unlikely event of his finding spare time from fucking to compose a dissertation about the affair for our vicarious enjoyment.
However, I digress; John and I were invited to a select reception for the principal players after the performance of the play given by Sir James Salter, Chairman of the good cause (The Society for the Propagation of Useful Knowledge To The Deserving Poor) which benefited from the funds raised that evening. I found myself standing next to Mr. Irving when the great man suddenly turned round and asked which scenes in the play I had most enjoyed. 'The acting throughout was of the highest quality,' I said carefully, and I could see from Sir James's approving nod that my thoughtfulness was much appreciated. 'I was most impressed with the staging. I heard one gentleman sitting near me remark that no finer piece of stagecraft has been effected, even by yourself, than in the scene in which the murder of Duncan is discovered. The rush in of Macduff and his followers, the terrible roar of fear and thirst for vengeance, the glare of the torches and, above all, the white-faced figure of Lady Macbeth expressing her unutterable agony whilst her husband stalks amid the angry soldiers-an embodiment of disguised guilt-all this was marvellously conveyed to the audience.' Mr. Irving smiled and said: 'Miss Everleigh, you should take up the profession of a dramatic critic. Your little earhole (at least I think that is what he said, though by this time we had quaffed a bumper of champagne and had partaken of a sea-food buffet) knows more about the theatre than Mr. George Bernard Shaw and the rest of those bounders who turn a dishonest penny scribbling for the newspapers. Take my word for it, as far as theatrical, criticism is concerned, Mr. Shaw does not know his arse from his elbow!'
The party broke up soon afterwards, but not before Johnny rather unwisely told the story of the vicar who was enjoying a cup of tea at Mrs. Fairweather's, when young Miss Fairweather dropped her chocolate onto the rug. 'Oh dear,' said the vicar. 'You've got hairs on your sweetie.' 'Yes,' she said. 'And I'm only fifteen!' 'Ha, ha, ha!' said John to a most embarrassed and deafening silence. 'Jenny, I think it is time for us to be off.' 'I think we are about three minutes too late.' I muttered to Sir James who noted my remark with a wry smile. In the handsome cab on our way back to Johnny's rooms in Albemarle Street, I ticked him off about the recounting of an improper story. 'It was appreciated as much as a pork pie at Lady Cohen's soiree next Thursday,' I remonstrated, as the handsome boy snuggled up to me and began to play with my breasts, cupping them in his hands and squeezing gently as we exchanged kisses and cuddles which raised my sensual appetite enormously. I moved my hand to the front of his trousers and felt a hard rod that threatened to tear the material that covered it. His thighs moved as he tried to ease his erection, but I had already decided to offer a helping hand! I could already feel the desire emanating from that throbbing tool, so great was my desire to hold and play with that rampant thumper. So I unbuttoned his fly and grasped his thick penis that showed out of his trousers, quivering like an arrow. He had a long foreskin that I gently peeled back, leaving the purple knob completely uncovered.
Nothing loath, Johnny unbuttoned my blouse and fondled my naked titties as I rubbed his ivory shaft up to peak hardness. When I felt that he might spend too soon, I took my hand away and we locked ourselves into a lingering, erotic kiss with our tongues probing inside each others' mouths. I then kissed him all over until my lips found my way to the top of his lovely long shaft which must have measured at least seven and a half inches (well below the dimensions of Mr. Stockman, of course, though I suppose that is neither here nor there in this context). I took the pulsating knob between my lips, jamming down his foreskin and lashing my tongue around the rigid shaft. I sucked hard, taking at least a third of this extraordinarily long tool into my mouth whilst I played with his hairy balls. Then I began to lick this monster member, drawing my hot, wet tongue from his balls right up his shaft, flicking briefly at the gleaming red dome.
He clutched at my hair and shuddered as I circled my tongue all around the smooth flesh of Johnny's uncapped helmet, paying particular attention to the sensitive ridge. Then I decided to perform my party piece, which leads every man I have ever known to spend within thirty seconds! I removed my hands and, clasping them back, I sucked up almost the entire length of his long shaft, bobbing my head up and down as I slurped greedily on the hot, velvet sweetmeat which, true to form, jerked wildly before shooting jets of frothy spunk into my throat. I greedily swallowed every tangy drop of his copious libation but to my astonishment, his pego began to shrink limply in my mouth.
Goodness gracious, I thought, surely this could not be the prick of Lieutenant Johnny Lynch who often boasted that he could fuck like a rattlesnake (though whether this small reptile, indigenous to the area of North and Central America, has extraordinary stamina and prowess in l'art de faire l'amour is at best debatable). Where had I gone wrong?
My own love button was now sopping wet and I could feel the juices trickling down my thighs, but Johnny lay panting, his limp penis hanging loosely out of his trousers. I looked out of the window and saw that we had almost arrived at his apartment, so I stuffed his sorry sausage back into his trousers and we quickly buttoned up and composed ourselves as the cab turned off Piccadilly into Albemarle Street. Johnny paid off the cabman and, in the hallway of the small block, who should we meet but Ellen Terry and young Mr. David Haines, one of Mr. Irving's company who played some of the minor roles, the Bleeding Sergeant, a Messenger, Young Siward etc. in the play we had just seen. We greeted them cordially as we crowded in the elevator which deposited us on the second floor. Miss Terry and Mr.
Haines made their way to Flat Three whilst we went next door to Flat Four. We soon found ourselves on the Chesterfield sofa engaged in a most passionate embrace, and I was pleased to feel Johnny's hands move downwards, stroking my thigh from my knee to my bum. I felt him slip his hand under my skirt and shivered with anticipation as I felt his fingers on the bare skin above my stockings. His hand inserted itself between my thighs and then his fingers worked themselves into the leg of my knickers and began to torment the wet lips of my cunney.
I endeavoured to assist him find the quickest way home, so I wriggled my little bottom and was delighted to feel his fingers penetrate me.
But then, to my alarm, J felt the dear lad's body stiffen and, though still keeping his fingers in my fanny, he suddenly groaned: 'Oh, Jenny, I feel rather unwell, I really do.' 'What is the matter with you?' I asked anxiously. 'Where does it hurt?' 'It's my belly,' he replied between clenched teeth. 'I really do have a most piercing ache in the pit of my stomach.' And then he withdrew his hand from its nesting-place between my legs, rolled off the sofa and doubled up in obvious pain upon the carpet. I cried out: 'Poor Johnny, we must get you a doctor. Have you a telephone installed in the apartment? You have one? Good. Now, is your doctor on the phone?
Yes? I will ring him straightaway.' Johnny was a patient of Doctor Tong of Welbeck Street who I had met socially at dinner parties, so at least the learned gentleman would know who was speaking at the other end of the apparatus. Fortunately the good doctor was at home-I was later to find out that he was in the middle of fucking the beautiful young daughter of Lady Bracknell, which made his decision to come round immediately even more meritorious. I made Johnny lie down on the sofa and tried to make him as comfortable as possible when there was a loud knock on the front door. 'Who is there?' I called out,* for Doctor Tong could not possibly have arrived so quickly.
'It's David Haines here,' said an equally anxious voice from the hallway. 'I'm sorry to disturb you, but I'm worried about Miss Terry.
She has been violently sick and is in great pain.' I opened the door and saw the handsome young actor was in a state of some distress.
'That's strange,' I said, 'for my friend Lieutenant Lynch has been similarly affected. But look, I've sent for his doctor who I am sure will be pleased to treat Miss Terry as well.' 'Oh, how clever of you,' he said. 'I will tell Miss Terry and await the visit of the doctor. I don't know much about these matters, but I would guess that they are suffering from food poisoning.' 'You could be right as they both partook of a lobster salad at Sir James Salter's reception at the theatre.' 'Yes, of course, I thought I saw you there, Miss Everleigh. Well, I didn't have anything to eat except a few nuts as Ellen, that is, Miss Terry and I had eaten a light supper before the play. But she cannot resist lobster so she accepted a small portion.'
'So did Johnny, although we too had taken a light supper at Ajao's smart little cafe in Covent Garden,' I sighed. 'I suppose it serves them right really for being greedy. But I do hope your doctor arrives soon as Miss Terry is feeling very unwell. I had better go back and comfort her,' said the good-looking young man. 'Perhaps you would call me when the doctor is free to examine Miss Terry.'
Doctor Tong arrived about five minutes later and examined the two patients. 'They are both suffering from a bad case of lobster poisoning,' he commented, 'and although there is no danger to life, I would suggest that both Lieutenant Lynch and Miss Terry rest as peacefully as they can until the offending food has passed through their