Anonymous - The simple tale of Susan Aked

Lucia laughed at my eagerness.

Ah, Susan!' she cried, clasping me in her arms, and kissing me so kindly. 'I can see that it is more from a desire to learn the matter as a science, than to know how to protect your sweet little belly from swelling, that you are so eager about it. Well, darling; though my most particular desire is to teach you how to defend yourself from the deadly effects of an unprotected fuck, however nice it may be at the time, yet, as you wish it, I will give you the history of your womb and ovaries, of what they produce; and of the spend of a man, and what it produces, scientifically, as a doctor, for I know the subject well, having often and often talked it over with doctors, fucking friends and lovers of mine. Don't interrupt me more than you can help, and I will tell you exactly, point by point, what the process is. You know already in theory, and soon, I hope, will know it also by practice, what fucking is-that sweetest, most ravishing of all delights. Fucking is only a means to an end. The real end, in nature, is procreation. Fucking causes the male to part with his fertilising spend. It is wrong to call it “seed,” for the seed is really in the woman, not in the man. The man fertilises it, just as your bees and insects fertilise flowers by shaking the pollen onto the stamens. In every flower there is a cunt, darling.'

'A cunt!' I cried.

'Yes, dearest, a regular, sweet-smelling, beautiful cunt. But most plants have hermaphrodite flowers-i.e., blossoms which contain both the male and the female organs of reproduction. Of these plants, some, however, have male flowers and female flowers quite separate from one another. The bees and other insects go from flower to flower. They accidentally gather pollen from one, and carry it to another. Some of the pollen shakes off them onto the stamens of the second flower, the impregnation takes place-the flower, — the pretty cunt withers and the petals fall off, but the seed swells, ripens and in time is fit for sowing again.'

'But surely a girl's cunt does not wither like that, Lucia?'

'No, darling,' she said, laughing and stroking mine with her slender fingers.'

'Our cunts don't wither, but they certainly are not improved by child bearing. They lose their freshness, and when you consider how much, how greatly they must be expanded by a child, however small, being forced into the world through them, you can imagine such a thing happening as permanent enlargement. But any increase in size-i.e., diameter- materially affects the pleasure of subsequent fucks, and I know that men complain of this enlargement of their wives' cunts. Some get bigger than others; but undoubtedly the best fucks are given by cunts which have never granted the passage of a child into the world. However, I am digressing.'

'Oh, not at all, Lucia! This is most interesting. To think that a rose, for instance, is only another form of a cunt! Oh, fancy talking of a nosegay as a bunch of cunts!'

And I laughed.

'Just so! It is quite true, Susan, and when a gentleman gives you a moss-rose, it is a very direct allusion to your cunt, darling. The flower is the cunt, the moss the bush which grows about it. So if you wore a moss-rose in your bosom, and gave it to a gentleman who is up to sniff, he will at once remember the sweet little mossy cunt, which lies so snug and warm between your lovely thighs.'

'Ah, that is the language of flowers. I see it. Now I know why a moss-rose means love.'

'Just so. Because a woman surrenders her cunt as the gift of love to the man she loves. But we are far from our point, Susan. Let us return to our subject. Men have a pair of balls, as you now know. From these balls proceeds, by a roundabout road, the so-called seed, which, deposited in our cunts, produces babies. But we girls, too, have a pair of balls.'

'Balls! Girls have balls, Lucia?'

'Yes, darling, but inside, deep, somewhere near the backbone. These balls are called ovaries. Once a month a ripe girl has a flow of blood, as it were. It is at this time she is producing eggs.'

'Eggs!'

'Yes, eggs, that are very small indeed, not bigger than a pin's head, but real eggs all the same. There is a tube leading from each ovary to the top of the womb, and down these tubes the eggs travel. It is still a question whether the eggs reach the womb fertilised, or whether they are fertilised in the womb, but that is a question for science to unravel. Our question is, how to prevent them being fertilised? Well, now listen. The womb is an organ about the size of a medium pear. It is pear-shaped. Its broadest part is highest, the stalk end, as it were, which enters our cunts, or vaginas, as doctors call them, at the top. Here there is a small hole in the communication between the womb and the cunt. This hole is very tightly closed, but tight as it is, it can allow the spermatozoids to pass, and there are little filaments, like hairs, extremely small indeed, lining this hole, which continually work, sucking up all they can get to come from the cunt. Well, a man's spend literally swarms with spermatozoids. Hush! I'll tell you what they are, but give me time. They are little microscopic objects, something like tadpoles in shape, having a head and a long tail. They swim, and dart and wriggle about. When a man spends in us, he shoots hundreds of thousands in, which at once dart about in a perfect lake of our spend, corked up in our cunts by the man's big prick. Of course, if the mouth of the womb be left unprotected, all the little reptiles have to do is to walk up the hole and get into the womb, helped by the cilix, which I have spoken of as like little hairs. Even if they don't do it at once, they, or some of them, will remain clinging to the lining of our cunts, and in time they will make for the mouth of the womb and get in. Then somewhere or other, they will meet with our egg, if one is ready. They stick their heads into it, and the mischief is done. The egg is fertilised, and in nine months' time the result will be a fat baby.'

'How wonderful! Lucia, you darling! You can't tell how glad, how delighted I am to learn this. Now I understand why what Martha calls love-children come into the world. I thought that only married women could have babies, yet I knew that some unmarried girls had some too, and I wondered how they got them, as they had no husbands. I can't tell you all the absurd ideas I used to have on this subject. I wish I had a book to read all about it in, with pictures, so that I might be sure I thoroughly understood it all. It would give me great delight. And to think of those marvellous tadpole things! I suppose, then, that the reason some women never have families must be either because their husband shoots no tadpoles into them, or they have no eggs ready?'

'Ah, Susan! That is a subject of which I am ignorant, and I don't think doctors even are agreed about it. But I can only tell you that I would never trust to luck, and go without protection from probable evil results, when I have a man. As to eggs not being ready, why, the worst is that these horrible little tadpoles only ask for a snug, warm, moist place to live in, and there they will remain alive; so that, as the egg is bound to come sooner or later in a healthy woman, the tadpole is equally bound to get at it. Say that one of my lovers was here now, and first fucked me, and then fucked you, first one each: it is now ten or twelve days since I had my monthlies-when did you last have yours?'

'Last week, darling.'

'Very well. You would almost certainly have a baby this day in nine months. I might escape but only if the tadpoles in me all perish from perhaps want of some ailment, which a man has, but I have not. But if a tadpole, one only, happened to live until I was next ill, I too should have a baby, a few days after yours. Oh, fucking is heavenly; but it is terribly dangerous when the wedding-ring does not make it the right thing in the eyes of the world.'