Absolute Threesomes Read online

  The ding of the elevator causes us to freeze. What a delightful, motionless tableau we must make, I think. Is someone going to witness this sensual scene?

  “Josh? You about done up here?” a voice calls.

  “Just finishing up with a patron. I’ll be down in two minutes.”

  “Okay. See you soon.”

  Another ding and we breathe a sigh of relief, then quickly gather our clothing and dress.

  “Sorry that was so quick, love. The others like to get out of here on time. Can we have you over for a proper dinner and more fun at our place soon?” Theo asks. He affectionately strokes Josh’s cheek. “This one is an excellent chef and loves to show off his culinary skills.”

  I sigh with envy. One day, I might have someone look at me like that, eyes shining with love. Until then, I can bask in the overflow ardor of these two delightful men.

  “Sure, I’d like that. Home cooking is always the best.”

  We exchange phone numbers and emails and go our separate ways. My body and mind hum happily, and I reflect again what a wonderful service the library provides.

  The Cabinet of Monsieur Zee

  By Vanessa de Sade

  The studio of Monsieur Zee, even to the most sophisticated eye, was a dark and wondrous place, a symphony in black velvets which had never felt the caress of mid-morning sunlight. To Marie-Mathilde, though, who had walked here from the orphanage with her rosary clutched firmly in one tiny bird-like hand, her few belongings rattling in the tiny box that Madame had bequeathed her, it was a marvel far beyond mere words, and she wondered for the hundredth time why the famed photographer had picked her from all the other girls to be his ward.

  Marie-Mathilde was a thin girl with thick red hair the colour of ripe berries, worn modestly today in a tight chignon; a fresh complexion but no breasts whatsoever, and her eyes were deep milky pools where men would drown if they cared to look. Though few, before Zee, ever had.

  She stood, blushing, for him now, like a patient piebald mare, as he appraised her like horseflesh, his fat form tiptoeing around her with his characteristic mincing steps, like a ballerina on point. Those who remembered Zee as a youth - and there were not many of those left now - always spoke of the thinness of his ankles and of his graceful balletic stance. But his love of sweetmeats had swelled his silhouette over the ensuing years to the shape he now possessed, though his feet, in their handmade buckled shoes, were still as tiny as ever and he still pranced like a circus pony when in the presence of an object d’art that excited him.

  “Ah, ma cher Marie-Mathilde,” the old man sighed, “for how many years have you languished in that den of boiled cabbage and bad taste?”

  “You mean the orphanage?” Marie-Mathilde replied politely, neither grateful nor defensive, “for as long as I can remember, Monsieur, so at least nineteen years.”

  “Nineteen years?” exclaimed the porcine Zee, visibly shocked, “you are nineteen, Cherie?”

  “This past St Margaret’s day, Monsieur,” the girl replied, “does this displease you?”

  Zee smiled, his mouth a gleaming array of golden teeth. “No, no, child, I am just surprised, that is all, I took you to be no more than fourteen by your fresh complexion.”

  Marie-Mathilde did not answer but merely shook her head modestly, as she had been taught, and then looked at her feet.

  Zee laughed softly and circled her again, reassessing her slim boyish form in her best grey cotton dress that the orphanage elders must have so grudgingly paid for. She was just what he wanted, but that rosary that never left her hand troubled him.

  The old crone at the orphanage had assured him that the girl would give him unquestioning obedience, of course, but there were the expenses for the hairdresser and the dressmaker still to be considered, and the careful Zee wished to be sure of the girl’s compliance before he committed himself to her care.

  “Come, Cherie,” he said, drawing back the heavy velvet drapes and leading her into his main studio, “let us see if you can provide me with what I desire. Celeste, where are you, you tiresome girl? I told you to be ready and Marie-Mathilde is here and waiting and yet there is no sign of you.”

  “I am here, I am here,” complained a voice, “all undressed and ready just as you asked. Is this the new girl, is she not sweet, and so thin and white too? Ah, you have picked this one well, Zee; come, girl, come with me. You and I shall soon be the best of friends.”

  ***

  The cool inner studio was bare except for a hefty brocade chaise lounge draped with a luxuriously deep-pile bearskin rug and Zee’s camera, it’s gleaming mahogany cabinet and polished brass lens surveying the room like a silent voyeur.

  “Come,” said Celeste, taking Marie-Mathilde’s hand in hers, “come, let me show you what will be required of you. Zee, who invited you to this meeting? Go off to the morning room and ring for Claire-Louise to bring you your chocolate and your favourite clafoutis de cerise so you can gorge yourself to your heart’s content. Go, Zee! I will summon you when we are ready for your unwelcome presence. Why are you still here, Monsieur? What are you waiting for, go!”

  She made a dismissive shooing movement with her tiny lily-white hand, her diminutive toy-like stature making her look like a pigmy farmer’s wife chasing a large broody fowl, and Marie-Mathilde’s heart melted in that moment.

  Many years ago, she could not remember, now, how many, Madame had taken her to the Champs Elysee and they had seen a beautiful china doll in a toy shop window. Its golden hair, which was real, curled in lustrous ringlet after ringlet, and its eyes were ocean blue, gleaming like sapphires, and Marie-Mathilde had prayed to God, then and there, saying that she would sell her very soul to possess a plaything as beautiful as this. And, now, here, in this - very possibly wicked - place, here was the living and breathing doll who had haunted her dreams for so many years.

  Celeste saw her looking. “My appearance pleases you, Mademoiselle?” she whispered in her ear, her perfume delicious, like kirsch and sweet pastry, “you like being alone with me?”

  Marie-Mathilde blushed a delicate shade of pink but did not reply and the other laughed. “What have they told you of Zee at that place?”

  Marie-Mathilde spread her hands. “Nothing, Mademoiselle, only that when a gentleman adopts a pretty young woman he may expect some... service.”

  Celeste laughed, a pleasing sound like spring water cascading over pebbles. “And you have no appetite for that with the fat Zee, no? Oh, your face, my child, you are seeing him now without his garments and he has bigger breasts than both of us, has he not. Ah, a smile at last. Never fear, Zee will not touch you, he likes les garçons justes. Come, let me show you what will really be required of you if you wish to live here and wear fine clothing like mine.”

  She lifted down a heavily embossed leatherette postcard album and settled with it on the couch, nestling like a wanton in the thick mahogany fur of the rug. She patted the space beside her, inviting Marie-Mathilde to join her, and opened the album.

  “This is me with Jean-Baptiste, who has run away and made Zee angry. Come, look at what we do and tell me that it does not repulse you, for I very much want for you to stay with me and to be my friend.”

  ***

  Marie-Mathilde settled down close, oh so very close, to Celeste and breathed in her perfume. Then she opened her eyes and looked down at the delicately hand-tinted postcards on the album’s dusky black pages. She immediately recognised the studio, and Celeste, stretched out on the bearskin and dressed only in a silky chemise that clung to her body and showed her tiny rosebud nipples, erect and straining behind the flimsy fabric.

  Marie-Mathilde looked at Celeste. “This, this is you, and this is what you do. Zee wishes to photograph us indelicately with young gentlemen, no?”

  Celeste smiled enigmatically and nestled closer to Marie-Mathilde. “Turn the page,
Cherie,” was all she would say.

  Marie-Mathilde did as she was bid, her fingers trembling with trepidation and not a little excitement, for she had a good idea of what would follow. And, sure enough, on this page the chemise had wriggled down exposing her new friend’s plump little breasts, the nipples sugary and rouged, and every bit as delicious as they had promised to be.

  But a long-lashed and slightly effete young man now shared the photographs with Celeste, his eyes alight with adoration as he peeled the slinky silk slip from the girl’s rotund body and left her nude, her pert little bottom neatly framed by pink floral garters and thigh-length silk stockings.

  Celeste whispered into her ear, her face very close, her breath hot on her skin. “You like, Cherie?”

  Marie-Mathilde nodded, incapable of speech.

  “And now you wish to see more, no?” Celeste whispered, turning the page of the album for her, uncovering an array of cards of herself rolling nude on the sumptuous rug, her own personal fur thick and profuse, covering her pussy and armpits like soft downy moss. The young man, his raven hair brilliantined to a soft sheen, was now also losing his clothes, and his body was long and lean, his ass smooth and hairless, arousing in its stark white nakedness.

  “Have you guessed it yet?” said Celeste with a suggestive giggle, “or do you need to see to believe? Ah, but you want to see either way, do you not? Come, quickly then, let us turn the page...”

  The final cards of the set were spread across the open leaves of the heavy album, and both lovers were now completely naked on the great fur rug. Marie-Mathilde gasped as she took them both in, her eyes running adoringly down Celeste’s delicious curves, then raking the young man with her gaze, his long flat chest and belly, the thick shock of dark pubic hair and the huge curving cock that protruded from his pubic pelt like an animal’s horn.

  “You like Jean-Baptiste’s member?” Celeste whispered, her hands on Marie-Mathilde’s thighs, loving and caressing. “Look very closely, Cherie, see where Zee’s paintbrush has deceived you.”

  Marie-Mathilde peered at the photograph Celeste indicated and suddenly saw it, a faint leather thong, almost imperceptible, at the boy’s pelvis, running down the side of his navel and to the base of his huge penis.

  “His cock, it is not real?” she gasped. “Then Jean-Baptiste, he is not...”

  Celeste smiled and nodded. “Meet la petit Yvonne, another of Zee’s finds from the backstreets of Paris. The old fox carved a replica of his own cock and fashioned it out of India-rubber for her to fuck me with, he is indeed an artist, is he not?”

  “But...” Marie-Mathilde said weakly, her breathing laboured and her cunt throbbing.

  “But why not just employ a boy? Ah, Zee, he is too clever and far too parsimonious. We often work long hours, a real cock would not stay up so long and so hard for the pictures, and, if I help the boy along and he cums, then he needs to rest before we can proceed, so that is lost time. And, of course, what if a seed were to take root? What then? Calamity. I would be with child and all Zee’s expenditure on my hair and my clothes would be wasted and he would have to find a new muse. So, much better to find a girl who looks like a boy to do the job, and so much better for me too, for, in truth, Cherie, I do not much care too much for the cock and like the cunt far better. So, maybe we can all be happy, what do you think?”

  Marie-Mathilde could not speak. Her eyes were big as saucers, pale moonstones that glittered in the studio’s lamplight and said all that needed to be said.

  Celeste stroked her cheek very gently, her soft touch cool on the other’s burning skin.

  “Would you like to undo my gown, Cherie?” was all she said.

  ***

  Zee paced the morning room impatiently, his chocolate drunk and his pastry consumed. Agitated beyond belief, he rang for Claire-Louise, his maid and confidant, and the older woman stuck her head insolently around the door.

  “Claire-Louise...” Zee began stridently, but his old servant cut him short.

  “She is with Celeste and the studio door is firmly closed. That is a good sign. These orphan girls, they are like little birds, one hasty move and they will fly away. The priests bring them up in the fear of God, you cannot undo all that in just one morning. Let Celeste work her magic. She is a witch, that one, why just one glimpse of her little bon-bon breasts and even I am her slave and find myself peeling grapes for her and dusting them with icing sugar just the way she likes. You have taught her well, Zee, have faith in your own teachings and send for the hairdresser. You will be able to take your photographs this afternoon.”

  “How can you be so sure?” grumbled Zee, mentally totting up his expense sheet so far. “I have already shelled out fifty francs to that old crone in the poor house to buy the girl, and then there will be dresses and suits and hairdressing. She will not be able to appear in Jean-Baptiste’s clothes, you know, the customers will know, and no-one can say that a photograph of Zee’s used second-hand costumery.”

  Claire-Louise laughed without humour. “You are a fretful old woman, Zee. Trust me, it will be fine. There, what did I tell you?”

  “What?” said Zee, cupping his hand to his ear.

  “Listen...” whispered the maid

  ***

  Naked, Celeste looked even more like a china doll than when she was dressed, with her creamy porcelain skin and fat little breasts, the nipples stained a deep crimson from constant rouging. She had a pleasantly rounded belly and a sweet and plump pussy, her maiden hair a rich tawny-brown, covering the crinkly sugar-pink labia that spilled from inside her when she was aroused.

  But her robe, fashioned from the finest turquoise moiré silk by the best dressmaker in Paris, now lay carelessly on the studio floor where Marie-Mathilde had cast it after sliding it gently from her body, and the orphan girl knelt in servitude before her, ready to perform anything that was demanded of her.

  “No, my little dove, no,” Celeste gasped, cupping Marie-Mathilde’s head in both her chubby white hands, “I do not need you to do that. Come up here and kiss me properly and let me undress you too.”

  Marie-Mathilde blushed. “Have I displeased you, Mademoiselle?” she asked in a small voice as Celeste unfastened the buttons on her dress one by one.

  Celeste silenced her with a kiss. “I am not your Mademoiselle and I do not need you to please me. Nor are you my servant, but I would like you to be my lover if you will consent. Can you learn to love me a little?”

  Marie-Mathilde nodded, all the love she had saved for her china doll already washing over her.

  “Then what would you like to do with me?”

  Marie-Mathilde swallowed and cast her eyes downwards, then spoke in a low voice. “To lie naked with you and kiss you and rub our cunts together until we cum without fingers,” she said so quietly that it was almost imperceptible.

  “Then let us begin,” breathed Celeste, peeling the other’s dress off and staring in wrapt awe at her nakedness.

  Marie-Mathilde’s body was long and blue-white, all her veins visible like a pale indigo map beneath her translucent skin. Her breasts were non-existent but the nipples were stiff and rubbery and the colour of cherry blossom. Her belly flat, concave almost, with a faint trail of reddish-brown hair running down her navel and swirling into the veritable forest that covered her big and pronounced cunt like a flame, her thick pelt gleaming like amber tiger fur.

  She shivered with pleasure as she observed Celeste looking at her nakedness and whispered something so low that the other had to cup her hand to her ear to hear. “Kiss me, kiss me please.”

  Celeste had been taught how to fellate a man when she was but twelve years old, growing up in the Montmarte brothel that Zee had found her in, and had endured the kisses of many lovers in the decade since then, some welcome, some merely tolerated, but there was something about this thin and quiet girl that disquie
ted and excited her simultaneously.

  She closed her eyes and gave herself up to Marie-Mathilde’s embrace, feeling the other’s tongue creep cautiously into her mouth and begin to explore. “Hold me,” she whispered, in spite of herself, breathing in the mingled scents of her lover’s excited cunt and her own, inhaling every animal pheromone, “hold me tighter than you have ever held another soul in your life.”

  She cold feel the hot animal fur of Marie-Mathilde’s cunt as it ground itself into her thigh, as sleek as a cat rubbing its silky pelt against her naked skin, and she pressed her own sopping pussy into the other’s burning flesh, feeling her orgasm building up inside her like a tightly-wound cord, brittle and ready to snap at any moment.

  Their embrace was fervent and bestial by now, the two of them melded together, Celeste’s mouth filled with her lover’s tongue as they bucked and rocked together, their mutual orgasm an almost religious experience as their hot and sticky juices washed over each other’s thighs, their breathing hot and ragged.

  It was Marie-Mathilde who spoke first. “I have never loved or been loved, ma cher, but I do not think it will be difficult for me to love you if you promise not to betray me. For I will open the iron cage of my ribs here and now and give you my breathing beating heart if you will swear to me that your feelings are true and that you are not simply the puppet of the fat and parsimonious Zee.”

  Celeste took Marie-Mathilde’s trembling hand and laid on her still heaving pussy. “Zee asked me to make love to you and break you in, it is true, and if you stay here he will cut off all your beautiful hair and you will have to wear the rubber cock bare your body for his camera each and every day as I do. So if you will come and live in this gilded cage with me I swear that I will also tear my heart beating and bloody from my breast and lay it at your feet, for I have never felt for another the way I already feel for you.”

  “Then it is settled,” said Marie-Mathilde very quietly, her own heart still beating loudly in her chest, blood pounding like African drums in her ears. “I belong to you. Do with me what you will.”