Phileas Fogg - A Memoir Pt. 17byParis Waterman©
And so the years passed with me spending more and more time at the club and less and less time with Eunice; although we did have our "special moments" together.
The most eventful happening during this period was that I found myself attending Nicole's marriage at Westminster Cathedral. If anything, she was more beautiful than I remembered. I found my eyes filled with tears as she came down the aisle on her cursed father's arm. It had been but six years since we cavorted about in the woods and bedrooms of her abode. Her sister, Rhonda, now seventeen, stood as her Maid of Honor, her breasts all but hanging out of her low cut gown. I stood gnashing my teeth as her father, Sir Alexander Baring, handed Nicole off to her soon to be husband and glanced down Rhonda's cleavage before turning to take his seat. I knew then that he was still bedding his daughters. I could only wonder if Abigail knew, or cared.
Neither girl noticed me as I stood at the rear of the cathedral, but on passing, Abigail's eye caught mine and I cringed from the scornful look she bestowed upon me. I had thought that perhaps I might get a word with her, but that look told me I was never to speak with her again. I left the cathedral with my tail between my legs and went directly to the Reform Club and played whist rather poorly, losing nearly three hundred pounds.
At this juncture, I shall turn my story over to the esteemed Mr. Verne, who has documented my trip around the world for the entire world to see and enjoy, lo these many years. I have, however, entered some of the more sensual aspects of that trip, inasmuch as Mr. Verne had no knowledge, or at least was not in a position to document them had he known. Therefore, when such events require some form of verbal description, I have taken the liberty of inserting them, using italics to make them distinct from that of Mr. Verne's prose. And now, I will turn you, dear reader, over to Mr. Jules Verne and his renowned novel.
AROUND THE WORLD IN EIGHTY DAYS
Including Excerpt's From the Recently Discovered
"Unexpurgated Version" of Phileas Fogg's Memoirs
Translated By: Paris Waterman
MR. PHILEAS FOGG lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which the playwright, Sheridan died in 1816. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron—at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan's Association, or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all. The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough. He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush.
Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.
Had he traveled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travelers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have traveled everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance with him than the rest declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him, with a woman coming in thrice weekly to wash and clean as needed. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club—its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy—aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity!
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless man had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past. * Actually that is not the case; Mr. Forster was caught by Mrs. Bentley buggering a delivery-boy and promptly informed Mr. Fogg; who in turn gave him notice.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
"The new servant," said he with some embarrassment, "Passepartout."
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
"Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout."
"Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?"
"Yes, monsieur, well actually I don't know all of them."
"Well, we must rectify that at once," Mr. Fogg said curtly and rang a small bell that was on a tiny table next to his chair. A woman in her late thirties came into the room from what appeared to be the bedroom.
"Mr. Fogg?" She said, standing rigidly in front of him and not even glancing at Passepartout.
"This is Jean Passepartout. He will be replacing Mr. Forster. Please see to it that he is familiar with and able bodied enough to meet my special conditions."
"Mr. Passepartout, allow me to present Madame Bentley, an intimate friend of mine." Passepartout bowed from the waist and Madame Bentley allowed herself a wry grin as she glanced at Fogg.
"Yes, of course sir. Are we speaking of the second set of conditions?"
"Yes," Fogg nodded, that is correct."
"Very Good sir, "Madame Bentley said, "Will you come with me, Mr. Passepartout?" Passepartout nodded his assent and they left Fogg adjourning to the bedroom.
"Ahem," Passepartout said as the door closed behind them. His eyes had a certain twinkle to them, but there was also a disconcerted look about him too. "Yes, I understand, this must be somewhat confusing," Madame Bentley said. "Please sit down for a moment, Mr. Passepartout."
Passepartout sat upon an elegant Louis the IVth chair and waited for the woman to begin.
"Mr. Fogg requires many things of his manservant, Mr. Passepartout, one of which, or I should say, several of which have nothing whatsoever to do with the performance of the typical manservant's duties."
"I don't quite follow . . ." Passepartout said and placed his finger between his lips as if readying to bite it.
"Sex, Mr. Passepartout. Sex," Madame Bentley said, beginning to unbutton her bodice. Passepartout's eyes went wide and then wider as the woman's nimble fingers fairly flew down her bodice opening the many buttons almost as quickly as a classical pianist's fingers might run over the keyboard.
"Madame Bentley, would you have me take improper liberties with you?" She laughed and Passepartout distinctly heard the lewdness in it and blinked his eyes several times as if trying to clear his vision. "Improper liberties?" she asked, tossing the bodice to the floor and standing in front of Passepartout in only her bustier and skirt.
Passepartout's eyes bulged outward when this very forward woman reached into her bustier and withdrew her left breast. "Come, have a little suck," she said calmly, as if asking him to take a look at a new ring she was wearing.
"Is . . . is this Mr. Fogg's doing?" He asked. "It is indeed, but from that bulge in your trowsers, sir, I believe I'd be happy to perform with you regardless." That said she tendered the breast to him once again.
"Yes, perform as in sexual intercourse. That is the condition or conditions Mr. Fogg referred to earlier. That is to say you must prefer women to men in bed."
"Oh." Passepartout murmured as he loosened his tie and moving quicker every moment; removed the remainder of his clothing while Madame Bentley attempted to do the same. Passepartout was infinitely faster, standing before her holding his fiery red tipped prick in one hand and scratching his nose with the other while Madame Bentley stood bare-breasted but still shimmying out of her petticoats. The aroused Passepartout surprised Madame Bentley by dropping to his knees before her and lunging under her petticoats and fastening his mouth to her cunt.
"The bed!" she shrieked with delighted surprise, "The bed, before we fall over one another."
And so, with an arse cheek firmly clenched in each hand, Passepartout used all his strength to lift her and then totter to the bed where he deposited Madame Bentley in a less than gentlemanly manner. "Ooof!" she whooped as she landed and rolled backward. Passepartout befuddled no longer, was on her immediately, gumhutching her cunt like a randy goat. And all the while, Madame Bentley, to her credit kept trying to complete the removing of her clothing. Her hair was a shambles. One stocking was down around her calve, the other, although torn in two places remained all the way up, as her free hand whipsawed back and forth seeking to locate his generously sized prick.
Their hands found each other at precisely the same moment, she grasping his prick and giving it a healthy squeeze, and he sending two fingers between her massive thighs and into her delectably wet quim.
"Not many a man will do what you're doing," she gasped as she made her hand a blur surging up and down his phallic pole. "I'd better give you a fuck now, love," Passepartout said as he tried to catch his breath. "That'd be lovely, Mr. Passepartout, just lovely. OHH, YES," Madame Bentley sighed, shuddered and then gasped as his talented fingers played with her clitoris even as he pulled her to him and kissed her on the mouth.
It had been a long time since Madame Bentley tasted herself off a man's lips, and she had a tremendous urge to suck him off straightaway. But his other hand went to her bum and tickled her arsehole distracting her away from her steamy thoughts of fellating him. From a distance Madame Bentley heard him talking to her. "Your legs," he said, "put them up. Come on woman, lift them up!"
Madame Bentley grunted her acknowledgement and did as requested. And once again Passepartout threw her petticoats up and centered his aching prick on her dark, matted bush and shoved hard.
"Ooof!" She cried out as he entered her; leaving some five or six inches of his weapon still at her furry entrance. "There's a darling," Passepartout groaned and thrust again, this time sending his entire prick in to the hilt.
"OH, OH, OH!" Madame Bentley groaned, but her disquieted hips rammed into his loins belying any sign of discomfort. He wrenched the petticoats from her body and thereby caused Madame Bentley to shiver with pleasure at being so roughly tossed about.
Yanking his pecker from her slippery slit, he barked, "Let me have a glimpse of your quim!" She willingly opened her legs to his view and sighed wondrously as his face pressed down against her groin, licking and sucking at her dark haired nest for several minutes before surfacing for a breath of air. During which time Madame Bentley had the first of what would prove to be many orgasms with Passepartout.
When her shivering had subsided to a mere tremble he shifted gears and attacked her cunt with his red-tipped knob, driving it in to the hilt. And as women have done since Eve first had Adam mount her, she grasped him by the arse to better enjoy the fullest pleasure of his rampant prick. It was several more glorious minutes of bawdy fucking before he filled her quim with his spunk and rolled off her limp, sweaty form.
"Aye that was a great fuck there, Madame Bentley," Passepartout said after filling his lungs with air. "Would you care for another go?"
"I would Mr. Passepartout, but I'm afraid we don't have time for it right now."
"We don't?" the disappointment very evident in his tone. Passepartout reached out to keep her from putting on her clothing again.
"We don't, and if you want this job as Mr. Fogg's manservant, I strongly suggest you do the same, as I am required to tell him of your recent performance with me as soon as possible."
"What? He will know of our dalliance?"
"Of course he will. That's precisely why he sent us in here. He requires, don't ask me why, but he requires a report on your sexual capabilities. I told you that right off, I know I did."
And a few minutes later, both were standing in front of Mr. Phileas Fogg --- Passepartout, nervously shuffling his feet, like a schoolboy caught stealing apples --- Madame Bentley, flushed and obviously well sated, waiting for Mr. Fogg to put down his Times and recognize their presence.
After what seemed an eternity to Passepartout, Fogg acknowledged Madame Bentley. "Ah, Madame Bentley, and how did our Mr. Passepartout fare in the boudoir?"
"I was pleasantly surprised. Mr. Passepartout, I am happy to report, has . . . certain capabilities that I haven't come across in some time."
"Really?" Fogg said with interest. "You are quite sure about this?"
"Absolutely, sir, I am sure that he will rise up during any emergency that may call for his, err, shall I say, talents in that regard."
Fogg rose from the chair and reached for Passepartout's hand, and shook it, saying, "Well done old man, well done. You have the job and are already on it as a matter of fact."
"Why thank you sir, although Madame Bentley's performance test was most rigorous, I would certainly entertain being tested again, right now if I may . . . "
"Not possible right now, Passepartout, not possible . . ."
"Very well, sir. You mentioned that I am now in your employ, that being the case, how may I serve you?"
"You may tell me the time."
"The time, Sir?"
"Mr. Passepartout, must you answer every question of mine with a question of your own?"
"I am sorry about that. I must admit I am somewhat befuddled by the nature of your questions . . . by that I refer to the manner in which they seem to jump around . . . it's confusing, sir."
"Yes, well in the future I'll try to make my statements clear and precise. Perhaps in due course you'll be able to anticipate my requests before I verbalize them."