The Merry Widow

by Vonnick de Rosmadec

  Applause and whistling greeted this titillating opening of ceremonies. The two players finally took their places on the court and began their first game. They were no champions, but their blunders made an impression on the spectators nonetheless; every time they went after a stray ball, they would bend over and assume indecent poses. Marianne won the first game and, as they were switching sides, both girls unzipped their skirts and threw them into the crowd. They were both wearing thongs, little black openwork-lace triangles held up by an invisible string through the back.

  With a composure dictated by the marquise’s little scenario, they began their second game. Now at one game each, whoever missed the ball, removed another garment. Eric, the man with the thick, quivering mustache, had been right: This was truly a game of strip-tennis. Florence had the advantage and Marianne removed her T-shirt and tossed it into the stands to reveal the bra encasing her imposing breasts. Then Florence lost the point and also removed her shirt, revealing her youthful, round, firm breasts. At the next fault, it was Marianne’s bra that flew into the stands.

  At the end of the second game, both players were stripped down to their thongs, for which the crowd was now clamoring impatiently. At Louis’s discreet signal, the girls gave in to their admirers’ demands and, with feigned timidity and reluctance, removed the scraps of fabric, and the spectators fought to inhale their unique scents intermingled with their salty sweat.

  Florence and Marianne were now completely naked, and the show they put on in this final set was truly exciting. They ran, slid, did the splits, fell, and rose with their buttocks reddened by the clay. But perhaps the most exciting thing was to see them serve: raising an arm into the air, knees bent, stomach pulled in, ass tensed … What a joy it was, admiring the bouncing of their breasts as they ran, and their sweet muffs, pearly with the dew of their perspiration.

  They were reaching the end of their match, and the crowd was so absorbed by the spectacle of these admirable bodies in motion that no one noticed Mimi climbing up the umpire’s chair and pausing midway. Louis did not push her away when she unbuttoned his shorts, nor did he recoil when she took out his handle—not a racket handle, though its size was certainly impressive—and raised no objections when she began to suck at it with careful passion.

  Ghislaine, her loyal maid, and Louis himself had obviously arranged this interlude, but no one really noticed it until his refereeing began to falter. He could no longer keep score, to the point where the players stopped to yell at him, with hands on hips.

  He excused himself and regretfully asked Mimi to stop her sweet sucking. She readily obeyed, climbed back down the ladder, and went to sit with her tennis-player friends. The match resumed, and Marianne won the decisive point, but Florence, showing not a trace of resentment, embraced her again and kissed her a second time. At the same time, they both slid their hands between each other’s legs and casually caressed one another as though they were merely following an end-of-match ritual.

  Then, drawing a huge laugh from their audience, they came to the feet of the umpire and rather than shaking him by the hand in thanks, each in turn gripped his rod and gave it a cordial shake. Finally, they left the court, arms wrapped around each other’s waist, to rapturous applause from the crowd.

  Tucking his organ away, the umpire called the next two partners on to the court: Jean-Baptiste, the basketball champion, and Sergio, the weightlifting king. The former wore a white, skintight polo shirt that outlined the muscles of his chest and back, and baggy tennis shorts through which one could make out his ample member swinging at each step. And the women present who had sampled it knew that this rod could achieve a more than sufficient hardness and dimension. Looking at it now, they rejoiced in having had the pleasure of encountering it on one or more occasions.

  The second player, Sergio, wore a black T-shirt and pair of low-hanging boxers so tight that they clearly showed the shape of his rod and the weight of his balls. Marguerite and Georgette, the two friends who had recently shared the basketball player’s six-five frame as well as the weightlifter’s powerful arms and thighs, threw each other a conspiratorial glance and laughed quietly. They could still feel the men’s hardness and heat between their legs. The baker whispered a confidence in the widow’s ear.

  “Just seeing them like that, I’m so damned wet.”

  “Me, too, but I consider myself a normal woman. It would take a slut to deny what the sight of them does to her down there. …”

  They were quickly hushed by their neighbors.

  They two players greeted the umpire with a simple wave of the hand and went to stand in front of their public. You could have heard a pin drop.

  They lowered and then quickly raised their shorts in unison, laughing, leaving the watchers hungry for more. Even the sharpest eyes in the crowd barely had the time to see more than the outline of their members encircled by a forest of hair.

  There was a small outcry, but the two buddies paid it no mind. They took their place on either side of the net and approached each other.

  “A kiss, a smooch, make out! Like the girls!” Loustalou chanted.

  They responded by giving him the finger and bumped their fists in a show of camaraderie before their match got under way.

  It was a striking, highly charged erotic performance. At each missed ball, the men removed their shirt or shorts until they ended up in G-strings, just a cup to hold their jewels and shaft to protect them from any discomfort.

  Cries were heard from the disappointed women in the crowd, but they appreciated the virile beauty of those two bodies whose bulging muscles rippled at each movement.

  As the match drew to a close, they did as the girls had before them and removed their cache-sexes, throwing them into the stands. The women in the audience screamed with joy to see them play the final game entirely naked, following the swinging rods and balls as the men leaped and ran. The women were quite delirious. All the more when, after the final point, Mimi climbed onto the court to shake their members as a sort of congratulation.

  Jealous, Marguerite and Georgette were the first to react. They threw themselves upon the men they considered their own champions to congratulate them in the same manner. They were followed by a band of admirers who fought among themselves to touch, caress, feel, and kiss these two heroes of the court. The last to arrive stamped their feet, envious of those who had beaten them to it. Two fans fell to their knees and each took one of the men’s members into her mouth—the rods rose rapidly and hardened. Others fought among themselves for the privilege of kissing the two heroes and refused to let go of their lips, while the less lucky caressed their hard tensed backsides, pinching and prodding with inquisitive fingers.

  Some men drew closer to contemplate the scene.

  Loustalou took the opportunity for a little banter: “Gentlemen, we are witnesses to a rape! We cannot in good conscience stand here holding our tools without intervening. Someone call the police!”

  “Jealous much?” Eric responded. “But I must confess that I find this sort of performance a little improper on a tennis court. …”

  “Exactly!” the old count cut in. “The honor of the most distinguished of sports, after golf, is being called into doubt here. But what a pair they make!”

  He, too, feigned indignation, but could not take his eyes off this crowd of Furies and amused himself watching the athletes being taken in hand this way.

  “Are you talking about their skill as tennis partners, or about another skill entirely?” asked Loustalou, laughing.

  The count shrugged but deigned to reply: “Both, my friend, both!”

  The female assault, amicable at first, had become a real free-for-all.

  Fights were breaking out to take the place of the women on their knees; their hair was being pulled to get them off the rods. It looked like a brawl was brewing—something that had never been seen here, in this place of love and peace!

  Ghislaine abruptly decided to cancel the following matches, and made her ap
ologies to the players who had been selected for the mixed doubles. She was worried that things would get out of control. This was the first time one of her group erotic entertainments had turned into a riot!

  The lady of the manor took a megaphone and intervened authoritatively to order the groupies to take their hands off their gods of the court.

  “Ladies, I must ask you to bring an end to this hostage-taking this minute. We are all going to move on to the swimming pool where there are other games waiting for us; games that, I assure you, will not leave you wanting. I’m sure our friends Jean-Baptiste and Sergio, not to mention all our other companions, will excite and satisfy you in the aquatic games I have devised. It, too, will be a sort of tournament.”

  They followed her lead and all went to the swimming pool.

  It was quite long for a private pool, encompassed by a perfectly maintained lawn. Deckchairs and airbeds were laid on it in a haphazard pattern.

  Everyone removed their clothes and looked around at one another. After the game strip poker, it was funny to see the same partners in the crude light of the summer morning. All the more because veterans of the club had also answered the call of this sorceress of a marquise, and they were discovering with obvious desire the newest recruits’ young bodies, feasting their eyes on Florence, the twins, Lisbeth, and pretty Marianne. With her forty years of age, Georgette (who was here on her first stay!) stirred the lust of those with a taste for large thighs and fleshy backsides. Pâquerette’s rolling hills, on the other hand, provoked their curiosity but also a sort of dread. She could not care less, however, as she held her puny officer of the court’s impressive member in her hand.

  Sirène, nicknamed the “Swimming Mistress” by Loustalou, stood by Ghislaine as they went over the composition of this aquatic part of the festival. She alone, as usual, had kept on her black one-piece swimsuit, and seemed as unwilling to take it off today as she had been the day before.

  The lady of the manor herself was entirely nude for all to see, and see they did: her well-kept body, her pert breasts, and her auburn shock of hair, which caught the light as she turned into the sun.

  Yes, Ghislaine was beautiful, and she knew it. However, she seemed not to notice. She delighted in the adoration she received from men and women alike. Her unaffected ways were a sign of her good breeding. And she truly was a damn refined lady, that marquise, as she walked through the crowds to receive their admiration. Sometimes a man or woman’s hand would find its way to caress her pussy or ass; she would laugh and turn around so they could admire her from front and behind.

  Then she spoke again. “We are now going to watch a dance of the nymphs directed by Sirène. That’s our little aesthetic amuse-bouche, before we get on to something a little more challenging. We will make love in the water, and there will be several contests. …”

  They all listened to her, already forming couples as she spoke: the older men came to sit by the young girls, caressing them lightly; if they did not rebuff their advances, they began to kiss them from head to toe. The older women thronged around the young men, stroking their sexes without much need for ceremony.

  Sirène signaled to her nymphs, and they joined her at the pool. They lined up on the edge and, at their instructress’s signal, they dived after her in perfect unison. They resurfaced in the middle of the pool, pulling difficult poses in complete harmony. They sprung up, flipped over, and disappeared again under the water, before coming back up to show off their asses or their pussies. The guests gathered around the pool and their eyes followed these nymphs who offered their bodies to them. They formed a star, holding each other by the hand and spreading their legs wide to offer their pretty pussies to the sun and to the spectators. Next it was six lovely pairs of buttocks that showed themselves off at the surface.

  Many men felt their cocks stiffen; many women trembled in delight.

  Mimi, fascinated by these dancing, naked swimmers, was touching herself in complete serenity. Her fingers buried between her legs, she tickled her clit. Cerise and Marguerite followed her lead but, unlike the young chambermaid, were caressing each other.

  “You know which one turns me on the most?” Jean asked his twin brother.

  “No, but looking at your dick I’d say whoever you’ve chosen is in for an interesting time. Is it Audrey or Victoria?”

  “Neither: it’s Sirène.”

  “But she’s not naked!”

  “Exactly, that’s what I like. Now all I can think about is how much I want to take her standing up in the shallow end of the pool, to push her swimsuit out of the way just enough to let me stick my …”

  “Oh, you’ve got a dirty mind!” Pierre exclaimed.

  “Looks like I’m not the only one!” said Jean, glancing at his brother’s rod, which began to stand upright as its owner watched Sirène’s inner thigh every time she appeared on her back.

  They laughed and promised to take care of the instructor “together, as brothers” according to their motto.

  The dance came to an end and was met with applause.

  The swimmers were soon surrounded by men and women drawn to their charms. Hands ran over their damp skin, their breasts were cupped in palms, their young muscled thighs were patted and pinched. Even Monsieur Gérald was moved, and it showed.

  Sirène was the last to leave the pool. As soon as she reached the top of the pool ladder, the twins embraced her by way of congratulation and told her their desire to have her in the water. She thanked them and, shaking the water from her body, saw from their erections that they were telling the truth. She did not turn them down and let them know that she shared their interest.

  “Ghislaine and I are planning to encourage those who want to try aquatic lovemaking. If you truly want to be my faithful servants …”

  “We do … absolutely!”

  “I’ll discuss it with Ghislaine.”

  She walked away, hips swaying. She was the only one still dressed in this friendly crowd. It was a delight to imagine the body hidden in her swimsuit: her bush, her buttocks, her crotch. And imagine it they did. So much that when the twin girls realized what their male counterparts were up to, they came over to gently tease them. It was done without a trace of jealousy, however: two young men in their twenties each had an arm around each sister’s waist and clearly did not plan on letting go of them. They, too, were hard as a rock.

  “Getting hot for teacher, are we?” Audrey asked as she nonchalantly took hold of the young man pressed against her by the cock.

  “Yes, and the water would cool us off just right,” responded Jean with a nod, directing his brother’s gaze toward the rod Audrey had her hands on.

  “Not bad, Audrey! He looks up to scratch. …” Pierre remarked.

  The marquise overheard the two young couples and smiled tenderly. How far those little chicks have flown since they showed up in my office, not two weeks ago! Not only did they fall under the spell of those two brothers, they’ve also turned into real members of our little club. They aren’t one bit jealous, and they go from man to man with a deep thirst for learning, and for the pleasure of showing themselves to be capable students.

  Victoria was following her sister’s lead, passionately kissing her new “boyfriend” while his fingers visited the blonde curls between her legs.

  Seeing that people were already forming pairs and were on the verge of lying down then and there on the grass to get to know each other better, Ghislaine sounded the start of the lovers’ dive. It was an acrobatic exercise meant only for the strongest swimmers. It involved a couple who would start their copulation on the ground before jumping into the deep end so entwined; the contest required them to stay united for as long as possible. Keeping things going on the surface was already difficult in its own right, but the lady of the manor was adamant: The lovers had to continue in their desire for each other. To put it another way, the man had to make sure his member was up to the performance and could stay firmly planted inside the woman.

  “You�
��ve got to be joking! That’s impossible!” cried Eric—who was a good lover, but not exactly what one might call a good swimmer. “We require a demonstration!”

  “I’ve tried it myself, my dear Eric! It’s quite possible, believe me! Obviously not being afraid of water is a prerequisite. …”

  “Go on then, show us how it’s done!”

  Sensing her audience’s rising disbelief, Ghislaine called upon Jean-Baptiste, with whom she had already practiced this particular bit of water sports.

  The basketball champ was, at that moment, the target of a playful tug-of-war between several women who all wanted his body. He joined the marquise by the poolside, laughing, his band of admirers trailing behind him. She explained what she wanted him to do and encouraged his groupies to get him warmed up so he could perform at his peak.

  Just like an hour ago on the tennis court, many of these ladies wanted a turn in taking him in their mouths. But Jean-Baptiste was not too troubled being confronted with so many open mouths and getting groped by so many indiscreet hands. He was still standing, and felt a hand manage to slip between his thighs behind him to cup and massage his balls. That only heightened his arousal.

  The marquise, for her part, also had to be prepared and made sufficiently wet and open to best accommodate this giant spear. She looked around and signaled for Laurent Dumoulin, the gynecologist with the lizard tongue, as well as for Cerise and Bernadette. The doctor understood and quickly came over to kneel on a cushion, between the lady’s legs.

  Like Jean-Baptiste, the marquise remained standing so she could be seen and admired by those around her.

  The club guests, understanding that something rather special was on its way, gathered around and watched intently.

  The scene was rather aesthetically beautiful. In the midst of a circle of admirers, one could see Laurent’s extraordinary tongue moving in and out of the marquise’s sex as she languished in the arms of Cerise and Bernadette, who each took turns kissing and caressing her breasts and her ass. The doctor and the two friends were so attentive in their care that Ghislaine began to moan and purr, eyes fixed on the group of Furies pawing at Jean-Baptiste. It was very rare to witness the Château des Plaisirs hostess offering herself in this way for all to see, and with such intensity.