“Oh, damn!” said Lord Peter Wimsey at five minutes before eight o’clock. “Hi, Bunter!”
Bunter, that well-trained manservant, was precluded from responding because he was not on the premises. Nevertheless, his employer carried on.
“I’ve left the cat o’ nine tails behind at the club,” said Lord Peter, deprecating a few minutes before the hour appointed for it, “uncommonly careless of me. Bunter!”
There was no still answer.
“Already gone. Oh, well, change of plans, something a bit heirloom, perhaps? Just like ol’ Swinburne used to swish ‘em?”
Lord Peter had but an instant to survey his long amiable white-maggots-bred-from-Gorgonzola face in the eighteenth-century mirror over the mantelpiece before he was hurrying towards the door.
“Exit the amateur of first friggings; new motif introduced by ringing front bell; enter Daddy’s naughty schoolboy just itchin’ for a birchin’.”
Though full of anticipation, Lord Peter showed admirable restraint: it was only after ushering his guest inside and closing the door firmly behind him did he ejaculate,
“Good evening,” said Inspector Charles Parker, who always took a moment to sink into the role.
Lord Peter, sensitive to his Daddy’s temperament, took advantage of the moment and relieved Parker of his coat and hat, to which Parker remarked cheekily,
“Did the Red Dawn herald without my knowledge?”
“Bunter’s out for the evening. He’s found a Mabel he’s uncommonly partial to. He’s going to let her pour a little grey powder on him and see what develops.”
“That’s unfortunate,” said Parker with a grin.
“Yes, but dear me! It’s dreadful mistake to ride two Daddies at once. I couldn't sit straight for a week after the last time. But, please, do come in.”
“Oh, I intend to,” said Parker, following Lord Peter into the library. “But, as for the former, I daresay sitting straight has never held much appeal, has it, m’boy?”
Lord Peter checked a delightful squeal and offered Parker a cigar, which was, in fact, just a cigar. Parker declined, sinfully promising,
“Brandy?” asked Lord Peter.
“Yes, please,” said Parker.
“I’ve still got a spot of that which you once called ‘unbelievable’ and claimed, ‘makes one believe in heaven.’”
“I know you do, but I’d like the brandy first, before I sample the other.”
Lord Peter was checkmated by a second squeal, but he poured the brandy with a steady hand.
“I have to thank you again for what you did last week,” said Parker conversationally, though he was eyeing the silhouette of Lord Peter’s dark crimson dressing gown with no little hunger.
“Noblesse oblige,” replied Lord Peter. “You had a small-minded, avaricious landlady with a weak heart, I had an irresistible urge to appear naked, save for a golden pince-nez, in your bath and sing,
You have got a booty in the bath
You have got a booty in the bath
Without care or green carnation
But with an ex-hi-bish fixation
So kindly kiss this booty in your bath!
Parker chuckled. “Funeral was on Tuesday. I didn’t attend.”
Lord Peter twirled and wriggled his rarest Dante and continued to warble.
Gin a booty
plead a Daddy
Be hauled before the birch
Gin a booty jolly well knows how to Daddy a body, put that old Stick right
In the right place
And leave a primrose smirch!
Then with all the fanfare of Switzerland invading Italy or the Church of Rome going to pot, Lord Peter let his dressing gown fall to the floor.
Parker smiled at the “culo rarissimo,” according to Colomb, which was now swathed in black lace knickers. The pale legs were sunk into black garters and black silk stockings.
“Nothing less will do for us, Parker. It’s my booty at present, but we’re going shares in it tonight,” said Lord Peter with a jaunty cock of his hip.
“Property of the firm?” suggested Parker, rubbing his palm atop the growing bulge in his trousers.
Lord Peter looked over his shoulder and gave tiny gasp. “You really must put something in the jack-pot. Perhaps you have a booty. Oh, do have a booty. Every booty welcome.”
“No booty, I’m afraid. At least nothing to sing about. But I have got a beautiful Malacca walking-stick with a heavy silver knob.”
“I know!” cried Lord Peter. “You gave it to me for my birthday and I’ve been dreaming of it ever since!”
Lord Peter flew to lumber room for the padded A-frame.
“Been naughty, m’boy?” asked Parker when Lord Peter was secured to the frame, his body thrown over it like a wounded soldier over a pack horse.
“Very naughty, Daddy.”
Parker was in rolled shirtsleeves now with the rod between his legs as stiff as the one in his hand. He glanced around the room. “Primrose and black,” he observed. “I’ve always liked the colour scheme.”
“Inspiring, ain’t it?” asked Lord Peter.
Parker thought of birched skin and black lace and nodded. “Now, count m’boy or we’ll have to start over.”
“That’s enough,” said Parker. He wiped the sweat from his brow and unbuttoned his shirt before freeing Lord Peter from the frame. With a whimper and a sigh, Lord Peter crumpled into Parker’s arms. Parker carried him across the room and laid him gently on a Chesterfield sofa.
“Pretty, ain’t it?” mumbled Lord Peter. “Uncommonly jolly little job for Daddy, what?”
“Don’t overlook my trousers and mistake me for the undertaker,” replied Parker softly, but he pressed water and brandy on Lord Peter in tiny sips, all the while stroking Lord Peter’s hair and cradling him in his arms and whispering what a good, good boy he was.
Lord Peter slowly came back to himself. “Tell me a story, Daddy.”
Parker smiled. “There once was a Daddy who needed some help, and his good little boy helped him. “That’s all,” said Parker abruptly, with a wave of the hand.
Lord Peter slid down to the floor and slotted himself on his knees between Parker’s spread legs. He carefully undid Parker’s belt and trousers and freed Parker’s massive erection.
“Oh, Daddy,” cooed Lord Peter. He nuzzled Parker’s hair and then, with a serpentine tongue, licked up the length of Parker’s shaft.
Then he stood and turned and hissed through clenched teeth when Parker gripped his buttocks.
Lord Peter remained hunched forward, thighs straining, as Parker took his own prick in hand and parted the knickers, which were, like all of Lord Peter’s undergarments, carefully tailored for such occasions. He teased Lord Peter’s rim with his leaking prickhead.
Lord Peter’s voice was shrill. “It isn’t all, it isn’t all. Daddy, go on, that’s not half a story,” he pleaded.
Then Parker seized Lord Peter by the arms and brought him hard down onto his lap.
“Better?” breathed Parker. He licked the nearest expanse of Lord Peter’s skin, which proved to be that covering his spine. Parker continued to lick, genuinely savouring the flavour of skin and sweat and sex. Then, he bounced Lord Peter in his lap, saying, “Such a good boy, taking all of Daddy like that in one sitting.”
“Love sitting in Daddy’s lap! But my willie’s so hard, Daddy!”
“Daddy’ll take care of you, m’boy. Daddy always takes care of you, doesn’t he?”
Parker said a silent prayer of thanks for Bunter when his hand found the vial of slick hidden behind the base of a Sèvres vase. He wrapped a tight, wet fist ‘round Lord Peter’s prick and began to stroke.
Lord Peter groaned. “Oh, Daddy, I can’t wait it, I can’t wait…”
“Let’s finish together, m’boy. Me inside your sweet little hole and you in Daddy’s hand.”
And so they did.
“Who needs the embraces of the houris when you’ve got Daddy?” murmured Parker some time later. They were still on the Chesterfield sofa, but they were now reclined, with Lord Peter in Parker’s arms.
Parker was caressing Lord Peter’s hair, smoothing his brow and pausing occasionally to bend his head and brush his lips to Lord Peter’s sweat-damp temple.
Lord Peter, for his part, was refraining from exercising any of his undoubted powers of repartee. He just sighed and snuggled closer.
Parker smoked a Villar Villar and admired Lord Peter’s nude form.
Once he asked gruffly, “Whose booty is that?”
He’d expected no answer, but Lord Peter raised his head long enough to retort,
Then he fell back against Parker’s chest, adding in sleepy voice,
“And Bunter’s, of course.”