The Intimate Memoirs of an Edwardian Dandy, vol.II

by Rupert Mountjoy

  Chrissie blushed and said: 'Now you know full well, Gillian, that Salman is just a boyfriend, and there is nothing special about him- except of course that he is a very charming young man-' '- who has pots and pots of money and a very, very big cock!' finished Gillian with a giggle. 'Wash your mouth out, you bad girl!' scolded Chrissie although she was not really offended by the jest.

  'Salman's cock is certainly sizeable but it is not the very biggest I have ever entertained in my pussey. That honour would go to “Donkey Dick” Dinchley, the gardener's boy at my Uncle Rodney's country house in Buckinghamshire whose erect tool measured almost twelve and a half inches, though he was by no means the most satisfying fuck. I mean, we both had that good-looking chap Harry Barr at your birthday party in May and he was superb in bed even though his member was if anything smaller than the average cock. Don't you agree that this obsession with the size of their penises makes many men almost neurotic? And it's all so unnecessary because as an American girl in my college says, it isn't the size of the ship that counts, it's the motion of the ocean!' 'Yes, although I suppose it is a similar problem that we women have in never being quite satisfied with our weight!' said Gillian thoughtfully, but before she could continue airing her views on this admittedly interesting subject, I suddenly woke up to the fact that Chrissie's boyfriend could be none other than my old school chum Salman Marrari, the eldest son of the Maharajah of Lockshenstan who had, as I noted at the very beginning of these memoirs, spurned a place at University College, Oxford to take up a place at Trinity College, Cambridge as he wanted to continue his scientific studies with some noted group of physicists who were based there. He was also a great cocksman and very popular with the servant girls at St Lionel's amongst whom he distributed a generous number of twenty pound notes for favours great and small! So I asked her excitedly: 'Are you talking about Salman Marrari who went up to Cambridge from St Lionel's? He shared a study with me at school and it would be marvellous to see him if he is coming to Oxford this weekend. Is this the chap who you are seeing, Chrissie?' 'Yes indeed, what a lovely coincidence,' she said, clapping her hands together. 'Oh, Rupert, you must join us for dinner on Friday night.' 'That's very kind but surely you two prefer to dine a deux.' 'No, really, you must come along – I won't tell Salman so it will be a lovely surprise for him to see his old school chum again,' she insisted.

  It was time for us to take our leave but Chrissie assured me that she would send round a note about where I should meet her and Salman on Friday night. After kissing the two girls goodbye I walked back briskly to my college, making a mental note as I looked at my watch that I would need to employ a social secretary if invitations were to keep flowing so freely into my diary. When I reached my rooms I jotted down my immediate engagements-this evening I had planned to see Beth Randall after dinner and take her for a walk and perhaps visit one of the quaint old Oxford inns frequented (though much frowned upon) by students of the University. Tomorrow I had to attend two lectures and write a long essay which had to be given in the next morning, but time would be at a premium as I had already accepted Professor Webb's invitation to his soiree. I had some reading to do as well but the weekend was already filling up for on Friday I was to dine with Salman and Chrissie, whilst on Saturday night I would squire Gillian to the party at the Oxford Playhouse. I gnawed my lip in a gesture of irritation as I suddenly remembered that on Saturday afternoon I was due to play soccer for Balliol against Merton College and I really should fit in at least a couple of hours of training before the match.

  Of course, I could always cut a lecture or two, but at his specific request, I had promised my godfather. Major Fulham, that I would never allow this to happen during my first year and since my earliest years I have always maintained that a promise is a promise-and especially when you have just been handed a cheque for fifty pounds 'to be spent on enjoying yourself, my boy; your father can look after the college fees and your account at Blackwell's bookshop'! This left Sunday as the only day free to work and though my family have never been strict observers of the Sabbath, I knew full well that if the Saturday party turned out to be the kind of affair I hopefully expected, I would be in no fit state to study the day afterwards! Still, these were pleasant problems to solve and I resolved to lighten my load by postponing my tryst with Beth until the following week and instead making a start on my essay after dinner, even though Frank and Barry would do their best to inveigle me into playing a few rubbers of bridge. I would be very tempted as I much enjoyed the game, but however hard it would be, their blandishments would have to be resisted, I said to myself as I made my way downstairs to spend half an hour reading the newspapers in the library before going into the dining hall. In the library I picked up a copy of The Times and coincidentally one of the first reports to catch my eye was a review of A Nice Little Stroll Does You Good. Under the heading 'A Jolly Evening Well Spent,' the critic had written: 'As several friends in the profession have told me about the rousing reception A Nice Little Stroll Does You Good has been given in the provincial theatres before opening in two weeks' time in London, I ventured out to Oxford to see Mr. Louis Segal's latest musical comedy for myself, and am pleased to report that this latest offering is about as good and as clever as any play in this genre. The songs are jolly and the story, though of the sort we have seen more often than not, is at least well paced and, though relying on mishaps and misunderstandings for its dramatic effects, all ends happily with the hero and heroine reaping their rewards and the villains getting their just deserts. It is conceived as a downright, rollicking, noisy comedy and the humour and praiseworthy characterisations evinced by the principals, Mr. Michael Bailey, Mr. Frederick Shackleton and Miss Deborah Paxford undoubtedly caught the imagination of the audience. They are abetted by one of the prettiest chorus lines, whose shapely forms are clothed perhaps in too scanty a fashion for the older generation, but all can act and sing as well as they can dance. From first to last, all on stage appear to revel in the fun and the company complied with repeated requests for encores without displaying any symptom of weariness.' Then and there I decided to check with Gillian as to whether she already possessed tickets for Saturday night, because after such a review the playgoers of Oxford and the surrounding villages would flock to see the show. I scribbled a note and found a young college servant who for sixpence was willing to deliver the message that evening and (so long as Gillian was at home) wait and bring back her reply. The gong sounded as I gave the lad my note and made him repeat the address I had just given him (for the matter was important and I did not want my note to go astray) and Frank Folkestone ambled up and accompanied me into the dining-hall. 'Hello there, old boy, I haven't seen much of you since Len Letchmore regaled us with his lewd tale about his uncle and the chorus girl. 'Talking of chorus girls,' he added, 'how about coming along with me to see the show at the Playhouse one night?

  I've spoken to a few chaps who have already seen it and they all say that it's great fun with some cracking chorus girls. Do you know that Malcolm Ross, the fellow from Winchester who rowed for Oxford in the Boat Race this year-well, he went backstage with a bunch of flowers and a note for one of the girls and she accepted his invitation to dine at Carlo's Restaurant after the performance the following evening,' 'You think she sang for her supper?* I said with a grin.

  'I don't honestly know, but the newspapers say the chorus line is well worth watching especially as some of the costumes are rather naughty,' said Frank with undisguised relish. 'So how about it, old boy?'

  Trying hard not to sound conceited, I explained to Frank (and to Barry Jacobs who had just joined us) that I already had an invitation to meet the cast on Saturday night at a private party after the show, but that if I could smuggle my pals in, I'd let them know as soon as possible. 'Gosh, you're a fast worker, Rupert,' said Frank admiringly. Talk about being quick off the mark. If this gathering is anything like the theatrical revels I've read about in the Jenny Everleigh books, it's just as well you're playing football before and
not after the party!' 'Yes, especially as I'm playing with you in the team on Saturday afternoon and Esme Dyotte is coming to watch the game. I want to be on the winning side, Rupert, so be a good chap and keep your mind off your cock and on the match until we've beaten Merton by at least six goals!' Frank shook his head in warning.

  'You'll be lucky if you manage to scrape a draw, Barry. Merton plan to field four Corinthians in their line-up.' 'Gosh, we'll have a real fight on our hands,' said Barry gloomily. It jolly well serves me right for wanting to show off in front of Esme'.' 'Cheer up, old lad-at least you aren't playing in goal so she won't have to see you bending down every ten minutes to pick the ball out of the net,' said Frank, though perhaps not surprisingly these words of comfort elicited only a glare from Barry. 'I think I'll take up golf instead,' he muttered. 'At least I can only let myself down on the course. Still, I'm sure that win or lose Esme will keep to our arrangement on Sunday.

  She can't see me after the match because she's going with your friend Beth Randall to see The Taming Of The Shrew at the New Theatre on Saturday night along with some other girls. But I'm planning to take her out to Standlake for luncheon on Sunday.' 'I didn't know there were any public houses serving meals on Sunday round there, though it's a pretty part of the county,' I commented. 'You're right, Rupert, there aren't any but Mr. and Mrs. Greenacre, some old friends of my parents, live there and yesterday Mr. Greenacre called and asked me to join them for lunch on Sunday. He said that I should bring a friend if I would like to, so I've asked Esme.' 'And has she accepted?' asked Frank. 'I'm waiting for her reply as I only left a message at her rooms this morning. I wrote to her after what happened at Doctor Blayers' party, and I do hope that she will come to Standlake with me. To be frank, I'm a bit worried as I went over the top a bit when I wrote to her.' 'Oh, don't worry at all about that,' I said with all the assurance of an eighteen-year-old man of the world. I don't think you can over-flatter a woman. Remember what Ovid said: Quae dant, quaeque negant, gaudent tamen esse roatae.'

  'Whether they give or refuse, women are pleased to have been asked,' translated Frank and Barry's face brightened.*You think so?' he said as we stood up to greet the dons who marched their way through to the High Table. 'I wrote her a little poem,' he added as we resumed our seats.*Would you like to hear it?* 'Why not?' said Frank and as Nancy (of all people!) plonked brimming plates of oxtail soup in front of us Barry fumbled in his pocket and brought out a piece of paper and began to read his Ode to Esme: 'I care not what other men may say, The maid that suits my mind, Is the girl who meets me on the way And while she is free, she is kind. With her beauties never could I be cloyed Such pleasures I find by her side; I don't love her less because she's enjoyed By many another beside. She opens her thighs without fear or dread, And points to her dear little crack, Its lips are so red, and all overspread With hair of the glossiest black.

  Reclined on her breasts or clasped in her arms, With her my best moments I spend, And revel the more in her sweet melting charms, Because they are shared with a friend.' 'A splendid effort, old chum,' I said, although I wondered how Esme would take to Barry's emphasis on the fact that Beth and I had also romped with her during that wild night at The Cat and Pigeons hotel.

  Frank also congratulated the poet and Nancy whispered a 'well done' in Barry's ear as she waited for us to finish our soup. The fish course was a rather undistinguished piece of grilled cod but when this had been cleared away Nancy brought a fine roast joint of beef to the table and placed it before me to carve for the eight of us who were sitting at our table. My father had taught me to carve at an early age so I had no worries as I rose, knife and fork in hand, to make the first incision into the mouthwatering piece of beef in front of me. But as I looked up the table to the students furthest away from me and asked whether they preferred their meat rare or well-done, I was startled by what appeared to be a small hand grabbing my ankle underneath the table. I cast a glance down but could see nothing as the overhanging white tablecloth concealed all. Saying nothing except to enquire as to how the other diners wished to have their beef prepared, I manfully carried on carving as the mysterious but determined hand started to stroke first my ankle and then the upper part of my calf. I wondered whether it was Nancy playing a practical joke and looked around for her, but she was nowhere to be seen and another maid brought bowls of roast potatoes and green vegetables to our table. Now I enjoy a good joke as much as the next man but there was a time and place for this admittedly agreeable massage. However, right now I wanted to tuck in to my dinner so I simply ignored the wandering fingers which by now had reached my knees. What should I do? I had no wish to call over a steward for certainly poor Nancy would face instant dismissal without a reference.

  So I just sat down and savoured the first delicious mouthful as Nancy's hand moved speedily along my thigh and reached into my lap.

  There it thankfully rested for a moment as Humphrey Price, the broad-shouldered captain of our football team, called across from an adjoining table: 'Rupert, I hope you will be able to score goals on Saturday afternoon with the same facility as the way you carved that hunk of beef.' 'I'll do my best, Humphrey,' I responded as burrowing beneath my napkin, Nancy's hand felt for and grasped my cock. Now in normal circumstances, such behaviour would have caused Mr. Priapus to swell up in greeting but even when she undid my fly buttons, my prick stayed quiescent-but when she slid her hand inside my drawers and started to caress my naked shaft it now began to stir perceptibly with a swelling excitement, especially when she pulled hark my foreskin and washed the exposed smooth-skinned knob with long, lingering licks of her tongue as she coaxed my shaft up into life by sliding her hand up and down its expanding length. Nevertheless, I was determined not to allow this strange turn of events get out of hand, but the mundane task of passing the salt to Frank Folkestone almost shattered my mask of calm as Nancy's hand had now won the battle and my prick stood high, erect and throbbing. Her firm lingers now pulled it towards her soft lips which kissed my knob lightly before opening wide to admit my twitching tool inside the deliriously wet tavern of her mouth. I took my glass and swallowed down a draught of wine as, drawing a deep breath and making a supreme effort to relax, I impaled a piece of beef on my fork. At the same time, inch by inch, Nancy was fucking my cock with her mouth, bobbing her head backwards and forwards as I chewed on the equally tender food on my plate. For a short while I managed to continue eating without showing any outward signs of agitation but soon I became aware of the first rising spasm of sperm starting its journey up from my balls and along my distended staff. I tried to hold back but the insistent pressure from Nancy's lashing tongue was too much and with an involuntary jerk of my hips, I sent a stream of hot spunk crashing into her mouth. This sudden movement caused me to choke on a barely chewed wedge of cabbage as the wicked girl gobbled furiously on my spurting prick. Barry Jacobs shifted his chair to move closer to me and slapped me on the back. 'Are you all right, Rupert?' he asked anxiously. Has something gone down the wrong way?**Not exactly,' I spluttered, drawing in fresh gulps of air whilst Nancy hungrily continued to suck and swallow the last drains of spunk from my now thankfully deflating shaft. 'I'll be all right once everything has gone down,' I could have sworn that I heard Nancy giggle at this and I looked around sharply but fortunately no-one else had heard her. As we finished our main course I deliberately dropped a spoon on to the floor and bent down ostensibly to pick it up but in reality to catch a glimpse of the tousled mop of hair still nestling between my thighs. Nancy looked up at me and winked as she gave my flaccid cock a final lick before pulling her head away, which allowed me to hastily button up my gaping flies.

  The plates were now cleared away and Frank said: There's apple and blackberry tart to follow, gentlemen, the perfect finish to an old-fashioned English dinner, don't you think?' As I nodded my agreement, however, I noticed with a smile that another diner at our table, a jolly, gregarious Scot from Stirlingshire named Michael Beattie who had this evening donned his tradit
ional Scottish dress, was sitting bolt upright in his chair with a startled expression on his face. One didn't need to be the winner of a scholarship to guess that Nancy had lifted his kilt and in her own inimitable way was cementing the Act of Union! Wicked though it was, I just could not restrain myself from leaning forward and asking Michael (who was a great theatregoer and a leading light in the Oxford University Dramatic Society) whether he planned to see the show at the Playhouse this week. There are supposed to be some sparkling songs which could be considered for the Christmas revue. 'And you could always use some new jokes, couldn't you? I mean, we all know the good old stories from the music hall like the girl asking you what's worn under the kilt and your answer being, nothing's worn, Miss Jones, everything is in perfect working order,' I added mischievously. He seemed unable to reply but instead threw me a glassy smile and I surmised that Nancy had now taken his claymore out of its scabbard and was, so to speak, busy Tossing the Saber. It would have been cruel to carry on teasing poor Michael but so not to arouse suspicion, I steered the conversation along a tangent to the Dramatic Society's current presentation of The Taming Of The Shrew, of which Michael was the stage manager. 'But we mustn't neglect the OUDS offering at the New Theatre,' I said, turning to the other side of the table. Everyone who has seen the play has praised the production to the skies, not least the performance of Lily Brayton in the title role. I would imagine that our amateur players must have been in awe at treading the boards with such a distinguished Shakespearean actress. 'You went to see the play last night, Roger,' I said to the Honourable Roger Tagholm, the younger son of Viscount Bloomsbury and a polite young man who was sitting across from Michael Beattie, whose face was now screwed up in a contortion which suggested he was suffering from indigestion though I speculated that Nancy was about to draw a large dram of Highland Cream from Michael's Caledonian cock. Tell us frankly whether you enjoyed it. Michael and his friends would want your honest opinion on the matter.' 'I enjoyed it very much and that's a fact,' said Roger warmly, 'Lily Brayton plays her part as Katharine so well that I could believe she is a real shrew off the stage as well as on it, though I'm sure that is not really the case at all. She brought out the best in Fred Newman who I think hit on the right method of playing his difficult role. Petruchio is after all a gentleman who pretends to be a ruffian and Fred realised this, blustering through his lines as a noisy bully yet showing that he is only acting the part, yet not so clearly that Katharine will see through the pretence. I also thought the quieter scenes between Bianca and Vincentio were very well played by Gwendolen Bunbury and Arthur Cuthbertson, who made a very handsome couple indeed.' This generous critique was interrupted by a long drawn-out sigh of release from Michael Beattie whose balls had obviously been relieved of a copious discharge of uisge beatha via Nancy's unseen palating of his prick under the table. I'm so pleased you enjoyed the play,' he said, his voice croaking with emotion which the others may have believed was brought on by Roger's praise but which I guessed was caused by Nancy nipping his sticky knob with her teeth as she licked up the remains of his spend, 'and I'm especially glad that you thought Gwendolen and Arthur played their love scenes so convincingly, as they had a little problem last night and I had a hand in solving it.' But when we pressed him to say more he declined and we rose to take our coffee outside the dining-hall. Nevertheless, after Frank, Barry and myself had settled down with Michael in a quiet corner of the large, high-ceilinged common-room, we asked him again to enlarge upon his curious remark. At first he declined but men his face crinkled into a broad grin and he said: 'Look, if you will all promise me faithfully that none of you will spread this story to anyone else, I'll tell you what actually happened backstage last night between Gwen and Arthur because looking back, it was really rather funny-though I didn't find it all that amusing at the time!' 'Of course, we promise that we won't tell a soul,' we chorused and it is only now, some years after the events here described took place and after I have received the written permission to record the facts of the matter from both Arthur and Gwendolen (now Lady Royce-Mainwaring), that I am setting down Michael's secret story for a far wider audience than when it was first recounted to me. 'All right then,' said Michael, as we took up Barry's usual generous offer to buy a bottle of port for the table. 'I'll start at the beginning. Perhaps you won't be surprised to learn that since women have been allowed to join OUDS there has been a marked increase in the number of fellows willing not just to tread the boards but to take on such work as set construction, scene-shifting, prompting and all the many other jobs necessary to mount a successful production. After all, you might not be paid for your time but there's usually a good chance of meeting any number of pretty girls during the rehearsals, and afterwards, when we invariably go out for a drink, there's usually time to try and form a closer relationship. And working backstage, especially when you're putting on a historical play, there are often several quick changes of costume to be made, and I've never found it a bother to help scantily dressed girls to change into their clothes. 'Now it was clear to all of us involved in putting on The Taming Of The Shrew that Arthur and Gwendolen were clearly enjoying their love scenes on stage-so much so in fact that during the dress rehearsal, after a farewell kiss lasted more than a minute, the director, Sidney Smyth, had to shout out: “Hey, that's enough, you two, this is Shakespeare not a Victor Pudendum show at the Jim Jam Club!” This admonition worked only as far as the first night and since then their on-stage kisses have been becoming longer and longer and a few days ago Sidney Smyth threatened to throw a bucket of water over them if they embraced for longer than ten seconds! Well, last night he deputed me to ensure that Gwendolen and Arthur behaved themselves. Now there is a thirty-five minute break between when the pair leave the stage to when they have to make their next entrance so I thought I would keep a close eye on them during this interval. 'I made my way to Gwendolen's dressing room, which was at the far end of a small, badly lit corridor. There was a light shining through the door which was only slightly ajar and I could hear the soft murmur of voices as I approached. As I had guessed, Gwen was talking to Arthur, but I was shocked and faced with a difficult dilemma when I heard her whisper throatily: “Suck my titties, darling, you know how that excites me!” Should I or should I not make my presence known and break up their spooning? I peered in through the gap left by the half-shut door. Gwendolen looked simply stunning-if you've never met her, let me tell you that she is a most attractive girl, well-built with long curly strawberry-blonde hair and a curvey figure. She had taken off the dress she was wearing in Act One and was lying in Arthur's arms on a pile of clothes heaped on the floor wearing only a silk camisole which had ridden up to reveal her frilly white knickers. She had let the shoulder straps fall down and Arthur had cupped her large creamy white breasts in his hands. He had taken off his shirt and vest but had kept on his tights which bulged so much between his legs I thought that the material would soon give way! Gwendolen stroked this enormous bulge as she repeated her request for Arthur to suck her titties. She made herself comfortable on his lap, put her arm around his neck and pulled his face to her naked nipples. '“Oooh! Oooh! How lovely,” she moaned as he nibbled gently away, tweaking one erect red tittie between the fingers of his left hand as he twisted his tongue around the other, and Gwendolen moaned with delight, holding him in a vicelike grip as with his right hand he lifted her camisole even higher to rub his palm against her pussey. She arched her back upwards to allow him to pull down her knickers and I don't mind telling you that this sight made my own cock swell up so much that I was forced to unbutton my flies and let my stiff shaft spring out of my trousers. My hand flew to my rigid rod but somehow I managed to resist the temptation to toss myself off.