INTRODUCTION
NIGHTMARE THE FIRST The Devouring Mouth
NIGHTMARE THE SECOND The Fiery Climax
NIGHTMARE THE THIRD A Child, A Child
NIGHTMARE THE FOURTH The Dumb Orator
NIGHTMARE THE FIFTH The Cowering Master
NIGHTMARE THE SIXTH Cold Flesh
NIGHTMARE THE SEVENTH Pain, But Not Death
NIGHTMARE THE EIGHTH The Ice and the Terror
NIGHTMARE THE NINTH The Duel
NIGHTMARE THE TENTH End of the Show
CONCLUSION
BIBLIOGRAPHY
INTRODUCTION
"But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night."-John Milton, On his Deceased Wife
Sub, under, and cubare, to lie. Succubare, to lie under. Succubus, a nightmare; a demon supposedly the cause of nightmares. Specifically, a demon in female from that supposedly lies under men who are asleep and has sexual intercourse with them.
The above definition, because of its obsolescence, borders on the ludicrous. For that reason, it is necessary to assure the reader that the present volume leaves demons to the demonologists, and to those who still stumble through life with their minds pathetically fettered by the superstitions of the Dark Ages, when man was at the mercy of a wrathful God, and when sexual intercourse-unless "permitted" by the church-was a vile unnatural act inspired by Satan and his cohort of demons.
The intention of this volume is, instead, to pursue the study of dreams and their relationship to sexual reality, a study which was initiated by those three great pioneers on the frontier of sexual psychoanalysis at the turn of the century: Freud, Jung, and Adler.
Although Carl Jung considered dreams as a testing ground for possible future steps, and Alfred Adler emphasized their compensatory function, it was Sigmund Freud who distinguished the experienced dream-image from meaning. He also stressed the fact that symbolism protects the dreamer from recognition of attempted fulfillment of impulses that consciousness forbids.
Freud's theory, through application, proved to be the lance which not only slew the demons of antiquity, but also served as a prying bar into man's subconscious. A case such as the following would have been relegated to the care of one of the officials of the Church-even so recently as a hundred years ago-who, having failed to exorcise the "evil spirit," would have condemned the poor victim to eternal damnation.
Otis M. was forcibly brought to the attention of a psychiatrist by his father. The sixteen-year-old youth, his father revealed, would awaken at odd hours of the night screaming for his mother, his body bathed in sweat. Upon being questioned, he would tell his father nothing more than that he had had "a bad dream." He refused to delve into his nightmare any further.
Through the psychoanalyst's questioning, Otis revealed something that his father had failed to mention. He said that his parents had separated some three months before and it was approximately at the same time that his nocturnal horrors had commenced. The context of the nightmare, in the boy's own words, was the following:
"Every night, it's the same dream. It's like a series of dreams, really. I find myself facedown at the bottom of a well. Only instead of water, the well contains some odd stuff, like jelly, which doesn't let me sink, and the stuff is cool to the touch. Except around my whanger. It feels like it's sucking on me with a flaming mouth, but the rest of me feels no pain. It's a funny feeling I get. Like I'm being torn at with the sharpest teeth, and kissed by the softest lips at the same time. Then I start rising. No, the well starts dropping away from me, but it won't let go of my cock. It stretches and stretches, and the well goes down and down and down. Then, suddenly, I am above the top of the Well without a stitch of clothes on, and this man-he's enormous-comes at me out of the forest surrounding the well. He's got his head on backwards-I can't see his face-and he's roaring and swinging a whip. I mean, it's the man's cock, with a tip like red-hot charcoal. He lashes my bare ass with it, and I see the well coming back up to swallow me. The closer the well comes to me the more painfully the man whips me. Then, just as I am about to be sucked in by the well again, I wake up-with a hard-on-scared shitless...."
Had a dream of the above nature been revealed to a cleric of the not so distant past, anathema would have been the boy's lot. There would have been no attempt made to delve into the youth's psyche, no effort to understand, weigh, and treat his problem.
"I had little doubt in my mind," Otis' psychoanalyst said, however, "that the boy was suffering from a combination of some terrible-to him-sexual guilt, unorthodox desire, and fear of punishment. My first attempts to uncover whatever secrets tormented his mind were unsuccessful. It was only after several psychoanalytic sessions with the boy that I became conscious of his reluctance to speak of his estranged mother. I acted upon my suspicion-that of incest-and it bore fruit. The meaning of the boy's nightmare became perfectly clear. The well, with its sexual characteristics, was his mother; the man, waiting for the boy's emergence from the orifice, into which the youth had no business returning, was his father. I needed to prompt Otis little-after I assured him that his conversation with me was in the strictest confidence-before the story of his incestuous affair with his mother spilled forth."
The following is the uncensored story of Otis' single act of incest-an act which reverberated through the boy's subconscious in the form of recurrent nightmares.
"I guess I loved Mom because she'd never raised her hand to me, never yelled at me, or punished me in any other way. Father took care of that quite well. He turned into a regular tyrant when he caught Mom havingnow, this ain't no joke-having breakfast with one of her art students. She was a pretty good sculptress-at least, those who had seen her work had said so-but Dad wouldn't even hear of her teaching art anywhere except at home. And only when he was around. I mean to tell you, he didn't trust mom no ways. Actually, I had a pretty bad image of her, from the way he would always drop snide remarks about her 'screwing around' with anything that wore pants, until that morning when he came home after being away on a business trip for three days.
"That's when I realized that Mom's sweetness toward me had been genuine, and her life with Dad a bloody hell. I mean, I let Jay in around nine o'clock, and Mom asked me to take him out on the patio and to set another breakfast service for him. Then she asked Lyn, our maid, if she'd fix breakfast for three that morning. I mean there was nothing going on between Jay and Mom. For the half hour we sat out on the patio eating we spoke of nothing but art, and stuff like that. Jay, in fact, apologized for having such an early lesson. As a matter-of-fact, I had taken his call the night before, and it was through me that Mom agreed to an early session with him, since he would have to go to court about a traffic ticket that afternoon.
"Anyhow, the scene on the patio became sickening after Dad stormed in. He cursed Mom, calling her a 'fucking slut' right in front of me and Jay. Then he slapped her, and after pushing Jay out of the house he told Mom to go to the bedroom, take her clothes off, and spread her legs. 'I'm gonna swab your fucking twat with alcohol, you bitch!' he yelled after her, as she left in tears. When I tried to come to her defense and tell him that Mom hadn't done anything, that I'd let Jay in and all, he backhanded me across the mouth and told me to keep my nose out of other people's business.
"He dismissed Lyn for the day, and for the next hour I heard Mom's sobs and her occasional screams, and Dad's ranting voice, coming from their bedroom upstairs. Then he left, slamming the door behind him, still cursing.
"Even before the sound of his car had died out in the distance, I was making my way up the stairs to see how Mom was. I found the door to their bedroom shut. The stillness beyond it sorta scared me. I mean, I thought that maybe he had killed her. That's why I didn't knock before I turned the handle quietly and pushed the door open.
"I'd never realized until that moment that Mom was so small. I think her fragile figure shocked me more by its smallness than it did by its nakedness. She was huddled on the bed in the center of the room, looking like a life-size doll without clothes. Her back was turned toward me, her shoulders hunched forward, trembling, her smooth round buttocks-I suddenly thought they were the prettiest things I'd ever seen-bearing the fresh red marks of a man's hand, which I knew would soon turn to black-and-blue bruises. I felt a haze form before my eyes. There was nothing carnal about my next move. I mean, I felt pity for her, and love, when I took the few steps toward the bed, braced my hands upon the mattress, and, reaching forward placed my lips against the pinkness that marred Mom's upper buttocks.
"I felt a tremor pass through her body, and then, as though it was the most natural thing for both of Us to do, she turned toward me and opened her arms, and I moved into their naked embrace, lowering my head down upon her soft breasts, my cheek finding a pillow in one, my lips brushing against the smoothness of the other. Her hand came automatically to my head, and her fingers gently stroked my hair....
"I don't know how long we lay there like that-Mom on her back, me halfway across her. I know that it was with some surprise that I became sensually conscious of her full naked breast before my eyes, of her reddish-brown nipple standing up like a blood-gorged fingertip at the top of its flawless hillock. Without thinking, I raised my face from the soft cushion of flesh beneath it and slowly planted a kiss on the nubbin. It was hard against my lips, and the shudder that passed through Mom was echoed by the shudder that went through my own body. Then, as I pulled my lips away from her, I felt her hand upon my head bear down just slightly, heard her soft voice whisper, 'Otis-baby.' Then, 'Don't go away.' She couldn't hide the tears in her voice.
"Suddenly, feeling the kind of love I'd never felt before tearing at my insides, I cried out, 'I won't, Mom. Ever!' Then I bent to her turgid tit and sucked as much of it into my mouth as I could. Instinctively, I flicked my tongue across the marble-hard nipple that crowned the softness of her flesh. I felt a strange spasm go through her body, heard her mutter, 'Yes-yes, darling. Love me. Please love me ... '
"I wasn't really conscious of my hard-on until her hand burrowed under me and circled it through my trousers. I'd never felt anything like it before. I gasped and pulled away from her tit. 'Mom-I love you, love you, love you!' I cried, kissing her tits, nibbling on them, running my tongue up and down the deep moist cleavage between the two globes.
"I felt her hand's heat upon my crotch, rubbing my cock, squeezing it. Then she moved it down further to cup my balls. I trembled as a thrill raced up and down my body, and I panted from shortness of breath. Then, like a flash of lightning, the realization hit me that I wanted to fuck my mother, and that she wanted me to fuck her! The squirming of her body beneath me, the shortness of her breath, her leg thrown over my buttocks, the grinding of her cunt mound against my hips ... were all a wild, wonderful reality. She wanted me to give her what Dad hadn't; she wanted to give me what Dad had accused her of giving to everybody else.
"My cock tingling in her pretty little hand, I gasped, 'Oh, my God, Mom-I-' My mouth came down upon her lips and my tongue shot in between them-was sucked in between them-and my hand pushed down between us. Her tummy quivered against the palm of my hand. She moaned into my mouth, as my fingertips coiled into the crisp hairs above her pussy, then clenched my hard-on in her fingers with a vise-like grip, parting her legs as the tip of my index finger slipped into the moist indentation that was the upper boundary of her wonderful slit.
"Then, suddenly, I knew that I was over the hill. I mean, there wasn't any way I could hold back the sensation that had started somewhere back of my balls, and had faced like a comet through my body and out my cock. The next instant, I was silently wishing I were dead.
"'I'm sorry, Mom-' I managed to stammer. I thought she would be mad at me, but the thought had hardly had enough time to register when suddenly she was pressing me closer to her nakedness, whispering, 'That's alright, baby-that's alright.' Then she was working her hand at my belt buckle, pushing my slacks down, working my shorts past my hips....
"Before I could stop her, her lips were pecking at my come-covered cock, her tongue licking the semen off, her mouth sucking in its head. Soon she was nibbling on its length, suctioning my balls into that already busy mouth ... Before I knew it, she was straddling me, and my penis was hard again, pointing up at the golden down between her legs. Then she was clutching my cock at its base with her hand, running its mushroom head up and down her moist, pinkish crease. A crease that was slowly widening until it looked like a mouth. A sweet mouth of sex. The next thing I knew, I had my hands on her precious ass, pulling her down on me. The mouth of her pussy opened and sucked in the throbbing thickness of my cock all the way to my balls.
"I held myself back with clenched teeth as Mom rose and fell, rose and fell, sliding on and off my hard-on. Her spasm, and her words, 'Oh, my Bod, Otis!' reached my senses as though through the fog of my own come, splattering in spurts against the very depths of her vagina. I swear that I could hear my seed hitting the spasming walls of her love tunnel.
"We fell asleep in each other's arms, and when I came to, Mom was dressed. She told me that she had to go downtown, that she loved me, and that she would see me soon. Then she left, and I never saw her again.
"Dad told me later that she had filed for divorce. He told me, too, that she wasn't going to get a single penny out of him, because he had 'something on her that she thought she'd gotten away with.' I think it was after he told me that, that my nightmares started. Of course, I know that what Mom and I did was wrong. I suppose she feels the same way-I don't know. But I think that Dad is just wiating for her to come back for me, so he can beat the shit out of both of us...."
Such was the "demon" of Otis M., and the demon's name was Incest. And, as the other cases will show, the nightmares (a considerably more accurate term than succubi) were terminated not through exorcising and prayer, but through psychoanalysis, through delving into the victims' subconscious, until the cause, the sexual trigger, was found. Guilt for, and fear of, a certain peculiar sexual act were in all cases treated in this volume as the conceiving factors of the nightmares.
Through proper psychoanalysis, the causes of the nightmares were unearthed. Through proper psychotherapy, these same chimeras of the night were buried. With Otis M., it was decided best to separate the son from the father. Otis was placed in the custody of his uncle, where, in a favorable environment, he gradually eradicated the memory of the incestuous affair with his mother. A year after the event, he is able not only to find his normal adolescent outlets through those of his own age, but to show that his mental efforts in school have not been in any way impaired by the shadow of the past.
Consequently, the intent of this volume is to show that regardless of what hideous form a person's succubus may assume, it is but a nightmare. A distortion of an unpleasant truth out of the past, which, when recognized and put in its proper perspective, is but a figment of sexual imagination. A pricking thorn in the psyche, easily removed.
NIGHTMARE THE FIRST
The Devouring Mouth
Although Havelock Ellis, in his Dance of Life, wrote that "Freud [regarded] dreaming as fiction that helps us sleep," it is difficult to accept that as a definition applicable to the dreaming of nightmares. Particularly since an expansion of the above idea lends dreaming such purposes as: protection of sleep, regulation of the affect metabolism (including relief of emotional pressure), prevention of shocks injurious to the ego, fulfillment of wishes, offering solutions to problems, and protection to the integrity of the ego. Emil A. Gutheil, one of the outstanding pupils of Dr. Wilhelm Stekel, goes into considerable detail about these "purposes of dreaming" in his monumental, Handbook of Dream Analysis.
To arrive at a definition for nightmares, all one need do is reverse Freud's definition of dreaming. Hence, nightmares become fiction that hinders our sleep, plays havoc with the affect metabolism, compounds problems, and threatens the integrity of the ego. It should be stressed, however, that nightmarish visions are not woven of straight fiction, but of fiction based on, and distorted from reality. This basis for our nightmares, the reality of the past, has been pushed into the darkest chamber of the mind by fear, embarrassment, or guilt, only to emerge upon the stage of the sleeping mind in grotesque forms, bizarre masks, and distorted situations. This blending, or clashing, of monstrous shapes, visages, and circumstances is the force that gives birth to the demons of the night, the thieves of sleep, the parasitic succubi.
Although a great many contemporary self-styled dream analysts attribute prognosticative powers to dreams, interpreting their symbolism in terms of the future, the author of this work gives this no more credence than crystal ball gazing, tea leaf reading, or any other mystical that was visible. What disturbed me, also, was the fact that-I could see this because he was uncovered, the blanket lying on the floor by the couch-well, that he had an erection. Anyway, the next instant he sat up and, after glancing around as if to see where he was, started crying.
"Since he hadn't seen me-I was standing in the shadow of the staircase-I decided to wait until the following afternoon to talk to him about it. He said that it was nothing, that he just had a bad dream.' When it happened again the next night, and he again refused to tell me what was bothering him, I suggested that he see a psychoanalyst...."
When Percy was assured by the psychiatrist, at the time of his first visit, that whatever he revealed within the confines of the doctor's office would not be passed on to the youth's father, he described his "bad dream" in the following words:
"It's an odd kind of experience. I am not actually a part of the dream, yet I am somehow directly involved in it. As a helpless observer, I guess. I see a high steep-walled precipice. A cliff. At the bottom of the cliff, with her back to me, a woman in black is kneeling. But I am not really paying much attention to her. Instead, I am captivated, with some kind of an awesome foreboding fascination, by the distant piece of blue sky that seems to run right against the high point of the cliff. It is already at this point that I feel a cold breathless terror.
"Then I see her. Another woman. Young. Somewhere in her teens. She's falling slowly, turning in the air, her golden hair billowing about her head. I can't see her face. Shreds of colors leave her body: red, blue, white. I realize, just as her body hits the ground in front of the woman in black, that the colors were clothes, torn off by the air, I guess, and that she is now stark naked.
"In spite of the infinitely long fall, the girl bounces from the ground to her feet and starts to run-away from the black-clad woman. But she gets nowhere. I hear this horrible cackling laughter from the kneeling figure. Then her ugly distorted face, with its crooked off-center nose, zooms in toward me. Her mouth suddenly begins spewing these horrible words at me. She says, 'Isn't she a lovely little girl? Huh? With a tight little virgin pussy, and ripe little girlish breasts? I think I'm gonna eat her! Don't you think I should eat her? And all the time she's saying these things I hear this spine-tingling scream coming from somewhere nearby.
"I wake up just as I see the witch's drooling mouth come down upon the young girl's almost hairless mound. I think it's the girl's scream that awakens me...." charlatanism. This "prognosticative philosophy of dreams" will be touched upon briefly in this chapter, and will be "applied" to the nightmare in question. It will also be shown to be grossly inadequate, if not inapplicable.
The complex psychopathology of most nightmares is such that it is often necessary to utilize all the means available in psychoanalysis to arrive at an interpretation, to uncover its cause, and finally to effect its cure. And, in spite of the plethora of "dream dictionaries" currently available to the public, no dream-nightmarish or not-can be literally "translated." An attempt at this can result in nothing other than confusion and frustration, as will be shown in the following case history.
Percy M. was nineteen when his father, a well-to-do Beverly Hills attorney, disturbed by his son's seemingly causeless and recurring nightmares, coaxed the youth to visit a psychiatrist. This move of his father's surprised Percy somewhat, since-as he put it-"he believed in law and the church, and considered psychiatry to be a too-often utilized loophole in jurisprudence." It should be noted that although Percy's parents were religious, they were not so to the fanatical degree that is sometimes manifest even in the present day and age.
Prior to Percy's session with the psychiatrist, the young man's father had described his son's nightmare symptoms. He couldn't state definitely how long Percy had had the problem, but he suspected that it had begun some three weeks earlier.
"Rather than sleeping in his room upstairs, he began to 'doze off on the couch in the living room. At the time, I accepted his reason for this. He said that that was the only way he could get his studying done. He's carrying a heavy load in college as a math major. But, the reason he gave me for sleeping in the living room was that he had to get up early in the morning 'to finish up what he hadn't gotten to the night before, and he'd never be able to get out of his bed upstairs. The couch, he claimed, wasn't as comfortable, so there wasn't as much incentive to remain prone when the alarm went off.
"I didn't suspect anything the couple of times that I found him sitting up in the armchair in the living room-with the lights out-at four in the morning. I'd accepted his 'I-couldn't-sleep' excuse. Then-a week ago-I caught him several seconds before he awoke. I was going down to the kitchen for a bite-one of my nocturnal vices-when I hear him moaning on the couch. By the light from the upstairs hallway I could see that his eyes were shut, but his face was distorted into a grimace of pain. He was shuddering and panting, and a sheen of sweat covered every bit of his body.
According to the prognosticate dream analysis, in which one would take the independent elements of the dream and then define them, the following conglomerate of interpretations would be arrived at. The definitions are taken from Ned Ballantyne and Stella Coeli's Your Horoscope and Your Dreams.
Since the above reference work contains no "interpretation" of cliff or precipice, that element in the nightmare has to be disregarded.
"To dream of seeing ... a colorful sky" Ballantyne and Coeli state, "portends a hectic love affair that will come to nothing."
Of terror: "...you should be on your guard against those who are trying to get your means of support away from you."
Girl: "...means love, but you will have your ups and downs."
Blonde: "Men who dream of blonde women are in danger."
Falling (applied to the dreamer, which is not precisely the case in Percy M.'s nightmare): "...not propitious, for sickness, failure, and disappointments in love are foretold."
Nudity: "If in a dream of nudity you are aware of the beauty of the human body, it is a sign of happiness for lovers. If it is accompanied by libidinous thoughts, the augury is one of discontent."
Laughter: "If you dream of laughing, the augury can be nothing but good."
Distorted face: "...denotes disaster, privations and possible death. ... Faces that grimace at you denote a quarrel with your sweetheart."
When one tries to interpret the "witch's" remarks, one runs into a problem. If one is of a Victorian, puritanical vintage, one looks under "filth." The interpretation says: "(See also Dirt.) If you are not constantly on your guard, circumstances will work toward your degradation after a dream of filth, either actual or mental."
If, however, one is of a somewhat more liberal upbringing, one is curious to see that Ballantyne and Coeli say about sex. Their interpretation of that "terrible" subject is ludicrously pathetic, however. In fact, they wind up their twenty-six-word "interpretation" of sex by saying, "...it has little significance." After that, one discovers that nothing can be derived from the presence of a witch in Percy M.'s nightmare for the simple reason that Your Horoscope and Your Dreams only takes into account "witches riding broomsticks." The closest that Ballantyne and Coeli come to cunnilingus is cannibalism, and a cannibal in your dream, they say, "is a forerunner of dangerous events in your life."
From the above, it is apparent that prognostication in application to dreams doesn't quite meet one's expectations; it certainly does not translate one's nocturnal visions into meaningful terms. Trying to arrive at a definition of a dream by fitting its jagged pieces into the nonexistent future is as futile as straining one's eyesight through the windshield of a rapidly moving car while going in reverse. The fragments which make up the nightmarish visions are fragments out of the past, and only when these are arranged in their proper pattern will the entire cause-and-effect picture reveal the real significance of a dream.
It took several sessions with Percy M. before the psychiatrist succeeded in tying in the youth's nightmare with a sexual experience that had occurred when the boy was fifteen. The question that triggered Percy's story was whether or not he had had at anytime taken part in oral-genital sex, and whether he had enjoyed it. The psychoanalyst felt that if there were a history-especially an unfavorable history-of such a relationship, it would be the key to Percy M.'s present psychosexual difficulty. The fact that the youth did have such a problem, the psychiatrist had no doubt.
Whereas the narrative that follows indicates the naivete of the youth, and the boy's upbringing, the almost puritanical sequestration to which he was subjected does not make his reaction toward noncoital sexual involvement either unexpected or unusual.
"I was attending high school, the tenth grade.
"I was doing pretty well in all subjects but physiology, and it seemed that no matter how hard I tried studying, I'd wind up unable to answer any of the questions Miss Flowers, our physiology teacher, would throw at me. She was new and didn't look anymore like a teacher than Sophia Loren. I mean, if she hadn't worn such severe black clothes, she wouldn't have been a looker. She had a hell of a time keeping her tits from pushing out through her jacket.
"As I was saying, I just never seemed to know the answers to any of the questions she'd pop at me in class. It didn't take me long to realize that she was actually asking questions about topics, or material, that hadn't been assigned for study. Then I realized that I was the only one she would throw those questions at. Afterwards, I learned that within the month or so before switching her sights to me, Miss Flowers had satisfied her urges with a couple of other fellows.
"One day I got enough courage to wait until all the other kids had cleared out of the class so I could approach Miss Flowers with my problem. I knew I couldn't just come out and say that she was picking on me, or anything like that. Actually, I didn't have to worry about it. She took the initiative in everything from that point on. The momentum with which she carried me was so great, so unbelievable in its context, that I just gave in to everything that happened ... until she sank her teeth into my penis. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
"She was standing by the window, with her back to the classroom, when I walked up quietly behind her. I was about to ahem to get her attention when she said, 'Percy, I think it would be best if you spent sometime today after school to take care of your difficulties. Physiology deals with the organic processes and phenomena of an organism, or any of its parts, or of a particular bodily process.' She turned toward me and smiled. I guess I must have had an idiotic expression on my face. I just stood gaping at her as she continued with something about one of my 'parts not functioning properly.' When she got through, and I tried to tell her that it seemed as though she had been testing me on material that hadn't been assigned, she laughed, ruffled her fingers through my hair, and said, 'But, of course, Percy. You struck me as being of above average intelligence so I thought I'd give you incentive to do extra work. I'm sorry if it seemed to you as if I were picking on you."
"I mean, what could I say to that? Naturally, her words boosted my ego. She suddenly seemed twice as pretty as before, and I wanted to do whatever she would ask me to. So, when she kind of surreptitiously asked me if I wouldn't mind coming with her to her apartment, she'd go over with me some of the not yet assigned material for future study, I wasn't about to turn her offer down. At the same time, the thought of anything sexual never entered my mind. I mean, hell, as far as I was concerned, at the moment, Miss Flowers was, you know, out of bounds.
"I figured that since my physiology class was the last one of the day, she wanted me to go on to her office with her. But, when I started to follow her out the door, she turned toward me and said to get my coat, my books, and whatever else I was taking home with me, and then come to her office in about five minutes. 'Knock three times, and I'll let you in."
"Now, I guess I should have suspected right then that something wasn't quite on the up and up, you know? But I thought nothing of it, even when getting to the door to Miss Flowers' office I noticed that the lights inside weren't on. There was this frosted pane of glass in the door, so you could ordinarily distinguish shapes inside. I couldn't see a thing-it was getting late in the day-except a sign on the door. It said, Closed. I turned away; then, just for the hell of it, I turned back toward the door and knocked-three times-as she had instructed me to do.
"Sure enough, hardly had I moved my hand away from the glass when the door swung open and I heard a low whisper bid me enter. The moment I stepped into the semidarkness of the office the door swung shut behind me. Then I felt a pair of arms go around my neck and soft sweet moist lips fasten upon mine! I mean, I practically pissed in my pants! I mean, I wasn't a prude. I'd done my share of smooching and stuff like that-though I'd never gone all the way with a girl-but, man, this was my physiology teacher sliding her tongue in and out of my mouth, sucking on my tongue, and crushing her arms around my neck!
"I almost yelped when I felt her hand come down and, after squeezing its way between our bodies, grab a hold of my throbber. Even when she finally moved away from me--her fingers still firmly clasped around my cock through my trousers-and pulled me toward the armchair in the corner of the office, I muttered something about this being 'wrong.' She ignored that comment and told me to sit down and take my cock out. When I made no move to do the latter, she reached down, deftly unzipped my fly, and pulled my erected cock right out.
"'You think I'm sinful, don't you, Percy?' she asked, pulling her skirt up above her thighs. 'You think I'm going to go to hell-and you with me-just because I want sexual loving.' She stood there before me, holding her skirt up, waiting for me to answer her, I suppose. I couldn't say a word. Not with her thick-bushed mound no more than a foot away from me. I didn't even think of the fact that she didn't have anything on under her skirt. I think she said something else while I was staring at her patch of dark brown hair, and the crease of her cunt running through it.
"Then I saw her moving closer toward me, spreading her legs further and further apart, until she was straddling my legs, her pinkish pussy hanging over my jumping hard-on. The realization that I was about to blow my rocks hit me just as she began lowering herself down over me, whispering, 'I want you to fuck me, Percy. I want that manly column of yours sliding into my crack, sliding in and out...."
"And then it happened. The droplets of sperm shot out of the slit at the end of my cock, seeming to glow in the semidarkenss like a string of miniature globules of light. They shot straight up toward her widely spread crotch, hitting her in pulsing mini-barrages, some clinging to the chestnut-colored hairs of her cunt area, others missing the thick bushy growth and connecting with the sheen of her naked inner thighs to roll down like molten spun honey. I shuddered, both from the fiery sensation in my balls, a sensation that rippled right up the length of my jumping cock, and from the suddenly hardened expression on my teacher's face. The last thing I expected from her was a slap across my face; but that was exactly what she gave me-a stinging backhand.
"I guess there is no denying that I felt embarrassed. I knew that I had cheated her of a fuck. I tried to remedy the situation by muttering that I was sorry. Especially when I felt my cock begin to wither away until it lay like a deflated ghost of what it had been only seconds earlier across my still clothed thigh.
"What Miss Flowers did next really took me by surprise. Muttering, 'Oh, fuckfuckfuck!' she suddenly dropped to her knees before me, and, placing her hands on my knees, forced my legs apart. Her hand next lifted my limpness and began sliding the foreskin back and forth, back and forth, beating it like there might not be a tomorrow. 'Get the sonofabitch up,' she kept muttering. 'Get it up!'
"I tried, but nothing seemed to work. Suddenly her head darted forward, and her mouth engulfed my entire penis within its fiery living depths. I swear, the shock of her action, as well as the sudden desire to run, to get the hell away from her, seemed to tear at me with all the conflicting forces imaginable. But the indescribable tingling sensation that raced from the point where her tongue seemed to dig into the slit at the tip of my cock, down through the suddenly lengthening and stiffening column of my penis, and into my balls, churning, whipping, was just out of this world.
"I suppose under different circumstances, if I hadn't been relatively inexperienced, if the woman sliding my cock in and out of her mouth hadn't been my teacher, and if my entire body hadn't been shaking like I was going to fall to pieces, I could have been able to control myself; but the circumstances were as they were, and my cock filled out to its throbbing maximum as Miss Flowers' lips slid up and down the length of it. Before I could even give her any indication of what was happening, I felt the jism shooting up and out of my cock and into her mouth.
"Needless to say, I felt as embarrassed as all hell, but only for a moment. The next instant, along with the gagging choking sound that I heard coming from out of the woman's throat, I felt a terrible maddening pain at the head of my cock! The bitch had sunk her teeth into me and she wouldn't let go! Not until I began screaming bloody murder. Then, to make matters worse, she released her oral grip on my penis, grabbed my balls-she must have worked them out of my fly while she was sucking me off-and sank her teeth into them! I thought I was a goner. I passed out.
"For about a week after that I couldn't walk straight. The pain was so bad that I sort of snitched on Miss Flowers, without going into the details, of course. She was gone before the next day was over."
It was not until the subsequent psychiatric session that the identity of the girl "falling from the cliff' in Percy's nightmare became known, and, with her identity, the entire sense of the nightmare.
Percy admitted that ever since his traumatic experience with his physiology teacher, he had been averse to the idea of any form of oral-genital contact. And, considering the facts of the case, one could agree that his fear could be considered well-founded. However, his fear transcended natural apprehension, which would have been considered normal, and had become an abnormal obsession. Through psychiatric questioning it was revealed that his nightmares had begun shortly after his girl friend, a classmate of his in the coeducational college he was attending, had been transferred by her parents, "for no good reason," to another school. This other school Percy confided, was a girls' college. As so often happens when people begin to generalize, and to use inductive reasoning, Percy immediately associated all female educators with oral-genitality and pain.
The only way in which Percy's nightmares could be terminated, the psychiatrist felt, was through his being shown that Miss Flowers' conduct had been unusually extreme for her position, an extreme upon which Percy had been unfortunate enough to stumble. "I also made a point," the psychiatrist said, "of convincing Percy-and this, primarily, for his psychological welfare-that oral-genital sex as a prelude to intercourse, or as an occasional variation, is neither sinful nor unnatural. Also, that the act normally did not produce pain or physical discomfort. I feel that the dispelling of that belief was the crucial stage in the process of eliminating his succubus."
And, through reason, the demon of Percy's sleep was destroyed.
NIGHTMARE THE SECOND
The Fiery Climax
"In the dream, it looks just like the volcanoes I'd seen photographed from the air. Only I'm not flying over it, but slowly falling into the boiling red-hot crater. I'm not tumbling down into it, you know, but sort of whirling around-at first slowly-in a sideways motion. Like a top, and face-down. The funny thing is, I don't feel the heat anywhere except in my prick. But that's enough! I mean, it feels like the head of it is immersed in a hot liquid that's getting hotter and hotter, as I whirl down closer and closer to that silently sputtering lava. I see it bubbling, but I don't hear a thing. The heat becomes real bad just as I feel the tip of my pecker hit the surface of that molten lava!
"That's when I wake up screaming. Only, just as I begin to scream, I get this wild feeling of the lava being sucked up into my entire body through the slit at the head of my prick, then forced out, then sucked in again, then forced out, like I'm a syringe or something. It feels like I'm just about to blow my rocks, but of course I don't, because I wake myself up screaming like crazy, frightened shitless by the feeling of that great heat just before the fucking sensation hits me."
Mark J., fifteen years old, was referred to the psychiatrist by his parents not only because of his periodically recurring nightmares-the context of which was made known to them shortly before their deicision to seek psychiatric help-but also because of "an odd coincidence."
"We never paid much attention to it until Mark told us about the fiery volcano in his dream," Mark's father, a service station manager, confided to the psychiatrist, "because over the previous month there had been six or seven fires around our neighborhood. Five of them had occurred on the nights Mark had had his bad dreams. It might have been just coincidence, of course...."
Of course, it wasn't. Through the use of scopolamine, psychoanalysis brought into the open not only the fact that the boy was suffering from a deeply rooted guilt complex, but that the same complex had drawn him into the perversion of pyromania. His admission to setting the fires came first; then, through persistent questioning by the psychiatrist, he revealed his incestuous relationship with his sister and the circumstances arising from it which had spurred him on to pyromania.
The pertinent story, as compiled from the taped psychiatric interviews, is reproduced here in Mark's own words.
"I couldn't do it any other way. When I'd awaken from this wild dream, I'd have my prick stiff, rock-hard, and it would feel like I really did have it stuck in a pool of lava. I tried lying in bed and jacking off, but it would never work. Then, accidentally, one night, I shot my rocks off by the fireplace, after I had beat it in bed for about half an hour. The next time I had the nightmare, I did the same thing.
"It worked for a while. I always pictured a girl's naked body-her pussy pulled open by her fingers-within the fire. I mean, the flames, the rising heat waves seemed to transform themselves into this girl, like an illusion. But then, I don't know why, the flames in the fireplace didn't seem to be enough for me, and with the summer coming around, the fireplace wouldn't be burning at all.
"The first fire was an accident. I mean, I had decided to go to this unfinished house two blocks away and build a little fire there-we were out of firewood at home, and paper burning just didn't seem to do anything for me. I mean, I would have had to keep throwing fresh paper into the fireplace. Besides, I was always worried that either Mom or Dad would come down from their upstairs bedroom and find me playing with myself. Anyway, I went to this old house, piled some newspapers in one of the 'rooms,' which I figured couldn't be seen by anyone, then threw several small wooden boards in the flames after the paper caught fire. Man, I almost put that fire out with the jism that shot out of my cock. In fact, I was so shaken up by the come I had that I didn't realize the flames had licked against the wooden beams of the building and had set them blazing.
"There wasn't anything I could do except get the hell out of there as fast as I could. When I got back home to my room I could hear the sirens whining away. From the window of my bedroom I could see the blaze rising like a bonfire. It was then that I realized I was shaking like crazy. My pecker started twitching and rising, and then, without my so much as touching it, it began pumping and pumping. I actually dropped down to the floor from that spurting, almost endless, come. I mean to tell you, it felt as though everything was leaving my body-jism, blood, shit, piss-like I was being sucked dry by an invisible mouth.
"After that, I went around looking for places that would make good bonfires. I wasn't even thinking of getting caught. I mean, shit, it didn't matter as long as I could blow my rocks like' the end of the world was coming or something, you know? I was even thinking of what it would be like to send Dad's service station up in flames. I mean, he did have insurance and all. I don't know what kept me from doing it.
"The nightmare? It started shortly after Sis left for school up in the north of the state. We were sort of close for about a year-until she got this boyfriend. Ugly guy. I don't know what she saw in him. Sis is two years older than I am-she's seventeen now-and until he came around we had lots of fun together. It actually started-Sis and me having fun, I mean-when I was thirteen. Of course, we kept it a secret, what we were doing, otherwise Dad would've beat the shit out of us. Sis was not only a good sport about the whole thing, but she was also a looker for her age, though she actually looked about my age. But, hell, I wouldn't want to fool around with an older girl, you know? Older than June was, I mean.
"The first time it happened I thought I'd go off my rocker. I mean, shit, I wasn't even dreaming of making her. Well, maybe I'd thought of it, but I never suspected that she would go along. And I mean go along.
"Actually, with us sharing the same room, I had quite often caught glimpses of parts of her body that made me want to see more. There was a makeshift partition in our room-shelves for our toys and books and stuff, you know? It had several openings through which I had a practically unobstructed view of June's side of the room. And neither she nor I was particularly cautious about how we changed. She got into the habit of changing in her closet and leaving the door open. I'd never seen her naked all the way-she'd always change with her back to me, and her panties on. But those panties sure didn't hide the crease in her young ass. Especially when she'd bend over to pick something up off the floor.
"This one time, though, our folks had gone out somewhere for the evening and June had changed for bed while I was in the bathroom.
When I walked into our room, she was sitting back on her bed, reading a book. I didn't pay too much attention until I sat down on my bed and my eyes fell in her direction. Goddam, I almost pissed in my pants. She had her feet up on the bed, legs crossed like one of those Hindu yogas, and, because of the short nightgown she was wearing, I could see right across into the private area between her legs. What really grabbed me, though, was the fact that she didn't have any panties on! I mean, there it was-my sis' furry crack-staring me right in the eye. The only time I'd ever seen a girl's sex had been several years before, when I was about nine. I had been playing catch with this younger girl who lived next door to us when suddenly she had to go, but didn't, so she wet her pants. Afraid that she'd get a bawling out from her mom, she pulled up her short dress and took her panties off. I caught a glimpse of her crack, but it didn't do anything for me. I mean, it was sort of like a deep crease between her legs, but June's pussy-wow! It's funny that I'd never seen it before. With us being together as much as we were, I mean.
"Anyway, the moment my eye caught that pinkish slit, with the curls of golden hair surrounding it, I immediately froze. Except for my hand. I didn't even think of what I was doing, but there I was under the sheet, with my fingers curled around my pecker, sliding the skin up and down over it. Before I knew it, I was jacking off like crazy, my eyes glued to the muff between June's thighs. I was so taken up with the sexiness of her pussy, the hardness throbbing in my hand, and the warmth rising in my balls, that I wasn't paying attention to anything else. Like the fact that June had stopped reading her book and could not only see what I was doing-I mean, she couldn't mistake those wild movements under the sheet-she could also see why I was doing it
"What happened next surprised the hell-and the jism-out of me. The funny thing is, even after I realized that she. had seen me, I continued beating my meat. Anyhow, she didn't jump off the bed, or even say anything. Instead, she spread her legs even wider, so as to give me an even greater view of her pussy. When I saw her do that, I didn't even bother looking up at her face. I figured that she simply didn't realize that I was in my bed and that I could see everything she had. But then-shit, I'm getting a hard-on remembering it now-I saw her hand coming down under one of her upraised legs. Her fingers were extended, until the tip of one of them reached the opening between her legs, and entered it
"At first I thought she was scratching herself. You know, unaware that I was watching her? But then the finger started moving in and out, and she scooted her buttocks down closer to the edge of the bed. That's when I glanced up at her face. My hand was working furiously on my prick by then, the sheet jumping like I had a wild animal under it. If June's expression had been anything other than what it was, I would have probably died from embarrassment. I mean, if she had looked angry or cross with me.
"She was looking at me, all right; but her eyes were fixed on my bouncing hand-there was no doubt that she knew what I was doing-and she had this weird smile on her face, her upper teeth sort of biting into her lower lip, her cheeks flushed slightly, and by now, as I saw when I swiveled my eyes back down to her hairy crotch, her hand was moving almost as fast as mine. That's when I blew my rocks. I felt it building in me, felt the stuff rising inside my pecker and finally shooting up into the sheet, which my prickhead was pushing up like a tentpole.
"Seconds later, I saw June's knees fall away from their erect position, and her wide-open crotch begin a sudden bucking motion. It looked like her pussy wanted to gobble up the finger that was sliding in and out of its hot little mouth. I knew then that June was having an orgasm. I swear, when I saw her go into that seizure, when I realized that I had brought on that furious fucking motion of her lower body, when I heard the sloshing of her finger deep inside her young cunt, the panting and moaning which suddenly reached my ears, I felt my cock spewing more of that egg white, like it had been suddenly given a new supply.
"After we both sort of calmed down, June got off her bed, walked around the room divider, up to me, and bent down and kissed me right on the lips. It was the sweetest thing she had ever done. Then she left the room. I just lay there in bed with the funniest kind of a glow on. I heard her running the water in the bathroom down the hall, and then all was quiet I was expecting her to come back to the room and go to bed, but she seemed to have disappeared.
"I guess I must have been lying there actually waiting for her to return, because I suddenly felt lonely. I started longing for her. Finally, I got up out of bed myself. I cleaned off the sheet, took it to the bathroom, and shoved it down into the bottom of the hamper, and cleaned my pecker. Then, just as I came out of the bathroom, I heard June's voice, soft and funny like, calling me from the living room. 'Mark? Is that you?' I mean, it was really a dumb question. We were the only two people in the house. But it didn't strike me as being dumb at the moment. My voice felt odd in my throat when I called back, 'Yes, June....'
"When I walked into the living room, June was lying down on her stomach in front of the fireplace, looking into the flames. She must have started the fire 'cause I know Mom and Dad never kept it going when they went out. Anyhow, June looked so pretty lying there, her buttocks rising like a couple of pillows under her wispy nightgown, her golden hair almost reddish in the fireglow. I felt a lump rise in my throat, and I went over and sat down by her side.
"I could hear her hold her breath a moment when she heard me sitting down on the floor next to her, but she didn't move until I put my arm gently about her waist. It was then that she turned her pretty little face toward me. I don't know whether I was looking at her already or not. I mean, I may have moved my face toward her just as she was moving hers toward mine.
Suddenly, her lips were brushing against mine. Then her mouth opened and I felt her soft lips sucking upon mine, her tongue darting into my mouth, running across my teeth, flickering in and out, teasing my tongue. A tremor went through her as I tried to bring her body closer to mine, but she didn't resist. In fact, the moment I pulled at her waist, she turned on her side and I felt her upper leg sliding between my legs, rubbing my prick. And it wasn't just hanging limp between my legs by then, either. Next thing I knew, June had her hand down between my legs, stroking my pecker, squeezing it. Her warm little hand felt just wild against my hard-on!
"I don't know how it happened, but the next thing I became aware of was the fact that I was lying on top of June, that her legs were spread open, that her nightshirt was up around her waist, that I was sucking on one of her firm little titties, and that she was trying to stick my throbbing penis into her pussy. When she finally succeeded getting the head of my prick wedged in there, I heard her voice, breathless with excitement, whisper, 'Don't be afraid, Mark. Push it in all the way. Break it for me, Mark....'
"I took my lips from her nubbin-like nipple, kissed her on the mouth, raised my hips up a little, and then brought them down with great force. It felt like I was tearing through sackcloth or something. The stifled scream that barely left June's lips, the hot burning sensation that suddenly seemed to lick across the head of my pecker as it ripped into June's warm tight channel, combined with June's trembling legs suddenly wrapping themselves around mine, her arms drawing me down against her hard rubber bobbies, made me see all sorts of wild red colors, flickering, dancing, and jumping all around in front of my eyes! Then, as I began fucking her-and she was matching every plunge I made into her with a suctioning, drawing motion-I became aware of the feeling that we were becoming enveloped in flames. I knew that it was just the fireplace burning like wild fury a couple of feet from our heads, but in my imagination it became something much more exotic than just that....
"The flames in the fireplace seemed to grow larger and hotter with every stroke of my pecker in June's pussy, with every gasp of breath we took, with each clutch of our arms around each other. I had worked my hands down under June until I had grasped each of her buttocks. I'd squeeze them, dig into them, crush them, every time I drove into her. I felt her hands doing the same thing with my ass, her fingers wedged in the crack. Then she toyed with my balls until I felt this enormous fire grab my guts. At the same moment June speeded up the tempo of her bucking motion until she was like a goddam snake wiggling under me, panting, gasping, biting my ear-lobe, digging her fingernails into my balls.
"'Oh, Mark ... Mark!! Yes-yes, yessss; Screw it-screw it into me you fffuckiiinnnng little ... bastarddddd!' That's when that goddam fire ripped right out of me, like lava out of my pecker! I heard myself groan, heard June scream, heard the loud crackling of the flames in the fireplace, like cannon firing, over and over and over....
"June thanked me afterwards, as we lay by the fireplace, holding each other close like a couple of grown-up lovers. I guess she had thought that I'd done a good job breaking her cherry. If we hadn't been afraid that Mom and Dad would get home any minute, we would have probably spent the rest of the night there. As it was, we had just had enough time to clean a few spots off the rug. About five minutes after we got to our room we heard Mom and Dad returning home. Oh, we made sure to put the fire out in the fireplace, too, so there wouldn't be any questions.
"For over a year after that, Sis and I couldn't wait for the nights-they were usually Saturday nights-when Mom and Dad would go to a show, or something, so we could fuck. We always screwed in the living room because we could hear the folks better from there. Also, after that first time, we never fucked unless we were careful. I swiped a whole mess of rubbers from a drugstore. Then, last year, June went up to that art school in San Francisco. I miss her. I tried laying a girl in my class once after Sis left, but I couldn't make the grade. I mean, I just couldn't come, and I had it going in and out of her like crazy. But it was in her brother's car and, I don't know, it just didn't work. Maybe if there was a fire nearby or something. Shit, I don't know. I think that maybe I'm off my rocker or something...."
Though Mark's terminology was colloquial, he was right. A mania is synonymous with the general term of insanity. In Mark's case, the psychosis was manifested as pyromania, or a morbid compulsion to set fires.
"Fire," Emil Gutheil says in his Handbook of Dream Analysis, "is an old symbol of love. We find it in the ancient Hindu Vedas, where creating fire by rubbing two pieces of wood together represents copulation. The underlying sexual character in pyromania belongs to the same category of symbols." The manifestation of pyromania in the case of Mark J. was not an unexpected one, considering the important role fire played in the boy's first venture into sexual intercourse. Association in memory is a strange phenomenon. It has been long known that man will recall something seemingly unrelated to something else when that something else is brought to mind through the action of the senses-e.g., the fragrance of lilacs may bring the image of a lost love to mind, if the scent of lilacs happened to have been present at some amorously important moment in the past.
The nightmare to which Mark was subjected by his subconscious obviously had its roots in the memory of his copulation with his sister by the fireplace. The question of whether the boy was aware of the fact that his relationship with his sister was unnatural, i.e. incestuous, could be relevant in that, if he did feel the wrongness of their liaison, the nightmare could have been more a guilt-spurred persecutive phenomenon than a strictly erotic one.
"The problem," admits the psychiatrist handling Mark's case, "is the fact that the boy, under the influence of the puritanical world around him (the taboos with which society surrounds sexual acts are still present), felt that there was something bad about sex.' This attitude on his part is too vague, and possibly too ambiguous, to be psychiatrically valuable. Were he to come out and say, 'I know that what I was doing with my sister was wrong,' a sense of guilt could then be blamed for his nightmares. As it stands, there is a possibility that the nightmare is, in fact, of a strictly associatively erotic nature. If that is the case, the prognosis cannot be extremely optimistic at this time. It is much harder to root out a misdirected erotic impulse than to convince an individual that 'everyone stumbles occasionally.'"
Frustration seems to be the only method of cure-at the time of this writing-that is left for Mark. He is being kept under strict psychiatric observation, and away from any form of heat. He is not disturbed by any outside intrusion when the nightmares visit him. He is permitted to masturbate freely in his cell-with the hope that the day he succeeds in bringing himself to an orgasm without the external influence of flames-cure will be in the offing.
NIGHTMARE THE THIRD
A Child, a Child
Strange, indeed, are the ways of the subconscious; odd are the ways of a man's conscience working to keep the balance between right and wrong from tipping over into the murky waters of irremediable guilt.
One of the reasons Peter S. had progressed through a wholesale liquor merchandising company in a small East Texas city was the knowledge that he was honest, had extremely sensitive-and sensible-business acumen, and was known to hold his liquor. As a rule, he drank sparingly; on the few occasions during the year when he did imbibe, and heavily, everyone was amazed at his apparent tolerance for alcohol. Married for twelve years, and a family man, he was considered an example of the company man everyone secretly admired and envied. Consequently, when his wife received a phone call late one night from the local police station informing her that Peter was in the drunk tank, his wife was hard put to believe it. The incident was kept between Peter, his wife, and the police record. At the time, after Querida, Peter's wife, had brought him home, all Peter would give in the way of an explanation was that "something had come over him," and that he didn't know why it had happened. Querida, accepting her husband's muddled explanation, did not pursue the subject, feeling, as she put it, that "a man has a right to go on a drinking rampage once in his life." She admitted that Peter's personality appeared to change slightly after the drinking episode; he appeared to be excessively irritable. He seemed to have lost the enthusiasm he had shown toward all things in life. He would give in to spells of extreme depression.
Approximately a month later, the nightmares started.
"He frightened me something terrible the first time. I remember he had a hard time falling asleep-insomnia had started bothering him shortly after his return from that night at the city jail-tossing about and all. He'd kept me awake late into this particular night, but I must have finally fallen asleep. Anyway, I don't think I'd been asleep very long when suddenly I became aware of violent movement in the bed next to me. I awakened, thinking that he was still tossing about unable to sleep, but then I realized that he was sleeping, but having a bad dream. He was hot and sweating; his whole body appeared to be in the throes of a fever; he was shaking....
"I was just going to wake him up when he suddenly sat up, his eyes bulging out in terror. I could see them flashing by the night light we have on the bedside table. He screamed, 'No! No!' I sat up, frightened, and called out, 'Peter-it's all right!' He didn't even notice that I was there. Instead, he threw the blankets aside, then, still screaming 'No, no!' he rushed out of our bedroom. I followed him, afraid that he might hurt himself accidentally. But all he did was run into Merritt's bedroom-Merritt is our eleven-year-old daughter-raise her up into his arms, and, crying like something terrible had happened, kept telling her, 'I'm sorry, baby. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' Like he'd done something awful, you know? But he'd always been very gentle and kind with her, even when she'd done something that she wasn't supposed to have. Oh, she was a good girl, but she had a way of breaking things.
Clumsy, you know? Like kids often are....
"Peter kind of frightened her with his sudden entry into her room-awakening her from a sound sleep ... After he finally realized that he had had a nightmare, I tried talking to him, finding out what it was about, calming him down; but it didn't do any good. He just said, 'It's all right. I guess I ate something that didn't agree with me.' But then, several nights later, it happened again. Then it got to the point where he'd have a seizure like that almost every night. That's when I suggested that he'd better go and see a doctor-a psychiatrist-about it."
Querida said that at first Peter was incensed by her suggestion of his seeking psychiatric help; however, the recurrence of his nightmares had so undermined his physical stamina and health that he finally relented.
What follows is the description of his nightmare as he told it to the psychoanalyst.
"There were no variations to it, and, of course, I know why. And I need no interpretation of the nightmare, don't need any of those dream analysis handbooks. The devil was pursuing me, there's no question about it. Yes, believe it or not, I believe in God, and in the devil. I don't know why. I guess it's the hope that there is something better than this world. I mean, if this is all there is, we're sort of in bad shape. Maybe I'm unjust. Perhaps I'm judging mankind on the basis of my own actions. But more about that later.
"The nightmare ... Clear as a crystal ball in my mind. Always the same. Like truth, you know? Truth seen objectively, through unclouded eyes ... I see a dark, ominous-looking house on a deserted street. No lights anywhere, but its outline is clear before me. A stone structure the likes of which I'd never seen in my. life. I'm approaching it from this empty square in front of it, slowly, cautiously. The only sound I hear is a heartbeat from within it-a heartbeat like an echo of my own. The door to the structure is wide open. It's dark inside. But, as soon as I enter, I see a figure standing in the middle of the enormous foyer, dressed in a business suit and facing me. Only it has no face, just darkness where the face should be....
"I walk toward it as if we have an appointment to meet. The closer I get, the louder my heartbeat gets. Then, just as I am almost directly in front of this faceless figure, it raises a hand in a gesture that commands me to stop. I obey without any protest, in total capitulation. Then terror grips me. I realize that I'm entirely within the faceless figure's power and also that the figure-it now appears to be repulsively ancient-has something that is mine. Dearly mine....
"Just as this cold horror grips me, the old faceless man steps slightly aside and I see this large baby carriage which had obviously been concealed behind his body. I realize who is in that carriage at the same instant that a bright flash of gleaming steel appears in his hand. The figure in the baby carriage is that of my daughter, Merritt. She is entirely naked, and her wrists and feet are bound to the corners of the oversize carriage in such a way that she is spread-eagled in a helpless position. I try to get to her so I can free her. I strain my body to move, but I feel as though I am paralyzed. It is at this moment that I also see the odd thing about her body. I mean, her legs are spread in a manner whereby I can see right between them, only there is nothing there. She's like a doll-a toy doll-with nothing between her legs but smooth unmarked skin. No sex organ.
"It's when I switch my gaze toward the old man that I remember the gleaming object in his hand. That's when I identify it for what it is. An enormous skewer. I try pleading with the faceless image, but I'm still paralyzed, motionless ... I begin hearing Merritt's little-girl voice pleading from the baby carriage, 'Daddy, don't let him hurt me, please. Please, daddy.' But there is nothing I can do.
"I scream when I see the faceless figure start bringing the sharp point of the weapon closer and closer to the unblemished juncture of Mer-ritt's thighs. Then the skewer plunges into her like a bolt of solid lightning, and I hear two screams shattering against my eardrums-mine and Merritt's. I awaken at the very instant that I see the enormous object being buried between Merritt's spasming legs.
The subsequent material, volunteered by Peter, serves as not only his confession but also as a clear unequivocal interpretation of his nerve-shattering nightmare. It is reproduced here as transcribed from the psychiatrist's tapes.
"As I mentioned, there is no need to psychoanalyze me. I mean, there is no need to seek an interpretation of my nightmare. Perhaps there is a need to get down to the cause of that nightmare. I'm familiar with Freud's psychology, also Krafft-Ebing's. But the latter's suggestion that impotency leads to a mature man's craving to satisfy his sexual ego in any manner he can, and the only manner possible is through making out with an immature female, a girl, a child, doesn't apply to me. I wish it did. It would at least be an answer. But I have no answer to what happened. None at all.
"It happened the day I wound up in jail-for being drunk! That's an irony if there ever was one. Like robbing a bank, and then getting a parking ticket.
"I didn't go to the office that day. I'm not sure why. I called in and told Anna, my secretary, that I was ill, or something. I just felt low for some reason. Perhaps it was because of the argument Querida and I had had the night before. It hadn't been anything serious though. My position with the company required me to make occasional trips out of town, and that began to annoy my wife. She hinted at the possibility that I was having an affair-or affairs-which suggestion sort of irked me. I've been one of those square husbands throughout my marriage, not that I was beyond temptation, or hadn't had the opportunity to try playing the field. But I got plenty at home. Querida had always been the loving kind. You know what I mean.
"Anyway, after I called the office, I drove around town aimlessly, then stopped and had a sandwich. I thought of going to an afternoon movie, but dismissed the idea. I don't know where I drove to. I know I got on a freeway, then took some off-ramp and found myself driving down an arterial highway into some small town. Well, it wasn't really that small. I mean, there with a city hall, a square, a school, and a public library. I don't normally have much time for reading, not with the company business and my family life. The fact suddenly struck me that here I was with time on my hands and a public library at my elbow. I parked the car and went in.
"I must have spent at least an hour browsing through the section on corporate finance, business practices, and commercial law. I was looking through the books on one of the lower shelves in the stacks when my gaze went past the books-through the shelving, so to speak-and caught sight of this girl sitting at one of those large wooden tables the libraries provide for those who wish to sit and read, study, or whatever. Actually, it was the whispering that caught my attention first. It wasn't anything that interested me, but it was loud enough that I could catch a word here, a phrase there. The whispering ceased when the girl's friend left her. Apparently they were having an argument over their mutual boyfriend.
"From the way I was squatting on my heels, I could only see under the table. The girl was sitting on the other side of it, facing me. From the manner in which she was sitting-her skirt hiked up, and her knees a good twelve inches apart-it was obvious that she was totally unaware that she was being observed.
"And I observed her. I mean, with an eye that was as lecherous as an eye can get.
Actually, from the very moment I saw her clean smooth thighs running under her skirt toward the small patch of the light blue panties that covered her visibly rounded crotch, I was possessed with a sudden desire. There is no need to deny the nature of that craving. I was suddenly seized with the desire to feel her youthful body under me, to feel her thrashing about beneath my pummeling masculinity. I wanted to have intercourse with her. I felt my breath become rapid as my eyes distinguished the slight indentation of what could have been nothing other than the girl's vaginal opening through the thin material of her underwear. Shp couldn't have been more than six feet fron. me.
"I wondered what her face looked like, what color of hair she had, how old she was. As my eyes bored into that thin cloth between her legs, that wisp of material that concealed her most private opening from my eyes, I became aware of T;he fact that my penis was straining against my trousers, eager to give action to my thoughts. Any my thoughts, almost in a flash, almost without any conscious prompting from me, formulated a plan.
"I had caught the girl's name. 'Ruthie,' her friend had called her. It was all I needed to set the trap. I rose to my feet, walked out of the stacks, and out the front door of the library. There was a phone booth immediately outside the building, located in such a way that when I entered it and turned around I could still see the girl sitting at the table. Quickly, I found the phone number of the library and dialed. I was momentarily afraid that my scheme wouldn't work when the librarian answered, but I went ahead and risked it, anyway.
"I said that my daughter, Ruthie, was at the library-I gave a description of what she was wearing-and that I would appreciate if they would either allow me to talk to her (I kept my fingers crossed that they would select the second suggestion) or tell her to come right home. When the librarian said that she would relay my message to Ruthie, I sighed in relief.
"I hung up and made my way to my car, which was parked several car lengths from the entrance to the library. Moments later, Ruthie, in long-sleeved white sating blouse, and short dark blue miniskirt, came out carrying an armful of books. She turned in the direction opposite to the one in which I was parked and headed down the sidewalk.
"I blew my horn at her a block down the street, having followed her at a safe distance. When she turned in my direction, I waved, brought the car to a stop alongside the crub, and leaned over to roll down the window on the passenger's side. 'Ruthie,' I called out, smiling. 'You want a lift home?'
"She looked at me with her large blue eyes, questioningly, trying to place my face. Deciding to catch her further off guard at this critical point, I said, Come on. I'm going in that direction anyway."
"Poor girl was obviously flustered, but she walked up to the car, and, as I pushed the door open for her, she got in. Again I caught sight of her thighs as she swung her legs in under the dashboard. 'You don't remember me, do you?' I asked, knowing that I had to keep her sufficiently off guard until I got her where I wanted her. Wherever that might be.
"I succeeded. She didn't realize that anything was amiss until I swerved off the main street of the town and headed out along the highway. Apprehensive, she asked me where we were going, and told me that her home wasn't in that direction. I told her I just wanted to stop at a friend's house to pick up a package. What possessed me, I don't know. I just stepped on the gas pedal and tore away from the city, toward a line of hills in the distance. There were no fears, no apprehensions, and no inhibitions bothering me. The only sensation I was aware of was the pulsation of my erection.
"As I swerved the car off the highway and onto the gravel road leading into the rolling hills, I raised myself off the seat slightly and adjusted my penis until it lay along my thighs, pressing upward against the material of my trousers. I glanced at Ruthie as I did that.
Her eyes caught it for a moment, held, then rose to lock momentarily with mine. I could see the fear register in them. I smiled at her, feeling somehow insanely powerful and cruel. Then I said, 'Sorry, Ruthie, but the sight of your thighs and pantie crotch at the library gave me this hard-on-and it just won't stop...."
"Ruthie couldn't've have been over fifteen years old. I saw her mouth open in shock at my words, and immediately I wondered if she'd ever sucked anybody off, if she'd ever had a male sex sliding in and out of her young pussy. I asked her. My eyes swung back to the road ahead as the words left my mouth. 'Have you ever been fucked, Ruthie?' Before she could answer me, I said, 'I hope you haven't been. And don't try to get out of the car or resist me. As long as you don't try making a dash for it, I won't hurt you.' I could hear her heavy breathing come to an almost complete stop. Then I heard the sobs.
"Her tears didn't register with me. I sought out a turnoff ahead, with several low leafy trees blocking a section of the clearing from the road. I turned in there. I switched off the engine and looked at Ruthie. She was trembling. I reached out toward her, placed my hand on one of her knees, and pulled at it gently. She was obviously so frightened that she couldn't resist. Again I asked her if she'd ever been fucked. She just shuddered. I knew the shudder was one of revulsion toward me; but it didn't anger me. I understood her feelings. I suspected that she was a decent girl-even if she had been fucked. I realized I had to have her because she was young, fresh, and seemingly unblemished.
"For some reason I pursued the question. I asked her again if she'd been fucked. It seemed as if everything depended on that answer. I don't know what I would have done had she said yes, she had been. But she shook her head, and an odd thrill went through me. I squeezed her knee and said, 'I'm glad, Ruthie. I feel that every man deserves to fuck a sweet young thing-a virgin-at least once in his life.' Then I added, 'Please don't resist me. I don't want to hurt you. I'll be as gentle as I can be."
"I told her to turn around in the seat so that she would be facing me, then to place her feet up on the car seat, and take her panties off. With tears still streaming down her face, she did as I told her. Wearing that miniskirt, she had no way of concealing the virginal muff with its pinkish slit, between her legs, as she pulled her light blue panties-the panties I had already seen clinging to her young crotch-down and off. As soon as she had done that, I told her to scoot over toward me, move her legs apart as far as she could, unzip my fly, and take my cock out.
"Sobbing, she moved closer, until I was able to caress the golden fleecy curlicues of pubic hairs around her vagina. When she didn't make a move to free me from my trousers, I repeated, 'Take my cock out, Ruthie----' Her hand trembled as her slender girlish fingers reached up, took hold of my zipper tab, and pulled the zipper down; then her hand paused momentarily. 'Go on,' I whispered, stroking the involuntarily swelling labia of her virgin cunt. Her slim fingers felt cool against my erection as she drew it out, gasping as my cock sprang out of its confinement and stood straight up, throbbing from the sudden heat that had built up within it, glistening where the skin was stretched tightly about the shaft. I saw Ruthie's blue saucer-eyes widen-from apprehensiveness, I suppose. I saw her shake her head. But I felt moisture on my finger as I worked the tip of it between her slightly parted pussy lips. Then I slid it up to touch the tiny hardened nubbin of her clitoris.
"With my finger still working up and down the moist crack of her girlish, yet already quite feminine, mound, I raised my other hand to her head and, whispering, 'Take it in your mouth, Ruthie, and suck on it,' I pushed her head down, until I felt her hot breath hitting the crimson mushroom-shaped head of my erection. One of her tears fell on the tip of it, and my prick jumped as though molten wax had hit it. Then I felt the warm softness of the girl's lips engulf, then close around, its burning head. A wild thrill went through me as I jerked my hips up. As half the length of my hard-on slid into Ruthie's moist mouth, I had to resist the urge to ram my finger into the very depths of her. I had a craving to feel the mouth of her never-before touched cervix with the tip of my finger--
I slid my finger up and down the folds of her pussy, feeling them loosening with every stroke I made. Then I felt her tongue licking the head of my cock. A tingle went through me. Quickly, desperately, I tore her sucking mouth away from my penis, and, grasping her buttocks and lifting her, told her to straddle me. I was afraid that I would come in her mouth, and go soft. Then I would not be able to fuck her.
"I don't know if it was pure rape or not. She certainly obeyed me without any resistance. But she never stopped crying. When she was poised above my cock, its crimson head wedged just within the opening into her virgin pussy, her pussy lips seeming to hold it and press upon it, I saw her bite her lower lip, in expectation of the pain, I suppose. That was when-even though I had the urge to place my hands on her shuddering shoulders and force her down upon the huge staff rising between my legs-I told her that it would probably be easier for her to come down forcefully herself, whenever she was ready. I told her that it would probably hurt, but that it would only hurt for an instant-like a needle going into one's arm.
"There was a momentary pause. Then suddenly my cock was inside her, her pubic hairs meshing with my own, but I didn't feel the ripping of her hymen. I think her scream may have drowned out the sensation. She slumped down, her face against my shoulder, her tears wetting my neck. I held my breath, then slowly pulled back, then drove in, pulled back, drove in. On and on I made the movements of intercourse, and, finally, I felt her beginning to respond. Her cunt was like a tight-fitting glove around my solidity. It was beautiful. Gradually, we picked up the tempo until, unexpectedly, I felt her arms-which she had limply draped over my shoulders until that moment-stiffen, then tighten spasmodically around my neck. I looked at her face just a second before I was forced, by the searing-hot sperm leaving my cock's head within her, to shut my eyes. Her cheeks were flushed; her baby-blue eyes were glazed and rolling in their sockets; her breath was coming in tiny gasps. Then she froze in mid-stroke as a low moan escaped from her lips.
"I think it was at that moment, the moment of our mutual orgasm, that I realized what I had done Sudden tears filled my eyes, and I began hugging her to me, begging her to forgive me. I suddenly saw Merritt-an old man violating her-blood running out between her legs-tears streaming down her face....
"I drove Ruthie to her house about a half hour later. Then I drove back to the city and went to a bar where I got stewed to the gills. On the way home the police picked me up for drunk driving.
"So, when the nightmares started, I knew what had caused them. I was considering turning myself in to the authorities when Querida suggested psychiatric analysis. I had no choice but to agree. I wanted to find out why I had done what I had. I certainly didn't want to do it again."
As Peter S. said, dream analysis was not necessary to explain the succubi that pursued him whenever his eyelids sought forgetfulness and rest. Guilt was the name of his succubus. The cause for his "rape" of Ruthie has not been established; although there is the indication that it might have been brought about not only by the circumstances of his seeing the girl at the library, but also by the plaguing realization that his wife, Querida, had been, in a way, "unfaithful" to him. Prior to her marriage to Peter, Querida had feigned virginity. This "deception" on her part, combined with Peter's obvious belief that Querida was a virgin, might have made him feel cheated, even though, he insists, he wouldn't have cared even if he'd known that his wife had had previous sexual experience.
NIGHTMARE THE FOURTH
The Dumb Orator
One of the advantages that those well off financially have over those making their living from dollar to dollar, particularly when their subconscious begins to be annexed by the ephemeral, but terrifying domain of the dream demons, is that they can afford to turn to the succubi exterminators, the psychoanalysts. A nightmare is not unlike a corrosive compound locked within a corrodible container, the subconscious. When the subconscious is examined and analyzed, the nightmare can be released to disperse in the world of reality.
The following case history is not extracted from a member of the lower stratum of our "classless" society; it is not that of a service station attendant or of a poorly educated itinerant farm worker. Rather, it is the case history of a respected, well-educated, and well-to-do member of the elite group of our society. This fact is brought out in no way to suggest that only the proletariat are subject to the tenancy, within their cranial cavities of the vile spirits of sleep. That suggestion would be erroneous. It is simply that the wealthier the individual, the more power he has to suppress outside knowledge of his infirmities-and often more reason to. Thus, the fact that the case of Pearce R. was allowed to escape the sanctum sanctorum of Pearce's psychoanalyst is what makes the case interesting and unqiue.
Pearce R. is forty-five, a graduate of one of the nation's top academic institutions, and a sought-after lecturer on the subject of semantics. "In semantics," the man's professional colleagues remark, "Pearce is to Hayakawa as the latter is to Korzybski."
Attention to his nonsemantical activities was directed through his wife's persistent urging that he see his old college chum-who had gone into private psychiatric practice-about his recurring nightmares. It is quite probable that had Pearce's wife been aware of the import of her .husband's nightmares, she would not have made the suggestion. Nightmares, when analyzed, have a tendency to bring the past into a sharp focus. Although this is sometimes a cure for the nightmarish visions, it quite often jars the patient's opinion of himself, particularly when the patient develops the type of hypocritical, pseudo-moralistic veneer that Pearce R. did.
It was discovered that his marriage to Muriel was one of convenience, something that Muriel had been consciously trying to ignore, being, as she put it later, "stupidly in love with that pervert."
The beginning of the end for the marital cohabitation of the two came about with the onset of Pearce's dreams. The outward manifestation of these nightmares seemed to him entirely nonsexual, and perhaps it is for that reason that he agreed to see "if something couldn't be done to eliminate these ridiculous dreams."
The context of these, as described by Pearce, is told in the following case history.
"I envision myself onstage behind a lectern, waiting for the hubbub of voices to subside. The audience is composed primarily of women of all ages. Silence finally descends. I clear my throat, look over the eagerly waiting faces, and open my mouth to speak. It is then that I come to the horrible realization that I have no tongue, that I cannot satisfy these women. I try again, but there is nothing in my mouth with which to articulate. It's not just that I'm tongue-tied-as they say in the vernacular-but actually tongue-less.
"Then the silence in the audience begins to crack. A cough to start with; then a whisper; then tones of discontent and impatience; and, finally, anger and ridicule. I am mortified, standing there with my mouth open, but totally useless. Before I know it, the entire auditorium is empty. I crumble right there on the stage as I hear applause outside the auditorium. Through the thunderous ovations I discern a clear voice cutting the crowd's roar.... I know then that I am lost, there is nothing more I can do, that I have been rendered humiliatingly impotent."
It is surprising that Pearce himself did not perceive the actual sexuality of his nightmare. This is strange, particularly, because of his choice of words in describing it. One would have to be extremely naive not to find an underlying sexuality in the words, "I have no tongue ... I cannot satisfy these women ... I have been rendered humiliatingly impotent."
And Pearce R. was far from naive. As a matter-of-fact, whereas the preceding case histories showed the cause of the victims' nightmares to be in a relatively far-removed past, the cause of Pearce's nightmares was in the present, if not even somewhat extended into the future. And the present, from the story Pearce revealed under hypnosis to his friend-psychiatrist, underlined the fact that Pearce's wife, Muriel, was hardly the object of her husband's sexual interests. (A complex personality herself, she confided to the psychiatrist-who, incidentally, not only harbored harrow views akin to her own, but was also in love with the woman-that she couldn't possibly submit to the kind of lovemaking her husband wanted. The following is a transcript of the tape obtained from the psychiatrist. The underlying emotion throughout is that of irrepressible fear. Fear which came to the fore in one of Pearce's numberless affairs with members of his lecture audiences.
"Our marriage? It's a laughable farce. I married Muriel for money; she married me out of pity. I never suspected that our cold liaison would last more than a couple of years. Not with my inability to perform 'the marital duty.' It was a scheme on my part, actually. I was going to be 'a faithful, loving husband,' and then-being certain that she would not be able to go without it for very long-I was going to catch her 'en flagrante delicto' and sue her for divorce. That was way back when I could have used her money.
"My impotence had been brought about by an old college football injury of the spinal cord. Muriel knew that I couldn't get it up when we got married. And she was sympathetic. Hopeful that eventually a cure would be effected. ... I was going to keep her happy as long as it was necessary, via the oral route.
"I'd discovered that most of the women-college girls, I should say-would gladly submit to cunnilingus once I got into it. I had a technique of sorts. I'd get the girl hot enough to have her allow me to get my finger into her cunt; then, once my finger or fingers have lathered her up to the second stage of heat, I had no problem getting my head down between her legs, my face against the hair of her mound, and my tongue on her clitoris and inside her vagina. I'd actually exhaust her with my tongue to the point where she couldn't-or thought she couldn't-go through with ordinary copulation. She'd start apologizing. Feeling bad. I'd say that it was all right, that I enjoyed feeling her orgasm against my lips, and upon my tongue. Of course, I knew that that was the only time I'd ever get into that particular girl's panties. I wouldn't want to take the chance of her insisting the next time that I take my penis out-I suppose they imagined I had a ramrod there-and fuck the hell out of her.
"Now, Muriel wouldn't go for it. I don't know whether she was actually repelled by the idea because of her puritanical upbringing, or because she had some psychological mental block about it. Perhaps, being ten years her junior, and with my inadequacy, I represented more of a 'son image' to her than a husband. Besides, she admitted to having a sexually tepid nature. So, if there ever was a mismatch, Muriel and I were it.
"It didn't take me long to go back to my pussy-lingual activities with more responsive younger women. After I started lecturing, I realized that the number of cunts itching to be eaten was practically infinite. One of the fallacies that people seem to hold as an inviolate truth is that it's the noneducated, the poverty-stricken, the lower classes of women who will consent to being screwed by the first man who comes along. The thighs between which I found a total lack of inhibition, however, belonged to women of class. They weren't taking their panties off, spreading their legs, and letting me lecture right there within the tight confines of their vaginal vestibules because they were getting any academic or financial gain from it. It was entirely sexual, libidinous, and prurient. Now, I'm not criticizing these women. I enjoyed every cunt I drove my tongue into. And their ages ranged from a fourteen-year-old teeny bopper to a forty-three-year-old matron.
"For ten, maybe twelve years, I had no fears at all. Not one of the cunts I made advances at ever made me walk away without giving me a taste of her climactic juices first. Then, it started happening. Within the last three years, with a sort of logarithmic progression, I realized I wasn't making the grade. I was striking out before I got to bat-twice, even to a relatively old bat.
"The incident that I will never forget occurred just a couple of months ago. I was lecturing in Inkster, a residential suburb of Detroit. The audience was small but enthusiastic. It was made up of students of one of Michigan's-Detroit's, really-all girls' schools.
"As always was the case, after I wound up with a reminder that words never cease changing in meaning according to time and place and circumstance-a reminder that is generally ignored-and offered anyone who had any questions to come up to the stage. There were maybe ten of the girls, waiting in a disorderly little line for me to get to them. As a rule, it was during this stage that I would select my plaything, judging the prospective bed partner on the basis of her outward appearance and manifestations. There is no mistaking the look in the eye of a female who is hot for some skin games.
"Hetty had that glint in her eye. She seemed to stand back, letting the others ask their questions, as if she were determined that she would be the last one-and the only one remaining when her turn came. She must have been about twenty, with long straight blonde hair, large dreamy green eyes, with lashes that were like the aurora borealis, a full-lipped mouth, and a figure that fairly exuded sexuality. She gave me an ache in my balls before I had even gotten through half of the other females' idiotic questions.
"When she was the only one left, I glanced at my watch, frowned, then asked her-before she had a chance to say anything-if she would mind walking with me to my car. That I had an important phone call to make, and that I would try answering her questions on the way. She smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and then almost whispered, 'If you'd rather I didn't-'
"Immediately, I placed an arm around her waist, and said that I would be terribly hurt if she snubbed me. 'In fact,' I added, 'I would rather answer your questions than make that phone call, but my wife-' That line always gives them the impression that you are being honest. That wives are a pain in the neck. And if the girl is single, she feels that you are actually confiding in her.
"After I made my excuses before the principal of the college who had arranged this particular lecture, and expressed my gratitude to the board of this or that, I walked with Hetty out to the parking lot.
"I always make sure my accommodations are within a reasonably close distance from wherever I am scheduled to speak, so that-as it happened in this particular case-I can say, 'I'm staying at the whatever hotel. They have a marvelous coffee lounge there. Would you care to join me? I'm sure I can give you much better answers if we're relaxed over a steaming cup of tea.' Of course, I also mention that I can make that phone call from there.
"Hetty went me one better. I saw this glimmer in her eye as she said, 'If you'd rather talk in your room, I don't mind.' It floored me, in a way. I'd had that sort of blunt offer before, but they'd been from desperate women, ones who weren't really anything special. But Hetty? Well, she was what is colloquially referred to as a "knockout.' Of course, I immediately took her up on it. I said, 'Fine, we can get room service, and have them bring the tea cart up to my room."
"I didn't waste any time getting to the preliminaries once we were at the hotel. I was sure Hetty was hot to trot,' as they say in the vernacular. Especially when, upon my suggestion that we have something more blood-warming than tea, she said, 'Sure. Why not?' When I took her coat off, I almost climaxed. She had the wispiest white nylon blouse on, and a lace brassiere that did nothing more than underscore the hardened points at the apex of her breasts. Now, I'm not a tit man, as some people refer to them, but her perfectly shaped mammaries would have certainly gotten a rise out of me, were I able to bring one about. Her dark brown miniskirt was a good eight inches above her knees, and so tight that the elastic band of her panties formed the flimsiest of ridges where they circled her upper thighs.
"I had no doubt whatever what Hetty was after. When I moved in against her, one arm going around her waist, the other dropping to the hem of her skirt, she did not resist. She did ask me if I made it a regular practice to seduce members of my audiences whenever I lectured. I told her, truthfully, that I only attempted it with the loveliest ones. That bit of flattery did the trick. Her full soft lips opened, then fastened upon mine. I felt her pelvis move in toward mine just as my tongue slid into the warmth of her young mouth. Seconds later, I had her sprawled on the couch, her legs apart, her bright red panties lying in a small halo at her feet. She was squirming, raising her spun-gold mound up toward me, the labia of her cunt moist and puffed up in expectation.
"She glanced down at me kneeling between her legs, and, seeing that I was bringing my face closer and closer to the juncture of her thighs, she asked, 'Are you going to fuck me, too, Mr. R.?' I told her to call me Pearce. She laughed. 'Are you going to pierce me with your penis, Pearce?' I rasped in the affirmative, then brought my lips to the sweet-scented mouth between her thighs.
"I must have worked for a good fifteen or twenty minutes sucking on her clitoris, nibbling on her rose-colored vaginal lips, and plunging my tongue in and out of the crimson tunnel of her cunt. She helped me by raising her hips off the couch, driving her pussy up against my mouth, and pulling head firmly into the confines between her thighs. I kneaded her firm buttocks; I tickled the puckered anal ring of her ass; I blew air into the sheath of her cunt; I sucked! Then, during the crest of her violent humping under my mouth, I shuddered and felt the heated emission between my own thighs. It was a marvelous orgasm. But it disturbed me in that never before had I climaxed before I had brought the cunt beneath my face to at least its second or third orgasm.
"Hetty, however, must have been close to creaming. I felt her tugging furiously at my hair, panting, gasping, and muttering, 'Come on, Pearce! Move it around! Ram it into me! Fuck me! Fuck me with it!' Then she went limp. I thought she had come, but I heard her say, 'Give me your cock, damn it, Pearce!'
"The rest of that session was quite unpleasant. It didn't take her long to realize that I couldn't 'give her my cock.' I mean, she wasn't deprecating about it when her hot fingers circled my limply hanging penis, and felt the sticky moisture in the crotch of my trousers around its head. She just sighed, pushed me away gently, and picked up her panties. I felt terrible. She was the first one I had been unable to bring to the pinnacle of lovemaking. Before she left, she patted me on the cheek and kissed my forehead. She made me feel-well, old and impotent. Of course, my impotency was a fact I had accepted long ago, but my inability to churn up a female's vaginal fires with my tongue-that was an unwelcome development.
"And a similar type of fiasco occurred again, several times. Each time it felt as though I was actually losing the power of my tongue more and more. I began to fear that atrophy-or paralysis-was gradually setting in...."
Pearce R.'s case is a pathetic one in that the entire trauma of his life had started with a football injury. That accident created his impotent, nonmasculine state. He attempted to find an outlet for his lost image through his pursuit of the study of semantics, feeling that he could capture the attention he so craved-he admitted that prior to his accident he had considered a career in sports-through his apparent oratorical powers. His discovery that he could still satisfy women was an ego-boosting, pride-building realization. His marriage to Muriel was probably a mistake. Such marriages are not uncommon, as the divorce rate will bear out. Once Pearce realized, however, that he was having problems with his "perverse" dallying, the ego balloon was destroyed. An impartial psychiatrist remarked, "it would not be surprising if Pearce actually becomes mute." This would be psychosomatic muteness, but muteness nevertheless.
In spite of the fact that Pearce-for almost fifteen years-had limited his sexual activities to cunnilingus, which would in psychiatric terms brand him as a deviate, the mitigating circumstances-namely, his actual impotence-negate the condemnation.
The outlook for Pearce R.'s future is bleak. The nightmares-the cause of which he is aware-will probably continue. At the time of this writing, it is known that he is canceling as many of his speaking engagements as he can. The depression which has obviously set in has been caused not only by his fears, but also by the fact that Muriel has filed for divorce, and is rumored to be planning marriage to Pearce's psychoanalyst.
The tapestry of the future, for every man, is determined by the color of threads picked in the past. Occasionally it is possible to exchange these for brighter ones. However, for Pearce R., the complexity of his life's design is so intricate and bears so many knots and tears already, that tragedy seems to be a preordained end for him. A tragedy which his succubi may help to bring about.
NIGHTMARE THE FIFTH
The Cowering Master
It would be interesting to obtain a glimpse of the nightmares that the Marquis de Sade might have had. But then, perhaps he hasn't kept them from us. Perhaps he was not quite the monster history has judged him to be, for nightmares are really magnified distortions. At times, the distortions are so grotesque that one wonders what kind of a creature the dreamer of such dreams must be.
The following case is not about de Sade. It is about Red P., twenty-eight, currently residing in Laurens, South Carolina. He sought psychiatric help voluntarily when, a month after his marriage to eighteen-year-old Irma, his sleep began to crumble before the onslaught of a terror-filled vision. It is described here word for word, as told to Reid's psychiatrist.
"It's driving me crazy. Every night, the last three weeks, the same goddamn thing. I mean Irma is liable to pack up and disappear if I keep waking up in the middle of the night screaming like a madman. She tells me that just before I wake up with this frightened expression on my face, that I grab my cock and twist into a ball like I'm in pain. Well, I am! I haven't told her what I dream. In fact, I haven't even told her that I decided to see if there isn't something wrong with me. You know, mentally?
"The first thing that happens to me in this crazy dream is that I hear a whole lot of voices. They are very close and they surround me. I open my eyes-in my dream-and realize that I'm lying on this long table, spread-eagled and bare-assed naked. And the voices I hear are of all these people gathered around the table in this large room. I don't know any of these people at all, but they are all naked just the same. Then, suddenly, they all hush up, like something terrible is going to happen, you know? Well, I follow their gaze-they all sort of shift their eyeballs off to the direction my big feet are pointing in-and I see this staircase leading up. Coming down it, naked as the day I first fucked her, is Irma. Only she's been hurt. I mean she's got these welts all over her body, and her pussy's flaming red like it's been filled by something that was several sizes too large. But the thing that catches my eye almost immediately is this glinting object she's holding in both of her hands in front of her. At first it looks like a huge spearhead. Then, when she is about halfway down the stairs, the metallic sheen splits in two like an upside-down V, and I realize that she's holding a pair of garden shears.
"I feel as though my eyes are going to pop out of my head as I keep them on that vicious looking thing she's carrying. Then, as she comes down to the bottom of the stairs, something gets in the way of my vision. It's tall and thick, and tipped with a crimson dome. It doesn't take me long to recognize my cock-only it's huge-rising up from between my thighs like the hard-on to end all hard-ons. That's when I realize what the whole scene is about. I start straining against the bonds that are binding me like mad, but it doesn't do any good. I hear footsteps approaching me, and I know that it's Irma with the shears, but I can see nothing because my cock is standing up, blocking my view.
"The real crazy part about what happens next is this fantastic sensation I feel building up in my balls, like I'm about to blow that mushroom head of my cock right off the shaft. And I do. I mean, I feel myself coming-coming like mad. And then I scream! God, it's horrible! The shears suddenly coming together from my right and my left, with my cock shooting jism like a fountain! But I don't wake up just yet. As I'm screaming-my cock gone, just a bloody stump jutting up from my crotch-Irma starts laughing hysterically, then turns around and walks away, her body still shaking like mad, which she keeps on laughing and laughing and laughing...."
The general interpretation of the above nightmare would invariably have to include the supposition that, subconsciously, Reid fears the loss of his manhood. If one is to particularize, the indication appears to be that Reid fears that the loss of his manhood will come about through some action of his newlywed wife, Irma. This interpretation of Reid's nightmare is not incorrect, but it is vague.
"My first suspicion," said the psychiatrist who interviewed Reid at the time of his first visit to the psychiatric clinic, "was that Reid's wife was excessively demanding sexually, castrating Reid, so to speak, with her insatiability." He admitted, shortly after Reid's subsequent visit, that his suspicion was quite wrong, though logical.
The reasons for Reid's nightmare began to emerge following his admission that a week after his marriage to Irma he had "slapped her." The following is a condensed transcription of that interview, with the revealing fragments of Reid's answers to the psychiatrist's questions reproduced verbatim.
Q. What provoked you to slap her?
A. Well, it wasn't anything, really. I mean, I don't know why I clobbered her.
Q. Clobbered? Then it was not just a slap?
A. No, it wasn't. I backhanded her. There was no reason for it. I mean, I had just had a bad day at work. It was the first day at work for me since we got back from our honeymoon.
Q. Does your job require much concentration? What type of work do you do?
A. No. I'm a partner in this quilt renovating shop. Karl and myself-Karl's the other partner-we take care that the boys work well. We don't let anything that isn't good craftsmanship go back to our customers.
Q. Do you remember what it was that went wrong at the shop this particular day? Was it a dissatisfied customer? Poor production? What?
A. No, it wasn't anything like that. Well, see, Mother called me at work. Q. And?
A. Well, she wasn't too happy about my marrying Iram. So I got into an argument with her.
Q. Your mother didn't like Iram? What does Irma do? Does she work? Is she planning to?
A. Man, no. You got it all wrong! Mother loves Irma! It's me she doesn't think much of! That's why I slapped Irma, I guess. I mean, Mother telling me that if I so much as lay a finger on Irma she'll go to the cops.
Q. Are you prone to being violent?
A. No. I mean, I wouldn't hurt Irma for anything!
Q. But you "clobbered" her.
A. I was mad at her. I mean, there's no reason for me to beat on her. I love her. But when my mother started giving me that shit, well, I guess I got mad at her and took it out on Irma.
Q. Why is your mother so fearful of you hurting Irma? Had you ever gotten violent with Irma before you were married? In your mother's presence, perhaps?
A. No, it wasn't Irma.
Q. It wasn't Irma?
A. No. It was Laura. She was a classmate of mine, of sorts. We were both attending the same adult education class. She was living with her widowed mother a block away from where we were living. Q. "We?"
A. Yeah, my mother and me. I'd gotten into some trouble-joyriding-in my last year of high school, and I got booted out. Mother helped me to get through the period when I was taking adult education.
Q. So what happened between you and Laura?
A. Well, she fell in love with me. Dumb broad. I felt her up once while we were coming home from school. I don't know what got into me. I mean, Laura had a face that you could say was actually pretty, but the rest of her was just too much. She was seventeen, but about forty pounds overweight. If she hadn't been on the short side, I guess she would've been okay, but ... well, the reason I toyed with her was because I figured she was a diversion that wouldn't get me emotionally involved. After that car theft trouble, I didn't want to get tied up with any girl. It was because of a girl that I got into that car trouble. Mom doesn't have a car. Working as a hotel maid, with dad dead the last fifteen years, she hasn't been able to afford one. Well, this one gal was wild! I mean, I'd have a perpetual hard-on whenever I was with her. Anyway, she complained about my not having a car, so, stupid kid that I was, I swiped a car for the night.
Q. But there was no danger of you doing something similar with Laura.
A. That's right. I couldn't have cared less if I'd have stumbled on her getting screwed on the steps of the adult education building.
Q. So, how did the problem between you and her start?
A. Well, after that one time that I ran my hand down over her ass, and kind of cupped it and squeezed it, she began getting this sentimental look in her eyes, waiting for me every night outside the classroom building. My last class let out half an hour after hers did. In the only class we had together-math-she sat next to me. Anyway, when this sort of thing started, I figured she was dying to get fucked, and I certainly couldn't see any reason why I shouldn't oblige her. So, one night while we were walking home-I remember that it was a bright starry night-she hooked her arm through mine and suggested we take the long way home through this good-sized park that was pretty close to the school. I said okay.
By the time we were well into the park, I felt my dong stretch, harden, and slip its head out from underneath my boxer shorts. It was funny. I mean, I was getting hot from the curiosity of wondering what it would feel like to have intercourse with Laura. The more I thought about how her pussy would be-whether it would be overly large because of her weight, or tight-the harder my pecker got. And the way Laura's hip would rub against mine with every step we took didn't help matters much.
We were in this tiny clearing off the park's main path when I stopped, turned toward Laura, lifted her face up to mine, kissed her on the mouth, and said, "Laura, this may sound terrible to you, but I want to fuck you." For a second, I thought she was going to slap me, but I guess I mistook her sudden intake of breath for a sign of anger. It wasn't, for suddenly her arms went around me, her lips fastened on mine, and her tongue darted into my mouth. I dropped my hands down to her ass, and felt her fleshiness quiver under my touch. Slowly, while my tongue was screwing her mouth, I began working her pleated skirt up over her hips until I felt the heat of her buttocks through the thin material of her panties. I was sort of surprised that she wasn't wearing a corset.
When I got my hands under the waistband of her panties and onto the smooth nakedness of her ass, she began grinding her twat against my hard-on, whimpering and moaning all the while. Moments later, I managed to work one of my fingers into her slippery cunt-from behind. That's when she really went wild. Her hand shot between us, pushed the front of her panties down until her pussy was exposed, unzipped my fly, and set my cock free in almost one movement. Then she grabbed hold of it and wedged its throbbing head into the slit of her pussy. The next instant we were screwing in the grass like a pair of snakes. When we toppled to the ground, the violence of our motion tore her panties so that they were no longer in the way, and the way we fell-with me right on top of her, and between her legs-my nine inches of cock slid right up into her cunt until my balls got wedged into the crack of her ass, and our pubic hair meshed into each other's. When I felt my hot come begin spurting into her suctioning cunt, she screamed, and I knew she'd gotten her load off, too. It was wild!
Q. What happened then?
A. Nothing. Until about two months later. She asked me when we were going to get married, and I told her that I hadn't even thought about that. Then she told me that she was knocked up. That's when I got mad. I mean about her trying to trap me into marriage like that.
Q. What did you do then?
A. I told her to get an abortion, but she was horrified by that suggestion. "How can you!" she screamed at me. "It's your child as well as mine. As much as you are mine!" She told me she loved me. I told her that she was full of shit, that she wanted to get fucked and she got fucked. We were out in the park again, and when she started begging for me to marry her, I got hot under the collar and slapped her. Then, when she started bawling, I told her that all she was was a convenient fuck for me, and nothing else.
When she got down on her knees before me and circled my lower body with her arms, pressing her face practically right against my crotch, I got this wild thrill. I grabbed her by the hair with one hand, unzipped my fly with the other, then pulled my half-erect pecker out and forced it into her mouth. She didn't suck on it, so I jerked myself off with her mouth while holding on to her hair. Then, when I let go of her, after shooting a mouthful of jism down her throat, she looked up at me with tears streaming down her face and said that she still loved me. I got really furious. I pulled my belt off and brought it down across her ass. Then I pushed her down to the ground, raised up her skirt, pulled down her pants, and rammed my pecker into her asshole. She was groaning, muttering that the pain was killing her when I shot another wad. This time up her rectum.
What really threw me, though, is that when I pulled out of her ass, trailing the stickiness of my come across her large ass cheeks, she was still muttering words of love. I finally just spat at her and left.
Q. And your mother found out about this incident?
A. Yeah. Laura went to her, sobbing out a story about her hurting me, and asking Mother to intercede for her. Well, Mother didn't believe that. Somehow she must've gotten the truth out of her.
Q. Did you derive any pleasure out of hitting Irma?
A. That's what I wanted to bring up. There was this sort of deep rumbling thrill that I felt. It reminded me of Laura cowering before me on her knees, with her mouth wrapped around my cock. The only difference, though, is that I didn't love Laura. As for Irma, well, I know I'd go out of my skull if I hurt her, or made her leave me.
Through subsequent questioning, it was learned that Reid had manifested some sadistic tendencies even as a young boy. These were voyeuristic, actually, rather than directly active, e.g., he liked to watch cats fighting, clawing, and biting, but they were sadistic nevertheless. He also made the revealing remark that Irma's reaction to his unprovoked outburst of violence was a threat. "She said that if I raised my hand against her again she would leave me." This indicates that, unlike Laura, Irma had no overt masochistic tendencies.
The final interpretation of Reid's nightmare is best given in the words of the psychiatrist who followed the young man's case up until the point where he felt that Reid was out of danger not only as far as his nightmares went, but also psychologically. It must be pointed out that a straightforward explanation, such as the one the psychiatrist promulgated to Reid, was not inadvisable because of Reid's cooperation, and his desire "to set things right" in his mind.
"I do not believe that you could actually be categorized as a sadist. You do have dormant tendencies in that direction. Tendencies which you are actually afraid of, and are consciously trying to suppress. But your treatment of Laura, although violent, was not sadistic. Your thrill' was more brought about not by the fact that you were freeing yourself-and her, when you get right down to it-from a liaison that was apparently one-sided in the area of love. Your slapping of Irma was, as you suggested, more a rebellion against your mother's condemnation of you, directed at the wrong person.
"Your nightmare, I strongly believe, was brought about by the fear that you might lose Irma and her love if you mistreated her. The reversal of violence-Irma's castration of you-is simply a common succubus distortion, brought about to point the finger at the defects of someone other than the dreamer. What the symbolism of your mutilation signifies is simply that you fear you will lose all sexual interest were Irma to desert you. The onlookers are just that-onlookers. People who would discover not only that Irma had deserted you, but why she had."
What the above amounted to was a simplistic warning to Reid that were he to harbor the thought of sadistically violating his new wife there would be the probability of his being deserted. The psychiatrist, however, did not fail to impress Reid with the fact that some individuals are not straight sadists. That some have a streak of inverted sadism-commonly referred to as masochism-in them. This inversion usually occurs as the direct result of a sadistic action and may manifest itself as a continuation of the sadistic act.
To apply this sadistic inversion to Reid, one would only have to imagine his maltreatment of Irma, followed by his condemnation of self and his feeling of guilt, followed in turn by his continuation of sadistic acts directed physically against Irma, but psychologically against himself. In other words, the worst punishment he could bestow upon himself would be to have Irma leave him. And this he could accomplish in no more certain way than by abusing her.
Fortunately, the follow-up sessions between Reid and the psychiatrist indicated that Reid was not a victim of latent masochism. Shortly after the first three psychiatric sessions his nightmares ceased. He also showed his desire to save the marriage by acting out his sessions with the psychiatrist for Irma. With both of them aware of the underlying problems within Reid's background and his psyche, and recognizing them for what they are, the young couple, at the time of this writing, are adjusting quite well to their new role in life.
NIGHTMARE THE SIXTH
Cold Flesh
Man's violent nature has shocked man throughout recorded history. The innumerable methods man has devised for terminating life are often all but unbelievable. It has come to the point that death has become a commonplace solution to a plethora of problems.
The case history that follows does not tell of man's inhumanity to man, or of the unceasing violence he has directed against life. It goes further, crossing the macabre border that so vaguely separates life from death, and enters the grotesque world of the hereafter-in search of sexual gratification.
Preston R. was brought to the attention of the authorities by the elderly couple managing the apartment building, in the seamier section of Atlanta, Georgia, in which the twenty-three-year-old "art student," as they knew him, rented a one-room attic studio. They knew nothing about Preston except that "he worked late into the night" and that he had been a model tenant until "the past few weeks."
The manager's wife had been reluctant to call in the authorities, but her husband, who worked days as maintenance engineer in an ice-making plant, and had to tend the minor upkeep of the apartment building late into the evenings, decided that he "just couldn't stand any more of that bedlam."
When the couple was asked to file a written complaint against Preston, they wrote that "every night for the last two or three weeks Mr. R. has been making an awful lot of noise, hollering and screaming like somebody was getting murdered."
Had Preston not attempted to resist when the authorities came to his apartment for a routine investigation of the complaint, it is probable that the grotesquerie of the young man's life would have driven him into the dark world of insanity, violent insanity, it should be stressed, since Preston was already outside the ring of the rational.
It was through the medium of hypnosis that the nightmare from which Preston was suffering became revealed.
"It's the dream. Black, like life is. Black dream. It's nighttime. The moon is out. Hanging, not moving. Watching me. I'm alone in the graveyard. I'm searching for a grave. Going this way, that way. But I don't know what the name on the stone is. The one I'm looking for. They are all strange, strange names on the gravestones. I don't know why I must find that particular one. It's important. Very important. The graves press in around me. They draw closer, pursuing me. I'm oozing through the darkness between them. Then they stop. I'm in a clearing, and I see it ... standing all by itself with the other graves a distance from it. Like it's a vile stone. A damned pauper's grave. I crawl toward it. The ground is wet. Sticky. When I reach the rough-hewn grave marker and look at its face, I know it's the one I'm looking for. There's no inscription on it. No name. Nothing. ... It's black. Much blacker than the others.
"Holding my breath, I start digging. The grave is fresh. The soil is loose. It hasn't been tamped down. I dig with my hands, scooping the dirt away, deeper and deeper, faster and faster. My fingernails hit the lid of the casket. I can't breathe. There's no air. Desperately, I scrape away the dirt. I clear the top of the coffin until the lid is clean. I'm suffocating, but I want to know why I'm suffocating. Why this grave is so important.
"I manage to pry the lid of the casket loose. I raise it At first slowly. Then I fling it up quickly. Then, as I look down into the darkness within, I scream. I see the moonlight playing across the totally naked corpse before my eyes. It's like I am looking out of the reality of life and into the mirror of death. My own cold, lifeless body is without any blemish but one. I scream louder when I see it. When I see where it should be, but isn't. My corpse is without gender. Cockless! There is nothing beneath the abdomen but a horrible sore. I wake up as my scream tears the moonlight apart, and the loud pounding within my chest stops----"
Gutheil, in Handbook of Dream Analysis, says that "most dreams where dying appears in an overt form are dreams following traumatic incidents rather than dreams forecasting suicide." The bizarre nature of the above dream could have had its germinating seed in nothing other than a bizarre experience. Preston's psychiatrist did not attempt to interpret the nightmare.
"There was little that could be interpreted from the patient's dream other than that his psyche was obsessed with a morbidity that wag highly disturbing. A nightmare such as Preston's could have only been brought about by either a terrifying experience, or by guilt so great that it would subconsciously dictate a totally unrecognizable persecuting distortion of reality that would force him to the haven of insanity. In other words, if it were guilt by which he was being hounded, his subconscious would attempt to create an equilibrium in his conscious by subjecting him to punishment through the medium of the nightmare. Of course, this kind of equilibrium can never be reached, since the images formed in the dream world soon begin to seep out into the conscious waking mind, and begin to 'gnaw' on the dreamer's rationality and conscience."
The first clue that emerged as a solution-interpretation element in the Preston R. nightmare puzzle came to the psychiatrist's attention as an accidental, but invaluable, bit of information.
At the time of Preston's commitment-because of his total lack of cooperation-it was assumed that he was unemployed, and that he made his livelihood through the sale of his statuary. This assumption was somewhat curious, since no one was known to have purchased any of Preston's sculpture. It was not until almost two weeks after his arrival in the psychiatric ward that it was learned-from a check that had been mailed to Preston's attic address-that Preston had, indeed, been employed.
This fact alone was not the revealing element. As Preston's psychiatrist says, "It was when I was told where that check had come from that the entire puzzle of Preston's nightmare began to make sense. Particularly since even under hypnosis there seemed to be some uncertainty in Preston's answer to my question, 'What do you do for a living?' He had, even then, concealed the truth. His answer had been an evasive, 'I'm living on past income.' If I had pursued that line of questioning, had found out that he was, indeed, employed-and employed at a mortuary-well, two weeks of meandering through the labyrinth of his subconscious would not have been necessary."
Immediately upon learning that Preston had been a night attendant at a mortuary, the doctor said, "a bell went off in my mind," and the word necrophilia was jotted down in Preston's file. A question mark placed after the word was shortly afterwards struck out.
As often is the case with nightmares, Preston's succubine visions were symptomatic of a deep, consciously suppressed psychosis. The succubus was analogous to a fever in an ailing individual. It indicated a pathological state. The psychiatrist's tentative identification of the malady in Preston's instance was but a step toward the if of psychotherapy. "The elimination of Preston's nightmarish visions, upon the discovery of their cause, was of secondary interest-impractical, one could say-until the causes for the cause of the nightmares were explained, and brought into their proper perspective."
Since the scope of this volume can not encompass the entire gradient of the psychosexual chain of causes and effects, but, rather, limits itself to that segment of psychosexual pathology which links succubi with their causes, Preston's earlier psychosexual history will be but briefly touched upon, and then only to point out those that influenced his mind to create the cause for his nightmares.
How did his employment as a mortuary attendant evolve into the horror of his morbid dream? The answer to that question becomes obvious from Preston's own description of one of his descents into the world of the dead during his search for sexual gratification. The story spilled from his lips shortly after the psychiatrist made Preston aware of the fact that he knew of the young man's employment at the funeral home.
"It seemed like a perfect job for me. The hours permitted me to take twelve units of college courses-in liberal arts-and to do some sculpting. I had no ulterior motives when I applied for the job. I just figured I'd be able to get hell of a lot of studying done, and still get paid while I was doing it.
"It was a fairly small mortuary, I guess. Maximum capacity was ten, but it was never more than half occupied. My duties were very simple. Not very demanding at all. I had to answer the phone, make a reserved pitch for our services whenever any bereaved and consolation-seeking relatives and friends of some newly departed potential client called, and I had to pick up and deliver whatever any of the three neighboring hospitals produced for us. There was a mortician on duty the hours I worked, but he spent most of the time in the prep room, prettying the clients up for their last showing. It was really a dead place to work at, and, when I didn't have much studying to do, time dragged something awful. It got especially dull when summer set in. I started working there about three weeks before summer recess.
"There were usually no more than three pickups every two days or so. So, if you figure that that makes three trips out every sixteen hours, there were usually quite a few hours between my hearse rides. Anyway, for about a month, nothing happened. I mean, I'd go out to a hospital, go to the hospital morgue, get a signed release slip, sign the receipt, push the body to the wagon, then drive it to the dead house and turn it over to Lathrop, the mortician.
"The first time it happened, it was really an accident. I'll never forget it. I was heading for the mortuary, the body behind me. It was a warm night, and I had the window in the wagon rolled all the way down. There wasn't much traffic at that hour. Must have been ten, maybe ten-fifteen. ... Anyway, I was barreling down Memorial Drive when I heard this flap-flap-fiap-flap sound coming from inside the wagon, from behind me. When I glanced back to see what it was, I got all shook up. It was weird. I mean, I knew she was dead. But the noise was coming from the sheet that the body was covered with. The air rushing in through the open window must have worked the material loose, and there it was, flapping way down around the girl's legs. She couldn't have been over eighteen years old.
"The two things that really startled me, I guess-aside from the fact that, of course, she was entirely naked-were her eyes-they were open, and seemed to be staring right at me-and, well, her nipples. You know, you're supposed to be able to tell if a girl is a virgin or not by the size of her areolae. I think it actually has more to do with the fact of whether the woman has borne a child or not, rather than with the question of whether she's been screwed. But, anyway, this girl had the cutest little nipples, the lightest shade of pink. I kept glancing back-I'd slowed the car down quite a bit-looking her body over. There wasn't a mark on her, and she looked like she was just sleeping, except for her eyes. God, those eyes got to me! I mean, her head was right there behind me and a little off to the side, turned slightly in my direction. I don't think I looked below her waist-you know, at her pussy-until later, when I pulled the wagon off into a side street that led to the mortuary.
"I suppose nothing ever would've happened if I hadn't decided to stop the wagon and get in the back to cover her up. Anyway, that's what I did. I climbed over the back of the seat and sort of crawled down until I could reach the sheet, all wrinkled up around her feet. That's when my eyes were drawn to the black bush of hair around her pussy. It fascinated me. I could see the neat little crease of her cunt peeking through the short, satiny curls, and my mind sort of whirled crazy-like. I had already started pulling the sheet up over her smooth body, but I stopped, let the material gently down on her knees, and slowly brought my hand up until it was right over her mound, no more than an inch away. My fingers trembled as I lowered them slowly, holding my breath until I felt the flee-ciness of the muss. I glanced up toward her face, like I was afraid she would wake up or something. Her eyes were still open, of course, but she seemed to be looking out the window-up toward the sky.
"I don't know what came over me, but all of a sudden I felt a terrible pity for her, and at the same time I realized that I had a wild hard-on pressing out against the cloth of my white trousers. Suddenly I had nothing on my mind but a wild urge to make love to the girl. To fuck her one last time, while she still had this strange aura of life about her. Quickly I unbuttoned my fly and brought my cock out. Its full head brushed against the girl's hip, and, in that split second of first contact, I know I felt surprise that her body was not ice cold. Now that I think about it, I realize that she wasn't cold because I had picked her up shortly after she had been pronounced dead. Before they had had a chance to stick her in the freezer at the hospital.
"The rest of it is like, you know, etched in my mind. As far as I was concerned, the girl wasn't dead, and she wanted me to fuck her. I mean there was absolutely no resistance. Like, I had no problem spreading her legs, and I didn't just plow into her like I was taking advantage of her. I pulled her legs gently apart-even her flesh was still soft and resilient-and carefully got between them. I stroked her thighs. Then I reached up toward her breasts, which were standing up like two mounds of the lightest shade of pink ice cream, and kissed first one nipple, then the other. The nipples were hard, like she was turned on. While I was doing that-kissing her nipples-was sort of bridging her body with mine, and my cock slid up until its head was wedged in the crease of her pussy.
"I didn't have to fool around spreading the lips of her vagina with my fingers. I just sort of swiveled my hips about, forcing "my hard-on to burrow further and further into her, until I felt the head of it, and a good inch of the shaft, in the tightness of her love tunnel. Then I lunged down. Man, she was tight! But she was no virgin. I mean, I'm not sure, but I didn't feel like I was tearing through anything. It was just a real tight pussy. Probably hadn't been entered more than a couple of times. Anyway, once I felt her vagina gripping the whole length of my hard-on, I began pumping into her. It was the wildest sensation. When I say I felt her gripping me, I mean that there was no loosening of the constricting pressure against my shaft. The more I rubbed in and out of her, the harder my cock got, and the tighter her pussy fit around it.
"It wasn't until I felt my nuts explode, felt the jism shooting down my cock and into her, that I realized she was-you know-that she wasn't alive. Suddenly I felt terrible. Frightened even. Especially when I looked down into her eyes, a few inches from mine, staring with a vacant glazed look out the window at the sky. I felt my hard-on shrinking, then slipping out of her, trailing the egg white of its sperm with it. And the weirdest thing was that when I got a handkerchief out to clean her up, I saw her slit was no longer a crease, but a hole, like a wound, dark and deep. The come clinging around the opening and against the walls of her vagina didn't make it look any prettier.
"I wanted to get the hell out of here, away from her, but I knew I couldn't. I cleaned her up the best I could, pressed the labia of her box shut, brought her legs back together, then covered her up with the sheet. Then I drove like crazy to the mortuary. When Lathrop saw me I must have looked like I'd run into the devil himself on my way back. He asked me if I felt okay. I said no, I felt sick. That I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me. I left right then and went back to my room.
"That's was the night the first nightmare scared the hell out of me. I thought of calling the mortuary up the next morning and quitting the job, but I needed the money. I had just bought a whole mess of art supplies, and the rent was coming due. I figured I'd hang on to the job and look around for something else. I was sure nothing like that would ever happen again.
"For a week, I guess, nothing did. But then, I began thinking about Leonie-I'd looked at the name on the receipt after I got her to the mortuary the night it happened-and the more I thought about her, the more I began to wonder about all the other bodies I was delivering. I started sneaking glances under the sheets every-time I got a pickup at the hospital. Some were men, others older women, several dead enough to turn even my stomach, especially the ones they'd done post mortems on, but there were three or four young females. With each of these I went through practically the identical movements that I had gone through with Leonie. None of these, however, were as fresh as Leonie had been, but I kept hoping that another Leonie would turn up. I don't know why, but I got this crazy idea that when I found another girl like Leonie my nightmares would cease. And they were getting worse and worse...."
Of necrophilia, Austrian Statutes, 306, as quoted by Krafft-Ebing in His Psychopathia Sexualis, state:
"This horrible kind of sexual indulgence is so monstrous that the presumption of a psychopathic state is, under all circumstances, justified; ... an abnormal and decidedly perverse sensuality is required to overcome the natural repugnance which man has for a corpse, and permit a feeling of pleasure to be experienced in sexual congress with a cadaver."
Although Krafft-Ebing in the same work hints that necrophilia may be a variation of sadism.
"It is possible that the corpse-a human form absolutely without will-satisfies an abnormal desire, in that the object of desire is seen to be capable of absolute subjugation, without possibility of resistance.
The doctor who had followed Preston R.'s case takes the opposite position.
"If anything, I would be tempted to say that Preston's recounting of his necrophilic actions would indicate a masochistic tendency, rather than its opposite. To begin with, there was no mutilation of the bodies, no violence perpetrated on them-other than the violence of disrespect for the remains. However, even this last-the violence of disrespect-was not actually present, except when one looks upon Preston's acts objectively. Subjectively, gathering from the emotions which he said he felt, Preston was submitting to 'the girls' wants.' In other words, even though he felt terror at the sight, following his violation of the bodies, he did not cease 'giving himself to them while they 'still had the strange aura of life' about them. He used these same words in recounting his violation of the others. From this one can only gather that he was, in his mind, 'submitting himself to their last wishes.'"
He goes on further to say that Preston's nightmares were extensions of his masochistic inclinations. He interprets the dream not only as a distorted reflection of Preston's perverse reality, but also as an indication of some previous psychosexual experience, perhaps even more psychologically traumatic than his necrophilic episodes. The discovery of his own body-minus genitalia-in his nightmare points toward the possibility that at some early period in his sexual life, at a time when his sexuality may have been .in question he had probably failed to prove his sexual stalwartness. If such was indeed the case, then it is not surprising that even though obviously he finds his morbid descents to the level of the dead repugnant having once discovered that he could attain sexual gratification within cold flesh, the feels drawn to repeat the experience.
Attempts to draw out Preston's earlier sexual life have been unsuccessful. In Preston's words: "There hadn't been anyone before Leonie...." The psychiatrist's comment on this is: "perhaps the monstrous horror of Leonie is a spark of the past that is bleaker than we can imagine. Perhaps Leonie is Preston's Annabel Lee."
If Leonie is, in truth, Preston's obsession, and since it is the unwavering belief of the author that dreams are not prognosticative but, rather, retrospective, it is but a matter of time before the relationship between the young man's necrophilic cravings, his sleep-shattering dreams, and his past will become clear. Unless, of course-and such an outcome can not be disregarded-Preston withdraws to a point where his mind will be wherever the minds of psythotics retreat when reality becomes unbearable.
Psychiatry and dream interpretation have a long way to go before they alloy into a key that will unlock the vaults within the deepest recesses of the subconscious into which sanity recedes when it gives way to the irrational forces of the human mind. The truth is, so much that seems illusory is partially real, and so much that is real is partially illusory. Or, as Edgar Allan Poe wrote a hundred-plus years ago:
"All that we see or seem Is but a dream within a dream."
Which makes us wonder: Is there reality? Are there non-dreams?
NIGHTMARE THE SEVENTH
Pain, but not Death
Moralists, philosophers, psychologists, and laymen have attempted, are still attempting, and will probably never cease attempting, to define "pleasure" and "pain." One appears, naturally, to exclude the other. But then, since what is pleasant to one may be painful to another, the question of exclusion or inclusion depends upon the point of view from which a certain action is observed. The sensations of pain and pleasure are the cornerstones of that peculiar sensual pyramid that has been designated by the term sadomasochism, a vague and immaterial nonstructure composed of psycho-physical sensations. A study of mankind, whether on a general, all-encompassing basis, or on an individual one, cannot fail but show that the entire human race, from the beginning of history, had been enclosed within that nonstructure of sadomasochism.
This "derivation of pleasure from the infliction of physical or mental pain either on others or on oneself-as Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary defines sadomasochism-is not necessarily conscious. It may not be recognized immediately as such, or may be disguised by such terms as love, justice, martyrdom, philanthropy, or self-preservation. Man is an ingenious animal, a calculating creature, but he is a sadomasochist nevertheless. This is not to say that every individual has an arsenal of whips, manacles, and torture racks stored in his basement or that half of the human race pays the other half to stick needles into them. These are the extremes in the pyramid of human perversity. Most of us are within a broader group; we care neither to bleed as objects or as subjects, but we will prick and be pricked, and think nothing of it, unless that first minuscule prick makes us wonder what two minuscule pricks combined will feel like.
And if "cowardliness" or inhibition reins our curiosity, then we may permit the secret incubi to enlighten us on "what would it feel like, if...."
The case of Mac S. is a case of masochistic nature. It could be said that in Mac, a seventeen-year-old student at DePauw University in Indiana, masochism was a dormant, yet extremely powerful psychosexual undercurrent, of which he was not consciously aware. Even when it was brought momentarily to the surface by his younger sisters, he failed consciously to recognize his reactions as signs of masochism, and, in fact, did not do so until after the onset of his nightmares, and after the psychiatric evaluation of his dreams in relation to the occurrences at home in his precollege days was brought to light.
Mac's college counselor recommended that he visit a psychiatrist to see if there were not some emotional reason for his periodic nightmares. The counselor had been advised of these by colleagues of Mac's who rented rooms in the same rooming house into which Mac had moved at the beginning of his freshman year.
"The boy who reported Mac to me," the counselor advised the psychiatrist, "claimed that Mac awakened the entire building with a blood-curdling scream several nights, a week. The first time, he said, it sounded like someone was being murdered...."
Mac did not resist the suggestion, and he did not hold back the nature of his nightmare. He related it openly, without any reservations.
"It's really a stupid kind of dream. Only when I'm dreaming it, I don't think about the absurdity of it. I guess it's because it's real then. I mean I don't know that I'm dreaming it until I wake up.
"I am lying on an operating table. No, actually, I feel that I'm the surgeon. I walk into the operating room after scrubbing up, and after being assisted into my sterilized gown by two nurses. I approach the patient, who is lying totally nude up on the table, only his face covered. I take a saline solution and pour it all over the still body, particularly around the man's pubic area. I notice that his penis is of an extraordinarily small size, but I think nothing of it. I ask the nurse for a scalpel. When she hands me a straight razor, I glance at her and realize that all she is wearing is a cap and mask. The rest of her is absolutely naked. I glanced down over her hard-nippled tits, her smooth hard belly, and clean-shaved crotch. I see that she's got her finger inside her cunt, moving it around, in and out. I ask her what she's doing. 'I'm masturbating," she says.
"I take the razor from her and-now, this is the crazy part-I start scraping the patient's skin. At the same time I feel this odd sensation between my legs, like my penis is hard, and encased in a warm fluid container. I glance down my front still scraping the skin of the patient, and I see my prick sliding in and out of the other nurse's mouth as she is kneeling in front of me under the table. The funny thing is, I realize, that I am no longer wearing the gown. I, too, am totally nude, and my prick is hard as a tree limb. It is at that instant, as I feel the suction of the nurse's mouth upon my throbber, that I see the patient's meat begin to rise up above his balls. Quickly, I slice across his belly, grab the fold of loose skin, then yank on it until it begins to peel off like a layer of flesh-colored cellophane. Oddly, I begin to feel a horrible pain blending with the fantastic sensation of the under-the-table blow job that I'm getting.
"It's the excruciating pain that forces me to raise my hand toward the patient's face and yank the square of material off it. Then I begin screaming as I see myself lying on the table with my skin coming off in strips, standing over myself, doing it to myself. I try to break free, to get off the table, but the sensation in my prick-head, under the table where the nurse is sliding her lips up and down my tingling shaft, keeps me from fleeing the razor, and the razor comes down again, just a few inches above my flag-staffed prick. I scream as I stare from the table at my masked face over the table. Then I begin spurting jism up at the overhead light, and into the nurse's mouth under the table, and I see the other nurse sagging to the floor, with three of her fingers rammed up her snatch. And then the razor is raised, and I peel the bloody skin off my body on the table and begin to sink down to the floor, with pleasure sending out concentric circles from my balls, through my prick, and all over my body, as the pain from my shredded skin burns throughout me. Again, I take a deep breath and let out a piercing scream....
"That's the moment I wake up in a cold sweat, feeling my prick pulsating like it's got a heart of its own inside it."
What internal conflict would make a seventeen-year-old boy, intelligent and ambitious enough to decide on a medical career, dream such a de Sadean charnel chimera? There can be no patent answer to a question like that. An identical, dream by another medically minded student could have an entirely different reason, could have sprung from a totally unrelated cause. And to eliminate a nightmare-a chronic nightmare, which is presupposed in all case histories studied in this volume-it is essential that the root cause is exposed, explained, and utilized as a curative counteragent. In other words, it is necessary to turn the cause of the nightmare traitor to the sleep-disturbing demons. It should also be noted that in most of the case histories studied, and practically in all instances of recurring nightmares, the nightmare itself is symptomatic of a psychopathological condition. When these symptoms are utilized properly and expeditiously, the disturbing psychosexual problem can be, in most instances, readily eliminated.
"Mac's nightmare was indicative of dormant sadomasochism," the psychiatrist, to whom Mac was referred, commented. "The fact that he saw himself performing what could be nothing other than a sadistic act upon himself, stressed the probability that his sadism was inverted, and thus was actually masochism. The primary cause for the inversion was suspected to be guilt; however, this primary cause could not be brought to the surface until it was learned whether or not Mac had, at any time in his life, been either the subject or the object of sadism."
After persistent questioning, the youth admitted that he had been, in fact, "blackmailed into catering to the whims of his two younger sisters." The following is Mac's story of the brief period in his life which sparked the pleasure-pain syndrome of his psychosexual makeup, and, eventually, led to the nightmares that plagued him.
"I can't say that our childhood was the normal kind of childhood; although, considering the number of divorces that are occurring in the nation, it may be that ours was not much different from quite a few others'. Actually, the first ten years weren't bad. My two sisters, Kathy and Marge-they were twins, two years my juniors-and I had it pretty good. With Dad being an M.D., a gynecologist, we were quite well off; there was money in the bank, a TV set in the living room, a swimming pool in the back yard, two cars in the garage, and a thirty-foot Trojan at a pier in Duneland Beach on Lake Michigan.
"The trouble started when I was twelve, and Kathy and Marge, ten. I suppose the tension had been building for a couple of years, but it was growing in the master bedroom of our home in Gary. We weren't aware of it until it spilled out into the living room one day. Kathy, Marge, and I were attending the same public school then, and we always came home together. I guess, you could say that we got along pretty well. Anyhow, this particular day it was raining like mad-thundering, actually-and we made our way into the house through the kitchen entrance, which we always used in foul weather like that.
"We heard them arguing, their voices carrying even above the noise of the rain beating down. I remember Mother's words; they sort of embarrassed the three of us standing there in the kitchen with our breath caught in our throats. She was yelling at Dad, sounding kind of hysterical.
"'Don't give me that crap, Hal! If that were the truth, it would have been true when you were with the hospital. You had no problem getting it up then. It's only been since you went into private practice, with convenient little cubicles where your ... your patients, as you call them, lay their twats open for your ... examination. Examination, my ass! You want me to tell you why you haven't been capable of getting your cock up for me? It's because you wear it out on those table-straddling nymphos in your examination rooms. Tell me, in how many cunts do you blow your rocks off every day? Two? Five? Ten? Or maybe you just prefer to break in the virgins....'
"I don't know what Kathy and Marge were thinking, but I know that I wondered why Dad let Mother go on and on like that, and also why the girls kept casting glances at my crotch. I didn't realize until a little later that my prick was as stiff as a carrot and was pushing like a tent pole against my pants. When I realized what was happening between my legs, I was going to turn away from the girls so they wouldn't be able to see my hard-on, but Dad's usually controlled voice, now raised in volume, simple to be heard above the sounds of the rain outside, froze me to the spot. He was almost apologetic, and I was surprised that what he said next made plenty of sense to me. I don't remember his exact words, but the gist of it was that Mother couldn't be more wrong. He said that he had never been physically unfaithful to her, that in the beginning, during his internship and residency, he had been turned on by the sight of girls' and women's ex-, posed genitals. He said that this was natural, that he had been several times tempted to have intercourse with those of his young patients who responded to his probing of their vaginas with his finger. Their response-the increased rate of breathing, the slight but perceptible coital movements, the spreading of their legs more and more with the progress of his examination-was also natural. But, he said, he had never allowed himself to take advantage of his professional opportunity. He told Mother that he had never examined a patient's genitals without a nurse being present in the room with him.
"Mother interrupted him with the words, 'So, you've probably fucked the nurse, too!'
"Dad ignored that remark. He continued, instead, saying that the reason he was impotent-that was the word he used, and it made me feel sorry for him-was because he had been exposed to too many women, had seen too many vaginas in open invitation, and had actually over the period of years become immune not only to temptation, but to sexual arousal even when he wanted to be sexually aroused.
"All Mother said to that was, 'Bullshit!' Then we heard her coming toward the kitchen. Kathy was the one who more or less made it look like we had just come in. She quickly slammed the kitchen door shut, stomped her feet on the floor, and yelled, 'Mommy. Dad. We're home.' I quickly positioned my books in front of me to hide the large bulge in my crotch. I said, 'Hi, Mom,' as soon as she stepped into the kitchen. Then I went straight up to our second-story bedroom-bathroom area.
"I completely forgot about Kathy and Marge. I only wanted to get to the bathroom and jerk myself off in the images the quarrel downstairs had brought to my mind. I threw my books on my bed and dashed out into the hallway and toward the bathroom, which was situated between the girls' and my rooms. I was just about to go into the bathroom when I heard Kathy's voice. She was just coming up the stairs. She said that she had to go first. Now, there was another bathroom downstairs, and one off the master bedroom. I told her to use one of those and opened the bathroom door.
"I certainly wasn't expecting her to do what she did then. We'd gotten along, I guess, as well as any other brother-sister team. We had had some fights, sure; but they had always been of-well, I guess you'd call it the clean variety. Sex was never part of them. So, when I felt Kathy's hand on my arm, I got ready to push her away, but as I turned toward her again, I saw her green eyes glimmering and fixed on my crotch. Suddenly, I wondered what her pussy looked like. I had never seen either her or Marge totally naked. A couple of times I had caught them in their thin, practically transparent, panties, with the crease of their pussies clearly outlined through the gauzy material at their crotches. I guess the slits were particularly stressed by the fact that if they at all had any hair down there it was just beginning to sprout. Anyway, when I saw her eyes on my bulge, involuntarily I felt my prick give a little jump, like it was glad to be discovered.
"When I saw Kathy's eyes open wide at the movement in my pants, I forgot all about fighting. Instead, I darted my face toward hers and kissed her square on the lips. But Kathy's response was not what I expected, although, honestly, I can't say that I knew what to expect. Anyhow, as soon as I pulled my lips away from hers, she hissed, 'You're as nasty as Father is!' Then she raised the umbrella she still had in her hand and brought it right down on my protruding bulge. I mean, her viciousness was sexual, and her aim perfect. The sharp, stinging sensation in the tip of my pecker was so acute that I didn't hear or see Kathy go into the bathroom and swing the door shut. I was only aware of this excruciating burning pain that felt as though the head of my prick had been dipped into kerosene and then lit. I opened my mouth to scream, but all of a sudden the agony was transformed into a surging, pumping pleasantness, the likes of which I had never felt, deep in my balls. It was like the sensation I had experienced often enough just prior to ejaculation when I was jerking myself off, only this time it was magnified beyond belief. I felt my legs go rubbery, felt my prick throb with slow powerful lurches. With no thought of where I was, with everything before me taking on this wild hazy appearance, I dropped my hand to the sausage-like bulge in the front of my trousers, grasped it, and gave it two slow violent strokes. That was all it took for the jism to shoot out of the tingling slit with enough force to seep right through the material of my pants. The climax was so fucking powerful that I doubled up at the waist, bucked my pelvis as though I was filling the pussy of the sexiest girl in the world with my throbbing hard-on, and, panting, gasped, 'Oh, shit! Kathy! Fuck! Marge! Ffffuck!!
It seemed as though I was spewing every last drop of fluid out of me! I had my eyes clenched tightly, and opened them only when the last of the spurts from my prick had finally stopped. That's when I saw Marge. She was standing at the top of the stairs close enough to me to have been able to reach out and touch me. I just about went through the floor!
"Marge had the strangest expression on her face when I looked at her. She was flushed, her eyes wide open, her lips parted and oddly moist, her small breasts rising and falling under the tight sweater she was wearing. For a second, neither she nor I moved. We just stood there, blushing like crazy, looking into each other's eyes. I don't know what she felt then, but I had this crazy feeling that I had just finished sliding my prick in and out of her pussy, had just loaded her vagina with every bit of come I had stored up in my balls, and had made her come, too. Only, it was like she hadn't known I was fucking her until it was too late. Then, I guess, it was the embarrassment of the situation, the realization of what had happened, that made us at about the same instant and go to our rooms.
"The rest of the day we sort of avoided one another. We were very quiet at the dinner table, and we went to bed early. I don't suppose we suspected what was in store for our entire family then.
Mac's brief sexual escapade with his sisters would appear at first glance to have been comparatively minor, and hardly capable of producing any appreciable after-effects. Particularly, since, within two days after the above scene, a separation was effected between the suspicious wife and her husband-gynecologist. An agreement was reached between them whereby the mother remained in the three-bedroom home, keeping Kathy and Marge, while Mac and his father took occupancy of Simone, the thirty-foot cruiser that the doctor had bought the previous year. He had considered, Mac says, renting an apartment for the two of them, but when Mac suggested that they make the boat their home, Mac's father--gynecologist by profession, old salt at heart-took him up on it without much protest.
Until the end of the school year, Mac says, or for almost three months, he did not see either his mother, or Marge and Kathy. The meetings that were realized after that-three or four a year, in spite of the fact that they were separated by a distance of no more than thirty miles-were brief, strained, and uneventful. It was obvious that the children sided with their respective parents. For some strange reason, no divorce had been sought by either the doctor or his estranged wife. Mac claims that his father was still in love with his mother and that he was, in fact, impotent.
For four years nothing extraordinary happened, according to Mac. Sexually, the boy seemed to develop in a normal manner. He had one of those common adolescent "crushes" on a girl in his school. The "puppy love" affair was mutual. The girl was fourteen, Mac fifteen, and both were virgins until sexual attraction got the better of them. They eventually experimented their way to a mutual coital climax. After that, Mac admits to having had sexual intercourse with three other girls. But he also admits that "something was missing."
Then, the unexpected happened. Tragedy struck.
Mac's mother, obviously still feeling a deep attachment for Hal, yet sincerely believing that he had been unfaithful to her, took an overdose of sleeping pills. Marge and Kathy, upon returning from school, found her in bed in what appeared to be peaceful sleep.
The event was traumatic for all concerned.
The girls-then fourteen-apparently felt that their father was responsible for their mother's death. This becomes obvious from Mac's recounting of the events on the Somone shortly after the funeral. Mac's story, which throws some additional explanatory light upon his nightmares is reproduced here verbatim.
"It happened about three weeks after the funeral. During the weeks immediately following mother's death, Marge and Kathy stayed with our uncle and his wife in Gary. Dad thought it would be best for them not to remain in the house, yet he didn't want them to come all the way out to Duneland Beach, to the boat, because he would then have had to yank them out of school, and there were only three weeks of the school year remaining before summer vacation.
"He had picked them up in Gary the day the classes had let out, and had brought them straight to the Simone. That afternoon and evening we spent getting more or less re-acquainted. Kathy and Marge were by now a couple of hot little numbers. They'd filled out in all the right places and had developed a sort of sexual magnetism about themselves. Even though I'd seen them every three or four months over the preceding four years, somehow I hadn't noticed it. That evening, however, aboard the boat-with their identical red miniskirts and wispy white blouses stressing every one of their barely concealed charms-I kind of forgot the fact that they were my sisters. Of course, there wasn't anything improper between us that evening. Dad and I went up on the deck while Kathy and Marge changed into their sleepwear, which turned out to be a pair of identical gossamer-like baby-doll outfits of the lightest shade of green. When the girls had changed into those outfits they called us down. We then sat around for about half an hour drinking coffee and talking about how we were going to spend the vacation. Dad was going to take three weeks off-he had a standby in the suite of offices he and three other M.D.s shared-and we were going to take the boat up to Manitoulin Island in Quebec.
"When we finally settled down to sleep-Dad in the converted dinette space, I on the starboard settee, and Kathy and Marge on the V-berths forward--I had a hell of a time dropping off with the perfume of the girls wafting throughout the cabin, plus the recollection of the several glimpses I had caught of their smooth upper thighs and barely covered crotches, and their firm butts making pronounced globular forms under their short and thin tops through which their nipples could be just barely seen. I mean, I got a hard-on, and I must have slept with it.
"When I woke up in the morning, Dad had already left for the medical building. If he'd been there I wouldn't have been awakened the way I was. I mean, hell! I woke up shooting sperm all over the bunk. And the fucking sensation was as wild as the time Kathy had stung me with the tip of her umbrella some four years before. The goddamn pain was what I had been awakened by, but, by the time I was fully awake, their was nothing but this glorious feeling of come spurting out of the horniest depths of my balls. I didn't realize what had happened until I settled back down into this fabulous state of exhaustion, my prick softening up, as it lay limply across my naked thigh. Then, I heard the girls giggling. Actually, during that half-awake state, I'd forgotten that they were there in the cabin with me.
"But when I heard their shrill laughter, sexier than hell, I turned in the direction of the dinette and started sitting up-embarrassed! That's when I saw those long rubber bands in their hands. Apparently, that's what they had stung me with. But, like I said, I started to sit up, trying at the same time to stuff my prick back into the unsnapped bottom of my pajamas, but the girls weren't ready for that. To tell the truth, when the two of them pounced on me-Marge grabbing hold of my legs, Kathy bouncing up on the bunk and straddling me, holding my arms out to the sides, her young tits pointing with hardened nipples through the thin material of her baby-doll top, her crotch warm against my abdomen-hell, I didn't resist. In fact, almost instantaneously, my prick rose to full mast, throbbing like crazy, pressing into the crease of Kathy's ass.
"Suddenly, the girls went quiet. I felt Kathy's grasp on my arms, and Marge's on my legs, loosen slightly. I don't know how long we remained in that position, absolutely still. I know that the next thing that happened was Kathy, breathing heavily, the warmth of her pussy hot against me, even through her baby-doll panties, whispering to me. I'll never forget her words. They were so goddamn sweet, and somehow erotic.
"Do you want to, Mac?' she asked, her eyes glazed over with a dreamy sexy look.
"Holding my breath, I nodded yes.
"What happened next, happened as though we'd rehearsed every move a thousand times before. Kathy rose slightly off my lower belly, brought her hand down between us, and pulled the loose elastic of her panties aside. Then, kneeling above me, she brought her other hand down until her warm smooth fingers encircled my thick hard prick. The next instant she poised with her pussy above the mushroom head of my hard-on, then slowly brought herself down until-millimeter by fucking millimeter-my hard-on started disappearing between the moist, pink lips of her furry little vagina. It was the sexiest thing I'd ever seen, my prick sliding into her pussy! I was so fascinated by that sight that I didn't even notice how Marge had taken her panties off and climbed up to straddle my face Man! I tell you, I'd never had anything like it. With they being twins, it was like I was fucking and eating the same pussy at the same time.
"With Marge sitting on my face, and Kathy on my prick, I didn't have much leverage, but Kathy took care of all the movements. There was my whanger sloshing in and out of Kathy's tight little pussy, and my tongue slurping out Marge's twat. There were both girls moaning like they were coming into a million tiny pieces of pleasure. When I felt my sperm begin zipping into Kathy's hot little box, Marge suddenly stopped grinding her sweet slit against my mouth, and just pressed it firmly down, with my tongue deep inside her vibrating channel, and her hard clit practically pushing into my nostril. Then she screamed. Kathy-almost immediately-bounced like a wild she-cat, in short, lightning-fast strokes, and yipped like an ecstatic banshee. I couldn't scream-though I wanted to, with the mouthful of beautiful creaming pussy I had-so I just jismed and jismed and jismed. At the same time, I swallowed the syrupy sweetness that had suddenly coated my tongue, and mashed the four hard-nippled young tits that were within easy reach of my hands.
"After that, we fucked every chance we got. And the girls always took the initiative. Once, Kathy woke me up with a burning match against the head of my prick. I didn't much like that, even though I squirted like mad. That's what actually frightened me-made me wonder. You know, like what if I couldn't come unless something crazy was being done to my prick? But I haven't had any problems so far. I mean, after Kathy and Marge went back to school, and I came out here to the university, I dated some chicks-laid one, in fact-but I keep thinking of Kathy and Marge, and the way they'd been able to blow my rocks with just one fucking snap of a rubber band."
Following this revelation, the question that came to the psychiatrist's mind was whether or not Mac felt any guilt over the fact that his relationship with Kathy and Marge was incestuous. If it were a suppressed feeling of guilt, then the nightmare could be explained as a subconsciously spurred punishment. He was punishing himself, and his sisters were helping him with the punishment. To this, however, Mac gave a surprisingly negative answer. He said, "I've never even thought of it. Maybe it's because I think that incest is a traditional, baseless taboo. Besides, both Kathy and Marge were on pills." With so adamant an answer, the only interpretation that could be given to the nightmare was that Mac actually feared-with good reason-that he had a masochistic streak in him, and that that could develop into acute dependency.
Unable to sway Mac regarding his stand on incest, the psychiatrist suggested that Mac try to prevent any subsequent pain-revolving ejaculations. Whether the youth took the suggestion or not is unknown. After several visits to the psychiatrist, he stopped the visits. The psychiatrist's query about Mac's coboarders was answered favorably. Obviously, the nightmares had ceased, the succubi of fretfulness had been driven out.
NIGHTMARE THE EIGHTH
The Ice and the Terror
Marlon J., twenty-three, found himself on the psychoanalyst's couch one week after his marriage to a bubbly young coed. His complaint was twofold. "I can't get a hard-on," he said, in the straightforward manner that is so prevalent in our modern uninhibited society, "and I've been having this horrible nightmare the past month or so."
From Marlon's outward physical appearance, it would be difficult to believe that he was suffering from impotence. Six feet four, and athletically built, Marlon appeared to be all male, plus some. "Actually," the psychiatrist said, "at first I suspected that it was nothing more serious than the ignominious "honeymoon impotence' that is occasionally experienced due to the combination of abrupt releases of previous restraints, exhaustion from the prenuptial banquet, and even consideration for the bride." Marlon, however, eliminated this possibility. He stated that the impotence had been apparent for over a period of three months. Going on the basis that the nightmare might hold clues to the young man's failure to erect, the psychiatrist requested that Marlon tell him of the disturbing dream."
"It's an all-out nightmare. Like I'd eaten something indigestible and it's then thrown up in this hideous monstrosity in my sleep. I've never had any problems with sleep before. Hell, with all the football playing I do-or did, I should say, when I was in college for two years-I was usually too exhausted to dream even a sexy dream. Even now, with my sales-work-I sell pipe cleaning equipment to various industrial concerns on the West Coast-you'd think I'd just pass out from all the footwork, but no, every night, the same goddamn horror.
"It starts out with me standing on a busy street corner. I'm selling these tickets for a 'show.' I charge five hundred bucks a throw, but I don't know what the hell kind of a show it is. Nobody asks me that question though. The next thing I know, I'm sitting in this filthy dining room at a huge table, and on that table, strapped down and naked as can be is this girl, screaming like the end of the world is behind the door, waiting to get in.
"Then I become aware of all those to whom I'd sold the tickets. I don't recognize any of them, I don't know them, but I know that they are the ones. They're all dressed in filthy white clothes, streaked, stained, and spotted. For a few agonizing seconds there is no movement, no sound, except for the struggling nakedness on the table, screaming her head off. I can't see her face because my place is at her feet. All I see, in fact, is her cunt snapping at me, winking at me, beckoning me with its clitoris. I'm so taken up with the hair pie and arm's reach away from me that I don't notice what the others are doing until a blood-curdling scream leaves the girl's mouth and I glance up. I tell you, this part is terrible.
"All the bastards I'd sold the tickets to? Well, each one of them has a piece of the girl on the plate in front of him. A breast here, a slice of hip there, a portion of shoulder ... But if that isn't bad enough, I see myself rising, this huge butcher's knife in my hand. Man, you'll think I'm crazy, but this is exactly what I do. I reach forward between the girl's thighs, place a finger on each side of her cunt, spread it open until I can see the dark red channel disappearing inside her, then bring the sharp point of the goddamn knife in between the foam-covered flaps and slowly insert the whole length of the blade into her vagina. And I know fucking well when there is nothing outside her cunt but the handle with my fist around it, that the fourteen-inch blade didn't just fold up inside that slit.
"And the insane part is that when I have the entire goddamn knife in her cunt and she screams one last bloody scream, I come all over the fucking table, her thighs, my hand, and the handle of the knife. That's when I wake up and run into the bathroom, heaving like I'm going to throw the whole fucking world up. Of course, there's no sign of a hard-on on me then. Or ever, it seems."
In spite of the fact that Marlon's nightmare is bristling with sadistic details, psychonalysis showed that there was no history of either sadism or masochism in his background. His love life, from what he told the psychiatrist through routine questioning, had been "full and normal until about three months ago." The psychoanalyst probed deeper.
"What happened three months ago?"
"It softened-and it has stayed soft ever since. And, also, the nightmares began."
Suspecting a traumatic experience so strong that Marlon had suppressed it entirely from his conscious mind, the psychiatrist decided to utilize hypnosis to penetrate what he suspected was an other wise impenetrable block within which ("I was positive," he stated) lay the suppressed cause of both the impotence and the nightmare. The doctor's suspicion was proved correct.
The following is the sequence from the tape onto which Marlon, unawares, recorded the event which had shocked him into his impotent, succubal world.
"It was my fault. Fucking was my hobby. I loved to screw. The first cunt I slipped my cock into was a virgin, fifteen years old. I was thirteen. That's when I found out that I was well hung. I measured myself after that first screw, mainly because Teresa, when I tore into her, screamed, 'Oh, my God! It's huge! You're ripping me.' And, in the next breath, 'Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me, you fucking stud!'
"When I got home-we were living in a kind of slummy section of San Francisco-I got out a ruler, rubbed myself a hard-on, and measured it out to ten and a half inches long, three and a half around the thickest part-the head. I guess I had pushed poor Teresa's insides around when I pistoned it into her!
"But the others loved it, too. I know what they say about it not being how much you've got, but how you use it. It's true. But knowing that you've got more than enough doesn't hurt. At the junior high I attended in San Francisco, I had five classes of twenty to twenty-five pupils each. Half of them were girls. By the end of the first year I'd shot a load into every one of them. Fifteen were virgins. One of them was a colored gal. Fourteen years old. I was fifteen. Didn't believe she still had her cherry. Used to come to school in a dress so short that every time she'd bend over you could see her round little ass. Wore a girdle. Didn't need it. Perfect shape. Name was Starr. Fit her.
"Some of the white gals I'd screwed were dogs. Don't know if I'd have screwed Starr is she was a dog. She wasn't. For a colored gal she was beautiful. Went with her to a public swimming pool-the one by the zoo. Starr was a small girl-five three. Fooled around in the pool with her. Wild. Slipped a finger into her cunt, through her crisp curly hairs. Hard little nubbin of a clitoris. She had an orgasm in the pool, my finger rubbing the lips of her pussy, tweaking her clit, her arm around my neck, her other arm underwater, hand in my trunks, beating my meat with her little fingers, squeezing my balls, lips against my ear, panting, murmuring, 'Shit, man. Now I know why I've kept my cunt clean.' Undulating against my finger inside her briefest bikini, clenching-unclenching her thighs, shuddering all over, biting my ear, muttering, 'You mothahfucker! Oh. yeah, man! Yeah, yeah, yeah!' Going like crazy on my cock, sliding the skin up and down the length of it, whispering, 'Come on, Mar! Squirt it in the pool so it'll get in my pussy, man!' And I did.
Fantastic....
"An hour later, in Golden Gate Park. Almost dark. Walking with our arms wrapped around each other. Looking for a spot. A gazebo. Starr says, 'Mar. Oh, Mar. I wanna suck your cock, Mar.' Drops to her knees, unzips my fly, lets ten and a half inches of solid cock spring out. 'Man!' she says. 'I take that in my mouth, it's gonna come outa my pussy. Take it in my pussy, it'll come outa my mouth. Then hot full lips sucking, sucking. Sliding up and down. Moaning. Biting. Fire building within the balls. Rising. Rising. Rising. Exploding out of the slit into her frictioning sucking mouth. She swallowed every drop, a dreamy look in her dark brown eyes. 'Now rest, Mar. Make some more come for my pussy. This black gal wants to get knocked up by a white boy. Not any white boy. This white boy!' Grabs my half-soft cock, kisses it on the head, mutters, 'Get up, you beautiful mothafucker. You gonna be a father.' Gets up, raises her dress, pulls her panties off. I sit down. Draw her close. Her dress is around her waist, above my head. I bend down, place a thumb on each side of her black-furred curly-haired pussy-crease, my fingers on her chocolate-skin hips. I press my thumbs in. Pull them away from each other. Crease widens, lips part. Pink hole, little nubbin.
"Again my cock is hard, rising up between her thighs, its mushroom dome glistening, its slitted eye staring into her pussy hole. Starr spreads her legs wide, and straddles me. Before she even bears down, my cock is an inch away from the gate into which she wants it to enter. Her fingers hardly go around the hard thickness. She lowers her pretty little black box an inch and a half. The mushroom head wedges in, pussy lips slip over it, and into the groove under it. Starr shuts her eyes, bites on her lower lip, then pushes down with all the force she has. Tight. Awfully tight. Great. Starr doesn't scream, just bites into her lower lip, hard.
"Blood trickles down her chin, down her thighs, down the thickness buried inside her. Slowly begins her up and down motion. Pain finally leaves. Still tight, but lubricated with blood and sex juices. Little brown ass bouncing up and down, up and down. Internal muscles working like a hand inside her twat. Milking, suctioning, rubbing, squeezing. Shortness of breath. We both pant. I feel it coming on. Starr moans, throws her head back, shudders suddenly as I fill her brave little pussy with spurt after spurt of thick virile sperm. Pussy suddenly seems to be vibrating. Digs her fingernails into my back, opens her mouth, slides all the way down. Much too large for her. She screams, 'Fill it! More, man! Don't take no chance! Come, man! Fuck this black baby, man! Screw me, man! Ram it in! Yeah, yeah, yeah! Oh. Oh. Ohoooo mothafucker' Wild!
"Others. One wants it in the back seat of a bus. In the ass. No go. No need for that route. Slide it into another one-in the back seat of a bus. Next one standing up against a wall in the girls' rest room at school. Too eager. Too impatient. Can't wait to get to a stall.
"Finally, Kathlene. In college. A year ago. Music major. Ballet. Dances beautifully. College production of Swan Lake. Graceful, supple, lively, life-loving. Was it love? Auditions for a big show. Wins audition. Performance set for late summer, four months away. A debut sort of thing. Publicity and all. Kathlene's no easy lay. I find that out. In an effort to get into her pants, I try to share her interest in music. It isn't easy, considering I was weaned on jazz, and rhythm and blues. But I got to the college library. The audio room. I listen to Delibes, Tchaikovsky, Chopin. All the available ballet music. It bores me, tires me, at first. Then it begins to grow on me. It doesn't take long before I realize that I'm hooked on Kathlene.
"We go out to shows, dinner, her dance lessons. I get an aching hard-on each time I see her in leotards. It's after one of these meetings that she invites me up to her apartment. We pick up a bottle of burgundy and spend the evening talking of music and ballet, with her still wearing her skintight leotard, which stresses the slight rise of her mound at her lower belly. The wine affects her quite strongly; she's no drinker. She tells me that she loves me, but that shexloesn't want to tie either herself or me down. The wine glow seeps throughout her body. I feel the warmth of her hand in mine, see her relax on the couch next to me. When I reach over to kiss her, she goes limp. Her head falls back against the back of the couch, and her knees part, her thighs falling away from each other and laying open her concealed, yet exposed, vaginal area. It's covered by the black leotard, but it's also exposed in that the material creases into her vagina, delineating its exact extent, and the manner in which her thighs are parted makes it impossible for the panty section of the dance costume to hide the few stray strands of golden pubic hairs that have worked their way out on either side of the narrow strip of material that is her cunt's only cover. Then I start her on her way. I spread her vaginal mouth open and ram my blade in. I ram it in ... in...."
The psychiatrist notes that the suddenness with which Marlon reined in his recounting of fact, and brought in some elements of his nightmare, strongly indicated that the dream had had its roots planted the night of Marlon's visit to Kathlene. There was apparently a struggle between the young man's subconscious and conscious minds. When the doctor's attempt to guide Marlon's mind back to the memory of that evening failed, he decided upon a direct approach, with the patient being in a wakeful state. Marlon's resistance to that was strong, but through persistent questioning by the psychiatrist he began to yield, forcing his subconscious into the background, so to speak, and, finally, he revealed the nature of the traumatic experience that had-through misdirection of guilt, primarily-tormented him not only by its own gravity, but by Marlon's fear that the tragedy for which he held himself directly responsible could be repeated in his marriage.
The following is a transcription of the tape, where-in Marlon's recounting of his night at Kathlene's apartment is continued-only this time the subject is in a non-hypnotic state.
"I took advantage of her. There's no question about it. Were it not for the wine, she would have held me off as she had on several occasions prior to this one. At first, I had been sort of aggravated by her almost puritanical prudishness. It wasn't prudishness at all, however, as I later found out. Actually, I was sort of emotionally jarred when she told me-without going into details-not only that she was no virgin, but that she had been married for about a year when she was only sixteen. Apparently the guy had been a brute, wanting her only when he felt like blowing his rocks off, which he managed to do without any strain at all, leaving Kathy hanging too far away from an orgasm for her to even suspect what an orgasm was like. I guess a year of that had created a pretty strong mental block against sex in her mind. It was after the divorce that Kathy threw herself completely into the dance.
"And then, that night at her apartment, after she had built enough trust in me to invite me in, what did I do? I knocked her up, that's what. You may say that it takes two, but the fact is, her response to me was pure animal; she was too much into the wine to think of herself in terms other than pure female.
"The way it happened doesn't do me any credit. As I said, (Marlon had listened to the tape of his hypnotic recollections), she was only half conscious when I realized that I could finally take her. And I did. My first move was a test move. I placed the palm of my hand right on the narrow band of material between her thighs. I could feel the heat emanating from her slit, and the softness of the lips a fraction of an inch away from my fingers. When she didn't push me away, didn't clamp her legs together, I began pressing my hand into her, rubbing the indentation of her cunt through the cloth of the leotard. I even pushed one of my fingers into her up to the first joint, feeling the hot moisture of her secretions seeping through the material. When Kathy moaned, and ground her pelvis gently against my invading finger, I unzipped my fly, freed my throbbing erection, and began getting her carefully out of her dance suit.
"She neither helped me nor resisted me. That's why I know that I was doing nothing other than taking candy from a baby. Within minutes, Kathy was lying nude against the couch. I was on my knees in front of her and between her legs. Her feet were on the floor on either side of my knees, her ass barely on the edge of the couch, her pussy, with its pink lips slightly puffy from the stimulation I'd given them with my fingers, lay partly open, glistening with the juices that had already prepared it for invasion, penetration, intercourse, fucking. By that time I was feeling the tightening in my groin, the heavy and. impatient load in my balls, and the pulsation in my rock-hard blood-filled ramrod-cock. It was standing out almost perpendicular to my crotch, pointing at the hungry-looking fuck-hole, which couldn't have been more than three inches away from its bulbous slit-tipped head.
"Carefully, I reached in between Kathy's thighs and took the soft puffy labia with thumb and index finger of each hand. Then I drew them apart, delighting in the sexy moist sound they made as they parted and revealed the raw-pink hole that led into the depths of Kathy's cunt. With the way my cock was protruding in the direction of the golden-haloed depths of Kathy's pussy, I didn't have to guide it in, or even release my gentle hold on Kathy's cunt petals. I just moved straight in, until my prick-head-already lubricated with the crystal-clear secretion that was oozing out of its slit-had pressed its way into the slightly ragged mouth of Kathlene's vagina. I worked the entire length of the shaft into Kathy in slow measured thrusts. An inch in, half an inch out, another inch in, half an inch out. By the time our pubes had meshed, the base of my cock had rubbed against Kathy's prominent little clitoris, and the dome-like tip of my cock had pressed into what could have been nothing other than Kathy's cervix. Kathy was responding with even, precise fucking motions. I felt her internal muscles working on the entire length of my prick, like an army of ants walking up and down its length.
"I increased the rapidity of the frictioning strokes gradually, wanting to have Kathy keep up with me. I held myself back twice from releasing my pent-up jism into the heated churning interior of Kathy's pussy. With my hands under her buttocks, a globe in each palm I controlled her movements as best I could. I held off a good thirty minutes, and it wasn't easy, especially with the things Kathy's pussy walls were doing to my pecker.
"When the sperm dam finally burst, it burst with my entire lower body feeling as though it was not attached to anything but my cock-and, to make matters really complete, Kathlene fluttered her pussy walls through her orgasm at the very moment I was hosing her insides down with the warm stickiness of my come.
"Before I finally left that night, I jismed her slit three more times. I'll never forget the sight of all that come oozing out of her pussy when I finally withdrew for the last time. Never did I ever think of the fact that I had knocked her up that night. Or of the fact that the following day she would vanish like she'd never existed. I just about went crazy. I didn't understand it. I hadn't hurt her, hadn't mistreated her any....
"Then I got the phone call from her. She said she wanted to find an abortionist, that she was pregnant. I tried talking her out of it. I even proposed marriage, but she wouldn't hear of it. There was the performance of Sivan Lake she was readying herself for. How could she dance, she said, with a ballooned belly?
"When I realized that I could not talk Kathy out of the decision she had made, I got her an abortionist. A week later, Kathlene was dead-If it hadn't been for me, Kathy would still be laughing, dancing, hoping for a better life. I mean, I killed her! I stabbed her to death with my prick...."
It is not difficult to superimpose the nightmare and impotency which suddenly descended upon Marlon over the tragedy of his love affair with Kathlene. His impotence is obviously due to the fact which he feared before-and still fears-that he may bring death to someone else ... through intercourse. He admitted to this acute apprehension, saying that he "just didn't even want to think of fucking after Kathy died." And even though, with the passage of time, the memory of Kathlene's death became less poignant, Marlon's feelings of guilt became firmly entrenched in his subconscious.
The psychiatrist is strongly optimistic about Marlon's victory over both problems. He says: "In spite of the fact that Marlon had been quite a Lothario in his adolescent years, he is deeply sensitive. I have tried to transfer the guilt he feels for Kathlene's death to the real culprit; our outdated abortion laws.
And the doctor is unquestionably correct. His attitude becomes particularly irrefutable when one considers the fact that that anyone's daughter could find herself in Kathlene's predicament.
NIGHTMARE THE NINTH
The Duel
Roger O., a twenty-four-year-old hairstylist at one of the innumerable West Coast beauty salons, was an overt homosexual. Initiated into homosexuality at an early age, while attending an all-boys' intermediate school, Roger-through the addiction to homoerotic practices and through the absence of the necessary counteracting elements (girls)-had no inhibitions as far as admitting that he would take a nice guy rather than a cunt anytime.
Were it not for the fact that he made no apologies about sharing his meticulously decorated Hollywood apartment with a former high school classmate of his, one would have been tempted to interpret his nightmarish visions as manifestations of latent homosexuality accompanied by feelings of guilt and a desire of punishment. Since, however, his homosexuality was anything but latent, since his feelings of guilt for being homosexual were nonexistent (he actually prided himself on being homosexual), and since, consequently, there could have been no rational desire for punishment, such an interpretation would have been illogically contrived.
The nature of his nightmare, as he related it to the psychoanalyst, whose aid he had enlisted of his own volition, was as follows:
"I'm in the gym at the high school from which both Maurice-he's my roommate now, a wonderful boy-and I graduated half a dozen years ago. We are both ... in the buff, I guess, is a good way of putting it, and both Maurice and I have our rapiers up. I mean, real rapiers, not just our dongs, which are up, too. Now, this whole thing is rather ludicrous because neither Maury not I have ever fenced. Fucked, yes. Fenced, no. Violence like that isn't our idea of having fun. But in the dream we are facing each other like a couple of musketeers, our shining blades crossed, our muskets cocked, or, perhaps I should say, our cocks musketed. Whatever. Our dongs are bristling and on the ready.
"Then we go at each other. We thrust, we parry, we circle. This goes on and on, and then I suddenly realize that his body is crisscrossed with scratches and cuts, and that blood is oozing out of punctures in his sweating chest and belly. When I glance down at myself, however, I am surprised to see that I'm unmarked, and this makes me dreadfully depressed. I lower my rapier and start begging Maury to 'give it to me.' That's what I say, practically sobbing my heart out, 'Give it to me, Maury. Give it to me!' But he won't; he just stands there shaking his head, saying that there is no point to it, that I don't have any blood, that I'm an anomaly, that I'm wrong for that kind of combat.
"I glance down at his dong and see that it is no longer proudly erect, but is hanging limply between his legs like it's disappointed with the whole thing. Then Maury drops his rapier and walks away from me, toward the gym door and outside. I cry for him not to leave me, but he doesn't hear me. I sink to the floor then and, grasping my genitals, dong, balls and all, yank them off my body. That's when I wake up. When I do, I reach down between my legs, and, finding my equipment still there, I start bawling like crazy."
The first impression of the above dream sequence would make one suspect Roger's virility, since inability to bleed-or absence of any fluids where their presence is to be, under normal circumstances, expected-is often associated, in dreams, with impotence. The additional feeling of frustration which Roger has expressed in his dreams is another factor which Gutheil associates with impotence. And, in Roger's case, impotence was found to be the factor; however, it was not the kind of impotence that is normal. His "impotence" was a distorted creation of his homosexual mind. He had no difficulty in producing an erection; there was no problem with ejaculation. His "impotence" was an impotence only a woman's mind in a man's body could feel. Roger was frustrated by the limitations of his male body and particularly by his inability to conceive.
"Roger could be considered an extreme in homosexuality," his psychiatrist commented. "Unlike the case of Christine Jorgensen, however-who had carried certain feminine physiological characteristics even prior to the operation-Roger's feminine traits were entirely psychological. He was not a big man, that is true, but he was all male nevertheless."
In an effort not only to get a positive interpretation of the dream-which was not difficult, since Roger revealed his "feelings of inadequacy" as a passive homosexual shortly after his relation of the dream-but to seek out the cause for Roger's psychologically extreme homogenitality. It was through persistent questioning, and patient listening, that one of Roger's surprisingly numerous affairs was recognized by the psychoanalyst as the cornerstone upon which Roger's leaning tower of psychosexuality was built.
The following is the recounting of that affair, the one that "made all the jagged pieces of Roger O. fit together," as the psychiatrist qualified it, reproduced as it was captured by one of the interview tapes.
"The only person I'd ever felt as strongly about as I do about Maury was this teacher I had in junior high-the year before I graduated and went on to high school, Maury, and ... heaven,-is the only word I can honestly use.
"I was fifteen then; it was the beginning of the spring semester, and I remember coming to classes none too enthusiastic about another four months of the same old academic jazz with variations on a theme by I. M. Boredom. I mean the semester before had been a drag. At that time, of course-being considerably younger and dumber than I am now-I wasn't anywhere as open about my homosexuality. Oh, I had friends, don't get me wrong, but we always acted reserved, stayed away from participating in any sports-in which not only were we not interested, but which would have probably given us away-and steered clear of the silly giggling cunts, although we were as polite to them as was necessary ... when it was necessary.
"It was on the second day that I first saw Lysander. He was a substitute teacher in English-the regular one had taken ill, and then had decided to quit so he could write books, or some jazz like that. Anyway, Lysander-you know, even now, nine years later, if I heard him calling me, I'd drop everything and rush to his side?-was the most attractive man I'd ever set my eyes on. I remember him standing by his desk that morning, waiting for all the kids to file in. It's funny, but he was the only older-and I mean like considerably older-person I'd ever felt such an attraction for, such an affinity toward. I guess he must have been around twenty-nine, although I'd never asked his age, never thought of asking his age, because it was somehow entirely unimportant. I simply saw his dark Greek complexion, his almost black sparkling good-humored eyes, his full black Wavy hair, his slim graceful build, and his good-natured smile. I remember thinking, What a handsome man! Man, not boy. It was the first time that maturity attracted me.
"I suppose that it was that first day's fiasco on my part that brought me to his attention. It wasn't intentional; I wasn't trying to attract his attention. I was simply so overcome by his magnetic personality that I floundered through the entire getting-to-know-you session. To start with, I stopped with my mouth hanging open the moment I walked into the classroom, and remained standing, just past the threshold, until I realized that he was looking at me with that gentle smile of his and asking me my name. I suppose I looked like I'd wandered into the wrong classroom-but I was just floored by him. And when I heard him asking me my name, I stammered out Robert! Would you believe that? Then, of course, I corrected myself, feeling like a fool, feeling badly because I was sure he must have thought me a fool.
"For about a week I sat in his classroom tongue-tied. The oddest thing is that I was not conscious of any sexual feeling toward him. He was just a marvelously attractive, mature masculine entity around which the world, it seemed to me, revolved.
"Then, the very next weekend, by pure accident, I ran into him on Hollywood Boulevard. He was just coming out of a book store, a large package under his arm. That was the first time I became conscious of his basket. He was wearing these tight slacks, and I mean to tell you that that basket was as obvious as the sun on a clear day. I had a terrible time trying to keep my eyes off it, and keeping my suddenly hardening dong from making itself obvious in my tight slacks. Momentarily, I hoped that he wouldn't see me. I felt that I would blush if he were to speak to me. Then I felt my heart skipping a beat from the fear that he couldn't see me.
"Then I saw him smile and cut across the sidewalk toward where I was standing. The next thing I knew he was holding my hand in his, saying, 'Well, if it isn't Robert!' Then he laughed, but in a friendly, honest manner. When he released my hand, it felt as though it had just been given a brisk, electrifying rub-down.
"I don't know how it happened, but one moment we were standing talking about God knows what in front of the Book Store, then we were having lunch together and, finally, riding an elevator to the ninth floor of an apartment building in which he lived, several blocks down Sunset Boulevard. I think he had mentioned his library, and I had said that I would love to see it.
"It was on the elevator that my hand came to rest on the semi-hardness between his legs. It wasn't an intentional 'feel' on my part. There were three other persons in the elevator, and it was when I had backed up to allow them more room that the back of my hand had come to rest against the tight package of Lysander's pelvic instrument. Like I said, it wasn't an intentional feel on my part; but it certainly turned into an intentional hold. I kept my hand pressed lightly against it all the way to Lysander's floor; my own cock getting longer and thicker all the while. Reluctantly, I stepped forward when the elevator cage reached the ninth floor, terminating that beautiful contact between us.
By the time the door to Lysander's apartment closed behind us, my shaft was stretching almost half of the way down one of my legs, and my mind was formulating a plot of seduction. I mean, I wanted to feel Lysander's cock in my mouth, wanted to taste his come, wanted to buck my ass against his thrusting hard-on. It's as simple as that. The fact that I didn't know whether he went the homosexual route or not didn't seem to make any difference. He just couldv't be straight, as far as I was concerned. And, almost the instant we were in Lysander's apartment, he provided me with an idea for my method of advance. He asked me if I would like something to drink. I told him that something cold would be nice.
"He told me to go ahead and browse through the books, which covered two entire walls of the living room. Then he stepped out into the kitchen. He did have a fabulous collection of books, mostly classics of literature, critical essays, and reference books, all in expensive-looking, gold-embossed binding. But they impressed me nowhere near as much as their owner did. I wanted him. God, you can't imagine how I wanted him!
"I tried not to give myself away when he came in from the kitchen carrying two glasses, both tinkling with ice cubes, but one obviously an alcoholic drink. He handed me the tall glass-Coke, I guess it must've been-then stepped over to one of the two arms chairs separated by a limed oak end table with a lamp on it, and sat down. I never found out what the drink he had given me was. As soon as he was seated, I started toward the other armchair. Then, when I was just about in front of him, I tripped (intentionally) and spilled the entire contents of my glass in his lap.
"Immediately, before he had a chance to rise, I dropped down on my knees in front of him, pulled out a handkerchief, and, apologizing about my 'stupid clumsiness,' started wiping away at his soaked trousers. I made a special point of patting and pressing and rubbing the prominent hillock that took me where his cock was. For a brief instant, when I felt him place his hands against my shoulders, pushing me away slightly, I feared that he was going to rebuff me. But then-oh, joy of joys!-the pressure of his hands decreased, and the hardness at his crotch increased.
"With my hands trembling, and my heart beating as though I were in a marathon footrace, I placed my fingers against the inside of his legs, and, pushing them gently apart, brought my face to rest against the cold wetness of his crotch. I felt a shudder go through his body, felt his cock push up against my cheek as though his cock had a will of its own. Slowly, I raised my face, looked up at Lysander's, and, with my fingers moving in to wrap around the throbbing hardening length of his cock, said, "I want to suck you off, Lysander."
"I saw him shake his head. I heard him whisper no. But I felt his dong in my hand saying yen. Without taking my eyes from his, I raised my other hand to the tab of his zipper and slowly pulled down on it. Gently, I inserted my hand into the opening in his slacks, then into the slit in his shorts, feeling a fantastic shiver go through me when my fingers felt the coarse wiriness of his pubic mat. Then I felt the heat and the hardness of his smooth erection. I didn't bring it out right away. I stroked my fingers up and down its length as I encircled it. I applied as much friction as I comfortably could within the tight confines of his slacks. I brought my other hand-which was now free-down against the crotch of his trousers and gently squeezed his nuts. I was aware of an almost romantic warmth, a satisfaction at seeing Lysander close his eyes and move his lower body slightly forward in the chair.
"When I drew his beautiful hard-on out of his fly-its sheath glistening with the tightness with which it enveloped the blood-filled muscle, its meatus oozing a droplet of ether-clear lubricating fluid, its veins distended with impatient blood-and flicked my hungry tongue at its head, Lysander moaned and brought his hands to rest gently, but firmly, on the top of my head. I took that as a sign. I opened my mouth wide, then brought my face down carefully, so that no part of my mouth would came in contact with the column of solid heat that was entering it until the bulbous head of his super-male cock was wedged in my throat. Then I closed my lips in a tight ring around the shaft, no more than an inch from its base.
"Holding his pulsating masculinity in my mouth, breathing through my nose, I undid the buckle of his belt, unsnapped the top of his slacks, and gently eased them down until they were bunched up around his ankles. Then I did the same thing with his shorts. I'd never seen anybody as perfectly built below the waist as Lysander. The moment I saw his full balls lying beneath the column of his shaft, the moment I took them in one hand, the moment I ran the fingers of my other hand along the smooth and immaculately clean ridge of his concealed cock-muscle in the perineal valley between his balls and his asshole, I knew that he was my kind of man. There was virility in every concavity and convexity of his body. Like a sex-starved virgin I began sucking on his cock, running my tongue up and down the length of its rigid column, sliding my lips in a tight constricting circle along its length.
"I worked him to an ejaculation slowly. It must have taken at least twenty minutes. The moment I felt the pulsation of his cock arteries increase in tempo, the instant his balls began to spasm and draw up as though they wanted to force their way up through the channel of his hard-on, and the split second when his fingers, pressed spasmodically into my head, I clamped my lips in a vise-like grip as close to the base of his erection as I could, and waited for the sperm to force its way up and out his dong, into my parched throat. When it did, it felt like someone had squirted several ounces of egg white just perfectly seasoned with salt into my throat. I swallowed it greedily, sucking on the head, determined to get every last droplet of Lysander's love fluids out of his testicles.
"When he stopped spurting his come into my mouth, I stayed between his legs, and kept his suddenly limp penis between my lips, nibbling on it gently. He didn't protest, didn't push me away, didn't say anything. Before long, he was hard again. Only then did I let him out of my mouth. I wanted him another way now.
"I was thrilled to see that his eyes were still closed when I looked up at him next and rose to my feet. I'm sure he knew what I was doing as I quickly stripped below the waist. My dong was sticking out of me by then, with a power I'd never felt in it before. I brought its head for a brief touch against Lysander's burgeoning organ. I pressed the slit in my cock against the slit in Lysander's. A soul kiss if there ever was one. Then I clasped his upward pointing pillar of meat and turned my back to him, lowering myself until I felt the wonderful heat of his maleness against the crease between my buttocks. It took just a moment to wedge the head of his penis into the hungry opening of my asshole, and another moment to drive its entire length into my very innards.
"He fucked me with a passion I had never felt in anyone before. He wrapped his hand around my stiff and eager erection and slid it rapidly up and down, up and down, until I was sure I would not be able to hold back any longer. Not with his cock massaging my rectum to a state of absolute euphoria. Rubbing my prostate to a point where I was sure I would go wild from the sensation. But I didn't have to hold back. Just as I felt that I had reached the limits of my control, I felt his come flooding my vag-my asshole, I mean-and I let go, shooting my come all over Lysander's carpet. At that instant I knew that I was in love with him. Madly, passionately, wildly in love!
"But it all ended before it began. I suppose I could try convincing myself that he was just toying with me, that he was a bastard, but I'd never succeed in doing that. What happened was, after he came to, out of that session with me, he sobered up and started cursing himself. He was terribly upset. I told him not to be, told him that I was in love with him, that nobody had to know. Told him that I would slave over my homework so that I could become his star pupil. But what he answered made a lot of sense. He said that he was not a homosexual. That what had happened between him and me was unusual, and had never happened before.
He said that he had given in out of curiosity, and although it had been a very pleasant experience, he was engaged to, and in love with, a woman, and he was going to marry her.
"When I asked him what she could give him that I couldn't, he told me. 'A son. A daughter. Children."
"He made me feel so inadequate, so incomplete, with those words...."
Involved? Complex? Why was Maurice, rather than Lysander, the subject of Roger's nightmare? Why was Roger's frustration disguised in the fencing duel? The only answer to these questions is that the subconscious, beset by memories of a tormented past, attempts to disguise, to substitute, so that the reality appears to be something other than reality. Demons that come to torment us "for no reason at all." Persecution from the outside is often easier to bear than one's own self-condemnation. And the succubi are as alien as anything can be. They persecute us, or so we cause ourselves to believe.
Roger O. did not accept any of the psychiatrist's explanations, any of his reasons, either of Roger's nightmares or his belief that he was "neither man nor woman." His visits were discontinued voluntarily, and since there was no legal way of continuing his psychoanalysis, there is no way of knowing what happened to him. The psychiatrist's guess is that-unless something radical happens to alter Roger's convictions-Roger may eventually be either committed a mental institution or may even, in his absolute frustration, attempt to take his own life.
With the succubi we have only one way of dealing. They have to be destroyed through reason. When reason, however, refuses to bear psychological arms against those demons, their victory can practically be assured.
NIGHTMARE THE TENTH
End of the Show
Naldo's nightmares were responsible for his being committed to the mental institution, although they were no more the cause of his psychosis than doctors are the cause of diseases. His succubi were simply the instruments of his mental apprehension, the safety valves that signaled the need for attention. As Naldo himself told the psychiatrist who treated him, "As soon as Loree suggested that I go and see a doctor, I knew it was all over."
Naldo P. is an indefinitely committed patient at one of the nation's leading mental institutions. Thirty-three years old, timid, and soft-spoken, he is a classic example of the schizoid personality. Only, in the confinement of the psychiatric ward, where he is currently being held under constant observation, Naldo has been able to suppress that side of his dual personality which had tormented him in his sleep and haunted him in his waking hours.
His case was brought to psychiatric attention through the nature of his nightmares, which, his wife told the psychiatrist, were "emaciating him." She claimed that he actually feared coming to bed at night. She said that the nightmares had been going on for almost ten years, "although in the beginning they had been few and far between." She also said that Naldo had been against 'seeing a headshrinker,' but had finally decided that "there was no way out."
Before relating the details of his nightmare, Naldo had told the psychiatrist that he was certain he "would have to be locked up." When the psychiatrist advised him that nightmares could be manifestations of a physiological disorder, and that physiotherapy could possibly remedy the situation, Naldo disagreed with him, stating flatly that his "ailment was no ailment of the body."
The nightmare? Naldo related it, the psychiatrist noted, "in a monotone, as though he were recounting something that had happened outside himself. But there was a note of melancholy in his delivery." The following is Naldo's nightmare taken from the psychiatric interview tapes.
"I am in a clothing store window. I am also the window, the glass pane. The T in the window is a denuded male mannequin, standing alone with my-its?-papier-mache prong jutting out at an obviously fully erect angle. .'I,' the mannequin, am unaware of 'I,' the windowpane, and it isn't until a while later that the 'transparent I' becomes aware of the world outside me. The world behind my back, so to speak. When I see that world, I become both frightened and shocked, not so much by what that world is doing, as by the fact that they have found 'me' the mannequin.
"There is a procession of sorts outside. It's made up of no more extraordinary people than those you see going by any downtown clothing store. Only they are moving by at a slow pace, and in single file. Of the thousands of these passers-by whom I've seen in the dream, not a single one have I been able to recognize from my waking world. They are all strangers. But I remember some of them. I remember what they do.
"There is this young accountant-type. He's dressed in a worsted gray suit. He stops in front of the window, unzips his fly, draws out his penis-it's in a state of arousal-and masturbates violently, to a point where his body is seized with a convulsive shudder. His sperm flies through 'me,' the windowpane and lands on my papier-mache body. Then he replaces his dick inside his trousers, fixes a hated-filled gaze on the figure-my figure-in the window, and spits at it. Only the spit doesn't pass through the window. Instead, it is deposited on the glass. Two young kids approach the window next. A boy and a girl, each about fifteen. Immediately their hands fly toward each other's crotch. The boy raises the girl's miniskirt and works his finger past the elastic band of her panties and into her vagina; the girl pulls open the boy's fly and brings out his erect dick. They stand in front of me, their faces glazed over with a mixture of lust and hatred, and jack each other off. The boy shoots his come at the mannequin, as the accountant had; the girl sticks a finger into her cranny and flicks her juices through me, and at me. Then they spit, too, and walk away. There are others, anywhere from six to ten of them, and they all follow the example of the first three. Then the last figure moves in and stops in front of the store window. I become aware of several things at once then. There is 'I,' the window-pane, with the sheet of spittle; there is 'I,' the mannequin, with the sticky coating of sperm and feminine fluids, and there is the final figure in front of the window: the policeman.
"Suddenly, with his appearance there, panic seizes me. I know something dreadful is about to happen, but there is nothing I can do to prevent it. Then I see the officer's hand moving to his holster; I see his fingers curling around the handle of the revolver; I see the revolver being drawn out of the holster, raised, and pointed at 'me,' the mannequin. 'I,' the windowpane, know that the only way he can hit the sperm-coated me is to fire through the spit-covered me.
"Just before I awaken, there is a flash of light, and I see the bullet floating at me through the air. It touches me, and I fall into a thousand fragments. Then I hear myself scream behind me...."
It is an odd, strange dream, bristling with symbolism, substitutions, and distortions. Perhaps what is even more odd, however, is the fact that Naldo restrained the psychiatrist from attempting to interpret it. "There is no point in wasting your time deciphering it," he said. "I know what the nightmare signifies. I know what the nightmare's causes are. My nightmares are distorted fabrications of an ailing mind-a psychotic mind."
The psychiatrist noted paranoia in Naldo's file, but told him to go ahead and voice his ideas. Naldo did.
"They are not ideas," he began. "They are unfortunate facts. I could let you probe my mind-and I would conceal nothing-but it would be, from your point of view, like searching an expansive desert with a divining rod for water; it'd be a waste of time if someone knows where water is and is willing to lead you to it.
"From my nightmare sequence, I am sure you have been able to extract the element of exhibitionism. I've been analyzing that nightmare for the past ten years, and yes, the mannequin-my mannequin-in the window states explicitly what I am. An exhibitionist. The fact that I also assume the form of the windowpane simultaneously with that of the mannequin, indicates a schizoid personality. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. The good me and the bad me. The conscience and the body. The windowpane and the mannequin. Discovery is, naturally, inevitable. If truth will out, so will the exhibitionist. The crowd, the line, are those to whom I have exposed myself over the past ten years. Their behavior in my nightmare is not aderogation directed against them-although some had been voyeuristic, and more-but is indicative of the pleasure my body received (their ejaculation in the dream) through my exposure to them. The windowpane, however (obviously my conscience), was subjected to nothing but the greatest agony, the most overwhelming guilt. It tried to stand in the way of my bodily practices, but-even as the nightmare indicated-it failed miserably. It suffered the humiliating derision of all those to whom I had revealed my body.
"So, interpreting my dream will not terminate it, nor will it provide an answer as to why I have become obsessed by exhibitionism. The reason it will not is because I am aware of how that practice of mine started. Knowing that just isn't enough to make my perversion end. And it is, indeed, a perversion. I find no satisfaction in screwing my wife. No fulfillment "in pistoning my erection in and out between her thighs.
"Obsession. That's what it is. I've tried to quelch the urge-unsuccessfully. Ever since the first incident ten or eleven years ago. I had just been discharged from the Navy. Long Beach was the scene of the demise of my respectability. If I had ever had any.
"It was summer. A hot sweltering day that had brought everybody out to the beach and the parks. I was dying for a piece of ass, but, having spent four years aboard an aircraft carrier in the Formosa Strait, I felt completely out of touch with the nonservice world. Oh, I'd had shore leave in Keelung in Formosa, and Yokosuka in Japan, and had experienced no difficulty finding my way to the whorehouses there. But back home in the states, the fact that the people were my people, and the girls American girls, made me somehow feel uncertain. Besides, I didn't want to wind up in the clink. I figured that I should first look around. Get used to the people and the surroundings.
"I wandered all over town most of the day, looking around, sizing up the fantastic tits and fannies that bounced and swung everywhere I turned my eyes. Inevitably, I found myself walking about with my hands in my pockets, trying like mad to keep my hard-on from showing through my tight civvies. Before I knew it, the sun had set, and I found myself sitting at a bar, nursing a beer. It wasn't the only beer I had, either. I had had enough not to worry any longer about my cock letting the world know that it wanted in.
"I don't know how long this gal had been sitting on the stool a seat away from me. I became aware of her quite suddenly. She was a redhead, and just barely old enough to be in the joint. Large green eyes, pouty lips, breasts that didn't need the brassiere that was clearly visible through the thin blouse she was wearing. Two things about her caught my attention. One was the rippling movement of her thighs. She had her dark blue skirt hiked up so high that, with her legs crossed the way they were, I could see an inch of her white panties hugging her hip. The movement was obviously a masturbatory one. I mean, it wasn't a leg-shaking type of motion. You could tell that she was rapidly squeezing the lips of her pussy with her uppermost inner thighs. The other thing that arrested my attention was the flushed look on her face, and the realization of what her misty eyes were fixed upon. She was practically devouring the sausage that was stretching solidly along my inner thigh.
"I was about to cover it up, I think, but decided what the hell! So, instead of doing that, I brought my hand down on my whanger, which was actually only about half-hard at the moment, and pulled the foreskin back through my trousers until I felt the head entirely free of it and pressing against the material. I glanced down, and there was no mistaking what was what. You could actually see the goddamn thing's outline-head, slit in its tip, ridge beneath the head, the whole seven-or eight-inch length rising up into the V of my crotch. But what made me blow my cool was the fact that as soon as I had done that, the gal shuddered visibly, clenched her legs tightly together, gasped-I swear to it-and, getting off the barstool, made a beeline straight for the girls' room.
"She must have been in there about ten minutes. When she came back, she climbed up on the seat right next to mine. She looked perfectly composed now, which sort of irked me. I was sure she had gone to the restroom to play with her pussy, or to clean up whatever she managed to ooze out while she was getting her twat worked up. Anyway, I half turned toward her, brought my hand down between my legs, unzipped my fly, and pulled my son of a bitch right out. It was really a wild sensation, knowing that I was showing this young kid-and, hell, she was that-my cock in all its erect naked glory.
"Do you know what she did then? It pissed the hell out of me! As soon as she saw my meat rising up out of my fly, she slipped off the stool and headed out the front door. Now, until she did that, my intention had been to get her out of the bar, go somewhere, and fuck the shit out of her. I mean, she was obviously no innocent. But then, when she made her hurried exit, I realized that my cock needed release, and that she had brought it to a state I hadn't remembered seeing it in in a hell of a long time. So, instead of high-tailing it after her, I got off the barstool and made a beeline myself-for the men's room. Once there, I stepped into the stall, leaned against the wall, and, taking my cock out again, (I'd replaced it quickly as soon as she had made her run for it), I beat myself to a spurting climax with no more than a couple of stokes. All I had to do was picture the girl's jouncing thighs, the expression on her face. ... The moment my jism shot out to splatter against the wall opposite me, I imagined her pussy running its feminine fluids of orgasm-and all from ivatchhtg my prick!
"Suddenly, I realized that if I just went and got myself a whore, I'd be wasting my time on one pussy that fucked for a living, on one slut that fucked whoever paid her to fuck. It'd be a waste of time and money. There was a cheap and glorious way of blowing my rocks-a much more satisfying experience, as I had just found out-by accosting cunts that walked the streets, not necessarily in search of a hard cock. It would be like screwing someone whom you weren't supposed to screw. Like an underage girl, or somebody's young fresh wife, It was a taboo that I wanted to break. And I did.
"I caught a bus from Long Beach to Los Angeles. The only reason I did that was because I had stopped at the depot for a cup of coffee and had seen this young pair of chicks sitting in a booth, sipping sodas. They couldn't have been over fifteen, maybe sixteen years of age.
"I was sitting at a table off to the side, staring up under the skirt of one of them. The way she sat-her legs apart-I would have fallen right into her young fuck hole, if she hadn't a pair of panties on. Anyway, I overheard that they were waiting for the bus to L. A., so I bought a ticket there, too. When I came back to my table with the ticket, I had a hard-on going again. Several times I brought my hand under the table and moved the column of flesh around and stroked it, squeezed it, and scratched my balls. Sure enough, one of the two little cunts wound up throwing glances in my direction.
"When I saw her draw her legs together, I got this wild thrill through my groin. She had caught on! I think that was the most important thing. The mental realization that this young twat knew that I had been watching her crotch, that she had seen the outline of my penis, and the way I was practically jacking off under the table from watching her private area. I mean, it added up to the fact that this high school girl, who knew nothing about me, was thinking of my cock and her pussy, which meant that she was thinking of my cock in her pussy, or of fucking!
At that instant, I felt moisture seep into the cloth of my pants from the end of my cock. I would have gone to the rest room again to jack off, but I was thinking of having some more fun with the two, once we got on the bus. And did I have that fun!
"I made sure when the bus pulled up to have them get on it first. Then I followed, taking a seat against the window across the aisle from them. There wasn't anybody else on the bus except this older couple sitting up front. The girls and I were about two or three seats from the back of the bus. I saw them whisper as soon as they saw me heading back toward where they were sitting, and that gave me another kick. Apparently the one that had been ogling my crotch in the coffee shop, the one whose mound I'd seen concealed from me by nothing more than a thin bit of material, had already told her companion something about me. Anyway, I acted as though I wasn't even aware of them. I plopped down on the seat, sprawling out on it so that my cock was prominently displayed in my trousers, and half-closed my eyes.
"What I did all the way to downtown L. A. was pretend that I was asleep, all the while playing with my cock, first through my trousers, and then, when the girls began squirming in their seats, pressing down into the Vs of their thighs with their fingers (obviously working up to their clits), sticking my hand into my pants and actually beating my meat right in front of their eyes. The funny thing is, neither one of the two suggested changing seats. From that, I knew that they were having their kicks watching me.
"What I did when the bus finally pulled into the L. A. depot was unzip my pants, take my cock out, and, staring at the fucking cunts across the aisle, jack myself off until the egg-white come shot right against the back of the seat in front of me. I don't know. Maybe I was imagining things, but I swear it seemed as though those two little innocents creamed their panties at the same instant that I blew my wad. They sure were red of face when they got off the bus.
"So, that's the way it started. And it went on for about a year before I married Loree. Not that it stopped afterward. It's surprising that I never got caught, or reported by anyone. I guess it shows that people-other than those that have been hemmed in by any kind of a religious upbringing-have nothing against getting a vicarious thrill watching another person masturbate in public. Sometimes I think that it was the way I went about it. You know, getting the watcher hot all over first? Hot to the point that when she realized that she was actually being egged on, she didn't give a damn.
"Parks, swimming pools, libraries, theaters, buses, trains-I made them all my stage. I got to Loree the same way. Only in her case we struck up a conversation, and she wasn't aware that I had watched her sliding her finger in and out of her pussy in that movie theater. After we got married, I tried with all of my willpower to cease doing what had become such a habit. It's obvious that I failed."
Habit. That may very well be the crucial word in Naldo's story. And a habit of sex is probably more difficult to break than any other habit. Obviously, Naldo's sexual perversity developed through the association of ideas of sexual content (the girl in the bar, masturbating herself secretively while observing Naldo's virility). What it will take to break Naldo of the habit is not certain. The psychiatrist feels that nothing may do it except Naldo's fairly long term at the mental institution, where he doesn't seem to have the urge to expose himself to anyone. Of course, the fact that he had never practiced exhibitionistic acts in front of males (and the mental institution, aside from the few women technicians and nurses' aides, consists of mostly male inmates), may very well be the reason that his behavior at the hospital has been without reproach. However, this abstinence may be nothing more than a suppression of his desires, and no one can say that when Naldo is released, he will not return to his former self.
Thus, the prognosis is uncertain, which is pathetic, since Naldo obviously has a clear understanding not only of the psychodynamic mechanism of his nightmare, but also of the original incident that brought about his perverse acts. His case is of an interesting cyclic nature. The cause of the nightmares, the germ that grew to the stature of a nocturnal demon, was revealed through the persecutive nature of his dreams. Which makes it appear as though the succubi in Naldo's case were traitors of themselves. Whatever the answer may be to Naldo's difficulty, however, there is always the chance that with time his willpower will strengthen sufficiently to permit him the release of a normal, every-day life-whatever that might be.
CONCLUSION
Just as every child who is brought into the world, even one of dubious parentage, must undeniably have a cause, an origin, so is it true of the succubi, the violators of sleep. The implicit sexual context of these nightmares, whenever brought under psychoanalytic scrutiny, will inevitably point to some sexually traumatic experience in the dreamer's past. The trauma will always have, as its principal element, either fear or guilt, although the presence of both is not an unusual phenomenon.
It should be stressed that these nightmares, the nightmares that have been treated in this work, the nightmares that hold the past within their complex net, are chronic nightmares. What has been said of them does not apply to the occasional nightmare an individual may have, a chimera that stands by itself in what amounts to a frightening one-night stand within the individual's sleep-enshrouded mind. Even in instances where a series of independent unrelated nightmares descend to plague the sleeper, their origin, more likely than not, is of a pathophysiological nature, rather than of a past psychosexual one.
In either case, of course, it is not imprudent for the dreamer of nightmares to pay a close watch over the development of his nocturnal visions. Repetition of one specific dream should be sufficient indication that a visit to a psychoanalyst is not inadvisable. Again, the inherent sexuality of the nightmares, particularly if it is combined with the dreamer's conscious awareness of his "transgression in matters of sexual behavior," may prove to be a powerful factor in his decision not to seek psychiatric help. Hopefully, however, the case histories presented in this volume have shown that nightmares-chronic nightmares-are not unlike physical ailments; the longer they are permitted to go on unchecked, the more acute and immune to treatment will they become.
The science of dream analysis is a young offspring of psychiatry; it has a long way to go before it developed even to the point of a semi-precise science. Preciseness is practically impossible when the subject of study is as fluid as the human mind. But no one will deny that dream analysis has made an outstanding and astounding leap since the turn of the last century.
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