Journal of a Proper Young Lady Ch. 02

We continued in this Posture, for some Minutes. I could feel Kitty’s Cunny getting slicker and slicker from a combination of my Saliva and her Secretions. I buried my Face inside her, my Tongue thrashing at her until it ached from the Exertion. I could feel her Orgasm drawing nearer – I could almost taste it. She moaned into my Cunt. With difficulty she prised her Face from beneath me, and said:
“Let’s do it, Lizzie, let’s come together. Let’s send each other to Heaven.” Then she resumed her inexact lapping with renewed vigour. In truth, delightful as I found her attentions, I was not as near my Orgasm as she was, but I resolved to dissimulate and to seem to match her Zenith.

The Exertions of my Tongue and Teeth and Lips were soon rewarded by Kitty’s shuddering, twitching Climax, signalled by her reckless Screams of Passion, muffled by my Cunt and Arse, and by the sudden effusion of copious amounts of her Cuntjuice onto my Bed and into my Mouth. I screamed too, though I was not yet completed. I clambered off Kitty and lay beside her. She kissed me and then said breathlessly:
“Did you come?”
“Yes,” I replied. From that monosyllable, she deduced that something was amiss. Perhaps my lie, or my reservations, or the prick of my Conscience. Whatever she saw in me terrified her, and she pulled away from me, lying at the Foot of the Bed. She then proceeded to spread her Legs. She pulled her still-wet Cunt wide open and looked up at me with desperation.
“Please, Lizzie, Please. Fuck me. Take my Maidenhead. Put your Fingers in me. Please.” I think she hoped in this way to bind me to her.
“Listen,” I said with traitorous decorum, while the poor, supplicant Girl stretched herself Open before me, “this, this Relationship cannot last. I do not – cannot love you. I’m sorry.”
“Then why ...” her Voice was choked by Tears, and she closed her Thighs together and stood up from the Bed, “pray ... tell me ... why you would agree ...? why you would do ...?” There followed a Pause in her Complaint, filled with many Sighs and Sobs. “If you cannot love me, then you should not have ...” I stood up from the Bed and moved tenderly towards her to embrace her. “No!” she said with sudden Fury, hitting violently at my outstretched Arms. “Get away from me! I don’t want you to touch me! I don’t want you to be near me! You let me believe ... You did such Things ... O Cruelty!” And she wept so bitterly that it seemed that her Life might come to an end then and there.

The poor Wretch stood there before me, still Naked, her small Breasts heaving with every rasping, sobbing breath, and her Eyes were fixed upon me, exuding Woundedness and Anger. She looked and spoke as if she had the Hangman’s Noose about her delicate Neck, and that she thought me responsible for her awful Predicament.
“I’m sorry,” I said softly and ineffectually.
“Sorry is just a Word!” She said, all enraged. “As the Priest says – Operibus credite, et non verbis. And it means ‘Although you do not believe in my Words, believe in my Deeds.’ But with you that is Impossible, for you are a Thing all of Words! And your Actions mean Nothing – Nothing! – What? Will I now be a noteworthy Event for your Journal? A pretty little Episode for your picaresque Adventures in Fucking?” She was dressing herself now, pulling on her Cloaths with such Ferocity that it seemed that she might tear them. Her Harangue was punctuated, and lent Emphasis, by a Leg here stabbing through her Drawers, or an Arm there punching viciously through the Sleeve of her Blouse. “You create your own Erotick Life by Literary means alone – you frig your own Imagination – and this ... this ... mental Masturbation means that you will only ever really be fucking Yourself no Matter who else you might have with you Between your Sheets.” She was all Spleen and hysterica passio, and it seemed that with every heaving, gasping breath she was growing older, not by Seconds or even by Hours, but by Months and Years.
“You look on me with Pity, but it is you, you, who ought to be pitied! ... No! Don’t say anything, don’t do anything!” I had again opened my Mouth to offer what paltry Consolation I could muster. She continued her Railing, maugre my best Intentions, and despite my craven Fear, weakly expressed, that we might be overheard. “I may not be able to quote Virgil or write very prettily of Nimrods and quietuses and Amaryllises in the shade, but I am alive. At least I am real. At least I care.” Here she paused and then repeated mournfully: “At least I care.”

Her Rage appeared to be all drained out of her, together with the wonted lustre of her Cheeks and, it seemed to me, all her Youth and her Vivacity. “Goodbye Lizzie.” And she raised a Sigh so Piteous and Profound that it did seem to shatter all her Bulk and end her Being, and then looked on me with so wounded an Aspect that it racked my Soul and branded my Heart with the indelible stigma of Perfidy. She turned and walked away, and I knew then that I would never see her again.

I was left with the awful Sensation that I had mortally wounded her with my Indelicacy, with my too-cruel Rejection of her. It felt like Murder. I feel wretched – was ever Woman by Woman so abus’d! – I have this Moment, in my Restlessness and Distraction, turned back through the Pages of this Journal and my Eyes have fallen again upon the quotation which I drew from The Aeneid, and for which Kitty justly upbraided my Affectation –

Desine meque tuis incendere teque querelis,
Italianam non sponte sequor.

How painfully apt! What Aeneas did to Dido, so did I to poor, oppressed Kitty! The verse is no longer a silly, tortured Metaphor for my Lust, but belies my terrible, calumnious Betrayal of my Friend and Lover. I belong now to that last Circle of Hell, which Dante tells us is reserved for the Traitors and the Disloyal. Nay, it is more fitting for me to be confined in the Mouth of the Devil himself, there to keep Company with him who with a Kiss betrayed his Friend.

Quis talia fando temperet a lacrymis? Who could withhold their tears and hear of this?

Shortly after Kitty had gone, and when I was dressed and lying disconsolately upon my Bed, my Father, having returned without my hearing him, looked in at my Door.
“Is everything quite well?” He inquired. “I heard raised Voices and saw Miss Fairchild rush out of here.”
“We had a Disagreement,” I said tautly.
“Oh well,” rejoined my Father with kindness, “I’m sure it will all come right. The Bonds of Friendship are not so easily broken and, if they are, then the Friendship was not worth the keeping of it. You’re young. You’ll see. It will all come right, one way or the other.”
“O Father!” I cried, and I embraced him, startling him quite.
“There, there,” he said soothingly, “It will all come right, it will all come right.”
“No,” I told him through my Tears, “I do not think that it will.”