I assured her that I had not.
'Then in that case,' said Emma, 'I shall have some virgin spoil tonight.' And passing her hand under my nightshirt, she took hold of my prick with a quick movement that surprised me, and although it was proudly erect and seemed ready to burst, she worked it up and down between her thumb and forefinger till I was fairly maddened.
'Oh! for God's sake,' I murmured, 'don't do that, I shall die.'
'Not yet, my darling,' she said, taking hold of me and lifting me, for she was a girl of enormous muscular power, on top of her. 'Not until I have eased my own pain and yours too.'
Emma called passion pain, and I have since proved her to be some sort of a philosopher. I have carefully analysed that terrible feeling which immediately precedes the act of emission, and find pain the only proper word to express it.
I struggled with her at first, for in my innocence I scarcely knew what to make of her rapid action, but I had not long to remain in doubt.
Holding my prick in her left hand and gently easing back the prepuce, which had long since broken its ligature, though through no self-indulgence on my part, she brought it within the lips of her orifice, and then with a quick jerk which I have since thought was almost professional, I found myself buried to the extreme hilt in a sea of bliss.
I instinctively found myself moving up and down with the regular see-saw motion that friction will unconsciously compel, but I need not have moved, for Emma could have managed the whole business herself.
The movement of her hips and her hands, which firmly grasped the cheeks of my fat young arse, soon produced the desired result, and in my ecstasy I nearly fainted.
At first I thought that blood in a large quantity had passed from me and I whispered to Emma that the sheets would be stained red, and then Mamma would know, but she soon quieted my fears.
'What an extraordinary prick you have, Master James, for one so young. Why it's bigger than your father's.'
'How do you know that?' I asked, surprised more than ever.
'Well, my dear, that would be telling,' she said, 'but now that you have tried what a woman is like, what do you think of it?'
'I think it's simply splendid,' was my response; and indeed, although long years of varied experience may have dulled the wild ardour of youth, and a fuck is hardly the mad excitement which it was, I should find it difficult to improve upon the answer I gave to Emma.
Twice more I essayed valiantly to escalade the fortress of my inamorata, and each time she expressed astonishment to think a mere child should have such 'grit' in him.
All at once I heard a slight noise on the stairs, and thinking it was my mother, hastily slunk under the bed; the candle was still burning.
'Are you asleep, Emma?' whispered a low voice. It was my father's.
'Lor', sir,' she said, 'I hope the missus didn't hear you coming up. I thought you said it was to be tomorrow.'
'I did,' replied my father, 'but to tell you the truth I couldn't wait. I put a drop of laudanum in your mistress's glass of grog just before retiring, so she's safe enough.'
And this man called himself my father? I need scarcely say I lost all my respect for him from that moment.
Not another word was passed, but peeping from my hiding-place I saw by the shadow on the wall that my father was preparing for immediate action, yet he went about it a very different way from me.
He insisted upon her taking his penis into her mouth, which at first she refused, but after some little solicitation and a promise that she should go to the 'fairing' which was to be held on the following Friday, she finally consented, and to see my father's shadow wriggling about on the wall while his arse described all manner of strange and to me
unnatural contortions, was a sight that even at this distance of time never fails to raise a smile whenever I think of it.
Presently the old man shouted out, 'Hold on, Emma, that's enough, let's put it in now.'
But Emma was shrewd; she knew what a frightfully drowned-out condition her fanny was in and felt sure my father, with his experience, would smell a rat, so she held on to his tool with her teeth and refused to let go till my father, between passion and pain, forced it away from her. But judge of his disgust when he found himself spending before he could reach the seat of bliss.
His curses took my breath away.
'You silly bitch,' he said, 'you might have known I couldn't stand that long,' and still muttering despondent oaths, he got out of bed to make water.
Now unfortunately the chamber pot was close to my head, and Emma's exhaustion after the quadruple performance was so great that for the moment she forgot me.
The exclamation of my father as he stooped down and caught sight of his eldest boy recalled her to herself.
I would rather draw a veil over the scene that ensued. Suffice it to say that Emma received a month's wages in the morning, and I was packed off to a boarding school.
My mother had not slept so soundly as my father had fondly hoped. Whether the laudanum was not of first-rate quality, or her instincts were prematurely sharp, I have never been able to determine, but I do know that before my rather had dragged me from underneath Emma's bed on that eventful night he was saluted from behind with a blow
from a little bedroom poker, which would have sent many a weaker constitutioned man to an untimely grave.
CHAPTER 3
Having in the last two chapters related my first boyhood experience in love, I think it will equal any to be found in works of greater fame, but I do not intend to weary you with any further relations of my early successes on the Venusian warpath.
I pass over the period of my youth and very early manhood, leaving you to imagine that my first lesson with Emma and my father as joint instructors was by no means thrown away.
Yet I found at the age of thirty that I was only on the threshold of mysteries far more entrancing. I had up to that time been a mere man of pleasure, whose ample fortune (for my father, who had grown rich, did not disinherit me when he died) sufficed to procure any of those amorous delights without which the world would be a blank to me.
But further than the ordinary pleasures of the bed I had not penetrated.
'The moment was, however, approaching when all these would sink into insignificance before those greater sensual joys which wholesome and well-applied flagellation will always confer upon its devotees.' I quote the last sentence from a well-known author, but I'm far from agreeing with it in theory or principle.
I was emerging one summer's evening from the Cafe Royal in Regent Street, when De Vaux, a friend of long standing whom I was with, nodded to a gentleman passing in a hansom who at once stopped the cab and got out.
'Who is it?' I said, for I felt a sudden and inexplicable interest in his large lustrous eyes, eyes such as I have never before seen in any human being.
'That is Father Peter, of St Martha of the Angels. He is a bircher, my boy, and one of the best in London.'
At this moment we were joined by the Father and a formal introduction took place.
I had frequently seen admirable cartes of Father Peter, or rather, as he preferred to be called, Monsignor Peter, in the shop windows of the leading photographers, and at once accused myself of being a dolt not to have recognised him at first sight.
Descriptions are wearisome at the best, yet were I a clever novelist given to the art, I think I might even interest those of the sterner sex in Monsignor Peter, but although in the following paragraph I faithfully delineate him, I humbly ask his pardon if he should perchance in the years to come glance over these pages and think I have not painted his portrait in colours sufficiently glowing, for I must assure my readers that Father Peter is no imaginary Apollo, but one who in the present year of grace, 1883, lives, moves, eats, drinks, fucks and flagellates with all the verve and dash he possessed at the date I met him first, now twenty-five years ago.