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It would make me sick to see her." "You will see her. And you're not even legally separated, are you?" "No." "Ah well, then she'll come back, and you'll have to take her in." He gazed at Connie fixedly. I hate those things like death, officials and courts and judges.

As they sat at table she asked him: "Why did you marry her? She could never understand why you married her." He looked at her fixedly. "The first girl I had, I began with when I was sixteen. She was a schoolmaster's daughter over at Ollerton, pretty, beautiful really. I was supposed to be a clever sort of young fellow from Sheffield Grammar School, with a bit of French and German, very much up aloft. She egged me on to poetry and reading: in a way, she made a man of me. I read and I thought like a house on fire, for her. And I was a clerk in Butterley Offices, a thin, white-faced fellow fuming with all the things I read. And about _everything_ I talked to her: but everything. We were the most literary-cultured couple in ten counties. I held forth with rapture to her, positively with rapture. She somehow didn't have any; at least, not where it's supposed to be. She adored me, she loved me to talk to her and kiss her: in that way she had a passion for me. Then I took on with another girl, a teacher, who had made a scandal by carrying on with a married man and driving him nearly out of his mind. She was a soft, white-skinned, soft sort of a woman, older than me, and played the fiddle. Clinging, caressing, creeping into you in every way: but if you forced her to the sex itself, she just ground her teeth and sent out hate. I forced her to it, and she could simply numb me with hate because of it. They'd lived next door to us when I was a little lad, so I knew 'em all right. Well, Bertha went away to some place or other in Birmingham; she said, as a lady's companion; everybody else said, as a waitress or something in an hotel. Anyhow, just when I was more than fed up with that other girl, when I was twenty-one, back comes Bertha, with airs and graces and smart clothes and a sort of bloom on her: a sort of sensual bloom that you'd see sometimes on a woman, or on a trolly.

I chucked up my job at Butterley because I thought I was a weed, clerking there: and I got on as overhead blacksmith at Tevershall: shoeing horses mostly.

It had been son and mom nude my dad's job, and I'd always been with sophie simm nude him.

It was a job I liked: handling horses: and it came natural to me.

So I stopped talking "fine," as they call it, talking proper English, and went back to talking broad. I still read books, at home: but I blacksmithed and had a pony-trap of my own, and was My Lord Duckfoot. So I took on with Bertha, and I was glad she was common.

Those other "pure" women had nearly taken all the balls out of me, but she was alright that way. That was what rainbow stockings nude I ex girlfriend fingering nude wanted: a woman who _wanted_ me to fuck her.

And I think she despised me a bit, for being so pleased about it, and bringin' her her breakfast in bed sometimes. She sort of let things go, didn't get me a proper dinner when I came home from work, and if I said anything, flew out at me. She flung a cup at me and I took her by the scruff of the neck and squeezed the life out of her. And she got so's she'd never have me when I wanted her: never. And then when she'd put me right off, and I didn't want her, she'd come all lovey-dovey, and get me. But when I had her, she'd never come-off when I did. If I kept back for half an pyjama teens nude porn hour, she'd keep back longer. And when I'd come and really finished, then she'd start on her own account, and I had to stop inside her till she brought herself off, wriggling and shouting, she'd clutch clutch with herself rainbow stockings nude down there, an' then she'd come off, fair in ecstasy. She sort of got harder and harder to bring off, and she'd sort of tear at me down there, as if it was a beak tearing at me. By God, you think a woman's soft down rainbow stockings nude there, like a fig. But I tell you the old rampers have beaks between their legs, and they tear at you with it till you're sick. They talk rainbow stockings nude about men's selfishness, but I doubt if it can ever touch a woman's blind beakishness, once she's gone that way.

She'd try to lie still rainbow stockings nude and let _me_ work the business. She had to work the thing herself, grind her own coffee. And it came back on her like a raving necessity, she had to let herself go, and tear, tear, tear, as if she had no sensation in her except in the top of her beak, the very outside top tip, that rubbed and tore. That's how old whores used to be, so men used to say.

It was a low kind of self-will in her, a raving sort of self-will: like in a woman who drinks. She herself had started it, in her bouts when she wanted to be clear of me, when she said I bossed her.