MY SECRET LIFE (Complete Edition). Anonymous
was usual. We had toyed for an hour, she had let a dish fall and smashed it, the baker rang, she took in the bread, and declared she would not shut the door unless I promised to leave off. I promised, and so soon as she had closed it, pulled her into the garden parlour, having been thinking when in the kitchen, how I could get her upstairs. Down tumbled the bread on the floor, on to the sofa, I pushed her, and after a struggle she was sitting down, I kissing her, one arm round her waist, one hand between her thighs, close up to her cunt. Then I told her I wanted to fuck her, said all in favour of it I knew, half ashamed, half frightened as I said it. She said she did not know what I meant, resisted less and less as I tried to pull her back on the sofa, when another ring came: it was the milkman.
I was obliged to let her go, and she ran down stairs with the milk. I followed, she went out, and slammed the door which led to the garden, in my face; for the instant, I thought she was going to the privy, but opened and followed on; she ran up the steps, into the garden, through the garden parlor, and upstairs to her bed-room just opposite to mine, closed and locked the door in my face, I begged her to let me in.
She said she would not come out, till she heard the knocker or bell ring; there was no one called usually after the milkman, so my game was up, but nothing makes man or woman so crafty as lust. In half an hour or so, in anger, I said I should go to my aunt’s, went downstairs, moved noisily about, opened and slammed the street-door violently, as if I had gone out, then pulled off my boots, and crept quietly up to my bed-room.
There I sat expectantly a long time, had almost given up hope, began to think about consequences if she told my mother, when I heard the door softly open and she came to the edge of the stairs. “Wattie!” she said loudly, “Wattie!” much louder, “he has,” said she in a subdued tone to herself, as much as to say that worry is over. I opened my door, she gave a loud shriek and retreated to her room, I close to her; in a few minutes more, hugging, kissing, begging, threatening, I know not how; she was partly on the bed, her clothes up in a heap, I on her with my prick in my hand, I saw the hair, I felt the slit, and not knowing then where the hole was or much about it, excepting that it was between her legs, shoved my prick there with all my might. “Oh! you hurt, I shall be ill,” said she, “pray don’t.” Had she said she was dying, I should not have stopped. The next instant a delirium of my senses came, my prick throbbing and as if hot lead was jetting from it, at each throb; pleasure mingled with light pain in it, and my whole frame quivering with emotion; my sperm left me for a virgin cunt, but fell outside it, though on to it.
How long I was quiet I don’t know; probably but a short time; for a first pleasure does not tranquillize at that age; I became conscious that she was pushing me off of her, and rose up, she with me, to a half-sitting posture; she began to laugh, then to cry, and fell back in hysterics, as I had seen her before.
I had seen my mother attend to her in those fits, but little did I then know, that sexual excitement causes them in women, and that probably in her I had been the cause. I got brandy and water, and made her drink a lot, helping myself at the same time, for I was frightened, and made her lay on the bed. Then ill as she was, frightened as I was, I yet took the opportunity her partial insensibility gave me, lifted her clothes quietly, and saw her cunt and spunk on it. Roused by that, she pushed her clothes half down feebly and got to the side of the bed. I loving, begging pardon, kissing her, told her of my pleasure, and asked about hers, all in snatches, for I thought I had done her. Not a word could I get, but she looked me in the face beseechingly, begging me to go. I had no such intention, my prick was again stiffened, I pulled it out, the sight of her cunt had stimulated me, she looked with languid eyes at me, her cap was off, her hair hanging about her head, her dress torn near her breast.
More so than she had ever looked, was she beautiful to me, success made me bold, on I went insisting, she seemed too weak to withstand me. “Don’t, oh pray, don’t,” was all she said as pushing her well on the bed, I threw myself on her, and again put my doodle on to the slit now wet with my sperm. I was though cooler, stiff as a poker, but my sperm was not so ready to flow, as it was in after days, at a second poke, for I was very young; but nature did all for me; my prick went to the proper channel, there stopped by something it battered furiously. “Oh, you hurt, oh!” she cried aloud. The next instant something seemed to tighten round its knob, another furious thrust,—another,—a sharp cry of pain (resistance was gone), and my prick was buried up her, I felt that it was done, and that before I had spent outside of her. I looked at her, she was quiet, her cunt seemed to close on my prick, I put my hand down, and felt round. What rapture to find my machine buried; nothing but the balls to be touched, and her cunt hair wetted with my sperm, mingling and clinging to mine; in another minute nature urged a crisis, and I spent in a virgin cunt, my prick virgin also. Thus ended my first fuck.
My prick was still up her, when we heard a loud knock; both started up in terror, I was speechless. “My God; it is your mamma!” Another loud knock. What a relief, it was the postman. To rush downstairs, and open the door was the work of a minute. “I thought you were all out,” said he angrily, “I have knocked three times.” “We were in the garden,” said I. He looked queerly at me and said, “With your boots off!” and grinning went away. I went up again, found her sitting on the side of the bed, and there we sat together. I told her what the postman had said, she was sure he would tell her mistress. For a short time, there never was a couple who had just fucked, in more of a foolish funk than we were; I have often thought of our not hearing the thundering knocks of a postman, whilst we were fucking, though the bed-room door was wide open; what engrossing work it is so to deafen people. Then after unsuccessfully struggling to see her cunt, and kissing, and feeling each others’ genitals, and talking of our doings and our sensations for an hour, we fucked again.
It was getting dark, which brought us to reason, we both helped to remake the bed, went downstairs, shut the shutters, lighted the fire which was out, and got lights. I then having nothing to do, began thinking of my doodle which was sticking to my shirt, and pulling it out to see its condition, found my shirt covered with sperm smears, and spots of blood, my prick was dreadfully sore. I said to her that she had been bleeding, she begged me to go out of the kitchen for a minute, I did, and almost directly she came out, and passed me saying, she must change her things before the cook came home. She would not let me stay in the room whilst she did it, nor did I see her chemise, though I had followed her upstairs; then the idea flashed across me that I had taken a virginity; that had never occurred to me before. She got hot water to wash herself. I did not know what to do with my shirt; we arranged I should wash it before I went to bed. We thought it best to say, I had not been home at all, and that I should go and fetch my mother. After much kissing, hugging, and tears on her part, off I went, hatching an excuse for not having fetched mother earlier, and we came home with Tom in my aunt’s carriage I recollect.
Before going to bed, I ordered hot water for a footbath. How we looked at each other as I ordered it. I washed my shirt as well as I could, and looked sadly at my sore prick, I could not pull the skin back, so much as usual, it was torn, raw, and slightly bleeding.
Awake nearly all night, thinking of my pleasure and proud of my success; I rose early, and looking at my shirt, found stains still visible, and that I had so mucked it in washing, that an infant could have guessed what I had been doing. I knew that my mother who now did household duties herself, selected the things for the laundress; and in despair hit on a plan: I filled the chamber-pot with piss and soap-suds, making it as dirty as I could, put it near a chair and my shirt hanging over it carelessly, so as to look as if it had dropped into the pot by accident; left it there, and put on a clean shirt. After breakfast my mother who usually helped to make my bed, and her own as well, called out to me; up I went with my heart in my mouth, to hear her say, she hoped I would be a little more careful, and remember that we had no longer my poor father’s purse. “Look,” said she, “a disgraceful state you left your shirt in, I am ashamed to have it sent to the laundress, have been obliged to tell the housemaid to partly wash it first, you are getting very careless.” Charlotte afterwards told me, that when mother gave her the shirt to rough wash, she felt as if she should faint.
I need not repeat about my prepuce, which as said I could now pull down with a little less difficulty. Lacerated and painful over night, it was much more swollen and sore the next morning, when I pissed it smarted, the thinking and smarting made me randy: