Rape '70
by Gerald Summers


INTRODUCTION 

"Tell it not in Geth, publish it not in the streets of Ascalon." -Old 
Testament, 2 Samuel 

In spite of David's command to the sons of Israel, the chance is likely that 
sooner or later the victim of rape will find herself - or, in rare 
instances, himself - prone on a psychiatrist's couch with the psychoanalyst 
probing her subconscious in an attempt to unearth the raison d'etre for the 
patient's tendency to espouse one or another "perversion" of a sexual 
nature. The word perversion is quoted because a number of variations on 
sexual intercourse - such as anal intercourse, often referred to as 
pederasty, also cunnilingus, fellatio, and even analingus - although still 
condemned in the legal sense, are practiced so widely by broad-minded, 
consenting adults that the term is considered inappropriate. Those 
puritanical and retrogressive souls who will never cease to decry the 
simplicity, the clarity, and the beauty of the Anglo-Saxon supplication, 
"Fuck me, darling!" and who lump the "perversions" of the Biblical times 
with "immorality" which is just as antiquated, may be answered best by a 
quote from Havelock Ellis's The Dance of Life: "What we call 'morals' is 
simply blind obedience to words of command." 

Rape itself as a subject defies analysis. The Huns under Attila ravaged Gaul 
and Italy fifteen centuries ago on a wide-ranging scale; misfits in our 
modern-day society manage to get one or two inches of newspaper column space 
in the dailies. Gladys Denny Schultze, in How Many-More Victims? - 
subtitled, Society and the Sex Criminal - draws a fairly accurate portrait 
of the rapist, stating that most had begun masturbating at the age of 
thirteen; half had experienced sexual intercourse by the time they were 
fifteen; a majority married young, had children, and had not been deprived 
of normal sex. 

Aside from the fact that the above description of a rapist fits an 
extraordinary number of individuals who are going to go through life without 
ever raping anyone, the author of the aforementioned volume hardly touches 
upon the victim and the psychosexual effects on her, especially the victim 
of an unreported rape. 

Of course, instances of rape coming to light only through psychiatric 
delving into a patient's sexual past are not to be found in the society 
column of any newspaper. Psychoanalytic files of the fifteen thousand 
practitioners of the science throughout the nation, however, abound with 
reports, cases, follow-up studies, and taped interviews of patients such as 

the Following: "The size of his cock, gorged like a fist, battering between 
my thighs, then wedging its tip between the lips of my vagina and forcing 
its way in - in - unbearably further in until I screamed from the pain 
ripping me as though in two. Tears made everything a blur - I recall 
screaming at the top of my voice, 'Dad! Dad! Stop it, please stop it, Dad!' 
I tried pushing him off - I bit him in the shoulder - I kicked, scratched. . 
. ." 

The above words, taken directly from tape, are those of a sixteen-year-old 
Los Angeles girl. 

Irene was brought to a psychiatrist's office by her aunt shortly after the 
girl's father, a forty-year-old metallurgist, was taken into custody by the 
police and then committed to a mental institution for psychiatric 
observation. The arrest was not the result of the rape - it came a full two 
years after it! - but stemmed from a neighbor's report to the police 
authorities that Irene and her father were observed making out under a tree 
in their backyard. Psychiatric interviews of Irene brought the rest of the 
story to light, including the girl's conviction that her and her father's 
steady sexual relationship was perfectly proper. 

"There is nothing wrong with incest. . . . Daddy didn't start screwing me 
until after Mother died - in a car accident. . . . 

"I was fourteen then. One day she was there, bubbling with life - she was 
real cool as mothers go. I loved her - the next day she was dead. I remember 
I cried the whole day of the funeral until Dad got back. Our neighbor, Mrs. 
Bellow - she's the bitch that snitched on us - spent the couple of hours 
that Dad was gone with me. I didn't want to go - I couldn't face seeing her, 
Mom, being put away. Dad had kissed me before leaving and said that he 
understood, that I didn't have to go, that Mom would understand, too. 

"When he came back, Mrs. Bellow left. I was still dressed in the deep gray 
suit, the last one mother had made for me. She used to get those Simplicity 
patterns and sew me all kinds of dresses, skirts, stuff like that. Anyway, 
this suit was a little short, but I was going to wear it to see her off in - 
even though I was choking up with tears when I was putting it on. 

"Anyhow, I was sitting on the living room couch, my face sort of puffy from 
crying - I could see myself in the mirrored buffet doors, my short blonde 
hair neatly brushed, my lips looking pale, my blue eyes like a couple of 
empty pools - when Dad, having seen Mrs. Bellow out, came up to the sofa, 
took my head in his hands and pressed it close against himself. He didn't 
say anything, just stood there stroking my hair, and I nuzzled against him, 
close, feeling the comforting warmth of his body coming through his slacks 
at me. I knew that Mom's passing away like that struck a heavy blow to Dad's 
happiness, as it did to mine. My mind was a total blank until I felt him 
suddenly move - and at the same time remain motionless, except for his 
fingers running through my hair. I held my breath - I don't know why - 
perhaps because I realized what that strange, new contact between Dad and me 
was. 

"I had my eyes closed, but I opened them then and looked down at where the 
nudge, the pressure, was coming from. It was pushing against my little 
breast, and I knew then what it was - standing out in a bulge, pushing Dad's 
pants away from his crotch. I mean - I was no dummy. I've been having my 
periods for over a year - Mom had told me all about that - and although I'd 
never let any of the boys in school put their things in between my thighs, 
I'd seen them not only bulging in their pants but had handled - oh, maybe 
half a dozen of them - at drive-ins. 

"Some of the kids at school thought you were queer or something if you went 
to a show and didn't jerk your date off. Of course, Mom and Dad never knew 
of these cock-jerking sessions. I suppose I would've let at least one of the 
boys slip his thing into me - if I weren't scared that Dad would somehow 
find out. He had whipped me once - I was twelve, I remember - when he caught 
me with Jerry, one of the neighbors' kids, in our backyard. We weren't doing 
anything really - I mean, we weren't screwing or jerking each other off. I 
didn't know a hell of a lot about sex then. Jerry and I were . .. well, 
comparing our tools, you might say. Jerry was thirteen and he had his pants 
unzipped and his penis hanging out - sticking out, really. He had a hard-on 
- first erection I'd ever seen. 

"Well, when Dad came upon us, I had my skirt tucked up around my waist and 
my panties down around my knees and I was holding Jerry's erection in my 
hand and it must have sure as hell looked to Dad like we were about to start 
fucking. I guess we would've tried it if it weren't for Dad interrupting us. 
And did he ever get the notion out of my head of ever trying anything like 
that again! I didn't even get the time to pull my panties up. He grabbed me 
right there in front of Jerry - the poor kid was trying hard as he could to 
shove his cock back into his pants - bent me over and whipped the living 
bejeezus out of my bare fanny. . . . That was the only time he had ever 
taken the belt to my behind, but it did the trick - as far as getting 
screwed went.. . . 

"So when I saw that Dad had an erection right there, inches away from my 
face, I was really shaken up. I mean, I couldn't figure out why he was 
suddenly so hot. I tried pulling away a little, so as not to make it obvious 
to him that I was aware of his state, but, instead of letting me go, he held 
me even closer until my head was pushed down and I could feel his throbbing 
hardness hot against my cheek. When I again made a slight move to get away 
from that thing in his pants - I was so close to it I could smell the 
strange - at least, it was strange to me then - masculine odor of sex - Dad 
put a hand on each side of my face and, turning my head so that my nose 
brushed against the bulge that was by now making his pants look like he had 
a poker pushing at them from the inside, and pressed it right into his 
crotch. Hell, by that time I knew that none of what was happening was 
anything unintentional or accidental. I knew that Dad wanted me! I was 
really shaken up - I pulled away, jerking my head out of his hands. 

"Immediately, he was down on his knees before me on the couch. His hands 
were at my sides under my arms, his thumbs pressing, squeezing into my 
breasts - or what I had of them then. I looked into his face, and the 
expression I saw in his dark brown eyes - still glazed from his tears for 
Mom, eyelids puffed up - scared the hell out of me. I started saying 
something like, 'Dad, what are you . . .?' and he said, 'Irene, honey, 
you're all I've got left,' and then, I love you, Irene.' 

"When he said that, I thought that maybe I was just imagining things - about 
his wanting me sexually - but then he said, 'Take off your suit, honey, or 
you'll get it wrinkled.' I tried pushing his hands away as he started 
unbuttoning my suit jacket and then he slapped me right across the face. 

" 'Irene,' he said, 'I'm going to make love to you, like I used to make love 
to your mother.' His grip on my arm was like a steel clamp, his free hand 
pulling the jacket back and off. I think that that's when I began to cry. I 
thought of screaming but was afraid he'd hit me again. I tried pleading with 
him. 'Daddy,' I begged, 'please don't - I don't want to,' but he kept 
saying, 'It's all right, honey, it's all right.' By now, he had my blouse 
off. I made a lunge away from him when he reached behind my back to undo my 
brassiere, but I wasn't quick enough. He grabbed me by the shoulder and 
pushed me down on my back, at the same time pulling on the back of the couch 
so it clicked and fell back into the sleeping position. The next instant, he 
ripped my bra off. 

"His eyes sort of popped open when he saw my naked breasts; then, holding my 
arms down with his hands, he bent down and kissed me first on one nipple 
then the other. 'Sweetheart,' I heard him mutter, 'they're beautiful.' He 
lay on top of me then, sucking on my breasts, and I suddenly felt his lower 
body grinding against me, pushing my legs apart, pressing against the bone 
just above my vagina. I didn't know what to do, so I kept pleading, 'Daddy, 
please don't, Daddy, please don't. . . .' 

"He let go of my breast then and, as it popped out of his mouth, I realized 
that my nipples were hard and erect like little thimbles standing up. Still 
rubbing his erection against my lower belly, he smiled and said, 'You know 
what we're going to do now, Irene?' At his question, I automatically clamped 
my thighs together. 'No, Dad, it's wrong - it's wrong!' I cried. He laughed 
then, 'Sweetheart, I love you. I would never do this to you if your mother 
were alive. But she's gone. You don't want me to go and fuck some whore, 
honey, do you?' I'd never heard him say that word before and I guess the 
shock and the embarrassment must have registered on my face, for again he 
laughed. 'Don't be so shocked, sweetheart, everyone who loves someone fucks 
that someone. And I loved your mother, and I fucked her, and she loved being 
fucked. Now she's gone, and you're the one who has to take her place, 
because I love you, and you have to let me fuck you.' 

"It was really weird. His voice was gentle and soft, but his grip on me was 
like the grip of death itself. I don't know about my reaction to his words - 
to his penis rubbing against me, either. I mean, I'd always been curious 
about how it would feel to have a hard cock sliding in and out of my slit. 
But the curiosity had been always associated with one of the boys at school, 
kids my own age - not a grown, adult man, and certainly not my own father. I 
must have been thinking something like that when Dad eased off his hold on 
me and said that if I wouldn't fight him, he wouldn't hit me, that he didn't 
want to hit me. 

"Then I felt his hands go down to my knees and under my skirt. I had taken 
off my stockings and my garter belt earlier when Mrs. Bellow was still at 
the house - I knew I wasn't going anywhere - so that all I had on under the 
skirt was the half-slip and a pair of wispy panties. 

"Dad's hands felt like fire as they moved up the inside of my thighs, prying 
my legs apart, pushing the skirt and slip up - up until both were gathered 
in folds around my waist. When I felt his fingers come down my hips to the 
lower elastic of my panties and then slip under them and move in toward my 
center, I decided to lie back and block as much of what was happening out of 
my mind as I could. I pretended that everything I was experiencing was a bad 
dream, a nightmare. I tried to ignore the slow motion of his fingers 
slipping closer and closer to my vagina, but when they touched the wisps of 
pubic hair on either side of it, when they moved in and pried the lips of my 
vagina apart, I suddenly felt an odd, frightening, tingling sensation. I 
clamped my legs together, trapping Dad's fingers in the juncture of my 
thighs. 

"His voice, coming from below, from above my yet unpenetrated sex, sounded 
as though it was coming from a long, endlessly long, black tunnel.'Irene, 
darling - I'm going to take your panties off now. After I have them off, I 
want you to spread your legs as far apart as you can - that's the only way I 
will be able to put my penis all the way into you, and it will hurt less.' 
Then I felt his fingers like hot coals move back up to the waistband of my 
panties, then stop, then slowly move down again, pulling on the material, 
peeling it off my naked hips, past my tummy and buttocks, past my lower 
abdomen, past my pubic hairs, tickling them in passing. I let him raise me 
up off the couch slightly so he could slip the last remaining barrier 
between him and me from my bare bottom. I let him pull them all the way down 
my legs, past my ankles, and off. 

"Seconds later, my heart pounding like crazy, I opened my eyes. I became 
aware of the absence of Dad's weight on me. As I raised my head off the 
couch to look down at him, kneeling between my parted legs - I could feel 
his knees on the insides of mine - I saw it. His huge, enormous cock. I was 
both horrified and fascinated by it. It made the cocks of all the boys at 
school I had seen seem puny by comparison. 

"Instinctively, I tried clamping my legs together, but Dad's knees were in 
the way. Still staring at the crimson, gorged head of the stiffness that 
looked as though it were a foot-long column of living muscle, glistening 
with what I knew to be Dad's passion juices, I brought both of my hands down 
to my impossibly small vagina, cupping the mound. I shook my head, 
terrified, as Dad encircled the throbbing erection with his left fingers, 
then brought his right hand down into the fly beneath it and withdrew the 
heavy hanging testicles. 'This is where you came from, Irene,' he said, 
hefting them up toward me, at the same time pressing his knees against my 
lower thighs and forcing my legs further apart. 'It's a tool of love that 
I've never placed inside any cunt but your mother's. Now, Irene, it's going 
to be yours. You'll love it - after the first bit of pain - sliding in and 
out of you, in and out of you.' 

"And then, slowly, his left hand still holding it as though it were a club, 
he leaned forward and brought the split tip of it, oozing with clear fluid, 
to the lips of my puckered vagina. 

"I think that's when I screamed, 'No, Dad! No!' and, foolishly, in my last 
attempt to get away, brought my legs up. That move on my part made it easy 
for Dad. Unintentionally, I not only presented my slit to him as an easy 
target, but also gave him my legs to hold on to. Encircling my upflung legs 
at the knee with his arms, he pointed his cock straight between my legs. 

"The size of his cock, gorged like a fist, battering between my thighs, then 
wedging its tip between the lips of my vagina and forcing its way in - in - 
unbearably further in until I screamed from the pain ripping me as though in 
two. Tears made everything a blur - I recall screaming at the top of my 
voice, 'Dad! Dad! Stop it, please stop it, Dad!' I tried pushing him off - I 
bit him in the shoulder - I kicked, scratched, but he continued pushing his 
cock into me, then pulling it partially out - over, and over, and over. . . 
. The withdrawal of his penis seemed to give me more pain than his ramming 
it in. It felt as though he was going to turn my vagina inside out. . . . 

"I don't know how long the pain lasted. I do know that suddenly I became 
aware of his balls slapping wetly against the back of my upper thighs; I 
became aware of a strange fading of the agony between my legs as he 
continued his rhythmic stroking within me; I became aware of the tingling 
sensation which I knew was the rubbing of the ridge of his cock's head 
against the strangely fluttering walls of my vagina. Then the flutter began 
to increase, to build, to grow. It was joined by a marvelous feeling at the 
spot where I knew my clitoris was. I realized that the latter sensation was 
due to the rubbing of Dad's upper column against the nub at the entrance to 
my cunt. 

"And then I felt Dad increase the tempo of his pounding. I felt a fantastic, 
indescribably delightful tingling spreading outward from the friction of 
Dad's cock within me, and I began to thrust back at him. My legs came down 
around his back and clamped him against the center of everything that was 
happening, and I knew it was happening between my legs and that Daddy made 
it happen and then I felt the tempo go wild and I went wild along with it, 
panting, moaning, delirious with the ecstatic torture. Then, suddenly, 
unexpectedly, everything came to a shuddering stop and the only sensations 
were the maddening spasms rocking within my cunt, and the hot, gushing 
squirts of Dad's semen pounding against its walls. ... I knew then and there 
that I wasn't ever going to let anyone fuck me but Daddy. ..." 

For two years, Irene and her father, aware of the curse which society had 
placed on sexual relations between parent and child from time immemorial, 
exercised such extreme caution in concealing their incestual relationship 
that no one suspected the true nature of their loyalty, tenderness, and love 
for one another. 

When Irene was asked whether she did not have any apprehensions of getting 
pregnant and of the possible results such a pregnancy could bring forth, she 
laughed. 

"That bit about inherited genetic defects and monsters is a lot of 
mythological crap that has never been proven. It's one of those old wives' 
tales. Take the Egyptians, the Inca - they banged around within the family, 
and if the Inca aren't around anymore it's because the Spaniards conquered 
them, not because they brought up litterfuls of idiots. It's all speculation 
kind of stuff. I'm sure if all the people revealed their private sessions in 
sex, you'd be surprised how many fathers are screwing their daughters this 
very minute throughout the country. 

"Of course, you're damned right that both Dad and I took all the precautions 
against my getting knocked up. Dad was always well supplied with rubbers - 
and the only time he didn't have one on was when he fucked me the first 
time. But we used them not because we were afraid that I would give birth to 
an idiot or anything like that. I wanted a baby by him, but we couldn't risk 
my getting pregnant as long as people would get the idea that it couldn't 
have been anyone but Dad who got it into me. 

"We were going to move to another city and then go at it freely, like we 
were married, and we would've if it weren't for that bitch next door..." 

Although Irene, still an epitome of loveliness whom one would never suspect 
of having any perverse tendencies - until she starts speaking of her love 
for her father - has been under private psychiatric care for almost a year 
now, there appears that no headway has been made to break down her 
conviction of incest's tightness. 

She is attending college, doing well with her studies, but remains a loner, 
showing her only emotions through doodling arrow-pierced hearts with the 
names, IRENE and PETER inscribed inside. And her correspondence with Peter - 
her father - who, such is the prognosis, will remain for a long time within 
the mental institution, is unlike any letters from daughter to father, being 
filled with insinuations, sensual longings and assurances of irrevocable 
love. 

Such is one aftermath of rape. 

But incest is only one of the byproducts of a forced sexual union. There are 
others - preferences and perversions of the most varied sort - which had 
been precipitated and indelibly deposited in a great number of rape victims' 
sexual drives. This book is about them - the noncomplaining victims of rape. 

 Chapter One - Rape And Anal Intercourse 

The question of why an individual would turn his back upon normal - 
traditionally normal, that is - ways and means of sex has been puzzling 
sexologists, psychiatrists, social workers, and laymen themselves, probably 
ever since the first reported or observed case of sexually deviate act. 
Numberless tomes have been written in an attempt to answer that question, 
theories have been promulgated, sides chosen in crossfire debates. Learned 
men of the stature of Adler and Jung, Bleuler and Freud, Rank, Horney, and 
Sullivan, dedicated their lives to bringing the enigma somewhat closer to 
solution. But, it seems, the sphinx of sexual perversion possessed too great 
a number of masks with too great a number of reasons for every mask to 
permit one single answer for the sphinx's raison d'etre to be given. 

Anal intercourse (or sodomy) and pederasty (which usually refers 
specifically to anal intercourse with a boy) were two of the enigmatic 
sphinx's masks. Whereas in instances of homosexuality, anal intercourse may 
be said to be resorted to as the only possible approximation of the basic 
man-woman coital act, heterosexual sodomy can not be explained away so 
simply. Voluntary experimentation by a couple with the final preference for 
anal intercourse, of course, constitutes a significant number of those 
practicing sodomy. The following case transcribed from tape, however, points 
out that there are instances where the terminal effect was not caused by 
willing cooperation. 

A vivacious brunette of twenty, Margaret S. was employed by a large chemical 
manufacturing firm in the Midwest as the company's research center's 
librarian's assistant. Her husband, Salisbury S., ten years her senior, and 
a devout Catholic, was a sales engineer for the same firm. The couple had 
one child, aged two, and had been married, happily they both claimed, for 
three years. 

Then, unexpectedly, their matrimonial barge was heading for the sharp, 
proverbial rocks. Margaret's husband insisted that she see a psychiatrist 
and get herself "straightened out" or he, Salisbury, would seek an 
annulment. 

"Could you tell me what it is that made him lay down this ultimatum?" The 
question, placed by the doctor, failed to get a response from the girl until 
he assured her that her answer would not be made known to her husband. 

"Our backgrounds are different, doctor. Salisbury's been brought up under 
strict Christian edicts. I was raised in a ramshackle old tenement in 
Chicago's Humboldt Park district. But that's not saying that we didn't agree 
on anything. I mean - well, he wouldn't use contraceptives, but said that he 
was not against the pill if / was going to be responsible for my own soul. . 
. . 

"So, actually, since I didn't go too much for the pious, religious 
hodgepodge, it didn't bother me any - his conviction that my damnation was 
my own business, you know. Anyhow, our sex life I couldn't complain about - 
of course, it was straight, you know, me on my back and Salisbury doing the 
thing on top of me, but we went off like mad every time we screwed. After 
all, an orgasm is an orgasm and as long as we both enjoyed the tingling 
between our legs, who could complain, right?" 

"Then why is Salisbury concerned about whatever it is?" The psychiatrist 
asked Margaret. 

"Well - I - uh - sort of tricked him once. He was somewhat intoxicated one 
night, about a month ago, and I thought I'd get him to - you know - to screw 
me in my ass. And he didn't realize what he was doing until I told him. I 
thought he had enjoyed it as much as I had. I mean, we have one kid, right? 
I figured why take chances on another one. Oh, I adore Connie, but I want 
her to have everything we can afford to give her. ..." 

The doctor at this point reminded Margaret that she had mentioned the use of 
the birth control pill. "Why would you have to resort to anal intercourse if 
you did not mistrust the effectiveness of the pill? Have you had previous 
experiences of having anal intercourse? Did you perhaps derive more 
satisfaction from those instances?" 

After a lengthy silence, followed by further assurances of the psychiatrist 
that Margaret could speak with a feeling of total freedom, the girl told her 
story. 

"Until two months ago, I know that had Salisbury himself suggested my 
parting my buttocks for him I would have probably thought he was queer or 
something. I mean, even when I was growing up in Humboldt Park, I was no 
prude and got screwed by the neighborhood kids in every position you can 
think of - of course, I'd never told Salisbury any of this - you know, flat 
on my back at the beach or in one of the kids' station wagons, astraddle in 
the front seat of a car, standing up against a tree in the park . . . but 
I'd never let any of the fellows get his cock up my rear. I mean, to start 
with, it wasn't right somehow, like they were passing up my vagina for the 
sewer pipe, and then, too, I feared that it would hurt like crazy - knowing 
the size of some of those hard-ons I let slide into me in the front hole, I 
wasn't about to bend over and let them ram me in the back one. And with the 
younger kids - fourteen, fifteen, sixteen - I'd say, 'No dice,' and that was 
that. I mean they wouldn't press the point, especially since they knew I'd 
be more than game to go the regular route with them. . . . 

"But Driscoll was no kid. He's another sales engineer for Consolidated and 
works a territory adjacent to Salisbury's. Anyway, Salisbury and Driscoll 
had been friends for quite some time - went through engineering school 
together, I think even high school - and Driscoll, he's single, had been 
over to our house numberless times. He'd even stayed overnight once or twice 
- very proper and all that. . . . Ha! 

"Two months back, Salisbury went on business to Denver. One of the 
pharmaceutical chain stores there had shown interest in switching to a 
different supplier and he felt there was great chance for some long-term, 
high-pay commissions. I didn't go in to work that day, was in the third day 
of my menstrual cycle - unusually rough for some reason that time - and 
Salisbury had talked me into staying home. Before he had left for the 
research center that morning I had asked him to get me some perfume on the 
way from work. Well, later that day he called me and told me of the 
unexpected good news from Denver and that Driscoll was going to drop by our 
house and deliver the perfume. ... I mean, Salisbury is sweet; he never 
forgets anything I ask him. 

"I knew that Driscoll usually started for home - he lived about two miles 
from us - at four-thirty, but by five-thirty there still was no sign of him. 
When it got to be after seven I figured that he either forgot about the 
perfume or had been tied up by something at work. . . . Then - at about 
eight-thirty, I think it was - I heard the front door chimes. By then I'd 
already completely forgotten about Driscoll. I was in my flower-print 
flannel pajamas, but not in bed yet. I'd been sitting out in our living room 
reading something - a magazine, I think. 

"The door was on safety chain, but when I saw that it was Driscoll I took 
the safety off and invited him in. Only when he stepped in, swaying 
slightly, the smell of whiskey hitting me in the face, did I realize that 
he'd been out having a few. But it didn't bother me any, actually; I'd seen 
him hang on quite a number several times that Salisbury, he, and I went out 
on the town. So I let him in and closed the door behind him. 

"I see you've been at it again,' I said jokingly as he stood in the middle 
of the floor swaying to and fro like a sailor right off the sea. 

"It was when I saw his eyes - the look in them, I should say - that I felt 
slightly uncomfortable. He ran them up and down my pajama-clad body as 
though he'd never seen it before, then reached out and - and tweaked one of 
my nipples. Now I know the pj's were tight - I could feel my breasts 
stretching the material whenever I took a deep breath and they cut into my 
fanny and front whenever I sat down, but I mean, hell! Driscoll was supposed 
to be my husband's buddy. . . . 

"Anyhow, seeing that he was drunk and all, I thought I'd handle him with a 
bit of humor. I moved away, put a shocked expression on my face, and said: 
'Driscoll! Now what will the neighbors think - especially since Salisbury's 
out of town?' 

"His answer shocked me. He said, 'Honey, the neighbors aren't going to know 
about it. Because we're going to fuck real quiet-like. I've been hankering 
to get my hot cock into you a hell of a long time.' Then, before I could so 
much as move away, he grabbed my hand and pulled it to rest flat against the 
hardening bulge in the front of his trousers. 'Feel that? That's my fucking 
tool, Margie, and I'm going to take it out and slide it right up your pussy. 

"The first thought that came to my mind was that I should scream. It wasn't 
so much from terror, or fright even - I knew that Driscoll wouldn't harm me 
physically - as it was from the simple realization that he threatened to 
take from me that which I had vowed never to give anyone but Salisbury. I 
mean, sure, I've been screwed by more guys than I could count on the fingers 
of both of my hands - and the toes of my feet - but, I loved Salisbury. All 
the other hard-ons that had found their way into me had come before 
Salisbury. I felt no attraction toward Driscoll, no electrifying charge, 
even though his cock was lying solidly in the palm of my hand. And though I 
tried pulling it away, the grip of his fingers on my hand was too powerful. 
For a few moments we just stood there like that. Our eyes interlocked, my 
breath caught in my throat, his chest rising and falling with obvious 
arousal. 

"Then, suddenly, I remembered my condition. That'll fix his plan, I thought. 
I felt almost exuberant from what I thought would be the end of his make on 
me. In fact, I smiled, sarcastically, but smiled anyway. 

" 'Driscoll,' I said, my hand no longer straining to release itself from his 
grip; instead, I let my fingers curl around the thick, pulsating erection of 
his. 'You've picked the wrong time for this. I'm what you might call 'out of 
order.' Seeing the glassy look in his eyes, a look that did not seem to 
quite understand what I was telling him, I took his free hand in mine and 
brought it smack against the crotch of my pajama bottoms. I felt his fingers 
through the thickness of the Kotex pad I was wearing. Even though I 
sometimes felt as horny as hell during my periods when Salisbury would so 
much as take me in his arms and hold me close, I felt absolutely nothing now 
with Driscoll's fingers pressing through the quarter-inch thickness against 
my slit. I mean, he just didn't do a damn thing for me. 

"But my assumption that a sanitary napkin would cool him off was as wrong as 
it could be. I felt his screwing rod grow even larger within the circle of 
my fingers. His face distorted into a grisly mask; he sneered, then spit 
out, 'You goddamned cock-teasing cunt!' 

"His hand came away from my crotch and lashed out across my face. I felt 
fire rush through my cheek. 'But there's more than one way to skin a pussy,' 
he hissed at me. 

"That unnerved me. I opened my mouth to scream - although, actually, there 
wasn't much point; our house stood secluded within this grove of trees, the 
windows were shut - but his band was in a flash across my lips, his elbow 
grinding against my tender breasts, his other arm - the one that had held my 
hand against his crotch - went around me to my back. The way he held me now, 
I could feel his throbbing erection grinding against my thighs, pressing 
against the pad between my legs. Instinctively, I thought of sinking my 
teeth into the hand clamped over my mouth, but when I saw the wild look in 
his eyes, I changed my mind. I would resist him, but I would not aggravate 
him. I no longer was sure that he wouldn't hurt me. He had the look of a 
fucking maniac. 

"I thought that maybe if I tried reasoning with him. . . . 'Driscoll, how 
will you be able to face up to Salisbury -' I stopped. The vacant expression 
in his eyes, empty but for the mad fire of lust burning deep within them, 
spelled out 'hopeless.' With a wrench of my body, I tore out of his grasp. I 
wasn't free for long though. His hand shot out, grabbing the waistband of my 
pajama bottoms, and I heard the soft sound of flannel ripping -then coolness 
upon my buttocks. I turned toward him to try freeing myself again, but the 
coffee table tripped me and I went sprawling over it with Driscoll right on 
top of me, cursing, panting, roaring almost. . . . 

" 'You goddam bitch,' he gasped out into my ear, his breath hot, charged 
with the fumes of alcohol. 'I'm gonna teach you a fucking lesson.' 

"I felt the pressure of his arm and upper body upon my back bearing down 
upon me. My breasts ached as they were squashed against the top of the 
coffee table. I wondered that it didn't give way - but it was heavy, thick, 
massively built. It was a good five feet long, three feet across. Anyway, I 
was pinned to it. My struggling against Driscoll was useless, but I 
struggled - I never stopped struggling even when - when the bastard made me 
come later. . . . 

"The son of a bitch had me on that table. I couldn't figure out at first 
what he had in mind - I mean, I was lying on it facedown, you know. Then, 
when I felt his fingers ripping the flannel down my buttocks, pulling the 
material until it bunched up around my knees on the floor, I waited for him 
to let me up - I was going to give a try to scratching his bleary eyes out. 
But he didn't let me up. Instead, I felt him prying my legs apart and then 
he must have gotten down on his knees between my legs behind me, for the 
weight of his body held the pajamas down against the floor, binding my 
ankles so I couldn't move away. He was behind me and the coffee table was in 
front, digging into my stomach, its edge cutting into me just above my 
pelvic bone. 

"I don't know what kept me from passing out right there, especially when his 
fingers started running up and down the crease between my ass cheeks, 
forcefully, slipping momentarily into the tender opening there, to linger, 
with each upward and downward passage. I tried squeezing my buttocks 
together, humiliated by my position, embarrassed by the realization that my 
Kotex pad had been torn away with the tearing of my pajama bottoms. 

" 'Don't, Driscoll - please don't, Driscoll,' I began pleading as I felt his 
finger pause longer and longer each time it came to the twitching hole in my 
behind. 'Stop it, stop it, Driscoll. . . stop it!' I wondered why he didn't 
go lower in the crease, to the gaping wound between my thighs. He's just 
tormenting me, I thought. He's just trying to make me relax, give up 
struggling, and then he'll fuck me, the bastard. And at the very moment when 
I was going to try my utmost to topple him over backwards, a searing, 
unbearably sharp and sudden pain shot through me. I thought I'd die. I knew 
it was only his finger - but he'd rammed it right up in my asshole and was 
twisting it around, curling it in my rectum. Instinctively, I clenched my 
buttocks even tighter together, willed my anal ring to contract, but that 
only served to draw his finger further into me - I felt the prominent 
knuckle of his finger and the remaining, curled to his palm, fingers 
pressing into the fleshiness surrounding my rear entrance. 

" 'You like that, Margie, hey?' he panted into my ear. 'You want the real 
thing in there, don't you, Margie? But be patient, I'll screw your beautiful 
ass when I am good -' his hard, long finger pulled part way out, taking my 
intestines with it, it seemed,'- and ready!' He stressed his last word by 
skewering his fucking digit roughly back in. And then out, and in, and out - 
all the way out, finally, with a sickening loud plop! 

"Tears filled my eyes. The pain of that sudden withdrawal was like nothing I 
had ever felt before. And I knew that the size of his finger was but a 
pencil compared to the tree trunk of a cock he carried between his legs. But 
held down against the table top like I was, there wasn't a thing I could do 
about anything he had in mind. And he had plenty in his mind. . . . 

"There was this bowl of fruit standing on the coffee table - I still don't 
know why it didn't get knocked off - and the bowl was filled with apples, 
peaches, and - yeah! - bananas. A bunch of large, ripe ones. Salisbury likes 
bananas. . . . Anyhow, I had my face turned toward it and I saw Driscoll's 
hand reach over and tear off the largest one of the bunch. When I realized 
what he intended doing with it, I just about passed out - I guess, I must 
have. Or, maybe, I was so busy trying to pull away and get him off my back 
that in my struggles I didn't even feel him inserting the damned thing into 
my rectum. 

"I suppose my terror at the pain I expected to feel had negated the actual 
physical agony. It was almost as though I had screamed so loud I couldn't 
hear the pain. It was only when I finally quieted down that the sensation of 
something large sliding sloppily in and out of my ass registered upon me. 
The struggle must have so exhausted me that I relaxed and then suddenly 
realized that my relaxation made the in-and-out sliding of the banana in my 
rectum quite a bit more bearable. . . . 

"The shock of Driscoll jerking the goddam fruit out of my rear stiffened me 
though. I yelped, 'What are you doing?' And then he laughed, said, 'Oh, 
Margie, baby, I'm sorry - I forgot you can't see. I'll keep you informed of 
what I'm doing back here. . . .' And again he laughed. 'I just pulled nine 
inches of thick banana out of your bunghole - see it?' He brought it in 
front of my eyes, his thumb squeezing into it, moving across its width. I 
stuck it into you right up to here.' Then he let it drop on the table right 
in front of my face. I could smell the tangy, putrid odor of my ass on it. I 
wanted to vomit, but his voice broke in again. 

" 'Now I'm unzipping my fly,' he said, and I felt his hand fumbling behind 
my buttocks, brushing against them. 'Now I've got my thick, hard, long cock 
out. Feel its tip?' I felt him press its knob into the fleshy cheek of my 
ass. It was hot and moist, circling my naked rear, up one mound, over the 
slight indentation where the crease of my ass began, down the other mound, 
then under - pressing up against the between my legs. On and on he circled. 
And the agony of awaiting became unbearable. I suddenly wanted him to get it 
over with. I still didn't feel anything - at least, I don't think I did. 
But, anyway, when he remained silent behind me, rubbing his cockhead all 
over my rear, running it up and down my crack in the back, breathing 
heavily, I gasped out, 'If you are going to do it, then do it, dammit!' I 
heard his breath catch in his throat and almost simultaneously felt the 
circling cease. 

" 'That's the girl!' he muttered. Then I felt my cheeks spread apart, heard 
him spit - I jumped when I felt his saliva hit the small of my back and then 
ooze down between my parted ass cheeks. 'What the -' I started to say, but 
he interrupted me. 'It's all right,' he said, mopping the head of his penis 
through the wetness in my rear groove, 'this'll make my prick slide in 
easier into you - until I come in your ass.' 

"It's funny, but that's when I felt suddenly curious - just a wee bit 
curious. I said, 'Oh,' as though it were perfectly okay for this man who was 
my husband's friend to be kneeling behind me with his throbbing erection 
gliding through my bare-ass crease. His cock stopped its wallowing then and 
I felt its tip force its way past the fleshiness of my cheeks, felt a slight 
resistance of my anal opening as he bore steadily forward. The next moment 
the knob of his hard-on was in - he paused a moment - then I became 
conscious of the hardness of his throbbing shaft sliding in and in and in. I 
thought there was a whole yard of him going up my backside. 

"I was about to tell him not to go any further in, to stop, when I felt 
something soft and wiry and crisp tickling the cheeks of my ass, then the 
heat of his pelvis was against me. I gasped. The pressure, the warmth 
against my rear end beneath where he had penetrated me were his balls - I 
mean, I was shocked, realizing suddenly that I had taken all of him into me 
- that way! I shuddered, and Driscoll started withdrawing. I realized then 
that he was no longer pressing me down against the table with his elbow. He 
had his arms around me and was kneading my breasts through my pajama tops - 
and my nipples were like hot little buns straining against his hands. 

"All the time, meanwhile, he was sliding in and out behind me. I felt him 
draw back until only the mushroom head of his cock was beyond the asshole, 
then I'd feel his balls against me again. I didn't notice him pick up the 
tempo until I was aware of my body responding, moving toward the coffee 
table when he was pulling his cock out of me, moving toward him when he was 
ramming his cock back in. I felt this odd tingling deep inside me and it was 
building and swirling and seemed to be coming from the tip of his hard-on 
like ever increasing circles and I realized that my cunt was sopping wet and 
it wasn't from my menstruation. Then I began bucking against him like crazy 
and gasping, 'oh, God, oh, God - Driscoll - I'm . . . I'm going to - come!' 

"And I did, just as I felt the hot liquid spurting out of the tip of his 
cock deep in my ass 

" 

Following this experience, Margaret S. told the psychiatrist, she became 
overwhelmed with guilt. When Driscoll released her, she slapped him and 
drove him out of the house. By then, having satisfied his urge, Driscoll put 
up no resistance. Margaret never saw her assailant again, for, the following 
Monday her husband told her that Driscoll had quit his job with the firm and 
had left town. 

Margaret never mentioned the event that took place between her and 
Salisbury's friend. But the guilt of having had sexual intercourse, and in 
what she considered to a most unconventional manner with another man, gnawed 
at her conscience. She felt especially bad because she had found 
satisfaction in her anal rape by Driscoll. She wanted Salisbury to take her 
anally now, feeling that once she gave herself to her husband that way, the 
feeling of guilt would be alleviated. And were it not for Salisbury's 
narrow-mindedness inbred through his religious upbringing, there is little 
doubt that Margaret would have got over her feeling of guilt and her desire 
for anality. Salisbury's stand, however - his ultimatum to Margaret that she 
either see a psychiatrist or he would get an annulment - proved to be final. 

The psychiatrist's attempt to approach him, to break through the puritanical 
thickheadedness of his upbringing proved futile. Margaret was unable to 
control her desire to have her husband willingly, perform the act of anal 
intercourse with her and, as a result, Salisbury had the marriage annulled. 
The annulment was a heart-rending blow to Margaret, but she continued her 
visits to the psychiatrist who finally convinced her that her desire for 
coitus in ano was normal under the circumstances. 

Six months after the annulment, she married a man who proved to be 
considerably more broad-minded than Salisbury had been. Margaret admits that 
they occasionally resort to anal intercourse with mutual satisfaction, but 
find no less pleasure in the conventional coital act. 

Chapter Two - Rape And Oral Intercourse 

Although it was around the turn of the century that Havelock Ellis wrote, in 
his Psychology of Sex, that "cunnilinctus . . . and fellatio cannot be 
regarded as unnatural," that "as forms of contrectation and aids to 
tumescence they are . . . natural and are sometimes regarded by both sexes 
as quintessential forms of sexual pleasure, though they may not be 
considered esthetic," some purists still cling bullheadedly to the outmoded 
puritanical concepts which consider the word sex itself as a dirty word. 
They consider diabolical even the current opinions voiced in publications of 
such noted institutions as The American Academy of Political and Social 
Science, a society incorporated on April 4, 1891. 

This fact is supported, and stressed, by Donal E. J. MacNamara, M.P.A., New 
York City. President of the American League to Abolish Capital Punishment, 
and a past president of the American Society of Criminology, Assistant 
Professor in charge of the corrections sequence at John Jay College of 
Criminal Justice, City University of New York, he writes: "The criminal law 
. . . should distinguish between those acts prohibition of which is 
necessary for the protection of society . . . and those acts . . . which are 
matters of private moral choice, individual taste, or of differential 
cultural conditioning. The sexual provisions of American penal codes . . . 
are extremely puritanical in attempting to repress with overly severe 
penalties both normal sex relations not theologically sanctioned . . .; 
unconventional sex play even between married couples (cunnilingus, fellatio, 
and anal intercourse);. . . and, in some jurisdictions, even such secret 
autoerotic practices as masturbation or the possession of pornographic 
materials. ..." 

How manifestly true. 

In the case history which follows, the injustice invoked by the 
narrow-mindedness of one opinionated individual and reflected from the 
sociosexually puritanical attitude taken by a member of the judiciary, is 
grievously pathetic. 

Yvette was seventeen when she was taken into a juvenile court custody and 
then referred to a psychiatrist. The statement she made to the doctor - in 
its choice of words - conflicted sharply with the reports the psychiatrist 
had gathered on Yvette from her parents, teachers, and friends. Whereas they 
had said that she was timid, quiet, and "a young lady from outward 
appearances," the answer she gave to a question posed by the psychiatrist 
belied that. The psychiatrist's query was: "Why are you here, Yvette?" 

"Because I'm a cocksucker, that's why, or didn't they tell you?" Her 
animosity was apparent; her dark brown eyes sparkled with mutinous 
insolence. 

Knowing the circumstances under which Yvette had been apprehended - she and 
her nineteen-year-old boyfriend, Malvin, had been caught in a rear parking 
space at a drive-in, locked in the soixante-neuf embrace, at the very 
instant of mutual climax, neither Yvette nor Malvin had anything on from the 
waist down - the psychiatrist asked Yvette if she had had regular sexual 
intercourse with Malvin. To the doctor's surprise, the young girl broke out 
in laughter. 

"Doc, I don't let any cock into my pussy - you think I'm daffy or something? 
I mean once was enough. ..." 

The story unfolded that, with Yvette, oral-genital intercourse was the only 
way she would have sex, and the reason for this went back to her high school 
days and her French teacher. She told the story of her rape to the 
psychiatrist with a frankness that was totally unreserved. 

"I guess you could say I was a goodie-goodie girl. Fifteen and still a 
virgin. I knew all about the birds and the bees, of course. Come to think of 
it, if I didn't let others - like mom and dad - know that I knew that no 
silly old stork brought kids, I may have stayed a virgin even longer. When 
my folks found out I knew not only about the birds and the bees but about 
cocks and pussies as well, they pulled me out of the public school I was 
attending and enrolled me in one of those parochial places. That did it - I 
mean, like they didn't trust me or something. The first semester, I decided 
I was gonna pay them back. . . . 

"Monsieur Follet was my French language teacher. I set my eyes on him the 
very first session. I was gonna tease him to the point where - so I thought 
- he'd be forced to report me to the principal, and then, I imagined, after 
my dad found out he'd get mad and pull me out of that school and back into a 
public one. 

"But Follet didn't report me. What I'd been doing was - I'd be sitting in 
the second row of seats in the classroom, see, and right in his line of 
vision - anyway, at first, I'd let him see up my legs as far as I dared. I'd 
cross my legs, pull the hem of my skirt up, recross my legs. . . . Nothing. 
He acted like I wasn't there. So I got bolder. Whenever I'd see his piercing 
brown eyes on me - for a man of his age, thirty-six, he had real sexy eyes - 
I'd part my knees, sometimes spread my legs as far apart as I dared without 
letting the other kids catch on to what I was up to, and, pulling my hem up 
to three or four inches below my thigh juncture, scratch my upper inner 
thighs. Finally, I began catching his gaze flitting under my dress - but 
when he said nothing to me about it after class, I decided that I would get 
some action out of him. . . . And did I ever! 

"Before going to my French class the next day, I went into the girls' room 
and took my panties off! Then I went to class, my pleated uniform skirt 
brushing against the bare skin of my hips, buttocks, upper legs. I felt real 
wicked - I was gonna get old Monsieur Follet so hot and bothered and mad he 
was gonna run right down to the principal's office and sputter about the 
wench in his language class. . . . 

"I was late for the class, so I walked up to Follet's desk and said, real 
sweet-like, I had to go potty.' And then added, 'But I didn't make it.' When 
the puzzled expression crossed his face, I leaned toward him and whispered, 
I went in my - you know. . . .' 

"I saw his Adam's apple roll up out from under his shirt collar then slide 
back under it. 'Please remain after class, Yvette. I - I want to talk to 
you.' He turned halfway away from me toward the blackboard and as my eyes 
rolled down the front of his body I saw the bulge in the front of his 
trousers. Funny thing is, that was the first time I became conscious of him 
as a male. A person, I mean, who had the equipment to screw someone with. I 
think that when I realized that, I got even more flustered than he was. But 
when I got to my seat - the other kids hadn't heard our exchange, they were 
still in the prelesson hubbub - I figured I wasn't going to back off from my 
campaign against Follet. 

"All through the lesson I kept my legs apart and Follet was stuttering, 
flustered, all over the place, his eyes more of the time riveted on the 
naked spot between my legs than on anything else. And he was acting like he 
didn't want to face the class - he'd either sit at his desk, or stand, his 
front to the blackboard, his head turned at an awkward angle toward the 
class. But most of the time he sat at the desk - hell, he could see under my 
dress better that way and not show his hard-on. Once, intentionally, I 
dropped my pencil. When I bent over sideways to pick it up, I parted my 
thighs so wide that I heard the lips of my pussy slurp open, and immediately 
I heard Follet's gasp which he tried to cover by clearing his throat, then 
by coughing, and finally, when he choked, he dismissed the class. 

"After everyone left, I got up from my seat and walked up to his desk. 'You 
asked me to stay -' I said, questioningly, as if I didn't know why he wanted 
me to remain. I figured he was gonna tell me to come along with him to the 
principal's office. His eyes shot up to mine then and I saw the strangest 
damned expression in them. I mean like he was apologizing to me or 
something. 'Oh - yes, Yvette -' he said, then paused, his eyes dropping for 
a moment to my breasts perking up through my white blouse. 'Do you think you 
could stay for an hour or so -' his voice trailed off and I thought, Oh, 
boy, he's really gonna lecture me on the proprieties of young ladies! Well, 
what the hell, I thought, if he doesn't report me to Jennings - that was the 
principal - I'll listen to him today and resume my splits for him tomorrow. 
... I mean, I was determined to get expelled from that goodie-goodie school. 
Anyhow, when he paused, I shrugged my shoulders, said, 'Okay.' Even though 
it was the last class of the day, I didn't worry too much about mom being 
upset if I were an hour late - I quite often stopped for a malt, or went 
window-shopping on my way home. I turned away from Follet and started for my 
seat, but he stopped me. 'Why don't we go on up to my office,' he said. 

"I turned toward him, slightly surprised, and nodded. The thought of why he 
really wanted to get me away from the classroom, and the realization that 
his office was directly connected to his small apartment - he lived right on 
the school grounds as did the nonlaymen of the staff - did not dawn upon me 
until I was in his office. 

"Actually, even then, the realization didn't form in my mind until 
afterwards. I mean if I had thought before I went into his quarters, My 
teacher wants to fuck me, I would have probably hightailed it. . . . Anyway, 
there we were in his office - stacks and stacks of books on shelves against 
one wall, his small desk in front of it, a high armchair directly across, a 
door, closed, directly in front of the outside door and between the armchair 
and the desk. I stopped in front of the chair after he ushered me in, 
turning to face him. Inadvertently, my eyes lowered to his crotch - and I 
gasped, my heart suddenly going cold and fluttery in my chest. 

"I don't know, maybe I was backward in my upbringing; I mean - I'd never 
seen anything like it. Oh, I've seen my dad's penis several times when I had 
to go to the bathroom while he was taking a bath or shower, and I'd seen 
plenty of outlines of cocks in boys' trousers. I knew that the same penises 
were supposed to get hard and poke out, but I'd never ever seen a real, live 
erection. I guess it'd be safe to say that Follet's gigantic penis standing 
straight out of the fly of his pants was the first stiff and bare cock I'd 
ever laid my eyes upon. And I couldn't for the life of me take my gaze away 
from it. It was the most fascinating and at the same time the scariest thing 
I'd ever seen. It must have been a good two inches in diameter and ten 
inches, maybe eleven, from the crinkly hair that surrounded it where it 
emerged from his fly to its tip. It appeared to me to be as hard as marble, 
with bluish veins running toward its head, branching into smaller veins, 
each one standing out like a twig right under the skin. And the head of the 
cock - God! - it was like a small-size doorknob, purple in color, getting 
larger and redder by the second. I watched the whole shaft rise and drop, 
rise and drop, in small regular jumps as if it were being controlled by some 
all-powerful master; and each time it twitched upwards, the small slit in 
the tip of the mushroom-head opened slightly, like a little mouth parting 
its lips. 

" 'Don't look so shocked, Yvette.' His voice, melodious but spiked with 
sarcasm, startled me. 'It doesn't follow your demonstration in the 
classroom.' 

"I stood as though petrified. I could neither move nor say anything, but 
just look at his face, smiling, then his cock, waving at me. For a second I 
felt as though I was just gonna pass out cold on the floor; the blood that 
rushed to my head - my face must've been as red as the tip of his penis - 
made my temples pound with heavy little sledge-hammer blows. Even when he 
took two steps toward me and I saw him raise his hands and put them on my 
upper arms, simultaneously becoming conscious of a throbbing pressure 
against the lower part of my abdomen, I didn't move. The contact between the 
head of his monstrous erection, rubbing, stroking, and my body - I mean, it 
was intimate. There was nothing between him and me except the cotton of my 
skirt and I actually felt the heat and hardness of his slitted knob rolling 
the sparse curls of my pubic hairs above my pussy mound. 

"The thought crossed my mind - consciously, I mean, one word following the 
next - almost at the same time as the words left his lips. I thought: 
Monsieur Follet thinks I want him to fuck me. He said: 'Yvette, you want me 
to fuck you, don't you?' 

"Quickly, I shook my head as though he really wanted my answer - as if my 
answer would make the least bit of difference. 'No, no, I don't - honestly, 
sir,' Suddenly I was all proper, feeling scared and ridiculous, knowing that 
we were standing just about as close as two people can without actually 
humping. 'I didn't mean anything, sir.' I dropped my eyes in embarrassment. 
They fell on that sex pole of his nudging my pelvis, and I raised them back 
up to his face. 

" 'You didn't mean anything?' he asked, smirking. 'You sat in class back 
there, rubbing your young twat in my gaze, spreading your legs until I could 
see your tonsils up your sex organ, smacking the lips of that little hairy 
mouth between your thighs at me until I could smell the juices of your hot 
little pussy - and you say you didn't mean anything?' He broke into a laugh 
that frightened me more than the silent pressure of his cock against my twat 
- that was the first time I had heard that word used by anyone. I wanted to 
scream. In fact, I opened my mouth, intending to do just that, but he 
clamped his powerful, firm hand over it. 

" 'If you try yelping, Yvette, I'm going to smash your pretty little face in 
- and I don't want to do that. All I want to do is fuck you. I think you're 
a cute little girl, and as far as I know, fucking has never killed a girl.' 
His voice came to me like an ominous murmur from some distant monstrous 
land. 'If you've had a prick in your sheath before, you know that it feels 
quite nice - if you haven't, well, it'll will hurt for a little while, then 
you won't want me to stop sliding my penis in and out of that hole between 
your legs.' 

"In the few moments that it took him to maneuver me through the door into 
his apartment - after his threat, I didn't struggle too much - I had a 
thousand fleeting visions of his enormous cock ripping its way into me, 
tearing my vagina apart, splitting me open. And I don't know whether it was 
his threat that kept me from screaming even after he removed his hand from 
my mouth or whether it was the unexplainable state of terrified shock that I 
felt my whole body caught in. Funny, I recall feeling an odd icy cold grip 
on my pussy, like a hand with icicles for fingers, which, if I struggled, I 
imagined would break off and pierce me, enter me, in a thousand painful 
places. 

"When Monsieur Follet let me into his small bedroom, he pushed me toward the 
studio bed that was standing against one wall and said, 'Lie down on it, 
pull up your skirt, and spread your legs. The less you struggle, the less 
painful it will be - until the pleasure comes.' When I didn't move, he 
shrugged his shoulders, smiled, then unbuckled his belt and took off his 
trousers. Then, as I stood with my back toward the bed, he approached me, 
slowly, cautiously, as if I were a rabbit or a bird and he the hunter who 
was afraid to startle and scare his prey away. With only his undershorts on 
now, he appeared to be all erection. It seemed as though his penis had 
gotten even longer and thicker than it had been out in the office, and, in 
addition to his cock pointing at me now, I saw that his testicles - the size 
and color of two small peaches - were hanging out of the slit in his shorts, 
bloated, heavy, fuzzy with reddish wisps of hair. 

"He is going to ram that shaft of muscle into me! He is going to rape me - 
have intercourse with me - screw me - fuck me - fuck me - fuck me! I 
thought, terrified, backing up until I could move no more - the edge of 
Follet's bed cut into the back of my knees, and I leaned back and fell on 
the bed, gasping in a horrified whisper, 'Fuck me!' But I didn't mean that 
the way it came out - it was the tail end of a thought that escaped my lips. 
I opened my eyes in fright when I saw the smile on Follet's face as he came 
down onto the bed, raising my knees up until my skirt slid up my thighs to 
my waist, whispering, 'Yes, Yvette, yes - that's what I'm going to do. . . . 
Fuck you - fuck you!' 

"All I had power to do then was shake my head. The reality of Follet upon me 
was so heavy, so seemingly overpowering that I felt powerless to do 
anything. As my skirt slipped up my thighs, as he lifted my legs up in the 
crook of his elbows, I saw the solid tip of his cock in the V of my bare 
crotch, looming above the slightly downed hair of my pussy. I heard my labia 
squish open, then saw Follet grasp his erection with one hand and bring its 
gorged throbbing head toward the pink-lipped slit of my vulva. I saw the 
crimson, slitted head touch the tender opening between my pussy lips, saw it 
push in, then clamped my eyes shut, tried to bring my legs together, but 
Follet was holding them apart, pushing, forcing himself into me between 
them, slowly, slowly. I felt myself giving way to him, reluctantly, and then 
he bore down and forward into me and the pain - God! - I'd never felt or 
imagined pain like that. . . . Then everything went black, agonizing black - 
I must have passed out - I don't remember anything, none of that fucking 
pleasure he told me about, until. . . . 

"When I came to. It was fantastic. I felt as though I was floating on clouds 
and I was all pussy - tingling, thrilling, throbbing with the most wonderful 
feeling I had ever felt. It felt as though my pussy, my sex mouth, was 
giggling and twitching from indescribable joy. It was a hazy sensation at 
first, but as it grew, I became conscious of the soft bed under me and of 
something moist and cool and warm and caressing slipping in and out of my 
vagina and of my hips moving up and down and of my thighs parting and rising 
to draw the sweet, wonderful, gentle intruder into my hot, creamy, young 
box. Something hard was grazing against my clitoris, then something soft, 
then it was being drawn upon - sucked upon, nibbled upon.. .. I opened my 
eyes then - everything around me had a misty, rosy glow - and I saw Follet 
next to me. His cock was much smaller than before and it was but a few 
inches away from my face, lying in the moist nest of his crinkly pubic 
hairs, its base resting in the depression formed within the pillow of his 
balls. It was then that I realized that he was doing to me what I had heard 
kids snicker about and whisper about. . . . Monsieur Follet was eating my 
pussy. Monsieur Follet was a pussy-eater. . . . A marvelous pussy-eater, I 
thought, raising my crotch up at his face, grinding it against his 
soft-lipped, long-tongued mouth. 

"Then, as his tongue became more rapid, as his lips became more insistent, 
as the thrill going through my body rose in intensity, I saw him start 
moving his pelvis back and forth, bringing his cock to a semi-rigid state 
and closer to my face. Instinctively, I guess, I moved my face toward the 
slowly unsheathing cockhead of his - the way his foreskin slipped back up 
the thickening, pulsing shaft, fascinated me. I smelled the aroma of his 
masculinity - it was a new, strange, but exhilarating odor - then flicked my 
tongue out tentatively at the slit in the end of his engorging knob. It 
jumped; and its tiny mouth parted its lips as a droplet of crystal clear 
fluid seeped out and coated the crimson smoothness. Again I licked it - it 
tasted like the ocean spray - and again it jumped, brushing against my nose. 
I heard Follet moan into my pussy, then saw him bring his penis - a full 
hard-on now - against my lips. The tempest that was building in my ovaries, 
the froth that he was beating up in my vagina, the electrifying currents 
that were coursing throughout my body - so powerful were these sensations 
that I did what I knew I had to - no, wanted to do. I opened my mouth and 
sucked the entire length of his stiff, throbbing cock into it - well, most 
of it. . . . I wanted to have all of it my mouth, but it was much too large 
- even with the knob pressing against the back of my throat, I only had 
about two-thirds of it in me. Then I began licking it, running my tongue up 
and down its shaft, then - when Follet began pulling it out from between my 
lips then plunging it back in - I sucked on it, hearing myself moan as the 
sensation in my pussy grew and I started slamming it violently against 
Follet's mouth while he in turn rammed his heated shaft to its limit into 
mine.. . . 

"We came together - it was the most glorious feeling I had ever experienced. 
It felt as though Follet had his entire head in me and was licking every 
square millimeter of the inside walls of my vagina with a thousand moist, 
vibrating tongues of fire. And the thick fluid that pumped out of his cock 
into my throat - I thought nothing of swallowing every bitter-sweet droplet 
of it - was the most thirst-quenching liquor I had ever drunk. It was 
sensational! Like we were going over Niagara, falling, and then landing on a 
mile-thick pillow of swansdown. . . . 

"After that, we sixty-nined almost everyday in his apartment. Several times 
he wanted to fuck me, but I told him that he could eat my pussy and I'd suck 
his cock as much as he wanted, but fucking was out. And it was - I mean, 
hell, I'm no masochist, you know. ..." 

Yvette said that her oral-genital relationship with her French teacher 
continued until he was transferred to another school. The others after him - 
mostly boys her age - were just as willing to settle for cunnilingus and 
fellatio as for old-fashioned form of sexual intercourse. 

Her reference to masochism was an all-revealing allusion to her psychosexual 
problem. To her, the insertion of a man's penis into her vagina was 
synonymous with pain. Having fainted at the moment of her defloration by her 
schoolteacher, Yvette could recall nothing but the agony of her hymen being 
ruptured. No such feeling was related to Follet's performing cunnilingus 
upon her; there was only the feeling of euphoria in her fully conscious 
remembrance of that. Apparently, Follet had been cautious in not permitting 
this oral genital coupling to be a repulsive or traumatic experience for the 
young girl. Yvette revealed to the psychiatrist that the teacher had 
admitted to her that he had cleaned her up after her defloration. This 
statement by Follet was prompted by Yvette when she questioned him about 
"what happened to all the blood." This, in conjunction with the sensual 
pleasure of cunnilingus which Yvette experienced, endeared her schoolteacher 
to her even more. 

The prognosis for Yvette is uncertain. Her feelings of animosity toward what 
she calls "The old establishment" is understandable. She had been subjected 
to public embarrassment and humiliation, and her boyfriend with whom, she'd 
been told, she had carried on "unnatural relationships," had been sentenced 
to five years for contributing to the delinquency of a minor - the other 
charges having been dropped. It is probable, and this may seem a strongly 
unethical statement, that until someone actually rapes Yvette again, she 
will continue being a "pervert." 

Chapter Three - Rape And Sadism 

Much has been written on the infliction of pain as a means of obtaining 
sexual release since the latter part of the eighteenth century when the 
master of cruelty, Marquis de Sade, penned his notorious novels, such as 
Justine and Histoire de Juliette, and gave his name to the perversion know 
as sadism. Many and varied causes have been attributed to the many and 
varied forms of sadism. 

Dr. O. Spurgeon English, in his Introduction to Psychiatry, co-authored with 
Dr. Stuart M. Finch, states that sadism is a holdover of early childhood 
tendencies. "Every youngster," he writes, "particularly during the anal 
phase, is sadomasochistic, and if his tendencies, through early 
environmental trauma, are fixated within the personality and subsequently 
welded together with the sexual impulses, overt sadism and masochism are 
possible results. Such individuals have been unable to achieve mature love 
relationships so that lovemaking, if it may be called such, becomes a matter 
of either hurting or being hurt rather than having the genuine warmth which 
normally would be present. The relationships of these people lack 
tenderness, while pleasure is derived from the kind of violent impact which 
is identified with inhibited conquering or killing." 

It is possible that Dr. English's portraiture of a sadist is accurate in a 
great majority of instances. It would be foolhardy, however, to assume that 
a psychosexual cliche could be applicable to all incidences of sadism. From 
the case of Caroline F., which follows, one inadvertently concludes that 
sadism may be "spontaneously generated" rather than come through as a result 
of subconscious germination from the years of early childhood. 

Caroline, an attractive hazel-eyed music teacher - taught piano at a music 
conservatory in San Francisco - was twenty-nine when she was brought to the 
attention of a psychiatrist. Her sadistic treatment of her husband was not 
so much revealed as assumed when Fritz F. was admitted to an emergency 
hospital. In addition to an advanced stage of infection in the urinary 
tract, his genital area bore unexplainable bruises, welts, and punctures. 
Though an individual of athletic build, he finally admitted Caroline's 
sadism toward him, stating that he had not reported her misconduct to anyone 
because he loved her, knew that she was emotionally disturbed and would 
leave him if he resisted her. It was apparent to the men of medicine that 
Fritz had masochistic tendencies, but it was Fritz's wife, Caroline, who 
interested them the most. For a young woman who had been brought up under 
the most ideal conditions - her parents were well-to-do, had never 
mistreated her, harmony was the dominant feature of their family life - her 
sadism seemed to have no psychological explanation. Only after continual 
sessions with the psychoanalyst was the inciting event to her sadism 
revealed by her. It had occurred almost two years earlier, in the 
twenty-seventh year of her life. Here is that event, related in her own 
words. 

"I loved Fritz the first five years of our marriage. We were happy. We were 
compatible. We did not lack anything, either financially or emotionally. 
With both of us being career people of sorts - I, a music teacher, Fritz, a 
history professor - our life was full. Everything was going great until I 
became ill with vulvovaginitis. Fritz wasn't aware of it. I don't know why, 
but I didn't tell him, I went to a gynecologist. He examined me, told me 
what it was, and said that I should refrain from sexual intercourse until 
the inflammation cleared up. On the way home from the doctor I decided that 
I would tell Fritz. 

"When I did, Fritz showed concern, but I also noticed a certain animosity - 
as if he either didn't believe me or thought that I was making the ailment 
up for some reason. We got into an argument - later that night he tried to 
make me, unsuccessfully. . . . 

"Two days later I again had to go to the gynecologist - by the previously 
set appointment. The salve he prescribed for me worked fine until it wore 
off - I had to swab the insides of my vagina every four hours to keep the 
pain under control. After I left his office that afternoon, I decided to go 
shopping in the Sunset district of San Francisco. It was already getting 
dark when I got into our car - one of our two cars, we had two Volkswagens - 
and headed for home. It had a reserve tank switch, and I completely forgot 
that I had switched to the reserve even before I got to the doctor's office. 
I had to drive through Golden Gate Park, had done so innumerable times with 
no trouble. And actually, even when I realized that I was completely out of 
gas, when the car stalled along the winding approach to 25th Avenue on the 
Richmond side of the park, I thought nothing of it - other than the 
inconvenience of having to walk to a service station. 

"I was almost out of the park - I could see the lights of Fulton Avenue 
bordering the park on the north - when a car parked alongside the road I was 
walking on, a car I hadn't noticed until I was almost upon it, blinded me 
with the suddenly bright beams of its headlights. I stopped momentarily, 
startled, but then - deciding it was either a patrol car or a car with a 
couple trying to find a place to smooch - continued walking. I was alongside 
it when the door on the passenger side swung open and a deep voice from 
within rasped, 'Hey, honey, when was the last time you got laid?' The words, 
the fact that the courtesy lights within failed to light when the door swung 
open, the suddenly sharp pain between my legs, petrified me. And the split 
moment that I stood motionless, with the door of the car almost brushing 
against me, gave the man inside enough time to make his move. 

"Before I realized what was happening, I saw the glint of a knife blade, 
then felt an arm encircle my waist and the cold edge of the knife press 
against my throat. 'Make a sound, try to struggle, and I swear I'll slice 
into your windpipe!' There was no question that the son of a bitch meant it. 
'Get in!' he ordered, pushing me into the car and slamming the door shut. In 
an instant he was in through the door on the other side. Minutes later he 
had the car parked on a seldom used maintenance road by the old race track. 
Pulling me out of the car he dragged me through a clump of bushes and shoved 
me down upon a wooden bench. 

"By now I was both terrified and sick from the pain in my vagina, a raw, 
burning pain. I tried to tell him that I was sick. He laughed at that. 'I'll 
cure that, honey. A little internal massage between your legs will do the 
trick.' The next thing I knew he pushed me down on my back on the bench and 
was slipping a rope around my wrist. When I tried kicking, tried to tear 
away from him, he plopped his fat ass right on my middle and there wasn't a 
thing I could do, except scream. . . . But he fixed that idea but good 
before I even opened my mouth. He jerked a scarf - or maybe it was a large 
handkerchief - out of his jacket pocket and gagged me with it. 

"It didn't take him long to have me in just the position he wanted me. My 
right hand was tied to one end of the back of the bench; my left was tied by 
my head to an outside board of the bench seat. My legs - he fixed those in 
such a way that I felt as though I was being torn at their juncture. My 
right ankle was secured to the top board of the bench back, while the left 
one was tied down, close to the ground, to the bottom of the bench leg. I 
mean, the bastard spread me. 

"When he had me bound like that, he stood up - I still hadn't been able to 
distinguish the features of his face in the dark - and grunted. 

'Now,' he muttered, I think I'll be able to get into you.' His apparent calm 
- considering it wasn't too late yet, and the park is patrolled by the 
police - was something again, like he was doing an ordinary kind of thing. 
The thought that he had not removed my panties puzzled me - with my legs 
spread the way they were, he couldn't have pulled them off. But not for 
long. Sitting down at the end of the bench between my legs, he ran his 
finger up and down the crease in the crotch of my panties. He mistook the 
moisture of the ointment soaking through the thin material for natural 
secretions of desire. 'Hey, you're all moist and hot, honey - how come 
you're fightin' me then, huh?' His finger dug in through the fabric, forcing 
the labia of my vagina apart, slipping in, pulling the cloth chaffingly 
against my clitoris and the soreness surrounding it. I moaned against the 
gag in my mouth, blinked the tears out of my eyes as I felt his finger 
pushing in, rubbing upwards against the clitoris, then sliding down to press 
in again. 

"He was fingering me through my panties with his left hand, but I noticed 
that his right arm was moving in an almost spasmodic, jerking motion. I 
raised my head then. The sight of his erection - he had the fly of his 
trousers unzipped - horrified me. Even in the darkness it loomed like a 
monstrous, inhuman tower of muscle out of the juncture between his legs. I 
could hear the foreskin on it slurping as he stroked the enormous column in 
the tightness of his right hand. I know it couldn't have been that long, but 
it looked as though it was at least a foot in length. ... I tried screaming 
through the gag, but succeeded getting out only a slight moan - the movement 
of my head attracted the man's attention. 

" 'Hey, you wanna see what I'm going to shove up your cunt, don't you?' His 
hand, as he said this, instead of ceasing its masturbatory movement, began 
to move even faster, the slurping rising in frequency until it sounded like 
the long drawn-out sloshing of a sewer overflowing. His fingers of the other 
hand continued to violate my vagina. 'Ill let you - see - as soon - ' The 
panting emission of his words, hoarse, distorted, made me realize that he 
was on the verge of shooting his load - and shoot it he did.... I heard his 
panting come to a sudden halt, felt his fingers push violently into me - it 
felt as though he was ripping through the material - and then felt something 
hot, slimy, thick spray against my chin, my nose, and my eyes. The next 
instant, he was suddenly on his feet, standing by my head. He had his penis, 
still enormous, right over my face, and I saw him coaxing every droplet of 
come that he could out of it. It oozed out of the crack in its end, 
collected in an ever increasing glob, then came down on my face. I tried 
moving my face out of the way, but he grabbed my chin and held it steady, 
and the fucking muck coated my face.. . . 

"When there wasn't any more in him, he shook his penis over my face. 'See, 
honey, that's my cock - see? - see?' He squatted down and pressed the tip of 
his slimy column into each of my eyes. It felt as though its mouth was 
nipping against my eyelids as I clenched them tightly shut. 'Now, you're 
gonna make it hard again for me, honey,' he rasped, straightening up. 

"I couldn't figure out what he had in mind - couldn't see what he was doing 
- until suddenly I saw him swinging his leg up over me, but from the 
direction of my head. The next instant, he ripped the front of my blouse 
open, pushed my brassiere down until my breasts were out in the open but 
still pressed together by the constricting pressure of the bra, and - sat 
down on my face! Only then did I become conscious of the fact that he had 
removed his trousers. . . . As the ill-smelling crease of his ass came down 
on my face, trapping my nose within it - I was grateful for the gag across 
my mouth, at least I didn't have my lips against his anus - I felt him 
insert his penis in the fleshy fold between my breasts and start a backward 
and forward movement, sliding his organ in, then drawing it out from between 
my tits. A feeling of revulsion overwhelmed me, I strained against the 
bonds, I tried bucking my body - the latter only aided him in his goal, I 
felt his penis start thickening, growing, beginning to feel like a bat at my 
chest - but it was hopeless. I lay still, finally - after I managed to move 
my head sideways so that his ass was on my ear rather than against my nose - 
and prayed. I don't know about God, whether there is one or not, but at that 
moment, I figured that He would be the only one who could send a patrol car 
or some chance driver within sight of the secluded bench of my torment. 

"My prayer wasn't answered. After what seemed an interminable time, the man 
sitting on my face was apparently satisfied with the results, with the state 
of erection he managed to attain between my breasts. I heard him grunt and 
felt the weight of his body rising up off my head. As he swung his leg over 
my face again, I opened my eyes and the enormousness of his shaft, fully 
erect, jutting out at a slightly upward angle from the thick mat of pubic 
hair at his crotch. Its upward pull had drawn the doubleballed sac with his 
testicles out so that they jutted beneath the erection like a marbles bag 
with two enormous marbles within. 'Now, honey,' he said, heading down toward 
my feet, 'I'm going to ram this cock deep up your sex hole.' 

"His mention of my 'sex hole' made me suddenly aware of the sharp, burning 
pain between my legs. I moaned, I shook my head from side to side, trying to 
plead with him through my eyes. I knew I'd die if he pushed his enormous 
erection into me, I knew I could not take him in without damaging my already 
inflamed vagina. But, of course, my attempts at pleading were useless. 

"I felt his large, gnarled fingers slip under the tautly stretched elastic 
of my panties at my crotch and draw the material away from the juncture of 
my thighs. I saw the flash of steel in his free hand come down to where his 
other hand held my panties. Knowing it was the knife, I froze. I felt the 
dull edge of the knife, cold and threatening, press into the softness of my 
thigh, then heard it rip through the cloth. 'There it is;' he gasped, 
running a finger through the now bare crack of my vulva. It felt rough, 
abrasive almost. Then, grabbing a tuft of my pubic hair on either side of 
the vaginal slit, he pulled. I heard the sickening, squishing plop as the 
labia between my legs popped apart and saw his body rise as he knelt up on 
the bench between my outspread legs. 

" 'What I'm gonna do now, honey,' he said as though he were a teacher in an 
elementary school describing the workings of a butterfly, 'is insert my cock 
here, into this long-slitted crack between your legs - your cunt as you know 
it is called - then I'm going to draw it part of the way out, then slide it 
back in, out and in, out and in, until you're gonna wish you could have it 
in you every fucking day of your life. In other words, honey, I'm gonna fuck 
you good, like a good fucker should. . . . Ha! Ha-ha, that's funny! . . .' 

"If my hands weren't tied, if I'd had a knife - I would have plunged it 
right into the bastard's heart. But it was he who had the thick-headed 
dagger of flesh in his hand, and it was he who plunged it deep into my 
sexual heart. ... I felt it drive into me like a stake, pushing everything 
aside, pressing my diaphragm up when its head came to it. I had the 
sensation that he was going to drive it through me until it came out either 
through my mouth or through my asshole. When he began withdrawing it, I felt 
as though it were sucking my innards out with it, inverting me, drawing me 
inside out. Then it rammed in again. . . . The pain was indescribable; it 
was as though every square inch of my vaginal walls was being pricked with 
hot needles bearing turpentine. I screamed mentally, knowing that no one 
could hear the muffled moan coming through the tight gag in my mouth. It 
seemed as though with every penetration of my innermost depths, the 
bastard's erection doubled in size. When he finally began increasing the 
tempo of his thrusts, I blacked out at what must have been the apex of his 
rhythm, for I remember the hot thickness of his come erupting within me, 
scalding the tender tissue, sending me into the utmost agony.... 

"I regained consciousness as he was slipping out of my vagina - and even 
that, with his penis now down to a nonerect size, was excruciatingly 
painful. I felt only one emotion - hatred, all-consuming hatred. I didn't 
move when he untied the cords binding my arms and legs, but when he removed 
the gag from my mouth I spit in his face. I hoped he'd kill me then. Instead 
- he had his trousers on by now - he chuckled, called me a fucking whore, 
and walked off toward his car. Moments later, he was gone. 

"Tears streaming down my face, I made my way back to my car about a mile 
away, then to a service station. I dismissed the thought of calling the 
police, because they were men, like the bastard who raped me was. By the 
time I got home I had made up my mind that I wasn't going to tell Fritz 
about it either - for the same reason. After all, he, too, had tried to 
screw me when he knew that I was in pain. . . . 

"As it happened, Fritz wasn't in when I got home. I remembered that he said 
he was going to work late at school correcting examinations. 

It was while I stayed up waiting for him that I began hating him more and 
more. I was going to get even with him for what that son of a bitch in the 
park had done to me. . . . And I sure as hell did!" 

Caroline's first sadistic act of misplaced revenge was made that same night 
when her husband had returned from school. 

"I told him that I still hurt between my legs, but that I wanted to suck him 
off. The poor bastard didn't think anything of my discomfort as long as he 
got his bit of a climax. . . . Anyway, I sank my teeth into him the very 
instant his come started spurting into my mouth. And the funny thing was - 
the moment I felt his howl of pain, I had a multiple orgasm, even though my 
vagina was pretty well desensitized by the ointment I had coated it with two 
or three hours earlier. ..." 

And that was the beginning. From that point on, Caroline's methods of sadism 
went from pricking Fritz's scrotum with pins to flogging him with a whip she 
had bought expressly for that purpose. Normal sex was no longer possible for 
her. She could not experience an orgasm unless her sexual partner, Fritz, 
was in the throes of agony. Why did Fritz bear up under this punishment? Why 
he did not either leave Caroline or refer her to a psychiatrist is anyone's 
guess. His claim that "he loved her too much to see her committed to a 
mental institution" is possibly something he believed or forced himself to 
believe. The most likely answer is that Fritz was a masochist - perhaps even 
unknown to himself. 

The prognosis for Caroline indicates that through hypnotherapy she may come 
around to dismissing her sadistic makeup. Only time will tell. 

Chapter Four - Rape And Masochism 

Masochism, as Freud put it, is sadism turned round on to the self. From 
Havelock Ellis's definition of masochism, a definition which almost takes on 
the proportions of a dissertation, one comes to the conclusion that both 
masochism and sadism are manifestations of love going through decay or 
deformation in two different directions. And it does not take long to 
realize and admit that he is right. Was it not for their love of God that 
innumerable men, women, and children willingly accepted the most heinous 
forms of torture in the early days of Christianity, "joyously accepting 
death at the hands of the infidels"? Did not Dostoyevsky, in The Brothers 
Karamazov, say: "Men . . . slay. . . . but they love . . . those whom they 
have slain"? William Sydney Porter, in "Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen," 
wrote: "Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the martyr's." 
Tertullian, eighteen centuries ago wrote, in his Apologeticus, "Blood of the 
martyrs is the seed of the Church." Lucian had made a woman say: "He who has 
not rained blows on his mistress and torn her hair and her garments is not 
yet in love." 

There can be little question from the psychoanalytic point of view that the 
martyrs of Christendom, martyrs for any cause, even, were, psychiatrically 
speaking, avid masochists. Those who "love the ones they have slain," can be 
no other than sadists. Finally, one could conclude that the Church is a 
vicarious sadist sitting upon the mass grave of masochists. . . . 

In the present chapter, our interest is necessarily confined to sexual 
masochism, and sexual masochism as caused, or brought out, by rape. The 
"love" of a sexual masochist may be directed toward a single person, 
necessarily of a sadistic temperament, or it may be centered entirely on the 
personally felt, sensual sensations brought on by the receiving of pain, in 
which case the love is of an egocentric nature. Since masochism, in its 
presently indefinable state, encompasses pain of such varied forms as that 
experienced in a love-bite and that brought forth through actual, and 
occasionally fatal, shedding of blood, the question where exactly does 
"normal love" end and masochism begin is a matter of opinion. One could 
safely say, however, in reference to sexual masochism, that masochism 
becomes a deviation, and is thus liable to be justifiably termed 
"perversion," when it replaces the desire for coitus. 

In the following case history, the transition from one to the other will not 
be difficult to observe. 

The description of Anne B., as given by the court-appointed psychiatrist who 
was instrumental in having the custody of the woman transferred to a private 
mental institution, was extremely pathetic. "Although not suffering from 
malnutrition," he had said, "the prisoner is emaciated, needs immediate 
medical attention almost as acutely as she needs psychiatric help. One could 
never guess her age to be twenty-five - she looks ten, fifteen years older. 
The injuries on her body - obviously inflicted upon her during the last 
sadomasochistic orgy - concentrated about the erogenous zones, though by no 
stretch of the imagination limited to them, are of an extremely gruesome 
nature. ..." 

Anne B. was found unconscious during a raid upon a "mansion" in New Jersey. 
The "mansion" had proved to be a setting straight out of de Sade. Anne's 
name was found in the "guests' registration ledger." 

It wasn't until two months later that Anne, a petite redhead with large, 
sensitive, green eyes set into a sad, heart-shaped face, was able to start 
in upon her psychoanalytic treatment. Gradually, she became trusting enough 
in her psychiatrist to reveal to him the catalytic incident which set her 
dormant-suppressed masochism loose in her psyche. 

She had admitted prior to this that she "had felt a pleasantly tickling 
sensation between her legs" whenever her father would place her over his 
knee (when she was thirteen to fourteen years old), pull up her skirt, pull 
down her panties, and proceed to paddle her naked young buttocks with a 
Ping-Pong paddle. 

The following reconstruction of that incident is reproduced from her own 
words. 

"I guess I better tell you that I looked a hell of a lot better then - two 
years ago - than I do now, otherwise you'll think I'm pulling your leg. I 
was working for a reputable drug firm in Jersey City - in the prophylactic 
department quality control - and was getting laid right and left whenever I 
felt like it. There was no cock shortage in Jersey City, so I could afford 
to be particular, follow my own code of ethics, so to speak. I'd let the 
fellows at work screw me, eat my pussy - sometimes, I'd even suck off a 
guy's pecker if I especially liked him - providing they weren't married. ... 
I have this hang-up, of not inviting in a cock that's got a haven of its own 
- and I don't think much of the owner, frankly, if he has a wife yet carries 
his hard-on around looking for some other cunt to plug. . . . Call me a 
freeloving, but conscientious, square, if you want, but that's the way I am. 

"So, even if I have had more fellows slide their erections into me than the 
uppity society deems proper, I've still been particular. / chose the ones I 
wanted to get fucked by, and / turned down the ones I didn't want to have 
anything to do with. Until I met a couple of sailors who I thought were good 
friends of a friend of mine from Brooklyn. The fact was, they were only 
buddies of her sailor boyfriend - I found out later that she had only gone 
out with this 'boyfriend' of hers one time, and he didn't know both of those 
sailors. He just barely knew one. . . . And like a stupid, cock-starving 
cunt, which I wasn't, I accepted a blind date and agreed to have Jack - I 
didn't even know about Walcott until the two of them came - pick me up at my 
apartment in Jersey City. 

"Both of them appeared to be quite soft-spoken and decent - except for the 
semi-erections both of them had straining in their tight white pants, which 
is a common sight in the Navy, considering the constricting material - until 
we were in the car Walcott was driving. I knew that everything wasn't right 
as soon as they headed the car west instead of east - and especially when 
they didn't answer me when I asked them where we were going. We were 
supposed to go to Brooklyn, to my girl friend's house first, then go to 
Coney Island. Their silence got me both worried and mad at the same time. 

" 'Listen, fellahs,' I told them, I don't much go for practical jokes. 
Either tell me - ' I guess I shouldn't have said 'either' because Walcott, 
who couldn't have been over eighteen, reached over toward the back seat and 
slapped me right in the mouth. Before I could say anything - and I had a few 
words seething at the tip of my tongue - Jack, sitting next to me, said, 
'Hey, Wally, don't start that until we get to plumbing her cunt. . . .' 

"I realized then that they were actually kidnapping me, that they had 
something in their minds other than good old normal screwing - and at that 
stage of the game I wasn't about to spread my legs for them. ... Or so I 
thought. When I again asked, in a very timid voice, where we were going, and 
again got slapped in the face by Walcott, I decided to just shut up and wait 
for the chance to get away. 

"We drove in complete silence and without any passes from Jack - which I 
couldn't figure out then - for about forty minutes. I was so taken up with 
waiting for the chance to break free that I didn't pay any attention to 
where we were heading, what route we were taking, until Walcott swerved the 
huge boat of a car we were in down a side road going away from the causeway, 
over and between some hills, and up a long, winding driveway. 

"The car came to a sudden stop before a small cottage standing all by itself 
and away from a larger house which seemed totally deserted. Before I could 
say a word, Jack swung the door open on his side, grabbed me by the arm and 
jerked me outside. 'This is Wally's playhouse, Anne,' he said, laughing like 
a corpse. 'We three are gonna play the Inquisition House game.' 

" 'Get her in there,' I heard Walcott's voice as though coming from inside 
of a grave. There was no humor in their faces, just petrifying iciness - 
like frost on winter windows. 

"I turned away from Walcott to Jack who was still holding me by the arm. He 
hadn't hit me yet, so, I guess, I figured I could play on his sympathies. 
'Jack,' I felt my voice quiver like a catgut string. 'Please tell me what - 
' But, again, my question was answered physically. He placed the short, 
stubby fingers of his hand over my breast, squeezed until he had a firm 
grasp on it, and pulled. It wasn't one of those smart-ass actions - you 
know, where the kids do something that isn't socially acceptable simply to 
draw attention to themselves - no, this was intentionally cruel. I felt the 
tips of Jack's fingers gouge the flesh of my breast like a five-pronged meat 
hook. 

"I guess I slapped him across the face without thinking - automatic reaction 
to pain, you know. Well, he didn't like that a bit. I saw a sneer crinkle 
his face, saw the blackness in his eyes deepen, and then his free hand came 
up and backhanded me across my face. The next instant he was pulling me into 
the cottage. Behind us, I heard Walcott following. It sounded like there was 
no one else in the world. Just the three of us and silence. 

"Once we were inside the almost unfurnished cottage - all it had was an old 
beat-up couch facing a fireplace of hewn stone, a large wooden table against 
a window in the back, and a couple of straight-backed chairs - Jack let go 
of my breast and pushed me toward the couch. Walcott, who till that moment 
had not paid much attention to me - other than slapping me once in the car - 
strode over to the fireplace and lit the kindling of dry twigs piled on the 
metal grille; then he threw some logs on and, rising, turned toward me. He 
ran his eyes up and down my body - I was wearing a green A-line dress, the 
mini kind - then scratched the elongated bulge descending into the legging 
of his issue slacks from his crotch, and said, 'We can't fuck, Anne, with 
you wearing clothes. Take them off.' He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his 
trousers pocket and lit one. 

" 'Listen, Wally - ' I don't know what I was going to tell him, but it 
didn't matter; before I even got that much out, I heard a strange-sounding 
air-whisper behind me and then a loud thwack. I yelped and jumped, bringing 
my hands back to my buttocks. The thwack and the stinging pain coincided at 
the cheeks of my ass. 

"It was Jack, standing with what looked like a dog whip snaking out of his 
fist, sneering again. 'When you talk to either Mr. Walcott or me, you 
address us as sir, bitch. Do you understand?' When I didn't answer right 
away - and, hell, I knew they were a couple of real weirdos by now, but I 
couldn't think of anything to say, even like 'Yes, sir!' or 'Fuck you, sir!' 
Jack flicked his wrist and the goddam whip moved like a trained snake, its 
tip came up off the floor, freezing momentarily still, then snapped out to 
sting my leg. 'Now - take it off, cunt,' he growled. 

"I felt tears springing to my eyes, but I dropped my hands down to the hem 
of my dress - I didn't have to bend down, it was so short - and drew it up. 
I had it off my arms and around my neck when I felt powerful hands grip my 
arms from behind. I couldn't tell whether it was Jack or Walcott; I wasn't 
at all prepared for what followed. With the dress hanging over my face, I 
couldn't see anything, but I could sure as hell feel and get the picture. 

"I felt something being tied around my wrists, then my arms were suddenly 
released and my wrists jerked up until I was almost pulled up off the floor. 
Instinctively, I screamed, straining at the bonds that held me totally 
helpless. And although the first of those screams was one of terror, the 
ones that followed were from the agony of the whip which started biting 
around my naked thighs, through the wispy material of my bikini panties at 
my buttocks, at my back and belly, bared to its sting. How long this 
flogging went on, I don't know. I know that the pain, burning sharply across 
my entire body, began to deaden and my screams lost their volume. I realized 
somehow that the less I screamed, the less powerful the strokes of the whip 
became. Finally, I fell silent, only whimpering slightly, licking the salty 
brine of tears away from my lips, breathing heavily through the dampness of 
the dress material clinging to my face. 

"Then the dress was violently pulled off my head. By Walcott. He was 
standing before me without a stitch of clothes on him, his chest, thickly 
matted with a growth of dark hairs, heaving. His nakedness gave me an odd 
sort of a thrill - I shuddered. My eyes dropped down to his cock arching 
away from the nest of black curls. It wasn't fully erect, but it was already 
massive and engorged with blood. I don't know why I noted that he hadn't 
been circumcised. I could tell from the way the thin sheath of foreskin 
still covered the ridge surrounding his cockhead, though I noticed it 
gradually slipping back as the length, the thickness, the hardness of his 
penis increased. 

"I guess I stared at his organ too long - and continued staring at it even 
when he dropped his hand to it, circled it with his fingers, then raised it 
up until it pointed at my face. He didn't say anything. He just started 
moving his fist back and forth the length of his shaft, sliding the foreskin 
back until the knob at the end of his cock became totally revealed, then 
sliding it forward until only the tiny semen slit in its tip showed through. 
The movement of his hand, the growth of his erection, the rise and fall of 
his balls, hanging large and full, as the stretching and contracting of the 
foreskin pulled them up then let them descend back into the cradle between 
his legs, almost hypnotized me. I heard him say something to me, but I 
couldn't make out the words. Then I became aware of Jack - his whip, rather 
- behind me. 

" 'Answer, bitch!' 

"I jerked from the unexpectedness of the blow and looked up at Walcott. 
'What?' I asked, still conscious of his hand masturbating himself. 

" 'I said I want you to beg for it, bitch.' 

" 'What?' I repeated again dumbly. 

" 'What, she says, Jack.' His eyes flitted past me to where I knew Jack was 
waiting for the least reason to swing the whip, to let it bite into my 
flesh. I clenched my teeth in expectation of the next lash. Instead, I felt 
his fingers insert themselves between my brassiere strap and my back and 
pull .... It held. Simultaneously, Walcott's voice hit my ears. 'No, Jack. 
Get the shears.' 

"In a second he had them in his hand. They were the large, commercial kind 
of shears used in dressmaking factories. An evil look on his face, he 
stepped toward me until he couldn't have been more than six inches away. The 
scissors were in his left hand; he was still jacking off with his right in a 
slow, even, pumping rhythm. I could feel the knob of his cock propped, 
pressing, pushing, moistly against my lower stomach and just above the 
waistband of my panties. I was just about to raise my knee and jam it into 
his balls when he said, 'Hold still now, bitch, or I may accidentally lop 
off one of your nipples.' At the same instant he let go of his cock, letting 
it just throb against my belly, and took the shears in both of his hands. As 
he brought them up to the tip of one of my bra cups, I held my breath. 

"My hands still stretching up toward a rafter over my head, I watched 
Walcott begin snipping away at the material of the brassiere. All I can say 
is that his hands were steady, but had / moved I may have been minus a 
nipple and he wouldn't have thought anything of it. About fifteen times the 
blades of the shears snipped, until finally a small circle of material fell 
silently to the floor while in its place, erect like a little nubbin of 
strawberry flesh, my nipple stood out. Walcott swung to my other tit, but 
changed his mind. 

" 'Hey, Jack,' he suddenly called out over my shoulder. 'Let the whip he for 
a while. I want you to come and cut a hole for this cunt's other suck-nub 
while I chew on the first one,' His tongue came out and gave a lick to the 
hot point of my exposed nipple. Then I saw Jack raise the shears to my other 
breast. Snip. Lick. On and on the two of them went with me torn between two 
weirdly contrasting sensations - three, actually, if you count two cocks 
pressing against my suddenly hot and moistening mound. There was Walcott's 
tongue, lips, and teeth tweaking my bared nipple, sending electrifying 
tingling sensations radially away from it; there was the cold steel of the 
shears which could, I felt, slice into my yet unexposed breast at any moment 
without in any way upsetting either of the two men. . . . 

"Two cocks? It didn't even dawn on me until after the other nipple popped 
out into the open and Jack fastened his mouth to it, that Jack, too, had 
taken every stitch of clothes off. And his hard-on was up - and I mean up. 
It stood out of his golden crotch hairs like the torch arm of the old lady 
in New York Harbor. Stiff and hard and pointing upward slightly. I thought I 
would go out of my mind with the two of them standing before me now, sucking 
like crazy at my tits, and beating their meat like masturbating was going 
out of style. 

"I figured that as long as they weren't flogging me, I'd just play along 
with them. I started moaning, pivoting, pushing my left nipple against 
Walcott's mouth, then my right one against Jack's. I felt the rhythm of 
their pumping hands increase and then, suddenly, both of them shuddered, 
froze, and - just as the warmth of their thick semen shot from their cocks 
and hit me all over my bare belly - two shots of pain racked my breasts .... 
The bastards had sunk their teeth into me! I forgot all about the whip, and 
screamed .... That did it! 

"Both of them released my breasts at the same time, stepped back, and looked 
at each other. 'The bitch, Jack,' Walcott jeered, 'screamed loud. Do you 
suppose she came in her panties?' 

" 'Shit, Wally, I don't know. She didn't ask us if she could or not. Do you 
want me to take a look?' 

" 'Yeah. Pull her panties down and see if you can spot anything. Be sure to 
spread her pussy lips apart and finger-test the insides of her crack.' 

"Without another word, Jack knelt down before me and jerked my panties down 
to my knees. I raised my knee, grazing him across the face. Yeah, I didn't 
think of Walcott, and the whip which he had picked up. I remembered it only 
when it curled around my back - like in slow motion - and its sharp tip came 
round and round and closer and licked my nipple with stinging lick of fire. 
I didn't scream then. I bit into my lip until I tasted warm blood, looked 
down at Jack, and whispered, 'I'm sorry - I'm sorry - I'm sorry - ' hoping 
that Walcott had heard my apology, hoping he wouldn't lash me again. I don't 
know if he did - I mean, all of my attention was on what Jack was doing. 

"Down on his knees before me, with my panties by now completely off me and 
cast aside, he pushed my legs as far apart as he could, placed the palms of 
his hands on my pelvis so that each palm was against the border of my pubic 
muff, then pulled-pushed the skin. I heard and felt the labia of my slit 
squish open. I gasped at the sound and at the sensation. 'I think the bitch 
had come, Wally. She's sure all moist and drippy around the hole entrance.' 
I shook my head in an attempt to deny it, but, as I felt the thumbs of his 
hands begin slipping into the tender-lipped opening of my pussy, I began an 
almost unconscious rocking movement of my lower torso. Suddenly, I wanted to 
get fucked. There was a fire in my innards only a cock could put out. It 
wasn't hard for Jack, against whose thumbs I was practically masturbating 
myself, to figure out my need. 

" 'You want us to fuck you, don't you, bitch?' he asked, digging his thumbs 
so far into me they were pressing against the walls on either side of my 
vagina with the softened cervix caught between them, feeling like a giant, 
spreading cock. 

" 'Yes - yes - I want you to fuck me - God, I want you to fuck me - now, 
please . . . now.... Fuck me!' I screamed, not caring about the whiplashes 
suddenly descending on my back, on my ass - only wanting a stiff, gigantic, 
gorged erection tearing into me, sliding in and out of the fiery furnace 
between my legs. And only as Walcott's words began to filter through the 
sounds of the whip, whining and slapping against my back, did I realize why 
Jack hadn't rammed his beautiful cock of solid male flesh into my suddenly 
starving cunt-mouth. 'Sir - ' Walcott's voice was saying, 'say sir, bitch. 
Sir, sir, sir. . . .' 

" 'Yes, sir - sir! Fuck me, sir - fuck me, sir - fuck . . . me . . . sir!' 
And then I felt Jack's glorious cock - hot, thick, throbbing, rippling with 
desire - wedge its head at the entrance to my cunt, pause, then force its 
glorious fucking solidity into me all the way to his beautiful balls - then 
pull partway out - then slide back in, lubricating my hot sheath with the 
marvel of male fluid. ... In a frenzy, I raised my feet off the floor and 
wrapped my legs around his muscular buttocks, feeling the biting fingers of 
his hands squeezing into my ass, rolling the cheeks against the palms of his 
hands. And I slammed my crotch against the tower which impaled me and I 
heard my voice, saying, 'Oh, darling sir, yes - yes - screw me, shove it 
into my cunt, sir - fuck me, sir -' and then, '- whip me, sir! Fuck me, sir! 
Whip me, sir! . . .' And the whip came against my back with sharp licks of 
ecstasy and elevated me toward an orgasm the kind of which I could never 
have even dreamed. . . . And we all four came together. . . . Jack shooting 
his beautiful hot come against my twitching cervical mouth, and I all around 
Jack's enormous cock, and the whip against my back, and Walcott into his 
hand and onto the floor and onto the beautiful whip. . . . 

"After they untied me, I kissed their feet, I licked their assholes, I 
sucked their cocks. ... I had to - they had shown me a marvelous way of 
loving. ..." 

And from that day, Anne B. could find no satisfaction from sex unless the 
sex act was accompanied by sensations of pain. Unable to find suitable love 
partners among her friends, she learned by chance of a sadomasochistic group 
which catered to people of jaded interests such as she. For a year and a 
half, Anne found "happiness" there. It is probable that, had the raid on the 
"mansion" not taken place at the time that it had, she would not have lasted 
much longer. There, she had permitted herself to be subjected to forms of 
masochistic pleasure which could have put to shame even the expert 
tormentors of the Middle Ages. 

The prognosis for Anne is far from optimistic. The chances are that her 
masochistic tendencies, which had lain dormant since her early teens when 
her father had first started her on the thorny road of masochism, have been 
etched too strongly into her psychosexual makeup. Upon her release from the 
mental institution, she will most probably resort again to the only way she 
feels she can have sexual gratification - the way of sex combined with the 
agony of pain. 

Chapter Five - Rape And Pederasty 

Norman Lewis defines pederasty as "sexual relations through the anus, 
practiced by men on young boys." Webster's definition is but little 
qualified, by the word especially: "anal intercourse especially with a boy." 
The quotation introducing the Introduction to Victor Dodson's Pederasty: Sex 
Between Men and Boys, states, "Delightful to me is the bloom of the 
twelve-year-old boy." From the above, it is clear then that pederasty is not 
simply homosexuality; it is also apparent that it is not simply sodomy; and 
it is also obvious that the closest genre of sexual relationship, the 
closest perversion which with its all-encompassing heading would include 
pederasty is child molesting. A specialized form of child-molesting perhaps, 
but child molesting, nevertheless. Perhaps it could be termed 
boy-child-molesting, and, from its definition, would necessarily exclude 
women as perpetrators of the perversion. 

The causes of pederasty, psychiatrically speaking, are of course numerous. 
It's prevalence will never be certain due to the fact best described by that 
old time-worn phrase, "boys will be boys." Specifically, a boy, being more 
adventurous in the world of sex, intrinsically so because his position in 
life, his pride in possessing, acquiring, dominating, controlling, demands 
him to be such, will be less likely to run home and relate to his parents of 
his sex exploits, especially if these exploits happened to have been shared 
with an older man. 

Again, much has been written on pederasty as a form of homosexuality, 
wherein the sexual intercourse between an older man and a boy was of a 
mutually agreed-upon act. The cause in the first may have been early 
adolescent experimentation in homosexuality with an inferiority complex 
strengthening and growing within the older man until he could not feel the 
power of masculinity except with younger, weaker partners of the male sex. 
The cause in the second may have been curiosity or an anal drive which 
extended into preadolescence or adolescence. 

In the case of Alan, the cause was odd in its sudden and overwhelming 
manifestation of nonconforming psychosexuality. Yet the cause did not spring 
to light until almost ten years later. In fact, Alan was twenty-one when he 
was arrested on charges of child-molesting, pederasty, and homosexuality. 
The last two charges were dismissed, but the first was sufficient to send 
Alan for an indefinite period into a Florida mental institution for the 
criminally insane. It was there that, after extensive psychoanalytic 
probings by the psychiatrist, that the story of Alan's rape at the age of 
thirteen was brought to light. 

Alan obviously had problems with his studies in mathematics. It appears that 
his grades - he was attending one of the better Florida junior high schools 
- began to decline from the semester during which he had spent most of the 
time mooning over a curvaceous fourteen-year-old classmate of his who sat 
next to him in his mathematics class. 

"I mean I thought she was really something else," he told the psychiatrist. 
"She was wearing microskirts up to her crotch way back when they hadn't even 
invented minis. No fooling, she'd come in and sit down and by the end of the 
class her hem would be so high up her thighs I could see the pink or the 
blue or the yellow of her panties wispily covering her twat if I leaned 
forward far enough. Hell, I used to have to sit and wait until the other 
kids left before I'd dare to get up. I mean, man, did she give me a hard-on 
to end all hard-ons." 

"Did you ever get to have sexual relations with the girl?" the psychiatrist 
asked Alan next. 

"No," Alan said. "But I got kicked out of the school trying." 

He said that he had passed the girl a note on which he had depicted a penis 
entering a vagina with his name penned across the shaft and her name haloed 
around the vulva. The note was intercepted by the teacher - or rather was 
confiscated from the girl. 

When Alan's father was called in to the principal's office - this happened 
two weeks before the end of the school year - and learned of what obscenity 
his son had resorted to, he decided to keep Alan under private tutorship 
throughout the duration of summer. 

The story of what happened that summer is told next in Alan's own words. 

"John Lathers was the one I hated most. The other tutors were okay - they 
didn't seem to care one way of the other whether I was getting anything out 
of the private lessons, even though dad paid them well for their time. But 
old Lathers - the son of a bitch was about forty-five and all gray matter - 
seemed to think of nothing but getting the goddamn square roots and 
isosceles triangles and exponents into my head. I mean, I never suspected 
what he was really after until the day mother and dad took off for Miami 
Beach - it was a good hundred-and-twenty-mile drive and they said that they 
would probably spend the night there. They didn't take me along because they 
were still sore as hell at me for what I had done at school. 

"Anyhow, I noticed the old math tutor's attitude change the moment I told 
him that my parents weren't coming back that evening. He seemed concerned 
that they'd leave me all by myself - and, I guess, it was a rotten thing of 
them to do. It was a Friday and Lathers had come to start me out on the 
shitty geometry theorems around two o'clock as he had always done. When I 
told him about my folks being gone, he suddenly decided that I should get a 
day's rest from math. 

"Slamming the math book shut, he said, 'Why don't we go out in your backyard 
and study nature instead today?' 

"Shit, I thought that was groovy. We had a huge back garden - a couple of 
acres - there was even a little pond with a tiny island in the center which 
I used to paddle out to on a small raft I had built. I'd play Tom Sawyer 
there whenever I had the chance, pretending that I'd run away from home and 
all that shit. So, anyhow, before the little girl could cry 'Rape, rape!' 
there we were on the little island, lying on our backs, our trousers wet 
from the crossing - the raft, with the two of us on it, hadn't held up too 
well. It sorta capsized halfway across and we had to wade it knee-deep the 
rest of the way. 

"For a while we just lay there, then the teach says to me, 'Hey, Alan,' he 
says. 'We should take our duds off so they get dry, you know.' I thought it 
was funny, him calling clothes duds. I had no thought of what I know now he 
was thinking. 'Okay,' I said. 'But don't look.' It was silly, me saying 
that, I mean. After what I was hooted out of the school for; but then, this 
was different. I mean old Lathers was a man - and I didn't think much of a 
man seeing my cock, I mean it wasn't any of his business. . . . That don't 
make sense, but that's the way I felt - sort of shy, you know. 

" 'Oh, Alan, you don't have anything I haven't seen before on this boy or 
that,' he said, laughing. I thought that was strange, him saying that, but I 
turned away anyhow as I pulled my trousers off. 

"When I lay down on the wee bit of grass on that island, I heard Lathers 
puffing next to me. Lying down on my stomach with my face turned away from 
him, I couldn't see what he was doing. And I wasn't really thinking of him 
or of anything he had said. With the cool grass against my bare legs - I was 
wearing a pair of BVDs - and the sun beating against them, I felt relieved 
that I didn't have to worry about my math. Then John Lathers's voice, though 
not loud, shattered the stillness around me. 

" 'You know, you have a real cute ass, Alan.' 

"I mean, shit, he shook me up. I'd heard of fucking queers before, but never 
did I suspect Lathers to be one. I didn't know what to say, how to answer 
him, so, like an idiot, I turned my face toward him and, without opening my 
eyes, muttered, 'Hmm?' I mean, I was sure that I didn't hear him right. He 
was one of dad's old friends. I heard him say it again. This time, a little 
frightened, I decided to keep quiet - like I fell asleep or something - but 
cracked my eye just a slit. And was I shook up, man. I mean, Lathers was no 
more than six inches away from me, bare-ass naked, his goddamn prick like a 
mushroom-tipped yardarm sticking out from between his legs, and he was 
moving right on top of me. 

"All I had the chance to do was yelp and dart. My yelp didn't do a bit of 
good, and my dart fizzled out like a short-winded fart. 'What the hell, Mr. 
Lathers - ' It was stupid, me calling him Mr. Lathers as he sat on the back 
of my naked legs with his prick poking against the crease in the ass-panel 
of my BVDs, but I guess I didn't think of that right then. 

"I tried to rise up, but he just pushed me facedown against the grass. 'Now, 
don't be difficult, Alan,' he said. 'You're no angel. I know all about you. 
Drawing dirty pictures - wanting to fuck a girl. . . . What I'm going to do 
is a hell of a lot more fun than sticking a whang in the girl's pussy. I'm 
going to fuck you in your pretty little boy's ass.' 

"Again I tried getting up, but there was no way. He didn't have to push me 
back down this time. I fell of my own awkward position. Then I felt his 
fingers curl under the elastic of the waistband of my shorts at the small of 
my back and then roll the cotton material down - down - down until I felt 
the rays of the sun beating against the bare cheeks of my ass and shafting 
me in my bunghole. I thought, That dirty, fucking queer! and, with a lunge, 
tried swinging back at him. I practically dislocated my shoulder in the 
attempt - and didn't even come anywhere near hitting him. The next instant I 
felt him sap me one on the back of my head. 

" 'Now, Alan, there is no use trying to keep me off and out of you. You 
aren't a virgin, are you, acting the way you do.' It wasn't a question 
really, so I just lay there and didn't say anything. His next move was so 
fast and unexpected that I missed my advantage to make a dash for it. 
Whatever it was he did, it felt like he got up off my legs, jerked my BVDs 
down below my knees, and was suddenly back, heavy and unbudgable, on the 
back of my thighs, and his cock was lying like a telegraph pole in a ditch 
along the crack of my buttocks. I felt it hot and thick and throbbing - and 
moist at the tip. 

" 'I'm gonna tell dad -' I started to say, but Lathers interrupted me with a 
laugh. 

" 'You wouldn't even think of telling him anything, Alan. He wouldn't 
believe a word you'd say, anyway. I'm his old and reputable friend - while 
you're a dirty-minded little boy trying to catch a glimpse of a girl's 
snatch and then offering to fuck the same girl in school.' 

"As I felt his hands cup my ass cheeks, I knew he was right. And then, as I 
realized that he was going to try inserting his huge prick in my small 
asshole - hell, it even hurt when I'd have a mild constipation and would try 
to take a crap - I started bawling. I clenched the cheeks of my ass 
together, pleaded for him not to hurt me; but all he did was pull my 
buttocks apart and tweak the puckered ring around my shit-hole. 

"Then he started working his finger into it. It felt like I was shitting 
backwards. He forced his finger in, rotating it first in one direction, then 
in the other, deeper and deeper. My attempt to roll over didn't do a damn 
bit of good. He straddled my legs like a bronco rider. All I succeeded in 
doing was to get a pain in my side in addition to the pain in the ass. So I 
finally lay still and clenched my teeth. But not for long. Suddenly it felt 
like the son of a bitch had jerked my asshole out - I mean, it hurt like 
hell. Even tears came to my eyes. And his laughing at me didn't do one damn 
bit of good. 

" 'Hey,' he chuckled somewhere behind my back, 'all I did was yank my finger 
out. You're a bit tight back here, so I'll have to oil the dark little 
tunnel a bit. Too bad I don't have any butter or salad oil, but - ' I heard 
him spit and felt the saliva hit me right in the fucking shit valley. The 
next instant his finger was back at work - going in a bit easier this time - 
sliding in and out, in fact, without causing me too much discomfort. Then - 
slurp! - out it came again. And at that instant I felt something hard and 
hot and straining like a live log under me. ... I mean, I was really shook! 
There I had an old man getting ready to screw my asshole and I was getting a 
hard-on! 

"He must have felt me stiffen, for he laughed and said, 'Now don't shoot 
your fucking come until I'm in you, Alan. It'll feel a hell of a lot better 
then - like I'm coming right through you.' Again I heard him spit; again I 
felt him jerk his damned finger out of me - and then, I felt, it. . . . It 
was huge - I could feel its head pushing the flesh of my buttocks aside, 
feel its slit against the ring of my asshole, then feel its tip begin to 
wedge itself into me, spreading me open, entering me, throbbing its way up 
the darkness of my rectum. It felt like there was no end to it. . . . 
Terrified, the pain not as sharp as when his finger dug into me the first 
time, I held my breath, then muttered, 'Are you almost in? ... It - it 
hurts 
' 

" 'Almost, Al, my boy, almost. . ..' His voice was less harsh, and I 
realized that he was actually trying not to hurt me now. And then, as he 
gasped, 'There - to the fucking hilt!' I felt his balls press against my 
ass, felt my own prick throbbing against the grass between it and my belly. 
Slowly, I began to move. 

"Back and forth I slid. Each back movement brought the tightly stretched 
foreskin on my prick up toward its head; each forward movement bared the 
crown pounding like a viper's head engorged with blood between my stomach 
and the grass. Lathers didn't miss my cooperation - I felt his lips start 
wetting my back, sucking at the back of my neck, nibbling my earlobes. 
Gradually the tempo of our movements became wilder; bit by bit the sensation 
of pain in my ass where his prick was sliding in and out of me was 
supplanted by a feeling like someone was sucking on my innards from behind - 
a fantastically pleasant feeling. It felt like a long-drawn-out climax of a 
lower pitch than that which I was building toward beneath me where good, 
old, fucking Mother Earth was letting me fuck her cool grass. . . . And 
every time Lathers drove his prick into me from behind, it felt as though 
his cockhead was rubbing against the hidden trunk of my own prick somewhere 
deep within me. 

"I guess we started moaning at about the same time. 'Oh, Alan,' he kept 
mumbling in my ear. 'You're fantastic, you know that? Fan-tas-tic!' And he 
rammed his thick marble-hard shaft into my asshole until I could feel the 
coolness of his balls slapping wetly against my upper, inner rear thighs, 
rammed it all the way into the dark depths of me with every syllable. . . . 
And I let the ground play with my prick; I let the grass lick its shaft, let 
the sensation build and build and build until I couldn't stand it any 
longer. . . . 

" 'Give it to me, Johnny,' I cried. 'Give it to me - all of it! Fuck me! 
Fuck me, dammmmmittt -!' 

"Yeah - the climax was out of this world. I felt the hot gush of Lathers' 
swirling up my rectum, spiraling through my insides, then descending to my 
balls in the grass, then rising up my prick to pump - pump - pump like crazy 
out of the slit in the end of my rock-hard column. ... I mean, man, shit! It 
never felt anything like that when I was jacking myself off - even when I 
had the fuckingest picture of Velma in my mind. And I'd jacked off to some 
wild images. Funny thing is, most of time when I imagined her I'd always 
have her in a position where I could see not only her pussy spread open, but 
her asshole visible, too. Like lying on her back with her legs spread and 
raised up so that she'd have the back of her knees in the crook of her 
elbows - or standing with her back to me, bent forward until her fingers 
were touching the floor a couple of feet in front of her toes. I mean, if it 
were for real, man, I could've slid my prick either up her pussy slit or up 
her asshole. ..." 

From the above, it was apparent that Alan had an anal fixation, probably 
since his early childhood. It was a latent type, but strong nevertheless. 
His only fear, as manifested in his fearful reaction to his teacher's first 
anal penetration of him, was of being sodomized. However, the experience 
with John Lathers dispelled that fear somewhat. Somewhat, because Alan 
claims that his submission to Lathers was the only passive role he played in 
his life. He preferred the active role - the role of the sodomite. 

He claims that after his rape - and it was rape, he was forced by John 
Lathers - by his mathematics teacher, he lost all interest in girls. He 
sought out boys, instead. 

"Shit, it was a hell of a lot easier getting a willing boy - I didn't seek 
out men because it was more risky and because I was turned on by young, 
smooth, virginal cocks and asses. All I had to do was go to the library. 
There'd always be some young kid paging through a book on ballet, or 
ice-skating, or some book on the New Guinea natives - you know, where they'd 
have pictures of women doing the splits, showing the crotches of their 
panties, or just plain crotches. I could spot those kids right off. If it 
wasn't for the expression on their faces, then it was for the telltale bulge 
in their pants. Shit, some of those kids - anywhere from eleven to fifteen 
years old - would have their pricks standing upright in their pants. Anyway, 
what I'd do was stand away from them a little, pull a book off the shelf 
like I was looking at it, and then fix my eyes on their fucking crotch. 
Occasionally, I'd glance up at their faces. If they caught my gaze and then 
dropped their eyes to my crotch - they was it. 

"You wouldn't believe how many young kids I've screwed in the ass in the 
men's restroom at the library like that - while they either jerked 
themselves off or let me do it for them. Hell, I built a regular backdrop 
like that. Some of them would be at the library every night waiting for me. 
. . . And it wasn't any different on the street. 

"I'd hang around junior high schools and wait for the kids to start heading 
home. I don't know what it was that made them so hot - maybe all that young 
pussy flaunting their thighs and girdles and pantie crotches at them. . . . 
Anyway, all I had to do was stand on the sidewalk and fix my eyes on their 
pricks straining against their pants. The ones that wanted it would walk by 
a little ways, then stop, then walk up and start talking - about this, that, 
and the other thing. Next thing you know, we'd be heading somewhere 
private-like - a park restroom, a coffee shop restroom - and they'd have 
their pants down. Sometimes I had to suck them off before they'd let me 
screw them in the ass. Some, I'd suck off and still wouldn't get anything - 
but that didn't happen too often. Most of them've been game. . . ." 

Alan never seemed to get enough - and that was his undoing, even though he 
managed to sodomize "a boy a day for seven years straight." If his estimate 
is not exaggerated, he had committed anal intercourse with some 
two-and-a-half thousand boys. One of these, however, turned out to be the 
son of a public official. Unlike the other boys - unlike most boys, at any 
rate - this one told his parents of the young man who had forced him to take 
his pants off, then "tried to stick his thing in his behind." A patrol of 
the area was called for, and Alan was arrested flagrante delicto, caught in 
the process of sodomizing a fifteen-year-old boy in a Florida public park 
restroom. As it turned out, Alan was no longer a minor. He was charged with 
child molesting. 

The prognosis for Alan is not good. Were he to limit his activities to 
homosexuality which would not involve minors, there would be a possibility 
of his eventual release from the state hospital. He does not, however, seem 
to be able to slacken his interest in younger boys. As a result, there is 
the probability that he will remain an inmate for a good many years - if he 
ever gets out at all. 

Chapter Six - Rape And Bondage 

Whatever has been said about masochism also applies to bondage. What pain is 
to a masochist, a state of helplessness effected through physical binding, 
tying, or chaining, is to the slave of bondage. What the whip, the lash, the 
cat-o'-nine-tails is to a masochist, the hempen rope, the manacles, the 
chains, are to the slave of bondage. Sexual gratification through 
helplessness; conscious orgasm through conscious resistance to coitus. Those 
are the elements of bondage. 

It could be called masochism - perhaps it is a mild form of masochism - 
except that pain is not its essential ingredient. John Trimble, Ph.D., in 
5,000 Adult Sex Words and Phrases, defines bondage as being "the practice of 
shackling a love partner, keeping them /sic/ tied to a bed or some other 
stationary object for helpless sexual usage. ..." 

What motivates some to be inclined to such subjugation? Is the desire to be 
shackled born in the fantasy of a child's mind and grows gradually into an 
obsession, germinating over the years, or does it spring to the fore when 
least expected to lie heavily as a requirement for orgasmic completion upon 
its victim? The psychiatrists, the psychoanalysts, are still answering - or 
attempting to answer - those questions. The answer Elizabeth gives in the 
next case history is one of the answers. 

Elizabeth is a ballerina with one of the major dance companies which are 
constantly touring the nation. Born in Exmouth, England, of a well-to-do 
family which claims their descent from the House of Hanover, Elizabeth came 
to Boston at the age of fifteen and was signed for the company with which 
she is still touring. Petite, blonde, her eyes the color of sunlit jade, she 
is like a swan's feather onstage, graceful, full of liquid-flowing motion. 
Her innocent expression - almost ever present - the sweet curl of her lips 
in a smile, the crescent shadow dimples in her cheeks, as well as the 
melodiousness of her voice, often breaking into the liquid sound of 
laughter, is everything that would deny her psychosexuality. Although still 
a teenager, she is a girl who will not reach the delightful throes of orgasm 
unless she is helplessly bound, tied, shackled, chained. . . . 

One of her innumerable friends, who is also her devoted fan, is a 
psychiatrist. She revealed her eccentricity to him while on a date and 
agreed to be subjected to psychoanalysis. The doctor did not have to probe 
for the information; Elizabeth volunteered it to him at their second 
session. Although her language in official, and even in unofficial, 
gatherings is quite proper, while relating her story to the psychoanalyst 
she had shed all of her inhibitions and had told the story with total adult 
frankness. 

"Freedom of movement had always been something that I delighted in. As a 
ballerina, you know, I have to be entirely weightless. Gravity even never 
seemed to bother me. I'd take a running leap and I'd be flying. Well, I must 
admit that my sexual life started rather early. I had my first orgasm - with 
actual penetration - when I was thirteen. . . . You'll never believe where I 
got laid. On the dance floor - at the dance school. This boy and I were 
preparing for a school production - he and I were going to do a pas de deux 
from the standard repertoire - and there wasn't a soul in the school. You 
know, the teacher let us come and practice our steps there whenever we 
wanted - we had the key. . . . Only this time, Eliot and I practiced first 
and then we came! I mean it was wild - we almost died laughing, trying to 
screw with our tights on. But we did it! Didn't have time to get them off - 
didn't feel like going and getting the scissors to make the proper - 
improper, I should say - openings . . . so we chewed the holes out. We 
looked like a couple of Siamese leotards when Eliot finally coupled up with 
me - could see all the action in the mirrors! But anyhow - I was going to 
tell you about my hang-up. . . . 

"It started with a rape which I never reported. . . . You know, why knock 
it? I enjoyed it - and no one got hurt. I was fifteen - was going steady 
with - uh-huh! - Eliot. I still love him. I think he was the best fuck I 
ever had. Beautifully veined, perfectly fitting, sweet-tasting cock - yeah, 
we slobbered between each other's legs quite often. I think that's groovy 
fun. . . . There I go again. . . . 

"Eliot and I went on a hike. It was summer, beautiful, hot weather - this 
was shortly before I came to America. We were up in Cheviot Hills. Scotland 
on one side, England on the other. Not a soul in sight. We were dressed as 
light as we could be without being totally naked. I was wearing blue bikini 
bottoms and a white silk blouse that buttoned up the front. Eliot had on a 
pair of tight-fitting trunks, and was carrying a bundle of all the walking 
clothes we had doffed along the way. 

"We had left Jedburgh, the border town between England and Scotland, shortly 
after sunrise, fully dressed. But at noon we were down to the few essentials 
- and those only to prevent embarrassment in the event we ran into some 
other stragglers along the divide. It was hot - really hot. Around two in 
the afternoon we decided to turn back. We must have walked a good ten miles 
from the burgh. Anyway, we were beginning to pant a bit now and then 
whenever we'd come to a rise. We agreed to put our clothes back on when we 
got to the spot where we had crossed a brook running through a grove of 
trees on our way out. . . . 

"About an hour later we got there. The spot was really sylvan-like. You 
know, speckled with shadows, a fallen tree here, a log there. We sat down by 
the stream and listened to the sounds around us - the water rippling away, 
the birds singing in the trees. . . . 

"Neither Eliot nor I heard them come upon us from behind. The first 
indication we got of them was a strange, controlled, metallic click. Eliot 
must have heard it, too, for we turned toward the source of the sound at the 
same instant. Suddenly, I felt as though I was frozen to the spot on the 
ground where I sat. Eliot didn't move either. As I took in the scene, I 
remember thinking for some reason that the birds had stopped their singing. 
... I mean, it was a rather silly thought under the circumstances. 

"The situation was - well - really out of this world, a cinema type of 
situation I guess you could call it. . . . There were two young men standing 
no more than maybe a meter away from where we sat by the brook. They 
couldn't have been older than eighteen, nineteen maybe, but were both 
large-boned, muscular, their faces deeply tanned, two, three days' stubble 
on their chins. And one of them, the smaller of the two, the blond, held a 
rifle pointed at us. 

"Neither of them made a move, neither said anything, until Eliot made a move 
as if to get up. Then, the young man with the gun, his voice incongruously 
soft - almost gentle - said, 'Please. . . .' The muzzle of the rifle in his 
hands swung directly at Eliot. 'Don't get up. I'd say it would be rather 
foolish on your part to act brave or resist. Besides, if you cooperate, we 
promise to do neither one of you any harm.' 

"From the way Eliot backed down, I knew that he decided to follow the 
stranger's suggestion. And the funny thing is, I didn't blame him. I mean - 
what could he accomplish except get shot? I don't know, maybe I thought it 
was either some sort of a practical joke or a mistake . . . until the man 
with the gun pulled his belt from his trousers and, tossing it to his 
friend, said, 'Why don't you tie the young fellow up?' Then, his eyes on 
Eliot, he added, 'We just don't want anyone taking off until we have all 
made love.' 

"Eliot started to get up on his feet as the second man headed toward him, 
but, with a quick movement, the man had his hands behind his back and the 
belt secure around Eliot's wrists. I heard Eliot call him a couple of names, 
saw him try to break free, but he was outweighed and outpowered quite 
easily. Finally, he gave up struggling, threw me a glance, his eyes 
pleading, and said, 'I'm sorry, Liz.' I nodded to him, smiled, and said that 
it was all right. I suppose it was unnatural for me not to scream and try to 
get away, but - somehow, with the two fellows being as nonviolent as they 
acted, even though I knew they wanted to screw me, I did not panic. Not for 
a while. Not until the man with the gun told the other one to tie me down on 
top of a log a few feet away. In fact, I slapped him when he walked up to me 
and placed his hand on my arm to lead me to the downed tree. Immediately, 
the other one walked up to Eliot, who had been standing and struggling with 
his wrist bonds, and, placing the muzzle of the gun against the side of 
Eliot's head, said, 'Please, miss. We only want to have sexual intercourse 
with you, and we don't want to hurt you in the process.' 

"It was weird. . . . Here were the two of them, one with a rifle, and they 
were talking so calmly about what amounted to nothing less than rape. But, 
with that gun being pointed at Eliot's head, I had no choice but to comply. 
Like an idiot, I turned toward Eliot, standing helpless a small distance 
away from me, and told him that I was sorry. Then I let the unarmed stranger 
lead me to the log lying partially in the waters of the stream. 

" 'Please sit down on it,' he instructed me. I did. 'No,' he said, 'put one 
of your legs over on the other side of the log.' Again, I did as he ordered 
me to do, feeling embarrassed that in that position my legs were parted more 
than would have been proper anywhere except in the privacy of a lovers' 
bedroom, or onstage - providing I was wearing leotards. And since I wasn't 
wearing leotards but was, instead, attired in a pair of the skimpiest 
bikinis imaginable, I knew that with my legs straddling the thick log there 
was little cover for my crotch. In fact, I glanced down between my legs and 
blushed. The position had revealed the two hollows at my upper inner thighs 
and some strands of crisp, blonde pubic hairs had worked themselves out from 
under the narrow crotch of my panties. 

"I saw that the young man did not miss what was showing. 'A natural blonde,' 
he said; then, placing his large, muscular hand against "he top of my 
breasts, gently urged me back upon the log. Involuntarily, I felt my little 
nipples stiffen and push against the silk of my blouse and through it, 
against his hand. As I was forced to lie back on the log, Eliot and the man 
holding the gun to him slipped out of my line of vision. I saw the blue of 
the sky breaking through the fragments of green above my face and heard the 
crunch of pebbles beneath feet. I turned my face and saw the man kneel down 
by my head, take my hands and bring them down until they hung on either side 
of the tree trunk beneath my back. I was in a strange stupor throughout 
these preparatory maneuvers - he had my wrists tied together with a length 
of hempen rope. Suddenly, I felt trapped and helpless. Fear crept into my 
body and I started tugging on my bonds, trying to get my hands free. . . . 

" 'You'll hurt yourself if you struggle,' my captor's voice reached my ears 
and then I felt his hand on the bare skin of my stomach under the blouse. 
Automatically, I stiffened. Then, as his hand started to circle gently - 
first above my navel, then at it, then slightly below it - I heard the 
blonde's voice, coming from somewhere where my feet were pointing. 'You 
didn't tie her hands too tight, did you, Justin?' I felt Justin, his fingers 
now working slowly under the waistband of my bikinis, brushing into the 
clump of hairs there, shake his head and heard him mutter, 'No, Kayne.' And 
then, gently, his fingers withdrew. I felt them next at the waistband of my 
panties above my hips - one hand on each side, slowly tugging, drawing them 
down, down, down - until I felt the curls surrounding the entrance to my 
vagina begin to straighten, uncrinkling into the freedom of the air of 
Cheviot Hills. 

"I wondered how Eliot was taking all this. Cautiously, I raised my head and 
cast a glance in the direction I had last seen him standing under the gun. I 
was shaken when I didn't see him there - so shaken that I was practically 
oblivious of Justin securing my ankles to a tree limb that extended from a 
nearby tree directly over the spot where I lay. Finally I saw Eliot, no 
longer wearing the single piece of attire that he had on when we were 
surprised by the rapists. I mean there was no question in my mind what the 
two were after. . . . 

"Anyway, there we were. Eliot tied facedown to a fallen tree trunk, totally 
nude, his rear end looking somewhat ludicrous as it jutted away from the 
plane of the rest of his body. I knew why he held that uncomfortable 
posture, too. The rough bark of the tree was anything but comforting to the 
bare skin. And the portion of his anatomy that was right smack against the 
jaggedness of the tree trunk was just about the most sensitive part. I 
winced at the sight of his penis pressing into the bark. Then I became aware 
of my position. I was, you might say, in a most embarrassing posture. My 
hands, as I mentioned before, were tied to the tree trunk - under me as I 
lay on my back. Although I didn't really lie on my back. You see, Justin - 
I'll never know where they got the rope - had tied a rope to one of my 
ankles, then had apparently tossed the free end of the rope up over the 
overhead limb, pulled on it until my tied leg was pointing practically 
straight up from my pelvic region, and then attached the free end of the 
rope to my other ankle, so that it, too, was pointing up to the sky. You 
couldn't say that my legs were spread far apart, they weren't, which puzzled 
me. ... I wondered how they were planning on effecting entry between my 
thighs. ... I didn't have to wonder for long. 

"Quite suddenly I felt something being inserted without any warning right 
between the lips of my cunny. Instinctively, I gasped and clenched my pelvic 
muscles to bar whatever it was that was poking into me. Of course, all I 
succeeded in doing there was to draw the hard, cylindrical object further 
into me. The next instant it had penetrated into the very depths of me and I 
felt a warm smoothness against my buttocks and upper rear thighs. And then, 
as I tried to look down my body, across my still buttoned blouse, I saw 
first a bare knee on either side of my body and slightly below my waist, and 
then Justin's smiling face in the narrow V of my upwards stretched legs. I 
had no question then of what it was that I had so suddenly harbored in my 
vagina. It's funny, really, that the thought of a hard-on being inserted 
into me was the furthest thing from my mind. ... I mean, what did I suppose 
they were going to screw me with? Oh, sure, I'd heard of women being found 
in the woods with a tree limb rammed up their anus or up the crack between 
their legs, but - I certainly wasn't expecting such treatment from these 
two. ... So I don't know why I was so surprised when I realized that Justin 
was simply fucking me. 

"It wasn't until Justin's third or fourth stroke that I felt the chaffing of 
the log against my back - the thin blouse wasn't much protection against it. 
I recall that I started whimpering about it hurting, and the reaction I got 
from the stranger screwing me was - well, under the circumstances, you 
couldn't call it anything but ridiculous. 

"He suspended the movement, then said that he was sorry. I heard at the same 
time moans and curses coming from the direction where Eliot was tied down. 
Withdrawing gently, Justin removed the shirt he was wearing, then 
disappeared for a few seconds, coming back with my red skirt and sweater. 
Apparently, he had taken them out of our clothes bundle. Making a 
triple-layered padding of the three garments, he placed them under my back 
between me and the log. I saw his cock protruding out of the fly o his 
trousers and an odd sensation of desire welled up in me. It was as though I 
actually wanted the nine inches of firmness jutting erectly from his groin 
to glide into the suddenly heated receptacle between my upthrust legs. But, 
again, I heard Eliot's voice. It was a wordless groan. Then Justin's voice, 
his face turned away from me, saying, 'Hey - uh - Kayne? Why don't you put 
something between the lad's cock and the tree there - he'll be torn up 
otherwise. . . .' Later, Eliot told me that Kayne had cursed - he said he 
was on the verge of coming into Eliot's asshole - but had pulled out, walked 
over to what was left of our clothes, and had padded the tree trunk where 
Eliot's naked body was in contact with it. 

"Anyhow, by the time Justin positioned himself behind my bare fanny - I must 
have presented quite a picture from that end - straddling the log, I was on 
the verge of begging him to put it into me. I don't know what it was that 
possessed me. I mean, you know, ever since Eliot fucked me for the first 
time in the dance school, I'd never really thought of anyone but him putting 
his cock to me. And now, all of a sudden, I wanted Justin! If it weren't for 
my hands being tied, I'm sure I would have guided him into the slit between 
my legs with my own fingers. ... As it was, when I felt his hands between my 
legs, when I felt his fingers upon the curly hairs on either side of my 
vaginal opening, when I felt his fingers parting my labia apart, I helped. 
My buttocks weren't touching the log under me as it was - the way I was tied 
down, and up - but I raised them slightly higher even by spreading my ankles 
as much as I could. I saw Justin's face between my knees, smiling slightly, 
then felt the knob of his masculinity wedge itself between my labia. He 
placed my lower torso toward him at the same time. 

"I bit into my lip as we coupled. It was a fantastic sensation. I wanted to 
raise my hands, clasp his neck with my fingers, and pull him toward me, ever 
closer, ever deeper into me. But I couldn't. ... I wanted to spread my legs 
for him in a split unlike any of the splits I had done onstage in ballet; I 
wanted to wrap my legs about him, lock my ankles behind his back, draw him 
into the very depths of my heated sex furnace. But, again, I couldn't. 
Meanwhile, his pistoning action inside me kept the tingling sensation 
bordering on the most exquisite approach to orgasm I had ever experienced. 
And I felt the inner walls of my vagina being lubricated by my own 
secretions; I felt the heated hardness of his cock rubbing the wrinkles 
within the hole between my legs; I felt the slitted tip of his penis 
pressing into the mouth of my womb with every in stroke he made; I felt the 
suctioning of my vagina upon his glorious erection with every partial 
withdrawal he effected. . . . 

"It was getting more and more thrilling and, although I wanted to increase 
the sensation, there was nothing I could do. I became aware - just as the 
tingling thrill that started building deep in the pit of my stomach turned 
into strange flutterings within the mouth of my vagina, at the tip of my 
burning clitoris - that I was struggling against the ropes that were binding 
me. Only the reason for my struggles was my uncontrollable wish to bring our 
bodies closer together, to reciprocate a lovers' embrace.. . . Then, as the 
climax was almost visible in its powerful approach, when I could almost 
taste the sperm building in Justin's balls, when his rhythmic movements 
began to pick up their undulating rate, I moaned and started meeting every 
one of his screwing thrusts with one of my own. I ground against him, I 
pounded back, I slammed - trying to draw all of him into me . . . and then I 
felt the sudden rigidity of his body, the pulsation of come rushing through 
the hot, hard cock of his, squeezed tightly by the muscles within my nether 
mouth, and then the simultaneous heat of his seed splashing against my 
secret innards and the electrifying thrill of my own orgasm racking my body. 
. . . 

"Never, never, but never had I felt such an indescribably thrilling climax. 
So fulfilled was I, in fact, that I must have fallen asleep, for when I 
opened my eyes next, I was lying on the ground, unfettered, with Eliot by my 
side. There was no sign of anyone else around us. . . . The strangest part 
of the whole episode, however, is - neither Eliot nor I ever mentioned to 
each other what had happened. But ever since that day in Cheviot Hills, I've 
been unable to reach a really satisfactory climax unless - now, are you 
ready for this? - unless I'm tied down so I can't reciprocate fully. ..." 

Elizabeth and Eliot broke up soon after their rape in Cheviot Hills. The 
girl revealed to her friend-psychiatrist that she managed to find a bondage 
group in New York soon after her arrival there and had become a full-fledged 
member. To this day, she is still one of the most promising and attractive 
young ballerinas on the stage. Knowing, however, that occasionally bondage 
groups such as the one Elizabeth is part of may become dangerous, the good 
doctor who had heard her story is keeping a constant eye on the girl. He 
never misses her performance, and hopes that Elizabeth will never miss one 
of hers. 

Chapter Seven - Rape And Lesbianism 

The statement currently accepted among a great many psychiatrists is that 
everyone traveling the path toward psychosexual maturity carries with him 
(or her) the satchel of latent homosexuality. Whether the traveler ever 
opens this satchel, whether the traveler ever dons this concealed garment of 
homosexuality or lesbianism is a matter of circumstances and environment. 
The statement may be an escape clause - an escape clause for the 
psychiatrists' inability to explain fully the raison d'etre of 
homosexuality, whether male or female - but it is foolproof and undeniable. 
The fact that some individuals manifest their homosexual tendencies in early 
life while others do not until later in life (or not at all) only supports 
this theory. That lesbianism and homosexuality - and we are here speaking of 
total and absolute homosexuality, not of the occasional ventures into the 
realms of Sappho and Pindar, such as the so-called bisexual makes - have to 
be considered as perversions should be obvious to anyone with the foresight 
to see that an unbridled increase in such a form of psychosexuality could 
threaten the existence of the human race. The danger actually lies in the 
truth of the original statement at the beginning of this chapter - the truth 
of the satchel. The pertinent questions that arise are: What makes one 
decide to try on the robe of lesbianism? What makes one decide to accept it 
as the permanent habit, if one does? 

Perhaps a one-word answer could suffice for both questions: Curiosity. 
Perhaps the answer to the second question should be: Preference. Whatever it 
is, the following case may hopefully throw some light on the subject. 
Although in the case with Peggy the veil of Sappho was first forced upon 
her, then later accepted by her. 

Peggy H. was brought up in a religious atmosphere, in the Midwest, by her 
father. She had been a quiet, shy child, seldom engaging in any of the games 
her two brothers spent their time at. No one had suspected that her mother's 
death in childbirth when Peggy was eleven years old had produced a 
long-lasting impression upon the girl. An impression, in fact, which - 
though undirected at the time - was a fuse implanted in Peggy's psychosexual 
makeup that awaited the spark to set it off and send her along an entirely 
unsuspected path fourteen years later. 

Peggy's father saw to it that his daughter received the best education he 
could afford. He had sent her to an exclusive New England college, supported 
her financially and morally. Nevertheless, he later told the marriage 
counselor - a former classmate of his - who attempted reconciliation between 
Peggy and her husband that "for some reason, Peggy never appeared to trust 
me completely; there seemed to be this permanent chasm between us." 

Peggy married comparatively late by modern standards. Having earned a 
master's degree in journalism, she went to work on one of the larger 
Midwestern newspapers. Three years later, at the age of twenty-four, she 
married Houston H., a brother of a friend of hers on the newspaper's 
editorial staff. Two years later, Peggy filed for divorce. There seemed to 
be no apparent reason for the action. And it was through her father's 
pleading that she agreed to visit the marriage counselor. 

"I've only come because of dad," she told the counselor. "I know there is 
nothing you will be able to do to 'patch up' our marriage," she added, 
"because I don't want it patched up. My marrying anyone was a mistake to 
begin with." 

When the marriage counselor tried rationalizing with Peggy, when he tried 
reciting other cases where a marriage appeared to be doomed to disaster yet 
was saved, Peggy cut him off short by saying that in the case of Houston and 
Peggy H. there was nothing to save. And she told him why. 

The following is Peggy's story of her reversion to lesbianism - through the 
medium of rape. 

"The only rational reason I've been able to give myself for marrying Houston 
has been idiocy mingled with infatuation. Within six months after we'd been 
married I began to have misgivings. I realized that Houston had bed to me. I 
had told him before we exchanged those hypocritical vows in church that I 
did not want a baby. I told him quite plainly that I was too young to die. 
He said that he was in no rush to raise a family either, but before the 
semen of our honeymoon had a chance to dry on my thighs, he started telling 
me how much he would like to have a son. It wasn't an outright statement at 
first; just a hint here, a hint there. But as our marriage went into its 
sixth month, his mania for a son began to drive me batty. I told him that if 
he wanted an heir that bad he'd have to go and shoot his come somewhere 
else. 

"It turned out we had quite an argument, bordering on a fight, that night. 
Houston stormed out of the house, finally, saying that when I was ready to 
be a 'complete woman rather than half a woman' I'd know where to find him. I 
assumed that he went to his folks who were living just across the city, so I 
thought I'd teach him a lesson. Packing just the essentials in my overnight 
bag, I took our car and went downtown. I thought I'd spend several nights at 
one of the hotels and then call him at home under the pretense of haying 
forgotten something. 

"It was late Friday night and I didn't have much cash on me. I checked in at 
one of the hotels not too far from the downtown skid row. For the 
three-and-a-half dollars that I paid I got a rotten hole in the wall. I was 
almost tempted to go downstairs to the registration desk and demand my money 
back, but then thought, What the hell! so it wasn't the Ritz. Besides, I was 
tired. 

"I decided to take a bath and then go to bed. It was already after eleven 
o'clock at night. So I drew the bath water and, having undressed, got into 
the tub. I couldn't have been in the water more than five minutes when I 
heard a knock on the door. I couldn't for the life of me guess who it might 
be. I knew it wasn't anyone I knew. When the knocking was repeated, I swore, 
got out of the tub, wrapped the largest towel I could find around myself - 
it barely covered me - and went to the door. It was then that I discovered 
that I couldn't lock my door from within. I mean, it made all the proper 
clicks, but it remained unlatched. When I swung the door open, my eyes 
almost popped out of their sockets. 

"The woman standing before me in the doorway was about five feet eleven - 
tall, compared to my five-four - and was dressed in a pair of Levi's, a 
man's dress shirt, and had her hair cropped short with a part on the left 
side. If it weren't for her boobs poking out like a couple of prize-winning 
watermelons I could have easily mistaken her for a man. I blinked my eyes a 
couple of times, clutching the towel to my still water-dripping figure, and 
said, 'Yes? . . .' 

"She looked me up and down, her eyes strangely familiar in their appraisal 
of my almost nude body, and said, shrugging, 'Couldn't sleep. So I thought 
I'd knock and get acquainted.' She stretched out her hand and, as I took it 
automatically, she added, 'My name's Kate Carl. Carl to my friends. Mind if 
I come in?' She didn't wait for my answer, stepping by me into the room. 
'Have any friends around?' she asked as though it were the most natural 
question, her eyes again razing me across my breasts, my waist, my hips. I 
didn't like her, but at the same time there was something oddly attractive 
about her. Strange, new, mysterious something that I had never known before. 

"Oddly enough, when she left half an hour later, I felt strangely humored. 
The reason for that, I guess, was the Kate Carl was so out of this world I 
couldn't permit myself to refuse her invitation for the next evening to an 
'all-girls' party. And then, too, my fight with Houston made the party so 
much the more in line. I knew there wouldn't be any men there, any pricks 
bent on impregnating every slit they could get into. I couldn't wait for the 
next evening to roll around. . . . 

"When we walked into Sandy's apartment the following night, I knew right 
then that this was going to be some party. I immediately wound the scene 
around my journalistically inclined metal cog and decided that there was a 
hell of a lot of material for an expose-type of story. I thought it would be 
a great joke to play on Houston, namely, let him read the spiel on 'How the 
Lesbians Let It All Hang Out,' with my byline. 

"I never got to write the story. As it turned out, forty minutes after Kate 
Carl and I got there, I realized that I was close to being snockered. I told 
Kate that I was going to go back to the hotel. I wasn't drunk yet, but I 
knew it was only a matter of time before the liquor I had downed like water 
in those forty minutes would have the chance to catch up with me. Anyway, I 
don't think I was too surprised when Kate Carl declared that she would see 
me home. Feeling the way I did, I didn't protest too much - not at all, in 
fact. 

"When we got to our hotel, I was feeling no pain - so much so that Kate Carl 
helped me into bed, undressing me with an expertness that, later when I 
thought about it, should have given me an indication that she'd done similar 
chores more than once before. I remember her muttering something about 
'weren't supposed to just pass out,' and then I must have done just that - 
passed out. 

"When I came to some time later, a dull pain was throbbing between my legs 
and inside of me. ... I tried to turn over, move, react somehow to offset 
the sensation, but couldn't. It took me a few moments to realize that the 
reason I couldn't move was because there was an oddly shifting weight on me, 
a moving weight - as of a body fucking me. That explained the pain inside my 
vagina. . . . Terrified, I popped my eyes open and stared into Kate Carl's 
face. The incongruousness of the whole scene shook me, and I opened my mouth 
to scream. Instead, all I did was moan into the palm of Kate Carl's hand as 
- sensing obviously what my obvious reaction was going to be - she brought 
her hand up and clamped it over my mouth. 

" 'Baby,' I saw her mouth form the words, heard the words pour into my ears, 
'you're the cutest goddam piece of tail I'd seen in a long time. The first 
time I saw you, I knew that I was gonna want to fuck the sweet bejeezus out 
of you - so, don't struggle. . . . Lie back and enjoy it - at least my 
banging you won't get you knocked up.' I listened to her words, trying to 
make sense out of them, trying to make sense out of the whole scene. I mean, 
there was a prick right up my cunt, and Kate Carl. . . . For a moment I 
wondered if she was one of them hermaphrodites. I guess the puzzlement was 
written all over my face, for Kate Carl laughed, still stroking into me, 
still pumping against me like she were a man. 

" 'Honey, don't tell me you've never been done with a dildo. . . . You don't 
know what you've been missing.' Then, suddenly, she removed her hand from my 
mouth and lowered her own lips against it. I pulled my head back into the 
pillow, but I could retreat just so far. This isn't right. I thought. She is 
a goddam lesbian. . . . 

"I tried to find some way of unseating her, of getting her off and out of me 
- but she was too much for me; I mean, she had the advantage over me in size 
alone. So I just lay there and let her screw me, let her mouth suck on my 
lips, let her tongue slither in, then out, then back into my mouth, twining 
around my own tongue, darting behind my teeth, slipping into the depths of 
my throat. I felt her pause with her hip motion several times - as though 
she were postponing her own building lust from spewing out of her - then 
resume the smooth, deep, penetrating strokes. And it was during those brief 
pauses that I became conscious of a feeling that was unlike pain, a 
sensation that frightened me at first. It felt as if the pain increased when 
she stopped sliding the - the dildo in and out of my vagina. The first 
couple of times, I just lay there, silent, wondering if she was going to 
pull out. But the last time she paused - her lips still sucking mine - I 
realized that / was still moving, I mean, voluntarily. . . . 

"Naturally, she didn't miss the reaction on my part. Actually, I guess, I 
wasn't aware of my coital grinds until she suddenly tore her lips away from 
mine, looked deep down into my eyes, and rasped, like a man she rasped, 'Oh, 
baby! . . . You're responding!" 

" 'No!' I snapped instinctively, willing my thighs and hips to stillness. / 
am not responding! I heard my words screaming through my mind. I'm no 
fucking lesbian ... no queer . . . no!. . . 

" 'You like it, baby,' her words reached my ears as though from some 
distance. 'Don't deny it - the come feeling in your cunt - it's there, baby. 
Let it explode!' And her hips moved in a quick, downward stroke, plunging 
the column of false flesh deep within the slit between my legs, deep into my 
vagina until I felt a hard, rounded smoothness, not unlike the knob of an 
honest-to-goodness prick, press into the soft mouth of my cervix. 

" 'No,' I cried again, feeling the conviction leaving my voice. 'No,' I 
repeated, feeling my legs spread farther apart, feeling my thighs push up 
toward the strange softness of Kate Carl's, feeling my buttocks leave the 
irregular surface of the mattress and strain toward her, push her body up - 
then recede back into the bed - then push up again. 

"The rhythm of our copulating movements picked up its frequency. I was no 
longer conscious of pain - there was none - but only aware of the most 
beautiful, free, unrestrained fuck-feeling I had ever experienced. There was 
no fear, no subconscious dread that perhaps the pill had lost its potency, 
perhaps the condom would break, perhaps the loop had slipped out and I 
wasn't aware of it, perhaps the debilitating m ale sperm - like so many 
tadpoles - was burrowing its way into the ovum. . . . There was only 
euphoria, indescribable, fear-free feeling of a tinglingly nerve-shattering 
orgasm. It felt as though I were being tickled by a million featherweight 
hummingbird tongues. Unable to control myself as the explosion came, as my 
cunt mouth began sucking upon the beautiful intruder that could do me no 
harm, I flung my arms around Kate Carl's back, wrapped my legs around her 
ass, and squeezed her with all my strength toward myself, moaning, 'Oh, 
good, beautiful, fucking God! . . . Jeezus!' I felt a glorious shudder 
ripple my body, then froze in sudden terror from a new, unbelievable 
sensation. . . . 

" 'The tadpoles! The fucking tadpoles!' I cried, pushing Kate Carl off me 
with one furious heave. I felt the fluid running into me in what seemed a 
never-ending stream of thick, warm come. I felt the intruding shaft leave 
the sopping interior of my vagina with a loud, squishing sound. I stared 
down upon Kate Carl still lying on the bed, at the monstrous bulb-tipped 
replica of a prick fastened to her body with narrow leather straps, then, as 
my gaze followed a thin tube running up from the phony prick, I broke out in 
laughter. 

" 'Tadpoles?' Kate Carl asked incredulously, looking at me breaking up like 
I were cracking up or something. 'Wow, baby, you really take off when you 
get there, don't you?' 

" 'I thought - I thought,' I said, trying to control my almost hysterical 
laughter, 'that you were shooting male tadpoles into me - you know - sperm?' 

"I saw the expression of puzzlement on her face become replaced by one of 
concern. She reached her arms toward me, her eyes soft and understanding, 
and whispered, 'You poor baby! You've really been done to fright by someone. 
. . .' Her arms went around me as I stepped into the haven formed by them, 
and she pulled me down on the bed. 'It was only warm milk mixed with honey 
in the balls under this cock, baby. No tadpoles,' she whispered, removing 
the dildo from in front of her slitted, thick-curled mound. Then, setting 
the dummy prick and harness down on the floor, she urged me gently onto my 
back with her hands. 

"Now, I've had Houston eat my cunt more than once - I had liked it better 
than anything else he'd ever done to me - but Kate Carl's mouth laving the 
pubic growth on my cunt-mound, her lips sucking the milk and honey off my 
labia and my still little clitoris, her tongue sliding in and out of the 
pink darkness as she pulled the labia of my pussy apart with her fingers - 
that was something else again! I mean, nothing could reach that feeling! 
There was the soft smoothness of her chin, the softness of her lips, the 
feminine tenderness of her tongue - yes, even though I knew that she was 
what is commonly called a bulldyke. It was a far cry from the rough stubble 
on a man's chin, even on a freshly shaven chin. 

"I thought Kate Carl would drive me way out of my gourd with her 
cunt-licking technique. I moaned, I bucked, I ground my cunt against her 
face. I pleaded for her to stop - while at the same time I was pressing my 
hands against the back of her head and urging her to go down to the very 
depths of my vaginal cavern. I whimpered, I thrashed. I came a dozen 
beautiful times until - when I could not move another muscle - Kate Carl 
lifted her face from between my thighs and I could see the juices of love 
mixed with her saliva like a high sheen on her lower face. There was a 
pinkness around her mouth, and I knew it was from the chafing of her skin 
against my pubic growth, against the hard bone of my pelvis surrounding the 
glory hole of sex. . . . 

"In that flash of a moment, as she lay between my legs with her face turned 
up toward me, with her chin no more than an inch above the still wide-open, 
moist pinkness of my vagina, I felt a feeling that was strange - irrational 
almost. I felt as though there had never been anyone in my life before Kate 
Carl, as though I had never loved Houston, as though I had never had sex 
with anyone but her. I brought my hands down to her face, cupped it between 
my palms, and whispered, 'Thank you, darling.' I saw a good-humored flicker 
dance across her eyes, then her lips curled in a smile. 

" 'It wasn't one-sided, honey,' she said. I reached Matterhorn more than 
once myself.' 

"I shook my head at her. 'No, Kate. I mean thank you for showing me the 
way.' It was silly, but I said the words anyway. 'Thank you for raping. . . 
.' Then I gently extricated my legs from around her neck, moved down toward 
her, and turned her over onto her back. 

"I didn't even think, as my lips came down to kiss her vulva tentatively, 
that this was the first time I was going to go down on a woman. I just did 
it - tongued her pussy until her entire body was racked by shudders, until 
spasms tightened the muscles of her abdomen, her upper inner thighs. . . . 
And we came over and over and over. ..." 

Peggy got her divorce. The marriage counselor, after listening to her story, 
felt that in Peggy's case no amount of psychoanalysis could bring about a 
reversion of her fixation from lesbianism to heterosexuality. He felt that 
whereas a divorce was a scar upon Houston's psyche, Houston would get over 
the disappointment of one shattered - though single-sided - marriage. With 
Peggy, however, considering her obsessive fear of pregnancy, there was the 
potential danger of suicide, stemming, paradoxically enough, from her desire 
to live. 

The fact that Peggy's reversion to lesbianism was absolute, and could thus 
be considered a "perversion," posed the danger of her being apprehended by 
the legal authorities. However, with the current leniency toward 
homosexuality, especially female homosexuality, this risk was not great. 
"Everyone," the marriage counselor said, "is entitled to seek happiness 
during his brief stay on this earth, in whatever manner he deems most 
satisfactory. And, as long as there is no danger to either any individual or 
to society in general, the person should not be suppressed from seeking this 
happiness. 

"The danger of subsequent extinction of the human race - well, that danger 
is minimal compared to the one stemming from man's seemingly insatiable 
desire to play with militarism of one form or another." 

Chapter Eight - Rape And Troilism Plus 

Though no one has ever come out and denied the fact that man is a gregarious 
animal, a social animal, man, himself, throughout recorded history has been 
attempting to set limits upon his own gregariousness. And the area upon 
which he concentrated a great part of his efforts in this respect has been 
mating. Sexual intercourse. Coitus. Western, Judeo-Christian leaders, 
through tradition-instilled philosophy, have maintained that man is 
monogamous by nature, that it is proper for man to have but one wife, for 
woman to have but one husband. Upon these traditional philosophies 
modern-day ethics, as well as modern-day jurisprudence still stands. And the 
idea of monogamy had been extended to exclude not only multiple marriage 
(which is nothing more than legalization for sexual intercourse between a 
man and a woman), but also occasional participation in coitus with more than 
one person at the same time. Yet - man is a gregarious animal. 

The paradox is apparent. Its cause can be probably traced to man's desire to 
possess, to keep, to hold. A selfish motive which had been supported by the 
mystics, the religious men, throughout Western history. And Western man, has 
tried to instill this narrow-minded traditionalism - without much success - 
upon the seldom-mentioned, "backward" races of man buried on "dark 
continents." 

But the traditional trend is turning. Man is beginning to feel that he is 
entitled to expressing his sexual freedom, entitled to obtaining sexual 
gratification, in whatever way fancy strikes him - providing the parties are 
consenting parties, and providing that no physical harm befalls any of the 
participating individuals. 

Troilism - as well as extension of such practices - with the advocation of 
free love, with the rise of mate-swapping clubs, though still illegal by the 
books, is beginning to be considered to be not an unnatural way of obtaining 
sexual gratification. The desire for such a "group form" of sexual 
intercourse or variations thereof could be attributed first to curiosity, 
second - again - to personal preference. There is no available case on 
record of anyone condemning group sex as unsatisfactory - of anyone who had 
tried it, that is. The opinion of those who hadn't, is, of course, invalid. 

The case of Hayley S. which follows, is unlike most cases in which curiosity 
was the major motivating force for the first incident of troilism. Hayley 
was forced, physically forced, to submit to sexual intercourse with five 
boys in high school. But she was only forced the first time. 

The story of her rape did not come out into the open until almost four 
months after it had taken place. When it did, it was brought about by her 
school counselor's recommendation to see the school psychiatrist. "Apparent 
fatigue from possibly excessive promiscuousness," the counselor had written 
in his note to the psychiatrist. The doctor pursued the hint, and Hayley 
told the story. 

Sixteen-years old, and from an upstanding family, the girl's relation of the 
incident which had occurred in the school gym, and her reaction to it, was 
revealingly explicit. Her plea that the school authorities would not take 
any punitive measures against anyone she mentioned in her story puzzled the 
psychiatrist - until Hayley was well into her narrative. 

"If it weren't for Jerry, Paul, Peter, Otto, and Richard practicing 
basketball in the gym the night I decided to take my gym suit home for 
washing, I'd still be moping in the boondocks. I mean, you know, I always 
figured that my mom and dad knew what they were talking about - especially 
when they told me that fucking was unhealthy. . . . Not in those words, of 
course. But the idea was there. In fact, it was so firmly beaten into my 
head that I believed it all through the hour and a half that afternoon 
during which the boys were showing me exactly what fucking was all about. 
Only afterwards - after Paul took me home - did I realize how much I'd been 
missing. 

"Oh, I wasn't a virgin - but the time Kenny busted my cherry I felt nothing 
but pain. It wasn't bad - but it was no thrill either. Kenny was fourteen, a 
year older than I was, when it happened during summer vacation. But that's 
another story - and there wasn't really much to it. . . . It came to nowhere 
near what happened at the gym. . . . 

"It was the day before the monthly locker inspection in the gym class. I had 
forgotten about my locker until I got home, so it was pretty late when I got 
back to school - around five, I think. In fact, I was worried that the gym 
would be already locked. But it wasn't - well, not all of it. Only the 
girls' locker room - and, of course, that's where I wanted in. 

"I had noticed the boys in their gym suits in the gym, dribbling the ball 
around the floor, shooting for the basket. They didn't pay much attention to 
me when I went in through the gym, but when I came out - having found the 
girls' locker room locked - Paul yelled at me, 'Hi, Hayley!' and waved his 
arm. I waved back. I had always thought he was cute. 

" 'What're you doing here at this hour?' he asked, walking across the 
polished floor toward me. The other four boys followed him, passing the ball 
across from one to another. 

"I told him about the locker inspection and, as I did so, I noticed one of 
the other boys bring his hand down to the front of his gym trunks and 
scratch himself. Involuntarily, my eyes lingered at the juncture of his legs 
for a moment, and I felt a blush creep into my face. He had on a pair of 
skintight trunks, and the outline of his organ was as obvious as it could 
be. It must have been half-way to a hard-on, judging from the size of it. 

"Paul's voice brought my eyes back to him. 'Maybe the transom is open,' he 
said. 'Let's go see.' 

"Moments later, the six of us were at the door to the locker room. 'Pete, 
give me a hand up. I'll see if I can push it open from this side.' Quickly, 
Pete, the one whose crotch had attracted my attention back in the gym, 
formed a hold with his hands and Paul, stepping onto it, raised himself 
toward the transom. I saw him reach in, crank something, and the window 
swung inward. Jumping down next to me, he said, 'Okay, Hayley. What we'll do 
now is get Pete over the transom, then I'll follow him, and then Jerry and 
Otto will help you up and we'll help you down on the other side.' 

"Within seconds, Pete and Paul were on the other side of the door. I didn't 
think the whole thing was such a great idea - I mean, it was sort of 
breaking and entering - but the boys seemed so eager to help that I couldn't 
refuse them. Only when Jerry and Otto formed a sort of a four-armed hold for 
me to step up on did I realize that my climb and my descent on the other 
side could prove to be somewhat embarrassing. I mean - you know - I had on a 
miniskirt that came up to about four inches above my knees when I was on the 
ground. With me climbing up over the boys' heads there was no question that 
I would show some portions of me which I figured should be concealed from 
public eye. To make things worse, I didn't have anything on underneath 
except a pair of all but transparent blue silk panties. 

"Still embarrassed - but determined not to let the boys down - I stepped up 
on the living step between Jerry's and Otto's bodies. I felt an odd 
sensation as the hem of my skirt brushed against my upper thighs. As they 
raised me up until my breasts were on the level with the transom window, I 
knew that they could see right up under my skirt and there wasn't anything I 
could do about it. I cast a sidelong glance down toward Jerry and Otto just 
before I swung my legs up and over the transom. I caught both the expression 
on Otto's face, upturned and openmouthed, the stealthy nudge he gave Jerry, 
and the whisper: 'Get a load of that. Simultaneously with the words I heard, 
I saw him give his crotch a quick squeeze as if he were checking to see if 
his thing was still there. 

"Then something quite unexpected happened. I thought I'd had it. As my legs 
went over the transom sill, I felt my skirt get snagged on a nail I hadn't 
noticed off to one side. In the panic of embarrassment - the skirt was now 
around my waist and my legs, fanny, and everything around it were covered 
only by the thinness of my panties - I reached toward the nail in an attempt 
to free the skirt, slipped, and came crashing down on Paul and Pete in the 
locker room - my skirt still hanging across the transom. In his attempt to 
grab me on the way down to soften my fall, Paul's hand slammed against my 
upper inner thighs, slipped, and came to rest clutching me between my legs, 
with nothing between his hand and my already fairly thickly furred vulva. I 
couldn't help letting out a high-pitched yelp as I realized, lying sprawled 
partially over Pete and partially over Paul, that Paul's thumb was pressing 
through the thin gauze of my panties right into the slit of my mound. For a 
second none of us moved. I heard the excited voices of Jerry and Otto from 
beyond the door asking whether we were all right, asking what happened. 

"Then, as I heard Paul's voice coming from somewhere beneath me, from 
somewhere about my knees, saying something like, 'Everything's fine,' I 
started to get up. By then I became acutely aware not only of the hand lying 
against my snatch, but of my breasts pressing into Jerry's chest, and of his 
face no more than two inches away from mine. But as I brought my knee up to 
brace against the floor and pushed against the floor on both sides of 
Jerry's chest with my hands, I realized that the boys weren't in any mood to 
let me up. The movement of my leg - unconsciously for me at the moment - had 
parted my thighs to the point where Paul's hand was afforded a much broader 
resting place against the crotch of my panties; it also parted the lips of 
my sex and I felt Paul's thumb press further in through the material, the 
length of his digit lying along the entire length of the slit. I gasped at 
the realization that Paul was actually fingering me, and at the same time I 
saw Pete's hands rise up beneath my arms, close upon my back, and then felt 
him pulling me down toward him. 

"The next moment my mouth was crushed against Pete's and his tongue was 
forcing itself into my mouth, past my teeth, and into my throat. Totally 
taken aback, remembering my folks' advice against 'playing with boys,' I 
placed my hands flat against Pete's chest and tried pushing myself away from 
him, tried squirming out of his grasp. So preoccupied was I with my attempt 
to break away from Pete that I didn't realize until my mouth was momentarily 
free of his, that there was no longer any material separating my 
curly-haired pussy from Paul's heated fingers! How he had managed to pull my 
panties off without my feeling it, I don't know - but he sure as hell had 
them off and around one of my ankles. I felt his finger stroking the length 
of my slit and was terrified at the pleasant sensation it created between my 
legs. For a fraction of an instant, I lay motionless, glorying in the 
feeling, but then, with a wild lurch, I tore away from Pete's arms 
encircling me and rolled over and away from the two boys. 

"As I did so - I was flat on my back, trying to cover my mound with my hands 
- my glance rose to the transom, and there, with a sheepish yet leering grin 
on his face, was Jerry. "Hey, fellahs,' I saw his mouth move, 'leave a piece 
for me. . ..' And he was suddenly standing above me, straddling me, a great, 
elongated bulge distorting the smooth lines of his gym trunks, moving in 
slight jerking motions like a live thing. Petrified, I lay on the cold floor 
of the locker room beneath him and watched his hand come to the wide, 
elastic waistband of his shorts, pause teasingly a second, then draw them 
down, revealing thick, crinkly hairs - a dense mat of pubic curls which grew 
longer, longer, and were then suddenly short curlicues that surrounded a 
purple-veined shaft of red-tipped muscle which sprang out stiffly from the 
constriction of the navy blue trunks. 

"Terrified suddenly at the enormity of Jerry's erect organ, frightened by 
the fact that neither Paul nor Pete moved to protect me - I have to admit my 
thinking and reasoning were pretty naive at that point - I made a move to 
rise off the floor. Needless to say, I didn't get anywhere. Like a flash 
both Pete and Paul were on their knees, one on either side of me, with their 
powerful hands holding my arms down against the floor. 

" 'Please - please don't,' I pleaded, knowing that no longer were my hands 
covering from view the pubic growth, the pink-lipped mouth of my sex between 
my thighs. 'Please let me go - please - please!' I turned toward Paul, 
trying to read some compassion in his face. I saw a flicker of something 
that might have been concern brighten his eyes, then it vanished. 

" 'Shhh! Hayley - we're not going to hurt you,' he whispered. 'We just want 
to have some fun.' 

" 'Yeah, baby,' Jerry added, 'we're just going to fuck you, then we'll let 
you go.' He circled his throbbing erection with his hand and moved his 
fingers back and forth along its length. 'You've had a dick inside your twat 
before, haven't you? I mean you're a big girl now, aren't you? Fifteen - 
sixteen? Hell, baby, that's the reason we're built like we are - you girls 
with a hole, we boys with a pole. . . .' 

"I watched him kneel down slowly between my legs, his hand still clutching 
the slit-ended column of flesh springing outward above his fuzz-covered 
balls. They looked swollen, heavy, as though they carried an extra load of 
sperm. Instinctively I drew my feet up toward my buttocks and brought my 
knees together in front of him. I felt the mushroom-shaped head of his penis 
brush against my calf as I did so. But I knew it was only a token sign of 
resistance. There was nothing I could do to prevent them from doing what 
they were determined upon doing now. His eyes burning into mine, Jerry 
placed his hands upon my knees and forced them apart - further and further, 
and still further - until I felt the skin of my inner thighs stretch, felt 
the labia of my vagina part open - first the larger, outer, then the 
smaller, inner. I saw Jerry's eyes descend down my body until they were upon 
the spot between my legs, then they widened as though in appreciation. 'It's 
a beautiful pussy, baby,' I heard him whisper as he brought himself closer 
in. 

"His entry was smooth, slow, and total. I guess it was on account of the way 
he had spread me open. He must have slid into me all the way because I felt 
the warmth of his balls press against the underside of my thighs. I was 
surprised that there was no pain - it was as though I was a glove he was 
slipping on. It was a perfect fit. I closed my eyes and waited. He started 
pulling out of me - slowly, gently almost - then he slid back in. Once, 
twice, three times, four. . . . 

"I became aware of a strange odor, and of Jerry making the insides of my sex 
hole tingle oddly, and of a dozen hands caressing me at the same time. I 
heard someone whisper, 'She sure is pretty,' and someone answered, 'You can 
say that again.' I opened my eyes. 

" 'Have you ever sucked anyone's cock, Hayley?' 

"I looked up into the face of Otto, wondered how he got into the locker 
room, then shook my head. 'N-no,' I said, not the least bit surprised that 
there was a reason for my being breathless. I was moving my buttocks, 
circling them, raising my thighs to meet Jerry's inward plunges - I was 
fucking Jerry back. It's nice, I thought. 'How - how did you get in?' I 
asked Otto, not caring what he would give for an answer - I think he said 
something about the door not being really locked, just jammed - because the 
odor which had struck me seconds before was the odor of his masculinity. 'Do 
you want me to suck it for you?' I asked, opening my mouth. 

"He was kneeling by the side of my head and his darkskinned cock was thick 
and long. Its red knob swayed above my mouth, an inch away. He nodded, 
placed the tip of his erection against the left corner of my mouth, then 
said, 'Why don't you suck Richard off too?' Only then did I become distantly 
aware of Richard's cock poised by my mouth on my right. I nodded. 

"I don't remember too clearly what happened next. I know that I had both 
Otto's and Richard's cocks in my mouth, sliding in and out, as I tongued 
their crowns, nipped at their hardness with my teeth, sucked upon them with 
the vacuum of my lungs. I know there was a mouth enveloping each of my 
somehow naked breasts - they weren't large, and Paul and Pete had no trouble 
drawing most of their roundness into the hot, moist caverns beyond their 
teeth. And these sensations - two sex organs in my mouth, my breasts with 
their nipples burning fire in the mouths of two other boys - seemed to be 
swirling around the increasingly growing tickling all around the secret 
depths of my pussy. 

" 'Oh!' I moaned. 'Oh, it's - it's so beautiful.' But Otto and Richard 
moaned louder and reinserted the engorged knobs of their erections back 
between my teeth; and I sucked on them like they were two salty lollipops. 
Then, suddenly, I felt as though they were all lifting me - up, up, to a 
height I had never known. I felt an unknown, glorious force raise my legs 
and wrap them around Jerry's waist. I drew him into me until I thought the 
tip of his cock was going to puncture my heart. . . . 

"It was so fantastic that I wouldn't believe it even now - if it wasn't for 
the fact that we've been repeating our six-way fucking about twice a week 
for the last four months. 

"In a nutshell, we climaxed all over the girls' locker room - I mean, 
really. Richard and Otto came into my mouth seconds apart. Paul and Pete 
jacked themselves off as they watched me sucking Otto and Richard and being 
screwed by Jerry. And Jerry delivered such a balming load into me, I was 
sure I was going to have quintuplets. And my orgasm was beyond anything 
imaginable. ... I swear that in addition to coming in my pussy, I came in my 
mouth and out of my nipples. I mean it was the wildest ride anyone could 
get. And to think that they had to force me to start with! 

"Anyway, it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. And when we got 
together for the following fucking sessions, the boys would rotate - that 
way each one of them got to screw me, suck my tits, and I got to suck all 
five of them off. Believe me, there were no hard feelings. ..." 

The above case may be unique in that none of the participants of what 
amounted to an orgy was older than seventeen. Otto was fourteen, the 
youngest. Their first orgy was accidental. It wasn't planned. Their 
following sessions of totally uninhibited sex, however, were carefully 
arranged, held in places where there could be absolutely no chance of 
discovery. Hayley said that after the first episode none of the five boys 
had at any time had intercourse with her without the precautionary measure 
of using condoms. She also said that she had twice attempted having sex with 
only one boy. The result, to her way of thinking, was unsatisfactory. She 
dismissed, therefore, sex between two people as "a drag." 

Needless to say, her plea that the five boys not be reprimanded went 
unheeded. Under the circumstances, the reason for this is obvious, 
especially since it was learned that Hayley's, as well as the boys', grades 
had started failing. The action that was taken was laudably nonscandalizing. 
The six were permitted to complete the year - under close observation - then 
were allowed to transfer to six different schools. What the psychological, 
the psychosexual, effect on the five boys and Hayley was, is unknown. There 
was no follow-up study undertaken on the youngsters. Hopefully, they will 
develop moderation in their sexual life with maturity, although, in the case 
of Hayley, whose sexual urges had been cruelly suppressed at home, 
moderation would appear to be an unlikely quality. But then, sex has a 
strange habit of changing seemingly permanent attires. 

Chapter Nine - Rape And Nymphomania 

Nymphomania is probably one of the most commonly misused terms in the study 
of psychosexuality. It is a term which has been picked up during the present 
century to be cast indiscriminately at any woman who has a greater than 
average desire for sex. The definition of the term varies from one source to 
another. Thus, Webster's New World Dictionary of the American Language, 
states that it is "excessive and uncontrollable sexual desire in a woman"; 
Webster's Modern Reference Dictionary of the English Language claims it to 
be "morbid and uncontrollable sexual desire in females"; Webster's Seventh 
New Collegiate Dictionary makes no mention of control, defining the term 
simply as "excessive sexual desire by a female." Perhaps, it is just a 
matter of semantics, but excess does not necessarily constitute morbidity, 
and excessive desire is quite different from excessive and uncontrollable 
desire. 

What, then, is nymphomania? 

John Trimble, in his 5,000 Adult Sex Words & Phrases, gives the accepted 
medical definition of the term as "insatiable sex desire in the female," 
then supplements that definition by stating that it is synonymous with 
neurasthenia sexualis, i.e., "inability to accomplish orgasm although 
passionate and sexually active." Insatiability, inability: critical words. 

What brings about this insatiable desire for sexual intercourse in the 
female? The answer to that question lies within the question itself. 
Insatiability, or desire for fulfillment - sexual fulfillment, orgasm. A 
nymphomaniac is not unlike a starving person who is unable to keep any food 
down. Only in the case of the nymphomaniac, the food is the food of the 
glands, namely sex. Complete sex. Orgasmic sex. 

And more often than not, nymphomania is directly related to a subconscious 
fear of orgasm. As may be witnessed in the following case history. Rape was 
the triggering incident which brought the pathetic longings of the patient 
to the fore - pathetic because she could not satisfy them. Regardless of how 
she tried. 

Connie's psychosexual condition was not revealed, and thus was allowed to 
fester, until she turned twenty-two. Raised in an environment of religious 
nature, which, if not fanatical, was extremely oppressive, Connie was under 
a constant influence exerted by her parents that she "follow the call of 
God." The regimen which she had to follow throughout her teen years and into 
that period of time when girls cease being girls and become women, precluded 
her from normal sexual development. At the age when the great majority of 
other young women enjoy the sensual aspects of life through experimentation 
with sex, Connie was being prepared for the contemplative life of a convent. 

Then, unexpectedly, without any apparent reason for it, Connie informed her 
parents that she was through with the religious hogwash. She was twenty-two, 
she said, and was going to do what she wanted to, not what they were 
coercing her into doing. 

Attractive, with dark brown eyes and hair of raven's wing blackness, with a 
figure which suddenly emerged when Connie started dressing in the latest 
fashions of the day, she had no problem securing a secretarial position. And 
then, within three months after her unexplainable shedding of puritanical 
shackles, Connie was committed to the psychiatric ward of a Miami hospital 
for observation. Her commitment was voluntary, and the reason she herself 
gave the interviewing psychiatrist for her decision to seek psychiatric 
help, was an odd one, coming from a young woman who but a few months earlier 
seemed to be heading for the monotonous existence of a monastic. To quote 
Connie: "I wanted to get fucked by every man I laid my eyes on." 

Why such a reversal of attitude? What caused the young woman to cast aside 
years of preparation for one form of life and then, instantaneously almost, 
fanatically seek an opposite? Patiently, the psychiatrist probed Connie's 
mind; patiently he urged her to tell him how her seemingly insatiable desire 
for sex first manifested itself. 

And, finally, in an outburst, Connie revealed to him that she wanted to feel 
what she knew other women must feel. Something (she was apparently seeking 
an unattainable for her orgasm) she was on the verge of "the first time it 
happened," but had been unable to attain, and, she said, "I want nothing 
else." When the psychiatrist asked her about her first sexual experience, 
she poured out the revealing incident of her rape. It happened the weekend 
that she was actually on her way to the convent to stay. Her relation of the 
incident is reproduced here word for word. It's the story of a girl suddenly 
emerging into the world of reality denied to her by her insidiously 
overprotective parents. 

"I don't know why Sister Carrie was not at the railway depot when I got off 
the train. She was supposed to meet me there; she knew I was coming. I stood 
out on the street outside the railway station for about ten minutes, 
waiting. It was late Sunday afternoon. There was no one out on the street. I 
thought of calling the convent, but didn't. I don't know why. Maybe it was 
because I wanted to put off my going there as much as I possibly could. ... 
It was dreary - like a prison, I suppose. The air was fresh and clean 
outside, and the road leading away from the small town, into the mountains, 
wound like a gray ribbon through the countryside. Three miles up that road, 
I knew the convent stood, waiting for me. All I had with me in the way of 
belongings was a small valise - so I decided to walk. I don't know, maybe I 
had a premonition that if I set out for the distant walls on foot, I'd never 
reach them. . . . Actually, I never even got to see them. 

"I was about a mile and a half down the road - I hadn't seen a soul that 
entire distance - when he came out onto the shoulder, right in front of me. 
A big man, over six feet tall, getting bigger as I approached him. I thought 
of crossing the road to the other side, but then decided that there was no 
reason to act scared - even if he did look frightening, just standing there, 
looking at me as I traversed the distance of some fifteen feet between us. 
He was about forty, forty-five, sunburned features, disheveled hair, stubble 
on his face, wearing blue jeans, a loose blue shirt unbuttoned down to his 
waist, and a pair of boots. 

"When I evened with him, I tried not to look at his huge hulk, tried to 
evade his gaze - I felt it on me, stripping me of my ordinary street clothes 
- but couldn't. There was something strange about him; his eyes seemed to 
burn like coals into me, drawing mine up to meet them. 

" 'Good evening,' I whispered, raising my eyes for a moment toward his, then 
dropping them. I was no more than a step by him when I heard his voice say, 
'Here, let me give you a hand with that.' I felt his fingers, large, 
powerful, gnarled, close over my hand on the valise. I opened my mouth to 
protest, but he jerked the traveling bag from my hand, grumbling, 'Let's 
go.' 

"Not knowing what else to do I fell in step with him. After a few minutes of 
walking in silence, I began to feel a little more at ease. . . . Too 
prematurely! 

"We were just rounding a turn in the road where the shoulder of the road 
swept steeply down toward a dried creek bed when his hand reached out for 
me, closed like a pincer around my upper arm, and pulled me roughly off the 
road and down the incline. I was so startled by the suddenness of his move 
that I just let him drag me toward a small grove of trees a few yards away. 
Only when he stopped in their darkening shade, with the road now all but 
concealed from view, did I manage to find my voice. 'What in God's name -' I 
began, feeling my words tremble against my ears, feeling my heart beating in 
apprehensive terror within my chest. 

"His answer to my question was to place the palm of his hand against my 
breasts and push me down to the ground. Then a sneer disfigured his face. 
'Take off your clothes,' he growled. 'We're gonna fuck.' Simultaneously, one 
of his enormous hands went to the front of his pants and pulled down the 
zipper. 

"I gasped - both at his words and his actions - and tried scrambling back on 
my feet. I didn't see his hand arch back and then, reversing the direction 
of its swing, return to connect with my face. The force of the blow knocked 
me back down to the ground. I felt both the tears and the blood at the 
corner of my mouth at the same time. I was terrified. Often had the 
wonderment about sex crossed my mind; never did I picture it to be like 
this. I ran a hand across my mouth, feeling the sticky warmth there, and 
remained on the ground, watching the man. It felt as though I were removed 
from my body, as though what I was seeing was either through someone else's 
eyes or else was a nightmare. 

"I thought I was seeing the entire world of vileness being unfolded before 
my eyes. . . . Having unzipped his pants, the man pulled them down, 
constantly keeping his eyes on me. The shorts he wore underneath the jeans 
did nothing to conceal the enormous penis which jutted out like a fire 
hydrant, pushing the material of his shorts out, parting the opening in the 
front of them to reveal a thick mat of dark pubic hairs. I saw his hand move 
down, scratch himself beneath the yet concealed protrusion, then pull the 
shorts down and kick them free. 

"I cringed at the sight of his naked sex organ - his cock. It was like a 
giant, slit-mouthed serpent, a cyclops winking at me with its engorged, 
protruding, bloodshot eye. It was perfectly erect, extending an unbelievable 
foot in front of him, swaying slightly, jumping impatiently. And beneath it 
swung the pendulous, lightly haired balls, fine veins running all around 
them, pinkish, threatening. Terrified, I tore my eyes away from the man's 
groin and raised them to his face. 

" 'God,' I whispered, feeling cold sweat trickling down my back, down my 
neck and into the valley between my heaving breasts. 'You can't - please -' 

"His voice cut my words like a sharp blade. 'God's got nothing to do with 
it.' He took a step toward me, his body appearing to follow the outhrust 
enormity of his penis. 'I can - and I'm going to. You look like a damn good 
piece of tail. Small - I like my gals small.' He took another step toward 
me. 'Feels better when the cunt is tight. . . .' Bending down, he grasped 
the hem of my skirt and jerked up on it, pulling it over my face. 'Take the 
fucking clothes off - now! Before I beat the shit out of you!' 

"I could still feel my mouth smarting from the first blow. Tears misting 
everything about me, I unbuttoned my dress and pulled it off over my head. I 
felt naked - indecently exposed - even though I still had my slip, my bra, 
and my panties on. I paused, but his voice came at me again, rough, 
commanding. 'Off with everything - everything, damn you!' 

"Torn by agony - agony of fear, of humiliation, of subjection - I removed my 
slip. I felt the coolness of the evening air wafting across my midriff, 
across the upper swell of my breasts, against the nakedness of my thighs. I 
saw the man's cock pulsating a few inches away from my face. Again, I raised 
my eyes to his face, trying to ignore the redness in the knob of his cock. I 
opened my mouth to beg again, but his lips moved, and it was an order, and I 
obeyed. With trembling, numb fingers I unhooked my brassiere and felt my 
breasts emerge into the open. I dropped my eyes to them. It must be the 
cold, or the fear, I thought, watching my nipples enlarging, growing, 
stiffening in the freshness of the evening. 

" 'Well - I'll be damned,' I heard him mutter. 'Them are sure a pair of 
suckable tits, honey.' 

Instinctively, I drew my hands up to cover them, but his voice lashed out 
like a whip. 'The pants! Can't fuck with your pants on. Take them off!' 

"I don't know what I felt when my hands moved down to my waist and started 
drawing the material of my panties down. I was as though in a daze. I saw my 
navel appear, then the sparse black hairs below it, thickening, spreading . 
. . then the upper dimple of my vaginal opening, and the entire, bared, 
tight-lipped slit. I knew the man's eyes were on it. I knew that he didn't 
miss the pinkness within as the lips parted slightly when I raised first one 
leg to free the panties, then the other leg. Each time I heard him take in a 
deep breath; each time I was conscious of his cock leaping slightly upward 
as though having a mind of its own, as though wishing to tear loose and bury 
its slitted head in the crack between my legs. . . . Totally naked now 
except for my shoes, I kept my gaze down on the ground, watching the shadows 
of the evening deepen. I heard the man's heavy breathing above me. 'Lie 
back.' His words reached me as though they came from a distant world. I lay 
back, my legs close together, my hands over the muff of hair beneath my 
stomach. 'Take your fucking hands away from your cunt - place 'em over your 
head - and spread your legs ... all the way. 

"I don't know why I did everything that the man asked me to do. I don't know 
whether it was fear of bodily harm, which I know he was capable of 
inflicting, or whether it was something else. . . . Curiosity? Perhaps. I do 
know that I had never felt as embarrassed, as frightened - of what he might 
do to me - as I felt then. The thought of the 'immorality' of the act 
crossed my mind, but I dismissed it. / am being forced, I told myself. God 
will not punish me for it. . . . 

"Slowly I spread my legs. 

" 'Atta-girl!' he said. I saw his form move in to stand between my outspread 
legs. 'We're gonna have some fucking fun now, honey. Turn over.' 

"Not understanding, thinking I misunderstood him, I whispered, 'What?' 

" 'Turn over and get your ass up in the air,' he muttered, his hand going 
forward to encircle his erection, to squeeze it, stroke it. 

"Mortified by the fear of the unknown, I turned over on my stomach, then 
brought my body up so that I was resting on my knees and elbows. My buttocks 
now were totally exposed to his eyes. I shut my eyes tightly, and waited. I 
heard the sound of gravel behind me, and opened my eyes. Underneath my body 
I saw his feet, then heard him say, 'Spread them.' I did. 

"His feet moved in between my legs, then they moved back and his knees were 
on the ground where a moment before his feet had been. I caught sight of his 
balls - from the angle I was watching him, it seemed as though the spheres, 
encased in the loose-skinned bag, were hanging out of my vagina. I knew that 
it was right before him, gaping slightly. Then I felt the heat of his 
fingers graze the pubic growth on either side of my slit. I tried bringing 
my legs together, tried clenching my buttocks, but he forced me open. I held 
my breath as I felt the enormity of his cockhead wedge itself between the 
soft tissue of my labia. I opened my mouth and screamed. 'No!' I cried, 
sobbing. 'Dear God, no!' Then I felt the tearing, ripping thrust of his cock 
as it rammed into me, skewered me, ruptured me. The pain was excruciating. 
For some reason I thought it felt as though I had been torn into by a 
crucifix. The enormous size of the man's cock appeared to be burrowing into 
my very innards. I felt the warmth of my blood seeping out around the 
tightly clenched shaft, trickling down my inner thighs. I saw the droplets - 
one, two - fall to the ground between my legs. I saw the pistoning, back and 
forth movement of his legs, saw and felt his balls swing and slap my lower 
buttocks on every inward thrust. 

"I thought - now, why did I think of that - I thought of Christ on the 
cross, of the lance entering his chest, of the blood running down his skin 
to soak into the wrap around his waist. 

"Gradually, the pain receded into the background of my feelings. It was 
still there, but it was dull, numb. I began to feel overcome with another 
emotion, another sensation. The emotion was that of desire - desire to 
experience the forbidden - I mean, that which had been forbidden for me. I 
wanted to experience an orgasm. I wanted to know what it felt like. I knew 
about it. No matter how overprotective one's parents, one's superiors, one's 
dominating powers, are - the facts of life reach even the hermit's ears. I 
waited for the orgasm, conscious of the man's hands upon my hips, on my 
breasts, on my oddly tingling clitoris. I became aware of the shortness of 
his breath, of the increased, more violent, thrusts of his marble-hard cock 
sliding in and out of me, throbbing as though on the verge of exploding. . . 
. And - I reciprocated. I reciprocated with all the fury of pent-up feelings 
which I had suppressed for so many years. 

"I wanted to come! I wanted to feel that plateau of sensual glory that had 
been denied me for so long. I bucked my ass back at him every time he 
delivered a forward thrust; I drew away each time he withdrew from me, 
clamping my vaginal muscles against his shaft at the same time to prevent 
him from slipping entirely out. I moaned. I answered every outburst of his 
with one of my own. 

" 'Honey - honey - You're too fucking much,' he gasped. I thought you didn't 
want me to fuck you. . . .' 

" 'No - no! I want you - I want you to fuck me. God! Please don't stop 
fucking me - please don't stop!' 

" 'You've got such a marvelously tight pussy - the - best - fuck -' 

"Then he came. The flood of sperm inundated every bit of space within me 
which wasn't occupied by his gigantic cock. It felt like a hot liquid 
cushion upon which my innards floated, floated, floated. But even after he 
ceased moving, following the shudder of his orgasmic explosion, I was still 
ramming my buttocks against him, still striving for something that I knew I 
had not yet attained. . . . 

" 'Hey, honey,' I heard his voice come to me through my pants. 'Hey - we 
better take a little rest first. I don't have a hard-on anymore. . . .' 

"Again tears rushed into my eyes. 'But - but -' I stammered, feeling, 
indeed, his cock withering in my cunt, shrinking, slipping out. I clenched 
my vaginal muscles; I tried sucking him back into me with my nether lips. 
But he was gone. His cock was no longer within me. The only thing that 
remained was a sensation of total emptiness, crying to be filled. . . . 

He fucked me again a little later. We moved to a grassy knoll away from the 
road. It was almost totally dark by now. He laid me on my back, cleaned my 
cunt carefully of the traces of blood. He asked me if I was sure I was all 
right. Then, when I nodded, implored, pulled him toward me; then, grasping 
his again stiff cock in my fingers, I drove it into me until our pubic curls 
mingled and tangled and parted and tangled again. He pounded into me then. I 
wrapped my legs around his enormous buttocks and urged him to go further 
into me than he possibly could. I drew his tongue into my mouth as he drew 
mine into his. I thought, We're fucking with cock and cunt. We're also 
fucking with tongue and tongue. 

"When I felt him stiffen, when I felt his cock suddenly cease its sliding 
within my sheath of sex, when I felt his come start spurting into me again, 
I increased my thrusts, my grinds, my gyrations. I cried, 'I'm going to 
come, I'm going to come, I'm going to come.. . . Oh, God, I want to come!' 
But I didn't. I felt salty moisture coat my eyes as again his cock shriveled 
up and slipped out of me to lie soft and contented between my 
still-hungering thighs. . . . 

"He took me to the railroad station two hours later. We tried twice more in 
that time. Unsuccessfully. Each time I was on the verge - I thought. 
Whatever happens, I decided, as I got on the train, not really knowing where 
I was going, I'm going to fuck every man in the world until I reach orgasm. 
. . ." 

And she tried to live by her decision. Being a beautiful, voluptuous young 
woman, she had no problem in getting men to make love to her. She went from 
town to town across the country, getting temporary jobs at each one. Every 
place she worked, Connie says, she had sexual intercourse with the owner of 
the company, with her co-workers. In the cases where the man appeared to be 
dense in understanding what she wanted - and Connie said there was a 
surprising number of such - she'd approach them directly. 

"More than once I had to come up to the guy, place my hand right on his 
cock, and say, 'Honey, I'm dying to have that thing inside of me.' Or, 
'Jerry, what are you doing after work tonight? Why don't we go to my 
apartment and fuck?' It became to be a way of life with me. I was constantly 
on the go in my search for that one erection that would raise me to the peak 
of sexual fulfillment. ... I never found it." 

There is no direct and absolute answer to Connie's problem. There can be no 
immediate solution. There may be a number of different factors working in 
conjunction which block Connie's ability to attain a sexual orgasm. There is 
the possibility that her problem is purely physical - although a hooded 
clitoris had been ruled out by the psychiatrist. It is possible that her 
inability is psychosexual in that she may be actually too tensely determined 
to attain an orgasm and thus her mental determination numbs her physical 
capabilities. Or it may be fear. Fear not only instilled into her 
subconscious by her family environment and the fanatically rigid teachings 
of the convent, but fear of not being able to reach an orgasm. Such fear 
could very easily create a mental block whereby the psychosexual mechanism 
becomes all but inoperative and no physical attempts toward gratification 
are fulfilled. 

The prognosis for Connie is uncertain. It is true that in her shift of 
attitude - whereas formerly, until her commitment to the psychiatric ward, 
she had been seeking orgasm, now she is seeking the answer to the question 
why orgasm is out of her reach - she has shed her nymphomaniacal tendencies. 
But this shedding may be temporary. She may tire of seeking an answer and 
revert back to seeking the "ultimate penis" which will satisfy her. That her 
being raped had set off the powderkeg of her sexuality cannot be denied. 
Whether that assault was actually maleficent to her development as a woman 
or not, however, is a matter of opinion. 

It all depends on whether it is better for a human being to be placed into 
solitary confinement for his or her entire life - for no certain reason - or 
whether it is better for the same human being to seek whatever form of 
happiness that he wishes to seek in the brief span of his or her life. 

Chapter Ten - Rape, Symbolism, And Masturbation 

Sexual symbols have played a major role in man's psychological development 
probably from before the time when Moses struck the rock with his staff and 
the rock split open and water flowed out of the crack. Modern-day 
advertising relies heavily on sexual symbolism. Sex being one of the 
strongest motivating forces in man's psyche, it is only too clear why such 
symbolism is utilized to sell products ranging from cigarettes to 
automobiles. 

Masturbation is no longer considered to be a vile practice which results in 
insanity, physical ailment, or eternal damnation in the fires of hell. It is 
a natural method for the release of tensions - sexual tensions - in those 
whose capacity to give is greater than the capacity of any available vessel 
to receive. Man and woman masturbate to symbols. These symbols may be actual 
representations of genitals, they may be mental symbols of the same, or they 
may be seemingly nonsexual symbols. Masturbation itself, in fact, is a 
symbolic act miming sexual intercourse. The man grasps his penis in his 
hand, and his hand becomes a vagina, or a mouth (which itself may very well 
be considered to be a sexual symbol), or an anus. A woman plunges her 
ringers into her vagina, and her fingers become a penis. The number and 
variety of sexual symbols is so great that a catalogue of such would fill a 
voluminous tome. One could go so far as to say that symbolism is 
individualistic, i.e., each man and each woman may have some thing that he 
or she considers to be erotic in its appearance. 

The symbol which is the central object of sexuality in the case history 
which follows was a baton - not the conductor's baton, which is also 
sexually symbolic - but the baton which is always present in the hands of a 
lovely young girl dressed in the most revealing costume, leading parade 
contingents, performing occasionally on variety shows on television, or as a 
visual supplement in a park band concert. It is difficult to say how often 
the symbolism of the bulb-ended twirling stick reaches the extreme as it did 
in the case of eighteen-year-old Suzanne, but it is sufficient to know that 
it had happened once to suspect that it had happened over and over. 

Suzanne was an accomplished baton-twirler; her grades in academic subjects 
were average; her home life - she lived with her parents in an exclusive 
area of Hollywood - was as normal as could be asked. Graceful, with long 
blonde hair, and a figure that had elicited a great many wolf whistles from 
those who had seen her perform, Suzanne was a major asset of the high school 
band. No one denied it. Everyone, and Suzanne more than the others, was 
aware that the eyes of the boys and the men alike were continually affixed 
to two focal points of her body when Suzanne performed. Her high-kicking 
steps, her leaping splits, brought the gaze of the male audience to the 
tightly covered area of her mons veneris; her arm movements brought the gaze 
up to her jiggling, smoothly curving breasts, encased in the low-cut, upper 
portion of her costume. The buttocks fetishists, too, undeniably got a treat 
from the bouncing of her curvaceous rear. 

The symbolism of the baton which Suzanne twirled above her head, thrust down 
between her thighs, rolled up and down her arms, back, and legs was taken 
for granted and was not considered to be any more extraordinary than normal. 
Until one day Suzanne's physical education instructor discovered her in the 
locker room with about eight inches of the baton's bulbous end inserted into 
her vagina. She did not suspect that she was being watched - observed all 
the way through the moment when she shuddered in the throes of masturbatory 
orgasm. 

"I was so flabbergasted at seeing her sitting on the bench, her legs spread 
apart, her hand working the baton in and out of her vagina," the instructor 
reported to the school psychiatrist, "that I didn't move away until I knew 
it was over." 

Suzanne was brought before the school psychoanalyst in an unobtrusive 
manner. She was told that it - the psychoanalytic study - was a routine 
study on the behavior of high school students and that the findings would be 
kept in strictest confidence. At the outset, Suzanne was quite reserved 
discussing her sex activities; in fact, she admitted that she found little 
interest in boys, had never submitted to any advances her schoolmates made 
toward her - although quite a few had made them. Only when the psychiatrist 
felt that Suzanne was sufficiently relaxed and trusting, did he spring upon 
her the fact that she was observed masturbating with the baton in the gym 
locker room. Since the doctor had made the statement in the most casual 
manner, Suzanne was not startled to any appreciable degree, and before long 
revealed the story of "the gentleman and his walking stick." 

The following is a transcript of Suzanne's confession, related in her own 
words. 

"I was a freshman when it happened - I was fifteen then. There was a small 
park not far from where I lived with my parents then - a city park with a 
small lake. It's still there. . . . For a public park it had quite a number 
of secluded spots - paths leading here and there, yet nowhere in particular. 
It was situated between the school I was then attending and my home, so on 
the way home from school I always walked through it. There wasn't ever 
hardly a soul there. 

"Well - this one particular day, I left school shortly after lunch. I had a 
bad headache, felt nauseated, and the school nurse suggested that I go home. 
By the time I reached the park, however, I felt quite a bit better, so - 
since it was a real nice day, sunny, quiet - I decided to spend the 
afternoon at the park. There was one spot where I used to go and spend quite 
a bit of time at on weekends - hardly anybody was there even then - so I 
headed straight for it. I don't think many people knew it even existed. To 
get to it you had to go off a narrow, seldom-frequented path, pick up 
another path that seemed to start nowhere, and then leave it, go through 
some pretty dense bushes, and there you were! A bench by an algae-covered 
pool, and trees all around. Squirrels chattering in the branches overhead, 
birds singing. The way the bench was situated, you couldn't see it until you 
went around this bush by the pond - and there it was, right in front of you. 
. . . 

"Did I get a surprise this time though! There, where I quite often sat 
reading, was this man. When I saw him, I gasped and must have turned all 
colors of red. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, white shirt, necktie and 
all - I mean, like he had stepped right off some magazine page advertising 
men's clothes. Only what made me blush was not the way he was dressed, or 
even the very fact that he was there where I'd never seen anybody before 
(though that in itself was a surprise). It was the fact that, sitting there 
with his legs crossed, he had the zipper of his trousers undone, had his 
penis sticking out of it, and was beating it for all it was worth. Now, I 
don't know - maybe if he had a real large penis, I would have turned and 
ran. I don't know why, but I think I would have. I mean, even though I was 
fifteen, I'd never been laid. My cherry was busted, but that was as a result 
of an accident. I'd seen some damn large hard-ons - including my dad's - 
and, frankly, had been pretty well frightened by them. So, I guess I 
would've been scared if this man had one that looked dangerous. But - even 
though he appeared to me to be about thirty years old - he didn't have more 
than six inches, fully erect. 

"So I didn't move. I froze. And he didn't see me until he suddenly tensed, 
jerked his pelvis forward, spurted a stream of semen out of the tip of his 
pinkish knob, and at the very same moment turned his head toward me. For a 
second - judging by the expression on his face - I thought he was going to 
jump up and dart off like a startled animal; but then he smiled, pulled out 
a handkerchief out of his vest pocket, cleansed his penis - now shrunken to 
an even smaller size - and pushed the handkerchief into a side pocket of his 
jacket. Then, without taking his eyes off me and without bothering to 
replace the thing lying limply now against his trousered thigh, he said, I 
could have done much better if you were to have made your appearance a few 
minutes earlier.' 

"Standing as close to him as I was - I could've actually reached out and 
touched him - I still couldn't decide on how to make my departure quick 
enough. Somehow, the way his dark brown eyes were fixed upon mine, holding 
mine, I was afraid to look away as though if I did he would immediately leap 
upon me. My fear wasn't far from the truth. When I shifted my weight finally 
onto my right foot, which was set slightly behind me, his hand moved down to 
his side and came up with a bamboo cane - one of those walking sticks - and 
his voice snapped out, I wouldn't move yet if I were you, young lady.' Then 
he indicated the bench with a quick shift of his eyes, and said, with a 
little more gentleness, 'Sit down.' 

"What happened next was the stupidest thing that I could've done. Instead of 
turning around and making a run for it, I took a step back, then - seeing 
him rise suddenly to his feet - I took another step back, and found myself 
going down, slipping, falling right into the pond. It wasn't deep there, 
but, the way I lost my balance and found myself sitting on my fanny up to my 
waist in water, I might as well have fallen into the deep end of a pool. 
Immediately, he was over me, on the bank, reaching his hand out for me to 
take a hold of. I did. With a powerful pull, he raised me up on my feet, and 
the next thing I knew he had his arms around me, had his mouth upon mine - 
his tongue forcing itself into my mouth, sliding into the depths of my 
throat - and was crushing my body against his. I tried to fight him off, but 
his hold on me only grew more constricting. I felt his chest squashing my 
breasts, felt his pecker - it suddenly felt stiff and hard - pressing into 
the wetness of my lower stomach. I knew that he had me on the basis of his 
size alone - his pecker wasn't much, but he was big, must've been over six 
feet, against my five feet three. I realized that as long as he had his 
hands on me, I didn't have a chance of getting away without outside help - 
and that didn't hold much chance. Besides, I didn't want to scream - I've 
heard about girls getting cut up and killed when they started yelling. . . . 

"Finally, he took his lips off mine. 'You know, for a girl your age,' he 
whispered, still pressing my body against his, 'you've got a hot, sexy 
little body.' Then, as his hands slid down my back, down until his palms 
cupped each of my buttocks, he pulled me hard against his hardness, and 
said, 'I think I would like to have intercourse with you.' At the same time, 
he moved his lower body slightly back and away from his and then slammed it 
back against me. 'If you let me fuck you, honey,' he whispered, 'I won't 
hurt you. I probably won't hurt you anyway, but I'd rather fuck you. . . .' 

"The next instant, when he lifted me up in his arms, took the few steps back 
to the bench, then sat down with me sitting in his lap, I knew that he could 
hurt me without even having to try very hard. He was powerful; I could feel 
the muscles rippling in his whole body. Funny. I thought - I don't know why 
the thought crossed my mind - that he has such a small cock. I could feel it 
pressing up into the crease of my buttocks, like a large finger, moving 
slightly as though with a life force of his own. Then his mouth was against 
mine again, his teeth nipping at my lips, his tongue sliding in and out of 
my mouth. I felt his hand come down to the hem of my skirt and begin to push 
it up my thighs. I felt myself trembling at the touch of his hand against my 
naked and still wet skin. His fingers felt hot as they worked up, up, 
between my legs, forcing my legs apart until his hand cupped itself against 
the crotch of my panties. As wet as they were from my fall into the pond, I 
might as well have had nothing on underneath my skirt. His hand rubbed and 
rubbed and rubbed, his middle finger running up and down the crack between 
my thighs, his other fingers rolling the crispness of my pubic hairs through 
the material of my panties. 

"I don't know how long he kept this up. I know that he had worked my skirt 
up until there was nothing between his throbbing pecker and me except the 
thinness of my panties. When he finally removed his mouth from mine, I 
instinctively dropped my eyes down to my crotch. His fingers were pulling 
the red wispiness aside, revealing the short, spiral hairs, then the 
puffiness of skin bordering my slit, and finally the pink-lipped gash 
itself. I felt an odd thrill race through my body when I saw and felt his 
fingers part the lips of my vagina until I could feel the warmth of the air 
on my inner tissues, then his middle finger slid into the first joint, the 
second joint, and finally all the way to his knuckle. Then he drew it 
partially out, then plunged it back in - on and on. . . . I knew I didn't 
want to resist. 

"When he at last pulled his finger out, the heat in my vagina was almost 
unbearable. Gently, he moved one of my legs up and over his lap, until I was 
straddling him face to face. 'You want me to do it to you now, don't you?' 
he asked, kissing me softly on the lips. 

" 'Yes,' I whispered, not recognizing my own voice. If I resist he might 
kill me, I told myself, knowing damn well that I was lying to myself. 

" 'What do you want me to do, huh?' he asked, bringing his hand down between 
my thighs and grasping his cock, its head crimson-tipped, engorged, but 
still no more than an inch in diameter. 'Tell me what you want me to do 

' 

" 'I want you to put it inside me and - and -' I stammered, feeling the 
blood rushing to my face, feeling the heat building between my legs like an 
itch that had to be scratched. 

" 'And what?' he asked, teasing me, pulling the crotch of my panties aside 
again until the puckered, slightly parted lips of my cunt were fully 
exposed, parting them with his fingers, placing the tip of his cock in the 
crease between them. 

" I want you to put it inside,' I gasped, moving my crotch forward with a 
little jerk that pressed the head of his cock partially into the slit, 'and 
- fuck me! . . .' 

"I felt his penis stiffen at my words, then saw him give it a slight 
forward, directional push with his thumb, and the mushroom head slipped into 
the moistness of my pussy; then, slowly, he let the shaft follow it in. It 
slipped in, all of it, until the black curls surrounding the root of his 
erection intertwined with the golden curls around the mouth of my pussy. I 
had never felt anything like it, but I wanted more of him in me - more. 
'More,' I gasped, as he began sliding out, then rammed back into me. 'More, 
more - please, more!' But he had no more to give. ... I felt the rubbing of 
his skin against my vaginal lips, against the interior walls of my pussy, 
but there wasn't enough - there just wasn't enough. . . . 

"He came at the end of an inward stroke, slamming into me, spilling into me 
until his come oozed along his cock and ran out over my lower buttocks. ... 
I felt the squirts dying out within me, felt his erection losing its 
hardness, its length, its thickness. .. . Tears came to my eyes and then my 
eyes fell on his cane. I don't why the crazy idea came to my mind. I am not 
sure it did. I don't know whether my glance at the walking stick gave him 
the idea or whether my glance had in it the idea already. Anyway, as his 
cock slipped out of me, he reached over for the cane and took ahold of it. 
Gently, he removed me from his lap and sat me down on the bench. 

" 'Turn around so you're facing me,' he said. 'Now, spread your legs and lie 
back.' I did. 

'Here.' He placed the cane in my hand, then again bared my pussy and parted 
its lips. 

"Instinctively, as though I were in a daze, I inserted the rubber-tipped end 
of the cane into the opening between my legs and pushed it in until I felt 
it press against the back wall of my vagina, against the mouth to my womb. I 
pulled it out, then pushed it back in. In and out, in and out, I worked it, 
pumping my hips in rhythm. . . . The suddenness with which I came so 
overwhelmed me, that I screamed a low, gurgled scream. Then, after it was 
all over, I glanced down my body toward the man. My eyes caught him just as 
he shot a load of semen in an arch into the pond. His eyes were glazedly 
fixed upon my crotch. And it must have been quite a sight, with the panties 
pulled aside, the cane buried in the puffy-lipped crack of my pussy, foam of 
ecstasy oozing out of it. . . . Gently, he took ahold of his cane and pulled 
it out of me. There was a plop as my vagina released it, my sex lips 
slapping moistly shut. 

"He didn't say anything when he left moments later. All he did was take the 
tip of the cane, kiss it, then lick the glistening liquid of my body off its 
nine inches. I never saw him again. But I think it was my experience with 
him and his cane that decided my taking up the baton and becoming a 
majorette. I jacked myself off everyday with the twirling stick - thinking 
of the man in the park, with his small penis, and his cane. ..." 

Suzanne's somewhat unusual method of masturbating was obviously arrived at 
through association. She admitted to the school psychiatrist that after she 
had returned home that day from the park, she was overwhelmed with the 
apprehension that she might get pregnant. For the entire month she was in a 
state of complete tension, awaiting the onset of her menstrual flow. When it 
came, she says she was never more grateful. She also swore never to let any 
other man have sexual intercourse with her, especially since, from her 
experience with the man and then the cane, she found that she had obtained 
more pleasure from the inanimate object with which she had masturbated 
herself. Nevertheless, she also admitted, she always carried the image of 
straddling the man in the park whenever she masturbated. 

It took a number of psychoanalytic sessions, during which hypnosis had been 
utilized, to release Suzanne from her masturbatory mania. She began to 
respond quite readily when the psychiatrist convinced her that her 
dissatisfaction with the man, and her preference for the cane, was probably 
due to the fact that the man's erection was somewhat smaller than average, 
and thus, for Suzanne, not satisfying. 

Prognosis for Suzanne is good. She has been allowed to remain in school. No 
scandal evolved from her somewhat unconventional practice, and, the latest 
report shows that she had become considerably more outgoing, dating a number 
of her schoolmates regularly. 

AFTERWORD 

Man will never cease to be an aggressive animal. Were it not for his 
aggression, he would still be living in caves, struggling for his daily 
subsistence from day to day, giving way to whatever more powerful creature 
came along. Were it not for his aggressiveness, there is a good chance that 
man would have ceased to exist millenniums ago. Sexual aggressiveness, one 
could say, is as necessary for the preservation of mankind as is abstinence 
from wars. 

No one will deny that rape is an aggressive act. No one will deny that there 
are "perversions." But the question is - when is rape? The question is - 
what is perversion? 

There is no question that there have been cases of homicidal attacks upon 
women -women who had been attacked, sexually assaulted, and killed. But in 
these cases, and with this most psychiatrists will agree, the attacks were 
primarily homicidal, and sexual only secondarily. The cases which have been 
presented in this volume indicate that there are quite a few more "rapes" 
occurring each day than there are reported. There is also little doubt that 
a great number of the reported "rapes" are not rapes. 

And as far as "perversions" go - there is little doubt in the author's mind 
that it will not be long before there will be very few, indeed, of them 
left. Man is growing out of the dark ages of the medieval times, of the 
puritanically hypocritical era of the past. The new and forthcoming 
generation of mankind is maturing into a liberal front of freedom-loving 
individuals. 

We are entering the age of five freedoms. The first four have been tampered 
with; man has squelched the tamperers. There is no doubt that the fifth 
freedom - the freedom of sexual expression - will emerge shortly with its 
full meaning. 


End
