Unknown - Charity Ball

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?”

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.