“As you wish.”

“But first I must take a piss.”

A slave girl in Grecian-styled gauze knelt between Constance’s knees.

The girls parted Constance’s pubes. Pressed open her slushing pussylips.

Shimmers of glittering liquid crystal blistered the nymph’s face to freckles.

Constance drenched the gamine’s piss-bleached tresses with a fine hissing mist.

“Look, milady,” Arturo said, pointing with eyes alight. “Such inspiration.”

Constance espied the three pissladieres Trevor, Alistair, and Nigel.

Their ballocks dangled low.

They sizzled the air with drizzles of puzzle cascading in platinum and gilt curtains into wide mouthed goblets of cut crystal.

The spewing urine reflected the subtle light. Prismatic refractions of piss in motion attracted the attention of ladies too numerous to mention individually.

These women knelt to heft the brimming goblets in a mock toast.

The three men pissed down their evening gowns. Drenched tresses of blonde, henna, and brown with fragrant froth.

Then there was Tristan Channing, the society shrink-his oinker was rooting up the hiney of dainty Isolde Peck. He had a hold of her by the neck and stood spread-legged.

Her asshole squealing as she speared herself upon it with clutching ruts of her rectum.

Now the sylphlike Veronica drifted over the floor, in the embrace of the woman Constance had seen arrive with the noble-however ignoble he may eventually prove-Arturo Mondragon. “May I ask who is that?” Constance nearly spat.

“My spiritual sister Morrigana,” Mondragon said. “Of the Lafayette branch of the French Bourbon trunk. Where I come from they are considered junk. But some would conceive of me the same way.”

“Which is why you guinea wetback spic mick Brit frog wogs all hang out in the US of A anyway. In Europe you’re treated like skunks-here your specious titles are most endeared.”