Therefore I knew what to expect when he delivered a short homily on the need to resist 'impure acts' and I resisted the temptation to smile when he assured me that the prowess of the football team would improve if we succeeded in keeping ourselves pure. It was on the tip of my tongue to inform him that every member of the side enjoyed the delights offered by Mother Thumb and her Four Daughters. Even more so in mutual fashion with a friend, as the practice is more pleasurable from someone else's hand. Wisely, I held my peace and hoped that my silence might persuade Bunny Hare that his suspicions regarding Mrs. Dickerson were unfounded. Then the bell rang to signal the start of evening prep and, realising that there was no further ammunition for his quest to be gained from me, he gave a heavy sigh, wished me a speedy recovery from my injury and left me to walk back, silently chuckling, to the fifth form corridor. Bunny isn't a bad old stick but he obviously suffers from this deadly disease of shameful feelings about his bodily functions. This makes me understand even more fully, how urgently the services of Lizzie Dickerson and her ilk are needed in our school. Johnny and George had already arrived and were sorting out their books when I opened the door of our study and entered with a self-satisfied smile upon my face.
Johnny took one look at my expression and exclaimed: 'Ah ha, here's Henry and he's also beaming like a cat that has stolen the cream. Don't take me for a muggins, you chaps, I wasn't born yesterday. So spill the beans and tell me what the devil you have been up to whilst I was taking tea with the rest of the team and our friends from Beddinghurst in Trippett's Hall?' At first we insisted that we didn't understand what he was carrying on about, but Johnny would not be denied. 'Pull the other one, it's got bells on,' he said with undisguised derision. 'I'm surprised at the pair of you, we've never kept secrets from one another in this study.' Johnny continued to press us so strongly that he put us in a dilemma. To George's and my shame, in the end, we broke our promise to Lizzie and related everything that had happened in the sick bay to him. Not surprisingly, as I expounded in graphic detail about how I had fucked Lizzie Dickerson, we were all soon sporting gigantic hard-ons and within a short time, the three of us had brought out our pulsing, erect pricks and started to fist our hands up and down our throbbing, stiff shafts. 'Henry, you do George with your hand whilst he does me and I'll do you,' suggested Johnny and we spent the next few minutes engaged in an orgy of mutual masturbation until we all enjoyed copious spends. Unfortunately, I mis-directed George's spurts on to the arm of our most comfortable armchair. The experience was far from being unpleasant but, since tasting the joys of a genuine fuck, I now realise how different are the ecstatic feelings engendered by the real thing. Be that as it may, when we recovered our composure, George and I demanded that Johnny swear a solemn oath to keep secret the information that he had prised out of us. 'Of course I will, you need have no fear on that score,' he assured us. 'Though in return I want you chaps to ask Mrs. Dickerson if she will enroll another pupil into her private class. After all, we are best chums, are we not? All for one and one for all, eh?' This was not an unreasonable request and I agreed to ask Lizzie on Sunday afternoon if, on another occasion, Johnny could join in our fun and games.
Saturday, November 10th, 1895 (after tea) However hard I try, I find it almost impossible to keep my mind off the forthcoming joys of tomorrow afternoon. This morning, I justly earned a rebuke from Mr. Hutchinson for my inattention in class. George was little better, staring out of the window instead of listening to Mr. Hutchinson's comments on the early political career of Mr. Gladstone. We were both lucky to escape a detention this afternoon and, as Mr. Hutchinson acidly commented as he gave us a 'wigging' after dismissing the class, we might have been heroes two days before for vanquishing our old foes from Beddinghurst on the football field, but we can not afford to bask in this glory and should treat this as a final warning to pull up our socks. After he had stalked out of the room, George grinned and said: 'Never mind him, Henry, roll on Sunday afternoon. There's no more classwork till Monday, so how about watching me and some other chaps tackle a three mile run round the grounds this afternoon? Bunny Hare is giving prizes to the first three home and I reckon I have a decent chance of coming in second or third behind Jimmy Peck. No-one will beat him over a long-distance race, of course, unless I can get someone to whack him on the knee just before the start.' Even if I had not made other arrangements, I doubt if I would have taken up his invitation, especially as the weather has been distinctly on the chilly side.
However, I was able to put on an expression of regret and reply: 'Sorry, old boy, I've already promised to go with Johnny to a meeting this afternoon. A party of girls from Sparsit's over in Westwell is coming over for a discussion on the responsibilities of modern society and it could turn out to be jolly interesting, if you get my meaning.
George chuckled: 'Very well then, Henry, I'll meet up with you and Johnny after tea.' The girls of Sparsit's School For Young Ladies visit us very rarely although we often see them taking the air on the heath. However, they are so well-chaperoned, that usually there is never even a hint of conversation, let alone any hanky-panky between us. Still, love laughs at locksmiths and, as my Aunt Augusta who spent several years in India, is fond of saying – after the drought comes the monsoon. If any proof is needed of the truth of this maxim, it certainly came this afternoon. It really is quite extraordinary because, for at least the past twelve months, I have thought of little else except about how marvellous it would feel to have my leg over with a Sparsit girl, if I may be excused the popular colloquialism. Now that dream has at last been realised and, all being well, my lessons in l'arte de faire l'amour will continue.
However, although I thought I might enjoy the lecture with the girls from the college, in my wildest imaginings, I never dreamed that I would sample the delights afforded by the soft, sweet body of Charlotte Harley of the Lower Sixth. Let me first recapitulate as to how this happy state of affairs was brought about. The charabanc from Sparsit's arrived punctually at half past two and after depositing their hats and coats with our domestic staff, the girls were ushered straight into the library where the lecture was to take place. Dr Muttley himself welcomed the dozen or so young ladies who had made the journey, along with their escorts, the strait-laced Miss Atkinson, the headmistress, and an attractive younger colleague, Miss Irvine, who teaches history and science. Charlotte Harley is surely one of the prettiest girls I have ever seen. She is, to the day, eight months older than me and will celebrate her seventeenth birthday in early February. She is of slender build and medium height and her pretty face is sheer perfection; her chin is charmingly dimpled whilst, when she smiles, her full, pouting lips open to give a glimpse of two rows of ivory teeth set in the rosy flesh of her wide, sensuous mouth. Her nose is of the Roman cast, her eyes a lustrous deep brown and all this beauty is set off by shiny, chestnut hair.