IN­TRO­DUC­TION


A psy­cho­lo­gist who con­ducts an ex­tens­ive series of group ther­apy sem­inars 
in San Fran­cisco has de­clared that the pre­dom­in­ant prob­lems of most people who seek 
his psy­chi­at­ric help are: first, the fear of grow­ing old, and second, the fear of los­ing their 
sexual at­tract­ive­ness. It would seem to fol­low, then, that the dom­in­ant con­cerns of the 
over­whelm­ing ma­jor­ity of people are youth and sex. And when those two qual­it­ies – 
youth and sex – are com­bined in one at­tract­ive and ex­per­i­mental pack­age – a 
teen­ager-the in­gredi­ents are there for an ex­plos­ive re­ac­tion!

 Today’s cul­ture is def­in­itely youth-ori­ented, and is rap­idly be­com­ing even 
more so. The sec­ond­ary un­der­ly­ing theme in our cul­ture is sex. It is only nat­ural, 
there­fore, that these two dom­in­ant themes should meet and blend, giv­ing us the most 
sexu­ally-aware teen-aged gen­er­a­tion that the world has ever known.

 The gen­eral sexual per­missive­ness, and, to some ex­tent, the easy se­cur­ity of 
The Pill, has given today’s young Alices a whole new sexual Won­der­land to ex­plore and 
en­joy, com­plete with de­vi­ate Mad Hat­ters and pred­at­ory Queens of Hearts.

 Today’s early teen-ager – the thir­teen or four­teen-year-old girl – pos­sesses a 
sexual pre­co­city and a sexual know­ledge and ex­per­i­ence that her mother or 
grand­mother prob­ably did not achieve un­til she was twice that age. And we are speak­ing 
now of the av­er­age teen-ager, and not the un­usual one. Youth is in­deed at the fore­front 
of the sexual re­volu­tion, and the ex­tent of its takeover is re­flec­ted even bey­ond the 
sexual sphere. For in­stance, when Shakespeare’s Romeo and Ju­liet was filmed in 1936, the 
leads were played by act­ress Norma Shearer, who was then 32, and by the late actor, Leslie 
Howard, who was then 43. In today’s film ver­sion of Romeo and Ju­liet, the lov­ers are 
por­trayed by teen-aged Olivia Hus­sey and Le­onard Whit­ing!

 Colum­bus was 46 when he sailed 3000 miles to dis­cover a new world. Today, Neil 
Arm­strong, in his thirties, rock­ets a quarter of a mil­lion miles to es­tab­lish man’s first 
foot­print on the moon!

 It is little won­der that youth feels an ex­uber­ance, a self-as­sur­ance, that ex­tends
all the way down to the early teen-ager. And one of the first re­ac­tions of ex­uber­ance and 
self-as­sur­ance is sexual ex­plor­a­tion, of­ten fol­lowed by sexual in­dul­gence and 
over-in­dul­gence.

 “All of our val­ues today are sex val­ues,” says James Wood, an im­port­ant 
ad­vert­ising ex­ec­ut­ive. “We sell cars with it, we get people to donate money to all sorts of 
or­gan­iz­a­tions by us­ing it, we even pro­mote polit­ical can­did­ates through the subtle 
use of sex. So, we’ve given our youth sex with a cap­ital ‘S’. How can we blame them when 
they use it other than we want them to? We can’t blame them, not as adults, not as par­ents, 
and when we can’t blame young­sters, how in the world are we go­ing to dis­cip­line them to 
dif­fer­ent, more ri­gid and proper mor­als?”

 The an­swer seems to be - “We can’t!”

 Through all the cen­tur­ies of his­tory, pros­ti­tu­tion has been an ad­junct of sex. It
has been con­demned, it has been pro­sec­uted, nev­er­the­less it has sur­vived and thrived. 
Con­sequently, it should not be sur­pris­ing to any­one that today’s teen-age sex situ­ation is 
be­ing ac­com­pan­ied by a start­ling up­surge in teen-age pros­ti­tu­tion.

 The old idea of a blowsy, over-painted, cheaply-dressed (or un­dressed) whore, is 
be­ing rap­idly re­placed today by the pic­ture of a clear-eyed, av­er­agely-dressed teen-ager 
who has made sex her busi­ness. Sim­il­arly, the old idea of a girl forced into pros­ti­tu­tion 
be­cause of fin­an­cial pres­sures, must also fall by the way­side.

 In today’s bur­geon­ing eco­nomy and help­ful wel­fare to needy fam­il­ies, the 
teen-ager who turns to pros­ti­tu­tion as a way of life, usu­ally does so be­cause she wants to.
A streak of nym­pho­mania in her char­ac­ter may find its out­let in pros­ti­tu­tion; or, 
pros­ti­tu­tion may be a means of bring­ing her more of the ma­ter­ial things of life than she 
could oth­er­wise ob­tain; or, she may be the pawn of a vi­cious first lover who then 
be­comes her pimp, and for whom she then sells her body will­ingly; or, fi­nally, she may just 
turn to whor­ing for fun, for kicks, which is so im­port­ant to today’s youth.

 In any case, teen-aged pros­ti­tu­tion – teen-aged hust­ling – has be­come an 
in­teg­ral part of today’s sex. Ac­cept­ance, of course, does not make it right, but no one can 
deny that it ex­ists plen­ti­fully; and that it ex­ists due to a vari­ety of mo­tiv­a­tions and in a 
vari­ety of back­grounds, as will be ex­em­pli­fied by the col­lec­tion of case his­tor­ies in the 
fol­low­ing pages.





CHAPTER ONE


“WHAT’S A NICE GIRL LIKE YOU DO­ING SCREW­ING?” The sexu­ally de­lin­quent 
girl is a com­plex­ity of emo­tions, any one of which could lead her to pros­ti­tu­tion. Many 
times a girl who is not sexu­ally de­lin­quent will have those same im­pulses. The dif­fer­ence 
is the total psy­cho­lo­gical make-up of the in­di­vidual; ex­per­i­ence, growth, adult 
ex­amples – everything that touches her as she goes through the matur­ing pro­cess.

 From a study of teen-aged sexu­al­ists and pros­ti­tutes re­viewed re­cently by a 
psy­chi­at­rist and his staff it would seem that the girls are in­deed made up of nearly every 
com­plex. Some seethe with hate. Oth­ers are con­fused about love. Many drive for re­venge 
and still oth­ers are at­trac­ted to the sale of their young bod­ies be­cause of the pure 
ma­ter­ial gain they can achieve. But of all the con­fu­sion that boils within the teen-hust­lers,
four def­in­ite mo­tiv­a­tions ap­pear to stand out as the strongest com­pel­ling forces in 
their lives: Hos­til­ity, The Elec­tra Com­plex, Ma­ter­ial De­sires, and the Cas­tra­tion 
Com­plex.

 The Elec­tra Com­plex is a psy­cho­lo­gical term used to de­scribe a young 
fe­male’s sub­con­scious wish to re­place the mother and ex­per­i­ence sexual in­ter­course 
with the father. It is lat­ent in many girls. And for some, the sub­con­scious wish is brought to 
con­scious­ness and ac­tu­ally ac­ted out, either with the father or with a father-fig­ure.

 Hos­til­ity, lat­ent and real, plays an im­port­ant role in the de­vel­op­ment of a 
fe­male sexual de­lin­quent, most au­thor­it­ies agree. Today, early teen-agers churn with 
hos­til­ity – for their par­ents, for so­ci­ety, for most adults and all au­thor­ity. Boys com­mit 
crimes, en­gage in rumbles, be­come tru­ants and drop-outs, and do any num­ber of acts to 
ex­press their hos­til­ity. But girls al­most al­ways use sex as the me­dia for their hos­til­ity. 
They’ll cop­u­late with sev­eral boys in the back seats of cars, they’ll se­duce older men, they’ll
dress in a way that ex­poses their young bod­ies, and some­times they’ll be­come hust­lers. 
And hos­til­ity is the mo­tiv­a­tion be­hind most of their promis­cu­ity.

 The so-called Cas­tra­tion Com­plex mo­tiv­ates a large num­ber of girls to­ward 
promis­cu­ity. This com­plex has been de­scribed as the sub­con­scious urge to cas­trate, or 
take away the mas­culin­ity of, males. It is part of the girl’s first sub­con­scious feel­ings, 
some­times dir­ec­ted to­ward her father. The wish to cas­trate stems from deeply-rooted 
feel­ings of in­ad­equa­cies within the fe­male her­self be­cause she does not pos­sess a 
penis, has lost it or been denied it. In fact, the com­plex is some­thing re­ferred to as “Penis 
Envy.” Early sexual in­ter­course will, for some girls, feed her cas­tra­tion urge be­cause once 
in­volved in the sex act she is “phys­ic­ally” per­form­ing a cas­tra­tion upon the male 
(hid­ing, or tak­ing his penis from him).

 True or not, it is sig­ni­fic­ant to this re­port that the fol­low­ing cases il­lus­trate 
the mo­tiv­a­tions of Hos­til­ity, The Elec­tra Com­plex, Ma­ter­i­al­ity, and the Cas­tra­tion 
Com­plex.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Eve N.’s earli­est memor­ies were those of fam­ily prayer led by her father, a 
dea­con in a small town church who was ac­cused by ac­quaint­ances of “try­ing to be ho­lier 
than God.”

 God, the Bible and Mr. N.’s con­stant dam­na­tion of any­thing that did not 
con­form to his ri­gid, some­times fan­at­ical prin­ciples, dom­in­ated Eve’s life. She once told
her psy­chi­at­rist that she was “forced to spend more time on my knees than on my feet.”

 Her mother was dom­in­ated, too. A frightened, un­at­tract­ive wo­man, she feared 
not to do her hus­band’s bid­ding on even the smal­lest mat­ter.

 Eve hated her life but she had no op­por­tun­ity to know any other. A spe­cial 
griev­ance of her young life were the “open con­fes­sion” ses­sions her father im­posed upon 
his fam­ily weekly. Dur­ing these long, bore­some meet­ings every­one in the fam­ily, 
es­pe­cially Eve and her two younger broth­ers, were co­erced into “con­fess­ing their sins 
and beg­ging for for­give­ness.” Con­fes­sions con­fused Eve, when she was a child. So did 
sin. She really didn’t know what sin was.

 When, on oc­ca­sions she would claim she had no sins to con­fess, she was the 
sub­ject of bru­tal scold­ings from her father. He said she lied, that sins were within her heart 
and mind, that she had tempta­tions, that she was un­worthy of her father’s home and God’s 
kind­ness, that she had to have sins to con­fess. And for all the fam­ily there was al­ways the 
sin of cre­ation that Mr. N. Could call upon to sup­port his claims; every­one was a sin­ner 
be­cause they were born of sin, of the vile act of fleshly lust. Her father’s ser­mons on lust and 
sin began to in­terest Eve a bit when she was eight. When she was ten she be­came in­trigued
with the sub­ject and would even “bait” her father into ser­mons on the sub­ject. That was 
also the age at which Eve began to dream of boys, those who were in her classes at school, 
those at Sunday School, and boys every­where.

 When Eve turned twelve she began to mas­turb­ate. Upon the oc­ca­sion of her 
self-in­duced or­gasm she felt that crush of shame and fear; shame be­cause she could not 
de­nounce the re­li­gious in­flu­ence of her life, and fear that she might some­how be forced 
to ad­mit her crime. And she did. It happened at a Fri­day night fam­ily prayer meet­ing.

 “Con­fess your sins,” Mr. N. Ex­hor­ted. “Con­fess and be saved. God is for­giv­ing 
and kind, there’s noth­ing that can­not be safely con­fessed to Him.”

 God may have been for­giv­ing and kind. He may also have been cap­able of 
hear­ing any con­fes­sion. But Mr. N. Was not.

 “I’ve done some­thing ter­rible,” Eve said, jump­ing up from her knees and fa­cing 
her father.

 “Con­fess, child, and all will be well with you again,” Mr. N. Told her.

 “I’ve – I’ve known the feel­ing of lust – I’ve touched my­self and made my­self feel 
things that I shouldn’t feel – and I’ve liked it – Oh, for­give me.”

 “Quiet!” Mr. N. Thundered, his face flush­ing red. “Shut up, shut up! No daugh­ter of
mine can con­fess such a thing, no child of my seed could have done such a thing. Be quiet – 
go to your room and stay on your knees un­til I re­lease you.”

 Eve went to her room. She went to her knees in a corner. But she did not pray. 
In­stead, she thought of the con­fu­sion of her father’s prin­ciples, she thought of his 
hy­po­crisy and double-stand­ards. And she thought of the feel­ing that she knew when she 
had touched at her clit­oris and swelled un­til her sen­sa­tions burst.

 Mr. N.’s pun­ish­ment was severe. Eve was forced to spend a month on her knees 
ex­cept for school, church, meals, and the other ne­ces­sit­ies of life. But the pun­ish­ment 
didn’t bother her nearly so much as the new feel­ings that growled within her; feel­ings of 
hate and ven­geance and dis­respect for her father. It was as if she had dis­covered him a 
fraud. And she hated him for it. The seeds of hos­til­ity mul­ti­plied every second of her 
pun­ish­ment, then were re­in­forced when she ob­served the new way her father looked at 
her, the hate that showed in his eyes, that made her feel de­graded. De­lib­er­ately, while on 
her knees dur­ing the month of her pun­ish­ment, Eve did not pray nor think of God or of any
of the things her father had com­manded that she should. She re­placed those things with 
sexual fantas­ies. It marked the be­gin­ning of her hos­til­ity.

 When Eve was thir­teen she pro­voked her se­duc­tion. The cir­cum­stances of that 
se­duc­tion are an ex­ample of the role hos­til­ity played in her in­tro­duc­tion to sex and her 
even­tual emer­gence as a sex hust­ler.

 Eve had the job clean­ing the small church after each of the sev­eral meet­ings that 
were held there dur­ing the week. She didn’t like the job, but she did like the op­por­tun­ity it 
offered her to be in the com­pany of boys. The Wed­nes­day night meet­ing was held for the 
boys’ bas­ket­ball team. A sev­en­teen-year-old boy on the team named Jim was a spe­cial 
dream-fig­ure for Eve. She had had a crush on him for months and had even used him as the 
sub­ject of her fantas­ies while mas­turb­at­ing, a habit that a month of pun­ish­ment did not
quiet.

 Eve con­trived to be in the church’s cloak room when the bas­ket­ball team broke 
up their meet­ing. She con­trived also to be dust­ing a top shelf as the boys passed by the 
open cloak room door. This re­quired that she stand on a straight back chair which offered a 
bold view of her body from that po­s­i­tion. Her skirt pulled high above her knees, her 
but­tocks jut­ted out­ward, and her breasts pushed boldly against the sweater that she wore.

 It was the cus­tom of Jim to leave the meet­ing last. Eve knew it. He didn’t 
dis­ap­point her this Wed­nes­day night.

 “You’re go­ing to break your neck,” he said, stop­ping and look­ing into the cloak 
room.

 Eve laughed, then pur­posely stumbled a bit. Jim rushed to her res­cue and caught 
her about the waist.

 Eve trembled at his touch and leaned heav­ily against him, caus­ing her breasts to 
lower and touch at the top of his hands. She could feel his body bolt alert to the touch, but he
made no move to slacken his hold upon her body.

 Slowly, she turned and stepped down from the chair. Jim did not re­lease her. She 
faced him.

 “You all right now?” he asked.

 “Sure, just fine,” she answered.

 Eve felt his hands trem­bling on her waist.

 She smiled at him, then, call­ing upon a soph­ist­ic­a­tion she did not know she 
pos­sessed, she raised her face and said, “Don’t you want to kiss me?”

 He nod­ded and pres­sured her close.

 Their lips met in­no­cently at first, but they soon opened and their tongues thrust 
out, lively and hot and anxious. Eve felt the sen­sa­tion that ran through her breasts as she 
cuddled them to his hard, young chest. And then she felt his hands change po­s­i­tion so that 
one crept within her sweater to grip at her breast as the other clutched hard at her but­tocks. 
Eve felt dazed. She thought of the res­ist­ance that she should of­fer, con­sidered that it 
might be more ap­peal­ing for a girl to act in­dig­nant at such in­timacies. But a flash­ing 
memory of her father in­vaded her mind and she knew that, for her at least, sub­tleties could 
never be in­dic­ated.

 She lowered her hand between their press­ing bod­ies. She grasped hard at his 
strain­ing penis.

 “Oh­h­hhh,” he breathed, mov­ing his mouth and whis­per­ing in her ear, “God! You
give me a hard-on like crazy!”

 Ex­cept for her fantas­ies, Eve was really in­no­cent. “What’s that mean? A hard-on?”
she asked.

 Jim looked at her in as­ton­ish­ment for a mo­ment. Was she put­ting him on? Then
he said, “This,” and pressed his bul­ging crotch more deeply into her ex­plor­ing hand.

 She wrenched her hand away, but he said, “No, no! Keep touch­ing it. It feels good.”
He brought her hand back to his or­gan.

 “I’ve never felt a real one,” Eve said.

 “Never felt a real cock!” Jim ex­claimed again in as­ton­ish­ment. “Don’t you ever 
feel your broth­ers’?”

 “Oh, no!” Eve said, shocked des­pite her­self.

 “My sis­ters play with mine, and jack me off,” Jim said. He ad­ded proudly. “Some times they even suck me off.” As he ex­plained to her what these phrases meant, she could 
feel his penis – she thought of it now as a “cock” - grow­ing harder un­der her fin­gers.

 “Listen, I’d sure like to fuck you, right now,” Jim said.

 “I feel the same way,” Eve ad­mit­ted.

 His hand reached in­side her bra and he star­ted play­ing more boldly with her 
breast and nipple. In re­turn, Eve clutched more strongly upon his penis. Jim bent her 
back­wards, and she was ready to slump to the floor, but she res­isted and said, “Not here – I 
know a bet­ter place.”

 She grasped his hand and led him out of the cloak room and to the se­cluded and 
now empty choir loft.

 “Here,” she said. “Nobody can see us here, even if they come into the church.”

 “Here?” Jim asked, sur­prised.

 “Yes,” Eve said. “Come on, hurry and get star­ted. I’ve never done it be­fore, and I 
want to.” She sank to the car­peted floor and hiked her skirt high above her hips, then arched 
up and re­moved her un­der­wear. Her na­ked flesh glisten­ing even in the semi-dark­ness, 
she looked im­pa­tiently at Jim. He quickly stripped down un­til he too glistened na­kedly in 
the gloomy light. His penis stood out, rock-hard.

 “I want to get a good look at your -your cock,” Eve said.

 “You can look at it later,” Jim said. “Let’s fuck now.” He lurched his body down on 
top of hers, and guided him­self quickly into the hot, moist open­ing she presen­ted to him. 
He star­ted slid­ing his hard flesh in and out of her. Lub­ric­ated by her own hot de­sire, her 
va­gina offered him little res­ist­ance.

 In a whis­per he told her what to do to in­crease their pleas­ure, and she obeyed 
him like a do­cile child. He in­creased the tempo of his move­ments, and she like­wise 
in­creased the rhythm of her re­sponse. His young, slim body writhed tem­pes­tu­ously as he 
car­ried her along on the tide of his pas­sion. Eve mur­mured sounds of pleas­ure and 
sat­is­fac­tion. Then she felt his body tense, and she in­stinct­ively arched high and hard to 
meet him as he held him­self in­side her, and then she felt the hot sperm shoot­ing from him, 
up in­side her.

 She waited un­til his body re­laxed a little, and then she asked, “Is that it?”

 “Yes,” he said husk­ily. “I came. Did you?” He had to ex­plain to her what he meant, 
and then she said that she hadn’t felt an or­gasm. “At least, I don’t think so,” she ad­ded.

 “Oh, you would know if you did,” Jim said. “Girls don’t all the time, so don’t worry or 
any­thing.”

 “Any­way, it felt good!” Eve said.

 “Listen, let’s wait a few minutes and then we can do it again,” Jim sug­ges­ted.

 “Why do we have to wait a few minutes?” Eve asked.

 Jim looked at her in ex­as­per­a­tion. “So my cock can get hard again,” he said. 
“Gee, you don’t know any­thing about it, do you?”

 “No, I don’t, really,” Eve said. “At least I know more about it now than I did be­fore.”

 “Well, it’ll get hard again faster if you play around with it,” Jim sug­ges­ted. He put 
her hand on his penis, which was already be­gin­ning to firm up again.

 “Kind of play with it. You know, stretch it out, and like that,” Jim sug­ges­ted. “And 
cuddle my balls and kind of fin­ger my as­shole.”

 With quiet curi­os­ity, Eve did all of the things he sug­ges­ted.

 “Is it hard enough now?” she asked.

 “Yeah,” he said. “Listen, there’s other ways of do­ing it too. Like, I could fuck it in 
your as­shole in­stead of into your cunt.”

 “Is it worse that way?” Eve asked.

 “What do you mean – worse?” Jim ques­tioned.

 “I mean, is it more sin­ful?”

 “Sin­ful! I never think of it any way as be­ing sin­ful.”

 “Oh, but it is!” Eve ex­claimed. “That’s why I’m do­ing it. Be­cause my father hates 
sin, and I hate my father.”

 “Oh... “ Jim said, thought­fully. Then, slyly, “Yeah, I guess it is worse to fuck you in 
the ass than the other way.”

 “Okay,” Eve said. “Show me how.”

 Jim had her kneel on her hands and knees. He got be­hind her and spread her 
but­tocks, then stopped.

 “You know,” he said, “it would be aw­ful sin­ful if you’d suck on it for a while be­fore
I put it in.”

 “You mean with my mouth?” Eve asked.

 “Yeah,” Jim said.

 “Okay,” Eve said.

 Jim hur­ried around and got on his knees in front of her. “Now just suck on it,” he 
said, pulling her head to­ward his penis. Again, she obeyed him do­cilely.

 “Suck on it nice and easy,” he said, ur­ging him­self into her warm mouth. “Don’t 
make me come again too quick. Let’s save that for -you know – your ass.”

 Suck­ing, Eve nod­ded agree­ment.

 After a few minutes dur­ing which he groaned with pleas­ure, Jim said, “Okay now 
let me get around back there.” He pulled him­self out of her mouth, and scur­ried be­hind 
her. He po­si­tioned him­self again at her rear and star­ted to ease his saliva-smooth penis 
into her anus.

 “That hurts a little,” she said.

 “Don’t worry,” Jim said. “Some­times it does, the first time this way. It won’t hurt so 
much once it gets past the open­ing. Just re­lax so that your hole is nice and open.” He 
con­tin­ued hump­ing him­self into her.

 “Press back onto my cock,” he in­struc­ted.

 She did, and he quickened his tempo, tight­en­ing his hold on her hips as he pulled 
her back tighter to him­self.

 “Now!” he cried. “Now I’m com­ing again! Can you feel it? Can you feel it!”

 “Yes, yes!” Eve cried ex­cited, swiv­el­ing her hips in in­stinct­ive re­sponse and she 
again felt his hot fluid shoot into her.

 Eve and Jim met for sexual ses­sions many times after that. She did not be­come 
promis­cu­ous. She had in­ter­course only with Jim, and she al­ways in­sisted that they have it
in the choir loft.

 Then, one night, they were dis­covered by her father while they were en­joy­ing anal
in­ter­course. Her shocked and in­furi­ated father al­most had a stroke.

 “I’m glad you caught me!” Eve shouted at him. “I wanted you to!” She glared her 
hatred at him. “I des­pise you!”

 Eve left her fam­ily home and moved to an­other town. For a while she worked as a 
wait­ress, but she was fired be­cause of her “un­so­cial at­ti­tude.”

 She soon be­came a pros­ti­tute. Every writh­ing of her body was charged with 
hos­til­ity to­ward her father, and this gave her sexual per­form­ance a vehe­mence which 
many men en­joyed.

 Re­gard­ing the case of Eve, a psy­chi­at­rist re­cently said, “This girl was 
mo­tiv­ated to­ward sex and pros­ti­tu­tion be­cause of the hos­til­ity she felt for her father. 
The set­ting she chose for her early sexual activ­it­ies – the choir loft – was a dir­ect slap at her
father and what she con­sidered his hy­po­crit­ical saint­li­ness. It was a re­volt against him 
and against the hy­po­crisy he ex­hib­ited.”

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Karen’s father con­sidered him­self a lib­eral and de­term­ined to raise his 
daugh­ter in that kind of en­vir­on­ment. He in­sisted that he and his wife speak frankly about
sex when his daugh­ter posed a ques­tion. And he was not at all care­ful to hide his 
na­ked­ness from his child. Neither was he in­clined to forego sexual in­ter­course with his 
wife at any time that he wanted it; not even when Karen, as was her habit as a child, slept with 
them.

 Karen was a great pal to her father. They went many places to­gether and shared 
nearly everything. Her mother of­ten felt left out of things be­cause of this close 
father-daugh­ter re­la­tion­ship.

 Karen has re­por­ted that she loved to share the bed of her mother and father. 
Night­mares were the ex­cuse, but a father-fix­a­tion was the mo­tiv­at­ing factor.

 “I used to hate it when my mother and father were mak­ing love,” Karen ad­mit­ted.
“But mostly I hated my mother. I guess I was jeal­ous of her.”

 Her young life was shattered when her father deser­ted. The ru­mors that she heard 
– that her father had run away with a young and at­tract­ive wo­man -were cause for great 
hurt. Her sad­ness did not lessen un­til her mother, plagued by fin­an­cial prob­lems, was 
forced to take a roomer into their home.

 The man was about forty. He was at­tract­ive. He was very at­tent­ive to Karen, who,
at fif­teen, had grown into a beau­ti­ful and vo­lup­tu­ously built young wo­man. And for the 
father-de­prived girl the man answered her need for a father.

 Karen and the roomer be­came great com­pan­ions. They went many places 
to­gether, du­plic­at­ing for her that life she had known with her father. Her mother was 
in­dif­fer­ent to the re­la­tion­ship. She was un­happy, un­ac­cus­tomed to work­ing the long
hours that were ne­ces­sary, al­ways tired, and con­stantly re­sent­ful that she must raise a 
child without a hus­band. Karen, in turn, re­sen­ted her mother. She could not free her­self of 
the thought that it was her mother who had caused her father’s deser­tion. (Psy­chi­at­rists 
main­tained that this was a con­veni­ent psy­cho­lo­gical way for Karen to avoid the 
im­age-des­troy­ing real­iz­a­tion of her father’s guilt in the mat­ter.)

 The roomer, a sales­man, had to go out of town for a week.

 Karen was des­pond­ent dur­ing the roomer’s ab­sence. When he re­turned, early 
and un­ex­pec­tedly, in the middle of the week and at a time that found her alone in the 
house, she was over­joyed.

 When he entered the house, she flew into his arms. Karen has re­lated that the 
in­cid­ent was sim­ilar to many she had known with her father.

 The man re­acted vi­ol­ently to the young-girl-body cud­dling close to him. But he 
did not touch her in­tim­ately. He went to his room, then called for her to join him.

 “I’ve missed you,” she said, set­tling on the edge of his bed.

 “I’ve missed you, too,” he said. “But I’m back now and I have a present for you.”

 “You do!”

 “Yip.”

 He went to his suit­case and ex­trac­ted a small pack­age. When Karen opened it, 
she found a gleam­ing neck­lace. She was over­joyed. She leaped from the bed and in a burst 
of af­fec­tion threw her arms around the man’s neck.

 Now he was not pla­tonic. He crushed her to him and kissed her, part­ing her young
lips with his tongue, nib­bling at her ear­lobes and fi­nally bring­ing both hands to knead at 
her breasts.

 Karen was ex­cited. Heat flushed through­out her body. Her thighs quivered.

 The man pushed her away from him. Neither of them spoke. But the man’s hands 
told her what he wanted. His fin­gers deftly un­did the but­tons of her blouse. He re­moved it,
then took her bra, skirt, and panties from her body. When she was nude, he sighed, stood 
back, looked at her a mo­ment, then stripped out of his own cloth­ing.

 Karen stared at his na­ked body. She stared at his penis, so much lar­ger than her 
father’s had been.

 “I’m not go­ing to hurt you,” he said.

 “I know,” she answered. “You wouldn’t – you couldn’t hurt me.” They em­braced 
again, then fell upon the bed. The man was a pa­tient and at­tent­ive lover. He kissed her over
all her body, pay­ing spe­cial at­ten­tion to her hard little nipples that pushed hot and hard at
his mouth. And he kissed her at the stom­ach and on the in­sides of her thighs. Karen 
breathed heav­ily and trembled ex­citedly.

 “Now you do the same to me,” the roomer in­struc­ted.

 “Kiss you?”

 “Yes. All over.”

 The man stretched on his back on the bed.

 Karen did as she was told. She perched at the man’s side, her own na­ked body 
pinkened from caresses, show­ing pas­sion, too, in the way her breasts were large and bloated
with the tips hard and press­ing, and in the man­ner that her thighs rippled with en­ergy and 
a cer­tain im­pa­tience.

 She du­plic­ated the man’s pat­tern. She kissed his mouth and played her tongue 
within it. She kissed at his ears where she plunged, then flicked, the sharpened point of her 
tongue. And she licked her tongue across his chest, at his waist, a bit lower, and then, 
avoid­ing the column of his penis, at his thighs.

 “You can kiss me there, too,” the man said softly.

 “Kiss you there?”

 “Yes. Very hard there.”

 Her head bobbed low, then paused. The pause ended when the man wound his 
fin­gers into her hair and urged her down­ward. At first she ac­ted as the novice she was. But 
ex­per­i­ence came to her quickly and she was soon bob­bing and rising and bob­bing low 
again in a fast pat­tern of frantic suck­ing. The man’s arch­ing cock and strong fin­gers 
guided her ex­pertly. And fi­nally he stopped her and pulled her away from him. “No more, no
more,” he chanted. “No more cock­suck­ing for now.”

 Gasp­ing, she raised up and looked at him. The man raised, too. Then he urged her 
to the edge of the bed. She sat there as he crawled out of the bed and stood fa­cing her. 
Act­ing in­stinct­ively, she hois­ted to her knees, jut­ting her but­tocks over the edge of the 
bed.

 The man hes­it­ated a mo­ment. Then his hands were upon the smooth firm flesh 
she presen­ted. And then Karen had an­other sur­prise. The man did not touch at that place 
of re­ceiv­er­ship as she had an­ti­cip­ated. In­stead, he stretched her but­tocks wide and 
pres­sured against the open­ing of her ass.

 He lurched for­ward. She felt the grind of his en­trance, but she felt it minus the 
sexual thrill she had ex­pec­ted. She bounced her hips with every thrust that was made 
be­hind her. And she circled a bit, too, adding thrill for the man who was her father-im­age. 
She could tell that she was sat­is­fy­ing him, knew that it was so be­cause of the sighs and 
moans and short cries that is­sued from him.

 The man reached his cli­max quickly. Karen felt vast dis­ap­point­ment that she was 
not moved to cry out as was her lover. And when they had res­ted, she ex­pressed her 
dis­ap­point­ment.

 “I al­ways thought it would be dif­fer­ent,” she told him.

 “Then let’s do some­thing dif­fer­ent,” he said.

 He switched his body to the bed, then urged her to take a po­s­i­tion op­pos­ite 
him. He began at her ankles and kissed up­ward. In a mo­ment, she joined his ac­tion. And 
then they were en­gaged, locked in sixty-nine fash­ion, each pour­ing their or­al­ity to the 
other, and suck­ing hard.

 When the man paused, made a slight sep­ar­a­tion with one hand, then brought his
kisses hard against her clit­oris, she cried sounds of genu­ine pas­sion.

 They ended with their legs hooked around each other’s heads. And Karen, true to 
the man’s prom­ise, found her thrill­ing cli­max. Her young thighs tor­tured against his head 
as he brought her to the fi­nale of all her great feel­ings. So in­tense was Karen on the 
burst­ing of her own body, that she was hardly aware that she had caused a second cli­max 
for her lover.

 Karen and the roomer con­tin­ued as non-pen­et­rat­ing lov­ers for six months, 
al­though he never made an ef­fort to take her in va­gina in­ter­course. Then, after much 
pre­par­a­tion by the roomer, they joined in an act of sexual in­ter­course. At first it was 
un­sat­is­fy­ing for her.

 Then after sev­eral at­tempts, Karen began to achieve or­gasm through the means 
of sexual in­ter­course, without the ad­ded or­al­ity needed. She pur­sued her lover 
wan­tonly, had in­ter­course with him as of­ten as pos­sible, even forced him to sex when he 
was dis­in­clined and in­cap­able.

 Fi­nally, Karen and her lover, at­ten­ded a party of some of his friends. She met a 
new man, a gam­bler in his forties. He made a date with her. They en­gaged sexu­ally. Taken 
with her youth, and the nym­pho­mania she ex­hib­ited, he sug­ges­ted that she make sex 
her ca­reer. She agreed. He put her in the care of an ex­per­i­enced wo­man who man­aged a
ring of teen-aged pros­ti­tutes.

 Karen be­came the fa­vor­ite of many cus­tom­ers, was ,sought after be­cause of 
her abil­it­ies at achiev­ing a cli­max through either in­ter­course of cun­ni­lin­gus. She 
prospered for a year be­fore ar­rest gave her the op­por­tun­ity for psy­chi­at­ric 
coun­sel­ing.

 Karen was act­ing out the age-old Elec­tra Com­plex with every man she sexu­ally 
ser­viced. Father-deser­tion – her early sexual at­ti­tudes – her growth and ex­per­i­ence – all 
these things fed the latency of her father-im­age striv­ings un­til at last they were con­sciously
demon­strated through her early sexu­al­ity with older men and the even­tual pros­ti­tu­tion 
to­ward which she drif­ted.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 El­len began sav­ing pen­nies when she was five. At ten, she helped her­self to 
change in her mother’s purse. At twelve she was a psy­cho­pathic liar about the things she 
claimed to have – things that would never be her lot; an ex­pens­ive home and fur­nish­ings, 
ser­vants, wealth, jew­elry and cars. Some of her friends knew she was ly­ing, but most left her
to her dream world. Some of them felt sorry for her be­cause they were aware of the slum in 
which she ac­tu­ally resided.

 El­len was not yet thir­teen, when a neigh­bor boy named Billy asked her to 
mas­turb­ate him.

 “Just jack me off,” he begged her. “It feels bet­ter when some­body else does it and 
not me my­self.”

 “What will you give me if I do?” El­len asked.

 “I’ll give you a nice hard cock up your snatch,” he said.

 El­len screwed her face up in an ex­pres­sion of dis­taste. “I don’t want that old 
thing up me,” she said. “Will you pay me if I jack you off?”

 “I’ll give you half a dol­lar,” the boy said fi­nally.

 “Half a dol­lar to jack off one that big!” El­len cried. “That’s worth a dol­lar at least. 
Tempt­ingly she star­ted rub­bing the boy’s ex­posed penis.

 “Okay,” he groaned, “I’ll give you the fuckin’ buck. Just keep on do­ing it... don’t 
stop... “ After the boy had ejac­u­lated, El­len told him, “If you really want to put it up my 
snatch, I’ll let you – for five dol­lars.” The boy, sexu­ally sat­is­fied for the mo­ment by her 
mas­turb­a­tion of him, said, “Fuck you,” and walked away from her.

 It was less than a year later that El­len did sell her vir­gin­ity, but by that time it 
brought her twenty dol­lars, from a twenty-year old gro­cery clerk. The clerk’s boss learned 
about it, and a few days later he offered El­len ten dol­lars to per­form fel­la­tio upon him. 
Other men learned about young El­len’s avail­ab­il­ity, and she was soon do­ing a thriv­ing 
busi­ness. She hoarded her earn­ings, dream­ing of the ma­ter­ial things the money would 
buy her.

 One man’s wife fi­nally re­por­ted El­len to the au­thor­it­ies, and she was placed in 
a home for de­lin­quent girls.

 In the home El­len met an older girl. They be­came close friends. Soon, they 
be­came lov­ers. The les­bian act provided the first sexual cli­max of El­len’s young life. And it 
set the pat­tern for the only means of sexual grat­i­fic­a­tion she was ever to know.

 This is the way El­len, in psy­cho­thera­peutic re­call, de­scribed the event.

 “I liked this gal. Really liked her. She did a lot of things for me, tuned me in on what 
the deal was around the home, got me spe­cial things to eat – you know, really put me in 
touch. So, what the hell, I didn’t think too much about it when she kissed me and star­ted to 
snuggle up to me after the lights were out. After that I had sex reg­u­larly with her, and with 
other girls, who gave me money and things. I did real well.”

 When El­len was re­leased from the de­ten­tion home she im­me­di­ately called the
tele­phone num­ber her friend had given her. The man made ar­range­ments for meet­ing 
her. When he did, he agreed to spon­sor her ca­reer as a young whore.

 El­len was a very prof­it­able in­vest­ment to her em­ployer. She would do 
any­thing for money.

 Between her fif­teenth and sev­en­teenth birth­days, El­len learned and 
par­ti­cip­ated in nearly every sexual de­vi­ation and fet­ish known. She sub­mit­ted to 
beat­ing, she beat cus­tom­ers with a whip, donned leather to re­ceive the touches of a 
fet­ish­ist, gave fel­la­tio and re­ceived cun­ni­lin­gus, al­lowed her na­ked body to be 
vi­ol­ated with paint, caviar, and sper­ma­to­zoa. Once she even al­lowed pen­et­ra­tion of 
her body by a don­key while the males of a stag party cheered. But through it all, El­len never 
knew sexual cli­max, un­til her friend from the ju­ven­ile home fi­nally com­pleted a long 
sen­tence and was re­leased.

 “I got hot all over when I fi­nally was with Inez again,” El­len has said.

 The re­cre­ation of that re­union scene is per­tin­ent to this re­port in that it 
demon­strates the rapid­ity with which El­len knew a cli­max with an­other girl while at the 
same time she re­mained fri­gid to all sexual activ­ity by men.

 Alone in El­len’s room, El­len and Inez brought their na­ked bod­ies to­gether in a 
blast of heat. Their breasts crunched and ground to­gether. Their thighs locked and they 
lurched back and forth to­gether.

 Inez was an ag­gress­ive les­bian lover. She kissed El­len’s bare body rap­tur­ously, 
then at last, and hur­riedly, crouched at the younger girl’s thighs.

 Inez ground the hard ex­ten­sion of her clit­oris to the arch­ing body of El­len. They
thrust and writhed to­gether much as if they were man and wo­man, but El­len re­ceived 
or­gas­mic sat­is­fac­tion that she never did with men.

 Their re­la­tion­ship ended when El­len de­man­ded money from Inez for hav­ing 
sex with her. Inez was as­ton­ished and in­furi­ated.

 “Why, you miser­able dyke!” Inez ex­ploded. “Why should I pay you for it? You’re 
get­ting your kicks out of it, the same as me.”

 El­len ad­mit­ted that she en­joyed sex with Inez more than with any­one else. “But 
I never do any­thing for noth­ing,” she said stub­bornly.

 “Kiss my ass, you cunt!” Inez shouted coarsely.

 “I will, if you’ll pay me,” El­len said quietly.

 Inez stared at her in dis­be­lief. “You fuckin’ freak, you really mean that, don’t you? 
Well, I’m mov­ing out of here to­mor­row morn­ing.”

 “Make it to­night,” El­len said. “It’ll cost you five bucks rent if you stay here to­night.
And that’s cheaper than a motel!”

 El­len worked for five years as a well-paid teen-age pros­ti­tute. She saved all her 
money and in­ves­ted it wisely. She was still a very young wo­man when she re­tired from 
pros­ti­tu­tion, bought a lovely home in the coun­try, and filled it with all the beau­ti­ful, 
ma­ter­ial things that she had al­ways dreamed about. Hers is one of the few stor­ies that 
ended on a re­l­at­ively happy note. Ma­ter­i­al­ism drove her into pros­ti­tu­tion, but it also 
gave her an in­cent­ive to give it up be­fore it was too late.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 It has been said that wo­men, al­though they blush at the word “cas­tra­tion,” are 
largely mo­tiv­ated by that com­plex drives.

 So it was with Lita S. She had long, au­burn hair, green eyes, and a body that 
shouted sexu­al­ity. Lita was shy un­til she star­ted upon her men­strual cycle at thir­teen 
years of age. Then she be­came giddy and bold. Then she be­came ag­gress­ive to­ward boys.

 One of Lita’s earli­est memor­ies is that of tak­ing a shower with her father. It was 
an oc­ca­sion, she re­called, for much laughter. She re­called, too, her feel­ings of 
in­ad­equacy when she ob­served her father’s large penis and her own lack of such an or­gan.

 She was to re­mem­ber this feel­ing again upon the oc­ca­sion of her first 
men­stru­ation. She was quite up­set by the event. Some­where in her sub­con­scious there 
lurked the opin­ion that some harm had been done her, that she had been meant to have that
or­gan of the male but had been denied it. And she looked upon her father – and all men – as
en­emies who had caused this in­ad­equacy in her.

 Dur­ing her four­teenth year, Lita be­came a tru­ant from school, and a fledgling 
teen-hust­ler. And at the basis of her mighty, un­quench­able sexual drive there was the 
psychic wish to cas­trate all men.

 Us­ing po­lice re­ports and the re­cords of Lita’s psy­chi­at­ric in­ter­views, it is 
pos­sible to re­count her feel­ings dur­ing her sexual acts, all of which poin­ted up her 
emo­tions that were dir­ec­ted and ded­ic­ated to the de­struc­tion of mas­culin­ity.

 She sub­mit­ted to any and all who wanted her. Many did, for she was sexu­ally 
at­tract­ive with a body that was mol­ded per­fectly.

 To a friend of her father she hin­ted that she was not only will­ing, but anxious, to 
meet him in a sexual in­ter­lude. The psy­chi­at­ric­ally re­pro­duced ex­per­i­ence 
demon­strates her cas­trat­ing drive.

 “I really don’t like you,” she said to the man after he had kissed her and fondled her.

 “That doesn’t seem likely,” he smiled. “Not the way you kissed me.”

 “That doesn’t mean any­thing.”

 “Doesn’t it?”

 “Of course not. I fuck around with lots of men I don’t like.”

 “Oh, do you?” he said.

 “Sure. It’s even more fun that way, let­ting a guy think he’s turn­ing you on, and 
really hat­ing him all the time.”

 The man shook his head, then pro­ceeded to un­dress her. She wouldn’t al­low it. 
In­stead, she stripped her­self of all her cloth­ing and rose nude to face him even be­fore he 
had re­moved his shirt.

 Lita’s eyes were cold when she lay down on the bed. And her body was cool, too, 
still un­in­spired by the touch and kisses of her father’s friend. But she was a de­mon of 
activ­ity upon the man’s body. She tor­tured his body with her tongue as she ran it the length 
of his na­ked body, paused, then swept up­ward again. When the man asked her to fel­la­tio, 
she did not hes­it­ate. She moved upon him with a vi­cious­ness that seemed al­most mad. 
Once he shouted at her to be care­ful, and when she con­tin­ued her rough treat­ment of his 
penis he jerked away from her and pulled her up­right.

 “What’s the mat­ter, can’t you take it?” she asked brazenly.

 “Yes – but not the way you give it, baby. You’re crazy. I just wanted you to suck it, 
not bite it off!”

 With that he rolled her to her back and braced him­self above her. As he paused, 
Lita clawed at his penis, ripped at him with her nails as her fin­gers hur­ried to bring him close.
The man cursed and slapped her hands away. Then he plunged his penis into her.

 Work­ing be­neath him, Lita seemed taken with hate and vi­ol­ence. She moved her
body from side to side and up and down in a rhythm that could only hurry him to his cli­max. 
And each time he pressed his penis into her, she smiled a pathetic smile, one that told of 
some secret sat­is­fac­tions that had noth­ing at all to do with the act in which she was 
in­volved.

 When Lita be­came a teen-pros­ti­tute she be­came noted for her will­ing­ness to 
ac­cept any cus­tomer. And through it all she re­mained fri­gidly in­dif­fer­ent to any­thing 
that was done to her.

 “Lita sat­is­fied a psychic need rather than a phys­ical grat­i­fic­a­tion,” her 
psy­chi­at­rist said. “With Lita, the tak­ing of a man’s penis into her own body served two 
pur­poses: It ‘cas­trated’ the man, and, at least for a little while, it provided her with the penis 
she had al­ways sought.”

 Her psy­chi­at­rist also stated that the girl’s early ex­per­i­ences shower­ing with 
her father was one im­port­ant seed of the Cas­tra­tion Com­plex that grew within her. The 
doc­tor stated, too, that all girls feel the trauma of “Penis Envy,” but that most out­grow this 
“denied” feel­ing and learn to live nor­mal lives. But Lita and oth­ers like her, are plagued by 
this through­out their lives, sur­ren­der­ing to promis­cu­ity be­cause it of­fers them the 
op­por­tun­ity to “cas­trate” men and gain the re­venge that their sub­con­scious de­mands.





CHAPTER TWO


YACHT OR GHETTO-SEX!

 Teen-aged sex is present in every so­cio-eco­nomic group. Neither eco­nomic 
con­di­tion, edu­ca­tion, I.Q., or so­cial back­ground, is an in­duce­ment or a de­terrent for 
teen sex ac­tion once a girl has money as her goal.

 The fol­low­ing two case his­tor­ies are ex­amples of young girls from op­pos­ite 
sta­tions of life who fol­lowed the same path to youth­ful pros­ti­tu­tion and some of the 
sexual de­vi­ations it in­cluded.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 When Carla was ten years old her fam­ily re­lo­cated from the slum neigh­bor­hood
where she was born to an­other sec­tion of the large city. This was not pro­gress. It was more 
of the same. Poverty had been Carla’s lot from the day of her birth. Poverty con­tin­ued to 
im­prison her. So did her father; a drunk, a mo­lester of chil­dren, a wife-beater, a non-worker
who saw fit to lounge in his home while his wife worked to sup­port Carla, her three sis­ters 
and two broth­ers.

 Carla was el­even when she first dis­covered that her father had a sexual re­ac­tion 
to her youth­ful, still not fully de­veloped body.

 She and her father were alone in the fam­ily flat that was their home. It was winter 
and the weather was cold out­side. But this had not stopped Carla from col­lect­ing empty 
pop bottles which she in­ten­ded to re­turn to the corner li­quor store for their de­posit 
value. She had worked hard, wan­der­ing the streets and al­leys of her neigh­bor­hood from 
the time school had been dis­missed. She had col­lec­ted a lot of bottles, enough so that she 
would be able to col­lect enough money to go to a movie.

 Her father, dressed only in shorts and shirt, was in a bad mood when Carla entered 
the flat. He was without beer and without money to buy any.

 Carla left the big bag filled with bottles in front of the flat, then went in­side to seek 
her father’s help in car­ry­ing them back to the store.

 “Where the hell you been?” he growled at her when she entered the liv­ing room.

 “Col­lect­ing bottles,” Carla answered. She took a step closer to the big man, then 
asked, “Dad – will you take the bottles back to the store for me?”

 “How many you got?” he asked.

 “About twenty-five – maybe more.”

 “Where are they?”

 “In front, in the bag.” She moved still closer, then said, “Please take them back for 
me.” He paused, then said, “Okay, Wait un­til I get ready.” Carla thanked him then went to the 
bath­room where she un­dressed and got ready to take a bath. Once in the tub with the 
wa­ter hot and cov­er­ing her to the waist, she no­ticed that her breasts seemed nearly fully 
de­veloped, that they were round and the nipples per­fectly shaped. And, to her amazement, 
the nipples were hard. As she looked at them, then touched them with her fin­gers in or­der 
to test their firm­ness, Carla felt a stir­ring at her thighs.

 She has stated to the psy­chi­at­rist with whom she pur­sued two years of 
psy­cho­ther­apy that she felt there was some­thing spe­cial about this mo­ment in her life, 
that some com­bin­a­tion of cir­cum­stances, her father, the bottles and their re­turn, her 
an­ti­cip­a­tion of at­tend­ing the movie, her bath and the op­por­tun­ity if offered for a new 
eval­u­ation of her ap­proach­ing ma­tur­ity, and the con­di­tions that found her alone in the
house with her father, all con­trib­uted to some sexual aware­ness that she had not 
pre­vi­ously ex­per­i­enced.

 When she left the bath­room, Carla went into the bed­room she shared with her 
sis­ters. She wore only a towel wrapped around her body as she moved from the one room to 
the other. In­side her bed­room, she toweled her­self while stand­ing in front of the full 
length mir­ror on the closet door. And again she be­came sen­su­ally aware of her body, of 
her hips that flared, the good lines of her legs, her breasts and their nipples, and the total rosy
pink­ness of her body. She dried her back with the towel, hold­ing each end of it and shift­ing
it from side to side, at the same time thrust­ing her breasts out­ward at her re­flec­tion in the 
mir­ror. Then she dried the front of her body. When she reached her thighs, she moved the 
towel more slowly, en­joy­ing the new sen­sa­tion of thrill that she felt. She felt heat move 
through her body and she sensed that it came from more than the tem­per­at­ure of the 
wa­ter she had just left.

 Fin­ished with her tow­el­ing, she donned a shortie nightie, her fa­vor­ite art­icle of 
cloth­ing. The nightie was of a very trans­par­ent ma­ter­ial, al­low­ing a view of much of her 
body.

 She re­turned to the liv­ing room at the same mo­ment that her father entered the 
front door. He car­ried a gro­cery store bag. In­stinct­ively, Carla knew that it con­tained beer 
– pur­chased by her father with the money col­lec­ted from her hard after-school search. She 
burned with an­ger.

 “Where’s my money?” she asked, look­ing at the man from across the room.

 “In my pocket,” her father replied.

 “What’s in the bag?”

 “Beer.”

 “What did you use for money?”

 “Oh – I had some.”

 She walked across the room and stopped dir­ectly in front of him. “You used mine, 
that’s what you did. Give me the rest of my money – give it to me now – right now – it’s mine, 
I earned it – give it to me!”

 He laughed, then said, “You’re a snotty kid.” He pushed past her and walked into the
kit­chen.

 Carla, fum­ing, waited un­til he re­turned. When he did, he was again in his 
un­der­wear and he car­ried an open bottle of beer.

 Carla began where she left off. “Give me the money that’s left, give it to me right 
now or I’ll tell Mom when she gets home.”

 “Tell her,” he snorted as he moved to­ward a big chair.

 When he turned, ready to seat him­self, she dashed for the kit­chen. She entered 
the room and saw her father’s trousers draped over a chair. She dove at them, then jammed 
her hand first in one pocket, then the other un­til fi­nally she clutched a col­lec­tion of coins. 
She gathered them in her hand, turned and hur­ried to the door, then stopped still as her 
father barred her pas­sage down the hall.

 “I’ll teach you to steal,” he said, turn­ing red with an­ger.

 “It’s mine,” she pro­tested. “You’ve got your beer – this is mine. Leave me alone, you
don’t need it now.”

 “I might. Later,” he replied.

 She at­temp­ted to dash past him and down the hall so that she could reach her 
room which had a lock on the door. She was un­suc­cess­ful. He swooped down upon her like
a vul­ture. He grabbed at her clenched hand but missed as she pres­sured for­ward. But he 
did man­age to grip her hard around the waist.

 She kicked hard as her father lif­ted her off her feet, but she was un­able to keep 
him from half-car­ry­ing, half-drag­ging her back into the liv­ing room. When they ar­rived 
there, he made an­other grab for the money, and suc­ceeded. He pinched his thumb hard 
into the un­der­side of her wrist, then when her fin­gers loosened, he snatched the money 
from her hand. She star­ted to curse and cry.

 Above these sounds she heard her father’s gruff laughter. Then it stopped. Then she
no­ticed some­thing else. Al­though he had got­ten the money that he wanted, he did not 
re­lease his hold about Carla’s waist. He in­creased the pres­sure of it and his hands moved 
up­ward un­til they cupped at her breasts. Still pre­tend­ing that it was a part of the struggle 
between them, he worked his hands upon her young breasts, knead­ing at them, even 
fin­ger­ing at the hard, thrust­ing tips. Then, as Carla in­creased the fury of her struggle, he 
cupped one breast hard as his other hand moved down­ward and jammed between her 
thighs. Carla kicked a few more times, then slackened her ef­forts. Her thighs, mov­ing against
her father’s hand, had ex­per­i­enced the most ex­quis­ite sen­sa­tion she had ever known. It 
frightened her, even as it gave her a thrill.

 “You’re a reg­u­lar little witch, ain’t you?” he said. “I like witches – like you, who 
don’t give a damn about any­thing.”

 His words moved her to a greater ef­fort to free her­self from his hold. And again, 
as she kicked and struggled she felt a grow­ing feel­ing of pas­sion course through­out her 
body; at her thighs, es­pe­cially there, and at her breasts, par­tic­u­larly the one that was still 
held tightly by his big hand.

 Fi­nally, her right hand shot free. She thrashed to the side and be­hind her, 
at­tempt­ing to strike her father. And she did. But in a most erotic way. He had shif­ted his 
po­s­i­tion a bit and stood par­tially to the side of Carla. Most of the front of his body was 
free for hit­ting. And she struck hard. The first con­tact told her that she greatly ex­cited her 
father for his penis had come erect and thrust sharply out­ward, push­ing the light ma­ter­ial 
of his shorts ahead of him like a tent.

 She struck again, the full flat­ness of her palm strik­ing against his penis this time. 
She felt its hard­ness. It was like noth­ing she had ever ima­gined, al­though, at el­even, Carla 
con­sidered her­self a sexual soph­ist­ic­ate. And then as she con­tin­ued to reach to the side 
and swat her hand at the im­mense stretch that had be­come her tar­get, she no­ticed 
some­thing else. Her father was breath­ing hard. The tone was dif­fer­ent, lower, thicker, more
in­tense as if it rep­res­en­ted the verge of some crisis. And now, his hands began to move. 
But they moved in a way that was not meant for pun­ish­ment, but for sex.

 His hand that had held firmly to her breast had crept in­side her nightie and now 
held the full round­ness of her young-girl flesh and the thumb and fore­finger bit­terly 
mo­les­ted the nipple. And his other hand which had been jammed at her thighs had turned 
del­ic­ate and was gently mas­sa­ging the un­der­sides with long, lov­ing strokes, strokes that
car­ried down­ward to her knee, then rose to where her thighs were joined and even bey­ond 
this area and into the sprout­ing hair at her young crotch.

 Re­call­ing the in­cid­ent for her ther­ap­ist, Carla has ex­pressed how she felt at 
that mo­ment of her in­ces­tu­ously ori­ented sexual awaken­ing.

 “I thought I was go­ing to faint,” she re­lated to her ther­ap­ist. “I felt all hot and 
kind of woozey, like I was go­ing to pass out, go limp in my father’s arms. And this feel­ing 
just seemed to swamp me, go all over me like a mil­lion ants. I thought I knew all about boys 
and sex and everything. You can’t help hear about things like that when you’re a kid – 
es­pe­cially liv­ing in the neigh­bor­hoods where I lived. But I’ll tell you, I had no idea that I’d 
get such a feel­ing out of it – I thought sex was al­ways for the man, but of course I don’t 
think I really knew that I was in­volved in sex at this mo­ment of my fight with my father.”

 But, Carla did not faint. Nor did she reach any true sexual cli­max as a res­ult of the 
sexual fond­ling her father im­posed upon her body.

 The fight ended sud­denly, and not at all as she had an­ti­cip­ated. With all the 
signs of con­sid­er­able ef­fort, he fi­nally with­drew him­self from the path of her swat­ting 
hand. And he re­moved his hands from her breasts and re­leased her.

 “All right, kid,” he said. “You’ve earned your dough, I guess.” He stooped and picked 
up the coins he had dropped to the floor. Then he handed them to her.

 She stared at him, hardly be­liev­ing that he was ac­tu­ally giv­ing her the money. 
And she could hardly be­lieve the great length of flesh that pushed against his un­der­shorts. 
It seemed truly un­be­liev­able to Carla, yet she felt a glow of sat­is­fac­tion for she knew that
she had caused this to hap­pen to him, that it had been her body that had shaken him with 
such ex­cite­ment.

 “If there ain’t enough money there for whatever it is you want,” he said. “I’ll scrape 
up some bottles my­self to­mor­row and give you what I used of your dough.”

 She felt stricken. These were the first words of kind­ness her father had ever spoken 
to her. And she knew that she had earned them, that he spoke them as a re­ward to her for 
the touch of her nearly na­ked body, for the touch she her­self had given to his body.

 He left the room. When he re­turned, he was fully clothed. He slumped in a chair, as 
he gulped from his beer bottle.

 A week passed be­fore she again had a sexual en­counter with her father. It was a 
week that found her grown wise in the way of men and the po­ten­tial of her own body. She 
knew that the use of her body could provide her with things from her father. She in­ten­ded 
to ex­ploit it to its fullest ad­vant­ages.

 “Do you have a dol­lar?” she asked her father at a time that found them both alone 
in the house again.

 “Yeah, I just hap­pen to have. Why?”

 “Can I have it?”

 “Huh – you out of your mind or some­thing?”

 “No, I want to buy a purse that’s up at the store,” she said. “It’s only a dol­lar.”

 “A dol­lar buys me a six-pack of beer,” he said.

 “I know.”

 “But you still want my only dol­lar, eh?”

 “Yeah.” He laughed and sat for­ward in the big chair where he had been rest­ing as 
he fin­ished off a can of beer. He had been drink­ing heav­ily all dur­ing the day, 
cel­eb­rat­ing the cir­cum­stance of a bet­ter-than-or­din­ary pay check his wife had earned.

 “You’re a real one,” he laughed. He fin­ished the beer, placed the empty can on the 
table next to him, then hunched even more for­ward in the chair.

 Carla stepped closer and very de­lib­er­ately looked in the dir­ec­tion of her father’s
crotch, try­ing to as­cer­tain if her pres­ence alone was enough to in­duce him to a state of 
sexual read­i­ness.

 “What you look­ing at?” he asked, look­ing straight into her eyes.

 “Noth­ing,” she said.

 “The hell you’re look­ing at noth­ing,” he said. “You’re a wise one, you don’t fool me.
You know what in the hell’s go­ing on in the world; I can tell.”

 “Can you?” she said. She walked to a po­s­i­tion dir­ectly in front of him.

 “Yeah. You and that little in­no­cent ex­pres­sion on your puss. Hell – it’s a phony 
act – you know what’s go­ing on, all right.”

 She smiled. Again she looked into her father’s lap. This time her in­quis­it­ive­ness 
was re­war­ded by the sight of a huge bulge at the crotch at her father’s trousers. She felt a 
rage of heat and con­sidered her­self as very, very com­pet­ent in the busi­ness of rais­ing the
ex­cite­ment of a male. She de­cided to pur­sue her ad­vant­age.

 He re­coiled for an in­stant when Carla boos­ted her­self upon his lap. But he 
re­covered quickly and even put one arm around her waist. He achieved a po­s­i­tion that 
al­lowed the up­per part of his hand to nudge gently at the bot­tom of one breast.

 She dropped one hand in his lap, then, boldly, coup­ling her father’s drunk­en­ness 
with the know­ledge of her abil­ity to arouse him, she spoke of that which she had thought of 
nearly con­stantly for a week.

 “Do I make that hap­pen to you?” she asked, mov­ing her hand across his lap to rest
atop the bulge that pro­truded there.

 For a mo­ment, he did not an­swer. His breath jerked to a short stop, then wheezed 
long and long­ingly from his massive chest.

 “Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I guess you could say that you do it to me.”

 “Is it nice?”

 “How do you mean?” he asked.

 “Does it feel good? You know, does it make you feel good to be like that?” He 
laughed and raised his hand to cover her breast, then he said, “Well, it all de­pends. It feels all 
right, but – well, hell, it only feels real good if I know it’s not go­ing to last.”

 “Not go­ing to last?” she asked, cock­ing her head ques­tion­ingly.

 “Yeah.”

 “How do you keep it from last­ing?”

 “Damn it, there you go, act­ing all in­no­cent and everything,” he said, rais­ing his 
voice and pinch­ing at the hard nipple of her breast.

 “But I really don’t know,” she in­sisted.

 “The hell you don’t.”

 “I don’t.”

 She gripped the bunched ma­ter­ial of his trousers fully in her hand. Then she 
re­laxed her grip and raised two fin­gers to the zip­per tab. She lowered it.

 “Hey, what the hell are you do­ing?” he hissed.

 “I want to see,” she said. “You won’t tell me any­thing so I have to see for my­self.” 
He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes as she lif­ted his cock to ex­pos­ure. Then he 
gasped, then gasped again.

 But when she began a light caress and ma­nip­u­la­tion of him, he jerked for­ward, 
grasped her hard and forced her to his side in the big chair. In­stinct­ively, her legs par­ted to 
re­ceive him, but as he rose, a stricken look crossed his face and he paused.

 After a second, he said, “Oh, no, you little bitch, you’re not go­ing to hang 
some­thing like this on your old man. Oh, no, you’re not that smart.”

 Carla raised her head. Then she felt her body be­ing moved away from her father, 
out of the chair and be­fore him, then forced to her knees at his feet as he moved closer to 
the edge of the chair.

 She has stated that she did not know ex­actly what it was that her father ex­pec­ted 
of her. She has stated, too, that she did not know fear, or even any spe­cial de­sire at this 
point, that her only con­cern was ob­tain­ing from her father the dol­lar that she knew he had
in his pocket. But she found out quickly what it was that he de­sired when he locked his 
fin­gers into her hair and dir­ec­ted her head to­ward his cock.

 She learned quickly. While her father thrust and arched and churned be­neath her 
bob­bing head, she grew in­vent­ive, twis­ted and shook her head like a wild­cat – like the 
hell-cat she was, as claimed by her father.

 At the very end, while Carla gurgled and muffled sounds of her father’s erup­tion, 
she heard him cry out, screech, really, and it was a sound that told Carla of her power over an 
ex­cited male.

 When she fi­nally raised her head and ac­cep­ted the handker­chief offered by him, 
her fu­ture was de­cided, she has claimed. It was at this point, she has re­lated, that the 
fu­ture pat­terns of her life were set. It was at this mo­ment that her fu­ture as a whore was 
es­tab­lished.

 She brought or­der to her ap­pear­ance, then faced her father, smiled, and asked, 
“Can I have that dol­lar now?”

 Word­lessly, but with a cer­tain ex­pres­sion of fear upon his face, he reached into 
his pocket and ex­trac­ted a dol­lar. He handed it to her. Carla snapped it from his fin­gers, 
then turned and left the room. Five minutes later, the front door slammed be­hind her as she 
left the house to make her pur­chase of the black purse she wanted.

 Fel­la­tio be­came her means of get­ting the things she wanted dur­ing the next 
year. She ser­viced her father reg­u­larly, usu­ally re­ceiv­ing some small amount of money 
for her ef­fort.

 Some­times she re­ceived noth­ing – only his threat of dis­clos­ure to her mother or
the po­lice. But, rid­ing the wave of an op­por­tun­ity she had never known, she gain­fully 
prac­ticed fel­la­tio on the milk­man, the mail­man, the local news­pa­per boy, sev­eral 
neigh­bor­hood boys, and even one male teacher in her ele­ment­ary school.

 Carla was four­teen be­fore she ex­per­i­enced the loss of her vir­gin­ity. She 
re­ceived five dol­lars for it. It was done by a neigh­bor­hood boy with a repu­ta­tion as an 
un­der­ling gang­ster in a large syn­dic­ate. When they fin­ished the ex­per­i­ence, the boy 
sug­ges­ted that Carla had all the at­trib­utes of a pros­ti­tute. He sug­ges­ted that he 
be­come her man­ager. She agreed.

 She prospered. Un­til she was ar­res­ted for so­li­cit­a­tion at the age of fif­teen, 
she ex­per­i­enced sexual re­la­tions with hun­dreds of men. She sub­mit­ted to their every 
de­sire. She be­came even more pro­fi­cient at the art of fel­la­tio, and ad­ded cun­ni­lin­gus 
to her bag of sexual tricks. She also learned that fla­gel­la­tion brought a spe­cial fee from 
some very spe­cial cli­ents. She also ac­cep­ted anal in­ter­course and other de­vi­ations.

 Within thirty-six hours of her re­lease from a girls’ re­form­at­ory when she was 
sev­en­teen, Carla re­turned to a longer term at a wo­men’s prison, then was once more 
re­leased to the streets un­der a pro­ba­tion that provided for psy­cho­ther­apy, from which 
this case his­tory has been com­piled.

 Carla gained in­sight to her prob­lems. And the po­lice files and psy­chi­at­ric 
re­cords have gained this case which takes its place in the files of thou­sands of other 
teen-aged pros­ti­tutes.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 “Why are you star­ing at me like that?” asked Fran­cine of her father’s busi­ness 
part­ner.

 “Be­cause you’re a very pretty girl,” the man replied. Fran­cine, at four­teen, was a 
ready blusher. She blushed, then stammered, “I’m just a kid.”

 “Yes, a mere child,” the fifty-year-old man said, as if to him­self. “A very de­lect­able 
child.” Fran­cine blushed again, then turned from him to look over the rail of the mall boat 
into the deep, blue-green wa­ter of Lake Michigan.

 The man looked at all of her body as it was re­vealed to him by the thin bikini she 
wore. She felt his eyes upon her and knew that he was star­ing at the very things her mir­ror 
had so re­cently shown her, that she was grow­ing into a lovely young wo­man, one of rich 
breasts, a flat, tight stom­ach, long, shapely legs, hips that both curved and flowed and 
but­tocks that jut­ted boldly out­ward.

 The man sighed long­ingly, then took his leave of the four­teen-year-old to re­join 
the other guests.

 Fran­cine waited un­til he had gone, then she turned and hur­ried to her small 
cabin.

 She un­dressed at once, then posed be­fore the full length mir­ror. She looked at 
her body with a kind of won­der. And she felt ex­cite­ment for it, too. Great ex­cite­ment, 
most of it pulsat­ing at her loins.

 After a very thor­ough in­spec­tion of her­self, she turned and flopped her na­ked 
body upon the small, built-in bunk. She sighed, then breathed deeply, watch­ing how her 
breasts with their hard poin­ted tips raised into view, then fell from sight as she ex­haled. 
Then after she tired of this game, she made her­self go very quiet. Then she lowered her hand 
to the place of her young, still grow­ing wo­man­hood.

 Mas­turb­a­tion and the fantas­ies that ac­com­pan­ied it were a part of a game 
fre­quently played by Fran­cine. Some­times it ab­sorbed her total pre­oc­cu­pa­tion. She had
learned to mas­turb­ate when she was twelve. She pur­sued the habit un­til now, at four­teen,
she began to think of greater sat­is­fac­tions. She began to won­der how it would feel to have
a man’s hand there, rather than her own.

 She moved her hand slightly. She felt a shiver of re­sponse and in­stantly dir­ec­ted 
her mind to the man who had just flattered her, the man upon whom she had had a crush for 
a full year.

 His name was Don. He was tall, dark, dy­namic, hand­some, and very, very 
at­tent­ive. Al­ways, des­pite the num­ber of guests or the cir­cum­stances of his pres­ence in
her par­ents’ home, he would take the time to seek her out, talk to her, and listen at­tent­ively
to any­thing she had to say. She was charmed by his in­terest in her. And she knew that he 
was charmed by her.

 Fran­cine closed her eyes, then brought her fin­gers higher and more del­ic­ately 
upon her­self. Then she moved a single fin­ger even higher and began a light circ­ling 
mo­tion that made her mur­mur sounds of mount­ing pas­sion. As she worked upon her own 
body, she en­vi­sioned im­ages of Don, his tall good looks, his ob­vi­ous in­fatu­ation with 
her. He had been her fa­vor­ite sub­ject dur­ing mas­turb­a­tion fantas­ies and the very 
thought of him made her sen­sa­tions zoom higher and higher while she arched her body in a
mad up-and-down tat­too of ac­tion. Soon, her hips snapped in­vol­un­tar­ily, mov­ing fast 
as if they sought to join the fast mo­tion of her circ­ling fin­gers. And then, when re­sponse 
and ul­ti­mate re­lease was only a few seconds away from ac­com­plish­ment, she raised her 
other hand and grasped one large breast. She ima­gined Don bend­ing and kiss­ing that 
breast. And then she erup­ted, fight­ing her body against her hand as if it were an en­emy.

 Her play over, Fran­cine rolled to her side. Her hands clutched the bed cov­ers and 
knot­ted them into a ball. Al­though she had ex­per­i­enced a cli­max, it was some­thing less 
than sat­is­fact­ory. She was left want­ing, steam­ing for some greater ex­plo­sion of her 
body. She re­membered that this was the way it had been lately, that she al­most al­ways was 
left un­sat­is­fied after an epis­ode of self-love. She twis­ted to her stom­ach and ground her 
na­ked body into the bed, sim­u­lat­ing the ac­tions of an ag­gress­ive wo­man in an act of 
love. And as she moved, she con­tin­ued to think of Don. She knew he was her only hope, 
knew, too, that she would con­tinue to be frus­trated un­til she ex­per­i­enced an act of 
sexual in­ter­course with her dream lover. She re­mained on the bed a long time, quiet­ing 
her body and think­ing about Don.

 Later the same night Fran­cine forced an in­ter­lude that per­mit­ted her an 
op­por­tun­ity to taste of ma­ture love. The guests on her father’s cruiser, in­clud­ing his 
part­ner, Don, had been drink­ing heav­ily all through the day. By the time the moon had 
risen high and glistened over the dark wa­ter of the gi­ant lake, every­one aboard the ship 
was very, very drunk. Most of them even­tu­ally fell asleep or paired off into couples and 
found dark corners of the boat as their place for sex.

 Fran­cine waited un­til she sensed that the party­ing had reached a peak. Then she 
dressed in her most re­veal­ing swim­suit – a bikini whose up­per por­tion re­vealed half her 
breasts while the lower dipped be­neath her na­vel. Then she went to the deck of the cruiser.

 For a few mo­ments she stood in a dark corner, sur­vey­ing the deck, hop­ing to 
sight her secret love. Don was no place to be seen. Oth­ers, how­ever, were very much in view,
par­tic­u­larly two couples in­volved in off-beat love-mak­ing. In one corner Fran­cine 
ob­served the activ­it­ies of a middle-aged wo­man per­form­ing fel­la­tio upon a man 
Fran­cine re­cog­nized as the wo­man’s best friend’s hus­band. A dozen paces away, an­other
couple was sim­il­arly in­volved. But here it was the man who was per­form­ing upon the 
wo­man.

 Fran­cine turned her eyes from the sight. She thought how crude it was and 
con­sidered that she and Don would never do such things, that their love would be pure and 
fine and pas­sion­ately ex­cit­ing.

 When she could not find Don, she went to the bow of the boat. She looked up at 
the deck cov­er­ing the bow. Here she saw a man, alone, look­ing out over the lake. Her heart 
thumped heav­ily. She could tell by the dark pro­file that the man was Don. She de­cided 
upon ag­gress­ive­ness, im­me­di­ately dir­ec­ted to­ward Don.

 Fran­cine climbed the small lad­der and pulled her­self up on the smooth wooden 
bow. The man turned quickly, then seemed to with­draw a bit when he saw that the in­truder 
was Fran­cine.

 “Hi,” she said. “What are you do­ing up here all alone?”

 “Think­ing,” Don replied. “Think­ing, and try­ing to sober up a bit.” Fran­cine 
laughed, then hur­ried to seat her­self next to Don.

 “And what are you do­ing up here?” he asked, smil­ing as he re­peated her own 
words.

 “Look­ing for you,” she boldly told him.

 “How nice. I’m flattered.” He turned and looked at her and she could see that his 
eyes traveled over her nearly na­ked body. They told her that he was still quite drunk. They 
told her, too, that he lus­ted for her.

 Fran­cine braced her back against the frame­work, looked over the lake, and 
breathed deeply. Then she pre­ten­ded to shiver and said, “It’s chilly. I wish I had brought a 
sweater.”

 “Why didn’t you?” Don asked.

 “I don’t know.”

 “Yes, you do,” he said, laugh­ing a bit.

 She turned and looked into his face, then said, “Now what does that mean?”

 “It means that I know that you know very well why you came dressed like that, 
without a sweater,” he said quickly, mean­while star­ing at her with an un­waver­ing 
dir­ect­ness.

 “All right,” she said. “What was my reason?”

 “This,” he said, put­ting his arm around her shoulders.

 Fran­cine could not speak for a mo­ment. This first touch of Don’s arm around her 
was more ex­cit­ing than any­thing she had an­ti­cip­ated, more thrill­ing even than the fi­nal
ef­forts of her own epis­odes of mas­turb­a­tion.

 “Well, am I right?” asked Don, gently tight­en­ing his hold upon her.

 “Yes,” she ad­mit­ted, cud­dling a little deeper into his arm which circled her 
pro­tect­ively.

 They re­mained very quiet for a long time, then Don sighed deeply much as if it 
marked the end of some in­ner com­bat that had been ra­ging with him­self. Then he lowered
his hand and im­me­di­ately slipped it in­side her bra top.

 She grasped it with both her hands and pres­sured it tightly against her flesh. Her 
body shook vi­ol­ently from the con­tact and heat swamped her. She felt it rise and rise, much
as if heat it­self was the bubble of her pas­sion. Fran­cine felt his fin­gers mov­ing upon her, 
knead­ing her flesh, then go­ing light to fin­ger­tip play at her small nipple. And again she 
thought that she would ex­plode, split wide open, scream, scratch, give in com­pletely to the 
ra­ging heat that was con­sum­ing her.

 But she did not. In­stead, she turned her face to the side and raised it to re­ceive his
kiss.

 When his lips crushed upon hers she again thought she might faint. His lips were so 
hard and des­per­ate. He shot his tongue into her mouth in such a wild, yearn­ing search. She
nipped his tongue with her teeth, then drew deeply upon it, mak­ing it lengthen as she took it
to her­self. And at the same time she locked one arm around his neck and moved her other 
hand to clutch at his thigh. Don wore ber­mu­das and a sport shirt. He was bare­foot. The feel
of his bare thigh be­neath her fin­gers was cause for new trem­bling to come to her body. 
And then she moved her hand up­ward un­til she touched at the bulge of his penis. Her hand 
dar­ted away as if it had been burned. But she re­turned it, first tent­at­ively, then more 
pos­it­ively, to his aroused flesh.

 Now, his body trembled with pas­sion. He brought his mouth away from hers, 
twis­ted her and ripped her bra away from her breasts. They loomed at him, golden brown 
and heav­ing from ex­cite­ment.

 Fran­cine arched her na­ked body at Don at the same mo­ment that he uttered a 
cry and bur­ied his face in her breasts. She leaned back­wards. He rose and hunched above 
her body.

 When Don mouthed her flesh and rolled the nipples of her breasts in turn, between 
his lips, it was the real­iz­a­tion of all her fantas­ies. Again she thought that she would lose 
con­scious­ness. And in a way, she did. Bright spots of color flashed be­fore her eyes in a 
rain­bow mix­ture of multi-shades, mak­ing her feel far away and from an­other world.

 Don was a good lover, Fran­cine has stated. He spent a long time with her body that
night upon the boat. He kissed all of her rap­tur­ously, kissed her from throat to knees after 
re­mov­ing the bot­tom of her bikini from her body. He ap­plied his lips so ex­quis­itely to 
the hot, humped clit­oris of Fran­cine that she did truly ex­per­i­ence a minor or­gasm, one 
that she knew was ex­cit­ing but was still a long way from what she would feel once they were
joined and mov­ing to­gether.

 Fi­nally, Don could not en­dure the in­tens­ity of the love-play any longer. He raised
to his knees, fumbled at his cloth­ing, then as­sisted Fran­cine into po­s­i­tion as she raised 
her knees and braced her bare feet solidly upon the cruiser deck.

 He went into her slowly and del­ic­ately. She arched high, her young anxious thighs 
quiv­er­ing from this first strain of love. And then as Don con­tin­ued his des­cent and 
achieved total entry, she uttered the cry of her first true or­gasm.

 The case of Fran­cine has been ques­tioned by med­ical au­thor­it­ies. Could this 
child, four­teen years old and a heavy mas­turb­ator, ex­per­i­ence an or­gasm upon man’s 
very first entry into her body? Sexual re­sponse, some ex­perts claim, is a “learned” re­ac­tion.

 Her psy­chi­at­rist, how­ever, be­lieves that it is true, that Fran­cine did not 
elab­or­ate upon the in­tens­ity – and fre­quency – of her or­gasms with her first lover. The 
psy­chi­at­rist has stated that in his prac­tice he had known many wo­men with a 
hy­per-sens­it­iv­ity of the va­ginal tract; that this alone, when meet­ing man’s ini­tial 
pen­et­ra­tion, can pro­duce an im­me­di­ate or­gasm. He has re­por­ted too that her 
clit­oris was already highly de­veloped as a res­ult of her mas­turb­a­tion and that 
un­doubtedly Don’s penis, touch­ing at this highly sens­it­ive area at the same time that he 
was provid­ing thrill by entry, doubly provided the child with the ele­ments ne­ces­sary for a 
vi­ol­ent or­gasm.

 From the mo­ment of her first or­gasm, her body re­acted in­vol­un­tar­ily. It 
thumped and arched and spun and churned be­neath the ever quick­en­ing move­ments of 
Don. Three times more she ex­per­i­enced an or­gasm dur­ing her first act of sexual 
in­ter­course. And even when Don was fin­ished, had erup­ted and fallen atop the girl’s 
na­ked body, her body still twis­ted and arched and churned, leap­ing to achieve even more 
of the thrill she had already so ad­equately re­ceived. And it was this -her drive for more and 
more sexual ex­cite­ment – that, psy­chi­at­ric au­thor­it­ies claim, led Fran­cine even­tu­ally 
into the world of promis­cu­ous sexu­al­ity.

 Fran­cine and Don be­came lov­ers. They met at reg­u­lar in­ter­vals dur­ing the 
fol­low­ing year. But al­ways, after their ad­ven­tures dur­ing which she re­acted with 
mul­tiple-or­gasms, she still thirsted for more, still sought even greater re­ac­tion in her 
young body.

 Dur­ing the year, too, Fran­cine learned about in­fi­del­ity among lov­ers. She 
sought and found dozens of lov­ers to fill those peri­ods between Don’s vis­its. When one of 
her stranger-lov­ers offered her money, she laughed. But then she took the ten-dol­lar bill he 
had ex­ten­ded to her. It made her feel a little bet­ter about her promis­cu­ity. Al­though she 
did not need money – she was the child of wealthy par­ents – it served to help her 
ra­tion­al­ize this part of her­self she sensed was mor­ally un­sound.

 When she was six­teen, she left home. Without money, shun­ning her par­ents and 
the tempta­tion to con­tact them for help, she found a nat­ural out­let for her vi­ol­ent and 
con­stant sexual de­sires. She met a man who was a top fig­ure in a vice ring. He offered her 
work. She gladly ac­cep­ted the of­fer. Teen-pros­ti­tu­tion seemed the ideal solu­tion to 
sat­isfy the de­mands of her body sexu­ally, as well as to provide her with a means of 
live­li­hood.

 Her wealthy fam­ily back­ground, and her pampered lux­ury of her child­hood, did 
not pre­vent her from in­dul­ging in the most sor­did of activ­it­ies dur­ing her period of 
pros­ti­tu­tion. Any sexual prac­tice or per­ver­sion de­man­ded by her cli­ents was read­ily 
agreed to by her.

 Dur­ing this period her fam­ily tried to trace her, but she shrewdly evaded their 
ef­forts. Don too tried to loc­ate her, but Fran­cine had already de­cided that the sexual 
at­ten­tions of Don were not enough for her. She needed in­dis­crim­in­ate and un­lim­ited 
sex, to keep her even mod­er­ately happy.

 She worked as a pros­ti­tute for well over a year. When she was ar­res­ted for 
pros­ti­tu­tion, her ar­rest ac­com­plished what her par­ents had not been able to. The 
po­lice re­turned her to the cus­tody of her fam­ily, and she was ordered to un­dergo 
psy­chi­at­ric treat­ment.





CHAPTER THREE


“TRICKS MY MOTHER TAUGHT ME!”

 “Mom” no longer ex­ists. Her place has been taken over by “Mother.” 
Psy­chi­at­rists and so­ci­olo­gists alike point to the status-driven Mother as the cause of 
many of their daugh­ters’ sexual prob­lems and ex­cesses.

 In many cases, the mother-daugh­ter re­la­tion­ship has be­come one of sexual 
rivalry, not ne­ces­sar­ily for the same man, but in a sense of gen­eral sexual 
com­pet­it­ive­ness. More and more fre­quently, moth­ers no longer con­sider their 
daugh­ters as daugh­ters, but as other wo­men in the sex pool. And daugh­ters of­ten tend 
to re­gard their moth­ers in the same way.

 In dress, “mother-and-daugh­ter” out­fits are equally se­duct­ive. In the beauty 
par­lor, moth­ers will of­ten say, “Give me a hairdo like my daugh­ter’s.” In TV com­mer­cials, 
em­phasis is placed upon the mother-and-daugh­ter who are mis­taken for sis­ters. It is not 
sur­pris­ing, there­fore, that moth­ers and daugh­ters even­tu­ally be­gin to re­gard each 
other as sexual rivals, rather than as a fam­ily.

 Or, even if the sexual rivalry does not make it­self felt, teen-age and sub-teen 
daugh­ters of­ten be­gin to re­gard them­selves to be as sexu­ally-ready as their moth­ers. 
After all, if they are equals in so many other re­spects, then why should they not be equals in 
sexual mat­ters too?

 Moth­ers used to try to teach their grow­ing daugh­ters the rudi­ments of cook­ing,
and bak­ing and house­keep­ing. Today, they tend more to im­bue in their daugh­ters a 
sexual ex­pert­ise. It would as­ton­ish many people to real­ize how many young girls were 
en­cour­aged – even dir­ec­ted – into their first sex ad­ven­ture with a man, by their 
moth­ers!

 CASE HIS­TORY

 In­vest­ig­at­ors of the Pro­bate Court in a well-to-do com­munity were asked to 
check into the activ­it­ies of Lisa H., a di­vor­cee and her four­teen-year-old daugh­ter, Ava. 
The story is one that pin­points the in­flu­ence of the se­duct­ive per­missive mother in 
Amer­ican so­ci­ety today, and, as such, is im­port­ant to this re­port.

 Lisa was preg­nant when, at sev­en­teen, she mar­ried a man who was not the man 
who had made her preg­nant. He left Lisa a year later.

 For a while Lisa tried work­ing to sup­port her­self and her in­fant child. But this was
bor­ing and in­con­veni­ent to the fre­quent dates she had. Very beau­ti­ful and de­sir­able, 
with a shapely body and a lively spirit, Lisa had star­ted dat­ing al­most im­me­di­ately after 
her hus­band’s deser­tion. She never hes­it­ated to en­gage in sexual ad­ven­tures with her 
dates. She had con­vinced her­self that she “needed” sex, that she was a pas­sion­ate 
wo­man. This was not true. Lisa used sex as a method of ego-boost, without genu­ine 
phys­ical sat­is­fac­tion be­ing achieved.

 When an ex­ec­ut­ive in the of­fice where Lisa worked sug­ges­ted a date, it 
oc­curred to her that she really shouldn’t have to work at all, that she should use her beauty 
and her phys­ical at­trib­utes for the pur­poses of a live­li­hood, rather than pound­ing a 
type­writer. She ac­cep­ted a date with the ex­ec­ut­ive. It didn’t bother Lisa at all that the 
man was mar­ried. He was wealthy. This seemed like ample reason for her to ac­cept his of­fer
of a date, and whatever might come later.

 Lisa waited un­til the end of the date that even­ing to ex­ert her sexual at­trac­tions.
The ex­ec­ut­ive had a repu­ta­tion as some­what of a wolf. Lisa knew it. She knew, too, that 
he wasted little time, that he no doubt in­ten­ded to go on the make for her that very 
even­ing. She hoped it was true. She in­ten­ded to make it work for her.

 As they left the club where they had en­joyed cock­tails and din­ner, Lisa clutched 
tightly to the man’s arm, mak­ing very sure that her large breast crushed against him, let­ting 
him feel the round­ness and firm­ness of it, per­haps even the sharp nipple, she hoped.

 Dur­ing the even­ing Lisa had told her es­cort of the hard times a wo­man has when
she raises a child alone. She ex­ag­ger­ated as she told him of the struggle, the con­stant 
tired­ness, and the hope­less­ness of a life alone. The man was a sym­path­etic listener. He 
sug­ges­ted that they should ex­tend their even­ing. Would she like a night­cap at the 
apart­ment he kept in the city? Would she? In­deed she would! Lisa told him so. But in a 
con­trived man­ner that hin­ted at shy­ness.

 The apart­ment was one of the most at­tract­ive Lisa had ever seen. It made her 
own place seem drab­ber than it ac­tu­ally was. They had their drinks in the large liv­ing 
room, sit­ting close to­gether on an ex­pens­ive couch. When the man put his arm around her
shoulder, Lisa turned her face to him and re­ceived his kiss.

 Con­sid­er­ing the psy­chi­at­ric re­port that claimed Lisa had little true feel­ings for
sexual con­tact, it is of in­terest to re­view her thoughts at the time of this first kiss with a 
stranger whom Lisa in­ten­ded to ex­ploit sexu­ally for her own ad­vant­age.

 Lisa has ad­mit­ted that her thoughts were not of the man’s tongue shoot­ing into 
her mouth, nor of one of his hands that crept to the neck­line of her dress and sneaked 
in­side to clutch her breast.

 Her thoughts were of the ex­pens­ive apart­ment, the man’s wealth, his ob­vi­ous 
pleas­ure in her com­pany, and of how she could util­ize all of this for her own ma­ter­ial 
com­fort. For a while she con­sidered play­ing hard to get, but she sensed that this would not 
work with a man like him, used to get­ting his way eas­ily. So, when the man slid her shoulder 
strap down and ex­posed one breast to which he bent, open-mouthed, she did not re­strain 
him. In­stead, she gripped his head and forced him hard against her nipple and breast.

 Soon, they were nude and fa­cing each other in the bed­room. They came to­gether
in a clash of bod­ies that soun­ded through­out the room. She moaned and cried. It was 
pre­tense worthy of the finest act­ress. She had learned a long time ago that a man was made
to feel more mas­cu­line and mas­ter­ful, more sexu­ally power­ful, if a wo­man was 
pas­sion­ately re­spons­ive to his love-mak­ing, even if that re­sponse was only pre­tense on 
her part.

 Lisa played her role well. When she was braced and ready, she whined a sad, 
frightened call. Then, when he plunged his penis into her, she cried out in thrill as though this 
were the first male ex­cit­a­tion she had ever known. And at the very end when she sensed 
that her lover was near his cli­max, she cried out, screamed, sobbed and mumbled all sorts of 
in­sane things about love and sex and the man and her­self.

 The glow of sat­is­fac­tion was on the man’s face as soon as they res­ted after their 
sexual ex­haus­tion. When he turned to her again, Lisa knew that she was about to re­ceive a 
per­man­ent pro­pos­i­tion. She was right.

 “You’re quite a gal,” he said.

 “No, that’s not true – I’m just an old bag who tries to take care of her kid.”

 “I’m glad you men­tioned that,” the man said.

 “I’m not – it’s em­bar­rass­ing.”

 “It shouldn’t be. Nev­er­the­less, I have a sug­ges­tion.” She looked at him, then 
turned and shyly looked at the floor.

 “I have this apart­ment,” the man con­tin­ued. “I rarely use it, and I’ve got a long 
lease on it. Why don’t you and little Ava move in here?”

 “Here? I couldn’t af­ford it.”

 “You don’t have to. The lease is paid.”

 “Oh.” She hes­it­ated, then said, “No, really, I couldn’t.”

 “You’re think­ing about the strings that are at­tached, aren’t you?” he asked.

 “Yes.”

 “There’s only one,” he said. “It’s me. I’d be ly­ing if I pre­ten­ded oth­er­wise. But, 
judging by the way we are to­gether – the way you were, es­pe­cially, I don’t think I’m very 
hard to take.”

 “Oh, you’re not – not at all,” she said quickly and in ex­actly the right tone.

 “Good. Then it’s settled, isn’t it?”

 She hes­it­ated, then said, “But it’s go­ing to be messy – both of us in the same 
of­fice and everything.”

 “You’re not there any­more,” he said.

 “I’m not?” She was pretty sure she knew what he meant, but she put just the right 
amount of sur­prise in her voice.

 “No. I just fired you and put you on my per­sonal payroll as cus­todian of this 
apart­ment.” They clinched their agree­ment by a new em­brace, then by rolling to the bed 
and en­ga­ging once again in the sex that was really the basis of their con­tract.

 Lisa re­mained ten years as the wealthy ex­ec­ut­ive’s mis­tress. She en­joyed the 
lux­ury of her apart­ment, a gen­er­ous al­low­ance, and the op­por­tun­ity to raise her 
daugh­ter in a bet­ter than av­er­age eco­nomic bracket.

 And it was dur­ing these ten years that young Ava grew into a young wo­man, 
be­came, at four­teen, an ex­cep­tion­ally beau­ti­ful girl with long au­burn hair, hazel eyes, 
and a fig­ure that was the envy of every wo­man whom she en­countered. It was dur­ing this 
time, too, that Lisa’s se­duct­ive per­missive­ness – born per­haps from her own guilt and the 
de­sire to com­pensate or ra­tion­al­ize her kept-wo­man ex­ist­ence – in­vaded her child, 
stim­u­lated the young girl and sent her into in­dis­cre­tions that led to her even­tual fu­ture.

 “You’re really his mis­tress, aren’t you?” Ava asked one day shortly after she reached 
the age of four­teen.

 Lisa did not an­swer at once. She had feared this day, but had not pre­pared for it. 
But, within her there was even a stronger force than that of pro­tect­ing her child, or 
em­bar­rass­ing her child. The stronger force was her own ego – her own ne­ces­sity for 
al­ways be­ing “right.”

 “You are, aren’t you?” Ava asked again.

 “Yes,” Lisa ad­mit­ted.

 There fol­lowed a long con­ver­sa­tion about sex, men, money, the facts of life as 
they re­lated to liv­ing, the prob­lems of a mother who had been deser­ted with a young 
child, and the con­stant re­minder to Ava that her mother was still a young wo­man, one who 
should be al­lowed to en­joy both the finer things of life and the man who provided them. 
And the finer things of life, of course, in­cluded sex.

 “I guess I’m not sur­prised very much,” Ava said when her mother fin­ished. “I guess 
maybe I al­ways knew how things were between you and him.”

 “Per­haps you did,” the mother said. “You’ve al­ways been a bright little girl.” Then, 
as if fin­ished with the sub­ject and more in­tent on other things, Ava asked, “Is it fun to make 
love to a man?”

 “Of course, darling,” Lisa said. “It’s great fun.”

 “Why?”

 Fri­gid Lisa called upon things that she had heard rather than those she ac­tu­ally 
felt. “Be­cause it makes you feel very ex­cited and won­der­ful.”

 “How?” Ava asked. “You mean when a boy kisses me it should make me feel good?”

 “You should know,” Lisa kid­ded. “I’m sure that nice boy you went to the show with 
the other night kissed you.”

 “You don’t care that he did?” Ava looked at her mother care­fully.

 “Of course not. You should find it really rather flat­ter­ing.”

 “Well then, he kissed me, all right. He handled me a little too.”

 “He touched your breasts?” Lisa asked, be­ing sure to keep her voice calm. She gave
no sign of con­cern or dis­tress, be­cause she felt none.

 “He went up my skirt, too.”

 “He touched you there?”

 “Yes.” In a mood of giv­ing a con­fid­ence, Ava nudged closer to her mother where 
they sat on the couch, then said, “Why did I feel so funny – so kind of high and trembly – 
when he touched me there?”

 “Be­cause that’s the very place that’s given to a wo­man so that she can make love 
to a man,” Lisa told her.

 “But that’s not where he touched me,” Ava ex­claimed. “He touched me higher – 
and – and I thought I was go­ing to pass out.”

 Lisa con­sidered care­fully what her next words to Ava would be. Fi­nally she said, 
“That’s be­cause sex – es­pe­cially first-time sex – is ter­ribly im­port­ant and ex­cit­ing to a 
girl.”

 “Doesn’t it stay that way – im­port­ant and ex­cit­ing? Is it only that way the first 
time? Only in the be­gin­ning?” Ava seemed genu­inely curi­ous.

 “That de­pends on the man, as well as your­self,” Lisa told her. “There are some men
with whom it is al­ways ex­cit­ing. And there are some with whom it hardly ever is.”

 “Then whatever a wo­man gets out of sex really de­pends on the man she’s do­ing 
it with?”

 “To some ex­tent,” Lisa said slowly. “A lot de­pends on the wo­man too. On how 
much she knows about how to use her body, how to re­spond to a man.”

 “Oh, well,” Ava said. “I sup­pose I’ll learn all about it in time.”

 “Yes,” Lisa said slowly. “You’ll learn. Soon enough.”

 “And you don’t care if I go out with that boy again, eh?”

 “Of course not. Why should I? I think you should date him as of­ten as you like.” Ava
did. Sev­eral times a week. And by the end of a month the four­teen-year-old girl and the 
six­teen-year-old boy were en­ga­ging act­ively, and reg­u­larly, in sexual in­ter­course.

 Ava, when she later re­called the first such in­cid­ent for the psy­chi­at­rist who was 
treat­ing her, placed much of the re­spons­ib­il­ity for that situ­ation upon her mother.

 “I wouldn’t be where I am right now,” Ava said, “if my mother hadn’t ac­ted kind of 
pleased about all the play­ing around that boy and I were do­ing. What the hell – how does a 
girl know it’s go­ing to get her into trouble if her own mother doesn’t tell her?”

 Ac­cord­ing to Ava, the scene of her first act of sexual in­ter­course was a beach 
where she and the boy had gone to swim.

 Ava and the boy named Ben played in the wa­ter for a long time. Dur­ing their play, 
they oc­ca­sion­ally kissed and the boy’s hands of­ten wandered to her breasts and but­tocks.
She liked the feel of his hands upon her, she has claimed, liked it be­cause it spoke of love and
af­fec­tion, qual­it­ies that were ap­par­ently oth­er­wise miss­ing in her life.

 When the young people fin­ished with the wa­ter and their swim, they settled on 
the blanket they had placed on the smooth sand beach.

 Ava has re­lated that at this mo­ment, even be­fore it, she knew that Ben was 
go­ing to try to make love to her. She knew, too, that she would let him. In fact, Ava told the 
psy­chi­at­rist, she could hardly re­strain her­self to wait un­til Ben made the first move.

 Ben gripped her by the shoulders and kissed her hard. She im­me­di­ately opened 
her mouth and re­ceived his tongue, latch­ing her lips to it and draw­ing upon it 
pas­sion­ately. Her en­thu­si­asm for his kiss amazed her. So did the warmth that swept her 
body, and the quickened beat of her heart. She grasped his hand and forced it to her breast. 
Then, as they con­tin­ued kiss­ing, she lowered her bra and ex­posed her breasts. Bob 
kneaded them. Then with a groan of ur­gency, he forced her to her back upon the blanket.

 “You’re go­ing to do it to me, aren’t you?” she asked, strip­ping off her swim­suit.

 “Do you want me to?”

 “Yes.”

 “You’re a funny one,” he laughed.

 “Come on – hurry up.”

 He yanked his swim trunks off, then reached over to his pants which were fol­ded 
on the blanket.

 “Come on,” Ava said. “What are you do­ing any­way?”

 “Get­ting some­thing so you won’t get knocked up.”

 “Oh-a rub­ber,” she said. “To hell with it – come on, get in to me – fast.” Amazement
swept the boy’s face. He left his trousers where they were and lunged to her side. They 
em­braced. Ava, who had felt the won­der of dis­cov­ery when she sighted the young and 
massive penis that was already hard and throb­bing, reached and grasped him. Then she 
twis­ted him hurt­fully. He did not mind. He re­turned her mean touch with a light one of his 
own, one that moved between her thighs then up­ward to a high ground of sens­it­iv­ity. She 
moaned. He circled his fin­gers, mov­ing slowly at the be­gin­ning then in­creas­ing his 
speed. Her hips bounced up and down, thrust­ing in a de­mand for more of the thrill he was 
provid­ing.

 And then she stopped him. “Oh, no more of that,” she wheezed. “No more -just you 
– let me have your cock.”

 Ben raised above her and settled to­ward the braced cradle she had made of her 
legs. He paused, then lurched for­ward.

 Ava cried out as she re­ceived him, screamed both the hurt and the pleas­ure of the 
entry of the first male flesh into her body. And then she settled into the act of giv­ing and 
re­ceiv­ing, as if she were ma­ture and had been mak­ing love most of her life. Their bod­ies 
spun to­gether, crashed, crunched close and paused, then sep­ar­ated, then smacked 
to­gether again in a series of hard join­ings, then moved slowly again.

 And Ava, un­like her mother, had thoughts for noth­ing but the next con­tact, 
touch, move­ment, vari­ation of that move­ment and the great, great sen­sa­tion that was 
build­ing within her.

 When she had been taken as high and as far as she could go – as far as the boy 
could go too – she gave a long, eerie call, then began the hard thrust­ing mo­tion that would 
carry her over the high peak she had reached.

 As her emo­tions burst and she star­ted on the roller coaster des­cent of thrill, she 
screamed and her cries mixed with the heavy, ex­cit­ing groans of the boy. They re­mained 
close to­gether, still in the po­s­i­tion of love. They res­ted. Then, the boy be­ing young and 
strong, he got hard and moved in on her again. And soon they were on a new jour­ney to the 
never-never land of won­drous sexual pleas­ure.

 This time they traveled the road slower, more prac­ticed, and in a linger­ing way 
that al­lowed each of them to feel and re­act to the slight­est move­ment from the other. And
Ava re­acted to both the thud of him within her and to his hands knead­ing at her breasts. 
And fi­nally as they as­cen­ded and des­cen­ded the peak of or­gasm again, she re­acted to 
the tight clamp of his mouth against hers as their tongues sought to catch up with the 
ri­ot­ing race of their bod­ies.

 This was her first time. It ini­ti­ated her into the sex her mother had al­ways known, 
the sex that had sub­con­sciously been fostered by her mother’s own per­missive­ness. And it 
marked the be­gin­ning of a reg­u­lar pat­tern in the four­teen-year-old girl’s life.

 When Ava turned fif­teen, she began to dream of free­dom. She did not know 
ex­actly what kind of ad­di­tional free­dom she wanted, for cer­tainly her mother was 
per­missive about the child’s activ­it­ies, too. But there was a rest­less­ness within the child 
that de­man­ded out­let -more than she was ob­tain­ing from her sexual activ­it­ies sev­eral 
times a week.

 It was at this time that Ava met a middle-aged friend of her mother’s lover. He was 
rich and at­tract­ive. He asked if he might take her to din­ner one night. She was un­de­cided,
per­haps sens­ing that there was some­thing wrong, or at least some­thing dif­fer­ent about 
her dat­ing a ma­ture man. She asked her mother what she thought.

 “Go out with him, dear, and have a good time,” Lisa told her. “Older men are 
charm­ing – I’m sure you’ll find him very, very at­tent­ive.”

 Ava did. The man se­duced her in the front seat of his car, al­though it could hardly 
be called a se­duc­tion since Ava con­sen­ted, in­deed, even en­cour­aged the act.

 When they were fin­ished, the man made a pro­pos­i­tion. He had con­tacts that 
could use a girl such as Ava. Then he ex­plained about a girl-for-hire syn­dic­ate which 
op­er­ated on a na­tion-wide scale, and which had a spe­cial sec­tion for young girls. It 
offered Ava the op­por­tun­ity for money, travel, ex­pens­ive cloth­ing and the free­dom she 
de­sired. She ac­cep­ted without a second thought.

 Ava be­came ex­tremely suc­cess­ful in her new activ­ity. She not only 
par­ti­cip­ated in the sexual area of the syn­dic­ate busi­ness, but she also be­came an 
ef­fi­cient minor ex­ec­ut­ive in its op­er­a­tion, a most un­usual cir­cum­stance for such a 
young girl as she. Her syn­dic­ate activ­ity was car­ried on un­der­cover, so to speak, and 
most people knew her only as a suc­cess­ful ca­reer girl, in an am­bigu­ous busi­ness 
en­ter­prise.

 Her mother con­tin­ued to ad­vise her, no mat­ter which area of the coun­try Ava 
happened to be op­er­at­ing in, and Ava shrewdly con­tin­ued to fol­low her mother’s 
ad­vice, in all mat­ters.

 In a large mid-West­ern city, Ava met a middle-aged bank ex­ec­ut­ive who fell 
genu­inely in love with her, al­though he was mar­ried and the father of grown chil­dren 
al­most as old as Ava her­self. He asked Ava to be­come his mis­tress, and Ava hardly had to 
ask her mother what her an­swer should be.

 She ac­cep­ted his of­fer, and since – un­like her mother – she felt an hon­est 
af­fec­tion for the man who was keep­ing her, she severed her con­nec­tion with the 
syn­dic­ate, al­though she was wise enough to do it am­ic­ably, in case she would want to 
re­sume it some time in the fu­ture. She de­voted her­self to her ma­ture lover, and, even 
though she had oc­ca­sional af­fairs with younger men, she re­spec­ted him enough to keep 
these secret for him, and flattered him with enough de­vo­tion so that he never doubted her 
faith­ful­ness to him.

 There is no doubt that Ava’s en­tire sexual pat­tern, and in­deed, her mode of life, 
was strongly in­flu­enced by her mother.

 The sexual per­missive­ness of some moth­ers is at an all time high today. 
Some­times it is a status-seek­ing sym­bol; some­times it is based upon the mother’s own 
emo­tional prob­lems. Whatever the cause, there is little doubt that many moth­ers are, 
know­ingly or not, pro­vok­ing their daugh­ters into sexual activ­ity long be­fore they are 
ac­tu­ally ready for it.

 In the fore­go­ing case of Ava, the end res­ult was a re­l­at­ively happy one, 
be­cause Ava her­self was an in­tel­li­gent and re­source­ful young girl. Some­times the 
res­ults are less pleas­ant, as other case his­tor­ies in this col­lec­tion will show.





CHAPTER FOUR


CARE­FUL – CHIL­DREN AT PLAY

 What type of male be­comes a cli­ent of the teen-aged pros­ti­tute? Is he mar­ried?
Does he have chil­dren of the same age as those whom he pays to make love? Is the num­ber 
of such cus­tom­ers de­creas­ing or on the in­crease?

 “The first thing men in the vice squad learn about those who seek out teen-girls as 
pros­ti­tutes is that we can­not gen­er­al­ize about them,” said one au­thor­ity. “They come 
from nearly every walk of life, many of them are mar­ried and have chil­dren, and I’d say that 
most of them are not very dif­fer­ent from you or me.”

 Re­gard­ing the amount of busi­ness teen-agers can ex­pect in the fu­ture, he 
con­tin­ued, “Pros­ti­tu­tion fol­lows the eco­nomy of the na­tion and the city where it 
ex­ists. When times are good, so is the pros­ti­tu­tion trade. When the eco­nomy is pinched, 
the pros­ti­tutes feel it too. But I would say that there are more men pay­ing for teen-girls 
today than ever be­fore. The reason – I don’t really know. Maybe it’s the em­phasis that’s 
placed on youth today. More men are in­flu­enced by this em­phasis, which makes them 
more aware of their own fad­ing sexual ca­pa­cit­ies. So, they try to have their own youth 
re­ju­ven­ated by a visit to a highly stim­u­lat­ing teen-aged girl.”

 Psy­chi­at­ric au­thor­it­ies feel that most men who be­come cus­tom­ers of 
teen-aged girls have deep-rooted psy­cho­lo­gical prob­lems. The im­ma­ture, the sexu­ally 
in­ferior, and the pe­do­phile, are more likely to seek youth as a sex-sub­ject than are other 
men.

 The cases which fol­low, taken from psy­chi­at­ric re­ports, dis­close sev­eral types 
of men who con­trib­ute to the flour­ish­ing trade of the teen and sub-teen pros­ti­tute.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Ace D., after his ar­rest and res­ult­ant psy­chi­at­ric in­ter­view, was clas­si­fied a 
“Pe­do­phile.” A pe­do­phile is a man who dir­ects his sexual drive to­ward young chil­dren, 
some­times both boys and girls. The former he of­ten uses in acts of sod­omy, the lat­ter in 
sexual in­ter­course, fel­la­tio, cun­ni­lin­gus, or some­times for mas­turb­at­ory 
ma­nip­u­la­tions.

 Ace, al­though he was mar­ried and the father of teen-aged daugh­ters, sought his 
total sexual sat­is­fac­tion from very young pros­ti­tutes. He was a fre­quent vis­itor to a 
house of pros­ti­tu­tion that spe­cial­ized in young girls.

 It had been years since Ace had had sexual in­ter­course with his wife. She, a fri­gid 
wo­man, did not mind in the least. She had her fam­ily; that was enough. Sex was 
cum­ber­some and both­er­some and much too messy for her. And for some time the lack of 
sex didn’t bother Ace either. Then he began no­ti­cing the pre-pu­bes­cent and early 
pu­bes­cent girls of the street.

 It be­came his habit to spend much of his leis­ure time in a park where chil­dren 
played. It was here that he ex­per­i­enced his first sexual re­lease in re­la­tion to a young girl’s
body.

 His eyes had fol­lowed the move­ments of a par­tic­u­lar girl who ap­peared to be 
about twelve. He was in­fatu­ated with the vi­tal­ity of her body, the way her young but­tocks 
sparked out un­der her tight skirt, the way her bare thighs flashed in and out of sight as she 
ran about the park. And he thought about the puffs that were one day to be her breasts; that 
they were the sweetest signs of youth he had ever wit­nessed. He could not keep his eyes 
from her. And when she chased a ball to the park bench where he sat, his heart fluttered 
madly and he felt a sud­den heat sweep him like a brush fire.

 “Here – I’ll get it for you,” Ace said to the girl.

 He bent over and reached for the ball be­neath the bench just as the girl star­ted to 
do the same thing, caus­ing her shoulder and thigh to strike lightly at his arm. Im­me­di­ate 
erec­tion res­ul­ted for him! It had been years since he had ex­per­i­enced such in­stant 
re­ac­tion. He was amazed. He was pleased. He was very ex­cited and a little frightened by this
old re­ac­tion that was made new to him once more.

 Ace raised and handed the child the ball. The brush of her fin­gers against his hand 
as she took the ball fur­ther stim­u­lated him. For a mo­ment, he was sure he would have an 
or­gasm as he sat there smil­ing at the child. Even the scent of her, a scent of youth and 
fresh­ness, was a stim­u­lant that heated him with even greater, more in­tense pas­sion.

 The girl took the ball, thanked him, then dar­ted away. Ace con­tin­ued to watch her
as she played. Soon, her play­mates left and she was left alone. She looked around, then 
walked over to Ace.

 “Would you like to play catch?” she asked.

 “I’d like that,” he answered.

 They threw the ball back and forth a few times, then Ace, wish­ing for a touch from 
her body again, be­came in­vent­ive and made the game into a keep-away kind of com­bat. 
Pur­posely, he held the ball high over his head, mak­ing the girl laugh and screech and come 
close to reach for it. He felt the bump of her knees, then knew the total crush of her body as 
she leaped high and came crash­ing down the front of him. Nearly faint­ing from the thrill 
that he knew, Ace cuddled the ball to his lap, caus­ing the girl to reach for it. Her hand dar­ted
out and struck hard against his penis. He ejac­u­lated, felt stunned and very, very far away 
from the scene that placed him with the child.

 He left the park as quickly as he could. That night, sparked with thoughts of the 
po­tency that had been re­turned to him, he began the pre­lim­in­ary acts of sexual 
in­ter­course with his wife. She was astoun­ded. And dis­gus­ted. She told him he was a silly 
old man. It didn’t mat­ter. Ace knew that he was in­cap­able of an erec­tion with his wife.

 The next night, Ace vis­ited a house of pros­ti­tu­tion. The girl he bought was very 
pretty, in her middle twen­ties, but in­cap­able of stim­u­lat­ing him to a sexual act. He left 
the place deeply de­jec­ted.

 For the next week, Ace spent hours at the play­grounds of the city. And here, 
sit­ting amid the boun­cing bod­ies of the young girls, he knew once again the hard, 
pulsat­ing erec­tion that sig­ni­fied his need for a fe­male – one of very young years.

 When he offered to push a child of about el­even on the swing and she ac­cep­ted, 
he found his out­let. Bring­ing the swing and the girl to a jar­ring halt against his hard penis, 
he once again found re­lease.

 Ace visu­al­ized fantasy scenes of him­self and a girl of twelve or thir­teen 
en­joy­ing an act of sexual in­ter­course to­gether. He tried to ima­gine how great it would 
be. But the strains of his law-abid­ing back­ground and his fear of dis­clos­ure and ar­rest 
were too strong. He knew that he would never truly know a child as he wished. The risks were 
too great.

 By chance, a few weeks after this in­cid­ent, Ace read a news­pa­per art­icle 
con­cern­ing the ar­rest of early teen-aged girls. They had been ap­pre­hen­ded and 
de­tained on charges of pros­ti­tu­tion. Ace was as­ton­ished. He never be­lieved that young 
girls par­ti­cip­ated in the sale of their bod­ies. It seemed pre­pos­ter­ous. And, it offered him
hope.

 A few days later, Ace sought out a know­ledge­able cab driver and in­quired about 
teen-aged pros­ti­tutes. The cab driver couldn’t help him, but he knew a bell­boy at one of 
the ma­jor ho­tels who could. Money changed hands and Ace fi­nally found him­self in a 
room at a hotel ex­citedly wait­ing for the young girl he had pur­chased for an hour.

 Ace has stated that when the girl entered the room, he thought he would faint 
be­cause of his de­sire for her. She was so lovely, so young, so ex­quis­itely fresh, that he was 
sure he could not move, could do noth­ing but sit where he was and erupt be­cause of the 
sight of her.

 His fre­quent ref­er­ence of “faint­ing” caused by the in­tens­ity of his feel­ings, was
later of con­sid­er­able in­terest to the psy­chi­at­rists. Their con­clu­sion was that his ba­sic 
“good­ness,” his re­spect for law and or­der, promp­ted this re­ac­tion both be­cause of his 
guilt and the con­scious­ness of what he was think­ing and want­ing to do, and as a wish that 
he would truly faint, en­abling him to es­cape the tor­ment of his wrong-do­ing.

 The girl ap­peared to be about twelve or thir­teen. She was very blonde and pretty. 
Her smile was vi­va­cious. There was an un­in­hib­ited mo­tion to her hips as she moved, that 
seemed to Ace to shout of the glory and good­ness of things that were past for him and gone
forever.

 “Hi,” she said brightly.

 He smiled and nod­ded.

 The girl came close to him and paused in front of him. She wore a short, terry-cloth 
bath­robe which caused Ace to won­der if she wore any­thing be­neath it.

 Trem­bling a bit, he rose from the chair. Then he reached one hand out and touched
lightly at the small bumps that were her breasts.

 She laughed and jumped back a pace, say­ing, “You’re cute -is that all you want to 
do-just feel?”

 “No,” he said.

 “Well, I just wondered. Some men are like that, you know.”

 “Are they?”

 “Oh yes. Some of my best cus­tom­ers are like that.”

 “How do you feel about that?” he asked.

 “Oh, I don’t know. Some­times odd, I guess. You know, after all I am kind of pretty 
and when they just do that to me – well, it makes me feel kind of rest­less. After all, a girl 
should get some­thing out of it, too, shouldn’t she?”

 “Yes. She cer­tainly should.”

 She laughed, then said, “You’re kind of nice, you know.”

 “Am I?”

 “Sure. I can tell. You’re kind of – sweet.”

 “I’m glad you think so,” Ace said. “You see – well, all this is a little new to me.”

 “Yeah, I can tell that too,” she said. “Most of these guys make it like a foot­ball 
game. You know, I walk in and they throw me on the bed be­fore I get a chance to even talk.”

 “They’re an­im­als,” he said, feel­ing, he has claimed, a cer­tain jeal­ousy for those 
other men who had known this girl.

 The girl laughed again, told him once more that he was “cute,” that he seemed 
“nice,” then placed one hand on the belt of her robe.

 Ace looked at her, and waited.

 The girl smiled and loosened the belt. Then she let the robe part down its middle, 
re­veal­ing to Ace flashes of young flesh that made his blood heat and surge through him.

 Ace loosened his tie. Then the but­tons of his shirt. When his fin­gers fumbled, the 
girl hur­ried to aid him and helped him get out of his clothes.

 When he was na­ked, the girl took a step back­wards and looked openly at the 
length and hard­ness of his penis.

 “You’re great,” she said.

 Her words re­leased Ace from his feel­ings of in­ad­equacy, re­leased him, too, from
all in­hib­i­tions that bothered his mind.

 He stepped for­ward, his anxious hands out­stretched and reach­ing for her small 
breasts. The girl gave them to him by a slight arch of her body, as she slipped the robe from 
her shoulders and dropped it to the floor.

 Ace cupped her small breasts in his hands and trembled more vi­ol­ently. Then he 
pinched the tiny, pink nipples which were be­gin­ning to stretch out­ward from their 
flesh-moulds. The girl half-closed her eyes in a sign of the pleas­ure she felt. Then she 
re­turned his caress, reached out and gripped him gently around his stiffened penis.

 “Oh, no, honey,” he ex­claimed, gently tak­ing her -wrist and mov­ing her hand 
away.

 Sur­prised, she asked, “Don’t you like that?”

 “Oh, yes, very much, but I can’t stand it right now. I might – might -”

 “I know what you mean,” she said. “You might come.” They moved to the bed. The 
girl stretched out upon her back with her arms above her head, caus­ing her to seem al­most 
breast­less while her small belly in­den­ted drastic­ally. Ace sat on the bed’s edge and looked 
at all of her lithe body. Then he ran his hands over her and as he did so he felt tre­mend­ous 
emo­tions growl within him, ur­ging him on­ward, more ag­gress­ively, to give more of 
him­self as he sought also to please the girl. He bent and kissed her rose­bud breasts.

 “Ummmm, that’s nice,” the girl whimpered. Then she was moved to moan more 
deeply and say, “Oh, that feels good,” when Ace shif­ted his po­s­i­tion and kissed gently at 
her thighs.

 As he ad­ored her young body with lips and tongue, Ace felt pride in his own body 
for the first time in years. He felt young and strong and very, very virile. He was the mas­ter, 
she his love. He was King, the girl a loyal sub­ject.

 When Ace be­came more dy­namic in his oral love-mak­ing, the girl moaned a bit, 
arched, moaned lov­ingly, then began a light up-and-down mo­tion of her body that brought
her in light, bump­ing con­tact with his hungry mouth.

 At the same mo­ment that Ace, un­able to stand any more play, pulled away from 
the girl, she stopped her arch­ing and braced her­self into a po­s­i­tion for in­ter­course.

 Shakily, Ace moved above her. The girl’s feet locked within the bend of his knees. 
Then she arched again.

 Slowly, ex­pertly, while he sought and could not find any mo­ment of his life to 
com­pare with the de­li­cious qual­ity of this mo­ment, Ace lowered to the girl, then pressed 
down­ward and in­ward, feel­ing the girl clutch to his mov­ing self as if a mil­lion fin­ger­tips 
played their tune of sex upon his flesh.

 “Ummm, but you’re good,” the girl whispered. Then she arched more vig­or­ously, 
ex­cit­ing faster move­ment from Ace.

 The jour­ney to re­turned youth was a short one for Ace. And for the girl, too. 
Strok­ing smoothly for a dozen move­ments, he could no longer con­tain him­self. He 
rammed and jammed and fought him­self to her, anxious for the mo­ment that was to 
re­lease him, yet sor­row­ful for it, too, be­cause it would mark an end to the greatest glory 
he had ever known.

 He cried out when the swell of him reached its peak and ex­ploded. And the girl 
joined his cry as she hur­ried her hips to her own com­ple­tion.

 When their bod­ies sep­ar­ated and Ace rolled to his side, gasp­ing, feel­ing the 
after-ef­fects of ex­er­tion rake his body, he mumbled in­co­her­ently, in­sanely, of things 
long va­cant from his life; of love and ex­cite­ment and youth.

 When the girl left the bed and star­ted to get ready to leave him, he felt that he 
could never let her go. And for a while he didn’t have to. He paid for an­other hour, 
re­sur­rec­ted his strength and tried again. This time he was slow and mas­ter­ful, even 
send­ing the girl to a scream­ing cli­max, one more in­tense than that which she had known 
earlier.

 Fol­low­ing his first ex­per­i­ence with early pu­bes­cent love, Ace be­came an 
ad­dict. He vis­ited the girl of­ten. He found other young­sters, for the vari­ety that his 
new­found po­tency re­quired. He dabbled in cun­ni­lin­gus, fel­la­tio, anal in­ter­course, and
breast ma­nip­u­la­tion. He be­came well known by all the teen-aged whores in the area. His 
work as a book­keeper suffered. His ex­penses rose. And fi­nally he began to look for sex 
among the un­wary chil­dren in the parks and by the pools of the city.

 It was in a park, deep within the woods, while for­cing the se­duc­tion of a 
twelve-year-old girl, that Ace was ar­res­ted and fi­nally sen­tenced for stat­utory rape.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Chuck C. Came to the at­ten­tion of the au­thor­it­ies in an east­ern city re­cently 
when he was found to be liv­ing in a low in­come, city hous­ing pro­ject with his 
four­teen-year-old niece. He had qual­i­fied for ad­mis­sion to the city hous­ing through 
falsi­fic­a­tion of his mar­ital and fam­ily status. But Chuck claimed in­no­cence of any sexual 
wrong-do­ing with a minor child when he was con­fron­ted by po­lice.

 “Look at the kid – have her ex­amined by a doc­tor if you don’t be­lieve me,” he 
told an as­sist­ant pro­sec­ut­ing at­tor­ney.

 The po­lice did just that. His claim was af­firmed. His niece was a vir­gin, her hy­men
was un­broken. But, still sus­pi­cious the po­lice con­duc­ted an in­tense in­ter­rog­a­tion of 
the girl and un­raveled a story of gross, in­ces­tu­ous promis­cu­ity.

 Chuck, at forty-six years of age, had never suc­cess­fully had sexual in­ter­course 
with a ma­ture wo­man. From the age of sev­en­teen, his drive had been dir­ec­ted to­ward 
pre-pu­bes­cent and early pu­bes­cent girls.

 He had known ho­mo­sexual af­fairs with young boys too, but it was the light, 
float­ing bod­ies of the twelve and thir­teen and four­teen-year-old girls that really in­trigued
him and sent him into spasms of sexual grat­i­fic­a­tion. When he could not bribe or pay for 
the body of a child, he forced his at­ten­tions upon her. But usu­ally a bribe was enough.

 Chuck found an abund­ant sup­ply of the young girls who would sub­mit to his 
sexual ad­vances, be­cause it was not com­plete in­ter­course that he wanted. Chuck was 
driven by a de­sire for a mul­ti­tude of sexual de­vi­ations. All of them ex­cluded sexual 
in­ter­course as a me­dia of con­tact.

 He found both a con­stant sex part­ner and a means of live­li­hood when his niece, 
who was thir­teen at the time, con­fided to him that she was go­ing to run away from home – 
that she could not en­dure the drunk­en­ness, the poverty, the quar­rels and brawls of her 
par­ents’ home. Chuck in­ven­ted a scheme un­der which his niece left her home and moved 
into the small apart­ment he main­tained in a slum sec­tion of town. When he suc­cess­fully 
ap­plied for, and re­ceived, city-sup­plied hous­ing, Chuck went into busi­ness as pimp for his
niece. He in­tro­duced her to his own sexual wishes as she left the bath­room wrapped in a 
towel on a Sat­urday af­ter­noon.

 “Hey, where you go­ing?” he asked.

 “To dress, where do you think?”

 “You don’t have to do that,” he laughed. “Stay just as you are. That’s a mighty cute 
cos­tume you’re wear­ing there.”

 “Hah!”

 He walked over to her and put his hands at her waist. Then he looked into her eyes 
and said, “Guess you know I ex­pect a few things from you for do­ing all that I’ve done to get 
you out of that crummy place you lived in.”

 “Crummy, eh?” she snorted. “And I sup­pose this dump is any bet­ter?”

 “It’s not now, but it can be. If we had more money.” She showed in­terest. Care­fully,
he ex­plained to her how she could earn money for them, by let­ting men use her body 
sexu­ally.

 “None of that for me,” she said. “You ain’t go­ing to find me hav­ing any ba­bies.”

 “There are ways to pre­vent that,” he said.

 “Yeah, and they don’t al­ways work either.”

 “Don’t tell me you haven’t already done things with boys,” he said ac­cus­ingly.

 “Sure I have,” she ad­mit­ted. “But noth­ing that’s go­ing to get me with a baby.”

 “You’re a vir­gin?”

 “I sure as hell am, and I’m go­ing to stay that way.”

 “Well I’ll be god­damned,” he ex­claimed. “Come on, tell me – what have you done 
with the boys?” She glanced down to where her breasts bulged against the towel. Then she 
said, “Oh, I’ve let them touch me a little – and I’ve touched them.”

 “Is that all?”

 “No.” She paused, then said, “I’ve – you know – played with them.”

 “Yeah, go on.”

 “And they’ve played with me.”

 “Touched you, you mean?”

 “More than that.”

 “You mean played with you down here,” he said, bring­ing his Hand to nudge 
between her thighs, prob­ing her pussy.

 “Hey – stop that,” she shouted.

 “Stop pre­tend­ing, kid,” he said gruffly. “And come ‘ere, you might as well learn 
right now that what I say, goes.”

 She with­drew a step, but not far enough to pre­vent Chuck from lash­ing his hand 
out and catch­ing her by the hair.

 “Hey – that hurts,” she cried.

 “And it’s go­ing to hurt a hell of a lot more if you don’t hurry up and learn the facts 
of life. Come ‘ere and learn ‘em.”

 Chuck half-dragged his niece into the bed­room. Then he stripped the towel from 
her body. His eyes gleamed and softened a bit as he looked at her body which was 
ex­cep­tion­ally well-de­veloped for her age; which showed large breasts with point­ing 
nipples that stuck out sharply from the soft­ness of her flesh, and a flat belly with its na­vel 
round and pinched.

 Chuck made a quick move­ment to the zip­per of his trousers, ex­posed him­self, 
then gripped his niece by the hair again. Then he settled him­self on the edge of the bed as 
he forced the girl to her knees in front of him.

 “Come on, give,” he said. “I got an idea you can suck cock good.” And, some­what 
to her own sur­prise, she could. Soon, her head was bob­bing upon him of its own ac­cord 
without the guid­ance of his fin­gers en­twined in her hair. And at the end, when he shot off 
into her mouth, she ex­per­i­enced a cer­tain thrill, one that prom­ised greater thrills of more 
in­tense mag­nitude in the fu­ture.

 This ini­tial sexual in­cid­ent res­ul­ted in a part­ner­ship between niece and uncle 
that las­ted un­til it was dis­rup­ted by a po­lice in­vest­ig­a­tion.

 Chuck had a source of in­come and the con­stant, de­vi­ate sexual avail­ab­il­ity of 
his niece. The girl had him prom­ise that she need never sub­mit to sexual in­ter­course, that 
he would pro­cure only those cli­ents who had no in­terest in the nor­mal sex act.

 The girl’s first cus­tomer de­sired only fel­la­tio. The second wanted to per­form 
cun­ni­lin­gus and suc­ceeded in ex­cit­ing the girl to a pitch that just bordered on or­gasm. 
With her third cus­tomer, she learned about anal in­ter­course and her fourth re­quired only 
that she ma­nip­u­late him manu­ally to or­gasm. But it was her fifth cus­tomer who ad­ded a
flair to the girl’s young life. When he ar­rived he was car­ry­ing a large, de­part­ment store 
box.

 Think­ing that she had been bought a gift, the young­ster brightened when the 
man entered the room.

 “Do you want me to take that?” she asked.

 “No, my dear, not now, at least,” he answered.

 There was little time for small talk be­cause the uncle, Chuck, had trained her to the 
time lim­its of sex; an hour was the ac­cep­ted time for the fee re­ceived.

 The cus­tomer slipped off his coat. Then the girl quickly loosened the front but­tons
of the simple dress she wore. In a mo­ment she hur­ried out of her cloth­ing and waited for 
the man to join her. She watched as he took his time un­dress­ing.

 He dis­turbed her, for he seemed not at all taken by the na­ked­ness she 
presen­ted. Al­though he looked at her firm breasts and the smooth­ness of her thighs, he 
seemed not the least ex­cited. She felt hurt and neg­lected. And when the man fi­nally stood 
na­ked be­fore her, she felt that she was a fail­ure, that her young na­ked body was not as 
al­lur­ing as she had been led to be­lieve. The man was not the least ex­cited, his penis 
re­mained limp and un­re­spons­ive to her pres­ence.

 The man smiled and turned his back to loosen the string around the large box and 
opened it. From it, he with­drew what ap­peared to be a gar­ment of leather, but which upon 
closer in­spec­tion proved to be noth­ing more than high, leather boots with spiked heels, 
boots that clung tightly to the thighs like a trout fish­er­man’s boots.

 “What in the world is that?” she asked.

 “Some­thing for you,” he said.

 “For me?”

 “Of course. For you to wear.”

 “Oh.”

 “You mean you’ve never done any­thing like this be­fore?” he asked.

 “Never.”

 “What a shame.”

 “Why?” she asked. “Why is it a shame?” He lif­ted and cradled the boots in his arms 
like a baby. “Be­cause these leather boots are very ex­cit­ing.” She shrugged and shook her 
head, then said, “Well – you’ll have to show me.”

 “I in­tend to,” he said.

 He slowly ex­plained that he wanted her to wear the boots, that she was to wear 
noth­ing more than them and that from the sight of her wear­ing them he would be­come 
ex­cited.

 Then, as if taken with some com­pul­sion to ex­plain fur­ther, he told her that from 
the time he was a very young man, boots, and the leather of them upon a na­ked young 
body, had been his only means to sexual erec­tion and the res­ult­ing act of in­ter­course.

 Pro­fes­sion­ally, she ac­cep­ted his ad­di­tional ex­plan­a­tion that slow­ness must
be part of this aph­ro­dis­iac act. She took the boots from his hand. Slowly, she placed one 
foot into the leather boot. Slowly, she drew the crinkly ma­ter­ial over her calf, her knee, and 
up and over and to the very top of her thigh. She raised up on the boot, un­bal­an­cing 
her­self a bit as the high heel shot her sev­eral inches taller than her nat­ural height.

 The cus­tomer gasped his pleas­ure at the sight of her.

 She pulled the draw strings tightly as the top of the leather boot pinched at her 
flesh when it fastened close, so close that the in­side of the boot rubbed against her crotch.

 The man gasped again, longer and more wheez­ing this time. He took a step closer 
and the girl could see that ex­cite­ment was be­gin­ning to come to him. His penis was 
par­tially erect.

 She slipped her other foot into the re­main­ing boot and ad­jus­ted it as she had 
the first. Again, there was a wheeze of re­sponse from the man. This time when she looked at 
him she saw that he had erec­ted fully. It seemed amaz­ing and she felt some­what con­fused.

 Then he stepped close. He smiled, then raised his hands and very gently kneaded 
her breasts. The girl liked the feel­ing, the du­al­ity of the leather boots snug­gling close to 
her skin while the man’s hands caressed her breasts.

 It didn’t last long. Sud­denly, im­pa­tience seized the man and he hur­ried his little 
pros­ti­tute to the bed.

 He prac­tic­ally threw her on her back, and just as quickly he hur­ried to kneel at the
edge of the couch. For a mo­ment the girl was afraid that Chuck had mis­judged his 
cus­tomer, that this one was bent upon the tak­ing of her in an act of sexual in­ter­course. But
when the man raised a bit, grasped his penis, then with the other hand forced the girl to a 
po­s­i­tion that faced him in a way that al­lowed her breasts to bunch to­gether, her mind 
was re­lieved. She knew that nor­mal in­ter­course was not what he had in mind. And she was
more than curi­ous as to just what he did have in mind.

 “Hey, what are you try­ing to do?” she asked.

 “Don’t talk,” he said gently. “Just lay there and let me do what I want to do.”

 “Well, what do you want to do?” she asked.

 “I want to fuck your tits,” he said.

 “With your – with your cock?” she asked curi­ously.

 “Of course with my cock,” he said im­pa­tiently. “How else does a man fuck?”

 “It’s just that nobody ever done it to me be­fore,” she said plaint­ively.

 “Then shut up and let me do it,” the man said ex­citedly. “You’ll like it. Es­pe­cially if 
nobody ever did it to you be­fore! You’ll really like it!”

 Slowly, the man brought him­self to a po­s­i­tion between her breasts. He held his 
penis with one hand and brought the other hand to touch at the high part of the leather boot.
Then, work­ing frantic­ally from the very be­gin­ning, he prod­ded him­self in the val­ley 
between her breasts while at the same time he smoothly caressed at the leather where it held 
her thigh.

 The girl was baffled and a bit anxious. She could not quite com­pre­hend that these 
ac­tions alone would bring the man to a sat­is­fact­ory fin­ish. But they did. Tre­mend­ously 
so. The man jerked him­self back and forth between her breasts, achiev­ing a fant­astic pace. 
And all the time his other hand slowly and lov­ingly caressed her leather-en­cased thigh.

 The cus­tomer bel­lowed a cry of pas­sion as he reached his cli­max. Only then did 
his one hand quiet and re­lease his penis, only then did his other hand fall away from the 
leather that had given him the ex­cite­ment that had brought him to sexual out­let.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 It was when he joined the Y.M.C.A. at the age of fif­teen that Randy began to 
real­ize that some­thing was drastic­ally dif­fer­ent between him­self and the other boys. Built
small, with nar­row shoulders and frail bones, his penis was ab­nor­mally small. He was the 
brunt of many jokes, and all man­ner of hu­mi­li­ations. He suffered them si­lently, but within 
him burned an an­ger that was to take a long time to quiet.

 At eight­een, Randy made a date – the first he had ever had – with an 
un­at­tract­ive girl who was a class­mate in his senior class at the high school. After 
at­tend­ing a show, Randy parked his father’s car be­neath the cover of trees at a city park. 
Ex­per­i­ment­ally, he kissed the girl. The girl per­mit­ted it, largely be­cause this date also 
marked her first ven­ture in boy-girl re­la­tion­ships.

 Randy blazed with pas­sion. He had heard of the won­ders of kiss­ing and 
touch­ing and mak­ing love to girls. And when he sneaked his hand in­side the girl’s blouse 
and grasped her warm breast in his hand, he was sure that everything the other fel­lows said 
was true -that “mak­ing out” with girls was the greatest thing go­ing.

 The girl be­came ex­cited too and pressed her hand to his thigh, mov­ing it 
in­vest­ig­at­ively, search­ing, fin­gers wan­der­ing as they sought his penis to grip and 
fondle. She was sur­prised when her fin­gers did not fine any hot, hard flesh.

 Mean­while, Randy reached his hand to the girl’s knee, then to her thigh, and then, 
when she hunched down in the seat and par­ted her legs, to that warm place between her 
thighs. She shivered and wound her arms around him as he began a light, stabbing 
pen­et­ra­tion of her body. And she breathed hard and uttered small sounds of pleas­ure as 
Randy in­creased the speed of his jab­bing fin­ger. And then, sud­denly, he moved his hand 
higher and found her clit­oris. He touched it. The girl re­acted with a cry of pas­sion. And then
he circled upon it and she began to moan and groan new sounds of an ever rising, mount­ing,
rap­tur­ous pleas­ure. But when she arched her body and seemed ready to bound up­ward 
through the roof of the car, Randy stopped the ac­tion.

 “Oh, don’t stop,” she pleaded. “Don’t, don’t, don’t – what are you do­ing to me?”

 “Come on – we got to do it the right way,” he answered, shak­ing, but de­term­ined 
that he would now ex­per­i­ence what oth­ers of his own age were already well 
ex­per­i­enced in do­ing.

 The girl slumped lower in the seat and re­moved her panties. Then she hiked her 
dress high above her hips and waited as Randy took a po­s­i­tion close to her, then paused to
fumble at the front of his trousers.

 Fi­nally, he was ready. He was press­ing down­ward to his first sexual en­counter. 
He moved his hips back and forth in trip-ham­mer speed as the girl arched and thrust her 
body to meet him. But none of it seemed to be work­ing right. His un­der­developed penis 
did not bring even the slight­est sexual feel­ing to the girl. And, cruelly, she did not hes­it­ate 
to tell him so.

 “Are you – in?” she in­quired anxiously.

 “Yes.”

 “But I can’t tell,” she ex­claimed. “I don’t feel your cock in me at all!”

 “Sure you can. Try.” He thrust with all his might against the girl’s throb­bing thighs. 
“There. How’s that?”

 “I can’t feel any­thing,” she sobbed. “Noth­ing. Not a thing. Are you sure you’re in?”

 “I’m in all right,” he panted. “I can tell – I can feel you.” He made sev­eral more 
move­ments, and then he ex­per­i­enced the pre­ma­ture ejac­u­la­tion that is so com­mon 
in young boys hav­ing their first sexual in­ter­course. He cried out and whimpered the sounds 
of all he felt. But for the girl, there was noth­ing. And again, she was not dis­creet in her 
cri­ti­cism.

 “You son-of-a-bitch,” she yelled. “God­damn you, any­way. All that stuff and you get
your rocks off and I don’t feel “a thing – I don’t be­cause you’re too god­damn small – 
be­cause you’re not a man at all. Now god­damn it, get down here and do what you were 
do­ing to me be­fore so I can get some­thing out of this.”

 Em­bar­rassed, too taken aback to speak, Randy obed­i­ently re­turned his hand to 
her thigh, once again found that plat­eau of sen­sa­tion and spun his fin­ger upon it. But he 
was without en­thu­si­asm for his mas­turb­a­tion of the girl. And his lack of en­thu­si­asm 
must have pre­ven­ted her from the cli­max she de­sired. In­stead, she knew only frus­tra­tion
as she strove for a high point of feel­ing without achiev­ing that mark that would re­lease her 
and then send her cas­cad­ing down­ward in a swoop­ing dive of grat­i­fic­a­tion.

 Dur­ing the drive home, Randy re­mained mostly si­lent. The girl, on the other hand,
per­haps to work off some of the frus­tra­tion she had ex­per­i­enced, ri­diculed his 
in­ad­equa­cies. Though she may have had little pre­vi­ous sexual ex­per­i­ence, she seemed 
very worldly as she sat in the darkened car be­side Randy and hu­mi­li­at­ingly up­braided 
him.

 “My God,” she said. “My little brother’s only ten, and he’s got a big­ger dong on him
than you!”

 “How – how do you know?” Randy asked, shamed.

 “Be­cause I see him in the shower every once in a while,” she said scorn­fully. “How 
did you think I knew? You think I let him fuck me, or some­thing?”

 “I only asked,” Randy said.

 “If I ever did, he’d prob­ably be bet­ter at it than you were,” she said bit­terly.

 “I did fuck you,” Randy in­sisted.

 “Sure! With that little wart you’ve got for a prick!” she said. “That little pea­nut-sized 
peter!”

 “God­damn you, shut up!” Randy blazed out an­grily.

 “Well, it’s true,” the girl said, more quietly. “That thing’s not even big enough to fuck
a mid­get!”

 “Maybe I just wasn’t do­ing it right,” Randy ad­mit­ted. “Maybe it’s not the size 
that’s the trouble, but the way I was do­ing it. You want to try it again?”

 “Are you kid­ding!” the girl said scorn­fully.

 After that one ex­per­i­ence, Randy was too fear­ful of hu­mi­li­ation to at­tempt 
sexual in­ter­course again, un­til, at the age of thirty, he had sex with a teen-age pros­ti­tute, 
who was too wise in the ways of her pro­fes­sion to cast any as­per­sions on the lack of size 
of his penis. Grate­ful to her, Randy con­tin­ued to visit her and other tact­ful teen-aged 
whores for his sexual grat­i­fic­a­tion.

 “The phys­ic­ally in­ad­equate -the de­formed – the in­sec­ure – are the very 
spe­cial cus­tom­ers of these young girls,” said a Crim­inal Court psy­chi­at­rist re­cently. 
“Such men, shunned by ma­ture wo­men, find in an im­ma­ture fe­male their own 
op­por­tun­ity for con­fid­ence and ac­cept­ance that they might never oth­er­wise 
ex­per­i­ence.”





CHAPTER FIVE


AN­IM­ALS AND WHIPS

 When the Pro­bate Court of a New York county star­ted to hear the testi­mony that 
res­ul­ted in the in­sti­tu­tion­al­iz­a­tion of Lori, the judge called a re­cess un­til the 
prin­cipal could be taken to his cham­bers where he in­ten­ded to re­view the case away from
the in­no­cent ears of courtroom spec­tat­ors. The case of Lori was too shock­ing for pub­lic 
con­sump­tion, the judge felt, for at six­teen years of age the girl-sub­ject of the court had 
already been four years a mis­tress to a man three times her age – and she had par­ti­cip­ated
in the most gross kind of sexual de­vi­ations and fet­ishes.

 Lori was a farm girl. She worked hard help­ing her fam­ily farm land that would 
never provide more than a be­low-av­er­age in­come. She was al­most con­stantly 
des­pond­ent. Al­though pretty and pop­u­lar with her class­mates at school, she had little 
in­terest in an edu­ca­tion. Her par­ents felt that edu­ca­tion wasn’t ne­ces­sary for a farm 
girl. They en­cour­aged her to miss school fre­quently in or­der to help with the chores. Lori 
was will­ing. School was as much drudgery as was the farm.

 When she wasn’t work­ing, Lori spent a lot of time with the farm an­im­als. She liked
them. Their lot was as bad as hers and so she had a rap­port with them.

 She was el­even when she dis­covered that sex was some­thing that could re­lieve 
the bore­dom of the farm. She was in the field where the horses grazed when she re­called 
that her father had men­tioned that one of the mares was ready for mat­ing. She opened the 
gate that sep­ar­ated the horses, then propped her­self on the fence to watch the sexual 
activ­ity that would res­ult.

 The stal­lion was wild. Lori, look­ing at the huge or­gan of the horse, watch­ing as 
the stud moun­ted the mare then shivered him­self within her as they both snorted, felt a 
rustle of thrill at her thighs. She knew that the act rep­res­en­ted the eternal act between men
and wo­men, yet it seemed very re­mote from any kind of cop­u­la­tion she might ever know.
But, at the cli­max of the act between the an­im­als, Lori felt she knew some­thing of what the
male felt as he shin­nied and jammed and then with­drew. She knew that re­lease was what 
he had at­tained. Re­lease. It rep­res­en­ted many things to her.

 About a month later, Lori, alone in the barn and sit­ting in the hay with her knees 
propped, laughed when the big col­lie dog came up to her and clamped his paws about her 
legs. And then she didn’t laugh, for she felt a re­ac­tion like none she had ever be­fore known.
She felt sexu­ally ex­cited. She raised her skirt high above her thighs, then pushed her panties 
away from her body. Then she re­clined in the hay, breath­ing hard, won­der­ing ex­actly 
what might hap­pen to her. The col­lie sniffed. Then he labored hard with his long, thin snoot 
as he nuzzled to her.

 Lori be­came very ex­cited. She closed her eyes and en­vi­sioned faraway places, 
rich clothes, hand­some men – any­thing and everything that could blur the real­ity of 
her­self, a poor farm girl, re­ceiv­ing the lap­ping at­ten­tion of a dog.

 Lori reached some peak of ex­cite­ment that psy­chi­at­rists claim must have been 
just short of or­gasm. But it was suf­fi­cient to make her gasp, then sit up and push the dog 
away.

 For sev­eral months, quite fre­quently, she would go to the barn and en­gage with 
the dog in this man­ner, re­ceiv­ing his thirsty or­al­ity. It was her only di­ver­sion from the 
bore­dom of farm life.

 When Lori turned thir­teen, she met a farm equip­ment sales­man who was very 
hand­some, seemed very worldly, and was very taken with the young beauty she dis­played. 
He talked to Lori a lot. She listened to his stor­ies of the city, of the ex­cite­ment of life that 
was not rural squalor. And her dreams were fed. She began to look for­ward to the 
sales­man’s monthly vis­its to the farm. By now, she knew that she was the only reason he 
ever made the call. Her father couldn’t buy a thing.

 “I’d go to New York in a minute if I could make a liv­ing,” Lori said one day to the 
sales­man.

 “Maybe I can help,” he told her.

 As she sat wide-eyed with in­terest, he ex­plained that he had a friend who 
some­times helped young girls – those girls who were too young to work but who don’t want 
to go to school either. “The girls with guts to make it on their own,” he said.

 She as­sured him that she had the guts – that she only needed the op­por­tun­ity.

 “It’s hard” he said ser­i­ously. “It’s hard and you won’t be a sweet little vir­gin any 
longer.” She laughed and told him it didn’t bother her at all – not a damned bit, she said, 
try­ing for soph­ist­ic­a­tion.

 Ar­range­ments were made for her to meet the sales­man’s friend – not the friend 
him­self, just one of his un­der­lings, but the man would have the au­thor­ity to hire her, if 
she qual­i­fied.

 “What do I have to do to qual­ify?” Lori asked.

 “You’ll see,” the sales­man said.

 She met the ju­nior ex­ec­ut­ive of the pros­ti­tu­tion syn­dic­ate at a hotel fifty 
miles away from her home. He was hand­some. Lori had worn her best dress, but even her 
best was cheap and simple, al­though re­veal­ing of her body which was already fully ma­ture.

 The man got to the point im­me­di­ately. Al­though she was shocked at the things 
he said – and at the way he said them – she fought within her­self not to show alarm. 
Any­thing would be bet­ter than the life she knew – she could not miss this op­por­tun­ity to 
leave it all be­hind her.

 “So what do you say?” the man asked.

 “It sounds okay to me,” Lori replied.

 The man grinned as if he knew how hard the girl fought within her­self to be 
co­oper­at­ive and not em­bar­rassed.

 “Well, do you want to au­di­tion for the job?” he asked.

 “Au­di­tion?”

 “Yeah. You know – fuck! Right now. Right here, on the bed.” Lori hes­it­ated, then 
said, “I guess so.”

 “I got some­thing spe­cial in mind for you,” the man said. “A spe­cial cli­ent that I 
think will go for you big, be­cause you’re so young. You wouldn’t have to fuck just any­one, 
like the other girls. You’d be for just this one guy. He’s very rich. You’d live with him, and he’d 
take care of you.”

 “Oh,” Lori said. “Like a guard­ian, kind of.” The man laughed, then said, “Yeah. Like a 
guard­ian, kind of.” He walked over to a desk across the room, and picked up the tele­phone. 
He dialed a num­ber, then spoke into the mouth­piece, “Hello, Jake? Listen, are you free to 
give a little girl an au­di­tion?... Yeah, right now... Jake, it is worth your time... And the 
young­est... I thought that would get you.” He laughed.

 “All right, Jake, hurry !” He hung up ab­ruptly.

 “Is that the man I might work for?” Lori asked.

 “No. He’s one of my crew. He helps me out with the au­di­tions.”

 “I hope he’ll like me,” Lori said.

 “Baby,” the man said, “when the au­di­tion is over- when Jake and I are fin­ished 
-we’ll know for sure.”

 “Are you and Jake both go­ing to au­di­tion me?” Lori asked.

 “Yeah,” the man said, star­ing dir­ectly at her.

 “You mean you’re both go­ing to screw me?”

 “Honey, that’s what au­di­tion means, around here,” the man said with a grin. “Any thing wrong?”

 “No, I guess not, Lori said. “When is he com­ing over?”

 “As quick as he can make it, with a hard-on,” the man said coarsely. “What’s the 
mat­ter, can’t you wait?” Within five minutes of Jake’s ap­pear­ance, he had stripped Lori of 
her cloth­ing, blackened her eyes, then taken her in an act of sexual in­ter­course that was 
hard and al­most in­ter­min­able. When Jake fin­ished with her, the ori­ginal re­cruiter forced 
her to per­form fel­la­tio. Then she was beaten again. Then Jake forced her to an act of anal 
in­ter­course while at the same time she was again forced to per­form an act of fel­la­tio 
upon the other man.

 And fi­nally they stopped.

 The pimp looked at her bruised body, at her breasts hanging down­ward with the 
nipples hid­ing within flesh, at her thighs which showed the black-blue marks of pinch­ing 
and hit­ting. Then he gathered her clothes up, walked to the dresser and took up her purse 
from which he ex­trac­ted the few dol­lars she had.

 Hold­ing her clothes and with her money in his pocket, he grinned and said, “Well, 
what about it? Do you take the job, or do you want to go home to mamma and daddy like 
that?”

 Lori took the job. She be­came a very rich man’s mis­tress and learned all about 
fet­ishes.

 Her para­mour was a wealthy man, so wealthy that he had every hour avail­able to 
pur­sue his ex­per­i­ments in sexu­al­ity if he wished. And he did so wish. Lori was treated 
very well. She was given ex­pens­ive cloth­ing, was al­lowed al­most any en­ter­tain­ment she
wanted, and even knew the kind of pa­ternal com­pan­ion­ship she had never re­ceived from 
her father. (This, psy­chi­at­rists have pro­claimed, was a strong factor in her sub­mis­sion to 
the sexual in­dig­nit­ies im­posed upon her, for it touched upon cer­tain Elec­tra in­ces­tu­ous ele­ments of her sub­con­scious.)

 Lori soon learned to ex­pect any­thing from sex. And she re­ceived much, even 
found her­self re­spond­ing in cli­max to many sexual de­vi­ations and fet­ishes. The one that
seemed to thrill her the most was that of fla­gel­la­tion. Her young body was scarred badly, 
but she never res­isted an op­por­tun­ity to re­ceive the lash of the whip. She de­scribed 
these situ­ations for the Pro­bate Court in­vest­ig­at­ors.

 The wealthy Mr. L. Entered her room and looked at her where she was propped on 
the bed, her body veiled lightly in an ex­pens­ive neg­li­gee.

 “Good even­ing,” he said, smil­ing. “Don’t tell me you’re ready to re­tire so early.”

 “I didn’t know if you were com­ing home or not,” Lori answered. “You said you 
didn’t know.”

 “That’s true, child, but I couldn’t res­ist re­turn­ing to you.”

 “That’s nice,” she laughed.

 Mr. L. Settled him­self on the edge of her bed. He reached out and lightly 
sep­ar­ated the bod­ice of her neg­li­gee, par­tially ex­pos­ing both of her breasts. It was a 
ges­ture she was very fa­mil­iar with, one that usu­ally pre­ceded a sexual en­counter. She 
smiled.

 “Tell me, what do you think of your edu­ca­tion in sex so far?” Mr. L. Asked.

 “It’s been in­ter­est­ing,” she said. She thought of how she did be­come very 
ex­cited by all the things her lover did to her. And then she thought how she al­ways seemed 
left want­ing, a bit dis­sat­is­fied as if more should be forth­com­ing from the act.

 “I thought we might try some­thing dif­fer­ent to­night,” Mr. L. Said.

 “What could be dif­fer­ent than all the things we’ve already done?” Lori asked, 
laugh­ing.

 “A num­ber of things.” He paused and looked at her thick hair which was loose and 
about her shoulders. “As an ex­ample, if I were to grip you by the hair and drag you across the
room, it would seem on first look as if it was cruel, yet, it might be very, very thrill­ing for both 
of us.”

 “It might hurt, too,” she said.

 “Yes. And the hurt might be ex­cit­ing.”

 Mr. L. Looked at her breast a mo­ment, then bent and very ten­derly kissed it, 
mouth­ing the nipple then tak­ing it between his lips to pull upon it.

 Lori, already well-in­formed as to the re­sponses her lover liked in her, gripped his 
head and smothered him close to her breast as she arched. Then she be­came im­pa­tient and
pulled back in or­der to lower the neg­li­gee all the way to her waist, of­fer­ing more of 
her­self for his lips and tongue. Then she shook her breasts madly from side to side, brush­ing
and pulling them against the tug he brought to them.

 Fi­nally, Mr. L. Pulled back, smil­ing and say­ing, “My, but you’re a wild one.”

 “I’m only wild be­cause you make me that way,” she said learn­edly.

 “Sup­pose I make you even wilder.”

 “All right,” she answered.

 Mr. L. Stood up. Lori straightened in the middle of the bed. Then the man’s hand 
shot out and gripped her by the hair. He jerked her to a sprawl­ing po­s­i­tion, then dragged 
her from the bed, across the room and into the lib­rary which ad­joined it.

 Lori made no at­tempt to lessen the hurt­ful pull at her scalp. She was an obed­i­ent
mis­tress and she knew that this was what Mr. L. Wanted.

 Mr. L. Re­leased her after drag­ging her to the wall of the lib­rary.

 “Stand up now,” he said. His voice had changed, was odd and mys­ter­i­ous 
sound­ing.

 Lori stood up and placed her back to the wall. Her neg­li­gee clung by a single tie at
her waist. Both her breasts were bloated and the nipples were erect and wav­ing be­cause of 
her ex­er­ted breath­ing. Mr. L. Looked at her for a mo­ment, then turned and went to the big
desk in the corner of the room. From the top drawer, he ex­trac­ted a thick, black whip.

 Lori, see­ing it, was temp­ted to shud­der. But she did not. She had already 
ex­per­i­enced many sexual things with her lover. She would ex­per­i­ence this, too, and 
without ob­jec­tions.

 Mr. L. Walked in front of her.

 “Try not to feel the hurt,” he said. “Try to think of it in terms of ex­cite­ment.”

 “I will,” she re­spon­ded.

 He drew the whip back and lashed it hard across both her breasts. Her body jol­ted. 
The breasts opened in a long gash just be­low the nipples. Blood oozed, then dribbled down 
her front. The whip struck again, this time at the side tie of her neg­li­gee, sli­cing it in half 
and mak­ing the gown fall to her feet. And then she was nude, her thighs pressed closely 
to­gether, her breasts hurt, but up­lif­ted, the nipples still strong and brave and stand­ing out.
And then the whip struck at her waist, sli­cing her flesh at the na­vel and mak­ing it fill with 
blood.

 She could see that Mr. L. Was be­com­ing very ex­cited. He was breath­ing hard and
his penis pressed tautly against the fab­ric of his trousers.

 Mr. L. Lashed Lori sev­eral times more, at the thighs, the breasts again, across her 
belly, then above her breasts. Then he stopped and res­ted. Then he dropped the whip while 
he un­dressed.

 Nude, he picked up the whip and took a step closer to Lori. She glanced at his penis
then turned away, think­ing that this new strength of him frightened her- more than the whip.
It was un­like him, and, it in­dic­ated a high pitch of pas­sion never be­fore reached. It 
ex­cited her a little, too. She dis­covered this when he shortened his hold on the whip and 
struck it in an un­der­cut between her thighs.

 This time, Lori cried out. But it was less for the pain than for the thrill she re­ceived. 
He struck her in the same man­ner again and she ob­liged the whip by sep­ar­at­ing her 
thighs a bit. Then his blows grew frantic, he struck again and again from the un­der­sides of 
her thighs, between them, high, hard, and snap­pingly between them.

 And as he lashed, she felt a swamp of heat cap­tiv­ate her body as she had never 
be­fore known it. In­stead of shrink­ing from the pain, her body grew and bloated and 
re­ceived each lash of the whip as if it were a gi­ant and ex­cep­tional lover. She even tried to 
main­tain the touch of it by clasp­ing her thighs to­gether with each blow that was made.

 Once she was suc­cess­ful, and Mr. L. With­drew the harsh whip more slowly, 
al­low­ing her to feel the full, teas­ing rasp of it as it de­par­ted her body. Lori panted hard. 
Her body quivered as it an­ti­cip­ated each new sting of the whip. And as she sighted the 
con­tin­ued growth of Mr. L.’s penis, she knew that her thrill was also his, that they were 
grow­ing and bloat­ing to­gether, that they were reach­ing and be­ing shot higher and 
higher un­til soon they would burst. And they did.

 Mr. L. Doubled the whip in his hand and walked closer. He stopped in front of her, 
then with the end of the whip curled to the thick handle, he brought a grue­some blow 
between her thighs again. She nearly col­lapsed, but did not, would not be­cause then there 
would be a pause that might in­ter­rupt the thrill she was re­ceiv­ing.

 He struck again and again. Lori clutched her breasts, dug her fin­ger­nails into them
and bent over a bit while she made a wider wel­come for the zip­ping, crash­ing, twirl­ing, 
hurt­ing whip.

 And then she screeched, the be­gin­ning thrill that had sur­passed en­dur­ance.

 “EEEEEEEEEEE,” she yelped. “AH­HHH – yes, Yes-harder!” He co­oper­ated. He lashed
so hard and so fast that his arm was a melt­ing circle, con­stant, un­ceas­ing, whirl­ing and 
whirl­ing and whirl­ing.

 “UGH, yes!” Lori groaned.

 “Hold ME!” he sud­denly ex­hor­ted. “Hold me hard while you go, darling!” She 
reached both hands out and grasped his penis as he brought the fi­nal vol­ley of the whip to 
her fem­in­in­ity.

 Lori erup­ted in a frantic or­gasm that lif­ted her to the skies even as she brought 
her lover the same thrill by squeez­ing and pulling and twist­ing him to a well-timed fin­ish.

 Lori be­came ex­tremely fond of the whip. Al­though she sub­mit­ted to, and was 
thrilled by, other de­vi­ations and fet­ishes, it was the whip that be­came her greatest love. 
And, her ro­mance with it did not end un­til she was taken from Mr. L. And con­fined in a 
state in­sti­tu­tion for the men­tally sick.





CHAPTER SIX


YOU CANT TEASE FOREVER

 If at times we can con­tem­plate the ac­counts of promis­cu­ity among our young, 
we can read­ily re­mind ourselves that this is both a symp­tom and a product of our swift 
mov­ing era, that the same dec­ade that has taken men to the moon has also brought a new 
and al­lur­ing type of fem­in­in­ity to the Amer­ican scene – the teen-aged and sub-teen 
temp­tress.

 Why does a thir­teen-year-old girl de­lib­er­ately set out to se­duce a man older 
than her father? Is she ac­tu­ally that sexu­ally driven? Is her act one of true hos­til­ity for the 
adult or is it her own over­power­ing quest for sex with an ex­per­i­enced part­ner? How did 
she be­gin her search? And more im­port­ant... where will it lead her?

 The psy­chi­at­rists, so­ci­olo­gists and school au­thor­it­ies agree that in the 
ma­jor­ity of cases, it is the teen-aged girl who brings about her own sexual ad­ven­tures – 
that more of­ten than not, she is the ag­gressor. Whatever the case, whether con­scious or 
sub­con­scious, the in­cid­ence of se­duct­ive­ness among the young con­tin­ues to climb 
with alarm­ing speed.

 A re­cent case con­cerned the ar­rest of a teacher and his thir­teen-year-old 
stu­dent. They were dis­covered in the acts of cun­ni­lin­gus and fel­la­tio at a motel. The 
teacher pleaded in­no­cence due to the dif­fi­culty of res­ist­ing such an ex­cit­ing sex 
part­ner.

 “She kept after me un­til I thought I’d lose my mind,” said the thirty-five-year-old 
teacher. “She wouldn’t leave me alone. She called and made it a point to flaunt her body at 
me dur­ing every hour of classes dur­ing the day. And fi­nally she told me that if I didn’t make
love to her -and make it to her the way she wanted – she would tell the school au­thor­it­ies 
that I tried to rape her. What can a man do when he’s con­fron­ted by that?”

 Many so­ci­olo­gists look at mass me­dia as the cul­prit that has cre­ated greater 
and earlier sexu­al­ity among Amer­ica’s teen-aged girls. Some psy­chi­at­rists claim that the 
cause is sub­con­scious, that the young fe­male, temp­ted by ad­vert­ising, per­missive 
par­ents, and the hy­per-ac­cel­er­ated emo­tions of our day, has greater op­por­tun­ity to 
act out re­pres­sions that were once ob­liged to tor­ment without ex­pres­sion.

 The Amer­ican teen-ager, should she wish to de­fend her­self against charges of 
un­usual promis­cu­ity, need only look to his­tory to find an ally for her case. The pages of 
his­tory are scorched with the sexual capers of teen-agers from nearly every era of 
civil­iz­a­tion’s ex­ist­ence.

 Cleo­patra was a teen-aged temp­tress who used the lure of her body for polit­ical 
pur­poses. Madam Du Barry was so suc­cess­ful as a young mis­tress to her King that she was 
as­signed the re­spons­ib­il­it­ies of pro­cure­ment of other teen-age beau­ties to sat­isfy the
sexual tastes of mon­archs and no­ble­men.

 The harems of the East were crowded with girls of twelve, thir­teen, four­teen and 
fif­teen years who sought fa­vors for them­selves through their se­duct­ive­ness. 
Com­pet­i­tion among the girls was keen. Each girl tried to outdo the oth­ers in or­der to 
know the spe­cial at­ten­tions of their mas­ter. Many suc­ceeded and be­came fa­vor­ites of 
the harem. Most of the girls tried to win the fa­vor of their mas­ter by the per­form­ance of 
spe­cial sexual de­vi­ations and fet­ishes that they thought would please him. And they did 
please him. Through every era of his­tory.

 Teas­ing, like most of our sex prac­tices, is as old as time. There has never been a 
period dur­ing civil­iz­a­tion’s growth that teas­ing was not a weapon of the fe­male spe­cies.
Some 18th and 19th Cen­tury coun­tries looked upon teas­ing as an at­trib­ute ne­ces­sary in
every wo­man. Many a mother in France and Eng­land dur­ing this period of time began 
in­struc­tions in the art of teas­ing when her daugh­ter was still a mere child. The res­ult, the 
moth­ers hoped, would be the ac­quis­i­tion of a rich and eli­gible male when the child 
reached the age for mar­riage, usu­ally at fif­teen, six­teen, or sev­en­teen. With the 
daugh­ter at her knee, the mother taught the art of smil­ing shyly, flut­ter­ing eye­lids, 
walk­ing prop­erly, sit­ting de­murely, nod­ding at­tent­ively to con­ver­sa­tions, be­ing 
care­ful not to talk too much or to ap­pear too in­tel­li­gent. A great deal of time was spent 
teach­ing the young fe­males how to dress in a way that would arouse males; how to re­veal 
enough of their bod­ies to catch an in­ter­ested male eye without ap­pear­ing cheap or low 
bred. And it has been writ­ten by some his­tor­i­ans, moth­ers also no doubt taught their very
young daugh­ters the sexual ways of pleas­ing a man, what was ex­pec­ted of her, how she 
was ex­pec­ted to re­act when the time for co­itus ar­rived.

 The school­room siren is today’s equi­val­ent of the his­toric sexual teaser. The 
fol­low­ing cases re­veal some of them in their more ag­gress­ive pat­terns.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 A change came over Rhoda M., when she be­came a high school sopho­more. She 
sud­denly ceased be­ing shy. She had watched the op­er­a­tions of other girls in her 
classrooms, ob­served how they flir­ted, the res­ults they got – even bet­ter marks from some 
male teach­ers in a few in­stances – and, she de­term­ined to be­come “one of the crowd,” a 
true tease like the other girls in her class.

 Rhoda had the qual­i­fic­a­tions for a se­ductress. She was five-and-a-half-feet tall, 
weighed a hun­dred and twenty pounds, was large-bus­ted, slim-hipped, nar­row-waisted, 
and had long, smooth legs. She dressed at­tract­ively, usu­ally in a sweater or blouse and a 
short, tight skirt; at­tire that was the uni­form of the av­er­age high school girl. Rhoda was 
also a good stu­dent. This ad­ded to her at­trib­utes. Her hair was au­burn and was combed 
in a short cut that al­lowed curls to bounce be­low her ears. Her eyes were dark brown. She 
soon learned to use them as a prop for at­ten­tion. She would first stare at a boy, smile, then, 
while she held a pen­cil she would take one end of it into her mouth, nib­bling at it in a 
nervous man­ner, some­times dart­ing her pink tongue out to peck at the very end of it as if it
were a lol­li­pop. She found that this was a most ef­fect­ive method of se­cur­ing the 
at­ten­tion of boys, ef­fect­ive, too, at con­vey­ing the hints of what ex­cite­ment a hot, 
girl-tongue could bring to a boy.

 She brought in­nov­a­tion to her cam­paign of flir­ta­tion. She began at­tend­ing 
school minus the usual bra. This was ex­tremely ef­fect­ive. Nearly every boy stared at her as 
she walked through the cor­ridors, her young breasts boun­cing be­neath her sweater or 
blouse, the nipples of them creas­ing the ma­ter­ial in a line that told of their erec­tion, their 
hard­ness, per­haps even of their heat. At first she felt a bit in­sec­ure without the 
cus­tom­ary bra, but she soon learned to be com­fort­able with the free flow of her breasts 
and the gen­er­at­ing ef­fects they had on the school males.

 Un­til she was fif­teen, Rhoda dated in­fre­quently. When she did, it was usu­ally 
with a boy of her own age, on a double date, or some event that did not provide the pri­vacy 
that was needed for sexual activ­ity. This changed, too, when she be­came a sopho­more. 
Now, she thirsted for the at­ten­tion – and the res­ult­ant re­quests for dates – from the 
seni­ors of the school, the pop­u­lar boys who were already dat­ing or “go­ing steady” with 
some of the older girls. Rhoda liked the ath­letes of the school, too. They seemed like a 
spe­cial chal­lenge to her. She knew that they ex­pec­ted sex from any girl they dated.

 The very first res­ult of her sopho­more year flir­ta­tions provided Rhoda with 
ample at­ten­tion – more than she had an­ti­cip­ated.

 The eight­een-year-old cen­ter on the school foot­ball team asked for a date. She 
agreed. She had been hop­ing to at­tract the tall, hand­some boy for sev­eral weeks. And now
she had suc­ceeded.

 It was Sat­urday night when the boy, Gary D., picked up Rhoda in his car. Rhoda was
ex­cited about this first date that was a dir­ect res­ult of her flir­ta­tions. School was 
for­got­ten for the week­end. The even­ing was ahead of them.

 Gary had noth­ing spe­cial planned for the even­ing. Rhoda sug­ges­ted that they 
visit the dif­fer­ent drive-in res­taur­ants, to see which of their friends were there, then, from 
that point, “play it cool.” Gary agreed. Rhoda was happy. There was a reason for her 
sug­ges­tion. She couldn’t wait to “show-off” in front of her school­mates, to let them know 
that she was on a true date with one of the most at­tract­ive boys in the school.

 Gary and Rhoda found sev­eral friends at the first drive-in they vis­ited. She felt her 
heart race with ex­cite­ment when all of them – mostly friends of his – greeted her as one of 
the crowd. Dur­ing the school hours they hardly knew she ex­is­ted. Her date was the 
dif­fer­ence. She had found ac­cept­ance with seni­ors. She found the same ac­cept­ance at 
the next drive-in. They vis­ited two more, found none of their crowd present, then sat in the 
car, sip­ping soft drinks and won­der­ing what to do next.

 “How about a movie?” Gary asked.

 “Sounds good,” Rhoda replied. “Which one?”

 “Who cares,” he laughed as he threw their empty pa­per cups out the win­dow and 
zoomed the car into ac­tion.

 Gary parked the car into a space between two cars, each of which held teen-agers in
front and back seats, all of whom were busily en­gaged in the pre­lim­in­ar­ies of sex. Rhoda 
could not take her eyes from the activ­ity in the cars; could not, that is, un­til Gary star­ted his 
own sex pre­lim­in­ar­ies.

 The boy braked the car, took the speaker from its stand, ad­jus­ted it to the 
par­tially opened win­dow, turned the volume to me­dium, then turned to Rhoda, hooked his 
hands around her shoulders and crushed her close to his lean body.

 Gary kissed her hard, soft, hard again, then al­tern­ately hard and soft un­til her lips 
par­ted and he was able to shoot his tongue deeply into her mouth. Rhoda took it. Then she 
whimpered. Then she drew upon it, at the same time swinging her breasts from side to side 
against the boy’s hard chest. Teas­ing had led to gross se­duc­tion. She could not help it.

 Their lips par­ted and they rubbed their cheeks to­gether, rest­ing for the new kiss 
that would soon be­gin. Gary moved his hand to the out­side of her sweater. He kneaded her 
breasts. Then he lowered his hand and slipped it in­side the bot­tom of the sweater. It was 
mov­ing up­ward when Rhoda clasped it, hugged it to her and re­strained its up­ward 
pro­gress.

 “No,” she said.

 “Ah, come on,” Gary said. “Let’s get go­ing!” She was si­lent. She thought of the 
ex­cite­ment that rippled through her body, of the pride she took in hav­ing him date her. She
thought of the envy of some of her girl friends. She thought of the ac­cept­ance she had 
sud­denly, by her mere pres­ence with Gary, re­ceived from the high school seni­ors. And 
then she felt a warmth of grat­it­ude to­ward him for his pres­ence, for the date she was 
shar­ing with him. She re­len­ted.

 She re­moved her hand from his. He shot it up­ward. His fin­gers crunched her 
flesh, then twirled her nipple, mak­ing it grow hot­ter, and big­ger, and in a greater sign of 
her sexual re­spons­ive­ness. The boy’s body began to tremble. When she moved one hand 
from his neck and let it lower, she could feel the pound­ing bulge of his penis al­most 
burst­ing through his trousers. Then she did not move her hand. Not to re­strain him. She 
moved it tight upon him in a grip that trans­ferred the ur­gency that coursed through­out her
own body.

 He gasped and bent her a little lower in the front seat of the car. He worked his 
knee up­ward, jammed it between her thighs and ground it there, slowly and care­fully in a 
sign of de­sire. She did not deny it. She could not. The new genes of her wo­man­hood were 
already shout­ing and spurt­ing for re­lease. Her skirt worked higher upon her body un­til it 
made a bunched circle around her waist. She was without panties. She felt the circ­ling grind 
of his knees against flesh that loved that touch and yearned for more. And sud­denly, there 
was some­thing more that sought con­tact. He had re­leased one hand from where he held 
her. He had lowered it, then lowered a zip­per tab, and now it was his penis that probed 
in­stead of his knee. Rhoda, who had re­leased her grip upon him while his hand fumbled 
between then, brought it into con­tact again. And this new touch of hand upon flesh made 
her shiver, made her gasp, caused her body to arch up­ward in a sign of plead­ing.

 He pres­sured his body atop her, for­cing her head far be­low the arm rest on the 
door. He fought for po­s­i­tion, for en­trance and at­tain­ment. And he had nearly achieved it 
when she sud­denly bolted up­right in her seat, push­ing him away from her.

 “What’s the mat­ter?” he ex­claimed, reach­ing to bring her close again. “Aren’t you 
ready yet?”

 “I can’t. I’m sorry, but I can’t let you. I just can’t, that’s all,” Rhoda said.

 “Shit!” he said loudly. Then ad­ded, “And after all the play­ing around you did to get
me hot. After all that, and now you’re not go­ing to let me screw you!”

 “Not be­cause I don’t want to,” she told him. “It’s just that I can’t.”

 “Can’t-shit!” he said. “Why can’t you? You got a cunt, haven’t you?” His voice was 
tinged with dis­sat­is­fac­tion and dis­gust. “All the other girls let me do it to them. Hell – they
ask me to do it to them!”

 “I know – but -”

 “You’re just a god­damn prick-teaser, that’s all,” he snarled at her. He shif­ted his 
body away from her, but didn’t zip up his trousers. His hard penis con­tin­ued to point at her 
like an ac­cus­ing fin­ger – a great big fin­ger! He stared straight ahead at the screen, hardly 
see­ing it. He re­mained quiet.

 Fi­nally Rhoda said, “Please, try to un­der­stand.”

 “What’s to un­der­stand,” he muttered. “I want to fuck, and you don’t. All you want 
to do is tease, and then go home and fin­ger-fuck your­self, while I go home and jack off. 
Well, that ain’t my style!” Rhoda sat quiet and thought­ful. She tried to think of some­thing 
that she could say that would pla­cate the hand­some boy. And then she re­membered some 
con­ver­sa­tions she had over­heard among the more promis­cu­ous girls in her class. She 
re­membered hear­ing them dis­cuss sub­sti­tu­tions for ac­tual sexual in­ter­course, 
sub­sti­tu­tions that some of the boys seemed to like even bet­ter then the real thing.

 She re­called one of the girls say­ing, “I was hav­ing my messy period, so I gave him
a blow job and he went wild, clear out-of-sight wild! That’s all he ever wants now! I can hardly 
get him to do it to me the old-fash­ioned way!”

 “I can’t bring my­self to suck cock,” an­other girl had said, “but I do give a great 
jack-off job, if I say so my­self.”

 All these re­membered words buzzed through Rhoda’s mind as she sat be­side Gary
in the darkened car.

 “Gary... “ she said cau­tiously.

 He turned and looked at her but did not make a com­ment.

 “Maybe -”

 “Maybe what?” he said. “Maybe you want to do a little more prick-teas­ing, eh?”

 “No.”

 “Then, what?”

 “Maybe I can do some­thing else for you.” He brightened. “Like What?”

 “Like-like-” She paused, in­cap­able of find­ing the words that would ex­press what 
she now pro­posed.

 His hand reached out and kneaded her breasts on the out­side of her sweater again.
Then he looked into her eyes and asked, “Like what? What will you do for me?”

 “Any­thing,” she replied. “Any­thing you want, just so long as you won’t be mad at 
me.”

 “Any­thing?”

 “Yes. Any­thing.”

 “I’m not mad at you,” he said, sud­denly purring like a cat. “It’s just that these things
– well, they’re aw­ful hard on a guy. Some gals, well, you know, they never in­tend to do 
any­thing for him.”

 “I’m not like that.”

 “I know you’re not.” he said.

 Slowly, he pres­sured her close again. They clashed in a new em­brace. New kisses 
were traded. Touches were traded, too. Then, al­most be­fore she real­ized what was 
hap­pen­ing, she was ly­ing face down and close to his ex­ten­ded penis. And then he urged 
her closer. Then closer still. And soon she was upon him and work­ing, work­ing, work­ing 
fe­ver­ishly to make him for­get the re­fusal she had made only a few minutes earlier, to make
him for­get everything but her near­ness, her ef­fi­ciency, the thrill he was re­ceiv­ing from 
her and the prom­ise of many more such epis­odes if only he would not for­get her, if only he
would date her again.

 He did. Stead­ily, un­til he gradu­ated from high school and for some months 
af­ter­wards. Fi­nally, he en­lis­ted in the Air Force and was shipped to an over­seas base, 
leav­ing her alone un­til she found a new boy to tease and then to please.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Janet, when she was four­teen and just en­ter­ing high school, con­fided in a friend 
that she “got all hot” when she looked at a boy she liked. The friend un­der­stood. She had 
been the same way, she ex­plained to Janet. She, too, had been nervous about boys un­til she 
let loose with them. This gave her con­fid­ence, the friend claimed. Janet should try the same 
thing. After all, it was like class work. It built con­fid­ence. Flirt­ing could do the same thing.

 For sev­eral weeks Janet pondered her friend’s ad­vice. Then she de­cided to take it.
She led on every boy who was a likely pro­spect, even some who were not. She began to get 
res­ults. Many times she would turn to find a boy star­ing at the bare thigh she had 
pur­posely ex­posed. Some­times she felt a boy stand­ing close, peer­ing at the front of her 
blouse that she had de­lib­er­ately left par­ted and open to a span of breast. And Janet found
that a slight bump of her body against a boy as they crowded to­gether in the school 
cor­ridors pro­duced some amaz­ing res­ults, of­ten at the very cen­ter of the boy’s trousers.

 Con­fid­ence came to Janet quickly. So did the in­vit­a­tions for dates. She had 
many, dur­ing which she in­dulged in very heavy sex play without in­ter­course. But it was at a
party that her flirt­ing led her dir­ectly to a bed­room and the loss of her vir­gin­ity.

 The set­ting for the party was a school chum’s home. The oc­ca­sion was her 
fif­teenth birth­day. The house was spa­cious, up­per-middle class, and private. Her par­ents 
de­cided that it was best if they went out for the even­ing, and they left the chil­dren to their 
own meth­ods of cel­eb­ra­tion. The young­sters thought so, too.

 Twenty mem­bers of the high school at­ten­ded the party. They were in­vited as 
in­di­vidu­als, not in couples. This was best, the host­ess thought. It would be more ex­cit­ing.

 Two non-school strangers were also mem­bers of the party group. They were the 
host­ess’ cous­ins, and the girl had in­vited them with the oth­ers. They were older; the boy 
about twenty, the girl just out of high school.

 Janet was at­trac­ted to the older boy at once. So were most of the girls, for he was 
tall, light-haired, and very hand­some. His name was Marty. Janet thought it the most 
won­der­ful name she had ever heard.

 The very first words the boy spoke to her, filled her with ex­cite­ment.

 “Come on, love, let’s dance,” Marty said, stop­ping be­fore Janet where she was 
sit­ting with a friend in the re­cre­ation room.

 She pre­ten­ded to be in­dig­nant. But she pushed up from her chair and glided 
into the boy’s arms. She pressed close, melt­ing her­self into every line and curve of his body.

 They moved once around the floor, then Marty said, “You really are a teaser, you 
know.”

 “I’m not,” she pro­tested.

 “Oh, yes you are.” He pres­sured his hand tighter against the small of her back.

 “I’m not a tease, I just like people and can’t help show­ing it,” Janet ex­plained.

 “You show it fine,” the boy laughed. “All of it.” While they danced, she be­came 
aware of the steady tight­en­ing of his grip upon her body. His hand pressed hard at her back.
Some­times their knees and thighs bumped. She could feel her breasts bur­row­ing into his 
chest and from time to time she felt the jolt of his strong penis strike at her much as if it were 
ut­ter­ing a call of its own, en­tirely sep­ar­ate from his will. She did not mind the close­ness 
of their bod­ies. In fact, she rather liked it. Dan­cing with this older boy – the old­est she had 
ever been with – made Janet feel very com­pet­ent and ma­ture, very de­sir­able, and very 
much the soph­ist­ic­ated young lady.

 Al­most be­fore she real­ized what was hap­pen­ing, he danced her to the stairs 
lead­ing out of the re­cre­ation room.

 “Come on, I want to show you some­thing up­stairs,” he said, with a sly grin on his 
face.

 “The fun’s down here,” she said.

 “Maybe I can show you more fun up­stairs,” he said.

 When she drew back a pace, he spoke again, say­ing, “Come on, I was only jok­ing. I
want to show you some of the ceram­ics I’ve done.”

 “You make ceram­ics?” she ex­claimed.

 “Yes. But only for friends. Like my cousin over there. I brought her some new ones 
to­night. Let me show them to you.”

 She con­sen­ted. She even took the hand he offered for guid­ance as she 
as­cen­ded the stairs. And she con­tin­ued to hold it as he led her through the kit­chen, the 
din­ing room, up the stairs and then down the hall un­til they ar­rived at the room at the end.

 He opened the door and stood aside for Janet to enter. He fol­lowed her and closed
the door be­hind them. Then he went to a table and un­covered a group of small statu­ary, 
none of them lar­ger than a few inches. He smiled as he re­turned to Janet where she waited, 
stand­ing by the bed.

 “Go on, sit down,” he en­cour­aged. “I’m not go­ing to bite you -” She lowered to 
the edge of the bed. In a mo­ment, he settled him­self next to her. Then he handed her some 
of the small statues.

 When she lowered her eyes to the first one, she felt shock, nausea, and fear all 
bunched to­gether in a hard knot at her throat. Al­though ob­vi­ously well done, the statue 
was one of sexual ob­scen­ity.

 “This is called real­ism,” he ex­plained cas­u­ally. Janet’s eyes glued to the man and 
wo­man fig­ures who were in­volved in an act of oral love-mak­ing. Al­though she sensed 
that she had be­come in­volved in some­thing she was not yet equipped to handle, she could 
not take her eyes from the fig­ures which looked very real with even the smal­lest de­tails of 
ana­tomy ex­pertly de­pic­ted.

 “Go on, look at the next one,” he said. “They get bet­ter as you go along.” Janet 
took up an­other work. Again she felt the choke of shock, for again the statue was 
por­no­graphic. But again she could not keep her eyes from view­ing the sex act with 
com­plete fas­cin­a­tion.

 “You like that one, eh?” Marty said, with a grin.

 Janet shoved the statues away from her, at­tempt­ing to make him take them. He 
would not. In­stead, he sud­denly grasped her to him and clamped his mouth upon hers as 
the statues dropped to the floor.

 His kiss was dif­fer­ent from any Janet had yet re­ceived. She liked it, but it seemed 
to be sparked with some spe­cial kind of mad­ness. But she al­lowed the kiss, al­lowed it 
cas­u­ally as if it were the ac­cept­able thing to do be­fore de­part­ing the room to join the 
oth­ers. But they did not leave the room. He groaned then fought Janet to her back. She 
fought back, sure now that the hand­some boy was in some way de­ranged, that the statues 
he had cre­ated, com­bined with hav­ing her alone in the room, had coupled to­gether to 
threaten her.

 When she struck one hand out, at­tempt­ing to scrape his face with her 
fin­ger­nails, he struck her hard on the jaw, send­ing her reel­ing to her back, blank­ing out 
the mo­ment, the night, the scene of him tear­ing at her cloth­ing.

 Very soon, con­scious­ness re­turned to her. She felt the bare­ness of her ex­posed 
breasts, her flat bare belly – all of her – and she knew that she had been stripped of all her 
cloth­ing dur­ing the in­ter­val of her un­con­scious­ness. She pushed a bit up­ward, star­ted 
to raise, then felt a new blow upon her body, one is­su­ing from him at the side of the bed. 
She fell back. But she re­mained alert. She turned and looked at Marty and saw that he was 
nude. And as she looked at his na­ked and aroused body, she knew that her teas­ing had 
brought her to this situ­ation.

 Marty knelt down be­side her, leaned his head across her body and star­ted 
suck­ing on her breast. She felt a thrill of pleas­ure. This was the first time she had ever been 
na­ked with a na­ked boy be­side her. She reached out and pressed his head closer to her. 
She felt his head move be­neath her hand, and then his lips were glid­ing down along her 
body, nib­bling, suck­ing, lick­ing. Al­most against her will, she gave her­self up to the 
pleas­ure of the mo­ment.

 She felt his lips trace the line of her thigh, and then his face bur­row­ing into the hot
cav­ern between her thighs. In­stinct­ively, she spread her legs slightly, and then his tongue 
dar­ted into the open­ing she had provided for him. The pleas­ure that she felt be­came 
al­most too much to bear.

 She spread her legs a little wider, bend­ing her knees at the same time, and his hot 
tongue went deeper into her. And then she felt her whole body re­spond to the dart­ing 
tongue. In an arch­ing cres­cendo, she felt her body reach up, up, up, and she cried out in a 
spasm of de­light that she hoped could go on forever.

 And when he knew, by her cry, that she had reached a cli­max, Marty ac­ted 
ur­gently to achieve a cli­max of his own. He took his mouth away from the hot cav­ern of her
thighs, and brought his body on top of hers, his hard or­gan already bat­ter­ing at her moist 
va­gina. There it met res­ist­ance. He tried to shove it in, but an un­seen bar­rier held him 
back.

 “Be care­ful,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt me!”

 “Hurt you?” he asked. “Are you still cherry? Never been fucked?”

 “No,” she said. “Never. Not really. Not this way.” He got up off her and walked over 
to a dresser across the room. He got a jar of vas­el­ine from one of the draw­ers. He came 
back to her and spread the vas­el­ine lib­er­ally around in her va­gina. Then he put an equally 
lib­eral coat­ing of it on his throb­bing penis. Once more he moun­ted her, and, more gently 
now, he eased his swollen or­gan into her. She gasped, with a mo­ment­ary hurt, and then 
with a greater pleas­ure.

 “Oh, Christ,” he said, gasp­ing with pleas­ure too. “It’s like fuck­ing whipped cream. I
felt your cherry go. Did you?”

 She nod­ded her head, in rhythm with his or­gan pump­ing into her. In a little while 
she felt his whole body tense, and then he lunged into her more deeply than be­fore, and she 
felt spurt after spurt of li­quid heat shoot into her. He res­ted a mo­ment, then said, “That’s it, 
baby. The first load of cock juice you ever took up there! Did you like it?”

 “Pretty wild!” she said. “Do you still think I’m a tease?” Marty laughed, and star­ted 
nib­bling on her breast again.





CHAPTER SEVEN


SEX HAS MANY FACES

 Like en­vir­on­ments, some re­la­tion­ships are made to or­der for the 
sexu­ally-com­pelled teen-aged girl. Numbered among the most fruit­ful such re­la­tion­ships
are those which bring to­gether teacher and stu­dent, foster-daugh­ter and foster-father, and 
step-father and his step-daugh­ter.

 There are many more re­la­tion­ships that of­fer the sex-in­clined teen-aged girl an 
abund­ant sup­ply of sub­jects. Some are more luc­rat­ive than oth­ers. Some of­fer greater 
in­timacies and prox­im­ity for se­duc­tion. And a few, such as the step-father and 
step-daugh­ter re­la­tion­ship of­fer both the prin­cipals a full field for the ex­pres­sion of 
their sub­con­scious drives that can – and of­ten does – bring them to­gether in a blaze of 
promis­cu­ity.

 The fol­low­ing cases il­lus­trate some of the above-men­tioned re­la­tion­ships 
that pro­fes­sion­als claim are es­pe­cially pro­voc­at­ive for both the girl and the male 
sub­ject of her love ef­forts.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 “My mother was a bitch. She had to be first in everything and be­cause I was her 
daugh­ter, I had to be first, too. She was a hard-driv­ing, never-let-up, sad­ist.”

 This was the way Ann T. De­scribed her mother and the cir­cum­stances that led to 
the four­teen-year-old girl’s se­duc­tion of her high school Eng­lish teacher.

 Mrs. T was so­cially am­bi­tious. She en­cour­aged her daugh­ter, an only child, to 
be the same way, to seek only the best, the most in­flu­en­tial, the richest and smartest as 
friends. Largely, Ann did fol­low this pat­tern. She could al­most not help but fol­low it 
con­sid­er­ing the in­doc­trin­a­tion she had been com­mit­ted to since her earli­est years.

 Ann was a top scholar in school. This pleased Mrs. T. She never tired of re­cit­ing her
daugh­ter’s ac­com­plish­ments, her bril­liance at stud­ies, her pop­ular­ity, good looks, and 
the ac­cept­ance she re­ceived from the very best fam­il­ies in the town.

 All of this was true, too. Ann liked the best. But when her marks began to slip in an 
ad­vanced Eng­lish course, she began to worry. She stud­ied hard, harder than usual, but still 
she could feel her­self slip­ping fur­ther and fur­ther be­hind in her work. And sud­denly she 
be­came so dis­traught over her fail­ing work.

 No­ti­cing the stress un­der which Ann now seemed to work, her teacher asked her 
to meet with him after school hours when they could dis­cuss the change in her pat­tern of 
ac­com­plish­ment. Ann was nervous about the in­ter­view. This was un­like her. Pretty, 
out­go­ing, very friendly to every­one, she had never been nervous about any en­counter. But
she was about the one with her Eng­lish teacher.

 The teacher, a tall, well-built man in his thirties, greeted her pleas­antly when she 
ap­peared at his of­fice door. He ushered her in, in­dic­ated a chair for her to take, then, after 
she was seated he sat op­pos­ite her and looked into her eyes.

 “What’s been troub­ling you,” he asked im­me­di­ately.

 “I don’t know,” she replied.

 “Your work has slipped,” he said ser­i­ously. “I’m really puzzled. Some­how, I never 
ex­pec­ted this. You al­ways seem to be well up on everything. What’s wrong?”

 “I don’t know,” she re­peated.

 “Per­haps you’re dat­ing too much,” he offered. “That’ll do it, you know. Late hours 
and stud­ies don’t mix.”

 “I only go out on week­ends.”

 “Oh.” He caressed his jaw and let his eyes sweep over her body.

 Ann re­mained si­lent, but she ob­served how odd it was that she had never be­fore
no­ticed how hand­some her teacher was, how large and brown his eyes were and how strong
his hands ap­peared to be. She stared at his hands. They fas­cin­ated her. They looked so 
cap­able, so very, very mas­cu­line.

 “Ann,” the teacher said, shak­ing her from her con­cen­tra­tion upon his hands.

 “Yes?”

 “Is there any­thing wrong in your per­sonal life? You could tell me, you know. 
Some­times it’s good to talk to an out­sider. You gain more ob­jectiv­ity to prob­lems that 
way. So -if some­thing’s both­er­ing you – if there’s any­thing, boys, sex -”

 “Sex?” Ann sud­denly in­ter­rup­ted. “Did you say sex?”

 “Please don’t clas­sify me with the old-time teach­ers who ig­nored sex as a mat­ter
of in­terest – and some­times deep, ser­i­ous con­cern – for their stu­dents. I’m not like that, 
you know.”

 “No, sir,” she said.

 Again he let his eyes roam over all of her young body. Sud­denly, her heart was 
ready to leap from her chest. She felt goose pimples at every part of her body. She wanted to 
scream and shout and cry and whim­per and even cuddle onto the lap of the teacher, hide her
face into his manly chest and cry even harder. And just as sud­denly – much as if she had been
ig­nited by some ma­gic of un­der­stand­ing- she knew that she had fallen in love with this 
older man. Ann heard the teacher’s ad­vice for study meth­ods, listened to his soft, cul­tured 
voice, and went through the re­mainder of the in­ter­view in a kind of daze.

 That night Ann mas­turb­ated. She dreamed an im­age of the teacher and 
dream-placed it at the end of her bed as she spun her clit­oral re­flexes to a jar­ring cli­max.

 The next day, she slipped a little fur­ther be­hind the oth­ers of her class. She could 
not keep her eyes away from the dark, hand­some fea­tures of the teacher. She could not 
hear the words he spoke; all she could do was listen with liv­ing at­tent­ive­ness to the soft 
tones he made, the gentle, lov­ing tone that nearly tore her apart.

 Soon, all of Ann’s work began to suf­fer be­cause of her in­fatu­ation with the 
teacher. After con­sid­er­ing it for some time, she de­cided there was only one cure for this 
new con­di­tion that had en­gulfed her. She would en­tice the teacher into a sexual 
en­counter, make him make love to her. Then, she de­cided, everything would be all right 
again. Her Eng­lish class, her other stud­ies – everything. When Ann, who was still a vir­gin, 
made her de­cision, she ac­tu­ally ached in an­ti­cip­a­tion for a sexual ex­per­i­ence with the
man she seemed to love.

 Be­fore an­other week passed, Ann be­came im­pa­tient. She flir­ted au­da­ciously 
every op­por­tun­ity she was near the teacher. She let him know in the un­mis­tak­able signs 
of the young that she longed for him. She could not un­der­stand why he did not sud­denly – 
even in the middle of a class, if need be – sweep her off her feet, lift her, and carry her to his 
apart­ment where he would un­dress her, caress her body, then love away her vir­gin­ity. But 
he did not. And Ann was sure that she would die if she had to wait even an­other day longer.

 Ann, without ex­ag­ger­a­tion, ex­per­i­enced true, phys­ical symp­toms of sexual 
long­ing and de­sire. She ached at her thighs. Her breast-ends were more sens­it­ive than 
usual. The round flesh of her breasts hurt. She had a con­stant pain’ in the pit of her stom­ach.
And between her thighs, she burned, burned hot as if she had been set ablaze from within. 
Ann had to find some­thing to cool that fire. She meant to.

 Fol­low­ing classes on Thursday af­ter­noon, Ann lingered in the lib­rary. She knew 
that was the des­ig­nated day for Eng­lish De­part­ment meet­ings. She knew her teacher 
would be in at­tend­ance at the meet­ing. And she meant to see him as soon as he was free. 
She wanted to see him alone. And she de­cided that her only chance for an in­tim­ate 
meet­ing was the of­fice that he some­times used for hours after the day’s reg­u­lar work was
fin­ished.

 The lib­rary was empty, cleared even of the lib­rar­ian, when Ann left it. The 
cor­ridors were empty too. The sound of her shoes echoed oddly as she moved upon the tiled
squares. She felt mys­ter­i­ous, anxious, and very warm, She felt nervous too. But it was not a 
nervous­ness that came from even an in­stant’s doubt that the teacher would im­me­di­ately 
wel­come her into his anxious arms. The nerves came only from doubts about her­self, that 
she might, be­cause of in­ex­per­i­ence, fail to please sexu­ally the very soph­ist­ic­ated man.

 Ann paused just out­side the teacher’s of­fice door. She breathed deeply. She 
de­bated for a mo­ment, then un­did still an­other but­ton of her blouse. She flattened the 
col­lar down to its new, deep line, mak­ing sure that it re­vealed the in­ner curves of her 
young breasts. Then she pat­ted at her skirt, as­sur­ing her­self that it held no wrinkles, that it 
was smooth against her but­tocks. She looked down at her legs. She hoped the pumps did 
not de­tract from her nat­ural lines, did not make her look pudgy or fat. And she hoped that if
they did, the bare­ness of her legs would make up for the lines that had been ob­scured by 
the ab­sence of high heels.

 A noise is­sued from in­side the of­fice. Her breath caught in her throat. She held it 
a long time, then let it out. And then she gently curled her fin­gers around the door knob. She
waited. And then the door pushed open, send­ing her reel­ing back­wards, a look of shock 
and em­bar­rass­ment upon her face as the teacher ap­peared, hat on head, coat hanging 
loosely from the crook of his arm.

 “What are you do­ing here?” he ex­claimed very un­ro­mantic­ally.

 “I – I -”

 His ex­pres­sion softened. “Did you want to see me?”

 “Yes, sir.”

 “Come on in and make your­self com­fort­able.” He held the door wide open, 
closed it be­hind her, re­moved his hat and tossed it with his coat to a straight chair that 
fron­ted his desk.

 Ann walked to the far corner of the room and turned around. She made no move to
take either of the com­fort­able chairs that were placed there. She just stood there, breath­ing
hard, and look­ing at her teacher.

 He smiled and moved closer to her. Then he said, “Well, what can I do for you?” A 
lump rose in her throat. Tears bubbled at the corners of her eyes. Her lips par­ted slightly. Her 
breasts rose high and held that po­s­i­tion when she could not make her breath ex­hale.

 “Ann,” the teacher said, his tone one of deep con­cern. “What in the world is the 
mat­ter?” Dry, des­per­ate sobs erup­ted from the con­ges­tion of her chest. Now she cried, 
broken and sharp and choked, the sounds of her frus­trated love.

 The teacher reached out his hands and placed them on her shoulders. It was the 
only move­ment that was needed to send Ann crush­ing against his chest.

 His arms went around her shoulders and he pressed her to his chest, at the same 
time pat­ting one hand gently to her back.

 “Don’t you see,” she sobbed. “Don’t you see how much I love you – how much I 
want you – don’t you see how you have to love me right now – right here in your of­fice.”

 The teacher’s body stiffened in sur­prise, in shock, and per­haps also in re­ac­tion to
the young girl’s words and her warm body bur­row­ing to his.

 He con­tin­ued to hold her close, but his voice soun­ded very far away, when he 
said, “Now, look. I know that you’re un­der some sort of emo­tional strain. So, I’m go­ing to 
for­get what you said, what your reason is for be­ing in my of­fice. I’m go­ing to for­get it and
-”

 “For­get it!” she shouted, push­ing back and look­ing into his face. “You’re go­ing to
for­get me!”

 “I didn’t say that.”

 “You did, you did, you did,” she re­peated in the short, sharp ac­cus­ing man­ner of 
a hurt and angry child.

 The teacher’s arms moved to of­fer her com­fort. She re­fused them. She stared, 
hardly breath­ing, look­ing into his face.

 “You’re a very beau­ti­ful young girl. Very beau­ti­ful. And very young. I’ve been 
aware that – well, that you’ve had in­terest in me for some­time now. It’s truly – truly rather 
flat­ter­ing, but then I’m not like most teach­ers. I’m a little more hu­man, a little more eas­ily 
flattered, a little -”

 “Aren’t you go­ing to make love to me?” Ann asked.

 “Make -” He stopped, startled.

 “Love to me,” she fin­ished.

 Stunned si­lence filled the room. Then the teacher said, “Come along now. You’re 
up­set. I’m go­ing to drive you home.” Then he turned, picked up his hat and coat and turned 
and waited for Ann to join him at the door. She left the room. He shut the door be­hind them.
They walked to the park­ing lot at the back of the school build­ings.

 Si­lence con­tin­ued between them while the teacher un­locked the car door, then 
opened it and waited un­til Ann had settled into the seat. There was a no­tice­able 
dif­fer­ence in the teacher’s ex­pres­sion when he star­ted the car. He ap­peared to be in 
deep thought.

 As soon as he pulled the car out of the park­ing lot and into the street, the street 
lights blinked on. It was as if they were of­fer­ing a greet­ing to the teacher and his pretty, 
young stu­dent. Ann smiled. It was neither dir­ec­ted at the teacher nor at the lights. It was as 
if she had been caressed by a sweet dream, one that made her glad.

 “Which way is your house?” the teacher asked.

 “Any way,” she replied, not look­ing at him but in­creas­ing the spread of her smile.

 “Come now, be good and tell me how to take you home.”

 “I won’t,” she said.

 “Why won’t you tell me how to take you home?”

 “Be­cause I love you and be­cause I don’t want to go home. I want to go with you,” 
she said.

 The teacher did not speak. And he did not again ask Ann to give him the 
dir­ec­tions to her home. In­stead, he drove around the neigh­bor­hood streets by the school,
driv­ing slowly, act­ing as if he were try­ing to make an im­port­ant de­cision that would not 
come.

 Ann made only one change of po­s­i­tion dur­ing the ride through the res­id­en­tial
streets. She moved close to the teacher, so close that her pose, with her feet tucked be­neath 
her but­tocks as she half-faced him, brought the touch of her breasts against his fore­arm. He 
made no move to re­ject her. Her thigh res­ted close to his, too. And soon there were both 
her arms around his bi­cep as she hugged him close and cuddled her head into the spot of 
hol­low between shoulder and neck. And even with this new, pro­vok­ing touch upon him, the
teacher did not re­ject her.

 After a half-hour, the teacher in­creased the speed of his driv­ing. It was as if he had
made a de­cision. He shot away from the school area and the res­id­en­tial streets and 
headed for the broad high­way that circled the lake.

 Ann aler­ted, looked around, smiled, then asked, “Where are we go­ing?”

 “I don’t know.” The teacher drove fast. He did not stop un­til he came to a park that 
was near the lake and off the road. He headed the car down the road that led into the park. 
The car bumped. Ann’s body came into more vi­ol­ent con­tact with his. Fi­nally, when he 
reached an area that was sheltered by trees and empty of other cars, he turned off the 
ig­ni­tion and shut off the lights.

 Ann raised her head just as he turned to her. For a long time there were only the 
darkened out­lines of their pro­files turned to­ward each other.

 When the teacher fi­nally spoke, his voice shook. But his words told Ann that she 
was about to have her way, that her ef­forts at se­duc­tion, as mis­placed and neur­ot­ic­ally 
ori­ented as they were, had been suc­cess­ful.

 “I hope that you are not only a beau­ti­ful girl but that you are also a dis­creet one,”
he said.

 For an­swer, Ann wound her arms around his neck and opened her lips as the 
teacher’s mouth crushed down upon it, heated, trem­bling a bit, hun­grily nib­bling, prob­ing,
push­ing for a fur­ther part­ing that would al­low him the honey-sweet­ness of her in­ner 
mouth, of her tongue, all of her that might be avail­able to quiet the lust­ing thirst that had 
over­come him.

 The tight clamp of their mouths ceased only when there was more ex­cite­ment for 
each to of­fer to the other. Ann pulled back, opened her blouse com­pletely, reached in­side 
the gar­ment and be­hind her to un­clasp the hook of her bra. Then she pulled it free and 
dropped it to the car floor. Her breasts loomed for­ward, heavy, nipple-poin­ted, pink and 
sweet and warm.

 The teacher’s hands cupped both her breasts. His palms were moist. They smeared 
and mixed with the mois­ture of her breasts, com­bin­ing the ele­ments of each of them into 
a single sub­stance that told of their mu­tual heat, their lust, their long wait and im­min­ence 
of that wait­ing’s end.

 As if he were bow­ing homage, the teacher uttered a little cry then lowered his 
mouth to her breasts. He mouthed each of them in turn, then paid del­ic­ate at­ten­tion to 
each nipple, pulling upon it, rolling it between his lips, nib­bling at it and fight­ing it to a 
re­treat within the se­cur­ity of the large, white mould.

 Ann began to sob as he kissed and tongued at her breasts. She pressed her­self 
to­ward him and brought her head back in a deep arch, caus­ing her neck cords to strain and 
bloat. And still she sobbed, even from this strained po­s­i­tion. But soon, her sob­bing 
changed to the sounds of hys­teria. It was then that the teacher raised and held her close 
again.

 “Now, please, now,” Ann begged. “No more wait­ing. Love me. Love me! Fuck me.” 
The teacher re­acted by for­cing her flat upon the car seat. Her body jammed in a cramped 
po­s­i­tion. As the teacher moved to bare him­self and move to her, Ann de­tained him.

 “Oh, wait,” she said. “I can’t – not like that -I can’t. I want to be able to move -to love
you. And I want to be na­ked – com­pletely na­ked.”

 “Someone might see,” he said.

 “I don’t care,” she replied.

 With con­sid­er­able turn­ing, stoop­ing and yank­ing, Ann re­moved all of her 
cloth­ing. When she was na­ked she turned to­ward the teacher. His hands touched at every 
part of her. A gasp of de­light is­sued from his throat at every new con­tact.

 He seemed up­set and nervous and out of con­trol.

 They kissed again, feel­ing for the first time the thrill of bare­ness as Ann pulled the 
teacher’s shirt and jacket apart to make a bare place for her breasts to touch. And then she 
moved atop him, hur­ry­ing now, full ur­gency for sexual union upon her, hur­ry­ing, 
hur­ry­ing, hur­ry­ing, to his lap, to straddle that lap, to a hand that reached and found and 
ad­jus­ted poin­tedly, to hips that rose high and screeched down­ward like sirens blar­ing, 
rock­ets blaz­ing to the sky, as her cunt sought.

 “Uhhh,” moaned the teacher as she pressed down, en­ga­ging his cock.

 “Ooo­h­h­h­h­h­h­hhh,” screamed Ann as she knew the thrill of pier­cing, of 
heav­i­ness, of the full sat­is­fac­tion of her young wo­man­hood.

 But soon, after they fought them­selves to each other’s body, after they settled the 
is­sue of rhythm and quickly learned the little del­ic­ate move­ments that pleased so much, it 
was Ann who was the ag­gressor, she who dom­in­ated the man and the act, she who paced 
the up-and-down move­ment of her cunt, all the time sens­ing the speed at which the 
teacher’s emo­tions raced. And it was she who reached for one of his hands and placed it on 
her left breast while she crushed the right breast into his mouth, all the time mov­ing, 
mov­ing, mov­ing, rap­idly ap­proach­ing the gate that would open and claim them in a fi­nal
con­vul­sion of love.

 “Oh, OH! Oh, I’m – I’M -” She shrieked to the dark­ness that sur­roun­ded them. 
“I’m com­ing!”

 “Yes, yes, yes,” cried the teacher. “It’s all right. I am too. I am too. I AM. Now!” Ann 
sobbed again when it was over. She cried into the teacher’s shoulder. She cried like a child, 
hurt, orphaned, and left alone. She cried and cried.

 The teacher com­for­ted her. And then, at last, he drove her home, fol­low­ing the 
dir­ec­tions she provided now between her great, shoulder-shak­ing sighs.

 Ann con­tin­ued to ar­range sexual en­coun­ters with her teacher through­out the 
semester. He be­came her total pre­oc­cu­pa­tion. When the term ended, she had lost fif­teen
pounds. The bright­ness of her ex­pres­sion had faded. She had be­come care­less about her 
habits, her ap­pear­ance, about everything ex­cept her con­stant pur­suit of the ma­ture man 
she loved.

 In the middle of June, the high school re­cessed for Sum­mer va­ca­tion.

 Late in the even­ing of the day that school re­cessed, after meet­ing her 
teacher-lover at his apart­ment where they had made vi­ol­ent love sev­eral times, Ann was 
found by the po­lice to be walk­ing the crowded, down­town streets of the town, na­ked, her 
mind a blank, un­aware of her name, the iden­tity of her par­ents or home. Her mind had 
snapped com­pletely.

 To her mother’s dis­may, em­bar­rass­ment, and hor­ror, Ann was fi­nally sent to an
ex­pens­ive private hos­pital for the emo­tion­ally dis­turbed. She re­mained at the hos­pital 
for two years be­fore she was re­leased for a pro­ba­tion­ary period of ad­just­ment in her 
own home.

 The pre­ced­ing case, cre­ated from psy­chi­at­ric re­ports, re­veals some sad and 
start­ling facts.

 “It is an un­for­tu­nate thing that a girl like Ann, a girl who was ap­proach­ing a 
nervous break­down, should have pro­voked the sexual at­ten­tions of this par­tic­u­lar man,”
said her psy­chi­at­rist.

 “Ob­vi­ously, the man had a low threshold for young girls. There is con­sid­er­able 
evid­ence, too, that the teacher en­cour­aged the af­fair once it star­ted. But such a man – a 
teacher en­trus­ted with the re­spons­ib­il­ity of our young – should have read the signs of 
Ann’s ill­ness. He should have known that she was about to suf­fer a break­down. The signs 
were too ap­par­ent for him not to know that she was ap­proach­ing an emo­tional col­lapse.
But he chose to ig­nore the signs and use them to his ad­vant­age – his sexual ad­vant­age – 
and so a young girl lost two years of her life, years that can­not be re­gained, years of 
ad­just­ment that are not yet com­pleted for her.”

 An­other psy­chi­at­rist fa­mil­iar with the case has given this opin­ion: “If there is a 
vil­lain in this case, it is Ann’s mother,” said the doc­tor. “It is she who in­doc­trin­ated her 
daugh­ter into the need of be­ing ‘right’, of be­ing ‘first’, of ex­cel­ling at everything that she 
did. Without this pres­sure that was ex­er­ted since Ann’s child­hood, who can tell; it is 
pos­sible that this pretty girl might never have suffered the symp­toms of a break­down 
brought on by her se­duct­ive role.” And a psy­chi­at­ric case worker who took the 
pre­lim­in­ary in­form­a­tion of Ann’s case when she entered the hos­pital, at­trib­utes much 
of what happened to “chance” or fate.”

 “It’s just pos­sible that if Ann had at­temp­ted to se­duce a dif­fer­ent type of 
teacher, one who would re­buke her, even turn her over his knee and ap­ply the paddle as he 
would with a much younger child, she might not have be­come ill, or the ad­vance of her 
men­tal ill­ness might have been checked in time to pre­vent the long hos­pit­al­iz­a­tion she
had to en­dure.” CASE HIS­TORY

 Donna was born of hate and ex­pressed it most of her life. Even as a baby, one who 
was il­le­git­im­ate, merely tol­er­ated and never truly loved, she would show the tem­per 
tan­trums that one as­so­ci­ates with a child who is bound to grow up mean. Donna grew up 
mean.

 When she was el­even, Donna was re­moved from her mother’s cus­tody and 
placed in an orphan­age where the state hoped she would grow to a life of ad­just­ment in a 
so­ci­ety that had no place for tru­ancy, petty thefts, and promis­cu­ity that had brought her 
to nearly every form of sex and its ab­er­ra­tions by the time she reached her first teen year.

 Donna hated the orphan­age. She hated the au­thor­it­ies who ran the place. She 
hated her fel­low orphans. She hated her mother who never vis­ited her on the Sunday 
af­ter­noons that were set aside for that pur­pose. Donna hated the memory of her un­known
father whose sexu­al­ity had brought her to a life she hated. She hated every­one and 
everything. And, it is not too much of a sup­pos­i­tion to guess that she also hated her­self.

 When Donna reached the age of four­teen, it was de­cided by those en­trus­ted 
with the de­cision, to place the girl in the care of paid foster-par­ents on a trial basis. There 
were many ap­plic­ants await­ing an op­por­tun­ity to take a child and raise her within the 
in­flu­ence of their home. Orphan­age ad­min­is­trat­ors wel­comed these ap­plic­a­tions.

 The place­ment of a child in a foster home served two worth­while so­cial ser­vices: 
It re­lieved the over­crowded orphan­age of the care, feed­ing, and su­per­vi­sion of a child, 
and it gave the foster-daugh­ter an op­por­tun­ity to live un­der a more “nor­mal” 
en­vir­on­ment, one that might con­trib­ute to her even­tual emer­gence as a re­spons­ible 
mem­ber of so­ci­ety.

 Donna was se­lec­ted for a foster-home. She ac­cep­ted the de­cision without 
emo­tion; with neither grat­it­ude, nor dis­sat­is­fac­tion.

 Donna met her foster-par­ents with hate in her eyes, si­lence, and a re­luct­ant 
at­ti­tude.

 The new foster-par­ents, Gid­get and Dan S. Were an at­tract­ive couple, child­less, 
and in their middle thirties. Both were hand­some.

 Donna was wel­comed into their home. They provided her with a room of her own, 
a ward­robe, trinkets and jew­elry, and they told her that she was a child in their home, not a 
slave, that they had a clean­ing wo­man, that ab­so­lutely no work was ex­pec­ted from her. 
Donna was not the least bit im­pressed. She didn’t like Gid­get and Dan a bit more than she 
did any­body else in the world. But she did co­oper­ate, at­ten­ded school, kept the trouble 
she usu­ally caused to a min­imum, and tried to ad­just to the en­joy­ment of her new life.

 After a month of res­id­ence in the new home, Donna be­came curi­ous about the 
couple. She noted that they seemed more like brother and sis­ter than hus­band and wife. At 
night Donna would listen for sounds of love-mak­ing from the ad­join­ing room. She never 
heard any. She was sur­prised. Her hear­ing was acute and she had trained it to a high point 
of per­cep­tion, a ne­ces­sary qual­ity for a girl who lived in an orphan­age with sev­eral 
hun­dred other girls. But no sounds came from the couple’s bed­room.

 Be­fore many more weeks passed, Donna be­came im­pa­tient for some kind of 
ex­cite­ment. At the orphan­age, there was al­ways ex­cite­ment; fights, love-af­fairs of the 
les­bian vari­ety, jeal­ousy, steal­ing, get­ting away with capers without be­ing caught. Donna 
missed it all.

 Donna de­cided to cre­ate some ex­cite­ment of her own. She chose her 
foster-father as the sub­ject for her ad­ven­ture in se­duc­tion.

 Wait­ing un­til a period dur­ing the day when Gid­get was ab­sent from the house, 
the same period that found Dan present, Donna de­cided to see how far she could get in an 
at­tempt at se­du­cing her foster-father. She looked over the set­ting, saw that he was alone 
in his study, that the front and back doors were se­cured from within, and that the early night 
shad­ows of winter had already be­gun to fall. Donna headed for the shower.

 In­side the shower cu­bicle, Donna grinned imp­ishly as she soaped her body, 
rubbed the large, soft sponge in a circle at her breasts, lowered it, made a smal­ler circle of it 
at her thighs, then dug between them to mas­sage more vig­or­ously as her eyes nar­rowed 
as a res­ult of the sen­sa­tions she was bring­ing to her body. When her breath­ing had 
reached a point that threatened to split her chest as her body erup­ted, Donna stopped the 
ac­tion.

 Enough of that, she cau­tioned her­self. Big­ger game awaited – the real thing – a 
real Daddy-O in the im­age of her foster-father was close at hand, dir­ectly in the middle of 
the sights she had ad­jus­ted upon him.

 Donna swung the ad­just­ing handle of the shower to its off po­s­i­tion, then 
stepped from the tiled square. She snatched a large Turk­ish towel from the top of the 
medi­cine cab­inet. She dried her­self mea­gerly, then wrapped it around her body in a 
sarong fash­ion. She did not bind it to­gether at the back. She left the ends open, but held by 
her hand which was twis­ted be­hind her. Then, from within the medi­cine cab­inet she found 
a safety pin. She did not use it. In­stead, she opened the bath­room door, held the pin in one 
hand while her other hand held the towel to­gether at the back, and stepped into the 
cor­ridor that led to her foster-father’s study.

 “You in there?” she called as she ap­proached the study door.

 “Right in here,” Dan re­spon­ded from be­hind the closed door.

 Donna hes­it­ated only an in­stant, then she pushed open the study door.

 Dan sat more up­right in his chair as he viewed his foster-daugh­ter’s greatly 
re­vealed body. Donna knew that her ap­pear­ance was bound to have an ef­fect upon him. It
couldn’t miss, for the towel out­lined the full­ness of her fig­ure, a full­ness that caused 
con­fu­sion for people when they tried to de­term­ine where child­hood ended and 
ma­tur­ity began. Donna had al­ways been rather pleased with her breasts. But this mo­ment 
as she stood re­vealed to her foster-father in noth­ing but a TURK­ISH towel, she was very 
proud of them. They felt heavy, and she knew that a good third of them were puffed and 
ex­posed above the up­per line of the towel. She knew it be­cause she had been care­ful to 
ad­just the towel in a man­ner that would as­sure this ef­fect. And Donna de­lighted with her 
legs at this mo­ment that marked the be­gin­ning stage of her se­duc­tion. The bot­tom line 
of the towel cut across the very top­most por­tion of her thighs, cut them on an angle that 
made the towel seem only cas­u­ally con­scious of what it con­cealed – barely con­cealed.

 Donna grinned, then entered the room, un­du­lat­ing her body, like a nat­ive girl.

 “Yes?” Dan ques­tioned, push­ing to the edge of the chair, ready­ing him­self for 
rising.

 “Do you think that you could spare a minute for your little girl?” she said, spin­ning 
the words au­da­ciously, smirk­ing, and thick­en­ing them with the un­der­tones of 
some­thing mys­ter­i­ous.

 “Of course,” Dan replied. “But you’re hardly dressed for con­ver­sa­tion.” She 
stopped dir­ectly in front of him, then said, “It isn’t con­ver­sa­tion I’m look­ing for.”

 “Oh, really?”

 “Really.” She held the safety pin out to Dan, then ad­ded, “Pin me, pin me.” He 
chuckled and pushed up from the edge of the chair. He took the pin from her hand, glan­cing 
over all of her body as he did so. His eyes seemed to moisten, as if for some reason that was 
known to him alone.

 Donna smiled and nar­rowed her eyes as her foster-father stood be­fore her.

 “Where? Where do you want me to pin you?” he asked.

 “Oh, any place will do,” she laughed.

 Dan laughed, too, then said, “Come on. Where?”

 “At the back,” she in­struc­ted.

 Donna turned a bit, be­ing care­ful to do it in such a man­ner as to al­low her to 
lean back and gently bump into Dan. When her body col­lided with his, she felt his hands 
move to her shoulders and hold her close.

 “Care­ful,” he said.

 “I al­ways am.”

 “Are you really?”

 “Uh huh.”

 “What are you care­ful about?”

 “Everything.”

 “Give me an ex­ample,” he said, his voice low.

 “Well, first thing,” she said, lean­ing back, press­ing her weight heav­ier against his 
hold, “I’m al­ways care­ful about not talk­ing about things I shouldn’t talk about.”

 “Ummmm, that’s in­ter­est­ing. That’s a pretty good qual­ity. What else are you 
care­ful about?”

 “I’m care­ful about see­ing that the night lock’s on all the doors when they should 
be.”

 “That’s cau­tious,” he said.

 “And I’m not a snitch – I never have been, not even at the orphan­age.”

 “Ad­mir­able.” Donna paused a mo­ment. Dur­ing it, Dan’s hands slipped from her 
shoulders and found their way around her waist. At her na­vel, he laced them to­gether, 
hold­ing her against him, sup­port­ing the lean­ing pres­sure of her body in a way that 
caused Donna to feel the sud­den, sharp thrust of his penis strik­ing at her but­tocks. And 
within an­other mo­ment she felt his cheek softly mak­ing con­tact with hers, gently rub­bing,
caress­ing, mov­ing.

 “Tell me more about your good points,” Dan said, mov­ing his hands up and 
pla­cing them across her breasts.

 “Well, I -” Donna paused. Her voice soun­ded dif­fer­ent. The harsh tease and 
cyn­icism of the tough girl was gone. The tone soun­ded like that of a little girl, frightened 
and mus­ter­ing bravery for the ad­ven­tures that were ahead.

 “Go on,” he en­cour­aged.

 “I don’t have any­thing else to say.”

 “Noth­ing?”

 “Noth­ing.”

 Donna put her hands on top of his, res­ted them there lightly for a mo­ment, then 
pres­sured them close. He pinched hard at her breasts, then twis­ted her around to face him. 
Now there were new sen­sa­tions for Donna; the head-on kiss of their mouths, the clash of 
their tongues, and the rising, strength­en­ing pres­sure of Dan’s man­hood knock­ing at her 
thighs. And between them there was only the towel held loosely by the pres­sure of their 
bod­ies.

 Dan lessened the pres­sure of his body against hers. The towel fell to the floor. He 
gasped at the total nud­ity of Donna and forced it into a new, hard con­tact.

 She strained migh­tily against the man. She felt every part of him – es­pe­cially the 
sex part – stabbing at her body. She liked the feel­ing. From some dis­tant place of her past 
where hate had been born, Donna had now found out­let for that hate through the 
de­sirab­il­ity of her body.

 They broke their em­brace and moved to the couch. Donna fell upon the leather 
cush­ions and watched as her foster-father quickly un­dressed. She lay there quietly, wait­ing 
for him.

 Work­ing fe­ver­ishly, he lunged at her, caught his hands be­neath her knees and 
raised them. Then, he jerked her high, moved close, and drove him­self into the 
four­teen-year-old girl.

 Donna crumbled lower upon the cush­ions as her foster-father com­mit­ted her to 
the first lunge from his body. She could feel the rub of her but­tocks against the leather 
cush­ions as Dan jerked her up­ward, re­leased her, jerked her high again, lowered her, then 
brought her to­gether with him­self in a series of ma­chine-gun rapid move­ments be­fore he
again slowed, lingered close, then par­ted again for that slight in­stant be­fore once more 
dig­ging him­self deeply to Donna’s quiv­er­ing body.

 Her feel­ings were mixed when her foster-father reached his cli­max. Al­though she 
had felt a slight rumble of ex­cite­ment within her­self as their bod­ies churned to­gether at 
the end, she had only reached that phase of ap­proach that prom­ised, but did not ful­fill, all 
that was ex­pec­ted. It didn’t mat­ter to her. It was enough for her that she held the sight of 
her weakened and emo­tion­ally battered foster-father with­draw­ing from her body and 
col­lapsing upon her. This was enough, for it was hate, not love, which had bred the sex act.





CHAPTER EIGHT


BABY-SIT­TING AND DADDY-DID­DLING

 Af­flu­ence, more leis­ure time, status, and so­cial am­bi­tions, have cre­ated a new 
type of se­ductress who has entered the Amer­ican home. The Baby-Sit­ter has be­come 
in­dis­pens­able to the av­er­age Amer­ican fam­ily. She is well-paid, pampered, sought after, 
com­peted for, and wel­comed like a fam­ily friend. She of­ten be­comes a reg­u­lar “mem ber of the fam­ily.” She has in­tim­ate know­ledge of her em­ploy­ers. She is a “second 
mother” to the chil­dren. And some­times, when the Baby-Sit­ter is also sexu­ally-centered, 
she be­comes a sub­sti­tute wife or baby mis­tress to the man of the house.

 The case his­tor­ies which fol­low are those of Baby-Sit­ters who sexu­ally de­sired 
the fath­ers of those chil­dren en­trus­ted to their case. Their pred­at­ory method ig­nored 
the un­hap­pi­ness they might cause, ig­nored the dangers that might en­gulf in­no­cent 
chil­dren, ig­nored everything, in fact, ex­cept their own sexual de­sires.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Mona, aged four­teen, used words and their sug­gest­ive­ness as much as she used 
her body as a way of arous­ing de­sire in the ma­ture men she wished to tempt into a sexual 
en­counter. She loved to watch their faces as she told them of some in­tim­ate sexual secrets 
of her life. Mona was very verbal, and her tone had an in­tens­ity to it that could hardly help 
but make the blood rush faster through the veins of ma­ture men. Usu­ally, she chose that 
time when she was alone with her em­ployer, be­ing driven home after her night of 
Baby-Sit­ter chores.

 The fol­low­ing is a re­pro­duced dia­logue between Mona and a man of forty-two. 
A week fol­low­ing this con­ver­sa­tion the two had sexual in­ter­course in the back seat of 
the man’s car, ini­ti­at­ing an af­fair that was to last many months be­fore it ended 
tra­gic­ally.

 “I like work­ing for you bet­ter than any of my other people,” Mona said, shift­ing 
her po­s­i­tion in the car seat so as to face the man dir­ectly.

 “That’s nice to hear,” said Tim B. “We’re pleased to have you sit for us.” She laughed 
lightly and hugged her­self with her arms as if she were a little girl cud­dling a doll.

 He laughed, too. He turned and looked at her, then said, “You do that of­ten, don’t 
you?”

 “What?”

 “You know, squeeze your­self.”

 “I guess I do,” she ad­mit­ted.

 “Why?” he asked.

 “I don’t know,” she laughed, then ad­ded, “Maybe I just like my­self.”

 “You should.”

 “Why?” she asked, shift­ing her po­s­i­tion a bit in a man­ner that caused her short 
skirt to hike above her knees and re­veal a patch of white thigh.

 “Be­cause you’re at­tract­ive and bright and de­pend­able with chil­dren. So, you 
see you have many qual­it­ies that you should be proud of.”

 “You’re kid­ding,” she said.

 “No, I’m not.”

 She twis­ted her shoulders to­ward him. Her blouse stretched at the shoulders, 
caus­ing the V of it to part more fully and show the full round­ness of her young breasts, 
dot­ted in their middles by taut little nipples.

 Mona was si­lent for sev­eral mo­ments. When she spoke again, the tone of her 
voice had changed. It had gone low and con­fid­en­tial, a little hes­it­ant, and husky with 
sen­sual mean­ing.

 “Can I ask you some­thing?”

 “Of course you can,” he said, glan­cing at her then turn­ing to look straight ahead at
the road again.

 “About any­thing? Can I ask you about al­most any­thing?”

 “Cer­tainly,” he said; “You can ask me about any­thing in the world.”

 “Really?”

 She turned and stared out the win­dow on her side of the car and said, “It might not
sound very nice.”

 “That doesn’t mat­ter,” Tim said. Then he turned and looked at her and asked, “Is 
some­thing really both­er­ing you?”

 “Not really,” she said in a very low tone that hin­ted that her words were a lie.

 “Well, come on,” he said firmly. “If some­thing’s both­er­ing you, maybe I can help. 
But you have to tell me what it is first.”

 “Well, all right.” She turned and settled fa­cing him again. She curled her legs 
be­neath her, caus­ing her body to arch slightly in his dir­ec­tion, caus­ing, too, a new 
dis­play of flesh at her thighs. Mona stretched her arm along the back of the seat, stop­ping 
her hand to a rest­ing place only inches from his shoulder. For a mo­ment she played her 
fin­gers up and down upon the seat. They seemed anxious and yearn­ing to reach across that 
short dis­tance and tap their tune upon the man’s neck.

 “Do you think it’s all right for a girl to let a boy touch her?” she asked fi­nally.

 There was si­lence for a full five seconds. His voice quivered a bit when he said, “Just
how do you mean?”

 “You know – touch.”

 “You mean in­tim­ately?”

 “Uh huh.”

 “Very in­tim­ately, eh?”

 “Yeah, you know, like in­side her sweater or blouse or whatever she’s wear­ing at the
time.”

 He cleared his throat, then, rather ser­i­ously said, “Well, I sup­pose it really 
de­pends upon the girl’s prin­ciples, whether she wants to al­low it or not.”

 “What if she likes him to touch her? Does that make it all right?”

 “I think that de­pends on what’s con­sidered ‘right’,” he said soberly. “Things that 
were con­sidered very wrong a few years ago aren’t con­sidered quite so wrong today.”

 “Then it’s all right for me to like be­ing touched,” she said, her voice lilt­ing high and
the tone be­com­ing cheer­ful. “It really is all right, isn’t it?”

 “I didn’t say that,” he answered, dim­ming her en­thu­si­asm. “What’s im­port­ant is
what it leads to. Now, it’s per­fectly nat­ural for a girl to like be­ing touched, for her to even 
en­cour­age the touches of a boy be­cause -”

 “It’s really nat­ural then,” she in­ter­rup­ted. “Oh, I’m so glad. I thought maybe I was
weird or some­thing.”

 “No, I’m sure you’re not the least bit odd,” he replied. “But as I say, the danger lies in
where the touches might lead.”

 “You mean a girl might be kind of temp­ted to go fur­ther – to go all the way with a 
boy once she lets him touch her?”

 “Yes.”

 “I can un­der­stand that,” she mused, set­ting her face into an ex­pres­sion that was
a cross between de­light and con­trived baffle­ment.

 “Now, of course, some kinds of touches are much more pro­voc­at­ive than 
oth­ers,” he said, speak­ing as if he now wished to keep the topic alive.

 “I can un­der­stand that, too,” Mona re­spon­ded. “You mean like kisses – you 
know, real hot kisses – kind of lead to touch­ing each other and then that kind of leads to 
some­thing else – maybe even the real thing.”

 “Ex­actly.”

 “But you’re sure it’s all right -that it’s nat­ural – for a girl to like all that, eh?”

 “It’s nat­ural,” he said.

 Mona sneaked her fin­gers down from the seat and let them rest on his shoulder. 
She pres­sured them slightly and said, “You make me feel so good, not freaky like I was 
be­gin­ning to feel.”

 He braked the car at a stop sign, then turned and stared at her. He was si­lent. 
Mona used it to her ad­vant­age by again shift­ing her po­s­i­tion, boost­ing her­self a little 
closer to Tim, so close that her knee gently bumped at his thigh.

 “Now let me ask you some­thing,” he said.

 “Sure. Any­thing.”

 “Do you do much – well, I mean – are you – do you get pretty in­volved with the 
boys you go out with?”

 “You won’t get mad if I tell you?”

 “Cer­tainly not.”

 “And you won’t fire me from my job -you know, maybe think I’m not the kind of girl 
you want watch­ing your kids?”

 “This has noth­ing to do with it,” he as­sured her.

 “Well, I get pretty in­volved some­times,” she con­fessed. “I just can’t help it.”

 “How far do you go – how far have you gone with the boys?”

 “Pretty far.”

 “How far?”

 “I let them touch me.”

 “How? Where?”

 She pres­sured his shoulder as if she sought it for sup­port in con­fess­ing her 
secrets. “Well, I let them touch me here.” She poin­ted to her breasts, press­ing her hand 
between them as if she were pres­sur­ing a flower to her body.

 “What else?” Tim asked gently.

 “I let them touch me bare. Some­times I even open my blouse. And some­times I – I 
-”

 “Yes?”

 “Some­times I let them kiss me there, too.”

 “Is that all?”

 “No.”

 He waited si­lently for her to con­tinue.

 “Some­times I let them touch me un­der my skirt. Even – even – right on it.”

 “And you like that, don’t you?”

 “Yes. I won’t lie. I like it. I want that to hap­pen every time I’m with a boy – or – or 
with a man.”

 “A man?” he ques­tioned.

 “Es­pe­cially a man,” she said with em­phasis.

 “What kind of men?”

 “Men like you.”

 He sighed, then said, “Then you really mean that be­cause you’re with me now – 
be­cause we’re alone – that you’d like me to touch you, too?”

 “Oh, yes,” she breathed pas­sion­ately. “I want that more than any­thing and I’m not
afraid to ad­mit it to you be­cause you’re the most won­der­ful man – the very greatest – and 
I just know that you’re not go­ing to be mad at me for telling you this. I’m glad I did. Really 
glad. It’s been build­ing up in­side me for weeks – months, really – and now, well, now at least
I’ve got­ten it out.”

 He turned back to the road ahead. He shot the car for­ward, bar­rel­ing it like a 
hot-rod­der. And Mona, sens­ing that the speed he brought to the car in some way 
demon­strated his own ra­cing feel­ings, tried to en­joy all the great emo­tions that must be 
boil­ing within him.

 She boos­ted all the way over in the seat, crushed her body to his side, gripped his 
fore­arm with both her arms, bur­rowed her breasts to him, then smothered her face into that 
crook between his neck and shoulder. Then, after sigh­ing de­li­ciously as if she had found her
haven, she lowered one hand to his thigh and let it rest there, only frac­tions of an inch from 
that sud­den ex­ten­sion of hard flesh that popped his trousers high and out­ward.

 Re­mem­ber­ing the cir­cum­stances of this night for her psy­chi­at­rist some years 
later, Mona re­lated that she had de­lib­er­ately centered her con­ver­sa­tion on sex, and that
she had done this in or­der to arouse Tim upon whom she had had an en­dur­ing and 
in­tense “crush.” She said, too, that she had of­ten used this method of sexu­ally sug­gest­ive 
verb­al­iz­a­tion to ex­cite boy friends, that it never failed with them and that she had been 
sure that in no time at all Tim would also fall vic­tim to her se­duct­ive charms.

 He did. It happened only a week later.

 Tim and his wife, up­per-middle class so­cial climbers, spent a lot of time away from 
their home. They both en­ter­tained and were en­ter­tained. They at­ten­ded the theatre, 
hockey games, card parties, night clubs, cock­tail parties and many other so­cial events. Mona
was much in de­mand as a Baby-Sit­ter. A week fol­low­ing the in­tim­ate con­ver­sa­tion 
between Tim and Mona, Tim and his wife re­turned to their home at an un­usu­ally late hour. 
Mona had fallen asleep on the couch. She did not hear them enter the house. She jumped 
with alarm when Tim, bend­ing over her, gently shook her shoulder in an ef­fort to awaken 
her.

 “Oh,” Mona ex­claimed, jump­ing to a sit­ting po­s­i­tion on the couch. She looked 
around, then asked, “Where’s your wife?”

 “On her way to bed,” he ex­plained. “She’s beat. Come on, I’ll take you home.” Mona
could tell by the slur of his words that Tim was drunk. She sparked awake. The odor of 
al­co­hol upon his breath gave her con­fid­ence. She was sure that this was the night she 
would know the sexual at­ten­tion of this man for whom she had such a school­girl crush.

 As al­ways, he held the car door open for her to enter. But he weaved un­stead­ily 
as he walked around the car and entered it on the driver’s side. His driv­ing was un­steady, 
too. But Mona was not a bit afraid. She was de­lighted. When they were mid­way to her 
home, she cuddled close to him and, as she had done a week earlier, res­ted her hand on his 
thigh, very near his cock.

 “Bet­ter not do that,” he cau­tioned.

 “But I want to.”

 “Do you really?”

 “Ummmm, yes.”

 “You like to cuddle up to an old man like me, eh?”

 “You’re not old,” she pro­tested. “Why, you’re just about the young­est man I know.”
He thought that was very funny. He laughed.

 “Years don’t count,” Mona told him. “You’re young by the way you act – how you 
feel.”

 “So you think I feel young, do you?” he said.

 “Sure.” She squeezed his thigh, inch­ing her fin­gers to­ward his stiffened penis. 
“This feels young,” she said.

 “Bet­ter be care­ful,” he warned.

 “Why?” she asked.

 He smiled at her. “Be­cause I might stop this car and do some of that touch­ing and 
kiss­ing that you were telling me about last week.”

 “Let’s,” she whispered. “Let’s do more than just touch and kiss. Let’s fuck.” The tone 
of his voice was cooler as he said, “You shouldn’t talk that way. It doesn’t sound nice, com­ing 
from a young girl like you.”

 “Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t talk that way in front of your kids. Or -” she
ad­ded poin­tedly, “- in front of your wife.” He un­der­stood what she was telling him – that 
she would never tell his wife of any­thing that might hap­pen between them.

 “Do you -” He hes­it­ated, “- fuck with your boy friends when you’re out with 
them?”

 “Oh, some,” she said.

 “Aren’t you afraid you might get preg­nant?”

 “Oh no,” she said. “I’m on the Pill. My mother sees to that!” Her hand was more 
boldly caress­ing his thigh now. Her fin­gers cupped and pres­sured his penis. His body 
throbbed in ur­gent re­sponse. Al­most against his will, he reached a hand out and grasped 
one of her breasts.

 Mona cuddled more closely to him. “Why don’t we drive up to View Point?” she 
whispered.

 Tim changed the dir­ec­tion of his driv­ing, and drove in­stead to the lov­ers’ lane 
area she had sug­ges­ted. He parked in a spot that was well away from the other cars already 
parked there.

 As soon as Tim cut off his lights and turned off the ig­ni­tion key, Mona flung 
her­self com­pletely into his arms. She whispered pas­sion­ate, sexual words into his ear, and, 
once again, her words as well as her ac­tions, ac­ted as an aph­ro­dis­iac upon Tim. He 
covered her mouth with his own, and im­me­di­ately her lips opened and closed upon his 
tongue the in­stant after he gave it. And her one hand con­tin­ued to work furi­ously as their 
tongues blazed new paths of sen­su­al­ity. And in a mo­ment, Tim’s hands moved, too; one 
in­side her blouse to clutch her large breast, the other ruff­ling her skirt up­ward un­til it was 
well above her thighs.

 Tim brought his mouth away from Mona’s even as his fin­gers ex­plored, then 
caressed. She moaned and edged a bit down­ward in the seat. And she brought her hand up 
and quickly un­buttoned the front of her blouse. Then she arched, present­ing her breasts to 
him in all their glor­i­ous na­ked­ness. He bent his lips to her nipples and mouthed them 
madly, work­ing in greater and greater in­tens­ity as her hand upon his penis moved in more 
rapid ex­cit­a­tion. Then, sud­denly, she made him moan again as her thumb and fore­finger 
moved to his zip­per tab and lowered it.

 Gently, but ur­gently, she bared his penis. Now he did not moan. He cried out his 
plea of de­sire. And her fin­gers answered it with new caresses, a faster twist­ing.

 And then she hal­ted the ac­tion.

 “Come on,” she whispered. “We need room.” She un­locked Tim from his hold upon 
her. Then she got into the back seat. By the time Tim had clambered over the seat and joined 
her, she was already hunched upon the seat, her head jammed be­neath the arm rest, one leg 
bent high, the other crooked and rest­ing on the back of the front seat.

 Mona reached out a guid­ing hand. She placed him and urged him closer.

 His body writhed madly as he plunged his penis where she dir­ec­ted it. And as they
moved to­gether, it seemed that Mona was the more ma­ture, he the more ad­oles­cent, and 
the swing of her hips, the hike of her but­tocks, the grasp and clutch of her arms around his 
neck caused his body to pound and ham­mer with the ur­gent lust-speed of the young.

 Tim groaned a pas­sion­ate call and thrust like light­ning. Mona answered him with 
the com­fort­ing sounds of her own sexual know­ledge. And when their peak ar­rived, they 
reached their end at the same time, they rocked the car, sent it lurch­ing back and forth in a 
crazy kind of rhythm that matched their own.

 Mona’s af­fair with Tim con­tin­ued for nearly two years. Dur­ing this period she 
con­tin­ued to work as Baby-Sit­ter for Tim and his wife. Al­most al­ways, when her night’s 
chores were ended, Mona would delay Tim as he drove her back home, de­tour­ing by way of 
a city park, a hast­ily ren­ted motel room, or the beach, to en­joy once more the sexual 
sub­jug­a­tion which she had im­posed upon Tim.

 The af­fair ended when, at an early morn­ing hour, upon leav­ing a motel room, 
Tim, still feel­ing the eu­phoria of Mona’s love-mak­ing, did not see a speed­ing car. The crash
cost him his life and sent Mona into months of ana­lysis, dur­ing which she had the 
op­por­tun­ity to re­flect upon her life.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 If Bess had not been a black girl, and had she not known deep, hurt­ful pre­ju­dice 
most of her young life, it is doubt­ful that she ever would have entered into the life of 
promis­cu­ity she fi­nally ac­cep­ted.

 Bess, was twelve, a beau­ti­ful girl, light-skinned, and hos­tile to the en­tire white 
race when she moved to the North. One of six chil­dren, she had known only poverty in the 
small South­ern town of her birth. The North was not much bet­ter. Her un­skilled father was 
un­em­ployed most of the time. Her mother worked as a do­mestic, and re­ceived little pay. 
Bess was the one who de­cided that she her­self should go to work. There was little that she 
was qual­i­fied to do. She de­cided upon Baby-Sit­ting as a means of sup­ple­ment­ing the 
fam­ily in­come. Soon, calls for her ser­vices came reg­u­larly.

 Bess did not en­joy the up­per-middle class homes where she served as 
Baby-Sit­ter. For some mem­bers of the poorer classes, Baby-Sit­ting comes as a re­lief from 
the squalor and poverty of their own homes. Not so with Bess. The tele­vi­sion sets, the nice 
fur­niture and full re­fri­ger­at­ors served only to in­furi­ate her. She steamed hate for the 
ma­ter­i­al­ity of the white race. And she wondered an­grily why she and her fam­ily could 
not have the same.

 It was a month after her first Baby-Sit­ting ap­point­ment be­fore Bess no­ticed that
many of the men looked at her young body. Some re­acted to it. And from this her hos­til­ity 
began to grow, and point to­ward an out­let that was made avail­able by means of her sex.

 She was not at all sur­prised when dur­ing the ride home one night the hus­band of
one of her reg­u­lar cus­tom­ers placed his hand upon her thigh. She did not re­coil from the 
con­tact. In­stead, she en­cour­aged it, smiled, half-closed her eyes, and gen­er­ally ac­ted 
se­duct­ively, a qual­ity Bess her­self did not know that she pos­sessed. That night the ac­tion 
did not reach any cli­max. The man seemed con­tent to bide his time, await a true 
op­por­tun­ity. He was hand­some, in his early thirties, and had a strong, well-built body. Bess
felt sure that she would en­joy, both sexu­ally as well as emo­tion­ally, her planned 
se­duc­tion of the young man.

 That night, Bess laughed to her­self as she re­called the sex-hungry look the man 
had given her. As she fell asleep, she began to look for­ward to her next con­tact with the 
man. It seemed very funny to Bess. She knew the man wanted her. And what was even 
fun­nier was that he was mar­ried, rich, and white. It seemed a truly su­preme re­versal of the 
at­ti­tudes of pre­ju­dice that she had known. And she thought how much fun­nier it would 
be when she fi­nally se­duced the at­tract­ive hus­band of her em­ployer.

 Upon her next visit to Baby-Sit at the man’s home, Bess dressed care­fully. All of her 
clothes were cheap, but some could be made to re­veal her young body in all its ripe­ness. 
She re­arranged the but­tons on a white blouse and chose her very tight­est and shortest 
skirt. She de­cided against wear­ing any un­der­gar­ments. When she viewed her­self in the 
mir­ror, she was sur­prised that she looked so well, so ma­ture and ready for love.

 When the man, Mr. H. Picked Bess up at her house she could tell that he no­ticed a 
dif­fer­ence in her ap­pear­ance. His eyes dar­ted like mag­nets that could not keep away 
from the sight of her body. Bess made the most of it. She shif­ted her po­s­i­tion from time to
time, al­low­ing her tight skirt to show the firm lines of her but­tocks, al­low­ing it, too, to 
creep high above her knees to show the smooth, brown flesh of her thighs. She turned her 
shoulders to­ward him of­ten, too. The sev­eral but­tons she had re­moved from her blouse 
al­lowed the V of it to dip be­low her breasts and show the hard out­line of them. Bess made 
ex­cuses to lean for­ward of­ten. When she did, her breasts pressed hard against the thin 
ma­ter­ial of the blouse where the hard, brown­ish-pink nipples peeked into view be­fore 
thrust­ing an out­line against the ma­ter­ial.

 When she got out of the car, Bess bumped her young breasts against Mr. H.’s 
fore­arm. He nearly jumped away from the con­tact, un­able to con­ceal his re­ac­tion to it.

 Watch­ing the chil­dren that night was a game of an­ti­cip­a­tion for Bess. She 
could not wait un­til Mr. And Mrs. H. Ar­rived home. She only hoped that, as al­ways, Mr. H. 
Would drive her home – not send her home in a taxi or have the wo­man of the fam­ily drive 
her, as some of her cus­tom­ers did. She knew that given the op­por­tun­ity Mr. H. Could not 
help but suc­cumb to her sexu­al­ity.

 It was 2 a.m. when the couple re­turned home. The man said he would drive Bess 
home. Bess was de­lighted. Mr. H. Act­ing care­free put his arm around her shoulders and 
pushed her to­ward the door. Out­side, he held the car door open for her as she climbed 
in­side. Bess nearly giggled. She liked the ex­per­i­ence of be­ing waited upon by a white 
em­ployer.

 This night Mr. H. Turned talk­at­ive. He talked of him­self, his suc­cess, how hard he 
had worked for it. Bess listened at­tent­ively, her breasts thrust­ing and fa­cing the 
middle-aged man. And he even talked of race re­la­tions and boas­ted of be­ing a lib­eral, for
Civil Rights, a friend of all colored people. Bess nearly snickered. She knew what it was 
lead­ing up to. She was right.

 By the time they were halfway to her house, Mr. H. Had be­come so en­thu­si­astic 
about Civil Rights and his great lib­er­al­ity that his hand was rest­ing just above her bare 
knees, the fin­gers tucked between them. Bess had ac­com­mod­ated the touch by shift­ing 
her body close to the man and breath­ing heav­ily so that her breast pat­ted against his arm, 
leav­ing no doubt that she be­lieved all that he said, that she knew he was a friend of her race,
and that she would not ob­ject when the sexual pass was fi­nally made.

 Soon his hand crept higher. Bess breathed deeply once, then grasped it and raised it
to her breasts where she im­me­di­ately bur­rowed it in­side her blouse to grasp at the warm 
round­ness.

 Mr. H. Choked back a cry of pleas­ure. Then he veered the car to the curb and 
braked it.

 His hand kneaded her breasts. His eyes stared into hers. Then he said, “What about 
it? You want some white meat up your little slit?”

 “Drive to the park,” she said, hold­ing his hand tighter against her breasts.

 He zoomed the car away from the curb. He found the park, and the most se­cluded 
part of it, without the slight­est dif­fi­culty. He parked, cut the lights and mo­tor, then turned 
to­ward Bess.

 She moved upon him at once. She was like a ma­niac in her anxious pur­suit of his 
body. She crushed her breasts against his chest, half-crawled into his lap, shot her tongue into
his mouth and began at once to fumble with one hand for the sign of pas­sion her own 
sexu­al­ity had caused. She found it. And ex­posed it. She fondled him for only a few 
mo­ments, then curled higher into his lap.

 He was breath­ing hard, seemed al­most in­cap­able of wait­ing an­other mo­ment 
be­fore know­ing the down­ward thrust of her young body. But he waited long enough to 
shift the car seat as far back­ward as it would go. Then he circled her waist with one hand, 
mov­ing it be­neath her skirt and lift­ing it high, and brought his other hand to him­self. Bess 
did not hes­it­ate. She made an ad­just­ment of her own, hunched for­ward, clasped both 
hands about his neck, lif­ted her hips high, then brought them down­ward in a steady glide 
that stung and heated and did not stop un­til she had latched her­self ex­cru­ci­at­ingly tight 
to the wait­ing, and throb­bing man. They re­mained quiet for a mo­ment. Then they moved, 
he up­ward, rais­ing her, she tak­ing the ride and hold­ing high for an in­stant at the very 
point of his giv­ing be­fore slash­ing down­ward in new fury. They bounded and thrust and 
ran the heady race of pas­sion. Bess was a tigress. Mr. H. Was her nearly pass­ive vic­tim. But 
this passiv­ity soon turned to shouts of great joy and im­meas­ur­able pleas­ure as she 
whipped upon him so hard that he could no longer con­tain the ex­pres­sion of his pleas­ure.

 They re­mained with their bod­ies glued to­gether for only a few mo­ments, then, 
very busi­ness-like, Bess crawled away from him, ad­jus­ted her cloth­ing and settled into the 
car seat, ready to be driven home. She felt a rumble of ex­cite­ment within her that was 
dif­fer­ent from any sexual ex­cite­ment she had ever be­fore known. Her thrill was in her 
suc­cess­ful se­duc­tion of the rich, hand­some white man whom she had chosen as the 
vic­tim of her hos­til­ity. By for­cing and lur­ing him to her tak­ing, she re­ceived a meas­ure 
of some twis­ted justice in re­turn-a justice that had been a long time com­ing.

 Bess con­tin­ued the pat­tern of se­duc­tion of her white em­ploy­ers for sev­eral 
years. She never ex­per­i­enced a cli­max. But the man’s re­ac­tion was al­ways enough for 
her. Some­how it evened mat­ters a little, gave her the sat­is­fac­tion of ul­ti­mate 
ac­cept­ance at the same time that it told of her hate. When she was six­teen, Bess be­came 
preg­nant. She re­ceived money from the white father of her un­born child. She com­mit­ted 
her­self to an Un-Wed Moth­ers’ Home, had the child, placed it with an ad­op­tion agency, 
then with neither friends nor skills, turned to pros­ti­tu­tion.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 The poverty of her home, the drunk­en­ness of her father and the promis­cu­ity of 
her mother, all joined to give Fay a single ob­ject­ive. She liked money. She wanted it. She 
de­term­ined to have it at any cost. And she found the way. Fay com­bined baby-sit­ting with 
pros­ti­tu­tion to sup­ply her with the ma­ter­ial needs of a six­teen-year-old girl.

 Her pat­tern was simple. She would flirt au­da­ciously. She would con­trive to be 
alone with the man of the house. She would lure him to an en­counter. When it was over, she 
de­man­ded money. If he did not pay, she would ex­pose him to his wife and fam­ily, she 
threatened. The man al­ways paid. When the money was safely tucked in­side her bra, Fay 
would make an­other de­mand. Her baby-sit­ting chores could not be cut. If, be­cause of the 
sexual epis­ode, the man might be in­clined to in­flu­ence his wife for Fay’s dis­missal as a 
Baby-Sit­ter, she would also in­form upon him, Fay would tell her cus­tomer-men. They 
usu­ally agreed. And they usu­ally availed them­selves of her sexual ser­vices upon every 
oc­ca­sion of her baby-sit­ting in their home. This method en­abled Fay to double her 
in­come, triple it on some nights.

 When Fay was fi­nally hos­pit­al­ized be­cause of a men­tal break­down, she was 
in­ter­viewed first by a psy­chi­at­ric case worker, then a psy­chi­at­rist. She en­gaged in both
group ther­apy and in­di­vidual psy­cho-ther­apy from which she gained much in­sight into 
her con­fused life. From these ses­sions Fay re­cre­ated the cir­cum­stances of the res­ults of 
one of her se­duc­tions. It was not an or­din­ary se­duc­tion. It brought her some­thing new 
in the way of sex – some­thing she had not an­ti­cip­ated.

 Fay had made six baby-sit­ting vis­its to the home of Mr. And Mrs. O. Fay was 
in­trigued by Mr. O. For he was tall, about thirty-six, had strik­ing good looks, was lean and 
mus­cu­lar, and he re­acted at once to the flirt­ing Fay im­posed upon him at every 
op­por­tun­ity. She could tell that he was sexu­ally at­trac­ted to her. It was only a mat­ter of 
time.

 The time oc­curred on a Fri­day af­ter­noon. Mrs. O. Had en­gaged Fay to care for 
the in­fant son. Mrs. O. Had a lunch­eon to at­tend – a long so­cial one. Fay was de­lighted. 
Mrs. O. Left for the af­ter­noon. Fay was alone only a few minutes when Mr. O. Re­turned 
home early from his of­fice.

 From the mo­ment he entered the house, Fay knew that he planned a sexual 
ses­sion with her. She knew, too, that he was aware of his wife’s ab­sence, that he would have 
all the time he wanted. Her heart fluttered with ur­gency. She even trembled a bit. Es­pe­cially
when Mr. O. Who had gone up­stairs called for her to join him.

 Fay tried to ap­pear cas­ual as she as­cen­ded the car­peted stairs to the second 
floor of the house. But her calmness dis­ap­peared when Mr. O. Stepped out of the 
bath­room with noth­ing to cover his body ex­cept a turk­ish towel which was wrapped 
around his slim waist.

 “What’s the mat­ter?” he asked. “Haven’t you ever seen a man this na­ked be­fore?” 
Fay looked at all of his body, try­ing to make her eyes do to his body what Mr. O.’s eyes had 
so of­ten done to hers – touch at all the spots of bare­ness, at the bulges and cran­nies of 
flesh. Her eyes paused – could not keep from paus­ing – at the front of the towel. She had 
ex­pec­ted to see a jam of de­sire un­der the towel ma­ter­ial. She did not. She was very 
dis­ap­poin­ted. Mr. O.’s lack of re­sponse seemed al­most like an in­sult to the de­sirab­il­ity 
of her body. Her face turned sol­emn.

 “What’s the mat­ter? You seem un­happy,” Mr. O. Said.

 “Why did you call me up here?”

 “Don’t you know?”

 “No,” she lied.

 “Well, I want you to do some­thing for me,” Mr. O. Ex­plained.

 “What?”

 “Don’t you know?” he asked again.

 Fay took a step closer to the nearly nude man. Then she said, “Well, maybe I do.”

 “Sure you do,” he laughed. “After all, you are a big girl – not a kid like so many 
six­teen-year-olds. Isn’t that right?”

 “That’s right,” she said, nar­row­ing her eyes and in­hal­ing so that her breasts 
would puff out at him.

 “And be­sides,” he con­tin­ued, “you haven’t been flirt­ing all this time for noth­ing, 
sure as hell.”

 She moved so close that her breasts nearly brushed at his chest. “I never do 
any­thing for noth­ing, and you’d bet­ter be­lieve it.”

 “I be­lieve it,” he said.

 He brought one arm around her waist and jerked her close to his body. He kissed 
her. And Fay was sur­prised by the feel of his mouth upon hers. It was dif­fer­ent from any kiss
she had yet re­ceived. It was as if Mr. O. Kissed without true pas­sion, more as if he did it 
du­ti­fully, or as part of a pat­tern, than from any real de­sire. And when they broke their 
em­brace and Fay cas­u­ally dropped her hand. Between them, brush­ing it against the towel, 
she was sur­prised and a little hurt that there was still no sign of arousal of his penis. It 
seemed weird. It made her even more anxious to ac­com­pany Mr. O. To the bed­room where 
she could put a more em­phatic test to her body.

 Word­lessly, they entered the mas­ter bed­room. They em­braced once more, then 
Fay, tak­ing the ini­ti­at­ive, stepped back and hur­riedly dis­robed. Mr. O.’s eyes were in­tent 
upon her as she shed blouse and bra, skirt, half-slip, panties, and shoes. And his . eyes bugged
when she straightened be­fore him, present­ing all of her young nud­ity for his pleas­ure.

 It was a body that could in­deed give pleas­ure. Built large, Fay had mighty breasts 
with dainty, roun­ded nipples dotting the moulds of flesh. Her stom­ach was flat. Her na­vel 
in­den­ted with her quickened breath­ing. Her hips flared out­ward, show­ing the com­fort 
and ma­tur­ity that could cradle any man into the haven of sexual aban­don. Her legs were 
fine. Her thighs firm and joined in a tight line that hin­ted at abund­ant sexu­al­ity.

 Mr. O. Stared at her body, then whisked the towel away from his own body and let it
drop to the floor. Again, Fay stared at his penis. Again, she was vastly dis­ap­poin­ted. Mr. O., 
even na­ked and with her na­ked­ness be­fore him, re­mained pass­ive, ut­terly 
un­re­spons­ive.

 As if he were read­ing her mind – or per­haps be­cause he saw the ex­pres­sion of 
shock she re­gistered – he smiled and said, “Don’t be up­set. It’ll be all right. In just a 
mo­ment everything will be all right for us – for you.”

 Fay looked puzzled when he turned from her and walked to the closet at the end of 
the room. Then she looked even more puzzled when he re­turned to her car­ry­ing an 
as­sort­ment of wo­man’s cloth­ing in his arms.

 He dropped the clothes at his feet, then said, “Now, if you’ll just help me, well, then 
everything will be just fine.”

 Fay felt a kind of jam of anxi­ety when she stooped to in­vest­ig­ate the cloth­ing.

 “Those first,” Mr. O. Said, in­dic­at­ing the un­der­cloth­ing Fay held.

 She held the arm straps of the bra out to Mr. O. He slowly stuck his arms through 
the open­ings, then frog-legged his arms to fasten the snap at the back. When it was se­cure, 
he shivered de­lightedly.

 Fay thought he looked ri­dicu­lous. But she sensed that this was ser­i­ous busi­ness 
with him. She did not laugh. She picked up the silk panties and ex­ten­ded them to Mr. O.

 “You hold them,” he told her, his voice shak­ing a bit.

 Fay sep­ar­ated the leg holes and held them low and open. Mr. O. Placed one foot 
within them, then the other. Then Fay raised up and saw him pull the band of the panties high
upon his thigh. And then she ob­served that which she had awaited – the sud­den, virile and 
ex­cited harden­ing of his penis.

 Mr. O. Cupped his hands be­neath his empty bra and strut­ted around the room, 
un­du­lat­ing his hips, walk­ing dain­tily. Only the hard ex­ten­sion of him­self which jammed 
the silk panties out­ward made a fraud of the wo­manly fig­ure. Soon, he had walked enough.
The aph­ro­dis­iac ef­fect of a wo­man’s ap­parel, ex­hib­i­tion­ism, and the wait­ing, nude 
Fay, had pre­pared him with full ef­fect. He was ready.

 Fay Stood per­fectly still. Mr. O. Ap­proached her, hal­ted, then reached his hands 
out and fondled her large breasts. Then his en­tire body trembled. He seemed al­most in a 
con­vul­sion of cli­max. But it was not so. He looped his arm about her waist and led her to 
the bed. She re­clined on her back and stretched her arms out­ward in a wide V of wel­come. 
Mr. O. Crawled upon the bed, moved to her, paused long enough to shift the wo­man’s 
panties to one side, then lunged for­ward with the strength and drive of the most rugged type
of mas­culin­ity.

 And Fay for­got the oddity of their love-mak­ing, the strange mo­tiv­a­tion be­hind 
it, even the bra which scratched against her breasts as Mr. O. Bur­rowed closer and closer, 
drove forever harder, send­ing her hips to whirl­ing and boun­cing and her thighs to 
clutch­ing and re­leas­ing at every tak­ing of her body.

 Fay has re­por­ted to her psy­chi­at­rist that she never in her en­tire life of sexual 
promis­cu­ity ex­per­i­enced such a fierce, hard tak­ing of her sex; that she was over­whelmed
at the power the trans­vest­ite had. She has re­por­ted, too, that at the very end, when Mr. O. 
Twis­ted his fi­nal vol­ley to her, she re­spon­ded greatly, cry­ing out, ut­ter­ing ob­scen­it­ies
of pas­sion, and clutch­ing and dig­ging at the man’s flesh in an ef­fort to en­cour­age the 
cli­max for both of them.

 When the two of them had showered, and dressed, Fay re­cited her threats and 
asked for money for her sexual giv­ing. Mr. O. Did not hes­it­ate. In­stead, he seemed pleased
that money should pass between them. He gave her a twenty-dol­lar bill. It was the first of 
many she earned from Mr. O. For help­ing him to in­dulge in his un­usual sexual de­sires.

 Many teen-aged girls pur­sue the job of Baby-Sit­ting some­time dur­ing their 
young lives. Al­though tens of thou­sands per­form their tasks without a sexual in­volve­ment
with the man of the house, some, like the girls of the pre­ced­ing case his­tor­ies, look to their
chore as a means of en­joy­ing sexual re­la­tions. It is not sur­pris­ing that the se­duct­ive 
Baby-Sit­ter so of­ten suc­ceeds in her ef­forts. The en­vir­on­ment, the prox­im­ity, coupled 
with the stim­u­la­tion of mass me­dia and the con­di­tion­ing of a now gen­er­a­tion, are all 
ex­tremely con­du­cive to the sat­is­fac­tion of her in­ten­tions.





CHAPTER NINE


DOES FATHER KNOW BEST?

 The Amer­ican af­flu­ence and scheme of things have pro­duced fath­ers dif­fer­ent
from any in all of his­tory. The in­flu­ence of fath­ers upon their daugh­ters has been 
dis­cussed and ana­lyzed many times by men and wo­men in the fields of psy­chi­atry and 
so­ci­ology. The Elec­tra Com­plex – a sexual at­tach­ment between father and daugh­ter – 
has been openly treated in nov­els, plays and mo­tion pic­tures, enough for par­ents to be 
aware, and wary, of it. Nev­er­the­less, many fath­ers con­tinue to con­trib­ute to their 
daugh­ters’ sexual de­lin­quen­cies.

 The se­duct­ive-per­missive or sexu­ally-se­duct­ive father is less ob­vi­ous in 
so­ci­ety than is the se­duct­ive-per­missive mother. There are fewer fath­ers than moth­ers 
who sub­con­sciously con­trib­ute to their daugh­ters’ sexual at­ti­tudes and ex­pres­sions. 
Yet he is an in­flu­ence – a big one.

 Some fath­ers per­suade their daugh­ters to­ward sex sub­con­sciously. Oth­ers, 
be­cause of their own in­ces­tu­ous wishes, speak and act at more con­scious level of subtle 
com­mu­nic­a­tion, con­vey­ing, even if not truly felt, their im­plied per­mis­sion for sexual 
ex­per­i­ences. And still oth­ers are openly in­ces­tu­ous, feel­ing sexual stim­u­la­tion for 
their daugh­ters and ex­press­ing it al­though they may not com­mit the ta­boo act of in­cest
it­self.

 The fol­low­ing cases present op­pos­ite situ­ations: One wherein the father’s 
se­duct­ive in­flu­ence was sub­con­scious, the other where it was con­sciously ex­pressed.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Len was bit­ter when his wife presen­ted him with a daugh­ter and not a son. But he
sub­dued his feel­ings, even worked very hard con­vin­cing every­one that Sue was ex­actly 
what he wanted, that he had really wanted a daugh­ter.

 It was not dif­fi­cult for Len to cre­ate such a pose. He was fa­mil­iar with the role of
an im­poster to his true feel­ings. Many people con­sidered him a phony of the first or­der, 
oth­ers were more del­ic­ate and claimed that Len was only weak and in­clined to “let people 
push him around.” Some said that he never had an opin­ion of his own about any­thing.

 Len’s passiv­ity was cause for many ar­gu­ments with his wife. Their child, Sue, was 
present dur­ing many such ar­gu­ments. The mother was al­ways bit­ter in her 
de­nun­ci­ations: “Why can’t you act like a man – you’re a jelly­fish – haven’t you ever had an 
opin­ion of your own? I’m glad we didn’t have a son. If we did, he might turn out just like 
you!”

 Len never said much in an ar­gu­ment with his wife. Usu­ally, he suffered her verbal 
ab­use in si­lence, but with pain­ful, hate­ful ex­pres­sions.

 Sue has re­por­ted that she “al­ways felt sorry for her father.” Other than that, there 
are no signs that she was de­votedly at­trac­ted to him as is the case with so many girls.

 Sue was ten when her father began to take par­tic­u­lar in­terest in her. It has been 
ad­vanced that he did so as a means of com­pens­a­tion for his in­ad­equate re­la­tion­ship 
with his wife. It is in­ter­est­ing, too, that at the same time Len’s wife began to act out her 
hos­til­ity to­ward him by the tak­ing of vari­ous lov­ers. If Len knew about her af­fairs, he 
never men­tioned them to her.

 Len was a fa­vor­ite with the chil­dren in the neigh­bor­hood. He loved sports and 
could al­ways be coun­ted on to um­pire a ball game or even take part. Sue began the habit 
of ac­com­pa­ny­ing him to the school grounds. Here, she would watch the boys play ball. 
Here, too, she found the chance to talk to them, al­though she prob­ably was too shy for that 
had her father not pushed her in that dir­ec­tion.

 “Here, sit down and talk to Jim for awhile,” he would say. She al­ways obeyed.

 Sud­denly, Sue found her father put­ting her more and more into con­tact with 
boys. Some­times it seemed that he al­most forced a con­tact. And she has re­lated that 
dur­ing those times when she was with a boy, her father seemed hap­pier than usual.

 “Sue’s father wanted a son,” a psy­chi­at­rist has said. “There­fore, in a way, through
Sue, he was ac­quir­ing a boy, or son of his own, one that would be in his com­pany and give 
him pleas­ure.”

 Sue was thir­teen when her father per­suaded her to­ward more in­tim­ate con­tact
with boys. He be­came spon­sor of a neigh­bor­hood club that had been or­gan­ized to keep
chil­dren busy and out of trouble. Len was the ideal spon­sor. He was avail­able, and will­ing. 
His first ac­tion as a leader of the group was to in­sti­tute Fri­day night dances for the 
sub-teen and early teen-aged chil­dren. Sue was al­ways his part­ner in the events.

 If Len was pass­ive and quiet with his wife, he was the op­pos­ite as leader of the 
club. He was an or­gan­izer with great abil­ity and he had a tal­ent for de­tail­ing du­ties to 
chil­dren in a way that en­lis­ted their co­oper­a­tion. Sue was al­ways present at all the club 
activ­it­ies. Len gave his daugh­ter many du­ties to per­form, such as dec­or­a­tions, 
ticket-tak­ing, chan­ging and se­lect­ing re­cords, etc. And al­ways he in­sisted that she do 
her work in the com­pany of one of the boys. While in at­tend­ance at the cloak room one 
night, the six­teen-year-old boy as­signed to du­ties with her, kissed her. She was flustered 
and up­set. On the way home that night, Sue told her father about it.

 “He did?” Len said when Sue told him that she had been kissed by a boy.

 “Yes. Isn’t that hor­rible!”

 “Well, I don’t know if it’s quite that bad.”

 “But he forced him­self on me, Dad. I didn’t want to be kissed – he just wrapped his 
arms around me and made me kiss him.”

 “Ummm, you didn’t want him to kiss you?”

 “Of course not.”

 “Why?”

 “Well, be­cause I -” Sue hes­it­ated and grew si­lent.

 “Ah,” Len laughed. “See, you can’t think of a reason why you didn’t want him to kiss 
you.”

 “I just didn’t, that’s all. I don’t like him well enough for that,” she said.

 “But didn’t you like it a little bit?” her father asked. “Be hon­est now, didn’t you 
really like the way it made you feel?”

 “The way it made me feel?”

 “Yes.”

 “Well, I didn’t feel any­thing. Not es­pe­cially, I mean. He just kissed me and that 
was that.”

 Len frowned, then said, “But didn’t you get a little ex­cited?”

 “How do you mean ex­cited?” He hes­it­ated, then said, “Well, kind of warm and 
everything. Kind of soft and cuddly-like. Didn’t you really feel any­thing like that?” In later 
years, Sue re­por­ted that as her father talked to her about the first kiss she re­ceived, she 
no­ticed that he seemed to get very ex­cited, him­self, that he really wanted to talk about it.

 When they ar­rived home that night, her mother was ab­sent from the house. Both 
Sue and her father knew that she was with one of her lov­ers. Neither of them men­tioned it. 
But had she been home, Sue has said, she would have told her mother about be­ing kissed 
and would have tried to pro­voke a dif­fer­ent re­ac­tion from the one that she had re­ceived 
from her father. She was ter­ribly dis­ap­poin­ted by her father’s re­ac­tion. She had 
ex­pec­ted some­thing else, per­haps even pun­ish­ment for the boy who had kissed her.

 Why did Sue want some ag­gress­ive re­ac­tion from her father? Psy­chi­at­rists 
have sub­mit­ted sev­eral the­or­ies.

 “Sue wanted her own sexual crav­ings to be checked,” says one ther­ap­ist. “She was
a matur­ing girl, she had nat­ural sexual de­sires. Un­con­sciously, she hoped that by telling 
her father of the kiss­ing in­cid­ent that he would be less in­clined to pair her off with boys 
tempt­ing her and put­ting her in situ­ations that could very well lead to more in­volved 
sexual play.”

 Nev­er­the­less, and re­gard­less of the mo­tiv­a­tions, Sue was presen­ted with the
op­por­tun­ity to be­come more and more in­volved with boys. And usu­ally the 
op­por­tun­it­ies were made by her father. Once, on a pic­nic, he ac­tu­ally sent Sue and a 
boy who had a no­tori­ous repu­ta­tion with the girls, into the woods on pre­tense of an 
er­rand. He showed all the signs of dis­ap­point­ment when they re­turned be­fore the time 
he had ex­pec­ted them. An­other time while trans­port­ing chil­dren to a bas­ket­ball game 
in an­other area of town, Len in­sisted that his daugh­ter sit in the back seat where four boys 
were already jammed to­gether. He al­lowed two boys to sit in the front seat of the car with 
him. Sue sat crowded in between two mis­chiev­ous, sexu­ally-ex­plor­at­ory boys. Sue went 
on her first real date when she was four­teen. Her mother, busy with her own love life, hardly 
no­ticed the event. Per­mis­sion was not asked of her for the wo­man had long ago 
re­lin­quished any au­thor­it­at­ive role with her daugh­ter. But Len, the father, was worse 
than most wo­men over the event of his child’s first date. He bustled like a mother hen. And 
he even provided Sue with twenty dol­lars to buy a new dress.

 The date was not ex­traordin­ary. Sue was not thrilled by the boy. But she did 
per­mit as many kisses as he wanted dur­ing the movie they at­ten­ded. It was the thing to 
do, she had learned from other chil­dren. It was “in” and on top of all that, her father did not 
ob­ject. He even sanc­tioned her kisses and her re­la­tion­ships with boys.

 Sue sub­mit­ted to mas­turb­at­ory play with a boy of sev­en­teen on her second 
date. This, too, had a drive-in theatre as set­ting. But this time, Sue for the first time, began to 
feel re­ac­tions to the boy’s manual love-mak­ing. Dur­ing the second movie that night, she 
at­temp­ted to en­gage him a second time in the ma­nip­u­la­tions that had ex­cited her. 
And in her mind she knew that this was what her father had meant when he had talked to her 
about “get­ting ex­cited.” This was what it was all about.

 Sue began to see more of this par­tic­u­lar boy. The boy was also a fa­vor­ite of 
Len’s. Len ad­mired the boy a great deal and ex­pec­ted great things from him in the field of 
ath­let­ics. Sue claims she thought of this every time she was with the boy.

 After six months of reg­u­lar dat­ing, a period that found them per­fect­ing their 
prac­tice of mu­tual mas­turb­a­tion to an ex­tent that also provided Sue with re­lease, the 
young couple en­gaged in sexual in­ter­course for the first time. They had not planned it. 
In­deed, neither of them an­ti­cip­ated this turn of events for both had found sat­is­fac­tion 
in the love-play they knew so well. But each had also reached a peak from which there was no 
re­turn. Be­fore they were truly aware of what they were do­ing, they had climbed into the 
back seat of the boy’s car and shed their cloth­ing more than at any pre­vi­ous time. For the 
first time, Sue knew the ex­cite­ment of a boy’s kisses upon her bare breasts. She knew the 
ex­cite­ment of giv­ing him thrill by touch­ing at his bare­ness. And this night their kisses 
seemed more fevered, their tongues more thrust­ing and thirsty, their hands more anxious 
and ex­plor­ing.

 It was a little dif­fi­cult for Sue to re­ceive her young lover. But to­gether they 
im­pro­vised upon po­s­i­tions and knew the first in­tim­acy of sexual pen­et­ra­tion.

 She did not ex­per­i­ence an or­gasm from sexual in­ter­course. When her 
boy­friend lurched a fi­nal time and shouted the joy of his cli­max, she wanted the same thing
for her­self. She did not achieve it. And Sue was left dis­traught and aching. With her hips still 
arch­ing, she pleaded for the boy’s at­ten­tion. He gave it manu­ally, and she soon knew the 
thrill of cli­max.

 Sue began to in­vest­ig­ate the love-mak­ing qual­it­ies of other boys. She dated 
many, and with al­most all of them she per­mit­ted in­ter­course. Her repu­ta­tion zoomed 
among the boys of the neigh­bor­hood and Sue was cer­tain that her father had learned of 
the turn her sexual in­terests had taken.

 He made many in­fer­ences about in­ter­course and, strangely, he began to make 
them soon after her first such ex­per­i­ence. At the time he ap­peared to take an un­due and 
un­nat­ural in­terest in her men­strual cycles and on one oc­ca­sion told her quite frankly that
if she ever got into “trouble” she should tell him at once.

 Such an oc­ca­sion did de­velop for Sue be­came preg­nant. To the girl’s shock, her 
father was furi­ous, stormed as he never had be­fore and made her fear a beat­ing. It was the 
first such out­burst the man had ever ex­pressed. And, it tells of the com­plex­it­ies of a man 
whose per­missive­ness and sub­con­scious se­duct­ive­ness temp­ted his daugh­ter to­ward
the sex that she truly did not want at the time.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Art E. Was big and care­free and rough. As the Po­lice Chief of a big city sub­urb, he
had many op­por­tun­it­ies to demon­strate those qual­it­ies. He was rough with crim­in­als. 
He was care­free in a way that en­deared him to the people of the sub­urb, in a way, too, that 
cre­ated ami­able re­la­tions between his de­part­ment and the City Coun­cil. Art partied a 
lot, too. Both he and his wife drank heav­ily. It seemed that a party was al­most al­ways in 
ses­sion at the house.

 June E., four­teen years old, was the apple of her father’s eye. He had ad­ored her 
from the day of her birth. A big, strong man, Art was soft when it came to his daugh­ter. She 
could get any­thing she wanted out of him and he never hes­it­ated to tell people about it.

 Art was rough with words, too. Some people thought him crude. June did, too, upon
oc­ca­sion, es­pe­cially when he grabbed her as he of­ten did and wrestled her to the ground 
in a fierce bear hug.

 “Many, I envy the guy that fi­nally gets you,” he used to say while his hands hugged 
her tight to his body. “You’re built right now bet­ter than most wo­men are when they’re 
twenty.”

 It was true, too. June was proud of her ma­ture body. And she was never the least 
bit em­bar­rassed when her father re­cited com­pli­ments about it. She has re­por­ted that 
she “liked it,” that it gave her a feel­ing of be­ing “grown-up” and “al­most like Daddy’s wife.”

 June never knew when she first star­ted act­ing se­duct­ively to­ward her father. It 
must have been at a very early age for she could not re­call any time when she did not try to 
please her father with her phys­ical at­tract­ive­ness.

 With Art, it seems that his words were the most se­duct­ive that any father could 
use with his child. Al­ways, they hin­ted at sexual mat­ters. Al­ways, they seemed to 
en­cour­age June in this dir­ec­tion. And his state­ments about his daugh­ter’s body, her 
“sex­i­ness,” were not con­fined to the home. Art es­pe­cially liked to talk this way when boys 
were present. And, as June grew older, it seemed that boys were al­ways present.

 “Hey, you two kids watch it down by the river,” he once said. “I’ve got a man 
patrolling that beat and I don’t want him catch­ing-you kids mak­ing out or some­thing.”

 An­other time he ad­mon­ished, “Be good now, June, and if you can’t be that, be 
damn sure you’re care­ful.”

 June al­ways laughed at her father’s words. She was very fond of him. He seemed 
the very best, most un­der­stand­ing father that a girl could have.

 Once, dur­ing a steak roast in the back yard, while he was quite drunk, Art came 
upon his daugh­ter be­ing kissed by a neigh­bor boy.

 “What the hell, you don’t know a damn thing about kiss­ing a little piece like June,” 
he laughed. He pushed for­ward, took his daugh­ter from the boy’s arms, then kissed her 
him­self. He kissed her hard. When he had fin­ished, he stepped back, ex­ten­ded his hand 
to­ward June and told the boy to go ahead and try again.

 About that father-daugh­ter kiss, June has re­por­ted that she didn’t think it was the
least bit un­usual. And she ad­mits that she kissed her father as she would a boy – with fer­vor
and with her tongue.

 There is no evid­ence that Art E. Ever en­ter­tained con­scious, in­ces­tu­ous 
de­sires for his daugh­ter. His sub­con­scious level was that of a joker, kid­ding his child, 
be­ing the good buddy, the pal, rather than the father.

 Art’s con­stant kid­ding about sex made June more than usu­ally curi­ous about it.

 “It was al­most as though I just couldn’t wait,” she later told her ther­ap­ist. “All 
those hint­ing re­marks of my father, and all his hug­ging and kiss­ing of me, made me much 
more con­scious of sex than a girl my age should have been.”

 To sat­isfy her curi­os­ity, June made a point of se­cur­ing a date with a high school 
senior, Kevin, who was eight­een years old. June later poin­ted out, in­ter­est­ingly, that Kevin 
re­sembled her father.

 When Kevin picked June up for their date, he asked her where she wanted to go. 
June, keyed up to the point of blunt­ness, said, “Some place where we can have sex.”

 Kevin grinned and said, “It’s all fixed, baby!” He took her to a small cabin which he 
and some other boys had on per­man­ent rental as a place for sex parties. Kevin had already 
ar­ranged to have the cabin for him­self that even­ing, at least for the early part of the 
even­ing. He quickly drove June there.

 The small cabin was fur­nished very func­tion­ally – a bed pre­dom­in­ated the 
room. There were a couple of chairs, and a sofa that could serve as an­other bed. June and 
Kevin quickly shed their clothes. June stared curi­ously at Kevin’s harden­ing penis.

 Kevin laughed at her curi­os­ity. “That’s not just to look at, honey,” he said. “Come 
on and kiss it. Suck on it.” He threw him­self onto the bed, on his back, his or­gan stand­ing 
up like a tent pole.

 June ap­proached him hes­it­antly. “Is that how we start?” she asked.

 “Sure,” Kevin said. “A little suck­ing al­ways helps get things star­ted. Here, stretch 
out along­side of me, and I’ll eat you while you suck me off.”

 June stretched out, her head to­ward his feet, and tent­at­ively took his hard or­gan
into her mouth. At the same time, she felt his hot tongue lick­ing all around her va­gina. The 
double sen­sa­tion ex­cited her thor­oughly. Kevin pressed his penis deep into her mouth, at 
the same time dart­ing his tongue more ex­cit­ingly into her open­ing. He reached his hands 
down and roughly pulled her head tightly against his body. His penis went so deep into her 
throat that she thought she would choke. She gagged once, and he re­leased her head, so 
that she could once again suck just on the for­ward part of his or­gan. She felt it throb with 
ur­gency, and he took his mouth away from her va­gina just long enough to cry out, “I’m 
com­ing, baby! Open the floodgates!” Then June felt a cas­cade of hot juice fill her mouth.

 Af­ter­ward, June de­man­ded “reg­u­lar” sex, which Kevin was only too glad to 
provide. “So you’re an old-fash­ioned girl!” he laughed. “You like old-fash­ioned style 
fuck­ing!”

 In the reg­u­lar in­ter­course which fol­lowed, June ex­per­i­enced her first 
pleas­ures of or­gasm. Kevin was an ad­ept sexu­al­ist, and her first ex­per­i­ence was an 
en­joy­able one. Af­ter­ward, he got her to per­form fel­la­tio upon him again. He also 
at­temp­ted to per­form anal in­ter­course upon her, but for some reason, June pro­tested 
and re­fused to per­mit this.

 While they were still en­gaged in sexual vari­ations, the front door of the cabin 
opened, and two of Kevin’s friends came in. They were Jack and Arnold, both about Kevin’s 
age. June felt a little em­bar­rassed, but Kevin hardly seemed sur­prised.

 “Boy, oh boy!” Arnold ex­claimed when he saw June ly­ing na­ked on the bed. 
“Fresh cunt!” He im­me­di­ately star­ted tak­ing off his clothes. Jack didn’t say any­thing, but 
he star­ted un­dress­ing too. June looked at Kevin in­quir­ingly.

 “You won’t mind giv­ing them a little, will you, baby?” Kevin said to her.

 For the next two hours June ser­viced all three boys in vari­ous forms of sex, some 
of which she had never even ima­gined be­fore. Oc­ca­sion­ally she pro­tested at some of 
their more ex­treme de­vi­ations, but al­ways they either teased or co­erced her into 
ac­qui­es­cence.

 At last, when all three boys were sa­ti­ated, they al­lowed June to get dressed, and 
Kevin drove her home.

 “Get enough fuck­ing to­night, baby?” Kevin asked her.

 “Yes,” June said, shortly.

 Kevin glanced over at her. “You’re not sore, are you?”

 “Just down here,” June said, put­ting her hand in her crotch.

 Kevin laughed. “That’ll wear off,” he said.

 June later said to her ther­ap­ist that, even as she and Kevin were say­ing good 
night, she wondered what her father would think if he could know what ex­per­i­ences she 
had gone through that even­ing. “I think he would like Kevin,” she re­mem­bers mus­ing to 
her­self.

 A psy­chi­at­rist, re­port­ing on the case of Art and his daugh­ter, June, has said, 
“This man and his daugh­ter were psychic lov­ers. No doubt this man would be stunned to 
learn things about him­self that prompt us to know that he ac­tu­ally de­sired his daugh­ter 
sexu­ally, and, not be­ing able to break the ta­boo of in­cest, settled for the lesser 
sat­is­fac­tion of be­ing a se­duct­ive-per­missive father.”

 The cir­cum­stances sur­round­ing the se­duct­ive-per­missive father are as 
com­plex and as var­ied as are the in­di­vidu­als who are part of this un­for­tu­nate pat­tern. 
Many sub­con­scious mat­ters are in­volved. In­cest, hos­til­ity, youth wor­ship, many other 
things, all are present. But, in one re­spect, the prin­ciples are alike. In­vest­ig­at­ors agree 
that in every case, there is a mother who is either in­ad­equate to her du­ties, or who is 
her­self a sub­ject for psy­cho­lo­gical treat­ment.

 Par­ent­hood must be a bal­anced en­deavor. It must be without an im­bal­ance 
between the part­ners. And, it must be cleansed of those neur­oses which pro­voke par­ents 
to ex­press their own dif­fi­culties through the per­son of their child.





CHAPTER TEN


“DO­ING THEIR OWN THING”

 When an up­per-middle-class sub­urban neigh­bor­hood was re­cently the sub­ject
of wide­spread pub­li­city be­cause of a po­lice raid at two homes where ob­scene films were 
be­ing pro­duced, it be­came evid­ent to many ob­serv­ers that so­cio-eco­nomic status has 
little to do with the fet­ishes that af­flict people. Both mo­tion pic­tures and stills which were 
be­ing pro­duced in these sub­urban homes were those that dealt with a mul­ti­tude of 
sexual de­vi­ations and fet­ishes. The act­ors in the films were adult men. The ma­jor­ity of 
the fe­male roles were played by high school girls.

 There is little doubt that in some cases it is the fet­ish it­self that brings a girl to the 
role of se­ductress. Some­times it seems that her choice of a part­ner is made by in­stinct or is
psych­ic­ally dir­ec­ted, for, in most situ­ations a fet­ish must claim two. There are situ­ations, 
too, how­ever, where the young girl se­ductress is merely the act­ive sub­ject for her 
part­ner’s fet­ish, where she has little drive for the fet­ish, but is driven in­stead to the 
part­ner to meet his de­sires on his own terms.

 The po­lice raid of the sub­urban homes has provided a num­ber of in­ter­est­ing 
case his­tor­ies. A few of them fol­low.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Irene was ex­posed to cul­ture at an early age. Her mother, a frus­trated former 
act­ress who never quite got over the fact that she had once played sum­mer stock with a 
well-known Hol­ly­wood per­son­al­ity, de­cided that the child would be cul­tur­ally 
en­dowed. The means were pos­sible. Irene’s mother gave up the theatre for the se­cur­ity of 
a wealthy man. She mar­ried him, was a du­ti­ful wife, and bore him a child without once 
feel­ing the ti­ni­est sign of love for her hus­band.

 At eight years of age, Irene was ex­posed to art. The same year she learned to ride 
horse­back ex­pertly, moved to ad­vance ses­sions of pi­ano les­sons, and entered bal­let 
classes. Between these activ­it­ies she at­ten­ded a local girls’ school, did well in her classes 
and par­ti­cip­ated in a great many ex­tra-cur­ricular activ­it­ies. Irene was pretty and 
pop­u­lar. She was de­vel­op­ing in ex­actly the way her mother wanted her to.

 If there was any con­di­tion in her lav­ish home that dis­rup­ted the im­age of a 
child grow­ing up with life’s greatest ad­vant­ages, it was the fact that her father spent so little
time at home. Her father, a wealthy cor­por­a­tion dir­ector, was of­ten ab­sent from his 
home as a res­ult of his busi­ness and so­cial re­spons­ib­il­it­ies. Some­times weeks would 
pass without Irene once com­ing un­der her father’s in­flu­ence. But she had her mother, her 
school, and her many, many out­side in­terests to com­pensate for the fath­er­less­ness she 
ex­per­i­enced.

 Fen­cing was ad­ded to her other activ­it­ies when she was four­teen years old. 
Already pos­sess­ing the grace of a queen and the phys­ical at­trib­utes of a movie star­let, 
Irene was en­rolled for private fen­cing les­sons be­cause her mother felt it would give her 
“car­riage.” Fen­cing did give her this, and more, too. It proved to be her en­tree into the 
world of sexual fet­ishes.

 Her fen­cing mas­ter was a man of about forty. He was straight and tall and very 
hand­some with the bear­ing and clipped mous­tache that gave him a “con­tin­ental” look. 
He was stern, too. Irene rather liked it. When he would strike her thighs with his foil, 
in­dic­at­ing an er­ror in her stance, she al­most smiled. He was so ser­i­ous, so strong, so 
in­sist­ent upon per­fec­tion. And, even though Irene did not real­ize it, the fen­cing mas­ter 
was also very much a strong father-fig­ure.

 It be­came her prac­tice to dress dif­fer­ently from the other girls who also took 
fen­cing les­sons. She soon pre­ferred to wear her bikini swim­suit. Over it, she would don the
white vest and meshed mask of the pro­fes­sional fen­cer. The mas­ter once ques­tioned the 
un­usual at­tire. Irene ex­plained her choice by say­ing that the cos­tume made for great 
bod­ily free­dom, a ne­ces­sary qual­ity for top-flight fen­cing.

 Soon, Irene was ex­per­i­en­cing the symp­toms of a “crush” that was dir­ec­ted 
to­ward her fen­cing in­structor. He seemed un­aware of it. But it is dif­fi­cult to un­der­stand
how he could be un­aware or ig­nor­ant of her de­sire when one con­siders the phys­ical 
pro­voca­tion of her body. Irene was large-bus­ted, and dressed in the bikini her breasts 
would round out the front of the skimpy top like large, vi­brant moons. Her waist was nar­row.
Her legs were solid and shapely. And her green eyes flash­ing and her dark hair dan­cing at 
her shoulders, she was a sight that could try the re­serve of the most strong-willed man.

 Irene sensed this. She began to bring her body into con­tact with the fen­cing 
mas­ter as of­ten as pos­sible. Some of her con­tacts were cas­ual; a mere bump of her 
breasts against some por­tion of the mas­ter’s body. Other con­tacts were pur­pose­ful and 
left no doubt of what it was she wanted to ac­com­plish. But the fen­cing mas­ter re­mained 
aloof, kept to the les­sons and the ob­jectiv­ity they re­quired. Be­fore long, Irene was feel­ing
the pains of re­jec­tion. Ap­par­ently she felt some guilt, too, for her sexual ag­gres­sions 
to­ward a man who was a father-fig­ure, be­cause she began to feel ac­tual sexual re­sponses
from the pun­ish­ment of the mas­ter’s foil.

 “En Garde,” the mas­ter said crisply one even­ing.

 Irene jerked to a fen­cing po­s­i­tion of read­i­ness.

 The foils clicked in an ini­tial con­tact. They clicked again. Then the mas­ter lunged 
strongly and brought his foil down di­ag­on­ally across her right breast.

 “Touche,” she called.

 The word sig­nal­ing a scor­ing point was uttered in a tone that was dif­fer­ent from
any Irene had ever used. There was a reason. The hard strike of the foil against her breast had 
charged her with a first rumble of sexual ex­cite­ment. She flushed. Her body grew warm. And 
even through the strong-ma­ter­ial chest pro­tector, she could feel the sting of re­sponse at 
her breast ends.

 Teacher and stu­dent re­sumed their duel. They circled. They at­tacked and 
re­treated, lunged, par­ried, drew back, then lunged again. Twice more the mas­ter struck 
Irene on the breasts. Each slash in­tens­i­fied the feel­ings within her, the feel­ings that 
seemed to grow and grow as if they were reach­ing for some mys­ter­i­ous re­lease.

 Irene felt choked and hot. She felt a pulsa­tion soar through­out her en­tire body. 
And then when the mas­ter struck her sharply from the side and against one hip, Irene was 
cer­tain she was about to ex­plode. She did not un­der­stand what was hap­pen­ing to her. 
But she could not deny it, or the kind of aching pleas­ure she re­ceived from the pun­ish­ing 
foil.

 This night of her first ex­per­i­ence with the mas­ochism which was a part of her, 
ended without any cli­mactic sign. But the very next les­son, one in which she be­came more 
in­tent upon be­ing struck than in gain­ing any scor­ing points of her own, found her at the 
end re­ceiv­ing a series of strikes from her mas­ter that sent her body to trem­bling un­til at 
last a fi­nal, hard slash, en­flamed her. Irene nearly blacked out. Her foil clattered to the 
hard­wood floor.

 The fen­cing mas­ter was at her side at once.

 “What is the mat­ter?” he asked con­cern­edly.

 “Noth­ing – noth­ing, I’m sure,” she replied, her words sound­ing far off as if they 
came from an­other per­son.

 “Per­haps you are not feel­ing well to­night, eh?” he asked.

 “I’m all right.”

 “Are you sure?”

 “Yes. Maybe – maybe I’m just tired. I’ve been work­ing hard in school.”

 “Of course.” The mas­ter looked closely into her eyes, then said, “Go now. Shower. 
Dress warmly and when you ar­rive home take some hot milk and go im­me­di­ately to bed.”

 “All right,” she said, smil­ing, feel­ing her body re­turn to nor­mal, and feel­ing, too, 
the warmth of af­fec­tion the mas­ter gave along with his words of ad­vice.

 She did go home. She did shower and she did go to bed. But she did not sleep. She 
churned rest­lessly all the night. She re­membered the flame of cli­max that took her body. 
She re­lived it a thou­sand times as she lay in her darkened room. She did not un­der­stand 
what had happened. But she knew that she had to ex­per­i­ence it again.

 So in­tent was Irene upon the feel­ings and re­sponses she hoped to re­ceive at her 
next fen­cing ses­sion, that she had com­pletely for­got­ten that her fen­cing mas­ter was on 
a short va­ca­tion. But an­other mas­ter had been hired to take his place.

 The new mas­ter in­tro­duced him­self when Irene had dressed and entered the 
gym­nas­ium-type room. His name was Dave. He was heav­ily built. His eyes flashed.

 Irene ac­know­ledged the in­tro­duc­tion with in­terest. She wondered if a new 
mas­ter might provide new ex­per­i­ences. She picked up her mask and pre­pared to face the 
new mas­ter in their ini­tial com­bat of the even­ing.

 “What about the vest?” the mas­ter asked. “Are you leav­ing off your vest to­night.”

 “If you don’t mind,” she replied, her voice shak­ing a bit for she had planned to 
fence without pro­tec­tion in this ex­per­i­ment at more in­tens­i­fied feel­ings.

 “It’s quite all right,” the mas­ter replied. His eyes glanced over her at­tract­ive 
fig­ure.

 They clashed foils for less than a minute when Dave whipped his foil side­ways 
across both her breasts. She shivered de­lightedly as the same feel­ing re­turned to her, that 
great, great feel­ing of grow­ing pas­sion. A new strike nearly con­vulsed her, then the next 
one did. She dropped her foil, bent over and clutched at her stom­ach with both arms as if 
she had been struck by an ab­dom­inal at­tack.

 The fen­cing mas­ter walked over to her, but he did not of­fer words of sym­pathy 
nor ask what bothered her. In­stead, he smiled. Then he shocked her with words she had 
never ex­pec­ted.

 “It is all right,” the man said softly. “I know. I un­der­stand. For some of us, fen­cing 
is even more thrill­ing when we are struck.”

 Slowly, she raised and looked into his eyes. “You know – you know what just 
happened to me?”

 “Of course. For some of us it is that way. For some of us, it is the reason for 
fen­cing.” Irene choked.

 So­li­cit­ously, Dave placed his arm around her shoulders. Then he said, “To mor­row night, you come and see me again. You come to me and I will show you some things 
that will amaze you – and please you, too.”

 Her eyes were ques­tion marks.

 “We will fence a bit dif­fer­ently to­mor­row night. That is, if you want to, and if you 
will keep the mat­ter private and between just us two.”

 “I will,” she said.

 She met Dave at the ap­poin­ted hour at the fen­cing school the fol­low­ing night. 
When she had dressed, then gone to the room where they were to meet, Irene felt a great, 
grow­ing an­ti­cip­a­tion at her loins, at her breasts, at nearly every part of her body.

 Dave met her cheer­ily. He was dressed in a flow­ing robe. Then, with his eyes 
trained on her, he whipped the robe from his body and she saw that he was nude.

 She re­coiled a step. She had never be­fore seen a na­ked man. The sight both 
ap­palled her and fas­cin­ated her.

 “Do not be alarmed,” Dave told her. “This is the way we fence to­night. You and me 
– bare, and with sharper foils.”

 Without a ques­tion, word­lessly, but star­ing into his eyes, she un­dressed. His gaze
covered her body when she was na­ked. Then he handed her a foil.

 Irene took a po­s­i­tion op­pos­ite the na­ked Dave. She tested the bal­ance and 
sing of the foil. It was dif­fer­ent from any she had yet held. She ex­amined its edge and found
that, al­though the foil was not es­pe­cially sharper than the other, it had more bend and lash 
to it, ap­par­ently hav­ing been made from a dif­fer­ent, brisker type of steel.

 When they as­sumed their po­s­i­tion of read­i­ness, she could hardly keep her eyes
from star­ing at his heavy-hanging penis. But then she be­came aware of her own body and 
its need, and she struck out with a coax­ing lunge at his chest as a method of mak­ing him 
strike back. He did, with a sting­ing swipe of his foil. Again, her breasts were the tar­gets, of 
his at­tack. He struck them in a rapid series from right to left, then back again, and Irene felt a 
gi­ant warmth swell within her loins. But she did not con­vulse and drop her foil. Now, it was 
not ne­ces­sary, for her nud­ity and his provided a con­fid­ence that would let or­gasm come 
slowly, grow to a new peak then ex­plode, but only after they had teased it to the height of 
their de­sire.

 Irene slashed her foil in a mighty, thump­ing at­tack for­ward that found her 
strik­ing against Dave’s chest, then lower­ing to make two quick, hurt­ful slashes at his 
swinging mas­culin­ity. They then both drew back to let their quickened breath­ing calm.

 When they re­as­sumed the po­s­i­tion for com­bat, she no­ticed that his penis was
no longer pass­ive. It had strengthened and lengthened to an ul­ti­mate de­gree. The sight of 
it and the know­ledge that she had cre­ated this re­mark­able re­ac­tion served as an ad­ded 
aph­ro­dis­iac for her­self. Her breasts tingled. Her nipples hardened. Her stom­ach muscles 
rolled in ripples of ten­sion that made it seem that she had already em­barked upon the 
spasms of fi­nal cul­min­a­tion for her ex­plod­ing genes.

 Irene looked at all of his body as they read­ied to the po­s­i­tions that would al­low 
them new strikes and new thrills. His body was red-blotched and car­ried long, red swipes 
were her foil had made its marks. Then she con­sidered her own body and by the feel of it 
alone she knew that she car­ried the same signs of the slash­ing con­tacts that had been 
made.

 Dave and Irene touched the tips of their foils to­gether. Then they struck out 
vi­ciously at each other, giv­ing and re­ceiv­ing the strikes their bod­ies yearned to feel. She 
felt his foil slash against both her breasts, across her waist, at her thighs, hard here, again and 
again, then higher to her shoulder blades and fi­nally at her breasts again. She breathed hard. 
Her vis­ion blurred. She threw one arm up and lunged to­ward Dave to give him that which 
she was re­ceiv­ing. She gave it amply; at his thighs, at the very point of his mas­culin­ity, at 
his chest and at his waist, then at his thighs again.

 Irene, through the half-vis­ion of pas­sion, saw that his face was con­tort­ing, his 
muscles were rip­pling, and that his man­hood had stretched to an in­cred­ible size. Then she 
jumped closer and slashed down upon it, again and again and con­stantly harder, and at the 
same time she took the beat of his foil against her stom­ach and her thighs where it stung 
again and again, rais­ing her as Dave was rising, send­ing her soar­ing as he soared un­til 
neither of them made any pre­tense at fen­cing but merely gave and re­ceived the bru­tal­ity 
of the singing foils.

 At last, there was no fur­ther beat­ing either of them could give or re­ceive. Irene 
felt her body glow and heighten, then streak hot and red and burst to the skies at the same 
in­stant that her own foil brought a hot erup­tion from his penis. They screamed out at 
ex­actly the same time. Their foils clattered to the floor in a du­al­ity of sound that seemed to 
of­fer the cli­mactic clash that was meant to ac­com­pany their erupt­ing, gush­ing bod­ies.

 Both Dave and Irene fell to the floor in ex­haus­tion when they had ex­per­i­enced 
the total un­leash­ing of their bod­ies. And if she was a bit per­plexed by all that had 
happened to her in the pur­suit of cul­ture, she quickly for­got it as she con­sidered the 
earth-shat­ter­ing thrills she had learned to ob­tain at the end of a singing, fen­cing foil.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Ida was six­teen when she de­cided to get a job in a well-known, very ex­clus­ive, 
sub­urban de­part­ment store. She planned to ma­jor in mar­ket­ing when she entered 
col­lege and she was sure the ex­per­i­ence would be worth­while.

 For two years pre­ced­ing her ven­ture into the world of re­tail­ing, she had dated a
lot and on many dates had been sexu­ally promis­cu­ous. She was very pop­u­lar among the 
boys. She had a repu­ta­tion for easy com­pli­ance. The boys knew they would not be 
dis­ap­poin­ted when Ida dated them.

 After only a few weeks of em­ploy­ment at the de­part­ment store, Ida could not 
res­ist her se­duct­ive nature. She flir­ted wan­tonly. And she got some re­sponses, 
es­pe­cially from the man­ager who was in charge of the drapery and im­por­ted fab­ric 
de­part­ment.

 True to the typ­ical pat­tern of the promis­cu­ous girl, Ida had never ex­per­i­ence a
sexual cli­max, al­though she sought it with every boy with whom she had in­ter­course. She 
was sens­it­ive, how­ever. She es­pe­cially was sens­it­ive to the silken drapery goods she 
worked with at the de­part­ment store.

 Near the end of the year, the man­ager of the drapery de­part­ment in­formed Ida 
that he wanted her to re­main after hours and as­sist him in some spe­cial work. She agreed, 
gladly. For sev­eral weeks she had been try­ing to se­duce the good-look­ing man­ager. She 
was sure that she would suc­ceed once they had the op­por­tun­ity to be alone in the store.

 Dur­ing the day of the even­ing she was to work late, her ef­forts at se­duc­tion 
in­creased to a high de­gree. She missed no op­por­tun­ity to press her body to the 
man­ager’s. She grew an­im­ated when she spoke to him, could not keep her hands from 
reach­ing out to touch at his shoulders and arms as she ex­plained some in­con­sequen­tial 
mat­ter. And she no­ticed that the man­ager was be­gin­ning to re­act to her ag­gres­sions. 
He star­ted to trade touches and looks, and make sly, sexu­ally pro­voc­at­ive con­ver­sa­tion.
But it wasn’t un­til they were alone in the store that Ida learned that the man­ager had a 
fet­ish – one that he wished to im­pose upon her.

 The store was empty. The night watch­man had just made his rounds and was not 
due to re­turn to their area for over two hours. Ida and the man­ager, Dick, set to work 
count­ing the bolts of the vari­ous ma­ter­i­als in their de­part­ment. Soon, they had 
pro­gressed to the most ex­clus­ive ma­ter­ial the store car­ried – im­por­ted silk.

 “This is sexy,” the man­ager said, pick­ing up an end of a brightly colored silk and 
press­ing it against his cheek.

 It seemed a little odd to her, but she agreed that the silk was in­deed lovely.

 “Do you re­spond to touch­ing silk?” he asked sud­denly.

 “I like it,” she said.

 “That’s not what I mean,” he said. “I mean is it sexy to you? Have you ever creamed 
your panties over some­thing like a piece of silk?”

 “My God, but you’re frank,” she said.

 “Yes, I am. Well, have you?”

 “No.”

 “What a shame,” he sighed.

 “Why is it a shame?” she asked.

 “Be­cause it’s so great -such a wild sen­sa­tion!” He paused, looked very 
con­tem­plat­ive, then ad­ded, “Would you like to find out about it?” Ida didn’t hes­it­ate. 
“Sure. It sounds kicky.” They went to the ware­house room where most of the draper­ies and 
other ma­ter­i­als were stored. There, a great stack of bolts was piled high. The man­ager 
looked at them lov­ingly, then star­ted to un­dress.

 Ida looked at him when he was na­ked, and she was sur­prised that he, un­like the 
boys who dated her, was not erect with lust.

 “Well, come on,” he said, glan­cing at her. “Strip down.” She smiled and nar­rowed 
her eyes se­duct­ively. Then she un­dressed. She did so slowly and with her eyes fixed upon 
the man for she knew that this, the slow, teas­ing ex­pos­ure of her body, was bound to do to 
him ex­actly what it did for oth­ers.

 Nude, she straightened. He looked at her, then hur­ried for­ward to a large bolt of 
silk. It was azure blue and sparkled be­neath the fluor­es­cent lights. He stopped and grabbed
one end of the bolt, then pulled upon it, un­wind­ing it quickly. When it lay wild and crumpled
upon the floor, he turned and smiled at her.

 “Wild!” she said, know­ing that her breasts rose and fell pret­tily as she spoke, that 
the nipples had en­larged and that her belly pinched in­ward in a sign of sexual ur­gency.

 “Come here,” the man­ager ordered.

 Ida walked over to him. The man­ager bunched sev­eral yards of the ma­ter­ial in 
his hand, then ex­ten­ded it to­ward her. Slowly, he rubbed it against her breasts, her 
shoulders and at her belly and thighs.

 Ida shut her eyes and con­cen­trated upon the touch of silk against her breasts. It 
was nice. She liked it. But it did not ex­cite her any as much as the hands of a man would. In 
fact, she con­cen­trated upon the caresses of her ex­per­i­ences to bring even the slight­est 
stim­u­la­tion to her body.

 “Rub your tits against it,” the man­ager said. “Rub them hard against it.” His voice 
was strained and husky.

 Ida rubbed her breasts against the fab­ric. Dis­ap­poin­ted, she got no sexual 
feel­ing from it.

 The man­ager per­sisted. He lowered the fab­ric against her body. “Rub your belly 
against it,” he ordered. Ida wiggled sen­su­ously against the ma­ter­ial. She tried to 
stim­u­lated a sexual feel­ing within her­self, but she was not suc­cess­ful in do­ing so.

 Once again the man­ager brought the silk lower upon her body. “Rub your cunt 
against it,” he said, in a tense, sex-in­fused voice.

 Ida wiggled her body like a belly dan­cer. She rubbed her crotch against the silk, 
brought it away, and wriggled back again. She did bumps and grinds, like a bur­lesque queen,
against the silk. Ac­tu­ally, she felt rather silly, but she was de­term­ined to see what the 
res­ult of all this would be.

 “Oh, that’s it!” the man­ager breathed. Quickly, he un­rolled sev­eral more yards of 
the fab­ric and brought the loose yard­age between Ida’s legs, rub­bing it roughly back and 
forth. “Fuck it,” he ordered her. “Fuck it!” His rub­bing be­came swifter, harder.

 “Hey, take it easy!” Ida com­plained. “You’re hurt­ing me there.” But she humped her
va­gina again and again against the swish­ing silk to see if it would stim­u­late a re­ac­tion 
within her. It didn’t.

 “Shit!” Ida said. “This isn’t turn­ing me on at all!” The man stopped his move­ments 
and looked at Ida con­tem­plat­ively. He held the silk out to­ward her.

 “Now you do it to me,” the man­ager said.

 Ida took the silk from his hand and brought it into con­tact with his chest and arms, 
then moved it to his waist. Here, she lingered when she saw that the touch was tak­ing its 
ef­fect. The man had been filled with sud­den sexual strength. He raised his arms over his 
head and stretched up on his toes in or­der to ex­pose more of him­self to the caress­ing silk. 
She ran it over all of his writh­ing body. For a mo­ment, Ida was sure that this alone would 
bring the man to an erupt­ing cli­max. But it did not.

 Sud­denly, with a wild cry, the man clutched Ida to him. He kissed her hard. Then he 
wrenched the silk from her hands and stuffed it between their bod­ies where they touched, 
her breasts to his chest. And then he held her tighter and kissed her even harder.

 Soon, the man pulled his mouth away from hers. Then he pushed her to the floor to 
lie among the silken folds. When she did, he moved her to her back. Then, very care­fully, he 
ar­ranged the silk so that it covered her body across her breasts and waist, cov­er­ing all of 
her from neck to thighs. At her thighs, he del­ic­ately ar­ranged the ma­ter­ial so that it did 
not ob­struct her va­gina.

 Ida braced her­self. The man po­si­tioned him­self, then lunged into her. She 
re­ceived him, reached her hands up­ward to lace around his neck. Slowly, care­fully, the man 
lunged again and again. But as he moved he seemed as at­tent­ive to the po­s­i­tion of the 
silk between their bod­ies as he was to the ex­cite­ment of their join­ing. From time to time 
he ad­jus­ted the silk ma­ter­ial, mak­ing sure that it was between them, that he could know 
the feel of it against his chest and belly with every in­ward move­ment he made into Ida.

 Ida felt the silk rub­bing against her breasts and belly, mov­ing up and down, up 
and down, ten­derly caress­ing her as the man worked his body on hers. And she liked the 
feel­ing. It was like dozens of fin­gers work­ing upon her skin, all seek­ing to in­flame her and 
ig­nite her.

 Sud­denly, the man cried out and moved faster. Ida felt the new strength of him 
within her, the caress of the silk atop her, and she felt a feel­ing she had never known be­fore. 
Her sen­sa­tions in­tens­i­fied, zoomed up­ward, and then at last, at the very mo­ment that 
the man’s face con­tor­ted in an ex­pres­sion of pain-pleas­ure, she knew the burst­ing of 
her­self, she felt that great re­lease that joined the man’s as he gasped out wild, choked cries 
and fi­nally col­lapsed upon the silk-covered girl.





CHAPTER EL­EVEN


IN­VIT­A­TION TO RAPE – R.S.V.P.

 Everything can be ra­tion­al­ized. This seems par­tic­u­larly true when ex­cuses are 
sought by teen-aged girls – ex­cuses that will re­lieve them of their own re­spons­ib­il­it­ies 
for the troubles they have known.

 In any re­view of case his­tor­ies con­cern­ing teen-aged girls who have used their 
se­duct­ive­ness as a means of lur­ing men into sexual re­la­tions, it is al­ways sur­pris­ing 
how many ex­cuses can be found, and used, to ra­tion­al­ize the truth.

 Again and again, rape is presen­ted in the files of the psy­chi­at­rist and 
so­ci­olo­gist as one of the more pop­u­lar devices by which a girl can act se­duct­ively, 
se­cure the sexual ex­per­i­ence she wants, then deny her own guilt by de­clar­ing that she 
was forced into a sexual union.

 Some sample cases fol­low that show girls as vic­tims of rape while in truth they 
ac­ted pro­voc­at­ively and en­cour­aged their sexual tak­ing.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Mary H.’s fam­ily was poor. They were church­go­ers, es­pe­cially Mr. H. Who was a 
deeply re­li­gious man. Mary, au­burn-haired, built strongly and sexu­ally for her six­teen 
years, had little time for ex­per­i­ences in the inter-per­sonal re­la­tion­ships of boys and girls.
In­stead, she was com­mit­ted to hours of fam­ily prayer. The ses­sions oc­curred nearly every
even­ing, if Mr. H. Deemed it ne­ces­sary for the sav­ing of his fam­ily’s soul. And he usu­ally 
did. The fam­ily prayer ses­sions were long and dull. Mary could hardly sit still dur­ing them, 
al­though she knew she must un­less she wanted the wrath of the father – both the one in 
Heaven and the one in the liv­ing room – to come down upon her like thun­der. So, she 
learned to sit quietly dur­ing the long hours by dream­ing about boys, cre­at­ing fantas­ies 
that brought her into lov­ing, sexual con­tact with them. It helped fill in the time. It also 
stim­u­lated Mary far bey­ond her threshold of en­dur­ance.

 One warm sum­mer night – one that found Mr. H. Ab­sent from the house – Mary 
de­cided to walk the streets of her poor neigh­bor­hood and dream the dreams she had 
learned to love; those of her­self in a ro­mantic situ­ation with some boy or man whom she 
had dream-cre­ated.

 At a corner that was marked with a malt shop, Mary paused and con­sidered the 
group of boys who were loiter­ing there. Some of them were quite at­tract­ive. All of them 
were tough-look­ing. But she didn’t care. She wanted their at­ten­tion. She in­ten­ded to get 
it.

 Slowly, wig­gling her hips in an ex­ag­ger­ated way, Mary sauntered past the boys. 
Their whistles soun­ded loud and bold. Then a few ob­scene re­marks were whispered among 
the boys and they broke into loud laughter.

 Mary paused and looked over her shoulder at the group. She smiled. Then she 
found reason to delay still an­other few mo­ments by reach­ing down and ad­just­ing the 
hem of her stock­ing. This called forth new whistles and cat­calls from the groups of boys. 
Mary didn’t mind a bit. She didn’t even pre­tend to be in­sul­ted. In­stead, she smiled at them
again and had just star­ted to move away when one of the boys called to her.

 “Hey, chick,” he shouted.

 Mary paused. She turned.

 “I want to talk to you,” the boy said.

 “You come here if you have any­thing to say to me,” Mary told him rather crisply.

 The boy shrugged his shoulders and walked over to her while the other boys 
laughed again.

 The boy stopped in front of Mary. His eyes raked her body and ap­peared to lighten
with pleas­ure as he viewed large breasts, nipple-poin­ted, a flat waist, flar­ing hips, and good,
strong legs.

 “What did you want to see me about?” Mary asked.

 “You want to go for a ride?” the boy asked.

 “What kind of a ride?” Mary re­spon­ded, sound­ing more con­fid­ent, and much 
more worldly than she was.

 “In a car. What do you think?”

 “There are all kinds of rides,” she said. Then she nearly gasped at the im­plic­a­tion 
of her words. She had not in­ten­ded to say what she had.

 The boy seemed im­pressed with her in­nu­endo. “You’re really sharp, you are. 
Come on-how about it? Let’s go for a quickie.”

 “I don’t know,” she said, hes­it­at­ing partly as an act and partly be­cause she wasn’t
sure how far she in­ten­ded to carry on the act.

 “Come on – it’ll be great.”

 “You driv­ing?” she asked.

 “Naw. One of the guys. I lost my li­cense.”

 “Tough,” Mary sym­path­ized.

 “Cool the crap un­less you’re go­ing with us.”

 “Us?” she asked, sur­prised. “Who’s ‘us’?”

 “The guys, who do ya think?”

 “I thought maybe just you and me and the guy who does the driv­ing was goin’,” 
said Mary, mak­ing the words sound lurid.

 “We’ll sit in the back seat. Okay?”

 “Okay,” she re­spon­ded, after a mo­ment’s hes­it­a­tion.

 The boy led her past the oth­ers then guided her to an old car that was parked 
around the corner. He held the back door open and Mary stepped in­side. In a mo­ment, the 
boy and Mary were joined by the oth­ers.

 There were no in­tro­duc­tions, no cour­tes­ies, noth­ing but the boys pil­ing into 
the car, one in the back with Mary and her “date”, two in the front, one of them sud­denly 
lurch­ing the car away from the curb as if he had re­ceived the starter’s sig­nal.

 Be­fore they had traveled a block, the boy had looped his arm around her shoulder. 
She al­lowed it. And she tried not to pay any at­ten­tion to the eyes that played upon her 
body or the coarse jokes that passed between the boys. She tried hard to make some­thing 
more ro­mantic out of the situ­ation than the real­ity of it in­dic­ated. She even bur­rowed 
her cheek into the boy’s leather jacket where it clung to his shoulder.

 Soon the lights of the busi­ness sec­tion were be­hind them and there was noth­ing
but dark­ness all around.

 “Where are we?” she asked, rais­ing her head from the boy’s shoulder.

 “In the boon­docks,” he replied.

 Sud­denly the car was jerked to a halt. The driver turned around and grinned at 
Mary and the boy. “Okay, I parked where there’s no fuzz. Go to it.”

 Mary shivered slightly. She knew what the boy in­ten­ded, had even known this 
when she con­sen­ted to ride with him. But her mind worked over­time mak­ing a ro­mantic 
thing out of the en­counter.

 The boy twis­ted her face to him and kissed her hard. She re­spon­ded, even shot 
her tongue into his mouth. It was dis­tract­ing hav­ing so many people watch at such close 
hand.

 Sud­denly, the boy be­came all hands. He worked in­side her blouse, roughly 
fondled her flesh and pulled upon her nipple. Then his other hand went into ac­tion and shot 
be­neath her skirt, worked its way up­wards to her thighs, sneaked be­neath the frail 
res­ist­ance of her panties, then touched and ex­plored and caressed.

 “You want a little help?” one of the boys called from the front seat.

 Both Mary and the boy ig­nored the re­mark. But she did open her eyes fol­low­ing 
a long kiss and saw that all eyes were upon her, upon her and the boy’s hands that worked 
be­neath the cover of blouse and skirt. Quickly, she shut her eyes and mo­tiv­ated a new kiss 
from the boy.

 They were crowded. So, when the boy with­drew both his hands from her body and 
turned a bit to his side, Mary felt a mo­ment’s re­lease.

 “Move over, will ya,” the boy growled.

 The boy next to them scooted his body a few inches away from them. It wasn’t 
much room, but it was enough to al­low the boy to twist, come above her, then pres­sure his 
knee down­ward to open her thighs. Not much pres­sure was needed. She wel­comed him. 
Then, after a few minutes of fum­bling at both of their bod­ies, she wel­comed the hard, 
down­ward sweep of his huge penis.

 It seems hardly pos­sible that Mary could not be aware of the danger of the 
situ­ation she was get­ting her­self into. It is equally dif­fi­cult to un­der­stand why Mary, an 
at­tract­ive six­teen-year-old, would choose the odd cir­cum­stances she did for her first 
sexual act.

 One psy­chi­at­rist, fa­mil­iar with the case, ex­plained it this way.

 “It’s pos­sible that this very lack of pri­vacy is the thing that brought Mary into this 
first sexual situ­ation,” the psy­chi­at­rist said. “Some­how, without pri­vacy, the act it­self did 
not seem as im­moral, as de­grad­ing, or as threat­en­ing as it might were she alone with a 
single boy in the car.”

 The first love-scene didn’t last long. The boy, overly ex­cited be­cause of the period 
of love-play and be­cause of her ag­gress­ive­ness, had little con­trol over his body. He 
thumped and twis­ted and churned while she moved against him, sim­u­lat­ing the ac­tions 
she had de­cided were the ac­tions of a ma­ture and worldly girl mak­ing love.

 The boy groaned aloud as he reached his cli­max. Mary, hear­ing him, sens­ing what
his cry meant, and feel­ing the spurt­ing hot­ness enter her, cried out too, al­though there 
was no true spark of or­gasm on her part. As their cries died down, the other boys laughed, 
some self-con­sciously, oth­ers lur­idly.

 The boy pulled away from her. She pat­ted at her hair and ad­jus­ted her cloth­ing.

 “Okay, I’m next,” said the boy sit­ting next to them. “I’m hard and ready. It got me 
hot watch­ing you two.”

 Mary turned to­ward him, a mo­ment­ary ex­pres­sion of ques­tion on her face.

 “Sure, go ahead,” the boy who had just fin­ished with her told his friend. “She’s a 
pretty good fuck. I got my rocks off fast!”

 The boys traded po­s­i­tions. The new boy, who did not take time for even a 
mo­ment of kiss­ing, lunged his hard penis at her.

 With this second boy, Mary felt a dif­fer­ence. She wasn’t quite sure she liked it. The 
boy was very strong, very large, and al­most hurt­fully ag­gress­ive. He tore at her as though 
he were in com­bat. He treated her as a thing, rather than as a per­son. But he too reached his
cli­max quickly. With a rough ex­clam­a­tion, he pulled away from her only a few minutes 
after he had moun­ted. “You got a nice, tight cunt,” was all he said.

 Now there was not even any ques­tion of fur­ther pro­ced­ure. As soon as the 
second boy moved away from her, the third moun­ted her. His penis was not fully hard, and 
he made Mary ma­nip­u­late it for a few mo­ments be­fore he entered her. Then he humped 
into her lust­ily, breath­ing ob­scene words into her ear while he was do­ing it. He took longer
than the oth­ers to reach his cli­max, and when he did his load of sperm was heav­ier than the
oth­ers. Nor did he pull away from her as quickly as the oth­ers had. He con­tin­ued to lie on 
top of her, nudging his penis in and out of her, un­til the fourth boy said, “Come on, fucker, 
get off her. It’s my turn.”

 The third boy left her re­luct­antly, and the fourth boy po­si­tioned him­self above 
her. He fingered her va­gina thor­oughly and deeply, prob­ing his fin­gers as far into her as 
they would go. “Shit!” he com­plained. “Her twat’s fulla come!” He shif­ted his po­s­i­tion so 
that his hard penis was at her mouth. “Open up!” he ordered.

 Mary opened her mouth, and he quickly in­ser­ted his penis, and then launched 
him­self into her as though her mouth were a va­gina. “Suck it, cunt!” he said. Mary sucked, 
tent­at­ively at first, and then more heav­ily. When she felt his hot juice in­vade her throat, she
swal­lowed it quickly, and then pulled her mouth away from him.

 By that time, Mary found it dif­fi­cult to as­so­ci­ate all that had happened with her 
dreams of love and ro­mance. She hurt too much for the dream to come through clearly. 
When the last boy moved away from her body, she felt an ache at her loins as though she had
been beaten there.

 Ap­par­ently she did not real­ize the full ex­tent of what had been done to her 
un­til she stepped out of the car back at the corner where she had first en­countered the 
boys.

 Her mind buzzed with a mil­lion hor­rible thoughts. She thought of her father, God, 
preg­nancy, a bruised body that might not heal. She thought of all these things as the boys’ 
car sped away. She turned to look for a po­lice of­ficer...

 Her par­ents were be­side them­selves with con­cern when they re­ceived the call 
from the po­lice de­part­ment to come for their daugh­ter who had been sexu­ally at­tacked 
by a gang of hood­lums.

 To the po­lice and to her par­ents, Mary claimed that she had been gang-raped. 
Since the boys all lived in the neigh­bor­hood, they were quickly roun­ded up. They all 
claimed that Mary had come with them will­ingly and had will­ingly ac­cep­ted their sexual 
con­duct.

 How­ever, since Mary had such a re­spect­able repu­ta­tion, and since she came 
from such a deeply re­li­gious fam­ily, her word was taken against the four boys. The boys 
were sent to a re­form in­sti­tu­tion. How­ever, Mary her­self felt such guilt feel­ings about it, 
that shortly af­ter­ward she suffered a men­tal break­down – which was at­trib­uted to “her 
hor­rible ex­per­i­ence” -and had to be com­mit­ted to a men­tal hos­pital. When she 
re­covered suf­fi­ciently to be re­leased from the hos­pital, she did not re­turn to her fam­ily, 
but entered into a life of teen-age pros­ti­tu­tion.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Lena was four­teen years old when she de­cided that she would not wait an­other 
day to learn about the glor­ies of sex that were said by friends to be so great.

 One even­ing in the sum­mer she headed for the sandy beach which bordered the 
lake that was near her small-town home.

 The beach was nearly deser­ted when Lena ar­rived. She was a little dis­ap­poin­ted.
She had ex­pec­ted to find some bon­fires blaz­ing with boys sit­ting around them. But there 
were none. But put­ting dis­ap­point­ment aside, Lena moved be­hind some bushes at the 
rear of the beach, quickly un­dressed and shimmered into a new, bikini she had re­cently 
pur­chased. She placed her clothes in the small bag she car­ried, then left the bushes and 
walked to the edge of the wa­ter.

 She felt a slight breeze blow­ing against her body from the lake. She liked it. It made
her nipples harden, and even without a mir­ror to view her­self, Lena knew that she made a 
de­sir­able pic­ture, that the bra top of her two-piece suit was low enough to re­veal a lot of 
breast flesh, and would even re­veal the nipples, she hoped, once the suit was wet. And she 
knew that the bot­tom of the suit clung tightly to her hips like pa­per on a wall. She already 
knew that her stom­ach was flat and that her legs were lean and strong and quite shapely for 
her young years.

 Lena breathed deeply and looked around. Still no bon­fires. Still no boys. Still no 
hope of achiev­ing that which she had come to the beach to ac­com­plish. But then she 
looked out into the wa­ter again and at the raft, about a hun­dred yards away, she saw a 
bob­bing head. She waited, a little breath­lessly, un­til she de­term­ined that it was a male 
who swam by the raft. In a mo­ment, she saw him pull his body up the lad­der and onto the 
sur­face of the raft. From his build, seen only faintly through the dusk of even­ing, Lena 
guessed that he was about forty. He wasn’t a boy sit­ting by a bon­fire. But he was a male. 
Lena waded into the wa­ter, paused a mo­ment, then plunged be­neath the sur­face. When 
her head re­appeared, she swam dir­ectly for the raft.

 Lena waited and res­ted by the bot­tom rung of the lad­der for a few mo­ments 
be­fore climb­ing to the top. When she did pull her­self up­ward, she was de­lighted to find 
that the wa­ter had made the bra top of her swim­suit pull far down to ex­pose nearly half of 
her ample breasts. And the bot­tom of the suit dipped lower than it had been, too. This 
pleased her very much for now it res­ted many inches be­low her na­vel. She was sure that 
she looked like a sexy wa­ter nymph, which was just what she wanted.

 The man was ly­ing on his back. But he raised his head when Lena came aboard the 
lad­der. He smiled. She smiled back. Then she took a place on the raft quite close to him and 
sat down. The man was not quite what she had ex­pec­ted, not one she would es­pe­cially 
dream of to ini­ti­ate her into sex. But his body was rather good, even if a bit pudgy around 
the waist. And he had nice eyes, as far as Lena could tell through the dark­ness.

 “Kind of late for you to be swim­ming alone, isn’t it?” the man asked.

 “I’m not alone,” she replied.

 “Oh.” The man turned his head to see who might be fol­low­ing Lena up the 
lad­der. There was no one.

 “Thought you said you aren’t alone?” the man asked, look­ing puzzled.

 “I’m not. You’re here,” she said, smil­ing more widely.

 “Oh, yeah. Sure,” he said, start­ing to chuckle.

 They were quiet for a while. Dur­ing the si­lence, Lena made the most of the 
op­por­tun­ity to show her body off to the stranger. She turned and twis­ted, pre­tend­ing to 
look all around her. She made no move to raise the lowered bra. She was glad she hadn’t 
when she saw the man star­ing at her breasts.

 Soon, they entered into a cas­ual con­ver­sa­tion again. When it ended, the man 
stood up. “Come on, let’s take a quick dip.”

 “Sounds good,” Lena said.

 They dived off the raft to­gether. When they sur­faced, they were close to­gether 
and the man’s legs tangled mo­ment­ar­ily with hers. She smiled at him, con­vey­ing, she 
hoped, her will­ing­ness to par­ti­cip­ate in any game he might have in mind. When they 
swam to the lad­der and res­ted, hanging on the top rungs, Lena found out ex­actly what it 
was the man was con­sid­er­ing. Not so strangely, it was ex­actly the same thing Lena had 
been seek­ing.

 The man’s hand slipped around her waist, then raised to cup her left breast.

 “You’re a real big little girl, aren’t you?” he said.

 “Big enough,” she replied, mak­ing no move to dis­lodge the man’s hand.

 “Big enough for what?” he asked.

 “For any­thing.”

 “No kid­ding?”

 “Right, no kid­ding,” she said.

 “You big enough and smart enough – enough to do what I’m think­ing?” he asked, 
at the same time thrust­ing his waist for­ward so that Lena could feel the heav­i­ness of his 
penis strike at her hips.

 “That’s what I’m here for,” she said.

 “Well I’ll be damned,” he ex­claimed.

 Lena twis­ted her po­s­i­tion around so that she faced him, grasp­ing the rungs of 
the lad­der with her arms stretched high be­hind her.

 “Do you fig­ure you can wiggle out of those little panties of yours?” the man asked.

 Work­ing with one hand while the other sup­por­ted her, Lena shed her swim­suit 
bot­tom.

 She ad­jus­ted her po­s­i­tion. He did too. They were both na­ked now. He 
spread-eagled her against the lad­der, while he braced his own feet on the bot­tom rung of 
the lad­der, which his hands gripped on either side of her. The bot­tom halves of their bod­ies
were still sub­merged in wa­ter. And that was the way he took her.

 He spread her legs with his own, and slowly eased his penis into her. When they 
were joined that way, he took his hands away from the lad­der and gripped her but­tocks, 
spread­ing the cheeks and press­ing her closer to him. Awk­wardly, he lowered his head and 
began mouth­ing her nipples, hunch­ing his body back and forth as he forced his penis in and
out of her va­gina.

 “Get­ting to you?” he asked husk­ily.

 She answered with a mur­mur of as­sent and an ac­cel­er­ated writh­ing of her 
body.

 “That’s it,” he said. “Fuck back! You ever been fucked un­der wa­ter be­fore?” She 
shook her head, but did not re­veal that this was her first sexual ad­ven­ture.

 The wa­ter churned around his hips as he speeded up his move­ments as his cli­max
ap­proached. “Oh, God!” he breathed. “This is too much!” And Lena felt the hot­ness of his 
ejac­u­la­tion des­pite the cold­ness of the wa­ter.

 Af­ter­ward, they got up on the raft where they had sexual in­ter­course again to a 
second cli­max.

 Later, when the man had left her and she was dressed again, Lena be­came 
frightened when she con­sidered the pos­sib­il­ity that she might be­come preg­nant. She 
cried to her­self and wondered what she would do, what she would tell her par­ents.

 Then, re­mem­ber­ing some of the lurid stor­ies she had read in news­pa­pers, she 
de­cided on her own solu­tion. She went home and told her par­ents that she had been 
raped, that she had been at the beach, and that a man had grabbed her and dragged her into 
the bushes, threatened her with a knife if she made a sound, and then had raped her 
re­peatedly.

 In­stead of cen­sure from her par­ents, she re­ceived sym­pathy. Her mother – 
be­latedly and un­ne­ces­sar­ily – told her “the facts of life” and later took her to the fam­ily 
doc­tor to have her ex­amined for any signs of pos­sible preg­nancy. For­tu­nately, there 
were none.

 Lena was just one of many teen-aged girls who sat­is­fied their own sexual 
curi­os­ity and ur­gings, and then cried, “Rape!”





CHAPTER TWELVE


SEX-SCARRED VIR­GINS

 “Des­pite the world­li­ness of teen-age girls today, many of them still cling to their 
vir­gin­ity as some­thing very spe­cial,” de­clares a clin­ical psy­cho­lo­gist at one of the East 
coast’s largest uni­ver­sit­ies. “I have known girls in their early teens who reg­u­larly – by 
reg­u­larly, I mean on every single date – per­form fel­la­tio on the boys as the means of 
sub­sti­tut­ing the sexual in­ter­course the boys ex­pect. And we have in­ter­viewed girls who
think noth­ing of mas­turb­at­ing a boy or man, of al­low­ing him to mas­turb­ate him­self 
against her breasts or some other part of her body, or of do­ing al­most any­thing to 
pro­duce ejac­u­la­tion for their date – any­thing, that is, ex­cept through the means of sexual
in­ter­course which would des­troy the vir­gin­ity they wish to pre­serve.”

 “Get your hands off me! You can’t hang any­thing on me – I’m still a vir­gin,” cried a 
teen-aged pros­ti­tute when she was picked up by the po­lice.

 In­cred­ibly, and sadly, the four­teen-year-old girl spoke the truth. She was in­deed 
a vir­gin. She had never in­dulged in nor­mal sexual in­ter­course, for she was a spe­cial­ist 
within the group with whom she worked – an ex­pert in the area of al­most every sexual 
de­vi­ation and fet­ish known to so­ci­ety.

 Many teen-age girls, pro­fes­sion­als in­cluded, are un­doubtedly vic­tims of fet­ish 
and the lure of de­vi­ations, con­di­tions that provide them sexual sat­is­fac­tion where they 
fail to achieve it in in­ter­course. But for a goodly num­ber of such de­lin­quents, some­thing 
else is in­volved.

 Re­cent in­ter­views with teen-aged pros­ti­tutes, con­duc­ted by a Crim­inal Court 
psy­chi­at­rist, re­vealed that some of the early teen-age girls prac­ticed de­vi­ations and 
fet­ishes for the sole pur­pose of pro­tect­ing their vir­gin­ity. In spite of par­ti­cip­a­tion in 
the grossest kinds of sexual ab­er­ra­tions these girls con­sidered their vir­gin­ity some­thing 
spe­cial, some­thing that was worth any kind of pro­tec­tion.

 One of the girls in­ter­viewed, a girl of four­teen, com­men­ted can­didly upon her 
sex life as it re­lated to her pro­fes­sional pros­ti­tu­tion.

 “Someday I’m go­ing to be all through with this,” she ex­plained. “I’ll get mar­ried 
and when I do, well, I want to be a vir­gin for him – every girl really wants to.”

 An­other in­ter­viewee said, “No, I don’t dig that stuff at all, but at least the things I 
do won’t get me preg­nant. I couldn’t stand that.”

 Some girls with­hold the gift of their vir­gin­ity by their own choice. Oth­ers are 
driven to sub­sti­tute de­vi­ations for usual sexual meth­ods be­cause of the com­plex­it­ies 
of their emo­tional lives, be­cause of the prob­lems that have been in­stru­mental in mak­ing 
them teen-hust­lers in the first place.

 The cases which fol­low demon­strate some of the sexual ab­er­ra­tions girls 
sub­mit to in or­der to an­swer the de­sires of their cus­tom­ers. Some of them are also 
ca­ter­ing to their own con­fused sexu­al­ity. Oth­ers are sav­ing their vir­gin­ity for the boy 
they hope one day to marry. And still oth­ers are merely do­ing their job, an­swer­ing their 
own ma­ter­ial wishes in an ex­traordin­ary man­ner. The cases are presen­ted in their 
gross­ness without an at­tempt at psy­cho­lo­gical dia­gnosis or so­ci­ety’s com­pli­city in 
the plight of the Teen-pros­ti­tute.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 “Don’t worry, kid,” Ann’s pimp told her. “The cus­tomer will let you know what he 
wants.”

 “And you’re sure I won’t have to -” she asked nervously.

 “Hell, no! He growled.

 With this, fif­teen-year-old Ann, a tru­ant from school, stepped out of the car and 
pro­ceeded to the motel unit where her cus­tomer waited for her.

 He was a fat middle-aged man who wore a con­stant smile upon his face. His hands 
were fat too, and he rubbed them to­gether in a nervous ges­ture as soon as Ann entered the 
room.

 The pre­lim­in­ar­ies were quickly con­cluded. Then the cus­tomer asked, “Did he 
tell you any­thing about me, about how I like to do it?”

 “No. He said you’d ex­plain things to me,” she answered.

 The man flushed a bit, then said, “Well, it’s pretty hard to put into words. Sup­pose I 
just – sup­pose we just – well, get ac­quain­ted.”

 Ann nod­ded al­though she didn’t un­der­stand what the man meant. He poured 
them each a drink from a bottle that he took from his suit­case. Drink­ing was not new to 
Ann. She of­ten drank with the man who had be­come her “man­ager.”

 When they fin­ished their drink the man rubbed his hands to­gether then moved to 
em­brace Ann. His hands worked all over her body, touched at her breasts, her thighs and at 
her but­tocks. But Ann, already ob­ser­v­ant in the ways of males’ re­ac­tion to her body, did 
not see a sign of phal­lic re­sponse from the man. It puzzled her.

 Soon, she broke away from his em­brace, and, prac­ti­cing pro­fes­sion­ally that 
which she had of­ten done of her own ac­cord with oth­ers, she turned and un­zipped the 
side of her slick, tight dress. She dropped it from one shoulder, then turned and looked at her 
cus­tomer. He ogled her. But when she star­ted to lower the dress fur­ther he stepped 
to­ward her.

 “No,” he said. “Not like that. Do it slow. You know, tease me a little.”

 “Like a strip tease dan­cer?” she asked.

 “Yeah.”

 Ann moved more slowly. She slipped her dress off one shoulder then walked close 
to the man. She turned in front of him, then lowered the dress un­til it showed the 
be­gin­ning bulge of one breast. Then she pro­ceeded in the same man­ner with the other 
shoulder strap un­til the dress was off her shoulders. She held it bunched at her breasts and 
posed be­fore the man. Ann circled again then dropped the dress to the floor.

 The cus­tomer gasped when she stretched a bit, al­low­ing him a full view of her 
body in a half slip, strap­less bra, pantie hose, and high-heeled shoes.

 Teas­ingly slow, she re­moved her bra, per­mit­ting sight of first one 
nipple-poin­ted breast, then the other. The cus­tomer made a sound of in­tense pas­sion. Ann
looked closely at him and again saw that he had not re­spon­ded phys­ic­ally to her nearly 
na­ked body. She dropped the bra to the floor. Then she re­moved her half slip. And then, 
mov­ing like a model, she paraded in noth­ing but pantie hose and the high-heeled shoes.

 After she had per­formed as she had been ex­pec­ted to, Ann re­moved the 
re­mainder of her clothes. She glanced at the man, a look of in­quiry in her eyes. He answered
her un­spoken ques­tion by hur­ry­ing out of his cloth­ing, then fa­cing her. As he raised, Ann
was sur­prised to ob­serve that hard­ness still had not come to him.

 She moved close to him.

 He smiled and said, “I’m ready.”

 “You are?”

 “Yes.” He turned from her and went into the bath­room. She heard him 
rum­ma­ging in an­other suit­case. When he re­turned he car­ried a long, black whip.

 She gasped, crossed her hands in front of her and took a step back­wards.

 The man smiled, more broadly, then said, “No, it’s not for you – it’s for me.” Then 
the man handed her the whip and stepped back sev­eral paces.

 Ann had heard of men who liked to be whipped. She pulled the whip far be­hind 
her, then snapped it for­ward. The end struck crisply against the man’s chest. His body jerked. 
His ex­pres­sion looked pleas­ur­able. She struck him again, this time across the stom­ach 
and again he jol­ted and looked very, very pleased.

 “Lower, doll – lower, please,” he whispered at her.

 Ann stung him hard across the thighs. As she drew the whip be­hind her again she 
saw that this last cruel blow had done what the sight of her body had failed to do. The man 
erec­ted, sprang to at­ten­tion, throb­bing.

 It ex­cited her. She struck him again, then again and again, each stroke harder than 
the one be­fore it. He bled pro­fusely. He was raw and open and gasp­ing erot­ic­ally, but he 
stood straight and anxious be­fore the sting­ing whip. And then he moved closer to her. She 
con­tin­ued to strike him even as he ap­proached, bring­ing her aim down­ward un­til she 
could strike again and again at the ri­gid ex­ten­sion of his penis.

 At last the man stopped be­fore her. Ann paused. Then he bent be­fore her. She 
brought the whip down hard across his back. It sliced him open from shoulder to waist. He 
uttered a small cry of sexual de­light, then reached and lif­ted her bare foot. He hes­it­ated.

 “Let me lick you,” he said, look­ing up at her. “Let me lick you while you strike me – 
there – on the back.”

 He bent and kissed the arch of her foot. She brought the whip upon his back, 
quickly raised it and struck again. And all the time the man bent low over her foot, kiss­ing it, 
rub­bing his tongue over the arch of it, bend­ing his own head low in or­der to kiss the sole, 
then rais­ing to sweep his tongue over all of it as high as the ankle.

 And at last it was over. She lashed out a series of whip blows that made him bloody 
over all of his back as his kisses be­came more des­per­ate and pas­sion­ate.

 When he cried out as his body jerked con­vuls­ively, Ann knew that she had 
sat­is­fied him, had given him that which she had been paid to do.

 And when he raised up and stood straight be­fore her again as she dropped the 
whip to the floor, she could see the marks that her ac­tions had caused.

 A bit sheep­ishly, he turned from her and headed for the bath­room.

 Within fif­teen minutes, she had left the motel room. A year later, ex­plain­ing her 
in­tro­duc­tion to off-beat sex, Ann said that it was the “easi­est money I ever made. And, I’m 
still mak­ing it and I’m still a vir­gin.”

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Carol P. Had been de­veloped as a spe­cial­ist by the pros­ti­tu­tion ring for whom 
she worked. Only four­teen, with long hair al­most to her waist, and with small, little-girl 
mounds of breasts stretch­ing taut and brazenly for­ward, she was a fa­vor­ite of many 
cus­tom­ers – a fa­vor­ite for cun­ni­lin­gus, her only sexual activ­ity.

 Ac­cord­ing to later state­ments made by this four­teen-year-old beauty, 
cun­ni­lin­gus served two pur­poses; sat­is­fac­tion of her cus­tom­ers and im­mense sexual 
thrill for her­self. It wasn’t al­ways that way for Carol. She was mid­way through her second 
score of cus­tom­ers after three months of op­er­a­tion be­fore ex­per­i­en­cing an or­gasm. 
It was a vi­tal mo­ment for Carol. It es­tab­lished the course of her en­tire life.

 Fear­ful of preg­nan­cies, Carol was eas­ily con­vinced by her im­me­di­ate 
su­per­visor that cun­ni­lin­gus offered many ad­vant­ages. She didn’t know ex­actly how 
many un­til the night she met the tall, dark man whose body was covered with hair. He 
treated her like a lover, not a whore.

 Carol star­ted with him as she did with all her cus­tom­ers. She smiled, pre­ten­ded 
a pas­sion­ate ap­praisal of the man, then quickly un­dressed. When she was nude and 
work­ing her fin­gers on his cloth­ing, help­ing him to un­dress, the man laughed.

 “You’re a cute little doll,” he said. “Tell me, do you ever get any­thing out of all this?”

 “What do you mean?” she asked.

 “You know – kicks! Do you get a kick out of let­ting guys screw you?” Carol had 
learned that this sort of talk of­ten ex­cited her cus­tom­ers. “Sure,” she answered.

 “You’re a liar,” the man told her. Then he grinned know­ledge­ably and ad­ded, “But
maybe I’m the one who can change all that for you.”

 It was her pro­ced­ure to pre­pare her cus­tom­ers by un­dress­ing them. 
Al­though her func­tion was to present her­self as a sub­ject for cun­ni­lin­gus alone, she 
learned early that nud­ity in the male en­abled them to ar­rive more quickly at their cli­max, 
free­ing her for a greater num­ber of cus­tom­ers per night. Some of the cus­tom­ers 
ex­pec­ted her mas­turb­at­ory at­ten­tions while they en­joyed their or­al­ity upon her body.
Nud­ity was de­sired un­der such cir­cum­stances.

 When the hairy-bod­ied man was un­dressed, Carol looked at his body. She made 
her eyes go round as she pre­ten­ded ex­cite­ment for all that was re­vealed to her. The man 
laughed again, then led her to the large bed.

 Carol re­coiled from his kiss after they had stretched to­gether on the bed. But the 
man in­sisted and she re­len­ted. He ex­plored her mouth with his tongue, plunged it 
al­tern­ately hard and gentle within her lips much as if this pre­lim­in­ary activ­ity was meant 
to pre­view the cun­ni­lin­gual act he would soon bring to her lower body. Carol soon found 
that she did not mind the kisses a bit. They even ex­cited her a little, com­pel­ling her to reach
out and grasp the hard thrust of her cus­tomer’s penis. She con­tin­ued to hold him as he left 
her mouth and his tongue began a gradual des­cent of her body, kiss­ing as he moved from 
neck to breasts. But when she began a light ma­nip­u­la­tion of his phal­lus, he re­buked her, 
moved her hand away from him al­to­gether.

 Soon, he was busy at her belly, kiss­ing there with the same in­tens­ity he had 
dis­played for her young lips. And then at last his mouth was between her thighs.

 Her move­ments were well prac­ticed. She faked a gasp of pleas­ure and shif­ted 
her body a bit on its side. She par­ted her legs, mak­ing a par­en­thesis of them within which 
the man could move if he so de­sired. He did. Carol clasped him to her, and when the man 
shif­ted in a way that stretched his legs to her head she again reached out to grasp him. 
Again, he brushed her hand aside.

 First, the cus­tomer kissed the thighs which im­prisoned him. It was a new 
ex­per­i­ence for Carol and quite pleas­ur­able. She liked the feel­ing of sexual power it gave 
her to have the man’s tongue lick­ing at her flesh. And it ap­par­ently stim­u­lated her to a 
con­sid­er­able de­gree for when he left that area to pierce sharp-tongued at her va­gina, she
gasped again. This time it was real for she felt sud­denly hot and taut, like a spring be­ing 
pushed down and made ready for re­lease. This, too, was a new ex­per­i­ence for Carol. And 
when she heard the man moan in his mount­ing pas­sion, it ex­cited her, made her feel that 
she was some­thing to be loved rather than bought.

 Sud­denly, the man paused. The lull made her feel that some­thing im­port­ant was 
about to hap­pen. The man made a de­lib­er­ate spread of her young body, then lowered his 
mouth to her once again. Gently, very, very ten­derly, the man nicked the tip of his tongue 
against her clit­oris. Carol cried out and arched higher against him.

 The man was deft. He was teas­ing. He was very thor­ough and ob­vi­ously anxious 
to please her for he al­tern­ated his speeds, went ra­cing fast, then paused un­til Carol thrust 
her body, then slowly caressed her again, start­ing slowly and mov­ing faster and faster.

 And Carol could no longer think of the act in purely pro­fes­sional terms. No longer 
did she think of her night’s sched­ule and the other cus­tom­ers who waited. She thrust and 
arched and moaned and cried and whimpered.

 Near the end the man made one ad­just­ment of their po­s­i­tion. He crammed one
of her legs between his own thighs and pinched hard.

 Carol screamed when he brought the fi­nal dash of his tongue to her clit­oris. 
Un­mind­ful of the danger in a scream, not even caring if it brought po­lice down upon her, 
she screamed and cried the verb­al­iz­a­tion of her sen­sa­tion’s burst­ing.

 When they dis­en­gaged their bod­ies, she no­ticed that she had been too in­tent 
upon her own erupt­ing emo­tions to real­ize that it had also marked a cli­max for her 
cus­tomer. He was de­pleted, and the smear of his ejac­u­la­tion was upon her leg where he 
had held it between his thighs.

 Carol be­came ad­dicted to clit­oral sat­is­fac­tion through cun­ni­lin­gus. Months 
later as an ex­per­i­ment with her­self, she tried both sexual in­ter­course and 
mas­turb­a­tion, but neither act provided her with a cli­max. She con­tin­ued to serve as a 
sub­ject to those men who re­quired an oral giv­ing for their own sat­is­fac­tion.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Doris Y. Al­ways wore sun glasses. It made her look mys­ter­i­ous. It also served to 
con­ceal her eyes which were usu­ally puffy and blackened.

 Doris learned about sad­ism and mas­ochism when she was el­even. Her father beat
her upon the slight­est ex­cuse. When she was twelve, she began to look for­ward to the 
beat­ings and would con­trive to com­mit some act which would en­rage her father. It wasn’t 
dif­fi­cult. He be­came en­raged over al­most any­thing.

 When she was four­teen, she met the man who was to be­come her pimp. He beat 
her, too. And with him, while suf­fer­ing the fi­nal vol­ley of his blows about her waist and 
loins, she ex­per­i­enced an in­tense or­gasm. From that point on­ward, Doris served as a 
Teen-hust­ler for those men who at­tained their sexual sat­is­fac­tions through the beat­ing 
of young girls.

 Her cus­tom­ers were se­lect. They were lim­ited, too. Rarely did the 
four­teen-year-old beauty ser­vice more than one or two men a week.

 Al­most al­ways, her pat­tern as the same. Her pimp would make the 
ar­range­ments. Doris would meet her cli­ent. They would chat, some­times even have a drink
to­gether. Then she would un­dress, giv­ing spe­cial at­ten­tion to the way her body was 
re­vealed to the man, mak­ing sure that he fully ap­pre­ci­ated her sexy body. The bruises on 
her body did not de­tract from her beauty. Some­times they served to ex­cite the cus­tomer 
more than or­din­ary.

 When she was nude and had paraded in front of the man who was to beat her, she 
al­lowed him to touch all of her body. Usu­ally he en­joyed this gentle pre­lude to vi­ol­ence 
and took a lot of time fond­ling her breasts, pick­ing at her in­den­ted nipples, rub­bing the 
flat of his hands over the smooth sur­face of her belly and thighs, and ex­plor­ing all of the 
beauty he would soon bruise in pas­sion.

 When the pre­lim­in­ar­ies were over, Doris usu­ally took a po­s­i­tion against a 
wall and faced her vi­ol­ator. Some­times he struck her lightly at first, play­ing at hit­ting her 
breasts and mak­ing them crush in­ward or swing from side to side. But when his vi­ol­ence 
in­creased, she was not safe from his fury. Any­thing could hap­pen. And or­gasm al­ways 
happened.

 De­scrib­ing one of her ex­per­i­ences as a sub­ject for sad­ists, Doris re­lated the 
fol­low­ing.

 She met her cus­tomer at a cabin. He was a small man and meek-look­ing. He was 
one of the city’s most dis­tin­guished cit­izens, one who had sub­lim­ated his 
fe­male-dom­in­ated life in civic en­deavors.

 “He hardly seemed the type to hurt me,” Doris re­called.

 But he did.

 Doris smiled and moved her na­ked body away from where the little man was 
sit­ting in a big chair while he sipped at a high­ball. She moved to the far wall of the cabin and
stretched on her toes, mak­ing her stom­ach in­dent as her breasts loomed out at him.

 The man smiled and fin­ished his drink. Then he walked to where she stood. His 
eyes traveled over her body, look­ing brazenly at her hips and legs and breasts. Then, 
keep­ing his eyes glued to her body, he un­dressed.

 Then the man curled his fin­gers into tight fists and walked closer. He smiled a soft 
smile, then drew his fist back and struck Doris hard across her breast. She gasped and bent 
over a bit, but then she straightened when the little man moved in closer and zoomed an 
up­per­cut to her chin. For a mo­ment she thought she might faint, but then the man struck 
her breast again and the feel­ing changed, went from queas­i­ness to in­terest and then to 
ex­cite­ment.

 For a long time the man struck only at her breasts, a pound­ing series of hard blows.
And as he crushed and bruised her flesh and den­ted her nipples in­ward Doris ceased 
feel­ing the in­jury that was be­ing done her. In its place she felt the first rumble of mount­ing
thrill.

 When he was pant­ing hard and seemed near ex­haus­tion, the little man stood 
back and looked at the work he had done. And she looked at him and saw that he had 
changed, that his penis was now ex­ten­ded to her in the hard­est, most mas­cu­line way. The
sight of this had an aph­ro­dis­iac ef­fect on Doris. Her loins heated and her nipples, 
al­though battered and bruised, flamed hot and stretched tautly out­ward.

 The man’s breath­ing evened and he stepped close again. Now his blows sought a 
lower area. His fists rained havoc at her flat stom­ach and at her hips, and then, after an­other 
slight pause, at her thighs and upon the tri­angle between them.

 Doris moaned a low, pas­sion­ate call, one that soun­ded as if it had been a long 
time com­ing. At the same time her body jol­ted in re­ac­tion to vi­ol­ence. She felt swollen 
and bub­bly, rising like a bal­loon and ready for burst­ing. She loved the feel­ing and arched 
deeply, mak­ing a bet­ter tar­get of her­self for the man’s anxious fists.

 He moved close to her body. She could feel the thrust of his vir­il­ity as it swung 
against her thighs. Then he breathed deeply, bent his head, opened his mouth and lashed his 
teeth to one breast, bit hard, and at the same time crashed a series of low blows to her thighs 
which par­ted in wel­come for the pain he could bring.

 “Ohh,” she screamed. “Harder! HARDER!” He did hit her harder. And he clamped his 
teeth more sharply upon her breast, too, so sharply that blood dribbled, mixed with his saliva, 
then ran a ragged course down her front.

 The little man hit Doris hard a fi­nal time between her partly opened thighs and it 
marked the cli­max to­ward which she had been gradu­ally build­ing. She cried out, clenched 
her thighs tightly to­gether, opened them, clenched them shut again, then weaved them in 
and out spas­mod­ic­ally as if she were fan­ning the feel­ing to a higher level. She screamed 
and mumbled in­co­her­ent cries of the most fant­astic kind of sen­sa­tion. When the man 
stepped back, she grasped both her breasts and squeezed them hard, pinch­ing the nipples 
out as if they were meant to pop from their moulds.

 And then she crumbled to her hands and knees upon the floor, cry­ing, breath­ing 
deeply, her body trem­bling as it sought quiet from the in­tens­ity of her feel­ings.

 Fi­nally, her body calmed and she raised her head. The cus­tomer was stand­ing to 
one side. He, too, had calmed his body. His head was bent in a shame­ful pose as he looked at
the wet­ness upon him­self that was the sym­bol of his sexu­al­ity, that sexual re­lease which 
had come from vi­ol­ence, not love.

 This in­cid­ent was only one of many for Doris that es­tab­lished her mas­ochistic 
sexual re­sponses which en­deared her to the long line of men she ser­viced – those men who
sought re­lease for their sad­istic im­pulses.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 When Jan A. Was ar­res­ted, sen­tenced, and fi­nally was per­suaded by a 
psy­cho­lo­gist to re­late the cir­cum­stances of her life which had led to her im­pris­on­ment
for pros­ti­tu­tion, it seemed im­possible that a fif­teen-year-old girl could, in this short time 
have ex­per­i­enced such sexual vari­ety. But her story was es­tab­lished as true.

 Jan took great pride in the fact that she was a vir­gin. She was a dreamer, too. 
Al­though she had already ex­per­i­enced sexual in­ter­ludes with hun­dreds of men, Jan still 
dreamed the fairytale dream that a Prince would one day claim her as his own. Her fantas­ies, 
the psy­cho­lo­gist claimed, dir­ec­ted her to­ward sexual de­vi­ations that al­lowed her to 
re­main a vir­gin: per­mit­ted her to re­tain the one true gift she could still give to one who 
might someday love her and seek her as a mate.

 Jan was just thir­teen when she con­fron­ted her first cus­tomer at a Teen-hust­ler. 
Al­though op­er­at­ing as a young pros­ti­tute, Jan never missed school, did well in her 
stud­ies and was the fa­vor­ite of sev­eral of her teach­ers. No one had any reason to sus­pect
her of a secret life of com­mer­cial sex.

 Her first job re­quired very little of her. The man ex­plained in a gentle voice that he 
wanted Jan merely to un­dress as he watched her, that she need fear noth­ing, not even an 
in­no­cent touch from him.

 Jan did as she was told. She even elab­or­ated a bit in her dis­rob­ing and of her 
own ac­cord put some tease into the act.

 Slowly, she moved around the room. Fa­cing the man, she un­did the but­tons of 
her blouse and par­ted it. The man’s eyes glistened as he looked at the bra which was 
ex­posed to him. Her breasts, still un­developed, only slightly filled the bra, yet they were 
roun­ded and smooth and very fresh look­ing with all the prom­ise of firm, bloat­ing, 
full-nip­p1ed ma­tur­ity.

 Jan dis­carded her blouse. She paraded again, then loosened and stepped out of 
her skirt. This time when she paused in front of the man she saw that there was a hard and 
pres­sur­ing knot push­ing his trousers out­ward. She has re­por­ted that she felt amused 
rather than ex­cited, and a bit proud that her young body had cre­ated this in him.

 De­lib­er­ately mov­ing slower when the man began to breath more heav­ily, Jan 
kicked off her shoes. Then she paraded again in her half slip and bra. And then she paused 
and un­fastened the bra. She shook her shoulders free of it, un­hooked the clasp in the back, 
then held it bunched in front of her a few seconds be­fore lower­ing it and throw­ing it to the 
floor.

 The man emit­ted a sound of pleas­ure for her young breasts, for their in­no­cent 
round­ness and the pinken­ing nipples which still hid within their moulds like frightened 
chil­dren. And when Jan re­vealed the flow of her hips and the long line of her limbs as they 
were ac­cen­tu­ated by the very brief panties she wore, the man gasped aloud and moved his 
right hand in front of him to grasp the thrust of his mas­culin­ity. His fin­gers rubbed up and 
down on his hardened penis.

 Jan walked in a circle. When she had com­pleted it and again turned to­ward her 
cus­tomer, she saw that he had lowered the zip­per of his trousers and had ex­posed him­self.
She was startled at the sud­den dis­play of manly flesh. But very soon it was par­tially 
con­cealed from her as he grasped hard and began a slow but heavy ma­nip­u­la­tion.

 At this point, Jan knew that without the slight­est con­tact of her body to the man’s 
she could still mo­tiv­ate him to­ward a cli­max -that fas­cin­at­ing end that marked the 
ul­ti­mate of all that men sought. She smiled as he panted. Then she stooped over and 
lowered the panties from her hips to her thighs to her knees to her calves and fi­nally to her 
ankles where she stepped out of them.

 As Jan straightened to present all of her nud­ity to her cus­tomer, he gasped again, 
made a long and eerie wheeze of pas­sion as he jerked harder upon his penis. And Jan knew 
that she need move no more, that her mere na­ked pres­ence was enough to send the man 
fly­ing to that frantic and in­tense land of self-love grat­i­fic­a­tion.

 The man arched. He thrust. He jerked and wrestled and fought him­self in a circle, 
back and forth, in a circle again, then for­ward and back in a con­stant mo­tion of ex­ten­sion 
and with­draw that seemed, Jan thought, meant to break him, tear him in half and leave him 
split and open.

 It ex­cited her to see the man so in­tent upon the ac­tion on his body while he used
her own body as an aph­ro­dis­iac. She moved closer. Then still closer. And at last she was 
within inches of his steam­ing ac­tion upon him­self and she knew that this ad­ded close­ness
was the last thing that was needed to fin­ish him, bring him over the hill of his climb to thrill 
so that he could know or­gasm and re­lief.

 He fin­ished while cry­ing out sounds of in­sane pleas­ure. Jan watched as he jerked
him­self to de­ple­tion. And even as he at­tained a fi­nal con­tact of his body to hers by 
means of his wild fly­ing seed, she watched, fas­cin­ated, a little be­wildered, but very, very 
grat­i­fied that she had caused this im­mense re­ac­tion.

 Her first cus­tomer was not pre­ced­ent for those who fol­lowed. Dur­ing her span 
of pro­fes­sional teen-pros­ti­tu­tion, Jan met less than a dozen other men who found their 
sat­is­fac­tion only in self-ma­nip­u­la­tion. But in ad­di­tion to them, she knew nearly every 
type of de­vi­ation. She sub­mit­ted en­thu­si­ast­ic­ally to fel­la­tio, cun­ni­lin­gus, 
voyeur­ism, and the fet­ish­isms of the whip, leather, high-spiked heels grind­ing into a nude 
man’s groin, breast-ad­dic­tion, mu­tual mas­turb­a­tion, and other sexual vari­ations that 
be­smirched her in­no­cence at the same time that they al­lowed her to re­tain her vir­gin­ity.

 She in­deed be­longed to the sor­did sor­or­ity of sex-scarred vir­gins.





CHAPTER THIR­TEEN


SHE KNEW WHAT SHE WANTED

 The so­cial cli­mate of our times, the ideal­iz­a­tion and the pam­per­ing of youth, 
and the sexual meet­ing ground between the young and the older, has brought about a 
pro­lif­er­a­tion of those con­di­tions which lead – al­most in­ex­or­ably – to pros­ti­tu­tion 
among teen-aged girls so in­clined. Of­ten, without know­ing it, fam­ily and friends will 
en­cour­age this, un­aware of the harm they may be do­ing. Noreen H. Is an ex­ample of such
a situ­ation.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Even when Noreen H. Was just an in­fant, all of her fam­ily agreed that she was the 
cutest little “tease.” She would turn her head, smile win­ningly, then open her arms to be 
lif­ted into the em­brace of an uncle, aunt, or fam­ily friend. Nearly every­one was charmed by
her, for she had the bright, blonde look of an an­gel, and her blue eyes were already deep and
thought­ful.

 Noreen was only ten when the little boys began to no­tice her. They es­pe­cially 
no­ticed her bare little legs, which she proudly dis­played be­neath a short skirt. And many of 
the more know­ing boys found oc­ca­sions to bump against her bud­ding breasts and her 
roun­ded but­tocks.

 Even though the wo­manly mould of her was only be­gin­ning to form, boys sizzled 
with ex­cite­ment around her. Noreen liked that. It made her feel ter­ribly im­port­ant and 
strangely ex­cited whenever it happened.

 But Noreen was not to know any true re­sponse from her own body un­til two years
later, when, at the age of twelve, she dis­covered the pleas­ures of mas­turb­a­tion.

 It happened at a beach where she was a mem­ber of a school out­ing.

 Her mother had pur­chased Noreen a new swim­suit for the oc­ca­sion. It was more
re­veal­ing than any she had ever had be­fore. A mod­i­fied bikini style of suit, its bra was 
quite thin and dipped low to ex­pose the up­per circles of her young breasts which had for 
the past year de­veloped rap­idly. Noreen liked the feel­ing of her breasts jig­gling be­neath 
the bra as she moved. The ac­tion was il­lu­min­at­ing to her, too. As her breasts bounced 
be­neath the thin ma­ter­ial she could feel her nipples rise a bit and bloat, even turn hard and 
poin­ted. This ex­cited her.

 Fol­low­ing a com­munity swim of the group, Noreen drif­ted down the beach to 
be alone, to think and to con­tem­plate this new aware­ness of her body. She found a 
se­cluded place on the beach, back from the wa­ter and hid­den by sand dunes and beach 
brush. She settled with her back to a sand wall and stretched her legs out be­fore her.

 As if her body knew an an­ti­cip­a­tion that her mind had not yet formed, Noreen 
breathed hard. She con­cen­trated on the rise and fall of her breasts, try­ing to de­term­ine if 
her nipples truly did grow with each in­hal­a­tion of breath. For a while she watched, her 
breasts seem to grow and de­flate. But soon she be­came im­pa­tient with this. She looked 
around, felt a con­fid­ence in her se­clu­sion, then lowered her bra, jam­ming it be­neath her 
breasts. Now she could see all the young flesh of her­self quiver and re­spond. And, 
thrill­ingly, it was true – her nipples did pop out sharply from their white flesh.

 Noreen con­tem­plated her na­ked breasts for a long time. While she viewed 
her­self, she cre­ated fantas­ies of men, movie stars, school­boy friends, and es­pe­cially the 
im­ages of some por­no­graphic pic­tures she had once secretly viewed. This fantasy was the 
very best. It made her feel warm all over.

 She re­membered how the men and wo­men had looked in the ob­scene pho­tos, 
how their eyes were half-closed in rap­ture as their bod­ies joined in some pre­pos­ter­ously 
com­plic­ated po­s­i­tion. And Noreen re­membered some sin­gu­lar at­tempts of the 
sub­jects to please each other by means of cun­ni­lin­gus and fel­la­tio.

 Think­ing about it, cre­at­ing the men­tal im­ages of men and wo­men suck­ing 
and lick­ing at each other, as she was alone on the hot beach, made her body grow tor­rid. 
Then she re­membered an­other pic­ture she had seen and it made her body feel 
hy­per-sens­it­ive. The pic­ture was of a young wo­man ma­nip­u­lat­ing the ex­ten­ded 
penis of a man between her na­ked breasts.

 Noreen felt a tingle of her own breasts. It was as if she were ex­per­i­en­cing the 
com­bined sen­sa­tions of the man and wo­man of her fantasy. She raised her hand and 
squeezed her right breast. Then she paused. Then she squeezed it again in a rapid series of 
ma­nip­u­la­tion, pinch­ing so hard that at times it was only pain that she brought to her­self.
And then the pain changed to flam­ing sen­su­al­ity. Breath­ing hard, she ceased her breast 
pinch­ing. Then, after a few minutes, she took one nipple by thumb and fore­finger and began
a ma­nip­u­la­tion of this tiny in­stru­ment of her blos­som­ing wo­man­hood. She stretched 
it, let it snap back, then stretched it again and still again.

 She jerked her hand away from her breast as if she had been burned. Her breath 
choked in her throat and she felt a flood of panic all through her body. But it was the panic of 
ex­cite­ment, not of pain or fear. Noreen ex­per­i­enced a great growth of pas­sion and she 
sensed that it should lead to some out­let, that it should in some man­ner be re­lieved. And 
then she no­ticed the throb between her thighs and her hand reached to­ward her open­ing 
there.

 Slowly, care­fully, like a child steal­ing a goodie, Noreen slipped her hand in­side 
her swim­suit bot­tom. First, she merely let her hand rest there, feel­ing the rise and fall of it 
as it was mo­tiv­ated by her ex­er­ted breath­ing and the pulsa­tion of her body.

 Then she ven­tured fur­ther and more in­tim­ately. She res­ted her anxious fin­gers 
once again when they nestled in the sparse hairs that sur­roun­ded her slit. And soon, after 
look­ing around once more, she moved a single fin­ger for­ward and touched at the split of 
youth where all her sen­sa­tion now centered. She pen­et­rated lightly, breathed harder, then 
jabbed fe­ver­ishly at her­self. She felt a great rise of pas­sion, a bloat­ing that al­most 
prom­ised ex­plo­sion. But it was not enough. She knew that it would lead only to greater 
ex­cite­ment that must still go un­sat­is­fied. She felt a mo­ment’s frus­tra­tion, but when her 
hand moved again and her fin­ger found a wel­com­ing spot high and round upon her body, 
Noreen knew that this day she would ex­per­i­ence her first act of sexual re­sponse and 
ful­fill­ment.

 Very del­ic­ately, her fin­ger circled. It moved faster, then like light­ning upon the 
small ball bear­ing of her­self that sent her emo­tions soar­ing to the sky, up­ward, higher 
and higher and higher un­til it seemed to Noreen that she would surely ex­plode. She 
steamed. Her breath choked in hot gasps from her par­ted lips. Her hips whirled and thumped
flatly upon the sand as she un­du­lated in a way meant to speed her re­ac­tion to en­hance 
the jam­ming of her nerve ends which con­verged in a single spot and moun­ted to­gether 
for the charge of sexual re­lease that would soon sear her.

 Fi­nally, Noreen arched her hips high and held. Her hand at­tained a new speed. Her
thighs trembled their ex­cite­ment. And then she strained like an In­dian bow as she 
soun­ded the fi­nal chord of her fi­nale.

 She erup­ted like a sud­den, gush­ing storm. She cried out. Her hand reached its 
peak, then slowed, turn­ing care­ful and lov­ing as it gave the sweet caress of sexual 
tor­ment’s af­ter­math. And at last her ri­gid bowed po­s­i­tion re­laxed and her but­tocks 
res­ted upon the sand.

 When Noreen with­drew her hand from her swim­suit, she ex­pec­ted some sign 
that would tell of all that had happened to her. There was noth­ing. Only her hand, moist, 
shak­ing a bit, and the dy­ing quiver of her young wo­man­hood.

 A year of self-guilt fol­lowed her first ex­per­i­ence with mas­turb­a­tion. She 
ac­cused her­self of all sorts of ob­scen­ity – she knew that “nice” girls never did such things. 
Her guilt was great, but it did not stop her from in­dul­gence.

 Years later, re­lat­ing her feel­ings dur­ing this period for a psy­chi­at­rist, Noreen 
said, “I felt dirty – soiled. But I couldn’t help it. I con­tin­ued to mas­turb­ate. I couldn’t keep 
from do­ing it no mat­ter how hard I tried. I did try, too. Aw­fully hard. But noth­ing worked.”

 By the middle of her thir­teenth year, Noreen did, how­ever, dis­cover a means to 
re­lieve her guilt. She began tor­rid sex play with boys. She soon learned that a boy’s 
ma­nip­u­la­tions be­neath her skirt were every bit as ef­fect­ive as her own, per­haps more 
so. And, they served to re­lieve her worry of feel­ing “un­nat­ural.”

 Al­ways some­what of a flirt, Noreen had little dif­fi­culty se­cur­ing the at­ten­tion 
of the boys of the school. Ex­traordin­ar­ily pretty, and with a se­duct­ive man­ner, she 
be­came much sought after for dates. The dates were al­ways in­formal, usu­ally a walk in the 
park or go­ing to a drive-in movie. Noreen sel­dom ac­tu­ally saw the end of a movie. By the 
middle of a film she was much too in­volved in the back seat of the car. She learned to kiss 
fer­vently, twirl­ing her tongue in her date’s mouth in a way that prom­ised more. And there 
al­ways was more: The touch of the boy’s hand at her thighs and upon her na­ked breasts, her
own hand find­ing its way to within the jaws of the par­ted zip­per of the boy’s jeans. Al­ways,
Noreen re­fused ac­tual sexual in­ter­course with those dates who were ma­ture enough – 
and ag­gress­ive enough – to seek it. But she offered to jack-off the boy, while his fin­gers 
played sexu­ally with her.

 Her guilt dis­ap­peared. Some­how it seemed “right” that she should re­ceive thrills 
from the hands of a boy rather than from her own.

 Noreen’s fif­teenth year did bring some­thing new to her sexual life, how­ever. In 
the back seat of a car dur­ing the show of an “adults only” film that she and her date had 
man­aged to at­tend, Noreen was in­tro­duced to fel­la­tio. At first she res­isted force­fully, 
but gradu­ally the boy’s coax­ing and her own curi­os­ity pre­vailed and she bent her head 
down to the boy’s lap as if she had been born for just such an act. To­wards End­store, when 
Noreen de­tained him.

 “Don’t rush away from me,” she cried.

 The man hal­ted. He turned. He looked amazed, as if he were con­fron­ted with a 
puzzle he could not solve.

 His in­de­cision was the op­por­tun­ity Noreen needed. She plunged for­ward, 
cuddled her body to his and wrapped her arms around his neck. The man’s hands shot to her 
wrists and he pulled upon them, try­ing to wrench them from their hold. But it was no good. 
She was strong. Even stronger were her words which broke down the last bar­rier between 
them.

 “Please make love to me,” she pleaded. “I’ve waited and waited and waited for 
some­body like you. Please. I’ll never tell. Not any­one – not a soul – just love me, please. 
Make me feel good like I want to feel. I’ve never had a man. I want you to be the first. Please... 
fuck me,” she ended in a pas­sion­ate whis­per.

 He choked back a cry and grabbed her to him. His arms were like steel bands 
around her back. Like steel, too, was the thrust of his cock against her young thighs. And 
Noreen wel­comed that thrust, that stretch of man­hood which told her how much she 
ex­cited him sexu­ally. While their mouths were glued to­gether in a ter­ri­fy­ing kiss that 
clashed their tongues and made their teeth click to­gether, Noreen gently par­ted her thighs. 
Then she shut them with a snap when the man’s knee jammed between them and pres­sured 
up­ward. She held his grind­ing knee close against her, feel­ing the round­ness of it twist her 
light skirt into a knot at that ex­cru­ci­at­ingly pleas­ur­able spot where her thighs joined, that
place that was meant for love – man-wo­man love – that had to date known only the 
spin­ning fin­gers of her­self and scores of boys.

 With a cry of des­per­a­tion, she tore her mouth from his and bur­ied her face into 
his neck.

 “Oh, God, take me some place – any place where you can fuck me – where we can 
get na­ked – any place, but hurry.”

 The man­ager did hurry. He did so in a man­ner that thrilled her. He bent, lif­ted her
in his arms, then hur­ried to­ward the back of the store where an em­ploy­ees’ lounge room 
was avail­able, com­plete with big chairs and a long, leather couch.

 He did not lower her to the couch. In­stead, he placed her feet on the floor, then 
hur­riedly star­ted un­dress­ing. For a mo­ment, she watched as he tore his tie from his 
col­lar, then made but­tons pop as he ripped his shirt from his body. And then she joined his 
mo­tions. She flipped her sweater over her head and tossed it to the floor. She un­hooked her
bra, let it fall, un­zippered the side of her skirt, wiggled out of it, pushed down her half slip, 
skirt, skimpy panties, kicked them free then bent and pulled sox and loafers from her feet.

 They were na­ked at pre­cisely the same time. They faced each other. Noreen felt 
her breasts rising and fall­ing, puff­ing lar­ger than they had ever been be­fore. And she saw 
the ripples of ten­sion through­out the man’s body, at his chest, thighs, his arms and 
shoulders, and fi­nally at his stiffened prick. She stared. She was as­ton­ished. And thrilled. 
And anxious. And a bit be­wildered as she thought of the scores of boys whom she had 
touched, ma­nip­u­lated, twis­ted and turned to their fin­ish without once really see­ing what 
a sex-ready cock looked like! The real­ity of it, fa­cing her, await­ing her, was more than she 
had con­ceived in all of her fruit­ful fantas­ies. She flopped on her back upon the cool, leather
couch.

 The man did not dive to his prize. In­stead, he knelt and lingered at her side, 
kiss­ing her mouth again, shoot­ing his tongue in a rap­ture spin upon hers, touch­ing at her 
breasts, her small, round, and very flat stom­ach, at the in­ner sides of her thighs, even at her 
knees and ankles for a mo­ment be­fore trail­ing his fin­gers up­ward to her breasts again. 
And then, fin­ished with the touch of all her body, he bent and ap­plied lips and tongue to the
same areas, sweep­ing her lav­ishly, touch­ing at every pore of her young body, ra­cing the 
nibble kisses of de­sire from her throat to her thighs, then paus­ing, then kiss­ing again, 
strik­ing the young flesh of her youth with a new, deeper fury, one that took him to the very 
depths of her churn­ing de­sire.

 “Oh,” she cried out strainedly. “Oh, you’re do­ing it to me – you are, you are, you 
are!”

 “Not yet,” he breathed raspily, “but I will – no w!” He got on top of her, spread­ing 
her will­ing thighs with his knees. She moaned in wel­come as he po­si­tioned his cock at her 
cunt and then pressed it slowly into her. Once in­side her, he with­drew it part way, and then 
thrust again and again into her.

 Noreen arched her body and ac­com­mod­ated his rhythm with a match­ing one of 
her own. Each stroke he made brought her closer and closer to a sen­sa­tion she had never 
known be­fore, a com­pletely sexual or­gasm with a man. And then she felt her body an­swer 
his re­lent­less fuck­ing. She trembled with a tre­mend­ous or­gasm, and then, mo­ments 
later, with an­other, and an­other.

 Feel­ing this, the man thrust harder and faster, and soon Noreen felt his own hot 
juice cas­cad­ing into her, filling her for the first time with a man’s out­pour­ing.

 They res­ted briefly, and then he was at her again, eat­ing her damp cunt this time, 
dart­ing his tongue far into her, then po­s­i­tion­ing him­self around so that he could thrust 
his cock, hard again now, into her gasp­ing mouth. She sucked it with in­stinct­ive ex­pert­ise,
and soon re­ceived and swal­lowed his cream, while her own body twitched in suc­cess­ive 
or­gasms.

 They re­laxed a while, ex­hausted by the vi­ol­ence of their mu­tual pas­sions, and 
then Noreen whispered, “Could you come again?”

 “Sure!” he bragged. “I want to fuck you again the reg­u­lar way. Just give me a 
couple of minutes. Play around with it to get it hard again. It won’t take long.”

 She played with his cock un­til it quickly did be­come hard again, and he moun­ted 
her and fucked her to an­other cli­max.

 He could hardly be­lieve that she had never had any full sexual ex­per­i­ence 
be­fore. “You’re so good at it,” he said, puzzled. “You fuck like a pro!”

 “Well, I’ve played around,” Noreen said. “It’s not as though I don’t know the score, 
or any­thing like that. I’ve just never let any guy go all the way with me, that’s all.”

 “Then why me?” he asked. “Why did you let me?”

 “Let you?” Noreen laughed. “I prac­tic­ally forced you! I wanted you!”

 “Oh, Christ,” he said, laugh­ing too. “And I was afraid to make a move. I figured you 
were so young. You’re just a kid!”

 “Not any more,” Noreen said, reach­ing out for his cock again...

 Hav­ing achieved her sexual con­quest of the store man­ager, Noreen gradu­ally 
lost in­terest in him. She would let him have sex with her only if he gave her a gift or a small 
sum of money with which to buy some­thing for her­self. When she saw how easy it was to 
get money and gifts from him, through the use of her body, she began to use the same device
with boys, and other older men.

 She gave up her job, and gradu­ally drif­ted into reg­u­lar pros­ti­tu­tion. Be­fore 
her sev­en­teenth birth­day, Noreen was a full-time whore. The baby “tease”, whose sexual 
pre­co­city had amused and de­lighted her un­know­ing fam­ily, had come full circle to 
teen-aged pros­ti­tu­tion.





CHAPTER FOUR­TEEN


SCHOOL PLAY – FOR PAY

 When a well-known ju­nior col­lege in Cali­for­nia re­cently re­ceived wide­spread 
pub­li­city for the ex­tor­tion, knif­ings, dope ad­dic­tion, and other crimes that were tak­ing 
place on the school prop­erty, po­lice also dis­covered a ring of teen-pros­ti­tu­tion that was 
stu­dent-op­er­ated, stu­dent-pat­ron­ized, and al­most com­pletely school-ori­ented. 
Hardened po­lice of­fi­cials were over­whelmed. It seemed im­possible that sex 
so­li­cit­a­tions could have been made dur­ing classes without it com­ing to the at­ten­tion of
school ad­min­is­trat­ors. But it had happened. The sex ring had flour­ished. There was an 
abund­ant sup­ply of both avail­able girls and boy cus­tom­ers.

 The case his­tor­ies which fol­low are about the girls and their cus­tom­ers in a 
school that is not very much dif­fer­ent from the ones at­ten­ded by our own sons and 
daugh­ters.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 New stu­dents to the school wondered about the pop­ular­ity of Vi R. She seemed 
not to be the type of girl the boys were anxious to date. A fair stu­dent, and of only plain 
looks, not even a leader of stu­dent activ­it­ies, it seemed pe­cu­liar that she should at­tract 
so many boys, even the cap­tain of the foot­ball team. But the boys thronged around her 
between classes, held hands with her as they walked her through the cor­ridors and ac­ted 
gen­er­ally as if Vi were a beauty queen with a high I.Q.

 New­comers to the school de­cided that it might be her fig­ure, for Vi was 
big-bus­ted, with a nar­row waist, jut­ting but­tocks, and long, smooth legs, all of which were 
usu­ally re­veal­ingly dis­played in too-tight cloth­ing. Yes, it had to be that, the new­comers 
de­cided, that and per­haps the fact that Vi had a repu­ta­tion for loose­ness.

 Vi was loose, all right. And she was so brazen about it that she suc­cess­fully 
con­cealed the real ex­tent of her op­er­a­tion as a free-lance cam­pus pros­ti­tute.

 She fol­lowed a pro­ced­ure. When a boy asked her for a date, she would smile, 
then say, “It’s go­ing to cost you.”

 Some boys knew ex­actly what she meant. Oth­ers thought it just meant that she 
had ex­pens­ive tastes. What she really meant was that she was a whore, that she only dated if
she was paid, and that the date would al­ways in­clude sexual in­ter­course, or, for a higher 
price, fel­la­tio.

 After in­vest­ig­a­tion by the po­lice, sev­eral of her former cus­tom­ers 
re­con­struc­ted her method of op­er­a­tion.

 A new boy named Hal, who was some­what of a sexual ad­ven­turer him­self, asked 
Vi for a date.

 “Sure,” she said. “But it’s go­ing to cost you.”

 “That’s okay,” he answered. “I’ll blow my whole al­low­ance on you. Where do you 
want to go?”

 “Any­place you say will be just fine,” she said, nar­row­ing her eyes, rais­ing one 
hand to touch lightly at his shoulder muscle. “We’ll have a ball!” Hal gulped, then kissed, 
“Prom­ises, prom­ises, prom­ises – al­ways prom­ises.”

 “Okay, ask some of your friends if you don’t be­lieve me,” she said in­dif­fer­ently.

 “I don’t have to,” he said. “I want a date.”

 “So do I. It’ll cost you five bucks.”

 “You mean pay you?”

 “Right, lover boy.”

 “Wow!”

 “In ad­vance.”

 “Oh, sure. When?”

 “Now, if you’ve got it. If not, when you pick me up will be all right.”

 “I’m flat now,” he said, em­bar­rassed. “But I’ll have the bread Fri­day night. Okay?”

 “Yeah, okay,” she answered.

 He picked her up in his father’s car at the sched­uled time. As soon as she got into 
the car, she men­tioned money.

 He fished in his pocket and handed her a five-dol­lar bill which she promptly put 
in­side her purse.

 “Okay, where will it be – what do you want to do – a show, a ham­burger, you name 
it.”

 “I already told you any­place you say will be just fine,” she said.

 “The park?” he ques­tioned.

 “Sure. Why beat around the bush? You paid for a fuck, so, let’s get cut­tin’.” 
Gulp­ing, he said, “Maybe we should go to a show first.”

 “Look,” Vi replied. “I didn’t want to tell you this cause it kinda takes the edge off, but
I’ve got an­other date later to­night – after you. So – let’s make it, eh? Like, let’s fuck.” Vi 
drove to the well-known lov­ers’ lane area of the park.

 As soon as he turned off the lights and settled back into the seat, she went into 
ac­tion. She un­buttoned her blouse, ex­posed her breasts, then took his hands and placed 
them on her na­ked flesh. After he had kneaded them a bit, she cuddled close and lif­ted her 
mouth to re­ceive his kiss. Her tongue was hot and prac­ticed. It twirled and swirled around 
his, then with­drew so that she could grab his fully with her lips, en­abling her to draw upon it.
Soon, ob­vi­ously feel­ing that she had stim­u­lated him enough, she reached to his lap, 
del­ic­ately lif­ted his zip­per tab between thumb and fore­finger and drew it down­ward. 
Then she reached in and took out his good-sized penis.

 For a few mo­ments, she merely held him. Then when his fin­gers tightened on her 
breasts again, she gently ma­nip­u­lated him, be­ing care­ful not to over stim­u­late him at 
this point of their en­counter.

 Soon he wheezed a long sigh of de­sire and lurched to move atop her body.

 She lif­ted her skirt and guided him to the cradle of her bare thighs. Then she 
paused and re­leased him.

 “How does it feel so far?” she asked.

 “Oh, great, just great.’’

 “I’ll take everything off for an­other fiver,” she said.

 “No. I haven’t got it, be­sides, some­body might come.”

 “Some­body’s go­ing to come, and you bet­ter be­lieve it,” she laughed.

 Hal lurched his youth­ful hips for­ward a bit, prob­ing at her cunt.

 “Hold it,” she said coldly. “There’s a little some­thing we have to take care of at this 
point of this nasty little game.”

 Without dis­lodging him from his po­s­i­tion of read­i­ness, Vi reached to her purse
and from it ex­trac­ted a pack­age of con­tra­cept­ives. She freed one from the pa­per and 
brought it between her body and his. Then she paused.

 “Do I have to use that damn thing?” he sulked. “It takes away half the fun.”

 “Of course not – I’ll take a chance, for an­other fiver.”

 “Shit!”

 “Tough!”

 “I’ll give it to you in school on Monday,” he pleaded.

 “Well, okay, then,” Vi said.

 She re­grasped him as she lowered back­ward on the seat, thrust­ing her legs 
up­ward and bra­cing her feet between floor­board and back seat while she jammed her head
out of sight be­neath the arm-rest.

 His hips quivered des­per­ately. But she offered con­fid­ence with her 
ex­per­i­enced fin­gers as she guided him into her. Then she placed him and re­leased him.

 “There. How’s that?”

 “Out of sight!”

 “Then, go, go. Go, go, go.”

 She arched her body up­ward to meet his down­ward stab. Hal rode her like a 
rodeo cow­boy, whip­ping his body madly, rising, fall­ing, churn­ing and turn­ing, help­ing 
the heady call of his ven­ture, thrust­ing hard and grind­ing, paus­ing, then with­draw­ing 
and jam­ming close again.

 And all the time Vi en­cour­aged him with ob­scene words that told of his 
pro­fi­ciency, his mas­ter­ful­ness, his strong, hard, very ex­cit­ing mas­culin­ity. It was all a 
lie. She didn’t feel a thing. But she had learned that this stim­u­lated and en­cour­aged and 
hur­ried her young cus­tom­ers to their end so that she could be free for the next cus­tomer 
and the next five-dol­lar bill.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Jane G., a friend of Vi of the pre­vi­ous case his­tory, was care­less about the 
set­ting she chose as her place of pros­ti­tu­tion. Ac­cord­ing to her testi­mony to po­lice, 
she had en­gaged boys in sexual acts for money back­stage of the high school aud­it­or­ium; 
in the au­dio-visual room which was crammed full with equip­ment; in the lun­ch­room, 
be­hind the counter; and un­der the bleach­ers of the foot­ball sta­dium. She didn’t need 
much room for her sexual en­coun­ters. Afraid of preg­nancy, she sold only her ex­pert­ness 
at fel­la­tio.

 “This chick was the wild­est thing I’ve ever seen,” a poor school senior re­vealed to 
po­lice. “She’d fuck a guy any place, just so long as he had the dough. Ten bucks on the line – 
no credit given.”

 A sev­en­teen-year-old senior who also gave testi­mony to the po­lice, told of his 
first ad­ven­ture with the dy­namic Jane.

 As they had ar­ranged earlier in the day, the boy, Joe, met Jane where she was 
wait­ing for him on the foot­ball field. It was deser­ted at this hour of the day, most of the 
stu­dents hav­ing already fin­ished with their classes.

 Joe was a ro­man­ti­cist. He put his arm around Jane, thrill­ing at the touch of his 
hand upon her slim waist, and led her to the bleach­ers where they sat down. He raised his 
hand a bit and slowly kneaded one large breast. She res­ted her own hand on his thigh in 
or­der to add to the ex­cite­ment of their meet­ing.

 They kissed, slowly at first, then more fer­vently as they twirled to­gether, picked 
and pecked at each other, spun, with­drew, reentered, res­ted, then clashed again. Dur­ing 
their long kiss, his hand sneaked in­side her sweater and fondled her flesh and played with the
sharp, hot nipple which reached out for his touch. And her hand moved to his lap where it 
res­ted lightly but mean­ing­fully on his bul­ging crotch.

 Jane was so fer­vent that one would little sus­pect that she was pre­par­ing her 
sub­ject for a fi­nal act for which he must pay.

 Fi­nally, when he had been in­flamed by her touch and her mouth, Joe pulled back 
and said, “Come on, let’s go un­der the bleach­ers – it’s party-time. Okay?”

 She looked pens­ive be­fore say­ing, “All right, but just for a little while.” They 
stretched upon the grass be­neath the bleach­ers and locked their arms around each other. 
They kissed. They touched. Jane even al­lowed him to raise her sweater, wrestle down her bra 
and ex­pose both her breasts to re­ceive his hungry mouth­ing. And she ad­ded zest to this 
ex­cite­ment by un­zip­ping his trousers and ex­pos­ing him so that her fin­gers could play 
with his penis.

 Soon Joe, ur­gent now, had forced her skirt above her hips and was for­cing her to 
her back, fight­ing to move between her thighs which she had firmly clamped to­gether.

 “No, I can’t, I already told you I wouldn’t do that,” she ex­claimed, push­ing against 
his hard, young shoulders.

 “You gotta,” he groaned.

 “I said I wanted ten dol­lars, and I mean it. I like you and all that, but I really need 
the money.”

 Without giv­ing up the ad­vant­age he had gained atop her, Joe reached to his hip 
pocket and ex­trac­ted his wal­let. He placed it in her hand.

 “There’s a ten in there, now come on,” he urged.

 Her tightly clamped legs did not part.

 “Come on, god­damn it,” he said, rais­ing his voice.

 “I can’t,” she. Said sweetly. “Hon­est, right now -at this time of month -well, I just 
can’t, you know what I mean.”

 “Oh, yeah, I know what you mean, but what the hell, you can’t leave me like this, 
with hot rocks!”

 She grasped him and squeezed hard. “I don’t in­tend to.” She moved her hand, 
ma­nip­u­lat­ing him in a circle.

 “Cut that,” he sud­denly ex­ploded. “Shit – I can do that my­self!”

 “Don’t be an as­shole!” she said, smil­ing brightly. “Come on, let me sit up.” 
Re­luct­antly, he with­drew from on top of her body. He watched as she took the ten-dol­lar 
bill out of his wal­let, then handed the wal­let back to him.

 Then she looked at him and asked, “Ready?”

 “Hell, yes -” She smiled, then stretched on the ground in a po­s­i­tion ly­ing on her 
side with her head in his lap. An in­no­cent po­s­i­tion, it would seem, one that was a 
fre­quent sight around the cam­puses of col­leges and schools in any large city; one that 
spoke of bud­ding young love, the sweet­ness and ro­mance of it all.

 But it was busi­ness that Jane was about. The busi­ness of per­form­ing fel­la­tio 
upon a boy for a price, while in a set­ting only two hun­dred yards from the main high­way.

 Jane first touched lightly at Joe’s penis again. For a few seconds she merely held him
as he groaned softly and re­clined a bit, sup­port­ing him­self on his el­bows braced at his 
waist. Then, she raised a bit, moved him, aimed him, then lowered to the act of or­al­ity for 
which she had be­come known.

 It didn’t last long. And at the very end Jane be­came quite ex­cited. She shif­ted her 
po­s­i­tion in or­der to cap­ture his right leg between her thighs. She pres­sured hard there, 
un­du­lat­ing her body in the same rhythm with her bob­bing head. And then it was over. Joe 
sighed. “It was okay, but hardly worth ten bucks.”

 “Too bad,” Jane said eas­ily. “So next time beat off!” CASE HIS­TORY Dot­tie was a 
senior. She was a good scholar, very at­tract­ive, pop­u­lar with her friends, and had a 
suc­cess­ful busi­ness­man father and a mother who was act­ive in the P.T.A. And Dot­tie 
worked as su­per­visor to four high school Teen-hust­lers. She never sold her own sexu­al­ity. 
Some­times she gave it away to a date, but she never took pay for the use of her body. She 
didn’t have to. Dot­tie re­ceived half the fees col­lec­ted by four teen-girls un­der her 
jur­is­dic­tion in the high school.

 She made it a point to greet every tenth grade fresh­man girl as she entered high 
school for the first time. She helped them with class sched­ules, find­ing the right rooms, 
lock­ers, tipped them off as to which teach­ers should be avoided, ac­ted like a big sis­ter 
ad­visor to them all. And to the pretty ones, she was es­pe­cially at­tent­ive, made friends 
with them im­me­di­ately.

 Dot­tie even kept a card file sys­tem on al­most every girl in the school. She was as 
thor­ough as a suc­cess­ful politi­cian. And for the teen-girls who provided her with an above 
av­er­age, adult in­come, she kept a spe­cial file, re­cord­ing bits of news she could use to 
hold the girls in line should one de­cide to turn in­former.

 She even kept a re­cord of her charges’ men­strual peri­ods. She thought this most 
im­port­ant. Preg­nan­cies were al­ways a risk, but Dot­tie had con­nec­tions for abor­tions. 
She in­sisted upon an ac­cur­ate re­cord­ing of the girls’ cycles. If an abor­tion was 
in­dic­ated, Dot­tie wanted it done at the earli­est pos­sible time.

 Dot­tie never had more than four girls work­ing for her at the same time. More than
that could cause a lessen­ing of dis­cip­line that made for a greater risk. So, four love­lies 
were al­ways avail­able to the boys of the school once they met with Dot­tie to dis­cuss the 
con­di­tions of the date.

 The pro­ced­ure was quite simple. If the boys did not already know the girl for 
whom they bar­gained, Dot­tie pro­duced a pic­ture, gen­er­ally one she had taken her­self 
show­ing the girl off to the very best ad­vant­age. Dot­tie named a price, one that was scaled 
ac­cord­ing to the de­sires of the boy. She col­lec­ted the fee be­fore the hour of the date. 
And Dot­tie dic­tated the loc­ale that was to be used. She al­most al­ways in­sisted upon a 
drive-in theatre as the best place to make un­ob­served love. If the boy didn’t have a car, she 
loaned him hers – for a fee.

 Dot­tie some­times ac­ted like a mother hen over her brood of chicks. Daily, she 
in­quired of their health, their men­strual peri­ods, their gen­eral wel­fare. And she in­sisted 
upon al­ways know­ing if a cus­tomer had ab­used one of her girls. If he had – and if the girl 
re­por­ted it – Dot­tie had ways of teach­ing him a les­son. Sev­eral of the foot­ball play­ers 
were on her payroll for spe­cial jobs – like beat­ings.

 Dot­tie op­er­ated a ring of pros­ti­tutes within the con­fines of her school for a 
period of two years be­fore she was fi­nally dis­covered and re­por­ted to the po­lice.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Fif­teen-year-old Velma S. Kept a di­ary all through her tenth grade, fresh­man year 
in high school. It wasn’t a di­ary so much as it was a re­cord of the boys with whom she has 
sexual in­ter­course. Velma got a kick out of re­cord­ing their names, then dream­ing about 
the in­ter­lude which res­ul­ted in the entry in her journal. She de­veloped a code of her own 
that re­vealed the var­ied tal­ents of the boys she had known. It amused her to look at the 
strange sym­bols and real­ize that they told of the boys’ vari­ous sexual tech­niques, and 
par­tic­u­lar likes and dis­likes.

 One day, Velma showed her journal to a friend. The friend, not­ing some 
thirty-seven dif­fer­ent names for a six-month period, teas­ingly sug­ges­ted that if Velma 
were a pros­ti­tute, if she figured the entries in the terms of money – well, she would already 
have a small for­tune.

 Velma brooded about this for a full week. It was al­most as if she were cheat­ing 
her­self, she reasoned. After all, the boys did en­joy her. And she en­joyed them. So, why not 
en­joy them, let them en­joy her, and make some money out of it too? Why shouldn’t she? 
She could find no reason, ex­cept the risk, not to enter the busi­ness of high school 
pros­ti­tu­tion.

 Velma waited un­til her very next date, one she had con­sen­ted to with a boy of 
-whom she was un­usu­ally fond, to men­tion her plan. She ad­mired Pete. He ac­ted worldly. 
He was older than most of the boys in his class, too. And he had even quit school for six 
months to work as a mu­si­cian. But the or­ches­tra leader had dis­covered that Pete was 
un­der-age to work in nightclubs and fired him. Pete re­turned to school. Velma was glad – 
she liked him a lot.

 When Velma and Pete were safely con­cealed in his parked car, she told him of all 
that she had been think­ing – that maybe she could make a little money for both of them if he
would act as go-between for her.

 “Do you mean you want me to pimp for you?” he laughed.

 “I sup­pose so.”

 “Will I get all the free ass I want?” he asked.

 “Stop be­ing crude,” Velma said.

 “Yeah – I’ll stop all right, after you let me get a little cruder.” He brought his arm 
around her shoulders and pulled her close.

 “What do you think about the idea,” Velma per­sisted.

 “Crazy – crazy as all hell,” he replied.

 “You mean you’ll do it?” she said.

 “Maybe.”

 “Why not for sure?”

 “Cause I don’t want to get bus­ted, that’s why. I got enough shit on me already 
without tak­ing on any more.”

 “Oh, but you’re so re­spons­ible,” she said, length­en­ing the words in a kind of 
verbal caress, at the same time mov­ing her hand to rest on his thigh.

 “Well, it might work out,” Pete said. “But you’ve got to be ready for al­most 
any­thing.”

 “Like what?” she asked.

 “Like spe­cial ser­vices.”

 “What kind?”

 “Well, you’ll have to fuck any­body who wants you!”

 “You can weed out the worst ones,” she said.

 “You’ll have to suck cock, eat ass, everything.”

 “For money, maybe I’ll learn to like it.”

 “All right, let’s prac­tice,” Pete said. “Blow me!” Velma laughed hard, then said, “Man 
– are you ever a kid­der.”

 “A kid­der who’s not kid­ding,” he replied.

 Velma laughed again, but stopped when Pete wound his fin­gers into her hair and 
bent her head to his lap.

 “Stop it – you don’t have to be so rough,” she shouted up at him from his lap.

 “And you bet­ter not be too rough either,” he said at the same tak­ing his hard 
penis out of his un­zipped jeans.

 “There,” Pete sud­denly breathed, re­lax­ing into the car seat again.

 Velma touched the hard flesh which had been ex­posed for her. Then she gripped it.
Then she paused.

 “Come on, suck,” he muttered ex­citedly.

 “Okay, but just a trial run. Okay?”

 “Okay, okay, okay, but start suck­ing,” he ordered.

 She moved upon him, slowly at first, then faster and still faster un­til she was only a 
bob­bing blur of dark shadow la­bor­ing above his thighs. His fin­gers dir­ec­ted her at the 
be­gin­ning, but then flew away to claw at the car seat as his body arched and churned and 
pumped up and down in a frantic ef­fort to achieve an or­gasm be­fore Velma de­cided that 
she had had enough.

 She de­cided to quit when Pete was at the very top­most peak of his re­flexes. He 
yelled and at­temp­ted to force her to let him fin­ish, but she wrestled free of his grabbing 
hands. Then she faced him and smiled.

 “You little bitch,” Pete de­clared. “You’re go­ing to fin­ish me!”

 “Of course I am, sweetie,” she answered. “I wouldn’t leave any­one in this 
con­di­tion – es­pe­cially you. But first -”

 “First what?”

 “First, what about our deal?”

 “Sure, sure – I already told you I’d do it,” he said quickly.

 “For sure? No back­ing out?”

 “Hell, no. I’m for mak­ing money, you know that.”

 “Good. It’s settled then, isn’t it?”

 “It is, but I’m not.”

 She smiled. She reached and again took him in her hand. Then, fa­cing him, 
crowding her body close, look­ing into his eyes which she really could not see in the dark, 
Velma twis­ted and turned and took his penis into her mouth again. She had to suck on it for 
only a few mo­ments, be­fore he ex­ploded in ejac­u­la­tion, filling her mouth with his hot 
juice.

 “Swal­low it,” he ordered. “Don’t let it get on my clothes!” That night marked the 
be­gin­ning of the ar­range­ment between Velma and Pete. He ac­ted as her con­tact man 
and pimp, and sent her a steady stream of stu­dent cus­tom­ers. Velma’s ca­reer as a cam­pus
whore was so suc­cess­ful that by the time she and Pete were gradu­ated, each had 
ac­cu­mu­lated a good-sized bank ac­count.

 CASE HIS­TORY

 Mona H. In­vited a dozen boys and girls to a party at her par­ents’ home. Her 
mother gave her bless­ings to the party, then she and her hus­band went out for an even­ing 
on the town. The guests at Mona’s party were all mem­bers of her sopho­more high school 
class. There were six boys and six girls. Mona liked things even, sex evenly dis­trib­uted. She 
sug­ges­ted the idea of the party to her girl friends. There was a spe­cial reason to have one. 
The girls – all of them – were sorely pinched for money, and Spring va­ca­tion was 
ap­proach­ing.

 Mona got her idea for this spe­cial type of party when one of the pop­u­lar boy 
mem­bers of the senior class com­pletely de­mol­ished his un­in­sured car. His many friends 
gave a dance, the pro­ceeds from which would be given to the boy for a new car. It was a 
pop­u­lar method of meet­ing crises in the high school – in all high schools, really, and Mona 
thought it was just great.

 She charged the boys ten dol­lars each for an in­vit­a­tion to her party.

 “Man -that’s high,” one boy com­plained. “What you goin’ to have there – 
strip­pers?” Mona giggled, then said, “Bet­ter than that – but you’ve got to take your 
chances.” The boy, and five oth­ers, paid the re­quired ten dol­lars. Mona had been se­lect­ive
about the guests. She in­vited only those boys who had in­comes from after-school jobs. Not 
only would such boys have the ten dol­lars, they were most likely to have other money in their
pock­ets on the night of the party.

 Mona col­lec­ted the ten dol­lars from each of the boys as they entered the house 
then des­cen­ded to the base­ment re­cre­ation room.

 Down­stairs, li­quor was provided – two bottles of Scotch she had stolen from her 
father’s li­quor cab­inet. The boys felt very “big”, the girls soph­ist­ic­ated. Most of them 
drank quite a lot. Mona was glad – a little drunk­en­ness wouldn’t hurt her plan a bit.

 After re­fresh­ments had been served, those taken from her mother’s re­fri­ger­ator,
and the Scotch had been con­sumed, Mona called for at­ten­tion and jumped to the top of 
the Ping-Pong table to make an an­nounce­ment.

 When the laughs had quieted down, when the boys stopped shout­ing jokes back 
and forth, most of which called at­ten­tion to her short, very tight skirt and her large breasts 
which bil­lowed her white blouse teas­ingly out­ward, she made her an­nounce­ment.

 “We’re go­ing to play ‘slave girl’ and you studs are go­ing to bid for us. Get it?”

 “We gotta see the goods first,” a boy said ser­i­ously, rub­bing his chin, act­ing like 
a buyer for a de­part­ment store.

 “You will,” she laughed. “But not un­til you bid for each art­icle of cloth­ing we take 
off. Now do you get it?”

 “And then after we’ve bid you down to bare-ass, what then?” a boy asked.

 “Then you bid for the ass,” Mona told him.

 Mona jumped down from the table. One of her girl friends climbed upon it and 
raised her arms high over her head. She was a pretty girl with dark hair, dark eyes, a solid, 
com­fort­ing kind of fig­ure, and a sweater, skirt, sox and loafers which were soon to be bid 
off her body.

 “Two bits for the sweater,” called out a boy.

 “Thirty cents,” said an­other.

 The sweater was fi­nally bid down at a dol­lar and a half. And then there was the 
busi­ness about the strap­less bra she wore. That went for three dol­lars. The girl’s breasts 
were very firm, very nipple-poin­ted, very, very round and full.

 Soon the girl was down to her half-slip and panties and the table se­cured a fair pile
of change and dol­lar bills. And then the half-slip van­ished when an af­flu­ent bid­der 
dar­ingly de­clared his ex­tra­vag­ance with a five-dol­lar bill. The panties were whisked away 
at six dol­lars and twenty-five cents.

 Nude, the girl turned around on the table. The boys stared. Her nipples stuck out 
like thumbs now, and her belly was in­den­ted so that her na­vel was a mere slit in the middle 
of smooth round­ness. Her thighs were fas­cin­at­ing, with a light thatch of hair at their 
junc­ture.

 “And now you bid for the girl her­self,” called Mona from the side of the table. “I’ve 
seen her in ac­tion on a double-date, so I can tell you that she’s worth any price you’re 
pre­pared to bid.”

 There was si­lence ex­cept for the sound of heavy breath­ing. And then there was 
the bid­ding.

 “A dol­lar – I’m not be­ing a wise-ass, I’m just broke.”

 “Two.”

 “Three and a half.”

 “Five.”

 “Six – seven – eight – ten – el­even dol­lars and thirty-three cents!” bid a boy, 
climb­ing to hand over his total wealth with the en­thu­si­asm of an an­tique col­lector.

 The na­ked girl went at twelve dol­lars. There were sighs and shouts and calls for a 
new slave girl so a new bid­ding could be­gin.

 But Mona had other ideas.

 “Hold it,” she called out. “We’re not through with this one yet.”

 “I won her. I’m gonna fuck her,” yelled the win­ning bid­der as he reached up and 
gripped the na­ked girl’s hand.

 “No, there’s a little more bid­ding,” Mona de­clared. “Now this is the way it goes. 
The oth­ers can watch while you two do your thing right here on the Ping-Pong table. That is, 
they can watch for fifty cents each.

 “Hey, that’s not right!” com­plained the boy who had won the slave girl.

 “Isn’t it!” said Mona hap­pily.

 “Sup­pose I don’t want to put on a fuck show,” the boy said. “I like to fuck in 
private.”

 “Simple,” Mona said. “Fifty cents apiece from the look­ers adds up to two-fifty, add 
an­other fifty cents for your­self and you fuck your little slave girl any place you want.”

 “What a bitch,” said the boy.

 But he tossed three crumpled bills on the table, yanked his slave girl from the table, 
then hur­ried her to a far, dark corner of the re­cre­ation room. The next fully clothed girl 
jumped upon the table to face her bid­ders.

 Al­though funds began to run low, the bid­ding re­mained spir­ited and soon each 
of the six girls had been bid down to na­ked­ness, then sold to an in­di­vidual boy with whom
she hap­pily per­formed the sexual tasks her mas­ter de­man­ded of her.

 Mona stood at the side of the table, smil­ing, watch­ing the pile of money grow 
high, watch­ing, too, as each of her girl friends paired off with a boy. With a sharp eye for 
busi­ness, at the last, when all the money was stacked high on the Ping-Pong table, she 
ac­cep­ted I.O.U.’s adding a twenty-five per cent “in­terest charge.” She even talked frankly 
about hav­ing credit cards made up for those boys who proved that they paid their bills.

 Later, all the couples were again gathered around the table, look­ing at Mona 
won­der­ing what was to come next; won­der­ing if any­thing more could pos­sibly be 
offered by this host­ess who seemed to think of everything. There was some­thing more to 
of­fer.

 Mona had planned it from the very be­gin­ning. She was the ex­tra girl – the lucky, 
or un­lucky, thir­teenth mem­ber of the party.

 “And now, so to speak, the house is go­ing to provide the en­ter­tain­ment,” Mona 
an­nounced.

 “Yeah, how about that,” said a boy. “You haven’t been bid for yet.”

 “Right,” she answered.

 “That fig­ures,” a gruff voice said from the back of the circle.

 “You’re damn right it fig­ures,” Mona shouted, jump­ing to the top of the Ping-Pong
table.

 She looked so wild, so wan­ton, when she spread her arms wide, em­phas­iz­ing her
breasts, her hips, her fine, lean legs, the an­ti­cip­a­tion of what na­ked­ness would do to her 
fig­ure, that sud­denly ap­plause broke out from the boys and even from some of the girls.

 Mona raised her hands and clasped them above her head. Then, de­lib­er­ately 
sway­ing her hips, she turned. Then she turned again, but when she faced her guests, she 
paused, brought her hands down and smiled. And then she slowly brought both hands to the 
bot­toms of her dainty white blouse. Slowly, she un­did them. She shrugged the blouse from 
her shoulders and al­lowed it to float to the table. She turned again, an­swer­ing the cheers 
from the on­look­ers. Then she un­hooked her bra at the back and cuddled it shyly in front of 
her, cup­ping her large breasts to­gether so that the bulge of flesh was clearly seen by all. And
then she dropped the bra. Her breasts bounced, then quivered in ex­cite­ment. And then, in 
quick suc­ces­sion, she shed all her clothes and stood com­pletely na­ked, the tar­get of 
twelve pairs of eyes.

 Mona opened her arms to every­one in front of her.

 “All right, studs – okay, ba­bies – come on, you bunch of swing­ers – come on – I’m 
giv­ing you all one on the house! Fuck me, guys!”

 She lowered her back to the table and braced her legs. In an in­stant, the first boy 
was be­fore her, prop­ping her at the bend of her knees with his arms as he pumped his body 
for­ward and back in a mad whirl of sex.

 And for Mona, the scene was very, very sat­is­fy­ing. The events of the night – the 
pile of money upon the table; the money that now spilled every which way as her hips 
bounced and her small fists beat a rhythm at each side of her, and ac­ted as an aph­ro­dis­iac 
for the wan­ton, sex-centered teen-ager. Mona was ex­pertly ad­ept at sexual re­sponses. This
night, even her high sens­it­iv­ity had been made sharper, more ready for the first boy.

 His fin­ish offered her a new cli­max, offered them all the view of her body grind­ing
fiercely, squeez­ing, ek­ing out every breath of en­ergy it was pos­sible to re­ceive from the 
de­pleted boy.

 And then there was a new boy. And with it, there came a new howl of cli­max from 
Mona.

 With the third boy, she man­aged to of­fer vari­ety. She rolled to her stom­ach, then
boos­ted on fore­arms and knees as she jut­ted her but­tocks teas­ingly to the boy who 
reached and gripped them.

 Mona re­mained in this po­s­i­tion, fa­cing away from the boy, cry­ing, shout­ing, 
whim­per­ing, bel­low­ing ob­scen­it­ies as her body quivered. She re­mained fa­cing away 
from it all un­til the sixth and last boy took his po­s­i­tion be­hind her. Then she turned and 
faced him.

 Her eyes were dia­mond sparkles of ex­cite­ment as she moved from the table and 
breath­lessly pushed the boy to a sit­ting po­s­i­tion upon it. Then she faced him. She smiled 
once, for an in­stant be­fore she lowered her­self to ac­com­mod­ate his throb­bing penis in 
a squat­ting po­s­i­tion. She was wild and sav­age. At times she seemed mad, so wildly did 
she move upon him, so sav­agely did she take him and shake him and take him into her­self 
again and again and again.

 And soon, it was done. The boy leaned far back, braced him­self and arched a fi­nal 
time as Mona crumbled atop him, her breath com­ing in shattered gasps.

 The party ended just barely be­fore her par­ents re­turned home.

 The money from the party came pretty close to what Mona had an­ti­cip­ated, one 
hun­dred and six­teen dol­lars and thirty-four cents, in­clud­ing I.O.U.’s. Be­cause Mona had 
done fairly well in her eco­nom­ics class, she knew all about de­pre­ci­ation, busi­ness 
ex­penses, risk of steal­ing li­quor, food, par­ental wrath, etc. So, it seemed only 
eco­nom­ic­ally equit­able that the pro­ceeds of the even­ing be split – twenty-five per­cent 
for her­self, the other sev­enty-five per cent di­vided among the six girls. Not one of them 
ob­jec­ted. They knew that Mona had earned her lar­ger share!

 Her parties be­came the secret talk of the school. In­vit­a­tions to them were widely 
sought by all the boys. The parties thrived for a year, were held monthly, and al­tern­ated in 
loc­a­tion, each of the charter girl mem­bers tak­ing her turn as host­ess.

 Busi­ness boomed un­til the boom fell when one dis­sat­is­fied guest re­por­ted 
the parties to school au­thor­it­ies, who in turn told Mona’s par­ents.

 “My God, why?” her mother ex­claimed. “Why would our own daugh­ter be 
in­volved in such a ter­rible mess? Why?”

 It was a good ques­tion.





CON­CLU­SION


Teen-ism used to be an age bracket – those years of one’s life between child­hood 
and the age of twenty. Today, teen-ism has more the as­pects of a com­pletely for­eign 
coun­try! Teen-agers have their own cul­ture, their own na­tional her­oes, their own nat­ive 
dress and cos­tume, and al­most their own lan­guage. And, like any other for­eign coun­try, 
they have their own sexual cus­toms and be­ha­vior!

 What are we to do about this new and prim­it­ive na­tion? Shall we send in 
mis­sion­ar­ies to try to con­vert them, or should we re­ceive mis­sion­ar­ies from them and 
listen to their ideas? Should we give them a seat at the United Na­tions, like any other 
newly-emer­ging coun­try?

 A re­cent mo­tion pic­ture showed the United States gov­erned by a Pres­id­ent of 
twenty-one, who sent the more ma­ture adults to “con­cen­tra­tion camps.” Fantasy? Or the 
shape of things to come? Ten years ago, films de­pict­ing men or­bit­ing the earth or land­ing
on the moon were clas­si­fied as sci­ence fic­tion. Today those things are fact. How soon will 
the teen-aged na­tion send their first rocket of re­volu­tion smash­ing into the com­pla­cent 
stra­to­sphere of the post-teen world? Or have they done it already and are we too 
com­pla­cent to be aware of it?

 This book has tried to ex­plore and eval­u­ate the teen and sub-teen ter­rit­ory. It 
may have shocked some of us, it may have aler­ted oth­ers. In years to come, it may be 
looked upon like those early Six­teenth Cen­tury maps “of the world,” which in­ac­cur­ately 
showed the New World as an ap­pend­age of the con­tin­ent of Asia. But, at least they 
showed that the New World ex­is­ted!

 This book has tried to show that a New World ex­ists today, a world of teens and 
sub-teens who may shape the fu­ture!
