Since then she has been doing this whenever I ask her — and occasionally even when I don't — and she even finger-fucked herself in our carriage on the way to Sir Andrew Stuck's literary soiree in Bloomsbury the other evening.
Helene is a most stunning creature and it is a beautiful sight to see her writhing in ecstasy as she masturbates, her shaved pussey arching upwards as she approached her spend, her head thrust back and her tits straining against the thin material of a summer blouse.
Indeed, yesterday afternoon Mr. Colin Ramsay, the well-known photographer, came round to our house to take some portraits of Helene in the nude and she put on a special performance for the great man; and there is one shot (for Mr. Ramsay was so excited that he worked all night to be able to show us some sample proofs early this morning) of Helene, one hand caressing her nipples and the other fingering her cunney, that deserves publication in your esteemed journal.
I must add that after Mr. Ramsay left this morning Helene insisted that I join in the fun and toss myself off in front of her, an idea that had indeed crossed my mind. At first I was hesitant, not having wanked in front of anyone since our circle jerks in the third form at Nottsgrove. However, after swallowing a large whisky and soda, I pulled off my clothes and took my penis in my hand. My initial shyness prevented me from really letting go but then I gradually got into the swing of things and my hand sped faster and faster along my shaft until with a gasp I shot a stream of semen all over Helene's waiting titties and she rubbed in the white juice over her stalky strawberry-coloured nips.
Incidentally, my wife's tennis has much improved too and tomorrow afternoon she is playing in the London and Middlesex Championships at Hendon. Those knowledgeable in the game confidently expect her to reach the final rounds and if Helene plants her drives and volleys with as much grace and enthusiasm as she now shows in her fucking, I do believe that I will soon be the proud husband of an international player. So I have a great deal of which to be thankful to the game of lawn-tennis, which is why I have today donated two thousand pounds to the organisers of women's tennis so that more young ladies will be encouraged to take up this most edifying of all sports.
I believe that all patriotic men should follow my example for in conclusion I quote again from the lecture given by Professor Balls: The husband of an athletic girl may find his friends wondering why he does not sigh for the “foolish little thing” of other days. But in place of the fragile young flower, prone to swoon at every turn, we now have a growing number of well-built young women of amazing cheerfulness and vigour with a grip on life and upon themselves.' And indeed, if I may be so permitted to add, upon their husbands' cocks!
Yours faithfully,
Harry S. Wharton
Watford Lodge
Rondunn Road
Hampstead
London, N.W.
August, 1894
The Editor replies: My sincere congratulations to the gallant gentleman and his lady wife on discovering that all forms of fucking tend towards achieving the acme of felicity.
Captain John Gibson of Edinburgh, who happened to be in my office when your letter arrived, suggests there is a further avenue which you may care to follow, best expressed in the following verse:
There was a young lady of Glasgow,
And fondly her lover did ask: 'Oh,
Pray allow me a fuck,
But she said: 'No, my duck,
Though you may, if you please, up my bum go!'
Sir,
I am happy to share with readers of The Oyster the ecstatic experiences of some fine fucking I was recently privileged to enjoy on a railway journey to Bonnie Scotland.
As a demure (sic) young girl of just nineteen, normally I would have been chaperoned on the night sleeper to Edinburgh. But my mother's companion, Miss Harrow, had turned her ankle quite badly that very morning, after tripping up over Rex, our pet corgi, so to my great joy it was decided that I could travel alone as Cripps the butler would escort me to Kings Cross Station and I would be met at Waverley, Edinburgh by Colonel McGraw's personal carriage.
I was travelling to Edinburgh to attend the coming-out ball of one of my oldest friends, Susey McGraw, in whose company I spent not only my schooldays at St Hilda's Academy in South Devon but also a year at Fraulein Metternich's Finishing School For Young Ladies in Zurich, Switzerland. Susey and I both lost our virginities during the first term at Fraulein Metternich's to the same handsome young mountaineer, Konrad Kochanski, but that is another story which, Mr. Editor, I will relate at a later time if you so desire.
Be that as it may, when I boarded the train five minutes before we were due to depart, the first class lounge was almost empty, and by half past eleven all the other passengers had retired except for two young men who invited me over to their table for a nightcap. This sounds terribly forward but I must hasten to add that Kevin Durie (of the Argyll Duries) was known to most of the best families in London and had been a guest only the previous month at one of my mother's musical evenings where we had been introduced. The older of the two- previously unknown to me-was none other than that infamous man about town Sir Andrew Stuck, whose reputation was of course known to me although I had not had the pleasure of being introduced to the handsome young baronet before this unexpected meeting.
'I did enjoy your mother's concert, Miss Bunter-Dunne,' said Kevin politely, 'I am particularly fond of Mendelsohn's string Octet which I thought the little orchestra played with great brio.'
'Yes, it is a fine piece of music,' I agreed. 'The piece has astonishing instrumental and contrapuntal skill that serves an original conception of delightful freshness. It is quite extraordinary to think that Mendelssohn was only sixteen years old when he composed it.
'Are you fond of music, Sir Andrew?' I asked.
'Not overmuch, to be honest,' he grinned, 'I prefer the theatre to the concert hall and a rousing chorus of a Gilbert and Sullivan show to the boring dirges of many of the so-called classical composers.'
'Not only are you a Sassenach but you are also a barbarian,' grinned Kevin, but we chatted amicably enough, polishing off an alarming proportion of the bottle of malt whisky Kevin had brought with him to while away the journey.
Then the door opened and who should come through but Clare Corisande, another alumni of Fraulein Metternich's establishment (and who had also been deprived of her maidenhood by Konrad Kochanski, by the by) and who was also bound for Edinburgh and Susey McGraw's dance. Her Aunt Maud, who was accompanying her, was fast asleep in the lounge. She knew Sir Andrew very well and I was pleased to introduce her to Mr. Durie. In honour of this pretty girl, whose blonde tresses I had much admired, we finished Kevin's bottle and then prepared to make our way to the sleeping compartments.
But as we rose, Sir Andrew said: 'Tell me, ladies, are either of you familiar with Scottish dress?'
'Not really,' said Clare, indeed, this will be the first time I have been North of the Border.'
'Well, they have some curious customs in Scotland,' grinned Sir Andrew. 'For instance, let me show you a photograph of Kevin here in his kilt at Lord Bourne's ball.'
Clare and I looked at the photograph of Kevin in what appeared to be a tartan petticoat which left his knees naked to the elements.
'Did you waltz in your kilt?' asked Clare mischievously.
'Aye, I did, right enough,' said Kevin. 'And why not?'
'Oh it is just that I would have thought that the whirling motion of dancing would have caused your kilt to fly
