Then I got curious. For, not sleeping, there was noth- ing to be done but to talk and fuck, and I am always curious about the sexual strength of a husband. With lips to hers, my fingers on her clitoris, hers round my stiffening prick, I heard that her husband's prick was certainly not as big as mine, that either she put a sponge up her cunt when they fucked — or he pulled his prick out at the critical moment and spent on her thighs. — It was hard to have to do so, but better than having children, and losing a good place.

He only fucked her about twice a week. Sometimes he had a hot fit, and then did it twice in a night, but never more than that. — No, not on their marriage night, she recollected that well. She was a virgin then, she could swear by the holy sacrament — and he got into her at the first fuck. Yes, she was quite sure his prick was not so large as mine, tho there was not much difference. So we talked on for hours. Most other married women whom I have had have seemed much annoyed at such questions, for I have asked all of them. — Some have refused to tell me anything. But this Italian seemed pleased to talk about it, and when it was a question of size, felt my prick about most care-fully before she replied. I fucked her six times. It is so upon my notes. Long before day-break, off I went.

I tried hard to get her to sleep out with me. She would ask leave to see her parents — say they were ill, and other lies I suggested. — But all her relatives were in the country, at first she said. Then either under the stimulus of the flesh, or my liberal offer, “I've got a sister married here, and she is just going to be con-fined I hear, perhaps I could get to see her, but we are not friends.” After much thinking, and hatching of lies and excuses, she said she would if she could. — “Not to-night tho.” — I didn't want that after my six emissions, — but the day following. If I would call on the Marchesa exactly as the clock struck four, she would be at the door, and standing at the back of the man-servant. — She would either nod, or shake her head. — With all the signs and arrangements care-fully made, I left her in bed, and got back to my hotel.

There I found a pressing letter from my solicitors urging my return, and saying that on account of my absence, the case would go probably against me. Altho I knew that I should lose a large sum of money if it did, I had such a letch for the woman, that I would not leave till I had a chance of having her again. But I packed up everything, ready for an immediate start.

On the day, at the appointed hour, I was at the Palazzo. The door was opened by the man, and at his back was the maid. — My heart actually beat violently with expectation as the door opened, and I felt intense delight as she nodded her head. To make sure that I understood, she nodded two or three times to me, moving about the large stone ante-room on some pretext, and keeping well in the rear of the man. A few minutes after, I was with the Marchesa, who looked quite ill, and who seemed quite anxious, when I told her about my solicitors' letter.

I soon left her and got back to my hotel, where I rested, and feasted, and did up a bottle of wine and some sausage, bread, and cakes, which I had bought to take with me. At dark I went to the house and hired a room. At about eight o'clock, there was Marietta, at the corner of the Piazza di * * * * * *. The next minute we were in a carriage, and five minutes after in the baudy house. She eat my cakes, we drank the wine, she on my knees, my hand on her quim whilst she was eating. In less than half an hour we were in bed together, and having as delicious a fuck as I ever had in my life. Her cunt seemed exquisite. I fucked her till I lost count, but it was certainly a night of my supreme efforts, and when we left in the morning, I was utterly exhausted, and she much the same. — “Oh, what will the Marchesa think when she sees me? She will ask where I've been, what I have been doing,” said Marietta in dismay, as she looked at herself in the looking-glass.

The lie she told to get leave of absence was a most ingenious one. Trust a woman on the scent of a prick, to find an excuse for following it up. I have rarely known them fail, and what risks they will run. — Marietta had. — But she would not, could not do it an-other night. — She might be with me for a hour perhaps at a time in the attic, or elsewhere, till her husband re-turned, and she willingly would when she could, but the risk of absence she could not incur, it might be ruin. — I never had her again. Certainly she gave me one of the most voluptuous nights I ever had, and the only drawback was her persistence in jumping out of bed, and washing her cunt after each performance in it.

Another letter reached me that morning. I called on the Marchesa, who seemed I thought inclined to let me do what I liked with her, but she was still, I was glad to say, in an unfit state of body for carnal de-lights. I shewed her my letters, promised to come back to R**e in the spring, saw my friend, and called on a few others, and the same night took boat from Civita Vecchia to Marseilles. (That was then the quickest road to London.)

It was a smooth passage. A night's rest set me up, and by the next night, good sleep, food, and sea air, gave me the surprize of a stiff prick unsolicited. There was a spicey-mannered, little, plump, dark-eyed French woman on board, travelling alone, who in conversation told me that she was coming from Palermo, was a ballet dancer, and was going to Marseilles to fulfill a professional engagement there. — The evening was dark and warm, we sat on deck close together till almost all the passengers had gone to bed (there were not many). Our conversation got warm — warmer — warmest. I found there was no other passenger in her cabin. I had its number, it was not far from mine, and at about midnight I crept to it, found the door unlocked, tho she had said she should lock it, and five minutes after I was between her thighs, her heels on my calves, and we were fucking in a miserable little box called a berth, not much bigger than a coffin. A couple in rut would somehow fuck in a coffin, I'm sure. She didn't wash her cunt, but sat up with me on the side of the berth feeling my prick, and talking, till I tailed her again, and then got back to my cabin, I suppose unobserved.

The next day I tailed her in my cabin, when all the passengers had just sat down to luncheon — and we both went to luncheon the instant my cock left her. She neither washed, nor pissed, nor did I. How we looked at each other when at table. — Soon after we were at Marseilles, and I parted with her in a polite way. — I never saw her cunt, nor even the hair on her motte, but she was a plump, randy little devil, and talked baudiness joyfully. It was quite an affair of love, for I gave her nothing but my prick.

Chapter IV

A piece of luck. • In a dull street. • A violent step-mother. • Rosa W***e. • A runaway. • My good advice. • In the Cab. • “I'm so hungry.” • At J***s St. • Sullen, staring, and taciturn. • Fed, felt, and fucked. • The bloody chemise. • Her fears. • “You can't set things right.” • Stern intentions. • A new night-gown. • Oysters and Champagne. • Taciturnity gone. • Making a clean breast. • Her history. • Her misfortune. • The music hall. • Liquoring after. • Drunk or drugged? • Virginity taken. • Forsaken. • Her misery, wanderings, and return home.

The law suit terminated. Well or not, matters not here. — I had been to my stock brokers, one Tuesday towards the end of October, and between three and four o'clock in the afternoon, took a fancy to wander unheeding where, thro dull, old-fashioned, brick-built streets, on the confines of the City, and was in one, in which the dwellers once perhaps were well to do people, but now was inhabited largely by small traders, and by poorish people, but there were no shops. It was a cold, damp, sunless, and misty afternoon.