The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.III

by Rupert Mountjoy

  I closed the book and stood up with a raging hard-on as I thought about how divine it would be to fuck the gorgeous Melissa Rotherwick who, as one could gauge from this graphic account of her first fuck, was obviously a generous and free-spirited girl. I made a mental note to check if by any chance her name appeared on the members' list of the Jim Jam Club before I met Henry Bascombe-Thomas there for luncheon. Reluctantly I decided against summoning Mary to be fucked or at least to frig or suck off my uncomfortably stiff cock. It was not only my earlier resolve to cease fucking servant girls which kept my thumb away from the bell, but also the thought that it would be sensible to give my prick a rest in case Henry and I were offered invitations to one of the wild private parties which certain ladies had taken to holding at the Club on weekday afternoons.

  So I walked slowly round the room three times, emptying my mind of everything, except the question of how many books might be stacked on the shelves of this well-stocked library. In time, my attempt to solve this problem by assessing the approximate number of books on one average shelf and multiplying this figure by the number of shelves did the trick and my rampant stiffstander slowly subsided. I went into the hall and called Edwards to say that I would probably return around five o'clock but in the unlikely case of needing to speak to me urgently, he could contact me at the Jim Jam Club whose telephone number I scribbled on a sheet of paper and pressed into his hand.

  Now as the rain which had pattered down earlier in the morning had subsided and enough patches of blue were visible through the clouds, I had planned to walk down to Great Windmill Street-but just as I strode away from the front door, a carriage drawn by two smartly attired black horses pulled up alongside me and a familiar voice called out to me. 'Hello there, young Rupert, can I give you a lift?'

  I looked round to see the occupant of the carriage throw open the door. I walked across and squinted inside to see if I had correctly identified the owner of the rather fruity tones. And yes, I was right, for leaning against the expensive kid leather upholstery was the portly figure of Colonel Stanley Gooner formerly of the Ninth Punjab Rifles, a former comrade-in-arms of my father and one of my parents' oldest friends. The Colonel, in his early days, had won an award for gallantry whilst serving on the North West frontier in an incident that made headlines in the popular newspapers. After his patrol had been ambushed by the Pathans, he escaped, but returned dressed in the clothes of a native woman and in an audacious single-handed operation, he managed to rescue two captured colleagues whose pricks were about to be amputated (without even the benefit of anaesthetic) by a mob of angry Afghans. I am hazy as to exactly how he managed to place a pistol against the balls of the much-feared enemy commander, a bandit notorious for his brutality, but the stratagem worked and the then Captain Gooner was able to bargain successfully for the freedom of the prisoners and himself. Yet Colonel Gooner could never be described as a typical Army officer. He was a man of progressive political views and championed the rights of the indigenous people in a book about his time in India, published after he had left the services. I had always known him as a jolly, amiable old buffer, far removed, one must add, from those many retired Indian Army officers whose brains have perhaps been affected by the heat and dust of the sub-continent. Perhaps readers have come across these poor chaps themselves, the ones who spend their days writing obscure tracts on the Egyptian Pyramids in the reading rooms of public libraries, or travelling to meetings to propound some fanciful idea about a secret international conspiracy of one-legged freemasons or about the Welsh race being descended from one of the lost ten tribes of ancient Israel. 'Where are you off to, my boy?' enquired the Colonel genially. 'I have a luncheon appointment with a friend who I am meeting near Piccadilly Circus,' I said, a statement which, if not false, was certainly economical with the truth as I doubted whether Colonel Gooner would approve of the raffish Jim Jam Club. 'Climb aboard then, I'm going that way myself and it's no trouble whatsoever to drop you off wherever you want,' he said, and not wishing to offend, I complied with his instruction. The Colonel disliked the motor car and owned one of the few horse-driven carriages still to be seen around the West End of London. We lurched forward and then as I sank back against the soft, comfortable seat, one of the horses broke wind with a quite astonishing ferocity. 'Oh, pardon me,' said the Colonel, and though I should have contained myself, I replied, That's quite all right, sir. If you hadn't spoken I would have assumed it was the horse.' But all was well for Colonel Gooner laughed loudly and said, 'Good one, old boy, very good indeed! I must remember to recount your witty riposte at my Club. So how have you been spending your time off in old London town? Enjoying yourself to the full, I'll be bound, and why not for heaven's sake, you're only young once. Tell me though, you must have heard about this grand reception back home for His Majesty in which your father has been involved. I'll be there myself, as my wife's brother is a local landowner near Boroughbridge and he's also on the organising committee for the royal visit.'

  He was most pleased when I told him that I was of course going back home for this important event. 'Excellent! Mrs. Gooner and I will look forward to seeing you there. We live in the country ourselves as you know, but so many of my old friends live in London that I must spend a couple of weeks here every so often to keep in touch with them.' We were clipping our way briskly down Shaftesbury Avenue when I called upon the driver to halt. 'I'll get off here, sir, if I may,' I said, shaking hands with the Colonel, 'and I look forward to seeing you again in York.' Little did I realise just how soon I would see him again-far, far sooner than I could have expected! I crossed the road and bought a button-hole from an itinerant flower seller. My sixpence was received with the usual blessings upon my head and I made my way up Great Windmill Street to the discreet entrance of the Jim Jam Club. Cripps was on duty and was eager to pick up any racing tips, but alas, I had heard nothing further from old Goldhill and was forced to disappoint the porter, who nevertheless passed to me the name of a horse Sir Harold Brown had given him as a good each-way bet in the two o'clock race at Chepstow that afternoon. 'It's a fast filly called Big Brenda, Mr. Mountjoy, and I reckon the odds won't be less than twelve to one. What do you think?' he asked me. 'Well now, Cripps,' I said carefully, 'you must be familiar with the old saying, “He who decides to bet each way/Lives to bet another day!” 'Sir Harold's gone through a lean patch lately and it's about time he picked a winner, so I'll risk a pound each way on Big Brenda.

  Will you place the bet with Hymie Applebaum for me?' I gave Cripps two pound notes and sauntered upstairs to the bar. Although it was almost ten past one, there was no sign of Henry Bascombe-Thomas. I sat down and ordered a whisky and soda from a passing waiter and hoped that my absent-minded chum had not forgotten the appointment which he himself had asked me to keep with him. In fact my worry was unfounded for I had time only to pour the soda into my Scotch when I looked up to see Henry striding towards me. I stood up and greeted him. 'Hello, stranger, how nice to see you again,' I said warmly as we shook hands. 'A pleasure to see you, Rupert,' he responded, pumping my hand. 'I'm so pleased you were free for luncheon. It's been a long time since we broke bread together. To be exact, it would be a couple of days before I sailed for New York when you, Frank Folkestone and Prince Salman laid on a splendid farewell dinner for me at Romano's. So what's the news with you, Rupert? Neither of us wrote to each other as often as we should have done. But Frank Folkestone did mention in one of his letters that your Uncle Humphrey has provided you with the wherewithal for a year off doing very little indeed except fuck pretty girls, you lucky so-and-so! Or has some clever beauty managed to get you to put a ring on her finger?' I grinned and replied, 'No, though I've fingered quite a few rings since we last met! Still, whilst it's true that I'm taking a break from my studies, you've been to America, which is something I'd love to do. Have you had a rewarding time, Henry? Have you painted much yourself? And what brings you back to Britain?' 'I'll answer your questions in reverse order,' he said with a smile, as we r
ose and walked into the dining-room where we were seated at one of the best tables overlooking the busy street below. I came back simply because my course with Professor Sidney Cohen ended and there was no further need for me to stay in New York. 'And I do still paint, but only for my own pleasure. I now know and accept my limitations, Rupert, which are-well, those of a talented amateur and not a gifted professional.

  That's how Professor Cohen delivered his verdict on my work and I wasn't too disappointed because the truth is that it wasn't very different to my tutor's back here in Britain.' The head waiter came up to us and after we ordered our meal Henry continued, 'His verdict doesn't mean that I can't be involved in the world of art.

  I've written some critiques for the New York papers and I'd like to do the same in London. I feel I have something to say after spending a year away. God, it was refreshing to leave that dreadful insular resistance to modern painting which one finds here in England. People have told me that third-rate British pictures are still preferred to the new, exciting paintings shown in Paris, Rome and Madrid. I want to help change this head-in-the-sand attitude. 'What's really exciting though, Rupert, is that Professor Cohen, whose influence is very substantial in the New York art world, generously gave my name to Clive Labovitch, the wealthy owner of a leading gallery on Fifth Avenue who wants to set up an exhibition of the most promising, exciting young artists from all over the world. The Professor suggested that I act as his agent in England when I return to London.

  After discussing the project with me, Mr. Labovitch agreed to the proposal, and has transferred five thousand dollars to a bank account over here to be spent on buying for this event which will be staged in New York next Spring.' Well, naturally, even before Henry had finished speaking I was wondering whether this information would be of use to the lovely Diana Wigmore. I explained to Henry how my closest girl friend was a talented artist who was living in Paris but who would be coming to Britain shortly. An idea struck me-if I could only persuade Henry to come up to York for the grand Royal reception, he would be able to meet Diana and see some of her pictures there, as she was bringing a selection over from France so that Nancy Carrington could have the opportunity to purchase a painting or two for her father's collection. The only problem was how to interest Henry enough in Diana's work to travel up North so soon after returning to London. Surprisingly, for he showed little interest in politics except to support the radical Liberals, Henry was a staunch Republican and unlike Nancy Carrington, for instance, had no desire whatsoever to hob-nob with the King, so partying with all the swells would have no appeal for him. But the promise of a good fuck-now that was another matter! I leaned across the table and told him all about Diana, Nancy and the whole business of my going up to see my folks and attending the reception for the King. I invited him to join Nancy and myself and stay a few days with my family at Albion Towers. 'You really must come up with us,' I urged him. 'My parents would be delighted to see you again and you know how interested my mother is in art. She would so enjoy hearing all your news about any up and coming American artists. And talking of up and corning, old boy, Nancy Carrington is a very attractive young lady who simply adores fucking, as does Diana, who particularly liked taking part in a whoresome foursome. I guarantee that you'd be dipping your brush into a fresh pot of paint every night if you take up my invitation.' Henry's eyes lit up and he said, 'Gosh, you certainly make them sound extremely tempting. But I really have a tremendous amount of work to do in London and I hadn't planned on spending any time out of town. On the other hand, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, eh? When do you plan to go?' 'In just over a couple of weeks time,' I replied promptly. “The big party is on November 15 so Nancy and I thought we'd go up on the previous day. We hadn't decided exactly when we'd-go back, but I might stay a few days and visit my Uncle Humphrey and look up some old friends.' 'And you say that I might get the chance to look up some new ones?' Henry quipped wittily. 'I don't think I can pass up such an opportunity, Rupert, so I'll take up your invitation with grateful thanks. I don't mind telling you that I'm in desperate need of a good fuck. Whilst I can't grumble too much about the availability of willing girls in New York, though they are probably a little more inhibited than in London, I've been forced to live like a monk for the month or so. Both the girls I was fucking in Manhattan were unavailable during the last three weeks of my stay and to make matters worse there were no available women on board ship on my journey home.' 'Poor you,' I sympathised, as I refilled his glass with the excellent Club claret. 'Yet I was given to understand that on Atlantic crossings, except during the winter months, there are always a number of unattached females on board eager for masculine company.' 'Maybe, but I was unlucky enough to be a passenger on a ship which was an exception to the rule. The only consolation was that I struck up a friendship with a girl named Jenny Cameron, the Scottish governess of an American family coming to live in London for six months whilst the pater familias travelled around Europe on business.

  'Jenny was very happy to be coming home to her native Scotland after working for a year in Washington. She was a bonny Scottish lass of twenty-two whose light freckled skin and long reddish hair set off her well-made young body. Perhaps her best attributes were her large breasts which jutted out proudly like two firm spheres. 'Well, on the fourth evening, I engaged her in conversation after dinner and we talked over a lemon squash in one of the lounges (for she was tee-total and I had already put away a bottle of wine during the evening meal). I gazed longingly at these two beauties as we walked back along the deck to our cabins which happened to be very close to each other. Naturally, she slept in the same first class suite as the two children in her charge. After formally shaking hands and parting company at her cabin door, I wished Jenny good-night and I walked back alone very disconsolately to my own quarters. 'I undressed quickly and as it was rather warm in the cabin I lay on the bed naked as I reached over to thumb my way through a copy of The Oyster, a “horn” magazine which Frank Folkestone had posted to me every so often. As I thumbed my way through the magazine, the randy stories soon made my shaft stiffen up and demand to be exercised. I took my rock-hard cock in my hand and slowly rubbed it up and down as I closed my eyes and fantasised about running my hands across Jenny's magnificent breasts, of handling her delicious, ripe titties and then placing my hot, throbbing prick in her cunt… 'I was on the very verge of spunking when my reverie was disturbed by a gentle knock on my door. I jumped up and called out, “Who's that?” and my heart began to pound when I heard the soft reply, “It's me, Jenny Cameron. Henry, can I come in for a moment?” 'I slipped on a dressing gown and rushed across to open the door where Jenny stood clad in a blue silk night-robe. “Hello, Henry, I hope I haven't disturbed you,” she said with a slightly worried look. '“Not in the slightest, it's lovely to see you again so soon. Is all well though? Are the children all right?” '“Oh yes, they're sound asleep and won't wake up till morning, so I thought I might join you in a wee night-cap,” she said, and then impishly added as she looked slightly downwards, “but I think you had something else on your mind when I knocked on the door.” 'I followed her amused gaze downwards and with horror saw that my still erect truncheon was poking out between the folds of my dressing gown. I was so flustered that I sat down heavily on the side of the bed, my face burning and my rock quickly shrank back into its normal flaccid state. But to my overwhelming relief, Jenny had not been offended at all by the unintentional exposure of my stiff cock. Far from it, for the sweet girl giggled, sat down next to me and said in her pleasing Midlothian burr, “Dear oh dear, I didn't mean to upset your poor little cockie. Let's bring the shy fellow out again and have a proper look at him.” '“By all means,” I said, opening my robe and she reached out and clasped my shrunken shaft in her fingers. As if by magic, it began to swell up again, rapidly returning to its former length and strength as the lovely lass slowly tossed me off, squeezing and rubbing my prick so deliriously that I was almost ready to spend within seconds. 'Then sh
e let her fist stay still as she murmured, “If I let you fuck me, will you promise not to tell anyone?

  I've only had two or three romps with the children's tutor since leaving home and I'm feeling even more randy than usual after playing with your nice cock. But I must make sure that Mr. and Mrs. Barbach give me a reference.” '“I swear I won't tell a soul,” I panted, and to back up my word I told her of the oath we take at the Jim Jam Club never to reveal the names of lovers. She listened carefully, then smiled and said gaily, “Very well then, you've convinced me, you smooth-talking rogue!” Trembling with excitement, I tore off my robe as the delirious girl pulled her night robe over her head and stood stark naked in front of me. I stood up and she walked the few steps towards me, her firm, uptilted breasts jiggling and her strawberry nipples looking up pertly as our mouths met and I clasped her thrilling young body to me. 'We fell backwards on to the bed and my hands ran over her hard, engorged nipples and her own hand slid down to clasp my pulsating prick which bucked uncontrollably in her sweet grasp. As we threshed around, writhing in each other's arms, my fingers played around the silky strands of red-gold hair which formed a light veil across her pouting little slit. Jenny was justly proud of her pussey for her thighs were full and proportionally formed and my cock leaped and pranced in her hand as it sought access into her dampening cunney. So it was with great excitement that I scrambled to my knees when Jenny wriggled out of my arms and lay flat on her back with her legs apart. Quivering with anticipation I positioned myself between her thighs and gently lowered myself on top of her soft body and a low moan escaped from my throat as she took hold of my truncheon and guided it firmly between her cunney lips into her juicy, wet quim.

  'I thrust my yearning cock inside her cunt and when I was fully embedded by the luscious love channel I stayed quite still for a few moments, revelling in the exquisite sensations afforded by her clinging cunney muscles. Then I started to fuck her slowly, pistoning in until our pubic hairs were entwined and then withdrawing all but the tip of my knob before plunging in again to the limit. This rich, deep fucking had the desired effect upon Jenny whose rounded bottom cheeks began to roll around as she arched her back, cleverly working her cunt back and forth against the ramming of my thick, hard prick, until I hoarsely groaned that I could no longer hold back the boiling spunk which was shooting up from my tight ballsack.