The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

'Anyhow, you can see that he hardly opened this book. A brand new copy would set you back twenty-five shillings, so I would have thought that fifteen bob was a fair price.' 'Oh, surely twelve and six is nearer the mark,' I retorted and then I had a brainwave. 'Or how about fifteen shillings if you throw in a copy of The Oyster?' He gave a low chuckle and said: 'You drive a hard bargain, young man, but fair enough. I don't have any of the current issue though, it'll have to a copy of the summer edition.' 'Good enough,' I replied and whilst at my request he wrapped up The Oyster in a separate package, I promised Mr. Robertson that I would never reveal from where I purchased my copy of the naughty magazine. 'Now and then I give a copy to the desk sergeant at the police station over the road, I can't afford to take any chances or I'll end up like old Martin Bressey.' he said. After my late breakfast, all I wanted was a light luncheon so I wandered into this restaurant after a lazy stroll through Montpellier Gardens. The restaurant is not crowded and I have placed myself at a small table in the corner where a pretty waitress has served me Fricassee of Chicken washed down with white wine. As soon as she left the table, I couldn't resist pulling out my copy of The Oyster which Dr Robertson thankfully bound up in plain brown covers. I turned to the opening page, which contained the first of several letters received by the editor. To my astonishment I saw that the first epistle came from a Miss Susie V-of West Trippett, Melton Mowbray, Leicestershire. I put down the magazine for a moment and expelled a deep breath for I immediately wondered whether the writer had been my seventeen-year-old cousin Susie Varnon. I decided it was simply impossible that she had composed this missive. The similarity of the two names has to be sheer coincidence. For it is hardly credible that Susie would even know of the existence of such a journal as The Oyster let alone compose a letter which would be printed in its pages! Even so, the author does seem remarkably like Susie. I have decided to copy out the letter for future reference although this is proving difficult as the waitress seems to be rather more attendant than the best waiter at the London Ritz Dear Editor, I hope your readers will find of interest this true story of my introduction to the delights of lesbian love. As a member of the Sixth Form at Dame M -in rural Derbyshire, I am hardly ignorant of the existence of tribadism. It is not completely unknown for girls to slide into their friends' beds after 'lights out' in the seniors' dormitory. However, through ignorance rather than inhibition, the only such encounters in which I have taken part merely involved open-mouthed kissing and fondling of the other girl's budding bosoms.

Nevertheless, I have sometimes been driven into the ecstacy of a cum from these embraces, the moist flow of love juice soaking my thick bush of pussey hair particularly when I close my eyes and dream it is some handsome young man (like a certain cousin of mine) and that it is his hand inside my nightdress and cupped round my bare breasts…

The school is far from being a hotbed of tribadism, and in my opinion there would be even less lesbian activity if we were allowed to mix more freely with members of the opposite sex (take that phrase as you will, Mr. Editor!). Nevertheless, it is not unknown on venturing into the bathrooms, to find two girls wrapped together in a clinging wet embrace under the shower and I will admit that I have often been invited to join in this sensuous fun. Until last year I had resisted such temptations, but my resolve faltered when after a hard game of hockey, Miss Archer, the senior games mistress, asked my pretty friend Laura, who is blessed with long silky strands of auburn hair, and myself whether we would be kind enough to do her a great favour and collect all the players' sticks and deposit them in the gymnasium storeroom before returning to the pavilion to change back into our uniforms. Miss Archer is a jolly young lady, very popular with all the girls, and we readily agreed to her request.

Alas, after tramping all the way back to the school, we found that the storeroom was locked up and it took a further fifteen minutes to discover the whereabouts of Mr. Barlow, and obtain the keys from the old school porter. All the other girls had left the sports pavilion by the time Laura and I reported back to Miss Archer, but she had waited for us and she said gratefully: 'Thank you again for your help, girls. The kitchen staff have brought plenty of hot water so instead of a quick wash you can both luxuriate in a warm bath if you wish.' 'Oh, that would be lovely,' said Laura and we trooped off to undress in the changing rooms. We took off our boots and then I left Laura unhooking her skirt whilst I went into the bathrooms and began to Jill one of the baths with the pitchers of steaming water.