'How about an assignation in the summer house,' I suggested.
'Or the maze,' said Rosie. 'That would be an adventure. We could all try it after dinner.' 'Except Perdita,' I said. 'She would get completely lost and we'd have to spend half the night looking for her. And we have to put her on the train for Scotland tomorrow. I suspect that the whole household is going to have to help her pack in any case.' 'I am going to provide her with a map,' said Rosie.
'She has to change at least twice. I'm sure she is going to end up somewhere like Great Yarmouth if we are not careful.' Rosie's practical side in matters of public transport had come to the fore again. 'That's a good idea,' I said approvingly. 'But now we must get everything organised for our bicycle ride back to the Grange.'
A couple of servants arrived with a gig. The remains of the picnic were loaded into it. 'We'll bring the other tablecloth back with us,' said Becky, indicating the swaddled Rosie. Perdita was the only remaining problem. She was sitting down on a handy tree stump on the other side of the clearing, holding on to the bundle of her belongings, a far away look in her eyes and quite oblivious to the fact that her white titties were highlighted by the setting sun. She could not travel like that. Becky and George solved the problem. She was to depart just as she had arrived, bundled up in a travelling rug like a large parcel beside Ian. I carefully mounted myself on the tandem tricycle behind Cecily. 'I hope you are still strong enough to pedal,' she said, with a provoking smile. 'I am just going to sit here and think of strawberries and cream.' Mr. Pego, as though sensing her bum just inches ahead, did rather more than twitch this time. It was going to be a difficult ride home. I could hardly let him out into the late afternoon air. We had caused sufficient consternation among the local population already that day. At least Rosie was safe. I hoped that there would not be too many people on the road. Although superficially decent, any closer inspection would reveal some distinct oddities about the party. A girl wrapped in a tablecloth, pinned firmly at hem and neck, a clergyman with very obvious nipples riding with a woman with close cropped hair, a large bundle with a tendency to giggle and me, bent double in order to relieve my straining member. Suffice to say that we did arrive with no further adventures. The picnic had been a success and several of the party had developed a taste for the country life. I hoped though that I would encounter Perdita again although I recognised that this was more likely to be by chance than design. 'Who knows,' I thought wistfully, 'by tomorrow evening she will either be enjoying a Highland fling with her friends, or will be having a thoroughly sloppy fuck anywhere between Llandudno and Scarborough, depending on where she got on the wrong train.' At dinner that night, we had dildo surprise. Becky and Hannah were responsible. As we sat round the table, small bowls of salad were brought in after the soup.
Nestling among the lettuce in four instances, were copies of the Scott Dildo, as Hannah called it professionally. My prick, proudly erect among the greenery, set about with radishes and spring onions. Cries of surprise and, I am glad to say, delight, greeted them. 'It is becoming a standard line,' said Hannah. 'Your likeness is entering an amazingly wide variety of cunnies on a regular basis all over London and the Home Counties. Andrew, you will receive quite a substantial sum in royalties at the end of the six months accounting period. But you may have to come back to the pottery in the near future.'
'Why?' I asked, 'Is there something wrong. Without having scrutinised any of them in detail, they seem to be remarkably true-to-life reproductions.' 'At least three of the girls,' said Hannah, 'Have expressed a very strong interest in being fucked by the original.' 'Will that be acceptable to Madame Nettleton?' I asked. 'Madame Nettleton is thoroughly accommodating about such things, as long as the work is not held up too much.' 'But in the meantime,' said Becky, 'I for one intend to make use of one of these splendid Things as soon as the meal is finished. 'And me,' said Rosie, although whether she intended to sample my likeness before or after her assignation in the gazebo with Monty, I did not know.
'And me,' said Cecily. 'I want to compare it with the real thing.' 'I want the original,' said Catherine suddenly, breaking her silence. 'I have been here for five days and I haven't fucked you once.' 'I'm sorry,' I said, 'but you have been much occupied with George.' 'That was not a reprimand, Andrew,' she said, 'But art expression of interest.' The prospect of a bout of after-dinner fucking was looming deliciously before us. I ate heartily, knowing that I would need all my energy in the evening ahead.
LETTERS TO THE EDITOR
Sir, This little report may reassure your readers who took issue with the recent judgement of a correspondent in the Manchester Guardian who opined that the age of chivalry has forever passed. Last Wednesday I had the pleasure of attending a gala charity performance of Mr. Henry Irving's Macbeth at the Lyceum Theatre. As your readers will know, this event has been the talk of London for many weeks well before the opening night. The tongue of rumour had been well primed with comment upon the huge costs of the costumes and scenery, the golden dinner service to be used for the banqueting scene, Sir Arthur Sullivan's music, the scenic effects for the appearance of the witches-for artistic Society it was 'the play's the thing'. And assuredly, however fierce the wordy war raised over its merits in the press, there was but one voice of praise for the beauty of Miss Ellen Terry whose enchanting presence added yet further lustre to this magnificent production. I was honoured to meet this delightful lady after the performance. But I must start this tale from the beginning; I was escorted to the theatre by a relatively new acquaintance, Lieutenant John Lynch of the 69th East Kent Mounted Rifles-certainly the appropriately numbered regiment for this young rogue whose luxuriant moustache was grown solely at the wish of Mrs. Dunton-Green, who in turn shaved her pussey hair for the Lieutenant's delectation. His strange desires, I am sure, will come as no surprise to your readers who have met the randy Lieutenant, for his prowess as a cocksman cannot be denied. I would take this opportunity, though, of stating as fact that despite his claims to the contrary, his penis is not the equal in length to that of Mr. Peter Stockman, though that in itself is no shame for who indeed can hold a candle (please forgive the analogy) to Mr. Stockman when these vital statistics are compared?
Incidentally, I am reliably informed that Mr. Stockman's extraordinary member has even been awarded a royal seal of approval after its penetration of Her Royal Highness Princess Helene of The Netherlands. You would agree, Sir, I am sure, that his tryst with Princess Helene could form a most interesting essay in its own right in the 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!'