'Oh, don't fib! I know it's bloody small. I was given the booby prize in every thick prick competition we had at St Cuthbert's from the third form onwards,' he said bitterly. Rosamund shook her head sadly. 'You are in a bad state,' she said with a sigh. 'Why are you silly men so obsessed about the size of your cocks? Like everything else in this world, it's quality, not quantity that counts, you chump. I won't deny that the sight of a whopping great cock could well make my pussey tingle. But then I've had a fair number of cocks up me and the best fuck I've ever had was from a lieutenant in the West Oxfordshire Rifles whose prick was probably smaller than yours.
As the Yankees say, it isn't the size of the ship that counts, it's the motion of the ocean!' I had to force myself to stay silent because a loud 'Hear, Hear' was already welling up in my throat. As Julian Clayton once remarked to me, ask any man if he would like another two inches of cock and out of a hundred, ninety-nine would reply in the affirmative. Still, Maurice FitzAllen was about to be shown in a practical physical manner that the size of his equipment was unimportant so long as both the people involved in the fuck are in receptive mood. 'Don't be shy,' said Rosamund as she climbed on to the bed. 'There's nothing wrong with your cock that a good fuck won't put right.' Maurice looked goggle-eyed as the salacious young miss lay naked on his eiderdown her legs spread wide open; one hand fingering her hairy muff, the other caressing her bosoms, tweaking one and then the other tawny tittie up to a fine erection.
Then, with a hoarse cry, he leaped upon her and I watched Rosamund guide his cock into the slippery entrance of her love channel. I lined up a camera to take in Maurice's quivering bum cheeks as he trembled with the emotion of his rite of passage into manhood.
However, to my surprise – and no doubt to Rosamund's – Maurice lay motionless upon the girl. Indeed I soon heard her enquire a trifle crossly: 'What's the matter, Mr. FitzAllen, don't tell me that fucking doesn't appeal to you!' 'Oh no, it's wonderful, it's what I've wanted to do for years,' he stammered nervously. 'Please don't laugh though, but I'm not certain what to do next.' Rosamund suppressed a smile and I rolled on the film to take another photograph as she replied: 'It's very easy, my dear. Just push your prick in and out of my pussey until you feel you're ready to spunk. Then you must pull out your cock immediately and spend over my tummy because this isn't the best time of the month for me to be fucked even if I had some linseed oil handy.' I snapped the couple again as she slid her hands down his back to clasp his bum cheeks and he now needed no further encouragement as her hips rose to welcome his thrusting tool. What Maurice lacked in experience, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm, bouncing up and down on Rosamund as she clutched his jerking bottom.
'Aaaagh!' gasped Maurice as he plunged deeper and deeper, delighting for the very first time in the ecstatic pleasure of having his cock being caressed inside a sticky, wet cunt. 'Slowly!
Slowly! You don't have a train to catch!' cried out Rosamund. 'Try and hold back till I'm ready to spend.' However, this set him off at an even faster pace and she was forced to cling to him, bucking her hips urgently so as not to be left behind. This will make a good snap, I muttered under my breath, as Maurice's cock popped out of her cunney and slid crazily across her belly, squirting a tribute of sticky spunk into the whorl of Rosamund's navel, just as I pressed the button to take another photograph. She grabbed hold of his spurting length, milking Maurice's cock of the last drains of white seed and said: 'That was very good for a beginner, Mr. FitzAllen. I'm glad to see your cock is still quite thick. I'm sure that if I suck your shaft it will soon be as hard as iron again. I suppose this will be a new experience for you as well?' But Maurice hung his head and said: 'Not exactly. When I was in the fourth form, Reverend Fotheringay used to lick our cocks. 'I wouldn't worry too much about what your parson did,' said Rosamund as she took Maurice's thickening tool in her hands. She hauled herself up and rested her head on his thigh and began to tease his uncapped bell-end by running the tip of her tongue around the ridges of the springy helmet, whilst at the same time she manipulated his balls through the soft wrinkled skin of his scrotum.
It was soon clear that Joshua had not been guilty of exaggeration when he had commented so favourably upon Rosamund's skills as a fellatrice. I took the last shot on my roll of film whilst I watched the chambermaid give a few hard sucks on Maurice's meaty shaft. Then she pulled it from her lips and I could see the pre-cum oozing out of his mushroomed knob whilst Rosamund delicately flicked her tongue along his shaft. His face was contorted with delicious agony as she slurped with undisguised lust upon his twitching tool and when she judged that he was ready to ejaculate a second spermatic libation, she began to swallow in anticipation. Sure enough, Maurice let out a hoarse yelp and Riled her mouth with frothy white seed. She gulped down his emission, and when she felt his shaft soften, she rolled her lips around his prick and nibbled on his knob until she released his shrunken shaft from its sweet imprisonment inside her mouth. 'We had better get dressed,' Rosamund remarked as she stepped into her knickers. 'I'm sure you have lots of books to study, and I've also got an awfully busy day ahead of me.' 'By Jove, Rosamund, thanks for reminding me about work! I must read at least two chapters of Dr Barnes' book on the British Constitution before lunch,' he replied somewhat absently whilst he picked up his underpants from the floor.
'Is that all?' said Rosamund, looking directly up in my direction and giving me a huge wink. 'I've much more than that to do this morning. Some of you young gentlemen are terribly untidy. For instance, clearing up after your friend Henry Dashwood is a real nightmare.' 'Henry Dashwood's no friend of mine,' said Maurice.
'He and his chums support Dr Barnes and the pro-Boers.' 'Well so what? Why should there be bad blood between the pair of you just because you don't agree about politics?' demanded Rosamund. To my astonishment, Maurice FitzAllen paused from the task of buttoning his shirt and said meekly: 'You're right, Rosamund, there's no reason at all. I don't agree with their political views, but Dashwood and his pals are fully entitled to their beliefs and they must think I'm a dreadful lout.' Rosamund looked up quickly at me again and continued to probe further. 'And why should they think that?' she asked gently. Maurice shrugged his shoulders. 'I led a gang of fellows to try and shout them down,' he confessed. 'I know it was wrong but people like Dashwood make me so angry. And on the evening of the freshers reception I saw him leave the college with Dr Barnes's stepsister who is the prettiest girl I've seen for years.' 'But that has nothing to do with Henry's politics,' exclaimed Rosamund. She might be only a lowly maidservant but she is blessed with genuine perception. 'You were simply jealous of him because this girl preferred his company to yours.' Maurice's face crumpled.
However, he pulled himself together and said: 'Yes, I admit it, and what made me even more furious was that I was too shy to introduce myself to her. To be brutally honest, I was angry with Dashwood and his crony not so much because they support the Boers but because they seem the type that have more success socially than I do. It's these damned spots on my face, you know, no girl could ever fancy me.'
'Don't be such a softy,' said Rosamund robustly. 'What were we doing five minutes ago-playing Ludo? Dr Barnes once told me that there was a poet called Pope who was small and slightly hunchbacked, but he always captured the attention of women at parties against competition from the most dashing and handsome young bucks because of his wicked tongue.' Maurice gave her a strange look and Rosamund giggled and said: 'Not that kind of wicked tongue, you rude thing! Pope might have been a wonderful pussey licker, but I meant that he was a great wit, and everyone likes a good laugh, you know. All right, I'm not saying that your spots look nice, but do something about them. Buy a jar of skin cream from the chemist. I'm sure that Smith's ointment will clear them up.' 'Do you really think so?' he said, brightening up for a moment. But then poor Maurice added gloomily: 'But at school we were told that spots came from, er, well, how I shall I put it-'