Chapter 4
The Oubliette
"Many things about our bodies would not seem to us so filthy and obscene if we did not have the idea of nobility in our heads." – Georg Christoph Lichtenberg
Following the shower, Veronica and Rod met Trent downstairs for an impromptu dinner. Laid out on the stark modernist dinner table, the brightly polished stainless steel flatware glimmered in the approaching darkness.
Veronica and Rod appeared, both dressed in white terry cloth bathrobes. A clean soap smell wafted off their flesh, still hot from the recent sex in the shower. They sat down next to each other in chairs adjacent to Trent.
"So you don't own this place?" Rod asked, pouring out a heap of chicken friend rice on a black rectangular plate.
"No, I've been renting for the summer." Trent said between bites of curry pork.
"So who owns it?"
"Conroy Jameson." Trent said.
"What does he do again?" Veronica asked. She munched on a shrimp eggroll she dipped in her hot and sour soup.
"Not quite sure," Trent skewered a crab rangooon and popped it in his mouth. "Last time I heard, he was Vice President of Finance. Did some stuff with Reed Capital Investments. They've been a big partner in the recent mergers. My father sent him to Romania this summer, smooth things out with the banks over there."
"Fascinating," Veronica sighed, staring dreamily into Trent's eyes. Then she noticed how distant they were. He appeared distracted. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing really," Trent said, snapping out of his reverie. "So how was the shower?"
"Something does seem to be bothering you," Rod asserted as he continued to feast. "Not business related, it is?"
"No, business is fine. Just got the call and my commission has cleared." The exciting event didn't captivate Trent, who acted despondent.
"Congratulations are in order," Rod said with his mouth full. "With a windfall that large, I can't see why you wouldn't be happy."
"The money is a welcome relief. An ample commission given the work I've done this year. It's just, well …" Trent's voice trailed off.
"Rod, I can't believe you didn't recognize it." Veronica smiled as she held up an eggroll to his mouth.
"Recognize what?" Rod asked, puzzled.
"I should have known." She began to laugh, trying hard to silence it by covering her mouth.
"Spill it!" Rod barked. He slid his hand beneath her terry cloth robe and pinched her nipple. She slapped his chest and arms while she pried his fingers off her tender teat.
"Fucking asshole!"
"She gets this way when she knows someone is jealous," Rod said, holding Veronica's wrists as she struggled against him. "So who's the girl? Intern at work or something?"
"No, nothing like that. Just a lady I met at the beach last night," Trent worked hard to hold back his yearning. "Gave her my number."
"And she hasn't called?" Rod said, completing Trent's thought.
Trent nodded.
"Didn't seem to bother you yesterday. Sounds like you had a grand time fucking Veronica before I arrived," Rod's voice contained no malice or rage over the incident. His utter disregard for Veronica's adulterous behavior confused Trent. "I know what you're thinking: 'Why isn't he the least bit jealous and angered over what happened?' It's a problem I've had to come to grips with myself. Here's another question: Do you think Jocasta has fucked anyone else since you two met?"
Rod's candor shocked Trent. It seemed inconceivable that Jocasta would do that.
"Technically yes." Trent knew that that was a bullshit answer.
"What do you mean by 'technically'?" Rod didn't buy that answer either.
"She said her fiancé worked at Vector.
"The plot thickens." Veronica placed her elbows on the table and put her chin on her palms.
"So your despair over her adulterous fucking has no merit?" Rod asked, picking over the remaining crab rangoons. "I always thought you were a libertine? Your reputation of the French Riviera's greatest orgiast couldn't have been false. Your notorious parties even made the papers once or twice last year."
"There's just something about her I can't get out of my head," Trent sounded genuinely tortured. "And the fact that she is going to marry someone else doesn't make me any happier."
"Yep, he's got it bad." Veronica said.
"Agreed, my love. And what are we going to do about it?" Rod asked as he slid his hand down between her legs, massaging the moistened folds of her cunt.
"He's going to need a distraction." She said as she began to kiss Rod.
"It's seems like his advanced stage would need a remedy stronger than pure voyeurism. He also needs to be re-educated. Life in the business world has drained him of his base carnal urges. He's going to need to reconnect with his lusts." Rod said.
"And be reborn as a God of Fuck." She moaned, her body bucking against the table.
"He needs to be show the Oubliette."
"What's the Oubliette?" Trent asked.
"It's the owner's little playroom. All manner of darkness and depravity can run rampant in there."
"Fuck me, Roddy!" Veronica begged, searching the folds of the robe for his instrument.
"Be patient, my love. You're lusts will be generously rewarded. But you must wait."
*
Ilya, Nia, and Tania pulled the Bentley saloon into the driveway of the beach house. It was almost midnight, but for them, the night had only begun. They had traveled back home in a Bentley saloon they had hijacked from the beach house's massive garage. Since the owner was gone and the summer guest rarely if ever showed up, what harm was there in a joyride?
It had been an exhausting day. The morning involved shopping at thrift stores and an afternoon sunbathing and swimming. During their beachside frolics – including a game of tennis and volley ball – they had picked up three more passengers, all male. Following their dinner at a St. Tropez
brasserie
, the tribades intended to take the recently consecrated youths to the Oubliette and have their way with them.
Before getting too far ahead, a brief description of each will illuminate the Reader's Imagination:
Ilya, the eldest of the maids at thirty-four, possessed long blond hair. Her clear blue eyes resembled mountain skies in the coldest winters. A voluptuous frame concealed beneath a blue sundress brought worshipful glances of her buoyant breasts and a magnificent ass. A well-versed woman in the arts of fucking and whoredom, she became the "sommelier of sperm" to the other maids. Like Veronica, her parents had been merciless disciplinarians, and she sought escape from the intellectual and erotic Puritanism of the Russian dictatorial theocracy.
Nia, the second eldest at a twenty-three, had a Haitian mother and a French father. This lineage revealed itself in her skin – the color of rich milk chocolate – and her hair – long straight tresses like black silk – and her face – a classical physiognomy one encounters in paintings by Boticelli, but given a renegade beauty by her nose-ring. Her petite body ached for erotic release, twisting and turning in the tight confines of the car. Her small nipples stood upright beneath her low cut yellow cocktail dress. A necklace with a golden crucifix hung around her neck. It glittered in the darkness, the only remnant of her strict Catholic upbringing. While the teachings of the One True Church taught her a contradictory grab-bag of bigoted, antiquated beliefs and the idolatry of martyrdom – she took what was most valuable to her quest: the sanctification of suffering and the connoisseurship of torture and repression.
Tania, the youngest at twenty, was of the age where the Consecration's erotic delights did not yet fade into jaded debauchery and bored perversions. Only a year older than the three charges, she could be said to be their equal in terms of experience and enthusiasm. Her long black hair fell onto her girlish shoulders. Beneath a white peasant frock her heavy breasts heaved in anticipation. A pair of black boxer shorts showed off her athletic legs. She came from a lower class liberal family, the only maid whose parents did not care about her sexual exploits – which were legion and varied in their depravity and imaginative construction.
The three males, recently matriculated from the lyceums of the United Democratic Republics of Europe, possessed a sexual innocence bordering on the comical. Although they appeared like men, their maturity remained boylike, immature, and innocent. At this point in their lives, their sexual innocence meant ignorance.
Still unfamiliar with the labyrinthine sexual undergound, their barely tarnished sexuality beckoned the three maids like a feast waiting to be devoured. Smiling back at the three maids, the young men didn't know what they were getting themselves into.
Riley was the largest physically. Sporting dirty blonde hair, his body was the product of a rigorous training regimen. A star swimmer in the Monaca Lyceum, his body's sleek profile and a face exhibiting pure decency, could not help hiding the monstrous erection beneath his Speedos.
Fritz wore a pair of round rimless spectacles. A whole head shorter than Riley, Fritz looked the trio's bookish intellectual. He wore a black collared t-shirt and a pair of brown shorts. Less muscular than Riley, his giant cock throbbed under his shorts as he stared lustily at Tania, pretending to read a paperback.
Dirk attempted the look of a street tough, wearing a leather jacket, jodhpurs, and jackboots. He had close-cropped brown hair and a face that combined elements of base ugliness with spellbinding beauty. The maids had picked him up for mere amusement. At the beach, Ilya had given him the nickname "Prick-bludgeon" because his Speedos barely concealed his massive weapon.
*
"I don't want to wait, Roddy, I want you to fuck me now!" Veronica pleaded, nearly forcing herself on Rod.
Sitting beside the couple, Trent watched the scene unfold.
"If you don't behave, I'm going to have to punish you." Rod's threat betrayed the playfulness of his tone.
As Rod began to play the part, the front door swung open. The three maids and their three charges poured into the hallway. The banter echoed throughout the beach house.
