The Merry Widow

by Vonnick de Rosmadec

  They ran away, chirping like a flock of sparrows.

  The Château des Plaisirs guests, blinded by this flash of youth that now ran to the changing room, were left moved, envious, or enthralled. Already each member was wondering if her or she would be so lucky to have one of those beautiful young people at his or her table. At any rate, they would at least have the chance to look upon them from a close range, to touch them, explore them, and watch them make love. And why not penetrate them? thought the men as they pictured the twin girls’ pretty behinds. And why not have them inside of me? thought the ladies, young and less young alike, as they pictured the boys’ beautiful rods.

  There would be time for that soon enough—or for something similar.

  How many were there on this rainy June afternoon at the Château des Plaisirs? Twenty-five, not counting Mimi who would only have the privilege of playing once she had assigned everyone to their seats. Her mission was to monitor everything, to encourage players to surrender themselves to their partners according to the rules dictated by the lady of the manor.

  Thus Mimi set up five tables of five. Ghislaine had decided that table number two would feature Henri Tronchet, the weedy officer of the court with “a watering hose for a cock,” as Mimi put it. And, it went without saying, Sylvie the giantess, who bore the sweet nickname of Pâquerette, would sit facing him. Since their first encounter, they had met at the club nearly every day so he may appreciate her multiple rolls of fat, and so she could suck on his heroically proportioned shaft with energy and wonder before directing it inside her. By now, his phenomenal member knew its way between her mountains of flesh perfectly.

  “I’m betting those two will get married someday!” Mimi kept telling the marquise, who reminded her vexedly that her club was not a matchmaking service.

  Those two incredible specimens were seated with Pierre, one of the twins, who was a little unnerved to be separated from his brother, as well as from Audrey and Victoria. The two couples had been inseparable since the two eighteen-year-olds’ deflowering. Together they had embarked upon many an exploration, but much was still left to explore.

  Facing this stallion sat Lisbeth, the young bride who, once her wedding to a dour husband had taken place, came back for memorable afternoon sessions at every opportunity and under any pretext. By a happy coincidence, her other half was at work that day.

  Also present was Cerise, the young makeup artist who preferred ladies to gentlemen, but did not always rebuff the latter and could satisfy them with a goodwill that also betrayed a measure of happiness.

  Seated around the third table were five players who had not had the pleasure of an encounter with any of their neighbors. Young Florence had been separated from her riding instructor but seemed none the worse for it, flanked by Louis, the handsome tennis instructor, and Jean, the other twin. Both were feasting their eyes on her, but had also laid a nonchalant hand on each of her knees. Across from Florence, Marianne enviously followed these playful hands under the table and gave her neighbor encouraging glances. Laurent Dumoulin, the gynecologist with the disproportionate tongue who had recommended the Château des Plaisirs to the twin sisters for their deflowering, was obviously turned on by this pretty brunette in her black velvet shorts. He had also been deeply moved when his young former patients, Audrey and Victoria, had flown into his arms to thank him for his life-changing advice. A sudden desire had taken hold of him, and he intimated that now, no professional ties stopped him from getting to know them a little more personally.

  They had laughed.

  Mimi kept placing men and women, pouring more and more of their hostess’s secret aphrodisiac. And so she reached the fourth table where Victoria was taking her seat next to Nathalie, a young tennis instructor who had just arrived at the club. Monsieur Gérald, the seventy-year-old aristocrat, was thrilled to be surrounded by such youth. Two other men, both in the prime of life, were casting longing looks at their neighbors. One of them was Jérôme, the womanizing Chopin whose winning smile had convinced many a lady that he exuded some sort of energy field, a mere touch of his skin being enough to send shivers down their body. His hand resting on the young instructor’s thigh already seemed to excite her. Eric sat on Victoria’s left; he was a blond fortysomething, with a painter’s brush mustache he used to tickle the ladies’ sexes with legendary skill. Most of them loved the thickness of his rod, but the tighter among them almost feared it.

  Finally, four regulars were sitting around the marquise: to her right sat Bertrand, the riding instructor, as well as Audrey, the other twin; to her left, Bernadette, the hairdresser with the clean-shaven snatch, and Loustalou, the exuberant and podgy night watchman. The latter didn’t have the physique of a Greek god, but the ladies most appreciated his sense of humor—which was always bawdy without ever being vulgar.

  All of the five-player tables were now occupied, and if it hadn’t been for the agitation above (and under) the transparent tables—the light touches, the caresses, the kisses—one could have thought they had stumbled into some upper-class bridge club.

  Ghislaine raised her glass and asked for silence.

  “Welcome, welcome all, especially to the newcomers who have recently joined our merry band. You are all ready to begin our great game of the weekend. The outside temperature today may not be exactly summery, but I can assure you that in this room, things will get heated—very heated. You were all placed in a manner that may strike you as arbitrary, but I can assure you that my vast experience on the subject of afternoon delights had nothing to do with these choices. It is chance, and chance alone that assigned your seats—with a little help from our resident fairy, Mimi.”

  The lie was so far-fetched, Ghislaine herself had to stifle a laugh.

  A voice pretending to be displeased sounded off.

  “Resident fairy? Resident witch, surely!”

  The marquise made a soothing gesture.

  “I am well aware that some of you are already ogling a player of either sex at a nearby table. Take comfort in the fact that everything can change as the game progresses! But I must school you with a bit of theory before we move on to the practice—for which I am just as impatient as you are.”

  She gestured toward the big board indicating the value of each hand, from the simple pair to the straight flush, and explained the various mechanics of the game before getting to the most important point: the disrobing itself.

  A few racy interjections were thrown by Eric and Loustalou—“Take ’em off, Marquise!” “We demand some ass!” “Less flirting, more stripping!”—but they were quickly hushed. People wanted to play.

  Their hostess also explained that each player had a pile of twenty chips, with which he or she could place bets.

  This was where things got interesting: at the end of each turn, the losers had to remove an item of clothing of their choice. Only the winner who took the pot would avoid (regretfully, most likely) this requirement.

  The experienced players at each table answered questions from the novices, and dealt the cards: three at first, then two. Bets were placed, raises were made, hands were folded.

  In the first round, the marquise was among the losers at her table: overplaying her three-of-a-kind, she had re-raised only to run afoul of Bernadette’s four jacks. Ghislaine immediately led by example, lowering the top of her dress to show a bra that, in truth, wasn’t quite needed given how her firm her breasts were. But no matter, today she would have the pleasure of taking it off when the time came. Young Audrey settled for removing one of her tennis shoes, under Bertrand’s amused yet disappointed gaze; he consoled himself by feeling her sex through her light dress. She did the same to him, demanding that he take off his riding boots on his next loss. Which he did.

  As for Loustalou, he took off his polo shirt and pushed out his belly without provoking much lust among his table partners.

  Marianne, however, delighted her fellow players with how difficult it was to get out of her tiny shorts. That piece of fabric was al
l she had left to cover her body, her breasts already exposed for all to see. Her fruitless efforts to get rid of the damn shorts were so moving that Eric, from another table, decided to intervene.

  “Get her to stand on your table so we can all enjoy the show, damn it! There’s nothing more exciting than a woman who’s trying to get naked and can’t actually do it!”

  The idea was deemed worthy, and both Jean and the gynecologist helped Marianne fulfill the wishes of Eric and his rousing mustache. Thus she ended up standing, exposed for all to see, perched on what looked like a painter’s pedestal—though an artist would have been at a loss to capture the shapes of such a fidgety model. Marianne struggled, shaking her ass in all directions, twisted and turned, but remained a prisoner of her garment. She had taken off her wide belt, but couldn’t get out of those velvet shorts. Amused voices were heard all around.

  “Won’t somebody help her? Cut them off!”

  By a remarkable coincidence, Cerise and Bernadette were the ones to rush to her aid. After many a voluptuous grope, the two lovers from Lesbos managed to get Marianne out of her insubordinate clothing. The brunette finally appeared in a tiny thong, her naked ass greeted by cheers and clapping.

  Among the afternoon’s many surprises, the least expected originated from the newcomers’ table. Whereas Georgette had first set her heart on Sergio through a catalog, she quickly found herself charmed body and soul by Jean-Baptiste. As for Marguerite, she had already experienced a fierce ramming from the basketball champion; and though she cherished the memory of those encounters, she desperately wanted to let herself go in the arms of the handsome Italian for a change. As such, she did her utmost to lose the last items of clothing that shielded her body. By now, she was only wearing her white panties, wide enough to conceal the size of her bush from the other players. As she discarded her hand with mock disappointment, she saw her neighbor’s cock go hard through the glass table. When Sergio slid his hand through the side of the merry widow’s panties to feel her mound, Marguerite granted herself the right to wrap her palm around his column.

  She turned to Georgette with a small laugh.

  “Do you mind, darling, if we invert the roles our hostess planned for us? I’m getting a sudden craving for Italian. Jean-Baptiste has some surprises in store for you, believe me. …”

  She didn’t need to wait for her friend’s reply—the latter had already undone the athlete’s fly, and was stroking his mighty pole with enthusiasm. What was her husband doing at that moment? Why, he was watching delightedly through the table as his wife’s hand ran up and down the black athlete’s shaft. For, one must remember, what he wanted most was to see his respectable wife take a pounding from a stranger in his presence. Did that mean he had grown impotent? No, but the conjugal rut of hastily concluded blow jobs, the scarcity of their lovemaking, the lack of imagination therein … All had been most wearisome. It had also done away with his wife’s physical passion. They wanted to experience something new—and there was no shortage of that at the Château des Plaisirs!

  Mimi, who was sauntering from table to table, observed that here, just like elsewhere, the stripping was going just fine. Her current mission, set by her mistress, was to pick up the discarded clothes and throw them haphazardly to the center of the platform. There would come a time when all would have to find their personal effects —or at least try to.

  “Mark my word, my dear Mimi, this final clothing session will create entertaining situations. We’ll get to see some guests, still intoxicated with pleasure, struggle to fit in a thong far too small for the size of their posterior. …”

  And so Mimi went around the room, collecting Florence’s or Bertrand’s riding boots, bras and panties here, a shirt there, stilettos, skirts, and jeans. She was greatly entertained by the direction each game was taking, and whispered her status reports into the marquise’s attentive ear.

  These reports delighted her mistress as well as allowed her to gauge the level of folly her guests had reached. Her table being somewhat removed from the others, she could not glean those details herself, only espying them from afar.

  “How is table four doing?” she would ask, seeing shirts and underwear fly in the air.

  “Well, Monsieur Gérald just made a big splash: He’s cleaned out most of his opponents. They threw all their money into the pot, and he drew a straight flush on the second deal—look, they’re all getting naked. Allow me to join them: I want to see how our new swimming instructor is dealing with the situation—not to mention Victoria! As far as I’m aware, the twin sisters have only experienced their male counterparts and no one else. …”

  The marquise laid a finger across her lips, discreetly nodding at Audrey who sat nearby; she pinched her chambermaid’s behind with a knowing smile.

  “Come now, what you really want is to see what their kitties looks like.”

  “Well, yes, I want to discover their pussies. But I also want to see how they behave—if they’re curious, or shy, or coy … do you understand, Madame?”

  “Do I ever! Go, go! I must confess I’m actually waiting for this game to end so our great orgy can begin.”

  The other players at her table approved in their own ways. Bernadette, the lesbian hairdresser, leaned toward Ghislaine and began to nibble at her breasts as she explored her nether regions. The marquise let her, laughing, for although she preferred having a Sergio or a Bertrand inside of her, she was not one to shun the company of one of the ladies.

  As for Bertrand? As we know, the riding instructor was by her side. After a week of love games with young Florence, the stable manager was delighted to caress Audrey’s young, blonde pussy to his right. She did not stop him, curious to know if she might feel a different, perhaps even more intense kind of thrill with him than what she had experienced with the twins.

  Mimi joined Monsieur Gérald’s table, amused by the feigned indignation shown by the pretty swimming instructor in response to her neighbors’ advances. This young lady was a fresh new recruit, and the nickname “Sirène” had been fast bestowed upon her given the grace and the beauty with which she performed her job. She was a tall, broad-shouldered brunette whose lean and muscular body exuded elegance. Cheerful and open-minded, she had been surprised, if not shocked, by the club’s mores. Although the marquise had given her a clear and frank account of her guests’ rather naughty activities, she had, at first, observed them from a cautious distance. Her reluctance had been, however, quickly replaced by curiosity, and curiosity by interest and desire. She had taken the leap, and given in to the experiences offered to her—nonetheless retaining her one-piece bathing suit when in the pool, perhaps to maintain a form of authority over her enterprising students.

  When Mimi reached her table, she was spurning the advances of Jérôme, the pianist with the irresistible energy field—spurning them more in word than deed, as she let this Chopin’s hand grow bolder and run under her dress, from her knee to her thigh, its obvious aim being to discover, through her bathing suit, exactly how damp her pussy was.

  “What a lovely mound you have! Rounded and plump, just the way I like it. … It must be so nice to lay one’s cheek there,” he whispered in her ear.

  At the same time, Eric, the man with the thick rod, leaned toward Victoria and began to raise her red T-shirt.

  “I’d like to see what a teenage bosom looks like, I can’t quite remember. … Do you mind?”

  The lone twin, who had only ever known love with Pierre and Jean, was a little bit apprehensive, but not on the defensive. She merely laughed, turning her head, as her neighbor, not content with uncovering one of her breasts, was trying to get to her lips.

  Monsieur Gérald, from all of his seventy years of age, was happy to just watch the maneuvers taking place under the table while winning every hand. He was, in fact, the only one who knew how to play, when to bluff, and how to infer what his opponents held. The only person in this crowd who was playing to win, and not to lose another item of clothing!

 
The combination of Victoria’s eighteen years of age, Sirène’s twenty-five, and the pleasure he could sense rising within them was enough to make him happy. He was part of the great family of voyeurs who preferred watching to acting. He used to say that, at his age, this form of pleasure was more moral.

  But wasn’t it rather that he thought his body too wilted to expose it next to such young flesh? Or that he simply had lost his vigor to age?

  Mimi, still naked under her chambermaid’s apron, kissed Sirène on the neck, tickled her left nipple, giving her a start, and moved on to the next table where Henri Tronchet, Pâquerette, Lisbeth, and Pierre, the other twin, who seemed unable to take his eyes off the young bride, were located. Pierre seemed fascinated—understandably so—by the black hair that covered Lisbeth’s body, from her bush to her breasts, not to mention her armpits, from which it sprang in thick tufts. The young bride only had her sandals left on—one could surmise that she had taken great pleasure in taking off her more concealing clothing first. She was quite pleased with the interest she seemed to instill in such a handsome young man, spying the swelling in his black boxer shorts as he stared at her. She shot him a glance of burning desire and suddenly she wanted one thing only: to see him lose, so they would walk hand in hand to christen the great raised bed at the center of the room and give the crowd a show.

  As for Cerise, she sat, stunned, staring uncomprehendingly at Henri Tronchet’s unimaginably large cock. The officer of the court had his shirt unbuttoned, showing a puny, unappealing chest.

  That cock … That cock! I’ve never seen anything like it! No wonder I prefer my sweet Bernadette to beings endowed with such grotesque attributes! she thought, following her mammoth neighbor’s foot with her eyes as it went to stroke this priapic monolith. Ah, this fat Pâquerette sure was a lucky one, finding a perfect fit like that.

  Sylvie was the complete opposite of everything the young Cerise loved in a woman. She liked her darling Bernadette’s small, firm breasts—hers were drooping and flabby; she liked her lover’s clean-shaven sex—hers was hidden by a veritable forest …