Honeymoon Hell

Chapter 01 – Lord Walshingham

 

      “You’ve done my nephew a bit of a bad turn,” said the imposing English lord.   Gwyneth and I had been forcibly conducted to the main hall of what I assumed was his country estate, Ashcroft Hall.  I had just demanded why we had been brought before him. 

     Much later, I learned Charles Dracut, the twelfth Earl of Monmouth, known to his peers as Lord Walshingham, was a notorious roué and libertine, unwelcome in polite London society.   The young Charles had served in the army, paying a particularly unworthy role in the Boer War where he gained a reputation for raping young Afrikaner girls and boys then turning them over to his Zulu irregulars for further rape and ultimately disposal.

     He was a tall man, above six feet, with unkempt gray hair and muttonchops that would have made him appear distinguished had it not been for the white scar that ran from his forehead down to his chin.  Crooked, stained, and missing teeth gave him a most evil appearance.  His visage reflected a lifetime of dissipation.         

    I was finding it difficult to control my anger.  “Your nephew, are you daft, man.  I’ve never met you or any of your family before,” I practically screamed.  “When the authorities hear of this outrage, you will be jailed, Sir.”

     “Oh, I seriously doubt that,” said Lord Walshingham fully aware that his wealth and position protected him.   

     “I demand you immediately return my wife and me to London and the Savoy Hotel,” I said in my most authoritative tone.  The honeymoon suite at the Savoy was reserved for us.  It was to be a six week honeymoon with a week in every major European capital.

     “Won’t do, my lad, simply won’t do,” said Lord Walshingham.  “Harry, where the hell are you?”

     “Here, Uncle,” said my erstwhile best friend, Harry Pelham, stepping from behind a curtain.  The swine arranged a dramatic entrance to shock us.

     “Harry, help us,” cried Gwyneth my bride of less than a week.  She would have run to him but a rough sort of female held her by the shoulders. I was being restrained by several of Lord Walshingham’s servants; a thuggish Mr. Hornsby was their leader.

     The totally unexpected appearance of Harry shed some light on our abduction.  Harry’s mother, Edwina, was British to the core; although his father Marcus Pelham was a Texas oil man who refused to leave his Lubbock ranch in his firm belief that the state of Texas was an unequaled earthly paradise and other locales would only disappoint.  The Pelhams were given to madness of that sort.

     Percy Chapman is no man’s fool and I immediately deduced that Edwina Pelham was Lord Walshingham’s sister.  Rumors of her mad behavior that I had previously discounted assumed a state of truthfulness. 

     “Hello, Percy, Gwyneth, did you find the Belgravia satisfactory?” asked Harry as calm as a bowl of cream of wheat. 

      Perhaps it’s best to bring the reader up to date.  Gwyneth is the only child of Mortimer Drew, the richest man in America.  I, Percy Chapman am the only son of Roger Chapman, the third richest man in America.  Gwyneth and I were married in New York’s St. Patrick’s Cathedral six days prior.   As soon as the ceremony ended, we were escorted to the honeymoons suite of the SS Belgravia, the most sumptuous and well appointed of the ocean liners plying the Liverpool to New York route after the Great War.  Following a rollicking party in the main dinning salon, our guests were sent ashore and we were left alone to consummate our marriage

     Harry and I had been best friends since we prepped at Groton.  There we suffered the depredations visited upon lower classman by the bulls who combined sodomy with brutal flogging.  They say boys who share such pain and perversion become life long friends but in our case, it proved untrue.

     After Groton, we roomed together at Yale.  Our freshman year, we both lost our virginity at Mrs. Brophy’s House of Ill Repute, taking turns with a fat tart named Nancy.  Until recently, I considered Harry Pelham my best friend in the world.

     Our falling out was over Gwyneth, a creature so lovely, words fail me.  Her golden hair framed a most beautiful face whose best feature were her deep violet eyes.  Her figure was superb and her creamy bosom summoned my most lustful thoughts.

     I first laid eyes on Gwyneth at her coming out.  My mouth dropped open when she first appeared on her father’s arm.  I watched totally mesmerized as she descended the steps to be handed over to Harry Pelham.

     Yes, Harry had met her first.  But Percy Chapmen was not the kind of man to allow friendship to keep him from possessing such a divine creature.  Plus I didn’t consider Harry good enough for Gwyneth.  Since graduating, he had shown himself to be something of a wastrel.   He had gained a reputation for consorting with New York’s less desirable elements including Jews, Irish and God forbid, Negroes.  Rumors circulated of his frequenting jazz clubs in Harlem and that he had a Negro mistress called Simone.  She was reputed to be an octoroon who had passed for white until her deception was discovered and she was banished to live with her own kind.  

     I admit to scheming to beat out my rival. All’s fair in love and war or so I am told.  I employed my Aunt Caroline, a leader of New York society to press my suit upon her parents.  After all, I was a true Knickerbocker whose wealth dated from the time of John Jacob Astor himself, not some upstart parvenu who father sucked his new fortune from the earth.

     Harry had not taken the announcement of our engagement graciously.  He had loudly proclaimed me a cad and a false friend to our mutual acquaintances.  Under the circumstances, his name was omitted from the wedding guest list.  Until he appeared at Lord Walshingham’s, I hadn’t laid eyes on him in months.

      “We had a very pleasurable voyage,” coolly lied Gwyneth.   I was to discover in coming years, she had a gift for deceit and even adultery but that is another tale.

      “Not what I heard,” said Harry.  “What was your experience, Percy?”

      I saw no need to inform Harry that the Atlantic had been a maelstrom throughout the voyage and we both suffered from mal de mer.  “None of your business, Harry, see that we are immediately transported to the Savoy and because of our past friendship, I will forgive this abduction.”

     My offer to forgo criminal prosecution was ignored.  “I understand you were too ill to consummate the marriage,” said Harry stepping to where he was directly in front of Gwyneth and smiling most wickedly at her.  No gentleman was Harry Pelham.  He made no effort to conceal his desire for my wife.

     But Harry was unfortunately correct.  I was violently ill from the moment we left the Eighth Street Pier until we docked in Liverpool.  Gwyneth suffered even worse.  My faculties had only begun to return to normal on the train to London.  My eagerness to reach the Savoy was driven by my desire to place myself between Gwyneth’s legs, secure her virginity, and enjoy the fruits of matrimony.  I calculated that in six week I could instruct Gwyneth on the pleasures of the flesh.  Her flirtatious remarks and passionate kisses convinced me she would be an apt pupil.

     But Harry had stepped over the line with that remark.   He had made an insulting remark to my wife and that was beyond simple forgiveness. “I withdraw my offer.  You will be prosecuted to the limits of the law.”

     “”Quiet the bugger down, Hornsby.  I’ve heard enough of his shit,” said Lord Walshingham gruffly.  I found it difficult to believe an English lord would use such profanity with ladies present.

     The ruffian who had falsely collected us at Waterloo Station said, “Yes, Milord,” then wielded his cudgel against my testicles.  I responded by falling to the floor, screaming in pain, while clutching my injured privy parts.  It had been a solid blow that caused me to worry whether my manhood retained the capacity to produce future Chapmans.

     As I lay there, writhing in agony, Harry rephrased his question.  “Are you still a virgin, Gwyn?”

     That confirmed my low opinion of Harry. He was no gentleman.  Only a swine of the lowest order would insult a lady of Gwyneth’s station in such a rude manner. 

     Gwyneth answered bravely.  “None of your business, Harry, how can you treat us in such a hideous fashion?”

     At that moment, Lord Walshingham chose to intervene.  “Strip the bint down, Mrs. Kline; so young Harry can see for himself whether she’s been had by her husband, or anyone else for that matter.”

     His words were so foul and insulting; it took me a moment to fully understand their meaning.  I made to rise but Mr. Hornsby tapped me harshly on the back of my head with his stout club as he threatened, “I’d stay put if I were you, Mister Chapman.  Else you may find yourself running with the geldings at the Marburg Stakes.”

     Defeated I remained on the floor as Mrs. Kline assisted by two others attacked my wife’s travel habit.

     “Don’t touch me,” screamed Gwyneth pushing their hands from her buttons.  “My father will have you imprisoned.”  The daughter of my country’s richest man was not used to having rude hands placed on her person.  Gwyneth’s violet eyes and jutted chin displayed her defiance.

     “We don’t have all night, Mrs. Kline.  Teach the wench to obey or else,” impatiently shouted Lord Walshingham above the din of the women’s screaming.

     Mrs. Kline’s rough fist landed hard on Gwyneth’s belly, doubling her over.  A lack of breath silenced her cries.

     “Hold her, Mary, Liza.  She needs to learn her place,” ordered Mrs. Kline to her helpers.  Gwyneth struggled helplessly as the two pinned her arms, holding her upright.   Her genteel strength was no match for theirs and she was easily held.

     Mrs. Kline spit in her hands and rubbed them together before assuming a flat footed stance in front of poor overmatched Gwyneth.  It was a savage beating.  The first blow to the jaw snapped her head to one side.  A spray of blood and saliva exited her lips, traveled through the air to land on the sleeve of Mr. Hornsby who raised it to his lips for a taste.  The animal savagery of his act overwhelmed me and I felt faint.

     Mrs. Kline followed up with another blow to the opposite jaw with an equally devastating effect.  Blood oozed over my wife’s lower lip.  Mrs. Kline showed remarkable pugilistic skill for a female as she hammered half dozen blows against Gwyneth’s torso.   

     “Excellent work, Mrs. Kline, enough for now, strip her,” shouted Lord Walshingham as a fist landed square on Gwyneth’s breast causing no end of agony judging by the volume of her scream.

     I was appalled to see that one of Lord Walshingham’s hands was clutching his groin, rhythmically squeezing his privates.  The savage beating of my wife had aroused his lust. 

     Encouraged by her employer, Mrs. Kline ripped open my wife’s jacket then grabbed her blouse and ripped it down the front.  One more tug and her camisole was shredded by the powerful arm of Walshingham’s minion.   One of Gwyneth’s breasts came free affording me my first view of her exquisite bosom. 

     Mrs. Kline’s scrub woman hand embedded itself in Gwyneth’s soft flesh gouging and twisting the nipple.  It was piteous to hear my wife’s plea for mercy.  Unable to withstand the pain, she screamed, “Stop, I’ll not resist further.  Do what you will.”

      Mrs. Kline looked to her Lord for guidance who immediately directed her to proceed to the disrobement.  “Get her fully naked.  I want to see what’s got young Harry so randy.”

     Gwyneth stood sobbing as they removed the remainder of her attire then forced her to slowly turn round.  In spite of the circumstances I marveled at her beauty.  She was Aphrodite herself.

     “Not enough meat on her bones, Harry.  She needs fattening,” said Lord Walshingham.

     “My taste differs, Uncle,” said Harry.  “As I recall, we were about to determine whether Percy here has fucked her yet.”

     If I hadn’t been in a state of shock, I would have protested his profanity.  Later, I learned that Harry already knew the answer.  He had bribed and seduced Cathy, Gwyneth’s maid, to report to him of our success or lack of it in consummating the marriage.  When Gwyneth did not require her services, the unfaithful wretched girl had snuck off to Harry’s cabin to inform him of our situation as they fornicated.  Depriving Gwyneth of her clothes in front of others was an act of revenge and humiliation not a necessary means to acquire information.

     As for Cathy, she was standing off to the side, watching her mistress and making no attempt to intervene.  In fact, the look on her face conveyed her pleasure at seeing Gwyneth humbled.

     “Bring her closer, Mrs. Kline,” said Lord Walshingham once Gwyneth was without a stitch of clothing.

     The three harridans marched Gwyneth to the Lord’s chair where without hesitating, he placed his hands on her breasts and remarked.  “These are a bit of all right, nice and firm.  Lady Walshingham’s tits hung to her waist by the time she met her maker.”  Then without hesitating, he buried his face in Gwyneth’s breasts and made sounds that could not be described as human.  It was an act so grossly disgusting, it was difficult to believe I was in a civilized country.

     “Mrs. Kline’s beating had broken Gwyneth’s will to resist.  She stood silent and motionless as that most foul of English lords noisily applied his lips and tongue to her virgin breasts. 

     “Flip her over, so we can see her goods,” said Lord Walshingham having satisfied his desire to ravage her breasts.

     Poor Gwyneth’s bosom was smeared with his disgusting saliva.

     Mary and Liza aided and directed by Mrs. Kline grabbed Gwyneth’s legs and turned her upside down, holding her suspended with the crown of her head pointed to the floor.  The swiftness of their action made me believe, Gwyneth was the not the first female to be treated so.

     “Spread her open,” said Lord Walshingham causing my wife’s legs to be configured like a wishbone.

     I must confess I strained to see her sex.  Mr. Hornsby noticed my attempt and commented with a smile.  “Too bad, Mr. Chapman, you missed your chance to be first in her twat.  Don’t be too alarmed.  She’ll still be fuckable after the Governor and Mr. Harry are finished with her.”

     Gwyneth wailed her acute shame and humiliation at being thus exposed to the lusty eyes of her audience.  Her perfectly formed vulva was covered with a fleece of golden hair.

     His lustful nature aroused, Lord Walshingham placed his wrinkled hand on her sex and encountered a problem.  “She’s dry as sand, Mrs. Kline.”

     “Easy cured, Milord” said Mrs. Kline grabbing the folds of Gwyneth’s sex to separate them before loudly expectorating on Venus’s cavern.  Mrs. Kline’s fingers moved about spreading her sputum before remarking, “She’s slicked up, now, Milord.”

     Lord Walshingham forced two filthy fingers into her virgin love tunnel causing her to cry out.  “Have mercy, Lord Walshingham, I am a virgin.”

     He ignored her plea as he explored her opening.  “It’s a wee hole now, my darling, and it is capped but before you leave Ashcroft Hall, I warrant it will be open and much larger,” said the Lord raising his hand to his nose to smell her feminine essence.  I marveled that a man so perverse should belong to the aristocracy.

     Once again I foolishly made to arise but a sharp crack on the base of my skull, returned me to the floor.  “Be still, Mr. Chapman, and you just might leave with your nuts in one piece,” chided Mr. Hornsby.

     “You’re in luck, Harry.  She’s unspoiled.  Come and feel for yourself, my boy,” said the Lord.

     Harry moved quickly to take advantage.  He smiled directly at me as his fingers penetrated my beloved.  A loud wail escaped her lips as Harry pushed hard inside her.  “A narrow passage stoutly sealed, a man’s cock could buckle before it breaks down that door,” said Harry his fingers probing my wife’s sex.

     Lord Walshingham’s parted Gwyneth’s buttocks to expose her anus.  He spit on his thumb and pressed it against the center of the wrinkled flesh.  “Her ass is too pink for my tastes.  I prefer brown, the color of her shit.  I image she’ll squeal like a shoat the first time she gets a cock in her bum. What say you, Mr. Chapman, did you have plans to butt fuck your bride?”

     My answer was not entirely truthful.  It was an issue I intended to broach with Gwyneth in a timely fashion. “Of course not, sodomy is forbidden by both God and man’s law.”

     “Then you won’t mind if other’s less punctilious of the laws, break down her back door and skewer her,” said Lord Walshingham forcing his thumb past her entrance causing a wail of despair to escape Gwyneth split lips.

     I lacked words to respond to such evil.

     “Tomorrow night after dinner, Mrs. Chapman, you will lose your virginity in the best English tradition of rape and sodomy.  Young Harry here and I will plan something special.  You might as well reconcile yourself to it.  The Confucians believe that if rape is inevitable, you might as well enjoy it.”

     “On the voyage, I had opportunity to consider several different scenarios.  Let the arrangements be my surprise to you, Uncle,” said Harry.  

     “Excellent then, I leave the details to you, Harry.  But who does the honors, Nephew?  You, me, or perhaps even Hornsby here, you’d like to have a go at this, wouldn’t you Hornsby”” said Lord Walshingham finally removing his hand from Gwyneth’s buttocks. 

      “Yes, Milord, a pretty little fuck she’d make,” said Hornsby grabbing his crotch for emphasis.

           “Hornsby was my Sergeant Major in the Transvaal.  He developed quite a taste for fuzzy-wuzzies of all sorts, especially little brown boys.  Right, Hornsby?” said Lord Walshingham.

      “It was a pleasure serving under you, Milord,” said Hornsby.

      “Perhaps a game of whist to decide who deflowers the girl, but later, I’m tired.  We’ll entertain the newlyweds tomorrow at dinner,” said Lord Walshingham.  “Lord Cranmere and his set are coming to help us celebrate the consummation of Mr. Chapman’s marriage.  Rodney Strong will be here.  We should let him be first.  She’ll bleed like a stuck pig when Rodney storms her privy parts.”

     “I’m not acquainted with Mr. Strong,” said Harry.

     “Largest cock in the empire, women go mad when they see it.  He’s fucked all the women in London worth fucking,” said Lord Walshingham.

     “Excellent, Uncle, Percy and Gwyneth will be honored to attend,” said Harry. 

     “Lock him up, Hornsby.  Take the bint along, Mrs. Kline, and see to her.  And mind you, no dalliance with the girl’s virginity.  If she’s ripped, there will be hell to pay,” said the Lord in a menacing tone.

      “And the gentleman” asked Hornsby lifting me off the floor by my collar.

      “I believe Mr. Chapman would enjoy having your cock in his bum.  What say you, Harry?  Percy there has the looks of a faggot,” said the Lord.

     I am of slight build and fair skin with delicate features for a man.  The Chapman men are known for brains not brawn.  I had nothing to say, understanding that my fate was sealed.

      “He’s yours to enjoy, Mr. Hornsby.  When we were at Groton, the older boys used to dress him as a girl and sodomize his sweet bottom for hours,” said Harry revealing something we’d sworn to never speak of.   I considered mentioning that Harry was similarly sodomised but the presence of Hornsby’s cudgel caused me to demur. 

    “Come with me, girl,” said Lord Walshingham offering his hand to Cathy.  “Harry here says you know a thing or two about how to please a gentleman.”

     “I’d do my best, Milord” said Cathy rushing to take his arm.

    Gwyneth and I were forced in different directions.  Nude, beaten, and humiliated beyond reason, she meekly followed Mrs. Kline and her girls as Hornsby and his lads marched me in the opposite direction.

     “Got just the thing for you, sweetheart,” said Hornsby kissing me on the cheek once we left the hall.