Madge and Jerry are having a suck,
Having a suck, having a suck,
Madge and Jerry are having a suck,
My fair lay-dee.
After the suck they'll have a fuck,
Oh, what luck, oh, what luck,
After the suck, they'll have a fuck,
My fair lay-dee.
Out of a house whose open windows are in close proximity to the merrymakers bursts an old Irish woman, brandishing a broom, her wrinkled face suffused with rage.
“Git out o'here ye narsty little spalpeens or I'll swab yer dirty, stinkin' mouths fer ye, blarsted little imps o'Satan!” she screams as twenty pair of feet fly in twenty different directions under the menace of the broom in the hands of the scandalized old beldame.
When I was about eleven, Pap's earning capacity was so reduced by drunkenness that Mamma Agnes was obliged to take in a boarder. The best room of the house, the one which had formerly served as a parlor, was converted to the purpose and rented to a Mr. Peters.
Mr. Peters, a watchmaker by occupation, was a gentleman of forty-five or thereabouts who radiated jollity and good nature and who professed a great love for children. He took an immediate fancy to me and soon pennies and farthings began coming my way in an abundance I had never before known. Mr. Peters constantly called on me to run trifling errands for him, a package of fags, a penny paper, a bottle of ale, and these small services were invariably rewarded with some fulsome compliment, an affectionate pat on the cheek and a coin of modest denomination.
As our friendship progressed, his amiable affection took the form of playful caresses, squeezings, and pettings. This did not trouble me and I was observant enough to note that the affectionate overtures were more pronounced and subsequently more remunerative when we were alone. So I was soon watching for opportunities to be near him when no one else was around, especially when Mamma Agnes was out with her shopping basket.
On such occasions he took me in his lap and as his hands roved ceaselessly over my body he filled my ears with a running fire of pleasant flattery. My legs seemed to be the principal objects of his admiration and as he pinched and squeezed them playfully to emphasize his words, his good-natured, florid face would become still more florid and little beads of perspiration would appear on his forehead.
One day Mr. Peters surprised me with the following observation:
“Well, bless me, if our little Jessie isn't getting prettier and prettier every day. Such legs… such legs. Do you know,” he continued, as he passed his hands appraisingly down over my hips and thighs, “I have a suspicion that you aren't really a girl at all. Girls don't have such fine legs as these. I'll bet you're a boy instead of a girl.”
“Boys don't wear dresses or have long hair,” I exclaimed.
“A-a-a-h!” he answered, with a knowing look, shaking his finger skeptically in my face, “that could be just to fool people! A boy could wear dresses and let his hair grow long. Yes…” he mused abstractedly, “the more I think about it, the more I believe you're really a boy dressed in girl's clothes.
“I am so a girl!” I protested indignantly.
“I've had my suspicions for a long time,” he continued, ignoring my protestations. “Tell you what,” he added confidentially, “I'll lay you a shilling you're really a boy!”
“Very well!” I exclaimed, excitedly. “You can ask Mamma Agnes!”
“Oh, no!” he objected hastily. “She's not here now and besides she might be on your side and say you're a girl anyway.”
“Well, who are you going to ask?”
“Hum-m-m-m-m,” he murmured, pausing in thoughtful meditation. “There ought to be some way we could settle the bet without asking anybody.”
I waited expectantly.
“Ha! I've got it!” he exclaimed, as a happy solution of the perplexing problem suddenly occurred to him. “But remember now, if I win you must pay me the next shilling you get! I've got mine right here now to pay you if I lose!” And he fished a shiny new shilling from his pocket and displayed it before my eyes.
“Yes, yes!” I answered eagerly. “I'll pay you if I lose! The very next shilling I get! How are you going to tell?”
“Why, that's easy,” he replied. “Funny we didn't think of it at first. Boys have a… ah… a little sort of dangle between their legs… right there… and girls haven't any. Now all you have to do is just unfasten your panties and we'll take a peek. And remember, if you've got a dangle, like I think you have, you must pay me the next shilling you get. I'll trust you for it!”
Although I was momentarily confounded by this bizarre but quite obvious method of resolving the question, my eagerness to prove the injustice of his accusation, coupled with the prospect of so easily gaining a shilling, outweighed any small scruples I may have felt about exposing my cunny to him, and without a word I raised my short dress, unfastened my panties and pulled them down low enough to reveal the deciding factor between femininity and masculinity.
Somewhat to my surprise Mr. Peters' doubts were not immediately dispelled. His flushed face took on a deeper hue and he seemed to be having some difficulty in speaking. He suggested that I remove my panties entirely so he could see better and when this was done it was necessary for him to make a most thorough inspection before he was finally convinced that I didn't have a dangle hidden between my thighs.
After quite a lengthy examination, during which he seemed almost on the point of suffocation as his fingers lingered about my cunny, pressing, feeling, exploring, he sighed deeply and reluctantly conceded his defeat, confessing himself in error. My sex was vindicated, established and proved beyond any reasonable question and his repentant sorrow at having doubted it resulted in an extra shilling in addition to the one originally posted.
When Rene came home I jubilantly displayed the two pieces of silver, explained their origin and told him how Mr. Peters had even thought I might have a dangle tucked up inside my cunny. My account of the incident seemed to make him restive and a few minutes later he suggested that we go up to the attic to play.
The truth was that Mr. Peters' insistent feeling and fingering had left me with an odd sort of itching in my cunny. It felt excessively moist and hot, and I agreed to Rene's suggestion with alacrity. We slipped upstairs and, following our usual routine, I took off my panties and lay down on my back on the old mattress with my knees up and widely apart while Rene nudged and punched at me with his stiff little pintle.
His erratic movements frequently brought the tip against the upper part of my cunny and each time it pressed or rubbed against a certain spot I felt an agreeable tremor. To capture this elusive sweetness I reached down and, taking his dickey in my fingers, I held it against the sensitive spot. There was a little bump of flesh there which swelled and twitched and instinctively I rubbed the end of his dickey against it. The pleasant feeling again permeated the whole lower part of my body, sending such a delicious radiation surging through my nerves that I trembled violently. The sensation culminated with a sudden burst of delight which caused me to moan and gasp in ecstasy. I had experienced my first real orgasm.
I had always loved and admired my foster brother Rene. He was handsomer than most boys. He had beautiful dark brown curly hair and his skin was white and smooth. When he effected my first orgasm something was awakened in me which changed the affection to complete adoration. I do not think I have ever loved anyone more, or even as much as I loved Rene.
I gave him one of the shillings I had won so easily, and as I continued to expiate on Mr. Peters' supreme ignorance, he threw me a pitying look and exclaimed:
“Are you balmy? He knew you were a girl! He just wanted to get to look at your cunny.”
The light dawned on me, but the two shillings dimmed any feeling of chagrin, and even a hazy thought of future exploitation half-formed itself in my mind. I had long since sensed the fact that Mr. Peters' interest in me was rather more than casual. If he had given me the two shillings just to look at my cunny, maybe he might want to look at it again sometime.
There was probably something in my eyes which betrayed this expectation to Mr. Peters, for when I again
