Jacky S - Suburban Souls, Book II

To lull Lilian into security I thank her for having sent for me and she alludes to how I said she sickened me, when she sent me a sudden summons by wire last September. She also spoke of my birthday, and remembered the date well. I merely quote these two facts to show that her brain was clear on technical points, and although she was artful enough to give no sign, all I had ever written to her all I had ever said, had always gone right home to the mark, remained in her memory. No doubt she read my letters over and over again. Poor, miserable Lilian!

The girls kiss and say good night. We put Charlotte in a cab, and off she goes to her home, somewhere beyond the Bastille. Lilian has a little jealous scene about my freedom with her friend, as Lolotte had taken off her glove and held my hand and tickled it. We go for a ride to the Eastern station, to catch the 10:30 to Sonis. I am not to get out of the cab at the station, so as not to be seen by the neighbors who might be taking this train, or anybody, or somebody.

“When shall we meet again?” I ask.

“I don't know. You are aware how difficult it is for me to get to Paris.”

“It used to be difficult. It ought not to be difficult now.”

No answer.

I tell her I shall masturbate her in the cab. We get in. We exchange hot and luscious kisses, as we have been doing all the evening, more or less. After a lot of resistance, with cries of: “People will see us! Oh! They are looking, etc.,” I get my hand up her clothes. I pull down the blinds. She pulls them up. At last, I overcome her feigned resistance and begin to excite her with my finger.

She has on her best drawers, and to my surprise, her cleft, generally smelling strong of the wonderful odor peculiar to the sex, is quite inodorous. It has evidently been freshly washed after dinner. My fingers afterwards were entirely without any feminine perfume. I knew also that a virgin's vulva is always more fragrant than that of a woman used to coition. I remembered that when her people were at Nice at January, she had a dinner at Narkola's, with Madame Rosenblatt and her male relations, who had purposely sent a false telegram to her Granny. Of course that was a cock-and-bull story. Here is Narkola's again! Had I chosen, I could have gone there the next day, and inquired about an imaginary earring dropped by the young lady in the red dress, but I really was now quite indifferent, and would not have walked twenty yards to find out anything about her. I had spied upon her in Brussels-that was enough.

Suddenly, while gently caressing her clitoris, I turned half round, so as to get almost facing her, and placing my right forearm under her chin, on her throat, I drive her backwards into her corner of the cab, and while she is thus pressed there, unable to move, thrust the middle finger of my left hand as far up her vagina as I can, until it is stopped by the knuckles.

I measure my finger next day finding 2 inches, and my hand is small.

The 2 inches of medius go up easily. I move my finger about inside, with a slight corkscrew motion. Within all is soft and damp, but not wet from randiness, only from the drink. She has not left me to void her urine since 9 p.m. She shrieks loudly and says:

“You hurt me! You hurt me!”

She struggles, but I have her tightly jammed in the corner. I find that her grotto is strangely altered. The outer lips were always very fleshy, but inside all was small, and the skin tightly drawn together, as on a thin hand. Now it is very fat, mellow, and as I said, not wet, as she was not feeling “naughty.” My finger went in as in butter, and she has now evidently what I should call a large, fat gap, which has been properly stroked, doubtless by big, manly tools. But then, having been used that evening, it might be a little puffed up, as women's parts are after connection.

I cried out: “You are no longer a virgin! No longer a maid! Now I shall be able to have complete intercourse with you!”

I took my finger out and released her. She made a wry face, as she put down her clothes, saying:

“Oh, you did hurt me! But I'm still a virgin. Your finger went in because it was not in the right place. You were between the two!”

Possibly meaning just under the clitoris and above the hymen. I need not stop to point out the absurdity of this anatomical statement.

“You are a virgin? Bosh!”

“I swear I am! On my mother's life, I swear I am still intact!”

I was so delighted at having attained my object, that I did not realize the contemptible horror of the situation. It was only afterwards, when I was alone, that I gauged the depths of Lilian's baseness. At the moment, curiously enough, I thought of how I should describe the scene in my book. I saw it all in print, and it seemed comic and unreal, as if it was happening to someone else, and I was but the spectator of my own disgusted self. But there was a glorious warmth of triumph thrilling through my veins. I felt like a detective who, after many months, has run his man down, and at last got the handcuffs on a criminal. I do believe that if I had found she really was a virgin, I should have been disappointed to find a maidenhead. It would have seemed like a monstrosity. Never did a surgeon operating on some special case of hidden cancer feel more awful, intense joy than I did at that critical juncture.

“Come,” said I, laughing, “and I'll finish you gently.”

She was now quiet and subdued, and expected likely enough a storm of reproaches. She kissed me and let me put my hand up her clothes without any show of revolt. I began again to manipulate her rosebud, but naturally enough, she had no enjoyment. Then I got very stiff, but not too much, as I had been indulging that afternoon, and I got it out and put her hand on it.

She caressed and agitated it a little. Seeing we were getting near the station and having a sudden desire for her hot mouth, which I knew would make me ejaculate in a jiffy, better than her awkward pulling at me with her gloved hand, I said:

“Give me your mouth, Lilian!”

She shook her head, and kept on with the movements of her fingers. I take her hand away and say:

“I must have your lips and tongue, Lilian!”

She sulks and turns her back to me, looking out of the window.

“Well, I'll masturbate myself!”

“Oh, no, don't do that!”

“I will! I'll spend alone! And you can go to the man with no fingernails!”

At this rude remark, which called up the vision of the hands of her mother's lover, to my astonishment she turns round and kisses me. She was so pleased to find I showed jealousy of the wrong person. She was waiting for a scene about the people she had dined with. Out comes her hand again. I push it away, and rub my member a little, like a schoolboy. She turns her head away again, and to give her a chance, I say:

“I suppose your stays prevent you stooping down?”

She, the fool, cannot take my handsome hint, but has turned her back once more entirely towards me, and does not answer.

So I, in despair, cover myself up and button my pants. At this moment, we are just nearing the station.

Seeing this, she is evidently delighted that all is over for the evening, and turning, draws me towards her, gently patting my cheek with her hand, her arm resting on my shoulder, as I had often seen her with her Papa. At this Judas-like caress, I confess that I felt myself boiling over with rage.

She has disdainfully refused me her lips, without a word of excuse, although I have not spent with her since the first of March, and have not had her mouth since the first of October.

If she had said: “I am tired. How can I suck you in my tight stays, new dress, jacket and hat?” I would willingly have excused her, especially as I was not very lustful just then. But she had not even taken off a glove. Her stroke on my cheek meant: “Now that it is too late to suck him, I'll make it up with the idiot.”