Unknown: Charity Ball

“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.