Читать онлайн «The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2»
Автор Anonymous
Anonymous
Foreword
PART I. A Sensuous September
PART II. Amorous Appetites
PART III. Rural Rides
Anonymous
The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2
There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.
Foreword
Readers of this admittedly uninhibited narrative may be surprised that until the fifth year of my education at the Albion Academy for the Sons of Gentlefolk, I loathed to put pen to paper on any subject, unless absolutely necessary, and preferred to spend my time on the playing field. However, all this changed with a vengeance when my eccentric uncle, Sir Robert Bacon, presented me with a large desk diary with the promise of a Kodak Brownie for Christmas — on the condition that I penned a full, unexpurgated daily entry in its leather-bound pages. 'Schooldays are the happiest days of your life,' he had solemnly intoned as he stood warming himself in front of the fireplace in my study. 'Record in toto every item of the day's doings, my boy, and in later years you will obtain tremendous joy in remembering the fun of these carefree years. ' My schooldays ended months ago, but I am finding that old habits die hard and the only way that I can scratch 'the insatiate itch of scribbling', as Juvenal described the disease which afflicted so many of his friends, is to put aside an hour or so every day to set down even the most intimate details of my personal life. Fortunately the first decade of the new century has produced an abundance of gallant literature which proclaims the delights of the pleasures of the flesh. To these fellow scribes, I dedicate this short journey down the lane of lusty memories.
PART I. A Sensuous September
Clayton Towers, Cheltenham, September 28th, 1901
Until my initiation into manhood through the kindness of Mrs. Lizzie Dickerson, the much respected Matron at my old school, I used to believe that my initial impressions of people were invariably right and I still hold it true that the firmest of friendships often begin within minutes of the first meeting of the persons involved. But I have now learned that other cordial attachments nurture more slowly as evinced by the gradual development of the close rapport which exists between myself and Julian Clayton, the former Captain of the Albion Academy. With hindsight, anyone would understand why Clayton was so angry when he first made my acquaintance. At the time he was lying naked on the bed with the equally nude Mrs. Dickerson and was about to slide his straining shaft into her juicy pussey when I interrupted their coupling by knocking loudly on the door of the Matron's private quarters. With the restraint of a saint, Clayton, who could hardly afford to be caught in flagrante delicto with the buxom Mrs. Dickerson, was forced to abandon his intent of fucking the comely lady. Instead, the poor chap had to pull on his clothes in double quick time before rushing to the door to see me standing outside like a spare prick at a wedding, as Uncle Robert (himself no mean cocksman) remarked when h? read about the incident in my diary. Fortunately, that and any further misunderstandings between us were swiftly settled and Clayton and I became the best of friends — so much so in fact, that when I took up my place at Oxford, he insisted that I should spend the week before the University year began as his guest at Clayton Towers, his family's impressive mansion near the village of Charlton Kings on the outskirts of Cheltenham.
