luscious bum cheeks. I moved over and put my hand on her shoulder. “Start from the top and work down,” she suggested and nothing loath, I gently rubbed the smooth, warm skin of her neck with my fingertips. '“M'mmm, you have a wonderful touch, Mr. Beattie,” she purred in a soft voice, “are you sure you have never before given any girl a massage?” For reply, I began kissing her, starting at the nape of her neck and then my kisses followed my hands which were soon clutching her glowing, rounded buttocks. As I frantically tore at the buttons of my doublet I rained rapid kisses down her backbone and over her bum cheeks down the backs of her thighs which made her body quiver all over. 'When I had managed to shuck off my tights, she turned round to lie on her back and her beautiful body lay sprawled before me, her legs flung invitingly apart and the white globes of her breasts acting as magnets to my hands which roved freely across them to feel the elongated red nipples. I kissed her pretty ankles and began travelling ever upwards. Gwendolen trembled with lustful anticipation when my hot lips reached the curly hair of her cunney and she moaned with desire when I sucked the pouting love lips into my mouth. She grabbed my hair and pulled me even closer as my tongue inserted itself into the damp crevice of her cunt. My tongue soon found her stiffening clitty and she gasped: “Yes, Michael, finish me off as quickly as you can!” So I gave her clitty my full attention, nibbling the hard flesh as her body jerked from side to side as I tongued her cunney and played with her titties until she threw back her head and in a paroxysm of erotic fervour cried out: “I'm coming, Michael, I'm going to come! Push your tongue in further! That's the way!” With a huge shudder she gained her release, mewing happily as her love juices dribbled over my lips and I swallowed as much of her pungent nectar as the flow ran over my face. 'When she had recovered she sat up and took my bursting prick in her hands. I tried to move on top of her, but she gently pushed me back and rising to her knees she said: “No, Michael, I don't want to go further now. Apart from anything else, it would hardly be fair to Arthur if I let you fuck me. But I tell you what, I'll relieve your feelings in a way which I think you'll like!” 'She slid her hand up and down my straining shaft as she lasciviously ran her tongue round her upper lip before stooping her head and kissing my uncapped helmet which sent a current of delicious sweetness flowing throughout my body. She played with my prick for some moments, slipping the crown in and out of her mouth whilst her tongue glided slowly up and down my pulsing pecker.
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.
CHAPTER THREE. A Test Of Endurance
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
