The Man Who Fucked His Way Across… Ch. 02

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The Man Who Fucked His Way across Chelsea and Back Again – Part 2


I was invited to see the head designer, Liza Blow at Vagina Shoes after a successful phone call. I forwarded some of my friend’s best sketches by email and she phoned me back a few weeks later. Jefferson, who let me borrow one of his portfolios, was a Cordwainer’s graduate and specialized in fetish shoes. He had drawn more kinky shoes than Eric Stanton. Jefferson’s now working as an intern at Vogue House, not bad for another mate from the barrow boy leagues. He told me is always lusting over the posh feet of fashion editors in very high heels. He supposedly kisses super Sloaney Fiona Blunt’s Christian Lous twice a day. Well, his work was exceptional. Liza Blow was a legend on the London party scene. I had seen her sipping cocktails in Maziti once or twice, with her trademark sexy bob shining in the disco lights. She was a definite patron of long leather boots, mostly knee high, but sometimes thigh high. Once I spotted her in dark brown leather thigh boots by Jean Paul Gaultier in Claridges. I couldn’t see her wearing a skirt on that occasion, or a belt or panties for that matter. Usually she wore leather boots with smart little skirts and tight tops with a long coat. Once I saw her with black leather Hermes Birkin bag and no underwear. Never any underwear. Liza and underwear were incompatible.

I arrived at the lobby of the plush art deco Vagina studio on Ixworth Place in my Dior pants and nothing else. The receptionist, a sexy old Marlborough girl called Amelia offered me a seat. I parked my bum on an extremely luxurious long red leather sofa. I was looking through Jeff’s portfolio of kinky stilettos and boots, familiarizing myself with his illustrative works. After about half an hour I was introduced to Liza Blow, who was sporting a dark blue Azzedine Alaia leather skirt with a silver zip up the back, wide leather buckle belt and a Moschino black and orange striped jersey. She was wearing dark blue leather knee high boots by Sergio Rossi with stiletto heels, pointy toes and silver zips up the front. The zips had big silver rings attached that could have been mistaken for cock rings. I wonder if they vibrated. I’d seen those boots in Harrods and was tempted to stick my cock in those rings, while Lily Bottomleigh, a sexy model was trying them on. I refrained from doing so for fear of getting stuck.

‘Hello, so you’re Hugo Posset’ Liza smiled as if she was in an advert for Rembrandt. She had a voice as posh as Polo gloves. She had her pug, Charleston with her, a dog that was uncannily human and he had a penchant for fucking designer bags as well as cushions. She told me he had often copulated with her new ten thousand pound ostrich leather Hermes Birkin. Perverted fucking pug!

‘Nice leather sofa’ I said ‘I could get used to that. Nice cushions’.

‘Yah, they’ve been well ruffled darling. The sofa has a rather checkered history’ Liza informed me stroking Charleston’s crest. ‘It once belonged to the Earl of Montabont’

‘Well. The Earl of Montabont. He was a one’ I said

‘Indeed he was’ she smiled.

I followed her and bag-fucker Charleston down a grand marble corridor adorned with little alcoves displaying Vagina shoes and bags and up a spiral staircase with leopard print carpet and gold balustrades. I enjoyed watching her hips move under that leather skirt, her bouncing bob of dark hair and her bare legs and boots as I climbed the stairs behind her. My cock became as hard as a gold balustrade.

‘So you were at Cordwainer’s’ She said.

‘Yes, under the tutelage of the great man’ I said. I didn’t know what the fuck I was going on about. There’s always a great man at a good college.

‘Ah, the oh so talented Mr Woo’ said Liza, as we entered a room so grand I could taste champagne truffles.

‘Yeah Woo, that’s the one’ I said. We both sat opposite each other on similar swanky black leather curvaceous sofas with furry cheetah and zebra print cushions. In the middle was a glamorous leather-topped coffee table in the shape of a penis, with some glossy magazines on it. I placed my portfolio on the table and she crossed her booted legs. She flicked through Jefferson’s portfolio nodding and smiling, even moaning quite sexually at times, then giggling, smiling. She appeared to be impressed. She loved his Givenchy inspired zip shoes.

‘Mmmmmmm. Lovely designs. So are you looking for work as a trainee shoe designer?’. She pressed a button on her Blackberry and the coffee table and portfolio slid away in a gentle curve, now there was just perfumed air between us. I sat legs akimbo. She could see the bulge in the front of my pants.

‘Now, down to business and off with those Dior pants’ she insisted. ‘I prefer to interview potential shoe designers with their pants off’. So, this was her thing was it? I obeyed, sitting bare bum on the leather. I rubbed my smooth depilated bum on the leather, it was nice and cool.

Her PA burst in through a door.

‘NOT NOW GEORGIE’ shouted Liza.

The PA pirouetted on a wedge heel and left izmir escort as rapidly as she had entered.

Liza uncrossed and recrossed her legs informing me of the history of Vagina and the sort of package they offered. She asked me what I could bring to Vagina and I told her I could inject some new spunk into it. She asked me who my muse was and I said it was Honor Blackman. She asked me how many orgasms I had per day and I said at least ten, may of them dedicated to women in Vagina shoes. She asked me how many shoes I had wanked over and I said many many thousands, mostly Vaginas, I lied. She asked if I had been to a fashion show and I told her I had often gatecrashed the Vagina fashion show in Milan and sat masturbating throughout the whole thing. So many obscure questions but I answered them all, with my cock sitting there agreeing. I noticed her chair was edging closer to me. Soon, her knee was squashing my cock, the top of her knee boot and zip were part of the equation. I got a waft of expensive perfume. She jiggled her booted knee against my cock. She jiggled and jiggled.

‘Sooooo Hugo, how much money do you want?’ Liza said, cross-legged, working my big cock like a piston. There was a drip of pre-come seeping out of my glans oiling the zip. My helmet was like a shiny plum with a panorama of the room reflected in it.

‘None’ I said ‘I’ll work for nothing, I’m fucking minted already’

‘Really’ she brayed, raising a plucked eyebrow.

‘Yes, I’m a trustafarian playboy fuck who drives around Chelsea in a Porsche all day wanking! Oh I love the way you are pressing that boot against my cock, it’s a lovely interview technique. I really want this job’ I was on the verge of orgasm.

‘They’re by Sergio Rossi’ she announced with a voice as posh as Connolly leather. She ran a hand up the boot and fingered the ring zip pull. God that made me tremble. I love it when women fiddle with their zips. Her knee pressed firmly and jiggled faster against my cock.

‘I was wondering if I would be able to fit my cock in one of those zip rings’ I said.

‘Let’s give it a jolly good go’ she said. I pushed my big wet helmet through the zip ring, the pre-come had helped. It fitted quite comfortably.

Her PA came bursting in again.

‘NOT NOW!’ cried Liza and the girl span on her heel and left quickly, grinning.

She probably thought ‘Liza’s up to her knee wanking tricks again’.

I fucked the boot like I was her pug Charleston going at a handbag and came like a bastard, globules spattering her chin.

‘Do you want the job?’ She said, with spunk on her chin.

‘I could give it a go’ I said.

‘Well darling, you would have to come back for a second interview’ she explained ‘It’s the way we do things around here’

‘OK, if that’s the way it’s done, let me know’ I said trying to release my cock out of her boot zip ring. Fuck! My cock was stuck fast. I had taken two Hardlong tablets as well earlier and I was positively priapic!

Her PA came dashing in and pointed at the globules on her chin, grinning ‘What is that?’

‘None of your fucking business’ snapped Liza, wiping herself ‘Now where’s my fucking coke? What the fuck’s the matter, Hugo are you stuck?’

‘Shit, I can’t get my cock out’ I was still hard as a balustrade.

Georgia was saying ‘Miss Blow, I hope you haven’t forgotten you’re booked in Front Row at the fashion show at Claridges!’ Georgia stood in a tight black flowery skirt, a purple leather Gucci jacket and Celine orange leather super elevated wedges. ‘You’ve got to go now’

‘Fuck, get your cock out! I must wear these boots to the show, they’re my lucky boots’ Liza was frantic. They are not lucky boots any more I thought.

‘I’ll have to go with you’ I said ‘My erection won’t subside. It might go flaccid on the way. I’ll come with you’

‘Good thinking’ Georgia nodded at me.

‘It’s not an ideal situation, these boots are a fucking limited edition in the finest Italian leather known to man and I promised Sergio I would wear them in Front Row.’ Liza was glaring, so was Charleston.

‘Oh it’ll be fine’ I reassured. ‘Maybe Mrs Warboys will turn up and my cock will shrivel to the size of a noodle’

‘I fucking hope so, whoever she is, let’s hope she turns up soon. Let’s get a move on’ panicked Liza, grabbing her Hermes Birkin bag that Charleston had been fucking sporadically for most of the interview. He was in the throes of sexual abandon, hence the glaring eyes. He was almost smiling.

I said ‘I mean, you can’t be seen in Claridges with Hugo Posset’s cock stuck in one of your boots. What will the maitre-d say?’

‘I care not a jot for the fucking maitre-d!’ She snapped, unzipping the boot in question and removing her foot from it. I trailed her, watching her do the hobble dance down the stairs with one Sergio Rossi boot on. Nice pedicure. I clambered into the back of her Porsche holding the boot. She booted it up Walton Street, so to speak. Georgia was giggling wildly.

‘Fucking hell’ snapped Liza. antalya escort ‘It’s far from amusing; I want my boot back, without his cock in it!’

A Totler magazine was opened, I heard Georgia read it to Liza as we sped through London.

‘Hot to trot! If you’re seated in Front Row at Fashion Week, it’s all about putting your best foot forward. From left; Nicholas Kirkwood’s lattice peep-toes and Balenciaga’s butterfly bows flattered pretty pedis. In seductive leather, John Galliano’s sapphire lace-ups played footsie with the corset. Patent leather and cutouts gave Manolo Blahnik’s ultra high sandals for Thukoon sex appeal to boot. And Giuseppe Zanotti’s otherworldly stilettos with their Batgirl spin on the T-strap, could stop a villain dead in his tracks.’

Oh great descriptions. I was as hard as ever now. I was trying to prize my cock out with a coke spoon. It wouldn’t give. My helmet was big and shiny like a plum. I realized I was defeated and just admired the boot. It made me harder. Fuck it, we’ll have to devise another solution to this. I’ll break the zip pull off? I’m not too sure if that would impress Sergio. Fuck Sergio, I twisted the joint on the zip and the ring snapped off, leaving me with a dashing designer silver penis ring, very fetching. A little souvenir I would cherish.

‘Oh you fucker’ said Liza. ‘You fucker’

She pulled on the boot in question and managed to zip it up and dashed into Claridges like a woman going into battle. Not so much as a goodbye. How bloody rude. Georgia tottered in after her. I figured it was the last I would see of Liza Blow for some time. I sat in the back of the Porsche and had a wank watching some of the beautiful models arriving in limos and strutting into the grand entrance of the hotel in their ridiculously high heels. Once I had come, I let myself out of the car and headed back west. I noticed there were some nice new bags in the window of Sonia Rykiel.


I met Barwick Ford and Max Ponds in the Hollywood Arms, a place that is always brimming with braying Sloanes. Peroxide blonde Henrietta Beauchamp-Slutto sat next to Barwick, with her incessant grin and loud outbursts of laughter as she sipped Pimms. I told them the story.

‘Oh I soooo want a pug that fucks handbags’ laughed Henrietta, rubbing the fine leather on her new Gucci zips bag. She was wearing tight dark blue Chloe jeans, a nice Ralph Lauren blazer and brown leather knee high boots by Vagina, over her jeans. Very high heels. ‘I would always make sure he gets the finest, ha ha ha’

I was looking at Hen’s boots for most of the tale. I watched her fiddle with the zips a few times.

‘Still parading about in semen-stained Dior pants then, Hugo’ laughed Hen.

‘I couldn’t see Hugo in any other form of attire’ brayed Barwick, taking sips of beer. He was on the Zipfer.

Max grinned ‘Fucking hell Hugo, good job she didn’t have to shoot across to New York!’

‘Yeah, it would’ve been a while getting back’ I said ‘Maybe next time, she did say there could be a second interview’

‘I very much doubt that now’ frowned Hen, crossing her legs. The fucking tease.

‘Let’s see this memento, then’ Barwick put his bottle of Zipfer on the table.

I flopped out my cock and there was a Sergio Rossi cock ring, glistening away. It had Sergio Rossi inscribed on it.

‘Jolly fantastic’ laughed Hen ‘that is sooooo trendy. I’m terribly jealous, darling. I wish I had a willy!’

‘Looks a tight fit’ said Max.

The barman wasn’t impressed and told me to put it away; some of the punters were twitching over their foie gras. Don’t ever call foie gras “potted meat” in front of the chattering classes. Those punters will surely twitch themselves into a seizure.

‘Potted meat’ I said, rather loudly.

‘Oh my god’ Hen was already offended. Ha ha. Her boots almost turned from brown to red.

‘Have you heard any news regarding the painting?’ asked Barwick, with his hand on Hen’s knee, giving the designer denim a good rub. They were sort of dating, on and off. It started to make me a bit trouty.

‘Well, we have a description of a so-called Tony the Leg. Moose was quite explicit in detail. The police are bumbling around in London somewhere. I suppose we’ll eventually find out it’s in the arms of some Russian aristo. I’m not really that fussed about it. I prefer “two dildos at Royal Ascot” personally.’

‘Oh yahhhhh! I’ve seen that one’ chewed Hen ‘It’s at Jibby Bream’s! Jolly risqué’

‘Jibby’s into that really kinky shit’ I said.

‘Old tart’ said Hen.

‘Fucking slut!’ Said Barwick directed at Hen.

‘Dirty old shit sex fucker Barwick’ replied Hen, rubbing her crotch with his Zipfer bottle.

‘Anyone fancy a race?’ said Max. ‘Across to Glaisters and back?’

‘Fucking hell, it’s only across the road mate’ I said.

‘Yeah, nice pocket race’ said Max, standing up.

‘A pocket race’ laughed Barwick. ‘Like a pocket battleship’

‘Glaisters and back’ urged Max. He had that serious race kayseri escort face on him.

‘OK, on your marks, get set, go’ said Barwick, firing off a small Beretta he always carried around. Several chunks of coving cracked and fell away as the bullet hit.

We almost broke the door of the Hollywood Arms the two of us neck and neck leaving the pub. A Porsche Cayenne parked up; we both jumped it like gazelles. Sarah Cavendish-Peel was driving it, she was amazed. Max wolf whistled. Oh no. A fucking Doberman’s head popped out of a manhole and grabbed my leg. Max you bastard. He’d set this one up! I was too slow trying to free myself from its snarling grasp. Max went on to win this one with ease. My leg had been savaged. Sarah took me across to A&E. She had to dash off, so I made my own way back.


I felt suddenly very strange, as though all the blue blood has been drained from me and had been replaced with ditch water. I was feeling like the legendary ditch boat to Nine Elms! I saw my reflection in the window of The Posh Pussess and realized I wasn’t Hugo any more. Fuck, I had reverted back to the barrow boy I once was. I was wearing a grubby market T-shirt, a stained pair of ripped jogging bottoms and no underwear. I was crestfallen. I hoped I would become Hugo again expeditiously and I hoped that this was a temporary hitch. Damn, I only had twenty quid and a fucking crumpled Travelcard. I boarded the 22 bus to Parsons Green, the driver hardly looked at the card, which was months out of date. I was no longer the strapping Hugo any more. Damn it.

I bought a large glass of Pinot Griggio at the Duke. It was busy at the bar, posh handbags were swinging in all directions and lots of ‘yah oh yah’ chatter was going on. They had lamps inside the Duke; they reminded me of looking into a small Thai hut with one light on inside. Hugo would never have made such an observation.

I noticed a trio of rahs at the high tables by the front window; one girl in particular was wearing striped Wolford stockings with crossed legs and a pair of nice black patent court shoes with very high stiletto heels. I imagined them rubbing my cock. I was missing my lovely Sergio Rossi cock ring! I just hope the real Hugo wakes up and admires that cock ring! I saw some nice slim pointy-toe brown knee-high boots strut by and the wearer went to sit with a group of four Sloanes on a sofa, behind a strange naked man. My hard willy was so obviously visible in my loose jogging bottoms (from Romford Market). I stood by the end of the bar, at the corner and sipped my wine, lusting over the tables and chairs full of Sloanes with their Mulberry bags and blonde hair and posh faces. I felt like I was an observer now. Fuck, I was a pikey now. I had no chance getting in bed with any of them, let alone kissing their Louboutins and Sergio Rossi’s. I was double crestfallen with whipped cream on top, but strangely horny too. Crestfallen, what a daft word! I tingled with pleasure when I realized I was wearing a vibrating penis ring, which had materialized from nowhere. Somebody was waving a magic wand. This was all a bit ‘quantum leap’, where was fucking Dean Stockwell when you needed an explanation? Ziggy, I’ve got the Union Jack sandwiches!

I grabbed another wine and took an exterior seat on Peterborough Road, having lapped up enough Sloanism to fill Durham. On the right of my chosen table sat a gang of upper middle class city boys talking about their sex lives explicitly and loud. The left side was a gang of hot posh girls chatting about sex. My cock ring was buzzing with pleasure. I watched a beauty in a beige leather seamed jacket with zip cuffs, one hand smoking a cigarette often held elegantly behind her back. She wore a pinky red scarf, a little blonde ponytail, a black flouncy skirt adorned with large colourful flowers and dark stockings with silver ballet flats. Hot posh totty. Hugo would have been at the table by now, kissing her orange leather Lanvin handbag. He would have wanked and wanked while sitting on her knee, listening to her posh voice and her sexy fidgeting and chatting with another dark haired girl who took a chair from the table that I was sitting at earlier. She half-winked at me, that dark haired girl with a Mombassa bag, as she stole the chair. I think she saw my erection and winked in approval.

There were two spare seats at my table. Two young rahs on their way to Crazy Larry’s made used of them, quite tipsy, in short skirts, scarves, big posh handbags and ridiculously high heels. One girl was a typical Sloaney blonde, with a fur jerkin. Her heels were Jimmy Choo blue red and green platform stiletto sandals with a heel zip. Part of the cruise collection. The other girl wore dark brown YSL wedges with platforms much higher than her friend’s Jimmys. They were killing time while waiting for a taxi to clubland. The Jimmy Choo girl crossed her long smooth legs. I had a big fucking hard cock with a. penis ring vibrating, as if I’d flicked the switch to turbo. It was a Porsche penisator. God I was a dirty perverted pup, but I didn’t give a fuck. You only have one life as far as I’m concerned. Look at those rahs with their elegant hands smoking cigarettes as only rahs do. Rahs! Minted daughters of the upper and upper middle classes, sitting at my table. I could smell the Chablis on their lips. I almost came in my big baggy bottoms. The YSL wedges girl was going on about her new job.

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