The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

PART II. Amorous Appetites

Brasenose College, Oxford, October 3rd, 1901 (Before breakfast) Julian and I arrived here yesterday for the start of the new University year. I shall not see him for at least another fortnight because his course in natural history began this afternoon with a two-week field trip to the Northumbrian coast. I am starting Varsity life in earnest tomorrow, albeit with some trepidation as the first seminar of my course is to be led by none other than the infamous Dr Keith Barnes, the controversial lecturer in political philosophy whose radical ideas as expressed in his book The Progress Of Democracy In England have unleashed storms of protest and calls for his dismissal in the Morning Post. As to more mundane matters, this morning a local carrier brought round from the railway station the trunks containing my clothes and books. Now that I have unpacked the box and put out some of personal possessions, my room feels more homely. Even better, I have already made the acquaintance of a nice chap named Charles Farleigh-Windsor who was educated at Bedinghurst, Albion Academy's fiercest rivals on the sports fields.

At the freshers' reception last night Charles recognised me as the centre half of the Academy football team who had vanquished the Bedinghurst first eleven the previous year and we soon found that we were both, studying classics with an extra course in philosophy and political history. 'Isn't there a great deal of reading to plough through this year?' I said to Charles. He shrugged his shoulders and replied: 'Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about work, old boy, our tutors won't expect too much of us. Honestly, Henry, coming up to Oxford is like being let out of jail. I understand that the regime at your school was relatively liberal, but I can tell you that if Albion Academy followed the ancient Athenian ideals, life at Bedinghurst was positively Spartan. Cold showers every morning, rotten food, and an atmosphere in which anything remotely aesthetic was looked on with horror. For instance, we would have to cram in hours of Latin but reading poetry for fun was only for wimps. The only other thing the school really cared about was how many laps you had run round the quadrangle, how many wickets you had taken, or how many goals you had scored.' Then he lowered his voice and added: 'Mind you, although I enjoy a game of footer, I would far rather score with that gorgeous creature with the long reddish hair over by the window talking to that Greek chap, Professor Pachnos. Gosh, she really is a corker. Now the question is to how I can best effect an introduction.' 'Well, this is a getting-to-know-you affair, is it not, so why not simply join them,' I observed as I turned my head to gain sight of the girl whose appearance had attracted Charles' attention. 'Come to think of it, how is it that there are females here this evening?' 'A good point, Henry. Who the heck can she be?' Charles replied. I was now also highly interested in this mysterious pretty girl and murmured to Charles: 'I've no idea, but could she be one of these new bluestocking types who are getting places at Somerville college? We don't know anyone to introduce us to her, so frankly the only way to find out her identity is to ask her ourselves.' 'Let's hope that she doesn't take offence,' said Charles doubtfully. 'No matter, though it would be a pity if she did so,' I said, straightening my neck tie. 'Let's face it, if this girl is foolish enough to cut two decent looking chaps simply because they haven't been formally introduced to her, as pretty as she is, I for one would forget all about her.' 'H'm, I take your point, and I would probably feel the same way,' concurred Charles. 'So let's cross our fingers and hope that she isn't such a silly snob and doesn't give us the cold shoulder. Anyhow, faint heart never won fair lady so let's give it a go.' 'Hold on, Charles, you saw her first,' I protested with a grin. 'You hardly need me to accompany you, I'll feel like a spare prick on a wedding night.' He shook his head and said: 'Don't be daft, we're not going to fight over her. If she prefers the cut of someone else's jib, it might as well be yours. Anyhow, there's always a chance that she has a friend for whichever one of us draws the short straw.' 'Yes, that's true,' I agreed as we made our way across the crowded room. 'Girls often prefer going out in foursomes. I daresay they believe there is safety in numbers.' 'Well, I hope that I will always behave like a gentleman,' sighed Charles. 'Although I'll confess to you that I'm dying for the chance to get my leg over some luscious lady. There was no chance of any nookie at Bedinghurst, that's for sure.' As we approached Professor Pachnos and the unknown beauty, it crossed my mind that poor Charles might be in a state of virgo intacto. However, more important was the task in hand and so when we reached our quarry, I screwed up my courage to the sticking point and said boldly to the Greek gentleman: 'Professor Pachnos, I'm Henry Dashwood. Pleased to meet you. You must find this damp weather rather discomforting after the sunshine of a Greek summer.' Naturally, not knowing me from Adam, the professor was somewhat startled by my interruption, but no doubt thinking that I must be one of the many students to whom he had been introduced that evening and that he was guilty of forgetting my name, he replied politely:' 'Kalishera, Mr. Dashwood. How do you do?' And to our great joy turned to his charming companion and said: 'I don't suppose either of you gentlemen have had the opportunity of meeting Miss Miranda Franklin. Miss Franklin is Dr Barnes's stepsister.' I smiled at the lovely girl and said lightly: 'A pleasure to meet you, Miss Franklin. I must admit that Charles and I were curious as to how you managed to breach the gates of this male bastion of learning.'

She brushed a lock of chestnut hair away off her forehead and I marvelled at the beauty of this girl who could be no more than twenty.

Her countenance displayed a clear skin, exquisite cornflower-blue eyes, a tiny nose and shapely red lips which parted in a wide smile showing rows of pearly white teeth. She replied: 'It wasn't difficult as I am here as a guest of my stepbrother, but so many people have been staring at me that it's as well that I'm used to being looked at.' A pink blush suffused Charles's cheeks as he cleared his throat and said in a husky voice: 'Are you, Miss Franklin? May I ask the reason why?' 'I have been sitting for Elisha Withington, the famous, or should I say infamous artist who has been painting my portrait for his exhibition at the Gewirtz Galleries in New York next month,' she said sweetly. At this answer my eyes widened for the popular newspapers have hinted that this talented young gentleman leads an extremely Bohemian lifestyle. The 'horn books' have been less reticent and a writer in Cremorne Scandals has gleefully recounted how Withington makes it a practice to make love to all his models before he makes even the first preliminary sketches. Furthermore, the artist is known to be a member of the ultra-fast South Hampstead set led by the erotic bibliographer Sir Lionel Trapes whose parties in St John's Wood have also been commented on with undisguised relish in the pages of The Oyster. However, at this stage of our acquaintance I could hardly question Miss Franklin about her activities with Elisha Withington, so I changed the conversation and asked her if she was interested in Greek antiquities. She said: 'Oh yes, very much so.

Indeed, Professor Pachnos and I were just discussing the vexed question as to whether the British Museum should return the Elgin Marbles to Athens. Are you familiar with the sculptures, Mr.

Dashwood?' 'Of course, and I remember what an impression they made on me when I first saw them,' I said, though this was being somewhat economical with the truth for I was only twelve years old at the time and was disappointed that on our two day visit to the capital my parents had not taken me to the London Zoo. Nevertheless, I was not being insincere when I added: 'Certainly I can well understand why the Greeks want them back.' I was delighted when Miranda Franklin nodded her head in agreement and remarked: 'So do I, Mr. Dashwood, although sadly I cannot see the Government yielding to any such request.' Then she turned to Charles and asked him: 'And what is your view on this subject?' Now I might have answered in the same fashion as my new friend, because I do hold strongly to the view that on most occasions, telling the plain, unvarnished truth at the end of the day will have proved to have been the most rewarding course of action in a difficult situation. But naturally there can be exceptions to this rule, and really this was a time when Charles should have used more discretion instead of blurting out: 'I'm afraid I've never seen these statues, Miss Franklin, and frankly I must confess that I know very little about them.' 'Shame on you,' she said lightly. 'We're talking about a group of Greek sculptures well over two thousand years old which originally decorated the Parthenon but were shipped to Britain by the Earl of Elgin some eighty years ago. But now members of the Greek government are calling for Britain to return them and whilst I think they have every justification to make this demand, it is most unlikely to be met.' Be that as it may, Charles's candid admission effectively left the field open to me, although my brain had to move into top gear when Professor Pachnos grunted something in Greek and Miranda Franklin replied in the same language. Alas, the lessons in Ancient Greek which had been drummed into me at school were of little use in trying to understand what was being said, and I commented as much to the Professor. He smiled gently as he replied: 'You must forgive me, Mr. Dashwood, it is most impolite to have spoken in a language with which one's company is not familiar.'

'I don't think you should apologise over-much, Professor,' I said, although my eyes were fixed upon Miranda Franklin's pretty face.

'The British are so insular that we always expect Johnny Foreigner to speak English and we make little attempt to learn any other languages.' 'Oh come now, Henry,' Charles protested heatedly.

'Many good schools now offer French and German as well as the classics. But it's hardly surprising that Europeans are more needful to learn our language because English is the world's most important lingua franca.' 'I'm afraid that I must side with Mr. Dashwood,' said Professor Pachnos. 'On the other hand, an English colleague of mine who died some years ago spoke perfect French, Italian and Spanish as well as being fluent in Arabic, Hebrew and Farsi.' Childhood memories came back to me of how distressed my mother had been to hear the news that a cousin of hers, who was a famous archaeologist noted for his linguistic gifts, had died suddenly and I asked the Professor: 'Would you be talking of the late Henry Layard, by any chance, sir?'

'Yes, I am,' he answered. 'Henry and I worked together on 'digs' in Crete and also briefly in Constantinople. But why do you ask? Have you read his scholarly treatise on the remains of Nineveh?' I replied with a hint of pride: 'We have a signed copy of the first edition at home. That's hardly surprising though because he was my mother's first cousin and indeed I am named after him.' This should put me in good standing with Miranda, I speculated, and indeed to my great delight, these thoughts were instantly confirmed when Miranda said with a warm smile: 'How very interesting, Mr. Dashwood.

And do you possess his talent for languages?' I turned to her and beamed: 'Not exactly, I can get by well enough in French and German, but then Henry Layard was hardly a typical Briton. He came from Spanish stock on his mother's side and he was educated in France and Italy.' 'In that case the gentleman can hardly be counted as British,' commented Charles, but Professor Pachnos voiced his disagreement and said: 'Oh, I don't know about that. After all, if a man was born in a stable that does not make him a horse!' Then he said to me: 'What is more important though is that no-one would deny that Henry Layard was an exceptional man and you may be proud to have him as a relative. Did you know that after Henry retired, Disraeli appointed him to be the British Ambassador to Turkey?' We spent a few more minutes discussing the merits of my distinguished relative and then, sensing that he was way behind me in the struggle to gain Miranda Franklin's interest, Charles gracefully withdrew from the contest and left the field open for me to see if I could make any further progress with her. He swung round to Professor Pachnos and said: 'Don't you agree that the white wine being served to us today is extraordinarily good, sir. But not from your country of birth, I would think, though I'm fond of the jolly old retsina.

The professor was a sportsman for he replied: 'So am I, my boy, but you won't find any in Oxford and you would probably have great difficulty finding a bottle of retsina except in the cellars of the largest London wine merchants. However, as you say, the wine being served this evening is very pleasant. Actually I happen to know from which country it originates and this information quite surprised me.'

'Let me guess,' said Charles and taking a sip, he rolled the wine around his mouth before swallowing it. 'H'm, it's a sound wine with a fruity taste and a crisp, fresh edge. A Sauvignon '98 perhaps or an Italian white from the Abruzzo region?' Professor Pachnos shook his head and said: 'You're way off target although I'm sure that many experts would have agreed with you. I won't ask you to make another guess for the answer is Australia. Some years ago, a tutor at the college went out there to teach at the University of New South Wales in Sydney. As a hobby he bought an interest in a large vineyard near the University and Miss Franklin's stepbrother, Dr Barnes, told me that after he sent over a case, the college placed an order for a regular annual supply.' 'Shall we find a waiter to fill our glasses?' he concluded and Charles mouthed 'good luck' in my direction as we moved away with the professor. 'No doubt Kit purchases two dozen bottles every week from the college store, and more if he is planning any entertaining in his rooms,' said Miranda dryly as they left us. I looked at her in surprise. 'Kit? Surely you are not talking of Dr Barnes?' 'Yes, I am,' she nodded grimly. 'I'm not accusing my stepbrother of being a toper but in my opinion he has been drinking too heavily these last few days. It's understandable because poor Kit has been under great pressure from the Dean to tone down the controversial nature of his lectures and on top of that he is behind schedule in finishing the book on State Socialism he is contracted to write for the Oxford University Press.' 'Well, from what I have read of his views, your stepbrother and I are on the same side of the barricades, and I am looking forward to studying under him. But forgive me, Miss Franklin, I am really more interested to know if you will be staying in Oxford for a while. I do hope you are not rushing straight back to London tomorrow morning.' To cut short this entry, I will now simply record the fact that I elicited from the stunning Miranda the information that she was staying in Oxford for only a three further days at the Randolph Hotel before going off to visit her father, General Arthur Franklin of the Eleventh Bengal Lancers, now living in retirement in a small village near Nottingham.

And suffice it to say that after three more glasses of the splendid Australian white wine, we were on first name terms and she readily agreed to my suggestion that I escort her back to her suite at the Randolph Hotel. I expected no reward for this although I was going to ask her if I could see her again before she left town. So I was overjoyed when in the foyer of the hotel she said: 'Henry, would you care to join me for a nightcap? Yes? Well, as the management of this hotel would probably disapprove of my entertaining a member of the opposite sex in my rooms, perhaps it would be wise if I go up to the second floor now and you follow me up in a few minutes time. Turn right as you leave the elevator and my suite is number sixteen, the second door on your left.' I was so excited that I mixed up the directions and turned the wrong way when I left the elevator, though perhaps it was as well that the attendant saw me turn towards rooms nineteen to twenty-four. Hastily, I doubled back and there was Miranda standing at the door to welcome me in. My heart began to pound when I saw that Miranda had changed out of her dress and was now wearing a cream silk night dress with smocked cuffs and trimmed with lace. Yet, interestingly enough, although Miranda's beautiful body was fully covered from top to toe, she had unpinned her long auburn hair and the sight of the shiny locks falling down over her shoulders and the welcoming smile on her pretty face made my cock swell up alarmingly as I entered her room. 'What would you like to drink?' asked Miranda as at her invitation, I sat down on a comfortable balloon-back chair. I paused and then she looked at me and grinned: 'Henry, perhaps I can help you make up your mind – there's coffee, tea or me? 'From the size of that bulge in your trousers, I think I know the answer,' she murmured as she unlaced the cord of her gown and slipped it off her shoulders. My jaw dropped as Miranda walked towards me, stark naked except for a tiny pair of frilly lace knickers, but my cock stood up in salute to her nude charms, stretching the material of my trousers to the very limit. I rose to meet her and the rosy nipples of Miranda's firm, rounded breasts looked up pertly as our mouths crushed together in the sweetest of kisses. My prick pressed up against her belly and my hands slid wildly up and down her back as she pulled me hard against her. We stood in this fashion for some seconds, our passions rising to boiling point and then Miranda whispered huskily: 'I want you to fuck me, Henry. But I'm not interested in what do the Yankees call it – a “wham-bam, thank you ma'am” affair – so you must first promise to stay all night.' 'I swear I will stay, you have my solemn oath on it,' I replied, my voice cracking with unslaked lust as I ran my fingers over her hard, engorged nipples and she slipped her hand downwards to squeeze the fleshy bar of steel between my thighs which bucked uncontrollably in her grasp. 'Very well then, let's not waste any more time,' said Miranda. Without further ado she began to undress me, shucking off my jacket and then unbuckling my belt whilst I tore off my collar stud and unbuttoned my shirt. When I had stripped down to my drawers she tugged them off and, clutching hold of my cock in both her hands she breathed: 'Come on, Henry, the bedroom's just behind me. Oooh, I can hardly wait to feel this nice meaty stiffie sliding into my juicy notch.' We kissed again, and with Miranda still holding my cock, we staggered into the next room and crashed down upon the bed. I tugged down the delicious girl's knickers and ran my hand through her silky curls of auburn pussey hair which formed such a sensuous veil over her pouting little slit. As we writhed in each other's arms, my shaft started to leap and prance about as it desperately sought an entrance into the clinging stickiness of Miranda's love funnel. She lay back invitingly with her legs apart as I raised myself over her and, holding my throbbing tool, I guided my knob firmly into her slippery wet cunt. Although my excitement was now at fever pitch, I gritted my teeth and willed myself not to rush in and out of her juicy quim in a mad frenzy and I slewed my sturdy shaft in and out of her gloriously tight cunney as slowly as I could, going right in and then withdrawing before plunging back again to the full. This had the pleasing effect of exciting Miranda even more and her bottom began to roll around on the crisp white sheet, arching her back upwards as she worked her cunt back and forth against the rhythmic ramming of my twitching tool. This was a thumping good fuck and Miranda was clearly enjoying it as much as I was, for she yelled out: 'Oh God, that's so good! Oooh, I adore those luscious long strokes and – oh yes, that's really lovely. Now make me spend! Ram your cock into me and shoot your spunk, you horny boy! I want it all!' 'Here it comes, brace yourself, Miranda,' I growled when I realised that my moments of supreme pleasure were nigh and it felt as though every nerve end in my body shuddered with ecstasy as I jetted a fountain of creamy jism into her seething cunt. I pistoned to and fro until her sensuous sheath milked the last dribbles of spunk from my cock which began to shrink when I rolled off her delicious curves and lay panting with exhaustion beside her. “That was a truly wonderful experience for me,' I said softly as I swung myself over on my side to look at the gorgeous girl and ran my fingers through her glossy auburn hair. She turned her head and looked at me with a cheeky smile and said: 'It was good, wasn't it? If I say so myself, I'm a very good fuck. But it isn't every boy who can make me come – although I haven't had as much experience as you might expect, because contrary to what you have every reason to believe, I'm not the sort of girl who pulls down her knickers for all and sundry. If it hadn't been for that rotter of a former boy-friend, I very much doubt if you would have found yourself in my bed tonight.' 'In that case, I must be very grateful to this gentleman,' I said, letting my hand slither down and playfully run the length of her moist pussey lips. Miranda gave a short, rueful laugh and nibbled on my ear lobe as she said: 'Yes, I suppose you do owe Neville a favour for it was his caddish behaviour that made me wary of allowing myself to make love to another man. In fact, this is the first fuck I have permitted myself to have since Leonard and I parted three months ago.' 'Then I am further honoured,' I said with the utmost sincerity. 'I hope this fellow did not attempt to force his affections upon you?' 'Not in the physical sense, although Neville was quite dishonest in his intentions, which really is little better,' she replied firmly. 'It has taken me some time to recover from his duplicity. I don't mind telling you exactly what happened between us, Henry, as I'm sure you'll understand how upset I was to discover that the Honourable Neville de Vere Slingsby was a pervert. We met at Viscount Greenhalgh's Empire Day Ball and very soon he and I became very close.

'Now, despite letting you fuck me tonight, and being ready to admit to being generous with my favours, not even those girls who dislike me can truly call me a wanton. It took six weeks of constant attention – dinner parties, visits to the theatre, opera and ballet, days at Henley and Royal Ascot – before finally I surrendered to Neville's entreaties and agreed to stay the night with him in his luxurious London pied a terre in a mews off the Edgware Road near Marble Arch. '“George, my valet, is very discreet,” he assured me as he ushered me through his front door. “He has this wonderful knack of performing all his tasks whilst keeping out of sight. Now why don't you go through to the bedroom, my dear, whilst I lock up.” 'It was some time before he joined me there but I simply assumed he had paid a visit to the bathroom. I wanted to slip between the covers but Neville said: “No, darling, it's a warm night, let's make love on the quilt.” 'So we began kissing and I will readily confess that the way Neville petted me really excited me. He began by touching the edges of my breasts and tracing a big circle around each bosom.

Gradually, he decreased the size of each circle, getting closer and closer to the areoles until finally he reached my erect nipples.

'By now I was so excited that I could feel my pussey moisten and I twisted and turned as he tweaked my titties between his long, tapering fingers. Oh, the feeling was so delicious that I could hardly wait for him to diddle my cunney with his fingers as I reached down and circled my fingers around his swollen cock. '“Suck me, darling,” he breathed. I had no qualms about pleasing him in this fashion, and I swivelled round so that my head was lying on Neville's thigh and my legs were facing the headboard, giving him the opportunity to play with my pussey whilst I leaned over and kissed the fiery uncapped knob of his stiff, twitching prick. 'I had just begun to lick his helmet when I heard a noise outside the door.

“What's that, Neville? It sounded like an intruder.” I gasped.

'“It's nothing, darling, it's just old George pottering around,” he said soothingly. I believed him and so jammed down his foreskin and sucked his shaft into my mouth whilst I toyed with his hairy ballsack.

Henry, I have no wish to boast, but false modesty is as unbecoming as overweening pride so I shall tell you that all my male friends consider me to be an excellent cocksucker and Neville cooed with delight whilst I sucked his thick tadger, sliding my lips up and down his rigid rod. 'Meanwhile, he was sliding his forefinger in and out of my juicy cunt and I was already spending when again I heard sounds from outside. I opened my eyes to discover that Neville and I were not alone! And it was not George, the faithful valet who was responsible for interrupting us but two of Neville's friends from Hurlingham Tennis Club, Desmond Kendall and Gareth Williamson. They were standing in the doorway watching me suck Neville's cock! 'In a flash it came to me that Neville had deliberately left the door on the latch and that the noise I had heard earlier was of these two young men entering the apartment. Both of them had ripped down their trousers and were frigging their big cocks, a sight which both annoyed and yet excited me. I also felt angry, but this was directed not against them but at Neville and it struck me that the best way to pay him back was to give him a taste of his own medicine and let him take the role of a mere spectator whilst I pleasured myself with the two fine-looking penises of Desmond and Gareth. '“Come over here and strip off, you two, don't be shy,” I called out and, nothing loath, the athletic lads tore off their clothes and joined us on the bed.

Gareth was blessed with a gigantic circumcised prick, so incredibly thick that my hand could scarcely reach around it. I made him lie down on his back and, after climbing on top of him, I guided his plump helmet into my squishy love funnel. He filled my cunt up divinely and I stayed still, squatting on his colossal cock whilst I consigned Neville to licking my titties, I asked Desmond if he could stand on the mattress next to me, he correctly guessed what I had in mind and answered hoarsely: “I'll say I can,” and holding my head with one hand, he piloted his prick towards my mouth with the other. 'This was the first time I had fucked and sucked at the same time and what an experience it was to slide up and down on Gareth's enormous stiffie whilst gobbling on Desmond's beefy boner. To cap it all, the two men spent together, and as their spunk coursed into my mouth and pussey, I also climaxed with a huge jolting orgasm. Waves of ecstatic delight swept through me and my cuntal juices flooded my cunt to mix with the creamy jism Gareth had unleashed inside my cunt. 'Neville's cock was now bursting but I pushed him back on the pillow and said: “If you invite people round, you must be a good host and, if necessary be prepared to wait until your guests have finished before tucking into the goodies yourself.” 'I lay down next to Neville and instructed Desmond to lick me out. His tongue was soon at work inside my sopping honeypot, flicking and licking around my pussey lips which swiftly parted to allow him to suck on my swelling clitty. My excitement grew stronger as I lovingly clutched his head, murmuring my approval as his lips pressed against my cunt. He slid his tongue up and around, sucking my clitty. As I ground my slit against his mouth, my love button emerged from its protective sheath and rose up in size like a tiny cock between my cunney lips. 'Desmond flicked it so expertly with his tongue and teeth that I spent very quickly, my pussey juice dousing his face as he eagerly lapped up the sweet flow. '“I'm ready for your cock, Desmond,” I called out and happily his shaft had regained all its former stiffness since he pulled out his dangling tool from my mouth. '“Aaaagh!” I cried as I thrilled to the feel of his wide bell-end sliding straight into my squishy cunt, deeper and deeper as I worked my legs upwards, wrapping them around my back as, slowly and with great deliberation he fucked me with his sinewy truncheon.' Not surprisingly, this stirring narrative had greatly excited me and almost unconsciously I was fondling my own cock as I observed: 'I'll wager that Neville was driven to distraction watching Desmond fuck you.' 'I'll say he was!' Miranda chuckled softly. 'And to make matters worse I grabbed hold of his shaft and only had to wank him off for a few seconds before he spunked all over my fingers! So Neville had to sit back gasping with frustration whilst Desmond fucked me with his beefy truncheon, pumping his prick furiously into my tingling cunney and his heavy balls barging against my bum with every forward thrust. He filled my love funnel with his big cock and gradually built up his speed as his prick pistoned away in and out of my crack. 'When I was ready to spend, an enormous ripple of orgasmic pleasure began to seep through my entire frame and I slid my hand down to squeeze dear Desmond's balls to finish him off. Sure enough, his tool started to twitch and he exploded inside me in a wave of sticky spunk which jetted out of his knob and creamed the walls of my cunney.' Miranda sighed as she concluded: 'It was a somewhat drastic way to take revenge and I have never felt the need to indulge in an orgy since then but I won't deny that I did enjoy being fucked by Gareth and Desmond. 'Do you think I was very wicked, Henry?' I shook my head. 'Not in the slightest.

Carpe them, guam minimum credula postero, eh?' I said lightly, sliding my arm around Miranda's shoulders and pulling her hand down towards my cock which was sticking up like a thick fleshy rod between my thighs.

'Seize today, trusting the morrow as little as you can,' the translated as she slowly fisted my swollen shaft up and down. 'It's getting rather late to begin fucking again, Henry. Perhaps we should order up some supper and then turns out the lights and go to sleep.'

'Why? Are you hungry?' I asked, taking her at her word, although in some surprise because I thought that like Charles and myself, Miranda would have tucked into the splendid buffet at the college reception. She smiled and released my prick to ruffle her fingers through my hair. 'Silly boy, I was just teasing you,' she giggled.

Then her arms went round me and we lay locked together, hugging each other tightly. Then she started to rub herself against me, her erect nipples tracing tiny circles against my chest. She ground herself against my body and I felt the warm friction of the pleasing entanglement of our pubic muffs. My prick found its way unerringly between her thighs and the hairs of her soft, hirsute thatch brushed sensuously against my shaft as she moved backwards and forwards, stroking it to a state of almost painful arousal.

Miranda levered herself up on her arms and looked at me anxiously. 'You don't mind if I go on top, do you? If we fuck this way, I will be able to feel your cock sliding against my clitty.'

'Of course not,' I gasped, and so, without further ado, she lowered herself upon me and my knob slid effortlessly into her warm, wet honeypot until our pubic bushes were again entangled. We stayed stock still, savouring the delicious erotic feel of each other's bodies. Then she-settled so that the cheeks of her lovely bottom pressed down upon the tops of my thighs and my cock throbbed inside her juicy quim when she twitched her shoulders and I watched her superb bare breasts swinging unencumbered above me. I raised my arms and rubbed her erect nipples against my palms. 'M'mmm,' she purred, lifting herself a fraction and leaning forward so that her breasts were now brushing my chest. I slid my hands underneath to fondle the smooth soft orbs and hard rubbery titties. Now Miranda leaned further forward and stuck out her tongue, thrusting it deep inside my mouth. As I began to jerk my hips, moving my cock up and down inside her cunt, so her tongue moved in unison, exploring and probing around my gums. The wetness in my mouth was soon matched by the wetness of Miranda's cunney. I slightly adjusted my position so that I could feel her pussey hair and clitty rubbing along the upper side of my shaft and she responded to my movements, sliding to and fro with little squeals of joy. 'How does that feel?' she breathed as I stretched out my arms to clutch her jiggling bum cheeks, taking control of the pace of this gloriously relaxed fuck, moving Miranda at an easy pace, pulling her down then urging her back up. I sighed with delight at the sensation as her pussey lips opened and closed over my quivering cock. We began to match thrust with counter thrust and suddenly she whispered: 'How would you like to finish me off doggie-style, darling?' 'Yes, please,' I said breathlessly and in an instant she had turned herself over on to her hands and knees and raised her delicious backside high into the air. Cradling her head on her arm, she looked backwards at me through the tunnel of her parted thighs and panted: 'Go on, Henry, fuck the arse off me!' Like her breasts, Miranda's bottom was well divided and I gazed at the puckered ring of her anus and the wider crack of her cunney. Then I let out a short wild laugh when I recalled how the other night whilst we were playing snooker, Julian Clayton had said aloud: 'Well now, old bean, I don't know whether to go for the pink or the brown!' 'Shall I go through the tradesmen's entrance?' I whispered in her ear and Miranda answered: 'If you want to, but first rub some cold cream on your cock, you'll find a pot on the bedside table.' I wrenched open the jar and whilst I smeared the grease on my shaft she said: 'Do go gently, darling, I haven't been bum-fucked for goodness knows how long.'

'Of course I will,' I promised as I parted the soft rounded cheeks of her bottom and placed the tip of my knob at the entrance to the wrinkled little hole. Anxious not to hurt the lovely girl, I slowly inched my way forward until I heard her sharp intake of breath.

'It's all right, it'll get easier in a minute,' I said as I withdrew slightly and then pushed on, easing my way further and further inside the narrow sheath. Miranda strained herself to widen her legs and thus ease my passage. Not wanting to distress her I paused, ready to pull out my prick if need be. But then all at once I felt her relax and I slid all the way into her. My eyes swept down to her jiggling buttocks when she started to ride my shaft, her sphincter sliding to and fro on my rampant rod. The cold cream had lubricated my cock so well that although my shaft was trapped inside Miranda's tight back passage, I could easily ride along with her and I watched in fascination as my shaft appeared and disappeared into Miranda's bum. I slid my arms round her ribs to play with her titties and Miranda rubbed her clitty as she moved her anus up and down on my hot, twitching tool. Then she turned her head and panted: 'Henry, please spend in my cunt or I might not be able to climax.'

'I'll do my level best,' I replied, although I was concerned as to whether I would be able to withdraw in time and shoot my seed into her cunney. Still, I could but try, as deeper and deeper I thrust back and forth inside her arsehole. She moaned and trembled all over as I felt the first sensations of the onrush of spunk shooting up from my balls. Swiftly I pulled out my cock from her bum and, keeping tight control of myself, I managed to stem the tide before sliding my shaft into her soaking honeypot. For both our sakes I was determined to make this lovemaking last for as long as possible in order to savour this grand fuck to the full. Miranda was also enjoying herself hugely and she spread her bum cheeks as far apart as she could so that my cock was able to slew in and out of her quim. But now though, try though I might, I could no longer hold back the flow of spunk from my bursting balls. I drew in a deep breath and plunged into her pussey one more time. 'Aaagh!' I groaned, for as I immersed my shaft inside her sopping cunt, the seed shot out of my knob and creamed her delicious quim with an unstoppable deluge of hot, sticky spunk. She rose up to meet me as I rammed into her in a series of short jabbing strokes, filling her honeypot to overflowing as jet after jet of jism spurted out of my cock and into her crack. 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'

Miranda cried out fiercely as a series of shudders jolted through her until my pace slowed and the last spasms of my spend shook through me.

We collapsed down on to the soft mattress, totally drained by the tremendous amount of energy which we had expended. I kept my promise to Miranda to stay the night with her, but at dawn I steeled myself and instead of giving her a loving morning poke, I quickly washed and dressed myself before waking her up. 'Miranda, I must get back to the college and change,' I whispered in her ear.

'It looks like being a nice bright day so may I call back here at about half past ten and we can take a stroll round the town. Funnily enough, my first tutorial is with your stepbrother, Dr Barnes, but that's not till three o'clock so we can spend the morning together.'

'Thank you, Henry, I'd like that very much,' she said, lifting her cheek from the pillow as I kissed her. 'Be careful though when you leave the hotel. Don't try and creep out as if you have something to hide, but swagger through the foyer and you'll see that no-one will attempt to question you.' 'I hope you're right,' I said with a smile, running my hand across my unshaven chin. 'Good-bye then for now, I shall be back here very soon.' Taking Miranda's advice, I sauntered down the stairs, my head held high. I returned the hall-porter's morning greeting with a curt nod as he swung open the door for me and I walked off briskly down the road. As I write up this entry the wise words of Lizzie Dickerson come to mind. One evening after I had emptied my balls into Lizzie's squelchy cunt, she said to me: 'Henry, fucking is the finest sport of all for a red blooded young man like yourself. However, never forget that every fuck should be different from the last. If you become blase and reach the stage where one fuck is much like another so that afterwards you cannot recall the particular taste of the girl who you fucked, then you should abstain from carnal joys for a time. After this self-imposed break, you will find that you and your next partner will enjoy yourselves much more between the sheets.' Well now, I have been lucky enough to have shagged several delectable girls recently but I am still far from reaching the point where I should be heeding Lizzie Dickerson's warning!

Brasenose College, Oxford, October 3rd, (Before Barnes Lecture) Let me continue where I left off yesterday. After taking a leisurely hot bath, I shaved and changed before going down to breakfast where Charles Farleigh-Windsor was naturally eager to know how far I had progressed with the delectable Miranda. I gave a small smile and said: 'Charles, you'll agree that a gentleman does not even mention the names of the ladies with whom he is involved, let alone brag about his conquests. So please don't ask me to say anything more about Miranda. However, I do believe that she and I will become firm friends. Unfortunately she is leaving Oxford in a few days time.'

'My apologies, old boy, I am well rebuked,' said Charles. Then he chuckled and went on: 'But be a good chap, Henry, and ask her if she has any unattached friends!' I laughed and said: 'Your apology is accepted, my friend. And if you like, I will speak to Miranda and find out the answer to your query but I'm not sure whether you'll strike lucky. In my experience, pretty girls always seem to pair up with less attractive ones.' Charles nodded his agreement and said thoughtfully: 'Yes, I've noticed that too. At first I thought that perhaps the pretty girls did this deliberately to accentuate their beauty, but then one evening my brother Andrew and I were introduced to a brace of girls at a party, one of whom I thought was exquisite and the other, well, I know this will sound unkind but to my eyes she was frankly very plain. 'But Andrew thought the stunning girl rather ugly and found the plain one to be exquisite! And then it dawned on me that rarely will two chaps see the same girl in the same light, because it really is true that one man's meat is another man's – de gustibus non est disputandum.' 'No, there is no accounting for taste,' I agreed. Then we forgot about the other sex and joined in a fierce debate which was taking place between some other undergraduates at the table about the morality of the war in South Africa. 'I'll warrant that Kit Barnes is a pro-Boer,' drawled a tall, nattily-dressed youth with a spotty face. 'If I'm right, I shall let him know what I think of him this afternoon.' 'Quite right, Claude, in any case we all know that the man is an out and out cad,' agreed the fellow sitting next to him. But this only led to fresh outbursts of violent disagreement. Tempers became so hot that a free fight broke out between the spotty youth and his ally and a fair-haired burly chap. Thankfully, Charles cleverly prevented mayhem by smashing a plate on a table leg. The noise immediately distracted the attention of the combatants and Charles shouted: 'Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Remember where you are! This is a University not the public bar in a saloon.' I backed up my friend and called out: 'Free speech for all! For both those against, those who support and those who don't give a fuck about the Boers!' Although the Boer War is an important matter about which I would not normally speak so light-heartedly, I had hoped to cool the situation by making a serious point in a jocular fashion. Indeed, my words succeeded in dousing this over-heated argument, though from the manner in which the two groups snarled at each other whilst they filed out of the dining-hall it bodes ill for a peaceful settlement of this conflict.

Charles and I strode out of the hall and there parted company, he to his rooms to prepare for this afternoon's meeting with Dr Barnes and me to walk briskly back to the Randolph Hotel for my appointment with Miranda. She was waiting for me in the foyer. In the presence of strangers, she greeted me in a suitably chaste fashion by shaking my hand as she said: 'How nice to see you again, Mr. Dashwood.

Are you sure you have enough time to come sight-seeing with me this morning?' 'Of course, Miss Franklin,' I replied for the benefit of anyone else in the vicinity. 'I'm looking forward to our walk tremendously especially as I have yet to see much of the town myself.'

Oxford is an ideal city for the pedestrian and its centre is packed with memorable medieval buildings and other places of interest.

Our first stop was to make a brief visit to the Ashmolean Museum in Beaumont Street, the oldest museum in the country which was rehoused in its imposing building in 1845. Then we ambled down some of the town's prettiest streets past Merton, St Edmund Hall and Exeter colleges until we found ourselves approaching Magdalen, probably the most beautiful college of all, its tower a striking sight for visitors entering Oxford from the south. It is extremely pleasant to saunter through the cloisters, but the chief attraction is the deer park. We strolled through Addison's Walk and over the small bridge into the Fellows' garden where we admired the small ornamental lake.

The autumn sunshine was exceptionally bright and warm for the time of year which made our walk even more agreeable, but we decided that as our time was limited, we would take morning coffee in a nearby cafe and then finish the morning with a trip to see the famous Bodleian Library in Broad Street. We looked at the exquisitely vaulted fifteenth century divinity school which houses some of the library's greatest treasures. On the way out I left Miranda in the quadrangle whilst I went into the gentleman's washroom to relieve myself. I record this trifling fact because on the wall of the urinal some wicked undergraduate had penned the following erudite graffiti:

Apud Rege tutor veteramus Puellaria odit profanus Semper optandus Pueri sperandus Gellifactus in si His anus. And underneath that ode another hand had scrawled: There was a young rector from Kings, Whose mind was on heavenly things, But his heart was on fire For a boy in the choir Whose bum was like jelly on springs.

I gave a hearty chuckle as I buttoned my flies and walked out into the quadrangle where I saw Miranda chatting away happily to a craggy, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties. Who was this interloper, I wondered crossly? But when I reached them Miranda gave my arm a friendly squeeze and said to her companion: 'Kit, this is Henry Dashwood, the young man whom I met at the reception last night.

He has offered to escort me around town this morning. Henry, I would like you to meet my stepbrother, Kit Barnes.' 'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dashwood,' said Dr Barnes. 'I trust you will take good care of my young sister. 'But of course,' I replied, shaking hands with the controversial lecturer. 'Er, we'll meet again at three o'clock, sir, as I happen to be one of your students this term.'

'Oh yes, of course. I remember your name now. Let me see, haven't you come here from the Albion Academy in Kent? Well, young man, in my opinion your former headmaster, Malcolm Muttley, runs one of the few civilised public schools in the country.' I smiled and said: 'He is of a liberal disposition, sir, but I don't know whether he would subscribe to all your radical ideas.' 'I doubt if he would,' he agreed. 'But old Muttley would certainly have the courtesy to listen to what I had to say and if necessary argue his corner afterwards.

Regretfully, this is not the case even amongst some of my fellow academics who simply try to shout me down when an emotive subject like the Boer War is under discussion.' 'How typical! I'm afraid that this is also true of a boorish group of your freshers,' said Miranda, shaking her head in disgust. 'Henry told me earlier that some of them came to fisticuffs this morning.' Dr Barnes gave a gruff laugh and, giving me a large wink, he remarked: 'Then I must certainly try to be particularly provocative this afternoon. Henry, can I rely on your support if the hooligan element attempts to silence me?' 'Of course, sir. He clapped me on the back and cried out: 'Capital!

Capital! I'll see you later then, but I must now be off and revise my notes for this afternoon's lecture. Oh, if you two would like to look round the Bodleian, you may borrow my reading ticket. Don't worry, the old dodderers in there won't ask you for any identification and there won't be any problem smuggling in Miranda as your research assistant.'

The sky had suddenly clouded over, so we gratefully accepted his offer and went inside where Miranda led the way to the public reading room. 'Henry, did you know that except for the Vatican, the Bodleian has the largest collection of erotic literature in Europe?'

Miranda murmured as we stood in a quiet corner. 'It would be a pity to miss the opportunity of browsing through some gallant stories whilst we have the chance.' 'I say, do you think they will allow us to look at any forbidden material?' I said, my voice filling with excitement. 'Well, we can but ask,' Miranda said. Unfortunately we were informed that one needed a special ticket to peruse books in the special section of the library. However, as we turned away from his table, the attendant called us back and said: 'Just a minute, sir. There is a annexe nearby where we store some of the more recent naughty books which have yet to be filed. You could browse for a bit in there, if only it weren't kept locked.' It was not difficult to understand what he had in mind. 'Does half a sovereign unlock it?'

I asked, fishing out the money from my pocket. 'That it would, sir, so long as you promise to give back the key by one o'clock,' he replied with a smirk as he pocketed the half-sov which I slid across the desk to him. We made our way to the small room where there were certainly some exciting books crammed on the shelves. I turned over some pages of In My Lady's Boudoir: A Journal of Voluptuous Reading edited by Sir Horace Shackleton and A Lady of Quality, whilst Miranda giggled over a copy of The Amorous Adventures of a Photographer's Model by Jacques de Clare. I peered over Miranda's shoulders to gaze upon one of the plates in her book. This was of an exquisitely beautiful, naked girl of no more than eighteen years-old standing with her arms at her side, looking sensuously at her reflection in a long cheval mirror. The photograph had been taken at a slight angle so one could see both the front and back of this stunning beauty whose fair, naturally curly hair fell over her shoulders like a shower of golden rain and her bottom was a perfect peach, the chubby cheeks well proportioned and eminently pinchable.

'Isn't she absolutely gorgeous?' remarked Miranda. I grunted my agreement whilst my cock swiftly swelled up to a steel-like hardness as I scrutinised the girl's firm, ripe breasts. Her erect nipples looked particularly succulent but my cock started to throb to bursting point when I switched my gaze to the thatch of hair around her prominent pussey lips. Thickly curled, the hirsute fleece had grown into a delicious triangle over her mound, so neatly formed that I wondered whether she had trimmed it. Miranda turned the page and we both gasped when we looked at the next plate in which the pretty wench was shown on her knees in front of the mirror but this time she had been joined by a naked young man of about my age or perhaps even a year or two my junior, who stood sideways to the girl, his prick standing as stiff as a poker from out of his luxuriantly thick black bush. Over the page, the next photograph showed his cock in close up with the girl's lips closed over the rubicund helmet and her hands caressing his hairy balls. Further plates showed the couple in all sorts of sensual poses. My favourite set were those which showed them in bed, and the best of all was that of the girl on her back with her legs either side of the boy who was sliding his thick cock between the pink lips of her cunney whilst his hands squeezed her pert, rounded breasts. '“Well, that's a different way of looking at it,” as the fly said when it landed on a mirror,' I remarked as Miranda shut the book and returned it to the shelves.

She chuckled and said: 'H'm, it seems obvious that a photographer's model leads a far more exciting life than that of someone like me who poses for avant garde artists like Elisha Withington.' Then she turned round and slid her hand between my legs and giving my stiff shaft a quick rub, she said huskily: 'I'm not surprised that you're feeling horny after looking at those pictures.

My pussey is as moist as if I'd been frigging myself for the last few minutes. In fact I think I'll take off my knickers. They're so wet I'll catch a chill if I keep them on.' Miranda hitched up her skirts and in a trice her drawers were around her ankles. She looked me straight in the eye and said: 'Dear me, Henry, you're somewhat slow off the mark this morning. The door is locked so pull down your trousers and let me suck your cock – what are you waiting for?'

What indeed! In my haste, I ripped off two buttons from my flies, but then Miranda was on her knees tugging my underpants down to the ground. I growled with unslaked desire and clutched her shoulders as she swirled her darting wet tongue over my uncapped knob before licking every inch of my stiff shaft from tip to base and back again.

Delicious stabs of desire ran through my body as she sucked my cock and I moaned in frustration when I realised that the spunk was already about to shoot up from my balls. But Miranda sensed this and prudently took her sweet lips away for a few moments. Then she returned to the attack as she slicked her tongue along the sensitive underside of my aching penis, making my tool throb with an ever-increasing urgency. She clasped my cock in her fist and bobbed her head up and down my beefy shaft until I could no longer contain myself. My lusty tool pulsed in her mouth as I let out a hoarse cry and jetted spurts of salty warm jism down her throat, and Miranda continued to milk my prick to the utmost, swallowing every drop of my copious emission. She purred with satisfaction and planted a swift series of butterfly kisses along the shaft of my gleaming cock which had lost only a small proportion of its thick stiffness. “That was delicious, Henry, your manly essence has such a fresh, tangy taste. I'm afraid there's only room for what I believe is commonly known as a knee-trembler but what would you say to a quick little fuck?' 'Yes, please,' I stammered. Miranda gave a throaty chuckle. 'Good, I fancy one too,' she replied as she unhooked her skirt, Standing against a stack of books which reached up to the ceiling she pulled me towards her and sank her wicked wet tongue into my mouth. Then she slid her fist around my cock and rubbed it up till it was again standing fully erect and guided it between the lips of her hairy pussey. My senses reeled as our bodies rocked sinuously together whilst I pounded in and out of her juicy cunt, my hands clasping her delicious bum cheeks as we lost ourselves in the passion of this wild coupling. Alas, I could not wait till Miranda achieved her climax and with a low groan I flooded her honeypot with my spermatic libation. My cock was in no condition to perform a third time so I finished off the dear girl with my fingers. Also, I must confess that in the heat of the moment, we knocked over a small pile of books and a mix of my spunk and Miranda's cuntal liquids left large wet marks on the front cover of a reprint of the early eighteenth century classic, Fanny Hill. We could hardly report the damage, and as Miranda later said to me with a giggle, at least the stains were from appropriate sources! When we had dressed ourselves, I unlocked the door and we made our way back to the attendant where I gave him back the key. 'Thank you, sir. I can see it was worth the money,' he leered, looking down at my groin, Following his look, I realised with no little horror that a third button must have joined its fellows in the annexe and that although my cock was not swinging free, my drawers could be seen through the gap at the front of my trousers. Miranda was quick witted enough to come to my rescue by snatching a raincoat from a cloakstand. 'Put this on,' she ordered.

'As soon as we get back to your rooms, you can change and then come straight back here and return the raincoat to its rightful owner. If necessary, you can always apologise and say that you slipped it on by mistake. But with any luck, he'll never even know that you've borrowed it.' And she was right. Thankfully, the gentleman whose raincoat I filched from the Bodleian Library never knew that his garment had been borrowed for a mission of mercy. No accusing hand was laid on my shoulder after I hung up the coat again on the stand and with a huge sigh of relief, I ran back to Miranda who was waiting for me in the quadrangle. 'Mission accomplished, ma'am,' I grinned. There was just time for me to take Miranda to Mrs. Clark's Tea Rooms for a celebratory fight luncheon of mulligatawny soup, cold roast beef and salad and a rhubarb tart, for I had no wish to miss a minute of her stepbrothers' first lecture of the term. 'You must hurry back to college, Henry,' said Miranda as we rose from our table. 'But I'm in no hurry so I shall visit the Sheldonian Theatre which is only two minutes' away from here. Then I'm very happy to stroll back to the hotel by myself.' 'Very well, but can we meet again this evening?' I asked. But she shook her head. 'I'm afraid not, my dear, Kit is squiring me to some important party. However, I'm free tomorrow night, and I insist that you come to dinner at the Randolph as my guest. I'll send a note round confirming this later today.

Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy Kit's lecture, you must tell me all about it tomorrow might.'*** Diary, it did not immediately strike me what a novel idea Miranda was proposing – after all, who has ever heard of a girl taking a boy out for a meal! Anyhow, I have accepted her offer and am greatly anticipating the 'dessert'.

Brasenose College, Oxford, October 4th, 1901 (After breakfast) There was a buzz of excitement in the air when Kit Barnes walked into the lecture room to meet his batch of first year undergraduates who were taking his course in current political philosophy. I arrived ten minutes early to bag a seat in the front row and I noticed that two groups had formed around the tall, spotty-faced youth (to whom I readily admit I have already taken an instant dislike) and the burly, blond chap. They are clearly the leaders of the factions who are respectively in favour and against the continuation of the Boer War. Charles Farleigh-Windsor sat down next to me and whispered: 'Hello there, Henry. Where have you been, old bean? The atmosphere hasn't really cooled down since earlier, but I'm damned if I'm getting involved again if some bloody idiots start any trouble. 'You can see for yourself how Maurice FitzAllen and his cohorts from the Imperialist Society are already spoiling for a fight, and that fair-faired fellow Johnny Tomlinson and the pro-Boers won't run from one either. Johnny was the vice-captain of the English Schoolboys rugby team and the bloke with the goatee beard on his right is Paul Adler, the son of the Liberal MP for Whitechapel, who I know has already been pencilled in to represent Oxford in the Universities boxing tournament.' “The boxing ring would be a far more suitable venue to settle their disagreements if they cannot debate the issue like civilised human beings,' I commented sourly, for at heart I am a peaceable soul and dislike violence so much that I never even swished any of the cheeky young fags during my year as a house prefect at Albion Academy. Here let me digress briefly to state that I agree whole-heartedly with the American idea of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness and I make no apology in stating that I am allied to a philosophy of live and let live. My unashamedly hedonistic happiness lies in good food, jolly companions – and as many pretty girls as possible who I can persuade to share my bed! I said as much to Charles who chuckled and said: 'So you think if only we all looked after own business and didn't interfere with others, the world would be a better place, h'm? This might not sound unreasonable at first sight, but I'm afraid I can't agree with you. For a start, not everyone is as easy-going and kind as you, and if everyone followed your path, too many people would duck out of their obligations towards their fellow citizens.' It was not to my credit that I sarcastically observed: 'My goodness, this is a somewhat strange, socialistic argument to be propounded by a scion of the Farleigh-Windsors, one of the oldest and respected families in the county of Herefordshire.' Indeed, I was then going to apologise for the unfair comment when Dr Barnes entered the room and the buzz of conversation died down as he strode to the lectern. There was a collective intake of breath as Dr Barnes cleared his throat, but he began mildly enough and opened by welcoming us to his course. Truth to tell his fifty minute lecture on conventions of the unwritten British Constitution caused not a murmur of discontent from his audience.

However, the fireworks began when he asked if there were any questions we wished to put to him. Maurice FitzAllen rose to his feet and said in a sneering voice: 'And just what are your views on our brave soldiers fighting the Boer terrorists in South Africa?' Dr Barnes looked hard at the pimply-faced youth with barely concealed contempt and then said: 'I'll answer the question and ignore the impolite manner in which it was asked and despite the fact that the matter has little to do with the subject of my lecture. But I will answer it on a once and for all basis. After this afternoon, I will hear no more of the rights and wrongs of the South African campaign.'

I am sure that he felt the electrically-charged atmosphere in the room for he proceeded to speak carefully, weighing his words, trying his best not to inflame the deep divisions which he was aware already existed between his students. At first we listened in silence as he said: 'Contrary to what some of you might have read, I am not one of those people who believe that the Boers are merely simple, brave farmers who are lighting to protect their homeland against aggressive British imperialists. President Kruger, who as you know, has fled to Europe to drum up support for the Boers on the Continent, is an obstinate and reactionary old fool who has led his people up a blind alley. 'On the other hand, the case against the Boers has been over-stated and our interests are far from being in the welfare of the natives or our own colonists, but far more about the diamonds and gold waiting to be extracted from the South African mines! Now, like it or not, de Wet is a thorn in our side and my opinion is that it would not only be morally right, but less expensive in lives and property on both sides, to reach some kind of accommodation with him.' So far, he was heard with only a subdued rumbling from the two camps but then he paused to take a sip from a glass of water and went on: 'For not only has the policy proved unsuccessful, but Lord Kitchener's policy of herding Boer women and children into concentration camps is unworthy of the British Empire. It is a stain upon our national character and I bitterly regret that Joseph Chamberlain and the Government have played the familiar gambit of rushing out troops and then denouncing any reasonable opposition to the conflict as treachery.' 'It is treachery!' snorted Maurice FitzAllen loudly.

'Down with the pro-Boers! Hurrah for our gallant fads risking their lives on the Veldt!' Dr Barnes shook his head sadly. 'I don't think there is any point in continuing the discussion,' he commented.

'If you believe my country right or wrong then all I can say is that genuinely I feel sorry for you, for as Chesterton trenchantly argues, “my country right or wrong” is a thing no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying, “my mother, drunk or sober”! This sally made the pro-Boer party burst into applause and may well have won over many of the neutrals. However, Maurice FitzAllen was so infuriated that he gathered his books together and stormed out of the lecture-hall, stopping only at the door to shout: 'God save the King!' For a second time this day Charles defused the situation, for he could not refrain from calling back: 'What has he got to do with it? The monarchy is supposed to be above politics and anyhow, Teddy is probably more concerned about getting his leg over Mrs. Keppel!' This caused a howl of laughter from all but the most rabid of FitzAllen's supporters who silently followed their leader out of the room. Dr Barnes looked up at the clock on the wall and said: 'I think this would be a good moment to close these proceedings. Thank you for your attention, gentlemen, I look forward to seeing you here again next week.' A smiling chap came over to Charlie and offered his congratulations on the way he had helped make FitzAllen look so foolish. He clapped him on the back and said: 'Many thanks for helping Dr Barnes to see off FitzAllen, he's a nasty piece of work and deserves all the ridicule that can be heaped upon him. I don't think we've met, have we? My name's Joshua Allen.'

Charles and I shook his preferred hand. 'Henry Dashwood, I said. 'My own feeling is that we should give this bastard a taste of his own medicine,' opined Johnny, but I sided with Charles when he said that this would merely be descending to FitzAllen's level.

Then Joshua snapped his fingers and said excitedly: 'I have it!

Let's face it, there is nothing that deflates a bully as much as ridicule. Well, I have a plan which will make the cad look so silly that he will hardly dare show his face around the college for weeks.'

I said: 'That sounds like a good idea to me, Joshua. What's your plan?' He stroked his chin and said thoughtfully: 'I'll explain my scheme, but it will all depend upon Rosamund whether we can pull it off.' 'Rosamund? Hey, you don't mean our maidservant, do you?' exclaimed Charlie. The girl who cleans our rooms? She's an attractive young lass and I've fancied my chances of taking down her knickers.'

Joshua wagged a reproving finger at Charlie and said: 'You must know, I have already fucked Rosamund, although I shouldn't really tell anyone about it because I've just been accepted for membership of the Jim-Jam Club and it's a cardinal rule that members do not talk about who they have had in their beds. Unless, of course, they have contracted any nasty infections in which case, the offending partner's name is posted up on a board next to the ground floor elevator. So I feel guilty about disclosing the fact I fucked Rosamund last night and she expects me to do so again this evening.' 'You lucky beggar!' said Charlie wistfully. 'I must confess that I had my beady eyes on her.' Joshua gave a small smile. 'Well, if I misjudge the situation, Rosamund might tell me to get lost and look for some other fresher to fuck her,' he said with a small smile. 'Anyhow, either way, I think you might be in with a good chance because she hinted last night that she might like to take part in a threesome.' 'Share and share alike, eh?' said Charlie with interest, but then his face fell. 'Oh, stop pulling my leg, Johnny, girls might play that kind of game in 'horn' books, but never in real life.' (Of course, the sensuous night of fucking I had enjoyed less than a week ago with Julian Clayton immediately came to mind and I said to Johnny: 'Forgive my butting in, old chap, but I must contradict you.') Then I proceeded to give Johnny and Charlie chapter and verse of the sensational fucking Julian and I had enjoyed with horny Harriet, I finished by asking Joshua if, in his opinion, this girl Rosamund was randy enough to take part in a similar exercise. 'Gosh, yes, she is quite uninhibited,' he enthused. 'I suppose from the way I had been speaking to Rosamund, she knew I was keen on her. But it was still very forward of her to act as she did last night – not that I am making any complaint about her behaviour, you understand! I had decided to have a warm bath before dinner last night, and as I had time to spare, I lay down on the bed to read the newspaper.

Unfortunately – or rather fortunately as it turned out – I fell asleep and there I was lying bollock naked on my eiderdown when Rosamund came in to turn down the sheets. 'Anyway, I was deep in the arms of Morpheus when I was wakened by someone gently shaking my shoulder. I opened my eyes and frankly I thought I must still be dreaming, for standing there beside me was Rosamund, stark naked except for a pair of tight white knickers, and she was smiling at me as she said: 'Wake up, mister, it's time for your dinner-time treat.' 'I gazed at her beautiful creamy breasts which were tipped by two erect tawny titties and my cock was already thickening when she slowly pulled off her knickers and ran her fingers through her furry thatch of pussey hair. 'May I join you?' she enquired. Not waiting for an answer, she slithered onto the bed and wrapped her hand round my rock-hard stiffie and said: 'M'mm, I don't see many pricks like this around the college.' 'What on earth did she mean by that?' asked Charlie with a puzzled frown. 'Can't you guess?' replied Joshua with a grin. I chuckled and said: 'I think I know the answer. It must have been her first encounter with a circumcised cock.' Joshua nodded and continued: 'Spot on, Henry, she was fascinated by my prick.

Clearly, Rosamund had never been fucked by an undergraduate of the Jewish or Islamic persuasions.' 'Was she concerned about your lack of a foreskin?' I enquired. 'No, far from it. To be honest, Rosamund was rather taken with my cock and she dipped her head down to kiss my knob which was already quivering in anticipation of joys to come,' he replied. The way in which his lips widened into a smile at the sweet memory of the moment led me to remark that although Rosamund had never viewed a circumcised cock before, I was sure that she had taken several shafts in her cunney and doubtless other orifices too! He grinned and said: 'Oh yes, I could tell Rosamund was highly experienced from the wonderful sucking off to which she treated me. She started by licking and lapping around my shaft and worked her tongue down to my balls. Then she moved her head upwards to my helmet, slowly tracing hot, wet kisses which soon brought me to the very edge of a spend. Her magic tongue swished around my knob, savouring its spongy texture and her teeth scraped my skin so deliciously as she drew my cock in between her luscious lips, sucking from top to base and back again. 'Every time Rosamund sensed I was on the verge of spunking she would deliberately let up, intentionally prolonging our mutual enjoyment, until I could take no more teasing and I pulled her over me. My throbbing tool pushed against her hairy muff as she straddled me and I took her pert breasts in my hands and kissed her erect, rubbery titties. Then she lifted herself slightly over my straining cock and let out a sigh of satisfaction as her slippery pussey lips stretched over my shaft when she pushed herself down over my groin. She threw back her head and sighed with joy as she rocked up and down on my prick, and I must say that Rosamund rode me magnificently, keeping up the pace until she cried out with the force of her climax. Seconds after, I jerked my hips upwards and filled her cunney to overflowing with my thick spurts of jism. Then after we had rested, she kissed my cock-' 'That's enough, we all have the picture,' said Charlie a little acidly. 'But where does this girl fit into your plan to see off Maurice FitzAllen?'

'Ah, I'm just coming to that,' answered Joshua Charles, 'didn't I see your name on the paper the Camera Club put up on the Common Room wall for people to sign if they want to attend their meeting next Wednesday evening?' 'You mean for the lecture by Richard Hawton, the famous cinematographer?' he answered. 'Yes, I wouldn't want to miss that, especially as Mr. Hawton is going to show us his exciting new film on the Sussex Downs.' Paul nodded with satisfaction and continued: 'I'll see you there, Charles, and I agree with you that Richard Hawton is one of the most talented film-makers in the country.

Now I'll wager that you yourself possess some skill as a photographer?' 'Well, I can do more than take a snapshot with a Brownie, though I'm hardly in Richard Hawton's league,' said Charles modestly. 'But why do you ask?' 'For the very simple reason that Rosamund is an exhibitionist,' explained Joshua, grinning from ear to ear. 'We were talking about our likes and dislikes after our fuck, and when I mentioned how keen I was on photography, Rosamund said that she would love to have her photograph taken for one of the rude magazines she finds hidden in many of the students' bedrooms. '“I'm proud of my body and I enjoy flaunting it,” Rosamund said to me. “So I would be happy for you if you wanted to send my picture to The Cremorne. And it's not just for the five pounds fee that I'd get for it, either.

Between you and me, the thought of lots of young fellows wanking over my pictures makes me really excited.'” Before he could continue, I burst out laughing for by this time, I had guessed what was going through Joshua's mind and I chuckled: 'Carry on. I'll volunteer to develop the prints. “Thanks, Henry,' he replied gratefully. 'I'll take up your kind offer if we can persuade Rosamund to co-operate and get the scheme off the ground.' Charlie scratched his head and said: 'Joshua, I'm sorry if I appear dense, but I'm still not clear exactly what you have in mind.' 'Well, very simply we're going to inveigle Mr. FitzAllen into having his photograph taken without his knowledge,' explained Paul. 'And the snapshots won't be of the kind he would want to send home to his parents for they will show him in flagrante delicto with the lovely Rosamund – and the kind of photograph I have in mind won't show him as a rampaging stud. One doesn't always look one's best during rumpy-pumpy. As the old song goes:

Fucking is a silly thing, It makes a man a fool, It takes away his appetite And wears away his tool!'

'We had better not go too far, as if by chance they fall into the wrong hands, we don't want to get the poor fellow rusticated,'

Charles commented. Of course Joshua and I both agreed that we would only circulate pictures which made Maurice look ridiculous as opposed to any which could get him into trouble with the University authorities. 'Heaven help him if his bum's as spotty as his face,' said Joshua thoughtfully. 'I almost feel sorry for the poor bugger. On the other hand, he'll be getting laid for his pains and he does deserve to have the bumptiousness extracted from him.'

Brasenose College, Oxford, October 10th, 1901

As Joshua forecast, it was not difficult to persuade Rosamund to fall in with his scheme to bring about the downfall of Maurice FitzAllen, especially when he promised her that should he not be able to sell the photographs to The Cremorne or The Oyster, he would himself give her the five pounds which these spicy magazines paid for photographs published in them. Nevertheless, it took the best part of a week before we were ready to set the trap. The setting was to be Maurice FitzAllen's room which luckily happened to be south facing and was thus flooded by natural light on a bright day. To ensure success, we waited until the weather was right and then on the Tuesday the sun came out and both Joshua and I were deputed to hide in Charles's room, myself on top of his wardrobe armed with a Kodak box camera and Joshua wedged behind the curtains with a Gewirtz Waistcoat camera on a chain round his neck. Charles was somewhat sceptical about our ability to pull it off, but I had little doubt that the plan would succeed. The mechanics were simple enough – Rosamund would collar Maurice when he returned to his room after breakfast (Joshua and I would rise early and leave the dining-hall soon after Maurice appeared there) and proceed to seduce him whilst Joshua and I snapped away. So this is how I came to find myself perched precariously on top of a wardrobe waiting for the arrival of the unsuspecting Maurice and the saucy chambermaid. At least I did not have too long to think about any injuries I might sustain if I fell to the floor. For within five minutes of my clambering up to my eyrie, I heard voices in the corridor outside and Joshua whispered: 'Here we go, Henry, action stations!' Seconds later the door was flung open and Rosamund came in with Maurice in tow. They both appeared to he agitated and I noticed she was holding a magazine in her hand whilst I listened to her complain: 'I'm not fibbing, Mr. FitzAllen, I found this rude magazine under your bed!' She unrolled it and I craned forward to see the title page of The Chameleon before she opened it out and said disparagingly: 'I wouldn't mind, but this is a paper for nancy boys.

What's the matter with you, sir, isn't a cunt good enough for you?'

At first I had thought that Rosamund was making up a story but Maurice FitzAllen's face had now coloured up a bright red and there was not a trace of the usual aggressive bluster in his voice when he answered humbly: 'I don't really know, Rosamund, I've never actually done anything more than spoon with a girl at a party.' The chambermaid rolled her eyes and groaned: 'Oh Gawd, not another poor refugee from one of those awful schools where the masters will flog you for looking at a photo of a ballet girl but look the other way at what goes on in the dormitory after lights out.' 'I'm not a woofter,' protested Maurice heatedly. 'Although what you say was definitely true of St Cuthbert's College. In fact, that magazine was sent to me by the school chaplain Reverend Herbert Fotheringay who used to come into the dormitory every night and inspect our pricks to make sure we weren't playing with ourselves off under the bedclothes.

Anyone who he caught tossing off he marched off to the chapel where the fellow had to dip his cock into a bowl of holy water and occasionally the chaplain would-' 'There's no need for you to go on,' Rosamund interrupted with a shudder of disgust and she went on: 'Obviously it's high time that you were given the opportunity to appreciate the delights of the female form.' She tore up the copy of The Chameleon and began to undo the buttons at the front of her dress. 'Now let's see which way the wind is blowing,' she said throatily as she pulled off her blouse. Seconds later Rosamund's skirt and knickers were on the floor, and after she had pulled her chemise over her head, she stood before Maurice in all her naked glory. I had felt some pity for Maurice when he had confessed his inexperience in l'arte de faire l'amour, but now these feelings were rapidly supplanted by those of envy as I peered at Rosamund's delicious nude body through the viewfinder of my camera. She stood before me like a statue crafted by a master sculptor that had come magically to life. Below her mop of tousled brown hair and pretty face, her creamy white skin looked to be of an incredible smoothness and her beautiful breasts stood out proudly. As Paul had said when he described his telling, the furry mass of curls between Rosamund's thighs contrasted perfectly with the snowy whiteness of her belly and formed a perfect veil over her long, pouting slit. Maurice gaped at the nubile, naked girl, standing stock still as if bound in a hypnotic trance. A lascivious smile formed upon Rosamund's lips and then she said softly: 'Well, as the poker player said to his opponent: “I've shown you mine, so you show me yours.'” But Maurice remained rooted to the spot, to she moved towards him and, slipping his jacket off his shoulders, kissed him on his lips. This broke the spell. Realising that he was being given a golden opportunity to lose his virginity, Maurice began to undress himself at record speed. I was so intrigued by what was happening that I had quite forgotten to take any photographs until I heard a faint-dick of a shutter from Paul Adler's direction. I adjusted the focus and when Maurice tugged down his drawers I took Kodak's advice: 'You press the button, we do the rest.' My first shot was of Maurice standing bollock naked with his cock standing stiffly upwards pointing to the ceiling. I had thought this first click would be enough for him to cotton on to the trick but he was obviously too preoccupied to notice. Frankly, his member was thick enough but was definitely on the shortish size and at best could not have measured more than five inches in length. His shaft appeared to be in fine working order but his lack of inches was clearly on his mind for he said to Rosamund in a self-pitying whine: 'This is all I have to offer, I'm afraid, go on, you can laugh at my little prick, I don't care.' She frowned as she slid her fingers round his tool and carefully inspected his stiffie. 'What's so funny about your tadger? There's nothing unusual about it as far as I can make out.'

'Oh, don't fib! I know it's bloody small. I was given the booby prize in every thick prick competition we had at St Cuthbert's from the third form onwards,' he said bitterly. Rosamund shook her head sadly. 'You are in a bad state,' she said with a sigh. 'Why are you silly men so obsessed about the size of your cocks? Like everything else in this world, it's quality, not quantity that counts, you chump. I won't deny that the sight of a whopping great cock could well make my pussey tingle. But then I've had a fair number of cocks up me and the best fuck I've ever had was from a lieutenant in the West Oxfordshire Rifles whose prick was probably smaller than yours.

As the Yankees say, it isn't the size of the ship that counts, it's the motion of the ocean!' I had to force myself to stay silent because a loud 'Hear, Hear' was already welling up in my throat. As Julian Clayton once remarked to me, ask any man if he would like another two inches of cock and out of a hundred, ninety-nine would reply in the affirmative. Still, Maurice FitzAllen was about to be shown in a practical physical manner that the size of his equipment was unimportant so long as both the people involved in the fuck are in receptive mood. 'Don't be shy,' said Rosamund as she climbed on to the bed. 'There's nothing wrong with your cock that a good fuck won't put right.' Maurice looked goggle-eyed as the salacious young miss lay naked on his eiderdown her legs spread wide open; one hand fingering her hairy muff, the other caressing her bosoms, tweaking one and then the other tawny tittie up to a fine erection.

Then, with a hoarse cry, he leaped upon her and I watched Rosamund guide his cock into the slippery entrance of her love channel. I lined up a camera to take in Maurice's quivering bum cheeks as he trembled with the emotion of his rite of passage into manhood.

However, to my surprise – and no doubt to Rosamund's – Maurice lay motionless upon the girl. Indeed I soon heard her enquire a trifle crossly: 'What's the matter, Mr. FitzAllen, don't tell me that fucking doesn't appeal to you!' 'Oh no, it's wonderful, it's what I've wanted to do for years,' he stammered nervously. 'Please don't laugh though, but I'm not certain what to do next.' Rosamund suppressed a smile and I rolled on the film to take another photograph as she replied: 'It's very easy, my dear. Just push your prick in and out of my pussey until you feel you're ready to spunk. Then you must pull out your cock immediately and spend over my tummy because this isn't the best time of the month for me to be fucked even if I had some linseed oil handy.' I snapped the couple again as she slid her hands down his back to clasp his bum cheeks and he now needed no further encouragement as her hips rose to welcome his thrusting tool. What Maurice lacked in experience, he certainly made up for in enthusiasm, bouncing up and down on Rosamund as she clutched his jerking bottom.

'Aaaagh!' gasped Maurice as he plunged deeper and deeper, delighting for the very first time in the ecstatic pleasure of having his cock being caressed inside a sticky, wet cunt. 'Slowly!

Slowly! You don't have a train to catch!' cried out Rosamund. 'Try and hold back till I'm ready to spend.' However, this set him off at an even faster pace and she was forced to cling to him, bucking her hips urgently so as not to be left behind. This will make a good snap, I muttered under my breath, as Maurice's cock popped out of her cunney and slid crazily across her belly, squirting a tribute of sticky spunk into the whorl of Rosamund's navel, just as I pressed the button to take another photograph. She grabbed hold of his spurting length, milking Maurice's cock of the last drains of white seed and said: 'That was very good for a beginner, Mr. FitzAllen. I'm glad to see your cock is still quite thick. I'm sure that if I suck your shaft it will soon be as hard as iron again. I suppose this will be a new experience for you as well?' But Maurice hung his head and said: 'Not exactly. When I was in the fourth form, Reverend Fotheringay used to lick our cocks. 'I wouldn't worry too much about what your parson did,' said Rosamund as she took Maurice's thickening tool in her hands. She hauled herself up and rested her head on his thigh and began to tease his uncapped bell-end by running the tip of her tongue around the ridges of the springy helmet, whilst at the same time she manipulated his balls through the soft wrinkled skin of his scrotum.

It was soon clear that Joshua had not been guilty of exaggeration when he had commented so favourably upon Rosamund's skills as a fellatrice. I took the last shot on my roll of film whilst I watched the chambermaid give a few hard sucks on Maurice's meaty shaft. Then she pulled it from her lips and I could see the pre-cum oozing out of his mushroomed knob whilst Rosamund delicately flicked her tongue along his shaft. His face was contorted with delicious agony as she slurped with undisguised lust upon his twitching tool and when she judged that he was ready to ejaculate a second spermatic libation, she began to swallow in anticipation. Sure enough, Maurice let out a hoarse yelp and Riled her mouth with frothy white seed. She gulped down his emission, and when she felt his shaft soften, she rolled her lips around his prick and nibbled on his knob until she released his shrunken shaft from its sweet imprisonment inside her mouth. 'We had better get dressed,' Rosamund remarked as she stepped into her knickers. 'I'm sure you have lots of books to study, and I've also got an awfully busy day ahead of me.' 'By Jove, Rosamund, thanks for reminding me about work! I must read at least two chapters of Dr Barnes' book on the British Constitution before lunch,' he replied somewhat absently whilst he picked up his underpants from the floor.

'Is that all?' said Rosamund, looking directly up in my direction and giving me a huge wink. 'I've much more than that to do this morning. Some of you young gentlemen are terribly untidy. For instance, clearing up after your friend Henry Dashwood is a real nightmare.' 'Henry Dashwood's no friend of mine,' said Maurice.

'He and his chums support Dr Barnes and the pro-Boers.' 'Well so what? Why should there be bad blood between the pair of you just because you don't agree about politics?' demanded Rosamund. To my astonishment, Maurice FitzAllen paused from the task of buttoning his shirt and said meekly: 'You're right, Rosamund, there's no reason at all. I don't agree with their political views, but Dashwood and his pals are fully entitled to their beliefs and they must think I'm a dreadful lout.' Rosamund looked up quickly at me again and continued to probe further. 'And why should they think that?' she asked gently. Maurice shrugged his shoulders. 'I led a gang of fellows to try and shout them down,' he confessed. 'I know it was wrong but people like Dashwood make me so angry. And on the evening of the freshers reception I saw him leave the college with Dr Barnes's stepsister who is the prettiest girl I've seen for years.' 'But that has nothing to do with Henry's politics,' exclaimed Rosamund. She might be only a lowly maidservant but she is blessed with genuine perception. 'You were simply jealous of him because this girl preferred his company to yours.' Maurice's face crumpled.

However, he pulled himself together and said: 'Yes, I admit it, and what made me even more furious was that I was too shy to introduce myself to her. To be brutally honest, I was angry with Dashwood and his crony not so much because they support the Boers but because they seem the type that have more success socially than I do. It's these damned spots on my face, you know, no girl could ever fancy me.'

'Don't be such a softy,' said Rosamund robustly. 'What were we doing five minutes ago-playing Ludo? Dr Barnes once told me that there was a poet called Pope who was small and slightly hunchbacked, but he always captured the attention of women at parties against competition from the most dashing and handsome young bucks because of his wicked tongue.' Maurice gave her a strange look and Rosamund giggled and said: 'Not that kind of wicked tongue, you rude thing! Pope might have been a wonderful pussey licker, but I meant that he was a great wit, and everyone likes a good laugh, you know. All right, I'm not saying that your spots look nice, but do something about them. Buy a jar of skin cream from the chemist. I'm sure that Smith's ointment will clear them up.' 'Do you really think so?' he said, brightening up for a moment. But then poor Maurice added gloomily: 'But at school we were told that spots came from, er, well, how I shall I put it-'

'Playing with yourselves,' said Rosamund, finishing his sentence for him. 'Oh, don't blush, Mr. FitzAllen, I've heard all these fairy stories before. Sometimes, the schools tell the boys they'll get spots, sometimes that they'll go blind, sometimes that they'll catch deadly diseases or worse if they don't stop tossing off. Well, all I can say is that if that were the case, the hospitals would be bloody crowded because there wouldn't be more than a handful of healthy men who could expect to reach the age of twenty-five!' 'I'll do what you say, Rosamund,' said Maurice humbly. 'And I'll tell my friends not to interrupt Dr Barnes's next lecture. We were going to rag him, but I'll stop any trouble.' 'And what about Henry Dashwood?' she demanded. Maurice gave her a smile and said: 'Well, after this morning, I don't feel so jealous of Dashwood. Actually, I rather like him and his chum Charles Farleigh-Windsor. Perhaps if I apologised for being so beastly to him and the others, we could still be friends.'

'I'm sure you could,' agreed Rosamund. When they had finished dressing they left Maurice's room and Joshua came out from behind the curtains and gave me a hand down from my perch. 'Did you get any good shots of Maurice on the job?' he asked eagerly. 'I think I'll have two or three corkers.' I scratched my head and said hesitantly: 'Yes, there are probably some saucy snaps on my film, but I don't think we should develop them just yet.' 'Ah, because of what he said to Rosamund about making up with us,' he said thoughtfully. 'Fair enough, Henry, I suppose we should give him a chance to make amends. But if we don't send any photographs to the rude magazines, I'll have to give Rosamund a fiver myself because it wouldn't be right to put her out of pocket.' When we told Charles about what had happened he readily agreed to suspend judgement on Maurice FitzAllen. 'Now the yoke of unwanted virginity has been lifted from his shoulders, I believe that Maurice will be a far nicer person,' I said. 'Now he has had his first taste of pussy, he won't be so aggressive as he'll have shaken off that dreadful inferiority complex.'