by Livia Ellis
Memoirs of a Gigolo Happy Halloween Oliver
Livia Ellis
Copyright © 2012 Author Name
All rights reserved.
ISBN:1480123536
ISBN-13:978-1480123533
DEDICATION
For R
CONTENTS
Prologue
i
1
Paris in Autumn
1
2
The Party
6
3
The Atrium
17
4
The After Party
22
5
Post Script
26
Prologue
When did I meet Oliver? Let me see. How to put this? I know. I met Oliver at the moment when I needed to meet Oliver. It was as if the universe was responding to my silent plea for proof there was a decent man left in the cosmos. When I could appreciate him. He came into my life just as I truly began to believe there was no decency or goodness or kindness in men. I did, truly truly with all of my heart, believe this. I thought all men were a bunch of shits. Then there was Oliver. A good and kind man. The best friend I had ever had, or ever would have. Everything he did, his every move, was smooth with no obvious premeditation. My father would have given a fortune to have had that sublime ease, that inborn elegance, that absolute command of who he was that Oliver had naturally. And he was handsome. Oh how handsome he was. I cannot tell you how handsome he was. I truly can't. Beautiful even. His lips were very nearly too full and his eyes, impossibly blue.
Hmmm? What? Oh... You want to know when, as in the moment in time, I met Oliver. Excuse me. Let's see... It was autumn. The leaves had begun to turn. I remember the first time we were intimate. I looked out the window, past the white lawn curtains, and remember a tree. It was brilliant orange in front of an equally brilliant blue sky. Yes. It was autumn. I'll never forget. When he was done, he kissed me like he loved me. Like I was precious to him and not a stranger. For certain it was autumn. We spent nearly a week together in Paris that autumn. It was glorious.
We were in Paris for a party. A Halloween party. The Matchmaker's girlfriend was a party planner and we were on the guest list. Yes. Those parties! Oh my dear... what a life I have lived... We were at one of those parties just after we returned from a trip to Japan. It was a Halloween party. What was my costume? I must think... I know. I was a shadow. Yes. A shadow. Body paint was all the rage at the time. I was painted up a smoky gray from head to toe. Yes! Truly! Just me in my skin. Oh my dear... Those were some days. How scandalized my children would be if they knew what their mother had gotten up to in her youth. Oliver? No... I've never called him Ollie. Everyone else does. Not me. But let's see... He was a vampire. They were all the rage at the time. What was the party like? Let's see how well I remember...
1 Paris in autumn
What do I really want to do right now? I want to go to bed and sleep for about ten hours. I'm tired. I'm jetlagged. My ass hurts. I have a bruise on my knee. I have cramps. But I have to go to a party. Because that's what I do. I don't get the option of calling in sick. So what do I do? I do what I'm paid extremely well to do. I pull myself together. I make myself pretty. I do my job.
Instead of flying to London, Oliver and I were instructed to make a detour to Paris. Oliver was actually instructed to go to Paris. I could have gone home to London. People want to meet Oliver. They will all be in attendance at the annual Halloween party of The Vicomte. I used to think The Vicomte was what royal people were like. Sort of full of sin and dissipation. Now I know that royal people are more like Oliver. They have to be. He's so classy and has such good manners. He's really polite. He doesn't even complain when I make him take me shopping. He just sits in that chair the boutiques always have for the men reading magazines and drinking tea and telling me that whatever I wear only pales in comparison to my beauty. How sweet is that?
I told him I would be with him from start to finish. We went to Japan together. We go home together. The end of our trip has just been prolonged. So we go to Paris. I hate when this happens. I like sticking to the plan. I love Paris. But I was planning on taking a few days off after Japan just to recover. None the less, here I am in Paris. What is in Paris? The Halloween Party of The Vicomte. Louche little man. He'll adore Oliver. I adore Oliver.
1
Memoirs of a Gigolo – Happy Halloween Oliver
Oliver did exceptionally well in Japan. Oliver and The Samurai are BFF's. Harold and The Samurai never spent evening after evening getting drunk and singing karaoke. I don't want to hurt Oliver's feelings ever, but he really can't sing. I'll never tell him this. It would hurt his feelings to know that he is neither more attractive nor a better singer when he's drunk. Men don't want to know this. I do know that I'll never be able to hear You Light Up My Life again without laughing.
The Samurai was on Oliver constantly. I know he's feeling it. He has to be. Not that he's complained. He wouldn't. Stiff upper lip and all of that. Part of me feels terrible for him. He's such a lovely man. Kind. Gentle. Sweet. Far too nice to do this work without it destroying him. I swear I'll take care of him. I will. I'll take care of him whether he wants me to or not.
After we landed in Paris, Oliver did everything. He gathered our luggage, arranged to have the bulk of it forwarded on to London, found a porter, held the umbrella over both of us as we waited in the rain in the taxi rank. When our turn came, he spoke to the driver in French. Why do these things impress me? Never mind. They impress me. I don't know how well he speaks French, but the driver didn't seem to question Oliver's instructions.
The taxi was a black Mercedes and the driver Ukrainian. He thought we couldn't understand him. He's half right. Oliver couldn't. I could. He spoke in Russian on his mobile until he nearly killed us driving through the same tunnel Princess Diana died in. Poor Princess Diana. She really was the Queen of Hearts. Her father was an earl. Like Oliver. She was so classy and pretty. But really I'm more of a Kate. Her father was self-made... My father was self-made... Maybe a little different there... but okay... still... we're both average girls that are a lot alike. At least I think we're a lot alike. I never met her, but it would be so cool to be a princess. Or a countess. I would be an excellent countess.
Anyhow... Oliver started shouting in French at the driver that nearly killed us. The driver finished his call, but not before whomever he spoke to is told that he has a couple of rich English assholes in his car and that he'll get back to him. I think this means Oliver speaks French with an accent. But again, I don't really know.
We are expected at The Vicomte's house near the Champs Elysees. It's just the sort of place I would like to have. The Vicomte's home is beautiful. From the top floors, the Arc de Triomphe is visible. The décor is exceptional. Very fancy. Classy. The front of the house is exquisite. Big windows that are draped in black on the interior. Can't have the neighbors peeping inside!!
The same person that did the Vicomte's home did my father's home. How is it that my father's home looks like a brothel and The Vicomte's home is so elegant? How is this possible? Anyhow... the home will be the location of what can only be called an orgy. Why he lets people inside to fuck on the damask upholstery defies logic. If I had a home like his, I'd make everyone keep their clothes on and take their shoes off.
The Matchmaker's girlfriend Hortense is truly an extraordinary party planner. If I ever get married (and why wouldn't I?) she will plan my wedding. Every year, Hortense plans and executes a Halloween party for The Vicomte. It's a randy affair that is by highly sought after invitation only. The Vicomte, who already has a reputation for being a bon vivant and kind of an asshole, loves to throw his yearly party as a way of dishin
g out retribution for the previous year’s slights, both perceived and real.
Being on the list, means you are in with the in crowd. Being off the list, means you might as well be living in a mountainside cave eating whatever bugs pass in front of you. An invitation to The Vicomte's Halloween party is the ultimate tap. If one is worthy, then they are deemed sufficiently attractive, wealthy, hedonistic, interesting, and decadent. If one is off the list after having been on it, then they are ugly, poor, boring, puritanical, and parsimonious. It's really that simple.
Oliver and I are on the list as guests, rather than entertainment. Our presence, his actually, may be required, but even The Matchmaker is not unaware that we are coming off of a long flight and a week with The Samurai. But he has to be there. Too many people want to get a look at the new boy. He's getting a reputation for being a goer. I know his price has already gone up.
The taxi with the lunatic driver pulled up in front of the house with a squeal of brakes. A footman opened the rear door to let me out. I like being treated like a princess. Oliver pays the taxi driver. I don't know how much the Samurai tipped him, but I think it was a lot. More than he ever tipped Harold. Probably more than he tipped me. I won't ask him. I'm sure that's bad manners. There has been a shift in our relationship. He pays for things, like taxis and lunch, as if it's his obligation. I really wish I hadn't made him pay me interest on the money I loaned him. Those things made me look like I have no manners or class. I just don't know not to do them sometimes. Watching Oliver helps. I've learned a lot just by watching him.
The footman took our bags and brought us just inside the door. The interior of the home has been transformed. The Halloween theme is clearly in evidence. Lots of draping black fabric, jack o'lanterns, chunky candles, and places for people to fuck. That's the point after all. The main foyer we've entered the house into opens onto an atrium. I know that this space will be the focal point of the evening’s entertainment. At least it has been in the past and based on what I'm looking at, it will be once again.
We are given rooms and instructions. Oliver can wear what he wants within reason, I have to get painted. I don't loathe body paint, there are times I quite enjoy the whimsy of it, I'm just not in the mood to have to stand for three hours while someone brushes daisies on my bum, roses on my nipples and vines down my legs. Not that I have the time for that anyway. When we arrived, the party was on the edge of beginning. The music was already going and the candles were being lit. The early guests had already arrived and The Vicomte was swanning around in a red velvet smoking jacket complete with ascot (no – I could not make that up) and the booze was flowing.
There was no time to have elaborate paint sprayed on me. What I need more than anything else at that moment, is an hour with an aesthetician to take care of the basics before I have to show off my bits for an evening. I get why The Samurai likes pubic hair. Fine. I think it's great too. Nothing at all wrong with being natural. But Oliver keeps on bitching and moaning about getting hairs stuck in the back of his throat.
Fortunately, Hortense thinks of everything. She truly does. There are enough people hired to primp the workers in the prep room to get done what I need done. I'm waxed, stripped, painted, and coiffed in about an hour. The make-up artist that did my body paint at first didn't get why I wanted to be painted a solid dark gray, but then, when she finished turning my eyes into a smoky black mask and my hair was pulled back into a ponytail, she got it. I really did blend into the dark corners like a shadow. Perfect for the girl that doesn't want to call attention to herself in a dimly lit room filled with people that are either drunk, high, or, more than likely, both.
5
2 The party
When the lights are dimmed, the candles are lit, the music is playing and the scent of cinnamon (yes- cinnamon) is wafting through the air, I finish with the prep team. The party is rolling when I exit the prep room. Hortense has outdone herself. She truly has. The Halloween theme of the party is evident down to the smallest details. The wait staff is composed of beautifully formed men stripped to their skin, then painted in solid black with a glow in the dark skeleton brushed over their musculature. The effect in the black light used in the main passages through the party is stunning. The décor itself is Gothic chic. Lots of candelabras, and black velvet. Couches and chaises have been moved in to provide ample places for fornicating as the night and the mood of the party moves on. At the moment I arrive, everyone is still being polite. That won't last much longer. The professionals are already at work in the different party rooms. They'll whip the guests (quite literally in some instances) into the mood, and then the momentum will take over.
The layout of the rooms is quite ingenious. There is a flow from room to room that speaks of Hortense's ability to keep a party from stagnating and the guests moving. I really will hire her to plan my wedding when I get married. Except for my wedding there will be no young black haired women walking around painted in solid green wearing only witches’ hats and carrying bowls of condoms or trays of dildos. But again, a clever touch. The attention to detail, more than the details themselves, is what I'm noticing.
7
Memoirs of a Gigolo – Happy Halloween Oliver
I find Hortense as I pass through the dungeon. It's been done up in an Egyptian cult theme complete with both a male and female mummy being spanked by a lapis blue painted Pharaoh. Bondage isn't really my thing, but I understand why people enjoy that feeling of putting themselves wholly and completely under the control of another. I've never been a submissive. I enjoy my control far too much. But maybe with the right person, someone I trust wholly, I would be willing to hand over my body completely.
Hortense's hair is absolutely to die for. It really is. Red. Lush. Thick. She has it piled in a cone on her head like the fire on a matchstick. She's solid gold from head to toe with swirling flames rising from her toes, up her legs and body that shoot upwards to the crown of her hair. The flames are a trick of the paint in the black light. Except for the red on her head and the red of her bush which is trimmed to a triangle there is no color other than the gold. That red bush is her signature. There are rumors that back in her day working as an escort, she had clients that would pay a fortune to just pet her. People are very strange. But who am I to judge? Considering my best paying client pays me to one; shower in front of him, and two; to discretely flash him my bare crotch in public places, who truly am I to judge? Weird is my bread and butter.
We exchange very carefully placed air-kisses. Neither of us want to be mussed. The paint is dry, but we're both particular about our appearances. A great deal of time is spent cooing and oohing over our costumes. She loves that I'm a shadow. I love that she's a golden flame. She makes a request of me. I am to please speak with Oliver. Convince him to be reasonable. He's being surly and unreasonable. How can anyone be surly and unreasonable at one of her parties?
This just makes me laugh. Oliver doesn't do anything he doesn't want to do. What does she want him to do? Perhaps I can have a word with him.
Please have him put on a proper costume. Fine, if he doesn't want to be painted, he doesn't have to be as he's technically not on the clock, but the least he could do is to make some small amount of effort. The Sheik, The Actor, The Banker, The Billionaire and his wife, The Austrian, and The Footballer, all want a good look at Oliver. Not for her, but for him, please speak with him. It's his career after all and these are big money clients.
I'll speak with him. I'll promise nothing, but I'll speak with him.
Aren't I just a darling? The Matchmaker is about. Probably looking for me. Certainly looking for Oliver.
Of course she is. When would she ever pass up an opportunity to promote her business?
Hortense air-kisses me, then moves along. Arranging to have models painted with spider webs on their bodies that glow in the lighting as they pass out drinks is only part of her job. Everyone will have a good time if she has anything to say about it.
The next person I run into i
s the host of the party. The Vicomte. He is with his stooge, The Banker. To think I used to believe The Vicomte was ever so classy and glamorous just because he had a title. It's not even a real title anymore. At least not one that's recognized by the government. It's not like the French have a royal family. They all got the chop chop. Most of them at least. I can't believe how I used to go out of my way to book him just because he had a title. Okay I know I might be a little royals obsessed.... but never mind. I'm over it.
The two are watching a display in a room that can only be described as a witches cave. There is something disorienting about watching a group of people have sex. Sometimes it takes a moment to figure out what you really are looking at. Once the mind has sorted out the players and the positions, it's easy to spot who is who and what is what. I see lots of breasts and cocks. Too many of each for the number of people that are writhing around in a pile on a raised platform. Then I get it. Trany gang bang.
I almost feel proud of myself for figuring out what I'm seeing. Lots of pretty pretty women that have perfectly round and clearly surgically formed breasts... with cocks. Busy busy busy cocks. I count bobbing and flicking heads. There are seven participants. Each cock is occupied. Either with fucking or sucking. They really are quite nimble. I'll give them that much credit. I've seen a lot of people having a lot of sex, but never have I seen one group of people so conscientiously servicing one and other simultaneously. One on her knees with a cock up her ass, as another below her sucks her dick, as she is blowing yet another that is being entered from behind. And the one sucking her dick is being fucked. Amazing. They're like a swarm of bodies. I wish I have my phone on me just so I could take a picture and show Oliver. He'd appreciate the logistics behind what the group is doing.
