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The Man Who Fucked His Way Across... Ch. 01

By: Hugopossetposset



The Man Who Fucked His Way across Chelsea and Back Again Ch. 01

One day I became Hugo Posset. How, I can't tell you, but that doesn't matter. I became Hugo Posset, a well respected London art gallery owner, good looking, a mere 22 years of age with a big cock. Before I was Hugo, I was an East End barrow boy, with a penchant for posh girls and an insatiable libido. It was the posh accent that made me horny, and now I was Hugo Posset I would have access to hundreds of Sloaneys.

I woke up and Sarah entered the bedroom at Cadogan Square, braying to a friend on her Blackberry phone. She threw her Chanel bag on the bed, I grabbed it and smelt the new leather. I could smell her Hermes Kelly Caleche perfume inside it and her Porsche car keys. Sarah Cavendish-Peel was an art buyer of very high regard with long gorgeous legs and a cascade of blonde hair. Her Moschino sunglasses were perched on her head. My cock was as hard as a baton.

'Hugo, you naughty boy' she said 'come on, get up, you have a gallery to run!'

I noticed her super high Jimmy Choo shoes, with a zip up the front. God I was horny.

'We'll go once I've kissed your shoes' I said.

'Umm, Hugo. I never knew you were a shoe man, you naughty thing' Sarah cocked her leg up and put one foot on the bed 'they are a rather lovely pair of shoes. Jimmy Choo. Seven hundred pounds. Very very essential, darling'

'Definitely' I said 'Here's to Jimmy Choo'.

'Oh yah' brayed Sarah. I studied the shoe and all its intricacies with her perfectly pedicured feet strapped in, balancing on the five inch high stiletto heel, denting the leather bed. I wanked furiously, kissing the delicate leather straps.

'Oh Hugo. You're sooooo kinky' said Sarah is her poshest Sloane accent.

'Keep saying that' I panted, while I wanked.

'Oh Hugo, you're sooooo kinky! You're just sooooo kinky! Naughty, naughty Hugo.'

Here was one of the poshest women in London polite society telling Hugo Posset he was a kinky bastard. Oh, the working class lad in me was enjoying this. This woman was something straight out of a Jilly Cooper novel and here I was kissing her Jimmy Choo shoes and playing with my cock.

'Hugo, darling, I think I'll wear these shoes to Glorious Gooders next week, if you havn't eaten them by then' Sarah giggled.

'I do like a bit of Jimmy Choo' I moaned, on the verge of climax, but restraining.

'Oh I suppose we could have another half an hour of shoe kissing' said Sarah, swinging her Chanel handbag back onto a leather chair.

Half an hour, well, I liked the sound of that. I wanked in slow pumps, resisting the urge to go for the vinegar stroke. Sarah's Blackberry buzzed and she spent fifteen minutes chatting to Charlotte Foggins about Hermes bags. To my surprise, Charlotte was coming over. Charlotte Foggins was the owner of the Posh Pussess, a rather swanky gallery in Parsons Green. She spoke posher than the Queen and always wore knee high boots.

'Charlotte's just sold a painting for a million' said Sarah. Money made Sarah very horny, even the mention of a friend getting more made her wet.

'Good stuff' I said, almost climaxing.

'Oh Hugo, with your free hand, use this Rampant Rabbit vibe and bring me orf, there's a good bear!' Sarah and dildo were both switched on. I pushed the dildo up her short skirt, she wasn't wearing knickers, she seldom did. 'That's the ticket. Oh jolly super, that's the fucking ticket!'

'You dirty fucking posh whore' I said, which only served to arouse her even more. Then I told her how much money I had made this week and her floodgates opened.

'You've really changed Hugo' she gasped.

'I know, oh I know I have and it's for the best' I said, kissing the zip on her shoe. Then I had to come and I came like Buffalo Bill, yee-hawing all the way. I made sure I spunked on her stiletto heel as well, which she thought was too erotic and started having spasms.

Charlotte knocked and came in, wearing a Chanel tweed suit and wonderful black leather knee high boots by Yves Saint Laurent. She swung her big YSL downtown bag in the crook of her elbow.

'Oh Hugo, you naughty boy' smiled Charlotte 'I never knew you were into shoes! Who ever would have thought it'

'He's just come out' said Sarah, wiping the semen off her shoe heel.

'I've just come' I laughed.

'Naughty Hugo, in Sarah's parents' bed too. Really' admonished Charlotte.

'Ha ha, yeah. Hey, Char how about you let me wank in your grandma's bed.' I suggested.

'Umm, tish tosh, I don't think so' said Charlotte, prodding her large Dior shades on her head.

'What is it with you posh birds and sunglasses on your head?' I asked in a pseudo cockney accent.

'Really Hugo, you're turning into a bit of a chav of late, it's rather disconcerting. You'll be drinking down the East End with Kev next' said Sarah, putting the rabbit dildo back in her thousand pound Chanel bag. 'We really can't have a chavvy Hugo'

'I am a fucking dirty chav cunt' I laughed, seeing the reaction.

'No, you're Hugo Posset, son of Lord and Lady Posset, owner of the Royal Gallery in Chelsea. You are not a dirty chav. Dirty yes, but not a chav' insisted Charlotte in a very posh voice. She seemed to get posher as the days went by.

'Fuck off Char, with your knee high boots on that I want to rub my cock on!' I grinned getting up out of the bed with my big Hampton swinging like a prize marrow.

'Has he been on the Vi-ag?' smiled Charlotte taking a small bottle of champagne from her downtown bag.

'Do you want me to shove that little bottle up your botty?' I asked, rubbing my cock some more.

'Hugo! Settle down now, darling' said Sarah 'We do have to go now, remem, Lady Trams is coming to look at that Poussin'

I laughed 'Oh yeah, Lady Trammerton, she's that ageing sexpot from Kensington. Last time I met her, she put her Hermes leather glove down the front of my pants outside Le Caprice. God, she was drunk. I decided to let her keep her hand there until the Rolls turned up'

'Oh dear, Lady Trams does do that sort of thing' giggled Charlotte, taking a swig of mini Krug.

'Yeah she does do that sort of thing' I echoed. 'What's she gonna pay for that Poussin then?'

'Well, it is the Orion, so it's worth a few mil' said Sarah. 'I'll make sure we get the best price, darling'

'Lovely painting' sung Charlotte.

'Lovely bag' I nodded at Charlotte's YSL. 'Nice leather, good zips'

'Never knew you were a conno of ladies bags' said Charlotte.

'Oh I used to design them for a short time' I said

'Really Hugo, you do have a few dark secrets' laughed Sarah.

'He's having us on' grinned Charlotte, zipping her bag up.

'I used to work in Peter Jones, but I got the chop, cos I got caught wanking over a nice Longchamp. A posh lady was asking me the price and I said "I dunno, but look at my cock rubbing against it"! You should've seen her face as I spunked all over the logo. I thought I might get a sale by doing that'

Sarah looked stern 'Well, you may have done such a thing in a dream Hugo, but you should keep your naughty dreams to yourself. Charlotte and I don't always want to hear about your masturbatory escapades in PJs'.

'Yar', said Charlotte 'we often go there and don't really want it sullied '

'Oh sorry ladies, next time I'll come along with you and we can have a ménage a trois in the brasserie' I was quite excited by such a thought. My cock grew to marrow size proportions again.

'Oh Hugo, you are insatiable today, someone has swapped you for a mad libidinous satyr! You really are beginning to worry me' Sarah was ready to go. Sarah's Blackberry buzzed and it was Lady Trammerton, waiting outside the gallery.

'It's Lady Trams' I laughed 'the old girl wants to stick her hand down my pants again'

'God' Charlotte shook her head.

I followed the two Sloaney babes down the large staircase, listening to their heels tap tapping on the marble steps. A lovely tune. Charlotte said cheerio and I hopped in Sarah's Porsche. What a lovely smell of leather.

'So, you're not going to bother getting dressed then?' said Sarah, looking at my naked body in the passenger seat. She covered my cock with her Chanel bag 'Don't move that, we don't want you getting arrested!'

I sparked up a large Fior de Florach cigar and opened the window, checking out the talent on the Kings Road. I whistled at three Sloaneys walking along linking arms and they blew kisses back. Sarah was not perturbed in the slightest.

The Kings Road had gone through a renaissance since Joanna Lamley had become PM. Yes, it's hard to believe that, but in 2012, she became PM. Chelsea had never been better since the days of The Pheasantry. The hardcore Sloane Rangers were back in their heartland. God, it all made me so horny. Sarah's vibrator went off in her Chanel bag and almost gave me an orgasm. I reached in the bag and switched it off.

'Well averted' said Sarah.

I swapped the bag for a pair of Dior pants. 'So, after Lady Trams has bought the painting, I reckon we should head down to Pelham Crescent. Rubbernose is having a barbecue. There might be some hot action'

'Who the fuck is Rubbernose? Hot action?' Sarah frowned beneath her shades

'Oh he's an old buddy of mine, used to be a builder, now he's going by the name of Barwick Ford, owns a few clubs. You must know Barwick'

'Yar, Barwick the Bear, as they say' nodded Sarah.

Rubbernose Ricky was a builder, a real hardcase, well he's now Barwick Ford. Don't ask me how it happened, but I know. This is fucking fun, it really is.

'I never knew Barwick was a builder, surely not' said Sarah, parking up in Brompton Road, opposite the gallery.

'Oh he was once' I winked.

Lady Trammerton was waiting outside the gallery in an Aston Martin with her daughter, Persephone. Typical blonde Sloanes, the pair of them. Lady Trammerton was wearing a navy blue tweed suit and black Launer bag, like Mrs Thatcher. Persephone was in what looked like a patent blue leather trouser suit, with a large blue leather Versace bag, like a Tory Catwoman. It would be good to get her round the Crescent. I strode into the gallery wearing Dior briefs and a Rolex. Lady Trammerton raised an eyebrow, Persephone was less than impressed. Does she want the fucking Poussin or not, the stuck up cow.

'Oh bollocks' I said 'Someone's had it away!'

The Poussin was missing from the wall. Oh fuck. This was far from ideal. Lady Trammerton was very dismayed.

'Er..Lady Trammerton, we're ever so sorry. Would you be interested in this fine moose head instead? Shot in the Yukon during the gold rush I believe. It's a beauty, look at it's face' I didn't sound too convincing.

Lady Trammerton stood on one leg. 'Hugo, as much as I am attracted to various species of deer ( not in a sexual way you understand ) today I came here to purchase a Nicolas Poussin, not a grazing ungulate with antlers that has long since seen the tundra.' 

'Oh well, nice gloves' I said winking, alluding to her expensive Hermes leather gloves.

'Yes, aren't they' she replied 'I have no idea why you seem to be pointing down your pants. Do you have the Poussin hidden down there?'

Persephone was standing waiting impatiently, jingling the car keys. Sarah was looking around the gallery, in the hope of seeing the painting.

Fuck this I thought. Well, I could just have a wank. Obviously Lady Trammerton was so drunk last time, she doesn't remember the time she played with my todger outside the Ritz. I could ply her with fine wine.

'Well, love to stay and chat all day, we really must be getting orf' said Lady Trammerton.

'That's a shame' I said 'my mate's having a barby at Pelham Crescent in the gardens later, I was going to invite you both. Free champers and all that'

'Good day, Mr Posset' snapped Persephone, in her shiny blue catsuit.

'Pelham Crescent Gardens, 9 o'clock' I said

'Bye bye Lady Trammerton' purred Sarah, sighing. With her Jimmy Choos on. I crawled across the cold marble floor and started to kiss her shoes. Several customers were perusing artifacts. Fuck them, let them watch. Let that moose watch too. Persephone glanced out of the window as she started up the Aston Martin. Hugo Posset you kinky devil, she thought.

Sarah's Jimmy Choos were the centre of my attention once again, as we had a few hours to kill until the party. Oh that naughty moose was watching!

'Bet you're glad to be in this gallery' I said to it.

'Indeed I am' said the moose 'I enjoy being the voyeur, Mr Posset'

'Oh this is sublime' giggled Sarah.

'Yeah, I prefer this place to my old stomping ground just north of White Horse in the Yukon' it went on 'there was no central heating, famous paintings, and fetishistic proprieters of galleries in the Yukon.'

'Did you see who took the painting' asked Sarah.

'Yeah, it was Tony the Leg' said the moose 'You won't know him, but I can describe his features if you get a sketchbook'

'Uhhhhhhhhh, yeahhhhh'. I moaned and it was a class orgasm. A woman came over and enquired about a nice Bernard Gribble in the window. A brilliant painter of ships was Gribble.

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, 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, 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 who's 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.


The Man Who Fucked His Way Across... Ch. 01



'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 plaintain, 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, 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!'

Sarah drove me to the Serpentine Gallery the next day to see the launch of the Manolo exhibition. Society beauties and celebs were strutting about the park in ridiculously high Manolo shoes. It was a glorious sight.

'There's only one real shoe and it's a Manolo' chirped Lady Clambury-Cleet

'Absolutely' said Sarah, playing with the zip on her Manolo black leather knee high boot. She placed her Tanner Krolle snaffle bag on the sun baked terrace. She crossed her legs and sipped a Martini. The life of Riley. I gave her legs a good rub telling her she had the best legs in town. She did. She rubbed my cock in return saying I had the best Mr Python in town. She spoke with forked tongue. I licked her boots in front of Lady Clambury-Clam.

'Alright Posset' said Max Ponds who appeared from nowhere. Oh no, I'd forgotten about our competition. Oh fuck it. Fuck it. 'You ready for the big one?'

'I'm ready for the big one?' winked Sarah, rubbing her boot on my crotch.

'Yeah, one minute Sarah, I've got some business to attend to. OK Maxy boy, let's get this over and done with' I stood up and put my Mojito on the table. I sparked up a Davidoff.

'This time I'm gonna stuff ya' said Max, in his white Versace double breasted suit and Church's brogues.

'Fuck me Max, you've come dressed for the occasion'

'Yep, I see you've come as usual. Completely undressed.'

'Hot summers, pants are all that's required mate'

'Yeah' laughed Max 'Well come on, we've got a Serpentine to conquer'

'Fucking easy' I said as we strode to the widest point in the lake, watching the gentle ripples and boats.

'I could jump that lake in my Manolos' said a drunken celeb, she'd dragged along in our wake, it looked like Eve Goddard. Posh tart. With that she ran into the lake laughing and stripped off. Mad posh tart.

'You gonna do a bit better than that?' I asked Max

'Cheeky fucker' smiled Max, as he prepared the ground for the run, inspecting for any hazardous divots.

'Christ Max, you're being very careful these days'

'This is serious shit, Posset. I don't just jump ponds nowadays. I jumped the lake in St James's Park last week. I almost lost my footing on a divot. You have to be thorough!'

'OK, toss a coin who goes first' I said.

Several celebs had gathered and were whispering as to what was occurring. Manolo shoes gathering. Always good. I called heads and got tails. I got to go first. I sauntered over to the spot where Max had inspected the ground. Didn't want to take any chances now he'd mentioned it. The wind was down, westerly direction. Ground was good.

'Good luck, old boy' cheered Barwick Ford. Fuck me, he didn't miss a trick did old Barwick.

I took a deep breath. I estimated the trajectory. There were some ducks the other side of the lake, right in the landing area, milling about.

'Someone shoo those fuckers' I shouted across. A young lad with a stick scared them off. Then there was a deathly silence as everyone's attention was on me. Here we go. I got off to a good run and I judged the moment of take off very well indeed. I adopted the flying fox position and I flew across the lake and landed the other side. I rolled judo fashion and got up to the sound of cheering. Pressure was on Max now. He was psyching himself up, doing star jumps. You could cut the atmosphere with a Manolo heel.

'Go on Max' said a Doberman, sitting on the lakeside, nose sniffing.

Max took a run up, then stopped and started again. That's in the rule book, if you bail out on the first run, it's fine, just don't bail out at the last minute like Boots did once down the park. He ended up in the drink. Max went into a good run, curls blowing in the slipstream. Surprisingly he opted for the tomcat position and hit the other side of the lake with ease. Damn it.

'Oh bother' said Barwick, spitting out a cherry stone.

'Nice jump' said a Doberman.

'OK' I said 'Now we do it, carrying two ducks'

'You're on' said Max, grabbing two mallards, quacking and squawking they were. They soon settled down when he fed them some old crusts. He held one firmly under each arm. He was confident and decided to go first. He misjudged the trajectory and let the mallards go in mid flight. He landed in the water. Oh he was angry, splashing his way across the lake.

'Nice one Max' I shouted, 'the ducks got him'

Oh well it was my turn so I selected two fine specimens, nothing too rowdy, they settled down quickly under my arms as I took a run up. Fuck me I soon realized how difficult it is to get in position with two mallards under each arm. Nonetheless, I succeeded where Max didn't. The cheering was ebullient. Barwick was rubbing Lady Clambury-Clam's tits in celebration! Good old Barwick. Max skulked off into the bar to get drunk.

'Next time I'll have you Posset' he groaned, soaked in his suit.

'Yeah, bring it on' I clapped.

The gallery bash was in full swing, lots of leather I noticed. Leather really was in fashion, it was a no holds barred display of expensive designer skin. I was getting trouty. Sarah was looking hot in her skintight number, as she sashayed over to me and gave me a big snog.

'Well done Hugo, brilliant technique' she cooed.

'Cheers posh bitch' I said.

'Now can we resume, my boots are in need of your rabid attention' she reminded, fluttering her long lashes, looking so fucking beautiful it gave me butterflies.

'He'll have you next time' said a passing Doberman. Strange beast.

'Oh there's been some news' said Sarah 'Tony the Leg was spotted in Worlds End earlier today. Police are following it up. I want that Poussin back'

'I couldn't really give a stuff about it' I said.

'Really Hugo, you have metamorphosed into a completely new person. You loved that old painting' Sarah frowned.

'I prefer your boots anytime' I said flicking a zip pull.

'Nevertheless, I do like a good Poussin'

'And I like a good pussy'

'Naughty naughty Hugo Posset' Sarah purred, rubbing my crotch hard, gently sipping a martini with her other hand, her Patek Phillippe shining in the sun.

'Say that again in your poshest voice you bitch' I urged.

'Naughty naughty Hugo Posset. Naughty naughty Hugo Posset'. I shot my load. There was another stain in my pants. Fuck them, let them see my dirty pants. They are all stuck up, upper class wankers, let them see my come stains. Ha ha. I wandered into the bar, amongst various aristocrats, their braying voices permeating the place. It was glorious. My knob was hard in my pants.

'Oh, it's the man who only wears his pants' giggled Camilla Start-Dart

'Super, soooo super' added Jilly Coppers

'Admirable, very admirable' smiled Izzy Buckworth-Chard, in the highest platform Manolos with black leather straps. I ogled them like the dirty bastard I was. I saw small splashes of drink on the delicate leather. Lovely toes.

'I am enamoured with your shoes' I said to Izzy 'I must kiss them'

Izzy put a foot forward. 'Really Hugo, when Sarah told me you had changed I didn't go along with it. Now I'm inclined to believe it. I must say I prefer you to the old stuffy bastard you once were. Now get down and kiss my shoe you modernist'

I noticed Jilly Coppers was taking notes in a Smythson notepad with a lovely Mont Blanc pen. Giles Broughton turned his nose up, quite disgusted, but saying nothing. Fuck him.

I savoured the smooth leather straps around a beautiful aristocratic foot, perfect painted toe nails in red. I kissed good.

'This is better than Champneys' purred Izzy sipping a Manhattan.

'Lovely posh foot' I panted, laying on the floor of the bar, stroking myself in ecstasy.

'Oh really' sighed Giles the cock.

'Lovely posh high heels' I moaned, coming to an amazing climax, looking up plenty of skirts, seeing plenty of women had come along commando, but gripping Izzy's heel as I hung on as a long orgasm subsided. Fuck that was good.

It ended abruptly as Giles decided to kick me in the face with his Italian shoes on. He nearly broke my nose, there was blood all over Izzy's foot.

'Fucking shoe boy' snarled Giles

'Right you bastard' I said, as I unbuckled Izzy's Manolo shoe and held it like a knife. 'Come on you fucker'

Giles tried to shove his broken beer glass in my face but missed as Max swung a good punch into him. Nice one Max. People were clearing the bar. I lunged at Giles with the shoe, as he regained balance. He was a tough bloke. He cut my chest with the broken glass. That really hurt. I gritted my teeth and rammed Izzy's shoe into his face, stabbing hard, relentlessly. Giles soon fell to the floor. Max kicked him in the ribs a few times. Giles groaned and surrendered. No more snide comments from Giles.

'Nothing like a good old bar brawl' clapped Camilla Start-Dart who never left the bar.

I spent the rest of the evening getting pissed with Max, talking about various lakes and bodies of water he'd leapt. Fuck, one day he'll be doing the English Channel.

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.




The Man Who Fucked His Way Across... Ch. 01



'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, 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, 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?'

Tony the Leg sat in the World's End sipping a pint of Cockney Pride, looking out at the busy Kings Road. He had his cap pulled down low and his new beard and moustache were coming on nicely. Ron 'Gasket' Crawland joined him at the old scratched table. The World's End was a real spit and sawdust type of establishment. The posh barmaid, Henrietta, loved mixing with the Chelsea lowlife. Well, she was a dealer of sex drugs. Most of them came through the World's End. Police never questioned her, as her old man was a top lawyer.

'Cor how I'd love to get in her pants' drooled Tony

'You can dream on, Watson' said Ron, puffing on a pipe, with his Sherlock Holmes hat on.

'When are you going to drop the fucking Sherlock Holmes act?' Tony shook his head.

'I am Sherlock Holmes' said Ron 'The sooner you believe it, the better'

'Jesus' signed Tony

'Hey, I know it was you who stole the Nicolas Poussin' warned Ron, taking a puff on his pipe and narrowing his eyes.

'Yes, Ron. I fucking told you I nicked it!' whispered Tony, 'now keep you're voice down'

'Just doing my work Please excuse me, dear fellow, I have more work to do' said Ron and got up and sauntered across to the quiz machine.

'Fucking nut' muttered Tony.

Lloyd Perkins entered the pub, with a black cat on a lead. He nodded at Tony, Tony nodded back. He nodded at Simpson, Simpson nodded back. Oh pub life. Lloyd bought a pint of Spitfire and came and sat next to Tony. The cat scampered upstairs. Very curious cat it was. Ron was sizing up the quiz machine with his large magnifying glass.

'He's lost the plot' said Lloyd, sipping the head on his beer.

'Ron? No, he's fine, he's obsessed with Sherlock Holmes that's all. He's got nothing else in life. You'd do the same thing if you realized you'd been fucking an old witch for twenty years.' Tony rolled up a joint.

'Have you got rid of that Poussin?' Asked Lloyd.

'What Poussin?' said Tony, sparking up his rolly. Looking outside.

The conversation was broken by Irish Pat shouting. When he stopped, they carried on.

'I heard some things' said Lloyd Perkins seriously, giving it the de Niro face.

'Yeah, well people talk shit' said Tony, relighting his fag.

'Let's just say I know someone who will pay good money for such a painting. I have a few contacts in the art world' Lloyd sparked up a cigar.

'Like who, some fucking graffiti artists on the estate more like' laughed Tony

'No I know some bona fide buyers'

'Like who?'

'Sarah Cavendish-Peel'

'Forget it' said Tony 'Like I said, I don't have the Orion'

'Ah ha, I never said Orion. So you do fucking have it!' grinned Lloyd, taking a big lug on the cigar.

'OK, so I might know something about it' said Tony.

Irish Pat started shouting again, the peace was continually being shattered by his tirade of invectives. Henrietta just laughed. Simpson shook his head.

'One day someone is gonna put that fucker out of his misery' whispered Tony

'Yeah, a shotgun would do it. Hey, I bought a wonderful bit of kinky porn the other day. Filmed in Pelham Crescent it was. Garden Party. Sloaney types getting down to it. I can get you a copy'

Tony raised an eyebrow 'OK, I need some new material'

So there was Tony the Leg a few days later in his World's End council flat, tossing over the people he'd robbed! Directed by Lady T, it said on the credits. Lady T, thought Tony, it's probably some fucking servant who filmed it with a secret camera. Tony wiped up and ambled over to the World's End, his second home. He nodded at Simpson, Simpson nodded back. He'd never spoken to Simpson, no-one had.

Fridays. Fridays are good. I closed the gallery at three in the afternoon and drove down to Parsons Green in Sarah's Porsche. I parked up outside a new pub, The Ranger. The beer garden was brimming with braying Sloaneys and palm trees. Pashminas and posh accents everywhere. I saw Barwick Ford sitting at a table surrounded by posh totty, big Harley Street teeth chattering and laughing. Barwick loved the ladies. I went to the bar, grabbed a bottle of Krug in a bucket and joined Barwick.

'Hugo' cheered Barwick. Introductions and double air kisses. 'Hugo, Venetia. Venetia, Hugo. Lucy Hugo, Hugo Lucy. Zara..'

'We've met' I interrupted, looking at Zara's new boots. Gorgeous knee high stiletto boots by Jimmy Choo, with the customary back zips.

'Hello Land Rover lover' she giggled.

Barwick continued 'Hugo, Georgia. Georgia, Hugo. Olivia, Hugo. Hugo, Olivia. Jemima, Hugo, Hugo Jemima. All in PR!'

'What's PR?' I asked, sitting down in only my Dior pants.

'Perverted Relations' chewed Olivia, grabbing a glass I filled with Krug.

'I thought so' laughed Barwick 'Hey Hugo, I was telling the girls about you jumping the Serpentine, with two mallards. What an athlete this man is!'

'Really amazing' brayed Venetia 'Maybe one day you can jump me, without the mallards'

'Yeah it would be a pleasure, let me see your shoes' I said. She put her foot up on the table in front of me, encased in a dark brown leather strappy Jimmy Choo studded stiletto. Nice pedicure. I was trouty.

'Do they meet your approval?' said Venetia, with her sunglasses on her head. Moschino logo glinting in the sun.

'Five inch heels' I noted 'Jimmy Choo has some fans at this place. Leave your foot on the table'

'I soooo love working in PR' brayed Venetia quite tipsy 'I'm working for Quentessentially dot com! I was at Marlborough! I am sooooo fucking posh'

'Rather' grinned Barwick 'an old posh Marly gal!'

'Working for who?' I asked, rubbing my crotch.




The Man Who Fucked His Way Across... Ch. 02



The Man Who Fucked His Way across Chelsea and Back Again - Part 2

INTERVIEW

I was invited to see the head designer, Liza Blow at Vagina Shoes after a successful phone call. I forwarded some of my friend's best sketches by email and she phoned me back a few weeks later. Jefferson, who let me borrow one of his portfolios, was a Cordwainer's graduate and specialized in fetish shoes. He had drawn more kinky shoes than Eric Stanton. Jefferson's now working as an intern at Vogue House, not bad for another mate from the barrow boy leagues. He told me is always lusting over the posh feet of fashion editors in very high heels. He supposedly kisses super Sloaney Fiona Blunt's Christian Lous twice a day. Well, his work was exceptional. Liza Blow was a legend on the London party scene. I had seen her sipping cocktails in Maziti once or twice, with her trademark sexy bob shining in the disco lights. She was a definite patron of long leather boots, mostly knee high, but sometimes thigh high. Once I spotted her in dark brown leather thigh boots by Jean Paul Gaultier in Claridges. I couldn't see her wearing a skirt on that occasion, or a belt or panties for that matter. Usually she wore leather boots with smart little skirts and tight tops with a long coat. Once I saw her with black leather Hermes Birkin bag and no underwear. Never any underwear. Liza and underwear were incompatible.

I arrived at the lobby of the plush art deco Vagina studio on Ixworth Place in my Dior pants and nothing else. The receptionist, a sexy old Marlborough girl called Amelia offered me a seat. I parked my bum on an extremely luxurious long red leather sofa. I was looking through Jeff's portfolio of kinky stilettos and boots, familiarizing myself with his illustrative works. After about half an hour I was introduced to Liza Blow, who was sporting a dark blue Azzedine Alaia leather skirt with a silver zip up the back, wide leather buckle belt and a Moschino black and orange striped jersey. She was wearing dark blue leather knee high boots by Sergio Rossi with stiletto heels, pointy toes and silver zips up the front. The zips had big silver rings attached that could have been mistaken for cock rings. I wonder if they vibrated. I'd seen those boots in Harrods and was tempted to stick my cock in those rings, while Lily Bottomleigh, a sexy model was trying them on. I refrained from doing so for fear of getting stuck. 

'Hello, so you're Hugo Posset' Liza smiled as if she was in an advert for Rembrandt. She had a voice as posh as Polo gloves. She had her pug, Charleston with her, a dog that was uncannily human and he had a penchant for fucking designer bags as well as cushions. She told me he had often copulated with her new ten thousand pound ostrich leather Hermes Birkin. Perverted fucking pug! 

'Nice leather sofa' I said 'I could get used to that. Nice cushions'.

'Yah, they've been well ruffled darling. The sofa has a rather checkered history' Liza informed me stroking Charleston's crest. 'It once belonged to the Earl of Montabont'

'Well. The Earl of Montabont. He was a one' I said

'Indeed he was' she smiled.

I followed her and bag-fucker Charleston down a grand marble corridor adorned with little alcoves displaying Vagina shoes and bags and up a spiral staircase with leopard print carpet and gold balustrades. I enjoyed watching her hips move under that leather skirt, her bouncing bob of dark hair and her bare legs and boots as I climbed the stairs behind her. My cock became as hard as a gold balustrade. 

'So you were at Cordwainer's' She said.

'Yes, under the tutelage of the great man' I said. I didn't know what the fuck I was going on about. There's always a great man at a good college.

'Ah, the oh so talented Mr Woo' said Liza, as we entered a room so grand I could taste champagne truffles. 

'Yeah Woo, that's the one' I said. We both sat opposite each other on similar swanky black leather curvaceous sofas with furry cheetah and zebra print cushions. In the middle was a glamorous leather-topped coffee table in the shape of a penis, with some glossy magazines on it. I placed my portfolio on the table and she crossed her booted legs. She flicked through Jefferson's portfolio nodding and smiling, even moaning quite sexually at times, then giggling, smiling. She appeared to be impressed. She loved his Givenchy inspired zip shoes. 

'Mmmmmmm. Lovely designs. So are you looking for work as a trainee shoe designer?'. She pressed a button on her Blackberry and the coffee table and portfolio slid away in a gentle curve, now there was just perfumed air between us. I sat legs akimbo. She could see the bulge in the front of my pants. 

'Now, down to business and off with those Dior pants' she insisted. 'I prefer to interview potential shoe designers with their pants off'. So, this was her thing was it? I obeyed, sitting bare bum on the leather. I rubbed my smooth depilated bum on the leather, it was nice and cool. 

Her PA burst in through a door.

'NOT NOW GEORGIE' shouted Liza.

The PA pirouetted on a wedge heel and left as rapidly as she had entered. 

Liza uncrossed and recrossed her legs informing me of the history of Vagina and the sort of package they offered. She asked me what I could bring to Vagina and I told her I could inject some new spunk into it. She asked me who my muse was and I said it was Honor Blackman. She asked me how many orgasms I had per day and I said at least ten, may of them dedicated to women in Vagina shoes. She asked me how many shoes I had wanked over and I said many many thousands, mostly Vaginas, I lied. She asked if I had been to a fashion show and I told her I had often gatecrashed the Vagina fashion show in Milan and sat masturbating throughout the whole thing. So many obscure questions but I answered them all, with my cock sitting there agreeing. I noticed her chair was edging closer to me. Soon, her knee was squashing my cock, the top of her knee boot and zip were part of the equation. I got a waft of expensive perfume. She jiggled her booted knee against my cock. She jiggled and jiggled.

'Sooooo Hugo, how much money do you want?' Liza said, cross-legged, working my big cock like a piston. There was a drip of pre-come seeping out of my glans oiling the zip. My helmet was like a shiny plum with a panorama of the room reflected in it.

'None' I said 'I'll work for nothing, I'm fucking minted already'

'Really' she brayed, raising a plucked eyebrow.

'Yes, I'm a trustafarian playboy fuck who drives around Chelsea in a Porsche all day wanking! Oh I love the way you are pressing that boot against my cock, it's a lovely interview technique. I really want this job' I was on the verge of orgasm.

'They're by Sergio Rossi' she announced with a voice as posh as Connolly leather. She ran a hand up the boot and fingered the ring zip pull. God that made me tremble. I love it when women fiddle with their zips. Her knee pressed firmly and jiggled faster against my cock. 

'I was wondering if I would be able to fit my cock in one of those zip rings' I said.

'Let's give it a jolly good go' she said. I pushed my big wet helmet through the zip ring, the pre-come had helped. It fitted quite comfortably. 

Her PA came bursting in again.

'NOT NOW!' cried Liza and the girl span on her heel and left quickly, grinning.

She probably thought 'Liza's up to her knee wanking tricks again'.

I fucked the boot like I was her pug Charleston going at a handbag and came like a bastard, globules spattering her chin.

'Do you want the job?' She said, with spunk on her chin.

'I could give it a go' I said.

'Well darling, you would have to come back for a second interview' she explained 'It's the way we do things around here'

'OK, if that's the way it's done, let me know' I said trying to release my cock out of her boot zip ring. Fuck! My cock was stuck fast. I had taken two Hardlong tablets as well earlier and I was positively priapic! 

Her PA came dashing in and pointed at the globules on her chin, grinning 'What is that?'

'None of your fucking business' snapped Liza, wiping herself 'Now where's my fucking coke? What the fuck's the matter, Hugo are you stuck?'

'Shit, I can't get my cock out' I was still hard as a balustrade. 

Georgia was saying 'Miss Blow, I hope you haven't forgotten you're booked in Front Row at the fashion show at Claridges!' Georgia stood in a tight black flowery skirt, a purple leather Gucci jacket and Celine orange leather super elevated wedges. 'You've got to go now'

'Fuck, get your cock out! I must wear these boots to the show, they're my lucky boots' Liza was frantic. They are not lucky boots any more I thought. 

'I'll have to go with you' I said 'My erection won't subside. It might go flaccid on the way. I'll come with you'

'Good thinking' Georgia nodded at me. 

'It's not an ideal situation, these boots are a fucking limited edition in the finest Italian leather known to man and I promised Sergio I would wear them in Front Row.' Liza was glaring, so was Charleston.

'Oh it'll be fine' I reassured. 'Maybe Mrs Warboys will turn up and my cock will shrivel to the size of a noodle' 

'I fucking hope so, whoever she is, let's hope she turns up soon. Let's get a move on' panicked Liza, grabbing her Hermes Birkin bag that Charleston had been fucking sporadically for most of the interview. He was in the throes of sexual abandon, hence the glaring eyes. He was almost smiling.

I said 'I mean, you can't be seen in Claridges with Hugo Posset's cock stuck in one of your boots. What will the maitre-d say?'

'I care not a jot for the fucking maitre-d!' She snapped, unzipping the boot in question and removing her foot from it. I trailed her, watching her do the hobble dance down the stairs with one Sergio Rossi boot on. Nice pedicure. I clambered into the back of her Porsche holding the boot. She booted it up Walton Street, so to speak. Georgia was giggling wildly. 

'Fucking hell' snapped Liza. 'It's far from amusing; I want my boot back, without his cock in it!'

A Totler magazine was opened, I heard Georgia read it to Liza as we sped through London.

'Hot to trot! If you're seated in Front Row at Fashion Week, it's all about putting your best foot forward. From left; Nicholas Kirkwood's lattice peep-toes and Balenciaga's butterfly bows flattered pretty pedis. In seductive leather, John Galliano's sapphire lace-ups played footsie with the corset. Patent leather and cutouts gave Manolo Blahnik's ultra high sandals for Thukoon sex appeal to boot. And Giuseppe Zanotti's otherworldly stilettos with their Batgirl spin on the T-strap, could stop a villain dead in his tracks.'

Oh great descriptions. I was as hard as ever now. I was trying to prize my cock out with a coke spoon. It wouldn't give. My helmet was big and shiny like a plum. I realized I was defeated and just admired the boot. It made me harder. Fuck it, we'll have to devise another solution to this. I'll break the zip pull off? I'm not too sure if that would impress Sergio. Fuck Sergio, I twisted the joint on the zip and the ring snapped off, leaving me with a dashing designer silver penis ring, very fetching. A little souvenir I would cherish. 

'Oh you fucker' said Liza. 'You fucker'

She pulled on the boot in question and managed to zip it up and dashed into Claridges like a woman going into battle. Not so much as a goodbye. How bloody rude. Georgia tottered in after her. I figured it was the last I would see of Liza Blow for some time. I sat in the back of the Porsche and had a wank watching some of the beautiful models arriving in limos and strutting into the grand entrance of the hotel in their ridiculously high heels. Once I had come, I let myself out of the car and headed back west. I noticed there were some nice new bags in the window of Sonia Rykiel.

HENRIETTA 

I met Barwick Ford and Max Ponds in the Hollywood Arms, a place that is always brimming with braying Sloanes. Peroxide blonde Henrietta Beauchamp-Slutto sat next to Barwick, with her incessant grin and loud outbursts of laughter as she sipped Pimms. I told them the story.

'Oh I soooo want a pug that fucks handbags' laughed Henrietta, rubbing the fine leather on her new Gucci zips bag. She was wearing tight dark blue Chloe jeans, a nice Ralph Lauren blazer and brown leather knee high boots by Vagina, over her jeans. Very high heels. 'I would always make sure he gets the finest, ha ha ha'

I was looking at Hen's boots for most of the tale. I watched her fiddle with the zips a few times. 

'Still parading about in semen-stained Dior pants then, Hugo' laughed Hen. 

'I couldn't see Hugo in any other form of attire' brayed Barwick, taking sips of beer. He was on the Zipfer.

Max grinned 'Fucking hell Hugo, good job she didn't have to shoot across to New York!'

'Yeah, it would've been a while getting back' I said 'Maybe next time, she did say there could be a second interview'

'I very much doubt that now' frowned Hen, crossing her legs. The fucking tease.

'Let's see this memento, then' Barwick put his bottle of Zipfer on the table.

I flopped out my cock and there was a Sergio Rossi cock ring, glistening away. It had Sergio Rossi inscribed on it. 

'Jolly fantastic' laughed Hen 'that is sooooo trendy. I'm terribly jealous, darling. I wish I had a willy!'

'Looks a tight fit' said Max. 

The barman wasn't impressed and told me to put it away; some of the punters were twitching over their foie gras. Don't ever call foie gras "potted meat" in front of the chattering classes. Those punters will surely twitch themselves into a seizure. 

'Potted meat' I said, rather loudly.

'Oh my god' Hen was already offended. Ha ha. Her boots almost turned from brown to red.

'Have you heard any news regarding the painting?' asked Barwick, with his hand on Hen's knee, giving the designer denim a good rub. They were sort of dating, on and off. It started to make me a bit trouty.

'Well, we have a description of a so-called Tony the Leg. Moose was quite explicit in detail. The police are bumbling around in London somewhere. I suppose we'll eventually find out it's in the arms of some Russian aristo. I'm not really that fussed about it. I prefer "two dildos at Royal Ascot" personally.'

'Oh yahhhhh! I've seen that one' chewed Hen 'It's at Jibby Bream's! Jolly risqué'

'Jibby's into that really kinky shit' I said. 

'Old tart' said Hen. 

'Fucking slut!' Said Barwick directed at Hen.

'Dirty old shit sex fucker Barwick' replied Hen, rubbing her crotch with his Zipfer bottle. 

'Anyone fancy a race?' said Max. 'Across to Glaisters and back?'

'Fucking hell, it's only across the road mate' I said.

'Yeah, nice pocket race' said Max, standing up.

'A pocket race' laughed Barwick. 'Like a pocket battleship'

'Glaisters and back' urged Max. He had that serious race face on him.

'OK, on your marks, get set, go' said Barwick, firing off a small Beretta he always carried around. Several chunks of coving cracked and fell away as the bullet hit.

We almost broke the door of the Hollywood Arms the two of us neck and neck leaving the pub. A Porsche Cayenne parked up; we both jumped it like gazelles. Sarah Cavendish-Peel was driving it, she was amazed. Max wolf whistled. Oh no. A fucking Doberman's head popped out of a manhole and grabbed my leg. Max you bastard. He'd set this one up! I was too slow trying to free myself from its snarling grasp. Max went on to win this one with ease. My leg had been savaged. Sarah took me across to A&E. She had to dash off, so I made my own way back.

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. 




The Man Who Fucked His Way Across... Ch. 02



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.

SKINNY AND BUXHAM

I found a shop doorway alcove for a bed, opposite Giuseppe Zanotti at Brompton Cross. I had managed to get an old duvet and a pillow from outside a charity shop on the Fulham Road and I was reasonably snug. I started to wank as the light summer rain pattered on the tarmac and the pavement. Ferraris and Porsches zipped by.

Two Sloanes emerged from a noisy party at Joffie's restaurant across the road; one of them was carrying a bottle of Bollinger. They both wore blue Chanel tweed jackets and expensive leather skirts. They tottered across the road in very high heels. The skinnier of the two was sporting navy blue leather Chloe Betty bag in the crook of her arm. It had chunky leather handles and big zips. The buxom Sloane with blonde hair was carrying large red leather Marc Jacobs Christy shoulder bag, covered in zips. Her shoes were peep-toe platforms by Dolce and Gabbana, in purple.

The two Sloanes stopped and pointed to the spot where I was bedded down in the alcove and they clattered over. Their faces were familiar, I thought, and I continued to play with my cock. They were virtually standing over me. Then I realized it was Skinny Boodle and Zanna Buxham from TV. I noticed Skinny was in a Prada black leather skirt to just above the knee, it hugged her hips perfectly and the little side zip glinted in the evening lights. She unclipped a hair clip and let a mountain of chestnut hair fall below her shoulders. 

'Oh my god' said Skinny 'It's a homeless cunt, ha ha'. She swigged from the bottle of champagne and passed it to Buxham. 

'Yah, he's fucking playing with his chode, how disgusting' said Buxom, practically standing on my face with those purple platform heels. 

'Darling' Skinny pointed at me 'the stains on your duvet do not go with your dirty pillow whatsoever' She modeled her leather skirt as she shifted weight onto one beautiful leg and I ogled her Chanel two-tone court shoe with a six inch heel. I wanked as they both criticized my bedding arrangement. 

'Yah, I mean, oh my god' added Buxham 'Who goes to bed in a stained rose pattern duvet in this part of town?'

'Yah, I think it's just sooo not done, darling' agreed Skinny, 'oh my god, is he looking up your fucking skirt. He is. He's soooo looking up your skirt' She balanced on a Chanel heel, pivoting elegantly, despite much drunkenness. My eyes lingered on the heel as I wanked away. I flicked my gaze to Buxham and I noticed she was going commando up her Oscar de la Renta mauve leather skirt. As she stood over my face, I could see her neatly trimmed cunt.

'Darling, can you see up my skirt?' Buxham asked. Yes, I could. I kept wanking.

'Disgusting fucking hobo' laughed Skinny, puffing on a Marlboro Light. She threw the empty packet at me. 'You dirty fucking hobo, looking up my best friend's skirt!'

'Yah, completely disgusting' agreed Buxham in her expensive platforms. She had an amazing pedicure. Immaculate toes. 

'I'm going back to the party' said Skinny 'it's jolly breezy tonight and my vagina is feeling the brunt!'

'Your cunt!?' Buxham snorted, shaking the chunky zip pulls on her Marc Jacobs shoulder bag, making lots of noise 'I'm not wearing any panties under my leather skirt so I'm the one who should be fucking complaining. Maybe we can get this dirty pikey to wank a bit faster so he can induce a bit of heat and counteract the breeze! Oh gosh, I'm so fucking creative. I should really be in marketing'

'Oh yah! Simply ingenious' agreed Skinny, unzipping her Chloe Betty bag. She put on some Gianfranco Ferre black leather gloves. 'I still say that duvet does not go with the pillow' 

'I know' I said, speaking for the first time 'but the spunk stains later will go well with your gloves'

The two Sloanes were silent, looking at me in both disgust and pleasure at the same time, swigging Bollinger. 'It speaks' said Buxham.

'So' said Skinny 'Not only are you a disgustingly chavvy perve, you also fancy yourself as a bit of a style pundit?'

I wanked casually, looking at Buxham's painted big toe peeping out of purple leather.

'He's looking at my shoes, the pervey fucker' snapped Buxham as a Ferrari roared past. A hooter sounded. 

'Oh I think he's got a shoe fetish, how divine' purred Skinny, momentarily twitching to see the Ferrari.

'Yes, you filthy cunt, look at my fucking heels' said Buxham 'You know, I'm a respectable upper middle class fashion consultant! I have a house at the fucking Boltons! I own two four-by-fours and a Ferrari. What the fuck do you have, you peasant! I want you to wank and wank and fucking wank over my Dolce and Gabbana platform shoes and you fucking remember who was wearing them'

Skinny slurred a bit 'Oh Zanna, you hot bitch! You're a sexy upper class Sloaney toff and you live at the fucking Boltons and you are flashing your Sloaney snatch to a homeless man'

'Yah, The Boltons!' boasted Buxham 'The trees in the gardens are in full fucking leaf this time of year. I often frig myself looking out of the window, breathing in the sweet aroma of summer'

Skinny continued 'Zanna darling, you're getting such a thrill, you feel totally superior because he's so far down the social ladder. You'll soon be returning to your luxury house in The Boltons and you will be lounging about on your new leather 'And So To Bed' bed all set about with fur throws from Liberty, rolling naked on leather, frigging your badger. You'll probably select one of your biggest vibrators from a large Krug champagne bucket and buzz your way to sleep, after loads of multiple super orgasms.'

'Obviously' added Buxham, drinking more Bolly.

Oh fuck I was wanking furiously, listening to their plummy accents, and ogling their shiny leather skirts, lingering on Skinny's long bare legs. Skinny crouched down. The evening lights were dancing on her shiny knees. 

'Now let me see if my new Ferre leather gloves go with your dirty willy' said Skinny, sliding a cool leather glove under the duvet and rubbing my penis. 

A police car pulled up. A window rolled down.

'Everything OK' asked a policeman. 'Is he alright?'

'Yah, everyone's fine' assured Buxham 'We're just sorting out a homeless person with a few cigarettes and a light'

'No problem ladies, have a splendid evening' The policeman smiled and drove off.

Buxham, teetering on her Dolce and Gabbana shoe, pushed the sole into my chin. I started to go into pre-orgasmic spasms and within seconds there was a large wet patch on my duvet. Skinny removed her hand and licked the spunk off her fingers. 

'Jolly exquisite taste' licked Skinny. 'Goes rather well with Bolly'

'Mission accomplished' said Buxham.

'Yah, come on Zanna darling, let's go and binge on more caviar and forget this whole episode ever happened. No-one will believe a fucking hobo.' Skinny took the glove off and threw it at me. I noticed she enjoyed throwing things at me. Her expensive glove was now just an item of refuse. 

'What about the cigarettes?' I asked

'Fuck off hobo' replied Skinny. 

I watched the two leather-skirted Sloanes totter back into Joffie's, weaving in and out of Porsche Cayennes and Ferraris and Bentleys parked up in Draycott Avenue. I decided to have another wank for good measure and I found some sex drugs in that discarded packet of Marlboro. Lovely Skinny! I popped the purple and pink pills. I was well practiced at the art of keeping myself on the brink of orgasm for a long time and these pills worked wonders. 

After a while Skinny and Buxham emerged from Joffie's completely sozzled and decided to come and pay me another visit. 

'Hello darling scummy hobo' brayed Buxham, with large sunglasses on her head. Diors. The buckles on her Dolce and Gabbana shoes were shining better than ever. 

'Still here then, you fucking perve' Skinny laughed. Skinny, smoothing her Prada leather skirt and swinging her Chloe bag like a Parisian demi monde. She was now wearing a chiffon scarf with high heels of various sorts printed on it.

'Look at my cunt you homeless wanker!' Buxham snorted, in her ultra posh accent. The drunkenness made her sound even posher than usual.

'Yah, look at her cunt' giggled Skinny, swaying and teetering on the pavement. I was masturbating furiously, getting occasional whiffs of perfume and leather. Skinny was now wearing a Hermes black leather jacket. 

'You look sooo kinky tonight Skinny in all that black leather' said Buxham turning her gaze at me and taking a big gold vibrator out of her Marc Jacobs bag. 'I want you to stick this up your arse you fucking peasant'.

'Yahhh! Fantastic' said Skinny.

I obliged and inserted the beast up my bum, while still wanking and switched the implement to full speed. 

'Ha ha ha ha, you made a hobo stick a dildo up his arse!' Skinny was ecstatic.

'Yah' added Buxham 'and what's more, that vibrator has pleasured my wet vagina on so many occasions, sometimes in the back of my Porsche Cayenne back at the Boltons and when I've been racing down the Old Brompton Road'

'Super' said Skinny' she does those fucking television programmes, but privately she is a kinky maniac leather dildo queen'. I started getting those near orgasm spasms.

'Yah, go for it you pikey' brayed Buxham. The spunk shot from my cock like one of the fountains in The Royal Hotel. Globules landed on Skinny's bag.

'Oh my God, what a shot' laughed Buxham.

'You've spunked on my Chloe bag' Skinny frowned, crouching down and wiping the spunk on my duvet.

'Anyway, we're off now, peasant, we've got luxury homes to go back to' smiled Buxham.

'I've got an idea, let's take him back to your place' suggested Skinny

'You're having a fucking laugh' said Buxham, taking her car keys out of her Marc Jacobs bag with a leather gloved hand. She had put on her Chanel red leather driving gloves. She was in no state to drive.

'It'll be OK, just give him the dog's bed' laughed Skinny

'No no no, it's too posh for him' said Buxham. 

'Oh just this once' said Skinny, 'he can sleep on the floor'. 

'Well, OK, just this once, while Rupert is away, but no naughty stuff at The Boltons' Buxham walked over the road and got in the Porsche Cayenne and started it up. 'And no wanking in the back of my car'

'Yah, we don't want stains on the sumptuous leather seats' affirmed Skinny as we got in the vehicle. The strong aroma of leather hit me like the first time I went in Tanner Krolle on Old Bond Street. Within minutes we were speeding around the back streets of South Ken, down the Fulham Road, up Hollywood Road and into Priory Walk. Oh what a manor. 

Buxham's dildo was still up my arse. I retrieved it and threw it on the back seat. What a sight. A dirty dildo on such luxury leather upholstery.

'Oh Zanna darling' asked Skinny 'I just want to nip over to my place and change. I won't be a minute'. 

Skinny lived in a big Priory Walk house. Five minutes later Skinny emerged in a green Givenchy leather skirt and Moschino black and white jacket and green leather stiletto knee high boots by Sergio Rossi with silver zips (not ring zips). She was swinging purple leather Chloe Paddington bag in the crook of her arm. I heard somebody mention she had over two hundred Chloe bags. 

'Now they are fuckable boots' said Buxham.

'Infinitely fuckable boots, they're by Sergio Rossi' said Skinny. 'Besides, those Chanel shoes were scuffed from too much fucking'

'Oh dear, take those to the Exchange tomorrow' insisted Buxham. 'You'll get a thousand quid for them, signed'

Skinny crossed her newly booted legs and threw her Chloe bag into the back, next to Buxham's Marc Jacobs bag. I was cocooned in leather accessories.

'Yah, you need to find a big cock, darling, to fuck you all night in those sexy Prada boots' moaned Buxham, rubbing the gear stick with her Chanel driving gloves. 

'Oh yahhh I soooo neeed a biiiiig cock!' throbbed Skinny with her big lips. I was now as erect as the Gherkin.

'I know our hobo would oblige' winked Buxham. 'Hey you fucker, I said no wanking in the back there, how dare you disobey me'

'Oops' I muttered.

'Yah we said no wanking in the Cayenne. Get the fuck out!' Skinny was emphatic. I shot my load all over their bags and bid them farewell. 

'Fuck you! You spunked on our bags' screamed Buxham out of the window as the Cayenne wheel spun and whizzed off into fabulous tree-lined avenues. No naughtiness tonight for me with the Boodle Buxham duo. 

It must have been four in the morning. I found a shed in some private gardens and fell asleep on a tatty old armchair, amid the smell of old tools in the dark. What bathos! I thought of fucking Skinny in those boots in the back of the Cayenne with Buxham going at it with that gold vibrator. I came on an old painting, before I got some shut eye. 

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?' 




The Man Who Fucked His Way Across... Ch. 02



'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...Tom. Just Tom' I said, shaking her hand. I looked at her boots.

'So, Tom, 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 Tom, 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 Tom, 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.

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'.