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by Akbar Del Piombo
Category: Erotica/Classic Erotica
Description: What the Butler Saw--And Did! The Grande Duke Cosimo de Beaucouillon simply had far too many women who desired him to be bothered with the lesser females who demanded his attention, and indeed, to whom he was honor and/or duty bound to pleasure--including his fiancee! How fortuitous it was when he stumbled on a butler who closely resembled him. Now "he" could fulfill his necessary services while at the same time, he could indulge all the gorgeous women who longed for his touch. Pity the poor butler who had to fulfill the Duke's sexual obligations, but don't pity him very much...
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Sizzler, 2006
eBookwise Release Date: October 2006
1 Reader Ratings:
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [162 KB]
Reading time: 103-144 min.
When Sir Oliver Mottke-Wrench discovered his wife, Lady Mottke-Wrench, in the most flamboyant disarray, viciously turning her buttocks beneath his butler's presumptuous cock, he withdrew to his den, where, after a minute's deep thought, he retrieved the ancient, silver-barreled musket of his grandfather, inserted the last remaining bullet in the weapon, and returned to the bedroom of infidelity.
His aim could hardly have been fallible, for he pointed the ornate muzzle at the butler's hairy scrotum from a distance of one finger's length, and keeping the sights trained on the jerking sack, pulled on the trigger with all his force. A deafening report rang through the house as the avenging lead went through the coupled genitalia.
His honor appeased, he threw down the musket and retired to his den, where he prepared an ad for the morrow's edition of the Times. The mutilated cunt and shattered balls he later removed to be hung in his trophy room.
It was through that advertisement I met the vigorous old Lord and, three days after verdict in his favor had been given, I entered into his service to fulfill the functions of the defunct butler.
I packed his bags and trunks and finished the preparations for his trip to the Continent, for, as he said, the smell of gunpowder and adulterated pussy still lingered in the house and a change of scene would do him good.
We duly embarked and arrived in Paris in the best of spirits and took up lodgings in a fashionable hotel on the Rue de Rivoli, occupying a suite of rooms concomitant with his condition in life.
He was a taciturn and eccentric man, who refused to alter his established beliefs, and as these were all centered on a mode of life fully fifty years back, my existence became a curious anomaly, both in my eyes and in those of the world. Thus it was, that like himself, I began to grow a set of whiskers which were a daily topic of interest between ourselves. He himself favored sideburns but offered no resistance to my choice of a full-grown beard.
He seemed to know the full complement of nobility no matter where he went, and received numerous visits every day. I went about my duties methodically, serving tea and biscuits to the occasional marquises and duchesses who found their way into the salon, unaware that one day my service to these ladies would take a radically different tack.
It was perhaps two months after our arrival and when my beard was fully grown, that a certain Mr. Samuel Griffin paid us a call. He was, as I later learned, no less than the personal butler of the Grand Duke Cosimo de Beaucouillon. My visage made a strong impression on him and he questioned my master about my origins. He returned the following day and the two of them engaged in a long consultation which bore solely on myself and the Duke de Beaucouillon. Mr. Griffin's extraordinary interest in my person centered on the incredible resemblance I bore to his "patron" and he concluded a deal with Sir Oliver which they both concealed from me at the time.
This Mr. Griffin went away, and, for all I knew, the affair was closed. Sir Oliver said nothing according to his habit, and I gave the incident no thought.
He went out that night for a reception at Prince Paul-Jonah's town house, and returned very late, minus his hat and tie, and babying a beautiful lady. Clad in my nightgown, I let the giggling couple in and set about preparing his nightly grog.
When I brought the steaming drinks to his room, I saw the lady's thigh reclining in Milord's lap, his big, ruddy hand exploring its milk-white flesh.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" I stammered, which only made them laugh.
She was playfully kicking her heels in the air, brushing her hands through his hair and calling him "Olly," while his Lordship tickled her crotch. The apparition of the pontifical Lord sprawled in his chair, his face puffed like a hairy Bacchus, and groping under the flimsy robes of his partner had a profoundly disquieting effect on my blood cells. I set the glasses down and left, feeling rather foolish in the coarse linen gown that flapped against my ankles.
"Let us now have intercourse," I heard his pompous voice rumble from the other side of the door.
Though I fought against it, I could not resist the temptation to glance through the keyhole. My curiosity was fully aroused. Never, I thought to myself, have I seen a member of the aristocracy perform that most intimate and delightful sport, but there was a little to indicate the social status of the participants. An upraised leg, a stocking half-furled around the calf, the hind parts of Sir Oliver and a rapid glimpse of the lovely thigh.
The doorbell rang, cutting short my indiscretion, and I was suddenly alarmed, for it was already three in the morning and a visitor at such an hour was like an evil omen.
The individual, clutching a bowler hat, was as nervous as myself.
"Is," he whispered, glancing hastily over his shoulder, as if he feared he had been followed, "is Lady Hottham here?"
"I am sorry," I answered, "I know no Hottham. This is the residence of Sir Mottke-Wrench," and proceeded to close the door.
"No, no," he insisted, placing one foot in the way, "I don't mean does she live here, I mean is she here?"
"I cannot say," I answered, "nor do I see any earthly reason why I should tell you."
"There is every good reason, let me tell you. If you value the life of your master you had better get her out. Her husband is on the way up! Good-night."
He disappeared down the corridor.
"Hell of a mess," I grumbled, "if he's lying I'll lose my job, if not, the Master will lose his life."
I tossed a coin to decide my course of action, but the sound of footsteps convinced me the man had been telling the truth, and losing no time, I rushed into the bedroom.
The Lady's lips were busily drawing up and down the Lord's penis. Underneath her crotch, on the far side, Sir Oliver's tongue was probing between her labia.
"Sir Oliver," I shouted, "for Christ's sake, get her out immediately!"