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 Guilt, as Edenists believed, was an outdated notion that merely prevented people from enjoying the moment.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?"
"Oh, Yves! Stop with the politics. You know how much it bores me. But that gardener. Look at how his dick swings. It must be a real monster when it's erect." Rose-Marie playfully stroked Yves' more modest penis, pleased to watch it swell and grow beneath the afternoon sun. Yves kissed her on the cheek.
"Not in front of the servants, ma cherie. Let's go indoors. To the couch."
Rose-Marie giggled and pulled her fiancé by his steadily swelling penis into the main living room, past the huge piano that filled the far end of the room, and onto the sofa that stretched out by the huge unlit fireplace and the equally huge television screen. As always, when Yves' prick was erect, all he wanted to do was to push it into his fiancée's vagina and release its contents. Rose-Marie was in less of a hurry. There were several hours they could spend together until the evening, when they'd be expected to dine with her mother and listen again to a litany of complaints about how her father was always away on business and how insolent the servants were becoming in his absence.
She knelt on top of Yves as he lay down on his back on the enormous sofa, one leg dangling over the side and a cushion supporting his neck. Her arse was in his face, while her lips found their way to the tip of Yves' now fully erect penis. But even fully erect, it seemed to be only the length of Nicholas' penis when limp. This made her feel strangely weak with desire. A kind of moistness eased out of her vagina, even before Yves' tongue reached out and licked at its folds. Rose-Marie took the shaft of Yves' penis in the grip of her right hand, while supporting her weight on her left hand, and pulled and tugged on it, admiring the veins that pulsed through the skin that pulled off the glans, and stretched her body backward. No evidence now of that long foreskin which was one of Yves' most striking characteristics. And then her mouth on the tip. It had taken Rose-Marie a while to get used to the taste of Yves' penis. At first she had found it strange. The peculiar male odours. The different feel on her tongue of the smooth shiny glans and the main body where the hairs persisted almost halfway up its length. And, of course, the testicles. Or at least the taut scrotum pulled by the tension of the penis's stiffness. Another taste again. And many more hairs to get tangled in her teeth. But Rose-Marie loved it now. She truly loved cock. And today she wanted to know it so much better.
However, Yves was hungry to get inside her. His prick was slippery, damp and twitching. The muscles around the top of his thighs shuddered with anticipation. His fingers probed and twisted inside Rose-Marie's arse and vagina. His tongue slobbered in an uncoordinated but effective way over her clitoris and her pussy lips.
"Merde! You're as wet as a species of fountain! You must really be wanting it. Come on. Let me in your doorway." Yves rubbed her lips with his fingers, stimulating Rose-Marie to gasp in a passion, squeezing her cheeks on Yves' prick.
"Not yet, mon amour! Just a bit longer!"
"Oh come off it, ma petite! Let's just do it!"
And so reluctantly, Rose-Marie let herself be turned around and penetrated. It wasn't that it wasn't enjoyable. And today it seemed to last ever such a long time until Yves' penis exploded inside her, the thick creamy sperm bursting free and dampening her thighs and crotch. But it still seemed too soon. And the penis was such a small sorry sight when it had expired. Rose-Marie studied the shrivelled shell, with its foreskin creeping back up to resemble the teat of a condom. A small puddle of creamy white dripped out of the pursed mouth.
"Where are we going this evening, ma cherie?" Yves wondered.
"Le Jardin Rouge, I guess."
"Again? We went there just two days ago."
"I told Celine we'd be there. We can't disappoint her."
Despite Rose-Marie's best efforts in tugging and licking Yves' penis, there wasn't to be any more sex that afternoon, except the variety supplied by satellite television. More energetic well-endowed couples. But even these pricks, belonging to professional porn stars were less impressive than Nicholas'. Normally, only ten minutes of this kind of stuff was enough to bore Rose-Marie, but today she was especially curious of the genitals on display.
Dinner was precisely as dull and tedious as Rose-Marie had expected. Just how much mileage could even her mother make of the stain she'd found on the tablecloth? "It's not as if the servants have got much else to wash!" complained Rose-Marie's mother, whom her daughter sometimes guessed was not a natural Edenist. Despite plastic surgery, age had not been kind to her. Her small breasts were already almost flat and her brown tanned skin was prematurely cracked and lined. Rose-Marie hoped that she'd weather better. Too much direct sun on her mother's skin perhaps.
Le Jardin Rouge was kicking tonight. A DJ from the North American mainland was there, bringing some vital vinyl from Miami and New Orleans. The dance floor was a heaving mass of bare flesh. Penises and breasts swinging and swaying and shaking with the pulsating electronic beats, the occasional English voice articulated over the rhythm. In music, as almost everything else, the British flaunted their world dominance. Why couldn't French musicians ever use the mother tongue?
Although Celine was there, with Renée, Mathilde and Jacques, it was Yves who had most of Rose-Marie's attention. She was determined to show her friends just how close the two of them were. None of her friends were engaged yet. Soon she'd be married and she and Yves would have their own home. Perhaps an apartment over the beach. And then Yves would work for his father. Or even go into politics. Rose-Marie pulled herself up onto her toes, pressing her bosom against Yves', and then sliding down so that his erect penis, brought to life by the drugs, could slip into her vagina. She smiled at Celine, who was stroking Jacques' penis, proud to show her how very close she was to Yves. And the music was still pumping. Slower. More romantic. More sensuous. As she slid up and down on Yves' shaft, angling herself so that Celine would have no doubt of the fact of Yves' penetration, struggling to fight off his natural inclination to pull her to him in such a way the view would be obscured. And their tongues and lips enmeshed in passion.
And then, the end of the evening, sperm still on Rose-Marie's upper thigh and in her pubic hair, and even a small smidgeon of dried semen on her knee, and a last good night kiss, before the taxis took them back to their different homes. As the taxi pulled into the drive of her father's mansion, Rose-Marie caught a glimpse of a muscular figure strolling through the moonlit garden. Despite the excitement of the evening, the sweat and sperm sticking to her hot bruised body, her heart still audibly jumped as she regarded Nicholas' prick, swinging from side to side as he strode along the paved walk-ways, examining the flowers under his care.
Rose-Marie was driven by curiosity the following day to look at her father's head gardener more closely. With all the fuss about skin cancer, she tended not to stay in the garden very long, unlike her mother, who, in any case, rarely emerged from the small conservatory near the artificial lake. She could see Nicholas bent down with a trowel and a garden fork, examining some bulbs just by the small copse at the far end of the garden. Rose-Marie wandered over to him.
"Hello," she said in the imperious tone with which she addressed the servants. "You're the new gardener, aren't you?"
Nicholas turned his head round to look at her. From where she stood, Rose-Marie could just about see some of his prick, but most of it was hidden by the shadow of his knees. "I am. And who might you be?"
Two things immediately troubled Rose-Marie. First of all, he didn't stand to attention like a servant should. Secondly, he didn't address her with due deference. "I'm Rose-Marie de Rouen." No change in the man's quizzical expression. "Monsieur de Rouen's daughter." Still no change. "Your master."
"'Master'?" Nicholas laughed. "I'm sorry my French is not very good. You mean 'employer'."
Rose-Marie was puzzled. What difference was there? "Yes, employer."
Nicholas glanced up and down at her, taking in her pale pert breasts, her slender thighs and the mound of her crotch. "So what is it you want, miss? Do you want to help me in the garden?"
Rose-Marie gasped. The impertinence of the man! She? Work in the garden? "Well, no. I just thought..."
"If you do want to help, there's a lot that needs to be done. I could do with some assistance, you know."