and clasped her round the ribs to play with her horned-up nipples, squeezing and nipping them as she stooped down with head nuzzling into the pillow. David's monstrous cock was now springing up between the rondeurs of Eliza's luscious bum when the trembling girl called out: 'No, not in my bum, dear David, as it is still recovering from the last encounter. But do feel free to go up my cunt from behind.' 'Your wish is my command, lovely lady,' said David, and I helped matters along by taking his great shaft in my hands and guiding it slowly towards her inviting wet crack until the tip of his knob touched her cunney lips. 'That's divine, darling, what a splendid staff you have. Do slide it in my wet, waiting pussey,' she encouraged him. 'Wait, though, perhaps Jennifer would like your big cock in her cunt. If so, I think you should transfer to her lovely little crack.' 'You are very kind but I think I would rather watch than participate,' I said. 'If you are sure, sister, then I will enjoy myself with this slick truncheon that is filling my juicy cunney so delightfully,' she responded. Her bottom rose with every shove as he drove home, excited to such raging peaks, the contractions of her delightfully tight cunney soon sucked the boiling seed out of his tool, sending the hot frothy spunk pumping through in thick wads as he heaved his throbbing shaft in and out of her dripping crack with all his youthful strength. We slept peacefully until dawn, when David padded quietly back to Miss Terry's rooms to ensure that she was still asleep. He woke her up with a cup of tea and two slices of dry toast and thankfully, both she and Lieutenant Lynch were fully recovered by mid-day. Now, Mr. Editor, you may well ask why this little escapade shows that the art of chivalry is thankfully still with us? My answer is simply this: firstly, we must consider the chivalrous manner of Doctor Tong who, on hearing that Lieutenant Lynch was suffering from a severe stomach pain, withdrew his therapeutic tool from the moist, clinging cunney of Gwendoline Bracknell to rush over post-haste to Albemarle Street. Then we may consider his generous acceptance of tit-fucking me instead of presenting a bill for a substantial sum. Then I may point to the spirit of 'what's-mine-is-yours-and-what's-yours-is- mine' extant between Lieutenant Lynch and David Haines as far as both Eliza and myself were concerned. And, of course, there was the similar share-and-share alike attitude between Eliza and myself to be taken into account. To close this true, unvarnished aide memoire, I should add that Eliza wished to be acquainted with the sexual potency of Doctor Tong and, as I quite fancied the idea myself, I readily consented to take part in a little jeu d'amour. So, two days later, we found ourselves naked on the crisp white sheets of Doctor Tong's bed, with the good doctor slipping off his robe and exposing his trusty truncheon which saluted us by standing stiffly up-against his belly.
This was a luscious sight and we begged him to fuck us as soon as possible, without too much foreplay. 'With pleasure, my dears.
Jenny, please be so good as to straddle my face so I can tickle your pussey with my tongue, whilst Eliza rides a St George on my cock,' asked the genial doctor. This was most pleasurable and, as Eliza and I faced each other, we kissed and fondled each other's breasts, making our nipples rise up until they resembled rich, red stalks, whilst Eliza slid her extremely juicy cunt up and down the doctor's shaft. I too bobbed up and down as he licked and lapped my own dripping pussey. After this, each of us sucked his prick and balls in turn and then he mounted me from behind and pressed his cock between my bum cheeks into my willing cunney, whilst Eliza kissed and sucked his hairy ballsack. He climaxed with a great groan and oiled my pussey with a copious emission of spurting seed, after which followed my own delightful spend. Doctor Tong was so enamoured with our fun and games that he proposed another session, this time with a third lady, Miss Catherine Sloper, the American heiress who is known for her delights of orgiastic joys in both London and New York. He will also attempt to interest the greatest cocksman of them all, Mr. Peter Stockman, whose enormous prick is the talk of London Society, but I fear that his diary of fucking engagements is full until late September, in which case Sir Andrew Stuck will no doubt kindly act as a not unworthy substitute. However, whoever takes part, I know they will be pleased to see my report in the pages of your excellent publication. I am, Sir, Your Obedient and Humble Servant, Jennifer Everleigh Webb House Hill Street Mayfair London, W September, 1892 N.B. I shall be abroad until the end of October. My cousin Miss Molly Farquhar and myself have been invited by Count Gewirtz of Galicia to be his guests at the Celebration Ball to commemorate the Silver Wedding of The Prince and Princess of Shmocklestein, and we shall spend some weeks with Sir David Cuthbertson in Paris. When we return, I shall recount our adventures in a letter which I hope will interest readers of this splendid journal. And may I take this opportunity of stating that HRH has never spent the night with me. I have indeed sucked the Royal Pego but our liaison has never gone beyond the bounds of good taste. I trust these few words will now scotch this foul rumour.
The morals of the young are not what they were in my day. Now, do not imagine that I shall now launch a tirade about Our Youth Going To The Dogs. I leave such nonsense to Mrs.
Grundy, the Reverend Bowdler, and all the would-be killjoys who sub rosa much envy the golden boys and girls who have boldly decided to sample all the forbidden joys of l'arte de faire l'amour. No, Sir, I write to you not in such a mean spirit of anger or of jealousy; my purpose in taking up my pen is solely to illustrate how the iron hand of repression can never jail the spirit of desire and how young people today are determined to experience the fruits of love-for as Mr. Disraeli comments: 'We are all born for love-it is the principle of existence and its only end.' This illustrative narrative is written, I must assure you, with the permission of all those whose names appear in this racy tale. Most of the action took place at Sir Trelford Stamp's London house in perhaps the most fashionable street in Belgravia. I shall not divulge the full address, or those of your readers not acquainted with the gentleman may pester him for invitations to his next dinner party. Those of us privileged to count ourselves friends of the seventh baronet know him to be of a most liberal disposition. This, of course, befits a handsome bachelor of some forty-five years of age who, whilst employed as a senior writer by one of our more salubrious journals, is himself extremely wealthy in his own right having had the good fortune to inherit three hundred and seventy five thousand pounds from his Uncle Rowland, twenty-seven years ago. Far more important than his scribblings, however, are his somewhat recherche parties held in D*** Street, one of which I was invited to last Wednesday week after meeting Trelford by chance in the lounge of the Jim Jam Club in Great Windmill Street, to which I had journeyed for my weekly game of whist. I play there every Tuesday evening with Lord Adrian Bourne, Doctor Jonathan Arkley and Mr. Peter Stockman whose gigantic penis must one day fall off from extreme wear and tear if there is any justice left in the world. The latest rumour is that Mrs. Keppel and Mrs. Langtry have both sampled the joys of Mr.
Stockman's extraordinary member, but that is neither here nor there, as the actress said to the bishop. Fortunately for my own bank account, Lord Bourne has as much card sense as a pair of Lady Everleigh's tweezers, but he is man enough to pay for his lessons in card play. Nevertheless, he should watch carefully when I mix and deal the cards as I must admit that my Lord Bourne could then, with more truth than he would realise, recite the words of the poet: 'I do not like the way the cards are shuffled, But yet I like the game and want to play.' However, I am guilty of digression; Sir Trelford invited me to dine with him the next evening and I accepted with pleasure. However, as we were taking our leave, I suddenly remembered my promise to John, the son of my country neighbours Professor and Mrs. Walsh, that he could visit me for a week during his half-term holiday as a sixteenth birthday treat. 'Trelly,'
I called after him. 'I have just remembered that Professor Walsh's son John is staying with me for a week beginning tomorrow. The scamp is looking forward to coming to London immensely and I cannot let him down.' 'Great God, I haven't seen John for ages-is he really sixteen now? Well, I'll be damned, how time flies. I expect he's a chip off the old block like all those hot-blooded young pups. I last saw him some years back when I went down to his school to present the annual prizes.' 'He would very much like to be a gay young blade but John is very shy, and at Greyfriars he has been given no chances whatsoever to sample even a morsel of the delights afforded by wine, women and song,' I said with a note of genuine regret. 'Whilst John is a very agreeable young chap who, like myself, is a bit of a bookworm and appears to like nothing better than to peruse the stock at Gastons' Library during his vacation. Nevertheless, I did see him once looking at the prints in Harts Holywell Street shop, and from the bulge in the front of his trousers, he is at least a devotee of the undraped female form and has left the usual public school nonsenses far behind him,' I added. 'Well, no matter, Freddy, no matter, bring the boy along. I'll tell you what I'll do, I'll invite Colonel Neil and ask him to bring his niece. You know the man, by the way? He is something of an arriviste who has tunnelled his path into Society through brown-tonguing the necessary persons who supposedly make up the great and the good. Anyhow, his niece Patricia lives with him, whilst her parents are in America, and she can partner young Walsh,' said the genial baronet. 'Thank you, Trelly, that is awfully kind of you. I'm sure John will be tremendously bucked by being invited to dine in D*** Street. We'll see you tomorrow, then, at eight o'clock,'
