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.