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.