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.