Her clitty grew harder each time my tongue flicked across it, jerking and rising up to meet my wicked little laps. I moved my head up to concentrate on her clitty and I must say how much I loved the way it grew like an excited miniature penis as I tickled it with my tongue. I continued to tease it, driving her wild with slow, firm strokes until she fairly screamed out, 'Fuck me, Rupert, please fuck me! I must have your big cock inside my cunt!' I gave her cunney a final au revoir kiss and flipped the quivering girl over to fuck her doggie-style. This greatly appealed to her for she stuck her rounded backside high in the air and reached back to fondle my balls as I parted her bum cheeks and pushed my prick into her drenched, welcoming cunney. Holding on to her delicious bottom I began pounding in and out of her cunt with long, deep strokes, raising the tempo from lento to andante and building up to an inevitable furioso. She squealed delightedly and yelled out, 'Now! Now! Shoot your spunk up my pussey, you randy rascal!' I was ready to oblige as I could already feel the first pulsations of an oncoming spend as the jism started to boil up in my balls though I hung on for as long as possible, drawing out the joust to a thumping climax. My sinewy cock slewed a passage through her tingling cunney and Mary was tearing at the sheets and moaning into the pillow as with a final heave I coated her cunt with a fine spurt of sticky sperm as together, we rode the wind… The three of us licked and lapped, sucked and fucked until the first rays of the morning sun lit up Mary's bedroom. I hastily threw on my clothes and said to the two servants, 'Mary, tell Mrs. Harrow that you are suffering from a severe headache. Edwards, you'll have to rise up at the usual time, I'm afraid, but don't come in and wake me. Now I will be going out after breakfast and I won't need your services until I return this evening. You can also tell Mrs. Harrow that you feel unwell and that you will also have to retire to bed. The good lady will assume that you and Mary have both caught the same germ and will not question either of you too closely. 'However, to be fair to the rest of the staff, I would suggest that you both get up by about two o'clock to help out with any remaining domestic duties.' They thanked me for proposing this kind stratagem and quietly I made my way back to my room and fell into a deep sleep from which I did not wake until almost ten o'clock. As I washed and shaved it occurred to me that I had really been foolish to fuck with my footman and chambermaid. I might be able to trust Mary but as the old saying goes, no man is a hero to his valet, though it would be shockingly unfair to dismiss Edwards who had done nothing dishonourable. Well, it would all depend on his behaviour when I sat down to breakfast. Would he be arch? Would he be familiar? Or would he put on airs? Perhaps he wouldn't even come in with the newspaper and the post. But thank goodness, all my worries were unfounded, for Edwards greeted me with his usual deferential 'good-morning, sir,' as he passed me the Daily News and the single letter which had arrived earlier in the morning.
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.