Mr & Mister Danvers: Initiation - 14. EPISODE 13: HENSLEY MANOR

EPISODE 13: HENSLEY MANOR

Hours later, I was woken up with someone’s mouth on my cock.

I wasn’t expecting that I’d cum in a half-submerged daze.

I grabbed onto the hair; this time I was not touching a wig with pigtails but a full set of human hair.

I looked down from the slits of my eyes, and I was getting a meticulous mouth-drawn licking and slurping from this mature gentleman with big eyes and a big nose, properly dressed up in a polo with just his underwear.

"I was planning on waking you up since you fell asleep. But I discerned this was better. I got to make you cum twice," he said, wiping his mouth proudly.

He stood up and ambled over to the walk-in dresser.

He came out with a pair of pants and started putting them on, while I rose to the side of the bed looking for mine.

He was putting his pants on when he said, "You’re amazing Greg. 5 stars all around. When they notified me that it was a new one and had advised me of the ghastly price, I was appalled at first. But you truly are the cream of the crop, totally worth it."

I turned around as I was zipping up my pants. "If you don’t mind me asking, how much did you pay for this?"

"Didn’t your handler tell you? It was £20,000. I usually pay ten thousand for Kendrick, but he annoyed me when he had asked if we could switch things up, you know, to add some flair to the relationship."

I gulped at the exorbitant amount, while he rolled his eyes as he was fixing his hair.

"I didn’t pay for him to have an opinion. But I’m sure he’s now had some second thoughts after he’d told me he had serviced that disgusting Albert." He was in front of the mirror, turning the side of his remaining hair, and announced his soliloquy. "The nerve of that man to confess to me that he was at Judge Albert’s house last month. Who would have known that after all the time Kendrick and I have spent with each other and the amount of money I've spent on him so he and I could have quality time together, how could he sleep with that gormless, cadaverous, old, mediaeval twit? He, of all people, knew how that man had swiped my boyfriend Jimmy back in high school. Yes. He was a thief, a criminal mastermind who stole my sweet innocent Jimmy from me. He even stole my favourite cardigan at prom, that fashion-envious beguiler!" I coughed, and he was reminded of my presence. "I’m sorry, I forgot my manners."

I reached forward with my hand and said, "Glad to be of service."

He shook it accordingly, his eyes twinkling while leering at me.

"Dear god, you are so beautiful, like a Roman statue gone to life." He sighed longingly, held my face, and said, "If only I was ten to twenty years younger, I’d have you all for myself. But alas, beggars can’t be choosers mon amour. This may be a one-time thing for I’d only used your services to make Kendrick, my lover, my beau, the man who has tugged my heartstrings and has beholden my heart to the plumes of obsession, divination, and approbation of being his one true love—I simply wanted to make him jealous in a fit of rage."

As dramatic as his house looks, this right here was over the top.

"However, I did have a lovely time with you Greg. I hope you don’t misconstrue me as a liar or a cheater. But I can attest to the truth that my heart remains true to Kendrick. Till next time, mon amour."

I was outside with a huge sigh of relief as I whispered to myself, "This will never happen again."

I’d never imagined getting blown by a cross-dressing baron and somewhat enjoyed it.

He was quirky, seasoned with a dash of crazy.

Certainly, this was a one-off.

There were things that still surprised me, it seemed.

As for my next objective, I wondered where to look around the house for that letter.

I learned quickly that there were various entrances and an outside staircase in the three-story house.

The housekeeper carrying a hoover and a feather duster, unsure if she’d nod curtly or dismiss me, headed through a dark passage to my right—a dark vestibule that led to a secret room.

I needed to get through that passage to investigate.

Locked areas are usually a warning sign when you're hiding something.

I could either head upstairs and swing my way to find an entrance leading to the vestibule, or I could calculate enough time for the maid to head upstairs and probably worm my way to the other side.

Looking around, there were two sets of steps: the main stairs leading to the third floor and an emergency exit with a ladder just outside this bedroom, which I could climb to reach the third-floor foyer.

There was also a window in the guest bathroom through which an interested party inside could see if the housekeeper would use the main stairs.

I was sure, if I waited long enough, she would head up to do her cleaning.

I wondered which of the expensive automobiles parked on the quiet street belonged to Baron Hensley.

Whichever car he’d use, wherever he had planned on going, knowing which one he’d take would help me avoid being seen.

The parking lot directly faced the emergency staircase; lingering there might be problematic.

Soon, a lovely woman showed up.

Brunette with windswept hair, she had enormous breasts that extended above her blue silk shirt.

The fitted cashmere skirt accentuated her long, alabaster legs and her fluid hips, resting atop spiked heels.

The baron might be gay, but he surely had taste when it came to female companions.

She was greeted by the housekeeper on the stairs.

The two cordially greeted each other.

I could see the cashmere skirt from the small window in the guest bathroom; the woman was headed inside the baron’s room.

In less than a minute, the housekeeper dragged her cleaning equipment lurching up the staircase.

I got out of the bathroom and slipped outside the window leading to the emergency exit.

Climbing the steps of the ladder that led to the window entrance of the 3rd-floor foyer, my head was peeking enough to see the maid hoovering inside.

I counted the minutes till she was done with her chore while my fingers clung to the ladder, not wanting to fall.

When the room was in the clear and she was nowhere in sight, I slipped through the window and entered a massive room in the ballroom area.

The third floor was basically a sizable hall with a large mahogany door that led to the performance stage, bas-relief denoting King Henry VIII with cupids circling around him, and a wrought-iron wall mount at every corner.

At one time, I watched on the news that the King had visited Hensley Manor and had attended a ball in honour of the late Queen Mother.

I’m guessing this was the venue.

A large ornate steel dressing cabinet blocked the window to the vestibule’s possible point of entrance.

I tried moving it, but a probable team of at least ten grown men might be able to move it—the thing’s as heavy as a full-grown tree.

There was movement in the hallway, and instinctively—without really thinking—I hung myself by the bare grip of my ten fingers on a window outside the ballroom.

My hands were shaking; I’ve never held out for this long on a window sill.

Years of doing pullups had done the trick.

But any minute now, my triceps will willingly give up.

Glancing down by my feet, it was a rough thirty-metre drop to a waste disposal bin.

I’d be lucky if it would absorb my fall if there were trash swimming to impede the gravity.

But there aren’t.

I’d be on my way, following my dad’s footsteps, and losing my feet with the height of this drop.

The maid circled the room to inspect something.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," I whispered as my hand clamped on the opened window, my fingers losing their grip.

I then muttered, arms shaking and sweat dripping down my forehead, "I am not dying here."

I exhaled, pulling myself up to grip better on the window.

Then a door opened with a creak.

She had entered the staircase leading to the garden and rooftop deck.

With a drastic pull of my weight, the bottom heel of my pants was slashed obtrusively by a steel mesh sticking out of the window.

I thought, There goes my £9k worth of refund.

Calmly tracing my steps back to the emergency ladder, I hopped down and was back on the second floor when Baron Hensley and his friend were laughing outside of the bedroom.

I quickly entered the bathroom, where I stood motionless, my back pressed against the door, wishing none of them would decide to tinkle.

I heard the bedroom door closing, and the two of them were discussing the scandal involving Ron Wagner’s demise on national TV—a straight, married TV personality caught cheating with a male model—as the latest manifest indelicacy of the tabloids.

“Oh, trust me, Amy," said the baron as they headed downstairs. "He’s done for. Clearly, Ron’s hermetic aestheticism was choked with tawdry pastiche—to be with a model, how reductive. Should we bring flowers for him? I want to look consoling, but not pandering."

They were gone, and I was outside the vestibule trying to open the door.

It opened via a key card and had a different mechanism from a traditional lock and key.

This was going to be a problem.

Swiping the door open with a debit card, the door was being testy and wouldn’t budge when I heard the baron heading upstairs to his room.

"I’ll just change my shirt; this is making me look bloated dear."

The footfall was getting closer when I decided to jump through the emergency exit window and hide behind the walls.

The door swung open, and finally the baron was downstairs.

I continued trying to open the door when I thought of slamming my shoulders and, at the same time, swiping the keys.

It worked, and the door unlocked while I held my breath in case I was wrong about the alarm; I was not.

As I entered the dark passage, there was an entryway to the second sitting area.

It has been converted into a home office slash sitting room for important guests.

The Gothic-style arched door was already opened.

Right in the middle hung a hand-painted portrait of Baron Collins Hensley, a member of the high court's appointed judges in central London.

Also a Baron by title of his peerage, passed down by his father, the late Baron James Hensley.

The man was an important figurehead in British society, yet he was reverent as an unassuming house cat when in the presence of a substantive, ever so slightly large penis.

When I entered the room, there was a baroque-style couch with chairs adorned in feathers to resemble a peacock, along with contrasting wallpaper prints plastered on the walls. Pattern-clad furnishings, from florals, mainly bougainvillaeas and kalachuchi, to houndstooths and tartans emphasising animals—notably exotic birds, elephants, and giraffes—were the room’s crowning glory.

Feeling like you’re on a safari, beautiful 18th-century sculptures of a woman’s face from the Monégasques tribe winded their way across the four corners, and across the ceiling overhead were stucco designs leading to a 22-light crystal chandellier.

Grandiosity ravished the area, as eccentric as it appeared to be, and was a stark contrast to the first-floor sitting room.

My eyes settled on the desk near the painting.

I quickly made my way to its contents, scouring each drawer until my fingers found the latch of a false bottom compartment.

It wasn’t entirely hidden from view, but without feeling up the desk, one would not notice.

A conspicuous letter was on top of the piles of unopened letters.

I picked up the envelope and saw the address was barely scrubbed out and starkly black across the front.

Roberta Stallock

Baroness Hale of Richmond

Office of the President

Supreme Court of the United Kingdom

The Supreme Court

Parliament Square

London

SW1P 3BD

This was it—the letter I needed to pass whatever the hell this examination had required me to do.

The moment I turned up to look at the portrait, the helper came strutting inside.

"What are you doing here? This is Baron Hensley’s private sitting area. Please leave."

I slipped the letter inside the front of my underwear and turned to her guilelessly with a smile.

"Sorry, I didn’t mean to enter. I was just entranced by this photo. The Baron looks very regal and poised."

Her eyes displayed approval, and her deference was well exhibited when she said, "He does, doesn’t he? I’ve taken care of this estate for three generations, and Baron Collins is by far the most proficient and accomplished of them all." Her wiry grey and black bun turned to me, and her expression, which previously held the eye of probation, had now turned to hilarity. "The next time you come to steal something in this office, I suggest you do it with tact. I could see the shape of the letter in your trousers—such an amateur. I’ve already opened THIS door for easy access, yet I still caught you rummaging around the room."

"You forgot to open the main door."

Her brows knotted.

"How new are you?"

Not knowing how to respond to a probable spy, I said, "Very new."

"Well, charge it to experience then. You’ll have much to learn, little one. The next time we see each other, I require utter concentration and finesse. Hopefully, you'll pick up at least one of the two."

Disciplined by a professional in the craft, I walked out of the room and saw her replacing the letter that I had stolen.

As I headed downstairs, I asked myself, how far does the agency’s influence stretch across the whole of England?

How many people are so involved in their tendrils to self-sufficiency that you wouldn’t expect a friend, a teacher, or a neighbour to be part of their agenda?

What have I gotten myself into? This feels bad.

...very bad.