was in the the keyhole of
the pink velour door. I take the strangely
decadent key out. What I’m seeing
Through the plush keyhole of the lucullan boudoir door, I can see Lucy naked in big crusts of diamonds.
Lucille’s mistress is wearing a négligé printed with emeralds, sapphires, and chrysoprasus; her name is Imelda, or Immy. Immy is Lucille’s married, blue-blooded socialite friend.
The curvature of Immy’s bare lower back segues into sumptuous callipygian glutes; there, a rectal plug hangs with a tail of diamonds as thin as a tennis bracelet. At the dénouement of the diamond tail hangs a cherry crafted from rubies.
I spy breathlessly as Immy’s overflowing, apricot bottom vascilates gelatinously, her expensive tail flailing; she plumbs Lucy’s yonic challice, going in and out of her with a strap-on phallus.
Lucy’s luscious bawdyhouse breasts are a salacious gemini, and her vigorous lover gropes those globules like succulent forbidden fruit.
Imelda brings her puffed, shapely, crepey lips to Lucy’s erect rosebud nipples; those buds are pliable, like the translucent plastic teat of a baby’s bottle; Immy fingers them, rubbing a substance like candle wax or petroleum jelly over the raised, womanly brail.
Coffee grind freckles are the outliers of Lucille’s autumnal, chocolate and pear colored areolas.
Sapprous heirloom jewels of breast milk hold honeycombed light and fairy floss in their small beads: Lucy’s wonderful, postnatal breasts knead themselves into Immy’s; the women moan, and swear, and create rainbow Borealis with the glossolalia of coital pleasure.
I watch, committing onanistic sin; I touch my nebulous regions as they kiss and suck where panties have been.
Immy sucks Lucy until Lucy is in the sky with her diamonds.
I’m so hot and flustered when I come away from the keyhole; because, I know nobody will believe me if I, a lowly house servant, say I saw Immy the Wondergirl and Lulu having sex; and because, I’m left with nobody to blame for the way I suddenly feel.