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.