My first meeting with Mr Proudfoot had seemed straightforward enough – nothing to arouse my suspicions that all was not entirely as it appeared to be. He was quite an austere man with a natural air of command, and as he outlined the duties that he expected me to carry out, it all struck me as completely reasonable.
The catering company he had employed for the private dinner at his home had let him down at the last minute, he explained, and could not supply serving staff. He had learnt from a mutual vague acquaintance I was a student and therefore probably keen to earn, and that was why he had approached me.
He asked if I spoke German. I said no. I was afraid not.
“No matter,” he said. “My dinner guest is German, and our business is private, so perhaps it is as well you will not be able to overhear our conversation.”
The meal, he informed me, was basically a cold collation and so presented no real problems for me, and it would just be the two of them. I would serve drinks and canapés to begin with, and then, when they moved through to the dining room, start serving the meal.
Mr Proudfoot asked me to wear a white shirt with a pair of dark trousers and wanted to know if I had a black bow tie, which I didn’t.
“No matter,” he said again. “If you come half an hour before the appointed time in order to set things up and get to know the lay-out, I’ll give you a tie to wear.”
I’d made myself as presentable as possible, ironing my newest white shirt and pressing a firm crease in a pair of black slacks I owned that were the least shiny. I even polished my shoes – the first time I had done so since my grandfather’s funeral. My flatmate had a game of tennis planned on the other side of town that night, as it so happened, and he said he’d give me a lift as it wasn’t too much out of his way, so I got there in plenty of time.
It was a pretty impressive neighbourhood and when I got to Mr Proudfoot’s place, I knew the effort I’d made to look presentable was more than justified.
He opened the door in evening clothes, a finely pleated stiff-fronted shirt under a dark green velvet sort of smoking jacket, I suppose you’d call it. Very smart, though.
“Come in, Leslie,” he said, giving me my full name, “and let me show you the lie of the land.”
Drinks were to be served in the drawing room, he told me, leading me through into a fabulous room bigger than our whole student flat. He then showed me into the dining room across a highly polished oak parquet floor to an equally highly polished rich mahogany table where everything was all laid out, all the silver, the lot. My only duty was to light the candles before showing the two men through from the drawing room.
Then, he led me into the kitchen which was glossy and black with massive granite surfaces and a great big island in the centre upon which the plates and food was all just ready to serve, and he talked me through the order of things. A great silver tureen of vichyssoise with an enormous ladle to serve it with, followed by all the cold meats and salad things, with summer berry fruits in cassis and served with double cream for dessert, and he gave me a quick course in using his espresso machine too. It was going to be a very grand evening, I could see, and I began to feel just a shade apprehensive. I told myself I could carry it off and that the actor in me would get me through.
Mr Proudfoot then took me into his master bedroom, which was en-suite of course, and even had a walk-in dressing room cum wardrobe area. The bed alone was big enough to sleep six! I stood there, taking it all in, when he handed me a black silk bow tie. I took it and looked at him.
“You do know how to tie it?” he said.
I wanted to tell him I barely knew how to tie an ordinary tie, but just said no.
He stood me in front of the mirror and, from behind, reached round and tied a perfect bow. His aftershave, or cologne or whatever smelt like a million dollars.
He spun me back round by my shoulders and looked me up and down as if he was inspecting me. He adjusted the tie, ran a finger round the inside of my collar and then pulled up my shirt front a little so that it wasn’t so tightly tucked into my trousers.
“Hmmm,” he said. “You’ll do.”
I smiled.
We went back into the drawing room, and he showed me how he liked his gin and tonic. I was then sent to the kitchen to fetch the canapés out of the fridge. It was one of these giant affairs that had an ice cube-maker built into the door.
I heard the doorbell go as I was getting them out of the fridge and wondered if I was expected to answer the door, but then I heard Mr Proudfoot in the hallway. We met face to face as I approached the drawing room doorway with the tray.
“Leslie, this is our guest for the evening, Herr Schwengel,” Mr Proudfoot said.
I bowed my head a little and said, “Guten tag, mein herr. Wilkommen.”
Mr Proudfoot raised his eyebrows and smiled.
“Very good, Leslie. I’m impressed.”
He turned to his guest and rattled something off in German as he led him into the drawing room. I followed with the tray and went to put it down so I could begin with the drinks.
As I was getting the drinks for them, I heard Mr Proudfoot say, “Leslie ist student an der Universität.” “Ah, das ist gut.” I heard the man reply. I smiled to myself, thinking I was picking up the language fast.
He was a good-looking youngish man – quite a bit younger than Mr Proudfoot, I’d have thought – very German though, fair-haired, blue-eyed, thin-lipped, about my build, and dressed in a smart well-fitting dinner suit.
The gin and tonics I made for them were appreciated, and I made two more between serving the canapés, before I went into the dining room to light the candles on the table. I then opened the double doors into the drawing room wide and invited the two men through to sit at the table.
“If you’ll serve the vichyssoise, Leslie, I shall pour Herr Schwengel a glass of hock, Mr Proudfoot said.
I picked up the tureen. It was quite heavy and there seemed an awful lot of the cold soup for just two to dine upon. I was thinking perhaps I could help myself to a bowlful in the kitchen when I’d served them, as I tried to manoeuvre the heavy and cumbersome vessel onto the crook of one arm and manipulate the ladleful of soup into the empty soup bowl in front of the German guest.
I was conscious of Mr Proudfoot at my side as he reached for Mr Schwengel’s glass with the wine bottle, but then he sort of lurched at me and I lost grip of the tureen which slipped from my clutches and poured the entire contents of vichyssoise all over Mr Schwengel.
There was some sort of German expletive from him, but then all three of us were frozen in silent horror. The only sound was the soup dripping onto the parquet floor. The man was saturated from head to foot. I was mortified.
Mr Proudfoot began to apologise profusely in rapid German and sent me to the kitchen to grab some towels and mopping up cloths. It took me a bit to rustle them up, sticking my head in cupboards and drawers trying to find suitable stuff, and I was trembling in a sort of panic as well, I suppose. When I got back into the dining room the poor chap was still standing in a pool of the vichyssoise in his shirt tails. Mr Proudfoot had deftly peeled his drenched and ruined suit which now lay in another soupy heap on the wooden floor. I remember thinking it was lucky there wasn’t an expensive carpet like the one in the drawing room.
“Let’s get you out of this shirt too,” Mr Proudfoot murmured in English. “What a mess!”
I handed a towel to him, and he wiped his hands on it before removing his own velvet jacket.
“Take this shirt through to the kitchen,” he ordered me as he helped him out of it, “and then go to my room and run a shower for him.”
I gathered up the garment and sort of folded it in on itself to try and stop it dripping, then scuttled off to the kitchen where I threw it in one of the sinks and turned the cold tap on to try and stop it staining. I ran to turn on the shower and then returned to the dining room.
Mr Proudfoot was on his knees taking off the German’s socks and I stood embarrassed and uncertain if I were to remain as he reached up and dragged down the man’s underpants. He turned and saw me.
“Ah, Leslie,” he said to me. Take these things through and put them with his shirt, then clean this mess up off the floor. I’ll take Herr Schwengel through to the shower.”
I ditched the sodden briefs and socks into the sink I had put the shirt in earlier and then started hunting for a bucket and mop. It took me quite a while to clear up the mess, but I had managed to make quite a decent job of it by the time Mr Proudfoot appeared.
“Well, that was exceedingly clumsy of you, Leslie,” he began. “Why, it’s almost as if you set out to ruin the evening, and a very important business deal I was hoping to set up.”
I was flabbergasted. “Er, I’m sorry, sir, but when you bumped into me it just slipped from my grasp.”
“When I bumped into you? When I bumped into you? I didn’t bump into you, boy. What are you talking about? Stop trying to excuse yourself by blaming somebody else.”
I stood, open mouthed.
“You will apologise to Herr Schwengel for your gross carelessness. That is the very least you can do. And you will go out of your way to make the rest of his evening as comfortable and stress-free as you possibly can. Is that clear?”
I mumbled, “Yes, sir,” in a contrite and confused manner, wondering how secure my fifty quid fee was going to be.
The door opened and an entirely naked Mr Schwengel entered, speaking quite quickly and crossly to Mr Proudfoot, who answered him in an apologetic and conciliatory tone.
He turned to me and said, “We can’t leave the poor man to enjoy his dinner in his present state, and as you can see from his build, I haven’t anything at all of mine that would do. You’ll have to give him your clothes to wear for the rest of the evening, Leslie.” And leaning forward he pulled my bow tie undone.
It was his tie of course, but I was wearing it.
I leapt back, speechless and uncomprehending.
“Come on, boy – it’s the least you can do to make recompense under the circumstances,” he said quite fiercely, almost a growl. And then he rattled off something in German.
Suddenly the naked man was on his knees at my feet and Mr Proudfoot had stepped forward and was unbuttoning my shirt!
“No, sir!” I cried.
“It’s very much a yes, sir, Leslie. You have no say in the matter.”
He dragged my shirt out from my trousers, and I was momentarily distracted and put off balance as the German lifted my left foot and tugged off my shoe which he had unfastened. I hopped a little as he hung on to my foot, dragging off my sock as Mr Proudfoot pulled my shirt from my shoulders.
Bare chested, I glanced down as the German set about unlacing my right shoe as Mr Proudfoot moved in on my trouser belt. My hands flew to stop him, but he just smacked them quite hard.
“Stop trying to hinder me!” he barked. “You will let Herr Schwengel dress in your clothes, and that is the end of the matter.”
He tore the belt from its loops and set about unfastening my actual trousers. I flinched as the back of his hand brushed against me unnervingly intimately, whilst pulling down my zip.
As the German hauled off shoe and sock from my lifted right leg, Mr Proudfoot pulled down my trousers and forcibly made me step out of them.
I stood there with a sort of impotent and inexpressible rage in the man’s dining room, barefoot and in just my underwear, with him in full evening dress and a naked German, who was not going to be naked long, thanks to my purloined clothing. It was as though I was having to take all the blame for an accident for which I had not been responsible.
I was totally unprepared for the final indignity perpetrated upon me as my unveiled genitals bounced into full view when Mr Proudfoot peremptorily yanked off my underpants.
I stood, clasping my nakedness, as I watched, in a sort of mind-blowingly horrific trance, the German step into my white briefs, pull on my black socks, button up my shirt and step into my trousers.
I watched in a frozen state of nightmare-like horror as the now fully-dressed guest tied up my shoelaces on the shoes he was currently wearing and sat at the table across from Mr Proudfoot, now back in his velvet jacket, who looked across at me with a thin smile and said, “You can serve the next course now, Leslie. Hurry along. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
They both looked me up and down with the sort of expression on their faces as if to wonder why I was hanging about and not getting on with seeing to them. I even glanced down as if to confirm my own nakedness, my bare feet on the wooden floor, almost apologising for the condition into which they had rendered me – that of chastening nudity. He turned to his guest and started speaking in German again and I slunk from the room clasping what crumb of privacy I could with both hands.
He called after me, “And please wash your hands after touching yourself like that, before you serve our food.”
I hunted round the kitchen as I dried my hands and found an apron which I quickly donned and returned to the dining room, still feeling exceedingly sheepish, with my bare buttocks on display, carrying the silver tray of charcuterie.
“Will you please take that apron off at once?” snapped Mr Proudfoot. “That is my property, and I am particular about who wears it – also what they are wearing under it. You may leave it here and go and fetch the rest of the food.”
Sullenly, I removed the apron and handed it to him.
“Put it down over there,” he ordered, “and please don’t waste any more of our time.”
I found myself murmuring, “Yes sir, sorry sir,” as I slunk out again on my way back to the kitchen. Returning with a platter of seafood and a bowl of salad, I was ordered to help the German. As I held the seafood platter for him, I became conscious of his arm brushing against my exposed penis as he helped himself to and fro, from platter to his plate. I tried to bend away a little, but he seemed to make every effort to make contact each time. Mr Proudfoot suggested it would be easier for his guest to help himself to salad if I stood on the other side. As I held the bowl, again, with his other arm, he kept rubbing against me.
It was very unnerving and intensely embarrassing. With a pang of horror, I realised I was starting to have an erection. I held the silver tray of meats just above my pubic bone to protect myself, but he appeared to apply pressure to the edge of it, and suddenly it sprang into view above the rim.
He stopped and looked at it, then looked up at me and turned and said something in German to Mr Proudfoot and laughed. I knew he had remarked about me and my embarrassing condition by the expression on Mr Proudfoot’s face as he looked across at me holding the tray, and then he said something in German and his guest laughed again and very pointedly looked at my shameful state of growing tumescence.
I knew my face must be burning hot, as I moved to Mr Proudfoot, doing my best to conceal my turgidity with the seafood platter. As he helped himself, he too apparently accidentally bumped a hand into it.
“Herr Schwengel is suggesting you are finding this situation which you have initiated this evening very stimulating, Leslie.”
“No, sir,” I managed curtly as I held out the salad.
“Your reproductive system would appear to betray your true inclinations.”
“It’s a natural reaction to some uncalled-for stimulation, sir. I’m sorry.” I managed to say coldly, but politely.
I could tell what I had said was then translated into German and was chuckled over and even mocked by him in his response to his host.
“Herr Schwengel wants to tell you the meaning of his name, Leslie. Go over to him and refill his glass,” Mr Proudfoot said as he handed me the bottle of wine.
Reluctantly I moved round the table to him, and as I began to pour, He took hold of my penis and firmly gripped it as he grabbed my scrotum in his other hand.
“Schwengel means Wood!” he almost whispered as he grinned at me. “It also means, how you say ‘schlong’, ‘cock’, ‘dick’ . . .” and with each word he rubbed my foreskin backwards and forwards over the ever-stiffening shaft in his inescapable grasp.
“Du bist ein böser junge mit einer erektion und dafür muss ich dich masturbieren,” and accelerated the speed of his manhandling me.
I didn’t need a translation. I was horrified.
“Sir, make him stop!” I appealed to Mr Proudfoot.
“He’s just teasing you, that’s all. Take it in good part.”
“Sir, he just said something about ‘masturbating’ me!”
“He’s showing us his humour, that’s all. He knows we think the German race doesn’t have a sense of humour.”
“Well, I’m not finding this very f-f-funny,” I managed to say.
“Ah, but you’re not sitting where we are,” said Mr Proudfoot as he tapped the side of his nose. “Mach weiter, Schwengel. Mehr kraft am ellbogen,” and he appeared to toast him with his glass.
“What are you saying?” I asked desperately as the man started pumping faster.
“I merely wished him more power to his elbow,” Mr Proudfoot explained and leant back in his chair to watch, as I inevitably and unavoidably realised I was being forced into a humiliatingly public inexorable orgasm for the amusement of the two men.
I could not even escape groaning as I involuntarily spurted shaming semen from the German’s still clenched fist as he continued to now painfully yank on my roughly used and exhausted phallic member.
As the initial spurts of my spunk noisily splatted on the oak floor to evolve into a degrading dribble as my penis began to sag back into its customary pose resting on my scrotum, the two men began to eat.
“Clean up your mess, Leslie. Wipe yourself off and then bring in the dessert,” Mr Proudfoot said matter-of-factly and entirely dismissively.
As I was on my hands and knees wiping my spendings from the floor and keeping my backside away from the two men, Mr Proudfoot asked me if I would consider waiting on again for him at dinner parties he held. Conscious that payment might not be withheld entirely, I decided to curb my emphatic response with a more measured one that it would depend upon my availability and any previous plans. I think he respected my diplomacy.
After I had served the berries in cassis and poured the cream for the two men, Mr Proudfoot told me to get myself a bowl and to bring it to him. I did, and with it he cupped my cock and balls onto the cold porcelain surface. Then he spooned strawberries, raspberries and blueberries all over them together with the juice caused by the cassis and icing sugar. Taking the cream jug, he poured it through my pubic hair and all over my groin. He dipped his fingertip in the cream and then anointed both my nipples.
“Now go and let Herr Schwengel get his lips round some of that,” he purred and patted my bare backside.
I did.
And he did.
He seemed to enjoy it.
And I seemed to, as well.
Eventually, after everything was cleared away and the two men were back in the vast drawing room with coffee and liqueurs, the doorbell rang.
Mr Proudfoot went to the door, and I heard Jez’s voice.
"I gave Les a lift here this evening, and I just called to see if he wanted a lift home.”
“I should think he would be very relieved to have one,” Mr Proudfoot returned to the room and gave me an envelope.
“There’s a little extra for the clothing,” he murmured as he took me to the door.
The expression on Jez’s face when he saw me stark bollock naked was almost amusing.
“We had a little accident,” Mr Proudfoot explained as he ushered me off the premises.
“What the f . . .?” Jez began the moment the door had closed.
"It’s quite a story, Jez,” I said as I found five fifty-pound notes in the envelope I had just opened with my thumb, and fell to wondering when I might be required at Mr Proudfoot's again.
