despair
hit on a plan: I filled the chamberpot with piss and soap-suds, making it as dirty as I could, put it near a chair and my shirt hanging over it carelessly, so as to look as if it had dropped into the pot by accident; left it there, and put on a clean shirt. After breakfast my mother who
usually helped to make my bed, and her own as well, called out to me; up
I went with my heart in my mouth, to hear her say, she hoped I would be a little more careful, and remember that we had no longer my poor father's purse. "Look," said she, "a disgraceful state you left your
shirt in, I am ashamed to have it sent to the laundress, have been
obliged to tell the housemaid to partly wash it first, you are getting
very careless." Charlotte afterwards told me, that when mother gave her
the shirt to rough wash, she felt as if she should faint.
I need not repeat about my prepuce, which as said I could now pull down
with a little less difficulty. Lacerated and painful over night, it was
much more swollen and sore the next morning, when I pissed it smarted, the thinking and smarting made me randy: risking all, whilst my mother was actually in the adjoining room, the poor girl in horrid fear and looking shockingly ill, I thrust my hand up her clothes and on to her
split. She whispered, "What a wretch you are!" I went to college, came
back at three o'clock, thinking always on the same subject; my prick got worse, I took it into my head, that Charlotte had given me some disease,
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and was in a dreadful state of mind. I washed it with warm water, and greased it, having eased it thus a little, got the skin down, then could not get it back again, it got stiff; as it did so sexual pleasures came
into my mind, and worse got the pain. I greased it more, my pain grew
less, I touched the tip with my finger, it gave a throb of pleasure, I
went on without meaning, almost without knowing, the pleasure came and spunk shot out. I had frigged myself unintentionally again.
I watched my penis shrink, its tension lessen, its high colour go, then came the feeling of disgust at myself that I have always felt after frigging, a disgust not quite absent even when done by the little hands of fair friends, to whose quims I was paying similar delicate attentions. I was able to pull up the skin again, but the soreness got worse, I told the poor girl that my prick was very sore, and that I
thought it strange. It did not wound her feelings, for she did not know
my suspicions. The next morning being no better, I with much hesitation told a college friend, he looked at my prick, and thought it either clap
or pox. Frightened to go to our own doctor, I at his advice went to a chemist, who did a little business in such matters; we dealt there, but
my friend assured me that the man never opened his mouth to any one, if youths consulted him, and many he knew had.
With quaking I said to the chemist, that I had something the matter with
my thing. "What?" said he. "I don't know." "Let me see it." I began
to beg him not to mention it to my mother, or anyone. "Don't waste my time," said he, "show it to me, if you want my advice." Out I pulled it
as small as could be, but still with the skin over it. "Have you been with a woman?" said he. "Yes." He looked at my shirt, there was no
discharge, then he laid hold of my prick with both hands, and with force
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pulled the skin right down, I howled. He told me there was nothing the matter with me, that the skin was too tight, that a snip would set me to rights, and advised me soon to have it done, saying, "it will save you trouble and money if you do, and add to your pleasure." I declined. "Another day then." "No." He laughed and said, "Well, time will cure you, if you go on as you have began," gave me a lotion, and in three days I was pretty right: warm water I expect would have had the same effect. I had simply torn the skin in taking the virginity.
Of course I wanted Charlotte again, she seemed in no way to help me, and used to cry, still there was a wonderful difference between then, and
before the happy consummation: she tried to prevent my hands going up her petticoats, but once up objections ceased, and my hands would rove
about on the outside and inside of all, we stood and kissed at every opportunity. "When shall we do it again?" she replied "Never!" for she was sure it would bring punishment on us both.
I neglected my studies absolutely; all I thought about was her, and how to get at her, it must have been a week or more before I did. Ready for any risk, that day my mother was out, I came home, had the early dinner; the cook after that always went up to dress, or as she said, clean
herself, and there she always was an hour. Waiting till I heard her go up, I went into the garden parlour, where as usual Charlotte was with my little brother. Going at her directly, I was refused, but now how different, once she would not rest until my hand was altogether away
from her. Now I begged and besought her, with my hand up her clothes,
my fingers on her quim. No--if we had not been found out before, we were
fortunate, but never, never, would she do it again; was I mad? did I
wish to ruin her? was not the cook upstairs? might she not come down,
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whilst we did it? how light the room was (the sun was coming in). I dropped the blinde, her resistance grew less, as her cunt felt my twiddling. "No--now no--oh what a plague you are; hush! it is the cook." I open the door, listen, there is no one stirring. "What will she think
if she finds you here?" "What does it matter; now do--let me,--I'll bolt the door, if she comes I will get under the sofa, you say you don't know how it got bolted." Such was my innocent device, but it sufficed,
for both were hot in lust. I bolted it. My prick is out, I pull her
reluctant hand on to it, my hands are groping now, but too impatient for dallying, I push her down on the sofa--that dear cunt. "Don't hurt me so much again, oh don't push so hard." Oh! what delight! in a minute we are spending, together this time.
I unlock the door, go back to the dining-room, she strolls out into the garden, cook speaks to her out of the window. "Where is master Wattie?" "In the dining-room I suppose." Soon out I stroll into the garden,
play with Tommy of course, she can scarcely look me in the face, she is
blushing like a rose. "Was it not lovely, Charlotte, is not your thing wet?" In she rushes with Tom, soon I follow, cook is still upstairs. "Come, be quick." Again the bolt, again we fuck, she walks off into the garden with Tommy, and her cunt full, and cook and she chat from the window. How we laughed about it afterwards.
Modesty retired after this, we gave way to our inclinations, she refusing but always letting me if we got a chance! We were still green and timid, at the end of three weeks we only had done it a dozen times or so, always with the cook in the house, always with fear. I was
longing for complete enjoyment of all my senses, had never yet seen
her cunt, except for a minute at a time, was mad for "the naked limb
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entwined with limb," and all I had read of in amatory poetry. I had gained years in boldness and manhood, and although nervous, began to practice what I had heard.
I heard of accommodation houses, where people could have bedrooms and no questions were asked; and found one not far from my aunt's, although
she lived in the best quarter of London. Just before Charlotte's day
out, I went to my aunt, complained of my mother's meanness, and she gave me a sovereign. On my way home, I loitered a full hour in the street
with the baudy house, marked it so as to know it in the day,