Charity Ball

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.