My Secret Life, Volumes I. to III. - The Original Classic Edition. Anonymous Anonymous

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       noticed any thing of the sort, for I told a boy afterwards, that grown women had hair under their armpits; he said every fool knew that. When she had done brushing, she turned round, and passing the door, shut it: she had not seen me.

       I fell in love with this woman, an undefined want took possession of me, I was always kissing her, and she returned it without hesitation. "Hush! your mamma's coming"; then she would work, or do something with the children if there, as demurely as possible. I declare positively as I

       write this, that I believe I gave that woman a lewed pleasure in kissing me, her kisses were so much like those I have had from women, I have fucked in after years, so long, and soft, and squeezing.

       One day, I was in the sitting-room laying on the sofa reading, she sitting and working; where the children were, where my mother was, I can't say: they must have been out, why this servant was in the room with me alone, I don't know. On a table was something the doctor had ordered me to sip, from time to time. "Come and sit near me, I like to touch you, dear" (I used to say dear to her). She drew her chair to the

       sofa, so that her thighs were near my head, she handed me my medicine, I turned on one side, put my head on her lap, and then my hand on her knee. "Kiss me." "I can't." I moved my head up and she bent forward and kissed. "Keep your face to mine, I want to tell you something." Then

       I told her I had seen her brushing her hair, her breasts, her armpits. "Oh! you sly boy! you naughty boy! you must not do it again, will you?" "Won't I, if I get the chance; put your head down, I've something more to tell you." "What?" "I can't if you look at me; put your ear to my

       mouth."

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       I was longing to tell her, and could not do it whilst she looked at me. I recollect my bashfulness perfectly, and more than that, my fear of saying what I wanted to say.

       She bent her ear to my mouth. "I heard you piddle." "Oh! you naughty!" and she burst into a quiet laugh. "I'll take care to shut the door in future." I let my hand drop by the side of the sofa, laid hold of her

       ankle, then the calve of her leg (without resistance); then up I slid it gently, and gradually above her garter, and felt the flesh; she was threading a needle. As I touched the thigh, she pressed both hands down on to her thighs, barring further investigation. "Now, Wattie, you're

       taking too much liberty, because I've let you feel my ankles." I whined, I moaned. "Oh do dear, do, kiss me dear; only for a minute." I tried

       very gently to push my hand (it was my left hand) further. "What do you want?" "I want to feel it, oh! kiss me--let me,--do,--Betsy, do," and I raised my head.

       Sitting bent forward towards me as I lay, until she was nearly double,

       she put her lips to mine and kissing me said: "What a rude, boy you are, what do you expect to find?" "I know what it's called, and it's hairy,

       isn't it, dear?" Her hands relaxed, she laughed, my left hand slid up, until I felt the bottom of her belly. I could only twiddle my fingers in the hair, could feel no split, or hole, was too excited to think, too

       ignorant of the nature of the female article; but oh the intense delight I felt at the touch of the warm thighs, and the hair, which now I knew was outside the cunt, somewhere, I recollect my delight perfectly.

       She kept on kissing me, saying in a whisper, "what a rude boy you are."

       Then I whispered modestly, all I had read, told of the Aristotle I had

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       hidden in my cupboard, and she asked me to lend her the book. I touched nothing but hair, her thighs must have been quite closed, and a big

       stay-bone dug into my hand and hurt it, as I moved it about. I have felt that obstacle to my enterprise in years later on, with other women.

       Then came over me a voluptuous sensation, as if I was fainting with pleasure, I seem to have a dream of her lips meeting mine, of her saying oh! for shame I of the tips of my fingers entangling in hair, of the warmth of the flesh of her thighs upon my hand, of a sense of moisture on it, but I recollect nothing more distinctly.

       Afterwards she seems to have absorbed me. I ceased speaking to her sister, and could think of nothing but her neck, legs and the hair at the bottom of her belly. I was several times in the same room with her, and was permitted the same liberties, but no others. I lent

       her Aristotle, which I had borrowed, and one day recollect my prick stiffening, and a strange overwhelming, utterly indescribable feeling coming over me, of my desire to say to her "cunt," and to make her feel me, and at the same time a fear and a dread overtook me, that my cock was not like other cocks, and that she might laugh at me. After that, I used to pull the skin down violently every day, I bled, but succeeded;

       it became slightly easier to do so, yet I have no recollection of having a desire to fuck that woman, all that I recollect of my sensations I have here described.

       I was still ill, for there was brought me to my bed at nights, a cup of arrowroot. My mother usually did this, but sometimes the big woman did, I was so glad, when my mother did not. Then I would kiss her as if I never wanted to part with her, put my hand out of bed, scramble it up

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       her clothes, till I could feel the hair. Then she would jut her bum

       back, so that I could not touch more. One night my prick stood, "Take the light outside," I said, "I've something to say to you." The door was half open when she had complied; the gleam of the light struck across the room, my bed was in the shade, "do let me feel you further, dear

       and kiss me." "You naughty boy!" but we kissed. Again I felt her thighs, belly and hair. "What good does it do you, doing that," she said. I took hold of her hand, and put it under the bedclothes on to my prick. She bent over me, kissing and saying "naughty boy," but feeling the cock, and all round it, how long, I can't say, "oh! I'd like to feel your

       hole," I said. "Hish!" said she, going out of the room, and closing the

       door.

       She felt me several times afterwards. When my mother brought me the arrowroot, she having an idea, that I liked her to do so, I would not take it, saying it was too hot. She said, "I can't wait, Wattie, while

       it cools." "Don't care, mamma, I don't want it." "But you must take it." "Put it down then." "Well, don't go to sleep, and I'll send Betsy

       up with it in a few minutes." Up Betsy would come, and quickly and voluptuously kissing, keeping her lips on mine for two or three minutes at a time, she would glide her hand down and feel my cock, whilst my fingers were on her motte, her thighs closed, then she would glide out of the room. I never got my hand between her thighs, I am sure.

       I used to long to talk to her about all I had heard, but don't think I

       ever did more than I have told, for I had a fear about using baudy words to a woman, though I already used them freely enough among boys.

       I used to talk only of her hole, my thing, of doing it, and so forth;

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       but what made her laugh was my calling it pudendum, a word I had got out of Aristotle and my latin dictionary. In spite of all this, and of the voluptuous sensations, which used to creep over me, I have no clear, defined, recollection of wishing to fuck her, nor СКАЧАТЬ