ay, I bled, but succeeded;
it became slightly easier to do so, yet I have no recollection of having
a desire to fuck that woman, all that I recollect of my sensations I
have here described.

I was still ill, for there was brought me to my bed at nights, a cup of
arrowroot. My mother usually did this, but sometimes the big woman did,
I was so glad, when my mother did not. Then I would kiss her as if I
never wanted to part with her, put my hand out of bed, scramble it up
her clothes, till I could feel the hair. Then she would jut her bum
back, so that I could not touch more. One night my prick stood, "Take
the light outside," I said, "I've something to say to you." The door was
half open when she had complied; the gleam of the light struck across
the room, my bed was in the shade, "do let me feel you further, dear
and kiss me." "You naughty boy!" but we kissed. Again I felt her thighs,
belly and hair. "What good does it do you, doing that," she said. I took
hold of her hand, and put it under the bed-clothes on to my prick. She
bent over me, kissing and saying "naughty boy," but feeling the cock,
and all round it, how long, I can't say, "oh! I'd like to feel your
hole," I said. "Hish!" said she, going out of the room, and closing the
door.

She felt me several times afterwards. When my mother brought me the
arrowroot, she having an idea, that I liked her to do so, I would not
take it, saying it was too hot. She said, "I can't wait, Wattie, while
it cools." "Don't care, mamma, I don't want it." "But you must take it."
"Put it down then." "Well, don't go to sleep, and I'll send Betsy
up with it in a few minutes." Up Betsy would come, and quickly and
voluptuously kissing, keeping her lips on mine for two or three minutes
at a time, she would glide her hand down and feel my cock, whilst my
fingers were on her motte, her thighs closed, then she would glide out
of the room. I never got my hand between her thighs, I am sure.

I used to long to talk to her about all I had heard, but don't think I
ever did more than I have told, for I had a fear about using baudy words
to a woman, though I already used them freely enough among boys.

I used to talk only of her hole, my thing, of doing it, and so forth;
but what made her laugh was my calling it pudendum, a word I had got out
of Aristotle and my latin dictionary. In spite of all this, and of the
voluptuous sensations, which used to creep over me, I have no clear,
defined, recolle