There was a great gabbling of female voices over the grating round Mrs. Smith. “I would not stand it,” said one. “It is a shame,” said another. “He ought to be proud of such a wife, an old beast,” said another. The husband came out again. “I have done my best,” said she, “you are not a man anyhow, or anywhere, for two pins I would run away from you.” A loud oath, and another smack followed.
I heard Mrs. Smith sobbing. “I have had a little drink,” said she, “I told him so. He makes me so unhappy, I must; but I spend scarce a trifle and it’s what I earns myself. Ain’t I clean? don’t I bring him good meals?” “You do, you do,” said they. “It’s a shame,” she went on, “he is not a man, not in bed, not anywhere, not anyhow, I don’t aggravate him, I put up with everything, it’s full six months since he’s been a husband to me, although we sleeps in the same bed,” she added in a significant way, “yes, six months full.” “Lor,” said half a dozen voices together, then said one, “Don’t he do anything to you then?” Things quieted, off went Mrs. Smith with some of the women, two remained waiting for their husbands’ platters, they squatted down on the step.
“They’re a miserable couple,” said one. “Yes, and likely, he is never at home, no wonder she do take a drop of comfort.” “No, it ain’t.” “She is a nice little woman, and no man gets his meals nicer.” “No, that they don’t.” “He’s too old for her, but he ain’t jealous.” “No, in course not.” “Why he ain’t done it to her for six months,” said one. They both chuckled then. “Why, my old man don’t forget me like that, and he is ten years older than Smith,” said the other. “Ah!” said the first, “he’s a bad ‘up altogether, men be a bad lot, the best on ‘em.” The time-bell rang, their husbands brought out their dinner-cans, and off the women went.
I can scarcely tell what followed exactly or how it came about, for even now to me it seems astonishing. I was but between eighteen and nineteen, and had not had the remotest idea of getting Mrs. Smith, though I longed for her lewedly when my cock stood. I was timid with women until I knew them well, I could never begin with our own servants until they had been in the house a few days; yet directly I heard this conversation, a chance seemed in my way, and without meaning it I followed it up.
With but little idea of married life or habits, I saw that not only were they a wretched couple, but that for months Smith had never touched his wife. I imagined then that married people were always doing it, that women were randier than men,—a common belief of young people. I thought: how she must want a poke! how she would enjoy it! Out I went to see if Mrs. Smith was about, and saw her walking off with a group of sympathizers, who dropped off gradually, until she was left with one, with whom she went into a public-house. In a few minutes they came out and parted. On she went alone, and went into another public-house, and then wiping her eyes as she came out, went her way alone; I after her, lewed and thinking to myself, “she has not had it for six months,” and so on. She went into a public-house now by herself. I waited till she came out, and saw she had been taking to many drops of comfort.
Without any definite intention as far as I can remember, but simply for lewed gratification, I went up to, and addressed her. She recognized me and stood stock still. She had a small bottle of what I found afterwards to be gin in her hand, which she put into her husband’s dinner can. I told her I was sorry for her, having heard the row and all she had said. The reference to her wrongs roused her, and she said vehemently, “He is not a man anyhow or anywhere,” and then was silent. I did not know what to say more, and walked on by her side. After a time she said, “Why are you walking with me sir?” The only reply I made was that I liked it, and was sorry she had such a bad husband. She said she would rather be alone, but I walked on with her she carrying the little tin can with a cover. I not knowing what to do, offered to carry it for her, but she would not let me.
Then she remarked, “You are very good, but don’t come any further, it won’t look well for a poor woman to be walking with a gentleman; neighbors make mischief, and God knows, I have enough to bear already.” My boldness having quite left me, I shook hands with her, which seemed to astonish her, and off she went. I followed her at a distance, to her house, which was one of a row of small cottages fronting a ditch, and a field, on which carpets were beaten, and boys played, a scrubby poor place as you may be sure.
I turned back hesitating. One moment wondering at my boldness, and wickedness in thinking of a married woman; the next, thinking I was a fool for not having asked her to let me; when I saw in the path, the top of the tin can she had been carrying. Here was a chance. I walked about for half an hour before I mustered up courage to go to the house. She opened her eyes wide when she saw me. “What do you want?” “Here is the top of the dinner-can,” said I innocently. “Oh!” said she, “I am so glad, he would have hit me if I had lost it.” As she took it I entered and closed the door.
She had finished the gin, for the empty bottle was on the table. She may have been more than fuddled, I cannot say; for I was so excited that I recollect only the most prominent circumstances. I was in a funk, but my cock was stiff, and that overcame all scruples. The house had but two rooms: a kitchen I was standing in, the street-door opened on to it. An open door showed a neat bed in a clean white-washed bed-room. How I began I know not, but recollect telling what I had heard, and that for months he had not been a husband to her. That set her off talking wildly, and she said it all over again. She was sure he was spending his money on some dolly, hoped she might catch her, then cried, wiped her eyes and said, “Well, that is no business of yours, I am a fool for talking to a young gentleman like you, I don’t know what you are doing here.”
“Let me do it to you,” said I, “I have seen up your clothes, let me,—you are so nice, and I want you so badly; why should you not, he is no husband to you, and you such a nice woman.” That was my artless beginning, or something like it. Fright at my impudence was struggling against my cock-stand. For a second she seemed speechless, then replied, “Well sir, you ought to be ashamed,—a married woman like me.” “He is no husband to you, he never does it to you, you know,—I heard you tell the women so; they laughed, and said he had some hussy whom he did it to.” “That’s no business of yours, but he is a bad one,” and she began crying again. “Now go sir go,—if he came home, he would murder me, if he found you here.”
I don’t know how the next came off, but I know I was kissing her, that I got my hand up her clothes, on to her cunt, that I pulled out my prick, that the struggling ceased, that I edged her to the bed-room, and that up against the bed she made a stand. “Oh! my God sir, I am a married woman, pray don’t.” Paying no heed, I got her clothes up and as she stood, was bending and trying to get my cock up her; but she was little, and I could not; it shoved up against her navel, and motte. That I suppose stirring her lust, overcame her, for she got on the bed, I got on her, and up her in a second.
I was in a bursting state of randiness, and she must have been the same. I was ready to spend, she readier; for I had no sooner entered her than her breath shortened, she clasped me tight, quivered and wriggled, and we both spent. I lay up her, cock ready for further work. Up to that time I had not properly felt her, nor seen her body. I began fumbling about, put my hand down feeling cautiously round the stem of my cock and my ballocks. All was wet, I slid my finger below her cunt (feeling even near to an arse-hole was then beyond me), there it felt wetter; that stimulated me, and on I went grinding. She lay with her eyes closed without speaking. Soon we both went again, I had fucked her twice without uncunting.
The quiet dreamy enjoyment had barely began, when she pushed me off and sat up saying, “What have I done? what have I done? I am a married woman!” Then comes tears, then a kiss from me, then talk, then tears, and at intervals she told me a story of a bad, brutal, morose husband, who had not fucked her for months. Half frightened, half hysterical, it seemed as much pleasure to her to tell me her misery, as it had been to have me doing her husband’s work. We moved off the bed. “Oh! my God,” said she, “look at the bed.” I saw one wet patch as large as a tea-cup, and another