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From: kellis <kellis@dhp.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cannes d'Eau: Countess Cachalot {Varkel} (MF M+F Oral Anal Pros)
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Date: Tue, 19 Jul 2005 22:10:02 -0400
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Cannes d'Eau
---
Episode 9: _Countess Cachalot_
a Series by Varkel


Near noon a horse-drawn hack stopped on Miller Street before Mrs. 
Barker's boarding house to discharge a lady.  She wore a tall bonnet 
with a heavy veil that completely obscured her head, and a full-length,
tightly buttoned tan duster, decorated with pink lace.  The vehicle 
clopped away in search of another passenger and the woman stood where 
she had alighted, turning slightly as if scanning for an observer.  The
paved street appeared deserted within a block's distance, perhaps owing
to the nearness of lunch time -- called "dinner" in that area because 
for many it was the heavy meal of the day.

The sound of clashing cans arose from the rear kitchen of the adjacent 
Cannes d'Eau.  Craning her neck, she made out a horse and van drawn up 
behind the large building and surmised the delivery of provisions.  The
day was cloudy with threatening rain and she was glad of her duster 
despite the warmth of late spring.

She swept along the sidewalk to the Miller Street staircase of the 
Cannes d'Eau, an imposing frame edifice occupying the corner of Miller 
and Beale and a third of the city blocks along both.  Full porches 
adorned both its street fronts.

Her sensibly shod feet thudded on stair steps.  Though full of rocking 
chairs, this porch was empty of people except for a barefoot pubescent 
lad hanging over the rail and savoring the consumption of a large 
cookie.  He forgot to chew as his eyes followed her up the steps, lips 
grinning in speculation through cookie crumbs.

Though recognition on this porch would be intolerable, she paused 
curiously.  "What is it about me that interests you so?"

He only looked away and took another bite of the cookie.

"Come, come," she added.  "A penny for your thoughts."

The grin returned.  Spraying cookie crumbs, he said, "I was a-thinking 
how you look like Madam Ruth's automobile: all gussied up so nobody can
see the machinery."

"'Gussied up' indeed!  This is my plainest outfit."

"You still can't see the machinery."

"And you'd like to, would you?"

"I love machinery!"

"I think you're a precocious lad."

He blinked and lost his smile, unable to decide if he'd been insulted.

She said, "So you know Madam Ruth."

"I live here.  I'm her mechanic."

"Indeed!  Who's your father?"

The boy's face blanked then brightened.  "The senator is sending me to 
school."

"Oh, excuse me!  That was stupid --  Senator Heatherford?"

"Yeah.  He's helping me out."

"Me too," she murmured.  She took a deep breath.  "I've never been 
through that door.  Do you suppose you might conduct me to Madam Ruth?"

"You owe me a penny."

"Yes, I do."  She withdrew a coin from her purse and presented it with a
smile.  "Your thought was worth it.  What's your name?"

"They call me Tunny."  Dropping the coin into one pocket and the cookie
remains into another, he grinned.  "Not too often.  What's yours?"

"You may announce me as Mrs. Smith."

His lip wrinkled.  "'Smith,' huh!"

"She'll understand."  The woman gestured ahead.  "Lead on, Tunny 
MacDuff."

"It's Tunny Atkins.  Come on then."

They entered a foyer and the woman halted with a muffled cry of 
surprise, staring at the huge cross-stitch framed and hung on a doorless
wall.  It depicted erect penises, crossed and spouting thick yellow 
streams.  Its designer had been someone of talent well above the usual 
needle wielder.  The male organs were especially well displayed in 
red-tipped, irregularly-veined reality, translucent foreskins party 
withdrawn over rosy knobs.  Beneath the images were the words, _Cannes 
d'Eau_ in a flowing script.  She licked her lips under the veil and 
murmured, "Canes of water, to be sure!"

"What's that?" asked the lad over his shoulder.

"I don't suppose you know where this cross-stitch came from."

"Do too.  Madam Ruth got it from the first Canned Dough in New Orleans."
He snickered.  "Whoever made it sure didn't know how to spell."

The woman's eyes sparkled but she asked only, "'Got it,' you say?"

"The Yankees burned the first place but somebody saved this out'n its 
parlor."  The lad cocked his head at the image.  "The senator says it's
a labor of love, whatever that means."

The woman chuckled.  "I think he's right."

"How can anybody love big ugly dicks?"

"You live here and have to ask that?"

"But that size'd split you lengthwise!"

She considered the idea, sighed and murmured, "God knows they look that
big under your nose!"  Then she chuckled slightly and shook her head.  
"I can't believe I said that to you!  Let's go on."

He led her into a very large room with a ceiling two storeys high, a 
grand staircase at the far end leading to a mezzanine, large couches 
grouped in the middle on the lush carpet and spread along the walls 
under large and generally well executed full-size portrayals of nude 
women.  Two elaborate electrical chandeliers hung dark while the many 
windows high on the outside walls provided morning illumination.

"What's this?" she asked.

"The parlor."

"I'm sure it's not always so empty of people!"

"Oh, no.  It'll start filling up towards evening."

"How silly of me!  Of course everyone is at luncheon."

"Breakfast -- them as ain't asleep.  Only two meals here, breakfast and
supper, but breakfast lasts all morning and supper all night."

"I suppose that makes good sense."

"Sure it does.  And you wanna try Razor's cooking."

"I've had that pleasure, thank you, which indeed it is.  Where are all 
the, ah, rooms of assignation?"

"Ass o'nation?"  He goggled over his shoulder at her.

"Do you call them bedrooms?"

"Bedrooms upstairs, 'cept for Madam Ruth and the maids.  And me.  I 
sleep in the tackle room out back."

Again she gestured ahead.  He wove a path through the furniture and 
departed the large room into a hall that appeared to run the length of 
the building.  Closed doors stood along both sides, interspersed with 
high-mounted electrical lights, most of which were lit behind glass 
envelopes simulating gas chimneys.  She gawped at the colorful paintings
hung beneath them: here not the gracefully posed nude women of the 
parlor but couples and threesomes revealingly positioned in the throes 
of sexual gratification, sexual organs subtly emphasized.

She commented dryly, "I suppose the customers have to pass this way."

"Only on Party Night.  Rest of the time the girls take 'em up from the 
parlor."

"'Party Night.'  I've heard of that."  She shuddered.

"That's when this place really hums!"

"No doubt."

"That's the party room."  He pointed ahead to a wide set of double doors
in the right-hand wall.  A momentary stroke of curiosity almost impelled
her to pause and peer, until the thought struck that soon she might see
more than enough behind those varnished doors.

They came to a large single door set squarely in the end of the hall.  
The lad knocked.

"Come in," sounded a muffled female voice.

When the lad opened the door, the newcomer preceded him within while he
closed it and came to a halt beside her.  They stood in a room larger 
than average, lit by the gray overcast through tall windows in the far 
wall beyond an oversized desk.  Bookshelves lined the other walls with a
grandfather clock ticking to her right.  Two additional doors were 
closed on the left.

Under the windows to the left of the desk a woman lounged in an 
overstuffed chair, face in shadow, hennaed hair limned by the light 
behind her.  Bare feet with painted nails perched upon a matching 
ottoman, peeking out from under her gown.  Upon their entrance she 
withdrew her feet, closed her book and sat up.

For a moment she peered intently.  Apparently the veil defeated her.  
"Who is this, Tunny?"

"Says she's Miz Smith, but I don't think so."

"Mrs. Smith?"  The seated woman grinned suddenly.  "Oh, yes: Mrs. Smith.
And how are you this gray morning, Mrs. Smith?  Rather better, I hope, 
than your last morning with me."

"Far better indeed, Mrs. Bodkin.  And yourself?"

"Good."  She added with a chuckle, "Though some would argue with that."

"Narrow-minded types."

"You think so?  Tunny, hang up the lady's wrap."

This was achieved after a lengthy assault on the row of buttons up its 
front, leaving the standing woman clothed in a high, frilly blouse above
a long, full skirt.  The madam ordered up an easy chair for Mrs. Smith 
and ended with, "Very good, Tunny.  Now go into the dining room and tell
Bertadene to send you back with two iced mint rums.  And don't dally."

"Can I have one too?" asked the brash lad.

The madam frowned but relented.  "Half of one."

"Who gets the other half?"

Both women had to smile, but the madam's eye speared him.  "You tell 
Bertadene exactly that: half of one for you.  And get going before I 
send you to help Hazel in the laundry."

"Yes'm."  That moved him out one of the side doors, through which came 
the buzz of voices and clatter of crockery for the moment it stood open.

Ruth smiled.  "That boy is a rogue, rather like his father."

"Does he ... ah ..."

"Even Maybelle, his mother, isn't sure, but I knew our retired senator 
long before his heart attack.  He was very sweet on Maybelle 14 years 
ago -- still would be if he but could -- and Tunny has the same eyes and
chin."

"Now that you mention it ...  But the senator is the perfect gentleman."

"So?"

Both women laughed.  Mrs. Smith unhooked her veil, deposited it with the
bonnet on the edge of the desk and took her seat facing the madam, who 
intoned merrily, "Aha!  Mrs. Hidden Smith reveals herself as Angela, 
wife of Councilman Witherspoon, my bitterest critic."

The newcomer bowed her head with an ironic smile.

"Welcome, Angela," Ruth continued.  "I wondered how you'd make contact.
Now I wonder how you could navigate through that veil."

"'Carefully' is the word."  Angela smiled.  "I considered having myself
rolled in a bed cover like Cleopatra but alas, could find me no 
Apollodorus!"

Ruth's face brightened.  "Interesting you should mention that.  I just 
read of it yesterday."  She held up a copy of Plutarch's _Lives_.

Angela smiled disarmingly.  "I noticed the title."

Ruth's eyes lit.  "A sister opportunist, so like myself!  Tell me, my 
dear, what did your husband say about your little trip to St. Louis?"

"Ah, _that_ wonderful little trip!  Even though I lay dead drunk in the
senator's bed, it seems I managed a trip by sleeping car while madly 
fucking, if you'll pardon the patois, half the other passengers on the 
train."

Ruth waved a hand negligently.  "That's _our_ patois.  So you saw the 
_Tattler_.  The question is, did Mr. Witherspoon see it?"

"Who knows?  Not that it matters.  It so happens I have an aunt in St. 
Louis.  Martin understands I went to consult her about male 
stubbornness."  She chuckled.  "But I've learned to envy my substitute 
on that trip.  I hope she enjoyed it."

"Oh, she did.  Her exact words were, 'I love to screw on a sleeper.'"

Angela chuckled wistfully.  At that moment a knock sounded on the door 
to the dining room.  Without waiting for authorization, Tunny sailed in
and presented a napkin-wrapped goblet to each woman.  Moisture had 
already condensed along the rims.

"Where's yours?" asked the madam.

The lad grinned.  "Bertadene made mine first."

"You can be sure I'll check with her."

"Well, she did."

Ruth's eyes narrowed.  "Give me a kiss."

"A ... kiss?"

"A real kiss, mouth-to-mouth."

"B-but ... I didn't drink it yet!"

"You scamp.  Get on out of here!"

When the door slammed behind him, Ruth took a reflective swallow and 
said, "As I recall, your outing began when Martin refused you his 
lingual attention -- or in our patois, as you say, when he wouldn't lick
your pussy."

Angela's eyes grew huge.  "Surely I didn't tell you that!"

"The senator did."

Angela rolled her eyes.  "God knows what I told him!"  She sighed.  "I 
certainly learned a lot on that outing, more in some respects than my 
whole life.  A lot also from you."

"From me?"

"Oh, yes -- about men not finding their wives fully available to them.
Well."  Angela raised her chin with an air of satisfaction.  "I have 
solved that problem."

"Whatever do you mean?"

"I believe the expression is, 'I sucked out his seed.'"

Ruth chuckled approvingly.  "A little King Jamesish, dear, but I still 
congratulate you.  What did --"

"'King Jamesish?'  How does one say it?"

"_To suck_ is the correct verb, all right.  Did you actually get your 
husband's juice?"

"Juice?"

"Semen, seminal fluid, if you wish to be precise.  The girls often speak
of a mouthful of jism, the quantity being wishful thinking, of course.
Huh!  You may know something about that."

Angela shrugged.  "If you're referring to my guitarists, I think I 
swallowed too fast."

Ruth looked thoughtful.  "I don't suppose you have any idea how many of
them you entertained that afternoon."

"I've tried to reconstruct it.  When the proprietor expelled me from the
_Fiddlehouse_, I think I took all his customers.  I've not seen so many
boys at one time since the last victory parade."

"Boys do spread the word of such good fortune."

"Do they think of it that way?"

"When they can use a woman so freely?  That's a rare opportunity for 
anyone."

"Umm.  'Spread the word.'  I guess it's a miracle no one recognized me."

"Until the senator."

"Yes.  He's the real miracle."

Ruth contemplated her guest thoughtfully.  "So you got your priggish 
husband's cock in your mouth.  Brag a little.  How did you manage it?"

Angela grinned slightly.  "I didn't ask him, if that's what you mean."

"Didn't you?"

"I waited until he came to bed.  He leaves a light on in the hall to 
undress.  Did leave."  Angela smirked.  "That's different now.

"I got up and began helping him undress.  While he was undoing his 
cravat, I slid off his suspenders and dropped his britches.  He actually
jumped.

"'Angela,' he said, 'what do you think you're doing?'

"That's when he noticed me.  'You're naked!" he said, horrified.

"I said, 'Don't tell anyone.'

"Actually I was uncertain of my ground and a little scared, but 
determined not to show it.  I slipped around in front of him, parted his
long shirttails and took him in my mouth."

"Took _him_, Angela?"

"You want me to say it, do you?  His cock, of course."  She chuckled 
self-consciously.  "It was so shrunken and soft that it was hard to 
find."

Ruth laughed outright.  "You expected it to be long and firm!"

Angela bit her lip.  "As every other one I ever felt!"  She chuckled 
humorously.  "At first I feared for his manhood, almost asked him what 
happened to it.  But I could hear him calling my name: 'Angela, please,
Angela, what are you up to?'  I wanted to spit it out and tell him I was
sucking his cock, what did he think?  But about that time it swelled up
perfectly, banishing all doubts."

Ruth chuckled.  "This is rich.  Ha!  I'll bet you didn't suck long."

"You'd win.  In hardly a minute it started to squirt.  Nearly strangled
me until I closed my throat.  You can say what you like about quantity,
but I think Martin gave me even more than any one of those boys.  When 
your mouth is already full of cock, it doesn't take much to run over."

"And did it?"

"Right down to my belly hair.  Martin groaned as he does when he fucks 
me.  Not that he'd done _that_ since my escapade."

"What happened next?"

"He sat down on the bed and started his inquisition."

"I can just imagine.  'What in the world has come over you, Angela?'"

"Exactly.  And more: 'Where could you possibly have learned this 
behavior?'  But I had expected it and was ready."

"How so?"

"I told him to think about why we quarreled, that I had felt something 
missing from our lives for a long time.  That I met a new friend on the
train back from St. Louis, a widow from Virginia named --  Do you know,
I almost said Holly Byrd but caught myself in time, thank heaven!  My 
new friend's name is Ivy Sparrow, close enough to remember, whose 
husband had been a most vigorous man before he died in a train wreck.  I
said Ivy gave me the benefit of what she had learned.  That is, you can
make your husband want to do things for you by doing them for him 
first."

"Aha!  Very clever, except --"

"Yes.  I may need to rent Holly now and then for a social outing."

"That can certainly be arranged!  How did Martin take your disclosures?"

Angela's eyes glittered.  "He licked my pussy."

"Did he!"

"All that was last week.  He has been most attentive every night since."

"Tell me!"

"We are settling into a new routine.  I suck out his ... juice, he licks
me until I must push his head away and then we fuck for a good long 
time.  Heavenly!"

Ruth thought about it and chuckled sourly.  "If all wives were so smart,
I'd be ruined.  Fortunately you're just about the only one."

"Then most women are stupid."

"_Ignorant_ is more accurate.  Sometimes I think men strive to keep us 
that way, most of us."  She straightened.  "Felicitations to you, my 
dear!  You have achieved all your goals."

Angela sighed.  "I'm afraid not."

"What's left?"

The younger woman took a deep breath.  "What I felt from my guitarists 
before I drank so much of their awful whisky."

Ruth nodded slowly.  "I see.  Now one man can never quite be enough for
you, no matter how hard he tries."

Angela looked away.  "It sounds so _wanton_!"

Ruth grinned.  "Well, it _is_ wanton.  But it's not uncommon.  Women 
have always followed armies around for just that reason.  Not for 
protection, as everybody claims to think, but for unlimited cock.  I've
had the experience myself.  When you can find enough men, nothing in 
life compares."

Head lowered, Angela said softly, "And nothing less will do.  How did 
you escape?"

"I've been through the change."

"It makes a difference?"

"You could describe it as 'drying out.'"

"Oh.  Oh-oh!"

"You have a long way to go."

"Yes, I do.  Can you help me?"

"We discussed this.  As I recall, one of your objectives was to get 
pregnant.  Perhaps your husband can handle that now."

"Perhaps.  My courses had just ended when I sucked him."

"So the guitarists didn't catch you.  All right.  Party Night is the 
best chance for that -- and for a lot of men.  Let me think about how to
stage it."  She stared frankly.  "The men will like you, especially with
that perfume.  And two or three of these mint rums will rouse your 
enthusiasm."

"I doubt I'd need them.  Once attracted, the men seem to swarm."

"Boys, dear.  In my party room they are men at all stages of maturity 
and might need an ice breaker."

"A what?"

"Someone to blaze the trail, so to speak -- or two."  The madam smiled.
"I'll take care of that.  Hmm.  Presented correctly, you'll satisfy them
even with fewer -- perhaps _especially_ with fewer outside girls than 
usual."

"'Outside?'"

Ruth chuckled shortly.  "You are far from the only wife in this town 
with a special need.  On Party Night I usually add another dozen 
free-lancers from the city, girls that convince Harry they'll stay 
clean.  I get a lot more business in the party than my dozen or so 
regulars can handle.  That is, they could _handle_ it -- or mouth it or
fuck it -- but they'd be hard to manage all next week.  In your case you
won't be here the next week."

"I don't think I understand 'hard to manage.'"

"Too much male attention can make a girl forget what else is expected of
her."

"You mean ... she might get like me?  I suppose a certain 
cold-bloodedness is needed in your work."

Ruth did not respond to that.  "How did you feel when you first got home
after your little outing."

Angela's eyes flashed.  "I was sore!  Worse even than my honeymoon.  
Fortunately Martin avoided me and in a couple days my courses appeared."

"That is the hazard of many men together.  Some of them are bound to 
have long cocks."

"The length matters?"

"You didn't notice them banging your womb?"

The younger eyes widened.  "_That's_ what it was!"

The madam chuckled.  "And it didn't hurt?"

"It drove me wild!"

Ruth nodded.  "For many women it is painful -- sharply painful, I'm 
told.  They don't last here."

"It's anything _but_ painful!"

"Painful the next day or two, even for you, until it toughens up.  We 
must find you a long cock for practice."

Angela chuckled dutifully but shifted in her chair.  "'Who is this Harry
who needs convincing?"

"The house doctor who passes on all our sex workers.  He'll have to 
examine you first.  Can you stay awhile this afternoon?  He's supposed 
to come in and swab bottoms."

"Uh, do what?"

"Take specimens from all the girls' bottoms.  He checks each girl at 
least once a week."

"Checks?  For what?"

"Sexual disease.  This year he's already caught seven cases of clap in 
the early stages."

"How does he tell?"

"With a microscope."

"Umm.  And he'll examine me?"

"Inside and out, especially your attitude and demeanor."  The madam 
smiled.  "He's a man who enjoys his work."

"I'll bet you all do!  Life in a bawdyhouse must be fascinating."

"Oh, it is," Ruth agreed dryly.  She got to her feet.  "You ought to be
hungry.  What do you say to a late breakfast?"


* * *


"Have I been misinformed?" asked Dr. Harrison Baines, tall with medium 
build, green eyes, full, auburn beard and hair graying at the temples.
"Aren't you in fact a woman of great sexual experience?"

"Why in the world do you ask, doctor?"

"Not even Hazel, our porcupine, could be more tolerant of this 
speculum."

An hour after her "late breakfast" Angela lay fully naked on the table 
in an upstairs bedroom, a pillow under the small of her back, buttocks 
at the table end with knees raised and feet resting on Baines' 
shoulders.  He sat before her in a straight chair, peering into the 
distended vagina illuminated by his headband-mounted mirror.

She said, "I told you I don't know exactly how much experience I've 
had."

"I believe you claimed to have known but one man until recently."

"As I said, about a month ago I had occasion to ... receive very many 
young men in the same afternoon."

"Indeed!  Were you raped?"

"_Entre nous_, doctor, I must admit I invited it.  It's just that the 
response was so much more than expected."

"In the _Fiddlehouse_?"

"What?  No, no.  In an abandoned house across Miller Street park.  I was
in it for hours.  The supply of young men seemed inexhaustible.  What 
are you doing?"

He held up a short stick wrapped in cotton.  "Swabbing your vaginal 
mucuous, with which, by the way, you are plentifully supplied.  And did
you return to your young men?"

"No.  They had to leave me in the park for some reason.  I'm afraid I 
was very inebriated.  Hasn't Ruth told you my story?"

"Only that you are new to Cannes d'Eau, as well as professionally.  She
said that you are special in every way, which I'm coming to appreciate."

"Thank you, doctor."

"But left alone and drunken in the park!  Mrs. Smith, you have the 
manner and speech of a lady.  How is it that some euphemistic report did
not appear in the newspaper?"

Angela smiled.  "Fortunately a knight in shining armor came along before
a policeman or a reporter."

"Indeed!"

"Something you said a moment ago, doctor: what did you mean, about 
'Hazel, our porcupine?'"

"She worked ten years as a laundress for the Louisiana State 
Penitentiary."

"Porcupine -- is that a word for girls from Louisiana?"

"Ah, no.  I'm afraid it is only a crude conceit typical of bawdyhouses."

"Please explain."

"_Laundress_ was at least partly an euphemism.  Louisiana believes that
prisoners are more content and less attracted to each other if they have
access to women.  It is said that such women would outdo porcupines if 
they had as many sticking out as had been stuck in."

"I see."  She could not suppress a giggle.  "Wouldn't that condition 
apply generally to all the staff here?"

"Well, except perhaps the maids."

"Really?  Don't men care for --  My god, doctor, Ruth did not exaggerate
your diligence!"

Baines had passed his speculum through her anus and squeezed it open in
one smooth motion.  "Is it painful?"

"No."  She took a breath.  "In fact it is not at all intolerable."

"Even though well-spread?"

She responded dryly, "I gather you expect me to twist and turn or 
whimper, at least.  Are you _trying_ to hurt me, Dr. Baines?"

"No, not exactly, though if this pained you it would be a useful datum."

"Useful how?"

"As a limiting recommendation to Madam Ruth."

Angela sniffed, adding after a moment, "I'm sure you could hurt me if 
you wanted to."

"You will never feel a penis this wide."

"That's reassuring."

He chuckled, fumbling with his clothing.  He stood up, causing her legs
to straighten partly and her calves to rest on his chest.

"Well!" she said with a touch of humor.  "I can certainly identify 
_that_ instrument!"

"This is more typical of what your sphincter must pass."

"In reverse."

"Well, yes.  I trust the good madam warned you to expect an _intimate_ 
exam."

"She implied it.  I have just begun to appreciate penile dimensions.  
What are yours, doctor?"

"Length six and 3/4, circumference five and 1/2."

She chuckled.  "Could all men answer so glibly?"

"I expect most have measured the length.  For your information mine is 
slightly larger than average.  Squeeze your sphincter, please.  Ah, yes;
healthy!"

"Is yours long enough to reach my womb?"

"Oh yes, especially with your legs up like this -- that is, reach the 
cervix."

"I'm not familiar with that word."

"The mouth of the womb."

"Please try to reach it, doctor."

"Umm.  That presents a problem.  I would not want to transfer rectal 
bacteria to your vagina."

Her tone showed interest.  "At such proximity one would think they'd 
share!"

"Well, they don't.  Believe me, the rectum has the far richer and 
usually more dangerous culture.  If you care to come to my lab I can 
show you exactly."

"I'd love to do that, doctor.  Where is your lab?"

"When you step out on Miller Street and turn left, the next door is Mrs.
Barker's boarding house.  I have a suite of rooms on the second floor."

"Convenient!"

"Well, yes.  Cannes d'Eau generates a lot of demand for my services.  Do
you truly wish me to sound your vagina?"

"'Sound!'"  She laughed.  "Not if it's so risky to you."

"To _me_?  My cock is already swimming in your rectal cultures.  But we
can correct that."  He stepped back, caught her heels and lowered them 
to the chair.  "I'll just be a moment."

First he removed his shoes and britches.  From his bag he took a bottle,
saturated a towel with its astringent-smelling contents and scrubbed his
penis briefly.  Finally he dipped another towel in the washbasin and 
rinsed the organ.

She had risen on her elbows to watch.  "Doctor, I can't believe anyone 
forces men to do that here.  I'm sure my afternoon lads didn't concern 
themselves."

"You were most fortunate to suffer no lasting effect from that 
afternoon.  As to the practice here, girls must take an anti-bacterial 
enema before supper.  And I understand the 'Cannes d'Eau spray' is 
famous."

"The what?"

"This."  He raised a typical spray plunger and can from the commode top.
The contents sloshed.

"For insects?"

"Far smaller pests.  This is my own adaptation.  Notice the tapering 
nozzle.  The girls are trained to spray this liquid into vagina or 
rectum immediately after sexual intercourse.  It is deadly against 
venereal bacteria.  It's so well known, they tell me, that some men ask
to have it applied _before_ intercourse."

"You formulated it, Dr. Baines?"

"I did, after testing many substances against cultures of gonorrhea and
syphilis.  It works."

"Does it also work against spermatozoa?"

"The effect is slight."  He returned the sprayer.  "You can't have 
everything, Mrs. Smith.  That reminds me."  He took a notepad from his 
shirt pocket.  "I was asked to inform you of your working name."

"My ...  Please do."

"According to Madam Ruth, you shall be introduced as the countess 
Catch-a-lot."

"Indeed!  How is it spelled?"

"C-A-C-H-A-L-O-T."

"Hmm.  Shouldn't that be pronounced _cash-uh-low_?"

"Hardly anyone knows French around here.  Many times I've been told that
the namesake cross stitch -- have you seen it? -- is misspelled.  And of
course puns must be kept broad."

"I suppose.  Perhaps my new name shall be prophetic."

He looked at her and sighed enviously.  "How wonderful it must feel to a
woman!"

"I gather men manage a touch of pleasure too.  You have unfinished 
business, sir."  She leaned closer to the side of the table.  "I'd be 
happy to, ah, restiffen your resolve."  She grinned teasingly.  "Is that
pun broad enough?"


* * *


"And now, my dear gentlemen, I am about to present a new prospect for 
your pleasure," said Madam Ruth, voice pitched to carry.  She stood 
onstage in an arc light's glare, peering over a fixed smile at her party
room filled with merrymakers.

Angela had just crept onto the stage in the relative darkness to the 
madam's right.  Her long brown hair curled free down her back.  A 
diamond tiara perched atop her head and an opera mask covered her eyes 
and bridge of nose.  The mask had been cut from black surgical tape 
supplied by Dr. Baines, "papered" inside where it fell over her eyebrows
and applied most carefully to her skin.  Otherwise she wore only a full
length, black satin overlapping cape and a pair of low black slippers.
Beneath the cape her legs were shaven, but Madam Ruth had 
finally decided that Tally, the grooming maid, should merely trim the 
lush natural pubes and underarms.

Limned in brilliant light the madam continued, "You have perhaps heard 
how the idle rich European nobility amuses itself.  If you were a woman
of that ilk, accustomed to such a life, imagine how desolate you would 
become if circumstances -- meaning your thoughtless husband -- required
you to attend a temperance convention in a city of Baptists."

This produced a few chuckles until someone screamed in a falsetto, "Ooo,
I would just die!"  Laughter crashed in response.

"Yes, you would, Norman Jones," the madam agreed.  When the renewed 
laughter subsided a bit, she continued strongly, "And that is our 
visitor's problem.  She has developed a terrible emptiness, you might 
say a hollowness.  She finds that she needs something in particular --"
Chuckles began to rise.  "-- something that this room has in abundance 
tonight."

Again she waited for the laughter to die away.  "In a word, what do you
think she needs?"

The audience responded in a common shout: "Cock!"

"Exactly!"  She turned and extended an arm.  "Gentlemen, I give you the
countess Catch-a-lot, which is exactly what she wants to do."

The light swung to the left and centered on the countess, whose white 
face and crimson lips gleamed above the shiny satin duster.  The room 
was suddenly silent.  Her hands rose to her throat and released a hook.
The cape crumpled to the floor behind her.  She stood forth, her mature
and voluptuous body the object of all eyes.  Someone cheered, which 
precipitated a storm of applause, whistles and catcalls.  Several times
she bowed low, heavy breasts swaying.  At last she turned back to a 
leather cushioned bench, sat down on the end of it and smiled 
invitingly.

The light swung back to Madam Ruth, who held up a quieting hand.  
"Though the countess is very special, enjoying her is not a special 
charge.  She is included in your entrance fee tonight.  She will take on
any man or boy in this room, as many times as he can manage, in any 
combination.  She wants what you have to offer, gentlemen, in every 
place you can put it.  Just a few words of caution: she doesn't speak 
much English.  You can practice foreign languages with her some other 
time.  And remember, she does have to keep breathing."

The madam's eyes caught those of two naked men crouching among the 
audience just before the countess's position.  One of them nodded and 
nudged the other.

"Now she's all yours," Ruth cried ringingly.

The arc lamp died.  The two crouchers leapt upon the stage and went 
directly to the seated woman.  In the rising clamor other men, nude to 
various degrees, proceeded to the stage, to be met by burly Jake and 
restrained from pressing the countess too closely.  Clancy, equally 
husky, left the arc lamp balcony and hurried to assist.

She waited nervously as hands fell upon her, probing and 
squeezing, and pressed her back on the bench.  She sucked in an erect 
penis at her lips.  More hands stroked her shoulders and thighs and 
parted her legs for a second penile entry.  The large rum cocktail 
consumed before coming on stage made itself felt also.  Her apprehension
faded.  This penis struck her cervix in thrilling rhythm.  Suddenly her
thighs were wet.

What were they doing?  Oh, they wanted her to turn over.  She obeyed the
guiding hands and found herself lying face down upon a man's body.  
Automatically she hooked her hips to capture his organ.  But now fingers
probed her anus.  She relaxed and a member even fatter than the doctor's
replaced the fingers.  How wonderfully filling!  The two pistons began 
an alternating rhythm.  A third penis again slipped into her mouth.  She
tried to suckle it but a distracting delight was spreading throughout 
her body.

Madam Ruth and Dr. Baines watched beyond the milling men.  "They're like
wolves," said Baines disapprovingly in her ear.

She chuckled.  "It's only a gang fuck, doctor.  Have you never seen one
nor participated?"

"Absolutely not!"

"Perhaps it's not so common in peacetime.  It may be that peaceable men
are uncomfortable exposing themselves to each other.  Look at the guys 
out there who haven't come forward -- still more than on stage.  The 
ones up here are the regulars who know each other.  A lot of them have 
shared a woman on this stage before."

The doctor glowered at the agitation.  "I've read that victorious armies
do this to women."

"With or without permission.  Even a whore might fear so many men.  
Here, however ...  Look how she twists her torso!  That's not pain, 
doctor."

"No, I suppose not.  I regret her mask.  I'd love to see her 
expression."

"It takes a lady to have such faith in men's judgment."

"Judgment?"

"Perhaps I should say 'restraint' -- enough not to kill her."

"A lady!  This Mrs. Smith really is from the gentry?"

"Oh yes!  Why do you think she needs such a secure mask?"

"European nobility?"

The madam laughed at him.  "She speaks well, yes, though without even 
a British accent."

He chuckled self-consciously.  "I'm a little too willing to believe your
malarkey."

"You must have enjoyed yourself the other afternoon."

"She came to my lab yesterday.  Did you know that?"

The madam's eyebrows rose and she said dryly, "Apparently she's willing
to believe your malarkey too."

"Malarkey!  She wanted to see my method."

"Is that what you call it these days?"

He sniffed.  "She wanted to look at my cultures and slides."

"And anything else you put under her nose, eh?"

"Well, yes, of course.  On her back she is completely uninhibited.  
She'd make some lucky fellow a very fine wife."

"She already does, Harry."

"Oh.  Oh-ho!  _Now_ I begin to understand the mask."


* * *


"Come in," said Ruth in response to the knock on the door.

Angela Witherspoon entered, closed the door and proceeded a bit stiffly
to stand before the huge desk behind which Ruth was doing her monthly 
accounts.

"Good morning," said Angela.  "Or I guess it's afternoon.  I wanted to 
thank you for ... everything."

The newcomer's hair was in a decorated bun, face tastefully made up, 
clothing crisply rustling.  She smelled of lavender.

"You look fine.  How do you feel?"

"Still a bit shaky but not nearly so bad as I expected.  Your 
thoughtfulness in lending me Bulah and especially sending up breakfast 
made a great difference.  My god, I ate five eggs!"

Ruth smiled.  "I thought you might.  Sore when you stand or sit?"

"Yes, and when I twist about too much while walking."  Angela smiled in
return.  "Guess I'll take short steps for awhile."

"For now please have a seat, even if bending does hurt.  You had quite 
an evening, my dear.  Was it all you expected?"

Seated, Angela sighed.  "Even more, I think.  It's a little daunting in
retrospect.  I was ... transported right out of myself."

"'Heavenly,' I believe you said earlier."

"A poor comparison.  I once had the nerve to inquire of a reverend.  He
said the Bible itself declares that in heaven there shall be no giving 
in marriage.  Somehow I cannot imagine fucking freely there."

The madam chuckled.  "'Fucking freely:' a succinct description of your 
behavior last night."

"Oh, yes!"

"Which you find daunting."

"Yes.  I fear ..."  Angela took a deep breath.  "I didn't notice the 
time when Clancy bundled me off to bed."

"It was three forty-five A. M."

"I did notice that he was my last fuck."

"You know the old saying: 'Bind not the mouths that tread the grain,' or
something to that effect.  He was quite taken with your performance."

"I wasn't complaining.  You announced me about nine o'clock.  That means
...  My god, I fucked for over six hours continuously!"  She shook her 
head.  "I must have ... soiled myself."

"Don't forget: you had taken an enema.  And lost urine is the reason
those benches are covered in leather instead of more comfortable 
velvet."

"Well, that's the daunting part.  I fear I'd happily fuck myself to 
death."

Ruth nodded.  "Not so baseless a fear, either.  I've heard of it 
happening among camp followers after battle.  Fortunately you were 
limited last night to 19 men -- 20, counting Clancy."  She took up a 
paper from her desk.  "He's the one charged with noting these things.  
He tallied 28 seminal deposits on your person.  Of course, with two or 
three often on you at once he may have missed a few, and I'm sure he 
didn't count his own."  She cocked her head.  "The time I did something
similar, I sported a collection of bruises on my thighs, hips and 
shoulders that lasted two weeks.  At least your face is not puffy.  Our
clientele is either well shaven or fully bearded."

"And a cock has no hair."

Ruth laughed politely.  "Nor even bone.  Too bad knees are so well 
supplied!"

Angela said, "I came by to ask if I may send Tunny to fetch me a hack."

"Of course.  But first I owe you some money."  Ruth opened a drawer, 
fetched out two small gold coins and laid them before Angela.

The younger woman eyed the money and sighed as she took it up.  "I 
accept it to agree with my new character, but it feels I should be 
paying _you_.  I hope my being there did not harm your business."

"Not at all!  The proceeds were the usual amounts, but payment of the 
ten free-lancers I told not to come in would have been twice what I paid
you."

"I ... see.  Then it worked out well."

"Oh, yes.  Jake said the men were enthusiastic.  I want to talk to you 
about future engagements.  When you're ready, we'll advertise the 
countess's appearance and either increase the entrance fee or add a 
special charge for your services."  She grunted.  "Or maybe both.  As 
Clancy says, your flesh is sweet on the eyes too."

"I must remember to thank him."

"Oh, you have already, on your back.  Is it too soon for you to commit 
again, countess?"

"'Countess!'"

"In the old sense: you have earned that title, my dear."

Angela blinked.  Apparently the madam was sincere.  "Thank you."  She 
took a breath.  "In case any bruises develop let me see how they heal.
In the meantime I have another project.  I know just the trick to 
undermine what remains of my opinionated husband's priggishness.  I want
to sic Ivy Sparrow on him.  Do you think she's plausible?"

The madam's eyes sparkled.  "I presume you mean Holly Byrd.  What 
exactly do you hope to accomplish?"

"We know he likes her body type.  I want Ivy to seduce him."

"Do you!"

"And after he is well-enthralled, I want her to let slip that she has 
taken work in the Cannes d'Eau."

"Wh-what?"

"Unbeknownst to me of course.  And then, my dear employer, I want her to
get him in here on Party Night."

The madam stared.  She began to laugh.

"Exactly.  I want him to fuck the countess Cachalot along with at least
one other man whose name Clancy will note.  Then let him try to close us
down!"

END

Contacts:
kellis@dhp.com
Varangian: ludmax11@hotmail.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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