MR. PAMUK'S LAST NIGHT
In salutation to the release of ‘Downton Abbey the Movie’.
I’ve conjectured for a long time about exactly what happened in the night when Mr. Pamuk died.
Now I know . . . . . .
Now I know . . . . . .
After quiet returned, Thomas Barrow, head footman of the great house, stepped from the deep shadows of the gallery’s gothic arches and speculated:
“Why had the three ladies half dragged a large heavy bundle to the second best bedroom at 11pm?”
It was an ‘English country house weekend’, where knowledge of secretive adventures offered leveraged career advancement for an ambitious member of the household staff. Tom lurked about on those weekends hoping for an opportunity to witness nocturnal ‘doings’ of the gentry. He gladly volunteered for house rounds duty after 10pm ‘retirement’ for just that purpose.
Thinking themselves unseen, the ladies of the house silently tiptoed back to their rooms.
With a smug smile, he waited a few moments before approaching the guest chamber. Hearing no sound after gently rapping, he quietly opened the door to find Mr. Pamuk dumped into the bed like a floppy marionette, limbs akimbo. Awkwardly fitted in a pale gold silk nightshirt with gold bullion embroidery, the toff lay on his back with the bed cover drawn up to the shoulders. His face was darkish pink; the lips slightly blue. Thomas crept to the bedside. Noting no sound of breathing or any other bodily function, he removed his white glove and tentatively reached to the wrist lying on the damask bedspread. Feeling no pulse, Tom was emboldened to run his bare hand up the arm, eventually to stroke the cheek of the ostensibly dead man.
The embodiment of an Edwardian dandy, Mr. Kemal Pamuk was the son of a wealthy Turkish diplomat, a guest of His Lordship’s great house. Tom first spied the striking man in his riding gear, mounting a stallion for the fox hunt arranged in his honor. He was tall, almost as tall as Tom, with light brown curly hair and brown eyes. He was the picture of a Romeo with a wasp waist and tight smallish bubble bum that stretched the seams of the riding breeches as he leapt into the saddle. His chest was broad, almost too muscular to balance on the slender waist. About 20, Kemal was at the age where the shoulders had just broadened. Though Tom had already blackened too many shoes in his 24 years, it was impossible to avoid admiring the gleaming black riding boots snugly fitted on those shapely calves and large feet.
That man was too aware of his smoldering good looks, flirting outrageously with the eldest daughter of His Lordship, Lady M….. .
As befitting a man of his station Kemal Pamuk showed no awareness of Thomas Barrow, just as with all servants.
Thomas pondered the unthought of situation – leeway for intimacy with the warm insensate corpse of a virile young stud. This beautiful male was now just dead meat, but still presented a good night’s manly rumpy-pumpy. To a sex-starved ‘pervert’ in the legally menacing, criminalizing, homophobic environment of 1910 England, this seemed a god send. Already Tom was an inevitable victim of social condemnation for his sexual encounters with living men. And, now having touched one of his betters with a bare hand, he decided he might as well broach still another carnal taboo . . . . . sex with a corpse . . . . . and even worse . . . a dead man.
“In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say.”
With very dark brown hair and blue eyes, six-foot-two-inch Barrow never had trouble finding willing partners in the ‘crime’ of the ‘Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name’ in London. That city’s demi-monde was always full of masculine gents searching for a bit of fondle and caress. Tall and stunningly handsome, all be it cheeky, he was the pride of His Lordship’s dining room staff. Young noblemen in particular were attracted to him. Unsuccessfully, Tom even tried to blackmail one of them. Now, there was one of that class of his ‘betters’ lying here subserviently, scandalously offering his body for Tom’s carnal satisfaction. Because of Tom’s lowly station, sex with one of ‘them’ had always kept him submissive. But now there could be no directives or even rejections curbing his desires. He was liberated to do whatever his stirring todger desired. The sense of power was dizzying.
Randy was hardly adequate to describe Tom’s state.
Feeling the rush of risk free indulgence, he seized this glorious twist of fate, preparing to gratify his hunger without concern for violating several sexual norms.
“First you handsome devil, you need to be kissed!”
Drawn by the youthful good looks of the fetching face, Tom leaned over the mattress to cradle the curly haired head in both hands. He turned the head to face him. As Mr. Pamuk passively accepted the uninvited intimacy, Tom gently began to kiss the partially open russet lips that were starting to pout with the swelling of death. Their warm softness, mingled with the taste of cigars and brandy from the last night of a privileged life, lifted him from his lowly station to the egalitarianism inherent only in such erotic entwinement. Licking the insides of the lips, he gradually worked his tongue into the mouth. He relished the slickness of the hard white teeth. His own sensitive tongue brushing lightly against the unbending taste buds on the bristly dead tongue sent tingles through him. He loved sucking this unfeeling face. For all his outward abrasiveness, Barrow was deeply romantic at heart.
“No need to be squiffy ‘Sir’, being dead frees you from the consequences of silly labeling. The ‘Love That Dares Not Speak Its Name’ rules here. Just let my lust take us where you’ve never been before; without fear of guilt or reprisal.”
Mr. Pamuk failed to respond. However, his wholly vulnerable body was more than enough to encourage the sexually malnourished footman.
Before further molesting his discovery, he reigned in his feverish impulses. He carefully, steadily pulled away the bed clothes. The muscular triangle of the gorgeous youth’s torso showed cleanly beneath the thin silk. The cloth was so sheer that Tom could even see the tangle of dark hair sprouting from the shoulder blades down the pecs to below their sharply defined base. The long hard nipples jutting upward against the shiny fibers cast shadows across the sovereign sized brown areoles and the darker hairy wreaths surrounding them. Pulling farther, the outline of an engorged, stiff prick appeared. His heart skipped a beat when he spied the damp spot where the end of the penis should be, the fabric whitened with cumm. Where the shirt ended at the knees, fine thin dark leg hairs rose above the pinkish-yellow ivory skin. He tugged the covers away fully to reveal the long broad feet with their perfectly groomed toes.
Gritting teeth to calm himself, Thomas impertinently inched his right hand up the nightshirt to tenderly explore Mr. Pamuk’s privates. The genitals were so obedient, rolling and bouncing at his every nudge. The slickened cock fitted perfectly into Tom’s curled fingers and obligingly produced a warm spot of cumm on his inner wrist. As rolled his hand around the base of the swollen penis, the groomed, pomaded pubic hairs tickled the tips of his fingers. The more vigorously he kneaded the balls, the more he appreciated the total submission of this corpse. He’d always wanted to feel those squeezed to the limit. No matter how hard he mashed them, the toff gave no sign of anything amiss. All the while, the cool silk slid over the back of the hand that snuggled the complaisant naughty bits in its palm.
“Do pardon my intrusiveness ‘Sir’.”
He found a smear of sticky fluid on the heavily fuzzed belly, undoubtedly positioned there by the hammock position used while carrying him back to his room.
“Why else would it be there? Now his todger is slumped between the thighs, not against his belly.”
He started to feel wetness in his own crotch. Barrow, well trained in the fastidiousness expected of a house servant, stopped to remove his own clothing. The brass-buttoned black tail coat, vest, and trousers were carefully draped over the back of a small chair. Then he removed his white bow tie and shirt, resting them on the outer garments. Though he removed his shoes, the socks were left on to moderate the cold. For the moment, he kept on his white, woolen union suit.
Now he was ready to fully engage with his limp, surrendered conspirator.
In his semi-dressed state, he climbed up on the thick mattress in the massive mahogany poster bed. Straddling his dead mate’s waist, he pulled up the floppy arms bringing the hands to his own face. The clumsy, finely manicured fingers found their way into Tom’s mouth. The natural oils on the hand of the spicy Turk provided a totally new flavor of the exotic Mideast. He opened the upper buttons of his long johns. Then, he rubbed the moistened hands across his own hairy chest to rouse his nipples. He led the hands into his armpits to see if they would tickle. They did! Once again, Tom raised them to his face kissing the palms and sucking the length of each digit. After massaging the whole of his face, he brought them up to tousle his dark hair. At last, he let go of them, allowing the silk-clad arms to slide down his wool-clad shoulders and biceps before plopping onto the sheet.
He proceeded to arrange Pamuk’s limbs spread eagle, the arms shifted outward. Then the molester rested himself in the same position on his cozy companion, face to face. Resuming the kissing, he passed his lips over the closed eyelids and eyebrows. He brushed the forehead and cheeks with his wet lips, landing them at last on the finely stubbled chin. The pillow was jerked from behind the head, exposing the neck and Adam’s apple for re-energized tongue washing and sucking. Finally, he indulged in one of his favorite snogs, jaw nibbling, the fine beard stubble tantalizingly prickling his lips.
At the same time, Thomas began grinding his hips against Mr. Pamuk’s. The dicks bumped and squirmed playfully. Tom’s soon matched Mr. Pamuk’s swelling and then quickly surpassed it, becoming fully erect. Tom released his storking hard through the vent of the woolen long johns to drive it energetically against the silk covering the man’s inviting undercarriage. Mr. Pamuk’s plump tool rocked and rolled with Tom’s stiffie. The silken shirt felt so very very erotic against his sausage, but Tom was ready for the best sensation of all . . . . the slickness of the skin of bare moist turgid cock. He drew the nightshirt up to Mr. Pamuk’s hips and resumed frottage up the thighs, along the penis, and into the pubic bush. Fully overtaken by the exciting contact he launched his first load onto the seducer’s ‘shine and two coconuts’.
“ I wish I could see all that unrestricted jiggling, dancing, and bouncing in your crotch, ‘Sir’. It’s so good of you to cooperate so graciously with a servant.”
Barrow pulled back to savor the mixing their penile emissions on the rippled belly, planning to use his finger to homogenize their cumm. But instead, he was struck by an amazing sight. He’d been raised a good Christian Englishman, fully intact. That is, his long 8 inch dick still had its supple foreskin. Here before him was an enlarged cockshaft with an amazingly big acorn atop. It was so naked that the sharp spines around the fully engorged head stood clearly visible. He’d never heard of such a thing, much less seen one like this. Fascinated, he touched it, running his hand up and down the unwrinkled shaft. As he reached the head he rotated his fingers around the base, hanging on the pleasure of the firm underside of the swollen head against his skin. Taking advantage of the turgidity death provided, he played with it for some time, endlessly fascinated with the underside of the knob’s flange. He’d never done it before with a dead guy, but this naked dick cried out for a gob job. That flange inside his mouth was the best thing he’d ever had between his jaws.
“Goodness ‘Sir’, you put me into such a state!”
Not wanting to lose that meaty turgidity, Tom was determined to stabilize the fascinating cock. A quick jump to the floor provided him with a black cotton lace from one of his shoes. He tied it tightly at the base.
“I mustn’t forget to remove this when over party’s over,” he cooed to his boyfriend.
While his willy was damp, Tom wanted to try something. He wondered if his foreskin would fit over the circumcised John Thomas in front of him. Bringing himself cock head to cock head, he started to stretch it over Mr. Pamuk. But, it was all so exciting he began to hard up and the foreskin receded. The experiment, pleasurable as it was, failed.
Slowly turning paler, the toff lay with his mouth opened, facing the ceiling with a dimwitted look. Tom had no reason to believe further unrestricted sex play would be interrupted.
Continuing the focus on his sex toy’s unfamiliar attachment, Tom decided to spend time with it under the covers. He stripped off his own underwear. Now naked, he sat astride ‘Sir’s’ body at the thighs to allow him to tug the nightshirt up to the armpits. This revealed Mr. Pamuk’s perfectly curled and folded ‘innie’ gleaming like a pale pink opal on his belly. Bringing the deceased gentleman to a sitting position, he grasped the hairy chest against his own. The hairs on both chests grazing together generated a lecherous smile on his face. Opening the buttons at the nightshirt’s neck, he was able to easily pull the garment over the head and up the arms. Mr. Pamuk’s head bounced against and rolled seductively on Tom’s shoulders in the process. More significantly, Mr. Pamuk’s heavy dick rubbed his balls and brushed his the hair of his inner thighs.
That night, Thomas discovered how much he loved stripping the clothes of a dead manly bloke who couldn’t know what was happening. He paused to reinforce that memory.
Still another reason that kept the lecherous smile on Tom’s face.
Yanking the heavy plaything on its left side, he climbed behind it. After bringing up the bed clothes, he settled alongside in a spooning position. From there he fiddled with ‘Sir’s’ irresistible corpse using the right hand while recharging from his own ejaculation. Stroking from the hairy chest down to the unsheathed knob and furry crotch proved restorative and soothing for spirit as well as body. As he nestled his warm self against the cooling corpse, he appreciated the comfort this privileged man experienced. The two bodies shared a thick down-stuffed mattress covered with a fine high thread count linen sheet. Above them was an identical sheet beneath an eiderdown comforter and heavy damask spread.
“Such comfort just ‘cause you was born lucky. Certainly beats my straw mattress with a single sheet and a thin wool blanket in the attic,” Tom whispered into an ear as indifferent in death as in life.
Lolling in the luxury of rich bedding and a handsome squidgy bloke, Thomas drifted into a refreshing kip while hanging onto the prized ‘knob’.
Awaking as the mantle clock struck 1am, Tom tossed aside the coverings.
“Well Romeo, it’s time for you to experience some real lovemaking before you get stiff where you oughtened not to,” he whispered into the unworking ear beside him.
With a push against Mr. Pamuk’s supple shoulders, Tom rolled the unprotesting man to rest the stomach over the left arm. After that he reluctantly rose from their warm nest. Standing at the bedside, he grabbed the ankles to lug the fully flaccid beauty to the mattress edge where legs could hang down from the knees. Tugged at the hips, the body was pulled farther, allowing the waist to bend and the ankles to dangle against the bedframe. The stuffed bedding was so high, the feet swung freely above the floor. Spreading the legs, he carefully wrangled the privates to display them between the thighs. Finally, he stopped to admire the bum’s hairy cleavage and then worked apart the arse cheeks to expose the dark pink ring piece. Mr. Pamuk submitted to this assault on his privacy, but without granting consent.
“Now ‘Sir’, let’s find out if you’ve the tolerance to accept what it pleases me to do. I’m sure you’re now willing to service even this lowly footman, given the serenity and thoughtfulness you’ve acquired with death,” he mocked.
The combination of Tom’s tall frame and the height of the bedding provided perfect alignment. He could comfortably stand flat-footed on the soft deep fur rug beside the bed to indulge in his next ‘pleasure’. Situated there, he grasped and caressed the still warm firm buns with their hypnotically rounded cheeks to his heart’s delight. He eagerly rubbed his face into the deep dimples on the sides of those cheeks. With a little spit and some rubbing across the bare bum, Tom’s Holy Poker rose to its full glory. The retreated foreskin revealed a burning cock head eager for engagement with the small relaxing, massaging opening surrendered uncaringly by the corpse of a Greek god. Easing in, he first experienced tension against the delicate chamois skin of his knob, then the exquisite feeling of the mushroom head edging past the accepting, encircling sphincter into the soft looseness beyond. He began to rock gently back and forth, savoring the tug of the underside of the glans against the inside of Mr. Pamuk’s ring muscle. The movement along the tiny glans spurs sent repeated shivers through his groin. Losing control of his measured pace, Tom thrust more and more vigorously until the two bodies rocked and shook in unison. With each thrust, air was forced out of the dead man’s lungs to make a chuffing sound. As Tom pounded more violently, the rapid buggering of the gentleman’s arse continued to force out air in short bursts.
“Blimey Mr. Pamuk, your chugging and shaking remind me of His Lordship’s new motor.”
With that thought and a final deep thrust, Tom began lurching, discharging his milky wads repeatedly into his lurching, reliably yielding partner.
Laughing and gasping for breath, “Now that was a real knee-trembler!”
‘Sir’ responded with total silence and stillness.
Weakened and lightheaded from shagging, in this unbridled environment Tom settled into one of the deep upholstered chairs that were normally forbidden to a servant. Spying a decanter and glasses beside, he helped himself generously to the rare brandy the swell always carried for personal use.
Becoming more cheeky, “Certainly, Mr. Pamuk you won’t deny me a drink after all we’ve come to mean to one another.”
Mr. Pamuk was unresponsive, his mouth and nose buried deeply in the down mattress.
Knowing his partner in this layer cake of unspeakable acts had left orders to be awakened no earlier than 9am, Tom considered more liberties to indulge in for the duration of this unique stroke of good luck.
Drawing on his professional consciousness of neatness, he noted a considerable loosening of Mr. Pamuk’s back passage after the fuck. Since household staff would be responsible for cleaning up any mess left in the room, Tom thought it wise to prevent questionable trails of shit. Removing a handkerchief from his livery coat pocket, he stuffed up it his plaything’s back door.
This of course provided another agreeable opportunity to violate the docile nether region.
Drawn once again by their vulnerability, he slapped the supple bum cheeks. Delighted by the wobbling, he grabbed the hips and shook violently. The powerless muscles rippled in jolly reply.
Even though the room was rather chilly Tom remained nude, warmed by youth and libidinous exhilaration. He didn’t know it, but the cold was also a collaborator. The cool air protracted death’s inspiring flexibility.
Emboldened by his companion’s endless cooperation, Thomas’ professional and prurient curiosity drove him to rifle through the man’s belongings. Not to steal (the valet would find anything amiss), but to enhance this playtime . . . . it was after all only 2am. He found the drawer with Mr. Pamuk’s smalls and pulled out some of the more eye-catching: a vest; a pair of drawers; a pair of knee length court stockings.
The positioning on the bed suggested a venture.
“You know ‘Sir’, I’m training to be a valet.”
The lifeless face-planted dandy remained mute.
“Since you’ve already been so accommodating, I’m sure you’ll oblige me to hone my skills in some of the more ‘delicate’ duties of the profession.”
Mr. Pamuk’s only reply was to brazenly moon him with his bare arse balanced at the edge of the bedding.
“Right you are ‘Sir’, I’m ready when you are.”
Holding the pair of long old-fashioned court stockings, Tom couldn’t help but remark condescendingly,
“Goodness ‘Sir’, planning to visit Marie Antoinette were you?”
By that time a valet was rarely if ever going to dress a gentleman in court knee breeches and stockings. But then, a little experience with this could come in handy . . . . and also be a lot of naughty fun. Ready to mount the hose on the powerless muscled legs, Tom stopped to take a long look at the feet. Soft, pampered, massaged and carefully pedicured they called out, clean and sweet. He bent the right one from at the knee and embarked on licking the soft yielding sole. Dragging the tongue to the toes he eventually managed to worm it between them. Flicking the tongue back and forth he wondered if the dead swell would have had the sense to enjoy these tender attentions. The nails were shaped so perfectly that his lips felt only the most delicate pressures as they passed across the toes. He then dried them with one of the towels from the washstand.
Smirking as he approached the bed,
“Fitting the stockings on you while face down and naked. . . . . not sure if this is right way ‘Sir’. But since your pose proposes it . . . .”
Tom began to squirm a shapely leg into the tightly knit stocking. Slipping the rolled sock over the toes, he stretched it across the wide ball of the foot. The way the stitching pulled closely around the ankle showed it to fine advantage. The beautiful curve of the calves was highlighted by the same needlework. Running his hands over the slippery silk from toes to knee rekindled stirring in his cobbles. Taking the stockinged toes into his mouth for a final sucking stirred them even more. Eventually he rearranged the toes to their natural order. Reluctantly letting the limb fall back to the bedside he turned to the other one.
He repeated his self-serving ‘physiotherapies’ on the slack left leg.
“Now you know Mr. Pamuk, why I’m the first footman.”
With arse up and legs spread before him, Barrow couldn’t resist another tempting intrusion.
“Might I trouble you ‘Sir’ to permit me a small impertinence? I feel that I cannot resist the urge to tickle your balls while in this arresting position.”
Interpreting Mr. Pamuk’s muteness for acquiescence, he began to delicately stroke the wrinkled folds. Expecting stretchy resistance, he was surprised by the smooth relaxing and refolding of the soft skin. He’d never fondled nut sack skin so yielding before. The central rib of skin leading to the base of the cock was particularly flexible.
“’Sir’, do share your secret with me. What ointment or treatment do you use? It must bring you extraordinary pleasure as well as this sublime texture.”
“I wish His Lordship would require this, I’d be most honored to oblige him.”
Fortunately, he couldn’t complete fitting the stockings from the backside. So Mr. Pamuk was tenderly returned to a face up position.
On the left leg, he put both hands around the stocking to tug up to the knee. Then, he caressingly rolled his hands around to the back of the joint to smooth the cloth, lingering over the ticklish spot lacking feeling only in a dead man. He did the same with other knee. Tom almost purred as he indulged in this selfish pleasure.
“God, how I love manipulating you when you’re dead, totally helpless, and can’t even turn your head away in modesty.”
Mr. Pamuk looked quite rakish wearing only his long formal stockings.
Unsurprisingly, Thomas just had to reach out and make sure that ruddy cock was still good and firm.
The room continued to chill. Since the two were about the same size, Tom donned the toff’s richly colored brocade dressing gown. It was a bit short, but since he still wore his own wool socks the cold wouldn’t prove a problem.
Grabbing the wrists, Tom began to sit him up on the bed. Before Barrow could hug Mr. Pamuk around the chest, the body fell forward. Both grunted as shoulders slammed together, stopping a likely drop to the floor. Now with his arms around the well-developed chest, Tom could bring the corpse to a standing position. They stood drunkenly, front to front, one nude except for the dead man’s open-front gown and the other clad only in elegant formal stockings.
Buttressing the defunct bloke against the side of the bedding, Tom opportunistically pleasured in mutual dick rubbing. This rearranging of the naughty bits lead to Tom’s hard plunging between the scrotum and penis into the crease where the leg and torso join. What a shame Mr. Pamuk missed all that. Tom did manage to squeeze the dead cock between his own legs to bring their embrace into mutual participation. In the process he also managed a few finger whisks around the ring of the dead aristo’s arsehole.
The mantle clock struck 3am.
Carrying uncoordinated masculinity was no challenge for Tom. He was at least 2 inches taller than the wasted lothario. He was much stronger too, due to his daily household chores.
He waltzed the oblivious body toward the lit fireplace where he nestled Mr. Pamuk into a dark garnet red velvet wing chair. Taking advantage of the rollers at the bottom of the sturdy mahogany legs, he set the chair to take best advantage of the firelight.
Tom placed the matching wing chair opposite his companion. Then he fetched the vest and drawers. Sitting down, he poured himself another brandy. Examining the undergarments, he marveled at their luxuriousness. Bespoke made without labels, they reeked of wealth and prestige. He studied Mr. Pamuk, planning on how best to wrestle them on the floppy corpse. The sleeveless under vest was made of the obviously favored gold silk satin with gold gem-set buttons that went down the full length of the front. The neckline had a deep crew cut. As this was a personalized garment, the careful tailoring of the soft fabric meant it wouldn’t show when covered with a starched shirt. Shaped to end at the top of the pubes, the long shirt was designed to tuck over the drawers under the dress shirt and trousers. This was the kind of fabric that would show every mark and stain. Tom didn’t envy the valet.
Wanting to leave the darkening turgid penis exposed as long as possible, he set in to dress Mr. Pamuk in the vest. Standing in front, he raised the limbs one at a time to guide them through the armholes. Pulling the arms around his hips he heaved the chest to his own waist and let the shirt fall down the backside. Releasing ‘Sir’ to fall backward, he was able to close the buttons. He hitched the body upward to smooth the cloth across the bum.
After the jiggling of the vest mounting, ‘Sir’ began to slowly sink. The silk of the vest and stockings made it hard to grab the body as it slid farther down the chair. By the time Tom could stop the movement the buttocks had already thulmmmpped hard and loud on the floor. The chair jerked backwards leaving him to support the whole weight by gripping the wrists. So now, Mr. Pamuk in only socks and undershirt sat on the carpet with legs splayed shamelessly apart. The unclad penis’ glans shown enticingly against the fibers of the Persian rug.
Fortunately, the solid timber and masonry of the grand mansion effectively deadened the sound.
“So you’re still eager to play, are you?”
Allowing him to fall face down between his feet, Tom fetched the chair. The rollers arranged at opposing angles to prevent further movement, it was ready for Mr. Pamuk’s remounting. With his hands on the chair arms and his head tucked into one of the back corners, he looked blissfully satisfied.
Tom at last could go back to the comfort of his own chair. He poured himself another brandy and gloated over his acquiescent, seductive social ‘better’. Unfolding the drawers, he discovered the most lavish antepubics he’d ever seen. The garment was made of silk matching the vest, with the same bejeweled gold buttons used to close the snugly fitting yoke. But what was inside was almost unbelievable. The whole interior was lined with gold peau de soie satin so soft it felt like the skin on a dick knob. They must have never been worn, because this fabric would never lose any stain or mark. Here was the utmost extravagance, disposable silk-lined underpants.
“Tonight is the special event were you saving these for, is it not ‘Sir’?”
Curious and somewhat envious, Tom stood to try on the drawers. He was a bit larger in the hips and waist, but the snug fit was not uncomfortable. He didn’t close the buttons for fear of tearing one off. The lining was so soft and erotic he couldn’t control arousal. The looseness allowed his hardening tool to comfortably expand, eventually bursting through the drawer’s vent. He went to Mr. Pamuk and partially opened the eyelids. Stepping back, he began to thrust and gyrate like the rent boys did in the far back room of one of private testosterone charged pubs he’d visited in London. He did a fair job of willy-waving, even without music. Having a hard dick waggle in front of his nose didn’t faze Mr. Pamuk. He just stared unfocused, unblinking. Thomas was invigorated by the opportunity to tease one of his superiors with his sexuality. The fact the performance was before unseeing eyes made it even more exhilarating.
As time was moving on, Tom reluctantly relinquished the luxurious feel of the boxers.
Mr. Pamuk needed have his drawers put on. Tom eased them up, one leg at a time and dragged them under the thighs along the velvet. Wrapping ‘Sir’s’ arms around his neck, he raised the limp form enough to yank the drawers over and above the hairy-cracked bum. At the same time the slippery lining slid easily over the genitalia and up to the waistline. Marveling at the trim waist, Tom popped the glittering buttons through their proper holes. His efforts produced the desired close fit with an appealing but not really impressive bulge. Surprised that the swollen cock fitted so well in the snug underpants, he discovered the tailor had cleverly designed a concealing pouch for just such circumstances. With a broad grin, Tom petted that fully-stuffed basket. Mr. Pamuk must have spent so much time with a hard dick that he needed customized tailoring to conceal it in polite company. Draping the vest’s ‘tails’ over the yoked waistband finished the deed.
Having retained his stiffie during the struggle with the drawers, Tom needed release. He stretched himself over the semi-recumbent man toy and rubbed against the layers of silk in front of him. Sufficiently aroused, he stood and yanked Mr. Pamuk’s head to his crotch. There, with the reverent guidance of Tom’s hands, the gentleman involuntarily performed the most exhilarating skull fuck Tom’d ever had.
Relaxed, Tom stepped back to his chair and poured another drink while he admired his handiwork.
Before him rested the body of an Apollo, glowing in the firelight. The pink undertone of the ivory skin was fading. In the dimness, the carefully nourished and tended flesh merged with the golden silk into a single buttery luminous form. It was as if a gilded angel had perched on the dark red chair. Some aesthetic streak in the footman told him that it was not yet perfect. With a combination of lecherous and artistic intents, he pulled out the knob and knackers, now a darker purplish cranberry color. They created that contrast of purple and gold needed to provide a focal point. The Nebuchadnezzar cooperatively produced a large gleaming cumm-pearl at its tip, bejeweling the ‘family jewels’. Then he drew up a carved and parcel gilt mahogany ottoman, raising the left leg to stretch out fully on its dark velvet cover. He reclosed the eyelids and molded the face into a look of shameless ecstatic trance.
Returning to his own chair, he sipped more of Mr. Pamuk’s brandy while appraising the adjustments. Now there was balance. The twinkling of the jeweled buttons and the dark ruddiness of the genitals contrasted strikingly with the soft shining yellow glow nestled in the red upholstery. It was a splendid symphony of gold and red in the fuzzy darkness of the softly lit room.
Still, it needed a bit more. The stockinged legs weren’t prominent enough. Crossing to the dressing table, he carefully opened ‘Sir’s’ jewel box. Noting the exact location to enable careful replacement, he removed one of the jeweled, gold bullion garters for the court stockings. Rather than clasping it on the leg just below the knee where it belonged, he draped it over the left ankle to call attention to the fine-looking foot. He brought over the embroidered brocade slippers. One he fitted on the right foot, the other he laid on the floor as if it had fallen from the left. Now the entire the body was merged into the composition.
Sitting in his chair with drink in hand to view the effect of this last touch, Barrow pronounced the result not as simply successful, but as striking.
The beautiful defunct young man in his prime bedecked with silk and jewels in this rich and mysterious setting made him think of fairy tales and of prince charmings, the stuff of amorous fantasy.
“Blimey ‘Sir’, if you don’t remind me of that Princess Ophelia in the painting by that ‘Millais’ fellow I saw on our gallery excursion in London last year. You’re a right Pre-Raphaelite.” He mused tipsily.
“Most fashionable of you ‘Sir’.”
“Of course, that Ophelia person lacked the advantages of your big instrument and a hot fuck from me.”
Feeling the call of nature, Tom reached into the bedside nightstand and pulled out a sparkling white chamber pot.
“Pardon me sir while I have a run-out.”
Pissing like a racehorse, he splashed loudly into it before Pamuk’s unregistering eyes and unhearing ears as he reveled in the crudeness.
“Have a sniff ‘Sir’”, he hissed as he passed the sloshing vessel beneath Mr. Pamuk’s useless nose.
Relieved, Tom poured himself another liberal drink. He consumed it slowly, his gaze lingering on the captivating sight.
He indulged in one of the great pleasures offered by a dead man, that great pleasure of staring leisurely at a handsome erotic virile body without concern for interruption by the upbraiding so lavishly spewed by insecure living men.
“I can stare and you don’t care!” Tom taunted.
Seizing the opportunity for more unforgivable impertinences, he accosted Mr. Pamuk with his ruminations on the circumstances surrounding this sublime stroke of good fortune.
“First ‘Sir’, let me say that the violation of your most masculine body has provided me a deeply satisfying diversion.”
“Now just why ‘Sir’, did ladies lug an obviously expired gentleman down the hall?”
“ Did the Lady M….. succumb to your advances and give you a come hither?”
“Or, scoundrel that you are, did you burst into her chamber with ravishment in your loins?”
“You’re a handsome devil with a notorious reputation as a Casanova. Your red swollen todger looked like your shag was interrupted.”
“What would have stopped a cocksman like you before climax?”
“You indeed present a mystery ‘Sir’.”
Reposing like a pasha, Mr. Pamuk offered no response to Thomas’s affronteries. A ruptured aneurysm in Lady M…..’s room had silenced him forever.
“Such a womanizer, you’ve never had the ultimate physical bonding of uninhibited male on male sex.”
“But, you turned out to be a right Molly after all when I penetrated you, didn’t you . . . . a fine partner in the crimes of Sodom!”
“You did so well for your first time with a man, are you sure you now prefer women?”
“You just won’t tell me how much you enjoyed it, will you.”
“For whatever reason, I’m forever grateful for the unexplained circumstance that privileged you to engage in our most pleasant indecencies.”
Mr. Kemal Pamuk remained tongue tied throughout.
Tom sat, ogling his creation and nursing the precious brandy in a sparkling cut glass snifter.
The mantle clock struck 4am.
“Thank you ‘Sir’, for your gracious indifference to my scandalous liberties. Unquestionably, you’ve made significant contributions to the improvement of my skills as a gentleman’s gentleman.”
Tom began Mr. Pamuk’s return to the great bed for his final rest before ill-mannered ‘authorities’ begin to clumsily poke and impudently examine the gentleman’s person. His training gave him the skills and confidence to properly care for ‘Sir’. He immediately replaced the valuable garter in its box. Then he continued the stripping. It proved trouble-free to undress the corpse while seated in the chair. The first chore was to open all the buttons. The vest drew easily over the torso and head after the arms were raised and Thomas gave the vest a hard tug, triggering a loud grunt from the body. He peeled the yoke of the drawers down from the waist. Mr. Pamuk’s defenseless genitals once again bobbed and waggled entertainingly as Tom wrestled the underpants over the bum and down the thighs. Once the drawers were on the floor, he slid the stockings easily down the legs and over the feet. An expert pedicure prevented the toes from catching that delicate fabric. All that was left was to refold and return the vest and hose to their original places. Tom’s training afforded him the ability to do this properly, even undetectably. The thickness of fabric in the drawers’ special pouch was found to carry almost undetectable whitish dribbles released during Tom’s dance and ‘Sir’s’ time in the chair. The naked body was tumbled about to allow it to be settled back on a thick Turkish towel covering the red velvet.
“Now ‘Sir’ you require thorough, intimate ablutions to prepare you to receive your morning visitors.”
Without embarrassment or hesitation, Mr. Pamuk surrendered uncaringly to further indignities performed by Tom as he rocked the dead body about. Using heated water from stoneware bottles set on the hearth and a hand towel from the washstand, Thomas wiped semen from the face, hands, and arse. Then he rinsed out the mouth. He hated to waste it, but he also rinsed it with some of the brandy. He wasn’t worried about any stain or semen odor on the towels. The valet, certainly accustomed to Mr. Pamuk’s behavior, had probably encountered cumm-stained linens many times before.
Tom hoisted the limp playboy over his shoulders and carried him back to the bed. After a heaving onto the mattress, he was wrestled into the bespoke nightshirt. Then he laid Mr. Pamuk in roughly the position when Tom first encountered him. That done, Tom removed the expedient shoelace. All this movement stirred Mr. Pamuk’s tiny groin sphincters into generously releasing gobbets of spermatic fluid through the piss slit. That would conveniently testify the deceased man had lain in this spot for some time. A wet spot on the silk with a white crusty ring would await any investigators. The strong perfume of his discharged musk would greet them when the covers were tossed aside. Since both of them had left small stains inside the drawers, Tom dropped them carelessly on the fur rug. The fact that they fell partially on top of the slippers asserted Mr. Pamuk’s usual carelessness with his clothing. For the final touch, he removed the handkerchief to let the arsehole release its final drainage. A sloppy fart initiated seepage. In this set up, the corpse would stiffen sufficiently before discovery as a convincing tragic death during sleep.
Tom redressed. Before a final check of the room, he arranged the furnishings into their original positions. Smoothing the bedclothes around Mr. Pamuk, he remembered the dressing gown. It was returned to its spot at the foot of the bed. He pissed again in the chamber pot, adding credibility to the scene as well as relieving himself. Spying the emptied decanter, he finished draining his lizard into it.
“The best thing about doing this is the filching valet can’t complain without confessing to the crime of pilfering.”
Before Thomas left the room, he turned to blow the stiffening dead toff a kiss. With a wink he disingenuously remarked,
“Oh ‘SIR’, how could you have so wickedly seduced an innocent country lad like myself?”
Thomas Barrow was unconcerned about discovery. Also, he was lucky. His skills adequately created an undisturbed room of a gentleman. The body would be stiff and cold with fixed liver mortis by the time his valet appeared at 9am (although Tom had no clear understanding of these post mortem changes). The English police and undertakers who knew little and cared even less about a piece of foreign circumcised meat would arrogantly attribute anything unfamiliar to his foreignness. Any signs of Tom’s erotic ministrations would be passed over in their xenophobia. His Lordship would use influence to derail any detailed police investigation of circumstances of the death. All these actions would successfully dodge family embarrassment and, more importantly, international discord. The ladies of the house would never reveal their secret and in 1910 no one would be so coarse as to describe in detail such a death scene to delicate ladies of their social standing. So there would be no notice taken or comment made about the possibility of Barrow’s part in any of this. After all, it was unimaginable that a gentleman of Mr. Pamuk’s standing would even consider sex with a mere servant. Tom would go scot free.
Mr. Pamuk had simply become an embarrassing perishable that required quick disposal.
Of course, Tom did have to relinquish the potential power his observation of the ladies provided. But then, the glint of an exploitable secret was a small price to pay for the escapade of a lifetime.
On his next trip to the village, Thomas Barrow would buy a small locket on a chain. With that, he could cherish the bouquet of light brown curly pubic souvenirs by wearing them unobtrusively around his manly neck.
Many thanks to readers who encourage me. I’m glad others enjoy my intricately detailed imaginings.
Comments and suggestions are always welcome.
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