The Christmas cattle show. • Mrs. Winifred P* * * *e. • Recognition. • Assignation. • A conversation in a cab. • Talking and groping at a brothel. • Both on heat. • Winifred’s marriage night. • The utility of the monthlies. • The husband humbugged. • An explicit account of marital habits. • Her husband’s tool and toolings. • A gamahuche. • A lick of a prick. • Our last meeting. • Fifteen minutes’ hard ramming. • We part for ever. • About my remaining manuscript.

The deaf maiden occupied me about two months, and whilst Sarah disposed of her, a bit of luck befell me, which kept me from Sarah longer than I intended. Just then also I was not very free.

I went to the Christmas cattle show, saw a fine looking young woman stare with a surprized look at me, and recognized Winifred. She turned away her head, and laid hold of the arm of a man beside her, who looked like a middle-aged, country, well-to-do trades-man.

I could not keep my eyes from her, cared no more about the cattle, but followed the couple for half an hour at a short distance from them; with curiosity reflecting on what I had been to the lady, and she to me, till my prick stiffened. Every phase of our liaison passed through my mind as I followed the couple, and the reminiscence was delightful.

Soon I noticed her looking stealthily over the shoulder of the man. Her eyes met mine, and she very slightly shook her head. I got closer to them. — On they went, staring hard at the cattle and speaking at times, the man knowing as little of what was going on between me and the woman, as one of the bullocks. — Again her eyes met mine. She was fascinated and at length smiled. I followed on, thinking of her increased height and improved looks, and wondered how the little downy browny-edged cunt looked now after years of growth on it; for it was four years that Christmas since I had seen it.

A strong desire to see it again sprang up in me. I wondered who and what the man was, and if she’d had a male piercer up her since she’d had mine. I followed watching them for half an hour. All at once he left her and entered the water closet enclosure. She remained, for a second or two, standing still, seemingly looking at the cattle. Then her head turned to see if he was visible, and to see for me. In a second I stood by her side. “For God’s sake take care. It’s my husband, he won’t be gone a minute.” “Meet me.” “I can’t, I dare not — go now.” — “Where do you live?” “We are only here for a week, we are at * * * *,” and she told an hotel near a railway station and what her name was. — “You must meet me, and I’ll be outside the hotel at eight o’clock tonight.” “No, he’ll be at home then, perhaps he won’t at six.” “At six then,” — and repeating the address and name to myself so as to make no error, I moved away and wrote it down on one of my cards, finishing just as the man reappeared. In half an hour still watching them I saw them leave the building.

Then I thought I wouldn’t go to see her, for she might have told me the wrong address and name, yet her eyes looked, as I fancied, full of desire for me. — Was it fancy — was it conceit on my part? — If she’s married it’s a shame. — Adultery again! — What awful temptations come to me — I won’t go — I wonder how her dear pretty cunt looks. How large her bum now is — how like her mother she is. — Thus ran my thoughts, and after resolving that I would not go to meet her — I went.

The hotel was a small but perfectly respectable one, not far from a railway terminus. Punctually she came out. — Following me well away from it, we stopped. “I’m so frightened, my husband might come along, what would he say if he caught me talking with you?” “Get into a cab with me.” “Oh, I dare not.” — She kept looking up and down the street in a nervous state. “What do you want?” “My love, how can you ask. A chat about old times. Come.” “I’m married, really I am, and am so frightened.” — There was no time to lose. With a little persuasion she followed me at a distance, and got into a four wheeler. — Ah! those blessed wheeled baudy houses.

For a minute it was nothing but kissing — long long kiss, given and taken. Then volubly she began an ac-count of herself. One of my hands was round her waist, the other in a second was on her cunt. — “Don’t now — you must not. — I’ll get out else.” What a charming scuffle! — “Nonsense, Winny love, haven’t I licked it and fucked it?” — Again we kissed, I told my love, in two minutes she was feeling my stiff prick, my fingers were buried between her warm cunt lips, our mouths were together, and tongues meeting. “What a lot of hair’s on your cunt, love, now — how your clitoris has grown — how fat your thighs are; my darling let us fuck — get up, and sit on me. I’m dying to spend in you again.” — Kiss, kiss. — “No that I won’t.” “Do — turn your bum round and sit on me, you know you once did it that way on a chair.” — All was useless — “I shall spend in your hand then.” She left off feeling my prick at once. — “You shan’t do that.” — I coaxed, but all was of no use. — “If I do want it, I won’t let you now.” “Meet me tomorrow.” “I’m frightened.” — She couldn’t do this or that, but at last arranged to meet me. — “You want fucking I know, Winny.” “I’m not going to let you do it tho,” were her last words, as she got out of the cab and walked away.

At eleven o’clock the next morning, there was Winifred with a veil on, at the back of L**c**t*r Square, my favorite place of assignation. — Ten minutes after, we were in the A**a in the room with the glasses, where Sarah and I had our baudy gambols. For five minutes we did nothing but kiss, but she’d come for fucking, and had no hesitation about it. To my annoyance there was no fire, and it was a cold foggy day. The woman would light one. — “But there’s a good fire in the room up stairs.” — Quickly up we went. “Take off your things love I’m dying to see your lovely form, — to kiss that dear quim.” — In five minutes we were in bed, my prick up her, in three minutes after with kisses and sighs, with tongues joined, my spunk was gushing up her cunt, and we were spending together in ecstasy. Laying in her arms, prick wallowing in the mucosity of her delicious cunt, she began telling me about her-self, as soon as our silent pleasure was over. — Her narrative was told in snatches, interrupted only by our varied amorous endearments. — “Go on love.” — Then she talked on. — “Oh! feel how stiff it still is up you.” — “Oh! yes, but take it out and let me wash, I’d bet-ter.” — Kiss — kiss. — “No, go on telling. What did your sister do?” — On she talked — kiss — kiss.

“How smooth your lovely fat bum is Winny.” “Oh it’s running out, it will be on my chemise — take it out, do.” My prick was dwindling, bringing out with it my libation. Easing my weight, she hitched up her chemise from under her bum, leaving the sheet recipient of our sexual exudations. — I turned on my side and covered her moist gap with my hand, delighted in feeling the overflow. She handled voluptuously my clammy tool. So we lay close together, cuddling, feeling, soothing yet exciting each other’s genitals, kissing and tongue sucking, till my prick was erect again. Then our bodies joyously joined each other, and made us one, and we were fucking. Ah that prolonged, delicious, thoughtful exercise, which the second ejaculation requires — In voluptuous thoughts — in intense mental pleasure — in the perfect enjoyment of a woman’s charms, I think the second fuck is better than the first.

She slopped and rubbed her cunt dry without hiding the operation — telling her tale all the time — I stirred the fire, we drew chairs to it, and sitting close to-gether, feeling, kissing, and every now and then looking at our machines spent a few minutes. Winifred had no sham regrets, fears, scruples, compunctions; we were lovers as of yore. She’d come for fucking, and forgot every thing else. Soon as we found it would be warmer in bed than by the fire, after at the bedside having looked at her dear, pretty cunt well, into bed we again got, and now both start naked. She’d never been naked in bed with me before, I think.

How we cuddled and kissed. — How our tongues played with each other — how I felt her from top to toe over and over again. Then as she was pressed for time, I mounted her and rubbed my pendant tool between her cunt lips, and frictionizing her clitoris with its tip, till stiff. Then I plunged it up her, stroking and resting, now thrusting it hard up her till the sperm began to rise, then waiting, and half withdrawing it to stop the pleasure — talking lasciviously all the time — then resuming the oscillation of my loins and buttocks, till again with cries of ecstasy we died away in each other’s arms, and dozed with cunt and prick in loving conjunction. — With what regret we unjoined our bodies.

What a lovely creature she had grown. Now with splendidly shaped limbs, largish thighs, fine buttocks, and one of the prettiest of cunts. The fringe around it was thick, crisp, close and darker, tho still of a chest-nut brown, the lips soft and full, the clitoris developed strongly. It had lost its coral hue, and had deepened in colour. How pleased she was to let me see, and do what I liked with it. By the bedside it was cold — so I pulled the sofa to the fire, and laying her on it there, completed my sweet investigations. — She hadn’t the slightest hesitation, seemed proud of yielding, made no ridiculous attempts at decency. — Decency between us, between a man and woman who have fucked each other, is really indecency.

Her face was now much like her handsome mother’s. Her hair the colour of that on her cunt, but there a shade darker. Her blue eyes had still their sharp expression. They looked softer as we sat feeling each other, yet were sharp even in their lewdest moments, and she got lewed enough, and shivered and kissed me, as she laughed at each baudy word, each amorous trick of my fingers.

When we left, she agreed to meet me again if she could. They were only going to stay in London a few days, for her husband must get back to business. Winifred was supposed by him to be with an aunt, whilst she was in the baudy house with me, and she went to her aunt’s directly she left me.

Her life since she left London may be told in a few lines, altho she talked about it incessantly that day, as well as at our next meeting.

She went with her mother to * * * *. Her father-in-law seemed from her account, to be a rather superior sort of person for his position. Then she went as a shop woman — but her mother took her away, so that she might better look after her — Lydia just then disclosed where she was, said she was married, and offered to keep Winifred, who went to her. She stopped there a few months, and went back to her mother, who had found out that Lydia was not married, tho big with child. The pious lodger did however soon marry her. — Winifred was useful, and her father-in-law now kept her at home, but she was restless and wanted to see the world, but could scarcely get out alone, which so annoyed her, that she said she would go to service again.

The fact evidently was that her mother saw that Winifred wanted fucking badly (tho she had no idea that a prick had already been up her vulva), and kept a tight hand on her. Just then a tradesman in the town offered marriage. He was more than twenty years older than Winifred, but comfortably off. The mother insisted on her accepting him and they were married. She was now pretty comfortable, he was a good sort of man, and rather jealous, but had never found out the absence of her virginity. — “You married him, Winny because you wanted a man.” “Perhaps I did a little for that, but I wanted to get away and be my own mistress.”

Next day I waited for Winifred who never came. I wrote, risking consequences, and the day following she did. The room was warm, and there was a good fire. I had with me sandwiches and champagne as arranged, for our meeting was at one o’clock (she was an hour behind her time and I’d given her up), after a snack and a glass, I began undressing, and she without any request did the same rapidly. She enjoyed giving me her nudity. We sat on the sofa, at one time with sandwiches in our hands, whilst with the others we felt both prick and cunt, — eat and handled our ma-chines at the same time, both lewed to our back bones.

Scarcely had we finished the sandwiches, before I’d opened her thighs, looked at her cunt, and then recollected what I did to it before I had deflowered her. How rapidly things flash thro my brain. — “Shall I lick it Winny, do you recollect?” “If you like,” laughing. “Does your husband do it?” “He has never done it yet.” Next minute, kneeling with my backside to the fire which nearly burnt the skin, with her legs over my arms, my hands under her beautiful smooth buttocks, I was licking her lovely split. How sweet it seemed, how stimulating its odour, as my tongue glided over its surface, how short the amusement. In a minute or two, almost as it seemed before I had begun, her thighs and belly were quivering. I could feel the movement of her buttocks, her cunt jogged so gently up and down against my mouth, and with — “Ah — ar — A —har — my love — A har,” her pleasure came, and her cunt rolled out its salt moistures. As I rose she lay back on the sofa with eyes closed, and thighs wide open, the pearly essence running out of the red orifice. Five minutes after we were in bed fucking. She’d taken my prick in her mouth for a momentary embrace before I put it into her cunt. She opened her mouth the instant I suggested it, delighted.

With passions calmed, with genitals softened and moisted by pleasure, tranquilly side by side in loving proximity, handling each other with the restless but delicious sensation of lewedness semi-appeased, and awaiting the resurrection of my prick and the hardening of her clitoris, one of the most delicious conversations I ever had with a lovely woman, was then mine. — Winifred was frankness itself, she was always so, it was her nature, just as by nature she was amorous, and inclined to the lascivious preliminaries of sexual conjunction. Had she remained in London alone when her mother left, she would have turned gay from sheer love of the male. Her marriage by satisfying her partially, and cooling the heat of her quim — had as far as I know and believe kept her chaste. – Intrigues are difficult in country towns, which are easy in the immensity of London. She now showed either her liking for me, or her sexual voracity, for certainly she’d have taken more fucking than I could have given her; and perhaps it is as well for me, that the time she could remain was too short to test my virility too much.

In this state of body and of mind, she had a manifest pleasure in telling me all about herself and husband, had no hesitations, no shams. She gave me direct answers to my questions, and expected me to answer with equal frankness, which I certainly did. — Never did a couple explain their sexual habits and conditions as we did. Her frankness was contagious. [I have never since told a woman as much, or been asked as much.]

Her husband stroked her not quite every other night. He didn’t play amorously with her at first, nor even look at her cunt much after the first week of marriage. — “I’m stiff, let’s have a bit together,” was all he usually said, then mounted her. Sometimes he did her twice if she hadn’t spent, but didn’t like being asked. At times she said she’d not had pleasure when she had, because she wanted it again. — He thought that women who wanted much stroking were beasts. — When he had done her, he turned his rump to her, and fell asleep directly. — We laughed about her marriage night. She had consulted Lydia, and named a day when her poorliness would be just over, thinking his poking would bring it on again. — She’d noticed that at that period if she frigged herself it returned slightly. It did on her marriage night. She described to me with delight how she writhed, and jerked her bum back, and cried out. “Oh you are hurting me so,” as he got into her. — We laughed heartily at it. Poor man had he but known!

“Yes his is as long as yours, and just the same thickness,” said she in answer to a question, feeling my prick carefully all the time she spoke, as if to make sure she was right. “But somehow it isn’t as nice as when you’re doing it.” — Then I put my prick up her. — “Ah! I wish you were my husband,” she sighed out just before she spent. She declared she’d never had any man but her husband and myself, but had frigged herself pretty often. She’d never been in the family way by me, — was so soon after marriage, but miscarried — her husband didn’t want children. “I think I’m in the family way now.” — Then with the only bit of hesitation she had shown, “Well — yes — he did it to me last night.” “Say fucked you, Winny.” “Fucked me,” said she laughing and pleased to say it.

I have had many married women. It is against my principles to have them, but fate is invincible. Some have been amorous enough, have rejoiced in my libidinosity, joined with me in salacity, but most have avoided reference to their husbands; and when I have been curious about their husband’s capabilities and sexual vigour, and the size of his prick — have always avoided the subject. — “Don’t let us talk of that.” — “Oh, it’s a shame to ask me.” — “Now I won’t answer you,” — similar replies I have had at first, and only with difficulty got my curiosity satisfied, and some-times not at all. But here was Winifred, delighted to talk about it all. The quiet way she felt me before she told me the size of his prick, I shall recollect to my dying day.

Again we met — “I’m so sorry we’re going back. – I’ve asked him to let me stop with my aunt for a week, but he won’t.” “We could have met every day.” “We would,” said she. — Such was her liking for me or my prick, that she agreed to meet me again — “if possible, — but I’m sure I can’t stay more than a quarter of an hour.” — She was ready to run any risk. I had the quarter of an hour. — Dressed and at the bedside I fucked her. In ten minutes afterwards, “I wish I could do it again but can’t.” She lay expectantly quiet where I had placed her. I frigged an erection, inserted and thrust with energy, but no spunk came. — “I’m coming dear,” she gasped out and spent; but I didn’t. Then I got furious, and rammed with violence. I could almost hear the slap of my balls against her backside. — “Ah-a — I’m coming again dear.” “My — sperm’s coming too love,” — and it spurted up her.

In haste we washed. I kissed and licked over the surface of her fresh washed cunt, for I felt madly in lust for her. She kissed my prick, we parted, and I have never seen her since.

It was a most delicious week, a charming interlude in my erotic performances, which are now wholly with professional pleasure-givers. It makes me regret the delights of teaching the art of love, and fucking those who met me for the pleasure of fucking alone, and not for pay. Shall I ever have such chances again?

Much as I have abbreviated and omitted, what a quantity of manuscript still remains. — Alas! a casual look through it, reveals the fact that, like much of that written just before this period of my history, it is prolix and copious in detail. — More so even than that preceding it which I shortened with so much trouble. — It is exuberant, because written for my secret pleasure, and I revelled in the detail as I wrote it, for in doing so I almost had my sexual treats over again. — It mattered not to me whether similar pleasure had been mine before or not, whether the erotic whims and fancies, amorous frolics, voluptuous eccentricities, were identical or not. — I described them as they had occurred at the time, and the pleasure of doing so was nearly the same, even had I done them twenty times, and described them twenty times.

But the woman, the partner in my felicity was frequently fresh and new to me, and I to her; and this newness prevents satiety in sexual frolics. There is always a shade of difference in the manners and behaviour of women in sexual preliminaries, and even in final performance. One woman never kisses or sighs, embraces or fucks, in exactly the same manner as an-other. The broad features from beginning to ending are the same. A coupling of the genitals finishes it all. But there are delicate shades of difference even in fucking which make the variety so charming, and describing them was ever new and amusing to me, when the charmer was new to me.

Yet on glancing through the remaining manuscript, — now in my mature, if not only years — the repetition seems a little wearisome. — What is to be done — abbreviate or destroy — which? — Abbreviation is laborious, and emasculates — the freshness of the writing is gone — nice shades lost. — But destruction saves all future trouble.

Perhaps entire omission of portions will be best, but that will destroy the continuity. In the narrative in its integrity, it is easy to see how in my youth, content with the simplest forms of sexual pleasure, I have gradually with advancing years and experience, been led to strangely erotic whims and devices, and have had the greatest pleasure in acts, and deeds, and thoughts, which in my ignorant youth would have revolted me. — To omit much is to destroy this continuity of idea and action. — No. It must be abbreviation or total destruction. Abbreviation, or else a full stop here, and nearly twenty years’ narrative go to the flames.

Another thing — through the suggestions of women, by pondering over those suggestions — by reading works of erotic philosophers — from pictures, curiosity, and opportunity, — I have once or twice done what I regret, what in fact is almost a remorse to me, tho I really see no harm in it. — What a contradiction this, but thus it is. — Shall I destroy those chapters, erase those parts — or leave them — perhaps (for who knows) for some to cry shame. — To omit them is to sacrifice the narrative, and the illustration it affords to myself of my sexual idiosyncrasy — if such a phrase may be used — I know not what to do with this antagonism of thought and intention.

It must remain — written by myself and for myself, none probably will ever see it but myself — therefore why cheat myself? — let it remain.

I wish I had begun this revision earlier, perhaps now I shall never complete it — or complete it only in time to destroy it, before I myself am destroyed. — Tempus edax rerum.