Curiosity made me call on ex-harlot Sarah, who lived in one room, and whilst talking I put my hand up her petticoats, on to her cunt. She laughed, opened her thighs wide, and said, “I knowed yer would,” and she looked as if a fuck would have gratified her,—but I did not attempt it.
Chapter XII
I must go back a year or more before the night when I last had Kitty with the yellow hair and yellow motte, to tell the story of my acquaintance with a woman of whom I have little to tell, considering that she more or less is included in the history of my amours for nearly four years, and who will appear more than once some years after that. A word about my sensuous temperament first.
I had early a taste for beauty of female form. Face had for me of course the usual attraction, for beauty of expression always speaks to the soul of a man first. A woman’s eyes speak to him before she opens her mouth, and instinctively (for actual knowledge only comes to him in his maturer years) he reads in them liking, dislike, indifference, voluptuousness, desire, sensuous abandonment, or fierce reckless lust.
All these feelings can be seen in a woman’s eyes alone, for they express and move with every feeling, every passion, pure or sensual. They can beget in the male pure love as it is called, which is believed to be so till experience teaches that however pure it may be, it cannot exist without the occasional help of a burning throbbing, stiff prick, up a hot, wide-stretched cunt, and a simultaneous discharge of spermatic juices from both organs. The rest of a woman’s body, the breasts and limbs, can move lust unaccompanied by love, and if once admiration of them begins lust follows instantly. A small foot, a round, plump leg and thigh, and a fat backside speak to the prick straight. Form is in fact to most, more enticing, and creates a more enduring attachment in men of mature years, than the sweetest face. A plain woman with fine limbs and bum, and firm, full breasts will (unless her cunt be an ugly gash) draw a man to her where the prettiest-faced Miss will fail. Few men, unless their bellies be very big, or they be very old, will keep long to a bony lady whose skinny buttocks can be held in one hand. I early had a taste for female form, it was born with me. Even when a boy I selected partners for dancing because they were what I called crummy, and admired even at one time a fat-arsed middle-aged woman who sold us bull’s eyes, because I had caught her exhibiting large legs when squatting down to piss. For years I had had at the period named, two friends, one of whom was a sculptor, who alas! drank himself to death; and one a painter still living as I write this. I had been in their studios, seen their naked models, heard their opinions on both male and female beauty, and had the various points of female perfection shown me on the lady-sitters. I had them explained in two instances by the ladies themselves, in private sittings, and with them I had sexual pleasures which they said the artists had neither got out of them nor given them. I had myself sketched from the nude, and was thought a not bad hand at it, and had therefore by training, instinct, and a most voluptuous temperament become a good judge of beauty of female form.
I did not write the above paragraphs, when I wrote what follows about Sarah Mavis, they are added now many years afterwards, when I am wondering at what I did in those early days, marveling at my judgment in selection, and seeking the reasons which guided me then in getting for my sexual embraces, as many modes of female beauty of form, as perhaps anyone Englishman ever had,—short of a prince.
One Summer’s morning about midday, I was in the Quadrant. It had been raining, and the streets were dirty. In front of me I saw a well-grown woman walking with that steady, solid, well-balanced step which I even then knew indicated fleshy limbs, and a fat backside. She was holding her petticoats well up out of the dirt, the common habit of even respectable women then. With gay ladies the habit was to hold them up just a little higher. I saw a pair of feet in lovely boots which seemed perfection, and calves which were exquisite. I fired directly. Just by Beak Street she stopped, and looked into a shop. “Is she gay?” I thought. “No.” I followed on, passed her, then turned round, and met her eye. She looked at me, but the look was so steady, indifferent, and with so little of the gay woman in her expression, that I could not make up my mind as to whether she was accessible or not.
She turned back and went on without looking round. Crossing Tichborne Street she raised her petticoats higher, it was very muddy there. I then saw more of both legs, my prick stood at the sight of her limbs, and settled me. I followed quickly, saying as I came close, “Will you come with me?” She made no reply, and I fell behind. Soon she stopped again at a shop, and looked in, and again I said, “May I go with you?” “Yes,—where to?” “Where you like,—-I will follow you.” Without replying a word, and without looking at me, without hurrying, she walked steadily on till she entered the house No. 13 J—s Street, which I entered that day for the first time, but many hundreds of times since. Her composure, and the way she stopped from time to time to look at the shops as she went along astonished me: she seemed in no hurry, nor indeed conscious that I was close at her heels, though she knew it.
Inside the house she stopped at the foot of the staircase, and turning round said in a low tone, “What are you going to give me?” “Ten shillings.” “I won’t go upstairs then, so tell you at once.” “What do you want?” “I won’t let anyone come with me unless they give me a sovereign at least.” “I will give you that.” Then she mounted, nothing more being said. Asking me the question at the foot of the stairs astonished me, I had been asked it in a room often before, and in the street; but at the foot of a staircase,—never.
We entered a handsome bed room. Turning round after paying for it, and locking the door, I saw her standing with her back to the light (the curtains were down, but the room was nevertheless light), one arm resting on the mantle-piece. She looked at me fixedly, and I did at her. Then I recollect noticing that her mouth was slightly open, and that she looked seemingly vacantly at me (it always was so), that she had a black silk dress on, and a dark-colored bonnet. Then desire impelled; I went close to her, and began to lift her clothes. She pushed them down in a commanding way saying, “Now none of that.”
“Oh! here is your money,” said I gutting down a sovereign on the mantle-piece. She broke into a quiet laugh. “I did not mean that,” she remarked. “Let me feel you.” “Get away,” said she impatiently, and turning she took off her bonnet. I then saw she had thick and nearly if not quite black hair, and recollect that I noticed these points just in the order I have narrated them. Then she leaned her arm on the mantle-piece again, and looked at me quietly, her mouth slightly open, and I stood looking at her without speaking, my sperm fermenting in my balls; but I was slightly bothered, almost intimidated by her cold manner,—a manner so unlike what I usually met with in strumpets.
“You have beautiful legs.” “So they say.” “Let me see them.” She laid down on the sofa, her back to the light, without uttering a word. I threw off coat and waistcoat, and sitting at the foot of the sofa threw up her dress to her knees; higher I tried, but she resisted. Then my fingers felt her cunt, and the delight of the feel and sight of her beautiful limbs overwhelmed me. “Take off your things,—let me see you undressed,—you must be exquisite.” My hands roved all about her bum, belly and thighs, and just seeing the flesh above her garters I fell to kissing it, and kissed upwards till the aroma of her cunt met my nostrils, and its thicket met my lips and mingled with my moustache, which I then wore, though so few men then did. I fell on my knees by the side of her, kissing, feeling, and smelling; but she kept her thighs close together, and pushed her petticoats over my head whilst I kissed, so that I saw but little of her beauties.
Then excited almost to madness by my amusement I rose up. “Oh! come to the bed,—come.” She lay quite still. “No,—do it here,—leave me alone,—I won’t have my clothes pulled up,—I won’t be pulled about,—if you want it have me, and have done.” “Well get on to the bed.” “I shan’t.” “I can’t do it on the sofa.” “Well I’m going the
n.” “You shan’t till I have had you,—only let me see your thighs.” “There then,”—and up went her clothes half-way. “Higher,” “I shan’t.” Now my prick was out. “Get on the bed,—I won’t do it here,—take your things off.” “I shan’t.” “You shall.” All was said by her in a determined way, but without signs of temper.
She rose without saying another word, I think I see now as I write, her exquisite legs in beautiful silk stockings as they showed when getting off the sofa, and getting on to the bed. “But I want your clothes off.” “I won’t take them off, I’m in a hurry,—I never do.” “Oh! you must.” “I won’t,—now come and do what you want to do,—I’m in a hurry.” She lifted her clothes just high enough to show the fringe of her cunt, and opened her thighs a little. I thrilled with lewd delight as I saw them, and mounted her, laid between them, and inserted my prick. Ah! at my first shove almost I was spending in her.
“Oh! lay quiet dear, I’ve only been up you a second.” “No,—get off, and let me wash.” I resisted, but she uncunted me, and got off the bed quickly. “Now don’t come near while I wash,—I can’t bear a man looking at me washing myself.” I insisted, for I was longing to see the form I had scarcely yet had a glimpse of. Putting down the basin she pulled the bed-curtains round her to hide her whilst she slopped her quim. I would not be rude, and saw nothing. Then on went her bonnet. “Are you going first, or I?” said she. “I shall wait as long as you will.” “Then I will go first,”—and she was going away when I stopped her.
“When will you again meet me?” “Oh! when out at all, I am up to one o’clock in Regent Street.” “Where do you live?” “I shan’t say,—good bye.” “No,—wait,—come to me this afternoon.” “I can’t.” “This evening.” She hesitated. “I can’t stay long if I do.” “Well an hour and a half.” “Perhaps.” “Will you take off your clothes then?” “No,—good bye, I am in a hurry.” “Meet me at seven o’clock tonight.—do.” “No.” “At eight then.” “Well I will be here expecting you,—but I shan’t stop long.” “Will you let me see your form up to your waist?” “Oh! I hate being looked at,”—and off she went, leaving me in the room.
I dined at my Club, and was in a fever of lust all day. “Will she come?” for she had only half promised. Half-an-hour before the time I was at the house, and had the same room again. It was handsome throughout, had a big four-post bed with handsome hangings (this was thirty years ago mind) on one side of the room on another side by a partition was a wash-hand stand of marble, against the wall on the opposite side a large glass just at the level of the bed; at the foot of the bed a large sofa opposite to the fire; over the chimney-piece a big glass sloping forwards, so that those sitting or lying on the sofa could see themselves reflected in it; in the angle of the room by the windows a big cheval-glass which could be turned in any direction, two easy-chairs and a bidet, the hangings were of red damask, two large gas-burners were over the chimney-piece angles. It was the most compact, comfortable bawdy house bed room I have perhaps ever been in, although by no means a large room. They charged seven and six for its use, and twenty shillings for the night. Scores of times I have paid both fees. I noticed all this, and that a couple could see their amatory amusements on the bed, on the sofa, or anyhow in fact, by aid of the cheval and other glasses. I was delighted with the room, but in a fever of anxiety lest the lady should not come. I walked about with my prick out, seeing how I looked in the glasses, laid on the bed, and noticed how it looked in the side-glass, squatted on the sofa, glorying in the sight of my balls and stiff-stander. Then I had a sudden fear that she would think my prick small; what put it into my head I never could exactly say, I used when at school to fancy mine was smaller than that of other boys, and some remark of a gay woman about its size made me most sensitive on the topic. I was constantly asking the women if my prick was not smaller than other men’s. When they said it was a very good size,—as big as most,—I did not believe them, and I used when I pulled it out, to say in an apologetic tone, “Let’s put it up, there’s not much of it.” “Oh! it’s quite big enough,” one would say. “I’ve seen plenty smaller,” would say another. But still the idea clung to me, that it was not a prick to be in any way proud of,—which was a great error. But I have told of this weakness more than once before, I think.
I recollect well that night fearing she would think my prick contemptible, and it pained me much, for I was hooked, although I did not know it. I brushed my hair, and made myself inviting with a desire to please her, without thinking that I was taking the trouble to do so for a woman who was going to be fucked for twenty shillings, and whom I now know did not then care how I looked, or who I was, long as she got her money as soon as she could, and got rid of me to make way for another man, or to go and spend what she had earned.
She did not keep her time. I kept listening, and peeping out as I heard footsteps and saw couples bent on sexual pleasure going up the stairs, and heard them overhead walking about. This and the excitement at the recollection of my instantaneous spend between her magnificent thighs, my pulling about my prick and contemplating it in the glass, the moving about of the various couples made me in such a state of randiness that I could scarcely keep from frigging. A servant who had noticed my peeping came in, and begged I would not look out, for customers did not like it. Did they know where my lady lived? and would they send for her? They did not. Then the servant came to say I had been an hour in the room,—did I mean to wait any longer? I knew what that meant, and was about to say I would pay for the room twice, when I heard a heavy, slow tread, and the lady’s face appeared.
I grumbled at her delay, she took my complaints quietly, she could not come earlier, was all she said. She pulled off her bonnet, put it on the chair, turned round, leaned her arm on the mantle-piece, and stared at me again in a half-vacant way with her mouth slightly open, just as in the morning. I gave her very little time to stare, for I had my hand on her cunt in no time, and nearly spent in my trousers as I touched it. She tried the same game,—she would not be pulled about,—she would not let her cunt be looked at,—if I meant to do it, do it, and have done with it. My blood rose. “I’d be damned if I would,—nor pay, nor anything else unless she took her gown off. So she took it off laughing, and laid down on the sofa. Not on the bed. No she would not. Then damned if I would do it (though I was nearly bursting). Again she laughed, and then got on to the bed. I saw breasts of spotless purity, and exquisite shape, bursting out over the corset, threw up the petticoats, saw the dark hair at the bottom of the belly, and the next instant a thrust, a moment’s heaving,—quietness,—another thrust,—a sigh,—a gush of sperm,—and again I had finished with but a minute’s complete sexual enjoyment only.
“Get up.” “I won’t” “Let me wash the muck out.” “No.”—and I pinned her down, squeezed to her belly, grasped her haunches. “I’ve not done spending.” “Yes you have.” A wriggle and a jerk, and I was uncunted and swearing. She sat down on the basin, I stooped down, tore aside the curtains, and put my hand on to her gaping cunt. She tried to rise, and pushed me,—I pushed her. She tilted on one side, her bum caught the edge of the basin, and upset the water.
“Damn you,” said she,—then she laughed and got up. I pushed her against the side of the bed, and again got my fingers on the cunt,—slippery enough it was. “You’re one of those beasts, are you?” said she.
“I’ve never felt your cunt properly, and I will.” “Well let me wash it, and you shall.” She did so, I felt it, and then begged for another fuck.
“You are not in a hurry.” “Yes I am.” “You said you would give me an hour and a half.” “Yes, but you have done me, and what is the good of keeping me?” “I mean to do it again.” “Double journey double pay.” “Nonsense,—you so excited me, that I’ve never had a proper poke yet.” “Well that is no fault of mine.” She laughed, and turned questioner. “Do you often have the women from Regent Street?” “Yes.” “Do you know many?” �
��Yes, I vary so.” “Ah! you are fond of change,—I thought so,”—and she got talkative after that. I had thought her almost a dummy.
Meanwhile I was gloating over her charms, her beautiful arms, the lovely breasts I now played with, the lovely limbs I saw, for she had sat down in the most enticing position with the ankle of one foot resting on the knee of the other leg. I wanted to pull the clothes higher up the thighs, she resisted, but I saw the beautiful ankles, the tiny boots and feet, the creamy flesh of the thigh just above the garter, thighs thickening, folding over, squeezing together, and hiding her cunt from view when I tried to look up.
I had hid my prick, the fear had come over me of her thinking it small, and that prevented it standing again. An hour ran away. “I’m going,” said she rising. My prick stood at the instant. “Let me.” “Make haste then.” As she stood up I put my hand up her petticoats. She put her hand down, and gave my prick a hard squeeze. I hollowed,—she laughed.
Erotic Classics II Page 126
