The Last Libertine, Freedom on Trial

Austere American nationalism dominated the cramped office space. Red, white, and blue flags hung on the walls, Golden Eagles looked on, posted upon tall poles. There were framed pictures of Royal columns packed with U. S. Soldiers in grimacing formation... The state-sponsored iron and control was endless.

The agitated woman sitting behind her desk in that office pressed her auto-voice sleeve. "Yes Inspector," a subordinate said, "Notify all individuals wishing to reach me that I am unavailable, and I'll be gone on business of state affairs. The only people you may give clearance to are emergency requestors and higher ups."

"I'll see to that Inspector." "Hail the 50 states!", the Inspector barked. "Hail the 50 states, Inspector." The 36-year-old Inspector wore a black leather skirt, military hat, and a cleavage revealing leather blouse. An American flag was embroidered on her hat and chest area.

She slung a long hosed leg over, standing in conservative heels to retrieve the file. Her hawk, perceptive blue eyes enlarged at the pupil. This was the accused Libertine's file. Taking a calm hand -- a sole personal hand of pleasure, the excited Inspector unbraided her shoulder length jet black hair. The new state demanded restrained mandates for human lusts, but all alone even the pretty agent of this cause and delighted in disgust of debauched past times.

The files she breathlessly opened contained the infamous memoir of the last capitalist voluptuary, who was now on trial for his life. She was in charge of analyzing his rich sensual writing; compiling details and proof of his overall offenses to not only commit perversions, but incite a return to free speech, free market decadence.

She fingered his original draft, scanning titles and chapters written in the light carnal artistic sweeps. This man obviously derived deep gratification from exposing seditious raw linguistic mediums. He dripped ink for his parched voyeur, yet its resonating trace hinted the slanting scribe of exhibition.

The answer exhibitionism of one's existence... coming across a chapter entitled "2012, Dead Democracy Done Classical Carnal," the curious Inspector paused. Her perfect nail underlined his poetic title twice. 2012 was 30 years ago!

America had been the devious Babylon opening her scalding crotch to a portrait of wealthy amorality. America's old government was overthrown, assaulted; rigid uniformity replaced it! Freedom of speech, press....opposition by any method, met a cruel fate. With this in mind, (imagine the libertine criminal shot) the Inspector began reading his text.

... Dearest Freedom loving soul absorbing me -- reading the many shades making up one's frontier. Let this malicious memoir ring rude intellectual bells. Allow its extra verbs a place to sow liberal gardens without ceilings. Give hedonistic water to these seeds until the funky vault of space kisses unbound intimations.

One day every freedom you hold sacred will be under attack! You're roaming, untamed difference from Third World countries underneath oppressive dictatorships can disappear, leaving only the limp conformist phallus. This is the brazen brimstone of our Constitution, a motivation by prurient protest...

I entitled this chapter true to the theme of protest, because music and the sexual sword proclaimed an eventful testament. I was abroad as a guest in France. My friends, a notorious artist who lives in the hillside castle, invited me for a theatrical soirée. It wasn't unusual to spot other artists, models, writers, paranoid psychologists, and many other freethinkers strolling about his castle.

The night I'll sketch (too abstract in tendril raised sensations to proudly flatter) happened during prime autumn. Pleasant fires cracked cozy warmth into vast halls and ballrooms. The Gothic stone fit grim contemplative marble columns blending in languishing solitary character.

We sipped elderly wine, spoke liberally on dulcet subjects, letting our sober intoxicated eyes linger on avant-garde wardrobes accentuating erogenous enchantment. I found myself studying each room by an aroused curious saunter, pausing at a high window to frame forests and cobblestoned paths, or mull over painting galleries.

During a stop at the banquet gathering, I met a woman whose presence pulled me. She emanated that stellar hook sinking into nuanced gravity, bleeding out sexual energy fields until recognizing seers advanced.

Recognition ushered me forward. She turned around just as I paused behind her, setting aside plump grapes on her steel plate. "Oh," she said, giving me her dark brown eyes. These eyes of hers "knew" me instantly, they searched, intelligently found... my heart beat time still.

Her black hair fell straight, curving close to pale milk cheeks. Her statement came out as a repetitive "o" from thin petal pink lips. "That sounds more expecting rather than newly acquainted," I said. "No, we've never met, but it is the perfect conditioning of events to meet someone novel yet familiar. What's your name?"

I told her my name. "And yours?" Popping a grape between those pink lips, she smiled. "Names defer. There's more meaning in mystery." I liked her evasive logic, her cleavage slanting dress -- ruffled black fabric against soft powder skin.

A well proportioned figure took a bare legged path down to closed toe black heels. The kind of erotically sophisticated high heels queens wore teasing peasants, baring only foot tops and arches.

Her height put her eyes on a level at my mouth, as if to reach high enough upon my stature to glean insight directly out my speaking signals. Every time I licked my lips I saw her peek. There were others around us, but our glue like gravity sectioned them off.

We were alone -- held by each other's metaphysical company like twin planets straddling the others black hole. The nameless woman drank dainty intakes of wine from her flute glass. "What do you do?", she asked, concealing her eagerness to put the pieces together.

"I am more done I'm afraid, but that also is a paradox, an aesthetic outlook. When I look outside, and being a writer, I do what brings eternal passion... I'm happy doing what eats at me with an exotic set of teeth. I noticed a spike in her heat upon hearing my revelation.

She put a manicured but not painted fingertip to her lips. "When there's proper cause, a psychologist should assume; however, it's an improper assumption that leads me to believe your writing might include a lot of sensual agony." "Thinking outside confined codes has its merit. You're right Mrs. Psychologist, the thrust of my art is very sensually outspoken, if not outright Lucipharian. Knowing the host of this ravishing castle, is it fair to say you're not here on a normal -- that you're not a normal, usual, regular practitioner of psychology?" "True enough," she answered.

"Tell us more." "Well, let's just say after spending a decade or more in my field I began to interpret consciousness through the lens of universal occult." "A decade. How can that be when you look 24?"

She smiled at my flattery, gracing me with the straight white teeth before going on. "It can be as it looks and far greater than what it flaunts. By opening up my screen I've invited a fresh complex psychic connection into ordinary empirical experience. You can call it a Lucipherian chapter."

All of a sudden, like an obligated cloudy paroxysm, she became distant. The strongest effect of this distance made my core feel as if a plug had been pulled. "I apologize for being short or disrespectful... not timely... I -- there's other things I'm here to do, so if you'll excuse me."

She started walking off, her heels clicking on 400-year-old stone. "Wait," I said keeping step, that chapter you spoke of, I want to write it. We -- "I know," she said mystically, "there is something between us. You are sublimation. I am an analyst. Between our beings is an energy like no other on earth... if we are meant to fit, you will find me. If you discover what joins -- you can claim me as you would write. I'll read your metaphor," she promised, in a lover's voice.

Struck silent, I watched her go as if she were a mere apparition. The way she spoke her last words left a twitching hardness in my pants. I didn't even know her name. I considered asking other guests if they knew her, but I decided it would offend my pride. Plus, she talked to no one else but me.

Women attempted to draw my cupid's arrow. They raised an eyebrow, switched their hips, or smiled like they would savor nibbling my balls. There were actually quite a few men who cast their line and hook also, but both sexes received mutual indifference from me. I'm sure I looked removed, which I was, pacing about head down.

Everyone present knew we were free to explore the many delights that lurked in the castle. My friend the host might pop-up anywhere himself, and in fact he was famous for tip-toeing around in robes and masks. He believed all rooms should be open, every door unlocked... one could expect anything materializing and spying.

Lost in burning ashes of the escapist woman I met, I soon found myself walking along an opulent, carpeted hall. The hall was lit by sconces on the walls where flames coiled soundless. She was a torch in the middle of a séance, and in my darkness outside of her, I thoughtfully tried reviving her fire.

How clandestine discovery whispered, what shady tempting outline metaphor described in the furnace of my mind's mental mass. I almost stumbled on them, but the giddy coaching of the painter gave them away. He was naked, except for a red wizard hat; paint marks on his upper body.

Near him, on the floor, a naked blonde in yellow satin heels knelt giving a mouth-fuck to a muscular Italian wearing a gladiator helmet. He was well hung, thick, and held a red pitchfork in one hand, the blonde's hair in the other.

The painter, who was erect himself, furiously brushed their fornication on his handheld canvas. He captured the blonde's blow job, bulging cheeks stretching to coalesce with the blooming head of the gladiator's python... golden, violently fisted hair, prostrate knees.

I kept moving and they didn't stop to acknowledge their audience. Maybe I was only a chimera, a character, living by the gothic whim of a mad writer. "It can claim me as you would write... I'll read your metaphor." Her words came alive again, sounding vowing, like a presumptuous garble.

One of the chambers held a spectacle I would have been caught by had my brain not been so fixated. An orgy of leather, whips, collars, and bondage thrived exuberantly. While being ass fucked by a burly black man, a tall brunette whipped the writhing bare back of another woman bound to the back wall.

The brunette cursed eloquently. My vision swam in mental-metal rings, black leather, and masked humping. To high-heeled women ate each other's cunts in chain-bound 69.

There shoes had studded spikes around the ankles, and they were right underneath the brunette doing the flogging. The crack of the whip on flesh, the glazed animal fucking bodies moving in a rhythm, transported lucid blood rushing through my senses.

I kept going, witnessing other groups or couples indulging skin freedom at different extremes. Women with women, men on men, and odd gang bangs. My vampiric preoccupation with the pale psychologist in black, made extraordinary events seem mundane. As I made for antique spiral stairs going down, a bearded fellow in only boxer briefs and a suit coat complemented my suit.

He was leaning against French door frames cutting a green apple. His eye sockets were apathetic ...ragged. How could he "appreciate" my suit having such minimalistic eyes? Downstairs I squeezed between couples dancing to Chopin mixed with industrial. They were all beaming in attire.

Bowties winked as dipping shoulders swung to melody, dress hems kissed gold floors exposing the fleeting pairs of heels... pantyhose.

The entire ballroom was layered in gold. While some danced, others chatted over drinks soaking up each other's body heat. A pretty Spanish woman bit her bottom lip, curling a finger for me to join her under a golden flaked black marble column.

I only stared at the stitching of her stockings, thinking of them as fetish banners, feminine scented "sublimation." She didn't follow, but I saw her lacy black bodice and red ripple dress seek out like a darting predator. Plenty men would gladly part her folds to spew relieving pearl on her inferno.

My timely strides were of a meditative thinking man, one who would linger in dark knolls or on mossy stone benches. I was aimless by direction, my soliloquy forecasted my compass. Time must have flown like a slow-motion bird, languid but in warp speed.

I wandered down, up, around, my fluffed philosophical feathers warped indeed. The woman was privy to a vortex of power that had stored venom before and after her eccentric fangs sunk in.

Poignant sluggish musing, polished by frontal lobe exacerbation and yearning sensual doom pulled strings. What it meant to be "matched" like no other on earth, how many "actual" instances could you run into this "match?"

A cringing change was coming over America, a disastrous conservative hammer sent to smash and de-brain voyaging liberal brains. This woman... she was a mind goddess playing Titan neurotic organs, a fetching anachronistic nymph dipping her insinuating toe in mortal water. We could achieve miracles if our particle goals concentrated, bending space-time like an inter-dimensional soloist... acrobatic science...

What is that calming and tragic buzz I hear? In the distance it permeated as a sad rivet. The whole castle echoed its lovers' steppingstones sounds. Sometime during my excursion, the classical music embodied my thoughts, filling them with greater gusts, pin-pointed silken sentences that were so magnificent they turned to verse.

I was "drawn" to it, "sucked" into its calling abandonment of rigid normality. Something told me the answer to my daydream would be undressed for my enlightenment (too confounding to be rationally solved). The hall was darker than ever. The walls were aged knightly stone. Closer... the music became louder... keen. My hair did a handstand along my body as if hypnotized by the music.

It was a sweet crying violin! I recognized its dreary intellectual sharpness, and then, like a low extra tier, I heard the piano behind it. Realizing these instruments caused another, more pleasing unknowable to click. She was where the music was! I knew this at the deepest sensors of instinct, but my molding it as sure truth brought fear illusion could rob me.

I closed my eyes, willing this lucky crossing point as if every poker chip depended on it. Independent forces were at work, but my individual observation, my open net which sifted layers of its alien sands, work together as a "partner." The doorway where the music poured out was like an eyebrow raised in inquiry.

My eyes opened to a large leisurely court with black and white marble floors. I saw her standing, violin in hand, by colorful nude oil paintings and Greek statues. She looked directly at me, eyes of smoking destiny sliding her instruments piece to chords. The pianist was a Nordic blonde wearing a red dress and Devils mask. Her liquid blue eyes encouraged my entrance, divulging a pact of art and lust.

I approached closer, listening to them lure me with orchestral temptation. I thought they might be playing a Beethoven/Bach duet, but then the melodic bounty became Mozart, then dark, implacable to interpret in one genre. She was a psychologist and a talented violinist.

The broad ability enthralled me. Their combined finger to keys, hand to cherry wood caress made my skin nerves ripple. My cock stretched up word as if the violin she played was its transmittable masturbation. (What a dreadfully sexual tune her jacking off made.)

Then an eerie swipe brought my sensation up or down the piano stirred a subtle massage. The psychologist suggested brazen squints of eyes. She stopped playing and let her clothes fall to the floor with only a nimble push of fingers.

She dared my personal frequency again, back to playing her instruments in tandem. Her heels footsied her garments to the side. I couldn't tear my camera eyes from her naturally ample breasts, the large bright pink gum color of her nipples, hard succulent nipples.

Her pussy mound was smoothly bare, like waxen sugar before fruits lipped gates. I walked right into her nude spade, her sight and dimorphic song throwing me into forlorn passion. It was there I sank to my knees before her, clutching her garments to quivering lips like Madonna's divine blessing.

This iconographic idol was my Mary of "precognition" and she deserved to be worshiped before I punished her. So she could play, her stance was wide but had that haughty turned forward pose nobles knew well.

I reached for her lead foot, rubbing it like a pathological genie would emerge to serve me. She let me cradle it before my adoring mouth kissed arches and tops. I pulled away her shoe and covered it in licking praises. Her bare foot and toes were next. I sucked all five toes.

The faint scent of her skin tasted like the dew of earthy perfume on my tongue. Her toes pointed in my mouth, her souls lifted, exalting so I could lick oaths on them and around her ankle.

Licking her calves and thighs my hands (which I imparted with upmost possessive witchcraft) smeared running droplets of her slit nectar. She was wet, responsive, tied to the hedonism, multitasked for the "coming" onslaught. As my hands climbed, her flesh regions grew hotter, until they laid claim upon her sweltering, sacred flower.

Her cunt was a slippery moist cove of meat; it melted all over my fingers... She still worked her violin, still at a perfect mastery, a professional harmony. I only heard a small half-miss when my left thumb toggled her creamy pearl tongue, my right hand unfolding her vivid pink sex.

Her candy grove was a tight foaming lair of model sex. I kept eye fucking it. The pianist and I exchanged prurient literature of glances. She feasted but focused on her music, giving our acts balanced ambience. My finger caught saucy traction, penetrating her twat.

My other hand utilized her sappy lubricity spreading snatch honey into the tight clenching starfish of her asshole. I sunk my long middle finger up that parted sphincter lowering my mouth to her hot gash. The psychologist squirted in my mouth before I even antagonized her clit with teeth and tongue.

I sucked, flicked my darting mouth-piece, and licked into the gushing heart of her walls. It was then she set her violin down fully embracing our particle phase lock pact. My tongue pranced across her ass cheeks as skillfully as shape shifting ballet, it swept into her puckered city of Sodom and up to her breasts.

I stood cupping them, squeezing them, pinching her nipples with a sensitive twirl. Her tits were so heavy, they were life's maternal fetish, Oedipus drinking absinthe. She moaned and gripped my head, lifting me up face-to-face after a short amount of suckle.

Her rose mouth said, "Kiss me so I may eat my own love-musk, this will be the most powerful kiss." Our eyes became one vision, our lips collided, tongues like fateful buckles on the shoe of flame.

I couldn't get enough... We kissed death and life, external and internal energies... She tugged me over to the piano in a special condescending way. The woman playing never averted her eyes as she stripped me down naked.

I have never seen a woman scrutinize my body the feisty way she did. Her cognitive session eyes looked at me as if I were truly the voyeur, while she knelt before my pitter patter pecker (a very long fat pecker).

I longed for the entire universe to ogle our exhibition, because what ran through my blood and balls transcended worldly life. The conflict between earthly pleasures and intellectual quests, somehow became lovers in-of the same molecular womb.