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Chapter 6 Percy Entertains
I believe in giving the devil his due. While Percy Chapman was a cad and a false friend, he did not lack for theatrical talent. With perfect pitch and phrasing, he’d entertained us with two Irish ballads. Percy’s Mother Macree brought tears to the eyes of his audience including yours truly. I fought the urge to embrace him and ask for forgiveness for his old friend, Harry Pelham. Fortunately, I stifled the urge.
Mind you, this was not a gathering given to sympathy for the filthy potato eating scum whose failure to show proper gratitude for upright British rule was the cause of unending criticism. Nothing was as likely to bring a smile to his lordship’s face as learning another IRA man had gone to the gallows.
In the House of Lords, my Uncle had argued for interning IRA families in concentration camps as he had done the Boers in the war. His arguments that watching their women and children starve would soften Irish resolve had not been well received. He’d been circumspect in not calling for the women and boys to be raped in front of their families by natives, a practice he’d followed religiously in the Transvaal.
His Lordship assigned much credit for the eventual British victory to his strategy of starving and raping the women and children to break the back of Afrikaner resistance. Those in England who criticized such brutal tactics he characterized as cowards and sissies who lacked the balls for war.
Lord Rowley, a dandy if ever there was one, was accompanying Percy on the piano. The Lord, known for his dedicated pursuit of young men who dressed well as women, seemed to be on the verge of declaring his love for Percy as he played with enthusiasm if not skill. Perched on the piano with his well turned legs dangling provocatively only a few feet from the randy nobleman, I feared Percy would find himself with an invitation for marriage from the bedazzled peer of the realm.
Always a showman, after a quiet start, Percy launched into a spirited version of I’m a Yankee Doodle Dandy from Mr. Cohan’s recent Broadway hit. At the finale, with skirt hiked up to show his lacy knickers, he kicked to a height enviable by a Broadway show girl as he used the small stage to maximum advantage.
My Uncle had decreed Percy’s performance as an opportunity for group masturbation, a practice he first mastered in the dining hall at Eton and since adopted world wide by Anglophiles. My cock rested in Lord Cranmere’s aged but soft and warm hand while my fingers were busily engaged in stroking Gwyneth’s impressively wet vulva while my lips formed over her nipple holding it in place for my tongue. I suckled her boob with the noisy desperation of a hungry three month old infant.
My God, the woman’s cunt performed like an artesian spring excepting that her liquor was viscous and strong to the taste, reminding me of the purest Vermont maple syrup. I was of a mind that upon returning to New York I would find occasion to compare her output to that of my black mistress Simone whose production was equally copious. I could picture the two stacked upon one another with their faces married to each other’s sex imbibing great quantities of womanly fluids until their bellies became erotically rounded. I would then join them on the bed for a good frolic.
That morning Mrs. Kline had delivered her surprising report of Mrs. Gwyneth Drew Chapman’s behavior. My worries that she would be unhinged and possibly driven mad by the erotic attentions of Mrs. Kline and her helpers had proved wrong. According to the worthy Mrs. Kline, Gwyneth, after a little knocking about, had joined in the activities with enthusiasm, repeatedly reaching peaks of pleasure that would not have been thought possible for a daughter raised in a family where the bible was read daily and the bishop a frequent visitor.
While I digitally manipulated Percy’s bride, she was turned toward Lord Walshingham. Both of her exquisitely delicate hands were stroking his manhood as she bent over to envelope it in her perfectly formed lips. I was astounded at the practiced manner her tongue roamed over the head causing his Lordship to exclaim, “That’s it, Mrs. Chapman. You suck cock like a Cheapside strumpet.” His Lordship alternated exceedingly wet kisses between Gwyneth and my cousin Penelope.
It was truly a delicious moment especially when I observed that Mr. Grange and his two helpers had set up their equipment in an unobtrusive manner and were busily filming Percy’s performance. I felt a touch of regret that his fine voice would not be captured for blackmail and posterity’s sake. There were news reports that films would someday provide sound but I am afraid that is decades in the future.
The average woman must be taught the finer points of providing a man oral pleasure. Upon occasion at Mrs. Brophy’s house, I participated in training sessions where young beauties fresh from the coal fields of West Virginia were educated in the art of sucking cock. However, there infrequently appeared the rare female whose talent was natural and no acts of learning were required. I recall a raven haired minister’s daughter, barely sixteen, who showed unusual native skill. She was born knowing all there was to know about making a man ejaculate using her mouth. Nor did she hesitate at the indelicate aspects of female service such as applying her tongue to the anus. To me, that is the true test of a harlot.
Mrs. Kline had been crudely complimentary regarding Gwyneth’s prowess in mouth worshiping her bottom. “She sucked my pucker so hard it turned inside out for a nice rose bud. Once I was hanging out all loose and juicy, she opened me up with the tip of her tongue. I bloomed open like a morning rose. Then she swabbed out two inches of the inside. My shitter was spotless when she finished.”
Observing the manner that dear, sweet, and pious Gwyneth attacked his Lordship’s member reminded me once more of the Chapman luck. His bride was not only as rich as Croesus she was a lusty whore of strong appetites and easily trained to perform the most perverted and bizarre acts know to the human race.
Percy finished Mr. Cohan’s tune to loud applause. He bowed most graciously to the audience, even exchanging a kiss with Lord Rowley before the curtain closed.
The success of the next act depended on the skill of Mr. Hornsby in convincing Percy to undertake the lead role in my one act play. I had spent some time with the supporting cast who though untrained for the stage showed great enthusiasm for the performance. I titled my scribble, Rape of the Minister’s Wife.
The curtain reopened with Percy alone on stage seated at the piano playing and singing a dirge from the Methodist hymnal. Percy performed the first two verses before the tiny stage became crowded with the arrival of the three male members of the Dinka tribe dressed in native garb. The three along with their wives and children had recently been transported to Ashford Hall by Lord Walshingham from his 6,000 acre tea plantation outside Nairobi.
Although well acquainted with the English language and customs, they retained enough of their former savage natures to put on the show I required. Percy for his part acted properly terrified as the extraordinarily tall men surrounded him brandishing spears and pangas.
It began with them lifting his skirt to marvel at his underwear. Lord Walshingham had informed me that Dinka women were not inclined to undergarments and often went naked for days. Typical of uncivilized people, the women were willing at any time to be taken by the hand and led off to a hut or even the nearby jungle for a quick fuck. This included not only the unmarried females but the married ones as well.
My Uncle recounted how on occasion he dropped by their cottages on his estate where he would unbutton his trousers and hoist the nearest female onto his manhood for a good rogering. The wives delight at serving his Lordship resulted in great enthusiasm and energy on their part. “They expect this attention from the master. It’s considered polite to screw the man’s wife when you come for tea.”
Decorated in paint and feathers of the wildest colors and acting with great ferocity, they lifted Percy off the ground and removed his drawers. Percy feigned fright and fell to his knees begging the Dinka to spare him. As they bent him over the piano stool he cried out for the Lord to save him. His naked rear faced the audience as he implored the natives to spare his honor for Jesus’ sake and out of respect for the wife of a man of the cloth. Unfortunately, the Dinkas were having none of his palaver.
I was pleased when I looked around the table and saw that my little tableau had captured the rapt attention of all diners. Every eye was on the stage as Percy begged his attackers to spare him the ignominy and shame of rape. Of course, rape is the one thing that most easily captures the attention of the English nobility.
But according to my play, the minister’s wife was not to be spared. After some preliminaries in which the Dinkas exposed and explored Percy’s bottom pressing the fingers into his bum, one of the warrior dropped his cloak to reveal a heavily tattooed body and a long thick cock. Women in the audience licked their lips and smiled as they marveled at the warrior’s physique.
No doubt those such as Lady Penelope who often visited Ashford Hall had already sampled the Dinka’s charms. Percy screamed most convincingly as the Dinka forced his sphincter.
After loud and convincing cries of pain, Percy commenced a tearful rendition of Amazing Grace. The impact on the audience was most immediate. Sir Oswald Mosley pitched Lady Guinness on the top of the table then threw himself on her with the abandon of a lion on a wildebeest. Grunting and groaning, he savagely thrust into her. Lady Guinness responded in kind, adding her own animalistic cries of the female panther being savagely bred. Others joined in the attacks on their dinner companions.
My Uncle took a firm grip on Gwyneth’s temples and forced her to swallow his cock to the maximum depth achievable. He began a noisy plundering of her throat that coated her face with saliva. I was once more amazed to see her quickly adapt to the rape of her gullet. Her neck expanded and contracted as Lord Walshingham’s cock entered and exited the passageway. It was a sight rarely seen outside of a brothel catering to extreme tastes.
On stage, the first Dinka had filled Percy’s canal with his spunk. His mate immediately refilled the hole. All the while, Percy maintained his A Capella rendition of the famous hymn. Lord Cranmere requested I finish in his mouth and I gladly obliged as Percy’s rear became a semen receptacle for the second time.
The orgy had pretty much run its course when Dinka Number Three exploded down the tunnel of manly love. It was time for the finale.
Two of the natives lifted Percy off the ground, held him upright and pulled his legs apart. The third placed a goblet under his downward pointing ass then pushed on the groom’s abdomen. The reaction was immediate. A good measure of Dinka spunk squirted into the goblet. A second push almost filled the glass.
I stepped forward smartly to take the glass from the native allowing the curtain to close to great applause. I fancy myself as one with some talent as a playwright.
Gwyneth’s head had barely risen from this Lordship’s lap when I handed her the glass with the caveat, “This is from your beloved husband’s body and he entreats you to drink it quickly as a sign of your true love.”
Cries of approval rose from the diners as Gwyneth’s placed the glass to her lips and consumed the contents. Her nose did not wrinkle at the aroma nor did her taste bugs cringe at the flavor. She savored the drink licking her lips after the last swallow.
I found her lack of hesitation amazing. She was either not as smart as I thought or the events of the last twenty four hours had eradicated a lifetime of stern moral upbringing. As time went by and I got to know Gwyneth better, I concluded I had awakened her true nature that of a cruel, wanton perverted whore, the American equivalent of Lady Diana Mitford Guinness.
Percy with his knickers restored rejoined us then announced there were still dinner guests whom he had not had a proper chance to exchange pleasantries. With that he began to circulate around the dining table.
It was at that moment I observed Percy introducing himself to Sir Oswald Mosley. As the two shook hands, Percy passed Sir Oswald a note the lord slipped into his pocket unread. The two conversed quietly before parting. No one else except yours truly noticed the exchange. I was left to ponder what Percy Chapman, son in law of America’s richest man had in common with the most notorious fascist politician in England.
I shot a quick glance in Mr. Grange’s direction and he signaled success with thumbs up. I now more or less owned the Chapmans. Percy’s gleeful and willing sodomy was captured on film along with the moment his wife swallowed the contents of his bowels. A copy of the film would be placed in my safety deposit box at Manufacturer’s Hanover Trust. With the exceeding rich and influential Chapmans as my sponsor my re-entry into New York society was assured. The celluloid also guaranteed my access to Gwyneth’s orifices and on the occasion when I felt the desire for a change, Percy’s.
While the rest of the diners attacked the last course, a strawberry trifle, the Stapleton twins led Gwyneth from the dinning hall to prepare her for deflowering. Mr. Grange and his crew followed along to acquire footage of the preparations.
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