by Sylvia Lowry
I could see Adrianna pacing on the manicured lawn, and as I parked, she gestured dramatically towards a series of old ruins adjacent to the larger château. “That is the original building, abandoned but not forgotten. We can explore it later; there are series of wickedly spooky tombs...sublime! It is highly atmospheric at night. Beautifully so. Naturally, we’ll pursue creative pursuits all day-- take a room and let the spirit of the place guide you.”
I carried my baggage into a cavernous hall, where a series of couches and side tables faced a massive fireplace in shape of a tiger’s head, andirons reaching towards a vaulted ceiling. A strikingly handsome brunette woman sat in one chair; she appeared to be in her late thirties, her flowing hair concealing discreet strata of gray. She wore bright red lipstick and smoked emphatically.
Adrianna introduced me. “April, this is Julie Lagardère the painter. She is a fine artist and a very daring soul. And Julie, this is April - her room will be right next yours.”
Julie rose from the couch. “April-- an honor dear! She kissed me on both cheeks. “Please stop by. I am working on what I call my orgasm paintings. Some say that fucking is followed by despair.” She inhaled deeply on the cigarette. “But I feel no anguish at all, but a lovely sated exhaustion...it’s like the creative act itself; a kind of sensory commotion lingers after a good screw...”
I perked up innocently. “I’m fascinated. My personal experience is quite...similar.”
“Then we’ll have much to discuss, ami.” Julie waved graciously as I ascended the stairs while Adrianna departed in an opposite direction, gesturing theatrically. “We’ll all meet here again at 9:00. I’ve arranged for a fabulous evening - you will all receive further instructions. Bonne chance!”
I entered my room and unpacked my things, idly writing in my notebook as I heard Julie’s voice, accompanied by what sounded like the speech of two men, in the adjacent room. The intermediate door was ajar and, curious, I opened it further, standing by the side discreetly to avoid revealing my presence. I was struck by a bright painting, emerging as bright explosive abstraction - I imagined the pistil of a flower, lost in a solar flare, highlighted by veins of blue and orange, the surfaces fresh and glistening, the smell of oil paint suspended in air.
Julie was painting in deep concentration. Sitting on a velvet couch before her canvas, she was aspirating violently as she applied her brushstrokes, chest rising as she breathed, speaking in an elated murmur and I noticed that she was flanked by two younger men, both remarkably fit and fully nude, cocks shaven exquisitely. I leaned closer, betraying my presence and she beckoned, appearing pleasantly surprised.
“April, please come in and meet Jean-Pierre and Marc, my models.” I entered, smiling awkwardly, feeling a mild capricious arousal as I surveyed the two men. “They are students at l’Ecole des Beaux-arts. They inspire my orgasm paintings through their visual physicality and...their hands on contributions.”
“Bonjour, bonjour.” I shook Marc and then jean-Pierre’s hand cordially, trembling awkwardly in the face of their superlative nudity.
“Neither speak much English, so our confidence is secure.” Julie smiled, placing a hand on the shoulder of each. “May I ask you something, April? An intimate question?”
“Why yes.”
“Have you ever had two men?”
“At once?” I paused, swallowing deeply. “Well, on reflection, I danced with Bobby Jones and Bill Lagerquist at a sock hop in Des Moines in 1957.” I eyed the pair of models. “But nothing more intimate...At least not yet.”
Julie laughed, her hair dispersing. “I love a ménage à trois! There is no shame in it! Sometimes I like two lovers to fuck me at once, and I often like to have one man inside me immediately following the other, since they inevitably do not last as long as I do. In my mind, I compare one cock to the other, but they are just sections of one blissful sequence of sensation.” She beckoned. “Please come closer.”
“Yes?” I shuffled forward tentatively.
“Let me give you the best give possible gift: the donation of experience. You may try them, if you like. My present to a new friend.”
“Merci, Julie.” I spoke quietly and humbly, but my actions were fervent: I surrendered immediately to the dirty overture, which seemed so boundlessly liberated and generous, so shamelessly natural that I could only yield without hesitation. Smiling at both models, I unzipped my dress, my seductive overture momentarily disrupted as I struggling for nearly thirty seconds with a demonic bra clasp. Finally freed, I cast my undergarments to the floor, finally kicking off my heels as I approached my playmates, nude and resplendent.
Julie approached the door. “I will leave you three to amuse yourselves - I believe I left my copy of L’Étranger downstairs. I adore Camus! Adieu et bonne chance!”
“Well, shall the games begin?” I glanced at Marc and then Jean-Pierre, unaccustomed to addressing two lovers in tandem, overwhelmed by the banquet of flesh in front of me, my nipples hardening as I eagerly kneeled to suck both of their cocks concurrently, gesturing for the two to face each other. This posture allowed to me shamelessly caress their muscular asses simultaneously as I first fellated Marc, ingesting his cock deeply into my mouth, absorbing the aroma of his piquant French cologne, now being borne away by aroused perspiration. Murmuring with elation, slobbering with enthusiasm, I finally expelled the luscious shaft, releasing an infernal smack of my lips.
“You taste sublime, dear.” After this declaration, I turned to Jean-Pierre, feeling a tinge of lament for the cock I had abandoned. In recompense, I vigorously jacked off Marc while I turned to lick Jean-Pierre’s head, tasting a saline, impish globule of come emerge from the tip, quivering as it erupted, summoned by my feverish lapping.
“I love both your cocks. Je les aime tous les deux!” I felt a momentary glow, abandoning myself to this wicked torrent of male sexuality, but also to an undying conundrum-- how could I extend my generosities equally? Could I offer evenhanded attentions to multiple cocks?
What was a girl to do?
Marc and Jean-Pierre answered the knotty philosophical question for me. Playfully pushing me back onto the couch, Marc inserted himself between my thighs, kissing my sweating midriff in tribute before impelling his cock into my pussy in a single authoritative thrust, grazing my shamefully swollen clit as I squealed “Mon dieu! Nice initiative, tiger!” He thrust slowly and deliberately as Jean-Pierre moved furtively behind me. As I reclined over the edge of the divan, my hair splaying wildly, I impishly seized his cock in my mouth, spitting propulsively, a heady brew of saliva percolating from the corners of my mouth, my thumb and forefinger encircling the base of his shaft in a desperate grip as he played with my tits, first encircling my aureoles, then pinching my engorged nipples with delicious intensity.
“Shit, keep screwing me with that precious cock.” Marc increased his tempo as he fucked me, and as I reached backwards to caress his ass I could feel his buttocks invert, trembling and straining as he nailed me with greater intensity, collapsing forward to lick my neck as he whispered incomprehensible French banalities, finally constructing a smutty expression in broken anglais: “Merde...your pussy is gonna make me come already.”
I looked into his fevered eyes as he leaned inwards and muttered, “Well, dearest ami, if that’s the case, then come inside me. I want to feel it spurt...oh, hell...” In a startling response to my command he grunted and ceased his thrusting, his back tremulous and perspiring as he launched a scrumptious fusillade of semen inside my pussy in four wicked, shuddering pulsations as I whispered, “Mmm, I can feel your French spunk blasting into my wet American snatch,” my whole body trembling and rapturous as I momentarily released Jean-Pierre’s cock from my mouth, the escaped shaft tracing a viscous trail of drool from my lips. “Beautiful!”
“Merci.” My quarry trembled unaccountably.
“Hmm, there’s your nice abundant
load, chéri.” I pointed out the sublimely obvious to Marc as a visible trail of his come dripped from my pussy as I spread my labia further, allowing the viscous white cascade to descending onto the couch as I fingered my clit. “God it turns me on to see your come drip from my pussy.”
“Merci.” He nodded doggedly, clearly fatigued from the magnificent force of his ejaculation.
“Now it’s your turn to fuck me, ami.” I gently touched Jean-Pierre on the shoulder in invitation and he eagerly took Marc’s position, fumbling endearingly as he penetrated my pussy, his cock initially bending slightly, failing to make a full incursion at the heavenly gates before forcefully invading my snatch, gripping my waist as he began with a series of shuddering, protracted strokes. I winked as he accelerated into a compulsive tempo, spurred by my dirty emphatic murmur, “Fuck me with that cock, that nice thick French cock...” the wicked mantra merging rhythmically with the insertion and measured extraction of his cock from my snatch. Inspired, I spread my labia, transcendent and glistening, with my thumb and forefinger.
Of course, this entire performance occurred against the backdrop of Julie’s abstract painting, the magnificent action of our rabid fuck erupting against the solar palette of the canvas, the scent of fresh oil lingering in air. “Fucking and art,” I thought as I caressed Jean-Pierre’s shaft, “what a brilliant combination.” Imagining a scene of candid freedom and release, an unembarrassed confluence of art and life, I turned my head to smile at my lover as he fucked me harder.
“More?” Jean-Pierre exhaled desperately.
“Oui, oui, nail me, man!” At that moment, I could see Marc regain some of his carnal powers, his cock regaining its virile rigidity, and I chivalrously turned onto my stomach to fellate him as I raised my buttocks, grasping and then reinserting Jean-Pierre’s cock into my pussy to impel him to fuck me from behind. Strategically realigned, I proceeded to inhale Mark’s cock deep into my mouth, impelling him to broadcast his naughty approval as low series of murmurs while Jean-Pierre’s potent animal powers proceeded to multiply. He slammed his cock inwards, the concentrated frottage of shaft caressing my clit, his tense scrotum slapping against me in a symphony of colliding flesh.
“God, I can feel it.” I reached between my legs as Jean-Pierre gripped my ass, playing with my clit to accelerate a cascading sensation of release escalating in my pussy and nipples. “Your French cock is making me come. Goddamn.” I’ve always adored being fucked doggy style, but there was something unusually inspiring about this virile and ardent cock, and as I reached back to touch Jean-Pierre’s chest and abdomen, I relished his divine smoothness and youth, my fingers ending their naughty journey at his shaft, which I caressed in rambunctious tribute as it brought me to orgasm.
“Merde...merde...merde...” I chanted, collapsing forward as I recaptured Marc’s hard cock in my mouth as my pussy made its final, climactic spasm.
I drooled on Marc’s cock, and as if I had flipped some secret erotic switch, his shaft hardened further, inspired by the added stimulus of my inspired attentions. Sweat dripped down his smooth chest and I extended my tongue to lap it up, before I turned back to Jean-Pierre.
“Come on, man. I want to feel you shoot your come.” I was muttering filthy encouragement, caught between wanting to experience the thrill of Jean-Pierre spattering me with his load and fucking into eternity. “I want it to feel you blast your spunk onto my ass and feel it run down onto my pussy.” But then I heard a relieved moan as he withdrew his cock and a viscous torrent erupted forth, veering from its sacred target as it merely grazed my thigh and struck the carpet, its velocity heightened by his extreme state of arousal. My ardent lover shrugged and smiled flippantly.
Of course, I adore watching a man come. It’s an endearing privilege to observe a hard cock shoot its load. I love to share in a moment of satisfied release coupled with the delirious image of ejaculation - ah, the vulnerability, the sweet vision of young virility - it was almost more fun to see his sloppy orgasm miss its mark; I ran my finger through the pool of spunk like an aficionada.
“It’s beautiful...like a string of pearls on the Champs-Élysées...” I placed a tiny globule in mouth and swallowed with relish. “But more edible. Yum, yum, yum, Jean-Pierre.”
At that moment, I could see Marc masturbating to quicken his second orgasm, and I gladly assisted in his quest, sucking his cock ardently. My efforts were rewarded-- a smaller, but still commanding, flood of semen exploded into my mouth. I patted him on the shoulder, the image of an American TV advert running through mind. “Ah, chéri - ‘plop, plop, fizz, fizz, oh what a relief it is.’” I licked a wayward globule from head of Marc’s cock, inhaling it like a puff of whipped cream. “You taste like crème brûlée, sweetheart. Magnifique!”
At that moment, Julie reentered the room with a dog-eared copy of Camus’ The Stranger, surveying the scene with unashamed, but still striking admiration.
“You are all superb!” She clapped her hands together. “And you have helped me with something important.” She turned to the painting that had formed the background for our fuck. “I will call this painting, L’Orgasm American...No, more specifically, I will call it L’Orgasm d’April in honor of this nice screw.”
I looked the painting again and it somehow did seem to capture image of animal coitus in its effervescent, vigorous brushstrokes. Julie smiled as she regarded our naked bodies and then the fresh canvas, two aspects of her artistic sensibility revealed in intense simultaneity, the mannered artist and the voracious enthusiast of sex, both equally honest and devoted. I wanted to be as radical, uncompromised and pure, and I could only depart the sublime scene with a grateful, if endearingly discomfited, farewell.
“Adieu. And merci.” I turned to Julie. “And merci.” I turned to Marc. “And “Merci”, I turned to Jean-Pierre, completing my threefold expression of gratitude. I grabbed my scattered clothes and returned to my room, languishing on my bed in the nude. The sensation of the two splendid cocks remained, impressed abstractly upon my thoughts as I opened my notebook and wrote down every detail of the fuck with Marc and Jean-Pierre. I reflected on the delights of dualism, the thrill of twinned cocks, the infernal joys of Jean-Pierre’s thick cock propelling me to orgasm from behind. And then, in a post-coital stupor, I fell deliciously asleep.
When I awoke, I saw a note on my table, along with a sandwich and glass of wine, accompanied by what appeared to be a white, folded robe. The note read:
Dear April,
I regret that you have missed dinner. But I did supply some refreshments in anticipation of our evening entertainment. Please wear the ghost costume and join us all in the main chamber at 9:00.
--Adrianna
Then, seeing the clock hand approach 9:00, I decided to prepare. Relishing the sensation of my nocturnal state of undress, I decided to remain au naturel under the costume with the exception of a pair of knee-high boots, donning them imperiously. What was I? Could I be an erotic phantom, a succubus, a marauding Lamia? I imagined Pierre Fournier among the guests assembling as I straitened the hem of my costume and opened the door, ready and eager for the chase.
Multiple Phantasms
Descending the grand stairway to the main chamber of the château, I was greeted by an expanse of white, the assembled guests each wearing an identical robe. I found myself immersed in a sea of indistinguishable phantoms before, gratefully, I saw Adrianna approach, seizing the fabric of my sleeve.
“April my dear, we are going to haunt the old ruins. It sounds absurd, but it is delicious; we will all be spirits launched into the night, all one and uncaring. Grab any companion you see fit - we’re going to fuck in the open air! I shall lead the procession.” A series of electric lanterns, lying in a ceremonious row, law arranged along a banquet table; individual guests, raising their hoods as they departed through the room, occasionally selected a light.
I joined the crowd, united wit
h the larger spectacle as it moved en masse from the house and into the yard. An anonymous hand passed me an open bottle of red wine and I drank freely, imagining myself lost in the freedom of a nighttime abandon, newly liberated as we progressed along a rough path towards the turrets on the hilltop, the perimeter defined by crumbling walls and overgrowth, a dark channel illuminated by the iridescent lights of swinging lanterns.
“April, dear. Let me join you.” Adrianna approached from behind, striding with determination, her cowl suspended, erupting momentarily from the darkness. “This is an interesting ruin, actually. It was a simple monastery and then some other kind of fort that never saw battle, like most. I infuse it with more mythology than it can muster on its own. It is a sublime backdrop for naughty adventure!”
I nodded. “I can nearly the see the method to your madness...in all things.”
Adrianna laughed. “I love madness!”
The column of white figures moved forward through the passage, now open to the sky, a phantasmal trace of light against black. For a moment, Adrianna’s vision of hooded ghosts appeared less absurd. Fully enacted, it almost seemed a breathing work of art, a crowd rising towards the ruined turrets.
I tugged Adrianna’s robe. “Did Pierre Fournier arrive?”
Adrianna shook her head. I’m so sorry dear. I’m not sure. He sent me his RSVP and may appear later. But remember-- you may choose another! Hunt ardently. Stalk like Diana the Huntress!” I could see pairs of ghosts leaving the path indiscriminately as the assembly merged. “They will find free love among the ruins, and so may you!” Adrianna moved to the head of the line, her glasses occasionally reflecting the lights of flickering lanterns, the group now crossing a series of stone sarcophagi lost in deep recesses. Stars flickered in conspiracy above.