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.