Constance checked into the Ritz-Carlton.  From there she took a cab to The Basilica of St Louis, King of France.  She genuflected, sat down, and then slid to her left in a pew near the middle of the church.  She was alone.  In the solitude of the church, she could anticipate at leisure her planned evening of debaucheries. 

As she sat, two men wearing bespoke suits entered from the left and right side of her pew.  They sat down on each side of her.  Constance felt a surge of annoyance. How dare they ruin her delicious fantasies.  The interruption was softened by their being handsome.  Constance appreciated handsome men.

Based on multiple sources, the two SIS boys asked to have a word with her about her recent visits to Lord Caligula, her son, and me.  They also had questions about Peregrine’s doings at Munitions Galore.

The two men had public school accents and they were wearing Westminster School rep ties and the pink socks of that school.  Constance adored the pink socks.  In a jiffy, Constance began to flirt rather than answer their serious questions.

“What gentleman would speak to a lady about bombs or money?  I’m an old-school woman with old-school tastes.  Healthy women don’t worry about bombs and cash.  I’m far more interested in carats.”  She peeled off a lot of clothing whilst offering these observations. 

The SIS chaps pressed on with questions about Munitions Galore.  “You mean to tell us that nobody mentioned anything about doings in Reading, thefts, trips to African, extra cash, things going boom-boom in China?   Are you so far out of the loop?”

In reply, she later told me she did her best to recreate the famed Sharon Stone leg-crossing scene from “Basic Instinct.”  The gesture came easy as she viewed panties as a waste of money. If they were what she thought they were, she bet they would accept, “I’m not the kind of woman that worries about men stuff.  As you can tell, I’m not our age’s Madame Mao.” 

The M6 boys were Mr Pink and Mr Puce.  Constance offered them drinks as she moved ever more in the direction of being deshabille.  To her delight, the lads accepted her offer to mix them martinis.  She was breaking their mindset.

One of them, Constance thought it was Mr Puce, proposed that she let them “spit-roast” her.  Constance’s riposte was to remind them of their school-boy origins.  “I can tell by your posh voices that you two buggers didn’t get such an idea at Winchester.  Why not show me how you to play and like good Englishmen let me whip you to arousal.  Relax.  It’s not gay if a woman’s in the room you all.”

After that, Pink and Puce began to argue about roles.  Constance quickly bored of their bickering and announced her verdict,  as she slashed Pink with a whip she had pulled from under the mattress.  “Pink, you’ve a slight build and hairless body, you can be the first queen.  Then you can have at it when Puce plays has his queenly minutes.  Now get at it like proper Englishmen.  We can all see how excited you two are.”

At that, the two buggers got very busy.  Their ardour increased as Constance slashed away, and her own enthusiasm increased as she listened to Pink’s moans and groans.  What a cutie he was.

To make Puce a presentable queen, she had more work, but once she had done it, Puce was smashing rather than a smasher.  His zeal resumed after she resumed whipping him and pink. There were magnificent.  Constance liked how whipping study young men added tone to her arms, a gloss to her skin, and gave her countenance a wholesome look.

All good things come to an end.  According to Constance, once she had depleted them of their lust, she had left them black and blue or, more accurately in pale Mr Pink’s case, red, white, and blue.  The crisis of facing their questions stopped. She told them what good boys they were, told them she had other duties, and shooed then out of her suite.

With the gone, she rang the front desk.  “Sir, I had guests that had an injury when here.  The room is now untidy.  I’m going to need another suite.  This one’s now too unhygienic”

The clerk said he could arrange that.  He gave her the room number.  As she left her suite for the new suite, housekeeping arrived.  The maid looked alarmed and muttered, “Who were her guests?  Elton John, Boy George, and Lindsey Graham all in heat?”  With a smile, Constance told me she snickered. 

Being so kind, she assured the maid that boys will always be boys. The maid then apologized.  “I’m so sorry ma’am.  I hadn’t meant to say anything.”  Showing white teeth beneath crimson lipstick, Constance replied, “You’re fine, girl.  You’re rather funny.  Tschuss.”

Constance told me about the dangerous liaison at the Ritz with delight.  Wolverine had once again anticipated her arrival, sending a truck of her preferred foods and booze to chez mike and Roberta.  By then she had contacted Messieurs to assure them nobody need ever learn of their doings at the rich provided M6 ceased to intrude on her time.  She added that videotapes of the day were best kept private than, say, splattered about the Mirror and other tabloids.

Even though I asked, Constance never told me the men who followed Pink and Puce into her next suite. What she did tell me is that after she switched suites, she rang Lord Caligula to urge him to come right away to Saint Louis.  Within fourteen hours Lord Caligula walked into the Ritz-Carlton and asked for Constance’s suite.  The front desk clerk told him he was expected.  Up His Lordship went.

He and Constance took pleasure in her account of Pink and Puce.  “You’re lucky, Constance.  Absent the Eton, Winchester, Westminster, Harrow, and the like, your tactics would have failed.  Never try that with the crafty brutes President Putin would send your way.”

When Constance began to joke about the paederasts of the English public schools and Oxbridge, I mentioned mike’s observation that she did everything they did. 

Constance would have none of that.  “Once again, mike has led you astray with his liberal bosh.  I do what I do because I like it.  These paederast inverts are in the grip of their compulsion.  What I do is free will at work.  What they do is a depraved compulsion.  It is the sexual equivalent in them of a cough.” 

As Constance carried out, she set out her view that mike was a cheap sophist, whose education at Stanford and elsewhere was superintended by a collection of dipsomaniacs and perverts.  She believed his training at Minnesota’s Program and Human Sexuality had spawned endless false views in him.  For example, he had worked in a Trans clinic.  If you listen to mike, you would soon succumb to the error of thinking they are women.  Any real woman could look and see the difference.

One of mike’s egregious errors is that public school boys “experimented” with same-sex sex.  It’s a ridiculous “psychologist’s error.” Constance raged, “Experiment?  I have been present at their filthy orgies.  There is nothing experimental about it.  Everybody used to know that.  Etonians and their Oxbridge ilk were in the order of things intended to become Anglican priests.  Did there exist a straight man with that training?  Straight as a boomerang!  Their wives 1930 or so all knew it, too, until gullible, nonsense gobbling fools like mike got indoctrinated into this nonsense.”

When I told her mike disagreed, she ate a scoop of caviar on a large chunk of salmon.  Then she pronounced that, like John Snow, “Mike knew nothing.”

Aside from the news of the M6 failure, Constance told me that Lord Caligula made a failed attempt to get her to hire on as the chief spokesman of Munitions Galore’s Reading operation.  She declined, explaining, “I’m rich and don’t need the headache.”

It was good she soon left.  When I went to the kitchen I overhead Bart and Fielding talking over the best way to poison her.