Memento
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Memento Mori free porn video
Memento Mori
By Cal Y. Pygia
"What a lovely purse!"
Monique Marshall glanced up from her plate of hors' oeuvres
at the broad-faced, big-boned, bovine lady in the fabulous
Gabriel Scarvelli gown. She recognized her immediately, of
course. Anyone would. Unfortunately, it was too late to
pretend not to have seen her and quietly slink away, and of
course ignoring her wasn't an option. Gertrude Winn, social
matron par excellence, was a pain in the ass, sure, but she
had divorced her way high enough up the social food chain
that one didn't slight her. Instead, Monique smiled.
Besides, the older woman's praise was welcome. Although
Monique had heard this compliment many times during the
past year, she never tired of it. On the contrary, she
loved to hear such kind words, for they made her think of
Richard.
Dear, sweet, generous Richard Hunter had been the love of
her life before the heart attack had taken him away from
her forever, leaving her with only precious memories of him
- and one present as unique and loving as Richard himself
had been.
"Thank you," she replied.
"I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it,"
Gertrude remarked. "Do you mind?"
Monique handed her the purse. "Not at all."
The matron examined the material, rubbing the soft tan
leather gently between her thumb and forefinger.
"The quality is magnificent," she declared, "absolutely
magnificent."
Monique smiled. "Thank you."
"Most drawstring purses I've seen are ornamented with
diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, or other jewels, and most
are velvet or satin, but yours is just - leather?"
"Something like that."
"Well, I've never seen anything like it," Gertrude
repeated, returning the purse to its owner.
Monique's smile broadened. "I'd be surprised if you have.
It's one of a kind."
The matron pursed her lips, her brows rising. "Ooohhh!
Gucci?"
Monique shook her head.
"Versace?"
Again, Monique shook her head.
The socialite's eyes sparkled. "Surely it's not Scarvelli?"
"No, it's not Scarvelli, either," Monique agreed.
Gertrude sighed, admitting defeat. "Well? Tell me. Whom
are you wearing?"
"Hunter."
As she thought of Richard, of his bright, warm eyes and his
friendly, open smile, Monique fought a pang of grief.
Richard Hunter hadn't been a famous fashion designer like
Guccio Gucci, Gianni Versace, or Gabriel Scarvelli. He
hadn't been a celebrity - of fashion or anything else. He'd
been only a loving man of some means who'd loved Monique
with all his heart, all his soul, all his mind, and all his
strength. He'd also been the most generous man she'd ever
known. When she'd confided in him about wanting to change
her sex, he'd not only understood, but he'd also encouraged
her, even at a cost of several thousands of dollars of his
own money, paying for the estrogen, the voice coaching
lessons, the electrolysis, the operation that had reduced
the size of her larynx, allowing her a more feminine voice,
and had offered to pay for the sex-change surgery as well.
Monique had no doubt that Richard would have done so, too,
had she gone through the final stage of her transformation
rather than having elected, at the last moment, to retain
her male genitals. Although she'd regarded herself as a
woman since her earliest years as a boy, she just couldn't
bring herself to part, once and forever, with her cock and
balls. Richard had understood that decision, too, and he'd
remained loyal to her. He'd been generous and gracious to
the end. Even after his death, he'd demonstrated his
unfailing love and devotion to her.
Gertrude frowned. "Whom did you say, dear?"
"Hunter."
"Hunter?" Gertrude looked puzzled. "Is he someone new?"
"No," Monique said. "He's not a fashion designer."
Gertrude's eyebrows rose. "Not a designer? Don't be
ridiculous, dear. No one but a Versace, a Gucci, or a
Scarvelli could possibly have fashioned such an exquisite
purse as this!"
"He was a banker," Monique said.
"You won't tell me, then?"
"I did tell you, Madame Winn. My late love of my life,
Richard Hunter, was a financier."
Gertrude smiled. "Oh, I see," she declared. "He had the
purse designed for you."
Inwardly, Monique shrugged. "In a manner of speaking, I
guess that's true," she admitted.
Gertrude looked vindicated. "Who was the designer?" she
asked. This time, her tone made it clear that she would
brook no coyness. She expected an answer.
Monique felt like telling Madame to go fuck herself, but
Richard had wanted her to enjoy the finer things in life,
even after his death, and he'd worked hard so that she
could enjoy the not-so-polite world of polite society as a
proper lady. She wasn't about to ruin her career as a
social butterfly before it started, not after the
sacrifices, financial and otherwise, that Richard had made
her on behalf, so she could attend just such affairs as the
debutante ball of Gertrude Winn's one and only daughter,
Louise. She mentioned the designer's name, and the matron
looked suitably shocked. "My God!" she murmured. Recovering
quickly, she added, "I should have guessed. Only he could
have made such an exquisite purse."
Monique smiled. The designer certainly was among the
world's best, but, to give credit where credit was due, he
hadn't exactly turned a sow's ear into a silk purse. The
amazingly supple, tan-colored leather purse was a work of
art, no doubt, but its elegance owed as much to the
material of which it had been made as to its designer's
unparalleled skill. In having supplied his scrotum as the
material from which the drawstring purse was to be
fashioned, Richard Hunter had assured that Monique's
handbag would, indeed, be one of a kind, both a fashion
accessory par excellence and an apt and proper memento mori
of her wealthy lover's devoted munificence.
Gertrude whispered in Monique's ear. "Treasure it, my
child."
"I do," the teary-eyed transsexual assured her. "I always
will."
Libbie
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