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

My thrusts forward were met with her impetuous heaves upwards and as my shaft slid to the hairs inside her honeypot my balls knocked against Beth's thighs and the delicious wriggles of her splendid bottom soon roused me to an erotic fury. Our frenzied fucking woke Barry and Esme and they immediately copied our example. It was so arousing to see Esme's beautiful cleft in its hairy auburn grotto with the large white shaft of Barry's weapon appearing and disappearing through the luxuriant curly thatch of pussey hair as he drove his cock in and out of the open, rosy chink. Our frantic heaves and shoves were received and returned by our lusty partners with a gradually increasing intensity until we all four spent near enough simultaneously, swimming in a sea of lubricity as we melted away in a glorious excess of sensual rapture. We lay there for a while longer but then it was time to wash and dress and we ate a hearty breakfast. Barry paid the bill and we made arrangements to meet the girls again in a few days' time. 'Will you get into trouble for staying out all night?' I asked, much concerned that this escapade would have no serious consequences for the two lovely ladies.

'No, Mr. Holland the porter is very obliging and a half sovereign will buy his silence,' said Esme with a giggle as we exchanged fond kisses of farewell. 'How do you boys plan to get back into your rooms?' Barry explained that we hoped to enter our college through a secret back entrance our maidservant Nancy had shown us (we didn't venture any further information about the other services Nancy provided for her scholars!) and we waved goodbye as we walked through town. By taking the seldom-used side stairs that Nancy had pointed out, we managed to sneak into our college unnoticed and I hastily changed and ran down the stairs to the lecture hall just in time to take my place before our senior lecturer. Professor Simon 'Beaver' Webb, entered the room. He was a large, indeed somewhat corpulent gentleman with twinkling blue eyes and a luxuriant red beard which doubtless accounted for his admittedly vulgar nickname. An ardent supporter of the suffragettes, his radical views were hardly hidden in his dissertation on the so-called 'wild women' who were determined to change the country's social structure. But frankly, I was so tired after all the exertions of the previous night that my eyes fluttered shut more than once whilst the Professor gave us his views on why women should be allowed to vote. However, he became quite steamed up at the end of his lecture and I woke up with a start as he thundered: 'We must allow for the fact that there is no reason to suppose that in any respect women will show themselves superior in sagacity. Blunders will undoubtedly result occasionally from the new freedom when it finally arrives-and I say “when” and not “if” advisedly for the river of social progress can only be stemmed, it can never be rolled back. And if the new movement has no other effect than to rouse women to rebellion against the madness of producing large families, it would confer a priceless blessing on themselves and upon humanity!' A burst of applause came from a small group of girls from Girton College, Cambridge who had been specially invited with other students from London and Edinburgh to attend a special three day seminar presided over by Professor Webb on The Emancipation Of Women'.

Not all the undergraduates agreed with the Professor's sentiments however, and a few ill-mannered boors had the temerity to hiss as Professor Webb gathered up his papers. At first I thought the Professor was going to ignore the jeers but he changed his mind as he reached the door and he suddenly whirled round and accosted Lord Blaxonberry who had led the dissenters. 'So you and your friends do not approve of votes for women,' he snapped angrily. 'Perhaps you do not approve of votes for men either.' 'Not particularly,' the wealthy young landowner coolly replied. 'I would have to agree with you that the prevailing democratic tendency is the prevailing fashionable theory. The idea of government by the absolute majority has superseded the thought that government should be conducted for the benefit of all by the enlightened and capable-the genuine aristocracy in the strict sense of the word-who have been born and bred to such a task. 'In my view. Professor, the only benefit of granting women the franchise might be to show the innate fallacies inherent in the pernicious democratic doctrine and weaken the belief in the wisdom of purely popular government.' 'Stuff and nonsense!' called out a very pretty girl from just a few seats away from me. I would rather be governed by a council of working men who know at first hand the needs of the great majority of our citizens than a gathering of chinless drones who know nothing except how to idle away their days whilst the rest of their fellow countrymen engage in back-breaking toil.'

'Hear, hear! Well said!' I cried out loudly, and this interjection brought me a friendly smile from the speaker and a disdainful look of utter contempt from Lord Blaxonberry.

Professor Webb stroked his luxuriant red beard and said: 'Carry on, sir. What would you add to this discussion?' I thought carefully before rising to reply. I would just wish to add this thought, sir,' I said, trying as hard as possible to prevent my knees from shaking, as public speaking has always filled me with dread and was one of the major reasons why I recently refused the kind offer of Mr. Lloyd George to stand as the Liberal parliamentary candidate in the safe seat of West Gloucestershire during the recent General Election. There is no sadder sight in the world than that of a wasted life, yet how wantonly Society condemns to waste the lives of thousands upon thousands of bright, intelligent young women all over Britain whose powers are worn down and diminished by long courses of boring trivialities and mental stagnation.' Though I stand in danger of being labelled a braggart, I can truthfully record that my words were cheered to the echo, not least by the attractive girl whose own speech had sparked off my contribution. Professor Webb brought the discussion to a close and enjoined us to read a variety of books on female emancipation-both for and against -and told us to write essays upon the subject that he wanted handed in to him in three weeks' time.

As we left the lecture hall, I smiled back at the girl whose cause I had supported and she made her way round to my desk and introduced herself. 'My name is Gillian Headleigh from Girton College, Cambridge and I'm the secretary of the college branch of the Cambridge Society For Women's Rights,' she said, holding out her hand. Thank you very much for supporting me against Lord Blaxonberry and his little coterie of silly young reactionary idiots.' 'I'm Rupert Mountjoy and I'm studying here at Balliol,' I said, shaking her preferred hand.

The authorities here are usually so stuffy about male and female undergraduates mixing together that I'm surprised you managed to obtain a pass to listen to Professor Webb's lecture.' She laughed and though we were talking of serious matters I could not help but be diverted by her mop of bright curls that set off her tiny, slightly retrousse nose and large cornflower-blue eyes which sparkled with promise. Her slim, lithe body was delightfully shown off by a close-fitting grey costume in the modern style, which accentuated the swell of her small but gorgeously rounded breasts that jutted proudly forward like two soft peaches ripe for my mouth… 'Doctor Blayers arranged it for a group of us to come over to Oxford and attend a number of lectures as part of our PPE course. There are many excellent scholars at Cambridge but it is generally agreed that Professor Webb is the most important figure in the drive towards social progress.' 'What a coincidence,' I exclaimed. I was at a party given by Doctor Blayers last night.' 'Yes, I was there too and I saw you talking to a pretty blonde girl,' she said with a little smile which showed two delicious dimples on either side of her lovely red lips. 'Would you like to take morning coffee with me?' I asked hurriedly, for I had no desire to let the conversation drift down this particular avenue! Gillian agreed and fortunately I had no further lectures until mid-afternoon so after coffee I was able to walk down with her to her lodgings in Pusey Street, just off the Woodstock Road. We chatted in animated fashion and by the time we reached the house in which Gillian and three other girls were staying for the week, almost to my surprise, I noticed that we were holding hands. 'I have some reading to catch up on,' she said, 'but you're welcome to join me if you are free,' I accepted this invitation with alacrity for the sun had come out and the weather was warm enough to sit outside, which I thought would be especially pleasant as the other girls were studying elsewhere and so we had the house to ourselves. I pulled out a rug and two deckchairs from the garden shed but Gillian sat herself down on the rug and of course I followed suit.