"Tell it not in Geth, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon." -Old Testament, 2 Samuel
In spite of David's command to the sons of Israel, the chance is likely that sooner or later the victim of rape will find herself - or, in rare instances, himself - prone on a psychiatrist's couch with the psychoanalyst probing her subconscious in an attempt to unearth the raison d'etre for the patient's tendency to espouse one or another "perversion" of a sexual nature. The word perversion is quoted because a number of variations on sexual intercourse - such as anal intercourse, often referred to as pederasty, also cunnilingus, fellatio, and even analingus - although still condemned in the legal sense, are practiced so widely by broad-minded, consenting adults that the term is considered inappropriate. Those puritanical and retrogressive souls who will never cease to decry the simplicity, the clarity, and the beauty of the Anglo-Saxon supplication, "Fuck me, darling!" and who lump the "perversions" of the Biblical times with "immorality" which is just as antiquated, may be answered best by a quote from Havelock Ellis's The Dance of Life: "What we call 'morals' is simply blind obedience to words of command."
Rape itself as a subject defies analysis. The Huns under Attila ravaged Gaul and Italy fifteen centuries ago on a wide-ranging scale; misfits in our modern-day society manage to get one or two inches of newspaper column space in the dailies. Gladys Denny Schultze, in How Many-More Victims? - subtitled, Society and the Sex Criminal - draws a fairly accurate portrait of the rapist, stating that most had begun masturbating at the age of thirteen; half had experienced sexual intercourse by the time they were fifteen; a majority married young, had children, and had not been deprived of normal sex.
Aside from the fact that the above description of a rapist fits an extraordinary number of individuals who are going to go through life without ever raping anyone, the author of the aforementioned volume hardly touches upon the victim and the psychosexual effects on her, especially the victim of an unreported rape.
Of course, instances of rape coming to light only through psychiatric delving into a patient's sexual past are not to be found in the society column of any newspaper. Psychoanalytic files of the fifteen thousand practitioners of the science throughout the nation, however, abound with reports, cases, follow-up studies, and taped interviews of patients such as
the Following: "The size of his cock, gorged like a fist, battering between my thighs, then wedging its tip between the lips of my vagina and forcing its way in - in - unbearably further in until I screamed from the pain ripping me as though in two. Tears made everything a blur - I recall screaming at the top of my voice, 'Dad! Dad! Stop it, please stop it, Dad!' I tried pushing him off - I bit him in the shoulder - I kicked, scratched. . . ."
The above words, taken directly from tape, are those of a sixteen-year-old Los Angeles girl.
Irene was brought to a psychiatrist's office by her aunt shortly after the girl's father, a forty-year-old metallurgist, was taken into custody by the police and then committed to a mental institution for psychiatric observation. The arrest was not the result of the rape - it came a full two years after it! - but stemmed from a neighbor's report to the police authorities that Irene and her father were observed making out under a tree in their backyard. Psychiatric interviews of Irene brought the rest of the story to light, including the girl's conviction that her and her father's steady sexual relationship was perfectly proper.
"There is nothing wrong with incest. . . . Daddy didn't start screwing me until after Mother died - in a car accident. . . .
"I was fourteen then. One day she was there, bubbling with life - she was real cool as mothers go. I loved her - the next day she was dead. I remember I cried the whole day of the funeral until Dad got back. Our neighbor, Mrs. Bellow - she's the bitch that snitched on us - spent the couple of hours that Dad was gone with me. I didn't want to go - I couldn't face seeing her, Mom, being put away. Dad had kissed me before leaving and said that he understood, that I didn't have to go, that Mom would understand, too.
"When he came back, Mrs. Bellow left. I was still dressed in the deep gray suit, the last one mother had made for me. She used to get those Simplicity patterns and sew me all kinds of dresses, skirts, stuff like that. Anyway, this suit was a little short, but I was going to wear it to see her off in - even though I was choking up with tears when I was putting it on.
"Anyhow, I was sitting on the living room couch, my face sort of puffy from crying - I could see myself in the mirrored buffet doors, my short blonde hair neatly brushed, my lips looking pale, my blue eyes like a couple of empty pools - when Dad, having seen Mrs. Bellow out, came up to the sofa, took my head in his hands and pressed it close against himself. He didn't say anything, just stood there stroking my hair, and I nuzzled against him, close, feeling the comforting warmth of his body coming through his slacks at me. I knew that Mom's passing away like that struck a heavy blow to Dad's happiness, as it did to mine. My mind was a total blank until I felt him suddenly move - and at the same time remain motionless, except for his fingers running through my hair. I held my breath - I don't know why - perhaps because I realized what that strange, new contact between Dad and me was.
"I had my eyes closed, but I opened them then and looked down at where the nudge, the pressure, was coming from. It was pushing against my little breast, and I knew then what it was - standing out in a bulge, pushing Dad's pants away from his crotch. I mean - I was no dummy. I've been having my periods for over a year - Mom had told me all about that - and although I'd never let any of the boys in school put their things in between my thighs, I'd seen them not only bulging in their pants but had handled - oh, maybe half a dozen of them - at drive-ins.
"Some of the kids at school thought you were queer or something if you went to a show and didn't jerk your date off. Of course, Mom and Dad never knew of these cock-jerking sessions. I suppose I would've let at least one of the boys slip his thing into me - if I weren't scared that Dad would somehow find out. He had whipped me once - I was twelve, I remember - when he caught me with Jerry, one of the neighbors' kids, in our backyard. We weren't doing anything really - I mean, we weren't screwing or jerking each other off. I didn't know a hell of a lot about sex then. Jerry and I were . .. well, comparing our tools, you might say. Jerry was thirteen and he had his pants unzipped and his penis hanging out - sticking out, really. He had a hard-on - first erection I'd ever seen.
"Well, when Dad came upon us, I had my skirt tucked up around my waist and my panties down around my knees and I was holding Jerry's erection in my hand and it must have sure as hell looked to Dad like we were about to start fucking. I guess we would've tried it if it weren't for Dad interrupting us. And did he ever get the notion out of my head of ever trying anything like that again! I didn't even get the time to pull my panties up. He grabbed me right there in front of Jerry - the poor kid was trying hard as he could to shove his cock back into his pants - bent me over and whipped the living bejeezus out of my bare fanny. . . . That was the only time he had ever taken the belt to my behind, but it did the trick - as far as getting screwed went.. . .
"So when I saw that Dad had an erection right there, inches away from my face, I was really shaken up. I mean, I couldn't figure out why he was suddenly so hot. I tried pulling away a little, so as not to make it obvious to him that I was aware of his state, but, instead of letting me go, he held me even closer until my head was pushed down and I could feel his throbbing hardness hot against my cheek. When I again made a slight move to get away from that thing in his pants - I was so close to it I could smell the strange - at least, it was strange to me then - masculine odor of sex - Dad put a hand on each side of my face and, turning my head so that my nose brushed against the bulge that was by now making his pants look like he had a poker pushing at them from the inside, and pressed it right into his crotch. Hell, by that time I knew that none of what was happening was anything unintentional or accidental. I knew that Dad wanted me! I was really shaken up - I pulled away, jerking my head out of his hands.
"Immediately, he was down on his knees before me on the couch. His hands were at my sides under my arms, his thumbs pressing, squeezing into my breasts - or what I had of them then. I looked into his face, and the expression I saw in his dark brown eyes - still glazed from his tears for Mom, eyelids puffed up - scared the hell out of me. I started saying something like, 'Dad, what are you . . .?' and he said, 'Irene, honey, you're all I've got left,' and then, I love you, Irene.'
"When he said that, I thought that maybe I was just imagining things - about his wanting me sexually - but then he said, 'Take off your suit, honey, or you'll get it wrinkled.' I tried pushing his hands away as he started unbuttoning my suit jacket and then he slapped me right across the face.
" 'Irene,' he said, 'I'm going to make love to you, like I used to make love to your mother.' His grip on my arm was like a steel clamp, his free hand pulling the jacket back and off. I think that that's when I began to cry. I thought of screaming but was afraid he'd hit me again. I tried pleading with him. 'Daddy,' I begged, 'please don't - I don't want to,' but he kept saying, 'It's all right, honey, it's all right.' By now, he had my blouse off. I made a lunge away from him when he reached behind my back to undo my brassiere, but I wasn't quick enough. He grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me down on my back, at the same time pulling on the back of the couch so it clicked and fell back into the sleeping position. The next instant, he ripped my bra off.
"His eyes sort of popped open when he saw my naked breasts; then, holding my arms down with his hands, he bent down and kissed me first on one nipple then the other. 'Sweetheart,' I heard him mutter, 'they're beautiful.' He lay on top of me then, sucking on my breasts, and I suddenly felt his lower body grinding against me, pushing my legs apart, pressing against the bone just above my vagina. I didn't know what to do, so I kept pleading, 'Daddy, please don't, Daddy, please don't. . . .'
"He let go of my breast then and, as it popped out of his mouth, I realized that my nipples were hard and erect like little thimbles standing up. Still rubbing his erection against my lower belly, he smiled and said, 'You know what we're going to do now, Irene?' At his question, I automatically clamped my thighs together. 'No, Dad, it's wrong - it's wrong!' I cried. He laughed then, 'Sweetheart, I love you. I would never do this to you if your mother were alive. But she's gone. You don't want me to go and fuck some whore, honey, do you?' I'd never heard him say that word before and I guess the shock and the embarrassment must have registered on my face, for again he laughed. 'Don't be so shocked, sweetheart, everyone who loves someone fucks that someone. And I loved your mother, and I fucked her, and she loved being fucked. Now she's gone, and you're the one who has to take her place, because I love you, and you have to let me fuck you.'
"It was really weird. His voice was gentle and soft, but his grip on me was like the grip of death itself. I don't know about my reaction to his words - to his penis rubbing against me, either. I mean, I'd always been curious about how it would feel to have a hard cock sliding in and out of my slit. But the curiosity had been always associated with one of the boys at school, kids my own age - not a grown, adult man, and certainly not my own father. I must have been thinking something like that when Dad eased off his hold on me and said that if I wouldn't fight him, he wouldn't hit me, that he didn't want to hit me.
"Then I felt his hands go down to my knees and under my skirt. I had taken off my stockings and my garter belt earlier when Mrs. Bellow was still at the house - I knew I wasn't going anywhere - so that all I had on under the skirt was the half-slip and a pair of wispy panties.
"Dad's hands felt like fire as they moved up the inside of my thighs, prying my legs apart, pushing the skirt and slip up - up until both were gathered in folds around my waist. When I felt his fingers come down my hips to the lower elastic of my panties and then slip under them and move in toward my center, I decided to lie back and block as much of what was happening out of my mind as I could. I pretended that everything I was experiencing was a bad dream, a nightmare. I tried to ignore the slow motion of his fingers slipping closer and closer to my vagina, but when they touched the wisps of pubic hair on either side of it, when they moved in and pried the lips of my vagina apart, I suddenly felt an odd, frightening, tingling sensation. I clamped my legs together, trapping Dad's fingers in the juncture of my thighs.
"His voice, coming from below, from above my yet unpenetrated sex, sounded as though it was coming from a long, endlessly long, black tunnel.'Irene, darling - I'm going to take your panties off now. After I have them off, I want you to spread your legs as far apart as you can - that's the only way I will be able to put my penis all the way into you, and it will hurt less.' Then I felt his fingers like hot coals move back up to the waistband of my panties, then stop, then slowly move down again, pulling on the material, peeling it off my naked hips, past my tummy and buttocks, past my lower abdomen, past my pubic hairs, tickling them in passing. I let him raise me up off the couch slightly so he could slip the last remaining barrier between him and me from my bare bottom. I let him pull them all the way down my legs, past my ankles, and off.
"Seconds later, my heart pounding like crazy, I opened my eyes. I became aware of the absence of Dad's weight on me. As I raised my head off the couch to look down at him, kneeling between my parted legs - I could feel his knees on the insides of mine - I saw it. His huge, enormous cock. I was both horrified and fascinated by it. It made the cocks of all the boys at school I had seen seem puny by comparison.
"Instinctively, I tried clamping my legs together, but Dad's knees were in the way. Still staring at the crimson, gorged head of the stiffness that looked as though it were a foot-long column of living muscle, glistening with what I knew to be Dad's passion juices, I brought both of my hands down to my impossibly small vagina, cupping the mound. I shook my head, terrified, as Dad encircled the throbbing erection with his left fingers, then brought his right hand down into the fly beneath it and withdrew the heavy hanging testicles. 'This is where you came from, Irene,' he said, hefting them up toward me, at the same time pressing his knees against my lower thighs and forcing my legs further apart. 'It's a tool of love that I've never placed inside any cunt but your mother's. Now, Irene, it's going to be yours. You'll love it - after the first bit of pain - sliding in and out of you, in and out of you.'
"And then, slowly, his left hand still holding it as though it were a club, he leaned forward and brought the split tip of it, oozing with clear fluid, to the lips of my puckered vagina.
"I think that's when I screamed, 'No, Dad! No!' and, foolishly, in my last attempt to get away, brought my legs up. That move on my part made it easy for Dad. Unintentionally, I not only presented my slit to him as an easy target, but also gave him my legs to hold on to. Encircling my upflung legs at the knee with his arms, he pointed his cock straight between my legs.
"The size of his cock, gorged like a fist, battering between my thighs, then wedging its tip between the lips of my vagina and forcing its way in - in - unbearably further in until I screamed from the pain ripping me as though in two. Tears made everything a blur - I recall screaming at the top of my voice, 'Dad! Dad! Stop it, please stop it, Dad!' I tried pushing him off - I bit him in the shoulder - I kicked, scratched, but he continued pushing his cock into me, then pulling it partially out - over, and over, and over. . . . The withdrawal of his penis seemed to give me more pain than his ramming it in. It felt as though he was going to turn my vagina inside out. . . .
"I don't know how long the pain lasted. I do know that suddenly I became aware of his balls slapping wetly against the back of my upper thighs; I became aware of a strange fading of the agony between my legs as he continued his rhythmic stroking within me; I became aware of the tingling sensation which I knew was the rubbing of the ridge of his cock's head against the strangely fluttering walls of my vagina. Then the flutter began to increase, to build, to grow. It was joined by a marvelous feeling at the spot where I knew my clitoris was. I realized that the latter sensation was due to the rubbing of Dad's upper column against the nub at the entrance to my cunt.
"And then I felt Dad increase the tempo of his pounding. I felt a fantastic, indescribably delightful tingling spreading outward from the friction of Dad's cock within me, and I began to thrust back at him. My legs came down around his back and clamped him against the center of everything that was happening, and I knew it was happening between my legs and that Daddy made it happen and then I felt the tempo go wild and I went wild along with it, panting, moaning, delirious with the ecstatic torture. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, everything came to a shuddering stop and the only sensations were the maddening spasms rocking within my cunt, and the hot, gushing squirts of Dad's semen pounding against its walls. ... I knew then and there that I wasn't ever going to let anyone fuck me but Daddy. ..."
For two years, Irene and her father, aware of the curse which society had placed on sexual relations between parent and child from time immemorial, exercised such extreme caution in concealing their incestual relationship that no one suspected the true nature of their loyalty, tenderness, and love for one another.
When Irene was asked whether she did not have any apprehensions of getting pregnant and of the possible results such a pregnancy could bring forth, she laughed.
"That bit about inherited genetic defects and monsters is a lot of mythological crap that has never been proven. It's one of those old wives' tales. Take the Egyptians, the Inca - they banged around within the family, and if the Inca aren't around anymore it's because the Spaniards conquered them, not because they brought up litterfuls of idiots. It's all speculation kind of stuff. I'm sure if all the people revealed their private sessions in sex, you'd be surprised how many fathers are screwing their daughters this very minute throughout the country.
"Of course, you're damned right that both Dad and I took all the precautions against my getting knocked up. Dad was always well supplied with rubbers - and the only time he didn't have one on was when he fucked me the first time. But we used them not because we were afraid that I would give birth to an idiot or anything like that. I wanted a baby by him, but we couldn't risk my getting pregnant as long as people would get the idea that it couldn't have been anyone but Dad who got it into me.
"We were going to move to another city and then go at it freely, like we were married, and we would've if it weren't for that bitch next door..."
Although Irene, still an epitome of loveliness whom one would never suspect of having any perverse tendencies - until she starts speaking of her love for her father - has been under private psychiatric care for almost a year now, there appears that no headway has been made to break down her conviction of incest's tightness.
She is attending college, doing well with her studies, but remains a loner, showing her only emotions through doodling arrow-pierced hearts with the names, IRENE and PETER inscribed inside. And her correspondence with Peter - her father - who, such is the prognosis, will remain for a long time within the mental institution, is unlike any letters from daughter to father, being filled with insinuations, sensual longings and assurances of irrevocable love.
Such is one aftermath of rape.
But incest is only one of the byproducts of a forced sexual union. There are others - preferences and perversions of the most varied sort - which had been precipitated and indelibly deposited in a great number of rape victims' sexual drives. This book is about them - the noncomplaining victims of rape.
Chapter One - Rape And Anal Intercourse
The question of why an individual would turn his back upon normal - traditionally normal, that is - ways and means of sex has been puzzling sexologists, psychiatrists, social workers, and laymen themselves, probably ever since the first reported or observed case of sexually deviate act. Numberless tomes have been written in an attempt to answer that question, theories have been promulgated, sides chosen in crossfire debates. Learned men of the stature of Adler and Jung, Bleuler and Freud, Rank, Horney, and Sullivan, dedicated their lives to bringing the enigma somewhat closer to solution. But, it seems, the sphinx of sexual perversion possessed too great a number of masks with too great a number of reasons for every mask to permit one single answer for the sphinx's raison d'etre to be given.
Anal intercourse (or sodomy) and pederasty (which usually refers specifically to anal intercourse with a boy) were two of the enigmatic sphinx's masks. Whereas in instances of homosexuality, anal intercourse may be said to be resorted to as the only possible approximation of the basic man-woman coital act, heterosexual sodomy can not be explained away so simply. Voluntary experimentation by a couple with the final preference for anal intercourse, of course, constitutes a significant number of those practicing sodomy. The following case transcribed from tape, however, points out that there are instances where the terminal effect was not caused by willing cooperation.
A vivacious brunette of twenty, Margaret S. was employed by a large chemical manufacturing firm in the Midwest as the company's research center's librarian's assistant. Her husband, Salisbury S., ten years her senior, and a devout Catholic, was a sales engineer for the same firm. The couple had one child, aged two, and had been married, happily they both claimed, for three years.
Then, unexpectedly, their matrimonial barge was heading for the sharp, proverbial rocks. Margaret's husband insisted that she see a psychiatrist and get herself "straightened out" or he, Salisbury, would seek an annulment.
"Could you tell me what it is that made him lay down this ultimatum?" The question, placed by the doctor, failed to get a response from the girl until he assured her that her answer would not be made known to her husband.
"Our backgrounds are different, doctor. Salisbury's been brought up under strict Christian edicts. I was raised in a ramshackle old tenement in Chicago's Humboldt Park district. But that's not saying that we didn't agree on anything. I mean - well, he wouldn't use contraceptives, but said that he was not against the pill if / was going to be responsible for my own soul. . . .
"So, actually, since I didn't go too much for the pious, religious hodgepodge, it didn't bother me any - his conviction that my damnation was my own business, you know. Anyhow, our sex life I couldn't complain about - of course, it was straight, you know, me on my back and Salisbury doing the thing on top of me, but we went off like mad every time we screwed. After all, an orgasm is an orgasm and as long as we both enjoyed the tingling between our legs, who could complain, right?"
"Then why is Salisbury concerned about whatever it is?" The psychiatrist asked Margaret.
"Well - I - uh - sort of tricked him once. He was somewhat intoxicated one night, about a month ago, and I thought I'd get him to - you know - to screw me in my ass. And he didn't realize what he was doing until I told him. I thought he had enjoyed it as much as I had. I mean, we have one kid, right? I figured why take chances on another one. Oh, I adore Connie, but I want her to have everything we can afford to give her. ..."
The doctor at this point reminded Margaret that she had mentioned the use of the birth control pill. "Why would you have to resort to anal intercourse if you did not mistrust the effectiveness of the pill? Have you had previous experiences of having anal intercourse? Did you perhaps derive more satisfaction from those instances?"
After a lengthy silence, followed by further assurances of the psychiatrist that Margaret could speak with a feeling of total freedom, the girl told her story.
"Until two months ago, I know that had Salisbury himself suggested my parting my buttocks for him I would have probably thought he was queer or something. I mean, even when I was growing up in Humboldt Park, I was no prude and got screwed by the neighborhood kids in every position you can think of - of course, I'd never told Salisbury any of this - you know, flat on my back at the beach or in one of the kids' station wagons, astraddle in the front seat of a car, standing up against a tree in the park . . . but I'd never let any of the fellows get his cock up my rear. I mean, to start with, it wasn't right somehow, like they were passing up my vagina for the sewer pipe, and then, too, I feared that it would hurt like crazy - knowing the size of some of those hard-ons I let slide into me in the front hole, I wasn't about to bend over and let them ram me in the back one. And with the younger kids - fourteen, fifteen, sixteen - I'd say, 'No dice,' and that was that. I mean they wouldn't press the point, especially since they knew I'd be more than game to go the regular route with them. . . .
"But Driscoll was no kid. He's another sales engineer for Consolidated and works a territory adjacent to Salisbury's. Anyway, Salisbury and Driscoll had been friends for quite some time - went through engineering school together, I think even high school - and Driscoll, he's single, had been over to our house numberless times. He'd even stayed overnight once or twice - very proper and all that. . . . Ha!
"Two months back, Salisbury went on business to Denver. One of the pharmaceutical chain stores there had shown interest in switching to a different supplier and he felt there was great chance for some long-term, high-pay commissions. I didn't go in to work that day, was in the third day of my menstrual cycle - unusually rough for some reason that time - and Salisbury had talked me into staying home. Before he had left for the research center that morning I had asked him to get me some perfume on the way from work. Well, later that day he called me and told me of the unexpected good news from Denver and that Driscoll was going to drop by our house and deliver the perfume. ... I mean, Salisbury is sweet; he never forgets anything I ask him.
"I knew that Driscoll usually started for home - he lived about two miles from us - at four-thirty, but by five-thirty there still was no sign of him. When it got to be after seven I figured that he either forgot about the perfume or had been tied up by something at work. . . . Then - at about eight-thirty, I think it was - I heard the front door chimes. By then I'd already completely forgotten about Driscoll. I was in my flower-print flannel pajamas, but not in bed yet. I'd been sitting out in our living room reading something - a magazine, I think.
"The door was on safety chain, but when I saw that it was Driscoll I took the safety off and invited him in. Only when he stepped in, swaying slightly, the smell of whiskey hitting me in the face, did I realize that he'd been out having a few. But it didn't bother me any, actually; I'd seen him hang on quite a number several times that Salisbury, he, and I went out on the town. So I let him in and closed the door behind him.
"I see you've been at it again,' I said jokingly as he stood in the middle of the floor swaying to and fro like a sailor right off the sea.
"It was when I saw his eyes - the look in them, I should say - that I felt slightly uncomfortable. He ran them up and down my pajama-clad body as though he'd never seen it before, then reached out and - and tweaked one of my nipples. Now I know the pj's were tight - I could feel my breasts stretching the material whenever I took a deep breath and they cut into my fanny and front whenever I sat down, but I mean, hell! Driscoll was supposed to be my husband's buddy. . . .
"Anyhow, seeing that he was drunk and all, I thought I'd handle him with a bit of humor. I moved away, put a shocked expression on my face, and said: 'Driscoll! Now what will the neighbors think - especially since Salisbury's out of town?'
"His answer shocked me. He said, 'Honey, the neighbors aren't going to know about it. Because we're going to fuck real quiet-like. I've been hankering to get my hot cock into you a hell of a long time.' Then, before I could so much as move away, he grabbed my hand and pulled it to rest flat against the hardening bulge in the front of his trousers. 'Feel that? That's my fucking tool, Margie, and I'm going to take it out and slide it right up your pussy.
"The first thought that came to my mind was that I should scream. It wasn't so much from terror, or fright even - I knew that Driscoll wouldn't harm me physically - as it was from the simple realization that he threatened to take from me that which I had vowed never to give anyone but Salisbury. I mean, sure, I've been screwed by more guys than I could count on the fingers of both of my hands - and the toes of my feet - but, I loved Salisbury. All the other hard-ons that had found their way into me had come before Salisbury. I felt no attraction toward Driscoll, no electrifying charge, even though his cock was lying solidly in the palm of my hand. And though I tried pulling it away, the grip of his fingers on my hand was too powerful. For a few moments we just stood there like that. Our eyes interlocked, my breath caught in my throat, his chest rising and falling with obvious arousal.
"Then, suddenly, I remembered my condition. That'll fix his plan, I thought. I felt almost exuberant from what I thought would be the end of his make on me. In fact, I smiled, sarcastically, but smiled anyway.
" 'Driscoll,' I said, my hand no longer straining to release itself from his grip; instead, I let my fingers curl around the thick, pulsating erection of his. 'You've picked the wrong time for this. I'm what you might call 'out of order.' Seeing the glassy look in his eyes, a look that did not seem to quite understand what I was telling him, I took his free hand in mine and brought it smack against the crotch of my pajama bottoms. I felt his fingers through the thickness of the Kotex pad I was wearing. Even though I sometimes felt as horny as hell during my periods when Salisbury would so much as take me in his arms and hold me close, I felt absolutely nothing now with Driscoll's fingers pressing through the quarter-inch thickness against my slit. I mean, he just didn't do a damn thing for me.
"But my assumption that a sanitary napkin would cool him off was as wrong as it could be. I felt his screwing rod grow even larger within the circle of my fingers. His face distorted into a grisly mask; he sneered, then spit out, 'You goddamned cock-teasing cunt!'
"His hand came away from my crotch and lashed out across my face. I felt fire rush through my cheek. 'But there's more than one way to skin a pussy,' he hissed at me.
"That unnerved me. I opened my mouth to scream - although, actually, there wasn't much point; our house stood secluded within this grove of trees, the windows were shut - but his band was in a flash across my lips, his elbow grinding against my tender breasts, his other arm - the one that had held my hand against his crotch - went around me to my back. The way he held me now, I could feel his throbbing erection grinding against my thighs, pressing against the pad between my legs. Instinctively, I thought of sinking my teeth into the hand clamped over my mouth, but when I saw the wild look in his eyes, I changed my mind. I would resist him, but I would not aggravate him. I no longer was sure that he wouldn't hurt me. He had the look of a fucking maniac.
"I thought that maybe if I tried reasoning with him. . . . 'Driscoll, how will you be able to face up to Salisbury -' I stopped. The vacant expression in his eyes, empty but for the mad fire of lust burning deep within them, spelled out 'hopeless.' With a wrench of my body, I tore out of his grasp. I wasn't free for long though. His hand shot out, grabbing the waistband of my pajama bottoms, and I heard the soft sound of flannel ripping -then coolness upon my buttocks. I turned toward him to try freeing myself again, but the coffee table tripped me and I went sprawling over it with Driscoll right on top of me, cursing, panting, roaring almost. . . .
" 'You goddam bitch,' he gasped out into my ear, his breath hot, charged with the fumes of alcohol. 'I'm gonna teach you a fucking lesson.'
"I felt the pressure of his arm and upper body upon my back bearing down upon me. My breasts ached as they were squashed against the top of the coffee table. I wondered that it didn't give way - but it was heavy, thick, massively built. It was a good five feet long, three feet across. Anyway, I was pinned to it. My struggling against Driscoll was useless, but I struggled - I never stopped struggling even when - when the bastard made me come later. . . .
"The son of a bitch had me on that table. I couldn't figure out at first what he had in mind - I mean, I was lying on it facedown, you know. Then, when I felt his fingers ripping the flannel down my buttocks, pulling the material until it bunched up around my knees on the floor, I waited for him to let me up - I was going to give a try to scratching his bleary eyes out. But he didn't let me up. Instead, I felt him prying my legs apart and then he must have gotten down on his knees between my legs behind me, for the weight of his body held the pajamas down against the floor, binding my ankles so I couldn't move away. He was behind me and the coffee table was in front, digging into my stomach, its edge cutting into me just above my pelvic bone.
"I don't know what kept me from passing out right there, especially when his fingers started running up and down the crease between my ass cheeks, forcefully, slipping momentarily into the tender opening there, to linger, with each upward and downward passage. I tried squeezing my buttocks together, humiliated by my position, embarrassed by the realization that my Kotex pad had been torn away with the tearing of my pajama bottoms.
" 'Don't, Driscoll - please don't, Driscoll,' I began pleading as I felt his finger pause longer and longer each time it came to the twitching hole in my behind. 'Stop it, stop it, Driscoll. . . stop it!' I wondered why he didn't go lower in the crease, to the gaping wound between my thighs. He's just tormenting me, I thought. He's just trying to make me relax, give up struggling, and then he'll fuck me, the bastard. And at the very moment when I was going to try my utmost to topple him over backwards, a searing, unbearably sharp and sudden pain shot through me. I thought I'd die. I knew it was only his finger - but he'd rammed it right up in my asshole and was twisting it around, curling it in my rectum. Instinctively, I clenched my buttocks even tighter together, willed my anal ring to contract, but that only served to draw his finger further into me - I felt the prominent knuckle of his finger and the remaining, curled to his palm, fingers pressing into the fleshiness surrounding my rear entrance.
" 'You like that, Margie, hey?' he panted into my ear. 'You want the real thing in there, don't you, Margie? But be patient, I'll screw your beautiful ass when I am good -' his hard, long finger pulled part way out, taking my intestines with it, it seemed,'- and ready!' He stressed his last word by skewering his fucking digit roughly back in. And then out, and in, and out - all the way out, finally, with a sickening loud plop!
"Tears filled my eyes. The pain of that sudden withdrawal was like nothing I had ever felt before. And I knew that the size of his finger was but a pencil compared to the tree trunk of a cock he carried between his legs. But held down against the table top like I was, there wasn't a thing I could do about anything he had in mind. And he had plenty in his mind. . . .
"There was this bowl of fruit standing on the coffee table - I still don't know why it didn't get knocked off - and the bowl was filled with apples, peaches, and - yeah! - bananas. A bunch of large, ripe ones. Salisbury likes bananas. . . . Anyhow, I had my face turned toward it and I saw Driscoll's hand reach over and tear off the largest one of the bunch. When I realized what he intended doing with it, I just about passed out - I guess, I must have. Or, maybe, I was so busy trying to pull away and get him off my back that in my struggles I didn't even feel him inserting the damned thing into my rectum.
"I suppose my terror at the pain I expected to feel had negated the actual physical agony. It was almost as though I had screamed so loud I couldn't hear the pain. It was only when I finally quieted down that the sensation of something large sliding sloppily in and out of my ass registered upon me. The struggle must have so exhausted me that I relaxed and then suddenly realized that my relaxation made the in-and-out sliding of the banana in my rectum quite a bit more bearable. . . .
"The shock of Driscoll jerking the goddam fruit out of my rear stiffened me though. I yelped, 'What are you doing?' And then he laughed, said, 'Oh, Margie, baby, I'm sorry - I forgot you can't see. I'll keep you informed of what I'm doing back here. . . .' And again he laughed. 'I just pulled nine inches of thick banana out of your bunghole - see it?' He brought it in front of my eyes, his thumb squeezing into it, moving across its width. I stuck it into you right up to here.' Then he let it drop on the table right in front of my face. I could smell the tangy, putrid odor of my ass on it. I wanted to vomit, but his voice broke in again.
" 'Now I'm unzipping my fly,' he said, and I felt his hand fumbling behind my buttocks, brushing against them. 'Now I've got my thick, hard, long cock out. Feel its tip?' I felt him press its knob into the fleshy cheek of my ass. It was hot and moist, circling my naked rear, up one mound, over the slight indentation where the crease of my ass began, down the other mound, then under - pressing up against the between my legs. On and on he circled. And the agony of awaiting became unbearable. I suddenly wanted him to get it over with. I still didn't feel anything - at least, I don't think I did. But, anyway, when he remained silent behind me, rubbing his cockhead all over my rear, running it up and down my crack in the back, breathing heavily, I gasped out, 'If you are going to do it, then do it, dammit!' I heard his breath catch in his throat and almost simultaneously felt the circling cease.
" 'That's the girl!' he muttered. Then I felt my cheeks spread apart, heard him spit - I jumped when I felt his saliva hit the small of my back and then ooze down between my parted ass cheeks. 'What the -' I started to say, but he interrupted me. 'It's all right,' he said, mopping the head of his penis through the wetness in my rear groove, 'this'll make my prick slide in easier into you - until I come in your ass.'
"It's funny, but that's when I felt suddenly curious - just a wee bit curious. I said, 'Oh,' as though it were perfectly okay for this man who was my husband's friend to be kneeling behind me with his throbbing erection gliding through my bare-ass crease. His cock stopped its wallowing then and I felt its tip force its way past the fleshiness of my cheeks, felt a slight resistance of my anal opening as he bore steadily forward. The next moment the knob of his hard-on was in - he paused a moment - then I became conscious of the hardness of his throbbing shaft sliding in and in and in. I thought there was a whole yard of him going up my backside.
"I was about to tell him not to go any further in, to stop, when I felt something soft and wiry and crisp tickling the cheeks of my ass, then the heat of his pelvis was against me. I gasped. The pressure, the warmth against my rear end beneath where he had penetrated me were his balls - I mean, I was shocked, realizing suddenly that I had taken all of him into me - that way! I shuddered, and Driscoll started withdrawing. I realized then that he was no longer pressing me down against the table with his elbow. He had his arms around me and was kneading my breasts through my pajama tops - and my nipples were like hot little buns straining against his hands.
"All the time, meanwhile, he was sliding in and out behind me. I felt him draw back until only the mushroom head of his cock was beyond the asshole, then I'd feel his balls against me again. I didn't notice him pick up the tempo until I was aware of my body responding, moving toward the coffee table when he was pulling his cock out of me, moving toward him when he was ramming his cock back in. I felt this odd tingling deep inside me and it was building and swirling and seemed to be coming from the tip of his hard-on like ever increasing circles and I realized that my cunt was sopping wet and it wasn't from my menstruation. Then I began bucking against him like crazy and gasping, 'oh, God, oh, God - Driscoll - I'm . . . I'm going to - come!'
"And I did, just as I felt the hot liquid spurting out of the tip of his cock deep in my ass
"
Following this experience, Margaret S. told the psychiatrist, she became overwhelmed with guilt. When Driscoll released her, she slapped him and drove him out of the house. By then, having satisfied his urge, Driscoll put up no resistance. Margaret never saw her assailant again, for, the following Monday her husband told her that Driscoll had quit his job with the firm and had left town.
Margaret never mentioned the event that took place between her and Salisbury's friend. But the guilt of having had sexual intercourse, and in what she considered to a most unconventional manner with another man, gnawed at her conscience. She felt especially bad because she had found satisfaction in her anal rape by Driscoll. She wanted Salisbury to take her anally now, feeling that once she gave herself to her husband that way, the feeling of guilt would be alleviated. And were it not for Salisbury's narrow-mindedness inbred through his religious upbringing, there is little doubt that Margaret would have got over her feeling of guilt and her desire for anality. Salisbury's stand, however - his ultimatum to Margaret that she either see a psychiatrist or he would get an annulment - proved to be final.
The psychiatrist's attempt to approach him, to break through the puritanical thickheadedness of his upbringing proved futile. Margaret was unable to control her desire to have her husband willingly, perform the act of anal intercourse with her and, as a result, Salisbury had the marriage annulled. The annulment was a heart-rending blow to Margaret, but she continued her visits to the psychiatrist who finally convinced her that her desire for coitus in ano was normal under the circumstances.
Six months after the annulment, she married a man who proved to be considerably more broad-minded than Salisbury had been. Margaret admits that they occasionally resort to anal intercourse with mutual satisfaction, but find no less pleasure in the conventional coital act.
Chapter Two - Rape And Oral Intercourse
Although it was around the turn of the century that Havelock Ellis wrote, in his Psychology of Sex, that "cunnilinctus . . . and fellatio cannot be regarded as unnatural," that "as forms of contrectation and aids to tumescence they are . . . natural and are sometimes regarded by both sexes as quintessential forms of sexual pleasure, though they may not be considered esthetic," some purists still cling bullheadedly to the outmoded puritanical concepts which consider the word sex itself as a dirty word. They consider diabolical even the current opinions voiced in publications of such noted institutions as The American Academy of Political and Social Science, a society incorporated on April 4, 1891.
This fact is supported, and stressed, by Donal E. J. MacNamara, M.P.A., New York City. President of the American League to Abolish Capital Punishment, and a past president of the American Society of Criminology, Assistant Professor in charge of the corrections sequence at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, City University of New York, he writes: "The criminal law . . . should distinguish between those acts prohibition of which is necessary for the protection of society . . . and those acts . . . which are matters of private moral choice, individual taste, or of differential cultural conditioning. The sexual provisions of American penal codes . . . are extremely puritanical in attempting to repress with overly severe penalties both normal sex relations not theologically sanctioned . . .; unconventional sex play even between married couples (cunnilingus, fellatio, and anal intercourse);. . . and, in some jurisdictions, even such secret autoerotic practices as masturbation or the possession of pornographic materials. ..."
How manifestly true.
In the case history which follows, the injustice invoked by the narrow-mindedness of one opinionated individual and reflected from the sociosexually puritanical attitude taken by a member of the judiciary, is grievously pathetic.
Yvette was seventeen when she was taken into a juvenile court custody and then referred to a psychiatrist. The statement she made to the doctor - in its choice of words - conflicted sharply with the reports the psychiatrist had gathered on Yvette from her parents, teachers, and friends. Whereas they had said that she was timid, quiet, and "a young lady from outward appearances," the answer she gave to a question posed by the psychiatrist belied that. The psychiatrist's query was: "Why are you here, Yvette?"
"Because I'm a cocksucker, that's why, or didn't they tell you?" Her animosity was apparent; her dark brown eyes sparkled with mutinous insolence.
Knowing the circumstances under which Yvette had been apprehended - she and her nineteen-year-old boyfriend, Malvin, had been caught in a rear parking space at a drive-in, locked in the soixante-neuf embrace, at the very instant of mutual climax, neither Yvette nor Malvin had anything on from the waist down - the psychiatrist asked Yvette if she had had regular sexual intercourse with Malvin. To the doctor's surprise, the young girl broke out in laughter.
"Doc, I don't let any cock into my pussy - you think I'm daffy or something? I mean once was enough. ..."
The story unfolded that, with Yvette, oral-genital intercourse was the only way she would have sex, and the reason for this went back to her high school days and her French teacher. She told the story of her rape to the psychiatrist with a frankness that was totally unreserved.
"I guess you could say I was a goodie-goodie girl. Fifteen and still a virgin. I knew all about the birds and the bees, of course. Come to think of it, if I didn't let others - like mom and dad - know that I knew that no silly old stork brought kids, I may have stayed a virgin even longer. When my folks found out I knew not only about the birds and the bees but about cocks and pussies as well, they pulled me out of the public school I was attending and enrolled me in one of those parochial places. That did it - I mean, like they didn't trust me or something. The first semester, I decided I was gonna pay them back. . . .
"Monsieur Follet was my French language teacher. I set my eyes on him the very first session. I was gonna tease him to the point where - so I thought - he'd be forced to report me to the principal, and then, I imagined, after my dad found out he'd get mad and pull me out of that school and back into a public one.
"But Follet didn't report me. What I'd been doing was - I'd be sitting in the second row of seats in the classroom, see, and right in his line of vision - anyway, at first, I'd let him see up my legs as far as I dared. I'd cross my legs, pull the hem of my skirt up, recross my legs. . . . Nothing. He acted like I wasn't there. So I got bolder. Whenever I'd see his piercing brown eyes on me - for a man of his age, thirty-six, he had real sexy eyes - I'd part my knees, sometimes spread my legs as far apart as I dared without letting the other kids catch on to what I was up to, and, pulling my hem up to three or four inches below my thigh juncture, scratch my upper inner thighs. Finally, I began catching his gaze flitting under my dress - but when he said nothing to me about it after class, I decided that I would get some action out of him. . . . And did I ever!
"Before going to my French class the next day, I went into the girls' room and took my panties off! Then I went to class, my pleated uniform skirt brushing against the bare skin of my hips, buttocks, upper legs. I felt real wicked - I was gonna get old Monsieur Follet so hot and bothered and mad he was gonna run right down to the principal's office and sputter about the wench in his language class. . . .
"I was late for the class, so I walked up to Follet's desk and said, real sweet-like, I had to go potty.' And then added, 'But I didn't make it.' When the puzzled expression crossed his face, I leaned toward him and whispered, I went in my - you know. . . .'
"I saw his Adam's apple roll up out from under his shirt collar then slide back under it. 'Please remain after class, Yvette. I - I want to talk to you.' He turned halfway away from me toward the blackboard and as my eyes rolled down the front of his body I saw the bulge in the front of his trousers. Funny thing is, that was the first time I became conscious of him as a male. A person, I mean, who had the equipment to screw someone with. I think that when I realized that, I got even more flustered than he was. But when I got to my seat - the other kids hadn't heard our exchange, they were still in the prelesson hubbub - I figured I wasn't going to back off from my campaign against Follet.
"All through the lesson I kept my legs apart and Follet was stuttering, flustered, all over the place, his eyes more of the time riveted on the naked spot between my legs than on anything else. And he was acting like he didn't want to face the class - he'd either sit at his desk, or stand, his front to the blackboard, his head turned at an awkward angle toward the class. But most of the time he sat at the desk - hell, he could see under my dress better that way and not show his hard-on. Once, intentionally, I dropped my pencil. When I bent over sideways to pick it up, I parted my thighs so wide that I heard the lips of my pussy slurp open, and immediately I heard Follet's gasp which he tried to cover by clearing his throat, then by coughing, and finally, when he choked, he dismissed the class.
"After everyone left, I got up from my seat and walked up to his desk. 'You asked me to stay -' I said, questioningly, as if I didn't know why he wanted me to remain. I figured he was gonna tell me to come along with him to the principal's office. His eyes shot up to mine then and I saw the strangest damned expression in them. I mean like he was apologizing to me or something. 'Oh - yes, Yvette -' he said, then paused, his eyes dropping for a moment to my breasts perking up through my white blouse. 'Do you think you could stay for an hour or so -' his voice trailed off and I thought, Oh, boy, he's really gonna lecture me on the proprieties of young ladies! Well, what the hell, I thought, if he doesn't report me to Jennings - that was the principal - I'll listen to him today and resume my splits for him tomorrow. ... I mean, I was determined to get expelled from that goodie-goodie school. Anyhow, when he paused, I shrugged my shoulders, said, 'Okay.' Even though it was the last class of the day, I didn't worry too much about mom being upset if I were an hour late - I quite often stopped for a malt, or went window-shopping on my way home. I turned away from Follet and started for my seat, but he stopped me. 'Why don't we go on up to my office,' he said.
"I turned toward him, slightly surprised, and nodded. The thought of why he really wanted to get me away from the classroom, and the realization that his office was directly connected to his small apartment - he lived right on the school grounds as did the nonlaymen of the staff - did not dawn upon me until I was in his office.
"Actually, even then, the realization didn't form in my mind until afterwards. I mean if I had thought before I went into his quarters, My teacher wants to fuck me, I would have probably hightailed it. . . . Anyway, there we were in his office - stacks and stacks of books on shelves against one wall, his small desk in front of it, a high armchair directly across, a door, closed, directly in front of the outside door and between the armchair and the desk. I stopped in front of the chair after he ushered me in, turning to face him. Inadvertently, my eyes lowered to his crotch - and I gasped, my heart suddenly going cold and fluttery in my chest.
"I don't know, maybe I was backward in my upbringing; I mean - I'd never seen anything like it. Oh, I've seen my dad's penis several times when I had to go to the bathroom while he was taking a bath or shower, and I'd seen plenty of outlines of cocks in boys' trousers. I knew that the same penises were supposed to get hard and poke out, but I'd never ever seen a real, live erection. I guess it'd be safe to say that Follet's gigantic penis standing straight out of the fly of his pants was the first stiff and bare cock I'd ever laid my eyes upon. And I couldn't for the life of me take my gaze away from it. It was the most fascinating and at the same time the scariest thing I'd ever seen. It must have been a good two inches in diameter and ten inches, maybe eleven, from the crinkly hair that surrounded it where it emerged from his fly to its tip. It appeared to me to be as hard as marble, with bluish veins running toward its head, branching into smaller veins, each one standing out like a twig right under the skin. And the head of the cock - God! - it was like a small-size doorknob, purple in color, getting larger and redder by the second. I watched the whole shaft rise and drop, rise and drop, in small regular jumps as if it were being controlled by some all-powerful master; and each time it twitched upwards, the small slit in the tip of the mushroom-head opened slightly, like a little mouth parting its lips.
" 'Don't look so shocked, Yvette.' His voice, melodious but spiked with sarcasm, startled me. 'It doesn't follow your demonstration in the classroom.'
"I stood as though petrified. I could neither move nor say anything, but just look at his face, smiling, then his cock, waving at me. For a second I felt as though I was just gonna pass out cold on the floor; the blood that rushed to my head - my face must've been as red as the tip of his penis - made my temples pound with heavy little sledge-hammer blows. Even when he took two steps toward me and I saw him raise his hands and put them on my upper arms, simultaneously becoming conscious of a throbbing pressure against the lower part of my abdomen, I didn't move. The contact between the head of his monstrous erection, rubbing, stroking, and my body - I mean, it was intimate. There was nothing between him and me except the cotton of my skirt and I actually felt the heat and hardness of his slitted knob rolling the sparse curls of my pubic hairs above my pussy mound.
"The thought crossed my mind - consciously, I mean, one word following the next - almost at the same time as the words left his lips. I thought: Monsieur Follet thinks I want him to fuck me. He said: 'Yvette, you want me to fuck you, don't you?'
"Quickly, I shook my head as though he really wanted my answer - as if my answer would make the least bit of difference. 'No, no, I don't - honestly, sir,' Suddenly I was all proper, feeling scared and ridiculous, knowing that we were standing just about as close as two people can without actually humping. 'I didn't mean anything, sir.' I dropped my eyes in embarrassment. They fell on that sex pole of his nudging my pelvis, and I raised them back up to his face.
" 'You didn't mean anything?' he asked, smirking. 'You sat in class back there, rubbing your young twat in my gaze, spreading your legs until I could see your tonsils up your sex organ, smacking the lips of that little hairy mouth between your thighs at me until I could smell the juices of your hot little pussy - and you say you didn't mean anything?' He broke into a laugh that frightened me more than the silent pressure of his cock against my twat - that was the first time I had heard that word used by anyone. I wanted to scream. In fact, I opened my mouth, intending to do just that, but he clamped his powerful, firm hand over it.
" 'If you try yelping, Yvette, I'm going to smash your pretty little face in - and I don't want to do that. All I want to do is fuck you. I think you're a cute little girl, and as far as I know, fucking has never killed a girl.' His voice came to me like an ominous murmur from some distant monstrous land. 'If you've had a prick in your sheath before, you know that it feels quite nice - if you haven't, well, it'll will hurt for a little while, then you won't want me to stop sliding my penis in and out of that hole between your legs.'
"In the few moments that it took him to maneuver me through the door into his apartment - after his threat, I didn't struggle too much - I had a thousand fleeting visions of his enormous cock ripping its way into me, tearing my vagina apart, splitting me open. And I don't know whether it was his threat that kept me from screaming even after he removed his hand from my mouth or whether it was the unexplainable state of terrified shock that I felt my whole body caught in. Funny, I recall feeling an odd icy cold grip on my pussy, like a hand with icicles for fingers, which, if I struggled, I imagined would break off and pierce me, enter me, in a thousand painful places.
"When Monsieur Follet let me into his small bedroom, he pushed me toward the studio bed that was standing against one wall and said, 'Lie down on it, pull up your skirt, and spread your legs. The less you struggle, the less painful it will be - until the pleasure comes.' When I didn't move, he shrugged his shoulders, smiled, then unbuckled his belt and took off his trousers. Then, as I stood with my back toward the bed, he approached me, slowly, cautiously, as if I were a rabbit or a bird and he the hunter who was afraid to startle and scare his prey away. With only his undershorts on now, he appeared to be all erection. It seemed as though his penis had gotten even longer and thicker than it had been out in the office, and, in addition to his cock pointing at me now, I saw that his testicles - the size and color of two small peaches - were hanging out of the slit in his shorts, bloated, heavy, fuzzy with reddish wisps of hair.
"He is going to ram that shaft of muscle into me! He is going to rape me - have intercourse with me - screw me - fuck me - fuck me - fuck me! I thought, terrified, backing up until I could move no more - the edge of Follet's bed cut into the back of my knees, and I leaned back and fell on the bed, gasping in a horrified whisper, 'Fuck me!' But I didn't mean that the way it came out - it was the tail end of a thought that escaped my lips. I opened my eyes in fright when I saw the smile on Follet's face as he came down onto the bed, raising my knees up until my skirt slid up my thighs to my waist, whispering, 'Yes, Yvette, yes - that's what I'm going to do. . . . Fuck you - fuck you!'
"All I had power to do then was shake my head. The reality of Follet upon me was so heavy, so seemingly overpowering that I felt powerless to do anything. As my skirt slipped up my thighs, as he lifted my legs up in the crook of his elbows, I saw the solid tip of his cock in the V of my bare crotch, looming above the slightly downed hair of my pussy. I heard my labia squish open, then saw Follet grasp his erection with one hand and bring its gorged throbbing head toward the pink-lipped slit of my vulva. I saw the crimson, slitted head touch the tender opening between my pussy lips, saw it push in, then clamped my eyes shut, tried to bring my legs together, but Follet was holding them apart, pushing, forcing himself into me between them, slowly, slowly. I felt myself giving way to him, reluctantly, and then he bore down and forward into me and the pain - God! - I'd never felt or imagined pain like that. . . . Then everything went black, agonizing black - I must have passed out - I don't remember anything, none of that fucking pleasure he told me about, until. . . .
"When I came to. It was fantastic. I felt as though I was floating on clouds and I was all pussy - tingling, thrilling, throbbing with the most wonderful feeling I had ever felt. It felt as though my pussy, my sex mouth, was giggling and twitching from indescribable joy. It was a hazy sensation at first, but as it grew, I became conscious of the soft bed under me and of something moist and cool and warm and caressing slipping in and out of my vagina and of my hips moving up and down and of my thighs parting and rising to draw the sweet, wonderful, gentle intruder into my hot, creamy, young box. Something hard was grazing against my clitoris, then something soft, then it was being drawn upon - sucked upon, nibbled upon.. .. I opened my eyes then - everything around me had a misty, rosy glow - and I saw Follet next to me. His cock was much smaller than before and it was but a few inches away from my face, lying in the moist nest of his crinkly pubic hairs, its base resting in the depression formed within the pillow of his balls. It was then that I realized that he was doing to me what I had heard kids snicker about and whisper about. . . . Monsieur Follet was eating my pussy. Monsieur Follet was a pussy-eater. . . . A marvelous pussy-eater, I thought, raising my crotch up at his face, grinding it against his soft-lipped, long-tongued mouth.
"Then, as his tongue became more rapid, as his lips became more insistent, as the thrill going through my body rose in intensity, I saw him start moving his pelvis back and forth, bringing his cock to a semi-rigid state and closer to my face. Instinctively, I guess, I moved my face toward the slowly unsheathing cockhead of his - the way his foreskin slipped back up the thickening, pulsing shaft, fascinated me. I smelled the aroma of his masculinity - it was a new, strange, but exhilarating odor - then flicked my tongue out tentatively at the slit in the end of his engorging knob. It jumped; and its tiny mouth parted its lips as a droplet of crystal clear fluid seeped out and coated the crimson smoothness. Again I licked it - it tasted like the ocean spray - and again it jumped, brushing against my nose. I heard Follet moan into my pussy, then saw him bring his penis - a full hard-on now - against my lips. The tempest that was building in my ovaries, the froth that he was beating up in my vagina, the electrifying currents that were coursing throughout my body - so powerful were these sensations that I did what I knew I had to - no, wanted to do. I opened my mouth and sucked the entire length of his stiff, throbbing cock into it - well, most of it. . . . I wanted to have all of it my mouth, but it was much too large - even with the knob pressing against the back of my throat, I only had about two-thirds of it in me. Then I began licking it, running my tongue up and down its shaft, then - when Follet began pulling it out from between my lips then plunging it back in - I sucked on it, hearing myself moan as the sensation in my pussy grew and I started slamming it violently against Follet's mouth while he in turn rammed his heated shaft to its limit into mine.. . .
"We came together - it was the most glorious feeling I had ever experienced. It felt as though Follet had his entire head in me and was licking every square millimeter of the inside walls of my vagina with a thousand moist, vibrating tongues of fire. And the thick fluid that pumped out of his cock into my throat - I thought nothing of swallowing every bitter-sweet droplet of it - was the most thirst-quenching liquor I had ever drunk. It was sensational! Like we were going over Niagara, falling, and then landing on a mile-thick pillow of swansdown. . . .
"After that, we sixty-nined almost everyday in his apartment. Several times he wanted to fuck me, but I told him that he could eat my pussy and I'd suck his cock as much as he wanted, but fucking was out. And it was - I mean, hell, I'm no masochist, you know. ..."
Yvette said that her oral-genital relationship with her French teacher continued until he was transferred to another school. The others after him - mostly boys her age - were just as willing to settle for cunnilingus and fellatio as for old-fashioned form of sexual intercourse.
Her reference to masochism was an all-revealing allusion to her psychosexual problem. To her, the insertion of a man's penis into her vagina was synonymous with pain. Having fainted at the moment of her defloration by her schoolteacher, Yvette could recall nothing but the agony of her hymen being ruptured. No such feeling was related to Follet's performing cunnilingus upon her; there was only the feeling of euphoria in her fully conscious remembrance of that. Apparently, Follet had been cautious in not permitting this oral genital coupling to be a repulsive or traumatic experience for the young girl. Yvette revealed to the psychiatrist that the teacher had admitted to her that he had cleaned her up after her defloration. This statement by Follet was prompted by Yvette when she questioned him about "what happened to all the blood." This, in conjunction with the sensual pleasure of cunnilingus which Yvette experienced, endeared her schoolteacher to her even more.
The prognosis for Yvette is uncertain. Her feelings of animosity toward what she calls "The old establishment" is understandable. She had been subjected to public embarrassment and humiliation, and her boyfriend with whom, she'd been told, she had carried on "unnatural relationships," had been sentenced to five years for contributing to the delinquency of a minor - the other charges having been dropped. It is probable, and this may seem a strongly unethical statement, that until someone actually rapes Yvette again, she will continue being a "pervert."
Chapter Three - Rape And Sadism
Much has been written on the infliction of pain as a means of obtaining sexual release since the latter part of the eighteenth century when the master of cruelty, Marquis de Sade, penned his notorious novels, such as Justine and Histoire de Juliette, and gave his name to the perversion know as sadism. Many and varied causes have been attributed to the many and varied forms of sadism.
Dr. O. Spurgeon English, in his Introduction to Psychiatry, co-authored with Dr. Stuart M. Finch, states that sadism is a holdover of early childhood tendencies. "Every youngster," he writes, "particularly during the anal phase, is sadomasochistic, and if his tendencies, through early environmental trauma, are fixated within the personality and subsequently welded together with the sexual impulses, overt sadism and masochism are possible results. Such individuals have been unable to achieve mature love relationships so that lovemaking, if it may be called such, becomes a matter of either hurting or being hurt rather than having the genuine warmth which normally would be present. The relationships of these people lack tenderness, while pleasure is derived from the kind of violent impact which is identified with inhibited conquering or killing."
It is possible that Dr. English's portraiture of a sadist is accurate in a great majority of instances. It would be foolhardy, however, to assume that a psychosexual cliche could be applicable to all incidences of sadism. From the case of Caroline F., which follows, one inadvertently concludes that sadism may be "spontaneously generated" rather than come through as a result of subconscious germination from the years of early childhood.
Caroline, an attractive hazel-eyed music teacher - taught piano at a music conservatory in San Francisco - was twenty-nine when she was brought to the attention of a psychiatrist. Her sadistic treatment of her husband was not so much revealed as assumed when Fritz F. was admitted to an emergency hospital. In addition to an advanced stage of infection in the urinary tract, his genital area bore unexplainable bruises, welts, and punctures. Though an individual of athletic build, he finally admitted Caroline's sadism toward him, stating that he had not reported her misconduct to anyone because he loved her, knew that she was emotionally disturbed and would leave him if he resisted her. It was apparent to the men of medicine that Fritz had masochistic tendencies, but it was Fritz's wife, Caroline, who interested them the most. For a young woman who had been brought up under the most ideal conditions - her parents were well-to-do, had never mistreated her, harmony was the dominant feature of their family life - her sadism seemed to have no psychological explanation. Only after continual sessions with the psychoanalyst was the inciting event to her sadism revealed by her. It had occurred almost two years earlier, in the twenty-seventh year of her life. Here is that event, related in her own words.
"I loved Fritz the first five years of our marriage. We were happy. We were compatible. We did not lack anything, either financially or emotionally. With both of us being career people of sorts - I, a music teacher, Fritz, a history professor - our life was full. Everything was going great until I became ill with vulvovaginitis. Fritz wasn't aware of it. I don't know why, but I didn't tell him, I went to a gynecologist. He examined me, told me what it was, and said that I should refrain from sexual intercourse until the inflammation cleared up. On the way home from the doctor I decided that I would tell Fritz.
"When I did, Fritz showed concern, but I also noticed a certain animosity - as if he either didn't believe me or thought that I was making the ailment up for some reason. We got into an argument - later that night he tried to make me, unsuccessfully. . . .
"Two days later I again had to go to the gynecologist - by the previously set appointment. The salve he prescribed for me worked fine until it wore off - I had to swab the insides of my vagina every four hours to keep the pain under control. After I left his office that afternoon, I decided to go shopping in the Sunset district of San Francisco. It was already getting dark when I got into our car - one of our two cars, we had two Volkswagens - and headed for home. It had a reserve tank switch, and I completely forgot that I had switched to the reserve even before I got to the doctor's office. I had to drive through Golden Gate Park, had done so innumerable times with no trouble. And actually, even when I realized that I was completely out of gas, when the car stalled along the winding approach to 25th Avenue on the Richmond side of the park, I thought nothing of it - other than the inconvenience of having to walk to a service station.
"I was almost out of the park - I could see the lights of Fulton Avenue bordering the park on the north - when a car parked alongside the road I was walking on, a car I hadn't noticed until I was almost upon it, blinded me with the suddenly bright beams of its headlights. I stopped momentarily, startled, but then - deciding it was either a patrol car or a car with a couple trying to find a place to smooch - continued walking. I was alongside it when the door on the passenger side swung open and a deep voice from within rasped, 'Hey, honey, when was the last time you got laid?' The words, the fact that the courtesy lights within failed to light when the door swung open, the suddenly sharp pain between my legs, petrified me. And the split moment that I stood motionless, with the door of the car almost brushing against me, gave the man inside enough time to make his move.
"Before I realized what was happening, I saw the glint of a knife blade, then felt an arm encircle my waist and the cold edge of the knife press against my throat. 'Make a sound, try to struggle, and I swear I'll slice into your windpipe!' There was no question that the son of a bitch meant it. 'Get in!' he ordered, pushing me into the car and slamming the door shut. In an instant he was in through the door on the other side. Minutes later he had the car parked on a seldom used maintenance road by the old race track. Pulling me out of the car he dragged me through a clump of bushes and shoved me down upon a wooden bench.
"By now I was both terrified and sick from the pain in my vagina, a raw, burning pain. I tried to tell him that I was sick. He laughed at that. 'I'll cure that, honey. A little internal massage between your legs will do the trick.' The next thing I knew he pushed me down on my back on the bench and was slipping a rope around my wrist. When I tried kicking, tried to tear away from him, he plopped his fat ass right on my middle and there wasn't a thing I could do, except scream. . . . But he fixed that idea but good before I even opened my mouth. He jerked a scarf - or maybe it was a large handkerchief - out of his jacket pocket and gagged me with it.
"It didn't take him long to have me in just the position he wanted me. My right hand was tied to one end of the back of the bench; my left was tied by my head to an outside board of the bench seat. My legs - he fixed those in such a way that I felt as though I was being torn at their juncture. My right ankle was secured to the top board of the bench back, while the left one was tied down, close to the ground, to the bottom of the bench leg. I mean, the bastard spread me.
"When he had me bound like that, he stood up - I still hadn't been able to distinguish the features of his face in the dark - and grunted.
'Now,' he muttered, I think I'll be able to get into you.' His apparent calm - considering it wasn't too late yet, and the park is patrolled by the police - was something again, like he was doing an ordinary kind of thing. The thought that he had not removed my panties puzzled me - with my legs spread the way they were, he couldn't have pulled them off. But not for long. Sitting down at the end of the bench between my legs, he ran his finger up and down the crease in the crotch of my panties. He mistook the moisture of the ointment soaking through the thin material for natural secretions of desire. 'Hey, you're all moist and hot, honey - how come you're fightin' me then, huh?' His finger dug in through the fabric, forcing the labia of my vagina apart, slipping in, pulling the cloth chaffingly against my clitoris and the soreness surrounding it. I moaned against the gag in my mouth, blinked the tears out of my eyes as I felt his finger pushing in, rubbing upwards against the clitoris, then sliding down to press in again.
"He was fingering me through my panties with his left hand, but I noticed that his right arm was moving in an almost spasmodic, jerking motion. I raised my head then. The sight of his erection - he had the fly of his trousers unzipped - horrified me. Even in the darkness it loomed like a monstrous, inhuman tower of muscle out of the juncture between his legs. I could hear the foreskin on it slurping as he stroked the enormous column in the tightness of his right hand. I know it couldn't have been that long, but it looked as though it was at least a foot in length. ... I tried screaming through the gag, but succeeded getting out only a slight moan - the movement of my head attracted the man's attention.
" 'Hey, you wanna see what I'm going to shove up your cunt, don't you?' His hand, as he said this, instead of ceasing its masturbatory movement, began to move even faster, the slurping rising in frequency until it sounded like the long drawn-out sloshing of a sewer overflowing. His fingers of the other hand continued to violate my vagina. 'Ill let you - see - as soon - ' The panting emission of his words, hoarse, distorted, made me realize that he was on the verge of shooting his load - and shoot it he did.... I heard his panting come to a sudden halt, felt his fingers push violently into me - it felt as though he was ripping through the material - and then felt something hot, slimy, thick spray against my chin, my nose, and my eyes. The next instant, he was suddenly on his feet, standing by my head. He had his penis, still enormous, right over my face, and I saw him coaxing every droplet of come that he could out of it. It oozed out of the crack in its end, collected in an ever increasing glob, then came down on my face. I tried moving my face out of the way, but he grabbed my chin and held it steady, and the fucking muck coated my face.. . .
"When there wasn't any more in him, he shook his penis over my face. 'See, honey, that's my cock - see? - see?' He squatted down and pressed the tip of his slimy column into each of my eyes. It felt as though its mouth was nipping against my eyelids as I clenched them tightly shut. 'Now, you're gonna make it hard again for me, honey,' he rasped, straightening up.
"I couldn't figure out what he had in mind - couldn't see what he was doing - until suddenly I saw him swinging his leg up over me, but from the direction of my head. The next instant, he ripped the front of my blouse open, pushed my brassiere down until my breasts were out in the open but still pressed together by the constricting pressure of the bra, and - sat down on my face! Only then did I become conscious of the fact that he had removed his trousers. . . . As the ill-smelling crease of his ass came down on my face, trapping my nose within it - I was grateful for the gag across my mouth, at least I didn't have my lips against his anus - I felt him insert his penis in the fleshy fold between my breasts and start a backward and forward movement, sliding his organ in, then drawing it out from between my tits. A feeling of revulsion overwhelmed me, I strained against the bonds, I tried bucking my body - the latter only aided him in his goal, I felt his penis start thickening, growing, beginning to feel like a bat at my chest - but it was hopeless. I lay still, finally - after I managed to move my head sideways so that his ass was on my ear rather than against my nose - and prayed. I don't know about God, whether there is one or not, but at that moment, I figured that He would be the only one who could send a patrol car or some chance driver within sight of the secluded bench of my torment.
"My prayer wasn't answered. After what seemed an interminable time, the man sitting on my face was apparently satisfied with the results, with the state of erection he managed to attain between my breasts. I heard him grunt and felt the weight of his body rising up off my head. As he swung his leg over my face again, I opened my eyes and the enormousness of his shaft, fully erect, jutting out at a slightly upward angle from the thick mat of pubic hair at his crotch. Its upward pull had drawn the doubleballed sac with his testicles out so that they jutted beneath the erection like a marbles bag with two enormous marbles within. 'Now, honey,' he said, heading down toward my feet, 'I'm going to ram this cock deep up your sex hole.'
"His mention of my 'sex hole' made me suddenly aware of the sharp, burning pain between my legs. I moaned, I shook my head from side to side, trying to plead with him through my eyes. I knew I'd die if he pushed his enormous erection into me, I knew I could not take him in without damaging my already inflamed vagina. But, of course, my attempts at pleading were useless.
"I felt his large, gnarled fingers slip under the tautly stretched elastic of my panties at my crotch and draw the material away from the juncture of my thighs. I saw the flash of steel in his free hand come down to where his other hand held my panties. Knowing it was the knife, I froze. I felt the dull edge of the knife, cold and threatening, press into the softness of my thigh, then heard it rip through the cloth. 'There it is;' he gasped, running a finger through the now bare crack of my vulva. It felt rough, abrasive almost. Then, grabbing a tuft of my pubic hair on either side of the vaginal slit, he pulled. I heard the sickening, squishing plop as the labia between my legs popped apart and saw his body rise as he knelt up on the bench between my outspread legs.
" 'What I'm gonna do now, honey,' he said as though he were a teacher in an elementary school describing the workings of a butterfly, 'is insert my cock here, into this long-slitted crack between your legs - your cunt as you know it is called - then I'm going to draw it part of the way out, then slide it back in, out and in, out and in, until you're gonna wish you could have it in you every fucking day of your life. In other words, honey, I'm gonna fuck you good, like a good fucker should. . . . Ha! Ha-ha, that's funny! . . .'
"If my hands weren't tied, if I'd had a knife - I would have plunged it right into the bastard's heart. But it was he who had the thick-headed dagger of flesh in his hand, and it was he who plunged it deep into my sexual heart. ... I felt it drive into me like a stake, pushing everything aside, pressing my diaphragm up when its head came to it. I had the sensation that he was going to drive it through me until it came out either through my mouth or through my asshole. When he began withdrawing it, I felt as though it were sucking my innards out with it, inverting me, drawing me inside out. Then it rammed in again. . . . The pain was indescribable; it was as though every square inch of my vaginal walls was being pricked with hot needles bearing turpentine. I screamed mentally, knowing that no one could hear the muffled moan coming through the tight gag in my mouth. It seemed as though with every penetration of my innermost depths, the bastard's erection doubled in size. When he finally began increasing the tempo of his thrusts, I blacked out at what must have been the apex of his rhythm, for I remember the hot thickness of his come erupting within me, scalding the tender tissue, sending me into the utmost agony....
"I regained consciousness as he was slipping out of my vagina - and even that, with his penis now down to a nonerect size, was excruciatingly painful. I felt only one emotion - hatred, all-consuming hatred. I didn't move when he untied the cords binding my arms and legs, but when he removed the gag from my mouth I spit in his face. I hoped he'd kill me then. Instead - he had his trousers on by now - he chuckled, called me a fucking whore, and walked off toward his car. Moments later, he was gone.
"Tears streaming down my face, I made my way back to my car about a mile away, then to a service station. I dismissed the thought of calling the police, because they were men, like the bastard who raped me was. By the time I got home I had made up my mind that I wasn't going to tell Fritz about it either - for the same reason. After all, he, too, had tried to screw me when he knew that I was in pain. . . .
"As it happened, Fritz wasn't in when I got home. I remembered that he said he was going to work late at school correcting examinations.
It was while I stayed up waiting for him that I began hating him more and more. I was going to get even with him for what that son of a bitch in the park had done to me. . . . And I sure as hell did!"
Caroline's first sadistic act of misplaced revenge was made that same night when her husband had returned from school.
"I told him that I still hurt between my legs, but that I wanted to suck him off. The poor bastard didn't think anything of my discomfort as long as he got his bit of a climax. . . . Anyway, I sank my teeth into him the very instant his come started spurting into my mouth. And the funny thing was - the moment I felt his howl of pain, I had a multiple orgasm, even though my vagina was pretty well desensitized by the ointment I had coated it with two or three hours earlier. ..."
And that was the beginning. From that point on, Caroline's methods of sadism went from pricking Fritz's scrotum with pins to flogging him with a whip she had bought expressly for that purpose. Normal sex was no longer possible for her. She could not experience an orgasm unless her sexual partner, Fritz, was in the throes of agony. Why did Fritz bear up under this punishment? Why he did not either leave Caroline or refer her to a psychiatrist is anyone's guess. His claim that "he loved her too much to see her committed to a mental institution" is possibly something he believed or forced himself to believe. The most likely answer is that Fritz was a masochist - perhaps even unknown to himself.
The prognosis for Caroline indicates that through hypnotherapy she may come around to dismissing her sadistic makeup. Only time will tell.
Chapter Four - Rape And Masochism
Masochism, as Freud put it, is sadism turned round on to the self. From Havelock Ellis's definition of masochism, a definition which almost takes on the proportions of a dissertation, one comes to the conclusion that both masochism and sadism are manifestations of love going through decay or deformation in two different directions. And it does not take long to realize and admit that he is right. Was it not for their love of God that innumerable men, women, and children willingly accepted the most heinous forms of torture in the early days of Christianity, "joyously accepting death at the hands of the infidels"? Did not Dostoyevsky, in The Brothers Karamazov, say: "Men . . . slay. . . . but they love . . . those whom they have slain"? William Sydney Porter, in "Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen," wrote: "Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr's." Tertullian, eighteen centuries ago wrote, in his Apologeticus, "Blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church." Lucian had made a woman say: "He who has not rained blows on his mistress and torn her hair and her garments is not yet in love."
There can be little question from the psychoanalytic point of view that the martyrs of Christendom, martyrs for any cause, even, were, psychiatrically speaking, avid masochists. Those who "love the ones they have slain," can be no other than sadists. Finally, one could conclude that the Church is a vicarious sadist sitting upon the mass grave of masochists. . . .
In the present chapter, our interest is necessarily confined to sexual masochism, and sexual masochism as caused, or brought out, by rape. The "love" of a sexual masochist may be directed toward a single person, necessarily of a sadistic temperament, or it may be centered entirely on the personally felt, sensual sensations brought on by the receiving of pain, in which case the love is of an egocentric nature. Since masochism, in its presently indefinable state, encompasses pain of such varied forms as that experienced in a love-bite and that brought forth through actual, and occasionally fatal, shedding of blood, the question where exactly does "normal love" end and masochism begin is a matter of opinion. One could safely say, however, in reference to sexual masochism, that masochism becomes a deviation, and is thus liable to be justifiably termed "perversion," when it replaces the desire for coitus.
In the following case history, the transition from one to the other will not be difficult to observe.
The description of Anne B., as given by the court-appointed psychiatrist who was instrumental in having the custody of the woman transferred to a private mental institution, was extremely pathetic. "Although not suffering from malnutrition," he had said, "the prisoner is emaciated, needs immediate medical attention almost as acutely as she needs psychiatric help. One could never guess her age to be twenty-five - she looks ten, fifteen years older. The injuries on her body - obviously inflicted upon her during the last sadomasochistic orgy - concentrated about the erogenous zones, though by no stretch of the imagination limited to them, are of an extremely gruesome nature. ..."
Anne B. was found unconscious during a raid upon a "mansion" in New Jersey. The "mansion" had proved to be a setting straight out of de Sade. Anne's name was found in the "guests' registration ledger."
It wasn't until two months later that Anne, a petite redhead with large, sensitive, green eyes set into a sad, heart-shaped face, was able to start in upon her psychoanalytic treatment. Gradually, she became trusting enough in her psychiatrist to reveal to him the catalytic incident which set her dormant-suppressed masochism loose in her psyche.
She had admitted prior to this that she "had felt a pleasantly tickling sensation between her legs" whenever her father would place her over his knee (when she was thirteen to fourteen years old), pull up her skirt, pull down her panties, and proceed to paddle her naked young buttocks with a Ping-Pong paddle.
The following reconstruction of that incident is reproduced from her own words.
"I guess I better tell you that I looked a hell of a lot better then - two years ago - than I do now, otherwise you'll think I'm pulling your leg. I was working for a reputable drug firm in Jersey City - in the prophylactic department quality control - and was getting laid right and left whenever I felt like it. There was no cock shortage in Jersey City, so I could afford to be particular, follow my own code of ethics, so to speak. I'd let the fellows at work screw me, eat my pussy - sometimes, I'd even suck off a guy's pecker if I especially liked him - providing they weren't married. ... I have this hang-up, of not inviting in a cock that's got a haven of its own - and I don't think much of the owner, frankly, if he has a wife yet carries his hard-on around looking for some other cunt to plug. . . . Call me a freeloving, but conscientious, square, if you want, but that's the way I am.
"So, even if I have had more fellows slide their erections into me than the uppity society deems proper, I've still been particular. / chose the ones I wanted to get fucked by, and / turned down the ones I didn't want to have anything to do with. Until I met a couple of sailors who I thought were good friends of a friend of mine from Brooklyn. The fact was, they were only buddies of her sailor boyfriend - I found out later that she had only gone out with this 'boyfriend' of hers one time, and he didn't know both of those sailors. He just barely knew one. . . . And like a stupid, cock-starving cunt, which I wasn't, I accepted a blind date and agreed to have Jack - I didn't even know about Walcott until the two of them came - pick me up at my apartment in Jersey City.
"Both of them appeared to be quite soft-spoken and decent - except for the semi-erections both of them had straining in their tight white pants, which is a common sight in the Navy, considering the constricting material - until we were in the car Walcott was driving. I knew that everything wasn't right as soon as they headed the car west instead of east - and especially when they didn't answer me when I asked them where we were going. We were supposed to go to Brooklyn, to my girl friend's house first, then go to Coney Island. Their silence got me both worried and mad at the same time.
" 'Listen, fellahs,' I told them, I don't much go for practical jokes. Either tell me - ' I guess I shouldn't have said 'either' because Walcott, who couldn't have been over eighteen, reached over toward the back seat and slapped me right in the mouth. Before I could say anything - and I had a few words seething at the tip of my tongue - Jack, sitting next to me, said, 'Hey, Wally, don't start that until we get to plumbing her cunt. . . .'
"I realized then that they were actually kidnapping me, that they had something in their minds other than good old normal screwing - and at that stage of the game I wasn't about to spread my legs for them. ... Or so I thought. When I again asked, in a very timid voice, where we were going, and again got slapped in the face by Walcott, I decided to just shut up and wait for the chance to get away.
"We drove in complete silence and without any passes from Jack - which I couldn't figure out then - for about forty minutes. I was so taken up with waiting for the chance to break free that I didn't pay any attention to where we were heading, what route we were taking, until Walcott swerved the huge boat of a car we were in down a side road going away from the causeway, over and between some hills, and up a long, winding driveway.
"The car came to a sudden stop before a small cottage standing all by itself and away from a larger house which seemed totally deserted. Before I could say a word, Jack swung the door open on his side, grabbed me by the arm and jerked me outside. 'This is Wally's playhouse, Anne,' he said, laughing like a corpse. 'We three are gonna play the Inquisition House game.'
" 'Get her in there,' I heard Walcott's voice as though coming from inside of a grave. There was no humor in their faces, just petrifying iciness - like frost on winter windows.
"I turned away from Walcott to Jack who was still holding me by the arm. He hadn't hit me yet, so, I guess, I figured I could play on his sympathies. 'Jack,' I felt my voice quiver like a catgut string. 'Please tell me what - ' But, again, my question was answered physically. He placed the short, stubby fingers of his hand over my breast, squeezed until he had a firm grasp on it, and pulled. It wasn't one of those smart-ass actions - you know, where the kids do something that isn't socially acceptable simply to draw attention to themselves - no, this was intentionally cruel. I felt the tips of Jack's fingers gouge the flesh of my breast like a five-pronged meat hook.
"I guess I slapped him across the face without thinking - automatic reaction to pain, you know. Well, he didn't like that a bit. I saw a sneer crinkle his face, saw the blackness in his eyes deepen, and then his free hand came up and backhanded me across my face. The next instant he was pulling me into the cottage. Behind us, I heard Walcott following. It sounded like there was no one else in the world. Just the three of us and silence.
"Once we were inside the almost unfurnished cottage - all it had was an old beat-up couch facing a fireplace of hewn stone, a large wooden table against a window in the back, and a couple of straight-backed chairs - Jack let go of my breast and pushed me toward the couch. Walcott, who till that moment had not paid much attention to me - other than slapping me once in the car - strode over to the fireplace and lit the kindling of dry twigs piled on the metal grille; then he threw some logs on and, rising, turned toward me. He ran his eyes up and down my body - I was wearing a green A-line dress, the mini kind - then scratched the elongated bulge descending into the legging of his issue slacks from his crotch, and said, 'We can't fuck, Anne, with you wearing clothes. Take them off.' He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his trousers pocket and lit one.
" 'Listen, Wally - ' I don't know what I was going to tell him, but it didn't matter; before I even got that much out, I heard a strange-sounding air-whisper behind me and then a loud thwack. I yelped and jumped, bringing my hands back to my buttocks. The thwack and the stinging pain coincided at the cheeks of my ass.
"It was Jack, standing with what looked like a dog whip snaking out of his fist, sneering again. 'When you talk to either Mr. Walcott or me, you address us as sir, bitch. Do you understand?' When I didn't answer right away - and, hell, I knew they were a couple of real weirdos by now, but I couldn't think of anything to say, even like 'Yes, sir!' or 'Fuck you, sir!' Jack flicked his wrist and the goddam whip moved like a trained snake, its tip came up off the floor, freezing momentarily still, then snapped out to sting my leg. 'Now - take it off, cunt,' he growled.
"I felt tears springing to my eyes, but I dropped my hands down to the hem of my dress - I didn't have to bend down, it was so short - and drew it up. I had it off my arms and around my neck when I felt powerful hands grip my arms from behind. I couldn't tell whether it was Jack or Walcott; I wasn't at all prepared for what followed. With the dress hanging over my face, I couldn't see anything, but I could sure as hell feel and get the picture.
"I felt something being tied around my wrists, then my arms were suddenly released and my wrists jerked up until I was almost pulled up off the floor. Instinctively, I screamed, straining at the bonds that held me totally helpless. And although the first of those screams was one of terror, the ones that followed were from the agony of the whip which started biting around my naked thighs, through the wispy material of my bikini panties at my buttocks, at my back and belly, bared to its sting. How long this flogging went on, I don't know. I know that the pain, burning sharply across my entire body, began to deaden and my screams lost their volume. I realized somehow that the less I screamed, the less powerful the strokes of the whip became. Finally, I fell silent, only whimpering slightly, licking the salty brine of tears away from my lips, breathing heavily through the dampness of the dress material clinging to my face.
"Then the dress was violently pulled off my head. By Walcott. He was standing before me without a stitch of clothes on him, his chest, thickly matted with a growth of dark hairs, heaving. His nakedness gave me an odd sort of a thrill - I shuddered. My eyes dropped down to his cock arching away from the nest of black curls. It wasn't fully erect, but it was already massive and engorged with blood. I don't know why I noted that he hadn't been circumcised. I could tell from the way the thin sheath of foreskin still covered the ridge surrounding his cockhead, though I noticed it gradually slipping back as the length, the thickness, the hardness of his penis increased.
"I guess I stared at his organ too long - and continued staring at it even when he dropped his hand to it, circled it with his fingers, then raised it up until it pointed at my face. He didn't say anything. He just started moving his fist back and forth the length of his shaft, sliding the foreskin back until the knob at the end of his cock became totally revealed, then sliding it forward until only the tiny semen slit in its tip showed through. The movement of his hand, the growth of his erection, the rise and fall of his balls, hanging large and full, as the stretching and contracting of the foreskin pulled them up then let them descend back into the cradle between his legs, almost hypnotized me. I heard him say something to me, but I couldn't make out the words. Then I became aware of Jack - his whip, rather - behind me.
" 'Answer, bitch!'
"I jerked from the unexpectedness of the blow and looked up at Walcott. 'What?' I asked, still conscious of his hand masturbating himself.
" 'I said I want you to beg for it, bitch.'
" 'What?' I repeated again dumbly.
" 'What, she says, Jack.' His eyes flitted past me to where I knew Jack was waiting for the least reason to swing the whip, to let it bite into my flesh. I clenched my teeth in expectation of the next lash. Instead, I felt his fingers insert themselves between my brassiere strap and my back and pull .... It held. Simultaneously, Walcott's voice hit my ears. 'No, Jack. Get the shears.'
"In a second he had them in his hand. They were the large, commercial kind of shears used in dressmaking factories. An evil look on his face, he stepped toward me until he couldn't have been more than six inches away. The scissors were in his left hand; he was still jacking off with his right in a slow, even, pumping rhythm. I could feel the knob of his cock propped, pressing, pushing, moistly against my lower stomach and just above the waistband of my panties. I was just about to raise my knee and jam it into his balls when he said, 'Hold still now, bitch, or I may accidentally lop off one of your nipples.' At the same instant he let go of his cock, letting it just throb against my belly, and took the shears in both of his hands. As he brought them up to the tip of one of my bra cups, I held my breath.
"My hands still stretching up toward a rafter over my head, I watched Walcott begin snipping away at the material of the brassiere. All I can say is that his hands were steady, but had / moved I may have been minus a nipple and he wouldn't have thought anything of it. About fifteen times the blades of the shears snipped, until finally a small circle of material fell silently to the floor while in its place, erect like a little nubbin of strawberry flesh, my nipple stood out. Walcott swung to my other tit, but changed his mind.
" 'Hey, Jack,' he suddenly called out over my shoulder. 'Let the whip he for a while. I want you to come and cut a hole for this cunt's other suck-nub while I chew on the first one,' His tongue came out and gave a lick to the hot point of my exposed nipple. Then I saw Jack raise the shears to my other breast. Snip. Lick. On and on the two of them went with me torn between two weirdly contrasting sensations - three, actually, if you count two cocks pressing against my suddenly hot and moistening mound. There was Walcott's tongue, lips, and teeth tweaking my bared nipple, sending electrifying tingling sensations radially away from it; there was the cold steel of the shears which could, I felt, slice into my yet unexposed breast at any moment without in any way upsetting either of the two men. . . .
"Two cocks? It didn't even dawn on me until after the other nipple popped out into the open and Jack fastened his mouth to it, that Jack, too, had taken every stitch of clothes off. And his hard-on was up - and I mean up. It stood out of his golden crotch hairs like the torch arm of the old lady in New York Harbor. Stiff and hard and pointing upward slightly. I thought I would go out of my mind with the two of them standing before me now, sucking like crazy at my tits, and beating their meat like masturbating was going out of style.
"I figured that as long as they weren't flogging me, I'd just play along with them. I started moaning, pivoting, pushing my left nipple against Walcott's mouth, then my right one against Jack's. I felt the rhythm of their pumping hands increase and then, suddenly, both of them shuddered, froze, and - just as the warmth of their thick semen shot from their cocks and hit me all over my bare belly - two shots of pain racked my breasts .... The bastards had sunk their teeth into me! I forgot all about the whip, and screamed .... That did it!
"Both of them released my breasts at the same time, stepped back, and looked at each other. 'The bitch, Jack,' Walcott jeered, 'screamed loud. Do you suppose she came in her panties?'
" 'Shit, Wally, I don't know. She didn't ask us if she could or not. Do you want me to take a look?'
" 'Yeah. Pull her panties down and see if you can spot anything. Be sure to spread her pussy lips apart and finger-test the insides of her crack.'
"Without another word, Jack knelt down before me and jerked my panties down to my knees. I raised my knee, grazing him across the face. Yeah, I didn't think of Walcott, and the whip which he had picked up. I remembered it only when it curled around my back - like in slow motion - and its sharp tip came round and round and closer and licked my nipple with stinging lick of fire. I didn't scream then. I bit into my lip until I tasted warm blood, looked down at Jack, and whispered, 'I'm sorry - I'm sorry - I'm sorry - ' hoping that Walcott had heard my apology, hoping he wouldn't lash me again. I don't know if he did - I mean, all of my attention was on what Jack was doing.
"Down on his knees before me, with my panties by now completely off me and cast aside, he pushed my legs as far apart as he could, placed the palms of his hands on my pelvis so that each palm was against the border of my pubic muff, then pulled-pushed the skin. I heard and felt the labia of my slit squish open. I gasped at the sound and at the sensation. 'I think the bitch had come, Wally. She's sure all moist and drippy around the hole entrance.' I shook my head in an attempt to deny it, but, as I felt the thumbs of his hands begin slipping into the tender-lipped opening of my pussy, I began an almost unconscious rocking movement of my lower torso. Suddenly, I wanted to get fucked. There was a fire in my innards only a cock could put out. It wasn't hard for Jack, against whose thumbs I was practically masturbating myself, to figure out my need.
" 'You want us to fuck you, don't you, bitch?' he asked, digging his thumbs so far into me they were pressing against the walls on either side of my vagina with the softened cervix caught between them, feeling like a giant, spreading cock.
" 'Yes - yes - I want you to fuck me - God, I want you to fuck me - now, please . . . now.... Fuck me!' I screamed, not caring about the whiplashes suddenly descending on my back, on my ass - only wanting a stiff, gigantic, gorged erection tearing into me, sliding in and out of the fiery furnace between my legs. And only as Walcott's words began to filter through the sounds of the whip, whining and slapping against my back, did I realize why Jack hadn't rammed his beautiful cock of solid male flesh into my suddenly starving cunt-mouth. 'Sir - ' Walcott's voice was saying, 'say sir, bitch. Sir, sir, sir. . . .'
" 'Yes, sir - sir! Fuck me, sir - fuck me, sir - fuck . . . me . . . sir!' And then I felt Jack's glorious cock - hot, thick, throbbing, rippling with desire - wedge its head at the entrance to my cunt, pause, then force its glorious fucking solidity into me all the way to his beautiful balls - then pull partway out - then slide back in, lubricating my hot sheath with the marvel of male fluid. ... In a frenzy, I raised my feet off the floor and wrapped my legs around his muscular buttocks, feeling the biting fingers of his hands squeezing into my ass, rolling the cheeks against the palms of his hands. And I slammed my crotch against the tower which impaled me and I heard my voice, saying, 'Oh, darling sir, yes - yes - screw me, shove it into my cunt, sir - fuck me, sir -' and then, '- whip me, sir! Fuck me, sir! Whip me, sir! . . .' And the whip came against my back with sharp licks of ecstasy and elevated me toward an orgasm the kind of which I could never have even dreamed. . . . And we all four came together. . . . Jack shooting his beautiful hot come against my twitching cervical mouth, and I all around Jack's enormous cock, and the whip against my back, and Walcott into his hand and onto the floor and onto the beautiful whip. . . .
"After they untied me, I kissed their feet, I licked their assholes, I sucked their cocks. ... I had to - they had shown me a marvelous way of loving. ..."
And from that day, Anne B. could find no satisfaction from sex unless the sex act was accompanied by sensations of pain. Unable to find suitable love partners among her friends, she learned by chance of a sadomasochistic group which catered to people of jaded interests such as she. For a year and a half, Anne found "happiness" there. It is probable that, had the raid on the "mansion" not taken place at the time that it had, she would not have lasted much longer. There, she had permitted herself to be subjected to forms of masochistic pleasure which could have put to shame even the expert tormentors of the Middle Ages.
The prognosis for Anne is far from optimistic. The chances are that her masochistic tendencies, which had lain dormant since her early teens when her father had first started her on the thorny road of masochism, have been etched too strongly into her psychosexual makeup. Upon her release from the mental institution, she will most probably resort again to the only way she feels she can have sexual gratification - the way of sex combined with the agony of pain.
Chapter Five - Rape And Pederasty
Norman Lewis defines pederasty as "sexual relations through the anus, practiced by men on young boys." Webster's definition is but little qualified, by the word especially: "anal intercourse especially with a boy." The quotation introducing the Introduction to Victor Dodson's Pederasty: Sex Between Men and Boys, states, "Delightful to me is the bloom of the twelve-year-old boy." From the above, it is clear then that pederasty is not simply homosexuality; it is also apparent that it is not simply sodomy; and it is also obvious that the closest genre of sexual relationship, the closest perversion which with its all-encompassing heading would include pederasty is child molesting. A specialized form of child-molesting perhaps, but child molesting, nevertheless. Perhaps it could be termed boy-child-molesting, and, from its definition, would necessarily exclude women as perpetrators of the perversion.
The causes of pederasty, psychiatrically speaking, are of course numerous. It's prevalence will never be certain due to the fact best described by that old time-worn phrase, "boys will be boys." Specifically, a boy, being more adventurous in the world of sex, intrinsically so because his position in life, his pride in possessing, acquiring, dominating, controlling, demands him to be such, will be less likely to run home and relate to his parents of his sex exploits, especially if these exploits happened to have been shared with an older man.
Again, much has been written on pederasty as a form of homosexuality, wherein the sexual intercourse between an older man and a boy was of a mutually agreed-upon act. The cause in the first may have been early adolescent experimentation in homosexuality with an inferiority complex strengthening and growing within the older man until he could not feel the power of masculinity except with younger, weaker partners of the male sex. The cause in the second may have been curiosity or an anal drive which extended into preadolescence or adolescence.
In the case of Alan, the cause was odd in its sudden and overwhelming manifestation of nonconforming psychosexuality. Yet the cause did not spring to light until almost ten years later. In fact, Alan was twenty-one when he was arrested on charges of child-molesting, pederasty, and homosexuality. The last two charges were dismissed, but the first was sufficient to send Alan for an indefinite period into a Florida mental institution for the criminally insane. It was there that, after extensive psychoanalytic probings by the psychiatrist, that the story of Alan's rape at the age of thirteen was brought to light.
Alan obviously had problems with his studies in mathematics. It appears that his grades - he was attending one of the better Florida junior high schools - began to decline from the semester during which he had spent most of the time mooning over a curvaceous fourteen-year-old classmate of his who sat next to him in his mathematics class.
"I mean I thought she was really something else," he told the psychiatrist. "She was wearing microskirts up to her crotch way back when they hadn't even invented minis. No fooling, she'd come in and sit down and by the end of the class her hem would be so high up her thighs I could see the pink or the blue or the yellow of her panties wispily covering her twat if I leaned forward far enough. Hell, I used to have to sit and wait until the other kids left before I'd dare to get up. I mean, man, did she give me a hard-on to end all hard-ons."
"Did you ever get to have sexual relations with the girl?" the psychiatrist asked Alan next.
"No," Alan said. "But I got kicked out of the school trying."
He said that he had passed the girl a note on which he had depicted a penis entering a vagina with his name penned across the shaft and her name haloed around the vulva. The note was intercepted by the teacher - or rather was confiscated from the girl.
When Alan's father was called in to the principal's office - this happened two weeks before the end of the school year - and learned of what obscenity his son had resorted to, he decided to keep Alan under private tutorship throughout the duration of summer.
The story of what happened that summer is told next in Alan's own words.
"John Lathers was the one I hated most. The other tutors were okay - they didn't seem to care one way of the other whether I was getting anything out of the private lessons, even though dad paid them well for their time. But old Lathers - the son of a bitch was about forty-five and all gray matter - seemed to think of nothing but getting the goddamn square roots and isosceles triangles and exponents into my head. I mean, I never suspected what he was really after until the day mother and dad took off for Miami Beach - it was a good hundred-and-twenty-mile drive and they said that they would probably spend the night there. They didn't take me along because they were still sore as hell at me for what I had done at school.
"Anyhow, I noticed the old math tutor's attitude change the moment I told him that my parents weren't coming back that evening. He seemed concerned that they'd leave me all by myself - and, I guess, it was a rotten thing of them to do. It was a Friday and Lathers had come to start me out on the shitty geometry theorems around two o'clock as he had always done. When I told him about my folks being gone, he suddenly decided that I should get a day's rest from math.
"Slamming the math book shut, he said, 'Why don't we go out in your backyard and study nature instead today?'
"Shit, I thought that was groovy. We had a huge back garden - a couple of acres - there was even a little pond with a tiny island in the center which I used to paddle out to on a small raft I had built. I'd play Tom Sawyer there whenever I had the chance, pretending that I'd run away from home and all that shit. So, anyhow, before the little girl could cry 'Rape, rape!' there we were on the little island, lying on our backs, our trousers wet from the crossing - the raft, with the two of us on it, hadn't held up too well. It sorta capsized halfway across and we had to wade it knee-deep the rest of the way.
"For a while we just lay there, then the teach says to me, 'Hey, Alan,' he says. 'We should take our duds off so they get dry, you know.' I thought it was funny, him calling clothes duds. I had no thought of what I know now he was thinking. 'Okay,' I said. 'But don't look.' It was silly, me saying that, I mean. After what I was hooted out of the school for; but then, this was different. I mean old Lathers was a man - and I didn't think much of a man seeing my cock, I mean it wasn't any of his business. . . . That don't make sense, but that's the way I felt - sort of shy, you know.
" 'Oh, Alan, you don't have anything I haven't seen before on this boy or that,' he said, laughing. I thought that was strange, him saying that, but I turned away anyhow as I pulled my trousers off.
"When I lay down on the wee bit of grass on that island, I heard Lathers puffing next to me. Lying down on my stomach with my face turned away from him, I couldn't see what he was doing. And I wasn't really thinking of him or of anything he had said. With the cool grass against my bare legs - I was wearing a pair of BVDs - and the sun beating against them, I felt relieved that I didn't have to worry about my math. Then John Lathers's voice, though not loud, shattered the stillness around me.
" 'You know, you have a real cute ass, Alan.'
"I mean, shit, he shook me up. I'd heard of fucking queers before, but never did I suspect Lathers to be one. I didn't know what to say, how to answer him, so, like an idiot, I turned my face toward him and, without opening my eyes, muttered, 'Hmm?' I mean, I was sure that I didn't hear him right. He was one of dad's old friends. I heard him say it again. This time, a little frightened, I decided to keep quiet - like I fell asleep or something - but cracked my eye just a slit. And was I shook up, man. I mean, Lathers was no more than six inches away from me, bare-ass naked, his goddamn prick like a mushroom-tipped yardarm sticking out from between his legs, and he was moving right on top of me.
"All I had the chance to do was yelp and dart. My yelp didn't do a bit of good, and my dart fizzled out like a short-winded fart. 'What the hell, Mr. Lathers - ' It was stupid, me calling him Mr. Lathers as he sat on the back of my naked legs with his prick poking against the crease in the ass-panel of my BVDs, but I guess I didn't think of that right then.
"I tried to rise up, but he just pushed me facedown against the grass. 'Now, don't be difficult, Alan,' he said. 'You're no angel. I know all about you. Drawing dirty pictures - wanting to fuck a girl. . . . What I'm going to do is a hell of a lot more fun than sticking a whang in the girl's pussy. I'm going to fuck you in your pretty little boy's ass.'
"Again I tried getting up, but there was no way. He didn't have to push me back down this time. I fell of my own awkward position. Then I felt his fingers curl under the elastic of the waistband of my shorts at the small of my back and then roll the cotton material down - down - down until I felt the rays of the sun beating against the bare cheeks of my ass and shafting me in my bunghole. I thought, That dirty, fucking queer! and, with a lunge, tried swinging back at him. I practically dislocated my shoulder in the attempt - and didn't even come anywhere near hitting him. The next instant I felt him sap me one on the back of my head.
" 'Now, Alan, there is no use trying to keep me off and out of you. You aren't a virgin, are you, acting the way you do.' It wasn't a question really, so I just lay there and didn't say anything. His next move was so fast and unexpected that I missed my advantage to make a dash for it. Whatever it was he did, it felt like he got up off my legs, jerked my BVDs down below my knees, and was suddenly back, heavy and unbudgable, on the back of my thighs, and his cock was lying like a telegraph pole in a ditch along the crack of my buttocks. I felt it hot and thick and throbbing - and moist at the tip.
" 'I'm gonna tell dad -' I started to say, but Lathers interrupted me with a laugh.
" 'You wouldn't even think of telling him anything, Alan. He wouldn't believe a word you'd say, anyway. I'm his old and reputable friend - while you're a dirty-minded little boy trying to catch a glimpse of a girl's snatch and then offering to fuck the same girl in school.'
"As I felt his hands cup my ass cheeks, I knew he was right. And then, as I realized that he was going to try inserting his huge prick in my small asshole - hell, it even hurt when I'd have a mild constipation and would try to take a crap - I started bawling. I clenched the cheeks of my ass together, pleaded for him not to hurt me; but all he did was pull my buttocks apart and tweak the puckered ring around my shit-hole.
"Then he started working his finger into it. It felt like I was shitting backwards. He forced his finger in, rotating it first in one direction, then in the other, deeper and deeper. My attempt to roll over didn't do a damn bit of good. He straddled my legs like a bronco rider. All I succeeded in doing was to get a pain in my side in addition to the pain in the ass. So I finally lay still and clenched my teeth. But not for long. Suddenly it felt like the son of a bitch had jerked my asshole out - I mean, it hurt like hell. Even tears came to my eyes. And his laughing at me didn't do one damn bit of good.
" 'Hey,' he chuckled somewhere behind my back, 'all I did was yank my finger out. You're a bit tight back here, so I'll have to oil the dark little tunnel a bit. Too bad I don't have any butter or salad oil, but - ' I heard him spit and felt the saliva hit me right in the fucking shit valley. The next instant his finger was back at work - going in a bit easier this time - sliding in and out, in fact, without causing me too much discomfort. Then - slurp! - out it came again. And at that instant I felt something hard and hot and straining like a live log under me. ... I mean, I was really shook! There I had an old man getting ready to screw my asshole and I was getting a hard-on!
"He must have felt me stiffen, for he laughed and said, 'Now don't shoot your fucking come until I'm in you, Alan. It'll feel a hell of a lot better then - like I'm coming right through you.' Again I heard him spit; again I felt him jerk his damned finger out of me - and then, I felt, it. . . . It was huge - I could feel its head pushing the flesh of my buttocks aside, feel its slit against the ring of my asshole, then feel its tip begin to wedge itself into me, spreading me open, entering me, throbbing its way up the darkness of my rectum. It felt like there was no end to it. . . . Terrified, the pain not as sharp as when his finger dug into me the first time, I held my breath, then muttered, 'Are you almost in? ... It - it hurts
'
" 'Almost, Al, my boy, almost. . ..' His voice was less harsh, and I realized that he was actually trying not to hurt me now. And then, as he gasped, 'There - to the fucking hilt!' I felt his balls press against my ass, felt my own prick throbbing against the grass between it and my belly. Slowly, I began to move.
"Back and forth I slid. Each back movement brought the tightly stretched foreskin on my prick up toward its head; each forward movement bared the crown pounding like a viper's head engorged with blood between my stomach and the grass. Lathers didn't miss my cooperation - I felt his lips start wetting my back, sucking at the back of my neck, nibbling my earlobes. Gradually the tempo of our movements became wilder; bit by bit the sensation of pain in my ass where his prick was sliding in and out of me was supplanted by a feeling like someone was sucking on my innards from behind - a fantastically pleasant feeling. It felt like a long-drawn-out climax of a lower pitch than that which I was building toward beneath me where good, old, fucking Mother Earth was letting me fuck her cool grass. . . . And every time Lathers drove his prick into me from behind, it felt as though his cockhead was rubbing against the hidden trunk of my own prick somewhere deep within me.
"I guess we started moaning at about the same time. 'Oh, Alan,' he kept mumbling in my ear. 'You're fantastic, you know that? Fan-tas-tic!' And he rammed his thick marble-hard shaft into my asshole until I could feel the coolness of his balls slapping wetly against my upper, inner rear thighs, rammed it all the way into the dark depths of me with every syllable. . . . And I let the ground play with my prick; I let the grass lick its shaft, let the sensation build and build and build until I couldn't stand it any longer. . . .
" 'Give it to me, Johnny,' I cried. 'Give it to me - all of it! Fuck me! Fuck me, dammmmmittt -!'
"Yeah - the climax was out of this world. I felt the hot gush of Lathers' swirling up my rectum, spiraling through my insides, then descending to my balls in the grass, then rising up my prick to pump - pump - pump like crazy out of the slit in the end of my rock-hard column. ... I mean, man, shit! It never felt anything like that when I was jacking myself off - even when I had the fuckingest picture of Velma in my mind. And I'd jacked off to some wild images. Funny thing is, most of time when I imagined her I'd always have her in a position where I could see not only her pussy spread open, but her asshole visible, too. Like lying on her back with her legs spread and raised up so that she'd have the back of her knees in the crook of her elbows - or standing with her back to me, bent forward until her fingers were touching the floor a couple of feet in front of her toes. I mean, if it were for real, man, I could've slid my prick either up her pussy slit or up her asshole. ..."
From the above, it was apparent that Alan had an anal fixation, probably since his early childhood. It was a latent type, but strong nevertheless. His only fear, as manifested in his fearful reaction to his teacher's first anal penetration of him, was of being sodomized. However, the experience with John Lathers dispelled that fear somewhat. Somewhat, because Alan claims that his submission to Lathers was the only passive role he played in his life. He preferred the active role - the role of the sodomite.
He claims that after his rape - and it was rape, he was forced by John Lathers - by his mathematics teacher, he lost all interest in girls. He sought out boys, instead.
"Shit, it was a hell of a lot easier getting a willing boy - I didn't seek out men because it was more risky and because I was turned on by young, smooth, virginal cocks and asses. All I had to do was go to the library. There'd always be some young kid paging through a book on ballet, or ice-skating, or some book on the New Guinea natives - you know, where they'd have pictures of women doing the splits, showing the crotches of their panties, or just plain crotches. I could spot those kids right off. If it wasn't for the expression on their faces, then it was for the telltale bulge in their pants. Shit, some of those kids - anywhere from eleven to fifteen years old - would have their pricks standing upright in their pants. Anyway, what I'd do was stand away from them a little, pull a book off the shelf like I was looking at it, and then fix my eyes on their fucking crotch. Occasionally, I'd glance up at their faces. If they caught my gaze and then dropped their eyes to my crotch - they was it.
"You wouldn't believe how many young kids I've screwed in the ass in the men's restroom at the library like that - while they either jerked themselves off or let me do it for them. Hell, I built a regular backdrop like that. Some of them would be at the library every night waiting for me. . . . And it wasn't any different on the street.
"I'd hang around junior high schools and wait for the kids to start heading home. I don't know what it was that made them so hot - maybe all that young pussy flaunting their thighs and girdles and pantie crotches at them. . . . Anyway, all I had to do was stand on the sidewalk and fix my eyes on their pricks straining against their pants. The ones that wanted it would walk by a little ways, then stop, then walk up and start talking - about this, that, and the other thing. Next thing you know, we'd be heading somewhere private-like - a park restroom, a coffee shop restroom - and they'd have their pants down. Sometimes I had to suck them off before they'd let me screw them in the ass. Some, I'd suck off and still wouldn't get anything - but that didn't happen too often. Most of them've been game. . . ."
Alan never seemed to get enough - and that was his undoing, even though he managed to sodomize "a boy a day for seven years straight." If his estimate is not exaggerated, he had committed anal intercourse with some two-and-a-half thousand boys. One of these, however, turned out to be the son of a public official. Unlike the other boys - unlike most boys, at any rate - this one told his parents of the young man who had forced him to take his pants off, then "tried to stick his thing in his behind." A patrol of the area was called for, and Alan was arrested flagrante delicto, caught in the process of sodomizing a fifteen-year-old boy in a Florida public park restroom. As it turned out, Alan was no longer a minor. He was charged with child molesting.
The prognosis for Alan is not good. Were he to limit his activities to homosexuality which would not involve minors, there would be a possibility of his eventual release from the state hospital. He does not, however, seem to be able to slacken his interest in younger boys. As a result, there is the probability that he will remain an inmate for a good many years - if he ever gets out at all.
Chapter Six - Rape And Bondage
Whatever has been said about masochism also applies to bondage. What pain is to a masochist, a state of helplessness effected through physical binding, tying, or chaining, is to the slave of bondage. What the whip, the lash, the cat-o'-nine-tails is to a masochist, the hempen rope, the manacles, the chains, are to the slave of bondage. Sexual gratification through helplessness; conscious orgasm through conscious resistance to coitus. Those are the elements of bondage.
It could be called masochism - perhaps it is a mild form of masochism - except that pain is not its essential ingredient. John Trimble, Ph.D., in 5,000 Adult Sex Words and Phrases, defines bondage as being "the practice of shackling a love partner, keeping them /sic/ tied to a bed or some other stationary object for helpless sexual usage. ..."
What motivates some to be inclined to such subjugation? Is the desire to be shackled born in the fantasy of a child's mind and grows gradually into an obsession, germinating over the years, or does it spring to the fore when least expected to lie heavily as a requirement for orgasmic completion upon its victim? The psychiatrists, the psychoanalysts, are still answering - or attempting to answer - those questions. The answer Elizabeth gives in the next case history is one of the answers.
Elizabeth is a ballerina with one of the major dance companies which are constantly touring the nation. Born in Exmouth, England, of a well-to-do family which claims their descent from the House of Hanover, Elizabeth came to Boston at the age of fifteen and was signed for the company with which she is still touring. Petite, blonde, her eyes the color of sunlit jade, she is like a swan's feather onstage, graceful, full of liquid-flowing motion. Her innocent expression - almost ever present - the sweet curl of her lips in a smile, the crescent shadow dimples in her cheeks, as well as the melodiousness of her voice, often breaking into the liquid sound of laughter, is everything that would deny her psychosexuality. Although still a teenager, she is a girl who will not reach the delightful throes of orgasm unless she is helplessly bound, tied, shackled, chained. . . .
One of her innumerable friends, who is also her devoted fan, is a psychiatrist. She revealed her eccentricity to him while on a date and agreed to be subjected to psychoanalysis. The doctor did not have to probe for the information; Elizabeth volunteered it to him at their second session. Although her language in official, and even in unofficial, gatherings is quite proper, while relating her story to the psychoanalyst she had shed all of her inhibitions and had told the story with total adult frankness.
"Freedom of movement had always been something that I delighted in. As a ballerina, you know, I have to be entirely weightless. Gravity even never seemed to bother me. I'd take a running leap and I'd be flying. Well, I must admit that my sexual life started rather early. I had my first orgasm - with actual penetration - when I was thirteen. . . . You'll never believe where I got laid. On the dance floor - at the dance school. This boy and I were preparing for a school production - he and I were going to do a pas de deux from the standard repertoire - and there wasn't a soul in the school. You know, the teacher let us come and practice our steps there whenever we wanted - we had the key. . . . Only this time, Eliot and I practiced first and then we came! I mean it was wild - we almost died laughing, trying to screw with our tights on. But we did it! Didn't have time to get them off - didn't feel like going and getting the scissors to make the proper - improper, I should say - openings . . . so we chewed the holes out. We looked like a couple of Siamese leotards when Eliot finally coupled up with me - could see all the action in the mirrors! But anyhow - I was going to tell you about my hang-up. . . .
"It started with a rape which I never reported. . . . You know, why knock it? I enjoyed it - and no one got hurt. I was fifteen - was going steady with - uh-huh! - Eliot. I still love him. I think he was the best fuck I ever had. Beautifully veined, perfectly fitting, sweet-tasting cock - yeah, we slobbered between each other's legs quite often. I think that's groovy fun. . . . There I go again. . . .
"Eliot and I went on a hike. It was summer, beautiful, hot weather - this was shortly before I came to America. We were up in Cheviot Hills. Scotland on one side, England on the other. Not a soul in sight. We were dressed as light as we could be without being totally naked. I was wearing blue bikini bottoms and a white silk blouse that buttoned up the front. Eliot had on a pair of tight-fitting trunks, and was carrying a bundle of all the walking clothes we had doffed along the way.
"We had left Jedburgh, the border town between England and Scotland, shortly after sunrise, fully dressed. But at noon we were down to the few essentials - and those only to prevent embarrassment in the event we ran into some other stragglers along the divide. It was hot - really hot. Around two in the afternoon we decided to turn back. We must have walked a good ten miles from the burgh. Anyway, we were beginning to pant a bit now and then whenever we'd come to a rise. We agreed to put our clothes back on when we got to the spot where we had crossed a brook running through a grove of trees on our way out. . . .
"About an hour later we got there. The spot was really sylvan-like. You know, speckled with shadows, a fallen tree here, a log there. We sat down by the stream and listened to the sounds around us - the water rippling away, the birds singing in the trees. . . .
"Neither Eliot nor I heard them come upon us from behind. The first indication we got of them was a strange, controlled, metallic click. Eliot must have heard it, too, for we turned toward the source of the sound at the same instant. Suddenly, I felt as though I was frozen to the spot on the ground where I sat. Eliot didn't move either. As I took in the scene, I remember thinking for some reason that the birds had stopped their singing. ... I mean, it was a rather silly thought under the circumstances.
"The situation was - well - really out of this world, a cinema type of situation I guess you could call it. . . . There were two young men standing no more than maybe a meter away from where we sat by the brook. They couldn't have been older than eighteen, nineteen maybe, but were both large-boned, muscular, their faces deeply tanned, two, three days' stubble on their chins. And one of them, the smaller of the two, the blond, held a rifle pointed at us.
"Neither of them made a move, neither said anything, until Eliot made a move as if to get up. Then, the young man with the gun, his voice incongruously soft - almost gentle - said, 'Please. . . .' The muzzle of the rifle in his hands swung directly at Eliot. 'Don't get up. I'd say it would be rather foolish on your part to act brave or resist. Besides, if you cooperate, we promise to do neither one of you any harm.'
"From the way Eliot backed down, I knew that he decided to follow the stranger's suggestion. And the funny thing is, I didn't blame him. I mean - what could he accomplish except get shot? I don't know, maybe I thought it was either some sort of a practical joke or a mistake . . . until the man with the gun pulled his belt from his trousers and, tossing it to his friend, said, 'Why don't you tie the young fellow up?' Then, his eyes on Eliot, he added, 'We just don't want anyone taking off until we have all made love.'
"Eliot started to get up on his feet as the second man headed toward him, but, with a quick movement, the man had his hands behind his back and the belt secure around Eliot's wrists. I heard Eliot call him a couple of names, saw him try to break free, but he was outweighed and outpowered quite easily. Finally, he gave up struggling, threw me a glance, his eyes pleading, and said, 'I'm sorry, Liz.' I nodded to him, smiled, and said that it was all right. I suppose it was unnatural for me not to scream and try to get away, but - somehow, with the two fellows being as nonviolent as they acted, even though I knew they wanted to screw me, I did not panic. Not for a while. Not until the man with the gun told the other one to tie me down on top of a log a few feet away. In fact, I slapped him when he walked up to me and placed his hand on my arm to lead me to the downed tree. Immediately, the other one walked up to Eliot, who had been standing and struggling with his wrist bonds, and, placing the muzzle of the gun against the side of Eliot's head, said, 'Please, miss. We only want to have sexual intercourse with you, and we don't want to hurt you in the process.'
"It was weird. . . . Here were the two of them, one with a rifle, and they were talking so calmly about what amounted to nothing less than rape. But, with that gun being pointed at Eliot's head, I had no choice but to comply. Like an idiot, I turned toward Eliot, standing helpless a small distance away from me, and told him that I was sorry. Then I let the unarmed stranger lead me to the log lying partially in the waters of the stream.
" 'Please sit down on it,' he instructed me. I did. 'No,' he said, 'put one of your legs over on the other side of the log.' Again, I did as he ordered me to do, feeling embarrassed that in that position my legs were parted more than would have been proper anywhere except in the privacy of a lovers' bedroom, or onstage - providing I was wearing leotards. And since I wasn't wearing leotards but was, instead, attired in a pair of the skimpiest bikinis imaginable, I knew that with my legs straddling the thick log there was little cover for my crotch. In fact, I glanced down between my legs and blushed. The position had revealed the two hollows at my upper inner thighs and some strands of crisp, blonde pubic hairs had worked themselves out from under the narrow crotch of my panties.
"I saw that the young man did not miss what was showing. 'A natural blonde,' he said; then, placing his large, muscular hand against "he top of my breasts, gently urged me back upon the log. Involuntarily, I felt my little nipples stiffen and push against the silk of my blouse and through it, against his hand. As I was forced to lie back on the log, Eliot and the man holding the gun to him slipped out of my line of vision. I saw the blue of the sky breaking through the fragments of green above my face and heard the crunch of pebbles beneath feet. I turned my face and saw the man kneel down by my head, take my hands and bring them down until they hung on either side of the tree trunk beneath my back. I was in a strange stupor throughout these preparatory maneuvers - he had my wrists tied together with a length of hempen rope. Suddenly, I felt trapped and helpless. Fear crept into my body and I started tugging on my bonds, trying to get my hands free. . . .
" 'You'll hurt yourself if you struggle,' my captor's voice reached my ears and then I felt his hand on the bare skin of my stomach under the blouse. Automatically, I stiffened. Then, as his hand started to circle gently - first above my navel, then at it, then slightly below it - I heard the blonde's voice, coming from somewhere where my feet were pointing. 'You didn't tie her hands too tight, did you, Justin?' I felt Justin, his fingers now working slowly under the waistband of my bikinis, brushing into the clump of hairs there, shake his head and heard him mutter, 'No, Kayne.' And then, gently, his fingers withdrew. I felt them next at the waistband of my panties above my hips - one hand on each side, slowly tugging, drawing them down, down, down - until I felt the curls surrounding the entrance to my vagina begin to straighten, uncrinkling into the freedom of the air of Cheviot Hills.
"I wondered how Eliot was taking all this. Cautiously, I raised my head and cast a glance in the direction I had last seen him standing under the gun. I was shaken when I didn't see him there - so shaken that I was practically oblivious of Justin securing my ankles to a tree limb that extended from a nearby tree directly over the spot where I lay. Finally I saw Eliot, no longer wearing the single piece of attire that he had on when we were surprised by the rapists. I mean there was no question in my mind what the two were after. . . .
"Anyway, there we were. Eliot tied facedown to a fallen tree trunk, totally nude, his rear end looking somewhat ludicrous as it jutted away from the plane of the rest of his body. I knew why he held that uncomfortable posture, too. The rough bark of the tree was anything but comforting to the bare skin. And the portion of his anatomy that was right smack against the jaggedness of the tree trunk was just about the most sensitive part. I winced at the sight of his penis pressing into the bark. Then I became aware of my position. I was, you might say, in a most embarrassing posture. My hands, as I mentioned before, were tied to the tree trunk - under me as I lay on my back. Although I didn't really lie on my back. You see, Justin - I'll never know where they got the rope - had tied a rope to one of my ankles, then had apparently tossed the free end of the rope up over the overhead limb, pulled on it until my tied leg was pointing practically straight up from my pelvic region, and then attached the free end of the rope to my other ankle, so that it, too, was pointing up to the sky. You couldn't say that my legs were spread far apart, they weren't, which puzzled me. ... I wondered how they were planning on effecting entry between my thighs. ... I didn't have to wonder for long.
"Quite suddenly I felt something being inserted without any warning right between the lips of my cunny. Instinctively, I gasped and clenched my pelvic muscles to bar whatever it was that was poking into me. Of course, all I succeeded in doing there was to draw the hard, cylindrical object further into me. The next instant it had penetrated into the very depths of me and I felt a warm smoothness against my buttocks and upper rear thighs. And then, as I tried to look down my body, across my still buttoned blouse, I saw first a bare knee on either side of my body and slightly below my waist, and then Justin's smiling face in the narrow V of my upwards stretched legs. I had no question then of what it was that I had so suddenly harbored in my vagina. It's funny, really, that the thought of a hard-on being inserted into me was the furthest thing from my mind. ... I mean, what did I suppose they were going to screw me with? Oh, sure, I'd heard of women being found in the woods with a tree limb rammed up their anus or up the crack between their legs, but - I certainly wasn't expecting such treatment from these two. ... So I don't know why I was so surprised when I realized that Justin was simply fucking me.
"It wasn't until Justin's third or fourth stroke that I felt the chaffing of the log against my back - the thin blouse wasn't much protection against it. I recall that I started whimpering about it hurting, and the reaction I got from the stranger screwing me was - well, under the circumstances, you couldn't call it anything but ridiculous.
"He suspended the movement, then said that he was sorry. I heard at the same time moans and curses coming from the direction where Eliot was tied down. Withdrawing gently, Justin removed the shirt he was wearing, then disappeared for a few seconds, coming back with my red skirt and sweater. Apparently, he had taken them out of our clothes bundle. Making a triple-layered padding of the three garments, he placed them under my back between me and the log. I saw his cock protruding out of the fly o his trousers and an odd sensation of desire welled up in me. It was as though I actually wanted the nine inches of firmness jutting erectly from his groin to glide into the suddenly heated receptacle between my upthrust legs. But, again, I heard Eliot's voice. It was a wordless groan. Then Justin's voice, his face turned away from me, saying, 'Hey - uh - Kayne? Why don't you put something between the lad's cock and the tree there - he'll be torn up otherwise. . . .' Later, Eliot told me that Kayne had cursed - he said he was on the verge of coming into Eliot's asshole - but had pulled out, walked over to what was left of our clothes, and had padded the tree trunk where Eliot's naked body was in contact with it.
"Anyhow, by the time Justin positioned himself behind my bare fanny - I must have presented quite a picture from that end - straddling the log, I was on the verge of begging him to put it into me. I don't know what it was that possessed me. I mean, you know, ever since Eliot fucked me for the first time in the dance school, I'd never really thought of anyone but him putting his cock to me. And now, all of a sudden, I wanted Justin! If it weren't for my hands being tied, I'm sure I would have guided him into the slit between my legs with my own fingers. ... As it was, when I felt his hands between my legs, when I felt his fingers upon the curly hairs on either side of my vaginal opening, when I felt his fingers parting my labia apart, I helped. My buttocks weren't touching the log under me as it was - the way I was tied down, and up - but I raised them slightly higher even by spreading my ankles as much as I could. I saw Justin's face between my knees, smiling slightly, then felt the knob of his masculinity wedge itself between my labia. He placed my lower torso toward him at the same time.
"I bit into my lip as we coupled. It was a fantastic sensation. I wanted to raise my hands, clasp his neck with my fingers, and pull him toward me, ever closer, ever deeper into me. But I couldn't. ... I wanted to spread my legs for him in a split unlike any of the splits I had done onstage in ballet; I wanted to wrap my legs about him, lock my ankles behind his back, draw him into the very depths of my heated sex furnace. But, again, I couldn't. Meanwhile, his pistoning action inside me kept the tingling sensation bordering on the most exquisite approach to orgasm I had ever experienced. And I felt the inner walls of my vagina being lubricated by my own secretions; I felt the heated hardness of his cock rubbing the wrinkles within the hole between my legs; I felt the slitted tip of his penis pressing into the mouth of my womb with every in stroke he made; I felt the suctioning of my vagina upon his glorious erection with every partial withdrawal he effected. . . .
"It was getting more and more thrilling and, although I wanted to increase the sensation, there was nothing I could do. I became aware - just as the tingling thrill that started building deep in the pit of my stomach turned into strange flutterings within the mouth of my vagina, at the tip of my burning clitoris - that I was struggling against the ropes that were binding me. Only the reason for my struggles was my uncontrollable wish to bring our bodies closer together, to reciprocate a lovers' embrace.. . . Then, as the climax was almost visible in its powerful approach, when I could almost taste the sperm building in Justin's balls, when his rhythmic movements began to pick up their undulating rate, I moaned and started meeting every one of his screwing thrusts with one of my own. I ground against him, I pounded back, I slammed - trying to draw all of him into me . . . and then I felt the sudden rigidity of his body, the pulsation of come rushing through the hot, hard cock of his, squeezed tightly by the muscles within my nether mouth, and then the simultaneous heat of his seed splashing against my secret innards and the electrifying thrill of my own orgasm racking my body. . . .
"Never, never, but never had I felt such an indescribably thrilling climax. So fulfilled was I, in fact, that I must have fallen asleep, for when I opened my eyes next, I was lying on the ground, unfettered, with Eliot by my side. There was no sign of anyone else around us. . . . The strangest part of the whole episode, however, is - neither Eliot nor I ever mentioned to each other what had happened. But ever since that day in Cheviot Hills, I've been unable to reach a really satisfactory climax unless - now, are you ready for this? - unless I'm tied down so I can't reciprocate fully. ..."
Elizabeth and Eliot broke up soon after their rape in Cheviot Hills. The girl revealed to her friend-psychiatrist that she managed to find a bondage group in New York soon after her arrival there and had become a full-fledged member. To this day, she is still one of the most promising and attractive young ballerinas on the stage. Knowing, however, that occasionally bondage groups such as the one Elizabeth is part of may become dangerous, the good doctor who had heard her story is keeping a constant eye on the girl. He never misses her performance, and hopes that Elizabeth will never miss one of hers.
Chapter Seven - Rape And Lesbianism
The statement currently accepted among a great many psychiatrists is that everyone traveling the path toward psychosexual maturity carries with him (or her) the satchel of latent homosexuality. Whether the traveler ever opens this satchel, whether the traveler ever dons this concealed garment of homosexuality or lesbianism is a matter of circumstances and environment. The statement may be an escape clause - an escape clause for the psychiatrists' inability to explain fully the raison d'etre of homosexuality, whether male or female - but it is foolproof and undeniable. The fact that some individuals manifest their homosexual tendencies in early life while others do not until later in life (or not at all) only supports this theory. That lesbianism and homosexuality - and we are here speaking of total and absolute homosexuality, not of the occasional ventures into the realms of Sappho and Pindar, such as the so-called bisexual makes - have to be considered as perversions should be obvious to anyone with the foresight to see that an unbridled increase in such a form of psychosexuality could threaten the existence of the human race. The danger actually lies in the truth of the original statement at the beginning of this chapter - the truth of the satchel. The pertinent questions that arise are: What makes one decide to try on the robe of lesbianism? What makes one decide to accept it as the permanent habit, if one does?
Perhaps a one-word answer could suffice for both questions: Curiosity. Perhaps the answer to the second question should be: Preference. Whatever it is, the following case may hopefully throw some light on the subject. Although in the case with Peggy the veil of Sappho was first forced upon her, then later accepted by her.
Peggy H. was brought up in a religious atmosphere, in the Midwest, by her father. She had been a quiet, shy child, seldom engaging in any of the games her two brothers spent their time at. No one had suspected that her mother's death in childbirth when Peggy was eleven years old had produced a long-lasting impression upon the girl. An impression, in fact, which - though undirected at the time - was a fuse implanted in Peggy's psychosexual makeup that awaited the spark to set it off and send her along an entirely unsuspected path fourteen years later.
Peggy's father saw to it that his daughter received the best education he could afford. He had sent her to an exclusive New England college, supported her financially and morally. Nevertheless, he later told the marriage counselor - a former classmate of his - who attempted reconciliation between Peggy and her husband that "for some reason, Peggy never appeared to trust me completely; there seemed to be this permanent chasm between us."
Peggy married comparatively late by modern standards. Having earned a master's degree in journalism, she went to work on one of the larger Midwestern newspapers. Three years later, at the age of twenty-four, she married Houston H., a brother of a friend of hers on the newspaper's editorial staff. Two years later, Peggy filed for divorce. There seemed to be no apparent reason for the action. And it was through her father's pleading that she agreed to visit the marriage counselor.
"I've only come because of dad," she told the counselor. "I know there is nothing you will be able to do to 'patch up' our marriage," she added, "because I don't want it patched up. My marrying anyone was a mistake to begin with."
When the marriage counselor tried rationalizing with Peggy, when he tried reciting other cases where a marriage appeared to be doomed to disaster yet was saved, Peggy cut him off short by saying that in the case of Houston and Peggy H. there was nothing to save. And she told him why.
The following is Peggy's story of her reversion to lesbianism - through the medium of rape.
"The only rational reason I've been able to give myself for marrying Houston has been idiocy mingled with infatuation. Within six months after we'd been married I began to have misgivings. I realized that Houston had bed to me. I had told him before we exchanged those hypocritical vows in church that I did not want a baby. I told him quite plainly that I was too young to die. He said that he was in no rush to raise a family either, but before the semen of our honeymoon had a chance to dry on my thighs, he started telling me how much he would like to have a son. It wasn't an outright statement at first; just a hint here, a hint there. But as our marriage went into its sixth month, his mania for a son began to drive me batty. I told him that if he wanted an heir that bad he'd have to go and shoot his come somewhere else.
"It turned out we had quite an argument, bordering on a fight, that night. Houston stormed out of the house, finally, saying that when I was ready to be a 'complete woman rather than half a woman' I'd know where to find him. I assumed that he went to his folks who were living just across the city, so I thought I'd teach him a lesson. Packing just the essentials in my overnight bag, I took our car and went downtown. I thought I'd spend several nights at one of the hotels and then call him at home under the pretense of haying forgotten something.
"It was late Friday night and I didn't have much cash on me. I checked in at one of the hotels not too far from the downtown skid row. For the three-and-a-half dollars that I paid I got a rotten hole in the wall. I was almost tempted to go downstairs to the registration desk and demand my money back, but then thought, What the hell! so it wasn't the Ritz. Besides, I was tired.
"I decided to take a bath and then go to bed. It was already after eleven o'clock at night. So I drew the bath water and, having undressed, got into the tub. I couldn't have been in the water more than five minutes when I heard a knock on the door. I couldn't for the life of me guess who it might be. I knew it wasn't anyone I knew. When the knocking was repeated, I swore, got out of the tub, wrapped the largest towel I could find around myself - it barely covered me - and went to the door. It was then that I discovered that I couldn't lock my door from within. I mean, it made all the proper clicks, but it remained unlatched. When I swung the door open, my eyes almost popped out of their sockets.
"The woman standing before me in the doorway was about five feet eleven - tall, compared to my five-four - and was dressed in a pair of Levi's, a man's dress shirt, and had her hair cropped short with a part on the left side. If it weren't for her boobs poking out like a couple of prize-winning watermelons I could have easily mistaken her for a man. I blinked my eyes a couple of times, clutching the towel to my still water-dripping figure, and said, 'Yes? . . .'
"She looked me up and down, her eyes strangely familiar in their appraisal of my almost nude body, and said, shrugging, 'Couldn't sleep. So I thought I'd knock and get acquainted.' She stretched out her hand and, as I took it automatically, she added, 'My name's Kate Carl. Carl to my friends. Mind if I come in?' She didn't wait for my answer, stepping by me into the room. 'Have any friends around?' she asked as though it were the most natural question, her eyes again razing me across my breasts, my waist, my hips. I didn't like her, but at the same time there was something oddly attractive about her. Strange, new, mysterious something that I had never known before.
"Oddly enough, when she left half an hour later, I felt strangely humored. The reason for that, I guess, was the Kate Carl was so out of this world I couldn't permit myself to refuse her invitation for the next evening to an 'all-girls' party. And then, too, my fight with Houston made the party so much the more in line. I knew there wouldn't be any men there, any pricks bent on impregnating every slit they could get into. I couldn't wait for the next evening to roll around. . . .
"When we walked into Sandy's apartment the following night, I knew right then that this was going to be some party. I immediately wound the scene around my journalistically inclined metal cog and decided that there was a hell of a lot of material for an expose-type of story. I thought it would be a great joke to play on Houston, namely, let him read the spiel on 'How the Lesbians Let It All Hang Out,' with my byline.
"I never got to write the story. As it turned out, forty minutes after Kate Carl and I got there, I realized that I was close to being snockered. I told Kate that I was going to go back to the hotel. I wasn't drunk yet, but I knew it was only a matter of time before the liquor I had downed like water in those forty minutes would have the chance to catch up with me. Anyway, I don't think I was too surprised when Kate Carl declared that she would see me home. Feeling the way I did, I didn't protest too much - not at all, in fact.
"When we got to our hotel, I was feeling no pain - so much so that Kate Carl helped me into bed, undressing me with an expertness that, later when I thought about it, should have given me an indication that she'd done similar chores more than once before. I remember her muttering something about 'weren't supposed to just pass out,' and then I must have done just that - passed out.
"When I came to some time later, a dull pain was throbbing between my legs and inside of me. ... I tried to turn over, move, react somehow to offset the sensation, but couldn't. It took me a few moments to realize that the reason I couldn't move was because there was an oddly shifting weight on me, a moving weight - as of a body fucking me. That explained the pain inside my vagina. . . . Terrified, I popped my eyes open and stared into Kate Carl's face. The incongruousness of the whole scene shook me, and I opened my mouth to scream. Instead, all I did was moan into the palm of Kate Carl's hand as - sensing obviously what my obvious reaction was going to be - she brought her hand up and clamped it over my mouth.
" 'Baby,' I saw her mouth form the words, heard the words pour into my ears, 'you're the cutest goddam piece of tail I'd seen in a long time. The first time I saw you, I knew that I was gonna want to fuck the sweet bejeezus out of you - so, don't struggle. . . . Lie back and enjoy it - at least my banging you won't get you knocked up.' I listened to her words, trying to make sense out of them, trying to make sense out of the whole scene. I mean, there was a prick right up my cunt, and Kate Carl. . . . For a moment I wondered if she was one of them hermaphrodites. I guess the puzzlement was written all over my face, for Kate Carl laughed, still stroking into me, still pumping against me like she were a man.
" 'Honey, don't tell me you've never been done with a dildo. . . . You don't know what you've been missing.' Then, suddenly, she removed her hand from my mouth and lowered her own lips against it. I pulled my head back into the pillow, but I could retreat just so far. This isn't right. I thought. She is a goddam lesbian. . . .
"I tried to find some way of unseating her, of getting her off and out of me - but she was too much for me; I mean, she had the advantage over me in size alone. So I just lay there and let her screw me, let her mouth suck on my lips, let her tongue slither in, then out, then back into my mouth, twining around my own tongue, darting behind my teeth, slipping into the depths of my throat. I felt her pause with her hip motion several times - as though she were postponing her own building lust from spewing out of her - then resume the smooth, deep, penetrating strokes. And it was during those brief pauses that I became conscious of a feeling that was unlike pain, a sensation that frightened me at first. It felt as if the pain increased when she stopped sliding the - the dildo in and out of my vagina. The first couple of times, I just lay there, silent, wondering if she was going to pull out. But the last time she paused - her lips still sucking mine - I realized that / was still moving, I mean, voluntarily. . . .
"Naturally, she didn't miss the reaction on my part. Actually, I guess, I wasn't aware of my coital grinds until she suddenly tore her lips away from mine, looked deep down into my eyes, and rasped, like a man she rasped, 'Oh, baby! . . . You're responding!"
" 'No!' I snapped instinctively, willing my thighs and hips to stillness. / am not responding! I heard my words screaming through my mind. I'm no fucking lesbian ... no queer . . . no!. . .
" 'You like it, baby,' her words reached my ears as though from some distance. 'Don't deny it - the come feeling in your cunt - it's there, baby. Let it explode!' And her hips moved in a quick, downward stroke, plunging the column of false flesh deep within the slit between my legs, deep into my vagina until I felt a hard, rounded smoothness, not unlike the knob of an honest-to-goodness prick, press into the soft mouth of my cervix.
" 'No,' I cried again, feeling the conviction leaving my voice. 'No,' I repeated, feeling my legs spread farther apart, feeling my thighs push up toward the strange softness of Kate Carl's, feeling my buttocks leave the irregular surface of the mattress and strain toward her, push her body up - then recede back into the bed - then push up again.
"The rhythm of our copulating movements picked up its frequency. I was no longer conscious of pain - there was none - but only aware of the most beautiful, free, unrestrained fuck-feeling I had ever experienced. There was no fear, no subconscious dread that perhaps the pill had lost its potency, perhaps the condom would break, perhaps the loop had slipped out and I wasn't aware of it, perhaps the debilitating m ale sperm - like so many tadpoles - was burrowing its way into the ovum. . . . There was only euphoria, indescribable, fear-free feeling of a tinglingly nerve-shattering orgasm. It felt as though I were being tickled by a million featherweight hummingbird tongues. Unable to control myself as the explosion came, as my cunt mouth began sucking upon the beautiful intruder that could do me no harm, I flung my arms around Kate Carl's back, wrapped my legs around her ass, and squeezed her with all my strength toward myself, moaning, 'Oh, good, beautiful, fucking God! . . . Jeezus!' I felt a glorious shudder ripple my body, then froze in sudden terror from a new, unbelievable sensation. . . .
" 'The tadpoles! The fucking tadpoles!' I cried, pushing Kate Carl off me with one furious heave. I felt the fluid running into me in what seemed a never-ending stream of thick, warm come. I felt the intruding shaft leave the sopping interior of my vagina with a loud, squishing sound. I stared down upon Kate Carl still lying on the bed, at the monstrous bulb-tipped replica of a prick fastened to her body with narrow leather straps, then, as my gaze followed a thin tube running up from the phony prick, I broke out in laughter.
" 'Tadpoles?' Kate Carl asked incredulously, looking at me breaking up like I were cracking up or something. 'Wow, baby, you really take off when you get there, don't you?'
" 'I thought - I thought,' I said, trying to control my almost hysterical laughter, 'that you were shooting male tadpoles into me - you know - sperm?'
"I saw the expression of puzzlement on her face become replaced by one of concern. She reached her arms toward me, her eyes soft and understanding, and whispered, 'You poor baby! You've really been done to fright by someone. . . .' Her arms went around me as I stepped into the haven formed by them, and she pulled me down on the bed. 'It was only warm milk mixed with honey in the balls under this cock, baby. No tadpoles,' she whispered, removing the dildo from in front of her slitted, thick-curled mound. Then, setting the dummy prick and harness down on the floor, she urged me gently onto my back with her hands.
"Now, I've had Houston eat my cunt more than once - I had liked it better than anything else he'd ever done to me - but Kate Carl's mouth laving the pubic growth on my cunt-mound, her lips sucking the milk and honey off my labia and my still little clitoris, her tongue sliding in and out of the pink darkness as she pulled the labia of my pussy apart with her fingers - that was something else again! I mean, nothing could reach that feeling! There was the soft smoothness of her chin, the softness of her lips, the feminine tenderness of her tongue - yes, even though I knew that she was what is commonly called a bulldyke. It was a far cry from the rough stubble on a man's chin, even on a freshly shaven chin.
"I thought Kate Carl would drive me way out of my gourd with her cunt-licking technique. I moaned, I bucked, I ground my cunt against her face. I pleaded for her to stop - while at the same time I was pressing my hands against the back of her head and urging her to go down to the very depths of my vaginal cavern. I whimpered, I thrashed. I came a dozen beautiful times until - when I could not move another muscle - Kate Carl lifted her face from between my thighs and I could see the juices of love mixed with her saliva like a high sheen on her lower face. There was a pinkness around her mouth, and I knew it was from the chafing of her skin against my pubic growth, against the hard bone of my pelvis surrounding the glory hole of sex. . . .
"In that flash of a moment, as she lay between my legs with her face turned up toward me, with her chin no more than an inch above the still wide-open, moist pinkness of my vagina, I felt a feeling that was strange - irrational almost. I felt as though there had never been anyone in my life before Kate Carl, as though I had never loved Houston, as though I had never had sex with anyone but her. I brought my hands down to her face, cupped it between my palms, and whispered, 'Thank you, darling.' I saw a good-humored flicker dance across her eyes, then her lips curled in a smile.
" 'It wasn't one-sided, honey,' she said. I reached Matterhorn more than once myself.'
"I shook my head at her. 'No, Kate. I mean thank you for showing me the way.' It was silly, but I said the words anyway. 'Thank you for raping. . . .' Then I gently extricated my legs from around her neck, moved down toward her, and turned her over onto her back.
"I didn't even think, as my lips came down to kiss her vulva tentatively, that this was the first time I was going to go down on a woman. I just did it - tongued her pussy until her entire body was racked by shudders, until spasms tightened the muscles of her abdomen, her upper inner thighs. . . . And we came over and over and over. ..."
Peggy got her divorce. The marriage counselor, after listening to her story, felt that in Peggy's case no amount of psychoanalysis could bring about a reversion of her fixation from lesbianism to heterosexuality. He felt that whereas a divorce was a scar upon Houston's psyche, Houston would get over the disappointment of one shattered - though single-sided - marriage. With Peggy, however, considering her obsessive fear of pregnancy, there was the potential danger of suicide, stemming, paradoxically enough, from her desire to live.
The fact that Peggy's reversion to lesbianism was absolute, and could thus be considered a "perversion," posed the danger of her being apprehended by the legal authorities. However, with the current leniency toward homosexuality, especially female homosexuality, this risk was not great. "Everyone," the marriage counselor said, "is entitled to seek happiness during his brief stay on this earth, in whatever manner he deems most satisfactory. And, as long as there is no danger to either any individual or to society in general, the person should not be suppressed from seeking this happiness.
"The danger of subsequent extinction of the human race - well, that danger is minimal compared to the one stemming from man's seemingly insatiable desire to play with militarism of one form or another."
Chapter Eight - Rape And Troilism Plus
Though no one has ever come out and denied the fact that man is a gregarious animal, a social animal, man, himself, throughout recorded history has been attempting to set limits upon his own gregariousness. And the area upon which he concentrated a great part of his efforts in this respect has been mating. Sexual intercourse. Coitus. Western, Judeo-Christian leaders, through tradition-instilled philosophy, have maintained that man is monogamous by nature, that it is proper for man to have but one wife, for woman to have but one husband. Upon these traditional philosophies modern-day ethics, as well as modern-day jurisprudence still stands. And the idea of monogamy had been extended to exclude not only multiple marriage (which is nothing more than legalization for sexual intercourse between a man and a woman), but also occasional participation in coitus with more than one person at the same time. Yet - man is a gregarious animal.
The paradox is apparent. Its cause can be probably traced to man's desire to possess, to keep, to hold. A selfish motive which had been supported by the mystics, the religious men, throughout Western history. And Western man, has tried to instill this narrow-minded traditionalism - without much success - upon the seldom-mentioned, "backward" races of man buried on "dark continents."
But the traditional trend is turning. Man is beginning to feel that he is entitled to expressing his sexual freedom, entitled to obtaining sexual gratification, in whatever way fancy strikes him - providing the parties are consenting parties, and providing that no physical harm befalls any of the participating individuals.
Troilism - as well as extension of such practices - with the advocation of free love, with the rise of mate-swapping clubs, though still illegal by the books, is beginning to be considered to be not an unnatural way of obtaining sexual gratification. The desire for such a "group form" of sexual intercourse or variations thereof could be attributed first to curiosity, second - again - to personal preference. There is no available case on record of anyone condemning group sex as unsatisfactory - of anyone who had tried it, that is. The opinion of those who hadn't, is, of course, invalid.
The case of Hayley S. which follows, is unlike most cases in which curiosity was the major motivating force for the first incident of troilism. Hayley was forced, physically forced, to submit to sexual intercourse with five boys in high school. But she was only forced the first time.
The story of her rape did not come out into the open until almost four months after it had taken place. When it did, it was brought about by her school counselor's recommendation to see the school psychiatrist. "Apparent fatigue from possibly excessive promiscuousness," the counselor had written in his note to the psychiatrist. The doctor pursued the hint, and Hayley told the story.
Sixteen-years old, and from an upstanding family, the girl's relation of the incident which had occurred in the school gym, and her reaction to it, was revealingly explicit. Her plea that the school authorities would not take any punitive measures against anyone she mentioned in her story puzzled the psychiatrist - until Hayley was well into her narrative.
"If it weren't for Jerry, Paul, Peter, Otto, and Richard practicing basketball in the gym the night I decided to take my gym suit home for washing, I'd still be moping in the boondocks. I mean, you know, I always figured that my mom and dad knew what they were talking about - especially when they told me that fucking was unhealthy. . . . Not in those words, of course. But the idea was there. In fact, it was so firmly beaten into my head that I believed it all through the hour and a half that afternoon during which the boys were showing me exactly what fucking was all about. Only afterwards - after Paul took me home - did I realize how much I'd been missing.
"Oh, I wasn't a virgin - but the time Kenny busted my cherry I felt nothing but pain. It wasn't bad - but it was no thrill either. Kenny was fourteen, a year older than I was, when it happened during summer vacation. But that's another story - and there wasn't really much to it. . . . It came to nowhere near what happened at the gym. . . .
"It was the day before the monthly locker inspection in the gym class. I had forgotten about my locker until I got home, so it was pretty late when I got back to school - around five, I think. In fact, I was worried that the gym would be already locked. But it wasn't - well, not all of it. Only the girls' locker room - and, of course, that's where I wanted in.
"I had noticed the boys in their gym suits in the gym, dribbling the ball around the floor, shooting for the basket. They didn't pay much attention to me when I went in through the gym, but when I came out - having found the girls' locker room locked - Paul yelled at me, 'Hi, Hayley!' and waved his arm. I waved back. I had always thought he was cute.
" 'What're you doing here at this hour?' he asked, walking across the polished floor toward me. The other four boys followed him, passing the ball across from one to another.
"I told him about the locker inspection and, as I did so, I noticed one of the other boys bring his hand down to the front of his gym trunks and scratch himself. Involuntarily, my eyes lingered at the juncture of his legs for a moment, and I felt a blush creep into my face. He had on a pair of skintight trunks, and the outline of his organ was as obvious as it could be. It must have been half-way to a hard-on, judging from the size of it.
"Paul's voice brought my eyes back to him. 'Maybe the transom is open,' he said. 'Let's go see.'
"Moments later, the six of us were at the door to the locker room. 'Pete, give me a hand up. I'll see if I can push it open from this side.' Quickly, Pete, the one whose crotch had attracted my attention back in the gym, formed a hold with his hands and Paul, stepping onto it, raised himself toward the transom. I saw him reach in, crank something, and the window swung inward. Jumping down next to me, he said, 'Okay, Hayley. What we'll do now is get Pete over the transom, then I'll follow him, and then Jerry and Otto will help you up and we'll help you down on the other side.'
"Within seconds, Pete and Paul were on the other side of the door. I didn't think the whole thing was such a great idea - I mean, it was sort of breaking and entering - but the boys seemed so eager to help that I couldn't refuse them. Only when Jerry and Otto formed a sort of a four-armed hold for me to step up on did I realize that my climb and my descent on the other side could prove to be somewhat embarrassing. I mean - you know - I had on a miniskirt that came up to about four inches above my knees when I was on the ground. With me climbing up over the boys' heads there was no question that I would show some portions of me which I figured should be concealed from public eye. To make things worse, I didn't have anything on underneath except a pair of all but transparent blue silk panties.
"Still embarrassed - but determined not to let the boys down - I stepped up on the living step between Jerry's and Otto's bodies. I felt an odd sensation as the hem of my skirt brushed against my upper thighs. As they raised me up until my breasts were on the level with the transom window, I knew that they could see right up under my skirt and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I cast a sidelong glance down toward Jerry and Otto just before I swung my legs up and over the transom. I caught both the expression on Otto's face, upturned and openmouthed, the stealthy nudge he gave Jerry, and the whisper: 'Get a load of that. Simultaneously with the words I heard, I saw him give his crotch a quick squeeze as if he were checking to see if his thing was still there.
"Then something quite unexpected happened. I thought I'd had it. As my legs went over the transom sill, I felt my skirt get snagged on a nail I hadn't noticed off to one side. In the panic of embarrassment - the skirt was now around my waist and my legs, fanny, and everything around it were covered only by the thinness of my panties - I reached toward the nail in an attempt to free the skirt, slipped, and came crashing down on Paul and Pete in the locker room - my skirt still hanging across the transom. In his attempt to grab me on the way down to soften my fall, Paul's hand slammed against my upper inner thighs, slipped, and came to rest clutching me between my legs, with nothing between his hand and my already fairly thickly furred vulva. I couldn't help letting out a high-pitched yelp as I realized, lying sprawled partially over Pete and partially over Paul, that Paul's thumb was pressing through the thin gauze of my panties right into the slit of my mound. For a second none of us moved. I heard the excited voices of Jerry and Otto from beyond the door asking whether we were all right, asking what happened.
"Then, as I heard Paul's voice coming from somewhere beneath me, from somewhere about my knees, saying something like, 'Everything's fine,' I started to get up. By then I became acutely aware not only of the hand lying against my snatch, but of my breasts pressing into Jerry's chest, and of his face no more than two inches away from mine. But as I brought my knee up to brace against the floor and pushed against the floor on both sides of Jerry's chest with my hands, I realized that the boys weren't in any mood to let me up. The movement of my leg - unconsciously for me at the moment - had parted my thighs to the point where Paul's hand was afforded a much broader resting place against the crotch of my panties; it also parted the lips of my sex and I felt Paul's thumb press further in through the material, the length of his digit lying along the entire length of the slit. I gasped at the realization that Paul was actually fingering me, and at the same time I saw Pete's hands rise up beneath my arms, close upon my back, and then felt him pulling me down toward him.
"The next moment my mouth was crushed against Pete's and his tongue was forcing itself into my mouth, past my teeth, and into my throat. Totally taken aback, remembering my folks' advice against 'playing with boys,' I placed my hands flat against Pete's chest and tried pushing myself away from him, tried squirming out of his grasp. So preoccupied was I with my attempt to break away from Pete that I didn't realize until my mouth was momentarily free of his, that there was no longer any material separating my curly-haired pussy from Paul's heated fingers! How he had managed to pull my panties off without my feeling it, I don't know - but he sure as hell had them off and around one of my ankles. I felt his finger stroking the length of my slit and was terrified at the pleasant sensation it created between my legs. For a fraction of an instant, I lay motionless, glorying in the feeling, but then, with a wild lurch, I tore away from Pete's arms encircling me and rolled over and away from the two boys.
"As I did so - I was flat on my back, trying to cover my mound with my hands - my glance rose to the transom, and there, with a sheepish yet leering grin on his face, was Jerry. "Hey, fellahs,' I saw his mouth move, 'leave a piece for me. . ..' And he was suddenly standing above me, straddling me, a great, elongated bulge distorting the smooth lines of his gym trunks, moving in slight jerking motions like a live thing. Petrified, I lay on the cold floor of the locker room beneath him and watched his hand come to the wide, elastic waistband of his shorts, pause teasingly a second, then draw them down, revealing thick, crinkly hairs - a dense mat of pubic curls which grew longer, longer, and were then suddenly short curlicues that surrounded a purple-veined shaft of red-tipped muscle which sprang out stiffly from the constriction of the navy blue trunks.
"Terrified suddenly at the enormity of Jerry's erect organ, frightened by the fact that neither Paul nor Pete moved to protect me - I have to admit my thinking and reasoning were pretty naive at that point - I made a move to rise off the floor. Needless to say, I didn't get anywhere. Like a flash both Pete and Paul were on their knees, one on either side of me, with their powerful hands holding my arms down against the floor.
" 'Please - please don't,' I pleaded, knowing that no longer were my hands covering from view the pubic growth, the pink-lipped mouth of my sex between my thighs. 'Please let me go - please - please!' I turned toward Paul, trying to read some compassion in his face. I saw a flicker of something that might have been concern brighten his eyes, then it vanished.
" 'Shhh! Hayley - we're not going to hurt you,' he whispered. 'We just want to have some fun.'
" 'Yeah, baby,' Jerry added, 'we're just going to fuck you, then we'll let you go.' He circled his throbbing erection with his hand and moved his fingers back and forth along its length. 'You've had a dick inside your twat before, haven't you? I mean you're a big girl now, aren't you? Fifteen - sixteen? Hell, baby, that's the reason we're built like we are - you girls with a hole, we boys with a pole. . . .'
"I watched him kneel down slowly between my legs, his hand still clutching the slit-ended column of flesh springing outward above his fuzz-covered balls. They looked swollen, heavy, as though they carried an extra load of sperm. Instinctively I drew my feet up toward my buttocks and brought my knees together in front of him. I felt the mushroom-shaped head of his penis brush against my calf as I did so. But I knew it was only a token sign of resistance. There was nothing I could do to prevent them from doing what they were determined upon doing now. His eyes burning into mine, Jerry placed his hands upon my knees and forced them apart - further and further, and still further - until I felt the skin of my inner thighs stretch, felt the labia of my vagina part open - first the larger, outer, then the smaller, inner. I saw Jerry's eyes descend down my body until they were upon the spot between my legs, then they widened as though in appreciation. 'It's a beautiful pussy, baby,' I heard him whisper as he brought himself closer in.
"His entry was smooth, slow, and total. I guess it was on account of the way he had spread me open. He must have slid into me all the way because I felt the warmth of his balls press against the underside of my thighs. I was surprised that there was no pain - it was as though I was a glove he was slipping on. It was a perfect fit. I closed my eyes and waited. He started pulling out of me - slowly, gently almost - then he slid back in. Once, twice, three times, four. . . .
"I became aware of a strange odor, and of Jerry making the insides of my sex hole tingle oddly, and of a dozen hands caressing me at the same time. I heard someone whisper, 'She sure is pretty,' and someone answered, 'You can say that again.' I opened my eyes.
" 'Have you ever sucked anyone's cock, Hayley?'
"I looked up into the face of Otto, wondered how he got into the locker room, then shook my head. 'N-no,' I said, not the least bit surprised that there was a reason for my being breathless. I was moving my buttocks, circling them, raising my thighs to meet Jerry's inward plunges - I was fucking Jerry back. It's nice, I thought. 'How - how did you get in?' I asked Otto, not caring what he would give for an answer - I think he said something about the door not being really locked, just jammed - because the odor which had struck me seconds before was the odor of his masculinity. 'Do you want me to suck it for you?' I asked, opening my mouth.
"He was kneeling by the side of my head and his darkskinned cock was thick and long. Its red knob swayed above my mouth, an inch away. He nodded, placed the tip of his erection against the left corner of my mouth, then said, 'Why don't you suck Richard off too?' Only then did I become distantly aware of Richard's cock poised by my mouth on my right. I nodded.
"I don't remember too clearly what happened next. I know that I had both Otto's and Richard's cocks in my mouth, sliding in and out, as I tongued their crowns, nipped at their hardness with my teeth, sucked upon them with the vacuum of my lungs. I know there was a mouth enveloping each of my somehow naked breasts - they weren't large, and Paul and Pete had no trouble drawing most of their roundness into the hot, moist caverns beyond their teeth. And these sensations - two sex organs in my mouth, my breasts with their nipples burning fire in the mouths of two other boys - seemed to be swirling around the increasingly growing tickling all around the secret depths of my pussy.
" 'Oh!' I moaned. 'Oh, it's - it's so beautiful.' But Otto and Richard moaned louder and reinserted the engorged knobs of their erections back between my teeth; and I sucked on them like they were two salty lollipops. Then, suddenly, I felt as though they were all lifting me - up, up, to a height I had never known. I felt an unknown, glorious force raise my legs and wrap them around Jerry's waist. I drew him into me until I thought the tip of his cock was going to puncture my heart. . . .
"It was so fantastic that I wouldn't believe it even now - if it wasn't for the fact that we've been repeating our six-way fucking about twice a week for the last four months.
"In a nutshell, we climaxed all over the girls' locker room - I mean, really. Richard and Otto came into my mouth seconds apart. Paul and Pete jacked themselves off as they watched me sucking Otto and Richard and being screwed by Jerry. And Jerry delivered such a balming load into me, I was sure I was going to have quintuplets. And my orgasm was beyond anything imaginable. ... I swear that in addition to coming in my pussy, I came in my mouth and out of my nipples. I mean it was the wildest ride anyone could get. And to think that they had to force me to start with!
"Anyway, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. And when we got together for the following fucking sessions, the boys would rotate - that way each one of them got to screw me, suck my tits, and I got to suck all five of them off. Believe me, there were no hard feelings. ..."
The above case may be unique in that none of the participants of what amounted to an orgy was older than seventeen. Otto was fourteen, the youngest. Their first orgy was accidental. It wasn't planned. Their following sessions of totally uninhibited sex, however, were carefully arranged, held in places where there could be absolutely no chance of discovery. Hayley said that after the first episode none of the five boys had at any time had intercourse with her without the precautionary measure of using condoms. She also said that she had twice attempted having sex with only one boy. The result, to her way of thinking, was unsatisfactory. She dismissed, therefore, sex between two people as "a drag."
Needless to say, her plea that the five boys not be reprimanded went unheeded. Under the circumstances, the reason for this is obvious, especially since it was learned that Hayley's, as well as the boys', grades had started failing. The action that was taken was laudably nonscandalizing. The six were permitted to complete the year - under close observation - then were allowed to transfer to six different schools. What the psychological, the psychosexual, effect on the five boys and Hayley was, is unknown. There was no follow-up study undertaken on the youngsters. Hopefully, they will develop moderation in their sexual life with maturity, although, in the case of Hayley, whose sexual urges had been cruelly suppressed at home, moderation would appear to be an unlikely quality. But then, sex has a strange habit of changing seemingly permanent attires.
Chapter Nine - Rape And Nymphomania
Nymphomania is probably one of the most commonly misused terms in the study of psychosexuality. It is a term which has been picked up during the present century to be cast indiscriminately at any woman who has a greater than average desire for sex. The definition of the term varies from one source to another. Thus, Webster's New World Dictionary of the American Language, states that it is "excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire in a woman"; Webster's Modern Reference Dictionary of the English Language claims it to be "morbid and uncontrollable sexual desire in females"; Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary makes no mention of control, defining the term simply as "excessive sexual desire by a female." Perhaps, it is just a matter of semantics, but excess does not necessarily constitute morbidity, and excessive desire is quite different from excessive and uncontrollable desire.
What, then, is nymphomania?
John Trimble, in his 5,000 Adult Sex Words & Phrases, gives the accepted medical definition of the term as "insatiable sex desire in the female," then supplements that definition by stating that it is synonymous with neurasthenia sexualis, i.e., "inability to accomplish orgasm although passionate and sexually active." Insatiability, inability: critical words.
What brings about this insatiable desire for sexual intercourse in the female? The answer to that question lies within the question itself. Insatiability, or desire for fulfillment - sexual fulfillment, orgasm. A nymphomaniac is not unlike a starving person who is unable to keep any food down. Only in the case of the nymphomaniac, the food is the food of the glands, namely sex. Complete sex. Orgasmic sex.
And more often than not, nymphomania is directly related to a subconscious fear of orgasm. As may be witnessed in the following case history. Rape was the triggering incident which brought the pathetic longings of the patient to the fore - pathetic because she could not satisfy them. Regardless of how she tried.
Connie's psychosexual condition was not revealed, and thus was allowed to fester, until she turned twenty-two. Raised in an environment of religious nature, which, if not fanatical, was extremely oppressive, Connie was under a constant influence exerted by her parents that she "follow the call of God." The regimen which she had to follow throughout her teen years and into that period of time when girls cease being girls and become women, precluded her from normal sexual development. At the age when the great majority of other young women enjoy the sensual aspects of life through experimentation with sex, Connie was being prepared for the contemplative life of a convent.
Then, unexpectedly, without any apparent reason for it, Connie informed her parents that she was through with the religious hogwash. She was twenty-two, she said, and was going to do what she wanted to, not what they were coercing her into doing.
Attractive, with dark brown eyes and hair of raven's wing blackness, with a figure which suddenly emerged when Connie started dressing in the latest fashions of the day, she had no problem securing a secretarial position. And then, within three months after her unexplainable shedding of puritanical shackles, Connie was committed to the psychiatric ward of a Miami hospital for observation. Her commitment was voluntary, and the reason she herself gave the interviewing psychiatrist for her decision to seek psychiatric help, was an odd one, coming from a young woman who but a few months earlier seemed to be heading for the monotonous existence of a monastic. To quote Connie: "I wanted to get fucked by every man I laid my eyes on."
Why such a reversal of attitude? What caused the young woman to cast aside years of preparation for one form of life and then, instantaneously almost, fanatically seek an opposite? Patiently, the psychiatrist probed Connie's mind; patiently he urged her to tell him how her seemingly insatiable desire for sex first manifested itself.
And, finally, in an outburst, Connie revealed to him that she wanted to feel what she knew other women must feel. Something (she was apparently seeking an unattainable for her orgasm) she was on the verge of "the first time it happened," but had been unable to attain, and, she said, "I want nothing else." When the psychiatrist asked her about her first sexual experience, she poured out the revealing incident of her rape. It happened the weekend that she was actually on her way to the convent to stay. Her relation of the incident is reproduced here word for word. It's the story of a girl suddenly emerging into the world of reality denied to her by her insidiously overprotective parents.
"I don't know why Sister Carrie was not at the railway depot when I got off the train. She was supposed to meet me there; she knew I was coming. I stood out on the street outside the railway station for about ten minutes, waiting. It was late Sunday afternoon. There was no one out on the street. I thought of calling the convent, but didn't. I don't know why. Maybe it was because I wanted to put off my going there as much as I possibly could. ... It was dreary - like a prison, I suppose. The air was fresh and clean outside, and the road leading away from the small town, into the mountains, wound like a gray ribbon through the countryside. Three miles up that road, I knew the convent stood, waiting for me. All I had with me in the way of belongings was a small valise - so I decided to walk. I don't know, maybe I had a premonition that if I set out for the distant walls on foot, I'd never reach them. . . . Actually, I never even got to see them.
"I was about a mile and a half down the road - I hadn't seen a soul that entire distance - when he came out onto the shoulder, right in front of me. A big man, over six feet tall, getting bigger as I approached him. I thought of crossing the road to the other side, but then decided that there was no reason to act scared - even if he did look frightening, just standing there, looking at me as I traversed the distance of some fifteen feet between us. He was about forty, forty-five, sunburned features, disheveled hair, stubble on his face, wearing blue jeans, a loose blue shirt unbuttoned down to his waist, and a pair of boots.
"When I evened with him, I tried not to look at his huge hulk, tried to evade his gaze - I felt it on me, stripping me of my ordinary street clothes - but couldn't. There was something strange about him; his eyes seemed to burn like coals into me, drawing mine up to meet them.
" 'Good evening,' I whispered, raising my eyes for a moment toward his, then dropping them. I was no more than a step by him when I heard his voice say, 'Here, let me give you a hand with that.' I felt his fingers, large, powerful, gnarled, close over my hand on the valise. I opened my mouth to protest, but he jerked the traveling bag from my hand, grumbling, 'Let's go.'
"Not knowing what else to do I fell in step with him. After a few minutes of walking in silence, I began to feel a little more at ease. . . . Too prematurely!
"We were just rounding a turn in the road where the shoulder of the road swept steeply down toward a dried creek bed when his hand reached out for me, closed like a pincer around my upper arm, and pulled me roughly off the road and down the incline. I was so startled by the suddenness of his move that I just let him drag me toward a small grove of trees a few yards away. Only when he stopped in their darkening shade, with the road now all but concealed from view, did I manage to find my voice. 'What in God's name -' I began, feeling my words tremble against my ears, feeling my heart beating in apprehensive terror within my chest.
"His answer to my question was to place the palm of his hand against my breasts and push me down to the ground. Then a sneer disfigured his face. 'Take off your clothes,' he growled. 'We're gonna fuck.' Simultaneously, one of his enormous hands went to the front of his pants and pulled down the zipper.
"I gasped - both at his words and his actions - and tried scrambling back on my feet. I didn't see his hand arch back and then, reversing the direction of its swing, return to connect with my face. The force of the blow knocked me back down to the ground. I felt both the tears and the blood at the corner of my mouth at the same time. I was terrified. Often had the wonderment about sex crossed my mind; never did I picture it to be like this. I ran a hand across my mouth, feeling the sticky warmth there, and remained on the ground, watching the man. It felt as though I were removed from my body, as though what I was seeing was either through someone else's eyes or else was a nightmare.
"I thought I was seeing the entire world of vileness being unfolded before my eyes. . . . Having unzipped his pants, the man pulled them down, constantly keeping his eyes on me. The shorts he wore underneath the jeans did nothing to conceal the enormous penis which jutted out like a fire hydrant, pushing the material of his shorts out, parting the opening in the front of them to reveal a thick mat of dark pubic hairs. I saw his hand move down, scratch himself beneath the yet concealed protrusion, then pull the shorts down and kick them free.
"I cringed at the sight of his naked sex organ - his cock. It was like a giant, slit-mouthed serpent, a cyclops winking at me with its engorged, protruding, bloodshot eye. It was perfectly erect, extending an unbelievable foot in front of him, swaying slightly, jumping impatiently. And beneath it swung the pendulous, lightly haired balls, fine veins running all around them, pinkish, threatening. Terrified, I tore my eyes away from the man's groin and raised them to his face.
" 'God,' I whispered, feeling cold sweat trickling down my back, down my neck and into the valley between my heaving breasts. 'You can't - please -'
"His voice cut my words like a sharp blade. 'God's got nothing to do with it.' He took a step toward me, his body appearing to follow the outhrust enormity of his penis. 'I can - and I'm going to. You look like a damn good piece of tail. Small - I like my gals small.' He took another step toward me. 'Feels better when the cunt is tight. . . .' Bending down, he grasped the hem of my skirt and jerked up on it, pulling it over my face. 'Take the fucking clothes off - now! Before I beat the shit out of you!'
"I could still feel my mouth smarting from the first blow. Tears misting everything about me, I unbuttoned my dress and pulled it off over my head. I felt naked - indecently exposed - even though I still had my slip, my bra, and my panties on. I paused, but his voice came at me again, rough, commanding. 'Off with everything - everything, damn you!'
"Torn by agony - agony of fear, of humiliation, of subjection - I removed my slip. I felt the coolness of the evening air wafting across my midriff, across the upper swell of my breasts, against the nakedness of my thighs. I saw the man's cock pulsating a few inches away from my face. Again, I raised my eyes to his face, trying to ignore the redness in the knob of his cock. I opened my mouth to beg again, but his lips moved, and it was an order, and I obeyed. With trembling, numb fingers I unhooked my brassiere and felt my breasts emerge into the open. I dropped my eyes to them. It must be the cold, or the fear, I thought, watching my nipples enlarging, growing, stiffening in the freshness of the evening.
" 'Well - I'll be damned,' I heard him mutter. 'Them are sure a pair of suckable tits, honey.'
Instinctively, I drew my hands up to cover them, but his voice lashed out like a whip. 'The pants! Can't fuck with your pants on. Take them off!'
"I don't know what I felt when my hands moved down to my waist and started drawing the material of my panties down. I was as though in a daze. I saw my navel appear, then the sparse black hairs below it, thickening, spreading . . . then the upper dimple of my vaginal opening, and the entire, bared, tight-lipped slit. I knew the man's eyes were on it. I knew that he didn't miss the pinkness within as the lips parted slightly when I raised first one leg to free the panties, then the other leg. Each time I heard him take in a deep breath; each time I was conscious of his cock leaping slightly upward as though having a mind of its own, as though wishing to tear loose and bury its slitted head in the crack between my legs. . . . Totally naked now except for my shoes, I kept my gaze down on the ground, watching the shadows of the evening deepen. I heard the man's heavy breathing above me. 'Lie back.' His words reached me as though they came from a distant world. I lay back, my legs close together, my hands over the muff of hair beneath my stomach. 'Take your fucking hands away from your cunt - place 'em over your head - and spread your legs ... all the way.
"I don't know why I did everything that the man asked me to do. I don't know whether it was fear of bodily harm, which I know he was capable of inflicting, or whether it was something else. . . . Curiosity? Perhaps. I do know that I had never felt as embarrassed, as frightened - of what he might do to me - as I felt then. The thought of the 'immorality' of the act crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. / am being forced, I told myself. God will not punish me for it. . . .
"Slowly I spread my legs.
" 'Atta-girl!' he said. I saw his form move in to stand between my outspread legs. 'We're gonna have some fucking fun now, honey. Turn over.'
"Not understanding, thinking I misunderstood him, I whispered, 'What?'
" 'Turn over and get your ass up in the air,' he muttered, his hand going forward to encircle his erection, to squeeze it, stroke it.
"Mortified by the fear of the unknown, I turned over on my stomach, then brought my body up so that I was resting on my knees and elbows. My buttocks now were totally exposed to his eyes. I shut my eyes tightly, and waited. I heard the sound of gravel behind me, and opened my eyes. Underneath my body I saw his feet, then heard him say, 'Spread them.' I did.
"His feet moved in between my legs, then they moved back and his knees were on the ground where a moment before his feet had been. I caught sight of his balls - from the angle I was watching him, it seemed as though the spheres, encased in the loose-skinned bag, were hanging out of my vagina. I knew that it was right before him, gaping slightly. Then I felt the heat of his fingers graze the pubic growth on either side of my slit. I tried bringing my legs together, tried clenching my buttocks, but he forced me open. I held my breath as I felt the enormity of his cockhead wedge itself between the soft tissue of my labia. I opened my mouth and screamed. 'No!' I cried, sobbing. 'Dear God, no!' Then I felt the tearing, ripping thrust of his cock as it rammed into me, skewered me, ruptured me. The pain was excruciating. For some reason I thought it felt as though I had been torn into by a crucifix. The enormous size of the man's cock appeared to be burrowing into my very innards. I felt the warmth of my blood seeping out around the tightly clenched shaft, trickling down my inner thighs. I saw the droplets - one, two - fall to the ground between my legs. I saw the pistoning, back and forth movement of his legs, saw and felt his balls swing and slap my lower buttocks on every inward thrust.
"I thought - now, why did I think of that - I thought of Christ on the cross, of the lance entering his chest, of the blood running down his skin to soak into the wrap around his waist.
"Gradually, the pain receded into the background of my feelings. It was still there, but it was dull, numb. I began to feel overcome with another emotion, another sensation. The emotion was that of desire - desire to experience the forbidden - I mean, that which had been forbidden for me. I wanted to experience an orgasm. I wanted to know what it felt like. I knew about it. No matter how overprotective one's parents, one's superiors, one's dominating powers, are - the facts of life reach even the hermit's ears. I waited for the orgasm, conscious of the man's hands upon my hips, on my breasts, on my oddly tingling clitoris. I became aware of the shortness of his breath, of the increased, more violent, thrusts of his marble-hard cock sliding in and out of me, throbbing as though on the verge of exploding. . . . And - I reciprocated. I reciprocated with all the fury of pent-up feelings which I had suppressed for so many years.
"I wanted to come! I wanted to feel that plateau of sensual glory that had been denied me for so long. I bucked my ass back at him every time he delivered a forward thrust; I drew away each time he withdrew from me, clamping my vaginal muscles against his shaft at the same time to prevent him from slipping entirely out. I moaned. I answered every outburst of his with one of my own.
" 'Honey - honey - You're too fucking much,' he gasped. I thought you didn't want me to fuck you. . . .'
" 'No - no! I want you - I want you to fuck me. God! Please don't stop fucking me - please don't stop!'
" 'You've got such a marvelously tight pussy - the - best - fuck -'
"Then he came. The flood of sperm inundated every bit of space within me which wasn't occupied by his gigantic cock. It felt like a hot liquid cushion upon which my innards floated, floated, floated. But even after he ceased moving, following the shudder of his orgasmic explosion, I was still ramming my buttocks against him, still striving for something that I knew I had not yet attained. . . .
" 'Hey, honey,' I heard his voice come to me through my pants. 'Hey - we better take a little rest first. I don't have a hard-on anymore. . . .'
"Again tears rushed into my eyes. 'But - but -' I stammered, feeling, indeed, his cock withering in my cunt, shrinking, slipping out. I clenched my vaginal muscles; I tried sucking him back into me with my nether lips. But he was gone. His cock was no longer within me. The only thing that remained was a sensation of total emptiness, crying to be filled. . . .
He fucked me again a little later. We moved to a grassy knoll away from the road. It was almost totally dark by now. He laid me on my back, cleaned my cunt carefully of the traces of blood. He asked me if I was sure I was all right. Then, when I nodded, implored, pulled him toward me; then, grasping his again stiff cock in my fingers, I drove it into me until our pubic curls mingled and tangled and parted and tangled again. He pounded into me then. I wrapped my legs around his enormous buttocks and urged him to go further into me than he possibly could. I drew his tongue into my mouth as he drew mine into his. I thought, We're fucking with cock and cunt. We're also fucking with tongue and tongue.
"When I felt him stiffen, when I felt his cock suddenly cease its sliding within my sheath of sex, when I felt his come start spurting into me again, I increased my thrusts, my grinds, my gyrations. I cried, 'I'm going to come, I'm going to come, I'm going to come.. . . Oh, God, I want to come!' But I didn't. I felt salty moisture coat my eyes as again his cock shriveled up and slipped out of me to lie soft and contented between my still-hungering thighs. . . .
"He took me to the railroad station two hours later. We tried twice more in that time. Unsuccessfully. Each time I was on the verge - I thought. Whatever happens, I decided, as I got on the train, not really knowing where I was going, I'm going to fuck every man in the world until I reach orgasm. . . ."
And she tried to live by her decision. Being a beautiful, voluptuous young woman, she had no problem in getting men to make love to her. She went from town to town across the country, getting temporary jobs at each one. Every place she worked, Connie says, she had sexual intercourse with the owner of the company, with her co-workers. In the cases where the man appeared to be dense in understanding what she wanted - and Connie said there was a surprising number of such - she'd approach them directly.
"More than once I had to come up to the guy, place my hand right on his cock, and say, 'Honey, I'm dying to have that thing inside of me.' Or, 'Jerry, what are you doing after work tonight? Why don't we go to my apartment and fuck?' It became to be a way of life with me. I was constantly on the go in my search for that one erection that would raise me to the peak of sexual fulfillment. ... I never found it."
There is no direct and absolute answer to Connie's problem. There can be no immediate solution. There may be a number of different factors working in conjunction which block Connie's ability to attain a sexual orgasm. There is the possibility that her problem is purely physical - although a hooded clitoris had been ruled out by the psychiatrist. It is possible that her inability is psychosexual in that she may be actually too tensely determined to attain an orgasm and thus her mental determination numbs her physical capabilities. Or it may be fear. Fear not only instilled into her subconscious by her family environment and the fanatically rigid teachings of the convent, but fear of not being able to reach an orgasm. Such fear could very easily create a mental block whereby the psychosexual mechanism becomes all but inoperative and no physical attempts toward gratification are fulfilled.
The prognosis for Connie is uncertain. It is true that in her shift of attitude - whereas formerly, until her commitment to the psychiatric ward, she had been seeking orgasm, now she is seeking the answer to the question why orgasm is out of her reach - she has shed her nymphomaniacal tendencies. But this shedding may be temporary. She may tire of seeking an answer and revert back to seeking the "ultimate penis" which will satisfy her. That her being raped had set off the powderkeg of her sexuality cannot be denied. Whether that assault was actually maleficent to her development as a woman or not, however, is a matter of opinion.
It all depends on whether it is better for a human being to be placed into solitary confinement for his or her entire life - for no certain reason - or whether it is better for the same human being to seek whatever form of happiness that he wishes to seek in the brief span of his or her life.
Chapter Ten - Rape, Symbolism, And Masturbation
Sexual symbols have played a major role in man's psychological development probably from before the time when Moses struck the rock with his staff and the rock split open and water flowed out of the crack. Modern-day advertising relies heavily on sexual symbolism. Sex being one of the strongest motivating forces in man's psyche, it is only too clear why such symbolism is utilized to sell products ranging from cigarettes to automobiles.
Masturbation is no longer considered to be a vile practice which results in insanity, physical ailment, or eternal damnation in the fires of hell. It is a natural method for the release of tensions - sexual tensions - in those whose capacity to give is greater than the capacity of any available vessel to receive. Man and woman masturbate to symbols. These symbols may be actual representations of genitals, they may be mental symbols of the same, or they may be seemingly nonsexual symbols. Masturbation itself, in fact, is a symbolic act miming sexual intercourse. The man grasps his penis in his hand, and his hand becomes a vagina, or a mouth (which itself may very well be considered to be a sexual symbol), or an anus. A woman plunges her ringers into her vagina, and her fingers become a penis. The number and variety of sexual symbols is so great that a catalogue of such would fill a voluminous tome. One could go so far as to say that symbolism is individualistic, i.e., each man and each woman may have some thing that he or she considers to be erotic in its appearance.
The symbol which is the central object of sexuality in the case history which follows was a baton - not the conductor's baton, which is also sexually symbolic - but the baton which is always present in the hands of a lovely young girl dressed in the most revealing costume, leading parade contingents, performing occasionally on variety shows on television, or as a visual supplement in a park band concert. It is difficult to say how often the symbolism of the bulb-ended twirling stick reaches the extreme as it did in the case of eighteen-year-old Suzanne, but it is sufficient to know that it had happened once to suspect that it had happened over and over.
Suzanne was an accomplished baton-twirler; her grades in academic subjects were average; her home life - she lived with her parents in an exclusive area of Hollywood - was as normal as could be asked. Graceful, with long blonde hair, and a figure that had elicited a great many wolf whistles from those who had seen her perform, Suzanne was a major asset of the high school band. No one denied it. Everyone, and Suzanne more than the others, was aware that the eyes of the boys and the men alike were continually affixed to two focal points of her body when Suzanne performed. Her high-kicking steps, her leaping splits, brought the gaze of the male audience to the tightly covered area of her mons veneris; her arm movements brought the gaze up to her jiggling, smoothly curving breasts, encased in the low-cut, upper portion of her costume. The buttocks fetishists, too, undeniably got a treat from the bouncing of her curvaceous rear.
The symbolism of the baton which Suzanne twirled above her head, thrust down between her thighs, rolled up and down her arms, back, and legs was taken for granted and was not considered to be any more extraordinary than normal. Until one day Suzanne's physical education instructor discovered her in the locker room with about eight inches of the baton's bulbous end inserted into her vagina. She did not suspect that she was being watched - observed all the way through the moment when she shuddered in the throes of masturbatory orgasm.
"I was so flabbergasted at seeing her sitting on the bench, her legs spread apart, her hand working the baton in and out of her vagina," the instructor reported to the school psychiatrist, "that I didn't move away until I knew it was over."
Suzanne was brought before the school psychoanalyst in an unobtrusive manner. She was told that it - the psychoanalytic study - was a routine study on the behavior of high school students and that the findings would be kept in strictest confidence. At the outset, Suzanne was quite reserved discussing her sex activities; in fact, she admitted that she found little interest in boys, had never submitted to any advances her schoolmates made toward her - although quite a few had made them. Only when the psychiatrist felt that Suzanne was sufficiently relaxed and trusting, did he spring upon her the fact that she was observed masturbating with the baton in the gym locker room. Since the doctor had made the statement in the most casual manner, Suzanne was not startled to any appreciable degree, and before long revealed the story of "the gentleman and his walking stick."
The following is a transcript of Suzanne's confession, related in her own words.
"I was a freshman when it happened - I was fifteen then. There was a small park not far from where I lived with my parents then - a city park with a small lake. It's still there. . . . For a public park it had quite a number of secluded spots - paths leading here and there, yet nowhere in particular. It was situated between the school I was then attending and my home, so on the way home from school I always walked through it. There wasn't ever hardly a soul there.
"Well - this one particular day, I left school shortly after lunch. I had a bad headache, felt nauseated, and the school nurse suggested that I go home. By the time I reached the park, however, I felt quite a bit better, so - since it was a real nice day, sunny, quiet - I decided to spend the afternoon at the park. There was one spot where I used to go and spend quite a bit of time at on weekends - hardly anybody was there even then - so I headed straight for it. I don't think many people knew it even existed. To get to it you had to go off a narrow, seldom-frequented path, pick up another path that seemed to start nowhere, and then leave it, go through some pretty dense bushes, and there you were! A bench by an algae-covered pool, and trees all around. Squirrels chattering in the branches overhead, birds singing. The way the bench was situated, you couldn't see it until you went around this bush by the pond - and there it was, right in front of you. . . .
"Did I get a surprise this time though! There, where I quite often sat reading, was this man. When I saw him, I gasped and must have turned all colors of red. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, necktie and all - I mean, like he had stepped right off some magazine page advertising men's clothes. Only what made me blush was not the way he was dressed, or even the very fact that he was there where I'd never seen anybody before (though that in itself was a surprise). It was the fact that, sitting there with his legs crossed, he had the zipper of his trousers undone, had his penis sticking out of it, and was beating it for all it was worth. Now, I don't know - maybe if he had a real large penis, I would have turned and ran. I don't know why, but I think I would have. I mean, even though I was fifteen, I'd never been laid. My cherry was busted, but that was as a result of an accident. I'd seen some damn large hard-ons - including my dad's - and, frankly, had been pretty well frightened by them. So, I guess I would've been scared if this man had one that looked dangerous. But - even though he appeared to me to be about thirty years old - he didn't have more than six inches, fully erect.
"So I didn't move. I froze. And he didn't see me until he suddenly tensed, jerked his pelvis forward, spurted a stream of semen out of the tip of his pinkish knob, and at the very same moment turned his head toward me. For a second - judging by the expression on his face - I thought he was going to jump up and dart off like a startled animal; but then he smiled, pulled out a handkerchief out of his vest pocket, cleansed his penis - now shrunken to an even smaller size - and pushed the handkerchief into a side pocket of his jacket. Then, without taking his eyes off me and without bothering to replace the thing lying limply now against his trousered thigh, he said, I could have done much better if you were to have made your appearance a few minutes earlier.'
"Standing as close to him as I was - I could've actually reached out and touched him - I still couldn't decide on how to make my departure quick enough. Somehow, the way his dark brown eyes were fixed upon mine, holding mine, I was afraid to look away as though if I did he would immediately leap upon me. My fear wasn't far from the truth. When I shifted my weight finally onto my right foot, which was set slightly behind me, his hand moved down to his side and came up with a bamboo cane - one of those walking sticks - and his voice snapped out, I wouldn't move yet if I were you, young lady.' Then he indicated the bench with a quick shift of his eyes, and said, with a little more gentleness, 'Sit down.'
"What happened next was the stupidest thing that I could've done. Instead of turning around and making a run for it, I took a step back, then - seeing him rise suddenly to his feet - I took another step back, and found myself going down, slipping, falling right into the pond. It wasn't deep there, but, the way I lost my balance and found myself sitting on my fanny up to my waist in water, I might as well have fallen into the deep end of a pool. Immediately, he was over me, on the bank, reaching his hand out for me to take a hold of. I did. With a powerful pull, he raised me up on my feet, and the next thing I knew he had his arms around me, had his mouth upon mine - his tongue forcing itself into my mouth, sliding into the depths of my throat - and was crushing my body against his. I tried to fight him off, but his hold on me only grew more constricting. I felt his chest squashing my breasts, felt his pecker - it suddenly felt stiff and hard - pressing into the wetness of my lower stomach. I knew that he had me on the basis of his size alone - his pecker wasn't much, but he was big, must've been over six feet, against my five feet three. I realized that as long as he had his hands on me, I didn't have a chance of getting away without outside help - and that didn't hold much chance. Besides, I didn't want to scream - I've heard about girls getting cut up and killed when they started yelling. . . .
"Finally, he took his lips off mine. 'You know, for a girl your age,' he whispered, still pressing my body against his, 'you've got a hot, sexy little body.' Then, as his hands slid down my back, down until his palms cupped each of my buttocks, he pulled me hard against his hardness, and said, 'I think I would like to have intercourse with you.' At the same time, he moved his lower body slightly back and away from his and then slammed it back against me. 'If you let me fuck you, honey,' he whispered, 'I won't hurt you. I probably won't hurt you anyway, but I'd rather fuck you. . . .'
"The next instant, when he lifted me up in his arms, took the few steps back to the bench, then sat down with me sitting in his lap, I knew that he could hurt me without even having to try very hard. He was powerful; I could feel the muscles rippling in his whole body. Funny. I thought - I don't know why the thought crossed my mind - that he has such a small cock. I could feel it pressing up into the crease of my buttocks, like a large finger, moving slightly as though with a life force of his own. Then his mouth was against mine again, his teeth nipping at my lips, his tongue sliding in and out of my mouth. I felt his hand come down to the hem of my skirt and begin to push it up my thighs. I felt myself trembling at the touch of his hand against my naked and still wet skin. His fingers felt hot as they worked up, up, between my legs, forcing my legs apart until his hand cupped itself against the crotch of my panties. As wet as they were from my fall into the pond, I might as well have had nothing on underneath my skirt. His hand rubbed and rubbed and rubbed, his middle finger running up and down the crack between my thighs, his other fingers rolling the crispness of my pubic hairs through the material of my panties.
"I don't know how long he kept this up. I know that he had worked my skirt up until there was nothing between his throbbing pecker and me except the thinness of my panties. When he finally removed his mouth from mine, I instinctively dropped my eyes down to my crotch. His fingers were pulling the red wispiness aside, revealing the short, spiral hairs, then the puffiness of skin bordering my slit, and finally the pink-lipped gash itself. I felt an odd thrill race through my body when I saw and felt his fingers part the lips of my vagina until I could feel the warmth of the air on my inner tissues, then his middle finger slid into the first joint, the second joint, and finally all the way to his knuckle. Then he drew it partially out, then plunged it back in - on and on. . . . I knew I didn't want to resist.
"When he at last pulled his finger out, the heat in my vagina was almost unbearable. Gently, he moved one of my legs up and over his lap, until I was straddling him face to face. 'You want me to do it to you now, don't you?' he asked, kissing me softly on the lips.
" 'Yes,' I whispered, not recognizing my own voice. If I resist he might kill me, I told myself, knowing damn well that I was lying to myself.
" 'What do you want me to do, huh?' he asked, bringing his hand down between my thighs and grasping his cock, its head crimson-tipped, engorged, but still no more than an inch in diameter. 'Tell me what you want me to do
'
" 'I want you to put it inside me and - and -' I stammered, feeling the blood rushing to my face, feeling the heat building between my legs like an itch that had to be scratched.
" 'And what?' he asked, teasing me, pulling the crotch of my panties aside again until the puckered, slightly parted lips of my cunt were fully exposed, parting them with his fingers, placing the tip of his cock in the crease between them.
" I want you to put it inside,' I gasped, moving my crotch forward with a little jerk that pressed the head of his cock partially into the slit, 'and - fuck me! . . .'
"I felt his penis stiffen at my words, then saw him give it a slight forward, directional push with his thumb, and the mushroom head slipped into the moistness of my pussy; then, slowly, he let the shaft follow it in. It slipped in, all of it, until the black curls surrounding the root of his erection intertwined with the golden curls around the mouth of my pussy. I had never felt anything like it, but I wanted more of him in me - more. 'More,' I gasped, as he began sliding out, then rammed back into me. 'More, more - please, more!' But he had no more to give. ... I felt the rubbing of his skin against my vaginal lips, against the interior walls of my pussy, but there wasn't enough - there just wasn't enough. . . .
"He came at the end of an inward stroke, slamming into me, spilling into me until his come oozed along his cock and ran out over my lower buttocks. ... I felt the squirts dying out within me, felt his erection losing its hardness, its length, its thickness. .. . Tears came to my eyes and then my eyes fell on his cane. I don't why the crazy idea came to my mind. I am not sure it did. I don't know whether my glance at the walking stick gave him the idea or whether my glance had in it the idea already. Anyway, as his cock slipped out of me, he reached over for the cane and took ahold of it. Gently, he removed me from his lap and sat me down on the bench.
" 'Turn around so you're facing me,' he said. 'Now, spread your legs and lie back.' I did.
'Here.' He placed the cane in my hand, then again bared my pussy and parted its lips.
"Instinctively, as though I were in a daze, I inserted the rubber-tipped end of the cane into the opening between my legs and pushed it in until I felt it press against the back wall of my vagina, against the mouth to my womb. I pulled it out, then pushed it back in. In and out, in and out, I worked it, pumping my hips in rhythm. . . . The suddenness with which I came so overwhelmed me, that I screamed a low, gurgled scream. Then, after it was all over, I glanced down my body toward the man. My eyes caught him just as he shot a load of semen in an arch into the pond. His eyes were glazedly fixed upon my crotch. And it must have been quite a sight, with the panties pulled aside, the cane buried in the puffy-lipped crack of my pussy, foam of ecstasy oozing out of it. . . . Gently, he took ahold of his cane and pulled it out of me. There was a plop as my vagina released it, my sex lips slapping moistly shut.
"He didn't say anything when he left moments later. All he did was take the tip of the cane, kiss it, then lick the glistening liquid of my body off its nine inches. I never saw him again. But I think it was my experience with him and his cane that decided my taking up the baton and becoming a majorette. I jacked myself off everyday with the twirling stick - thinking of the man in the park, with his small penis, and his cane. ..."
Suzanne's somewhat unusual method of masturbating was obviously arrived at through association. She admitted to the school psychiatrist that after she had returned home that day from the park, she was overwhelmed with the apprehension that she might get pregnant. For the entire month she was in a state of complete tension, awaiting the onset of her menstrual flow. When it came, she says she was never more grateful. She also swore never to let any other man have sexual intercourse with her, especially since, from her experience with the man and then the cane, she found that she had obtained more pleasure from the inanimate object with which she had masturbated herself. Nevertheless, she also admitted, she always carried the image of straddling the man in the park whenever she masturbated.
It took a number of psychoanalytic sessions, during which hypnosis had been utilized, to release Suzanne from her masturbatory mania. She began to respond quite readily when the psychiatrist convinced her that her dissatisfaction with the man, and her preference for the cane, was probably due to the fact that the man's erection was somewhat smaller than average, and thus, for Suzanne, not satisfying.
Prognosis for Suzanne is good. She has been allowed to remain in school. No scandal evolved from her somewhat unconventional practice, and, the latest report shows that she had become considerably more outgoing, dating a number of her schoolmates regularly.
AFTERWORD
Man will never cease to be an aggressive animal. Were it not for his aggression, he would still be living in caves, struggling for his daily subsistence from day to day, giving way to whatever more powerful creature came along. Were it not for his aggressiveness, there is a good chance that man would have ceased to exist millenniums ago. Sexual aggressiveness, one could say, is as necessary for the preservation of mankind as is abstinence from wars.
No one will deny that rape is an aggressive act. No one will deny that there are "perversions." But the question is - when is rape? The question is - what is perversion?
There is no question that there have been cases of homicidal attacks upon women -women who had been attacked, sexually assaulted, and killed. But in these cases, and with this most psychiatrists will agree, the attacks were primarily homicidal, and sexual only secondarily. The cases which have been presented in this volume indicate that there are quite a few more "rapes" occurring each day than there are reported. There is also little doubt that a great number of the reported "rapes" are not rapes.
And as far as "perversions" go - there is little doubt in the author's mind that it will not be long before there will be very few, indeed, of them left. Man is growing out of the dark ages of the medieval times, of the puritanically hypocritical era of the past. The new and forthcoming generation of mankind is maturing into a liberal front of freedom-loving individuals.
We are entering the age of five freedoms. The first four have been tampered with; man has squelched the tamperers. There is no doubt that the fifth freedom - the freedom of sexual expression - will emerge shortly with its full meaning.
