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'.