One day, my mother was out, the cook upstairs dressing, we had kissed
in the garden parlour, I put my hand round her bum, and sliding my face
over her shoulder half ashamed, said, "I wish my prick was against
your naked belly, instead of outside your clothes." She with an effort
disengaged herself, stood amazed, and said, "I never will speak to you
again."
I had committed myself, but went on, though in fear, prompted by love
or lust. My friend's advice was in my ears. "I saw your cunt as you got
down from your father's cart," said I, "look at my prick (pulling it
out), how stiff it is, it's longing to go into you, 'cock and cunt will
come together'." It was part of a smutty chorus the fellows sang at my
college; she stared, turned round, went out of the room, through the
garden, and down to the kitchen by the garden stairs, without uttering a
word.
The cook was at the top of the house, I went into the kitchen reckless,
and repeated all I had said. She threatened to call the cook. "She must
have seen your cunt, as well as me," said I; then she began to cry. Just
as I was begging pardon, my friend's advice again rang in my ears, I
stooped and swiftly ran both hands up her clothes, got one full on to
her bum, the other on her motte; she gave a loud scream, and I rushed
off upstairs in a fright.
The cook did not hear her, being up three pairs of stairs; down I went
again, and found Charlotte crying, told her again all I had seen in the
court yard, which made her cry more. She would ask the cook, and would
tell my mother--then hearing the cook coming downstairs, I cut off
through the passage up into the garden.
The ice was quite broken now, she could not avoid me, I promised not to
repeat what I had said and done, was forgiven, we kissed, and the same
day I broke my promise; this went on day after day, making promises and
breaking them, talking smuttily as well as I knew how, getting a slap on
my head, but no further, my chances were few. My friend, whom I made a
half confident of, was always taunting me with my want of success, and
boasting of what he would have done, had he had my opportunities.
My mother just at that time began to resume her former habits, leaving
the house frequently for walks and visits. One afternoon she being out
for the remainder of the day, I went home unexpectedly; the cook was
going out, I was to fetch my mother home in the evening; Charlotte laid
the dinner for me; we had the usual kissing, I was unusually bold and
smutty. Charlotte finding me not to be going out, seemed anxious. All
the dinner things had been taken away, when out went the cook, and there
were Charlotte, my little brother and I alone. It was her business to
sit with him in the garden parlor when mother was out, so as to be able
to open the street-door readily, as well as go into the garden if the
weather was fine. It was a fine day of Autumn, she went into the parlor
and was sitting on the huge old sofa, Tom playing on the floor, when I
sat myself down by her side; we kissed and toyed, and then with heart
beating, I began my talk and waited my opportunity.
The cook would be back in a few minutes, said she. I knew better,
having heard mother tell cook she need not be home until eight o'clock.
Although I knew this, I was fearful, but at length mustered courage to
sing my cock and cunt song. She was angry, but it was made up. She went
to give something to Tom, and stepping back put her foot on the lace of
one boot which was loose, sat down on the sofa and put up one leg over
the other, to relace it. I undertook to do it for her, saw her neat
ankle, and a bit of a white stocking. "Snatch at her cunt," rang in my
ears. I had never attempted it since the afternoon in the kitchen.
Lacing the boot, I managed to push the clothes up so as to see more of
the leg, but resting as the foot did on one knee, the clothes tightly
between, a snatch was useless: lust made me cunning, I praised the foot
(though I knew not at that time how vain some women are of their feet).
"What a nice ankle," I said putting my hand further on. She was off her
guard; with my left arm, I pushed her violently back on to the large
sofa, her foot came off her knee, at the same moment, my right hand went
up between her thighs, on to her cunt; I felt the slit, the hair, the
moisture.
She got up to a sitting posture, crying "you wretch, you beast, you
blackguard," but still I kept my fingers on the cunt; she closed her
legs, so as to shut my hand between her thighs, and keep it motionless,
and tried to push me off; but I clung round her. "Take your hand away,"
said she, "or I will scream." "I shant!" Then followed two or three
loud, very loud screams. "No one can hear," said I, which brought her to
supplication. My friend's advice came again to me: pushing my right hand
still between her thighs, with my left I pulled out my prick, as stiff
as a poker. She could not do otherwise than see it; and then I drew my
left hand round her neck, pulled her hand to me, and covered it with
kisses.
She tried to get up and nearly dislodged my right hand, but I pushed her
back, and got my hand still further on to the cunt. I never thought
of pressing, under towards the bum, was in fact too ignorant of female
anatomy to do it, but managed to get one of the lips with the hair
between my fingers, and pinch it; then dropped on to my knees in front
of her, and remained kneeling, preventing her getting back further on
the sofa, as well as I could by holding her waist, or her clothes.
There was a pause from our struggles, then more entreaties, then more
attempts to get my right hand away; suddenly she put out one hand,
seized me by the hair of my head, and pushed me backwards by it. I
thought my skull was coming off, but kept my hold and pinched or pulled
the cunt lip till she yelled and called me a brute. I told her I would
hurt her as much as I could, if she hurt me; so that game she gave up;
the pain of pulling my hair made me savage, and more determined and
brutal, than before.
We went on struggling at intervals, I kneeling with prick out, she
crying, begging me to desist; I entreating her to let me see and feel
her cunt, using all the persuasion, and all the baudy talk I could,
little Tom sitting on the floor playing contentedly. I must have been
half an hour on my knees, which became so painful, that I could scarcely
bear it; we were both panting, I was sweating; an experienced man would
perhaps have had her then; I was a boy inexperienced, and without her
consent almost in words, would not have thought of attempting it; the
novelty, the voluptuousness of my game was perhaps sufficient delight to
me; at last I became conscious that my fingers on her cunt were getting
wet; telling her so, she became furious and burst into such a flood
of tears, that it alarmed me. It was impossible to remain on my knees
longer, in rising, I knew I should be obliged to take my hand from her
cunt, so withdrawing my left hand from her waist, I put it also suddenly
up her clothes, and round her bum, and lifted them up, showing both
her thighs, whilst I attempted to rise. She got up at the same instant,
pushing down her clothes, I fell over on one side,--my knees were so
stiff and painful--and she rushed out of the room upstairs.
****
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