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.