When she left us, her husband took brandy and water and cigars and got more fuddled. “Tea is in the drawing-room sir,” said the flunkey. I rose to go. “Wait another quarter of an hour,” said Mr. Y***s***e. I waited. “Let us go, Mrs. Y***s***e will think me rude.” “She be damned, — you go, — I'll stop, and have another glass, and another cigar.”
In the drawing-room she poured out my tea with perfect grace. “Is not my husband coming?” “Soon,” I said. Time ran on, she rang the bell. “Tell your master the tea will be cold.” Footman came back. “He has gone to bed Ma'am.” “To bed?” “Yes.” “Ex- cuse me,” she said, and left the room. In a few minutes she came back. “Is he unwell?” said I in all ignorance. She looked at me, to see if I was humbugging her by my question. “No, drunk, — that is my life,” — and she buried her face in her hands.
I went close to her, my lust got the better of me, and I attempted to feel her leg. She rose from her chair. “Are you a brute also? — then I am deceived indeed, — no don't touch me, be content, — would you break my heart quite? — it is well nigh broken, — if you touch me, I will never see you again.” I was awed. She moved her chair away from me, and I did not approach nearer to her.
We talked a short time. “You will meet me, won't you? — our friendship has only begun, — both unfortunate, — why deny ourselves the pleasure our society gives us?” She made no reply for a long time, seemed to be struggling with herself, and buried her face in her hands.
“Where — how?” she said at last. “Meet me somewhere where we can talk undisturbed.” “Where? — how? — so that I may not be known?” The brain of a man works wiles to get a woman, and I thought of a move new to me, perhaps old enough to others; with me it was an instantaneous thought. There were and now are three large linendrapers in London, with corner-buildings, and two frontages. “Call at Soand-So,” I said, “stop at the *** street-side — make a purchase, — send your carriage away, — go right through the shop to the other street, there I will await you tomorrow.” “No.” “When” “The next day at three.” “You won't deceive me?” “I have begun, and I'll go through it,” said she with a hard look. “One kiss.” “Hish! the servants are all about.” I kissed her, and left.
The day came. A bitterly cold and rather foggy day, an admirable one for our assignation. I had called at a house in T***f***d Street, well known in those days to swells. I had never been at it before, but had asked a middle-aged friend if he knew a good house, for I did not like taking her to J***s Street. He was a married man with a great liking for intrigue. “You are going to have a married woman,” said he (it was an odd shot, but a true one.) “No.” He winked. “The quietest house in London is So-and-So — there is a back and a front entrance, one in one street, one in another street.” I went there, hired the nicest room, ordered a fire, and clean sheets and paid part in advance.
I waited at the corner looking out for the carriage. No carriage came. A lady got out of a cab, paid and it drove off. “Is it she?” She stood still, looked at me through a thick veil, then went into the shop. I had recognized her, and went round the corner; my cab of course was there. A quarter of an hour which seemed an age elapsed. “Is she never coming?” Then she appeared with a paper parcel in her hand. In a minute she was in the cab; in five minutes at T***f***d Street, and in a large, comfortable, but somewhat dull bed-room.
She took off her bonnet and veil, she was trembling. “Is this an hotel?” “No my darling.” “Is it a brothel?” “It's a house where they are not particular.” “It is a brothel.” I did not know what to say, so held my tongue.
She buried her face in her hand, and sat so for a minute. “You have not kissed me darling.” She kissed me, got up, and looked at me fixedly. “Take off your things, — let me help you.” She hurried, was quite silent, and soon was in her chemise, but with boots and stockings on. She undressed mechanic-ally, as if she were thinking of something else. “Oh! let me look at you — let me lift your chemise.” She resisted. “No, for Heaven's sake, leave me alone.” I complied. “Let me draw off your boots and stockings.” The next minute we were in bed, and I was up her; getting into the bed with a bound, and mounting her with fury. She had not laid down before I was pressing her. She laid down on her side with her face toward me, but my body met hers, and turned her on to her back. “Wait a minute, — let us talk,” she began. “Oho!” she sobbed as with a fierce plunge my prick drove her. The next minute her cunt was deluged.
I was not man enough, or she not appetizing to me enough to make me continue without withdrawing (as I often did with a fresh piece). I uncunted, and began the delights of feeling her all over. That exquisite variety of sensations were mine, which run through a man as he feels a woman in all her nakedness. For the first time, can kiss her mouth, suck her bubbies, rove from her neck to her knees, smooth his lips over her breasts, plunge his fingers up her cunt till they can grope no further. Soon I was in full vigor again, and up her, and then Mary Y***s***e met me with ardour and in that very fuck was impregnated. She had never spoken from the time she had got into bed, till her pleasure came on. Then she sobbed out, “Oh! my love!” — and she was quiet again. She often repeated the words when spending afterwards. That came naturally from her, as my prick stiffened to its utmost in her cunt, and she drew my sperm out of me. She never said any other words when fucking.
In less than an hour I fucked her again. I could scarcely get her to talk. After each poke she wanted to know the time, and when satisfied lay nestling close to me. “You're with child,” I remarked jokingly. “I hope so.” I could not realize that she really meant it. “Don't you wash?” “No, I'll do nothing to destroy the chance.” “Chance of what?” “Of having a child.” “Do you really mean it?” “What do you think I have come here for, if I don't mean it? — do you think I run this risk for lust? — to have degraded myself in your eyes for mere lust! — you are in error of you imagine that.” “My darling I am thinking of nothing but the delight I have in meeting you, in finding a friend and lover in you.” “I am not your lover, and never shall be, though I have been dreaming of such an after-noon with you for two years past.” “Of me?” “Yes, thinking I should like a child by you.” “Why me?” “I don't know, — who can tell why one likes and dislikes,” — and then she explained.
“When grief was upon me I longed to be a mother, and thought of you. Gradually I came to desire that you should be the father, and for that I have degraded myself, — yet I swear that this has come about as if by magic, for I never comtemplated having a child by you, much as I desired it. But from the moment you took my hand under the table-cloth at the supper, I lost all control of myself. In the carriage I was helpless as a child, was in a sort of swoon, though I knew quite well what you were about, and that it was wrong, I tried to resist you in my mind, but could not stir a limb. It was the same the day before yesterday. I knew you had sent up a falsehood, but felt I must see you, and from the moment you pulled me toward my boudoir, had the same enervation.” This was said nearly as I write it, not as an apology, but as a narrative told in the most natural way possible, and in a sorrowful tone.
“Did you spend with me in the boudoir?” “Yes. I felt agitated, alarmed, and almost fainting.” “Did you wash yourself, — do tell me, — do?” I anticipated coyness and evasion, but I did not know the woman yet, her frankness and determination. “No I did not, — I thought of doing so, but from a feeling I can't de-scribe I would not, and I came down to dinner just as you left me.”
“Do you not love me? — you could not have thought so of me without it.” I asked her this for I was staggered, and thought spite of all, that she might be only a frisky one, to whom a fuck on the sly was a treat. I was too inexperienced to know the varieties of the female mind, the vagaries that an unsatisfied womb might cause, the overwhelming passion that a womb hungering for impregnation might beget.