by Young
Unwilling to relinquish his still throbbing hardness, I glided effortlessly on his deposits, thus fortifying our passion and lubricating our way back to another stream of unbridled exhilaration.
That night was the first of many with this charismatic German.
1968
The Hungarian
Brought on by excessive alcoholic consumption and the use of recreational drugs, or, most likely, both, the F.F.F. soon transformed into a farcical bash. The ‘ladies’ and their hangers-on started a series of burlesque flirtations that appeared more zany than provocative. Andy, Triqueros, and a few escorts who’d only consumed a moderate amount of alcoholic beverages looked on with amusement, as the ‘women’ discarded their bejewelled ensembles only to reveal seductive lingerie, several sizes too small for their overly bodacious and corpulent figures.
Moi, the goody-two-shoes who hadn’t guzzled a drop of liquor, found these cockamamie Affaires de Coeur almost painful to witness. In a corner, Tad and Mario were busy toying with several winsome ‘maids’ and footmen while at the other end, my teacher and Valet were chatting coquettishly with a couple of attractive escorts. Without seeking permission, I snuck away unnoticed to explore this magnificent house and its many treasured artefacts.
As I opened the study’s door, a startled figure jumped from behind the desk in this dimly lit chamber. For a split second, the disconcerted man didn’t know what to make of me.
I exclaimed apologetically, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
He resumed his stance immediately. “I’m looking for my cigarettes. I thought I left them here earlier,” Ivan answered.
I replied without thinking the worse of anything, “I should have knocked before entering.” I paused before I added, “I wanted to tour this beautiful house.”
“Why aren’t you enjoying the company of the others?” the Hungarian queried.
I shrugged my shoulders and gave him a trenchant smile. With a sly grin, he nodded in acknowledgement of my sentiment. “Let’s find somewhere comfortable to talk.”
We settled on a comfortable sofa overlooking the foyer. He extracted a packet of cigarettes from his jacket. For a split second, I thought it strange, since he’d mentioned he’d forgotten where he had left his smokes.
Though he had sat next to me at dinner, he hadn’t said much. After all, Ms. Cecily and Neilyn had held court throughout the evening.
Although he wasn’t as young as most of the escorts below, he had an attractive poise that many classically trained ballet dancers possess.
“What do you do?” I enquired.
He seemed taken aback by my question, as if I should have known without asking. He took his time to answer: “I’m a danzatore.”
I had no clue what that word meant. I did not respond.
He resumed, “I was with the Budapest State Opera before my wife and I escaped the Soviet Bloc. These days, I dance and coach internationally.”
“Your wife?” I questioned.
“We’re divorced,” he answered morosely.
My curiosity got the better of me.
“How did you meet Mr. Beaton?” I questioned.
“We met when Nora and I were performing with the London Festival Ballet. Cecil came backstage to congratulate us. Since then I’ve posed for him on several occasions.
“Currently, I’m in London on an assignment. Cecil invited me to this soiree when I called on him a couple days back.” He looked at me quizzically.
“How did you meet Cecil?” he countered.
“I don’t know Mr. Beaton well. I’m a guest of Bunny’s,” I replied.
Assuming I was one of Ms. Neilyn’s boy toys, the Hungarian smiled wickedly and gave me a flirtatious wink.
Before I could comment, he had lifted me to my feet. “Come, let’s find somewhere quiet so I can get to know you better.”
In the Rose Garden
We proceeded out of the service entrance as the last caterer was about to slam the door shut. The refreshing night air was a welcome change from the giddy interior we had just left.
Guided by the smell of blossoming roses and blooming country perennials, Ivan led me to a garden filled with spring blossoms. The distant lights cast a winsome silhouette on my companion’s sinewy figure. I guessed he was in his mid-thirties.
I was dazzled by his childlike exploration when our lips met in a tender embrace. His gentle touch sent shivers down my spine. I felt like I was enticed into a performance that had been choreographed for us.
As quickly as that thought flashed through my mind, his nimble fingers traced my boyishness, as if they drew their agility from my very being. I mirrored his action with scintillating grace, as we complemented our foreplay with ardent affection.
His tongue lingered sensually around my lips, as if he were uncovering the youthful beauty he had lost. I held onto his long wavy hair as he enveloped my face with his, entwining our tongues in a sensual exploration neither of us wished to relinquish.
His willful hands undressed me. Reaching into my unbuttoned shirt, he twitched my succulence to attention in readiness for his pearly fangs to devour. He held firmly onto my arched back as I surrendered to his luscious buoyancy.
He lapped at my adolescent waist, teasing every wisp in allowance for his imminent entry. His slithering tongue swirled and jabbed at my navel, before drifting to the target of his ravenous devotion.
With my pants and briefs half-way down my knees, Ivan delved into me, worshipping my juvenance like Apollo on Hyacinthus. Whiffs of fragrant hyacinths filled my nostrils, sending me into a hypnotic trance.
The danseur coaxed my throbbing sturdiness to heights of unparalleled excitement. Unwilling to release this carnal pleasure that had engulfed my person, I pressed his head onto my denseness with fiery precision. Ivan certainly lived up to his name, not only in the world of ballet but also as a lover of men.
With a glowing complexion of vivacious vitality and not an inch of body fat on his gymnastic musculature, I returned his favour. I went to town relishing his maleness, readying him for my onslaught.
He wasted no time to pump into me with cherished dexterity. Just as he was about to deliver, I backed away and flipped him onto his back.
In a single stroke, I ploughed into the dancer with aplomb. His seductive eyes pierced perspicaciously into mine, stirring me to frenzied perfervidity, while his twitching contractions did nothing but enhance my erotic exaltations. Unable to control my blither fervencies, I surged into his opening. Climaxes of splintered jubilation gushed into his entrance, filling him to overflowing capacity. I stayed within until my heaving subsided.
Yet, we wanted to go where angels fear to tread.
His agile fingers scooped a handful of my delivery within and smeared it onto his satiety before easing into my blossoming bud, which had unfurled voluntarily to welcome his protrusion.
Like the intimate endearments seasoned partner-dancers share, our ardent gazes had strengthened our bond towards his ultimate release. Gusts of euphoric exuberance coursed through my physique, encircling me in an unbridled cocoon of invisible ardour.
Our blissful sentiments of unbroken melody soon propelled Ivan to flares of solicitous elations. As his forceful audacity flooded me, it also triggered my second outpour. We exploded in synchronicity to nature’s primal call.
We remained in each other’s arms until the night chills beckoned us to re-join the frenzied crowd we had escaped not so long ago.
An Unpredicted Revelation
In the early nineties, a black-and-white picture in an English newspaper caught my eye. The headlines read:
Defected Hungarian ballet dancer denies charges as a double agent for GRU and MI6.
Staring unflinchingly at me was the premier danzatore, the Hungarian I had an unrivalled erotic encounter at Reddish Manor back in 1968 during the F.F.F. soiree.
Chapter Sixty-Three
Sparkles & Blings
“Opportunity knocks for every man, but you have to give a wom
an a bling.”
Mae West
1968
The Arrival
Prince P and Dr. Fahrib arrived on the Al-Fayoum with a new entourage of E.R.O.S. recruits accompanied by their BBs, BSs and their tutor, Monsieur Alain Dubois. This new batch of “foreign exchange” students were fractional replacements for Narnia and Albert, who had been dispatched for rehab.
Lilee, Leon and their respective Big Sister, Joyance, and Valet, Aaron, were under Prince P’s auspices, while Camilla, Terrance and their corresponding chaperones – Emmaa and Buddy, were the responsibility of Sheik Fahrib.
Since we were on similar wavelengths, Andy and I took to them immediately. For the majority of the time we operated in harmony, though there were occasions when we differed in opinions.
Mario, on the other hand, had solicited the services of two beautiful females and an attractive male from a London modeling agency to travel with us to India. The purpose of our India trip was in part to meet with several Malayalam and Tamil Nadu film production companies; colloquially referred to as Kollywood. This term is a portmanteau of the words Kodambakkam (a residential neighbourhood in the city of Madras – now renamed Chennai) in Tamil Nadu and Hollywood.
Being a prolific multitasker, Mario was also using this opportunity to conduct a fashion shoot for Harpers & Queen – the newly amalgamated Hearst Corporation’s Harper’s Bazaar UK and Queen Magazine. Similar to its American cousin, Town & Country magazine, Harpers & Queen was widely focused on British “high society”, reporting titbits and gossip about the lives of socialites and the aristocracy, even though in reality, its features were often wide-ranging and highly original.
Since the first publication, Harpers & Queen has repositioned itself as Harper’s Bazaar, therefore bringing the publication in line with its international sister titles and becoming more meritocratic in terms of whom it will feature.
Back in 1968, when the Count was busy organizing the debut photo shoot for the magazine’s launch, Tad and his haut monde acquaintances were invaluable resources for Mario to make headways into the coterie of British nobility and glitterati.
Asprey or Garrard?
No sooner had P and Fahrib arrived at the Dorchester, the doctor was pulled in opposite directions by his wives and their women vindicators. Shahria insisted that her husband accompany her, Ain, Kifah, Iba and Lina to Garrard’s (the sovereign crown jeweller). This was the very company that had created the Cullinan diamonds (including Cullinan I, “The Great Star of Africa”), and masterpieces such as the Imperial Crown of India, Queen Mary’s coronation crown and last but by no means least, the Crown of Queen Elizabeth II.
On the other spectrum, Roya, Ayisha, Fatima and Safiya wanted the sheik to come with them to Asprey. After all, Fahrib had promised Roya over the phone that he would purchase any jewellery she desired from this renowned jeweller, the same House that had fashioned HRH Princess Margaret‘s five-string pearl necklace gifted her by her late grandmother, HM Queen Mary on the princess’s 18th birthday.
Roya’s sudden rise in stature as the carrier of the royal heir had slashed a wedge between the wives. Shahria, determined not to allow her subordinate to overshadow her preeminent wifely status, made it her priority to regain her position.
The battle over the jewellers was the first of many between the women in the Assalamu Alaikum household.
The peacekeeper, P, stepped in to clear the air. He volunteered to escort Shahria and her proponents to Garrard’s, with Andy, Jabril, Triqueros, the four newly appointed E.R.O.S. recruits, and moi trailing behind.
Meanwhile, Tad and the sheik shepherded Roya and her gang, together with the other “foreign exchange” students and Dubois to Asprey.
As for the two cultural attachés, they split, one to accompany each camp.
Garrard
When our entourage arrived at Albemarle Street, a stone’s throw from the Dorchester, we were greeted by Mr. Fuller, Garrard & Co LTD store manager and a couple of his assistants. P, the suave shopper, took the reins and herded the women into the premises. We followed.
This queenly store certainly lived up to its royal warrant. As soon as the women stepped over its threshold, they oohed and aahed at the glittering bijous that were elegantly displayed behind gleaming cases.
In the year 1843, Queen Victoria had appointed Garrard to the position of Crown Jewellers. This led to the production of silverware and jewellery for the British Royal Family, as well as the upkeep of the British Crown Jewels. Garrard’s fame surged when in 1852, they were entrusted with the responsibility of re-cutting the famous Koh-i-Noor diamond into a brilliant.
The store manager wasted no time giving us a brief history of their illustrious company, over tea, champagne and light refreshments served by uniformed maids. Unlike the ‘French maids’ at Munrow and Cecily’s soiree, these liveried maidens would make any English traditionalist proud with unequivocal decorum.
Mr. Fuller, positive that we would not be leaving empty handed, began, “Thank you for choosing Garrard as your jeweller.”
Since no purchases had yet been made, we remained silent. That changed as soon as Mr. Fuller resumed his spiel.
The ‘Mountain of Light’
“His Royal Highness Prince Albert, Prince Consort of Great Britain and Ireland, decreed Garrard to refashion the Koh-i-Noor to irradiance.”
P, knowing a little of the gem’s origin, questioned, “Where did the Kooh-è Noor, or what we Persians term as the ‘Mountain of Light,’ originate from?”
Fuller answered guardedly, “It was discovered in the 13th century near Guntur in Andhra Pradesh, India. The Kakatiya dynasty was its first owner.
“Over the years, the stone changed hands between several feuding factions in South Asia.
“After the British conquest of the Punjab in the 1849, Her Majesty Queen Victoria came into possession of this precious diamond.”
Jabril remarked, “Aren’t there speculations that this gem caused much bloodshed before Victoria claimed ownership? And will not ill fate befall any man who wears it?”
The store manager paused before announcing confidently, “That is precisely the reason the Koh-i-Nûr may be worn only by female members of the royal family.”
He breathed a sigh of concealed relief when there were no follow-ups.
“This diamond is set in the front of the Queen Mother’s Crown. It is now a part of the United Kingdom’s Crown Jewels and is viewed by millions of visitors to the Tower of London.”
P vociferated snidely, “Didn’t India, Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan claim rightful ownership?”
For a split second, the Englishman seemed lost for words.
“Unfortunately, the stone’s early history is lost in the mists of time. Under the Last Treaty of Lahore, this gem was deemed legally owned by HM Queen Victoria,” he declared.
While Fuller and the two Arabs were debating the rightful ownership of the ‘Mountain of Light’, the ladies were busy scouring the store for sparkles to add to their existing blings.
At The Barbers
Since Señor Triqueros, Andy, Aaron, Leon, and I were not into sparkles or blings, we excused ourselves to explore the nearby vicinity. We agreed to reassemble at Garrard at an appointed time.
As we strolled along the thoroughfares we stumbled across a charming barber shop. Since Andy and Aaron were set for a haircut and shave, we trooped into Geo F Trumper, a gentleman’s barber and perfumers established since 1875. This time-honoured establishment was a true master of grooming. With sharp blades and fine scissors, these professionals could transform a dishevelled cad into a man of distinction in a matter of hours.
Not to mention, it is one of the oldest and most luxurious institutions in London. Not only does it provide top quality grooming services, it also dispenses expertise in the formulation of soaps, fragrances and grooming utensils.
The shop was a mixture of dark mahogany and brass with ornate cabinets displaying everything from fragrances to shaving creams, hand-cr
afted hairbrushes and walking canes.
The moment we entered, my mind and body were seduced by the scents of Spanish Leather and sandalwood.
An Italian gentleman guided us upstairs to a quiet chamber, where four curtained cubicles fitted with mirrors and barber chairs were at the ready for the groomer to perform his artistry. Pristinely arranged atop the shelves in the stalls and within easy reach of the barber’s hands were arrays of immaculately polished scissors, razor blades, warm towels and grooming products.
Andy and Aaron soon disappeared into separate cubicles, leaving my teacher, Leon and me to our own devises.
Tea and crumpets were served to us. I began reading quietly a hand-written poem I had pulled out from my breast pocket while we waited patiently for our Valets to re-emerge.
The inquisitive tomcat Leon peeked over my shoulder to see what I was perusing and caught a glimpse of the content. He squealed waggishly as if he’d discovered a comical secret.
Victor stared at him and hushed him to be silent. He continued to snigger.
“Young, what have you got there that’s turning this chap into a moron?” my teacher asked.
I kept silent, but Leon resumed his fatuous teasing. “He’s reading a love note from his boyfriend,” he screeched.
In the process of deriding his mischievousness, the note fell to the floor. Leon snatched it up while Triqueros separated us from our childish teeter-tottering.
The fathead read aloud:
I want to tell you a story
of late night glory,
and dew,
and me
and you.
It was an experience
wonderful and strange!
I did it more than once:
Returning again
to where you’d lain.
I could scarcely contain
my curiosity