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the rear aperture. He and she too felt it was killing him, but his infatuation was overpowering, and he declared if it did kill him he could not die a happier death. In fact a month after we returned he had an apoplectic fit actually when his prick was spending in her arsehole. He lived but a month afterwards. He left all his property to his wife absolutely, with legacies of £2,500 to each of my sisters, and £1,000 to me.

This sad event cast a gloom for some time over all our pleasures.

The Frankland took my sisters to reside with her, but all went down to spend the first three months of mourning quietly with my mother. She, too, took ill when we were with her, and died before the three months were up. This drew me down to home, now mine, and the dear Frankland continued to stay with us for two months longer, and then left for London. We three orphans remained for all that winter in our old home, settling a variety of things.

My sisters now with their succession to some £600 apiece, the £1,000 left them by our uncle, and the £2,500 by Mr. Nixon, and the £400 which I promised them as a marriage present, and with their great beauty of form and face, for both had grown into remarkably fine young women, became very eligible matches.

Many country families sought us out after the first three months of our mourning, and several offers were made to the girls. They were both somewhat fastidious after the life they had led, but eventually both were married. Mary to a very nice fellow, who proved, as she told me, a first-rate fucker. He got her with child, and they had a son, a fine boy, in the tenth month of their marriage. She was very happy, now and then coming to see me, and getting a jolly good fuck from my renovated prick, for now that he was lying fallow, my somewhat exhausted system was getting quite recruited.

Alas! poor Mary lost her husband by cholera in the second year of their marriage. He had a handsome estate, and left her well off, and sole guardian to his son, who grew up a very fine fellow, and when at puberty became the solace of his widowed mother, who had initiated him into all love’s mysteries.

Eliza was not quite so fortunate as her sister in her husband; he was a good sort of man who, one would have thought, would just have suited the hot temperament of Eliza, well and powerfully built, and with an air of being a man of erotic passions; but he turned out to be of a languid unimpassioned nature, who could not imagine any other manner than simply mounting on a woman’s belly and fucking her once a night, and with no conception of using either preliminaries or aids to her passions. So that he left poor Eliza only in a state of excitement instead of giving any satisfaction to her lascivious nature. She did, eventually, work him up to good night and good morning, but for her full satisfaction she used to seek elsewhere, and even to content herself with the embraces of a man servant, who, if not good looking, proved to have a splendid and powerful prick, and nearly daily gave her comfort. She also occasionally came to me, when she had both apertures well exercised, and left me much comforted.

She never had any children, and so managed her intrigues as never to be found out.

I returned to London in the spring, and was called to the bar.

I went the western circuit for odd assizes, and then abandoned the bar as a profession.

Harry Dale, with more perseverance, as well as greater necessity for exertion, continued in the profession, was duly called to the bar, and eventually became a rising and successful barrister, and at this period of our old age is now a distinguished judge.

But to return to our earlier days.

Harry and I carried on our intrigue with the Nichols and Ann, aided by our dear friend MacCallum. Also from time to time with the Benson, Egerton, and Count, to which generally the darling Frankland brought her exquisite charms to intoxicate us with pleasure.

This delightful reunion was sadly affected by the loss of the Count, who received an amnesty—I think I before have said he was a political exile—returned to his own country, and we never again had his delightful aid in our sadly shortened orgies.

The Count and I met in a future year at his old castle on the hills of Pied, of which I shall have much more to say on a later occasion.

It was a sad loss, especially for the Egerton, who dearly loved the Count. He had been her first lover, indeed, her initiator in the real mysteries of Venus. It will be remembered that her husband was one of those old insensible natures that think it is only necessary to hastily “piss their tallow,” as Falstaff says, as quickly as they can, and leave a poor woman just sufficiently excited to be madly anxious for a thorough good fucking. It is these insensate cold-blooded husbands who raise, without satisfying, their wife’s erotic passions, and drive them perforce to seek salacious comfort in other arms.

Oh! how many women if only fucked with some regard to their own naturally lewd feeling, would have never committed adultery or made a scandal. Many are the women who have told me, with tears in their eyes, of the cold insensible conduct of their husbands, who, never fucking them but when their sluggish natures felt the want, then turning upon them without the slightest preparatory handling or embracing, mount, shove it in, give a few in-and-out movements, spend, and then withdraw, just as they have done enough to excite their poor wives’ passions without satisfying them, and thus leaving them a prey to inordinate longing that forces them to seek the relief to their passions the selfish brutes of husbands had only raised without allaying.

I remember an intrigue I had with an Italian Countess. Her husband, a tall and very capable man, was an extreme bigot, who thought it deadly sin to indulge in any caresses or carnal excitement, or even for his wife to expose any naked flesh to raise concupiscent ideas, so she had to have her nightgown closed up to her throat, with long sleeves and skirts, in the centre a slit through which he performed his duty when in want of relief to himself. He never kissed or embraced her body at any time, but lay like a log by her side, with his back turned to her. When his own passions prompted him to fuck, which was very seldom, he was naturally quite ready and rapidly finished his coup. He used to turn to her, waken her up with a shake, cry out, _“Marietta, porgemi il vaso generative”_ (Marietta, reach me the generative vase), upon which she stretched herself on her back, he got on her without lifting her petticoats or feeling her cunt, but opening the slit, pointed his prick to her cunt, thrust it up to the hilt, and being himself in want of spermatic relief, in a very few strokes spent, just staying in long enough to “piss all his tallow,” and then withdraw, turning his back again to sleep, leaving his wife just sufficiently excited to have enjoyed it, and thus left her madly longin