With passions calmed, with genitals softened and moisted by pleasure, tranquilly side by side in loving proximity, handling each other with the restless but delicious sensation of lewedness semi-appeased, and awaiting the resurrection of my prick and the hardening of her clitoris, one of the most delicious conversations I ever had with a lovely woman, was then mine. — Winifred was frankness itself, she was always so, it was her nature, just as by nature she was amorous, and inclined to the lascivious preliminaries of sexual conjunction. Had she remained in London alone when her mother left, she would have turned gay from sheer love of the male. Her marriage by satisfying her partially, and cooling the heat of her quim — had as far as I know and believe kept her chaste. — Intrigues are difficult in country towns, which are easy in the immensity of London. She now showed either her liking for me, or her sexual voracity, for certainly she'd have taken more fucking than I could have given her; and perhaps it is as well for me, that the time she could remain was too short to test my virility too much.
In this state of body and of mind, she had a manifest pleasure in telling me all about herself and husband, had no hesitations, no shams. She gave me direct answers to my questions, and expected me to answer with equal frankness, which I certainly did. — Never did a couple explain their sexual habits and conditions as we did. Her frankness was contagious. [I have never since told a woman as much, or been asked as much.]
Her husband stroked her not quite every other night. He didn't play amorously with her at first, nor even look at her cunt much after the first week of marriage. — “I'm stiff, let's have a bit together,” was all he usually said, then mounted her. Sometimes he did her twice if she hadn't spent, but didn't like being asked. At times she said she'd not had pleasure when she had, because she wanted it again. — He thought that women who wanted much stroking were beasts. — When he had done her, he turned his rump to her, and fell asleep directly. — We laughed about her marriage night. She had consulted Lydia, and named a day when her poorliness would be just over, thinking his poking would bring it on again. — She'd noticed that at that period if she frigged herself it returned slightly. It did on her marriage night. She described to me with delight how she writhed, and jerked her bum back, and cried out. “Oh you are hurting me so,” as he got into her. — We laughed heartily at it. Poor man had he but known!
“Yes his is as long as yours, and just the same thickness,” said she in answer to a question, feeling my prick carefully all the time she spoke, as if to make sure she was right. “But somehow it isn't as nice as when you're doing it.” — Then I put my prick up her. — “Ah! I wish you were my husband,” she sighed out just before she spent. She declared she'd never had any man but her husband and myself, but had frigged herself pretty often. She'd never been in the family way by me, — was so soon after marriage, but miscarried — her husband didn't want children. “I think I'm in the family way now.” — Then with the only bit of hesitation she had shown, “Well — yes — he did it to me last night.” “Say fucked you, Winny.” “Fucked me,” said she laughing and pleased to say it.
I have had many married women. It is against my principles to have them, but fate is invincible. Some have been amorous enough, have rejoiced in my libidinosity, joined with me in salacity, but most have avoided reference to their husbands; and when I have been curious about their husband's capabilities and sexual vigor, and the size of his prick — have always avoided the subject. — “Don't let us talk of that.” — “Oh, it's a shame to ask me.” — “Now I won't answer you,” — similar replies I have had at first, and only with difficulty got my curiosity satisfied, and some-times not at all. But here was Winifred, delighted to talk about it all. The quiet way she felt me before she told me the size of his prick, I shall recollect to my dying day.
Again we met — “I'm so sorry we're going back. — I've asked him to let me stop with my aunt for a week, but he won't.” “We could have met every day.” “We would,” said she. — Such was her liking for me or my prick, that she agreed to meet me again — “if possible, — but I'm sure I can't stay more than a quarter of an hour.” — She was ready to run any risk. I had the quarter of an hour. — Dressed and at the bedside I fucked her. In ten minutes afterwards, “I wish I could do it again but can't.” She lay expectantly quiet where I had placed her. I frigged an erection, inserted and thrust with energy, but no spunk came. — “I'm coming dear,” she gasped out and spent; but I didn't. Then I got furious, and rammed with violence. I could almost hear the slap of my balls against her backside. — “Ah-a — I'm coming again dear.” “My — sperm's coming too love,” — and it spurted up her.
In haste we washed. I kissed and licked over the surface of her fresh washed cunt, for I felt madly in lust for her. She kissed my prick, we parted, and I have never seen her since.
It was a most delicious week, a charming interlude in my erotic performances, which are now wholly with professional pleasure-givers. It makes me regret the delights of teaching the art of love, and fucking those who met me for the pleasure of fucking alone, and not for pay. Shall I ever have such chances again?
Much as I have abbreviated and omitted, what a quantity of manuscript still remains. — Alas! a casual look through it, reveals the fact that, like much of that written just before this period of my history, it is prolix and copious in detail. — More so even than that preceding it which I shortened with so much trouble. — It is exuberant, because written for my secret pleas- ure, and I revelled in the detail as I wrote it, for in doing so I almost had my sexual treats over again. — It mattered not to me whether similar pleasure had been mine before or not, whether the erotic whims and fancies, amorous frolics, voluptuous eccentricities, were identical or not. — I described them as they had occurred at the time, and the pleasure of doing so was nearly the same, even had I done them twenty times, and described them twenty times.
But the woman, the partner in my felicity was frequently fresh and new to me, and I to her; and this newness prevents satiety in sexual frolics. There is always a shade of difference in the manners and behaviour of women in sexual preliminaries, and even in final performance. One woman never kisses or sighs, embraces or fucks, in exactly the same manner as an-other. The broad features from beginning to ending are the same. A coupling of the genitals finishes it all. But there are delicate shades of difference even in fucking which make the variety so charming, and describing them was ever new and amusing to me, when the charmer was new to me.
Yet on glancing through the remaining manuscript, — now in my mature, if not only years — the repetition seems a little wearisome. — What is to be done — abbreviate or destroy — which? — Abbreviation is laborious, and emasculates — the freshness of the writing is gone — nice shades lost. — But destruction saves all future trouble.
Perhaps entire omission of portions will be best, but that will destroy the continuity. In the narrative in its integrity, it is easy to see how in my youth, content with the simplest forms of sexual pleasure, I have gradually with advancing years and experience, been led to strangely erotic whims and devices, and have had the greatest pleasure in acts, and deeds, and thoughts, which in my ignorant youth would have revolted me. — To omit much is to destroy this continuity of idea and action. — No. It must be abbreviation or total destruction. Abbreviation, or else a full stop here, and nearly twenty years' narrative go to the flames.
Another thing — through the suggestions of women, by pondering over those suggestions — by reading works of erotic philosophers — from pictures, curiosity, and opportunity, — I have once or twice done what I regret, what in fact is almost a remorse to me, tho I really see no harm in it. — What a contradiction this, but thus it is. — Shall I destroy those chapters, erase those parts — or leave them — perhaps (for who knows) for some to cry shame. — To omit them is to sacrifice the narrative, and the illustration it affords to myself of my sexual idiosyncrasy — if such a phrase may be used — I know not what to do with this antagonism of thought and intention.