by Mark Talacko
Have all our guests arrived? inquired P’an Chin-lien.
Xochiquetzal and Kurukulla just arrived, making 29. I’m sure we can expect Aphrodite soon; the sea was seen churning and foaming off of Chong Ming.
Remember to seat Astarte and Ishtar at different tables. We don’t want a scene like at Luamereva’s last year in Cocody.
It was P’an’s turn to host la fêtes des déesses, an annual gathering of the world’s love, sex and fertility goddesses during which they replenished their powers by feasting upon the sexual energy of mortals. As goddess of brothels, promiscuity and general lasciviousness, P’an knew that nothing says sex better in Chinese than Shanghai.
Candles flickered with the vibrating din of the assembled goddesses. Sheer and revealing evening gowns floated over their deified skins like the soft caress of a generous lover.
P’an stepped forward wearing a fishnet baby doll with Mandarin collar. The tops of her legs shone bare for a moment before plunging into varnished black thigh high buckle boots with 6 inch heels.
Divinities, she called to them with open arms, causing her baby doll to rise and reveal the smooth skin of her mons veneris, prepare for a sumptuous feast. You’ll find the dishes a sensuous affair of the most succulent nymphs and enervating satyrs whose fluids will rejuvenate and nourish. Their flesh is young and tender. They’re skins are waxed and oiled. For two weeks they’ve been fed a diet of medicinal herbs and deer antler powder – no tiger penis; candy for mere mortals – and a mixture of yoghurt, fresh fruit – especially pineapple – honey and figs.
P’an clapped twice. A flutter of servant girls appeared wearing pure white ruqun with peony embroidered hems. They flitted between the divinities, their sleeves billowing out behind them like a trail of clouds.
The slave boys followed. Their musculature glimmered beneath open black satin tuxedo jackets. The empty seats of their trousers revealed firm buttocks that glistened like golden mantou.
None but the hostess wore shoes. Underwear, at least with a crotch, was taboo.
In rolled two long dining tables, canted at 30 degrees to the wall. Fifteen gold dining sets glinted against the pure white cloth. A hole in the middle of each plate drew curiousity, but not as much as did the chairs: sculpted saddles of ice whose seats gleamed as they slowly melted and dripped onto the hard marble floor.
The slave boys withdrew behind the tables. A susurrus of satin effused and the clear ice turned peach . A delighted murmur rose upon the realisation that the chairs were hollow and that the slave boys slid their warm bodies into the empty passage head first, face up.
The servant girls donned white gloves.
P’an clapped. Thirty pink tongues burst through the ice as 30 purple helmets rose through the centres of the gold plates.
P’an snapped her fingers. The slave boys arched their backs, thrusting the full length of their firmness through the hole. The servant girls began to stroke them gently.
We begin our feast with an amouse bouche, P’an said sweetly. Melt yourself into your lover’s mouth as they warm yours my goddesses.
Shrieks of ecstasy erupted from the divinities like the calls from a dark and steamy jungle. They lowered themselves upon their icy saddles, expertly matching engorged vulva with the warm inviting tongue that flicked beneath.
Hands clasped wantonly around jade spears, drawing them into mouths. They pulled servant girls to heaving breasts as other hands tore sashes from skirts and found the smooth and slippery spaces beneath.
Ice melted in a torrent from the heat of grinding pelvises and darting tongues. Sighs and moans of pleasure rose on currents of passion and licked the ceiling with flames of desire.
Oba shuddered and wailed. Ame-No-Uzume bit her lower lip as her eyes rolled back in her head. Freya leapt on top of her saddle, turned around and lowered herself with a sonorous moan onto the rigid jade spear.
P’an cracked a whip across Freya’s voluptuous buttocks. A red blush rose on the skin as Freya cried out for more.
Down you vixen, P’an asserted and cracked the whip again. You’ll have plenty of that during the main course.
Freya humbly unsheathed herself and straddled her lover’s face with her penitent pussy, propitiously licking her own juices from his member with a placating tongue.
P’an made a sign behind her back and a phalanx of nude servant girls appeared. Each held a bottle of Taittinger Nocturne.
The first set of servant girls weaned themselves from their lovers and stood roseate and glowing as they donned a pair of fingerless black leather gloves. They grabbed a handful of their divinity’s tousled hair and pulled backward, disengaging them from their oral fixation.
With their other hand they gripped the slick chowry handles and expertly stroked the length of the shaft, pressing their pinky firmly upon the bulb at its base. The ungloved hands of the second set of servant girls gripped the head of the Champagne cork and began to gently pull it loose.
Prepare yourselves my lovelies, P’an said silkily. Three….
Quivering clitorises hummed over tongues. Moans and pleading wails beseeched the air.
Two, she encouraged in a rising voice.
Backs arched. Thighs clenched. Calves contracted to counter the downward push and toes curled. Tumescent cocks throbbed as scrotums tightened.
One, P’an cried in jubilation.
Goddesses convulsed and came, releasing epiphanic screams of pleasure from oracles parted in rapture as 30 corks popped in unison, disgorging a jouissant of fruity, silken milky honey onto their lolling tongues. The auspicious rain coursed and bifurcated into a viscous necklace of fine mousse pearls that streamed between heaving breasts and down through shuddering thighs into the smooth and thrumming caverns of Life, running together with the goddesses’ own nectars that dripped from them like an eternal spring.