“What have you got in your trousers that is moving?”
And here her busy fingers commenced unbuttoning them. Released from
confinement, out started my prick—stiff as iron, and as large as that of
a youth of eighteen. Indeed, I was better hung than one boy selected out
of five hundred of that age. Mrs. B., who had pretended to be perfectly
astonished, exclaimed—
“Good gracious, what a pego! Why Charles, my darling, you are a man not
a boy. What a size to be sure!” and she gently handled it. “Is it often
in this state?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“For how long?”
“Ever since Miss Evelyn came.”
“And pray, sir, what has Miss Evelyn’s coming had to do with it?”
“I—I—I—I—”
“Come now, Charles, be candid with me; what is it you mean where you say
Miss Evelyn has caused you to be in such a state, have you shown her
this, and has she handled it?”
“Oh! dear no; never, never!”
“Is it her face, her bosom, or her legs that have captivated you?”
“It was her feet and ankles, ma’am, with her beautiful legs, which she
sometimes exhibited without knowing.”
“And do all ladies’ legs and ankles produce this effect upon you?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am, if they are neat and pretty!”
“And what make you so excited now?”
“It was the sight of your beautiful legs just now, and the recollection
of what I saw the other day, ma’am,” I stammered out, blushing more than
ever.
While this conversation was going on, her soft hand grasped my distended
prick, and had commenced slowly slipping the loose skin over the swollen
head, and allowing it to slip back again.
“I suppose, Charles, after what you saw in the closet, you know what
this is meant to do.”
I muttered out an indistinct reply that I did, and I hung down my
blushing face.
“You have never put it into a lady, have you?”
“Oh! dear no, ma’am.”
“Would you like to do so?”