Chapter 1
It began three days after my thirty-fifth birthday. Seated in my office, the office I had worked years to attain, suddenly my success and my accomplishments seemed futile. For years I had felt something bottled up in me, some strange force which constricted my body and made me incapable of love or passion.
Often I went through the rituals of sex with some handsome salesman who wished to impress the top female executive in the company, but these attempts left only a bitter taste in my mouth. Their bodies were uninspiring and brittle.
On that morning I reflected on my whole life. The faces and voices of my parents came to me and the small memories from my childhood. Suddenly, the morning light seemed too intense for my eyes and I pulled the drapes behind my desk. Sitting down once again, my hand rested on the long, thin desk pen fitted securely in its holder. My fingers stroked its length, delighting in the symmetry of that thing.
For the millionth time I tried to understand that strange force. Was it guilt? Was it some inadequacy which only my subconscious knew and which was poisoning my conscious life. I was roused from these thoughts by a knock at the office door. Looking at the wall clock, I realized to my amazement that it was ten o'clock and the pile of papers on my desk was untouched.
The door opened and the small Spanish boy with the coffee wagon entered.
As usual, he did not say a word, nor did I greet him. He went about his business, pouring me a cup of black coffee and selecting a piece of pastry.
Placing the coffee and cake on my desk he turned to push his coffee wagon from the office. I watched him turn and there was something about his movement which made me shudder.
"Wait," I called to him.
He turned to me and his eyes met mine for only a moment and then his shyness forced him to lower those full, black eyes.
"What is your name?"
"Felipe."
I said the name out loud and I repeated it again and again. My eyes roamed over his body. He was short with a beautiful olive complexion. The short white coat which he was forced to wear contrasted dramatically with the richness of his skin. His face was angular, similar to those Spanish saints which hang so fervently in the paintings of the great Spanish masters.
"How old are you, Felipe?"
"Fifteen."
"Do you go to school?" I asked, not really interested but desperate for some conversation with the child.
"No," he replied, shrugging his shoulders, "I don't go to school anymore. I work here."
And for the first time, he smiled as if my question was quite stupid but he had to answer.
We both waited for something to happen. There was an incredible tension in the air. I waited in the utmost suspense for him to move again, however slight, so that I could feel that shudder. What was there about the way he moved which affected me so strongly? I don't know. Perhaps it was the intrusion of his lithe, animal-like body in the artificiality of the office.
I stood up and circled the desk until I was only a few inches from him. Standing that close, I realized he was not really short, he was my own height.
"You gave me the wrong piece of pastry. I want the one with the cherry filling."
Without a word, he exchanged the piece of cake and proceeded to wheel the coffee wagon from the room.
My hand reached out and grasped his arm. My fingers circled his naked wrist, under the white sleeve of his jacket.
It was a simple moment, but one I will never forget. Felipe looked at me as if I had somehow entered his own private world. He looked at me as if by my mere touch I had established some type of communion with him.
I opened his white jacket and then the summer shirt under it. His skin was so smooth and cool to touch. I traced out with my fingers, the gentle sloping outline of his breastbone. The child was beginning to breathe heavily. I could see that he didn't know what to do. He was torn between the movement of my fingers and the call of duty to his stupid little coffee wagon. Then, I released him. My chest was throbbing so heavily I had difficulty in breathing. Walking to the door of my office I locked it with the bolt. The moment I heard the click, I seemed to awaken. What am I doing? Am I insane? My mind was a jumble of questions as this sudden, overwhelming passion had never struck before.
"You are a child," I said to him, but the statement was really for myself, to warn me against what I was about to do.
Then my lips moved against his. I could taste the virgin tang and I forced my tongue through those lips until they reached the coolness and the intimacy of his mouth. I could feel his body shiver.
My hands undid his trousers and lowered them to the floor. I took his hand and thrust it inside my blouse, pressing it against one quivering breast. His hand was like a tiny wild animal, trying to escape. But escape was futile. Gradually, his hand stroked my breasts bringing them a measure of excitement beyond anything I had ever felt. His finger moved to my nipples, and they grew and shook under his innocent but impassioned method. Then I pushed them away.
"Stand still," I ordered him, my voice filled with authority and lust.
He stood there, waiting for what would happen, a flush slowly covering his beautiful face and his black hair falling over his magnificent eyes.
I started to undress him. I had to see him completely naked in front of me. I had to see his complete glory, that flesh and muscle standing, waiting for whatever I deemed just. His clothing peeled away under my expert hands. Finally, he was naked, every muscle and sinew of his young body quivering. Walking around him, again and again I kissed his body. No part of him escaped my lips. I drank in the sweet virile essence of his sweat and let my tongue suck a tiny piece of lint from his navel.
"What is your name?"
It was the second time I had asked him that question and he looked at me perplexed. "Felipe," he muttered.
"No," I said, "you no longer have a name, you exist to serve me, you are part of me."
Then I saw it, jutting out, its point quivering and moving from side to side. At first I turned away. There was a beauty and a virility in his cock so strong I could not bear to face it. It was like coming out of an air-conditioned movie during the summer and suddenly being assaulted by a blast of air so hot that one must shrivel up and defend one's body and mind.
His eyes were downcast when he saw me watching it and then turning away. But my eyes could not be deprived of that feast for too long.
My hands went under it and felt the weight of the child's globes. Like the eggs of some strange bird, they nestled in the nest of my hands. My fingers gently pinched the loose skin of their sac and the boy moaned.
"Be quiet," I said, "accept all that I can give you."
My fingers left the globes and reached the quivering weapon, that cock which perched on his body like some organic growth.
It burned my hands. Its excitement, its quivering made my fingers into jelly. Finally, I held it in both of my hands, keeping its fiery tip steady, riding it with my hands like some wild horse.
But my lips wanted it. Closer and closer they moved to the center of the flesh. A strange burning sensation began in my tongue and with it the fantasy that only his cock would quench my thirst. It was an inch in front of me. My head began to swim and my eyes went out of focus.
We touched. His young maleness rested for a brief moment against the gates of my lips. And then, opening them ever so slightly, they penetrated. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I accepted the beauty of that cock.
My lips curled around it like some exotic fruit and I began to extract every bit of lust which was in it, every bit of vital passion which the young boy had stored up since his adolescence. I pulled him down on the floor and succumbed to its rage, as it moved from side to side within my mouth, furious, uncontrolled, with no aim or purpose other than the ultimate ecstasy.
Each time it quivered and lashed, I sunk my teeth into it, not enough to wound his maleness, but enough to send that organ even further on the path to its own realization. I could hear him speaking to me, strange pleas, garbled sentences testifying to the incredible passion which was surfacing in him.
Every part of me was on fire. The heat poured from my body and seemed to focus on my lips, tongue and teeth. It went deeper and deeper until the very globes were crushed against my mouth.
Then I felt his fingers dig into my back and I heard him cry out: "No more, I beg you."
But his words did not interest me, for I felt his cock beginning that journey toward explosion. My tongue delighted in its pulsing thrust and a second later-the hot sweet juice of his childhood poured into me like the sweetest delicacy, inundating my opening and sending my body into a paroxysm of fulfillment.
All was quiet. We lay on the floor gathering our senses, trying to understand what had happened to us. Gradually, the fog of passion cleared up.
I stood and went to my desk, grasping the side of it, feeling the grain of the expensive Danish wood. Then a horrible revulsion over my act went through me. I felt a sudden nausea and wanted to leap through the window to my death.
Looking at the young boy, I hated him more than I had ever hated anyone in my life.
I picked up the cup of coffee which stood untouched on my desk and flung it at him, sending the scalding liquid over his naked body. He did not scream or utter a word. His body seemed to shrivel up like a cat when it is grievously wounded. Suddenly, I realized what I had done and raced to him, crying and asking for forgiveness. My tongue licked the coffee from him, soothing his burnt skin, trying to make amends for my action.
I dressed him as I would dress a baby and gently led him to the door. Before he left he took my hand and pressed it gently to his lips.
"Thank you, Felipe," I said, withdrawing my hand slowly.
Sitting behind my desk, I could not believe I had actually participated in the events which had transpired only a few moments ago. At first I thought I was in the midst of a nervous break-down. But slowly, my reason returned. I tried to reconstruct the sequence of events from the moment Felipe had first brought into the room his coffee wagon.
Why, I asked myself, after all these months had I finally noticed him? Why was I drawn to a young child? Why did my passion suddenly erupt with an intensity far greater than any other moment in my life?
There were no answers to the question. Yes, there was one answer but I was afraid to admit it. I was afraid to admit that I was one of those twisted women who delights in the bodies of young boys and only young boys.
The papers, piled so neatly on the desk, stared me in the face. I began to wade through them, calling my secretary into the office from time to time in order to give her dictation. Although I functioned adequately the rest of the morning, my mind was not on my career or how I could break new grounds for the woman in business. On the contrary, the memory of that juicy cock kept intruding into my consciousness, burning a hole in my memory.
It was futile to continue. After lunch I left the office and went home. There, I sank into a deep and satisfying sleep. When I woke up I felt immensely refreshed. I felt that a burden had been lifted from me.
Late in the afternoon, I returned to the office and worked harder and more efficiently in the next three hours than I had all week.
This chapter is a remarkable description of a woman's initial descent into the bizarre world of reverse pederasty. Although she gives us almost nothing to go on concerning her past life there is one crucial passage which has a great deal of clinical evidence. This is the portion where she is sitting at her desk and memories of her past come to her. Understandably, it is her parents who dominate these memories.
A few moments later she finds herself fondling a desk pen in her holder. The connection between the movement of her hand and her memories is too close to be a coincidence. The memory of her father has forced her to fondle the pen which can only be interpreted as a phallic symbol.
What she is doing during those moments is fondling the penis of her father. She is doing precisely what she had always wanted to do but what she had been denied.
This "strange force" she speaks of is no doubt the guilt of her desire for her father. Yet, it may be much more complex. There is a good chance that, like many other women in her predicament, the guilt is an unresolved lesbian sexuality, which had been so deeply buried in her subconscious that she was not even aware of it under conditions of extreme pressure.
The reader will notice that her sexual relationship with the Spanish boy consisted primarily of oral contact with his genitals. The reader will also notice that she made no effort to engage in "normal" sex with the fifteen-year old boy. The reason for this is simple. It was an attempt both to accept and remove the guilt of her desire for the penis of her father, a penis that could only be loved if it was presented to her in the guise of a young man's organ.
But more extensive analysis will have to wait for her future development.