“Where did the breeches hurt you?” said I.
“I can’t tell you, but I should think you must find them dreadfully uncomfortable.”
“But, dearest, our anatomy is different, and breeches do not trouble us at all where they hurt you.”
As I spoke I held her to my breast and let myself fall gently beside her on the bed. We remained thus a quarter of an hour without speaking, our lips glued together in one long kiss. I left her a moment by herself, and when I returned she was between the sheets. She said she had undressed to be able to sleep better, and, shutting her eyes, turned away. I knew that the happy hour had come, and taking off my woman’s clothes in a twinkling, I gently glided into the bed beside her, for the last struggles of modesty must be tenderly respected. I clasped her in my arms and a gentle pressure soon aroused her passions, and turning towards me she surrendered to me all her charms.
After the first sacrifice I proposed a wash, for though I could not exactly flatter myself that I had been the first to break open the lock, the victim had left some traces on the bed, which looked as if it were so. The offer was received with delight, and when the operation was over she allowed me to gaze on all her charms, which I covered with kisses. Growing bolder, she made me grant her the same privilege.
“What a difference there is,” said she, “between nature and art!”
“But of course you think that art is the better?”
“No, certainly not.”
“But there may be imperfections in nature, whereas art is perfect.”
“I do not know whether there be any imperfection in what I behold, but I do know that I have never seen anything so beautiful.”