arched her back, working her wet cunney back and forth against my hard, thrusting tool. 'Oooh, my pussey's all of a-tingle,' Harriet gasped as she looked to her right and swivelled my head round in the same direction. In a free- standing long mirror which she had set up against the wall whilst she was waiting for Julian and myself, we could see ourselves in action. This was an arousing new experience and it was extremely stimulating to watch myself sheath my shaft so fully inside her juicy love funnel that I could see my balls nestling against the back of Harriet's thighs. I could feel the inexorable rise of spunk now rising up from my tightened ballsack so I started to stroke my cock backwards and forwards, faster and faster, building up to a gigantic spend. I let out a hoarse growl as squirts of sticky warm froth seethed out of my prick. Gush after gush of jism flooded into her cunt until the last dribbles oozed out of my knob, but I continued to drive my still-stiff shaft to and fro until Harriet also cried out with delight as she thrashed around in the throes of a shattering climax. 'Lord above, Mister Henry doesn't your cock shrivel down after spending?' enquired Harriet as she slicked her hand up and down my shaft which was of course coated with her pussey juice.
'Usually, but I can sometimes keep it up till I've spent a second time,' I answered proudly and Harriet showed two fine rows of neat white teeth as she gave a vulpine smile and said with a sly wink: “Then I'll gladly repay you right now for the gorgeous way you licked out my cunney with your tongue. Well, I'm assuming you would like me to, of course, though perhaps you have some objections to being sucked off?' 'None whatsoever, and nor do I believe there can he any red-blooded man in the whole country who would not take up such a kind offer,' I replied instantly. Giving a husky chuckle, the horny girl slid herself over me with her breasts resting comfortably over my ribs as she set to work with a will. After wetting the dome of my knob with a series of long, slow licks, Harriet immediately proceeded to suck in six inches of my thick tower of power between her lips. She was an extremely skilled practitioner of the ancient art of fellatio and I panted with pleasure as I felt my prick slide easily over her tongue and down into her throat. Somehow she managed to cram my entire shaft into her mouth, presumably in much the same way as a sword swallower performs his act without being injured by the lethal blade and I lay back in sheer bliss whilst her moist mouth worked up and down my delighted cock, licking and lapping on my pulsating length. Her hand gripped the base as she bobbed her pretty blonde head up and down like a yo-yo, keeping her lips magically taut as she continued to suck my quivering cock and with her free hand she gently massaged my balls. My hands clutched her head as Harriet continued this heavenly tonguing and her swirling tongue collected the pre-cum juice which now started to ooze out from the 'eye' of my knob.
Then she jammed her mouth over my cock and slurped so lustily on her penile sweetmeat that I almost fainted from the powerful electric shocks of erotic joy which crackled through every fibre of my body.
Even though a copious emission of seed had only just flowed out of my cock, with a desperate cry I sent a fresh flood of creamy spunk down her waiting throat and she sucked and swallowed every last drop of salty semen until my prick stopped its crazed jerking and slowly started to deflate back to its normal limp state. Suffice it to say that very soon afterwards Julian frigged his tool up to its previous rock-hard stiffness and he and Harriet enjoyed a delectable soixante neuf whilst I wanked over the randy pair. Let me finish this entry by recording that Harriet proved herself truly insatiable and milked my prick twice more and Julian's cock a further three times before she finally allowed us to rest our weary heads on our pillows.
By gad, she is a real little strumpet. I spent this morning in bed, composing a little ode which perhaps might not have been up to the standard of my prize-winning essay on the suffragette question which was printed, but I believe is worthy of scratching out in my diary. It reads as follows:
I care not what other men may say The girl who suits my mind, Is a wench who meets me in joyous play And whilst she is good, she is kind, With her beauties never could I be cloyed Such pleasures I find at her side; For I don't love her less because she's enjoyed By another young man beside. She opens her thighs without fear or dread And points to her dear little muff, Its lips oh, so red, and all overspread With blonde hair of the fuzziest fluff. 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. The Montpellier Restaurant, Cheltenham, September 30th, 1901 (Over luncheon) Poor Julian! Although we enjoyed yet another fabulous night's fucking with Harriet last night, the wheel of good fortune turned away sharply from my chum this morning. As one would expect after such frenetic exercise, Julian and I were still feeling somewhat fatigued. Indeed, for the first time in many weeks I tried to freshen up by taking the advice (given of course in a vain attempt to prevent us beginning the day with a wank) of our old games master Bunny Hare to begin the day with a cold shower. However, I was still yawning when I came down to breakfast at ten o'clock. 'Good morning, sir, I trust you slept well,' said Fletcher who was in attendance in the morning room. The butler could see from my haggard expression that I needed a pick-me-up and he continued: 'Unless you have a preference for coffee, sir, may I recommend a cup of the Darjeeling tea which Sir Talbot has shipped over directly from his brother's plantation? It's a most refreshing brew with which to begin the day.' I nodded and he passed me a warm plate and went on: 'Then I will go down to the kitchen and ask Mrs. Sawyer to brew you a fresh pot and make some more hot toast. In the meantime, would you care to serve yourself from the buffet?' 'Thank you,' I said and walked across to the sideboard to help myself to a hearty breakfast from the row of silver dishes kept hot by spirit lamps. Although I was still tired from my exertions with Harriet, I was also quite hungry and piled my plate with three rashers of bacon, two sausages, and some scrambled eggs. Then I sat down and just as I started to tuck into this appetising feast, Julian came in dressed only in pyjamas and a dressing gown, looking bleary-eyed and definitely worse for wear. He flapped a hand at me and said wearily: 'Hello there, Henry, I hope you managed to catch a few hours sleep. Unfortunately, I've developed a rotten headache.
Please forgive me but I feel uncommonly rotten and would prefer to go back to bed till I feel a bit brighter.' 'Of course, my dear chap,' I replied sympathetically. 'I could take the opportunity to go to Cheltenham and see if I can find one or two books on the reading list for my first 'Varsity term.' 'Jolly good, um, you haven't yet learned to drive a motor, have you? No matter, I'll get Fletcher to arrange for Dawson, the under-gardener, to drive you into town,' he said as he flopped into a chair to wait for the return of the butler.
It was obvious that Julian would be unlikely to recover till tea-time at the earliest, so knowing that I might have some time on my hands, I took this journal with me today and hence am busy filling two or three pages over an excellent cup of afternoon coffee. The Montpellier Restaurant is across the road from the domed Rotunda, built some fifty years ago as a Pump Room where one may sip the famed Cheltenham waters in ease and comfort. Personally, I am somewhat sceptical as to whether glugging down pints of mineral water is beneficial to health (although I suppose a course of treatment cuts down on one's alcoholic intake). My uncle, Sir Robert Bacon, swears that he comes back a new man after his annual visit to Carlsbad every July. However, this has probably to do more with his nightly dalliances with the ladies of the town than anything else and I remember just how difficult it was for him last year to explain away to my aunt the contents of billet-doux he received from Countess Marussia of Samarkand after his return from the Slovakian spa. Be that as it may, my own far shorter excursion to Cheltenham has so far proved extremely rewarding. For a gardener, Dawson drove Julian's Wolseley extremely well and I asked him how he came to acquire this skill. 'I went down with Sir Talbot to “Lunnon” for the Royal Agricultural Show and at my request he let me take the wheel there and back,' he explained. When I enquired whether he had enjoyed the sights of the Metropolis, he said: 'It were all right, sir, but the Cockneys thought I was a “furriner” and I couldn't understand them.' At my request, he stopped the car outside the first bookstore we came across which happened to be Robertson's Bookshop which was situated almost alongside the theatre and opposite the County Court. Remarkably, I was the only person in the well-stocked shop and I scanned through the books in the Political- Economy section uninterrupted by other browsers. Alas', I could not find a copy of Basic Economics by Professor Zanerowski which I had been recommended to purchase by my tutor. When I asked the assistant who was sitting by the till at the front of the shop if there might be a copy in the stock room he said: 'I very much doubt it, sir. There is little demand for academic titles round here except from the Cheltenham College – but you might be lucky and find a copy in our second-hand department upstairs.' 'Very well, I'll take a look and see if you're right,' I said and made my way upstairs where two gentlemen were engaged in a heated discussion.
It soon became clear that the well-set gentleman dressed in a black Vicuna jacket with a silk-quilted collar and cuffs was Mr. Robertson, the eponymous owner of the shop and the younger man, who was wearing a smart grey lounge suit, was a representative of a publisher bent on obtaining an order for his company's latest wares. They were engaged in a keen discussion upon the state of the book trade to which I listened with interest, for if I ever had to enter trade (God forbid!) I would certainly plump for this gentlemanly profession.
'No, no, no, the market for historical texts is dreadfully slow and you'll have to show me something more lively than another of Mr.
Jackley's accounts,' said the bookseller. 'Come now, Mr. Lewis, surely the editors at Burbeck and Newman
