Hello all, this is the Black Orchid speaking, ancient soothsayer of Sumeria. I am three thousand years old and I have been both a wretch and a conqueror of men in this life. Now, I am surrounded by male acolytes or serfs in my mansion on the hill. I have suffered crushing defeat and absolute triumph in my life. I was once a slave girl to the infamous Caligula who taught me to be timorous and submissive. How timorous was I that I freed all the slave girls when I drove a dagger into his heart. How rich it was to see him die by my hand, and his last words were, “I knew you’d do it one day.” I like to think I gave him the gift of humility.
But enough about me. I am having a Pajama Party for my friends Lady Lynda, Auntie Carol, and Crack Whore, Wanda Lust. I want my friends to experience epicurean, sensual delight. How? I have trained my followers in the realm of sensual pleasure. They arrive at seven o’clock toting a large tureen of hot chocolate laced with rum. I trump them with a large, chocolate statue of the Egyptian Sun God, Ra. They break off pieces of him and, Wanda, ever the harlot, takes the cock. Bittersweet chocolate: bittersweet life. They descend on him like a ravening hoard and diets be damned.
Auntie Carol, and Lady Lynda, mavens of the fifties, wear pastel pink, cotton, baby doll nighties and puppy slippers while Wanda Lust wears a scarlet peignoir gown with slits up to the ass and dyed red ostrich feathers and thigh high patent leather, pirate boots. I wear a black leather middy top which leaves my taut belly exposed and a red vinyl mini-skirt with eight inch heels. I am six feet tall in my bare feet. My skirt which barely clears my ass leaves little to the imagination.
I line up my twenty serfs for their perusal. Only one is permissible. Lady Lynda choses Rolf, a sturdy Norwegian man with platinum hair, while Auntie Carol chooses Carlito, a dark and rustic Spanish gypsy of the raw umber eyes. Wanda chooses the blue black African stud, Mustafa. I choose RobesPierre, my lusty French playmate who has the gift of comedy. The serfs all wear black leather loin cloths with a peak-a-boo nature. We are aware of their rock hard cocks beneath the scant leather.
They start by serving us Absinthe and Green Chartreuse in pewter goblets dating back to the Roman Empire. The entire room is lit by black candles and our shadows are cast on the red walls of my parlor like a noir film of the thirties. The scent of Frankensense and Myhr infuses the room and the strong scent of Eucalyptus oil comes off the serf’s skin. On the CD there is a recording of whales calling out to one another over the sound of crashing waves. The sound of the whales reminds us of the secrets we hold dearly within the dark chambers of our hearts and nobody speaks.
After an hour or so, the acolytes bring in raw oysters on the half shell with lemons and hot sauce. After that they bring in platters of meats, vegetables and mushroom brie cheese. And I put on Gregorian chants reminiscent of the Old World. On can envision monks in sack cloth robes making the sign of the cross in the still air.
Then they vanish and return laden with basins of rose petals and hot water to do our feet. My feel slip soundlessly into the warm water and Pierre lifts one of my feet placing my toes on his hard cock and he laughs. I see Mustafa has Wanda’s toes in his mouth and the others are giving strong foot massages to their suppliant mistresses.
A suitable amount of liquor has passed their lips and II demand that they strip naked for a body massage. I lead them down a dark corridor lit by wall sconces to my exercise room. They lie face down on lush white Turkish towels. The men do deep body massages beginning at the neck and stopping at the feet. And if their fingers should stray between the legs, I won’t be the one to tell.
The sound of moaning and Nina Simone’s bittersweet ballad, Don’t Smoke In Bed. “Listen,
My Darling, don’t Smoke in Bed….”