One man.

One woman.

Two actors with an audience of fourteen lascivious raised pulses. Like a born showman, Claude-François strung out the action. Allowing the anticipation to mount, he slowly circled around Lolli, halting for a languorous massage of her breasts, a mouthful of erect nipple and an exaggeratedly dramatic investigation of her rump through the silk of her knickers. Knickers of deepest azure that perfectly matched the discarded dress. Knickers that sat tight over the top of her pubis, but were loose enough in the crotch to allow an exploring hand to roam over her sex. And Claude-François' hand was itching to do just that. But he knew how to work an audience and he was not about to spoil the moment. So it was not until after a suitably tension building delay, that his hand duly slipped down the front of the knickers, the outline of his knuckles poking out through the silk as his palm slid over her mons and delved between her thighs. "Ègoiste. Cochon." The man standing in front of Duke who made the comment said it with a chuckle. He did not seriously think that Claude-François was selfish, or a pig, but there was an undoubted tinge of envy in his voice.

Those knickers had to go. It was what they were all panting for. And go they would.

Eventually.

But before that happened, Claude-François had another scene to play. The outline of his knuckles disappeared as he tucked his hand further under her crotch, stroking the slit of her sex until it began to widen. And as it opened for his fingers, her juices started to flow. Slowly he eased his forefinger into her tightly slippy hole. And then his other fingers, until they were all buried deep in its warm, moist and welcoming grasp. He left them there for several minutes, manipulating the walls, searching for her G spot. He must have found it, because Lolli began to squirm under his touch, a flood of lubricating juices suddenly soaking his fingers. Now he had what he wanted. He pulled his sticky digits from her vagina and made a great show of sniffing up the rich bouquet of sexual aromas that clung to them.

If the audience had not been an assembly of cultured, self-controlled Gentlemen, there would have been a riot there and then. Claude-François smirked in obvious enjoyment at the vexed reaction of his friends. They were all lusting after Lolli, but he had her! All to himself. And to add insult to injury, he put out his hand, palm upwards, and in a modified re-play of his and Duke's' earlier troop around the circle, in turn, he held his fingers under the nostrils of every man present. He allowed them all a noseful of Lolli's vital fragrance, at the same time giving them a semi-mocking look that said, 'It's a pity you're not a better snooker player.' And there was not one of them, who at that moment did not wish that he had put in a little more time with the French Chalk. To the winner the spoils. To the loser nothing. And they were the losers.

A lesser man than Duke could have been worried at the challenge posed by Claude-François. He was an impressive figure. About forty years old, not too tall, but handsome in a more flamboyant way than his English benefactor. And the body beneath the suit was well proportioned and muscular. More than that, he possessed a commanding presence, plus his handling of Lolli was correct and authoritative. Not one to make snap judgements, Duke nevertheless concluded very quickly that he was a man to trust. A man who would not buckle under adversity. In short, a man he would be pleased to call his friend. Knowing that Lolli was in competent hands, Duke retired to the bar. He contemplated ordering a girl for himself, but now that he was alone, Myerberg pushed all other considerations from his mind. Settling for a malt whisky and a cigar instead, he sat by himself, and was soon oblivious of his surroundings, deep in thought.

The spectacle of Claude-François' performance with Lolli had prompted several more of the onlookers to depart for adventures of their own by the time Duke took another look into the common room. He could not help but smile at the intense concentration with which the remaining voyeurs were following the action. And a virtuoso performance it was. Claude-François was playing the gallery for all it was worth. Lolli was bent over, legs straight and arms stretched wide and slightly upwards, as if she was about to execute a triple somersault from the high board into the Olympic depths of Le Manoir's swimming pool. Her breasts hung full and pendulous as every now and then, in an underhand action, he flicked at them with a flat-tongued quirt, bullet nipples testifying to the extent of her arousal.

Duke awarded full marks to the Frenchman. If he had kept her in that position for any length of time, her muscles must by now be suffering agonising tortures. And he had not been sparing with the cane either. Lolli's projecting rump was striped with crimson ridges that were already beginning to darken into purple bruises. The backs of her thighs were likewise signalling the results of a thorough beating. Duke began to wish that he had not retired from the scene so soon. The scalding slash of the cane. Lolli's gasp of agony as it landed. The scarlet flash that followed the impact. All these things he could now only imagine.