The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 16

JIBBY BREAM GALLERY

I was thrown into the back of a van in the middle of the night quite abruptly by someone dressed as Catwoman and I woke up on a green leather sofa in a very smart office the next morning.
A door opened and in walked Jibby Bream, wearing a leather and fur ensemble all by Brioni, big Prada sunglasses on her head, a Walter Steiger leopard and brown leather beauty bag with a gold zip around the circumference, fishnets, and super elevated brown croc studded strappy stilettos by Donna Karan. Rapture!
‘Darling, I need you for an exhibit. You are the one’ said plummy Jibby. All Sloanes are plummy, get used to it. I nodded, lying on the sofa totally naked. I had been emancipated of all garments.
‘Darrrling, I’m going to turn you into a piece of conceptual art. It’s a piece entitled “The Wanking Hobo” and it forms part of a larger permanent exhibition called ‘Sooooo Kinky’. So, darling, you’re going to be a work of art’ I looked at her shoes, of course I did, and my cock grew without the magic beans.
‘OK, Jibby’ I said. Everyone knows Jibby. Nobody fucks with her. She shoots hobos in the night.
‘Super fucking brilliant, darling’ she smiled. ‘Now come this way’
I followed her into the swanky main gallery and wow, what a scene. There was a large installation of video screens showing a woman repeatedly zipping up her knee high boot. The phonetics was amazing. Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip. In one corner was a gold dildo, as tall as a monument, poking up into the domed ceiling. Along another wing was a large leather penis on wheels, sporadically ejaculating Kelly Caleche cream perfume into a pot. There was a huge hologram of Penny Keats’ coiffured head with pearls repeating comments such as ‘Jerry, you naughty naughty boy’ and ‘Oh I say Tom, it’s a mini Matterhorn!’ There was a large baroque painting entitled ‘Two Dildos at Royal Ascot’ accompanied by a group of fashion models from Society Agency including Lily Bottomleigh all wearing Philip Treacy hats, enjoying Pimms and looking through croc leather binoculars. How awfully chic they were. There was a video of Skinny and Buxham, quite drunk; trying to ram their Prada stilettos up a chav’s bum in the lobby of a grand hotel. There were some photos of men jumping rooftops in designer boots. There were vintage Guy Bourdin prints and amorous sketches by caricaturists. There were many videos and holograms of tongues and lips licking and kissing shoes and handbags and very posh leather gloves wanking large penises in classical country house gardens.
‘Tonight is the opening party, darling. There’s your space’ said Jibby, smoking a cigarette in a croc leather holder pointing at some cardboard on the floor with a sign that read ‘The Wanking Hobo’ I sat down on the cardboard. It was warm.
‘Now start wanking and don’t stop until the party is over and all the guests have gone’ insisted Jibby, taking a puff on her cigarette holder. I looked at her Donna Karan shoes. It was easy to stay hard looking at those. On top of that Jibby had left an assortment of sex drugs in a small pink ostrich leather Hermes Kelly bag.
‘That’s it, darling, lots of wanking. There are going to be some very important people here this evening, so be very very naughty! People will be saying very naughty things to you.’ She walked off in her Brioni outfit.
‘I could fuck you’ I said.
‘Keep wanking’ she shouted from the other side of the gallery.
I wondered who would be turning up. I was getting quite excited. I took various sex pills, some of which I had no idea of the consequences. I might die here tonight, in the throes of sexual ecstasy. It had happened to a friend. He took a new pill called Everlust. He spent a day coming, like someone who can’t stop being sick due to sea sickness, well this was similar, only instead of vomiting, he was climaxing. He was at Royal Ascot and he died at the pub afterwards of a stroke. Everlust, a very tricky customer indeed. I made myself comfortable on the cardboard bed and masturbated for a bit. When Jibby was out of sight, I watched Penny Keats’ say some things.
At about seven thirty in the evening a few guests arrived. I recognized them straight away. It was Skinny and Buxham. Skinny was wearing a short dress made entirely of little gold dildos by Hussein Chalayan, a silk trailing scarf by Gucci, and a pair of John Galliano super elevated black leather knee-high boots with wood heels and zips down the inside and outside. She was sporting an orange leather zip-detail glove-clutch by Alexander McQueen. She looked ravishing. Buxham was wearing figure hugging leather down one side of her torso and was completely naked elsewhere, aside from a delicious pink leather covered strap-on penis, with studs. Izzy would be proud. She wore strappy black croc platform stilettos by Zuhair Murad, oh yes those ones, and carried a very large D Squared black croc leather zip bag with gold zips.
‘Oh it’s a pikey’ said Buxham, swinging her bag in my direction ‘Let’s go and piss on him’
‘Later, darling. There are other things to see’ said Skinny, pivoting on a boot heel.
‘Naughty lovely things to see. Jibby’s an absolute wiz’ Skinny continued.
‘I’ll be pissing on you later, you fucker’ smiled Buxham. I’m not even sure they recognized me from the events at Brompton Cross. Maybe they want their Porsche seats cleaning? I started wanking. Jibby was double kissing Skinny and Buxham; congratulating them on their latest TV show ‘How Your Shoes Can Make You Completely Fuckable’. A screen flashed on at the back which showed a close up two fine horses fucking on a glorious hillside in the Cotswolds. Grunting and all. It tied in with the Ascot section.
Then Sarah Cavendish-Peel entered from a Bentley limo. Oh she was divine. My willy went into double takes. Antonio oh Antonio. God I wished I was Hugo again. Maybe Hugo will turn up. What a moment it would be. The first time the two bodies used by the same mysterious person will have been in the same room. It could be very interesting. Sarah CP was wearing a Chalayan zebra print fur top which barely came down to her waist. She proudly exhibited her neatly trimmed pussy. She strutted across the marble floor of the gallery in high heeled black leather thigh boots, with leather garter straps at the top, also by Chalayan. She carried an YSL Downtown bag, with a zebra silk scarf wrapped around the handle. I lay on the floor watching her exchange kisses with Jibby. Jibby could not stop feeling her leather boots. The Krug was starting to flow.
‘Darling, where’s Hugo?’ Asked Jibby with her trademark cigarette holder.
‘Oh he went orf into Surrey with some tarts and hasn’t been back for days’ Sarah said fluttering her big eyelashes like Cleopatra.
‘He’s insatiable, he would have loved my show’ said Jibby.
‘Maybe’ said Sarah ‘although he can be strangely moody about kinky sex. He suddenly became a shoe fetishist, you know. For absolutely years he exhibited no interest in my huge collection of designer shoes and one morning he insisted on kissing a pair of Gucci platforms I had just bought on Sloane Street’
‘Was he just experimenting, darling. He may have been trying to spice things up a bit’
Sarah shook her long mane of blonde hair ‘No, it was the full-blown thing. He really had a passion for those Gucci shoes. Just as suddenly his fetish for shoes went away, which was weird, and then it came back at my leopard and leather party with a vengeance. Which is just as well, I’d spent an awful lot of money on new Moschino boots.’
‘Absolutely darling’ purred Jibby ‘and you’ve come dressed to kill this evening. Those thigh high boots are sooo divine. I think the wanking hobo will appreciate them. He has fetishes for ladies shoes.’
‘Oh yah, you mentioned it briefly, the wanking hobo, is that him over there?’ Sarah pointed in my direction. They both strutted over, with champagne flutes.
‘Oh he’s rather sweet’ said Sarah ‘Terribly common, but sweet. Early twenties I would say’ I had a worm’s eye view of the gorgeous Sloaney Sarah, as I leered at the grainy leather shine of her Chalayan boots, leading the way to her vagina on show for all to see. I wanked like there was no tomorrow.
‘Darling hobo’ Jibby said to me ‘Now that’s brilliant. A fine rhythm you’ve got going. Exquisite in fact’
‘Oh yah’ brayed Sarah, swinging the lovely YSL bag ‘Jolly exquisite, Hugo would be proud’.
‘It’s perfectly disgusting’ said Skinny, who had come over to join the chat. And lots of chat there was, about this and that. I kept tossing the caber, on the floor, at times almost coming into contact with a heel.
‘Now kiss my boots!’ Demanded Sarah, in a firm RP voice. ‘Lick my expensive heels you disgusting peasant’. This was good. Very ritualistic.
‘Yahh, lick her fucking heels’ added Skinny
‘And keep wanking while you do, darling’ insisted Jibby
‘Don’t ever stop kissing my boots’ affirmed Sarah, swigging her champagne and swinging that YSL bag, zips glinting in the gallery lights. I loved to see a good designer leather handbag moving to good effect, with all the embellishments twinkling. I’ve often been in Yves Saint Laurent on Sloane Street and the Downtown bag had often caught my attention. I had seen many models parading up and down Kings Road carrying one.
The sound of that John Galliano zipping boot was perpetually in the background. Sarah’s friend Charlotte Foggins entered wearing a classic green Chanel tweed skirt suit, the skirt being exceptionally short, flower patterned Wolfords, a brown leather Lancel bag and Prada platform heels, two-tone green and black leather. Her Versace silk scarf had fancy pictures of large erect willies and elegant ladies’ hands printed on it.
More guests arrived. The magnificent seven from Quentessentially.com entered the gallery, stiletto heels click-clicking across the polished marble. They were all wearing ravishing outfits and carrying large leather designer bags, naturally, lead by Zara Parker-Pumpkinson with large green leather Marc Jacobs Stella bag and her husky posh accent. There was the ever cheerful Venetia Leerbourn-Zeal, the oh so posh Georgia Barton-Batting, sweet sexy Lucy Possomsby, tall and feisty Jemima Barnes, Izzy Buckworth-Chard who was at the Serpentine event, and the awfully softly spoken Olivia Cheltenham.
Lady Trammerton entered with two pugs, wearing an Alexander McQueen red and black skirt suit and a large hat made of shiny ribbed red leather, with a zip around the circumference. She wore classic black leather Manolo Blahnik court shoes with gold studs on the heel and carried a gorgeous red crocodile Prada bag with a zip along the side. Her gloves were black leather, by Mulberry and had two zips at the sides. Naughty Lady Trammerton. She carried an exquisite walking cane and strutted over to the group of ladies surrounding me. I could see up her skirt and she was wearing a butterfly vibrator. She rested the gold tip of her cane on my chin and it suddenly started vibrating. She moved the tip down my chest to my cock and held it on my helmet. It was very stimulating.
‘A hobo’s big cock!’ announced Lady Trammerton.
The group of women burst out laughing, pivoting on high heels and swigging champagne.
‘It’s a good size, darling’ added Venetia
Venetia was wearing an orange flowery see through minidress and orange leather knee high boots by Jimmy Choo with a black leather Jimmy Choo Mahala bag and a quirky black hat saying ‘Zeal’ in a curve over her head. One day Hugo will be having his wicked way with Venetia. That word ‘Zeal’ will be bobbing up and down.
‘He seems to enjoy kissing ones boots’ nodded Sarah.
‘Super’ said Venetia ‘Kiss my Jimmy Choos you dirty pikey’
‘Oh inspired, darling, truly inspired’ sang Jibby moving nicely in her Brioni leather and fur ensemble dress.
‘I’m almost tempted to sit on his face and piss on him’ laughed Buxham, who had an irresistible urge to do so, and by the end of the evening I imagine she will succumb, after lots of booze.
‘Oh you simply must’ added Olivia playing with the zips on her Gucci zips bag.
Olivia was wearing a fishnet top showing her tits, a blue fur choker, a large black feathery Philip Treacy creation for a hat, leather gloves in purple by Prada, a dark brown mini skirt by Hermes with matching belt, and black leather strappy sandals by Giuseppe Zanotti with a back heel zip.
‘You simply must sit on his face while I suck his cock, ha ha’ Olivia whispered. The quiet ones are always the naughtiest, they say.
‘Oh Olivia, darling, you naughty thing’ said Lucy, sitting on a nearby leather chaise longue, with a large gold penis along the top of it. I was wanking hard, as Lady Trammerton had withdrawn her cane and was stimulating Zara’s clit, who was now on the chaise longue with her legs akimbo. Zara’s leopard print shorts were unzipped and Lady Trammerton’s cane was in there. I looked at Zara’s pleasured face and her feet wriggling in Azzedine Alaia dark green leather strappy platforms. Posh feet in posh shoes and posh moans from Zara’s posh face. I almost came, but I held back. Zara did not recognize me at all from an earlier encounter.
Jibby took some photos of Lady Trammerton’s cane penetrating Zara. Dirty Jibby. A group of naked male models got out of a limo and entered and were automatically greeted by various women. More guests were arriving, including Barwick Ford and Zita Zippa, in her usual black leather Givenchy number and sky high shoes. I saw Henrietta Beauchamp-Slutto in ripped jodhpurs and thigh high Prada boots and a plastic see-through top with studs on it. Very avant garde for Henrietta. Kinky riding chic! She wore a leather riding hat and carried a whip. She whipped a few male models across their bums, as they drank Krug. One of Lady Trammerton’s pugs was fucking a Hermes Birkin bag; it must have been related to Charleston, Liza Blow’s dirty dog. The pug was clearly in a state of rapture as it pushed the bag into my bum. I could feel the soft cold leather, as the pug fucked at it like it was the sexiest lady pug in the world.
The party was a full on orgy by midnight, with lots of action abounding all around, as I wanked away, having come a few times already. I had a very nice orgasm while watching Zara being prodded by Lady Trammerton with Lady Trammerton saying ‘That’s it Zara old girl, work those hips. Zara also administered a large navy blue leather dildo of her own while Lady Trammerton continued to play clitty with the cane tip. Zara made me lick the juice off her dildo.
‘Lick my leather dildo clean you fucking gypo!’ Laughed Zara, crouching down, with her leopard shorts unzipped at the front and her Alaia shoes stained from come and champagne.
‘Uhhhhhhh uuhhhhh’ I came everywhere, all over the cardboard. Olivia, Jibby, Sarah and Skinny applauded. Jibby pushed the Kelly bag of pills closer to me, urging me to take more sex drugs. I indulged in several pills. I continued wanking my excited member. More high profile guests were arriving from both celebrity and aristocratic circles. I saw Princess Zuleika of Aromia and Ed Bunt-Batt going at it on the big pumping leather penis, Zuleika’s hair falling back into the basin of Kelly Caleche cream perfume, as Ed pounded away gritting his teeth. Princess Zuleika was wearing two leather starfish by Versace, one covering her boobs and one on her head as a hat; she wore strappy high heeled gladiator boots by Balenciaga with zips up the front. She kicked those booted legs high as Ed pumped away. I saw a male model sitting on the crossed-leg of one of the Ascot models, wanking furiously. A bit of naughty knee-sitting. She was elegantly sipping Pimms, so very Beatonesque in her broad black and white feathery hat.
Skinny and Buxham were still standing above me chatting about stuff. Barwick and Henrietta were snogging passionately against the front glass window. The place was alive with sex. No sign of Hugo Posset.
I saw Georgia Barton-Batting sit on the chaise longue and cross her long legs. I ached to get up and sit on her lovely knee, all I could do was imagine and wank and wank. She saw that my attention was on her. She was beautiful in her Lanvin navy blue silk bow mini dress and black patent leather knee high boots with gold inside zips by Sergio Rossi and a long red crocodile clutch bag by Salvatore Ferragamo with two gold zips on both sides. She got up and came strutting over, stiletto boots click-clicking. She put her left booted foot up against my lips.
‘Now kiss the patent leather, pikey!’ Georgia’s accent was old money posh and husky. I wanked fast. I kissed the smooth patent leather. I could see reflections of people fucking in them. She drank from the bottle, a large bottle of Krug and she was smoking.
‘Sooo, you were on the streets of Chelsea? How terribly chic’ she said, as I kissed the round zip pull near her knee. She giggled, spilt some Krug. Jibby was taking photos of me kissing her zip pull. Buxham was eating from a tray of expensive cakes and chocolates, laced with drugs.
A few gatecrashers managed to get in, namely a guy whose old van had broke down outside and a woman with only one leg with a scrawny mongrel dog.
I looked up Georgia’s dress and saw her lovely pussy, slightly wet. Her eyes were firmly on my big cock as I wanked. Then she straddled my loins and I watched her smooth bum come down on my cock. We fucked and fucked.
‘Um, sorry Georgia darling, it’s supposed to be “The Wanking Hobo” not the “The Hobo Fucking Posh PR Girl” Jibby was cross.
‘Awfully sorry Jibby’ said Georgia, straightening up her dress and twiddling her disheveled blonde hair. ‘I was sooo wanting to fuck the pikey, so sorry darling’. She stood there in her boots checking her make up and drinking more booze, from trays passing by.
‘Unlucky Georgia darling’ said Venetia.
‘Jibby’s always watching’ winked Lucy, fingering a long snag in her Wolfords, cross-legged on the chaise longue.
‘Yah, she only allows him to wank’ said Jemima giggling, playing with her hair as all ex-public school girls do. She was at Marlborough.
‘They say he was sleeping rough on Fulham Road’ added Olivia ‘I didn’t think that sort of thing was allowed in Chelsea since Lamley got in.’
‘I don’t think the police care about smelly hobos that much’ said Lucy. ‘Oh my god, Georgia, his cock’s been up you!’
‘Yah, and it was terribly good’ moaned Georgia, crossing her booted legs on the chaise longue.
Zara overheard ‘Here, Georgia darling, finish yourself off with my big blue leather dildo. I’ve called it Cameron! Ha ha’. There was snorts and laughter. Georgia uncrossed her legs.
‘Yah, go at it with Cameron, darling’ urged Jibby, smoking a Sobranie twirling the cigarette holder rakishly. Nearby, a male model was being ordered by Buxham and Skinny to sit on a champagne bottle. Buxham clapped, as her strap-on leather penis bobbed up and down. Skinny was making him kiss her Alexander McQueen clutch bag. Dirty bitches. They loved men doing things to their bottoms for some reason. The one legged woman was admiring the Guy Bourdin prints. Her mongrel dog was eating an éclair on the floor, laced with Everlust. Most of the cakes were having an effect on the guests.
It was approaching one o’clock in the morning and a gold Rolls Royce convertible was waved into the gallery via the large sliding side door. The chauffeur; she was a spitting image of Honor Blackman in green leather skirt suit and matching peaked cap and knee high stiletto boots by Christian Louboutin. She even spoke like Honor Blackman, but it was a simulacrum. A sensational simulacrum. She opened the door for Lord Baslington, who was wearing a purple studded top hat and and thong with studs down the front. The Honor Blackman simulacrum produced a black leather Juicy Couture Jezebel clutch bag with double zips down the side of it and proceeded to rub the zips up and down the bulging front of Lord Baslington’s studded thong causing quite intense vibrations. Jibby moved in with her camera, smiling and crouching.
Jibby snapped away ‘Oh darling, darling, darrrrrling! Gorgeous Lord Bazzer! I love the chauffeur; she looks exactly like Honor Blackman. What a super simulacra. Oh those darling scientists are terribly clever these days.’
‘Indeed they are Jibby’ breathed Lord Baslington, trying not to climax, despite the zippy pleasures of the Jezebel playing violin on his crotch ‘I paid a few billion for her, she’s a bloody good chauffeur too and she’s awfully adept at securing theatre tickets at the Royal Court’
‘He loves the Royal Court’ said the simulacrum Honor.
‘Oh you are a fabulous thing, darling’ brayed Jibby ‘in fabulous Louboutin’
‘She goes like a fucking rocket, never ever tires, never never’ said Lord Baslington. ‘Just as well, as I have an enhanced robotic cock, developed by Masters and Jones. Oh they say I’m mad, but fuck me, I care not a jot’.
‘Jolly super’ said Jibby, watching Honor continually rub Lord Baslington’s bulge, which he clearly liked a lot. I was watching and wanking over the scene. It was decadence beyond compare. Guests gravitated to the gold Rolls Royce. There was some conversation with Lord Baslington, who laughed and snorted as the seats of his Rolls Royce were commandeered for furious kinky sex with an array of sex toys, some of which came as part of the car’s deluxe special equipment. I imagine, they too, were under warranty. I saw Skinny and Buxham get on the back seat with the man whose van broke down, who happened to be a large strapping chap who rowed for Oxford who Jibby certainly approved of. There would be no trash hitting this party, aside from me, the wanking hobo. I wasn’t tiring, I was as hard as ever, but I was not coming for ages, really restraining my urge to climax. I saw Buxham fucking the van driver with her strap-on.
Lord Baslington came over and pissed on my leg. He laughed and walked off to get a drink. Then he came back over with a full bottle of Krug in one hand. ‘Stand up you gypsy, stand up and wank like a man, don’t be lying down there with no dignity! Have some pride’
‘Ha ha ha, oh Lord Baslington’ said Lady Trammerton ‘you must be having a ball with your new bionic member.’
‘Yahh, deffo, Trammers. Once that fucking shark in the Thames had severed it orf, I had to get a new one. Luckily the shark spat it out, which was jolly sporting of the fellow. No hard feelings for the shark.’ Lord Baslington was a madman, through and through.
‘Super darling’ smiled Lady Trammerton, switching on her cane.
‘Quite, the surgeons at Masters and Jones are wizards with new cock technology; I get better bloody orgasms now than I did when I was a teen! Ha ha ha’ Lord Baslington ripped off his thong and his techno-lance stood erect like a butternut squash. There were gasps of approval from guests. Lady Trammerton ran her vibrating cane up and down his shaft as they chatted about gardens.
I decided to try on Lord Baslington’s thong. The Lord noticed and summoned Honor over and told her to give me the ‘zip clutch on the crotch’ treatment. I came within five minutes, the zipping sensation was too great and the smell of Honor’s leathers and her husky voice was all too much. I shot my load.
‘Hah ha ha hahh’ bellowed Lord Baslington. ‘Again! Old chap. Again’
Honor went at my bulge again; I was hard as ever, this time I managed to last longer.
‘I bet you come first’ I said.
Lady Trammerton winked at me and concentrated the powerful vibrating tip of her cane on Lord Baslington’s throbbing helmet. I could see he was gritting his teeth in unbridled pleasure, be was on the super brink. I watched him moan and shoot his spunk all over Lady Trammerton’s red ribbed leather hat turning it into a fly agaric.
Jibby clapped and cheered on the chaise longue with Sarah Cavendish-Peel and Charlotte Foggins. Most of the Quentessential girls were cheering. Henrietta Beauchamp Chatto looked on, with Barwick still pumping her from behind. Princess Zuleika and Ed Bunt-Batt were still riding the big leather cock of love, trying unique positions. Lady Trammerton’s pug was busy shagging a Balenciaga Lariat bag that belonged to Tamara Wirt, another model. She was busy snorting Charles off Lord Baslington’s modified penis. Tamara had a fetish about snorting coke off willies. She was often reminded of it by her friends at posh restaurants. Once she pulled a horny waiter’s pants down in Maziti and snorted the white stuff off his penis. She was expelled from Lady Frances Bowland’s College for snorting coke off a model’s penis during an art lesson. She was here tonight, doing exactly that, to as many willies as she could find. Sometimes she substituted coke with the icing sugar on cakes, as she was getting close to overdosing. I took a few Ultrasex pills and laid down on the cardboard, watching spunk and champagne bespattered designer shoes and boots perform their magic. By four o’clock in the morning, the floor was getting uncomfortable, so I laid on my front for a while, fucking the soft leather Balenciaga Lariat bag that belonged to Tamara. It was strangely vaginal. Tamara sat on the chaise longue, in a ripped T-shirt, a very short red leather skirt and black YSL covered platform shoes. Her big hair was a flurry. She sat there, spaced out, rubbing her clit, watching me fuck her Balenciaga bag.
‘My bag is sooo hot’ she slurred and giggled.
‘Oh it is’ I panted, looking up her skirt.
‘My bag has been fucked by a pug, darling. You’re having it after a dog has spunked on it. Oh well, you are a pikey’
I was double hard again, excited by her coked up posh accent and YSL high heels. I sat down and wanked, watching her play with her pussy. Zara Parker-Pumpkinson joined her on the chaise longue and stuck a long tongue into her ear. Tamara giggled with a big toothy grin.
‘Tamara darling, have you met Cameron?’ Zara produced the goods from her stained Stella bag. Tamara licked the dildo on the helmet, fluttering large mascara eyes and rubbed the buzzing helmet of the dildo against her clit. Zara crossed her legs and watched me wank.
‘That dirty hobo finds us terribly stimulating, darling. Look at him wanking like there’s no tomorrow. How’s the dildo?’ Zara had been chatting all night and her voice was huskier than ever. I looked at her feet in those ridiculously expensive, ridiculously high heeled Alaias. I wanked and wanked. The Ultrasex pills were good ones. Barwick Ford came over with a bottle of Krug and sat on Zara’s knee.
‘Hello Zara you old slut’ said Barwick, playing with his cock. ‘I say, it’s Tamara Wirt, what a hotty. She loves a bit of cake off the cock’
‘She’s having a moment with Cameron, darling’ purred Zara. ‘While that pikey gets off on it’
‘Fucking dirty cunt’ said Barwick, rubbing his shaft, pouring Krug in Zara’s mouth.
‘Mmmmmm, I think this is all rather cozy, darling’ said Zara ‘we could almost be at Cadogan Square, in the sitting room’
‘No fucking hobos in my sitting room’ said Barwick, looking at me with his pissed up face, dribbling as he wanked off. To, think, when I’m Hugo he’s one of my best mates. He’s alright I suppose. While I’m Tom the pikey, there’s no rapport, though. Lucky bastard sitting on old Pumpkinson’s knee. Oh wow, look at Tamara get naughty with that dildo. I bet she’d look fantastic at a posh restaurant snorting Charles off the shaft of that beast of blue leather. Shaft. What a great word. I remember a beautiful posh brunette called Helena saying the word ‘shaft’ in the Duke once, she said it over and over with such a passion and then finished with a fit of giggles, spilling her white wine Spritzer. Who could I possibly be?
‘Bloody shame Hugo’s lost’ said Barwick, coming on Zara’s foot.
‘Oh lovely, darling. More spunk on my fucking shoes. I’ll just have to get the dirty hobo to lick it all off’ smiled Zara. Tamara giggled, moaning over Cameron. Hmm, licking Barwick’s manjuice off Zara’s shoes will be a challenge. Zara put her foot in my face and I licked salty come off the leather straps and spat it out as I wanked fast. Zara snorted and laughed as I did so.
‘That’s it, darling, get right in there, and kiss polish them when you’ve finished licking the dirt off’ Zara insisted.
Barwick sat back and drank more Krug. ‘I’m glad you didn’t swallow, Mr Wanking Hobo, I don’t want you having my babies. Ha ha ha’
Tamara giggled.
‘More Krug anyone, there’s a fucking endless supply of this cheap shit back there, ha ha ha’ Barwick was on form as he guzzled. Several people were in the back of Lord Baslington’s gold Rolls Royce as he told Honor to start it up. Tamara got up and clambered in the back with Skinny and Buxham. Zara grabbed me by the arm and we hopped in the front next to Honor. Princess Zuleika tottered over her Balenciaga gladiator stiletto boots and swung a leg over and landed on me. Everyone had a bottle of Krug. Jibby insisted on getting in too, smoking a long long Sobranie.
‘Where are we going?’ sang Jibby
‘To a party’ said Lord Baslington.
‘Oh super darling, a party, how awfully super’ purred Skinny Boodle.
‘Soooo cool’ said Buxham, stroking her pink leather strap on, waving her D Squared croc leather zips bag.
‘Do we have to take the smelly hobo?’ said Princess Zuleika.
‘Yah, we’ll turn him into a gentleman’ said Zara.
‘Oh of course’ giggled Buxham.
‘I’ve got the hots for Zara’s friend Cameron’ said a very spaced out Tamara Wirt, in her short short red leather skirt, gripping her Balenciaga bag.
‘We mustn’t leave this’ said tall and feisty Jemima Barnes, coupling the big leather penis on wheels to the tow bar of the car.
‘Yes, and you must ride it!’ Laughed Zara.
‘Oh I’m on it!’ smiled Jemima. And the car drove out of the large side doors.

The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 15

KINVARA GIRTON

On a hot Saturday afternoon, I walked down Pelham Crescent, when I saw a resident watering her lovely lawn amongst palm trees and white columned facades. The sound of the spray from the hose was refreshing. The woman was clearly enjoying spraying the sun-dappled front garden. She smiled as I walked by. I stopped and looked in the window of a Range Rover Vogue and saw I had reverted to the hobo who polishes seats, the pikey with no name. I invented one for myself, I decided on Tom Leather. Yes, Tom Leather the homeless leather car seat polisher, that’s who I am. Maybe one day I will bump into Hugo. I had tried to find him at various intervals, including waiting outside the Royal Gallery, but he never turned up. Maybe when I’m not Hugo, he goes to Cadogan Square for a lie down, I have no idea. I started to wonder about past events, the stolen painting; the jumping competition over the Serpentine; incredible kinky sex with Zita Zippa; Joanna Lamley winning the election with that gorgeous posh smile of hers; getting my cock stuck in Liza Blow’s boot; an internship at Totler when I kissed Rah Stockworth’s shoes every morning for an hour in a meeting room; Lady Trammerton giving me a handjob outside Le Caprice.
I had many good memories stored up as I passed the grand facades of Pelham Crescent, thinking about that crazy race with Max Ponds. I was wearing the usual jogging bottoms and no pants, and the T-shirt from Romford Market. I looked like a peasant with my hair unkempt. A new Beetle with pink leather seats came by and slowed beside me at the junction with Fulham Road. It was full of rahs in their early twenties, with pashminas and peroxide hair and big sunglasses glinting in the sun.
‘Fucking pikey’ one of the rahs heckled in her posh accent, twirling a finger through her long hair. The others snorted and laughed.
‘Yah what an absolute mess’ giggled another. They were like clones.
‘Soooooo common’ said another sitting in the back, with her left leg cocked up and her strappy camel leather high heeled Alexander McQueen shoe resting on the back of the driver’s headrest.
‘Oh my god, he’s having a wank’ said the driver.
‘How disgusting’ said the Alexander McQueen shod Sloane. ‘Come on let’s go’
‘No, darls, I soooo want to observe the wanking hobo!’ laughed another.
‘Yah let’s watch him jerk off’ said the driver, smiling a broad smile.
Oh I was. I was wanking hard and fast, looking straight at the Alexander McQueen heel pressing into the pink leather head rest. The shoe has studded straps and had dark wood platform and heel. Her perfect foot had red painted toe nails. Her leg was well-toned. Her Chloe denim shorts clung around her crotch tightly. Her mound of designer disheveled peroxide hair glistened and her Prada sunglasses glinted. Her Roberto Cavalli chiffon leopard print top drifted gently over her cleavage with beads following the contours. Her elegant hand smoked a Marlboro Light. Her large black leather Alexander McQueen zip detail bag, was half open on the back seat. She reeked of old money with a look of total disgust. I came all down my leg, they could see I was climaxing. My jogging bottoms were wet. It all went quiet. I could hear the gentle hum of the Beetle engine. The Sloane filled Beetle finally screeched off up the Fulham Road towards Brompton Cross. Ah, another memory to cherish. That Alexander McQueen shoe.
It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening and I went for a glass of wine in Sophie’s, much to the disgust of some punters. I saw a girl cross-legged on a stool in pink platform stilettos. Another lady wore classic black patent courts with skyscraper heels by Christian Louboutin. An old chap sat at a banquette with his laptop on a table, he was showing a group of Italian looking women his villa somewhere in Marbella. He looked like a con artist. I went to stand outside at the smoking tables, watching life go by on the Fulham Road, watching both slouchy and structured handbags and posh cars. An immaculate blonde with a Louis Vuitton Alma strode by, I recognized her as being the woman at 147 Redcliffe Gardens, the house I had mistaken for number 47. She strode by in a white Chanel skirt suit and that Alma bag in black epi leather with gold zips. She was wearing Christian Louboutin black leather peep toes. What a gorgeous tall Sloane. I was rigid almost. Sophie’s was getting busy, a Saturday night throng had developed, consisting of Sloanes, hoorays, a few Aussie girls, some Euro Sloanes and me, Tom Leather. Maybe I would be cleaning leather seats tomorrow. Who knows. I didn’t think too much about it, I sipped my wine and watched the stilettos.
A very tall blonde and her friend joined me at the smoking table. She was in white leather shorts by Versace and a black floaty top by Alessandro dell’ Aqua. Her face was classic Sloane, it reminded me off Lucy from Hitchin, whoever she was. Camel leather Tods bag over her shoulder. I noticed her buckled peep toe platform wedges, very high by Miu Miu. She was tall enough, but the shoes turned her into a larch. By the sounds of it, she owned a boutique on the Fulham road and she was drinking with an employee.
‘Nice evening’ I interrupted.
‘Yes, it is’ said the tall Sloane, disinterested in my advances.
‘Nice shoes’ I said
‘Mmmmm’ she groaned, sipping her cocktail through a straw. Her friend was not very attractive.
‘Are they Prada shoes?’ I asked
‘No, Miu Miu’ she said and turned back to her friend to chat about working arrangements.
‘Are they Prada sunglasses?’ I asked, not giving a shit about annoying her so much.
‘Yes, they’re fucking Prada, it says so’ She put out her cigarette.
‘Do you want to fuck?’ I said, smiling.
‘Um, no, not with a gypsy thank you’ she said, going back into Sophie’s and shaking her head.
Well, it’s always worth a try, I thought, ogling the girl in the Christian Louboutins sitting cross-legged on a bar stool sipping a Long Island Ice Tea. She was with some hunky Euro Sloane called Erno, there was no chance scoring with her while he’s about. I decided to head down to the Goat in Boots to see if there was much action. It was quiet. Sometimes I like quiet. I bought a large glass of wine. I still had some money in my pocket. It must have been left over from the car seat polishing activities.
A Sloane entered with an Asian lad and stood with her back to the bar, she was in a very short denim skirt, and rested one booted heel on the bar rail, doing a knee jiggle motion, her thigh showing through a skirt split. Nice. She was blonde, sunglasses on the head, usual Sloaney type. I left the Goat in Boots. The Hollywood Arms was busy, but Brink’s was better. Brink’s was teeming, high heels all over the place. Inside a there was a booted brunette sitting cross-legged on a bar stool, in dark Wolfords, fiddling with her boot zips. Very sexy. A lovely girl was wearing Jimmy Choo boots; all Jimmy Choo boots have a back zip. These were black leather. I went to get a bottle of Tiger beer and went outside in the warm evening air. The braying was good to firm. People were sipping champagne and eating lobster at the tables out front, with aristocratic furrowed brows. Then, to my surprise, seated at a table was an exquisitely beautiful pair of legs, crossed, in a short white skirt. She wore matching white and black trim Chanel jacket and pearls. On the seat beside her perched a gorgeous black epi leather Louis Vuitton Alma bag. I followed her legs to her feet, admiring the new Christian Louboutin shoes with six inch stiletto heels. I looked at her Angela Thorne face; she was in her late twenties. It was the woman from 147 Redcliffe Gardens. I stood there in my tatty old bottoms, getting harder. She looked up at me, noticing I was ogling her legs.
‘Hello’ she said ‘I know you from somewhere, but I can’t quite remember. Are you a cleaner?’ Her voice was extremely plummy. More plums than Kent I would say.
‘I once knocked on your door by mistake, I was looking for number 47. I clean leather seats, any leather really, but mostly car seats.’
‘Ah, that’s right’ she said, swinging a crossed leg, rhythmically to the beat of my throbbing cock. She dangled a Louboutin shoe. Several men were leering, nearby.
‘I’m Tom Leather’ I said.
‘Rather an appropriate name, Tom. Are you working tomorrow? I have a Porsche. The seats are leather’. She twitched that Louboutin shoe, wickedly. ‘And my husband is away on business in Dubai for a week’.
‘I can do Porsche seats very well indeed’ I said, sipping my Tiger, looking at her amazing legs.
‘Oh, super. So that’s sorted out then. In the meantime, please join me, grab a seat. You’re not going anywhere else are you?’ She purred.
‘No, I’m sleeping rough tonight on Fulham Road, as per usual, unless I can find an old shed to snuggle down in’ I said, sitting down and placing my bottle of beer on the table.
‘Really Tom’ she frowned ‘You polish leather by day and sleep in doorways by night. How jolly decadent! You must see some things’
I smiled, my cock was damn hard ‘Oh I see some things’
‘Tell me about some of the amazing things you’ve seen, if you don’t mind. Oh, I’m Kinvara by the way, Kinvara Girton. I’m a novelist. I’m always looking for inspiration from the lower orders.’
‘Kinvara Girton. I’ve seen your name on books. More risqué than Jilly Super, they say. It’s great to meet the woman behind the behinds!’
She laughed ‘Very well put. I’m not averse to a nice firm bottom’
‘Well, I sometimes get kicked or spat on by drunks, or a pug pisses on me when I’m asleep’ I said ‘but now and again something nice happens.’ I told her the story of Skinny and Buxham. I expected her to be disgusted. She remained composed, swinging those luscious legs.
‘I’ll tell you what’ she whispered ‘You go and find a spot to crash and I’ll come along in a bit. How’s that sound. I want to see you down on the cold hard floor of an alcove. There’s a good one outside Lizzie King’s new deli. I know the homeless use it. Lizzie King does amazing pies, you know. Oh you wouldn’t know’
‘OK’ I said and off I went. It was getting on for eleven o’clock in the evening and it was still very warm out. The street was busy with pubbers and clubbers alike. The stretch known as The Beach on the Fulham Road was one of the trendiest parts of London nowadays, people had grown bored of East End chic and Shoreditch. The rahs were back in Chelsea. Posh was endemic. Joanna Lamley had changed things. I found the alcove at Lizzie King, a nice marble mosaic floor. I clambered in the old duvet I always stashed round the back of the cinema. It wasn’t very cozy, but it was all I had. I soon heard the distinctive tap-tap-tapping of Christian Louboutin shoes on the pavement. I looked up from my vantage point and saw right up Kinvara’s white Chanel skirt. She was bare. Her Blackberry rang and she unzipped her Alma bag to retrieve it.
‘Oh Hello Charles darling, how’s Dubai?’ Her voice was a plum from heaven. It reminded me of Liza Goddard.
‘Really, darling. Oh dear. I’m sorry to hear that. Oh dear, poor poor Charles. Oh I’m soooo sorry to hear that. It must be so beastly, darling. Do you have any embrocation?’
I kept looking at those fantastic black leather Christian Lous with a provocative toe peeping, red painted nail. She stood with her weight on one leg, the classic hooker position.
‘Oh Charles darling, you poor bear’
I started wanking, slowly, as I was extremely excited by her. One wrong movement and I would come like the clappers.
‘Yah, so you’re staying in Dubai for another week. That’s OK darling, I’ve got plenty of writing to do. You make sure you go and see a specialist’
I wanked gently, getting a great view up her skirt, as she swung her Alma bag in the evening lights. Her Blackberry rang again. She was in high demand.
‘Oh darling so jolly amazing to hear from you. Oh how are you Izzy?’ I guess it must have been an old friend. I wasn’t really bothered, I was engrossed in the pleasures of Louboutins with no knickers.
‘Yah, I’m still in Chelsea. No, not at Wellington Square, we moved to a villa at Redcliffe Gardens, just orrrrrf the Fulham Road, it’s so quintessentially Chelsea, darling. Oh Izzy Izzy, the Fizzy Jizzy. Ha ha ha ha. Are you still with Zack? Yes, oh super. Soooo super. Yah. Where are you staying? ‘ The conversation went on, filled with jolly supers and darlings and yahs and all that. I wanked onward, onward to the brink. I was adept at brinkmanship. Her phone went again
‘Umm, I think you have a wrong number, this is Kinvara Girton. Sorry!’
I wanked more. Lovely lovely Louboutin and oh what ankles she has. She took a few photos with her Blackberry to use as reference I assume. Her phone rang again.
‘Hello Tony, yah. Mmmmmmm. Oh yah. Now that would be rather good of you, darling. It’s in the shed, you say. Super. Oh I know a buyer, but I want a cut. Oh I know, I love the Orion, it’s one of Nicolas Poussin’s finest. You are a poppet. No, I’m rather busy this evening, entertaining and all that. Yah, Charles has gone down with something nasty, apart from that he loves it. Yah, speak soon. Bye’
Fucking hell. Wow. Well, what can I say. Tony the Leg. I wanked some more. The painting. Oh fuck the painting for now, there are shoes to lust over. I wanked and came in my duvet. Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Kinvara bid me goodnight ‘So Tom, see you tomorrow, say 10am? Have a lovely night, sweetie’. She strode off back to her luxury villa. I wanked again and came again, thinking about her Louboutins. I wonder what she would be wearing tomorrow.

The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 14

DOGGING IN SURREY

On the day after the party I decided to go dogging with Camilla and Rah, in the old Jag convertible. I sat on Rah’s knee in the front, while Camilla drove, in her Westwoods. The car wouldn’t start after trying for about five minutes, so Max and Barwick gave it a push start.
‘Fucking car’ said Camilla.
‘Yah, sooo temperamental’ agreed Rah.
Out of Cadogan Square we went, onto Pont Street. A man who lives on Pont Street must know how to Pont. On one occasion I saw a bloke in his apartment with hardly anything going on, the walls were bare, the place looked utterly sterile. ‘You simply do not know how to Pont’ I said, through his front window ‘A man who lives on Pont Street must surely make more of an effort and Pont with the best of them’. The man was bemused. I continued ‘You make sure you know how to Pont next time I come past here’. Well, Rah drove right by that man’s apartment and the place was much better. He was Ponting now.
‘The Ponters of Pont Street’ chuckled Camilla.
‘You can’t Pont anywhere else’ insisted Rah,
Rah stalled the Jag on Old Brompton Road, opposite the Drayton Arms. The battery was low. Rurr rurr rurr rurr went the engine, sluggishly and sporadically. Rurr Rurr Rurrrrr. Several strapping Hooray Henry’s helped push us going again, cheered on by a group of Sloanes in pashminas and Mulberry bags in the beer garden. I stayed on Camilla’s lap. This scenario happened several times on the way out of West London. We eventually got on the A3. I wanked furiously on Rah’s knee, as we sped down the fast lane of the A3. Camilla was moaning in pleasure wearing a butterfly vibrator as she floored the accelerator passing Guildford in minutes.
‘Oh fuck shit wank’ said Camilla ‘We’ve got a rozzer on our tail’
‘Bugger!’ Said Rah.
‘Yah, lights flashing. Oh what a killjoy!’ said Camilla.
‘Let’s shake the cunt off’ I said. ‘Take the next turning off the A3’
‘This could be awfully interesting’ smiled Rah, rubbing my cock fast.
‘Turbo boosters on!’ screamed Camilla, pushing a red button on the sleek dashboard.
‘Don’t fucking stall it’ I said. The police were trailing behind, but still tailing. No doubt they would be radioing other units. We need to dash off into the wooded Surrey Hills, find a barn and hide. GTA style. This is exactly what we did. We sat in the barn for an hour, before the sirens faded off. Camilla switched the engine off.
‘Fucking excellent place for a spot of shine ma booty’ I said.
‘Most Deff’ said Rah.
‘Yah, my Westwoods need a good going over, darling’ Camilla shoved a boot heel in my face. ‘Now kiss and lick’
‘Fucking hell, Max has worn them’ I uttered.
Camilla was not perturbed ‘Ridiculous, I’m wearing them now, give them a good kissing while Rah gives you a blowjob.’ I have to say, I obliged wholeheartedly.
Rah was known throughout London as a BJ expert. Camilla switched her butterfly vibrator to full speed; it was as quiet as mouse. It had to be, she told me she wore it all the time to Claridges and at auctions in Sotheby’s. All the posh girls are doing it, she said. They are all buying the new range of discreet designer butterflies which can be controlled via a Blackberry. Awfully chic. Supposedly a few MPs have them and wear them in Parliament. It makes the whole thing far more exciting. At five hundred pounds a butterfly, they work for years. They’re even advertised in the Totler with Ultrasex and Coke.
‘Oh yah…mmmmm….yahhhh…mmmmm..oooh’ Camilla moaned. ‘I adore having my posh boots kissed’
‘Yah, keep kissing Camilla’s posh boots!’ said Rah, between cock sucks, with her Prada booted legs crossed. ‘Kiss the studs, kiss the zips all the way up to the thigh’
‘mmmmmmm….yahh….mmmmmm…yahhh’ Camilla was in ecstasy.
‘Gosh’ added Rah ‘Don’t you just love the sound of a posh girl vibrating herself orrrrrf?’
‘Yeah’ I gasped ‘Oh yeah I fucking love it, I fucking love your accents’
‘Plummy as hell’ said Rah, tonguing my helmet, wanking the shaft faster.
‘You have a plum in your mouth’ giggled Camilla, after an orgasm. I came like a bastard all over the dashboard.
While this was happening a farmers boy was hiding behind a tree, wanking himself stupid. He tripped and snapped a twig Then he ran off into the wheat.
‘Ha ha ha, we had an audience all the time’ said Camilla, donning her large sunglasses.
‘Filthy little cunt’ I said.
Rah snorted ‘Oh my god, what a fucking pikey, I say we run him down’. Camilla couldn’t get the Jag to start. The engine cranked slowly as usual.
‘Oh well, he’s jolly lucky this time’ shouted Rah as the boy vanished into a distant copse of banana trees. Yeah, banana trees grow everywhere in Surrey nowadays.
‘We’ll have to walk’ Camilla said ‘There’s not enough of a slope here for a push start. We’ll have to come back for the Jag. Come on, let’s get a steady leg on. It’s not far from here’
‘Only about five miles in fucking hot sun’ frowned Rah.
‘Oh bollocks, looks like we’re going to get a tan’ I said. ‘Have you got a spare pair of shades.
We wandered across fields and footpaths while the heat wave took our breathe away. The girls must have been hot in their boots, as they had no intention of taking them off. To carry ones boots is always considered to be very common, besides the ground was thorny in places and there were large ants that could bite. I suffered a few stings to my bare feet, the little critters, I bathed my foot in a forded stream for a while. An old farmer wanked off in his tractor. ‘Cor, look at that posh cunt in his leopard thong!’ he muttered to himself, eating a pasty. He was a gay old farmer, which was quite unusual.
‘How far now’ I said ‘Do you know where we fucking are?’
Camilla held up her Blackberry and analyzed the map. ‘Um…we have gone the wrong way. Fuck. Oh fuck!’
‘OK, so let’s nick that tractor from that farmer over there’ I said. ‘I’m pissed off with these fucking ants!’
‘Oh I do soooo love a nice walk in the Surrey Hills’ sang Rah, standing on the dirt track in her dusty Prada boots. It was like a scene from the Wizard of Oz if it was directed by John Galliano. I walked up to the old farmer who was leering under his old moustache and old straw hat. I saw that he was playing with himself.
‘You dirty old bugger’ I said. ‘Give me the keys to your tractor or I will break your neck’
The farmer obliged with little resistance, seeing the size of me as I approached. He held the keys out in dirty hands.
‘You’ll get an infection’ I smiled, starting up the Ford tractor and heading back to the track where the girls were sitting, looking like abandoned fashion models in the sun, disheveled hair and dusty designer boots.
‘Hop on ladies’ I said.
‘Fucking good work’ nodded Camilla, brightening.
‘Oh my god, this is sooo chic’ said Rah, laughing and snorting, swinging her Mulberry Mabel.
‘Yeah, it’s like Paris. Paris, Texas’ I said.
Then the old tractor stalled and it wouldn’t start. It eventually started and we moved off according to Camilla’s directions. It must have been a bit of a sight, seeing three Sloanes driving a tractor wearing leopard and leather. It’s not an everyday sight in the Surrey countryside.
Camilla switched her butterfly on. ‘Oh well, might as well enjoy the ride’
‘Yah darling, I’m butterflied up too’ said Rah
‘Well, I might as well stick a vibrator up my arse and we can all enjoy it’ I said, steering the tractor over a rutty hillock, scaring llamas. I started to feel faint, the scene became more fantastic. We were driving over what looked like an expanse of marble. I saw a huge gold dildo in the distance, like a city tower. My oh my, Guildford skyline has changed. I heard a voice, it sounded very much like Penny Keats. Penny Keats, poshest voice in England. Star of the Wood Life and To the Mansion with a Horn. The sound of the tractor gradually petered out and the sounds of chinking champagne flutes and braying Sloaney girls smelling of Chanel No5 permeated my soul. I could see a window that went on forever, with the words Jibby Bream in gold Edwardian Script. What on earth was this all about.

The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 13

CADOGAN REVISITED

I woke up on a chaise longue at Sarah Cavendish-Peel’s parents’ apartment in Cadogan Square surrounded by debutantes fucking and snogging. Just across the room I saw a pair of Jimmy Choo Peony knee-high leather boots wrapped around the back of a young man who was going at it like a runaway train. Above them, on the wall, was a rather gorgeous Tissot painting of Glorious Goodwood, depicting society ladies chattering in their feathery hats and finery. I was posh again. I could see in the mirror I was Hugo Posset. For how long I will stay as Hugo I don’t know, it could be seconds, it could be days. I had better make the most of the situation. I was almost certainly in the midst of a posh sex party. I could hear braying Sloaney voices downstairs. Were they the bass tones of Barwick Ford, I think they were. I descended the balustraded staircase. I was wearing only a small leopard print thong with studs on the front, the thong barely contained my cock. I grabbed a glass of champagne and a few pills from a passing naked male caterer with a leopard head. As soon as entered the throng, I realized it was a leopard and leather party. Oh brilliant. Posh PR types all dressed up in Roberto Cavalli and Gucci and Jitrois and Hermes. Jolly fucking spiffing! I clocked a long leather boot. It was Sarah approaching, very drunk. She wore a figure hugging Versace leopard print dress and dark blue Moschino over the knee boots with stiletto heels and gold inside zips. She held a nice little black crocodile Louboutin zip clutch in a green leather Celine gloved hand. Neck pearls too, by Graf I should imagine or Asprey. Her make up was like something out an Antonio illustration. I had woken in up in an Antonio painting.
‘Hugo Posset’ slurred Sarah ‘Kiss my fucking Moschino boots. Now!’
I sat on the bottom step of the grand staircase and ran my lips over the sensual leather. The stilettos were the smoothest leather. The stitching was exquisite. Sarah’s drunken la di da voice was hot as ever, oh how I missed it. My cock sprang from the thong.
‘Are you enjoying my super sweet party?’ said Sarah, drunk, swigging from a champagne flute. I looked up and it looked like she was wearing a chandelier on her head. I was still hallucinating. I wasn’t quite the full Hugo.
‘These boots were a snip at four thousand pounds, darling’ she bragged. ‘One has to have a decent pair of Moschinos for ones leopard and leather parties!’
‘Oh yes, you do have some fantastic boots’ I drooled, kissing the ankle creases and running my left hand up the inside of the boot, fiddling with the big zip with a logo embossed on it. She liked me fiddling with zips with logos. I remembered she had a good selection of Chanels.
‘You know Hugo; you haven’t been yourself for a few days. I was beginning to think that you were no longer interested in my shoes’ Sarah pouted, shaking her long blonde hair.
‘I’ve returned from the streets’ I said ‘For the time being, darling’. She had no idea what I was talking about.
‘I’m awfully glad you’re better’ she continued. Sarah opened her Louboutin bag and retrieved a compact and checked her Antonio style make up.
‘Yeah, but I might really be some dirty old hobo in Hugo’s body’ I added, nuzzling her bare thigh. She giggled at the absurd comment.
‘Right, I’m off to join the party’ she said ‘Enjoy. Say hello to lots of lovely Sloanes’.
At that moment Charlotte ‘Rah’ Stockworth came swaggering by and strutted up the stairs in viridian green Prada crocodile knee high platform boots and Juicy Couture leopard shorts. Her black leather Mulberry Mabel bag swung hither and thither as she climbed the stairs. She was positively pissed. I watched her gorgeous legs in those Prada boots. ‘Rah’ Stockworth was a top fashion stylist at Totler magazine. What a fox. My cock stood up, hard as a post. Oh I’m Hugo again alright. After a few minutes, she descended and then I heard her chatting effervescently to Henrietta Beauchamp-Slutto by the large marble fireplace. Henrietta was wearing a fuchsia Chanel leather dress with camellia studs, a Salvatore Ferragamo silk leopard print scarf and ridiculously high Christian Louboutin court shoes in black leather, with studs and a gold heel zip at the back. The bag in the crook of her arm was a combination of red zip detail leather and leopard print suede, by J & M Davidson. She wore huge red and gold Dior sunglasses on her head. At times, she too, resembled Nigella Lawson. The Lawson look was endemic in Chelsea.
‘Yah, lucky we got here in time’ said Rah, swinging that Mulberry bag.
‘Oh did Camilla’s old clapper of a Jag keep conking out again?’ asked Henrietta. Camilla Start-Dart was milling around somewhere, in long Vivienne Westwood purple leather boots with ten inch super elevated heels, crown logo studs up the outside and silver inside zip. She sported the shortest leopard mini minidress by Lanvin. Her sexy Lanvin clutch bag was purple snake with a big silver clasp on the front. She was a big fan Alber Elbaz.
‘Yah, it took sooo long to get to Chelsea from Surrey, darling’ said Rah ‘Camilla stalled the car about ten times and the battery kept going flat as a crepe, but soooo many lovely young men assisted us with push starts! We didn’t have to get out of the car once. It’s worth getting an old banger for such assistance’ Rah in Prada laughed.
‘Oh jolly super’ added Henrietta, winking.
‘Yah. Also, simply adore the exquisite aroma of petrol. It’s sooo enticing, darling. We broke down soooo many times’ Rah stood like a Parisian streetwalker in her shiny green croc knee highs.
I imagined Camilla Can’t-Start-Car trying to get that old banger going each time they stopped at the lights all the way into West London and I was starting to get very trouty. This party was going to be a fuckfest. There were hundreds invited and stiletto shod guests were spilling out into Cadogan Square gardens. It was a hot summer night, the palm trees were contrasting sublimely with the leafy oaks and white classical architecture, like a Claude Lorrain painting.
‘Hugo dahhhhling’ brayed Rah in a deep husky Tara PT style voice, as she spotted me in my leopard thong with my willy poking out, hard as a baton.
‘Hello, Hugo sweetie’ said Henrietta, kissing me on both bum cheeks ‘Love the thong! Did you hear back from Liza Blow?’
‘No, not since that scenario with her Sergio Rossi boots!’ I replied. There were giggles when I related the tale.
Camilla joined us, in her long Vivienne Westwood boots, teetering on elevated platform heels, nearly 7 foot tall, cascading blonde hair down her left breast. My cock looked from one to another, trying to make decisions, helmet shining in the chandelier light. I had popped a few Hardlongs and some Climabrink, my cock showing a little drip of pre-come. Climabrink or BOOs (Brink of Orgasms), they worked erratically, bringing you often to the ‘brink of orgasm’. A fine narcotic at such parties.
‘You’re sporting a super stiffy these days Hugo’ said Camilla, balancing on a heel, swigging a Cosmopolitan, she vaguely resembled Samantha from Sex and the City but she didn’t have an American accent, she had a Stowe college accent, like Willow CW.
‘You fucking hotties’ I said, rubbing my cock.
‘Oh yah, that’s a fine beast of a boa’ winked Rah, pointing at my willy with a bangled arm.
‘A reticulated python rock snake, darling’ agreed Camilla.
‘An anaconda’ smiled Henrietta. ‘It would make a splendid clutch bag. Oh, there’s Barwick, I must go chat with the fucking slut. Ciao’ She strutted off in her Louboutins. I was left between Camilla and Rah, the Jag girls.
I saw Max out of my peripheral vision, he was otherwise engaged on a leather chaise longue with Lucinda Bramley-Briars, who was in mostly black leather and matching black leather Tod’s Micki bag, She was an expert horsewoman who won lots of events at Badminton and Hickstead and owned a string of stud farms in Sussex. I could hear her snorts of laughter, loud and proud, as Max explored her legs. He was wearing a leopard kilt. Lucinda had her hand up there. She was wearing Versace leopard opera gloves.
‘Nice boots girls’ I said to Rah and Camilla ‘Really nice boots’.
‘These are Prada, they cost thousands darling, fucking thousands’ said Rah, putting a boot forward, letting me ogle the fine thing. My willy throbbed, I almost spurted.
‘These are Vivienne Westwood’ added Camilla, putting her Cosmopolitan on the hearth. ‘You should try driving in these boots, it was rather a challenge’ Oh shit, don’t say the word challenge when Max is about. Too late.
Max came over once he’d had his wicked way with Lucinda, who was now getting a breast licked by one of the ubiquitous caterers.
‘Alright Hugo’ said Max ‘Ere, fancy a race around Cadogan Square, on the rooftops?’
‘Too divine’ laughed Rah. ‘Moreover, you both have to wear our boots!’
Camilla was ebullient ‘Yah, you soooo have to wear our boots’ There were snorts of laughter from both girls.
Max looked at me and wasn’t too sure about the idea. ‘Sounds a bit gay to me, jumping about on the rooftops in women’s boots’
‘No it’s not at all gay’ assured Rah ‘It’s art! Jibby will want photos and they’ll sell for thousands at her gallery. Oh go on, you darlings. Here, try my boots on, Hugo’
Max frowned ‘Oh fucking hell, so I get to wear those ridiculous purple platforms. I’ll end up at A&E’.
‘These are Vivienne Westwood! They are super elevated heels, not fucking platforms. Platforms are common’ Snapped Camilla. ‘I having a fuck with Marcus Botting earlier and I told him exactly the same thing, these are super elevated, not platforms. Super fucking elevated, darlings!’
‘Fucking hell, super elevated or not, I won’t get down the steps in them’ complained Max.
‘Let’s do it’ I said ‘Come on Max, get those Westwoods on, ha ha’
‘You fucker, alright let’s do this. I’ll stuff you, Posset. You won’t get far in those Pradas. And put your cock away while we race. I don’t want it blocking the light!’ Max was zipping up the Westwoods, with his serious ‘race face’ on. He looked fucking ludicrous in those boots.
‘Ha ha ha’ Camilla was in hysterics. ‘Oh it’s going to be the Rocky Horror Picture show and Grandstand rolled in one. Oh fucking brilliant. Bring on Desmond Lynam to commentate.’ She dashed off to get her Leica camera.
Rah patted me on the arm ‘Just divine, Hugo darling. Now zip those Pradas up tight. Oh you look soooo sweet in them. Now don’t scuff them! They were six thousand pounds’
‘Right Maxy boy, let’s get this race going. Let’s get up on to the roof’
‘OK Hugo, fuck me, there are some tall chimneys to hurdle. I don’t like these boots!’
‘Stop complaining, these boots are killing me too’ I said.
‘Yeah, well, you’ve got the advantage, I’m well handicapped in these fucking things, look at these heels, I’m like treetop-tall Sally’ Max shook his head as we climbed the fire escape to the roof. Several denizens were curious as to our activities. Old Bernard Buffoe who lived adjacent popped his head out of a sash window and commented. ‘I sayyyy, look at those fine fillies’. Myopic old twit he was. ‘I sayyyy, hello you two naughty pussesses!’ What a buffer was Buffoe.
‘Shut it Buffoe’ warned Max.
‘Yeah Buffoe, we can still administer a rather nasty kick in these, you old rogue, now get back to the Sloane Club you fucker’
‘Yeah Buffoe’ said Max ‘Get back to leering at old Conservative dowagers’
‘Good idea!’ Agreed Buffoe, and he closed his window.
The scene ahead looked formidable. The roofs of Cadogan Square were a mountain range of Ghormenghastian chimneys, aerials, statues, dragonheads, balustrades and rooftop gardens. I was scanning the route. Max was doing the same, sizing up the place. This was not going to be a walk in the park, with no ponds, but there were some chasms to leap. I looked at Max balancing in Camilla’s Westwoods. I had the advantage, but he was steady now. Any minute now, we would be off and running. Posh free-running’! I saw Rah with her zoom lens down below with Jibby Bream, the director.
Barwick fired his gun, which blew the top off a period lamp. ‘Go on lads!’
The race was on! To my surprise I saw Max mounting a fucking dapple grey mare! The bastard had arranged this with Lucinda Bramley-Briars. This was going to be an unfair steeplechase. He whipped the horse’s hind and galloped off, knocking pots over. Cheating swine he is. I sprinted like Linford, over walls and chimneys, like a jack in the boots. Max was miles ahead already. He thinks he’s bloody Richard Dunwoody. Lucinda was down in the road clapping him on. I gained some momentum, someone had left a sports trampoline out and I flew over a chasm between buildings like Iron Man or rather Leopard Thong Man. Camilla was snapping with her Leica, Jibby urging her on. ‘Oh fantastic, you got him over the chasm! Doesn’t he look a darling in Rah’s boots’
I was gaining on Max, slightly as we came to the first corner. His horse slowed up and reared up, refusing to jump the next chasm, the one that included the road.
‘Come on you stupid bloody horse!’ He spurred. That horse was not going over that gap. It whinnied in defiance.
I dashed past, leaping the first large gap and adopting the flying fox position, one of my most reliable. Jibby was having multiple orgasms, clattering about in her red platforms ‘Oh my god. Soooooo super. Rah, get this shot, get this one good’
‘Bloody good show’ bellowed Barwick from below.
‘Sorry Max, darling’ gasped Lucinda with her leather dress up her back, with a caterer giving her one up the shitter, ‘Moonlight doesn’t like large gaps. Oh…..he….doesn’t…..like…..uh....uh’
Max had dismounted and was off like a terrier after a rabbit. He flew over the gap in the Brewster Buffalo position, quite a rare one for Max, but he carried it off elegantly enough. Jibby was on the floor with delight as Camilla snapped away like mad with her telephoto lens projecting upward. Moonlight, now retired, was munching on some rooftop aubergines, his head silhouetted against a nice full moon over Peter Jones department store. I heard they had some nice new Mulberry bags.
The second leg of the rooftops resumed and Max and I were almost neck and neck, boot for boot. Sir Edward Muntrick-Bayfallow had been experimenting in his rooftop garden with some marrows that grew to Brobdingnagian proportions in the new climate. Some of them were the size of fucking dwikkas. One marrow was eight metres long, by three in diameter. Sir Edward had only recently sprayed it and the bloody thing was as slippery as an eel. We both fumbled and slithered back down the thing, until after several attempts we managed to crawl over it. The rules were, anything can be leapt, with one exception. Marrows had to be climbed over, they could not be leapt.
‘Well done on scaling the marrow!’ Cried Barwick Ford from the road. ‘You could have easily been penalized for jumping it’
‘Fucking thing!’ Max growled, getting his speed back up again.
Sir Edward came out to respray it, he patted it and said ‘We’ll be taking you to Pimlico Road Farmers Market next week old chap’
Jibby was pleased Camilla had got some good angles on the marrow debacle. Jibby Bream was always looking for increasingly kinky art, the more eccentric the better for Jibby. She had installed a new exhibit, simply entitled ‘wanking hobo’. It was very popular.
Max was in front again, getting used to the nuances of super elevated boots, leaping chimneys and statues and crashing through leafy gardens, knocking flowers off stalks, upsetting a few denizens. He spent some time trying to start an old replica Sopwith Camel biplane, but gave up when he realized it was chained down.
‘Fuck’ he muttered ‘I was hoping to fly across the second large gap in that’
I grabbed a large axe, Max had missed the axe and I hacked away those chains and started up the Camel. It spluttered into life and there was just enough runway space, along the edge of the roof. The owner, Mr Gaines-Shutterworth was shaking a fist. Max looked back and sighed, as I went flying over his head, holding out a middle finger, dropping old aubergines from the bomb hatch on his ginger head.
‘Ere, give me back my aubergines!’ Cried Gaines-Shutterworth.
Jibby was skipping and laughing. Barwick was slapping his thigh as he thundered’ By Jove it’s fucking Malcolm McDowell from Aces High!’ Camilla’s lens was following.
Sarah Cavendish-Peel was down there. Henrietta too. Zita Zippa had just turned up in a Ferrari. Guests were still arriving. Giles too, the prick, he was down there, a look of disapproval on his face. I made sure I dropped a few aubergines on him. I ditched the plane after it spluttered and stalled, luckily I landed it in one piece on a large terrace on the west rooftop of the square. I leapt out and resumed the sprint. Max was also on the west rooftop, he was on that bloody horse again, not far behind. Lucinda had walked it across the square and up to the start of the west rooftop. Come on Moonlight’ urged Max. We were almost half way. Max came galloping past me, Moonlight’s mane trailing in the wind like a scene from Royal Ascot. I could hear Peter O’Sullivan commentating in my mind. Jibby licking her Louboutin clutch, she was so excited. The race was far from over. I had some catching up to do. Max was on his way to the third corner fast, leaping chimney after statue after skylight while I shook off one of his Dobermans. Oh those Dobermans are always about. Barwick was on his mobile phone. He was ordering something from Quentessentially.com. A large Q lorry turned up in seconds. Fuck me, on the back of the lorry was an LP cover. It was huge. It was the General Johnson LP circa 1976. The cover was so tall it blocked the third gap when they wheeled it into position! Max jumped off Moonlight and leaped high and was hanging on to the top edge of the LP cover, wavering about ten metres above the rooftops, with his booted legs trying to get a foothold. Jibby was ecstatic ‘Oh Bravo, fucking bravo’
‘Bloody hell, that’s a good album’ said one of the lorry drivers.
I managed to catch up with Max, we were both ready to leap from the top edge of the LP cover onto the North end of the rooftops. The kinky throng was gradually emerging alluvial from Sarah’s parent’s apartment, to see the race. Zara Parker-Pumpkinson was waving a large navy blue leather dildo, cheering. ‘Go on boys in your sexy boots. Next time you must wear mine, Hugo darling!’
‘Right Max, I’m having you on the final stretch, mate’ I said.
‘Yeah and the three bears’ grinned Max, as we both jumped the fourth and last big chasm, Max adopting the avocet position and me adopting the lionfish. The positions were always very well calculated, according to the atmospherics. The lionfish was always good on North Easterly corners.
‘He’s adopted the lionfish’ observed Barwick, looking round at the crowd. ‘Splendid!’
‘Really, golly gosh’ smiled Rah. ‘I’ll have to see if Hugo knows any novel sex positions’
‘Oh yahh’ agreed Camilla.
‘Oh he’s awfully adept’ added Sarah Cavenish-Peel. ‘His Rampant Goat motion, is well documented, darling’
‘Oh Gosh, yah’ said Henrietta.
‘Bloody posh totty all together, all you think about is shagging!’ Grumbled Barwick ‘There’s a race on, the final furlong’
‘Yes, indeed’ said Sarah ‘Come on Hugo’
‘Come on Max’ cried Lucinda.
‘Go on boy’ said a Doberman.
The last stretch was easy, but Max and I overtook each other like Ferraris on the M25, weaving and slipstreaming across rooftop terraces.
‘Mind my begonias’ shouted Laura Beep.
‘Beep off’ I said.
Max won again. Oh for fuck sake. That’s two in a row. He managed to win this one by a hare’s whisker. He was knocking back the Krug before I got a chance to get my breath back. Barwick was on his way up the stairs to the finish line, as were Jibby, Rah, Camilla and Lucinda. The girls zipped their boots back on and I thought they were much easier on the eye now they were being sported by their rightful owners. Barwick splashed my face with Evian.
‘Good run old boy, too bad!’ He rumbled, patting my back.
‘Jolly well done’ Lucinda snogged Max.
‘I’m going to wank off in those begonias’ I said.
‘Ha ha’ laughed everyone. So I did. Laura Beep threw a dragon-fruit at me.

The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 12

POLISHING LEATHER

The gardener Tony the Leg caught me when he opened the shed at eight o’clock Fucking hell, I had only had a few hours sleep and he was pulling me up out of the seat and pushing me across the lawn. I resisted to little effect as I fancied a lie in. That man did not want anyone snooping about in that shed. Not even Franke. Who Franke was I can’t tell you, but definitely not him. Well, what was I supposed to do now? I had fuck all money, so I went down to the Fulham Road and sat down in an old shop doorway whistling famous film and TV tunes. It was my attempt at busking. I whistled the tune to The Pink Panther, Coronation Street, Grandstand, Z-Cars, lots of classics and I ended up getting enough pennies for a coffee. One old duffer stood there clapping as I whistled the theme to Cribb, an obscure one, but the old duffer knew the tune. I sat in Paul’s café with my coffee and leafed through a dog-eared Totler magazine. There was a special on who was wearing the new ultra expensive Givenchy selection of shoes and bags. The coffee was good. The girl gave me a cake for free.
A woman in an orange leather coat, black scarf, Dior jeans and black leather knee high boots came in for a coffee. She sat at a table outside, in the sun, with her legs crossed. I got horny all of a sudden. I went outside and got a table next to her. She looked at me briefly and carried on reading her broadsheet paper. Her phone went and I could hear her posh accent. I knew. I looked at her for one minute and knew she would talk just the way she was. I love Chelsea.
‘Yah’ she said ‘It’s a lovely flat. I’m buying it. Oh guess what, the dogs have made a right old mess in the back of the Land Rover.’
She’s buying a flat. I love Chelsea. The booted Sloane is buying a pad. And her dogs are messy.
I couldn’t hold myself back. I said ‘Excuse me, I was wondering. I’m a cleaner. I clean car seats. Do you want your seats cleaned and polished?’
She looked at me and to my surprise she nodded ‘OK, how much do you charge?’
‘Not much, how about a tenner?’ I chanced.
‘Done’ she said. She drank her coffee and I followed her to leafy Redcliffe Gardens. Her Land Rover was parked there.
‘Right I’m off to get a bit of shopping in Waitrose. Here are the keys to my Land Rover. I’ll see you in an hour or so’ She strode off, in those boots. Shit, I had no cleaning stuff. Luckily she had plenty of gear in the back of her Land Rover. There was a rag, some leather polish, a bottle of soapy water and a sponge. I applied a small amount of soap to the sponge and wiped all the muddy Labrador paw prints off the leather. It was relatively easy. Then I went to town with the polish and the rag. Those seats were soon shining like new, soft and luxurious. Then I noticed a pretty hardcore fetish magazine in the front. I opened it up and saw it was all about horsy women in jodhpurs getting men to polish their saddles and then getting them to polish their riding boots and then being fucked doggy fashion after an hour of such a ritual. Well. I read some of the stories and jerked off for a bit. I switched the radio on and listened to Joanna Lamley talking about shoes. The Prime minister is addicted to buying designer shoes, fantastic. She was talking to Theresa Day, the ex MP who was famously photographed in her Markham Square garden, in Lanvin leopard print thigh high boots, and nothing else on. I’m sure it goes on all the time.
‘Shoes are an essential part of my life’ said Joanna
‘Indeed’ said Theresa ‘My Lanvin boots do go awfully well with my herbaceous borders’
‘I love the sound of good shoes on marble tiles in the morning’ said Joanna. ‘I walk out of Downing Street in my new Nicholas Kirkwoods and I’m ready to kick a few more hobos off our lovely streets, especially in West London. You need good shoes to administer a jolly good kicking, you know’
‘Absolutely, we need to keep Chelsea hobo free’ purred Theresa ‘My boots are for hire if you need to operate in stealth leopard mode. Rrrrrrrrr’
I listened to the programme, tossing my cucumber, looking at the horsy saddle magazine, watching the gorgeous plane trees in full leaf swaying in the summer sun. It was all very Claude Lorrain. I watched a group of twenty year old Sloanes walk down the street into Fulham Road, yah yah-ing and braying about bags and boys, hidden in swathes of pashmina, Marc Jacobs Stam bags and YSL Downtown bags swinging in the sun. They all wore outsized sunglasses. I honked the horn a few times and they kept looking around as I wanked. Some old bloke was annoyed at the hooting; he tapped on the window and asserted his disgruntlement. If only Gene had been here. I showed him a page from Saddle Monthly and he soon scuttled off.
I saw the owner of the Land Rover returning, with a few bags of shopping. She was amazed at how shiny her seats were. She stood there for ages looking at them with the driver’s door open, hand on hip, smiling a big toothy smile, praising me for my dexterousness. Oh I was said to be dexterous. I was now a car seat cleaner and I was dexterous.
‘Oh wow!’ she said in her posh accent. She oozed posh sex ‘Oh gosh! The seats are fantastic. Oh golly gosh, what a super shine. You are an expert! Here’s twenty, darling’
I wasn’t expecting that, but I accepted graciously. I bid her farewell and I went for a nice breakfast in Exquisite Breakfasts. Cumberland sausages.
She came dashing over the road about half an hour later. I was dining alfresco.
‘Oh I’m sooo glad I found you’ she panted ‘I have another car for you to do. My friend Polly has a Land Rover too. Would you be able to do it? Oh I’m Camilla by the way. Camilla Batternhoe.’
‘I’m….er…Jeff. Just Jeff’ I said, shaking her hand. I looked at her boots.
‘So, Jeff, Polly’s at number 47 Redcliffe Gardens. Just go and knock when you’re ready. That Cumberland sausage looks rather yummy’ Camilla strutted off. Oh I’m ready alright. I’m always ready. So, I’m on the streets of Chelsea, no longer living the life of Riley as Hugo, but I’m making a small living polishing posh car seats and chatting to some nice Sloanes. I went to the toilet and bashed one out thinking about Camilla in her boots in the back of her Land Rover, with nothing else on but her boots, a big handbag, and a pashmina. ‘Oh yeahhhhhhhhh. Camilla. Uhhhhhhhhhh’. I laughed after coming. Camilla was standing outside the restaurant again. I wondered why.
‘Did you call me?’ She smiled ‘I heard my name’
‘No, it wasn’t me’ I said. Blimey. She strutted off.
It was eleven in the morning and I went to 47 Redcliffe Gardens, a large columned house, with flowery verandas and big plane trees forming nice coulisses against the white walls of the houses. I stood and breathed in the scents of summer. A tall Sloane answered.
I introduced myself ‘Hello, I’m Jeff, a friend of Camilla Batternhoe. She said you were interested in having me clean your car seats. I’m very dexterous’. A large man appeared behind her in the hallway.
‘Who’s there, Tamara?’ he asked, in an old Etonian accent.
‘I don’t know’ said the woman, pushing Dior shades on to her head. ‘Um, I’m awfully sorry but you must have the wrong address, this is 147’ Oh shit. She was wearing nice riding boots. I wandered off and found number 47, another grand villa. A very effervescent Polly answered, she looked amazing in a black and gold Moschino jersey, beige Ralph Lauren culottes and black leather Gucci buckled belt and very high black leather strappy Gucci platform shoes with ridiculously high heels. Oh here we go. She looked like Zara Phillips with her hair down. She was wearing Hermes Kelly Caleche perfume. This time there was no old Etonian in the hallway.
‘Oh hello Jeff, yah, I spoke to Camilla because you did such a wonderful job of her Land Rover.’ said Polly in a voice so posh you could hang Gainsboroughs on it. ‘Come in a moment, do you want a glass of Pimms? I’m having my morning tipple, ha ha’ I followed her through a grand marble hallway with chandeliers hanging, her heels tap-tap-tapped and her legs were immaculate, long and smooth. Those Gucci black leather high heels had three ankle straps and I was trying hard not to get too excited.
‘Yah, I have a Land Rover, they’re such amazing vehicles. The seats are a bit dirty, so they need a jolly good buffing over’ she was a bit tipsy. Well, she’d probably had a champagne breakfast too. I had Cumberlands, she had Veuve Clicquot.
‘Yeah, the leather comes up good with my methods. I charge twenty pounds ’ I said, looking around at the splendour of the place. It was a far cry from Mile End. No energy saving bulbs here. She sat down on a large red leather sofa and crossed her legs, with her glass of Pimms. She unzipped a large Louis Vuitton Saint Jacques bag in epi leather and took out her car keys. ‘The Land Rover’s in the drive, darling. Here are the keys. Twenty pounds is fine’ she added, swinging a leg. ‘Oh, sorry sweetheart, can I ask you to take a shower first, it’s up the first flight on the left, there are fresh towels’
I showered and dried in the auto drier and went outside with only a towel around my waist.
The sun was starting to get very warm now, luckily the trees were offering some shade where the Land Rover was parked, but the leather was still hot in places. I turned on the air conditioning. I started work, not too much of the soapy sponge this time, more of the polish. This was a newer car, the leather was rich and nicely grained. I felt the arm rest and the door leather, it was beyond luxurious. I started to think about Polly driving this sexy beast and I got a big erection. I sat on the back seat, I started to wank off under the towel. There was a sudden knock on the window, fuck, it was Polly. Oh fuck. I tried to hide my tent post cock.
She opened the door. She was still wearing those Gucci shoes.
‘Oh golly, it’s come up beautifully!’ She sang, running a hand over the back seat. ‘You really are a master with leather’
‘Thanks’ I said, trying to hide my erection.
‘Oh you don’t have to hide that big cock of yours’ she blurted, getting in the car and sitting next to me, crossing her legs, unzipping her Louis Vuitton bag and taking a packet of Marlboros out. She sparked up a cigarette. I gazed at the Gucci platform shoes. I let my cock free to breathe the air. She uncrossed her legs, cocked a leg up on the seat and them moved her Gucci shod foot and used the sole to gently massage my cock. My cock was sandwiched between Land Rover leather and Gucci leather. I was holding back the spasms. Oh fetish heaven. She took her foot off my cock and crossed her wonderful legs.
‘Can I sit on your knee?’ I said..
She nodded her long blonde-haired Sloaney head ‘Yah, if you want to’ I sat on Polly’s knee for quite some time, wanking off.
‘I love those shoes’ I said ‘And I love your posh accent. Can you talk even posher?’
She laughed ‘You are sooooo kinky’. Her posh voice had gone up a notch. I was on the verge of coming all over her leg. I held back.
She told me a story, a really naughty story about an orgy at an haute couture garden party in Chelsea involving horses and whips and dildos and golden leather thigh boots. She told it in the poshest voice I had ever heard. I had a mountain of spunk waiting to erupt like Vesuvius. Like I said, I was an expert at staying on the brink. I had to hear the whole story, it was a fabulously modern sex fairy tale.
‘Where’s your husband or boyfriend?’ I asked when she concluded the story.
‘Oh he’s up in the attic, sorting out some antique furniture’ she said ‘he won’t be down until this afternoon.’ I couldn’t believe she was so casual about it. Fuck! He was here, up in the attic, and I’m wanking on his woman’s knee. ‘What if he suddenly comes out here?’
‘Don’t worry. He spends all his time up in the attic, feeling antique chairs.’ Polly giggled. I felt a bit awkward. She unzipped her Ralph Lauren culottes. ‘Come on you gorgeous bastard, let’s fuck like goats! I’ll keep my Gucci’s on’. We fucked in the back of that Land Rover. Maybe the off chance of getting caught by her man gave Polly an extra buzz. We fucked for about two hours. I saw the husband go down the garden with a few antique chairs. He was milling about the garden amongst the hydrangeas; he seemed to be happy enough. His wife was certainly happy as we thrashed about in the Land Rover. The smell of roses drifted in through an open window, mixing with the rich smell of leather and Hermes perfume and sex.

The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 11

SKINNY AND BUXHAM

I found a shop doorway alcove for a bed, opposite Giuseppe Zanotti at Brompton Cross. I had managed to get an old duvet and a pillow from outside a charity shop on the Fulham Road and I was reasonably snug. I started to wank as the light summer rain pattered on the tarmac and the pavement. Ferraris and Porsches zipped by.
Two Sloanes emerged from a noisy party at Joffie’s restaurant across the road; one of them was carrying a bottle of Bollinger. They both wore blue Chanel tweed jackets and expensive leather skirts. They tottered across the road in very high heels. The skinnier of the two was sporting navy blue leather Chloe Betty bag in the crook of her arm. It had chunky leather handles and big zips. The buxom Sloane with blonde hair was carrying large red leather Marc Jacobs Christy shoulder bag, covered in zips. Her shoes were peep-toe platforms by Dolce and Gabbana, in purple.
The two Sloanes stopped and pointed to the spot where I was bedded down in the alcove and they clattered over. Their faces were familiar, I thought, and I continued to play with my cock. They were virtually standing over me. Then I realized it was Skinny Boodle and Zanna Buxham from TV. I noticed Skinny was in a Prada black leather skirt to just above the knee, it hugged her hips perfectly and the little side zip glinted in the evening lights. She unclipped a hair clip and let a mountain of chestnut hair fall below her shoulders.
‘Oh my god’ said Skinny ‘It’s a homeless cunt, ha ha’. She swigged from the bottle of champagne and passed it to Buxham.
‘Yah, he’s fucking playing with his chode, how disgusting’ said Buxom, practically standing on my face with those purple platform heels.
‘Darling’ Skinny pointed at me ‘the stains on your duvet do not go with your dirty pillow whatsoever’ She modeled her leather skirt as she shifted weight onto one beautiful leg and I ogled her Chanel two-tone court shoe with a six inch heel. I wanked as they both criticized my bedding arrangement.
‘Yah, I mean, oh my god’ added Buxham ‘Who goes to bed in a stained rose pattern duvet in this part of town?’
‘Yah, I think it’s just sooo not done, darling’ agreed Skinny, ‘oh my god, is he looking up your fucking skirt. He is. He’s soooo looking up your skirt’ She balanced on a Chanel heel, pivoting elegantly, despite much drunkenness. My eyes lingered on the heel as I wanked away. I flicked my gaze to Buxham and I noticed she was going commando up her Oscar de la Renta mauve leather skirt. As she stood over my face, I could see her neatly trimmed cunt.
‘Darling, can you see up my skirt?’ Buxham asked. Yes, I could. I kept wanking.
‘Disgusting fucking hobo’ laughed Skinny, puffing on a Marlboro Light. She threw the empty packet at me. ‘You dirty fucking hobo, looking up my best friend’s skirt!’
‘Yah, completely disgusting’ agreed Buxham in her expensive platforms. She had an amazing pedicure. Immaculate toes.
‘I’m going back to the party’ said Skinny ‘it’s jolly breezy tonight and my vagina is feeling the brunt!’
‘Your cunt!?’ Buxham snorted, shaking the chunky zip pulls on her Marc Jacobs shoulder bag, making lots of noise ‘I’m not wearing any panties under my leather skirt so I’m the one who should be fucking complaining. Maybe we can get this dirty pikey to wank a bit faster so he can induce a bit of heat and counteract the breeze! Oh gosh, I’m so fucking creative. I should really be in marketing’
‘Oh yah! Simply ingenious’ agreed Skinny, unzipping her Chloe Betty bag. She put on some Gianfranco Ferre black leather gloves. ‘I still say that duvet does not go with the pillow’
‘I know’ I said, speaking for the first time ‘but the spunk stains later will go well with your gloves’
The two Sloanes were silent, looking at me in both disgust and pleasure at the same time, swigging Bollinger. ‘It speaks’ said Buxham.
‘So’ said Skinny ‘Not only are you a disgustingly chavvy perve, you also fancy yourself as a bit of a style pundit?’
I wanked casually, looking at Buxham’s painted big toe peeping out of purple leather.
‘He’s looking at my shoes, the pervey fucker’ snapped Buxham as a Ferrari roared past. A hooter sounded.
‘Oh I think he’s got a shoe fetish, how divine’ purred Skinny, momentarily twitching to see the Ferrari.
‘Yes, you filthy cunt, look at my fucking heels’ said Buxham ‘You know, I’m a respectable upper middle class fashion consultant! I have a house at the fucking Boltons! I own two four-by-fours and a Ferrari. What the fuck do you have, you peasant! I want you to wank and wank and fucking wank over my Dolce and Gabbana platform shoes and you fucking remember who was wearing them’
Skinny slurred a bit ‘Oh Zanna, you hot bitch! You’re a sexy upper class Sloaney toff and you live at the fucking Boltons and you are flashing your Sloaney snatch to a homeless man’
‘Yah, The Boltons!’ boasted Buxham ‘The trees in the gardens are in full fucking leaf this time of year. I often frig myself looking out of the window, breathing in the sweet aroma of summer’
Skinny continued ‘Zanna darling, you’re getting such a thrill, you feel totally superior because he’s so far down the social ladder. You’ll soon be returning to your luxury house in The Boltons and you will be lounging about on your new leather ‘And So To Bed’ bed all set about with fur throws from Liberty, rolling naked on leather, frigging your badger. You’ll probably select one of your biggest vibrators from a large Krug champagne bucket and buzz your way to sleep, after loads of multiple super orgasms.’
‘Obviously’ added Buxham, drinking more Bolly.
Oh fuck I was wanking furiously, listening to their plummy accents, and ogling their shiny leather skirts, lingering on Skinny’s long bare legs. Skinny crouched down. The evening lights were dancing on her shiny knees.
‘Now let me see if my new Ferre leather gloves go with your dirty willy’ said Skinny, sliding a cool leather glove under the duvet and rubbing my penis.
A police car pulled up. A window rolled down.
‘Everything OK’ asked a policeman. ‘Is he alright?’
‘Yah, everyone’s fine’ assured Buxham ‘We’re just sorting out a homeless person with a few cigarettes and a light’
‘No problem ladies, have a splendid evening’ The policeman smiled and drove off.
Buxham, teetering on her Dolce and Gabbana shoe, pushed the sole into my chin. I started to go into pre-orgasmic spasms and within seconds there was a large wet patch on my duvet. Skinny removed her hand and licked the spunk off her fingers.
‘Jolly exquisite taste’ licked Skinny. ‘Goes rather well with Bolly’
‘Mission accomplished’ said Buxham.
‘Yah, come on Zanna darling, let’s go and binge on more caviar and forget this whole episode ever happened. No-one will believe a fucking hobo.’ Skinny took the glove off and threw it at me. I noticed she enjoyed throwing things at me. Her expensive glove was now just an item of refuse.
‘What about the cigarettes?’ I asked
‘Fuck off hobo’ replied Skinny.
I watched the two leather-skirted Sloanes totter back into Joffie’s, weaving in and out of Porsche Cayennes and Ferraris and Bentleys parked up in Draycott Avenue. I decided to have another wank for good measure and I found some sex drugs in that discarded packet of Marlboro. Lovely Skinny! I popped the purple and pink pills. I was well practiced at the art of keeping myself on the brink of orgasm for a long time and these pills worked wonders.
After a while Skinny and Buxham emerged from Joffie’s completely sozzled and decided to come and pay me another visit.
‘Hello darling scummy hobo’ brayed Buxham, with large sunglasses on her head. Diors. The buckles on her Dolce and Gabbana shoes were shining better than ever.
‘Still here then, you fucking perve’ Skinny laughed. Skinny, smoothing her Prada leather skirt and swinging her Chloe bag like a Parisian demi monde. She was now wearing a chiffon scarf with high heels of various sorts printed on it.
‘Look at my cunt you homeless wanker!’ Buxham snorted, in her ultra posh accent. The drunkenness made her sound even posher than usual.
‘Yah, look at her cunt’ giggled Skinny, swaying and teetering on the pavement. I was masturbating furiously, getting occasional whiffs of perfume and leather. Skinny was now wearing a Hermes black leather jacket.
‘You look sooo kinky tonight Skinny in all that black leather’ said Buxham turning her gaze at me and taking a big gold vibrator out of her Marc Jacobs bag. ‘I want you to stick this up your arse you fucking peasant’.
‘Yahhh! Fantastic’ said Skinny.
I obliged and inserted the beast up my bum, while still wanking and switched the implement to full speed.
‘Ha ha ha ha, you made a hobo stick a dildo up his arse!’ Skinny was ecstatic.
‘Yah’ added Buxham ‘and what’s more, that vibrator has pleasured my wet vagina on so many occasions, sometimes in the back of my Porsche Cayenne back at the Boltons and when I’ve been racing down the Old Brompton Road’
‘Super’ said Skinny’ she does those fucking television programmes, but privately she is a kinky maniac leather dildo queen’. I started getting those near orgasm spasms.
‘Yah, go for it you pikey’ brayed Buxham. The spunk shot from my cock like one of the fountains in The Royal Hotel. Globules landed on Skinny’s bag.
‘Oh my God, what a shot’ laughed Buxham.
‘You’ve spunked on my Chloe bag’ Skinny frowned, crouching down and wiping the spunk on my duvet.
‘Anyway, we’re off now, peasant, we’ve got luxury homes to go back to’ smiled Buxham.
‘I’ve got an idea, let’s take him back to your place’ suggested Skinny
‘You’re having a fucking laugh’ said Buxham, taking her car keys out of her Marc Jacobs bag with a leather gloved hand. She had put on her Chanel red leather driving gloves. She was in no state to drive.
‘It’ll be OK, just give him the dog’s bed’ laughed Skinny
‘No no no, it’s too posh for him’ said Buxham.
‘Oh just this once’ said Skinny, ‘he can sleep on the floor’.
‘Well, OK, just this once, while Rupert is away, but no naughty stuff at The Boltons’ Buxham walked over the road and got in the Porsche Cayenne and started it up. ‘And no wanking in the back of my car’
‘Yah, we don’t want stains on the sumptuous leather seats’ affirmed Skinny as we got in the vehicle. The strong aroma of leather hit me like the first time I went in Tanner Krolle on Old Bond Street. Within minutes we were speeding around the back streets of South Ken, down the Fulham Road, up Hollywood Road and into Priory Walk. Oh what a manor.
Buxham’s dildo was still up my arse. I retrieved it and threw it on the back seat. What a sight. A dirty dildo on such luxury leather upholstery.
‘Oh Zanna darling’ asked Skinny ‘I just want to nip over to my place and change. I won’t be a minute’.
Skinny lived in a big Priory Walk house. Five minutes later Skinny emerged in a green Givenchy leather skirt and Moschino black and white jacket and green leather stiletto knee high boots by Sergio Rossi with silver zips (not ring zips). She was swinging purple leather Chloe Paddington bag in the crook of her arm. I heard somebody mention she had over two hundred Chloe bags.
‘Now they are fuckable boots’ said Buxham.
‘Infinitely fuckable boots, they’re by Sergio Rossi’ said Skinny. ‘Besides, those Chanel shoes were scuffed from too much fucking’
‘Oh dear, take those to the Exchange tomorrow’ insisted Buxham. ‘You’ll get a thousand quid for them, signed’
Skinny crossed her newly booted legs and threw her Chloe bag into the back, next to Buxham’s Marc Jacobs bag. I was cocooned in leather accessories.
‘Yah, you need to find a big cock, darling, to fuck you all night in those sexy Prada boots’ moaned Buxham, rubbing the gear stick with her Chanel driving gloves.
‘Oh yahhh I soooo neeed a biiiiig cock!’ throbbed Skinny with her big lips. I was now as erect as the Gherkin.
‘I know our hobo would oblige’ winked Buxham. ‘Hey you fucker, I said no wanking in the back there, how dare you disobey me’
‘Oops’ I muttered.
‘Yah we said no wanking in the Cayenne. Get the fuck out!’ Skinny was emphatic. I shot my load all over their bags and bid them farewell.
‘Fuck you! You spunked on our bags’ screamed Buxham out of the window as the Cayenne wheel spun and whizzed off into fabulous tree-lined avenues. No naughtiness tonight for me with the Boodle Buxham duo.
It must have been four in the morning. I found a shed in some private gardens and fell asleep on a tatty old armchair, amid the smell of old tools in the dark. What bathos! I thought of fucking Skinny in those boots in the back of the Cayenne with Buxham going at it with that gold vibrator. I came on an old painting, before I got some shut eye.

The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again part 10

DEPRAVITY

I felt suddenly very strange, as though all the blue blood has been drained from me and had been replaced with ditch water. I was feeling like the legendary ditch boat to Nine Elms! I saw my reflection in the window of The Posh Pussess and realized I wasn’t Hugo any more. Fuck, I had reverted back to the barrow boy I once was. I was wearing a grubby market T-shirt, a stained pair of ripped jogging bottoms and no underwear. I was crestfallen. I hoped I would become Hugo again expeditiously and I hoped that this was a temporary hitch. Damn, I only had twenty quid and a fucking crumpled Travelcard. I boarded the 22 bus to Parsons Green, the driver hardly looked at the card, which was months out of date. I was no longer the strapping Hugo any more. Damn it.
I bought a large glass of Pinot Griggio at the Duke. It was busy at the bar, posh handbags were swinging in all directions and lots of ‘yah oh yah’ chatter was going on. They had lamps inside the Duke; they reminded me of looking into a small Thai hut with one light on inside. Hugo would never have made such an observation.
I noticed a trio of rahs at the high tables by the front window; one girl in particular was wearing striped Wolford stockings with crossed legs and a pair of nice black patent court shoes with very high stiletto heels. I imagined them rubbing my cock. I was missing my lovely Sergio Rossi cock ring! I just hope the real Hugo wakes up and admires that cock ring! I saw some nice slim pointy-toe brown knee-high boots strut by and the wearer went to sit with a group of four Sloanes on a sofa, behind a strange naked man. My hard willy was so obviously visible in my loose jogging bottoms (from Romford Market). I stood by the end of the bar, at the corner and sipped my wine, lusting over the tables and chairs full of Sloanes with their Mulberry bags and blonde hair and posh faces. I felt like I was an observer now. Fuck, I was a pikey now. I had no chance getting in bed with any of them, let alone kissing their Louboutins and Sergio Rossi’s. I was double crestfallen with whipped cream on top, but strangely horny too. Crestfallen, what a daft word! I tingled with pleasure when I realized I was wearing a vibrating penis ring, which had materialized from nowhere. Somebody was waving a magic wand. This was all a bit ‘quantum leap’, where was fucking Dean Stockwell when you needed an explanation? Ziggy, I’ve got the Union Jack sandwiches!
I grabbed another wine and took an exterior seat on Peterborough Road, having lapped up enough Sloanism to fill Durham. On the right of my chosen table sat a gang of upper middle class city boys talking about their sex lives explicitly and loud. The left side was a gang of hot posh girls chatting about sex. My cock ring was buzzing with pleasure. I watched a beauty in a beige leather seamed jacket with zip cuffs, one hand smoking a cigarette often held elegantly behind her back. She wore a pinky red scarf, a little blonde ponytail, a black flouncy skirt adorned with large colourful flowers and dark stockings with silver ballet flats. Hot posh totty. Hugo would have been at the table by now, kissing her orange leather Lanvin handbag. He would have wanked and wanked while sitting on her knee, listening to her posh voice and her sexy fidgeting and chatting with another dark haired girl who took a chair from the table that I was sitting at earlier. She half-winked at me, that dark haired girl with a Mombassa bag, as she stole the chair. I think she saw my erection and winked in approval.
There were two spare seats at my table. Two young rahs on their way to Crazy Larry’s made used of them, quite tipsy, in short skirts, scarves, big posh handbags and ridiculously high heels. One girl was a typical Sloaney blonde, with a fur jerkin. Her heels were Jimmy Choo blue red and green platform stiletto sandals with a heel zip. Part of the cruise collection. The other girl wore dark brown YSL wedges with platforms much higher than her friend’s Jimmys. They were killing time while waiting for a taxi to clubland. The Jimmy Choo girl crossed her long smooth legs. I had a big fucking hard cock with a. penis ring vibrating, as if I’d flicked the switch to turbo. It was a Porsche penisator. God I was a dirty perverted pup, but I didn’t give a fuck. You only have one life as far as I’m concerned. Look at those rahs with their elegant hands smoking cigarettes as only rahs do. Rahs! Minted daughters of the upper and upper middle classes, sitting at my table. I could smell the Chablis on their lips. I almost came in my big baggy bottoms. The YSL wedges girl was going on about her new job.
YSL Wedges said ‘Oh yahh, I got the job as a PA, starting at 19K. I’ve only been tharr two weeks and it’s gone up to 20! Soooo cool yah’
‘Yah that is sooooo good!’ said Jimmy Choo wearer.
Jimmy Choo wearer continued in a loud no-holds-barred posh accent ‘I’m doing sooo well as a PR at Goodhead Salliva, they pay sooo well. I’ve bought five pairs of Jimmys this week. Mummy and daddy are sooo proud’ Oh this was all too much. I kept looking at her legs and those shoes. Then she noticed I was ogling.
‘Are you looking at my legs, you chav?’ She asked, swinging her leg.
‘No’, I lied.
‘Why the fuck not? Look at my legs you chav. Look at my fucking gorgeous posh legs!’ she said loudly, annunciating like Penelope Keith on Viagra.
YSL Wedges giggled and took a drag on her Marlboro. She had big mascara eyes and huge eyelashes. Maybe she could give me an eyejob! She raised a bare leg and put her wedge heeled shoe shod foot on the table right on front of me. Damn good pedicure. At that moment an old Ford Cortina stalled and the driver couldn’t restart it. He opened the bonnet and the engine did the old rurr rurr rurr chucking out waves of lovely petrol aroma. All girls love that aroma.
‘Lick my fucking shoes clean, you dirty chav’ said YSL Wedges, the PA, getting 20K a month, living in a penthouse in Chelsea somewhere, paid by daddyYSL Wedges.
‘Yah lick her fucking shoes’ snorted Jimmy Choo wearer, putting her foot right on my cock, pumping gently. This was a Hugo moment. How on earth was this happening? I must still have the charisma. Rurr rurr rurr rurr went the Cortina. I think the bloke had flooded it. It sounded like an alternator problem, with the engine cranking slow one minute and fast the next.
‘Keep on licking’ insisted YSL Wedges. Some of the loud city boys were glancing over, they were intrigued by this un-Parsons Green behaviour. Well, certainly not outside anyway. I’ve seen some goings on in apartments!
‘You’re a chav aren’t you?’ laughed Jimmy Choo wearer, pressing her shoe against my throbbing member, rhythmically. I was permanently on the verge of climax. I had to hold out as long as I could. This was a classic. The Cortina’s battery was starting to go flat. The driver was cursing, between getting out and checking cables and connections. We’ve all been there. Lovely smell of petrol, though.
‘Yah he’s a fucking chavvy scummy perve, only fit to lick the stains off my shoes!’ added YSL Wedges. I could see up both rah’s skirts. Both were commando. I spunked a bit, but didn’t come all the way. I restrained.
‘We’re soooo fucking posh and you’re not and I know you would just love to stick that big cock up my vagina’ announced Jimmy Choo wearer, reasonably drunk, playing with her long blonde hair and smoking a Marlboro.
‘Yah, we are soooo privileged with our £800 shoes from Harvey Nicks. That’s it lick my sexy strappy Yves Saint Laurent leather wedges!’ she bragged. I shot my load, and it seemed like I was coming and coming forever as the girls smoked and swigged wine, giggling and running their tongues around their lips. Fuck that was beyond naughty. With two of the poshest birds in Chelsea. I’m catching up Hugo. Watch out.
Then I was worried. Where the fuck was I going to sleep tonight? The girls bid me farewell saying so long chav as they grabbed their expensive handbags and I was left alone. It was alright for them. They were heading to a club and the back to their million pound pads. They left me some matches from Aragon House. I heard the city boys muttering and chuckling. I bought a beer with my last few quid. I searched the pockets of the jogging bottoms. I had nothing. Not a sausage. It looks like I’ll be bedding down in a shop doorway tonight. I better pick one with a good view. Then I was erect again thinking about Jimmy Choo wearer and YSL Wedges. The penisator vanished.
A few minutes later, to my surprise, Zita Zippa walked up Parsons Green towards the Amoros champagne bar. She was wearing a dark green leather skirt and dogtooth check jacket, black Jimmy Choo studded peep-toe shoes with a zip, and red leather Marc Jacobs Sofia bag over her shoulder. I followed her, wanking, almost coming in a Parsons Green bin as she disappeared into the champagne bar to meet some city hunk. Fuck, I want to be Hugo at this moment in time. I wanked in the bin, watching Zita in the Amoros, watching her sleek figure and I watched her hand cup that city hunk’s packet, the lucky bastard. I shot my load over dirty coffee cartons.
It suddenly hit me that I had no home to go to. I had to bed down in the street. I headed to Fulham Road. I knew there were plenty of disused shop doorways and the action in that area was interesting. The police never bothered with homeless folk any more. They might kick you, but never stop and ask you anything. I bought a can of Tennants from Cullens and walked towards Brompton Cross. Fortunately it never got cold any more, so there was no fear of freezing to death. It was still fucking hard on concrete, though; the new climate hadn’t softened the pavements in any way.