The Oyster, Volume III

Then… Oh, Cecily… Something quite amazing happened. This… this Thing was thrust between my legs and straightaway plunged into my quim. For a moment I was quite unable to understand what was happening. Here was something quite new in my experience. Before I had a chance to consider or to do anything to sort out this puzzle, this great Thing had burrowed its way right up to its very hilt in me.

Then, as it drew back, almost to the entrance to my cunt, it was thrust in again. It seemed to harden still more inside me until I was completely filled with its swollen length. Yet such was my own ever-widening instinctive response that it caused me no pain although there was no doubt in my mind that nothing so large and so forceful had ever penetrated me before. By now all curiosity and all thought had been driven from my mind by its insistent thrusting and I surrendered myself completely to an ever mounting ecstasy. Moaning and even biting my wrist to stop myself crying out with the sheer pleasure of what was being done to me, I felt wave after wave of excitement pass through my body. My whole being, the whole world even, seemed to be concentrated in the heat of my pussey. Without knowing what I was doing, I was gripping and releasing this great pleasure instrument with internal muscles that I had not till then known I possessed as it slid ever more rapidly up and down the length of my cunt. Then all of a sudden there was a momentary pause before a renewed, frantic pressure as it discharged itself right in the furthest recesses of my tunnel of love. Again and again I felt a great spurting and what felt like a very torrent of juice was flooded into me. Rapidly this delicious spurting slowed down and before I could do anything to stop it, this great engine of delight had been withdrawn. As the lips of my cunt closed I could feel the warm flow of our mingled juices running down the inside of my thighs.' 'Oh, Gwendolen', I said. 'I am so affected by your story. Please help me a little before you go on.'

With that dear Gwendolen did indeed pause in her account and with her skilful, soft fingers, opened out my own cunt and eased and teased my own clit into a most fatly happy state. Then as I snuggled up against her, I said, 'That's lovely. Please Gwendolen, go on with your story, but please also keep your hand exactly where it is now.'

'I can feel how happy you are,' she said. 'Truly you have always been the most warmly welcoming pussey of my acquaintance.'

'Then,' she went on, 'I was so overcome and still so filled with a hunger for more that I broke the rules. Panting, my hair all damp and dishevelled with the heat of the encounter, I partly turned round, having at the same time to half support myself. There in front of me was something never previously seen in a dormitory washroom in all the history of Miss Bradshaw's Academy for Young Ladies. A man. A naked man. He had a quite sun-burned body. He had wild, curling hair, a ring in one ear and strange designs tattooed on his arms and chest. But the most remarkable feature and one to which my eye was at once drawn, was this great Thing that jutted out between his legs. That very Thing with which he had just invaded my body and caused me what I knew without thinking to have been the most exciting time of my life so far.' 'Your first cock!' I exclaimed, rather too loudly in the circumstances. 'Sssh!' said Gwendolen. 'That is not a proper word for a young lady of good breeding to cry out in such a carrying way.'

'I am sorry,' I replied, as I realised that I had been so intent on her story, accompanied as it was by the steady caressing of her fingers in my pussey, that I had quite forgotten myself. Luckily the driver did not appear to have heard anything unusual coming from the back of his omnibus (although Gwendolen afterwards announced that she had seen one of the horses prick up his ears and raise his tail in surprise. However I do not quite believe this myself as I know that dearest Gwendolen cannot always resist the temptation to embroider a story in the retelling.) 'Do go on…' 'My first cock,' said Gwendolen. 'And I know now that it was a pretty handsome specimen.

Anyway, as I leaned there, wondering where this sudden forbidden visitor had come from, I became aware of two other things. The first was that four of my dearest friends were with him, their eyes shining with delight and excitement at what they had just seen.' 'Your first fuck!' I exclaimed. 'My first fuck indeed,' Gwendolen replied. 'And what was the other thing you noticed?' I asked.

'That although I had been brought to the very brink of coming, I had not yet been driven over the edge. My titties were all swollen and I could see my nipples pushing out under my nightie. My legs were trembling and I could feel blood surging through all my body whilst my private parts were throbbing with an urgency I had never felt before.

But as I rested against the basin, I spread my legs as though to let some cooling air in to calm the heat and the wetness of my pussey.

Without thinking I fingered myself, opening myself up to my audience.

Seeing my distress, two of my friends came to my aid. One, Mary quickly knelt down and, burying her face in my bush, began to lick my swollen clit. But the other, Meg…' 'I remember her,' I said. 'A tall Scottish girl…' 'Who as you might have heard, later behaved in a most immoral fashion whilst on the passage to India where her father was stationed,' said Gwendolen. 'According to her account, no less than seven young officers from one of the Mounted Regiments passed her portals, and all accomplished whilst steaming the length of the Suez Canal.' 'However, Meg…' I prompted her. 'Meg first kissed me with open-mouthed eagerness and then brought forward the strange man. Placing one hand under his still large but now limp pleasure staff, she urged me first to lick its purple end, and then inch by inch, slowly, take it into my mouth. As my lips gently slipped further and further down its length, I felt it stir in my mouth.

Understanding at once what was taking place, I sucked and pulled at it with my lips. Meg meanwhile had slipped her hands beneath his balls and was very carefully squeezing them. Before I had time properly to realise that sucking a man's cock can be a very great pleasure in its own right, he had so stiffened and enlarged that I felt in some danger of choking. At once he withdrew and as my two friends eased me down on to the floor and as I spread my legs apart, drawing my knees up so that my entire pussey was forced into full view, he entered me once again with his now glistening and re-erected member. Cecily, I have since then seen some of the classic Indian texts on lovemaking and have studied the positions. All I can say is that I have never needed to be taught. Fucking, I now realise, comes easily to me. As if I had been doing this all my life, I raised my legs and grasped him round the waist, drawing him fully into me. There I held him for a while, savouring the delicious feeling of my cunt absolutely filled with his prick. Then, releasing my grip somewhat, I let him recommence that to-ing and fro-ing that previously he had done from behind. This time I had the added pleasure of being able to watch that great tool thrust deep into me and then slide back in order to repeat its effort.

By now my body was responding as if by instinct and I was thrusting to meet him time and time again. This time he was much, much, more controlled in his fucking and as he slid back and forth like a great piston, I began to lose control once more. Then it was that I broke the second rule. I did not mean to but I could no longer stay silent. I hardly knew what I was crying out but the others later recalled that I had been shouting out “More! More! For God's Sake!

Fuck me! Fuck me!” My head was twisting from side to side and I had pulled my nightdress right up over my tits. I was rubbing them, squeezing them almost to the point of pain as I felt my legs split apart as though I was trying to suck the whole of him inside me. Then my back arched and I realised in one wonderful instant that I will never ever forget, that for the first time in my life I was coming with a man inside me.' By now I was again so excited by Gwendolen's story that I could feel an answering wetness begin to flood down me. 'Gwendolen, quick, hold on to me tight. I think I'm coming as well. No, no! That's it. I need a second finger in me.

Go on. Tell me some more.' 'Well,' said Gwendolen, only a little put off her stride by my interruption, 'Suffice it to say that I came and I came and I came. It seemed as though my coming would never end.

When at last he also came for the second time I was so carried away by our fucking that I bit him quite badly and scratched him all over his back. Luckily he can't have felt a thing-although later the others said they had to dab some antiseptic lotion over him. I may say that afterwards I found that he also seemed to have bitten me, for one of my nipples was very sore.. But at the time all I can remember is that I seemed to dissolve into a some sort of sticky blancmange. I swear my eyes went out of focus and all I could see was a haze. I was so drained and so happy that I would have just stayed there on the floor for ever, feeling the last waves of my coming wash over me. Then Meg and Mary and the others took charge and they lifted me up gently and put me in a warm bath. They washed me all over with great thoroughness, paying particular attention to my much exercised private parts. They were also good enough thoroughly to sponge down the strange man, who all the time had said nothing, before they led him away. 'What happened next?' I asked. By now I also had calmed down and was happily content to leave Gwendolen's hand resting gently on my more satisfied pussey. 'They dried me off and led me back to bed. Where I slept dreamlessly and deeply until the bell rang at seven o'clock the next morning. I remember half getting up and than half wondering if it had all been a dream. I sat there on the edge of my bed feeling strange and very different somehow. I think Meg must have noticed my odd expression for she came over to me and said “You weren't dreaming. You had your first fuck last night. And your second, and your third.” “Three?” I asked. “It all seems so muddled but are you sure there were three?” “Definitely,” she said. “One from the back. One from the front-when we had to hold you down, you were throwing yourself about so. And one with you on top, after we'd got you all clean again and towelled you down. You stood up, your eyes all glazed, dropped the bath towel we'd wrapped round you for decency's sake, wound your arms round him and almost forced him over. You were sitting on him, riding him as though you'd been doing this sort of thing all your life and at intervals you'd lean forward so that your tits brushed against him and he was sucking them and biting them while you wriggled and yelled as he impaled you on his great tool.”'

'Do you know,' said Gwendolen, 'from that day to this, I simply can't remember that third time. If it really happened I must have been quite out of my mind with fucking.' 'Well it's not a bad way to go,' I said. 'But maybe Meg was exaggerating. After all, some of her stories do sound a little suspect.' 'Like seven army officers between Port Said and Suez?' 'It certainly sounds like military service on a grand scale. Three or four? Now that I can imagine. But anyway, it's a lovely story. Did you ever find out who the man was and how he came to be there? And did you get to fuck him again?' 'It was all Melissa's idea,' said Gwendolen. I remembered Melissa. A tall well-built girl. Full of energy and mad-cap ideas, she was definitely a character. Terribly untidy and somewhat scatter-brained, she was the despair of Mrs. Bradshaw and the staff. Brought up on a farm, and with a knowing eye, she had a most unladylike knowledge and interest in the less polite activities of the animals. I remember clearly an incident when we were both only just arrived at the school.

There was a rather fussy little man who in those early days used to come in twice a week in order to teach music. One day he brought in his small and rather fussy little dog. Of course we all gathered round to stroke and pet the little creature. When it suddenly started yapping and then made as if to snap at one of the girls, he snatched it up. 'Bobo's a touch on the nervous side,' he twittered agitatedly. 'A highly strung little dog.' 'She's not a dog,' said Melissa. 'She's a bitch. Look, she's got nipples.' Poor Mr.

Fotheringay was very shocked at her plain speaking and when Melissa made things worse by going on 'All females have nipples. They're for babies to suck milk from. Young ladies have, nipples too,' he became speechless and stopped the lesson there and then. Later Miss Bartholomew, the Deputy Headmistress, sent for her and she was told in no uncertain terms that she was never, never to use such language again in the school. Her parents were to be told of her misbehaviour.

She was to apologise to Mr. Fotheringay, who had had a severe nervous attack after the incident and she was to lose all sorts of privileges for the rest of term. We all thought that this was absolutely beastly of Miss Bartholomew who was such a stick-like creature that in her case it was more than possible that she in fact did not have any nipples. She certainly had no visible bosom. Anyway, Melissa had gone from bad to worse in the eyes of the Mistresses and had got better and better in the opinions of all her friends. Of course in the midst of all our passions and night-time friendships, one subject above all was the great topic of excited conversation. Men. As I have said, apart from the school chaplain, The Rev. Mr. Paddlebottom, and occasional visits from Mr. Fotheringay, we never saw one at close quarters on the school premises. We were terribly ignorant about Men and in particular about what Men did to Young Ladies. Melissa inevitably was the one who told us all, when we all were in our first term. 'They have this Thing,' she told her wide-eyed audience in the dorm. 'And they have to put it in girls' wee holes so that they can have babies.' Naturally there was a chorus of disbelief from most of us. Apart from a vague idea that having a baby involved help from a clergyman, since babies were only born after a proper Church wedding, there was a school of thought that they came out of the belly button but mostly we were just ignorant and terribly shocked. 'Ugh!' said a squat girl called Hermione, 'That sounds horrid. I certainly wouldn't want a man's Thing pushed into my wee-hole. I can think of nothing worse.' At this there was quite a babble of agreement but I noticed, here and there, a number of girls with thoughtful looks on their faces who didn't join in the general outcry. I was somewhat relieved because the idea of a man's Thing one day reaching up inside me seemed a proposition not to be dismissed out of hand and one to be considered carefully for the future. The fact was that I had already made certain discoveries about my still dormant pussey. A little gentle exploration with my own fingers had awakened feelings of pleasure and excitement. Nor, as I realised later that evening, was I alone in my discoveries. After Melissa's lecture on the Facts of Life had ended and lights were out, I voiced my thoughts on the subject of men's Things to my friend Thomasina. She at once confided that she also had engendered feelings of a quite thrilling nature in and around her hidden parts by a process of quiet self-exploration. Emboldened by our whispered conversation, I quietly did a round of the dormitory, asking a carefully picked selection of girls whether they also had any sympathy with my ideas. Quite soon seven or eight of us were sharing confessions. We all agreed that if at any time in the future, a man's Thing were to be presented to us, we would at least greet the proposition with an open mind. In the meantime several of us agreed that if we could get such pleasure at our own hands, maybe the touch of other hands would be as nice or even better. In no time at all, amid hastily hushed giggles, a mass exploration was going on. In the darkness, unseen hands were reaching out. Demurely pressed-together knees were being eased apart and careful journeys of adventure were being made into unseen places. Of course we were still too young to understand the peaks of ecstasy that lay ahead but we had made a start. So Melissa had entered my life and Gwendolen's early. Her night time lectures and quite explicit explanations had been our introduction to sexual matters. Now it seemed that, like the good teacher she was later to become, she had not only awakened our juvenile interests in the subject, but had set my friend her final examination-and one that she had passed with flying colours. In short, she had arranged her first fuck. But how? Where had the man, with his splendid Thing, come from? What had happened to him? Melissa, it seemed, had finally tired of listening to the moanings and complaints about the great lack of Men during the dormitory conversations. There was Adam the school gardener. But he was reputed to have been employed by Miss Bradshaw not for his expertise in horticultural matters but because he was safe where Young Ladies were concerned. This followed an incident in the Crimea War when he had been damaged by a Russian musket shot in those parts that are the seat of the male passions. The only other man to be found within the convent-like confines of the school, Mr. Fotheringay having retired to a sanitorium, was, as I have said, the chaplain, Mr. Paddlebottom. He however had always restricted his attentions to the backsides of his pupils. 'Spanker' as he was called, was in the habit of indulging in regular chastisements of those of his flock who had failed to come up to his expectations where biblical knowledge was concerned. All of us had at some time or other felt his rod upon our bottom but he had never displayed any interest in our other parts. So many a maiden's prayers had gone unanswered and no man's Thing had ever raised its head within either school or pupils. How we had bemoaned our fate. How eagerly we had chattered and dreamed about men and their Things. We made up stories and hoped that one day we would find such a combination within the school grounds. But our citadel was well guarded and its multitude of young pussies quite unapproachable. I remembered clearly those endless after-dark speculations, those moist sighs and breathless fantasies. But I digress. Melissa, as Gwendolen recounted, had become impatient and decided that something must be done to fill certain long felt wants. 'There is a gipsy encampment on the common,' she had announced one night. Blank stares had greeted this piece of news. 'Gipsies,' she had continued, 'are well known, in lore if not in fact, for their habit of kidnapping babies and small children. Is it not time that the tables were turned? I have a splendid scheme. We will capture a gipsy.' 'Why?' several of her audience had chorused. 'Why?' she had answered. 'So that we can make use of him.' 'How,' those same voices asked. 'We will bring him back here and use him for our pleasure.' At this there was a great hubbub of questions and objections. 'Listen,' she went on. 'I have thought this out with great care. We can smuggle him into the school and keep him in the attic where all our trunks are stored. No-one ever goes in there until the end of term. I have talked to one of the village girls who works in the kitchens. She is very taken with the idea and has promised to put on one side sufficient food for us to sneak in to him.' 'But surely he will be able to escape,' Meg asked. 'We cannot mount a guard on him.' 'But will he want to escape?' replied Melissa. 'School food may not be enough temptation but school pussies will surely be. I am quite convinced that he will be more than ready to endure his confinement when he realises that he is to be presented with a succulent diet of unblemished fruit, ripe for the plucking.' 'It would never work,' one or two of her enthralled audience had objected, albeit wistfully.

'It could,' she answered. 'We will have to be very careful. Above all, no-one must breath a word of what is to happen. So first we must all swear on our Honour-or rather our hoped-for Dishonour-not to say anything, not even a hint, to anyone.' By now all were becoming quite wrapped up in her plan, and quickly agreed to become sworn sisters in secrecy. There is not time to recount every detail of the plot but suffice it to say that Melissa's already well-thought-out scheme was seized upon by two of the girls whose fathers were both in the Army. Between them they had listened far too many times over the parental dinner table to accounts of military expeditions for them not to understand the necessity of good forward planning. The key to the scheme lay in the hands of Bess, the kitchen maid who had already promised to keep back enough food for their inviting guest. Unlike the Young Ladies, she was no stranger to men and their Things. 'I'm sure I'm not much of a one for reading,' she had confided in Melissa, 'nor for either of the other two Rs, but the Three Fs are another matter. Feeling, Frolicking and Fucking are an education in themselves.' She eagerly volunteered to be their accomplice. Melissa and four of the stronger girls had slipped out into the school grounds after dark. Waiting for them was Bess. She had led them down the lane and then to the edge of the common where there was a barn, half-filled with hay. 'I think I can get him to follow me in here with no trouble at all,' she had said. 'He' was a tall gipsy in the prime of life that she had already spotted while hanging round the camp.

'And as soon as he's in here, we grab him?' said one of Melissa's press gang. 'Not if you please, Miss,' said Bess. 'Beg pardon, but I would like to be repayed for my services.' 'Of course,'

Melissa had answered. 'I am sure that I can cajole a little money out of Papa when I go home…' 'Oh No, Miss! I didn't mean anything like that,' Bess had answered. 'All I know is that if I can get him excited enough to follow me in here, then I will be excited enough to want to offer him what he's after.' 'First fuck!' exclaimed Melissa. 'First fuck,' agreed Bess. 'That is only fair is it not?' 'Indeed, yes,' said Melissa. 'It was quite thoughtless of me not to have made the offer.' 'Besides,' went on Bess. 'He will be easier to capture when he is all spent. I may not have the benefits of an expensive education but kitchen work makes a girl strong in the arm and in the thighs. I can promise to quite drain him of any fighting spirit for a while.' 'So we should hide behind these bales and watch for our opportunity,' said Melissa. 'If you would, Miss. Although it is quite dark in here, I am sure that you will be able to see enough, and hear, to know when the right moment has arrived.' They had watched from the barn as Bess had gone down to the gipsy encampment. By the light of a fire they had seen her silhouetted by the gate. They could not hear what was going on but presently they saw a tall man leave the fire, where no doubt the gipsies were engaged in roasting a hedgehog or some game poached from the neighbouring estate, and walk over to her. They had heard an enticing laugh from Bess, a murmur of conversation and then she had turned back towards the barn and the ambush that waited within. As she approached, leading him by the hand, they had all hastily retired into the dark recesses of the barn. With a giggle, she had thrown herself down on the straw and raised her skirts to him. They saw a quick flash of naked flesh as her legs were spread in welcome. They saw him unbuckle and unbutton himself before first sinking to his knees before her and then covering her with his body. In the half-darkness, they could make out that Bess and the gipsy were clasping each other, locked in passionate kisses. Then he raised himself up and for a moment they saw his great swollen cock. Two of the party, this being their first sight of such an instrument of delight, gasped out in amazement and excitement. The gipsy, even in the throes of his pleasure, had looked up at the sound. 'That old barn owl,' Bess had said with great presence of mind. 'There is a nest up in the roof.' Not needing much reassurance, the gipsy had fallen to his work. Bess's thighs, the black shadow of her pussey deep between them, had seized him round the waist and she had drawn his engorged prick deep inside her. Quite beside themselves with envy, the school party had watched as the two of them coupled and wrestled on the straw. 'There was such a thrusting and a panting,' Melissa had reported, 'that it seemed some great threshing machine was at work.' Bess had been crying out and wriggling her bottom as though to clamp him forever in her. But he had continued to drive his way up and down her lover's lane as it opened up before him between the dense thickets of her pussey. Then she wrestled him, still embedded in her, over on to his back and began to ride him ever faster and faster. He responded like a thoroughbred, his prick rising to meet her downward thrusts. 'I shall never ride side-saddle again,' someone had whispered in Melissa's ear as they crouched in the darkness.

Then, as Bess and the gipsy reached their climax, straw and chaff rising in a cloud around them, he bucked and moaned and the watchers sensed the cream churning and spurting up along his great member.

Bess, like any good milkmaid, accepted every drop in her waiting receptacle, clutching at him and urging him on. Clamping his head in her hands, she pressed her open mouth against his as though she was trying to eat him, while his cum flooded into her and shudders of pleasure ran through both their bodies. Then, as their movements grew less frenzied, the watchers had to pull themselves together and remember there was work to be done. The gipsy gave one last pumping heave. Bess collapsed down on him and they lay locked together for a moment or two. The ambushers crept forward, not quite certain whether now was the time to pounce. As they hesitated, Bess raised herself up, paused, and then sat back on her heels, letting his still fat but limp prick slip out of her. Bending forward, she cupped his balls between her hands, sucked hungrily at the tip of his juice-wet cock and sat back again. She raised her arms and beckoned them forward. In a nervous scurry, Melissa and her friends scrambled across the straw and gripped and pinioned their quarry's arms and legs. Exhausted though he was, he began to struggle, looking round wildly at his attackers. Bess at once threw herself back on top of him, kissed him and whispered urgently in his ear. 'Lie still now, dear,' she had said. 'No harm is going to come to you. But there is something these friends of mine want you to do for them.' Quickly she explained what the plan was, how he was to be secreted in the school attic for no more than three days, how she personally would make sure he had three square meals a day. 'Food prepared with my own hands,' she said, giving his cock a friendly but firm squeeze. 'Better food than you'll get round that old camp fire of yours.' After having had to live on the school food for a number of years, there was not one of the girls who considered this possible, but a small lie was needed in the circumstances. Then, as the nature of the duties he would be called upon to perform became clear to him, at the thought of all the virgin pussey, the unawakened clits and the hitherto impenetrated passages waiting for him, he stopped any pretence of struggle and surrendered to his fate. So he was brought back to the school, smuggled in through a back door and led up stairs. Bess tiptoed up from the servants quarters with a big bowl of soup and several thick slices of bread. These he wolfed down like a man who hadn't eaten for days on end. 'Fucking makes you hungry,' explained Bess. 'And you've got to feed him up and keep him in condition. Anyway, I like him.' She turned to him. 'That was a fine country fuck, she said. 'Now you must trust these young ladies. There is a lot you can do for them. Besides, some of them are very well connected in these parts. I've no doubt that if you or your family are ever caught with the odd pheasant that you have poached, one or other of them will be able to have a quiet word with her father, invent some story of a small favour owed, a lost brooch returned, and nothing more will be said. The gipsy, who was not stupid, realised that he was being offered a free harvest of fucking followed by the free run of the game coverts of the area. He accepted this unusual turn of affairs with a good grace. Because we were all well brought up young ladies, it was arranged that he should be bathed and made quite clean before we would receive him. Bess meanwhile promised him that a message would be taken by her down to the camp to say that they were not to worry at his absence and that he would be returning to them in a day or so. 'But were you not a party to this plot?' I asked Gwendolen. 'Alas no,' she replied. 'I had had the misfortune to be confined to the school sanitorium with a slight chill for a couple of days, so knew nothing of it.' 'But they let you into the secret,' I said. 'They let the secret into me,' corrected Gwendolen. 'Both Melissa and Thomasina had absolutely insisted that, since had I been well, I would without doubt have played a leading role in our adventure, I should be given the opportunity to enjoy a Romany Ride.' 'That was very good of them,' I said. 'But how long did you keep him for in the end?'

'Three nights in all,' said Gwendolen. 'On the third night, about dawn, we released him back into the wild.' 'And nothing was ever discovered?' 'Not really.' 'What do you mean, “Not really”?'

I asked. 'Well, there was one tiny incident…' said Gwendolen. 'Do you remember Miss Brightwell?' 'The young temporary art teacher,' I said. 'Yes,' said Gwendolen. 'Well, she happened upon Bess creeping up the back staircase that led from the kitchens to the attics. Bess had a bowl of nourishing stew under a cloth. Thinking that some sort of forbidden night-time feast was taking place in the dormitory, she had followed silently behind her. She found the gipsy, John Smith was his name, in the lumber room, giving some private tuition to two of the girls. A lesson had just finished. Meg was lying back, recovering from a most searching examination of her inner parts, while Deirdre…'

'That thin girl with a most active tongue,' I said. 'The same,' said Gwendolen. 'She was using the same active tongue in order to lick our tutor back into sufficient life for him to perform his duties all over again. She was most assiduously sucking and teasing his cock back to its standing position when Miss Brightwell appeared at the door.' 'How terrible,' I said. 'What did she do?'

'She was a jolly good sport,' replied Gwendolen. 'Everyone, of course had stopped what they were doing except Meg who was too far gone in her post-fuck daze to notice anything. She just lay there, stroking her exhausted quim while Miss Brightwell looked about her and the said “John Smith, I believe.” The gipsy turned and said “Rachel!”'

'Goodness me,' I said. 'It turned out that they had met some months previously when she was engaged in a series of circus sketches on Blackheath in south London. That of course was immediately prior to her having taken up a temporary position at Miss Bradshaw's. I later saw some of her drawings. They are most exotic. Trapeze artists and acrobats are flexible beyond the imaginings of us ordinary mortals.

Such contortions and such fucking and all in positions that I swear would be quite impossible without grave risk of permanent injury to someone untrained. One of the artists, wearing only a little spangled costume, had her legs locked round the back of her own neck and had then craned forward so that her face was but a few inches from this immense cock that was plunging deep into her gaping quim.'

'Gracious!' I said, 'What a coincidence.' 'Furthermore,'

Gwendolen went on, 'it appeared that she had not restricted her activities to just recording such details. She had several times enjoyed a thorough fucking at the hands, or rather the prick, of John the Gipsy. Although these instances she had not of course been able to record in pencil or watercolour.' 'What happened then?' I asked.

'She very sportingly said that she would not report anything that she had seen just so long as she took the next turn. Miss Minge-for that was John the Gipsy's nickname for her-quickly slipped off her rather artistic and loose fitting dress and stood before us in a delightfully unashamed nakedness. She was so slim and pretty that my heart went out to her. Her breasts were quite small but she had the longest, most provoking nipples that I have ever seen.' 'Like nipples, like clitty,' I murmured. 'Indeed, yes,' said Gwendolen.

'John's gipsy tongue almost at once had all three protuberances flushed and charged. The contrast between them and her slim, white body was tantalising in the extreme. When she drew in her breath, all her ribs stood out and her hipbones framed the plumpness of her curly haired mound. They fucked standing up, very quietly and very deliberately. We were all spell-bound and I realised that the human body can indeed be a work of art in itself. Bess was standing there open-mouthed, quite forgetting the bowl of stew which was growing cold in her hands. Only when Miss Brightwell came with a little choking cry, did she remember where she was. I think we were all in something of a trance. John the Gipsy, who had been very controlled in his fucking, held on to her as she quivered and shook with her coming. He stayed in her until she had ground to a halt, supporting her until she had regained her composure.' 'One of nature's Gentlemen,' I said.

' Far more of a gentleman than some others much better born that I have entertained,' agreed Gwendolen. 'He was Consideration personified.' 'I have been secretly reading the works of Mr.

Engels and Mr. Marx,' I said. 'And I have developed a great sympathy for the lot of the working classes.' 'And there was a lot to this member of the working classes,' Gwendolen responded quickly. 'I may not understand the economic sciences, but I am full of admiration for the hard Labour he performed that night and the next. Of course we looked after him with care for none of us knew when we would be able to lay hands on another such rod, pole or perch.' I smiled at her reference to our mathematics lessons. 'Or Rod, Staff and Comforter,' I riposted in what I thought a clever little allusion to Mr. Paddlebottom's scripture classes. Gwendolen looked puzzled for a moment and furrowed her dainty brow. I squeezed her hand affectionately with my thighs. 'But do go on,' I said.

'There is not much more to tell,' she said. 'Miss Brightwell returned to her room with a warning not to make any noise. “Since,” as she said, “I know that your evening is not yet ended. You have my assurance both that John will be able to stand up to further exertions in a short while and that I will report nothing of what I have seen, and felt, this evening.”' She then made a firm agreement with John the Gipsy for her to come down to his encampment one night after he had been returned and commence to put together a portfolio of drawings of Romany life. After she had withdrawn the fucking recommenced. Thomasina, who had been waiting patiently for her turn, was next. Then Meg. Melissa and I had to console ourselves, each with the other, while the rest moaned and gasped in sequence upon the floor. We had to place a firm hand over Deirdre's mouth at one juncture for it was clear that she was about to scream out in her delight. But the danger was averted and we composed ourselves, knowing that we were the first to be served the next night when our efforts were resumed.' 'So he lasted the course?' I asked. 'Towards the end of the third night he became a bit weak at the knees,' said Gwendolen. 'But as I now realise, he held out most manfully to the very end.' So if today is the anniversary of your first three fucks, tomorrow…' 'Is the anniversary of my fourth and fifth,'

Gwendolen agreed. 'And the very last, just before we had to take him back to his caravan, was most extraordinary. I actually slid down the bannisters on to his eager prick.' 'No splinters in the bum?' I asked. 'We had smeared the surface carefully with a soothing cream. It was the smoothest of descents and the easiest of entrances.

I realised then that fucking would be my chief delight for the future.' At that moment we heard the sound of another passenger clambering up to the top deck of the omnibus. Of course, being two well brought-up young ladies, we did not do anything so immodest as to turn to look at the new arrival. Indeed we both hoped that he-for it was a he as I could see from the corner of my eye-would move up to the front so that our happy intimacy, and our conversation, could not be intruded upon and we could continue to exchange information. However it was not be to be. 'Gwendolen!' exclaimed the newcomer. 'What a splendid surprise.' Gwendolen looked round. 'George!' she answered. I too looked round at this juncture. Standing before us was a young man who I had never seen before in my life. I barely had time to register that he was dressed as though for a funeral, when he half raised his hat in greeting and extended a hand. Here a problem arose. Gwendolyn instinctively sought to half rise in response and to hold out her hand. Unfortunately her right hand was still beneath the travelling rug, burrowed into my underclothing and caressing my nicely damp pussey. Gwendolyn though barely hesitated. Deftly she withdrew her hand from my private pleasure place and held it out to the stranger who claimed acquaintance. He took it between his own and bent to kiss it, whilst steadying himself against the end of the seat in front in order to preserve his balance since the omnibus was once more swaying and jolting through the ever heavier traffic, the driver flicking his whip and muttering uncomplimentary things about the competing drivers and cabbies. (Indeed I distinctly heard him call in question the parentage of one tradesman's van driver.) The young gentleman warmly placed his lips upon the backs of her fingers, lingered for a moment and then looked her steadily in the eyes, at the same time allowing himself a small smile. 'No gloves,' he said.

'And on such a cool afternoon.' Gwendolen looked a little embarrassed at his remark, particularly when he lowered his lips to her hand once more and rather boldly licked her fingertips. 'But one hardly needs gloves when one has a warm muff to hand,' he continued with a wicked little chuckle. Then, before I had had the time to consider how I should react to his sudden turn of affairs, Gwendolen hurried to make an introduction that set my mind quite at rest concerning the propriety of the conversation. 'Cecily, this is my dear friend Mr. George Russell-Lupin. Not only is he a very close friend whom I have known now for many, many months, but he has a truly gallant prick which is most prompt to stand up for any lady, no matter what the situation. 'One likes to be of service…,' he responded. 'George, this is my dear, dear former schoolfriend Cecily, with whom I am resuming acquaintance after a most painful separation of two whole years. We were indeed bosom companions and I very much hope that we shall shortly be able to resume that relationship. However this is not of course a sufficiently private place for that purpose.' Mr. Russell-Lupin, or George as I had already determined to call him for I have long been opposed to over-formality in social intercourse, looked at me with a wicked gleam in his eye, then darted out his tongue to lightly touch Gwendolen's fingers again. 'Cecily,' he said, 'I look forward to holding your hand in greeting. But in the meantime, here is an unusual and enticing state of affairs. Although I have not yet touched you, I have had the priviledge of tasting you. The sensation is wholly delightful.'

'This, Sir, is a situation that I have never seen dealt with in the books of etiquette and I am somewhat covered with embarrassment.'

'Just as dear Gwendolen's hand is somewhat covered with your cum,' he answered. 'You must have both been deep in conversation when I intruded upon your privacy. Should I now withdraw and seat myself towards the front of the bus so that you can resume your intercourse.'

'No,' said Gwendolen. 'Don't be silly. We had just come to a natural pause in our conversation. Cecily also had just come, but that's by-the-by. It was all my doing for I had been recounting the events of a most important day in my life.' 'Of course,' he responded. 'It is your anniversary. Your first fuck!' 'Cecily', said Gwendolen, 'I must explain that George has already heard the story of my first fuck.' 'And her second? And her third..?' I murmured. 'Cecily,' said Gwendolen, 'you will gather that George is already au fait with every last detail of that memorable day.

Indeed he was present on the first anniversary. Not to put too fine a point on it, George was thoroughly embedded in me when I first told him the story. In spite of showing great self restraint during the account, his final reaction was the same as yours.' 'I came,' said George, 'But only after one of the longest and finest fucks of my life.' 'When George was young,' said Gwendolen, 'he was well tutored in certain Eastern arts of Love by his Nanny.' 'His Nanny!' I exclaimed. 'The family were out East. The Nanny was passed on to them by a family who were returning to England. She had the highest references. She also turned out to have spent the formative years of her life in a harem and had there learnt many of the exotic practices that are such an exciting part of Eastern tradition and culture.' 'By the time I was fourteen,' George explained, 'I could, with the aid of some strenuous mental exercises, remain erect and fully inserted for ten or more minutes. By the time I was sixteen, I had got it up to twenty minutes.' 'Got it up for twenty minutes, surely?' I responded. 'Is it not unusual to still have a nanny when one is sixteen, even in India.' 'Indeed, yes,' he answered. 'But my parents were more than happy that their, may I say it, occasionally unruly son, had been so well taken in hand. When not engaged in his Regimental duties, my father was altogether taken up in his polo and my mother was quite taken up in an illicit liaison with the Adjutant.' 'Which came to an abrupt end,' interjected Gwendolen, 'when she was accidentally revealed astride the Adjutant, stark naked except that she was wearing his boots, his Sam Brown belt and flourishing his riding crop.' 'As you can see,' went on George, 'my parents led a full life and were more than satisfied when it became clear that I was growing up to healthy manhood with little effort on their part.' 'So the nanny stayed,' I said.

'Indeed, yes,' he answered. 'And I quickly realised that the reason her previous employers had retained her services long past the time when most nannies have to pass on to another charge, must be connected with her very special abilities in the training of British manhood in the arts of the Orient.' 'And British womanhood, I gather,' said Gwendolen. 'I have to explain,' said George, 'that after the unfortunate public exposure of her affair with the adjutant, my mother took to her bedroom in shame for several days. Nanny, being of a kind and thoughtful disposition, spent many hours comforting her as she lay in her darkened room. She personally made sure that light meals were delivered to her. She shoo'd all the other servants away-and also my father who had been so upset when word reached him of the scandal that he fell off his polo pony and was accidentally struck on the head by the mallet of an over-enthusiastic brother officer.

Mother, in the meantime, aided by the skilled ministrations of Nanny, quickly discovered a new interest in life. So enthusiastic did she become in the erotic arts of the East that she quite soon set off in disguise, with only Nanny to accompany her, on a tour of some of the more explicit Indian temple sculptures. 'You may have seen,' said Gwendolen, 'a privately printed monograph of restricted circulation entitled An Introduction to the Eastern Art of Fucking, by a Lady Much Experienced in Those Parts. There was a somewhat dog-eared copy in circulation in the Senior Dorm in your last year.' 'That was George's mother!' I exclaimed. 'I have long wished to meet the author, if only to encourage her to publish a sequel.' 'So there are two members of George's family who have much to thank his nanny for,' said Gwendolen. 'And may I enquire if her services extended as far as your father?' I asked. 'Alas, No,' said George. 'Remaining true to what he considered the finest traditions of the British Empire, he continued to be what is vulgarly called a 'two-minute man' and was quite soon afterwards invalided out of the army with a nasty dose of something he picked up in an Officers Only establishment in Calcutta.

He retired to Ireland to breed horses and was sadly trampled to death by a mount of a nervous disposition while thrashing about in the straw of a horse box with a young girl from the village.' 'How terrible,' I said. 'Was the girl all right?' 'Bruised only,' said George. 'The family of course took pity on her-she could hardly remain in the village-and brought her over to London where she is still in service in my aunt's establishment. She recovered fully from her injuries and quickly resumed a most energetic life of fucking. I have in fact been honoured in turn to introduce her to those Eastern practices that I had learned at the hands of my nanny.' 'What a complicated family history you have,' I said. 'I am sure I should never be able to remember quite who did what and with whom.' 'Do not worry,' said Gwendolen. 'You are not about to be examined on the subject.' She must have seen the quick look of disappointment that passed across my face. 'At least not in the schoolroom sense of the word,' she went on hurriedly. 'I am sure a physical examination in the subject could be arranged.' 'An oral one too?' I asked, with a little shiver of daring. 'It would be my pleasure,' said George.

'It would be all our pleasures,' said Gwendolen firmly. 'George,' she went on, 'One thing I must tell you-I hope I do not embarrass you, Cecily dear-is that Cecily has a pair of the biggest, most delicious titties of anyone I know. I am almost beside myself in my desire to see them once more, and to feel them responding to my touch.'

'Oh, and your tongue too, Gwendolen dear,' I burstout. 'To feel myself being stroked and sucked into ecstasy. And then to rub them all over your own lovely titties while our fingers begin to explore each other's most secret parts. But I must not continue with these imaginings. I am becoming all wet with the thought of such an encounter.' 'We must indeed all sit quietly,' said George.

'Already I feel a bulging reminder that this is a public place and proper public behaviour is called for.' With this he sat down in the seat in front of us and began to adjust his tie and cuffs. 'But later we will all fuck,' said Gwendolen, quietly. We began to make small talk as the top deck filled up. George asked where we were going. I explained about the Private Viewing of my cousin Algernon's paintings. George, who had been going to visit his tailor somewhere off St James', decided that instead he would accompany us if that was acceptable to the two of us. We of course quickly agreed and apart from the promising warmth of Gwendolen's body as we sat squeezed together in our seat, the rest of the journey passed without incident.

The gallery was but a short walk from the omnibus route, in one of that maze of little streets behind Bond Street. En route I referred glancingly to the fact that George was dressed as though on the way to a funeral. In fact it turned out that he was on the way back from a short memorial service. 'Someone close to you?' I asked. 'A family friend,' he answered. 'She had been my great aunt's companion for some years. A paragon of Good Works, always prattling on about the Deserving Poor and Visiting the Sick. Most days she went out with a servant and a bowl of nourishing soup-a rather thin and watery brew.

Personally I can think of nothing worse when ill than being forcibly visited by Miss Windermere and having a quantity of undrinkable soup thrust upon me. I believe that many in the parish felt that way. But whenever anyone who came within her definition of Deserving took to their bed, you can be sure that within hours there would be a loud knock on the door and in would traipse Miss Windermere, a bunch of religious tracts in her hand and the servant struggling behind with the gruel. There was no avoiding your fate. Miss Windermere had the most remarkable Intelligence system. The first whisper of sickness and she would swing into action. She was without doubt the most feared woman for miles around.' 'How did she die?' I asked. 'Blown up,'

George answered. 'Blown up?' I exclaimed. 'Surely an unusual fate for a spinster of advanced years.' 'The outrage was quite accidental. It seems that the latest of her bed-bound victims was an elderly lady who had worked as a governess in St Petersburg many years ago and still had friends in Russia. It was the nephew of one of these friends who was inadvertently responsible for Miss Windermere's demise. An anarchist student from Minsk, he had entered this country in order to effect the assassination of some visiting Russian General who was also a relative of the Tsar. Whilst staying with the former governess, he had been engaged in the construction of two bombs which he intended to lob at the General while he was riding in the Park. The explosives were cunningly hidden in the chamber pot that was under the governess's bed. When Miss Windermere was standing over her, asking after her spiritual welfare, she knocked over a candle that was beside the bed-the room being darkened in order to sooth the governess's headache. The candle, in falling, set fire to a rug by the bed. In a trice this had in turn ignited the fuse and the chamber pot exploded. Miss Windermere was cut down by a hail of china splinters. The governess however was luckier. Her bed took the main force of the explosion and collapsed on the burning remnants, largely extinguishing them. The governess, a woman of initiative and good in an emergency, quickly put out the still smoldering rug by peeing on it. She was unscathed and the servant only slightly hurt, chiefly by the scalding hot soup which was flung all over her, but Miss Windermere was already beyond the help of all but the clergy.'

'What happened to the anarchist?' I asked. 'He fled to London and I understand that Scotland Yard are searching for him all over the East End.' 'Why the East End?' I queried. 'That is where all good anarchists gather. They sit in cafes and discuss politics in loud and quarrelsome voices. The police know that, so that is where they will be looking for him.' 'So if he is a wise anarchist, he will be staying in a completely different part of London?' 'If he has any sense, yes,' he answered. 'And the memorial service?' 'A very tedious affair. After a lifetime of Good Works it was inevitable that her passing would be attended by representatives of every Charity, Mission to the Heathen and Society for Promoting This and That in the country. Pew upon pew of worthy citizens, pious expressions and a long sermon in which the Canon expressed his belief that Miss Windermere is already busy in Heaven, no doubt pursuing off-colour Angels, Saints and Martyrs with bowls of soup. I think we can expect a mass emigration from Heaven in the near future.' 'Goodness,' I said. 'What a sad tale. I do hope the anarchist is not lurking somewhere in the vicinity.' 'I did see a most furtive little man, wearing a long-black cloak on the omnibus,' interposed Gwendolen at this juncture. 'He was carrying a large Gladstone bag.' 'Did you see where he alighted?' asked George.

'Oh dear! I do believe that it was at the same place that we disembarked,' said Gwendolen. 'He must be following us.' 'Unless any of us has connections with the Russian Royal Family we are unlikely to be the target of his dark plot,' said George. 'I did once have a night of passion with a Hungarian Count,' volunteered Gwendolen. 'Well, two.' 'Two nights or two Hungarian Counts,' I asked. 'Two Hungarians,' said Gwendolen. 'The Count and his Countess.' 'How advanced of you,' I said. 'And how exciting.'

'It was more strange than exciting,' replied Gwendolen. 'The Count occupied his time almost entirely by sniffing my more intimate garments and wrapping them round his body. While he then spent himself rolling around on the floor, the Countess-who had commenced by disrobing me with great care-then proceeded to chastise me with her stick, before engaging me in a positive orgy of Sapphic delights.'

'Gracious me,' I responded. 'Cecily, I learned that night that there is much that an older woman can teach a young and innocent girl.' 'Innocent. Oh Gwendolen! that is not an epithet with which I would reproach you. I, of all people know the very day oh which you lost your Innocence.' 'You debauched me,' said Gwendolen.

'That is not a pretty word,' I replied crossly. 'Yours were the first hands that were ever laid on my virginal body. But, dear Cecily, I am only teasing. It was the most delicious initiation into the mysteries of love. To this day I can remember the delicate play of your fingers on my pussey. You were most gentle-and most thorough.'

At this turn of the conversation, I once more felt a familiar warmth spreading through my body. I snuggled up against Gwendolen as we walked and then reached out to draw George into our comfortable companionship. 'Is it true what Gwendolen says about your titties?' he asked, his arm linked in mine. 'Modesty forbids me to sing my own praises,' I replied. 'But they are I consider two of my finest features.' 'I look forward to feasting my eyes on them,' he continued. 'Cecily will be better pleased if you feast more than your eyes on them,' said Gwendolen. 'I have always found that Cecily most appreciates some nibbling. Not to mention a sharp nip or two when she is well advanced in her enjoyment.' 'Please stop it,' I implored them. 'Such talk is causing me positively to swell with anticipation. My nipples are rubbing most painfully against my bodice.' 'I also am swelling with anticipation,' answered George.

'We must put off all such thoughts and deeds for the near future.

Where is the gallery?' 'Just around the next corner,' I said. 'I hope this will not be too stuffy an occasion. But you should enjoy my cousin's paintings. They are held in some quarters to be rather advanced.' With that, we arrived and when he had handed over our coats and Gwendolen's tartan travelling rug, we passed into an already crowded salon. But here I must explain a little about my Cousin Algernon. Cousin Algernon had the unusual claim to fame of having been found as a baby in a handbag in the Left Luggage Office on Brighton Station. After such a Bohemian start to life, it was I suppose inevitable that he became an artist when he grew up. Of course like all proper artists, he led a properly scandalous life, chiefly with his model Babette, a voluptuous creature who came originally from Northamptonshire and who cooked well. Actually the fact that she came from Northamptonshire-Kettering to be precise-was not generally known. Nor was the fact that her real name was Edith. Instead like all proper artists models, it was understood that she was a Parisienne and had been either a seamstress or a midinette before a struggling and penniless artist had discovered her and transferred her to his atelier to grace both canvas and bed.

Babette was, as I have suggested, a big woman. In fact she was huge.

Cousin Algernon, himself a big man and an altogether larger-than-life character with a commendable appetite for all the good things in life, delighted in painting Babette. Most frequently he depicted her in Classic guise. Babette, wearing little except some carefully placed, vaguely Grecian draperies or wisps of white muslin, displayed herself in a variety of mythic poses. Here she was taking part in the Bath of Psyche. Here she was Diana Surprised by Actaeon. Most frequently she was a nymph or some such, being ravished by Zeus, or on occasion by what seemed like the entire Pantheon of Greek Gods, in any number of disguises: a Swan, a Bull, a Stallion-and in one memorable instance what appeared to be a Parrot, although Cousin Algernon insisted that it was an Eagle. He did later also admit that it was one of his less successful works. Babette was also the central figure in a completely different series of paintings. Working in what he described as his French Interior Realist mode, Cousin Algernon showed her, this time without any trace of clothing whatsoever, as a washerwoman or scrubbing floors, laying a fire or at some other domestic task.

Whether it is the habit of French servants to perform their duties stark naked I do not know, but the paintings clearly made a considerable impression in London. In truth these vigorous oils of big Babette, for instance, leaning over a tub full of suds, her huge forearms and magnificent bosom highlighted by the painter's art, were not unpleasing, if occasionally verging on the laughable. The views of Babette scrubbing were for the most part seen from behind. The great spheres of her buttocks rose like a double moon to fill the scene.

Every roll of fat was lovingly rendered and she seemed to glow with what I gather is called 'rude health.' His latest masterpiece, Babette at the Mangle had quite a crowd of admirers around it. Cousin Algernon had managed to give the impression of a woman panting and-heaving with her exertions, her breasts swaying and shaking as she turned the mangle while her skin glowed and there was the sheen of perspiration on her body. I noticed that the preponderance of the people at the viewing were men, and men of a middle aged and generally prosperous men. I was told by an elderly man, who claimed some knowledge of things artistic, that Cousin Algernon had successfully created a small fashion among the cognoscenti for such scenes of domestic undress. A number of fellow artists, all living and working nearby in north London, had followed his lead. Known in the art world as the Crouch End School, they had a growing and enthusiastic band of collectors quite clamouring of their works. Of course, my informant confided in me, many of the academic critics poured scorn on the Crouch End School. Mr. Ruskin had described Cousin Algernon's work as 'A battery of buttocks, thrust into the Public's face' while the Academy steadfastly refused to hang his pictures. Nonetheless, as someone who dabbled in dealing, he could vouch for the fact that a surprising number of the more flamboyant Views of Babette, as he called them, could be seen discreetly displayed in many of the most reputable gentlemen's clubs. 'Indeed,' said my aesthetic informant, 'if one could but see through the grey facades of Pall Mall, I fancy we would be regaled with the mouth-watering sight of Babette's mountainous buttocks flaunted cheek to cheek, so to say, along almost the full length of the street.* Be that as it may, many of the privileged viewers at the gallery, as they gazed intently at every detail of Babette's anatomy, were showing those powers of concentration and stamina, that must have accounted for their undoubted success in business and public affairs. I noticed also that for many there was an improving moral lesson to be gained from a close perusal of the paintings. 'Ah! The dignity of Honest Toil!' announced one gentleman as he raised his pince-nez to his eyes, the better to scrutinise the spread of Honest Toil's thighs.

'Application and Dedication in all Endeavours, Domestic as well as Professional', agreed another. 'An Example to the Labouring Classes,' said a third, who later confided in me that an earlier work by Cousin Algernon hung in his study. 'Babette Preparing Vegetables, it is called. So exemplary do I consider his work that on occasion I call in my housekeeper or cook after dinner so that they also can gaze upon it in my company and reflect on its moral worth.' One senior clerical gentleman, suffering what I was later given to understand was hay fever, had to be led away, his eyes watering and his chest heaving after standing as if transfixed in front of The Rape of the Sabine Women in which Babette appeared in no less than twenty seven poses.

'Such flesh tones,' he had started muttering, 'And such flesh!

And so much of it!' Then, as he began to stammer and had to reach out for some support, I, recognising him as a Man of the Cloth-he was in fact the Rural Dean of N-d-assumed that he was in the throes of some transcendental experience. Gwendolen, who has a sharp eye for such things, claimed rather that he had become dangerously over-excited by the proximity of no less than twenty seven naked Babettes on one canvas and that he had in fact come in his trousers. 'Look on my Mighty Works and Despair,' proclaimed a tall, cadaverous man as he traced out the outline of Babette's great pendulous breasts with his walking stick. 'How bounteous is Nature. See where the twin globes of her bosom seem to loom like planets in the celestial firmament of her flesh. Truly a sight to make one humble before one's Creator. All things,' he went on, 'Wide and Wonderful, all Creatures great and tall…' I was afterwards informed that the tall gentleman was a hymn writer of some distinction and regularly attended such showings as this. He claimed to be able to detect the Hand of the Lord in the most unlikely places. After a while most of the people began to drift off and quite soon, apart from the three of us, there was only a small knot of some half a dozen or so gentlemen. Cousin Algernon suggested that we all withdraw to a smaller room that opened off one end of the gallery. He then came over to have a word with us, announcing that Babette herself was about to make an appearance.

'In the flesh?' I asked. 'Not immediately,' he answered, with a quick smile. 'But if you would like to stay on with your friends, lam sure you could be accommodated.' 'Some entertainment is afoot?' asked Gwendolen. 'In a matter of speaking,' he answered. 'Several of the gentlemen gathered here belong to a private club. They dabble in oils in a strictly amateur way. Since they are also collectors and valuable customers, I have arranged that they be given the opportunity to sketch Babette from Life.' 'What an enticing idea,' said Gwendolen. 'But will we not be something of an embarrassment?' 'I suggest that you all act as my assistants. You can help with the arrangement of certain properties, take Babette's robe from her when the moment comes to reveal all. That sort of thing.' 'This sounds great fun,' said Gwendolen. 'But I promise we will behave ourselves and do nothing to prejudice your commercial interests.' We were ushered through to the smaller room. Various items of a domestic nature were heaped in one corner. They included scrubbing brushes, a mop, a portable washtub, a couple of flat irons and a neatly folded pile of linen. It was obvious that Babette would be able to display herself in any number of household chores.

'What's that?' asked George, indicating a stout wooden pole with a cross piece at one end and a round piece at the other with five short legs. 'A poss stick,' said Cousin Algernon. 'It is used to stir up the washing in a tub when it is soaking in the hot water.'

'I am afraid that George, like so many men, has never paid proper attention to the domestic duties that have to be performed in any household,' said Gwendolen. 'I used to venture into the servants area at home when I was much younger,' said George, 'But I was firmly excluded after my mother found me helping one of the maids to adjust her clothing. There was also the small matter that she was holding my youthful prick in her hands and licking the tip in a most attentive fashion.' 'I assume from that that you have led an active life,' said Cousin Algernon. 'A man after my own heart. But for the present, could you give me a hand in setting out a nice derangement of objects.

Our amateur painters can then make the decision as to which pose they would wish Babette to adopt.' At this moment Babette herself swept into the room. Truly a magnificent creature, she was wearing a regal purple robe which entirely swathed the bountiful promise of her body but yet which hinted at the well-fleshed splendours it concealed.

We were quickly introduced and she embraced us all warmly but briefly.

'Cecily, I have heard all about you from Algernon,' she said. 'Do either of your friends have any knowledge of the world of the artist?'

'I have a distant cousin who is employed as a designer of pottery at Messrs Doulton's establishment,' said Gwendolen. 'But she does not have to appear in a state of undress?' asked Babette. 'Not at her place of work,' answered Gwendolen, 'Although on more private occasions she is frequently quite eager to reveal herself in a state of nature.' 'Perhaps I might be introduced to this cousin,' I interjected. 'She has the sound of a person of sympathetic disposition.' 'You will have much in common,' said Gwendolen.

'Fucking and being fucked is her chief delight. What a quartet we will make.' 'Quartet?' I queried. 'She has a sister of similar tastes. Their mother is also a woman with refreshingly unconventional ideas. They now also have staying with them Rosalind Murphy. You may remember her. She was a year behind us at school.' 'Rosie!' I exclaimed. 'Rosie with the rosy bottom. What fun it will be to meet her again.' 'Enough of this chatter,' said Cousin Algernon. 'Our would-be painters will be making their entry shortly.' With this we fell to sorting out the pile of domestic articles. George and Cousin Algernon pulled the mangle into place and a woman appeared with pails of warm water with which the washtub was filled. In a trice the stage had been set for Babette's performance. Our amateur artists were led in. For a moment they fell silent in awe and anticipation at the sight of Babette. She, as yet fully clothed, moved among them, exchanging greetings as they were introduced. Ranging from the middle-aged to the elderly, one and all appeared to be respectable and sober representatives of the professional and upper commercial classes. Two, I vaguely recognised as men of some importance in Public Affairs. Two others were of military bearing and a third, of Gallic appearance, had the ribbon of the Legion d'Honneur in his lapel.

'Gentlemen, I am honoured to welcome you to our Private Master Class in painting from Life,' said Cousin Algernon. Let us now prepare ourselves.' Easels, paints, palettes and canvases were produced. There was a intent bustle of activity. Babette advanced on them with an armful of smocks. 'To avoid any splashes,' she said. 'Painting is an enjoyable but messy exercise.' She passed among them, removing coats, slipping the smocks over them, buttoning them or tieing them briskly at the back. Many of the gentlemen were clearly quite excited at the touch of her hands. One who in turn attempted to place his hand on her splendid rump, had it firmly removed but all was done with a half-smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye so that not only was no offence caused, but a teasing air of promise caused the gentleman to become somewhat purple with pleasure anticipated. 'Gentlemen,' said Cousin Algernon, 'Madame Babette will now take up the first pose of the evening. However, the choice is yours. Would you have her at the tub, at the mangle, or possibly on all fours in her imposing imitation of a servant engaged in scrubbing?' A veritable babble of competing voices was raised. 'The mangle,' cried one.

'No, no, for myself, I would prefer to see her leaning over the wash,' said another. Two others were adamant that they could only do justice to their subject if she was crouched down. Yet one was all for her presenting her bottom to the class whilst the other, somewhat confused about domestic positions, I considered, wished to see her on her back. 'As though she has had a slight mishap on a slippery floor,' he explained somewhat unconvincingly. Cousin Algernon let the argument rage for some minutes until it quickly became apparent that no one faction was in the ascendancy. 'Gentlemen,' he said, raising his voice to cut through the uproar. 'Since I can see that agreement is not be to easily reached, I have an alternative idea.'

With that he clicked his fingers and a small but sturdy kitchen table was conjured up, along with a rolling pin and a large quantity of dough. 'May I present Madame Babette Kneading Dough!' With the flourish of an experienced actress, Babette marched across to the table and in one flamboyant motion, shed her purple gown. A gasp of admiration rose up from the assembled gentlemen artists, for underneath she was utterly and hugely naked. With an exquisite sense of timing, she leant over the table and seized the soft, pliant mound of dough. As she forced her hands into it, squeezing it back and forth, then shaping it and thumping it flat again, her breasts swung between her arms, her belly rubbed against the table and her tremendous buttocks jiggled up and down with the effort of her labours. Her audience stared at her open mouthed, hardly moving, so transfixed were they by this vast vision of nakedness. From the back of the assembly there came a stifled groan. Several were visibly shaking with suppressed artistic inspiration. Then first one and then a second, pulling themselves together, took up their brushes and squeezed paint on to their palettes. Next there was a scraping of easels and stools as a number of them began to move into their preferred positions. I noticed that he who had been loudly in favour of the kneeling-seen-from-behind pose rapidly moved into the appropriate line-of-sight. I also noticed that he stationed himself within no more than an arms length of the twin subjects of his delight as they rose and fell in their majestic rhythm. 'Alas, I grow increasingly short-sighted,' he said hurriedly in order to justify his close proximity to Babette's bottom! 'A more convincing excuse if only he were wearing an eye glass or spectacles,' whispered Gwendolen, nudging me gently. The three of us were now standing quietly against the wall as this amazing tableau vivant unfolded itself before our fascinated eyes. Now the gentlemen fell to their painting with a quiet but splashy intensity. Brushes charged with full loads of paint were slapped and smeared on canvases. By the sweeping motions of their paint strokes I could understand that the great curves of Babette's body were being energetically, if none too skilfully, transferred to canvas. Cousin Algernon, in his role of teacher, moved from one to another, advising and encouraging. Here he deftly showed one how to mix a convincing flesh tone. There he demonstrated how to achieve the fullness of texture demanded by the subject. Meanwhile Babette plunged and swung and thrust and kneaded. At one point the self-declared short-sighted gentleman crouched down on the floor peering intently up between her massive thighs. 'So difficult to catch the play of light and shade low down,' he muttered, with even less conviction this time. 'Ah, yes, a close scrutiny of his subject is a sign of a true artist,' replied Cousin Algernon. 'But you would not wish to impede the view of your fellow artists I believe.'

A little reluctantly, the myopic enthusiast withdrew, understanding that a polite reprimand had been given. Then Babette paused in her labours. 'Please, gentleman. A moment's rest for Madame Babette,' said Cousin Algernon. A subdued ripple of disappointment ran round the room but this was instantly replaced by a collective sigh of pleasure as Babette stood upright and then slowly stretched herself. All eyes were on her as she displayed the full splendour of her body. Paint dribbled unattended from wavering brushes. Several of the gentlemen sat down with shudders of emotion, some almost bent double as if in pain. Trousers were hastily adjusted and first one and then another hurriedly left the room in order to answer an urgent call of nature. Babette turned to our direction, her lush pussey hair standing out proudly against her flesh, and winked very slightly at us. I smiled back but swiftly resumed my most demure countenance. George stepped forward and handed her her robe which she put on with an easy but most provoking twitch of her shoulders. 'A short break for refreshment before we resume our artistic endeavours?' suggested Cousin Algernon as a decanter and glasses made their appearance. After ten minutes or so, Cousin Algernon called upon his class to resume their places. 'Another three quarters of a hour will be enough,' he said to us quietly. 'I find that my more mature students can only stand a couple of hours.

Such is the intensity of the artistic experience that for the most part they will be quite drained and more than ready to adjourn quietly to their clubs or their homes.' So the second half of the art lesson passed. Babette, clearly a woman of considerable stamina, ploughed her swaying, quivering way through a second mountain of dough. As she sprinkled flour on hands and board to prevent the mixture sticking, smears of flour and dough transferred themselves to her face, her forearms and even to the Himalayan mounds of her bosom.

As first a lump of dough clung from one dark plum-like nipple and then as a sifting of flour settled on her luxuriant bush, so the brush work of the amateur artists became more and more wild and erratic. As though in sympathetic response, flecks and gobbets of pigment landed on smocks and faces. Whilst some were working themselves up to a positive frenzy of strokes and dabs, so others began to grow slack and exhausted. Eyes began to glaze over and brushes wilted in trembling hands. Soon several members were standing open-mouthed, sucking air into their labouring lungs like athletes at the end of a long foot race. Babette herself began to move slower and slower, though still driving and pummeling the dough. Beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead and trickled down her heaving flanks. As she breathed ever more deeply her chest expanded and contracted and her enormous breasts undulated, rising and falling in a surging tide of flesh. Her well-planted legs flexed and trembled while her short-sighted posterior attendant, knees buckling, lowered himself on to his stool and sat there gasping for air like a landed trout. 'Time, gentlemen, please,' said Cousin Algernon. 'I feel we have accomplished enough for one evening.' There was a half-hearted groan of disappointment but fatigue had indeed caught up with the best part of them. 'I hope though that you will all come again,' he continued.

'I suggest we reconvene in two weeks time at the same hour. I propose to join you in attempting to do justice to Babette Kneading Dough. If I am satisfied with my own work, I might, when it is completed, put it up for auction, restricting the bidding to those here present.'

This scheme was enthusiastically welcomed. The class began to filter out to the cloakroom in order to wash and generally make themselves presentable enough to face the outside world. Babette clutched her robe round her once more. She favoured the assembly with a sympathetic but slightly roguish smile as she stalked out to her dressing room. A few last lingering glances were directed at the generous hemispheres of her buttocks as they disappeared, like a double eclipse, behind the enveloping draperies of the curtain. Then the amateurs de la peinture bid their goodbyes and ambled out into the early evening air. 'You must all stay while everything is tidied away,' said Cousin Algernon. 'Babette will be rejoining us in a few minutes, as soon as she is refreshed and clothed once more. I have a couple of bottles of claret and some whisky also. We must all take a little wine in order to celebrate what I believe to have been a highly successful event.' We fell to drinking and light conversation.

Presently Babette reappeared. A glass or two restored her to full vigour and animation. We plied her with questions about the rigours of life as an artist's model. 'It can indeed be tiring at times,' she said. 'But that is generally the way with work, is it not? Yet I find that there is great satisfaction to be gained from it so long of course as one does not mind appearing unclothed before members of the opposite sex. For my part, I must confess that I have always had a certain yearning to appear upon the stage, in the theatrical limelight.' 'Do not artist's models usually pose motionless,' I asked. 'I know that, clothed or unclothed, I should find it impossible to keep still in one position for more than a moment or two. Would one not suffer terribly from aches and cramps?' 'Holding a pose for any length of time is indeed a demanding discipline,' she agreed. 'It is one that can be learned quite easily, but I confess that I do infinitely prefer your Cousin's moving presentations. If I am an actress manque, then Algernon is an actor-manager manque and an accomplished Master of Ceremonies as well.' 'I see that there are attractions to the job,' I answered thoughtfully. Babette looked at me with an appraising gleam in her eye. 'Do not take this amiss, Cecily, but I think that you may well have the makings of a model. I suspect that under that modest but quite charming dress there is concealed a fine display sufficient to hold the attention of the most discerning audience. Might I be allowed to…?' 'Oh, no!' I said, as natural modesty vied with a little tingle of excitement, 'No, I don't think I possibly could…' 'Madame Babette,' interrupted Gwendolen. 'Although it is two years since I saw Cecily, my memories of her are such that I can indeed confirm you in your beliefs. Cecily unclothed is a sight for the connoisseur's eye. Cecily, we are all friends here. I do implore you to allow us the pleasure of seeing your lovely titties. If Madame Babette will give you some instruction in the art of posing…?' 'Why, yes indeed,' she answered. 'I would be delighted to be confirmed in my belief that you have a most fetching figure.' 'Mouth-watering,' said Gwendolen. 'Oh Cecily, how excited I am. Two long years since I last feasted my eyes on your titties. You do not know how often I have dreamed of them and longed to nestle against them once more.' 'Dear, sweet Gwendolen,' I said. 'What a wonderful speech. How can I possibly refuse you.'

'I should perhaps withdraw from the room,' said George, 'I would not like to intrude upon such an intimate scene.' 'I also,' said Cousin Algernon, although with a marked hesitation. 'No,' said Gwendolen. 'Cecily, it would be too cruel to deny them a first sight of your bountiful charms.' She turned to them. 'All Cecily's body is a sight for sore eyes. She has the nicest, best-shaped bottom that I have ever clapped hands on. Her waist is adorable and I swear her pussey is the warmest, most welcoming pussey in the whole wide world.'

'Gwendolen,' I said, 'You go too far.' 'Oh! don't be cross,' she answered. 'I am so looking forward to an unveiling.* 'Well, I said, a little shocked and confused with the daring of such a plan but beginning to tremble with the excitement of it all. 'You will have to help me.' Gwendolen eagerly hugged me. She buried her face in the nape of my neck and then before I had time to protest any further, I felt her fingers dextrously begin their work at the buttons of my dress. There came the sudden breath of cool air upon my now exposed back. I crossed my arms protectively over my bosom with a quick pang of shyness. Light hands played for an instant along my bare flesh and then my dress was pushed forward over my shoulders. As I stood there, huddled and uncertain, Babette strode across to me, lifted my chin and looked me straight in the face. 'Not like that, Cecily,' she said. 'Keep your head up. You should be proud, not shamefaced. You are about to present your audience with a show for which they should be privileged and grateful.' Emboldened, I did as she said. I straightened my back and stretched out my arms. George and Cousin Algernon unbuttoned my cuffs and Gwendolen pushed my dress and chemise off my shoulders so that it descended and gathered in a rustle of silk at my waist. I turned and presented my bared breasts to Gwendolen for her approval. Then, hands on hips, I deliberately twisted slowly round to the rest of my audience. 'Cecily,' said Gwendolen. 'How lovely they are. Surely they are even larger and more delectable than I had remembered. You have grown a little since I last saw you.' 'Such succulent fruit,' said Cousin Algernon with an expansive gesture. 'Oh that a man might suck sweet nectar from those ripe nipples.' I recalled that Cousin Algernon had always tended to the florid in his manner of speech. George meanwhile was quite tongue tied. Babette, her hands on mine, held me at arm's length and gazed with professional approval at me. 'You are a delight, my dear,' she said.

'Such beauties belong to the world,' Cousin Algernon went on.

'You are Aphrodite and Bathsheba and Lakshmi, all rolled into one.'

Lakshmi,' said Gwendolen, 'is surely the Indian goddess with eight breasts. I think you are getting a little carried away.'

'Now turn round again. Slowly, slowly,' said Babette. 'Remember you are on stage.' Quite overcome by the attention, all shyness was forgotten as I felt my nipples begin to stiffen and my breasts to swell with excitement. Arching my back, my hands clasped behind my neck, I held myself out to my enthralled audience. Then a sudden thought came into my mind. What if Miss Bradshaw were to see me now.

Would she not fall in a swoon to the ground? I burst out laughing and, cupping my breasts in my hands, advanced on Gwendolen. 'If I am still pleasing to you, pray show me with your soft mouth that you are as loving and eager for me as I am for you.' I smiled, the picture of a shocked Miss Bradshaw beside herself at such unladylike behaviour looming large in my mind's eye. Gwendolen, as though she could read my thoughts, smiled back. 'Schooldays,' I said.

'Schooldays,' she replied. Forgetting my other admirers, I enfolded her in a warm embrace. As she responded, I kissed her.

Gwendolen kissed me in return. Our tongues touched and probed. A familiar glow of expectation warmed me and my titties seemed to throb with anticipation. Each nipple rose, engorged and hungry for love. A little mew of pleasure escaped my lips. Breathing more heavily, I pressed her to my half-naked body and whispered to her.

'Gwendolen, I am becoming very damp in another place.' Then as her hands slyly cupped my breasts, I bit her ear, trying to stifle the gasp of sheer pleasure that welled up inside me. Gwendolen, with her well-remembered skills with tongue and hands was rapidly bringing me to a first climax of ecstasy. I know that my whole body was flushed and my breasts aching with the need for relief. Gwendolen was now becoming quite rough in her fondling and massaging. My hands on hers, I pressed them hard against me, spreading out her fingers so that they encompassed the twin orbs of my breasts. She squeezed and stroked and then suddenly pinched each erect peak. She steadily increased the pressure until I cried out. Pain and pleasure mingled.

My heart was beating as though it would burst. All at once I was aware of a sudden wetness between my legs and I closed my eyes, lost and drowning in the flood of sensual delight that swept over me. As I clung to her, she disengaged herself and moved her hands down to my waist. She eased me round to face and display myself to my audience.

'Cecily,' she said, 'Truly you are God's gift to all those lucky enough to behold you.' The others were enraptured. Cousin Algernon and George were both standing, open mouthed. Great bulges betrayed their manhoods, each thrustingly erect and eager to be released from its bondage. Babette was smiling her approval.

'This is such pleasure,' said Cousin Algernon, 'What can we possibly do to repay you for this lovely display?' 'I think I'd like…,' I replied faintly, 'I want… I want very much to be fucked.

Now! Fuck me now, please.' My legs felt suddenly weak and I half leaned against Gwendolen. She held me tenderly and led me over to a table. Realising what was to come, I eased myself up and on to it, lying back and raising my knees so that my cunney was opened out before my audience. Gwendolen came round to my front and eased her hands under the cheeks of my bum as I raised it towards her sweet face. She buried herself in my bush before sliding out her tongue and finding my clit. Licking and sucking delicately at it, she brought me in an instant to the very verge of coming. Then she withdrew her lips and tongue and ran one finger down the length of my cunt lips.

'See, the parting of the ways,' she said. As I groaned, she looked round the room. 'George, Algernon, which one will be the first to volunteer to fill this aching need?' Fumbling and overcome by the urgency of the summons, they responded. First Cousin Agernon's and then George's prick sprang out into full view. Each was rigid with the desire to thrust its way forward into the dark depths of my cavern.

Yet courtesy was not forgotten. 'George, it is for you to make the first entrance,' said Cousin Algernon. 'No, I am an outsider here,' replied George gallantly. 'Surely you would wish to keep it within the family.' 'I insist,' answered Cousin Algernon.

'Besides, I know that dear Babette will take me in hand if needs be.'

Without waiting for further urging, George stepped forward.

'Cecily,' he said, 'I am at your service.' 'Fuck me!' I panted in reply. 'Fuck me! No more talking.' Then, as I watched, he placed the tip of his immense prick at the gateway of my desire. At the first pressure of that swollen, empurpled head, I opened wide and reached forward to cradle his balls in my hands. I held them for an instant, feeling their heavy weight and sensing the spunk that was already beginning to force its way up his prick. Impatiently I pulled him straight into me so that the entire length of him slid its way up and up to the very hilt. I gripped him fast and then released him.

Needing no further urging, he commenced to thrust backwards and forwards, up and down the gaping depths of my cunt. A fever of excitement ran through my body and I became senseless with the joy of fucking. Vaguely I was aware that I was crying out, quite abandoned to my longed-for fate. Steadily the tempo of our coupling increased. We thrust against each other, all our strengths concentrated in the intensity of our fucking. Hunger fed upon hunger in mounting need.

Suddenly I felt the first long drawn-out shudder of my coming sweep over me. At the same moment he cried out and the first surge of his spunk shot out of his prick, jetting into the innermost recesses of my cunt. His cream flooded into me, mingling with the love juice that flowed in me, soaking the already moist forest of my fanny.

Gripping him with my thighs, I forced him still deeper into me.

'More! More!' I heard myself cry out, desperate to prolong the moment of our fulfillment. Gamely he drove on. I swear that never had such copious quantities of cum deluged me, overflowing and running down into the crevice of my bum so that I began to slip and slide in a veritable pool of our juices. All good things must come to an end, as my governess had often said to me, and George's Thing had indeed come to my end-and his. One last spasm wracked our bodies and I was borne down by the full weight of his body, as he fell exhausted on me. I felt his distended prick relax inside me and we clung together, panting with our exertions. We lay still for a little while and then I pushed him from me in order to bend forward and lick the last milky drops of his cum from the tip of his now-softening prick. I ran my hands over his balls and rubbed them in the stickiness of his manly forest. I held him lightly by the wrists and drew his hands down to my wet cunney. He rubbed and fondled me until I raised his fingers to my lips. Sucking and swallowing, I licked him clean. Taking his cue, he similarly first kissed and then sucked my fingers. Then, as I smiled up at him, he was pushed to one side and Gwendolen was crouching between my opened thighs, nuzzling and lapping at my wetness. 'Darling Gwendolen,' I murmured weakly, 'What a wonderful bonne bouche after such a feast of fucking.'

Contentment and a delicious fatigue suffused my body. 'Like a cat that has stolen the cream,' I heard Cousin Algernon say.

'Not stolen, but offered,' said Babette, with a little laugh.

'Oh dear!' I said, remembering where I was. 'You must all think me very forward.' 'Backward and forward!' said Cousin Algernon.

'Backward and forward. A most energetic and enthralling display. What a subject to be immortalised on canvas.' 'Certainly not,' I said, sitting up in alarm and pulling my dress down over my knees. 'If you dare…' 'Only my little joke,' said Cousin Algernon. 'I have long reached the years of discretion.' 'The very idea!'

Smoothing my skirt I stood up, glaring haughtily at him and then realising that my stance was less than impressive, since I was still naked to the waist. Angrily I reached down to drag my dress up over my bosom. Gwendolen came forward, hugged me and calmed me. Next she deftly covered my embarrassment, slipping my arms back into my sleeves and buttoning me up at the back. For a quick instant she reached inside my dress to fondle and caress my titties before they were finally hidden from view. We kissed gently and she pushed a stray lock of my hair back into place. 'There, there,' she said. 'Cousin Algernon was only teasing. You must remember that he has just had a very teasing time himself.' As Babette solicitously linked her arm in Cousin Algernon's and whispered something in his ear, Gwendolen released me and went across to poor George who was standing there looking somewhat crestfallen, unmindful of the fact that his trousers were still lying in a crumpled heap on the floor. 'George,' she said, 'You have played your part manfully. Now we must all get dressed and ready to go home but I do hope that you will in turn entertain me with that same part in the very near future.' As she helped him into his trousers, tucking his now pliable prick back inside and making all secure, she kissed him also with friendly affection. He brightened up, glad that the little spat had passed. 'Thank you, Miss Cecily,' he said gravely. 'That was the most magnificent fuck that I have enjoyed in a very long time.' 'Next time, I hope that we can enjoy it for an even longer time,' I said with a quick smile so that he could see that I was no longer annoyed. 'I was quite beside myself with the need to fuck.' 'So endeth the art lesson,' Cousin Algernon. 'We must finish the decanter.' So saying he poured out the last of the claret. 'A toast,' he said as we raised our glasses, 'To the Muse of Painting.' 'And of Fucking,' said Gwendolen.

'I don't believe there is one,' said Cousin Algernon.'

'Gwendolen's grasp of the Classics is not so secure as her grasp of anatomy,' I replied. 'Never mind. Let us drink to the missing Muse,' said George. 'To practical matters,' I said. 'I am in need of a bath and a change of clothes. George, would you escort me home in a cab. I had not intended my exposure to the world of the artist to be so prolonged or so complete. I have to dine with my Great Aunt Tabitha tonight where we will doubtless talk, of her scheme to establish a Home for Aged Horses.' Hurriedly I made arrangements to call on Gwendolen the following afternoon. Babette bade us Goodbye. 'I had not intended your first lesson in posing to be so active,' she said, 'but you are, cordially welcome to return, possibly to Algernon's studio, in the near future, when we might continue your course of instruction. Gwendolen, I hope that you will accompany your friend, and George also.' 'I believe that I am developing a taste for such things,' I responded. We kissed all round and George and I went out into the evening.