At the end of the meal, low conversation hummed the air, like lazy bluebottles. Light burps deposited into cloth and satisfied lips, eulogising the feast.
Miniature bowls of saffron, pistachio and rose Turkish delight appeared in front of Marianne. She eyed them with interest before popping one into her cheek, discreetly sucking at the soft starchy cube.
Someone was lighting a candle with a taper as the light grew subdued. Dessert cloches now filled the length of the table. Inside each, swirled a vaporous dry ice tempest.
A few guests leant forward to inspect them. Echoing hushes of “What is it?”
The Chef announced the dish as “Delilah’s ruin” and with a ‘tap tap’ of her palms ordered the lids removed. Four perfect alabaster spheres, encased in sugar crystals, sat on a carpet of gold leaf. Unbound, the watery mist spilled over the base and bubbled across the tablecloth. Milky tendrils licking at the floral centre pieces.
Marianne scooped up a milky orb, and seeing her, we mouthed an insistent “NO!”
With a bemused look, she replaced it, instead steering her hand towards a rose flavoured block. Licking the powered sugar from her lips, she mouthed a silent, “What’s wrong?”
I hid my hand and made a slow, wanking gesture with the other. Her eyes growing wider and her mouth making an ‘O’. She stifled a laugh, which turned into a clearing of the throat. Annabelle had bitten into one, the white sticky mixture coating her perfect teeth, and she lambasted Beth for talking with her mouth full.
Dahlia’s expression as the penny dropped made us inhale chewed pieces of pistachio and the next five minutes were spent choking and refusing offers of water from a concerned Clara.
The Hargreaves then announced that there was an extra special surprise for the main dessert, and that ‘The girls’ (us) were leaving, but would return in thirty minutes. Bitters and brandies were being served in the lounge.
There was a grand sound of heavy chairs on stone and we looked to see Marianne crunching up her napkin and dropping it to the table. She left as Clara leant in.
“Are you part of the dessert, my darling?” She asked, stroking our back. We felt a pang of regret watching Marianne hesitate by the door to the lounge, her hand gracing the post for a second. Then she was gone.
We turned to Clara. “If I tell you, it’ll ruin the surprise.”
Her hand around my waspish waist tugged me in. Lips settling on our mouth and tongue sliding in. I savoured her taste until unable to stifle a smile, mumbled “Patience” words half swallowed up by her hot breath.
“Don’t think I can wait,” she sighed, lips gracing mine again, wanting access.
Catching the irritated look of both hosts, we eased her away gently.
“Don’t be long,” she called out as she left her seat and we mounted the steps to the upper floors.
I bathed quickly, aided by a maid who dutifully averted her eyes and handed me various soaps and towels. Finally, she slipped a robe over my shoulders and told me that when the clock chimed, I should head downstairs.
We descended behind Beth, our heels meeting the lower floor at the precise moment that the pealing of the clock stopped. My skin smelt fresh, but my mind spongy. The possibility that Clara might want to date us properly and without payment was not something we had entertained.
When we entered the dining room, the guests were back in their seats, and the table was bare. All that lay out was a covering of plastic and three silk cushions. Two were side by side on the wide oak, the other at the head of the table by a boastful looking Annabelle.
“And here is dessert,” cheered Cynthia as we entered, clapping her hands. The assembly started with a light, pathetic applause that tapered off as we approached. I pulled a face and caught Anna’s look of reproach. “Strike two” I thought.
Marianne was being talked at by Felicity, an Aperol nestled in her palm. She held up the name plate mouthing a “You’re here”. The handsy, bearded man took Dahlia’s wrist, allowing her to step on to his bended knee to mount the table. She thanked him and sat elegantly. Marianne took our hand and gripped it hard. Then, wobbling ungainly, we climbed up.
Then the chef arrived. Next to her were the waiting staff with trays. On them lay 3 moulded chocolate breast plates, two a dark milk and one a light blonde. A penis shaped confectionery jutting out between them.
“Please remove your robes,” instructed the Chef, and we obliged.
I hated the way the men were leering at my breasts, my nipples responding to the prickly cool of the room.
Marianne gave my arm a rub, and as she leant closer said, “It shouldn’t be long.”
“I’ve missed you.” I told her.
She looked surprised and smiled, in-spite of herself. “Me too.”
The Chef approached the head of the table. Beth’s long legs either side of Anna. ‘Our boss would not be sharing it seemed.’ The Chef asked Beth to lean back and placed the blonde chocolate plate over her large breasts. Those nearby gasped words of “Magnificent” “Genius” and from Annabelle’s friend Sue a low, “How does it stay up?”. Beth attempting to offer her a demonstration.
The Chef then fitted Dahlia with hers and slid her wilted sex into the chocolate sheath. We could hear indistinct sounds of amusement and hollow taunts. The eyes of the closest guests widening as the sweets base mollified, and the erection lurched. Dahlia steadied it, her jaw tightening as she attempted to regain her equanimity.
The Chef placed the snug fitting chocolate around us. We watched with interest as she adjusted our chest firmly as one might tenderise a cut of meat. Expression one of fixed concentration. We were more of an ingredient to her than a human being.
As she left, Marianne mumbled a low “B 34 cup?” making us smile.
“Handy as a bra or a snack,” we added, and she giggled.
The first tier of the waiting staff arrived, huge trays ladened with melted ganache and various coloured coulis. A banquet of molecular food art arrived next, sugar strands woven into exquisite designs, circles of edible coral decorating the parfait. Tuiles, their sides bursting with cream, over loaded onto chocolate conch shells. Tiny individual desserts were collected up with serving tongs, lifted through the air and settled onto my skin. “Would we be allowed to sample any of these delights?” I pondered, “Probably not.”
As the gastronomic creations found their place. We heard a familiar voice and saw out of the corner of our eye that Clara had taken the antique dealer’s seat. Her flattery of him bringing a tint to his cheeks.
“I’m gluten intolerant,” she joked to Marianne as she sat
Marianne rolled her eyes, issuing a low “Of course you are.”
They poured little swirls of sauce on our skin, orange, cherry and pineapple, parfaits with liquorice stalks exuded their cream, the coulis trickling between our chocolate breasts. Flakes falling from pastries settled itchy on our flesh, the crumbs rolling off the cliffs of our hips and into the crease of our neck, languishing in the dip of our collar bone. We glanced to Marianne, who had just been passed a spoon. “Could I get just get mine on a plate please?” A breathy “Much obliged” added as the staff member hurried away. She swept an eye over our now culinary stillness. Her fingers grazed ours and she gave them a squeeze, the electricity from that one gesture making the desserts along our top line quiver.
Before I closed my eyes, I saw Clara staring at a dollop of Tonka bean panna cotta on my stomach, the movement of my breathing making it rise and fall, the neighbouring banana cream melting and flowing across the downy hairs of my mound. She was licking her lips, and we wanted her to lean in and devour us as she had in the Rose Room. Then, seeing Marianne accept her little plate of desserts so graciously, we shook the thought away.
Safe behind the pink lids of my eyes, I could sense the feasts initiation. It started with a gentle prod, something being scooped up, then the icy surface of a spoon. Delicate chewing, the sucking of juice and then as confidences rose someone’s tongue slicked my belly. Scents of coffee, tangy caramel, and fine citrus mist filled the air. Jokes grew callous and crude through brimming mouths. A cackling laugh we recognised as Annabelle’s meshed with Beth’s snorting giggle as her lover devoured her. Then we felt an immense pressure as a hand gripped and cracking open the chocolate breasts. “This must be how an egg feels on Easter morning,” I thought. We heard the crunch of pastry and noisy chomping. It made us nauseous, our early desire for left overs abated. Under the sound of their hedonism came the occasional chink of a little spoon and Marianne’s voice enquiring if she “might trouble them for some water.”
We fluttered open our eyes to see the Lift mummy swallowing Dahlia’s protrusion, lips descending to its melting base. Her neck made micro adjustments like a reticulated python in twin set and pearls. Then, cheeks slick with coco, she withdrew her lips to the tip and bit down. Raucous laughing flooded around her and a smattering of back slaps. She closed her eyes and took the shaft, gagging on it, hands coated brown, working the length of chocolate.
We focused on the air conditioning unit above us, and the minuscule body of a long dead insect being buffered about in the air flow. A noise shifted our focus and moving we found the sticky fruit juice made the plastic lift with us. Sugar crunched under elbows and slithers of harden caramel and liquorice stabbed into my heels and buttocks. Hair clung to my face and neck as the guests leant in to suck, lick, and taste the melting confection. Lips lingered at my crotch, sucked at my nipples, fingers squeezed all exposed skin. They kissed us with their cold with champagne mouths.
Then I heard the grating of a chair and a creaking from right next to me. I opened my eyes to see the bearded man clambering on top of Dahlia. He was laughing, big jowls wobbling, skin a blotchy red with exertion. His face smeared in cream, he was attempting to unzip himself, the onlookers roaring with laughter. Dahlia was desperately trying to push him off. Her member nipped beneath pieces of broken chocolate and the man’s sharp belt buckle.
“JESUS! get the fuck off her” I screamed, sitting up fast and slamming my fist into his arm. He gave me a curious look, as if his pet dog had suddenly demanded emancipation. “You’re hurting her” I added, trying to make my voice more pleading, pathetic. I could see Marianne attempting to remove him. Her glance to the head of the table loaded with concern. We didn’t bother to look back, but knew that this ‘was strike three.’
“Oh do get down Charlie, you’re making a bloody spectacle of yourself!” Annabelle hissed, chewing loudly. There was a smattering of cheers and congrats for Charlie as he was pulled from the table. Acting like he had just finished a goddamn marathon, he raised his fat hands above his head in triumph.
I touched Dahlia’s arm, noticing tears already tracing her cheeks and, just like that, dessert was over.
Beth took Anna’s chair as she and Marianne played out an impassioned discussion by the kitchen. Beth was sucking her fingers and sharing pieces of breast plate with Susu. Other than chocolate, she had come away mildly unscathed. Me and Dahlia, in comparison, looked like Jackson Pollock’s goddamn studio floor. Smears down our torso, cream caked in our hair. My stomach resembled some scribbled on text book.
We were given some warm towels and then, still naked, lead out into the patio. For the next hour, we dolefully handed out cocktails. Away from the outdoor heaters, the air was freezing, so as soon as we did, a circle of the guests jostled for warmth by them.
Clara approached me a time later and whispered in my ear that she was heading to the upstairs for a smoke. Her smile indicating I should follow. I stared down at the tray and the sparse array of clumsily prepared Mai Tai’s. “I just meant to talk,” then added, “maybe a kiss, if I’m good.”
The urge to taste her was palatable, her breath smelling of cherry vape and liquor. She sucked on the tip of the e-cigerette and, with a grin, she left.
We found Clara at the top of the stairs, holding a robe. The vape nipped between her teeth, resembling Elizabeth Taylor in Butterfield 8, with her heavy brows and big fur. Sliding the robe over my shoulders, she smiled and pulling me into a hug, asked “Better?”
“Yes,” I breathed out, buried into her embrace, breathing in the soft perfumed fur. Taking my hand in her palm, she led me towards one room. As she lead us in and we saw the bed, our defenses began to rise. Was this just another job, after all?
We were surprised to be pulled past the bed to the window. Opening the doors to the balcony, we stepped outside. She eased us in-front of her and slid her arms around us. “I am not planning on fucking you Carousel,” she whispered
I felt an ache then, such a dramatic switch in routine that I suddenly felt lost. She saw it and cast me a quizzical expression. “I’ve disappointed you?”
I shook my head, but the truth was that I longed for her hands on me, in me. I kissed her and she responded. She must have felt me shivering as she removed her coat and swung it around us, drowning us in it. Then she drew back her dark eyes, explored our face as if searching for meaning, maybe a reason why she felt something for us - a nobody.
Concerned that she’d change her mind, we grabbed her hand and pulled it inside the robe, moaning as we felt her fingers close over our breast. Our impatience amused her. We tried to force her hand between our legs and found her scolding us playfully.
“Stop. I’m trying to be good,” she cooed.
The fruit juices and cream made her fingertips tacky against our skin. Her other arm pulled us in to her and we slid our hands over her naked back and to the soft fabric of her backside. Tracking the muscles of her buttocks and legs.
We clung to her, our face sticky and kissing urgent. She told us her desires. She wanted to kiss between our legs. Wanted to fuck us hard, take us to the edge and keep us there. Clara brushed the hair from my face and spoke to us in German. We praised her looks, her style, how she fucked, we told her how she’d plagued our dreams. We didn’t mind bolstering her ego. She wore it well.
“Your car is here, Ms Von Furstenberg,” came a voice from the door and she did a half turn and issued a thank-you.
With a sigh she disengaged from us trailing her fingers down our cheek “I’m away in Berlin working on some new pieces and visiting family, aiming to be back later in March,” then taking my hand. “I’d love it if you came to my place in London when I get back. I’ll cook anything” She kissed our hand, her big dark eyes blinking. “I know it’s disappointing.”
I nodded, my heart sinking, and half of me wished it has simply been transactional.
She leant in and said, “The truth is Carousel, if we made love now, I’d never leave” and wiping her lipstick from my cheek, she gave me one last kiss on each eyelid, swept her coat over her shoulders and walked away.
“Will you text me?” I asked, my voice sounding horribly urgent.
“Every day,” she called back, blowing me a kiss and then she was gone. Only the scent of cherries and a perfume lingering on my skin.
Downstairs we found a skeleton crew of Anna, her friend Susu, Marianne and the girls, in the kitchen. The Hargreaves were at the door, saying goodbye to the last of the guests. Annabelle was glaring at me and smoking furiously, “There she is” she spat “The fucking child!”
We averted our eyes, muttering a low, “Sorry Anna, I forget myself. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re fucking right it won’t,” she snapped, incensed. “You speak to a guest like that and I’ll cut your tits off, do you hear?”
We nodded. “Yes Anna!”. She gestured to the girls to go to the car. Dahlia looked at us nervously and then, taking Beth’s outstretched hand, was led away. Annabelle’s friend was disengaging from her, her attempts to appease having failed.
We watched them leave and turning found Anna approaching fast. She glanced around, perhaps to see if Marianne was watching, and hit us across the face. The first blow cut the corner of my eye. In disbelief, we stared back at her, our confrontation prompting a second. This time much harder and so unexpected that I crumpled to the stone tile, one heel snapping under me. We clutched at our ear as it screamed in our skull.
“Fuck sake Anna!” Marianne ran over. Then she was on the floor with me, checking me over. I felt tears on my cheeks and I heard a gulping sob in my chest. I swallowed it all away not wishing to give my boss the satisfaction.
“You’re out of fucking line!” Marianne was shouting, she gently removed the hand cupping my face “Christ your bleeding” then to Anna shouted “Look what you did you absolute cunt!” and began busying herself getting ice.
It made us nervous to hear Marianne address Anna in that way.
The Hargreaves said nothing when they returned. Instead, they rinsed out glasses and uselessly wiped down clean surfaces. They gloated over their success and began to discuss dates for the next one.
Marianne held the cool towel to our face and then, when we winced, she apologised. “It’ll be ok, just a scratch,” and then gave a smile so warm and made us gasp. She pulled us into a hug and we settled our face into her neck and shook as the shock was replaced by emotion. “You take the car with the girls. I’ll get a cab with Caris”
“Don’t be ridiculous” said Annabelle
“I can’t look at you right now!” Marianne snapped
“It’s ok Marianne. You can use our driver,” piped up Felicity.
“Suit yourself,” Anna huffed as a maid helped her into her coat, then air kissing Cynthia. She strode across the room and slammed the front door.
In the Hargreaves car, Marianne held the melting ice pack to my face. It had dripped on my neck, the cold of it feeling welcome. She removed the soaked towel and replaced it with her Hermes scarf.
Whenever the driver hit a bump, she snarled at him with a “If you could please mind the road” and then stroked our arm.
“I’m so sorry she did this,” she said “She really was out of line.”
We held her eyes and shrugged. “I could have shown restraint.”
“No,” her voice was stern. “You did everything right. It was a fucking carnival in there.” then swallowing her anger, she ran a finger over the small swelling by our eye. “It’s bruising a little,” then added, “It was my fault, not yours.”
“You’re not the problem,” I assured her, then averted my gaze to the driver, his thick glasses glinting in the stop light, as he looking at Marianne with curious interest.
There was a pause and then she said, “Was that true about the dessert?”
I shrugged. “Can’t be one hundred percent, but it wasn’t worth the risk. They have some peculiar tastes.”
“They are strange ducks, indeed,” she frowned, amused. But she didn’t press the matter. “To be honest, I didn’t want to go. I find the Hargreaves insufferable at the best of times.”
She looked vulnerable, and this in-turn made us feel vulnerable. “Well, If It makes any difference, you looked fantastic.”
She smiled by way of thank you. Then, playing absentmindedly with the fingers of my left hand mumbled a low “Are you and Clara…?”
“No,” I said, ‘which was true as I didn’t really know where I stood. “She’s gone back to Berlin for a while.” Marianne nodded, her expression neither happy nor sad.
Removing the now damp scarf, she confirmed it was looking a better. Then instead of turning away. She put her scarf to one side and slid an arm around us, pulling me into her. Our head settling naturally against her shoulder. The movement of the car, mixed with the scent of her in the wool, made us drowsy. We felt her lips settle against the hair over our brow. They felt soft and warm. We wondered why Clara’s interest in us had given rise to this change in her. Van’s words swam back to us, “Risk it all” but instead we closed our eyes and let the gentle pressure of her hand on our arm soothe us.
Back at the club she helped me up the stairs to our flat. Then hovered by the door like she wanted to be asked to come in. But finally said an awkward “Goodnight” and we limped inside.
We were surprised to find all the Dogs sitting on or by the beaten up leather sofas. They all glanced up like prey animals caught in a headlight. It was Beth who approached us. We lurched back towards the hall braced ourself, drawing up our shoulders, muscles tensing, expecting confrontation.
“We heard what happened” she was looking at blood on our eye “Holy shit, did she punch you?” her hands took my shoulder and guided me in, closing the door.
“N, no, she slapped me. I’m an idiot. I lost my balance.”
She studied our cheek again and then glanced at our swollen ankle and the snapped heel dangling from our hand. She sighed. “argh we’ve got the Mitchel Finch event coming up. What the hell was she thinking?”
“Ive got Arnica gel for the bruising,” piped up Claude, leaving the couch and running off to her room
Violet came over and handed me an ice pack. “Sorry about your face,” she handed it to me. I took it, water trickling across my wrist.
“For Christ’s sake Vi you idiot, it’s melted,” scolded Beth, handing it back to her and then rolled her eyes. She smiled at me and we returned, happy to be included. She squatted, enclosing my ankle with her hands. “Does it hurt?”
I yelped as she put pressure on it and she sucked her teeth “Ok, come and rest it” She helped me bounce one legged over to the couch, hissing at the other girls to make room. Dahlia handed me a cranberry and vodka and waited until I’d sipped it and told her it was nice before she relaxed. She took her place on the rug, her elbows resting on the little coffee table, big brown eyes watching me.
After a few minutes, they were laughing about crumbs in butt cracks, sticky fruit in our hair, and Dahlia’s now infamous chocolate penis. Claude applied a cooling cream to my face and Henri made us a fresh ice pack. Someone’s Spotify was blasting out an Annie Lennox track, prompting a sleepy Lilly had drift in from her room. Dahlia leant against the couch and, casting us a tentative look, settled the back of her head against our legs. “Thank you Carousel” she whispered, staring up at me. I told her ‘she was welcome’ brushing the dark hair from her brow as she smiled and hugged our legs and just like that, we’d entered the goddamn twilight zone.
Made me rather hungry, not sure about you
cool