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?”