These past couple of days have born witness to an event so earth-shattering that I dare say the world will never be the same again. Truly, the incredible developments of this week will reverberate throughout history, and will be spoken of in awe for many, many generations to come.

For you see, dear readers, this week marks the two-hundredth entry in my incredible journals.

The ink had no sooner dried on my previous chapter when I realised that I had also just completed the one hundred and ninety-ninth account of my astonishing adventures, and that my two-hundredth addition was imminent. Needless to say, I was left exhilarated, thrilled and enormously aroused by this turn of events, and decided immediately to celebrate this most fabulous occasion in a manner worthy of its magnificence.

“Botter!” I exclaimed, tipping over my ink-pot with my fully engorged member. “I am about to mark my two-hundredth entry into my fabulous diaries!”

“Well done, milord,” Botter replied.

“Yes, it was rather,” I smiled. “Do you know what, Botter? I feel like celebrating!”

“Oh, must you?” Botter answered, the colour draining from his face.

“Yes! Yes I must! Two-hundred insertions is not to be overlooked, you know!” Suddenly a most wonderful and fantastic idea popped into my equally wonderful and fantastic head. “Egads! That’s it, Botter!”

“What’s what?”

“I shall celebrate my two-hundredth insertion by performing two hundred insertions tomorrow! And by ‘insertions’ I think you know what I mean…”

“Oh no, milord,” Botter gasped.

“Oh YES! Botter, you must find me two hundred eminently pumpable women, post-haste! This is one celebration that will most certainly go off with a bang! Or two hundred.”

“B-but where am I going to find two hundred women at such short notice?” my foul-smelling man-servant whined.

“If you book them, Botter, they shall come,” I grinned. “And then, they shall come hard.”

I awoke the next morning to a cacophonous racket from outside the mansion. I flung back the bedcovers, slipped on a dressing gown to preserve my modesty (I always sleep nude, so that I am ready for action in a trice) and popped my top hat on my head. Then I opened up the windows of my bed-chamber, and stepped out onto the balcony.

This is what I saw.

Row upon row of women, all clamouring for my lordly love-shaft. A mass of mimsy as far as the eye could see, a veritable sea of snatch. ‘Twas like I had died and gone to fanny heaven.

“I did it milord!” piped a feeble voice from below. There, standing beneath my window, was Botter, looking considerably the worse for wear. “It took me all night, but I did it milord!”

“Yes, yes,” I snapped. “What do you want, a medal?”

“Yes?”

“Well tough titties, Botter! I do not believe they give out medals for being appalling. Now move out of the way, you wretched oik! I rather fear you are cramping my style.”

Botter apologised and skulked away, leaving me alone with hundreds of nob-hungry females.

“LADIES, LADIES!” I yelled, in order that I might be heard over the row. As my voice boomed across the Likely Estate, the women ceased their nattering and turned to face me. With their attention fully focused on my fine form, I shed my dressing gown and bared my naked glory to the crowd.

“Now then…who’s first?” I beamed.

I shall never forget what happened next, as long as there is still breath left in my beautiful body. As soon as the words left my lips, excitable screams filled the air, and the women surged forward as one, before turning upon one another as they attempted to fight their way to the front of the queue, and thus the tip of my shaft.

Dresses were torn, teeth were broken, legs were crushed and hats were trampled upon; it was a scene of complete and utter cock-fuelled chaos.

Naturally, I was overjoyed, although my joy soon turned to deep concern, as the fighting became more and more brutal, leaving me wondering if any of the women present would be left in a fit enough (or attractive enough) state to receive my thunderous thrustings. The grounds of my estate were beginning to resemble some sort of battlefield, albeit a battlefield with big, beautiful breasts.

“Jesus cocking Christ!” I yelled, as I watched one unfortunate woman’s nose explode in a shower of scarlet as another lady smashed at it with her parasol. “This is going to be a ruddy bloodbath!”

Just as I was beginning to regret my course of action, I noticed a rather stunning, dark-haired figure battling her way towards me, staving off her rivals with the judicious use of her handbag, which seemed to be packing quite a wallop. As she neared me, I noticed that her dress had been torn in such a way that it left one of her fantastically fulsome and firm funbags exposed, which I recognised almost immediately.

“Dorothy?” I cried.

“It is I, my lord!” panted the delectable Dorothy Mount-Worthy.

“I thought as much!” I proclaimed. “I never forget a breast!”

I had already had the pleasure of ploughing Miss Mount-Worthy a couple of months previously, along with her good friend Maud Dreadful. The latter had proven to be anything but dreadful, and Miss Mount-Worthy was every bit as thrilling as her surname suggested. To see her again made my heart leap into my mouth, and I wasted no time in descending the staircase to my front door, to welcome the delightful filly as she finally staggered up the stairs to the entrance of my mansion.

Even with her clothes torn apart, her hair ruffled and with a few bruises upon her arm from her struggles, dear Dorothy still looked as gorgeous as she had done on that day back in August, and as her big, beautiful blue eyes beheld me, her full, kissable lips curled into a heart-warming smile. I knew right there and then that she was most certainly the woman for me.

At least for the next couple of hours.

I kissed her briefly in the doorway (which I do not mean in any euphemistic form whatsoever), and ushered her gently into the house, slamming the door hard behind me, and bolting it up for good measure, lest any of the sex-starved slatterns outside tried to break in.

“‘Tis a pleasure to see you again, my dear,” I said, as I drew the final lock fast. “Tell me, what brings you back up this way?”

“Well, my lord…” Dorothy began.

“Please, there is no need for such formality! We have, after all, exchanged bodily fluids and explored one another’s genitals! You may call me by my first name, my love.”

“Oh!” Dorothy exclaimed. “I…I am afraid I do not know your first name.”

“Ah. Well, never mind. You may call me ‘your lordship’ instead, then.”

“Well, your lordship, a rather strange little man came and told me about this event you were holding, and I thought that it sounded like far too much fun to pass up. And, seeing as how to-day is my birthday and all, I thought I would…treat myself…”

“It is your birthday? To-day? Good heavens! Then we must have a double celebration!” I cried, clapping my hands together excitedly. “Wait just one precious moment, my dearest…I believe I may well have a present for you…”

I disappeared briefly into one of my many bath-rooms, and reemerged moments later, clad in one of my finest dressing-gowns, made from the finest Chinese silk. I must have looked even more handsome than usual, for Dorothy let out a very audible gasp of delight.

“Happy birthday, my sweet!” I smiled, and then I slowly undid my gown and slid it off my shoulders, leaving me utterly nude once more, save for a large, red ribbon I had tied around my proud Lord Palmerston.

“Is…is that for me?” Dorothy whispered, pointing at my gift-wrapped glory-pole.

“It most certainly is,” I grinned. “I should very much like to give it to you, my dear. Many times over, if possible.”

Dorothy looked up at me with those pretty eyes, and smiled, and before I knew it she was upon me. Needless to say, we made mad, passionate, sweaty, sticky, glorious, thundering love two hundred times over the course of the next few days, in two hundred different positions.

Here, then, is to the next two-hundred entries!

Toodle-pip!

- Lord Likely.

Announcement! Lord Likely wishes to dedicate today’s journal entry to all his loyal readers, subscribers, and commentators; all of whom he wishes he could thank personally and passionately. Furthermore, his lordship would also like to offer an additional dedication to his darling Kerry, who’s birthday it is to-day, coincidentally! Please join his lordship in wishing her the happiest of days, as well as congratulating his lordship himself on his two-hundredth post. Hip hip! HUZZAH!

Next Time in The Astonishing Adventures of Lord Likely: A Brand New Illustrated Indiscretion!

Hungry for more inter-net based fiction? Then may I suggest you peruse The Web Fiction Guide, Pages Unbound or The Blog Fiction Blog, all of which are thoroughly excellent, due in no small part to the fact that I am listed with them all. Huzzah!

Good day, all. And how the devil are you?

- Lord Likely.

Everyone at humor-blogs.com wishes they could be Lord Likely. Or at the vear least, they wish they could be in him.

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November 5th, 1856.

Remember, remember the fifth of November. Not because of that awful terrorist bastard Guy Fawkes, and his preposterous plan to blow up the Houses of Parliament. No, dear readers, the real reason to remember this historic day is that it is the very day that I, Lord Likely, celebrate my one-hundredth journal entry! Hurrah, and indeed, huzzah!

Who would have imagined that when I set out to transcribe my thrilling adventures in my trusted journals all those months ago, that I would still be writing them one-hundred entries later?

Well, I would have imagined it, of course, as I am cocking-well brilliant.

Naturally, to celebrate such a milestone I set about cracking open a fresh bottle of champagne – quite literally, infact, as Botter did a terrible job of opening the bottle himself, leaving me with little recourse but to smash the bottle open upon his wretched skull. Of course, he then whined and moaned and carried on about needing ‘several stitches’ to his head, but I was not going to let a bleeding man-servant ruin my celebrations, and so I carried on drinking while he passed out under the table in a pool of his own scarlet.

Happy times!

Feeling in such a reflective and celebratory mood, I thought I would re-read my journals and select my favourite moments. A surprising amount of these choice cuts seem to revolve around me injuring someone, which is why I refer to them as:

Horses, in which I give details about my collection of horses. In lesser hands, this would have been a dull entry, but I make it fascinating and fantastic, as is my way.

Aches and Pains, in which I list some of the injuries I have suffered whilst trying to remain so gloriously composed and ravishing.

Brawls I Have Known, where I recount some of my more violent sojourns to various drinking establishments around the country.

Fight to the End, in which I tackle a small army of bloodthirsty prostitutes.

The Astonishing Adventures of Lady Likely, where I recall some of the escapades of my dear mother, the errant Lady Likely.

Things I Have Stabbed, says it all, really.

Things I Have Stabbed – Part Two, also says it all, really.

Ladies I Have Loved and Lost, in which I recall a small selection of the many sexual conquests of my past.

Shopping Habits of a Lord, whereby I list some of the fine establishments I frequent when shopping.

A Wanted Man, in which I become a fugitive from the law, and have my handsome face plastered all over ‘Wanted’ posters across London Town.

Banquet and Wild, wherein I attend a party thrown in my honour, only to be forcibly ejected from said party not long after it has commenced.

Dealing with Aristocratic Anger, in which I demonstrate exactly what to expect should you find yourself disagreeing with my lordly self.

A Tidal Wave of Filth, wherein plans for my gloriously decadent Porn Library are exposed to the world.

All Rise for Her Majesty, in which I reveal my barely-concealed lust for the monarch, Queen Victoria. God Save Her!

The Likely Family Tree, in which I give a little bit of background on the Likely family.

Pounding the Palmerston, wherein I have a wank, or at least try to.

Loopy Lisa, in which I nearly wind up getting wed to something that closely resembles a man.

Lord Likely’s Schooldays, in which I recall some of my scholastic memories, some of which almost got me expelled.

If You Are Going to Party Then Party Hard, wherein I have one hell of a birthday party, and wind up many miles from home.

Quite a fine selection of wondrous writings from my incalculably incredible self there, I am sure you will agree. And I am sure you will not hesitate to join me in proposing a toast to the next one-hundred entries, and many more astonishing adventures. Especially as the booze is on me!

CHEERS!

- Lord Likely.

The Likely Centenary will continue apace for the rest of the week, where lucky readers can expect to bear witness to Lord Likely’s Birthday Honours, an all-new Likely Portrait, more recollections of his lordship’s schooldays and more besides. Chin-chin!

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Due to all my recent adventuring, and my time spent in the United States of America, I completely overlooked the birthday celebrations of our current, reigning monarch, Queen Victoria.

This is a terrible oversight on my part. I usually make quite an occasion of her Majesty’s birthday (that being the twenty-fourth of May), as not only do I find her to be a truly inspirational and formidable woman, but I also will use any old excuse to have a ruddy great piss up, and get completely and utterly sloshed, and maybe pick a fight with a street urchin or two.

In an attempt to rectify my glaring oversight, I would now just like to take a moment to honour Her Majesty, under whose reign Great Britain has become even greater. This land has been transformed into a powerful, industrious and wealthy country, with an Empire that covers a quarter of the world, including Canada. Not too bad, for a woman.

At first, I must admit that I found the idea of a woman leading our great nation laughable, because as everyone knows women are far less intelligent than men, and are only fit for carrying out menial tasks such as washing and cooking, as well as the odd vigourous bout of intercourse. However, my initial concerns have been swept aside by this most magnificent of women, who has led the country with grace, dignity and supreme confidence, that often makes me quite forget that she does not have a penis. She has managed to overcome her gender-based disabilities with aplomb.

I thereby raise a glass of whisky to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria – our Sovereign, our leader, our ruler. I stand proud before her, and am happy to be at her service.

Plus, she also has a cracking pair of tits.

- Lord Likely.

Post-script: I promise to commence the transcription of my American adventure henceforth, just as soon as I have finished celebrating. That is, should my eyesight return promptly, and should Botter be able to pry me from my bed-chamber.

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