The Secret Garden
As we step out the forbidden door, I am dazzled by the sun as the cape is blown open by a whiff of fresh wind, exposing my naked body. I know what to expect: our intelligence suggested the codename ‘Secret Garden’ could indeed refer to a real garden in which the abducted girls are sometimes brought, to be evaluated by important prospective buyers. All the same, I am not prepared for the magnificence of the place.
The small Italian Garden is spread on the side of a verdant hill. The Dollhouse is hosted by a Barchessa, a former utility building of the Palladian Villa that can be seen at the end of a slightly ascending graveled path passing through symmetrical, perfectly trimmed hedges.
The red cape opens at every step as I sashay up the central Viale toward the Villa. With my hands behind my back, I am unable to keep it closed. Gently brushed by the mohair soft fabric and titillated by the sparkling air my nipples decide to lead the way, pointing forward. Amused, Sarge gingerly touches them, chuckling dirtily.
A very Italian bell sound reverberates in the air, but halfway towards the Villa, it morphs into elaborate string music as we approach a small classic round temple, doubling as a bandstand. There, three gentlemen in full suits are sitting in wooden armchairs, deep in amiable conversation, as a Baroque all-female string quartet is playing Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. My gaze is immediately attracted by the cellist. Like her colleagues, she is wearing a Venetian gown, wide skirt, V-shaped laced bodice, red, very romantic, very appropriate. Blond hair worn in an elaborate curly fashion. A sweet, regular face, not too young, probably in her early thirties, like the other three fiddlers. Perfect low-key makeup. An image of pure beauty. She shyly smiles at me as we approach, and I realize the tight corset leaves her ample bosom fully exposed, her breasts slightly bouncing in synch with the fiddle, very white under the Italian sun, large pink areolas and small nipples slightly relieved. She has her legs spread – at her instrument requires – but the full skirt is widely open in the middle, and the naked skin is visible over the dark stockings ending just a couple of inches over the knee. A Roissy Dress.
When our small party passes by one of the men tips his head back, a small very French gesture used for beckoning a waiter. Lad stops on the spot, then directs me toward him. The guards’ attitude immediately switches to complete deference. I almost expect them to click heels.
We stand there waiting for the man to complete the sentence, and I take notice that he is speaking good English with a fashionable French accent, while his distinguished friend - Savile Row conservative suit, monogrammed white shirt - answers in posh, truly upper-class English. Monsieur and Milord.
There is an aura of importance all around them, the calm authority of those who are never in need of explaining why you should obey them at once.
My heart rate increases slightly as I realize this is my first photo-opportunity for a preview of the real customers of the Academy. The man makes another small gesture, and Lad promptly unbuckles my red cape with a slight flourish letting me just in high heels and stockings in front of the men. They scan me up and down and I flush as my nipples tighten more, fully exposed to the fresh spring air. Monsieur seems interested, but Milord shakes his head as he signals to get closer. I comply, wiggling a bit my small pointed breasts as long practiced. Usually, men can’t resist. Allez allez Milord! Finally, he feels up my breasts, one at a time, activating the miniaturized interference camera hidden in the beauty mole beside my right areola. Smile!
Voilà l’entente cordiale. Click. Their smiling faces are now on their way towards the Agency's face-recognition software.
They don’t know the place will be stormed by my colleagues a couple of days after I have left, not immediately, not to make obvious the connection. I really hope they will be still here, and I wonder if the will maintain their Olympic stance when the Lesbo Squad got them. I can almost picture Alice handcuffing them as Ellen slaps their precious balls. Hard.
But there is no time for self-congratulating. As Monsieur makes Lad turn my back on him, he urgently whispers “Spread legs, Docteur…” His French accent becomes more noticeable when he is worried. We are buddies now.
There I stand, legs slightly spread, in front of the man, looking away from him, towards the two guards standing almost at attention.
Suddenly he tucks his hand between my legs from behind, brushes my trimmed bush, then gently slides two fingers through my slippery lips, resting on my clit. Surprised by the sudden move I jerk, moving a small step forward:
“Steady, steady, Madame!”
His tone is calm and assured, he speaks the way he would to a mare in his stable. Which is probably exactly what he considers the women here. His companion laughs softly, then says something in a low voice. At a new commend Lad makes me turn again, as the man, satisfied by the inspection, commands:
“Very well. Garçon, bring a cushion and make Madame kneel in front of me.” Then explains to Milord “I am told she is very proficient at deepthroating” He actually says Garçon. Lad is nonplussed.
I try to conceal my surprise – how on earth does he know that? Lad – in an unusually timid voice – answers:
“Sir… I am so sorry. We have been summoned in Court. Maybe later Sir…”
Monsieur seems disappointed, but his calm demeanor is not affected, so he simply nods and beckons another black-clad servant besides.
But he has not formally dismissed us, so the guards are uncertain about what to do. A good opportunity to gather more precious intelligence.
The Quartet is about to play the last movement. The first violinist - a gorgeous brunette – nods to her companions, who smile back in understanding. They clearly enjoy performing together. The twin lines of melody conflict and conflate, as the talented fiddlers keep smiling at each other. The conspicuous, exposed breasts of the first violinist bounce slightly, as the smaller shapely tits of her companion join the rhythm at a higher octave frequency. I can’t believe that. Their boobs are as attuned as their instruments. A thing of beauty. As I stand naked under the warm Italian sun my detective mind automatically continues classifying and connecting the intelligence I am gathering. And something is not adding up. These fiddlers could perform at the Covent Garden. Fully dressed. Yet here they are. Bouncing their tits and airing their pussy in front of leering men. How powerful is a criminal gang that can abduct a complete Baroque String Quartet? How powerful are the Humans? Who are the Humans?
I am getting more and more worried as the last movement ends and the fiddlers bow towards the public. The men applaud, even Lad. Then the Frenchman who was so interested in my skills whispers something to another black-clad servant. The man strides towards the low podium.
I was told by my fellow prisoners that the dresscode in the garden – apart from those who just pass by in the red cape – is simple: any dress style is acceptable – although elegant or formal dresses are preferred – as long as it conforms to two rules. First, the dress should always leave the breasts exposed. Second, although it could be worn closed, it should be possible to open the dress in front and behind, up to the hips. Leaving the dresses open or closed is a prerogative of the gentlemen. Twenty-first century casual Roissy dresscode.
The servant gives the instructions to the fiddlers and they nod, then bob a small curtsy. I try to read their expressions as they, standing in line, looking at their audience, open their full skirt in front, as the servant does the same for them behind. Are they ashamed? Or is that an expression of defiance? Some shuffling of music sheets, then the magic notes of a Mozart Duo start gracing the air. The Duo made of a brunette and a redhead, a true redhead, Rosso Tiziano, as her full bush demonstrates, while her companion shows a classy ‘landing strip’. Bare mounds seem out of fashion here. Mr. Vidal’s lower hair fashion rule the Secret Garden.
So, the gentlemen have required a duo. Leaving the cellist and the second violinist free. The talented shy musicians is surely blushing, as she sets his instrument on the support, while the tall violinist calmly puts the violin and fiddle on a chair. Then the guard escorts them down the bandstand until they are in front of the gentlemen. Here they wait, standing until the sitting couple lazily takes notice. As Milord nods, he gently grabs the women’s wrists and connects them behind their backs.
He then sets two big flat cushions in front of the gentlemen, and then I notice how peculiar their trousers are, in that they leave their sizeable cocks exposed.
In his deep educated tone, Milord says: “Thank you for the music ladies. Now we would like a new performance from you. Please kneel.”
They do so, one at a time, supported by the servant because the handcuffed hands make the maneuver awkward and somehow dangerous. I wonder why the guard has handcuffed them before making them kneel, but as he helps them, grabbing them from behind and supporting them with his hand all over their breasts, I have the obvious answer.
As the two men nonchalantly resume their conversation, sipping their wine, the women’s heads start bobbing rhythmically, slowly at the beginning, the curls flowing from the talented cellist elaborate hair, bouncing like small springs. The girls’ round bums are exposed, their bare pussy showing when they bend.
Milord gently pulls the violinist’s head, adjusting it to the depth he likes better, as he explains to his companion how musicians give the best blowjobs because they feel the rhythm. Monsieur nods, but he seems not to agree completely, and makes a gesture in my direction, telling something in response. I hear the word ‘afternoon’.
At that moment I get aware that the third gentleman is paying attention to the conversation and seems mildly interested. I shot a quick shy glance and my photographic memory immediately rings a bell. The guy leering at me through pale blue eyes, as cold as the Neva flowing in front of the Winter Palace, is one of the most dangerous and powerful men in the World.
I shiver as I feel a pang of fear in my lower belly. Or it is arousal?
Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.