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.