My Secret Life (29 page)

“I wish I had some brandy,” she said, “I feel so weak.” “Is there any in the sideboard?” “No.” “I’ll go and get a little.” A few hundred feet from the house down a side-street, was a public-house. As I was going, “You will let me in again?” I said. “If you promise not to touch me.” She looked so pale that I fetched brandy, but put the street-door key in my pocket as I went. “If she don’t let me in,” I thought, “she shan’t have the key, — and what will she tell her sister about that?” It was a key almost as big as a shovel; she never noticed that I had taken it away. She thought by her dodge that she had got rid of me, and told me so afterwards.

I brought back the brandy and knocked. “Let me in.” “I won’t.” “Then you shan’t have the street-door key.” This was spoken to each other through the closed door. A pause, then the door opened. “You are coming Jenny.” We went downstairs into the kitchen, she had brandy and water, and so had I. It was a hot day, the pump-water was deliciously cool, I made hers as strong as she would take it, — it was an instinct of mine. She got her colour back, and became talkative, we talked about her fainting, but she tried to avoid talking about it, and did not want me to refer to what had led to it. I did, and was delighted to think that it was owing to what is called “exposing my person.”

“I don’t think the ladies saw it, so you need not have been so frightened Jenny, — but you saw it, did you not?” No reply. “I saw you looking at it.” “It’s a story.” “Why did you faint?” “I always feel faint if I am startled.” “What startled you?” “Nothing.” “You saw it, and you put your hand over it to hide it, and you touched it.” “It’s a story,
—
I wish you’d go.” “You ungrateful little devil, when I’ve fetched you brandy.” “It’s through you that I felt ill.” “Why?” No reply. “Don’t be foolish, — it was for fear that the ladies should have seen my prick so near you, — now look at it,” and I pulled it out, it was not stiff. “It was twice the size when you saw it, — feel it, and it will soon be bigger.”

The girl rose and said she would go and remain in the forecourt till her sister came, if I did not leave, but I prevented her going out of the kitchen. She began to cry again, and had a little more brandy and water. My talk took its old channel.

“Do you know how long you were fainting?” “I didn’t faint, but only a minute or so.” “Do you know what I did?” She was sitting down, then got upright, looked at me full in the face, her eyes almost staring out of her head. “What did you do! — what? — what? — what?” She spoke hurriedly, anxiously, in an agitated manner. “I threw up your clothes, kissed your cunt, and felt it.”

“It’s a lie, — it’s a lie.” “It’s true, — and the hair is short, and darker than the hair of your head, — and your thighs are so white, — and your garters are made of blue cloth, — and I felt it, the dear little split, — how I wish my belly had been up against it! — what a lovely smell it has!” (putting my fingers to my nose).

“Oho! — oho! — ono!” said she bursting into tears, “what a shame to take liberties with a poor girl when she can’t help herself, — oho! — oho! — you must be a bad man, — missus had no business to send you to look after me, as if she could not trust me, — she don’t know what sort of man you are, — and a gentleman too, — oho! — and married too, — it’s a shame, — oho! — oho! I don’t believe you though, — oho — o — o.” And when I told her again the colour and the make of her garters, she nearly howled. “You mean man, to do such a thing when I was ill.”

I kissed her, she let me, but went on blubbering. “I’ve a good mind to tell my young man.” “That will be foolish, because you and I mean to have more pleasure than we have had, — and he’ll never be any the wiser but if you tell him, he’ll think it’s your fault.”

This had occupied some hours, it was getting dark, but it seemed only as if I had been there some minutes, so deliciously exciting are lascivious acts and words. The charm of talking baudily to a woman for the first time is such, that hours fly away just like minutes.

I got her on to my lap and kissed her. She was so feeble that I put my hands up her clothes nearly to her knees before she repulsed them. Then I feared her sister coming home; she promised to hide the brandy, and we parted. She kissed me, and let me feel to her knees, to induce me to go. “Oh! for God’s sake sir, do go before my sister comes.” My last words were, “Mind you’ve felt my cock, and I’ve felt your cunt.” “Pray go,” — and I departed, leaving her tearful, excited, and in a state of exhaustion which seemed to me unaccountable.

Probably had I persisted a little longer I should have had her, such was the lassitude into which she had fallen; but I felt that I had made progress, and went home rejoicing, and forming plans for the future. When I had had some food, and thought over the matter, I came to the conclusion that I had been a fool in leaving her, and that had I pushed matters more determinately at the last moment, I should have certainly fucked her before I had left. I was mad with myself when I reflected on that, and the opportunity lost, which might not occur again.

Jenny had not fainted quite, but though unable to speak, resist, or indeed move, she must have been partially conscious. I think this from what I knew of her nature afterwards.

When are women most lewed. — Garters, money, and promises. — About my servant. — The neckerchief. — Armpits
felt.
— Warm hints. — Lewed suggestions. — Baudy language. — Tickling. — “Fanny Hill. ”
—
Garters tried.
—
Red fingers.
—
Struggle, and escape.
—
Locked out.
—
I leave.
—
Baudy predictions, and verification.

 

I have a confused recollection of thinking myself the next day an ass, for having missed a good opportunity of spermatizing a fresh cunt; yet for some reason or another it must have been three days before I went to try my luck again.

I had about this time of my life begun to frame intentions, and calculate my actions towards women, although still mostly ruled by impulse and opportunity in love matters. My philosophy was owing to experience, and also in a degree to my friend the Major, to whom some years before I had confided my having commissioned a French woman to get me a virgin. He was older, poorer, and more dissolute than ever. “He is the baudiest old rascal that ever I heard tell a story,” was the remark of a man at our club one night. Ask him to dinner in a quiet way by himself, give him unlimited wine, and he would in an hour or two begin his confidential advice in the amatory line, and in a wonderful manner tell of his own adventures, and give reasons why he did this or that, why he succeeded with this woman, or missed that girl, in a way as amusing and instructive to a young listener as could be imagined.

“If you want to get over a girl,” he would say, “never flurry her till her belly’s full of meat and wine; let the grub work. As long as she is worth fucking, it’s sure to make a woman randy at some time. If she is not twenty-five she’ll be randy directly her belly is filled, — then go at her. If she’s thirty, give her half-an-hour. If she’s thirty-five let her digest an hour, she won’t feel the warmth of the dinner in her cunt till then. Then she’ll want to piss, and directly after that she’ll be ready for you without her knowing it. But don’t flurry your young un, — talk a little quiet smut whilst feeding, just to make her laugh and think of baudy things; then when she has left table, go at her. But it’s well,” the old Major would say, “to leave a woman alone in a room for a few minutes after she has dined, perhaps then she will let slip a fart or two, perhaps she’ll piss, — she’ll be all the better for the wind and water being out. A woman’s cunt doesn’t get piss-proud like a man’s prick you know, they’re differently made from us my boy, — but show any one of them your prick as soon as you can, it’s a great persuader. Once they have seen it they can’t forget it, it will keep in their minds. And a baudy book, they won’t ever look at till you’ve fucked them? — oh! won’t they! — they would at church if you left them alone with it.” And so the Major instructed us.

About three days afterwards, taking a pair of garters, two small showy neckerchiefs, and
Fanny Hill
with me, I knocked at the door. “Oh! you!,” said she colouring up. “Yes, — is everything right?” “Yes! all right, what should be the matter sir?” She stood at the street-door holding it open, though I had entered the hall. I turned, closed the door, and caught hold of her.

“Now none of that pray sir, you insulted me enough last time.” “I could not help it, you’re so lovely, it’s your fault, — forgive me, and I won’t do so any more, — here is a sovereign, take it, kiss me, and make it up.” “I don’t want your money,” said she sulkily. “Take it, I give it with real pleasure, — what I had the other day was worth double.”

“I won’t be paid for your rudeness, if that’s what you mean.” “Lord, my dear, I’ve no occasion to pay for that, I took it without pay, — I wish I could get what I told you yesterday, — I’d give ten times the sum.” “You are going on again.” “Don’t be foolish, — take it, buy a pair of silk stockings.” “I don’t want silk stockings.” “Your plump legs would look so nice in them,” — and I forced her to put the money into her pocket.

Then I got her to the parlour, to sit down, to allow me to kiss her, and then to talk about me and my “missus,” as she called her, a subject which seemed to excite her, for she began asking me question after question, and listened to all I said with breathless attention about my daily habits, rows, and fast doings. Once I stopped at some question. “I won’t tell you that.” “Oh! do,
—
do.” “No it’s curious.” “Do,
—
do.” It was about a pretty servant-girl whom I had noticed in my house. “It will offend you if I do.” “No it won’t.” “Well give me a kiss then.”

She kissed me. She had stood up a moment, now she sat down again by me on the sofa. I went on with my story, every now and then I stopped till she kissed me, it came to a kiss every minute, as I sat with my arm round her waist, talking.

Said I, “It was a servant whom my wife turned out at a day’s notice, — a pretty girl, — I had taken to kissing her, and then I nudged her somewhere you know. One night when she opened the door, I saw by the light that my wife was in our bed-room. ‘Is your mistress upstairs?’ ‘Yes sir.’ ‘And the cook?’ ‘Yes.’ Then I closed with her. ‘Don’t sir, missus will hear.’ I hugged her closer, shoved her up against the wall, got my hand on to her cunt, felt her, and gave her half a sovereign. How delicious it was to get the fingers on to the wet nick of that pretty girl, and say, ‘How I should like to fuck that, Mary.’ ” I told it in words like that to Jenny, as she sat listening. At the word “fuck” up she got.

“You are a going on rude again.” “You asked me.” “Not for that.” “But that’s what I had to tell, what you kissed me to tell.” “I didn’t think you would say rude things.” “Sit down, and I’ll tell you without rude words.” And so I did, telling all over again with additions, but instead of saying “cunt,” “fuck,” and so on, said, “I got my hand you know where,” — “and then she let me you know what,” — “she was frightened to let me do, you guess what I wanted.”

“Luckily, though she foolishly told her fellow-servant, she did not say who had been feeling her. That sneak told my wife, who told me about it, or she knew, and said she could not keep such an improper girl in the house as that. ‘But the other servant may have told a lie to spite her.’ ‘Perhaps, but I’ll turn her out too,’ — and so she did, both left.”

Thus I talked to Jenny till I expect her quim was hot enough; then said I, “Here is a pretty neckerchief, — put it on.” “Oh! how pretty.” “I won’t give it you unless you put it on.” She went to the glass and unbuttoned the top of her dress, which was made to button on the front. I saw her white fat bosom, she threw the kerchief round the neck, and tried to push it down the back. “Let me put it down, — it’s difficult.” She let me. “You are not unbuttoned enough, — it’s too tight.” She undid another button, I pushed down the kerchief, and releasing my hand as I stood at the back of her, put it over her shoulder, and down in front, pushing it well under her left breast. “Oh! what a lovely breast you have, — let me kiss it.”

A shriek, a scuffle. In the scuffle I burst off a button or two, which exposed her breast, and getting my hand on to one of the globes began feeling and kissing it. Then I slid my hand further down, and under her armpit. “Oh! what a shame, — don’t, — I don’t like it.” “How lovely, — kiss, kiss, — oh! Jenny what a lot of hair I can feel under here.” “Oh!” — screech, — screech, — “oh! don’t tickle me, — oh! — oh!,” — and she screeched as women do who can’t bear tickling. I saw my advantage. “Are you ticklish?” “Yes, — oh! — (screech, — screech). — Oh! leave off.”

Instead of leaving off I tickled harder than ever. She got my hand out, but I closed on her, tickling her under her arm, pinching her sides, and got her into such a state of excitement, that directly I touched her she screeched with wild laughter; the very idea of being touched made her shiver. We were on the sofa, she yelling, struggling, whilst I pinched her, she trying to get away from me, but fruitlessly; I buried my face in her breasts which were now largely exposed, and she fell back I with my face on her, holding her tight. Then I put one hand down, feeling outside for her notch; that stopped her screeching, and she pushed me off as she got up.

I soothed her, begged pardon, spoke of the hair in her armpits, wondered if it was the same colour that it was lower down. Now she shammed anger, boxed my ears, and we made it up. I produced the garters. “Oh! what a lovely pair.” “They’re yours if you let me put them on.” “I won’t.” “Let me put one half-way up.” “No.” “Just above the ankle.” “No, my stockings are dirty.” “Never mind.” “No.” Then she made an excuse, said she must see to something, and left the room. I thought she was going to piddle.

She came back. I found afterwards she had been out to lace up her boots, they were untidy. It was coquettishness, female instinct, for she wanted the garters, and meant to let me try them on, though refusing. “Where do you garter, above knee?” “I shan’t tell you.” “I’ve seen, — let me put them on below the knees.” “No.” “Then I’ll give them to another woman who will let me.” “I don’t care.” I threw the garters on to the table after some fruitless attempts. I was getting awfully lewed with our conversation.