The Secret Chronicles of Henry Dashwood, Vol. 2

Apud Rege tutor veteramus Puellaria odit profanus Semper optandus Pueri sperandus Gellifactus in si His anus. And underneath that ode another hand had scrawled: There was a young rector from Kings, Whose mind was on heavenly things, But his heart was on fire For a boy in the choir Whose bum was like jelly on springs.

I gave a hearty chuckle as I buttoned my flies and walked out into the quadrangle where I saw Miranda chatting away happily to a craggy, broad-shouldered man in his late twenties. Who was this interloper, I wondered crossly? But when I reached them Miranda gave my arm a friendly squeeze and said to her companion: 'Kit, this is Henry Dashwood, the young man whom I met at the reception last night.

He has offered to escort me around town this morning. Henry, I would like you to meet my stepbrother, Kit Barnes.' 'Pleased to meet you, Mr. Dashwood,' said Dr Barnes. 'I trust you will take good care of my young sister. 'But of course,' I replied, shaking hands with the controversial lecturer. 'Er, we'll meet again at three o'clock, sir, as I happen to be one of your students this term.'

'Oh yes, of course. I remember your name now. Let me see, haven't you come here from the Albion Academy in Kent? Well, young man, in my opinion your former headmaster, Malcolm Muttley, runs one of the few civilised public schools in the country.' I smiled and said: 'He is of a liberal disposition, sir, but I don't know whether he would subscribe to all your radical ideas.' 'I doubt if he would,' he agreed. 'But old Muttley would certainly have the courtesy to listen to what I had to say and if necessary argue his corner afterwards.

Regretfully, this is not the case even amongst some of my fellow academics who simply try to shout me down when an emotive subject like the Boer War is under discussion.' 'How typical! I'm afraid that this is also true of a boorish group of your freshers,' said Miranda, shaking her head in disgust. 'Henry told me earlier that some of them came to fisticuffs this morning.' Dr Barnes gave a gruff laugh and, giving me a large wink, he remarked: 'Then I must certainly try to be particularly provocative this afternoon. Henry, can I rely on your support if the hooligan element attempts to silence me?' 'Of course, sir. He clapped me on the back and cried out: 'Capital!

Capital! I'll see you later then, but I must now be off and revise my notes for this afternoon's lecture. Oh, if you two would like to look round the Bodleian, you may borrow my reading ticket. Don't worry, the old dodderers in there won't ask you for any identification and there won't be any problem smuggling in Miranda as your research assistant.'

The sky had suddenly clouded over, so we gratefully accepted his offer and went inside where Miranda led the way to the public reading room. 'Henry, did you know that except for the Vatican, the Bodleian has the largest collection of erotic literature in Europe?'

Miranda murmured as we stood in a quiet corner. 'It would be a pity to miss the opportunity of browsing through some gallant stories whilst we have the chance.' 'I say, do you think they will allow us to look at any forbidden material?' I said, my voice filling with excitement. 'Well, we can but ask,' Miranda said. Unfortunately we were informed that one needed a special ticket to peruse books in the special section of the library. However, as we turned away from his table, the attendant called us back and said: 'Just a minute, sir. There is a annexe nearby where we store some of the more recent naughty books which have yet to be filed. You could browse for a bit in there, if only it weren't kept locked.' It was not difficult to understand what he had in mind. 'Does half a sovereign unlock it?'

I asked, fishing out the money from my pocket. 'That it would, sir, so long as you promise to give back the key by one o'clock,' he replied with a smirk as he pocketed the half-sov which I slid across the desk to him. We made our way to the small room where there were certainly some exciting books crammed on the shelves. I turned over some pages of In My Lady's Boudoir: A Journal of Voluptuous Reading edited by Sir Horace Shackleton and A Lady of Quality, whilst Miranda giggled over a copy of The Amorous Adventures of a Photographer's Model by Jacques de Clare. I peered over Miranda's shoulders to gaze upon one of the plates in her book. This was of an exquisitely beautiful, naked girl of no more than eighteen years-old standing with her arms at her side, looking sensuously at her reflection in a long cheval mirror. The photograph had been taken at a slight angle so one could see both the front and back of this stunning beauty whose fair, naturally curly hair fell over her shoulders like a shower of golden rain and her bottom was a perfect peach, the chubby cheeks well proportioned and eminently pinchable.