Tales of 1911: the Weir Cottage

**Note: these are extracts from letters written to my great-great-uncle Oscar by various friends of his. Oscar and co seem to have all been gay or bi, and the author of this letter, Fitz, really got around. This took place in the summer of 1910; Fitz had recently finished at Oxford and John was a few years younger, possibly just 19. John, a friend of Fitz's younger brother, was visiting the family home somewhere in England.**

...but John and I, who would not be induced to attend, even at gunpoint, stayed home. I daresay Maman found John a little rude, but she could hardly make him go if she could not make me go. Of course James could not be kept away from the youngest Ms Midman and probably preferred not to have to compete with the delectable John for her attentions. The evening was warm but misty, and I did not see myself through to ploughing around a dancefloor yet again. John and I had a cold supper and after I suggested to him that, since the weather was fine, we go for a walk over towards the river. He knew what I was about.

John's a slender-ish chap, but strong from football; dark silky hair, dark eyes, dense beard, I think he's been shaving since he was twelve. Not as tall as I am, but with that lankiness I know you like so much. Narrow hips, small arse. Guarded chap, mostly, but with a soft mouth. He doesn't say much.

We walked out towards the east fields along the lane. I asked him about his people, his school, what he thought of his college. His older brother is that cad Herbert from Oriel, it turns out; there seems to be little love lost between he and John, which I say counts in his favour. It was fully light, but sort of diffused by haze. I could not see clearly two fields over, and the longer we walked the mistier it became, until by the time we could hear the river could not see it. I found the path only by memory, and was seized by fear that I'd find the cottage already occupied by some farmhand and his best girl. I didn't fancy trying my luck in a hedge or long grass, so this caused me no little concern, until we reached the cottage and I pushed the door open and, telling him to wait, ran up quick into the loft. Nobody was there. I wedged the door shut with the stone that is always there and pointed him up the ladder into the loft. He said, Couldn't we do it down here? I said, The loft was better, as someone might come down the path and it wouldn't do to be overheard. Even if the mist softens noise, that is a fear.

I was in something of a rush by then; as soon as I had found the loft empty and knew that we would get our chance I had begun to stiffen up. He saw the tent and smiled, more to himself than to me, and climbed the ladder. I went up and found him already unbuttoning, considerable credentials showing under his shirt-tails. He sat against the back wall and spread his thighs, put his hand to himself and began to flog. I froze. I had not expected this; I had thought I'd need to use more persuasion, but no. This is more by way of an observation than a complaint.

He said, what did I want to do. I asked him what he was after, seeing as he seemed to know what was up. I undid my trousers as I spoke to him; johnny redcap bounced up, ready as always. He called me over and took me in his mouth, then seemed to think the better of it. He said, You tell me. I took him over to the wall and told him to brace himself against it, slipped my cock between his thighs and put my hand to his cock. I stroked him to completion, beginning gentle and ending rough as he groaned and coughed, sliding my jack between his thighs to keep it hard. The room filled with the smell of the river as the mist came up, and once voices, a man and a girl, came down the path and we stilled, but they passed on. The light dropped slowly.

He came but stayed hard, his jack gleaming pink against the white of his thighs and belly. He lay down on the boards and bid me come kneel over his belly, said, Bring yourself off onto me. I went to my knees over him and he reached to cup my balls in his palm, slick with his own jism, holding and squeezing them until I came up straight. He closed my hand around myself and settled me into a good time, keeping his eyes on mine all the while. Just as I was pulling up to come, he shot his finger into my arse and that did it. All the come it seems I have ever made shout out then, onto the sleek fur of his chest and belly, his face. He gazed at the come on his chest for a moment, then gathered it up with his hand and licked his fingers. Licked it off his lips as well, and swallowed. Then he lay between my legs and sucked me hard again, and swallowed the milk again. That was in the dark; I could see nothing but felt his hot tongue and mouth and lips, and his finger moving deliciously deep in me.

We washed our hands in the river, and on the way home the mist was thinning at the top, showing a half-moon. I could not have had half so much fun at the Midman sisters' ball, and I doubt I could have done better than my young John in any place. He's to stay for another ten days at least, so I have high hopes...