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.