looked up and instructed: 'Cuthbert, just lie back and enjoy yourself. I presume that no girl has ever sucked your cock?' 'No never,' he gasped with barely suppressed excitement. 'Goodness, I have only read about such things – is it as pleasant as fucking?' Lizzie could not resist giving a little chuckle as she replied: 'Oh yes, very much so. Gentlemen love being sucked, and some would say they prefer a good gobble to a fuck. Let's see what you think of it.' Without further ado, Lizzie began to lick his scrotum, flicking her tongue around the hairy, pink sack. Then, she opened her lips wide and took in both of his balls, somehow managing to get them inside her mouth.
As Bunny gasped with delight, she grabbed his now fully erect truncheon in her hands and, after releasing his balls from her mouth, she started to nibble on his wide, mushroom helmet. 'Oh God, that's exquisite!' he cried out as she stuffed the purple knob inside her mouth and began to bob her head back and forth. Her lips worked furiously to capture as much of Bunny's cock as possible, until she had eased almost all of his shaft down her throat. He was in seventh heaven as Lizzie's moist tongue worked up and down, licking and lapping at every last inch of his length. Her hand held his cock steady at the base as she pumped her head up and down, her lips taut as she kissed and sucked on her fleshy sweetmeat. Suddenly, she pulled her lips away and her darting tongue lapped up the juices which were oozing out of the tiny eye of his knob. Then she jammed her mouth over his uncapped bell-end and slurped greedily as she gently massaged his balls. With a hoarse yell, Mr. Hare spunked his load down her throat and Lizzie sucked and swallowed every last drain of it until his glistening, flaccid shaft slipped out of her mouth. I was sorely tempted to toss myself off, my own cock being as tall as a flagpole, but there remained a chance that Lizzie might agree to let me fuck her again, a task for which my prick needed to be at its best, so I resisted the urge. I then heard Lizzie say: 'Now, if you would like to make further progress in l'arte de faire l'amour, come back here on Friday night and I will teach you how to suck pussey, a sadly neglected skill in this country, although it is widely practised on the continent. However, you had better leave now before we are discovered,' she concluded as she jumped out of the bed and slipped on her dressing gown. Bunny thanked her profusely whilst she dressed and was about to open the door when Lizzie said: 'Cuthbert, tell me truthfully – isn't fucking far better than playing with little boys' tools?' His face flushed as he said in a low voice: 'Ah, I was not sure if you knew about that unfortunate business. But I can honestly say that the two experiences are like chalk and cheese and any desires I have had in that quarter have been banished for good.'
'Splendid, I am sure that your sexual development will advance nicely now,' she said with satisfaction. After he left, I came out of the bathroom with my prick standing high up against my tummy as I walked towards the bed. Alas, although Lizzie said she should love to have one final fuck, she told me to get dressed and leave as I would soon have to be in my dormitory. Unfortunately, 'lights-out' is half an hour earlier tonight than during the rest of the week.
Piqued, I began to pull on my clothes whilst Lizzie remonstrated: 'Now, now, don't feel hard done by, Henry! You did the right thing by bringing Cuthbert to see me, for I am sure he will be a new man now he has finally expressed his sexual needs. Yet, you have been well rewarded and I will try to think up something special for our next tryst on Thursday afternoon with George and the new boy, your friend Johnny Bridges.' I smiled as I bent down to tie my shoe laces and said 'Fair enough, Lizzie, but you can't blame a chap for being disappointed.'
Wednesday, November 14th, 1895 (Before tea)
I must note some details of the heated discussion on the status of women in society led by Mr. Hutchinson in our civics class this morning. He asked us our opinion of the current agitation by many females to be freed from the ties of hearth and home, with specific reference to the recent clamour for political rights. I regret that most of the chaps took the side of Cheetham who declared that, in his opinion, the desire of the wild women for equality was as impossible as that of the moth for the star. In his words: 'They repudiate marriage as a one-sided tyranny, willfully neglecting the fact that the normal relationship between husband and wife must be one of control and decision on the husband's side, and of deference and submission on that of the wife. For, where two ride on a horse, one must needs rides behind.' Mr. Hutchinson asked if anyone was prepared to stand up and put forward a contrary view, and without hesitation, I raised my hand and was invited to state my case. I stood up and said: 'Most people would agree on the desirability of free trade, for if artificial restrictions on trade are removed, each country will be able to occupy itself with that industry for which it has the greatest natural advantages. 'Once we emancipate women by removing the artificial restrictions which debar them from higher education and remunerative employment, we will have granted them a fair field and no favour. There is no reason to suppose that, in any respect, women will show themselves either superior or inferior to men. Genius is a patent of individuality and the country cannot afford to let half its citizens hide their true values. I then shamelessly repeated word for word a passage from one of my father's sermons which had angered certain members of his congregation and thundered it out with gusto. I sat down to a noisy mixture of cheers and hisses and the discussion raged on with only a core of fellows-to be precise, George, Johnny, Billy Goodall and the Honourable Gerard Home – taking my side. Thus we lost the vote by a heavy margin. The bell sounded for luncheon and Mr. Hutchinson asked me stop behind a moment after he had dismissed the class. I was concerned that he might speak to me about matters appertaining to Lizzie Dickerson, but my fears were unfounded for all he did was to compliment me on my debating skills. He said with a smile: 'Keep up your attendance at the Debating Society meeting Dashwood. However, unless there is a reason to inflame those who disagree with you on a particular issue into foolish bluster, try to conciliate rather than confront your opponents. Don't forget the dagger kills just as effectively as the cutlass. It isn't wise to make enemies unnecessarily.' Of course I did not wish to embarrass my form master by asking him whether he personally supported my point of view, although I am certain that he had some sympathy with my arguments. So I thanked him for his advice and left the classroom. After depositing my books in my study, instead of going straight to the dining-hall, I thought I would stroll round to the office of Mr.
Walsall, the school secretary, who sorts the mail and leaves any letters and parcels addressed to pupils on a small table outside in the corridor. As I turned the corner, I bumped into Addington, the tyrannical prefect with whom I had the run in whilst I was speaking to Lizzie Dickerson in the quadrangle. 'Watch where you're going,' he snarled, even though he had his head in a book and it was his fault that we collided. When he looked up and saw that it was my head that had butted his chest, he threw a roundhouse swipe at me which I easily dodged and I skipped out of the way. There were two other chaps walking towards him so he could hardly take the matter further but he still bawled: Dashwood, I'll get you later, you see if I don't!' What did he have against me? I wracked my brains to think how I might have offended him as I walked up to the letter table. A letter was waiting for me, addressed in writing that was unfamiliar. I tore open the (lap of the envelope and pulled out a long letter – which I saw had the headed notepaper of Sparsit's School for Young Ladies. My heart leapt as I realised this epistle was from the gorgeous Charlotte Harley. I stuffed the letter into my jacket pocket to read when I had time to pursue it unhurriedly. After luncheon, I shamelessly used the injury to my shin (although it has now completely healed) as an excuse to skip the sixty minute period of physical training. Bunny Hare, doubtless as a reward for my sterling service the previous evening, agreed to let me leave instead of watching the other chaps go through their exercises, and so I had a chance to sit down quietly by myself in my study and read Charlotte's long letter. It reads as follows:
Dear Henry,
I did so enjoy meeting you yesterday – the lecture was interesting but the high spot of my visit to the Albion Academy was the lovely fuck we enjoyed in your study! I am writing this letter in the library on Sunday afternoon when we are all supposed to write to our parents – I wrote to mine yesterday to give it to Mrs.
Osbourne so I shan't be hauled over the coals for writing to you instead. We are not supposed to write to boys but Newman, the under-gardener, will post any letters we give to him for a small financial fee. Oh, Henry, what I would only give to have your hands freely roaming across my naked body, sliding your palms slowly over my breasts, cupping my firm bosoms and rolling your fingers along my red nipples. I have taken the liberty of telling my close friends about our liaison and they are madly jealous! Well this is readily understandable, for here we are, two hundred and twenty healthy, high-spirited girls shut up in the heart of Kent without hardly a single member of the male sex to be found anywhere on the premises. It can hardly be a matter of surprise that many intimate and emotional friendships flourish amongst us. Presumably, at the Albion Academy, you are also subject to a similarly repressive regime and, deprived of any contact with the female species, corresponding passions freely abound. There is also a plethora of whispered gossip about you-know-who and so-and-so. To an extent we have lessened the mortfication of rejection and the resulting ribald comments made in scornful notes passed between desks during lessons. This has been done through a convention which has grown up at Sparsit's that, if
