The Sex Diary of a
Vol. 4 Chapter VI
When she had made up her mind to a course good or bad, she did not hesitate. The same determination that I should be the father of her child made her yield to me now. She let me pull her about, lift up this limb, open that, backside and belly, cunt, bubbies, and arm-pits came under my rapturous inspection. I must have been strong in my expressions of delight, for she took the infection from me. When rushing into her arms, and sheathing my penis in her, "Am I really very nice?" she said. "Divine." "Oh! my love, I am so glad you like me," — and our bodies began to move. The affection which a woman has for him whose seed has given her a child had set in, but I did not reciprocate it. I had not then in my physical love for women learnt to discriminate between lust and love, and thought the former was the latter, until it shifted its object, and then I began to wonder how I had liked the last woman so much, and the one before her so much, and so on.
After that day there was no hesitation. She abandoned herself to me absolutely, I could see and do what I liked, nor was she behind. Though not a sensuous or voluptuous woman, she used to rub her mouth in my balls, and kiss my prick, whilst I fingered her cunt. The way she nestled her nose round my balls was curious — most women have a way of their own in amorous tricks.
She had dark eyes, dark wavy hair, and a pretty nose. Her face was handsome and dignified, you saw at a glance she was a lady. She had lovely shoulders and breasts suggesting much plumpness below, but it was not so. Although nice and round, she was not large about her bum and thighs, yet the calves of her legs were symmetrical. She was prettily shaped, and her bones so fine that she looked stouter than she really was. She was nice to feel all over, had exquisite hands and feet, and had all the physical qualities of good breed. Her cunt had but a smallish quantity of crisp dark brown hair on it, and the lips and prick-hole were small. It was a pretty cunt, like a well-grown girl's of seventeen, instead of a woman's of nearly thirty. When I said she had a small cunt, she became anxious to know if it was very small. She had some fear that through its size she would have a very severe labour, which was the case.
In fucking she was charming, but never voluptuous. The tightness of her cunt coming after the capacious well-haired orifices of Sarah Mavis, Louisa, and Jenny, was a novelty, but I'm not sure that I enjoyed it so much for poking, though I liked to finger it. I then preferred the larger cunts for reasons often given. But I loved to be in bed with her, for it was the first lady I had had for a mistress, and her manners were different from the humbler sort. Besides, there was a charm in talking about one's female friends, and in my disclosing amatory knowledge to a comparative novice. I had recently had such talk only with women to whom every trick and dodge of prick and cunt was familiar.
One thing was singular. She had a sweet mouth, and although not much given to tonguing myself, — indeed not doing so to women generally, — I began at once to do so to her. She moved her head away. "No that's not nice." "When you're spending it's heavenly, — just touch mine, — there, — is it not nice now? — right in-to my mouth." Soon she became fond of it. Her husband had never done so. Never? No, never attempted such a thing. Are there many men who don't use their tongues when fucking, I wonder.
About her husband. By mutual consent we avoided the subject, yet when I asked a question about him, she took the opportunity of telling much to justify herself in my eyes, and in her own, for what she was doing. She had married him for money, hoping love would come after, — and it never had. Then came his evil habits, estrangement, neglect, mistresses and casuals, — he had clapped her, and that was all. There were no rows, no show before people, but gradual alienation, and rarely coition. He fucked her at times, and she spent with him at times, though she disliked him. She sought his bed after I had had her first. "He cannot say it is not his child," she said. She had relieved her sexual wants by frigging herself, though but rarely.
The two months proved she was with child. She had said she would cease to have me when assured of that, but had forgotten it perhaps; for instead of ceasing, she seemed more anxious for my embraces than before. She was warming toward me, but I was cooling. Our meetings had been of the shortest till her husband went into the country, to his mills. I suggested having her at her home, but she would not hear of it. She managed longer meetings, grew more affectionate, fearful of being found out, and of not living through her confinement; then at the dislike of nursing a child in her house when the father was away. She was unhappy, but the child would make her happy when she thought of me. When born: if Y***s***e continued his brutal habits she would separate from him, and live with her child. Why did I not separate, and form an-other home, — did I love any one? "Do you love me?" I asked, "recollect what you said three months ago." "I love you like my life, my love, my darling, — I did not know myself, and that yearning for a child by you was love for you." She had read in a French novel of a lady who had the same devouring want, and who did as she had done. "I intended when with child that you should never meet me again, — but oh! my God I cannot do it."
A mist fell from my eyes, and I became aware of the true position of matters. This poor lady was deeply attached to me. I cared about her only as a temporary sweetheart, though I began by thinking I was in love with her. I saw misery for her. I never liked adultery. There were enough women to be had without taking the wives of other men. I revolted at the idea of visiting a man, eating his food, drinking wine with him, shaking him by his hand, and when behind his back tailing his wife. Yet here was I without design exactly in that position.
She went to her husband in the North, he remained there, he tailed her when there, I wrung the confession from her. How could she help it, she said. He was pleased as she thought at having got her with child. On her return again came the suggestion, why did I not separate from my wife? "I shall be all but a pauper without her money," I said. "What of that, if you are unhappy." But I was always hoping for happier days, hoping, — hoping, — hoping. "Let us go away to-gether," said she, "my marriage settlement will keep us both, — we can be happy, — a knowledge of our separate miseries will endear us to each other, for I don't think I can bear this life any longer, — the struggle is too great, — let us fly together." This suggestion was hers and made in a paroxysm of tears.
I did not know what to say, hesitated, equivocated, said my wife was behaving better, that I would leave her for a year, that if we ran away we might be unhappy, and so on; that it was best to reflect and not take a too hasty step.
"You don't love me, — you didn't love me," she said, "oh! what will become of me, — what shall I do!" — and we parted in tears.
It was brighter weather now, and we could not get to the baudy house without being seen. She was big in the family way, which made her more noticeable, and she could only stop for one embrace, and was then obliged to get away. Then luckily as I have said the house fronted two streets. She went out on one, I on the other, but it was getting very uncomfortable, to me at least. I did no dare to break it off, I so respected her, and had so much pity for her that I continued to make appointments, though glad when she could not keep them. Again, she was to be the mother of my child. So I let things drift on, but had for some time stroked whores again, not being able to do without women, and having difficulty in getting her. So I was glad when her husband was taken seriously ill in the North, and she was compelled to go there to him.
She was absent a very long time, our letters were sent to post-offices, they were brief, in disguised hand-writing, and never signed. How she managed to get hers I don't recollect. When she came back she was an immense size, and told me but little of what had passed whilst she had been away. She feared trouble of all sorts, that misfortune was to be her lot in life, that she had hoped we might pass our lives together, but had made a mistake; her life had been a mistake, a mistake to have married him, to have longed for a child by me, to have loved me, when it was not returned. I declared that I loved her. Nonsense she replied, reflection had convinced her I did not; if I did, why re-fuse to leave with her.
I repeated what I had said before. She retreated into her cold dignity, the dignity she had before I had fucked her. She used to look at me quietly till the tears brimmed over her eyes, and dry them up quietly with-out saying a word. She had that strained expression of face which some women have in pregnancy, and had become quite thin. Sometimes an impulse took me by head and heart, and I was on the point of offering to run away with her. Reflection made me know that I did not love her, I did not even love poking her, I only respected and admired her, and with my sensuous temperament, felt that it could only end in misery for both of us, were we depending on each other entirely for our happiness in our double adultery, and with smallish means. Then on one excuse or another she put off meeting me till I saw that she never meant me to have her again, — and I never did. She was confined with a boy. We visited her. She was affectionate to me when we were alone, but so sad that I could scarcely forbear crying when she spoke to me. She loved the child. When she recovered her health and looks I had a strong desire for her, but she never would let me. Her hand would clasp mine, and tremble in it, but to all my entreaties, it was, "No, — never," — and I never had her again.
Her husband's dissipation had been ruining him, he failed for a huge sum, and instead of spending fifteen thousand a year, came to live on his wife's income of five hundred. Then he had paralysis, and was a repentant, broken, miserable man, lame and ugly, and went with his wife to live in the South of France.
She never wrote to me, but wrote often to my wife, who disliked her for some reason which I knew not; but was obliged to reply because there was a chance always of her coming back again at some time to London. Mrs. Y***s***e it always seemed to me meant to keep me informed of herself through her letters to my wife, for she described everything, their new home, their mode of living, their expenses, the baby, his looks, and so forth, as if my wife had been the person next to herself the most interested in the child. Once she said his eyes were exactly like mine; but the letters at last grew shorter and shorter, and a longer time apart. Then her husband died.
[I may add here after a lapse of seventeen years the sequel of this amour, as far as I know it now. Years rolled on, I was a widower, and went South, called at Montpellier, and made enquiry. She had remained there some time as a widow. An Italian nobleman had married her, and they left for Italy, — I never heard where. She may be living now, so may my child, I should like to know, — but what good would come of it if I did? She and the child had better remain as they do in my memory, — a tender regret, full of respect for her. Her name sounded like Castagni, — but that was not her name.]