Duke Cosimo
by Akbar Del Piombo


The trailing veils of the virgin fascinated Stanley's primitive eye, and he 
rubbed his groin with lascivious calculation. Before anyone had a chance to 
recover his wits, the ape sprang from his place into the twisting folds of 
the bridal gown. The Duke's gallop had carried him beyond the scene, 
enabling the ape to clutch poor Maggie like a sack of meat and leap into the 
group of worried Hussars. He was gone with his prey in a blur of black hair 
and flying veils. 

"It is an unfortunate anatomical fact that the sexual orifice of the female 
is located between two orifices of excretion...." -L. Radl, M.D. 
(Illustrated Guide to Sex Happiness in Marriage.) 

"Pardon me, wife: Henceforth do what thou wilt...." -W. Shakespeare (The 
Merry Wives of Windsor) 


CHAPTER ONE 

When Sir Oliver Mottke-Wrench discovered his wife, Lady Mottke-Wrench, in 
the most flamboyant disarray, viciously turning her buttocks beneath his 
butler's presumptuous cock, he withdrew to his den, where, after a minute's 
deep thought, he retrieved the ancient, silver-barreled musket of his 
grandfather, inserted the last remaining bullet in the weapon, and returned 
to the bedroom of infidelity. 

His aim could hardly have been fallible, for he pointed the ornate muzzle at 
the butler's hairy scrotum from a distance of one finger's length, and 
keeping the sights trained on the jerking sack, pulled on the trigger with 
all his force. A deafening report rang through the house as the avenging 
lead went through the coupled genitalia. 

His honor appeased, he threw down the musket and retired to his den, where 
he prepared an ad for the morrow's edition of the Times. The mutilated cunt 
and shattered balls he later removed to be hung in his trophy room. 

It was through that advertisement I met the vigorous old Lord and, three 
days after verdict in his favor had been given, I entered into his service 
to fulfill the functions of the defunct butler. 

I packed his bags and trunks and finished the preparations for his trip to 
the Continent, for, as he said, the smell of gunpowder and adulterated pussy 
still lingered in the house and a change of scene would do him good. 

We duly embarked and arrived in Paris in the best of spirits and took up 
lodgings in a fashionable hotel on the Rue de Rivoli, occupying a suite of 
rooms concomitant with his condition in life. 

He was a taciturn and eccentric man, who refused to alter his established 
beliefs, and as these were all centered on a mode of life fully fifty years 
back, my existence became a curious anomaly, both in my eyes and in those of 
the world. Thus it was, that like himself, I began to grow a set of whiskers 
which were a daily topic of interest between ourselves. He himself favored 
sideburns but offered no resistance to my choice of a full-grown beard. 

He seemed to know the full complement of nobility no matter where he went, 
and received numerous visits every day. I went about my duties methodically, 
serving tea and biscuits to the occasional marquises and duchesses who found 
their way into the salon, unaware that one day my service to these ladies 
would take a radically different tack. 

It was perhaps two months after our arrival and when my beard was fully 
grown, that a certain Mr. Samuel Griffin paid us a call. He was, as I later 
learned, no less than the personal butler of the Grand Duke Cosimo de 
Beaucouillon. My visage made a strong impression on him and he questioned my 
master about my origins. He returned the following day and the two of them 
engaged in a long consultation which bore solely on myself and the Duke de 
Beaucouillon. Mr. Griffin's extraordinary interest in my person centered on 
the incredible resemblance I bore to his "patron" and he concluded a deal 
with Sir Oliver which they both concealed from me at the time. 

This Mr. Griffin went away, and, for all I knew, the affair was closed. Sir 
Oliver said nothing according to his habit, and I gave the incident no 
thought. 

He went out that night for a reception at Prince Paul-Jonah's town house, 
and returned very late, minus his hat and tie, and babying a beautiful lady. 
Clad in my nightgown, I let the giggling couple in and set about preparing 
his nightly grog. 

When I brought the steaming drinks to his room, I saw the lady's thigh 
reclining in Milord's lap. his big, ruddy hand exploring its milk-white 
flesh. 

"Oh, I beg your pardon!" I stammered, which only made them laugh. 

She was playfully kicking her heels in the air, brushing her hands through 
this hair and calling him "Oily," while his Lordship tickled her crotch. The 
apparition of the pontifical Lord sprawled in his chair, his face puffed 
like a hairy Bacchus, and groping under the flimsy robes of his partner had 
a profoundly disquieting effect on my blood cells. I set the glasses down 
and left, feeling rather foolish in the coarse linen gown that flapped 
against my ankles. 

"Let us now have intercourse," I heard his pompous voice rumble from the 
other side of the door. 

Though I fought against it, I could not resist the temptation to glance 
through the keyhole. My curiosity was fully aroused. Never, I thought to 
myself, have I seen a member of the aristocracy perform that most intimate 
and delightful sport, but there was little to indicate the social status of 
the participants. An upraised leg, a stocking half-furled around the calf, 
the hind parts of Sir Oliver and a rapid glimpse of the lovely thigh. 

The doorbell rang, cutting short my indiscretion, and I was suddenly 
alarmed, for it was already three in the morning and a visitor at such an 
hours was like an evil omen. 

The individual, clutching a bowler hat, was as nervous as myself. 

"Is," he whispered, glancing hastily over his shoulder, as if he feared he 
had been followed, "is Lady Hottham here?" 

"I am sorry," I answered, "I know no Hottham. This is the residence of Sir 
Mottke-Wrench," and proceeded to close the door. 

"No, no," he insisted, placing one foot in the way, "I don't mean does she 
live here, I mean is she here?" 

"I cannot say," I answered, "nor do I see any earthly reason why I should 
tell you." 

"There is every good reason, let me tell you. If you value the life of your 
master you had better get her out. Her husband is on the way up! 
Good-night." 

He disappeared down the corridor. 

"Hell of a mess," I grumbled, "if he's lying I'll lose my job, if not, the 
Master will lose his life." 

I tossed a coin to decide my course of action, but the sound of footsteps 
convinced me the man had been telling the truth, and losing no time, I 
rushed into the bedroom. 

The Lady's lips were busily drawing up and down the Lord's penis. Underneath 
her crotch, on the far side, Sir Oliver's tongue was probing between her 
labia. 

"Sir Oliver," I shouted, "for Christ's sake, get her out immediately!" 

They were both far too gone to hear anything, or care for anything other 
than the moist genitals they were bathing. I had the most unenviable task of 
disengaging the Lord's prick from Her Ladyship's mouth and of prying apart 
the hungry cunt from his tongue. No sooner would I release one end when the 
other would rejoin. The lascivious sounds of lapping and sucking 
interspersed with Sir Oliver's muffled curses on my person and the Lady's 
whine of displeasure. 

Despairing of ever dissociating the perspiring bodies, I thought rapidly how 
I might best conceal them. 

Staggering beneath their combined weights, I lifted them from the bed, still 
in position 69, and deposited them in the massive armoire which stood 
against the wall. Not for a moment did they let up their sucking and 
slobbering, nor did they note the change of decor, for even in the darkness 
of the armoire they continued their lascivious caresses. 

I straightened the bed, put the light out, and went to await Lord Hottham. 
An hour passed with no sign of life and I fell off to sleep. 

When dawn's light traced long, faint shadows across the floor, I was 
awakened by my master's bellowing. 

I jumped from my place and ran to let them out. Sir Oliver and the Lady 
tumbled at my feet, dragging half the contents of the closet with them. 

His Lordship was at a loss as to how he and his charming friend had found 
their way into the armoire. 

"Bejesus," he said with an awed tone, "I sure put one on last night! Get 
some liniment and rub my back, will you?" 

His body was still cramped and twisted from the fornicating position in 
which he had spent the night. Lady Hottham was equally bent, but snored away 
peacefully on the floor. 

"Ah, that's good, that's better. You might rub her down too. You know, I 
think I'm getting old, my prostrate glands aren't what they used to be." 

"You mean prostate, Sir." 

"I know very well the glands I mean, I don't fuck with my liver!" 

"Sir, I must confess, it was I who put you in the armoire." 

"You did?" 

"Someone said her husband was looking for her. I tried to tell you, but...." 

"Husband? What husband? The lady has been husbandless for a fortnight!" 

"I'm sorry, sir, a man in a bowler hat...." 

"Tut, tut, never you mind. You're a faithful servant but a little naive. 
Fetch me some brandy and put this creature to bed." 

A half-hour later he went out, not yet able to stand fully erect. 

I picked up Lady Hottham and placed her in bed and began to rub her back 
with liniment. I didn't rub so briskly on her tender skin. I also paid more 
attention to certain parts of her anatomy not necessarily affected by the 
cramp. I massaged her buttocks for quite some time and then decided to 
restore the vitality to her muscles in front. I rolled her over and started 
to rub her titties but my nightgown kept getting in the way, so I removed 
the clumsy garment and continued the massage, kneeling over her naked form, 
keeping industriously to my task, until I reached her little fur patch. 

Here was an enigma. Was the lady suffering from cramp inside? And how was 
one to tell? Well, I reasoned, if one doesn't have a cramp, a massage does 
no harm. Perhaps it is even beneficial. What faults I possess, I am known to 
be a man of logic. 

She turned over on her side, so I lay down beside her after rubbing some 
liniment on my cock. 

For a long while my fingers dallied lovingly in the twisting, wiry curls. 
Then, when my curiosity about the length and breadth of the pubic mound had 
been satisfied, my fingers took the ridges of her slit and felt along the 
agreeable lips, sometimes stopping for a slow massage, which soon caused the 
first drops of mucous to pour out of her awakened glands. At times, also, a 
deep sigh escaped from her half-open mouth, but she slept soundly all the 
while I played with her pussy. 

The cheeks of her warm ass squeezed tightly round my cock, followed by a 
slow revolving of her buttocks over the nub, mashing it pleasurably between 
its fat rolls. Then, like in an erotic dream, her thigh went up and the 
proximity of my cock to her snatch was such that the merest push put its 
head between the vulva, and from there to entering the meaty walls was the 
matter of an extra shove. From then on I let have at her with my most fiery 
drives whose thrills penetrated her somnolent being with the beautifully 
relaxed and luxurious sensations of a morning fuck. 

The hot and splashing orgasm swirled into the maelstrom of her secreting 
glands, and, coming together with me, her thigh fell down again to hold my 
organ fast in place. 

Not once in the exciting play had her eyelids opened and, while I was 
getting ready to plug her a second time, I heard the key turn in the lock 
outside. 

When Sir Oliver entered, I was polishing the table lamp with the liniment. 

"Griffin is waiting for you downstairs," he said. "You are to go with him 
and do as he says. No questions." 

He undressed and jumped into bed, his prick already hard for action. 

"And lock the door," he called out as his cock slid into Lady Hottham's 
glowing pussy. 

 CHAPTER TWO 

Samuel Griffin's puffy eyes were compressed into dark, conspiratorial slits. 
When I came out on the street he hurried to my side without introduction and 
led me swiftly around the comer where a luxurious, red Hispano-Suiza awaited 
us silently. He whispered his instructions to the chauffeur, darting his 
invisible eyes up and down the street as if he feared someone watching. 

I was further impressed and not a little troubled when he rolled down the 
curtains. The coat-of-arms of the Grand Duke de Beaucouillon was engraved on 
each window, embroidered in the upholstery in gold braid and shone on brass 
plaques on each door. Not once in our drive did Mr. Griffin offer an 
explanation of any sort. The only contact we had was through the offices of 
a whiskey flask passed between us regularly every two minutes. I was going 
to offer the chauffeur a drink but the butler's hand restrained me showing 
the pint bottle on the driver's seat. 

He brought me into the library and served me from a bottle of the finest 
Scotch. 

"If you would like to familiarize yourself with a bit of the Duke's past," 
he said, extracting an enormous tome from the shelf, "just glance through 
here. The Duke will be down shortly." 

He left on his unsteady feet as I began leafing through the book. 

Even a summary perusal of that curious volume revealed the incredible bedlam 
of the Grand Duke's "family tree. The first pages alone disgorged a half 
dozen rapes, twenty-one poisonings, and thirty stabbings. I counted 
forty-seven cases of dap and sixteen known incestual relations in four 
paragraphs. I lost track of the bastards after counting up to sixty-three. 
Adultery was a major activity in between the masked balls and gigantic 
feasts. A score of murders flourished in each generation and even the warped 
branch of imbeciles who cropped up regularly acquitted themselves honorably 
in the family tradition. Rare were the deaths due simply to old age. There 
was a running battle through the centuries to see who could tally the most 
deflowered virgins to his credit. The ambitions of the females were hardly 
less vicious. Without exception, they had all attempted to sleep their way 
to the throne. A certain Mathilde, a precocious Renaissance adolescent, 
boasted that she had enjoyed the favors of every European monarch. She was 
the most traveled of the lot, and were it not for an untimely death while 
crossing the Black Sea in her projected assault of Asia, she might easily 
have added a list of Eastern crowns to her laurels. Her murder by a rival 
branch of the family, all bastards, touched off the cruelest of incestuous 
vendettas in history. 

There was one other individual in the library, a certain Conte D'Avino and 
close friend of the family as I was to learn later, who was hidden from view 
in a large armchair poring over some ancient works. At his feet lay a 
briefcase and pages of a manuscript. His back being turned, I could not see 
his thin, haggard face and peaked mustache. He was far too absorbed in his 
books and the wine nearby to pay attention to anyone else. 

A maid entered and smiled sweetly in my direction, walking with a pleasing 
roll of her buttocks as she crossed the room. I watched her curiously as she 
went back and forth, arranging books and emptying ash trays. 

The observation of her charms began to take effect on my sensitive prick. 

I glanced over at the Conte but apparently he had fallen asleep. The 
cigarette smoke no longer floated over his chair and his head was out of 
sight. The maid was exciting me beyond control and I sought for some way to 
get her in a comer alone. With the preoccupied air of one searching a book, 
I went to the shelves and let fall several volumes. 

"Oh, leave them to me, Sir!" she cried, coming to my side. 

"So clumsy," I mumbled, regarding the luscious buttocks bending down in 
front of me. 

The aphrodisiacal odor of her body, added to the view, put an end to my 
patience. Moving round behind her I grabbed the hem of her skirt and flung 
it over her head, exposing the frail panties stretched tight over the 
generous mounds. Caught by surprise, she was for the first precious moments 
completely at my mercy. The panties came slithering down to her ankles. I 
burrowed my head between the curving crack and felt with my tongue for the 
intimate hairs of her cunt. She shuddered with fear as the bold attack 
attained the region of pleasure. I pushed my advantage all the way. 

While my tongue went deeper into the warmth of her crotch, my hands undid my 
trousers and released the throbbing club with its inflamed head. I next 
pulled off the restraining panties, allowing her thighs to spread apart for 
reception of my tool. The tongue had prepared the way by thoroughly 
lubricating her organ, abetted by her own natural flow of mucous. Raising my 
head from the dark region. I flung my body against hers and felt the intense 
drive of the shaft as it sped inward to the mark. With my arms bound round 
her small waist she was securely locked and unable to thwart the blow which 
seared into her vagina. Everything hinged on a rapid entry, for I counted on 
the overpowering thrill of the male organ to reduce her last bit of will to 
resist. The accuracy of my aim and the driving strength which plummeted the 
head into her deep, assured my success, and I began to fuck in earnest, 
clamped like a bull to her back. The long sighs issuing from beneath her 
skirt told me she had given herself up to the sensations and, not content 
with simply receiving, she twisted her ass in sensuous convolutions to grasp 
every possible combination of excitation from the slimy rod. We galloped to 
a rapid climax, performing a perfect example of the "Coup en Robe" so much 
in favor with our ancestors. 

A loud fanfare of trumpets greeted our finish and the door burst open as the 
Grand Duke strode in and stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of us on 
the floor. 

He reared back on his boots and pulled nervously at his beard. I was 
prepared for a roar of rage, and the trembling maid, waiting for the ducal 
explosion, did not dare bring her head out of her skirts. 

The fanfare had roused the Conte from his slumber and his mustache grazed 
the arm of the chair as he rubbed his eyes, yawned, and turned to see who 
had arrived. He put on his glasses hastily when he saw my dripping hose 
extracting from the maid's hole. 

I pulled up my trousers, attempting to restore a semblance of dignity to the 
situation. 

The Duke stepped forward and, to my surprise, examined the charming globes 
of his maid. He ran an expert hand about the rosy surface, pinching the 
cheeks at the end, and straightening up, looked me up and down. 

He placed a confidential hand on my shoulder and whispered in my ear: 

"Is she," he asked, "a good lay? I had her hired only yesterday." 

"Yes," I whispered back, forgetting my fears in my enthusiasm. "Quite good, 
considering the circumstances." 

"Yes, yes, of course, rather hasty, I suppose?" 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

The Conte had risen from his chair, finished off his Burgundy, and joined 
our little group. 

"What do you think?" the Duke asked him. 

"I didn't see a thing." 

I saw that both he and the Duke were slyly unbuttoning their flies as they 
spoke, in what looked like a race for the servant's ass. 

The Duke having lost, he begrudgingly stepped aside for the trouser-less 
Conte, who dropped to his bony knees and spat into the seam of her ass. 

"He's so meticulous," commented the Duke. 

The Conte rammed his tool into the maid and began to heave into her with 
noble fury. The Duke ordered me to wait for him upstairs, no doubt a little 
displeased that a commoner should be observing the amorous play of nobles. 

 CHAPTER THREE 

While I had been beading about his past, the Grand Duke lay astride his bed 
upstairs, blowing fragrant smoke rings in the air. All about him lay a 
disordered array of feminine apparel, as if cast off in the greatest haste. 
The room was thick with the smoke of his long Havanas and the pungence of 
Oriental perfumes. At the foot of the bed reposed a half-empty case of 
Slivovitz. 

On the couch opposite were two naked females entwined in heavy sleep, their 
bodies glistening with tiny drops of perspiration. 

The Grand Duke's cock hung limply out of his carelessly buttoned fly, 
glowing a ruddy pink from its recent exertions. He was on the verge of 
falling asleep when Griffin entered to announce my presence. 

The Duke listened to the butler's words, then, smiling, leaped out of bed 
and ordered him to "clean up a bit." 

"What about them?" asked Griffin, indicating Lady Worthington and her close 
friend, the Duchess of Ischitbay. 

The Duke glanced at the rosy buttocks of the Duchess, then shrugged his 
shoulders. 

"Just cover them up, the good ladies need rest." 

Griffin's "cleaning up" consisted in downing the remainder of a bottle and 
shoving the case under the bed. It was he who led me to this chamber for my 
change of clothing but apparently found it unnecessary to mention the 
presence of the women, scarcely visible in the confusion. 

I first saw the buttocks when I removed my trousers. Startled, I stared 
unbelieving at what I was sure was a hallucination, a retroactive vision of 
the maid's lovely behind. Since the vision persisted, and my doubts 
increased with its permanence, I approached the bed to pinch the troubling 
epidermis. 

The Duchess murmured something incoherent, eradicating my doubts, and 
awakening my lust anew. Taking my cue from the general atmosphere, I flung 
my trousers over a chair, kicked off my shoes and socks, and, stripped to 
the skin, climbed in bed next to her. I set to work immediately to find her 
pussy. The good dame, feeling the stiff member between her legs, stretched 
wide her thighs to let me slip between. Her lovely firm tits were 
encompassed by my hands as I felt her own fingers grasp my prick and place 
it where it belonged. The tight cunt gave away all around and she moaned as 
she felt the turgid snake weaving into her. 

Our erotic scrambling woke Lady Worthington from her slumbers. She having 
been totally hidden from sight all this time, it was a bit of a shock to me 
to see another face appearing out of nowhere over the shoulder of the woman 
I was vigorously plugging. 

It was no surprise to her that we should be thus engaged, for she took me 
for the Duke and kissed me pertly on the nose. 

The Duchess complained with irritation that Irene was distracting me. 

"Not in the least," I objected, affirming my statement with a series of 
rock-'n'-roll that had her panting deliriously and unconscious of all else 
but the libidinous immersion of our genitals. Lady Irene exchanged her ass 
where her face had been, offering me a carefully brushed and perfumed pussy. 
My tongue lapped hungrily on the juicy lips while I inserted a finger in the 
bung which poised but an inch above the Duchess' nose. 

My spanking balls produced their sperm in a hot shuddering blast which 
convulsed the Duchess' cunt into its spasm of liberation. Lady Irene's 
titillated clitoris brought her to her pleasure at the same time and the 
three of us swooned in the raptures of orgasm. 

The fanfare of trumpets sounded from a distant part of the house, and I 
nearly snapped my member extracting it from the Duchess. Those horns had a 
way of blowing every time I got laid and I half expected the entrance of an 
angry Duke, outraged at my cavalier treatment of his women. 

"You're not leaving!" cried Lady Irene, chagrined that she was not to have a 
taste of my cock. 

"Just for a piss," I lied. 

I ransacked the closet, pulling out the first articles that came to hand, 
and left the room with my arms full, hardly troubling to close the door. 

I had not been a moment too soon. From my hiding place at the end of the 
hallway I saw the Grand Duke appear at the head of the stairway and 
disappear immediately in the chamber I had just vacated. 

Still clutching the clothing and debating my next move, I noticed with 
horror that the little room into which I had ducked began to move. Good God, 
I thought in panic, just my luck to run into an elevator. 

I began to dress as fast as I could hoping it would go far enough to give me 
time to make myself presentable. It did not. It stopped and the door opened 
while I was on the floor struggling into some shoes. 

A pile of sheets and pillowcases were flung in my face, nearly smothering 
me, and the person I judged to be the laundress, who by some miraculous turn 
of fate had not seen me, entered the cabin and we began to descend. 

My fright vanished when I saw my good fortune. The laundress was a large 
woman who was breathing heavily from her exertions. Behold, there was now 
the biggest ass of all before me. Ages of lechery were behind me drowning 
out the feeble voice of prudence. Enough of me emerged from the sheets to 
present a fighting front and I took the woman's skirts in my hands and 
lifted them up to her waist. This one wore no underwear at all, and the fat, 
chubby flesh rolled round in two giant pink balls. My prick snuggled in 
between while I leaned my head on her shoulder as her startled eyes turned 
halfway round to see what had happened. 

The elevator went down to the cellar, then went right back up to the top 
floor. It repeated the voyage several times, enough for the two of us to 
finish off nicely. 

The stocky laundress walked out all smiles on the bottom floor and nearly 
forgot to pull her dress down in her abstraction. I threw the sheets out 
after her and went up to the next floor. 

When I stepped out and saw myself in the light I found I was clothed in the 
resplendent uniform of the royal hussars, with a chest full of decorations 
and the insignia of a colonel proudly gleaming on my shoulders. 

Griffin almost passed right by me, bearing some bottles he had brought up 
from the cellar. 

"Oh Griffin," I cried, catching him by his coattails, "listen, I think I 
have made some kind of a faux pas." 

"Nonsense," he replied categorically. "That is impossible." 

The butler's confidence reassured me, though I couldn't help a slight 
discomfort at the confusion in the Duke's chamber. 

"Our first concern is to strip you of your plebeian mentality. The Duke's 
plot depends on that." 

"He has a plot?" 

"My dear fellow, what good is a Duke without a plot? The aristocracy is 
simply ridden with intrigue. Keeps them on their toes, you know." 

"I see. But isn't it a little risky?" 

"That depends on your wits. If you have dull days, as sometimes happens to 
the Duke, let me know. But you needn't worry for no one is more qualified to 
be a duke than a butler. Butlers are silent people whom very few understand. 
They have a natural snobbism which often has to be taught to the nobility." 

"This is all very intriguing," I answered, accepting the drink he offered, 
"not to say mysterious. It sounds very much as if I am involved in his 
`plot'." 

His puffy eyes lit up strangely and he actually grinned at me in a knowing 
way, as if to say, "We don't talk about such things," I saw immediately that 
the old fellow fairly doted on intrigue, probably going so far as to 
improvise on his own, should there be a dearth of plots in the manor house. 
Yet, though he was sparse with his information, I understood that I had been 
brought here to play an important role in the Duke's scheming. He let fall a 
hint on what that role would be before letting me into the apartment meant 
for me. 

"The protocol of our hierarchy is strict and disciplined and an 
impersonation on this level calls for extreme conviction. Remember, a Grand 
Duke in no wise resembles ordinary men." 

I could think of nothing to say. The whole thing sounded so fantastic. 

"And one last bit," he finished, "under no circumstances are you to show 
your head outside your apartment. Absolute secrecy ... Absolute!" 

The door closed silently on his fat finger pressed in warning against his 
lips. 

I sat at a mahogany table covered with damask and laden with fine porcelain 
and heavy silverware. The walls were covered with ancient tapestries and 
solemn portraits. Beneath those hoary ancestors I stirred my spoon morosely 
in the soup, hearing the noise of a joyous company in the banquet hall which 
only aggrieved my loneliness. I imagined the brilliant warmth in that room 
with its dancing couples and the amorous play that was passing in secret 
beneath the table and was later discomfited by certain squeals that issued 
from their midst as the night wore on. 

Notwithstanding Griffin's remarks on butlers, I felt an alternating 
apprehension and elation at the sudden turn my life had taken. 

"Duke," I said aloud, tapping the porcelain cup for emphasis, "GRAND DUKE! 
... COSIMO ... It is a beautiful name ... it has a fourteenth-century ring. 
The Borgias and the Medicis ... Don John of Austria...." 

I fell asleep with the noble names caressing me and dreamed of gorgeous 
masked ladies waltzing at a Venetian Ball. 

In the days that followed, Griffin was my sole companion, spending hours on 
my transformation. One by one my familiar habits dropped away. I became a 
refined connoisseur of wines, wrinkling my nose on a trial sip of Chateau de 
la Pompe '89. Dried herring, shark's fin and whale blubber drew the saliva 
from my mouth. Spices, which once would have burned my taste buds to ash, 
became an ordinary staple at my table. 

My stance was altered to conform to the slight list of the Duke's right 
shoulder and a riding crop was always in my hands, which in frequent bursts 
of anger was to be struck against my boots. At such times I had to remember 
to produce a suspicion of foam about the lips. 

My beard was trimmed to a V-cut and a monocle hung from a chain about my 
neck. So thorough was the butler that I feared he intended to oversee my 
most private functions, and would hardly have been surprised if he attempted 
to change the timbre of my farts. 

Then, one morning, I was awakened by the ducal fanfare and sat up to behold 
His Grace erupt in the room. He paced the floor a moment, then flung himself 
into a chair. 

"I am informed you are ready to go on stage," he said in a peremptory tone. 
"Let us see if it is so." 

With a curse for the world's stupidity and kicking the sheets back in 
disgust, I jumped from the bed, yelled for my boots and snatched up the 
bathrobe on the floor. Yesterday's shirt was flung out of the windows along 
with some dirty socks. I emptied the contents of a whiskey flask and ordered 
the butler to serve me in the bath my breakfast of raw yolk of egg, Hindu 
toast and hot camel milk, the sexual, fortifying par excellence. 

I returned from the bath and jumped into bed to await the flow of 
correspondence and visitors which would finish up the morning. 

The Duke sat all the while puffing on his fragrant Havana and studying my 
performance with gravity. But the finish was executed with such brio he 
could not refrain an enthusiastic "Bravo!" emphasized by a cut of the riding 
crop. 

"Bravo," he repeated, stamping out his cigar beneath his spins. "Well done, 
old boy, well done. In fact," he continued holding his head, "it's rather 
like a hallucination." 

He kicked a chair out of the way, as I knew he would, and left, mumbling 
over and over, "Hallucinating ... hallucinating." 

 CHAPTER FOUR 

Through the multi-colored panes of the stained-glass windows, the beams of 
sunlight shattered into all the hues of the prism. The gold and red 
escutcheon carved in the ceiling glinted in my waking eyes. From somewhere, 
I heard the morning music of horns and flutes greeting me on my first ducal 
day. I gazed in awe at the luxury which had so suddenly and unaccountably 
become my own. The puzzle of this extraordinary metamorphosis did not 
trouble my thoughts as I bathed in the joyous sensation. 

"I was a caterpillar only yesterday, and today I am a butterfly!" 

I rang for breakfast and settled back on the silk to await its coming. A 
pretty blonde entered, dressed in the ducal colors and carrying a silver 
tray crammed with steaming dishes. She removed the covers and showed me a 
succulent tournedos Rossini, a tender poussin en cocotte, garnished with 
champignons a la Couillon, and flanked by a small mountain of crepes 
suzette, biscuits en forme de queue de chat, and genuine Persian almond 
cakes swimming in honey. Towering over all were the bottles of wine, the 
cognac flask, a box of long Havanas, Russian Blacks and a plug of Conte 
d'Avino's Noble-Grade chewing tobacco. 

She tied a silk napkin round my neck and began uncorking the bottles. 

"Bon appetit, Your Lordship," she said with a chipper smile, pouring my 
first drink in the crystal glass. I nodded my head and downed the drink, 
then hurled the glass across the room where it smashed against the bust of 
my father. 

I glanced up at her out of the comer of my eye to see if I was doing all 
right. She noticed nothing strange in my behavior. So far, so good, I 
thought, and went on with the meal. 

I removed the almonds from the Persian cakes and ate them, ignoring the rest 
as if it was poison. I offered her the Poussin, which was an innovation of 
my own, but she shook her head, saying it was most irregular. 

"Who runs this joint, anyway?" I barked. "I decide what's regular or not." 

She accepted the food and soon we were both eating and drinking heartily, 
guzzling the wine in long draughts and throwing the empty bottles to right 
and left. 

I was annoyed at not knowing her name, which proved a certain defect in 
Griffin's briefing, but she didn't mind my calling her different names with 
each drink. 

Soon I had her balanced precariously on my lap, playing with my beard and 
sipping from my glass. Her robust limbs flung carelessly over the blankets, 
unfolding her skirt to reveal the soft white thighs beneath. My monkish life 
during my apprenticeship had sharpened my desire and the sight of those 
healthy limbs excited the penis which had lain far too long dormant. 

While I regaled her with a joke I recalled rather vaguely, I situated one 
hand strategically under the folds of her skirt and began to fondle the firm 
flesh of her ass. I tried to remember the end of the story, but the wine and 
my preoccupation with finding the crack between her legs hindered my memory. 
In order to divert her attention I probed my other hand into her bosom. 

"Oh, Your Lordship, you're tickling me! Stop it, oh, tee hee...." 

I ceased the tickling only to extract one of the luscious fruits, a tit as 
white as snow and topped with a nipple redder than usual from my 
manipulation. 

I had only to bend my head a trifle to enclose the pap in my mouth. 

"And then, what did the lady say?" she asked, referring to my story. 

All she got for answer was the smacking of my lips on her titty. In any 
case, she cared as little as I did about the interrupted story. Her hand 
went beneath the blanket and found my tool in a high state of erection. 

We caressed each other for long delicious minutes, she with her eyes shut in 
bliss and I with a tongue busily engaged in worrying the lovely tit into 
excitement. Finally I stopped, and pointing to the crevice of her bosom and 
then to my cock, indicated what we should do next. 

In the state she was in, no second invitation was necessary. She held her 
tits together while I placed the cock in her cleft. Several times I ran it 
back and forth between the soft downy skin, butting her chin with the head 
and feeling my balls flop against the close-pressed nipples. 

When it struck her chin she let go of her tits and clutched my cock, holding 
it steady while she brought her crimson lips full over the bulge of the tip. 

"Now my turn," I said, and swung round to confront her legs spread akimbo 
over the bed. I pulled back the obstructing skirt and down on the panties. 
She raised her buttocks high, offering me her pussy to tongue and suck while 
she planted my rod as far as it would go in her throat. 

The room was filled with our lascivious lapping and sucking until both cock 
and cunt erupted the fiery sperm and mucous of passion. 

I realized the extent of my imprudence when the door swung open and an angry 
woman entered, blasting us both with a string of invective worthy of a 
seaman. 

With my face plunged deep in the opened cunt before me, it was impossible to 
invent any plausible excuse for my behavior and the blonde was choking on 
the member tapping her windpipe. 

Resigned therefore to take the wrath manfully, I removed my tongue from the 
dripping orifice and, wiping my mouth, looked up to see my accuser, forget 
ting the blonde who was endeavoring to dislodge my obstinate prick. 

The peripeteia of my job were enough to convince me that the life of a Grand 
Duke was far from simple. Helping the blonde to release herself, I sat up 
and shielded as much of her as I could. The spectacle must have been droll 
but I did what I could. I was seated on the belly of my partner, whose legs 
and mine ran off from what looked like the same starting point, which is to 
say, at the point where my prick hung limply down over her cunt. One may 
find in those curious tomes of the Middle Ages certain demons or monsters to 
whom we now bore a close resemblance. 

The intruder did not appreciate such things in the least. 

"You have a foul tongue," I said, trying to decide her relation to the Duke. 
It was plainly a case of jealousy and wounded vanity that I should be in bed 
with a servant. 

"Not half so foul as your own," she said, "from what I've seen." 

"Careful," I warned, "or I shall have you whipped." 

"There's no question of making up," she sneered. "Keep your love for the 
scullery!" 

She looked like a real fiery piece of ass, trembling and shaking in anger. 
First of all, it was her extraordinary breastworks which met the eye. After 
that it was difficult to have the eye roam anywhere else. I noticed that 
when she grew vehement they shook in rhythm with her lips, giving the 
impression they were hinged by invisible strings, in the manner of a 
marionette. Yet she was not at all fat-far from it, and her waist was 
thinner than it ought to be after the sight of the tits. Her hips flared out 
in a luscious S-curve, falling away on thighs which modulated finely down to 
her limbs, and the line wove gracefully to end in delicately turned ankles 
which hardly seemed capable of supporting her. Yes, a completely different 
category of female, rich in curves to whose provocation I could not long 
resist, and the bludgeon lying betwixt the blonde's thighs began to rise in 
homage. It poked its thick red head up at her like an impertinent child 
insulting its elder. She was grinding out the curses like a player piano, 
not letting me get in a single word of defense, when the erection growing up 
caught her eye. The mouth continued for a while but the eye never left the 
swelling thing and it seemed to dilate proportionally with my organ. The 
player piano ran down, dwindled to an innocuous mumble, and finally the only 
noise which came from her throat were suspicious gurgling sounds of 
unmistakable animal origin. I let her gaze like that for a moment or two and 
then gave her an invitation to come closer and talk matters over with me. 
Mechanically, as if she was thrown off her will, she did as I asked. When 
she was in arm's reach I caressed her head and then her formidable bubbies 
which fascinated me as much as my cock intrigued her. With a shudder, as if 
she hated herself for her weakness, she fell headlong on the stiff prick, 
grasping it tight in her hands and rubbing it against her cheeks with all 
the rapture of an infant and its lollypop. 

When I felt she had played with it long enough, I told her to strip and show 
me her wonderful tits. I have to confess that though my curiosity was 
genuine, the softness of her mouth and the expert way in which she sucked on 
my cock threatened to bring me to my climax before I wished. 

She was reluctant to leave it go, being of that particularly tempestuous 
type called Phallus-Worshipers. Highly volatile by nature, they literally 
explode when confronted with an erect male organ. Their dreams are not 
couched in the vague subterfuge of another, dreamier sort who find their 
voluptuous sensuality expressed in the banal symbols of snakes, pipes, 
horns, sticks, rams, pylons, towers, and skyscrapers. She was of the realist 
school, the true earthy devotees, who shy from sham and respond unfailingly 
at the original, the living, the present and throbbing male penis. 

Therefore, reluctant, as I said, to quit the tense, vital staff she had 
lubricated, she had become soft and manageable from desire and the once 
raving, henpecking female was transformed into the docile, loving instrument 
of my wishes. 

She undressed to her skin and I marveled at the excellent breadth and 
stamina of her bubbies, which dropped not an inch when she released her 
restraining brassiere. She had no need for special constructions, or of 
those spurious imitations of female charm in sponge rubber and elastic 
bands. 

I received her with open arms, stepping off the bed and relieving the blonde 
of my weight. I headed straight for those tits and began a lusty massage of 
their paps which made them grow long and hard. Our stomachs touched, sending 
delicious shivers through the contact of warm flesh. 

A libertine finger probed for her clitoris and throbbed it to and fro, 
working the appetite of her cunt until she begged me to put in my cock. 

She held herself poised like a statue, that I might take in to the full the 
bold outlines of her chest, but there was a limit to patience. I swung her 
around to give the blonde the thrill of seeing our coupling genitals. 

My new partner commanded Lola, as she called her, to get behind me and play 
with my balls. The blonde, happy at the change of heart and stimulated by 
the fornication taking place before her, jumped off the bed and proceeded to 
dally my balls with gusto, rubbing her cheeks over them and finally trying 
to grasp them in her mouth as they swung to and fro. 

The gurgling and rippling, the babble and splashing was music to my ears, 
and soon the nectar of love began to flow, culminating in the ardent spurts 
which drowned us in joy. 

Sighing and moaning, we sank to the floor, missing the blonde by a 
crotch-hair, who was so entranced with my balls. The door creaked open 
slightly and the enigmatic head of the Conte leaned in, a quizzical 
expression playing over his twitching mustache. 

"Splendido!" he cried. "Adultery! Corruzione! Che bella pischetta!" 

He threw his card at the woman in a romantic gesture, whispering as if I 
were not there "Sta sera, Cara ... Camera numero sette ... Ciao!" then 
disappeared with his bottle and briefcase for the library. 

The unknown woman, whom I suspected was a houseguest from a previous 
celebration, had to be lifted into bed, for she had not yet reached 
consciousness. I told the maid to have my correspondence brought in and 
climbed back into bed to enjoy the big warm titties of the adulteress. 

 CHAPTER FIVE 

Vladimir Iyitch Khratchevich, a tall, gaunt renegade of the Imperial Court, 
watched with wide, staring eyes behind the closet keyhole. An envoy of some 
insidious Countess I was soon to meet, he had, in the course of his 
espionage, unearthed a juicy tidbit of his own private life, for the 
lascivious woman in bed with me was none other than his wife. He bit his 
lips and cursed, observing her amorous comportment with secret delight. 
While my prick went back and forth into Madame Kratchevich's hole he rubbed 
his balls and cock with a singular ecstatic fury, keeping in rhythm with our 
movements, until, as if he had been perfectly synchronized, his prick 
ejaculated against the door when his wife clamped her thighs and shrieked 
her orgiastic release. 

With knees buckled in weakness his weeping eyes lifted once more to the 
keyhole. The creaking bedsprings warned that we had begun anew. Unable to 
ejaculate again, his cock chafed and sore from his hand, he rushed out of 
the closet and fell on us with great gasping sobs. Instinctively I recoiled 
from the attack, but the weak, spongy back of the masochist calmed my fears, 
and I would have readily left off screwing his wife except that she held me 
prisoner between her legs and frantically pumping torso. She fucked all the 
harder, in a rage of sadism, tearing and scratching at his tear-streaked 
cheeks and cursing him with long, choppy phrases, punctuating each stinging 
verbal assault with a violent grind of her groin. He lay as limp as a dummy, 
flopping over my copulating form, crying unashamedly to his "adored little 
Nadia" who tore at his hair with each endearment. The bitter tears of the 
outraged husband trickled into my hair, ran down my cheeks to drip into the 
volcanic orifice of his Nadia. 

He was like some wasted, crumbling moth, being consumed alive in the 
cannibal flames of her lust. 

"You scum! You shit!" was followed by "Nadia, Oh Nadia, Nadia, Nadia...." 

I began to feel like a communicant vessel between their irreconcilable 
depravities. Into the hornet's nest of Nadia's cunt my shaft plunged with 
redoubled vigor, exalting her voluptuous rhythm into its black, fiery 
paradise. Vladimir's body went soaring backward in the upheaval, coming to 
rest, a ridiculous cloth doll, against the headboard. 

Completely spent and exhausted from the emotional explosion, the three of us 
lay like stranded fish, drinking in the strange intensity of the moment. 

Recovering the first, I slipped out of Nadia's arms, leaving the weird 
couple to affront each other. 

Griffin was waiting with the morning correspondence and seemed impatient 
that I attend to it. 

"I'm in no mood for reading," I answered curtly, not having gotten Nadia and 
Vladimir out of mind. 

"But there is a luncheon date with the Countess Rubilovsky and the Duke 
never disobliges her." 

"Well he will this time," I answered, "I don't want to meet any more people 
for a while." 

"Sire, this liaison goes back to his father, a very delicate affair." 

"In that case we'll hire someone to fuck the old bag." 

"She is very jealous, and powerful people are at her command. We cannot risk 
trouble with her." 

"I say, Griffin, this can be a very tiring business; why can't we send Conte 
d'Avino as a good-will delegate? If the worse comes to worst he can invite 
her to camera numero sette." 

"I heard that!" barked the Conte's voice from the armchair in which he had 
been sleeping. "No thank you, Cosimo, Grazie tante, but she is your strictly 
personal affair. I wouldn't fuck that if it meant the Royal Academy. You had 
better go, because Kratchevich, her spy, is in the house." 

"Yes," chimed in the butler. "And he is as crafty as she." 

My protests were to no avail, for they knew the situation better than I and 
convinced me at last that the heinous Countess had to be appeased. 

I strode out of the house, cape flying and riding crop striking my thighs. 
The Hispano-Suiza turned over and I left to join the Countess. 

The uniformed gatekeeper recognized me with a low, respectful bow which 
nearly toppled his powdered wig from his head. Barely returning his 
greeting, I traversed the flagstone court with dragging steps, loitering 
before a statue of a beautiful nude whose cunt had been drilled and lined 
with fur. The gatekeeper blushed and tried to avoid my eyes. 

"The night watchman did that," he mumbled. 

Another servant in livery and wig conducted me through the halls, beneath a 
row of ponderous chandeliers and phallic candelabras. The rugs were woven in 
a hairy substance which resembled a dense pubic growth. All of the servants 
were men of fifty or more, each uglier than the other, but endowed with a 
massive bulge in the crotch. I wondered if it was they who had scribled the 
obscene verse than ran all the way up the walls to the second floor. 

"Aha, so this is the Countess Rubilovsky's palace!" 

I was halted before a door on which a gigantic penis, painted in life-like 
colors, sprang from the balls at the door and raced upward to the top with a 
mass of veins threading its surface, until the eye came to rest on the 
initial R reposing saucily on its tip. 

I heard a voice like scraping metal ask me to come in, and entering, was 
assailed by the cloying odor of opium. The Countess' head was buried in a 
mass of pillows, and only the long tip on her ivory opium pipe between two 
pudgy, deep-stained fingers betrayed its position. 

The arid locks of her wig jiggled as she nodded a grinning welcome. 

"Ah, mon tres cher Due," I heard the rasping voice say, "Comme je suis ravie 
de vous voir. How sweet of you not to have forgotten your `petit amour.` " 

I advanced gingerly to the bed, trying to find the correct phrases to 
palliate the old dame who was playing coquette. 

Her general coloration was of some sick shade between mouse-gray and tinge 
of pus. There was not a single hair in her eyebrows, and two jagged black 
lines traced their existence halfway up her forehead, giving her an air of 
perpetual shock. Her nose and cheeks were veined like a cabbage leaf over 
which thick, crusted layers of powder cracked and fell as she spoke. The 
mouth was like a gangrenous wound in which her black teeth swam in the most 
unsavory juices. 

"Come, sit next to me and tell me what naughty little Dukichins has been up 
to these last days. Come, mon petit, and tell me of your awful deeds." 

Good God, I thought how on earth can the Duke get himself to fuck THAT! Must 
have been one of those one makes in youth. 

"Now, now, little cheater," she croaked, "come and tell mama all about it. 
Now weren't you with that big-titted Nadia this morning? For shame! Come and 
confess, because Mama knows all!" 

Her venom was ill-concealed and I realized that Griffin had been right, she 
could be a terrible enemy. "Well, but really," I lied, "I was seduced." 

She shot me a look of vehemence that convinced me it was worthless to keep 
up the farce. It was then I noticed the peculiar hump in the bed just where 
her crotch ought to be. Waving the opium fumes away, I seized the sheets and 
pulled them down. Between her gnarled limbs there projected the stub of a 
huge leather cock, jabbed in as far as it could go in the smelly reaches of 
her orifice. The tool was as hideous as herself, studded with thick, 
wart-like nodules, which provided her jaded cunt with extra thrills. The 
fat, hard lips of her pussy seemed to be made of the same old leather as the 
phony dick. 

"Pigskin!" I snorted in disgust. "You should talk, accusing me of 
infidelity!" 

She cringed in humiliation, the artificial prick denting her belly. Her 
voice took on a ludicrous whine of apology. 

"Dukichins, don't, don't make me suffer. You know I can't be without it. I 
just can't stand it empty." 

"Even so, you ought to let it air out once in a while. That thing is going 
putrid in there." 

"You are too upset," she answered, "you must take a drag of this." 

She handed the opium pipe over to me, after taking a long, intense pull on 
the weed. 

I decided to try it, eager to escape the sordid reality. A sudden warmth of 
pleasure invaded my nerves, accompanied by a strange singing choir in my 
brain. The windows seemed to shoot up into endless space, taking with them 
the dancing wallpaper of scarlet cherries ballooned into watermelons. The 
floor began to sag under my feet, and yet my weight diminished into nothing 
as if I were bobbing in the bosom of a tepid lake. The Countess' face 
stretched and flattened into bulbous, undulating shapes, swelling her cheeks 
into buttocks with a wide, painted anus. The veins and powder seemed to 
splinter into the rambling fissures of a ruined wall, and when she spoke 
they wriggled on her skin like a pile of tortured snakes. 

Slowly her ugliness vanished as she became less and less real, evolving into 
a series of erotic pictures swimming around my eyes. Her voice itself 
tinkled like fragile crystal, coming in on my senses at times like distorted 
music of an ancient phonograph. Everything seemed to partake of the same 
sweet softness, rolling and coiling in a veiled promiscuity. Her face 
floated toward me, sometimes revealing a glittering eye through the mists, 
then paling away into vague fumes of ether. Was she touching me? I did not 
know. Rather it seemed I was being folded into a slippery envelope which 
stole around my softness like a cloud. 

Suddenly the atmosphere grew dense, crushing me from all sides, in a 
gigantic, palpitating wall of pink, glistening like humid mucous with a 
thousand ridges of pulp, caressing me lightly at first, then, growing 
enamored, increasing their pressure until they throbbed in a mounting 
passion over evely inch of my skin. From between my legs an answering 
turgescence rose to meet the ethereal sheath, drawing the rest of me with it 
to feed its growing flesh. I felt myself lifted suddenly and bolted 
headlong, like an arrow, through the surging mass, flying madly at its heart 
where I burst into hot, spinnning balls of fire showering into the night. 

A rasping voice echoed in my ears, crying a woman's name with hatred, a name 
I did not know. "Sonia! Sonia!" the voice repeated, and the bitter venom 
with which it spewed the name brought me brutally back to consciousness. 

The Countess was sputtering with rage, a jealous twinge tweaking her ugly 
mouth as she spoke, sweeping away the last vestige of my dream...." Never 
see that Sonia again, promise!" 

I nodded hazily in agreement, thinking only of getting away. Her plans were 
different, however, and I saw there was no chance of leaving. 

I pleaded hunger, fatigue, neurasthenia, impotency, and finally syphilis, 
first stage. She would have none of it. She dreaded nothing, and craved 
cock. Oh God, I cried inwardly, what must I not do for the house of 
Beaucouillon! I read aloud, as a further pretext for delay, the Spanish text 
engraved over her bed: 

En este luger sagrado Por donde pasa tanta gente Saca fuerzas cobarde Y 
secagh elmos valiente. 

I heard her removing the dildo, heard it drop on the other side on the floor 
with a heavy, sodden sound. She leaned back with a grotesque leer of triumph 
and expectation, emitting tender sighs that broke into wheezes. She held a 
tit in one hand and with the other extracted a long wire curl from the pap. 
I heard her scratch herself in the different uncomfortable regions of her 
carcass. 

Her nose came between my buttocks, and caressed my anus with long, fragrant 
breathing. An unexpected fart brought an ecstatic answer from her lips. That 
fart inadvertently saved my prick. 

The heinous Countess implored me to give her a good "juicy one." Her head 
lay beneath my ass, mouth opened wide, compressed on my asshole. 

I left her, a quarter of an hour later, lighting her opium, feeing a strange 
mixture of disgust and relief. 

"At least," I thought, as the Hispano-Suiza drove me home, "at least I had a 
good bowel movement...." Griffin said I acted nobly and the Duke would not 
forget me. 

"Let the matter drop," I answered, "I am disappointed with his connections." 

"You shouldn't be," he replied, "you have just had the bitter. You will soon 
have the sweet ... Tonight you will sleep with your wife." 

 CHAPTER SIX 

"My wife!" 

"Yes, Sire, your wife." 

"You never told me I had a wife!" 

"Whoever speaks about wives? In this respect the Duke is quite like other 
men." 

I paced the floor in agitation and discomfort. 

"Where has she been all this time? What is she doing? It's not normal for a 
wife to be so absent!" 

"She is with her mother, Your Grace. I think there was a dispute, begging 
your pardon. While you were at the Countess' a telegram came saying she 
would be home tonight." 

"Is that so? Why hasn't she written? Away all that time and not a word, not 
even a postcard. What's wrong? Doesn't she love me any more? I tell you, 
Griffin, the little bitch has gone and gotten herself a lover. I can smell 
the bastard!" 

"No, Sire, you must not take on so. Treat her cold, like the Duke. It's the 
only way to keep them hot." 

"Tell me, Griffin, is she good-looking?" 

"Oh, like that, Sire!" He described the curving shape of a female with his 
hands. It seemed to me his tongue was hanging a little too far out in 
homage. 

"That will do, Griffin. I'll ring for you later." 

Alone in my study I paced the floor, smoking endlessly, consuming shot after 
shot of cognac, brooding on my marital condition. All the gaiety went out of 
me, chased also, it must be admitted, by the luncheon affair with the 
Countess. 

"Things are getting rotten around here," I groaned. The paintings turned 
drab, the gold lost its glint, and I might have been, for all the difference 
it would have made, striding the gloomy halls of a funeral parlor. "Conjugal 
love!" I shivered at the idea. 

I ransacked the closets to find new clothing, something bright, to help 
change my mood. I tossed out uniform after uniform, stopping at one which 
suddenly caught my imagination. It was of deep scarlet, lined with ermine, 
covered with braid and bore the mark of a Moscow tailor. 

"Tiens," I thought, "that's funny. I didn't know the Duke was a Cossack." I 
searched through the others, examining the marks of origin, and discovered 
it was a collection from every cavalry unit in Europe. 

"I shall don myself as a Don Cossack tonight. Might as well greet the little 
woman in style." 

Whatever Griffin thought when he saw me, his red face gave no clue. 

"Thank you, Griffin, for your courtesy. It's Russian night tonight. Send up 
vodka and herrings, have sad music play, and break a window downstairs now 
and then." 

"We have no more vodka. Our last delivery was a Balkan thing: Slivovitz, 
Ouzo, and Retzina." 

"No vodka," I groaned. "What a day this is! Send up the Slivovitz then, 
drink the Ouzo, and bum the Retzina." 

He went out to hire a bunch of Bulgar musicians and I settled back with my 
bottles to wait for my spouse. 

I kept the door open so that I could see her from a distance as well as hear 
the plaintive melodies better. Time passed, I finished one bottle, and got 
sadder and sadder. 

Then, when I was considering the bottle I would honor next, I heard the 
sharp clicking of high heels. I grabbed the nearest bottle, rammed the neck 
down on the table and bolted a shot down. 

A gorgeous redhead leaned over the threshold and smiled. She was covered 
with diamonds and gold. 

"May I come in?" 

"She IS beautiful, I thought, feeling the sadness fall away. 

"But my dear," I cried, "of course you may! What a question!" 

She offered her hand to be kissed, and I did so, for protocol is protocol, 
even between man and wife. 

"Why all the gloom?" she asked. "They have the saddest group downstairs. 
Just to see them makes you cry." 

"Oh," I replied, "a whim, my dear, just a whim. When I am lonely I like to 
feel it to the core. But now that you're back I feel much better." 

I put my arm around her familiarly, the way any husband would, but it seemed 
to give her a start. She's not used to me yet, I thought, been away too 
long. 

"Come, my pet," I said, "take off things and I'll give you a real hello." 

"Why ... the idea!" she replied, looking really shocked. 

"Pish and tosh," I said. "Pooh, pooh, pooh, come little sugar bun, don't be 
shy. I know it's been a long time, but even so...." 

"Whatever in the world are you trying to do?" she asked anxiously. I was 
steering her to the bed, my hand already under her skirt, feeling her ass. 

"Now don't be bashful. Perhaps you'd rather I undress you?" 

I didn't wait for her answer, since the male has got to be forceful when his 
wife is shy, and lifted her skirt up. She brought her hands down to hold it 
back and her face was livid with anger. 

The momentary lifting of the skirt had shown me more than I needed under the 
circumstances. Beneath the transparent panties the triangular patch was 
clearly visible and the shape of her hips well defined against the 
background. 

"My darling," I panted, "don't stop me, for heaven's sake, don't stop me. 
You know you love it, why resist?" 

"But this is vile, an outrage! Do you hear, an outrage! Stop what you're 
doing this minute!" 

What kind of a woman had the Duke married? I couldn't believe my ears. I 
became angry in my turn, though now, looking back on it all, I know I was 
racked with lust. 

I threw her to the bed, loving her kicking legs which threw her skirts back 
and revealed once more the adorable little pussy hiding in her pants. My 
Cossack trousers here proved of inestimable value. Those gallant riders wore 
flies with flaps which no doubt served the very purpose to which I put my 
own. No more than a shake of my hip was needed and my cock was out straight, 
brandished hard and powerful against the hairy slit my brutal hand 
uncovered. She hammered and pounded on my shoulders and head but the 
irresistible force in my loins drove the head into place, after which it was 
a simple matter for the rest of the shaft to slide in. How good it was! How 
rich a sensation, the voluptuous ride into the warmth and the moist, the 
sensual peace inside and the wild beating all around! Again and again I 
forced my spear in and gradually the beating subsided, the yelling died down 
and from tearing my hair she turned to caressing it. Soon sighs of pleasure 
came forth and the struggling legs gave up and closed gently round me, and 
her hips met mine with each entry until the bed creaked in a steady rhythm 
of her total and willing surrender. 

The Cossack pants shivered and trembled in the orgasm. She pulled me in as 
tight as she could with her arms and her legs, as if fearing to lose a drop 
of the hot bath I shot into her. 

From afar I heard the mournful notes of a sad chant of the steppes. The moon 
was high, splintered in eerie shapes on the panes, fire crackled in the 
chimney and the world and I were at peace once more. 

 CHAPTER SEVEN 

"Do you realize you left the door open?" 

"What do we care, honey? We're married." 

"Married?" she cried. "Are you mad?" 

Something so genuine in her voice made me start. "Well," I asked simply, 
"aren't we?" 

"Good heavens!" she exclaimed. 

"Good God, you're NOT my wife!" 

"How do you dare have the effrontery to do this to me when she might walk in 
at any moment?" 

"Better get up," I said, "I was just thinking the same thing." 

She adjusted her clothing while I poured out some drinks. 

"By the way," I asked, "was there anything special you wanted to see me 
about?" 

"It was you yourself who invited me! I do believe something is wrong with 
you, Cosimo. Don't you remember the St. George Night?" 

"Oh that's it, yes, hmm, the St. George Night, yes, why, hmm, of course...." 

By Jove, I thought, what in the name of Christ is a St. George Night? 

"You've lost your mind!" she accused. 

"Oh no, oh no, my dear, you mustn't think that, I am hardly so light-headed. 
The little lady is coming back, back, tonight and I just couldn't 
concentrate on St. George." 

"You weren't concentrating on her either, a moment ago!" she said with 
biting sarcasm. 

"Ah, infidelity, infidelity! Such a curse ... And I try my best!" 

"You sniveling Don Juan!" 

She was going to tell me a few more things about my character, suffering 
from wounded pride, but the unmistakable sound of another pair of high heels 
coming down the corridor interrupted her. 

"Oh Christ, that's her now!" I cried. "For God's sake, don't let her catch 
you here!" 

She was as alarmed as I was, for her clothing was wrinkled in a telltale 
manner. She fled into the next room as the new heels stopped at the doorway. 
"Cosimo?" 

"Yes, dear! Ah, what a joy it is to see you at last!" A tall brunette 
confronted me. I felt a moment's hesitation about taking her in my arms 
because of my first mistake, but it didn't look right for a husband to be so 
cold on such an occasion, so I took the bull by the horns, so to speak, and 
kissed her. 

"My," she said, "but you're getting familiar!" 

Oh, oh, I thought, another visitor for the St. George Night, and was glad I 
had controlled my impetuous nature. 

"Why," I asked, as a feeler, "aren't you in the family?" 

"Of course, I am, silly!" 

Ah! That's my wife. No doubt about it, they always call their husbands that. 
I looked her up and down, and found her quite as nice as the first Grand 
Duchess, though her hair was slightly gray in places. The Duke had married 
an older woman. A very wise move, I thought. She is more stable, more 
learned, easier to deal with. 

"You haven't changed a bit," I said, smiling warmly at her bust. 

"You're a darling, Cosimo, just a dear. I know you don't mean it, but it's 
sweet of you just the same." 

"I do mean it," I answered. "I am sincere. I've never seen you looking 
better!" 

For all the lying I had to do, I certainly told a lot of truth. 

This time I closed the door. 

"Let's not waste any more time," I cried, my voice thick with passion. "At 
last we are alone and I can do what I want with you. Think not of me in any 
way but as a lover. Forget laws and papers, certificates and taboos, and 
give yourself up to me." 

It was a pretty speech, I thought, which would have melted the heart of the 
most difficult wife, flattered to feel that her charms had not diminished 
after years of conjugal life. 

She laughed as if she were highly amused. 

"I am afraid, dear Cosimo, that those taboos are far too strong." 

"Nonsense! Sheer absurdity! We are a lover and his lass! All the rest is 
trash!" 

"Cosimo, you've been drinking!" 

"Tut, tut, my dear, a few harmless drops ... Oh, how I love you!" 

"You're absolutely drunk!" 

"If you think my ardor is false, that it comes from bottles instead of 
testicles...." 

"You don't know what you're saying. Come, come, behave." 

Ah, so she was the cold, intellectual type. Perhaps, for all I knew, she 
ruled the Duke with an iron hand. With a flip, I released the hardened penis 
from its prison, presenting it to her startled gaze with a cry. 

"Does that look drunk to you?" I asked. "Does it? Answer me. Can you doubt 
my feelings?" 

She looked at the adamant bone in a mixture of shock, confusion, fear, and 
ill-concealed desire. 

Not content with letting her see it, and counting on the inflammatory 
sensation of touch, I placed her hand on it. Her lips parted in unmistakable 
emotion for the turgid phallus. I fell on her with wild caresses, storming 
the confines of her dress, aggravating her breasts and thighs with fingers 
now expert in their work. Elastic, silk, lace and nylon gave way before the 
amorous attack. Her dress, low cut in the back, offered a simple solution of 
stripping. The garter belt and panties went to the floor dragging her 
stockings brusquely with them. She floundered beneath the ferocious 
impetuosity which reduced her resistance to nothing and her thighs spread 
out before me, abandoning the channel of love to Priapus. I dropped the 
trousers, wishing this time to feel our nakedness everywhere. 

Before spreading wide the mucous-covered mound, I lapped my tongue fervently 
in the crotch, breathing in the pungent odor of her sex until, half-crazed 
with its excitation, I jammed the rammer-head through the soft humidity. 

We came together. Her cries and moans drowned all else out in my ears. I 
smothered her with grateful kisses, then rose to fortify myself for a second 
assault. She lay spread out over the bed, awaiting, murmuring her pleasure. 

The second time I had her on her hands and knees, and with my hands over her 
buttocks, placed the staff at the very tip of her cunt hairs and let it play 
lightly, tantalizing the sensitive region with its suggestive movements. 

Such was our position when a knock on the door destroyed the mood and threw 
her into a panic. 

"Darling," I cried, "there is nothing to fear; what is more natural than 
that I be with my wife?" 

"Wife? Good heavens, that is probably your wife now at the door!" 

I helped her gather up the scattered clothing, as panicky as she. 

"One moment," I remembered to shout. "Be right there." 

I escorted her through the door where the redhead had dodged, imagining the 
strange reunion that would take place, jumped into bed and said "Come in" in 
as ordinary a voice as I could manage. 

 CHAPTER EIGHT 

It was no third candidate for wife-hood that entered, but my faithful 
butler, supporting with one arm the red-eyed Vladimir whom he dragged into 
the room and deposited in a chair. 

"He is inconsolable," said Griffin dryly. "His wife had run away." 

"This is great," I said, ironically. "His runs away and mine walks in every 
twenty minutes with a different face. Go ahead, take a look for yourself, if 
you don't believe me. I've got a first-class harem starting up in that 
room." 

"Good lord!" he exclaimed, his puffy eyes opening wide. Vladimir looked up 
and, seeing the butler at the keyhole, rose by a conditioned reflex to do 
the same. 

"Well," I asked, "what is it? Polygamy?" 

"You mean you slept with both of them?" 

"We didn't sleep," I retorted testily, "we hardly had time to screw! What's 
more, I am sure they are impostors." 

Vladimir looked up from the keyhole. 

"They are not impostors," he said, wiping his eyes. "One is your Aunt 
Tillimond von Moyle, and the other your cousin Ulla di Fantina." 

"Incest," mumbled Griffin. 

"Ignorance," I replied. 

"Ignoble," countered Vladimir. 

"Intrigue!" I barked back at him. "What are you doing here in my house? I've 
had enough of your prying eyes and prattling mouth! If you...." 

"One moment, Sire," cautioned Griffin. "Let me handle him. He is a very 
sensitive man." 

As if to prove my butler's assertion, tears began to flow once more down 
Vladimir's soggy cheeks. 

"What a bore you are," I cried. "Your wife is a little bitch, a two-bit 
slut, and you carry on as if she were the paragon of virtue!" 

Whatever Vladimir was going to reply, and it didn't look like it would be 
anything sweet, he was interrupted by the Conte's head through the open 
door. 

"Anything for camera sette?" he asked, looking around the room for a woman. 

"Go in there," I said. "There's a couple of relatives I don't need. And if 
you're through with her, I wish you'd give Vladimir back his Nadia." 

The Conte whisked into the room where Aunt Tillimond and Cousin Ulla were 
sitting nervously, waiting for events to take their course. 

"Bravo! Bravo!" I heard him cry, "Arohi-bravo! Una grand festa fa 
prepara...." 

Vladimir turned on his heels and followed the horny Conte into the room, 
intent on retrieving his wayward wife. 

"What are they all doing here?" I asked Griffin. "Why can't I get my real 
wife?" 

"They are part of the welcoming party, Sire. There will be more very 
shortly." 

"Why the devil do I have to pump things out of you? What party are you 
talking about?" 

"For your wife, Sire. She dislikes returning to an empty house and asked all 
her friends to be here when she comes. I came to inform you that it's time 
for you to go down and receive them." 

"I am not a social man," I answered. "So just go back down and tell them I'm 
ill." 

"Neither is the Duke, but one has to put up with these things." 

Griffin induced me to "play the game" as he called it, strengthening my 
resolve with liberal doses of Slivovitz. 

"But, you're not going to appear in THAT!" he cried, pointing with misgiving 
at my Cossack pants. 

"Fuck protocol," I snarled. "I like these pants. I feel at home in them." 

"Sometimes," he said, "you are SO much like the Duke...." 

Out on the Grand Staircase I looked down on a scene of magnificence, of 
hundreds of people chatting in a busy hum, dressed in tuxedos and evening 
gowns, and realized that my wife was a social climber. 

The Bulgars had been replaced by a thirty-piece orchestra which struck up 
the regal theme of Handel's Water Music as I descended. Everyone snapped to 
attention and waited with respect for the Grand Duke to enter their midst. 
Perhaps I didn't show it-I made a tremendous effort to conceal it-but my 
head was reeling from the Slivovitz, and my feet wobbled unsteadily on the 
marble steps. 

"Keep your dignity," I kept repeating to myself. "Keep your dignity." 

That I did not fall was a miracle. I took three steps on sliding heels but 
caught up in time on the fourth and they never noticed a thing because it 
fell right in with the music. The fanfare ceased at the bottom step and gave 
way to a round of applause which I acknowledged by a bow that nearly rolled 
me over. Everything was whirling in my head, and I shook hands with a dozen 
people at a time, or so it looked to me. Diamonds, followed by rubies, 
pearls, and jewels too numerous to mention flashed by in quick succession. 

However impressive the wealth in that room, it was no more than decoration 
to me. The sparkling gems set off the enigmatic beauty of soft female flesh, 
the seductive decollate of the bosoms of the marquises, the duchesses, the 
wives of earls and of viscounts, of Knights of the Garter, Pythias and 
Columbus, all the ravishing companions of laird, seignior, and margrave, the 
most titled aristocracy that ever bore cordon, coronet, star and garter, 
proud and lofty in their bearing, as they did me reverence in my turn. 

Oh the ringlets and curls of wavy blonde hair, the chignons of henna and 
sable, of coquettish bangs tracing their frivolous lines over the alabaster 
skin, white as driven snow, touched artfully with a dab of rouge, of a hint 
of powder and the whole resumed in the heady odors of musk which emanated 
like an aura of libido around each silhouette. 

"Charmed," 

"My deah," 

"So nice to see you again," 

"Delighted," 

"Your Ladyship," 

"Madame," 

"Chere Madame." Round in the tourbillon I swam, dizzy, with dark, sensual 
eyes staring at me beneath long, silky lashes like caressing feathers, 
buoying me up in a constellation of volatile bodies. 

The promise of scandal bubbled and whispered in the rustle of their gowns, 
seemed the very core of their cosmos, as corporeal, as fleshly incarnate as 
themselves. 

"Prepare a spread for these people," I said to the ever-present Griffin as 
he held me from falling. "And let go of my arms. I'm perfectly at ease." 

"The tables are already set, Your Lordship. I do hope you're well." 

"Leave go of me," I said, angered that he should think me so weak. "And 
bring in more Slivovitz." 

I probably would have collapsed were it not for my wounded vanity at finding 
myself supported in my butler's arms, yet I had pushed my bravado to the 
limit and was the first to arrive at the tables and start the consumption of 
alcohol. 

My folly was soon public knowledge. The trumpets announced the Grand Duchess 
and the front doors swung open with a flourish for her and her coterie of 
dames to sweep brilliantly into the ballroom. 

"Your wife is here, Sire." 

"Ah! At last. Where is she? Whesh tha litta woman?" 

The last thing I saw was Griffin's horrified face and my wife's scandalized 
eyes, as I sank, sweetly drunk, to the floor. 

The Spanish tongue received a major alteration through the defective speech 
of a king. That night, a similar homage, albeit on a lesser scale, was paid 
to the Grand Duke de Beaucouillon, when the aristocracy followed their 
leader's move to the floor. Not a soul was standing in the house as long as 
I remained in the prone position. 

Though they were greatly handicapped to dance the mazurkas and polkas struck 
up by the orchestra, they did their best. Griffin succeeded in reviving me 
with smelling salts and when I saw the couples weaving on the floor I 
presumed I had not yet come to my senses. This presumption was to have a 
regrettable repercussion on the events that followed. 

The Grand Duchess had fled the ballroom in mortification. My first 
inclination was to get up and seek her out, but when I noticed a forlorn 
wallflower lying alone, watching the couples enviously, I slithered up to 
her and invited her to dance. 

She was very young, a princess of the Crimea, as she said-one of the few who 
did not know me. She had long, almond eyes that fluttered coyly when she 
spoke. She was a virgin without a doubt, clad in white with a collar 
buttoned chastely up to her neck. 

I began on my side like all the others but found it less comfortable than 
when I shifted atop her. My prick, finding itself in a familiar position, 
which generally meant only one thing, flew through the flap and wobbled 
around her cunt, hidden beneath the voluminous gown. 

It was all very new to her and very agreeable. 

Looking around and seeing the general absorption in the dance, I took the 
liberty of pushing up her skirts as we moved, adroitly, so as to keep her in 
the dark. All was going with precision until my heart sank on discovering 
that instead of panties she was wearing old-fashioned bloomers. I would have 
given up, had not the head of my cock blundered against a hard round object 
which I identified as a button. The ancient garment was fitted with a fly. 
One cannot question the customs of other countries: I accepted the oddity 
with sang-froid, concentrating on poking the hot meat-head around till it 
would find the space between the first and second button. The bloomer fly 
formed an odd cloth-cunt over my prick and served as a guide to the warm, 
fleshy one below. 

The raptures of the dance I did over her pubic region showed in the glow 
that came to her cheeks. Not that she knew what was happening-she was far 
too innocent for that, and probably assumed the others were doing the same. 

The mazurka was obliging long and tres mouvementee. Under its influence I 
pushed gently, delicately, and the rude male instrument performed the most 
weightless, the most ethereal fuck of its career. So tender, as if it 
weighed not an ounce, it literally teased the obstructing hymen out of 
existence, rending it as if it were a wisp of gossamer. 

The sperm waltzed into the green vagina as the final notes of the music died 
away. I kissed my prostrate partner and sprang to my feet, my cock slinging 
back through the flap, warm in my groins from the sensual dance and revived 
to full strength once more. 

Everyone rose with me, dusting each other and laugh ing with one accord, 
highly amused at the novelty. A stocky general with sideburns noticed the 
Princess still lying where I left her, and since he was an underling I 
commanded him to take her to the rest room. 

"I believe," I whispered in his ear as he lifted her in his arms, "I believe 
the fumes on my breath were rather strong." 

He nodded assent dumbly, pulling down her disarranged gown to make her 
presentable and carried her out. I'm sure he noticed the blood on her 
bloomers, but since I was above suspicion, he took it for her period, and 
had a maid provide her with a box of sanitary napkins. 

I inquired to right and left for my elusive spouse, but no one knew where 
she had gone. 

"On with the dance," I cried, solicitous of my guests' pleasure who were 
ready to join in my search. 

I ran up the stairway, overjoyed that at last she and I would be alone. I 
tried to recall her face but all that came to mind was the cupid bow of her 
lips. 

"Oh well, no matter," I reasoned. "She'll recognize 

 CHAPTER NINE 

The intimate boudoir of the Grand Duchess was sacrosanct and forbidden to 
males, including her husband. In the soft lights of the drawing-room where 
she received her visitors were a dozen oir so of her ladies-in-waiting and 
most personal friends. They walked about on the thick rug, which their long 
slender heels marked with the firmness of their step. 

Some were powdering their faces, adjusting their corsages and stockings in 
all the careless liberty of women alone amongst themselves. 

The charming sight aided my patience to wait for my wife, which they 
insisted I must do. I sat down on the sofa and watched then enthralled. 

So many bosoms, I thought, so many thighs and lovely legs, so many this and 
that which unfailingly assails the masculine temperament and provokes it in 
a thousand different ways. 

The blood began to pump in my veins, notably in the region of my pubes, not 
yet dry with the tiny drops of the virgin's blood. 

There was no intention of infidelity on my part, nor perhaps any outward 
design on my susceptibility on theirs, and yet the lubricity of their 
movements was like secret messages to consort with their pleasures. 

"Excuse me," I began, addressing a succulent brunette who was refitting her 
brassiere in place, "I seem to have forgotten your name." 

"Oh, Cosimo," she answered, "what a buffoon you are!" 

Crap, I thought, another member of the family! The De Beaucouillons simply 
abounded in females. 

"My dear," I said, pressing closer and looking slyly into her eyes, "we 
mustn't be so serious all the time. You must laugh now and then or you will 
become as stiff as Uncle Hubert there." 

The sober-faced portrait I referred to hung over the mantel. The uncle in 
question had acquired the harmless but characteristic malady of somber 
natures in the nobility called ptosis, or inability to raise the upper 
eyelid. The portrait represented faithfully the brow sunk heavily over the 
old voyeur's eyes, and brought her to laughter immediately. 

Someone else joined in the discussion of sad Uncle Hubert and shortly the 
girls and I were laughing about many things unrelated to the ancestor. 

In the course of things, one who was in her negligee complained of a 
draught. I picked up the phone and spoke to the superintendent. 

"Start up the furnaces." 

"Now?" came the surprised voice. 

"Of course now, we're freezing up here. The only people comfortable are 
those with clothes on." 

The massive pipes of the heating system whirred into action and the wall 
thermometers began to rise slowly in unison. Warm, relaxing waves of heat 
began to circulate amongst the charming circle, raising body temperatures 
and libido as well. This latter could be gauged by the increased gaiety and 
freer movements of their legs and arms. The talk was the glib and catty 
chatter of females alone, for they so outnumbered me that I hardly 
interfered with the feminine quality of the surroundings. 

I might have learned a good deal about the private lives of many a duchess 
and countess were I not so occupied devouring with my eyes every advantage 
they offered to view. But not for long was I content merely to gaze on them. 
A big blonde in a pink slip bent down before me to adjust a garter, her 
curving buttocks provokingly grazing my cheek. Perhaps, I thought to myself, 
as my nose pressed into the soft silk draped over the lovely spheres, 
perhaps she is a cousin of mine. The aroma of her flesh came through the 
fine fibers, of a sweetness so overwhelming and intoxicating that I nearly 
lost my head, but she was saved from assault by her own escaping movement 
and the unexpected proximity of a pair of tits half-exposed to view. My 
disappointment at losing the perfumed ass was atoned for in part by the 
smaller globes at hand. Yet, here again, as I made for them, to feel their 
tender fruits, they eluded my grasp and followed their owner into the crowd. 

I bore the taunting and teasing manfully, but no amount of will-power 
sufficed to put down the vitalization that flamed through my love-staff. 
Their numbers increased as other guests came in to refresh themselves and 
learn the latest gossip of the salons. The newcomers were unaware of my 
presence, for I was literally swamped and hidden from view and even 
half-forgotten by those who had received me. The talking went on at a 
furious pace, consuming their entire attention and interest. A discussion 
began about the questionable virtue of a certain Comtesse de Montaucul whom 
I did not know and I, the lost male, might stray between two jabbering 
females as much as if I were invisible for all the notice I received. 
Feeling rather a social failure for not having been capable of retaining 
their interest in my person, I began to run my hands across thighs and 
asses, fondling small waists, the curve of a hip and even managed to toy 
with the nipple of one who impatiently pushed me aside to drive home her 
point in the argument with her neighbor. 

My fury mounted, spurred by wounded vanity and my aggravated groins. The 
blonde whose asshole had smelled so sweet was combing her hair and 
haranguing another blonde who had criticized the color of her tresses. I 
advanced through the crowd as oblivious of them as they were of me, intent 
on one thing: the blonde target of my lust. 

My cock was out, flipping and sliding across the buttocks that opposed my 
path caressing that organ involuntarily with their voluptuous billows. I 
came up against her and immediately nuzzled my rod between the desired 
cheeks. Over her shoulder I saw the red lips of the other moving 
mechanically in the steady stream of conversation. Kneeling slightly, I 
reached for the hem of the slip and lifted it to her waist. I felt her soft 
belly, warm and fuzzy to the touch, and just below it the beginning of her 
crotch-hairs. I ran my fingers through their midst, feeling for the 
cunt-lips they concealed. Her shoulders rotated with the regular rhythm of 
her combing and she parted her legs unconsciously for the pleasurable 
sensations of my caressing fingers. It was enough to allow the male rod 
entry between her thighs. I brought my hands back and grasped the spongy 
mass of her cheeks and spread them apart to reveal the tiny aperture of her 
anus nestled securely in her crack. The head of the organ I buttressed 
against the muscle of the hole, so like a puckered mouth in appearance, and 
bracing myself for the effort, shoved it through in one sudden mighty heave. 
So great was the blow that it parted the resisting anus and slithered into 
her bowels right up to the hilt without stopping an instant. The surprise 
and smoothness of my attack was really remarkable. Her arm rested motionless 
in mid-air, comb poised, like a statue, staring at her friend with wide-open 
eyes and suspended jaw. The other had no idea of what had happened and, 
presuming from the rather stupid stare that she had won her point in the 
argument, redoubled the flow of words. 

I pulled back the shaft till the nub reached the restraining ring of the 
anus and then let it slide forward again. These first luscious sensations in 
her bowels held her a willing prisoner to my lust. No doubt there was the 
added thrill of our secret fornication in the midst of all her friends which 
spiced the physical delights of our contact. 

In order to make sure we should not be noticed I put my hands in my pockets 
and gazed distractedly around the room, shoving in and out from time to time 
in the casual manner of one standing on a street comer rocking back and 
forth on the balls of his feet, waiting for the light to change. 

She, in her turn, resumed her combing and found thereby a ready pretext for 
moving her ass in time with my rocking. 

"I simply cannot abide the vulgar person," I heard someone say close by. For 
one terrible moment I imagined the reference was addressed to me, that 
someone had discovered our scandalous act; but turning, I saw that I had 
merely caught the fragment of a conversation revolving around somebody 
else's morals. The dissolute, painted eye of a woman in her mid-forties, 
rather portly and ample-breasted, met my own. With the light of recognition 
in that eye, she made her way to my side and addressed me. 

"But, my dear Duke," she began, "How perfectly divine to meet you again 
after all these years! And to think that we should find ourselves once more 
in a dressing room." 

I managed a rather tame smile, for at the very moment my thick erection was 
spewing rich flows of sperm in the blonde's bowels. It was impossible to 
rein myself in and check the tide. For that matter, the blonde herself was 
moaning deliriously, straining with all her might to keep her cries down at 
a decent level. 

"De-de-ooh, deelighted," I nearly screamed. "Delighted indeed to see you! 
How have you BEEN!" 

On the last word I gave my final shove and grasped the raised hand of the 
newcomer and kissed it passionately as the flood raced through the clamped 
cheeks of the blonde. 

"Oh, ever gallant!" cried the other, "toujours galant!" 

"Aah," I sighed, "ah, what a PLEASURE to see you, what a pleasure-you'll 
never know. What a pleasure!" 

The trouble was the difficulty in turning full face to her as is properly 
done when meeting people, but fortunately I had adequate excuse for being 
rammed up tight against the blonde in the crowded quarters. However, when I 
began to extract the muceous-laded shaft the dissolute eye glared downward 
and too late I saw that it beheld the swollen member. It widened 
considerably at the sight, leaving no doubt as to the effect on her 
emotional being. 

The eye glanced up again and looked into my own and I thought I saw a rapid 
wink. Whether that was so or not, her hand stole forward to the cock and she 
grasped it firmly in her fist and, giving it a jerk, helped me to remove it 
from the blonde. Her other hand was in the process of lifting her skirts, 
and with the two acts, accomplished simultaneously, she shoved my prick 
directly into her cunt, so that I didn't miss a stroke. 

The blonde turned her head to smile at me and found me busily engaged with 
Madame Dissolute, as I called her in lieu of her right name. I shrugged my 
shoulders helplessly, indicating to the one whose buttocks I had just 
serviced that matters were out of my control and that if I were alone I 
would not desert her as simply as all that. Apparently she understood and I 
received another wink, this time from her, and she left me to finish my new 
task. 

"Just like old times," she whispered in my ear, wagging her head wickedly. 
"There's nothing like fucking in public, eh old boy?" 

"Heh, heh," I muttered, "Quite so, old girl. I say, can't you move your ass 
better than that?" 

"But my dear," she complained, "you don't realize that I am jammed in here. 
The whole ballroom seems to have emptied out. Why in heaven's name does 
every last duchess have to go and pee at the same time?" 

"Society," I answered, giving a good thrust to my weapon. "Society, my dear, 
is like that!" 

She grunted with pleasure and answered with as forceful a riposte as was 
permitted under the circumstances. Though many around us heard her they 
mistook the sound for that of some chronic disorder and continued their 
loquacious effusion. Only the blonde heard the licentious note and she burst 
out in sudden laughter. She won her argument as a result, for her opponent, 
stung to the quick by what she presumed was derision, left her on the spot. 

I fucked her with short, hard strokes, endeavoring to keep the upper part of 
my body motionless while working from the groin an exciting belly-dance in 
the Moroccan style. My partner got the idea but her dipping hip movement was 
based on the free swing of the rumba. At any rate the combination was an 
interesting innovation, and penis and clitoris dabbled and tippled about 
each other's heads until the awaited climax came with a suddenness that 
threw her into my arms, and in three violent heaves she came over the cock 
that was spitting all over her vagina. 

"Oh," she sighed, "terribly good, my dear, such an improvement over last 
year!" 

"Thank you," I replied, "I have been following an excellent and special 
diet." 

She wanted me to go into details but I had to warn her to first unwrap her 
arms from around my neck. The door opened and someone went out but, before 
it closed I heard a laugh that was strange, almost chilling in character, 
resound from the hallway. 

Madame Dissolute clutched my arm when she heard it and began whispering 
hurriedly in my arm. 

"Sonia," she snarled, "that goddamned Sonia! Did you know she was here? 
Answer me, did you?" 

Her eye flared with hatred and I recalled that the Countess Rubilovsky had 
spoken of Sonia in just the same way. I tried to see over the milling 
tresses, the shining locks of red and gold, the beautiful tresses of brown 
and black, but I was able to catch no more than the glimpse of a well-filled 
bosom disappearing down the hall. 

"I did not." I answered, "I most certainly did not know she was here." 

"Oh you horrid, weak man," she replied, "do you want me to believe that your 
'wife' invited her?" 

"I am not lying," I answered. "She must have sneaked in here." 

It is not necessary to repeat here what she answered and the names she 
called me. Suffice it to say that only her good breeding prevented her from 
going so far as to spit in my face. She added before leaving that she would 
rather a thousand times over be fucked by Thomas or even Stanley than by my 
unworthy person. I retained my composure throughout the tirade which was 
delivered sotto voice, and was turning over in my mind the question of 
Sonia. I didn't give a damn about either Thomas or Stanley, considering that 
whoever they were, they must certainly be unworthy rivals, for if I had had 
no connections at all with the ill-famed Sonia, I would remain in the number 
one position. 

She pulled down her skirts, swiping her hand over her cunt to remove the 
sperm now in dishonor, and stalked out with her head held high and looking 
neither to left nor right. Ordinarily I would have been humiliated by such 
treatment in front of so many acquaintances, but my curiosity was fully 
aroused and now running on a double track. I was impatient to meet my wife 
and take her away from the social buzzing, and I had also a very strong 
desire to meet the greatly redoubted Sonia. 

My distraction was such that I forgot to replace my prick in my pants and 
simply stood there like an oaf in the midst of the jabbering beauties; 
debating my next move. 

 CHAPTER TEN 



I met me a strange man last night 

and taken'm home with me.... 

Strange man, strange man, 

Where can you be? 

I listened to the blues number downstairs wafted into the over-heated room 
each time the door swung open. Taffeta and silk rustled and swished with 
each entry and departure of the females. The faces of all were flushed and 
gleaming from the pleasurable exertions of the dance and the loosening 
effect of glass after glass of Burgundy and Slivovitz. Cries of recognition 
greeted each arrival, who immediately found herself surrounded by her 
friends. They exchanged con fidences of a most intimate nature, letting 
their hair down figuratively and literally in the atmosphere they thought 
was one hundred per cent feminine. Perspiring profusely, they disrobed and 
washed, powdered and perfumed their full-grown anatomies with all the ease 
and abandon of simple peasants, and it was only with a certain effort that I 
was able to look upon them as the daughters and wives of the most prominent 
nobles. 

"But my dear, that's so frightfully bourgeois!" 

It was the near stentorian tones of an imposing dowager which interrupted my 
bland reverie. The woman was tall, long-jawed, and carried her lorgnettes in 
her hand like a threatening needle pointed at her companion, a short, 
heavy-set female of eighteen. 

"But not at all, ma chere," retorted the other, turning red at the insult, 
"all my friends are going." 

"You are all silly geese. I knew your kind in my day. Always fainting, going 
into hysterics, shrieking at mice and the rest of that rubbish. The fashion 
has changed today and you put on men's trousers and tell each other of your 
complexes and neuroses. Not one of you has the brains to see that all that's 
wrong is a Good Fuck." 

"But, Aunt Hagerty...." 

"Enough, my child, I know what I'm talking about, believe me. I've had my 
problems like everyone else but whenever I felt like screaming or going into 
a tantrum I opened my legs instead. Ah, dearie, nothing can equal the peace 
of mind one gets around a man with a decent cock. It's cock, that's all, 
just cock, I tell you. Boil Freud down and what do you get? A piece of ass! 
Fiddle-faddle for your psychoanalysts and your psychiatrists and all the 
rest of that crew of head merchants. The best thing your analyst can do for 
you-and mark my words, if he's a good one he'll do it-is to throw up your 
skirts and give that nervous pussy of yours a good thrashing with his prick. 
Honey, one time alone will rid you of half your problems." 

"Oh aunt Hagerty, you're just old-fashioned, that's what! You don't have the 
remotest idea how complicated women are. You sound like a farmer's daughter 
with your damned female cure-all. Modern women aren't like that in the 
least." 

"I know, I know, honey, I've heard it before and I suppose it won't be the 
last time either. Oh you make me so angry, you upstarts, and when I think I 
once had faith in you! You had all the advantages of the liberation your 
mother and myself fought so hard to win, and what did you do with it? Did 
you go out and get laid the way we would have done? Did you make use of your 
liberty? Only so you could use four-letter words and then run to the analyst 
to find out that you should have let cousin Albert stick his dick into you. 
Oh, what a frightful mess!" 

Aunt Hagerty adjusted a hanging brassiere strap and left her niece before 
the latter could reply. She fumed and stamped her feet, seeking some outlet 
for her rebuffed feelings. I tinned my head away, not wishing to be taken 
for an eavesdropper, but the robust ideas of the aunt had tickled my 
dangling penis and it now stood out a good nine inches ahead of me and felt 
like it would grow some more. The niece put her foot on a chair to adjust 
her stocking and in so doing her eye fell on the protruding organ. She 
started, rearing back in surprise at the unexpected sight. I think she 
doubted its authenticity, for she put her foot down and edged nearer to it 
for a better look. It was then I realized where it was. My only hope at the 
moment was that she wouldn't break out into screams, but, remembering her 
aunt's words, I reflected that most likely she would hurry off to phone her 
analyst to explain the emotions in her breast. 

It may very well have been her first impulse, but apparently the harsh words 
of her aunt came to mind, for she did not rush out or scream but instead 
wound her way through the crowd, never losing sight of the penis for an 
instant, and when she was next to me fell suddenly to her knees and, 
grasping it in both her hands, shoved the "cure-all" headlong into her 
mouth. 

Her lunges were long and greedy, fairly sloppy in fact, for her teeth dug in 
on the sensitive skin and the brutal pain nearly drove me to kick her in the 
chest, but I gritted my teeth and bided my time. She sucked on it and lapped 
at it with such a loud smacking I was ready for all heads to turn and see 
her there at my crotch. Fortunately the gossip was getting more and more 
scandalous and the women were all busily lapping the mental filth they 
traded back and forth. 

At this point the door of my wife's boudoir opened and all the cackling 
ceased and the ladies gave her an ovation. Her sudden appearance in our 
midst threw me into consternation and I tried to extricate my penis from the 
neurotic, but she held it mercilessly while she ran her lips up and down its 
shaft. The Grand Duchess made her way through the bowing ladies, 
acknowledging them with brief nods of her head, and passed but a few feet 
away from where I was held prisoner. I watched, in despair, unable to see 
more of her than the diamond tiara that graced her head as it weaved out the 
door followed by her train of ladies-in-waiting. 

"Go fuck your psycho!" I growled at the creature who had thwarted my meeting 
my wife. "Fuck, not suck, goddamn it! Didn't you hear what your aunt said?" 

Her eyeballs rolled pitifully as she shot me a glance of humility and 
rapture intermingled. 

She let go of the instrument and fell backward on the floor, her head 
colliding against the shapely limbs of her neighbor. 

"Then fuck me," she begged. "Please fuck me!" 

"Fuck you?" I cried, indignation making me forget where I was. 

She grabbed my legs and held them desperately while she sobbed over and 
over. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...." 

The worst had happened. It was bound to, I knew it all the time, and the 
scandal I had dreaded broke out in the dressing room. 

Everyone toned at her cries and the nearest ones saw immediately the 
erection in their midst and the twitching legs of the niece who had lost all 
control. 

"Now wait," I cried out in alarm. "Don't get any wrong ideas!" 

"Wrong indeed!" snapped one. "Humph! There's no mistake about that!" 

The room was in an upheaval impossible to soothe. Indignation, shock and 
disgust predominated and my one thought for the moment was to escape from 
the uproar. 

"Will you be calm, for Heaven's sake? I was only looking for the Duchess!" 

Disbelief glared out at me from every face. On those of the more vicious I 
saw the secret gloating in their souls, enjoying a pre-taste of the scandal 
they would spread. 

Someone laughed and soon a hellish chorus of jeers and taunts broke out. To 
make matters worse, the neurotic niece went into a tantrum, beating and 
flailing her fists on the floor, on my legs, on anything that came in her 
reach. Trying to restrain her and at the same time make the insensate 
females listen to reason, I was sure that I too would go out of my mind. 
From far away, the blues went on like a curious counterpoint to the agitated 
dressing room. "He got somethin' that I really crave...." 

Great beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and the blood drained from my 
face. The heat had become well-nigh unbearable which, with my present 
predicament, produced a sickening feeling in my stomach. The situation had 
gotten thoroughly out of hand, and only firm action could save the day. The 
handle of a long, thin unbrella caught my eye. I seized it instantly and, 
stepping forth into the midst of hysteria, began swinging it to left and 
right, aiming at every available pair of buttocks. The laughter and hooting 
gave way to screams and shrieks. Again and again I brought the improvised 
whip down on the mounds of tender flesh. When several of them made for the 
door I beat them back and turned the key in the lock. Nearly two score 
wailing females were at my mercy, but I spared no one her beating. 

It was then a strange phenomenon took place. Instead of falling on their 
knees and begging me to stop as I had expected, a number of them were 
raising their skirts and stripping their panties down their thighs, and even 
though they continued to cry out in pain, they deliberately exposed their 
naked behinds to the wild umbrella. It enraged me all the more to see that 
the punishment I meted out was actually desired, and I redoubled the force 
of the blows. Not a single ass remained white. First pink, then red and 
finally violet; ugly scars appeared on behinds of every description. The fat 
flabby ones turned color fastest and rippled under each whack. Thin bony 
behinds gave back a dull thud as the metal and cloth struck them. On some, 
the anus was clearly visible, nearly jutting out of the crack of the cheeks, 
while on others one might have split the buttocks clean apart before finding 
the tiny defecator. My prick, which had long gone down under the stress and 
strain, began once more to rise erect. Perhaps it was the bent-over postures 
and the lifted buttocks, or the lascivious groans, or the vision of skirts 
thrown back, or the tiny black curls just visible between their legs-but 
whatever it was, and it may very well have all of these exciting views 
together, my prick came up straight, and passion fired up suddenly, burning 
out my anger with lust. I saw the ass I desired, and flinging the umbrella 
away, leaped over a sprawling figure and clamped my arms solidly round the 
waist of the lady, conscious of her weakened condition and quickened 
breathing. 

She succumbed deliciously to my attack, spreading her legs out wide and 
pushing her ass against my groin in search of my cock. I did not trouble to 
find her cunt with my hand but rammed my hard penis in the area. Warm, moist 
lips, heated to boiling point, greeted the shoving head and in it went like 
a greased rod into a tube, clear up to the clitoris and beyond. 

I fucked her madly, wildly, like a bull on a cow, ramming each blow in with 
a curse and shivering with pleasure as I removed the phallus for the next 
push. 

I was aware of more commotion around me but concentrated solely on fucking. 
One of them had retrieved the umbrella and was swinging it as I had done. 
Nylon ripped where their knees scraped, and dresses and gowns fell all about 
me in a heap, with long strings of pearls and diamond brooches, tiaras and 
coronets filling the hot room with the evanescent vapors of perfume and 
musk. 

The one with the whip stood above them with her hair flying in every 
direction, a satanic grin framed by her red lips. A new smell of blood 
invaded my nostrils, for the protecting cloth of the umbrella had been 
ripped to shreds, and the thin metal rods of the frame tore mercilessly into 
their flesh. 

The convulsions of orgasm rocked my victim and the last of her strength fled 
from her exhausted body. She fell flat on the pile of gowns, emitting a long 
sigh of appeasement. 

 CHAPTER ELEVEN 

I Kicked my way through the bloody turmoil of beaten behinds, narrowly 
escaping the clutches of a screaming fury whose ass wasn't red enough for 
her taste, and made my way to the door and safety. The traffic of amorous 
couples, passing languidly to and fro in the corridor, contrasted strangely 
with the vicious holocaust I shut out behind me. Above their heads hung a 
velvet canopy leading to another chamber of my wife's apartment. The 
leathery visage of Countess Rubilovsky soared out from the door, the tip of 
her marihuana butt narrowly singeing my beard. 

"Ah, cher Due! Encore! Quel plaisir!" 

The smell of rotting flesh emanated from her armpits and I drew back in 
distaste. 

"Enchante," I lied. "Er, is my wife inside?" 

"Ah, how touching, you are looking for your wife. Tiens tiens! Well, step 
inside, mon cher, I am going down for a waltz. You will join me later, no?" 

She leaned alarmingly close and whispered in her conspiratorial manner, 
"Never, never get constipated, promise?" 

The painted eyebrows moved coyly up the rest of her forehead. 

"It would be far worse," I answered, passing beyond her pungent shoulder, 
"if I should get diarrhea." 

Her reply was drowned in the passing crowd, but I noted with satisfaction a 
twinge of horror on her face as I entered the canopied door. 

The new room was so un-likely an affair that I forgot her immediately and my 
search as well. The walls were hung with photos in black frames, stacked 
from floor to ceiling like a gallery. The only article of furniture on the 
far side was a simple cabinet. The immediate impression of all the photos 
was that they were one and all of the same subject, as if an obsession had 
taken hold of the photographer. From a distance they resembled the portrait 
of the Duke with his rather triangular-shaped head and pointed beard. The 
only thing wrong was that the beard was too full and one saw practically 
nothing of the face. Upon confronting the first one I saw that far from 
being a ducal portrait, the image was of a very bushy cunt, seen head on. On 
a gold plaque beneath it was imprinted the name of a woman, its owner no 
doubt. The third one in line I recognized even before I saw the name of Lady 
Hottham below. Further on I encountered the familiar curls of Lady 
Worthington. Someone had scratched up the image of Rubilovsky's organ. But 
when I came to the one labeled "Sonia" I stopped and stared with admira 
tion. Growing hot all over and rubbing my itchy balls, I leaned forward to 
study it. 

"Magnificent!" I exclaimed. "Now THAT'S a cunt!" 

There were in all about three hundred photos. 

My curiosity about this room was now fully aroused and I opened the cabinet 
to see what surprises it held in store. Needless to say, I had already 
formed certain notions about its possibilities and was therefore completely 
taken aback when I saw that it was absolutely barren. Somewhat disappointed, 
I started to close the door, when my eye caught the glint of a tiny button. 
Seeing no reason why an empty cabinet should have an electric light, I 
pressed the button. The back wall of the cabinet swung away like magic and 
showed into another room. 

I passed through the cabinet, shutting the door behind me. There was only a 
table, a sink, and some towels for furnishings. On the wall a printed notice 
was nailed up, headed instructions for female massage. 

Before I could continue my investigations I heard voices outside coming my 
way. There was no place to hide and I cursed myself for having closed the 
cabinet door. The only place of concealment was the table, which was covered 
with sheets that fell to the floor. 

Lifting a sheet on one end I perceived that the table was of a very special 
construction. A long box, which can only be compared to a coffin, was 
directly under the top. The bottom of the box was covered with a soft 
mattress and built-in springs. Having no time to deliberate, I slid into the 
box and dropped the sheet down. 

The outer door opened and two chatting female voices sounded over the 
shuffle of their slippered feet. I lay perfectly still and listened. The box 
was not at all uncomfortable and I began to wonder about it. 

One woman was obviously undressing, the sounds being unmistakable, and the 
other went to wash her hands. They spoke some more, and then the one who had 
undressed climbed onto the table to prepare herself for her rubdown. 

An amazing thing happened when she lay down. The box rose upward, bringing 
me flush with the surface, which for the first time I saw was nothing but a 
strong plastic cover. As her weight came down on the cloth, I was pressed 
up, until my body formed a mattress for her own. I could feel her cheeks 
flat against mine and the pressure of her two tits hard on my chest. The 
close contact of our abdomens began to excite my penis. The images of the 
three hundred cunts were still fresh in my mind and paraded like little 
devils in my hiding place. 

The masseur approached the table and began to work on the body above me. 

Her energetic pounding and kneading of the flesh beyond the plastic drove 
her patient up and down against my cock as if the woman above me was in the 
act of getting laid. The suggestive movements were torture to my emprisoned 
cock and I had to let it out of my fly. A delirious shock of delight shot 
through me. While unbuttoning my fly my fingers rubbed against what felt to 
be a zipper in the plastic. 

A moment's exploration proved me right, and I pulled the zipper back, 
exposing a hairy mound directly above my cock. The masseur's pounding did 
not rest. 

The powerful springs pushed my ass upward and my happy prick went gliding 
into the vibrating cunt above. My only fear was that the massage wouldn't 
last long enough, but I had not counted on the pleasurable reactions of my 
unknown partner. Whatever she might have thought when she felt the thing 
going in, she kept her opinions to herself. Furthermore, the rubbing she was 
getting had stimulated her sensual cravings and she gave herself up to the 
unexpected thrills. 

With a gadget like this, I thought, one could fuck all day long. All the 
work was going on upstairs, the beating and pushing and panting, while I lay 
perfectly relaxed, getting an invigorating male massage. 

The pussy in the plastic began to hug my penis tighter and tighter. Its 
masticating fronds gripped round the knob like tiny hands and worked the 
sperm into a froth till it gushed from my balls and spattered into the 
gurgling juices of her orgasm. 

"Ooh," she sighed. "That's enough. Oooh, enough." 

The masseuse wanted her to turn over so she could rub her chest, which 
struck me as a fine idea, but I think she guessed my notions because she 
desisted on grounds of being a little tired. 

The professional pride of the masseuse was hurt and she answered her curtly, 
saying, "Very well, we can consider the seance over." 

My companion got up prematurely, before I could draw my cock in, and the 
masseuse had the shock of her life on seeing a ponderous male organ 
projecting upward from her massage table. 

"Tired, is it?" she said to the other sarcastically. "Where did that thing 
come from?" 

"I don't know, it isn't mine," replied the embarrassed patient. 

"No, not much," came the contemptuous retort. "Don't you think you're a 
little too old for masturbation?" 

The offended lady burst into tears, and grabbing her clothing, ran from the 
room. 

The angered masseuse went on making caustic reflections on "that little 
pervert." The incriminating organ began to settle, bit by bit, cutting short 
the masseuse's recriminations. For the first time she saw that here was no 
fake instrument for female pleasure. 

"Oh, now, wait a minute," she cried, "just a minute there, not so fast!" 

Before my cock went any lower she seized it in her hand and held it 
prisoner. 

"I don't know where you came from, or how you got here, but now that I've 
got you, I'm gonna use you, you little bastard!" 

She put her mouth to it and sucked away with short flying strokes. Being a 
masseuse, she was an expert in the art, and her whipping tongue lashed the 
carnal appetite of my prick into flames. 

"Ah," she sighed, "that's fine. Now don't go down, just stay like that a 
second." 

I heard her skirts rustling and the swish of her panties down her legs, and 
like she said, in a second she had bounded on the table, straddling her legs 
over the sides, while she shoved the organ deep into her cunt. 

The lusty woman would have fucked on my cock all morning long if a ringing 
bell hadn't stopped her as she was beginning her third round. 

"Oh, my God," she exclaimed, "I nearly forgot the gym class!" 

She jumped down and adjusted her clothing. 

"Listen, Cock," she said, giving my prick a parting kiss, "see you tomorrow, 
same time, okay?" 

The cock leaned over on its side and collapsed on the plastic cover. 

The extreme laziness I had inherited from the Duke made me reluctant to move 
from my temporary seclusion from the world. The table was removed from the 
room and wheeled halfway down the hallway before I realized what was 
happening. Unknown voices conversed in whispers above my head and, growing 
alarmed at my predicament, I decided to bolt from my hiding place. Hardly 
half my body was extricated from the secret box before the astonished men 
recovered their wits. They wasted no time when they recognized me and 
clamped their arms about me brutally and smothered my face in the sheets. I 
had no more idea about who they might be than why they had attacked me, and 
the problem was done away with by a furious blow on my head. My last 
conscious thought was that the wily Duke had saved his life at the expense 
of my own. 

 CHAPTER TWELVE 

The clear, incisive accent of a woman of noble birth sounded from far away, 
drowned out at intervals by the heavy clap of thunder. Rain beat against the 
panes, keeping up a steady rattling which must have started late at night. I 
opened my eyes but all was darkness. 

My forehead seemed weighed down beneath hot iron, throbbing with a dull 
pain. I discovered I was lying in a bed of quality, the largest I had ever 
seen, and surmounted by tall columns which held a sheaf of drapes that fell 
about the limits of the bed. They were of brilliant red and I was astonished 
to see the familiar blazon of the De Beaucouillon family adorning their 
elegant folds. It was only natural that I believed myself in the hands of 
their enemies and that, more than anything else, contributed to my rapid 
gain of consciousness. 

The woman went on in a voice I did not recognize, and hearing no answer 
during her pauses, I realized she was talking over the telephone. Parting 
the drapes, I found myself in a comfortable boudoir furnished in the 
capricious manner of the Rococco. An instant later the mysterious woman 
swooped in. 

She was extremely tall, svelte and sinewy as a dancer, with a complexion 
predominantly olive in shade and reminiscent of certain transparent stones 
one finds no Mediterranean shores. Her brow was high, though not 
intellectual, and was partially concealed by a row of jet black ringlets, 
all equal in size and running methodically round her face like one of her 
Rococco frames. Her nose, aquiline in form, with long, slender nostrils, 
predominated over the rest of her features with an imposing arch. A wide 
neck thrust upward from the steep slope of her shoulders. The chest was high 
and strong, supporting two charming titties thinly concealed in her silken 
blouse. The muscles of her long limbs rippled when she walked, sending 
quivering vibrations through her haunches. 

Covered with precious stones that sparkled against her skin, she was the 
last word in schooled degeneracy, the most superbly wanton female I had ever 
encountered. Nor for a moment did I doubt that I was in the hands of the 
much hated queen of mistresses, the fabulous Sonia, the envy of all her 
rivals. 

She did not speak, but words were superfluous before the intuitive sensual 
wave that emanated from her being. Her eyes flashed passionately at me, 
burning my groin with spontaneous lust and desire. 

The silence was electrified with the suggestive rustling of her skirts and 
the movements of her limbs. 

My heart pounded out of control as I watched her undo her blouse and expose 
the gorgeous fruits of her body. Her skirt slipped languorously down her 
thighs, letting me revel in the firm shape of her belly round which were 
stretched a pair of rose-colored panties. I saw several of her pussy hairs 
pierced through the cloth as if they were trying to escape from the rich 
mass beneath. 

The family coat-of-arms was woven in red directly over the pubic triangle 
and stood out in contrast to the black patch. The motif was repeated on her 
garters, interspersed with a floral design and the same again appeared at 
the top border of her stockings. As if that were not enough, when she turned 
her back to me to place her panties on the table I saw the emblem once 
again, larger than all the others. The Duke had undoubtedly passed many an 
agreeable hour running his prick between the shield of his family. I made a 
mental note to do the same at the proper time. She lifted her sturdy thighs 
with ease and stepped into bed, standing over me with outspread legs. 
Instinctively I grasped that the ceremony was to start with an introductory 
kiss on the labia. 

I came forward and clasped the backs of her knees as my tongue came out to 
tickle the forward hairs of her famous cunt. These latter were so long that 
a handful stuck in my nostrils and caused me to sneeze. The blast parted the 
coils which guarded the pink furled lips. I saw that they were unusually 
long, running far back between her legs leaving but a tiny gap between that 
fissure and the round muscle of her anus. 

The most pleasing thing about her cunt was the absence of the ordinary 
pungent odor. I could not recall ever meeting a cunt as well-treated as 
hers. The texture of the hair itself was rich and sleek and gave off a faint 
smell of olives and ginger. The lips were a high-toned pink, unblemished, 
and fascinatingly smooth to the touch. When I peeled them back to view the 
second row inside they were as well-formed as those of the exterior but gave 
off a different kind of smell which I could not identify although it was 
close to the fragrance of mellow fruit. The thick, fatty walls of the cunt 
itself were smooth and gleamed in the light from her rich lubricating 
secretions. 

She gave as much attention to the care and appearance of her cunt as most 
women do for their coiffures and consequently I could not stop from kissing 
it, from feeling the palpy lips between my fingers and inhaling long sensual 
draughts from its depths. She stood there along time, head thrown back and 
eyes shut, quivering in rapture from the tantalizing sensations of my 
fondling. 

The first part of the ritual terminated, she turned round and exhibited her 
sumptuous buttocks to my delighted eyes. Then she got down on her hands and 
knees and backed up, bringing her anus flush with my face, while she clasped 
my sex in her hands. She covered the nub with short exciting kisses which 
seemed to pump more life into the straining muscles, and the head swelled 
out like a mushroom over the staff. I looked up at the long curving slit 
above me and resumed my tonguing. Before long the extending clitoris reached 
the tip of the intruding tongue and she shook her ass harder as a result. 
The warmth of her mouth sent electric bolts through my staff as the upper 
part of the penis filled into its opening. 

When all this lavish preparatory playing had brought her cunt into heat, she 
swung round without losing hold of my cock and, placing it squarely between 
the folds of her lips, came down with all her weight on its length, moaning 
deeply as the tremendous waves of penetration soared upward and through her 
being. The sounds in the room would have driven an eavesdropper mad. The 
soft creaking of the bedsprings, her breath and mine leaving our parted lips 
with long sighs, the splash and gurgle of the vagina's mucous sliding up and 
down the glistening prick and the muffled slap of her buttocks on my thighs, 
all joined in the delirious chorus of copulation. 

When the onrushing orgasm ejected from my cock I felt the stupendous closing 
of her muscles round the girth and breadth of its pole and she pushed 
herself down on it in a series of uncontrolled, passionate drives and the 
sperm erupted into the inflamed recesses which suddenly discharged the 
built-up flood of her nectar. 

Her eyeballs rolled up in their sockets and she fell, spent and gasping on 
my chest, grabbing my body in her arms. The hat and perspiration bathed us 
in its euphoric spell and the sweet void of sleep enveloped the two of us 
immediately. 

Sonia was the first to awake. Fully refreshed, she began to drag her tits 
back and forth across my chest. The large paps swung through my hairs and 
provoked my prone organ into erection. I let her play that way for a while 
until the sensations roused my desire to full pitch, then I threw her down 
and climbed over the beautiful flesh, hungrier than ever to have my rod 
drive in again through the meat of her cunt. 

She flung out her legs and brought them up high over my head and instantly 
my cock went into the parted slit. Her legs came down criss-cross over my 
back and she heaved up her ass with each lunge I gave her. 

The springs groaned this time from the furious shaking and bouncing and a 
new sound filled the air, that of my balls thudding heavily on her buttocks. 
At the propitious moment I heightened her thrills by raising her in the air 
and shoving a finger up her ass. The plugging of her second hole threw her 
into ecstasy and she literally flung her cunt flying over my cock, gripping 
me tighter in her powerful thighs and arching her back to receive the torrid 
spray I shot into her. 

We lay thus entwined in our euphoric silence, the spell of her bewitching 
eyes holding me a willing captive in her arms. 

"Sonia," I breathed into her ear, "Sonia, why do you have me slugged to come 
to you?" 

A dark look invaded her eyes and she rose suddenly from the bed as if my 
question had affronted her. A jealous frown distorted her features. 

"It was not because of Rubilovsky, you may be sure," she hissed, lighting 
the coals in her samovar. "But as for Kashka, that slimy vixen, well, I know 
how to deal with her!" 

Her words made absolutely no sense whatever to me, rather did they 
complicate matters all the more with the addition of this new personage in 
my life. My response was cagey, couched in the vaguest terms, in order to 
draw out of her some enlightenment on my connections. But for all my 
trouble, all that became evident was that this particular Kashka, whoever 
she was, was as terrifying a rival as Sonia herself was to all the others. 
It also appeared that neither Sonia nor Kashka would hesitate to resort to 
violence to gain their ends. 

I began to appreciate the Duke's strategy in having a double to help him 
cope with the confusing tangle of his private life. As for myself, it was 
impossible to calculate my moves beforehand and I lay back to await the 
return of my mistress. It was then I noticed for the first time a small 
double photo on the night table encircled by a garter with a rose clip. 
Picking it up I saw the portrait of the Duke and Sonia across which was 
scrawled the legend "To my captivating sister, Cosimo." 

 CHAPTER THIRTEEN 

I Was comfortably installed beneath the covers reading from Conte D'Avino's 
treatise, the Precepts and Maxims of Dukedom, which far surpassed the wily 
Machiavelli in Machiavellianism. It was surely the Duke's favorite book, for 
it stayed always by the bedside of his number one mistress, which alone is 
proof enough, and its diabolical philosophy was undoubtedly necessary for 
his very survival in such a precarious existence. What I gleaned from the 
first pages convinced me to do away with Kashka to prevent my own 
destruction. I settled back to read with great satisfaction, for at last I 
had come to grips with my life. 

The shrill blasts of trumpets smashed through my peace of mind. With a 
sudden chill I recognized the fanfare of the Duke. I had hardly put the book 
down when he erupted into the room, jacket unbuttoned, his pants falling 
away to this knees, and a gigantic erection bursting through his shorts. 

"Sonia, my little black dove, I am here!" 

I had just enough time to roll over the side of the bed and disappear from 
sight as he parted the drapes. His "little black dove" was at the moment 
washing her little black pussy in the toilet. He sighed impatiently, 
finished undressing and got in to bed to wait for his sister. 

She was not aware of the change in personnel nor did he have the slightest 
idea that I was in the house. I lay beneath them, listening to the bed 
resume its joyful pounding and creaking. When it became unbearable I crawled 
away with my clothing, dressing as I went downstairs. 

"No fanfare, please," I said to the trumpeters and ordered the Hispano-Suiza 
to return home. When we reached the ducal mansion I sent the entourage back 
to Sonia's, enjoying the astonishment they would have when the Duke came 
down. 

I found Griffin in my room, tapping his fingers nervously on a messy sheet 
of foolscap. 

"It sounds like blackmail," he said, handing me the infantile-looking page, 
"and is obviously the work of an ignorant person." 

I took the curious paper and began to read: 

"Tinks hav hapened wile yu wuz away o brud Tinks nastywise and othirwise 
Tinks I wud not say to pertyers, "But yuz is ditry heers So freely i mah 
tawk. Yuv heerd yer wif waz not so rite En so i tels it so. Beeliv me brud 
ide never lie, saw hep me nawt ta yu, Or soona die than tel yu wun; Cum fast 
myside and lust tha wurd Wat like to spik ma mind; Yer derlin tru shur liks 
ta screw And tacks wat cock mite cum, Her pity bud was al abloom (For nits 
an yu wer gun) 

An Hors wut on this strit do rut Hav lef for ither strits, For wel tha no a 
mans a fool Ta pay his dong, wen freely Can be had 

The puss at nummer nine. 

She swore ta me shed Hor fa me If only id nut tel, So swor i did and lair as 
well (For iv bin brawk yu no) 

But she for me can go ta hell i tol yu wat i dim, If i wuz yu id by a gun An 
shoot hur in da bum." 

"Whom do we know," I asked him, "who is that ignorant?" 

"Look at this," he said, ignoring my question. "This is Rubilovsky's 
writing." 

"Why, except for the spelling, it is the same hand!" 

"Yes," he answered grimly. "She is up to something ... Excuse me, Your 
Grace, I nearly forgot ... I shall return in a moment." 

The telephone interrupted my reflections. 

"Cosimo?" 

"Yes?" 

A long mocking laugh answered. 

"Who's laughing?" I shouted. 

Griffin returned just then and I .beckoned him hurriedly to the phone. He 
put down a briefcase and a strange iron collar and came to my side. 

"Kashka!" he whispered, turning pale. "It's a bad omen when Kashka laughs." 

"For God's sake," I cried, "put down that phone and tell me what is going on 
around here!" 

"Sire," he answered, closing the receiver on the insane laughter, "I 
understand your predicament but I have no authority to divulge the Duke's 
private affairs." 

He placed the iron collar on my neck as he spoke. In my distraction it was 
only when he had turned the last bolt that I realized my head was held 
erect, chin forward, and that I was obliged to turn my body to see at my 
sides. 

"What is this?" I asked. 

"The tempestuous Sonia!" he answered, opening the briefcase. 

"She breaks his neck and I have to wear the collar!" 

He shrugged his shoulders fatalistically. 

"I am lucky he wasn't castrated! And what are those envelopes? Don't tell me 
we're throwing another party!" 

"They are invitations...." 

"But I still haven't met my wife from the last one!" 

"Oh, I suppose I ought to inform you ... You are not married, Your Grace." 

"What!" 

"Well, not yet, shall we say?" 

"Oh indeed! What is it that all of a sudden I am the butt of everyone's 
jokes? I am slammed on the head, receive idiotic blackmail letters, am 
choked in an iron cage and finally you decieve me about my wife! Who is the 
phantom duchess I've been chasing?" 

"Oh, Sire," he cried, moved at my plight. "It is a terrible, terrible mess, 
and before it is over I am sure there will be bloodshed." 

"Here," I said, handing him the Slivovitz, "it's very kind of you to worry 
about the blood because it will no doubt be my own." 

"Yes," he slobbered, "I, I'm afraid so." 

He seemed to be in a painful debate with his conscience, till suddenly, 
taking pity on my situation, he" decided to reveal the infamous plot. 

"To begin with," he said, clearing his throat after a royal slug, "you might 
as well know that the Duke is absolutely penniless. Yes, yes," he emphasized 
at my look of incredulity, "it is absolutely true." 

"But all this...." I stammered, waving my arm around the room. 

"Let me explain. We are living on credit. For a month it's been that way and 
you can imagine the expenses we have. Over and over I tried to have him cut 
down on things but you know his style, his extravagance. 'Magnificence,' he 
would answer me, 'Magnificence, toujours magnificence!' His sister retired 
to the ancient ruin, being more prudent than he. 

Things got to the point where he was threatened with the loss of his Duchy." 

"No!" 

"Yes." 

"Where is the Duchy?" 

"Oh, a wee little thing on the Mediterranean. We used to meet expenses with 
the gambling houses, but so many Americans showed up we had to install crap 
games and they broke the bank five times in a row. Since they threatened to 
boycott us if we removed the crap games, we had to keep them going merely 
for the influx of tourists, but it was all a losing proposition. Then Father 
Kelly had a brilliant idea to save us from ruin." 

"Father Kelly?" 

"The Duke's spiritual adviser. Anyway, he offered to find a wife for the 
Duke." 

"I don't quite see...." 

"Oh," he spluttered impatiently. "Don't you understand? He'd get the Duke 
some fabulously wealthy American. He said it would be easy as pie. What the 
hell are all those wealthy cunt looking for when they come to Europe? What 
has Europe got that America hasn't? Titles. Father Kelly assured him that 
not only would she be rich but beautiful as well. Naturally the Duke 
couldn't resist for long, not that he was very happy about the whole thing 
because he doesn't want a wife and far less an American." 

"Ah," I exclaimed, "I begin to see where I fit in." 

"Yes, do you? I am glad. It's a clever scheme, if he can only make it work. 
The marriage takes place with you as the groom. The Duke comes into the 
inheritance and then at the right moment exposes the substitution which 
automatically annuls the marriage. The girl returns home with her title 
intact, which is all she wanted anyway, plus the added advantage of a 
spectacular-divorce which guarantees her success in the States. The Duke's 
replenished fortune saves the Duchy and he gets stupendous royalties from 
the films which will be made on his life. I might also add, that though the 
whole thing has been kept in utter secrecy up to now, it will shortly break 
out in the press and I warrant you, you will see a wave of publicity and 
bullshit like you have never seen in your life. The public will get its 
share in the party. We intend to hold the front pages of every newspaper in 
the world with day-by-day accounts of the movements of the two lovers plus 
long-detailed stories of their lives, and their families' lives, and so on." 

"Incredible. It's too fantastic. This sort of thing could only come out of 
Hollywood!" 

"Well, in a sense it did. The girl is a movie star and so of course her 
studio is going in with us right from the start. Everyone is going to make a 
fortune out of it and it would all be hunky-dory if there wasn't Kashka." 

"Ah, at last!" 

"She is a demon, that is the only word for her. She would kill her sister to 
keep the Duke for herself. Even Rubilovsky fears her!" 

"Her sister, you say?" I replied, prey to misgiving. "Who is her sister?" 

"The Duke's finest, the most...." 

"Sonia!" I blurted out. 

Griffin was as startled by my revelation as I was myself. 

"But how did you know?" 

"Never mind that," I answered. "Go on with your story." 

But he was slumped down on the floor, all the strength gone out of him, 
feebly trying to bring the bottle to his lips. Together we lay there, the 
bottle gurgling on his shirt-front, drugging him into a profound stupor, and 
I, too weary to rescue its wasting liquid, stretched out my limbs and 
suffered the pangs of melancholy, for the harder I sought my evasive 
Duchess, the more she eluded my grasp. 

 CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

The train whistle blew three times, steam hissed, and I appeared on the 
platform as I had been told to do, and a hundred flash-bulbs went off 
simultaneously from the front of the waving throng. Again and again the 
lights went off, tracking my every move, each minute gesture, and ovation 
after ovation went up from the crowd, the first plebeians I had seen for 
along time. I looked at them curiously and I saw they looked back just as 
intrigued. Relations with my subjects, I felt, would pose no problem. 

I was whisked away by the castle guards when the Royal band had finished the 
national hymn, a rather stirring thing which roused the fires of patriotism 
in my breast. I wanted to make a speech and tell them how much I loved them, 
but some Chancellor took me stiffly by the arm muttering coldly in my ear 
that duty called. They seemed to sense that I left unwillingly and to show 
me their devotion walked the twelve miles to the castle and took up their 
place outside the walls which they never left. One night, I think it was the 
second after my arrival, I caught some kind of dysentery, being unused to 
the food, and when they saw the light in the toilet go on, even though it 
was one in the morning, they broke out in cheers and sang the national hymn 
again. I had to show my head at the window, which was rather heroic on my 
part since my bowels were emptying at a furious rate all over the bowl and 
floor. My grimace of pain was not very clear in the dark but when the 
morning papers printed the flash shots everyone commented on the "intense 
emotion" of the Grand Duke before his subjects. 

I will not attempt a description of the castle, for to do so would call for 
the prowess of a Balzac, the romantic fury of a Hugo and the combined 
lyricism of every bard that ever sang of England. When the cropped-headed 
Hollywoodians arrived, however, its splendor did not phase them in the 
least, and Marvin Bimbo, the famous actor-director, did not hesitate to draw 
up plans for considerable alteration. Only the combined action of my 
ministers and myself prevented them from tearing the place apart. 

As will be shortly seen, the pace of life picked up and soon I was obliged 
to dose myself with special drugs to keep my eyelids up. These same drugs 
not only replenished my stamina, they had a most intense effect on my 
genitals as well, and the mere sight of a skirt was enough to put the 
thunder in my balls and send my penis shooting skyward with lust. The hot 
sun, the moist smell of the sea and the lovely stream of ladies that began 
to show up, strolling along the boardwalk, bathing on the beach or entering 
the massive dining room in gowns of the latest fashion revealing their soft 
round shoulders, the pure white skin with the significant cleft of the bosom 
barely covered, completed the frontal assault on my senses. 

The first time I saw Maggie Choates was in a magazine. She was a beautiful 
girl clad in a bathing suit which said "Miss Something" (the print being 
rather bad) and she was kissing a photo of me in a similar magazine, the 
same one which had been printed the week before. Just as I discovered the 
picture a dozen flashes went off and the photos were radioed to America to 
show the "languishing" Duke returning the paper kiss. It was shown on 
television, which paritally filled the Duke's coffers from his contract with 
the "Blueblood Sanitary Napkin Company" of New Jersey. 

"It is time to write a love letter to your intended," announced Griffin, 
glancing at his watch. 

"But I wrote one this morning," I protested. 

"Gallantry, gallantry," said he somberly. 

"Remember your gallantry." 

His upraised forefinger had a chastening effect. 

"Medieval balderdash," I muttered with a scowl. 

"We cannot fail your public who live every burning moment of your ardor. 
"Twas ever thus," he sighed, opening the door for me. "The responsibilities 
of a Lord." 

In the writing chamber I had to wait while he forced the photographers to 
give me room. I blew up at them finally and ordered them out. 

"What's he bitching about?" snapped one. "He's gonna fuck Maggie Choates, 
ain't he?" 

I ordered a pot of tea and began to write. 

"Dear Maggie," the letter began, "I am burning with impatience to hold you 
in my arms." I crossed out "Dear Maggie" and substituted "Honey." Then I 
decided "desire" was superior to 'impatience' and 'clasp' more ardent than 
'hold' and finally threw the sheet away and started all over again. 

Her picture in the bathing suit was propped up in front of me and I kept 
looking at it for inspiration, but I was thwarted at not being able to see 
what her tits really looked like. 

"For all I know they probably flop down to her belly when she takes off the 
containers." 

A maid-servant entered, after a timid knock, to bring me my tea. 

"Wait a minute," I said, "I'm having trouble here." 

I took my hand out of my fly and caught her by the waist. 

"Sit down here and tell me how this sounds to you." 

"I think," she said, after I had finished reading, "that it's just a little 
bit cold, don't you?" 

"Yes, I do," I agreed, "but I don't even know what she's like. She's just a 
photograph to me." 

I looked at the maid's preponderant bosom, and the sight of its ample volume 
bulging through her dress brought the inspiration I needed. 

"You write it," I said. "Go ahead, just write the sort of letter you'd like 
your lover to send you." 

"Oh, that wouldn't be fair, it's got to come from you." 

"Oh shit, how in the hell will she ever know? You won't say anything and I 
won't. Here, go ahead and write." 

I shoved the pen in her hand and drew her closer to me on my lap. She began 
writing something really gushy and to keep from getting bored I flipped my 
fingers around the hem of her skirt. The little lace underthing seemed to 
invite further investigation, so while she mumbled about "so passionately," 

"my lonely nights," 

"tender," 

"sweet," 

"kiss," and so forth, I pushed her skirts back and examined her strong 
thighs. They were so solid looking, and the pressure of her ass so placed, 
that the crack was parted by the evil nub of my prick, lurking in my pants 
like a hungry beast. 

"How do you spell 'sensation'?" she asked, just when I had gotten a grip on 
her panties. 

"Oh, just put down 'kicks,' she's American, ain't she?" 

"Hmmm, perhaps." She bent forward to write and I finished pulling her 
panties away from her crotch. Shifting my legs on some pretext, I was able 
to clear away the skirts from the erotic area and tore off the buttons of my 
fly for a quick entry into her exposed cunt. 

She let out a screech, overturning the ink bottle and falling backward on me 
so that the two of us slid off the chair and rolled onto the rug. Though I 
was startled at her scream I nevertheless kept my head and when we landed on 
the floor I was above her with my great cock making its way into her bush at 
full speed. 

It was a joy the way her lusty peasant thighs spread to receive my cock. Her 
legs waved in the air like branches tossed by the wind. Her tiny hands, the 
pen still enclosed in one, lay open on the floor at the weak extremities of 
her arms. She moaned and sighed, thrilling with each juicy taste of the 
savory flesh. At the climax I plunged in to the hilt, sucking and biting on 
her lips, stifling her groans with my tongue. 

Just as I finished I saw a man's shoe not two feet away from me, and looking 
up, I met the disapproving eye of Griffin. 

"You might at least," he said, "have finished the letter first. The 
afternoon mail has already left." 

"Forgive me, Griffin," I mumbled, helping the maid to cover her overheated 
thighs, "I guess I was distracted. Was there anything else you wanted to see 
me about?" 

"Yes, Sire, a case of 'Cuisage.' And with your permission, I should like to 
attend to my wife." 

"Why surely, what a question! Where is your wife?" 

"That's her, Your Grace, you're sitting on her belly. Get up off the floor, 
Louisa!" 

"Forgive me, Griffin, honestly, I didn't know ... it was all my fault." 

"I quite understand," he answered, giving his spouse a hefty boot in the 
rear as she escaped out of the door. 

I made it up to him with a case of Colonel Kaner's Kentucky Bourbon, though 
he bore me some resentment for the next few days. 

"Well, and what is this 'Cuissage' you mentioned?" 

"It is not obligatory, Your Grace. The girl is to be wedded to a sailor and, 
according to our custom, the lord of the realm has the sacred privilege of 
defloration." 

He showed in a buxom woman of forty and her virgin daughter of half her 
years. I looked at the young blushing thing whose lemon-shaped tits 
protruded viciously through her brassiere and considered with pleasure the 
waspish waist and full hips set on a pair of long and sexy limbs. 

Her mother regarded me anxiously, perhaps fearing I would not find her 
daughter attractive enough to perform the ritual. She sat back with relief 
when she saw my nodding head of approval. 

"In petticoat, Sire, or natural?" 

"No, no, have her strip." 

"Very good, Your Grace." 

She stepped out of her panties, her white flesh glowing incandescent in the 
drab room. Griffin left to mail my letter, and the atmosphere grew charged 
with suspense. 

Her mother sat in the comer and twisted her handkerchief into knots, 
watching everything with her big, watery eyes filled with maternal 
apprehension and the recollection of her own ordeal in this very room some 
two decades back. 

I ordered the girl to sit on the bed while I undressed in my turn. She began 
to tremble when my shorts went down, leaving the penis hanging in air, a 
long, dolorous-looking weapon which took on a vicious look when it began to 
go into erection. 

She watched it rising and swelling and turned pale from the menace. 

"Mother," she screamed, scrambling off the bed and rushing to the shelter of 
her arms, "Oh mother, I can't, I can't! It looks so dreadful. Don't let him 
touch me with that awful thing!" 

Her mother tried to calm her, as wrought up as her daughter, but not at all 
for the same reasons. 

"Come, come," she soothed, "I've been through it. It hurts a little, to be 
sure, but that passes and you don't feel a thing. I mean, of course you do 
feel, but you won't regret it. Hush, my little Pea, and don't keep the Duke 
waiting." 

I stood there, hands on hips, my prick jutting all the way out, feeling like 
a stud horse, and not knowing what to do next. 

The mother looked at me as if to say "Be patient, she doesn't understand, 
the poor little innocent." 

"But look how BIG it is," the girl bawled. 

"You don't have to look at it," advised her mother. "And it's better than 
your finger. Now do as I say! Go and spread your legs for the man!" 

"I'll be very careful, Ma'am," I promised. 

"Honey, put the pillow in your mouth and bite real hard!" 

She watched enviously as the fat knob of my prick made a few tentative 
swirls around the green slit. Her cunt-lips were parched dry and penetration 
was out of the question. The eagle-eye of the mother spotted the crisis and 
she came to our aid. Beneath my balls I felt her head brush through and she 
began to lap vigorously at the dry labia of her offspring. A minute's 
liberal massage provided a working lubrication. She grabbed my shaft and 
injected it herself between her daughter's gash, helping it cautiously into 
the membranous halls of love. She was extremely affected, and remained 
behind my back, giving encouragement to her daughter and playing with her 
own wet pussy. 

The hymen refused to give way under anything but the most violent pressure. 
I grasped her shoulders firmly and, with my loins tightened like a coiled 
spring, unleashed the powerful blow that slashed the virgin tissue to shreds 
and sent the entire length of my shaft into her cunt. The girl let out a 
blood-curdling howl and fainted dead away. The voluptuous thrills of 
penetration demanded more and more blows, and shortly I was pumping into her 
bloody cunt with snorts and swearing, spurred on by her mother's lascivious 
tongue lashing of my balls. 

The sheets grew sticky with blood and the carmine fluid on my prick and 
balls spattered onto my groin, giving forth acidic odors that whetted my 
animal lust into sadistic frenzy. I lost my head and would probably have 
pounded the poor creature to a pulp if the ejaculation had not come when it 
did. 

When I retreated from the bed, the panting mother was sprawled partly on the 
floor, legs akimbo and frigging herself with short pleading cries. 

With what a lavish, ecstatic intensity did her sexual cravings affect me. 
Only the most crusted, crabbed and senile male could have resisted the 
begging arabesques of her thighs and amorous side-glances at the dripping 
cock. Each falling of the hefty limbs against the floor produced a tremorous 
shaking of the soft flesh, fanning the flames of my chafing loins and 
worked-up penis. 

I fell to my knees between the peppery crotch and wrenched her hand away 
from the bubbling orifice, pulled her ass up against my navel and rubbed the 
bloody cock over the hot mucous blubber of the lovelips. Her body arched 
into a lecherous tunnel for my lubricious drive. With hardly two. great 
shoves into her furnace she released the hissing juices over the still fresh 
secretions of her daughter, and, in her turn, fell into a swoon, not of 
pain, but of the most delicious rapture. 

The ex-virgin was sitting, astride the large blood clot, both hands copped 
over her chafed vagina, regarding her wanton mother with fixed curiosity. 
Now that she had had carnal knowledge of the male she was trying to bridge 
the gap between her own painful experience and the unsurpassable delight of 
her mother. There was less horror in her eyes as she took in the silhouette 
of my receding organ, cleansed now of her blood and quite handsome in its 
semi-erect posture. With sudden resolve, she leaped from the bed and came to 
me, asking me in her hushed peasant accents if I would deflower her once 
more. 

My senses were far from drugged. The continually shifting form of seduction, 
from violation to abandoned lust and thence to the tender plea of charming 
naivete, achieved my third erection in short order. 

Even though in her inexperience she did no more than lie beneath me to 
receive the long splendid inroads of the novel thing, I was intoxicated by 
the total concentration of her mind and being, so much like an infant 
examining a new toy, and I fucked her newly broken-in vagina with 
appropriate delicacy, intending that she feel to the full the wealth of male 
turgescence. 

"Well, you girls must be hungry after that little 'cuissage,' " I laughed, 
taking them both in my arms. "What do you say we step down to the kitchen 
for a snack and some 'Shai'?" 

They clapped their hands with delight and the three of us sailed down the 
corridor with tripping feet and giggles resounding in our wake. 

Albertina, the cook, resembled her sister, Christina (the buxom laundress I 
had fucked in the elevator), so that at first I thought she was the latter 
and my prick responded with a mighty heave in my pants. When my back was 
turned the wily Conte slipped in and gave his card to the mother and 
daughter waiting for their tea. He whispered in a flash. They were so 
desirous to have some more of the treatment from another prick that they 
left rather unceremoniously to steal up to his camera numero sette. 

The laundress came in, and seeing me, threw the sheets she was carrying over 
her head and raised her skirts. Her big ass, on a level with the table, let 
loose an explosion that rattled my cup and saucer. Annoyed, I picked up a 
thick bologna and rammed it into her anal horn. 

"Oh," she cried, "I didn't know you liked it there!" 

The sphincter licked up the meat hungrily, as if it were actually devouring 
it. Albertina walked out of the pantry then and was a little put out to see 
me shove her spiced meat into a pile of sheets. I beckoned to her with a 
little smile, and she advanced, tricking her curls daintily. She was built 
in every way like her hidden sister, and proved to have similar tastes. 

After some rudimentary coaxing, she bent down, facing her enormous mounds 
against those of her sister. I rolled back her skirts and directed the other 
end of the bologna into her cunt, and then, seating myself on Christina's 
broad back, I shoved the head of my cock directly into her wide, rosy anus 
and began to rock away on their juggling behinds in the first hobby horse 
fuck of my career. 

At the end, the laundress' blubbering anus began to lose its grip on the 
meat, and just when I shot into her sister's bung she collapsed in her 
sheets and the three of us went down in a tossing pile of asses, skirts, 
sheets and bologna. 

When their heads finally appeared out of the confusion they were both 
grinning joyfully from ear to ear. They wanted to play some more, since we 
were all so wonderfully disposed, I with my cock out, they with their 
pantie-less limbs spread rakishly over the sheets. We rolled around on the 
floor like frisky bear cubs, where I fucked Christina while she lay on top 
of her obliging sister. 

"It would be just ducky if he had two pricks," said Albertina, who soon 
tired of playing mattress for our sport. To even things up they changed 
places and we laughed at Christina's grunts which punctuated each of my 
drives into Albertina. 

Neither Albertina nor her sister ever wore panties because, as they said, 
they enjoyed nothing more than a fuck on the spur of the moment. At the end 
of each day they would recount how often they had been screwed. Christina 
had the odds in her favor, because as a laundress, she was continually 
roaming in and out of bedrooms, getting a chance fuck from an overnight 
guest or some unoccupied servant. She said that on one great day it had 
taken her an hour and three quarters to get from one end of the second floor 
hall to the other. Furthermore, most of the men who "dicked" her were 
members of the aristocracy. 

"They like this big ass," she said, smacking her hand against her solid 
flesh. "It makes a change from that thin meat they get all the time." 

Her sister had to content herself with a more cruder sort of lover. Most of 
the time she was banged by delivery boys, gas and electric men, plumbers, 
carpenters, and, on rare occasions, like this one, with a hungry baron or 
count. 

 CHAPTER FIFTEEN 

A big cunt with a rose garter round its lip floated in heavy mists. From the 
center of its vortex my anxious face looked out on the world as if I were 
just being born. Far above, the masked face of its owner smiled in triumph. 
Diamonds spelled the name of KASHKA over the black panties that darkened my 
view. A demoniacal laugh echoed in the vaginal walls, redoubling my fear and 
torment. 

Sweating thickly, I awoke from the nightmare, clutching the iron collar 
around my neck as if I were being strangled. 

"Oh God," I groaned, "why doesn't his damned neck heal so I can take his 
monstrosity off?" 

I arose and looked out of the window. Dawn was breaking over the horizon, 
where the line of ships heading our way was streaking a white path through 
the sea. 

I doused some water on my head, shivering from the icy drops that trickled 
beneath the iron, then, dressing in a hurry, I went down to the kitchen and 
ordered Albertina to serve me in the garden. 

Griffin found me there, carrying a packet of letters in his hand. 

"They are from the Duke," he whispered, looking round to see that we were 
alone. 

"Ah, fine, let me see what he has to say." 

I opened the red and gold trimmed envelope and began to read. 

"Dear Cosimo, "What a pleasure and relief to be alone at last in the city! 
There is no one here, not even that bedridden Rubilovsky, and I am making 
the most of my time. Ah, what a crowd of lovely things I have met in the 
last few days! Fantastic ... just the most gorgeous women I have ever met! I 
have made some fruitful excursions into the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Pres 
to try some brainy cunt for a change ... Delicious! Do me a favor, will you, 
and try to have the ceremonies drag on as long as you can. I am sure you 
will think of something, anything, it doesn't matter so long as you keep 
things hanging. No, in answer to your question, I am sorry to say that my 
neck is still bad and the collar yet in place. Patience, friend, patience. 
Believe me, nothing gives one such an imposing allure as a stiff neck and I 
am sure you are being treated with greater respect than usual. You must be 
careful, though, for I have found my monocle cracked from banging against 
the iron. Remember to remove the glass when you fuck. 

"A bientot, mon vieux, "COSIMO." 

A second letter was not so gay in tone. It began with a curt 

"Cosimo, "Why didn't you have Kashka invited down? She is making things hot 
for me here. Thank God Sonia is away or I would have to leave myself. One is 
enough! For heaven's sake, man, write to Kashka and ask her down. Write to 
me at the same time so that I can fake my leaving. If she gets in your way 
have Griffin take her to Stanley or Thomas. 

"I'm counting on you, old man, "Yours as ever, "COSIMO." 

I gave the letters to Griffin and told him to act accordingly. Since I had 
taken to using a typewriter for all my correspondence, I no longer had the 
bother of writing letters, leaving that matter in the hands of the worthy 
butler. 

"Your guests, the first ones anyway," he said, "are expected this morning." 

"Yes, I know, I saw the ships." 

"Please, Sire," he cautioned, "try to restrain yourself. You know, there 
will be a lot of reporters and photographers on hand." 

"If you don't mind," I answered coldly, getting up and stamping my napkin 
into the ground, "I am the Duke around here." 

Among the first guests to arrive was a famous female violinist and her 
father. They came in with the flowers sent from all over the world and which 
transformed the castle into a gigantic hothouse. She held her violin case 
under one arm and the other was in a perpetual embrace of the pater. He was 
greatly powdered and perfumed, and basked in the warm love of his daughter 
shamelessly, even with a bit of challenge to the world, as if to say, you 
should all love your daughters as I do mine. She excelled in playing 
Tchaikowsky in half the usual time. 

"I give you more for the money," she said, smiling endearingly into her 
father's healthy face. 

Our conversation was continually interrupted by the enormous sacks of mail 
which began to appear. I had to have them diverted into the yard and dumped 
on the ground. That night we lit a bonfire of thanks to our well-wishers, 
while Lily Raki, the sweet violinist, serenaded us with "Home Sweet Home" in 
double time. The audience sat, intently regarding their watches as she 
played, and applauded the sensational rendition which lasted no longer than 
twenty-two seconds! 

When the ceremony was over, I took them with me on an inspection of the 
female apartments. We examined the bidets scrupulously, knowing they were of 
prime concern to the occupants, and Lily and her father played like children 
at a fountain on these basins. I checked the bed springs and mattresses, the 
thick rugs, the mirrors over the beds; the bavinets supplied with jellies 
and creams, unguents, powders, pro-kits and syringes. 

Everything was fit, and yet it seemed to me the women were not satisfied. 
When night fell they tossed in their beds, downed sleeping pills, or read 
long passages from the bibles furnished by a hotel chain in America. In 
spite of all these things, the agitation did not cease to gnaw away in the 
secret hollows of their vulvas. The ennui was overtaking the men as well, 
and not infrequently I would cross a sour-faced baron pacing the halls, 
chewing in discontent on a damp cigar, and eyeing me with disgust. 

Conte D'Avino, who had accompanied me on the tour, addressed me privately 
when Lil and her father went tripping off to bed. 

"Sapristi," he exclaimed, "we can't fuck them all, come with me." 

I followed him down to the cellar where, by the light of a candle, he 
revealed the leather boxes stacked from floor to ceiling, containing in each 
a perfect model of the male organ. 

"They work, you know," he said, "just like ours! Look!" 

He opened a box and removed a plastic prick made in Japan, and showed me the 
clever manner in which it operated. 

"You can use anything inside, warm water for healthy cunts, cream for the 
anemic ones." 

We placed them in the night tables next to the chamber pots. 

"Well," I said, rubbing my hands, "that takes care of them for a while. Now, 
what do we do with the pederasts?" 

"That's no problem," smiled the Conte, his Machiavellian eyes shining in the 
dark. "No problem at all. 

Just send them over to Parliament." 

"The Prime Minister," he explained, "has already buggered the whole lower 
house. Now that he has altered their tastes, we send in our nobles and win 
an easy majority in BOTH houses!" 

"I see," I answered admiringly, "why you are such a powerful 'Eminence 
Grise.' A most crafty mixture of sex and politics!" 

He disappeared to set the machinery in motion, and I returned to my office. 
There was a note from Griffin that I was to review the models of my wife's 
gowns in the morning. Too exhausted to get up, I fell asleep on one of the 
sofas. 

I was still lying there, fully dressed, when the clarion sounded the hour of 
dawn. Sonia's beautiful cunt had haunted my morning slumber, the way it had 
of cropping up when a certain languor stole over my body. A sunbeam flicked 
on the dome of my prick growing out of my pants like a tower. 

My eyes opened slowly and I was concerned about the eretcion when the door 
opened and a tall girl, clad in a brassiere, panties and high-heels, glided 
in, and began turning this way and that to show me the merits of the 
underwear. 

"You people start work pretty early, don't you?" I yawned. 

"Well, the early bird catches the worm. That's our motto." 

"Do you," I asked the disciple of Poor Richard, "do you also model your 
cunt?" 

She was put out by my words and thrusting cock but continued nevertheless to 
strut around the room. 

"It's an excellent idea," I went on, stroking my member leisurely. "You pay 
so much attention to the female's external appearance and neglect her most 
vital part. Do you realize how many marriages are ruined because of shabby, 
ill-kept cunts?" 

"I have no idea," she answered coldly. 

"As long as you keep those little snatches out of sight, the male lets his 
imagination run riot beneath your skirts. Oh, the cunts I have imagined! For 
you, the cunt is a horrid crack between your legs, and you treat it that 
way. What a shame! Ah, my dear, if you but half realized the fatal 
fascination of that crack! It's not a chink in a wall to be plastered; we 
don't even think of the 'peepee' that comes out of it. Some men fear it as 
they would a hidden bear trap, imagining that its lips mask a deadly row of 
teeth ready to snap off the first cock that dares to get inside. As a 
result, when they fuck they do it in a state of nervous apprehension. How 
could such a fuck ever bring a woman to the full realization of her passion? 
A cunt should be tender and soft to the eye as it is to the touch. The 
warmth of its supple interior should be expressed throughout the surface of 
the Mons Venus. Enticing red cupid's bows are drawn with laboring patience 
on your lips. Your eyes are mascared with infinite care and the redness of 
the nose is concealed beneath a dab of powder. To what end all these pains? 
How ridiculous it is to entice the male by your care of that which is 
permitted to be revealed in public and to leave in scornful abandon that 
which brings you your greatest pleasure!" 

She looked at me strangely all the while I delivered my speech. For the 
first time in her life she was actually thinking. 

"You talk very well," she answered, emboldened enough to speak frankly. "But 
why don't you look at yourselves first? That, for example," and she pointed 
to my prick. "That THING between your legs! It's far worse than the ugliest 
cunt. A cunt at least is modest. What is there to it really but a bit of a 
triangle with a cut running down? It is neither offensive nor aggressive and 
even the worst are far more esthetic than that piece of hose hanging over a 
bag with balls knocking between your thighs. How utterly ridiculous!" 

"Ah," I smiled in agreement. "When it hangs down limp and flabby who really 
gives a damn about it? Hanging down, it is an insult to every woman. As for 
its looks, it is certainly unaesthetic, as you say. But then, we men make 
little pretention to having esthetic appeal. The prick is a strictly working 
instrument and its aspect in the air is like some malformation. Unlike the 
cunt, what we admire in it is its visible functionalism. Here, just look at 
the difference!" 

I placed her hand around my sleeping cock. 

"Just rub it a little, up and down, yes, like that, yes, that's it, very 
good, mm mm, yes...." 

The smooth touch of her fingers was like balm to the sensitive shaft and her 
hesitant, timid movements were like the special thrill of a virgin's caress. 
Under the spell of her palm my cock began to fill with hot blood, expanding 
with naughty jerks into its full length. She swallowed hard several times, 
visibly affected by the transformation. 

In absorbed silence we contemplated the miraculous change that had taken 
place. She was seated on the couch next to me, and kept her naked legs 
crossed tight as if she were guarding her cunt with all her might. A 
slightly different shade of black that appeared at the extreme point of her 
panties informed me that in spite of her efforts the reactions of her pussy 
at the image of a potential violator had been immediate and forceful. 

"Ugly, isn't it?" I cracked. 

"Terribly," she murmured, but her hand did not leave the pulsing organ. 

"If you keep that up," I said, "you'll waste some valuable energy." 

Her legs uncrossed and recrossed, in obvious agitation. Things were 
happening inside the much-discussed pussy, which had become extremely 
self-conscious from our talk. The patch of escaping mucus grew large in her 
crotch. 

Suddenly, with an impetuous movement, her head came down on my prick and she 
opened her beautifully painted lips and placed their warm moisture round the 
excited tip of my cock. Her tongue flew over its nub with the hurried 
confusion of a moth darting in and out of a flame. 

But the head alone was not sufficient and I pushed the shaft upward into her 
mouth till the swollen head touched the soft membranes of her throat. Her 
head began to move faster, with longer drives, shaking her hair loose 
carelessly. The lids of her eyes were shut tight in her intense 
concentration on the meat-rod. 

Her crossed thighs were moving in rhythm with her head, massaging her own 
titillating organ. When I saw her legs move apart at last to let her hand 
move in and play in between the lips of her cunt which now demanded more 
than the vague excitation of her limbs, I knew the time was approaching for 
the entry of the only thing which could satisfy her awakened desire. 

It was she herself who grasped the edge of her panties and pulled them down 
her legs. Not till the panties had been completely removed did she take her 
mouth away from my cock, and groaning madly, she nearly threw me from the 
couch in her leap to ram the cock-head through her pussy's lips. 

With great heavings of her lithe body she pumped her ass furiously up and 
down, digging her nails deep into my flesh. 

"Oh my God," she wailed, "oh Cock, OH COCK!" 

Each voluptuous shove was accompanied by her cry of "COCK! COCK!" 

I grabbed her titties from inside my wife's intended brassiere and flopped 
them out to suck on their long nipples and increase her spasmodic thrills. 
Her ass moved all the harder under this last provocation and I felt the 
boiling muscles of my prick swell beyond the possible, and when her climatic 
jab came sliding down, the head opened wide and spit its long burst of love 
into the wide-open muff of her sweet cunt-channel. 

My arms grasped her dose in the final coupling of orgasm. 

She collapsed with a long sigh of deliverance on my shoulders and we lay 
there tasting the slow-dying heat of our organs. 

I heard my ubiquitous butler's sardonic cough. 

He was seated in the middle of the group of models waiting patiently for 
their turn. As there were no magazines, everyone had a hand in his 
neighbor's crotch. With their heads leaning back on the sofa, legs outspread 
beneath the costly gowns, they frigged away as quiet as mice, no other sound 
disturbing the silence but the gentle swirling and swishing in their cunts. 

Two female hands were pumping my butler's prick with such vigor that when I 
looked up I saw its taut, palpitating head open its hole and ejaculate high 
in the air. Everyone sighed in a chorus of pleasure as the streams of their 
come poured out of their panties to go dripping down their legs. 

 CHAPTER SIXTEEN 

Flanked by the heralds with their medical horns bedecked in colors of the 
house, and seconded by the First Imperial Fife and Drum Corps, the guard of 
honor from the Fourth Battalion of the Royal Hussars, plus the ageing, but 
nonetheless brilliant, "Elite Guard" of Conte D'Avino, the only living 
friend of De Beaucouillon, I stood erect, hand on sword, monocle gleaming in 
my eye, to receive the stupendous ovations that rocked the giant columns of 
the hall; soberly, as I had been taught, with a curt, Prussian-style 
clicking of my heels which sent my spurs jangling, and stepped forward, with 
the ear-shattering horns and drums blasting to the world the ducal entry, to 
march across the marble into the assembly. 

To right and left, splendor and beauty shone from the gigantic horseshoe 
table, groaning from the mass of tankards, bottles, dishes, silverware and 
flowers it bore. 

Except for the two award winners from the Forthright Foundation who were 
doing extensive research in "Advanced Onanism, Its Cause and Spread," plus 
of course the inevitable Hollywoodians who manage to crash parties of this 
sort, we were everyone of us full-blooded nobles. A quick glance round at 
the long, thin noses, the tall necks, the eyebrows arched over eyes set deep 
in their hollows, cheeks drawn and pinched from a natural contempt for 
regular eating, was enough to prove the quality of those present. 

They toasted me and I toasted them and the meal officially began. Maggie's 
throne, on my right, was covered with roses and ribbons, and beyond its 
imposing form, Conte D'Avino slumbered peacefully in his chair. On my left, 
bald-pated Prince Paul-Jonah, the suavest and most elegant noble of all, sat 
inhaling from his long cigarette-holder, eyeing the women with a knowing 
eye. A reputed cocksman, his address books were the envy of all. The heavy 
bags under his eyes seemed larger than usual, and I attributed it to his 
boredom. There was scarcely a woman amongst the hundreds around whom he had 
not fucked, violated or abused. He tapped the ashes from his cigarette, 
looked at me wryly and sighed. 

"Listen, P. J.," I whispered, "we hired a new batch of servants today." 

He grunted approvingly. 

We sat back and regarded the luscious duchesses and marquises who were vying 
with each other to attract our attention. One could easily tell those who 
were up-to-date by the distance between nipples. The older ones kept their 
tits hugged close together, perhaps from force of habit, but many a youthful 
comtesse had the swept-apart look now in vogue. 

The house-lights dimmed and a red spotlight illumined an aerial stage of 
glass which floated in beneath the hidden television cameras. An orchestra 
of a hundred unclad females offered a delightful treat for my guests, 
presenting a hundred different views of the female anatomy seen from an 
unusual angle. 

The audience sat spellbound, listening to the soft music of the dryads. At 
the beginning of the second number an equal amount of nude waitresses danced 
in with the whiskey pudding. The pale blue flames swished amongst the guests 
as they deposited the facsimile heads of John the Baptist at each place. 

This little feature intrigued P. Jonah, and he leaned over my way to say 
that the choice was excellent. His perfumed prick (which always hung out of 
his pants at dinner, because, as he said, "It chokes me. Yes, just literally 
chokes me to keep it inside.") began to stretch forward and swell. I sighed 
with relief, for Griffin had explained how "Paul's Balls" were the barometer 
of an evening's success. 

"When a woman wants to get laid," he had added, "her cunt gets into a hell 
of a state. You know, they itch, they chafe, it runs with all kinds of 
secretions and goo, and the muscles twitch and everything irritates it and 
teases it and it gets cranky, and, oh Christ, a regular vibrating starts up, 
and if a cock don't get in there soon and put an end to all that fuss and 
fluster the whole fucking works blows up in her system. Well, Prince Paul's 
cock, you'd swear it has a built-in divining rod. When one of those 
irritating cunts gets within forty feet of the bastard, it goes smack up in 
the air and points right at that hungry, begging hole." 

The trumpets sounded anew and the Royal Hussars marched in again escorting 
the bridal virgins who announced the long-awaited arrival of Miss Maggie 
Choates in a floral bombardment of the room. 

A lot of guests were peeved at what they considered an interruption of the 
sensational striptease and began yelling at the intruders to leave. They 
threw back chicken bones and great chunks of pudding in return for the 
flowers. 

P. J. shook his head. 

"Very badly timed," he said. 

The virgins withdrew in terror to regroup outside. The gourmets and the 
epicures resumed their guzzling and gorging and the lechers among us went 
back to feeling the behinds of the waitresses. 

Opposite me sat the Baroness Lechequeux. Her vicious fingers were playing 
suggestively over the fly of Albert, le Conte de Bitebande. The latter's 
organ responded to the licentious tickling and flopped out of his striped 
trousers full into the moist palm of the Baroness. 

Next to Albert was a woman of dark complexion and black hair bound in a knot 
behind. The silver and diamond tiara of a countess shone brilliantly in her 
dark tresses. Though I didn't know her, she had a familiar look about her. 
Sue enough, not far from her was her sister, none other than the Princess of 
Crimea I had deflowered in the Town House. 

"Who made out the invitations?" sneered Prince 

P. J. He was looking at a stocky marquise with a most bestial expression on 
her face. Black hairs escaped from her flared nostrils and when she smiled 
long incisors flashed below her lips. 

"Why?" I asked simply. 

"If Van Bloutte is here, then that God-damned Stanley ain't far away." 

Well, I thought to myself, if P. J. is worried about Stanley, maybe that guy 
has something, and made a mental note to watch the companions of the 
Marquise Van Bloutte. 

The talk and repartee flew lightheartedly through the flickering 
candelabras. Wine and laughter seemed to pour as one from the gurgling 
bottles, running endlessly as a fountain during the banquet. The sharp, 
heady tingle of the wine spurred the eagerness of the men to make themselves 
brilliant. The delighted females teased them with smiling lips and 
half-formed promises in their eyes. 

Even Rubilovsky's wig seemed to shine with unusual luster, though I 
suspected it had been heavily greased that afternoon. Aunt Tillimond and 
Cousin Ulla had met a pair of barons who were flushed to the gills with hope 
and wine and gradually removing the plaintive Vladimir from their presence. 
I did not see his wife, Nadia, anywhere in the crowd, which only meant she 
was offering her skirts somewhere in the remote chambers of the castle. 

Lady Hottham, whom I hadn't seen since my old butler days, was resting coyly 
on Sir Mottke-Wrench's shoulder, darting her dove-eyes into his at every 
chance. Across from them sat Lady Worthington, and something in her eye 
showed her own designs of him. 

"A brilliant evening!" cried Prince Paul. 

"Certo Cosimo, e brilliante!" echoed the Conte. "Ma piace qui ... ma guard 
un po' ... Look at this cock!" 

"Shit," said Paul-Jonah, "I can look at my own!" 

The two of them sat and regarded their rigid poles pointing to the 
chandeliers. 

Griffin leaned over my shoulder. 

"Begging your pardon, Sire, but you might have a look at mine." 

He extracted his erection carefully to show me its proportins and both 
Prince Paul and the Conte leaned over to see. 

"Magnifico!" exclaimed D'Avino. 

Prince Paul took it in hand, weighed it, bounced it, snapped his fingers 
against its hard tissue, and then looking up at my butler with pure 
admiration, exclaimed in his turn: 

"By Jove, Sam Griffin, if I didn't know your father I would say you were a 
full-blooded noble!" 

Griffin blushed proudly at his words. 

"Oh thank you, Sire. Everyone knows I'm a bastard." 

"Couldn't have better proof ... so am I! 

The Baroness Lechequeux, observing us all the time, had not missed an inch 
of Griffin's sizable organ, nor a stroke of that of Albert, Te Conte de 
Bitebande. Her eyebrows moved suggestively in the direction of my butler, 
who blushed all the harder when he saw her. 

"Perhaps," she said, leaning forward to speak to me, "perhaps you might lend 
me your butler one day, eh?" Albert grew peeved at her request, but her 
stroking hand kept his passions in a sexual plane. 

"Perhaps," I answered with a grin, "but is there anything wrong with yours?" 

"Who, Big Jack?" she asked. "He was good until his disgustingly democratic 
ideas spoiled his taste. 

Imagine preferring a chambermaid to a baroness! He just wasn't cut out to be 
a butler." 

After Griffin admitted that he wouldn't mind pinch hitting in the Baroness' 
household he leaned back satisfied and devoted her full attention to Albert 
anew. 

The Royal Hussars attempted another entry of the hall. The fanfare sounded 
and the great doors swung apart, this time to let in the pink and blue sedan 
chair on which Maggie reclined. She was absolutely invisible in the 
voluminous billows of her gown, which floated around her like the sails of a 
ship in a languid breeze. The porters were about to set the chair down when 
another barrage of food flew on them from all parts of the room. The Royal 
Hussars retreated once more, bearing back with them my frightened fiancee. 

Paul looked my way and scowled. 

"Dreadful violation of protocol!" 

The sensuous fever was mounting with the speed of electricity, communicating 
its carnal excitement from male to female round and round the bubbling 
table. 

While above-board people laughed and joked, underneath, coarse, immodest 
hands began to stray. They dallied their prurient fingers over lush thighs, 
pulled slyly on the folds of satin and silk till the raised hem was slid 
back exposing the nylon band and the clasp that joined it to the garter. The 
smooth, tender forms of dimpled knees sheathed in skin-tight stockings 
transmitted the daring thrills through the warm, receptive bodies, brimming 
with anticipation. The hands toyed in the intimate secrecy of frilly 
panties, wandered into the lecherous nests between legs beginning to spread 
from the agreeable sensations. Zippers, buttons and snaps were all undone 
with the same sensual conspiracy, and long, hard erections broke forth to be 
caressed by finer hands, less bold, but equally moist with desire. Like wily 
border thieves in the dark, the illicit commerce plied back and forth its 
clandestine lust. 

With beating heart I recognized my sister enjoying the quips of a gang of 
hungry counts. Further to her left, Lady Worthington's fleshy posterior was 
trembling with nervous tension. Nearly everyone seemed to be eating with but 
one hand, the other carefully dissimulated beneath the table. 

I saw a dancing pump fall from a pretty foot to be followed by a stocking 
trailing gently downward. Garter belts and undies made their appearance 
beneath the table wherever the more impetuous couples were seated. 

A band of wild and wailing Oriental dancers dashed out on the floor, jumping 
high in the air with their transparent, bloomer-like pants flapping over 
their visible genitals. Their fantastic leaps thrilled the female guests to 
the core, for the spotlights picked up the flopping cocks and balls which 
seemed to be straining for the nude females in the orchestra directly above 
them. 

I turned to Paul but my words were directed into the cunt of a waitress who 
was filling my glass. The pubic smell shot through my nose with a heady 
pique. My tongue instinctively flew out and flapped against her perspiring 
lips. I grabbed the cheeks of her ass and propelled her underneath. From the 
edge of my chair I placed the fiery tip of my cock against her cunt. While I 
sat still, she took upon herself the thrilling labors of running her cunt 
back and forth over the penetrating penis. 

P. J.'s legs made matters difficult for her. She tried to shove them out of 
the way, lost her balance and dragged me with her under the table. 

The sperm blast of Albert, le Conte de Bitebande, winged over my head as I 
came down. The Baroness' pumping hand had brought him to his climax and his 
wobbling rod was going off not three inches from my partner's face. 

With shirts trussed up at her waist and exposing her buttocks to a shaft 
pierced in from behind, I recognized my old friend, Lady Worthington, more 
from her curls than from her face, which was hidden from view between the 
thin legs of Sir Mottke-Wrench. No other female I knew had such an 
insatiable appetite for male sperm. When the palpitating muscles of his tool 
began to erupt in her mouth not a drop of the seminal fluid escaped through 
her sucking lips. 

While the waitress was bringing me in my turn to the halls of Nirvana I was 
vaguely trying to determine whether the long prick going into Lady 
Worthington was stuck in her swept-back cunt or protruding asshole. From 
where I was it looked like it had a bit of both. 

The view around me surpassed anything I had ever seen. I seemed to be in 
some strange erotic tunnel flanked with hairy pussies and braced erections 
alternately spaced down the line. Lovely limbs squirmed in the delicious 
treats received from wiggling fingers, and the cocks strained harder and 
harder, bulging red and blue, puffed with the bubbling steam they wanted to 
spit through the dribbling lips of the cunts. 

Cries of "Vive Thomas! Vive Stanley!" sang out from the table. I hadn't 
realized the mysterious personages were so well known, and unable to control 
my curiosity, pushed the waitress before me, fucking her all the while. I 
came in her burning pussy as the second round of applause broke over our 
heads in honor of Thomas and Stanley. 

Bosoms rose and fell in that moment, mouths opened in the sudden need for 
air pumping faster in hoppedup bodies. Eyes turned everywhere, everyone was 
being watched by everyone else. The performers ended their number and 
regarded the room with awe. Our breathing was like the sound of wind blowing 
through the rushes, rising into a gale. 

A stunted bull and a portly ape were standing sheepishly in the center of 
the floor. The thunderous applause in their honor had rurned them to stone. 

"If that's Stanley and Thomas," I thought, "the competition is going to be 
stiff tonight." 

The female eyes were big with lust as they sought out the gigantic works of 
the beasts. Thomas' prick lay like a fireman's hose on the floor while his 
nervous tail flicked across his ass. Stanley kept his meat-hook in his hand, 
abstractedly caressing it as his beady red eyes watered at the sight of all 
the women. 

The Hussars made another attempt to accompany the bridal chair into our 
midst. With the waitress lying prostrate beneath me, my head poked out 
beneath the white damask doth, I had a full front view of the ape and the 
bull, bewildered by the shouting assembly and the helmeted Hussars gaining 
on them, surmounted by the flowing veils of my bride who was crouched in 
fear on her pillows. 

Before the guests had a chance to react, the clatter of hooves thundered in 
the entry, and a great white horse galloped in, and to everyone's 
astonishment, Cosimo, the Grand Duke himself, rode in with a conquering 
smile and swinging sword. 

His dramatic dash fell like a bomb on the stunned audience. All heads swung 
with one accord in my direction. 

"The foolhardy ass has gone and fucked things up proper!" 

I had just time enough to duck back under the table, prey to a thousand 
misgivings. But the empty chair seemed to convince them they had not seen 
him slink away to make this picturesque entry with his bride. 

The lecherous intentions of Lechequeux and Van Bloutte were thwarted in the 
commotion. The trailing veils of the virgin fascinated Stanley's primitive 
eye, and he rubbed his groin with lascivious calculation. Before anyone had 
a chance to recover his wits, the ape sprang from his place into the 
twisting folds of the bridal gown. The Duke's gallop had carried him beyond 
the scene, enabling the ape to clutch poor Maggie like a sack of meat and 
leap boldly into the group of worried Hussars. He was gone with his prey in 
a blur of black hair and flying veils. 

The most indescribable pandemonium broke out. The whinnying stallion's cry 
and the bellows of the bull joined in the chorus of "Rape!" that echoed to 
the rafters. The Hussars fled in panic, the empty sedan chair wobbling 
crazily in their center, closely followed by the angry Duke on his charge. 

Lady Worthington's dumbfounded face appeared under the damask, eyeing me 
like a ghost. 

 CHAPTER SEVENTEEN 

Lady Worthington caved in under Prince Paul's prick. The Marquise Van 
Bloutte lay flat on her back with the flabby end of Thomas' hose in her 
mouth, attempting with all her art to raise that prodigal organ high. 
Spitting and kissing the bovine's balls, Baroness Lechequeux was egging her 
on, anxious to see the exciting spectacle take place. Through her widespread 
legs, Griffin's organ made its way between the cheeks and into the steaming 
lips beyond. 

The Princess from the Crimea was teaching Sir Mottke-Wrench how to dance the 
mazurka and the old guy thought she was an extremely witty girl. 

Above their heads, the female musicians were throwing away their instruments 
and calling to the operator to have the platform lowered. Already several of 
them were lying on the grass, frigging their cunts furiously. 

I had crawled out from the table, under cover of the general confusion, 
seeking to join the Duke, but before I had taken two steps, a strange woman 
grabbed my arm and arrested my course. She was wearing a velvet mask 
embedded with rubies and a large red bow was tied about her neck. I had 
never seen as daring a gown as hers. It stopped short below her naked tits, 
so abruptly, I thought at first it had been tom apart. The breasts 
themselves were tattooed with strange symbols-so thickly covered, the 
nipples were difficult to locate. When the eye finally did perceive them it 
remarked a cleverly placed ruby in the recess of each nipple. The black gown 
was split from the waist to the floor to reveal in flashes the rabies and 
diamonds that graced the contours of her muff. 

"I see you got all dressed up to fuck." 

"Take care," said the female Svengali. A racking laugh escaped from her 
lips, which my stupefaction fed like fuel. This "femme fatale" with burning 
eyes and insane laugh was Kashka Vamishkas, the cruel, malicious Kashka. It 
was clear she had unearthed the plot and was prepared to foil our plans. 

The second chapter of Conte D'Avino's Precepts and Maxims flashed through my 
brain. "To shut a woman's mouth, keep her vagina full." With an inward 
salutation for the Conte, I lashed out my weapon and pressed it against her 
belly. Her reaction was instant and brutal. A thin, Silician vendetta blade 
menaced my throat. She looked up at me, trying to find the fear in my eyes. 
The penis grazed the ruby-dotted patch and found the bitch's hole wet and 
spongy with unappeasable desire. The menacing stiletto reared back for the 
plunge. My cock shot forward into the wealth of hair and jewels and went 
rocketing up the vagina as the blade streaked to my neck. 

I felt our pubes meet with a shock and heard the ring of metal as her dagger 
struck the iron collar and went flying into space. My turtleneck sweater had 
concealed the support from view, and the Duke's broken neck had saved my 
own. 

The thwarted Kashka was now fully in my power, for her insatiable lust drove 
murder and vengeance from her mind. 

We were under the Renaissance archway where a group of fornicators were 
playing a game called "Historical Fucks." The servants had brought them 
full-length figures of Henry the Fourth, Catherine de Medici, and the other, 
hornier, Catherine of Russia, Lucrezia Borgia, Czar Alexander, Queen 
Victoria, Madame Pompadour, Louis XVI and others. 

Fully naked, I saw a charming duchess enter the body of Catherine the Great 
and bend over stiffly to receive the pork of a second-rate count. Roaring 
hilariously, Sir Mottke-Wrench fell on his back, enclosed in the figure of 
Louis XV, and it was a moving sight to see that noble king receive the squat 
legged attentions of Queen Victoria. 

In all this time Van Bloutte had not ceased to suck away on Thomas' prick. 
Finally despairing of getting it up, she pulled the tube out of her mouth, 
rubbed it lasciviously over her steaming pussy then, trembling with 
aggravation, crammed the limp hose in her cunt. 

Her friend, Lechequeux, was on her knees, her bowels opened wide over 
Griffin's butting cannon. Her squeals and shrieks joined those of her 
neighbors whose bodies were thudding nearby. 

Exasperated cocks lunged for the tortured dripping pussies, accompanied by 
cries, growls, grunts and squeals rending the air, as chairs overturned and 
bottles and glasses spilled their contents over the rich cloths of the gowns 
that flurried upward, revealing the soft, downy skin of alabaster bellies 
indented with navels like dimples, buttons and seams, through which elastic 
drew red criss-cross marks, the elastic of gay organdy and lace, tracing the 
panties' edge over large, fleshy thighs and hidden crotches, suddenly 
confronted by long, hairy scrotums dangling beneath turgid shafts with 
zig-zag veins, which many a female seized and plunged in her mouth, while 
others toppled to the floor or were thrown upon the table amongst skidding 
forks and platters, grasped by hands that were strong or pulpy, fat or thin, 
all in a fury at the touch of hot, meaty buttocks beneath their mashing and 
kneading fingers, preparing the way for the heavy nubs with their tiny, 
deadly holes, jerking like stallions at the succulent lips of love and 
soaring through the voluptuous ridges of the female channel which hugged the 
thin-skinned invaders in ecstasy. 

"Oh, where will this all end!" I heard a female voice wail. O lechery! O 
abomination! Is this what we have come to?" 

Though I heard her voice quite clearly, in fact even admired its noble 
timbre and sincerity, I could not locate her in the mass of wriggling 
females and pumping males. Kashka and I had become to passionately involved 
to remain for long in the standing position, and I had bent her supple back 
down on the table. Her feet were planted on two chairs. I was in the middle, 
partially erect, partially on her tattooed chest. When I heard the 
condemning voice I found a human, fucking structure of the Pharaohs. How it 
had started, no one could say, but Lechequeuex and Van Bloutte were at the 
bottom of it all, abetted by a suddenly aroused Thomas. The growing amorous 
structure seemed to be built entirely of hairy assholes and female legs. 
Through the fleshy crevices a hand might steal round and twiddle the 
swinging balls to excite their rhythm. Tits were mashed under palms, the 
pressure swelling their cherry tips to peaches. Groans and sighs escaped 
from the carnal oven and long, plopping globules of released spem dripped 
from thigh to stomach, rolled into the sweat of armpits and fell like a 
Roman fountain in a steady gurgle from top to bottom. At the peak, the 
anguished woman continued her lamentations, supporting herself on hands and 
knees on the back of a male pumper, her ass buckled under the raging shaft 
of Prince Paul. 

"Fe, fe, fe, fe, ma foi, il fait fort chaud. Je m'en vais a la cour-la 
grande affaire! Vere is dat knave, Rugby?" 

"O diable, diable! Vat is in my closet?-Villainy!" 

"This punk is one of Cupid's carriers! Clap on more sails. Pursue, up with 
your flights!" 

"I love thee, and none but thee; help me away: let me creep in here!" 

The brusque evolution of the soiree had hindered our Shakespeare Group from 
performing the "Merry Wives of Windsor," but, like true actors who live but 
partly in this world, the lines escaped from their lips as they pursued 
their wanton way in the orgy. The last coherent snatch I heard was Sir 
Evans' song of the final act. 

"Fye on sinful fantasy! 

Fye on lust and luxury! 

Lust is but a bloody fire. 

Kindled with unchaste desire, As thoughts do blow them ... blow ... BLOW!" 

The lady sucking at the actor's dick routed his song into bellows as she 
lapped his pulsing rod into orgasm. "The old balls have come again! Vive les 
couilles!" 

"Oh, I am degraded," sobbed the Prince's partner. "Finished! Oh life, oh 
irony, I am become a pleasure hold of a depraved Prince." 

The gesticulating Prince astride the baroque mass of humanity called for 
more ass and less poetry. With hands on hips he surveyed the awful scene 
with an imperious, devilish eye. Not a comer of the room was bare of a 
hussar's discarded uniform, of a baron's undershirt or a lady's crumpled 
corset. The sexes in fury were clasped in debauch on the floor, in chairs 
that rocked dangerously with their straggling copulation, against pillars, 
where a wild-eyed countess' legs were spread ecstatically before a 
hunched-up hussar and his thrilling weapon. 

Perverts in the pyramid began to piss, in long curving arcs, or ejected a 
passionate turd in the mouth of a blissful companion. A stream of shit, piss 
and sperm wallowed down the slopes of buttocks and dripped to the floor with 
obscene sounds. 

The prime Minister was lashing the streaked buttocks feverishly, his other 
hand pulling on his red cock with extraordinary violence. 

Beneath them all, Thomas suddenly came to life, and the greatest organ in 
the house began to rise solemnly to its full capacity. The enraptured 
Marquise felt it swelling through her slobbering walls, filling her to the 
hilt with a voluptuous paroxysm beyond compare. 

Above the bull's quivering back, the structure began to sway dangerously 
with his lunges, but instinctively each human molecule of the mass changed 
its rhythm with his, and for a second I had the illusion of a gigantic 
phallus jutting from the floor to the rafters, swaying gently to and fro, as 
if searching for the phenomenal cunt that could receive it. 

The Duke had long since re-entered the banquet hall, and wherever he saw a 
bearded male he lifted the head in hope he had found me at last. Kashka's 
braced legs went back as she pushed her pussy flat against my groin and the 
wild, hungry sucking of her vagina pulled the orgasm from my cock. 

She dropped her legs around my back and fainted in the wave of thrills that 
shivered her sensual frame. 

I felt that Duke's hand on my shoulder and, winking, he motioned me out of 
her nest, where he immediately thrust his saucy pecker. 

"She'll never complain about this fuck," he grinned. "And maybe she'll even 
forgive my marriage. Don't go too far, and save some sperm. You're going 
back in when I'm through." 

"Very clever, old boy," I said, "very clever indeed. We'll keep her busy for 
quite a while." 

"Right-o! We'll fuck the bitch to death!" 

"Right! Just fart when you're through." 

"Right-o!" 

I was glad to be free on the floor again. Kashka was a damned good fuck, no 
doubt about that, but those kind of fucks I wanted to save for my weekends 
and long winter nights. Right now there was such a multitude of pussy, one 
felt the insane craving to get at them all. The varieties of vaginas alone 
was a voluptuous sight. Black-haired, blond and red; curled, long, short, or 
not at all, the time had come to taste them all; to prick the fat, rosy lips 
of the matrons and the thin, delicate sheaves of the maidens; to ram long 
drives into women of experience, and short, testy spurts into youth. I 
wanted to hear the breath of passion, the way it busts like a locomotive 
gathering speed until the onrushing juices drown the tongue in the explosive 
gasps of delirium and feel the working vulva and cock clasped in their 
drunken orgasm. 

 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN 

When Stanley abducted Maggie he had no trouble in leaving his pursuers far 
behind. He had been clever enough to avoid the bedrooms in favor of an 
obscure lavatory on the third floor. 

There, on the black and white tiles, the frail, civilized cunt was faced 
with the long, cone-headed jungle shaft. The crapulous beast wallowed into 
the chaste trousseau like a pig, a trough, tossing her petticoats into a 
lacy frame for his ass. 

The glistening head of his cock stabbed at the mucous fronds of her pussy in 
a scalding lunge. His powerful testicles whipped the soft human sweetmeats 
to white heat, and the thrills he threw into her body reduced her puritan 
shell to dust. 

In an ecstasy she had never known, provoked as much by the stinging odor of 
his fur and the blasting fire of his nostrils, as by the formidable organ 
dipping and plunging into her excited glands, she threw up her ass with joy 
to help him provoke the voluptuous sensations. 

Humiliated at first by the ignoble rape of his bride, the authentic Duke ran 
from room to room, bloody revenge twisting his features into a horrible 
mask. His agile mind, however, moved at a quicker pace, and he soon saw how 
the catastrophe could be turned to his advantage. 

So it was that when he walked into the lavatory to take a piss and was faced 
with the spectacular tableau of his future wife moaning and squirming in her 
fantastic thrills he stood, with his cock out, urinating on the tiles and 
studying the ape's heaving form with a faraway look. He flipped away the 
last drops, replaced his prick, tapped Stanley amicably on his stony balls 
and closed the door on corruption. 

He descended to the kitchen for a stimulant, where he was mystified by his 
laundress' ass poking out at him from beneath his dirty shirts, the ripple 
of her laughter issuing from their depths. 

His friend and author, le Conte D'Avino, rippling the pages of his next 
manuscript, was seated by the stove, surrounded by a sea of bottles. 

"E stupendo! E Meravigilioso!" he cried through his thin, peaked mustache. 
"Duco, e formidabile! This soiree has revolutionized my work!" 

"Do you never stop work?" asked the Duke. 

The chipper Count laughed and waved his manuscript in the air. 

"Now! Now, I can fuck! It's done, finished ... outmoded!" 

He lifted the grate of the oven and hurled the papers into the flames, 
saluted the Duke with a low bow and skipped out of the room, unbuttoning his 
fly as he made for the Grand Ball Room. 

The Duke walked over and looked at the bottles. He shook his head in 
amazement, then followed in his footsteps, leaving his pants in the hall 
where he found the others. 

After the Duke had taken over for me on Kashka's sweating body, I wandered 
through the room, picking out of plates to appease a growing hunger, and 
watching the battling multitude consume their forces one by one. 

"Excuse me, Your Grace," I heard a timid voice at my elbow. A thin fellow, 
fully dressed and carrying a satchel, was holding my arm and staring with 
incredulous eyes at the Rabelaisian crowd. 

"Yes?" I asked, wondering where he had come from. He obviously wasn't a 
noble and looked like he was about to shit in his pants from fear. 

"I, I, have some important news for you! ... I was warned to keep my mouth 
shut, but I know my duty, and ... and...." 

A big female leg fell on his toe as a woman succumbed to her seething 
orgasm. The man who had screwed her got up, and pushed the little fellow 
tight against the table. His face drained of all its color. 

"Well?" I asked, chewing on the leg of a turkey and rather annoyed at the 
interruption, "go on, tell me your news." 

He tried to squeeze between the crushing buttocks and the table, but the man 
who had just finished was rushed by the Crimean Princess, who had yet to 
learn that a prick has got to be stiff before a woman can use it. She leaped 
in the air and came flying flat against his groin, her outspread legs 
barring the way completely for the little fellow. 

Escape was further complicated by the sudden appearance of Rubilovsky's evil 
snout between his legs. I don't know what she had been doing all alone under 
the table. When she lifted the cloth a sickening odor of shit and sweet 
marihuana floated out. She started tugging at his fly while he was getting 
belted in the stomach by the couple in front of him. 

"For Christ's sake, talk, will you?" I bellowed. "What the hell do you 
want?" 

As his prick came out in the Countess' palm he shouted back, sounding like 
he was crying for help. "It's about Miss Choates, Your Grace. I came to tell 
you about Miss Choates. Her Doctor ... OOH ... I said ... And you should ... 
OOh Know. Oh ... Maggie Oh, Oh, has ... OOOOh, syphilis, OH!" 

"Syphilis!" echoed the gossip, "Maggie has syphilis!" 

"Poor Stanley!" I said, throwing the chicken leg away. "Poor Stanley...." 

Father Kelly's eyes bulged at my indifference. From below, Rubilovsky pulled 
on his trousers. His head was nearly snapped off between the table and the 
pumping ass as he went sliding down. 

When I came back, the Duke was on the table, one knee in a salad bowl, 
punching crazily into Kashka's asshole. His plan to fuck her to death seemed 
to be making headway, for she was already so punch drunk she opened her 
mouth for my cock, having completely forgotten who was buggering her from 
behind. 

We addressed each other over her back. 

"Cosimo," I said to the Duke, "you needn't have gone to the trouble of all 
that plotting. I have just learned that Maggie is a bag of disease." 

"I am thinking of Stanley," he answered, raising his voice over Kashka's 
rising wail. 

"Yes," I replied, shoving my pecker well into her mouth. "It is a shame. 
He's too impetuous," 

"Nature," shrugged the Duke. "Well, we'll have him treated. I need that 
ape." 

He then told me the plan he had in mind. "Stanley is priceless," he said. 
"Once he gets into a woman, he's all she wants. That simian prick of his 
will keep peace at last with all the females I have to fuck. Think of the 
free time I'll have for new pussy!" 

His words grew hurried at the end as his sperm began to jelly into Kashka. 
Her throat opened wide to emit her ecstatic moan but the head of my cock 
went down and gagged her. 

"I don't know if she was fucked or sucked to death ... Perhaps a little of 
both." 

The two Dukes rose up on the table, straddling the collapsed mistress and 
turned to survey the room. 

The enormous phallus began to lean heavily to one side, and suddenly, with 
the ultimate rocking orgasm streaming through their organs and accompanied 
with the mad cries of lust appeased, it toppled over and collapsed to the 
floor, a wriggling turmoil of limbs, groins, pussies, cocks, assholes, 
mouths, and rolling tits all churned into a thick and odorous cream which 
poured over the marble like a foaming wave on the beach, then settled 
gradually into the euphory of dozing sun-bathers, the flabby cocks shrinking 
back to their pouches and the overheated pussies choking for air and rest. 

Father Kelly crawled from under the table when the noise had stopped and 
looked in horror at the carnage. But the worst was when the poor man 
perceived the two Cosimos on the banquet table, laughing at a monstrous ape 
carrying in his arms the adoring figure of Miss Choates. He placed her on 
the back of the exhausted bull and the three of them left the palace in a 
dreamy mood, like some strange apparition of Europa. 

Father Kelly fell headlong into a cooling cunt, victim of an apoplectic 
stroke. 

The warm aroma of sperm and female mucus hovered in the giant room, wafted 
through the columns in long, pungent draughts. The fornication had reached 
its apogee and passed into animal snores of contentment. 

Cosimo hugged my shoulder, as delighted as an infant with the success of his 
ball. 

"I can die now, Cosimo," he said with a warm tear of human love. "I can die 
as befits my condition. Others may try, but they can never equal what we 
have accomplished here tonight. We have fucked the world, I tell you, fucked 
it once and for all!" 

And watching the formidable sea of sperm that floated in and out amongst the 
prostrate couples I could not help but agree. 

"It's going to be hard, Cosimo," I said, observing Sir 

Mottke-Wrench crawling toward Lady Hottham with his tongue hanging out. 
"It's going to be hard to return to civilian life." 


THE END
