16-04-18

Aunt Phoebe's Masturbatorium Ch. 05

At this point, the woman whom Angelique had pointed out to me earlier as being the distant cousin of my uncle Pierre stood up and addressed the angry girl.

"Did it ever occur to you, young woman," said Charlotte, "that Mr. Villon's inhibitions might prevent him from succumbing to your will?"

This question, hurled at my cousin from out of nowhere, and from a woman whom Angelique regarded as beneath contempt, left her momentarily speechless. I thought my aunt was going to reply, but it was Lenore who spoke first.

"What is your point, Charlotte?" she asked.

"If this man was unable to produce a sperm sample for the doctor, what makes any of you think he would produce one in front of all these women? It is obvious that his shyness is greater than his need to ejaculate."

Before Lenore had a chance to respond, Angelique turned to Charlotte with a hateful stare.

"He's not shy!" my cousin rasped. "He's just a fucking asshole who needs to have his balls kicked down his throat! But none of you here seems to understand that!"

"Shut up, Angelique!" my aunt said. "Go and sit down!"

"I'm going to make that bastard pay! You'll see. I can conquer any man!"

"I've no doubt you can conquer anything," Charlotte said with a wan smile, "except your own arrogance."

Before my cousin could retort, my aunt pushed her forward in the direction of the door. It was an ugly display of impropriety gone awry, and my cousin, the usually resolute and impervious master at arms, was found to be lacking. I almost felt sad for her as she was forced to sit between her mother and Lenore, looking like a defeated warrior who now had to settle for terms that her pride would never allow her to accept.

Mr. Villon was sitting quietly by himself while Dr. Monroe, nurse Alicia, and the two assistants conversed amongst themselves. He looked sad sitting there all alone, his failure to produce the much needed sperm sample, and the unanticipated attack upon him, reflected in the look of dejection upon his face. 

Lenore had called for a short intercession in which she and my aunt took Angelique into an adjoining room. I never found out what transpired during their conversation, but when my cousin came out again she looked as defiant as ever, refusing to acknowledge her defeat as anything more than an apparently successful attempt at subterfuge perpetrated by the duplicitous patient, focusing all her contempt into a singular, hateful glance that she now cast upon him and the rest of the room.

I saw Charlotte look toward Angelique a few times and then turn to her associates and murmur something to them, causing them all to laugh. I know my cousin was aware of this little game Ms. Anjou was playing, but she would not allow her pride to be sacrificed any further by the antics of someone whom she despised. Like a lioness who, after a kill, enjoys the feast while the vultures are kept at bay, so she regarded Charlotte and her entourage: aware of their presence, but totally contemptuous of their race. 

At one point I made eye contact with the beautiful woman, but instead of seeing any hint of dislike in her face, her expression softened as she looked at me, and ultimately a gentle smile spread across her face, a smile that made me think of her ancestor Yvette, my erstwhile guide and mentor. I thought it only polite to smile back, and I did so, much to her delight. And the more I watched her, the more I felt that somehow Angelique must be wrong in her estimation of this woman, who now, once again, was the center of attention amongst her small group of friends—laughing, joking, and enjoying their company as much as she was enjoying theirs. I knew that at some point I would have to introduce myself to her, but now was not the time. I had been purposely segregated from the rest of the Sisters so that I might partake in this little test of theirs, which so far had resulted in one casualty, and which I hoped would not result in another.

Seeing my aunt, Lenore, and their colleagues still conversing, I took it upon myself to approach the diffident Mr. Villon and introduce myself. Halfway on my journey toward him, he lifted his head up and stared at me intently, sitting up straight in his chair and adjusting his robe so that he would appear more presentable. Dr. Monroe and Alicia smiled curiously at me as I took a seat beside the wary patient, as if trying to figure out why I had chosen to strike up a conversation with him. For his part, Mr. Villon remained quiet, even after I had greeted him. 

It had occurred to me from the beginning of this test, or so-called "punishment," that his shyness would have to be conquered if any positive results were to be expected. It seemed that no one had taken the time to actually question the patient as to the cause of his inhibition, and employing verbal and physical intimidation, as Angelique had done, not only proved ineffective, but had also revealed a severe lack of judgment on her part. I was not about to succumb to a similar fate. I quickly surmised that I would have to get at the root of his problem if I were to pass this test and obtain the coveted sperm sample. And the only way to do that was to get inside his head.

"Did my cousin hurt you?" I asked him.

"No," he replied softly.

"She doesn't like it when things don't go her way."

"That's no reason to get angry," he said meeting my gaze. "I am no stranger to bad luck myself, but that's no excuse to hurt other people."

"I agree. But you humiliated her. She'll find a way to get back at you for that."

"She can try," he said, his voice thick with scorn.

"You're really not a submissive man, are you?"

Mr. Villon looked at me as one would look at a clairvoyant who had just revealed to him the secrets of the universe.

"You are very perceptive, mademoiselle...."
"My name is Holly McKenzie."

"It is a pleasure to meet you," he said, graciously.

"And you don't like to be pushed around either."

"True again."

"So why are you here?"

"It's simple, really," he replied. "I love women and I enjoy pleasing them."

"Any submissive would say that," I said of his feeble attempt at disingenuousness. "Tell me the truth."

He paused a moment before replying, aware, as I was, that Dr. Monroe and nurse Alicia had moved closer to us in order to hear what we were saying.

"You're not very subtle, doctor," the patient said to the intruding physician. "You can hear what I have to say. I have nothing to hide."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Villon," Dr. Monroe replied. "I'm not trying to be rude. But I would like to help you if you will let me."

Mr. Villon smiled broadly at the beautiful woman and invited her and nurse Alicia to join us.

"Please go ahead with your line of questioning, Holly," Dr. Monroe said with a cheery smile. "Oftentimes, we doctors get too clinical and fail to really understand a patient on a personal level. And I think we have failed miserably in your case, Mr. Villon. And for that I am truly sorry."

She said these words with such heartfelt sympathy that Mr. Villon's face suddenly brightened up.

"Thank you," he replied. "That means a lot to me."

Doctor Monroe placed one of her hands over his and smiled. And as she continued to let her hand linger over his, I wondered why I had previously regarded this woman with such disdain. Surely, my cousin's influence over me had something to do with it, but this was not the "jealous bitch" she had described—far from it. She was a warm and compassionate human being, whose only desire was to be of help to someone in pain.

"Do you mind if I continue?" I asked him.

"Go ahead," he replied with a newfound sense of enthusiasm. "Ask me anything."

I first asked him to give me a truthful answer to my previous question.

"I am not lying when I tell you that I love women and I love pleasing them," he began. "But I also wanted to get into Ms. Anjou's scholarship program. And one of the ways to do that is to be of service to the Sisterhood. That's why I took the oath of servitude."

"But when you took that oath," Dr. Monroe cut in, "it was explained to you that you would have to be naked in front of clothed women and sometimes 'perform' for them on command. Knowing that you are shy, didn't you realize that this would be a problem for you?"

Mr. Villon thought for a moment. "It's only a problem for me when I'm around strange women," he answered. "Once I get to know someone, the shyness is gone."

"And then you would be able to ejaculate?" 

"Yes."

"That's weird," I said. "Most men would give anything to stand up in front of a huge crowd of strange women and masturbate for them. You're just the opposite."

He laughed. "Oh, what I would not give to be able to do that! But alas, my inhibitions..."

"Your inhibitions can be conquered," I assured him. "People do it all the time."

"The Sisterhood won't allow him to go around making friends with everyone just so he can provide them with a sperm sample," nurse Alicia remarked. 

"There may be another way," I said. "Do you feel relaxed now, François? I mean, now that you have had a chance to talk with us and know us a little better?"

I think he felt grateful that I had addressed him by his first name, encouraging familiarity between us.

"Yes. I do feel relaxed around you," he replied. "I even feel relaxed around the doctor's assistants too," he added, with a nod in their direction.

"And you don't feel anxious or nervous or anything like that?"

"Absolument pas!" he said, resorting to his native tongue. "I feel comfortable with all of you."

At that moment I heard Lenore call out my name in a loud voice, as if she had already called it out several times before and was growing angry at not getting a response.

"If you don't answer me this time..."

Several women in the audience began laughing.

"I'm sorry Sister Lenore," I said quickly. "I'm here."

"I can see that," she replied. "But you're not listening to me."

"I'm listening now."

She ordered me to return to my seat, but said nothing about the fact that I had been conversing with Mr. Villon, for which I was grateful. After she got the audience to quiet down a little, she once again began to talk with my aunt, who now seemed preoccupied and uninterested in what the Sisterhood leader had to say now that Angelique had succeeded in quashing any hopes she held of her daughter's rise to prominence based upon her recent failure with Mr. Villon. My aunt respectfully nodded her head and looked dutifully attentive, but I could tell that her heart was not in it. Now and then she would turn to look at her daughter, who was now casually looking over some papers that Justine had handed to her, and I could read the disappointment in her eyes. I think Lenore eventually realized that further conversation with my disinterested aunt was pointless and stood up to make an announcement.

"Doctor Monroe," she began. "Is the patient able to continue?"

"Yes, Sister Lenore," the doctor replied.

"Then move him back onto the platform and let's get this over with. I'm sure our Sisters have better things to do than spend an entire afternoon waiting to see if this man will ejaculate or not. Get him up there!"

As Dr. Monroe and nurse Alicia accompanied Mr. Villon onto the platform, Lenore turned to me.

"I am now placing the responsibility for obtaining this man's sperm in your hands, Holly," she said, issuing the edict with all the comportment of an empress seated upon her throne. "If you fail, he will be sent to the lower levels to await further punishment. I'm sure both you and he would not want that."

"No, Sister Lenore," I replied. "Not if I can help it."

"Very well. You have my authority to use whatever means necessary to obtain the sperm sample. You may proceed."

Lenore resumed her seat and the entire room fell silent, all eyes now focused upon me. I knew that I would only have one chance to prove my theory before being summarily ridiculed and dismissed, and I could only guess at what further unknown punishment would await Mr. Villon should I fail. I wished I had had more time to talk with him, to get to know him a little better, to understand the depth of his psychosis. As it was, I would have to rely upon my own innate sense of judgment to present my case to the Sisterhood, and hope that these intelligent and insightful women would be open-minded enough to allow me the latitude to circumvent some of their rules for the sake of getting at the truth. 

I saw Angelique glaring at Mr. Villon from across the room; her intense stare cutting through the air like a knife. And if that knife could have carved a hole in the young man's chest and removed the heart, it would have, leaving a gaping wound into which the ridiculed girl could pour all the shame, insult, and fury she now felt at being made to look a fool. 

My aunt was looking only slightly more dismal than my cousin, painfully aware that her latest bid to increase her daughter's prestige in the eyes of Lenore had now become a lost cause. Several times she tried to consult with her daughter, but Angelique would have nothing to do with it. My cousin remained steadfast in her hatred of Mr. Villon to the exclusion of all else. And now, as I rose to address the crowd of expectant women, Angelique's menacing stare rested upon me, as if defying me to rise to the challenge of Mr. Villon's preservation, warning me that serious repercussions would follow in the wake of my possible success.

"François," I said, addressing the naked man. "Please put your robe back on."

The fact that I had called the young man by his first name caused some of the women to mutter under their breath, the import of their whisperings decidedly negative. Lenore looked like she was going to say something to me, but quickly decided against it, even when my aunt and Angelique looked as if they were going to protest my decision to address Mr. Villon on familiar terms.

As the young man tied his robe about him, I asked that the conference table be removed to another room, which Lenore reluctantly ordered to be done. Several Sisters were employed in this endeavor while I subsequently had Dr. Monroe, nurse Alicia, and the two assistants accompany Mr. Villon to a chair in the middle of the room, which I then instructed him to sit in. I watched the patient closely, looking for any signs of fear or mistrust, but he simply looked at me and smiled timidly, happy to no longer be standing naked on the platform. I then asked the women to pull up their chairs in a circle, effectively surrounding him on all sides. I, Dr. Monroe, nurse Alicia, and the two assistants took up seats immediately next to him, constantly offering words of assurance to minimize his anxiety.

"Can we make it darker in here?" I asked Lenore.

With a nod to Justine, the overhead lights were extinguished with a light tap of the assistant's finger on a nearby wall panel. The harsh glare of the fluorescent lights was now reduced so that the room's illumination was cut by about one half. We now sat directly between the borders of light and darkness, our bodies casting long shadows across the floor and walls, lending the room a somewhat more eerie but softer atmosphere. With a smile to Mr. Villon, I began.

"All of you know François," I said, feeling my cousin's eyes upon me. "Now I would like him to get to know all of you."

One stern-looking, rotund, old woman sneered. "That is ridiculous! Are we to start addressing our servants by their first names?"

Several other women also voiced their objections to my request, but before I could offer my rebuttal, Lenore broke in.

"Please, all of you, be quiet," the Sisterhood leader commanded them. "I promised Holly that she could use any means to obtain this patient's sperm sample and I expect all of you to comply with her directions."

"But she asks us to ignore our own rules of conduct," one old woman complained. "I refuse to acknowledge any familiarity with this man."

"He is just some stupid slave," said another woman with a slight slur in her speech. "A god-damned non-entity as far as I'm concerned."

Lenore shook her head in dismay. "One of you is just plain foolish," she said looking at the old woman, "and the other has had too much to drink. Unless either of you can come up with a way to procure the patient's sperm sample, I advise you to keep your mouths shut and follow the young lady's direction."

The two women looked dumbly at one another but offered no further resistance. I now turned my attention to Mr. Villon.

"I am going to invite the women to introduce themselves to you and I want you to feel free to answer any questions they may have. Can you do that?"

"Yes... mademoiselle."

"Holly, please. Call me Holly."

"Okay, Holly."

I looked around the room searching for some friendly faces and was surprised to find that one of them belonged to one of Charlotte's odd group of devotees.

"Yes, you," I said pointing to the woman. "Please introduce yourself to François and ask him any questions you like. Please use first names only."

She was a pretty girl of about 25, dressed in a striking blue blazer and matching skirt that firmly embraced her supple, hourglass figure.

"My name is Adriana," she began, "and I want to know if you were born with that penis of yours or if you did anything to make it so big."

Many of the women chuckled at her question and even François himself could not suppress a smile.

"I suppose constantly tugging on it when I was a child may have helped, but otherwise it's simple genetics."

This provoked even further laughter from the crowd.

"I'm glad to see you have a sense of humor," Adriana said. "So, this tendency toward gigantism runs in your family?"

"Yes, mademoiselle," he replied. "My father and my two brothers all have...how do you say it...big dicks."

His emphasis on the last two words threw the audience into fits of laughter. Adriana tried hard to keep a straight face amidst all the merriment but it was useless.

"As big as...yours?" she blurted out.

"At least," François replied with a huge grin.

"Well," she said coyly, "I hope you'll have the good sense to introduce me to them!"

The crowd was once again in an uproar. Despite their gloomy expressions, both my aunt Phoebe and Angelique could not help but laugh at Adriana's suggestive quip. Angelique tried to seem unaffected by the lewd questioning by covering the bottom part of her face with her hands, but I could tell she was laughing along with the rest of us, enjoying the lewd repartee in spite of her suppressed hostility toward the timid, young man. I, myself, was pleased to see the effect humor was having not only on the crowd, but also upon François himself. He looked around the room several times, gauging the women's responses to his answers and looking immensely pleased with the results. The laughter seemed to act as a restorative, helping to assuage his shyness while putting the women in a more relaxed and tolerant mood. 

Several more women, including Felicia Antonetti, who delivered one of the most impassioned speeches about humane treatment of those who served the Sisterhood, engaged François in mostly friendly, and often wanton, conversation, and he responded to all this attention with a most compliant attitude, which appeared to please the Sisters greatly. Quite a few women had a chance to question him about his sexual habits, and especially about the remarkable organ that lay hidden just underneath the flimsy bit of fabric that comprised his robe. At one point he recalled an incident that had occurred when he first discovered masturbation, and the entire room was filled with laughter. The inquisition continued for about twenty minutes and would have continued if the Sisterhood leader had not intervened.

"I have a question," Lenore said to François as the laughter in the room slowly died down.

"Yes, madame?" he replied, his exuberance fading somewhat at the cool intonation of her voice. 

She took a long look at him, as if seeing him for the first time, and I think it was the first time that she actually began to see him as more of a person than simply as an object of disdain. She took a deep breath and exhaled, letting her eyes gaze around the room before finally settling upon the handsome patient.

"What I want to know is...is there any correlation between the size of man's penis and the amount of semen he ejaculates? I have seen men of average size shoot enormous amounts of sperm, while larger men often shoot less. What is your observation?"

François seemed pleased that the imposing Sisterhood leader was now treating him with a semblance of courtesy she had previously denied him. I knew that she was desirous as me to get the young man to deliver the long-awaited sperm sample, and even if such courtesy, extended as it was to an inferior, was only a well-disguised pretence, it served its purpose.

"I can't speak for other men," the patient began, "but in my case, madame, I usually shoot enough sperm to fill a cup."

The women groaned at this seemingly impossible statistic.

"A full cup?" Lenore asked, not fully accepting his claim either.

"Yes, madame. I don't stop ejaculating until I fill it up to the top. Voila!" 

There was a great amount of discussion that ensued among the women upon hearing this admission, and although most of them refused to believe that any man could perform such a feat, there were some, like Charlotte Anjou, who seemed to believe that it was possible.

"Sister Lenore," she began. "On my visit to India several years ago, my friends and I went to visit a village where the local holy man performed a religious rite where he would masturbate himself in front of a crowd of women—all virgins—who would collect his sperm in a large bowl and bathe themselves in it to preserve their youthful appearance. His cock was just as big as the one hanging between this young man's legs."

Lenore didn't seem fully convinced. "Well, Dr. Monroe," she said, turning to the physician. "I'm glad you decided to use the larger beaker."

Some of the women laughed.

"If you don't mind," Lenore said to Charlotte, "I'd like to reserve judgment on this until I see it for myself."

Greta Hofsteddar, a woman whom I recognized from her earlier appearance at my aunt's home in San Diego, suddenly spoke up.

"But you have seen it before," she said to Lenore. "Don't you remember a few years ago when we had my husband perform for my birthday? His prick is almost as big as this man's, and he filled up an entire cereal bowl full of cum."

Lenore thought for a moment, then her face suddenly lit up.

"Oh, yes!" she answered. "I do remember now that you mention it. Corn flakes wasn't it? And he filled up the bowl even though most of his sperm landed on you and me!"

The two women enjoyed a long and hearty laugh.

"He gave me a cream rinse!" Greta joked as she ran her hands through her long, blonde hair.

"I remember that too!" Lenore chuckled. "It was a most impressive cum shot."

It was nice to see Lenore so at ease and happy after all that had transpired earlier. The lewd and lively banter seemed to put everyone in a good mood. Even my aunt was slowly beginning to abandon her melancholy attitude.

"And speaking of cum," she said. "I hope we are going to see some soon. Do you hear me, uh, François?"

"Yes, madame," the young man replied, looking hopeful that his newfound acceptance with these women would provide his mistress with the coveted sample.

I felt that the mood in the room had now reached a point where I could now institute my final plan in order to get François to ejaculate. I was taking a big risk— depending on these women to support me in my endeavor when their normal reaction would be to ridicule the inferior male. But these women also wanted to see me succeed. Or at least some of them did. Certainly Lenore herself, who had chosen me as her successor, and the patrician-looking Charlotte, who had previously put Angelique in her place while displaying nothing but congeniality toward me. There were others, too, who desired a successful conclusion to this drawn-out "punishment": some wanted it to end solely because they had other engagements looming, and others who wanted to see if the young man's claims of ejaculatory prowess were indeed true.

All during the session I noticed that François would sneak a peek at me every so often, as if admiring me from afar. Even when we got a chance to speak, his voice was always gentle and musical, and more than once I watched as he struggled to overcome his timidity and dare to look directly into my eyes. In that moment I knew that we had established some emotional connection. And I was now going to use this advantage to the fullest. He was mine for the molding.

"François," I said. "Do you feel a little more comfortable now that you have had a chance to talk with these wonderful ladies?"

"Indeed, mademoiselle...I mean, Holly. Much more comfortable."

"Good," I replied. "I would like to ask you some more questions if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

His equanimity throughout the entire question and answer period impressed me greatly. Although his shyness was still apparent to some degree, he seemed much more relaxed and cooperative now that he felt that his manhood was not being compromised. The women no longer appeared to him to represent a threat. Not like the rapacious Angelique, whose unforgiving method of sperm extraction could do nothing but achieve an even further retreat from his willingness to comply with the insensate demands of an indestructible will. I had seen the major flaw in my cousin's approach, but she, supremely convinced of her own infallibility, was blind to her own harsh, unfeeling treatment of the man, attempting to force out of him by her own will the seed of his lust, rather than coax it out by degrees tempered by patience and gentleness.

I pulled my chair out so that I was sitting facing directly in front of him. He looked at me curiously but did not seem in the least bit intimidated.

"Dr. Monroe," I said, addressing the doctor first. "Would you and your assistants kindly remove your lab coats please?"

She looked at me inquisitively, expecting further explanation. But when it wasn't forthcoming, she simply shrugged and removed her coat, instructing the two brunettes to do the same. I then asked nurse Alicia to remove her nurse's hat and frock, which she quickly did. François seemed pleased to see these four attractive women in normal business attire and, as I had surmised, the removal of their medical uniforms helped him to relax even more. In his case, the cold and clinical procedures previously carried out by Dr. Monroe and her staff most likely had an adverse affect upon the way he had responded to treatment, resulting in the botched exam. It was not uncommon for a person's blood pressure and heart rate to increase when in the presence of a physician, and this, coupled with his innate shyness, certainly would have hampered his attempt to produce the sperm sample. I just couldn't afford to leave anything to chance. I then instructed one of Dr. Monroe's assistants to remove the uniforms and place them in the exam room. The beaker, another item that could possibly contribute to his anxiety, was kept hidden behind Dr. Monroe's chair, out of the patient's sight. I was now ready to begin.

"Well François," I began. "You appear to be more calm now. More relaxed."

"Oh, yes," he smiled. "You and these lovely women...these Sisters...have made me feel much better. Thank you."

"I'm very happy to hear that. Now, I am going to ask you some very intimate questions and I want you to answer me honestly. Will you do that for me?"

The handsome boy gave me a very warm smile and looked at me as if I were the only woman in the room. 

"I will be most happy to," he replied.

His face, his mannerisms, and his lilting voice all indicated that he had developed a crush on me. It seemed incongruous, given the circumstances, that a man as timorous as he could allow himself to experience such feelings of attraction. But it was apparent to me, and probably everyone else, that François felt a special attachment to me. I, myself, could not deny that I was immune to his good looks or boyish charm. But I had a job to do, and I could not allow myself to be influenced by whatever vague stirrings of passion he may have felt toward me, not when it might interfere with my duty to the Sisterhood. 

"I would like you to tell us the most sexiest thing that ever happened to you," I said to him. 

His eyes lit up for a moment. "Well," he began, "there is really not much to tell...except for that one time..."

"Yes, that one time... go ahead."

"I...uh..." he muttered aloud, seeming reluctant to continue.

"You can tell me," I said moving a little closer to him. "Please."

I could tell that he was a little reticent to reveal whatever secrets he possessed, but after a few more encouraging words from me and some of the women, he finally confessed.

"It is a very decadent story," he said, looking down at his hands. "I am almost ashamed to tell it."

"There's no need to feel ashamed. No one here is going to judge you."

As I said this I looked at Lenore, who gave me a reassuring smile. Even though he seemed to be willing to open up to me and the group, I had to prompt him several more times in order to get him to relate his tale. Thankfully, I found an unexpected source of help in Charlotte.

"I love lewd stories," she said to François. "Please share it with us."

"Yes, please, François," Janet Walsh said, showcasing her spectacular legs so that he could get a good view. "All of us here enjoy hearing sexy stories. Tell us."

Several other women, including Lenore herself, implored him to convey his prurient tale to us, and being that his own natural tendency was to please a woman, he finally let go of whatever inhibitions he had left and began his story.

"It happened on my eighteenth birthday," he began. "My stepsister Gabrielle, who is two years older than me, had three of her girlfriends from college come to stay for the weekend at our house in Paris. Our parents were away visiting in America and had left the house in her care. Well, one day I was surfing the Internet looking for pornography and I saw a picture of a beautiful, naked woman and I started to masturbate..."

"I've caught my husband doing that more than once!" one women commented suddenly.

"Please!" Lenore said to the woman. "Don't interrupt!"

The woman, an attractive, middle-aged blonde, responded with a frown while several other women looked at her askance.

"Please go on, François," I said.

"Well," he continued, "I had not heard my stepsister come home because my door was closed, or at least I thought it was..."

"Don't tell me she caught you!"

"She and her three friends! The door was not completely closed, and somehow when they opened the door downstairs to come in, the wind opened my bedroom door a little too. I was too busy to notice."

"With a prick that size I'd say you were pretty busy too!" my aunt jokingly observed.

He laughed. "I guess you are right, madame. All my blood went from my head to the little head down there."

"Not so little," she reminded him.

"No, not so little," he said. "But I was at that point almost ready to cum. And what man can think clearly at such a moment?"

"No man I ever met," Justine quipped. 

"What happened then?" I asked him.

"All of a sudden I hear this screaming laughter and then the door goes flying open. The four girls come waltzing into my room to get a better look at what I'm doing and there I am with my pants and underwear down to my ankles with a picture of a naked woman on my computer screen. It was embarrassing but very exciting at the same time. Does that sound strange to you?"

"No, not really," I replied. "Maybe you wanted them to catch you."

He thought about that for a moment. "Perhaps."

"Please go on."

"Well, of course, I try to pick up my pants but it's too late. They see me with my big dick sticking out a mile long and my stepsister's three friends go into fits of laughter, but Gabrielle acts very nonchalant. She tells the other girls that she has seen me masturbate many times before and I look at her like she's crazy. 'Oh, François,' she says, 'your door does not lock properly. I have watched you stroke that monster many times!' And then she laughs and all the others laugh too, but my erection does not want to go away."

"But you are usually so shy," I said, feeling closer to understanding his fetish. "Most guys would lose their erection under such circumstances. Why do you think you stayed hard?"

"I don't know," he confessed. "But I think it may be that I enjoyed having all these clothed women around me, paying close attention to my penis."

"It's hard not to notice it," I smiled. "And of course you were at home, and it was your stepsister after all...so you must have not felt threatened."

"Yes!" he exclaimed. "I was completely unafraid because I was around people I knew. But I was extremely horny at the same time. My heart was beating very fast, but I did not try to cover myself at all. I just stood there like a grinning idiot, enjoying them enjoying me."

I snuck a glance at Lenore, who seemed pleased at the results of my inquiry. I don't think she, or any of the other Sisters, expected François to be so forthcoming. But his detailed description of his past sexual encounter with four women provided a most intriguing story, and even those Sisters who had professed to have other engagements now decided to stay and await the outcome of his lurid tale.

Angelique watched the events transpire with the eye of an eagle. Her anger had subsided somewhat, but I could still sense a hint of vengeance in the perpetual frown she now wore exclusively for all to see. My aunt appeared to be sorely disappointed with her daughter's negative attitude, but she had the good grace to accept Angelique's failure and move beyond it to champion my own efforts, seeing that the good of the Sisterhood was more important than catering to the bruised ego of a vindictive young girl. It must have been extremely hard for her to have witnessed her daughter's dissolution at the hands of the very same man I was now manipulating with the gentle and deferent skill of a competent psychologist: a skill set that my cousin, in her arrogance, would never have thought to employ. 

"So," I said to François. "You were standing there half naked with your penis...your big dick (I said the word "dick" because I had noticed earlier that he used the term himself and that he seemed pleased by it) hanging out for all the girls to see. What did you do then?"

"It was not so much what I did," he replied. "It is more what they did to me."

"Oh, really?" I said. "And what was that?"

It was very quiet in the room at this point, and everyone, including myself, seemed intent on not missing a word of his explanation.

"They...ordered me to continue what I was doing before they came in."

"You mean masturbate?"

"Yes."

"While they watched you?"

He looked sheepishly around the room and seemed embarrassed when some of the women began to giggle.

"I could not believe they would ask me to do such a thing in front of them, but Gabrielle and the other three forced me down onto the chair and told me to jerk off to the image of the nude woman on my computer screen. I was so excited and ashamed at the same time but I could not help myself."

"Most men find masturbation to be a very private act," my aunt broke in. "But we teach them that once they have decided to devote their lives to serving the Sisterhood, we are the ones who control their bodies. You know this, don't you François?"

I don't think he appreciated having his tale interrupted by being reminded of his servile role, but there did not seem to be any hint of resentfulness in his reply.

"Yes, I know it, madame," he said. "I am most willing and able to serve the Sisterhood, and I want nothing more than to cater to your every wish. But I am not a submissive man." At this point, he turned to face my cousin, who was wearing a huge scowl on her face. "And no amount of coercion will ever make me do what my conscience will not allow."

Angelique bit her lower lip but said nothing. Her eyes sparkled with an unusual intensity, a sudden glimmer of malice focused in our direction. His words caused some stirring within the Sisterhood ranks, but Lenore appeared entirely unaffected by his sudden and uncharacteristic boldness.

"We have had men like you before," she began. "All served the Sisterhood very well and for many years. You are one of those men who enjoy serving and pleasing women because it brings you great satisfaction. That is all well and good, and there is room for you here. It is not necessary that you submit blindly to our will, although many of our servants wish to be treated so—they want to be controlled. Since Holly has shown to us that you possess an uncompromising spirit, I will not order you to be further punished should you fail to produce the sperm sample. Such punishment would be pointless. However, you will be cast out, never to return. I leave the choice to you."

A new feeling of uneasiness crept over the young man's features although he tried hard not to show it. I knew that the thought of him being forever dismissed from service to the Sisterhood would be far more injurious than any form of corporeal punishment the Sisters could inflict. The Sisterhood had become for him his raison d'être, and the thought that he might be "cast out," as Lenore had put it, could not but trouble him greatly. The Sisterhood leader understood this, even before I, myself, had grasped its implications. Whether this new threat would serve to make him produce the sperm sample or not, along with the momentous decision to reveal it, was highly questionable and a big gamble on Lenore's part. I almost wish she had said nothing, seeing how far I had progressed with François. But the die had been cast, and there was nothing to do but continue the game.

Angelique looked at me with a sinister grin, no doubt hoping that Lenore's warning would result in François' failure to ejaculate, resulting in his, and my own, ultimate humiliation and dismissal. She made no effort to hide her disgust for the man, or for my impromptu methods used to provoke him to climax. Her earlier attempts to convince her mother and me that she felt little or no disappointment at being denied the chance to become the older woman's protégé was nothing more than a sham—a clever performance carefully thought out and executed by a mind determined to achieve its goal at all costs. Her recent actions had made this point disturbingly clear. If I failed at this critical juncture, I would lose credibility in Lenore's eyes. Such a failure might not result in my forfeiting my current status within the Sisterhood, but it certainly would not improve it. And even more disturbing, it would give Angelique the opportunity to turn my defeat into her own personal victory by default, which she could then flaunt before me and everyone else until those hypnotic eyes of hers had convinced the whole world that I was only some upstart girl from America whose charm had momentarily blinded the better instincts of her beneficent but naïve Sisterhood mentor. As much as I hated to admit this fact to myself, I could no more deny its veracity than I could deny Angelique's uncompromising nature. From this moment on, I would never look at her the same way.

"François?" I began. "Would you please continue with your story?"

Fully aware that his fate was now on the line, he took a deep breath and resumed his tale. But instead of the halting speech he had employed earlier, he now spoke out in a more demonstrative way, using his hands to embellish a point, or substituting a French word for an English one when he felt the word did not fully communicate his meaning. In effect, his storytelling approach became suddenly more visceral and engaging. My questions, too, were handled with quick and descriptive answers, which delighted me to no end. I know he was trying very hard to prove to us, and more importantly to himself, that he would not allow his inherent shyness to destroy his chances at becoming a servant to the Sisterhood, and my only concern was that, in his haste to redeem himself, he did not falter or allow his newfound passion to interfere with the ultimate goal of producing the sperm sample.

"...And it was Gabrielle herself who completely undressed me before the three other giggling girls," François related enthusiastically. "Of course I could have easily fought my way out if I really wanted to, but I had already surrendered to them in my heart, and they knew it."

"So you really enjoyed the fact that they had this control over you?" I asked.

"À qui le dis-tu?"

"I'm sorry. Please say it in English."

He smiled. "Of course. I mean to say only that it was incredibly exciting."

In his retelling of the story his eyes would widen every so often and sweep across the entire room to see what effect his words were having upon his listeners. I was happy to see that he was acting more confidently, and his excitement soon transferred itself to his captive audience.

"So, what happened next?" I asked eagerly, trying to avoid a lull in his presentation.

"Well, one of the girls—she had very long, red hair and a marvelous face—she tells me to masturbate myself and hands me a bottle of hand lotion. So, I put some of the lotion onto my hands and I begin to jerk off as I always do, as if they were not even there!"

"Incredible!" Greta exclaimed. "And you so shy!"

"Yes, madame," François replied. "But my head down there was doing my thinking for me!"

He pointed quickly to his crotch, which suddenly appeared to be harboring something large and menacing beneath the outline of its folds.

"You probably had to use a lot of hand lotion on yourself I'll bet," I said, as my eyes fell on his lap.

He looked down at the expanding area under the cloth and laughed.

"Well," he began, "there is a lot of area to cover!"

"We know! We know!" Estelle commented cheerily. "Keep going!"

François seemed immensely pleased that so many of the women were eagerly pushing for him to relate his story, and this seemed to animate him ever more.

"The next thing I know," he continued, "Gabrielle and the other three girls start to ask me all kinds of sexual questions. Embarrassing, but also very thrilling."

Janet let her hand fall down to rest upon the knee of her right leg, which was extended outward in our direction. "I assume they wanted to know how big your dork was?" she asked.

"Yes, madame," François replied. "And how many times a day I masturbate."

"And what did you tell them?" she inquired coyly. 

"About two or three times, madame."

"Really?" she asked, surprised. "Your balls must produce a prodigious amount of semen."

"As I told you earlier," he said proudly. "I can fill a cup."

"Yes, I remember," she said, as her hand began caressing her lower leg.

I could tell that Janet was getting turned on by this sexual exchange with François. I think he realized it too, and judging by the now apparent erection that had manifested itself in the course of their conversation, I think he wanted it to continue, and so did I.

"Then they started to call my penis funny names," he said to her. "They used a lot of American slang words like cock, prick, dork...

"Schlong?" Janet added, gleefully.

"Yes, and...a very strange one I don't remember." He paused for a moment, looking annoyed at himself for not recalling the term. "I think it was something like...peck...peck..."

"Pecker!" I blurted out.

"Voila!" François laughed. "That was it! Such a funny name!"

Everyone laughed at my sudden outburst, but Janet seemed perturbed that she had not been the one think of the name first.

"There are quite a lot of names to describe the penis," she said nonchalantly, her gaze falling upon his crotch. "In addition to the ones already mentioned, there is also shaft, tool, Johnson, dick, meat pole...oh the list is endless. My husband calls his a 'randy, rampaging, rump reamer'!"

Her admission seemed to amuse the crowd to no end.

"Well, it's true!" she laughed, attempting to sound convincing.

"So, tell us François," I said, trying to get back to the heart of the matter. "What happened next?"

"Well, Gabrielle sees that I need more lubrication, so she squirts some lotion into her hand and begins then and there to apply it to my cock."

"This is your stepsister we're talking about, right?" Lenore asked.

"Yes, madame."

"A very kinky thing for a stepsister to do was it not?"

François chuckled. "Indeed it was, madame! And I was completely shocked. But the most amazing thing of all is that she did not just apply the lotion. No, she begins to rub it into my skin, and then she invites all the other girls to rub me too!"

"What a bloody tart!" Marge exclaimed.

"I'll be it felt great," I added.

"Oh, Holly, let me tell you," he replied, clutching a loose fold of fabric in his hand. "I felt as if every part of my body was dead except for this big thing between my legs. Four pairs of hands tugging and pulling on my cock and balls this way and that! It was a most incredible sensation!"

Without thinking, he let his right hand drop into his lap, his fingers lightly touching the huge bulge beneath the robe. "Most incredible!" he said again.

Charlotte watched the young man's fingers toy with the lump under his gown and giggled.

"Shame on you, François," she said teasingly, "You have a hard on."

The young man blushed a little, but he was beyond denying what was plainly obvious to all of us.

"Yes, madame," he replied. "I'm as hard as a rock."

This brought forth a chorus of moans from the audience.

"Well, don't be selfish," she said with feigned annoyance. "Whip it out so that all of us can see it."

"Yeah," a short, busty woman shouted. "I want to get a closer look at that thing!"

"Me too!" said another.

Several other women threw their comments into the mix of slurs and taunts, all of which seemed to heighten his arousal by varying degrees. François drank in every jest, every sexual innuendo like a man dying of thirst. Their jibes seemed to vivify him, adding fuel to the sexual furnace that comprised his libido. 

He looked at me several times as if seeking direction while the audience cajoled him and begged him to remove his robe. Sensing he was anxious to comply with the women's demands, I told him to stand up and take off his gown. He seemed a bit reluctant at first, but goaded by the constant barrage of cheers he finally rose up from his seat and with one graceful flourish, let the robe fall from his shoulders and onto the floor. Everyone in the room gave him a thunderous round of applause as once again the towering pink shaft stood at full mast, jutting out from between his legs like some impossible monolith.

"C'est qqch qui ne se voit pas tous les jours!" said a woman at the far end of the room.

C'est peu dire!" another woman answered.

I asked François to interpret what they had said.

"They said you don't see something like this every day," he replied, quickly growing accustomed to being on display.

I asked him to sit down again so that he could resume his story, but the women kept teasing him.

"Tell me something, François," Felicia asked him. "How do you manage to walk with such a huge penis?"

"Well," he replied, "it's not always the way you see it now. If it was...I'd probably need a wheelchair to get around!"

Felicia laughed and stole a look at my aunt. "Now we know what you saw in this man," she said. "And you didn't have to look further than his groin!"

My aunt, despite the disappointing day she had had so far with Angelique, managed a smile. "That's right, and he's all mine!" she said with a laugh.

Dr. Monroe, seemingly anxious to acquire the sperm sample, turned to me just then and suggested we let François reenact his episode with Gabrielle and her girlfriends with the intention of getting him to cum.

"He really seems to enjoy telling this story," she remarked. "May I suggest that you have him continue and we'll help him along?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Alicia," she said turning to the nurse. "Would you mind getting some of that new prescription cream that we sometimes use to help keep our patients erect? You know where it is don't you?"

"Yes, doctor," Alicia replied with a grin. "I used it on a patient just yesterday."

Alicia waltzed off into the adjoining room and came out moments later holding a large metallic tube in her hands. Dr. Monroe took the tube from her, inspected it, and then handed it to me.

"I had a negative reaction from him the first time I tried to masturbate him," she admitted. "He seems to like you a lot. Maybe you could apply some to his penis."

"If he'll let me," I said, feeling a little uncertain.

"I really don't think he's going to mind. Sometimes a man just needs a helping hand."

I laughed at her comment but I really didn't want to wind up masturbating him. I wanted him to prove to himself that he could do it on his own, in front of all these lewd and raunchy women, without help from anyone. And I knew the women would enjoy watching him manipulate that enormous piece of hardware simply as spectators, with no physical involvement to divert their attention from his wonderfully freakish penis.

"Okay," I said. "I think it's time we brought this whole thing to a head."

"Aptly put," Dr. Monroe said, chuckling at my unintended pun.

When François saw me apply the cream to my hands he sat up straight in his chair looking expectantly at me.

"I'm going to rub some of this stuff all over your penis," I said to him. "And then I want you to begin masturbating yourself while you tell the rest of your story to us. Will you do that for me, François?"

I asked this in the sweetest way possible, keeping my voice soft and melodic but not without a touch of coyness.

"Yes, mademoiselle," he replied earnestly. "I will do it for you."

Dr. Monroe looked at me and winked, as if to say her opinion about the young man's attraction toward me was correct after all.

I asked the women to remain quiet for the duration of his story, fearing that if they kept questioning him it would interfere with his concentration. This they begrudgingly agreed to do, though a few of the more feisty among the group continued to shout catcalls now and then. Lenore looked a bit impatient but said nothing, preferring to let the unusual scenario play out to its hopefully satisfactory conclusion. 

My aunt Phoebe sat back in her chair looking pensive. As for Angelique, she sat quietly next to her mother, behaving like some haughty queen who had seen her last opportunity for success crushed beneath the feet of her familial rival. In such an unfriendly light did she regard me, as though I were some lowly vassal who had mistakenly found her way into the royal court: a court presided over by a contemptuous and willful sovereign desirous of consigning her formerly loyal subject to the dungeons for daring to challenge her authority. But I could not allow such negative thoughts to deter me from my duty. The time I had with the patient was not limitless, and I knew that Lenore would not allow my efforts to continue for much longer without substantial results.

I knelt down in front of François, and took both my hands, now slick with the cream, and applied the fragrant lotion to the upper side of his very long shaft. I rubbed the lotion into his skin using small circular movements, as if I was waxing a car. He purred softly as my tiny hands glided effortlessly up and down, over and under, his erect organ, taking particular delight when I held the base of his shaft with one hand while using my other hand to cover the area that comprised his glans. Because his penis was so large, it could not help but remain parallel to the floor, despite the fact that my handjob had made him completely turgid. 

"I hope you're not forgetting his balls," I heard Angelique suddenly comment in a derisive voice.

"Don't worry Angelique," I replied without stopping to look up at her. "I have him firmly in hand."

With that I grabbed the giant prick in one hand and lifted it up while I let my other hand massage the two huge balls that rested directly underneath it. Angelique continued to watch but made no further comment.

"How does that feel, François?" I asked, tugging softly on the smooth testicular skin.

"Incredible!" he said, leaning back in his chair with his eyes half closed. "You are very skillful mademoiselle! I mean, Holly!"

I continued to work on his cock for several minutes more, paying close attention to the tiny area of skin just below the glans where I knew it was most sensitive. I let my thumb play with the little strip of flesh in a teasing fashion, which seemed to excite him greatly. Finally, with my knees beginning to hurt and my hands tiring, I saw the first tiny bead of pre-cum exude from the tip of his penis and knew that it was time for him to take control.

"Okay, big boy," I said rising. "Keep stroking and finish the story."

He let out a groan when I removed my hands from this cock, but quickly let his right hand take over. Dr. Monroe, nurse Alicia, and the two brunettes stood up behind him to watch his progress while I pulled up my chair to his immediate left, anxious to hear the remainder of his erotic tale.

"So there I am," he began, "masturbating myself for the four girls, just as I am now for all of you, and I am looking at a picture of a nude woman on my computer screen. My stepsister asks me if I have other pictures of nude women on my computer and I say 'no.' Of course she does not believe me."

His hand continued to stroke his penis, slowly but firmly. Both his legs were now fully extended before him, as if to add support for the mighty tool that reached outward almost to his knees. His breathing became more labored as he related the lurid tale, and I think he was purposely taking his time to wait until a certain moment in the story before he would allow himself to cum.

"Gabrielle demands that I show her the other pictures, but I have software that makes the pictures invisible to anyone without the password."

"Did you have more naked pictures?" I asked him.

"Oh yes," he replied taking in a large gulp of air. "Thousands of them. Over 10 gigabytes!"

"From porno sites?"

"Yes. And some pictures..."

"Yes?"

"And some pictures of Gabrielle and her friends in the backyard pool...all of them... naked."

As he said these words his face grew visibly more excited and the tempo of his stroking increased.

"I photographed them all one afternoon when they thought no one was around."

At this point I had to wonder whether it was the special cream that was responsible for his massive erection or the unbridled lust he was feeling in telling the story that made his hand now fly fast and furious over the fleshy terrain.

"Gabrielle...she commands me to give her the password, but at first I refuse."

"What did she do?" I asked.

"She does an amazing thing!" he exclaimed, as his fist pumped his cock hard. "She...she grabs my cock in her hand and starts to jerk me off herself!"

"Really?"

"And the other three girls cheer her on!"

His chest was heaving up and down at this point, and his words were coming out in shorter sentences now.

"And I watch her do this to me... and I can't believe it. But it feels so fucking good that I don't want her to stop!"

"You liked the feel of your sister's hands on your cock?" I asked, hoping to further fuel his fetish.

"It was better...than anything I have ever felt...in my life!"

"Did she make you cum?"

He paused only momentarily to let out a chuckle, but soon resumed his previous pace.

"Oh, my God! She made me almost cum seven times! Each time she brings me to the brink...and then takes her hand away! Horrible!"

"Because you wouldn't give her the password?"

"Yes...yes, because of that."

"But she got it out of you didn't she?"

"I could not take it any more," he replied with a low moan. "On the eighth time I finally gave her the password... and she finds the pictures. She and her friends got so mad that they gave me a spanking..."

"You must have felt very humiliated."

"I was, but I got excited even more!"

To accentuate this he pulled on his massive organ with increased speed. I noticed that many of the women in the audience had moved their chairs in closer to watch the young man unashamedly masturbate himself, the formerly reluctant and timid patient now a brazen masturbator, seeking sexual fulfillment in a room crowded with women.

"After each of them takes turns spanking me, Gabrielle orders me to jerk off to the pictures I took of them. 'You are a pervert and a pig!' my stepsister says to me. 'For your punishment I want you to shoot your sperm all over the computer!'"

"What did you do?" I asked.

"Nothing!" he cried, his eyes looking across the room at the crowd of women anxiously awaiting his eruption. "I could do nothing because... my stepsister takes my penis in her hands... and masturbates me very quickly."

His face was now a bright red and he was struggling to continue with the story. I think every woman in the room knew that he was now on the brink of orgasm, but what word or recollection of events would compel him to spill his creamy seed none of us could guess.

"And I am so dying to cum...just like I am now...that I could do nothing to stop it."

"She was forcing you to cum," I said.

"Yes! And I leaned back and let her do it to me!" 

François pulled furiously on his prick, his enormous balls bouncing back and forth from his energetic performance as he recalled the event. 

"And then," he stated with an air of finality. "One of the other girls...Renee...she holds my balls hard and laughs as Gabrielle... strokes just the tip of my penis and points it right at the monitor screen."

François mimicked this same procedure even as it was apparent he was about to ejaculate. 

"One, two, three...very quick bursts and..."

"And what?" I asked teasingly.

For a moment it appeared as though he couldn't answer and then he caught his breath, still stroking his cock like a demon.

"Oh, she makes me do it...all over the keyboard...all over her hands...and the hands of all the other girls! I shoot my cum everywhere and they all laugh!"

As if on cue, several of the women in the room started to laugh as well, as did I, finding his story humorous as well as sexy. It was the missing piece of the puzzle that finally made the picture complete.

"Your sister gave you a handjob in front of all her friends," I said, laughing along with the others. "Your computer must have been one hell of a sticky mess!"

That was it. His fetish now lived out before a captive audience, he was now ready to add his final coup de grace to the proceedings. 

His buttocks rose several inches off the chair as we watched his cock rear back and spit out a long, creamy jet of white paste that sailed over the heads of the women closest to him, only to find its target in the hair of one of Charlotte's companions. Along the way, droplets of the whitish fluid cascaded high into the air, making contact with anyone or anything in its path. Delvin Wade had produced amazing orgasms, but nothing close to this.

"He got me!" cried the woman who had been hit.

The entire audience broke out in gales of laughter, but Charlotte seemed more impressed with the young man's powerful orgasm than amused by it. She quickly offered her friend a fistful of tissues to help remove the sticky goo from her hair.

"The jar! The jar!" Charlotte shouted at us as the giant prick released another burst of semen, this time landing right on Janet's long legs.

The startled woman looked down and laughed heartily at the winding trail of sperm that began at her knee and ended in a viscous puddle at the tip of her black patent leather shoes.

"Bloody good that was!" Marge exclaimed.

In our gaiety, we had failed to remember the beaker in which to catch the patient's sperm. I looked at Dr. Monroe and she smiled back at me, thinking I was referring to the humongous cum shot. Then it dawned upon her, without me saying a word, that we had allowed ourselves to be so captivated by his story that his precious sperm was escaping from us even as we were gleefully watching it shoot off into the void.

"Doctor!" Lenore screamed. 

Dr. Monroe, realizing her error, turned to nurse Alicia.

"Help me!" she said frantically, as she ran around and knelt down in front of François, holding the large, glass container directly in front of his spurting tool.

Nurse Alicia knelt on the patient's right, grasping the huge prick in her hand in an attempt to direct some of the streams into the beaker.

"Get it higher!" Dr. Monroe ordered the nurse. "Get it..."

Before she could finish her sentence, François recoiled violently as the introduction of the pretty nurse's hand forced his cock to an almost vertical position. He cried out as her hand held him just beneath the glans, the action of which helped him to produce a very long and stringy cum shot that flew upward and to his left, splashing directly into Dr. Monroe's face and hair. 

The powerful blast forced her backward into me.

"Holly!" she cried, her face a completely awash in white sauce. "Get that sample!"

Without hesitation, I quickly picked up the beaker and placed it over the monstrous organ. Nurse Alicia finally managed to position the penis so that François was now joyously spurting into the cylinder. We watched in awe as he shot load after load of hot sperm into the glass receptacle, the long rivulets of cream splashing into the sides and bottom of the beaker, filling it up to beyond the one-cup level.

"Oh, my God!" nurse Alicia squealed as the juice continued to shoot out beyond her, or anyone else's, capacity to comprehend.

Seeing the look of ecstasy on François' face was quite satisfying. But watching that oversized cock fill the jar with his plentiful seed was even more rewarding. More importantly, I had attained my objective: I had produced the sperm sample, and I had done what Angelique could not.

A few final squirts and François finally stopped ejaculating. 

"That was great!" I said to the exhausted man. "Well done!"

A thunderous round of applause greeted me as I rose up and hoisted the beaker of sperm above my head. Lenore was ecstatic and clapped loudest of all. My aunt, too, seemed genuinely happy that I had solved her dilemma, even though her daughter had come up short. Angelique didn't even look at me. She couldn't, because she had, unbeknownst to me, left the room.

Dr. Monroe's two assistants had managed to help her remove most of the sperm from her face and she ordered them to take the beaker from me and put the sample on ice.

"Holly, that was splendid!" Lenore shouted to me above the din. "And you did very well too, young man!"

François and I turned to each other and smiled. To be recognized in such a fashion by Lenore must have been a great honor for him and no less for me. I nodded in the older woman's direction and uttered the words "thank you," which she graciously acknowledged with a proud smile.

"Thank you, dear Holly," François said to me as nurse Alicia gently applied a warm sponge to his genitals. "I could not have done it without your help."

Seeing that the nurse looked a little forlorn, he added, "Or yours."

She glanced up at him just then and smiled as she cleaned up the remainder of his sperm. He watched her hands lightly move over his private parts, and when she was done she returned with the soiled sponge to the exam room.

"I have never seen any man ejaculate so much semen in my life," Dr. Monroe said to her once reluctant patient. "I know that my colleague, Dr. Swensen, has produced such orgasms in men artificially at her Clinic in Sweden, but this is...unprecedented."

She looked at François as though he were some sideshow curiosity, but her respect for him was genuine.

"I would like to do more studies on you if you will allow it," she said. "Especially now that you've seemed to conquer your shyness."

"I am at your service, doctor," he replied.

Her eyes moved to his penis. "And even after you ejaculated all that semen, it's still big and hard. It's one for the record books."

"I am sorry that I squirted you," he said apologetically.

"We'll have to see if it does anything for my skin," she laughed. "Go and put your clothes back on. My office will be in touch with you in a few days."

He rose and threw his robe over his shoulders, not bothering to cover himself up.

"I hope I shall see you again, Holly," he said cheerily.

I replied that I hoped I would see him again too and took one more look at his magnificent penis as he turned and headed toward the exam room.

"I have to give you credit, Holly," the doctor said to me. "I really thought he was going to be consigned to oblivion, but you did a great job of psyching him out." She shook my hand. "And I'm glad you put your cousin in her place."

With that, she said goodbye and followed François into the adjoining room.

"All right, everyone," Lenore said to the audience. "Show's over. See you at the dinner party tonight." 

Now that the "punishment" had concluded, the crowd quickly began to disperse. Several of the women applauded me on their way out, complimenting me on my "innovative" strategy in getting François to produce the precious sperm sample. Others just simply walked passed me without so much as a nod, making it clear to me that they thought little of my efforts. Most of the women, however, did take the time to actually stop and talk to me. Felicia was the first of these to congratulate me, taking my face between her two hands and planting a kiss on each cheek.

"Masterful! Bravo!" she said excitedly. "You controlled him like a puppet! Bravo!"

But no one was more generous with her compliments than Lenore herself, who, from her seat at the head of the table, openly professed her admiration for my "very skillful handling" of the timorous patient with the surprisingly bold attitude. 

"We'll talk later," my mentor said to me, looking eminently satisfied.

The Sisterhood leader spoke briefly to her friends and then hurriedly left the room, followed by my aunt, Justine, and Estelle. I could only surmise that Angelique's unnoticed disappearance was the topic of their conversation, as they didn't even bother to conclude the meeting in their usually formal way. But then again, it was very late, and the dinner at the Le Boeuf sur le Toit was going to take place in less than a few hours—and Craig Lundquist was going to be there! 

"You look quite pleased with yourself, I must say."

I turned around to find Charlotte standing behind me, minus her small entourage. 

"Oh!" I said. "Ms. Anjou. Hello."

I reached out my hand and she gave me a nice, firm handshake.

"I took a big gamble and it paid off. I guess I am kind of happy about it."

"As well you should be," she replied. "And please call me Charlotte."

I had remembered what Angelique had told me about this woman, but nothing in her attitude suggested to me that she was anything but a genuinely warm, and very refined, lady. Now that she was standing next to me, I was surprised to see how tall she really was, and how intimidating she could be if she chose to be so, simply by virtue of her graceful stature and commanding presence. But it was her resemblance to the mysterious visionary of my tormented dream, the enigmatic Yvette, which impressed me most. Her eyes, like twin orbs of translucent blue, so reminiscent of those of my erstwhile guide to the underworld, seemed capable of reading my innermost thoughts and feelings, and while I should have felt uncomfortable under their scrutinizing gaze, I felt instead a bond of commonality; an intuition such as that which fosters an immediate, yet inexplicable, trust. 

"I want to thank you and your friends for helping me out," I said.

"I did nothing. And those women you call my friends...well, they did even less."

"They did seem to pay you a lot of attention."

"Hangers-on," she said dismissively. "It was your insight and intelligence that won the day, not anything that we did."

"Well, in any case, I appreciate that you at least tried to help."

She smiled warmly. "My gratification was in seeing you make a fool of your cousin. That girl is a terror waiting to be unleashed."

It surprised me to hear her make such a brazen comment, considering there were a few Sisterhood members still mulling about. Even so, Charlotte made no effort to lower her voice or conceal her feelings.

"I may not come to many Sisterhood meetings, but I have been friends with Lenore for a very long time. She's told me a lot about you, and from what I've seen today, she made a wise choice in naming you her successor. Angelique may have inherited the indomitable Anjou will, but she has none of the heart and compassion that makes a true leader."

"I think she hates me now," I said. "But I did what I had to do. I don't regret helping that man, even if she thinks I'm her enemy."

"I can assure you that she does," Charlotte said firmly. "Oh, she may not come out and act openly hostile to you. In fact, it's possible she may do just the opposite. But don't fall for it. I have known that girl since she was a child, and she's a master at playing mind games. Be careful." 

"Up until today Angelique was my best friend," I observed sadly.

Charlotte put one of her graceful hands on my shoulder.

"Angelique is no one's best friend but her own."

One of Charlotte's associates, who was waiting for her by the doorway, called to her just then to join the rest of their group. Charlotte seemed disappointed that she had to leave, as it seemed there were many more things she wanted to say to me. She told the woman to wait as she fished out a card from her purse.

"This is my private number," she said, handing me the card. "I can't say anything more now, but there is much we need to discuss. Call me tomorrow."

Without waiting for a reply, she turned abruptly and started to walk out of the room.

"Wait!" I said. "Won't you be at the dinner party tonight?"

"I wouldn't waste my time with such nonsense," she replied without looking back. "But I'm sure you'll find it entertaining."

As I watched her pass through the door I realized that I was the only person left in the room. I looked down at the card she had given me and on it was written, "Madam Charlotte, Clairvoyant," along with her address and phone number. 

Clearly, there was no love lost between Charlotte and Angelique. But what circumstances had led to their disaffection? I felt that the time had come for me to know more about the workings of the Sisterhood and its adherents, and whereas Lenore, my aunt, and even Angelique, had been satisfied to feed me such information in piecemeal fashion according to their whims, Charlotte seemed amenable to passing this knowledge on to me without any such restrictions. I don't know why I felt so trusting toward her, but I did. Maybe it was because of her direct and fearless approach. Or maybe it was because she reminded me of another clairvoyant who seemed only to have my best interests at heart. Whatever reasons I harbored for trusting her were based more on intuition than logic. And even though I had always been a more or less logical person, logic alone could not compute the mysterious workings of the human heart and its motivations.

Charlotte's warning for me to "be careful" had far more implications than I could have imagined at the time. I had, after all, only been allowed to see the surface of the Sisterhood Empire: I had yet to be introduced to the vast substrata that comprised the bulk of its entirety. And if Charlotte were willing to offer me a glimpse of the underbelly of the beast, then I would be foolish to close my eyes to it. If what I beheld were anything as terrible as my dream, the deeper one probed, the more truth would be revealed.

I was beginning to understand even now that naiveté was a characteristic inimical to my welfare; especially since battle lines were now being drawn between Angelique and me. I would have to leave behind many of my girlish ideals and embrace a new ideology—one in which eternal vigilance would determine the future of my survival. And if such vigilance determined that I could no longer count Angelique amongst my friends, then so be it. What she had tried to conquer by fear and intimidation, I had conquered by patience and compassion, and I felt that my way was a far better way to treat human beings, even if it meant sidestepping normal Sisterhood procedure, or making someone look like a fool.

************

Just off the Champs-Elysées, the Le Boeuf sur le Toit restaurant is one of those mythical, Art Deco establishments that are still visited by the Parisian intellectual elite to this day. In the 1930s, this restaurant became one of the centers for jazz in Paris. On the ride into the city, my aunt Phoebe informed me that musicians such as Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grappelli used to jam there after their concerts. 

Like my aunt, I had an interest in jazz, and I was happy to hear that the restaurant was going to feature a jazz performance called the "Dance of the Waiters" this very evening. The dance was being held in honor of the many contributions my aunt's "philanthropic society" had made to the city, and she emphasized the uniqueness of the occasion by informing me that one of France's greatest dancers would be performing.

"Mr. Jean Luc Etrillard is a splendid dancer," she told me as we rode together in the back of Jake's limousine. "Charming, handsome...so full of joie de vivre. There's no one like him. I think you'll enjoy the performance very much."

"I'm sure I will," I replied. 

"And they're going to have a 30-piece jazz orchestra too," she went on. "An old friend of mine, Paul Sturgess, is the leader of the band. He's from New York. An amazing tenor sax player."

My aunt had been looking out the window while she was talking but suddenly paused to admire my dress.

"May I say that you look very fetching tonight in your little emerald-green outfit. I have no doubt you'll have that Swedish boy...what's his name?"

"Craig Lundquist."

"I'm sure you'll have him falling all over you in no time."

"Well, I'm not quite immune to his charms either aunt Phoebe."

"Which means you might be falling all over him? Oh, that's a dreadful thought. Please don't embarrass yourself in front of the Sisters."

I laughed. "I promise that I won't fall all over him. Don't worry."

She gave me a longer look this time. Whether she believed me or not I couldn't tell.

Since the moment we left the castle she had refused to mention one word about the session with Mr. Villon or her daughter's failure to pass Lenore's test. I guessed that it was still a sore subject with her so I did not bring it up, but I couldn't pretend that everything was all right when we both knew it wasn't. By time we had left the house, Angelique was out riding Antares and didn't even bother to explain to her mother why she wasn't coming to the dinner party with us. They had exchanged some heated words earlier, which had resulted in a stalemate, and which left my aunt looking frustrated and upset. I know Angelique had been looking forward to going, but it seemed that she wished to be alone now, far from the searching eyes of the women who had seen her fall flat on her face at the feet of the "pathetic" Mr. Villon. My aunt argued that Angelique should not cower from her misfortune but learn from it and move on. My cousin would hear none of it. I felt sorry for her in a way. It could not have been easy for her pride to suffer so, but her desire to seek solace in isolation worried me, and I knew it worried my aunt even more.

"It's okay if you want to talk about it," I said to my aunt as we arrived at the outskirts of the city.

She looked at me with a puzzled frown. "Talk about what?"

"You know what," I replied. "Come on, aunt Phoebe. I know you're upset. Stop hiding it."

"If you're referring to what happened today, I can only say that you proved yourself to be smarter than my daughter. How do you think that makes me feel?"

"Disappointed, I suppose."

"There is no 'suppose' about it. She failed the test and that's all there is to it."

There was no hint of anger in her voice, but her eyes looked sad.

"I know you would have preferred that she become Lenore's protégé, but I didn't do anything wrong. And if I hurt you, I'm sorry."

"There is nothing for you to feel sorry about, Holly. My daughter is an angry young woman. Angry toward men, toward me, the world... I don't know what to do for her sometimes. All she cares about is riding that damn horse."

She turned to gaze out the window again.

"Would you like me to leave aunt Phoebe? Because if you do, tell me, and I'll be on the plane tomorrow morning. I don't want to come between you and Angelique."

Suddenly the frown on her face turned into a smile and she threw her arms around me and gave me a powerful hug.

"Oh, my dear little niece!" she exclaimed. "I don't want you to leave. Yes, of course I am disappointed in my daughter. But she's an adult and has to accept responsibility for her own actions. I cannot hate you for trying to do your best for the Sisterhood, and I know you never meant to hurt Angelique. It's just unfortunate that Lenore thought it necessary to pit the two of you against each other."

"I guess she felt that she had to justify her decision to the Sisterhood," I offered. "But it's also driven a wedge between me and Angelique. I don't know what to do."

"For the time being, don't do anything. She'll come around eventually. And she will. I promise you."

There was no doubt in my mind that my cousin would indeed rebound from this latest defeat after taking a few days off to lick her wounds. Such a ruthless and controlling person could not remain distant for too long without feeling that she was losing touch with the outside world. But it was these brief periods of isolation that concerned me. What new ways of wreaking havoc on the world were right now being devised in that devilish mind of hers? What new forms of punishment and humiliation could she inflict upon her adversaries? And did she have some sort of punishment in store for me? My thoughts suddenly turned to Charlotte and what insight she might provide me as to the inner workings of my wily cousin's mind.

"Do you know anything about Charlotte? I asked my aunt.

"Other than that she's an oddball, not much. Why?"

"I got a chance to speak with her today."

"I know. I saw you two talking for quite a while," she observed. "Did she promise you that she'd read your fortune?"

"No," I laughed. "She really didn't say much about herself at all. That's why I'm asking you."

My aunt cocked her head to one side, her eyes half closed as if trying to remember some long past event.

"She used to come around when Angelique was very young. For a while she was a frequent visitor at our house. And then the visits stopped. Pierre told me that she spent a good deal of her life traveling around the world, especially in the Middle East learning about the occult arts. Many years later she became a member of the Sisterhood. I do know that she tells fortunes and professes to know the future. She's been a close friend of Lenore's for years, but I never quite hit it off with her."

"Angelique doesn't seem to like her much."

"I'm not surprised. They're both possessed of that stubborn Anjou temperament."

"She seemed nice enough to me."

"She has no reason not to be nice to you. But I wouldn't pay her any money to predict your future."

As she finished these words she pointed her index finger to the side of her head and made concentric circles in the air, indicating what she thought of Charlotte's mental abilities.

"Don't get me wrong," she went on. "Charlotte's a nice woman but definitely a kook. I'd take what she says with a grain of salt."

For the next 20 minutes my aunt and I discussed sundry matters, most of which were related to my academic studies and my plans for the future. We didn't speak of Angelique or Charlotte again.

It was almost 8:00 PM when Jake informed us that we had just turned west onto the rue du Colisée. From what I could see, the police had cordoned off the entire area around the restaurant, and the doormen were busy assisting the elegantly clad Sisterhood patrons as they walked gingerly through the cordon and up the few steps leading into the restaurant. The restaurant itself stood several meters away from us on the left side of the busy thoroughfare, it's marquee announcing the evening's event in bold black letters against a white background. I noticed that there were men in black suits checking IDs at the door.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"This is strictly a private affair," my aunt said adjusting the straps on her evening gown. "The entire restaurant is ours for the night." She smiled and patted my hand. "Come on. Let's enjoy ourselves."

She ordered Jake to stop the car before we actually approached the cordon and he came out and opened the door for us.

"I don't know how long we'll be," she told him. "But be back here at least by midnight."

"Yes, Ms. Anjou," he replied, courteously.

As my aunt and I approached the restaurant, a doorman spotted us and escorted us toward the front entrance where we had to show our IDs to the men in black suits. One of the men handed back my aunt's card and apologized.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Anjou," he said, sheepishly. "I should have recognized you."

"That's quite all right," she replied good-naturedly. "It's good to see that you people are doing your job."

He looked at me. "Is this lady with you?"

"She's my niece."

"That's fine," he said, returning my card to me. "Please go in."

The doorman held the door for us and as we entered several Sisters approached us all at once and told us to follow them. One of them was Zula, a tall African woman whom I had seen last at the Sisterhood meeting at my aunt's home in San Diego a year ago. The other was Selena Montaldo, a striking Spanish beauty.

"Lenore is waiting for you at the head table," Zula said to my aunt in a staid tone of voice. "She wants to get this thing underway as soon as possible."

"Fine," my aunt replied. "Lead on."

Zula was a rather abrupt woman who seemed to lack the common niceties one would expect a person to exhibit in polite society. She had, after all, not respectfully greeted either my aunt or me, and I found this unacceptable in a person. I later found out that Zula had killed a man in her native Africa for making fun of the dress she was wearing at the time. She had hit him over the head with a hammer, crushing his skull. Selena, on the other hand, was all smiles and graciousness as she took both my aunt's hand and mine and led us across the densely packed room.

"Look at this," she said to us in a hushed but excited voice. "Almost every Sisterhood leader is here tonight—over 250 of them!"

My aunt and I surveyed the crowded room, the boisterous women replete in every conceivable style of designer evening gown; their dresses' variegate colors reminding me of the plumage on a flock of exotic birds. Besides Zula and Selena, and some of the more familiar Sisters I had recently met, I recognized several other faces from that meeting a year ago, among them Anya Rostokovitch, Yin Ping Hun, and Kyoto Sarumoto. Most of these women had formed small cluster groups, or cliques, and were already drinking quite heavily with their comrades. As we passed by, some took notice of my aunt and said hello, while others looked and totally ignored us. Some of these latter types were the same ones who had sat in attendance at my earlier "test" and had not approved of my unorthodox methods of "punishing" Mr. Villon.

"A few unfriendly faces amongst the crowd I see," my aunt said turning to me. "Don't let it bother you, Holly. If I'm able to deal with it, so should they. Forget them."

The truth was, I really didn't really care much about whether those women had approved of me or not. All I cared about was that I had done the right thing as I saw it and that my conscience was clean. Lenore herself had approved and that was enough for me.

As we traversed the entire length of the room, I had a chance to admire the beautiful furnishings and charming Art Deco décor. In addition to the many fine impressionistic paintings that adorned the walls, there was a space behind the bar that was reserved for the photographs of famous musicians who had played at the celebrated restaurant. Some of the ones I recognized were Thelonius Monk, John Coltrane, Dizzy Gillespie, and Stan Getz. The only reason I recognized these men was because my aunt had shown me a scrapbook of all the jazz musicians she had come to know and love. She saw me concentrating on their pictures and smiled.

"The greats!" she said, looking over the portraits. "The crème de la crème!"

We passed beyond the main area of the restaurant and through a set of glass doors that opened out into a larger function room. It was twice the size of the main area and had very high ceilings with enormous glass chandeliers that seemed almost too heavy to hang safely from their mounts. To our left was the bandstand, a large semicircular riser upon which the 30 or so musicians were tuning their instruments or engaging in idle talk. One of the men, a handsome, dark-haired man in his early 30s dressed in a black tuxedo and carrying a saxophone, spotted my aunt and quickly came toward us.

"Phoebe!" he shouted excitedly. "Hey, it's me! Porky!"

My aunt immediately recognized the genial man and threw open her arms to greet him.

"Paul!" she exclaimed, giving him a big hug. "It's so good to see you again! You look wonderful!"

Paul Sturgess, or "Porky," as he preferred to be called, held my aunt around her waist with one arm while holding his saxophone in the other. He seemed elated to see her.

"Me?" he said. "Look at you! Why you're more beautiful than the last time I saw you. What was that? Five years ago?"

"At least," she replied, taking a step back to admire him.

"I'm so glad you asked my band to play. It's an honor, really."

"I'm so glad you agreed," she laughed. "You guys are tough to book."

He looked down at his saxophone and ran one of his hands over the valves. "Busy as hell these days, Phoebe. My agent gave me a bit of a hard time at first, but when he saw his commission on this gig..."

My aunt laughed. "You're still as suave as ever. May I present to you my niece, Holly McKenzie?"

"Hi Holly," he said extending his hand to me. "I'm glad to know you."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Sturgess," I said, as I looked up into his friendly brown eyes and shook his hand.

"Porky, please."

"And these are my associates Selena Montaldo and Zula," my aunt said.

The two women exchanged greetings with the dashing musician—Selena shook his hand warmly, Zula just grunted.

"Well," Porky said to my aunt. "I've got to get onstage. Show's about to begin. Anything special you want to hear?"

My aunt thought a moment. "How about 'When Sunny Gets Blue'?"

Porky smiled. "That used to be your favorite tune. Sure, no problem. Catch you later. Nice meeting you ladies."

Porky kissed my aunt on the cheek and then resumed his place on the bandstand, leading the orchestra in a rendition of an old jazz classic from the Big Band era called "Stardust".

"Isn't he wonderful?" my aunt beamed. "And wait until you hear him play that sax!"

Selena and Zula led us away from the bandstand and toward the opposite side of the room. It was a bit difficult navigating our way through horde of Sisters, most of who had already ingested far too much alcohol and were mulling about like a herd of disoriented cattle.

"Oh, get out of the way for Christ's sake!" my aunt yelled at one drunken, middle-aged woman who refused to budge. "Let us through!"

When the woman simply stared back at my aunt and did not move, Zula threw her arms around the woman's waist and lifted her up, placing her in the nearest chair. The woman uttered something derogatory to the Amazonian and then slumped over across the table.

"You are a disgrace!" my aunt said to the drunken woman.

The woman raised her head a few inches off the table as if to reply and promptly closed her eyes and slumped back to her former position. She had passed out.

Suddenly, we heard Lenore's voice cry out from her seat across the room. She was sitting at a long, rectangular table against the far wall surrounded by a small group of women.

"Over here! Over here!"

"We're coming!" my aunt shouted in reply, as we forced our way through the crowd.

I followed closely behind my aunt, utilizing her body as a human shield to protect me from the mass of people pressing into us. When the two women finally met they hugged and kissed. Lenore surprised me by kissing me too—something she had never done.

"I don't have to tell you that you both look lovely do I?" the Sisterhood leader said.

"Oh, go ahead and say it," my aunt replied. "Tell us how beautiful we look because you know we'll have to tell you the same thing."

Both women laughed.

At Lenore's table sat Justine and Estelle and several other women whom I didn't know. The seats to Lenore's immediate right and left were empty.

"Phoebe, come 'round and sit here next to me. And you, Holly, I want you to sit right here."

She pointed to the chair on her right—a place of honor amongst those of the Sisterhood.

"Thank you," I said, following her instruction.

After my aunt and I were seated, Lenore introduced us to the half dozen women seated with us whom my aunt, it seemed, didn't know herself.

"It's a pleasure to meet all of you ladies," my aunt said. "Of course after a few drinks I won't remember any of your names."

Lenore laughed. "Three drinks and you won't even remember your own!"

Justine, Estelle, and the other women all seemed to be in high spirits. They laughed when they heard this and Estelle said she was looking forward to Phoebe's third drink, after which she, herself, downed a half glass of scotch.

The conversation at our table centered around chiefly personal, rather than professional, matters. The women were a motley group of various ages and nationalities. Two women, who were introduced to me as Muriel and Lorraine, spoke entirely in French, not knowing a word of English. Another spoke broken English but with an accent I couldn't recognize. My aunt soon became engrossed in a conversation with the two French women, but I could only understand very little of what was being said.

"Muriel and Lorraine were at the session earlier today," Lenore said to me. "That's what they're talking about right now."

"Really?" I asked surprised. "I don't remember them being there."

"They weren't. They watched the whole thing from their hotel room on closed circuit TV."

"Oh," I said, suddenly feeling uneasy. "You mean that whole thing is on tape?"

"I keep a record of every Sisterhood event. There are hidden cameras in the walls."

I wasn't very happy to hear this news.

"I don't think it's fair that I wasn't told about this," I said.

"No one knew about it but me," Lenore replied. "I have my own reasons for videotaping it, and I promise you that it will not go out of my hands."

From the bandstand the first few strains of "When Sunny Gets Blue" reached our ears, the melody of which was being beautifully played by Porky on his saxophone.

"Isn't that just wonderful?" my aunt said in a singsong voice. "Her eyes get gray and cloudy..."

The two French women looked at my aunt, who had now broken into a full vocal rendition of the song, like they had been offended. My aunt ignored them.

"And the rain begins to fall," she continued to sing, oblivious to everyone and everything.

"Oh fuck," Justine laughed. "She's on a roll now."

"If she could only sing on key!" Estelle commented, lifting her glass to toast my aunt's less than stellar efforts.

She continued to sing the song until the moment when Porky took the microphone and crooned part of the song himself. He had a very nice baritone voice and sang almost as well as he played the saxophone. 

As the song neared its end, the waiters began taking orders. Our entire table seemed grateful for this interruption, as everyone, including me, appeared to be starved. I was happy just to know I wouldn't have to endure another verse of my aunt's off-key singing.

Lenore did not say much about my "test," earlier in the day, probably fearing that any praise she might lavish upon me would only hurt my aunt's feelings. She did whisper to me that she was "immensely proud" of my "achievement," and that she and I would have time to discuss matters later.

After the waiters had taken our orders, my aunt ordered a round of drinks for everyone at our table. I was talked into ordering a glass of wine, even though I would have preferred a ginger ale.

"Stop being so American!" Lenore joked. "You're in the most romantic city in the world. Live a little!"

With that she raised her glass of Chardonnay to her lips and savored a mouthful.

"That's right," my aunt agreed. "You have to let yourself go once in a while. Have fun!"

Lenore raised her glass to the others. "To fun!"

All the women toasted one another and once again began chatting amongst themselves.

When the appetizers arrived a short while later I began to wonder what had become of Craig. He never told me what time he would arrive, but I thought he would certainly make it for dinner. I knew his friend Barney was coming with him so maybe there was some kind of holdup on that end. By the time our soup arrived I was beginning to think he had forgotten all about our appointment, and that maybe he had decided to return to Stockholm with Dr. Swensen after all. The thought of him not showing up made me very disappointed, so much so that I hardly touched my soup.

"The soup is delicious," Lenore said to me. "Why aren't you eating it?"

"Craig promised me he was going to be here tonight."

Lenore stole a quick glance at my aunt and then looked down into her bowl.

"Oh, I wouldn't let that bother you," she said, taking a sip of broth. "I'm sure he'll come. He's probably just running a little late."

"Maybe," I said glumly, refusing to accept her explanation.

"Oh, come on, Holly," she said, resting her hand on my arm. "I saw the way he looked at you. He'll be here. I promise you."

"I hope so," I said, stirring my soup in a careless fashion. "I wore this dress especially for him."

Again Lenore glanced at my aunt, but neither woman said anything further. Finally, my patience broke.

"Is there something I'm missing here?" I asked, looking back and forth at both of them.

"Not at all," my aunt quickly replied. "Why don't you try to eat your soup?"

"I don't care about the soup!" I said, raising my voice.

Both Lenore and my aunt were taken aback by my sudden outburst, and the other women at the table stopped talking and stared at me.

"Holly, please!" my aunt said looking dismayed. "Don't make a scene."

I didn't want to draw attention to myself, but I couldn't help but feel that the two of them were keeping something from me.

"He's not coming is he?" 

My aunt just shook her head and kept eating.

"You'd tell me if he wasn't coming wouldn't you?"

Again she said nothing.

"Aunt Phoebe!"

This second outburst caused her to drop her spoon on the floor.

"I can't tell you what I don't know," she replied testily. "Now relax and eat your soup and try to have a little faith in people."

That's great! I muttered under my breath. When my aunt talked about having faith in people I knew it was time to worry. She may have once, long ago, believed in those very ideals I had long cherished and had now recently been forced to reevaluate, but she was essentially a pragmatist who was not inclined to favor the spiritual nature of life. Telling me to have faith in someone was tantamount to telling an ascetic that hedonism was the true path to virtue. It simply didn't add up.

The instinctive feeling that she was hiding something from me would not go away, but I chose not to belabor the issue. If Craig were a man of his word I would soon know. If not, then I would have to bid him adieu. As much as I liked him, I could not respect a man who could not keep his promise.

"Après la pluie le beau temps," Muriel said to me in a sympathetic voice.

"What?" I replied.

"She says 'every cloud has a silver lining,' my aunt said. "She sees that you're unhappy."

"Oh," I replied, turning to Muriel. "Is it that obvious?"

She just smiled at me while aunt interpreted my question.

"Amour," my aunt continued. 

"Oui...amour!" Muriel laughed. "Ça ne casse pas trois pattes à un canard!"

I looked at my aunt. "What does she say about love?"

"She says it's nothing to get excited about."

All the women at the table seemed to think this comment amusing—everyone but me.

Our dinner was a most sumptuous repast with every conceivable Parisian delicacy made available courtesy of the "Philanthropic Society." I was hungry but I really couldn't eat much since my mind was constantly focused on the blonde Swedish boy who had now, it seemed, vanished as quickly as he had come. As the evening wore on, I grew less hurt and more peeved at Craig's apparent callousness. I didn't seem right to me that he would just leave without any explanation. In fact, such an action seemed completely out of character for such a charming and considerate boy, and it puzzled me greatly.

After dinner had been served, Lenore was called to the bandstand to pass out awards to those Sisters who had achieved distinction in their roles as chapter leaders, my aunt Phoebe being one of the recipients. When the last award had been handed out, Lenore gave a short speech congratulating the dozen or so women who had been honored and then informed the audience that the "Dance of the Waiters" was now going to commence. 

I watched as Porky escorted Lenore off the stage, his saxophone steadfastly by his side. By the time he had climbed back onto the bandstand the house lights had been turned off and were replaced by bright, multi-colored, theatrical lights that illuminated the stage and the dance floor just in front of it. The audience was hushed with anticipation as the handsome bandleader turned to the orchestra and counted off the time by snapping his fingers. He then raised his saxophone to his lips and began playing a very sensual and enervating introduction to a song I later learned he had composed himself.

As the eerily beautiful strains of the saxophone filled the air, an ensemble of two-dozen waiters strode onto the dance floor in their waiter's uniforms and began dancing to the music. They held trays in their hands, which they used as props, tossing them over their heads and to each other as they moved around the floor in a catlike motion. At one point the dancers formed a closed circle and flung their trays high into the air and outward towards the audience. Seeing this, the women closest to these flying missiles gave out a series of horrified shrieks, only to discover that these so-called "trays" were nothing more than foam plates that landed harmlessly all around them. 

Now the other members of the orchestra began to add their own unique voices to the instrumental mix, creating an ambiance of textures, invoking hauntingly seductive minor modalities that seemed almost ethereal in nature. In my opinion, Porky had created nothing short of a jazz masterpiece, and I could tell by the fascinated look on my aunt's face that she, too, had completely succumbed to the influence of this beautiful music.

But our attention was quickly diverted from the music to the dancers themselves, who were now, unexpectedly, beginning to undress themselves. Bit by bit, pieces of clothing were being tossed pell-mell into the audience. A shirt here, a pair of socks there—even their pants finally came off, revealing a pair of thongs on every man. The crowd went wild.

"A strip show!" Justine exclaimed. "How quaint!"

It was apparent that these men had been chosen for their youth, physical attractiveness, and especially their dancing skills, as the routine they were now performing was nothing short of difficult, requiring great talent and coordination. As the music grew more frenetic, so did the dance routine itself, the men whirling about the dance floor at almost break-neck speed, heedless of the cheers of the audience surrounding them. The precision-like timing of their movements was impeccable, and when the music reached a crescendo, they, likewise, lined up all in a row and began to shake their lower bodies so hard that I thought their tiny thongs would fall off. And, unbeknownst to me, that was exactly what was supposed to happen.

As the music swelled to its final tutti, each man grabbed the right side of his strap and pulled on the Velcro attachment. Almost in unison, each man's thong fell to the floor, even as the music stopped playing. We were now looking at a chorus line of twenty-four nude men—twenty-four specimens of spectacular male beauty standing arm in arm, their sublime flesh exposed in the glare of the bright lights for all the women to enjoy. And enjoy it they did. 

To the thunderous applause and cheers of the crowd, the dancers slowly inched their way forward to the edge of the dance floor and took a deep bow. They then turned around and bowed again with their backs to us, showing off their muscular bottoms. This brought the house down.

"Look at the ass on that one!" Lenore squealed, pointing to a rather husky specimen on our far left. 

"No him!" Estelle exclaimed, almost unable to spit the words out because she was laughing so hard. "The guy in the middle. Look at the size of that dick!"

"I haven't been able to keep my eyes off it," my aunt informed us.

Suddenly, a woman came running up to our table dressed in a long, white, satin evening gown, her short red hair radiant in the glow of the spotlights. It was Dr. Monroe.

"Joanna," Lenore said. "There's one for the record books," she said, indicating the man with the outsized organ. 

"I know!" she said out of breath. "Isn't that amazing? Another Mr. Villon!" She grabbed a chair and sat down next to my aunt, still keeping her eyes on the impressive sight. "I'll definitely have to do an examination on him!"

We all laughed.

Porky struck up the band once again, and we were greeted with familiar refrains of a popular stripper song. As the music played, the men wound their way into the audience taking orders for drinks from the women. 

"Ladies," Porky said over the microphone, "don't forget to tip your waiters."

This brought a round of cheers from the audience.

"I'd rather have my waiter's big tip," Estelle said, ravenously eyeing the man with the huge penis who was now on his way toward our table.

When the waiter arrived, he was greeted with all kinds of jests and sexual slurs that made it almost impossible for him to take our orders. To his credit, he took it all in stride, even laughing along with us when Dr. Monroe bent her head down to inspect the thick slab of muscle that hung only inches from her face. She looked at it this way and that, commenting on its superb proportions, and comparing it to something that might be seen on one of Michelangelo's statues.

"May I?" she said to him, as she brought one her hands underneath the huge shaft.

The handsome man was taken by surprise, but he allowed her do as she wished, watching in fascination as she hoisted the flaccid pole up so that it almost touched his muscular abdomen.

"What do you think?" she said, turning to my aunt. "In its erect state. Thirteen? Fourteen?"

"At least," my aunt replied with a grin.

"And then some!" Justine added.

"I'm sorry," Dr. Monroe said to the waiter. "I don't...we don't mean to embarrass you but this...this is quite some huge, fucking schlong!"

Hearing the word "schlong" coming from the doctor's lips caused all of us to break into fits of uncontrollable laugher. She was, of course, drunk, as were most of the women at our table. Nonetheless, the use of the vernacular to describe the male appendage sounded especially funny coming from this otherwise demure and professional medical practitioner. 

"Have you ever measured this thing," the beautiful redhead asked him.

"As a matter of fact," the young man replied unabashedly, "I have. It's exactly fourteen and a half inches long."

Dr. Monroe whistled through her teeth while the rest of us let out a collective gasp.

"Are you sure about that?"

"Absolutely," he replied proudly.

I noticed a sense of haughtiness in him, as if in the manner in which he replied to the doctor's questions, he had something to prove. The doctor let go of his penis and turned to face us, a look of mischief upon her face.

"I think it's probably more like thirteen inches," she said.

"Fourteen and a half," he insisted.

"I don't suppose you'd care to prove it," she said looking up into his face.

Suddenly the entire table broke out into giggles at the lewd suggestion. The waiter himself looked completely shocked and at a loss for words. He stood there, vacillating.

"It's okay young man," Lenore said, noting his ambivalence. "Why don't you just go and get us our drinks."

Dr. Monroe protested. "Oh, you're going to spoil my fun Lenore!"

"Well, he doesn't seem to be in any hurry to show you," she replied. 

The waiter took a step back and took a long, appreciative look at the drunken doctor.

"Or do you?" Lenore asked him.

By this time the women sitting at a table in our immediate vicinity were beginning to take an interest in what was going on. They eyed the waiter, waiting to see what his response might be. One of the women was Felicia Antonetti.

"Go and do what the doctor tells you!" she said to him in her distinctive Italian accent. "Pronto! Pronto!"

The waiter gave the beautiful Italian woman a wan smile but didn't budge.

"I'm telling you that my cock is exactly fourteen and a half inches long," he said to Dr. Monroe, trying to sound convincing. "You'll have to take my word for it."

The doctor and several other women at our table chuckled.

"To hell with your word," she said. "I need proof."

"Well what do you expect me to do?" he said, almost whining. "Stroke it in front of everybody here?"

The doctor looked him squarely in the eyes. "Why don't you?"

"Oh, man," he said. "This is really weird!"

"Stroke it, or shut up and get us our drinks," she said turning her back on him. 

He looked expectantly from face to face, trying to decide what to do. I could tell she was getting a little tired of playing this game, and if it was going to go any further, it would have to be up to him.

Putting down his pen and tab he took his cock in his hand and began to move his fingers up and down its entire length.

"All right," he said looking straight at her. "I'll prove it to you."

Dr. Monroe smiled. The thought of bringing yet another male under her control, and especially under these circumstances, made her feel sexy and powerful. Under normal circumstances, such a lewd display could never have occurred in this famous place. But this was a private function, forbidden to the public, and it was Lenore and the Sisterhood who were calling the shots. Even the proprietor had to acquiesce to the demands of my aunt and Lenore, who themselves had contributed vast amounts of money to keep the restaurant going when the owners could not pay the mortgage due to the restaurant falling upon hard times a few years ago. Even so, the blatant act was made no less spectacular by virtue of the slackened standards of its tolerant Sisterhood clientele. 

As he masturbated himself, the women continued to engage in conversation, stopping at times to admire his deft manipulations of his penis, or to provoke him to stroke harder. It was amazing to see the effects of their words upon him. And as the amount of sexual slurs increased, so did the speed at which he drove his fist up and down his cock. Within only a few minutes, the unimposing and flaccid specimen had grown well over a foot long, until it now seemed too big to be real. The huge plum-like head of its corona could barely be contained in his hand, and he aimed it defiantly at Dr. Monroe.

"Well, go ahead," he said. "Measure it."

She looked at the monstrous prick with incredulity, amazed that the tangible reality of it surpassed whatever vision she had entertained in her own imagination.

"It's so fucking big!" she laughed as she pulled out a small measuring tape from her purse.

My aunt looked at the tape and chuckled. "I don't think that tape is going to be long enough."

"You'd be surprised," the doctor replied, as she extended the tape along the side of his penis.

"Holy shit," she remarked. "He's right! Fourteen and a half!"

"I told you," he said.

She quickly put the tape away.

"I apologize for doubting you," she said. Now take your hands away." 

"Why?"

"Just do it," she said in a commanding voice.

He immediately removed his hands from his penis, allowing her to run her long, elegant fingers over the length of him.

"It feels so hot!" she observed, as she brought one of her hands underneath his cock to caress his bulging sac.

The rest of us watched in rapt fascination as Dr. Monroe played with the waiter's penis. He would moan softly now and then as her lithe hands danced ever so lightly along the length of the stiff shaft. She, in turn, used a variety of maneuvers that she had no doubt employed when she was called upon to obtain a sperm sample from a reluctant patient, using both of her hands to stroke, rub, tickle, and tease him to distraction. 

"You'd better not do that," he said, unable to take his eyes off her stroking hands.

"Why not?"

"Because I might shoot off!"

She paused a moment to look up into his face. "Not without my permission you won't."

He was too overcome with the overpowering sensations provided by her handjob to offer any retort. He simply moaned again and let her do what she wished with him.

As she continued to toy with his genitals, several women from the adjoining table came toward us to get a better view of the proceedings. 

"Come on over ladies," my aunt said waving them on. "You've got to see this."

Felicia was the first to lay her eyes on the waiter's towering cock, the sight of which forced her to stop dead in her tracks.

"Mama mia!" she exclaimed. "That's some sausage!"

There were seven other women standing directly behind her who were now jockeying to get a better look. One of them was the statuesque blonde, Greta Hofsteddar. She worked her way around the group of women and walked right up to the waiter, but her eyes never left his penis or the doctor's hands, which were now feverishly working on it.

"Is that for real?" she said to Dr. Monroe.

"Feel for yourself," the doctor replied, letting go of his penis.

The waiter's face registered almost physical pain at the removal of the doctor's hands, but was instantly rewarded by the introduction of Greta's hand upon his penis.

"Oh, my God!" she screeched. "And I thought my husband was big!"

"He is!" Lenore admitted. "But not like this!"

"It's obscene!" Greta laughed. "Do you need a license to carry this?" she teased him.

End of Chapter 5

11:27 Gepost door Pé de Cenoura | Permalink | Commentaren (0) |  Facebook |

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