Anonymous - The Oyster, Volume IV

Sir, This little report may reassure your readers who took issue with the recent judgement of a correspondent in the Manchester Guardian who opined that the age of chivalry has forever passed. Last Wednesday I had the pleasure of attending a gala charity performance of Mr. Henry Irving's Macbeth at the Lyceum Theatre. As your readers will know, this event has been the talk of London for many weeks well before the opening night. The tongue of rumour had been well primed with comment upon the huge costs of the costumes and scenery, the golden dinner service to be used for the banqueting scene, Sir Arthur Sullivan's music, the scenic effects for the appearance of the witches-for artistic Society it was 'the play's the thing'. And assuredly, however fierce the wordy war raised over its merits in the press, there was but one voice of praise for the beauty of Miss Ellen Terry whose enchanting presence added yet further lustre to this magnificent production. I was honoured to meet this delightful lady after the performance. But I must start this tale from the beginning; I was escorted to the theatre by a relatively new acquaintance, Lieutenant John Lynch of the 69th East Kent Mounted Rifles-certainly the appropriately numbered regiment for this young rogue whose luxuriant moustache was grown solely at the wish of Mrs. Dunton-Green, who in turn shaved her pussey hair for the Lieutenant's delectation. His strange desires, I am sure, will come as no surprise to your readers who have met the randy Lieutenant, for his prowess as a cocksman cannot be denied. I would take this opportunity, though, of stating as fact that despite his claims to the contrary, his penis is not the equal in length to that of Mr. Peter Stockman, though that in itself is no shame for who indeed can hold a candle (please forgive the analogy) to Mr. Stockman when these vital statistics are compared?

Incidentally, I am reliably informed that Mr. Stockman's extraordinary member has even been awarded a royal seal of approval after its penetration of Her Royal Highness Princess Helene of The Netherlands. You would agree, Sir, I am sure, that his tryst with Princess Helene could form a most interesting essay in its own right in the unlikely event of his finding spare time from fucking to compose a dissertation about the affair for our vicarious enjoyment.

However, I digress; John and I were invited to a select reception for the principal players after the performance of the play given by Sir James Salter, Chairman of the good cause (The Society for the Propagation of Useful Knowledge To The Deserving Poor) which benefited from the funds raised that evening. I found myself standing next to Mr. Irving when the great man suddenly turned round and asked which scenes in the play I had most enjoyed. 'The acting throughout was of the highest quality,' I said carefully, and I could see from Sir James's approving nod that my thoughtfulness was much appreciated. 'I was most impressed with the staging. I heard one gentleman sitting near me remark that no finer piece of stagecraft has been effected, even by yourself, than in the scene in which the murder of Duncan is discovered. The rush in of Macduff and his followers, the terrible roar of fear and thirst for vengeance, the glare of the torches and, above all, the white-faced figure of Lady Macbeth expressing her unutterable agony whilst her husband stalks amid the angry soldiers-an embodiment of disguised guilt-all this was marvellously conveyed to the audience.' Mr. Irving smiled and said: 'Miss Everleigh, you should take up the profession of a dramatic critic. Your little earhole (at least I think that is what he said, though by this time we had quaffed a bumper of champagne and had partaken of a sea-food buffet) knows more about the theatre than Mr. George Bernard Shaw and the rest of those bounders who turn a dishonest penny scribbling for the newspapers. Take my word for it, as far as theatrical, criticism is concerned, Mr. Shaw does not know his arse from his elbow!'

The party broke up soon afterwards, but not before Johnny rather unwisely told the story of the vicar who was enjoying a cup of tea at Mrs. Fairweather's, when young Miss Fairweather dropped her chocolate onto the rug. 'Oh dear,' said the vicar. 'You've got hairs on your sweetie.' 'Yes,' she said. 'And I'm only fifteen!' 'Ha, ha, ha!' said John to a most embarrassed and deafening silence. 'Jenny, I think it is time for us to be off.' 'I think we are about three minutes too late.' I muttered to Sir James who noted my remark with a wry smile. In the handsome cab on our way back to Johnny's rooms in Albemarle Street, I ticked him off about the recounting of an improper story. 'It was appreciated as much as a pork pie at Lady Cohen's soiree next Thursday,' I remonstrated, as the handsome boy snuggled up to me and began to play with my breasts, cupping them in his hands and squeezing gently as we exchanged kisses and cuddles which raised my sensual appetite enormously. I moved my hand to the front of his trousers and felt a hard rod that threatened to tear the material that covered it. His thighs moved as he tried to ease his erection, but I had already decided to offer a helping hand! I could already feel the desire emanating from that throbbing tool, so great was my desire to hold and play with that rampant thumper. So I unbuttoned his fly and grasped his thick penis that showed out of his trousers, quivering like an arrow. He had a long foreskin that I gently peeled back, leaving the purple knob completely uncovered.

Nothing loath, Johnny unbuttoned my blouse and fondled my naked titties as I rubbed his ivory shaft up to peak hardness. When I felt that he might spend too soon, I took my hand away and we locked ourselves into a lingering, erotic kiss with our tongues probing inside each others' mouths. I then kissed him all over until my lips found my way to the top of his lovely long shaft which must have measured at least seven and a half inches (well below the dimensions of Mr. Stockman, of course, though I suppose that is neither here nor there in this context). I took the pulsating knob between my lips, jamming down his foreskin and lashing my tongue around the rigid shaft. I sucked hard, taking at least a third of this extraordinarily long tool into my mouth whilst I played with his hairy balls. Then I began to lick this monster member, drawing my hot, wet tongue from his balls right up his shaft, flicking briefly at the gleaming red dome.

He clutched at my hair and shuddered as I circled my tongue all around the smooth flesh of Johnny's uncapped helmet, paying particular attention to the sensitive ridge. Then I decided to perform my party piece, which leads every man I have ever known to spend within thirty seconds! I removed my hands and, clasping them back, I sucked up almost the entire length of his long shaft, bobbing my head up and down as I slurped greedily on the hot, velvet sweetmeat which, true to form, jerked wildly before shooting jets of frothy spunk into my throat. I greedily swallowed every tangy drop of his copious libation but to my astonishment, his pego began to shrink limply in my mouth.

Goodness gracious, I thought, surely this could not be the prick of Lieutenant Johnny Lynch who often boasted that he could fuck like a rattlesnake (though whether this small reptile, indigenous to the area of North and Central America, has extraordinary stamina and prowess in l'art de faire l'amour is at best debatable). Where had I gone wrong?

My own love button was now sopping wet and I could feel the juices trickling down my thighs, but Johnny lay panting, his limp penis hanging loosely out of his trousers. I looked out of the window and saw that we had almost arrived at his apartment, so I stuffed his sorry sausage back into his trousers and we quickly buttoned up and composed ourselves as the cab turned off Piccadilly into Albemarle Street. Johnny paid off the cabman and, in the hallway of the small block, who should we meet but Ellen Terry and young Mr. David Haines, one of Mr. Irving's company who played some of the minor roles, the Bleeding Sergeant, a Messenger, Young Siward etc. in the play we had just seen. We greeted them cordially as we crowded in the elevator which deposited us on the second floor. Miss Terry and Mr.