Chapter 2
Ultra-white tits pitched upward toward the sun. Slick chick trying to get a tan on her overall body, including toes, titties, tush, twat-all the hot spots.
"I never fuck niggers," Cassandra said into the microphone. "I just watch." She snicked the tapedeck off with one thumb.
Nicked her clit with the other.
Cassandra lay nude to the face of the sun.
Buns creamed in cocoa butter. She felt her ass-hole flutter. Her snatch water.
She sensed the movement of the shadows cast by the flock of sandpipers chattering in flight above her. Craned her neck up toward the birds. Lord, how they bored her.
She tossed down her cigarette.
Lit up another.
Cassandra pushed down her foot and crushed the burning cigarette into the wooden deck.
She dusted the ash from the pad of her bare foot.
Smirked.
Of course it hurt.
But the trick in this instance was in not minding that it did hurt.
Inhaling the smooth tobacco smoke, Cassandra passed her eyes quickly over the surrounding greenery. Hood Cove Conservatory and Arboretum featured landscaping that included habitats exemplary of what was now left of the beach, wetlands, lagoons, and sand dunes-as well as any stray wildlife originally indigenous to Gulf Beach that had escaped encroaching highrise condominiums, beachfront estates, and nightspots.
Abutting the cliffside retreat Cassandra used as her seaside home, a small island had been constructed in the center of a small manmade lake that via sculpted waterfall stretched a silvery silken liquid ribbon between a slit in the rocks and the cove below. Cassandra preferred to take the sun here on the fanciful islet for its seclusion-the privacy it afforded her mind, rather than any reticence about bathing more publicly in the buff.
Cassandra focused her eyes on the cliff house's tallest tower, where she observed the sunlight slant through the open French doors of one of the house's guest suites.
Within, Cassandra saw tanned limbs flicker alive from the big sleep as the sun's rays lanced into the canopy over the bedchamber's pallet.
So Cassandra's ward was already awake.
The long-limbed gamine form of Cassandra's houseguest Roxanne slinked now in gray silhouette. Then, with the impression of innocence and grace, Roxanne took her place naked in the sunlit slit of the high window.
She brought her arms together above her head. Hips went liquid.
Tempered titties slacked against her leonine rib-cage.
Nude muscles oiled, cocked, flexed. Gravity helped with the rest.
"Farewell, my lovely," Cassandra sighed.
She followed Roxanne's glide into the long goodbye. Were Roxanne a sister less skilled in the art of the platform dive, it might have been the kiss-off for an act of suicide.
But make no mistake, the lady in the lake was as at home in the air and the water as she was in the comforts of her bedchamber lair.
Cassandra espied Roxanne's primly clipped pubic hair torque in midair. The slash of Roxanne's nates slipped beneath the water's break.
Retracting her gaze to the tower bedroom, Cassandra then caught a glimpse of floral-textured skin hovering within the shaded confines of the guest suite's bedchamber. From the angle of the dangle, the apparition resembled the tremble of Danielle's spread froufrou.
What was Danielle doing there?
In Roxanne's bedroom?
In the nude?
Cassandra smiled as she lay back to bathe in the rays. Her mind refocused.
Tracing a circle about one pink nipple, she crinkled the tip with the edge of her fingernail. Once again, she tabbed on the tape recorder.
"I never fuck niggers. I just watch-or maybe I just lust. Or is that too much? Too vulgar or not vulgar enough?"
She absently played with her vulva. Curving fingernails into the slit to her cuticles.
"Maybe if I say that fucking and sucking with cock in mouth, ass, and cunt at once is nothing to compare with fucking one's mind-well, that may be too blunt." She breathed into the mouthpiece.
"If so, I'll come up with another line."
Opening lines, she thought, should always be sublime. If not-the whole piece was a crime.
Cassandra sighed at herself-she was the horror of her family, ghostwriter of sensual romantic crime stories of some renown. Played around with literary exploitation and sensationalism of social themes and the fucksuckrut. Sales to screen were more than coincidental. Her books were essentially fleshed-out treatments-scenario and script written up in novelistic prose form.
Hell-it was all a plot.
Lusting for black dick while simmering in the sultry sun.
Cassandra aligned her lightskinned body so that she was perpendicular to the oncoming rays of the sun. She knew deep within herself that cultivating an artistic tan took as much talent as anything she or any other literary luminary could write.
She began to tease her twat with the nub of a platinum swizzle stick.
A few slips and slides.
Inside the slit.
Along the outside of the lips.
Her labia began a quiet drizzle.
She sighed at the rise of mild masturbatory dizziness. Recognized the familiar haze that cast a veil over the precision of her vision.
Then came the comfortable daze.
The detached ease that framed her conciousness as she applied friction. Liquefaction in the rise between her thighs.
Her mind quickened.
The plot thickened.
As did the juices in her quim.
The voiceover to a sweeping camera panorama of an outrageous orgy in progress inside the marble halls of the conservatory's ballroom:
"I never touch blackmeat. I just lust."
Camera close-up on the moving mouth of one who was not unlike Cassandra herself. But who indeed had a life of her own in this script.
This fictional and real Cassandra found herself fondling a long strand of pink pearl beads twined a number of times about her columnular neck. She sucked several of the nacreous globules, playing them with her tongue.
She let the pearlescent strand drop.
Between her boobs it slung.
The camera zoomed in on her bazooms.
And the white lady stripped.
Cassandra fingered gingerly her rose-and-noir lingerie trimmed in handworked lace.
Cautiously smoothed her captivating bustier, partially baring rouged boobs.
She cupped the crotch of dark pink panties. Touseling the fringed vanity of lacy flocculence that emerged at the apex.
Cassandra next checked the seam of her sloe-colored silk stockings.
Examined the elastic fastenings of her high-rise reddish-black garter belt.
The lady's tapering toes were secured within the dizzying scaffolding of jet lizardskin stiletto-heeled fuck-fuck-fuck-me pumps.
She gave out with a bump to her rump.
Fiddled with her fish.
Cassandra leapt upon a marble pedestal carved in the form of a truncated modernistic column. She crouched as she brought an opened bottle of pink champagne up between her knees.
Her spike heels lifted from the marble as her ass-cheeks cracked open.
Cassandra took the bung of the wine bottle into her blowhole.
Twisted it in past the rim.
"Enough!"
She chewed her lips to strips as she ass-fucked herself.
Juice of the vine.
Sluicing her thirsting innards.
Cassandra saw through the bay window the arrival of a purple Jaguar with L.L. Jebal Hood himself, her alleged escort for the evening and benefactor of the foundation that supported Cassandra's charitable not-for-profit environmentally oriented enterprise, trailing a chamois-kid glove in a wave toward the self-fucking Cassandra.
A dark Daimler limousine ejected a party in Middle Eastern garb.
A female chauffeur in open-breeched livery opened the door to the coach of a sky-blue Rolls-Royce Phaeton convertible.
Top down on the automobile. Tops down on the nubs of white girl nipple inside.
Cassandra witnessed this flock of nubile birds as they took flight from the lap of a silver-blonde black man she didn't recognize.
"Ah! You are Cassandra-are you not?" a tan-skinned man with the Creole flair whispered into Cassandra's hair. "May I have this dance?"
"Why, I don't believe we've properly met," Cassandra said. "So I will have to say not just yet with regard to your request."
"Is pleasure beyond measure, my mademoiselle so demimondaine, to introduce yourself to none other than Antoine Chevalier-myself-at your humble yet illustrious service."
"Speak American."
"Fuck you."
"See how easy it is?"
"Join me in this dance."
"As you suggest," Cassandra lifted her wrist to be kissed. "But remember this, you brute. I never fuck. I just watch."
She casually slid the bottle of pink champagne from her punk.
Sucked down a slug.
"A fine bubbly wine," Antoine said. "Have you tried the Fleur de France Rose?"
"In my mouth or my rear?"
"Anywhere inside, my dear-"
Warped grin winced from within languid leering lips as he twitched his hips.
Cassandra lifted her legs above her head.
Her ass-hole worked lividly.
She drained the remainder of the pink champagne into her intestines.
Snapped the empty bottle from her rump.
Cassandra gave a tap to her bloated belly.
Her ass-hole sputtered and thumped.
Richly colored liquid ran like fruitjuice. Spurts from her asscrack piped down the sides of the marble pedestal as a gaggle of semiclad servants rushed to attendance.
Nubile Nubian nymphettes tossed several crystal decanters full of mineral water between the white lady's cavorting legs.
Rinsed out her squeaking bowels.
The nearly naked slaveys then wiped down Cassandra's alabaster body and the marble pedestal and flooring with snow-white towels.
"I think I'm almost ready for the dance," Cassandra said with a cock of her head.
"As you wish."
"But first I must take a piss."
A slavegirl in Arabic-styled gauze knelt between Cassandra's knees.
The girls parted Cassandra's pubes. Pressed open her slushing pussy lips.
Shimmers of glittering liquid crystal blistered the nymph's face to freckles.
Cassandra drenched the gamine's piss-bleached tresses with a fine hissing mist.
"Look, my ritz putainette," Antoine said, pointing to the center of the ballroom with eyes alight. "Such inspiration."
Roxanne drifted sylph-like over the ballroom floor, in the embrace of the woman Cassandra had earlier seen arrive with the noble rogue who had just introduced himself as Antoine Chevalier.
"May I ask who is that?" Cassandra spat.
"My spiritual sister Danielle," Antoine said. "Where I come from such women are considered junk. Garbage. White trash-as you say? But some would conceive of me in the same vein."
"Which is why you guinea wetback spic frog wog jiganigs all hang out in the US of A anyway. In Africa and Europe you're treated like skunks-here your specious titles are most endearing."
"On another subject, if I may. I admire your blondey-blonde girlfriend-friend's brassiere."
"Oh, dear," Cassandra said, slanting a glance toward the two women's ravenous dance. "I am afraid my friend Roxanne is not wearing one, Antoine. You do mean bustier-do you not?"
"Ah, your devotion is already improving my language skills. What are those," he worked his finger in a circular motion, "Little hills on her chest? Ah. They are the tits."
"Breasts."
"Ah, yes. I will keep my mind on that." Cassandra floated her eyes over Danielle's lurid form.
Her limbs were aswarm over Roxanne like a spider at feed upon netted prey.
Castanets chattered above the jeweled tiara in the woman's dark hair.
The space between Danielle's crisp paps was revealed and framed by a gem-powdered bodice plunging deep below her waist.
Adorned by another gemstone, Danielle's navel signaled the outlines of her whim.
Ultra-white foothills of the Venus Mount.
Pale opalescence of juices running within their casing of absolutely colorless skin.
And the iridescence of eyes whose flame challenged that of the stones in her crown and whose daring was far greater even than the spareness of her gown.
Suddenly Roxanne went down.
Her tongue lapped the place between Danielle's tits. Face suctioned the navel.
Teeth clattering upon the setting of the geinstone inset there.
Nose nudging the hitherto unseen stubble of sheared pubic hair.
"I don't care to join in," Cassandra mused. "Nor do I mind if you prefer to, Antoine Chevalier, ofdid you say?"
"Until I may claim the throne of homeland-my realms are in Miami and Nueva York now. I will join you, Cassandra, in watching the white ladies suck. I fuck my fair seester Danielle until she blistered already. But that is for little kids. I am a connoisseur. I like the way your girlfriend Roxanne kisses her."
The man Cassandra knew as L.L. Jebal Hood had arrived upon the scene and now joined the two white women in the dance. He kissed both tangling trollops in their lesbic embrace.
Slid himself in between their frolics.
Purple-black cockhead mirrored L.L. JebaPs shaven and oiled pate.
His darkling length of lingam curved between Roxanne's lips.
Bounced beneath Danielle's utterly white tits.
Tip of purple-black prick appearing like the head of a spear.
Glancing off the sides of the women's faces.
Lipstick traces running from purple-black pricktip down the haft to where the black-and-blue bull shit grew like the dewy subtropical blooms.
L.L. Jebal grappled with four tits. Prowling prong kissed.
He stooped graciously and licked the two women's milky boobs.
Toured his tongue down Danielle's middle and sniffed a tuft of powdered pubes.
Lubed Roxanne's underarms with licks.
His mouth sprayed a mist amidst the drizzling kisses he applied to the misses.
"And who, may I ask," Antoine said, "is thathow do you say-brash young chap?"
"You mean my escort of the night?"
"Your black buck," Antoine sucked through his front teeth as though he thought he were making a joke. "Your hung nigger."
"Uh uh," Cassandra said, "that's not him," with no tone or tension in her voice. "Mine's bigger," quietly and remorselessly.
Aha!
Cassandra knew there was an element missing from this improvised scene.
She needed a strong character-no mere foil-a man endowed with unflappable restraint among the libertines.
A man whose thoughts were dreams.
Whose actions were extreme. And at odds with his place. A new face.
Neither noble nor humble.
Obscuring his wit with cultivated bumbling. Speech alternately clear and mumbling.
"Everything okay?" the new character with the liquid grin and lips like poured chocolate addressed Cassandra in whispered passing as he strolled by on seemingly leisurely patrol.
He leaned back from her ear and spoke a trice louder as if in surprise at Cassandra's ticklish reaction of his tongue to her ear and spoke:
"I mean, this is your show, after all. I'm only the security you hired. If you don't give a damn about their balling at the ball-"
"That will be all," Cassandra smiled. "The events are well in hand. But thank you for your interest in the welfare of my guests."
Cassandra watched the darkskinned private dick walk quickly, flicking his peepers from one end of the long ballroom to the next.
Keen eyes.
Lean thighs.
His evening clothes an obvious disguise.
Pose of gentrihood an evident ruse.
Simply an excuse for the man under cover to remain alienated from his surroundings, of which he was neither in awe nor contemptuous.
Aroused, Cassandra kissed Antoine's cheek with an unexpected rush. Antoine flushed. Returned the buss. Trussed her bosom with his paws. "We are destined to become lovers," he said. "Not yet."
"Would you care to bet."
"This isn't Monte Carlo."
"Who says no."
"It's my show."
"What am I-a dog, a mutt? Do I have to prove my pedigree to rut with every bitch in heat."
"How sweet."
"I am of the most regal Caribbean and African lineage-by right of birth I should be chieftain in Afrique, a king of two countries on two continents-and emperor of the islands."
"I had a pedigreed poodle I called King-"
"I am a banker, financier-a man of commerce as well. Being a businessman is a very noble and ancient calling."
"So is the world's oldest profession. Sounds like a cover for drug running and arms smuggling. How chic."
"So you would prefer the streetwise manner of your roguish black knight."
"I never said that."
"I see the lust drool from your eyes."
"But do you really know for whom the look applies? It could even he for more than one of you. And don't forget-horses are well hung, but one would never dream of actually sampling their sex. Dream, yes-but-"
Antoine spoke abruptly.
"I see the dance ends. I thank you for your courtesy. But do not think for an instant that my lady's lack of encouragement in these romantic matters will in any manner discourage me."
Antoine turned his rump toward her.
He approached a strolling European baroness and took her by the arm.
Cassandra's gaze was caught by the size of L.L. Jebal's dong as it drifted in and out of the space between Danielle and Roxanne's four tits.
Sheik Asani Saba in flowing silk robes sat smack on the back of a stripped-down and oiled black filly. He humped her like a camel. Her nuded buttocks bucked him silly.
He grabbed the nubile Nubian nymph by the dangling black dugs.
He suckered the chocolatey nipples of her jugs. Gave them a tug.
Laughed suavely as he flew off the back of the cavorting dark-skinned princess. The tightly entwined bodies twisted to the floor.
Blinding flash of ivory, olivewood, and ebony. The dusky gal flailed her gams.
Asani sported mouthfuls of nappy kinks of pubic thatch saturated with exudations from the free-running morass of briny quim.
Asani Saba now laid the length of his twanger down the black woman's throat. Ran bristling fingers through her froufrou.
Cassandra clicked pink pearls against her teeth. She observed closely as L.L. Jebal pulled forth his dipstick from Roxanne's cunt from the rear. Danielle slowly minced his balls in her mouth and fingered Roxanne's ass.
Antoine Chevalier had indeed impressed the baroness. They soon had a lanky Spanish duchess in tow as they strolled through the garden.
Cassandra saw from the side the size of his hard-on. He had taken the two titled trulls to tangle in seclusion among the rows of wild roses. But Cassandra's view became unobstructed as she passed onto the patio.
Cassandra listened as Antoine said, "Blow."
"That's right," Cassandra heard the baroness whisper. "You learn English well. Now see if you can say the word job."
"Job."
"Okay. This is a blowjob."
"Angh."
The lips of the baroness spoke, full of thick cock. "Duchess, are you hot?
"Naturally. Am I watching?"
"You can put yourself to good use."
"Of course. While your mouth is full, I shall continue our lesson. Antoine, you know what it means to go down? To suck?"
Cassandra saw Antoine stab the baroness in the neck with his twanger. His uncovered buttocks stuck out and, coated with rutsweat, flashed like mirrored jet in back.
Went slack.
Then jacked forward.
Thorns stuck into his tightened gluteal muscles. Rosepetals caught in his moist pud.
The baroness sucked on, sloughing the top of her gown down over her arms.
Pressing her molten breasts to Antoine's knees. Giving his balls a sensitive squeeze.
The duchess raised the hem of her dress. Her clit winked like a rosebud.
Antoine's hands crawled up the backside of the duchess's haunch.
Fingers launched into the space between the halved melons of her ass.
"Yes. Yes. Yesss."
The pussy peeled open across the crimson slash of Antoine's mushroom mouth.
His tongue rummaged within the labyrinthine folds of her labia.
And his phalanges pinched the wrinkle of her anus with manicured nails. iny finger dipped in to the cuticle. The duchess's butt hustled. Cassandra saw the woman shudder. The duchess uttered unintelligible sounds of rut. "Ululululu."
Orgasm swelled over the duchess's flesh. Antoine's mouth and fingers did the rest.
And the darkling hips of that man continued their thrust.
Cockhead held tightly in the baroness's yap. Balls bandying about her neck. Antoine bent his knees. Shifted his angle. "Aiiiii!"
The baroness seemed to be strangled. She gagged, clutching her throat. Her cheeks bloated out. Then burst open.
Globules of African-Caribbean Gulf Coast jizzom rolled over her chin.
Her stammering jaw dropped in awe.
Pullulating penis flipped from her maw.
She seized the dusky pecker with her paw.
Curds of the sweet milky goo glued her jacking hand to Antoine's stick-ebony shaft and head the color of deep mahogany.
The duchess hunkered down and gave a lick.
"My," Cassandra said to herself. "They've certainly got him in their clutches."
She turned her head away.
Scooped up a flute full of pink champagne from a passing tray. Walked back within the ballroom to observe the deeds of her other swain.
L.L. Jebal was giving a whack to Roxanne's back crack with a riding crop.
But as Roxanne's sap began to flow faster, L.L. Jebal flagged his wanger to the point of disaster. He kicked her in the ass with his black dude ranch lizardskin cowboy boot.
Spurred her cheeks as he shot off.
And suddenly Danielle's face became visible peering over Roxanne's shoulder. Catching a face full of L.L. Jebal's lashing come.
Slime streaked through the air.
Decorated Danielle's hair.
Galloped up the middle of Roxanne's bare back.
And L.L. Jebal leapt.
From L.L. Jebal's position, he could dip his dong wherever he felt it belonged.
Cassandra watched as L.L. Jebal's smile grew.
The voice of the black security man in eveningwear assailed Cassandra's ears. "Who's the preacher riding the giant dildo?"
"Sanbino Bourree. He's an artist."
"Oh."
"Brasiliano-maybe."
"That explains it."
"Sometimes he dresses like that."
"I thought so."
"And you," Cassandra spoke without emotion. "How do you feel about drinking on the job?"
The man drank in her face with his eyes. "I'm carrying." He tapped twice with stiff lank fingers beneath his left armpit.
"What is it?"
"Browning."
"How do I love thee, let me count the ways?"
"Automatic. Not the poet."
"I see you take your work seriously."
"I never read on the job either."
"But you are supposed to mingle with my guests as part of your job, Mister-I am afraid I've forgotten your name-"
"Black. Buckminster."
"Mister Buckminster, is it? Won't you have some champagne?"
"Buckminster. Black's the last name. I guess soabout the bubbly stuff. Crazy hanger, no? My name. Because it could go either way."
Cassandra snorted silently.
A pair of blimp-titted white waitresses passed their way. One offered up servings of orange-rose salmon caviar, straight. The other wench wielded her supply of champagne with nimble fingers.
Buckminster reached out and up smoothly. Flipped Cassandra's pearls between his fingers.
Lingered his loosely coiled digits between her boobs. Fondled the strand with his hand.
"Same color as the champagne," Buckminster observed. "Same color range as the fisheggs. These pink pearls you got here."
"Try some."
Buckminster drew a line of beads across his tongue. "Like this?"
Reining Buckminster with her pearly bridle, Cassandra pulled his face to hers.
Buckminster drew back. "I can't kiss someone with fisheggs on their breath."
"Wipe my mouth out for me. With your tongue."
"Suppose I could."
Buckminster knocked back a swig of champagne. "Beaten eggwhites," he said. Cassandra sucked down some. "You're right. I never noticed that. What else do you taste?"
"In most fine rose champagnes," he said after swallowing another yapful of liquid, "I can taste a trace of sour milk. And a bit of brine."
"You are a connoisseur of wines?"
"I like stuff that bubbles. Seltzer. Beer."
"Do tell."
Buckminster scooped up two more flutes of champagne from a hovering tray.
He toasted toward the frolicking crowd. Lined his mouth with another helping of caviar. Sucked it down as he chugged more bubbly.
Buckminster then wiped the slime from the stubble of his beard with the back of his hand.
"You're putting me on," Cassandra said. "I think caviar tastes like cunt, myself. The better stuff anyway. Got any cigarettes? Hit me up with one."
Cassandra pondered the scene she had just sketched out verbally into the tape recorder. It was a fanciful plot, to be sure. But it was a tale her readers would gobble up. For it went straight to the heart of their fantasies.
There was a rustle in the wind.
Someone coming?
"Shitruckcunt," Cassandra muttered.
Interrupting both her sunning and the drumming on her tummy.
She slipped the swizzle stick from where it had dallied within the wrinkles of her snatch.
Cassandra worked her eyes open a peep.
Creeped her fingers up to her chest.
Gave her tits a quick twist.
Fished in her mouth with the swizzle stick.
Slid it back into the glass among the molten cubes. All that remained of her drink.
"Hello?" she lowed, adjusting her hair. "Yoo-hoo. Anyone there?"