A secret fetish society in London

[dansouthwest]

I have this idea of a club that caters for individuals with a smell fetish.

The men meet at a secluded room that had openings in the wall, almost like a glory hole, however these holes are for anonymous women to stick their bottoms out.

The men spend time sniffing and smelling the most intimate parts of these ladies i.e the vagina and the anus before deciding who they would like to spend the evening with.

They can smell as much as they want but they are not allowed to lick or do anything else until they have decided which smell turns them on the most.

I don't want to rush in to the sex scene too soon but any suggestions or ideas on how to build the story up on this?

 

[Hypoxia]

I don't want to rush in to the sex scene too soon but any suggestions or ideas on how to build the story up on this?

Take it from the other side. How do you see the story ending? How do you *want* it to end? Try to visualize a final scene. Is a naked whore riding a half-naked gentleman like a horse? Is the clubhouse being cleaned-up after the private debauchery? Is a well-fucked Royal riding his coach homeward to the Palace down foggy London streets? Where do you want the story to go?

 

[dansouthwest]

Take it from the other side. How do you see the story ending? How do you *want* it to end? Try to visualize a final scene. Is a naked whore riding a half-naked gentleman like a horse? Is the clubhouse being cleaned-up after the private debauchery? Is a well-fucked Royal riding his coach homeward to the Palace down foggy London streets? Where do you want the story to go?

Interesting way of thinking. Yes I would probably end with gentleman taking one of these mysterious ladies back home for round 2...

 

[Hypoxia]

Interesting way of thinking. Yes I would probably end with gentleman taking one of these mysterious ladies back home for round 2...

Does the story end with their leaving the club? Is there a cliffhanger, pointing to fuckfests in Chap.2? Is the mysterious lady a slumming noble or a cockney tart -- or a Euro spy, sneaking into the graces of the simple gentleman who happens to work in the Foreign Office? Is Sherlock on her trail?

 

[dansouthwest]

Does the story end with their leaving the club? Is there a cliffhanger, pointing to fuckfests in Chap.2? Is the mysterious lady a slumming noble or a cockney tart -- or a Euro spy, sneaking into the graces of the simple gentleman who happens to work in the Foreign Office? Is Sherlock on her trail?

Your imagination is astounding!

The mystery lady could be a common pheasant girl with ambitions to rise up the society ladder. If it means she'll have to let a aristocratic pervert smell her most intimate part and let him sadomize her so be it.

 

[Hypoxia]

Your imagination is astounding!

I prefer "well-lubricated". (toke) And sufficiently smoked. (gasp) Ah, yes...

The mystery lady could be a common pheasant girl with ambitions to rise up the society ladder. If it means she'll have to let a aristocratic pervert smell her most intimate part and let him sadomize her so be it.

Well, Libby had a lot of sniffing and sodomy back home on the Yorkshire farm, so it's no big change, only a bit cleaner and boozier here in the gin-soaked capital. And no sheep here. Whew. Of course the only path to social status is to drop the country dialect and talk like a London tosh -- cf. MY FAIR LADY. So Libby listens carefully as the decadent swine prod her nethers and slurily comment on her prospects, and mimics their speech. Uh oh, use better soap, right. And sodden Lord Arleigh likes her to squirt rum up her tush, to tantalize his tarted tongue. She doesn't mind most of the ass-play. But keep Lord Baskerville away, oh god...

 

[Hussar73]

a common pheasant girl

also known as a hen.

 

[Hypoxia]

also known as a hen.

Why d'ya think the Brits call women 'birds'? Although nobody should have to deal with a cloaca. But I digress. Or do I? The gentleman's club imports numerous 'hens' or 'birds' from the hinterlands for their obscene pleasures. How many can endure the nefarious lordlings? Oh sure, it starts with their fannies smelt and prodded and poked. Then come the tongues, and more. Some of those lords are pervs. Was that a human tongue? A human pecker? Oh no, that feels like Bowser back home! Is Lord Baskerville here tonight?

Setting is critical. I sense a Sherlockian world: foggy/smoggy London, hansom cabs, street urchins, corrupt bobbies, desperate women, tawdry toffs. One society fetishist is a Royal, gone incognito. Another is a European ambassador. Women who keep their wits can learn many state secrets whilst being abused. Is Holmes there in disguise? Which?

 

[Hussar73]

Why d'ya think the Brits call women 'birds'? ...

Setting is critical. I sense a Sherlockian world: foggy/smoggy London, hansom cabs, street urchins, corrupt bobbies, desperate women, tawdry toffs. One society fetishist is a Royal, gone incognito. Another is a European ambassador. Women who keep their wits can learn many state secrets whilst being abused. Is Holmes there in disguise? Which?

I think that we, as Responsible Adults, need to end this misleading terminology and call a spade a shovel. these vicious brutes, these so-called "birds", are no less than living coelurosaurian maniraptoran dinosaurs. those pheasant girls are modern beedy-eyed velociraptors.

Sherlockian London. possibly impractical. the ubiquitous pipe smoking and gas lighting combined with the vast volumes of methane gas produced by the club would result in numerous, shall we say, femme fatale* explosions.


* not to be confused with bimbo eruptions.

 

[Hypoxia]

I think that we, as Responsible Adults, need to end this misleading terminology and call a spade a shovel. these vicious brutes, these so-called "birds", are no less than living coelurosaurian maniraptoran dinosaurs. those pheasant girls are modern beedy-eyed velociraptors.

Wish I'd had those in Bride of Kong. Probably on the experimental island.

Sherlockian London. possibly impractical. the ubiquitous pipe smoking and gas lighting combined with the vast volumes of methane gas produced by the club would result in numerous, shall we say, femme fatale* explosions.


* not to be confused with bimbo eruptions.

A methane overload may result from over-consumption of lentils and onions. The club's kitchen would avoid gaseous foods. Dr Watson is of course a member and oversees their safety precautions. No womb-wobbling whilst Watson is on the scene!

The other reason we can safely use a Sherlockian setting is because we know such explosions DIDN'T HAPPEN. Nowhere in the Holmes oeuvre do we see reports of such. It's like the reason time travel is impossible. People fuck things over. If time travel was possible, some human would have gone back and fucked-over the Big Bang, and we wouldn't exist. Our existence proves the impossibility of time travel, QED. Just so with exploding women / birds. None were recorded, so we're safe. Whew.

Back to the story. How does it end? Does Holmes disguise himself as one of the girls in order to track down the nefarious Prussian agent Hot Helga Hein? How does he penetrate her pose as a Cornish game hen?

 

[Hussar73]

Wish I'd had those in Bride of Kong. Probably on the experimental island.

A methane overload may result from over-consumption of lentils and onions. The club's kitchen would avoid gaseous foods. Dr Watson is of course a member and oversees their safety precautions. No womb-wobbling whilst Watson is on the scene!

The other reason we can safely use a Sherlockian setting is because we know such explosions DIDN'T HAPPEN. Nowhere in the Holmes oeuvre do we see reports of such. It's like the reason time travel is impossible. People fuck things over. If time travel was possible, some human would have gone back and fucked-over the Big Bang, and we wouldn't exist. Our existence proves the impossibility of time travel, QED. Just so with exploding women / birds. None were recorded, so we're safe. Whew.

Back to the story. How does it end? Does Holmes disguise himself as one of the girls in order to track down the nefarious Prussian agent Hot Helga Hein? How does he penetrate her pose as a Cornish game hen?

we know that none were recorded, which is not exactly the same as none happened, see, e.g., Adventure of the Onion Girl for some ambiguity on this point.

here, then is your working plot.

one of the clubmen is an agent of a foreign power, clearly Germany but not so stated to preserve sales in that territory. He's stolen copies of the latest RN submarine, hidden inside a model of the same, which he will pass along to one of the hens, herself an agent. He'll do this by inserting the model submarine into the girl's ass.

Holmes knows how this will happen, but doesn't know the girl agent. So all girls scheduled for that night are arrested by Lestrade and fucked stupid by Met PCs.

Holmes shaves his ass and, after about the fifth or tenth encounter, has the model submarines shoved up his ass. The agent is arrested but there is no conviction because the evidence cannot be retrieved.

 

[Hypoxia]

Holmes shaves his ass and, after about the fifth or tenth encounter, has the model submarines shoved up his ass. The agent is arrested but there is no conviction because the evidence cannot be retrieved.

But Holmes walks around with a subtle smile from that day onward.

Meanwhile, after repeated sniffings, the Royal becomes infatuated with Holmes's shapely butt, and demands a night together. Can Sherlock resist a royal order? Watson carefully prepares a crotch prosthesis to disguise the (rather small) evidence of gender. In the course of the fun, the model submarine is ejected, but by then the agent has suicided with his cyanide tooth. The naughty Royal is fascinated by the submarine; he orders it inserted into his own ass. Joy! He retains if forever. It was buried with him.

BTW since this was before the Grand Entente was signed, the agent could be French. Remember the song:

The French they are a funny race, parlez-vous
The French they are a funny race, parlez-vous
The French they are a funny race
They fight with their feet and fuck with their face
Hinky-tinky parlez-vous​

 

[Hussar73]

fuck with their face
Hinky-tinky parlez-vous[/indent]

we'll always have Paris.

(not the mythological one)

 

[Hypoxia]

we'll always have Paris.

(not the mythological one)

We'll always have Paris, Texas. Or Paris, Yukon. Or Loraine, California, an unincorporated community formerly called Paris.

My first Paris was Perris, California, an Inland Empire city known for its trolley museum and dairy-air. Don't inhale.

Consider how geography influences perception and taste. Suppose it hadn't been Paris. "We'll always have Hoboken." "We'll always have Singapore." "We'll always have El Paso." "We'll always have Sarajevo." These just don't have the same resonance. "We'll always have Chelsea." (But only if she's compliant.)

Back to the sniff-fetishists. Do hens perfume their butts to distract and cheat?

 

[Hussar73]

We'll always have Paris, Texas. Or Paris, Yukon. Or Loraine, California, an unincorporated community formerly called Paris.

My first Paris was Perris, California, an Inland Empire city known for its trolley museum and dairy-air. Don't inhale.

Consider how geography influences perception and taste. Suppose it hadn't been Paris. "We'll always have Hoboken." "We'll always have Singapore." "We'll always have El Paso." "We'll always have Sarajevo." These just don't have the same resonance. "We'll always have Chelsea." (But only if she's compliant.)

Back to the sniff-fetishists. Do hens perfume their butts to distract and cheat?

I also had a Paris in Perris, it happened suddenly whilst suborning perjury.

All those cities have their own cachet. Hoboken invokes big hair and seedy motels. Las Vegas is the city of aeternal light, El Paso suggests meaningless gun-battles over Mexican barmaids. Sarajevo, the time we ran across the airport tarmac dodging sniper bullets. Singapore ... the day the Japanese took the city from the British, oily clouds smothered the harbor in darkness and we had to make an unspeakable contract with the float plane pilot to escape.

 

[Hypoxia]

But we won't always have Antigua Guatemala or San Francisco or Naples Italy because seismic events will wipe them off the map. Imagine a classical noble (mayby Gaius Biggus Dickus) saying, "We'll always have Carthage, baby." Oops, it's gone now. "We'll always have Sodom and Gomorrah." Nice try. "We'll always have Bikini Atoll." What's left of it... "We'll always have Burning Man." Yick, why even bother?

Back to the London ass-sniffing fetishists. It's an old long-established club, founded at the end of the reign of Elizabeth I, not too quiet during royalist years but underground and furtive during Cromwell's misrule, then bursting back under the Restoration. Wiser hereditary members kept members' pervy exploits out of the press (because leading publishers were drawn in). Some members with extensive country estates bred 'hens' specifically for consumption at the club. But no Irish need apply.

 

[Hussar73]

But we won't always have Antigua Guatemala or San Francisco or Naples Italy because seismic events will wipe them off the map. Imagine a classical noble (mayby Gaius Biggus Dickus) saying, "We'll always have Carthage, baby." Oops, it's gone now. "We'll always have Sodom and Gomorrah." Nice try. "We'll always have Bikini Atoll." What's left of it... "We'll always have Burning Man." Yick, why even bother?

Back to the London ass-sniffing fetishists. It's an old long-established club, founded at the end of the reign of Elizabeth I, not too quiet during royalist years but underground and furtive during Cromwell's misrule, then bursting back under the Restoration. Wiser hereditary members kept members' pervy exploits out of the press (because leading publishers were drawn in). Some members with extensive country estates pred 'hens' specifically for consumption at the club. But no Irish need apply.

We'll always have ... . I have rethought this. In all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world there is a we'll always have place for everyone. even Jersey, possibly excepting Hiroshima, Caffa during the Plague years and the Little Big Horn. this is because everyone over the age of 35 (it was a very good year) will have Ingrid Bergman walk back into his life (or the equivalent). If you are under 30 and think you know what this means, you are so bloody wrong.

London britches. the place has more of a Roundhead groove than a Cavalierish. Sir Francis Drake consensually sodomized English country L-ass here before sailing to fight the Spanish Inquisition, Lord Wellington famously quipped that the playing fields of Eton were won in the ass-sniffertoria of London.

 

[Hypoxia]

London britches. the place has more of a Roundhead groove than a Cavalierish.

No, quite the opposite. "No curls, no swirls, no service." Only longhairs were admitted. Roundhead prigs? Feh.

Sir Francis Drake consensually sodomized English country L-ass here before sailing to fight the Spanish Inquisition, Lord Wellington famously quipped that the playing fields of Eton were won in the ass-sniffertoria of London.

And that was even before they discovered cocaine. But capsicum-plus-opium suppositories were quite the rage, a speedball up your butt. At the time, tomatoes were considered a toxic treat, related as they are to belladonna, deadly nightshade and jimson weed; the best suppositories were loaded with a salsa picante of tomatoes, garlic, salt, and jalapeño peppers. !Carumba! Sherlock had good reason to distrust the Spanish.

 

[dansouthwest]

Listening to you two gentlemen I think I need to do many a research on the victorian era before I even attempt writing this story.

On the other hand I could start on the story of a present day young girl from Penzance, tired of relying on government handouts and wanting to escape her cruel step father who takes every opportunity to sadomize her since the tender age of 18 finally becomes brave enough to leave the deep-end of Cornwall and heads to London for a brighter future.

Having found a cleaning job at a Chinese Nuru massage parlour in the seedy part of SoHo, she overhears a client talking about the risen opportunity of a prestigious secret London club looking for girls with peculiar talents

Out of desperation she approaches the gentleman and manages to gets an audition to see if she may be the right bird for this club.

How does that sound for a start?

While one of you gentleman will be better off writing about how this society actually formed in the first place pre-world war 1...

 

[Hypoxia]

Listening to you two gentlemen I think I need to do many a research on the victorian era before I even attempt writing this story.

I'm no gentleman, and Conan Doyle should provide all the crib-sheet you need to recreate late Victoriana. Better yet, read some salacious Sherlockian pastiches, the dirtier the better. That was a groady age.

On the other hand I could start on the story of a present day young girl from Penzance, tired of relying on government handouts and wanting to escape her cruel step father who takes every opportunity to sadomize her since the tender age of 18 finally becomes brave enough to leave the deep-end of Cornwall and heads to London for a brighter future.

Having found a cleaning job at a Chinese Nuru massage parlour in the seedy part of SoHo, she overhears a client talking about the risen opportunity of a prestigious secret London club looking for girls with peculiar talents

Out of desperation she approaches the gentleman and manages to gets an audition to see if she may be the right bird for this club.

How does that sound for a start?

If it's a contemporary setting, almost half the members will be Gulf Arab sheiks and princes and most of the rest will be Australian magnates. Might have a couple West Country lordlings of the most degenerate sort but they won't know the Penzance girl. She'll recognize them, though, and will be especially wary.

A Pakistani terrorist is hiding in there somewhere. Is the society doomed?

 

[Hussar73]

...At the time, tomatoes were considered a toxic treat, related as they are to belladonna, deadly nightshade and jimson weed; the best suppositories were loaded with a salsa picante of tomatoes, garlic, salt, and jalapeño peppers. !Carumba! Sherlock had good reason to distrust the Spanish.

maybe sodomy is best done to a latin groove, like a victorian samba:

Boom Chick BoomBoom Chick BoomBoom Chick BoomBoom

Boom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh

Boom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh

 

[Hypoxia]

maybe sodomy is best done to a latin groove, like a victorian samba:

Boom Chick BoomBoom Chick BoomBoom Chick BoomBoom

Boom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh

Boom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh Chick BoomBoom ugh

Not in Victorian-Edwardian London. Japanese and Javanese music would be suitably exotic but Samba hadn't yet been invented. No Bossa Nova for the Portagee visitors. But a brass band would not work there either. No, it'll be a New Orleans mulatto stroking sensuous music of Gottschalk and Joplin on the piano, with maybe a viola and clarinet for texture. Yeah, exotic Louisiana whorehouse music, just the thing to set those toffs spasming.

Music swirls. The front portal opens. A wobbly Royal staggers in, heading for the Glory Door, access to the ass-sniffing gloryhole chamber. The music picks up. Cowgirls ride their hung human horsies. Unoccupied women slurp each other, as do unoccupied men. An intricate ragtime rhythm corruscates in the fervid air. People inhale, and exhale, and stop, and whimper. The shaky Royal snorts loudly. A companion for the night has been chosen. Oh, laments...