Quite frequently at home I heard my father and mother shaking the bed and breathing hard, but I could not discern anything in the dark. I had an idea that I knew what it all was about, however, so, when this occurred, I would lie in bed listening with rapt attention, at the same time fingering myself. I got so that I could satisfy myself very well by this method. I often heard mother and father whispering to each other in a tone too low for me to distinguish words. One Saturday night father came home drunker than usual. Mother got up and helped him undress. When I awoke at the noise, I saw a light in the room. Father pushed mother over on the bed and reaching up under her clothing, she at the time fighting him off.
He whispered: “Here now… spread your legs apart!”
Mother refused, saying: “Go away! You are drunk!” “What of it?… Come on…!” He was a powerful man. Wild-eyed, he grabbed her, tore her night-dress, caught her by the breasts and pushed her back on the bed. Then he got on top of her, brandishing his big, stiff shaft out, all ready for business. “Put out the light, the children are looking,” mother said. But father just said: “Put it in, damn it!” Mother again said: “Put out the lights, you fool! We don't want the children watching this.” Father just growled: “They are asleep.” And he went right on with his business. Soon I heard mother say: “Oh, but that is so good! How big you are tonight!”
They presently finished and all was quiet once more, father falling asleep immediately and mother soon afterward. When they had started to snore, I slipped out of my bed and over to Franz, who slept on a nearby lounge. He had not seen anything but he heard it all. I got into his bed with him and we hugged each other fiercely. He wanted to get on top of me, but I turned over and made him invade me from behind as Robert had done. We were very quiet; nobody heard us, but we were rather frightened at first. We were quite naked and the feeling of our little bodies rubbing so close together without the interference of clothing was delightful. Finally completed off our little poke, and, finding that we were comparatively safe, we did it often at night, as we could feel reasonably safe when all the rest were asleep. Soon after this, we got a new roomer in our home. This roomer was a middle-aged man of fifty or so. I do not know what his business was, but he was at home a great deal and sat in the kitchen for hours talking to mother. I often was left alone with him. Since he had a full, bushy beard I often wondered how much hair he had between his legs. One Sunday, when he was washing himself, I noticed his hairy chest. This only enhanced my curiosity as to his other parts. He was very friendly to me. Often he stroked my hair, chuckled me under the chin and caressed and fondled me frequently. I always went to him smiling when he spoke. Happening to be at home alone with him one day, I thought: “Now is my chance.”
I went up to him and began to stroke his beard. He must have perceived something in my looks which robbed him of his senses for a moment. He began shivering, and put his hand between my legs as if looking for an entrance. I was standing in front of him. I did not discourage any movement on his part, but smiled encouragingly. He pressed harder, but as yet only on the outside of my fluffy dress. I stepped up closer, between his knees, and smiled. His face reddened and he pulled me to him and kissed me. He then lifted up my dress, pulled down my panties and kissed me passionately on the mouth. He next looked at and began to finger my grotto. This sensation seemed different from anything I had ever before experienced, due no doubt, to the fact that hitherto I had played only with boys while this was a grown man. I became so excited that I could hardly control myself. I did not know whether he was using one finger or five. But I did not care. I felt as if I was being poked. Excitedly I began to work back and forth, at the same time playing with the hair on his breast. He took my other hand and placed it on his shaft which he had taken out. It was so large I could hardly get my hand around it.
I started working it back and forth while he rubbed my mound and kissed me. We kept this up until suddenly he stiffened out and twisted and squirmed and began to ejaculate in great drops that squirted far into the room. At the same time, part of the hot and sticky deluge flowed across my hand. I also 'came,' for he had quickened the movement on my “kitten' with his finger as he 'came.' When he had finished, he sat there frightened, telling me not to breathe a word of what had happened between us, to anyone. As I shook my head, he kissed me again, got up and went out. For several days I hardly saw him. He was apparently ashamed. This also affected me, and when I would see him approaching, I would run away. About a week later, while playing in the backyard with my brothers, I saw him go into the house. Since my mother had gone out previously, I knew that he would be all alone up in his room. Without hesitating I sneaked up after him, my heart beating wildly and rapidly, and I quivering in excitement.
When I entered the kitchen, he reached eagerly for me, his hands shaking. I threw myself into his arms and he at once put his hand between my legs and began to finger my slit. We sat down beside each other and he put his tool into my hand. I now had a good chance to examine it, and I must say, even after all these years, having had thousands of shafts not only pushed into my grotto but into every opening in my body, that this was an exceptionally fine specimen of a healthy, strong spear, twice as long as Robert's, somewhat bent, with a large red head; and a great mass of dark hair surrounding it. I certainly could have had a great time with it had I been but a few years older and more developed. I eagerly manipulated this massive member with one hand, as I had learned to do from Robert. When I tired, and stopped working, he whispered: “Go on, my angel; my darling girl; my little sweet-heart! For goodness sake, go on… don't stop!” Much pleased at these pet names, I worked hard and tried to do what he wanted. Soon he 'squirted' so high that the deluge almost struck me in the face. A few days later, during a repeat performance, he said: “Darling, angel, sweetheart.” I was doing my best to please him, throwing my hips around as he was working at my grotto. “Oh, goodness,” he continued, “if I could only poke you right… just once, just one little poke!” In a moment I pulled away, laid on the floor on my back, spread my legs apart and said:
“Come on, try it.” He came over, stooped down, coughed and said: “No, damn it. You're too small.” “That's nothing,” I answered. “Try it anyhow.” Half wild, he got on top of me. He put his hand under my bottom, lifted me up and rubbed his tool against my toolbox. I held on to the monstrous machine, making sure that he rubbed it all over. Between shoves, he asked: “Have you been poked before?” Something warned me to deny it. I did so, but he insisted, saying: “Now, angel, tell me, you have been poked, haven't you? I know it. Who was it? Often? Was it good?” I was breathing hard. I could feel his engine jerking, but I still denied it, saying: “No, certainly not. Of course not. This is the first time.” His breath came faster and the pleasure for me became greater. “Is it good?” he asked. “Oh, so good,” I said. Just then he 'went off,' wetting my belly. “Lay still,” he said, and he wiped me clean.
Now he asked: “Are you telling the truth? Come on and tell me.”
I told him that I had seen it done and pointed to the other room. “Yes, yes. Your father and mother.” He wanted me to tell him all, and, as I told him what I had seen and heard, he played with my slit until I again went off. I did not tell Franz that I had been poked by a grown-up man, although he was always talking of Mrs. Rhinelander, dreaming about her…