“You won't tell those two will you?” — were the last words Winifred said. “Is it likely I should be so foolish? be sure you don't tell the girls or any one else, what we've done, and be sure you never tell any one.” I gave her the sovereign, and she gave me her home address and that of her place of work. I wrote them down somehow in the cab, which I made move on to a gas lamp. Her mother kept a stationer's shop she said, and she had a sister named Lydia. — “What shall I tell mother about being so late?” she kept asking. — “Say the rain, my dear.” I never knew what she did say, but girl, or woman, or crone, they always have an excuse ready, especially if it be to hide or help fucking. That, it seems to me stimulates the female brain to craftiness in lying, in a marvelous degree.
Five minutes after she left me, I drove to her house. It was easily found, and was in a poorish street, but seemed quite respectable. Stationery and many trumpery things were sold there. — The mother was in the shop, and also her sister whom she told me of the following day, and I came away, wondering if the girl would keep her word and meet me for another drive, at what she thought of my stiff prick, whether she'd ever seen a prick in that state before, and what the other two girls thought of my talk about their garters. I wondered more than anything at my success in getting a young girl, after an hour and a half's acquaintance, to feel me and let her belly be felt. — In truth my fingers barely touched the top of the notch where it splits up from the belly. She didn't seem of the same class as the little boxmakers whom I had a few years ago.
Next day, and half an hour earlier than the day before, as arranged, I waited near to the workshop of Miss Winifred (her companions called her “Winny”). She is the only female with that Christian cognomen I ever yet have known in amatory affairs. — I had doubts whether she would show up, for it was only a minute or two before she left the cab that I felt her belly and forced her hand on to my prick. She was scared, and there was so much hesitation and anxiety in her manner, when she promised to meet me again. — I had suggested her leaving earlier, so as to get away from her fellow apprentices, who usually walked part of the way homewards with her. She was a little late, but appeared just as I had given her up and got into the cab as quickly as she could, evidently to avoid being seen. She was cunning enough for that. — What was really Winifred's object in thus meeting me a stranger? It must have been the desire again to finger, and be fingered on the organs of concupiscence, again to feel my fingers on her motte, again to feel, and perhaps now to see, that rigid male engine, about which no doubt she had heard and talked with her young friends, but may have never seen a full sized one. — It was dark when I had my persuader out in the cab, and if she saw it, it was only when a street lamp flashed on it. “I must really get home by seven,” said she, and telling me why. — “Oh, I don't want to go towards the bridge, I shan't get home in time, I won't go that way.” — I was driving in the direction of a convenient house, but fearful of spoiling my chance, stopped the cab, and on her naming a road, told the cabman to drive that way. I was longing for it to get dark, but unfortunately it was a bright evening. On we went, till, passing a pastrycook's, I asked her if she'd have something. — Yes, she'd like a jelly so, she'd only once or twice tasted it in her life.
I made her sit in the cab, thinking her youth and dress, contrasted with mine, might cause remark, and crammed her with jelly, then took her cherry brandy, thinking that might warm her up. Then on we drove, I talking amorously and kissing her every minute. The cherry brandy opened her mouth, and she volunteered much about herself, I had only to ask a question and she spoke for five minutes, not that she was in the least degree tight. — I encouraged the loquacity, feeling sure I should get no liberties till dusk, I never had such a garrulous lass, and all about herself and family. — This is some of what she told me.
Her father had been a clerk, her mother kept the stationer's shop since his death, which took place about four years previously. Since then they had mainly depended upon the shop for their living. — They let the two rooms above to a single gentleman, who had lodged there for two years. Her sister Lydia had been to service, but now minded the shop with her mother. They two kept the house, and did most of the work themselves, but a strong char-woman came daily to do rough jobs. — Lydia waited on the gentleman, who was not much at home in the day. He was middle-aged, very religious, and anxious for Lydia to go to prayer meetings with him, but the mother objected. She however went with him sometimes on the sly. Lydia and her mother had had words about that. Mother says Lydia's had trouble enough, and doesn't want her to get into any more. — She (Winifred) used to take him his breakfast things sometimes before she was apprenticed, now she went away to work too early.
She was allowed now nine pence a day, soon they would give her a shilling because she was getting useful. — “But it's hard work, and I can't bear sitting all day long. — I'd like something else but don't know what.” — She had a bag with her in which I found she took her dinner, and the dressmaker gave her her tea, and she had her supper when she got home. Hungry and tired she was when she did get home. She hated sitting in the shop parlour or the kitchen, she liked serving in the shop, but was glad when her mother let her go to her aunt's, or to chapel. — They were very pious chapel people, seemingly.
With that fine perception in all sexual matters which I know I have, I caught at her remarks about her sister having got into trouble, — Something whispered to me — “Cunt” — Trouble to her mother? — “Cunt.” — “What was your sister's trouble?” I asked.
Winifred saw with the cunning of a female that she had said too much, her loquacity ceased, and she began to evade and equivocate. She didn't know what, but had heard her mother say so — but it was all right now — and so on. — “You're fibbing, my little darling, you do know. — Perhaps she's had a foolish lover, who foolishly got her a baby, when he needn't, they might have had all their pleasure without that.” — “Oh — oh — what a thing to say. — I don't know what you mean.”
It was just the time for telling her what I meant, for it was getting dark, the lamps were lighted, and I could clearly see her pretty face for the moment as we passed them. — So I told her what I thought of Lydia, and in voluptuous words, and for the first time said “cunt, prick, fuck,” that trinity of words which conveys all, expresses all — I had never said them on the night before, but had used suggestive words, as my thing — your belly, and so on — simple words which nevertheless set the brain thinking, and the body lusting, yet do not scare. — At every baudy sentence, at every suggestion, she now only said. “Ho — ho,” and at last burst into screaming laughter. It was a peal of laugh-ter, amused, timid, almost hysterical, and then suddenly ceasing. — “I don't know what you mean, or any-thing about it, only what mother says — let me get home.”
“I'll ask Lydia and tell you what she says,” said I with coolness. At that she laughed again, but as I saw she was determined to know nothing, I changed my tone. — “Let's look at your boots, you want another pair, put your foot on the seat.” — “Oh, they're shabby, I've got a better pair for Sundays” — and apparently diverted from what we had been talking about, she began to talk again and put one foot upon the seat, looking at it tho she couldn't see it plainly. At once I rapidly ran my hand up her clothes and got it between her thighs, just as she closed them tightly on it.
But it was too late, my forefinger was a little in the notch, I could feel the soft pad, the division, and a nubbly little clitoris. — She moved, wriggled, jumped up, sat down again, but somehow I managed to keep my finger there and move it slightly, pulling her to me with the other hand, kissing her and talking baudy. Spite of her. — “No — I won't.” — I still felt the cunt. How delicious to feel that young virgin cunt, that soft pad above that little button of gristle — made for man's fingers to rub, to irritate. How voluptuous to her to have my fingers on it, and to know and think of what I wanted. Yet with a bounce she got away and sat opposite to me. “I'll never ride with you again,” she said.