Aurora - Blood Moon Tribute Pt. 08

The feast began. The old man picked at some carefully chosen titbits, waving the sheeps' heads through and likewise the eyes. At the same time, he tried to take the measure of his neighbours, watching without watching, billionaire elites of various stripe tucking into the repast.

Hands up, fingers snapping, seizing food off proffered trays, snuffling and grunting in porcine rapture, surrendering themselves to a frenzy of orgiastic excess, the gathered elites fell back on what they did best. Complete, unfettered, unabashed self-indulgence. Twenty minutes into the gustatory free-for-all, a guest behind Watson vomited noisily, copiously, and somewhat casually all over his neighbour, then wiped his mouth on a serving boy's pants and summoned a refill. While the ordure was quickly and discretely mopped up, another guest in the rear ranks dragged a belly dancer down into the food-strewn morass. A cheer went up as he tore off her clothes, then fucked her soundly amidst the debris, in a high-fidelity facsimile of the original festivities. As he watched, Watson saw a pair of serving boys pulled into the melee, where they were doused with wine and resoundingly buggered.

"His Majesty's hospitality not good enough for you, Munt?" a voice slurred. Watson looked to his right, to see the Brit, Devine. Rising to the dignity of the occasion, he clutched half a roast chicken in one hand, a mug of red wine in the other, his face plastered from ear-to-ear with chicken grease and food scraps, with wine stains like a haemorrhage down the front of his tunic.

Watson studied his vestigial fingernails, affecting boredom. "Did you say something, Devine? Or did someone just open their bowels?"

"Not getting into the spirit is a... ins... ins..." Devine's throat convulsed and he burped, "...insult you know. Pity if the king were to find out."

"What was it you were bringing to the table again, old boy? A set of steak knives, was it? Purloined from the officer's mess?"

"If by steak knives y... you mean access to top-level British intelligence. A golden key. Not that I have to impress you."

"Trust me, Devine, there is no chance of that."

Devine leant into Watson and almost toppled. "Drink the wine." he said, sliding Watson's mug across the floor. "Before I call shh... shecurity."

Shards of meat streaked past low overhead, fleeing the scene of a brawl nearby. Baton-wielding head-kickers waded into the fray, oddly incongruous in Kevlar helmets and ceremonial livery, to quell the ruckus with a few well-aimed blows. A poleaxed African the size of a refrigerator landed heavily on top of Devine, settling the issue of who should drink what and saving Watson the trouble.

All part of the plan- Salman the Great, presiding over the first Blood Moon feast, employed maximum inebriation- truth-telling he called it- among the 100 vanquished noblemen and generals. Only he and his hand-picked advisors remained sober, watching the revelry descend into debauchery while facades began to crumble and tongues started to wag. All done by listening devices these days, and secret police. Still, if ceremonial assault rifles weren't beyond the pale.

Sweets and pastries. Slave boys and serving girls with trays of finest Bolivian Dessert Powder. The end was near. Watson took a proffered length of hollow reed and helped himself to a line, barely registering the cranial blast over the other competing stimuli, a full-blown, balls-to-the-hall, unmitigated saturnalia, complete with punch-ups, food-fights, ass-rapes and unbridled screwing. Projectile vomiting of massive gastric overburdens, drunk old men embracing each other and declaring their love. The king and his men looked on, taking the measure of those who held back rather than those who succumbed. It was all going to plan, the Blood Moon Feast reincarnated in all of` its glory.

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Watson came-to, fleetingly stumped, wondering where he was. Or who, for that matter. He turned his head to find a stunning young girl sleeping soundly beside him, patently youthful, judging by the looks of her flawless skin. She lay on her side, hands under the pillow, her mouth open slightly, eyebrows elevated as if mildly surprised. Hung over and befuddled, the old man mentally snapped his fingers... Clarissa... Camille... Carmen... C... C... Cassandra.

Carefully, so as not to disturb her, or, for that matter, have his head topple off and fall to the floor, Watson climbed stiffly out of bed, then weaved his way into the bathroom, bladder backed up and back teeth just about swimming.

Snippets of last night's revelry began wandering back. The fights, the sex, the puking, the rounds of coke and weed. The king finally taking his leave amidst another mock fusillade. And Watson's faithful aide, Ali, leading him home, via a quick dip, fully clothed, in the party-lit swimming pool. Then a few minutes spectating while some guest underwent CPR, only to be spirited away to the purpose-built cool room when the doctor arrved and declared his party over.

Then home to Cassandra, waiting for him in bed. Just desserts. Rampant just desserts, with the hard-bodied, insatiable Argentinian model. And this was the very first full night of the Blood Moon. He was going to have to pace himself.

Arms encircled his waist as he stood peeing, and a firm, smooth mound pressed against his leg, followed by warm little breasts halfway up his back. "You should have woken me." Cassandra said. "I could have held him for you."

Watson clenched-off the flow and shook out a few last drops. "Good morning, Cassie. I don't suppose you saw who shat in my mouth?"

Cassandra squeezed toothpaste onto his brush and handed it over. "Perhaps you'd like to go down on me. Again. That might get rid of the taste."

Tempting, Watson thought, then looked at his wrist. He hadn't owned a watch in years, and the monstrosity he'd borrowed, one of Bragg's, was ticking away on the bedside chest. He flushed the toilet. "What's the time?"

"Not sure." Cassandra yawned, stepping around him. Dropping the seat, she sat down on the toilet to pee. "It must be around lunchtime."

"What time did I get in?"

"You don't remember?"

Watson rallied his inner Munt. "Whether I remember or not is none of your concern." he glared. "I asked you a question."

Tissue in hand, Cassandra looked at him, wide-eyed. "Sorry, sorry... I mean forgive me, Lord Gideon. It was sometime around two."

"That's better, Cassandra. And what did we do?"

Cassandra looked around in a quandary. Was the question merely rhetorical or had he forgotten? "My Lord. We had sex."

"We did." Watson nodded, deliberately omitting the interrogative inflexion.

Cassandra wiped herself off and committed the tissue to a watery grave. "You, me and Selene."

"Selene?"

"The Vietnamese girl."

"Ah. Of course." Watson said, nodding slowly. "And we..."

"Had... a really..." Cassandra said, nodding along, "... good time."

"Right!" Watson said, cursing the drug and alcohol-induced amnesia. "Of course we did. And if I'm not mistaken we'll do it again."

"Just as we planned." Cassandra concurred.

"Just as we planned." Watson nodded, washing his hands.

"This afternoon."

"This afternoon?"

Cassandra looked at him, spooked by the old man's tenuous focus. "My Lord," she said, "if you recall. We arranged to meet her down at the pool. Selene. Do you still wish to go?"

Watson dried his hands. The hangover felt like the two front wheels of a double-decker bus, full of football hooligans, and a skunk had dropped its guts in his oral cavity. Yet against all odds his penis was stirring- a true wonder of nature. "The pool?"

"For lunch." Cassandra reminded him, even though the pool rendezvous had been the old man's idea. "And a swim. Lots of girls will be down there. It's the Blood Moon, we're allowed to swim naked."

On hearing the magic world, Watson felt the sudden urge for a dip. And maybe something to eat. Vietnamese would be nice, and something South American. He weaved his way back into the bedroom and threw open the doors to the walk-in robe. "Where are my clothes?" he asked as Cassandra appeared at his elbow.

She peered at the racks of luxury threads, silks in the main, laid out in front of him. "Clothes, Lord Gee?"

"From last night."

"Umm..." Cassandra said and looked around, "Ali dropped by. They've already been disposed of."

"Disposed of? What do you mean?"

"Binned, My Lord. I think they take them down to the basement and burn them."

Watson looked at her aghast. "Burn them? What for?"

Cassandra looked at him, stumped. What else would they do with clothes, worn once by members of the elite? Cast them off to the hoi polloi? Wash them to be worn again? The mere thought was enough to make a Travelling Wife shudder. "Let me find something for you."

The old man bit-back his tree-hugging, greenie, environmentalist dismay. Burnt? After a single wearing? Those threads were worth thousands. "What should I wear?"

Cassandra shook out a long, loose-sleeved silk kimono, titanium-grey embossed with tiny silver chrysanthemums. While he tied the sash, idly wondering if it might be used to pin any errant erections, Cassandra ferreted-out a conical straw hat. Up on tiptoes, she settled it on his head and he just as quickly tipped it off. "I am not wearing that silly hat."

"Why not?" Cassandra asked, genuinely surprised. "Selene wears one. She says for a climate like this they're awesome."

"Well I'm not Selene. I'm an old Western male. And a rich one at that. What will the others think?"

"Others?"

Watson wanted to say, 'Rich bastards', but instead replied, "VVIPs."

Cassandra looked at him blinking, then doubled over slapping her knees. "Oh Lord Gee," she cackled, "naughty boy. You really had me going there. 'What will the others think?' As if you'd care."

Once again, the old man had to hastily twiddle his frame-of-reference. As if he would. He was a billionaire, a member of the elite. An apex-predator, ruler of the world. He could swan down to the pool with chicken drumsticks jammed in his ears, and a palm frond up his butt sweeping the path behind him, and the sight would elicit no more than a passing glance. "What about the pool?" he asked, slipping his feet into leather sandals. "If I go for a swim?"

Cassandra cocked her head, like a dog just asked about the theory of relativity.

"Right. I guess I'll just go in naked."

"I think that's only fair." Cassandra quipped, shimmying into her gown, a sartorial travesty of violet gauze, so transparent it merely drew attention to her nipples and slit. "Everyone else will."

Dressed for the outing, they stepped into the hall. As Cassandra turned left, bound for the palace's central lifts, Watson caught her hand. "This way." he said, jerking his head in the direction of the exit to the outside. "Let's take the stairs."

"Naww..." Cassandra pouted, "the stairs?" Outside in the heat of the day, when they could make the descent in an air-conditioned metal box instead, without lifting a foot?

"It helps to centre your mind." Watson said, as Cassandra slipped her arm through his elbow.

"Is that a good thing?"

Watson looked down at the top of her bare head. "It's essential. For a calm and balanced life."

Cassandra looked up at him. "How does it work?"

"Well, it keeps you in the moment. You can use the stairs to concentrate on 'now'. Focus on your breathing. At the same time feel the flex of your leg-muscles, the articulation of your knees. We're single-channel processors. If you focus on one thing, outside thoughts can intrude, but focus on two, you're pretty well at capacity. Memories of the past, illusions of the future... they can't get through."

A doorman let them out onto the landing. The stairway was covered during daylight hours, shading pedestrians from the direct glare of the sun, but the outside world was saturated with light. Patterns leapt out of the amorphous stonework, all squiggles and whorls, the monotonous tan sandstone almost swirling with iridescence. The usually garrulous Cassandra fell silent, as the old man counted the steps, tuning-in to the contractions of his muscles, the swing of his joints, the ebb and flow of air in and out of his thorax.

In no time at all they reached the level of the pool terrace, and as they turned onto the landing, Cassandra shook herself out of her trance. "That was amazing, Lord Giddy. I feel so... so... so centralised. Have you invented any other techniques?"

"Invented? I didn't invent that. It's been around thousands of years." Which was exactly what Lord Woodrow-Munt would never admit. Given half a chance, he'd take credit for the creation of everything from meditation to the Big Bang, and sue anyone who challenged his claim. "But yes, there are many things I could teach you, had I the time and you the means to learn."

They strolled onto the terrace, Watson in his kimono and conical hat, Cassandra bare-foot in her cling-wrap. Watson in tow, she mad a bee-line for a poolside-setting, a white, wrought-iron table and 3 cushioned wrought-iron chairs, under a shade cloth with cool-air vents surrounding them. Halfway there, Cassandra commenced jumping up and down, waving.

Watson looked around for the subject of her greeting. Instead he clapped eyes on a mini-orgy, under a gazebo at the deep end, three fat, flabby billionaires- 2 white guys and an African, banging a quartet of gorgeous young travellers, in what resembled the set of a porn movie minus the cameras. Leading him to a chair, Cassandra sat him down then skipped to the water, extending her hand. Watson looked away, surreptitiously watching the gang-bang, and when he looked back again his jaw hit the pavers.

Smiling from ear-to-ear, Cassandra helped a stark-naked young female up out of the pool. Asian, a shout-out to Salman's Mongol division, with skin the colour of sun-warmed honey, utterly unblemished apart from the odd little freckle, and a tiny white scar, memento of a long-healed navel piercing. Cassandra's size or perhaps a shade smaller, she had the sort of proportions venerated by artists and porn-directors alike. Cupcake tits, each a scrumptious mouthful, flat belly and low, wide hips. And, even standing with her feet together, a three finger thigh-gap with its telltale cleft presently dribbling runoff from the pool. From the eyebrows down, bereft of body hair, not so much as a hint of pubic five-o'clock shadow. Smooth as a baby's bot, denuded in the Bird House, by royal decree, using cutting-edge technology.

Watson's eyes struggled upwards to her nipples, stiffly erect, the colour of chocolate and no doubt as sweet. Finally reaching her face, he found her smiling from ear-to-ear, looking at him, her eyes, unlike Sook's narrow slits, wider and slightly upturned. They were irresistibly cat-like, the irises almost amber, courtesy the French Far East Expeditionary Corps, and a Dien Bien Phu defender, 3 generations ago. Having trained in ballet for years as a child, she failed to develop beyond her early teens and, stranded on the cusp, had to fall back on modelling as an alternative. An archetypal Travelling Wife if ever there was one, chosen out of thousands according to a strict set if criteria, by order of His Majesty the king.

Shaking out a fluffy, blue-striped towel, Cassandra gave her pal's long black hair a vigorous rub-down, leaving it still-damp and tangled, hanging over her shoulders.

"You remember Selene, don't you?" she piped. "From last night?"

Selene bowed, still beaming. "My Lord." she said. "It's good to see you again. And thank you so much for a most wonderful time."

Watson pulled the fabric of his kimono over the sudden eruption, pinning his prick in place with a forearm. "The pleasure was all mine, if I recall." he replied. Which he couldn't, god-dammit. Grounds for swearing-off drugs and alcohol for life.

Cassandra stepped behind her and slid her hands under Selene's arms, then cupped her tiny breasts and commenced pinching her nipples. Selene bit her lip, hiking her butt up, grinding it against Cassandra's pubic mound. Cassandra put her lips to her ear. "Hungry, Sel?"

Selene shuddered, as goosebumps sprang up on her goosebumps. "Depends what's on the menu."

"I think you know."

"Mmm hmm. And maybe His Lordship would like to join us again."

"For dessert." Cassandra confirmed, arching her eyebrows. "What do you say? Some food first and maybe some Champagne. Lord Gee? Later? Might we trouble you?"

While Watson sat, opening and closing his mouth, cock struggling to break out into the public domain, Cassandra raised a hand and summoned a lurking steward. "Waiter! Come here! Come and take our order."

" 'Come here, please'." Watson glared.

Cassandra looked at him. "Le ruego me disculpe? I mean... beg your pardon?"

The uniformed steward, sweating it out in a crisp white jacket over a long-sleeved white shirt, and smart dark slacks with a scarlet cummerbund, came to a halt, hovering over them. Cassandra looked at the old man. "Lord Gee?"

Watson jumped as if stung. He'd been flicking glances at Selene's nipples, watching them subside into little, brown cones, like little rubbery volcanos with tiny, light stipples surrounding the tip. They just looked so delicate, the urge to lean over and suck them was threatening to blow his self-restraint and cover in one fell swoop. "Sorry, what?"

"Lunch, My Lord?"

"Oh... right. Seafood allergy, girls?"

Selene and Cassandra swapped a glance. Why the hell should he care? Unless it was some sort of defect. One, if discovered, that would have them sent packing. Eyes wide, they shook their heads.

"Fresh crayfish." Watson said, looking at the steward, then bit down hard on the instinctive, 'Please.' "In a green coconut curry. Mild. On a bed of saffron rice. With crisp fried noodles and bok choi, lightly blanched. And two bottles of French Champagne."

The steward nodded, taking the order by memory. Backed up by a listening device embedded in the the table.

"How long will that take?"

"Ten minutes, Excellency."

"And not one moment longer." Watson rumbled. "Tell the kitchen. I'm a very important man. And I have a very important meeting this afternoon. Ten minutes and not a minute longer, or they can kiss their jobs goodbye. Now, Champagne. Quickly."

There was a shout from the end of the pool where two travellers, face-to-face being rogered from the rear, faked simultaneous orgasms. Cassandra and Selene twisted in their seats, revealing Selene's supple back, her muscles tensed and bone structure revealed- shoulder blades and vertebrae, ribs moving under the skin. While the girls watched the pool-end performance, Watson eyed her little tits in stunning profile, mammary perfection, taut skin over firm glandular tissue.

A presence loomed at his side and the steward cleared his throat. "Excellency." he said, brandishing a bottle while a co-worker set the table, 3 flutes front and centre, awaiting Champagne.

The cray, delivered in ten minutes on the dot, was good, he had to admit, but nowhere as good as something snatched kicking and flapping off the reef, by a skinny little tomboy in striped blue bikini bottoms. Then cooked over a barbeque on the rear-railing of his beloved Aurora, while the sun went down as they stood, hugging, the little feral blonde in her pink hoodie and boardshorts, a freshly rolled joint waiting downstairs. "Is it to your liking, Lord Gee?"

On the brink of sinking into maudlin sentimentality, Watson looked up. Cassandra was peering at him with an expression of wifely concern, her shapely chest protected by a bib. "I've had better." he sniffed. The gospel truth.

"I'm gonna have to go on a diet when I get home." Selene giggled, picking daintily at a morsel of tender white flesh. Neither girl was exactly gorging herself... devotion to duty... twenty-four seven till the festivities were over. After four or five mouthfuls, Cassandra pushed her plate aside and downed the rest of her Champagne. Bending, she picked up the little silk handbag that went with her everywhere. Unclipping the hasp, she delved into its depths and extracted a slim cigarette. A-grade weed, courtesy the Moon.