The size of a cock never really matters though I know that all you boys think that an extra couple of inches would come in handy,' said Polly, echoing the words of Gillian and Chrissie after the aforementioned fuck. 'And I admit that the sight of nine inches of proud, rock-hard cockflesh can often excite me. But for me and most of the girls I know it's the look of the owner of the prick which is far more important. We want to see if a man is dean, well turned-out, jolly, generous-and we all have little special likes and dislikes when it comes to physical appearances. For instance, I like a neat, tight bum myself and my cousin Nancy certainly knows what she fancies in a man.' 'And what does she specially like?' She gave a naughty little giggle. 'Well, come to think of it, there isn't much that Nancy doesn't fancy about a man,' she giggled naughtily, 'and in fact she has already warned me about your friend Frank's big cock. I haven't fucked as much as Nancy but one of my best lovers was the local policeman in the little village near Lord Brecklesbury's country house outside Witney, where I worked till Nancy found me a position here when I told her I wanted to live in town. His prick was thick enough but it only stood at less than five inches from base to tip, though he almost always managed to bring me off every time we made love.' I record Polly's comments in toto for as a noted cocksman, I cannot overstress the importance of her observation which had been mirrored of course by Gillian and Chrissie as well as by my very first fuck, the delicious Diana Wigmore, who had always impressed upon me the importance of never worrying about the dimensions of my equipment or about the fact that at times my young prick might jump up to attention for no apparent reason or that it might obstinately refuse to swell up when required-say when the lovely girl you have been wooing finally consents to place her hand inside your trousers! However, it was time for Polly and I to get dressed for she had further chores to get through whilst I knew that I would find myself in real trouble if I did not make my way post-haste to the library. I kissed the charming girl goodbye and we made an arrangement to see each other the next week when to her great joy I promised to take her to the first house of the music hall and on to a cafe for some supper. For the second time that morning I gathered my books together and told myself that nothing would stop me from going to the library except a visit to the college from His Majesty, King Edward VII, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India 'and all stations south of Birmingham,' I muttered to myself as I raced down the stairs, determined to put in at least an hour's work before luncheon. But it was not to be! For who should I meet at the foot of the stairs but Beth Randall and Esme Dyotte, the two girls with whom Barry Jacobs and myself shared a splendid night's fucking courtesy of our host Mr. Waterbrick of The Cat and Pigeons.
'Hello, stranger!' squealed Esme. 'We haven't seen you for so long that Beth and I decided to see for ourselves that you were still in the land of the living.' 'Or to ensure that you had not been rusticated which we thought more likely,' added Beth with a roguish grin. Oh no, I groaned inwardly, as the wise words of Mustapha Pharte, the perhaps unfortunately named Oxford-based disciple of the Indian philosopher Tagore, whose teachings were beginning to influence very many young people at this time, rushed through my brain-Take care that an overindulgence of your favourite pastime (in my case, chasing pussey) does not overtax your strength'. Now it was no* difficult to see from the glint in their eyes that both girls had not come to my rooms simply to pass the time of day, but I had spent almost all the previous night fucking Marianne and if that were not enough, pretty little Polly Castle had twice emptied my balls. Even if I agreed to comply with the wishes of these two lovely ladies, would I be physically able to do so? 'Well come on, Rupert, aren't you going to invite us to your room to show us your etchings?' said Esme impatiently. There was nothing for it but to smile and wave the girls upstairs, I reasoned, for the girls would rightly consider it the height of rudeness to spurn the offer of a freely offered fuck.
'It will be my pleasure to entertain you both,' I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster. Though I have no paintings to show you, perhaps I can offer you a glass of wine or some other refreshment.' 'Or maybe both?' enquired Esme wickedly, slipping her arm in mine as we walked back upstairs to my rooms. 'Don't be too impatient, Esme-we'll begin with a glass of wine,' said Beth, settling herself down on the small sofa whilst I hung up their coats and busied myself selecting a decent bottle of white wine from the icebox, which incidentally was one of the first purchases I made in Oxford and is still in full working order. 'I'm afraid that I don't keep any champagne here, Beth,' I apologised, 'but let's open this bottle of Vernaccia from Sardinia your cousin Diana Wigmore sent me after she returned from her Grand Tour this summer.' 'I'm sure it will be lovely,' said Beth. 'More and more people are coming to realise that many Italian vineyards produce wine of an excellent quality. We do not look at Italian wines as seriously as we should because the Italians regard wine as something to be drunk and enjoyed rather than talked and written about like the French, who have cleverly conjured up a mystique of unique quality about their wares, from fashion to liqueurs. 'But it's funny that you should bring up Diana's name, Rupert. I had a letter from her the other day and she asks me to send you her love. When she was in Italy this summer, you know, she took a course in painting with the famous Professor Arturo Volpe in Milan.' 'Did she really? Even I have heard of the great Arturo Volpe. He is one of the top teachers in Europe and he must have thought very highly of Diana's work to allow her to join one of his classes.' 'Yes, I suppose so,' said Beth slowly, 'though I think Diana helped matters along by offering to pose nude for his students.
She wrote to me what happened when she finished one session and all the students had filed out of the room, leaving herself together with Professor Volpe. Look, I have her letter with me-would you care to read it?' She rummaged in her bag and passed me a couple of sheets of paper from it. Good grief! I had only just finished perusing Salman's sensual epistle to Chrissie, but I was curious to read how Diana had managed to wriggle herself into one of the best master classes in Europe, so I took the letter and sat down next to Beth and began to read. I skipped through the text until she came to the incident Beth had mentioned, and readers will note that Diana indeed had used all her wiles to secure a place with the great man.