Chapter 11
To be the object of a young man's first love is to experience certain changes in the body; changes which allow one's own flesh to respond to certain strange stimuli.
Timothy was such a foolish child but I experienced with him the most profound passion, a passion that grew each time we met and survived all the petty squabbles which such relationships abound in.
It started in the most peculiar manner. One mourning as I was leaving my apartment for the office, I noticed an envelope had been slipped under the door. Thinking it was some type of notice from the landlord, I shoved it into my purse without looking at the contents. That afternoon, I finally had the time and inclination to open it up. To my astonishment, the envelope contained a piece of note paper on which was scrawled in a childish handwriting: 'There is someone who loves you very much and he lives in your building. He wants to sleep with you."
Since it was such a childish note, I marked it off as some prank of a child who lived in my building and tore it up.
But four days later there was another note and this one read: "My name is Timothy. I live three floors above you. Please do not laugh at me. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I am much younger than you.
Will you scorn me?"
I had heard about these adolescent "crushes" but I had never been the object of one. Of course, many of the children I had seduced grew to love me passionately but they did not do so in the overwhelming irrational manner as Timothy.
Once the second note arrived, I decided to make contact with the child, to enable him to act out his fantasies upon me, to give him scope for his new found love.
I began making inquiries and found that the boy lived with his mother. She worked and he came home from school late in the afternoon. One morning, I left a note under his door, secure in the fact that he would receive it before his mother came home. The note read: "Dear Timothy. I am proud and happy to be loved by such a fine young man. Please come down to my apartment this afternoon, I would like to meet the man who loves me."
After I left the note I worried that he would interpret the last line as if I was making fun of him. I began to pace back and forth in the apartment. If a certain time passed and he did not arrive I would have to run upstairs and retrieve the note before his mother came home.
Then there was a knock on the door. I opened it quickly. A young boy stood there, nervous, his head down, his body anxious.
"Well, Timothy, I was afraid you wouldn't arrive and that would have been sad."
He mumbled something and walked into the apartment.
He was such a handsome lad, tall for his age and dark complexioned, with a thick mat of curly hair that the moment I laid my eyes upon I wanted to grasp with my fingers.
Timothy was probably more nervous than he had ever been in his life and he just stood in the middle of my living room, searching for words.
"Why don't you sit down," I asked him, knowing that the most crucial part of our relationship was now and my attempt to relax him.
Finally he sat down.
"I have some hot coffee on the stove. Would you like some?"
"Yes!" he replied with great force, finally finding one word which could contain his growing passion. As I walked into the kitchen to pour him some coffee, I felt his eyes boring into my body. The child had it bad, I knew. I could see and feel his eyes undressing me, his youthful imagination conjuring up all sorts of delicious activities with my body.
As I was bringing the coffee into him, I saw his eyes on my breasts and I suddenly thought that it would be delightful to have his young mouth fastened on my nipples.
He took the coffee and his hands were shaking so badly that the cup rattled.
I began to talk about many things, just trying to relax him. My voice did relax him eventually, and he put the coffee cup down, saying: "I cannot help what I feel for you. It has been like this for many months."
I moved closer to him and touched him on the shoulder: "I am happy you feel this way. Believe me, Timothy, there is no greater compliment an older woman can receive than to be loved by a young man."
And, at that moment, I really believed what I told him. At that moment I forgot about the fact that for the past months I had been engaged in the most sordid and bizarre seductions of young innocents. All I knew was that I was in that classic situation, described so well by all the poets; an older woman made vibrant and alive by the attention of a young, virile hero.
"Timothy," I said to him, coyly, "it is not enough to say that one is in love."
He looked at me, confused, waiting for me to explain.
"Love is a peculiar virtue. It must be expressed through the body."
He flushed and began to fidgit.
I realized then that he was very skittish, like a colt, and I would have to treat him with the utmost care. Already my body was beginning to feel the joys of anticipation, and my mind was leaping rapidly into the future, savoring the delight which was in store for both of us.
"Don't be frightened," I said, gently. His back stiffened and he said: "I'm not afraid of anything."
"Of course you're not afraid, Timothy, you are almost a grown man. Your body and mind are fully developed."
Then I picked his hand up in mine. His fingers were long and finely wrought, like a pianist, and there was a fever racing through them.
I opened my blouse. His eyes narrowed, and the pupils gleamed. Still holding his fingers, I thrust them into the coolness of my breasts. He shivered and tried to withdraw them but I held them there with all the strength at my command.
"Feel me Timothy, do not fight me. Let your hands move across my breast, slowly and beautifully. Now, touch my nipple. Do you feel how it quivers from just the tips of your fingers? Do you feel how it invites you?"
Sweat appeared on the child's brow. But slowly he began to gain confidence and all his childish lust, all his romantic love for me were focused in his fingers. My breasts squirmed under his manipulation. His fingernails made the white, quivering flesh red, and my nipples almost sang out at the joy of his touch.
I led him on, like a trainer leads a prize yearling, with the utmost care but always making sure he would learn from each move.
"Now, Timothy, your mouth!"
He looked at me again with that dumb frightened expression on his face.
"Open your mouth, Timothy, let my nipples feel its grandeur."
Slowly the lips parted. I moved one of my naked points so that it rested on a lower lip.
"Open wide, Timothy, I beg you."
This time he listened and those two, full lips spread apart. My nipple went in and I groaned with the beauty of the hot pressure.
"Suck them, Timothy, suck them."
Now he was completely under my control. His lips became moving animals, bringing to my breasts that heat and moisture which is beautiful, almost sublime.
I fell backwards, allowing myself the luxury of being raped by his mouth.
Then he began to salivate over my nipples. My flesh drunk his spit in, greedily.
At that moment, something happened. Even now I cannot completely describe the feelings I experienced. But I know this. There was something in his saliva, perhaps it was even the chemical composition of it or the fact that it was produced under the heat of lust-which gave me the most exquisite thrills I have ever had in my life.
Yes, there was something in that saliva which made my naked flesh react with an incredible burst of quivering and total eroticizing. Each drop drove me into a greater frenzy, each drop made my nipples stiffen until I felt they were impaling the white breasts which surrounded them.
"More, more I need more," I kept screaming to the child, again and again.
And then, even more was not enough. I had to drink in that ecstatic saliva with all of my body. Pushing him away violently for a moment, I literally ripped the clothes from my body and lay on the rug like some ancient sacrifice to his mouth.
His eyes were burning like twin candles in their sockets. This was no longer Timothy the child who had developed a romantic attachment to the older woman downstairs. No! The moment my nipples had entered his mouth, he had become a sensual man, completely sure of his skill, completely sure of the fact that he had a certain wisdom of the body which could control any female.
He began. First his lips went to my stomach and pressed against it. I could feel the hot moisture as it burrowed under my skin. Then he moved downward, always downward, to my navel.
His tongue sucked the delights from that mysterious opening. My buttocks were quivering against the rug, I felt as if I was coming apart.
"Don't stop, don't stop," I begged him, in a voice that I could no longer recognize as my own.
I spread my thighs, as if to call to him with all the lust my womanhood could contain. My arms were stretched out, like some saint that was about to undergo the final suffering to prove the legitimacy of his faith.
His mouth was just an inch away from the triangle of lust.
We joined. His mouth and the fevered, twitching lips of my cunt joined.
Hundreds of tiny jolts of electricity seemed to move through me, totally absorbing my body, sending me into a series of spasms so powerful that I thought I would never recover.
A tiny drop of saliva lay for a moment at the entrance to my cunt, and then trickled in. That one drop was like the devil's brew. It scorched the secret places of my flower.
Timothy hesitated for a moment, watching my body with the utmost of interest, drinking in my moans and smiling that strange smile. Then he pressed his mouth to me again and this time spat into my vagina. I felt as if I had been shot by an erotic cannon.
"No more," I screamed.
But the saliva was inside me. My cunt seemed to detach itself from the body and develop its own mode of acting.
"Kiss me, kiss me," I cried to him, hoping the pressure of his lips against my flower would ease the torment.
We joined, and this time, his hot, wet tongue snaked slowly out of the portals of his mouth and entered my most inner recesses.
That tongue was virgin, of that there is no doubt, but its innocence only drove it with a greater fury. It moved deep inside me, coated with his incredible saliva and began to move from side to side, sucking my walls, caressing the tunnel with short, vibrant sweeps.
The saliva poured into me. I was a receptacle for an erotic miracle. As it deluged me, I could only flay my arms wildly. There was nothing else for me to do. I had to accept the mystery of his saliva.
But then I could no longer stand the joy. Yes, even an experienced woman like myself can reach a point where the ecstasy is too much, where if it continued, I felt my mind would be severely damaged.
"End it, end it," I begged him.
But his tongue was digging deeper. He could not free himself from the beauty nestled between my thighs. Violently, I pushed him aside and climbed on his body. I was searching for his cock. I was searching for any hard object which I could use to quench the fire inside of me.
I exposed it and pressed it just once against my mouth, kissing it as if to guide it and give it some crucial instruction.
Then I flung myself on that naked, exposed column, its tip flaming toward me, all the lust of a young man coiled in its length.
I screamed as it impaled me, but immediately, the aphrodisiac which was his saliva lost its effect on me and I rocked my body to meet the quivering cock.
Now it was he who tried to escape the force of a new experience. It was he who moaned as I enveloped his maleness and rotated my thighs around it.
I bit into his neck and he ceased to fight, until, a few moments later, a rush of seed poured into my gyrating body and we both fell back, our mouths open and our bodies aching for a moment's rest.
While lying there, I knew I had to terminate our relationship, quickly and brutally. I knew that his saliva would destroy me if we continued.
"Get out and never come back."
The words were wrenched from my own mouth. I hated myself the moment I spoke them but there was no other choice. The child was too much for me. He had to go.
Head down, almost as if expecting it, Timothy slunk from the room. It was all over. Only the memory remained burned in my mind and in the secret places of my body.
We must immediately discount her notion that there was some strange chemical composition in Timothy's saliva which excited her more than usual.
What we have here is a case of an ancient memory transforming itself into an hallucination. The great psychologist Otto Rank, the discover of the "birth trauma", would have analyzed this episode to mean that she had suddenly remembered the fact of her exit from the womb, and used the boy's saliva in an attempt to relive that experience, which is an experience composed primarily of water. The unborn child must pass through the mother's fluid before the birth is complete.
This is one possible approach. Another way to look at this clinically would be to consider that mysterious saliva as somehow a symbol of her desire to be fertile; her desire to have children.
Throughout her narrative she has left many clues as to her desire for children and at the same time her belief that she is somehow unable or unworthy to bear them.
Following this through, we would say that her hallucination that the child's saliva is "magic" would mean that she ultimately hopes her perversion would lead to fertility. If that is, in fact, the case, this is one of the saddest and most pathetic episodes in her life.