The Merry Widow

by Vonnick de Rosmadec

  The end of these aquatic games was a lot less challenging, but more fun and more exhilarating. This time, one didn’t need to be a swimming champion to participate.

  Ghislaine assembled her party, all of those who wished to try the adventure of aquatic lovemaking, in the shallow end of the pool.

  All of the club’s swimming-pool equipment was thrown into the water: floaties, rubber rings, life preservers of all shapes and sizes, life jackets, rainbow-colored rafts, inflatable pillows big and small, a giant tube in which several people could sit …

  Such diversity allowed for the participants to put on a truly entertaining show for those who were sitting around the pool in their colorful deck chairs.

  Ghislaine surveyed her crowd, amused by the new encounters that had taken place between veteran and novice guests at the Château des Plaisirs.

  Couples that had formed on the first day of the week were still going strong. For instance, the humungous Sylvie, aka Pâquerette, hadn’t let go of Henri Tronchet, her puny officer of the court.

  “Look at the shrimp and the whale. Aren’t they just too much?” Mimi whispered as she fondled her mistress’s ass.

  “Absolutely. They’re just too much.”

  Those two lovers indeed were a sight to behold. Pâquerette, at the shallow end of the pool, rested her head on a large plastic orange duck; she was perfectly buoyant, with her legs spread wide open. Her lover had wedged himself between her enormous thighs and was now banging her with admirable energy. Standing in the water, he had floated his beloved creature to the shallow area, and the sudden ease with which he could make love to this behemoth made him feel like an Übermensch. Her gigantic breasts floated on either side of her chubby sides as she purred with contentment and cried out in her colorful language when her lover became more rough.

  “Oh, you bastard, oh, you filthy animal, you’re shoving it deep, aren’t you, little man! Come on, come on, push it in deeper, deeper, goddammit! Oh fuck, fuck, I’m coming, I’m coming in water for the first time ever! Thank you, Madame Ghislaine! Thank you, God! Thank you, Maître Henri!” she bellowed as she slapped the water with her fleshy arms, showering all the guests in the vicinity.

  The funniest thing about this peculiar bit of copulation was that Henri seemed unable to stop himself moving forward. He looked like a plowman of yore trudging through a field. After several trips back and forth across the width of the pool, he decided to block the whale and her duck into a corner. Once he couldn’t go any farther, it became easier to come and go inside of her with more regularity. There he wouldn’t have to worry about his snake escaping from her flesh, in spite of its considerable length.

  The marquise directed her gaze toward the twin sisters and their new companions. The four of them also felt more comfortable in the shallow end, which was not surprising given their recent underwater experience. Both girls were holding on to the lower edge of the pool and, heads facing the wall, floated on their fronts.

  Behind them, Germain and François were sodomizing them with gusto. The sight of these firm, young behinds floating on the surface, speared through their middle by those two vigorous rods, was delightful. It certainly was the opinion of the painter who ambled through this liberated crowd, looking for interesting moments to capture. Standing on the lawn above them, the fifty-year-old woman was sketching away with great strokes of charcoal.

  Not ten feet away from the twins and their riders, Georgette and Marguerite had recovered their favored athletes and, floating in the same position, were also getting banged from behind under Georges’s watchful eye, while Mimi gave him a helping hand under the surface. But Mimi could not linger. Still wearing her mask, she crossed the pool and set off to study other anatomies.

  She stopped, surprised, by the trio formed by the twin brothers and the beautiful Sirène.

  Unlike the other swimmers, who were all naked, the instructor had kept on her one-piece bathing suit, as was her custom—but also in accordance with the brothers’ wishes. She was lying on an inflatable mattress, gazing at the sky, content. And, honestly, what woman wouldn’t have been in her place? Pierre, who stood between her legs, had pushed aside the bottom of her bathing suit, managing to stick his cock inside her hole. He looked on her tenderly as he came and went inside of her, stopping at each thrust to kiss the small of her knees. A kiss she seemed to enjoy, for each time he put his lips on that precise spot, she moaned with pleasure. At her side stood Jean, who caressed her chest, fondling her breasts through the Lycra and sometimes sliding a finger into her cleavage to reach her nipples and pinch them gently.

  In this way, the two men abided by the rules of the odd pact they had struck with this woman, whose particular brand of perversion was false modesty—which didn’t stop her from enjoying herself. …

  When Mimi joined them, underwater, she saw Pierre pull his staff out of his mermaid, giving way to Jean, who immediately entered her through the opening in her bathing suit. She stood up next to them, took out her snorkel, and laughed.

  “Now that’s what I call sharing as true brothers!”

  Farther into the pool, she saw Lisbeth, who had found herself a sturdy older veteran who was even hairier than she. His stomach, chest, back, and most likely his ass, Mimi thought, were covered with the same continuous fur. There wasn’t a patch of smooth skin in sight. He sat halfway down the faience earthenware steps that led into the shallow pool, and Lisbeth, bent over him, bobbed up and down along his branch like a Cartesian diver in a bottle. Her ass rose from the waters and then slapped the surface on its way down, which made for a very pleasing sound. As she drew closer, she noticed that the man was endowed with a pair of balls the likes of which she had never seen.

  “They look like they belong on a bull! Unbelievable!” she told Ghislaine as she joined the marquise by the pool. “I’ve never seen this guy before. Who is he?”

  “A dear old friend from Turkey. He hadn’t visited in over five years. His sausage is short, but its circumference is quite extraordinary. You should try him, if you feel like it; he’s definitely worth it!”

  Then the marquise stood. It was time for lunch, and she had to check everything was in order. She walked away as couples came out of the pool—lovemaking had, no doubt, whetted their other appetites.

  Loustalou ran after her.

  “May I come along and peek into a few saucepans? What can I say, I sure do love my food.”

  “More than lovemaking?”

  “To be honest, I think so, yes. Which one do you prefer?”

  “To be honest, I think I prefer both.”

  Tables were set under a wide tent raised behind the château. Guests filed in from the pool. Everyone had put his or her clothes back on for lunch. The meal was a joyful one. When dessert came, they played “Who’s Getting Lucky?”—one of Mimi’s ideas. The game involved her slipping under the table where, hidden by the tablecloth that reached to the ground, she would wander on all fours and pick an organ—not quite at random)—undo the guest’s fly, pullout his manhood, and take it in her mouth.

  At the table, all were on the lookout. One had to guess who the lucky winner was simply by studying the faces around the table, one of which wouldn’t fail to register some emotion, eventually. It wasn’t quite as straightforward as one might think, as some players would bluff, pretending to be in the throes of passion when Mimi’s mouth hadn’t favored them.

  This time, it was the old count whom Mimi had the good grace to service. Surprised at being selected, he had to refrain from jumping out of his seat when she undid his fly. However, when he felt his member grow hard inside the maid’s mouth, he became so proud that he almost choked on his wine, his face flushed with happiness. People stared. He immediately coughed exaggeratedly, and the grimaces on his ruddy face were chalked up to the wine. The search went on.

  Cerise suddenly felt a finger, then two, wandering under her skirt. At first, she thought it was her neighbor and lover Bernadette just saying hello—but no, her lover had
both hands sensibly resting on the table.

  Below, the fingers grew even more inquisitive, and attacked her clit with gentleness and skill. She gasped, startled.

  Bernadette, who knew all of her lover’s reactions down to their subtlest variations, looked at her and knew she was on her way to an orgasm. She dropped a fork, bent down to pick it up, and quickly raised the tablecloth. It was time enough to get a glimpse of Mimi sitting cross-legged between Monsieur Gérald and Cerise; she was sucking away at the count while stroking the young lesbian with a level of skill that made Bernadette jealous. She wanted to make a scene, to hit Mimi, but the count and Cerise both climaxed at the same time, crying out in pleasure to the astonishment of the other guests. They would never have thought that Mimi would choose the old man on the one hand, and a woman at the same time on the other.

  They applauded their heroine. Monsieur Gérald kissed her and made her stand up. The young maid curtsyed the way the tennis players had: by presenting her ass to each corner of the table. Bernadette spanked her and took the opportunity to feel her pussy.

  She turned toward Cerise, furious.

  “She’s wet, the little whore!”

  “So what? So am I! Where’s the harm in that? At the Château des Plaisirs, we do whatever we want with out bodies. Isn’t that the rule?”

  “Yes, but only openly and publicly! You know full well that during these kinds of festivities we’re supposed to all stay together and not shut ourselves off in a bubble or in a bedroom.”

  “But this isn’t a bedroom, it’s a table.”

  “It’s the same thing! It’s having orgasms on the sly, it’s hiding, and it’s cheating; you cheated!”

  Mimi rushed to tell Ghislaine that a fight was about to break out, and the marquise immediately put a stop to the altercation. She stepped in between the two lovers, leaned in close and addressed them in a low, scathing tone.

  “I am ordering you to stop this ridiculous fighting. This sort of outburst will not be tolerated! Otherwise, you will be banned from the club for life. Is that understood?”

  She laid a soothing hand on their shoulders.

  “Kiss, and smile!”

  They obeyed, and snuggled in each other’s arms.

  This was the first time such an incident had threatened the delightful harmony of those end-of-the-month reunions—a stupid fit of jealousy, itself the product of an exclusive love; in short, everything the marquise despised. She wanted her visitors to find pleasure, and nothing but pleasure. Some degree of tenderness was welcome in her home, but not the deeper feelings. The possession had to be physical, and certainly not emotional.

  Lunch was followed by two hours of rest, during which the guests could take a nap (or enjoy an afternoon delight), or play pétanque, Ping-Pong, or foosball.

  Ghislaine found herself on a deck chair with the old count for a neighbor. A glass of cognac in one hand, an exquisite cigar in the other, he was following the clouds as they made their way across the sky.

  “Your little Mimi is a real treasure. Truly a class act!”

  Ghislaine approved, smiling at Monsieur Gérald. She liked it when her guests, delighted with their stay, couldn’t wait to come back.

  “And what wonders do you have in store for us this afternoon, Madame la Marquise?”

  “A rather peculiar kind of horse race, and a special sort of tango evening after that.”

  “And for your next end-of-the-month festival?”

  “Oh, it will be an eclectic program. Among other things, we will be treated to a somewhat risqué play. There will also be a grand performance in the gym! I’m bringing in some erotic acrobats who will make us shiver and tingle all over. I’ve seen them perform and, believe me, they will set fire to the crowd; people will be begging them for private lessons by the time they’re done. Finally, the great love tournament will conclude the day … and the perfect circle. But I can say no more on that subject. Will you be there?”

  “How could I not? Pray, do tell me more about this ‘perfect circle. …”

  “My lips are sealed until the big day.”

  He leaned closer to the marquise.

  “You are marvelous, ma chère. Simply marvelous. Where on earth do you get your ideas for these delightful entertainments and this endless supply of racy new games?”

  Ghislaine smiled and laid a hand on her own sex.

  “From here, mon ami! This is where my inspiration comes from. My pussy is the source of my imagination; without it, nothing would happen. It is favored by the gods.”

  The Gods of the Court

  It was the last Sunday in June and a weeklong course was drawing to a close. Following custom, a grand festival of love was about to take place at the Château des Plaisirs.

  Ghislaine had prayed to Eros, the god of love, for good weather. He had granted her wish: The sky was a clear shade of blue, and the summer heat was on its way.

  The marquise had posted the day’s schedule in the manor’s entrance hall and everyone had been able to appreciate the impeccable organization of the proposed entertainment.

  The tennis tournament would begin at nine. Everyone was sure to attend, as the mistress of the house required that all veteran and novice club members be present during the matches and associated events. On that hallowed day, everyone was to take part in the sporting endeavors, as spectators at the very least.

  So it was that around fifty of the association’s members found themselves on court number one to admire the players under the direction of their instructor, Louis. He was the one who had decided the rules of the competition and chosen the pairings. It was clearly impossible to conduct a full-fledged tournament in just sixty minutes—so he had decided that all matches would be decided on a best-of-three-games basis, whether singles or doubles, ladies or men.

  As the spectators took their seats in the stands encompassing the court, Louis and Monsieur Gérald, who had been a seeded tournament player in his youth, exchanged a few elegantly assured volleys. The old count, in his Lacoste shirt and white flannel trousers, played with a very pure style, and the young teacher had the good grace not to make him run too much, contenting himself with sending volleys right to his feet.

  Their little show only lasted a few minutes—time enough for the two women who were to follow them to warm up. They were Florence, the redheaded rider, and Marianne, who this time was not wearing the black velvet shorts she had so struggled to remove the other night. The marquise explained that they were going to see some rather special matches, as spectators would be able to admire the players from every angle, so to speak.

  “What? They’re going to play in the buff?” Loustalou asked bluntly.

  “Not exactly,” Louis explained as he took his place in the umpire’s chair. “But during the match, they will remove whatever item of clothing you or I deem superfluous.”

  “So after strip poker, now we’re playing strip tennis?” Eric asked, already turned on at the prospect of seeing the female players running and jumping half-naked on the clay court.

  “Yes, if you like,” Ghislaine replied. “I think you will be charmed to finally see what players keep hidden from us during the competition. Who among us, my friends, has never fantasized—as I have—when watching rugby players, for example? Of seeing or even touching the muscles of their buttocks, or their chests, of …”

  “Their dicks and balls!” Mimi burst out.

  “Yes, you’re just saying what we’re all thinking when we admire an athlete’s best efforts, whatever his or her specialty.”

  “As for us men, don’t you think we long to see female players run and jump, play handball or throw the javelin in the nude?” Loustalou remarked.

  “Speaking only for myself, every time Roland Garros starts, I’m glued to the TV, staring at the asses of those cavorting young ladies. How I’d like to see their thighs and their tits move as they play without all this annoying sportswear,” Jérôme volunteered. “My neck goes through all kinds of hell when I’m w
atching tournaments on TV, from trying in vain to find the right angle to see the shape of a derriere, its pertness, its texture … I’ll even get down on all fours in front of my screen, to try and see up a skirt.”

  “Well then, I think you’re going to enjoy this. Louis, if you please, let’s begin!” the marquise concluded.

  The instructor consulted his chart and asked Florence, aged nineteen, and Marianne, twenty-three, to come forward. They entered the court skipping and holding hands, came to a stand on either side of the net, put down their rackets, and embraced each other, sharing a long kiss without a hint of shyness. That kiss was no doubt one of the marquise’s ideas to eroticize the game from the get-go.

  One was a redhead, as we well know, and the other a brunette. The younger wore a green polo shirt, underneath which her breasts swung freely, and an indecently short white skirt. Her elder wore a red polo shirt, cut low over her breasts cupped in a bra. She also wore a white skirt.

  This kiss was surprising given that the two girls were, after all, known to prefer men—though it was but a prelude to another demonstration that would be no less astonishing or humorous. The two players came to stand before the umpire and, turning their backs to him, lifted their skirts and bent over to show him their asses in unison.

  The umpire raised a hand to the sky as though giving them his blessing.

  At the same time, indignant cries arose from the stands opposite.

  “What about us? What about us? That’s not fair! Show us your derrieres, ladies!”

  “I want my money back!” cried Loustalou, laughing.

  The young players did not ignore these complaints: they knew what they had to do, and they did it with enthusiasm. They stood before the spectators and saluted them in the same way, presenting them three times with what they were burning to see, to touch, to kiss, and much more besides.