You know, it’s easy to forget how quickly summer semesters move until you’ve signed up for one again, I’m finding. I’m currently taking a course in genetics and a course in maternal and child health, so, in a normal semester, this wouldn’t amount to very much work. However, normal semesters are about 17 weeks long, whereas summer semesters are about 10 weeks long, and the same amount of material is taught in both no matter what class you take. Hence, I have been saddled with twice the amount of work I would normally receive during a fall or spring semester, and I will take my fourth test in just over a week on Monday.
I am burnt the bloody fuck out, and it doesn’t end until late July.
So, since I’m busy being a good schoolgirl and have little sexiness of my own to impart at the moment, I’ve brought you all a present. I have a wealth of new sexy books that I’ve amassed within the last month and a half, and I’m deeper into some of them than others. One of these sexy books is actually not a sexy book at all, really. It was written by an unknown man (supposedly) in the Victorian era of London, and it details as many different sexcapades as roughly 580 pages can hold. Some of them are hot, some of them are funny, some of them are sad, some of them are scary, and many of them are sick as hell.
All that being said, I quite like it lol.
The book goes by the title My Secret Life: An Erotic Diary of Victorian London, and I have managed to slowly make my way through the first 24 chapters of it. As opposed to reading it leisurely throughout my spare amounts of free time in the day, picking it up has become something of a bedtime ritual on nights that I have trouble sleeping, which results in some interesting dreams. The best of these dreams came after I finished my favorite chapter of all… chapter 12.
Soon after I read it, my internet service provider had a major meltdown and I was without internet access for quite a while. It was a period of rest from exams and quizzes and responsibilities, so I decided to pass the time by typing up the chapter just to read it again, enjoy it more slowly, and possibly share it at some point.
Welcome to some point, kids.
Now, because it was written in the 1800s, the verbiage is of an odd sort, and some of the main phrases had me stumped for several chapters. I pinpointed the odd ones that stuck out to me and defined them as best as I could underneath the character list, just to help it all make sense. Once you get past the unique wording and find yourself in the middle of the centuries-old debauchery, I know several of you will find this not to your tastes, several more of you will be too ashamed to admit that it is to your tastes, and the rest of you will revel in it… so be mindful of that before you delve into this venture. This book is admittedly not for everyone, but it’ll stay in my library for a long time to come.
Without further ado… Enjoy.
❤ Goldy ❤
~*~
Characters:
Walter (the narrator)
Fred (Walter’s cousin)
Laura (Fred’s live-in girlfriend of several years)
Lord A*** (also called Adolphus)
Lady A*** (also called Marie)
Mabel (the girl Walter is fucking and the girl/friend who lives in Laura’s and Fred’s house)
Key Phrases:
**“Directly”: used as “directly after”, ie—it’ll say “directly we had fucked we were to return…” and it means “directly AFTER we had fucked we were to return…”
**“Frig/Frigged”: used as “masturbate(d)” or the equivalent of someone giving a handjob
**“She had been gay”: still figuring this one out because he never explains it… but I’m fairly sure it means “she had slept with another woman” at any point in time, even if just once
**“Spent”: used as “got off”/“came”/“orgasmed”, etc.
**“We had better stop”: used as “we had better spend the night” at someone’s house
My Secret Life: Chapter XII
For brevity I compress the events of the next few months; it is a pity, but it would print to three times the length otherwise. I was mostly in London. One or two funny whoring incidents I must leave out altogether, and for the same reason: brevity.
An intimate friend of Fred’s was Lord A***, he lived with a lady who was called Lady A***. I don’t think she had been gay, and in that respect resembled Laura and Mabel. The three women were much together. We often saw Lord A***, and all became friends. Lord A*** was not very true to his lady. He lived in B*t*n Street, where he had at that time the whole of a handsomely furnished house, but only could half occupy it. His in-door servants were a middle-aged woman who cooked, a maid who was her niece, and his valet, who waited at table as well. A woman who did not sleep in the house came daily. He had grooms and a coachman, but not in the house. Lord A*** had quarreled with his father. He had been in the Guards, and drank very freely.
He invited us one night to dinner, and gave a splendid one. By the time we had finished, we were all noisy. It was never our custom to use baudy language when in each other’s company, Laura had a great aversion to it. Mabel liked me to talk baudy to her, but did not talk it herself. Fred always after dinner would let out a warm word or so, and was at once snubbed by Laura. For all that our conversation after diner was generally warm with double entente.
On the night in question our conversation got to open voluptuousness. Fred and Lord A*** went in for it, Mabel laughed, Laura hished and hished, said she would leave, but at last gave way, as did Lady A***; then we men got to lewedness. Whenever any sensuous allusion was made, my eyes sought Laura’s, hers seeking mine; we were both thinking of the quiet and quick fuck we had, with Mabel snoring by our side. We compared our thoughts on that night, but at a future day.
Just at that time a case filled the public journals. It was a charge of rape on a married woman, against a man lodging in the same house. She was the wife of a printer on the staff of a daily paper, who came home extremely late; she always went to bed leaving her door unlocked, so that her husband might get in directly he came home. The lodger was a friend of her husband’s, and knew the custom of leaving the door unlocked,—in fact he was a fellow-printer.
She awakened in the night with the man between her thighs, had opened them readily, thinking it was her husband. It appears to have been her habit, and such her husband’s custom on returning home, or so she said. The lodger had actually all but finished his fuck, before she awakened sufficiently to find out that it was not the legitimate prick which was probing her. Then she alarmed the house, and gave the man in charge for committing a rape. The papers delicately hinted that the operation was complete before the woman discovered the mistake,—but of course it left much to the reader’s imagination.
Fred read this aloud. I knew more, for the counsel of the prisoner was my intimate friend. He had told me that the prisoner had had her twice, that she had spent with him; that he had often said he meant to go in, and have her, that she had dared him to do it, and that she only made a row when she thought she heard her husband at the door on the landing, although it was two hours before his usual time of return. His prick was in her when she began the outcry.
With laughter and smutty allusions we discussed the case. “Absurd,” said Laura, “she must have known it was not her husband.” “Why?” “Why because—,” and Laura stopped. “If you were asleep, and suddenly felt a man on you of about my size, and his prick up you, very likely you would not tell if it were mine or not,” said Fred. Laura threw an apple at his head. Decency was banished from that moment, a spade was called a spade, and unveiled baudiness reigned.
“I should know if it were not you,” said Lady A*** looking at Lord A***. “How?” “Ah! I should,—should you not know another woman from Laura in the dark?” said she to Fred. “I am not sure for the moment if with a woman just for size, and as much hair on her cunt,” said he. “I tell you what Fred, I won’t have it,” said Laura ill-tempered, “talk about someone else, I won’t have beastly talk about me.” “I’ll bet,” said I, “that if the ladies were to feel our pricks in the dark, they would not tell whose they each had hold of.” Roars of laughter followed. “I should like to try,” said Mabel. “So should I,” said another. “Would you know, if you felt us?” said one woman. “If I felt all your cunts in the dark, I’ll bet I should know Marie’s,” said Lord A***. “That is, if you felt all round and about,” said Fred, “but not if she opened her legs, and you only felt the notch.” “I think I should.” “Why?—Is she different from the others?” Lord A*** was about to say something when Marie told him to shut up.
So we went on, the men in lascivious language, the women in more disguised terms, discussing the probabilities of distinguishing cunts or pricks by a simple feel in the dark. Each remark caused roars of laughter, the women whispered to each other, and laughed at their own sayings. Lewedness had seized us all, the women’s eyes were brilliant with voluptuous desire. More wine was drunk. “Call it by its proper name,” said Lord A*** when Marie remarked that a woman must know her own man’s thing. “Prick then.” “I will bet five pounds that Mabel would not guess my prick in the dark, if she felt all of us,” said I. “And I’ll bet,” said another. “Shall we try?” said Fred. “Yes,” said Mabel, more fuddled than the rest. Baudier and baudier, we talked, laughed, and drank, and at length set to work to make rules for trying, all talking at once.
One proposed one way, one another. “I can’t tell unless I feel balls as well,” said a woman. “Will they be stiff when we feel?” said another. “Mine will,” said Fred, “it’s stiff already.” “So is mine,” added I.
“How shall we know where to put our hands, if we are in the dark?” said Lady A***. “If a man is in front of you, you will find it fast enough,” answered someone. Laura had now yielded to the baudy contagion, and we made no objection, though Mabel and Lady A*** were the most forward. Then Lord A*** rang the bell, and told his valet he might go out for the night, and his housekeeper and maid they might go to bed, which they did at the top of the house, as we supposed. The sequel proved that to be doubtful, and that they must have had a most edifying night.
After lewed squabbles we arranged that each man was to give the woman if she guessed the prick right, ten pounds; the men were to be naked, the women to feel all the men’s cocks, and give a card to him whose prick she thought she knew. The room was to be dark. No man was to speak, or give any indication by laughing, coughing, or any other way, under penalty of paying all the bets. The women were to lose if they spoke, or gave indications of who they were.
I took three cards, and wrote the name of a lady on each of them. Then each lady took her card, and they went upstairs to the bed-room pell-mell and laughing. The women were to stand of a row in a certain order against a side of the room, we to follow in an order they did not know. They were to feel all pricks twice, each giving her card to the man at the second feel, if she knew the prick. We undressed to our shirts, took off our rings, so as to leave no indications, and in that condition entered the room. The dining-room door we closed, there was no light on the first-floor lobby, nor in the bed-room, for we had to put out the fire there. So holding each other by the shoulder, we entered, closed the door, and we were all in the room together in the dark.
We lifted our shirts, and closed on the women, each of whom in turn felt our pricks. One felt mine as if she meant to pull it off. On the second feeling, we got somehow mixed, a slight tittering of women began, some one hished, and the tittering ceased. Two hands touched me at the same time, but one withdrew directly she touched the other’s hand. A card was put into my hand, afterwards another card touched me, and was withdrawn. After waiting a minute, I nudged the man next me. “Have you all given cards?” shouted the man. “Yes,” shouted the three women at once. Then we all burst out laughing, and the men went downstairs, leaving the women all talking at once like Bedlam broke loose.
Looking at our cards, we found that each woman had guessed rightly her man’s prick; but we changed our cards, and called out to the women who came rushing down like mad. “Not one of you has guessed right,” said I, “you have all lost your bets.” “I’ll swear I’m right,” said Lady A***, “it’s Adolphus that I gave my card to.” This set us all questioning at once. “What makes you so sure?” “She says it’s very long and thin,” said Mabel, “and so it is.” “Hold your tongue,” said Marie. “I felt it,” said Mabel. “They all seemed the same to me,” said Laura, “and one of you pushed my hand away.” “It was I,” said Fred, “you wanted to feel too much, you nearly frigged me.” “Oh! What a lie.” Then we told the truth, and that each woman has won, which caused much noisy satisfaction, then we had more wine, we men still with naked legs.
I have told all I can recollect with exactitude, but there was lots more said and done. Fred pulled up Lord A***’s shirt, his cock was not stiff. “That’s not how it was when I felt it,” said Mabel. “You’ve guessed pricks, but for all that you would not know who fucked you in the dark.” “We should,” cried out all the women. “Let’s try,” said Lord A***. “All right,” said Mabel. “We are not prostitutes,” said Laura. “A little free fucking will be jolly, let’s take turns about all round,” said Fred. Then the room resounded with our laughter, all spoke baudily at once, every second, “prick,” “cunt,” “fuck,” was heard from both men and women,—it was a perfect Babel of lasciviousness.
“I’ll be ten pounds a woman doesn’t guess who fucks her,” said Lord A***. We echoed him. The women laughed, but led by Laura, refused, and squabbled. All wanted the bet to come off, but did not like to admit it. We had more champagne, the men put on their trowsers, we kissed all round, and talked over the way of deciding such a bet, the women got randier, one showed her leg to another, and at length all the women agreed to take part in the orgie.
The rest I shall tell as truthfully as I can. The drink and excitement I was under makes it difficult; but I will tell nothing I am not quite sure of. We arranged a plan with such noise and talking, that God knows how it was arranged at all. Where were we to poke? —in the bed-room? Impossible, there was but one large bed in Lady A***’s room, and one in the back room. How were we to fuck all together? We all rushed upstairs, took all the beds and pillows from both rooms, and from the upper rooms, and pit them on the floor in the large room, making one long bed, after moving aside the furniture. The fire had been put out. All this was done with shouts and yells, a fearful lascivious riot.
The women were to lie down in an order known to us, Lady A*** nearest to the door, and so on. There was to be absolute silence. Each man as he knelt between the woman’s legs was to put a card with a number on it under her pillow. We men knew which number each had, the women were not to know which man was to have her, directly we had fucked we were to return, each woman was to produce her card, and guess who had been up her, they were to be in their chemises, we in our shirts. I never shall forget the looks of the women as they went upstairs to arrange themselves for the fucking, but think that they scarcely knew the rules of what they were to do.
The women undressed quickly enough, for we had scarcely had time to tie up our faces in napkins to prevent our whiskers being noticed (Lord A*** had none), before a voice shouted out, “We are ready.” Then with shirts on only, up we men went. I only recollect kneeling down between Lady A***’s legs (we had agreed among ourselves how to change our women), giving a card, feeling a cunt, and putting my prick into it, then hearing the rustling of limbs, hard breathing, sighing, and moans of pleasure of the couples fucking fast and furiously; of my brain whirling, of a maddening sensuality delighting me as I clasped the buttocks of Lady A***, and fucked her.
We must have spent nearly all together, none when we compared after recollected more than his own performance. All were quiet. I was feeling round my prick which was still in Lady A***’s cunt, when a light flashed powerfully through the room. That devil Fred had risen, and lighted several lucifers, which then was done by dipping them in a bottle,—they were expensive. What a sight was disclosed at a glance!
All three women lay with chemises up to their navels, Lady A*** on her back, I on the top of her (rising rapidly at the light). Next to her Mabel seemingly asleep with thighs wide open. Fred kneeling between them, holding the lighted matches, Laura on her back with open thighs, eyes closed, Lord A*** cuddling, but nearly off of her by her side, and his prick laying on her thigh. The women shrieked, and began pulling down their chemises. I swore at Fred, the women joined chorus. “Most ungentlemanly,” said Laura, getting up. That got up Lord A***. Mabel lay still on her back as if ready to be stroked again. But all was said. In a minute the lucifers burnt out, and it was dark again. Scuffing up, we men went downstairs, leaving the women chattering. Soon after, down they came, looking screwed, lewed, and annoyed that the bets were off, and all chattering at once.
Mabel was quarrelsome. “You,” said she, turning to Lady A***, “said that your husband’s thing was long and thin, you tried to mislead me in the bet, you wanted to make me lose.” They had evidently been discussing their men’s pricks.
“So you have been telling how each of us fucks,” said Fred. Laura denied it. “We did,” said Mabel. “It’s a lie, Mabel, if you say it again, I’ll tell something more than you will like to hear about yourself.” Mabel retorted, Lady A*** chimed in. It was a Babel of quarrelsome lewed women, with their cunts full.
I feared a row, and that Mabel might after all know more about my having had Laura, the night we all three slept in the same bed, than I cared for; so I pacified them. Fred said we had better try again, Laura objected. “Oh! Yes, Mrs. Modest,” said Mabel. “When you found out it was not Fred, why didn’t you cry out?” “I didn’t know,” said Laura. “Ah! Ah! the printer’s wife,” we shouted, then more baudy talk, recriminations, and squabbling. Laura said she should go home, Fred said she might go by herself. Lord A***, who had half fallen asleep, said it was too late, and we had better stop. Some one said we could soon again make the beds comfortable in the upper rooms. “That be damned,” said Fred, “we will all sleep on the floor as they are now.” “Free fucking forever,” said I. Laura said I was a blackguard, Mabel said she should like it, Lady A*** said she didn’t care, if Adolphus didn’t, Adolphus said any cunt would suit him. He was reeling drunk as he spoke.
All this time we were in shirts and chemises. One woman had thrown a shawl over her, one a petticoat, but their breasts flashed out, their arms were naked, their legs showing to their knees, the men were naked to their knees in their shirts. The scene was exciting, the women hadn’t washed their cunts, Fred said so. Mabel asking him if he was sure of it. No, he would feel. Laura told him he must be drunk, and was a beast. “Drunk?” said he, “look here.” He turned a somersault, and stood on his hands and head, his heels against the wall, his back-side in the air, his pricks and cods falling downwards over his belly, his shirt over his head. Lady A*** took up a bunch of grapes, and dashed it on his ballocks. Then we chased the women round the room, tried to feel them, and they us. It was like hell broke loose, till we agreed to sleep on the floor together anyhow.
No lights; lights and piss-pots were put in the back bed-room,—a woman suggested that. “You’re frightened of farting,” said someone. The women went up to make the beds more comfortable, took more blankets, etc., from the upper rooms, whilst we men fetched the candles from the kitchen, the others being well nigh burnt out. The women had washed their cunts, we had more wine, and then we all were pretty well screwed, and Lord A*** pretty drunk when we went up to them.
Up to that time I was sufficiently sober to know all I have written, and plenty more. Surely I could tell a lot more of our conversation, but it would prolong the tale too much. After the last bottle of champagne I was groggy, recollect less clearly, was in a half-sleepy, feverish, excited, and bawdy state, my sleep was broken by others, but when awake my prick stood immediately, and I moved all night from one woman to another, fucking, and then dozing.
To satisfy Laura, and keep up a sort of appearance, we had said we would only have our own women, who were again to lay in a certain order. Directly they had left the room, we agreed to change. A*** doggedly insisted on having Mabel, so I was to take Laura, and Fred Lady A***. It was such a lark. My prick was up Laura when she cried, “It’s not you, Fred.” Then there were simultaneous exclamations, “I’m not Mabel,” — “What a lovely cunt!” — “Leave me alone!” — “Feel my big prick,” — “Damn, a cunt’s a cunt,” hiccupped Lord A***. “Oh!—ah!” — “Ha! My love fuck, — My darling, oh!” — kiss, kiss, — spending, — “aha!” — sighs of delight, — “cunt,” — “fuck,” — “Oh!” — “Ah! Ah!” And I fell asleep on Laura amidst this.
Awake again. By my side a wet cunt, a heavy sleeper. Turning round, my legs met naked legs. I stretched out my hand, and felt a prick, perhaps Fred’s, I don’t know. Getting up, I felt my way, stumbling over legs to the wall to the furthest woman, and laid myself on her. “Don’t Adolphus, I’m so sleepy,” said she. The next instant we were fucking. Others awakened. “Where are you?” said someone. Then all moved, one man swore, a hand felt my balls from behind. I was spending, and rolled off the lady, turning my bum to her. Then I touched Mabel, and put my hand on her cunt. A man dropped on her, and touched my hand with his prick. Ejaculations burst out on all sides, the couples were meeting again, then all was quiet, and the fucking done. Then all talked. All modesty was gone, both men and women told their sensations and wants. “You fuck me, — Feel me, — No, I want so and so,” Laura was as lewed as the rest.
Again awakening. A hand was feeling my prick. “Is it you, Laura?” “Yes.” I felt her cunt. “Oh! Let me go and piddle.” But I turned on to her, and we fucked “How wet your cunt is.” “No wonder.”
Again I awakened, someone got up, and fell down. “Hulloa! Who is that?” “I want to piss, and can’t get up,” said Lord A*** in a drunken voice. Someone opened the door, feeble light came across from the back-room, we helped him up and he stumbled along with us men to piss. Then he insisted on going downstairs. He could scarcely stand, so we helped him to the dining-room, we lighted more candles, he swilled more wine, tumbled on to the sofa, where we left him drunk and snoring, and found him snoring the next morning with the hearth-rug over him. We two went back to the women. “I’ve fucked all three,” said Fred.” “So have I.” “Laura’s a damned fine fuck, ain’t she?” Someone shut the room-door opposite, as we reached the landing. We pushed it open. Two ladies were pissing; Marie and Laura. “Where is Mabel?” “Drunk,” replied one. The two were past caring for anything, pissed and went back with us to the bed-room. I took a light there. Mabel was on her back nearly naked, we covered her up, for it was cold. Then I fucked Laura, and Fred, Lady A***. The light we left now on the wash hand-stand, so we looked at each other fucking and enjoyed it, and then we changed women. There was no cunt-washing, we fucked in each other’s sperm, no one cared, all liked it, all were screwed, baudy, reckless, Mabel snoring.
I awakened after a heavy sleep, chilly, feverish, headaching, and thirsty. I drew aside the curtains; it was late, light, but foggy; a nasty winter’s morning. Fred and the three ladies lay snoring, some covered, others partially so, the floor looking as if every article of bed-furniture had been thrown down with a pitch-fork. I drank water, and fucked out as I was, my lubricity was unsatiated. I could not resist gratifying it.
Moving stealthily, I uncovered the sleepers one by one. It was easy enough, as the clothes lay loose and in shapeless heaps. I saw Fred’s prick touching Mabel’s haunch, contemplated Laura’s thick-haired quim, saw spunk on her chemise. She looked lovely. Lady A*** on her back, her hand over her cunt, red stains about her, and on the sheet which I pulled off her,—her poorliness had come on. Mabel on her back looked ready for a man. My cock stiffened, I laid myself on Laura, and awakened her. That awakened Fred who mounted Mabel. Both couples took to the exercise in the foggy day-light, and a long time we were in consummating. “Oh! Do leave off,” said Laura, “I’m so sore.” My prick was excoriated, it had not been for so many a day.
Never have I been in such an orgie before, never since, and perhaps never shall be; but it was one of the most delicious nights I ever spent. So said Fred, so said Mabel; and Laura admitted to me at a future day that she thought the same, and that since, when she frigged herself, she always thought of it, and nothing else.
I thought of nothing else for a long time. Nothing has ever yet fixed itself in my mind so vividly, so enduringly, except my doings with my first woman, Charlotte. At the beginning of my writing these memoirs, this was among the first described. The narrative as then written was double its present length, and I am sorry that I have abbreviated it, for the occurrences as I correct this proof seem to come on too quickly. Whereas we dined at seven o’clock, and it was one o’clock I guess before we all went to bed together, and the stages from simple voluptuousness to riotous baudiness and free-fucking were gradual. At eight o’clock not one of us would have dared to think of, still less to suggest, what we all did freely at midnight.
{Fine.}
When the Lights Go Down... 