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 I boarded the 22 bus to Parsons Green, the driver hardly looked at the card, which was months out of date.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.