25 March 2009
IT TOOK me over half an hour to complete the lengthy task of washing my mammoth man-hood in preparation for the evening’s festivities. ‘Tis never an easy task cleansing such a lengthy love-pole, you know. Usually it is a three-man job.
Anyway, as well as having tended to my tumescent tally-whacker, I also made sure to secure some company to escort to the ball, as it would not do at all for a gentle-man of my considerable reputation to arrive at a social gathering without a beautiful woman on my arm. Or better still, my face.
Naturally, me being me, I had to go that little bit further, and so secured the services of two delectable darlings to accompany me to Fircombe Hall; my frequent copulatory companions, Dorothy Mount-Worthy and Maud Dreadful.
The two beauties arrived precisely on time, but one glance at them – Dorothy with her gorgeous, almost feline eyes, soft lips, impressive curves and considerable cleavage, and Maud smiling brightly, with her golden curls cascading over her slender shoulders – and I was worked into such a fanny-hungry frenzy that I instantly threw them onto a nearby settee and gave them both a damned good rogering, making full use of the six orifices presented before me.
This impulsive act, along with the time it took to clean up afterwards, meant we did not arrive at Fircombe Hall until a good couple of hours later, by which time the party was already in full swing. This did not bother me, of course. I am always fashionably late, and am always well worth the wait.
My man-servant, Botter, and the two strumpets waited behind me as I firmly rapped upon the door of the large mansion belonging to The Duke and Duchess of Fircombe. Moments later, the sound of bolts being drawn aside could be heard, and we were soon confronted by a rather miserable looking butler in his early fifties, his weathered face topped off with an increasingly balding pate. I assumed that the lack of hair was due to his locks hurling themselves off of the top of his head in despair, lest they spend any more time in his woeful company.
“Yes?” the man drawled.
“Good evening, my good fellow,” I chirped. “Lord Likely, Aristocratic Adventurer and Gentle-Man of Action here, and company,” I added, indicating to my female friends. The butler craned his neck round to examine my entourage, and then sighed loudly.
“You can’t bring that in here,” he said, pointing at Botter.
“Oh, well, of course!” I concurred. “Is there somewhere I can keep him until the party is over?”
“Yes. We shall put him in the kennel,” the butler informed me, indicating to a large, metal cage to the right of the house, inside of which more abandoned servants, maids and other assorted flotsam dredged from the service industries skulked around, looking sullen.
“Marvellous!” I beamed, turning to my man-servant. “Off you go then, Botter. And do try and refrain from chewing anything you should not, and if you must soil yourself, make sure you put down some newspaper first, hmm?”
Botter rolled his eyes and slouched off, while the rest of us went inside to mingle with the magnificent.
“PRESENTING LORD LIKELY AND…ahem…FRIENDS!” shouted the butler, introducing us to the gaggle of party-goers massed in the main hall of the house. “I bloody hate my job,” he added quietly as he turned and left the room.
“Ah, Likely!” beamed the Duke of Fircombe, a rather short but immaculately dressed fellow, sporting a very proud, grey moustache that practically covered the entire lower half of his face.
“Charmed, Fircombe, ’tis a pleasure for you to have me here,” I grinned, shaking his hand firmly. “By the way, is your butler alright? He seems terribly displeased about something or other.”
“Oh don’t mind him, that’s just Peeves. He’s always miserable, to be honest. Ah, here’s my wife!” the Duke exclaimed, as the rather plump Duchess waddled into view, her hair piled up so high atop her head that it shook violently from side to side whenever she moved. I rather feared it would topple off of her head at any moment.
“So pleased you could make it, your lordship,” she smiled, an awful smile with bits of vegetable and what appeared to be chicken wedged between her teeth.
“Delighted,” I lied, as I fought my natural reaction to vomit profusely.
“Come, Likely, come – I want you to meet some friends of mine,” the Duke said, grabbing me by the elbow. I groaned inwardly. How I loathed this part of any social gathering, the greeting of total strangers with a fixed grin, feigning interest in tedious life stories told by tedious individuals you shall never see again. I just wanted to go straight to the drinking and fucking part, that was all I was here for, after all.
However, my interest was rather piqued as I was introduced to the first couple, as one of the two was a rather voluptuous red-head, with a frankly incredible bosom. If I could choose the manner of my own death, then I could think of no greater way to go than suffocating betwixt this charming lady’s massive mammaries
“This is Lord Marmalade, the marmalade magnate,” said Fircombe, introducing me to the less interesting half of the partnership.
“So you must be Lady Marmalade,” I smiled, taking the lady’s hand and gently kissing the back of it. “Tell me, m’dear….do you spread easily?”
Lord Marmalade was apoplectic with rage at my opening gambit, and had to be calmed down by Lord Fircombe. Lady Marmalade, on the other hand, seemed rather taken with me – as well she should, being a female with eyes and all.
After that particular highlight I was whisked around the hall and introduced to other far less intoxicating individuals. There was Major Thrashing, a rather crusty old war veteran; Winsome Pine, a distinctly fey gentleman who apparently wrote poetry; Lady and Lady Mimshole, who were either sisters or lesbians (I naturally hoped it was the latter); Sir Flaxon Twist, a loud and rather obnoxious Member of Parliament; Jennifer Eels, the heiress to the late Sir Rodney Eels’ eel empire; Trent Straddlenuts, an American oil baron and friend of the Fircombes, and Pilferton Swypes, an apparently reformed jewel thief who had just written his first book, ‘Stealing the Hearts of the Nation‘, chronicling his change from public enemy to national treasure, or some such twaddle. As far as I was concerned, he was still a complete arse-smear of a man.
“Lovely to meet you all,” I smiled as I shook my final hand of the evening. “Now, what say we all get thoroughly pissed and maybe thrust our genitals together in the act of sexual union, eh?”
- Lord Likely.
The Puzzling Pearl Necklace Puzzle is a Which Ruddy Bastard Did It? mystery, meaning that YOU can also partake in the mystery! Read carefully, dear readers, for their shall be clues and hints aplenty, and when the time comes to reveal the bounder responsible for the crime, YOU will be able to thrust forward your own suggestions as to the identity of the culprit, and see if you have what it takes to be an astonishing adventurer!
Please, keep your eyes peeled and your genitals scrubbed…