Anonymous - The Oyster, volume1 and 2

She held me as I lowered myself on top of her and our bodies were joined from mouths to groins as her nipples brushed against my chest and I could feel their rough hardness, even through the material of her frock. I pumped again in time with her jerking hips as she clutched my own heaving bottom, inserting her finger into my bottom hole to spur me on to push my pulsating prick even further inside her sopping wet cunny. As I drove again and again she bucked her hips urgently to meet every thrust of my jabbing pelvis and she lifted her bottom to work it round and round, her hips rotating to achieve the maximum contact.

Desperately she clutched at me as I felt the boiling sperm gather in my shaft as my balls banged against her rounded bottom. She threw back her head in abandon and then a primordial sound came from deep within her as her climax spilled and coursed through her body. Her clitty rubbed against my own thatch and I groaned as I could hold back no longer and, with a crash, I pumped spurt after spurt of hot jism into her womb as wave upon wave of ecstasy thrilled through every fibre of my being. I pulled out my soaking tool, which was glistening with its coat of love-juice and was still dribbling out spunk, as Lucy swooped down and sucked the very last morsels of come from me as my cock slipped down into its natural state and the red-capped dome slithered back inside its covering of foreskin.

'Oh, I would love another fuck, Andrew, but make haste, button your fly as some people might be walking by,' she giggled.

'I would love to fuck you again, my love,' I replied gallantly, 'but you are right. However, you could suck me off if we go inside the pavilion.'

'No, my darling boy, I want you in peak condition for tonight's little frolic. Tell me, will Pelham be joining us?'

'I think not, unless you want him to be there.'

'Oh, no, although a good thick cock like his is always welcome. But let tonight be just for us alone.'

'And Louella,' I added. 'We must not forget her.'

'No, I won't forget her,' sighed Lucy. 'I suppose I must share your gorgeous prick with her but as they say, half a loaf is better than no bread.' And after a final little kiss of farewell we parted, as she had to correct some French papers for Doctor White and I had to bone up on some German verse that I was to be tested on in a lesson the next day.

I tried very hard to force the lewd images of the two girls from my mind as I studied, holding the book with both hands, and ignored as best I could the continual pressure of the erection that pushed up from between my legs. But after an hour I could bear it no longer and sat down on my bed, opened my trousers and let my stiff cock spring out from my trousers. I grasped the throbbing shaft, rubbing it furiously as the red-capped dome slipped its bulbous head out of the top as I played with myself until my seed shot forth in a fountain of frothy sperm. It was not an unpleasant sensation but what a difference there was between tossing myself off and enjoying a glorious fuck!

After a light meal of cold roast meats and salad (thanks to Doctor White's interest in horticulture we grew much of our fruit and vegetables in the school grounds and everyone will know how delicious home-grown produce can be), I decided to take a short walk around the quadrangle before retiring to my study for a short rest. After all, I would shortly have the honour of pleasuring two lovely, lusty girls and I would need all my vital health and strength if I were to give full satisfaction, especially as I had been hard at work during the day!

But as I was about to open the door to my study I heard my name being called. I turned round and saw a good friend and fellow sixth former, Paul Hill-Wallace, striding towards me. Paul was spending his last days at Nottsgrove as he had already gained a place at B-College, Oxford, to study philosophy. He was a brilliant chap and was still working hard at his studies when most ordinary mortals like myself would have used the spare time purely for leisure pursuits.

'I say, Andrew,' he said. 'Could you spare me a minute or two?'

'What is it, Paul?' I enquired somewhat crossly. 'I am rather busy just now.'

'This won't take long and I would appreciate five minutes, old boy. Doctor White has set me a fascinating paper to prepare for next Thursday and I would like to hear your views upon the subject.'

'I am honoured,' I said rather sarcastically. 'What can I say about any matter of substance to such a distinguished scholar as yourself?'

This was a most unkind and unwarranted remark and Paul looked a trifle hurt.

'Don't be a rotter, Andrew,' he said. 'This will take only a few minutes. Come, let me in and we'll jaw about it and then I will promise to leave you alone.'

He was such a charming fellow and I felt so ashamed at my lapse of manners that I nodded and welcomed him into my room. Paul was my age, just seventeen and a half, and he was blessed with a lean yet powerful frame. His lustrous brown hair was set upon a fresh and handsome face. I am no expert in such matters but Lucy's cool judgement may be safely relied upon here, and he was of a generous spirit. Paul was always top of the class in all subjects yet he would willingly share his store of knowledge with his friends when it came to homework and he helped make our studies far less of a chore through his good nature. I must confess that I was flattered to be asked my opinion upon a matter of scholarship by so able and clever a chap!

'Please excuse my rudeness,' I said as we settled into our chairs. 'May I offer you some refreshment? No? Well, then now, I am delighted that you should ask me to assist you. How may I help?'

'Well, the essay I must prepare deals with the role of the novelist in society. I must discuss the importance of the novelist and of fiction in the continual changing pattern of the politics of the modem nation state.'

I gulped and quickly decided upon a course of action. 'What is your opinion?' I asked, throwing back the question to him.

'I am somewhat undecided which is why I would welcome another opinion. I am sure that you will agree that it is hardly surprising for a philosopher to use the novel as one of his modes of expression. However, we must of course distinguish the novel proper, such as the works of Jane Austen or of Proust, from the novel of ideas such as Candide or the plain tale such as Moll Flanders and the modern metaphysical tale of which there are innumerable examples. The novelist proper is in his way a kind of phenomenologist for he has always implicitly understood, what the philosopher has grasped perhaps less clearly, that human reason is not a single, unitary tool, the nature of which could be discovered once and for all. The novelist has had his eye fixed upon what we do and not upon what we ought to do or must be presumed to do. He has the natural gift of a precious freedom from rationalism which the academic thinker achieves, if at all, only by a precarious discipline. The writer of fiction has always been a describer rather than an explainer. Would you not agree, Andrew, with such a hypothesis?'

I struggled for words for, truthfully, the only word I fully understood was 'tool' and in his context I knew that Paul was not using the word in its vulgar form. 'I'm sure you are right, old fellow. Do continue,' I said, settling myself down in my chair for a nap. Even during the early years of my life I had learned a simple yet important rule which was that when people asked you for advice they desired not your true opinion but, in reality, a confirmation of their own views and dear old Paul (who is now, incidentally, a distinguished don with several learned tomes to his credit which to my shame I have never perused) carried on and on until I felt my eyes drooping and within a short time I was deep in the arms of Morpheus.