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Teen Slave Girls Trained & Disciplined ....(73k)    by Unknown

GENERAL INTRODUCTION

They are suburban slave teens. Their stories will thrill and amaze you, as they have thrilled and amazed me, Dr . Harding, specialist in sexual deviants.

Meg, Chrissy, Debbie, and Betty were nice girls. Each of them, in her own way, wanted nothing more than any other girl. They wanted money, and men.

They are different girls and yet they have everything in common. Meg, a young woman from suburban New York, turned teen slave when she and her father were abandoned by her mother, and left without access to her mother's large inheritance. A practical girl, Meg knew how to work for a living.

Chrissy learned early that being from one of the oldest and wealthiest families in America did not exempt her from the sexual advances of her lonely father.

Debbie , just a small-town girl from the midwest, found a new lease on life when her neighbors introduced her to the wonders of abuse.

Finally there is Betty, a determined woman, whose ambition was strong enough to land her in New York City, in the position to help her father rise to the top of his profession.

They are modern American girls. I am sure their stories will interest you.

CASE HISTORY ONE

SUBJECT Meg R. AGE: Eighteen

INTERVIEW ONE

I may look like the ail-American girl. Don't let that fool you. Too many are fooled by looks in this day and age. Preppie is as preppie does surely can't apply to me.

Oh, I come from a classic middle American background Sometimes I think of that as my downfall. For it is the all American urge for illicit sex that made me what I am today.

I grew up in suburban New York. To be exact, I was born and raised in Westchester County, in the little community of Tarrytown. A very pretty place.

You may know Tarrytown as the home of

Washington Irving's Ichabod Crane, as the home of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, as the home of the Rockefellers

I know Tarrytown as the home of driving and repressed sexual desire, as a hotbed of teeming hot writhing ungodly sexual acts in the dead of night.

You think I am exaggerating. Take a trip up to Tarrytown some hot August evening, the season of bright wet stains of sweat across many a polo shirt.

For there are districts in the world where it is hot, hotter than even an omelet pan silver and slick with bubbling oil, but none of these places compare to Tarrytown in August.

I mean I'm talking here oppressive heat, and not simply the oppressive heat of the American south where, I am told, the heat is like a blanket you wear all summer.

I'm talking heat more permeating and uncomfortable than the heat of the Mojave Desert, or the Arabian Desert, or the Sahara Desert.

The heat in Tarrytown is the heat of sexual need in the midst of a great and fierce sexual repression. It is the heat that comes from below the belt.

It is the heat of having to hide sexual need under a look of absolute cool and completely calm. It is the heat of maintaining appearances.

It is the heat of happy families living in split level houses with two children an economy car and a big fuzzy dog, and very unusual sexual tastes.

Tarrytown must be at times the hottest place in the world, because in Tarrytown nothing is ever to look as if it causes any strain. The sweat must never show.

People don't pee in Tarrytown, and they don't menstruate, and they don t even burp at family meals, and they certainly don't ever fuck.

Or if they fuck, if they do so at all, they do it quietly, and with sobriety, in the missionary position, with the man forever on top.

Or at least, so the residents of Tarrytown would have you believe. However, I happen to know better. I happen to know what really goes on here in the dead of night in August.

I am the highest priced call girl in Westchester County. I am a teen slave. If you want me you can have me for a price. For a very high price.

Not that this is an advertisement. Don't get me wrong. I'm not taking out ads, here. That's the last thing I need, ads. No, I'm booked solid through Labor Day.

I just want to tell my story. I just want it known that not all suburban havens are just as they seem to be. The streets are tree lined, the sex is anything but serene.

My story takes me all the way back to my childhood. I was a girl of eleven when I turned my first trick. I wasn't paid, but I think of it as my first trick.

It was for my father. Does that shock you? Fasten your seatbelts. It's going to be a bumpy retelling. No, Daddy was only the first, and also the easiest, and still, I think, the best.

From Daddy I moved on to more demanding clientele. For in Tarrytown we live in the comforting proximity of millionaires They all want a piece of my action, and they can pay for it.

But it was with small time work like that which I did for Daddy that I got my start. I am thankful to him to this very day, dear old Daddy.

As I said I was a girl of merely eleven, but don't you think I mean that I was innocent. Well, alright, I was a virgin. But I sure wasn't innocent.

No, no girl with a body like mine could remain innocent for very long. The full breasts which I now sport appeared the summer of my tenth year. I have only just grown into them.

I had a full figure even then, which rendered me all the more desirable. Men who wanted young looking girls who could offer the rewards of women always turned to me.

I was the good little girl who knew how to be bad. The first time I was ever bad was with Daddy. Daddy taught me a lot about being bad.

He worked in Manhattan, or rather said he did. I always suspected that he went there only to get his rocks off, and to keep up appearances.

For, if the truth be told, it was Mommy who was the financial backbone of the family. I found this out only later after she left us. After she left us, you see, we were dead broke.

Daddy had always maintained that he was a freelance-something. I never was sure just what, but I found out after Mommy left us. He was a freelance husband.

That's right, he married Mommy for her money. It couldn't have been love, and it certainly wasn't sex. I know she didn't put out for him. I know that because I put out for him.

Still I'm getting way ahead of things here and I had wanted to start the story from the very beginning. I need to piece this together bit by bit.

This is an exercise for me, and exercise in catharsis. I need the opportunity just at the moment to review my life. I need to look back, to take stock.

Allow me to indulge myself at your expense. I can promise that the story is a good one, if you like stories full of sex and rage and middle America.

I was beginning with the first time with Daddy, wasn't I. Well, then. I'll give you a picture of myself at the tender age of eleven. Oh, what a picture I was.

Think of porcelain skin. Think of clear blue deep aqua blue eyes. Eyes you could lose yourself in, eyes that are the eyes of America, the perfect blue eyes of America.

Eyes to swim in. Oh, yes, they swim in my eyes. They tell me now as they told me then. To look into my eyes is to swim on indefinitely, or at least until your hour's up.

Think of blonde hair. Blonde. Think of blonde. What does blonde make you think of? Movie stars? Wheat fields? Simplicity and elegance?

Erase all of that from your mind. Forget the kind of blonde you know and think of ice. Think of a cube of ice down your back on the hottest day of summer.

Think of a clear reservoir with the sun beating down to its very bottom, then diving into the sun and the water all the way down to the rocks at the bottom.

That's blonde. That's the kind of blonde I'm talking here. Cool and blonde. Mint refreshing blonde, Kentucky Derby blonde, skinny dipping blonde.

And long. Long long, down to my shoulders, down to my ass, down to my ankles long. Braided or free and 'long in the afternoon. Long enough co whip you with.

Now think: the breasts of the sphinx. Not that the sphinx had breasts. But if she had breasts, she would have my breasts, my large breasts

Round nipples and red red rounded nipples and big big luscious breasts. Think of that, of having all your hands, all the hands you have, around my breasts.

They're too large to hold, too large to taste, too large to caress. They're breasts to sleep between, to wrap around your chest and fall asleep between.

I have these breasts. They are breasts and nothing more. They need not be more than simply breasts. They are breasts I know you've seen in your dreams.

Ah, and on down to my mound, but first slowly over my narrow narrow hips. A girl of eleven will have narrow hips. They all have narrow hips.

My hips, then, were narrow as an irrigation channel through which water flows to thirsty desert plants, to parched and thirsting desert plants.

Yes, narrow. And mounted atop those hips, oh, but what a cunt. I must say I must say, it is a cunt. It was when I was eleven, and still is so today.

Poetry, why that's an inadequate means of expression when the topic is my cunt. I don't want to use words that have been used to describe other things. I want to use words never used before.

You have to feel my cunt to understand it. You have to take your hand and lead your fingers there. You have to make the trip down my stomach to my cunt.

Start with your hand flat on my belly. It's a nice belly, rounded and firm, and soft, and you want to leave your hand there just to caress it.

You do that, you leave your hand there for awhile, and you just caress my stomach, my firm rounded belly. You take the bits of flesh in your hand and hold them.

You don't squeeze. You don't pinch. It's not a belly you want to mar. You want to leave no marks. It's perfect. You have to admire it, and you touch it over and over again.

But you can't stay there. You can smell me now, and your hand will want to move downwards. To stay at my belly would be to do the center of me quite a disservice.

The center of me. My cunt. It's the best word for it, really. It looks like a cunt. It smells like a cunt. It tastes like a cunt. It is my cunt.

You can see it and smell it but not yet taste it. Oh, you can taste it in the back of your mouth, in your lungs, you can taste it. But not until you have your tongue there have you really tasted it.

Now it is only your hand that is on the way down to my cunt, and you move your hand slowly down my belly, stopping, perhaps, to caress my hips.

But ever on to my cunt. That is the destination. That is the Holy Grail. And it is holy. Believe me, it is the holiest cunt you have known. Men worship it.

Your hand passes through my bush, through the tufting deep brown pubic hair which announces my cunt, presents it to the world.

My pubic hair is the gateway to my cunt, the road sign along the superhighway that indicates you have driven now as far as the metropolis.

All roads lead to Rome, and all hands lead to my cunt, and your hand is going there now and you can hardly breathe. I can hear you hardly breathing.

Through my hair, then. Soft hair. Downy soft. It catches in tufts between your fingers like bits of hay fresh off the bale.

You tangle your fingers in my hair and close your eyes to imagine yourself rolling in it. It is that soft, and that exciting.

But you move on. You must. You must move onto my cunt. Down over the lips your hands falls, and you just place your palm there for a moment.

Feel the softness. Feel the twin mounds of flesh that are my lips. They are warm and firm but somehow soft like jelly under your palm.

You squeeze very lightly, and moan softly to yourself, and then you slide a finger down between the lips and I am wet. All inside of me, wet.

I am wet for you. You are the best man I have ever had. Every man is the best. Every man is different and each of them is the very best.

Now you are the best. I am very wet for you and you can feel it. You really can smell it now, too. You can smell it and feel it, and now you part my lips.

Look down into me, at all the redness of my cunt, and the wetness of it, and the sweet and pungent stench of it, the stench of lust.

It smells like fucking. Doesn't it? It smells like fucking. In Tarrytown the men are mad for the smell of fucking. It's something their wives deprive them of.

I exude the smell of fucking. You look at my cunt and think of my ass-hole, and there is the smell of shit, just vaguely, and you like that.

I beg you to finger my clit. My clit is very large and now it's quite erect. It got that way because of you. I am hard and wet and red and smelling for you.

Can you picture my cunt? It was this way when I was eleven, and it is even more so this way now. It will always be this way. For you.

Well. A bit of my routine there for you, free of charge. Yes, I can talk to the men and they love it. Some of them, too old to get it up, just have me talk to them.

Yes, I have had some of the oldest in Tarrytown, ninety year old fathers of the community, alongside their grandsons, and even great grandsons.

I am a very democratic whore. I will take you no matter what your religion, your political affiliation, your color, sex, or creed.

And to my father. You have a picture of me now at eleven? Yes? Very sexy, very desirable, and very, very young. For I was still young. Who is not young at eleven. I was young. I was the maiden who learned how to fuck like a whore. I was the virgin Madonna. I was every man's dream.

My father wanted me the first of anyone, I suppose. My father saw my talents developing.

He used to bathe me and dress me. He ought to have seen what I had become.

The poor man, I don't know how he kept away from me as long as he did. It must have taxed his patience no end to keep his paws off of me.

Well, at eleven I was ready and he was ready and one day the two of us were alone in the house together as Mommy was off to one of her interminable PTA meetings.

It was a school night, I remember well, and I had been sent off to bed. Well, now, as an eleven year old I was precocious, and I hated to be sent off to bed.

Daddy and Mommy were determined that I should be off in slumber land by nine each evening, which struck me as simply absurd.

I hated that, really, especially since one of my very favorite TV programs was on at nine each evening. I hated to miss that program. And I never did.

I used to sneak out of my room and stand in the doorway to my parents' living room to watch the program. I could see the television from the doorway.

During commercials of course I would scutter back to my room. But my parents are avid TV watchers, or rather, they were, and they just turned to jelly in front of the tube. I really was never in danger of getting caught, and subsequently punished.

And so it was this evening, as with every evening on this particular day of the week, that I slipped out of my room and down the hall towards the living room.

I supposed that Daddy would have the TV on to this particular show and was surprised and disappointed of course that the set was off.

What on earth could Daddy be doing that he had neglected to turn on the TV, I wondered to myself. Perhaps he had fainted. Perhaps he was in peril.

Well, there was only one way to find out. I crept slowly into the room up to the back of the couch at which Daddy and Mommy sat to watch the TV.

Their backs were always to me and of course they couldn't see me approaching them or standing in the doorway unless they turned around.

I didn't see the back of Daddy's head as I walked slowly towards the couch. I thought that he was terribly ill, possibly lying on the floor in front of the TV, his hand reaching out towards the dial.

I was wrong. I was dead wrong. Daddy was on the couch, but there was nothing wrong with him. Nothing at all, except that he needed a woman.

He lay on his back on the couch with his pants down below his knees and his underwear around his thighs and he had his cock out and held it tightly in one hand.

He was sighing heavily and his eyes were closed. His cock was large and red and he had wet it with saliva from his very own fatherly mouth.

Poor Daddy. I suddenly felt very sorry for him. No, I wasn't shocked. I knew all about cocks, and all about masturbation. I was a virgin, but not a stupid one.

I meant to creep again out of the room, and not embarrass him I meant to. But alas. Alas, I am afraid that I sighed too loudly in daughterly sympathy.

Of course he heard me. Of course he opened his eyes and glared at me. Of course he had to punish me. What would you do if your daughter caught you beating off? Invite her to help?

He was and is a decent man. He wasn't out to corrupt me. "Meg," he scolded, pulling up his pants as quickly as he could and trying to recover some semblance of dignity.

I felt so sorry for him. He hadn't even come. I had embarrassed him before he had even had time to come. What a wicked daughter I was. I thought as much, anyway.

And now I was to be punished. Daddy and Mommy firmly believed that children who are bad must be spanked, and although I was eleven, and a little old for such things. Rules were rules.

That fateful spanking is etched in my memory. Some of us remember the sweet days of childhood as long summer parties, or dancing before open fire hydrants.

My childhood is one long spanking. Mind you it only really mattered that one time, but it has had its effect on my memory Spanking to me means my childhood.

I still can be moved to tears of joy by a really good spanking. It always reminds me of my father and that lovely evening so long ago.

I'm getting ahead of myself. You don't even know about the spanking yet, and here I am telling you all about how I felt about it years later.

To the spanking, then. "Meg," my father said, "you know what happens to little girls who aren't in bed when they are told to be in bed."

I was too embarrassed to protest, as I might otherwise have done. I felt bad for him, and wanted to make it easy on him. I played along.

"Oh, Daddy," I said, "please don't spank me. Please. I know I've been bad, but it won't ever happen again. Please, just don't spank me."

"You're damned right it won't ever happen again, young lady. It won't ever happen again because I'm going to beat you within an inch of your life."

I believe he meant that. I believe that he wanted to hurt me. Well, wouldn't you want to? I had just caught him beating off I would have been angry, too.

So I went to him. I walked with my head down and my hands at my sides and I circled around the couch. I stopped in front of him, lowered my jamma bottoms, and climbed onto his lap.

I pay across him with my bare ass up to his face, and I said, "Please spank me, Daddy. I've been bad. Now I know that you have to spank me."

Just like that, I submitted. I felt that I owed it to him. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and prepared myself for the worst. Was I surprised.

Don't get me wrong. He spanked me. He spanked me to within an inch of my life, just as he had threatened to. But this time it was different. This time I loved it.

Each time he brought the flat of his hand down upon my little white buttocks, my fleshy and rounded little buttocks, I felt a shiver of pleasure through me.

His hand came down with a sting, hard and swift, like a body hitting water much too hard and much too fast. like a belly flop into the water.

I felt that on my ass. And it hurt. Oh, God, did it ever hurt. And, oh dear God did I ever like it. I liked it as much as I had ever liked anything in my life.

I liked it between my legs. That was where I liked it. I liked it strong and sharp and wet between my legs. I liked it warm with my whole body.

The harder he hit me the more I liked it. I knew that he was raising welts on my ass, but I couldn't begin to ask him to stop. It was wonderful.

Then it occurred to me that he wasn't showing any signs of stopping. It occurred to me that he was going on a lot longer than he ever had before.

It occurred to me that there was something hard under my thighs, and that it was pressing up against my skin, and that it was hot, and a little sticky.

The light had begun to dawn. Daddy liked it too. Daddy liked to hit me as much as I liked to be hit. We were both very much enjoying this spanking.

"Daddy," I shouted, "Daddy, please stop. Daddy, you have to stop now Daddy, please, please stop," I begged him, crying out loudly.

"Not until you're good and well punished," he said. "I'll not stop until I feel you have learned a lesson. I want to teach you a lesson."

"Oh, Daddy," I said, "I know an even better lesson you can teach me. Oh, please stop and let me have you teach me another lesson."

That piqued his curiosity. That got him going. He wanted to know about this lesson that he was to teach me, this further lesson.

He stopped spanking me. Oh, in stopping it was almost better than before. Now my flesh was all tingling. Now I was luxuriating in my tingling flesh

When a hand comes down on you over and over, in rapid succession, you don't have time to concentrate on the feel of each individual blow

All you can feel really is the overall effect, the general thrust of things. But when that hand is taken away, then you have time to concentrate on the feel in your ass.

With the hand, there is always that hand to feel, as well as the feeling in your ass when it breaks down over your skin. But when the hand is gone. Then there is only you.

Now I could feel only my tingling flesh. It was heavenly. I wanted to blow him. I wanted to blow him so hard and so well that his head came off.

I said just that. "Teach me to blow you so hard and so well that your head comes off, that the top of your head comes right off."

And before he could utter a word one way or the other I took his cock in my mouth and started sucking on it with all my might. No lollipop had ever pleased me so well.

What could Daddy say? You may call him a degenerate when I tell you what happened next, but I ask you, what was there for him to do?

Picture it: You are a hard working man. Or anyway you have to pretend to be. Ot at least you have to deal with a wife who nags you, and then withholds her favors.

You have an eleven year old daughter just entering puberty, and entering with a vengeance. Her breasts are ripe and her mound is womanly, and her personality is pixie and adorable.

She takes well to a spanking one evening, and just as you yourself have begun to get a bit too much pleasure out of it, and just as you have perhaps tried to pull yourself together, she offers to go down on you. And then she does. She goes down on you.

Now what would you do? What would any man do? To have those young eager lips around your cock, pulling and licking at your shaft, tugging at your balls?

What man has not secretly dreamed of just such a thing, what unhappily, or even happily married man, has not had just such a dream, of his own little daughter.

Or of someone else's daughter. The neighbor's little Melissa. The little niece. The very young sister in law. What man of a healthy appetite would not have done as my father did?

My father. Daddy. He let me do it. When he saw that I was determined, he let me do it. When he felt that I was determined, he taught me how

"Open very wide, now " he said, "and take one deep breath so as not to gag. And now just dive down on it, just take it all the way down."

Did I take it all the way down. All the way down. Do you believe that? The movie Deep Throat is the story of my life. I could deep throat a horse.

If I could deep throat Daddy at the tender age of eleven, you can imagine what would happen.

INTERVIEW TWO

So I started as Daddy's little girl, and I have ended as the highest paid whore in suburban America. You're dying to hear the story of my rise to success. Well, now.

You may think it's all been a bowl of roses for me, and if you think that I can only tell you just how wrong you are. It's been hell. It's been a lot of very hard work.

For instance there was everything to learn, many things even Daddy couldn't teach me. I've often thought that if I can ever save enough money I'll open up a school for whores, just so that I can teach what I had to come by through experience.

There's no way to learn how to whore other than to do it. A school would be nice. It could save a lot of nice working girls a great deal of trouble.

like the time I learned about men who like to be tied up. That was a trip in itself. That was an experience I think I may never forget. Let me tell you all about it.

He was a mild mannered man from Rye, New York. He met me one day on the train. I tell you, I pick up some of my best customers just riding the train to the city.

The trains, they were my beat for some time. I rode them all, the Harlem line and the New Haven line, and I lined up quite a clientele.

The personnel of course never gave me any trouble, the conductors and the engineers and such. Not that I didn't have to suck a cock here and there to keep them quiet. But they liked me anyway.

So I'm on the New Haven line and I meet this mild mannered man from Rye, New York. He's sitting there reading the Wall Street Journal and he's wearing a three piece suit.

The suit fits him alright, but there's something wrong with his tie. It's the wrong color and it's just a bit too wide. And looking down, I see that his socks don't match.

That's the tip off. When their socks don't match, or their ties clash, I know right away they're missing a woman in their lives.

Most of these men, after all, are married. Most of them are slaves to their wives. Most of them couldn't get themselves on the train in the morning without the help of their wives.

Obviously this man is either temporarily or permanently out of a woman. No self respecting woman in the world would have let him out of the house wearing that tie.

So. I opt for the damsel in distress routine. The train is crowded, this guy is sitting on the aisle seat buried in the Journal, and I've got nowhere to sit.

"Excuse me, sir," I say, sidling over to him. "I hate to ask, but would you mind giving up your seat? It's just that, I twisted my ankle jogging, and wearing these heels I'm afraid I'm going to do myself some damage if I stand too long."

I hadn't gotten three words out of my mouth, of course, before he was up out of his seat and just about ready to offer me his entire life or whatever it was I wanted.

"Thank you so much," I said to him "You're very kind." I smiled, and then, seeing that he was too shy to make conversation, I helped him out.

"You commute to the city every day?" It wasn't a brilliant line, but these men aren't exactly intellectuals. They like to talk. They don't care what about.

"Uh huh," he said. "Every day for going on ten years now I work with a brokerage firm on Wall Street." He looked as if he hadn't spoken to a real woman in all that time.

"Oh, stocks and bonds," I sail, "they just make no sense to me at all. You must be a very bright man to be able to do that kind of work."

Flatter them. You'd be amazed at how far you can get in this world with even the most obvious types of flattery Everyone is vain. Flatter them, and you can conquer the world.

"Oh, well," he said, turning all red. "Not really. It's not that much at all, really. It's just a job. Everybody has to have a job."

A blow job, a hand job, or just what kind of job? Whether or not he knew it, that was what he really meant. Sex is what they always really mean. So I've learned.

Now was the time to get intimate with him. "Your wife know you're out of the house wearing two different colored socks? Or is she visiting her mother for the week."

"She's visiting her mother permanently," he said, turning even redder but warming up to me now "She walked out on me over a year ago."

"You poor man,' I said, "and now there's no one to see that your socks have mates, is that it?" And no one to see that his cock had a mate, I could tell from the rise in the crotch of his pants. Oh, he was warming up to me.

"Well, now, it does get lonely, at times," he said, "but I do have my work." And if that wasn't the tip off. Whenever they start to talk about how they have their work, it's a dead giveaway that they're desperately lonely. Men never want to talk about work to pretty girls unless there's something seriously lacking in their lives.

"You ought to at least have a girl come over some time and clean up for you," I said, "a man like you. Every man needs a woman now and again."

I said that with the slightest hint of a brazen tone, just to make it clear to him that it was alright for him to be forthright with me.

They like to make the first move, or to think they're making the first move, but they have to be led to. it as a child has to be led. Men are children.

So we got to talking. Within a few moments, this nice mild mannered man opened up quite a bit, and we had the longest talk. All the way into the city.

"Tell you what," he said, as we reached the city. "I'm due a day off. Why don't I just call in sick, and you come out with me for lunch, or something."

Well, as long as he was willing to pay, lunch sounded good to me. But of course we couldn't lunch all day long. I had a better idea in mind.

"Tell you what," I said, "I've always wanted to go on that Staten Island Ferry. All my life I've lived near the city, and I've never been on the Ferry."

"You know " he said, "that sounds like a terrific idea. Why don't we just gon on down there, then, and have a nice little excursion."

I guess I made a hit with that. I did want to see the Ferry, and the guy was pleasant company enough. I wanted him good and loosened up before we started drinking.

If they start drinking before they're loose enough, you know, they have a tendency to get just a little bit mean, or a little bit punchy.

If you give them the time, then of course they'll be mellow and happy. Drag him all over the city, I thought, get him a little drunk, check into a motel room, and then hell be too tired to do much but give you your money and fall fast asleep.

That was the strategy, and it was not a bad strategy except that I happened to be dealing with the most tireless man on the eastern seaboard.

I couldn't tire him out, though I nearly succeeded in doing myself in. We did the Ferry, and then we went up to the top of the World Trade Center.

As if that weren't enough, we had to walk all the way uptown through Soho and the Village, and then to Rockefeller Center, and to the top of the RCA Building.

It was only lunch time and I was ready for that drink. When we sat down at the bar, I was very nearly ready to pass out. "My, you're active," I said.

"I keep in shape," he said. "And there's the presence of a beautiful woman to keep me going," he said. "That always makes me a little more active."

I smiled, and we had two or three drinks each and a lovely lunch and I was beginning to get a little curious about what this guy was like with his clothes off.

He was awfully active, but he was so carelessly dressed that I assumed his body was in about the same shape. Still, I had a feeling maybe he was hiding Charles Atlas behind that mild mannered look. I was getting a little hot thinking about it.

It was only afternoon and I was damned if I was going to spend the entire afternoon running around the city with him. I'd have been too tired to fuck.

"Listen," I said, getting right to the point, "I'd like to get to know you better."

He smiled. "Ask me anything," he said, "and I'll tell you what you want to know."

"Well, for one thing," I said, "I'd like to know how you have any energy for sex when you run around all day like this. I'm not surprised your wife left you. She probably just couldn't stand to keep pace with you another minute."

He turned eighteen shades of red. He took the whole comment as a compliment, although he might have taken it just the other way. "Gee I hope I haven't tired you out,' he said.

"Well," I said, very directly, "I could do with somewhere just to lie down for a few minutes. Just some nice, comfortable bed to lie on this afternoon."

I shot him the most meaningful look I could, and he stared at me as if not entirely certain that I meant what he thought I meant.

I nodded, making myself clear.

"My company has an account at a hotel right around here," he said. "I guess it would be okay if we checked in for a couple hours and just had a drink."

"That sounds wonderful," I said. Then he knew You should have seen him smile. I knew then that I had probably made him the happiest man in the city that day.

It wasn't a bad hotel. It was a nice hotel, in fact. Nothing imagine. Just the essentials, but kind of a nice atmosphere. I mean I could see right away that it would do.

He ordered downstairs for some wine and there was a radio in the room and we turned on the radio and he said he thought he had a very good idea.

What kind of good idea, I wanted to know. I was always one for good idea. He said he thought the two of us could get drunk on wine and cover each other with baby oil.

It sounded like a pretty tame idea, if you want to know the truth, but if that was what he wanted, that was what I wanted. The only thing missing, however, was the baby oil.

Could we order down for some, I wondered. Could he go out and buy some. No, he thought, maybe that wasn't really such a good idea after all. Maybe he had an even better idea than that.

The wine had arrived and we were drinking. We had four ice cold bottles of good wine, and he tipped the bell boy, and we were drinking and giggling, He told me the whole sad story of his wife. It was a sad story. I even cried, and not completely because I was acting out a part. It was a very sad story.

We undressed. It was just so hot, there was no reason not to. And did he have a body. I was right about that much. Quite a body he had, quite a body.

Oh, and what a cock. I took it in my hand right away. I poured wine all over it and licked it clean. I poured wine on his balls and licked them

I made him lie on the floor and I poured wine all over his body, over his nipples, and licked him clean and dry. I turned him over and poured wine in his ass-hole, and sucked it out. He was ecstatic. He was hot and excited. He was mad with passion.

"So what is this better idea you have," I wanted to know, "that will replace the baby oil? Tell me, what is this idea? I want to hear it."

And he said, "Tie me up. Please, tie me up. Force me to put on your panties and tie me up, and then scream, 'Eat my cunt you shit faced creep.' "

Oh.

Well, now to each his own. I mean it's a big big world. I mean we all have different ways of getting off, now don't we. So I said, "Where's the rope."

It was there, it had been all the time, in his brief case. I realized that this guy walked around the city with a brief case full of ropes. Well.

So first he wants me to get him into my panties. And I mean they don't in any way fit him. They're way to small. Way, way too small.

And the idea is that he won't wear them unless I force him to, so I have to scream, "Get your filthy cock into those panties this instant you sniveling shit."

Honest to God he's making me scream that. And that does the trick. Oddly enough, that gets him to slip into my panties, and his big shaft is hanging out and so are his balls.

Then I tied him up. I don't know a thing about tying people up, but I did my best, and it seemed to him to be sufficient. I tied him, and then I stood over him with my legs spread wide.

"Eat my cunt you shit faced creep," I shouted at him And played with myself. I held my lips spread wide apart and fingered my clit wildly, and shouted at him.

He lay on the floor all tied up and struggled to crawl over to me and get his mouth towards my cunt. His cock was very red and hot, and he was terribly excited.

I screamed even louder at him, "You foul smelling piece of male shit, you couldn't make a sheep happy with that cock. Eat my cunt you shit faced creep."

Eat my cunt that was the refrain eat it Eat-my-cunt-you-shit-faced-creep. Every time I said that he got harder and panted louder. It was his pleasure button. It was what turned him on.

Well, I began to get into this just a little bit. I was rather enjoying myself. I started to kick at him, not too hard, but just a bit, and I made faces and played with my clit.

My clit was hard and slippery in my fingers, and my cunt was wet with excitement. This was something new something I'd never done before, and I rather liked it.

I guess I got carried away. I guess I got to enjoy my role a little too much. Because the next thing I knew he was out of his ropes-after all, I hadn't tied him up all that securely-and was running towards me with the meanest look on his face.

"Baby," he said to me, "Let's get just one thing straight. Around here, I'm the master and you're the slave. I give the orders and you follow them. I may allow you to take command for a moment, if it pleases me, but in all I am in control."

His face was hot with white rage and I was a little worried that he was going to do something to me, something that might not heal. I mean, as long as it heals, okay. But.

Well, he had me down on the floor in a flash, and tied up, just as I had tied him up. Except he had me tied up really good. He had me tied so I could not have escaped.

He stood over me, stroking his big cock, and he said, "Lick out my ass-hole, bitch, lick it out good." And he kneeled over me with his cheeks spread.

His ass-hole was pink and hard and tiny, and I opened my mouth wide and slid out my tongue, to take long, slow swipes at his ass-hole.

I was a little frightened, now I thought he was into being dominated, but as it turns out his bag is making me his slave. The only thing to do was to be as good a slave as possible.

So I was a good, dutiful slave. I was a good little girl, I was Daddy's little girl. I swiped at his ass-hole with my tongue, taking long, slow licks.

I flattened my tongue against his ass-hole, and the tip of my tongue reached around to his balls, almost, and the base of my tongue was at the crack in his ass.

My tongue out flat against him, I pulled it slowly back into my mouth, drawing the tip of my tongue over his ass-hole, and leaving a smear of saliva over him.

He shivered, and sighed, and his ass-hole softened and winked a bit, and I could taste him, strong and sweating and kind of hard tasting, and sticky.

He sat down on my face and my tongue slid up into him. He liked that. He moaned, and I licked at him, and the taste was strong and not very nice.

He wriggled around on my face, and then he turned around and put his big cock in my mouth, and shoved it into me, and fucked me that way. He fucked me in the mouth.

In and out and in and out he moved, and all the time he chanted, "Filthy pig, filthy cunt, filthy fucking pig," as if he needed the words to get himself off.

My mouth was round and soft and wet like a cunt, and my lips smacked against his cock, up and down and up and down it as he forced it into me over and over again.

He panted loudly and pulled out of me just before he shot his wad, and he came all over my body and then licked me dry, all the time murmuring profanities at me.

The rest of the afternoon I wandered around on my hands and knees and served him. I licked his toes, and his balls. I held his cock for him while he peed. I washed him and dressed him and saw him out the door. And after he had left, I found the two one hundred dollar bills in the ashtray. Not bad, I thought. For a start.

It was my first time as a teen slave, and it was the breakthrough for me. I realized that day that I have rare talents. I needed only to implement them to become successful.

That day was the beginning of a lot of things. Most importantly, it was the beginning of my career, a career which I find rewarding and fulfilling to this very day.

I went straight home and told everything to Daddy. You see, ever since our first encounter Daddy and I had become regular lovers, and when I suggested to him-yes, it was my suggestion-that I might be able to pick up a little cash on the side, he encouraged me to go ahead out and try my best. Daddy always has been very supportive.

Around this time Daddy's marriage with Mommy was breaking up. Alas, it was meant to be. It's the way these things work out. Divorce is a fact of American life.

You see, Mommy caught the two of us together, and of course she was none too pleased about any of that. None too pleased to say the least.

She wanted to take me away from Daddy, but, well, I wasn't about to have that happen. I put my foot down. No way, Mommy, I said, I stay here with Daddy or die.

We had quite a struggle for quite awhile, what with Mommy maintaining quite rightly that she could get me away from Daddy with very little difficulty if the courts knew what kind of home environment he was providing for his daughter.

Ah, but the idea of the scandal was just too much for her and we all knew it. She could never bear to drag her wealth and her heritage through that kind of dung.

So. She threatened us with poverty. I mean, she made it clear that if she left us we wouldn't get a penny out of her. She had us by the balls on that.

We were used to a pretty high standard of living, Daddy and I, and neither of us was about to give it up. So we abided Mommy, and kept our sexual activities very much on ice for awhile.

But. With this experience of mine with the mild mannered man from Rye, I thought, well, now I can make the big bucks. Now I can support the two of us. Now we can afford to kiss Mommy good bye.

I raced home to Daddy that evening and told him everything. I asked him to be my pimp. I knew that he was friends with many many men just like the one I had had that afternoon. With his connections and my talent, we could be a team.

And so we were. We were a team. He got the clients, and I gave them the works. We were riding high within a very short time. And now we're financially self sufficient.

There's nothing like earning a decent living by the sweat of your own brow. It's the American way, after all. It's just the American way.

And so my life has been full an happy, really. Just let me give you one more snippet from out of my annals to show you just how much I have learned since the age of eleven.

I walk into a typical suburban home in a typical suburb in America, and this one happens to be right in my home town. The car is parked in the garage, the dog is out in the pen, and the wife is nowhere to be seen, nor are the children. I have a date with the man of the house.

I am dressed not sluttily but, rather, attractively in a nice crew neck sweater and a mid length skirt, and I wear sensible shoes. But I walk with a great sexual knowledge.

I know he-likes this, this man, to see the good little girl of the suburbs contrasted with the urban whore, and the swing in my hips sets of my pollyanna attire.

He-likes me to be both things at once, the good girl and the bad girl. He greets me at the door, and has the lemonade ready. Spiked lemonade.

We've had this date for a long time, and he is beside himself with excitement and desire. But I want to go in slow. We have all afternoon. No sense in rushing.

We sit down in the living room and sip our lemonades-mine is spiked with Vodka, a combination he knows I like, for I have had this man before, he's a regular-and chit chat for a little while. He listens while I tell him all about school.

He-likes to hear that. It puts him at ease to know how young I am. It lets him know that I won't be any threat to his masculinity. Not that I'm an easy lay, or any thing-no, he does like a challenge. But not an insurmountable one.

No, I am infinitely mountable. But nonetheless, I am a hot little number. I can be a challenge when I sense that I need to be. There's no question of that.

We sit sipping our drinks, and he suggests that we make ourselves a little more comfortable. What is it you have in mind, I ask him. He says he wants me to lick his toes.

At that, I am down on my knees at his feet untying his shoes and pulling off his socks. His feet are immaculate, and fresh smelling. They are bathed in cologne.

My customers are clean. They know I appreciate that. His feet are exciting, and I run my fingers over them, caressing his heels, and nipping at his toes.

I nip and his big toes, and swipe at his arches with my wet, anxious tongue. Sucking on the toes of one of his feet, I take the other foot in my hands and guide it down between my legs.

I slide his foot up between my naked thighs and press his toes towards my cunt. My lips are wet and ready to take him, and I move his big toe up to my clit.

I stroke my clit with his big toe, and begin to moan, dropping his other foot out of my mouth and concentrating on this foot. I close my eyes, and sigh.

He reaches down, and slaps me. "Not so fast, bitch, with your own pleasure. How about me?" I have angered him, and now must somehow make it up to him.

"Please," I beg, "please, just tell me what it is that you want. Anything to please you. Anything to please a big, big man like you."

I say this to his crotch, which is bulging with his hot, excited member. He is a big man.

He is my big man, and I want to make him happy.

"I'm sorry but you're going to have to have a spanking," he says to me. "You've been a very naughty little girl, and you deserve a spanking."

Dutifully, but with the tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, I pull my skirt up around my hips and crawl up into his lap, my ass pointing up at him.

He lays one hand over my buttocks and feels my soft, smooth skin. Then he pulls his hand away, and brings the flat of his palm down hard against me.

His palm makes a loud, clapping sound against my flesh. He hits me very hard and I yell with pain. He-likes for me to yell, and I yell very loud.

His hand comes down on me again, even harder this time, and I yell even louder. Then he hits me harder and I yell louder, and harder and louder, and harder and louder.

I've made a mess on his pants. My cunt lips are positively swollen with excitement and my cunt is wet with lubrication, and it's soaking into his pants. We can both feel it.

"Look at what you've done, you careless little girl," he says. "You've ruined my trousers. You bitch. You stupid, whoring little bitch."

I'm up on my feet then begging his forgiveness. Please, I plead, anything you ask me, I'll do. I reach down to his trousers and start to lick them dry.

I can taste my own juices, and it's a strong taste and an exciting one. His cock is so hard against his trousers that it's like a slab of concrete.

"Don't you want me to take care of that?" I say, slipping my hands under the waist line of his trousers to his cock. It's a big, hard cock, rock hard.

I've got him out of his pants now, and his cock stands up like a flag pole. "Oh, I want that inside of me," I say. "I want that thing all the way inside of me."

I crawl up onto his lap, and lower myself down onto his cock. My lips are spread and my cunt is wet with lubrication, and I take him into me, all the way.

Sitting on his lap, I press myself against him. I pull one of my breasts out of my sweater, and slip it into his mouth. My nipple is hard, and tingling.

He sucks on my nipple. He slides his tongue over it and bites at it, and he suckles at me as he might at a child. My nipple is very erect and excited.

Slowly, I move up and down on his cock, squeezing my legs together very hard and working over his cock as frantically and at the same time as slowly as I can.

He grunts. He has both my breasts out now, and is playing with one as he sucks on the other. He flicks his tongue over my nipple, and then moves his mouth back and forth from one of my breasts to the other, sucking and biting me.

"Oh, yes," I moan, "Oh, that's very nice. Oh, yes, that's very, very nice. Please, don't stop." Slowly up and down on his cock I move as he sucks and fondles and bites my breasts.

His breaths now are coming slowly, and steadily. His eyes are half closed. He's in my control. As much as he wants me to be his slave, now he is all mine.

That's the way it is. Once I get those legs of mine wrapped around some guy's cock, well, then, I know that he's mine for keeps. I know that.

I had him tight between my legs and was bouncing up and down on him slowly in time to his moaning. Up and down and up and down and he was moaning.

"Oh," he moaned, "oh, oh, oh." Just like that, moaning, and completely under my control. And I moved slowly up and down on his cock and had him completely.

He was nearing his climax. His breaths were short and hard and it was clear to me that in very little time I would have his wad shot inside of me.

I didn't want him quite that quickly. I wanted this to take a little bit of time. There's nothing quite as distressing as a man coming before you want him to.

And so I held him. I got him all riled up, and then held him there in my grip, keeping him just at the edge of explosion. I held him very tight.

Slowly down onto him I would slide and then up off him, controlling the stuff inside of him, giving him just enough pull to want to shoot, but not enough to let him.

Up and down slowly on top of him I moved, and then hard and fast, and then more slowly, and I alternated that rhythm. He was panting and nearly exhausted.

"Oh, please," he gasped. "Please." I could see in his eyes that all of his being was centered down on his cock, concentrating on getting that tiny wad of semen out of him and into me. His cock must have just been aching with need.

No matter. I wanted to hold him there at the edge of things just as long as I could. I wanted to hold him there all day, all night, all year I wanted him to come just short of orgasm until the very end of time. And mark my words, he loved it.

Then I let him go. Bang, I loosened my insides, went down on him slowly once, and then twice quickly and intensely, and then, whammo, into me he came.

Gush, gush, gush, he came inside of me and I could feel it. He moaned and bounced up and down on the couch and I let him rip into me.

It was good and he was panting and gushing into me, and he smiled as he came to rest and said, "Oh, Meg, you're really a very good little girl."

And I said, "Oh, Daddy, thank you so."

CASE HISTORY TWO

SUBJECT: Chrissy B. AGE: Twenty-eight

INTERVIEW ONE

What happened to me in the past is just something I would just as soon forget. Not that anyone will let me. Not that I'm entitled to my memories.

Or rather, not that I'm entitled to my right to choose what it is that I wish to remember, and what it is that I wish to forget. At least, I seem not to be so entitled.

No, according to my boyfriend and all my group of friends I have to tell it all, I have to recall in detail the history of my youth.

If they know what's best for me it's more than I can say for myself. Decisions are not my forte. I avoid them as any other might avoid a contagious disease.

My boyfriend made this decision for me. You ought to know that. My boyfriend insisted that I see a shrink, that I tell him all that I have suppressed.

I'm sorry now I let him con me into it. I'd rather leave a few things as they are, and just go on with an incomplete version of my past.

But you see I can't help my dreams. I can't help my nightmares. And it is to a particular nightmare that I owe my sudden recollection of all that pain in my childhood.

If not for that dream, my boyfriend might never have known what it was that I thought I had forgotten. Now he knows, but worse, now I know

So it is that he convinced me to come here to this house of insanity and relay to you the oh so sordid tale of my debauched youth. For you see, I couldn't really tell all that to my boyfriend. Not until I had told someone else first.

So here I am telling you first, and finding myself no more inclined to begin that awful story than I ever was. I just don't want you to know about it.

I'm just afraid that you'll hate me for it. Which is silly. Why should anyone hate someone for something that can't have been helped. That's a good question.

I guess it's a question I might better ask myself. For it is I who hates most. I mean I hate myself for something I had no control over. But perhaps you'll understand that better as I go along. Perhaps you'll see as I begin to unravel my past.

Perhaps I'll see. Not that I want to. Not that I'm doing this for anyone other than my boyfriend. But now I'm here, I might as well get to the point.

Let me begin with the dream, then. Maybe in the dream you'll see a bit of what it is from which I suffer. In dreams begin responsibilities a poet said that. In this dream then, begins my responsibility to my own past. What a past.

We were in Pennsylvania. In the dream. The whole family of us, in Pennsylvania, in the old house, the house of my earliest childhood, the beautiful house.

We were in southeastern Pennsylvania. I don't know if you've ever been there. A more beautiful region does not exist. I mean I'm sure one does. But it's very pretty there.

All around that area, from outside Wilmington and up towards the Pennsylvania border and then around the Brandywine River and almost all the way to Philadelphia.

All that area, from outside Wilmington to outside Philadelphia, is really, still really is, very, very beautiful. Not as it was then, now. But still beautiful, now

How they have kept it that way. How? It's a good question, really. What it is, Wilmington is owned by one of America's richest families. I mean really owned.

I mean all of Wilmington belongs to one family, really, an old moneyed American family, and that family has kept its money together very much over the years

And so still the money is in the family and still the family lives in that area, around Wilmington and outside Philadelphia, and this is where I grew up.

I belonged to the family. I say that in the past tense. Well, I think of it now as a bit of a curse. I say it now as if I wished it never were.

And I do wish that. But in the dream all that wish was gone and there was just the house, and the house is. . breathtaking. The house is built for drama.

The house is built for dreams, and so in a way it was an appropriate place to dream about. Nothing seemed wrong about that in my dream.

I was moving down the drive, towards the house. You have to be there to believe it. The drive is long, a private drive, of dirt. It cuts from off the side of what we called the main road, which itself was and is still nothing more than a winding country lane.

This lane, this asphalt country lane, turns at a bend in the Brandywine River, and runs off over a concrete bridge, and just before the bridge is the private drive.

Down the drive then, in my dream, down I went. The drive was as narrow and rocky as ever, all dirt and pot holes and trees lining it, and mansions. Eastern, not southern mansions.

Something is practical about them, about those eastern mansions, if you see what I mean. They are built, or rather were built, to be useful, and not dramatic.

And that is the beauty of the house I grew up in, for it is the most useful house you have ever seen, big and square and stone and exuding efficiency of design, but it is very dramatic. Above all else it is dramatic. What a drama was my life there.

You see it from the dirt road, as you come around the bend and climb to a rise, and look out over all the hills in either direction, to the east and to the west, and down the road to the house which I think is pre-colonial, and big.

All stone and standing in a clearing with a cavalcade of vines marching up its front, the house is quite alone behind a circular drive.

Everywhere around it are the woods and all the fields of corn and to one side a huge old leaning barn and in front of the barn a walled in cobblestone courtyard, but the house is there alone, an aging sign of human life inside.

I saw the house in my dream, just as I had always seen it, very square and big and very lonely, cold and very lonely, and slowly I moved towards it.

I didn't want to be there, I remember that, I didn't want to be there in the least, I had the feeling of great peril, the feeling that something or someone was in danger.

I had the feeling that something was very wrong with the house, or that it was something wrong with me, or that I was very, very bad. Yes, that was it.

It was the feeling you have as a child when you get something dirty on a pretty new dress, something dirty that won't come out, not even with washing.

I had that feeling. It's a kind of feeling like the dream you have where you are naked waiting for the school bus, and you know that everyone is laughing at you.

It was that kind of feeling, except that I wasn't naked. I was wearing a pink new party dress, one I had at someone's birthday party when I was five, and the dress was very badly stained, and I felt the house was scolding me.

Yes, I remember now, that party dress, it was my birthday, my party, and I did get a stain on it, and the party was ruined. Very definitely my father had said that the party was ruined. I remember my mother pleading with him, but he said the party was ruined.

I felt that way again approaching the house in my dream, and it was the party, it was my fifth birthday party which was ruined. But now it was very different.

Now it was all a host of people I have known since I left that nouse, and that past, and started life anew, or so I thought. It was my fifth birthday party, but I was no longer a child.

The party was around the back of the house, in the small courtyard, and I had to go, and I didn't want to go. I was terribly afraid to go.

Everyone I knew was at the party. I mean, everyone I know. Everyone from my present, rather than from my past. All my friends, my boyfriend, my business friends.

They all were there, all the friends I have known since I put the past behind me, all the friends I have won since becoming a woman.

I have worked hard to become a woman, to assert myself, to make a living independent of the old wealth of my parents, and I have been proud of all that I accomplished.

And now this was all about to be denied me. I was to have this party, or rather, attend this party, given for me, in honor of my accomplishments, by my parents.

I can't tell you how incongruous this was to me. My parents. My parents are dead. Or rather, my father is dead, and my mother has been as good as dead to me for five years.

That they might be giving such a party in my honor seemed to me the worst kind of joke. They have had nothing to do with my success. They have had only to do with my failures.

And now they were there with all my friends, to give a party for me, and I was wearing my pink party dress, which was new when I was five years old.

I couldn't get out of the dress I wanted to take it off, to burn it, to run to the river and throw it in, but I couldn't get out of it.

I tore at it and shook with nervousness and fear. And yet still I was moving towards the party, and all my friends were smiling at me.

All of them stood around in the courtyard behind the house and I was moving at them from the stairs on the second floor of the house, the stairs which wind down to the courtyard very dramatically, like motion picture stairs. I had to make an entrance.

I was making an entrance in this pink party dress, and I hated it. I hated the dress, and as I was approaching the party I was also at the river, trying to drown the dress.

As if it had a life of its own I was trying to drown it. I was running into the mud and fighting with the dress and hurling myself into the river to drown it.

It suffocated me. It kept me a child. It wanted to hurt me, the dress of my childhood. I was making my entrance down the stairs to the party and I was in the river with the dress, and back and forth from one scene to the other, down the stairs and in the river, and I couldn't get the dress off. I could only muddy it. I could only dirty it.

Down the stairs I walked, looking out at all my friends, smiling out to them, timidly, wishing they would go home, wondering how they had come here.

Behind them stood my parents. My father, and my mother. My father looked very much as he did the day of my fifth birthday party, a tall, handsome, dark man, really, just as they say in all the comic strips, tall dark and handsome.

My father was. Tall. Very chunky and tall, and very good looking. And ever so dark. He looked like the young Ernest Hemingway. He was beautiful.

I hated him, in my dream, for his beauty and his grace and elegance, for to me it only meant cruel things, and painful things. He had a temper, he had a cruel beauty. Now I hated him again and loved him, and wanted not to see him, not there in front of all my friends, not now, not in that party dress.

Beside him stood my mother, looking as she must now, well preserved and hard and determined. That is my mother. A very well preserved determination infuses her every move.

She directed her determination, in this dream, at me, and was calling out to me, telling me how to move and where to look and who to wave to, and scolding me.

My father only was beaming. Beaming at me as he rarely ever did, in the way which signified only his ever deepening cruelty, for he never beamed upon me but that later he took me aside and punished me in the most brutal ways.

Now he was beaming and my mother was scolding and all my friends were smiling and I wanted none of them to see the stain of mud upon my dress.

I knew they would see it. I knew my father would see it first of all, and that there would be trouble, and that my mother would not forgive me.

I knew that the moment I reached the foot of the stairs and walked out onto the courtyard they would all see the stain, and I didn't want them to see it.

I walked very slowly and my mother called to me to hurry, I couldn't keep all the nice people waiting, they didn't have time to waste on a silly girl.

My father smiled and his smile urged me on, and I couldn't stop myself from reaching the foot of the stairs. I wanted to stop, to turn and run, but I could not.

I looked to my boyfriend, and to all my friends, and I could see now that none of them would see the stain, and that it would only be my parents.

I had thought at first that they could all see the stain, but, no, it was only my parents who would see it, and this seemed to make things that much worse.

With all my will and energy I wanted then to turn and run back up the stairs and never go down to the courtyard but I had to, I knew that I had to, there was nothing for me to do but just as I had to do, and so I did, and that was when it all happened.

I heard my mother's sharp cry, and she could, and probably still does, really know how to put all the force of years of disgust into one very sharp cry.

She always hated her life for living it a woman, she hated men and the children they gave her, and especially she hated me, and the freedom of which I supposedly deprived her, and every so often she could let out such a cry. It was a cry of pain, and hurt, and disgust, and a cry of eagerness to wound. If nothing else she knew how to wound.

I heard my mother's cry, and then I felt him, my father, his arms around me, his hard hands on my arms, just below the elbows, and he was lifting me.

I am a big woman now, as my father was a big man, and to lift me must have taken some considerable strength, but he lifted me. Very high, he lifted me.

Up into the air, he lifted me, and all around me all my friends were laughing. I cried out and they laughed, and I couldn't make them understand.

I couldn't make them see. I cried to them to see, to know that he would hurt me, and they laughed and raised their glasses and they smiled.

My father lifted me, hoisted me aloft, and then lowered me upon his knee, and I knew that he was going to spank me. I was humiliated. Which is not a strong enough word to really describe my feelings, but it is the only word which comes to mind.

He lifted me and dropped me down upon his knees, and reached up under my dress to my panties, which were pink to match the dress and bordered with lace frills.

"You've dirtied yourself," he said. Over and over he said, "You've dirtied yourself."

"Please, Papa," I said. "Please, Papa."

Over and over I said please papa and over and over he said you've dirtied yourself and other than of course that obviously my dress was stained with mud I had in fact dirtied myself in just the worst way for as he reached his hand up to my panties and pulled them down to my knees they were wet, and not with urine.

Not with urine but with me, with the dampness of my cunt, with my lubricated cunt they were wet, though not dirty, just wet, just soaked through.

But he called it dirt. Over and over he called it dirt and began to spank me. His palm was flat and his slaps were sharp and hard over my buttocks.

I lay across his lap with my ass exposed to all the party and my friends stood round me and laughed and cheered and I pleaded with them not to cheer but to help me and they laughed more loudly, not derisively but merrily, and raised their glasses, and somehow I knew then that they had been drugged and couldn't realize my pain.

Yes, I knew for certain that my mother had slipped something into the punch bowl. What a Hollywood thing for her to do, I thought, but it didn't alter the fact of her having done it. All my friends were drugged, and my boyfriend too, and what they saw delighted them.

What they saw was my father spanking me as no father ever spanked a daughter in his life. Harder and harder he hit me until the welts raised up on my buttocks, and I yelled out in pain and begged for him to stop. The more I yelled of course the harder he hit me until I only cried, and the tears were no more good to me than the yells.

The pain was not so great as the embarrassment and shame, which were unendurable, for I had the feeling that somehow I deserved the punishment.

I had the sense that I needed to be punished, and as he hit me harder and harder I felt the pain fading beneath my conviction that it was good.

This is for me the most peculiar aspect of the dream and the hardest to relate. I enjoyed it. There you are, the fact. In the dream, at last, I enjoyed it, Yes I did, I enjoyed it. He hit me harder and harder and my buttocks were swollen with welts and redness and pain and his legs were wet from the dampness of my cunt.

I tingled with pleasure. My inner thighs were white and tingling and hot with pleasure. My cunts lips vibrated with pleasure. My clit was hard. Hard. Hard with pleasure.

I wanted him to fuck me. Yes I did. I wanted him to fuck me, there, in front of all my friends, and most particularly in front of my boyfriend.

I wanted him to shove his cock up my cunt so hard it would make me scream with pleasure. My hands fell to my cunt as he slapped me and I grabbed for my clit and moaned.

I would beat off there in front of the crowd begging him to fuck me. I would finger my clit and lick my fingers dry and moan and swoon with pleasure.

I hated myself for it but God I really wanted him. So badly. You have no idea how badly it was that I wanted him. "Fuck me, please," I screamed.

He wouldn't fuck me. I might have known he wouldn't fuck me. All he would say was over and over that I had dirtied myself and then he pushed me off his lap, and said he wouldn't have his cock inside of me if I were the last whore alive.

But I would suck his cock. Yes, he said he knew that I would suck his cock, and he got it quickly out of his pants and rammed it down my throat.

Ever such a big cock. Ever such an unrelenting cock. Big and red at the tip and brown all down in with darker rings of brown circling it.

Standing above big meaty balls stiff and wet and dripping at the tip and down my throat he stuffed it. Hard like a lodged pork bone down my throat.

I gagged and took it. I gasped for air and sucked it fiercely. I wanted it and loved it and sucked and ate and chewed it. I was desperate for it.

Sucking on his cock I kneeled at his feet and ran my fingers through his black pubic hair and around his balls and he cursed me, over and over again.

He called me a whore and a filthy pig fucking bitch and a foul mouthed slut and a open cunted little snatch and a cock eating shit sucking madonna whore.

He called me all these terrible things and I couldn't stop sucking on his big big cock. I was mad to suck his cock. I was mad to taste his semen.

I could only think to suck to taste his semen. Thick and hard and milky sour, salty dripping semen. I could only want to have it in my mouth.

He fucked me in the mouth, and down he thrust his cock, and really I couldn't have taken him, never in life as I took him in that dream.

I could not have opened wide enough to have him as he shoved the length of his shaft into me, harder and harder, and grunted fast and sharp.

I let my fingers creep up over his stomach, flat and hard as you might imagine, and carpeted with thick black hair, and I played with his balls.

They all were watching now, they saw me, and stood watching and saying nothing, all these people in the dream, they were saying nothing and slowly they disappeared.

Only my father and I remained, and my boyfriend, for the scene had changed and we were in my bedroom, and my boyfriend stood in the corner and watched.

I lay now on the bed and my father had his cock up my ass, all the way into me, and the smell was something strong and foul and stinging in the back of my throat.

I lay like a dog on the bed with my ass tilted up to my father who fucked me as my boyfriend stood in the corner and cried. He only cried and cried.

My father pounded into me, flogging his meat up my ass as a logger might bring a sledge hammer down on a wedge to split a log, and I was split.

Tears were down my cheeks, of pleasure and disgust, for I loved it and I hated it. I loved the feel of the hardened thing inside me, up there where no life can be made, up inside my ass and pulling wide all my muscles. It was an indescribable feeling.

A feeling of liberation, of floating free down the East River on a log amidst the garbage, floating past refuge and sewerage and garbage.

Floating, I was floating through garbage, free to float as long as I floated through garbage, and my father stuffed his cock into me to burst me apart.

He shouted loud and grunted and was not tender, as he separated flesh from bone inside my ass and pulsated with life inside of me, thrusting and throbbing.

And down between my legs I felt it. Down and hard between my legs I had my fingers on my clit, five fingers of one hand to fondle my clit, and five of the other hand to hold myself up for my father, and I sweated and grunted and I hurt.

I was in pain. Not in my ass but in my cunt, in actual, physical pain, pain of desire, pain of hard and rampant desire, pain of my hardened clit.

I couldn't work it fast enough I couldn't turn it over in my fingers fast and hard enough, grunting like a pig as my father fucked me very brutally.

My lips were wet and stinking and the smell was sharp from up my ass. I flailed wildly at my clit and reached my fingers down my hole, greedily.

Greedily, greedily, greedily. Oh, ever so greedily. I can see the smile on my face, can feel the face beginning to ache, the muscles straining from the smile.

A smile so wide and greedy I know I am incapable of sustaining. I know I never smile so wide so hard so lustily as I smiled as my father fucked me.

Up the ass, he fucked me, and I fingered my clit and was all set to burst inside, my whole body arched and concentrated upon the few cubic centimeters of cunt.

Or mostly clit, mostly the feeling of coming all in your clit, with your father all the way brutally up in your ass, and you feel him coming too.

So there we were. So there we were and there we stayed and there we came, shooting juices upon the bed and over each other, and moaning hard and sweating.

What a feeling I had, what a hard foul and stinking good feeling I had, what a feeling of having done just as my father had wanted, of doing something very bad and wrong.

I looked over to my boyfriend and he stood still in the corner, naked, and wilted, and cried, his hands to his face but I smiled, and smiled wide, and smiled.

When I woke up it was I who was crying.

INTERVIEW TWO

Well, now. Probably that dream is self explanatory. I hope it is, anyway. It really was quite a dream, unlike any I've ever had.

The problem with it, you see, is not that it represents any unconscious will on my part, or anything. The problem with it is that it was true.

Well, now. Not all that true. I mean, not true to life in every detail. No dream is ever, true to life in every detail. Otherwise it wouldn't be a dream.

But this dream, will while the specific incidents it depicted were made up, the feelings it presented and the basis of its story were all true.

I did have sex with my father, and I did enjoy it. There, I've said it. That seemed like something I might never be able to say, but now that it's out I suppose I'm the better for it.

What I haven't mentioned are the circumstances under which such things occurred. That I haven't made clear at all, and will now have to do so.

First of all About the birthday party. A lot of that is quite true. I did have a birthday party when I was five, out on the patio behind the house.

I did have to make my grand entrance down the stairs that were made for such dramatic occasions, and I was wearing a new pink party dress.

And I had gotten mud all over it. I had been playing down in the river with a boy who was the son of one of the men who worked on the farm for my father.

I had been playing with that boy in the mud, in my new pink party dress. I was only five. How could I have known better, really. I was still a child.

I was playing with the boy because I remember he had not been invited to the party. I was upset about that, because, not that I really thought of the boy as one of my favorite friends, but because it was not with such as him that I was to be happy and cute that day, but rather with cousins of mine, rich, spoiled cousins, and relatives, none of whom I particularly cared for. I resented having to have my party with boys and girls I didn't care for.

I would have much preferred to have it with boys and girls like the boy at the river with whom I played that morning. He was a nice enough little boy but mostly I felt bad for him because with the acuity of a child's understanding he knew that he had not been invited to my party because his father was not important enough.

He knew that while the two of us might play on our own, officially we could not play as equals. In the eyes of my parents he was inferior. I am sure he must have sensed this.

I hated that. I felt guilty. There was nothing that I could do about it, but still I felt guilty. My parents were very wealthy and that was the first time I remember feeling guilty about it, that day that I was five and wasn't allowed to have this boy and others like him to my fifth birthday party. Just as he must have sensed that at some important level he was not good enough for me, so did I have a feeling of isolation from him, and from all the boys and girls with whom I might have wished to play.

I was learning about what it meant to be of a wealthy family. Ever since that day I have hated wealth. Ever since that day I have been in rebellion against my family.

So I went out to the river with that boy the morning of my party in my new pink party dress and I played with him in the mud to prove to him that I was still just a kid like any other kid, and that we were still friends.

I wanted to prove it to myself as much as to him, and so I played in the mud like a good sport and even dirtied my expensive new dress just to show that it meant nothing to me, that if my parents thought I was different from other children, as far as I was concerned there was no difference at all, none at all.

Mind you, I hadn't thought these things out then as I have now--no, that would be remarkable for a girl the age of five to have so fully grasped certain concepts and intangibles--but I am certain that on a wholly instinctual level I was doing just as I now say that I was doing. I was reacting impulsively to a situation I would later be able to understand intellectually. I am certain I was doing just that.

So I was playing with this boy and I felt bad about how he was not going to be at the party and I felt bad about having to go to the party myself and while I didn't have any particular affection for this boy out of the ordinarily kind of childish way I decided that I was going to let him to something to me to convince him that I liked him.

He was a little older than I, I remember now, and maybe there was something about the way he held himself or looked at or talked to me that made me think there might have been something that I could do for him. I don't know Whatever inspired me, it makes little difference now. It's just the way I felt at the time.

I mean, don't all little girls and boys play doctor. Maybe it was nothing sexual. Maybe it was only a presentiment of sexuality. It doesn't matter either way. What matter is that I lifted my dress and pulled down my panties and let him touch me. I didn't even have any hair on my cunt at the time. Of course not. I was only five. I hadn't even learned to masturbate. It was an innocent gesture.

Well, he touched me. He did, he put his hand on my cunt lips and played with them, and we were in the mud and he showed me his little cock, and there were even bits of hair around that and I played with it and we put mud on each other.

That was all. He didn't get a hard on, even. I wonder if he could have. I suppose so. I didn't get wet and he didn't get hard. All we got was muddy We were only children.

So. I heard my mother calling. Oh, the jab inside me when I heard my mother calling. I looked at the boy and he looked away from me. We had been laughing but when I heard my mother calling that was the end of our fun. She was calling and calling.

I ran without even collecting my panties and tried to brush the worst of the mud off my dress as I ran back to the house. I got off most of the mud, but there were stains that I couldn't have gotten out and I could see that the dress was ruined.

I started to cry knowing that the dress was ruined and that my mother would be very angry with me and that there was nothing to do now but go to the party.

I knew how they wanted me to enter. I knew they wanted me to walk down the stairs to all the people below, in my pretty new pink dress.

There was no avoiding it, and I felt that the punishment for not doing as they had planned would be far worse than the punishment I would receive for having dirtied my dress, and so I went to the door at the top of the stairs and started down.

I wasn't really all that muddy, not anyway muddy enough for them to see it right away as I stood at the head of the stairs and started down.

They were silent and applauded and I stood there to receive my audience, like a good little rich girl, the good little rich girl that I was.

I had to go down the stairs. I thought perhaps there must have been a way for me just to leave now that they all had seen me and not yet noticed the stain.

I might have turned and run to leave. I might have. And it wouldn't have been so bad. But just then I caught my father's eyes.

I had been careful not to focus on the crowd, careful not to see anyone directly, but I was careless for just a second too long and then my eyes met my father's.

I couldn't not go to him then. For he seemed to know. He had a look in his eyes that said he knew where I had been and what I had been doing.

He had a look that made me feel dirty beyond the actual dirt of the mud that had stained my dress. He made me feel very, very dirty, and I knew I had to go to him.

I moved down the stairs as if in a dream and all the party disappeared but for my father. I remember hearing my mother yell, but only saw my father.

There you see the fact corresponds to my dream, but of course I didn't suck him off there in front of all the guests. No, my subconscious took certain liberties with the facts, but now let me stay close to those same facts. I need to keep the facts in mind.

Well I won't again go through the details of that very long walk down the stairs. The dream recreated them vividly enough. Suffice it to say, it was a long way down.

At the end of the stairs, at the base of the stairs, was my father, who had rushed over to me shouting about how I had dirtied myself, and he swept me into his arms.

I remember thinking that hut for his wrath my father was warm and safe, and that I enjoyed the sensation of being in his arms, so high and protected.

He carried me into the house, then, and I knew that that was the end of my feeling safe and warm in his arms. He was going to punish me.

He took me over his lap and he spanked me. Inside the house away from all the guests. He spanked me very hard and of course I had no panties and my ass was all muddy from the river.

He muttered over and over about what a dirty little girl I was and spanked and spanked me and I didn't enjoy it as I did in the dream but he did.

He had an erection. Did I know at the time just what an erection was? I don't know. I don't remember. The point is I knew he had an erection.

I knew something was hard and pointed between his legs, let's put it that way. And later on I could figure just what that something hard and pointed was.

So much for my fifth birthday party, which, by all accounts, was a disaster. For me, it was very nearly a tragedy. For from that day forth, my father never quite treated me the same. Always, it was with that erection on his mind that he dealt with me.

From that day forward my father became very distant, and he remained distant from me throughout the balance of my childhood, and, as I passed into adolescence, he became frankly hysterical in my presence. He became billigerant. He became vicious.

Not that I was entirely unaware of why he had such a hard time dealing with me. I was an attractive girl, if you'll pardon the immodesty, I'm not bragging, only saying what it is I know as fact. I know for a fact that I was an attractive girl.

I also know for a fact that I developed breasts very early on, and that I was sexually aware long before many of my peers. By the time I was twelve, I was becoming very much a woman.

By the time I was sixteen I was sexually into adulthood. I won't say that I was emotionally mature at the time, or that I had any idea of how to deal with my blossoming youth, as I sneeringly think of it now. But I was quite an eyeful.

And you know, I flaunted it to get my father's attention. I strutted and primped and ran around naked, and spent hours and hours in the bathroom.

This was around the time my mother and father were going through a very bad time with one another, and I have little doubt that she was deprving him of his little rewards.

You are wondering now why it is that my father might turn to me, why he might not have simply gone out and taken any girl he wanted. Well.

It wasn't so easy for him. He was a rich man, and he had a certain reputation to preserve. The only circles he traveled in were those of high society, and it must have been difficult for him to find among there numbers a mistress who was sufficiently low profiled enough to keep the affair out of all the news.

I mean this family, this family of which I am a member, it's a family of old money deed to its children and grand children on trust. They had certain standards to uphold, or risk being cut out of someone's will, or separated from someone's trust fund.

So my father had to keep everything very cool, he had to keep the dirt out of the family. He had to be discreet about his sexual habits. That was really the point.

Also he was so isolated there where we lived. We all were isolated. We lived out in the country, and the only people we knew, other than our own relatives, were the farmers and shop keepers who lived in the area. And my father couldn't very well mix with them.

I've often thought that it would have been better for all concerned if we had grown up in the city, for then my father would have been able to vent his rage in whore houses, and know that his anonymity was protected. But where we grew up, well, it was such a small place with so few opportunities for adventure. Well, he had only me.

I say that now for trying to forgive him for what later came to pass. Still, it's clear enough to me that the man was a little sick to begin with. That was clear to me from the time of my fifth birthday party. It became clearer as time went on.

And as time went on it became more and more necessary for me to have his approval, and his love, and the only weapon I had was my body. Did I say weapon? Perhaps that's a Freudian slip. Perhaps not. If I thought of my body as a weapon, at the time I was not consciously aware of it. I think I used it because I was so personally insecure and it was the only resource I had that I knew I could depend on.

I was sixteen, seventeen, something like that, and I went out with a lot of boys, and I knew from them how much I had to offer in my body. I knew from them that my body was my one and only asset, that it was with my body that I might win approval

Well, now. You can imagine that me running around with this attitude and my father with his unfulfilled sexual needs and a firm remembrance in both of our minds of that hard on from way back when I was just a child ... I mean do I have to fill in the gap.

It was a time bomb. The whole situation was a time bomb. Set to go off any day. You might say the two of us had an appointment in Samara. You might say that it was our fate. You might say that it was inevitable, that we had an assignation.

I like to fix the blame on fate. That is what I have always admired about the Greeks, they held themselves responsible but they affixed the blame to fate.

That's good, you're responsible, but still it's fate to blame. I like that, I like that a lot I need someone to blame. I don't want to blame myself forever.

Well. Getting back to the story. What a story. Getting back to it. There I was and there was my father and my mother I think had actually left us.

Always she was leaving us Always she held us in contempt. Always she complained that we together had ruined her, that we had turned her into a shrew.

I'll tell you what the shrew was latent, and it was just our luck that we were the ones who brought it out. But to get to the point

To get to the point for awhile she was gone. She picked a bad time to be gone. She picked a time when I was at my adolescentest, and father at his mid life crisis-est.

The two of us were victims, looking for someone to victimize us. We found each other. It was as natural a thing as ever happened between father and daughter.

It began as an effort to come to terms with one another, and ended in ignominy. Perhaps we never were meant to be friends. Perhaps we were meant only to be-well, you decide what it is that we were. I'll tell you the story, and then you decide.

On one of those late summer evenings' which in novels spell only catastrophe, the kind of hot and oppressive evening which Faulkner might use to set up the background for a town lynching, my father and I found ourselves alone together in the courtyard behind the house. It was a surprise to both of us, I'll tell you that.

The house was big, I remind you again, and it was easy enough for the two of us, when we were alone there together, to wander from room to room and never come in contact with one another. We wandered through that house like ghosts of ourselves, obscurely avoiding the confrontation we were fated to have. We were in a dream land.

Then, after years of avoiding each other, as if by some divine stroke our paths crossed. We collided, on the patio, and both of us knew it was time.

It began easily enough, and innocently. It began with the two of us circling verbally around each other, trying to find some kind of common language.

We hadn't really spoken in so long that we had forgotten how to talk to one another. The words just wouldn't come. No, never, ever would come. For my father and I, another kind of language would have to do the trick, another way of communicating.

There was our curse, now that I think of it, the curse of knowing what our common language was, and knowing that that language was wrong for the two of us.

Ours was a language of the body. Ours was a communication which was going to have to involve sex. If we ever meant to talk, we would have to become lovers.

That happens sometimes, I firmly believe that. Sometimes you'll meet a person with whom you have nothing verbal in common, and yet you feel drawn to him.

You know that it's a mistake to become friends with him. You know that you have nothing to say to one another, that you have no interests in common.

But you can't help it, neither of you can help being friends. Because there is the knowledge inside of you that the two of you have to be lovers.

On that level sex is rendered fairly innocuous, or at least it becomes something different from the kind of sex you have with someone you love.

This is the kind of sex to which you are driven out of a need to learn what it is that the other person has to say to you, out of desire for that.

You feel that the other person has something to say to you, but that that something cannot be said with words. It's a hard, painful feeling, because very often that someone is not the sort of person with whom you ought to have sex.

Well. That someone was my father and what we had to say to one another was strictly sexual What we had to say to one another was only with our bodies.

We worked around it for a long while. We circled each other like prize fighters, hoping that the moment could be delayed. We were none too anxious to get down to it, but once we reached the point where we had to, we had to.

No, there wasn't a way around it at all. We had to be lovers. We had to be friends through our bodies. I felt it. He felt it. There was no way around it now

We didn't even have to speak. No, not even speak. All we had to do was just begin, and our roles were there to play. And this is how we played them.

My father sat upon a wire chair, and I got up onto his lap, with my ass pointing up at him, and I pulled down my jeans, and I pulled off my panties.

And there it was, my ass. Pointing at my father was my ass, naked and pink and shivering with excitement, asking for it from him. Asking for it. Not to blame my father, for I was asking him to spank me, asking him to take me, begging him.

I didn't have to ask, didn't have to beg, didn't even have to take my pants down on my own, for there was my father, full and hard beneath me, and all excited above.

I felt his flat, hard palm down against my buttocks and I yelled. Down again came his hand on my ass and all the louder I yelled. I tingled with pain and my eyes welled with tears and it was very, very exciting. I wanted it.

The harder he hit me the harder that I wanted it. Never enough. Never, ever enough. I felt his hardened cock between his legs, and I knew that he wanted it, too.

He hit me harder and harder and now my high, full cunt lips were twitching and wet and my clit was hardening with excitement and I felt ecstatic and happy.

It was hard and it hurt, all of it hard and hurting, and my father took his belt off to whip me with that. He stood me up and ordered me to bend over and then he started to whip me with his belt. How can I describe to you that sensation?

Have you ever had a belt over and over against your flesh? You ought to try. Everyone ought to try. I firmly believe that everyone ought to try.

It's a liberating experience. To writhe and scream as your father beats you harder and harder and harder with his leather belt is a very liberating experience.

Well that is just exactly what happened. He brought that belt against my twin buttocks over and over again, and I could almost feel the welts getting bigger.

Oh, I shouted aloud with pain, but don't think that it was because I wasn't enjoying every second of it. I was enjoying it completely. Completely enjoying it.

Then suddenly my father stopped, and now he was being tender. Now he was slowly rubbing his hands around my ass and feeling the little space between my ass-hole and my cunt, and fingering me gently, ever so gently. He was down on his knees kissing my ass and fingering the lips of my cunt and apologizing.

He was on his knees apologizing to me for having hurt me. And I felt suddenly very humble and very strong all at once and I forgave him. I had to forgive him.

If you had felt what he was doing to me you would have forgiven him, too. He was doing the most wonderful things to me. He was slowly licking out the insides of me, slowly and carefully and lovingly, as a father might bathe his infant daughter.

I was his infant daughter and he bathed me with his tongue. He slid his tongue over my cunt lips, slowly and easily, tasting me. It felt so good, so soft and warm and slippery over my cunt lips, which trembled and were damp and hot with desire.

He parted my lips and took swipes at my inner self with his long, able tongue. He flicked the tip of his tongue at my clit, and over and over the inner lips of my cunt.

He was so warm so slow and so able. His tongue was long and wide and wet, and I was all damp with a musty and stinging sweetness between my legs.

I felt a sharp burning in my cunt and he slithered his tongue into me, licking the very rims of my lips and sending electrical shivers up my spine.

I felt as if I was an open nerve between my legs and that he touched his fingers to that nerve and set me on fire. I was burning with the heat and desire of wanting him.

He moved very slowly. Still my ass was stinging from the beating that he had given me, and now my cunt was hot with need for him. Yet he went in very slowly.

He lolled his tongue over and over me, tasting my lips and flicking at my clit, and I was all hard and hot and sharp with aching desire. His tongue was like a long, slow snake that slithered up inside of me and I wanted him hard and fast.

I wanted something hard between my legs and all he gave me was his tongue, and that was very strange, very strange to have something soft where you want something hard.

Yes I was used to having hardness there, and now I was having it very soft, and that drove me completely wild. That drove me almost out of my senses.

For his tongue was so slithering and soft, and so completely warm and sliding up inside me, that I was lost in the movements of his tongue inside my cunt.

He worked that tongue into every nook and cranny of my snatch, up into me, far into corners no cock would ever have been able to reach.

He worked inside of me like some kind of plumber, like some kind of master electrician playing with all the wiring and he rewired me that day.

I wanted it hard and fast and he gave it to me soft and slow until I clenched my fists and thought that I was going to pass out from needing it so badly.

I thought I would faint dead away on the spot. I thought that I was not going to be able to take it. I thought that I was a goner for sure.

All inside I was tingling, and he lapped and ate at my cunt as a hungry dog gobbles down his meal and then laps at his bowl of water, slobbering everywhere.

My father let his slobber drip down the insides of my thighs, and I was wet all down my legs with his saliva and my own juices, and weren't we a smelly pair.

The smell of me was reaching even my own nose, and it was a strong deep and black smell, a harsh and exciting smell, a good and delicious smell.

And there was my father's tongue all over me, licking and lapping, and his teeth now chewing at my clit, and his fingers playing in my lips, and then sliding into my hole.

His fingers wiggled into me like curious little worms, into my cunt and all the way to the innermost wall of me, searching and playing and fondling.

They moved right along with his tongue, all searching inside of me, and then I stiffened. I got very tall and tight and hard all inside, and knew I was going to come.

I came in waves. I rode a wave, I body surfed and came all at once. I was high on the crest of a white crested late breaking slow rolling wave.

A series of undulations broke across me as I rode the wave into shore, and it left me there, in the cool, wet sand, and other waves followed after it and washed over me as I lay there, my eyes closed, feeling only the beauty of all those waves.

Wave upon wave upon wave breaking slowly across me.

He was my father.

And I loved it.

CASE HISTORY THREE

SUBJECT: Debbie L. AGE: Nineteen

INTERVIEW ONE

You wanna know the truth I'll tell you why I'm here. They found me in a bathroom. Yes, indeed they did. They had to haul me out of it, too.

Had to haul me out of a bathroom? you say, shocked and appalled and disgusted. What would I want from a bathroom? What was I doing there?

Oh, come on, pal Give me a fucking break. For Chrissakes. We all have our perversions. You, for instance. You a toe fucker, or what? Little boys? Household appliances?

like I say, we all got it in us to do something weird, and my thing happens to be bathrooms. No that there isn't a reason for it. There's a reason for everything, so they say.

There's a reason for me and the bathrooms. If you can believe that. It's the truth. I go to bathrooms quite a lot, but that was my childhood training.

Still I'm gettin ahead of myself. And anyway the better story is how I came to be in this particular bathroom, and how it was that I got caught.

That's not a bad story at all. Not a bad story at all, if you like stories about bathrooms. I happen to like stories about bathrooms.

My life is a story about bathrooms, and there was this particular bathroom, and this particular bathroom was in the bottom floor of Rudin's men's store in Mt. Vernon, Ohio.

You like that name, Mount Vernon? For the longest time I thought it was a command. Mount Vernon-you know, fuck him. I mean I had a dog named Vernon.

Well, that's getting away from the story a little, and later on I'll tell you all about mounting Vernon. Vernon was a beagle, and boy did he like it when I mounted him.

No, I won't tell you about Vernon. I mean, they didn't bring me here because they caught me with my dog. They brought me here because they caught me with my bathroom.

So let me tell you all about the bathroom. But just bear Mount Vernon in mind, the town and the dog as well, because it's a good setting for my story.

This is the story of lust in the heartland, and of the kinds of perverted and fixated and weird things that people have to do simply out of boredom

Maybe you don't know a great deal about smalltown heartland America. You ain't missing much, pal, to use the vernacular. You ain't missing nothing.

Small town heartland America. How I hate even to think of it. Just nothing at all to do but get high and to fuck. And so that is how I spent my childhood.

I mean in Mount Vernon, Ohio, where I grew up, they don't even have a movie theater. Or rather, now they do, but they didn't while I was growing up.

That wasn't all they didn't have. They didn't have a MacDonald's. They didn't have a museum. They didn't have anything at all for me to do.

What they did have and do have is Mount Vernon Nazareth College where a lot of nice virginal boys and girls go and carry each other's books and buy malteds in the drug store.

They have things like that in Mount Vernon. Lots of things like that. Now Ohio is not what I would call the very center of the midwest-in fact I would call it more of an eastern state than a Midwestern one-but as far as small town America goes, it's all just about the same. It's all dry and boring and maddeningly the same.

This is where a girl with a voracious sexual appetite, as I am and have, grew up. Or rather, was forced to spend her days and nights. Small wonder I took up bathrooms.

Lots of nifty things have happened in bathrooms. I don't have to enumerate them for you, do I? I mean, you have an imagination, yes?

Think of anything you like, and just imagine it happening in a bathroom. I'm sure you will see that the place sheds a completely different light on many activities.

And so there was my bathroom. After awhile I will tell you how I came to such an appreciation of bathrooms, but for the time being, let me just tell you that there was this bathroom. Oh, such a bathroom. Yes there was this bathroom.

I am intimately acquainted with all the bathrooms in Licking County, Ohio, and in Knox County, Ohio, and these are the two counties in and around which my childhood is centered.

Mostly I know Knox County, and that is where Mount Vernon is, and Knox County has the superior bathrooms. Take my word for it, vastly superior bathrooms.

And of all the bathrooms in all the county there is one which is tops, aces in my deck, and that is the bathroom on the bottom floor of Rudin's.

Rudin's is a wonderful clothing store. They don't make them anymore like Rudin's. It's big and old and drafty and the escalators are all in wooden banks and they have the funkiest way of delivering change to the customer, they have this chute which runs from the bottom floor to the top floor and on the top floor the cashier puts all his money in a little metal capsule and stuffs the capsule into this chute and the chute carries the capsule and the money downstairs to the main cashier who opens the capsule and takes out the money and the sales slip and then counts out the proper change, slips the change back into the capsule and the capsule back into the chute and perhaps three minutes later the customer on the top floor has all his change.

I think that's neat. More than that, I think it's groovy. I tell you only to give you a good idea of just what such a place as Rudin's is like.

It's a holdover from different, slower times. It's a place which is somehow redolent of the nineteen thirties in this country, the time towards the end of the depression, when all Americans were a bit closer to one another, a bit more sympathetic.

That was a slower time, I gather, and a more unified one, and it certainly must have been in Mount Vernon, although it is hard to imagine that in Mount Vernon anything could have been any slower than it is at this point in time.

However I have veered from the point of the bathroom, and I want you to know all about the bathroom on the bottom floor of Rudin's, which is the world's grooviest bathroom.

It takes the cake. It's just the greatest bathroom It has those toilets where you have to reach up over your head and pull down on a wooden handle at the end of a chain, and the handle is carved to fit your palm, and when you pull down you hear a flush.

I'm talking about the men's bathroom. Are you shocked? Well Get over it. I've been going into men's bathrooms all my life and I plan to continue doing so.

Alright, you know about the bathroom. It has toilets that flush from above, and the toilets are of marble, and separated from each other by marble partitions, and the doors to the stalls are wooden, and there are two sit down toilets and two urinals.

The floor of the bathroom is marble, and so is everything about the bathroom including these big sinks, big pink marble sinks with the kind of faucets affixed to them that you can't run the water to your desired temperature, but rather, have to run the water into the bowl of the sink to get it to a bearable temperature.

Hot water runs from one spigot and cold from the other and the idea is to fill the sink with water and wash your hands out of the bowl, rather than directly under the water from the spigots. You see what I mean about Mount Vernon being a slow place: people there have time to fill up the sink with water to wash off their hands after they pee. Nowadays or in any other place east of Ohio, you just run your hands under the quick stream of water, and you're on your way out of the bathroom.

In Mount Vernon, they take their time with everything, including going to the bathroom. The one thing they do not seem to like to take their time with, however, is fucking, and that is a tendency I have worked all my life to overcome.

I like a good slow fuck. I like a good slow easy fuck, and I like it in the bathroom. I might not like it in the bathroom if not for my conditioning, but I'll tell you about that later on, as I had promised. Let me get right down to the bathroom at Rudin's.

What a crowd you can find there at the men's room at Rudin's. I kid you not. What a crowd that you can find there in the bathroom.

It's a spot, it's a hangout, it's the hottest place in town. If only it hadn't been for the chief of police and his bad digestion, he might never have wandered into the John today and found me at my usual pastime, which is usually getting myself whipped and beaten into a frenzy in the bathroom at Rudin's. I like it there. I always have.

Today was a dream day. That is, until I was caught. Yes, it was certainly a dream day, a day that shall live in my mind until I am old and gray.

You see there has been this rumor around town, this rumor about the new district attorney and his kinky kinky habits. There are always such rumors.

In a town like Mount Vernon there are always such rumors, especially about newcomers, and this new district attorney was from the east. The best kind of newcomer.

We all like to hear from the east, from the capital of the world, which I think is New York City, and this guy was from there, from New York.

Yes, he had come from New York, and you know how we feel about New York out in Ohio. Or rather, how some of us feel about New York. We feel like it must be the greatest place on earth. I feel that way, at least, and whenever I hear of someone coming through from New York I try to latch onto that someone right away.

It's my chance out of here, my chance to get a ticket out of Ohio, even an imaginary ticket, even just basking for a few moments in the glory of a New Yorker.

Of course lots of other people around here hate the thought of New York, but of course they're only jealous. New York has quite a reputation out here in small town America.

So this guy is out from New York and he's got a story a mile long trailing behind him, and this story is all about a bathroom and a red pair of shorts and a hard on.

Well, those are the rough details, and it doesn't take a lot for anyone to put them together and make them add up to something substantial.

What they add up to for me is a man who-likes to sit on a John with his cock in his hands and his bright red shorts to his knees. And I can hardly blame the man. I think that's about the most exciting thing a person can want to do.

So right away I know I want to meet the guy, and to meet him especially in the bathroom at Rudin's, which is the dream bathroom, the place to go if bathrooms are your thing.

So the thing to do is to arrange a rendezvous with this new D.A., although of course the thing to do at once is to get to see him, to get a look at him.

Well, lo and behold, I couldn't. Lo and behold and what do you know I couldn't get anywhere near him. Not to get a look, or anything.

They're keeping him under complete security, or something. It's as if the president of the whole United States had come to visit. Honestly.

Everyone wants to meet the guy, and no one can, and so it seems highly unlikely that little lowly me would get a crack at the dude. Boy, did I want to get at the dude with my crack.

Days pass and then weeks and then months, and the new D.A has a crystal clear service record but almost no one has seen him. Almost no one at all

Well, now. There has to be something fishy about a man who is kept so thoroughly under wraps. There has to be something incredibly fishy about such a man.

What is it that is going on here, I begin to wonder, and then it occurs to me, well, maybe I should follow the original lead and check out all the bathrooms in town.

If he really is into bathrooms, then it should be easy enough for me to find him somewhere, in some bathroom or other. All I have to do is look for red shorts.

I mean I know that I'm going to find the guy in a bathroom sooner or later. It's fate, I think to myself. It's just something that's meant to be.

I'll tell you my theory: being a person into bathrooms myself, I know what it's like to need to get it off in a nice, marble fixtured men's room.

It's like cheerleading, you just never lose the urge. So of course if it was at all true what they said about this new D.A., then clearly I was going to be able to find him in a bathroom at some point in time. All I had to be was patient. And ready.

I plotted a route. I had a regular route from John to John all over town. The Curtis Hotel. Snow's Tavern. The Office. The Alcove.

I hopped from John to John to John looking for my John on the John. I was a Johnny on the Spot, and he was a Johnny Come Lately. I could go on like this forever.

Well. This went on for about a month or so, and I was losing heart. I was beginning to think that perhaps this D.A. was as clean as a whistle. I was beginning to think that someone had lied to me. I was beginning to lose faith in ever finding the man.

It was in just such a frame of mind that early this afternoon, to escape the oppressive midday sun, I retired to Rudin's, to stalk the floor and cool out.

Rudin's is always cool, always a nice place to be. Refreshing in the summer, and cozy in the winter. There's simply nowhere like it, not that I know of.

So I walked around and around the floor, looking at wallets and things like that, and I get the feeling I might as well check out the bathroom, one of my favorite places in all the world, as I have already described to you so vividly.

In I saunter. Okay, so if it's a men's bathroom, you're thinking, how come she gets to saunter in there like nobody's business. Trade secret, sweetheart. Trade secret.

Or else let me just put it this way. Mount Vernon is a small town. We're not talking Saks Fifth Avenue, here, we're talking Rudin's. You think the place is mobbed on a weekday afternoon in the middle of the summer? Guess again. Maybe six people are in the whole store. Odds are against all six of them being in the bathroom.

So there are six people in the store, and one of them-me-is in the men's room. Or, rather, to my surprise, two of them. Because I am not alone.

I walk in, I case the joint, I get a look at myself in the mirror, give the urinals a flush, saunter back to the mirror, check my mascara. And there's something in the mirror I hadn't noticed before. Something red in the corner of the mirror. Something big and stiff and something red and I turn around and-

It's him. Oh, heavenly days, it's him And he's beautiful. Sitting there on the John with this huge cock in his hands, so big I want to fall to my knees and worship it.

Right there I want to get down on my knees and worship his cock. And I do. I fall right to my knees and he says, "Hello," kind of shocked, like maybe he shouldn't be there or maybe I shouldn't be there-which is a bit of a tricky thing to decide seeing as how neither of us really has any legal right to be doing as we're doing, him holding his cock and having a wanker and me, a girl, in the men's room--but we get over that awkward moment real fast. Yes, the awkwardness is gone as soon as I have his cock in my mouth. Oh what a cock. Oh, what an eager mouth. Oh, what a bathroom encounter.

Seriously, it's sometimes very meaningful to be so intimate in such a place. We all use bathrooms all our lives, don't we? Yet we never have the opportunity to shave the bathroom with others. I mean once we're too old to go to the John with our parents, we spend the rest of our lives going alone to the bathroom. I don't see why.

We ought to appreciate the beauty of the bathroom. It's a place we all know, like our kitchens and bedrooms, a place where we carry out a natural function, just as we eat in a kitchen and sleep in a bedroom. And people fuck in the kitchen and in the bedroom, so why shouldn't they do it in the bathroom? Anyway, that's how I feel about it.

So I've got his cock in my mouth and I'm licking it. Oh, do I like his cock.

I like the warm and hard feel of it in my mouth, the damp and warm sticky feeling of it between my lips. What a cock. Honest to God, what a cock.

And I'll tell you what, up to now it hasn't occurred to me one way or the other what it is that he-likes to do in the bathroom. I mean, different people like to do different things.

For that matter, if he's a guy in a guy's bathroom with the door open and his pants down and his stiffened cock in his hands, it's more or less apparent that he must have some kind of thing for guys. Otherwise, he'd be in the ladies' room, right?

Yeah, well. No matter. Whether it's a thing for guys he's got or just a thing for beating off in public places, little of this matters just at the moment.

All that really matters is that I've got him good, and he's loving it. I know that he's loving it. I know that for a fact. Listen, I can hear him grunting.

Yeah, I'm on my knees on the floor of the john just inside the bathroom stall where he's sitting on the toilet with his cock in my mouth.

The floor is cold porcelain tiles beneath my knees, and the walls of the stall are of marble. The stall is exceptionally clean. You can't write graffiti on marble.

It's cool in the bathroom. Other places all over the building it's a little warm, even with the famous Rudin's air conditioning. But the bathroom is cool.

The sweat dries at the small of my back as the coolness from the floor works its way up through my body, from my kneecaps up my thighs and all the way up my head.

I feel as if I have just come down from a fever, with a cool ice pack on my forehead. I feel cool all over, except of course my mouth is steaming hot.

I've got his hot cock in my mouth. It's the only hot thing anywhere near me. I like the sensation of the heat in my mouth contrasted with the coolness of the floor. It's as if all the heat in my body has flowed upward to my mouth and is concentrating there.

I determine to take my time with his cock. I have all the time in the world, it seems to me, at that point in time. I can take as long as I want.

I pull away from his cock and hold it straight out between the two of us, and take long, slow swipes at its underside, running my tongue slowly up and down the length of the underside of his cock. I taste the whole of the underside of his cock.

It tastes nice. It tastes warm and fleshy, and sticky with his lubricating juices, and hot with the blood rushing through it. I like the taste of his cock.

I wrap my hands around his balls and knead them, playing with them as I might play with the balls in a set of jacks, bouncing them against each other and rubbing them.

Up till now, don't forget, the guy has not said a word to me, not one word. I'm not even certain that this is the D.A. of local legend.

All I know for the time being is that it's a guy in the bathroom with a big big cock that I have my mouth wrapped around. And that seems to be enough.

Well. All of a sudden he starts to talk to me, and tell me who he is and what he wants and all kinds of things like that. Seems I really turn him on.

He confesses to me that he's never made it with a woman in his life. Not that he's gay. He's a virgin. He gets his jollies in the bathroom, and he's never ever been fucked.

Well for Chrissakes. I've heard stories and I've heard stories, and this beats all "So if you're not gay," I say to him, "how is it possible that a good looking guy like you with a cock like that has not managed to get himself laid?"

It seemed a reasonable question, and, considering the circumstances, I don't think it was too intimate a question to ask this virtual stranger.

I mean there's something about sucking a guy's cock that makes it alright for you to ask him a lot of things you might not otherwise ask. You know? Or maybe you don't.

Well, it was a fair enough question to ask him, and he seemed happy to have it asked. He looked almost grateful, as if all his life he'd been waiting for someone to ask him just that question. And now, finally, the question had been asked.

"You know why?" he said. "You really want to know why?"

"No, I don't want to know why," I said. "I just asked to hear myself talk. Dont be an ass-hole. Of course I want to know why. So tell me."

He took a deep breath, and then he got a funny look on his face, as if he didn't expect me at all to like what he was about to tell me, and then he talked very fast and told me all about it. All about why he had taken to beating of in men's rooms.

"It's because I like to do disgusting things and I'm afraid that women won't really want to do them. I'm afraid to ask them to help me do such things."

"Like what things?" I said, unconvinced that there was anything he could want to do that was too disgusting for even me to deal with.

"Well, it all has to do with bathrooms. It all has to do with how I went to Catholic school when I was a child and the nuns who taught me were really weird about bathrooms, among other things, and now I have this bathroom fixation as a consequence. And what I really want is to take a woman doggy style over an open toilet, you know, and things like that. But since I'm afraid to ask women to do such things with me, well, you know, I have to come in the bathrooms all by myself, and just fantasize. And you see, not just any bathroom will do. Because at the Catholic school, of course, the bathrooms were public and I had this curiosity about them that had to do with other people going in there, too, and so I can only really get off if I'm in a John that I know a lot of other people use all the time. And of course if there's a chance of getting caught that adds to the whole charm. I mean, at home alone I do it in my bathroom, but that's never the same, that's like masturbation as compared to fucking. Although I can't really use that analogy, can I, since I've never fucked anyone in my life."

"This will be the first time, then," I said, and you should have seen the look of joy spread across his face, the look of disbelief at such an prospect of happiness.

It was at that moment that I felt I was doing some good on this planet, just to make this guy so happy when I indicated that he could do with me as he pleased.

Well. If you think he was happy. I mean if you think he was happy you're correct. But his happiness could not have compared to mine. Not in the slightest.

For there is nothing I enjoy more than being degraded in the bathroom, nothing I like better than making myself a slave to some man's hot erection in the bathroom.

I can't exactly tell you why just at the moment. That in itself is a whole story, and I want to get right to the point. I want to get to the part where he fucks me.

The two of us are ecstatically happy, overjoyed, enormously pleased with each other and ourselves, in the way that people can only be when their fondest dreams are about to be fulfilled. Which is exactly what the situation was.

What do you dream of, owning a BMW? Winning a Nobel Prize? Publishing that book you've been writing for seventeen years? Think of what it might be like to walk into a room one day and learn that you had suddenly been granted all your wishes.

Well. This is what happened to me. This beautiful man with the thick and juicy cock wanted to fuck me in the stall of the Rudin's men's room.

All my dreams and wishes then were immediately fulfilled. I felt for a moment like crying. I also felt like fucking, and we got down to business. There was not time to waste.

He slapped me. "Get off your knees, and get that fanny of yours up in the air, then." He said this without complete conviction, as of course we were still a bit shy with one another, just testing the ground, getting our feet wet, as it were. But that slap went quite a ways towards loosening things up, towards creating the right atmosphere.

For you see for me to really enjoy a hearty bathroom fuck it has to hurt a little. It has to hurt just enough and I have to feel as if I'm being forced.

He understood these things instinctively. He knew that I wanted to be told. He knew that I wanted to be hurt and humiliated and controlled.

For someone who had never had it before, he seemed pretty certain of all the proper moves. I guess some people are just born to fuck. He seemed to be.

Well. That slap went quite a ways towards getting the two of us in the mood, but just to nail things down a bit I yelled out. Not really loud, mind you, but it was the idea that mattered more than the fact. Just the thought of that yell.

He appreciated that. "Get your pants off," he said, "I have got any time to waste." There was an undertone of authority in his voice now, and I had only to work hard to strengthen it, to give him the feeling that he really was in charge.

"Oh, please don't hurt me," I said. "Please, do anything you like but just don't hurt me. I just don't want you to hurt me. Please."

I begged. That helped him out considerably.

Suddenly he was a little more eager to sound as if he had taken the reins, and he slapped me again-this time harder than at first.

I yelled out again. Not too loud, for of course I didn't want anyone else to hear, but loud enough. Loud enough to see his cock get very, very red with anger.

He picked me up and very brutally ripped my pants away from my body, and he plopped me down in front of the toilet bowl so that I was facing it.

"Spread your legs wide, now," he snarled at me, "because I'm going to fill you up with my big, hot cock." He snarled quite convincingly. I was getting turned on.

My ass was turned to him, and the lips of my cunt pointed out between my legs as he pushed me down hard so that my head was very nearly in the toilet bowl.

He slapped my ass two or three times, hard, resounding slaps. Slaps on the ass are really the best kind, because they sound much worse than they actually are. They sound loud and hard and harsh, and like they hurt like hell. But they don't really hurt much at all.

The sound of those slaps on my ass got us both going, and we were in a real hurry now to get the job done. I could feel the heat of him behind me as I leaned over the toilet bowl. I was hot and damp between my legs, and desperate to have him inside me.

He grabbed the lips of my cunt very firmly in his hand and squeezed them, and spoke very softly in my ear all kinds of obscene things that I dare not repeat even now. He said terrible things to me, about what might happen to me if I were not a good girl and did just as he wanted. There I was facing into the toilet bowl and he was going on about all the horrible and disgusting things that he thought he might do to me if I didn't stand very still and take him hard up the ass. Oh, such things he said to me.

In all my life I don't think I was ever as hot and ready as at that moment, as I perched above the toilet and waited for him to ram hard into me.

No, I can't say that I have ever had such a sublime moment as that second of waiting for him to come inside me, waiting there to feel him fill me up.

I could have begged him. I could have pleaded. I could have begged him to fuck me. My lips were hot and quivering and my clit was standing stiff like a meter in the wind, measuring the depths of my desire and my hot and pulsating need.

He kept me there at the edge of desire as long as he could have beared it, I suppose, and then with a loud grunt and the whisper of an obscenity in to my ear, he was inside me.

He filled me up. My legs were spread as he mounted me doggie style, and my thighs were stretched out behind me. I was all stretched out and aching with having him.

My ass in the air, my lips reached up to his cock as he stuffed himself into me, all the way into my tunnel, and then fucked me hard and fast and good.

In and out and in and out he rammed his cock, harder and faster with every passing second, and there was a smell blossoming between us that was like heaven.

It was the smell of the bathroom and the smell of the toilet beneath my head, the harsh and briney smell of urinals and disinfectant and there was the sweaty smell of our bodies together and the sharp smell of my cunt opening very wide for him.

His cock was thick and hard inside me, thicker than any cock I had ever known. I'll tell you, it was a strain, really a strain, to take him.

He forced apart some tissue and flesh and muscle that I didn't think I even had. He turned me on to portions of my insides that I never knew were there before.

I trembled. I was building up inside towards orgasm, building towards some kind of incredible orgasm, and I didn't even know that

I was yelling as loud as I was.

He slowed down. He wanted me to be quiet. He pulled his cock out of me, but I had to have it, had to have it fast and hard and right now, and I thrust my hips back and back at him and begged him to finish me off, begged him not to stop.

I was yelling louder than I had been before he pulled out, and I guess the only thing for him to do was to drive one home, and he drove one home. Oh, did he drive one home.

So far home did he drive, so far that I thought I felt his cock coming up through the top of my head, and I came so hard and fast and with such intensity that I never even heard the sheriff snap those handcuffs around his wrists, and mine.

INTERVIEW TWO

You don't really need to hear all the details of my capture. Anyway I'm not here to tell you a detective story. Go on in a drug store and buy you, you want to.

No, I'm here to tell you what it was that turned me into a bathroom whore. You know that's what they call me, don't you? The bathroom whore.

It wasn't something that happened to me out of nowhere. It wasn't something I thought up all by myself. It wasn't something of my own devising.

I was taught to be a bathroom whore. I was taught by the couple next door. You want to hear about that? It's not a bad story in itself.

I mean I hate to sort of abandon that guy in midstream, the nice guy in the John whose career now is ruined, I'm afraid. Yes, this has done him in.

I wish people could be a little more broad minded about such things. You know? Because it is just such people as those who were ready to condemn that guy to eternal damnation who taught me everything I know about bathrooms. Everything.

I called them the bathroom couple. You don't need to know their real names. I have no intention of turning in a fellow bathroom enthusiast.

They lived in a house just next door to my parents' house on one of the nicest streets in Mt. Vernon, and they seemed like a lovely couple.

They have no children. I always supposed, and everyone always supposed, that they were unable to have children, and so they won a great deal of sympathy from everyone. I mean, in such a place as Mt. Vernon people just don't decide they'd rather not have children. If they don't have children, it can only mean that there's no physical way for them to have children. No one ever would think that people simply do not want to have children, sometimes. That possibility never occurs to anyone.

It ought to have occurred to me, but by the time I found out why it was that they had no children, it was too late. They had already toilet trained me.

Yes, that's what I call it, toilet training. If it sounds funny to you, well, maybe it is, but I'll tell you, that's just what it was, toilet training.

Just as your mother or your father teaches you all about relieving yourself in the toilet, so they taught me all about having sex there.

And really fucking is just as necessary as going to the bathroom, as far as I'm concerned. So there's a beautiful logic to being taught to fuck in the bathroom.

Well. Now the reason these two people, this nice couple, had no children is because they don't want any children getting in the way of their sex life. Not to mention, of course, that, given their sexual proclivities, it probably would have been too tempting for them to have little boys and girls running around the house. I mean they didn't want to be guilty of incest, along with everything else. No, it was easier for them just to take advantage of the willingness of the girl next door. That's me.

Let me point out that before I became the bathroom whore I had a tidy reputation as a nice, small town girl, with dimples and pigtails and a cheerful smile, and eagerness to please which surpassed that of any child movie heroine you have ever seen. Margaret O'Brien had nothing on me. I was the picture of innocence.

This couple, they were in about their early thirties when they moved next door to us, and they both worked, and they took to me immediately. They liked me at once. They were very pleasant and they always had milk and cookies out for me whenever I was around.

Of course everyone thought it was all too cute, seeing as how they had no children of their own and all, and I was the surrogate child, the daughter they wanted but never had.

My parents actually encouraged me to go over there and talk to them, as if it was some kind of charity work, as if it were their duty to share me with the less fortunate.

Well. Suits me fine, I thought. You see, I come from a large family, from somewhere in the middle of the line, and being one of many and rather non distinct, just the third of the fourth child and neither the ground breaking oldest nor the heart capturing youngest, I got very little attention from anyone in my family. Very little attention at all.

I suppose they were relieved to have someone pay so much attention to me, as if the burden had been lifted from their shoulders, and I was taken care of for awhile.

Well. Just what kind of care was taken I will soon begin to outline for you I am sure you will agree that it is not the kind of care most parents would want for their daughters.

Nonetheless Not to veer from the point. Or is that the point. I don't know. Anyway. To stick at least to the facts. Here are the facts: I met them and they were very nice to me and within very little time I was spending nearly every afternoon after school at their place. Both of them were home from shortly after five in the afternoon, and so I'd just cool my heels at the drug store, or something, or get my homework done really fast and then tear over to greet them when they got home at night.

For one thing the guy was a real mathematics whiz kid. God, could he ever deal with any kind of problems you could name. And math is not my forte. He did my algebra homework for me every night for quite some time. Really a sweetheart.

His wife was extremely maternal, and very good to me, and quite a cook. Could she cook the food. Good, hot food, and all kind of exotic dishes.

Very cozy set up it was. Very cozy. For something like six, seven months it went on like this, all through the fall and through the winter.

Then came spring. In spring-what is it they say? Young men's cocks harden with thoughts of sex, or something like that. Well, spring.

In spring it was that my parents and my brothers and sisters and I, all of us over Easter vacation, were to make the annual trek to Pittsburgh to visit my grandparents. What a drag. Nothing in the world is so boring and awful as Pittsburgh and my grandparents.

So what did I do? Ingenious little me? I played sick. Yes, I did, I played sick. I played very sick. I played I-can't-possibly-go-to-Pitts-burgh sick.

Oh, I mean, not really sick, but sick enough. Sick enough so that they wouldn't want to drag me around some old and frail people like my grandparents, and I mean both sets. Yes, it was a convincing sick routine, and it got me what I wanted.

It got me out of going with them, which was what I wanted. It got me a lot of other things, in the long run, and these things I will describe to you shortly.

So there was the problem of leaving me home, or maybe the whole family staying home, and rather than ruin everyone's trip I suggested that perhaps the lovely young couple next door would be happy to take care of me for the week.

My mother put up a bit of a show of, well, how could she impose on people she barely knew, and all, but of course she thought it was a terrific idea.

She thought it was such a terrific idea that that night she was on the phone to the neighbors explaining to them the whole sordid story in detail and adding a few embellishments of her own. Such a sad story. Such a good actress.

And of course they agreed. More than agreed, they insisted. Even to the point of suggesting that I spend the week with them, rather than all alone in this big, empty house.

Needless to say all of this struck me as the best of all possible arrangements. The thought of being able to enjoy a full week alone with this lovely couple, and all his intelligence, and all her good cooking-well, words cannot express.

I mean at the time I was still pretty innocent and certainly virginal and I could get excited by things as simple as the idea of good cooking and friendly conversation.

So it was arranged. My parents of course offered to pay the neighbors for taking me, and they of course refused, and after everyone had finished playing their roles sufficiently enough to convince each other that they were all in earnest, my parents went away and there I was, alone in the house with the two most sexually perverted human beings I have ever had the pleasure to meet in all my days and ways.

I kid you not. I am talking perverts. I am talking weird, fixated perverts. I am talking toilet freaks, and enemas, and many, many unmentionable sexual acts.

I am talking here the story of my sexual awakening. Oh, my, it is a story to be repeated over and over again. It is a story I like to tell, and it is a story I like to see people here. It is the story of my life, of my adolescence.

Well, alright. Things went smoothly enough for awhile. I mean immediately there was the problem of my sickness and of course I had to be careful to appear sick at least for appearances sake for some length of time.

As it turned out they were really into my being sick. They were both really into it, especially the husband, he in particular seemed very much concerned.

He had the week off, you see, and his wife did not, and he was the one who was to tend to me for that length of time. He was to be my nurse.

So. Obviously I wasn't really sick. Obviously there was nothing wrong with me at all. Nonetheless, I couldn't let onto it right away.

I had to be sick, I figured, for at least a day or two, or maybe even three, and that was alright because at first, it was the weekend, and both of them were home and they made me stay in bed and brought me food and played board games with me and cards and things like that. So the weekend was good but I figured maybe I ought to at least give them Monday as well just to keep things on an even keel.

Not that they exactly knew how to diagnose my illness. For you see I wasn't sick and I didn't have a fever. So I complained of stomach pains, and a head ache, and things like that, things they couldn't have proven for sure one way or the other, and I got to eat all the good food they brought me and I even took some of the pills.

I mean not all the pills, but some of the pills, and some of the cough syrup with codeine in it. Not that I was coughing, but I guess neither of them were too sure what to do with me and so they just gave me all the medicine they had in the house.

The weekend went quite well although I will admit that I was getting a little bored staying in bed all day and all night. I wanted a little action. On Monday, I got my wish.

Monday morning the lovely wife went off to work and it was just the man of the house and myself. It was just the two of us, together. Alone.

Listen to me now. At the time I was a virgin. And I don't mean just casually a virgin. I mean Honest-to-God a virgin. I mean totally and completely a virgin with every fiber of my soul. I was a text book virgin. I was the real thing.

So naturally when this nice man suggested to me Monday morning that I step into the bathroom with him, as he had something that he thought might be of help to me, in the way of making me better real fast, I didn't question his motives.

What, I thought, could a thirty year old man possible want with me unless it was something noble and kind and good? Or rather, I didn't even think to question. I didn't even occur to me to do anything but exactly as he asked. I trusted him completely.

So you see, he could have had his wicked way with me, I suppose, and I would have willingly allowed it. He could probably have taken my virginity away from me without my even noticing it was gone. But he was far more subtle a seducer than all that.

I padded after him into the bathroom. I was eager to do as he pleased. I hoped that the cure he was to perform would not involved anything too painful.

I walked into the bathroom, and he stood there with a very peculiar looking apparatus . A big, big bag hung form the shower rod, and the bag was filled with fluid, clear fluid that I supposed was nothing more than water. From the bag ran a long, clear plastic tube, which ended in a nozzle which he held in one of his hands.

The nozzle had a very interesting shape. It looked like a mushroom, like the cap of a mushroom and part of the stem. Later I found out just what this mushroom was, but for the time being it would never have occurred to me that it was shaped like a cock.

"Alright, darling," he said, "this is something the doctor has recommended to me, and I think it may just do the trick, it may just cure you of all your afflictions."

He spoke with such a calm, and so quietly, and so pleasantly, that I didn't for a moment suppose he wanted anything but the very best for me.

I smiled. "What is it?" I said, playing innocent. For don't forget, I was the one who felt she was being deceiving, as of course I was not sick at all I certainly didn't want him to know that I wasn't really sick. And so I played along, pouring about twice my usual dose of sugar sweetness onto every word I uttered.

"This, dear," he said to me, "is something nice for your insides, and all you have to do is just lower your jammy bottoms and bend over, and we'll have you better in a second."

Oh. That was all Well, that didn't seem unreasonable to me, really. I did just as he asked. I whipped down the bottoms of my pajamas, and bent over, and I was ready for what he had for me. I was ready to take it up the ass. I was ready for that warm enema.

I mean how was I to know an enema from anything? I ask you? Well, I learned on that very day. I learned something about enemas, and about myself.

Because you see, it was good. The enema was good. The enema was very, very good. He let the liquid slowly into me, after he had carefully inserted the nozzle of the tube up my pink and tight little ass-hole. "You're a little tight, honey " he said to me, "just try to relax." And I tried. I tried to relax.

At once of course the plastic was cold and a little harsh against my tender skin, but he didn't push the thing very far up into me. He was very gentle about it. Very, very gentle indeed. No, he didn't push in very far up into me at all.

He sort of just rested it against my ass-hole, and then he reached up to the bag and squeezed it, and the water rushed up into me, very slowly, and it was warm and nice.

You ever have an enema? You ought to try it sometime. It can be quite enjoyable under the right conditions. And that was very enjoyable.

There was all this warm water inside of my, just sluicing around inside my ass-hole, and it was nice and warm and that was good, and I smiled.

My body tingled and I had the strangest feeling down between my legs a feeling to which at that time I was wholly unaccustomed. A feeling of damp pleasure I had never felt before.

Really it was nothing, that first time. It was just getting all that fluid inside of me and having that feeling between my legs. But that I might say, was enough. I walked away from that encounter knowing that something inside of me had changed, never again to be entirely as it had been in the past.

Well. The rest of the day went by, and the wife came home from work, and we were all chummy and happy for a little while, and then the shit hit the fan.

I was fast asleep. Fast, fast asleep. After having reported to the two of them that I felt much, much better, I retired to my bed, and fell immediately asleep.

I could not have been asleep for very long when I was awakened, rather brutally, from my happy little sleep. She woke me up. She was hysterical

"You!" she shouted. "You get your little fanny out of bed this instant, and answer my question. Did you let him give you an enema, you little whore? Hmm?"

What a shock to my system. First of all, I had no idea that what he had done to me was called an enema, and second of all I was mortified to hear myself being called a whore.

"I don't know what you mean," I could only stammer. "I just don't know what you mean. Nemena? What's a nemena?"

"Don't play cute with me you little bitch," she shouted. "I've had about enough of your cute routine. You're practically a grown woman, and if you don't realize that by now it's about time that you caught onto it. It's about time you learned."

And then she did something funny. She stripped me, and she marched me over to the mirror in the room where I was sleeping, a full length mirror, and she made me look at myself in the mirror. I have to say, she was quite right, I was a woman. i had breasts, big, full breasts with nice rounded nipples, very pointed and round red nipples, and creamy white breasts which swept out from my chest and up towards my chin.

Beneath these breasts was my rounded belly, and just below that was my mound, all crested with hair. My lips were big and swollen, and inviting.

"You look at yourself in the mirror, young lady," she said to me, "and tell me if this is the sort of body you ought to be letting grown men administer enemas to.' I looked. I looked very hard and I noticed that I was beautiful. Not unbelievably beautiful, or anything. I mean, the point is, I realized for the first time in my life that I had become a woman. That was a very great shock to me.

"Now then," she said. "If you're going to behave like a little girl, then you're going to be punished like a little girl " She was quite enraged.

She led me back to the bed and she sat down upon it, and then she took me over her knee and spanked me. She was very, very good at spanking me.

Her hands were small and able, and she brought the flat of her palm down against my skin, in fast, sharp little slaps, and my ass tingled with the feeling of it.

"Now you just be careful where you throw that cunt around, do you understand me? You just be careful where you throw that cunt of yours around."

She stood me up in front of her, and as if to make sure that I completely understood, she flattened her palm against my cunt lips and pressed hard at me.

She let a finger slip up into my cunt, and poked around inside of me. "That, in case you didn't know any better, is your cunt. That is what you have to be careful not to throw around, unless you are willing to suffer the consequences."

My ass was hurting so much it ached. I had the feeling that something inside of me was coming to life, something that had never come to life before.

I was terribly excited. When she had her finger in me like that I could hardly breathe. I leaned forward very hard on her finger hoping that she would do something more to me.

I smiled at her. I didn't say a word, but I leaned forward on her finger and bobbed up and down on it a little. It felt very, very good.

A very strange expression came over her face like she wasn't exactly certain what it was that she should do next and then her face set, and she was spanking me again.

"Oh, you filthy little bitch," she shouted, as she turned me over her knee and hit me harder and harder until I thought that I was going to pass out.

"Oh, you dirty filthy "Little bitch," she said to me. "How dare you make advances to me. How dare you be such a filthy little bitch."

She hit me harder and more sharply and I loved it. The harder she brought her hand against my ass, the more I responded to it deep between my legs

My cunt was so damp, there was nothing at all that I could do about it. I was getting her legs very wet from the dampness of my cunt. I wanted her to fuck me.

"Oh, eat me," I said. "Please, please, eat me. I want you to eat me." What I was saying I don't even know. How those words came to my virginal lips remains a mystery to me. Maybe some novel I had read somewhere, or something I had seen on TV.

The point was that I was very excited and that I wanted her to eat me. I mean I wanted her mouth down at my cunt lips. I was aching with desire.

And then, mercifully, she ate me. She lay me down on the bed and she practically dove down between my legs and took my lips in her mouth and sucked them.

My lips were wet and warm and all sticky and she licked them carefully, running her tongue all over them, and tasting them They smelled strong and good and she tasted them.

I could hear her little tongue going over and over my lips and I could hear her own lips smacking and I found that very exciting. I found that thrilling.

I liked to hear the sound of her going away at me like that. It was a very nice sound indeed, a sound that only made me hotter and happier and wetter.

I was hot and wet and happy now and her whole mouth was inside of me, between my legs. Her whole mouth was nibbling away at the very heart of my cunt.

I was all raw and hard inside. My clit was doing a little dance all its own, a fast and hard little dance, and I writhed up and down on the bed.

She had her fingers in there too, and she was fingering my clit. Every time she touched my clit I shouted out, and nearly jumped off the bed. I have a very sensitive clit.

Oh, her face was so wet with me and so hot from my hot cunt that I wanted then to lick her face and I pulled away from her and pulled her lips to mine and licked them dry.

Her lips were dripping with my juices and I could taste them, hot and sharp and strong and very wet and good. She was wet and she tasted good. So good.

And now I wanted her. Now I wanted my mouth down inside of her. All of a sudden it was as if every pent up desire I had ever held within me was released, and I was mad to get at her with me fingers and my tongue and my lips and my teeth.

I dove for her skirt up under her skirt and ripped with my teeth through her panties There was her cunt. An experienced cunt. It was wet and smelled delicious.

There was the rise of her lips, the soft and inevitable rise of her lips, and they rose like twin mountains, little mounds of flesh rising just for me.

I slid my tongue down between them and took a preliminary swipe at her and she had the smell and taste of a woman who had been around. She was fantastic.

She didn't have the young untested taste and smell that I had. She had the taste and smell of a woman who knows the charm of a cunt, and the necessity of a good smell coming from a charming cunt, and her cunt was charming and good smelling.

I don't know what soap she washed with or what kind of perfume she used or deodorant or whatever, but she just smelled like roses. Just completely like roses.

And I love the smell of roses.

And the thing that made it so very exciting was that although the rose smell was great, there was this very strong smell of sex, this very powerful odor of sex and desire.

I mean, what does sex smell like. Well, it's very hard to say, and I was only a child at the time, of course I would not notice right away that something that smelled like sex was obviously sex. I mean, I would have had nothing to compare it to. But this was unmistakably sex, and sex has always smelled the same to me, ever since, no matter what the smell really consists of. This smell, the smell that came out of this woman, was the smell of sweat, and the strong smell of her own juices, and the sweet smell of her clean skin, and the vaguely dirty, vaguely unorthodox smell of a person's private parts.

I mean, face it, you got cunts and cocks down there, they're being used for more than making babies, they're also being used for eliminating wastes.

And they're so close to the ass-hole, yes indeed they are. So of course sex is going to have a little of the smell of shit about it Of course it is.

But this wasn't bad, it didn't seem bad to me at the time and it doesn't seem bad to me now. It seems perfectly natural That's all that it seems. Just natural

Anyway this is what I smelled and I had my head all the way up under her skirt and was perched with my mouth open to go down on her when I felt a crack across my still bare ass and I knew that he had walked in on us. I knew that he had.

He spanked me. Within an inch of my life, he let me have it beating me harder and harder than I had ever before thought I could have been beaten.

"You miserable little slut," he yelled to me. "You miserable little lesbian bitch." Oh, he used other words, but I'm sure you've heard them all before.

The gist of the thing was that he lifted me up in his arms and carried me into the bathroom, and this time I was to receive an enema that I would never forget.

He hauled me into the bathroom. And I mean hauled. There was nothing delicate at all about the way that he hauled me into the bathroom. He was outraged.

I closed my eyes I was naked and I closed my eyes. I could not imagine that this was anything that I would want to see. This was going to be regrettable.

Well, it was a lot of things. It was hard and long and slow. But not necessarily regrettable. I was wrong about that. I don't really regret it at all.

Well anyway. Anyway what happened then was that he sat down on the toilet seat and he spanked me as hard as he could and he took his time doing it.

His blows came one after the other after the other. But very slowly and deliberately. And the welts were raising up on my ass, getting so big and red that I could feel them.

Yes, I could feel those welts, and then when I thought I was going to die from the pain if he hit me one more time, then he stopped, and let me off his lap.

Oh, it felt so good when he stopped. Nothing had ever felt so good as when he stopped hitting me, and there was a rush of blood to my ass and it tingled.

My ass tingled as your whole body tingles when you just pull yourself up out of freezing ocean water, and you still have the salt all over you. That kind of tingling.

Then he produced this rubber hose, and for a minute I thought that he was going to beat me with it. Well, I was spared that, thank God.

I've never been beaten with a rubber hose. Not that I wouldn't enjoy it. But at the time, I think that might just have been too much for me to take.

No, what he wanted to do with the rubber hose was tie my legs together, and that's just what he went ahead and did. He tied my ankles very tight together

Now I was more or less his slave do be done with as he desired. There was nothing that I could have done to protect myself from him even if I had wanted to.

And I will tell you the truth, I didn't necessarily want to protect myself. I didn't necessarily want that at all. I was kind of looking forward to what was going to happen.

He turned me around to face the toilet as he had done with me the first time he administered me an enema, and he was quite rough with me, and not at all polite.

"Little whore has her face up my wife's dress, she's going to have to compensate the husband, you see what I mean?" he said to me, fiercely.

I didn't see what he meant but I could certainly feel it. I could feel his hot hands at my ass, pushing me down, and I could feel him loosening up my ass-hole.

He had slapped some kind of cream over my ass-hole, and was working it into me, and it was wet and sticky and cold, and it felt alright. It felt kind of good.

Then that feeling subsided, and I knew that he was going to put that nozzle hard into my ass-hole. I knew that he was going to be as brutal as he could be.

And I wanted it. He stood behind me with no shirt on, and he was wearing only jeans and I turned to see what he was doing, and there was a lump in his pants.

His pants were pointing at me. His pants were big with his excitement. I looked at the nozzle of the tube coming out of the enema bag, and suddenly I understood.

Suddenly I grasped the meaning of the nozzle, and knew that it was a cock. I just knew it, just instinctively knew it. And all at once I had the feeling that I sort of wished it were to be his cock and not the nozzle that would force its way inside of me.

Well. I didn't have too long to think much at all, really. At that moment, I got the thing straight up my ass. It made a kind of splashing sound, almost.

Oh, such a big thing to have all the way up my ass. Such a big, big thing. And all the warm fluids inside of me. All of that inside of me, and he was fucking me with the nozzle, forcing it deep into me and pulling it out and then into me and out and in again.

I don't know how much more of this I have to describe to you. I could tell you about how he got his own cock into the action, my very first cock a huge cock a luscious cock. I think of that cock as the ideal against which I measure all others.

I could tell you how the wife got into the action. About how I was forced to serve them that evening and for the rest of the week, forced to be their slave, to follow them around the house and do exactly as they wished.

I could tell you about deep throating him and beating her off at the same time, of having to give the two of them baths, of cooking their meals and cleaning their refrigerator.

There was no chore too degrading, and with all of it there was the promise of sex and finally the promise of an enema or something wonderful in the bathroom.

I could tell you all that but now my time is up.

CASE HISTORY FOUR

SUBJECT: Betty Y. AGE: Twenty

INTERVIEW ONE

My father is worth twenty-two million dollars a year. No shit. You may have read about him in the Daily News. And I don't mean he's worth that all together at the moment. He's worth that much a year. Every year. Until he dies.

At least until he retires, anyway. For you see, that's what they're willing to pay him, in salary and bonuses and benefits, and company stock, to be the most successful corporate businessman in the entire country. Yes, indeed.

The question comes to mind: how do you spend twenty two million dollars a year? How is it possible for any man or woman or child to spend that much money?

It's possible. Take my word for it, it's possible. First of all there's all the money you have to pay accountants to protect all your money from the government, and then there's all the money you have to pay lawyers and managers and public relations agents. The more money you have in this country, the more you need. That's the way it works.

So my father spends it. And I spend it I spend a lot of it and I'll tell you why: he gives it to me. My father is buying me off. You know why? Because I happen to be the one and only reason why he has made it to the top.

I fucked the heads of every important branch of the American military industrial system to get where I am today. I gave head to Wall Street. I have been a slave to the Stock Market.

It is through my cunt that my father got to his position. He goddammed well better pay me as much money as he can afford to spare. I put him where he is today.

I come from this Midwestern family. I was happy there, out in the middle of the country, but I had the feeling that I wanted more. I was certain that I wanted more.

My mother and my father have been divorced for many years now, since I was a child, and I have very little recollection of him at all before I entered his life once again when I reached my sexual maturity. He was never around when I was young.

He was struggling then to try and be a corporate executive and my mother wanted no part of it at all. My mother has some frankly communist leanings. She wanted no part of the whole capitalist rat race that goes on in New York City.

So she and my father split up and she retired to the midwest to bring up her daughter as a nice American populist, with communist leanings.

Well. She tried. I'll give her credit for that But the best way to make someone want something is to refuse to let them get an idea of what it's like, and as I was growing up there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to get a taste of the New York City life and all that rampant capitalism. I was mad for money.

Daddy had his yearly visits, and he used to complain about how difficult it was for him to climb the ladder of success in the real business world.

It was the only time I ever saw him, during these visits, for I was never allowed to go and stay with him. I wanted to, but I was not allowed.

So the only impressions I had of my father was that he led a very hectic and somehow glamorous life in the greatest city of them all, New York.

I used to kid with him when he visited, telling him that I would visit him in New York as soon as I was old enough and see that he got what he wanted.

"I'll have a talk with all those men who run your company," I'd say to him, "and they'll do just as I tell them to do." What a little prophet I was.

Daddy always laughed at this, and he would smile at me, and I had the feeling that he loved me a little more for my determination to help him out.

I guess it was a way to win his love that made me say the things to him that I said. I guess I was just hungry for my father's love. I guess that really was all

Mother of course didn't approve at all of my stated intentions, but of course once I reached the age when I was independent there wasnt going to be a whole lot that she could say about it. No, she would have no say so after awhile, would she.

She certainly would not. There was no question of that. She certainly was not going to get in the way of me in my determination to get to New York and to help my father.

I really meant to do that. I really meant to help him out in any way that I could. That was no joke on my part It became a kind of dream of mine, to do just as I had said.

Other girls have visions of marrying the leading man in some kind of movie, or they have visions of riding horseback at some horse show. I mean, other girls have wishes to sustain them through their humdrum childhoods. My vision was this of helping my father.

This feeling that I could be of use to him got stronger and stronger as I got older and became more and more aware of my various gifts. Yes, I have gifts.

I'm talking about my physical attributes, anyway, of which I was assured at an early age. I blossomed early, and it became quite apparent that I was going to be beautiful.

The midwest was hardly big enough to hold me for very long. You think that's funny. I mean, the midwest is a very large place, geographically, but, you know, spiritually it's very, very small. Spiritually, it's almost non existent.

And so there were many reasons for me to want to go to be with my father in New York.

There was the desire for big city living. There was the need to win my father's love. There was the urge to be as far away from my mother as was possible. And there was the need to get my cunt fucked, and fucked like it never had been in the midwest.

I mean if they know how to do everything on a much larger scale in the east, it follows that they know how to fuck on a larger scale, doesn't it.

That was the way that my mind was operating at the time, anyway. That was where my head was at. I wanted to get laid, but good.

I mean I had done the scene where I grew up. I had learned the ropes. I had seen all there was to see, had felt all there was to feel.

There was nothing left for me there. Really, there was not a thing left for me there. The only thing for me to do was to see what was going on in Manhattan.

I got here the summer I graduated from high school and I was eighteen and so happy to be young and free and alone in the big city.

The city was better and bigger than I could possibly have imagined I got here by bus, and that in itself was quite a trip. My first impression of Manhattan was coming up the New Jersey Turnpike and seeing that skyline.

There must be no skyline in the world to compare to the New York City skyline. I am quite convinced of that. There simply can be no skyline like it anywhere else in the world.

From one end of the island to the other the buildings seemed to beckon me, from the Battery all the way up the island as far as I could see.

I didn't know all the names of all the buildings then, but I have since learned them. The buildings I think have had as much an effect on my perception of the city as anything else. I mean, they're all stiff cocks All of them, except for the Empire State Building which is a hypodermic needle. And there you have New York: sex and drugs.

Well, my New York, anyway. That was what it was to me, at least for awhile. I was no wall flower when I arrived. I was no fading violet, no blushing virgin.

I was a hose monster ready for action. I wanted it between my legs and I could feel that in the city I was going to be able to get it. I just had that feeling.

I had that feeling from the very first day, looking at the skyline. All you have to do is be a woman and look at the twin towers of the World Trade Center, and you can tell where the city's head is at. It's right up some woman's skirt.

Well that's where it was for me in any case. It was right up between my legs. It certainly was, there was no denying that I was very happy to be here.

I have been in New York awhile now, and at times I have been very, very happy to be here and at times I have not been happy to be here at all but I must say that nothing yet has equaled the feeling I had on that first day when I first got a glimpse of the famous skyline. I felt something then inside of me that made me know at once that the past was gone and now was only future. I crossed through the present on my way here and rode into pure future and there was the dividing line in my life, which happened I guess in New Jersey, between what had been and what was going to be, what will be.

New York City is that kind of place, the present moment does not exist here. Nor, for that matter, does the past It is all what is going to happen in the next five minutes or tomorrow or next week or next month or next year. Going to happen.

I got that feeling inside of me. I was on a completely different calendar. I was on the calendar of the future and the first thing that I was going to be doing in New York was getting some eastern cock hard between my legs That was what I wanted most.

My father of course was expecting me, though he had not seen me in two years and I am sure he was looking forward to the aspect of a little brunette in pigtails rather than the buxom hose monster who arrived at his door one fine spring afternoon.

"Hello, Daddy," I said, landing a peck on his cheek and enjoying his surprise. "How are things with you, Daddy? Did you miss me? Hmmm?"

Call me a seductress, for I was ready even to lay it on a little thick with my own father with my very own father. But then again, that was one of the things I wanted.

I mean I think I made that clear. What I wanted among other things was the approval of my father. I wanted his love, and I wanted some really hot sex, and I wanted a very fast life. Who'd have thought that I would have been able to kill three birds with one stone.

Now that's getting ahead of myself. Let me first concentrate on my father Was he ever surprised to see me. And was he. He certainly was.

Yes indeed he was surprised to see me. For of course he wasn't expecting me. Now I don't mean that he didn't know I was coming. Yes, he knew that I was coming. Or rather he knew that his daughter was coming. He hardly expected someone like me.

He expected the little girl in pigtails whom he had known once a year for several years. He expected an innocent and virginal type like Polly Pure, or something.

What he got was me. That must have really shocked him. He must have been just a little floored to have encountered me. He must certainly have been shocked.

Yes, I was a buxom little bitch, if I may say so myself. I was this buxom little bitch. I was a little bitch in heat. And I know that he smelled it.

He smelled it on me. Yes, he did, he smelled it. I know it now, he smelled it. For I was rich with all the smell of womanhood. I was rich with all the smell of sex.

Smelling me he smiled but could barely hide from me his terror. Here she was his daughter for whose safety he was now responsible and his daughter is a hose monster.

He must have felt that in the way I squeezed him, and kissed him on the lips. Yes, I kissed him on the lips and pressed my breasts against him.

On the lips with wet and slippery lips I kissed him and pressed my breasts against his massive chest. He could feel me warm and big titted against him

He could even have felt the points of my nipples standing there on end and saluting as I pushed my body into his and kissed him on the lips.

Really it was just a kiss but still it was on the lips and all my body tensed and quivered as I kissed him. He must have felt that, too

He must have felt that and he must have smelled it on me the smell of hot and lusting sex and the hardness of becoming a woman. A hard and womanly smell escaped from me as I pushed my body into his and kissed him on the lips.

"Oh, Daddy, gee it's really groovy just to stand here and to hold you. Let's just stand here all our lives and hold each other real close."

I think he would have done as I had said if he had not been who he was, which is to say a father with a daughter on whom he smelled the scent of womanhood and towards whom he was just beginning to feel some of the paternal anxiety he had forfeited all those years, having left me in the knowing care of my pseudo-communist mother.

The shock was passing through him, a double shock which consisted of the father's early shock of having to care for a child, of knowing that a child is there to be cared for, and the later shock of learning that the child for whom one is responsible is no longer really a child. My father felt that all at once and he was very nervous

He let me in the building, up the elevator to his flat, and there he didn't know just how to respond to me, what to offer me to drink or eat, what kinds of plans he ought to make for me, how he ought to behave. He didn't know at all just what to do.

He was cute that afternoon and I loved him then as I have loved no other man before or after that very day in his apartment. I loved him for his helplessness.

Clearly I was to be completely in charge. That was clear, I could see as much right away. Nothing he could do or say would have the slightest impact unless he had a woman in his life to take charge, and to let him know that what he did and said was good.

That was when I knew why it was that Daddy had not gotten farther in the business world than he already had. That was when I knew why he had failed.

Not that he had failed but he certainly had failed. Which is to say that he had risen just so far and gotten no further. He had gotten no further than he could alone.

He had gotten only as far as he could on his own and without the support of a man or a woman behind him to tell him what to do. That much was clear.

Men like to be led. Do you understand that, they like to be led. They like to be told they like to be shown they like most of all to be led.

That is what men are like they like to be led. I will tell you only the truth about this because I happen to know it. I happen to know the truth.

Take my father as an example. My father was trying to do the whole thing all on his own. My father was trying to get to be the world's highest paid executive, and he was trying to do it all on his own. I could see right away that he would fail.

I could see from looking around and around his apartment that he would fail. For something about the apartment was wrong. Something about the way it was set up was wrong.

It had the wrong feel about it. It had the feel of a man all alone. It had the look and the feel of a man devoted to his job, and nothing more.

That feeling had to go. All that feeling had to go. All that my father had done with his life had to go, and it had to be rearranged for success.

Success is a smell and a look and I know it. Success is a thing of the viscera, a thing of the nose and a thing of the senses. Success is something deeply felt, not thought.

My father didn't know success, he didn't feel it. He didn't feel the way to know success. He didn't have it in his veins, he couldn't think to know its feel or its look.

I, however, had success within my powers. I had the feel and knew how it looked, and my father had the brains to bring it about, and the two of us together were going to work miracles. The two of us together were going to make success a place for us.

All he had to do was let me take his life in my hands and that was all that he wanted to do. He wanted someone else to take his life and make it work.

I would make it work. He had the money and the brains to let me make it work, and I had the feeling inside of me to make it work. And it worked.

It was a long time in working but finally it worked. It was a battle for it to work but in the end it really worked, and very definitely worked.

In the end we won success together, and I will tell you how that really happened. I did it with my cunt. Yes, indeed, I caught it in my snatch.

I caught success between my legs and let it fuck me. I let it eat me out. You think I'm speaking metaphorically. Guess again. I'm not.

The apartment, that was a minor thing, a very small thing to accomplish. That took nothing at all more than the presence in Daddy's life of a beautiful brunette with big milky breasts and a drive to make success a thing of hers.

The apartment was soon a place of my imaginings Soon it was a place where things could go and things could work and things could happen.

Soon it was a place where people would want to be, a place set up for happenings. Things were going to happen there. Success was going to happen there.

Father, my father, he was happy enough with the feel and the look of it though inside of course he couldn't have known the difference. But things were starting to go right for him.

Just having me there made the things start to go right for him. Just having me in his life made the right things start to go right. Yes indeed.

That done, then, there was the problem of getting to Daddy's business associates, the problem of getting him to agree to have them home for drinks and meals.

You know why he refused to have them home, don't you. I can tell that you know why and I can tell that if you were my father you would feel the same way. Too bad for you.

Too bad for him, for awhile, for a long long time indeed. Too bad for him but then in time he acquiesced, and he brought his friends to dinner.

Don't forget the shock he had when he felt that I had become a woman. Don't forget the very deep shock he felt when he knew that I was a woman.

The smell of sex upon me must have been distinct and he must have been reluctant to let others get a noseful of me, afraid to put them on my scent.

Ah, but his need for success overcame his fears and finally he started having men to the apartment and once he had started to have men to the apartment they started to see me and once they had started to see me there was no keeping them away.

Because, to put it crudely I exuded snatch. There was no way to look at me then and not get the smell on your fingers. There was no way to look at me then and not have the smell on your mind and clinging to your clothes. I am willing to bet that more domestic squabbles were caused just by the smell of me on some poor businessman's coat.

They could smell me as dogs can smell a bitch in heat and I had them where I wanted them, and in time I knew that I would have to live up to that smell.

I was prepared to live up to the smell I was prepared to live up to anything at all, as long as it took me along the road towards the success which I craved.

We all were sitting around after a lovely dinner. I had learned to cook in the midwest, of course. What else do they do in the midwest. They can only cook.

I can do a great deal more than that, but, among many other things, it is one of the things that I learned to do in the midwest. A very good dinner.

Now we all were around the apartment in a little cirlce, sipping drinks and digesting our meal, and there were some fairly important men from father's company who were there.

They were all sitting comfortably and it was the time for post dinner treats and I could see the men thinking, what a post dinner treat I would be.

Yes, I felt between my legs what it was they wanted, and sure enough I was going to let them have a chance at it. But not without a little fun and games.

"Let's play truth or dare," I said, smiling at the men. They looked at me, eager to have any part at all in something that I might suggest, and one of them said, "What kind of game is that?"

"What kind of game is truth or dare?" I said. "You mean you all never played that when you were in college, or anything? You all never played truth or dare?"

I laid on a bit with the southern accent. My, they were easily swayed. Men are so easy. Women are harder, but men, why they're easy. So, so easy.

No, it turns out either none of them has ever heard of the game, or they are all pretending never to have heard of it just to have the pleasure of my explaining it to them.

So I went on ahead and told them all about this game of truth or dare, which is a very simple game consisting of everyone in a circle daring each other to answer a question truthfully. That is, I think of a question I have to ask you, and you get to decide whether you want to tell me the truth, or whether you want me instead to dare you to do something completely outrageous. You either have to tell the truth, or you have to accept my dare, or you're out of the game completely. Truth or dare.

Now you can see that this is the sort of game you have to really want to play, because there's really no way for a person to have to tell the truth, or to have to accept a dare. A person just cannot be forced. But if there is something at stake, then maybe it can be a very good game. Maybe, just maybe, it can be a good game.

So this is the game and the way we were going to play it that night, I could see, was that everyone was going to play it just exactly by the rules.

Because I knew that they all had the feeling that there was going to be something in one of my dares or in one of their dares that would be worth accepting.

It started out slowly and carefully, with the men at first asking each other very easy questions, like have you ever cheated on your income tax, or have you ever cheated on your wife, or do you still beat off, or do you go to see porn films during lunch hour.

Mostly they were questions like that, relatively harmless questions, about which any of them might have been able to lie if they were thinking fast enough.

Some of them lied and some of them didn't and I could tell which was which, and then it was my turn to ask them questions and the questions I asked were a little harder for them to answer but to give credit where credit is due they answered the questions.

In fact I think they were far more honest with me than with each other, and that was kind of nice. This went on for a few rounds and soon everyone was loosened up.

I decided it was time to go in for the kill and I turned to the one man in the crowd who looked to me as if he was the least able to tell a lie and I thought up the most revealing personal question I could possibly ask him and it was, "How big is your cock?"

And he turned very, very red. He turned so red there was no way of knowing for sure whether he was going to continue living. He looked to me as if he was about to pass out.

'Go on, I asked you how big your cock is," I said, "truth or dare?"

Now all the other men who were there thought this was the very best joke of the evening as apparently this was the most mild mannered man among them, and they were joshing and chiding him and urging him to tell me the truth about the size of his cock.

"Go on, now, the lady asked you a question, and it's your duty to answer it," they were saying, things like that, and offering to tell me themselves how big their cocks were if he wouldn't tell me about his and the man was red with embarrassment

"I can't tell you," he finally said. "I just can't tell you in front of all these guys. There's just no way I can tell you. It's too embarrassing."

And then that brought a round of guffaws and giggles and back slapping and they began to taunt this man and when the tumult died down I said, "Then I dare you to come into the bathroom with me and show it to me."

You should have heard the uproar which ensued when I had said that. Was there ever an uproar, the men yelling and screaming and most of them feeling that they had somehow gotten the shitty end of the stick. I mean I'm sure there wasn't one among them who wouldn't have willingingly taken out his cock then and there in front of all the other men and shown it to me, and I am not excepting my very own father, who was a little shocked but nonetheless very turned on. They were all turned on and out of their minds.

And to everyone's surprise, including my own, the mild mannered man took my dare. He said, "Alright, I'll show you."

The moment seemed to sober everyone. Indeed I might have said that there was no need for him to go through with it. What had mattered was only that he was willing to accept my challenge. Yet the man was determined. He seemed to want to show me his cock.

You know we all had the feeling that probably it was just very small, and if there's anything I was not prepared to deal with it was to reassure a man I barely know that his cock in fact is large enough to pass as average in size.

But again, I didn't have any choice. He got up from where he was sitting, and he took my hand, and he led me from the living room to the bedroom.

All the other men whooped and hollered as we left the room. I think there was not a man among them who wasn't green with envy, and excitement.

Once inside the bedroom he turned to shut and lock the door. Then he said, "I'm sorry about this, but I just didn't want to embarrass myself in front of all the others."

It was to be just as I had feared, I thought, and I turned my back as he pulled off his pants and his underwear. Again, he said, "I just wouldn't have known what to do if any of them had laughed at me when they saw the size of my cock."

I didn't want to look. "That's alright," I said, "all that matters is that you have the balls--I mean, the courage to come in here and do as I dared you."

"No," he said, "I want you to look. Please, as a favor to me."

He sounded so earnest and pleading. I had to look, I had to do it for him. I was preparing myself, thinking of a reaction, something like, "Oh, well that's average, really."

I turned around slowly and opened my eyes. I almost choked.

"Oh, Jesus," I said.

"I know " he whimpered;

"How do you live with that."

"It hasn't been easy."

He was enormous. No kidding, he was huge, he had the biggest cock of any man I've ever seen, a huge long thick cock, a gargantuan cock, an apocalyptic cock.

"Does it get any bigger when it's hard?"

"Not substantially. No, not much bigger. But it's just so goddammed big. I couldn't have let any of the other men get a look at it. I just couldn't have."

"But you can let me get a lick at it, can't you?" I said. "I d just love to see if I can get that thing completely in my mouth. It would be a real challenge."

Of all the responses I might have made, I think that was the one for which he was the least prepared. I think he had no idea that it might turn out that I wanted to suck his cock. But oh God did I want to. Never in my life have I wanted anything as much as I wanted at that very moment to have the whole of his cock in my mouth. What a cock. What a big and juicy cock. I was wet between the legs just looking at it. I had to have it in my mouth. I was dying to have that thing in my mouth.

"Isn't it a little too large for you?" he said, seeming rather doubtful that I meant what I said. "Won't it be a little uncomfortable for you?"

"It will be heaven," I said. And it was I got on my knees at his feet and grabbed his cock and squeezed it. I liked the big thick feel of it. I could feel it hardening.

I pulled it out straight in front of me and flicked my tongue at the underside of it spreading wet and sticky saliva all along the underside of this big cock.

He shivered and smiled. "That's very nice," he said. "I haven't had a blow job in fifteen years. Please, don't stop. Yes, that's very nice."

I couldn't imagine that there wasn't a girl on earth who would give this guy a blow job. That just floored me. Floored me, ha ha. That's a joke. I was literally floored. On my knees on the floor in front of him, and I was lapping away furiously at his cock.

It got bigger and thicker as I lapped and it tasted salty and good.

It was like a big, big piece of salt water taffy that I was pulling there in the bedroom. I pulled and pulled on it and licked and chewed it.

He smiled, and his cock got stiffer and stiffer, and I wanted him inside me. I knew that I could have his cock all the way inside of me. There wasn't any question of that.

I knew that I could get my legs spread wide enough and my cunt stretched far enough and I knew that it would be a glorious thing to have his cock all the way inside of me.

"Fuck me," I said. "I want you to fuck me.

I want you deep inside of me. Please, please fuck me. I want that very much indeed. Oh yes indeed."

I lifted up my dress and pulled off my panties. They were soaked through. They were wet and smelled strongly of me. I pushed them at his nose.

"Fuck me," I said, dampening his face with my damp panties. "I want you to fuck me. I'll die if you don't fuck me. I want that cock all the way inside me."

He was aghast, but he was willing. "I haven't had a woman want to fuck me in fifteen years." Jesus. I was beginning to feel a little sorry for this guy. And I was a bit incredulous. Why wouldn't anyone want to take on a cock like that?

There I was on the bed with my legs spread as wide as they would go. I couldn't have spread my legs any wider. I couldn't have made myself any larger for him.

I was determined to have him all the way inside of me. I was determined that I should be able to get all of that big cock inside my aching cunt.

My clit was hard and quivering and my thighs were damp with the juices dripping down from inside of me. I wanted him so badly I thought I would pass out

He got on top of me on the bed. He said, "Perhaps it will be easier for you if you squat like a dog and I enter you from behind. I think that might be easier."

It sounded good to me. I got up and turned around and got on my hands and knees on the bed like a dog. "Maybe you should get on the floor," he said.

So I got on the floor, anxious to have him inside of me. I wanted to get down to business. I was shaking and sweating with the need to get down to business.

He came in from behind. His cock was really big and hard and hot and he pushed it into me and it was like having a jack hammer rattling into my cunt.

He pushed into me with a force and an intensity I thought I would be unable long to bear. That cock just went and went and went, deeper and deeper into me. I thought I was receiving the mast of the Santa Maria. I thought I was taking the Empire State Building.

That was good. It made me laugh. To think that I was taking the Empire State Building made me laugh. After all, all I had ever really wanted was to take New York City between my legs. And now, I had a feeling that I was.

Yes, it was a feeling of getting the whole city right between my legs. It was a feeling of getting fucked like a panting dog by all of the city.

I don't know if you have ever looked at a map of Manhattan, but I think you will find that the island is shaped like a cock. I mean, that it's longer than it's wide. All the other boroughs are short and squat and rounded, but Manhattan is thin and tall and long, and it's definitely priapic. It's a cock. I closed my eyes and thought about having the whole island of Manhattan inside of me. That was very, very nice.

It was intense. It was amazing. It was this huge cocked guy forcing into me and drawing out of me over and over and over. It was hard and fast and wet and I was screaming. I thrust my hips back up at him, trying to move with his movements He was very good.

That cock of his stretched me in directions I didn't know existed. That cock of his opened up my cunt, figuratively and literally. That cock was my first real New York fuck.

As I came, I thought, Well, I've made it. I've lost it to the city. Now I'm a woman.

INTERVIEW TWO

That was only the beginning. That, was only the first time. But in many ways it was the most important time of all. In many ways it was the prototypical time.

The history of my life in the city really begins with that first fuck. After that first fuck I had the feeling that nothing small would ever do for me again.

I date my arrival as a New Yorker to that day, the day that I got it doggie style from that huge mild mannered man. That was the day of my emergence, my christening.

I gave my father all the details of that experience almost at once. Of course he must have told the other men about it, or at least they must have guessed what had gone on from the length of time that we were away and the noise we made and the expressions on our faces when we returned to the room where all the other men were waiting.

After that time all of them wanted a crack at me. After that time all of them were hot to get into my pants. After that time I was very much in demand.

But I wasn't going to let it be all that easy for them. It was going to cost them more than merely a game of truth or dare, from that moment on.

From that moment on it was going to cost each of them a good word for my father. It was going to cost each of them the time and energy they could spare and the pressure they could assert to see that my father rose to the top of his profession.

As they were riding me, as they were rising to the top of me, so was my father riding to the top on the wings of his successful daughter. Where would he be without me.

Where would any of them be without me. That's a very good question. Where would any of the men in the world be without women. Men need us more than they know.

And so. What happened. What happened to me and how did it come about that my father became the highest paid corporate executive in the country, so that he was written up in the Daily News, and everything. How did this come to pass.

How this came to pass was that I became a slave teen, and the price I asked was that my father be given another push towards fame and fortune.

I worked the company, my father's company, and for a favor here and a favor there, I would do anything at all that these men wanted me to do. Anything.

I would hang upside down from the shower rod in someone's Park Avenue Co-op and whistle Maytime while he sat on the open John and beat himself off.

Don't think that these big-time guys don't have weird sexual perversions. Don't think that they don't have things they like to do that they couldn't tell a soul but me.

They're fucking weird. They're fucking degraded. They're fucking perverse, every last one of them Down to the last of them they're weird.

Let me give you an example. There was the one who called himself Boss, and I was to refer to myself as the Little Secretary whenever I was with him.

He was Boss and I was Little Secretary. I did as he told and it consisted of the most amusing and absurd things. He wanted me to serve him as his own secretary never had.

He wanted me to wander around his penthouse apartment wearing only high heelst stockings, and a garter belt, and I was to do exactly as he told.

What he wanted most of all was to punish me for something I had done wrong. There were lots of things I did wrong. Even when I did things right he told me that I had done them wrong just so that he could have the pleasure of punishing me.

He liked to punish me. He had a big rubber hose with which he punished me. That rubber hose was long and hard and he used it over and over again.

I would stand around in my high heels and my stockings and my garter belt and first of course I had to sit on his face and let him eat me out.

He would lie on this big old wooden desk he had, and I would get up on the desk and lower my cunt over his mouth. His tongue worked like a little motor inside his mouth.

He liked it if I kept myself just outside his reach, if I spread my legs and let him get a smell of my cunt, but didnt actually let him get his mouth at it.

I would hold myself suspended above him with my legs spread and the lips of my cunt, the swollen and dripping lips of my cunt, spread wide apart and my clit pointing out at him and the juices flowing down into his mouth, and he would lap at me.

He would try to catch bits of my juices on the tip of his tongue. He would moan and fondle his cock as I dripped little droplets of my juices onto his tongue.

Then he wanted to beat me with the rubber hose. He would tell me that I had done everything wrong at that it was time now that I received my beating.

"Turn around and stick your ass out, it's time for your beating," he would say. "It's time now for me to punish you for everything you did wrong."

I would get up off the desk and turn around, leaning my palms down onto it with my ass pointed out at him, and he took up his bit of rubber hose and started hitting me with it.

The hose was long and hard and it left welts all over my buttocks. He hit me with it harder and harder and the pinkness of my flesh turned red under the hose.

"Take that you filthy little high school bitch," he would shout, laying down the length of that hose hard against my backside, and turning red and trembling.

Honestly, that's what this kind of ass-hole is into, degradation. Guys like that, they like to get a hold of a woman and tear her all to pieces.

The thing was that I had to pretend to enjoy it, every minute of it. They all wanted to know that I enjoyed these things, their sick perversions.

And so I would pretend that I enjoyed every minute of it. I would shout and yell and holler, and get all wet and runny inside, and scream for them.

They wanted that and I loved giving it to them I loved giving to them what they wanted. They wanted it so bad, they really did.

It was gratifying for me to be in control like that. I enjoyed taking control of them like that. For as much as they thought they were in control, I was.

I was the one who was in control I had all the cards in my hand. You see, they never really knew exactly what it was they wanted. They never really could tell.

All they knew was that they wanted to get their rocks off, and they wanted me to help them get their rocks off, and they wanted to be able to make me seem like a cheap whore while they were doing it. That was all that they wanted, and they got it.

For you see, no matter how ludicrous their passions and desires, whether they wanted to beat me with rubber hoses or force me to smear lipstick all over their cocks and then lick it off, they never got out of control. Never really at all.

I was always the one who was completely in control. I was always the one who had them where I wanted them They were slaves to their erections. I knew that.

Men are like that, they are slaves to their erections. That's the truth. They can only think to want, and they are so hot to get their rocks off that they never notice they're really not the ones in control. They just don't see at all.

I happen to know that I'm the one who's in control, and that makes things a great deal easier for everyone involved. That makes things much easier.

It makes things easier because then I can determine how much abuse I will take, and unless things really get out of hand, unless I wind up with some lunatic who really does want to hurt me, and there is that occasional lunatic running around out there, I'm in charge.

I was in charge of this guy, too. Even as he was beating me with the rubber hose I was in charge of him. I yelled and shouted and hollered and he loved it.

"That's right you stupid mean cunted bitch," he shouted. This was a guy who got off on calling me names. There's an occasional guy like that.

"Oh, please don't hurt me," I begged. "Please don't hurt me, please. I love it, but please don't hurt me." He liked for me to beg like that.

That's the thing about men, not only are they not in charge, but they have to be given the impression that in fact they are. That's the trick of working as a slave, you have to know how to strike a balance between actually running the show and seeming as if it's the man who's running the show. This is an art form believe me.

"Oh, please don't hurt me with that big nasty rubber hose," I begged. "I'll do anything if you just don't hurt me with that rubber hose."

He kept flailing away at me with this hose, and my ass was bright red with the beating, and he flailed away and moaned and called me names.

"Please, stop," I begged. "Please don't hit me any more with that hose. Make me do anything, and I'll do it, I swear, just don't hit me anymore."

The key to giving the guy a good time is to know when to submit completely, to know when to offer any kind of favors in exchange for the cessation of whatever beating he is administering. That's the key to the thing. I know that.

So I knew then that that was the time he wanted me to submit, and I offered to do anything he wanted me to do if he would just stop beating me with the hose.

"Alright, then, whore, get down on your hands and knees and clean out my ass-hole," he said. "Crawl around on the floor and lick out my ass-hole."

I got down on my hands and knees, as he said, whimpering. I whimpered and cried, and I crawled around the floor as he walked back and forth across the room, and swiped at his ass-hole with my tongue, and nipped at his buttocks.

He would kick me away and go on to the other side of the room, and I would scamper after him like a rabbit, on my hands and knees, whimpering and begging him not to hurt me.

"Suck my cock, slut," he said. I was still on all fours, and his cock was big and erect between his legs, and I had to lean up on my knees to reach him.

I grabbed him by the balls, and licked slowly up the underside of his cock, spreading a stream of saliva all the way up his cock. He shivered.

There's always a moment in every job where I know I've got the guy by the balls either literally or figuratively, and I had this guy by the balls right now

It's the moment when you know the man is through playing and wants to get down to business, the moment when he wants to actually shoot off inside you, or in your mouth, or up your ass. That's the moment when he's really yours.

As soon as I slid my tongue all the way up the underside of his cock I knew that the moment had come that he was mine. All he wanted now was for me to suck his cock.

He muttered a few more things about me being a filthy bitch, things like that, a few more remarks about what kind of cunt I was, some name calling, but these things were under his breath. These things were not things that he meant seriously.

You see he really liked me, and he liked me because I really did give him one hell of a good blow job. If I do say so myself, I know how to give blow jobs.

So. Up the underside of his cock I ran my tongue, and he was trembling and the tip of his cock was dripping with fluid and all of it was really very exciting.

His balls were big and rubbery and I kneaded them and rolled them in my hands as I licked and sucked his cock. He had a big cock, and I licked all over it.

I licked his balls, and I wrapped my fingers around his shaft and worked them up and down on it, and I could tell that he was quite pleased.

His stomach muscles tightened. His cock was hot and red and throbbing, and I worked at him with my tongue, running my tongue all over him all over his cock.

I slid a finger around to his ass-hole and worked my way up inside of him, one finger up into his tight, pink ass-hole, and the other hand around the base of his cock.

I took a deep breath and opened my mouth wide and slid my mouth down on his cock. I could taste the whole of his cock, and I could almost get all of it in my mouth.

I had one hand wrapped around the base of it and my lips were slippery with saliva and I slid them up and down on his shaft, and squeezed the base of his shaft with my hand.

I worked my finger up his ass-hole until I was deep inside of him, and I thrust that finger in and out of him as I worked up and down on his cock.

He closed his eyes. He didn't say a thing, now, and only breathed in harsh pants, and his knees bent. I thought that he was going to fall down on top of me.

He moaned and I sucked his cock, pushing my head all the way into his crotch and feeling his pubic hairs all over my face, and then drawing away, leaving wet saliva all over his cock, and smears of my lipstick along the length of it.

He was very excited, and he panted very hard, and his pants came very fast, and I knew that it wasn't going to be much longer. I knew that he was going to come.

He fell almost to his knees as I jabbed my finger as far up into his ass as I could, and came down hard on his cock and squeezed his balls.

He shouted and gushed into me with his stuff, and I gobbled at it. I love the taste of that stuff. I can never get enough of it. He shot gobs and gobs into my mouth.

He was one satisfied customer. My customers are always satisfied. My customers are always very happy. They always get their money's worth.

There is never any question that they get their money's worth. They always do Always, they always do. Because I really deliver. I really give them what they want.

And they give me what I want. They have given me what I want. What I have wanted is power and wealth, and now I have both things. Through my father, I have them.

Each time I did work for my father, each time I took some guy up the ass, or something, each time that happened, my father did a little better in the company, Each time I gave a really fine blow job, he got a little closer to being the chairman of the company. As I rose, so did he. As I blew, he rose.

Now he is in the ultimate position of authority, and he got there thanks to me. And I put my foot down only recently. I told him where he stood with me.

"You wouldn't ever have gotten where you are today if not for me," I said, "and now I'm going to demand that I get a little in return."

He told me then that I could have everything I wanted, cars and houses and boats and movie stars, he told me I could have all this.

And I told him that none of that was going to be enough. I told him that I wanted still more than that. I told him I wanted everything.

Well, of course he was flabbergasted. He couldn't believe that I had said that I wanted everything. He couldn't imagine that at all.

"You don't mean everything, really, do you? You just mean you want as much as you can possibly get. That's all you mean, isn't it?"

"I said everything," I told him "and I mean everything. I want every dollar you earn. Every last dollar you earn. That's what I want."

Of course he was in no position to refuse. I drive a hard bargain, but he couldn't run the risk that I might tell the world that I whored to get him to where he is today.

So he gave it all to me, and I, out of the goodness within me, pay out of that money a salary to him, just enough to keep him going. And the rest is mine.

It isn't easy to spend the amounts of money that my father makes, that I made my father make, but I'll tell you what. I worked for every last penny.

I earned that money and it feels good just to know it's mine. It feels very good.



GENERAL CONCLUSION

As alarming as may be the stories of girls such as these, it is not the girls but rather, the men who purchase their services, who are shown in an unfavorable light.

Clearly this is the theme which unites all five of these stories, the common thread, the element which runs through all their accounts of their slavery.

For this is a society in which men seek constant and immediate sexual gratification, while women look for something longer lasting, something more permanent.

Men have short fuses, on the whole, and women have long ones. Men can stand less pain than women, and they are much less durable in the long run.

Take for instance the instance of a sixth case brought to my attention, concerning a whole family, a mother, a father, a son, and a daughter.

It came about the the entire family was given over to the practice of slavery, with the son as the mother's slave and the daughter as the father's.

Interestingly, the two pairs managed to keep their secrets from one another, and it went for a very long time that neither the mother-son nor the father-daughter combinations had any reason to suspect that the others in the family were involved in sexual game playing.

This went on for quite some time, with the children the victims and slaves of the parents, and yet it was only the daughter who managed to make the most of her situation.

The daughter, showing that aptitude for making the most of a situation which is peculiar to females, won such favors from her father in return for her favors that in the end she profited very highly from the arrangement.

It worked out to her benefit, finally.

On the other hand, the son, no less a slave to his mother than was his sister to their father, was unable to rise above the sordidness of the situation.

The son, in essence, was unable to make lemonade out of lemons He was unable to make the best of an unusual situation. He suffered for it.

Finally, he revealed the affair to the authorities, at which the family broke up, to the eternal chagrin of the sister. She would have preferred that things remain as they were.

She had learned to turn a man's lust into something constructive for herself, and that is what the smartest of women among us will know how to do.

Men are easy to control. All it takes is a little thought and a lot of ambition, and it is done. Men ask little, and women can offer them much.

This is the lesson all of these women learned. It is a lesson that served each of them well, each in her own private and individual way.

Let me end in making one last observation. As much as the girls in these cases may say they enjoy their sexual habits, their bondage to males, I suspect they have no real, deep down, heartfelt interest in subordinating themselves to the male ego.

Most of all what they want is to assert power in a male dominated society, and the easiest way for them to accomplish this is to meet men at the level where they have the best chance of winning influence over their lives. That was is through sex.

Sex, such women as these might suppose, is the easiest way to win a man's trust, and then to slowly take control of his life. It's an age old tactic.

Now these girls have said that they enjoy performing all the chores and duties that their men have forced them to perform, but in fact this is not the case.

What they seem to want more than anything else is to be accepted as a man's equal, and to be offered equal status in the society in which they all live.

That they should have to earn recognition only through degrading themselves in the most profane ways to men speaks very ill of men in America today.
Teen Slave Girls Trained & Disciplined ....(73k)    by Unknown




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