The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.III

by Rupert Mountjoy

  A lucky escape, nevertheless, I mused, and resolved never to repeat the mistake as I read the short note addressed to me by Henry Bascombe-Thomas, an old chum from St Lionel's Academy, who I had not seen for a year-since after leaving Cambridge University, he had decided to cross the Atlantic and spend a year in America, studying modern art under Professor Sidney Cohen of New York University.

  Henry was an artistic cove, much given to writing occasionally good verse, painting some rather rum pictures and wearing his hair far too long for our headmaster, Dr Keeleigh's taste. Some foolish fellows at St Lionel's wrongly assumed that Henry was a woofter and soon found out that though of an eminently peaceful disposition, if pushed too far, Henry could also deliver an uppercut to the jaw, though like myself, he abhorred physical violence and refused (again like myself) to be considered for the school boxing team. I should add that like a surprising number of very clever chaps, Henry was terribly absent-minded-which explained why his letter to me arrived a full two days after he had posted it from Southampton as he had addressed it to Bedford Street instead of Bedford Square. However, no harm had come from the delay as you will see, dear reader, from this copy of his message which I had deciphered with no little difficulty from his unreadable scrawl. It read as follows:

  Dear Rupert, I returned to England last week on the SS Shmockle, the flagship of the Hanseatic Line owned by Count Gewirtz of Galicia who happened to be on board. The weather was inclement for the first two days but all in all I had a most enjoyable journey which I'll tell you about when we meet.

  Could we lunch on October 29 at the Jim Jam? I'm on my way to Chichester this afternoon to see my parents but I'll be coming up to town tomorrow evening and staying at the Jim Jam for a week till I find myself some rooms. Unless I hear from you (you can telegraph me at The Old Vicarage, Mackswell Avenue, Kendall, Near Chichester), I'll assume you can make it. Shall we say one o'clock in the first floor bar? Looking forward immensely to seeing you again, Henry Now I had planned a semi-artistic kind of day myself.

  This would have started with a brisk stroll down to Holywell Street to see the new prints from Paris at the Birmingham Gallery where Mr.

  Malcolm Campbell owns the largest selection of erotic pictures in the country, kept under lock and key away from the general public and shown only for viewing by selected customers. Afterwards, I would have hailed a cab to Pall Mall to take luncheon followed by an afternoon snooze at The National Reform, one of my more respectable clubs.

  However, even though I had spent some time at the Jim Jam the previous evening with Mary, I wanted to see Henry again and hear all his news. So I decided to postpone my visit to the Birmingham Gallery to another day and instead I thought I would spend a quiet morning browsing amongst Colonel Wright's bookshelves as my landlord was an avid reader and collector of first editions. There was little of interest in the newspaper, so after demolishing a bowl of porridge, a full plate of bacon, eggs, sausages and five slices of buttered toast, I took my third cup of tea into the library and scoured the shelves for something interesting to read. By pure chance I pulled out a book titled Modern Women and opening it to the title page I read that this leather bound tome was of 'conversations with various girls in Belgravia and Mayfair' by a Mr. Oliver Dunstable, an author whose writing was hitherto unknown to me. There was, however, a preface written by none other than Sir Rodney Burbeck, one of the gayest Lotharios in London. He had written: 'This fresh and original book gives us an excellent verbal picture of what today's men and women are thinking and what they want from their counterparts. There is a perception and a sense of humour in his writing which makes Mr.

  Dunstable not only delightful to read but well worth thinking about afterwards. The illustrations consist of portraits which will be recognised at once by anyone familiar with current members of Society.' This was praise indeed! And from such a source as Sir Rodney, it surely heralded some gallant writing, which always afforded me the greatest enjoyment. So I settled down with a glow of anticipation on my face as I read Mr. Dunstable's account of his interview with Melissa Rotherwick, perhaps the prettiest of all the debutantes who 'came out' in 1905, who I remembered meeting at Lord Bresslaw's Autumn Ball last year. She was one of the most beautiful young women one could wish to see, with gold-dusted light-brown hair, expressive large eyes, rich ruby lips and pearly white teeth. Mr.

  Dunstable had had the good fortune to meet her at the splendid country mansion of Stockleigh Hall, her family country seat down in Kent and she talked openly of her belief that further education should be given to young people about matters appertaining to l'art de faire l'amour.

  As this book was printed privately, I doubt if many readers will be acquainted with Melissa's frank account of how she and her schoolfriends were forced to kidnap, if this is not too strong a term, a willing young man, so as to find out for themselves the joys of a good fuck. Therefore I propose to bring her words to a wider audience by reproducing them here. The uninhibited young girl was telling Mr.

  Dunstable of her years spent at Mrs. Bartholomew's Boarding School For Young Ladies not far from Redstock at the foot of the Mendip Hills.

  Melissa Rotherwick told Mr. Dunstable: It will be readily understood, I am sure, that being all of the same sex, we found it most frustrating to be shut up in a friendly but strictly enclosed establishment in the heart of Somerset without a single member of the male species to be found anywhere on the premises with the exception of our chaplain, Reverend Jonathan Crawford, a nice old gentleman of seventy-three who conducted services every Sunday morning in the school chapel. As may be readily imagined, we were forced to explore amongst ourselves, so to speak, for our private pleasures and it was hardly surprising that there were many close, emotional ties which flourished between the young ladies. However by the time my pals and I had reached the dizzy heights of the sixth form, such juvenile 'pashes', as we called these intra-feminine love affairs, had palled and we were ripe for plucking by any lucky young man who might come our way. But we were so strictly chaperoned away from anything masculine (even the school cat was a plump ginger tabby!) that it seemed we would never be able to sample the fruits of sensual passion until we had left Mrs. Bartholomew's custody. Yet despite these restrictions, as the old saw has it, love laughs at locksmiths, and in the course of time a day dawned when some of us were able to put the theoretical knowledge we had gained from the copy of Dr Nigel Andrews'

  Fucking For Beginners, which my friend Annabel had smuggled into school after borrowing the copy she found in her brother's room during a Christmas vacation, to a most pleasant practical use. This event happened by a series of fortunate circumstances and involved George Cox, the aptly named young nephew of Reverend Crawford, who was spending a few days down in Somerset visiting his elderly relation.

  But first I had better explain that at Mrs. Bartholomew's, one of the benefits of seniority was that on Wednesday afternoons members of the upper sixth form were allowed out of bounds to stroll unaccompanied along the path, through Farmer Trippett's meadow, down to the banks of the small stream which ran between his fields. Well, one fine spring afternoon, during my penultimate term at the school, my friends Annabel and Sheena accompanied me for a walk along this path and we were discussing, some abstruse mathematical problem which had been set that morning by Mrs. Bartholomew herself. I must give my old head teacher due credit at this point and record the fact that science and mathematics played major roles in our curriculum, unlike the majority of similar academies for young ladies where only the arts are studied in any serious way. Anyway, we were deeply engrossed in this rather learned conversation when Annabel suddenly stopped talking and I saw her jaw drop and her mouth hang open as she stood stock still, staring across to the far bank of the stream. Sheena and I followed her gaze and we were also struck dumb by what we saw-for lying flat on his back, fast asleep, was none other than George Cox, who had obviously taken a dip in the river and followed it by a luncheon of sandwiches and the best part of a bottle of
white wine which lay beside in an ice-box. This in itself would not have been such an extraordinary sight but for the fact that George had divested himself of his clothes for his swim and had not bothered to put them back on again afterwards, thinking no doubt that as he was on private land, no-one would be coming by! So there he lay, naked as nature intended, and for the first time in our lives, we three girls were given the opportunity to look at a full-sized genuine penis. Frankly, at first sight, this squashed up tube of flesh which protruded out of a growth of mossy pubic hair and lay limp over George's thigh did not impress us.

  'It doesn't seem nearly as big as the pricks shown in Fucking for Beginners,' commented Sheena, and Annabel agreed with her, saying that the dildo she had purloined from her sister was also of a greater length and girth. 'Wait a moment though, girls,' I said to them.

  'Surely we must only compare like with like and so we mustn't pass judgement upon George's cock until we've actually seen it standing up to attention. You may recall that Dr Andrews wrote in Chapter Three about the vast majority of cocks all swelling up to about the same size even though some look bigger than others when simply dangling between men's legs.' Annabel nodded sagely and said, 'Yes, I think you are absolutely right, Melissa, but experientia docet, as Miss Bartholomew would doubtless say. I suggest that we find out exactly what a stiff prick actually looks like for ourselves. I'm sure that George won't mind. He's fast asleep anyhow and if we keep very quiet, we might be able to play with his cock without waking him up.'

  This sounded like an extremely sensible course of action to me and Sheena also agreed to take part in this voyage of sensual discovery. So we slipped quietly over the ramshackle wooden bridge and sat ourselves carefully round George who was still apparently fast asleep. Boldly, Annabel took hold of his soft shaft whilst I tenderly lay my palm underneath the hairy, wrinkled ballsack underneath it.

  Thanks to our careful perusal of Dr Andrews' valuable tome, we were not too alarmed when George's tool stirred as Annabel clutched it in her fist and began to swell and thicken. Sheena now entered the fray by drawing back the skin at the top to reveal a smooth pink mushroom shaped knob. I withdrew my hand from George's ballsack which had tightened up as his prick had begun to grow and ran my fingers round it as well. I was fascinated by the feel of this, my first naked cock, which felt like an ivory column covered in warm velvet. 'It looks far better now,' Annabel commented with all the satisfaction of having been proved right. With a glint in her eyes Sheena said, 'George has a very pretty prick indeed and the way it throbs when I touch it is making me tingle all over.' Her words made me aware that I was also experiencing a buzz of excitement throughout my body.

  My titties were as hard as two little rubbery nuts, my legs were trembling and my pussey was throbbing with the same kind of urgency I experienced when playing with myself, only stronger and more insistent. A novel thought then entered my head and I said to my companions, 'I wonder whether this cock tastes as good as it looks,' and I kissed the very tip of the smooth dome of the uncapped helmet.

  Remembering what I had read in Dr Andrews' book, I licked round the knob and then I opened my lips and inch by inch, took the throbbing tool in my mouth. As my lips gently slipped further and further down its length, I sucked and pulled at the hot, hard shaft with my lips and I noticed that Annabel had now slipped her hands under George's ballsack and was very carefully caressing his testes. It was at this stage that George's eyes began to flutter open and he looked on in amazement as I continued to palate his prick whilst Annabel now busied herself by licking his balls. 'I must be dreaming,' he muttered and struck himself a sharp blow on the cheek. 'No, I'm awake all right,' he said aloud, trying to reassure himself that he had not taken leave of his senses. “This is really happening. To the best of my knowledge I'm not simply the victim of a delicious hallucination.

  It's still Wednesday afternoon and I have just woken up after falling asleep after lunch and now I find I'm being sucked off by two beautiful girls from Mrs. Bartholomew's school.' Poor George may have been dreadfully puzzled but he, was no fool and with a contented sigh he decided not to tempt providence by asking further questions and simply laid back to enjoy the exquisite sensations of the soft, wet lips and tongues running over his cock and balls. 'A-a-a-h!' he gasped and he shot a jet of frothy creamy essence into my mouth.

  Instinctively I swallowed his sticky emission and though a tad too salty for my taste, I knew it would not harm me, for as our mentor Dr Andrews noted, fresh semen is highly nutritive. However, as the good doctor also said, the tang may vary from man to man, which made me resolve to have another suck, preferably of another meaty specimen, for whilst I much enjoyed milking George's member, I wanted to try out the flavour of other suitable young men, for as Dr Andrews commented, the flavour of spunk is an acquired taste which often takes a little time to appreciate. But meanwhile Sheena now demanded a turn to gobble George's prick and the dear lad kindly proffered his limp shaft without hesitation saying only that he would appreciate a few minutes' recuperation from the prodigious spend of seed caused by my own superb sucking of his cock. To help revive his crestfallen member I told George to get up on his knees in front of me as I lay back and parted my legs to give him a wonderful view of my furry thatch and pink cunney lips. I took his hand and placed it on my already dampening mound. 'Oh my what a truly beautiful cunt,' he breathed, as the fingers of his left hand splayed my outer lips and the fingers of his right ran up and down the length of my love slit. Gently, he inserted his forefinger between my pussey lips and my hips rose up to greet the welcome visitor. He finger-fucked me for a little while but soon his head dived down between my thighs and I was in raptures as he found my excitable little ditty and my pussey started to spend freely under the voluptuous titillations of the randy youth's velvety tongue.

  I clasped my legs around his head as he licked and lapped on my tingling cunney and I screamed with joy as I quickly reached the pinnacle of sensual delights. I released George's head from between my crossed legs and Annabel and Sheena pushed him flat on his back and he obeyed with alacrity their command to lie quite still.

  Sheena smoothed her hand over his flat stomach and let her fingers wander into his thick growth of pubic curls. She licked her lips with gusto as she gazed down upon his thickening shaft that was not yet fully erect but which had a lovely, heavy look about it. She grasped the swelling staff in her hand and gently squeezed it-and immediately George's cock stood up in full, glorious erection, his rosy helmet now bared as Sheena helped snap back the covering foreskin. Her lips now swooped down and she began to kiss and lick the mushroomed knob, dwelling around the ridged edge and moving slowly up and down the underside before sucking in as much of the shaft as possible into her mouth. She frigged his prick firmly with her fingers, licking and lapping, as she clamped her lips over his cock, sucking furiously until she was forced to release it us she felt she was in imminent danger of choking. Whilst this was taking place, I was fingering myself, opening up my pussey even further and, when George withdrew from Sheena's mouth, I reached up and pulled his glistening, wet cock towards my aching cunt. Then, us if I had been doing this all my life, I raised my legs and grasped him round the waist and for the first time savoured the indescribably delicious feeling of my cunt being filled with a real live prick slewing a path backwards and forwards as he began to fuck me in earnest. Of course, my hymen had long ago been broken by a combination of horse-riding and frigging with friends and the aid of a dildo, so there was no pain but only a most delightful pleasure as George's cock pistoned deep inside my cunney and then slid back to repeat the effort. Also, I could lie back and enjoy my first fuck without worry as my monthlies were due within forty eight hours. By now my body was responding as if by instinct and I was thrusting my hips up to meet him time and time again. I responded with vigour, now carried away totally as he rubbed my titties whilst his sinewy rod crashed its way through my sopping love channel. Then my back arched and I realised in one unforgettable in
stant that for the first time in my life I was spending with a man's cock inside me… Suffice it to say that I came and I came and I came and when at last George's prick quivered and spurted a sticky libation of spunk inside me I was so overcome that I almost swooned with ecstatic joy. George too was similarly overcome and collapsed on top of me as I lay heaving and panting whilst the last waves of this gigantic spend washed over me. So ended my first fuck. Annabel and Sheena kindly helped me dress and we arranged to smuggle George into our dormitory that very evening for some further fun and games.

  Annabel also had the brilliant idea of asking George to bring a friend with him if he possibly could, as even such a stout hearted and well-endowed cocksman as he could not hope to satisfy six lusty young maidens. As luck would have it, his old school chum, Clive Hampstead (who later became renowned for his abilities to perform cunnilingus, until his marriage to a wealthy American heiress led him to settle in Chicago), lived not five miles away and was happy to join us in a riotous night of sucking and fucking about which I cannot tell you as at least one of the girls concerned is now the wife of a very important personage indeed and she would be horrified if her participation in this orgy of sensuality was ever made public.