Pearl-lined pussylips dripped semisolid globules of jissom, themselves assuming the effect of plasmic pearl mother. Constance lay on her back in the greenhouse of her private islet at Charity House. Her blouse was checked with peat, broken orchids were crushed beneath her seat.
In the daze of postorgasmic reflection, she watched as Griffith began his retreat toward the ongoing festivities of the polo tourney that highlighted Constance’s charity bazaar weekend. If only she could hang on through the ball that was to take place this evening.
If only Griffith could make out- “Please stay, Griffith.”
He turned suddenly at the screen door, as though not in response to Constance’s entreaty. “I got it,” he said with a jerk to his head. “Whoever it was who took the fake pearlies from the safe in your study that day sneaked into the greenhouse while you were gardening.”
“And switched the pearls on me? Griffith, you know where they were hidden.”
“Before you strung them up your bum.”
“I iced them in the champagne bucket for a few minutes prior to insertion. I-”
“While you were what?”
“Filling the hummingbird feeders with their nectar.”
“And that ice bucket was right by the garden set, next to the loveseat. With your ass turned-”
“Shit.”
Constance fiddled with the black pearls creamed in her and Griffith’s come.
“These are fakes?” Constance said.
“Well, the safe was bereft of pearls when Morrigana and I went through the contents. The ringer here is-I didn’t know at the time to look for them, and under the circumstances might well have over-looked them. Morrigana on the other hand made no mention of their absence as we took inventory.”
“So you still think she took-”
“That’s what we thought at first. And Morrigana did have time to make the switch while I was searching the greensward and polo ground.”
“But we suspected she would make sure that the screen door was reclosed-she’s the tidy and observant one.”
“Unless she was in a rush-like if she was making the mark when she saw me stroll up.”
“So what if Veronica switched the strands again somehow got hold of the realies and returned the bogus brand to the safe?”
“How’d Veronica get them from Morrigana?”
“She wouldn’t have to if she pilfered them from your lingerie herself to begin with.”
“But the decoys are kept in the safe. Veronica doesn’t know how to work the locks.”
“She could have found out.”
“Or they could be accomplices. “If we don’t know which set this is,” Constance shook her pearl-filled quim, “we need to have them checked. And there’s no time before the auction tonight.”
“No jewelry experts among the guests!”
“Arturo, of course. He should show up after dinner in time for the auction. But I wouldn’t trust his judgment even if I were certain he was not lying-for whatever reason that might be.”
Constance felt her mind quake.
Her asshole ached.
Her mind was a haze.
She rolled in the greenhouse mud.
Buds of flowers covering her besmirched skin. Colorful birds cackling and fluttering.
“You think it was Morrigana?” she chewed. “Veronica? Morrigana and Veronica together?”
“Close, but no cigar.”
“Who?”
“Circumstances favorable to the solutions of crimes often arise at these types of affairs, Constance. You know that from your own books.”
“That’s fiction.”
“And body friction. Now you handle your part of this investigation with the right flair-”
“I’ll be there. Even if we have to go with the fake ones this time.”
“Yo! Tally-ho and all that. I gotta scat.”
“Guess you better get a move on. And so do I. The final chukker of the last polo match has begun, hasn’t it? Pretty soon the tourney will be over and the real games will begin.”
Griffith strode the edges of the polo field. The horses were being cleared out as extraneous to the developing celebration. All manner of highbrow lowlife hobnobbing hijinxters milled about the battle-scarred green.
Debutantes dipped their hands into their dropped bodices and dredged out handkerchiefs while they adjusted their tits. Dandies pranced in boots and riding breeches, playing their mitts over the insistent outlines of their erectile peckers.
Griffith tricked a smile over his cheeks.
Took a gander at the selection of revelers randying up already for the evening’s gala.
The trophys had been given out to the qualifying polo teams, made up from among those dandies and dudesses who had donated exceedingly vulgar amounts of greenery to enhance the charity bazaar’s scenery. Of course a few professional ringers had taken their places on the polo squads, thereby adjusting the odds.
As in all gambling enterprises, the house made out-in this event it was Charity House.
Griffith smirked as the triumphant team was doused head to toe in champagne.
Sandor Kroughleigh, fashionable painter and photographer, philosopher-psychologist of the sexual arts, and dilettante-at-arms, rode barechested in an unbuttoned vest on the shoulders of two thoroughbred damsels with long dark tresses and opened dresses. He snapped the air with a fencing saber, attacking passers-by with cuts and thrusts to the cunt, rump, and breast.
Trevor, Alistair, and Nigel, the stars of the winning polo team, groveled before a bevy of buxom maids in topless riding dress. They filled their mouths with thick nipples.
Rolled the women’s riding breeches down over their fecund rumps.
Then began the thunder of their riding crops upon filly flesh.
Trevor saddled up one society belle and stuck his croplike cock into her from the rear.
Alistair had a champagne-debauched debutante in slit gown stretched across his shoulders sidesaddle. She slung one leg over his head as he inserted his tongue into her spread.
Nigel coughed down chunks of cuntcome from a deb with low-slung tits while a bombed-out WASP bitch twitched his backside with her headhair.
Kroughleigh dismounted from his tandem of equestrian beauties and flew into a rage. His hands were all over the women’s ribcages, twisting titties and pulling nipples to blazing redness.
He shed his vest.
The fillies did the rest.
One split her thighs and sat on his chest, pussy pooched toward his tongue.
The other snitched off his breeches and licked at his dick.
“Suck meaner, Antoinette,” Kroughleigh cackled. “You’re too kind for a marquise.”
His face was now plastered in pussy. He tolled his tongue about the labyrinthine folds of labia.
Took hold of the clit by his teeth. Rolled his tongue over the hub.
“Now, Candida,” Kroughleigh chewed out, “since I’m slicking your cunny and you’re a baroness, I’m not certain of the proper form of address.”
“Tonguelashing will do, kind sir,” Candida cooed as her pussy mewed through its whiskers.
Antoinette sat on Kroughleigh’s belly.
Her twat slipped on over the knot at the tip of Kroughleigh’s prick as though it were made of jelly. His juices jumped into her immediately.
Seed scattered from Antoinette’s wrenching slit. Cuntcome foamed at Kroughleigh’s mouth as he pursued the scampering clit of Candida.
Antoinette’s come-larded quim was seized from behind by Trevor’s riding crop.
He gave her clitoris a bop and then on he hopped.
Alistair and Nigel tore Candida away from Kroughleigh’s face. Twarfur stippled Kroughleigh’s drooling maw as he gave chase.
“Quite a bust,” Griffith said to the bathed and newly clad Constance as she walked up to observe the festivities.
“Suits me fine,” she said. “You know me. I never fuck. I just lust.”
“I thought you watched too.”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Got pearls strung from your rump to your pussy underneath that gown?”
“You can see they’re around my neck.”
“But maybe the other pair-”
“They’re there. Where you like them. Want to play detective with me?”
“Let’s see.”
Griffith got to his knees.
Snaked his tongue up the insides of Constance’s bare legs. Head hidden within the silken drapery of Constance’s gown, he popped black pearls from her pussy and bum with shakes of his head.
“Just a second, sis,” Griffith said, cutting his twatgobble short. “This makes three.”
“Three sets of black pearls now, Griffith.”
“The ones we played with earlier-”
“Those are the ones I took from my lingerie to take to London-when I took them with me I was of course not certain whether they or the ones then in the safe were the real ones-or if indeed either set was.”
“Right. Either way-we didn’t want Morrigana or Veronica-being the primary suspects in the pearl switch-to know anyone was at least hall-wise.”
“Well, just now I fetched the ones in the safe- thought I’d make use of them to supplement my auctioned-slave girl stunt tonight. So then, just for the fuck of it I looked through my underwear-what did I encounter but yet another strand of black beads.
“I didn’t know pearls could breed.”
“What do you make of that?”
“Have to think about it. While we make it.”
“Make it sharp and snappy. Remember, whatever you do has to read well.”
How about if I start with my fingers?”
“Higher. On the clitoris.”
“Fingernails? Fist?”
“Knuckles.”
Her legs buckled.
Scum scuttled from her labia.
Griffith wedged his leg up between her asscheeks. Broke out his stiffened member.
As he stoked it into her cunt, it sizzled like a burning ember embedded in boiling liquid.
“You have to come inside me now, Griffith. I need that pearly liquid of yours right in my curlies. Fuck me, luck me, luck-luck-luck me till I die-diedie in orgasmic oblivion.”
“Save that prertytalk for your books, toots. I’m just six-shooting grime in your slimeslit jimjam so far as I’m concerned, ma’am.”