Stephanie and Willard Browne
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Chantilly Brown free porn video
Spelling is Kissock English
* * *
INTRODUCTION
President Brown’s daughter Chantilly disliked being jobless and socially isolated on the allegedly sun-drenched tropical island of breeze-caressed coconut palms and mile-long white-sand beaches that tourist brochures label unabashedly, ‘A Romantic Dream Destination’ and ‘Fantasy Island Is One Credit Card Zap Away’.
Only yesterday a 7-year old runaway from school endeavouring to escape harsh discipline was hiding between ‘breeze-caressed palms’ and had his head split open by a falling coconut. That put the concept of breeze-caressrf coconut palms into sharper perspective.
Chantilly sniffed and wondered how could one’s body become sun-drenched when the 8840 square mile island was shut down by 120 mph hurricanes? And when those frightening big blows ended, decaying fish, diesel from sunken fishing boats and the washed up huge lake of rotting sewage from the sanitation pumping station pipeline outlet two miles off the coast would for weeks if not months trash the ‘mile-long white sand beaches’ on the tourism-favoured northern coast.
Actually the longest beach was a mere 781-yards long and white shells crushed by tidal action gave the impression the grey sands were white. It was never stated in tourist brochures that on average sharks catch seven tourists a year or that twenty or so tourists a year die in fights, dynasty, food poisoning, any one of seven deadly fevers or are gored by a wild boar.
The brochures had pictures of green turtles but made no mention of giant and deadly spiders, or the world’s most venomous sea snakes, giant bats or huge biting ants that a few years ago reputedly surrounded a copulating couple on Lulana Beach and in the morning all that was left were bones. The story never surfaced because the newspaper reporter who reputedly gathered evidence of that incident of world news status, mysteriously disappeared on her way back to her newspaper.
* * *
Chantilly, a 23-year old with a masters in marine science, rubbed purest medical grade lanolin cream into her nipples to inhibit cracking in the corrosive climate of salt laden air, heat and the periodic drying winds off the inland desert. She, her mother and sister, spent a small fortune on skin protection that their husband/father willingly provided because of his fondness of beautiful women.
The president of the democratic-ruled nation of 260,700 people was entitled to travel abroad with his/her family every 12 months for three weeks and the Browns had just returned from Canada, their choice of country to visit this year. For Chantilly, the joy of going abroad was offset by the despair of returning to ‘paradise’. She’d tried unsuccessfully to find employment in Canada that would have allowed her to stay behind but none of the interviewers, unfortunately all female, could bring themselves to recommend employment of a dazzling beauty who had no work experience and arrogantly required a high salary.
So she returned to the island and sulked, lost weight and lost her humour. She was such a pain that her father had his official motor yacht stocked with fine food, fine wine and a female hospitality crew of loose morals and invited the government’s Minister of Tourism to join him to cruise away the weekend. The result was Chantilly was offered a position in London as the Republic of Kissock’s tourism representative, a position usually taken by a near retiring big-wig.
Chantilly went personally to thank the ugly Minister of Tourism after signing her two-year contract, and happily allowed him to have sex with her. It was worth it, bent painfully over his desk while he toiled for twenty minutes before climaxing. Well it was a prestigious position that included an apartment above her office in High Street, Marylebone plus secure parking and a self-drive black Mercedes coupe.
CHAPTER 1
Chantilly arrived at her new home mid afternoon and that evening held a party in her office for some old friends she’s made over the years when receiving her secondary and university education in London. In the report she sent back to her Ministry, her guests had fictitious names and fictitious occupations such as Mr Basil Perkins, managing director of Vacations International Inc and Miss Shelia Chessman, managing editor of Exotic Holidays Magazine.
‘Oh darling how lovely to see you again,’ cooed Felicity d’Drum (named in the report as Miss Sheila Chessman), festooned with expensive jewellery because her father was awash with money, being a dark beer baron.
Three hours later Chantilly found Felicity being shafted on the kitchen table by the Rt Hon. Steven Wright-Higgins (named as Mr Basil Perkins), Minister of Litter Control in Her Majesty’s Government. Enterprisingly, she slipped off her panties and climbed on to the table and made it a threesome.
Three of Chantilly’s girlfriends stayed on to clean up the offices but then, finding themselves too tired for sex with Chantilly, they staggered off.
Chantilly was relieved about that because her butt was tender became Steven hadn’t used lube. She thought that evening of drunkenness and mild debauchery ought to have re-established her on the social scene and she could now return to being a lady… well as near as she could get.
She met her staff of three in the morning. Oliver was a computer graphics and design expert who also looked after electronic communication and maintained the office’s computer system.
Young Mavis made tea and looked after the mail and courier deliveries/collections and did things no one else wanted to do.
Elegant Ivy was Chantilly’s PA.
‘What do I do?’ Chantilly asked.
‘Your hair and nails, answer the calls I put through to you and attend luncheons and return to the office in time to leave for the day.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Well that’s what your predecessor did before he was recently recalled and as did the woman before him.’
‘And what do you do Ivy?’
‘Everything you are supposed to do in respect of administration. You have to host dignitaries and plan the marketing of any promotion the Ministry sends us in a Diplomatic bag.
Chantilly yawned and said she liked it and Ivy said she thought Chantilly would.
‘Doesn’t this office originate promotions to publicized Kissock’s tourism potential?’
‘No.’
‘And why not?’
‘Because it’s never been done.’
That told Chantilly her middle-aged PA had been trained within the socialist bureaucracy.
She stretched and yawned when Ivy left and thought she should go up to her luxurious flat and sleep till evening so she would be fresh when she hit the bars to find a suitable guy to take her clubbing.
Chantilly opened her handbag and took out her contract for filing and paused to glance through it, looking for any clues about job specifics but found none. She came to the last paragraph and read it carefully: ‘I Chantilly Margaret Cinzia Brown solemnly swear to serve my country with honour and dignity while officially representing the Republic of Kissock. I promise to work diligently and effectively to promote the tourism attractions of my Indian Ocean homeland.’
Slowly a veil of responsibility shrouded Chantilly. She called Mavis and asked for tea and replied no iced bun or chocolate biscuits.
Sipping Bronson’s Mid-Morning Blend in a bone china cup, Chantilly called Ivy and asked how much annual budget was available from this month’s budget. The answer was $349,729 in Kissock dollars or about £210,000.
‘You’ll get a quite a few parties out of that,’ Ivy said icily and Chantilly said stiffly, under influence of her new cloak of responsibility, that she wasn’t a party girl.
Chantilly made an international call and a sleepy voice said, ‘Who the fuck is phoning at this hour of night.’
‘Oh my apologies? I’ll call some more convenient hour. What time do you usually jerk off?’<
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‘Chantilly, Chantilly Brown?’
‘Yes Uncle Dick.’ she said to Billy Brown, her father’s youngest brother. On her 18th birthday Uncle Billy had taken Chantilly’s virginity because none was lining up to do it and from then on he became her Uncle Dick because on that infamous night in the cellar he’d said dribbling, ‘Here comes your uncle’s dick’.
They talked about his fishing operation and he said well if he pulled finger out he could make two fishing trips a day, taking a maximum of 40 fishermen per trip. He became really enthused when Chantilly said he probably could charge each person $200 with nothing to pay if they didn’t catch a fish.
Chantilly sipped more tea thinking about the photo she’d taken only last year when she’d gone down to the fishing wharf as she liked to do to buy fresh fish from Uncle Dick. He was just returning after being out to catch the 5:00 am start of the incoming tide and returned four hours later with 400 hastily gutted fish hanging on lines above the deck and already putrefying in the tropical heat. But that was okay because they would be ground up for garden fertilizer. The edible fish would be down below on ice.
Chantilly had her camera with her and took the phone of Uncle Dick and his strung up fish. He waving at her, dressed in filthy shorts, filthy armless white Polo and was unshaven. It certainly was no tourist picture.
She went upstairs and returned with that photo from her collection of favourite memorabilia to weep over when she felt homesick.
‘Hi Oliver,’ she said to the IT man and graphic artist. ‘Ivy tells me you are in a gay relationship?’
‘Yeah. Want me to resign?’
‘I call that a preference, not a disgusting unholy act Oliver.’
‘Oh.’
‘Oliver can you work with me to produce an advertisement that will be a quarter page in magazines and will adjust easily to requested size in newspapers?’
‘Sure Chanty, piece of cake.’
‘Great and if you wish to shorten my name the preferred choice is Tilly you fag.’
He laughed and said she would be refreshing to have around. He invited her to sit down and she handed him the photo to scan.
A few days later Chantilly grabbed all the national dailies off Marvis who yelled, ‘Hey Tilly we share them.’
‘My first ad is in these newspapers today.
Everyone gathered around and when they gasped, Chantilly and Oliver looked at each other and grinned.
‘Gawd that fisherman looks like a pirate,’ Ivy sniffed.
‘He probably has a big dick,’ Chantilly said, and Ivy leaned forward to take a closer look at the illustration.
‘He looks like a genuine fisherman,’ Mavis said, but who would pay two hundred bucks to catch a fish?’
Chantilly the authority said, ‘A fisherman who rarely catches fish and thinks when eyeing this ad he’ll catch up to 400 in four hours and will be photographed with his catch and will be able to keep as many fish as he wishes.’
‘Go on, he can’t fly home with food, especially smelly fish.’
‘Well he won’t be thinking that when he books to go to Kissock, but if he is a thinking fisherman he’ll extend his stay to give him time to eat through his catch.’
Just as Oliver had done when composing the advertisement to Chantilly’s instructions, Ivy and Mavis looked at Chantilly in awe.
Within three days all available aircraft seats from Great Britain for the 11-hour flight to the Republic of Kissock had been taken and a national UK travel agency had chartered a cruise liner with 2700 beds to sail to Kissock for a week’s stay in port to accommodation the overflow of bookings.
Uncle Dick called Chantilly.
‘Fuck off caller, it’s 2:00 am.’
‘Hi Big Cunt.’
‘Uncle Dick, you know that’s your intimate name for me is not something to be used on an international phone call.’
She was ignored.
‘The boys and me of course wish to thank you. Ten of us solo owner-operators have formed a consortium to cope with the deluge of fishermen already arriving. Because we have no charter fishing operations on the island, we’ll establish some because we are out to make hay while the sun shines. You are a whiz darling and we have all got our wives or girlfriends to write to the Minister of Tourism congratulating him on his wisdom in appointing you to your position.’
‘Why didn’t you guys write, it would appear more personal?’
There was silence.
‘Oh god, you bums can’t read or write?’
‘Yeah but we can fish and screw brilliantly,’ her uncle snarled and cut the call.
Ivy came in, white-faced.
‘You have been summoned to our London Embassy at 2:00 this afternoon.’
‘Oh what for and don’t they know I might be busy?’
Ivy turned green and clutched the door-frame. ‘Chantilly a no-show will be regarded as treason. Punishment for that ranges from a rap on the knuckles to death by firing squad.’
‘Oh.’
‘So you can go?’
‘Yes but you come with me.’
Ivy flushed with pleasure and said she would confirm. ‘The office cleaning account has a healthy surplus. Let’s raid that for hair-dressing and new dresses and shoes.’
‘Good idea. I’ll sign the chit authorizing the purchase of new carpeting. The auditors will never know this is not new carpeting.’
‘God Chantilly, you are brilliant at financial screwing and I bet the other kind as well.’
‘Oooh back off darling.’
Ivy’s face turned brick red.
The Embassy of the Republic of Kissock was a converted pub in Lambeth on Westminster Bridge Road. Chantilly parked the Merc on no parking lines outside the Embassy and an official came out, checked her identity and affixed temporary diplomatic plates over her plates to keep traffic wardens and tow-away truckies at bay.
Ambassador Irene d’Rocke greeted them warmly and admired Chantilly and Ivy’s dresses.
‘What is your designation Mrs Smallbone?’
‘Um.’
‘Ivy is my PA Your Excellency.’
‘Oh excellent. A young woman of your astonishing green-eyed beauty ought not to venture out in the City of Sin unescorted. Shall we get the ceremony over and then hit the liquor?’
‘Yes please,’ the visitors chorused.
Floodlights were turned on to brightly illuminate the small wine velvet lined area of the drawing room and a guy arrived with a tripod-mounted video camera and hanging off his neck was a large Canon digital camera.
Ambassador d’Rocke and Chantilly took up their positions and Chantilly was asked to show a bit more upper breast line.
‘Are you right Sid?’ she called to the camera guy who turned out to be her husband.
He nodded.
‘Chantilly Brown,’ the Ambassador began, ‘I have been instructed by the Prime Minister of the Republic of Kissock on the approval of Parliament to honour you for brilliant service to our country’s flagging tourism industry. Almost overnight you have sent tourists streaming into our beloved country to go fishing. Those promotions you devised will be run periodically to keep the inflow coming.’
Ambassador d’Rocke then performed the investiture after asking Chantilly to nominate her area of affiliation for her title. She chose Augustine.
‘Under the authority invested in me I declared you, Chantilly Margaret Cinzia Brown, the Republic of Kissock’s First Baroness,’ she said, placing a royal blue velvet cape around Chantilly’s shoulders and then taking an ornate eight-inch wide gold star from a footman, she pinned it over Chantilly’s left breast.
‘Congratulations Chantilly, Baroness Augustine.’
Her husband, the footman and Ivy clapped.
The spotlights turned off and the ambassador kissed Chantilly and said, ”Normally you would be been recalled home for a parliamentary investiture. But when this matter was referred to the Prime Minister, he said it would be more economic to state a parliamentary function for you when you return home on furlough.’
‘That’s fine, I
wasn’t expecting anything other than verbal commendation because I an aware I had stimulated the inflow of tourists.’
When they returned to the tourism promotion office, Ivy carried the large leather case into the inner office and closed the door behind Chantilly. She dressed Chantilly in her cape and then opened the door and said, ‘Please stand Oliver and Mavis.’
They stood obediently.
‘Oliver and Mavis,’ Ivy said grandly. ‘May I present Baroness Augustine.’
Mavis and Oliver looked agog as Chantilly walked out.
‘Omigod,’ Mavis said. ‘I’ll get tea.’
Small announcements under a large and glorious photo of the Kissock’s new and only baroness, showing handsome cleavage, appeared in national newspapers throughout the UK. Thereafter social invitations regularly flowed into the office for Chantilly and she made it to coveted social lists, crudely known as the A-lists by the unwashed.
Oliver had said, ‘Ma’am how do we address you?’ and Chantilly replied, ‘As Tilly silly.’
Ivy said primly, ‘And what about formal correspondence?’
‘In general correspondence I shall simply be Chantilly Brown with no reference to title. In reply to formal invitation or our sending of formal invitation I wish to be referred to as Lady Augustine and underneath that my title as Director of the London Office of the Republic of Kissock Tourism. In legal documents I shall be the Right Honorable Baroness of Kissock. Formally I shall be introduced as Chantilly, Baroness Augustine. I have been briefed that Kissock’s peerage is not officially recognized in the UK but my briefing from home says we should use our titles honourably in the UK.’
The first invitation Chantilly accepted was to have Saturday night dinner with Ivy and her husband Jack and three other couples.
Chantilly arrived in high heels, tight jeans and a tight top and the diamond necklace her ecstatic mother, Lady Brown and her father Sir Cyril, had sent her when news of Chantilly’s ascent into the peerage was announced by the Prime Minister and reported widely in the media in Kissock.
A girl of about thirteen answered the door and asked scathingly, ‘Where’s you tiara?’
‘Sorry darling, no one has bought me one. You must be Jane. Lead me to your mother please.’
‘Mummy has bought a new dress in your honour.’
‘Oh very nice.’
When Chantilly reached the drawing room she saw Ivy was wearing the dress they’d bought for the visit to the embassy.
Ivy’s husband and the six other couples stood nervously until Chantilly eased the tension by kissing Ivy and then handing a bottle of red wine from the office cellar and kissing Jack, she and saying, ‘Hi Jack, you’re quite a hunk.’
Ivy introduced the other couples, Chantilly kissing the women and shaking hands with the men.
‘The cabbie bringing me here told me this awful joke about female condom pouches,’ Chantilly began.
‘Just a minute,’ Ivy called, racing off with Jane.
Thanks to Chantilly the evening was a great success, a laugh a minute and the Smallbone’s and their friends all hugged Chantilly affectionately when she prepared to leave.
On Monday morning when Ivy bought in the mail she said, ‘You were sensational on Saturday night and this morning Jack reminded me to tell you that was our best dinner party ever.’
‘No problem. Jack’s cute and you have really nice friends.’
On of the letters was from Shelley Irons whom gone through primary school on the island with Chantilly.
‘Hi sweetheart, congratulations in getting the big gong or whatever it’s called. The Republican Magazine ran a full frontpage photo of you with you in your regalia. Yummy those tits! All our all classmates I’ve spoken too can’t believe you have been honoured so substantially at your young age. Enclosed are some photos of the Basil Lane Markets. I asked Pete Lane, now a professionally photographer, to take them and he agreed provided he could shaft me. I agreed but hadn’t realized he meant once a week but it’s fine, I can service two men easily. Mom thinks if you can do for the markets what you did for those fishermen down at Port Augustine, then there would be money to spare from increased turnover to provide new roofing for the market without spoiling the old world charm of the markets that we all so love. What do you say babe? Counting on you. Shell-the-Girl.’
Dani
- 13.02.2021
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