Mme. LaFontaine’s Palais du Sport

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My valet Octavius came into the drawing room with a silver tray in his hand. “This was just delivered, master,” he said in a quiet voice. I thought about the many years of training it took for a Negro slave to learn cultured tones. Octavius was admired throughout all of New Orleans as the perfect example of a gentleman’s valet. I took the envelope from him. With my ivory handled letter opener I slit the flap. A heavy card of fine linen paper was inside. Drawing it out I saw the inscription in delicate feminine writing: “M. Deveraux, Parcbeau Plantation, by hand.” Curious, I turned the card over and read with great delight.

“Mme. LaFontaine has the pleasure to invite M. Deveraux to a special evening of sport and conversation for a select group of gentlemen, Friday the 7th at 9 PM.”

There was nothing I enjoyed more than making the trip across Lake Pontchartrain to New Orleans to visit madame LaFontaine’s Palais du Sport. It contained all that the gentry of New Orleans needed for their entertainment. There we could find Cuban cigars, French wines, Scotch whiskey, good gambling and exciting women. Unquestionably worth the trip. I rang the bell and told Octavius, “We will be going to the city this weekend.” He bowed low and said nothing. Somehow I had the feeling he already knew that, although the invitation had been sealed.

Friday afternoon the steam launch he had ordered appeared at our dock. With Octavius carrying my baggage, I boarded and sat down in the bar for a whiskey and soda as we crossed the lake. We soon reached the city. The hack carriage I had ordered was waiting for me. I settled in as Octavius loaded the bags, and told the driver “Mme. LaFontaine’s Palais du Sport.”

“Yassuh,” he answered, “Miss Marie’s Sporting House it is!” I winced. I knew the population of New Orleans sometimes used that vulgar appellation, but it did not suit the gentlemen I knew would be in attendance tonight.

When we arrived, I saw other carriages carrying the power and influence of New Orleans pulling up. I tipped my hat to Judge Beaulais, M. Delacroix of the bank, Senor Martinez who controlled the Santa Fe trade, Mr. Jackson the lawyer, and Colonel Robais from the Presidio. The thought crossed my mind that the biggest part of all the power and money in New Orleans was in the control of the six men gathering here tonight. I was glad I had thought to equip myself with sufficient gold for the evening’s activities.

Octavius went off to join the other body servants and hack drivers in the shanties across the creek. I had given him enough money to ensure that he could enjoy himself with the other slaves. “A well treated servant is an obedient servant,” is my motto.

We six men entered Mme. LaFontaine’s parlour and settled down in the easy chairs. We noted that the chairs were arranged in a semi-circle, and the far portion of the room had been curtained off with heavy velvet hangings. As we helped ourselves to cigars and ordered our libations, there was speculation about what this might portend. We all assumed that there was a stellar entertainment planned and also that there would be opportunity for sporting wagers among us. But we did not know what madame had planned for us.

Gregoire, the piano player, and one of the most talented slaves in New Orleans, entered and began soft classical music. Then Madame Marie LaFontaine swept into the room. She is well known as a stunning beauty, dressed in the finest silk and satin and wearing a feather boa. Her maid copies all the latest French styles as soon as the fashion dolls cross the ocean wearing them. Her blonde hair flowed down over her magnificent bosom, which was delightfully displayed by her decollete gown. She had a long ivory holder in which she smoked one of those strange little paper wrapped things that are becoming known as cigarettes. Her face was heavily rouged, her eyes were shaded with kohl, and her lips tinted red. She was quite the most gorgeous beauty in New Orleans.

We all knew her story. She had been the belle of her season at the age of eighteen, attracting attention from the eligible beaux of the entire region. That is, until it was found that Mirabelle Plantation was heavily mortgaged and the bank had called in her father’s note. The family was thrown into ruin. Her father and elder brother committed suicide, and the other brother left for parts unknown. Miss Marie was left with nothing but her notorious good looks and a knowledge of all the secrets of everyone from all of the old families of society.

Somehow she wheedled a loan from M. Delacroix’s bank to buy this house by the river, and soon she discreetly let it be known among the gentlemen of society that they were welcome there. After more than fifteen years in business, she was a lady of wealth, although of course not received in what was called good company. Of all the gentlemen who patronized her establishment regularly, we six were the cream of the crop. We eagerly awaited her announcement.

“Mes beaux messieurs,” she exclaimed, “it is so kind of you to join fethiye escort my soiree. I have the most exciting announcement to make to the gentlemen of New Orleans, and I thought you six should be the first to know. It is my delight tonight to present to you my newest girls.”

With that, the curtains at the far end of the room were opened, and we all gasped at the seven beautiful girls it revealed. Each stood in the famous Kore pose of the Greek statues, arms at their sides and the left leg extended forward. They were all still as if carved in stone, all had their eyes downcast, and all were completely naked. Their graceful pose displayed their breasts openly and allowed their pussies to peek gently from between their legs. Diaphanous cloths barely covered parts of their bodies. Two Negro men, clad only in leopard skin loincloths, stood on each side of the tableau, fanning huge ostrich feather fans which lightly moved the soft fabrics over the girls’ skin.

“I present my treasures to you,” said Madame. “You will find their names easy to remember. The first is Annemarie.” She pointed to the girl on the left end, a Negress of magnificent proportions, with large breasts surmounted by prominent nipples of deepest black. Her pose allowed us to see that her pubic hair was black and curly, and the dark lips of her pussy peeked out of it. Every man in the room gazed in admiration.

“Next is my Belle,” she continued. Belle was what we all recognized as a Creole of color, half white and half black. She had beautiful chocolate breasts tipped with nipples almost maroon in color, surrounded by large puffy areolae. Her stomach was flat and her legs firm. Her pubis was shaved clean, a glossy brown color above the darker brown lips of her pussy. She showed the best attributes of girls of both the races that made her heritage. All of us were well aware of the common saying, “Every plantation wife knows the origin of the half-breed children on every estate except her own.”

None of the girls moved a muscle, as the music played and the fans slowly stirred the air. “And now little Clarisse,” said our hostess. All the men in the room knew exactly the fine distinctions of color. Clarice was what we called a high yellow girl, probably one-quarter black. Her skin was dusky but not black. She had long flowing black hair, which fell down over her pointed breasts. Her belly button was attractively deep and the hair on her pussy mound had been trimmed short in the shape of a heart.

“The next girl is Desideria,” said Madame. This girl was Spanish, we all knew, probably having come from Texas to the West of us. She had light brown skin, fiery eyes, and a disorderly mop of black hair. Crimson lipstick touched her lips and her nipples. Between her legs the top of her pussy was just visible, with the lips tightly closed.

“And now Emilee,” she continued. Emilee was white of skin and black of hair. We all knew exactly what to look for, and in her lips, her fingernails, and other subtle signs we saw the marks of an octoroon, one-eighth Negro and otherwise pure white. Of course in our eyes this meant she was forever banned from the white world and despite her light skin color lived among the Negroes. Octoroon girls are highly regarded and considered good companions for gentlemen any place that their ladies are not present.

Emilee’s skin was white and her breasts were smooth as milk. Pink confections of nipples stuck up from them tantalizingly. A very fine line of dark hair trailed down from her navel to the top of her pussy lips which showed pink. She was as fine an octoroon girl as New Orleans had seen for many seasons.

“The next is Felicia,” announced Madame. Felicia was without a doubt an Acadian girl, the kind they are beginning to call Cajun. French ancestry mixed with living in the bayous gave her an attractively wild look. She was tall and thin, and her breasts stood up so that the nipples practically pointed at the ceiling. Her ribs showed faintly down her sides, and her stomach was very flat, emphasizing the mound of brown hair over her pussy. Long long legs had all of us thinking of being entwined between them.

“And the last is Grainne, our Irish beauty,” intoned the proprietor. Some Irish were coming into the region and this girl was a grand example. Small, short, and topped with flaming red hair, she had beautiful blue eyes and dainty red lips. Her breasts were small and perfectly rounded, and nipples like rosebuds poked out of them. All the way down her body the skin was white and flawless, and over her pussy a soft nest of sparse red hair grew. She was a sight not often seen in New Orleans in these days.

At that, Gregoire gave a crashing chord on the piano and the slaves closed the curtain. We all groaned at the disappearance of so much beauty. Mme. LaFontaine assured us, “Gentlemen, gentlemen, they will return, I assure you! But first there is a protege of mine you must meet. Toulouse, come out here.”

At those words, a man stepped in the door and joined our hostess. He was tall, thin to the escort fethiye point of emaciation, and had a small moustache that could only be considered an affectation. Madame went on, “Toulouse is a painter and sculptor of such skill. I know each and every one of you will be wanting to employ his talents to decorate your mansions. But first he must tell you of the project he had done for me.”

“Ah, Madame, I kiss your fingertips,” said the painter, suiting his actions to the words. “And Messieurs, I will tell you of the masterpiece I have created for my lovely hostess. The ancient Greeks were masters of the art of sculpture, and the statues they created are unmatched in the world — until now! I have made for this palais such a sculpture as will be talked about over all New Orleans. Then I have painted it in the Trompe L’Oeil style which will surely fool every eye that sees it. And gentlemen, do you know where it is? Right behind this curtain!”

We were all trying to figure out exactly what this strange man was saying. Then Madame took up the story. “Yes, gentlemen, behind that curtain are my new girls. But the fact is that they are only six in number. The seventh is Toulouse’s master work, his greatest nude statue, painted as only he could paint it. So realistic is his work that until this moment I am sure none of you realized that one of those girls is carved of stone. There are seven girls, gentlemen, and six of you. I invite each of you to venture $100 in gold and name the girl who does not breathe. The winner gets all the money, and if none of you are right…why then the money goes to Toulouse!”

We certainly were amazed at this challenge. In the few short minutes we had looked at the girls not one had moved. Their downcast eyes made it impossible to notice a blink, and the softly fanned draperies moving about their bodies made it impossible to detect a chest rising and falling with their breath. We had no clue except our own eyes to help us wager. Mme. LaFontaine certainly had chosen an interesting game to start this evening.

I had certainly looked each girl over closely, but my thoughts had been in entirely different directions. Now I tried to recall what I saw in each girl. The first, and the last, I eliminated in my mind. The dark pussy hair of Annemarie, and the light red curls of Grainne, would have been too hard for an artist to duplicate. Or would they?

Belle, the Creole girl, was the only one shaved clean. But would the game be fair if the artist had taken the easy way out, and avoided the challenge of the pubic hair? I thought not. Clarisse had her pubic hair trimmed into a heart. The artist’s way of tempting us? Perhaps. Desidera was a perfect Spanish beauty, a type we knew well around here. I tried to remember her wild hair style and wondered if a sculptor could have done that?

Emilee was the very model of the octoroon courtesans of New Orleans. The fine shadings that marked her Negro blood would have been impossible for a sculptor to duplicate unless he knew the signs very well. We had never heard of this Toulouse. Was he sufficiently acquainted with New Orleans to duplicate a perfect octoroon before our trained eyes? From childhood we had learned the fine distinctions of race and we could not be fooled. Is that true?

Felicia and Grainne were white and whiter. That particular color that we call white, but is actually a mix of brown and pink, is notoriously hard for painters to achieve. Could they be eliminated?

Finally, I decided. The pussies would have to tell the tale. Leaving out Annemarie and Grainne because of the hair, what did I have left? Belle’s glossy brown lips had set me to dreaming. I could not believe they were not to be mine in some future evening. Clarisse had a small pussy, and I had been distracted by the heart shaped trim of hair. Emilee’s pussy had shown its fine pink inside lightly as she stood with one leg forward. And Felicia was so thin that her pussy lips had protruded from between her legs enticingly.

Desidera was the only one whose pussy was tightly closed, with no signs of the lips showing. I thought in my mind that this would be the easiest to sculpt and to paint, and the most in keeping with the ancient Greek style. Yes, my $100 gold piece would go to Desidera! I announced my choice to my gentlemen friends.

Each of them chose another girl. They all had various reasons for their bets. Six girls were chosen, and Clarisse, the high yellow girl, was the only one not selected. What if the painter really had fooled our eyes with that curly looking pussy hair trimmed into a heart? Well, we would find out.

The curtain opened again. Once again the girls had their eyes downcast and the fans moved the light cloths draped around them. Madame LaFontaine called their names one by one. The first was “Grainne.” The Irish girl gracefully descended from the podium and did a pirouette in front of us all, showing her small perfect tits, her white ass, and the pink lips of her pussy under the light covering of red hair. I had been right, fethiye escort bayan no sculptor could have duplicated that.

“Belle,” was the next name called. Mr. Jackson groaned, because that had been his choice. He had considered her too perfect to be anything but a work of art. Perhaps she knew who had chosen her, because she came up to him and bowed lightly, letting her full breasts swing down enticingly. Then she wiggled her shoulders so they bounced in front of him.

Then our hostess called, “Emilee.” The octoroon girl descended gracefully, and the Colonel winced. We all knew that octoroons were his especial taste. Then “Felicia” was called and the Acadian with the high pointed breasts came down, twirling around so we had a full view of her pretty ass. Then she kicked one of her long legs high in the air to display her pussy to us all.

I held my breath for the next name and it was “Annemarie.” The black girl danced out shaking her big breasts, and as she neared us she curled her fingers in her pussy hair and pulled gently on it. I was sure no sculptor could have fooled us with that. The American Mr. Jackson had money on her. He was fascinated with blackness in his women.

Now only two girls were left, and I was the only one who had money on one of them. I waited for the next name to be called. The slaves waved their big fans so the flimsy drapes of the girls swirled around their tits and their hips. Finally Mme. LaFontaine drew a deep breath, and then announced, “Desidera!” My Spanish girl whirled down off the platform and came right to me, spinning around in front of me and then bending backwards so that her gorgeous pussy opened up and showed me the pink inside. Had she known what I was thinking all along? With sparkling eyes she gave me a long smile and danced away.

The darkies with the fans ceased their motion, and the strange little painter walked onto the stage and whisked the filmy cloths away from his creation. We all stared at “Clarisse” with wonder. The flowing hair, the pouting lips, and the finely trimmed heart in her pubis all still amazed us, they were so finely painted. The slight opening of her pussy lips would entice any man who did not know they were carved in the stone. Together the six gentlemen stood up and applauded, while the mistress handed $600 in gold to the painter.

“Gentlemen,” said the Madame, “we have many more chances this evening for you to recover what you have lost. I know to men of your wealth it is but a trifle, but no gentleman likes to lose a gamble. Here is your next bet. My lovely little Irish girl Grainne has a special talent. Gentlemen, she is without a doubt expert in the art of blow jobs. Tonight we have a special question for you. Grainne, if you please, step out here.”

The little Irish girl, beautifully naked, came onto the stage. She posed prettily, showing off her small round tits and her little pussy under its red hair. Then her tongue came out of her mouth and wiggled around at us in a teasing way. She smiled and bowed.

Then the Madame waved her hand and said, “Coriolanus, come here.” Like many of us, she fancied naming her domestic slaves after classical figures. Coriolanus was one we all knew well because he served as bouncer for the establishment. Of course none of the gentlemen ever had his attentions, but on occasion some of the hoi polloi who came in needed to be eased out the door, and Coriolanus was not a man to be argued with. He stood almost seven feet tall and was of massive build. Tonight he wore only a white loincloth so his huge muscles rippled over his chest and legs as he walked.

Coriolanus posed with pride on the stage. Then at a gesture from his mistress, he dropped his loincloth and thrust out his hips. A collective gasp went through the gentlemen watching, as well those of the girls who could see what he displayed. His dangling schlong must have been at least a foot long, and as big around as my wrist. Recalling Madame’s claim that Grainne was a cocksucking expert, I began to get an inkling what the bet was now.

“There you see it, gentlemen. Ready for action Coriolanus measures a full fourteen inches. For $100 in gold you will draw a number between eight and thirteen, and the pot goes to the one who correctly predicts how much of that length Grainne can take into her throat without gagging.”

Here was a new game to bet on. We all willingly threw our gold pieces into the pot. Grainne passed among us with a plate, and we each drew a slip of paper. I had the number ten, and I thought that was a very lucky number. Surely the girl could manage eight, and surely she could not get to thirteen. So my chances of winning were high.

Each of us clutched our paper as the little girl knelt in front of the giant Negro. Madame proffered some flavored oil and the girl dribbled it on that massive cock. Then she began to stroke it with her hands and it slowly hardened. Soon we could see that it did indeed measure longer than any we had ever seen before. We all watched intently as the naked girl took it between her lips and started to suck. Slowly, slowly she took it in. We mentally measured in our minds as she moved down three inches, four, five, six. Then she began to come back up, but only part way, then started down again.

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