The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 1

PART I. Jolly Good Pals

Wednesday, November 7th, 1895

'My dear Henry, memory is the diary we all carry with us,' advised my favourite uncle, Sir Robert Bacon, when he presented me with this large day-by-day diary today – my sixteenth birthday.

'But it can often play strange tricks,' he went on, 'and if in later years you would like to remember with complete accuracy the important happenings in your life, the only way to do so is to write down your recollections of these events as soon as possible after they have occurred. 'Yes, Uncle, and it would also be useful to be able to take photographs to complement one's recollections,' I said, hoping that this might trigger the thought to buy me a camera for Christmas.

Unfortunately, Uncle Robert saw through this shameless ploy immediately and grunted: 'H'rmph, well I cannot deny that photography is a fine hobby for any boy, and indeed, you may assume that if I were presented with the proof that you have kept a full and frank account of important incidents in your life from today onwards until I see you on Christmas Eve at Lower Tarlowe (my parents have invited Aunt Lucinda and my uncle to stay over the holidays) you will be far from disappointed with the gift you will receive from me to celebrate the festive season.' 'You may take this as a promise,' I replied.

Uncle Robert is a decent old stick who can always be relied on to slip a florin in my jacket pocket whenever he visits me, either at home or here at my school, the Albion Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk. Visits by relatives are normally frowned upon by Dr Muttley, our headmaster, but my birthday has fortunately chanced to coincide with a half holiday, so Uncle was allowed to take afternoon tea with me in the refectory. So, here begins this chronicle of my schooldays and whilst I am composing this narrative, it strikes me that in future years it is quite possible that this record might be seen by eyes other than my own. I should therefore sketch in some background details about myself and some of the other chaps in the Upper Fifth. False modesty is as foolish and vulgar as overweening pride, so the first entry in my diary will be about myself, Henry Edward Ludlow Dash wood. I am sixteen years old and, at just an inch under six feet, am considered tall for my age. I am reasonably proficient at most academic subjects and am right back and captain of the Academy Colts football team. However, I would be the first to admit that I am somewhat of a duffer on the cricket field, being an indifferent middle-order batsman, a below-average leg spin bowler and an inattentive fieldsman. I share my study with two good friends, Johnny Bridges, who celebrated his sixteenth birthday just two weeks before mine, and George Nugent-Bull who will reach the age of sixteen next Monday. Johnny is slightly shorter than me but has a stockier frame and more hair on his chest – and round his cock! Like myself, Johnny has dark brown hair and similarly coloured eyes, unlike George, the third inhabitant of our study, who has inherited his blond hair and light blue eyes from his Swedish mother. Some fellows think that George has girlish features and he was cruelly teased when he first arrived here. However, whilst he is by nature a mild-mannered sort, who in normal circumstances wouldn't hurt a fly, George's undoubted prowess with his fists soon sends bullies flying. Unlike some other pretty boys, he is very able to fight off the unwanted attentions of predatory prefects in the dormitory, who often try to share his bed after lights out. We're much of a muchness as far as our studies go, though it should be noted that Johnny came top in history in last summer's examinations. Both my friends are in the Colts football team, Johnny at centre forward and George at outside left. Funnily enough, both chaps are also pretty useless on the cricket field, though Johnny did knock up thirty-seven in the traditional match against the Masters who play a team drawn from the Lower Sixth and Upper Fifth during the first week of the Autumn Term.

One other factor the three of us have in common is that we are all still awaiting, with increased impatience, the chance to practise the lessons learned from our biology teacher, Mr. Hawkins. Also those acts gleaned in far more interesting and greater detail from the issues of The Oyster, which Desmond Harvill, one of the most daring members of our class, smuggles into school every month inside copies of Hobbies Magazine For Boys. There is no physical reason preventing us from crossing this Rubicon into manhood, for all our parts are in excellent working order, except the absence of pretty girls who would be willing to assist us. Indeed, I can boast the thickest prick out of the entire fifth form, but alas, so far, like the others, my only experience has been of solitary frigging or in a tossing-off circle in the showers after a game of footer.

Incidentally, I don't think anyone really takes any notice of the Reverend 'Holy Joe' Jellicoe's monthly sermons about the evils of self-abuse. If there were any truth in his assertion that the habit causes blindness and softening of the brain, all the boys at the Albion Academy would be wearing glasses and how did our senior sixth formers manage to win seven places at Oxford and three at Cambridge last summer? Holy Joe may frighten the new boys, but I am certain that the truth lies in the articles by Doctor Jonathan, the medical adviser in The Oyster, who writes that the habit is entirely harmless and is as perfectly natural as getting a stiffie when looking at French postcards. When Johnny and George came into the study after tea to begin their homework, they found me writing my name and address in the front of this book. I explained to them how I planned to keep at least half an hour free every evening to record the important events of the day in its pages. (I really want that camera.) George clapped me on the shoulder and wished me luck. 'Rather you than me, old boy,' he grinned, as he looked over my shoulder at the wide expanse of blue-lined paper which I have to fill with my daily essays. 'I shouldn't really try to put you off, but even after making New Year resolutions, most people start writing their diaries on the first day of January and give up by the end of the month!' 'Ah, but I have an incentive to continue at least for the next seven weeks,' I replied. 'It'll certainly be a bit of a fag, but Uncle Robert has promised me a decent camera for Christmas if he's satisfied that I've made an entry every day in this blessed book. He says it will prove to be a wonderful aide memoire when I'm older.'

'“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us,'“ observed Johnny as he fished out his French dictionary and exercise book from his desk. 'That's what Uncle Robert said to me,' I remarked.

Johnny chuckled and went on: 'The phrase is not original, Henry, your uncle and I both borrowed it from Oscar Wilde. I'm pretty sure the line comes from The Importance of Being Earnest but, as my Mama says, now that poor old Oscar has been sent down for two years, no-one in Society will want to be reminded how they once fawned upon his every word.' 'I think Uncle Robert would agree with your Mama,' I replied with a smile, thinking of the snatch of conversation between two of Uncle's housemaids, I overheard on my last visit to Bacon Lodge, my uncle's country seat down in South Devon. 'What makes you say that?' asked George. I recounted the little story to them about how I was sitting in a high-backed chair in the library when the two girls came in to dust the shelves. As I was sitting facing the window, neither of them saw me – which was just as well because I was reading a book I'd found after climbing the little step-ladder which is kept in the corner of the room for purposes of reaching the top shelf. I had picked out Uncle Robert's secret copy of An Introduction to Fucking In The Eastern Style by Mustapha Pharte which was hidden behind a set of bound copies of The Field. I sat quietly, listening to the girls who were giggling about how if the coast was clear, Uncle Robert would pinch their bottoms when they walked by him.

'Sir Robert's a randy old goat, isn't he? Do you know that the other day he offered Millicent ten shillings if she would let him see her titties,' said Doris. Elsie laughed and said: 'As much as that? Why, I know for a fact that he only gave a gold sovereign to Maria, that pretty, new scullerymaid, for tossing him off. I happened to be looking out of the window of my room, which is just above the kitchen garden, when I heard Sir Robert say: “It's a very warm day, my dear, feel free to undo the top buttons of your blouse. You will feel far more comfortable and I shall enjoy seeing the swell of your luscious young bosoms.” 'Maria said impudently: “Oh, is that all you want to see, Sir Robert? If you would like to make it worth my while, I'll undo all the buttons and you can look at my titties.” '“Of course I will, you splendid little filly,” he growled and I could see the outline of his todger sticking out in his trousers as Maria quickly stripped off her blouse and pulled her underslip over her shoulders to stand bare-breasted in front of him. Her bosoms aren't as large as mine but they jutted out naughtily enough as she tweaked her titties between her fingers. 'Maria sat down on the bench and Sir Robert sat down next to her and kissed her as he cupped her bosoms in his hands. Then he muttered something that I could not hear into her ear and now when they began canoodling again, the randy girl unbuttoned his trousers and pulled out his big, stiff cock. She grasped hold of his tool and began fondling it, sliding his foreskin back and forth in long, slow, pulling strokes. I began to feel a lovely tingle in my pussey as I watched her fist her hand up and down Sir Robert's thick prick whilst with her other hand, she caressed his hairy, pink ballsack. '“A-a-a-h! That's delicious, you saucy wench!” croaked Sir Robert, whose face was flushed with excitement.

“Now rub my cock a little faster because I'd better spend before anyone sees us.” So she obliged him by quickening the pace and, only a few seconds later, with a sudden spurt, a great jet of spunk shot out from his knob, all over his trousers. He pulled out a handkerchief and anxiously tried to clean off the sticky, wet stains but Maria told him not to fret and said: “Go upstairs and change, sir, then bring these trousers into the kitchen. These spermy stains will vanish after a good dab of Professor Fletcher's Elixir.” '“Just as well,” said Sir Robert with relief, but at this point I had to put my head back inside because Maria's remark made me choke with laughter. I use Professor Fletcher's Elixir for cleaning the grates whilst old Reynolds, the coachman, swears by it as a cure for constipation!”'

Laughing heartily, the girls left the library and my hand strayed down to my cock which was already as stiff as a poker, even before I had had a chance to look at Uncle's rude book. I didn't bother to look at the text but turned the pages to the photographs. There were some fine-coloured plates in the book but my favourite one was of a stark naked Indian girl, lying on a bed with her legs spread wide apart.

Through the mass of dark pussey hair, I could see her cunney lips, which were slightly open in anticipation of being fucked by the man standing by the side of the bed. His huge, stiff shaft was firmly held in the pretty girl's hand. I paused here and Johnny urged excitedly: 'Well tarry on, Henry, you can't stop there. Tell George and me about the rest of prints!' 'I'm afraid there isn't any more to tell,' I said regretfully. 'Just as I was gloating over this first photo, my uncle's housekeeper, the gimlet-eyed Mrs. Mutkin came into the library with a message for me from one of the neighbours, inviting Sir Robert and myself to make up a foursome for lawn tennis that afternoon. 'Although she made no reference to the book which I had left open on the seat, when I jumped up at the sound of her approaching footsteps, I am pretty sure that she caught sight of it.

For, when I hesitated to reply, she said meaningfully: 'Come now, Master Henry, it will do you far more good being out in the open air on such a glorious day than it will being cooped up here with a book.

In any case, your uncle has accepted the invitation so I have instructed Elsie to lay out your white shirt and trousers after luncheon.” 'When she swept out of the room, I wondered whether she might tell Uncle Robert that she had caught me reading an unsuitable book. I decided it was too risky even to keep the volume in my bedroom, so, there and then, I nipped up the step-ladder and replaced it back on the top shelf.' 'How pathetic of you!' George snorted with obvious disappointment, when I convinced him this was the end of the tale. Out of all the chaps I know, George is the one who most enjoys a rollicking, smutty story with lots of high jinks.

'Honestly, Henry, I'm surprised you didn't think about hiding the book somewhere safe where you could read it at your leisure whilst enjoying a jolly good wank. Then you would have been able to describe all the photographs to us. Johnny, I've half a mind now not to give him his birthday present!' I shrugged my shoulders and apologised for my apparent cowardice. 'Sorry about that, chaps, but if Uncle Robert had found out from Mrs. Mutkin that I had been reading something from his private collection, there would have been all hell to pay.'

'H'mm, I suppose that's fair enough, but I feel that one of us should write to Sir Robert and tell him that he shouldn't leave his spicy stuff lying around in his library if he doesn't want people to read it,' complained George. Then, with a grand flourish, he brought out a small package from his desk, wrapped up in coloured paper, which I guessed contained my birthday gift. 'Happy birthday, Henry, we do hope you like what we've bought you. As it happens, it would seem that we've chosen a very appropriate present, but if you don't really want it, we won't be at all offended if you take it back to the General Trading Company who will exchange it for something else.' I accepted the present with grateful thanks and unwrapped the paper to discover that my two best friends had clubbed together to buy me a magnificent Alanbrooke non-leakable fountain pen.

'Oh I say! It's just what I wanted,' I exclaimed in all sincerity, as I turned the pen over in my hands. 'But I know how expensive Alanbrooke pens are. You won't have had any change out of guinea for this beauty.' 'You're worth it, Henry, even if Johnny and I will be stony-broke till the end of the month,' said George with a smile.

'Besides, we know you're a ripping good sport and will stand us the odd jam tart and a bottle of pop in the tuck-shop' 'Don't be too sure of that, old man,' I warned him. 'Golly, you must now be waiting on tenterhooks for your next allowance from your father. Blimey, I've forgotten that you turn sixteen next week too. I'd better start counting the pennies!' 'Dear me, well before you decide to rob the safe in the headmaster's study, let me show you how to fill your new pen as you're hardly the most mechanically-minded chap in the form,' said George. 'Look, this is the shut-off valve which controls the ink supply. Don't worry, even when it's full you can carry it in any position in your pocket. Try it out and tell us if it writes smoothly. We asked for a medium, broad nib to be fitted, but if necessary, we'll send it back and ask for a finer one to be sent to you.' I wrote today's date on page one of this book and told my pals that the nib was perfect. Indeed, it is such a pleasure using my handsome new fountain pen that I've spent too much time on writing up this entry and not enough on my French homework!

Thursday, November 8th, 1895 (Before lights-out)

What a red letter day this has turned out to be!

Certainly I can't believe I will ever forget it if I live to be a hundred! And it began so badly too with our form-master, Mr.

Hutchinson, making some cutting remarks about the poor standard of my French composition: 'Dashwood, I recall you informing me that you wish to become a foreign correspondent for The Times. Let me give you some good advice, my boy. Unless you pay more attention to your French and German, you may as well forget any idea of following such a career.'

'Tell him that you would study harder if you could have a subscription to La Vie Parisienne!' whispered Johnny, which earned him a swift imposition of fifty lines from our keen-eared teacher.

However, Johnny managed to finish his lines during break and things began to improve quite rapidly after luncheon. Johnny, George and myself – or the Tip Top Trio as we are wont to call ourselves – wandered down to Fletcher's Fields where some of the chaps had already gathered around the football pitch to watch the Albion Academy Colts take on a team from Beddinghurst College, a far larger school than ours, situated near Rye on the border between Sussex and Kent.

Not only does Beddinghurst have more boys from which to pick their teams, but the school prides itself on its sporting achievements. The results of our matches played against them show a heavy balance in our opponents favour. Still, we have a number of good, keen players and our new games master 'Bunny' Hare is a Varsity soccer and cricket blue and an inspiring coach who motivates us to play our hearts out for the honour of the old school. He strode into the dressing-room as we were changing for the match to give us a few final tips and words of encouragement. As captain of the side, I clapped my hands together, calling for silence as Bunny cleared his throat and told us not to be worried about Beddinghurst's fearsome reputation. He declared: 'Boys, as the trainers tell their fighters in the boxing ring, the bigger they are, the harder they fall. And, whilst I won't pretend that we're not facing a first-class side this afternoon, man for man, we're just as good as they are and there's no reason in the world why we shouldn't win by at least three clear goals. 'Dashwood, I'm relying on you to keep things tight in defence – don't tackle unless you feel certain you're going to win the ball because you can't afford to sell yourselves and give their forwards the freedom of the pitch. Up front, I want to see first time passing to Bridges so he'll have every opportunity to use his speed, though make sure you look up and see what is happening before you pass, and if our centre forward is surrounded by defenders, play the ball out to the flanks. Jefferies, as a right winger you have the speed to take you past their defenders to the corner flag and Nugent-Bull, you're a most promising outside left. Just slip the hall into the middle as soon as you can and don't yield to the temptation of showing how clever you are by heating the same opponent twice.

'I know you won't make that mistake at centre half, Fowkes, just remember to stick like glue to their centre forward. Never let him get away from you and even if he wanders out to the wings, don't leave his side until he comes off the field. If you're drawn out of position, Edwards and Pearce will cover for you. And that goes for everyone, chaps. You must all work hard for each other. Now go out and show those Beddinghurst blighters how to play the game!' We ran out on to the pitch to great applause from the crowd of boys behind the ropes on the touchlines and I noticed that even members of the staff, including Mr. Hutchinson and the headmaster, were to be seen standing on the half-way line. The school magazine will carry a full report on the game so I will merely record that in the final minute of a hard-fought match, with the score standing at two goals each, we were awarded a corner kick. George floated over a perfect centre which the Beddinghurst centre half could only head out to the edge of the penalty area, from where our inside right, Billy Goodall, dribbled past one defender, evaded a tackle from another and then thundered an unstoppable shot into the net to give Albion Academy its first victory over our lordly rivals since 1889. As captain of the team, I found myself being chaired off the pitch by a group of cheering spectators and I was carried shoulder-high to the pavilion. Bunny Hare was waiting in the dressing-room with a beaming smile upon his face and showered us all with praise for our sterling performance.

'What a grandstand finish! It's a good thing that my heart is sound or that game would have been the death of me,' he added with a twinkle in his eye. 'And I can tell you that Dr Muttley has retired to his study and is probably executing a Red Indian war dance on the hearth rug to work off some of his exuberant spirits.' Then he came across and sat down next to me to look at my leg as I peeled off my stockings. Late in the game, I took a nasty kick on my shin from an ill-timed tackle by the Beddinghurst inside left during a melee in our penalty area, for which we were awarded the much needed relief of a free-kick. 'H'mm, that's an ugly looking gash, Dashwood. I want you to have a quick shower and then report to the sick bay before going to the slap-up tea we've laid on for both teams in Trippett's Hall,' he said as he studied the bloodied wound some three inches under my knee.

'I think it would be wise for Mrs. Dickerson to have a look at this shin of yours.' Now, whilst this instruction meant I might miss the start of the victory celebrations, I was happy enough to obey his order, even if it entailed the painful application of an iodine bandage round my shin. This is because Lizette Dickerson, the school's assistant matron and nurse, is a strikingly attractive young woman who we think is probably in her late twenties. It is no secret that she is a masturbatory fantasy for nearly every chap in the school. A distant relative of Dr Muttley, she was cruelly widowed after only eighteen months of marriage. Her husband was one of the fourteen people killed in the terrible train crash at Clapham Junction seven years ago and she was glad to accept the post which Dr Muttley kindly offered her after this tragedy. Her cheerful nature and gentle application of her medical skills, has swiftly made her a firm favourite with the masters and us boys alike. Interest in our assistant matron was recently heightened when two or three chaps who spent time in her care whilst recovering from influenza, boasted after their stay that, as a reward for their good behaviour, she had tickled their pricks and unbuttoned her blouse to show them her titties.

Frankly, I had discounted these tales as mere wishful flights of fancy. However, as Alexander Pope says, hope springs eternal in the human breast. Hence, as I hobbled along the corridor to her room, my cock began to thicken whilst I day-dreamed about how wonderful it would be if there were, after all, some faint glimmers of truth in these wild stories. With these lewd thoughts in mind, I knocked softly on her door. There was no reply so I knocked a second time, more firmly, but again to no avail. I was tempted to leave for the slap-up tea in Trippett's Hall and return later but my injured shin was getting more painful by the second and, as Bunny had suggested, it was best that Mrs. Dickerson should attend to it as soon as possible.

Perhaps she was tending to the needs of a patient, I thought to myself, whilst I made my way slowly up the spiral staircase to the sick bay bedrooms on the first floor. When I reached the landing I heard voices coming from one of the bedrooms. My head jerked back in amazement when I heard a lady, who sounded suspiciously like Mrs.

Dickerson, squeal: 'Julian, you naughty fellow, you'll get us both into the most awful trouble with the headmaster if you carry on like this.' I could hardly believe my ears when a familiar masculine voice replied with eager passion: 'Oh hang the headmaster, Lizzie, it would be well worth being gated for the rest of term or even expelled so long as we're not interrupted for the next hour or so – and there's little chance of that happening because I've locked the door.' My heart started to pound as I leaned back against the wall. So it seemed that the rumours about Mrs. Dickerson were true after all! Naturally, I could hardly wait to confirm this for myself and I tip-toed carefully across to the closed door, behind which, I could now hear the sounds of muffled laughter. In truth, there was very little chance of anyone in the vicinity hearing me, because Mrs. Dickerson had persuaded Dr Muttley to purchase a thick carpet which was laid throughout the entire first floor so that patients could rest undisturbed by the comings and goings of any visitors or members of the domestic staff. For the first time in my life, I bent down and peered through a key-hole to see what was going on and I could not prevent myself from uttering a gasp of astonishment. For, there on the bed, were the bodies of Mrs. Dickerson and none other than that of the lordly captain of the school, the Honourable Julian Clayton, pressed together in a fierce amatory clinch. Their mouths were locked together and Julian's hands were moving over Mrs. Dickerson's voluptuous curves whilst she skillfully wriggled out of her blouse and skirt. Julian then tore off his shirt and vest whilst Mrs. Dickerson pulled her slip down over her shoulders. I was rewarded by the sight of her huge, bare breasts, crowned with large, nut-brown nipples, which Julian kissed before scrambling to his feet to unbuckle his belt. Without hesitation, he pulled off his trousers and drawers and stood naked in front of her. I noticed that whilst his chest was devoid of hair, below his belly-button there was a matted, triangular bush from which his colossal, stiff shaft was rising upwards in salute. (A far bigger sized tool than even that belonging to 'Donkey Dick' Savory whose enormous organ is prodigiously developed for a lad of his age.) Mrs. Dickerson rolled down her knickers, and I drew a sharp inward breath as I caught sight of her pussey. She stretched out her hand to clutch hold of Julian Clayton's huge prick which now stood majestically against his stomach with the top of his uncapped helmet reaching his navel. She smacked her lips and slicked her fingers up and down his truncheon and the thought crossed my mind that surely it would be well-nigh impossible for such a thick pole to fit inside her. Then she slipped down off the bed to kneel in front of him. From the theoretical knowledge I have gleaned from the well-thumbed pages of The Oyster, I guessed what she was going to do next. It was thrilling to watch her kissing and licking Julian's meaty member, especially when she took the wide dome of his knob between her generous lips and started to suck uninhibitedly upon it. My own penis was now as stiff as a poker and I tore open my flies and brought out my palpitating shaft. Just as I began to slide my trusty right hand up and down my throbbing length, Mrs. Dickerson rose to her feet and laid herself face down on the bed, sticking her superbly rounded bum cheeks high in the air. At first this puzzled me, but then I remembered the French postcards which Johnny Bridges purchased in Paris during a summer vacation in France with his parents and that were later passed surreptitiously around the dormitory. These erotic photographs showed a couple fucking 'doggie-style' and I gulped hard as I realised that I was about to witness a performance of this unconventional mode of intercourse. Sure enough, Mrs. Dickerson now rose to kneel on all fours and, brandishing his huge cock in one hand, the Honourable Julian (the younger son of Lord Garvice of Paddington) mounted her from behind. With his free hand he parted the lovely hemispheres of her backside and then he manoeuvred his cock into the cleft between them. 'Here we go, Lizzie. Here we go!' he panted and I saw the captain of the school plunge his prick inside Mrs. Dickerson's cunt. A warm wave of pleasure engulfed me and a spray of sticky spunk spurted out of my cock and splashed against the door.

Hastily, I moved backwards whilst I finished myself off. Then I rebut-toned my flies and wiped the jism off my fingers and the door with my handkerchief. I stuffed it back into my pocket as I hastily bent down again for a second look through the key-hole. However, I had only time to catch a brief glimpse of the head boy's cock pistoning a passage through the crevice between Mrs. Dickerson's bum cheeks, when I felt a sudden tap on my shoulder… To write that I was greatly startled would be an understatement! It would be more truthful to record that I was frightened out of my wits by the touch and with a yell, I sprang up to face the wrath of one of the masters or prefects. But, thank heaven, it was luckily only my chum George Nugent-Bull. 'Hello there, Henry, what's up old sport?' he enquired blithely. 'Bunny Hare was worried that you hadn't come down for tea, so he sent me round here to see if you were all right.'

I frowned at poor George and muttered an oath under my breath for there was no way in which the writhing couple behind the door could not have heard us. The thought flashed through my brain that neither of them could afford to have their liaison made public so I should be safe from any punishment. George's unwitting interruption would only mean that I would not see the conclusion of this thrilling erotic spectacle. Nevertheless, there was potential for great embarrassment for everyone concerned in this situation and I pushed George roughly towards the stairs whilst I replied: 'Yes, yes, I'm fine. Quickly now though, we must get away from here as soon as possible.' Alas, almost immediately, the bedroom door flew open and I glanced round to see Julian, clad in a khaki dressing gown and with a thunderous scowl upon on his flushed face. He slammed the door shut behind him and roared angrily at us: 'Come back here at once, you two scallywags.' I would probably have ignored him and legged it down the stairs, daring Clayton to chase us in his bare feet and – in all probability – without anything on under his dressing gown. But, having a completely clear conscience, and not wanting to give the senior prefect the opportunity to swish him for disobedience, George turned round and walked slowly back across the landing. This left me no choice but to accompany him for I could hardly let my innocent pal face the music alone. Reluctantly, I followed his footsteps to where Clayton was waiting with a look of cold fury in his eyes. 'I'll tan your hides so hard that you won't be able to sit down for a week, you dirty little rascals. How long have you two cads been skulking outside this door?' Clayton demanded angrily. But, before either of us could answer, Mrs. Dickerson now made an appearance. She looked somewhat dishevelled and she too was only dressed in a blue silk robe.

However, when she spoke it was in a far calmer tone. 'Stop shouting at the poor lads, Julian, there is no call to make a scene,' she admonished. Then she whispered something in Julian's ear. He listened intently to what she had to say and then, with a grunt, he disappeared back into the bedroom. Mrs. Dickerson turned to us and added with a sweet smile: 'Boys, would you please wait outside for a few moments for me, I won't keep you very long.' A couple of minutes later, the door opened and a now fully clothed, grim-faced Julian Clayton stormed by us without a word. 'What the heck has been going on here?' asked George, bewildered. I couldn't resist giving him a little dig in the ribs with my elbow as I sniggered: 'Use your loaf, George, what do you think Julian and Mrs. Dickerson were doing in there – practising first aid?' 'Well, you could say that in a manner of speaking,' said Mrs. Dickerson, who I had not seen open the door when George asked his question. 'But come inside and I will give you both a fuller explanation.' She stood aside as we entered the bedroom and she locked the door behind us. We stood somewhat awkwardly in front of her as she sat down on the bed and, looking up at us and with a faint smile playing around her lips, she began her explanation. 'I believe that you are both old enough for me not to beat about the bush. For some time now, I have considered it my bounden duty to educate the senior boys at this school about the reproductive process, for this subject is so poorly taught in the classroom here. 'Nature has made the act of physical union extremely pleasant, and yet, the powers that be insist on propagating the philosophy that there is something sinful in the very act upon which the preservation of our species depends! My late lamented husband was a victim of such ridiculous ideas and I have determined to do my utmost to ensure that at least some of our young men are able to shed these unnecessary burdens of guilt and shame about natural expressions of sexual desire. Do you follow the drift of these remarks?' George and I both muttered that we understood what she was saying to us. She slowly nodded her head and continued: 'Very good, then you will appreciate why Julian Clayton was so concerned that we might have been spied upon during his lesson in the finer points of fucking.' When Mrs. Dickerson saw our jaws drop as we heard her utter such a strictly prohibited word, she laughed openly and said: 'Forgive me, I should have said the finer points of sexual intercourse, but I prefer honest earthy language.' She picked up a book from the small table at the side of the bed and went on: 'I doubt if either of you have heard of Boccaccio. He was a wonderful Italian writer who lived more than five hundred years ago.

I'll read to you his answer when he was castigated for using earthy language in his stories.' Then she read aloud the following passage which I am copying from a book I've taken from the library:

If in my tales there are a few words rather freer than suits the prudes who weigh words more than deeds and take more pains to appear rather than to be good, I maintain I should no more be reproved for having written them than other folk are daily rebuked for saying 'hole', 'peg', 'sausage' and like things. No corrupt mind ever understands words healthily and just as such people do not enjoy virtuous words, so the well-disposed cannot be harmed by words less virtuous, any more than mud can sully sunlight or earthly filth the beauty of the skies. As we stood there digesting these wise words, she put down the book and asked us softly whether we would promise that we would keep secret everything we had seen and heard this afternoon. 'You have my word of honour,' I said. George nodded his head in agreement: 'And you have mine too, Mrs. Dickerson.'

When she had received these assurances she asked us softly if we wanted to enroll in her very private biology class. 'Yes please,' we chorused. She let out a knowing little chuckle and said: 'I was pretty sure that you would both be game. Well, there's no time like the present, if you have some free time to spare.' I insisted that I had. However, George clapped his hand to his forehead and exclaimed: 'Damn, I'm free too, but I must go back to Trippett's Hall and give Mr. Hare a report on Henry's leg.' I gave a short laugh, for I had been so completely occupied with the extraordinary goings-on in the sickbay that I had quite forgotten why I was there in the first place! So, only now did I show Mrs. Dickerson my injured shin. As I expected, after examining the wound, she wrapped a small bandage round my leg and said to George that he could tell Mr. Hare that I would make a swift and full recovery. 'Please don't start the first lesson without me,' George begged as he strode to the door.

'I'll tell Bunny the good news and be back in just five minutes,' he assured Lizzie. He was as good as his word and when he returned Mrs. Dickerson opened the proceedings by saying: 'Now let's start as we mean to go on and dispense with silly formalities. My name is Lizette and I shall call you Henry and George. Now, I need to know just how physically developed you are, so will the pair of you both undress. Hang your clothes over those chairs by the window.' I am sure that George would agree that if either of us had been alone with Lizzie Dickerson at this stage, we might well have been too nervous to continue further. But the presence of an old friend helped us to overcome our shyness. Remember this is the first time that either of us has exposed our grown cock and balls to female eyes.

Nevertheless, George and I were still quite bashful at this prospect so we turned our backs to Lizzie as we pulled down our drawers and we both covered our cocks with our hands when we turned back to face her. Thankfully, she did not show any amusement at our self-consciousness, but instead said reassuringly: “There's no need to be shy about letting me look at your cocks. The first lesson for most of my pupils is that girls enjoy the sight of a sturdy shaft, just as you relish seeing their breasts and pusseys. Dear boys, I can assure you that I have seen more than a few specimens here, of all shapes and sizes. So, let me see what you're hiding behind those hands and, if I judge that you're ready for it, I may well give you both a real treat.' We were momentarily transfixed by her boldness but our pricks reacted immediately. They shot up at once when Lizzie loosened the belt of her robe and gracefully stepped out of the garment to stand naked in front of us. George gasped as, for the first time in his life, he saw a woman's bare breasts. And what beautiful bosoms they are too, creamy white, firmly rounded and topped with large, pink areolae and delicious, strawberry-red nipples. I was the first to release my rock-hard stiffstander and George soon followed suit. Lizzie looked approvingly at our erect, throbbing tools and commented: 'Well, you both sport very nice pricks which look ready for action now, though by the time you're in the Upper Sixth, your cocks will be even thicker and your ballsacks will be bigger and hairier too. My word, it's truly a great pity that you have been forced to waste your seed just playing with yourselves. I think it is high time you enjoyed the experience about which I'm sure you have fantasised whilst tossing yourselves off. 'Henry, you were first off the mark to show me your cock, so how would you like to be the first to cross the Rubicon?' she asked, running her hand through the glossy curls of the bushy thatch of hair between her legs. I am certain that my eyes must have glistened like never before as they eagerly followed the path of Lizzie's long fingers which were tracing a sensual line down between her pouting pussey lips. She stepped forward and, grasping hold of my rigid rod, led me by my tingling chopper to the side of the bed. We sat down and she kissed me lightly on the cheek and placed my hand on her right breast. I squeezed the ripe flesh and stroked the soft red nipple, which I felt harden beneath my fingers. We fell back upon the mattress and Lizzie now slid my hand down to her moist pussey whilst at the same time she guided my head to her bosoms. I needed no further encouragement and began to lick her titties. This was my first experience of touching the previously forbidden areas of a girl's body. My forefinger slipped smoothly into her love channel and the feel of Lizzie's pert nipple in my mouth, together with the stimulating wetness of her hairy quim, made me almost faint with excitement. Lizzie realised that the spunk was swiftly building up in my balls for she now pulled me over her and whispered fiercely: 'The moment of truth has arrived. Young Dashwood, slide your cock inside my crack and fuck me.' With expert hands she guided my knob to the entrance of her cunney and, thus placed, I needed no further lesson. A tiny cry of triumph burst out from my throat as I plunged my prick between her yielding love lips, deep into her welcoming, wet cunt. Instinctively, I pistoned my cock in and out of her juicy funnel and Lizzie wrapped her legs around my waist as her hips jabbed upwards to meet my ever-quickening thrusts. Of course, I spent too quickly for, not surprisingly, my over-excited cock could not resist the exquisite contractions of her clinging cunney. All too soon I shuddered in heartfelt joy as I drenched Lizzie's crack with a flood of creamy spunk. She was kind enough to praise my performance as I scrambled off her soft curves, but I knew full well from the way she continued to lie there with her eyes closed, frigging herself for all she was worth, that she had not managed to spend. 'My cock is still stiff – please let me finish you off,' I pleaded. She opened her eyes and saw that my shaft, which was coated with our mix of love juices, was still as stiff as a board. Lizzie pushed me down upon my back and, to my ecstatic delight, lowered her tousled head between my thighs. She began to swirl her tongue along the sensitive surface of my helmet, and then, after teasing the ridge of my knob with the tip of her magic tongue, she opened her mouth wide and popped my cock between her lips.

I turned my head to see George was now standing only a foot or so away, masturbating wildly. His knob protruded from his clenched fist which was sliding at great speed up and down his swollen shaft. My chum groaned with passion as he climaxed and an arc of sperm splashed out of his prick through the air and landed on the eiderdown.

Lizzie released my cock from her mouth and said: 'Oh dear, George has wanked himself to a spend. I may have to postpone his fuck till another day. Still, no matter, Henry I want to taste your cum.'

She gobbled my cock back between her lips and started to suck lustily on my shaft, yet again making me almost swoon with unbelievable pleasure. Warm waves of sheer bliss flowed through my entire body as her teeth scraped my cockflesh and she sucked slowly all the way down to the base of my tool. As Lizzie's darting tongue lapped along the underside of my shuddering shaft, my balls began to tighten. I whimpered because I realised that I was unstoppably close to a second spend, even though she had only been sucking my cock for barely a minute. Lizzie must have sensed my urgency, for she now clamped her lips around my shaft and gently squeezed my balls, with the result that, in seconds, the sticky jism was shooting up my cock and spurting into her mouth. She gulped down my copious emission with great delight, although even an experienced fellatrice such as Lizzie, could not contend with the huge gush of spunk she was milking from my twitching todger, and a dribble of white seed trickled out of the sides of her mouth and dropped on to my thighs. Lizzie smacked her lips as she milked the last drops of cum from my now deflating member. When she had finished, she lifted her head and with a saucy smile asked me to tell her with total frankness whether I had enjoyed my first journey into manhood. (Apparently, very occasionally, some young men feel disappointed after their initiation into l'arte de faire l'amour.) 'Do they really?'

I said. 'I find that difficult to believe because for me it was such an immensely pleasurable experience. However, I must apologise for climaxing too quickly for you to join me there.' 'How thoughtful of you, Henry,' said Lizzie warmly. 'You show a fine consideration which will stand you in good stead in your future intimate relations.

In all honesty, there is no need for you to worry overmuch about the speed of your spend. It's only natural for boys to fuck for the first time at a gallop, as if they were jockeys at Royal Ascot. Now that you know the course, so to speak, in your next lesson you can concentrate upon the finer points of riding.' 'Never mind about Henry,'

George interrupted. 'I would dearly love to know when I am going to have my chance!' Lizzie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and said with regret: 'I am so sorry, George, there really isn't time now for any further instruction. But do not despair. I shall not keep you in suspense for very long. Have either of you any plans for the coming Sunday?' 'No, though if we had we would cancel them, wouldn't we, Henry?' George replied. This made Lizzie laugh as she said: 'Very well then, come up here at half past two on Sunday afternoon, and remember to ensure that you are not seen.' 'Thank you, Lizzie,' I said gratefully and went on to add that such an arrangement would be especially fitting because on the following day George would celebrate his sixteenth birthday. She raised her eyebrows and commented: 'Is that so? Oh, then in that case I will try to arrange something special for the birthday boy.' 'How kind of you, and please feel free to make similar arrangements for his best friend,' I chipped in. Lizzie gave my cock a tug and giggled as she remonstrated: 'You've already had your treat, you insatiable boy.

I take my motto from the Salvation Army which helps the needy, not the greedy! Now, get dressed and go back downstairs before Mr. Hare decides to send out a search party for you. And speaking of Mr. Hare, this reminds me that I have not asked you about how we fared in the football match this afternoon. Presumably we were vanquished as usual, but I am sure you fought to the final whistle to make Beddinghurst work hard for their victory.' 'We fought to the final whistle well enough,' I said, as I pulled on my drawers. 'So much so, in fact, that Billy Goodall scored in the last minute and we beat those blighters from Beddinghurst by three goals to two.' Lizzie clapped her hands in glee at this welcome news. 'Oh, well done, boys, well done indeed! Dear Dr Muttley will be so pleased. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this, but for the last five years, your headmaster has staked a small wager on the Albion Academy's teams with the headmaster of Beddinghurst, every time their two schools have met at cricket, hockey and football. To the best of my knowledge, this will be the very first time that Dr Muttley will not have forfeited his guinea.' Lizzie continued to shower her congratulations on us as George and I hurriedly dressed ourselves and when we were ready to leave, she said: 'Unless you hear from me to the contrary, I will see you again on Sunday afternoon. If for some reason, you find yourselves unable to keep this arrangement, let me know as soon as possible. If I cannot be contacted, you may leave a message with young Polly, the eldest daughter of Mr. Smeeth, the head gardener, at their cottage.'

My eyes shone at the mention of Polly Smeeth, for this seventeen-year-old blonde-haired beauty is admired by all the fellows in the senior school and also by Mr. Lewis, our Geography master. It is rumoured, she was recently seen going into The Three Tuns public house with him, in the nearby village of Willesborough. What a bonus it will be if the gorgeous Polly also involves herself in Lizzie Dickerson's valiant effort to educate the future rulers of the Empire.

Oh, the joys of fucking! George and I thanked our kind instructress and took our farewells. By the time we reached Trippett's Hall the crestfallen Beddinghurst contingent had left for the railway station and the housemaids were already clearing the tables.

Nevertheless, Bunny Hare had stayed to wait for our return and he sent George off to inform all the members of the team that there would be a training session next Wednesday afternoon. Then he swung his chair towards me and commented that my gait seemed much improved since the treatment given to me by Mrs. Dickerson. 'Lizzie Dickerson's an excellent nurse,' he said and then, to my surprise and with a curious look on his face, he added: 'And a fine figure of a woman too, don't you agree?' It was impossible to prevent my cheeks from colouring up a bright shade of pink as I replied with as much nonchalance as I could muster: 'Is she, sir? Yes, now I think of it, I suppose you are absolutely right.' 'I'm damned sure I'm right, just as I am equally certain that the presence of a female such as Mrs. Dickerson can undo the school's promotion of mens sana in corpore sano, a healthy mind in a healthy body, by meretricious attraction of the Sins of the Flesh,' he snapped. Then, pausing for a moment and speaking in a more gentle tone of voice, he went on: 'Henry, I would like to speak to you in the utmost confidence on a matter of extreme delicacy concerning Mrs. Dickerson. Certain tales have reached my ears about her behaviour that I find difficult to believe have any foundation.

However, there is rarely smoke without fire, and I have come to the conclusion that these stories should be investigated, if only to scotch these rumours and exonerate Mrs. Dickerson from any wrong-doing.' Oh Lord, I thought to myself, and I recalled the little lecture Bunny had given us at the beginning of term, to take a cold shower every morning to save ourselves from 'the evil of the solitary vice'. I realised that he would be very down on any hint of sexual hanky-panky. However, it was not simply to save myself from any embarrassment but because I firmly believe that Mrs.

Dickerson is performing a valuable service for scholars at the Albion Academy, that I decided to tell an untruth when Bunny asked: 'Do I make myself clear?' I nodded and replied with a casual shrug: 'Yes sir, but as I have not heard any such gossip myself, I don't see how I can help you.' Unfortunately, my denial did not cut too much ice with Bunny Hare who must have noted me blushing when he commented upon Mrs. Dickerson's physical attributes. 'Come now, are you quite certain that you have nothing to say about all this? I should inform you that only last week, I overheard a member of the fifth form boast that whilst he was laid up with influenza earlier this term, Mrs. Dickerson put her hand under the bedclothes for a purpose which it is hardly necessary for me to explain to you, he persisted.' No, it is quite unnecessary, but I'll lay odds you will not leave it there, I thought to myself, as I further recalled the relish with which the sports master had warned us against the dangers of impure urges. In all probability, this meant that in common with Reverend Jellicoe, Bunny would now begin to question whether I had experienced erections, suffered from nocturnal emissions, fantasised about naked girls or, worst of all, played with myself.

Therefore I knew what to expect when he delivered a short homily on the need to resist 'impure acts' and I resisted the temptation to smile when he assured me that the prowess of the football team would improve if we succeeded in keeping ourselves pure. It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that every member of the side enjoyed the delights offered by Mother Thumb and her Four Daughters. Even more so in mutual fashion with a friend, as the practice is more pleasurable from someone else's hand. Wisely, I held my peace and hoped that my silence might persuade Bunny Hare that his suspicions regarding Mrs. Dickerson were unfounded. Then the bell rang to signal the start of evening prep and, realising that there was no further ammunition for his quest to be gained from me, he gave a heavy sigh, wished me a speedy recovery from my injury and left me to walk back, silently chuckling, to the fifth form corridor. Bunny isn't a bad old stick but he obviously suffers from this deadly disease of shameful feelings about his bodily functions. This makes me understand even more fully, how urgently the services of Lizzie Dickerson and her ilk are needed in our school. Johnny and George had already arrived and were sorting out their books when I opened the door of our study and entered with a self-satisfied smile upon my face.

Johnny took one look at my expression and exclaimed: 'Ah ha, here's Henry and he's also beaming like a cat that has stolen the cream. Don't take me for a muggins, you chaps, I wasn't born yesterday. So spill the beans and tell me what the devil you have been up to whilst I was taking tea with the rest of the team and our friends from Beddinghurst in Trippett's Hall?' At first we insisted that we didn't understand what he was carrying on about, but Johnny would not be denied. 'Pull the other one, it's got bells on,' he said with undisguised derision. 'I'm surprised at the pair of you, we've never kept secrets from one another in this study.' Johnny continued to press us so strongly that he put us in a dilemma. To George's and my shame, in the end, we broke our promise to Lizzie and related everything that had happened in the sick bay to him. Not surprisingly, as I expounded in graphic detail about how I had fucked Lizzie Dickerson, we were all soon sporting gigantic hard-ons and within a short time, the three of us had brought out our pulsing, erect pricks and started to fist our hands up and down our throbbing, stiff shafts. 'Henry, you do George with your hand whilst he does me and I'll do you,' suggested Johnny and we spent the next few minutes engaged in an orgy of mutual masturbation until we all enjoyed copious spends. Unfortunately, I mis-directed George's spurts on to the arm of our most comfortable armchair. The experience was far from being unpleasant but, since tasting the joys of a genuine fuck, I now realise how different are the ecstatic feelings engendered by the real thing. Be that as it may, when we recovered our composure, George and I demanded that Johnny swear a solemn oath to keep secret the information that he had prised out of us. 'Of course I will, you need have no fear on that score,' he assured us. 'Though in return I want you chaps to ask Mrs. Dickerson if she will enroll another pupil into her private class. After all, we are best chums, are we not? All for one and one for all, eh?' This was not an unreasonable request and I agreed to ask Lizzie on Sunday afternoon if, on another occasion, Johnny could join in our fun and games.

Saturday, November 10th, 1895 (after tea)

However hard I try, I find it almost impossible to keep my mind off the forthcoming joys of tomorrow afternoon. This morning, I justly earned a rebuke from Mr. Hutchinson for my inattention in class. George was little better, staring out of the window instead of listening to Mr. Hutchinson's comments on the early political career of Mr. Gladstone. We were both lucky to escape a detention this afternoon and, as Mr. Hutchinson acidly commented as he gave us a 'wigging' after dismissing the class, we might have been heroes two days before for vanquishing our old foes from Beddinghurst on the football field, but we can not afford to bask in this glory and should treat this as a final warning to pull up our socks. After he had stalked out of the room, George grinned and said: 'Never mind him, Henry, roll on Sunday afternoon. There's no more classwork till Monday, so how about watching me and some other chaps tackle a three mile run round the grounds this afternoon? Bunny Hare is giving prizes to the first three home and I reckon I have a decent chance of coming in second or third behind Jimmy Peck. No-one will beat him over a long-distance race, of course, unless I can get someone to whack him on the knee just before the start.' Even if I had not made other arrangements, I doubt if I would have taken up his invitation, especially as the weather has been distinctly on the chilly side.

However, I was able to put on an expression of regret and reply: 'Sorry, old boy, I've already promised to go with Johnny to a meeting this afternoon. A party of girls from Sparsit's over in Westwell is coming over for a discussion on the responsibilities of modern society and it could turn out to be jolly interesting, if you get my meaning.

George chuckled: 'Very well then, Henry, I'll meet up with you and Johnny after tea.' The girls of Sparsit's School For Young Ladies visit us very rarely although we often see them taking the air on the heath. However, they are so well-chaperoned, that usually there is never even a hint of conversation, let alone any hanky-panky between us. Still, love laughs at locksmiths and, as my Aunt Augusta who spent several years in India, is fond of saying – after the drought comes the monsoon. If any proof is needed of the truth of this maxim, it certainly came this afternoon. It really is quite extraordinary because, for at least the past twelve months, I have thought of little else except about how marvellous it would feel to have my leg over with a Sparsit girl, if I may be excused the popular colloquialism. Now that dream has at last been realised and, all being well, my lessons in l'arte de faire l'amour will continue.

However, although I thought I might enjoy the lecture with the girls from the college, in my wildest imaginings, I never dreamed that I would sample the delights afforded by the soft, sweet body of Charlotte Harley of the Lower Sixth. Let me first recapitulate as to how this happy state of affairs was brought about. The charabanc from Sparsit's arrived punctually at half past two and after depositing their hats and coats with our domestic staff, the girls were ushered straight into the library where the lecture was to take place. Dr Muttley himself welcomed the dozen or so young ladies who had made the journey, along with their escorts, the strait-laced Miss Atkinson, the headmistress, and an attractive younger colleague, Miss Irvine, who teaches history and science. Charlotte Harley is surely one of the prettiest girls I have ever seen. She is, to the day, eight months older than me and will celebrate her seventeenth birthday in early February. She is of slender build and medium height and her pretty face is sheer perfection; her chin is charmingly dimpled whilst, when she smiles, her full, pouting lips open to give a glimpse of two rows of ivory teeth set in the rosy flesh of her wide, sensuous mouth. Her nose is of the Roman cast, her eyes a lustrous deep brown and all this beauty is set off by shiny, chestnut hair.

After the lecture, I ensured that I secured the seat nearest her table at tea. Until recently, I would never have dared to do even that, let alone open my mouth, but I now found I possessed the bravura to introduce myself and opened up a conversation with her. This boldness is quite untypical for, at heart, I am a shy young man. My confidence with the fair sex must have been boosted by the encounter with Lizzie Dickerson for soon, Charlotte and I were whispering animatedly like two old friends. But, out of the comer of my eye, I noticed that Julian Clayton was looking at me with a dangerous gleam in his eye. Unfortunately, he too had designs on the lovely Charlotte and could not have been pleased with the fact that, as captain of the school, he was placed between Dr Muttley and Miss Atkinson. I made a mental note to keep well out of his way in the coming week! At the same time, I smiled as I thought of how wonderful it would feel to caress Charlotte's full, swelling bosoms whilst she commented on the social and economic iniquities which could be laid at the feet of unrestrained monopoly capitalism. 'Do you not find this a matter of great interest, Henry?' she added. I murmured in reply: 'Oh yes, absolutely, I do so agree with you.' Two delicious dimples appeared on her cheeks as she smiled sweetly and wagged a reproving finger at me. 'Are you quite sure that you do? It seemed that you were paying little attention to what I was saying and, at best, heard only one word out of three.' I blushed scarlet with embarrassment as I made the most profuse apologies and asked her to forgive me, adding that I would have to admit that my mind had temporarily strayed elsewhere. It was then, as the Cockneys say, that you could have knocked me down with a feather, for she leaned forward and quietly replied: 'Indeed it did, and in my considered opinion would have been discovered between my thighs if that bulge in your lap is any guide to the state of your mental condition!' I was dumbfounded by her frankness, but Charlotte was far from offended by the tented erection in my trousers, for she slipped her hand down to stroke it and whispered: 'We have an hour or so before I have to leave. Can we slip away somewhere private where we won't be observed?' My heart began to beat faster and, deliberately raising my voice so that her chaperones could hear and we could not afterwards be accused of skulking away without permission, I asked Charlotte if she would like to see some fine paintings by George Moore in Trippett's Hall. This is a very public part of the school which I hoped would give the impression that we would never be left alone and thus gain Dr Muttley's approval. 'Thank you, that would be most agreeable,' she replied. Miss Atkinson's eyebrows shot up, but Dr Muttley had also heard me and, though her face was still clouded by doubt, when he whispered a few words to the fellow head teacher, she nodded to us: 'Very well, Charlotte, you have my permission to leave the table, but please be brief or the charabanc will leave without you.' Once we had left the room, I guided Charlotte straight down the corridor to Trippett's Hall. 'We'll just take a quick look at the paintings in case you are questioned when we return,' I said. Charlotte gave my arm an admiring squeeze and, with a roguish twinkle in her enchantingly large, brown eyes, she giggled as she said: 'My word, Henry, you're quick on your toes or perhaps you have escorted girls around the school before now?' 'No, you will be the first female visitor to my den,' I answered, holding her hand as we walked briskly towards my study. I hoped against hope that George would not have returned from his cross-country run. I crossed my fingers as I pushed open the door – and, thanks be, there was no sign of George who was, in all probability, larking around in the Fifth Form common room or attending the regular Saturday meeting of the philately club of which he is a member. Charlotte followed me inside and, after I had shut the door smartly behind us, the clever girl turned the key in the lock, then threw her arms round my neck and kissed me on the lips.

In a trice, her wicked tongue filled my mouth, probing and rousing. I responded in kind and, clutching each other in a passionate embrace, we staggered over to the armchair where Charlotte sat on my lap and shrugged off her blouse. Whilst we continued to kiss, she pulled out her chemise from under her skirt which enabled her to pull it over her head so that I could delight in the wondrous sight of her firmly-rounded, bared breasts. I marvelled at the delicious feel of her hard, erect nipples against my palm whilst her hands now pulled open my fly buttons and she extracted my thick, stiff cock which she held tightly in her hand. 'Quick, Henry, I want you to fuck me before you spend,' she said with great urgency and after we had stripped off the rest of our clothes, Charlotte turned her back on me and bent over the arm of the chair with her jiggling buttocks only inches away from the tip of my straining, uncapped knob. She pulled her dimpled bum cheeks apart and I could see her wrinkled, little arse-hole as well as her fleshy pussey lips which she stretched open with her hand to reveal the flushed chink of her love channel.

Now, whilst I have read about 'doggie-style' fucking in The Forbidden Texts Of Cremorne which I purchased from a pedlar at London Bridge Station last summer and I saw Julian Clayton fuck Lizzie Dickerson this way, this was my first try at this method of fucking.

Of course, I didn't mention this to Charlotte as I leaned over her, and she whimpered as she felt the smooth helmet of my cock wedge itself inside the cleft of her gorgeous backside. She turned her head round to look at me with lust blazing in her eyes and whispered fiercely: 'Press on, Henry, but don't go up my bottom unless you have some cold cream handy.' Frankly, the idea of sticking my prick up her bum had never occurred to me, and so, as I propelled my prick forward, I gasped: 'Don't worry, Mr. Pego is heading straight for your cunney.' Charlotte wiggled her bottom from side to side until my shaft had entered the supple, glistening crack of her juicy cunt. 'Oh, I'm in, how delicious,' I cried as I pushed onwards, burying my cock to the very hilt so that my balls slapped against her bum cheeks. I pulled back a fraction before yet again plunging deep inside her welcoming honeypot. 'Oooh! Oooh! Oooh!' she groaned, so fiercely, that I anxiously enquired whether I had pushed in too hard. I was relieved to find out that this was far from being the case, and Charlotte wanted me to fuck her with even more verve until she could feel every last inch of my cock inside her tingling quimmey.

'Keep going, you're doing fine, fuck the arse off me, you randy rascal!' Charlotte panted. The curvy rondeurs of her backside responded to every shove, her body rocking in a lascivious rhythm, as she pulled my arms around her and told me to rub her titties whilst I fucked her. The beautiful girl shuddered as a series of spends exploded inside her cunney whilst I continued to pump relentlessly in and out of her delicious cunt. Her love funnel was wet and yet incredibly tight so that her cunney muscles clung to my cock as, again and again, I pumped my prick in and out of her sopping slit. I felt the inexorable surge of jism building up in my balls and I croaked out that I was about to spend. Then, Charlotte let out a high-pitched yelp of triumph and shuddered to her climax, just before I gushed my copious tribute of sticky, warm spunk into her cunt. I collapsed down on top of her as we completed this blissful fuck and then I withdrew my softening shaft which was gleaming with its coating of pussey juice. Heaving myself off her soft body, I walked across to the wash-basin and pulled a towel off the rail. Then, after quickly wiping my cock, I passed it to Charlotte who dried her thighs before throwing it back to me. 'I must be going. Miss Atkinson will be furious if I'm not in the entrance hall by six o'clock,' she sighed. As we began dressing ourselves, I asked shyly: 'Will you write to me, Charlotte? Perhaps I could bicycle over to Sparsit's on a weekend half-holiday.' 'Yes, dear boy, of course I will,' she replied as she kissed my cheek. 'And I shall slip out of school somehow. I promise faithfully that I will let you know as soon as I think of a way.' We finished dressing and I had just unlocked the door when I heard footsteps in the corridor outside. Without the courtesy of a knock, the door was flung open and the muscular figure of Julian Clayton stood framed in the doorway. He looked at me through narrowed eyes as he said through gritted teeth: 'Miss Harley, your driver has returned earlier than expected and Miss Atkinson wants you to leave as soon as possible. So will you please come with me and I will escort you to the entrance hall where she and the rest of your party are waiting for you.' 'Clayton, I'll be happy to walk CharI mean Miss Harley, down to the entrance hall,' I said, but he glared at me and said that he had been asked to take her back so he would not delegate the task. His voice changed in tone as he turned to Charlotte and he gave a little bow as he went on: 'In any case, it is hardly an onerous duty and is one that I am only too pleased to carry out.' 'Thank you, sir,' smiled Charlotte, as she returned his bow with a curtsy. However, sensing the brooding antagonism between us, the sweet girl gave me a merry little wink as she continued: 'Gentlemen, I have a splendid idea, you shall both escort me back to the entrance hall.'