Peeves and the Mating Game

by

Shadowloup 



I was enjoying myself immensely, practicing the marital arts with a willing and 
affordable young lady from one of SoHo's better brothels, singing if I recall 
"Ben Dover In the Clover", and nearly ready to officially commemorate the event 
with a salubrious spurting of the old Poofter sauce, when I was thrown off my 
stride by my man Peeves.

Now Peeves is a good egg, and his arrival normally raises my spirits. But in 
this particular instance I felt my spirits were rising quite splendidly on their 
own, although I would be deceiving my public if I did not confess that the tight 
grip of my lovely young companion's pussy upon Gertie Junior wasn't helping.

Not that I'm adverse to Peeves finding me in flagrante delicto. But there was 
something about his demeanor which came across as frosty.

"Mister Choadpuff Junior to see you, sir," he said.

"Choadpuff? You mean Horsemeat?"

"Yes sir."

I gave the young lady a few more thrusts to keep Gertie Junior encouraged. My 
lady companion was equally encouraged, judging by her passionate moans.

"Did he say what he wanted?"

"He wishes to speak to you, sir. Immediately."

"I'm a bit busy now, Peeves. Can't you send him away?"

"Mister Choadpuff is most insistent, sir."

Sensing that his point was made, Peeves turned and left the room in what can 
only be termed a manner imperial.

Doubtlessly his chilly demeanor was due to the snazzy apparel currently 
decorating the Poofter woody. It was a french tickler, recently purchased from a 
fashionable boutique which specialized in such things. It was very sporting, 
with a pronounced deep purple shaft with long, white dangly thingies sticking 
out. These danglies were guaranteed to whip past a woman's clit and cause her no 
end of delight while the male of the pair need not break a sweat. There was also 
the added benefit of keeping the Poofter spawn to a min.

Naturally Peeves chose to focus upon the color, and did so with disapproval. I 
believe he referred to it as an escaped pufferfish which should be returned to 
the sea. But I had put my foot down and drawn the line. Lines must be drawn and 
guarded. It would not do to have a servant edit the most intimate of apparel. My 
attitude fostered Peeves' coolness, with the net result being one old school 
chum named Horsemeat waiting impatiently in the vestibule.

On the off chance that I could complete the dirty deed prior to that meet, I 
gave a few more perfunctory thrusts. Both spirit and flesh were now weak. Gertie 
Junior slipped out with a squick while I gave a forlorn look towards the 
heavenly pink hillocks and tawny dales which I must now leave behind.

My nubile companion professed disappointment, then requested a bit more for 
being screwed by what she termed "a can opener." Having never heard Gertram 
Junior referred to in such a manner, I was forced to mollify her with a more 
than generous tip. But the entire ordeal left me in such a state that I 
unwittingly took the wrong bathrobe, a too short affair normally worn by 
visiting lady friends which left my participle dangling. Thus clad I went out to 
deal with one Charlie "Horsemeat" Choadpuff.

Despite feeling peeved at the interruptus of my coitus, I was still thankful it 
was not my dreaded Aunt Agatha, she who smothers small rodents in the crack of 
her ample behind while frotting to their death throws, who awaited my arrival.

Explanations as to why I would forgo a good bout of boinking in order to see an 
old school chum are probably in order. Otherwise the casual reader will gain the 
incorrect impression that daftness is an integral part of the Poofter mentality.

The bond of friendship between Choadpuff and myself ran deep, forming during our 
public school days when we had engaged in a little mutual manhandling and other 
typical schoolboy hijinks. This was before we discovered that the female of the 
species was much more enjoyable, at least to us, allowing us to eventually 
regale each other with tales of our erotic exploits.

I should point out to my public that Horsemeat was aptly named, having earned 
the sobriquet from several of the young country girls he had successfully wooed 
and screwed. Charlie could also use his privates to scratch the back of his 
kneecaps. While Gertie Junior was nothing to chortle at either, the sight of 
Horsemeat's meat would send even the most hardened harlot into a swoon.

Horsemeat did have one fault, if it can even be termed a personal foible. Ever 
since he had learned his prick was prodigious, Horsemeat had taken to displaying 
said schlong whene're the opportunity presented itself. This made for awkward 
moments at various gentlemen's clubs, when some cove would invariably ask "What 
the devil is in my pocket?", and Horsemeat would respond "Trust me, it's my 
prick, and you can always trust a man when you have his prick in your pocket." 
Not exactly boffo material, but worthy of a few guffaws and red faces.

Today, as Horsemeat paced my hall, he looked anything but the jolly japer of the 
gentlemen's clubs.

"Gertram," he said. "You must help me or I'll be undone."

This is not the sort of thing an old friend wishes to hear upon entering a room. 
One would much prefer a hale and hearty "Hello Gertram, how are you? Splendid 
weather we're having. Oh, by the by, I'm in a bit of a spot and could you loan 
me a hand to get out of this blighted situation" in lieu of having the other 
rush across the room as though small infernal creatures were shoving pitchforks 
into his soft juicy posterior.

But we Poofters are inclined to overlook such niceties upon meeting a friend who 
is in straights dire, and tend to give them latitude.

"Whatever is the problem?" I said.

"It's my father," Horsemeat began. "He's coming to London. To see me."

Now I should explain to my public that Horsemeat and his father did not exactly 
see eye to eye on certain matters, the primary one being the sanctity of 
Horsemeat Senior's mistress' twat. Both Junior and Senior were extremely 
competitive to the point that both attempted to seduce the other's woman. This 
equation was made a tad balmy when one added in the fact that Horsemeat Senior 
controlled the family purse strings and did not enjoy seeing a younger version 
of himself stuffing a willing muffin which had supposedly sworn allegiance to 
him.

However, Horsemeat Junior had never been good at math, and failed to take this 
factor into account. The net result was that my old pal was practically 
disinherited. How he managed to escape with merely a severe reduction to his 
allowance was beyond my understanding.

With this in mind, I could well understand Horsemeat's distress upon hearing the 
approaching footsteps of his father

"Sounds like rough waters to me," I said.

"That's not the worst of it, Gertie. He wants to see me the moment he steps off 
the train. Wants us to discuss bringing me back into the fold and all that rot."

"Sounds very prodigal son-ish, if you ask me."

"But he's arriving on Tuesday afternoon. And I have very important plans for 
Tuesday evening."

"Sounds like the proverbial sticky wicket. Can't your plans wait?"

"No. No they can't. That's when Duke Dinkonovich, the Big Ballocksed Bolshevik 
gives his farewell performance."

While I was sympathetic to the plight of my old school chum, I could not for the 
life of me figure out why his plight was tied to such a sinister sounding 
individual as Duke Dinkonovich. The only dallying I'd ever known Horsemeat to do 
was with fair maidens, not smoky-room, knock twice and give the password, 
here-let's-chuck-a-bomb-through-the-window Bolsheviks. I said as much to 
Horsemeat.

"I'm Duke Dinkonovich," he said.

"You're the Big Ballocksed Bolshevik?"

"Well, I've got big ballocks, though I'm not particularly political. Duke 
Dinkonovich is my stage name at the pub Lord Wilmot's Willy. They put on sex 
shows each Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday. I took the job to make up for the 
income father is unjustly withholding from me."

"Rather," I said. "But don't you risk being exposed?"

"That's the beauty of this stage name. It allows me to wear one of those silly 
false beards. My own mother wouldn't recognize me."

"But why is Tuesday so important?"

"I retire the Duke that night. The pub manager has set it up so there will be a 
very large audience. I get a share of all the entrance fees."

"Why not change the Duke's retirement to another night?"

"It can't be done, Gertie. The advertisements are already out. My fans will be 
greatly upset if I do not show to make a final farewell. With this last 
performance, I'll finally make enough money to be rid of my father's 
interference."

"Then tell your father to bugger off," I said.

"It's not that simple. I may have thrown off the yoke of my father's oppression 
for myself, but there is another involved."

"And who would that be?" I asked, stymied, if stymied is the word I was looking 
for.

"My fiancee, Miss Winifred Poon. We were secretly engaged. She is also a ward of 
my father, who will no doubt forbid our marriage in order to keep her charms to 
himself, the wicked old letch."

"You mean Winnie the Screw?"

"Ahh, you've heard of her," Horsemeat said with pride.

"Didn't she single-handedly wank the entire...?"

"That was her, although she used two hands."

Something small tugged at the back of my brain like a small dog which is damned 
all going to be noticed by chewing on the back of ones heel. That something 
finally came to the fore.

"Does this Miss Poon know of your current occupation?" I asked.

"No she doesn't. And I'd prefer to keep it that way. That is another reason why, 
Gertie, you must take my place at the show."

"Now look, old bean, I don't usually mind stepping into the roles of ill actors. 
But I suspect that your particular performance has some rather big... shoes to 
fill, so to speak."

"You could wear that abomination," Horsemeat said, pointing to my pride and joy 
dangling below my robe, still clad in its sporty purple coat. "Folks would 
fixate on that instead of your lack of cock. They're usually so drunk they'd 
never know the difference."

"There is also the matter of my face, dear Horsemeat."

"That too is not a problem. Remember that thick beard I use to disguise myself? 
My own father wouldn't recognize me. No one will recognize you."

"And your so-called act, what is involved?"

Here Horsemeat smiled. "Gertie, imagine the tightest tushed, biggest boobed 
lass, with a tongue which feels like an angel when it caresses your glans. The 
subject of your imagination would either be Gillian, Roxanna, or Jewell, three 
lusty minxes who it is my superb pleasure to boink every Tuesday, Friday and 
Saturday."

"Sounds good, but where's the rub?"

"You'll have to fuck one of them in front of a pub filled with drunken letches. 
But I'll compensate you well for this favor, Gertie, if humping one of the 
loveliest trollops in England needs compensation."

"That's not the problem, Horsemeat. The problem is that each person has their 
own individual stamp. You can't just step into a role with no preparation."

"From the fluids dripping off the ill squid dangling from your cock, I'd say 
you've had plenty of preparation. Can I count on you Gertram?"

What can one do? Blood and water and thickness and all that. I promised 
Horsemeat I'd take his place at Lord Wilmot's Willy, while he whined and dined 
his way back into his father's better graces under the watchful eye of Winifred 
Poon. Horsemeat thanked me soundly, pumping my hand until I could feel the 
shaking motion deep in my scrot, then hopped, skipped, jumped and generally flew 
out my front door.

A good three-quarters of an hour later I was still musing glumly over the 
promise I had just made when Peeves entered bearing my traditional nightcap. As 
I was imbibing I noticed Peeves quietly slipping out the door, his arms laden 
with a stack of old clothes. My quizzical look caught his eye and slowed his 
progress.

"The Society for the Preservation of Fallen Ladies is holding their annual 
clothes drive, sir. As you are usually a staunch supporter of the organization, 
I took the liberty of preparing a shipment of clothes left by your female 
acquaintances. Did I presume too much, sir?"

"Not at all," I replied. "Spot on. It's a worthwhile cause."

"Very good, sir," Peeves said, turning to go.

As he did I noticed a small streak of telltale purple nuzzling its way out of 
the garments.

"Hold on there, Peeves. I believe you've got a stowaway," I said, reaching for 
the colored article and extracting my new french tickler.

"Must have accidentally slipped in," I said, eyeing my acquisition fondly.

"Indeed," Peeves said.

"It certainly knows what it wants," I joked. "It vastly prefers exploring the 
sensuous silky folds of women's undergarments to worming about on the sea 
bottom."

"Quite," Peeves said, and left the room.

During the next few days I found that my new purple pal truly did enjoy 
fearlessly exploring new regions. Once I found it dangling from the open window 
sill. On another occasion it was nearly ready to take a dive into my commode. 
And then there was a near catastrophe when it somehow managed to worm its way 
inside a dumpster Peeves was hauling to the trash bin. Fortunately I was able to 
save it just in the nick.

Despite this flurry of activity, Tuesday evening rolled around much quicker than 
I wished. My upcoming ordeal was not settling well within my guts, as small 
butterflies flew there and about within the Poofter belly. To make matters 
worse, Peeves had left for his Senior Ganymede Club, leaving me high, dry, and 
without the bennie of one of his patented bracers which give courage when the 
spirit is flagging.

And spirits were not the only thing laying low. Gertie Junior was refusing to 
raise his head, preferring to commiserate with the ballocks brothers. I could 
just imagine them talking to one another.

"Do you know what Gertram has planned for us?" Junior would ask.

"Some sort of public display, I heard," Billy the left ballock would answer.

"I've been storing up some extra sap for it," Bartie the right ballock would 
add.

"He's going to drop trou in front of total strangers, then slide us into some 
strumpet's slit."

"You've never complained before," Billy would say.

"But usually he drops trou in front of one stranger, after giving me time to 
fully prepare. Here we shall be displayed in front of hundreds of eyes, each of 
them measuring us."

"Hmmm," Bartie would muse.

"And they shall say things like, 'I've seen fatter ones on me dog," and what 
not. They might be so drunk as to throw things, striking you two."

"Oh goodness," the ballocks brothers, those worthless hangers-on, would reply, 
dragging themselves up and taking Gertie Junior with them.

I pined for a Peeves bracer, but it was not to be. While the sore subject of my 
french tickler had not truly arisen, it remained in the background much like a 
wedding ring on a married chap's hand as he attempts to pick up a lady not his 
wife.

Alone, I made my way to Lord Wilmot's Willy, which was located in a section of 
London I'd just as soon forget. No sooner was I through the door than a stout 
fellow with a full beard, looking for all the world like a rotund walrus 
awaiting fish, stood in front of me barring my way.

"Ay, who are you?" he demanded.

"I'm a friend of Horsemeat," I said.

"Never heard of him, gov" the walrus said with a decided lack of "h's"

"The big ballocksed Bolshevik?"

"Ohhh," the walrus replied, light dawning deep within whatever cells passed for 
his intellect. "Tonight's to be his last performance. We of Lord Wilmot's Willy 
plan to give him a proper send off. It's nearly a sold-out crowd, although there 
could be a seat or two left, should someone desire to see what will be the 
premier erotic event of the season."

Here the manager used his elbow as a flipper and nudged me in the gut. I nearly 
doubled over in pain.

"No, you don't understand," I finally managed to gasp. "I'm a personal friend of 
the man playing Duke Dinkonovich. I'm here to wish him well."

But the manager merely eyed me with deep suspicion. "No performers here, gov. 
There's some lovely street tail in Paddington. If that's what you're looking 
for."

Realizing I'd gotten myself into an imbroglio, if that's the term I'm looking 
for, I opted to purchase a ticket and thus mollify the manager.

I entered the pub proper by taking several steps down socially and physically. 
Darkness was abundant; lights were wanting. 

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I was able to distinguish a long low room 
sectioned off with pillars. On one side sat the bar, over which hung rows of 
empty glasses like so many crystal teeth guffawing at a dirty joke. Towards the 
back of the pub was a small stage, currently devoid of scenery and framed by an 
ancient, tattered curtain.

Near the side of the stage I found a hall which led off towards the costume 
room. A tap upon a door brought a prompt response from a lovely lady of about 23 
who looked distinctly French, and not just from the cut of her knickers. Behind 
her I could see two other ladies in equal states of dishabille.

The brunette Frenchwoman looked at me questionably.

"I am a friend of Horsemeat," I announced.

"Ah, the rich friend," the blond said with a smirk. "The friend who is looking 
for a girlfriend."

That stopped me cold.

The brunette doorwoman gave me a cunning smile.

"Je m'appelle Jewell," she said. "Monsieur Choadpuff explained the, how you say, 
situation to us. A pity his father is so strict."

She ushered me in and introduced Roxanna, a willowy blond, and Gillian, a robust 
redhead. Each also conveyed their condolences about Horsemeat as they went about 
prepping their makeup.

"Has monsieur ever performed in a naughty show before?" Jewell asked me.

"Not really. I have been in a few local productions. Singing, telling jokes, and 
what not. But I must confess those roles mostly required me to keep my clothes 
on and my privates private," I replied.

"Uh oh. Sounds like someone is nervous," Gillian said as she applied some rouge 
to her nipples.

"Who wouldn't be when faced with the prospect of entertaining a packed audience 
by making love to one of you," I said.

For some reason well beyond my understanding this comment made the lovely ladies 
titter gently.

"Don't worry love. We'll take extra good care of you," Roxanna said while she 
use a hair brush to coiffure her pubes.

"But is monsieur able to fill in for Monsieur Horsemeat," my new friend Jewell 
asked, fishing a hand through the zip of my trousers to give Gertie Junior 
company. With a little coaxing he showed his appreciation by becoming fully 
erect.

Jewell sighed. "Hefty, but not quite Horsemeat."

"The crowd's not going to know, are they?" Roxanna asked, staring at my 
erection.

"Not at all," I said, withdrawing my french tickler from my pocket with a 
magician's flourish and displaying it proudly. "I shall be in-cock-nito."

All three ladies' eyes bulged, while, dare I say, their faces went pale.

"Oh non, non, non, monsieur. Surely you wish Jewell she shall walk again?" 
Jewell said with considerable concern which was quickly shared by the others.

"Bloody hell, mate. That's not going up me," Gillian said.

Roxanna merely looked askance at the tickler. "I don't think so," she said with 
a short breath.

Despite the shock Jewell continued fondling me.

"I think I speak for all when I say monsieur's natural penis it will do nicely."

It was pleasurable to watch the lovely ladies as they prepped themselves for the 
upcoming sextravaganza, using various oils and lubricants to add a tempting 
sheen to their most intimate places. The thought of boffing one of them was 
quite intoxicating.

However, deep inside my soul I could still feel the rush of impending doom, as 
though I would soon be involved in some sort of fertility right in front of 
angry villagers who would sacrifice poor Gertram to their angrier god should 
Gertie Junior refuse to perform.

These feelings were not helped by the subdued roar of noise which filtered 
through the thin walls. That roar had all the hallmarks of a vast audience 
descending upon a small playhouse with expectations about the upcoming show 
which Shakespeare himself could not hope meet.

My erotic trio did their best to allay my stage fright, occasionally reaching 
over to stroke me or my crotch. Despite their tender ministrations, I was 
starting to lose my courage as my tallywhacker lost its firmness. 

That is when Peeves walked through the door, a snazzy bowler topping the egg 
which housed his little grey cells. In his left hand was a flask which looked as 
though it contained one of his bracers. In his right hand he carried a small 
brown parcel.

"It's the man of the hour," I cried with delight, seizing the flask and nearly 
draining it one gulp.

"Yes sir. I thought you could use some spiritual uplifting."

"Rather," I gratefully chirped. "Have you seen the crowd, Peeves?"

"I have sir. The Senior Ganymede Club has decided lend you its support en 
masse."

"Brilliant!" I said. "How about non-club pub members?"

"Let us say that the spirits flow like water amongst them."

"Damn good. Let's hope they don't notice the dearth of dickie."

"I have given that matter some consideration as well, sir. I took the liberty of 
purchasing this afternoon a device which the Americans vulgarly call a cock 
extender."

He presented the parcel to me, and I opened it with trembling hands. Inside was 
a large penile-looking device, skin-like in color. A small sheath of plastic 
drooped like a sausage skin from its rear.

"You are to place the head of your appendage into the sheath, then pull it snug. 
It will add several inches to your length. Due to the high intake of alcoholic 
beverages, I doubt any shall discern the trick, sir."

"Splendid," I said,

"Alas, I fear that your purple prophylactic will not fit over it, as both are 
made of rubber."

"Not to worry," I said as I reached into my pocket for the tickler, still miffed 
at the reception it had received from my performing partners. "I shan't be 
wearing it. Now, if you would be so kind as to dispose of this, preferably by 
taking it out and burning it."

"With the greatest pleasure, sir."

Peeves gracefully eluding a groping hand from Gillian and made his way to the 
door. Once there he paused.

"Mister Choadpuff is in the audience, sir," he said.

"Indeed?" I replied, letting his bracer flow through my systems.

"Yes sir. It would also appear that Mister Choadpuff Senior is in attendance, as 
is Miss Winifred Poon."

"Winnie the Screw?" I said, slightly shocked.

"Yes sir. I hesitate to mention it, and only do so to note that the Choadpuff 
lineage is notorious for its antics upon imbibing. It might be wise to keep your 
eyes upon their table. They are five back on the left hand side, close to the 
wall."

I thanked Peeves for this bit of news. When one is performing it is always good 
to know from which directions the veggies could fly should an audience member 
suddenly decide he is not being properly entertained.

"At least it's not Aunt Christie out in the audience, ehh?" I joked.

Peeves looked as though he were about to say something, then stopped.

"Break a leg, sir" he finally said, then left.

I mulled over Peeves' strange behavior. But the effects of Peeves' bracer crept 
towards Gertie Junior, who now found a reservoir of strength which he used to 
rise up for the task ahead. Taking my cue from the ladies, I quickly divested 
myself of my clothes and prepared for the upcoming role.

Soon I was merrily sticking a big, bushy beard onto my chin and admiring myself 
in the mirror. The beard looked a bit like fornicating squirrels, but it hid the 
lower portion of my face remarkably well. Even Roxanna, Gillian and Jewell were 
impressed by the transformation. When compared side by side, and excluding the 
groinal differential, I did have a leg up on Horsemeat, so to speak. The Poofter 
line tends towards lissome muscularity while the Choadpuff line tends towards 
portly understatement.

Jewell in particular became enamored in tickling the beard, then scratching to 
top of Gertie Junior's head.

"Oui, a miracle it is. You look just like the real Duke," she said. Then she 
knelt to give little Gertie a nice hot kiss with oodles of squishy tongue. 
Gertie Junior got in the spirit of things by supplying a little liquid of his 
own. Meanwhile Jewell's well-manicured fingers began twiddling my nates.

I sat back in the chair to enjoy the sensations of this pre-show undress 
rehearsal. Jewell's tongue motions and fingertips electrified me. A rajah with a 
bevy of winsome, virginal yet randy schoolgirls could not have felt as good as I 
did.

"Excuse me," Gillian said as she bent forward to adjust her hair in the mirror. 
Her maneuver placed her delightful derriere straight in my face. Oil gleamed 
lasciviously from her feminine crack. Short pussy hairs beckoned to me. Being a 
man full in the throes of enjoying life to the fullest, I became lost in the 
moment. I planted my face squarely between her fleshy orbs and commenced to 
eating. 

Gillian gave an unlady-like squeak, but settled her rump more fully upon my 
face. This gave my tongue more latitude to work on the sensitive strip of skin 
between her slick quim and tight oily bunghole.

Wet squishy sounds tapped my eardrums. I turned my head to see Roxanna smirking 
at our carnal coupling, or should that be tripling, all the while filling her 
own moist sexpot with a sturdy black dildo. Roxanna caught me staring.

"I have to warm up for the act," she said, never loosing the tempo of her 
frotting.

An impatient gasp from Gillian, plus a gentle rearward thrust of her rear into 
my temple reminded me of a task closer to hand. Or should I say mouth? I had 
just returned to it when I heard the dressing room door open and a voice I 
recognized as belonging to the walrusy manager intruded coldly.

"Duke, you're on in five minutes. Ayyy! Save it for the show!"

Five minutes later I was striding out onto the stage, a dismal affair which was 
a stage in name only, meaning it was raised above floor and people generally 
looked towards it. I was naked almost as the day I was born, save for the bushy 
beard glued to my chin and the extender wrapped round my dickie. 

Despite my cock sureness, I was almost unmanned to hear a familiar voice cut 
across the gloomy pub interior. It was sounded like my dread Aunt Christie.

I attempted to peer past the floodlights to see what sort of demon was making 
the terrible Christie-like squabbling amongst the smoke and alcohol fumes while 
the walrus began a belated intro.

"Tonight, for our viewing pleasure, we present the special farewell performance 
of the Big Ballocksed Bolshevik," the manager roared. "Unbeknownst to the Duke, 
we have arranged for him to boff not one, not two, but three women! How long can 
he last? When will he cum? Which lovely lady will receive his manly spunk? Place 
your bets at the bar!"

The crowd erupted with a drunken roar which was capped by the inimitable 
banshee-like cackle of Aunt Christie!

All this had the effect of perturbing poor Gertie Junior. Bad enough to be on 
display before a drunken mob expecting carnal wonders, never mind relatives who 
wanted to place you on a large serving tray for the holidays. Gertie Junior 
threatened industrial action. Fortunately the Ballocks brothers, still quivering 
from Jewell's oral administrations, convinced him otherwise. Peeves' bracer also 
gave little Gertie some backbone.

"The rules of the game are simple," the walrus continued. "The Duke will make 
three thrusts into one girl, and will then move on to the next. After three more 
thrusts, he will again move, et cetera et cetera, until as such time as he 
spurts his cream into one of these lovely ladies."

Now Jewell, Gillian and Roxanna strode onto the stage as naked as I. Since I had 
last seen them in the dressing room, the three vixen had painted crude numbers 
in blue upon their arse cheeks. Their shapely oil-anointed bodies positively 
gleamed like forbidden treasures in the light. They also toted simple wooden 
chairs.

They set their chairs on the stage in a semicircle, then bent over them, 
offering up the delights of their behinds to the audience and I.

Now, I usually prefer to diddle only one lady at a time. Two at once was a 
novelty. Three at once was completely outside my experience. But a Poofter does 
not shrink in the face of adversity, and if I must boff three ladies at once, 
then I must.

At this point the manager announced that betting would commence. I made my way 
towards the nearest lass, who happened to be Gillian, in order to start the 
show.

"Not now!" she whispered. "Let them place their bets first."

Chagrined, I stepped back. I could hear some of the crowd members handicapping. 
"Look at the arse on that blond slut! One solid stroke up her and the Duke's 
done for!" "I like the looks of that brunette bint! She's got good bone 
structure, she does."

Meanwhile, the ladies in question began shimmying their rumps and talking back 
to the crowd. 

"Monsieur Duke should be lucky should Jewell decide to let him have his cock 
back," Jewell said over her shoulder while flexing her comely buttocks.

Gillian somehow managed to wink her oily bung, a maneuver much appreciated by 
the inebriated audience. She apparently had a following at Lord Wilmot's Willy 
which began chanting her name.

Even yours truly began getting into the spirit of the act. After all, it was the 
Duke they had come to see do carnal combat with these ladies, and carnal combat 
they would get. I began flexing my muscles, especially those in my abdomen. This 
allowed Gertie Junior to flail through the air threateningly. The crowd, led by 
my bowlerhat-clad fans of the Senior Ganymede Club, cheered. Peeves' cock 
extender did the trick. The crowd accepted me as the original article.

"Sweet angels! That man is a horse," one female exclaimed.

"I want to marry your penis," slurred another lady from the same table.

"So do I," said a decidedly male voice. I ignored him and began playing up to my 
admirers at the hen party.

"You call that a cock?" demanded one very drunken voice, which had all the 
hallmarks of a dissolute Choadpuff. Fortunately he was soon shushed to silence.

At some prearranged signal between the women and the walrus manager, Gillian 
looked towards me, gave a salacious wink, and arched her fanny.

"Bring it on, you big ballocksed bastard," she purred sexily over her shoulder, 
or at least as sexily as a woman can be perched atop a chair in the spotlights 
of a stage in front of a drunken hoard. This hoard erupted in cheers as I 
approached.

The tender lips of her quim glistened in the dim light. Whether this was from 
arousal or the hand applied oil I could not tell, but that mattered not one 
whit. When a Poofter male gets a taste for the naughty he's like a bull ready to 
charge anything which moves.

As I adjusted the head of Gertie Junior, or rather the tip of the cock extender, 
to enter Gillian's humid portal, the lovely lady whimpered to me "Place it in 
slowly. Let me get adjusted."

Not wishing to cause her any injury, I complied, lodging the head just deep 
enough to allow her lower lips to gobble up the head, then stopped.

"Oy! That count as a thrust?" one well-liquored voice inquired.

"Only if he moves his hips backwards," the walrus replied.

Slowly yet interminably I thrust forward, feeling a bit like Sir Edmund Hillary 
exploring new territory. I resisted the urge to shout "Excelsior!" at the 
completion of my short trek deep into mons Gillian. The crowd, which had seemed 
to hold its collective breath prior to insertion, now let loose with a lusty 
shout of "One!"

Gillian for her part gave a muffled woof of appreciation. I noticed that the 
clever lady had managed to place herself at such an angle that those audience 
members on the theaters left wing received an unobstructed view of her backside 
and our coupling, while those on the right were able to view the ecstasy on her 
face.

I withdrew slowly, savoring the sight of the pink tissues of her cunny grasping 
the sides of Gertie Junior as he exited a very friendly place. Once again I 
sallied forth, accompanied by the boisterous cheer of "Two!" I repeated the 
performance to a rousing "Three!", after which I reluctantly disengaged from 
her.

I made my way proudly towards Jewell with the stage lights gleaming off the tip 
of my tool.

Being taller than Jewell, I had to bend my knees to obtain the correct cant for 
her penetration. Once again the crowd counted thrusts as I slid home deep inside 
the lovely lass. Jewell gave a gurgled "Merde!" upon my full entry, and shimmied 
her hips most enticingly while I filled her to the quick.

Relaxing a bit, I decided to show off. For my second thrust I raised my hands in 
the air and did the dirty deed using my hips only. The crowd urged me on.

All too soon I reached the third thrust. Fighting the urge to grab Jewell's hips 
and have at her, let the contest be damned, I disengaged and made my way to 
Roxanna.

Refusing to be outdone by the previous two minxes, Roxanna made a number of 
"oooing" noises when I entered her oil-slicked grotto of delight. I was not 
certain what to make of her vocalizations until I noticed she had cunningly 
positioned herself in counterpoint to Gillian, allowing audience members on the 
opposite theater wing to have an opposite point of view, as it were.

After the initial swing through the ranks I fell into a rather mechanical 
pattern of giving three workman-like strokes and then moving on to the next 
woman. Feeling that this was depriving the audience of the erotic sport they 
were hoping to see, I began hamming it up some more. I would give a vicious 
thrust halfway up, stop, then continue slowly. At other times I would swivel my 
hips as though I were using my private pole as a corkscrew.

It may be pride on my part, but I tend to believe that Jewell in particular was 
affected by those additions to my performance. At one point during a second 
stroke into her she positively hissed like a steam kettle, and I swear she spent 
on thrust number three. Upon reaching her during the next go around I noticed 
her brunette bush seemed to be matted with fluids rather than oil alone.

As for myself, sweat rolled down my back, tickling my tailbone and collecting 
between my arse cheeks as I humped beneath the hot lights amidst the alcoholic 
fumes.

While the feeling of three delightful twats sliding up and down Gertie Junior 
was very delightful, I would be deceiving my public if I did not confess I was 
aided in the performance by the desensitizing effects of the cock extender, 
which protected Gertie Junior from the true onslaught of the aforementioned 
tight crevices. Thanks to this, Peeves' bracer, and the general awkwardness of 
the pornographic positions I was assuming, I was able to continue performing for 
some time. But the crowd's chants and ladies' pants of passion kept me quite 
interested in my task. 

The crowd was very supportive. They especially liked to see the woman I was in 
the process of mounting moan, groan, wail and flail as I filled her. Since each 
lady was a consummate performer they delivered to the crowd's expectations.

"Make her take it all!", "No mercy! Straight up her!", "Squeeze him lass, 
squeeze him!", and "Spurt on Number Three! Number Three!" were just a few of the 
comments which reached us once the crowd tired of the "One two three" chant.

Unfortunately all good things must come to some sort of conclusion. My 
conclusion caught me shortly after I pushed deeply into Gillian. She rewarded me 
with a mighty squeeze as I gave her my deepest attention. I gave her the 
requisite three strokes and moved to Jewell.

Something now felt a bit funny. Jewell seemed tighter and wetter than I 
remembered, and Gertie was enjoying himself a bit more. Then I looked over and 
noticed what looked to be an empty sausage casing dangling between the 
scrunching cheeks of Gillian. I wondered what it was until I noted this casing 
bore a remarkable resemblance to the portion of the cock extender which was 
supposed to enclose Gertie Junior.

It seems my cock extender was now trapped balls deep, as it were, inside 
Gillian. This meant that Gertie Junior was left naked and defenseless against 
the heat and pressure of Jewell's squeezing pussy. It was no contest. Jewell 
brought me to the bursting point, and I was forced to acknowledge this as I 
withdrew and found myself spurting pint after pint of white liquid passion 
across her arse. Those in the crowd who had bet on Number Two whooped with joy.

It took a few minutes for the crowd to notice that Gertie Junior's size change 
was due to more than mere detumescence. If I had had more energy I would have 
taken my bows and hustled off the stage then and there, but Jewell had truly 
sucked the sap from me.

I could hear slight titters and mutters, which grew into a groundswell of boos, 
the loudest of which came from Aunt Christie. I narrowly missed a mug thrown in 
my direction by one intoxicated lout.

At this point the Ballocks Brothers informed the other bodily organs of their 
intent to scamper back to the protective groin, having lost their earlier joie 
de vivre.

"Foul! Foul!" cried one very upset cove. "This contest is fixed. I want my money 
back!" 

His sentiment struck a nerve with the crowd. Even those patrons friendly to me, 
or at least those who had wagered on Number Two, quickly demanded repayment of 
their covercharges. I looked in vain for the Choadpuff crew. They were nowhere 
to be seen, although my Aunt Christie looked ready to smash a bottle and have at 
poor Gertie Junior herself.

Meanwhile the walrus manager took refuge behind the bar as if he were the last 
member of the French Foreign Legion defending a fort from the Arabs.

Suddenly the outside door was thrown open by one of London's finest, looking 
resplendent in Her Majesty's royal blue police uniform. It was firmly pressed 
and possessed buttons which positively shone. Even the nightstick held in his 
right hand seemed to gleam so that the audience, and yours truly, were 
transfixed like moths.

"How now! What have we got here?" he said, punctuating his words with shakes of 
that nightstick.

A cursory glance around the estab would probably have answered his question - a 
drunken mob was about to rend into pieces one poor Gertram Poofter, who, through 
no fault of his own, had been forced to participate in a show of lascivious 
nature and nebulous artistic intent.

Descending the stairs, the bobby continued waving his nightstick, this time 
directing it towards the now pale walrus cum manager, who had been quietly 
stuffing scads of cash into a sack behind the bar.

"Oh me beauty," the bobby said with evident glee. "You are nicked!"

"What did I do?" the manager stammered, his hands gripping a large pile of 
bills.

"Let's see," said the bobby, striding purposefully towards the bar, ticking off 
points of law on his fingers with the nightstick.

"One: running an illegal betting establishment. Two: serving alcoholic beverages 
without the proper license. And three..." here the bobby whirled to point his 
nightstick straight at yours truly, "...putting on lewd, disgusting and 
perverted shows!"

Upon hearing this the mob began muttering angrily.

"Pardon me officer," my Aunt Christie piped up. "But you forgot to mention false 
advertising."

"Whazzat?" said the bobby, nonplused.

"False advertising," Aunt Christie repeated. "We were distinctly promised a 
performance by Duke Dinkonovich, the big ballocksed Bolshevik. Yet that 
gentleman on stage could not, by any stretch of the imagination be considered to 
have big ballocks. In fact, he rather reminds me of my wayward nephew."

The bobby pondered this for a split second.

"That's a bit beyond me jurisdiction, ma'am. However..." here he turned so that 
the entire crowd would know that he addressed them. "You will all have your 
chance to lodge a complaint down at the station - once I've run you in for lewd 
and indecent behavior!"

If the crowd was steaming before, now they positively boiled. "You can't..", 
"How dare..." and all that. Unperturbed, the bobby slowly made his way towards 
the front door, undoubtedly to call forth more of his constabulary brethren. 
There was a smile of supreme satisfaction on his face as though he'd just had 
sexual congress with the entire audience.

That is when a most extraordinary thing occurred. From out of the gloom flew a 
hideous creature. It was black, yet had eerie white spiny appendages. It did not 
so much fly as hop, and its trajectory caused it to alight directly across the 
bobby's face. He screamed in surprise, clawing at it till it fell to the floor, 
whereupon he commenced to mindlessly and repeatedly beating it with his 
nightstick while shouting "Space alien! Damn space alien!" It was then I 
recognized the flying beast as being my former sporty french tickler.

This sudden outburst galvanized the crowd into action. Actually, I should say, 
flight. Or, more appropriately, complete bedlam.

I suddenly found myself facing a wall of panicked customers who had arisen en 
masse from their seats to seek refuge via the nearest exit.

Several chaps, thinking perhaps that the stage would provide the fastest means 
of egress, vaulted onto the performing area. This turned out to be a mistake, as 
the stage floor was still slick with the collected oil, sweat and spendings left 
by myself and my performing companions during the show. The men quickly found 
themselves on uncertain footing. One lost his balance completely and clutched at 
the nearest object to halt his fall. 

That object happened to be the cheap curtain framing the stage. It was less 
substantially anchored than the man urgently clutching it had supposed. With a 
loud rip the curtains' support wires gave way, sending a very large piece of 
cloth floating ghost-like over the heads of many in the audience. 

I too was caught in the impromptu blackout and struggled to free myself from the 
curtain's clutches. This task was made more difficult by the gyrations of others 
sharing my plight.

Finally I persevered, only to witness an even stranger sight. Black bowler hats 
were flying through the air like lethal weapons. Apparently the chappies of the 
Senior Ganymede Club were making known their objection to the manager absconding 
with their hard-earned cash. That fellow had nearly made it up the stairs and to 
the door with bag fattened by bills when the first discus struck him full on the 
bridge of his nose. Stunned, the manager toppled backwards under the barrage. 
Through some fluke of physics, the string on the bag opened, letting loose a 
torrent of fivers and teners.

Throughout all this the stalwart bobby was still bludgeoning my french tickler 
to death shouting "Die you damn demon!"

Calculating that discretion would now be more appropriate than valor, I managed 
to sneak over to the hall leading to the dressing room. I had hoped to find my 
clothes and beat a retreat. Unfortunately the room was currently occupied.

On the chair where I had recently enjoyed the ministrations of three lovely 
ladies sat a woman who in turn was seated atop a man. Her back was to me, so her 
body blocked my view of his face. What I could see was that they were bucking 
with gusto. My attention was caught by a third man who was busy pawing through 
the various lubricating oils on the dresser and using some to anoint his cock.

It was Horsemeat! And judging from the girth of the weapon ensconced in the 
tight grip of the woman, Choadpuff Senior was also in attendance. Which made the 
woman...

"Winnie! For god's sake relax your anus or I shall tear it open," Horsemeat said 
upon turning back to the rutting couple.

Winifred leaned forward while reaching behind her to open her secret valley. 
Horsemeat began lubing her narrower hole with more of the oil. How he was going 
to fit his colossal cock up her tightest opening while his father used an 
equally impressive prick to plunder her quim was beyond me.

Judging from the groan which emanated from Winnie's throat as Horsemeat slid 
home, the sexual feat nearly was beyond her.

"Not so fast, love!" she squealed.

The ever gallant Horsemeat slowed. But in no time the trio was pumping and 
thrusting madly, their gasps and groans of delight in commingling with the 
pandemonium outside. Winnie in particular seemed to enjoy herself. If her moans 
were any indication, she was having a deeply religious experience.

Unfortunately I was too jaded by recent events to enjoy the spectacle. So I 
crept to my pile of clothes and quickly dressed.

"See," Winnie gasped at one point. "If the three of us can only work together we 
can make wonderful music."

Choadpuff Junior and Senior could only huff their agreement.

At this point I crept out the door. Fortunately the commotion had died down 
since most of the crowd had fled. There was still a loud hammering issuing from 
the pub. It was accompanied by a voice shrieking "Die, damn you! Die!"

I looked about for a back door. My search seemed to be in vain until I was 
grasped upon the elbow by a slim, well-manicured hand.

"Monsieur, risky it is to go that way. La Surete is waiting," the lovely Jewell 
said. 

With that she escorted me down several ancient halls which reminded me of the 
proverbial rat warrens. We exited through a small door into a narrow alley. Once 
there my charming companion turned to me and said, "You are lucky you did Jewell 
nicely. Otherwise I would have let monsieur be taken by the gendarmes."

"They're waiting for victims, are they?"

"Oui. Already they arrest one little old lady who knock them down shouting 'I am 
Poofter. You no arrest me.'"

Jewell gave me a sly wink, and patted Gertie Junior. Then she leaned up to give 
me a quick kiss on the lips. It was as though someone had touched an electric 
prod to my lips. Even Gertie Junior, tired as he was, gave a quick throb of 
approval.

With that, Jewell stepped back and casually sauntered down the alley, leaving me 
behind.

I managed to stagger home, buoyed by the amazing news about Aunt Christie. Upon 
reaching my domicile I went straight to my bed and fell across it face first. I 
fell asleep before I could even remove my shoes.

The heavenly scent of coffee and breakfast filled the air when I awoke the next 
morning. I was further delighted to find that Peeves had filled the tub. I 
quickly undressed and slid my aching body into the calming elixir.

After a few minutes of relaxing, I began pondering the prospects of Aunt 
Christie in prison and out of my hair for a period of weeks. Joy filled my soul 
until it would burst, and I was forced to start singing the old ballad "It's 
Hard To See Your Eyes When I'm Stuck Between Your Thighs" just to alleviate the 
pressure.

That was when Peeves entered, bearing a tray containing breakfast, a newspaper, 
and a note.

"What's this?" I asked, indicating the note. "I hope it's not Aunt Christie 
requesting I put up her bail."

"No sir. You will find the travails of your aunt documented on page five of the 
newspaper, entwined within the story entitled 'PC mugged by french condom'. The 
missive was left by Mister Choadpuff Junior."

I opened the strange letter and read the following:

"Dear Gertie. Great news. I'm now back in the fold, thanks to Winnie. Seems her 
carnal exploits have left her so loose only my and my father's equipment can 
satisfy her! She has insisted that Father and I make amends, which we have done. 
Huzzah, huzzah! Sincerely, Horsemeat."

"Oh this is splendid," I said, as full of rapture as one can be on a sunny 
morning while sitting in a full tub and eating breakfast after a night of carnal 
bliss.

"Indeed, sir. It would seem that Miss Winifred wields not inconsiderable power 
within the Choadpuff family."

"You know," I said as I lay back. "The resolution of Horsemeat's prob rather 
reminds me of that poem by that old cove, what's his name, who wrote 'She who 
sucks the balls runs the show.'"

"I believe you are referring to John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, sir. 'His 
scepter and his prick are of a length; and she may sway the one who plays with 
the other.'"

"That's the chappie!" I said. "A very bright fellow. By the by, would you happen 
to have a bit more toast?"

Peeves complied with my request, leaving me behind to revel in a most glorious 
day.

The End

shadowloup@aol.com