Rupert Mountjoy - The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.II

She bobbed her head up and down so that I could fuck her mouth in a most delightful manner. Indeed, she sucked me off so beautifully that all too soon I could feel the rush of sperm hurtling up from my balls and with a cry I pumped out a stream of hot spunk between her rich, red lips. Gwendolen enjoyed this and she sucked up and swallowed every drop of my vital essence, milking my cock until it wilted under the frenetic urgency that it had encountered. There was no time for further petting even if we had wanted to continue as the theatre staff wanted to close up for the night. We dressed ourselves and made our way out and joined up with the other players at The Cat and Pigeons for a nightcap-but as you can all appreciate, I didn't stay too long for I was exhausted both physically and mentally by all that had happened earlier!' Now Michael Beattie had told his stirring story so clearly that Frank, Barry and myself had listened with such rapt attention that none of us had noticed that several other fellows had quietly ended their conversations and had gathered round to listen to him. So at the conclusion of his colourful narrative, we were startled by the sound of a number of chaps who suddenly burst into a spontaneous round of applause. Poor Michael was dreadfully embarrassed and appealed to all those who had listened in to his tale to swear that they would not repeat his yarn to anyone else. Everyone readily agreed that to spread the story would be a caddish act-'though in return I think Mike Beattie must tell us all the details when he finally fucks Gwendolen!' called out a fruity voice from behind me.

Michael raised his hands in surrender and said: 'We'll cross that bridge when we come to it-though I wouldn't be surprised if Gwendolen and I never actually go any further. Our snogging was spur-of-the-moment stuff and tonight when I'm playing Vincentio, as although Arthur's making a swift recovery he won't be able to resume his role until Friday's performance, I don't expect Gwendolen and I will do anything more than kiss each other on the stage.' Frank called over the waiter and asked whether anyone would care to help him finish a second bottle of port. 'Not for me, thank you. I've really enjoyed listening to Michael's saga, but I must retire to my room as I've an essay to finish for tomorrow,' I said, rising to my feet.

'Oh come on, my friend, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, you know,' protested Barry. 'I was looking forward to a few rubbers of bridge this evening.' 'Get thee behind me, Satan,' I warned him with a smile. 'You know how much I enjoy a game of bridge, but please don't tempt me any further. I've a hellish day tomorrow though I'm quite looking forward to Professor Webb's party in the evening.' 'Have you also been invited to old Beaver's get-together?' drawled Frank. 'He asked me to come too but I didn't want to mention it before in case you hadn't been favoured with an offer to attend, what does he call it, his conversazione. It could be fun and I've been told that he owns the best cellar in the whole University.' 'Jolly good, Frank, I'm sure we'll have a fine time.

Knock on my door at eight o'clock tomorrow night and we'll go to the bunfight together.' And before anything else could draw my attention, I waved a goodbye to my friends and made my way up to my room, resolving to burn the midnight oil until I had finished my essay.

It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when with a sigh of relief I put down my pen and shuffled together the papers upon which I had written my essay which was about the tiresome political situation in Ireland. As I yawned and stretched my arms I thought to myself that this might not be the most elegant essay I had ever composed but though on the short side it was competent enough and would have to suffice. Indeed, I had been sorely tempted simply to write that there were no solutions to the Irish problem except build a border fence like the Great Wall of China between Ulster and the rest of the country though it would be hard to decide on which side lay the barbarians, but aphorisms of this kind would not please my tutor, Professor Cuthbert Cumberland, who was a man of acerbic wit and well-known to be merciless to students who sent in below standard work for his perusal. He was also somewhat of a snob, a characteristic I abhor, although I still smile at the story about his involvement in a planned visit to the University by the Crown Prince of Japan. An official from the Japanese Embassy visited Professor Cumberland to make the necessary arrangements and the Professor, who was a stickler for protocol, asked how the young man should be addressed. 'At home we refer to him as the Son of God,' said the diplomat, to which Professor Cumberland is supposed to have rejoined: That will present no problem.

We are used to entertaining the sons of distinguished men at Oxford.'

He had a perverse sense of humour too as shown by this probably apocryphal anecdote. It is said that a colleague rushed up to him one morning with the news that a member of the philosophy department had committed suicide. Professor Cumberland is said to have raised his hand and said: 'Please, don't tell me who. Allow me to guess!'

But I would just have to hope that my essay pleased the Professor for I was so sleepy that I could not have written another sentence. I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow and would have missed breakfast and perhaps my first lecture if Nancy had not have woken me up in time. It was not part of her duties to rouse undergraduates from their slumber but the jolly girl wanted to apologise for slipping under the table and sucking me off during dinner the previous night. She had knocked on my door but when I had failed to reply she quietly entered as she had correctly guessed that I was still in bed. I must say that I preferred Nancy's way of waking me up to that of any alarm dock! I felt my shoulder being shaken and as I came to my senses I felt soft fingers snake their way around my stiff cock (since the age of thirteen I have always woken up with a boner) and I heard Nancy whisper: 'Wake up. Master Rupert, it's getting on for eight o'clock.' My head cleared quickly as her words seeped through and I slowly came to my senses, though for a few seconds I was puzzled by the fact that my tool was throbbing with pleasure even though I was not frigging myself. Then I quickly realised that Nancy was playing with my prick, rubbing her hand up and down the hot shaft, capping and uncapping my helmet as she said: Would you like me to finish you off. Master Rupert, or shall I run you a bath instead?' Time enough for both I dunk, Nancy, if you don't mind,' I said, now fully aware of what was going on. She grinned and increased the pace of motion, her hand flashing up and down my swollen shaft as I lay back and enjoyed the very pleasant sensation of being woken up by what is vulgarly known as 'a hand job'. Nancy's sensual rubbing soon brought the inevitable result and I spunked copiously, the sticky froth shooting out from my knob all over her hand and over my curly pubic hair. This sight so excited her that she whispered: 'Oh dear, now we can't let all that luscious spunk go to waste,' and she bent down and sucked up as much of my emission as possible, licking my cock clean until my prick began to lose some of its stiffness. 'I do love sucking your cock, your sperm has just the salty tang that I like to swallow. Just the thought of taking your pole in my mouth makes me ever so randy,' she added, massaging me.

'I'd love to fuck you, Nancy, but it will have to be at another time as I'm already late for breakfast. Please run my bath now whilst I shave, there's a good girl,' I said, heaving myself out of bed.

She sighed and said: 'Well, how about this evening before dinner?' I shook my head and said regretfully: 'Nancy, this must sound awfully conceited, but I'm afraid that I don't have the time.