I was now too exhausted for even one more cockstand, but Louella managed to suck Paul up to a final full erection and Lucy and Elaine took turns to have his long cock in their bum-holes until he shot a full load of sperm into Louella's furry little cunt.
We exchanged our good-nights and crept back to our beds, Louella having arranged to stay the night with Lucy, and we none of us needed any potion to drug our senses. As soon as my head touched the pillow I knew nothing more until the morning alarm bell awakened me.
All that fucking must have been refreshing for my brain, even though physically I was quite exhausted, for I remember distinctly that an essay I composed that next morning on the foreign policy of Pitt the Younger was awarded an alpha minus by Doctor White-a rare honour rarely bestowed!
CHAPTER FIVE
Do You ever wonder, dear reader, who you are? Do you ever think 'that Mr Gladstone or the dear Queen ever wonder about who they think they really are? Or the Pope? Or even the editor of this esteemed journal of quality? Obviously they know who they really are but where, I would like to know, do their minds go to during those lazy daydreaming hours?
So far as I am able to ascertain from the study of science, man is the sole animal with this extraordinary ability to while away the time in daydreaming. Occasionally, when on a journey (for my work sometimes takes me to the provinces) I look around at the silent people in my railway carriage and ponder as to where their meditations are taking them, what private thoughts are coursing through their minds and what ideas are really behind those bland, expressionless faces, what lovers, both imaginary and real, are being wooed, what triumphs and failures are being lived and relived.
We are none of us quite what we appear to be. Running parallel with our physical existence, with our mundane chores and daily habits, is another secret, ghostly character, a private companion forever commenting upon what we see and do, rewriting the manuscript record of our lives in a manner more satisfying to us.
It is this gap between reality and fantasy, between what is and what might be or might have been which I find truly a source of endless fascination.
Will the fucking of a particular girl be an anticlimax, I wonder? Will reality be but a pale imitation of the adventures of the mind? We accept these dreams with hardly any consideration, never questioning for a moment our right to be able to leave our bodies for a while whenever the mood takes us, but for some reason, as we progress from childhood to adult fife, we become peculiarly embarrassed to admit to this. For the older we become, the less likely we are to admit to the more expansive fantasies, as grown-up, responsible citizens are supposed to have put away this childish habit. This is an impossible task, for surely in all of us there are two beings that ride through life as if on a tandem bicycle, steered by the chap in front but commented upon endlessly by the man in the back seat.
I do not discourage daydreaming for it represents perhaps the only time in life when you can be sure of playing the lead role, and in that sense, dreams are great revellers. In the vivid play that is acted out in the daydream all manner of wrongs are put right, all kinds of witty ripostes are applauded and the most beautiful of women conquered totally and without resistance.
Throughout my life I have daydreamed. As a child my fantasies were glorious, unblocked by considerations of reality, but adults dream, increasingly as the years slip away, about what might have been had their lives taken other turnings.
I must immediately confess to this kind of postmortem, especially over the critical decisions which affect us until our dying days. We are all faced with a series of crossroads that are unique to us and we can continually look back and examine the routes that we chose, for better or for worse, that have brought us to the present time.
By and large this is a fruitless and indeed even a totally futile exercise, but then since when was mere futility the servant of common sense?
What brings these musings to mind? I suppose, reader, that were I to be fully truthful, my brain is taking a much needed respite from the hard labours, of recall. Oh, do not misunderstand me, I have enjoyed penning these sexual exploits, which are all totally verifiable. If any person wishes to see proof furnished, simply write to me care of the Post Office, Sudbury, Suffolk and I will personally reply to all letters. How pleasant it is to recall that free and easy life we enjoyed as schoolboys at the Nottsgrove Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk, and what wonderful memories I have of that giant amongst mortals, dear old Doctor White, whose wise leadership has since influenced me and all other students to such good effect. What a man! His immense learning and erudition were matched only by his cheery manner and true kindness of heart which was shown to one and all, regardless of their station in life. He was a man who won the respect of both peer and pauper. And it seems that it was but yesterday that I was sitting in his book-lined study, sipping a glass of port and discussing with the old headmaster pertinent questions of social and political affairs which had been brought up in that day's edition of The Times.
You will see, then, how my mind has been straying far, far away on a merry trip to the lands of yesteryear whilst my body has been locked here in the admittedly splendidly comfortable present: the warm armchair in the library of my fine old friend Sir Lionel T-, himself of course a scholar and artist of great distinction.
So I have skeltered through this brief period of my adolescent life with great joy; which leads me to suggest that if we sometimes feel prisoners of our present circumstances, this may simply be because we are blocking the escape valves of our imagination. If all adults could play the innocent game of make-believe as do our children, we would, I dare suspect, live out our lives in a fuller, more contented fashion.
Let us now return to the main theme of this narrative, and I crave again the indulgence of the reader for my digression.
I awoke that next morning quite bleary-eyed and indeed I was so tired that I even forwent my usual morning ritual of shrinking, my stiff prick by a vigorous tossing off. Today, however, I performed my ablutions as if in a trance and what I consumed at breakfast will forever remain a mystery as I have no recollection whatsoever of even sitting down in the dining hall that morning! Luckily, I could enjoy a free period after breakfast, which I spent taking a refreshing sleep in the library until the midmorning break bell shattered my slumbers.
After the interval I joined the rest of my sixth form colleagues in the Art Room where Doctor White was due to give his weekly lecture upon matters of culture. I sat down next to Pelham who whispered to me: 'I say, old chap, are you quite well? You look rather tired.'
'I am somewhat sleepy.' I confessed. 'I just could not get to sleep last night.'
'Well, you are not the only one. Look at Paul sitting slumped over his desk. He also looks as pale as a ghost,' said Pelham.
I was pleased that at this point Doctor White swept in and began his dissertation immediately, thus saving me the problem of explaining to Pelham just why Paul and I were so exhausted at a quarter past eleven in the morning!