had sensed the boiling cuntoils of passionate pussy-inspired plots upon his first entrance to the foyer of Charity House.

    And right there from the start Griffith had a few surmises about the possible disposition of those black pearls. As well as why the lady might have preferred to keep them close at hand in the boudoir, nestling among her lingerie.

    It was true that nothing Griffith had learned had actually confirmed any of a number of variations on his theory.

    But nothing quite contradicted it, either.

    “Supposing confidentially, milady,” Griffith practiced confidently, “that I do have an angle on where those pearls might be at present?-Naw. If it’s gonna wind up in one of her books, Constance will want it to come out more indirectly. Slow, tantalizing build-up. That’s how I’ll go.”

    With this change of heart, Griffith kisses the wind. Griffith next takes a turn over the field where, on other days, polo ponies graze.

    No recent tracks. No dropped gloves, hankies, jewelry, or pens to identify the escaping thief like in the old-lady mystery stories. In fact, there are no material clues thus far anywhere at all as to the whereabouts of the missing baubles. Except in the literary sense that the piles of horseshit surrounding him in the field seem to be a figurative expression- mute commentary as though to confirm Griffith’s ultimate suspicions.

    Alone on the polo playground, Griffith hefts his well-worn twanger in his hand.

    He examines the head.

    Swollen and red.

    Anything but underfed.

    The facelike expression of the sculptured pricktip exudes satiety.

    The helmetlike hoghead a rounded, tapering wedge with convoluted edges.

    Curled crown slanting along the sides of the dong in a smirk.

    Blue veins running throughout the ivory length like swirls of specially selected marble.

    He gives the penis a jerk.

    Ballocks bounce like a sack of baubles.

    Griffith gives his testicles a tap to see how they react.

    He jumps at the sudden movement of the sac. The self-transformation of his yarbies gripped within their shrinking skein of scrotum that draws up tight underneath his belly.

    Nougats protected within the wrinkles of a ballsack crinkled like a nutshell.

    Perhaps Griffith’s balls are telling him something. Speaking in the only language they know. Saying to him, “Do you really like the flavor of the brand of witch’s cuntbrew you and the rich-bitch are getting into? The word is this:

    When in doubt, brother dude, get out. And if you can’t do that-at’ least curl up your cock and balls beneath your belly and protect yourself.”

    Well, well.

    Was Griffith going nuts?

    Or were his nuts going-? Anyway, one thing was for sure. If Constance Charity Eastwick-Westbrook, the Lady Farnsworth (husband rarely around), former princess to the reputed Spanish prince (after the divorce-she hasn’t seen him since-at least not too often), and the lady responsible for some of the more salacious novels of upper-class sexual predation in print-if this frail mistress has indeed lost her marbles, Griffith means to return the favor. He owes her one.

    Griffith strolls across the gray washed wooden planking of the sundeck. Checks for indications of Constance’s whereabouts.

    He slips his hands into the pockets of his still- moist trousers.

    Jogs his balls.

    Scans the surrounding greenery.

    He grins thinly as he kicks a dried curd of horse manure with his heel. With a final glance across the greensward, he turns and walks across the edge of the end strip of the polo field.

    Trains his ears toward the ululations of unseen feathered species.

    Squeaks a walk toward the swinging screen vestibule door set into the side of the dome of transparent emerald-colored slats faceting the nearby greenhouse.

    Peeks inside.

    Spies Constance, stripped to her hide, watering plants and uttering birdcalls.

    “Oh, Griffith,” she cried, squinting her eyes over the spray of insecticide.

    “Come on in. Be sure to shut the door, wilt you? Spring must be broken on it again-have to remember that and get it fixed. Don’t want the birdies to fly out.”

    “This an aviary too?”

    He had a jaunt to his march.

    An arch to one eyebrow.

    “Nice cockatiel,” he said as a greenish-white crested parakeet tweeted in flight. “They’re frail, aren’t they?”

    “Maybe if you’re a big bad predator-and quick enough. But if so, please remove yourself from this habitat,” Constance tittered as the bird alighted on her extended finger. “This one’s a robust little chick anyway. Capable of putting up a good fight.”

    “Any cock could tell you that one, ma’am.”

    “As I presume you should know. However, I take it you’re here primarily to talk about something besides birds.”

    “I like talking birds-”

    “So let me-”

    Constance kissed the cockatiel on its beak and sent it twittering among the overhanging branches.

    “Hang on a sec, Griffith. Got to shut the waterworks down. Meantime, fetch yourself up something to drink if you’d like. Under the table over there by the loveseat.”

    “Got any cups?” Griffith said as he inspected a clear jug half-filled with a liquid the color of chamomile tea.

    “You don’t want that stuff,” Constance said. “It’s nectar for the hummingbirds.”

    “Hmmmmm hmmm hm,” Griffith emitted from between tight lips.

    He shot his tongue toward the jug of hummingbird nectar, raised his eyebrows and watched for Constance’s smile in response.

    Constance watched Griffith reach into an ice bucket as he watched her wipe her gritty brow. Ass juddering, she shut down the water with a flick to the nozzle of the hose. Clamped off the spray of insecticide mixture with a twist of her wrist as her tits jigged in time.

    Dark soil striped her face.

    Sweat streaked her stripped body from her underarms to her waist.

    Filthy as this, Constance looked less like a wood nymph than a pig in a poke.

    Still and all, her jugs were no joke.

    “Pamper with champers,” Griffith mumbled as he held aloft a magnum bottle of thick green glass, dripping with water and butt shedding ice.

    “You’ll have to take it straight from the bottle,” Constance said. “We are destitute of manners here, I’m afraid.”

    Griffith twisted the bottle into his teeth.

    Breathed up a cottony ball of bubbly into his craw.

    “Thirsty boy,” Constance chattered.

    “Save you some?” he gurgled.

    “Finish that one off, if you like.”

    “Will do.”

    “Should be another bottle icing there in the bucket,” Constance said, absently tweaking a nipple with her thumb.

    “I’ll crack ‘er open.”

    High, tautly nippled tits swayed as Constance shunted her hips through the density of low foliage. The cork soles of her high-heeled espacirilles oinked wetly as she slithered her toes through the soil and gravel.

    The high heels plumped her assmeat out like a plover breast. A streak of peaty liquid snaked from her buttocks break.

    Constance sat her wet fanny onto a quilted pillow framed by the armrests of a wrought-iron loveseat that sat beneath an archway constructed of peaty bark profuse with cuntlike blooms of hybrid orchids the size of a woman’s pompadour.

    “Hot in here,” Constance said. “Excuse my use of the bucket.”

    She picked up the ice bucket and rubbed its coolness to her sweltering tummy.

    Sat it onto her lap, oozing her thighs apart.

    Griffith shot the newly opened bottle into Constance’s grasp.

    She suckered foam.

    Reached toward Griffith’s mouth with the bottle in her fist.

    After Griffith’s guzzle, Constance gave herself another slug of champagne.

    Returned the bottle to the space between her legs where the ice bucket now nestled.

    Constance next clicked on the flame of a decorative blowtorch brazier that rested on the clear glass top of the white-painted cocktail table beside her.

    Using her fingernails, Constance sliced a minuscule wedge from a cake of pitchlike gum displayed on a saucer held aloft by a jade statuette of a seemingly self-satisfied nude of ambiguous gender.

    She spread a serving of the black resin into the recess of a shallow brass cup affixed to one end of a slim bamboo tube.

    Constance then inserted the tiny pipebowl into the brazier’s flame and sucked deeply on the narrowly tapering brass mouthpiece that shanked the opposite end of the hollow reed pipesrem.

    Her boobs rose and fell. Nipples achingly hard. Tempting for the touch.

    “I like the opium pipe,” Griffith remarked.

    “So do I,” Constance said. “A curiosity I picked up in a Hong Kong junkstore.”

    A wisp of black smoke feathered from the pipe. Constance nicked the pipestem against the rim of the table, nudging a turpble of ashes out into the gravel.

    She pressed another gooey dollop into the pipebowl as she breathed out a whisper of invisible fumes through her pulsing nostrils.

    “By any chance, Griffith, are you familiar with Oriental calligraphy?”

    “Somewhat-on a conversational level.”

    “More than I am. What do you make of the design painted along the pipestem here?”

    “Chinese. The writing was most likely done with a panda-bristle brush in indigo ink. No breaks in the linestrokes that make up the individual characters. But you can see how the ink at the beginning of the initial stroke after every third character is darker-”

    “Uh huh.”

    “The artist worked quickly and accurately, systematically completing each character in one unintemipted freehand brushstroke. After each set of three characters the brush was dipped again into the ink before starting the next set.”

    “What’s it say?”

    “Same thing over and over again. Quotation from a verse often attributed to Lao Tse: Physical and spiritual bliss together are like a kiss in the mist. Same principle as the fortune cookie or an engraved beer mug.”

    “Know where the pipe was made?”

    “See the way the symbols line up vertically along the bamboo stem? That’s Shanghai style, circa 1919.”

    “Really?”

    “Could be. Or a copy. Can’t tell. Been used a lot, though.”

    “Smoke?”

    “Thanks. But not right now. I was okay with the fuzzwine-”

    Constance dredged the dripping magnum of Dom Perignon champagne from within the ballast of the silver ice bucket.

    She shot some froth down her gullet.

    Passed the deep-greeen oversized bottle to Griffith’s waiting fingertips as he sat in a wobbly chair across from her.

    Their hands touched.

    Constance grinned like a gunman.

    Edgy and tough.

    “How’s the investigative front, Griffith? Is that horseshit I see decorating the soles of your deck shoes?”

    “Just now took a canter across the polo field.”

    “Anything show up?”

    “No more than what you see on my shoes.”

    “Any luck elsewhere?”

    “After my chat with your assistant Morrigana, she was eager to tour me through Charity House. Plenty of places to hide-but no pearlies.”

    “Surprised?”

    “Not at all.”

    “Your clothes look rather damp-uncomfortably so, if I do say, Griffith. Been yachting?”

    “Clothes feel okay like this,” Griffith shrugged. “Little round of water sports with your friend Veronica. When I interviewed her poolside-well, I guess I just fell in.”

    “I’ll bet the little snit pulled you into the pool with her. She’s like that.”

    “Thanks for warning me.”

    “I figured you’d make out okay with her anyway.”

    “I did do that.”

    “But no pearls.”

    “Reet.”

    “Anything pop up at all? Still haven’t told me whether you turned any clues or whether you’re given up or what.”

    “No clues. I haven’t given up.”

    “So what’s the story, Sherlock? Or are you stiff?” Griffith sucked down some bubbly. “I say. Good stuff you got here for the thirst. Now these pearls of yours. The ones you say are missing. You see, I say I haven’t seen ‘em around.

    You say you haven’t seen ‘em around. Your housemates-ditto, they say no see.

    But that doesn’t mean they aren’t around. Doesn’t mean they are. What’s your guess?”

    “You think they’re gone from Charity House?”

    “You mean the house itself? Yeah, they’re gone from there for sure-wouldn’t you say?”

    The hunches are your department.” Constance sucked on the pipe. “So, Mister Dick Tracy, why don’t we get to some more of your undoubtedly learned and fertile ideas-about the pearls, unless you’re more interested in discoursing on opium pipes or parakeets.”

    “Maybe later you want me to discuss orchids7”

    Constance looked up dreamily into her forehead. She yawned as she crossed her ankles, extending her long gains toward Griffith.

    “But, oh, milady-of course! To the marbles. These pearls of yours-they could be out somewhere on the grounds buried in the dirt. Or someone might conceivably have spirited them away entirely.”

    He took another swig. “But I don’t think that’s likely, Constance. Do you?”

    “Again-I really don’t know. Were the girls of any actual help to you at all?”

    “Oh, yes. They helped eliminate some obvious doubts about the pearls’ whereabouts.” He slugged away at the bottle again. “And they also more or less pointed the way I maybe should pursue this gig. Conceptually, anyhow.”

    “But no material goods.”

    “Correcto.”

    Images of Morngana and Veronica-wet and labile-flickered through Griffith’s internal vision. Recollection of rubyfruit Lips-burned with kisses, passionate and vicious.

    Griffith popped out a cigarette. Stowed it between his choppers. He bent close to Constance, smelling her rising rut as he lit the cig in the opium brazier.

    “Didn’t know you smoked,” Constance said.

    “I don’t. Not when I’m working.”

    Constance took the champagne bottle in her hand. Hoisted it above her head.

    Drained the crisp liquid into her snout.

    Poopped the bottleneck from her maw.

    Sat it in her lap.

    Cooling her cabbage patch.

    She twitched as Griffith rose from his seat.

    “Time to pack it in, Griffith?”

    “Guess so. Abyssinia. My work is finished.”

    “Griffith-”

    “Yes?”

    “I think not. Not by a long shot.”

    “I think so. Police involvement is the only way you can go convincingly from here-if you want to keep up your end of whatever publicity act or insurance con you got going.”

    “Bullshit, Griffith. Thought you were going to show me your good stuff. Thought you said you hadn’t given up.”

    “Doesn’t mean I don’t take my leave now.”

    “I say not yet for day one. You have not met your professional obligations to me today, Griffith.” Constance wiggled her fanny in her seat. “Not anywhere near completely. In fact, hardly at all. You certainly haven’t looked everywhere-not by any means.”

    “I looked everywhere that counts. Process of elimination. And everywhere’s out.”

    “Bullshit, Griffith. Whatever are you saying? Have you no imagination?”

    “Don’t need any. Not for this set-up.”

    “What is this, Griffith? A stall?”

    Constance felt a chill roam at will over her head, shoulders, and hinders.

    “No stall. Just let’s say-that’s all, folks. I’ve searched Charity House and its grounds-not completely, but enough to get the drift. Browbeat everybody who was anywhere-except right in here. And, thank you, I will have one for the road.”

    Griffith stooped to the gravel between Constance’s ankles. He snatched up the bottle of champagne from the bucket between her legs. Drained it to the dregs.

    Shoved the empty bottle into the bucket.

    “You tell me, lady. Am I getting warm? Those pearls feeling a little hot by now?”

    Griffith stood, turned, walked.

    Constance called out.

    “Aren’t you going to see if-for instance-the pearls might be in the ice bucket?”

    “Not when I know they’re in yours.”

    Griffith snapped about-face.

    He drilled his eyeballs into hers for less than a second.

    Dropped smoothly into a crouch. Griffith slid a hand into the frigid liquid hugging the butt of the empty magnum bottle of Dom Perignon. Constance shivered as she saw him make a fist-as though grabbing up a handful of melting shaved ice.

    Griffith brought his soaking arm out into the open in a trice. Whipped his hand through the air in a lazy slice.

    Brought it home like a hammer between her thighs.

    Her twat fluttered.

    The ice bucket tipped topsy-turvy into the gravel as Constance’s buttocks rose off the seat. Griffith’s cold paws mauled hot meat.

    “Unh.”

    “Sure,” Griffith said. “I’ll go for it, honey. How much money we talking about?”

    Constance’s well-versed anus opened wide.

    The sphincter slid on over his thumb and forefinger. None too gingerly, Griffith twirled his fingers higher into her haunch.

    “Anh.”

    “Sorry, cookie, about this intrusion on your privacy. But then you know that Griffith only aims to please his client’s fancy.”

    He folded his three spare fingers against the side of his palm.

    Wrenched his arm.

    Constance’s fanny bounced.

    Her hiney humped.

    Her asshole snickered on over his fist.

    Constance sat impaled.

    Griffith was buried to his wrist.

    Constance chewed her ups. Licked her tongue furiously across her face.

    “Okay,” Griffith said. “I think maybe one more twist. Let me make this good.”

    “Eaugh!”

    “Gotcha.”

    Griffith snaked his fingers higher within Constance’s bum until they coiled about what felt like- unseen-a connected strand of smooth spheroids. He clanked them together.

    “Pearls, are they?” Lance chewed. “Black pearls, by any chance?”

    His forearm probed, fist deeply embedded in her haunch. She rutted her flanks.

    Griffith gave his forearm a crank.

    “Ouch!”

    He drew his arm out in a yank.

    There was a rustle in Constance’s buttocks as Griffith’s fingers flew forth.

    He trailed a set of dank beads from the bud of her bung. Black pearls gleaming deeply, wrapped about his thumb.

    Constance smiled smugly, the beads burping from her anus as Griffith twined them upward through his hands.

    Setting off her glands anew as each pearl popped through her chuckling pucker.

    “You knew I had them up my ass all along, didn’t you, Griffith?”

    “Not hard to figure-I mean, especially after the way your girlfriends were so protective. They just had no idea why you might have been keeping those beads so close to yourself-”

    “Wrapped in my lingerie. Secreted in my boudoir. One guess goes far.”

    “No guess. Not with you. Not with those other two around. Incidentally, I appreciate the dress code you ladies endorse around here.”

    Griffith wound the long strand of inky-black pearls around his fist.

    Dropped them into Constance’s lap.

    “Fun game you had with me, Constance. Hope you got your money’s worth.”

    “One more thing before you go, Griffith.”

    “There a hitch?”

    “No. You’re hired.”

    “Thought I heard-”

    “This pearlie show wasn’t the real job. You checked into me. You know the rest.”

    “Or I can guess.”

    “You willing to get mixed up in this?”

    “Depends, Constance. On a number of things. Such as how strictly and to whom and when does your dress code apply? And how well do you Like to be fucked up the ass by fists?”

    “And-?”

    “And you know my fee scale”

    Constance played the pearls around her face. Draped them over her boobs.

    Dangled them to her pubes.

    “As long as I’m paying, Griffith, see if you can play it my way for a little while.”

    “You’re tight. We’ll see.”

    “See these pearls? You know where you got them. Why don’t you put them back.”

    She parted her legs.

    Spread her asscrack.

    Threw her head back.

    “Now you can start by taking those fucking mucoid clothes off.”

    In an instant, Griffith had pitched his duds into a dingy heap to the side of his feet.

    Constance reached up and gave his nipples a tweak. Griffith bent into her and kissed the crack of her mouth lips.

    Constance’s asshole went slack.

    He gave her clit a whack.

    Saw the ointment pulse from her snatch.’

    Constance wrenched her body around and her asshole and vulva were displayed before Griffith’s face. She flexed her legs about his neck to draw him closer.

    Griffith snagged her bum hole with one end of the ink-colored beads. He pressed the strand in, working quickly, uninterruptedly.

    Constance twinged with the insertion of each pearl into her anus.

    Spasms flared her limbs.

    With several pearls dangling from her rim, Griffith brought her open-faced snatch down the head of his curlicued cockhead.

    Constance’s cuntlips hogged on over the scrollike flare at the rear of the prick’s helmet like carapace.

    Cataclysmic seizures took place at the forefront of Constance’s cunt.

    Twatlips jabbered and juddered.

    Constance shuddered with each slight cock stroke.

    “Come again?” Griffith said.

    He reached beneath Constance’s hobbling haunch. Snatched the dangling line of pearls.

    “In-ni-ni!”

    Griffith popped a pearlie spheroid from her pumping poopdeck. She tightened her neck.

    The prickstem stabbed her once more. One more pearl popped from her asshole.

    One more stipple of the initial tides of orgasm burst in Constance’s clitoris.

    “Unh,” she sighed.

    The prick did drive.

    Her hips did writhe.

    Fpth!

    Another black pearl blew from her blowhole.

    “Aw-naw-naw.”

    Another mini-limax brought tears to her eyes.

    “Now that we’ve gone on a ways,” Griffith said.

    “How well do you know your lady friends?”

    “What do you mean?”

    “Like we have to watch them from now on. What are their habits. And don’t tell me you really don’t know what I mean.”

    “Where should I start?”

    “How about Morngana? Any visitors? Phone calls? She smoke locoweed, blow candicaine?”

    “Yeah. Everything you said. Same for Veronica, to save your asking. How you gonna tail those two?”

    “Customarily, you and I would brief one of my operatives-maybe one male and one female. But for this operation, I think I had a better idea.”

    “Fuck harder while you talk.”

    “Only while I talk? Better keep talking then. You know how in some of those mystery books there’s a mystery writer who accidentally gets mixed up in a real case?”

    “Yeah. Asinine premise, isn’t it?”

    “That’s why I think it’s a good idea. You helping me out on this investigation, I mean.”

    “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

    “No. You’re shitting pearls.”

    Griffith rubbed her rump.

    Her ass melted in his grip. He pipped several more pearls from Constance’s asshole.

    Griffith humped fiercely into her cunt. Then pulled the pecker out to the tip.

    “Like for instance?” Constance said.

    “Where’s Veronica going after she leaves here?”

    “London. Tomorrow morning. She’s connecting with the rest of the national team there to practice for an international competition.”

    “You planning to accompany her?”

    “Actually, I was planning to meet her there later in the week. I am on the finance committee of the national team. And it would give me an excuse to drop in on my husband-”

    “Which one? Current husband or the ex?”

    “The lord.”

    “Just checking it out. Can you keep an eye on Veronica at all times?”

    “She’s traveling with the team-officially. But I could set it up so that she would actually be staying with Morrigana and me-even on the nights prior to her events.”

    “Better that way. At least both bitchmeats would be operating out of the same digs.”

    “Operating?”

    “You know I know the story that Morrigana’s supposed to be some kind of poor relation to your first husband-the Drug King Blood Royal of Cuba.”

    “So she sees Arturo. What would you expect?”

    “That you do too.”

    “On a business level. He funds our charity work. Whatever else he does-”

    “Tell me about it. It’s her we watch. But first let me tell you about how the tush of that Veronica involves a lot of hairy involutions.”

    “That I don’t know? She’s an American cousin to my present husband.”

    “You know all about her and the lord.”

    “Shee-suss H. Fuckingchrist the bloodyfucking third. That’s her business. And his. Also mine, but I choose not to interfere in what are after all private interpersonal matters that only involve the flesh.”

    “Involves more than flesh.”

    “You think any actions other than stupid ones are influenced by love?”

    “The rich are in general more genial, I am sure. But sexual manipulation and other fun and games have been known to play their parts-”

    “In many a schemers heart. Now ream me out.”

    Constance’s rectum exploded its nerve endings as Griffith’s fingers burbied the remainder of the strand of pearls from her rectum. Her fannycheeks shuddered and her assrim quavered.

    Her tongue savored sweat.

    Griffith’s cockhead grinned as it bit in again to the chin of her quim.

    The prick slid within.

    Constance’s ass shimmied as the inky nacre of the dank pearls belched from her bum.

    She hummed.

    Twirled her tongue.

    Griffith fobbed her buns.

    Pulling the baubles out.

    Pearl after pearl.

    Orgasm after orgasm.

    Griffith’s penis backed from Constance’s cunny.

    He jacked once.

    Scum barfed from the hoghead.

    Semen streaked like liquid pearl through the softly tinted sunlight.

    Parrots screeched “Fistfьck! Fistfuck! Fuck again, honey. Fuck! Fuck!”

    The nacreous spermlets snaked against Constance’s face.

    The pullulating pussy smacked against Griffith’s hefty ballocks.

    The string of black beads bobbled against the front of Griffith’s thighs as he continued to ejaculate juice onto Constance’s tits.

    She took one more hit of jizz in the face.

    Come draped from her eyelashes. Lined her cheeks with pearlescent streaks.

    Dashed onto her chin as the remaining chunks of jissom tumbled from his pricktip.

    “Tell me more,” Constance said.

    “Why? You sore?”

    “Not sore enough. But I want to be bored. That really hurts me a lot.”

    “I’ll tell you how you’re going to set up a tail on your lady friends in London.”

    “Tell it to me later. On the way there tomorrow morning on the plane.”

    “Oh, no. That’s your solo gig.”

    “You wouldn’t think I’d undertake this jaunt without you-”

    “It’s an easy stint. I’ll just give you a few hints and you can handle it.”

    “Why don’t you wrap those beads around your balls real tight? Then collar your pecker with the other end. I want to suck them.”

    “First tell me something I don’t know about you or the girls or these pearls.”

    “Like what? You seem to be keened in on everything.”

    “Offhand, in their present state, I cannot tell for sure if the pearls are fake.”

    “Guess.”

    “Yes.”

    Constance wove the strand of baubles about Griffith’s ballocks.

    She noosed the neck of the prick and pulled the nacreous bead into a tight cockring.

    “No, these are not the fakes,” Constance said.

    “I keep the fake ones as decoys and backups in the safe, as you certainly know by now.”

    “See what I mean about your friends, Constance?

    There were no pearls in the safe. And the spring to the screen door of this greenhouse wasn’t broken either. Tell me something, Lady Constance. Is either of us smart enough to fuck and talk at the same time or what?”


    Chapter VI

    Jasmine-mist piss flashed from Constance’s open-faced cuntgrin and slathered down her legs onto the entwined bellies of the two belles, bods rubbing in heat, between her feet. Constance popped black pearls from within her pussy and intestines, sinking into the sublimity of low-grade doctorial sexual climax.

    Her long velvet gloves were encased in swirls set with pink pearls. Thigh-high high-heeled boots were likewise encrusted with designs accented with scatterings of nacreous gems.

    She shoved one stiletto heel between Morrigana’s teeth. After that taste, she again dipped the spike into Veronica’s yeasty mulch.

    Out in the foyer of the London town digs where Constance had secured lodgings through the diplomatic auspices of her current consort Lance Fondulac, a set of chimes struck a melody in light harmony. Then the muted words “ladies, tea is served” echoed gently through the marble hail.

    “We better get on the ball,” Constance smirked. “We all have a full round of social engagements to keep this evening.”

    “Shall I serve you ladies now?” the maid’s voice blew in.

    “In the tearoom,” Constance chortled.

    Veronica yammered nervously as she contorted with Morrigana in front of the Georgian-style brass screen to the fireplace. “But we still, like, gotta get off first.”

    “What are you worried about, champ?” Morrigana spewed as she chewed Veronica’s pussy. “You medaled in three different events-including a gold in the overall.”

    “That’s why I gotta get like froze out,” Veronica snorted out as she flailed her clitoris maniacally with slashes of fingernail.

    “I want to chew on you two too,” Constance said. “But try to hurry up. You know we must take tea to regain our energy.”

    Constance smiled primly as the porter, in company with the maid, wheeled in the heavily laden tea wagon.

    The two tumbling girls tossed their wet hair back from their faces and dove at each other.

    “Bitchkiss,” Morrigana insisted.

    Veronica twisted her pertly trimmed pussy toward Morrigana’s brambly thatch.

    Cuntlips smacked together.

    Wet kiss giristyle.

    Constance thanked the servants reassuringly. The porter kept a stiff upper lip as his hard-on grew dynamically. The maid curtseyed quickly, allowing her tits to flop out momentarily, and the two servants snapped out of sight.

    “Jolly good show, girls,” Constance said. “The porter and the maid will be off and flicking in the first linen closet they can get into.”

    “Oooooh, Morrigana,” Veronica jibbered. “I’m fuck-maddened! Now we gotta platypuss.”

    Veronica and Veronica dropped their arms about each other’s waists and asses.

    They brought their chattering snatches sat open against one another. Rocking their hips, partially entwining their fluid thighs.

    Rubbing sideways across the pubic rise.

    Twatfur tearing into flatfucking labia.

    “As long as you forcefuck, my sweet-and-pungent Veronica-puss, you can do anything you like to me.”

    “As long as I forcefuck it’s my choice?” ex course.”

    “Ten I force you to make the choice.”

    “Bitchbump me, baby.”

    “Say it another way.”

    “Bodyhump my hiney.”

    “Now beg.”

    “Consider it begged-for.”

    “You nippleless whore!”

    Veronica hit across Morrigana’s tits with the heel of her palm.

    Whaaa-ack! “Ow!”

    “Again?”

    “No. That really hurt, Veronica.”

    “So fuck me.”

    Twiii-ing! “Eouwn! Those are my tits!”

    “And what’s this? Your clit?”

    Veronica twisted Morrigana’s clit in her fist.

    Bandied her cunny up to the wrist.

    “Phugh,” Momgana spat.

    Veronica’s face was draped with thick saliva.

    “It’s my game too.”

    She spat repeatedly into Morrigana’s eyes as she gave her a whack in the belly.

    She spanked Morrigana’s writhing body across her lap, clits crushing close with every slap.

    With Morrigana’s reddened rump perched in the crackling warmth of the firelight, Veronica twiddled her thumbs up Morrigana’s arse. She worked up a Yorkshire pudding in her pussy with her diddling fingers.

    “I do believe we should break for tea,” Constance again remonstrated.

    Yes, this was her finest pleasure. The words Constance had put into the mouth of her latest fictional character seemed remarkably close to how she actually felt: “I never luck. I just watch.” Of course Constance did enjoy participation, but with some literary license she could say she saw her character as primarily a voyeur with a growing predilection for the sight and sounds of bejeweled sprinkles and the delights of pearifucking.

    “Can you piss us up some more, Constance?” Veronica managed from between teeth clenched about slick underside of Morrigana’s foaming Hews. ‘We need your jasmine-tea peepee to give us the real good bitchbump traction.”

    With Constance posing astride above, Morrigana slinked her legs through Veronica’s as they joined hump, ass to ass, on all fours. The lady Copstance giggled while she playfully sprayed continuous bursts of puzzle upon the haunches squeaking in bitchrut.

    “Ni-ni-ni-ni-ni.”

    Constance pulled the hairs at the napes of both girls’ swinging, sweat-wettened manes.

    She licked her lips as the girls once again came together down under with delirious grimaces twisting their animated features.

    Her piss pranced on the hollows of their ribcages, sounding like muted thunder.

    Constance looked out the opened balcony doors, across the Albert Green and down past Buckingham Palace. She gazed toward the lit tower of big Ben seen glowing in the distance through the thin fog of early twilight.

    “We should do this English style,” Constance said. “You can see how they first did that stuff to contend with the weather.”

    Veronica sniffed in disbelief. “You mean piss on a moll’s behind while she’s fanny-fucking another dolly? Come on, Morrigana. Let’s cuke.”

    Now, now, girls,” Constance chimed. “You know nothing warms the cockles and the skin like hot tea, melted butter, and leather.”

    The two girls wrestled in the rustle of their silken piss-doused bustiers.

    Asses bared.

    Pulling hair.

    Boobs bobbling out.

    “Open your legs, Morrigana. I need to cuke you real bad. I want to see if I can get it all the way in you this time.”

    “You couldn’t cuke a froufrou fruit any more than you could flick a face. That clit of yours is in miniature.”

    “We’ll see.”

    Veronica rubbed her pussyfuzz from side to side across Morrigana’s spread asscheeks.

    Constance snaked out a razor strop of burnished leather. She applied it to the stunned behinds of the two bitchlets a fuck.

    Overcome by the increasing expenditure of energy engendered by her speeding rays of orgasm, Constance’s knees grew weak. Whacking her own back and asscrack, she sank to the floor before the growling fireplace.

    As she sipped some thick jasmine tea, she draped her paw into her gooey twat.

    She spread the crotchjuice with her fingertips over one side of a hefty butter-rich scone. Then buttered the rest with another helping from her quim.

    She glopped a slug of greengage preserve on top of the biscuit. Appfled a smart dollop of clotted cream. Shoved the delicacy between her teeth. Felt the rich dainty melt in her maw, dazzle her tastebuds.

    “Oh come,” Constance whined. “Taste this. You must have some.”

    Veronica shoved her face into place first.

    “Yum. I’m dying.”

    “Now it’s Morrigana’s turn.”

    “Mmmmm. Burns.”

    “You do one,” Constance said. “You too, Veronica. Butter the buns.”

    The intercom chimes floated from the foyer through the marble hail and into the cozy oval tearoom with open balcony where Constance and her friends could play while in town. The balcony was excellent for voyeurism as well as exhibitionistic displays. Those seen and those showing were the habitues of London’s West End. And with the aid of a telescope, one added a little blend of royalty- say peeping in through the windows of Suckingham Palace.

    The chimes sang again.

    “Shit,” Constance said. “It must by my husband. I asked him to come by for tea if he could-but I was certain he’d find something else to do. After all, he’s actually being forced to be seen with me socially this evening.”

    “It is evening,” Morrigana chittered.

    “Yeah. I remember,” Veronica drawled. Wasn’t tea, like, served several ages ago? But I think we were bodaciously involved otherwise. Constance, do I really have to go out with that private dick?”

    “He’s our security consultant at least through the charity ball. Remember, this type of work has never been all champagne and socialite games.”

    “All the same-”

    “Stiff upper lip’ sis,” Morrigana said.

    “Break for the showers,” Constance shot out. “The Lord Farnsworth is expected momentarily. We must seem to be on our best boudoir behavior.”

    The diplomatic function honoring the world-class athletes who had participated in the international watersports tournament was held in the trend-setting club impressarioed by the Sheik al Jebal Asani Saba.

    “Welcome, my friends,” Asani Saba glowed, “to our Intergalactic Saloon.”

    Veronica took a glance around the room. “Charming. I like the stars on the ceiling.”

    “Ah, yes,” the sheik said. “Our private planetarium and fantasy observatory.

    Would you fancy your horoscope displayed?”

    “Sure,” Veronica tittered as she glanced toward her escort Griffith Poindexter.

    “Would you prefer Graeco-Roman astrology” Asani intoned. “Or Vietnamese.

    Perhaps you could attune yourself to the subtleties of Babylonian and Chaldean interpretations of the heavens.”

    Griffith shot out his chin. “How about just a drink instead?”

    “We have the absinthe frappe,” Asani Saba suggested, indicating with open supine palm a tall cocksucking nude couple cut from crystal filled with a pearlescently purple foam.

    “That’s the stuff,” Griffith remarked, “that all the. French impressionist painters went blind on.”

    “Or perhaps,” Asani chatted, “you appreciate the more kinky yohimbine kicks.

    This liqueur is fermented in our own London cellars in mahogany buckets-in the manner it is brewed in the rainforests of central Africa among the tribes. It is consumed by them in great quantities during fertility rites.”

    “Sounds nifty,” Veronica said with a crinkle to her nose. “Got any other stuff?”

    “For our special apertif tonight,” Asani continued, his tightly wrapped silk turban twinkling with deep red gemstones, “we have a brew fermented from Peruvian yage. This juice contains the alkaloid telepathine that the shamans believe enhances sensual communication-among many planes of physical and spiritual existence.”

    Veronica cackled loudly and lewdly. “That must be the stuff that movie actress uses to getoff-what’s the flicking moniker of that old dudesse? I don’t wanna, like, fuck ghosts.”

    “I don’t know about you,” Griffith said. “But I’m going to stick with honest ale from the British Isles.”

    “My own personal favorite this evening, Asani grinned. “And yohimbine for the lady who is among those honored guests of the evening?”

    “Yes, please,” Veronica said with barely held composure. “Thanks.”

    She snarfed down the entire dollop served in a hardwood tumbler.

    “Oooooh!” she screeched. “Now I need some champers to chase that down.”

    “Come,” Asani Saba said. “I am pleased to provide you some champagne from my personal selection.”

    “Veronica,” Griffith said. “I’m going to get lost for a few minutes. I’ll be in the library. If there is one in this joint.”

    “Of course, monsieur,” Asani said slyly as he cupped his hand over Veronica’s fanny. “Slightly to the left off the stairway to the stars.”

    Griffith made his way through the discoteque arena filled with half-flicking dancers.

    He looked up the glittery stairway that terminated just beneath the chandelier-star dome above, flanked by balconies towering at different levels.

    He made his way easily to the library and spied Constance immediately.

    She had her back, bared past the waist, toward Griffith and was browsing about the library collection-not of books, but of videotapes. In the flickering light of the surrounding video monitors, Griffith approached Constance from the rear.

    “How are matters turning, dear?” she said just before Griffith could smooch her ear.

    “The Jewish guy who fakes he’s an A-rab and dresses in Indian yogi drag-that turban nailed with all the Burmese pigeon-blood rubies-”

    “Asani?”

    “Veronica’s with him.”

    “So far, so what?”

    “Remember you said that before you left your home turf with your hubby this evening, you thought you saw him pass off a note or something to his doxie Veronica.”

    “Figured it was a note from my husband to Veronica about where and when they were going to meet to luck later.”

    “Well, after I picked Veronica up, I saw she had a packet with a UK diplomatic seal on it in her purse-of course I went through it while we were on the way for her to do a quick pillowtalk trick on Arturo Mondragon Bourbon immediately thereafter.”

    “He’s in town?”

    “Thought you knew.”

    “No. But it doesn’t surprise me.”

    “He’s banking this gig, it seems.”

    “No surprise there either. Veronica actually had the balls to go there with you on her tail?”

    “Said she had to pick up a chunk of crankum for the other girls on the team to sniff tonight.”

    “A likely tale.”

    “And a true one. She showed me the crystal on the way here. I had a whiff myself. Okay stuff, not too much of a headfreeze. But in addition, Veronica’s now got herself a load of pounds sterling the papers from Farnsworth were probably fake notes for the paper trail to throw anyone off the source of the gelt involved-which if I am not mistaken is at this very instant being converted to Saudi riyals and Israeli shekels by Asani Saba.”

    “What the luck’s next?” Constance said, playing her chest against Griffith’s side.

    “I am to accompany Veronica to a discreet postmidnight snack in the brasserie at the Mayfair Club’s casino and brothel with one Nikita Stalin, also known as Nicolas Acero, alias Nick Steel?”

    ““Nicky? But he’s a spy.”

    “Used to be. Gone independent since he moved his operations center from Moscow to the Hudson.”

    “He’ll piss down her throat.”

    “She’ll love it.”

    “Then after that?”

    “I suspect Nicky will convert the cash to rubles. Then, it pains me to say, your beloved Lance Fondulac, Lord Farnsworth will transmit the fupds to New York via his diplomatic pouch.”

    “Ouch.”

    “You knew he had it in him, Constance. it was that rakish attitude of his that convinced you to marry him.”

    “Hit me again.”

    “Farnsworth himself handles the sale of the rubles to personages unofficially connected with the state department or other more clandestine operations Uncle Sam may have going at any given time. Then it’s Veronica’s turn again. With the stack of dollars Farnsworth obtains from the previous transaction, Veronica tosses the mazuma to Morrigana, who membranes the dough through Charity House.”

    “You’re sure.”

    “Some of the details are probably a little off. And I’m sure each transaction proceeds according to its own rules-but that’s the jist of it. Incidentally, the dough Arturo is banking for Lance was commission on an arms deal that involved the Palestinians, Israelis, Iranians, Libyans, Russkies, Irish Republican Army, American Presidential staff, Nicaraguans, Cubans, and television evangelists.”

    “Evangelists?”

    “They got a lot of moolah invested in protecting their property-overseas missions in some of the world’s favorite hot spots.”

    “No slants?”

    “Oh, yuh. Arms involved are Chinese AK47s. Purchase financed by a Japanese-based dumfrty consortium through a bank in Singapore.”

    “You know, Griffith, depending on how the international money market moves-”

    “That banking commission means even more. So even the series of monetary transfers should be structured with that in mind.”

    “Morngana’s department?”

    “No doubt.”

    “How can we find out?”

    “You can continue to observe.”

    “You found out all that other stuff just by sniffing around Veronica’s ass?”

    “I had some leads lying around my files from when I worked for Arturo before-”

    “Such things even I did not know or suspect-”

    “You were naive then.”

    “Not now?”

    She moved in close.

    “Not with me you don’t,” Griffith said “Not tonight. Not at this gig, anyway.”

    “Time to return to my husband. Any ideas where I may find him?”

    “Shadow knows. But my bet is that he’s got his pecker up the butt of a co-conspirator.”

    “Namely Morrigana Lafayette.”

    “Got to hand it to you, Constance,” he slid his tongue into her ear. “You’re a quick read. I’ll make r a private eye out of you yet.”

    “First tell me what the open screen door to my greenhouse meant the day I sent you on that wild pearl chase, and what happened to the missing set of fake duplicate flick-me beads.”

    “That will have to be in due time indeed.”

    He tongued her ear again.

    Her body shivered and rippled as his hand slid over the hard tip of her left breast. His other hand drifted into the moist cleavage of her thighs.

    Due time, indeed.


    Chapter VII

    Pearl-lined pussylips dripped semisolid globules of jissom, themselves assuming the effect of plasmic pearl mother. Constance lay on her back in the greenhouse of her private islet at Charity House. Her blouse was checked with peat, broken orchids were crushed beneath her seat.

    In the daze of postorgasmic reflection, she watched as Griffith began his retreat toward the ongoing festivities of the polo tourney that highlighted Constance’s charity bazaar weekend. If only she could hang on through the ball that was to take place this evening.

    If only Griffith could make out- “Please stay, Griffith.”

    He turned suddenly at the screen door, as though not in response to Constance’s entreaty. “I got it,” he said with a jerk to his head. “Whoever it was who took the fake pearlies from the safe in your study that day sneaked into the greenhouse while you were gardening.”

    “And switched the pearls on me? Griffith, you know where they were hidden.”

    “Before you strung them up your bum.”

    “I iced them in the champagne bucket for a few minutes prior to insertion. I-”

    “While you were what?”

    “Filling the hummingbird feeders with their nectar.”

    “And that ice bucket was right by the garden set, next to the loveseat. With your ass turned-”

    “Shit.”

    Constance fiddled with the black pearls creamed in her and Griffith’s come.

    “These are fakes?” Constance said.

    “Well, the safe was bereft of pearls when Morrigana and I went through the contents. The ringer here is-I didn’t know at the time to look for them, and under the circumstances might well have over-looked them. Morrigana on the other hand made no mention of their absence as we took inventory.”

    “So you still think she took-”

    “That’s what we thought at first. And Morrigana did have time to make the switch while I was searching the greensward and polo ground.”

    “But we suspected she would make sure that the screen door was reclosed-she’s the tidy and observant one.”

    “Unless she was in a rush-like if she was making the mark when she saw me stroll up.”

    “So what if Veronica switched the strands again somehow got hold of the realies and returned the bogus brand to the safe?”

    “How’d Veronica get them from Morrigana?”

    “She wouldn’t have to if she pilfered them from your lingerie herself to begin with.”

    “But the decoys are kept in the safe. Veronica doesn’t know how to work the locks.”

    “She could have found out.”

    “Or they could be accomplices. “If we don’t know which set this is,” Constance shook her pearl-filled quim, “we need to have them checked. And there’s no time before the auction tonight.”

    “No jewelry experts among the guests!”

    “Arturo, of course. He should show up after dinner in time for the auction. But I wouldn’t trust his judgment even if I were certain he was not lying-for whatever reason that might be.”

    Constance felt her mind quake.

    Her asshole ached.

    Her mind was a haze.

    She rolled in the greenhouse mud.

    Buds of flowers covering her besmirched skin. Colorful birds cackling and fluttering.

    “You think it was Morrigana?” she chewed. “Veronica? Morrigana and Veronica together?”

    “Close, but no cigar.”

    “Who?”

    “Circumstances favorable to the solutions of crimes often arise at these types of affairs, Constance. You know that from your own books.”

    “That’s fiction.”

    “And body friction. Now you handle your part of this investigation with the right flair-”

    “I’ll be there. Even if we have to go with the fake ones this time.”

    “Yo! Tally-ho and all that. I gotta scat.”

    “Guess you better get a move on. And so do I. The final chukker of the last polo match has begun, hasn’t it? Pretty soon the tourney will be over and the real games will begin.”

    Griffith strode the edges of the polo field. The horses were being cleared out as extraneous to the developing celebration. All manner of highbrow lowlife hobnobbing hijinxters milled about the battle-scarred green.

    Debutantes dipped their hands into their dropped bodices and dredged out handkerchiefs while they adjusted their tits. Dandies pranced in boots and riding breeches, playing their mitts over the insistent outlines of their erectile peckers.

    Griffith tricked a smile over his cheeks.

    Took a gander at the selection of revelers randying up already for the evening’s gala.

    The trophys had been given out to the qualifying polo teams, made up from among those dandies and dudesses who had donated exceedingly vulgar amounts of greenery to enhance the charity bazaar’s scenery. Of course a few professional ringers had taken their places on the polo squads, thereby adjusting the odds.

    As in all gambling enterprises, the house made out-in this event it was Charity House.

    Griffith smirked as the triumphant team was doused head to toe in champagne.

    Sandor Kroughleigh, fashionable painter and photographer, philosopher-psychologist of the sexual arts, and dilettante-at-arms, rode barechested in an unbuttoned vest on the shoulders of two thoroughbred damsels with long dark tresses and opened dresses. He snapped the air with a fencing saber, attacking passers-by with cuts and thrusts to the cunt, rump, and breast.

    Trevor, Alistair, and Nigel, the stars of the winning polo team, groveled before a bevy of buxom maids in topless riding dress. They filled their mouths with thick nipples.

    Rolled the women’s riding breeches down over their fecund rumps.

    Then began the thunder of their riding crops upon filly flesh.

    Trevor saddled up one society belle and stuck his croplike cock into her from the rear.

    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.”

    “Even if I was the black sheep-you know about my literary career.”

    “So you eventually started to sell some of your romantic mystery stories. You do okay for a writer, but not well enough to pay for the wardrobe you need to mix in with these circles. I figured there was something else.”

    “I couldn’t just be coordinating charity balls like any other society slit? As an officer of the foundation my wardrobe for all formal engagements is covered.

    Donated funds are especially earmarked for restoration and preservation-”

    “For what amounts to your personal residence and estate. Not when your royalties would never pay your other property taxes or upkeep-and after the job I did to slaughter your character with regard to your divorce negotiations with Arturo, I knew you got nothing coming in from that scheme.”

    “But my husband Lance-”

    “Don’t make me puke. That sucker stinks out loud and clear through all diplomatic channels. His family pissed away all their real wealth right after World War Two. Your dashing Lance Fondulac obtained his present ambassadorial station through blackmail, his nearly convincing fortune through his roles in arms deals, art smuggling, drug-money laundering, sale of espionage secrets, and white slavery on an international scale. He keeps his gelt to himself through the terms of his prenuptial agreement with you-the only reason he ever wanted or needed you, Constance, is as a front for his US contracts.”

    “You think that’s true?”

    “Sure do.”

    “That’s what I pay you for. What’s your vigorish in stepping on this fish?”

    “Suck on it, sister.”

    “You’ve had that already. What’s wrong with coin or property?”

    “Too material. Remember, I’m a spiritual kind of guy. I’ll be satisfied if you just get clean out of the biz after this bazaar closes.”

    “I don’t know you’ll pay off your racket.”

    “Go straight is all I’m asking. Meanwhile, how about a kiss?”

    Constance pursed her lips.

    Griffith inclined his head toward her. She spat into his mask.

    “Tut-tut, Constance.”

    “But it’s not my fault. Even if I did know or suspect. It means something that I called you in to investigate, after all-”

    “To cover your fanny if it blew, as well as to provide a little physical leverage should things get rough. But if the press gets wind-and those pinhead vultures can sure smell carrion when they’re led to it-they rip into you for the sake of a juicy story and Charity House goes down regardless of who’s guilty. And you go with it.”

    “But if I’m clean-I can just take my lumps and walk away.”

    “No dice this time. You may officially can that excuse. Word, sister. Care to hear Griffith Poindexter’s version of the final ruse?”

    “I’ve already paid my dues.”

    “Not entirely. Estimate the total gate for this shindig tonight. And make a mental count of the receipts Charity House has taken in for the two days of wining and dining and orgying and opiating before tonight. Impressive to some.

    But not to those enquiring eyes that pry.”

    “The auction’s not over yet. That’s the biggest single money-raising event we’ve got, especially if my pearls and I are among the lots.”

    “Even after the auction, your foundation’s books will inflate the take.”

    “Go ahead, shit me-”

    “The laundered money that passed through one thousand and one hands back in London will be inserted into the till. Oila! Armscam and Cubanocon booty converted into nontaxable income for Constance Charity EastwickWestbrook’s not-for-profit organization. The international cultural world has indeed reaped great bounties from Charity House’s funding for the arts and international athletics.”

    “Maybe Morrigana takes a little cut off the cupcake. And I suppose Veronica gets commissions from my two husbands. I only receive a small stipend as foundation president.”

    “But through Morrigana you funnel the cashflow. Appearance fees to glittery celebrities like Jasmine Hyacinthe, alias you, Sandor Kroughleigh, and Veronica Van Damme, to mention but a few, over the past two years have amounted to over five million dollars.”

    “So what do you want me to do’ Turn Charity House into a summer retreat for geeks?”

    “Might not be a bad number, now that you mention it. You could still hang out here during the winter. And run your ponies and have your dirty dances during the off-season.”

    “Shit. I would rather go inside. You could lock me up to fuck and suck dykemeat in prison before I would do that.”

    “Hope it doesn’t come to that, sis. How about no more of the charity jokes at all? Your foundation might subsidize and invest in housing for middle and lower income households-instead of riddling the landscape with faggot-designed digs for the fickle tastes of the monied classes.”

    “Maybe I’ll give it a whirl.”

    “Good girl. Now tell me about the pearls.”

    “That the only part of the mystery you haven’t solved? I’m surprised.”

    “Don’t be. The way it plays now is I thfnk both Morrigana and Veronica got uptight to the edge of psychopathy because they thought you were, really going to auction off their favorite playthings instead of just their services. The girls took turns, at first without each other’s knowledge, switching the strands on you, ramming them marbles up their, glands and so forth. Sentimental attachment they had developed. So one of them-Veronica’s my candidate-had another set made, be they real or fake, just in case-sounds nutsy, huh? Didn’t think so. Both those women are in love with you. As you have manipulated them skillfully, what else could you expect?”

    “For shame on all of us.”

    “All the same. Pretty lame the way those two little pussies got all hopped up on pearlfucking and pisswater.”

    “You’ve tried it yourself-”

    “Ah-I prefer champagne and caviar.”

    “I never thought it would come to this.”

    “I never thought I could love you like this. Kiss?”

    “Bulishit, Griffith.”

    “Logos, philas.”

    “You better tell me-what’s that Greek for?”

    “Word, sister.”

    “I’ll take that kiss-if there’s no other hitch. On with the bazaar!”

    Trevor, Alistair, and Nigel hoisted Constance from her moving stage and set her on the dail next to the society shrink Tristan Chartning, who, acting as auctioneer, was stamping about in his high-heels, snapping his garters, flattering into the microphone and pounding his dildo-shaped gavel onto the bareassed contessa Isolde Peck’s exposed siliconeimplanted boobs.

    “Yabba-dabba-mama-hawma-” Tristan jabbered as the bids for Constance’s pearls rolled in. “The ever-so-British gentleman has bid twenty thousand to bed this wench for the night!”

    “That’s my husband’s paltry bid,” Constance hissed. “He never loved me at all!”

    The doors blew open and in strode Arturo Mondragon Bourbon, with his fuck-blistered sister Morrigana Lafayette in tow. He pulled out a revolver, raised his arm and snarled out a preremptory bid of one hundred thousand dollars for the services of Constance’s pearls.

    “To the dashing man in black,” Tristan knocked down with a whack to Isolde’s jugs.

    Griffith, in black leather hood, hobnail boots and mailed gauntlets, stood from his seat next to Constance. “I say the lady’s not yet bought.”

    Tristan eyed the man in the black mask. “Shall I declare her to be sold American?”

    “I have properly invested shares in her wares.”

    “Who stands by this bid?” Tristan said.

    “I do,” Constance mewed.

    “So you offers herself would purchase yourself?” Tristan said in disbelief.

    “The ultimate charity,” Constance syruped. “I purchase and again donate my services. Therefore the wares remain untainted.”

    Tristan reeled, fainted into the tough pile of silicon titties on the bareassed cuntessa’s chest. His head came to rest.

    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.


  • Chapter I
  • Chapter II
  • Chapter III
  • Chapter IV
  • Chapter V
  • Chapter VI
  • Chapter VII
  • Chapter VIII
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