MY SECRET LIFE (Complete Edition) - Anonymous

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you show your legs, and if you put on your stockings you show your thighs, then we both wash down to our waists, and if you slip off your chemise or night-gown you show yourself all over. Mary’s beautiful from head to foot, one morning in the summer, we sleeping in the same bed, were very hot. I got out to pee, we had kicked all the clothes off, Mary was laying on her back with night-clothes above her waist fast asleep, I could not help looking at her thighs, which were so large and white—white as snow.” “Had she much hair on her cunt?” said I. “What’s that to you?” said she laughing, but went on: “Oh! twice as much as I have, and of a light brown.” “I suppose her cunt is bigger than yours?” said I reflectively. “Well, perhaps it is,” said Charlotte, “she is a much bigger woman than me, what do you think?” I inclined to the opinion it must be, but had no experience to guide me; on the whole we agreed that it was likely to be bigger.

      “Then,” said she, “I suppose some men have smaller things than yours?” I told her that as far as I knew they varied slightly, but only had knowledge of youthful pricks, and could not be certain whether they varied much when full grown or not. We went on about Mary. “I know I should like to be such a big, fine woman.” “But” said I, “I don’t like light hair, I like dark hair on a cunt, light hair can’t look well, I should think.” “I like her,” said Charlotte, “she is a nice woman, but often dull, she has no relatives in London, never says anything about them or herself, she used to have letters, and then often cried, she has none now; the other night she took me in her arms, gave me a squeeze and said, ‘Oh! if you were a nice young man now’, then laughed and said, ‘perhaps we would put our things together and make babies.’ I was frightened to say anything, for fear she would find out I knew to much; I think she has been crossed in love.”

      I was twiddling Charlotte’s quim as I was never tired of doing, something in the sensation I suppose reminded her, for laughing she went on: “You know what you did to me the other night.” “What?” said I not recollecting. “You know, with your finger.” “Oh! frig.” “Yes, well Mary does that; I was awake one night, and was quite quiet, when I heard Mary breathing hard, and felt her elbow go jog, jog, just touching my side, then she gave a sigh, and all was quiet. I went to sleep, and have only just thought of it.” She had heard or felt this jog from the cook before, so we both concluded, that she frigged herself, Charlotte knew what frigging was.

      “Do you recollect your mamma’s birthday?” said Charlotte, “she sent us down a bottle of sherry, the gardener was to have some, but did not; so we were both a little fuddled when we went to bed. When Mary was undressed she pulled up her clothes to her hips, and looking at herself said, ‘my legs are twice as big as yours.’ Then we made a bet on it and measured; she lost, but her thigh was half as big again round as mine; then she thew herself on her back and cocked up her legs, opening them for a minute. I said ‘Lor, Mary, what ever are you doing?’ ‘Ah I’ said she, ‘women’s legs were made to open’, and there it ended. I never heard her before say or do anything improper, she is most particular.” If Charlotte had been older or wiser, she would not have extolled the naked beauties of a fellow servant to her lover, for the description of the big bum, white thighs and hairy belly bottom, the jog, jog, of the elbow, and all the other particulars sunk deep into my mind.

      We fucked more than ever, recklessly—it is a wonder we were not found out, for one evening, it being dark, I fucked her in the forecourt, outside our street-door; but troubles were coming.

      Her father wrote to know why she had not been home at her holidays, she got an extra holiday to go and pacify him; then we had a fright because her courses stopped, but they came on all right again. One of my sisters came home, and diminished our opportunities, still we managed to fuck somehow, most of the times they were uprighters. The next holiday she went home by coach (the only way), I met her on the return, and we fucked up against the garden wall of our house. A month slipped away, again we spent her holiday at the pew-opener’s; no man and woman could have liked each other more, or more enjoyed each other’s bodies, without thinking of the rest of the world. I disguised nothing from her, she told me all she knew of herself, the liking she took for me, her pleasure yet fear and shame when first I felt her cunt, the shock of delight and confusion when on my twiddling it, she had spent; how she made up her mind to run out of the house when the milkman came, the hysterical faint when I first laid my prick between her slit and spent, the sensation of relief when I had not done, an instinct told her I should, in spending outside, the sort of feeling of “poor fellow, he wants me, he may do as he likes,” which she had; I told my sensations. All these we told each other over and over again, and never tired of the conversation; we were an innocent, reckless, randy couple.

      We had satisfied our lusts in simple variety, but I, never put my tongue in her mouth, nor do I know that I had heard of that form of lovemaking—but more of that hereafter. I did her on her belly, and some-thing incited me to do it to her dog fashion, but it was never repeated; we examined as said each others appendages, but once satisfied, having seen mine get from flaccid to stiff, the piddle issue, the spunk squirt, she never wanted to see it again, and could not understand my insatiable curiosity about hers. She knew I think less than most girls of her age about the males, having never I recollect nursed male children, and I don’t think she had brothers.

      How is it that scarcely any woman will let you willingly look at her cunt after fucking, till it is washed; most say it is beastly, gay or quiet, it is the same. Is it more beastly to have it spurted up, to turn and go to sleep with the spunk oosing on to a thigh, or an hour afterwards to let a man paddle in what has not dried? They don’t mind that, but won’t let you look at it after your operations, willingly—why?

      A modest girl lays quietly after fucking, and does not wash till you are away. A young girl who has let you see her cunt and take her virginity, won’t wash it at all, until you point out the necessity. A gay woman often tries to shove back her bum just as you spend, gets the discharge near the outlet, uncunts you quickly and at once washes and pisses at the same time. A quiet young girl wipes her cunt on the outside only. A working man’s wife does the same. I have fucked several, and not one washed before me. I incline to the opinion that poor women rarely wash their cunts inside, their piddle does all the washing. “What’s the good of washing it?” said a poor, but not a gay girl to me, “it’s always clean, and feels just the same an hour afterwards, whether washed or not.” Is the unwashed cunt less healthy than one often soaped and syringed? I doubt it. An old roue said to me he would not give a damn to fuck a cunt at night, which has been washed since the morning.

      About sexual matters each of us knew about as much as the other, and we had much to learn. A girl however in the sphere of life of Charlotte usually knows more about a man’s sex, than a youth of the same age does of a woman’s; they have nursed children, and know what a cock is; a girl is never thought too young to nurse a male child, no one would trust a boy after ten years of age to nurse a female child; but she had never nursed. From Charlotte I had my first knowledge of menstruation, and of other mysteries of her sex. Ah! that menstruation was a wonder to me, it was marvellous, but all was really a wonder to me then.

      After Christmas my sister went back to school, our chances seemed improving, we spent another holiday at the pew-opener’s. I had got money, and we were indiscreet enough to go to see some wax-works. Next day her father came to see her; he ordered her to tell where she had been. She refused, he got angry, and made such a noise, that mother rang to know what it was. He asked to see her, apologized, and said his daughter had been out several holidays, without his knowing where she had been. My mother said it was very improper, and that he ought. A friend was with us in the room, and I sat there reading and trembling. My mother remarked to the lady, “I hope that girl is not going wrong, she is very good looking.” Mother asked me to go out of the room, then had Charlotte up, and lectured her; afterwards Charlotte told me for the first time, that her father was annoyed because she would not marry a young man.

      A young man had called at our house several times to see her; she saw him once and evaded doing so afterwards. He was the son of a well-to-do baker, a few miles from Charlotte’s home, and wished to marry her; his father was not expected to live, and the young man said he would marry her directly the father died. Her mother was mad at her refusing such a chance. Charlotte showed me his letters, which then

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