Tales of 1911: the American

Still going through those letters. Fitz seems to have been one of the only one of Oscar's friends to commit this much detail to paper. Others, notably a chap I'll call Fitz and another called Wood, don't do it as often, while Oscar's cousin Litton, a complete rake, tended to go through so many he couldn't remember many details. But Fitz is down for the blow-by-blow. Here, he was in London and dropped in to Guest's house for dinner.

...Guest had been out to the Heath and returned with an American man. We had dinner. The American hadn't much conversation. Guest talked around him. He didn't seem to mind. When I asked he said he was travelling with his brother, who had business at one or other museum, and he was amusing himself in the meantime. Stocky man, flaming red hair, well-cut suit. (Do you remember the row in Edinburgh when G. dragged some rough as a badger's navvy home to fuck, to wake and find half his clothes gone? I haven't seen a rough there since then.) After we went into the library and as soon as G heard the door shut behind Mrs B., he had his hand in the Yank's trousers and there I stood, wondering whether to leave or stay for the show. (I stayed.)

What I have always found a little cold about Guest is his foresight, that is his planning, but I admit it has its advantages. Within minutes he had lard - lard! - spread over the American's cock, the American on the sofa with his trousers round his ankles and his shirt pulled up, and Guest, naked from the waist down, working and working at his cock, which was frankly elephantine. I wouldn't have chanced it, myself. But Guest fears nothing. Nothing that will fit up his arse, anyway. (Remember 'the Oak' from Keble? I couldn't but Guest did.)

Guest sat on the Yank's cock and slid onto it with a minimum of groaning. The Yank gasped. Hairy as a satyr, he was, all of it red as embers, up his belly and down his thighs. Guest had his own cock in his hand and milked at it as he rode the Yank. I'd retired to a distant armchair at this stage, freed myself from my flies and commenced to take care of myself, since I didn't feel I could leave, though I should perhaps have done so.

The Yank pushed Guest off his lap - or lifted him, I think - and dropped him to the floor, telling him in a rough voice to stay there. He went down himself, found the saucer of fat Guest had, and rubbed some onto Guest's arse. Guest was panting and red in the face, and cried out when the American mounted him again and pushed him to the floor. I daresay it hurt; I've seldom seen such a large cock and he was fucking him like mad. I was pacing myself at this stage, more fascinated than aroused.

Then the Yank went still, and told - nay, commanded - Guest to finish himself with his hand, which Guest did, crouched back with the Yank's cock buried in his arse up to his balls. The sight of G.s jism brought on my own. I fear I did not save my trousers. The Yank looked over at me then, dead in the eye, and ground himself into Guest again, slowly now, poor Guest panting and gasping, clawing at the floor. The American moaned as he went, speeding up, pounding at G. until he came, with a roar, and pulled out. Guest lay there, limp. I sat in my chair with my soft cock in my hand and stared. The Yank, cool as you like, produced a handkerchief from somewhere and wiped himself off, then swiped it up the crack of Guest's arse. He asked me where the WC was and went out.

I went over to Guest and bent to see if he was still conscious. He was. Dear God, he said, that was astonishing. Astonishing? I asked. It looked like you were half murdered. He sat up and showed me his cock: hard as stone. No, he said. I always wanted that. He'll be after you next, he said. I wasn't pleased with the thought, but G went on, I said he could have one and be taken by the other, old boy, don't panic. Panic I almost did. I don't, as a habit, go for men like that, and after a delicious afternoon with "L", I thought I might go without. I don't like you speaking for me, I said to Guest, I never agreed to this. I stood and made to leave, but the American was back, naked as the day he was born but for the fur coat. Just a short one, he said to me. Come on. You can't be the only one who didn't get off. I did, I said to him, get off. He said, Please. I can never get it both ways, at home.

Close to he wasn't particularly good-looking: squareheaded, widemouthed, but perhaps it was his hairiness that did me in. He had found one of Guest's toys somewhere and had me put that up his back passage as he bent over the back of the sofa, and of course that had be hard as hard can be. Guest stood behind me and rubbed me as I drove the toy into the Yank, and by the time he was ready I was more than. He yelped as I pushed all the way in, but his cock was hard and slapped against the leather. I did him as hard as I could, pounding until my thighs trembled with the strain. I came sooner than I had thought I would, and reached round to flog him which made him come, jism dripping down Guest's leather sofa. Not the first time, of course.

We cleaned up and had a drink, then the American and I left together. I walked him as far as the Underground, then went home myself. Brought myself off twice before I slept.