A Right Royal Rogering

When he told Henry that one of the Sunday papers was sending him out to interview Sir Basil Wilmington-Grey, the first thing that Henry said was: ‘Make sure that you register with the embassy out there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. In my experience, they’re always pleased to see someone from Blighty. And they have some bloody good parties. Not much else to do, I suppose. Oh, and be sure you pack a white dinner jacket. Lightweight. It can get bloody warm out there.’

When he arrived ‘out there’, he checked in at his hotel and then wandered along and registered with the embassy. Henry had not been wrong. They did seem pleased to see him. And, even before he had left the building, some chap was thrusting a gold-edged invitation into his hand. ‘Thursday. Seven-thirty. The Ballroom at the Grand Hotel. Overlooking the beach. Salvatore Sabatini and His Royal Caribbeans. We’re expecting a good turnout.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I shall, umm, dust off my dancing shoes.’

The chap frowned. But then he nodded. ‘Yes. Good idea,’ the chap said. ‘The Ambassador is not averse to rolling up the carpet after a few sherbets.’

The writer was, himself, not averse to a bit of a formal party. As his friend Carolyn was wont to say: ‘Always great places to gather a bit of copy.’

He wasn’t entirely sure of the protocol. He didn’t want to arrive at the party too early. But, on the other hand, he wasn’t sure that his status — or lack thereof — allowed him to be too ‘fashionably late’. He aimed for 7:45 and arrived pretty much on the dot.

When he entered the ballroom, there were perhaps forty or so guests, mixing and mingling, and there were almost as many people serving drinks and canapés. If there was cold beer on offer, he didn’t see it, and so he accepted a glass of well-chilled champagne instead.

As the chap at the embassy had promised, there was a band. Or should it be called an orchestra? Either way, the band-stroke-orchestra was part palm-court orchestra and part reggae band. Rather a strange combination perhaps, but it seemed to work remarkably well.

Funnily enough, the first person he recognised was Dan Herkus, the triple silver medal-winning Olympian. He had written a profile piece on Dan Herkus for Executive Decisions. ‘Is this business or pleasure?’ he asked the now-retired Olympian.

‘A bit of both. I’m out here to give a pep talk to a bunch of civil servants who are here on a jolly,’ Dan Herkus said. ‘So that part is work. Bloody hard work. But tonight … tonight is pure pleasure. I’m rather hoping that there may be some spare crumpet. You never know with an event like this.’

Yes. He could imagine that Dan Herkus might be a bit of a babe magnet. ‘And is there a reason for this little gathering?’ the writer asked Dan. The invitation had been suitably vague, but if anyone knew the full story he thought that it would probably be Dan.

‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ Dan Herkus said. ‘I suspect that the Ambassador probably just felt like a bit of a knees-up. Not a lot else for him to do out here really, is there?’

After chatting to Don Herkus for a while, the writer drifted about the room, introducing himself to anyone who looked as though they might be interesting, anyone who looked as though they might have a story to tell. It all made for ‘useful material’. Little snippets of this and that that he could massage into a future short stories. Little anecdotes that might kick off a future magazine piece.

At one stage, he noticed a group of guests sarıyer escort centred on a woman who looked vaguely … well … vaguely familiar. Someone famous, perhaps. An actress? A TV personality? Or maybe not. The writer had met several ‘famous’ people and, in real life, none of them looked quite like they did on TV or in the movies. Nevertheless, the woman did have something about her. And she certainly seemed right at home as the centre of attention.

To judge from the reactions of those around her, she seemed to be quite amusing. Although perhaps not quite as amusing as those around her encouraged her to think that she was. She was not especially pretty. But she was quite good looking in a rather classic way. And he assumed that she had money. Or that, at some stage in her life, she had had money. Her frock, while probably not new, looked as though it might have once cost a great deal.

Yes, there was definitely something about her. Perhaps there was story to be had. Perhaps he could get to know her a little. He decided that he would wait for the crowd around her to thin out a bit before making his move. But then, at the critical moment, he was approached by another woman, a woman who wished to tell him how much she had enjoyed his recent piece in The Devil’s Despatch Box. (Quite how the woman knew who he was was somewhat beyond him. Perhaps someone from the embassy had pointed him out.) And then, when he had disentangled himself from his ‘fan girl’, the other woman, the woman who had seemed so at ease with being a centre of attention, had gone. Oh, well.

The writer was just thinking that perhaps it was time that he too should thank his hosts and disappear into the night, when a chap who had seemed to hover near the centre-of-attention woman for most of the evening approached him, handed him a note, and retreated again. The chap smiled but said nothing. Not a single word.

The writer unfolded the note and then he too smiled. Handwritten, with a real pen, in blue-black ink, on pale blue laid paper, it simply said: ‘We would be delighted if you would join us in Suite 501 for a nightcap.’ Ah-ha. An afterparty. So … that was where everybody had gone. And, yes, if it would provide an opportunity for him to finally meet her, he would be only too happy to join them.

He entered the lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor. When the doors opened again, there, once again, was the chap who had handed him the note. As before, the chap said nothing. But he nodded slightly and gestured with his hand to indicate that Suite 501 was the first door on the left.

‘Thank you,’ the writer said. He walked the few paces along the corridor, and knocked on the door of Suite 501. Somewhat to his surprise, the woman answered the door herself.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘I hoped that you would.’

On the other side of the door, there was a small entry hallway and, beyond that, a sitting room fit for royalty. There did not appear to be any other guests. There did not appear to be any ‘we’. There was just her.

‘Cognac?’ she said.

‘Umm … thank you.’

She pointed towards a bottle of Remy Martin XO and couple brandy balloons standing on a silver tray. ‘Perhaps you would do the honours,’ she said.

Yes. Of course he would. He poured a small splash of cognac into each glass. But before he could hand her one, she said: ‘Oh, I think we could be a little more generous than that, don’t you?’ esenyurt escort And she smiled.

He added a second splash to each of the glasses.

‘Cin cin,’ she said.

He raised his glass in a silent toast and took a sip of the mellow-but-fiery liquor. Nice. Yes. Very nice.

‘Did you enjoy this evening’s little gathering?’ she asked.

‘Yes. I think so,’ he said.

She smiled. ‘Marks out of ten?’

‘Umm … perhaps a seven?’ he said.

‘A seven? Yes. I don’t think would give it more than a seven. Although I did think that the orchestra was rather good.’

‘They were,’ he said. ‘It was.’

They chatted on for a few minutes, and then, as if by magic, her glass was empty. ‘Perhaps we should have the other half,’ she said with a mischievous smile.

He smiled too. She certainly knew how to put away the hard stuff. He refilled their glasses. It wasn’t every day that he got the chance to drink XO.

‘Thank you,’ she said, when he returned her glass. ‘I think we should perhaps take them through, don’t you?’

Take them through what, he wondered. But before the thought — the question — had even finished forming, she was leading him through into the adjoining bedroom.

Like the sitting room, the bedroom was fit for royalty. Even calling it a bedroom was rather underplaying it. It should probably have been called a bed chamber. It reminded him of something from Hampton Court Palace. Or Clarence House. (Not that he had ever seen the bedrooms at Clarence House.)

She put her cognac down on one of the bedside tables, and then turned her back to him. ‘You will have to help me with my frock,’ she said. ‘There is a clasp at the top. And then a zip fastener. And then get those bags off. Oh … and your socks too. I knew a German count once. I had to tell him that gentlemen do not wear their socks to bed. I put it down to his having grown up in a draughty schloss. I take it that you did not grow up in a draughty schloss.’

‘No.’

‘Oh, good.’

He unclasped her clasp. Unzipped her zip. And stood by for further instructions.

‘Bags,’ she reminded him, as she allowed her designer frock to fall to the floor.

Well, he had planned to get to know her. But this was all rather more that he had expected. He was pleased that he had chosen relatively plain blue-striped boxer shorts to wear under his dress trousers. He wasn’t sure that she would have approved of any of his more jokey undergarments.

Beneath her frock she was wearing a simple, but no doubt expensive, slip. He suspected that she was also wearing fine stockings rather than tights. Or perhaps they were stay-ups. She reached up under her slip, lowered her knickers, and then stepped out of them. ‘Come on, man,’ she said. ‘You have work to do.’ And then she went and lay on the bed and signalled for him to join her.

Up until that point, he hadn’t really considered her age. But in the suitably softly-lit bed chamber, he would have put her in her mid-to-late-forties.

Lying on her back, slightly propped up on pillows, she pulled up the hem of her slip, exposing her hairy growler, and revealing that her stockings were indeed stay-ups. ‘Your shorts will need to go, too,’ she said as she spread her legs.

‘Yes. I suppose so,’ he said. And he duly lowered them.

In the normal scheme of things, he might have started by giving her a bit of a tonguing. It had been suggested — by more than one member of the opposite sex — that he avrupa yakası escort had a very ‘educated’ tongue. However, as she helpfully parted her hairy curtains, he got the feeling that she wanted his cock, and she wanted it now. He took his cock in hand, gave it a couple of encouraging pumps, and lined it up with her already-glistening hole.

‘Oh, fuck, yes!’ she said. ‘In you go. There’s a good chap.’

Again, in the normal scheme of things, he might have slid in slowly. Savouring each millimetre. Delighting in each little corrugation of her secret tunnel. But, no. No sooner was the head of his cock past the slippery entrance than she had ‘swallowed’ him whole.

‘Oh, fuck, yes!’ she said again. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

And fuck, fuck, fuck he did. And then he paused.

‘Don’t stop now, man!’ she said.

‘Not stopping,’ he said. ‘Just giving the little tadpoles a chance to assemble on the quarterdeck. A chance to get ready for the … umm … invasion. Assuming an invasion is permitted.’

‘Yes. By all means. Invade away,’ she said. ‘It’s all right. I’ve been fixed. Although it might be rather nice if you could postpone the invasion for just a little bit longer. I’m rather enjoying this.’

With a certain amount of difficulty, he did postpone the invasion for another five minutes or so, but then it all became too much. Happily, at about the same moment that he sent off the landing craft, she reached a shuddering orgasm.

‘Oh, yes. Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ she said. And then, when she had calmed down a bit, she said: ‘You’re quite good at this, aren’t you? I rather thought that you might be.’

‘We aim to please,’ he said.

‘Yes. Well, you certainly did that. You could do it for a living.’

He laughed.

‘You don’t do it for a living do you?’ she said, frowning. ‘You’re not one of those gigolo chaps?’

‘Gracious no.’

‘So what do you do for a living?’

‘I’m a writer,’ he said.

‘Oh. Books.’

‘Well … book,’ he said. ‘Singular.’

She nodded. ‘And is it any good.’

‘Henry, my publisher, clearly thought so. And I suppose, at the time, I must have thought so too. Now … well, now I’m not so sure.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘But I have almost completed a second book. I think the second one will be rather better.’

‘And what is this second book about?’

‘I suppose it’s about life. The life that one inevitably ends up living when the life one had planned goes awry.’

She nodded. ‘Sounds interesting. I may have to read it,’ she said.

‘And what do you do?’ he asked.

‘What do I do?’ She frowned briefly. ‘Oh, just princessy things. You know.’

‘Princessy things?’

‘Yes. We give speeches. We open garden shows and old people’s homes. We review chaps in uniforms. Princessy things. It’s what princesses do.’

‘Princess, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Good one. My father used to call my sister Princess,’ he said. ‘She went on to study pharmacology. She now dispenses meds and stuff at Boots the Chemists.’

She nodded, approvingly, before going on to say: ‘Unfortunately, we real princesses are rather discouraged from going into trade.’

He laughed again. Lightly.

They finished their cognacs and then she said that she really should try and get some sleep. ‘I’m a bit out of my time zone,’ she explained. ‘I will be hopeless tomorrow if I don’t get some sleep.’

He nodded understandingly, dressed again, and bade her goodnight. ‘Thank you for the drink and the … well … you know.’

‘No. Thank you,’ she said. ‘And I hope that your new book does well. I shall have my people keep a look out for it.’

The following morning, when he went online to the local news site, one particular headline caught his attention:

Princess makes unannounced appearance at British Ambassador’s party