I've heard so many stories going around about the Henri Lannele Institute: we are part of a global conspiracy to take over the world; and/or we engage in nonstop orgies. I can honestly state that our only conspiracy is out in the open: we exist to relieve billionaires of their excess money. As to the orgies... as in the old children's game I would say "warm, but not quite there yet."
Henri Lanelle inherited a rundown hotel outside of Lyon in the early 1920s. He promptly refurbished it and started its endless expansion. He was an unabashed naturist and hedonist and his original version of the resort was something of a nudist colony. He became bored with that concept and turned the place into a sort of salon, attracting some of the most famous artists and writers in the world. The fact that nudity was still encouraged in the resort's pools and spas was certainly a major attraction.
Henri was a man of mystery who appeared out of nowhere circa 1920. He is supposed to have wandered into the decrepit hotel about then and announced to the aging owner that he was going to turn it into "the Gem of Europe." Rumors had him as a deserter from the Great War or even as an guilt-ridden arms merchant. F. Scott Fitzgerald is supposed to have visited the salon in 1924 and Henri's murky past may have even inspired Fitzgerald's final version of Jay Gatsby.
Just before the world economy took a nosedive, Henri noticed that extremely wealthy people were among his frequently nude guests. They enjoyed the chance to unwind and especially to undress in the resort's famed privacy and anonymity. Henri took their amusing statements that they had "too much time and too much money" seriously. He suggested an "Institute" that would see to distributing that excess money to worthy causes. And thus, the legendary Henri Lannele Institute was born.
There were tough times, but Henri saw his Institute through it all. Although, when the resort was nearly taken over in the 1930s by a certain people who saw themselves as the most perfect beings on Earth, the ever-wise Henri saw the writing on the wall. He shut things down, he saw to the safety of his staff, and he temporarily relocated to the United States, where he made many new extremely wealthy friends.
According to an unauthorized biography, Henri's resort was turned into the official headquarters of a German general. Henri was supposed to have had contacts in the French Resistance. His famous (and possibly apocryphal) comment: "Bullets if you must, but please no bombs in my building!"
After the war, Henri and his Institute were secretly instrumental in the rebuilding of a damaged world. Things had to be kept secret because Henri would never give up on the nudity, hedonism and sensuality that his private guests enjoyed so much-- even in the strait-laced 1950s.
Henri died in 1959 and he wisely left his Institute to a consortium of like-minded individuals. They continued his twin causes: relieving the wealthy of their money, and letting them indulge themselves naked and free in his pools and spas.
How did I get so intimately involved in all this? I was such a rising star in the world of international finance that I felt that I had already peaked in my early forties. All of the traveling, the late night billion euro deals, the luxury suites, and even the luxury escorts were no longer meaningful. I had burned through two marriages on my way to the top. Now there was nowhere else to go.
Then the President of the Institute was waiting for me one morning. An elegant, stunning, silver-haired woman in her early sixties with an enigmatic smile was sipping her tea at my usually private Bern hotel breakfast nook. I knew who she was and I knew she was once an international playgirl who had inherited hundreds of millions from her late and very much older husband.
She had once been described as the "more girlish, more accessible Sophia Loren." I saw a beauty in her that had hardly faded-- it was more set in like a painting by an Old Master.
"How would you like to take a cut in pay and work directly under me?" She looked me up and down and gave me that smile and I knew that I was probably lost before I even started to consider her offer.
My first interview went extremely well. I had the distinct feeling that I had been watched for a while, and I mean literally watched. Did they know about my occasional dalliances with the wives and even the comely daughters of some of my clients? And what about the escorts?
I never felt that I was being blackmailed-- far from it. I felt that this was an organization that was meant for people like me who enjoyed the finer things in life-- including the finest ladies-- and were still dissatisfied.
I think my baptism by fire occurred during my second interview. I was instructed to undress completely and grab a towel-- if necessary-- and join the President poolside. Well, the towels provided were hardly large enough to wrap around me, so I emerged from the changing room naked and with said towel foolishly held in front of me.
"Sorry you're still uncomfortable," said a familiar voice, and I turned to see my probably new boss smiling at me, stark naked. This was a woman probably twenty years my senior with a remarkably healthy bosom that was only drooping a little. She was very well-groomed between her still firm thighs with a triangular thatch of black fur shot through with silver.
She gave me an even bigger smile, knowing that I had just thoroughly checked her out. "Allow me to show you some more areas of interest," she said innocently. I blushed.
The Institute's pools were legendary. There were thirteen of them, with about half indoors under tempered glass that created a year round greenhouse effect. In warmer weather the transition from indoors to outdoors wasn't even noticeable. And everywhere there were private little nooks surrounded by judiciously placed trees and plants.
We were standing by the magnificent main pool, crowded with perhaps one hundred mostly naked men and women. Some were in the pool, most were lounging around. All were well-attended by naked servers of both sexes, identifiable by their white scarves.
Samantha (the President) looked at me clinging to that towel and said "now, this really won't do" and then she whisked my one covering away. I was so startled at my potential new boss stripping me naked in public that I did nothing to cover my penis which was angled upward at nearly 90 degrees.
She looked directly at it for what seemed to me to be much too long. "That's to be expected at first," she finally stated. "You have nothing to be ashamed of-- obviously! You'll get used to all of our silly nudity after a while." And then we proceeded with the tour.
I looked over just then and recognized a famous international film star. When she was a starlet, she had made a notorious picture in which she was nude in practically every scene. I had "pleasured myself" to those scenes during some of my lonely, misspent youth. She looked over at me, took note of my condition, met my eyes, smiled, and then returned to her conversation.
This was the new life offered to me if I accepted this position. How could I resist?
Within two months I had sold my New York City brownstone, had shipped all my worldly goods-- literally on a ship-- and was now an American ex-pat in France.
Soon, I was thrown into a dizzying mix of business meetings on Zoom and in person-- with all of our clothes on-- to the like of casual conversations in the nude by the pool with an equally naked princess who had just turned eighteen and was inheriting a fortune.
Two months in, I hosted an awards ceremony for our largest donors to our world hunger campaign. There was a woman who had started her own internet auction site while still in college-- and sold it years later for some outrageous sum.
When she stepped up on stage to accept her award, our eyes locked. The rest of the ceremony, our eyes were continually seeking out the other. To describe her as a beautiful, blue-eyed, curvy and leggy long-haired brunette would be like describing the Sun as a really nice, warm star.
We spent the first thirty minutes or so of the after party trying to maneuver ourselves toward each other. An anthropologist should have been there, recording what was to be our initial mating dance.
When we finally disentangled ourselves from all our other admirers, I took her hand and said "Hello again."
She said "finally!". We looked at each other and we laughed. She told me afterward that the next thing that she really wanted to say was: "why don't you give me your keycard. I'll be waiting for you, naked."
Instead we continued laughing and talking and gradually making our way out of the party, down the hallway, and up the elevator to my suite.
For some reason we took it extremely slow. Every button unbuttoned, every zipper unzipped would result in the softest of kisses on every newly exposed bit of skin. I think it took well over an hour to undress each other and we went from standing to kneeling to lying down on my living room rug in front of the floor to ceiling window with a view of the dark night and all of the stars in it.
