The Man Who Fucked His Way Across Chelsea and Back Again Part 5

ZITA ZIPPA OPENING PARTY


Next day I was in the gallery, arranging some new paintings and sculptures. Jibby Bream was pacing about, umming and arring, in a green Chanel suit and an ocelot print fur coat. I noticed the Vivienne Westwood platform open-toe red leather wedges she wore. Nice Marc Jacobs Stella bag two, lovely shade of mauve. I was bored so I started up a conversation, looking at her horny shoes.
She boasted in her posh voice ‘I own a gallery in London too; I’m looking for risqué stuff’
‘Well’ I said ‘You’re a naughty old girl’
‘Very’ she said, noticing I was looking at her shoes.
‘I have a nice piece entitled “Two Dildos at Royal Ascot”’ I told her. I was making it up, the piece did not exist. She took her card from her gorgeous black leather Dior purse without hesitation.
‘How much?’ She enquired.
‘Don’t you want to see it?’ I said
‘No, just send it to my gallery address, here it is on my card’, she slipped it down the front of my pants, she was very trusting.
‘Fair enough, Miss Bream. That will be ten thousand pounds’. Oh the frivolous world of high art. ‘Nice shoes by the way’
She smirked ‘I saw you lusting over them, you perve. Would you like a closer perusal?’
‘Of course, if you don’t mind. I like to think only the best high heels come into the Royal Gallery on this fine Monday morning, an inspection is necessary’
‘Vivienne Westwood’ she said ‘Super elevated wedges…aren’t they fab?’
I had to agree. I looked at them from every angle, as she posed like a Greek goddess. We could have been mistaken for a classical sculpture in the window. Definitely the sort of thing Jibby would have bought for oodles of cash. This time I refrained from getting the big cock involved and I bashed one out when she was gone. I had a feeling I’d be seeing her again. I had better get an artist to get to work on that ‘two dildos’ thing. Damn I love being Hugo Posset. It’s so much better than fish and chips down Canning Town!
‘What’s up moose?’ I said
‘Fuck all’ it replied.
‘Fair enough’ I said

I rang Sarah. She was at PJ’s brasserie with Charlotte Foggins. Oh the idle rich. There was no action at the gallery so I closed it up early for the day, had a quick pint in the Goat in Boots and got a taxi to PJs. Interesting journey it was.
‘Fucking traffic’ he moaned.
‘Yeah fuck em in the ear’ I agreed
‘I will’ he said.
‘Go on then, I’ll pay you a grand if you do’ I urged.
‘What, if I get out and fuck someone in the ear, you’ll give me a grand?’ he couldn’t believe his luck. I gave him the grand upfront. With money, you can get people to do the most ridiculous things. He stopped the cab, got out and pulled over a bloke driving a Saab. The man was polite enough and wanted to know what the problem was. The cab driver winked at me, grabbed the bloke and threw him against the side of the cab, pulling his pants down. The man was struggling for dear life. Oh it was hilarious. The cab driver rammed his cock in the Saab driver’s ear, grunting and pumping. He got back in the cab, started up the engine and we resumed.
‘Fucking traffic’ he moaned.
‘Yeah fuck em up the nose’ I laughed.
I tipped the driver again for being such a sport and entered PJs, in my pants. These days I only ever wore pants. Excepting Royal Ascot. Several snooty shop assistants tutted, but that’s all they could do. Fuck them. I went straight to the bag department and unzipped a few Longchamps and some Mulberries. There was a lovely Mulberry bag with two zips on the front, they made a lovely sound. I zipped and unzipped, zipped and unzipped. Lovely sound. An assistant came over and asked if I needed help.
‘Oh I need help, but not in the way you’re thinking of’ I laughed. She wandered off. I got bored with that and went to the brasserie. Sarah and Charlotte were perched in the little red leather chairs by the window, overlooking Sloane Square, the sun was streaming in. I grabbed a pew and joined them. I ordered a large glass of Pinot Griggio. I pulled Charlotte’s pashmina off her shoulders and wrapped myself in it. The aircon was a bit cool.
‘Sold anything today darling?’ said Sarah, putting her Blackberry back in her new Tods Micky bag. A scent of leather wafted up.
‘Yeah, that “two dildos at Royal Ascot”’ I said, fiddling with Charlotte’s Alexander McQueen clutch bag clasps.
‘Oh that’ said Sarah, frowning at Charlotte.
‘Yeah that one’ I said, smirking.
‘You are so mad Hugo, I really do think you are a different person under that sophisticated façade.’ laughed Charlotte. Fuck, if only she knew.
‘Yeah mad as a hatter, ‘ere Char, can I sit on your knee?’ I was feeling optimistic. She was wearing Wolfords and a very very short skirt.
‘Hugo darling, not in the brasserie’ insisted Sarah, sipping her wine. ‘There are respectable people here doing lunch’
‘Just for a minute, go on Char!’ I was horny.
‘Oh OK, you’re like a mischievous child, you really are’ succumbed Charlotte, crossing her legs, brushing her Wolfords.
The waiter glanced over, but turned a blind eye. Several ladies turned their snooty noses up, carrying on with their posh conversations about Provence, curtains, Polly and Katy and other such shit. Charlotte’s knee was comfy and I had a marrow coming on.
‘What an odd bloke you are’ giggled Charlotte.
‘Old Hugo is long gone’ sighed Sarah ‘I think he’s had a bump on the head’
The waiter came over and asked if everything was OK. I ordered another glass of wine, still sitting on Charlotte’s knee. Charlotte Foggins, if only she knew. Charlotte Foggins, with pearls. I stayed on her knee for about an hour.
‘What’s happening tonight?’ I asked
Sarah chirped ‘Oh there’s a new boutique opening on Fulham Road, selling fantastically expensive shoes. Zita Zippa. Bloody sexy shoes. We’ve been invited to the opening bash. Do you fancy it?’
‘Yeah, I’ll probably get a few wanks out of it’ I said.
‘Excellent’ signed Charlotte.
‘How many vibrators can you get in that Alexander McQueen bag then Char?’
‘Oh three or four small but very powerful ones’ replied Charlotte, stroking the bag seductively.
‘Yeah you could switch them all on and shove the whole bag up there’ I suggested.
‘It’s a possibility’ said Charlotte.
‘Do it now. There’s a challenge’ I urged
‘Oh bloody hell Hugo, not in here!’ Sarah was in frown mode.
‘What’s more, I don’t have a bucket cunt!’ Charlotte snapped. Several other diners twitched over their starters.
‘Shhhhh’ Sarah was trying not to giggle.
Charlotte amazingly stood up, got up on the table and gently massaged her crotch with the long thin Alexander McQueen shiny green croc leather bag. The waiter dropped his tray, as Charlotte began to push the end of the bag up her vagina, making moaning sounds.
‘This is for you all!’ she announced.
The waiter was on the phone and some security guards were alerted as we dashed out of the shop and into Kings Road. Charlotte was laughing her tits off. Sarah was shouting, disapprovingly.
‘You fucking stupid bitch!’ Sarah cried. ‘I love that brasserie’
‘Fuck it’ I said ‘There are loads better’
Charlotte panted as we walked into Duke Square ‘Yeah, I was getting bored of the place anyway. Besides, there will be new staff in a few months; they’re always getting new staff!’
‘I mean, fancy shoving a lovely McQueen bag up there’ Sarah was very serious.
‘It’s still up my vagina’ bragged Charlotte in her posh voice. ‘It is sooooo snug’
‘It’s not a clutch bag, it’s a crotch bag’ I added.
‘Oh my god’ sighed Sarah.
We went to the Bluebird and had some eats, giggling ever so often about the scenario in PJs.

The evening opening bash at Zita Zippa was a classic. Funny thing was, the boutique was once the the place where I first met Zara Parker-Pumpkinson. It was now a lovely boutique; it reminded me of Cesare Paciotti on Sloane Street, full of luxury leather sofas and chairs, designed by Pug of the Woods. I noticed the old abandoned Transit van was still parked over the road, rusting around the chassis. What a contrast. Zita Zippa herself was as drunk as Ollie Reed on a good day, parading about in a ridiculously skimpy blue leather Givenchy dress and ludicrously high Prada shoes, the showcase shoes. She had the biggest smile of anyone in London and spoke with a curious mix of Roedean and Rimini. I congratulated her on the boutique, raising my champagne flute, almost wedging it between her ample bosom, encased in Givenchy smooth leather. I could smell the luxury in this place; it made Mr Python alert and very twitchy.
‘Hugo Posset my darling’ purred Zita, with a body like Linda Evangelista. I looked down at her fantastic shoes, one painted big toe peeping out, like a cock poking out of a fly.
‘Prada Prada Prada’ sung the sozzled woman, pointing at her shoes.
‘Lovely’ I said ‘Very very lovely’
‘You like to have beeg sex?’ Zita pouted, hair bouncing like an advert for shampoo. ‘Bee…ga, bee…..gah, beeee…..gahhhh sex’ she drooled over her champagne flute, emphasizing the g in big like Eartha Kitt in the song ‘Where is My Man’ mimicking a slow sexual act. ‘Rrrrrrrrrrrrr’.
Sarah and Charlotte were chatting up two Hoorays with big hair, Michael Portillo types. Lady Trammerton was looking quite the glamourpuss cross- legged on a leather sofa in her customary tweed suit and very high heels and coiffeured Thatcherian hair. She had opted for black Lady Dior bag this evening. I pardoned myself to Zita and joined Lady Trammerton on the sofa. For a woman of fifty, she was a stunner. She was even wearing leather gloves this evening, even though it was the height of summer. The aircon was rather cool. I should know I was only wearing pants.
‘I see you’ve made the effort, young Hugo’ brayed Lady Trammerton.
‘Yes, I spent hours deciding which pants to wear for this one’ I said, a bulge gaining in size, like a whale about to surface.
‘So, what do you think of Zita’s new shop?’ Lady Trammerton wasn’t really a fan of Zita, she was about the same age and I sensed a bit of rivalry.
‘Luxurious’ I said ‘It’s given me a hard on’
‘I can see that’ said Lady Trammerton, lightly touching my bulge with a leather-gloved hand.
‘Where’s Persephone this evening?’ I asked.
‘Oh she’s buggered orf to Dubai, the silly girl. It’s hotter in London this summer, so I suppose she wanted to cool down a bit’ explained Lady Trammerton, uncrossing and re-crossing her elegant legs. ‘Oh by the way, the video sold for a few bob. Good work Hugo!’
‘No-one would ever believe that Lady Trammerton was Chelsea’s answer to Hugh Hefner’ I said
She looked amused by that ‘Yar, I’m thinking of specializing in hardcore, darling’
‘You are a beauty’ I whispered.
She had been drinking lots of champagne and was almost as drunk as the time we were outside Le Caprice. I suggested going to my place for a bit of naughtiness and to my delight she agreed. Well, when I meant my place I didn’t mean Cadogan Square, I took her across the road to the old Transit van.
‘Nice car!’ she brayed so posh, putting her Lady Dior bag on the dashboard shelf and crossing her legs.
‘Yeah, it’s a Porsche’ I said.
‘Really?’ she was too drunk to care if it was or not.
‘Yeah a 911, special edition’ I added. ‘Look at this old radio. Oh the keys are in the ignition. Let’s get it going’
I turned the key and the engine cranked over slowly. The smell of petrol soon wafted through the open window.
‘Oh I adore the smell of petrol’ purred Lady Trammerton ‘It actually makes me quite horny’
‘Lots of women do like the aroma of petrol’ I said. I cranked it again and the engine was still turning over, the battery had charged up a bit. My cock poked out of my pants, standing to attention. Lady Trammerton grabbed it with her posh leather glove on and started a good slow handjob. The police pulled up alongside and I thought oh fuck. Oh fuck. They just looked and then drove on. Bloody hell, my heart was thumping like a hammer in my chest. Lady Trammerton laughed.
‘Almost nabbed by the rozzers’ she said. ‘I suppose you could have told them I was your driving instructor’
‘What, with your hand round my knob?’
She grinned ‘Oh fuck them anyway, they know who I am and won’t do a bloody thing. I could have them thrown orf the force, my husband is friends with the chief of police’
‘Ah, so that’s why they moved off sharpishly, ha ha’
‘Yah’ Lady Trammerton was now rubbing my cock faster.
‘Do you want to get in the back for a bunk up?’ I said
‘Oh how jolly romantic’ she replied ‘Yar, let’s’
We hopped in the back of the Transit and spent the next hour fucking like rabbits and of course, I played fetish games with her Louboutins.
‘Christian Louboutin’ she said as I climaxed for a third time.
‘You know, I prefer you so much more now, Hugo. You seem to have loosened up somewhat, almost as if you were someone else. It’s brilliant’ Lady Trammerton blew out a smoke ring from a Sobranie in a cigarette holder. Only Lady Trammerton would use a cigarette holder, and still be wearing her leather gloves during and after some very good sex.
‘Oh god I’m still horny’ she moaned ‘Come on, do me up the shitter!’

We rejoined the boutique opening bash and I noticed there were quite a few disheveled hairdos and snagged stockings. Sex had been on the agenda. Maybe there had been a big orgy and we had missed it. Oh well, I always stumble across one orgy a week, so it’s no loss.
‘Darling’ said Sarah, hobbling a bit in her heels after much wine, stroking my crotch ‘Darling let’s have naughties’
‘Charlotte wants naughties too’ said Charlotte, kissing my neck, rubbing a Givenchy stiletto up and down my shin.
‘Max wants naughties as well’ said Max, with his finger up Charlotte’s short skirt.
‘Well, let’s all go back to Sarah’s and have naughties then’ I said. So we got a taxi to Sarah’s gaff in Parsons Green. On the coffee table was a bowl of Hardlong and Ultrasex tablets, plus a plethora of sex toys in champagne buckets.
‘These buckets of dirt used to belong to a rather pervy aristo’ giggled Sarah
‘Fuck me’ said Max ‘That’s a monster, a huge fucker, look at this!’ He switched it on and it whirred and buzzed across the table like a sidewinder snake.
‘Well Charlotte’s had handbags up her cunt, so that thing will be like a straw!’ I laughed.
‘You beast’ frowned Charlotte, stroking the machine in question.
Sarah’s house was just what you would expect from an upper class woman on the art network, big classical marble fireplace, mirrors and silver candle holders, Van Dycks, fresh flowers on a grand piano, leather furniture, leather-bound books, and dildos in buckets.
On the whole it was the perfect pad for a foursome. Max tried to read some Byron. He soon gave up. Charlotte read it much better, annunciating in perfect Stowe College Sloane, as I wanked and licked her Givenchy stiletto heel. Max was doing Sarah up the bum, ginger curls bouncing in the candlelight.
Suddenly I saw Henry Cavendish-Peel’s face in the mirror. The look of disgust was evident in his twitching cheeks and wide eyes. Oh fuck. I thought he was dead! He was holding the monster dildo looking like he was about to lance someone. He lunged at Max’s head, Max ducked out of the way.
‘You fucking scumbags!’ Henry snarled, coming at me with the dildo, it’s head was rotating and wobbling.
‘Fuck!’ I ran upstairs; with my big cock bouncing like a flying fish over the Med. Sarah was trying to placate Henry, trying to stop him from killing someone. Charlotte did not know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Hugo you cunt!’ snapped Henry, repeatedly smacking my cock with the dildo, which fucking really hurt. I grabbed a marble bust and slammed it against his chest. He keeled backwards down the stairs and knocked himself unconscious. Christ, my cock hurts!
‘He hit my cock a few times with that bastard dildo’ I had tears in my eyes.
Max was grinning, and then he was laughing. ‘A bit of swashbuckling, was it?’ Oh he laughed.
‘Come on darling’ said Sarah ‘let me bathe it for you’
‘Oh ha ha ha’ Max was in hysterics. Charlotte was bemused by the whole thing. It turns out Henry had been locked up in a mental hospital for years, when everyone made out he was dead. Well, he’s dead now. That marble bust had smashed his ribs. We buried him that night, in the large garden, under a potting shed. That was that. The fucker nearly put an end to my days of sexual decadence. We stuck the big monster dildo in the ground as a memento of his sudden resurgence. Sarah was actually quite shocked by the affair and needed a few days away at Champneys to recuperate and get her head together. Max was still laughing when we got to the Goat in Boots for a few beers. I was still fucking sore.
‘He had to turn up at that moment didn’t he?’ I shook my head.
‘Yeah, I was doing his wife up the arse and you got the full brunt of his malevolence. He must have heard you were doing her’ Max sipped his Kronenbourg.
‘Oh fucking hell’ I laughed. I recalled the scenario in my mind and I had to laugh. It was like something out of The Shining. It hurt when I laughed, though.
‘I honestly believed the bastard was dead’ grinned Max.
‘Fuck him’ I smiled.
‘You at the gallery tomorrow?’
‘Yeah, got a new collection of Gribbles coming in, and a few Orchardsons’ I remembered
‘Any Rolf Harris?’
‘Fuck off Max’
‘What?’