Rose-Marie felt truly blessed by nature, as she stood naked on the balcony of her father's palatial white mansion looking out onto her father's ornate garden. Not only had she the good fortune to have been born and to continue to live here in St Lucia, one of the most pleasant corners of the French Empire, but she also had the good fortune of possessing a wealthy father who had chosen the Edenist way of life. In fact, the garden, the island as a whole, was very much like the Garden of Eden to whose natural state Edenists aspire.
Even had she not had the good fortune of birth, Rose-Marie believed she would have chosen the life of an Edenist. Clothes would be ever such a burden. And of course, she, like most people on the island, owned no clothes at all. Those who did own clothes were those who happened to owe their own good fortune of living in St Lucia to the misfortune of their ancestors having been brought to the island as slaves, a barbaric practice which had persisted in some parts of the Americas until early in the twentieth century. But Rose-Marie refused to feel guilty for the sins of her forefathers. Guilt, as Edenists believed, was an outdated notion that merely prevented people from enjoying the moment.
Rose-Marie strode off the balcony and into the shade of the house. It wouldn't do to expose her skin to the sun too long. Skin cancer was the scourge of Edenism. Those few other places where a significant proportion of people followed the Edenist ideal, such as the British provinces of Queensland and New Zealand, the German Congo, the French island of Madagascar and the Dutch Philippines, these were all places in the sun, and the risk of melanoma had proven to be not at all friendly to European skin. The European empires may have been destined to conquer the world, but their people were better prepared to govern than to actually inhabit the lands they owned.
With a flick of her pale slim wrist, Rose-Marie spun the globe that took pride of place in her father's living room. An old globe, but so little had changed over the years. The world was still a third red, thanks to the dominance of the British and their provinces, colonies and protectorates. Half of Africa, two-thirds of North America (all but the bits the Spanish, Russians and French had managed to claim), most of China, all of India and, of course, the Antipodes. And after the British, the crown for second ranking empire fought between the declining Spaniards and Portuguese, the Germans (flush after their conquest of Japan), the Dutch and, most importantly, the French. Her people. Led by King Louis the Nineteenth. The only empire, apart from the heathen Ottomans, where the monarch still had real power.
Rose-Marie picked up a remote and pointed it at the huge television that dominated the living room. She flicked through the channels, most of which were beamed down by satellite. Inevitably most of the channels were in either English or Spanish. The French grip on the Americas was so very tenuous. Louisiana, Florida, Quebec, French Guiana and a handful of islands in the Caribbean. But better than nothing. She watched ten minutes of some pornographic film broadcast in French, bored by the sight of the scrotum and the penis shaft thrusting upwards into the anus of the slender young lady whose screams filled the living room over the muted electronic beat. Bare flesh was so commonplace in Rose-Marie's life that the presence of clothes on these pornographic actors seemed almost erotic. But the thought of sex still excited her. And she was so looking forward to seeing Yves who was due to visit that very afternoon.
Rose-Marie wandered back out onto the balcony, her fingers still a little sticky from where she had been feeling herself while watching Robert Roué fuck Raquel Raymond on the television, and returned her bored gaze to the garden. A bright blue and yellow parrot flapped across between some trees. A pair of grey squirrels chased each other up and down the trunk of another tree. The fountains burbled. The tails of the stone dolphins rising inward to the central spout while more water flowed from their open mouths. In the distance, a huge tanker was carrying oil from the British province of Texas to Europe, the hub of civilisation and culture. Two black servants were building an outhouse. Naked, of course. As was required of all her father's servants. And there, pushing a wheelbarrow, also naked, was a young white man. It could only be the new head gardener. No white man would do menial tasks otherwise.
There was a small breeze coming across from the ocean, which caught Rose-Marie's long blonde hair and briefly lifted it up off the curves of her buttocks. She brushed her fingers through her hair and studied more closely the figure of the gardener. Nicholas Noakes, her mother had told him he was called. One of those strange English names where all the consonants were sounded, even the final 's'. He'd come from the British province of Virginia, somewhere near the city of Alexandria. There weren't many Edenists amongst these people. Protestants mostly. Puritans many of them. The most fiercely loyal of all the provinces of the far-flung British Empire. So loyal that the Congress of the British Empire was housed on a tall square building on the coast of the East River in New York, the administrative capital of British North America. An empire as vast as the British couldn't be governed solely from London. (Although if this were true, how come the king in Paris was thought capable of governing an empire that covered more than a tenth of the world?)
However, what most took Rose-Marie's gaze was not just the curious fact that Nicholas was that oddest of all sights, a white man in a manual occupation, but that he was sporting the most enormous penis she had ever seen. Even from this distance, it obviously hung quite low, swinging and flapping against his rugged hairy legs. Rose-Marie had seen many penises in her life. Many many many. And some, such as Yves', she'd had the pleasure of exploring very carefully. Her fiancé's penis was a fine example. When erect it must have been twenty centimetres long or more. And inside her cunt... It certainly felt big enough. But then, Yves' was almost the only penis that had penetrated her. At least, the only one to do so more than once, those wild undergraduate parties excepted. But how could a penis as big as Nicholas' be anything other than painful to any vagina it penetrated.
Rose-Marie felt her crotch again. She knew the answer, of course. She had seen enough pornography over the years to know that anything was possible. Though Yves quite simply did not have the stamina of a porn star. And most men of her acquaintance were similarly less well endowed. She herself was too thin, her bosom too small, her anus too resisting, for her to ever consider pornography as a career.
A maid knocked timorously on the door to the balcony. Rose-Marie smiled at her. She was definitely not of porn star material. Her large floppy breasts. Her rough hands. And that docility shared by all the servants she'd ever met. "What is it?" she demanded of the maid.
Her head bowed, the white cap on her head the only clothing she wore, but enough to denote her status. "If you please, ma'amzelle," she said in her Creole French, "There is a gentleman to see you."
"Is it Yves?"
"It is, ma'amzelle."
"Well, don't be such an idiot with formality. Just bring him in!" Rose-Marie cursed the maid, watching her brown buttocks wobble heavily as she turned away to escort her fiancé into her presence. Servants were so stupid! But so necessary. Almost a half the population of the French Empire was directly employed in domestic service. The dynamism of the industrial state had not been kind to other forms of unskilled or semi-skilled employment.
After Yves had arrived, and he and Rose-Marie had exchanged kisses, her fiancé leaned back, his hands on Rose-Marie's hips and admired her. "Mon Dieu! You are so beautiful. I am truly a lucky man."
"And I a lucky woman," agreed Rose-Marie, studying him from the tangled black hairs on his chest to that penis of his that she loved so well. But as she looked at it, her thoughts wandered to the recently held vision of Nicholas' manhood. And it wasn't just the penis that was so much more striking on this Virginian. As she could see, past Yves' shoulder, where the gardener was addressing the two black servants, Nicholas had a truly impressive man's body. Muscular and firm. Buttocks that pinched in as he walked. A swell of clean firm muscle on his forearms and shoulders. And lightish brown, almost red, curly hair on his chest and at the base of his swinging, hypnotically attractive, penis.
Yves could see that his fiancée's gaze had strayed. He turned his head around, swivelling his body to take Rose-Marie by the waist. "I see you've got a new gardener."
"Yes. He's British. From the province of Virginia."
"Oh! A Yankee. Strange lot. Don't make very obedient servants. But they have lots of initiative. Mind you, he has a well-built figure, hasn't he? Very well hung! The better for shafting the American Indians."
"They're called 'Native Americans' now."
"Political correctness. Pah! Where will that take the world? Start questioning the order of things and all hell will be let loose. All that fanciful talk of independence for the colonies and universal enfranchisement. Isn't it enough that women can vote, provided they are of sufficient status? Isn't it enough that the natives can have a say in the government of their territories?"
.... There is more of this story ...