The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.II

by Rupert Mountjoy

  Rupert Mountjoy

  The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.II

  Green grow the rushes

  O, Green grow the rushes O; The sweetest hours that e'er I spent, Were spent among the lasses O!

  Robert Burns (1759-1796)

  CHAPTER ONE. A Freshman's Tale

  'Here's a little trick which will amuse the ladies at your party tonight,' said Barry Jacobs, a fellow undergraduate I met during my second week of the Varsity when we were both chosen to play football for the college team on the strength that we had both captained our school elevens at soccer. He was a clever chap and though our life paths took very different directions after leaving Oxford, Barry and I have remained close personal chums. 'Do you have a pencil and paper to hand? listen carefully now, Rupert-take your age and double it; then add five. Right? Now, think of any number between one and ninety-nine; and now take away the number of days in a year. Finally, add one hundred and fifteen and divide by one hundred.

  Now see where the decimal point comes. Your age will be to the left of it and the number between one and ninety-nine that you chose will be to the right of it! Isn't that amazing?' But dear readers, I feel that I am in too much haste in beginning these recollections of my splendid years spent 'twixt the dreaming spires of the internationally famous University of Oxford, in the heart of England's green and pleasant land. For those of you who have yet to read of my early exploits in the grand l'art de faire l'amour I had best swiftly sketch the bare details of my life so far. Although my family seat is in Yorkshire, I attended boarding school down in Sussex at St Lionel's Academy For the Sons Of Gentlefolk. I was initiated into the joys of sensuality, however, by Diana Wigmore, the beautiful daughter of a neighbour and my friend Frank Folkestone (who also crossed the Rubicon during that never-to-be-forgotten summer holiday) and I enjoyed further liaisons at school with Prince Salman of Lockshenstan. Salman, the son of a fabulously wealthy maharajah, liked nothing better than to fuck himself into a stupor at any and every opportunity and the girls of the nearby village queued up to receive his spunky libations and twenty pound notes which he generously distributed to his female companions. Nevertheless, all play and no work is a recipe for disaster as Dr Keeleigh, our dear old headmaster used to say, and Salman took his wise words to heart. My Indian pal was a diligent scholar and I was sorry that he did not accept the place offered him at University College, Oxford but preferred to continue his scientific studies at Trinity College, Cambridge. However, we did keep in touch from time to time as will be recorded in this narrative. My other inseparable schoolfellow was Frank Folkestone and to our mutual delight we were both accepted by Balliol College to study law. Our rooms were on the same landing in college which pleased us both and, as will be noted, this arrangement proved to be extremely convenient for, how shall I best put it, our often joint extra mural activities.

  Hopefully this will set the scene for you, dear reader. Let us now return to a pleasant day in early October, 1899. I was walking down St Cross Road with Barry Jacobs after we had taken part in an hour's training for the football match against Brasenose College to be played on the following Saturday. It had been a dry, warm summer and the weather had yet to turn cold and walking slowly away from the playing fields I felt at peace with the world. In the quiet lane I thought I could hear some conkers falling and I noticed that the ash-keys were turning gold along with a few adjacent leaves-but all other leaves on the ash-tree boughs were still green. Barry had also been affected by the beauty of our surroundings and he exclaimed: 'We're really lucky chaps to be at Oxford, aren't we Rupert? How did the poet put it:

  Towery city and branchy between towers; Cuckoo-echoing, bell swarmed, lark-charmed, rook-racked, river rounded; The dapple-eared lily below thee…'

  'Very well said-especially coming from a mathematics scholar!' I joked, 'but frankly I'm thinking of a more down-to-earth matter. I've been invited to a reception this evening given by Doctor Nicholas Blayers at Jesus College. He's a cousin of the headmaster at my old school and probably the most radically minded senior tutor in the entire University. He believes in mixed colleges with boys and girls studying together. Now you know how resistant most Oxonians were to the idea of women being admitted at all and how today their colleges are strictly out of bounds to us. 'Well, because he believes (and quite rightly in my opinion) that undergraduates of both sexes should mix freely without undue hindrance, at his own expense Doctor Blayers is throwing a party for a group of first year female students from Somerville College and a similar number of male freshmen. Now I happen to know that several of these girls have come to Oxford from Trippett's Academy For The Daughters Of Gentlefolk down in the West Country. This is a school run by Dame Agatha Humphrey, the famous champion of higher education for women and frankly, I'm more than a little apprehensive about meeting sophisticated young ladies from there. You attended a day school in London and I doubt whether you can appreciate what a sheltered life one has to live even at a progressive English boarding school like St Lionel's.' Barry looked at me in some astonishment. 'What on earth have you to be scared about? What a marvellous chance you have to meet some girls- gosh, Rupert, I wish I had been given an invitation to such a spiffing party. I just can't imagine any problem or are you just very shy?'

  'Yes, I suppose I am,' I admitted, for with the exception of my initiation into the joys of fucking by Diana and her friend Cecily, along with some uninhibited horseplay with some housemaids at St Lionel's with Frank and Salman, I had little to no experience of social intercourse with the female sex. 'I'm worried that I will find myself quite tongue-tied. How do I continue a conversation with a girl after enquiring about the state of the weather? To be honest, I'm uncertain about what to say next!' 'Now this can often be a thorny problem for boys,' admitted Barry as we trudged along. It has to be said that girls are not usually interested in current affairs (except those of an intimate nature!), sport or other masculine pursuits, and we are hardly enraptured by feminine chit-chat. Also, they have been told by their mamas that they must not be too forward in the initiation of conversation with young men and should only speak when spoken to-so this makes the situation even more difficult.

  'My solution is to try your luck with subjects such as the weather, gardening, food, the latest plays or the current exhibition at the Royal Academy. This usually works although, of course, I cannot give you a cast-iron guarantee of success. However, just before I came up to Oxford my uncle, Sir Lewis Osborne, invited me to a splendid dinner-party to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of my cousin Philippa. I was sitting next to an extremely attractive girl named Adrienne and I tried my best to impress her with some smart, sophisticated conversation. In vain I went through all the subjects I have just mentioned but I couldn't raise the slightest glimmer of interest. I even tried talking about the magnificent dishes being served which were all strictly kosher but she barely concealed her boredom and was even beginning to yawn. 'At this stage I was frankly ready to throw in the towel but just then a footman approached and handed me a note on a silver salver. “A message from your cousin Philippa, sir,” he whispered into my ear. I opened it surreptitiously under the tablecloth and with difficulty deciphered Philippa's scrawl.

  She had written: Try Votes For Women, so I pocketed the scrap of paper and tackled Adrienne again. “What do you think of Mrs. Pankhurst and the suffragettes?” I asked and voila! instantly into her lovely brown eyes leapt a bright gleam of genuine interest. 'Philippa had noticed how I was struggling and her kind message certainly did the trick for me. Adrienne was an ardent supporter of the emancipation of women and as I have never understood why w
omen should be treated as second class citizens I could honestly put my hand on my heart and tell her that I agreed with every word she said. I told her of my father's letter on the subject which had been published a few weeks back in The Daily Chronicle. He had argued that women's suffrage would come once the present social, educational and economic changes now taking place had worked themselves through the system. The choice is not between going on and standing still, it is between advancing and retreating, he had written in his forceful conclusion. '“Oh, so it was your Papa who wrote that letter,” said Adrienne, now flashing a luscious smile at me. “How silly of me not to have realised that Leonard Jacobs was your Papa. I know of his reputation as a generous philanthropist and I am glad to hear that he holds progressive social views.” '“Like his son,” I added with a twinkle in my eye and she squeezed my hand as she said: “I'm very glad to hear it.” Well, from an unpromising start the evening could hardly have gone better. After dinner we sat and chatted and she even accepted a lift home in my hansom, sending her parents' carriage back, telling the coachman that she had made other arrangements. I escorted her to her front door and she invited me in for a night-cap.' He paused and I said: 'Well go on, old boy, don't stop there. This sounds like a story with a jolly interesting ending!' Barry laughed and said: 'Well, it does get a little spicy, Rupert, and I wouldn't want to offend your aesthetic sensibilities. Are you sure you want me to continue?'

  'You'd better watch out for your own aesthetic sensibilities if you don't carry on!' I retorted, and so with a grin he continued the tale. 'Well, it was well past midnight when we arrived at her parents' house in Allendale Avenue. Everyone had retired and she told the footman who had waited up for her that he too could now go to bed.

  She poured out large cognacs which we sipped as we sat together on the sofa. “You know, Barry, it's funny that I did not realise that Leonard Jacobs was your father,” she said thoughtfully, “but then we don't always know everything about our parents, do we? Why, only last week I discovered that my own Papa has a collection of sketches by poor Aubrey Beardsley. He has kept them under lock and key in the library but by chance I picked them up the other day. Would you like to see them?” '“I certainly would, Adrienne,” I said, and she brought over a folder from a bureau in the corner of the room. I opened it and the first picture was of two plump nuns lying naked on a bed working dildoes into their open cunnies. They were being watched by two monks peeping round the door who had thrown up their cassocks and pulled out their pricks, each tossing off the other as they looked upon the lascivious women playing with themselves. The next drawing really made my cock swell up. It showed a beautiful dark-haired girl seated on the lap of her lover. Both were nude and between her thighs you could see that her pussey was engorged with his swollen cockshaft. She had one hand round his neck and in the other she was cupping his hairy ballsack.

  'It became quite obvious that Adrienne's blood had also been fired by sight of these erotic drawings. She pressed her thighs together and made no objection when my arm stole round her shoulders and she cuddled into my body as we looked at another illustration of this same couple, only this time the girl was kneeling between his legs, her bottom well stuck out and the furrow in between shown in loving detail. She was shown opening her lips in order to take the shiny knob of the young fellow's stiff lovestick inside her mouth. The next sketch showed her flat on her back with her legs wide open. Her handsome lover was balancing on his forearms above her and this time her cunney was engorged with the thick prick of her lover who had inserted his staff in to the very roots of his pubic hair. 'I could no longer contain my feelings and I burst out: “My God! Wouldn't I give anything to be in his place.” I bit my lip as soon as I had uttered this heartfelt but uncouth plea. Surely she would recoil away in disgust! But to my surprise and absolute joy, Adrienne placed her hand directly on my straining cock. She unbuttoned my trousers and brought out my throbbing tool which she stroked gently with her hand, saying with a mischievous chuckle: “Yes, Barry, your pego confirms the truth of your last remark.” 'Well, you don't look a gift horse in the mouth! I covered her lips with my own and instantly we were exchanging the most passionate, burning kiss. Our tongues fluttered in each other's mouths as I raised her dress and petticoats and she arched her back upwards to allow me to pull down her knickers as she tugged down my trousers and drawers to the floor. She continued to rub my cock in her hand as I played with her moistening pussey which was daintily fringed with light brown hair and her cunney lips opened immediately when I inserted my finger between them. We continued to pet and I frigged her juicy cunt with two and then three fingers, faster and faster as I knew that the warm touch of her soft hand would very soon bring me off. 'I could now simply no longer control the tidal flow of jism which was boiling up in my balls. Adrienne sensed that I was about to spend, for with her other hand she quickly pulled down an antimacassar from the top of the sofa and placed the linen cloth on my thighs as she slicked her hand up and down my rigid rod. I began to pant and she felt my cock contract before I squirted my spout of spunk all over her hand. She came too, clenching my fingers with her love juices, but we used her knickers and the antimacassar to wipe up the traces of our escapade before I left shortly afterwards.'

  'So you didn't get further than that?' I said, and the disappointment must have shown in my voice for Barry turned round and replied: 'Well, surely you don't think she'd let me fuck her, do you?'

  'Why not? You'd be surprised how many girls are just as keen as you on fucking. Don't you listen to anyone who says they don't enjoy it as much as us.' Barry looked at me and frowned. 'Are you telling me you've already had a woman, young Mountjoy? You lucky so-and-so. I've come pretty close on several occasions and we once employed a Welsh chambermaid named Gladys who sucked me off but I've never actually gone all the way. Damn it, here am I telling you how to talk to girls and all the time you're way ahead of me!' 'I've just been very lucky,' I replied modestly and I swiftly recounted how I had surrendered my virginity to Diana Wigmore and of my subsequent successes with my pal Frank Folkestone, who Barry had already met at a Liberal Club reception for college freshmen. Took, Barry, I know how frustrated you must feel, never having been able to complete the journey, so to speak. Look, I've a splendid idea. Come with me to Doctor Blayers' party tonight. You'll be more than welcome, I'm sure, especially as Frank won't be able to come as he is suffering from a rotten head cold-and you'll make up the numbers.' At first he demurred. That's very kind of you, Rupert, but I just can't barge into a party without being asked. I'm as shy as you when it comes to gate-crashing!' 'Look, if it will make you feel any better I'll ask Jackson to run over with a note to Doctor Blayers asking if you can come in Frank's place.' He looked gratefully at me. Thanks, old boy, I'd much rather go with a proper invite.' As soon as we arrived back at College I scribbled a quick letter and told the College messenger boy to wait for the reply. Then I strode across to Frank Folkestone's room to see if the poor chap was feeling any better. I didn't knock on the door in case he had fallen asleep and I opened the door very slowly and carefully so as not to disturb him.

  But though he had earlier told me that he was going to spend the rest of the afternoon trying to sleep off his cold, his bed was empty, though the eiderdown had been thrown back and the bedclothes were ruffled. I was about to leave when suddenly I heard a low moan coming from behind the closed door of his bathroom. Oh dear, I hope Frank isn't feeling really ill, I thought as I marched across the room and flung open the bathroom door with a theatrical flourish. I needn't have concerned myself! For there was Frank, sitting in the large bath of warm water-not moaning with pain but with passion for with him in the water was Nancy, our young maidservant, who was lathering his erect penis which stood up out of the water like the periscope of a submarine. They were so engrossed in their sexual play that they did not realise that I was there. Nancy got up on her knees and her succulent large breasts jiggled invitingly, which made my balls tingle and my prick stir in my pan
ts. She now rinsed Frank's enormous erection with water and said: 'Now it looks really nice and clean, doesn't it? Let me see if it tastes as good as it looks.'

  His eyes closed in ecstasy, Frank leaned back and arched his back up slightly as this time Nancy washed his shiny round knob with her slithering tongue as Frank cupped her big breasts in his hands. Well, the sight of this gorgeous creature holding Frank's shaft whilst she sucked his cock drove me wild and my fingers began to tear wildly at my trouser buttons so that I could release my own stiffstander, which was threatening to burst through the thin material of my flannels. My hand flew to my trusty tool and I wanked away frantically as Nancy now pulled out the plug. As the water level fell, I could see Frank snake out his right arm and plunge his fingers directly into her slippery pussey. Nancy looked up at me through her half-open eyes which widened to their full extent as she gave a tiny scream. 'Oh, Frank, Frank, someone's come in!' Frank woke up from his delightful reverie in alarm but as soon as he saw that the uninvited guest who had caught him in flagrante delicto was none other than his old chum from St Lionel's his face creased into a grin. 'Not to worry, Nancy, why, it's only Rupert Mountjoy. He and I are best pals and we do everything together. All for one and one for all and all that nonsense.' She considered this for a moment and said: 'You do, do you? Well, in that case Rupert, why don't you stop rubbing your own cock and let me do it for you once Frank has fucked me with his tremendous tadger?' Here we go again, I thought, for readers of my earlier diaries will note how often I have had to grind my teeth whilst a girl hymns a paean of praise to Frank's gigantic member!

  However, I proceeded to shed my clothes whilst Nancy and Frank climbed out of the bath and dried themselves with the huge bathtowels Frank's Mama, Lady Folkestone, had packed for him in his valise when he left home for the Varsity. Nancy and Frank now exchanged a series of slurping kisses and his hands massaged her breasts as her hips swayed in hypnotic rhythm. I cupped my hand over her hairy pussey, rubbing the exposed, erect clitty with my middle finger. But she pushed my hand aside to press in Frank's bulbous bell-end between her cunney lips. She drew about two inches of his thick, meaty shaft inside her cunt and this was enough to drive her insane with desire.