My Secret Life

About that time, how I got it, I know not, I had a book describing the diseases caused by sacrificing to Venus. The illustrations in the book, of faces covered with scabs, blotches, and eruptions, took such bold of my mind, that for twenty years afterwards, the fear was not quite eradicated. I showed them to some friends, and we all got scared I had no definite idea of what syphilis, and gonorrhea were, but that both were something awful we all made up our minds. My godfather also used to hint now to me about ailments men got, by acquaintance with loose, bad, women; perhaps he put the book in my way. Frigging also was treated of, and the terrible accounts of people dying through it, and being put into straight waistcoats, etc., I have no doubt were useful to me. Several of us boys were days in finding out what the book meant by masturbation, onanism, or whatever the language may have been. We used dictionaries and other books to help us, and at last one of the biggest boys explained the meaning to us.

One evening, my aunt being out (it was not I think any plan on my part), I had something to eat and then went into the kitchen, where the servant was sitting at needle-work by candle-light. I talked, kissed, coaxed her, began to pull up her clothes, and it ended in her running round the kitchen, and my chasing her; both laughing, stopping at intervals, to hear if my aunt knocked. “I'll go and lock the outer gate,” said she “then your aunt must ring, if she comes up to the door, she will hear us, for you make such a noise.” She locked it and came back again.

The kitchen was on the ground floor, separated from the body of the house by a short passage. I got her on to my knees, I was now a big fellow, and though but a boy, my voice was changing, she chaffed me about that; then my hand went up her petticoats, and she gave me such a violent pinch on my cock (outside the clothes), that I hollored. Whenever I was getting the better of her in our amatory struggles, she said, “Oh hush, there is your aunt knocking,” and frightened me away, but at last she was sitting on my knees, my hand touching her thighs, she feeling my prick, she felt all round it and under. “You have no hair,” she said. That annoyed me, for I had just a little growing. Then how it came about I don't recollect, but she consented to go into the parlor with me, after we had sat together feeling each other for a time, if mine could be called feeling, when my fingers only touched the top of the notch. I took up the candle. “I won't go if you bring a light,” said she, so I put down the candle, and, holding her by the arm, we walked through the passage across the little hall to the front parlour; she closed the door, and we were in the dark. And now I only recollect generally what took place, it seems as if it all could but have occupied a minute, or two, though experience tells me it must have been longer.

We sat on a settee or sofa, she had hold of my prick, and I her cunt, for she now sat with thighs quite wide open. It was my first real feel of a woman, and she meant me to feel well. How large and hairy and wet it seemed; its size overwhelmed me with astonishment, I did not find the hole, don't recollect feeling for that, am sure I never put my finger in it, all seemed cunt below her belly, wet, and warm; and slippery. “Make haste, your aunt will be in soon,” said she softly, but I was engrossed with the curt, in twiddling it and feeling it in delighted wonder at its size and other qualities. “Your aunt will be in,” and leaving off feeling my cock, she laid half on, half off the settee. “No, no, not so,” I recollect the words, but what I was doing, know not; then I was standing by her side, my cock stiff, and still feeling her cunt in bewilderment. “I can't . . . stop ... get on to the sofa.” I laid half over her, my prick touched something-her cunt of course. Whether it went in or not, God knows, I pushed, it felt smooth to my prick, then suddenly came over me, a fear of some horrible disease, and I ceased whatever I was doing. “Go on, go on,” said she, moving her belly up. I could not, said nothing, but sat down by her side, she rose up, “You're not man enough,” said she, laying hold of my prick. It was not stiff, I put my hand down, and again the great size - as it seemed to me - of her cunt, made me wonder.

What then she did with me, I know not, she may have frigged it, I think she did, but can't say, a sense of disgrace had come over me as she said I was not man enough, disgrace mixed with fear of disease. “Let me try,” said I; again she laid back, I have a faint recollection of my finger going in somewhere deep, again of my prick touching her thighs and rubbing in something smooth, but nothing more. “You're not man enough,” said she again. A ring ... “Hark! it's your aunt, go!” and it was.