MEAT PACKER'S BDSM BALL & CELEBRITY SEX WITH FORBES AND LIZ TAYLOR
{The teller of this tale, Gaspardo Del Tornet, talks of his life experiences. Gaspardo is a French citizen born in Aix-en-Provence of a father who was very strict, being a Sergeant in the French military and born of a French Moroccan mother, who was a baker, specializing in chocolate filled beignets. Gaspardo is now 94 years old and has continued to recounted his life's adventures as herein dictated to the writer known as Erectus. The interview starts with Gaspardo speaking.}
INTRODUCTION
My first wife Jean, God rest her soul, was, and I'm not ashamed to say it, she was a French Street whore. At the worst she may have been the most common of a common street whore who plied her trade among common men. For every man who has a cock, there comes a time when he has need to find a willing chamber in which he can discharge those poisons that the almighty has insinuated in the very spleen of mankind. Above all, my dear wife, Jean De Tormet was a fine person who was not only honest but treated people in the most Christian manner, and God knows, she alleviated the poisons in many a man's spleen.
Jean used to work the streets back in the 1960s, that surround the huge Flea Market in Paris, which is still found there on the Rue des Rosiers. Famous the world over for its fine antiques and unique offerings, many of the peddlers and antique dealers who displayed there were her regular customers, and many tourists found her beauty, charms and professional skills most irresistible.
In her day she was one of the most beautiful whores to work the streets. She no doubt would have earned more in a bordello but she didn't want to work under a pimp or boss, both figuratively or literally. She loved her freedom and always remained independent. Of course, she always dyed her brown hair to a honey blonde, she had big natural breasts with full perky nipples, probably bigger than the ever popular Bardot but with a narrow waist just like Brigitte who she resembled. In the evening she was often mistaken for the starlet, which is ridiculous, what would Bardot be doing whoring on the street under a night lamp? But men live in a fantasy world and Jean had every right to take advantage of their sexual stupidity. But the truth was she was a near look alike, it was uncanny, I must say that whenever we went places together, people would point and often come up to us to ask for her autograph.
Jean was extremely intelligent, she spoke a little of several languages. When approached by foreigners she could get by in sex banter with the Chinese in Mandarin, with Indians in Urdu and with the blackest of Africans in Swahili, she could even trade Brooklyn slang with the Yanks and if she could not communicate with words, she would use sign language. And for those clients who preferred quiet, her face could communicate all the necessary emotions while her mouth did all the work or the preparation for what comes next.
FRENCH WHORES MAKE THE BEST WIVES PT. 6
There were only a few days left before we were about to fly back to Paris on the Concord, in fact we'd begun to pack our suitcases, when we were surprised by an invitation pushed under the door from one of our "neighbors" on Park Avenue. We were invited to attend a private masquerade party held by "MF". We weren't quite sure who "MF" was but we assumed we had met him or her at one time or another. It turned out to be an extra surprise we had not counted on.
The theme of the party was "The Meat Packer's Ball" and the host had rented the famous "Meat Packing District's " most renown BDMS gay club. The instructions on the invitation were that the women were to dress as gay men and the men were to dress as drag queens. In addition to the party goers, some twenty-five gay men who frequent the club were invited in to add the flavor of reality.
The night was cool and foggy, you could smell the river nearby and the garbage that the district still produced and it was hours before the pickup time.The name of the club was The Mineshaft. It was a members-only BDSM gay bar and sex club located at 835 Washington Street, at little west of 12th Street, in Manhattan, New York City. This was in the famous Meatpacking District which originally was the center for meat delivery, sale and butchering. We had not realized we were headed to a BDSM club. We were hoping it was a sort of 'Studio 54' with disco dancing.
I was wearing a dark curly wig that Jean said went well with my complexion and perennial 5 o'clock shadow. I had some oversized short drop cloth of a dress with leopard spots and a large baggy hat that when seated on my head reminded me of foreskin. I really could not wear the high heels so I tied the straps together and slung them on my shoulder and wore men's dress shoes. Sometime one has to compromise.
When we entered the club, there were a bunch of regulars milling around. It was hard to step through the crowd. When the gay guys got a load of me, someone shouted out,
"Hey, it's Fred Flintstone."
I was somewhat embarrassed but in my heart I knew he was right and it was all meant in fun. Then the same guy bent over and flashed his raw butt at me shouting,
"You can have my ass any time, Freddy."
I thanked him as we passed by and smacked his ass. I have to admit it was a perfect bubble butt.
"You turn me on Freddy!" he shouted after me.
We waved our engraved invitations at the burly black guard . Since we were invited guests, he parted the crowd like Moses parting the Dead Sea. He let us enter, closing the door quickly to keep out the uninvited. He leaned over Jean, ogling her tits that were hardly hidden by her tuxedo jacket. Then he reached out and pinched Jean quite cruddy on her left tit and whispered something else, I only caught the part of when he said he'd be in to see her later. We didn't pay much attention, men frequently make passes at her. She rubbed her nipple for a while to get rid of the sting.
Once we were inside, the air was warm and damp with perfume and perspiration. Whiskey and champagne were being served by naked gay boys in slave costumes with chains. The crowd was all drinking and dancing and then four guys charged into the room, grabbed Jean from out of my arms and rushed her to a stockade that stood at the center of the room. I strenuously objected, but two of them dragged me to a cell near the stockade and threw me in, hitting my head on the bars and chaining the cell door. I could not believe what happened next.
The huge black doorman appeared but now he was draped in a silver cape and a top hat which was pierced by two long curved red devil horns. He approached Jean from the rear, and ripped of the bottom of her costume and then came around front and tore off her jacket and then ripped open her low cut blouse so her bare breasts were now fully revealed. The audience quickly quieted assuming this pornographic exhibition was part of the entertainment.
Without even explaining himself, the "Devil man" tore off a silver cod piece from his tights that fully exposed his large cock and balls. Without a moment of hesitation, he thrust his huge curved cock between her legs. I was relieved when I saw he had not penetrated her, but my relief did not last, he was simply measuring the arc necessary to stuff himself fully into her rectum. She let out a scream as he jammed himself inside of her anus and then just as quickly he pulled out, whispered something in her ear and reached around the front of her and positioned he curved hook of a cock at her front, entered her vagina and began to saw himself inside of her to my chagrin. This procedure of in and out, of vaginal penetration switching to anal sex continued for what seemed like a long time, too long.
The "Devil" wore her down like a buzz saw cutting forest timber. Her arms grew slack in shackles of the stockade. When you could see he could no longer contain himself he pulled out of her ass and lifting her by her legs so her vagina was at the level of his prick, and once more jabbed that hook of a cock right into my beloved's vagina.
Then he pulled out and pointed his cock at her face. His cock, well primed at this point rained a deluge of sperm across her breast and face. He continued to circled her, his cock spurting like a fire hose, painting her back and buttocks with translucent white thick cum juice.
.
Then, as if to add fuel to the fire, three muscular dudes in jock straps, also wearing devil's horns came out and danced around Jean, lowered their jockstraps and jerked off their red painted cocks in harmony, spattering my dear wife with their love juice till she looked like a shimmering candle .
Finally, swaddling her in a transparent velum fabric, they unchained her from the post where she had suffered these terrible humiliations that I could not rescue her from but I was forced to watch her being raped while I remained jailed and in a rage. Once freed, she ran to me, flung open the cell door, that somehow was now unlocked and buried her face in my chest sobbing in excitement,
"They paid me very well to take part in the porno show," she blurted out. "There's enough to pay for our plane trip back first class and enough left over to make a visit to Louie Vuitton for a new purse and wallet."
Oh my Jean, always able to turn a sexual catastrophe into a financial windfall and any excuse to visit Vuitton's.
Finally, we had our moment of calm. The bus boys escorted us to a center table and we were served some green margaritas in those crazy large glasses filled with crushed ice. At last we were able to relax.
We remained seated enjoying the multi costumed guests. Since Jean's costume was in shambles, covered with sperm, they had already sent it out to be cleaned by an all night dry cleaning establishment. In recompense, they had given her a pair of sequin tights but she was still bare above the waist and I though quite attractive.
Then there was a large roar, almost like thunder, I thought it was probable some plane overhead or a large motor vehicle out on the street, but it was one of those big Harley motor bikes that are so American, and it wasn't just one but at least seven or eight. Then as the roar died down, and the double wide door to the street swung open, the misty cool night air came in dragging the cigarette and weed smoke right up to our table, the announcer said,
"Let's all give a hand for Malcolm, Mr. Malcolm Forbes with his date for the night, the magnificent, the delectable actress of screen and stage, Miss Elizabeth Taylor."
Although we were French, we were also international, we certainly knew who Elizabeth Taylor was, but I wasn't too sure who Forbes was. I soon learned he was the owner of Forbes Magazine and one of the richest men in America and a Gay/Bi guy as well, although the public never knew it at the time. Later when he contracted HIV his sexual proclivities became a widely known scandal with much conjecture as to wether he had infected Taylor. This was long before Magic Johnson broke his news. At this time there was no cure but let's put that unpleasantness to rest.
Malcolm was surely the life of the party, and it was his private show. He was a very masculine looking man, beautiful in his own way, muscular for his age, grey haired and dressed in black motor bike regalia. When he spoke, his voice was gravely and decidedly macho. He entered the club like a king who had conquered a country, all eyes were upon him and his escort Elizabeth, wearing a golden gown that did little to hide her ample breasts with their tell tale beauty mark. That was when I realized that MF was Forbes, the Malcolm Forbes.
At that moment. two waiters came scurrying to our table and plunked down two large chairs and announced,
"Mr. Forbes and his guest will be seated here with you."
Jean looked up wide eyed and my jaw dropped. Our invitation must have come from Forbes himself. I had seen him a few times in the apartment building on 5th avenue without knowing who he was. We had exchanged pleasantries and I recalled Jean had conversed with him in French in the elevator one night and he had kissed her hand as we exited. It turned out that Forbes occupied the penthouse apartment on the very roof top, a forbidden zone I was told with lush gardens and outdoor furniture in wrought iron.
Forbes walked right up to our table, and said,
"Hello, my guests. I hope you are enjoying the night."
