Mewsy goes to the Opera An image of Augustus John's painting Marchesa Casati.

Mewsy goes to the Opera

Jenna Simeonov
Fair warning: there will be some strong language and mature themes. Definitely Not Safe For Work.
This special collaboration between Schmopera and Claryon Fitzgibbon, author of the Erotic Novel in Tweets “Mewsy the Adulteress”, is an exclusive preview of the first chapter of Mewsy: Part II, before it is tweeted to the public. Catch up on Part I at, or follow @MewsyAdulteress on Twitter! Strong Adult Themes and Immodest Filth contained below.


Had she not been on the arm of such a gallant escort, Mewsy certainly would have slipped alighting from Doody Pethers’ elegant sedan.

“I’d forgotten,” she giggled frothily, “How productive we can be. My pumps are drenched!” She dabbed some from the corners of her mouth.

“It’s your charms,” said Pethers indulgently, “I’ve never made so much with Darleen!” Mewsy wrapped her fur over the stain and they went in.

The lobby sparkled with the decadence of the Upper Crust. It gave Mewsy a shiver right down to her coinpurse to see the wealthy at play.

“Heavens,” she breathed, “How I ADORE the Opera.” Underneath her extravagant sable, bejewelled digits sought amplification of her frissons.

“Thank mercy for this stole,” she said aloud, “I’m damp again!”

“Come, my dear,” said the impossibly chic Pethers, “You’ll be more comfortable in my private box.” “You’re stealing my lines!” Mewsy joshed.

It WAS a loge to behold. “How modern!” oohed Mewsy, “The carpet doesn’t match the drapes!” “In your honour, ma’m’selle. And all in velvet.”

“Ah, l’Opéra!” Mewsy positively burbled, “What a hurricane of taste. L’amour toujours! Toujours gai! What confection will it be tonight?”

Salome!” whispered Doody with scandalous anticipation. “Look! It’s about to start.” He put his hand right up her petticoats.

The lights dimmed (or Mewsy’s eyes closed, or both) and the orchestra began tuning. “How that tonal unison quickens the senses!” she moaned.

Doody Pethers seemed to be rummaging for something in her drawers. “Down below,” the conductor appeared and struck up the music.

Just like that the curtain vanished, and already someone was singing! Mewsy gasped and squealed; it was happening so fast this time!

“Oh, this is the most fabulous one!” Mewsy gaped as the orchestra creaked and groaned and the singers, all half-naked, yowled passionately.

“It’s all about moon-madness, you know,” her suitor of the moment insinuated in her ear. A corpse was dragged offstage. Mewsy came.

Now some of the actors were going into a hole! The activity had exhausted Mewsy. She slumped in her chaise. A knock came at the loge door.

“Admirers,” said Doody, opening the door to five identical men in black. One advanced, beaming. “We bear a gift for Ms. Stone.”

“We’re recipients of the Stone Foundation Grant for Masculinity in Art.” “We’re the Jews,” said another, “And yes, we are TTTTB quintuplets.”

“Aren’t you just!” hummed Mewsy, taking in their earnest manner and the pleasing way their robes hung close to their five identical bodies.

“We’ve got to be onstage soon,” said one of them, “But we wanted to pay respects to the largesse of the Great Patroness of Theatre Arts.”

“A token of our gratitude,” they said, indicating the package Mewsy was tearing into. She drew out a bronze cast of five bodies in action.

“The full-sized version is being sent to your estate,” one said. “It depicts the five of us reënacting a certain traditional Greek game.”

“So I see!” Mewsy inhaled deeply, “And there’s a life-sized rendering, you say? I’m overcome. Please, do visit us again after your scene!”

They thanked her and left. Mewsy watched them go. “How divine,” she murmured, turning back to the Opera, where a chesty baritone roared.

He was chained, and a peroxide number in only a slip was rubbing herself up on him. Mewsy reached over to see which side Doody was dressing.

He, gripped by the spectacle, woke to her touch while pantsless toughs tried to stuff the baritone down the hole (He kept popping back up).

Now the writhing blonde alley-cat was working up a lather over this man who looked, to Mewsy, the very picture of a pastry chef.

“She begs to kiss him,” Doody panted, “She commands it!” She was milking it, everyone knew, but (thought Mewsy) who cares? It was so exciting.

Doody shot forward. What riveting drama! The king, rushing in, slipped in blood. It seemed to Mewsy she could FEEL it, warm and viscous.

Mewsy wiped her hand on Doody’s splayed lap. “Look!” she said, “Our Jews!” The five Masculine Scholars were starting to wrestle (vocally).

“They are so determined!” Mewsy smiled inwardly, “My boys. What fortitude!” Their voices shrieked. “How noble!” she sighed.

The striving quints were succeeded onstage by a domestic scene, and Mewsy turned to the door, awaiting their return. At last they burst in.

The lads had lost their heavy robes, and seemed filled with new life now that they wore the regulation uniform of the Scholars of Manhood.

The tank-and-shorts combo was slight, so as not to strain the imagination. “Perfect!” crowed Mewsy. (Even freshly used Doody was grinning.)

“We’ve come, as requested,” the foreman said, “To reiterate our gratitude to you.” “Let us do something for you in return.”

Just then the frightfully cultured Pethers leapt up with fervour and sang out, “Here it comes! The Dance of the Seven Veils!”

A primal throbbing in the orchestra shook them, and, as so often happens at the Opera, animal instinct took control. The men surrounded her.

“The Seven Veils?” Mewsy said, loosening her bodice, “Why, there are seven of us!” Intoxicated by tambourines, she freed her curious hands.

The Gentlemen Scholars’ shorts now ceased any pretense of modesty.

Three at a time the studious studs began to know Mewsy as well as they obviously knew this music. Doody pitched in to keep the others warm.

“Oh, my stars! My very word!” Mewsy declared. Everything was hair, fur and muscles. “I’ve yet to be disappointed by a night at the Opera!”

After nine very full minutes the tenor hollered emphatically and the septet found itself happily spent. Mewsy whimpered with satisfaction.

“We must dress for curtain call,” said the bass Scholar, bending over respectfully. Again they turned to go, giving Mewsy her money’s worth.

When at last Mewsy looked back to the stage, she practically squirted with delight. “My favourite part!” she rhapsodized, “The love song!”

It was bliss. Mewsy sank into the embrace of sensual pleasures as the ingenue before them serenaded the severed head she cradled.

Du warst schön…” Mewsy echoed. She shuddered with deep feeling. “Du warst schön!” She felt a creeping chill. “Du… warst… schön…..!

Mewsy started awake, shaking with cold under the merciless desert dawn, and it all came flooding back.

…if you’re craving more Mewsy.

Related Content


Unlike other sites, we're keeping Schmopera ad-free. We want to keep our site clean and our opinions our own. Support us for as little as $1.00 per month.