My Secret Life

Camille had as said a big album full of voluptuous pictures. When she went to fetch Louise I asked her to leave it with me till her return. She said, “I will pawn it to you for ten pounds.” I lent that sum. Since her return she had not asked for it, maybe thinking I would ask for my ten pounds. I knew now well the effect of baudy pictures in exciting lust, so I fetched it. We had luncheon and champagne, she laughed, talked, objected to sit down with me, but at last was thoroughly at home with me, and for the first time talked freely of her mistress, whom she feared. She disclosed a deal of simplicity and a very great deal of vulgarity, for she was an utter vulgar peasant girl; but I didn't mind anything to get up her cunt.

Good living heats the body and stimulates randiness; there is fifty times as much danger in leaving a young couple together with their stomachs full of good food, than when they are empty. A gentle heat, a sense of fullness, a gentle swelling, creeps up the stem of the man's prick, the knob feels tender and voluptuous; a gentle moisture distills in the woman's cunt, heat and an alloverish feeling, from clitoris to arse-hole overcomes her. Both are then ready for fucking, and only restrained from going at it by various social reasons, which determine our actions in every-day life. Such was our state when kissing and laughing we put away the things. Then we sat side by side on the sofa, with my arm round her waist.

I produced the book, which I had brought with me. I recollected how, pouring over it with Sarah or Susan, the pictures in my “Fanny Hill” used to throw them into a state of randiness which it was left me to appease. Susan used to say, that she only had to look at the pictures for a minute, to make her want “to forget herself.” I took the book out of the paper; it was a large square book, which immediately attracted her attention. “What is that?” she asked. “Pictures.” “Oh ! show me.” “Come on then.” She sat on my knee, I put my left arm round her waist. “Give me a kiss.” She gave it. “Now let me look.” I had placed my right hand on her thigh outside her clothes, and was thinking, what a nice chance I had for throwing her back on the sofa, but I opened the first page. It was a fine, large coloured print (how well I remember it) of a bed-room. On the bed knelt two young women side by side, their petticoats thrown over their backs, and showing their backsides to their waists. Close by stood a middle-aged woman looking at them; through the door were the heads of two men peeping at the posterings, lust was on their faces. One of the girls had a much fatter bum than the other, both cunts were visible, the hair of one black, the other, light. It was a bet as to who had the handsomest posterior, the woman to decide was saying, “Marie a gagne, ell a la plus vonde et la plus belle.”

Louise gave a loud “oh!” as if taken by surprise, her face changed blood-red, she turned the cover over and burst into a fit of laughter, tried to get away from me, but I held her fast, so she put her head over my shoulder and laughed, I laughing with her. “You have as nice a bum as the dark one”, said I. “There is nothing more like that, look through it.” I opened the book again; under her eyes was a picture of a woman undressed, laying at the edge of the bed, her legs open, her middle finger on her cunt; by her side a man with trowsers down, his prick out stiff and crimson-tipped, one hand on the woman's thigh, and intensely looking at her cunt.

“I want to do that with you”, I said. “Fi done ! c'est villain”, said she, and pushed the book violently away. It fell on the floor, and at the same instant she at-tempted to rise. I held her tightly, and pulling her back on to the big sofa, her legs flying up, I threw up her clothes in front, showing her fine pair of thighs, and the next minute I had my mouth and nose buried in the hair, kissing and sniffing it, my hands roving about wherever I could feel warm flesh.

With a shriek, — then another, — she twisted round

(in doing so my nose rubbed on her clitoris), her petticoats fell down, she got across the room to her bed-room, and bolted the door.

I stood shouting, “What a beautiful form, what thighs, how dark the hair on your cunt, how lovely my nose has rubbed on it; let me see it again, let me fuck you, have pity on me.” All that suggested itself to a man whose prick was ready to discharge in his breeches did I say, but fruitlessly, she made no reply. I went back to the sofa and considered what to do. Soon I heard her moving, crept to the door, and heard the rattle of piddle. “You're piddling out of that dear cunt”, said I, “how I wish I could feel it.” The rattle stopped, and again I went back to the sofa.