11 April 2009
Is There A Doctor in the House?
THE party-goers swarmed around the choking form of the Duchess of Fircombe, rather like particularly well-dressed vultures circling a carcass. Indeed, had they actually been vultures, then I dare say there would be enough meat on the Duchess to feed a family of four vultures very well for an entire year.
But I digress.
I watched with bemusement as the assorted toffs and dignitaries flapped about the poor Duchess, quite unsure of how to proceed. While I have moved in such social circles for all of my life, it never ceases to amaze me that while the upper classes posses considerable wealth and prestige, they posses absolutely no common sense or practical abilities. Thus, with a weary sigh, I realised that it would be up to me – Lord Likely, aristocratic adventurer and gentle-man of action – to save the day once more, and so I reluctantly left my spot standing betweixt the beautiful Dorothy Mount-Worthy and the bewitching Maud Dreadful, and leapt up onto a nearby table, to address the hall.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” I bellowed, my powerful voice commanding the immediate attention of the guests. “Is there a doctor in the house?”
There was a brief pause, before Winsome Pine, the pathetic poet, stepped forward.
“I…I am a doctor,” he said.
“Really?” I asked, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
“Well, I have a doctorate in creative writing,” the sap continued.
“Hmmm, well I am not sure that is entirely relevant to the current problem, is it now? Unless you plan to make the Duchess vomit profusely by reading her another of your sickening verses…actually, that might work…”
Pine glowered at me and then returned to the crowd, who had refocused their attentions on watching the Duchess turn a rather deep shade of crimson.
“Excuse me,” said a tall, blonde man nearby. “I am a doctor!”
“Yes?” I said, lowering my quizzical eyebrow and raising a sceptical eyebrow instead.
“Yes! My name is Albert Doctor! I’m literally A. Doctor!”
“But are you an actual doctor?”
“No,” replied Albert Doctor. “I am an accoutant.”
“Then kindly fuck off and come back when you are useful,” I snapped, stepping off the table. “In the meantime, it looks like I shall have to sort this whole ruddy mess out.”
I left Mr. Doctor looking rather sorry for himself, and pushed my way through the massed crowd assembled around the still-choking Duchess.
“Let me through, you swine!” I roared. “And give the woman some room, for Christ’s sake!”
The crowd duly parted, allowing me to get behind the Duchess, whereupon I placed my arms around her (which was quite a challenge in itself) and with my hands clasped at the base of her diaphragm, I begun to perform some wild exertions upon her person.
“Heavens above!” exclaimed the Duke of Fircombe as he watched me thrusting away at the Duchess’ hindquarters. “This is no time for you to start dry-humping my wife, you blaggard!”
“You are quite right, of course,” I said between thrusts. “I should require several more whiskies first.”
The Duke was about to chastise me some more, but then all of a sudden the Duchess let forth and almighty cough, and the offending olive which had been trapped in her throat came flying out of her mouth with tremendous force, smashing through a window and sailing off out into the night.
“There.” I said, wiping my hands together with much satisfaction. “The problem is solved.”
“How the devil did you do that, sir?” The Duke asked, clearly and rightfully amazed.
“It is a little trick I picked up in the tropics,” I explained. “I had been engaging in the act of oral sex with a young Brazilian beauty I had met on my travels, who had gratefully received my noble nut-juice and had swallowed it down greedily. After that, I bent her over a chair and began giving her arse-hole a damned good pasting, when all of a sudden she started choking. Clearly, my lordly love-cream had proved too much for her to take, but she claimed she was alright and urged me to continue. As I thrust harder and faster, she began spluttering and wheezing, until suddenly a great big globule of my man-milk came whizzing out of her mouth. Somehow, the act of my exertions and her position over the chair had dislodged the obstruction, and she was perfectly fine again. So I went on to penetrate her five more times that night. A thoroughly good time, by my recollection.”
The Duke and his guests had fallen completely silent and were looking at me agog.
“What?” I asked indignantly. “You did ask. Anyway, since that night I have used that procedure many a time, and it never fails. I call it the Likely Manoeuvre, don’t you know? I dare say my name shall become synonymous with choking and thrusting, quite as it should be. I wonder if – “
But my musings were quickly cut short by a piercing scream from the Duchess.
“Oh God,” I muttered. “It seems she is back to normal.”
“My necklace!” cried the Duchess, desperately pawing at her bare neck. “Someone has stolen my necklace!”
“Bloody hellfire,” I sighed. “It never ruddy ends, does it?”
- Lord Likely.
His lordship would like to apologise for the tardiness of this chapter, but it seems his scribe, Mr. A. D. Fanton, is currently broken. Needless to say, he shall have his hide thrashed soundly until he pulls himself together and bloody gets on with it.
His lordship also extends his best wishes to all his loyal readers for this Easter holiday. May you all enjoy some cream-filled delights this week-end!
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…