“You are a going on rude again.” “You asked me.” “Not for that.” “But that's what I had to tell, what you kissed me to tell.” “I didn't think you would say rude things.” “Sit down, and I'll tell you without rude words.” And so I did, telling all over again with additions, but instead of saying “cunt”, “fuck”, and so on, said, “I got my hand you know where”, — “and then she let me you know what”, — “she was frightened to let me do, you guess what I wanted.”
“Luckily though she foolishly told her fellow-servant, she did not say who had been feeling her. That sneak told my wife, who told me about it, or all she knew, and said she could not keep such an improper girl in the house as that. 'But the other servant may have told a lie to spite her.' 'Perhaps, but I'll turn her out too', — and so she did, both left.”
Thus I talked to jenny till I expect her quim was hot enough; then said I, “Here is a pretty neckerchief, —put it on.” “Oh! how pretty.” “I won't give it you unless you put it on.” She went to the glass and unbuttoned the top of her dress, which was made to button on the front. I saw her white fat bosom, she threw the kerchief round the neck, and tried to push it down the back. “Let me put it down, — it's diffrcult.” She let me. “You are not unbuttoned enough, it's too tight.” She undid another button, I pushed down the kerchief, and releasing my hand as I stood at the back of her, put it over her shoulder, and down in front, pushing it well under her left breast. “Ohl what a lovely breast you have, — let me kiss it.”
A shriek, a scuffle; In the scuffle I burst off a button or two, which exposed her breast, and getting my hand on to one of the globes began feeling and kissing it. Then I slid my hand further down, and under her armpit. “Oh ! what a shame, — don't, — I don't like it.” How lovely, — kiss, kiss, — oh ! Jenny what a lot of hair I can feel under here.” “Oh !—screach, — screach, — oh ! don't tickle me, — oh !—oh l”, — and she crouched as women do who can't bear tickling. I saw my advantage. “Are you ticklish?” “Yes, — oh !—(screach, — screach), — oh ! leave off.”
Instead of leaving off I tickled harder than ever. She got my hand out, but I closed on her, tickling her under her arm, pinching her sides, and got her into such a state of excitement, that directly I touched her she screached with wild laughter; the very idea of being touched made her shiver. We were on the sofa, she yelling struggling whilst I pinched her, she trying to get away from me, but fruitlessly; I buried my face in her breasts which were now largely exposed, and she fell back I with my face on her, and holding her tight. Then I put one hand down, feeling outside for her notch; that stopped her screaching, and she pushed me off as she got up.
I soothed her, begged pardon, spoke of the hair in her armpits, wondered if it was the same colour that it was lower down. Now she shammed anger, boxed my ears, and we make it up. I produced the garters. “Oh! what a lovely pair.” “They're yours if you let me put them on.” “I won't.” “Let me put on half-way up.” “No.” “Just above the ankle.” “No, my stockings are dirty.” “Never mind.” “No.” Then she made an excuse, said she must see to something, and left the room. I thought she was going to piddle.
She came back. I found afterwards she had been out to lace up her boots, they were untidy. It was coquettishness, female instinct, for she wanted the garters, and meant to let me try them on, though refusing. “Where do you garter, about knee?” “I shan't tell you.” “I've seen, — let me put them on below the knees.” “No.” “Then I'll give them to another woman who will let me.” “I don't care.” I threw the garters on to the table after some fruitless attempts. I was getting awfully lewd with our conversation.
“Do you like reading?” “Yes.” “Pictures?” “Yes.” “I've a curious book here.” “What is it?” I took the book out. “The Adventures of Fanny Hill.” “Who was she?” “A gay lady, — it tells how she was seduced, how she had lots of lovers, was caught in bed with men, — would you like to read it?” “I should.” “We will read it together, — but look at the pictures”, — this the fourth or fifth time in my life I have tried this manoeuvre with women. I opened the book at a picture of a plump, leering, lecherous-looking woman squatting, and pissing on the floor, and holding a dark-red, black-haired, thick-lipped cunt open with her fingers. All sorts of little baudy sketches were round the margin of the picture. The early editions of Fanny Hill had that frontispiece.
She was flabbergasted, silent. Then she burst out laughing, stopped and said, “What a nasty book, — such books ought to be burnt.” “I like them, they're so funny.” I turned over a page. “Look, here is she with a boy who sold her watercresses, is not his prick a big one?” She looked on silently, I heard her breathing hard. I turned over picture after picture. Suddenly she knocked the book out of my hand to the other side of the room. “I won't see such things”, said she. “Won't you look at it by yourself?” “If you leave it here I'll burn it.” “No you won't, you'll take it to bed with you.” There I left the book lying, it was open and the frontispiece showing. “Look at her legs”, said I, for we could see the picture as we sat on the sofa; and I began to kiss and tickle her again.
She shrieked, laughed, got away, and rushed to the door. I brought her back, desisted from tickling and lewd talking, though I was getting randier than ever. “Now have the garters, — let me put one round the leg, just to see how it looks, — just half-way up the calf.” After much persuasion, after pulling up my trowsers, and showing how a garter looked round my calf, she partly consented. “Promise me you won't tickle me.” I promised everything.
I dropped on one knee, she sat on the sofa. “Put one foot on my leg.” She put one foot there, and care-fully raised her clothes an inch or two above the boot- top. “A little higher.” She raised it holding her petticoats tight round the leg, and I slipped the garter round it. “It's too loose, raise a little more.” “I won't any higher, — I can see how it looks.” “Won't they look nice when they are above the knee? and won't your young man be pleased when he sees them there.” “My young man won't see them any more than you will.” Let me slip on the other.” The same process, the same care on her part. She bestowed all her care on the limb I was gartering, lest I should slip the gar-ter higher up. The remainder of her clothes were loose round her other leg. Then I pushed my hand up her clothes and herself back on the sofa, relinquishing the leg I was gartering.
Rapidly my hand felt thighs, hair, cunt, How wet! What is this which catches my fingers? what is it they are gliding between? With a yell she pushed me away, and got up as I withdrew my fingers. She had a napkin on, my fingers were stained red. “Oh, you beast”, said she bursting into tears. I caught hold of her, and began to tickle her; she pushed me violently away, and escaping, rushed downstairs, slammed the kitchen-door in my face, and locked herself in. I have been accustomed to this behaviour on similar occasions.
I stood outside begging pardon, talking baudiness, I tried to burst open the door, and could not. I was not fond of poorliness in women, had a keen nose, and oftentimes could smell a woman if poorly, even with her clothes down; how it was I did not smell her, considering how near my nose had been to her split and her breasts, I can't say, but suppose randiness over-came my other senses. I played with my prick which was in an inflammatory state, feeling it made me much randier, I called through the door how I wanted to fuck her, how my prick was bursting, how I would frig myself if she did not let me. “What a hard hearted girl,-I'll give you ten pounds to let me, — who will know it, but you and me?” and a lot more; but it was of no use, and at length I went upstairs, determining to wait, and thinking that in time she might follow me.