The Castle of Pleasure, the Fake Ingenue I (Hot Pleasures) Page 2
She began to rub the director frenetically.
Mimi then started working the fiancée’s ass with her tongue, while stimulating her own clitoris, as well as the guest’s, with her hands.
The three women all climaxed together, giving great cries of joy.
Ghislaine was the first to collect herself. She lowered her skirt and went back to sit behind her desk as though nothing had happened.
Mimi, totally satisfied, licked her lips and savored the juice from Lisbeth’s ass, helping her get dressed again, taking the opportunity to pull out hairs from her bush as though she was trying to gather a bouquet.
Once the visitor was dressed again, the marquise made her fill out several questionnaires, asked for her membership fee, and requested certain details concerning the wedding night.
An appointment was made for the Friday of the following week at six p.m. “Friday is the fashionable day for weddings,” she explained as she kissed Lisbeth on both cheeks.
On the day of Lisbeth’s libertine wedding, her five “witnesses” waited for her in the great reception hall in the Castle of Pleasure. Wearing ties and dark suits, each of them had a red carnation in his buttonhole as the mark of a husband in waiting.
With a glass of whiskey or flute of champagne in hand, each grazed on caviar canapés while listening attentively to the marquise explaining yet again what they should do at precise moments of the evening. The great organizer had explained the duties of these grooms with great precision, and those of two of their brides. For she had eventually managed to persuade Lisbeth, in another meeting, to invite three young women—Mimi, Cerise, and Bernadette—to the wedding to help her before and during the wedding night. Mimi would dress her, Cerise would do her makeup, and Bernadette her hair. They would also participate, in their own way, in the young bride’s lovemaking.
Among the men, Jerome, a sports journalist, excelled at ski commentating. He was of medium height and had the advantage, along with his almost hypnotic gaze, of a drop-dead smile. A great number of very young girls affirmed that the mere touch of his hand put each into a sudden state of excitation when she was in his arms, evident during the first weekend of the month, when the director hosted an evening of dance. Some of them called him “Man of Silk” or “The Medium,” he was so intriguing. Furthermore, he was an excellent classical pianist, another asset in his role as seducer. The great lock of black hair that hung down on his forehead and cheek had earned him the nickname “Chopin” from the director, who did not hesitate to kneel next to him when he was playing on his keyboard to give him a blow job that she described as “musical.” This, of course, caused several false notes when he exploded. He was the first to laugh about it and apologize to his audience.
Laurent Dumoulin was a gynecologist of thirty five, who, despite the hundreds of patients he had seen opening their legs for him to examine, never wearied of discovering new cunts. “No two women have the same sex. They are all as unique as a nose or a mouth …” he was in the habit of saying.
Tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair that made him seem older than his years, Ghislaine called him “The Gourmet,” so fond was he of licking vulvas, tasting and savoring them by thrusting in his nose and, above all, his tongue, an outsized specimen that he used like a penis. With this lizard’s tongue, he brought each of his mistresses to a slow but intense climax.
Mr. Gerald or “The Aristocrat” was, as his nickname implied, a count descended from a long line of senior officers. He was affable, with impeccable manners, living off his annuities and worshipping women, all women, whom he always wooed discreetly before going further. He was refined. He was also cheerful, singing opera tunes all over the place. His one and only flaw, as he put it, was being old. Yes, he had just crossed the threshold of his seventieth birthday, and he was very affected by it. His mistresses all reassured him that he gave them complete satisfaction, but to no avail; he was upset that he no longer had the erections he had when he was thirty. He was especially ashamed that he could not reenter the battlefield in the half hour following his first coup de grâce.
Lisbeth’s final choice from the catalog was the big Loustalou, a night porter in a large hotel in the Madeleine quarter of Paris. He was a plump, jovial man who had the accent and the humor of a Parisian lad, to the amusement of the ladies. Tubby, he was equipped with a member that was small in size but that, in his expression, “started up at the first rev. “In any other company than that of the castle, he would have been called sexually obsessed, but as all the regulars here thought only of satisfying their fantasies, he didn’t stand out, except it was impossible to talk to him about anything other than sex. Similarly, he could not meet a woman without asking her what her favorite sex game was. If here no member of the fair sex stood on formality, the same could not be said of the grand hotel where he worked. But, he affirmed cheerfully, “Most of them answer me and even ask me what I can teach them—I offer them services for which they are grateful, believe me.” Anyone who had seen him just once at a group love session could readily believe this. Stark naked, his belly protruding, he jumped from one woman to another to pinch this one, enter that one, also making them laugh. This propensity to amuse people pleased Ghislaine enormously, for he was one of the few regulars of these meetings who knew how to inject a note of humor into them. The lady of the manor often despaired to see how some of her male and female members took their pleasure with all the seriousness of a pope.
Loustalou, for his part, always had funny things to say and added a festive and amusing tone to all the amorous entertainment put on by the director. Nothing was more tedious to her than those lovers who seemed to be laboring under some heavy suffering when they made love—as was all too often the case, for example, in pornographic films in which the actors, devoid of charm or any other human quality, toiled away like oxen, displaying only their animal instincts without the least delicacy, tenderness, or imagination. That was why the director had never shown a so-called pornographic film in her establishment. On the other hand, what she and her guests loved above all else was to show fly-on-the-wall erotic films shot on the premises in which everyone could see himself or herself in action. Everyone knew and recognized those who were admired and seen onscreen. “Our films not only reveal our bodies but also our souls,” Ghislaine liked to repeat rather pompously as she followed the exploits or the foibles of her cast. She herself did not escape the practice and took pleasure in repeatedly viewing films in which she played an active role.
While the five men were talking about the incredible experience they were going to have with this semivirgin, she was finishing her preparations in the small exhibition room. Mimi was rubbing the girl’s body—paying particular attention to her bush, her crack, and her armpits—with an aphrodisiac perfume used by an Indian sect whose doctrines were based on sexual relations. This lotion enabled both women and men to greatly increase their desires and their performances. It was the first time that it was being used at the castle, having recently been sent to the marquise by a friend, an embassy attaché.
After anointing the bride with this miracle potion, Mimi dressed her from head to foot. First she put garters on her, to which silk stockings were affixed. Mimi gave her a little complimenting tap, kissed her, and then put on an undergarment that our great-great-grandmothers would have worn: a pair of linen panties that had a slit from back to front, allowing its wearer to satisfy calls of nature without having to take them off. All she needed to do was to lift the tails of this long button-up garment. Still in use at the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was very prized by gentlemen obliged to be hasty in penetrating a woman without further ado or even in a theater loge. The lady spectator would lean over the balustrade as though to get a better view of what was happening onstage or in the room, opening herself behind by lifting her dress—and off he’d go. Nobody suspected a thing, except others initiated in such entertainment.
After, Mimi put an immaculately white petticoat of light, diaphanous flo
unces on her. A frilly half-cup bra was placed on her bust, revealing her seminaked breasts and, above all, that furrow of hair that spread off in every direction—and which the lady concerned had wanted to keep because Jean-Paul liked it.
Jean-Paul! That fiancé whom Lisbeth was going to make a cuckold in advance, in the most audacious manner! If he had known about his future wife’s curious appetites and her means of burying her young maiden’s life, he would, without a doubt, have broken things off pronto, running for the hills and perhaps rushing back to the strict religious life of his brother priests. He would have renounced life forever because of the girl he had always thought an angel.
The angel was now in her finery. All that remained was to put on white shoes with very high heels designed to make her look slimmer than usual. Cerise, the makeup artist, put blush on her cheeks, darkened her eyelashes, and gave her a scarlet mouth. Bernadette gave her a last comb and, assisted by the other two young women, placed the bride’s veil over her head and then dropped it down over her face.
As Lisbeth’s maids of honor, they had stripped naked, putting on dresses of see-through muslin, which hid nothing of their anatomies. They took hold of the four-foot-long veil and tried to look earnest, fearing that they would burst out laughing at any moment.
“Come on, ladies, pull yourselves together and look lively! Forward! And let’s have fun!”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Originally published as Le Château des plaisirs – La fausse ingénue (partie 1)
Copyright © 2012 by 12-21, un department d’Univers Poche
Translated by Catherine Spencer
English translation © 2014 by un department d’Univers Poche
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8730-7
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