Lydia Wilkinson

The five faces of masochism

INTRODUCTION

A work bearing the title of The Five Bloods of Ireland would need no justification for its title other than that the contents of the work deal with the five principal septs or families of Ireland, i.e., the O'Neils, the O'Connors, the O'Briens, the O'Lachlans, and the M'Murroughs; a title of The Five Nations would likewise be as easily justified if the work dealt with the five confederated Indian tribes (the Mohawks, Oneidas, Onondagas, Cayugas, and Senecas), or, as was the case with Rudyard Kipling's volume of poems, if "the five nations" were the five component parts of the British Empire.

Similarly, a title such as The Five Faces of Masochism would, understandably, suggest to the reader that there are but five – no more and no less – forms or manifestations of that certain peculiar facet of human behavior, or misbehavior, to which Richard von Krafft-Ebing in the latter part of the nineteenth century gave the name of masochism. Such a suggestion, it should be stressed at the very outset of this work, is not intended to be anything other than one of convenience – the "masochistic scale" of five simply meaning to reflect the degree or severity of masochistic tendencies and should not be allowed to dominate the reader's thought as anything other than a comparative aid. Suffice it to say that, in the opinion of this author, the majority of people – the psychological median, so to speak – would probably fall within "masochism one" and "sadism one" range. Somewhere between these two, at "zero", the masochistic and the sadistic inclinations are in a state of equilibrium, or, to put it in other words, are both weak and simultaneously equal, thereby canceling each other out. As one ascends, or descends, the abstract scale in either direction toward "severity five", the misbehavioral aspects of the individual's condition rapidly approach a psychopathological state. A condition of extreme masochism or of extreme sadism – "severity five", that is – is a relatively rare state of psychosis and is not included in this work. It would not be improper to say that those unfortunate souls who fall within those narrow ranges of psychopathology are seldom available to a private-practice psychiatrist, primarily because "masochist five" is quite often dead, whereas "sadist five" is either in the asylum or is incarcerated.

If one is ready to accept the implication that both masochism and sadism or either the one or the other is present in every individual in "different concentrations", so to speak, then it is an inevitable conclusion that the world is, in fact, made up of the two groups, and the question, then, seems to be not whether one is a masochist or a sadist, or has one or the other inclination, but rather, how much of a masochist or a sadist one is.

Is such a deduction absurd? Not if one studies the history of mankind, and not if one accepts the three definitions of masochism as they are presented by J. P. Chaplin, Professor of Psychology at the University of Vermont and author, in his Dictionary of Psychology. He states that masochism is:

1. a sexual disorder in which the individual derives satisfaction from the infliction of pain upon himself. Pain may be a prelude to, or an accompaniment of sexual relations, or its application may be sufficient in and of itself to induce orgasm.

2. more generally, the enjoyment of suffering or a tendency to seek opportunities for being offended or hurt.

3. (Psychoan.) the turning inward of the destructive tendencies or thanatos.

Chaplin's definition of sadism is, for some reason, less all-encompassing, limiting itself to the sexual side of sadism. He states:

[Sadism is] a sexual perversion in which sexual satisfaction is associated with the infliction of pain.

All one needs to do, however, to complete the picture of the masochism-countering tendency of sadism is to paraphrase Professor Chaplin's definition of masochism. Sadism, then, more generally, may be taken to be "the enjoyment of suffering [in others] or a tendency to seek opportunities for… offend[ing] or hurt[ing others]." And, in the terms of psychoanalysis, "the turning [out]ward of the destructive tendencies or thanatos."

It is perfectly natural for an individual to condemn the previous deduction as an "accusation based on generalities": "I have no such tendencies," he might say. The fact is, very few people will seriously admit to having either sadistic or masochistic inclinations – either because of society's attitudes toward sadism and masochism, or because they are not aware of, or fail to recognize, either one or the other inclination – until they find themselves the subjects of psychoanalysis. Since, quite often, the tendencies toward masochism or toward sadism increase progressively if they go unchecked or unrecognized, the purpose of this work is to show their development and thereby provide the reader with essential defenses against such tendencies through recognition and awareness of them.

Confirming such varying degrees of masochism and sadism is Dr. Eustace Chesser, who in his successful marriage manual Love and the Married Woman writes:

… There are… varying degrees of sadism and masochism in character traits. The meek, apologetic husband, submitting to a dominant wife, is a mild masochist. Pity is wasted on him, for he deliberately married a woman who would take decisions out of his hands and act the part of a domineering parent. Similarly, the uncomplaining wife who marries a bully may well be reliving her childish experiences with a harsh, authoritarian father. It is dangerous to judge from superficial appearances. Women of a masochistic temperament are best satisfied by so-called virile he-men. This means that the masochist type might do best by marrying a sadist, and vice versa. What passes for cruelty to the casual observer is a curiously inverted pleasure. There are cases in which an ill-treated wife has obtained a divorce for cruelty only to remarry and find herself – by her own unconscious wish – in precisely the same situation.

Unfortunately, the "solution" that Dr. Chesser presents – specifically, that "the masochist type might do best by marrying a sadist, and vice versa" – appears to be somewhat of an apathetic oversimplification of sadomasochism in that it does not admit to, or allow for, the previously mentioned "growth and development" of both sadism and masochism. Such a growth and development has to be accepted if one admits to "varying degrees" of either of the two psychopathological states. Naturally, the term growth and development as used herein with reference to sadistic or masochistic character traits connotes a negative side of man's nature. And the negativeness need not be interpreted as such from the society's viewpoint alone; it does not require much thought to realize that – in spite of the increasing pleasure, or what a sadist or a masochist interprets as "pleasure" – the more masochistic or sadistic a person becomes the closer is he or she approaching an end-all of all pleasure. A masochistic woman who derives pleasure from being taken with some degree of sexual violence will require more and more violence as time goes by and as she becomes accustomed and "immune" to it. Eventually – as one or two cases contained within this work will demonstrate – she will seek out men who derive pleasure out of brutalizing women, she will develop a craving to be, in fact, raped, abused, forced to perform any number of unnatural acts… There is no need in bringing out the well-documented fact that a great number of women who hart been the victims of rape had their mouths sealed by the silence of shallow graves.

Similarly, a man who derives pleasure from deflowering virgins, a man who finds that the screams of his victim add a dimension to his sexual pleasure and thereby magnify the intensity of his orgasm, will strive for attaining a greater reaction to his sexual assault the next time around – either by increasing the brutality of his sexual onslaught or, perhaps, by selecting a virgin who will manifest greater screams of pain, i.e., an adolescent virgin, and then a pubescent one, and, finally, a child… Again, asylums hold ample evidence of sadists who have, in more ways than one, reached the end of the line.

As relatively unchallenging as it is to follow the growth and development of masochistic and sadistic inclinations, attempting to arrive at the initial impetus that set an individual's sexual appetites in one or the other direction is undeniably much more difficult. To begin with, it is essential to have a somewhat broader picture of masochism – what it is, how it manifests itself at the outset, who are its most likely victims, etc. – than the one provided by Professor Chaplin. Krafft-Ebing, who in his Psychopathia Sexualis classifies masochism under the general heading of "cerebral neuroses" and the specific one of paresthesia (perversion of the sexual instinct, or excitability of the sexual functions to inadequate stimuli), gives a considerably more detailed description of masochism. He writes:

Masochism is the counterpart of sadism insofar as it derives the acme of pleasure from reckless acts of violence at the hands of the consort. It springs from the impulse to create a situation by means of external physical force, which is in accordance with the individual psychical and spinal stage of potency, as a preparatory and concomitant means to experience the voluptuous sensation of coitus, to increase or to make it a substitute for cohabitation. In direct ratio of the intensity of the perverse instinct and the remaining power of moral and aesthetic counter motives, it forms a gradation of the most abhorrent and monstrous to the most ludicrous and absurd acts (the request for personal castigation, humiliation of all sorts, passive flagellation, etc.).

Again, there is the confirmation of degrees of masochistic tendencies. Yet the cause for such tendencies is, in fact, implied to be "causeless". Krafft-Ebing suggests that masochism "springs from the impulse to create a situation," etc., and in that suggestion presents his opinion that masochism is the result of an impulsive action.

Impulsiveness, in psychoanalysis, presupposes a more or less chronic tendency to act upon the direction of the id or of another instinct or without reflecting upon the consequences of action. To suggest, however, that masochism is instinctual in man is to suggest the ludicrous. Most modern psychologists, psychiatrists, and social workers consider it rather to be a misdirection of the sexual instinct that is brought about, usually in a gradual manner, by environmental influences in an individual's childhood. This is not to say that masochism (or sadism) might not begin to develop later in a person's life, e.g., in his or her pubescent, adolescent, or even adult period. That this might and does occur is supported by several of the cases presented within this work.

Although all of the cases here will involve direct sexual masochism, the question may be asked: Can masochism germinate as a nonsexual seedling and then develop or progress to a sexually masochistic state? In other words, is it unusual for a child who had been suppressed within the family circle, or even mistreated, without any sexual abuse being directed toward him, become an adult who requires sexually oriented domination before he or she will be able to attain full sexual gratification? The answer, of course, is yes. The old adage, as the twig is bent so will the tree grow, applies here not only to the overall development of a person's character but to peculiarities and portions of it as well. A girl who felt that her father's spanking her as a child was a sign of his love for her, is not unlikely to develop into a woman who requires the same mind of manifestations of "love" from her husband. Likewise, a man who derived pleasure as "big brother" in being more than necessarily strict with his younger sister is likely to transfer his domineering attitude toward his wife.

The preceding, of course, are but two examples of how masochism and sadism come into being. Elementally, the birth of masochism might spring from a situation where a young girl is – to give an example of the initial germ of masochism – pushed violently by someone she loves (her older brother); she falls, hurting herself in the process; the brother then takes her in his arms and comforts her. In this case, as in most masochism-inciting situations, a relatively mild instance of abuse is followed by pleasure; subsequently, the girl might develop the conviction that before she can experience any pleasant sensations she must feel pain.

The following cases will hopefully reveal some of the other ways in which masochistic tendencies are conceived, develop, and finally become the dominant traits of a person's character. It is felt that such knowledge is essential for anyone who has the slightest suspicion of masochistic tendencies in himself and who does not wish to become their permanent slave.

CHAPTER ONE

EATING HUMBLE PIE

I guess it was the normalcy of my life that made it so Goddamn boring.

I led a decent life for what seemed like for ever. I had decent parents, who didn't want to fuck me and who didn't rent me out to other people who did. In fact, I can't even remember wanting to fuck with my parents. How normal can you get?

I had my first fuck when I was seventeen. It was mind-blowing, but one hell of a lot better than the jacking off I'd been doing for five years.

For the next couple of years I had a normal amount of sex – not enough, but a satisfactory amount so that I didn't have to go out and rape somebody. Then when I was twenty-two I got married.

Madge and I got along fine. She was boring and I was bored, but we had a nice, decent life. With enough money, two kids, a nice house, a new car every three years, and… boredom.

And then when I was twenty-seven, Madge got sick. Really sick. In the head. I don't know what caused it, but she'd have long periods of really being dingy. Then she'd get normal again. It was when the dingy periods started to outlast the normal periods that I had to have her committed.

With Madge gone most of the time, except for visits, I got a nurse for the kids. Well, nurse isn't a good word. She was more of a housekeeper. Took care of the kids and the house. That took a lot of worry off my hands.

It also put a lot of time in my hands. I started to hang around with a bunch of single people who had a little money to throw around. So why not? I was the same as single, and I sure as hell had enough money to keep up with them.

Fucking seemed to be the main preoccupation of the group. Within two weeks of being introduced into the inner circle, I'd fucked every girl in the group. After a month, I was bored. Couldn't even get it up. But I kept running around with them, because I didn't have anything else to do.

And then one day into my life walked a woman named Clarissa. She was hired by the outfit I worked for as an efficiency expert. And hell, was she efficient!

I was the guy assigned to work with her. She made the decisions on what had to be done, and I implemented them. That meant I did the dirty work, like firing people.

I found myself, after a couple of weeks, really looking forward to being with Clarissa. She was about five years older than I was, but that didn't make her old. Not by a long shot. And she was a beautiful gal. Of course, in her working outfits, she tried to look cool and efficient, but I saw her at times when she was relaxed, and she was capable of being a warm although still tough lady.

I knew she was married, but she never talked about her husband. Maybe that's why I asked her out to dinner one night. Women who don't talk about their husbands usually don't care much about them.

I made it clear that I was asking for a date not a business meal. Clarissa looked at me strangely. "Beg me," she said.

I jokingly said, "Please. Pretty please." But that didn't seem to satisfy her. She had a look on her face that told me she was more than a little serious.

"Get down on your knees and beg," she said. And she sounded serious. I laughed again, only not so honestly this time, and got to my knees. "I beg you to have dinner with me," I said as seriously as I could.

I remember what she did next so well that it's like a part of me. She was holding a cup of coffee in her hands while all this was going on, and after I asked her to dinner and before she answered, she deliberately spilled some of the coffee out of the cup and on the floor, right in front of me.

"Lick up that coffee, Paul," she said in this very soft, quiet tone, "and then I'll agree to go to dinner with you."

As soon as the words were out of her mouth I felt a lurch in my guts. And my cock instantly got hard as hell. I was amazed. That was the first involuntary hard on I'd had in a long time.

I looked up at her and started to grin. I wasn't about to do what she wanted without protecting myself by making a joke of it.

"I'm not kidding you, Paul. Lick it up!" Her soft, quiet tone was gone.

My heart was beating so hard I could hear it as I bent over and ran my tongue into the coffee on the floor.

"All of it," she said. "Every last drop."

I did what she told me. I got every last drop. Then I knelt back up and looked at her.

"We'll have dinner at my house," she said. "Be there at seven-thirty." And with that she turned and left my office.

I moved to my chair and sat there dazed. What in the hell had that all been about, I asked myself. My cock was still raging hard. And then, like some horny kid, I pulled my cock out – right in my office – and beat off until I shot. Weird, huh?

All day long I told myself there was no way I was going to go to Clarissa's house for dinner. No telling what she'd make me do. But do you know, at seven-thirty that night I was standing outside her front door.

I checked my watch and exactly at seven thirty I rang the bell. She answered it almost instantly. "That's good," she said… "I like people who are right on time."

She didn't say anything else, as she beckoned for me to come into the living room. She pointed to a low stool placed by the fireplace.

"That's for you," she said. I looked strangely at her.

"Sit down," she ordered. I did what she told me, and cursed the fact that again I was getting a hard on.

She stood there, beautifully dressed, and looked hard at me. "I noticed," she said finally, "a certain… should we call it willingness to cooperate. If I'm wrong, you're free to leave anytime."

I looked at her. Never in my life had I wanted to do anything more than I wanted to get out of that house. But I couldn't force myself to move. I sat there and did nothing but nod. And I'm not a weak person. Really I'm not. She just seemed to have me hypnotized.

"Fix me a drink," she said after taking a chair a few feet away from my stool. "Martini. Four to one. Onion." I couldn't help but compare her tone to that of a very sophisticated drill sergeant. But the whole bit wasn't funny. She was serious, and unfortunately so was I.

I felt her staring at me all the while I was fixing her a drink. When I finished, I turned and walked to her, handing her the glass. She took it without a thank you, as though I owed her the service.

"May I have one?" I asked.

"Yes," she said simply. Then added, "It was good that you asked first."

Dinner was surprisingly normal. I was a nervous wreck, always expecting her to tell me to do something. But we finished the whole meal without any intimation of what had gone on before. I suppose it was the presence of the maid that kept things from continuing.

After coffee was served, Clarissa dismissed the maid. Gave her the night off, as a matter of fact. Now I was really getting nervous.

It seemed like only a minute after the maid had gone that the front door opened and a man walked in. About the same age as Clarissa, handsome in sort of a sadistic way.

"This is my husband, Paul," Clarissa said, not getting up. "Charles, this is Paul. A fellow worker."

I stood up and held out my hand to shake. But Charles ignored my hand. He stared at me for a few seconds, and then turned and started to leave the room. At the door he turned. "He'll do," he said, and then was gone.

Clarissa turned to me. "You've passed the test, darling," she said. "Stand up and take your clothes off."

She couldn't have shocked me more if she had screamed out obscenities. I stared at her for an instant or two.

"Do it," she said, her tone harsher this time.

I stood and with head hung, I started to unbuckle my belt.

"Look at me, Paul," Clarissa said. "Never be ashamed of what you're going to do."

With some difficulty, I managed to look into her eyes. There was no indication of disdain or disgust in them. Not even a hint of humor. She was simply telling me what to do, and I was doing it.

I watched her watching me all the while I was taking off my clothes. Then, when I was down to bare skin, I let my arms hang at my side, waiting for what she wanted me to do next.

"You have a very nice body," she said. I glanced down at myself. It was a good body. It got that way through a lot of effort.

"And you have a fine prick," she added. That shocked me. She said it without any indication that what she was saying was out of the ordinary. She said it like most women would say, "It's a fine day."

My cock was hard as a rock. Literally, it was jutting up, almost touching my belly. I was totally and exhaustively excited. I wanted things to happen. But the slowness with which they were occurring only added to my excitement.

"Come over here and kneel down," she said. I did what she told me, kneeling down directly in front of her.

"When you must go to the bathroom, tell me," she said. I looked quickly at her. The statement confused me. It seemed so much out of context. And it made me feel very young, and very dependent.

"Yes," I answered.

"We have to get something absolutely clear," Clarissa said. "When you agree with something your employer says, you say, 'Yes, sir,' don't you, Paul?"

I nodded.

"My husband will expect the same courtesy," she continued. "And so will I."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, and was amazed at how naturally it came to me. How natural it sounded. She got up then, stepping around me to go to a large bureau that was standing in the corner of the room. When she came back to me, she had a large dog collar in her hand. And a leash chain.

She sat down again and leaned towards me. "I'll put this on," she said, wrapping the collar around my neck, "just to indicate to you what your position is."

To be honest with you, I didn't have the least idea in the world what my position was. But I allowed her to wrap the collar around my neck. And I felt a wave of what I recognized as sexual excitement shiver through my whole body.

When the collar and leash were in position, Clarissa again got up. She moved to the center of the room behind my back. I heard rustling behind me, but I didn't dare turn around without permission.

Then she spoke. Very harshly. "Come over here," she said, "and lick my cunt."

Would you believe me if I told you that at that point I almost shot off? My cock jumped and I felt that tickle deep down in my balls that usually precedes an orgasm. But I controlled it.

When I turned around, Clarissa was naked. Her body was magnificent. Breathtaking. Compared with her, all the other women I had been with were ugly and blighted. Clarissa was absolutely perfect. Not an imperfection anywhere.

I started to get up to move towards her. "Crawl," she said quietly.

When I was in front of her, I looked up at her. I know I had a look on my face that resembled nothing so much as a begging animal. But that's what I was. And that's what was exciting me – along with Clarissa herself.

She stood over me, not in an exaggerated, masculine stance, but completely normal. She was feminine even when she was ordering me.

Suddenly, she reached down and slapped me across the face. Hard. I looked up at her, suddenly very angry. I had done nothing to warrant that slap.

"Unless you are told otherwise," she explained, "you will crawl from place to place. On all fours. With your buttocks sticking up."

For some reason, her explanation eliminated my anger. I had done something wrong and I had been punished. I understood.

At her command, I started with her feet and began to lick up her body. She tasted like lemons. I don't know why, she just did. And wonderful. I was so excited by what I was doing that I had to restrain myself from grabbing hold of my own cock and pumping it.

"Slowly, I moved up her body. She'd turn occasionally when she wanted some particular area worked on, like behind her knees. I heard her grunt slightly as I worked as best I could with my tongue."

The amazing thing about this whole thing was that I had never liked to lick before. I always found it distasteful, even with my own wife. But here I was, totally enthralled by what I was doing.

Finally, joyfully, I got to her crotch. Her pubic hair was scented and scratchy. I buried my face in it, reveling in the smell, the feel and the taste. I ran my tongue deep into the hair, twirling it around.

And then she arched herself slightly to give me access to her pussy. Again the taste, the feel and the smell almost overwhelmed me. I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with my tongue inside her, taking care of her. Performing for her. Serving her.

She held the back of my head towards her and moved slowly to a chair. She sat down and opened her pussy wide for my mouth and tongue. I was like a starving man. I wanted to devour that cunt. But at the same time I wanted to do what she wanted me to do.

If she wanted me to lick gently, I would lick gently. If she wanted me to work so hard that my jaw ached – even fell off – I'd work that hard. Anything she asked.

The euphoria I was feeling didn't last long, however. Suddenly, she pushed me away. I fell back on the floor, and watched from that position as she got up and walked away from me.

She slipped her robe on and then went to the bar. She fixed three drinks, one of which she gave me and told me to drink. Straight down. I did it.

"Stand," she said. When I was upright next to her, she handed me the other drinks. "Follow me," she said as she walked towards the hallway.

I followed her down several closed doors. Then we arrived at what I guess was the master bedroom. The door was partially closed. Clarissa knocked.

Charles was inside. "Come in," he said. His voice was deep-pitched and smooth.

I followed Clarissa in. Charles was stretched out naked on a huge bed. Larger even than a king-sized. He, like Clarissa, had a magnificent body. And his sexual equipment, stretching now soft down his thigh, was huge. Charles made me feel somewhat inadequate.

I was told to get to my knees and offer Charles a drink. I did.

He leaned over casually and took the drink. While he was taking several sips, Clarissa was taking off her gown. Then she lay on her back on the bed.

Charles leaned back and adjusted some pillows behind his back so he could now sit up. He scooted back, adjusted himself until he was comfortable, and then picked up the book he had been reading. His drink had been placed on the night table.

Clarissa was lying about five feet from him. Totally flat, not even a pillow under her head. She had her legs slightly spread, and she was caressing her breasts. Charles seemed not even to be looking at her.

He read for a short while, totally ignoring both Clarissa and myself. My knees began to ache, but I didn't complain. All I could do was stare at Clarissa, watching as her nipples became aroused. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.

Suddenly, I glanced up. The ceiling was totally covered with a mirror above the area of the bed. When I looked back, Charles was glancing at me. "A nice touch, don't you think?" he asked. There was no humor in his voice. No emotion whatsoever.

"Yes, sir," I said.

Again the room was silent. Charles returned to his book, and I returned to staring at Clarissa. My cock by this time was sore. It had been in a state of arousal for so long. I wanted to grab it, to masturbate. But I didn't.

Finally, then, Clarissa began to moan. Very softly. Apparently, she had worked herself up to a state of excitement.

Charles glanced at her. Then he looked at me. "All right, Paul," he said, again in that emotionless voice, "fuck her."

I couldn't have been more shocked. I don't know why I should have been, but I guess it was the tone of his voice, or something. It just seemed so obscene for him to be so casual, so unfeeling.

I got to my feet, rubbing my knees a little to regain the circulation. I moved to the other side of the bed. Clarissa's side. I stood over her and looked down. My mouth was completely dry. My heart was beating wildly. She was so Goddamned beautiful.

I put my hands down on the bed, one on each side of her. Then I climbed up on the bed and slowly let the weight of my body descend on her. A thrill raced through my whole body as I felt her breasts pressing up against my chest. Another thrill ran through me as I put my whole weight on her, my cock pressing down on her belly.

Instantly, her legs wrapped around me. Her eyes were closed and she was still moaning softly. I reached down and felt her pussy. It was wet and the hairs were matted. I tried to insert my finger.

"No," she gasped. "Your cock."

"I raised myself and got my cock into position between her thighs. Clarissa smelled entirely of sex. I was like a male dog after a bitch in heat. I jammed my cock into her, wanting to hurt her, I think. But she wanted all I had and more. She pulled me to her, forcing me even farther up inside her. She clawed at my ass and my back. She writhed around on the bed, pulling me into her, milking me. I was lost. Totally and completely absorbed. I had never had such a total feeling in any fuck before."

Paul I. is what might be called a psychopathological adventurer, a victim of voluntary boredom, a gambler with (to him) the unknown challenges of sexuality – although it is more likely that he knows (or suspects) much more than he admits – and, somewhat inadvertently, a masochist. In short, he is a most pathetic psychological misfit, an escapist from what might be termed the reality of survivalism for no other reasons than those advanced by his intellectual anemia or cowardice and the subconsciously chosen irresponsibility toward himself as well as others. Terminally, he is an unconscious disciple of Thanatos.

There is nothing in his childhood or adolescence that suggests any trauma or abnormal leanings, anything, in other words, that could be held responsible for his present psychopathological, if not psychotic, state, yet it is not in the least surprising that Paul is, in fact, courting death at the young age of twenty-eight. Although there is disagreement among the different schools of thought regarding the relationship between the sexual urge and the death instinct, especially such a relationship within the contextual problem of masochism, one must needs but follow the progressive thread of sexual development in Paul's case to see that, unless the sexual urge is rechanneled, it will lead the subject nowhere else but to the realm of Thanatos.

Considering that there appears to have been no traumatic event in the subject's life that could have accounted for his masochistic tendencies, one must seek the answer to the subject's present psychopathological condition elsewhere. The clue is glaringly apparent in the very first sentence of Paul's narrative: "I guess it was the normalcy of my life that made it so Goddamn boring." The word boring is the master key to the subject's life, if it can be called that.

Boredom is a temporary condition of the mind that can be an intellectual impetus or an intellectual decay mechanism. It can be the sire of genius or the foster father of idiocy – and the term idiocy as used here is meant to approach less insanity and more stupidy, although the latter often leads to the former. Boredom is the feeling of an exceptionally bright person caught in the midst of stagnation of those less bright; it is also the feeling of an exceptionally dull individual caught among those who manifest genius, or at least a median of intellectuality.

David Abrahamsen, in his work The Road to Emotional Maturity, analyzes boredom in the following words:

… Boredom… the contagious disease of our times has at its root a lack of inner personal development to a higher or lower degree. Bored people may come to dislike themselves and, therefore, lose interest in the life around them, because they have no place in it. Boredom is often thinly disguised as "sophistication".

Unresolved festering boredom, whether it is admitted or not, then, is a lack or total absence of worthwhile interests.

But what is worthwhile? one may ask. If the sexual urge is one of the basic instincts that dominates man's life, isn't the gratification of that instinct worthwhile?

The answer to the preceding question might be given in the form of another question: Is the gratification of one basic instinct, to the exclusion of others, worthwhile? Would one consider an individual whose sole interest is ingestion of food – gratification, that is, of one of man's other basic instincts – as someone who is pursuing a worthwhile course? More – as someone who is normal?

That the case subject of the narrative at hand had no interests other than the gratification of his sexual appetites cannot be argued. He indicates neither interest nor concern for his institutionalized wife Marge. He mentions "two kids," and says no more of them. Incidentally, there is a great probability that he engineered the commitment of his wife, because he was "bored" with her. His entire narrative is a document of his sensuous greed, of his preoccupation with sexuality, and his refusal to divert his sexual monomania. It is a journal of boredom, and his encounter with Clarissa and, as it will be seen, with her husband Charles, might very well be the final chapter of his boredom.

It was mentioned earlier that Paul I.'s descent into masochism was "inadvertent". This deduction is necessarily drawn from the available narrative, and its implication is that the subject might have been just as easily drawn to play the role of a sadist, or of a child molester, or of a zoophile. It is not unlikely that he might eventually tire of the masochistic role, i.e., he will no longer become aroused sexually by the idea of being used, abused, degraded, and dominated. This, of course, will greatly depend on the ingenuity of Clarissa and her husband to provide new forms to their sadistic game. It is here that the danger to the subject's well-being lies. Some of the extreme cases that have come to the attention of psychoanalysts or have been recorded in police files end with the death of the sadists' victims.

One might wonder whether there is any significance to the bondage, the homosexual sodomy, and the transvestism elements that, as will be seen, enter upon the scene. Do these elements suggest a dormant homosexual personality in the case subject? On the basis of the information available, the answer is negative. They are simply variations on the theme of masochism provided by Clarissa and her husband, and as long as there are variations the chances are that the subject will participate in the game that gratifies his sexual appetite. It is the combination of the intrigue of the unknown and of the promise of copulation with Clarissa that will keep the subject coming back for more, unless he finds a more satisfying outlet for his sexual drive.

Before returning to Paul I.'s narrative, it might be of interest to comment briefly on the somewhat paradoxical psychology of his tormentors, i.e., Clarissa and her husband, Charles. It appears that there is a sadomasochistic interplay between the man and wife, although it is difficult from the information available to postulate whether they maintain such a relationship when a third partner is not present. The impression one gets is that – although both of them are "sadistic" in relationship to the subject Paul – it is Charles who wields the big whip, so to speak, and Clarissa the small one. As, for example, in the sodomy scene, as it will be seen, he has Paul copulate with his wife while he takes the subject anally. This could be interpreted as a somewhat degrading situation for Clarissa. In other cases, too, one gets the impression that whatever domineering Clarissa engages in, she does so for the benefit of her husband.

I really don't know if Charles watched while I had Clarissa or not. I was too engrossed in what I was doing. But I would venture to bet that he didn't watch, that he read his book the whole time.

After it was over, I was told, "Leave." Charles was the one who said that. I got off the bed.

"May I use the bathroom, sir?" I asked. Now that the excitement was over, my "sir" had a certain sarcastic ring.

"No," he answered without looking up. "Get out."

That made me slightly angry. What am I saying, slightly? I was pissed beyond belief. I stormed at the door. When I'd almost made it through on a very dramatic exit, Charles called after me. "Telephone Clarissa tomorrow," he said. "She will not be at her desk. Call her at ten o'clock."

I stopped long enough to look back at Clarissa. She still lay on the bed, totally still. She looked like she was dead. I couldn't even discern any movement of breathing. Then I turned and walked into the living room, where I got dressed and left. I slammed the door hard, to let them know I'd gone.

I dreamed of that scene that night. Only it wasn't the actual having of Clarissa that I dreamed about. It was the preliminaries. When I was on my knees, serving her, saying "Yes, sir," to Charles. Those were the things I dreamed of and which caused me, despite having masturbated myself to a climax that morning and having relations with Clarissa just hours earlier, to have a wet dream. Like a teenager. I hadn't had a wet dream in years.

The next morning there was nothing on my mind except Clarissa. But I was determined I was not going to call her. If she wanted to talk, let her call me. The two of them had had their fun with me the night before. Now let's get the relationship on a slightly less freaky plane.

She didn't call at ten. At ten-thirty she still hadn't called. I was frantic. And terribly nervous. Frightened, you might even say. Frightened about my disobedience. What would they do to me the next time to punish me? I spent the whole morning with an erection.

At ten-forty-five I finally picked up the phone. Clarissa answered it on the thirteenth ring. She sounded cross, but when I told her who it was, she laughed. "Oh, don't worry, darling. They always call late the morning after the first night." That stunned me. Who in the hell was "they". Obviously, I wasn't the first guy who'd spent the night on his knees, licking Clarissa until his jaws ached, obeying that automaton called Charles. I was hurt and angry, and more than a little jealous.

"Be here tonight, darling," Clarissa said through a yawn. "At eight-thirty."

I explained that I couldn't possibly come that night. I had made arrangements to visit my wife at the sanatorium. There was a pause on the other side of the line.

"Be here," Clarissa said. And then she hung up.

I fretted the whole day. I didn't get any work done. I had to visit Madge. I hadn't seen her in seven weeks. She was expecting me, and if I didn't show up she'd get all upset.

It wasn't the probability of having Clarissa that made me show up that night at eight-thirty. It was the prospect of the unknown. I had the feeling that my relationship with both Charles and Clarissa would get freakier and freakier until either I couldn't take any more, or they got bored with me. It was the possibilities, the unknown, that attracted me.

I called the sanatorium and made some inadequate excuse to Madge. I talked to her personally. My absence, I knew after I hung up, would bother her.

At precisely eight-thirty I rang Clarissa's doorbell. No one answered. I rang again. Still nobody answered. I rang four more times. No answer.

I tried to look in windows. They were all curtained. I opened the garage door. No cars. They weren't home. How dare they do that!

I was furious and so sexually frustrated that I considered going out and finding one of my old female acquaintances. But I didn't. I went home and waited for the phone to ring, hoping either Clarissa or Charles would call.

I was sound asleep in a chair next to the phone when it rang. I glanced at my watch before picking up the receiver. It was two-fifteen.

I answered. It was Charles. "Be over here in fifteen minutes," he said and then hung up.

I stared at the receiver for a long while. That guy was a total asshole. What did he expect? Did he think I'd drop everything and run over there in the middle of the night?

I headed for bed. I was going to get this whole bit out of my mind. Forget Clarissa and Charles. Forget the excitement that being with them created in me. At that moment I hated them – both of them. They had mistreated me. Bastardized my faith in them.

Sleep didn't come easily, but finally it came. It seemed as though as soon as I finally did fall asleep the alarm clock rang.

I was hesitant about seeing Clarissa at work, but when, later in the morning, I walked by her in the hall, she offered me a cheery hello and kept on going. She had smiled, but made no mention of my not showing up the previous night. That bothered me more than if she had railed angrily at me. At least then I would have had a response for her.

Three days went by. Clarissa was maddeningly pleasant. But she never mentioned my coming over to her house, and made no reference at all to what we had done. We had a perfectly respectable business relationship.

I finally couldn't take it anymore. I invited her to coffee. I didn't know how to bring up what I really wanted to talk about.

"Darling," she said after a long while, "why don't you just ask?"

"You know the question, Clarissa, why don't you just answer it."

"No, darling," she said. "You must ask."

"Can I come over?" I asked. I was blushing. I don't remember ever being more embarrassed.

"I really don't know, Paul," she answered. "You'll have to ask Charles. Call him tonight. He'll be home."

That night I put off calling for an hour. But eventually I gave up all pretense. I had to call. The relationship I was having with those two was dominating my life. I could think of nothing else. I either had to call or else be strong enough to will them completely out of my thinking. I knew I wasn't strong enough for the latter.

Charles answered. He acted as though he didn't know me. I explained who I was. I told him everything I had done when I was at his house. When I was finished with that embarrassing recitation, he said, "Ah, yes. Now I know who you are. And what did you say you wanted?"

"I want to come over," I said, offering my defeat to him with one statement.

"But it is not what you want, Paul," he said. "It is what we want. Call me back a week from tonight."

There is no possible way to explain or describe the hell I went through for the following week. My cock was constantly hard. My mind dwelled on nothing but what I might be made to do. But finally the week was over.

I didn't have to call. There was a note for me from Clarissa when I got home from work. It was brief. "You're expected at eight-thirty," was all it said.

As the minute hand touched the six on my watch, I rang the bell. This time it was answered by Charles. "Ah, you're on time," he said, and laughed.

"Yes, I'm on time," I said. "But I wish you wouldn't laugh at me. This is hard enough as it is."

"I realize that, dear boy," he said, the humor still in his voice. "But we must keep a sense of humor."

I saw nothing funny in what I was letting myself in for, and I resented Charles's attitude.

In fact, I was starting to resent the entire affair. But I wasn't about to leave.

"I want you to do something first," Charles said. "Go to your car and strip out of your clothes out there. Then you may come in."

"You must be joking," I said. It was dark out, but their house was on a residential street, surrounded by other houses.

"I'm not joking," Charles said. "Either do it or leave."

This was the turning point. Right here. I knew it and Charles knew it. If I did what he had told me, I was handing myself over to them completely. If I walked away, any further relationship was finished.

I turned and walked down the front stairs, heading for my car.

"The door will be open," Charles called. "Just walk on in."

I sat in the car for maybe fifteen minutes. I checked traffic, to see how often cars passed. Not often. In that area, my chances of safety were good.

I pulled my cock out of my pants. It was hard. The Goddamned thing was always hard since I'd met Clarissa. Right at that second I wanted to cut the damned thing off. To get rid of all this shit.

As I pulled first my shirt and then my trousers off I threw them over the back seat onto the floor. When I was totally naked, I glanced around, making sure that nobody was out walking their dog or calling their kids. The coast was clear, and there was no traffic.

I got out of the car, and, under the cover of shadows; I hurried to the front porch. Just as I reached for the front doorknob, thinking I was safe, the front porch light went on. And the door was locked!

I felt like I was standing in the middle of Times Square. I knew thousands of eyes were staring at me, knowing me for the pervert I'd become.

Sweat beaded my forehead as I banged on the front door. "Let me in," I shouted. "Please let me in."

I heard movement inside but it seemed like an eternity before the door opened. Clarissa was standing there. "Come in, Paul," she said in a conversational tone of voice.

I jumped inside. I felt like hitting Clarissa. I was that angry. But I stood there, naked and ashamed of myself. I couldn't look at her.

"Drink this fast," Clarissa said, handing me a drink from a table in the hall, and then go straight to the bedroom.

I downed the drink in three gulps. It was very strong. And then I padded my way down the hallway and went into the bedroom.

The walls of the bedroom were hung with large, framed photographs. That was a new addition. The room was empty and the light was high enough for me to see what the photographs depicted. Every form of perversion that I could think of was represented. Women and animals; homosexual couples and groups; sodomy; a vivid color shot of a man being beaten with a whip; a child being screwed anally by a man with a huge cock. Everything was there. I was shocked and excited at the same time.

As I was staring at one of the pictures, Charles walked in behind me. "Good, aren't they?" he asked.

I turned quickly. He had startled me.

He called Clarissa in and told her to get on the bed. She too was naked now. She climbed on the wide bed and settled on her back. Charles then told me to get on top of her, and to put my cock inside.

There were no preliminaries. I simply got on top of Clarissa and slid my cock deep inside her. We were not supposed to move.

Charles moved to the side of the bed and took hold of my right arm. He pulled it up, hard. And then from below my line of vision he pulled up a length of nylon cord, to which was attached a single handcuff. He clicked that on my wrist and then moved to the other side of the bed, where the routine was repeated with my left arm.

He went then to my legs, where my ankles were similarly secured. I was spread-eagled on the bed, my cock impaling Clarissa. But I was able to move only slightly. I couldn't do more than raise my ass a few inches.

When I was totally helpless, Charles spoke. "Tonight," he said, "we initiate your ass!"

"Christ, no," I shouted. I pulled at the cuffs. There was no way in the world I could get free, except if they let me go.

"Come now, Paul," Charles said. "Sex should be a total experience. You should try everything. Some people dote on having their ass fucked."

"Not me, you son-of-a-bitch," I shouted. "You're not sticking your cock up in me." I wrestled against the cuffs again, but that only served to tighten them.

"The more you struggle, the more pain you'll have to bear," Clarissa whispered to me. "Relax. You'll like it."

For some reason, Clarissa's voice had a calming reaction on me. I stopped pulling on the cuffs and allowed the blood to flow back into my hands and feet. Then I became aware of my cock, still in Clarissa. I was amazed that it was still hard.

Charles applied some sort of sticky ointment to my ass. "The first time we allow lubrication," he said.

When his finger jammed up into me, lubrication or not, I let out a scream of pain.

"Relax," Charles said harshly, "or I'll really give you something to yell about."

I tried to relax, but I couldn't. All I could think of was the horrendous size of Charles's cock. It was huge. And within seconds it was going to slide into my asshole. And still my cock, deep in Clarissa, stayed hard.

Finally, Charles pulled his finger out of me. He got up on the bed. I felt his semihard cock rub against my ass, forcing itself slightly into the crack of my ass.

"Please don't," I begged. "Please. Please."

"Ah. Now that's what I like to hear," Charles said. "A fucking whiner."

I tossed my head, trying once more to get out of the cuffs, but there was nothing I could do.

"Okay, raise his ass, Clarissa," Charles said and Clarissa immediately pushed her hips up, raising my ass the few inches that the ropes allowed.

I felt totally exposed. My ass was sticking up in the air, all greased and waiting to be fucked. How in the hell had I gotten into such a situation? I felt tears of shame well up in my eyes. If only my Goddamned cock would get soft, I told myself. Then I'd know I wasn't enjoying this. I must be queer, I thought. Or why would my cock be hard?

I didn't have too much time to think about myself, for suddenly I felt the end of Charles's cock pressed up against my asshole. Then he shoved slightly, and I felt the huge knob slide into me. Pain seared through my body. It felt like my asshole was being split apart.

I yelled and screamed and cursed, but I did nothing except cause myself more pain.

"Okay," Charles said. "If you want it that way, here goes."

He pressed brutally against my asshole, and I felt what had to be his whole cock jam into me. I felt dizzy from the pain. My body wanted me to pass out. I knew it. But I didn't. I just lay there suffering.

"Relax, darling," I heard Clarissa whisper. "It won't hurt nearly as bad."

There was nothing else I could do but follow her advice, except that relaxing in the position I was in wasn't easy. But I willed myself. Charles wasn't moving, and after what seemed an interminable time, the pain did seem to lessen. Not much, but to a bearable level.

That's when Charles began to move. He was fucking me. Using my ass like I had used women's cunts. It was shameful, embarrassing, humiliating. I was a pervert… a queer. Somebody to be used. Abused. And still it was exciting. So damned exciting.

Charles fucked for a long time. He realized that I was enjoying the pain he was causing me. And then, after a long, long while of agony, he said to Clarissa, "Move with me."

Suddenly, Clarissa started to milk my cock, which was still in her and which was miraculously still hard.

I hadn't realized how close to an orgasm I was. She had barely begun moving, milking me, when I felt I was near. I was frightened to death that I would come before Charles, and that he would continue.

I moaned, trying to beg Clarissa to at least not make me come. To allow me the incentive of sexual excitement to bear what Charles was forcing on me.

But she didn't stop. She gasped into an orgasm of her own, moving so violently that she took me over the brink with her.

But, thank God, just as I moaned into my own orgasm, I heard Charles moan. He lunged against my ass, spurting into me, as the pressure of his body forced me deeper into Clarissa.

I have to admit that I'd never had a more thrilling orgasm in my life. It seemed to last for a lifetime. It seemed as though it would never stop. I could do nothing but moan, and spurt more and more of my come into Clarissa.

But it had to come to an end. I screamed out in pain as Charles jerked his cock out of me. Already my asshole was sore and raw.

Charles went around the bed, loosening me. When I was free, he told me to get up.

I pulled out of Clarissa, and did as he told me. I wasn't able to look him in the face.

"You'll get better at that," he said. "Now go shower and clean yourself out. You're serving dinner for us tonight."

After I had cleaned up, inside and out, I walked back into the bedroom. Charles and Clarissa were both stretched on the bed, still naked, smoking cigarettes.

"Everything is in the oven," Charles said. "Go start to serve. We'll be out in a minute."

He called after me. "Wear what we have laid out for you," he said.

I walked into the kitchen. Laying on one of the chairs was a maid's outfit. A black skirt and blouse and a white apron. Did they expect me to wear that? They were out of their minds!

"I went to the front door, opened it and ran to the car. I dressed quickly and left. I knew they knew I'd leave… just as well as I knew they knew I'd be back."

As it was mentioned earlier, Paul I. has become so completely preoccupied with searching for a new twist in sexual activity that, even if he permits himself to be subjected to psychotherapy, the chances that he will be able to alter his lifestyle to any appreciable degree is extremely unlikely. Such a pessimistic prognosis is further strengthened by the subject's apparent inability to diversify his interests and by his susceptibility to boredom.

CHAPTER TWO

IF SHE HOLLERS, MAKE HER PAY

Ever since I can remember, I've been the plaything of the Gods. They bounce me around for sport, just to see how I'll react, what I'll do about it – which is nothing. What can one do when everything works against you, conspires to make your life one rotten break after another? You hear women all over the world screaming how their lives would be different if only they were beautiful – but I've got news for them. There's a heavy price to pay for beauty, and fate extracts that price gleefully, over and over and over…

I guess I began to realize it when I was twelve years old. Naturally, I was a lovely child. My hair was a flaming red then, and my child's green eyes looked at you innocently from under long, thick lashes. I knew I was exceptionally pretty, of course. Children are painfully – or smugly – aware of such things. But it never dawned on me that my loveliness at so young an age would be a source of sexual assault.

But since Father is a highly successful corporation attorney, we lived in the East 60's, just off Fifth Avenue, and my playground was Central Park. I had a nanny for years, but by the time I was twelve, I'd managed to scream, yell and nag enough to get rid of the old bag. I insisted I was old enough to take care of myself… my first major mistake.

There used to be a man who came to the park every day, sat on a particular bench, and would watch me playing for hours and hours. We spoke to each other occasionally, and I considered him a friend. One day, after I'd won my own independence from nanny, he asked me if I'd like to take a walk with him. His wife had just baked a whole batch of cookies, and I could have some if I went home with him. So I went. I followed him to the west side of the park and into a rundown building on Central Park West. I guess it had been something pretty great in its day, but it was just a shabby boarding house then. We went to the fifth floor and into his room. There was a sagging double bed, a washbasin, and a wardrobe closet that someone had sprayed with that funny spreckle stuff.

"Here we are, Frieda. It's not much, but it's home."

"Where's your wife and the cookies?"

He looked rather uncomfortable for a moment, then smiled. "Oh, I guess she had to go out for a while, but I do have some cookies," he said. Reaching into a bureau drawer, he pulled out a crumpled package of store-bought cookies – broken and stale. I started to complain, telling him that he'd promised me freshly baked cookies, and carrying on as any spoiled child might. Suddenly he grabbed me by the arm with surprising strength – his grip hurting me.

"Shut up!" he hissed at me. "Shut up or I'll beat the living shit out of you! Sassy little brat, aren't you. Pretty rich kid, gets everything she asks for. Well, you're going to get something from me you never even thought of."

I kept trying to get out of his grip, panic mounting inside me – more at the sudden change in him than anything else, I guess. After all, I was completely innocent of any sexual knowledge, and didn't have enough sense to fear rape. So I kept trying to pull away from him, but he just increased the pressure of his hold on my thin arm, leering at me. There was pure hate and lust in his eyes. His mouth was twisted in a cruel, sloppy expression, and he was scaring me something awful. He kept repeating the same words over and over: "Pretty little rich kid, gets everything she asks for… pretty little rich kid."

I remember that I was too terrified to actually scream, but whimpering sounds seemed to come from somewhere, small pleading noises like a cowering animal's. And somehow, even with one hand clutching my young arm, Mr. G. managed to get his pants undone. I was horrified to see him reach inside his pants with one hairy hand and pull out that huge, red, ugly thing of his. It was enormous! Except for the tip of it, the rest of the bulging flesh looked angry, as if it had been badly scraped, and was raw and painful. His hand wrapped around it as if he were testing it in some way.

"Ever see a real cock, Frieda, little rich girl? Ever have a man fuck you? Shove his big cock up inside of you?"

Mr. G. kept fondling his cock, pressing it with his strong fingers, sort of waving it at me as if he were going to hit me with it. By then, my terror had virtually paralyzed me. I'd heard other kids snickering about their private parts, of course, but I'd never actually seen one, much less had any physical contact with one. Mr. G. seemed to be trembling from some great emotion, yet he seemed in total control of himself. There was no doubt that he knew what he was doing, and had thought it all out carefully beforehand.

"Little rich girl," he growled at me and then smiled in so menacing a way that my fear bordered on hysteria, "you and me are going to have some real nice fun."

Then he twisted my arm behind my back, forcing me toward the bed. I tried to struggle free, but every time I did he just pushed my arm up a little higher along my back until I thought he was going to break it. He swiftly gave me a big push onto the bed, my arm shooting with pain. I could do nothing more than stare at him as he let his trousers and shorts drop to the floor. His prick stood out from him like some raw sausage, bobbing in the air. Mr. G. hurled himself on top of my trembling young body, ripping at my clothes, tearing the buttons from my blouse, and frantically wrenching at my child's bra to get at my budding breasts. When he finally succeeded, he was nearly drooling at the sight of my slight mounds tipped with delicate pink nipples.

He buried his face into the tender flesh of my breasts, his beard scratching at my youthful flesh. Taking one of my nipples between his teeth, he began to tongue it roughly, taking little sharp bites that sent piercing pains to my rib cage. With no way to defend myself, I was helplessly pinned beneath his weight. I tried hitting him on the back and around his ears, but he'd only bite me each time, and the pain was all the worse because I wasn't sure that he didn't intend to take a chunk out of me, not even caring.

Despite my struggling, or maybe because of it, Mr. G. managed to work my panties off. God, I could feel that horribly big and hot club of his pushing at my virgin cunt. I never knew that a man's cock got so hot or so hard – it was like a searing poker against my thighs. Around my pussy, he tried time and time again to shove it into me, humping his body grotesquely. I don't know how much time went by, but finally, snarling in frustration, he grabbed both my legs, and brutally shoved them up into the air, leaving my virgin cunt gaping toward his huge rod. He was hurting me even before he was into me, pushing my legs apart so harshly that the muscles screamed to be returned to a natural position. Then the search for my young hole began in earnest.

"Where's your hole, Goddamn it, bratty little rich kid. Even rich kids have got holes!"

And then I felt its burning wet tip beginning to enter me, stretching me brutally to get up inside. Mr. G. sighed triumphantly, and then – as if I'd been a seasoned whore accustomed to such things – he thrust his prick all the way up inside me, tearing at my guts, pulling at the sensitive flesh until I screamed in agony. He slapped my face to silence me, and I began sobbing quietly. It was like being bayonetted, impaled on a fiery shaft, like being pulled apart. It was the most horrible moment of my life, and I was certain that I was being split in two. No human body could ever survive such searing pain.

His cock screwed me mercilessly, and he kept repeating over and over: "Oh yeah, oh, yeah! Pretty little rich kid." All the while, tears were rolling down my face. My throat ached from the constriction of my horror and sobs.

I tried not to listen to him, but, of course, that was impossible. "Pretty little girl getting her first fuck… I can feel that. Still got her cherry. Her rich, tight cherry. Tight little hole. Pretty hole. Feels real good… real good. That pretty hole around my great big cock. Fucking the pretty little girl… fucking pretty little girl real good… feels great, yeah? Nice tight hole for me to fill up with my prick… pretty baby, I'll fuck the hell out of you."

He continued to talk to himself like that, slamming in and out of my poor assaulted vagina. All I could think of was that if I held very still, maybe it would be all over soon. Just to hold still, not to move. If I'd had any experience, of course, I'd have known that was exactly the wrong thing to do. Mr. G.'s big hands were grabbing at me, squeezing me painfully, and his inflamed penis just pumped and pumped inside of me while he muttered his obscenities.

"Fuckin' you kid… gotta give it to the pretty little girl real good. Real good so she'll know what a man is like and not go around being a cockteaser. Gotta give it to her hard, feel my balls slappin' at her ass… real nice. Got my hot cock all the way up that pretty young hole and – oh, man, oh, man – I'm comin', this is it… I'm comin'… I'm comin' now!"

It was over. The ordeal was finished. He slumped on my body, his breathing rasping on my chest. My feelings? My reactions? How can I describe them… savagely brutalized? No. That's not even scratching the surface. I don't believe I can describe them adequately.

I managed to get dressed and make my way home. I told my mother that I'd been in a fight with some kids at the park, and that was how I'd ruined my clothes. I even told her that I'd started the fight, that it was all my own fault. Looking back on it, I don't doubt that I'd been traumatized, and was in a total state of shock. But that night, as I lay in bed, trying desperately to wipe the rape out of my mind, I couldn't forget how Mr. G. kept calling me a "pretty little rich kid" over and over. I wasn't rich, my father was. And I couldn't help it that I was pretty. I'd always been so pleased about being pretty, perhaps even conceited about it. But was this the result? Was rape and brutality and pain and suffering the reward for beauty? Apparently. For my entire twelve years of life, both my parents – even my nanny – had used my looks as a means of handling me. "Pretty little girls don't do this," or "Pretty little girls don't do that." Every little girl wants to be pretty, so I obeyed. I always obeyed. Well, I'd learned one valuable lesson that day: pretty little girls get fucked.

As I grew older, I could hardly fight the boys off. During my teens, you had to sweep them off the doorstep. And having already lost my cherry, well, I used sex to my advantage. The problem, however, was that my best intentions seemed to ricochet on me, and invariably I was the victim instead of the victor. For instance, during my junior year at high school, I'd gone to a private co-ed camp during Easter vacation, and I'd taken a shine to one of the guys, but he was terribly shy of girls. He'd look at me longingly whenever we were anywhere near each other, but he'd never say a word to me. I noticed that he wasn't so shy with the homely girls. So I confided in one of my camp girl friends that I liked Bill, and what the problem was.

"Well, you certainly can't make yourself ugly just to please Bill," she said philosophically. "If I had your looks, I wouldn't even bother with him. He's not very bright, you know."

"But he's sweet," I explained, too embarrassed to tell her that I adored his velvet brown cow's eyes, his innocent expression, and the fact that he wasn't always making wisecracks or lewd remarks to me like the other boys did.

"Then you'd better just ask him yourself. Don't wait for him to talk to you first. Just go up to him and say, 'Hi, Bill, I'd like to get to know you better, let's go for a walk.' Then see what happens."

Well, that seemed like practical advice. So I did it the following morning. Bill seemed too surprised to object when I took his hand and led him away from the center of the camp, down the hillside, through the thick underbrush toward the small lake where we were all warned to stay away from unless we had a counselor with us. But Bill followed me meekly, his sweaty hand in mine, until I found a nice big shade tree where we could sit down and look at the lake. Almost reluctantly, Bill came over and sprawled out next to me, his eyes glued to the top of my blouse. I'd deliberately undone the top buttons so he could see right down to my bare breasts, I tried to tell Bill how much I liked him, how nice I thought he was, but all he did was keep staring right down my blouse, and shaking his head. I realized that I wasn't getting anywhere at that rate and that I'd just have to continue to take the initiative. So I leaned forward and kissed him right on the lips. He didn't move, made no effort to embrace me or anything, so I brought my body up against his. I'd not worn any underwear at all, so. I could feel his limp prick against the thin material of my shorts.

I began to squirm against his cock as I kissed him, wrapping my arms around his, neck, and I could feel his dick reacting. Spurred by this, I leaned over and stuck my wet tongue in Bill's ear, rubbing my cunt against his groin, Bill seemed to be immobilized with indecision, yet his reaction was unavoidable. I kept right on kissing his ear, and then I took his head between my hand and placed my mouth on his. I stuck my tongue past his lips and inside to wind around Bill's tongue. From the way he reacted, I had to assume it was the first time he'd ever been frenched. He was such a sweet boy, so innocent that my reactions were almost automatic. I was so terribly grateful to him for being the way he was… can you understand that? When you're used to one type of boy, and suddenly you run into a guy who isn't on the make for you… well. Anyway, I rolled off Bill's lap, and started to unbuckle his belt. He started to protest, but I soothed him. "I want to make you happy, Bill, I won't hurt you – honest."

I cautiously worked his zipper down while bringing, my body up so that I was kneeling on either side of him, straddling his thighs. Even though I wasn't totally exposed, I knew that he had a great view of the fullness of my breasts. In that position, I also knew that he'd be able to see my pubic hairs, to see that I had nothing on under my shorts. Bill neither tried to stop me, nor helped me. When I finally had his fly undone and had pulled out his penis, I let out a low moan of appreciation. I held it very gently, not wanting to frighten him off, and just gazed at it in admiration. It was a beautiful cock.

Watching me intently, Bill's breathing was ragged – he seemed scared out of his wits and fascinated at the same time. I smiled at him reassuringly, then slowly brought my head down to the glans, and ran my tongue over it a couple of times, licking at it. Bill moaned incredulously, but his penis bobbed straight up into the air as if straining for more. The sight of his magnificent whang, and wanting to please him… well, I was pretty damned hot for him by then. I watched his big prick as it stood up out of the mass of curly black pubic hair, thinking how lovely his hair would look against my red pubic hair. I stared at his cock for a few more seconds as it bobbed and arched for more kisses, seemingly independent of Bill's conscious thoughts. I assumed, from the way he was behaving, that Bill was a virgin, and that endeared him to me even more. Swiftly, I scrambled out of my clothes.

I reached inside his pants, down between his hot legs, and gently played with his balls, grinning at him and blowing little kisses at the knob of his cock. His balls were like roasted chestnuts in my hand, firm and hot. Then I took his cock in my other hand and began to kiss it, all the way from the bottom of it right on up to the top, where the little hole is. Kissing and licking, and squeezing it with my hand as I went along, and all the while bouncing his balls with my other hand. Bill's breathing was very rapid, and he moaned from time to time, his hips squirming against the grass. When I was certain that his cock was really hot and hard enough, I kissed him again and then raised my hips up directly above his prick, and slowly brought my snatch down onto his anxious cock. I lowered myself on the tip of that big knob, but didn't stick it inside my vagina. Instead, I worked it around my wet pussy, teasing both of us and letting him feel how hot and ready I was, too. Then I gradually and carefully started to lower myself down on his rigid cock. It was divine! I couldn't help squealing with the sensations his cock gave me as it slowly wormed its way inside my cunt.

No guy had ever let me get on top like that before, and I was enjoying the experience. Not to mention, of course, how great it was to be with a fellow who wasn't mauling me with his hands, or putting all of his weight on me uncomfortably. As for Bill, I don't think he was thinking anything. He was only feeling. He had a huge, hot dong that was getting fucked for the first time, and my twat was nice and tight around his stiff cock. Then I began to ride him slowly, easily. Up and down, up and down, feeling the head of his cock stretching my hole sweetly, nicely and snugly as I wriggled my ass to keep his pecker in constant motion. I was so hot myself that I barely noticed how Bill was sweating, how red in the face he was. We were two healthy people doing what came naturally. Bill began to raise up his hips to meet me, to pump that lovely meat of his into me and help me out. I suppose that by then Bill was so hot that nothing was going to interfere with getting his rocks off.

Now that Bill was helping me, shoving his cock up into me, I was able to position myself differently so that each time he pushed his whang into me, I could ride my clitoris along the surface of his cock. It also enabled me to let my breasts drape across his face, the hardened nipples knocking at his lips for attention. That turned the trick for me. Feeling that big, burning shaft of his sliding in and out of me, and having my clit ride it, too, feeling the hot slime of his cock teasing my button, being surrounded by country smells of clean earth and foliage, hearing the lake's little waves lapping at the shore – it was a fantastic experience. My pink nipples had shriveled up to nubbins with sensation as his big cock was hitting against my cervix – I was really going wild!

"Kiss my titties, Billy, kiss my titties," I pleaded. Like some big fish, his mouth slowly opened to let me push my tit into it. I was delirious with sensation, with sexual joy, and I began to slam my cunt against Bill's groin, shoving his prick in and out of me savagely, feeling how beautifully it worked inside of me, because it was covered with his juices and mine. I was so hot that even I broke out in a sweat. I was getting a special kick out of watching Billy, enjoying the way his eyes looked back at me, hot with animal lust. And yet, somehow, there was fear in them, too. But the way his mouth was working on my breast, suckling my nipple, I knew how good it had to be for Billy as well, and that he'd do anything to keep fucking me. I worked his big cock inside me as if I owned it – slamming and sliding, shoving and pushing, twisting around and around, up and down, letting my clit graze across him constantly until I felt my whole body getting all tensed up and ready. I felt those wild tingles and thrills running all through me, up from my sopping pussy right up to my throat. It built and built, and I fucked Bill harder and harder.

Then I was pulling on Bill's hair and yelling, "I'm coming, Billy, come with me… come with me… shoot inside of me… come with me, Billy, now… now!" I remember my stifled scream as Bill's sperm began to shoot against the wall of my womb, and his teeth clamped down on my tit painfully. Simultaneously, I exploded into spasm after spasm, my snatch clutching at Bill's bursting cock until I could feel his hot come slopping back down my hole as I humped and humped at him, actually beginning to enjoy the pain of his teeth digging into my breast. But then it was over. Bill let go, gasping for air.

I recall that even while I was still panting, still recovering from the intensity of my orgasm, I looked down at my breast and saw Bill's teethmarks. It gave me a strange sort of pleasure to see the red welts so neatly outlined on my soft, white flesh… a very strange pleasure. I can still remember even sort of hoping that they wouldn't disappear, but stay there like a tattoo, a reminder.

There is a strong suggestion, primarily in the seeming non sequitur of Frieda L.'s early rape experience and her subsequent seduction of her high school "boyfriend" Billy, that Frieda is being either consciously or unconsciously dishonest with herself as far as her claimed reactions to the rape are concerned or that she is for some reason concealing a transitional incident or incidents between that rape encounter and her seduction of Billy. Even if one considers the passage of time between Frieda's encounter with the pedophiliac in the park – she was twelve, then, she says – and her junior year in high school, there is conflict between her claimed reactions to the rape and her thoroughly active role in her sexual congress with Billy. The attitudes toward sex of the Frieda of twelve and the Frieda of sixteen are so contrasting as to strain the credibility of Frieda's narrative.

Of course, Frieda admits that she had had other sexual encounters after the rape and before Billy. She states that during her teens she used sex to her advantage. It is also, of course, quite possible that time had softened the memory of the trauma of her rape; although the vivid recollection of that rape as presented by her appears to belie such a supposition. It appears that the clue to the whole paradox of Frieda lies in her statement: "the problem… was that my best intentions seemed to ricochet on me, and invariably I was the victim instead of the victor." And that clue only becomes apparent through interpretation after the whole of Frieda's narrative is considered. The reason for this is that the terms "victim" and "victor" do not hold the same meaning for the subject as they would for the average individual. Not only that. It appears that Frieda is either uncertain of the meaning of the terms herself, or is unwilling consciously to accept the reversed definitions of the term provided by her subconscious.

What she in fact means is that she is a "victim" when her desire for a violent sexual session is not fulfilled, and that she is a "victor" if such sublimated wishes are realized and she becomes in fact the receptor of the violence she craves.

The peculiar nature of the subject's psyche is that she does not appear to enjoy the violence at the time of its commission, but relishes rather the memory of it, the reliving of it, so to speak, in her mind. In a way, her case could be compared to the case of a habitual masturbator who intersperses his or her autoerotic practices with an occasional participation in coital activities with a bona fide partner. Such an individual derives more pleasure from the masturbation, or appears to, than he does from hetero – or homosexual congress; although he or she utilizes the memory images of actual coupling for his masturbatory acts. Of course, Frieda does not appear to resort to masturbation for gratification of her sexual urges; rather, she attempts to seek out someone who will give substance to the memories that afford her a sensuous thrill. It is but suggested by her at the end of the preceding portion of her narrative that to attain orgasm she must simultaneously experience the coital act and the infliction of pain upon her body.

The psychology of masochism, as briefly described by Samuel G. Kling in his Sexual Behavior and the Law, sheds considerable light on Frieda L.'s case. Kling states:

… There are similarities between sadism and masochism, despite their apparent differences. Freud thought masochism a kind of sadism, turned against oneself, while sadism is a kind of masochism turned against others. Best illustrating the fact that sadism and masochism often co-exist in the same person is the following clinical observation:

"A. B… 35 years of age, a manual laborer, likes to be beaten and chained by his wife, and to surrender himself entirely to her. She satisfies her husband's desires only to a very limited extent, so that their sexual relationship does not permit a full expression of the man's feelings. For this reason, the man indulges in various acts of autosadism, notably by wounding himself with a knife, in order to produce a seminal emission. These wounds are made on the buttocks. He also frequently feels a desire to perform sadistic acts on his wife. From time to time, according to his means, he also visits prostitutes and indulges in flagellation. The two perversions never coincide, so that his desires are sometimes sadistic, at other times masochistic."

There can be almost no question that Frieda's masochism commenced with her preteen rape by the conniving pedophiliac. However, it was not so much the act of defloration that set off Frieda's suppressed desires for more of the same, but the form of address that the pedophiliac used while violating the girl. His almost incessant reference to her as "pretty rich kid", "pretty little rich kid", "little rich girl" and "pretty little girl" delivered in an obviously condemnatory or accusing manner, must account for the force that triggered Frieda's neurosis. She was, and is, aware of the fact that she was and is extremely attractive. It is an attractiveness, however, which she was forced to believe at the time of the rape as something undesirable, something for which she needed to be punished. Having had no sexual experience prior to her rape, she was emotionally terrorized by the violence, yet, most probably, had derived some natural physiological pleasure from the act. The result was a complex interacting of erroneous beliefs that there could be no pleasure unless there was an infliction of pain, or of some violence, involved, that beauty was a curse rewarded by such violent pleasure, and that in fact it was her lot to be punished for her attractiveness.

That Frieda holds a potential for masochism's "other face", that is, sadism, is suggested by her statement: "No guy had ever let me get on top like that before, and I was enjoying the experience." Granted, that it is a mild suggestion of a desire to turn the tables, so to speak, on "her curse", but it is a suggestion nevertheless. Her selection of Billy, apparently an attractive boy in her words, is an indication that there was some sort of subconscious rationalization on the subject's part that gender was not a factor in the "beauty is a cure" belief; consequently, it is not improbable that Frieda had an urge to master Billy in her seduction of him. Apparently, however, her masochistic inclinations were and are greater than her sadistic ones and it is not probable that she will ever succeed in a reversal of what must be termed her "perverse inclinations", mild though they are.

The remaining portion of her narrative confirms this doubt.

It's really rather funny, I guess, if you have a cosmic sense of humor. Some people seem to lead charmed lives, and no matter how much shit they wallow in, they always come up smelling like roses. And mine is the reverse. Good background, good education, money, beauty, the whole ball of wax – and no matter what I do, I foul it up somehow. There could be two hundred people in a restaurant, and I would get the only bent fork, or the splinter in the bleacher, or the chair with one leg short, or the table that wobbles… and guess who the drink gets spilled on.

I married the boy most likely to succeed in college, and we had two children. He walked out on me ten years ago… said he couldn't stand living in constant darkness. I still don't really know what he meant by that. My children went to private schools, and vacations were split between my ex and me. When they were with me, it was like a houseful of strangers. They'd whisper a great deal, excluding me totally. Although they're well-mannered and polite to me, you'd never know I was their mother. I tried to show them love and affection, I'd hug and praise them. But when I would, they'd howl that I was hurting them, or that I didn't really mean it. No matter what I'd do, it seemed to be wrong.

As it is, women are suspicious of me and resent me, and men either want to fuck me or are worried that they might want to fuck me eventually, so they stay away from me. I'm a walking disruption, a human upset of the balance of things – and only because of my face and figure. It's hell, I tell you! I didn't ask to be beautiful. Knowing now what I know about the frigging burden of it all, I'd never want to be beautiful if I had to live my life over again. Humans seem to be terrified, of extremes – extreme deformity or extreme beauty seem to create a threat. I don't know why. And, Goddammit, when I let a guy fuck me, when I really want to get laid by someone in particular, he takes my body and then hates me for it. Then you ask why I drink.

I'll give you a classic example. Frank was a big wheel with an advertising agency, a vice president or something. We'd met at several parties, and I liked him. He was soft-spoken, nice-looking, well-traveled and assured. He asked me out for a date, and I accepted. We went to the theater, then out for a light supper. It was a charming, cordial evening, and I was very relaxed with Frank. He didn't drool over me as so many men had, their lascivious eyes glinting in the candlelight. So when he suggested that we go back to his place for our cognac, I smiled and agreed. He lived on Sutton Place South. Neither of us said much as the taxi wormed its way across town to the plush condominiums overlooking the East River. Frank took my elbow and guided me past the doorman to the silent elevator, and preceded me into his lovely apartment. He turned on a few low-watt lamps, started the hi-fi, and poured us both generous ponys of Remy. We toasted one another silently, witnessed only by the mute blinking lights of Queens across the river.

It was simply understood that we'd make love. I excused myself to repair to the bathroom. When I came out, Frank was already in his king-size bed waiting for me. My brandy was on the night table, along with my cigarettes and lighter. I took my cue, and I began to undress for him. And I mean "for him". Nothing so vulgar as a bump-and-grind strip, rather the slow, deliberate movements of a woman who looks forward to getting laid by someone new, and who wants him to see just what it is she has to offer.

I slinked into the bed next to him, my firm breasts arching away from my rib cage, and I didn't bother to cover them with the sheet. Frank handed me my cognac. As I took a sip, he leaned over and took one of my breasts in his mouth, tonguing the nipple gently. Frank turned me on – plain and simple. His whole approach to me was perfect… he knew all my buttons and when to push them. Impishy, I put my drink down, then slowly slid the sheet away from our bodies so I could get a good look at Frank's equipment. He was, tanned all over and nicely built, as I'd hoped. And I was especially pleased to note that he didn't have a hard on yet. He had a nice cock and big balls, and he looked very clean. Some men don't, you know. There were curly, white hairs mixed with the dark hairs on his chest and around his cock, and I wondered briefly if Frank was older than I had thought.

Frank continued to fondle my tits, first one then the other, and I reached over and touched his cock softly. I felt Frank's body tense at the touch. I leaned forward, letting my red hair cascade across his abdomen, and planted a small kiss on the tip of his penis. It twitched slightly, and I smiled to myself. Then I began to kiss along the sides of his shaft, letting my tongue trail along, wrapping it on the underside of his prick and licking in long, educated strokes. I could feel his cock reacting to my kisses, and nothing gives me a bigger thrill than to be rewarded for my efforts.

Frank brought my hand down to his balls, his face nuzzled between my full breasts. He kept his hand on mine as I cupped his balls with my palm, bouncing first one, then the other as if I were trying to guess their weight. Then he removed his hand, and began to run it lightly along the length of my body. There's something wonderfully sensuous about being touched like that, something that makes your whole body feel alive and hot and desirable.

And while we touched each other that way, I studied his cock, marveling anew at how smooth the male glans is. There was something especially innocent about Frank's prick. Some men have very ugly cocks, veined to the point of deformity, dry-skinned and wrinkled. But Frank's was smooth and young – looking, vigorously resilient. The little hole at the tip of his penis had filled up with his advance lubrication, and like a child, I watched his prick in fascination. I wanted to taste it, to languorously make love to Frank even as he was doing to me. So with my free hand, I took his shaft and brought the big knob right into my mouth. I ran my hot tongue across it, and the fluid's slightly salty flavor blended well with the taste of cognac in my mouth. I savored the taste of him, the size of his cock in my mouth, the feeling of that big head rubbing against my cheeks, growing bigger and bigger within me. By then, Frank was licking and kissing my torso, especially my waist – and I love to have my waist kissed. I closed my eyes, and imagined what the two of us would look like to an onlooker, and the whole vision really turned me on. When Frank began to take little nibbles with his teeth, I could barely control myself, and I changed my position so that I could straddle his legs and rub my creaming cunt against his knee.

By then, I was really wet down there, and I just seemed to slide against him. He held very still so I could rub myself on him wherever it felt best to me. It was delicious to be in bed with a man who wasn't in a hurry. Rubbing my clitoris all over his knee was sending wild tingles all through me… I even began to perspire – which I rarely do – at the hollow of my back, behind my own knees and between my breasts. God, I was hot!

Frank had propped himself up against the headboard so he could watch me – that, too, stimulated me. Knowing that Frank could see my body entirely naked, rubbing myself against him and sucking on his cock all at the same time… it made me feel so perfectly wanton, I loved it! I wished to hell I could have gotten something up inside of me while I was licking his hot dick and rubbing against him, but I was also worried that I'd come too soon and destroy the illusion of our first fuck together. But Frank had expertise, and when I felt his hands gently taking my hips and guiding me around so that my ass was sticking in front of his face, I knew that I wasn't with a phony. Frank enjoyed making love, obviously, and a man who prefers making love over plain fucking is always a better lover.

He began to run a wet finger up and down the crack of my ass, blowing his hot breath on my rectum, teasing my asshole with his finger, and then letting his finger run down into my snatch. He'd pretend to go up inside my vagina for a few seconds, then taking a couple of swipes at my clitoris, tormented the sensitive button to where even I could feel how engorged it was getting. It was wonderful. Frank pinched at my clit a few times, sending shivers of delight all through me. Each time he'd pinch my clitoris, his teeth would sink into my buttocks as if he were taking a bite from an enormous peach. It hurt, yes, but it was a good kind of hurt. I'd learned to appreciate the pleasure-pain principle. If you can understand the cultivated taste for sweet-sour flavors, you should be able to understand pleasure-pain. I enjoyed being hurt a little during lovemaking… perhaps it's akin to pinching yourself when something's too good to be true.

We toyed with each other that way for quite some time, and a few times I was perilously close to orgasm. But Frank seemed to know it, and would take a love bite out of me. The pain was a distraction. Finally, he stopped playing with me, and I knew it was because I'd tongued his cock enough for him to get down to serious business. With both his hands, he brought my hips to his face and began to tongue my cunt. Frank laved my vulva methodically, licking at it, then sticking his tongue up inside my vagina and tongue-fucking me. Then he grabbed my clitoris between his lips and made those pinchings again as his tongue rolled the hard nub around and around at the same time, and then let go just long enough to bite my clitoris and start the process all over again. His hands came around and cupped my breasts. He teased my nipples, running his palms up and down my rib cage, forcing me to be aware of my entire body. I knew that Frank was enjoying himself, that he was loving every second of sucking on my hot box, mostly by the way he so avidly lapped up all the hot juices my twat kept oozing out. So many men muff a woman because they feel they should, that she likes it – so give the kid a thrill. But with Frank it was different. He really enjoyed it, loved the taste of cunt – and that makes a world of difference to a woman and how she reacts.

Because of his attitude, I intensified my devotion to his turgid cock, longingly sucking on it in the hopes of giving him as much pleasure as he was giving me. It wasn't too very long before I could feel his prick getting ready to ejaculate, and I was very happy for Frank, and happy for myself. I wanted him to come in my mouth, I wanted to taste his semen to take it all in my mouth and swallow it for him so that he would know how much I appreciated his lovemaking.

Before long, Frank began to hump his thick hard cock into my mouth against my throat, and I was very careful to keep my lips over my teeth so that I wouldn't hurt him. Yet it was difficult to concentrate when what he was doing to my cunt felt so wonderful. I pushed my twat against his face, rubbed myself over his nose and let his tongue lap at me, his teeth nibbling like a sex obsessed mouse.

I began to orgasm before Frank, but the knowledge of it tripped his own orgasm, and his sperm shot into my mouth in great rhythmic waves, keeping time to my own vaginal spasms. As we both spasmed, Frank dug his fingers deeply into my flesh as if he could squeeze more and more out of my vagina, and I experienced my first double orgasm. The second one was very minor in comparison, but it seemed to drain every ounce of strength I possessed. I don't mind admitting that I was very proud of myself for being capable of a double orgasm. You hear of such things, but I never expected to be able to experience it.

Later, lounging in bed, catching our breath and sipping on our drinks, Frank asked me if I was aware of my masochistic tendencies. I recall that I laughed, and told him that he was being silly. But he was being very serious very.

"Have you ever gone to bed with a brute, Frieda?" Frank asked me… "A real brute… an ape of a man, an animal?"

"Of course not," I answered. My subconscious thrust my childhood experience with Mr. G. to the surface, but I could hardly count rape with a dirty old man as the same thing. But now that I think about it, I did experience a dim kind of excitement at the recollection of that rape, a strange kind of smug satisfaction. It was as if I'd been the victor rather than the victim. Of course, that's silly, and I don't know why I'm even saying such a ridiculous thing.

Frank and I saw each other several more times, but his interest in me seemed to cool, although I couldn't tell you why. Ultimately he was transferred to his company's London office for an indefinite length of time… It was just another cruel example of my rotten luck. I had thought we were getting along splendidly, was even beginning to think about marriage again when Frank cops out to London. But what he'd said that first date, that business about my being a masochist or going to bed with an ape, kept coming back to my mind over and over again. Perhaps Frank's departure tripped what happened next, or maybe I would have done it anyhow… I don't know. But the idea of going to bed with a brute became almost an obsession with me. And one evening, as if I were dreaming, I found myself down somewhere near Delancey Street, near the docks on the West Side, in a grimy bar that even a truck driver would be afraid to enter alone. And I was alone. Dressed in a light summer suit, my perfume bravely trying to overwhelm the stench of stale beer and cheap whiskey, I stood at the bar as if I went to that sort of place every day. I've forgotten how I got there, or what events led up to it. I only remember that I was there, frightened, excited, and doing my level best to appear composed.

Before I knew how it had happened – and I must stress that the whole situation is like a haze to me, as if it were happening to someone else entirely – I was in a cheap hotel room with two young laborers. Longshoremen, probably. One was named Tom, as I recall, and the other's name was Mike. Tom was the younger of the two, a dirty blond with a sinewy build who seemed to take his orders from Mike.

I'll dispense with the sordid conversation and atmosphere. Suffice it to say that everything happened rapidly, with as much finesse as a pile driver. My clothes were ripped to shreds from my body, and I was thrown on top of the foul-smelling bed. Tom was under me as soon as I struggled to my hands and knees, his chest beneath my breasts, his legs stretched out ahead of me, and his cock standing up like the flagpole on the capitol.

"Okay, Tom, do your thing," the other punk consented while grabbing at my hips. As soon as I felt Tom's tongue lapping on my cunt, roughly and greedily solely for his own strange pleasure, I felt a rigid poker searing up to my rectum, and entering me in that tiny anal orifice, going up and up, ripping me apart. I screamed. I heard Mike laughing, his rough hands brutally clinging to my hips as he savagely fucked my asshole. At first I thought I'd go mad from the humiliation and the physical pain of it, but then something seemed to happen within me… something I can't explain even to this day.

I began to weep. Not the tears of anguish, as you might expect, but tears of relief. After a while, it wasn't so unbearably painful any more. I even began to find some pleasure in it. I could feel the head of Mike's cock each time it squeezed past my anal opening, and feel his hands grabbing at my breasts cruelly while he humped into my ass deeper and deeper. Yet all the time he was doing that, I could also feel Tom's tongue on my cunt, hear the way he slurped at my snatch, his loud gulping swallows of my juices, which, independent of any conscious thought, were flowing from my gaping vagina. Tom's groans reverberated throughout my body, meeting with Mike's prick deep within my rectum. Strangely, I was loving it. I felt the heat of sex gathering in my loins, felt the urgent tension of my body screaming for release, and all the while there was Tom's rockhard cock bobbing before my eyes, begging for some attention.

The way Mike was holding my hips I doubt that I could have fallen over. Nonetheless I balanced myself on one hand and reached for the blond boy's prick with the other hand, trying to bring it up to my lips, to my mouth so I could suck on it while I got fucked and sucked. I wanted to know that every orifice in my body was occupied with the sexual act so that I would come all over… every part of me would orgasm. But I'd waited too long. I was too close to my own release. I gripped his cock tightly as my body exploded with violent spasms, my rectum clutching tightly at Mike's prick as he spewed his molten sperm into my ass. Calling me names while he orgasmed, he twisted my tits brutally with his callused hands. When he was through, and had let go of me, I collapsed across Tom's body, his cock inches from my eyes – I was surprised to see that he'd come all by himself. His prick was limp, lying in a puddle of his own ejaculation, slowly running down his groin to his balls.

It had been such a strange experience for me, such a violent one, that I felt totally drained of all thought or care. I lay there exhausted and unfeeling. Sated, I suppose, in a way I'd never known before, I was amazed at how much I'd enjoyed such a savage act of sex. Mike had brought a bottle of booze with him, and after taking a slug of it, he passed it to Tom, who then passed it to me. At first I declined, but Mike grabbed me by my hair and told me to take a drink or he'd ram the bottle up my ass. I did as I was told, too weak to argue.

No sooner had I complied than Mike yanked the bottle from my hands, and shoved his groin into my face.

"I got other plans for your mouth, sweetheart. You're gonna suck my cock hard again, hard as baked shit, and you're gonna suck me real nice till I shoot my come down your gullet!"

"But it's been inside my asshole," I protested, "you haven't even washed it…"

Mike's grin was not a pretty sight. Twisting my hair painfully, leering at me with cold, hate-filled eyes, he rubbed his limp, feces-encrusted cock across my lips. "If you don't suck it, baby, I'll gouge out your eye and fuck the socket. Take your pick."

His imagery horrified me, the mere fact that he could think of such a thing terrified me. And, needless to say, I quickly realized that I was not dealing with normal, civilized people. These two were worse than apes, and capable of any foul act just for the kicks of it. I began to lave Mike's limp prick, half sick to my stomach from the taste of it, and half scared to death. I sensed, rather than knew, that Mike didn't need much excuse to either beat me to a pulp or murder me, and I didn't doubt for a moment that he'd enjoy fucking a corpse. Occasionally, I'd gag, but Mike would twist my hair until I was sure he would leave me bald.

And as I tongued his revolting cock, Tom once again began to suck my vulva, to lick at the insides of my thighs, my asshole.

"Get outa there, Tom!" my tormentor commanded. "Hump her ass… then we'll make her suck your cock, too. Hurry up!"

The boy did as he was told, though reluctantly. But no sooner did Tom start to fuck my ass than Mike's cock came up to an incredible hard on. By then the taste of his cock was practically a normal one, and as Mike watched Tom's cock gliding in and out between the cheeks of my ass, he matched Tom's strokes, shoving his cock deeper and deeper into my throat.

Perhaps these brutes never learned to control their orgasms, I don't know. It did seem to me that both of them orgasmed very quickly. They simply collapsed on the bed after that, leaving me hot as hell and unsatisfied. I waited for them to get their breath, and then began to beg them to fuck me right, to let me have an orgasm, too. But that was a mistake. Mike sat up slowly, glaring at me, whispered something about a whining bitch, and slapped me across the face, telling me to shut up. There were a few other sordid details involved with that ghastly night, but they're too painful to discuss. I was held there all night long, while Tom was sent out to fetch other men. Mike charged them one dollar – one dollar! – to fuck the beautiful bitch. By the time they left me, I was too sick and wracked even to crawl out of that place.

It's strange, really. While I would never ever want to encourage such a thing happening again, I do take some pleasure in remembering it. I can't explain why, really. But, somehow, I seem to attract men who enjoy being cruel in one way or another. I'm not really a bitch, so I can't understand why this happens. Yet, invariably, the men who are attracted to me enjoy hurting me – either physically or emotionally. I must resort to what I said earlier: beauty is a curse. If you're beautiful, you're resented. And when you're resented, people want to hurt you. I don't understand it.

It is felt that prognosis here can be relatively optimistic. Frieda L. appears to be intelligent enough to understand the erroneousness of her rationalization and of her beliefs. The fact that she does not accept her masochistic tendencies, or does not seem to recognize them, should make the matters even easier for the psychotherapist, because it is felt that the subject simply wishes someone to reveal to her, publicly, so to speak, the nature of her problem and the potential seriousness of it, at which point she should be able to get back on the road to sexual normalcy.

CHAPTER THREE

THE WHIPPING POST

I was born two years before Lori, so you would think that I would be the one to say what should happen or what we should do, but I never got the chance to say anything.

My mother, Sheila, was a child bride. She admits that she has always been oversexed, and she raised her kids to be the same way.

She is a honey blonde, with long, straight hair that hangs way down her back. Her complexion is the light, Nordic kind that sort of goes with her hair. She has beautiful blue eyes and a pretty mouth. Her bod is simply glorious with nice plump boobs that are not too big and not too small – just right. Lori is just like her, but Lori is a mean bitch, always has been. With me, anyway, and with others, too, I guess.

Lori was always paddling my ass when we were kids, and I got so I wouldn't take a deep breath without asking Lori if it was okay. That was all right with Sheila. She was always telling me to ask Lori if I could do things, and I sort of got used to it. But, like I say, Lori is a mean bitch.

Sheila was always working so she let Lori run things in the house. By the time I was twelve, I was used to Lori and the way she was. In spite of her years, she was growing up to have a beautiful shape. Her hair was a little darker than Sheila's – she let it grow long, too.

Well, I was always beating my meat, because I was big for my age, and had a big cock. I think that watching Lori around the house got me turned on a lot of times. Too, knowing that she would wallop my ass for the least little thing always kept me in a state of sexual excitement. Then there was this one day when everything changed.

It was a Friday afternoon, and Lori was pushing me around, but I didn't feel like doing what she wanted me to do. I forget now what it was, but she got really sore. Lori told me to go to my room, and she would be in shortly. I was sure she was going to give me one hell of a spanking.

I obeyed her for there wasn't anything else for me to do. She came into my room a few minutes later with a thick strap in her hands. I was told to take my pants off, which I did. Then she told me to take off my underpants. That seemed strange, but I had the feeling she really wanted to give me that strap where it did the most good, so off came the undershorts.

She stood for a moment or two just looking at my naked body, and as she did so, I began to get excited. My cock grew and was soon a roaring hard piece of meat. Then she told me to bend over the bed, and, man, she started to wallop my bare ass with that mean strap-slap, slap, slap! I could feel my flesh getting hot red hot-from those lashes she was giving me. Then I felt a slight stinging in my balls and between my ass cheeks. It almost felt good. I could feel my cock was still hard as a rock.

She seemed to keep up the swatting for a long time, then the slaps seemed to get lighter, and I began to enjoy it. I could feel a tingling way down inside me as if I were about to shoot my load. The more Lori slapped my ass, the closer I got to coming. Wow, what a feeling.

Then Lori told me to roll over. And to my complete surprise, she grabbed my cock and began jacking me off as if she was an expert. Well, it wasn't long before I began to twitch and squirm, and, finally, I shot my big load all over her hand and my stomach. All remembrance of the pain she had just given me was gone forgotten as I unloaded my hot come.

Lori just smiled as I finished coming, and without a word, she left the room, telling me to clean up and stay right where I was. Well, I did as I was told, but my mind was sure asking a lot of questions.

The telephone rang, and Lori answered it. I could hear her conversation from the hall, and I knew it was Sheila. "That's right," Lori said, "he came all over the place. I guess our little boy has grown up at last." Lori was silent for a second and then she giggled. "I just might do that," she panted. "I have been wanting to do that for a long time, and I'm sure our little boy won't complain about my doing that to him."

Of course, I had no idea what they were talking about, so I returned to the edge of my bed and waited. It wasn't long until Lori came back and stood in front of me staring at my nakedness. I got a funny feeling as she did this, and I could feel my prick getting hard again. Man, I thought, now what is going to happen?

Lori didn't say a word as she reached forward and grabbed my cock once again, just like she had done before. She put one hand under my balls, and cupped them tenderly, while her other hand began pumping my cock slowly. She kept this up for a few minutes, until I felt myself starting to get ready to come. Lori must have sensed this, too, for she smiled at me, and bent over, her mouth enclosing around the head of my cock. Oh, man, that was a terrific feeling, despite my surprise. I couldn't hold back any longer as her mouth began to replace her hands. And come I did, right into her mouth. She sucked me until I was soft again. Then she took her mouth away and licked her lips. She sat up, and I could see that she was really turned on. Putting her hand under my balls, she said, "I don't have to ask how you liked that, brother, dear. From now on I will keep you busy. I love sucking you off. I really, really do."

I stared at her, and I could feel my face getting red. I was scared, but I threatened her anyway. "I'm going to tell Sheila," I said. "I'm going to tell her what you did."

She just laughed at me. "Are you really going to tell her, Peter, dear?" she asked. "Are you?"

Her warm hand was squeezing my nuts, and it was hurting me. She was waiting for me to answer her. I shook my head, and she just laughed then. She got up and started for the bathroom. I reached for my shorts and my pants, but she told me to forget it. She said that she would be right back, and then we would have some more fun.

After she came out of the bathroom, she told me to lie down on the bed. Then Lori got between my legs, and started playing with my dick again. Despite my confused state of mind, the whole thing turned me on again, and my hard on returned quickly. As soon as she felt my cock get hard, she put her mouth over it and began sucking me off again. Wow, despite the fact that I had already shot my load twice, the whole idea of having a girl suck my cock really turned me on, and I could feel the come starting to rise in my balls.

It wasn't long before I groaned my way into another terrific orgasm – right into Lori's mouth. But she wouldn't stop. She kept on sucking and sucking, trying to drain every drop of come I had in my two balls. This went on the greater part of the afternoon, until I was so tired I was half asleep. I couldn't even get a hard on after a while. Finally, she left me lying half dead on the bed, and went off to do her work in the kitchen. By the time Mother got home, Lori had dinner ready and on the table.

All through dinner, Lori and my mother kept looking at each other and then at me, giggling and carrying on like they had a private little joke between themselves. But Lori didn't say a word about what had happened between the two of us that afternoon. I just ate in silence – hell, what else could I do! Certainly couldn't blurt out saying, "Boy, did Lori ever give me some good blow jobs today, Mom."

Mother had a date for that night, but it was a house date which meant that Lori and I would have to go to the movies. But, I didn't mind that much. My mother smiled at me as she said that Lori and I could see the picture we had been talking about.

"You come along with me, dear," Sheila said to Lori. "You can keep me company while I shower and change."

Lori stood up, and turned to look at me. She had a mean look on her face. "You clean up the table and do the dishes," she said to me. "If I have to wait because you haven't done your work by the time I am ready to go, I will use the strap on your rear end again. But good this time."

Sheila heard her, and smiled at Lori as she patted her on the head. "I'm so sorry that Peter is such a bad boy, dear," Sheila said. "I'm so glad that you are willing to discipline him. I know that he needs it."

Sheila turned to give me a stern look. "You be a good boy and do as Lori tells you," she said. "You just be glad that you have a beautiful young sister who looks after you for me."

They went off to Mom's bedroom as I began clearing the table and washing the dishes. I knew that Lori was always making me do things that boys shouldn't have to do, but I didn't really mind. Or maybe I did. I think I was afraid of Lori, but I don't know why. When she spoke, I jumped, and if I didn't jump fast enough to suit her, I got hit.

I had everything finished, and was waiting for Lori when she and Sheila showed up in the kitchen again. Sheila had a pretty miniskirt and pantyhose on. Her legs and thighs were so beautiful I got horny just looking at them. She had a thin sweater on, too, and it was showing off her boobs – that got me stirred up, too. Lori and I went to the movies. I was surprised again when Lori slipped her hand into my fly and held my cock all through the show. I was hardly able to concentrate on the picture.

We got home when it was very late, and Lori didn't even mention holding my dick. She told me to get to bed, and I obeyed her. She went into the big bedroom, and I heard her talking to Sheila before she closed the door. They shared the big king-size bed. Both seemed to be always very lovey-dovey. I guessed that Sheila and Lori would sit up for a long while talking about the date and movie.

I went to bed, but I was so stirred up from Lori holding my cock that I had to beat my meat to relieve myself. I finally popped into a couple of tissues, and then I went to sleep.

When I got up in the morning, I made some coffee and then I carried a cup of it to Mom's bedroom. I knocked on the door, but no one answered so I thought that they were asleep. Slowly I opened the door, and walked in. To my shock they were in the midst of making love to each other. I just stood staring at the two of them. I could see Lori was on top of Sheila, and her bare butt was sticking up in the air. Sheila's mouth covered Lori's lower parts, and Lori was eating away at Mom. I guess I was just too stunned to know what I was looking at. The two of them were shaking and squirming and making crazy noises. Then Lori rolled over, sat up and stared at me. Sheila had her legs tight together, a wild, crazy look in her eyes. Lori was looking at me with a grin on her face. Her mouth was wet, and it glistened as she kept licking her lips. I started to back out of the room, but Lori stopped me.

"Don't go, little brother," she called. "You stay right here. Sheila and I are very interested in you right now."

I didn't know what to do. Mom was gazing at me as if she was drunk. I had never seen her like that. Lori crooked her finger at me, and when I hesitated she got nasty. She told me to hurry and get over to her or she would beat the hell out of me. I went to her. Hell, she opened my pants and pushed them down. Then she had my cock in her hand and she was jerking me off. Sheila made a funny, moaning sound, and then she, too, went right for my cock. She got her mouth over it, and began sucking it. Boy, she was really an expert. She made me come in a hurry, and all the while she acted like she was crazed with a hunger for the stuff that came out of my prick. She just couldn't seem to get enough of it. The first time she made me come she hurt me something awful, and it was only when I was able to figure things out that I realized she had a habit of biting a little with her teeth just when my cock started shooting. That hurt like hell, but I sort of liked it after I got used to it.

They seemed to like feeling my body, especially my cock and balls, and Lori began kissing me and sticking her tongue into my mouth while Sheila was sucking me again. Then Lori was sucking me while Sheila was kissing me and licking my nipples. After a while she was down between my legs, and her tongue was all over. Just as she slid her tongue into my asshole, Lori sure got a gusher of my come. I went ape once I felt Sheila's tongue in my asshole. They seemed to know that I would react like that.

They just wouldn't stop. After a while I was in a daze, like I was drifting on a nice big cloud, and every time they made me come it felt like I was spilling out boiling hot water. It was a lovely sensation. When they stopped, I went right to sleep, but I could still feel my whole crotch hurting and burning, and the head of my cock tingling, stinging and smarting because of the harsh way they had sucked on it. The funny thing was I liked the feeling. It was really more pleasurable than hurting.

When I woke up, Sheila was sitting on the edge of the bed. She had on shorts and a blouse, and her face was all prettied up – she looked real nice. Mom smiled at me as she patted my forehead. When she saw that I was awake, she bent down and kissed me right on the mouth. It was a real sexy kiss.

I was still stark naked. She put her hand on my cock, and soon it was stiff again. Then she rubbed it up and down a little. She broke our kiss and said, "I had no idea my little boy was so grown up," she said. "So big down where it counts."

Then she kissed me again. Lori walked into the room wearing one of her short miniskirts. Lori came over to the bed, put one knee on the edge of it, and smiled down at me. I could tell she was getting turned on all over again. At least I was. The way she was standing I could see that she had nothing on under the miniskirt. I could see her little clam, and when she saw me looking at it, she opened her legs so that I could get a good look. Sheila straightened up, and smiled up at Lori.

"Oh, you're such a hot little minx," she said. "Is there no limit to the naughty things you will make us do to please you?"

Lori laughed at her and shook her head. "You know that you'll enjoy anything I can think up. Peter will, too. The meaner I am to him, the hotter he gets. He is a real live masochist, and I just love making him happy. We are going to have such wonderful times. You'll see."

Sheila sighed, and then let go of my cock. She reached for a cigarette from the pack on the nightstand, and while she was getting it lit, she watched Lori and me. Lori had very definite ideas. She got onto the bed, and straddled my chest so I could see her hairless little cunt. She pushed it right into my mouth. When she told me to suck her for a while, I was eager to do it. I could hear Sheila teasing her about being such a hot piece as I began tasting Lori's sweet, young juices. I kind of lost my head, and I knew that Lori was rocking her cunt back and forth in my mouth. She kept coming and spilling her little drops of nectar into my mouth, and I could hear the groaning, whimpering sounds that she was making. Sheila was sucking my cock again and the whole business just got to be too wild – I simply enjoyed it all.

It went on for hours, I thought, but when we finally took time out to rest, I could see that Mom had bitten the hell out of my cock for it was all red and raw. She saw it, too, and began making soft, crooning little sounds. She was kissing it, trying to make it better, I guess. Lori got some cold cream which she rubbed onto my cock and balls. That made me feel better.

"I think we'd better have some lunch," Lori said. "Then I'll want you both back in here, and we'll have some more fun. Peter is going to have a busy afternoon. He is going to fuck both of us. And I'm sure I can think up other little games for us to play."

Sheila got up, and stood looking at Lori with a distressed look on her face. In her shorts and blouse, she was very beautiful. The sullen, unhappy look on her face made her even more appealing.

"Please, no, dear," Mom said. "I am not ready for something like that, yet. Please don't make me do that."

Lori gave her a mocking smile. She was almost taunting her, and I knew right then and there who was boss in our family.

"You'll do what you are told to do," Lori said coldly. "If you are the least bit disobedient or uncooperative, I'll make you regret it bitterly. Is that understood?"

Sheila nodded. She glanced at me and shrugged. She seemed to want to explain things to me, but couldn't.

"Lori is so horrid if she is not obeyed implicitly," she said. "She is a brute. She knows that I am afraid of her, and she takes advantage of that. She'll make us do awful things, I know, and I just can't resist her. I just can't."

Lori went close to Sheila, and kissed her on the lips. They put their arms around each other, really necking up a storm. Lori finally pushed Sheila away, and it looked like Sheila's lips were swollen. Lori called a halt to things for the time being. Then she made me get up and help in the kitchen.

After we had some lunch, the girls sort of got turned on, watching me walking around naked. They were both handling my parts all the time. I had a big hard on all the time – they thought that was cute.

Lori told us to go back into the bedroom, and Sheila and I obeyed her like we were little children. Lori sat down on the edge of the big bed and told Sheila to take her things off so that I could fuck her. Mom glanced at me, sort of like she was ashamed, then she started to obey. I watched as Sheila took her blouse off. When I saw the beautiful peaks on her chest, I could feel my cock starting to erupt even more. Lori must have seen my face and figured out what was happening, because she quickly put her mouth over my cock. Sheila's breasts were big and firm, and shaped like bullets. The nipples were a pale pink, only slightly darker in hue than the rest of her snowy white skin.

Mom watched Lori sucking my cock and playing with my balls. I thought she seemed to be envious. When Lori finally took her mouth away, my meat was smarting and glowing from the fierce sucking she had done.

I watched as Sheila unbuttoned her shorts, and let them fall down around her ankles. She stared right at me as she pushed her panties down, revealing the pale white tuft of hair on her pubis. She moved so I could glimpse the delicate little cleft of bewitching flesh. I saw that she was made very nicely between her legs. She laid down on her back and Lori told her to open up wide so that I could get my cock into her: Mom began to weep and sob, but Lori just laughed at her. She made me get between Sheila's legs, and then she used her fingertips to guide my cock right into Sheila's slippery slit. As soon as I started to push it into her, Sheila grabbed me and let out a funny little howl. Her hips slammed against me – her body swallowed me up. As she began working, I began working, and her legs wrapped themselves around me. All the while she kept making some weird sounds, and then she began moving like a machine. She went nuts, and so did I.

Lori was beside us, lying on her belly and kissing, Sheila's mouth and whispering words against her swollen lips.

Lori was taunting Mom about fucking her son, her baby. But that just made Sheila wild, and she soon exploded and so did I. After that first time, Lori just kept us at it, so we spent the whole day screwing like animals.

And that was how our sexual lives with Lori began.

As shocking as the immediate case might appear to the average lay reader, particularly when compared to the preceding cases of Paul I. and Frieda L., such are the cases that the bulk of psychiatrists' notebooks is made of Krafft-Ebing, one of the pioneers of psychoanalysis, devoted a major portion of his work Psychopathia Sexualis to the study of masochism and masochistic cases. One such case, designated as "Case 60" in his work, closely resembles that of the subject Peter D., and is reproduced in part below.

… X., gentleman belonging to upper class of society; aged sixty-six; father hypersexual; two brothers said to be masochists. X. claimed that his masochism dates back to early childhood. At the age of five he asked little girls to undress him and spank his naked bottom. Later on he arranged with other boys or girls in playing teacher with him to flog him. At the age of fifteen he began to imagine that girls ambushed and then beat him. At that time he had no idea as yet of the sexual meaning of such proceedings, in fact he was still unaware of the vita sexualis. His craving for being beaten by women steadily increased. At the age of eighteen he learned how to satisfy it and had the first pollution during the act. When nineteen, first coitus with complete satisfaction and potency and without masochistic representations. Normal sexual intercourse until he was twenty-one, when a girl suggested a masochistic scene. He accepted, and from that time never had coitus without a masochistic adventure preceding it…

Although Krafft-Ebing's case suggests that masochism can become active at a very early age and then go through a series of submergences and surfacings, the environmental and circumstantial factors in the case of Peter D. were such that any submergence of his strongly developed masochistic tendencies was practically impossible.

The subject was entrapped in an environment of sadomasochism, incest, lesbianism, and general psychodegeneracy that became to him a way of life from which there was no escape. Only a person with strong ethical convictions or near asexuality would have been able to turn away from the hedonistic atmosphere that permeated the subject's surroundings. Peter D. had no family ethics to base his own personal ethics on, and he was undeniably hypersexual.

In the opinion of the psychotherapist who was finally presented with the Herculean task of handling this case, hypersexuality is an essential element for the development of sexual masochism. This is not to suggest that hypersexuality presupposes a masochistic inclination. It can be directed toward psychologically acceptable ends; however, it is a factor that is often responsible for what might be termed "unusual experimentation" in sexual activities arid that makes the person "afflicted" with hypersexuality more vulnerable to suggestion and more likely to disregard or even to accept as "normal" any obstacles that may appear or be placed between his hypersexuality and the relief of physiological, psychological, and emotional tensions that are essential components of hypersexuality.

The subject's initial submission to his sister's nonsexual demands in his early adolescence was the mold from which he shortly emerged as a sexual masochist. The fact that his mother, Sheila D., not only did not discourage her daughter's sadistic "bullying" of her son, but also that she was herself a masochist, victim of that same daughter, did not help matters any. It played directly into Lori's hand, and created in the mind of the subject the feeling that "this was, indeed, the normal way of life." Later, when Peter D. manifested signs of sexual arousal and felt a desire for his sister, and when his sister catered to that desire by masturbating and fellating the boy, the subject was fully enmeshed in the web his sister had woven around him. He did not have to seek out sexual partners outside the home; as long as he obeyed his sister his sexuality was catered to. And when he discovered that. Sheila, his mother, not only approved of his sexual relationship with his sister, but also became an active participant, playing a comasochistic role with him, the irreversible imbroglio was complete.

Perhaps of even greater interest than the subject in this case is his sister Lori. And the tantamount question is: What made her the absolute little sadist that she is? Before answering that question, a citation from Havelock Ellis's Studies in the Psychology of Sex might be in order. In the seventh volume of the abovementioned work, titled Eonism and Other Supplementary Studies, Ellis states:

Masochism is… a reversal of sadism, the sadism being directed towards the subject himself. It is, Stekel thinks, hate towards others turned into hate towards oneself. This, however, while it is a partially true statement for [some cases] seems to fall into the common error of regarding algolagnia as a manifestation of cruelty. The impulse to inflict pain, whether on others or on oneself, whenever it arises from a sexual motive, must never be regarded as a manifestation of hate and cruelty. Whenever it so arises we can safely eliminate any genuinely sexual impulse. The real motive is to show love, not hate, and even if possible to give pleasure. And the reason so unlikely a method of manifesting this motive is adopted is simply that the stimulus of pain, when the sexual impulse is weak (as it often is…) – whether inflicted or suffered or even merely witnessed – does actually operate as a stimulus to the sexual emotions, and no cruelty is really involved, merely the appearance of it. The evidence on this point is overwhelming…

Although at first glance it is difficult to accept the supposition that Lori's attitude toward her another was prompted by love, taking the events in sequence makes the supposition much less incredible.

If one accepts the assumption that Lori's original overberance toward her brother was a mild superiority complex brought out by the fact that, with the mother being at work most of the day, Lori was responsible for the boy's upbringing and discipline, then the progression toward sadomasochism was a "natural" development. Lori, loving her brother, noticed that he became sexually aroused the first time she decided to spank him. If she were aware of sexual pleasures – and the supposition must be made that she was – then her desire to continue giving her brother sexual pleasure by demeaning him was the direct result of deduction by her immature mind.

The similar relationship between her and Sheila, however, for lack of sufficient preliminary information, cannot be commented on.

I am not sure that I knew just what made Lori tick, but she seemed to take great pleasure in dominating Sheila and me. The weird things she made us do seemed to provide her with great pleasure.

Naturally, things weren't all that well integrated right away. Lori had to feel her way with us. She was always telling Mom and me that we were hopeless masochists, that we needed to be disciplined and abused, and she would do her best to make our life a happy one. She actually made it sound like she was doing us a favor.

That first day when she made me and Mom fuck like machines was a time of great fun for her. Every time Sheila and I would take a rest, Lori would suck Sheila's cunt and feast on the juices that were in it. She loved doing that, and Sheila liked it, too. After a while, when I got tired and was sure that I wasn't going to be able to do any more, Lori got out a dildoe made from a sawed-off piece of broom handle. She put some grease on it, and proceeded to ream my asshole while Sheila was sucking on my cock.

Later, Lori was snickering and seemed to be having a real ball thinking about something. She told me and Sheila that she wanted us both in the bathroom. We had a sunken bathtub that was in the center of our large bathroom. I got in and lay on my back, while Lori sat down next to the tub. She smiled down into my face.

"Sheila and I are going to wash your face, Peter, dear," she said. "You'll enjoy it. Now, sit up and hold up your face so I can wash it."

I could see the way the pale pink lips of her cunt were spread apart, and I guess I wasn't too prepared for what she did next. She got up, straddled the tub over my face and started pissing. It hit my face, some of it went into my mouth. The way she was right on top of me, I just couldn't escape it. She really drowned me. When it was over, she put her hands on my face and smeared it all over my face. When I moved my head away, she slapped my face hard, and glared at me.

"Don't you dare move your face away from me," she said angrily. "I can make you suck it out and swallow all of it, and don't you forget it. Would you like me to make you do that?"

I said no, and then she smiled at me. She was still dripping all over me as she got up, but I just didn't care any more. She told Sheila to straddle the tub. Naturally, Sheila obeyed without saying a word, and gave me a golden shower, too. That little trick became a favorite of theirs. Whenever Lori was furious with me, she would make me do it to her and Mom. I think they both got a real charge out of making me do that.

I think that we must have tried everything that Lori could think up that first weekend. She enjoyed watching me fucking Mom in her cunt, and then in her asshole. My sister made Sheila blow me several times, and then she would want me to fuck her.

Lori was a tight fuck, but she was like a wild woman once she got my cock into her. With all of the action that I had enjoyed with Sheila, I was able to last for a long time in Lori – that was what she liked. When she would come, she would squirm and shake and squirm and yelp like an animal in heat. But she sure poured out her juices. Sheila had her mouth down there and she was licking up the leakings, I guess, and zeroed in on Lori's cunt as soon as I took my cock out. Lori pulled me upwards so that I was straddling her tits, and she licked and sucked till she had drained all my come. Lori was always greedy.

Sis really took over that first weekend. It was like she was the ringmaster, and Sheila and I were her willing performers. She said she would make our lives happy and filled with pleasures. She sure was right about that.

One time, Lori shaved Mom's cunt, and when she put some after-shave lotion on Sheila's freshly shaved pussy, Mom screamed in agony. Lori just laughed and said she was going to shave me, too. She did, by God, and when she put the shaving lotion on my balls and cock, I damned near went through the ceiling. It burned and stung and hurt something awful, but it was also extremely pleasurable. After that, Lori kept on putting new and harsher stuff on our genitals. She liked to do mean things like that.

I remember onetime she used the broom handle on me. Before she pushed it into my asshole, she smeared it with one of the salves used to ease pain in the muscles. Well, as soon as it touched the tissues inside of me I almost fainted with pain. It was a white, hot agony, and I sobbed and wept so much it actually scared Lori. I was rinsed with one of their douches. After that, Lori was careful what she used. As Sheila pointed out, we were very happy living together, and it would be awful if one of us had to go to the hospital for a sexual problem. Lori sure got real careful after Sheila explained about that.

We settled down to a nice, happy life. Mom was always working, and Sis made me do everything in the house. I had to do the housework. She even liked to make me wash out her underthings. I had to keep her pubic hair shaved. Sis would lie down on her bed while I shaved her cunt. Every time I did it, she would get excited, and, after I washed it all clean, she would make me eat her for a while. Then she would make me fuck her, and then eat her clean again.

Mom was dating, and I wondered why Sis didn't have anything to say about that. This one night, Sheila had a boyfriend in for a house date, so Lori and I went to the movies. When we got back, Sheila was reading in bed with a big, bright smile on her face. We got undressed, and Lori went right after Sheila's cunt. While she was licking and sucking it, Sheila told Sis that her date had fucked her twice, and there was lots of honey for her busy little bee to suck.

Sheila was still hot, so she made me suck her titties for a while. When Lori got her into orbit with her busy little tongue, Mom wanted my cock in her mouth. She went wild when I pumped my first load down her throat.

Sex was really the best part of our lives, I guess…

That night, after Lori finished eating Sheila, Sis fell asleep, but Sheila and I were still awake. Mom was holding me in her arms with her breasts against my cheek. It was a time of gentle affection between us. Sheila looked at Lori's nude body as she slept, and we could see the tiny little petals of her cunt, the plump breasts with their little nipples and the pretty face in sweet repose.

Then my mom talked to me about all the boyfriends she had had, and that she was going to keep right on with the boyfriend she had now, because he was so virile and inexhaustible at sex. "I love him," Mom said. "But he is a weakling like us. I wonder what Lori will do to him when she finally gets him under her domination."

Then Mom pushed me down in the bed – I knew what she wanted. I began licking her clit while she held my head, caressing my hair. She went into orbit. It wasn't long until she creamed herself, and it was all I could do to lap up the juices. Just thinking about seeing Lori dominate her boyfriend must have fired her up.

We had met the guy a couple of times and I liked him. He was sort of on the plump side, but not too much. He was quiet and mild, and he had blond hair and a nice face. Sis and Mom seemed to be in cahoots all the time, and I swear that Sheila had as much to do with the downfall of Ronnie as Lori did. Maybe more. She sort of fed him to the lions, if you know what I mean.

But there was a lot of stuff that came before Ronnie's captivation. We began developing patterns right away. A typical day would find us both going to school and Mom going to work. We started having little sex games early in the morning, but we kind of gave that up as time went on and it got so that Sheila and Lori would take turns in blowing me. They said it made their whole day go easier. Hell, that was all right with me. I didn't have any objections at all.

When Lori and I got home from school, Sis would make me go down on her right away. We wouldn't even get up to the bedroom. She would whisk her pants off and make me cool her down for an hour or more. Then we would go into her bedroom, get undressed and have us an orgy. She would set the alarm clock so we could quit in time to get supper ready. When Sheila got home from work, I would take her things off for her and eat her for a while, too.

While I would be frenching Sheila, Sis would fix some drinks and Sheila would have one. No one ever said anything about Lori not having any, she just didn't like drinks. She liked sex and more sex, and she sure got lots of it. Anyway, after Sheila had her fires banked, she would go into her bedroom and get into something comfortable, like shorts or an old loose dress. She wouldn't wear pants just in case Lori or I wanted some of her juicy cunt. After we had our dinner, we would wind up in the bedroom again. Maybe I would go down on Lori while she would sit at her vanity and Mom would brush her hair for her. Later, when they were ready, Sis would make me fuck both of them, and then they would get into a wild sixty-nine. Then I would be able to go off to sleep for by then I would be ready. In the morning, things would start in all over again.

Saturday mornings were always wild. The girls would wake up horny. It would take a lot of attention to cool them off so that we could get some breakfast. Afterwards, it was just more of the same.

Maybe that was why I felt good about the way Sis and Mom began talking about Ronnie. He was about thirty-two or three, and Lori was going to start telling him what to do, too. I heard them talking about it one afternoon, and the way Sheila just accepted the notion that Lori would rule Ronnie was wild.

They were sitting at the kitchen table while I was doing the dishes. Lori was talking about how much she liked Ronnie, and how she would treat him if he lived with us – if only she could get at him.

"I'm sure that it will be all right, dear," Mom said. "I know that Ronnie thinks you are one of the prettiest things that he has ever seen. He says you area smaller edition of me. Isn't that sweet of him?"

"Does he have any idea of the way we live?" Sis asked.

"He knows that you are the strong one, and that you run things here. I haven't told him much of anything else. But, he is so submissive, so docile, I'm sure that you'll know just how to handle him."

Lori giggled. "Our Ronnie, Mom," she corrected. "I love it when he leaves you bulging with honey for me, but I would like to get some direct."

"I'm sure you'll get lots of it direct, dear. I know how much Ronnie likes you, and how much he respects your strengths, too."

Ronnie came to our house for dinner the following Friday evening – he stayed forever. I guess it will be forever. Only time will tell about that.

That first Friday night we sat down at the dinner table. Lori was all dolled up with the eye makeup and lipstick. I had done her and Mom's hair so they both looked to be particularly young and lovely. Ronnie kept looking from one to the other, and they certainly were very much aware of his admiration.

Lori kept giving him bright smiles and blinking her big, sparkling eyes. The poor guy never had a chance. Sis waited until we were having our desert, and then she started in on him.

"When we have finished dinner, Ronnie," she said, "you can help Peter with the dishes. If you are going to hang around here you will help with the work. Is that clearly understood?"

Ronnie got red in the face, but he just nodded. "That's all right," he said. "I don't mind helping."

Lori gave him the eyes, the stern face and turned him inside out. "You don't mind anything I say to you, do you, Ronnie? Or anything that I might do to you. Did you know that I am a mean bitch, Ronnie? Did you know that I am going to turn you into a meek little puppy dog? Did you know that, Ronnie, baby?"

Mom sat back and watched, and so did I. Ronnie looked like someone had stunned him with a ball bat. Lori hauled off and smacked him across the face with her open palm, almost knocking him off the chair. He began to shake. Then Sis bent forward and kissed him on the mouth – gently and sweetly.

"Do we understand each other, Ronnie?" she asked. Ronnie nodded his head, and she kissed him again. "You'll enjoy your life from now on, Ronnie. I will tell you what to do, when and how to do it, and you'll obey me and stay out of trouble, because if you don't, I'll cut your balls off and feed them to the birds. You know that now, don't you?"

He nodded his head in a hurry. Lori had Ronnie's face pressed against her bosom. All of a sudden, Sis had one of her tits out and was pushing it into his mouth.

"Suck, baby," she said, "suck my tittie for now. Then we will go into the bedroom and I'll suck your cock. How's that sound?"

He only groaned as he held her breast with his hand and sucked on it… His easy surrender had Sis really fired up. She started turning mean right away. She made him get up and go into the bedroom. We all went along. When she told him to get undressed, he did so. He glanced at Mom once, but she just gave him a helpless stare. Then he let Lori handle his big cock and balls, all the while he never said a word. Sis got her mouth on it, and she popped him in a hurry. When I looked at Mom, I could see that she was having a nice time, too.

Ronnie was submissive, maybe, but he was really quite a man. After Lori took the edge off for him, we all got undressed. While Ronnie fucked the girls silly, Lori made me eat them. After a while, she made me suck Ronnie off, and then he had to do me. It was plain that he was in heaven.

He took to domination by Lori like a duck takes to water, and he was as obedient as she could wish. He had to spend some time fucking each of them, and Lori kept him and me hopping until we finally fell asleep.

She was awake bright and early – and as horny as could be. She went right after Ronnie's big cock, and after she popped him a couple of times, she took care of me. As Mom was still asleep, Sis was having herself a ball.

She sent me off to fix some breakfast while she explained to Ronnie that he was to move in with us so that she would be able to have him close at hand always. He agreed to that. Then she told him to pop me before I went off to school and bring her the honey in a sweet and loving kiss.

I could see that Sis was happy with Ronnie, and he was happy with her, too. She was always kissing him and playing with his cock. Sis kept telling him that she would do awful things to him, and she would make Mom do terrible things to him… he just loved that kind of talk.

She made me shave him, and then she put the shaving lotion on his balls. When he yelled, she hit him in the face, explaining that he had become a slave, her slave, and he was not allowed to do anything except what he was told to do.

Sheila woke and they had some breakfast. Afterwards, Ronnie got to spend a little time in the bathtub while Sheila and Lori drenched him with a golden shower. He loved that, and I was not too surprised to see him move closer so that he could put his mouth over Lori's spurting cunt. He really flaked her, and she must have come a dozen times before she finally slid her pretty butt away so that Mom could give him a drenching…

He took a shower later, and then the girls wanted both of us on the bed… that first day became an endless orgy. Sis had three of us to dominate, and she sure worked hard at it. I think she was utterly unglued by Ronnie's willingness to endure anything that she might want to do to him, and she began doing things to him that brought him new and constant anguish. Yet, he thrived on it – so did I.

As time went by, Lori's cruelties became refined and more numerous. She liked to push toothpicks down our cocks, and shove all kinds of things up our assholes – she got to be real expert with that kind of stuff.

Too, she persuaded Ronnie to buy her all sorts of dildoes and gadgets. She loved to strap on a big, fat imitation prick and fuck us silly with it. After a time, she became an expert with ointments and lotions, driving us up the walls when it was applied to our sensitive flesh. She seemed to enjoy making us moan – and we enjoyed it, too. There is no doubt that Ronnie and I are dedicated masochists… Sheila is in the same boat.

It is unfortunate that the case of Peter D., his sister, and his mother did not come to the attention of a psychotherapist sooner than it did. It is almost beyond the best therapist's abilities to restructure the psychology of a twenty-four-year-old man. Even with the indication given by Krafft-Ebing in the fragment of the case that was quoted earlier, it is extremely unlikely that Peter's masochism will lend itself to total and permanent submergence in his unconscious. And the pessimism that has to be directed toward the subject's mother and sister is even more justifiable.

CHAPTER FOUR

YOURS FOR THE TAKING

A bright bluebird, its wings still and slanted, glided to a perfect landing on the low branch of a tree a few feet from where I sat. It was gorgeous in the brilliant sunshine, and I stopped eating my sandwich, afraid the rustling of the paper would scare it away. Ignoring me, it began to peck at something on the branch.

Mixed with my admiration for the bird's beauty I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. I wondered what it would be like to be a bird, beautiful and free, soaring above all the dirt and ugliness below. For a brief, ecstatic moment I was caught up in the fantasy of flight, seeing myself as a graceful, swooping bird… a confident, capable, glorious bird. Then, like a sword slashing into and fragmenting my little daydream, I heard high-pitched giggles coming towards me.

Three girls I knew, but whom I had never talked to, were sitting on a bench not more than fifteen feet behind me. I had no idea how long they'd been there, watching me, but my pale face flamed and I felt sick inside. I'd come to this part of the park three blocks from school every day for a month now, sure that at last I'd found a place where I could have lunch in peace. I was painfully shy, and I'd never been able to relate well with kids my age. I did fine with older people, but I was a big dud with my peers.

The girls were talking and giggling about me. I felt sure of it. True, there were times I imagined people were talking and laughing at me, but this time I knew it was more than my paranoia. Damning myself for the deep blush I knew was all over my face, I turned back to my sandwich and pretended not to notice the girls.

The food stuck, in my throat, and for a sickening moment I thought I would have to cough it up. Blindly I reached for my carton of milk and took a quick sip. But my hand was shaking, and I swallowed too fast. A thin trickle of milk ran from the corner of my mouth, down my chin and dribbled onto my blouse. I could have cried.

The giggles increased as I turned away to fix myself up. In a way, what had happened was a capsule performance of my entire life. That was me, the odd man out, the hopelessly strange one, the natural-born loser.

It was even obvious in my looks, in a strange sort of way. Oh, I'm not one of those homely girls who are shaped like a box and covered with pimples. In fact, I'm even sort of pretty in a way. And, safe in my room; naked, in front of a full mirror, I'm even beautiful. But when I'm around others, well… I just get all tight inside and everything goes all wrong. It's always been that way for me, even when I was a little girl. The only kids who would be my friend were the boxy, pimply ones, so I learned to enjoy being alone a long time ago.

At that moment if there was anything in the world I would have changed, it would have been to get rid of those girls. Instead they stayed where they were, giggling and talking, and I thought my face would turn to stone in my effort to ignore them. Then I realized one of the girls was coming towards me.

"Hi, Fran. Mind if I talk to you a minute!" The girl brushed at her skirt, sat down next to me and gave me a bright grin.

I hardly knew what to say. The girl at my side was Gerry, one of the most popular girls in school. I didn't even know she knew my name. I sort of shrugged.

Gerry looked over her shoulder at the other two, then turned her dark eyes on me. She hesitated while she openly looked me over as if I were a new coat she was considering taking home with her. "You could be groovy looking with a little makeup, Fran. And maybe if your clothing was a little more mod…"

I flashed on my mother sprinting me around getting new clothing, mod clothing… In a family where I was one of eight kids, and where a father and a paycheck only came by on rare occasions, I was glad to be wearing anything. But I didn't even consider throwing that at Gerry. I was still having trouble swallowing the rest of the sandwich.

The blonde girl seemed to lose interest in what I was wearing. She motioned for her friends to join her. Suddenly she was all business. "Look, Fran, I'm sort of in a jam. I promised to get a girl for the big pre-graduation party the boys are having. I think it's the new boy, Hank, who needs the date. The thing is, I promised to find a girl, but I already have a date and so does everyone else for the party. I was wondering if you could help us out. I'd really appreciate it. I'd just die if I had to let them down…"

I knew about the party. The football team and a few of the other popular boys had a sort of club, and they were throwing a party that night, a week before graduation. It was going to be at the old H. house, and only the handful of loser kids like myself would be missing it. But Gerry was telling me I didn't have to miss it…

I was having trouble understanding Gerry. Why was she offering to fix me up with a date? It might be true, about having a hard time finding a girl this close to the party, hut why me? Only I couldn't bring myself to ask. "You want me to go out with Hank? To the party?"

She tossed back her hair and laughed. "Oh, be a sport, Fran. Do it. I'll even lend you a groovy dress, okay? Please? Look, you're absolutely the only girl left I can ask. All the others who don't have dates already are duds like Betty and Rita."

Betty and Rita were girls I went around with when the loneliness got to me. And both of them were obviously unattractive. In spite of myself I felt a pang of pleasure at being lifted out of their class. I found myself nodding.

The three girls grinned at each other, then Gerry hurriedly told me I was to come to her house at eight, and then they were off, mumbling something about the next class.

I watched them go, then turned back to the bird. But it was gone. I realized my heart was racing. A date! Me!

It wasn't as if I'd never gone out with a boy before. I had. I went with Larry most of the year before, and I'd also dated three other boys at school. But they were all outsiders, too, and somehow they didn't really count. Not like this.

I didn't kid myself about why I'd been asked. I was sure every girl who was at all decent had been asked first. But maybe, by some miracle, by some fantastic stroke of luck, Hank would like me. Maybe something in me would come out, and this would be the whole new start of my existence.

The day went quickly. I bumped into Larry in the hallway, and turned down his suggestion that we go to a movie the next weekend. Larry was sweet. He was very sweet. Maybe that was part of what was wrong with him. I sneaked a peek at some of the boys in Gerry's bunch, the ones I'd be with that very night. They were so different, with their arrogant walks and the cool way they looked everyone over. I felt a terrific excitement shoot through me as I glanced over at Hank, the new boy, the one Gerry thought would be my date.

After school I hurried home and found the apartment almost empty. I managed to work the ancient lock on the bathroom door and I gratefully slipped into a tub of hot, soapy water. Relaxing, I thought about Hank again.

He looked very sure of himself. He'd transferred from a neighboring school. There had been some trouble with a girl, but I wasn't sure what it was all about. He was tall and good looking, with thick muscles and a strong face. Closing my eyes, I lost myself in a little fantasy. Hank would like me. He would think I was pretty. He would put his arms around me, and then he would kiss me. Finally, he would rub himself against me and push me back against the bed…

I loved sexy fantasies. It was a thing I had. I knew a lot about sex. Not from personal experience, really, but because as a kid I'd managed to watch my patents do it a lot. We lived in a two-room apartment then, and I would sleep on a cot in their room. I'd pretend I was asleep sometimes. Once my father came in drunk and mean, and my mother was already in bed asleep. In the dark I managed to see him wake her up by reaching around and squeezing her soft breasts.

She woke up angry, but that didn't stop the old man. He continued to force his big hands under her gown. She soon stopped being angry and held still. Then he rolled over on top of her, and began to move between her legs. There was something about the way she didn't resist him at that point, the way she held her plump body still while he plunged in and out of her, that frightened yet excited me even as a child. Oh, I knew why she didn't resist him. I'd also been awake a few of the nights when she'd tried to keep him from riding her. He'd be drunk and demanding, and she'd fight him silently, but always he would force her down, laugh low in his throat, and mount her just the same.

I was also awake and silent on the nights when she would be in an altogether different mood. Maybe they'd both have had too much to drink, or maybe, for once, he wasn't drunk. But then they'd get into bed like kids, and hug and kiss each other. On those nights I would strain my eyes to watch my mother slide down my father's body and suck his big, long dick into her hot mouth. He would moan and cry out with pleasure as she would suck on him. Then, afterwards, when he was plunging into her body in the same old way, Mother would be moaning and crying out right along with Father.

Long after they'd fallen asleep I'd toss and turn in the darkness, too excited to sleep.

In the tub I thought about all those things, even about the three times I'd gone to bed with Larry. It had happened the summer before once in his room and twice in his father's car.

I'd wanted to go to bed with someone since I was twelve or thirteen. But I was always too shy to talk to boys, much less go out with them. But eventually, I went out a few times, and once I started to see Larry regularly I figured it would be a matter of time before we would try it. Larry, believe it or not, was even shier than I was, and after dating all year, I finally forced the issue.

Larry had borrowed his father's car, and I just about had to lead him every inch of the way. While we were kissing, I pushed my breasts against his chest until he finally figured out he should play with them. I had td take down my own panties, because he was so nervous he couldn't manage, and it was me who grabbed his small, hard prong and guided it into my willing body.

I'd wanted to see what it was like, and I'd felt very disappointed after it was over. It had been a nowhere experience, and I felt somehow cheated. The same was true the other two times with him. I wanted something more, only I didn't know what that more was.

I got out of the bath finally, and quickly dried. I got into my nicest underthings, slipped into a pair of jeans and a shirt, and headed for Gerry's house. It was early, but I couldn't dare think too much ahead. I didn't want to stop for a minute, I didn't want to think. If I thought over what I was about to do, I was sure I'd back out on the whole thing. The Larrys of the world I could talk to, but not the Hanks and the Gerrys.

Even though I was very early, Gerry seemed delighted to see me. We spent a lot of time dressing and putting on makeup. Then we set off in Gerry's car for the H. house.

It was barely dark when we arrived, but already a dozen or more people were there. Gerry's boyfriend brought us some drinks and a minute later, Hank walked over and introduced himself. Gerry and Steve walked off and after a second Hank excused himself to make more punch.

The drink was a little strong for me, but I sipped at it. I could hardly believe I was here. A glance in a long mirror across the room assured me that I looked fine. Encouraged, I drank my drink and smiled at everyone.

Hank and a few of the other boys came by often in the next few hours. I felt too clumsy to dance, yet once I let myself be persuaded to try I did fine.

By the time Hank led me upstairs to a bedroom, I was on top of the world. Hank liked me! The other boys liked me! I would do anything for them!

The punch had made me a little drunk, but I knew what I was doing when I let Hank take me upstairs.

He was drunk, too. "Okay, Fran, let's see that cute little bod of yours." He began to pull at my dress.

I don't know exactly what hit me then. Maybe it was only that I'd wanted him to kiss me a little first. But I found myself moving back, out of his reach. "No," I said.

He got angry. "Don't give me any of that shit! I wanna fuck you, baby."

A terrific excitement filled me as I tried to move away from him. There was nothing shy and passive about Hank. He grabbed me and pulled me hard against his body. Then his mouth was on mine and his tongue was gliding over mine.

He was holding me too tightly, hurting me, but instead of pain I felt only pleasure. Something told me I could fight him, beg him to stop, and still he would continue. A furious excitement gripped me, and I felt my nipples grow hard and the juice between my legs begin to run. Although I'd have done anything just to please Hank and the others, to make them like me, I heard myself telling him to stop.

"You want it, too, Fran. Come on, honey…" His strong hands forced me to be still. Then he stripped the dress from my body.

Wearing only panties and a bra, I backed away from him. The crazy desire to fight him, to force him to force me was almost overwhelming.

He grabbed me and kissed me again, obviously all the more excited by my freaky protests. This time his tongue stabbed into my mouth, and his hands were hot and hard on my breasts. The bra came off in his hands.

"You have beautiful tits, Fran," he breathed, covering them with his big hands.

I jerked out of his grasp. He caught me, throwing me on the bed. I was quietly fighting him as he removed my panties, then he was on top of me, kissing me, unzipping his fly and aiming his big cock towards my juicing, naked slit.

He pressed into me with a low moan and I cried out with pain and pleasure as his huge organ inched up my cunt. He was much bigger than Larry.

I thought he would crush me as he lowered his big body on me. Finally, he was all the way in me. I was pinned down by his weight, helpless and his big prick was filling me like I never imagined I could be filled. It was wonderful.

Once inside me, Hank took over and began to ride me fast. He pulled some of his dick out of me, only to plunge it back in again a second later. He did that over and over, moaning and mumbling in my ear as he, fucked me. Finally, he began moving much faster, and then he was groaning loudly, almost splitting me in half with his fierce plunges. I felt him come in me.

Hank rested on me a moment, then got up. I was still terribly excited. There hadn't been enough time for me to come, and I didn't want it to be over. But before I could say anything, Hank was up and zipping his pants. He moved to the door, opened it, and started out. I distinctly heard him say, "She likes it on the rough side," before I became aware that someone else was entering the room.

At first I felt confused as I looked up to see John approaching the bed. He was a big football player who had never so much as glanced my way all the years we'd gone to school together. Now he was grinning down at me, his eyes moving all over my naked body.

"You like it rough, huh?" John began undoing his fly.

I looked up into his cold, blue eyes, and relaxed. I suspected that come I was missing wasn't very far away.

He pulled out his cock and held it over me as if it was a weapon. Then he climbed on top of me and shoved his dick hard into my body. I groaned, but it felt good. He began to pound into me like a madman. The inside of my cunt was beginning to feel as if it were on fire from all the action. But I lifted my legs up, encouraging him to get even more of his prick inside me. I was shaking all over, so close to my orgasm I could almost feel it. But there was something missing, something forgotten, a certain feeling or ingredient still lacking…

John continued spearing my cunt as I clung to him, and soon he was shooting into me. His cock was small by the time he got up. "Not bad, honey."

I still hadn't reached an orgasm, so when Frank, another football player, came in the room I just held out my arms to him, hoping that this time I would finally get what I needed so badly. By then I was well aware why I'd been invited to the party. Didn't every good party have a little gang-bang in the back room? A willing fuck from a chick who didn't matter all that much, someone who would be honored just to be invited!

For some reason knowing all this didn't depress me. Something in me accepted this role, even welcomed it. It was like I was living one of my sexual fantasies…

Frank acted nervous – he seemed to be in a big hurry. We didn't talk as he dropped his pants and climbed on me. I was almost numb down there, yet I still longed for the release that evaded me. Frank came almost immediately, and then there was another boy on top of me…

"I don't know if it was the booze, the sex, or just exhaustion, but things got very vague about then, and I was slipping into a dull, dreamless sleep. My last thought was regret that I hadn't come… and I couldn't help wondering what was wrong… what had been missing…"

Were one to construct a "sadomasochism severity gradient", ranging from -5 (extreme masochism) through 0 (normal) to +5 (extreme sadism), one would be hard pressed to identify the subject of the case on hand, Fran A., as a 1. Even when one becomes acquainted with the balance of her narrative, in which she relates her submission to Frank H.'s uncle, at whose home the "party" took place, the question of whether there is, in fact, a masochistic inclination in the subject or whether her submissiveness to sexual advances is nothing more than a natural, though perhaps somewhat over exuberant, desire to partake of the mysteries of sexual congress and to attain sexual gratification, is a question that needs be answered before the girl is diagnosed as a masochist.

Johann Gottfried von Herder, noted German philosopher and writer of the latter half of eighteenth century, strongly believed that among the basic needs of men, as elemental as that for food or procreation or communication, is the need to belong to a group. That Fran was consumed by such a need, suppressed though it appears to have been, is apparent from the tense expectancy with which she was seized and from the total willingness with which she submitted to Hank, John, Frank, and finally, as it shall be seen in the second half of her narrative, to Frank's uncle. Since Fran had been relatively inexperienced in sex – her three-time session with Larry, which had left her "disappointed", can hardly be construed as sexual proficiency – and admitted to not having ever attained orgasm, it is not surprising that, once she was caught up in the relatively flagrant sexual excesses of the "party", she surrendered to the sexual urge and the desires of the body that are exceptionally strong at that particular age of adolescence. It must be remembered that at no time did she appear to enjoy any pain that was meted out to her; she did not crave punishment; she did not wish to be abused. She simply wanted to experience gratifying sexual congress.

Two elements that emerge during her narrative that, phychologically speaking, appear to be of more interest than her "masochistic tendencies" are her remark about "loving sexy fantasies" and her apparent difficulty in attaining orgasm. Havelock Ellis, in his previously mentioned work, analyzing a case of true masochism, makes a statement that might explain Fran's relative sexual introversion prior to her experiences at the "party". Ellis states:

Day-dreaming [fantasy] has… throughout, been an important sedative influence in [the subject's] life (even allaying, she states, any tendency to worry or perturbation) and she is assured that, notwithstanding all that it has led up to, it has yet greatly contributed to the physical and mental well-being… She now plainly discerns that, unknown to herself, there was a purpose, that day-dreaming has a sex origin and is an automatic psychic attempt at sexual relief…

Fran's "sexy fantasies" were obviously a safety valve through which, subconsciously, she at, tempted to attain sexual relief. Whether her introversion – as manifested through her romanticistic nature, her shyness, and even her mild paranoia – was the result of her sex fantasies or whether her daydreams were the offshoot of her introversion is difficult to say. Her narrative would suggest the latter to be the case. At no time in her narrative does Fran mention any autoerotic experimentation or indulgement. This suggests both the reason why her introversion must have preceded her sex fantasies and why she had such difficulty attaining orgasm.

There is strong indication that Fran's problem was a combination of psychology and physiology. Psychologically, having engaged in intercourse with the boy, Larry, and having obtained no gratification from it, she not only felt "cheated", as she states, but concerned about her "inability" to enjoy sexual intercourse. It is possible that this "failure" made her consider herself as somewhat less of a woman and had actually inhibited her from attaining orgasm subsequently until a barrage of sexual activity heaped upon her, and culminating in the sexual taking of her by an adult man, tore through the barrier of her psychological inhibitions.

The possible, though under the circumstances not probable, psysiological answer to her inability to attain orgasm would be what is generally known as the presence of a "hooded" clitoris, a condition in which the clitoris is covered by an overhanging extension of the labia minora and which precludes it from receiving any direct stimulation that it is normally subjected to during sexual intercourse. The validity of such a problem in the case of Fran – although it cannot be ruled out – seems to be questionable, because such a condition cannot be remedied except through surgery, and although it is possible for a female with such an affliction to attain orgasm under certain highly stimulating circumstances, it is relatively rare that a series of copulatory acts will result in a sequence of orgasms, as was the case with Fran when she copulated with Frank's uncle, when none were attainable before. Consequently, as suggested above, Fran most probably did not suffer from such a physiological drawback.

Returning to the question of masochism, it must again be stated that the subject's willingness to engage in various forms of sexual activity with the older man – as narrated by her in the balance of her case – cannot in all honesty be construed as a manifestation of masochism. It was simply a manifestation of a normal desire to partake of something that had been late in coming for Fran; namely, sexual experimentation, sexual participation, and sexual gratification.

If one considers the subject's admission that she had "wanted to go to bed with someone since [she] was twelve or thirteen," and the fact that it was not until several years later that she had succeeded to "maneuver" the somewhat inept boy, Larry, into bed with her; if one considers the fact that her year-long dating period with the same boy ended in frustration for her, then the vigor and willingness with which she accepted the sudden string of males that "desired" her – for whatever ends – should be interpreted as nothing other than the exuberant awakening of the subject's long-dormant sexuality.

It is, indeed, fortunate that Fran did not become sexually "turned off" by the relatively brutish way in which the three boys, and later the grown man, performed sexual intercourse with her. Had she not accepted it for what it was, and had she not strived as she did to attain a climax, it is possible that Fran would have become even more introverted and would have withdrawn from any further attempts at enjoying her sexuality.

I awakened late the next afternoon. I blinked rapidly, knew I'd been asleep a long time, and sensed rather than saw the older man standing next to the bed. I sat up slowly.

"It's about time!"

I looked at the man and tried to come up with who he was. I knew I'd seen him before somewhere. Then I became aware of the fact that I was naked on the bed.

"I suppose you are one of my idiot nephew's friends. Quite a little party you had here." His steely eyes traveled over my body.

In spite of his anger I knew the man was aroused by my nakedness. He was old enough to be my father – but I felt myself growing excited as he continued looking at me. "You… you're Mr. H.," I said finally. It was then I remembered that the owner of the old house was in Europe, and Frank, his nephew, had arranged the party early so they could use the house. But his uncle had obviously returned early.

"He nodded. I chased the pack of little bastards out last night. Only I forgot to look in the bedrooms." His eyes watched me intently as I attempted to get out of bed. He saw me wince as I moved.

"In a little pain, eh? What were you, the party fuck?" He laughed.

I turned a deep red and glared at him. But as I tried to get out of the bed he suddenly reached over and pushed me back on the mattress. "Answer me, honey. I'm not used to being ignored."

His hand was hurting me. He was deliberately attempting to humiliate me. A strange flow of emotions shot through me. "That hurts," I protested softly.

He nodded, but didn't let go. "Well? Were you? Were you the party fuck?"

It was my turn to nod. "Yes," I whispered. "Yes." I felt his hand let up on my shoulder. A crazy excitement was increasing my wakefulness. I stared up at the graying man, meeting his hot eyes fully. "I liked it," I heard myself adding. "It felt good."

His hand slipped down to my breast. His fingers began to tease a nipple. "Did you? Did you really? Little whore. Beautiful little whore…" His voice was hypnotic as he leaned over me, seating himself on the edge of the bed. Then his mouth was closing over the other nipple.

"Ooh…" I arched my back, thrusting my tit further into his mouth. I looked down at his gray head, thought of my father and I was glad I told my mother I'd be at a friend's for the night. Immediately I forgot everything except being here with this man. I squirmed a little under him, and his teeth bit down lightly on my hardening bud.

He pulled away finally and stared at me. "Spread those legs. What's your name, by the way?"

"Fran." I parted my legs as he told me to. I couldn't explain the fascination I felt. The brown curls of my cunt were pried apart, revealing the soft, wet pink folds of my hidden flesh.

"Fran. Good. And you can call me Mr. H." He laughed and reached down. He found my clitoris easily, and as I gasped he squeezed the sensitive little knot of flesh hard. A thrill shot through me. Then he snaked a finger up my juicing hole. "Tight, especially for a little whore…" He moved the finger roughly.

I moaned and closed my legs around his probing hand. I felt as ripe as I had the night before, as primed by his finger as I had been from all those cocks. Mr. H. was a big man, physically as well as socially, and he was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. I felt like I had no choice but to obey him, and I was loving the sensation of being totally in his power.

"Little whore, little whore," he moaned as he drove his finger in and out of me.

I looked down at his pants. They were bulging at the crotch. I wanted to touch him, work him up as he was working me up.

His eyes followed mine to his crotch. "Take it out, Fran. Take my prick out nice, girl."

I unzipped him carefully as he continued to play with my pussy. My hand was shaking as I reached inside and gently pulled his long, fat cock out of his pants. It was hard, and it throbbed steadily as I held it.

"That's nice, honey." He began playing with one of my tits while his other hand eased further into my hole. "Now kiss it for me, baby."

No one had ever asked me to do that before, and the thought of it was faintly repulsive; I was on the verge of refusing when the hand on my breast tightened, as if he sensed my reluctance.

I pulled back a little and stared at the big rod in my fist. It was thickly veined and a deeper color than the rest of the man. Graying brown hairs as wiry as steel wool ringed the big tool, and a pair of massive balls swung loosely in their low sac. It seemed somehow dirty to consider kissing that length of throbbing flesh, like a degrading, humiliating act to perform for anyone, especially a stranger like this man. Yet, for some odd reason I didn't understand, just the thought of doing as he ordered made me tremble with desire, even while the act itself turned me off. So I didn't try to understand.

Fortunately, he didn't leave the decision to me. "I told you to kiss my cock, honey. Now!"

And when I didn't obey quickly enough, his strong fingers tightened on my tensed nipple. I groaned in pain, but again the pain wasn't without its partner, pleasure.

Mr. H. brought the head of his cock up close to my parted lips. Meekly I touched it in a soft kiss, which seemed to amuse the man.

"You kiss like a baby. A little whore ought to be able to do better than that." His exploring fingers moved out of my vagina and went lower, deftly moving into the cleft of my rounded ass. He hesitated over my tiny rectum, and I felt sure that if I didn't start kissing his dick the way he wanted it kissed, I'd end up with a finger cruelly rammed up my tender ass.

I pressed my mouth against his cock once more, only this time I kissed it as if I really wanted to. The heat of his dick was nice, though, and so was the way it pulsed against my lips.

"Take the head into your mouth, Fran. Suck it into that hot whore mouth of yours, baby. Or do you just suck little boy's cocks, like my nephew and his friends?"

His mocking voice was very sexy to me. It occurred to me that I'd heard something like it before, a long time ago. Maybe on one of those nights when my mother didn't want what my father was determined to give her.

"Start sucking, honey. Take that big prick into your mouth." He began feeding it to me, pressing the pointed head against my opening lips.

I could suddenly see myself on that bed, my mouth opening to take in Mr. H.'s big dick. I felt my face turn a deep red as the thick prick pushed past my lips and down my throat. I was actually doing it! I was actually sucking cock!

In place of the repulsion I was suddenly feeling still more pleasure. He was using my mouth as a cunt, as another wet, gaping hole to fill. He pushed into me until I was taking all of it, gagging, whimpering and feeling as if I might pass out on him. But I took all of it until I could actually feel his swollen balls against my chin.

While he rammed his dick down my throat, Mr. H. began to press into my small asshole. Instead of pain, though, the sensation was wonderful, and I arched my back, giving his finger free entry to my insides. He began to fingerfuck me hard there, and suddenly, between the torment in my mouth and the erotic finger in my ass, I began to come. It was like an unexpected flash flood, and I was caught up in the spasms almost before I realized what was happening. It was wonderful.

"You like it rough, don't you, honey? I've had girls like you before," he grunted, holding still while I finished my come. Then he pulled his hard dick from my mouth. "For the last ten years I've found it hard to get it up more than once in any session, even with a little doll like you, baby. So I've learned to make that one time damn good." With that he got up and began to undress.

I watched him as I rested on the bed after my lovely orgasm. I figured Mr. H. to be close to fifty, if not even older, yet his body was tight and strong. His hairy chest was broad, and salt-and-pepper furry. His dick had drooped a little now that it was out of my mouth, but it was still surprisingly thick.

At last he was naked. As if he had all the time in the world he wandered over to a big overstuffed chair across the room. He settled comfortably into it, then waved me over to him.

I got off the bed and came to him. His hot eyes watched me as I moved.

He stretched me over his lap so that my head was on one big arm of the chair, and my legs dangled over the other arm. Lazily he began to suck and nibble on each of my tits, going from one to the other. Then he began rubbing my belly and legs.

I was glowing all over in minutes. This was nothing like the night before when a series of cocks plunged blindly into my cunt. This was heaven. My titties burned from his mouth, and the rest of me was being stroked deliciously. Soon I was more than ready for a prick or two up my pussy.

But Mr. H. just kept playing with me. He seemed unaware that I was more than eager for him to take me. Finally, I had no choice but to let him know.

"Ooh, I'm so hot again!" I reached for his swollen prick. "I need that now. In me."

He smiled, but didn't move, and he wouldn't let me change position, either. He just kept on arousing me. Finally, I realized what he was up to. He meant to tease me until I was nearly out of my mind with desire.

"Please don't tease me any more. I really need it. Fuck me! Please fuck me!" Like the act of sucking his dick, begging to be fucked was both humiliating and exhilarating. I felt a slave to my own desires as well as to his tormenting games.

"Do you really want it?" he asked calmly, as if he didn't quite believe me. "You don't sound very desperate."

I gasped as his experienced fingers inched up my thighs only to retreat before they quite reached my cunt. "God, yes!" I raised my hips imploringly. "I need you to fuck me! Please, please. Fuck me, please…"

Instead, the man turned me over on his lap so that I was on my stomach, my cunt touching his stiff cock, but at an impossible angle while my rounded butt was exposed to his face and hands. He began to rub the firm cheeks gently. Then his touch became more demanding. Soon he was prying apart the cheeks to explore between them. Still once more an act that was degrading and humiliating was being forced on me, and again I was unsure how to respond to it. But my body accepted what was happening to it joyously. His finger traced the long crack, making me shiver in delight.

Just when I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, Mr. H. shoved his finger deeply inside me. First he probed my cunt, then he moved up my ass. I accepted the finger in both places with a deep delight, moaning and sighing as he fingered me. I got so hot I considered jumping off him and straddling his lap, impaling myself on his rigid tool. But at that moment he shoved me off him. I fell to the soft rug, and looked up at the man, confused.

"If you want my dick inside you, you'd better give it a good sucking first. Use that pretty tongue of yours." He wound his fingers through my hair, then tightened his grasp. Soon I could only hold my head at the angle he wanted it, but that was all right, too. I was being pulled toward his cock, and my lips were parting in expectation.

This time I knew what to do. There was a pearly, drop at the tip of his prick and I licked it off. Then I sucked his shaft into my hot mouth. I felt as if my mouth and cunt were working together – the wetter my mouth got the wetter my cunt became. It was like I had two cunts, and I was making the one fuck do for both of them. His hand was still grasping my hair painfully, and I was doing the best I could to suck him the way he wanted me to. I was aching so badly I finally dropped one hand to my cunt and began to play with myself. But he wouldn't stand for that. He made me use my hands on his balls and the base of his cock.

Finally, he was so hard that he sensed he would have to come right in my mouth. He withdrew his dick slowly, then used my silky hair to dry it.

"Fuck me now," I begged, getting to my feet at last. "Please…"

Grinning, Mr. H. said he would – his way. He led me to the bed, pushed me down on my stomach, then disappeared somewhere for a minute. When he returned he began to rub something oily and cold into my small asshole. Then he lowered himself over me. I tensed briefly as I felt the head of his dick begin to press into me, but before I could protest he was halfway in. I moaned with the pain, but as his huge shaft filled me. I began to feel a fullness in my pussy as well. His cock in my young ass hurt like hell, but in a strange way it also felt wonderful. He pushed in steadily until he was in as far as he could possibly go. I could even feel his balls up tight against my ass.

"Ooh, that feels good, Fran. Your little ass is so nice… You like it, don't you? You're like a little animal in heat. All hole…" He began to move in and out of me.

The first few strokes almost killed me. I even had to cry out with the pain. But it took only a minute to get used to the feeling. I held very still, letting him use my ass the way he'd used my mouth.

He knew how to hold back. I was on the verge of coming a dozen times as he smoothly fucked my ass. I could hardly stand it. But the older man had obviously been around one hell of a lot. When I almost came, he stopped. "Once you come you won't like the way this feels, Fran. Hold back. We'll come together later."

I tried, but then he began running a finger in and out of my cunt as he fucked my ass. I couldn't take that. Before I knew it, I was bucking up against his cock and moaning out my orgasm. He rode me hard while I came. But I soon found out he was right.

Once I'd finished, his cock felt like an arm up my asshole. Without the building pleasure I could feel only the pain. "Take it out! Please take it out now," I pleaded, attempting to escape his plunging cock. "It hurts too much! Please!"

Annoyed, Mr. H. couldn't resist riding me a little longer while I begged him to stop. Finally, he pulled his prick out of my aching hole. "I'll teach you to come only when I tell you to," he hissed furiously. Before I knew what he was going to do, he hauled off and slapped the ruddy cheeks of my ass hard. It was hardly a love pat.

I cried out, but I didn't move when he slapped me a few more times. I knew I deserved it for spoiling his pleasure, and, besides, the spanking really felt kind of good. Almost at once the tingling from the blows turned me on again, and I waited to see what was next on the agenda.

He turned me over after the spanking, and he opened my legs. "I think I've waited about as long as I'm going to wait," he remarked crisply, holding his big dick. "Now I'm going to fuck the shit out of you, little girl." He brought one of my legs up over his hip and quickly shoved into me. His cock had the look of stone by that time, as if it had been hard so long it could never soften again.

My pussy was very wet as he entered me. "I'm riding on the come of how many young boys, Fran?"

At first I didn't know what he had meant. Then I remembered the night before. "I don't know. Four. Maybe five. Maybe more. I kind of passed out, I think."

That seemed to excite him even more. "My sweet, little whore doesn't even know how many cocks have been in her in the past twenty-four hours! Were any as big as mine, or don't you remember that, either?"

I groaned as he filled me. The walls of my hungry cunt seemed to embrace him tightly on their own. The tip of his cock seemed to touch my womb. "No. You're the biggest. Your prick is the biggest ever! Oh, give it to me. Give it to me. Fuck me hard," I moaned.

There was no more holding back. The man started moving up and back inside me, rotating his hips to give the maximum pleasure to both of us. "I love shoving it up that pretty twat of yours. Your come-filled little whore's twat!"

I could only moan in reply. Both my legs inched up his legs and hips until I was tightly coiled around his waist, taking his dick as deeply into me as possible. This was all I'd ever dreamed about, all I'd ever wanted. I met his every thrust gladly. It was the culmination of all I'd gone through, the just reward for all the years of waiting and wanting.

"Now I'm going to fill your juicy hole with my come, baby. I'm going to drop my whole load into you. Into your little whore cunt…" He began to move faster and faster into me. His face was very red now, as if he'd pushed himself to the very limit.

I felt another orgasm starting up in my own belly, and I clung to him frantically, willing myself to hang on long enough to come with him this one time. "Tell me," I panted. "Tell me when…"

He could feel my strain, and it added to his own excitement. "Now," he cried out. "I'm going to come in you… now… now!" He drove his shaft into me furiously.

I relaxed enough to let it happen to me, too. This final orgasm was so intense that I remember only a flaring, white bomb exploding somewhere in my belly and brain, and I felt the first release of Mr. H.'s hot sperm as it shot up into my womb. Then I was dizzily spiraling into a black, soothing pit of nothingness…

When I awakened it was nearly evening, and I was ravenously hungry. Mr. H. was sleeping next to me. I eased out of bed, and padded naked through the darkening house until I found the kitchen. Quietly I made some sandwiches and a pot of coffee. A man of his age shouldn't go through all that exertion without some food under his belt. I was too hungry myself to wait, though, so I quickly gobbled some food while dialing a neighbor's number. We didn't have a phone at home, so I asked the neighbor to tell my mother that I was still at the friend's house and would stay for the weekend. I was sure I would stay for the weekend.

Then I carried the tray back to the bedroom. A little food, I reasoned, and the old bastard would be ready to go again.

"As I passed a hallway mirror, I caught sight of my reflection. I was smiling and relaxed. It made me realize that the lonely little duck, the oddball in any crowd, the strange one, had finally found herself. I knew where and what I was now. And, I suspected happily, I still had a great deal to learn."

The subject's case was brought to the attention of a psychoanalyst when it was discovered that Fran A. was pregnant. Having named the older man in the paternity suit, which was, naturally, combined with a statutory rape charge (subsequently dropped by her parents for fear of adverse effects such a court case might produce on their daughter), she revealed her story to the analyst. It was she herself who volunteered to the therapist her fear that there was something wrong with her because "everyone" seemed to think that she liked it "rough". It is doubtful that the analyst will have much difficulty in negating that fear in the subject and setting her on a normal keel in life.

CHAPTER FIVE

THE WHIPS AND SCORNS OF THYME

Yeah, sure, I guess so. I mean, if you gotta give it a name, a title, I guess that's as good as any.

Come to think of it, it's probably pretty good. I do get kidded a good bit by some of my friends because of my interest in the culinary arts. It's a jarring image, I guess, to look like Sean Connery, and when your friends drop over, you're sauteing mushrooms with an apron tied around your waist. Although, if you'll remember, James Bond was a gourmet and connoisseur of sorts.

I suppose I could have the same kind of success with women that James Bond has, except I can't often enough find the kind of girls who are properly dominant – that is, who want to be dominant with a guy that looks like Sean Connery. My "bag" is that I need that all-important seasoning of submission in a relationship to spice up my sex life. So, if a woman will just boss me around a little – you know, order me around the house, tell me how shitty the place looks, how crappy the food is, how I screwed up preparing it – well, that makes me happy inside, properly submissive and prepares the way for the right kind of "dominant-submissive" sex. Some people, I know, would say I'm a masochist.

Sure, I dig a little discomfort every now and then with my sex, but not the bondage or leather boot and spike heel bit, not the cat-o-nine-tails or the electrodes fastened to the nipples. Some screwy chicks would just as soon see your whole body covered with scratches, bruises and blood. That's not for me.

Oh, yeah, if some girl gets carried away in the throes of orgasms and rakes her fingernails across my back or butt, that's okay. As a matter of fact, that's exactly what I dig – what turns me on.

The way I started to find out about myself in this respect was unusual, for an angelic-looking young girl turned me on to it. I was, let's see, twenty-five at the time.

I'd been holding down a couple odd jobs while waiting for a better one to open up. I'd been working in a department store during the day and in a small bookstore a few nights a week. Living with an acquaintance who was an aspiring actor. We had a small apartment.

Well, this guy was gay. I can use that word now, although at the time, I couldn't help but think of him as a screaming faggot. He really got on my nerves. Now that I think back on it, I guess that's where I first ran into someone with masochistic impulses. This guy wanted to be hit – not hard enough to get hurt, but you could tell he was fascinated by violence.

A couple times, after I got home from a night of carousing and drinking beer, he wanted me to come right into his bedroom and piss on him. I remember thinking at the time that it was pretty sick to want a penis so bad that you'd be happy just to have one piss on you. It seemed to be part of his masochistic syndrome, or whatever, that included wanting to be beat up. It started me wondering what kind of life a person must've had to be that way.

But I was, and am, a confirmed lover of women. And if I playa passive or even submissive role in my affairs, that in no way diminishes my manliness or my love of the opposite sex. It's just that I enjoy a little bit of rough treatment from my sexual partners.

As I said, it was this young chick who first triggered my intimate personal interest in masochistic impulses.

I'd finally had to split from that East Village apartment. Couldn't take the pressure any more. I was staying at a friend's place, sleeping on his couch, until I could find a small, inexpensive place of my own. But I was enjoying the late afternoons and weekends when I could wander around the village and dig the scenes in Washington Square. The West Village was not quite as sleazy or paranoid as the East Village.

You could stroll through the square and watch some people playing chess, others strumming guitars while walking around the fountain. Pseudoartists, writers and hippies hung around grooving on the people and the scenery. Must've been like Haight-Ashbury before that place became a jungle for smack, meth and a general bummer.

Well, one Saturday afternoon I was idling through Washington Square when I caught sight of this exotic-looking, awkward, willowy, blue-jeaned park nymph. I first noticed the way her dark eyes flashed above a continuous angelic smile. Her movements combined the grace of a gazelle and the gawkishness of a camel. Every third step she looked as though she might fall forward over her feet. She had a way of tossing her long, black hair that looked as though it was supposed to be coltish, wild and irresistibly attractive. Which to me it was.

I thought to myself, God, how typical. I was smug in my wisdom, perspective and observance. I figured her for a freshman, maybe, at the university. Some freshman who's gone all winter trying to get the boys to tumble for her, and feels the sap stirring in her loins. She's ripe, I thought, ripe.

I watched her intently for a minute. God, how I'd love to luck her, I thought. Fuck her up one wall and down the other. Pump my hot, throbbing cock to her till she ached, and then drop a huge load of thick, creamy balm that soothed all her pains.

She abruptly stopped talking to the girl she was with, turned and looked directly at me for a brief second. Tossing her hair, she turned back to her friend. But in that instant-direct communication. She'd read my thoughts. Yes, yes, yes – I could almost hear her voice in my head. Fuck me, luck me, luck me. My penis grew thick in my jeans.

I must've watched her and stalked her for half an hour. And she, the little bitch, was as aware as radar. It was like a minuet we were doing. We'd get near each other, and she'd turn away or see someone beyond me and walk on by. Cat and mouse – and, man, did this cat ever want that mouse.

Well, at that time the protocol for picking up a chick in the village was you walk up to 'em, talk about the weather or Oistrakh's virtuosity with double-stopping or ninths, and then you ask 'em if they'd like to stop in for a cup of coffee. Or you walk up and say, "Baby, I wanna suck your pussy." Depends on your mood, and what you think the chick might dig.

Finally, I tired of the minuet, the cat-and-mouse game. As we were about to pass each other for the fifth or sixth time, I stood right in her way. She stopped about a foot away and fastened a quizzical look on my chin. Still wearing that stoned-looking smile.

"Ships that pass in the night," I said, shaking my head and grinning.

"Isn't it beautiful," she said.

"Uh, yes," I said. "Yes, indeed. It is beautiful." Not having the slightest idea what she was talking about.

Her eyes met mine. She gave me a glorious smile and said in a breathless, soft voice, "Would you like to fuck me?"

Well, shit, I thought, maybe she is getting her share of bedroom sport. I mean, with an approach like hers, somebody must've taken her up on it.

For the briefest second I appraised her. About five-seven, maybe 120 pounds, long black hair and marvelous, big gray eyes. Lush, full mouth without lipstick – kissable, lickable, biteable. Her skin – there was a soft coppery hue overlying flawless, silken white-marble flesh. There was something exotic and Levantine about her. Maybe she had Spanish blood. Could've been a Sephardic Jew – which, as a matter of fact, she was. I could almost smell the wild, aroused blood coursing through her veins. High firm breasts the size of peaches. A large but young and tight ass held firm and rippling under tight jeans. Long legs, strong, shapely thighs you'd love to have wrapped around your ass. Nicely developed calves, with just the right amount of muscle.

"Yes, I would," I said. "I'd like to eat you, too – suck your pussy." My cock strained against my left pants leg.

"Oh, good!" she breathed, and took my hand. "I hope you live very near. I'd love to suck your cock, too. Sixty-nine, huh?"

I smiled at her as she placed her hot, young hand in mine. "It gets more and more beautiful," I said. "I live a block away. Let's run."

We did, arriving at my friend's pad panting and breathless. Luckily he was gone for the weekend, wouldn't be back until Monday night.

No sooner had we closed the door than her hands were flying about her blouse, unbuttoning in trembling haste. I practically tore my shirt getting it off. My shoes were off in a snap, and I was pulling down my jeans and undershorts. She – Nancy was her name – was even faster. She whipped off her jeans and panties, rushed to the bed by the window, and sat spread-legged with her pussy palpitating at me, and her pink rosebud of an asshole winking.

With a rasping sigh and a hot look in her eyes, she grabbed both sides of her pussy, squeezing thigh and buttocks, and massaged it vigorously, spreading her vulva. She hadn't bothered yet to remove her blouse and bra, and the whole bit was delightfully obscene. My cock stood at throbbing attention.

Nancy, holding her vulva in two hands, lecherous gaze fixed on her cunt, said, "Ooh, pussy, pussy, pussy, lucky pussy, you're gonna get fucked. Aren't you glad?" There was something marvelously lewd and lecherous about the way she held a conversation with her cunt. I say "conversation", because after she said, "Aren't you glad?" I'll be damned if her pussy didn't actually kind of pucker up and then smile.

Shit, I thought, if she's got that sort of control she must be a great lay. Maybe she's a sophomore – that'd make her maybe nineteen.

Then her gray eyes traveled to my hard on. Her eyes grew smoky, her mouth softened and twisted in lust. "Oh, pussy," she said, "look at that beautiful cock." Her cunt was beginning to glisten with the juices of her excitement. "That pretty cock wants to fuck you. Yes, it does."

Jesus, I could feel my load churning in my balls already, knocking at the base of my dick.

"Don't stand there twitching," she leered at me. "Come over here and let me see that gorgeous thing up close." She ran her tongue over her lips. I approached the bed, my dick waving around so stiff it hurt. I have to admit it was a formidable weapon. Veins standing out like blue spaghetti, the head of my cock red and distended. I stood so close to the bed I could feel her warm breath on my cock.

"Ooh, it's beautiful," she said, regarding the head of my cock with a fond gaze.

I was glad I'd come closer, because I could get a good look at her body – except for her tits, which were still held by the soft, semitransparent material of her bra, hidden by the folds of her open blouse. As she gazed fascinated at my rampant red erection, I, in turn, feasted my eyes on her, on the billows of jet black hair, drawn back on either side, on her firm young skin suffused with a topaz phosphorescence, on the voluptuous fullness of thighs, belly and groin, canted forward in an obscene widespread position. But most of all I gazed on the single crease of flesh just above her navel, a crease that gave no hint of dimpled fat – only healthy, well-toned muscle. Muscle that I longed to make heave and writhe in orgasm.

As I stood before her, my cock stretched to the aching point, she looked up at me and smiled radiantly. A drop of clear fluid had seeped out of my cock.

"Did I make it do that?" she asked.

I watched the clear drop grow bigger and descend on a thread. She caught it with her finger.

"I guess so," I said. My knees felt weak and my thighs trembled visibly. "Why don't we take this off?" I slipped my hands under her blouse, eased it off her shoulders, and unfastened her bra in back. There was not a fraction of an inch of sag to her breasts when the bra came off. They stood firm as ripe peaches, her nipples like erect brown buds. The scent that arose from her body must've been frankincense and myrrh.

When I leaned forward to undo her bra, it brought my crotch close to her face. My hands lingered briefly on the cool skin of her shoulders. I felt a sudden warm sensation on my balls and glanced down. Nancy had pressed her open mouth gently against the left side of my scrotum – so gently that I could feel her warm breath wafting about my balls and pubic hair. Her eyes, touched with the glint of a slight smile, were lifted reverently to my face.

Then, smearing the drop of come over the head of my dick, she raised her head, looked at me, and said, "Hey, you wanna try something?"

"God," I moaned, "I'll try anything, as long as it involves you and my cock."

"Good," she chirped. She stood up, pressing her naked body against mine. My arms encircled her, my hands patting and exploring the smooth, warm flesh. Marvelous muscle tone, not an ounce of flab anywhere.

"No, on your knees." So I rested on my hands and knees, and was about to turn to her to inquire what she had in mind. I didn't get the chance.

I was glad I'd showered only an hour ago. I felt her hand push out on the left cheek of my ass and then her face push into the crevice. But before any words escaped, my jaw sagged and my vision blurred as she drove her tongue expertly up my asshole. I was only half aware that my head was hanging out the open window, audible groans escaping from my mouth. I'm sure only the noise of the traffic prevented pedestrians from hearing me.

I felt one of her hands caress my balls cradling them and fondling them. She reached her other arm around my thigh and wrapped cool, tapered fingers around my hot, nine-inch cock. Deftly, methodically and rhythmically she began to jerk me off, running the loose outer skin up and down my love-muscle about four inches on a stroke. Jesus, even when I'd jerked myself off it'd never felt so good. Of course, I'd never been able to stick my tongue up my ass either.

"Shit," I wigged out. "Ohhh, hot fuck!" I yelled, experiencing an echoed hum from Nancy up my asshole. Several passersby looked up, and I waved as though to someone down the street.

With a supreme effort of will, I pulled my head in the window and slowly rolled over on my back, disengaging Nancy's tongue from my anus, but not her pumping hand from my penis.

"Oh, shit," I moaned. "You better stop or I'll shoot my wad all over."

"That's just what I want," she crowed. Still retaining the stoned smile around her eyes and mouth, she dropped her hot lips over the end of my dick while she continued to jerk off the remainder.

What with her virtuoso palm, five digits thumping my shaft, her expert mouth sucking my cock and her practiced tongue swirling around its head, it wasn't five seconds before I felt the first spasm grip my guts. I could tell it was gonna be one of those orgasms that start up around your eustachian tubes.

My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounded, my belly button gave a twinge, and then it was as if powerful hands gave a gentle wrench to my groin and prostate. There was a volcanic surge in my crotch and nuts.

When she felt it, Nancy pulled her mouth away. The last thing I remember, before the lights and spots floated in front of my eyes, was Nancy intently studying my face. "Come, come, come," she intoned, her eyes bright.

An endless rope unwound itself from my throat on down. I know only that my cock gave spurt after spurt of hot steam, my ass bucked and twisted. When I recovered, I had mild cramps in both legs, and my hands were wound tightly in the sheet.

"Boy," she exclaimed, "did you ever come." Viewing the scene with lavalike cooling come all over my stomach and her hand, I sluggishly said, "I wanted to put all that in your cunt."

"Yes, but just think how long and hard you'll be able to fuck me now. You'll have to screw for a solid twenty minutes, I bet, before you come again." She rolled me on my back, and, trailing her long black hair along my thigh, she licked my groin and balls while running light fingers along my limp dick – which only stayed limp for about two seconds.

In no time at all it was a flaming, rampant pole again. And, now with the veins and muscles fully energized, a truly impressive cock.

"Wow," Nancy whispered. "Jim has a jimdandy of a whang." Using the thumb and forefinger of both hands, she wrapped them around the very base of my cock, causing the veins and head to swell until my gorged dick looked like one of those exaggerations you see in Japanese erotic prints. "Whopping whang," she murmured, tickling the underside of the glans with her tongue tip.

She spread her legs wide and rubbed her cunt lewdly. "Do you have any jelly?" she asked.

"Uhh… you mean vaginal jelly?"

"No, silly," she tittered. "I mean like for sandwiches and thing."

"Sure," I said. "In the kitchen. Why?"

Laughing delightedly, she skipped into the kitchen and came back with a jar of grape jelly. She flounced on the bed, legs spread wide, opened the jelly jar, dipped out a couple teaspoons of grape jelly with her finger, and smeared it generously along the upper edges of her pink-lipped cunt.

"Now, you can lick it out," she ordered with a wicked smile. She poked another teaspoonful into the vestibule of her vagina. When she wiggled her ass along my belly toward my face, her pussy somehow didn't look as appetizing as it had before. The full, firm thighs and flat belly, though, were a feast for my eyes.

"What's the matter?" she asked lifting her crotch from my chest and pushing it at my face. "Don't you like jelly sandwiches?" Whereupon, supported on her hands, her hips humped forward as much as possible, she plopped her tight, young, tender, grape-flavored quim smack onto my mouth and chin. Across her soft features flitted an expression of feral lust that really took me by surprise.

"Lick it," she gritted. "Suck it. Eat it!" And she started a humping and bumping I thought would dislocate my jaw. Her eyes glazed and her mouth twisted in lip-curled sensuality. "Bite it," she commanded. "But not too hard. And ah – pinch my tits!" She placed both my hands on her peach-firm breasts, now nubbed with erect brown nipples, and squeezed with a pressure that would've made me yell. She, however, just moaned voluptuously. Her twat, like some juicy, funneled bivalve, began squeezing tricks on my busy tongue.

I became aware that she was doing amazing things with the muscles in her cunt and asshole. Even her perineum seemed to be alive. I was squeezing her tits almost as hard as I could, and she was going, "Ooh! Aah! Yessss." It struck me that a chick with such sexual expertise and peculiarities, no matter how tender and innocent looking, must've had an eventful freshman year, the lessons of which she had been perfecting in her sophomore year.

"Now pinch my ass… pinch it hard. And I'll squeeze my tits." Her cunt was getting juicier and juicier. The grape jelly was long since gone – and very tasty it had been, too. That was my first experience with a grape jelly and labia sandwich.

I grabbed her ass cheeks with both hands and squeezed really hard – I mean, with all my strength. She responded by swiveling her hips, grinding her crotch onto my face with jaw-breaking ardor.

"Hot shit," she hissed. "Yeah. Squeeze. Bite. Bite my ass!"

I'm glad she added that it was her ass I should bite, because I was nibbling as hard as I thought I should on her vulva and clit.

I lifted her up a couple of inches, and eased my face back into the crack of her ass. Nuzzling her cheeks apart, I took what I thought was a pretty firm grip on her chubbies with my teeth. Bit down on two inches of subcutaneous heft and gluteus maximum, along with, of course, jelly-smeared and goose fleshed skin. Whipped a little tongue over it as a kind of salve.

"More. Harder. Bite all over!" And I felt a grip on my arms – luckily without long fingernails – that threatened to bruise deep muscles…

More in self-defense than anything else, I pushed her off me. I flipped her into a position on her hands and knees where I could put my hand over her mouth if necessary to prevent an outburst such as she had yelled before, such as might be interpreted on the street below as a cry for help.

"With one hand lowering the window a foot and my gaping mouth suctioning on her ass, I reached a hand around and gripped her left tit. I took a half nelson on it. I moved my mouth, from her ass to check that the window was low enough."

"Suck," she yelled, and put her Goddam fist through the windowpane.

"What the hell?" I gasped, as I jumped at the sound of shattering glass.

"Oh, just cut myself a little bit. Had to hit that window, though."

She gave me a sly hint of a smile, then lifted her wrist to her mouth. She licked at the trickle of blood and started to suck on it. Then, turning over and spreading her legs again, she looked up at my bemused face.

"Kiss me," she said. "Soft. Nice."

I kissed her softly, nicely, and tasted an iron taste. Then she licked her lips and said, "Kiss my tit soft." She put the tenderest hands on my face I'd ever felt.

So I kissed her gently – extremely gently – and, on a hunch, pinched her ass in a viselike grip.

"Oooooh… honey, drive that big, beautiful spear into me. I wanta feel it!"

Feel it, you will, I thought. Feel it right up to your throat. And, viewing the softly throbbing vein in her throat and wondering what devil was tapping the wires between my head and cock, I damn near tore one buttock from the other as I spread her crotch for spearing.

Not enough for her.

"Ram it! Sock it!" The shriek must have shattered plaster.

Never in my entire life have I felt a tongue like that in my ear. Jelly-grape jelly.

So, with no preliminary oiling, I rammed it in, rammed it in to the root of a cock I knew was straining. The fucking thing throbbed from base to top.

"Grape jelly you want!" I howled. "I'll give you grape jelly." And socked in nine inches of the most concrete erection I'd had in a long time. I grabbed her tits with strong hands. Gripped 'em with a firm, but solid hold.

What I mean is, somehow my hands, and I guess my cock, had managed to get out of my control.

I scraped what jelly I could off her ass, and bit on it again. Only the very top, mind you, 'cause I'm not a contortionist.

As soon as I bit, I felt her come like the best ever. Her pussy opened and closed a couple times, and then she grabbed my ass, and I could feel the fluid that could only be blood.

Somehow – God knows, because I don't somehow, that tiny bit of fluid on my ass just got my nuts off like that. And I shot an immense load into Nancy. An immense load, I was convinced, right up to her throat.

The knowledge that there was blood on my ass had a powerful aphrodisiac effect on me heightened the sensuality of my climax. Clutching mightily on Nancy's ass, I sobbed out, "Finger… asshole."

The devilish dear responded lustily, inserting a wet forefinger deep into my anus, giving me a vigorous finger wave. And with her other hand she pinched my ass like she was trying to draw blood.

Well, with her finger up my asshole and her hand pinching my buttocks for all she was worth, I was suddenly overcome with an unexplainable lust. I mean, visions flashed through my mind of being almost suffocatingly ravished by all sorts of chicks. Every chick I'd ever had. And in every vision, the chick was the aggressor.

But after a few seconds, I was completely spent, empty. Still it felt like my cock was revving up just about maximum rpm's. My body was so weak, though, I had to pull off Nancy. I think she would've gone for another fuck right then.

We showered, soaping each other's backs and laughing like a couple kids. I think I even flicked a towel at her butt.

"You hungry?" I asked. "Want some beef stroganoff – homemade? Or some cold vichyssoise?"

"No," she replied, regarding me with some puzzlement.

"You go to the university?"

"No." A little embarrassed.

"Oh? Where do you go?"

"B-High School." Then, airily, "You know what I'd like? A peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

I had a sinking feeling. "How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Oh, my God."

As is the case in courts of law, where a man may not bear witness against himself – or at least may not be found guilty solely on the basis of his own incriminating word and without evidence supporting his guilt – so in the psychiatrist's domain a man may not diagnose his own "ailment" and have the psychoanalyst accept that diagnosis without doing some delving into the patient's mind and background himself to find evidence supporting or disclaiming the self-diagnosis.

The subject of the case under discussion, James Y., states that he "can't often enough find the kind of girls who are properly dominant," implying thereby that he is a masochist. At the beginning of his narrative he indirectly dwells on that topic, suggesting a somewhat paradoxical picture of himself in the process. He claims he looks like Sean Connery; he states that he needs "that all-important seasoning" of submission in a relationship to spice up [his] sex life; he gives the indication that he is masochistically inclined by saying that he "digs" a little discomfort; he admits to sharing an apartment with a "homosexual" but denies any such inclinations himself; and finally he "puts the blame", so to speak, of his "masochism" at the feet of a sixteen-year-old girl whom he picks up in New York. And as the case is unfolded by the subject, one is hard pressed to find anything in his narrative that suggests masochistic tendencies; his claim to "obeying" sixteen-year-old Nancy's "orders" is nothing more than an attempt at justifying his obvious enthusiasm for the sexual involvement with an underage female. His fear is not, as he claims – and, possibly, believes – a fear of masochism, but rather of the possible consequences which he knows will eventually be the inevitable result of his proclivity for young sex partners.

When one considers, however, the flagrancy with which young Nancy had approached the subject, a total stranger, and the nonchalantly direct offer she made of herself to him, it is not at all surprising that James immediately took her up. It is a moot question whether he thought Nancy was "nineteen" as he claims, or whether he had any doubts about her being of age. It is more than likely either that he suspected that she was not as old as he wanted to believe her to be or that he did not actually give her age any thought. In his eyes, she was most probably just a desirable young female radiating sexuality. When his erotically directed thoughts were countered by her earthy proposition, it is understandable that his libido climbed in the saddle of his reason and took hold of the reins.

Nancy, assuming that the narrative presented by the subject is not intentionally contrived to cast "the responsibility" for the tryst upon her, is certainly a super precocious youngster. If the subject's rendering of their dialogue during their lovemaking sessions is true to life, then there is a strong indication that it is Nancy, in fact, who is masochistic. In fact, she creates the impression of being what might be termed an "aggressive masochistic nymphomaniac". The inherent paradox of such a classification might very well be used to explain the psychology of her adolescence.

Nancy's primary aim is not, of course, to experience extreme pain or discomfort. Her goal is sexual gratification, i.e., the attainment of orgasm, which she appears to be incapable of attaining without some "violence" being directed upon her. She asks the subject to "pinch" her and to "bite" her. According to the subject, as soon as he does that, Nancy climaxes.

This type of masochism, whether recognized or not, is present in a great majority of the populace. It is usually a mutual feeling in lovers, perhaps a carry-over of the primeval instinct: the manifestation of love through controlled violence. It is a sign of mutual conquest and mutual submission; it is the physical manifestation of love. Needless to say, it is not essential each and every time that a man and a woman make love; neither is it a sign of a lack of love if there is never any violence manifested during copulation between two partners. Nancy's case, however, suggests that there are those who crave this type of lovemaking more than others.

It would be interesting to be able to delve into her background not so much because of her masochistic inclinations, but because of the fact that she has manifested them at such an early age. Although there could be anyone of a number of reasons for her precociousness and her desire for "a bit of violence", the majority of similar cases reveal a background where parental love was totally absent or where it was manifested in the form of strong disciplinary action… In the first case, the child, needing both love and discipline, seeks that discipline in the disguised and controlled violence of sexual lovemaking; in the second, the child, having equated disciplinary action with love, requires it alongside her or his sexual activity. That such a slant in the psychology of thought, especially adolescent thought, often creates problems is obvious. That Nancy has such a manner of thinking is strongly suggested in the subject's narrative. It would not be an exaggeration to suggest that the girl's manner of seeking out sexual partners is fraught with risk and danger; she certainly appears to be mature enough sexually to engage in coital pursuits, but emotionally and mentally she is still a child.

The psychoanalyst to whom the subject brought his "fears of masochism" felt it unfortunate that James Y. was unable to steer his "seductress" in the direction of a psychoanalyst's couch. The subject claimed that Nancy had disappeared out of his life just as suddenly as she had appeared, and that he had no idea who she was or where she was from.

As far as the subject of the case is concerned, the opinion of the analyst is that the young man, after his sexual experience with the sixteen-year-old Nancy had become sized with an "inadequacy syndrome". Having been accosted by what he considered "a child" who was ingenious and almost insatiable sexually, the subject admitted to fearing that, one, he would not be able to satisfy a mature woman, and two, his fear would direct, in fact, had already directed his sexual aims at girls even younger than Nancy was.

It is felt, however, that the subject had had such fears of inadequacy – in spite of the fact that he does not appear to have proved himself "inadequate" with Nancy (unless, of course, he is concealing the reason for her "disappearance") – even before his sexual encounter with the young girl. There is even a suggestion, according to the psychoanalyst, that the subject, beneath all the conflicts raging in his conscious and subconscious, might be a latent homosexual.

You can understand my rising panic when she told me she was sixteen. I suggested that we quickly – it was such a nice day – go out and get something to eat.

My first impulse, on hitting the street, was to run. Run till I lost her, and then keep on running. But she took hold of my hand tightly. She talked like, well, like I was the crazy mixed up kid and she was trying to reason some sense into me.

All the time she was talking, my eyes were flicking around guiltily. Everyone we passed seemed to look at us and know that I was a rapist. "What have you been doing, to that poor innocent girl?" they accused. My crime was written all over me. I was Raskolnikov.

"Nancy, love," I finally managed. "What are you trying to do to me? Get me twenty years for contributing to the delinquency of a minor!"

"But we love each other," she cooed. "There's nothing wrong with that."

"There is," I explained with steely control, "if you're only sixteen." We were walking toward Hudson Street, where another friend of mine lived, so I thought I'd give him a jingle and ask if I could use his place for a while.

Sex, mind you, was the furthest thing from my mind. What I wanted to do was get off the streets, I had visions of the Bureau of Missing Persons, the FBI, immigration authorities, and the vice squad all converging on us, and I didn't want to go back to my other friend's place.

So, anyway, the guy said he'd leave the key under the mat, and good luck. I just said thanks, because I didn't want to go into the whole story. The rest of the way, I was trying to figure out how to explain certain things to this young lovely.

When we walked into the place on Hudson, it was hot and muggy as only a badly ventilated apartment in New York can be. I went right to the fridge, and pulled out a cold beer to help me think.

"God, it's hot," I said.

"Can I have one of those?" asked Nancy.

Without looking at her, I said, "You may not. You are sixteen years old. You are a minor. You are not of legal drinking age except in your own home." I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. "And I have contributed enough delinquency to a minor." I took a long pull on the beer. "And for me, alas, you are definitely not of legal fucking age."

"Oh?" And her tone made me turn and look at her. She was standing naked in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips, shoulders back, looking directly at me.

The late afternoon sun, slanting in, caught flashes of purple and gold in her long jet tresses, highlighted a Mediterranean cast of features. Every tiny hair along the muscled furrow of her abdomen was lined. The moisture on each hair of her mons glistened. Titian couldn't have wished for better light.

My eyes fell on the pubescent rise of tummy, then on the firm breasts. I remembered how they looked, the perspective, when I'd had my mouth glued to her cunt. A ball of desire ricocheted in my gut.

"I'm gonna take a shower," I said weakly, "… alone." I went to the bathroom, avoiding the hot stare of her eyes, murmuring to myself, "A cold shower." I closed the door tightly behind, but decided not to lock it.

The shower cooled me off, but didn't quite wilt the hardness from my dick. I considered masturbating, but instead gave it a sharp flick of the finger and it relaxed a little more. Tying a towel carefully around my waist, I went back into the kitchen in a frame of mind to continue my lecture on wayward girls.

That frame was quickly shattered.

Nancy was seated on the kitchen table with her legs spread wide, her feet supported on two chairs about four feet apart. She was smiling at me with that stoned smile.

But what really threw me for a loop was the large flesh-colored dildoe jutting out from her crotch. A thing with a hefty set of rubber balls on the end. With one hand she was slowly twisting the dildoe in her vagina. With the other she rhythmically squeezed a tit.

"A good girl scout is always prepared," she said throatily, and pushed about four inches of dildoe into her vadge. Her hand was busily thrumming a nipple.

"That," I said, "is the boy scouts' marching song – be prepared, as through life we trip along." And damn near fell on my knees.

"When did a young lady like you get a hold of such an instrument?" There was a twinge of jealousy as I compared the thickness of the dildoe, unfavorably it seemed to me, with the proportions of my own organ.

She closed her eyes in sensual pleasure. "I snitched it from a friend's mother." She gave the dildoe a vigorous twist, and then pulled it out with a plop. "God, it makes me feel horny." She eyed the slight bulge in the front of the towel. "But it's nothing like the real thing, though, is it?" Her lustful gaze fixed on my face…

I felt the butterflies start in my stomach, and a surge of lust fill my dick. I heard myself moan.

With her legs still wide apart, she took her buttocks in both hands and began pinching them, hard and leaving white marks where her fingers were. My cock surged again. I wanted those hands pinching me, grabbing me; scratching me, violating my asshole with stiff fingers. Her eyes never left my face.

She began to chant in a singsong, childlike voice, "Jimmy's got a hard on. Nya na na na na naa." She lifted her legs, offering a succulent view of wet pussy and winking asshole, and pushed a slick, shiny forefinger deep into her anus.

"I'm hungry," I said, rising on trembling legs and walking unsteadily toward the refrigerator.

"Me too," she said petulantly. "I never did get my peanut butter and jelly sandwich."

I opened the refrigerator, and heard her padding up behind me on bare feet. "No," I said, not turning around, "you won't have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are for barbarians or for fucked-up kids."

Nancy pressed up behind me, rubbing her warm groin into my thigh, grazing my back with her firm nipples. "What's wrong with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" she asked, drawing her fragrant forefinger under my nose. "Don't you like peanut butter?" She stuck the finger into my mouth, and pushed it ticklingly between my teeth.

The indignity of it was exquisite. To suffer the contumely of this adolescent's appetite was vaguely pleasurable, but to be abused by her shit-smelling finger was, oddly, sheer heaven. My cock leapt to full stiffness under the towel. It encountered her other hand which had crept around to my front.

"Hot cock," she hissed in my ear, dragging me away from the kitchen toward the couch. She tore off the towel and pushed me back on the cushions. "Hot pussy! Hot asshole," she leered. "You like it." She seized my ears painfully and, gazing down on me with demonic lust, began to lower her crotch slowly onto my face. The thought that I'd left the refrigerator open was almost a physical pain to me.

She sat heavily on my face and wiped her crotch, from mons to coccyx, all over it.

"You liked the jelly, didn't you?" she said, pressing her open labia onto my mouth. "Didn't you?" she demanded.

"Mm-mn," I said.

"And you liked my peanut butter, didn't you?"

"Mm-mmm."

She jammed her asshole against my nose till I thought she'd bend it out of joint.

"Well, peanut butter and jelly are for barbarians!" She lifted her crotch long enough to give me a severe look. "Or for fucked up kids. You said so yourself." She reached behind her and grabbed my throbbing cock in a viselike grip. "And you're not a kid," she said. Still holding my dick she slid down my chest. "So you must be a barbarian." She manipulated the tender head of my cock into the wet gap of her cunt. "So I want you to squeeze my tits while you tuck me like a wild man!" And she sat down on my stiff cock, impaling herself to the hilt.

For about thirty seconds she whipped some of the snappiest cunt to me I'd ever had in my life. In, out, up, down, back and forth, and around and around. She whipped it to me so fast and hard I damn near lost my tight grip on her tits. What was worse, she almost tore my dick off.

I was gritting my teeth and groaning in delicious agony, when suddenly. I started to lose rigidity. I lost just enough so that, on one particularly bone-jarring fuck stroke, my cock slipped out of her cunt on the upswing and jammed head on against her perineum when she came down.

The neighbors must've heard the sharp cries that came from both of us, cries of pain and delight. If they did, they gave no sign. And the two of us lay there for a minute on the couch in a kind of numb, aching bliss. I really do think Nancy must've had a small orgasm. Me, I'd been too bent out of shape – almost literally to come very near a climax. But there was a strange, suffusing pleasure in lying there with my palpitating prick feeling like it had run into a closed door. My God, I allowed myself to think for the first time, I'm a masochist.

"Now I really am hungry," she purred, snuggling against me. "And you don't really have to fix me it peanut butter and jelly sandwich if you don't want to." Apparently, a little stab of pain every now and then relaxed her, too.

"I'll see what there is," I said, getting carefully to my feet and going to the open refrigerator. I noticed little dribs of semen were oozing from the eye of my half-hard dick. And I knew that, despite the small ache in my privates, I was extremely aroused.

I rummaged in the refrigerator again. Eggs, bread, sliced ham, ketchup – ketchup! I knew Mort, my friend, liked good food, but I wouldn't be caught dead with ketchup on the table. And… what's this? Could it be…? Yes, by God, hollandaise sauce.

"By God," I said. "Hollandaise sauce. We can have eggs Benedict!" I grinned from ear to ear. "Mort, I love you."

"What's that?" Nancy asked guardedly.

"Mort's the guy who lives here."

"No, no. The other. Whose eggs?"

I explained to her, but she made a face at the hollandaise sauce.

"You'll like it," I said.

I whipped up two orders of eggs Benedict and set them on the table. All the time I was cooking, she kept staring at my semi-rigid cock, and fingering her clit and breasts.

"I usually sprinkle a bit of thyme or herb fines on top," I said. She was standing by my side at the table. "Do you want some?"

"No," she said. "I want some of this." And she grabbed my cock firmly, held it over the table, and milked several large drops of semen onto one portion of hollandaise sauce. "There," she said in the tone of a master chef.

"That's yours," I sighed. But inwardly I thrilled at her degenerate audacity. We ate everything up in about two minutes, but all during the meal my cock kept throbbing and oozing. I could feel the food being rushed through my digestive tract to be turned into come as fast as I swallowed it.

With each bite she took, expressions of wicked joy flitted over her face. "Umm, yum yum. Come. Umm. Come. Yum yum."

I reflected that a few weeks ago I might well have been taken physically ill by such a performance. And here, in the space of one short afternoon, this pubescent Messalina had turned my head around enough so that I was actually digging it. It was really turning me on.

The two of us clinked wineglasses in a silent toast – yes, I'd not stopped contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I felt like Tom Jones and his mother. Or she felt like Tom Jones and his-her-father. Or something.

"Eggs Benedict and wine for breakfast," I reflected aloud. "There's something decadent about it, something fin-de-siecle."

"Was this your breakfast?" she asked with a mild surprise that irked me. Obviously, she didn't feel decadent. She didn't feel fin-de-siecle. She was young and innocent. Well, young anyway. She was healthy, happy. Never mind that she'd turned my stomach with her request for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Never mind that she'd forced me to flee my friend's comfortable apartment with her dumb sixteen years of age. Anyone who had breakfast in the late afternoon deserved her reproof.

She observed my silence, and it made her uncomfortable. "Now, fuck me," she insisted, taking my hand and pulling me from the table. "Now you have to fuck me like a wild man, like a barbarian. Became only barbarians eat eggs Benedict for breakfast at night."

Night? Not even dusk yet, and she calls it night.

But her spontaneity was infectious. My cock rose to a happy, healthy erect state proper for fucking sixteen-year-old girls who liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

She lay on the couch, stretching languidly like a houri preparing herself for a hard night, and holding, I noticed for the first time, the small bottle of Chianti. She poured a thimbleful into her generous, copper-toned belly button and said, "Drink first. Then eat. Then fuck."

Oh, yes, I intoned mentally. Order me around, you sweet, young dear. The young darling was a mind reader. I could've licked her grubby little toes, had she ordered me to.

I knelt beside the couch, resting my reverent gaze on the wine-filled pucker of navel, the firm belly, the gentle, black-haired rise of mons. I sucked and licked the wine up. As if drawn by a magnet, my tongue ran along the downy furrow of belly to the thicker hair above the pussy, then down to the fresh, pulpy sweetness of her slit.

She was being surprisingly tender. Or maybe she was holding herself in. She wound her fingers gently in my hair. She slowly eased one leg around so I could get in some good licks at her entire crotch. I stuck a couple inches of tongue firmly up her asshole and felt her come to life a little. She grasped my hair more tightly, pulling it a little.

"Oh, God," she wheezed. "Fuck me now. Fuck me!" Pulling me by the hair and arm, she drew me on top of her.

She threw one leg up and over the back of the couch. Her slit was spread wide, inviting the gorged head of my cock to violate it.

I shoved it in all the way with one stroke right to the hilt, delighting in the feel of my balls slapping wetly against her crotch. She grabbed my ass in tight fists, sinking her nails in and bunching the flesh.

"Oh, shit, yes!" I groaned. "Grab it! Pinch it! Scratch it!" I humped and bucked in delirious joy.

She caught my enthusiasm. She scratched my ass, pinched my buttocks, bit my shoulder, squealing and almost sobbing in her venery.

Abruptly I felt a new sensation, like she was trying to spank me, which was fine by me. "Oh, yes, do it," I yelled. So she did it harder. And suddenly I realized what it was she was doing.

She'd picked up her big rubber dildoe and was flailing me on the ass with it. "Come, come, come, come," she chanted.

With a groan and sob of relief, I felt long knots of come spew into her. Her pussy gaped and sucked audibly. We rocked and humped for endless seconds, and finally rested.

After a few moments, feeling relieved and fulfilled for the first time in weeks and overcome with generosity, I said: "I think Mort's got some peanut butter and jelly. Want a sandwich?"

She smiled gratefully.

A valid prognosis at this early stage of the subject's therapy cannot be presented; however, if he accepts several of the potential psychological problems that he is subconsciously beset with, there is no reason to be pessimistic about the outcome of his therapeutic sessions with the psychoanalyst.

CONCLUSION

Five drops in an ocean, five winks in eternity, five cases out of the millions that have gone and the millions that will go unrecorded, cannot bring a conclusion of any legitimate stature. Both masochism and sadism appear to be permanent features of man's overall character. History bears this point out. Samuel G. Kling, in his Sexual Behavior and the Law, unequivocally states (in reference to sadism).

To some degree all of us are sadists. There was the mass sadism of the German people as they watched the extermination of innocent Jews, and there is the sadism of a spectator going to a prize fight in the hope that one of the participants will be knocked out. Sadism, with its accompanying feeling of aggression, has always afflicted mankind and seems to be indissolubly bound up with the human race. Wars, gladiatorial combats, manhunts, beast baiting, bullfights, public executions, inquisitions, and witch hunting have all pandered to man's instinct for cruelty. Perhaps the clearest expression of sadism exists in certain forms of corporal punishment, especially in flogging…

And so, too, with masochism, for masochism may very well be considered, as Freud suggested, a transformation of sadism.

This "transformation", or inversion of sadism may be considered as a character trait of a passive, willless, and fatalistic personality. As it was mentioned earlier in this work, it is extremely difficult to accept some experts' categorizing masochism as all instinct. The reason for this is that such a categorization nullifies, or at least totally counters, the instinct of self preservation and of perpetuation of the species. This does not, however, preclude the acceptance of sadism as an instinctual quantity. Man's aggressiveness, his success in subjugating not only others of the species, but the whole of nature and its elements as well, is evident on every page of man's history. Consequently, it might be said that man has a strong instinct to master, for without that instinct to subjugate, or with the failure of that instinct, neither self preservation nor perpetuation of the species would be possible. Sadism is that same instinct only uncontrolled and exaggerated.

In masochism, the sadistic instinct is still present, and it is still strong; however, the willpower of the individual being extremely weak – for any number of reasons that may become clearer through psychoanalytic delving – he or she surrenders that instinct to another individual, who does not suffer from lack of willpower, and permits himself or herself to be the object of conquest, subjugation, or total enslavement. The sexual aspect of such surrender inevitably enters the picture since sexual conquest is quite often the byproduct of even non-sexually intended advances.

The complex psychology of masochism is evident in any and every work that deals with the subject. Even case studies such as the five included in this volume do not offer anything more than a relatively small clue to the workings of a masochistic mind. The generally heard claims, "I like being hurt," or "I enjoyed the pain," or "I can't enjoy sex unless I am treated rough," must never be taken at face value. Such statements explain nothing. They only complicate the already complexly confounded workings of the masochist's conscious mind. The truth lies much deeper in the subconscious or even the unconscious.

An average, or "normal" person – one in whom the sadistic and the masochistic inclinations are in a psychological and emotional equilibrium and thereby cancel each other out usually finds sadistic and masochistic tendencies incomprehensible. He might consider sadism as a "monstrous" imbalance of man's sexuality and masochism as either a "repugnant" or pathetic situation. The fact is, however, that both sadists and masochists were at one time "average and normal" persons. It does not require much pondering on the subject to accept that sadists and masochists – and the reference here is to the "extreme" cases ("severity three and up") – are not born, they are made.

Not only is there an ever-present conflict of the two tendencies – the surfacing of either one of which signals a controlling action on the subject. In every individual, but the two tendencies may alternate in strength from one time to another, from one place to another and from one situation to another. In other words, sadism and masochism may very well be considered as relative rather than absolute. Samuel G. Kling, in his previously mentioned work, cites a case in which sadism and masochism alternate in an individual in reference to time.

… A manual laborer… likes to be beaten and chained by his wife, and to surrender himself entirely to her. She satisfies her husband's desires only to a very limited extent, so that their sexual relationship does not permit a full expression of the man's feelings… He also frequently feels a desire to perform sadistic acts on his wife…

The relativity of sadism and masochism in reference to situations or individuals might be apparent in cases where we have the conflicting tendencies present in one individual and a regular surfacing of masochism and sadism in two other individuals. In such cases, if A is masochistic, B is sadomasochistic, and C is sadistic, B might at one time act sadistically toward A and at another time masochistically toward C.

In retrospect, it might be said that the guideline for the control of any undue surfacing of either tendency should be an individual objectivity based on the knowledge of human nature in general and of the self's idiosyncracies in particular. Hopefully, the cases presented in this work will aid the individual in equilibrium to maintain that balance, and the person with either inclination becoming apparent to retain the equilibrium without which pleasure casts a dark shadow over happiness.

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Abrahamsen, David. The Road to Emotional Maturity. New York: Prentice-Hall, Inc., 1958.

Chaplin, J. P. Dictionary of Psychology. New Yrok: Dell Publishing Co., Inc., 1968.

Chesser, Eustace. Love and the Married Woman. New York: The New American Library, Inc., 1968.

Ellis, Havelock. Studies in the Psychology of Sex. New York: Random House, 1936.

Kling, Samuel G. Sexual Behavior and the Law. New York: Pocket Book, 1969.

Krafft-Ebing, Richard Von. Psychopathia Sexualis: A Medico-Forensic Study. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons, 1965.

Content

Lydia Wilkinson
The five faces of masochism

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CONCLUSION

BIBLIOGRAPHY