Fritz and Sandra grew closer; feeling irresistibly attracted, to him. I was their alibi allowing them to resist the urge to get up just as they had learned when they were young puppies in social life wanting to be distinguished dogs. The urge overcome, Fritz released their tension by laughing. It sounded like a pig grunting. “Tu t’appelles Pavel.”, he repeated in an attempt to make the joke his own – adding hesitatingly: “Nius has had his best times, don’t you think?”. “No.”, I answered, “Or rather. I couldn’t compare his times.” “I meant, …”, he went on, but I did not muster the attention span to hear his no doubt masterly retort.
Sandra just sat there and didn’t listen either. She was showing every sign of puppy love and, braless, this was accentuated twice in a way that did capture my attention. What Fritz meant will remain a mystery. Nipples are, most of the times, more fascinating than meanings. Her nipples pointed in the same direction of her gaze, which made me also look at Guido who, meanwhile, was greeting his hostess in the garden. She dismissed those paid to inform the peoples with a lordly gesture. Money she had abundantly, but no money could buy her the benefit of being a host making refined gestures. Guido kissed her hand. The flashing mob came to a final orgasm after which they were chased up the stairs and out of the house by those paid – hand on ear – by, little, Aurelia Bensone. A brief electric moment underlined the exclusivity now acutely felt by those selected by invite. Guido put one foot forward to gently almost-genuflect and kiss Aurelia’s hand until the flashes died out. Then he grinned and stood up, tall, opening his arms for her to jump in. Some isolated flashes were made in full retreat. Together they made a half turn, his rough coal-shovel hands unashamedly groping her thighs. Another flash. Another. From the house photographer, no doubt. A last one. Looks became serious again. Back to business as usual. Feet on the ground. Over to the order of the night.