PELHAM CRESCENT
Sarah parked the Porsche in Pelham Crescent as the sunset was kissing the palm trees. These new regular hot summers were just the ticket. That asteroid collision a few years ago that knocked the planet off alignment had done some good. Look at those lovely palm trees everywhere. I heard Australia’s like the arctic these days. Mind you, we have to deal with bull sharks in the Thames. A few of them had got up the Lea by all accounts and savaged some swans.
There was laughing and braying in the gardens, a good smell of steak was on the burn. Willow Cobley-Blinds, look at that swagger, in those platform heels by Celine, definitely worth a close encounter. Olivia Woodyhead too, in Patrick Cox mauve leather knee high boots, sitting cross-legged talking about her new party planning thing she’s got going on the Fulham Road. I made a beeline for Olivia, wiggling her legs in the lamplight, scoffing little morsels and swigging wine. Only, I was intercepted by Zara Parker-Pumpkinson. Oh Zara Parker-Pumpkinson! Before I go on, I have to tell you about the time we first met.
It was a gorgeous hot morning on Fulham Road, and I was sleeping rough. Well, I had been to a party the night before and got high on a new sex drug that was on the market. I was totally thrown off kilter. There’s a link there, as I was actually wearing a kilt. It was a Highland themed party. After the bash, I decided to join a few tramps in a disused shop doorway and I ended up bedding down the night with them, after some more drinking. When I awoke, the tramps were gone and I was surprised to find myself in the doorway on my Tod underneath a smelly old stained duvet. The well-heeled denizens of Chelsea were looking down their aquiline noses at Hugo Posset as they strode by. I was also bloody randy for some reason, and then I remembered why my cock was ridiculously rigid. I had been mixing champagne cocaine and Hardlong, the new sex drug. Bloody Hardlong for a constant fucking hard on, try Hardlong.
I started wanking as I watched a really beautiful Sloaney get out of her posh Land Rover. She was wearing Dior shorts, a Chanel tweed jacket, Ballantyne pashmina and red leather knee high boots with gold zips by Givenchy, damn she looked sexy. She swaggered by with a large Dolce & Gabbana ten zip bowling bag in the crook of her arm. She stopped right next to me, stood on her right leg and lit up a Davidoff cigarette, taking a long time to get a spark from a slim gold lighter. I was wanking beneath the duvet quite furiously. What a vision. Oh the Fulham Road was looking good. Across the road, some bloke was having trouble starting an old Transit van; a distinct smell of petrol was pervading the summer morning sweetness.
‘Hello hobo’ said Zara, grinning a large wide grin, with perfect teeth.
‘Alright Sloaney bitch’ I said, wanking hard.
‘Are you on the streets?’ She asked, pushing her Chanel sunglasses on to her head, revealing big eyes and long eyelashes extended.
‘Yes, I’m a homeless pikey’ I said, bashing away for England, ogling her sun drenched boots, and with the vertiginous heels almost cracking the Fulham Road pavement.
‘It must be soooo inconvenient sleeping rough’ she said, in a husky posh accent ‘I mean, last night I was soooo snug in my new Fendi leather sleigh bed, beneath a fur throw, coked out of my brains, experimenting with a variety of sex toys. Here you were, on a doorstep, stinking! Ha ha’. Zara was definitely a woman of compassion.
‘That’s nice to know you were doing your bit for the homeless’ I said, slowly pumping my rigid member. Zara knew I was masturbating, she knew. She moved much closer and practically stood on me. She put a pointy boot heel up on the shopfront skirting, smoking that Davidoff cigarette like a scene from film noir.
‘I was naked on leather’ she smiled, ‘while you were naked on a stained quilt’
‘Indeed I was’ I panted ‘while you were naked on leather, shoving vibrators up your flange’
‘Yar, oh yar! Big dildos of finest quality rubber, darling’ she purred, fiddling with the inside zip on her boot. God, that almost made me ejaculate. I restrained. Some very posh ladies tap-tapped by in Christian Louboutin shoes, they looked down and weren’t too impressed with the action. They walked swiftly on to have coffee at a bistro.
‘Not up for a bit of action then!?’ I shouted. at them.
‘The reason I came over here’ Zara went on ‘is to ask you if you want to make a bit of money. I need someone to polish the leather seats in my Land Rover. It’s parked over there, see it. I’ve got to do some shopping. I’ll be gone for an hour or so. Here. You can use this sunglasses cleaning cloth. Are you up for making my seats really shiny?’
‘Yeah, give me that cloth, you swanky cow, I’ll make your seats look like fucking mirrors’ I got up, wearing just a kilt. Zara admired my hairless body.
‘Here are the keys’ she said, taking them out of her large leather bag. ‘Now, make sure you clean any stains too, I use the thing for a lot of dogging sessions’
‘Land Rover’s a good vehicle for dogging’ I added twiddling her keys, noticing at least two vibrating key fobs and a cock ring. I wonder whose regal cock has been in that.
‘See you’ she said, and swaggered off towards a posh shoe boutique, her blue pashmina trailing in the summer breeze. The bloke with the Transit was still trying to start it. The battery was sounding fucked.
I got in Zara’s Land Rover and breathed in deeply the combination of rich leather and roses. God I was horny. I could imagine her dogging in this, with those boots on, leather rubbing against leather, leather rubbing against cock. I fucked the seam between the back seats for a while. Lots of posh folk were wandering by, they couldn’t see me being a dirty bastard behind the blacked out windows. It was still only half past ten in the morning. I was always hornier in the mornings. I went to town with that little sunglasses cloth, rubbing the leather seats, a good way to build up the arm muscles. I switched the radio on, there was Joanna Lamley being interviewed by Kirsty House-Zine, two posh accents resonating across the sea of black leather. I wanked for a bit, watching three gorgeous Sloanes on a bench nearby, chatting and giggling, with their ridiculously expensive clutch bags glinting in the sun. Two chestnut heads and a blonde. Sweet. For one minute I thought of inviting them to the seat cleaning party, but I refrained from asking. I was naked now, naked on cool leather, listening to Joanna Lamley and her manifesto.
Zara returned with a load of large bags. She opened the hatch. I could still hear that bloody old Transit rurr-rurring, the battery was almost dead. Give up mate. She put all her latest purchases in the back of the Land Rover and then clambered in beside me and crossed her booted legs. She ran a hand over the leather seats, inspecting the interior. I sat there, in my birthday suit, with my big cock standing to attention.
‘At ease’ she said.
‘Are you happy with the shine?’ I asked.
‘No’ she said ‘Do it all again, I’ll watch. All you’ve been doing is fucking the seats and wanking off, I saw you in the web cam, see it?’ What a bitch. This is what she does is it? ‘When you’ve polished the seats properly, then you can polish my bag. After that, you can do my boots. I’ve got a few hours to kill. I don’t need to be at Hurlingham until three. Polo match, darling’
‘You drive a hard bargain, Zara’ I grinned.
‘Yar, and let me play with this beautiful cock while you work. When this is all over, I want this inside me’ she said, grabbing my cock and rubbing it, as though it was just another one of her sex toys. A commodity.
Once I had polished her boots, I was gagging to come. She straddled me and we played the corkscrew game for a bit, bloody hell, Joanna Lamley was on the radio.
‘I want everyone to know’ said Joanna in a very posh voice ‘that I shall endeavour to clean up the streets of a sordid London. In a years time you will see hobos gone, no chavs, and no pikey scum. The good old fashioned class system will be revived, so Zara you need not worry my darling, you’ll still be able to frig yourself to death in your expensive apartment while the proles get whipped in factories.’
I couldn’t believe this, it was as if Joanna was here, watching.
‘Oh Zara, that’s the way girl’ Joanna urged ‘Getting the lower class male to polish ones boots, what a splendid idea. You naughty naughty girl. Ha ha’
What a prime minister we have. Go England. Oh fuck, Zara’s good at corkscrewing. Oh yes. Oh fucking yes. Yeaaaaahhh.
No sooner had I come, I was hard as a plantain, a minute later. That fucking Hardlong stuff, it’s irrepressible. Zara rubbed a leather boot on my cock, while ramming various sex toys up her orifices, dribbling on the newly polished leather. I guess I was going to be spending the night in the car, cleaning it again.
‘Clean my boot with your cock’ ordered Zara, giggling and snorting coke.
Ohh here we go again. Orgasm number two. Three minutes later came orgasm number three.
‘I was chatting to the wonderful Hugo Posset’ said Joanna Lamley on the radio ‘at a party at Kensington. Now, he’s the perfect gentleman. An English rose if there ever was one’
‘Ha ha’ Zara was shoving one of her dildos up my arse, as I sucked on her boot heel. What a rose I was.
So, Zara approached me at the barbecue at Pelham Crescent. Max Ponds was one of the guests too, I was hoping he wouldn’t be here, I wasn’t feeling particularly competitive. Zara was decked out in a Jitrois stretch leather skirt, black leather strappy Zanotti platform stiletto shoes, nails painted deep red. I gazed at those shoes for a long time.
‘New bag Zara?’ I noticed
‘Yar, Longchamp. You like?’ She was gorgeous, her chestnut hair looking infinitely touchable, the usual Chanel sunglasses on her head and tweed suit over a smart jersey. Lots of bangles of both arms. Jangle jangle.
‘How many zips on that one?’ I asked.
‘Not enough’ laughed Zara ‘Oh Hugo Posset and his penchant for zips on bags! Are you sleeping rough tonight, you naughty boy?’
‘Yeah, you know that old Transit, the bloke just left it there. It makes a comfy pad.’
‘Really’ purred Zara, putting a hand down the front of my Dior pants. ‘And I see you’re still gracing Chelsea with very little in the way of clothes. Nice underwear’ She breathed in my ear. That lovely horny Zara in the Zanotti shoes. I was hard again. She rubbed my cock gently, and then withdrew her hand when she heard me gasp. There was a stain down my leg. I left the stain there. Private parties, you can’t beat them. Zara strutted off.
‘Alright Hugo’ Max had clocked me and was strutting across the lawns with a big steak sandwich and a bottle of Krug. ‘Fancy jumping the Serpentine?’
‘Ha ha, you’re on? Tomorrow?’ I could jump the fucking Thames, there was no competition.
‘You sure you’re up for the challenge, Posset. Let’s just hope you don’t stumble at the last minute. The Serp’s a cold one.’ Max swigged some Krug, his ginger locks bouncing in the evening lamplight of Pelham Crescent.
‘Yeah, I’ll be there Maxy boy at the widest stretch’ I smiled.
Sarah was entertaining a few city brokers and some hedge fund cunts. She always had her fingers in the moneypots, when it wasn’t down my pants. In the corner of my eye I noticed Lady Trammerton had turned up, she was sitting under a parasol, looking like something out of a Cecil Beaton. Very demure.
‘Hey Hugo’ said Max ‘Do you wanna race? Now. Round the Crescent?’
‘Alright, you fucker, on your marks…’
We were off like greyhounds. Straight out of the gardens and into the crescent. Max was gaining on me; I could see his ginger locks trailing in the corner of my eye. He jumped a Porsche Cayenne like an antelope. Fucking hell. I hurdled a Merc and skimmed a BMW. Max was jumping front gardens, knocking over pots. What a vandal. I turned on the turbo. He doesn’t stand a fucking chance. Max dropped his Krug bottle; there was a smash on the pavement. Now he’ll be a bit lighter. Fuck this, he’s catching up. We were halfway around the crescent. I got a bit of extra swing from a period lamppost and flew over two Aston Martins; I was in the lead but not by far. Frances Witheringbury was cheering me on from her fourth floor balcony, throwing banana skins down in the path of Max.
‘Go on Hugo’ she bellowed.
Max wasn’t falling for the oldest trick in the book. He strafed around the obstacle like Auto Man. Then he wolf whistled. No sooner had he done so, two fucking Dobermans came flying out of a door and seized my leg. Fuckers. Max you bastard. Those Dobermans took some shaking off. Max capitalized and streamed by, holding one finger up to my face, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Not far to go now.
I resumed and ran like a cheetah. A lovely young lady actually leant me her cheetah print pashmina and I wrapped it around my waist, streaking over several sports cars, and cutting off Max at the pass. I just managed to win, by a nose. People were cheering and uncorking champagne.
‘Well done Hugo, unlucky Max’ said Barwick Ford.
‘The real test will be the Serpentine’ Max panted, grabbing a pitcher of Pimms and taking big mouthfuls. He limped off, sweating in his Saville Row suit.
‘That was a classic’ laughed Barwick.
‘One of the better Crescent runs’ I said giving back the cheetah print pashmina to the young lady.
‘Good run’ said Sarah, who came running over, great big teeth glinting like the posh tart she was.
‘Any more news on Tony the Leg’ I asked Sarah.
‘Well, the police are looking into the matter’ she replied, taking a bottle of Ultrasex from her Chanel bag and popping two of them.
‘Steady on babe’ I warned. ‘Those are bloody strong’
‘I fucking know’ said Sarah ‘I can’t get enough of them, especially at posh garden parties full of hunks parading about. The little nanobots go straight to the clit and ripple like heaven. I’m soooooo fucking depraved’
‘Give me one’ I said. I took four of the bastards. Within ten minutes I could hardly walk straight. I slumped down next to Lady Trammerton, who was looking rather fetching in her tweeds and posh little Longchamp bag. She was wearing blue leather Givenchy gloves.
‘Hello Hugo’ she brayed.
‘Where’s that foxy Persephone?’ I said. I could feel my cock juddering and fizzing beneath my Dior pants. God it felt good.
‘Oh she’s not coming; she’s not a fan of Hugo Posset. She has very bad taste in men’ said Lady Trammerton, resting a glove on my arm. ‘She’s a lovely girl though. She’s running a gallery on the Pimlico Road. You’ll have to see it. No moose, though. Oh, have you heard anything about the stolen painting?’
‘Police are on it’ I said, trying not to ejaculate. Sarah came over and joined us, her face a picture. She was trying to act as though nothing was happening, whilst at the same time enjoy the waves of pleasure.
‘Sorry Lady Trammerton, but Sarah and I really have to fuck’ I gasped.
‘Excellent’ said Lady Trammerton ‘I have my video camera, let me record you. I say what a splendid bash!’
‘You dirty posh tart’ I said
‘I’ll sell it on Ebay for hundreds’ said Lady Trammerton, gently pressing the on button with an elegant gloved hand. ‘Now go at it like goats!’
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