Anonymous
Rosie: Her Intimate Diaries
Foreword
Why should I not publish my diaries? In its pages there dwell far more interesting anecdotes about noted personages from across the entire social spectrum than appear in the censored, restrained recollections and apologies of our best-known and respected men of letters-though when I informed my greatest friend, Sir David Nash, the infamous Mayfair rake, of my intention 'to publish and be damned', his cheeky comment was that most of the letters in my manuscript would be French!
But I firmly believe that the truth should be told and I have not succumbed to the mealy-mouthed hypocrisy of the age by bowdlerising events. If I may be allowed to quote from a critique by Captain Philip Pelham, who has kindly reviewed this volume for that jolly little magazine, The Oyster. 'Rosie D'Argosse has charted her erotic career for the delectation of all lovers of gallant literature. Her lusty narrative, as liberal as her sensual appetite, is as joyous and unfettered as the forbidden fruits she so lovingly nurtures. As she eloquently recalls her graphic, undraped stories of licking and lapping, fucking and sucking, she takes the reader on a delicious and voluptuous voyage of endless arousal, a journey enhanced by the sweet, stirring sensations of Rosie's pulsating prose.'
One final word-some may be surprised that I have not hesitated to name those ladies and gentlemen with whom I have enjoyed the noble art of l'arte de faire l'amour during the last four years. Let me assure any concerned reader that all who have been named have given me their express permission to mention their roles in my intimate experiences. Perhaps surprisingly, none have flinched from what some may feel is scandalous exposure and, indeed, even my dear old uncle Lord Gordon MacChesney has been eager to refresh my memory about certain rather recherche events that took place down at Argosse Towers down in the heart of the Sussex countryside.
Rosie D'Argosse
1. Early Days
I had the greatest of good fortune in growing up in our family seat in the heart of the South Down country of West Sussex. Argosse Towers is an imposing mansion that stands in delightful surrounds some three miles from the sleepy little market town of Midhurst.
The characteristic Downland landscape is a perfect panorama of moulded promontories and ample spaces. Gracefully rounded hills run into each other in gently curving lines, and in the distance the far horizon is shut out by vague blue hills, and across to the east lies the Wealden plain, divided by dark hedges and brightened by the red and grey roofs of the villages, the greenery of wide woods and fields, the purple of plough-lands and the yellow acres of corn.
There is little I need to say of my life up to the day of my sixteenth birthday, which took place on the twenty-second of June, in the year nineteen hundred and five. I was happy enough, to be sure, for my Papa and Mama were the kindest parents one could wish for, but I did not see them as frequently as I really wanted. You see, dear reader, Papa enjoyed a most successful career as Permanent Second Secretary in the Foreign Office. This meant that he had to spend weekdays in London and frequently Mama would journey up to our London house in Belgrave Square and, accompany him to important Government receptions for visiting dignitaries and the like.
Mama also traveled with Papa when he felt it necessary to go abroad to spend time on delicate diplomatic business. During these more prolonged parental leaves of absence, my younger brother Jonathan and myself were left in the charge of my Mama's bachelor brother, Lord Gordon MacChesney, who supervised the running of our house-a task he relished for (though it was not until shortly after my sixteenth birthday that I knew it) my nice Uncle Gordon loved to fuck Sarah and Alice, the prettiest of our maidservants and to have his cock sucked by young Polly, the daughter of the local blacksmith.
More of Uncle Gordon shortly; for the moment let me state that my education was first at the famous Trippett College For Young Ladies in Chichester, but my final schooldays, before I left Sussex for finishing-school in Switzerland (and I write of these uninhibited days later), were spent at St Hilda's Academy for Young Ladies in Devon. My brother Jonathan, I should add, had followed my father's footsteps and had gone to Eton after attending a private preparatory school near our home.
And indeed Jonathan figures in the first incident of intimacy that I ever witnessed at first hand which took place on a glorious afternoon just a few days after this all-important sixteenth birthday.
I had decided to take myself off for a walk to Letchmore Woods. The weather was perfect for such an activity. Although it was one of the hottest days so far of a glorious summer, the air of the Downs is always fresh and pure. It has a quality which elevates the spirits and even on the warmest day you will almost always find a soft, sighing zephyr to cool the mopping brow.
So I ambled across the springy turf, idly considering what games we might play at my birthday tea, which was being postponed to the following weekend in order to allow Papa and Mama to attend for they had been in London since Tuesday. I had invited five of my best friends, Sheena, Katie, Gillian, Mary and Susie to the feast and I was looking forward eagerly to the party.
All was peaceful and serene as I made my way to the top of a knoll and I had decided to lie down on the dry grass and study a chapter of Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, for Miss Caughey, my English teacher, had set this book for us to peruse during the summer holidays and we would be tested on our knowledge of it when we returned to St Hilda's in the autumn. It should have been a perfect place to read Mr. Dickens for no noise comes from the plain but the occasional lowing of cattle from Farmer Massey's fields or the musical tinkle of a sheep-bell as the flock moves along a slope.
But this afternoon this rural tranquillity was broken by what appeared to be sounds of some kind of human activity from behind a large bush that grew half way down the small hill on the opposite side to that which I had just climbed. From my position I imagined that I could hear three young, boyish voices and, as I was curious to discover what they were doing behind the bush, I scrambled up and walked quietly down the hillock to find out exactly what was going on.
The voices were now becoming clearer and the first voice I recognised belonged to Alfred, our page-boy, who was six months younger than me. Then I made out the dulcet tones of my brother Jonathan who himself would soon be fifteen. But as I drew nearer I realised that the third voice was in fact that of a girl-and unless I was gravely mistaken it was young Sarah, the prettiest of our maidservants, who was at least a year, if not more, older than me, who was larking about with the boys behind the bush.
Now I could clearly make out the words which were interspersed with a great deal of excited giggling. 'Look at my willie, Sarah, it's swelled up so big,' I heard my brother say excitedly. 'Won't you play with it like you did with Alfred's?'
'Why, Master Jonathan, you naughty boy, how rude you are,' scolded Sarah in a tone of mock severity, 'though I must admit you've got a very thick prick for so young a lad.'
'It's not so big as mine though, is it?' claimed Alfred. 'And I bet he can't spurt out as much spunk as I can.'
'No, probably not, but let's have a little contest to make sure. Come over here, Alfred, and stand next to Jonathan and I'll see what I can do,' said the lewd girl.
I was shocked by this bawdy talk for though I had secretly read copies of The Oyster which Papa kept locked in his private cabinet, I had never actually heard, let alone seen, anything like this! So you may well imagine that I was fairly trembling with excitement as I dropped to my knees behind the trio and peered round to see what Sarah had in mind.