“From whom, then?” he wanted to know. “Oh, just in school-from the other girls.” “From the Hoffer girl or Ferndinger girl?” “I don't remember.” “Now you said he did not poke Ferndinger?” “No, he just had her play with him.” “But Miss Hoffer?” “Yes, he poked her.” “Did you see it?” “Yes, I saw it once.” “And the other times?” “She just told me about them.” Turning to my father, he said: “Mr. Mutzenbacher, I am sorry that you have been obliged to hear this pitiful story; that such an erring educator, without conscience, should have ruined your daughter. Be consoled; the child is young. I assure you that no one will ever hear of this, and by keeping a strict moral watch over her, I hope that all evil results will be avoided.” We went home and then I felt convinced that the teacher had “ruined' me. He was sentenced to a long term in prison. The fact that he had “ruined” both Melani and me made the case doubly strong against him. (When I now think back that Melani and I had been “ruined” long before, as undoubtedly had been many of the other girls who had testified against him, I really feel sorry for him.) But this affair seemed to have decided my entire future life, as you will see as I proceed with my story. I might have been a good, true woman, as is Melani, who is married now and mistress of her father's inn. She is surrounded by a brood of her own children. A number of my former schoolmates also have pleasant homes and families. These early indiscretions did them no harm. Undoubtedly, the fear of becoming pregnant had a great bearing on their purity, until they fell in love and married. Although they say that they have been indiscreet at times, as my mother has been, in the eyes of the world they were honorable, good wives; they did not become whores, as I have done. In my next chapter, I will write of the adventures which caused me to become a courtesan.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
As I have said before, I do not regret the life that I have led. But I do regret the cause. I do wish to state here, however, that I am convinced that today there are thousands of girls, in the lower as well as the upper classes, who, as children, go through the same experiences which I have so far recounted; and later become honorable girls-good, true wives and mothers-who completely forget the mistakes of their childhood days. Now to resume with my story. My brothers had gone out as apprentices, Lorenz to learn the same trade as my father. Franz to become a bookbinder. I saw them only on Sunday afternoons. Lorenz rarely talked to me, but Franz told me that he had met a servant girl who let him poke her and that he could sleep with her nights if he liked. My family had at this time a roomer, a quiet old man, who left the house early and returned late. I slept on the lounge, while my mother's bed, still unoccupied, stood beside father's. One day father said, with reference to the episode with the teacher: “I should give you a good thrashing. You are a dirty little wench!” This was the only time he ever mentioned the matter. I was shocked. “But,” I replied, “I could not help it!”
“Well, yes,” he said, “I suppose that is so. But such a dirty pup!” And he continued: “Well what's done is done, but, from now on, I will watch you. You will go nowhere without my permission, and from today on, you will sleep there-” pointing to mother's bed, next to his own. “We always have a roomer and I am going to watch you.” So that night I slept in mother's bed, next to my father's. When he came home from the saloon, it was probably eleven o'clock. I did not wake until I heard him whisper: “Are you there? Do you hear? Are you there?” Half asleep, I answered: “Yes, father, I am here.”
“Where are you?” “Here, father, I am here,” I answered.
He reached over and touched me. “Oh, yes-there you are!”
His hand slid down my throat, where he had first touched me, to my breast. I was paralyzed, as he began to feel my titties. I lay perfectly quiet. “So, then,” he stammered, “that is where the teacher held you?” “Yes, father,” I whispered. There also?” taking hold of the other breast. “Yes, father.” “The scoundrel,” he went on, “the dog. He would like that.” But all the time he was playing with my nipples. “How exactly did he do it?” he asked. “Just as you are doing it,” I stammered. Running his hand under my nightshirt, he caught hold of my mound. Playing in the hair with his fingers, he whispered: “Pepi?” “Yes, father?” “Pepi, did he feel down here, too-?” “Yes, father, there too!” “Perhaps even with his shaft-?” I was so choked, shocked and frightened at all this that I could not speak. Since father knew everything, I could not imagine why he was asking me these questions. Had he forgotten, or, was he doing all this for some other purpose? He repeated: “I say with his shaft, did he touch you here?” “Yes, father.” “In there-?” He tried to push his finger in. But I pushed his hand away. “But, father?” I said. “I want to know,” he whispered, again taking hold of me. “But father!” I begged, “don't do that!” He had his finger in the “opening” now. “Father! Stop!” I whispered. “You know that he 'had it in.' Please!-Stop-!” I whispered. “Did he poke you?” he asked, pushing his finger still further in. “Yes!” I said quickly, “he poked me-I could not help it!” “That is your good fortune,” he grumbled, leaving me alone. He then turned over and went to sleep. For a few nights we slept quietly in our respective beds. He did not touch me again. I had nearly forgotten the incident When I did think of it, I laid it to the terrible rage which I thought he must have harbored against the teacher. Then, one Saturday, we had been in the inn. As we went to bed that night, father again reached over. “You-,” he said, as he took hold of my breasts. “Yes, father!” “How often did the teacher poke you-?” “I don't remember.” “Well, how of ten?” “But I can't remember!” “I want to know!” He squeezed my breasts so hard that I screamed. “But, father-!” “How often-?” “Perhaps ten times-” “So? Ten times, eh?” He played with my nipple until it got hard. “Ten times?” he suddenly asked. I had to smile. “But, no, each time only once.” “So; ten times?” He fingered my nipple until it stood out straight. became curious and quite passionate, but so ashamed that I pushed his hand away.
“Now, father-stop!-What are you doing?” “Nothing-nothing!” he murmured and withdrew. For a few more days nothing occurred. I was usually asleep when he came into the bedroom. It never entered my thoughts that he wanted anything else. I just imagined that he could not forget the teacher. One evening, we retired early. Reaching over and feeling for me, he said: “What have you been doing all day?”
“Nothing, father,” I answered. He reached into my nightshirt and I covered my breasts with my hands. “Were you in school?”
“Yes.” He tried to push my hands aside and reach for my breasts. “Have you a new teacher?” “Yes.” “Well, does he fondle you too?” He caught hold of my breast and began playing with it. “No, father.” “And about the other teacher?” “We have a woman teacher.” “So? And the other teacher? Does he do anything to you?” I tried to force his hand away, saying: “No, he does nothing. He is still in prison. Remember?” With a quick movement, he reached between my legs. Before I could prevent it, he held my cleft in his hand. “I beg of you father,” I cried. “Father!” I breathed hard. He was tickling me. I became hot and passionate.
“You know,” he stuttered, “if the new teacher should begin to play with you”-he began to drum on my twig-“If he should really try anything like this'-he tried to get his finger in my 'opening'- “don't you let him!” “No, father, no-but now-stop!” And I closed my legs together. With a quick jerk, I freed myself. “Well, well, that's all right,” he said. I still had no idea of anything wrong. I was only afraid of myself. His actions made me so passionate that I wanted to be poked. The longing for a shaft became so great that I could hardly control myself. But I was afraid that he would kill me if I made the wrong move. I thought that he was only trying me out to see if I would resist temptation. But a few nights later, when I awoke from a sound sleep, he lay close beside me. He was carefully playing with my nipples until they were hard and standing out I acted as though I were asleep. I was filled with curiosity, anxious to see what he wanted. I remained perfectly quiet. He took my left nipple and began to loss and lick it. Unwittingly I began to tremble-more with passion than curiosity. He again started to lick and suck. Then he began fooling with both titties. Every time that I trembled he stopped. I thought that he was trying to find out if I was awake, but I pretended to sleep harder than ever. Suddenly he lifted the bed covers and raised my nightshirt. My heart beat loudly. I was afraid and very passionate but still I believed that he was subjecting me to a new test It was such an unheard of performance that I was beside myself with excitement. He sat up and slowly spread my feet apart. I let him proceed without resistance, but, as he put his hand on my slit I began to tremble, so he stopped again. I now began to snore, acting as thought I were not aware of these actions. He got between my legs, bracing himself on his elbows. He slowly rubbed his shaft against my slit. I could not resist that, but, as I began working up and down, I continued snoring and acting as thought I were performing the act in my sleep. Father held his lance up against my lips barely getting the head in. By now I was so excited that I was nearly crazy. But his action caused him to go oft, suddenly wetting my hair and belly with his discharge. I was left frustrated.
I was now convinced of what he wanted, and I was delighted I must admit, painful as the recollection of the incident is to me now. I thought so little of it at the time as not to wonder if it was right or wrong. I knew that it pleased me and I felt that I was now grown-up and did not have to fear my father any more. I was independent.
