The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

Yours confidently The Editor A sound enough philosophy, I shall put the magazine back into its brown paper bag and pay my bill. I'm sure the waitress is expecting a generous tip. Clayton Towers, October 1st, 1901 (Before retiring) Today is the first day of a new month and marks my last day of repose at Clayton Towers before taking up my position at Oxford. But before I muse on what delights lie in store for me, let me finish recounting the remarkable events of yesterday afternoon which were initiated by my asking my pretty waitress to pay her compliments to the chef. The girl blushed a little and suggested that I might like to thank the cook in person as she would be extremely pleased with the compliment. There seem to be an increasing number of females in the work force these days, which I can only think is a good thing if I am to have such delectably sweet encounters every time I dine out. 'I'll do just that,' I said, wiping my mouth with my napkin as I rose to my feet and following the waitress's pointed finger, marched through a pair of swing doors into the kitchen. However, there were no staff to be seen and as the time was now approaching four o'clock, it appeared as though the cook and her assistants had left the kitchen for a well deserved rest. I was about to leave when I heard low moaning noise coining from inside the scullery at the far end of the room, followed by what to my ears sounded very much like that arousing squelchy sound of a thick stiff cock sliding in and out of a juicy wet cunney! I decided to make a further investigation for on the other hand, I might be mistaken and the groans could be those of a lady in distress. So I tip-toed towards the scullery and poked my head around the door to see exactly what was going on in there. Fortunately, one glance was enough to confirm that my initial conjecture was correct for the sight which met my eyes was of a couple heavily engaged in a full-blown fuck! A buxom wench was leaning back against the wall with her skirts up and her frilly drawers around her ankles being shagged by a curly-haired young commis chef who had discarded his shirt, trousers and pants which were lying in a rumpled pile on the floor beside them and was clad only in a cotton vest. His taut buttocks jerked to and fro as he pumped his prick in and out of his paramour's pussey at a great pace.

'H-a-a-r! H-a-a-r! Oooh, Maggie, I'm going to spunk, I can't stop!' he choked and with a cry he jetted his jism inside her love channel. Then, to my alarm, he slowly slid down and collapsed in a heap at his lover's feet. 'Are you all right, Jack?' she enquired as she squatted down beside him. The lad did look in a bad way and I thought they might need some help. I stepped forward and offered my services. When she saw me the cook gave a tiny scream and I hurriedly explained that I was not spying upon her but had only come into the kitchen to offer my congratulations on her excellent cuisine.

'What exactly is he suffering from? Nothing serious, I trust,' I asked her. 'The heat?' I continued. She shrugged her shoulders and answered: 'Not really, it's more from fucking.'

'From fucking!' I spluttered. 'Yes, sir, the fucking,' chuckled the cook and as she moved closer I detected the smell of alcohol upon her breath. 'You look like a man of the world, sir, and I'm sure you understand that a culinary artist like myself who finds herself in a dump like this after working under the finest chef in Europe needs something to prop herself up during the day. Young Colin down there has a nice thick cock but he always spends too quickly for me and so we have to start again until he manages to wait for me to finish. “The problem is that if he doesn't get it right after two spunkings, he isn't in any fit state to continue so I have to find another way to satisfy my needs.' 'So I see,' I said, casting a meaningful glance at a half-empty bottle of Old Jamaica rum and a liqueur glass on the scullery table. She followed the direction of my eyes and said: 'Oh, I'm really not a great tippler, sir. I only take an occasional nip whilst I'm on duty. Otherwise I couldn't prepare my food properly – and thank you very much, Mr., er 'Dash wood, Henry Dash wood. And your name is…?' 'Maggie Crompton, at your service, Mr. Dashwood,' she said as we shook hands.