It is one of the crucial findings of modern psychology that there is a strong latent desire in all of us to act out our sexual fantasies on the bodies of young children.
Once these latent desires break through the barrier of the subconscious, we enter the world of bizarre perversions known as Pederasty and Pedophilia.
The annals of history are filled with stories of great men who have, in a moment of incredible lust, sacrificed everything to spend a few hours plucking the virginal flower from the thighs and buttocks of young boys and girls.
But it is the reverse side of this perversion, the grown Oman's desire for young boys, which is the most interesting from a clinical point of view and the least documented. These memoirs are one of the most important events in the history of the study of this phenomenon. For the first time in modern times, we have an educated, sophisticated woman disclosing how she was caught up in the perversion and was sucked deeper and deeper until it became the center of her life.
There are various theories as to why a grown woman lapses into such behavior. The most accepted is based on the Electra complex; the desires of every girl to sleep with her father and destroy her mother. According to this theory, when the desire for the father's genitals is not resolved, the girl develops a hatred for all men. Thus, when she grows up and desires a man, she also wants to dominate him completely. It is perfectly natural, then, to seduce innocent boys who can be totally dominated.
But this is the classical theory. There is another group of younger psychologists who are opposed to such an explanation. These people seem to think that reverse Pederasty and Pedophilia is perfectly proper if both sides are consenting. According to them, it is a puritanical society which dictates certain sexual partners and there is no reason that the delightful fruits of young bodies should not be tasted. Furthermore, no other group of persons is so exploited as the grown woman and they can only break out of their bonds by entering into dramatic sexual relationships.
The reality of the situation is much more complex than either of these theories. As the reader begins these memoirs he will notice how the many strands of this woman's life seem to come together, slowly and inexorably, until she is forced to appropriate the bodies of the young boys.
Even as she is in bed with them, and her hands are moving over their bodies, feeling the growing passion in their virginal organs, she gives us the complex thoughts which are present in her mind. Even as her mouth is circling the most treasured gift of all and she is caught up in a passion she cannot control, we are able to read a description of that lust.
What makes these memoirs so crucial in our understanding of this perversion is primarily the graphic nature of her descriptions. In order to understand any perversion it is imperative to have exact clinical descriptions of the event. It is not enough to say that one indulges in Oral sexual acts with a young boy. We must have a complete knowledge of the movements of lips and penis. We must know exactly what happens no matter how it offends our sensibilities.
One feels that the writer of these memoirs knew that and that she was trying to make a contribution to the clinical literature of the subject as well as creating a work of art which would live in the coming years as a revealing specimen of one woman's passion.
The reader will notice a very definite pattern in these memoirs. At first, the woman is unsure of herself, ridden with guilt as she is forced to give in to her bizarre tastes. She seduces at first, younger boys, boys who cannot assert their own masculinity, but are just there to be plucked like ripe fruit.
But as her subconscious forces her deeper and deeper into the perversion, she becomes more bold both in her choice of young boys and in the sexual activities which she offers them.
Her reluctance to give biographical information about her conquests is quite understandable. This woman is an executive in an important industry, one of the few women who has reached such an ex halted level. There can be no doubt that if her true identity could be disclosed, her career would be ruined.
She is quite proud of the station she has reached in life in spite of the tremendous obstacles that were put in her way. Furthermore, it is her iron will and her independence which accounts for her total committment to young boys. The average housewife would never have been able to overcome the middle class taboos against such behavior.
Nor would the average woman have had the courage not only to seduce young boys but to act out every sexual perversion in the dictionary of erotic experience. The writer of these memoirs exhibited a total abandon. Oralism, Analism, Sado-Masochism, Fetishism, Bizarre Genital Play, and scores of other less known aberrations. Yet, even in the face of these sexual storms, we cannot be repelled. Her sensitivity, her love for the young boys, breaks through the erotic descriptions and we catch glimpses of a woman who is desperately seeking a love which she cannot define.
In order to make clear to the reader the clinical significance of each of her conquests, at the end of each chapter of the Memoirs I have added a brief but important note trying to explain her hidden impulses.
These notes will give the reader a balanced and "inside" look at her erotic development.
But these memoirs are of such importance to the world of psychological investigations that they will be commented on for years to come and my observations are only a tentative beginning. The woman's story, in all its lust and perversity, will stand alone as a work of literature and as a testimony to the bottomless depths of lust which lie in the subconscious of every woman.
-S. P. Currie Ph.D.
CHAPTER ONE
It began three days after my thirty-fifth birthday. Seated in my office, the office I had worked years to attain, suddenly my success and my accomplishments seemed futile. For years I had felt something bottled up in me, some strange force which constricted my body and made me incapable of love or passion.
Often I went through the rituals of sex with some handsome salesman who wished to impress the top female executive in the company, but these attempts left only a bitter taste in my mouth. Their bodies were uninspiring and brittle.
On that morning I reflected on my whole life. The faces and voices of my parents came to me and the small memories from my childhood. Suddenly, the morning light seemed too intense for my eyes and I pulled the drapes behind my desk. Sitting down once again, my hand rested on the long, thin desk pen fitted securely in its holder. My fingers stroked its length, delighting in the symmetry of that thing.
For the millionth time I tried to understand that strange force. Was it guilt? Was it some inadequacy which only my subconscious knew and which was poisoning my conscious life. I was roused from these thoughts by a knock at the office door. Looking at the wall clock, I realized to my amazement that it was ten o'clock and the pile of papers on my desk was untouched.
The door opened and the small Spanish boy with the coffee wagon entered.
As usual, he did not say a word, nor did I greet him. He went about his business, pouring me a cup of black coffee and selecting a piece of pastry.
Placing the coffee and cake on my desk he turned to push his coffee wagon from the office. I watched him turn and there was something about his movement which made me shudder.
"Wait," I called to him.
He turned to me and his eyes met mine for only a moment and then his shyness forced him to lower those full, black eyes.
"What is your name?"
"Felipe."
I said the name out loud and I repeated it again and again. My eyes roamed over his body. He was short with a beautiful olive complexion. The short white coat which he was forced to wear contrasted dramatically with the richness of his skin. His face was angular, similar to those Spanish saints which hang so fervently in the paintings of the great Spanish masters.
"How old are you, Felipe?"
"Fifteen."
"Do you go to school?" I asked, not really interested but desperate for some conversation with the child.
"No," he replied, shrugging his shoulders, "I don't go to school anymore. I work here."
And for the first time, he smiled as if my question was quite stupid but he had to answer.
We both waited for something to happen. There was an incredible tension in the air. I waited in the utmost suspense for him to move again, however slight, so that I could feel that shudder. What was there about the way he moved which affected me so strongly? I don't know. Perhaps it was the intrusion of his lithe, animal-like body in the artificiality of the office.
I stood up and circled the desk until I was only a few inches from him. Standing that close, I realized he was not really short, he was my own height.
"You gave me the wrong piece of pastry. I want the one with the cherry filling."
Without a word, he exchanged the piece of cake and proceeded to wheel the coffee wagon from the room.
My hand reached out and grasped his arm. My fingers circled his naked wrist, under the white sleeve of his jacket.
It was a simple moment, but one I will never forget. Felipe looked at me as if I had somehow entered his own private world. He looked at me as if by my mere touch I had established some type of communion with him.
I opened his white jacket and then the summer shirt under it. His skin was so smooth and cool to touch. I traced out with my fingers, the gentle sloping outline of his breastbone. The child was beginning to breathe heavily. I could see that he didn't know what to do. He was torn between the movement of my fingers and the call of duty to his stupid little coffee wagon. Then, I released him. My chest was throbbing so heavily I had difficulty in breathing. Walking to the door of my office I locked it with the bolt. The moment I heard the click, I seemed to awaken. What am I doing? Am I insane? My mind was a jumble of questions as this sudden, overwhelming passion had never struck before.
"You are a child," I said to him, but the statement was really for myself, to warn me against what I was about to do.
Then my lips moved against his. I could taste the virgin tang and I forced my tongue through those lips until they reached the coolness and the intimacy of his mouth. I could feel his body shiver.
My hands undid his trousers and lowered them to the floor. I took his hand and thrust it inside my blouse, pressing it against one quivering breast. His hand was like a tiny wild animal, trying to escape. But escape was futile. Gradually, his hand stroked my breasts bringing them a measure of excitement beyond anything I had ever felt. His finger moved to my nipples, and they grew and shook under his innocent but impassioned method. Then I pushed them away.
"Stand still," I ordered him, my voice filled with authority and lust.
He stood there, waiting for what would happen, a flush slowly covering his beautiful face and his black hair falling over his magnificent eyes.
I started to undress him. I had to see him completely naked in front of me. I had to see his complete glory, that flesh and muscle standing, waiting for whatever I deemed just. His clothing peeled away under my expert hands. Finally, he was naked, every muscle and sinew of his young body quivering. Walking around him, again and again I kissed his body. No part of him escaped my lips. I drank in the sweet virile essence of his sweat and let my tongue suck a tiny piece of lint from his navel.
"What is your name?"
It was the second time I had asked him that question and he looked at me perplexed. "Felipe," he muttered.
"No," I said, "you no longer have a name, you exist to serve me, you are part of me."
Then I saw it, jutting out, its point quivering and moving from side to side. At first I turned away. There was a beauty and a virility in his cock so strong I could not bear to face it. It was like coming out of an air-conditioned movie during the summer and suddenly being assaulted by a blast of air so hot that one must shrivel up and defend one's body and mind.
His eyes were downcast when he saw me watching it and then turning away. But my eyes could not be deprived of that feast for too long.
My hands went under it and felt the weight of the child's globes. Like the eggs of some strange bird, they nestled in the nest of my hands. My fingers gently pinched the loose skin of their sac and the boy moaned.
"Be quiet," I said, "accept all that I can give you."
My fingers left the globes and reached the quivering weapon, that cock which perched on his body like some organic growth.
It burned my hands. Its excitement, its quivering made my fingers into jelly. Finally, I held it in both of my hands, keeping its fiery tip steady, riding it with my hands like some wild horse.
But my lips wanted it. Closer and closer they moved to the center of the flesh. A strange burning sensation began in my tongue and with it the fantasy that only his cock would quench my thirst. It was an inch in front of me. My head began to swim and my eyes went out of focus.
We touched. His young maleness rested for a brief moment against the gates of my lips. And then, opening them ever so slightly, they penetrated. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I accepted the beauty of that cock.
My lips curled around it like some exotic fruit and I began to extract every bit of lust which was in it, every bit of vital passion which the young boy had stored up since his adolescence. I pulled him down on the floor and succumbed to its rage, as it moved from side to side within my mouth, furious, uncontrolled, with no aim or purpose other than the ultimate ecstasy.
Each time it quivered and lashed, I sunk my teeth into it, not enough to wound his maleness, but enough to send that organ even further on the path to its own realization. I could hear him speaking to me, strange pleas, garbled sentences testifying to the incredible passion which was surfacing in him.
Every part of me was on fire. The heat poured from my body and seemed to focus on my lips, tongue and teeth. It went deeper and deeper until the very globes were crushed against my mouth.
Then I felt his fingers dig into my back and I heard him cry out: "No more, I beg you."
But his words did not interest me, for I felt his cock beginning that journey toward explosion. My tongue delighted in its pulsing thrust and a second later-the hot sweet juice of his childhood poured into me like the sweetest delicacy, inundating my opening and sending my body into a paroxysm of fulfillment.
All was quiet. We lay on the floor gathering our senses, trying to understand what had happened to us. Gradually, the fog of passion cleared up.
I stood and went to my desk, grasping the side of it, feeling the grain of the expensive Danish wood. Then a horrible revulsion over my act went through me. I felt a sudden nausea and wanted to leap through the window to my death.
Looking at the young boy, I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone in my life.
I picked up the cup of coffee which stood untouched on my desk and flung it at him, sending the scalding liquid over his naked body. He did not scream or utter a word. His body seemed to shrivel up like a cat when it is grievously wounded. Suddenly, I realized what I had done and raced to him, crying and asking for forgiveness. My tongue licked the coffee from him, soothing his burnt skin, trying to make amends for my action.
I dressed him as I would dress a baby and gently led him to the door. Before he left he took my hand and pressed it gently to his lips.
"Thank you, Felipe," I said, withdrawing my hand slowly.
Sitting behind my desk, I could not believe I had actually participated in the events which had transpired only a few moments ago. At first I thought I was in the midst of a nervous break-down. But slowly, my reason returned. I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events from the moment Felipe had first brought into the room his coffee wagon.
Why, I asked myself, after all these months had I finally noticed him? Why was I drawn to a young child? Why did my passion suddenly erupt with an intensity far greater than any other moment in my life?
There were no answers to the question. Yes, there was one answer but I was afraid to admit it. I was afraid to admit that I was one of those twisted women who delights in the bodies of young boys and only young boys.
The papers, piled so neatly on the desk, stared me in the face. I began to wade through them, calling my secretary into the office from time to time in order to give her dictation. Although I functioned adequately the rest of the morning, my mind was not on my career or how I could break new grounds for the woman in business. On the contrary, the memory of that juicy cock kept intruding into my consciousness, burning a hole in my memory.
It was futile to continue. After lunch I left the office and went home. There, I sank into a deep and satisfying sleep. When I woke up I felt immensely refreshed. I felt that a burden had been lifted from me.
Late in the afternoon, I returned to the office and worked harder and more efficiently in the next three hours than I had all week.
This chapter is a remarkable description of a woman's initial descent into the bizarre world of reverse pederasty. Although she gives us almost nothing to go on concerning her past life there is one crucial passage which has a great deal of clinical evidence. This is the portion where she is sitting at her desk and memories of her past come to her. Understandably, it is her parents who dominate these memories.
A few moments later she finds herself fondling a desk pen in her holder. The connection between the movement of her hand and her memories is too close to be a coincidence. The memory of her father has forced her to fondle the pen which can only be interpreted as a phallic symbol.
What she is doing during those moments is fondling the penis of her father. She is doing precisely what she had always wanted to do but what she had been denied.
This "strange force" she speaks of is no doubt the guilt of her desire for her father. Yet, it may be much more complex. There is a good chance that, like many other women in her predicament, the guilt is an unresolved lesbian sexuality, which had been so deeply buried in her subconscious that she was not even aware of it under conditions of extreme pressure.
The reader will notice that her sexual relationship with the Spanish boy consisted primarily of oral contact with his genitals. The reader will also notice that she made no effort to engage in "normal" sex with the fifteen-year old boy. The reason for this is simple. It was an attempt both to accept and remove the guilt of her desire for the penis of her father, a penis that could only be loved if it was presented to her in the guise of a young man's organ.
But more extensive analysis will have to wait for her future development.
CHAPTER TWO
My passion for the Spanish boy seemed to fade as quickly as it erupted. The next morning when he wheeled the coffee wagon into my office, there was nothing between us. It was as if those events had never happened or we had both pushed them so deep into our subconscious that they were no longer a factor in our relationship.
For the next few weeks I worked hard, preparing a report for the stockholder's meeting. When the report was finished I decided to take a few days off and go to a small cottage on the ocean which I rented from time to time.
Arriving there late at night, I went right to sleep, hoping to rise early for a long walk on the beach just as the sun was rising. I slept soundly and awakened just as the first rays of light filtered into the cottage.
Dressing quickly, I walked into the brilliant morning. My feet crunched into the sand and I let the sea water play around my toes as I walked. It was high tide and the surf crashed against the shore. All of my problems seemed to vanish. A few gulls swept by me, their raucous sounds a strange intrusion on the silent beach.
Then, about a hundred yards in front of me I spotted a figure. It was obviously a young boy and he was digging furiously just where the turf met the shore. When I was about three feet from him, I stopped, and he was so engrossed in his digging that he didn't even notice me.
"Good morning."
My words made him jump. He stood up quickly and looked at me as if I was some enemy which had attacked his private preserve in order to do him harm.
"What are you doing here?" He asked, his face twisted with suspicion. He was young, about sixteen, with golden blond hair which blew about as the wind raced across the beach. Wearing only a bathing suit, his torso had the gleam of youth. No fat or other ungainly deposits marred his body. His legs were long and brown and I could see his muscles tensing in the calves as if he was ready to take flight.
"I rent the cottage a few beaches from here, you know, the one with the blue roof."
He seemed to relax, squatting down once again to continue his digging.
"Are you looking for clams?"
"Yes," he said, in a manner that seemed to discourage any further conversation. "Any luck?"
He stood up and walked to a small rock which protruded from one of the breakers. Coming back, he held up a small canvas back. He opened the bag and extracted a clam.
"Look at this," he said proudly, "I got it last night, now I'm just digging for fun."
Thrusting the clam in my hand, he waited for my comments. When he saw that I was unfamiliar holding such a creature, he grasped it back and ripped open the shell with one powerful motion of his hand, and exposed the soft meat of the shell fish.
"Taste it."
But I did not answer, for the moment I saw that youth rip open the shell with his powerful but beautifully formed fingers, my whole body convulsed.
The same desire I had felt during those fateful moments in my office when the Spanish boy made one innocent gesture, now came back with an overwhelming force.
I wanted his hands to open me, I wanted those youthful hands to split apart my thighs just as they had split the shell of the clam. I wanted his fingers to pry open my legs and extract my cunt just as he was about to extract the soft meat of the clam. Suddenly, I became chilled. I wanted to leave the beach and return to the warmth of my cottage.
The boy was still standing there, a mocking smile on his lips.
"No," I said, finally, "you eat it."
He held the open shell to his lips. Then he sucked the meat off the shell. I watched his lips intently. Trembling, there was only one thing I wanted; to have his lips perch on my vagina and suck the life force from it as he sucked the meat from the clam.
I turned to walk away but then turned back, unable to leave the boy, unable to tear myself away while my body was so beset with lust.
"It is growing chilly," I said.
He looked at me, fairly glowing from his meal, still laboring under the youthful illusion that because he had caught his own meal he was somehow superior to the decadent world of the adult.
"Come to the cottage with me and we'll have some hot coffee, then you can continue your work."
"Sure," he answered smiling, completely innocent of the desire that was growing in my breast.
We walked toward the cottage, both of us silent, my thoughts always on the body striding so magnificently beside me. He swung his bag of clams in a cheerful manner as if there was nothing in the world which could harm him.
Once inside, I put the coffee on the fire. He sat in the small living room, off the kitchen, his long legs stretched out in front of him.
When the coffee was ready, I prepared two cups and brought it to him with some cookies. We sat there together, drinking the hot liquid, silently.
"Aren't you cold with just a bathing suit?" I asked him.
"No, you get used to the cold."
I watched his strong teeth bite into the brittle cookies. There was a precision, an arrogance about everything he did. His face was so open, as if there was nothing hidden, as if he had accumulated no scars from life which made him hesitate.
"I'll bet all the girls on the beach are crazy over you. You are a good looking boy."
It was such a stupid thing to say but it was all I could think of. He was not embarrassed; he accepted his good looks as a fact of life.
"Some are," he replied, "but I'm not really too interested in girls."
"Would you like some more coffee?"
"No," he replied.
Each moment he was in that room with me, my body grew more and more hysterical for a touch, for a caress, for some sign that I could have him.
My eyes moved to the slight bulge in his bathing suit which was caused by his cock. I closed my eyes for a moment, envisioning it resting there, quiet, latent, ready to be plucked.
I could not control myself any longer. Quickly, I moved down beside his knees. He looked at me, startled.
"Quiet," I whispered, "you have nothing to fear. My love will bring you great pleasure."
I touched his bare legs and let my fingers run up and down its sinews and muscles. Then my lips pressed against the flesh under his knee. Drinking in the sweat and saltwater flavor of his body I could scarcely keep from weeping with joy. There was a slight trembling in his legs which increased with each kiss, until those once powerful legs had dissolved into jelly-like acquiescence. I knew then he was mine. I knew then that he was ready to come with me on an erotic voyage which would bring me and him the joy which is beyond all description. "Wait here," I whispered.
Running swiftly to the dressing room, I removed my beach robe. When I returned I was naked. Across the room, he looked at me, his gaze burning flesh, his eyes boring into the center of my psyche.
Without hesitation I moved toward him.
"I am bringing you something. It is yours for as long as you want it. It is yours to do what you will, and it is dark and mysterious."
His eyes widened as he heard my words. Then I reached him. I pressed my naked cunt against his beautiful face, my hands grasping his neck and head and exerting all the strength my growing passion could muster.
"Bite me," I screamed.
His body froze. I could feel it tense under my hand. Then, a terrible pain shot through my body. His white teeth buried themselves into the juicy flesh of my vagina. They sunk into it with such force and with such hate and with such love that I could barely stand up under the onslaught.
"Yes, yes, bite deeper, remove every bit of hate in me, remove everything that is not love, remove all the days of suffering."
I kept babbling to him, a stream of words which had no meaning either to me or to him, a stream of words which were a function of the incredible love I bore for the boy.
He kept on biting. His muffled breathing seemed a dull echo in the cottage but those teeth, the teeth of youth ripped my cunt apart, torturing me and destroying me and bringing me the most treasured moments of ecstasy I have ever encountered. Now his hands went to my buttocks and as his teeth initiated my womanhood, his powerful fingers and nails brought blood from my white, quivering buttocks.
I could not stand anymore but I could not bear to leave those teeth. Finally, mustering all my courage, I broke away from him and stood a few feet away, my body alive and my eyes wild. I felt like some beast in the jungle who had experienced his first encounter with civilization, an encounter so sophisticated and so different that he would never be able to return to the native habitat.
The youth stood up and removed his bathing suit, standing in all his nakedness, the sun falling about him and the walls of the cottage seeming to bow to him.
I lay on the rug and held my arms up to him, calling for his cock, calling like a woman possessed for the most potent drug imaginable.
A second later he was on me. As he moved on me I caught a glimpse of that organ, swelling with passion, jutting from the silky, blond down of his thighs. His globes were like fuzzy peaches freshly fallen from some orchard.
I lifted my body to welcome the cock of youth and when it thrust deep inside my wet and bruised vagina, I sunk my teeth into his neck to thank him, to bless him for that almost divine penetration.
He began to move inside me, thrusting his organ deeper and deeper, sending my body into the most excruciating flights of passion. I could not get enough. My body rose and fell to meet each movement of his body.
I turned my buttocks against the rug to extract every inch of lust from his inexperienced cock. Then, suddenly, it grew to such proportion that I cried out. My own body turned into a kaleidoscope of shifting membranes.
We came together in one glorious moment, his seed, hot and sweet as life itself, pouring into me and joining with the juices of my orgasm.
Then it was over. A sudden chill descended over my body and soul. The boy got up and put his bathing suit on. He smiled at me: "Can I have another cup of coffee?"
His question disgusted me. Now, after the event was over, his childish looks repelled me. The only thing I wanted was for him to leave as quickly as possible.
"There is no more coffee," I replied.
The coldness in my voice shone through. He walked out the door without a word, the bag of clams swinging against his leg. I felt like running after him and cursing him and destroying his body.
Then, suddenly, I cared about nothing. Walking into the dressing room I placed a robe around me and fell on the bed. I could see the beach from the window and for a long time I lay there, watching the flight of the gulls and the waves.
I slept. It was late in the afternoon when I woke and though my body was bruised I felt like taking another walk. It was magnificent on the beach and I walked slowly looking for shells. Finding a few, I held them clasped in my hands. Then I heard a noise. I turned just in time to see a number of young boys running past me on the beach, their limbs flying, their faces gleaming with the health of the moment.
They took no notice of me but I experienced a fear which I cannot describe. It seemed to pervade every part of me. Right then, I knew I had to return to the city. I could not stay at the cottage another moment. Running back, I quickly packed my suitcase and left. Turning once as I closed the door, I spotted the two coffee cups still standing where we had used them. They were mute reminders of my situation. They were challenges to the bizarre compulsions which I felt I could never again control.
The most important item in this chapter, from a clinical point of view, is her desire to be bitten by the youth she seduced.
Her description of how she thrust her own vagina in the young man's face and commanded him: "Bite me"-is a most remarkable occurrence. On the face of it her command would seem to be only one aspect of the wish to dominate the children she seduces.
It is my contention, however, that we cannot look upon her statement-"Bite me"-as a command but a deeply felt plea to be hurt by the young man. In other words, she was begging the youth to inflict damage on her.
The importance of this is obvious. For the first time she has entered a relationship where she is willing to take a subservient role to the sexual partner. Her guilt over her actions is so great that she has to be punished, and by accepting punishment she is accepting her role as the one who is dominated rather than the one in control.
I would interpret this switch in roles to mean that she will be unable to repress her desires again. The reader will note that after the initial contact with the Spanish boy, she was able to act as if it had never happened. After this seduction of the beach boy, such actions will be impossible.
One proof that this is the case can be seen in how she flees from the cottage just because she has seen a number of young boys running on the beach. The barrier has been broken. She must either accept what she is and learn to cope with it, or be destroyed in the process. Her next encounter will be crucial in her ability to choose which direction her life and her passion will take.
CHAPTER THREE
The gates of passion had opened and flooded every waking moment. When I returned from the cottage I knew that from henceforth, my life would be a struggle with this disease, these horrible desires which I could not control.
Everywhere I went, on every street I walked, my only thought was to find those young willing bodies which could give me the satisfaction I needed. It became more than a need, it was a compulsion. I began to desire young boys in the same way that a thirsty man desires water. The psychologists who talk about controlling emotions do not understand women like myself. There is no possibility of controlling a physical desire so powerful that the body shakes and cries out when it is deprived.
I began to dress in a strange manner, wearing little childish gimmicks, a feather or button, in order to tempt the young boys and show them that I sympathized with their thoughts and desires and ambitions.
Each day at the office was a torturous affair. My work no longer interested me and each report or paper which crossed my desk seemed to be a direct affront to my new-found passion. All day, seated in that silly executive chair, I watched the clock, waiting for the hours to pass so that I might go into the street. Before I became afflicted with these needs I used to work late in the office. But, then, I left with the office help, almost racing them to the elevator in my rush to leave that executive tomb.
A profound change took place in my thinking. The career which had been my object in life, my struggle to prove that a woman in business with the necessary talents can prove even more valuable than a man, that goal now went by the wayside. All of my past strivings seemed silly, hollow, the product of a deranged mind. Yes, this was one of the most peculiar aspects of my lust. While I knew it was a perversion, I still felt that for the first time I was healthy. And this health manifested itself in concrete ways. The small headaches which used to plague me during office hours disappeared. The pains in the small of my back went away. And, most important, for the first in many years I fell asleep quickly and easily, without resorting to pills, and slept right through until the morning.
But, on another level, the psychological one, I was like a person perched on a tightrope. Every sense that I possessed seemed to operate at a heightened and an excited pitch. A pleasant odor, from a tree or plant, which used to gain only my shrugs, now seemed to possess a cosmic significance. I often despair putting into words the dramatic change in my life.
One night, all these new, almost unbearable sensations that I was experiencing seemed to find their shape in a horrible incident, an incident which even when thinking of now, I am filled with the most horrible dread and the most delicious tremors.
I left the office that night at about five o'clock. Waiting for the elevator, an Executive Vice-President of the firm passed me by. He stopped, and said, smiling: "Now, I remember the time when we couldn't drag you out of the office."
I wanted to tell him my innermost feelings about him but I held my temper in check, and replied, smiling back at him with a copy of his sickening, phony smile: "As we grow older we grow more efficient. I can now do three hours work in one hours' time. This is the beauty of women executives."
He smiled at me again, not knowing whether I was serious or joking and then he moved out of sight.
The moment I got downstairs I began to walk. It was a beautiful evening, and the city seemed almost serene. Where I was headed, I had no idea, all I knew was that I wanted to stretch the cobwebs from brain and body, grown moldy from a day at the executive wheel.
I walked for hours and gradually I found myself in a rundown section near the waterfront. It had grown dark, except for the lighted fronts of bars which seemed to be interspersed between every two or three buildings. There was a diner in my path, a typical "greasy spoon" used by the waterfront truckers. I entered and ordered a cup of coffee at the counter. A few men were in there and they looked me over from top to bottom. The coffee had been made early in the morning and it was so strong I could hardly drink it.
Then, looking out the window of the diner, onto the street, I saw a strange scene. A small, black boy had approached a man, obviously in search of some change. Instead of giving the child a coin or saying no, the man had raised his hand in a threatening manner and I could see the boy cower against the side of the diner.
I left my coffee and went outside. The boy was still there, afraid, his hands shaking.
"Are you all right?"
"Who wants to know, lady?" He said, in a bravado manner.
At that moment, when I asked him the question and even when I had first spotted the child, there was no erotic thought passing through my mind, at the conscious level. All that I knew was that here was a child who was in need and had been brutalized by a man just because he asked for a few pennies. I swear that these were the only considerations. I bent closer to the boy and said: "I saw you from the diner and went out because I thought that man had hurt you."
"He didn't hurt me, lady."
The child was obviously not friendly and I turned to go.
"You got something for me, huh?"
He was a very bold black boy. I smiled at him and opened my purse, taking out a quarter. I looked at him. His face was both arrogant and pleading. He was very proud and very much in need of money. Such a situation had never occurred in my experience but I knew what a terrible situation it was for any person to be in, let alone a child.
He opened his palm. Taking a step toward him, I pressed the coin into his palm.
"Here, use it well," I said to him. It was a stupid sentence but I could not think of any other.
Then, suddenly, I felt myself unable to remove my fingers from his palm. We just stood there, that tiny sphere of coin joining us in some bizarre fashion. I looked at his face and eyes. The blackness of his person blended in with the blackness of the night. He was so young and so frightened and so desirable.
Right there, at that moment, I knew that I had to have him sexually. I had to, somehow and in some manner, open my body to him.
"Come with me, please, I beg you."
He looked at me, unable to understand, unable to envision what was about to happen. As each moment passed my lust grew and grew, it snowballed into an almost unimaginable desire. Still holding on to his hand, I tightened my grip and began to pull him into the pitch darkness at the rear of the diner.
"Lemme go," he said, frightened, afraid that he was dealing with a woman who had lost her sense.
"Listen to me, you must come with me, now. Nothing will happen to you. I promise you safety and love. I promise you whatever you want."
He was only a child, in his early teens, and he did not have the strength to withstand me. Half pulling him, half dragging him, we reached the small dark alley way which ran in the rear of the diner. I threw him to the ground. Quickly, kneeling beside his quivering body, I ripped open his pants and dug my fingers inside until, triumphant, I touched the black cock.
The boy began to struggle in earnest, but the more he fought the more I forgot I was a woman and felt like some hunter who had just brought down a succulent prey.
How his organ danced in my hand! How if fitted into my heated grasp! The night around became chilly. My eyes bore into him, immobilizing him, as in one of those strange movies where a super-natural object controls the actions of human beings.
"I love you, my little black child. I love your delicious cock as it caresses my hand. I love the feel of your vibrating flesh as it touches me."
His eyes grew wider with fear as I continued to moan these words. Bending closer, I placed my heated lips against his forehead, trying to transfer the passion which was within me.
Then I stood back, and lowered my undergarments. The cool night wind brushed against my naked buttocks and thighs. But those feelings only gave impetus to my passion.
He watched me with astonished eyes, propped up on his elbows, his organ waving in the night, trying to understand the hysterical white woman who had exposed herself before him.
"Lemme go, lemme go," he called out, without moving, as if knowing that every action he would take must be at my command. But I could not let him go. My nipples were vibrating with a profound intensity and the lower part of my body alternated between waves of hot and cold chills.
"Stay, stay," I warned him. There was a steel hard quality in my voice, more like a robot than a woman. I was beyond reason.
I watched his erect organ, pointing toward the stars and swinging from side to side in a strange, questing state. I followed that movement of his erect flesh, outlined against his black body which in turn was outlined against the black night.
For just a moment longer I hesitated, and then, I leaped upon the child, opening my thighs as I leaped, and impaling my lusting vagina on his dark organ.
It sank in so quickly and beautifully that I almost lost consciousness. My cunt drank up his penis, sucking it deeper and deeper. He tried to escape, he tried to pull that delicious organ out, but the walls of my flower were like a vise. What was once gained by my womanhood would never be relinquished.
The more he struggled the more shafts of joy moved through my body. I could feel the tip of that furious cock eating up my insides. I pressed down against him, wanting to be impaled even more, wanting to be martyred on that weapon. My hands slid under his shirt, to feel his lean breasts and my hands played with his childish nipples.
His hands clawed at my buttocks trying to remove my crushing weight but the more they dug into me, the more excited I became. It was growing and growing within me. I began to move my buttocks faster and faster in a circular movement, actually grinding the child into the ground. He cried out once during this glorious rape but I rammed my tongue into his mouth and he almost choked.
Soon, he could not help himself. His fear and his hatred of me were overcome by my powerful, lusting cunt, which turned on his flesh. The rhythm of my body began to draw him out and to seduce him into the music of his own body. He began to make little gasping sounds, like an animal crying over some lost home. Yes, he had lost his home. He had lost all his innocence for in spite of the fact that it was I who had raped him, at that moment, just before ejaculation, his cock was the cock of a full man and it tore my vagina with its thrusts which no longer needed my weight to be potent.
A second later that glorious seed came. It felt so beautiful as it flowed into my cunt, as my flower sucked up that hot juice which was a tribute to both of us. It was over and we lay there with the light from the neon sign of the diner showing on the wall above our head.
I knelt beside him and thanked the frightened bruised child. Picking him up in my arms, so that he was sitting up, I let my white breast glide against his lips. When they opened, I forced my nipple into his hot frantic mouth. We sat there for a long while. Soon he understood, and he became the son I had never had, sucking tenderly on the nipple as if it was the gateway to the richest milk a female could offer.
"Be still, it is all over," I crooned these words to him as if he was a baby, and began to rock him in my arms.
Finally, his lips dropped my breast and he struggled to get free. I released him. Standing up and shaking himself like a dog, he buttoned his pants. He was too ashamed to look at me, he averted his eyes to the ground and I could hear him mumbling some words.
Digging into my pocketbook I extracted all the bills that were there. I shoved them into the palm of his hand, the same palm which only a few minutes ago had aroused me to such a fury of lust. He looked at the bills as they rested there, his eyes blinking, unsure of himself before all of that money. Then, with a shrug, he turned and ran. I lost sight of his body after he turned the corner of the alley. My eyes yearned for one more glimpse of the child, but there was only darkness to greet my vision.
Lying on the cold ground, I buried my head in my arms and wept.
The rape of the black boy is a crucial episode in her life. This was the first incident in which she actually took to the streets in order to satiate her passion. No doubt, subconsciously she was looking for an erotic experience which would offer her a chance to enter another milieu, in this case the milieu of the waterfront.
But the importance of the rape goes far beyond this. For, if we look deeper into her description of the event, from the time she touches the boy's palm and is almost overcome by passion, to the moment when she weeps after he is left-we are struck by one peculiarity. That is, the rape was completely spontaneous and the idea only arose in her mind after she saw the boy's erect penis.
Any clinical analysis would have to take in the strong possibility that this rape was a symbolic form of suicide. At first this may seem farfetched to the reader, but notice the language she uses, words like "weapon" and "impaled"-in short, words which usually are associated with some form of killing or injury.
In raping the black boy, the woman was both accepting her perversion and martyring herself to it. Perhaps the reader can best understand this by thinking in terms of religious fanatics who often are compelled to inflict some bodily injury on themselves in order to make themselves pure enough for the religious experience.
Only in these terms, in fact, can we begin to understand the depth and intensity of this woman's lust.
CHAPTER FOUR
How can I explain my relationship with Bill? He was a child, a stranger, plucked from nowhere and brought into my life with such subtle force that for a period of a week, my every waking thought was of him.
For many days after my brutal assault on the black boy in the waterfront district, I was afflicted with a state of mind which can only be described as extreme lethargy. It seemed as if that one sexual encounter had drained every muscle and sinew in my body of all its strength.
It was, I suppose, a time for recharging my mind and body and slowly becoming accustomed to the bizarre fact that I was a woman outside the morality of society. I was a woman who would gladly and quickly give up every moral trait for the cock of one young boy. It was not an easy thing to accept but I had no-choice. In the office, I would watch closely the behavior of the other executives, wondering if they knew, wondering if they had any idea that the most successful young woman in their organization had blossomed into a sexual pervert which would make their blood run cold.
But, with Bill, I totally removed myself from the puritanical strictures of the society in which I lived and worked. For with him, I not only seduced his body in the most perverse manner, but I took away his rural innocence. Yes, I captured a boy who had been brought up in the forests and valleys of an almost untouched New England countryside and within a week turned him into a love machine.
It began with a phone call late one Sunday. The caller was a woman, an old friend of mine whom I had not seen for many years.
After a few minutes of small talk she explained the nature of her call: "I have a young cousin coming into the city from New Hampshire for a week or two. He's a regular country boy, shy and nice, and when I tried to think of someone who could show him the sights, I automatically thought of you. Look, I realize it's an imposition and if you can't help me out, I understand."
I told her that I would be delighted to show him around. At the time I accepted, there was no thought in my mind of an attempted seduction. It was merely a favor for an old friend. The boy and I were to meet the following Tuesday morning in the front of a well-known landmark in New York.
Arriving about ten minutes late, I noticed a tall, graceful boy walking nervously about, his hands thrust deep into his pockets. He appeared to be about sixteen.
For some reason I did not approach him right away. Instead, I moved under the awning of a store and watched him. It was possible to spot him as a rural boy immediately. His clothes were simple and terribly out of fashion. But it was more than his clothes; it was a lack of pretension, a lack of sophistication. He was pacing back and forth because he was scared he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He felt no need to hide his fear. My heart seemed to open to the boy.
And then my eyes moved to his body. As he walked I watched his thighs strain against the fabric. The boy was well-built, his hair was soft and brown, and his arms looked like they knew heavy work.
It was at that moment, standing a distance from him, that the madness came over me. I felt as if my body had turned into a sponge and was evaporating. I felt that the only thing which would halt that process was the naked organs of his body; his mouth, his cock, the very structure of his body.
A shame came over me. But nothing, not even the knowledge of my own wickedness could stop that craving which hit me with such force that I could hardly breathe.
I fought to gain control of myself and then I approached him. Smiling my best executive smile, and holding out my hand in greeting, I introduced myself. He smiled back and shook my hand heartily, saying: "I was getting pretty worried. I'm glad you showed up Ma'am."
I made some small talk with him, but my eyes were riveted on his lips. Never had I seen such lips, they looked like they had spent their youth in savoring the fresh sap of apples, or drinking deeply of maple syrup which had just been extracted from the tree buckets. They were full lips and they were the only part of him that were more adult than his years. He did not know it then, but his lips were the lips of an Emperor; one of the Roman variety during the last stages of the Empire when all the great resources of the Imperial treasury were used to extract every perverted delight imaginable. Yes, I knew it instantly; his lips were what I desired more than anything else. But, the boy was innocent; he must be taught. Yes, his innocence was like a cloak about him, and I resolved to remove that cloak and let his body reach a freedom he never dreamed of.
That day we spent doing all the petty things which sightseers in New York always do. We took a ferry around Manhattan Island, we went to the Museums and Chinatown, we walked' up and down Fifth Avenue and wandered into the Department Stores. He listened to everything I said with the utmost interest and politeness and his eyes shone at the hustle and bustle and color of the city.
Once, after stopping at one of those wagons which sell unsanitary but delicious frankfurters and onions, I wiped a piece of food from his mouth. It was not something I had planned, but it happened and the moment my fingers came into contact with his face, I felt burned, scarred by his flesh. If there was a stick there I would have grasped it and thrust it between my legs, into my vagina; that was how powerful his flesh was, that was the effect that this easy-going innocence was beginning to have on me.
Early in the afternoon, I devised my plan. It was necessary, I realized, to develop a maternal relationship with him otherwise my hopes would be dashed. An innocent like Bill would never be seduced by his equal, or by a flirtation. I would have to insinuate myself into his life, in the space of a few hours, as a mother-figure.
This I did by scolding him gently and humorously when he tended to cross the street without obeying traffic lights or when he ate too quickly. Slowly, that relationship was established, all the while, my flesh was burning for just the touch of him.
Night came and he thanked me profusely for my service as a guide and said he had to go. back to his hotel. I almost panicked but I thought quickly and said: "Look, I'm a little tired and I have about an hour before I go to dinner with a business associate. Could I use your hotel room to tidy up a bit and take a short nap?"
He happily granted my request. We entered the small room and Bill flung himself on the bed. He was so innocent, he was so unsuspecting that I could barely stand my wickedness. I walked into the bathroom and washed and fixed my makeup.
When I came out he was fast asleep. The day had been exhausting to him. In front of that sleeping body I undressed, still not sure of what I would do, but unable to keep the clothes on my body any longer in front of him. Completely naked I closed the light switch and sat on the side of the bed.
Taking his hand in mine, I began to sing a gentle lullaby. He seemed to smile in his sleep. I moved closer and closer, an inch at a time, until my nipple rested on his cheek. He stirred but did not wake. Then, I let my nipple, so fevered with anticipation that it felt as if someone had applied a red hot poker to its quivering shape, touch his lips.
How can I describe that first erotic contact? I wanted to dig my fingers into every part of his flesh. I wanted to force his mouth open until he had ravaged my breast like a wild beast would rip apart a piece of freshly-killed meat.
Slowly but relentlessly, I put more and more pressure against his lips. Still sleeping, they began to part and my nipple moved into the heated cavern of his innocent mouth.
Then he awoke. His eyes were wide with fear. The experience was so new to him and so different from anything else in his life, that he did not struggle. He just lay there, watching me in horror. His mouth contained my nipple but he did not yet accept the passion of its movement which lashed his mouth from side to side.
I spoke to him softly, telling him of my love, telling him of his exquisite beauty, telling him that if I was the great Greek sculptor Praxiteles, I would carve his body in marble so that the future generations would understand the passion sleeping in his body.
But the boy was still rigid with fear. Desperate, I acted quickly. I thrust both of my hands into his pants, searching hungrily for that quiet organ, searching for the center of his young manhood.
I found it. Oh yes, I found that quiet, almost sublime cock, between his legs, dumb and disinterested. My fingers were like the fingers of a surgeon as I operated on that member, bringing it by my love and caresses to a flaming, quivering weapon after only a few moments of manipulation. I searched out the globes which anchored his cock and my hands rolled over them, feeling the delicate quality of their lines, making love to the thin sac which held them suspended like some ripe grapes under the vine.
Now his face and body began to change. It was no longer his will but his cock which controlled him. He could not help the surge of lust which was beginning to inundate his body. All the fury of adolescence seemed to possess him, to sweep his frigid body into the whirlpool of passion.
His mouth opened wide now and with a savage lunge I thrust my breast deep inside his mouth until I heard him choking from the massive but soft flesh. His mouth closed. His tongue played with my nipple only as the first lust of youth is able. His eyes were glazed from my white, naked breasts. His body was no longer rigid. Then he closed his mouth and sunk his teeth into the mound. I screamed but a second later the pain joined with exquisite pleasure and I called out to him for more, for more of those animal teeth which were sucking blood rather than milk from my offering.
I could stand no more. My fingers crushed his globes and he was forced to loosen his hold.
"What are you doing to me?" He cried out, his voice like a trapped animal that does not wish to leave the trap.
"Hush, there is nothing to fear. I will bring you the most beautiful things of your life, more glorious even than the first snow which covers the stone fences, or the migration of the game birds which cover the New England sky. Hush, I will bring you your manhood."
My words calmed him. My words gave him confidence in the strange woman who had possessed him. I was so close to my goal, then, so close to the lips which were wet and frothing from the taste of my nipples.
So I lay on my back and pulled his head between my naked thighs. At first he resisted, but my hands slowly and forcefully guided the way. He could not refuse. I could see his eyes widen as he spotted the goal, that dark mysterious nest which perched so beautifully between my legs, which was calling for his lips.
I closed my eyes as I felt the breath from his mouth near me.
"Now," I called to him, "you must, you must, it is there for your lips."
A second later it happened. His lips met the gates of my cunt. My nest quivered, I felt little darts of lust shooting through my body. My hands and nails dug into his back.
"Yes," I cried to him, "it is yours, press your lips against me, harder, harder, I want you to lose yourself in me."
We were joined. The wet lips of my cunt were joined in the grip of love with those two Imperial lips. He was juicy and hot. He was beginning to suck his manhood from the opening, from the opening of my body and the opening of the world.
But I wanted more than that. I wanted the total immersion. I wanted that snake-like organ which was hiding in the roof of his mouth. I wanted his tongue to glide out of his heated mouth, through his now lusting lips and into the dark mystery which was the center of my womanhood.
I wanted his tongue to penetrate my cunt more than I had ever wanted anything in the world. There was a mystery to his mouth, tongue and lips which I will never solve but which I know is the most complete passion a woman like myself can aspire to.
"Your tongue," I called.
There was a pause. There was a strange pause. It was as if he was debating, as if he still controlled his tongue with his will rather than his passion. But the heat of my cunt overwhelmed him and the beauties which he intuited were inside. He was a boy, a child, but he was no fool.
That tongue entered. Its flaming tip, so divinely shaped moved into me with all the force the child could muster. I tensed as I received it. My buttocks rose halfway off the bed in response to the penetration. But I was tense for only a moment. The next instant, it began to move from side to side, sending my body juices boiling and my whole body dissolved in one paroxysm of lust.
His strange muffled cries filled the room as he fought to send his tongue deeper and deeper, into the very heart of my cunt, into the mystery of my womanhood, in a search for his own manhood.
My body grew more and more hysterical as the child tasted me, as he sucked the most succulent lusts a woman could offer. I began to move violently from side to side, pummeling his head with my thighs, both desiring the penetration and struggling to be free of the red-hot tongue which was like a berserk snake in my cunt.
A second later it was all over. The orgasm swept over me, suddenly and totally, sending my body into spasms of acceptance, overwhelming my quivering cunt with the body juices of passion. I lay there, unable to speak, my silence a tribute to the strength of his tongue. Finally, when I was able to speak, I thanked him. The boy just lay there. He seemed shocked by what he did. I looked between his legs. His cock was still stiff, the globes swaying beautifully like church bells. Rather than thank him further using mere words, I moved down his body and took his cock in my lips. The child's eyes opened wide, as if he could not understand what had happened to him.
But the moment my lips were circling his stiffened flesh, a gleam of comprehension came to him.
His cock danced in my mouth. Its purity, its youth, its very innocence turned my mouth into a passion tunnel, and in a few short moments, his flesh burst forth and the hot young seed of manhood poured into me. He lay there weeping, unable to understand the passion juices which had come from his body.
This was only the beginning. In the days that followed, we explored every possibility that his tongue and mouth could fulfill. These were days of extreme joy for me and days of growth for the child. When it was time for him to return home, I tried to tell him what had happened to him. I tried to explain that although I had debauched him, and taken every shred of innocence from his lips and body, still, that was the price of manhood.
And even today, a long time after that week of intense lust, I think often of Bill's tongue, as it passed through the gates of my womanhood, and like some fiery dart, brought my cunt to the ultimate in fever pitch.
In this episode we see a radical change in her desires. Previously, she had seduced children in order to gratify her own desires, but now, for the first time, we see that she is interested as much in "debauching" innocents as in her own gratification.
But this episode is important for another reason, a reason which may have a crucial clinical significance. At one part in her story, she mentions how the only way to seduce Bill was to become a "mother" image to him and she quickly does this. The psychologist, reading this, must assume that this action of becoming a mother to the young man was to fulfill her need and not to execute a seduction.
It is obvious what has happened. She revenged herself on her mother by assuming the role of her mother. The young man became the father she had never possessed sexually but always desired.
But, and this is the crucial part, when the opportunity came to seduce Bill, in her subconscious she did not have the strength of will to enter into a genital relationship with him. Instead, she uses Oral techniques. In that way, she does not incur the guilt of being entered by her own father's penis.
If the relationship would have continued, two things could have happened. Bill could have refused to play the role of her father and asserted himself, which would have meant the end of the relationship. Or, she could have accepted the fact of a genital relationship with a child whom her subconscious considered her father.
In such relationships, many complications will develop. The reader must understand one thing. The woman, in this episode, assumed the role of her own mother and projected the boy in the role of the father. But when the time came to seduce him, she could not go through with what was essentially incest. Thus, the oralism rather than genitalism. Her perversion has, therefore, taken a significant turn; it is the first breakthrough of her subconscious desires into the world.
CHAPTER FIVE
As the scope and intensity of my perversion increased, I became sensitive to certain nuances in the body, possibilities that the average woman would never understand. Every act became an erotic act. Walking from my desk to the door, picking up a pencil, reaching for the telephone-all of these became grist for my lust. I had reached that threshold of the total woman; the woman who lives to have a young cock sink into her vagina, the woman who yearns for the adolescent tongue to sweep across her body.
But most of all, I began to see into the mind of the children I seduced. The poet has said, "the child is father to the man." Yet, I know different, for the mind and body of a young man bears no relation to the mind and body he will become when he is older. This insight which I had did not come slowly, it came suddenly because of one child, a child who initiated me into joys which are indescribable.
It was 15 year old Victor who taught me, a woman of thirty-five, that the fingers of a child contain a certain mystery and when they sweep over the body, when they touch gently the quivering nipple, no adult hand can equal that.
It was this child who taught me that the meat of a young man's cock is the sweetest meat in the world.
It was Victor who showed me that when an older woman takes a young man, a whole new world of sensations can open for her. Yes, it was he who showed me that the body of a young man is the most important drug of them all.
I must tell of my relationship with Victor in the most scrupulous detail for it is not only a magnificent meeting between two ripe bodies, it is also the most overwhelming experience of my life in the intellectual arena.
I did not meet Victor by prowling the city streets looking for boys to satisfy my cravings. It was during one of those periods in my life when I felt that life was completely futile. I felt that whatever I attempted either in the world of business or in the world of love would bring me no pleasure.
When these moods were upon me I would often take a day off from the office and visit art galleries in the city. There is something about the environment of those galleries (luring the week, when they are empty of people, that brought me out of the despair which was enveloping me.
That particular time, for some reason, I wanted to look at sculpture. Picking out of the newspaper a number of galleries which were having shows of contemporary American sculptors, I outlined my schedule. It is necessary to do that while "gallery-hopping" or the day will go too quickly to cover all the shows.
The first gallery was disappointing. I left quickly and went to the next gallery. All day long, from gallery to gallery, without pause, and not one show which caught my fancy or gave me the spiritual revival which great art can always accomplish.
But, late in the afternoon, my luck changed. It was in a small gallery, almost a loft, and one that I had never visited before. The show consisted of a number of sculptures by one artist. His name was unknown to me but his work was superb. He worked in wood and primarily with birds.
I was almost numb before those massive wooden birds, so strange and so compelling was their presence. Gradually, I grew accustomed to them enough to try and understand the strange fascination they exerted on me. But, no matter how much I tried or how long I stared, or how I attempted to break down the parts of each figure in my mind, still their power eluded me.
As I was about to leave the gallery, I noticed a strange-looking figure standing in front of one of the birds. At first I couldn't tell whether the child was a girl or a boy. It was a boy, of course, with his hair cut long in the fashionable style. But he was dressed simply with none of the affectations of the hippies. As I watched him, I noticed that his eyes were closed and that he was swaying very slightly in front of the bird, almost as if praying.
He was very small for his age and at first I thought he was about twelve. Everything about him was delicate, his torso, his neck, even the head, wreathed by the long hair, seemed of a gossamer strain. I had the impression that I was watching a butterfly who had somehow taken human form.
I could not leave the studio. There was something so mysterious about the boy that I was riveted to where I stood. He did not even notice me, continuing that strange swaying motion and clasping and unclasping his delicate fingers behind his back.
Finally, I could stand the tension no longer. I walked toward him, stopping when I was not more than a foot away. Still he did not acknowledge me. At that close distance, I could see the delicate features of his face, the thin, almost ascetic cheekbones, and the long, aquiline nose. Finally, after standing so closely, he turned to me and said, bitterly: "What do you want? Can't you see that I am studying the work?"
I was so taken aback by the vehemence of his words that I was silent. He started to move away from me, but I reached out my hand and laid it on his arm. Something inside of me seemed to know that it was imperative this child should not get away. I felt as if I had trapped some rare specie of butterfly.
"Why do you touch, me?" He said, looking at my hand as if it was the strangest of things. His voice was mature and brilliant. "I am lonely."
He smiled at my words and the mask of hostility on his face seemed to melt.
"Yes," he replied, "you seem to be lonely. But good art should remove that loneliness and these works are excellent."
Even after this brief conversation, I knew that this child was superior to me in every area of life. I could discern a sensitivity towards art and life that was awesome. I kept saying to myself that he must not get away. I kept thinking of a way to stay near that strange, fragile creature.
We began to walk about the gallery together and look searchingly at the sculpted birds. He would make a few statements to me about each work, commenting briefly on the form and lines of the work, and their significance to the show as a whole.
As we were standing in front of one particularly striking work, he said: "Notice the thrust of the wings. Do you understand what the artist was doing?"
I was completely under the sway of this brilliant child and could not come up with an answer.
"Let me tell you. The artist is telling us of the futility of the erect cock. He is telling us that the sexual relationships between man and woman are terribly deranged. He is telling us that our species will always be animals until we remove the violence of the cock."
His words, mysterious and profound, created such a stir in my body that I could hardly stand. I could not believe that the young child beside me thought so deeply about sexual matters. A moment after he said those words, I had the strange feeling that I was on the brink of something; something that would change my life and give me an experience unlike any other I had ever encountered.
Victor looked at me, smiling softly. Noticing my shock at his words, he said: "I am fifteen years old but please do not let my age fool you. It is children like myself who hold the key to life. You have heard of piano prodigies and mathematical prodigies; they are quite common at my age. Well, I am a sexual prodigy."
His burning eyes acknowledged the truth of his statement. For the first time I realized his painfully thin body was the result of this passionate dedication. He was a child who was slowly devouring himself with his genius.
"Come with me."
His command shook me out of my contemplation. He began to walk toward a large screen which partitioned one part of the gallery. I followed him. Behind the screen were a number of uncrated works of art and the area obviously acted as a warehouse for the gallery.
The light bulb in the area had blown and it was darker than the rest of the gallery. We stood very close.
"I am going to seduce you," he said.
It was such a ludicrous statement for a child to make to a grown woman. But I did not laugh. For the way he uttered those words, the way his lips formed to make the consonants and vowels, seemed to tell me that here, indeed, was a sexual prodigy.
"Touch my face," he ordered.
I let my hands move over his face, feeling the delicate nose, caressing the thin face. His lips moved apart and I let my fingers enter his mouth, rolling them in the saliva and heat.
He took my hand away.
"You are very cold. Your fingers and hand are the reflection of your frigidity."
I grew angry. I knew I was a warm, passionate woman and my actions had proved that I was a woman who yearned and fought for the sweet cock which plunges between my legs. There was not one ounce of frigidness in my body.
But Victor did not notice my sudden anger. Instead, from his pocket, he took what seemed to be two handkerchiefs. He held them up in front of me.
I touched one. They were of the sheerest most delicate fabric imaginable. Victor draped my hand in one of them and he wrapped the other around his fingers. Then, a moment later I felt his hand move up my dress. Skillfully, he pulled my undergarments down. I was breathing heavily and there was sweat standing out in little beads on my forehead.
"Don't move. Don't be frightened," he said, as if he was thirty-five, and I was fifteen.
His hand with the fabric around it, began to caress the inside of my thighs. I have never felt such an exquisite feeling. The tiny ridges of the cloth seemed to elicit the most incredible lust from my flesh. Back and forth he rubbed it until I was quivering with anticipation.
Then the cloth began to rub against the gates of my cunt. My chest began to heave and I closed my thighs because the pleasure was almost unbearable. His hand was caught in the vise-like action.
"Open them," he murmured, "open them."
Slowly, I obeyed him. He was rubbing more quickly. It was as if there was a fire licking at my shivering gates, waiting for just one moment, the right one, to begin its penetration.
His finger penetrated me, wrapped in the glorious, almost magical fabric.
As it slowly and expertly moved within me, he whispered: "Don't move. Let my fingers love your cunt."
Except for his fingers, we stood without touching. Only an inch away his childish face waited, those delicate features immersed in his work.
My womanhood seemed to open like a cavern before his expert penetration. Every part of me was beginning to respond hysterically to the probing hand and cloth, as it subtly mixed the juices of my cunt with the construction and thrust of his fingers. It was as if that thin hand completely held my destiny, it was as if a few tiny fingers totally controlled every movement of my body. His fingers began to turn in me, infinitely more beautiful and with greater lust than any cock I had ever encountered. The cloth caressed the walls of my quivering vagina like some mysterious and mystical force. My body was going through stages of weakness and strength, each deeper thrust of those magical fingers sent my insides boiling, and my vision began to blur.
"Do you understand what I am doing? I am bringing a child's gentleness to your body. I am bringing a child's sophistication to your most precious opening."
His words were like liquid gold in my ears. His fingers began to dig into the very flesh of my cunt, screwing their elongated shape into the essence of passion. The cloth, gentle to touch, became like the most divine sandpaper when it came into contact with the moisture of the hot, dark place. I began to shake almost insanely and finally, to keep from falling, I laid my head against his chest.
"Close your eyes," he said, "I am going to explore the holy of holies. Close your eyes. Perch your body on my finger. Give your cunt to me."
I began to twist in a bizarre ritualistic dance, trying to extract the most pleasure from his digit. I moved as I had never moved before, impaling myself, giving over my every gyration to the probing magnificence of his hand. My cunt was a pulsating organ, sensitive and receiving, extracting every penetration, no matter how deep, sucking up his fingers like they were the life-line to my body.
"Yes," he said, "dance for my fingers. Show them that you have become a woman and are no longer an animal."
He was right. For at that moment I would have recoiled in horror from the brute cock. I would have turned aside had a man seeked to mount me, to thrust his animal joy into my vagina. The child was showing me a new dimension.
Then he said: "Hold out your hand."
I did so, and he took the other cloth and wrapped it about my fingers.
At first I did not know what he wanted me to do. My body, in such a state of extreme ecstasy, could not be still long enough for my mind to function normally. Then, I knew. Somehow, in the bowels of my lust, I knew. Grasping the cloth, I let my fingers open his pants and began to search for the child's splendor.
"Yes," he whispered, "find me, and stroke me. Bring to me the same joy I am bringing to you."
I stroked his buttock first and the moment I made contact with his flesh, his fingers went so deep and with such strength that my cunt seemed to explode.
Then I found his cock, gentle, fragile like himself, the organ of a child who had dared to go beyond the petty limits of youth. Slowly, in rhythm with his own fingers, I began to play with him, running the cloth over the length of his cock, wiping the globes with the aphrodisiac cloth.
Together we manipulated each other. Never have I felt such an erotic closeness. Our bodies, though not joined, celebrated each other's finger.
But this loveliness lasted only for a few minutes. For as his cock began to respond and as the fires of lust made it leap and dance in my hand, I noticed a cloud on his face. Suddenly, he seemed to be entering a world of savagery. That gentle face was contorted. He pulled away from me and picked up a small sculpture of a bird which for some reason had not been exhibited.
He came toward me, his body completely under the sway of his vibrating organ. Then I saw what he was about to do. I tried to escape him but he had the quickness of youth along with the power of an erotic child, brought swiftly to the peak of his lust.
Holding the bird by its wings, he rammed the beak of the work into my cunt. I almost fainted from the pain. But even my moans would not stop him. Deeper and deeper he rammed the beak in, like some insane cock that was out to destroy its final resting place.
"This is what you really wanted, isn't it?" He asked, his voice brutal and his eyes demonic.
I was thrown back, ever backwards, and then that cruel beak broke the barrier and my body convulsed in a total orgasm, leaving me a quivering mass of flesh in front of him.
That was the beginning. For weeks we went from gallery to gallery, searching out the dark quiet places and engaging in the most subtle and most masterful manipulations. He grew to know each quiver of my cunt, each hidden delicacy which resided there, and I, in turn, knew that fragile cock, which was already ready to leap into my fingers and mouth.
But one day he would not touch me. I began to weep, begging him, asking him for an explanation.
His face grew childish, and his remarkable but bizarre intelligence seemed to shine through: "But I have taught you all I know. What more is there for us? Why continue?"
And with that cryptic statement, Victor was gone, to where and to whom I shall never know. I feel he will never grow to manhood, I feel he would rather die than submit to the tyranny of the cock and forget the subtle mysteries which he had, in his genius developed. I shall never forget him.
Again, we see an incidence of erotic behavior on her part which does not lead to normal gratification. This is obviously a further repression of her guilt at desiring her father's cock. But, if any psychological predictions are worthwhile, the dam will inevitably burst. She will not be able to continue her flight from penetration by the male organ. She will not be able to continue substituting sophisticated sexual play for an overwhelming genital experience. This episode is obviously a bridge, a crossing-over into true genital relationships.
Another important clinical observation that can be made, one which may have some bearing on Jungian psychology, is the fact that the first meeting with Victor culminated in her being raped by the beak of a wooden bird. Such an event has many parallels in world literature. Yeat's "Leda and the Swan" is only one example of women being violated by large birds. Perhaps her experience with Victor was so emotionally powerful that it somehow opened the gates of memory which seems to have been implanted at birth. This would be in accord with Jung's theory of a collective unconscious.
This episode also touches on another area, that of child psychology. It is possible that the best way for any child to relate to an adult is through an erotic experience?
In a puritanical society such as the United States, such a method would be unthinkable. But, if it is true, and could be proven, then the whole structure of our society would have to be changed in order to raise a generation of children free from the murderous repressions which their parents are afflicted with. But this question is beyond the scope of our inquiry.
CHAPTER SIX
There are few women who have ever encountered the beast in a child's clothing. By "beast" I mean a creature who lives only for gratification and is willing to forget every scruple that he has ever learned. There is no doubt that I am tied to my desires but I still follow certain basic patterns of humanity.
I have met the "beast." And I met him in the body of a seventeen year old child. His name was Larry. For two days we stayed together in a rundown motel outside the city and in those forty-eight hours I came to understand the nature of the beast.
Few people realize the heights of lust that children can scale. Few people realize that in the bodies of young men are brutal urges which drive them to furious undertakings.
Let me try and remember Larry precisely for my body still quivers when I think of him.
It was late at night. I was unable to sleep, still thinking of my curious relationship with Victor. Finally, I rose, dressed and took a cab to a quiet bar not many blocks from my apartment. It was a drinking place frequented by professional people and a few homosexuals. The more violent denizens of the city were not allowed there and I was able to drink in peace. Gradually, the whiskey made me drowsy and I leaned my head on the bar and fell asleep in that strange posture.
Suddenly I felt something at my shoulder. I sat up, realizing that I had been asleep, and shook myself like a dog. To one side of me was a young man with a handful of fresh newspapers in his hand. I had seen many young boys like him in bars and nightclubs, making a few dollars each evening selling the late papers.
"Paper, lady?"
His voice was rough and street-wise. He seemed to embody every underground trait of the city; its viciousness, its wisdom, and its throbbing passion.
Still drowsy from sleep I shook my head to indicate I was not interested in purchasing his paper. He shrugged his shoulders as if it meant nothing and moved on to other patrons of the bar. Then I called out to him: "Wait, wait a moment."
He turned around, walked back to me, and placed a folded paper on top of the bar. "Ten cents, lady."
"But the paper is only eight cents on the newsstand," I protested.
Smiling wickedly, he replied: "Yeah, but look at the service you're getting."
"You're very young to be so cynical."
"Seventeen ain't young, lady, not in this city. Get it?"
I let my eyes rove over him. He was of medium height but powerfully built with a bull chest and large muscular arms. He was wearing a short zippered jacket over a T-shirt. His face was lean with a jutting jaw, high cheekbones and a dark complexion.
We were very close to each other as he waited for his dime. Moving very slowly and deliberately I retrieved a dime from my purse and placed it in the palm of his hand.
He took it with a brutal snatching motion. It was done so quickly and with such style that it left me breathless. I was suddenly caught up in the most bizarre desire. Just as he had plucked the coin from my hand, I wanted to dig my hands into his pants and pluck his young cock. There was something about the boy's brutality and cynicism which made me brutal also. Quickly, that desire passed.
Moving away from me, he made the rounds of the bar. I watched his every movement in the huge mirror. Some of the patrons bought a paper and others waved him away with a drunken hand. Then he walked out of the bar to continue his route.
For a moment I hesitated, feeling that I was on the brink of some action which had not yet been defined. Suddenly, another bizarre desire possessed me. Holding the whiskey glass in my hand, I wanted to press it against my naked breast. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, I opened my blouse and let the cold glass touch my nipple. My whole back shook. Then, blushing at this strange perversion, I withdrew the glass and rushed from the bar.
I looked frantically for the boy but could see nothing in the darkness. Then, down the block, I saw his figure leave another bar, the stack of papers still clutched under his arm. I called to him. He turned around, stopped and waited for me.
Walking quickly, I reached his side and grabbed his arm.
"Get your hands off me, lady," he said in a menacing voice.
I dug into my purse and pulled out a twenty dollar bill which I pressed into his hand, saying: "I want to buy all your papers."
Grabbing them from him I threw them into the gutter.
"You want change, lady?"
I shook my head. He was standing there, slouching, waiting for my next move.
"Listen to me. How would you like two more twenty dollar bills?"
His eyes widened. I took him by the hand and without a word we began to walk. Hailing a cab we both got in and I directed the driver to a dingy motel on the outskirts of the city. The driver leered at me but took us there without a word.
The room was small and dirty. A single bed stood in the corner under the picture of a nude. Larry sat on the bed, quiet, almost a different person.
I did not have time to speak. The lust was building in my body, choking off the words. I began to undress, throwing my clothes on the floor. My breath came in labored gulps. He stood and took off his clothes. A moment later we were both nude, facing each other. My eyes drank in his body, the powerful neck, the muscled torso and his glorious cock and globes, hanging so innocently between his well-formed thighs.
I began to circle him, walking slowly, every now and then letting my nakedness brush against his body, touching his flesh with my nipples.
Then I saw it move. I saw the sinews and muscles begin to tighten. I rushed to it with open mouth and a second later felt that blessed cock pass through the gates of my lips. The flesh was brutal in my mouth. The red-hot tip like some dredging instrument which threatened to tear my mouth apart. But it was beautiful and as it danced within me, I sucked on it, savoring every little movement and flavor.
A moment later I felt Larry's powerful hands grasp me by the shoulders and fling me from him. I was sent reeling across the floor, my mind unable to understand.
He followed up and pulled me to his feet. Then he made me stand, but when I tried to face him, he forced me to stand with my buttocks to his front. I quivered as I stood there, aware that something strange and terrible was about to happen.
His lips were on my neck. Then on my back, and then they began travelling slowly downward. Just the touch of his lips on my naked flesh sent me into a frenzy of excitement.
He was at my buttocks. His mouth was fastened on that succulent piece of flesh. His mouth opened and a second later I felt his teeth sink into my flesh, deep into the soft curve of the buttock.
A muffled scream came from my lips. But the boy bit deeper with a greater ferocity than anything I had ever experienced before.
"Please," I cried to him, "stop it, stop it I beg you."
But the brute would not stop until he was ready. Then I felt him stand behind me. His arms moved in front and grasped my breasts, cruelly squeezing them. His fingers dug into my nipples, driving the points into a paroxysm of lust and pain. I felt his erect cock brush against my buttocks and I knew then that he wanted a brutal anal penetration.
I closed my buttocks tightly, trying to prevent the shock that I knew would come. "Open them up, bitch!"
I heard his foul words whispered in my ear but I did not heed them.
A second later his tip rammed against my buttocks but my physical will resisted him. Larry began to squeeze my breasts with greater and greater force, lacerating them with his fingers, causing the blood to drop from those small, luscious mounds of white flesh.
Finally, I could stand it no more, and I relaxed my body.
A second later his cock rammed between my buttocks with such force that his hands kept me from being thrown to the floor. I cried out with pain but my cries only drove him to a greater frenzy. Again and again he rammed that stiff flesh into the secret recesses of my bowels.
As it went deeper and deeper into my tortured flesh, the pain vanished and in its place came an almost hysterical warmth which seemed to fill my body and which seemed each second to grow into a passionate intensity. My mind reeled and my body became like a piece of jelly being splintered by some primitive weapon.
Suddenly I felt his body tense and stop its drive for a moment. His cock seemed suspended between my bowels and eternity.
His teeth fastened on my neck and his hands clutched me almost insanely as the hot liquid of his cock poured between my buttocks. I moaned. Never had I felt such a liquid penetration. The seed seemed to have been conjured up by some magician, so overwhelming was its beauty.
The boy let me go and I fell to the floor, quivering from the intensity of the ejaculation. I turned on my back and looked at his naked frame, his cock hanging limply between his legs, the seed still dripping from it.
Gathering all my strength, I crawled to him and tasted those last few drops of that seed, letting my lips drink deeply of the child's vigor.
Then we slept. The boy did not speak to me at all, but he dozed off quickly after I had placed another twenty dollar bill in his hand.
Hours later we awoke. Larry was ready to leave the hotel but my lust had only been whetted. I offered him more money to stay another day and finally he accepted. That next evening he went out to buy a bottle of whiskey.
When he came back I was already naked, standing on the floor, waiting for him. I held the bottle when he undressed. We both drank deeply. It was good whiskey and a warm glow settled over our bodies. I kissed him with my tongue and then let my lips roam over all of his muscles. The child was breathing heavily.
"Get down on all fours."
"Please, not again," I replied.
A second later his fist crashed into my face, sending me reeling against the wall. When my dizziness left me, I got down on all fours as he had requested, like a bitch in heat, waiting to be mounted.
Larry began to pour the whiskey over my naked body. He rubbed it into my cunt with his hands, reaching under me. The liquid burned and I began to squirm. He rubbed it into every opening of my body, his face twisted into a demonic laugh. I was caught up in this horrible whiskey rape. I knew then, at that moment, that I had chosen a child who was a brute, a child who had lost all semblance of humanity, a child who the city streets had been twisted and warped.
I tried to speak to him, to stop those frantic hands which were suffusing my flesh with the liquid.
"Larry, be gentle. There is another way, a way of beauty, a way of truth, a way to enjoy the delights of my body."
He looked at me with contempt and scorn.
"You fucken pervert. How can you tell me anything? You're a pervert, you're an old bag who digs young kids. I ain't listening to anything you got to say."
The liquid was finished, drunk up by my body, rubbed into every nook and cranny of my flesh.
He straddled me, and holding the whiskey bottle upside down, inserted the neck of the bottle into my vagina, giving it a devilish twist.
The combination of cold glass and heat generated by the corkscrew movement almost made me lose consciousness, so overwhelming was its effect.
He began to move the bottle like a glass cock, deeper and deeper into my flower. Like an enraged dog, I tried to escape the object but his powerful thighs held me in place.
Then I felt a terrible pain. The brute was not happy with his bottle rape. He rammed his now stiff cock, once again between my buttocks. This time it slid in easily, for his organ had been lubricated by the whiskey.
Thus I was impaled by that savage beast; in my cunt a lifeless whiskey bottle, end-up, drove deeper and deeper into the most mysterious part of me, and between my buttocks thrust his brutal, red-tipped cock.
I was caught up in a whirlpool of glass and flesh. The cock and the bottle lacerated my cunt and buttocks, sending the rest of my body into paroxysm of lust and pain, making every inch of me victim to the most incredible tremors. The sweat poured off of my body and once I bent my neck and looked at his wild face, begging him with my eyes to cease. But he would not cease.
Then, that brute placed the neck of the bottle which was impaling me between his two hands and began to twirl it as a boy scout twirls sticks when he makes a fire. The heat was so intense that my flower seemed to shrivel and a moment later I felt those terrible earthquakes in the center of my body, those rumblings and those dislocations which told me I was reaching the point of orgasm. A second later it happened. My body exploded under the passion and as my stomach and flesh twitched with the joys of orgasm, I felt that hot seed, once again, pour through my bowels. My body twitched on the floor like a rag doll and I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, Larry was gone. My purse had been rifled and in a supreme act of contempt for me, I realized that he had urinated on my body before he left.
At that moment, I wanted to die. At that moment I wanted the weight of my sins to crush the breath from my body and leave me an unthinking corpse. It was many hours before my nausea subsided and I was able to leave that filthy motel, the symbol of the death that eventually awaited me.
This episode contains two crucial psychological hints, which, if they can be understood, will give us an important clue to the structure of her perversion.
The first is that moment after the boy plucks the coin from her hand. Immediately afterward, she tells how she had a strange desire to pluck his male organ as he had plucked the coin.
Any psychologist, no matter what school he is affiliated with, will recognize this instantly. Plucking, in this context, means castration. At that moment, she wanted to castrate Larry and make him completely impotent, just as she had probably wished that her father was castrated so that she would not incur the guilt of desiring him sexually.
The second hint is that strange scene in the bar where she presses a glass against her bare breast. Furthermore, it is possible to conjecture that the "bottle-rape" was really desired by her and made known to the boy by subtle body movements. How can this desire for contact with and penetration by glass be understood? The most logical explanation seems to be that as she becomes more and more used to viewing herself as a pervert, she seeks to identify herself with more and more bizarre sexual acts, so that her sense of guilt and self-hatred can increase. The reader may be unable to understand why she should crave guilt as well as hope to be rid of guilt. This, of course, is one of the paradoxes of any mentally disturbed person, especially those who fall in the category of sexual disturbances. And, such a paradox is often what prevents these people from being successfully treated.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Once again I began to frequent those dank areas of the city where men walk in the shadows of buildings and their faces are hard and cruel.
Why I reverted to this behavior I shall never know, but it had something to do with my experience with the beast. I wanted uncomplicated children, I wanted the bodies of boys who were not consumed by the desire for money, I wanted the cock of a young man that was free and not scarred by our society.
So, I returned to the waterfront district, and to the industrial area, in fact, to any area of the city that was frequented by young wolves who were interested in pleasure.
Often, I would stand in the shadow of some warehouse, my breath steaming in the cold and a sudden feeling of almost overwhelming despair would flood over me. I realized the danger to my life and career. I realized that if I had begun once again to frequent these places, my existence was perched on a slender thread.
One night, as I was prowling the waterfront looking for those waifs whom I had grown to need, I found myself dreaming of the ideal body. It was more than a philosophical exercise; it was an attempt to set a goal for me. That night, I vowed that if ever I could find the boy with the perfect body, I would have him sexually and then cease forever my perversion. It was dark and cold as I began to construct such a body in my mind. The child would have to be fair and thin. I could picture his thighs, well-developed but still possessing the flush of youth. His buttocks would have that strange curve which I have found that only young men still have, a curve and a texture in the flesh which made one want to rest one's lips against them.
I began to shiver in the cold and the only warmth I possessed was when I constructed the ideal tongue. It would be thin and rapier-like, with a tip that could dart like a snake into the very center of my womanhood, and move from side to side with such precision that in a few seconds it would reduce me to a quivering mass of flesh.
Yes, I thought long and hard on that tongue, wondering whether I would ever find one, knowing that there is nothing on this earth as sweet as the virgin tongue of a young man.
My heart beat wildly as I thought of him, lying between my legs, staring for the first time at my cunt, frightened but lusting to reach that treasured dark triangle.
Then I thought of his cock. Oh, how I yearned to be free of my insatiable desires and I knew that the only way to accomplish that was to; once and for all, find the cock which would fulfill me. First I began to construct the globes in my mind, heavy hanging balls that swayed like ripe fruits between his legs. Standing there, a woman who had been through the most bizarre temptations, my eyes could actually see those globes. I could feel my lips running against them, and then moving to the cylinder itself. I opened my mouth to receive the hallucination and then I awakened and despised myself for my romanticism. It was getting late and so far the night had been unfruitful.
I began to walk aimlessly, feeling that juiciness rise in my cunt, feeling the heat rising like the tide on the seashore.
But the only men that passed me were those who had destroyed their bodies in their quest for a life of flesh. I needed the young ones, I needed desperately those young bodies which had not yet passed the point of decadence and who still carried in their bodies the seeds of youth.
Suddenly, from the back of one building, I heard a strange noise. Moving against the wall, I listened closely. It was a laugh. But it was a laugh unlike I have ever heard before. It was a laugh that seemed to say to the world that all was ludicrous, that all was absurd, yet every fact and object in life must be enjoyed.
I knew it would be dangerous to investigate the laugh.
But I also knew that perhaps there would be a body who was making the laugh and perhaps that body would possess the attributes which I desired.
Walking into the alley, I followed the sounds. About ten feet away from me were two boys. They were dressed very strangely; one of them wore a cape, which was swirled about his shoulders in a stance of bravado. The other wore a large straw hat in which was a sweeping feather which quivered and twitched in the wind.
They saw me and stopped laughing. One of them stood up and made a low mocking bow as if he was greeting some representative of royalty. Carrying through with the drama, I curtsied in return.
"Look," said one youth to the other, "we have uncovered a delicacy."
There was something in his voice, something in the manner in which he spoke which immediately gave away the fact that he was under the influence of some narcotic. They both began to giggle again.
"Come here," said the one in the cape.
I walked slowly to them and just stood there.
"Do you have nice tits? I hope you do because that is what I want to see now in this godforsaken place; beautiful firm tits that I can caress and kiss. If you do not have such nice things, please go away and leave us."
I had never been spoken to like that before. It was so rational but so insane. I did something then which I shall never understand. Instead of leaving, instead of calling them both fools, I opened my blouse and let the cold night wind sweep across my bosom.
The one who had spoke walked over as if he was inspecting a piece of furniture.
"Yes, her tits are nice. Look at the firmness of the shape. Oh, I must taste them."
As he bent over and slowly, gently, placed his mouth on my nipple, letting his saliva drip over the point, I was not aware of any passion in myself. I seemed to be observing my own strangeness. I seemed able even to comment to myself on how his lips were resting against my nipple and on how long it would take before I would become sexually excited.
But a moment later, the dam burst for me and lust replaced this introspection. It was when the other boy came over and as one was kissing my naked breasts, the other just rested his hand on my cheek.
The moment his fingers grazed against me I felt that tell-tale shiver race up and down my body. At that moment I broke away from both of them and-ran a few feet away, calling back to them: "No, no, do you hear me, I say no. This is the last night I will ever be here, this is the last night I will ever throw myself on barbarians like yourself. Remember, I know boys and I know that they carry in themselves the seeds of intense cruelty."
I kept babbling like this, over and over, all of my hatred of myself forming in my words. But still I did not leave.
The one in the cape walked over to me and to silence my babbling, he smacked me savagely in my face. The force of the blow made me fall to my knees. Before I rose, I felt two powerful arms holding me, and another set of arms ripping the clothes from my back. I began to fight. Never have I fought in my life with such purpose. Yes, I still wanted boys but I did not want those boys.
It was too late. Right in front of me was a cock. It dangled before me, its red tip quivering. But I had only a second to contemplate it. I was pulled onto my back and that terrible cock, that narcotic inflamed organ thrust itself into my cunt with such force that I felt like I was being driven into the cold ground.
I screamed out my hatred but it was too late. The organ was going deeper and deeper, going into the very flower of my life, twisting and turning like a beserk animal, forming the juices in my body.
The child who was on top of me laughed in my face as he drove that weapon again and again into me, pumping with great bursts of hysterical strength.
The other boy, who was holding me, spoke continuously in my ear: "Do you like it? Isn't it nice. Do you like my friend's cock? Don't you feel how medicinal it is?"
Then I felt the cock grown to an incredible size and begin to spasm. A second later the hot seed burst forth, but the moment that happened, the child withdrew his organ and let the seed splash over my body as if I was a field to be fertilized.
I tried to stand and run but they had only begun their games. They held me down, laughing at me. Finally, letting me up, they apologized and told me to go.
They grinned wickedly. They both knew, even though I had exhibited no passion during the penetration, what I was. They were daring me to leave.
"You must go," one of them said.
"Yes," said the other, "go home."
I was trapped. For only now the juices of my body were beginning to rise, only now as I looked at them, at that moment, did I truly desire them. They both stood there and in the silence that followed I saw their cock's stiffen. They made no move to hide it, the quivering cocks matched their wicked smiles.
Once again my past overwhelmed me. With my head down I walked to that waiting flesh. Each in turn, I pressed my lips against their flesh, I let their cocks move gently through the circle of my lips and my tongue sucked the living passion from them.
Then I moved to the wall. I could see the fire in their eyes. I could see their young beautiful bodies tensing, the fires of youth stoked by my practiced mouth. They could not wait. They had to come to me. I braced for the first one. Yes, I braced for those blessed penetrations.
The first came, slowly. When he was about a foot away, I could not hold back, I ran to him, enraged with lust, and leaped on his cock, throwing my legs around his waist. My teeth sank into his neck, and I tasted the blood as it filled my mouth.
How can I describe the glory of that entry. My cunt sucked up the cock and folded around it. My thighs forced it to perform as I gyrated my body to meet the contours of his thrust. My passion was so great, and my cunt so like a silken erotic velvet that the poor child moaned over and over. Within a few moments his cock spewed out its glorious seed and I left his waist to taste the juice of love.
Then I turned to the other child. I circled him like some jungle animal. I saw for the first time, a spark of fear in his eyes. For a moment I saw his eyes cloud over as if he was indeed facing a wild animal. First I moved against him with my back. I let his cock just for one second taste the glory of my buttocks, yes, I let it sink just once between those quivering cheeks and then I turned.
I fell to my knees and then backwards. My arms reached out, calling for him.
"Now," I said, as if I was talking to one of my underlings.
He leaped on me and my cunt opened wide, my flower blossomed to bring in the meat.
This one was violent and the hard cement bit deliciously into my back as he pumped.
"Yes, yes," I screamed to him.
In it went, deeper and deeper, scorching the walls of my womanhood, seeming to want every tiny drop of passion, seeming to turn my body into a fiery opening, trying to possess me totally.
Oh, it was good lying there and accepting that lance of maleness. My body was so sensitive that I felt the tip struggling to survive in that welter of movement. I met his every thrust with a greater one until the child could stand it no more and fell off me. But he was in agony, still unfulfilled.
I followed him as he tried to crawl away and grasped his cock in my mouth.
First I let my teeth taste the quivering flesh. It was a banquet. I drank in the odor and taste of that cock. I could not get enough. I sucked the tiny tip until it reached out to me in pain.
Then the seed flowed, slowly at first, a steady stream and then in horrendous gasps. I drank it down and stood. Both children were on their knees, their eyes glazed and their bodies trembling.
We rested for a while, saying nothing, the air filled with exhausted panting.
"Who are you?" Said one, holding up his hands as if to shield himself from any further love.
"I am a woman," I told them, "who has seen everything and tasted everything and who now knows that the only truth there is in life is embedded in the bodies of children like yourself."
They looked at each other for a moment, their mouths open, unable to answer. The drugs they had taken were beginning to wear off.
"I must go," I told them, "but there is one other moment we can have together. Yes, there is one other moment we can experience."
They did not answer. Perhaps they were afraid.
"I want you to taste my body."
They did not seem to understand. I explained myself further: "I want you to taste my body."
They could not withstand me. I lay down between them and gave my body to their tongues. At first they hesitated but then the natural lusts which reside in the mouths of young children, which are always dormant there, surfaced.
First, the tongues, licking my nipples and stomach. Then the teeth, taking tiny bites over my body. And then tongue and mouth and teeth going into my cunt, bringing me a degree of love that only the pervert can experience.
The two children fought for my flower. Yes, they fought for the honor of sucking every lust from me.
I gave myself to them equally and then, I slowly began to reach the stage of orgasm. My body shivered and I relaxed, I let the natural inclinations of my flesh and their heated tongues carry me over that blessed threshold. I moaned once and my whole being exploded, leaving me, completely satisfied in front of them, their meal over.
There was nothing else to do or say. I left them without another word.
Looking back once, I saw them watching me, quietly, and I felt for the first time in my life that I had given something important to two children. Yes, I felt that I had performed works that can be construed as useful, and satisfying and ethical.
The importance of this episode cannot be understated. After a series of adventures in which she actively tried to avoid genital contact, here she accepts it with a remarkable ferocity. It is a crucial turning point in her life. No doubt, if she had not been raped by the two young men, she would never have "broken through" into acceptance and active courting of the "cock".
If the rape had not occurred, she still would have come to that position but it would have taken her much longer and caused her much more mental strain. The short speech she makes to the young men after their sexual activities shows what a tremendous breakthrough this acceptance of the "cock" was. For the first time she is making a defense of her perversion on the grounds of "truth".
Yet, even after this speech, she still looks upon herself as a martyr with all the guilt feelings usually accepted with this condition. This is the only explanation for her offering herself up as a meal to the young men. She really wished to be devoured and this devouring can only be a way to alleviate her remaining guilt. One very puzzling part of this episode is her intellectual construction of an ideal youth who would satisfy all her desires and, in effect, totally dissolve her perversion. This fantasy may be extremely important but at this time we simply do not have enough information to make a clinical observation that can stand scientific scrutiny.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"Keep away from me. Don't touch me. I want only to be left alone."
These were the words Samuel spoke to me as he attempted to break the strange erotic bond which had developed between us. I must tell his story in order to clarify for myself the strange turn of events which my perversion took.
I met that fifteen year old child one glorious night in Central Park when thousands of people had gathered to hear the free concerts which the City provided. I arrived early with a blanket and a small thermos of coffee. It had been a hot day but the evening was cool. A gentle breeze blew across the field where the orchestra was seated. Finding a wonderful spot under an old tree, I opened the blanket and lay down on it.
Soon the concert commenced. The music was shattering. It seemed to play upon my nerve endings, giving me a calmness and a serenity which I had not known for months.
During the intermission, I lay back and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the people, a low murmuring sound as if there were millions of dragon flies hovering about.
Then I heard a voice: "Excuse me. Do you have a light?"
Jolted out of my thoughts, I sat up quickly and looked at a young man, holding a cigarette in his hand.
"You're a little too young to smoke," I told him, reaching for a book of matches in my purse.
"And you're a little too old to be contemporary," he shot back.
Handing him the matches, I watched with interest as he tried to light it in the breeze, cupping his hand against the movement of air.
Finally, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"What's your name?"
"Samuel," he replied, jauntily, and blew some smoke toward me, his thin body leaning slightly forward in almost a mocking gesture.
"Are you a music lover?" I asked him, drawing my blanket around my shoulders as the night suddenly seemed cold.
"I go to the High School of Music and Art."
I knew that it was an excellent high school and I nodded in appreciation. We both watched each other silently. I could feel that he knew something was in the air; that something, of which he had no understanding, was developing between us.
Suddenly the orchestra began returning to the outdoor pit. Still, he stood there.
I spread out the blanket and gestured for him to share it with me.
"Sit down," I said, "there is no reason you should sit on the grass."
"I have friends down in front," he explained, visibly nervous over the choice which he had to make. His thin body seemed to sway in the gentle wind. A large lock of brown hair fell over his eyes.
"It will be nicer here," I said forcefully, knowing that he had to be pushed. Finally, he seated himself gingerly on the edge of the blanket. I poured him some coffee from my thermos. He took it without a word and began to sip it.
The sound of his lips against the cup sent a tremor through my body. The madness was surfacing. The lust which had been absent during the first part of the concert was now beginning to form in me, beginning to view the child as an erotic object that must be conquered at all costs.
We both sat there as the music began again. I watched his face etched against the night sky. I wanted to sit closer to him, to brush my lips against his innocent face, but it was too daring and would spoil the relationship.
Relaxing, he lay back, only a few inches from me.
"I love this night and this music," I whispered, hoping he would respond.
The child turned his eyes toward me and my body registered an almost electric shock. I grasped his hand. It was sweated and frightened. Quickly, without another word, I brought it between my legs, parting the undergarments. I let his hand find my quivering cunt and rub it again and again until the heat of my passion fairly consumed me.
Then he pulled his hands away and said those words with which I began this chapter. I moved very close to him and spoke as I had never spoke before: "Samuel, listen, something has happened between us. You touched my flower before, you felt the heat and juices rising. Perhaps it is the music, perhaps it is the night, but whatever it is, you cannot stop it. Please do not fight the thing which has arisen. I want your body more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. You must give me your body; that is all you have to give any woman."
He did not answer. He was torn between my lust and the music which cascaded over us. I could feel every fibre of his body assimilating the strains of the music, and I could feel the magnetic force of my lust as it overwhelmed his resistance.
"Do you think I want the world?" I asked him bitterly.
Still he did not answer.
"No, here is all I want." I said.
Moving to him, my practiced hands quickly undid the front of his pants, though my excitement left my fingers trembling.
Then I touched it. It was lying between his thighs like a wounded bird.
"Here is what I want. Will you give it to me?"
Once again there was a moment of decision. The music reached a point where it overcame him and he lay on his back, spreading his legs, completely surrendering to the need I had.
My fingers grasped his globes. They were like the gentlest of fruits, collected there to bring the sweetest meat available to those who had the courage to pluck them. First I massaged his globes gently and then, bending down I tasted them. They were sweeter than they looked, almost divine balls of perfumed flesh, perfumed with the smell of the young stud on his first outing.
But all this was preliminary. For my eyes were on that cock. Yes, it seemed my whole body had telescoped into one brutal desire and that desire was connected to the quiet piece of flesh which lay there.
I held it in my hand. It rested gently in my palm. I leaned over and kissed it, savoring the taste of the cock, savoring the fragrances that are intimately tied with the penis.
It began to stir. Ever so slightly at first but it was a fact. My lips began to move up and down that maleness, the music egging me on, the music seeming to bring my lips into the very orchestra itself. For that was what I was doing. I was creating an erotic symphony with that child's cock.
It grew. It began to attempt to break its bounds. My eyes could make out the tiny throbbings of muscles and sinews.
I opened my lips and let my tongue reach out, like some curious snake, and flick a tiny drop of moisture from its quivering red tip.
For the first time, then, I heard the child moan.
I let the growing sheath slip between my lips and into the sanctity of my mouth. There, in time to the music, I began to suck every tremor and quiver, I brought out the most magnificent movement and passions until his cock went from side to side in my mouth, lacerating the sides of my cheeks with his young fury.
As the concert was reaching its finale, I felt the seed rising in the depths of his stomach. My tongue elicited it, sucking the tip of his cock with a furious motion, until, in one glorious moment, the concert and his lust ended together. At the same moment, the music reached its last crescendo and his cock poured it's juicy love seed into my mouth.
I could scarcely stand the beauty of that liquid as it flowed into me. I could not swallow enough of it. It was like some divine ambrosia that the Greek Gods used to bestow on their favorite mortals.
Then, as quickly and as furiously as it began, it was all over.
Exhausted from the fury of lust, I lay back, my eyes tearing. Then I heard a strange sound from the child. I sat up. He was weeping. Yes, with his head in his arms, I heard and saw his body racked with sobs.
I placed my arms around him, trying to comfort him, but it was no use. There was nothing I could do but wait until he had composed himself. When the sobbing did stop, I asked him what the matter was. He did not answer but he looked at me with accusing eyes.
"It was beautiful," I said to him, my voice reflecting the joys of what had occurred.
He turned to go.
"Wait," I cried, and reaching into my purse I took out a small piece of paper on which I hurriedly wrote my name and address. Then I thrust the paper into his reluctant hand.
"Come to me, whenever you want, night or day."
He turned his face away from me for a moment and then looked at me head on. Never have I seen such eyes, they were filled with desperation and passion, they were the ideas of a wild young thing caught up in a passion he could neither control nor understand.
Then he ran into the darkness. I stood up and tried to follow him with my eyes but he was immediately lost in the swirl of people leaving the concert.
I folded my blanket and began the long walk home, filled with joy at the memory of his succulent young cock, and filled also with a dreadful consternation at the thought that he would not visit me; that never again would I know the glory of holding his vibrant maleness clenched between my lips as the music poured over us.
For several weeks I heard nothing from the child. I sat every evening, waiting for the bell to ring, waiting for him to come to me. But he did not come. To soothe my shattered nerves, I spent long hours listening to records since the sound of classical music reminded me of that moment in the park.
I developed a morbid attachment to one piece of music, Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." I played that record for hours at a time, in the darkness, my mind slightly befogged with alcohol. And as I listened to the movement of the music, to the dazzling turns in the score, I could envision the child's luscious cock, as a musician envisions an instrument or as a composer envisions a symphony.
It was Sunday night when he finally came. Lying on the couch, listening to the record, half insane with lust and disappointment, I scarcely heard the door bell ring.
He entered, slowly, his head down as if he was being led to some pagan ritual. The music flooded the room and seemed to wreathe his head in a halo.
We did not speak. There was nothing to say. He lay on the couch beside me, his young body supple and tender to the touch.
"Give me your cock." My words were brutal but I was already caught up in the thrust of the music. He moved his body so that it was easy for me to grasp it. The moment I held that quivering maleness in my hands, the tears flooded my eyes. It was a joy that I had never really expected to materialize again. I wet my lips, like a conductor flicks his baton to test its elasticity prior to the concert. I moved down to it, stopping briefly at its flaming tip and planting the full force of my lust on that area.
Samuel cried out: "Don't stop! Don't stop! You were right, I trust you."
I knew that instant he was mine as long as I desired him.
Then we entered a world which few people will ever experience. Just Samuel, myself and the genius of the composer. My lips were perfectly tuned to every movement of the music.
When the music went fast my lips raced along the quivering cock, driving the child into a frenzy. When the music assumed the slow and gentle form, when it was like a tonic to the ear, my tongue licked every inch of flesh, feeling with that most sensitive of instruments the subtle movements of his cock, beneath the surface.
My eyes were shut and my body was like a thermometer, measuring each change in the musical piece. As the record reached its finale, I felt once again that glorious seed rising in his being-and a second later I accepted every luscious drop as it inundated my mouth.
We rested for a few moments and then I began the record again. This time, my lips were touched by the same genius that had touched Stravinsky when he wrote the piece.
The child screamed as my mouth turned his cock into a furnace of passion and then, only then, when he had reached the ultimate of desire, did I spread my legs and allow him to sink his virgin maleness into the center of my cunt, letting him drive that powerful weapon again and again into my flower until my thighs drank up the hot love seed and we both fell into the coma of fulfillment.
These joys lasted for a month. These incredible flights of erotic music which joined us mouth to organ, body to mind, and limbs to the structure of a hundred symphonies.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. The joy, the lust, the music, all were gone. And then, Samuel was gone.
But even now, whenever I hear a certain musical piece, there is a nerve in my body which begins to quiver, and like Pavlov's dog, my lips begin to salivate at the prospect of some child's cock. Perhaps I am an evil woman, but I have had the good fortune of combining the two most beautiful things in the world; great music and the flesh of a child.
How can we clinically assess this strange turn her perversion has taken? It is, admittedly, a difficult problem, but we have certain guideposts we can follow. For one, the reader will notice that the movements of her lips while committing the perversions and the movement of the music were completely synchronized.
In spite of the many explanations she gives for this synchronization, there is no doubt that it is a peculiar form of repression. Her subconscious is still not able to conquer her conscious. In other words, to her mind what she is performing on the boy is still a perversion and not a natural sex act.
Therefore, in order to alleviate her terrible guilt and shame of her actions, she is forced to combine those actions with an art form which she considers the most exalted in the world.
Once this is done, she can continue to satisfy her cravings while deluding herself that she is actually performing almost musical or symphonic acts on the child.
It is one of the most remarkable accounts of such a unique repression, one that may be more common than even the clinical psychologists suppose.
CHAPTER NINE
That brief but incredibly intense affair with Samuel drained me to a degree that is almost unimaginable. For days afterwards, I sat in my office completely dazed, listening to my associates without comprehending them, as if they were a bunch of jabbering monkeys.
I began to break into tears at the least provocation. Once, my secretary brought some papers into the office for me to sign and as I was putting the pen to paper, I suddenly had a vision of his cock, erect and quivering, and the bittersweet memories of that organ reduced me to weeping.
A vacation was necessary in order to recover, in order to protect my sanity. I decided to take a week off and isolate myself in my apartment in order to get plenty of sleep and mend my ravaged psyche.
The first two days of my vacation were spent in that manner, sleeping until late in the morning, then breakfasting, showering and returning to bed with a book.
Slowly I regained my strength. My mind began to clear itself of the erotic cobwebs and I could think clearly once again. On the third day I resolved to attempt to break myself of my need for young boys. I went about it methodically, realizing that the only way possible was to have a completely satisfying sexual encounter with a grown man. The first name that leaped into my mind was Charles, a lawyer whom I had known for many years. He was divorced and lived in New York with a fifteen year old son.
While we had been friends for many years, our relationship had never reached that point of intimacy where we could contemplate an erotic alliance. And, since I had drifted into this maddening perversion, I had neither called him nor seen him.
I resolved to be seduced by Charles. It was as simple as that. Lying there, on my bed, thinking of the sexual possibilities to come, I let my hand rove over my body as if it was Charle's hand. My breasts rose to meet the probing fingers, my nipples sung under the manipulation and I felt the delicious shiver that accompanies such caresses.
Then I picked up the phone and called Charles. A voice answered but it was his son, Arthur, who informed me that his father was at work. The child asked if he could take a message.
"No," I said, "tell your father nothing. I am an old friend and I would like to surprise him."
The child hung up and I went back to bed, to plan my next move. I decided to show up at the apartment without phoning, just a few moments before Charles would return from the office. Once in the apartment I would make dinner for him and his son, as a prelude to the seduction scene. I was amused by my planning, done like a military campaign, and I order to prepare it for the night ahead, in order to attempt to condition my body to the hands and lips of a grown man, rather than the organs of children.
Hours passed slowly, the clock on the mantelpiece ticking loudly, ticking off the seconds which would, I hoped, see the last of my cruel and unusual lusts.
The time came for me to dress. But, a second before I rose to drape myself in a seductive, sheer dress which Charles had previously admired, I suddenly had a vision of such brutal charity that I could not catch my breath.
I saw Charles's maleness, detached from his body and beckoning to me. It was not the vibrant, beautifully proportioned cock of a young man. No, it was old and weathered and it hung in a grotesque manner from a picture frame as if it was mocking me.
But the vision passed and I dressed, and left the apartment. Hailing a cab, I was in front of his building a few minutes later. The doorman told me which apartment and I took the elevator up, nervous but dedicated to carrying out my plans.
His son answered the door. He ushered me in when I told him that I was a friend of his father and held out his hand, introducing himself in an adult manner: "My name is Arthur. I have heard my father speak of you often. Now, I'm glad we've met."
I turned away from him after accepting his handshake briefly, not wanting to embroil myself with this handsome sophisticated boy. There was a certain tension in his body and speech which made me realize that an adolescent volcano was buried beneath that suave manner.
"Do you mind if I make supper for the three of us?" I asked him.
"The kitchen is all yours. It's been a long time since Dad and I had a home cooked meal."
I went into the kitchen and began preparing a salad. Arthur followed me in and watched me, seated on a chair near the stove.
"You know," he said, "my father needs a wife."
I blushed at his frankness. So disconcerted was I by his words that the small knife which I was using slipped and the blade went deep into my thumb.
I screamed. Arthur leaped out of his seat and rushed to me, his handkerchief out of his pocket. He pressed the handkerchief against the bleeding wound and held it there.
"It's all right, it's all right," he kept saying to me, trying to assure me that the flow of blood would stop.
We stood there, together like that, my wound throbbing as the blood pumped into his handkerchief. As he increased the pressure of his hand in order to stop the bleeding, our pulses seemed to become one. It was a moment I shall never forget. Shudder after shudder seemed to assail my body, and I cried to him: "Hold me up, hold me up, I am falling." I felt his arm grasp my body and the sudden hysteria passed.
"There," he said, "the blood has stopped," and he removed the handkerchief from the wound.
I sat weakly on the chair, watching the boy as he turned the water on in the sink and began to wash himself.
Then I realized how futile my whole project had been for it was not the father I wanted. No, it was the son I wanted.
Yes, sitting there, still limp from the shock of my bleeding, I knew that I wanted Arthur. I wanted for us to be joined as we had been joined when the handkerchief pressed against my finger. I wanted that same throbbing pulse to become one, to join together in the heat of our bodies.
He looked up from the sink: "Look, I can finish the salad. Why don't you wait in the bedroom? I have a better idea. Why don't you lay down and when my father comes in I'll tell him you're here."
It was a good idea. I was still weak from the wound and from the realization that I could not conquer the cancerous perversion in my soul.
"Will you help me?" I asked weakly.
I struggled to rise from my chair and his strong arm helped. Joined together, we walked slowly to the bedroom. We reached the bed and I sat down on the side of it. He started to return to the kitchen, but I called back to him, in a voice charged with passion: "Wait! Don't go yet. Stay here for a while with me."
Still innocent of my motives, Arthur smiled and nodded. He pulled up a chair and sat beside me.
We were only an inch or so away from each other. The room was dark and only the outlines of our faces were visible. We did not speak but wave after silent wave of emotion poured over me. I knew I had to have him. I knew I had to have that delicately chiselled face against my cunt.
Finally, I spoke: "I have another wound, Arthur."
I could see his face move a bit, more like a twitch, but I could sense from the stiffness of his body that he did not understand my cryptic words.
"Yes, Arthur, another wound."
"That you got in the kitchen?" He asked, still perplexed.
"No," I replied, "that I have had all of my life. It is a terrible wound and it is difficult to heal."
"How can I help?"
"Only one thing ever works on it Arthur, and that is love."
He tensed. The crucial moment was coming and I knew that I must proceed carefully.
"Where is it?" Arthur asked, his voice nervous and almost breaking under the strain.
"Kneel down Arthur."
He hesitated for a long while before he listened to my command. But finally, pushing the chair back, he kneeled beside me.
I exposed my flower. He shivered, aware that he was in the presence of a naked cunt.
"Here is my wound, Arthur, heal it, heal it for me and you, too, will be healed."
The child was so torn by the situation that he could hardly reason. His body seemed a grid on which all the repressions of his life were being played out. There was a demon in that child, trying to tear him apart, trying to keep him from realizing the beauty of the flesh. I spoke to him again: "My wound is waiting for you, Arthur, it is waiting to be healed by your lips and tongue. My wound is warm and moist and it will leap to your healing mouth; that I promise you."
He could not withstand the temptation. His mouth touched the lips of my vagina. I quivered. Every inch of my flesh seemed straining to meet that glorious mouth.
"Yes, Arthur," I cried, "you are healing me. You are healing my wound."
His lips began to move against mine, bringing to them all the hysteria of youth, caressing them as only virgin lips can.
"Open your mouth Arthur, open it and let the snake out."
I felt him breathing heavily and then his lips parted and through them passed the snake of his tongue, pointed and sharp, ready to lance my shivering, expectant cunt.
It entered, going deeper and deeper, sending the most ecstatic spears of passion through my whole body. His tongue was touched by the devil, and its fiery tip made me weep with uncontrollable lust. I could not sit still. I gyrated my body to escape the thrust, and then I gyrated my buttocks to make sure that the tongue explored every moist recess in the center of my flower.
Then I heard a sound. It was the door! Someone was at the door. It must have been Charles, I thought, and Arthur heard it to for he tried to pull away. But I would not be deprived of that gift, not then, never, so I forced his head back between my legs, holding him there with all of my frantic strength.
He fought me. He fought to escape and then, in desperation he sunk his teeth into the juicy flesh of my flower and I fell to the floor, wounded in body and spirit, betrayed by the mouth I had seduced.
Arthur quickly ran to the door and opened it for his father. I arranged my clothes as best as I could and went to meet Charles. He noticed nothing, primarily because he was so surprised and delighted to see me.
All three of us went to the living room and sat down.
"Get us some drinks, Arthur," said Charles and he beamed at me as if saying-here is my son, isn't he wonderful.
It was utterly unreal. The three of us sat there and made meaningless chatter until Charles got up and began making a mushroom omellette for us since he was an excellent cook.
While he worked in the kitchen and talked to both of us, Arthur and I sat, watching each other. The silence between us was heavily charged with lust. Finally, I could no longer tolerate the separation. While his father was making nonsensical chatter, I walked close to him, and let my hand fall between his legs.
Quickly I opened his pants and grasped his globes.
"Stop it," he whispered frantically.
But I massaged those precious organs with such love and expertness that he was silent, breathing heavily as he allowed my hands to do the job.
Charles kept talking from the kitchen but neither of us listened. He was still talking when the juice began to flow from his erect cock and left my hand filled with the fruits of love. Arthur buried his head in his arms as if the events of the past hour were too much for him to bear.
Then we sat down to eat. When dinner was finished, I did the dishes and Charles waited for me in the living room.
Eventually, Arthur excused himself and went to his room. Charles and I sat in awkward silence, but I was still determined to go through with my original plan.
"Why have you come here?"
Charles' question was so unlike him, it was so blunt that for a moment I could not answer. I looked at him, his eyes were boring into me, they demanded an answer. For the first time I realized that Charles had loved me all the time I had known him.
"Here is why I came," I said, and walking to him I placed my lips against his forehead.
Not another word was said. Hand in hand we walked into the bedroom. We undressed quickly and quietly and fell into each other's arms. I felt nothing. Even as his body passed over me and his maleness sunk deep into my waiting flower, even then, I felt nothing except a tiredness and a lack of passion.
After it was over, we talked for a while and then he went to sleep. Soon, I could hear his gentle, steady breathing by my ear.
I tried to go to sleep but it was not possible, for I knew that only a few feet away, Arthur was waiting. I knew that he lay there in agony, his body tense, his mind reeling with the thoughts of our relationship. I had to go to him. With great caution I rose from the bed and slipped silently out of the room. Arthur's door was slightly ajar. I opened it and walked to his bed. He turned and even in the dark I could see his blazing eyes. He threw back the covers and a moment later we were together, our lips and hands crushing each other, his fingers playing with my quivering nipples.
His lips moved to my cunt, wanting once again to suck that juicy fruit. I let him have his fill of that succulent cup and then pushed him away and lay back, holding my arms to signify that I wanted his cock, I wanted it right then, I wanted to be ravaged.
He understood. He did not wait, his gloriously supple body came over me and I strained to receive it. In it went, furious, uncontrolled, without subtlety. But I thrilled to each thrust, bringing my buttocks up to meet him.
It lasted only a moment but it was one of the most glorious moments of my life. Our juice joined together as we exploded our bodies into each other and our teeth drew blood from each other's lips. When it was over, I gently kissed his inert cock, letting my tongue lay just for a moment on the globes.
Then I knew I had to leave. There would be nothing for me there but heartbreak. There was no way to make the transition from father to son. I left quickly. The last thing I remember was Arthur standing there, naked, his eyes like a wounded puppy and his hands stretched out toward me, asking-Why?
My mission had failed. I was more deeply immersed in the bodies of young men than I had ever been. Once again I had deluded myself.
The key incident in this episode is that strange wounding of herself with a common kitchen knife and the subsequent use of the word "wound" to describe her vagina during the seduction of Arthur.
The reader will notice that she wounded herself in the thumb, the finger most like the male penis. So, therefore, subconsciously she performed a double castration on herself, first by wounding the thumb-penis and then by calling her vagina a wound, which can only mean the wound which remains after castration.
We do not know enough about her past life to make a concrete clinical analysis. But we do know enough about her perversion to attempt to fit this strange episode into a general theory of female hallucinations about castration.
There can be no doubt that she was afflicted with a strong case of "penis-envy." Now, this is quite common in women and extremely common in career women. What makes her case unique, of course, is that she hallucinated this fact into a reality for herself and then proceeded to castrate herself on a symbol lie level.
If this analysis is true, and it is only speculation, than we cannot believe her statement that she went to that apartment in order to be seduced by the father. On the contrary, she went there in order to seduce both father and son and create the classical oedipal conflict between them, for that conflict is to a large extent the fear of castration; the fear that the father would castrate the son for desiring the mother.
The reader can see the incredible subtlety of her thought if our analysis is truthful. Furthermore, she has reached a point in relating this episode, where she no longer can tell the difference between hallucination and reality. An excellent example of this is during the seduction scene. Anyone reading that episode cannot help believing that she actually felt a wound between her thighs and only the boy's lips could quench the pain of that wound.
The future contours of her life will depend a great deal on her ability or inability to separate the reality from the hallucinatory sexual apparitions which seem to torment her.
CHAPTER TEN
It was a sixteen year old boy who halted the mental and physical deterioration of my body and mind while under the umbrella of lust which my perversion called forth. Until I met Henry, there is no doubt that I was falling apart; that I was unble to function any longer in my career or even in the small activities that define the human being.
Each cock I possessed, each delightful body which I drew into my womanhood, sent me further down the road to perdition.
But then I met Henry and when I emerged from my encounter with him, it was as if I had taken some type of miraculous bath which completely rejuvenated my person.
With Henry I became a child. Yes, that was the secret of our relationship. Henry was a child and for the first time in my relationship with young boys, I retrogressed until I too had become a child. This was the miraculous "bath" of which I speak. All the joys and carefree hallucinations of a child flooded my mind. Gone were the problems of career and success; all that was left was the gratification of the body with a passion and completeness that only children can know.
It never happened before and it has never happened again. Thus, I am led to believe that Henry was unique in my life, one of those monuments to Nature which are uncovered only once in a century and then lost forever. Today, looking back, I realize that Henry contained in himself the greatness that only ancient Greeks could comprehend; the notion that Truth comes from the body and only the body.
It began on a blazing summer day. After finishing at the office, I did not feel like going straight home so I walked to a small park in the neighborhood and sat down on a bench in the shade of an old tree.
Off to one side, a group of young children were playing. They were supervised by a boy of about sixteen who was teaching them a number of games. It was obvious to me that they were part of a summer day-camp, of which the city abounds in the summer. I was fascinated by the skill and dedication of the counselor who was making a monumental effort to keep all of the children occupied.
But it was more than the boy's dedication which caught my interest. It was his sense of joy at being with the young children and it was his genuine delight at being part of their activities.
The boy loved the games he was teaching more than the pupils! His face was flushed from the heat and the activity and a wide band of sweat had appeared on his white shirt. Their play continued for a long time and then I saw him raise his hands to signal that the games were over. The children gathered around him plying him with questions about what they would do the next day.
One by one the parents of the children arrived and escorted their sons and daughters home. Soon the counselor was alone. There was something so pure about his dedication that I had to speak to him. As he was walking out of the playground, I called to him: "Why don't you sit here for a while? You seem to be exhausted."
He smiled at me, shrugged his shoulders as if he was used to the exhaustion, and hesitated, trying to decide whether to accept my offer.
Finally, he walked over to the bench and seated himself only a few inches away.
"Do you do this every day during the summer?"
He nodded his head and replied: "I didn't realize it would be this much work. This is the first summer I'm doing this kind of work. Last summer I worked in a grocery delivering orders."
The boy had a beautiful face and he spoke in a frank manner, ready to disclose the innermost thoughts to anyone who took an interest. This was a quality one did not often see in the city and one much to be treasured. He was a well-built lad, with a mop of unruly brown hair falling over his eyes which he constantly pushed away. I introduced myself and he did the same. His name was Henry, he was sixteen, and he lived with his father and mother only a few blocks away. His father owned an antique store.
"I have long ago lost the ability to play."
He did not reply to my statement, instead, he looked at me with a lingering sadness as if I had also, then, lost the ability to live.
We chatted for a while and then the boy excused himself, politely, saying that he had to be home for supper. We shook hands in a formal manner and he was gone. I watched the movement of his body, the firmness of his hips and the line of his neck until he was out of sight. Then, I too, went home.
The next day at the office, all I could think of was Henry. In the morning, I thought of him as merely an interesting child but as the day wore on, I began to think of him as a sexual partner, I began to think of his maleness, nestled so succinctly between his thighs and waiting only for my lips to bring it to an excited stiffness.
When I left the office, my passion was so total that I gravitated once again to the small park. He was there with the children.
I sat on the bench and watched him. Once he looked at me and then, recognizing me, waved briefly, his face breaking into a smile.
When the children had gone, he came over to me and sat on the bench. Once again we talked about little, unimportant things. The closeness of his seated body inflamed me. I squirmed on the wooden seat. Finally, I said to him: "Look, one of my nephews is at my apartment now. He is a problem-child, as the textbooks say. Why don't you come over for a' few moments and play with him? Just see what you can do."
It was an incredible lie but it was the only way I could think of to entice him to my apartment. He thought for a long while and then finally his sense of duty to young children made him say: "O.K. let's go, but I can't stay long."
We walked slowly to my apartment. I have never felt so young, listening to his enthusiastic talk, and every once in a while intentionally swaying against him to feel those supple young muscles at work.
When we arrived inside the apartment, he looked around for my nephew.
"Where is he?"
I made out as if the child had vanished without permission, walking quickly from room to room and calling out a mythical name.
"Shall we call the police?" asked Henry in a frightened voice.
"Oh, no," I said, "the child's apartment is only around the corner and he often goes home when I don't arrive on time. His mother is always home."
Henry was relieved. He stood by the door, waiting to leave.
"Since you're here already, how about a cold drink?"
He nodded that it would be nice and I brought out a large pitcher of cold milk and some chocolate chip cookies and placed them on the coffee table in front of the sofa. He drank the milk quickly and his powerful white teeth devoured the cookies.
"Now that you're here, I have a good idea."
"What's that?"
"Well, you could teach me to play."
"You," he said, "are a grown woman. I don't think it would look good if you started playing."
"I don't care how I look. Are you afraid to teach me to play?"
"I'm not afraid of you."
His words were brave but I knew that he was afraid. I knew that he had an inkling of my body, I knew that he was afraid of my lips which were aching to clamp themselves on the innocent flesh of his maleness.
"Teach me that game I saw you showing the children yesterday, where everyone has to behave like an animal."
"O.K.," he said, shrugging his shoulders as if the only way to treat a mad woman was to listen to her requests.
He walked over to me and instructed me to crouch on my knees.
"Now," he said, "using only your hands, try to imitate an elephant."
I began to wave my hands in a great arc as if they were elephant trunks. Then I began to mimic the sounds of an elephant before they charge; that great, earth shattering scream.
I could see Henry's eyes gleam with approval at my masterful mimicry.
"Good, good," he said.
I continued, basking in his praise, and the mimicry made me release all of my repressed lusts. One of my hands leaped out, just as an elephant's trunk leaps out to capture a succulent twine, and rested between his legs. The child froze. He did not know what to do. I stroked his hidden cock.
"No, don't," he said in a frantic, pleading voice.
But it was too late. Pulling him to the floor beside me, I began to undress him. He struggled very little, somehow realizing that he had enmeshed himself in a situation from which there was no escape.
He was naked and I became naked. Holding onto him, we both rolled across the room, making the most insane sounds, carrying the rules of the game to its final and fitting conclusion.
My mouth found his cock. It was so cool and distant. Within a few moments my lips and tongue turned that maleness into a burning mass of erect flesh, burning to sink itself into its proper home.
My lips sucked on his globes, delighting in the fragrant aroma. Then I gave him my nipples. Yes, I let his virgin mouth pay there homage to that source of milk and life. I laughed hysterically as his hands dug into my white naked breasts and his lips plucked my singing nipples like they were ripe cherries on the vine.
We were both smiling then, both caught up in the incredible fantasy of play.
Finally, aching to be penetrated, I lay on my back and pulled him to me. I spread my legs wide and my quivering cunt sucked in that now stiffened organ. It sunk into me and I cried out. Never before had I felt such a sublime entry.
Henry's face was close to mind and there was terror in his eyes. This was the first time his cock had tasted the delights of a female flower. I kissed his face, assuring him that all was well and then I brought my buttocks up to meet his thighs, to show him that there was a new world if only he would drive his cock deeper and deeper.
His natural juices began to boil and I felt his powerful body begin that sublime movement, sending the cock ever deeper into my body, moving it from side to side and sending each piece of moist flesh into a paroxysm of lust. It was quick, too quick, for a second later my cunt absorbed the love juice and he fell to one side, an exhausted child.
I crawled to the coffee table and poured what was left of the cold milk on his body. This revived him and we began to play again, crawling about the room, mimicking the sounds and movements of animals.
Once again our passion surfaced, but this time I wanted to prolong it.
This time I let my tongue search out every fragrent opening of his body. He lay on the floor, completely submitting to its wisdom. Then I moved over him and let my flower rest on his lips. At first the fear returned to his eyes again, but his tongue finally snaked out and tasted the moist delights of my cunt.
We rolled all over the apartment, our tongues and hands constantly at work. I sucked the sweat from his body and let my teeth play with the loose sac of his globes.
Again, we were ready. This time I squatted on all fours to be penetrated by an animal. Henry had reached a peak of lust which was totally new to him. He leaped on me like some savage wolf.
I shivered as his cock ravaged me, tearing deep into my delicate flower, his teeth fastening on my neck and his fingernails clawing my buttocks.
That child fucked me as I had never been fucked before. Each thrust brought cries of pain and lust from my mouth.
Our play had turned to passionate games and then to brutal games. I tried to escape from that cock. Finally, I was free of it, gasping, but only for a moment. His powerful young body impaled me again, this time between my buttocks and sending me once again to the floor.
Henry was crying like a warrior who had slaughtered his most illustrious foe. His thrusts became more and more savage and finally, closing my quivering buttocks to him, I turned and let that awesome cock slide between my lips.
There, with a few experienced swipes, I drained the love juice from him, leaving him an exhausted, satisfied child on the floor.
That was the first afternoon and only the beginning. For weeks afterwards he would come to my apartment after he finished his duties in the park, and we would explore the world of play. While playing those silly little games, our flesh would reach the height of lust, and open our bodies to each other, to be penetrated, to be loved, to be sucked.
These were afternoons of innocent joy; a return to the mainsprings of my life-my childhood. They were afternoons which I shall never be able to duplicate and I shall revere Henry for as long as I live.
This was an exceptionally important chapter for a number of reasons. There is a whole school of German psychology which believes that the most important truths which can be garnered about the human specie are to be found in the phenomenon of play. Obviously, this chapter is a gold mine for such theories.
But, for the more classical strains of psychological thought, Henry was a landmark in her perversion for another reason.
Since she rarely mentions her childhood, we can assume she remembers little or nothing about those crucial erotic experiences which took place then. With Henry, for the first time, she speaks about her childhood. Even though she mentions no specific facts-she is beginning to consider her childhood as a unique period in her life.
There is no doubt that her view, at this time, of that period is Utopian. But this is only the beginning and it is possible that this one episode will be the key which opens the traumas of her past.
That she subconsciously desires to dig up the past can be inferred from the fact that most of her sexual acts with Henry were, in reality, the erotic play of children-hence the extended use of tongue, mouth and fingers.
Whether or not she can make the break-through into an understanding of her childhood will depend on whether she can attract other adolescents such as Henry, who still are emotionally in the 7-12 year age bracket.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
To be the object of a young man's first love is to experience certain changes in the body; changes which allow one's own flesh to respond to certain strange stimuli.
Timothy was such a foolish child but I experienced with him the most profound passion, a passion that grew each time we met and survived all the petty squabbles which such relationships abound in.
It started in the most peculiar manner. One mourning as I was leaving my apartment for the office, I noticed an envelope had been slipped under the door. Thinking it was some type of notice from the landlord, I shoved it into my purse without looking at the contents. That afternoon, I finally had the time and inclination to open it up. To my astonishment, the envelope contained a piece of note paper on which was scrawled in a childish handwriting: 'There is someone who loves you very much and he lives in your building. He wants to sleep with you."
Since it was such a childish note, I marked it off as some prank of a child who lived in my building and tore it up.
But four days later there was another note and this one read: "My name is Timothy. I live three floors above you. Please do not laugh at me. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I am much younger than you.
Will you scorn me?"
I had heard about these adolescent "crushes" but I had never been the object of one. Of course, many of the children I had seduced grew to love me passionately but they did not do so in the overwhelming irrational manner as Timothy.
Once the second note arrived, I decided to make contact with the child, to enable him to act out his fantasies upon me, to give him scope for his new found love.
I began making inquiries and found that the boy lived with his mother. She worked and he came home from school late in the afternoon. One morning, I left a note under his door, secure in the fact that he would receive it before his mother came home. The note read: "Dear Timothy. I am proud and happy to be loved by such a fine young man. Please come down to my apartment this afternoon, I would like to meet the man who loves me."
After I left the note I worried that he would interpret the last line as if I was making fun of him. I began to pace back and forth in the apartment. If a certain time passed and he did not arrive I would have to run upstairs and retrieve the note before his mother came home.
Then there was a knock on the door. I opened it quickly. A young boy stood there, nervous, his head down, his body anxious.
"Well, Timothy, I was afraid you wouldn't arrive and that would have been sad."
He mumbled something and walked into the apartment.
He was such a handsome lad, tall for his age and dark complexioned, with a thick mat of curly hair that the moment I laid my eyes upon I wanted to grasp with my fingers.
Timothy was probably more nervous than he had ever been in his life and he just stood in the middle of my living room, searching for words.
"Why don't you sit down," I asked him, knowing that the most crucial part of our relationship was now and my attempt to relax him.
Finally he sat down.
"I have some hot coffee on the stove. Would you like some?"
"Yes!" he replied with great force, finally finding one word which could contain his growing passion. As I walked into the kitchen to pour him some coffee, I felt his eyes boring into my body. The child had it bad, I knew. I could see and feel his eyes undressing me, his youthful imagination conjuring up all sorts of delicious activities with my body.
As I was bringing the coffee into him, I saw his eyes on my breasts and I suddenly thought that it would be delightful to have his young mouth fastened on my nipples.
He took the coffee and his hands were shaking so badly that the cup rattled.
I began to talk about many things, just trying to relax him. My voice did relax him eventually, and he put the coffee cup down, saying: "I cannot help what I feel for you. It has been like this for many months."
I moved closer to him and touched him on the shoulder: "I am happy you feel this way. Believe me, Timothy, there is no greater compliment an older woman can receive than to be loved by a young man."
And, at that moment, I really believed what I told him. At that moment I forgot about the fact that for the past months I had been engaged in the most sordid and bizarre seductions of young innocents. All I knew was that I was in that classic situation, described so well by all the poets; an older woman made vibrant and alive by the attention of a young, virile hero.
"Timothy," I said to him, coyly, "it is not enough to say that one is in love."
He looked at me, confused, waiting for me to explain.
"Love is a peculiar virtue. It must be expressed through the body."
He flushed and began to fidgit.
I realized then that he was very skittish, like a colt, and I would have to treat him with the utmost care. Already my body was beginning to feel the joys of anticipation, and my mind was leaping rapidly into the future, savoring the delight which was in store for both of us.
"Don't be frightened," I said, gently. His back stiffened and he said: "I'm not afraid of anything."
"Of course you're not afraid, Timothy, you are almost a grown man. Your body and mind are fully developed."
Then I picked his hand up in mine. His fingers were long and finely wrought, like a pianist, and there was a fever racing through them.
I opened my blouse. His eyes narrowed, and the pupils gleamed. Still holding his fingers, I thrust them into the coolness of my breasts. He shivered and tried to withdraw them but I held them there with all the strength at my command.
"Feel me Timothy, do not fight me. Let your hands move across my breast, slowly and beautifully. Now, touch my nipple. Do you feel how it quivers from just the tips of your fingers? Do you feel how it invites you?"
Sweat appeared on the child's brow. But slowly he began to gain confidence and all his childish lust, all his romantic love for me were focused in his fingers. My breasts squirmed under his manipulation. His fingernails made the white, quivering flesh red, and my nipples almost sang out at the joy of his touch.
I led him on, like a trainer leads a prize yearling, with the utmost care but always making sure he would learn from each move.
"Now, Timothy, your mouth!"
He looked at me again with that dumb frightened expression on his face.
"Open your mouth, Timothy, let my nipples feel its grandeur."
Slowly the lips parted. I moved one of my naked points so that it rested on a lower lip.
"Open wide, Timothy, I beg you."
This time he listened and those two, full lips spread apart. My nipple went in and I groaned with the beauty of the hot pressure.
"Suck them, Timothy, suck them."
Now he was completely under my control. His lips became moving animals, bringing to my breasts that heat and moisture which is beautiful, almost sublime.
I fell backwards, allowing myself the luxury of being raped by his mouth.
Then he began to salivate over my nipples. My flesh drunk his spit in, greedily.
At that moment, something happened. Even now I cannot completely describe the feelings I experienced. But I know this. There was something in his saliva, perhaps it was even the chemical composition of it or the fact that it was produced under the heat of lust-which gave me the most exquisite thrills I have ever had in my life.
Yes, there was something in that saliva which made my naked flesh react with an incredible burst of quivering and total eroticizing. Each drop drove me into a greater frenzy, each drop made my nipples stiffen until I felt they were impaling the white breasts which surrounded them.
"More, more I need more," I kept screaming to the child, again and again.
And then, even more was not enough. I had to drink in that ecstatic saliva with all of my body. Pushing him away violently for a moment, I literally ripped the clothes from my body and lay on the rug like some ancient sacrifice to his mouth.
His eyes were burning like twin candles in their sockets. This was no longer Timothy the child who had developed a romantic attachment to the older woman downstairs. No! The moment my nipples had entered his mouth, he had become a sensual man, completely sure of his skill, completely sure of the fact that he had a certain wisdom of the body which could control any female.
He began. First his lips went to my stomach and pressed against it. I could feel the hot moisture as it burrowed under my skin. Then he moved downward, always downward, to my navel.
His tongue sucked the delights from that mysterious opening. My buttocks were quivering against the rug, I felt as if I was coming apart.
"Don't stop, don't stop," I begged him, in a voice that I could no longer recognize as my own.
I spread my thighs, as if to call to him with all the lust my womanhood could contain. My arms were stretched out, like some saint that was about to undergo the final suffering to prove the legitimacy of his faith.
His mouth was just an inch away from the triangle of lust.
We joined. His mouth and the fevered, twitching lips of my cunt joined.
Hundreds of tiny jolts of electricity seemed to move through me, totally absorbing my body, sending me into a series of spasms so powerful that I thought I would never recover.
A tiny drop of saliva lay for a moment at the entrance to my cunt, and then trickled in. That one drop was like the devil's brew. It scorched the secret places of my flower.
Timothy hesitated for a moment, watching my body with the utmost of interest, drinking in my moans and smiling that strange smile. Then he pressed his mouth to me again and this time spat into my vagina. I felt as if I had been shot by an erotic cannon.
"No more," I screamed.
But the saliva was inside me. My cunt seemed to detach itself from the body and develop its own mode of acting.
"Kiss me, kiss me," I cried to him, hoping the pressure of his lips against my flower would ease the torment.
We joined, and this time, his hot, wet tongue snaked slowly out of the portals of his mouth and entered my most inner recesses.
That tongue was virgin, of that there is no doubt, but its innocence only drove it with a greater fury. It moved deep inside me, coated with his incredible saliva and began to move from side to side, sucking my walls, caressing the tunnel with short, vibrant sweeps.
The saliva poured into me. I was a receptacle for an erotic miracle. As it deluged me, I could only flay my arms wildly. There was nothing else for me to do. I had to accept the mystery of his saliva.
But then I could no longer stand the joy. Yes, even an experienced woman like myself can reach a point where the ecstasy is too much, where if it continued, I felt my mind would be severely damaged.
"End it, end it," I begged him.
But his tongue was digging deeper. He could not free himself from the beauty nestled between my thighs. Violently, I pushed him aside and climbed on his body. I was searching for his cock. I was searching for any hard object which I could use to quench the fire inside of me.
I exposed it and pressed it just once against my mouth, kissing it as if to guide it and give it some crucial instruction.
Then I flung myself on that naked, exposed column, its tip flaming toward me, all the lust of a young man coiled in its length.
I screamed as it impaled me, but immediately, the aphrodisiac which was his saliva lost its effect on me and I rocked my body to meet the quivering cock.
Now it was he who tried to escape the force of a new experience. It was he who moaned as I enveloped his maleness and rotated my thighs around it.
I bit into his neck and he ceased to fight, until, a few moments later, a rush of seed poured into my gyrating body and we both fell back, our mouths open and our bodies aching for a moment's rest.
While lying there, I knew I had to terminate our relationship, quickly and brutally. I knew that his saliva would destroy me if we continued.
"Get out and never come back."
The words were wrenched from my own mouth. I hated myself the moment I spoke them but there was no other choice. The child was too much for me. He had to go.
Head down, almost as if expecting it, Timothy slunk from the room. It was all over. Only the memory remained burned in my mind and in the secret places of my body.
We must immediately discount her notion that there was some strange chemical composition in Timothy's saliva which excited her more than usual.
What we have here is a case of an ancient memory transforming itself into an hallucination. The great psychologist Otto Rank, the discover of the "birth trauma", would have analyzed this episode to mean that she had suddenly remembered the fact of her exit from the womb, and used the boy's saliva in an attempt to relive that experience, which is an experience composed primarily of water. The unborn child must pass through the mother's fluid before the birth is complete.
This is one possible approach. Another way to look at this clinically would be to consider that mysterious saliva as somehow a symbol of her desire to be fertile; her desire to have children.
Throughout her narrative she has left many clues as to her desire for children and at the same time her belief that she is somehow unable or unworthy to bear them.
Following this through, we would say that her hallucination that the child's saliva is "magic" would mean that she ultimately hopes her perversion would lead to fertility. If that is, in fact, the case, this is one of the saddest and most pathetic episodes in her life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I have discovered that the gentle child, the child who is excessively polite and who will not harm any living creature, is often, underneath that facade, a veritable beast who has hidden a series of desires so shocking that they cannot be disclosed by him.
Such a child was Stephen. Yes, it was I who seduced Stephen, but it was he, that gentle child, who led me to the land of exquisite pain. What is the land? It is a place in the mind and body where everything is inverted. It is a place where pain becomes the ultimate pleasure.
But I must tell the story rather than describe the lessons I have learned from him.
I had noticed Stephen for a number of days before I even spoke to him. He was only one of a number of students my firm hired for the summer. His job was to distribute mail from office to office and floor to floor.
Stephen was charged with the responsibility of delivering mail to my floor and as an executive; I received a load of memos and letters at least three times a day.
One day, he shoved a large batch of mail into the tray on my desk and some of the letters spilled over the top and scattered across the desk.
He was shook up by his indiscretion and he tried to apologize, saying: "Forgive me. It won't happen again."
I smiled at him, without replying, and he fixed the mail and left the office.
The next day, when he came into my office, I spoke to him. At that time, I was not interested in him as a sexual partner, I was merely bored with my work and wanted a break.
"Sit down," I said, "you probably need a rest."
He obviously needed the job very badly because he was afraid to be caught seated while working.
"Don't worry," I assured him, "my position in this firm is much higher than the man who hired you. In fact, if you want, I shall have that man fired."
I was just teasing him, but he did not understand and he said: "No, don't have him fired. He's a good man. After all, with summer help one has to be strict."
His voice had just the tinge of a strange accent and I asked him about it.
"I was born in England and lived there for the first eight years of my life."
We talked for a while. He was the most gentle boy I had ever met. His words, so soft and kind, were like a cool compress on me.
I watched him closely. He was slightly built, with black hair cut short, and he wore a sport shirt, open at the collar.
"Where do you go to school," I asked him, trying to get him to speak even more."
"I'm a freshman at the University," he replied.
"You're rather young, aren't you?"
"Yes," he replied, modestly, "I'm not yet seventeen."
Stephen intended to major in Philosophy and when I asked him if it wouldn't be better to major in some more practical subject, he replied that he was interested in learning about the greatest thoughts of the greatest men who had ever lived.
Then he had to continue his mail route. I said goodbye, reluctantly, to that gentle boy and continued my work.
That evening, at home, I could not remove the vision of his face and body from my mind. I knew that I was caught once again in the meshes of my vice.
So, I laid my trap carefully, not knowing that the gentle child was also laying a trap, one that would push me to the limits of my desires and open up a whole new area of erotic delights.
The next time he came into the office I began to speak to him about Philosophy. Subsequently, every spare moment we had together in the office was dedicated to this subject. One day we lapsed into a conversation about the difficulty of getting certain books that were not published in America. Stephen said to me, almost breathlessly: "I have a terrific collection of used Philosophy books. Almost everything I earn here goes into buying from catalogues and used book stores. Can you come up and see them?"
I jumped at the chance and he wrote down his address on a piece of paper. Handing me the paper, he said: "It would be best if you came late in the afternoon. There is no one else home at that time."
Taking the piece of paper and holding it gingerly in my hand, I assured him that I would be there on the following afternoon. The next morning, I dressed very carefully. Since Stephen was so gentle, I decided on a simple print dress, with a large flowery pattern. In it I felt very innocent.
But as I was putting it on, my fraudulent innocence disappeared. I suddenly began to shake, so powerful was my desire for the child. I rubbed myself between my legs, luxuriating in the warmth of my cunt and anticipating the moment, a few hours hence, when that cunt would be impaled by his juicy young cock.
That day went very slowly. When Stephen came in to deliver the mail, neither of us spoke. We were both saving ourselves for the afternoon.
I left the office at about three o'clock and took a cab to the address he had given me. Stephen lived in a shabby neighborhood; rows upon rows of pathetic two-family houses, their owners unsuccessfully fighting the pollution and decay of the city.
His house was like all the others. I rang the bell and waited. Stephen came to the door, opened it, and blushed when he saw it was me.
"Oh, you're here," he said, excited and obviously confused.
I followed him in. It was gloomy inside and the furniture seemed incredibly old. We walked up a narrow flight of stairs to a room that must have been a converted attic. There was a small bed in the room, and scores of bookcases, packed with volumes, pamphlets and journals.
"This is my room," he said proudly, and gestured to me to show that I should sit on the bed.
"Are these all your books?"
"Yes," he said proudly, and he pulled out one ancient volume which he thrust into my hands.
I leafed through it. It was a very old English edition of a German philosopher.
"This is worth a lot of money," I said to him, turning the volume over and over in my hands, admiring the fine binding and the expensive paper.
We spent the next hour or so going through his collection of philosophy books. Stephen was happy and proud to have someone to show them to.
But time was passing quickly, and I was interested in another form of amusement. The beams from the sloping room casts shadows on the floor, strange and exotic shapes, and my imagination saw them as twisted cocks, as young weapons surrounding me in that claustrophobic area.
We were sitting on the bed, shoulder to shoulder. I was trembling with desire.
"Here is the last book I want to show you," he said.
But he did not produce a book. Anxious to get over with it, I said to him: "Stephen, show me the last book you spoke of, I am still interested."
He turned to me and without another word, his gentle hands became fingers of fury and ripped my bodice open.
He leaned over and sunk his teeth into my naked breasts, like a savage animal rips apart a piece of freshly killed meat.
I screamed. His teeth bit deeper, drawing blood and causing me dreadful pain.
Then, just as quickly as he had reverted to a savage, he released my breast and walked to the other corner of the room. His face, once again, assumed the gentle mask, and he watched me carefully from beneath lowered eyelids.
I suddenly knew that it had been Stephen and not I who had laid the trap. It was he who was trapping me, who was using the books as a pretext to seduce me.
But that terrible moment when his teeth ripped into my naked breast still overwhelmed me. I had been terribly frightened and I sat there, unable to speak, my hands trying to pull together the ripped cloth of my bosom. I looked down and saw the deep red blood, flowing against the white curve of my breasts. I knew, somehow, that I would not leave that attic room without some terrible type of knowledge, which I would never forget.
"I know what you are," Stephen said to me in a low voice.
"You know nothing," I replied savagely. He walked toward me. I backed away from him. 'Take off your clothes," he said. His words were still uttered in that gentle voice but there was cold steel in his eyes.
His voice seemed to hypnotize me and I obeyed him. As I removed each garment, he removed his clothes, until, finally, we stood naked in that small room.
He was very close to me then and he drew back his fist and swung it with all his might, crashing those clenched fingers and knuckles into my stomach. I doubled over and fell to my knees, waves of pain and nausea falling over me.
"Soon you will love it," he whispered into my ear.
Stephen brought his thighs close to me, so close that when I looked up I saw his naked cock, quivering only an inch from my face. I was torn between a desire to kiss his vibrant maleness or to sink my teeth into the meat. But I had no time to make that decision for he began to swing his thighs from side to side, letting his cock hit me in the face. At first it was slow and pleasurable and I savored the closeness of that erect flesh. But then he began to swing more and more violently, until the cock was a weapon to harm me and torment me.
Its tip scarred my face and the full force of its weight beat me into the floor. Stephen moaned as he used his maleness to ravage my mouth and face. His cock grew larger and larger until I felt the hot seed pouring out and burning my bruised flesh.
Then he sunk to the floor, contented for the moment. I could have left at that moment, but suddenly I too felt the need to be cruel, to taste the fruits of violence on another person's flesh.
His naked back was exposed. I picked up one of the shoes I had been wearing, they had long spiked heels, and brought the tip of the heel savagely down into his naked flesh.
Stephen did not make a sound but his whole body seemed to shudder. Again I brought the spiked heel down so that it dug into his body. It was the most thrilling experience of my life. I exploded into tears and laughter and with a demonic grin on my face, proceeded to turn his body into a welt of bloody bruises. Each bruise that I raised on his body sent me quivering anew, until I was like a bitch in heat.
Then I picked up the other shoe and rubbed the heel inside my thighs, feeling the heat of my cunt rise. As I beat him with joy and lust, slowly I let the other heel slip into the secret place, into my quivering flower. I was impaled by the object and my thighs sucked it up, my vagina drank in the brutal point.
I was breathing heavily from the lust and the exertion. My arm was growing weary from beating him but I could not stop since the object in my cunt was so deep that I felt the beginnings of an explosion. A few seconds later I fell on his body, the orgasm sweeping me off my feet.
We lay there together for a long time, recovering from the ordeal. I was smiling, even though exhausted, for I realized the genius of that gentle child and I was grateful to him.
"Did you enjoy it?" He asked, his voice no longer the voice of a child.
"More than anything in my life," I replied truthfully.
"Are you ready for more?" He asked, pressing his lips briefly against my flower in affection.
"I want more, I must have more."
He nodded and stood up. Opening a drawer, he showed me four strange objects. They were artificial claws that could be fastened to human fingers.
Placing one claw on each of my hands, he placed the other two on his own fingers. Playfully he scratched my buttocks and I shivered, suddenly understanding the subtle and glorious uses these objects could be adapted to.
Stephen began to kiss and fondle me, making us both excited once again. I lay back and opened my thighs, waiting for the luscious penetration of his cock which I could see beginning to rise.
He rammed it in. I screamed but a moment later my screams were drowned out by my own cries of lust, for he began to rake my sides and flanks with those claws as he rammed his cock deeper and deeper into my cunt.
Then I began to use the claws, digging them into his neck as I brought my buttocks savagely off the ground to meet the thrust of his thighs.
Joined like that, cunt to cock, claw to body, we fucked ourselves and debased ourselves until both of us entered a stupor immediately after the seed had drenched my flower. For many hours we lay there, our bodies bruised but our psyches remembering the glories of lust and cruelty.
For three weeks those incredible trips into the mutilation of the body and soul continued, until that gentle child overcame me and I could no longer proceed. It was a choice between Stephen and sanity. I chose sanity and I resolved never to see that child genius again.
From a clinical viewpoint, this episode is a normal venture into sado-masochism. But on another level, it goes beyond this description.
We understand the hidden meaning of their acts by that brief but passionate interlude with the two shoes. The reader will remember that she uses one to beat Stephen's naked body and the other to masturbate. This is a unique form of sado-masochistic relationship is usually a form of masturbation. No actual masturbation is required.
Yet, in that episode she masturbates, indeed, it seems to be the most passionate moment. The hidden meaning of that act is simply this: she is acting out one of her most deeply repressed desires-a brutal penetration by her father's penis-and she finds in a sadomasochistic relationship the only way to symbolically achieve that desire.
The reader may find this clinical analysis overly sophisticated, but one must dig deep in order to understand a woman as complex as this one.
Every sexual act she engages in can be, and indeed must be, traced back to the original, primeval desires. Only in this manner will such strange and bizarre acts as penetrating her own body with a spiked shoe, be made comprehensible and will then fit into a logical scheme. Once we discover the logic of her sexuality, there is a good possibility for a cure.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In spite of the many forms my perversion took, it was always toward the more exotic forms of oralism which I gravitated.
There was, for me, no pleasure to equal the joy of opening my thighs to let a young mouth explore, or tasting the freshest and most delightful piece of flesh a young man possesses. These were my finest moments.
It was my desire to achieve these exquisite forms of oralism which led me to one of the saddest and most wicked episodes of my life; an episode of which I shall be eternally ashamed and which points out the fact that my body is now paramount to my conscience.
I had been invited to an office party. There were to be hundreds present and it was to be held at the estate of the Chairman of the Board who had retired only a few months ago. At first I decided not to go since the size and place of the party made it exceptionally unappetizing to me. But when the night arrived, I reluctantly dragged out my party dress and did my hair. I realized that it would be suicidal to my business career if I was absent and I was not yet ready to give up that high paying job because I couldn't stand a few hours of social discomfort.
The affair was even bigger than I imagined. When I walked through the front door and was immediately greeted by a butler, I could make out at least three different dance bands, just from the music alone. There was a great deal of noise and excitement. People were rushing back and forth, holding their drinks precariously in their hands. I spotted a number of people from the office and many people from our out-of-town affiliates. It was the type of party where it is impossible not to drink. Waiters circled the room with trays of champagne glasses and every two or three steps was a portable bar manned by an intelligent and unobtrusive bartender. Gradually, I too, became caught up in the whirl and began to drink heavily.
A man approached me. He placed his arm around me. His fingers squeezed my breasts. I pushed him away. He laughed and staggered to another woman. This was how the minutes and hours slipped away.
Finally, I had to escape from what had become a drunken sexual brawl, where men and women pulled each other under the garden bushes and we could all hear their moans and grapplings. It was a night I shall never forget.
A servant pulled me by the arm: "This way, miss, just up those stairs."
His strong arms seemed to propel me in the direction he said and with great difficulty I began to climb the stairs. Arriving at the top of the landing, I began opening the doors to the rooms, but that servant must have directed many weary party-goers up the stairs for they were all full.
I continued to walk back into the house and then I saw a small landing under a window. I thought that it would take me to the attic where I could sleep, but instead, after a few moments of walking, I was surprised to find myself in the main part of the house which contained the master bed room and the rooms for the children.
I opened one door and spotted a boy of about twelve, sound asleep, his touseled hair dramatically contrasting with the whiteness of the pillow.
I closed the door behind me and lay down on the exquisitely soft rug in order to stop my head from going round and round under the influence of the alcohol.
The sound of the child's breathing wafted through the room and soon, in spite of my condition, I began to feel the jabs of lust. It began as it has always began, with a slight tremor of the leg, just above the knee. Why there I shall never know but that slight twitch in the muscle was the best indicator I had that my perversion was beginning to reach the conscious level. Then my forehead would break out in a sweat and my whole body would tense as if it was yearning to be penetrated but it must always guard against such a penetration.
"Who are you?"
I was jolted out of my reverie by these words which came from the edge of the bed. The child was awake.
"I am a guest at the party," I replied, trying as always to treat the young boy on an equal level.
"But that doesn't explain who you are," the child complained. He was quite young, far younger than the boys I was used to, but there was a certain quality in his voice, a certain petulance, which excited me even more.
"My name is Roger," he said, anxious to continue the conversation.
"May I come closer?" I asked him, aware that I stunk of liquor.
"Oh yes, I am very lonesome here, especially when parties are given and I am not invited."
"Why weren't you invited?"
"Do you really want to know?" He asked. I nodded my head and he leaned toward me and whispered in a very secret voice: "The servant tells me it is because my cock is too small."
He giggled.
"Where did you learn such words and thoughts as those?" I asked in a shocked manner.
"The servant," he giggled and he dived under the covers.
I had always prided myself on being expert in the areas of psychology and motivation of young boys, but I had never met a child with such a strange conglamoration of truths and falsehoods weaved together.
"Your cock is as big as any man in the room, and besides, it is how a man uses his cock, not the size, that makes it an organ to be admired or scorned."
After uttering these words I felt very silly. The idea of lecturing a child about morals was not to my liking.
"Do you really want to go to the party?"
He leaped out from underneath the covers and replied: "Yes, more than anything. More than anything on earth."
"Very well. If you follow a few simple instructions, you will be able to attend."
His eyes shone with anticipation. "Show me your cock."
The child was too shy at first to comply with my request.
"Remember, just follow a few simple instructions and you will be able to go to the party."
His shyness faded away. He opened the string of his pajamas and pulled them off.
"Look," he said, ashamed, "look how small it is."
I let my eyes roam over that small piece of flesh. The child was right. It was quite small, even for his age. My lips became dry as I watched it and then that dryness slowly turned into a wet heat. I was being swept up once again in the terrible lust and the consuming passion which was my fate. The boy's face was turned up toward me as if he considered me his personal savior. His white thighs were like twin cannon guarding the most precious store of metal.
It was such a stupid situation to be in and the child was so removed from reality. For a moment I wanted to leave that room as quickly as possible. I actually left him to walk a few feet to the door. But then I looked back and saw that small, supple body, just waiting for me, just waiting for some woman to initiate it into certain glories.
I undressed him. Under my expert hands the child was naked in a few moments.
First my fingers explored every area of his body, feeling the soft flesh that would become muscle and sinew.
A few moments after I bent over to kiss his young nipple, this child understood. Somehow, he knew that there was something wrong with me, that I was a pervert.
He began to struggle but I clasped one hand over his mouth and held him down with the other. He fought furiously but, soon, realizing it was no use, he relaxed his body as much as possible under the circumstances. My lips bent over him, grazing for just a while on the delicate down of his stomach and then moving toward the cock, toward the oral rape which would be my shame.
I felt the coolness of his globes. The skin of his sac was waiting for me and I grasped it with my lips. The child struggled as my lips pinched against the skin, sending the two globes into a furious pendulum movement. The child's thighs began to beat against me like a wounded butterfly.
But pain or hurt meant nothing to me once I had tasted his flesh. I licked his young globes until every part of them was drenched with my lustful saliva.
My eyes were on that cylinder of flesh which rested so quietly above the globes, which was the spearhead for the seed which is stored in those round balls. I moved my lips away, letting my hands cradle the globes as if they were twins, and slowly raised his cock for my mouth to feast on.
For the next ten minutes my lips and tongue raped the child. He wept. I could not tell whether it was from joy or misery but his body sobbed as my mouth brought his cock to manhood.
It was so smooth and so strong. I licked each vein and muscle along its glorious length. I let my tongue nibble as its gentle tip and then sucked the skin until it was a blood red. All the time I thrilled as I felt it grow and stiffen, until it was no longer the organ of a child, but a powerful cock which tore away the gates of my mouth and turned from the object which is raped to the rapist.
I opened my mouth wide to receive its thrust, and the child pumped his cock into my velvet throat.
Then the seed poured and I sucked up that incredibly sweet mixture, swallowing it as greedily as I would swallow the most delicate and treasured wine.
We fell asleep. It was many hours before both of us woke. The house was quiet. Taking him by the hand, we walked through the house in search of the party. Drunks were everywhere, passed out on the floor. The rooms were filled with broken glasses and platters of uneaten food. I could hear those who had eaten and drank too much moaning from behind closed doors. We were like two wanderers in hell. Finally, the child asked to go back to his room. He knew now that the party was no place for him.
In the room, we lay down together I kissed his beautiful face and then took off my clothes. I pulled his head down so that he could taste the nectar of my nipples.
The child groaned.
"Let me go," he pleaded.
"You must stay," I said desperately.
"I want to go," he persisted and tried to fight me, but I could not be fought, I was willing to go to all ends to reach my goal.
I took his head and pushed it between my legs. I knew that his first confrontation with such an exotic organ would drive him into a frenzy. I knew that my cunt against his face, the closeness of that heat and moisture and passionate womanhood, would be too much for him and the child would react in a violent and brutal manner.
He opened his boyish mouth and clamped his white, beautiful teeth on the lips of my vagina. I almost screamed with pain. But then all that violence went away.
A second later I felt the coolness of his tongue as it left those lips and sank itself into my quivering, waiting, cunt.
"Yes, it is for you, all for you," I said to the boy as I opened my legs wider and wider, until it seemed his virgin head would sink into the deepest recesses of my body.
"I have saved it all for you. I have saved every inch for you. Taste it, drain it, suck up the flowery juices which are there for your enjoyment."
My words drove the child to a greater fury. Soon I was reduced to a moaning slab of flesh, my flower pierced by his glorious tongue, a grown woman's body totally at the mercy of his mouth.
I stayed in that room for twenty-four hours and when I emerged I knew that a watershed had been reached.
Something had changed for me in that room. I had raped a child, but I had also moved closer towards normalcy. This I know is true. Perhaps the readers of these memoirs will not understand how I knew that my perversion was being transformed. Even I do not understand. But I know that during those twenty-four hours of oral delights, when his cock was perched in my tender mouth and when his tongue was travelling to its destination in the heat of my cunt-during that time, something happened to me.
At first glance the clinical psychologist must dismiss such claims as "something happened to me" to be sheer nonsense. The asylums of this country are filled with patients who are always claiming that a change has occurred in their lives.
But in this case there may be some truth in her claim. For one, the oral rape of a young boy is not her usual "modus operandi." Usually, she is much more sophisticated in her approach.
What then happened to her, on a subconscious level? We don't know. But we do know that whatever happened, happened before she met the boy, and that it was the oral rape which she used to bring it out. In other words, this "change" she speaks of was already there and she used the boy only to make the change palatable, to justify it.
Such devious and contradictory behavior and language is difficult for the average person to accept. Yet, it is quite common in people and situations such as are described in this book.
It is my prediction that the exact nature of the change will come to our attention in the next few pages. If not, then once again she has performed a monumental repression and there is little hope that any type of therapy would help her.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I met L. in a cheap Greenwich Village Cafe. He sat at my table without an invitation and began speaking in a quick, almost desperate tempo: "He threw me out, he just threw me out. That stinken fag. That's gratitude, isn't it. I gave him a year of my life. But I'm glad I'm free. I hate those fags. He gave me all the money I wanted, all the girls I wanted, all the Movies and clothes, but still I hated him."
L. looked very young but there was a certain streak of cynicism in him that seemed to show up in the small lines on his face.
"Where are you staying now?" I asked him.
"Nowhere, lady, that's why I am talking to you. I need a place to stay. For a day, only a day, till I get on my feet."
I took him home. That first night we slept in separate bedrooms. The next morning when he came out, he found me waiting for him, with a prepared breakfast. He sat down and began to eat as if he had not had a meal in weeks.
"You cook pretty well," he said, after he had stuffed himself.
I smiled and said nothing.
"What's your angle?" He asked, looking like and sounding like the tough, know-it all boy of seventeen he tried to be.
"Must I have an angle?" I replied.
"Oh, come off it lady."
Watching him, listening to his cynical remarks, I knew there and then I wanted him to stay, more than anything I have ever wanted in my life.
"Do you really want to know what my angle is, as you call it?"
"Sure," he said, "shoot!"
"I am a thirty-five year old career woman and I have only one passion in life." I hesitated.
"Which is?" He pressed me.
"Which is the seduction of young boys."
He was startled. I could see that I had reached below his rough exterior. I had shocked him.
But he pulled himself together and poured another cup of coffee.
"Look lady," he said, "you do what you're happiest at."
"Well, thank you for being so liberal," I replied, "but I told you that because I am interested in you."
He looked up from the coffee, very shrewdly. "I told you lady, I'm expensive."
"And I'm prepared to pay."
I don't know what there was about him, but whatever it was, it was overpowering.
"Do you have any luggage?" L. nodded: "I have a few suitcases in a locker at the bus station."
I gave him a ten dollar bill and put him into a cab.
It was a gamble, I knew, but I had to do it in order to test L. at the outset. The minutes dragged by and I suffered terribly.
Finally, the knock at the door came. I ran to it. L. was standing there with two valises and a broad smile on his face.
"You don't get any change lady."
"I don't want any. Look, take your two bags and put them in my bedroom."
He looked toward my bedroom but he didn't move. "What's the matter?"
L. smiled at me and began to remove his shirt.
"I think we ought to try each other out before this continues. After all, you got a lot of experience with young boys and maybe I'm just not your type."
Soon, he was naked in front of me. I walked around him, inspecting him as one would inspect a horse. He accepted the inspection without shame or interest. "You have a beautiful body," I told him. Then I turned away from him, waiting for him to dress.
What happened next happened very quickly. I felt his powerful young arms around my neck and shoulders.
"You need more than just looking at my body. You need to feel my cock."
His words sent a chill of expectation through my body. I tried to break free, but he would not let me go and he rubbed his erect cock against my buttocks. I let my hand move down his legs and even with the fabric covering it, I could feel its immense power.
"I can't wait," he said, urgently.
I said nothing more but in answer to his plea, I lay down on the floor and let him strip my body. Then, I spread my legs wide and called to the young boy. My fingers entwined themselves in his luxurious hair just as his cock tore into my cunt.
Deeper and deeper it went. I was in a whirlwind of lust. Its tip drove into my flower, extracting the most sophisticated passionate tremors.
My thighs wrapped around him, pulling that cock in, even deeper, until in one great cataclysmic heave, he shot his burning love juice into my body and it drank up the liquid.
"I think we're gonna get along well. Just don't try and take away my freedom."
That was the beginning of our sexual adventure, an adventure that grows in intensity and loyalty during every passing moment.
It was during our second sexual encounter that I really understood L.'s magnificence, that I felt for the first time that he was the child of the future, possessor of a man's body, but still able to experiment and maintain the curiosity of a child.
We were lying on the bed together. My hands were on his chest.
"Feel me," he said.
I dug my hands into him, letting my fingers drink up the magnificent cock which lay there like a quiet savage, waiting for the battle to begin.
I spread my legs, calling for him, but he just lay there.
"Please," I called to him.
But L. laughed and spread his legs. I knew he wanted to have me climb on him. I threw myself on him but he was too quick. Before I could regain my balance, he was on top of me and his cock was plunging between my buttocks, sending me deep into the bed.
He continued driving that weapon into me, until he thought I was pliable, then he turned me over and drove his cock so deep and so far and with such incredible beauty into my cunt, that I lost consciousness for a moment. His tongue, hot and beautiful, brought me around once it plunged between my lips.
My thighs rose to meet his thrust. L. beat me as he drove his cock deeper and deeper. His teeth were making savage forays into my naked breasts. I moaned as the juices began to build in my body and then I went limp as the orgasm flooded my body.
But L. had not yet loosed his seed and I grasped his cock beneath my arm, in that secret moist place and let him fuck my armpit, until the seed poured over my body. I caught the seed like some wine-intoxicated Greek maiden and rubbed it into every opening and crevice of my body.
L. was and is expensive, but his whims are the whims of a child and I do not have the heart to keep them from him. On certain occasions, L. will conduct an affair with some young girl in the neighborhood, but this I expect and want for he will always return to my mature body. As completely as he has captured me, so, also, have I captured his penis, which has the initials of my teeth welded to it.
This was the change I have spoken of. This is the change in my life. For the first time since the perversion burst upon me, I have dedicated myself to being faithful to one child.
Yes, there is a new element in my life and this element is fidelity.
Often, when I am lying with L., his luscious cock at the gates of my body or gathering moisture from the tip of my tongue, I wonder what the future will hold.
Perhaps someday I will return to the promiscuity of my past life or go back even further, to the time when I was not interested in young boys.
But that is too far to look ahead. Right now, I have L. and that is all I want out of life.
For now, though, it is enough to know that a certain cock is ready for me when I wish it. Though L. has come to dominate me, still it is due mainly to my reverence for his maleness, which I find without peer.
I have written all that can be written. To those who condemn me-I hold up the sublime happiness I have now achieved. To those who support me-I hold up the months of anguish that I suffered.
Whatever the future holds, if it is not cast in the form of love, in the form of the human body, then it is futile.
We have now seen what that change she spoke of in the past chapter consisted of. For the first time she has decided to set up a regular arrangement with one of her lovers.
The clinical psychologist must ask one crucial question. Is this arrangement a step toward her cure or is it a step backwards into a life which will be even more bizarre and overwrought?
The answer to this question lies in our analysis of L's character. For the most part we will have to rely on her description, keeping in mind various lies she has told in the past in order to protect her subconscious.
First, L. is a child only in chronological age. In all his physical aspects, he is a man. In the number of sexual experiences he has had, he is obviously far ahead of his age group, both in the homosexual and heterosexual field.
In fact, there is only one area in which L. can be considered a child and that is his sudden lapses into petulance, his sudden childish temper tantrums and his often overplaying of the part he has assumed as a tough guy and as a young man of the world.
Isn't the reader struck by the oddness of the fact that our narrator, after all her sexual experiences, would be drawn to an unsavory character like L.?
She chose L. for a good reason. That young man is the closest to her desperate but idealized version of her father. L. is, in fact, her notion of her own father as lover. It is only a father with L.'s qualities that she can bear as a lover-her father as a vicious young man. Thus, she has accepted in her subconscious the idea of incest, but only if the father-figure is the possessor of certain character strengths and faults.
The reader can now understand that she is on her way to be cured. If everything goes as it has gone, it would be safe to predict that her relationship with L. will break up, and she will be able to accept her incestuous feelings and with the help of a psychotherapist, dissolve them so that once again she could be attracted to men of her own age.
There is, of course, always the danger that her relationship with L. will be terminated prematurely. If that happens, there is a good chance that permanent psychic damage will occur and she may never be able to recover her normality.
There is nothing to be done but to wait and see.
No matter the outcome, the whole psychological profession and discipline must be eternally grateful to this solitary woman who bared her innermost thoughts in order to shed light on certain depravities of the human soul.
