The Knight's Tale - 3. Chapter 3

Hieronymus Boodle’s Gentlemen’s Club was a three-story granite Victorian structure on a quiet street in Knightsbridge. Chuckling as he recalled Sir Party’s advice regarding using the rear entrance at the infamous Madame Coy’s, Henry made his way straight to the front entrance of the highly fashionable and respectable establishment known to all simply as “Boodle’s.”

Lord Henry climbed the stone steps worn down by a century and a half of gentlemen’s boots. Passing through the ten-foot tall oak doors gleaming with polished brass hardware, he was admitted cordially by the liveried doorman.

Inside, the high-ceilinged lobby arched over a marble parquet floor, down the center of which stretched a thick crimson carpet. The whole building fairly reeked of age and money.

Henry knew that the plush runner led up the massive central staircase to the floors above, where there were private dining rooms and meeting spaces of various dimensions.

The top-most level was fitted out with luxury suites for members who needed to stay the night–alone or otherwise.

“Good afternoon, Your Lordship.” The butler’s respectful greeting received a slight nod of acknowledgment from the Viscount. The man helped Henry out of his coat and took his hat.

“Welcome back, Lord Henry.” The club secretary, seated at the polished oaken desk smiled warmly. “Your party is in the Prince Albert Drawing Room.”

He proceeded across the lobby and entered the high-ceilinged chamber furnished with two dozen overstuffed chairs, neatly spaced for discreet conversations. Mahogany tables between each pair held sterling silver salvers for drinks and leaded glass ashtrays.

He strode into the crowded room and spied the two men he was seeking. He smiled and made his way over to them.

“Jolly good to see you, my boy.” His uncle, Lord Clarence Bryce-Hopely, the Conservative Party Leader in the House of Lords, extended his hand in greeting.

Rising to his feet as Henry arrived at the table, Clarence turned to address the portly gentleman seated in the high-backed red leather chair to his right.

“Your Grace, this is my nephew Henry, Viscount Lockham. His father is my sister’s husband, the Earl of Westermere. Henry, may I present His Grace, the Duke of Essex.”

“Ah, dear old Freddie. And what a fine son he has.” Alexander Dunstable smiled broadly and shook Henry’s hand warmly. “Delighted to meet you, My Lord.” Unseen by Bryce-Hopely, he gave Henry a quick wink.

The young nobleman smiled at the ruse. “The honor is mine, Your Grace.”

“How is your father these days?”

Henry paused to consider his response to the duke. His father, Lord Frederic William Henry Victor Sandringham, eighth Earl of Westermere, was a garrulous old fart who smoked and drank too much, whored around, and generally reveled in all the privileges available to his class.

He smiled to himself as he decided how to frame his answer. I’m rather a lot like Father, not to put too fine a point on it.

He cleared his throat. “Well enough, sir. He has the usual complaints of age, but he is still rather active–shooting and riding, though I shan’t say riding what or whom!”

His Grace guffawed. “Just so. Old Freddie always was quite the bloody... er, sportsman.”

The three shared a hearty laugh. They were well aware of the earl’s dalliances.

They continued the de rigueur small talk until a soft chime announced lunch was served in the members’ dining room across the lobby.

The three noblemen made their way to a table in a corner with a commanding view of the rest of the room. The duke was the highest-ranking gentleman present for lunch, so he was awarded the best seat in the house.

As the soup bowls were being taken away, a uniformed footman approached the three gentlemen, bearing a small silver plate with a folded piece of stiff white paper on it. He proffered it to Lord Bryce-Hopely.

“Oh, damn and bother,” Henry’s uncle muttered.

Taking the note, he unfolded and read it silently, then looked up at his companions.

“Bloody inconvenient of the Lord Speaker to interrupt a perfectly smashing lunch,” he sputtered, getting to his feet. “Gentlemen, my sincerest regrets. A vote has been called in the Lord’s, and I must excuse myself.”

He bowed his head to the duke. “Another time, I hope, Your Grace.”

“Rather.”

To his nephew, he cautioned, “Best behavior, my boy, eh what?”

“Of course, Uncle.”

 

When Bryce-Hopely was out of the room, His Grace sat back in his chair and smiled at Henry.

“Well, my lad. You had rather a rowdy time at old Coy’s the other night, I should think.”

“You seemed to be enjoying yourself quite as much, Assistant Director.”

“What? You recognized me?” Alexander scoffed.

“Well, when all the men around me are starkers I rarely direct my gaze above the waist, but yes, I did see through your disguise this time. It was the massive stonker you were endeavoring to swallow that initially drew my attention to you.”

They both laughed.

“It was proper fun, Harry, but not as exhilarating as the previous time you and I met chez Coy.” He winked.

Henry smiled and winked mischievously. “Ah, fond memories indeed, Alex. You and Weems and I went rather over the top that night.”

“Fond memories, indeed. I’m getting randy merely remembering them. You conducted yourself most admirably, I must say, my boy.” He leaned in and spoke sotto voce, “And the information you acquired that night was most helpful to the, er, project.”

Henry nodded his head once in acknowledgment of the older secret agent’s compliment.

They paused in their conversation as the fish course was brought out.

When they were alone again, Henry spoke quietly. “Weems tells me the game is afoot again.”

“The PM’s given us a hell of a dodgy posting.” Essex agreed.

Henry arched his eyebrows, urging the duke to explain further.

The older man accommodated. “It seems we have a bit of a situation in Tehran.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“The worst, I gather, but I’ve not been provided all the facts.”

The young lord cocked his head to one side, questioningly.

The duke continued, “Ah, yes. It seems the whole damned operation is rather well under the knickers, so I haven’t been read-in yet. I expect we’ll both learn what-for when we meet our contact. Director Armistead is sending someone to brief us tonight. We’re to be at Coy’s at half eleven, at which time I expect he’ll reveal all.”

Henry choked back a guffaw. “Everyone reveals all at Coy’s!”

The Assistant Director of MI6 joined in the chuckle. “Perhaps an unfortunate choice of words.”

“Bullshit. You knew exactly what you were saying.”

They shared another laugh and finished their lunch.

 

The viscount arrived at Coy’s via the rear door a full hour ahead of the appointed time. He made it a rule to scout out the locale of any rendezvous, and just now he could kill for a couple of G&Ts to calm his nerves.

He passed through oaken doors into the gentlemen’s changing room.

It was dimly lighted by two crystal chandeliers, and the damask-covered walls were lined by an imposing rank of dark redwood lockers with gleaming brass fittings. A red leather bench transected the length of the center aisle.

He thought momentarily about the other changing room–the one with metal lockers and a wooden bench. It was designated for the use of the “non-gentlemen”–disparagingly referred to as “rough trade” or “rent boys”–who were permitted to frequent Coy’s for purposes of entertaining the wealthy guests.

He recalled a rather gratifying encounter with three such young men in that very room. But as a rule, gentlemen stayed out of there and instead invited their lessers to join their activities in the well-appointed quarters elsewhere in the building.

Nevertheless, Henry appreciated the importance to Coy’s of keeping the punters happy.

He reflected on how oiks, yobs, and mugs–not to mention sailors–have been an integral part of the gay sex scene in England since time immemorial. They willingly served their purpose and were handsomely rewarded for their performance and discretion, but they well knew never to aspire above their station or threaten the confidences of their betters.

...with the exception of Weems, of course. He reminded himself.

A valet approached and offered to help him disrobe, but he kindly thanked the man and dispatched his clothing into a locker, closing the door. Since the changing room was used exclusively by gentlemen, keys were neither necessary nor provided.

Donning a red and gold silk dressing gown and hemp sandals, he tied the belt loosely and made his way down the carpeted hallway to the lounge.

The lighting was subdued–as was the case throughout Coy’s, but the sound of cheery voices and soft music brightened the atmosphere.

Henry turned the corner and paused a moment at the entrance of the lounge. He surveyed the spacious room.

The bar itself was particularly notable. Carved from ebony wood, twenty feet long, and polished like a mirror, it fairly reeked of opulence and excess.

The five waiters were wearing bow ties and long aprons–and nothing else, which was tauntingly revealed whenever they turned their backs toward the guests at the bar. They were hired for the attractiveness of their faces and physiques, and all were more than willing to spend their breaks “entertaining” one or more guests in secluded surroundings.

He stepped into the crowded room, catching sight of familiar faces. All the gentlemen were robed like Henry, although some had “accidentally” allowed their garments to fall open, providing a titillating view of their crown jewels. Some, like him, were among the upper crust of society; others were men of substance out to have some fun away from prying eyes–and wives.

He took note of a dozen or more gorgeous young men who were there solely for the diversion of the guests and more than ready to accept their monetary tokens of appreciation.

Henry had availed himself of their services from time to time, but he admitted to himself that he was rather a snob, preferring the company of his own social class. He was pleased to see how many of the latter were present this evening.

“Your usual, Sir?” The bartender nodded politely and smiled. At Coy’s, no one was ever called “My Lord” or “Your Grace” or, heaven forbid, “Your Royal Highness.” Everyone, even the non-members, was addressed simply as “Sir.”

“Thank you, yes please, Stitely.”

Coy’s drinks were concocted using the highest-quality ingredients. Each “standard” mixture had something exotic or aromatic added to it–all of which were closely-guarded secrets.

Henry sipped his gin and tonic and inhaled its unique bouquet. The cocktail had a heady scent of jasmine and a hint of some unidentifiable Asian citrus flavor. Even the ice cubes were made from mountain spring water imported from the Alps.

As Henry lifted his drink to his lips, a damp, sensuous voice breathed into his ear, “You’re here awfully damned early, you fucking tosser.”

Without turning to see who was speaking, Henry smiled broadly in recognition, took another sip of his G&T, and lowered the glass to the bar. “Artie, you old sodder! How the bloody hell are you?”

He turned and greeted his old school chum Sir Arthur Manfred, Bart., with a warm embrace. Henry’s silken robe fell open and they could both see he was already semi-erect–such was his affection for his dear old friend and erstwhile lover.

Wrapping the warm palm of his hand around his friend’s hardening cock, the baronet answered, “Not bad, Harry, old boy. How about yourself?”

“Doing quite well, now you’re here. Up to no bloody good, as always.”

They chuckled.

Artie leaned in, kissed his friend on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, “Are you on the pull tonight, if I may be so bold?” His friend’s hand was rapidly bringing Henry to a full erection.

 

Henry and Arthur’s history went all the way back to the time when they had lost their virginity to each other in the fourth form at St Aelred’s School for Young Gentlemen.

Their sexual escapades had run the gamut from tame to tawdry to downright pornographic.

They loved to steal out after lights-out and make their way down to the river’s edge.

Rolling in the grass in the nude, they made love under the starlight, then splashed themselves clean in the chilly water.

They took turns sucking and fucking each other until their bollocks ached from overuse.

Afterward, they smoked cigarettes and swilled cheap plonk until they were ready to do it all again.

Many was the morning they slipped back into their dormitory by the dim light of dawn, sated and exhausted.

Each took care to bestow a generous Christmas gift on Grimes, the night porter, who admitted them via the servant’s entrance so they could mount the back stairs and secretly return to their quarters.

Richard Grimes was a handsome young man from the village, and Henry had fond memories of frolicking with him more than once.

He smiled to himself as he recalled one early morning.

Grimes had let them in, and Artie had scurried up the stairs to his room because his roommate was an early riser. Henry had no roommate because his family could afford to pay for a single accommodation, so he lingered behind and chatted with Grimes.

“You two look like you had a smashing good time tonight,” the porter grinned shyly, not wanting to overstep his station, but eager for any salacious details Henry was willing to disclose.

“Better than usual, I must confess.”

Timidly, Grimes pressed on. “Are you two doing what I think you are when you’re out there all night?”

Henry flashed a lascivious grin and tapped the side of his nose with one finger. “It all depends on what you think we’re doing.”

Grimes blushed, and Henry continued, “Just for the record, or perhaps for your wanking pleasure, we start out by undressing each other. Of course, we’re both hard as a stud horse by the time we get down to our drawers, so we fumble them off over our knobbies.”

Grimes giggled.

“Once we’re starkers, we kiss and feel each other all over for a time. There’s nothing like the warm flesh of another man to get your blood flowing. Then we lie down and stretch out, head to toe, and take each other’s willies in our mouths and slowly suck them until we both come.”

The porter was wide-eyed. He had never expected such a pornographically detailed account, but he was enjoying the hell out of it.

“That accounts for the first time we come. Afterward, we cuddle a while in the cool grass. Then one or the other of us rolls onto his stomach and presents his arse for plugging.”

Grimes was sweating profusely, but he nodded eagerly in encouragement.

“One of us lies on top and slips his dong into the other’s hole and begins to fuck him–slowly at first, then with more vigor and gusto.”

The night porter swallowed hard.

“After a while we try another position. We have several favorites...”

“You do?” The poor young man was finding the recitation unbearable.

“Oh, hell yes, although we seem to always end up fucking doggie-style, where the one on the bottom is up on his elbows and knees, with the top behind him on bent knees. It allows the one doing the penetrating to grasp the other by the hips and give him a hard pull onto his cock while ramming it in as far as it will go.”

Grimes was speechless.

“Other positions work well for us, too, such as side by side, and even standing.”

“Do you... come that way, too?” His voice trembled with randy excitement.

“Of course. We each come three or four times a night, and sometimes we fall asleep for a while and then wake up and do it a couple more times.” Henry was enjoying the effect of his ridiculous exaggerations on the poor servant, who took every word as gospel.

He winked at Grimes. “But sometimes we don’t fuck right away.”

“You don’t?”

“No, there are times when we start by wanking each other.”

Grimes was clearly about to burst.

Henry raised one eyebrow and leaned in across the counter. “Tell me, Grimes–have you ever had a hand-job?”

The other man swallowed hard. “Only when I give myself one.”

Henry looked the man in the eyes with a mischievous smile. “Would you like one... now... you know, just to say ‘thanks’ for looking out for Artie and me?”

Speechless, Grimes could only nod enthusiastically.

Henry lifted the counter and stepped inside the little booth. He maneuvered himself around behind the porter and reached forward until his hands found the poor man’s aching cock.

He unbuttoned the man’s pants and reached inside. When Henry touched the young man’s burning flesh, Grimes groaned and shuddered. Henry deftly slipped his fingers inside the opening of the porter’s underdrawers and eased his cock out.

Using the loose foreskin as a sleeve, Henry slid his fingers up and down the hard penis. He touched the opening with one finger and drew out a long thread of precum. He spread it around the head of the cock, increasing the lubrication and sensuality of the masturbation.

Grimes sighed and moaned as Henry massaged him, but he spoke not a word and made no attempt to touch Henry. Despite what they were doing, the class distinction between them prohibited any reciprocity.

Picking up his pace, Henry began to wank the man with a tighter grip. Grimes breathed harder and leaned back against Henry, unable to avoid pumping his hips forward and back in rhythm with the movements of the other man’s warm hand.

In no time, Henry heard the man groan, “Shiiite!” as Grimes shot an enormous gob of semen onto the countertop and bent forward, spent and gasping for air.

Henry released his grip on the softening prick, took a step back and straightened his clothes. He eased Grimes to one side and stepped past him, raising and lowering the counter. As he exited, he saw the man’s sperm flow down to the end of it.

With a friendly smile, Henry turned and regarded the breathless servant.

“I think I enjoyed that only half as much as you did, my good man. And thanks again for keeping shtum about us naughty boys.”

 

Recalling the pleasant memory from his past, Henry felt himself getting hard again.

In the present day, the two old school chums standing at the bar at Coy’s, naked but for their silken dressing gowns, were responsible members of high society. Artie was married with three children and was chairman of an electronics corporation.

The two of them always enjoyed reminiscences of their lusty past, along with occasional unhurried nights spent pegging each other at Coy’s.

Henry apologized. “I’d love to while away the evening with you, old dear, but I’m meeting someone.”

“Someone new?”

Henry tapped the side of his nose and gave Artie a knowing smile. “Everyone’s new until after the first time. What about you?”

“Oh, the same as always, I guess. I find myself dogging it in the party room almost every time I come here.”

Artie winked at his old chum and went on, “I find it easier to muck about with a group of prats I know, rather than to go through the bullshit of chatting up a new knob.”

“Still like it up the back passage?” Henry teased with a knowing smile.

“I aim to please.”

“Well, perhaps after I attend to the newbie, we can find a secluded spot and have a shag for old time’s sake.”

“Brilliant, but don’t be too late. Only, I’m supposedly at an old school reunion and swore I would be home early.”

“Early? As in before dawn?”

They laughed out loud.

“As in before the wife wakes up and wonders where the fuck I am.”

“Got you by the short and curlies, has she?”

“Come on, Harry, you know I swing both ways.”

“And glad I am that one of those ways is toward me!”

Henry gave Arthur a long kiss. “I’ll look for you after midnight, shall I?”

“You bloody wanker! All right, damn you, I’ll hang about as long as I can. Just don’t wear yourself out diddling the new chap.”

Henry smiled thoughtfully as he watched his oldest friend and first sexual partner move across the room and disappear into the crowd of other men. Each had his reasons for being there, and all were in pursuit of the same gratification and release. None was there for love, although at least the rent boys were there for money.

Henry mused, Regardless of what old Party might think, Madame Coy’s serves a purpose in society. Such places meet a need that would otherwise be sated in unsavory and often dangerous circumstances.

He finished his drink and nodded to Stitely for another.