The Merry Widow

by Vonnick de Rosmadec

  Contrary to all custom, it was Mimi who had to intervene to prevent her mistress from going too far in her preparation. She waved a scuba mask under her eyes and mimed a dive. Ghislaine gently pushed away the doctor and the two young women, beckoning Jean-Baptiste to her.

  The athlete once again had some difficulty in freeing himself from his fans grasping at his body as he came to the edge of the pool.

  His member was huge, superbly erect. Ghislaine wrapped her arms around his neck and he, lifting her up as he would have a feather, impaled her on his rod. She grabbed on to him, wrapping her legs around his waist and throwing her head back to show her pleasure. Holding her under the thighs, he spun around several times to show everyone that he and his rider were as one.

  Mimi, acting as judge, crouched down to check that he was properly inside her and made a sign to the spectators. Some drew closer to make their own inspection with cries of admiration and excited giggles.

  Mimi put on her mask and jumped into the water. In a couple of strokes, she reached the surface again.

  “I’m ready. Off you go!”

  The couple, still tightly intertwined, neared the edge and walked straight into the deep end. The two swimming lovers stayed submerged for a few seconds before coming up for air.

  Mimi described what she could see.

  “He’s still inside her! He’s not letting go! This is where it gets really tricky!”

  It was tricky indeed. For how can you swim when joined together like that? They tried to move to the side, facing each other, but every motion of their legs threatened to pull Jean-Baptiste’s rod out of Ghislaine. They tried another position: he on his back, and her on top. The champ would sink, then poke his head out of the water for air, and then keep going, holding his breath. His rider tried to paddle with one hand, the other holding him inside her.

  Mimi swam around this strange froglike couple, watching them through her mask to make sure they were following the rules. Finally, almost suffocating, they reached the ladder. With a formidable effort that was admired by all, Jean-Baptiste managed to hoist himself up onto the edge of the pool, with Ghislaine still clinging to him. He paused for breath for all of ten seconds before walking into the crowd of guests to hearty applause. The curious and the skeptical came to check that his member was still in its place. They then stepped back in admiration so that others could see for themselves. Jean-Baptiste, who was feeling himself falter, perhaps, gave several thrusts and made Ghislaine bounce on his rod. But she was the one who cried out for mercy.

  “Please, no more! It’s too much; it’s just too much!”

  Jean-Baptiste, triumphant, pulled out of her with a curious noise. The club members and staff could see that even though his shaft was not quite as thick as it had been before the dive, it still stood quite honorably erect.

  The More the Kinkier

  They were headed for a rainy weekend. Everyone had been dreaming of two full days spent outside, where bodies would meet, where they would walk naked in the park, where aquatic follies would take place in the pool … And yet there they were, in the middle of June, and it was pouring rain. Newcomers at the Château des Plaisirs wore sullen expressions on their faces, thinking that the god Eros would not be present this time around.

  How mistaken they were—and how little did they know about the wealth of imagination the lady of the manor had at her disposal!

  Among the disappointed were Georgette and Georges, the two forty-something bakers who had arrived in the marquise’s office the previous week and were immediately won over by her warmth and her charm.

  These two newbies were casting intimidated glances all around them. They were the first weekend guests to have shown up, and Mimi had just led them into the conservatory, naked under her delicate white lace apron. What could their hostess come up with to entertain her guests on such a gloomy day?

  The manor’s ground-floor room was immense. Through its windows, one could see the swimming pool and the tennis court to the east and, to the west, the Marquise’s pride and joy: her rose garden.

  A grand piano stood in a corner of the room, looking almost lost in the vastness of its surroundings. That was where Jérôme—nicknamed Chopin, on account of his skill as a pianist—liked to play while a lady—usually the marquise, but sometimes Mimi—knelt before him, sucking him off to the melody he happened to be playing, gently or passionately. But this room’s most amazing feature lay in that it was almost a house of mirrors: the floor was made of mirrors; the ceiling and walls were covered in reflective panes; the furniture seemed to be made of glass. At the center, however, stood a wooden platform accessible by five steps; on it lay a vast, thick mattress, four and a half feet above the ground. This configuration was devised so that voyeurs would be in the ideal position to observe and, if they fancied it, touch the revelers, caress a bouncing buttock, help a staff find its way here or there … or to be caressed themselves. Whether you were a man or a woman, nothing stopped you from climbing onto the podium and entering the infernal dance of bodies in heat. One could pace around this raised bed, stop and spy, make one’s choice, then simply join the sexual fury on this fifteen-by-fifteen space that could fit a dozen couples.

  But on this particular day, any thoughts of mingling on the podium would have to wait until the rather special card game the marquise had organized: strip poker!

  She had had five bridge tables installed around that space dedicated to fucking, sucking, buggering, and other distractions—all five were transparent, as well as the seats, so that each and everyone could see what was going on under the table without needing to bend over. Thus one could see a female hand testing the firmness of a cock, and a male player could verify the state of arousal of his neighbor’s pussy.

  A deck of cards and five piles of chips were the finishing touch on each table.

  Mimi, who had briefly slipped out, came back with a platter loaded with small glasses of a blue liquid the marquise reserved only for the greatest occasions of debauchery. It was the club’s own magic potion, which increased the libido of both men and women alike to startling degrees. The limpest and weariest of rods, worn out by recent exploits, raised their heads proudly; the scowling, dried-up honeypots would bloom, ready to be eaten or filled once more. Mimi rested the platter on a long dresser where guests could help themselves upon arrival, and toast to a lovely afternoon of shared lovemaking.

  Once her task was done, the friendly young lady came to greet Georges and Georgette, who were timidly perched on the edge of a roomy couch. Finding them a little ill at ease, she kissed each of them on the lips. Running her fingers through Georgette’s hair, she took care to present her ass at Georges’s eye level and within his reach.

  Although he was rather titillated by this close-up of the chambermaid’s inner thighs, the man did not dare do anything apart from feasting his eyes on her.

  “You’re awfully shy today!” Mimi said, seating herself cheerfully in his lap. “I suppose it’s true you’re mostly here to watch your better half get pounded by one of our athletes.”

  Georgette giggled as was her habit and chimed in.

  “I, too, want to see my dear Georges hard at work. I greatly enjoyed our little four-way session the other day.”

  “I’m quite sure you will both be a little more adventurous once you’ve tasted our dear hostess’s sweet nectar,” the maid replied.

  “But, my dear, I am already moved by the sight of your charming nudity,” Georges said in a tone he fancied quite refined.

  Mimi stood, and ran her fingers along his fly, noticing a distinct swelling inside the pants of this recent convert. Georges, this time around, could not stop himself from squeezing her ass under the light apron. The young lady freed herself, laughing, and went to welcome the first group of weekend partygoers.

  The marquise led the way, stunning in her skintight gray jersey dress. She was flanked by two giants who offered her their arms. Behind the trio shuffled a small, joyous crowd, but Georgette pa
id them no mind. She could not believe what she was seeing; right there, in the flesh, stood the two champions: Jean-Baptiste, the widow Marguerite’s favorite, and Sergio, the statuesque Italian she herself had chosen from a catalog. Laying eyes on him for the first time took her breath away, as a sudden wave of heat crept through her lower stomach.

  “As you can see, my dear Georgette, I didn’t lie to you: Here are the two heroes whose photographs made such an impression on you. Would you be disappointed to see them naked by your side?”

  Georgette cooed at this and turned red as a beet. She tried to stand but sat back down quickly, overcome with emotion.

  The two athletes were intimidating to say the least, with their muscles rippling under their immaculate T-shirts and their magnificent legs appearing from bulging navy-blue shorts.

  Sergio bowed, dropping a gentlemanly kiss on Georgette’s hand, looking her straight in the eye.

  “My God, what wonderful blonde hair you have. I love blondes—that is to say, real blondes. …”

  Jean-Baptiste cheerfully pushed him aside.

  “I, too, love blondes. They have a certain je-ne-sais-quoi other women lack. …”

  He slid behind Georgette’s seat and bent down to kiss her neck, staring down her cleavage.

  “Well, what a plump little pair you have here. Would you be so kind as to introduce them to me, just for a moment?”

  The forty-two-year-old did not know how to respond to such polite assaults. She turned to her husband, as though asking for his permission to let herself go in the hands of those strangers, and then turned to Ghislaine.

  Georges was first to react.

  “Good day, gentlemen! I am quite honored by the admiration you have for my wife, and I am inviting you to feast on her as you will. Come now, Georgette, unfasten your blouse and show our friends your bosom! It’s well worth a look. And, if that makes you more comfortable, gentlemen, I will confess that my greatest pleasure would be for you to send her into a trance before my very eyes.”

  The marquise, to her amusement, noticed that he was already getting hard.

  “But not at the same time! No, not both at the same time, now!” Georgette said hastily, acting the prude. “Marguerite promised that she would come and …”

  Already the basketball player’s large hand had slid into the baker’s bra, and was authoritatively pulling out a fat, round breast, its pink areola encircling a nipple that was already swollen with desire.

  Emboldened, Georgette quieted her false naïveté and allowed her hand to stray behind her back, searching for the big black basketball player’s member.

  “Oh my, that’s not a baguette or a baton I feel … it’s a four-pounder, at least,” she crooned, rubbing the black man between his legs as he laughed good-naturedly.

  Sergio, turned on by her cooing, fell to his knees and buried his face under her skirt to sniff between her legs. He grunted with happiness.

  “You smell blonde, you smell like a blonde honeypot. It has its own refinement, a sweetness, an intoxicating fragrance.”

  He pulled his head out from under there and started to pull down her panties. Georgette was over the moon and only desired one thing: to be taken, here and now, by these two athletes. She raised her ass so the Italian could tear off her underwear more easily, but the marquise put a stop to this exhibition and appealed to the men’s sense of restraint.

  “Let us wait for all of our guests to arrive before we start showing our desires and coveting our preys. We must first meet the newcomers.”

  “But we are the newcomers!” Georgette whined.

  “You’re not the only ones, my dear. Ah, I can hear our friends arriving. …”

  The parlor doors burst open and the last guests made their entrance. Among them was Marguerite, the merry widow and friend of Georgette’s, who rushed to embrace her friend enthusiastically.

  “Oh, how funny it is to see you here in this place of debauchery! And to think I’ve known you to be so reserved, standing there behind your counter, dodging compliments from your clients, acting all virtuous!”

  “I think it will be even more ironic when we’re both giving ourselves over to these two gentlemen,” the baker replied in a sultry tone.

  Georges came closer, all smiles. The widow seemed surprised to see him.

  “Oh, so you are here, too, Georges? I didn’t know you were in on our secret parties.”

  “Indeed I am! For me, too, it will be quite a sight, the two of you being serviced by strangers who, as far as I can tell, aren’t exactly newbies.”

  To show he was no longer scared of anything, Georges kissed Marguerite on her lips as he massaged her ass.

  “I’ve never told you, Marguerite, but I’ve been lusting after you for twenty years. But today I’ll just watch—well, we’ll see …”

  “Oh, this is just too amusing, too amusing!” she exclaimed.

  It was all the more so since Jean-Baptiste, at that moment, greeted her by groping her through her skirt, and she suddenly found herself, quite naturally, caressing these two champions’ rods through their shorts.

  Ghislaine had to intervene once more so that spirits and bodies alike could cool off a moment—they were heating up a little too fast for her taste given the afternoon she had planned. She demanded silence.

  Ever the gracious hostess, the marquise made the introductions, though few were necessary. Apart from Georges and Georgette, Henri Tronchet (the officer of the court with his oversized trunk), and Sylvie (the giantess), all the other regulars knew one another at least by sight. Many discoveries still remained to be made, however, much to everyone’s excitement; indeed, only Ghislaine and Mimi could boast of having seen all the sexes of this libertine group in action. The lady of the house continued.

  “I will now request that each and every one of you delay your frolics until later. Given the weather, we are going to play a rather fun and naughty indoor game: strip poker.”

  A female voice rose from the crowd: “But I don’t know how to play cards! I don’t know the first thing about poker! Do I have to sit this one out or what?”

  A manly voice reassured her at once: “You may not know how to play cards, but when it comes to stripping, Marianne, you’re in a league of your own!”

  This retort was greeted by laughter. Little Marianne, a pretty brunette of around thirty years of age, seemed genuinely worried as she stared at the marquise, her beautiful brown eyes open wide. She wore a very tight, very short pair of black velvet shorts that hugged her behind and clung to her crotch. Beside her, stood the reassuring joker. As he studied her with a connoisseur’s eye, Eric, a forty-year-old whose sex drive was the stuff of legend, wondered how Marianne had managed to slip on such a tiny outfit—and thought it would be quite enjoyable to watch her take it off. He resolved to find a seat at her table. In that he would fail, but handsome Eric, with his famously strong member, was going to get his money’s worth nonetheless—he ended up seated between two beautiful girls.

  The marquise explained the outlines of strip poker to the crowd, first asking who knew how to play poker at all. About a dozen hands were raised, more or less reluctantly. Thus reassured, she asked the seasoned players to explain the rules of the game to their partners: the various hands and their hierarchy, the differences between a pair, a three of a kind, a straight, a flush … The connoisseurs then debated among themselves, reaching the following consensus: at the end of each turn, all the losers would remove an item of clothing of their own choice. These choices would be made as Mimi weaved through of the crowd, pouring more of the arousing beverage.

  Then came the assignment of players to the different tables. Who would be seated with whom? Dragging out the suspense a little longer, the marquise unveiled her plans for the afternoon: Whenever a player ended up entirely naked, he or she would be invited to the podium. There, the games would take a turn for the entirely physical, giving free rein to each and every member to show his or her talents. She explained the additional ru
les: If a man could not perform at his best, his partner could call upon any other male member of the assembly. In the same way, less active ladies could receive the assistance of their more enterprising counterparts.

  As for the assigned seats, the marquise had once again thought of everything. Each player had his or her name written on a slip of paper placed in a hat. Ghislaine asked Mimi to read out the names drawn at random and to assign them a table. This sorting process did not, of course, leave anything up to chance—Mimi knew every detail of the seating arrangements her mistress had planned. As assignments were made, the schemes devised by the marquise and carried out by her faithful accomplice made for encounters that seemed unexpected, but were in fact thoroughly thought out. So it was that Georgette and her friend found each other seated at table number one—with, by a remarkable “coincidence,” Jean-Baptiste, Sergio, and Georges the voyeur.

  Both ladies already felt emotion twisting their insides as the fulfillment of their fantasies came so close to being reached.

  People were flocking to their tables and pulling back their seats when Mimi, her nose squashed against a bay window, let out an amused cry. “Oh, those youngsters, they always have to stand out! Look, the two sets of twins are coming out of the pool! It’s like they don’t even realize it’s raining! Ah, here they come.”

  “How young and beautiful they are,” the marquise sighed, drawing murmurs of approbation from the crowd.

  A minute later, the four naked youths burst into the room and stopped on the threshold, roaring with laughter.

  “Such indecency will not be tolerated!” Ghislaine cried in mock indignation. “Go and dress yourselves at once! Then you may come back—we’ll warm you up, trust me!”