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| H. Spencer Ashbee, Victorian bibliographer and diarist |
My Machine Buried! |
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A housemaid arrived just as I came home from college . . . She was a little over seventeen years, had ruddy lips, beautiful teeth, darkish hair, hazel eyes and a slightly turned-up nose, large shoulders and breasts, was plump, generally of fair height and looked eighteen or nineteen; her name was Charlotte. . .
I opened my door, she gave a loud shriek and retreated to her room; in a few minutes more, hugging, kissing, begging, threatening, I know not how; she was partly on the bed, her clothes up in a heap, I on her with my prick in my hand, I saw the hair, I felt the slit and not knowing then where the hole was or much about it, excepting that it was between her legs, shoved my prick there with all my might. "Oh! You hurt, I shall be ill," said she, "Pray don't." Had she said she was dying I should not have stopped. The next instant a delirium of my senses came, my prick throbbing and as if hot lead was jetting from it, at each throb; pleasure mingled with light pain in it, and my whole frame quivering with emotion; my sperm left me for a virgin cunt, but fell outside it, though on to it.
Frightened as I was, I yet took the opportunity her partial insensibility gave me, lifted her clothes quietly, and saw her cunt and my spunk on it. Roused by that, she pushed her clothes half down feebly and got to the side of the bed. I loving, begging pardon, kissing her, for I thought I had done her. Not a word could I get, but she looked me in the face beseechingly, begging me to go. I had no such intention, my prick was again stiffening, I pulled it out, the sight of her cunt had stimulated me, she looked with languid eyes at me, her cap was off, her hair hanging about her head, her dress torn near her breast. More so than she had ever looked was she beautiful to me, success made me bold, on I went insisting, she seemed too weak to withstand me. "Don't, oh pray, don't," was all she said as, pushing her on the bed, I threw myself on her and again put my doodle on to the slit now wet with my sperm. I was, though cooler, stiff as a poker, but my sperm was not so ready to flow, as it was in after days, at a second poke, for I was very young; but nature did all for me; my prick went to the proper channel, there stopped by something it battered furiously. "Oh, you hurt, oh!" she cried aloud. The next instant something seemed to tighten round its knob, another furious thrust — another — a sharp cry of pain (resistance was gone), and my prick was buried up her. I looked at her, she was quiet, her cunt seemed to close on my prick, I put my hand down, and felt round. What rapture to find my machine buried! Nothing but the balls to be touched, and her cunt hair wetted with my sperm, mingling and clinging to mine; in another minute nature urged a crisis, and I spent in a virgin cunt, my prick virgin also. Thus ended my first fuck. (London, c. 1850)
from My Secret Life Volumes X-XI, Introduction by Gershon Legman (Castle Books, © 1966)
© 2001 Nerve.com, Inc.
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