The Institute of Hedonism

I've heard so many stories going around about the Henri Lannele Institute: we are part of a global conspiracy to take over the world; and/or we engage in nonstop orgies. I can honestly state that our only conspiracy is out in the open: we exist to relieve billionaires of their excess money. As to the orgies... as in the old children's game I would say "warm, but not quite there yet."

Henri Lanelle inherited a rundown hotel outside of Lyon in the early 1920s. He promptly refurbished it and started its endless expansion. He was an unabashed naturist and hedonist and his original version of the resort was something of a nudist colony. He became bored with that concept and turned the place into a sort of salon, attracting some of the most famous artists and writers in the world. The fact that nudity was still encouraged in the resort's pools and spas was certainly a major attraction.

Henri was a man of mystery who appeared out of nowhere circa 1920. He is supposed to have wandered into the decrepit hotel about then and announced to the aging owner that he was going to turn it into "the Gem of Europe." Rumors had him as a deserter from the Great War or even as an guilt-ridden arms merchant. F. Scott Fitzgerald is supposed to have visited the salon in 1924 and Henri's murky past may have even inspired Fitzgerald's final version of Jay Gatsby.

Just before the world economy took a nosedive, Henri noticed that extremely wealthy people were among his frequently nude guests. They enjoyed the chance to unwind and especially to undress in the resort's famed privacy and anonymity. Henri took their amusing statements that they had "too much time and too much money" seriously. He suggested an "Institute" that would see to distributing that excess money to worthy causes. And thus, the legendary Henri Lannele Institute was born.

There were tough times, but Henri saw his Institute through it all. Although, when the resort was nearly taken over in the 1930s by a certain people who saw themselves as the most perfect beings on Earth, the ever-wise Henri saw the writing on the wall. He shut things down, he saw to the safety of his staff, and he temporarily relocated to the United States, where he made many new extremely wealthy friends.

According to an unauthorized biography, Henri's resort was turned into the official headquarters of a German general. Henri was supposed to have had contacts in the French Resistance. His famous (and possibly apocryphal) comment: "Bullets if you must, but please no bombs in my building!"

After the war, Henri and his Institute were secretly instrumental in the rebuilding of a damaged world. Things had to be kept secret because Henri would never give up on the nudity, hedonism and sensuality that his private guests enjoyed so much-- even in the strait-laced 1950s.

Henri died in 1959 and he wisely left his Institute to a consortium of like-minded individuals. They continued his twin causes: relieving the wealthy of their money, and letting them indulge themselves naked and free in his pools and spas.

How did I get so intimately involved in all this? I was such a rising star in the world of international finance that I felt that I had already peaked in my early forties. All of the traveling, the late night billion euro deals, the luxury suites, and even the luxury escorts were no longer meaningful. I had burned through two marriages on my way to the top. Now there was nowhere else to go.

Then the President of the Institute was waiting for me one morning. An elegant, stunning, silver-haired woman in her early sixties with an enigmatic smile was sipping her tea at my usually private Bern hotel breakfast nook. I knew who she was and I knew she was once an international playgirl who had inherited hundreds of millions from her late and very much older husband.

She had once been described as the "more girlish, more accessible Sophia Loren." I saw a beauty in her that had hardly faded-- it was more set in like a painting by an Old Master.

"How would you like to take a cut in pay and work directly under me?" She looked me up and down and gave me that smile and I knew that I was probably lost before I even started to consider her offer.

My first interview went extremely well. I had the distinct feeling that I had been watched for a while, and I mean literally watched. Did they know about my occasional dalliances with the wives and even the comely daughters of some of my clients? And what about the escorts?

I never felt that I was being blackmailed-- far from it. I felt that this was an organization that was meant for people like me who enjoyed the finer things in life-- including the finest ladies-- and were still dissatisfied.

I think my baptism by fire occurred during my second interview. I was instructed to undress completely and grab a towel-- if necessary-- and join the President poolside. Well, the towels provided were hardly large enough to wrap around me, so I emerged from the changing room naked and with said towel foolishly held in front of me.

"Sorry you're still uncomfortable," said a familiar voice, and I turned to see my probably new boss smiling at me, stark naked. This was a woman probably twenty years my senior with a remarkably healthy bosom that was only drooping a little. She was very well-groomed between her still firm thighs with a triangular thatch of black fur shot through with silver.

She gave me an even bigger smile, knowing that I had just thoroughly checked her out. "Allow me to show you some more areas of interest," she said innocently. I blushed.

The Institute's pools were legendary. There were thirteen of them, with about half indoors under tempered glass that created a year round greenhouse effect. In warmer weather the transition from indoors to outdoors wasn't even noticeable. And everywhere there were private little nooks surrounded by judiciously placed trees and plants.

We were standing by the magnificent main pool, crowded with perhaps one hundred mostly naked men and women. Some were in the pool, most were lounging around. All were well-attended by naked servers of both sexes, identifiable by their white scarves.

Samantha (the President) looked at me clinging to that towel and said "now, this really won't do" and then she whisked my one covering away. I was so startled at my potential new boss stripping me naked in public that I did nothing to cover my penis which was angled upward at nearly 90 degrees.

She looked directly at it for what seemed to me to be much too long. "That's to be expected at first," she finally stated. "You have nothing to be ashamed of-- obviously! You'll get used to all of our silly nudity after a while." And then we proceeded with the tour.

I looked over just then and recognized a famous international film star. When she was a starlet, she had made a notorious picture in which she was nude in practically every scene. I had "pleasured myself" to those scenes during some of my lonely, misspent youth. She looked over at me, took note of my condition, met my eyes, smiled, and then returned to her conversation.

This was the new life offered to me if I accepted this position. How could I resist?

Within two months I had sold my New York City brownstone, had shipped all my worldly goods-- literally on a ship-- and was now an American ex-pat in France.

Soon, I was thrown into a dizzying mix of business meetings on Zoom and in person-- with all of our clothes on-- to the like of casual conversations in the nude by the pool with an equally naked princess who had just turned eighteen and was inheriting a fortune.

Two months in, I hosted an awards ceremony for our largest donors to our world hunger campaign. There was a woman who had started her own internet auction site while still in college-- and sold it years later for some outrageous sum.

When she stepped up on stage to accept her award, our eyes locked. The rest of the ceremony, our eyes were continually seeking out the other. To describe her as a beautiful, blue-eyed, curvy and leggy long-haired brunette would be like describing the Sun as a really nice, warm star.

We spent the first thirty minutes or so of the after party trying to maneuver ourselves toward each other. An anthropologist should have been there, recording what was to be our initial mating dance.

When we finally disentangled ourselves from all our other admirers, I took her hand and said "Hello again."

She said "finally!". We looked at each other and we laughed. She told me afterward that the next thing that she really wanted to say was: "why don't you give me your keycard. I'll be waiting for you, naked."

Instead we continued laughing and talking and gradually making our way out of the party, down the hallway, and up the elevator to my suite.

For some reason we took it extremely slow. Every button unbuttoned, every zipper unzipped would result in the softest of kisses on every newly exposed bit of skin. I think it took well over an hour to undress each other and we went from standing to kneeling to lying down on my living room rug in front of the floor to ceiling window with a view of the dark night and all of the stars in it.

When I carried her to my bed, I kissed my way all over her body from her head to her toes until I ended at her sweet pussy. I opened her up with my fingers and tasted her as if she was a bottle of the finest wine.

She guided me inside and positioned her body expertly on one of my pillows for the right angle of entry. I lowered my hardness so deep into her softness and then I grabbed her by her sweet round bottom and lifted her up and even closer to me.

I still thrust in and out slowly, enjoying how her inner muscles kept trying to pull me in deeper, kept trying to keep me inside.

And just when I thought that neither of us could stand any more, I stopped. I was deeper inside her, harder and thicker and longer than I had ever been with any woman before.

"I'm falling in love with you," I said.

"I've already fallen," she answered.

I laughed softly. "You're my fallen woman!"

She suddenly wrapped her arms her legs her feet around me and squeezed me until it hurt. "Then take me hard and fast and fuck me hard and fast and make me cum over and over until I scream!"

And so I did.

* * *

We were inseparable for the next five days. Callie canceled her flight back to Heathrow and made up excuses about missed connections, bad weather and tummy problems. Reality had to rear its ugly head eventually: I was still practically running the place as Samantha traveled nearly full time.

Eventually Callie moved some of her things into my suite; I moved some of my things into her converted pub in Brighton. Within a few months we asked ourselves what the hell we were doing and we got married.

Callie tried her best to adjust to the near requirement that everyone get nude and let it all hang out at the pool. She had a thing about not sharing any of her lower tier private areas-- and that included her very fine bottom. We did find a secluded nook not far from the main pool and made it our own.

It never failed that whenever I convinced Callie to let me untie her bikini bottoms (ties are meant to be untied) and let her "bum" get some sun, one of our nude wait staff would find us. It was-- unfortunately for both of us-- invariably a male. He would provide cold drinks and ask if we needed anything else. As soon as he left, Callie would indignantly pull up her bottoms.

"Was he looking? Did he get an erection?" she would ask. When I asked why either of these events were important to her she would blush and say: "Never mind!"

Before I go on and describe the Institute's spa area and especially their sensual massage, I must relate what I noticed developing in my interactions with women, and in the responses of the two most important women in my life.

As V. P., I was expected to schmooze with the rich and the powerful who were enjoying all that we had to offer-- which was especially our pool. And that meant getting naked and talking projects and financing with other naked people.

Especially naked women.

I never felt the same draw to the newly adult, newly wealthy 18-year-old princesses and the naked on streaming TV starlets as I did to the older naked beauties. Perhaps it was their combination of maturity and power: these were women who commanded royal families, or international corporations or entire countries.

Naked by the pool, they seemed to be as fascinated with me as I was to them. If we weren't already in a relatively private setting, they would take my hand or put their arm around my waist and lead me nude. They would then sit or lie back so casually with their legs open, applying sunscreen to their sweet breasts as if offering them to me and then on down to their rounded bellies, framed or unframed with curly fur.

We would be intensely discussing projects such as how to bring more technology to India or more food to Africa, and they would move closer to me. Their bare legs would rub against mine; they would even playfully run their impressively long and manicured fingernails up and down my thighs. And they would get the biggest, wickedest smiles at my impressive reaction.

I felt so guilty after my last encounter with a very sexy Prime Minister. So first I went to my boss.

Samantha heard me out and seemed amused. "You're 'confessing' to me first, instead of your bride. I find that... interesting."

She turned to her desktop and started typing away. I was absurdly concerned that she was filing some kind of report on me: instead, she was printing one.

I watched her get up and walk to her printer. She was 61, as far as I knew. She was wearing a tight pencil skirt that was slit behind her knees. And I was getting aroused.

Sam started out as a true European party girl. Dancing naked in fountains was only the beginning. She naturally attracted the attentions of more and more powerful men. They put her in their films; they took scandalous pictures of her nude.

Then she met the multi-millionaire who changed everything. He recognized something in her, as she did in him. He was way too old of course, but they were madly in love. Then he died. He was one of last original members of the 1959 consortium that took over the Institute.

She sat back down. She had noticed my painfully obvious interest. Samantha had remarried; she was happy-- she just had her own version of an 'open marriage.'

Sam made a show of licking her lips and giving my bulge a deliberately lascivious leer. "Now THAT is one of the reasons we hired you."

"Because I'm horny?" I bounced back. "Because after almost a year, I still can't control my erections?!"

She slid the report over to me. "These are the fees that we've attributed to all of your work in getting all of these players to open up their wallets and their checkbooks and play with us. That's the total--" she tapped with her pen-- "and I circled in red the percentage that came from... female pocketbooks."

For a moment I was stunned. I arched my eyebrows and asked (I hoped facetiously): "You mean you hired me for my looks?!"

Sam leaned back and laughed. She put her hand on my knee.

"I have women asking for you; wondering when they're going to get their turn with you-- naked by the pool. You, my sweet man, are legendary: you and your... uncontrollable member!" I blushed.

"I know what you're thinking," she said.

She caught me staring at her legs, still fantastic. I sincerely hoped she wasn't really a mind reader.

"It's not whoring yourself out if you enjoy it-- look at me!" she demanded. I already was but now I locked onto her deep blue eyes. "I started out forty years ago dancing naked for the paparazzi in fountains. Now, if there's an earthquake, billionaires call me in the middle of the night, crying, begging me to take their money."

Samantha loosened her grip on my knee but started tracing a line with her fingers almost all the way up my thigh. She grinned wickedly at my reaction-- she could practically trace my rock hard penis with her eyes, even through two layers of clothing.

"I'm noticing something else," she said.

"I'm sure you are," I replied, trying to control my breathing.

"I'm noticing," she continued, "that my slightest touch on those masculine thighs of yours is enough for you to open up your long legs for me... and that's with your clothes on! I could order you to be nude from now on for our meetings-- I'm certain that that way I could get a real grip on your problem!"

I closed my eyes halfway and sighed as she took her hand away.

"The thing for me is and was-- she concluded, "the thing that got me through it all-- I've absolutely loved every single minute of it!"

There was such a surge of emotion mixed with a nearly painful desire to just get everything out at that moment that, if I wasn't happily married, I would've done the movie scene of clearing everything off her desk and roughly fucked her right then and there.

Now there was nowhere else to bring my still unsatisfied guilt trip except into the arms of my wife. Yes, I was that stupid-- or that brave-- or that much in love.

It was that rare night that we were both done with work by 7. Callie had just returned from traveling for her foundation, and I had just seen the President off on a rare (for her) holiday.

We were famished and gobbled dinner; tired and stressed so we jumped in the shower together. By 9:05 (or so) we were relishing the fact that we were in bed, naked, and in each other's arms.

So of course I decided to confess:

"That sexy PM? You know-- the one on the cover of Vogue? she kept rubbing her knee on my thigh until a certain something popped up."

"Her knee, huh?" said Callie.

"It was a very pretty knee," I explained.

She disentangled herself and propped herself up on one arm. "So, is this a confession, or do you want me to be jealous because beautiful women want to see you erect?"

I had to consider my response carefully. "I always want to be honest with you and honestly, I'm feeling guilty-- because I liked it!"

"Oh my dear sweet man" she sighed. "If having beautiful women desire you and touch you makes you feel guilty, then I should join that club."

I was astounded. I had to think about what she had just said. "You've been with..."

"Women!" she concluded. "Just because they're so different from men... well, from most men."

"What do you mean?" I thought just a moment ago we were ready for sleep. Now I was wide awake.

"The way you love me, is the way of women. Don't be offended!" she exclaimed.

"I'm not!" I didn't think so...

"You spend so much time touching me, kissing me, tasting me. You make me cum one two or three times before you really get started." She paused. "You are like a beautiful woman magically transformed into the most beautiful man. With you, satisfaction of the penis is not your primary goal. When it is... penis time... you always find such creative ways to use it that you always astound me."

We were silent for a while. Now do you see why I had to marry this woman? These were the types of her observations; the rich content of our everyday conversations.

"But," she added, "if you really want to find some relief from these frustrating, random encounters, you should really consider the spa's sensual massages."

I stared at her. "Aren't those with totally nude masseuses?"

"Yes my dear, I know you're still shocked by all of this, but... I've availed myself of their services; there are certain 'no fly zones,' and they technically don't include the legendary 'happy ending.'"

This was almost too much to process: my oh so shy wife had not only been with women before, she was currently getting erotic nude massages from them.

Callie broke the tension by asking me what I was thinking about doing to that sexy, naked PM, or better yet, demonstrating it on Callie. I knew it was an intentional distraction but then, I'm a very weak man when it comes to those matters.