tagNovels and NovellasNo Future Ch. 63

No Future Ch. 63

bybradley_stoke©

LXIII
Sinners, Poor and Wretched
Sir Norman
2079



There was so much to adjust to now he'd returned to England. The list was long and mostly rather distressing. For a start, this wasn't the same country as the one he'd escaped from just over a year before. At that time it had been a Kingdom. Now there was no longer even a Royal Family. He was now a citizen of the Republic of England. What next? Would the English provinces also demand political independence and leave only the Home Counties under Westminster's sway.

The worst was that he was no longer a man with a title. Lord Newbury was no more. He could use the title, of course, but it was reduced to a meaningless honorific. Perversely, as a concession to demands from the press barons who'd shafted him more completely than did any Congolese male prostitute, the government of the Republic of England had elected to allow nobles to retain their knighthoods. This was justified on the basis that the title was associated with desert rather than heredity. But without a monarch to whom one could bend the knee and be dubbed a knight, Sir Norman would now be one of the last free-born Englishmen to hold the title.

Sir Norman's view was that the loss of royal status diminished the essence of the nation whose traditions he'd worked so hard to defend. Nobody had much respect for a National Constitution as opposed to a Constitutional Monarch. This much was obvious from the hurriedly redesigned airport signs and the parliamentary insignia that substituted a thoroughly uninspiring image of a threadbare lion for the grand crest that once denoted a great nation. It was almost as bad as the crappy red cross on a white background that Sir Norman still didn't properly associate with the country of his birth. Spin it by forty-five degrees and it resembled the symbol for a charitable organisation whose services across the globe had stretched beyond breaking point. And who'd want a nation of shopkeepers to be reduced to the status of a high street charity shop?

Still, however shitty modern England was, it could never be worse than the Congo. Although Sir Norman had been mostly insulated from the world beyond the compound walls, from both its oppressive heat and its unsightly poverty, the Congo had a way of making its presence felt. He had the pick of the best black arses in the land and his wealth, already considerable, was much greater in comparison in a country where lives were cheap and everyone's anus was for the shafting. Nevertheless nothing could forever hold back the rough justice of civil war and the subsequent collapse of the Congolese government. So, before the time arrived when he would be strung up and disembowelled like so many other notable foreign residents, Sir Norman decided to take the lesser risk of returning to England, via Wales' porous border, with his American passport and the identity of Newton Nash from Oklahoma.

"So what have you arranged to celebrate arrival of the homecoming knight and his entourage?" Sir Norman asked Oscar, his old friend and one-time business associate.

"I've got some brown arse, some white arse and, knowing your preference, some black arse," said Oscar as he pulled aside the curtain that divided Sir Norman and his close friends from the hired services he'd outsourced for the evening.

"And some white cunt, as well," Sir Norman sniffed as he pointed at the few women that interspersed the line of naked men.

"That's mostly for my personal pleasure, my lord," said Oscar who knew how much his friend liked to still be addressed by the honorific that had been taken from him. "Although, as you know, I'm tempted by a puckered hairy anus after a line or two, men aren't generally my first preference."

"I've seen better women," Sir Norman remarked. "Was there a discount offer at the brothel?"

"None of the women are professionals," said Oscar who kept his voice low enough that Sir Norman's female guests couldn't hear him. They were talking among themselves and wholly unabashed by their state of nakedness. "They think they're just at a different kind of party. Although they'll get something for their effort, none of it will go to an agency or pimp. There's no third party to take a slice of the action."

"You don't mind having to fuck mere amateurs?" remarked Sir Norman incredulously.

"I've always retained a taste for the real deal, my lord," said Oscar. "Professionals are better at going through the motions, but I prefer an unfaked orgasm from the woman I fuck. In any case, there's a sentimental reason for the selection of women you see here."

"There is?"

"That one there, the blonde, I used to fuck her mother years ago. Now I get to fuck the daughter. What could be more delicious?"

"I don't know," said Sir Norman, who was decidedly unimpressed. He was too jaded by excess to be excited by such details as family ties. "Fucking a father and son at the same time?"

"That's difficult to arrange in the Republic of England, my lord," admitted Oscar.

He beckoned the blonde woman to step forward. Sir Norman could now appreciate that despite her unhealthy pallor and insolent posture, the girl wasn't at all bad looking for those who might want a choice of hole to poke. She had a full bosom and the faint evidence of stretch marks that suggested a relatively recent pregnancy. She showed absolutely no shame or awkwardness about being naked.

"Are you the one who's gonna fuck me up the arse?" the woman asked.

Oscar squeezed her arm. "Address him as 'my lord', Olive," he said.

"Are you gonna fuck me up the arse, my lord?" the woman asked with enough hint of disrespect for Sir Norman to resolve that he discipline her in some way later in the evening.

"If you're lucky, my dear," said Sir Norman.

"Show your gape to the gentleman, Olive," instructed Oscar.

"Certainly, my lord," said Olive, clearly rather amused by the title. She bent over and pulled apart her fleshy cheeks to show an anus that had been so widened by frequent exercise that it was almost as cavernous as a well-lubricated man's. Although a woman's arse didn't appeal to Sir Norman as much as one with a curtain of hair or a thick black cock up the anus, he might still be prepared to take the plunge.

"Can we see what she can do with her assets?" wondered Sir Norman, who wanted to see the floozy punished. It wasn't that he'd taken umbrage at the woman's impertinence. He'd long ago formed the opinion that what women thought or said was of really no import whatsoever. It was rather because he wanted to see her suffer. "Which of these studs has the biggest cock?"

Sir Norman addressed the question in a relatively low voice, but Oscar repeated the question.

"Which of you gentlemen is the most well endowed?" he asked.

There was some jostling amongst the naked men, but one was pushed forward to the front. Sir Norman was slightly disappointed to see that his skin was brown rather than black. He was a man whose racial origins has been so blurred over the generations that you simply couldn't tell what his ancestry might be. But what he did have was a big cock. It wasn't the biggest cock that Sir Norman had ever seen, even given that it wasn't yet fully erect and the man was still pumping it to life in his fist. But it was a cock that Sir Norman hoped to have a good taste of later in the evening.

"What's your name, boy?" Sir Norman brusquely enquired.

"Olaf," said the man and then, as an afterthought: "My lord."

Another disappointment. Not even a proper wog name. No wonder the Government of National Unity had fucked up so much. If you couldn't identify the illegal immigrants by their name, what was left? DNA tests? Blood samples? Why didn't they just turf out everyone with a dusky complexion?

"Olaf," Sir Norman repeated as if he'd never heard a name like that before. "I'd like to see your cock in this young lady's arse."

"Doesn't she need some preparation?" Olaf asked. "My lord."

"Nonsense," said Oscar who was more concerned about Olaf's hesitance in his use of Sir Norman's honorific title. "All Olive needs is a bit of spit. Isn't that right?"

"Erm," said Olive who was evidently less convinced. "I usually like to have my pussy poked first. My lord."

"Never mind that," said Sir Norman who had no inclination for that. "There'll be time for that later. Oscar will be more than willing to screw you in any way you wish. Isn't that so?"

"Er, yes, my lord," said Oscar who was reluctant to reveal the nature of his relationship with the girl. "Come on, Olive. Bend over for his lordship. Show everyone what kind of gape you've got."

This whole charade bored Sir Norman, especially when Olaf drew no blood from the girl's unlubricated anus and she didn't appear to mind the penetration nearly as much as Sir Norman had hoped. In the Congo, he'd have made damned sure that the girl would have regretted her lippiness, but there was no such license allowed in the Republic of England. There was a real risk that one of the men and women hired for the night would blab if the knight went too far.

Nevertheless, Sir Norman soon forgot the girl's insolence, although he had plenty of opportunity to watch her get well and truly fucked by Oscar. She showed every sign of having genuinely enjoyed it. Perhaps Oscar had a point. Sir Norman had fucked more men than the peasants of England had eaten hot dinners, but his most rewarding encounters were with social equals rather than male prostitutes. Although no prince, baron or business leader he'd fucked or been fucked by had a penis to compare with Olaf's, there'd been a much more mutual meeting of mind and body.

Sir Norman made sure that Olaf received every last inch of his lordship's cock inside his surprisingly tight anus, while insisting at the same time that Olaf should fuck another chap, a tall bearded man who vaguely resembled the deposed press baron, Lord MacKenzie. Sir Norman always enjoyed a chain of fuckers. An arse while being penetrated would squeeze like a glove if the recipient was also fucking someone else. It was as if Sir Norman was fucking two men at once, which in a way was preferable to having two men fuck him. It sometimes took days for his arse to recover from such punishment.

"So, what's it like to be back in England, my lord?" Oscar asked several hours later when the company could relax with a good cigar and a well-deserved bottle of brandy.

"Dreadful, Oscar," said Sir Norman. "But at the same time I have been missing the old country. Would you say the country's been missing me?"

Oscar hesitated for a moment and took the moment to scratch his hairy testicles. "Have you been watching the news while you've been away, my lord?"

"Only occasionally. There were so many bloody lies and slander put out by the media that I generally kept away from it."

"Wise advice, my lord. And an even wiser policy while you're in England. The scandal has got rather worse while you've been away. Many English ministers have had to resign and even the media magnates have had a roasting. I blame it on the fucking Scots and Welsh. Any dirt they find they chuck over the border for the English news-hounds to pick up."

"I take it you'd recommend that I keep a fairly low profile then?"

"I would say so, my lord," said Oscar. "In fact, while you're here it might be advisable to adopt the identity of that American chap whose passport you got a hold of. It's a lot safer."

Sir Norman nodded. It was exactly what he'd expected.

He'd never met Newton Nash. Maybe he'd got shot in the riots that had turned what had once been a United States into a disunited chaos. Maybe he'd ended up on the wrong side of the border when the wall went up between Missouri and Illinois and countless thousands tried to flee the repressive regime of the Republic of North America.

But for the moment, Newton Nash was alive and well and living at Sir Norman's Hampstead address in London.

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