Anonymous - The Oyster, Volume III

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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