She was a slim, well-formed girl, with a small quantity of darkish brown hair on a pretty little cunt. — I thought her a delicious fuck at first, but somehow ceased to care much about it soon after, whilst she seemed more eager for my prick at each meeting. She wasn't altogether a pleasant girl either — something in the background was, I think, shadowing her, there was such a strange look in her eyes at times. — Her face was lovely, she had the loveliest hazel eyes.
[Among many pieces of good fortune with women, this was one of the most singular and was due largely to boldness and opportunity. Boldness is one of the most essential qualities in getting women. Not much harm can result from it, if not good. A man can but be refused, and women don't tell of sexual requests to them. Not one virtuous woman in a hundred would tell anyone but a confidential female friend, if a man said to her. “Oh! I'm dying to fuck you,” and she'd feel in her heart complimented by his desires, — tho she wouldn't tell that.]
The two little episodes last narrated, tho shortened, took a long time to write, but are worth preserving, yet how short a time they really occupied me in the performance. The railway lass but one evening only — the hairdresser's servant, but eight evenings in six weeks. They are charming reminiscences, particularly that of Phoebe, whom I had the pleasure of teaching the art of love, and in the very few meetings, fucked her in half a dozen different attitudes, and both gamahuched and frigged her. She used to submit to my suggestions at once after our marriage night, and without a word but, “oh!” — when she heard my proposals.
For sometimes I hadn't seen H. at all, and when I did told her all. She said she didn't care but was evidently angry. We had champagne. Neither Donkey prick nor her protector had had her for about ten days (so she said when sitting on my knee, feeling my prick and I her vulva). She said she'd contented herself with digital movements on her cuntal bud, — which wasn't all she needed — and before I'd been in the house a quarter of an hour she was manipulating my love staff. This shows how the recital of any amorous trick affects those whose lust is rampant. — I'd said that I'd fucked Phoebe whilst sitting on a chair, she sitting on my prick with bum against my belly. — “Fuck me so,” said H. Next minute I did. — She put a glass on the floor with lights by its side — as L**l*e used, — so that both could see the movement of my prick in her cunt, as she fucked me by rise and fall. We were delighted, she enraptured. — “Do you see your balls?” “Yes dear — frig your clitoris.” — She obeyed. Then sobbing out our carnal chorus, looking in the glass whilst fucking and frigging, we got repose in concupiscent Elysium. — Afterwards we varied it by fucking whilst sitting face to face and tongue to tongue, — that luscious lingual junction, a delicious addition. — It pleased her to know I had fucked Phoebe in that posture. — Said she as we began, “I can't see your prick moving when face to face, you can,” — then she put the glass at the back of our chair, and looking over my shoulders was gratified, tho she could only see herself moving.
A day or two after, there again, meretricious inventiveness was on us both. It was an age since I'd had a condom on my prick, and she long since one so sheathed and been put up her. We had talked of that before. I took condoms with me, we began operations with one on, but not liking the sensation — which cheats the sexual pleasure of both, — I took my prick out, well greased the condom outside, put it on and up her again. We compared sensations, but both agreeing that pleasure was largely lessened by the intervening skin between prick and cunt, I took it off and fucked without one.
