give, if you would..." it was all I dare say. Then I heard my mother's
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bedroom door open, and I stopped.
Hugging and kissing a woman never stopped there, I told her I loved her, which she said was nonsense. We now used regularly to kiss each other when we got the chance; little by little I grasped her closer to me, put
my hands round her waist, then cunningly round to her bum, then my prick used to stand and I was mad to say more to her, but had not the courage.
I knew not how to set to work, indeed scarce knew what my desires lead me to hope, and think at that time, putting my hand on to her cunt, and seeing it, was perhaps the utmost; fucking her seemed a hopelessly mad idea, if I had the expectation of doing so at all very clearly.
I told a friend one or two years older than myself how matters stood, carefully avoiding telling him who the girl was. His advice was short. Tell her you have seen her cunt, and make a snatch up her petticoats when no one is near; keep at it, and you will be sure to get a feel, and some day, pull out your prick, say straight you want to fuck her, girls like to see a prick, she will look, even if she turns her head away.
This advice he dinned into my ears continually, but for a long time, I
was not bold enough to put it into practice.
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
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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.
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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
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(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,
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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