Well, you prob'ly heard how I became blow-job queen of the Home Counties after
Oliver spun me that tale. You remember, the one that says once you get a man past
a certain point he's got to come or it kills him? Well, of course, it was a load
of bollocks. You must have thought me a total nana.... Oh, you fell for it once
too, did you, darling? That makes me feel better, though I was mortified when I
first found out.

And I have to say I loved cock-sucking. Still do, come to that. Not only did it
make me popular, it also filled those awkward silences. I can chatter away to
you, no problem  --  I mean friends’re different, aren't they? But get me alone
with a boy I fancy and I can’t think of a thing to say. And of course while I was
blowing them I didn’t have to think of topical topics or remember to ask
interesting questions. So all in all it worked out for the best, I suppose,
though I’ve moved on quite a bit since then....

I’ll tell you the whole story, but first things first. Let’s order and then I’ll
explain how Daddy made the Nice-but-Dim’s family fortune and I learned about
bottom-fucks....

@---}---}----

Wasn’t the election a scream? Can’t believe it’s been nearly a year already.
Daddy was frothing on the night itself but once he’d calmed down ‘bout losing his
seat (that does make me laugh  -- as if anyone *could* lose Daddy’s seat  -- 
however hard his tailor tries there’s no escaping Daddy’s majority in the
backside department).  God, here I am getting sidetracked again.....

Anyway, like I said, he was frothing the night Labour got in, but only a day or
two later he popped up to town for lunch with a couple of chaps at his club. When
he finally waltzed home at four in the morning he woke us all up to tell us we
were quids in. "Bloody red buggers..!" he kept roaring. "Fucked ‘em! Fucked the
bloody buggers!"

Mummy told him to shut up, the new au pair may be Italian but parts of her
English vocabulary are quite extensive enough already. "I’ll extend more than her
fucking vocabulary," Daddy bellowed. "Fuck her, fuck them and fuck the European
fucking Community! I'm going to be rich! I’m stinking!"

"I can see that," Mummy observed dryly. "You're blootered. What’s happened,
Henry?"

Well, it turns out the little sidelines Daddy’s been running ever since Maggie
first got in (God -- d'you realise that was before I was christened!) -- you know
the sort of thing -- cash for questions, consultancies -- weren’t absolutely
strictly legal.

I must admit I once tried to work out how he fitted it all in but gave up. It
made my head hurt. I mean Daddy advised dozens of different companies as well as
being an MP. I s’pose it explains why we never saw much of him. Mummy used to
mutter something about him being off exercising his right honourable member, but
even I know an honourable member is something you are, not something you use, so
she must have got mixed up somewhere.

At the time Daddy said all this extra work was his duty -- helping the economy
and so forth  --  besides being the only way a public servant could make ends
meet. But it turned out that if he *had* kept his seat in the election it
wouldn’t have been a very comfortable one. The next items on his agenda would’ve
been a government enquiry and a media expose. But of course as soon as he wasn’t
an MP any more the tabloids couldn’t give a stuff about him so the Select
Committee lost interest too.

"And because I know where whole graveyards full of bodies are buried, not only
can the bastards not get me for the past, they can’t bollocks me in the future
either. Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow and dollops and dollops of beautiful jam
today!" Daddy sang.

I was just thinking what a wonderful way with words he had when he was very sick
in one of Mummy’s dried arrangements. Spoilt the effect somewhat.

When he sobered up Mummy got him to explain it all properly. Apparently the bods
he lunched with were something in the City of London, wankers he said, but that
can't be right. Anyway, they had a number of rather good ideas. So nowadays, as
Daddy says, life’s all one long profitable loophole with no dreary ministering to
clog up the works.

He missed his government chauffeur for the first few weeks, but now he can afford
his own driver. I’ve never seen him in such a good mood. He says the new chap’s
much more civil than the civil service one anyway. He keeps telling people that
-- thinks it’s ever so funny. They’ve threatened to ban him from the golf club if
he repeats it one more time. @---}---}----

Getting filthy rich meant we saw even less of Daddy than before, so Mummy wisely
found herself a hobby. Polo. Bit like golf on horses.

I couldn’t understand it at first. I mean Mummy doesn’t even like horses. And
although the riders are mostly real hunks, they’re miles too young for her. Most
of them are foreign anyway, and they can be terribly casual. Sometimes they
change their shirts -- and even their breeches -- in full view of the spectators.
They scratch themselves. Some of them even spit. Gross....

Mummy’s always been stuffy about manners. But she doesn’t seem to mind these
horsey types. She’s really kind to them, especially the Argentinians. She even
collects their dirty kit from the horseboxes and takes it home for Pia or Maria
to wash. "Poor lonely boys," says Mumsie. "So far from home and its comforts."

I expect she’d like another baby really  --  but even if she wasn’t past her
sell-by date Daddy’s never around to do the business  --  so fat chance. Poor
lonely Mummy. If polo fills a niche, then good luck to her!

But the attractions of polo were still a complete mystery to me until I met Greek
Eddie. I was mooching about by the horseboxes one afternoon, kicking the heads
off daisies in the long grass and thinking about what I was wearing to some bash
later when I tripped over some loose boots and sat down in a heap. When I looked
up all I could see was this utterly beautiful dark brown man with white breeches
and bugger all else on.

The sun was shining directly behind him, so I couldn’t see his face. "Fuckin’
dozy Inglish bich!" he screamed viciously. "You could’ve broken my ankle. As it
is you ‘ave prubbly ruined my boots!"  And then  he stopped, and stared at me. I
must’ve woken him up when I tripped, because he was rubbing his eyes.

Well if my own ankle wasn’t actually broken it was badly sprained, and I hate
being shouted at. So I burst into tears. Immediately he crouched down by my side,
tilted my face up with one finger under my chin and said "poor pritty Inglish
butterfly" in the most gorgeous accent I ever heard.

"Are you broken, Keem, my baybee?" he asked. "Eddie will rescue you." And before
I could ask him how he knew my name he scooped me up in his arms and strode off
towards the first aid tent. I was cuddled up to his bare brown chest. He was
probably the best looking man I’ve ever seen  --  like a Greek statue  --  all in
shades of brown apart from his teeth. Which isn’t that weird really, because he
was.... Not a statue. Greek. Otherwise why would anyone call him Greek Eddie?

And as well as being a total hunk he was incredibly sweaty. That was amazing. I
mean everyone’s so clean aren’t they? The only time I’ve ever come across someone
who didn’t smell of shower gel was a cleaning lady we once had who had damp
patches under her arms which smelt of onions. The patches, that is, not the arms.

Eddie didn’t smell of onions. He smelled of brand new sweat distilled entirely
from male hormones. It was seriously good news he was carrying me. My legs went
so weak I’d have fallen over if he hadn’t been. Who’d’ve thought sweat could be
sexy?

The first aiders were thrilled to see us at first, especially as I knew a couple
from my course. They lost interest a bit once they saw there wasn’t any blood. I
heard one volunteer grumbling that the ankle she’d had on the mock-up had had
splinters of bone sticking out, whereupon the bolster-in-charge told her to shut
up and be grateful she had a real accident instead of a Boy Scout and some
Plasticine.

They patched me up and Eddie kept stroking my leg in a comforting sort of way,
though as his hand advanced up my thigh I couldn’t help wondering how he was
going to convince me and a whole tentful of first aiders that he was stroking my
pussy in a comforting sort of way. Luckily they’d finished bandaging my ankle
before Eddie got that far, and he helped me to his car as I hopped rather
clumsily on the crutch I’d been lent. "Pieces of eight," I squawked, and Eddie
laughed. It was love.

He insisted on escorting me to the ball. I couldn’t dance, so he wouldn’t dance,
he said. It was only fair. He dropped me back at the house and said he’d come
round to collect me later.

I showered with my foot stuck outside the cubicle to keep the bandage dry. It
seemed a good idea at the time, but while I was washing my hair standing on one
leg with my eyes shut I fell over. Maria, our housekeeper, heard the godawful
crash I made and came to rescue me muttering under her breath. She seems very
religious -- always prays whenever I have anything to do with her.

Of course the carpet was absolutely soaked and worse than that, I’d given myself
a dreadful whack on my top lip. I looked like someone had started injecting stuff
into it to give me a Kim Basinger pout and forgotten to stop. It was bleeding too
-- claret everywhere.

Well, I couldn't go to a party looking like that but I couldn’t ring Eddie
either, because not only did I not know his number I didn’t even know which team
he was in, so I just had to wait for him to arrive and break the bad news then.
Maria helped arrange me on one of the little sofas in Mummy’s pretty sitting room
and I sat there feeling cheesed off about our ruined evening.

Eddie turned up half an hour early with a bottle of Bolly and Maria showed him
in. He didn’t seem a bit fed up that I wasn’t going. "You do not go, so I do not
go," he announced. "I spit on their balls." I watched him nervously but he
didn’t. Thank God. The drawing room carpet’s what they call ‘important’.

"A chance to know each other" he said. "Better" I added automatically. God, my
lip hurt. He smiled. "A chance to know each other better. Is exact."

So he sat on the carpet leaning against the sofa gazing up at me like a Labrador
I once had. Such wonderful brown eyes. So loyal... And we drank the champagne and
he started feeling me up. He couldn’t kiss my mouth, but he soon got my tits out
and started snogging them, which I love. And all that other stuff, you know.....

Very soon I was wearing nothing but tiny white pants. "Like Elle Macpherson, but
far more sexy," Eddie murmured. He did most of the talking, which was great. I’m
no good at small talk at the best of times, but with a split lip it was a total
nightmare. So it was lovely Eddie talked so much. Most of it was blush-making
stuff about how beautiful I was, and how the saints must’ve been smiling when I
fell over his boots and into ‘is ‘eart... I was pretty sure our vicar would
object to that. Sacrilege or something  --  except our church doesn’t go in for
saints much anyway.. Well, apart from St. George  --  but he killed things.

And then I remembered. "Eddie," I asked. "How did you know my name already?" He
shifted a little and looked away as though he’d got something in his eye. Then he
cleared his throat and smiled up at me like a happy spaniel.

"Keem, Keem -- who on the polo circuit does not know the daughter of the
warm-hearted Madame Nice-but-Deem? Keem, my little dove, you and your mother are
much-loved, believe me. You have qualities few of your sex share."

The sincerity of this tribute made tears well in my eyes. And I was just about to
unzip his trousers to show him how moved I was when I realised my mouth was
completely whores de combat. I couldn’t suck my top teeth let alone a handsome
Greek’s column. "Oh bugger!" I cried, rather spoiling the beauty of the moment.

Because of course in those days I still believed the no b.j. means death legend,
and the full horror of our situation had only just dawned on me. What in heaven’s
name were we to do?

It’s easy to see that Daddy’s had a huge impact on my life. Ever since I first
came on I’ve been obsessed with not becoming a one parent family. I mean he
starts going a nasty colour when he even talks about them. So I’m still a virgin.

Family planning isn't reliable. Can't be, stands to reason, or they wouldn't call
it family planning, would they? I mean, it assumes a family. I once told a
girlfriend the only thing I trusted to stop me getting pregnant was not doing it
at all. "It’s foolproof," I said. "I can see why that might appeal," she said.
Cheeky cow.

Mummy doesn’t like unmarried mothers either but she’s not half so hard-line. In
fact she once said something about how in her day a well-timed pregnancy was a
girl’s best friend. But then she said she hadn’t said it, so I don’t know what
she was on about. I think it’s her age.

In fact it must be, because after she’d said what she said she hadn’t said, Daddy
piped up with "Some women would never have got themselves a husband at all
without a shotgun," in a meaning sort of way and she went bright red and said "I
haven’t had any complaints recently!" and Daddy said "Only because the customer’s
always right, you raddled old biddy" and she ran upstairs and shut herself in the
bathroom. Sometimes I think those two talk in code.

But here I was with Eddie, no immediate first aid to hand, and no idea what to do
next.

"Oh Eddie, you’re going to hate me," I mumbled. "I can’t suck you off with my
mouth like this -- look at me! And I’m useless at hand-jobs! What in heaven’s
name are we going to do? Would it help if I got Maria to call you an ambulance?"

"What is this?" he looked at me blankly. "I am confusing. I hear of the English
taste for costumes. You wish to play doctors and nurses, per’apps, my cherub?"

Clearly he had no idea how serious his position might become. So I explained our
looming emergency to him, and my virginity, and he started laughing, and then he
stopped very quickly. It was good of me to be concerned of 'is ‘ealth, he said,
but ‘e ‘ad a solution. Daddy would have told him to take an aspirate, but I
hadn’t the nerve.

"Let us, my angel, try my country’s speciality," he suggested. Well, I’m no
expert but I couldn’t see what possible use taramasalata could be in our
predicament. I must’ve been looking totally baffled because he smiled very
patiently and said "I will fuck your bottom, yes?"

You will fuck my bottom, no, was what I was thinking, but it seemed a terribly
selfish attitude so I kept it to myself. "OK, then," I said. "Might as well be
hung for a sheep as a lamb." But that set off this crazy mental picture of
someone fucking a hung sheep’s bottom and I got the giggles.

Which was a good thing, because Greek Eddie didn’t hang about. If I hadn’t been
giggling I think the next bit might’ve hurt. As it was he had his hand inside the
edge of my knickers and a finger right up my bum before I had a chance to tense
up. And it felt OK. A bit full and shy-making, but OK.

He jiggled his finger in and out a bit, and kissed my tits and my neck hard for
what seemed a long time. I was beginning to rather like this. I wondered whether
this felt at all the same as fucking. Then he slipped his finger out of my still
rather surprised little bottom, wriggled my knickers down and off, and started
putting me in a better position.

"Come, my little angel, move like this for Eddie," his voice caressed me.
Propping my bad ankle up carefully on some silly little cushions we’ve got, he
swivelled me round until I was kneeling on the rug with my tummy resting on the
sofa and my arms braced against the back. I would’ve liked more of the stroking
and kissing bit myself, but men are always in such a rush aren’t they?

I heard him preparing to spit behind me, and feared the worst. What the hell
would make him want to spit now? God, I’m thick. Of course he must’ve used the
lick to grease his tadger  --  I mean I expect some people have proper lubricants
hanging around the drawing room but we’re just not that sort of family. Apart
from butter, sometimes, but that’s only for scones. Not buns. Jesus, I made up a
joke. A real joke! On purpose! Golly.

So I was kneeling as if I was worshipping the sofa and thinking all these jumbled
thoughts when all of a sudden I felt this presence at my arse. He was sort of
looming  --  I could feel him rubbing the soft hot purply end of his dick up and
down between my arse cheeks like a warm plum. His movements were slow and
lingering, stopping completely for a moment every time he touched the actual hole
itself.

It was nice. It was very nice. I could actually feel my bum hole sort of
yearning. It was trying to open outwards. And then he very gently pushed the
round hot tip of his cock into my bum. I gasped and tried to relax, but I was
grateful when he withdrew a little to let me adjust. It was a very sexy feeling,
but a bit tense-making. I focused on letting him in, and maybe it would have all
gone smoothly if he hadn’t got impatient.

But he did. Without any warning, Eddie suddenly grabbed my hips and thrust his
full veiny length slam into my unsuspecting arse. I let out the most awful
shriek, which didn’t do my poor lip any good at all, but this didn’t stop him.
Having rammed it home he went straight into a frantic driving rhythm, pumping in
and out of my helpless little arsehole like a fucking pogo stick.

Either he thought I was screaming with delight or it didn’t bother him that I
wasn’t. Whatever he was thinking, his cock kept up those huge, hard, unforgiving
thrusts. Shit, it hurt. Hurt like buggery. Oh, so that’s where the expression
comes from. Ah...

It seemed like forever, I felt like that poor blonde girl only with King Kong up
her jacksie instead of just sitting on his hand, and the tears were falling down
my cheeks. Finally his grip on my hips got really painful and his cock became
even more rigid, if that were possible.

Later I found out he had a nice sort of penis -- nothing very unusual -- but as
it pounded mercilessly into my battered young hole it felt like a monster. But at
least I could tell he was going to come soon. And the sooner the better as far as
I was concerned. I wasn’t liking this.

Eddie grunted once, twice, three times and then let out a sort of outraged
bellow. He slammed his cock in right to the hilt and I felt the spunk blurting
its way into my guts. With my arsehole so sore each soothing jet of creamy cum
felt like a blessing. A few seconds later, as he moved slightly and let his damp
little customer slip slickly out into the air, I welcomed the soothing coat of
semen that covered my sore bruised tissues. Buggery, I decided, was the living
end.

Eddie thought I was God’s gift, that’s for sure. I mean it was perfectly clear he
thought he was God’s gift, but he definitely felt I was a pleasing little trinket
too. He kissed my forehead, and praised me, ruffling my hair. "Oh Keem, my
beautiful special lady," he sighed. "Eet was wonderful for you too? No, do not
answer me -- I can see you have tears in your perfect blue eyes. For you also it
was a fuck of magic..." On and on he went. I felt like a pet. I started to wonder
if he was going to offer me a sugar lump. I was more than prepared to roll over
and play dead. Anything rather than more bum fucking.

I must have the wrong sort of bum, I thought. I was just getting seriously
miserable about the whole depressing evening when it struck me that if I did have
the wrong sort of bum there wasn’t much I could do about it really. I mean I
could hardly pop into Harrods and put a nice new stretchy one on Mummy's account,
could I? Or pray for one in church, for that matter. It was the thought of asking
God for a replacement arsehole, "One more suitable for sexual purposes, please
Sir," that finished me off.

Better laugh than cry, my old Nanny used to say, so I did.

Anyway, by the time Eddie left he was quite convinced I was as happy as he was
about wrecking my poor old bum. He thought I was madly in love with him. The sad
thing is I expect I really was, or pretending very well. Why I’m always so
desperate to please I’ve never understood. But before we delve into the mysteries
of my single brain cell and get hopelessly boring, I’ll tell you what happened
next  -- and how I finally found true happiness....

@---}---}----

Are you going to have a pudding? I am. Let’s order profiteroles, then we can
throw them at Daisy’s cousin  -- you see him -- the fat chap over there with the
Leander tie. It’ll be just like old times...