Marchwood Ch. 02: The Grand Tour

Marchwood continued his thrusting and Martine groaned in approbation with each entry of his swollen member into her slick cunt. Perhaps allowing Marchwood to fuck her 'en levrette' wasn't such as bad idea. His cock was after all penetrating her deliciously deeply and she always appreciated that feeling of being filled by a man's meaty shaft. Marchwood experimentally wetted his finger and gently applied to Martine's dark rosette. She emited a cry which he took for pleasure so he pressed his finger quickly against her tight rosebud so it popped into her arsehole.

"Noooooh!" squealed Martine and reared up in the bed so that Marchwood was unceremoniously ejected from her pussy.

"Salaud! Qu'est-ce que tu fais?" she screamed at him.

"My dear Martine. I just thought ......." Marchwood stammered taken aback by this outburst.

It was too late. Martine stormed out of his room and Marchwood was left confused and unfulfilled.

For the next few days Marchwood saw nothing of his landlady. There were no other guests at the house and he was left to eat alone served by the maid. He sent a note of apology via the maid but it received no reply. At last Marchwood decided he had had enough and announced to the maid at breakfast.

"Mademoiselle, I wonder whether you could inform your mistress that I shall be leaving in the morning. I would be grateful if you could prepare my bill for settlement prior to me departure."

The maid nodded and proceeded to clear away the breakfast things.

That day Marchwood took a last long walk into the mountains accompanied by Beppe. Beppe noted his master was out of sorts but knew from long experience it was better not to quiz him when he was in such a mood.

They arrived back in time for dinner and as Marchwood strode into the dining room he noted that two places were set. A moment later Madame Bertrand entered clad in a beautiful blue evening gown which showed off her magnificent bosom to perfection.

Marchwood stood up politely and said, "Bon soir, Madame Bertrand."

"Bon soir, Lord Marchwood, she replied. "I heard you were leaving and I wished to join you for dinner on your last evening."

"I am very pleased you have done so for I fear we have fallen out and I hope we can part as friends," Marchwood replied.

"Oh I am sure we shall always be friends," she responded.

"I apologise most sincerely if my conduct offended you the other night. I think it was the most dreadful misunderstanding," Marchwood said.

"Entendu mon cheri, let us speak no more of it. We will eat the wonderful dinner my cook has prepared and then if you are agreeable we may pass your last night here together."

The pair of them spent a merry evening together downing a brace of bottles of champagne and fell into bed in a merry mood.

This time their lovemaking was unrestrained, although Marchwood was careful to avoid contact with the part which had caused so much offence. Nevertheless, Martine for the first time mounted him and rode a St George straddling his loins and pumping herself up and down strenuously on his throbbing prick. This was another position that Marchwood adored and he took the liberty of fondling the magnificent globes of her buttocks as well as suckling on her prominent teats admiring her large pendant breasts. Martine rode him until she reached a climax and then Marchwood turned her round to enter her from behind. There was perhaps a moment's hesitation on her part, in view of the events of the recent evening but she soon entered into the spirit of the event thrusting her bottom back enthusiastically as Marchwood thrust forward to bury his cock inside her to the root. Soon Martine gave a cry and reached a second climax and Marchwood joined her, groaning in ecstasy as he delivered a powerful spurt of hot seed into her womb.

Chapter 3: In the Alps

Once more Marchwood's reverie was interrupted as the coach swerved round a corner and ground to a halt. He peered out of the window and realised that they had arrived in the courtyard of an inn. An ostler ran forward to hold the horses and another servant came alongside and opened the door.

"Willkommen zum Gasthaus des Bergpass," the fellow cried in welcome.

"Danke schon," muttered Marchwod mustering a little of his shaky German.

The inn was somewhat basic but would pass muster for a night. Hopefully they would be able to cross over the pass into Italy the next day and get away from the godforsaken place.

When Machwood descended from his room in search of dinner he was greeted by the innkeeper, a portly Swiss with muttonchop whiskers and a greasy apron.

"Ach guten abend Lord Marchwood," he bellowed beaming. "Vee are honoured to offer you our special dinner. Vee heff another honoured guest at the inn perhaps you vould like to meet him."

With this he gestured towards a nearby table which was occupied by a rather stout elderly gentleman and a plump and somewhat younger lady. The gentleman rose and held out his hand.

"Baron von Finkelstein at your service," he said in excellent English, clicking his heels. "I am honoured to make your acquaintance.

"Lord Marchwod from England," he replied. "Delighted I am sure."

"And this is my lovely wife, Helga," announced the Baron.

The lady gave a tiny curtsy and held out her hand for Marchwood to kiss in the old fashioned manner.

The Baron insisted that Marchwood join them at their table for dinner which turned out to be baked pork with dumplings and apple strudel for dessert. The meal passed pleasantly enough though the Baron proved to be a rather insufferable bore. In his youth he had been an officer in the Prussian army and spent much of the meal recounting his adventures. His wife Helga was an attractive woman, who Marchwood judged to be some years younger than her husband. She said little during the meal and seemed to speak only a little English. However, she fluttered her eyelids at Marchwood and smiled at him lasciviously when she thought her husband was not looking.

"I notice you have a prominent scar Baron, was that a wound you received in battle?" Marchwood asked.

"Ach no, I received this scar in a duel," the Baron replied. "I fought a number of duels when I was a young man and I have to say I never lost one. I stuck the fellow who gave me this scar through the heart a few minutes after he had wounded me."

Once dinner was over Marchwood decided he could not take much more of the Baron's stories of war and duelling and he excused himself. The Baron tried to insist that he stay and share a few glasses of schnapps but Marchwood explained he was very tired and needed to retire.

It had indeed been a long and trying day and Marchwood quickly got himself ready for bed and was soon fast asleep. He awoke to the strange sensation that he was not alone him and fumbling in the darkness he quickly ascertained that there was naked woman in the bed beside him. His first thought was that Beppe had managed to find some village whore and send her to his bed.

"Who are you? What do you want?" he hissed in the darkness.

"Es ist mir, Helga" a voice whispered back.

Marchwood's German was limited but sufficient for him to comprehend that the Baroness had somehow contrived to get into his bed.

"Wo ist ihren man?" Marchwood asked trying to find out where the Baron was.

"Ah schlafen. Vielen trinken, vielen schnapps und so schlafen," explained Helga.

Marchwood felt slightly reassured that the Baron was asleep but would still have preferred to go back to sleep himself. However, Helga was having none of it and he could feel one her hands reaching out and fondling his chest.

"Baroness, I am not sure this is a good idea," protested Marchwood.

"Aber, ich liebe dich," whispered the Baroness.

Her hand crept lower and all too soon her nimble fingers were caressing his sceptre and crown jewels. His prick stiffened involuntarily as her fingers grazed up and down the shaft and then slowly pulled his foreskin back and forth.

Marchwood groaned. This was not at good idea but the Baroness was an attractive woman and she was playing on his organ like a virtuoso. His cock was now throbbing and he knew that he would not be able to get back to sleep even if he sent Helga away. He reached across and his hand found a soft globe of flesh surmounted by the rubbery teat of one of Helga's nipples. He mounded the plump sphere in his hand appreciatively. Helga was, however, intent on her prize and darted under the covers and soon her mouth had found his erect staff and she wrapped her lips around his bulging cockhead. Marchwood groaned again as her soft mouth engulfed his throbbing prick. It would do no harm to give the nubile Baroness what she needed and then let her slip back to her husband's bed. Helga began to furiously ravage his cock with her mouth.

Suddenly there was a crash and the bedroom door burst open. Marchwood tried to see who had entered but a lantern was shining brightly in his eyes.

"Raus, raus," a voice roared which he recognised with a quiver of fear was the Baron's.

The Baron swiftly crossed to the bed and pulled the covers off the quaking Baroness, he seized her by the hair and flung her across the room out of the door. It was only then that Marchwood realised that he was staring down the barrel of a pistol.

"Englishman I vill heff satisfaction," roared the Baron. "Tomorrow at dawn, choose your veapon."

"I say old chap, can we not sort this out like gentlemen," Marchwood stuttered. "I mean I did not invite your wife here. She threw herself at me."

"I must defend my honour," von Finkelstein insisted. "Swords or pistols, the choice is yours."

At that moment the innkeeper appeared in his nightgown looking bleary eyed.

"Ah Herr Gastwirt," said the Baron. "I would like you to act as my second when I duel this English blackguard tomorrow.

"No no, we cannot have duelling at my inn," wailed the innkeeper, "we must resolve this peacefully."

The Baron would have none of it and he stamped around the bedroom waving his pistol at Marchwood. Thinking quickly Marchwood recollected that most of the duels the Baron had fought seemed to be with swords so perhaps his best choice was pistols. At least a bullet through the head might be quicker and less painful than a rapier in the guts. Having chosen a weapon, the Baron seemed a little calmer and finally pressed the innkeeper into agreeing to be his second. Beppe had joined them and he finally managed to usher the Baron and the innkeeper out of the room allowing Marchwood to explain his predicament.

"So you see Beppe we have got to get out of here pronto. I mean I can't fight that madman he is sure to kill me. Can we get the carriage loaded quickly or even grab a couple of horses?"

"Signor, look out of the window," Beppe said mournfully.

Marchwood unbolted the shutters and the stableyard was just visible by the light of a lamp. Snow was falling heavily and it was clear the roads would be impassable at least until it was light enough to see where they were going.

"My God I am doomed," groaned Marchwood. That madman will shoot me in the morning and all because of his stupid bloody wife!"

The next morning Marchwood was awoken at dawn by Beppe with a cup of coffee. He felt like a condemned man on the day of his execution. They grimly tramped out to the meadow behind the inn, which was covered in a thick layer of snow. The Baron was already there, steam rising from his face, at his side stood the innkeeper who was acting as his second. The innkeeper came forward and shook hands with Lord Marchwood and Beppe. He explained that they would stand back to back and then on his count walk forward ten paces they could then turn and fire at one another. He then opened a wooden box he was carrying, exposing two beautiful duelling pistols.

"Please choose your weapon my lord," he said.

Marchwood hesitated his hand shaking with cold and fear and then gingerly he picked one of the pistols feeling its weight in his hand. The innkeeper then offered the other pistol to the Baron. The two adversaries glared at one another for a moment then turned so they were back to back.

"Ein, zwei, drei...." Called the innkeeper.

Marchwood stepped out taking long strides hoping to put as much distance as possible between himself and his opponent but it was difficult in the thick snow which almost came up to the tops of his boots.

" Acht, neun, zehn."

Marchwood turned quickly but before he could fire the Baron discharged his weapon. Marchwood felt the bullet whistle past his right ear and suddenly remembered what Beppe had told him about standing at right angles to his opponent too late. He pointed his pistol at the Baron and squeezed the trigger, there was a loud explosion and the weapon recoiled in his hand. He closed his eyes momentarily and then as the smoke cleared he realised to his amazement that the Baron was lying on the ground.

"Please God," he thought. "I hope I haven't killed the poor bastard."

At that moment there was a scream and Marchwood noticed the Baroness struggling across the field through the snow towards her husband's body. A red stain was spreading over the snow beside him. Beppe took his pistol and he stumbled towards the Baron in a daze. He arrived at the Baron's side to find him cradled in his wife's arms. She started screaming abuse at Marchwood in German but he could not make out exactly what she was saying. Suddenly to his relief the Baron made a movement to silence his wife.

"Halt die Klappe, Frau," he said weakly and then in English, "It is but a flesh wound in my arm I am not dying. Englishman my honour has been satisfied. You fought bravely."

The Baron held out his undamaged arm and Marchwood shook his hand.

"I never intended any dishonour to you or your wife Baron," he said. "I wish you a speedy recovery from your wound."

It was two more days before the pass was finally clear enough for Marchwood to proceed on his journey. He saw no more of the Baron and Baroness while he remained at the inn.

Chapter 4: Winter in Rome

Marchwood decided that he had had enough adventures amorous or otherwise and he made the decision to settle down for a quiet winter in Rome, a city in which he had hoped to spend some time. After a few days in a quiet hotel Beppe managed to find a delightful small house which he managed to obtain for a reasonable rent. Marchwood was intent on saving money as his divorce had left him almost ruined and he had already expended more than he intended on his travels so far. He therefore let his coachman and his horses go and put his carriage into storage. Beppe would serve almost all his needs but he was the most execrable cook so he was deputed to find someone who would act as cook and housekeeper.

A few days later Beppe appeared one afternoon with a woman in tow.

"My lord may I introduce to you Rosa Pisano I think she may be qualified to be your new cook."

Marchwood looked at the attractive youngish woman standing next to Beppe. She was dressed like a typical Italian peasant woman in a broad skirt and blouse with a scarf around her head holding back her long dark curly hair. She smiled at Marchwood, flashing her dark expressive eyes.

Rosa turned out to be eminently qualified. She has just finished employment with an English family who had returned to the mother country and they had provided her with a glowing reference. It turned out she had been a widow for two years and she was struggling to feed five young children. She desperately needed a job.

"Rosa I should like you to cook dinner for us tonight," said Marchwood as Beppe translated. "If the meal is up to scratch then we would like to employ you."

Rosa cooked a most delicious meal of baked aubergines, a pasta dish, some roast chicken and a delicious tiramisu. Marchwood could not fault a single course and he called Rosa into the dining room to congratulate her on obtaining the post of cook. She was overjoyed especially when Marchwood gave her a week's pay in advance and the leftovers from dinner when she hinted that her children had not had a square meal in several days.

Within a short time the household had settled into a regular routine. Beppe looked after his master and Rosa cooked and cleaned the house. Marchwood would take long walks around Rome visiting the ancient sites and furiously sketching what he saw. His main intention had been to resume his artistic pursuits in Italy and now at last he was finding he could put his talent to use again.

Marchwood also discovered an interesting antiquarian bookshop with books in many langauages. He took to browsing there regularly and bought a number of volumes from the elderly Jew who ran the place. One day he overheard an English customer discreetly enquire about the private collection and the Jew hastily hustled him through a doorway at the back of the shop.

On his next visit Marchwood approached the bookseller.

"I understand that you have ahem... a private collection. I wonder whether I might peruse it."

"Of course signore," whispered the Jew. "You understand of course the nature of the works in this collection. I hope you are a gentleman who is not easily shocked."

Marchwood was intrigued and allowed himself to be ushered into the back room. The room was dark and books were stacked on shelves on every wall. Books of every size and description. The shopkeeper bowed and backed out of the room leaving Marchwood to peruse its contents. He opened a book and found the text was in German, which he struggled to understand but on each page was a woodcut illustration of the most salacious kind. They depicted men and women in every kind of act of love. Marchwood opened another, this was in Italian and seemed to tell the pornographic tale of monks, nuns and other members of the church engaging in all kinds of lewd and illicit acts. On another shelf he found a first edition of 120 days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade and then a beautiful set of Japanese erotic prints.

Marchwood was transfixed. He had a small collection of pornography in his private library in England which he had inherited from his father. Over the years he had added to this but he had never seen such a fine collection in one place. He only had a few lire on his person and bought three of the books, all he could afford, vowing to return and add to his collection as soon as his funds allowed.

That night he began to read the tale of the debauched ecclesiastics. It was in Italian with which he struggled but with the help of a dictionary and the ample illustrations he was able to follow the story. Having finished the first chapter he found himself with a throbbing erection. The description of the young novice being caned and then forced to lick the vagina of the mother superior had aroused him immeasurably and he had no choice but to frig himself to the point of release before he was able to settle down to sleep.

The next day was Beppe's day off and he quickly disappeared. Marchwood suspected that his servant had struck up a relationship with a woman somewhere and had gone to visit her. As for himself he had decided to foreswear relationships with women they had only caused him grief. He would pass a quiet winter in Rome and enjoy his pornographic books which would provide him with the satisfaction of his carnal desires.

Marchwood decided he would go out and sketch on the Spanish Steps, one of his favourite spots in Rome. He picked up his sketchbook and called to Rosa that he would be out for some time. It was not far to the Spanish Steps and he opened his pencil case to choose a suitable pencil. Sadly the one he required was quite blunt. He reached into his pocket to take out his pocket knife and whittle it to sharpness but he could not find it. He must have left it in his other trousers pocket. He wondered if the nearby café might oblige him with a sharp knife but they did not seem to be open. There was nothing for it but to quickly go home and find his own pocket knife.