Join the Cerulean Libertine (and all the men) in the salon

”And for you, Daddy?” The Cerulean Libertine herself serves refreshments, more amber Grain Whisky and darker Feyfire Brandy. She does not wait for the Titan’s answer and instead prepares for him his favourite drink and his favourite pipe by his favourite chair. You join the three gentlemen by a low table, far away from the content father – and far behind his back. ”Did you want the paper, Daddy?” she asks, already pressing the broadsheet into his hand. He asks her something while he unfurls it. ”Just off to the kitchen to get more drinks, Daddy,” she answers, and: ”Just ask them, Daddy!”

He does inquire whether you are all cared for, or if there is anything else the four of you are needful of. ”Anything at all.” He then, his head buried by black-on-grey columns, segues into talking about the stock market with his drabber guests, leaving you to ponder the situation you have found yourself in.

She returns, and you empty your drink. Rich flavours, oak and fire, explode on your tongue. Glass clinks against glass and she, leaning in, is pushed against you. Her firm warmth spreads its invitation from her tender touch.

One drab gentleman gropes her from behind, while the other shoves his hand down her blouse. Her skirt rises higher and higher and reveals her missing underwear. A thin strip of hair leads down to her sex; a natural dark, not the garish silver of the braids on her head. She moans, soft and sweet, but loud enough for her father to hear.

”Did you say something, darling?” asks the Cerulean Titan.

”She expressed an interest in my real estate dealings,” says the Drab Realtor.

”She had a question about contract law,” claims the Drab Solicitor, pushing himself two fingers deep into her. ”And I was glad to offer my help.”

The Titan laughs. ”Well – which is it?

”Neither,” says the Landlocked Commodore. His glare is venomous, pure hatred reserved for the other gentlemen – maybe including you. But a noticeable erection tents the neat creases of his parade uniform pants. He has not touched her, but twitches, tiger-like, as if ready to jump. ”Rather, we chanced upon a somewhat infelicitous topic, and I apologise for doing so in the company of the fairer sex.”

”Nonsense,” says the Titan, ”my darling is a practical woman and hard to offend.” He chuckles at some private jest. ”What was it then?”

Before the Landlocked Commodore can answer, the Cerulean Libertine falls into his arms. She presses her lips against his, more whisper than kiss. Her hand is on his crotch when she turns around and meets your eyes. His face has softened to a mask of weak confusion, but hers has hardened and she gazes at you with a steely challenge.