My Secret Life

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 diffrcult.” 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. “Ohl 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 !—screach, — screach, — oh ! don't tickle me, — oh !—oh l”, — and she crouched as women do who can't bear tickling. I saw my advantage. “Are you ticklish?” “Yes, — oh !—(screach, — screach) , — 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 screached 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, and holding her tight. Then I put one hand down, feeling outside for her notch; that stopped her screaching, 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 make 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 on 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, about 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 lewd with our conversation.

“Do you like reading?” “Yes.” “Pictures?” “Yes.” “I've a curious book here.” “What is it?” I took the book out. “The Adventures of Fanny Hill.” “Who was she?” “A gay lady, — it tells how she was seduced, how she had lots of lovers, was caught in bed with men, — would you like to read it?” “I should.” “We will read it together, — but look at the pictures”, — this the fourth or fifth time in my life I have tried this manoeuvre with women. I opened the book at a picture of a plump, leering, lecherous-looking woman squatting, and pissing on the floor, and holding a dark-red, black-haired, thick-lipped cunt open with her fingers. All sorts of little baudy sketches were round the margin of the picture. The early editions of Fanny Hill had that frontispiece.

She was flabbergasted, silent. Then she burst out laughing, stopped and said, “What a nasty book, — such books ought to be burnt.” “I like them, they're so funny.” I turned over a page. “Look, here is she with a boy who sold her watercresses, is not his prick a big one?” She looked on silently, I heard her breathing hard. I turned over picture after picture. Suddenly she knocked the book out of my hand to the other side of the room. “I won't see such things”, said she. “Won't you look at it by yourself?” “If you leave it here I'll burn it.” “No you won't, you'll take it to bed with you.” There I left the book lying, it was open and the frontispiece showing. “Look at her legs”, said I, for we could see the picture as we sat on the sofa; and I began to kiss and tickle her again.

She shrieked, laughed, got away, and rushed to the door. I brought her back, desisted from tickling and lewd talking, though I was getting randier than ever. “Now have the garters, — let me put one round the leg, just to see how it looks, — just half-way up the calf.” After much persuasion, after pulling up my trowsers, and showing how a garter looked round my calf, she partly consented. “Promise me you won't tickle me.” I promised everything.