Chapter 8
"Keep away from me. Don't touch me. I want only to be left alone."
These were the words Samuel spoke to me as he attempted to break the strange erotic bond which had developed between us. I must tell his story in order to clarify for myself the strange turn of events which my perversion took.
I met that fifteen year old child one glorious night in Central Park when thousands of people had gathered to hear the free concerts which the City provided. I arrived early with a blanket and a small thermos of coffee. It had been a hot day but the evening was cool. A gentle breeze blew across the field where the orchestra was seated. Finding a wonderful spot under an old tree, I opened the blanket and lay down on it.
Soon the concert commenced. The music was shattering. It seemed to play upon my nerve endings, giving me a calmness and a serenity which I had not known for months.
During the intermission, I lay back and closed my eyes, listening to the sounds of the people, a low murmuring sound as if there were millions of dragon flies hovering about.
Then I heard a voice: "Excuse me. Do you have a light?"
Jolted out of my thoughts, I sat up quickly and looked at a young man, holding a cigarette in his hand.
"You're a little too young to smoke," I told him, reaching for a book of matches in my purse.
"And you're a little too old to be contemporary," he shot back.
Handing him the matches, I watched with interest as he tried to light it in the breeze, cupping his hand against the movement of air.
Finally, he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
"What's your name?"
"Samuel," he replied, jauntily, and blew some smoke toward me, his thin body leaning slightly forward in almost a mocking gesture.
"Are you a music lover?" I asked him, drawing my blanket around my shoulders as the night suddenly seemed cold.
"I go to the High School of Music and Art."
I knew that it was an excellent high school and I nodded in appreciation. We both watched each other silently. I could feel that he knew something was in the air; that something, of which he had no understanding, was developing between us.
Suddenly the orchestra began returning to the outdoor pit. Still, he stood there.
I spread out the blanket and gestured for him to share it with me.
"Sit down," I said, "there is no reason you should sit on the grass."
"I have friends down in front," he explained, visibly nervous over the choice which he had to make. His thin body seemed to sway in the gentle wind. A large lock of brown hair fell over his eyes.
"It will be nicer here," I said forcefully, knowing that he had to be pushed. Finally, he seated himself gingerly on the edge of the blanket. I poured him some coffee from my thermos. He took it without a word and began to sip it.
The sound of his lips against the cup sent a tremor through my body. The madness was surfacing. The lust which had been absent during the first part of the concert was now beginning to form in me, beginning to view the child as an erotic object that must be conquered at all costs.
We both sat there as the music began again. I watched his face etched against the night sky. I wanted to sit closer to him, to brush my lips against his innocent face, but it was too daring and would spoil the relationship.
Relaxing, he lay back, only a few inches from me.
"I love this night and this music," I whispered, hoping he would respond.
The child turned his eyes toward me and my body registered an almost electric shock. I grasped his hand. It was sweated and frightened. Quickly, without another word, I brought it between my legs, parting the undergarments. I let his hand find my quivering cunt and rub it again and again until the heat of my passion fairly consumed me.
Then he pulled his hands away and said those words with which I began this chapter. I moved very close to him and spoke as I had never spoke before: "Samuel, listen, something has happened between us. You touched my flower before, you felt the heat and juices rising. Perhaps it is the music, perhaps it is the night, but whatever it is, you cannot stop it. Please do not fight the thing which has arisen. I want your body more than I have ever wanted anything in my life. You must give me your body; that is all you have to give any woman."
He did not answer. He was torn between my lust and the music which cascaded over us. I could feel every fibre of his body assimilating the strains of the music, and I could feel the magnetic force of my lust as it overwhelmed his resistance.
"Do you think I want the world?" I asked him bitterly.
Still he did not answer.
"No, here is all I want." I said.
Moving to him, my practiced hands quickly undid the front of his pants, though my excitement left my fingers trembling.
Then I touched it. It was lying between his thighs like a wounded bird.
"Here is what I want. Will you give it to me?"
Once again there was a moment of decision. The music reached a point where it overcame him and he lay on his back, spreading his legs, completely surrendering to the need I had.
My fingers grasped his globes. They were like the gentlest of fruits, collected there to bring the sweetest meat available to those who had the courage to pluck them. First I massaged his globes gently and then, bending down I tasted them. They were sweeter than they looked, almost divine balls of perfumed flesh, perfumed with the smell of the young stud on his first outing.
But all this was preliminary. For my eyes were on that cock. Yes, it seemed my whole body had telescoped into one brutal desire and that desire was connected to the quiet piece of flesh which lay there.
I held it in my hand. It rested gently in my palm. I leaned over and kissed it, savoring the taste of the cock, savoring the fragrances that are intimately tied with the penis.
It began to stir. Ever so slightly at first but it was a fact. My lips began to move up and down that maleness, the music egging me on, the music seeming to bring my lips into the very orchestra itself. For that was what I was doing. I was creating an erotic symphony with that child's cock.
It grew. It began to attempt to break its bounds. My eyes could make out the tiny throbbings of muscles and sinews.
I opened my lips and let my tongue reach out, like some curious snake, and flick a tiny drop of moisture from its quivering red tip.
For the first time, then, I heard the child moan.
I let the growing sheath slip between my lips and into the sanctity of my mouth. There, in time to the music, I began to suck every tremor and quiver, I brought out the most magnificent movement and passions until his cock went from side to side in my mouth, lacerating the sides of my cheeks with his young fury.
As the concert was reaching its finale, I felt the seed rising in the depths of his stomach. My tongue elicited it, sucking the tip of his cock with a furious motion, until, in one glorious moment, the concert and his lust ended together. At the same moment, the music reached its last crescendo and his cock poured it's juicy love seed into my mouth.
I could scarcely stand the beauty of that liquid as it flowed into me. I could not swallow enough of it. It was like some divine ambrosia that the Greek Gods used to bestow on their favorite mortals.
Then, as quickly and as furiously as it began, it was all over.
Exhausted from the fury of lust, I lay back, my eyes tearing. Then I heard a strange sound from the child. I sat up. He was weeping. Yes, with his head in his arms, I heard and saw his body racked with sobs.
I placed my arms around him, trying to comfort him, but it was no use. There was nothing I could do but wait until he had composed himself. When the sobbing did stop, I asked him what the matter was. He did not answer but he looked at me with accusing eyes.
"It was beautiful," I said to him, my voice reflecting the joys of what had occurred.
He turned to go.
"Wait," I cried, and reaching into my purse I took out a small piece of paper on which I hurriedly wrote my name and address. Then I thrust the paper into his reluctant hand.
"Come to me, whenever you want, night or day."
He turned his face away from me for a moment and then looked at me head on. Never have I seen such eyes, they were filled with desperation and passion, they were the ideas of a wild young thing caught up in a passion he could neither control nor understand.
Then he ran into the darkness. I stood up and tried to follow him with my eyes but he was immediately lost in the swirl of people leaving the concert.
I folded my blanket and began the long walk home, filled with joy at the memory of his succulent young cock, and filled also with a dreadful consternation at the thought that he would not visit me; that never again would I know the glory of holding his vibrant maleness clenched between my lips as the music poured over us.
For several weeks I heard nothing from the child. I sat every evening, waiting for the bell to ring, waiting for him to come to me. But he did not come. To soothe my shattered nerves, I spent long hours listening to records since the sound of classical music reminded me of that moment in the park.
I developed a morbid attachment to one piece of music, Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." I played that record for hours at a time, in the darkness, my mind slightly befogged with alcohol. And as I listened to the movement of the music, to the dazzling turns in the score, I could envision the child's luscious cock, as a musician envisions an instrument or as a composer envisions a symphony.
It was Sunday night when he finally came. Lying on the couch, listening to the record, half insane with lust and disappointment, I scarcely heard the door bell ring.
He entered, slowly, his head down as if he was being led to some pagan ritual. The music flooded the room and seemed to wreathe his head in a halo.
We did not speak. There was nothing to say. He lay on the couch beside me, his young body supple and tender to the touch.
"Give me your cock." My words were brutal but I was already caught up in the thrust of the music. He moved his body so that it was easy for me to grasp it. The moment I held that quivering maleness in my hands, the tears flooded my eyes. It was a joy that I had never really expected to materialize again. I wet my lips, like a conductor flicks his baton to test its elasticity prior to the concert. I moved down to it, stopping briefly at its flaming tip and planting the full force of my lust on that area.
Samuel cried out: "Don't stop! Don't stop! You were right, I trust you."
I knew that instant he was mine as long as I desired him.
Then we entered a world which few people will ever experience. Just Samuel, myself and the genius of the composer. My lips were perfectly tuned to every movement of the music.
When the music went fast my lips raced along the quivering cock, driving the child into a frenzy. When the music assumed the slow and gentle form, when it was like a tonic to the ear, my tongue licked every inch of flesh, feeling with that most sensitive of instruments the subtle movements of his cock, beneath the surface.
My eyes were shut and my body was like a thermometer, measuring each change in the musical piece. As the record reached its finale, I felt once again that glorious seed rising in his being-and a second later I accepted every luscious drop as it inundated my mouth.
We rested for a few moments and then I began the record again. This time, my lips were touched by the same genius that had touched Stravinsky when he wrote the piece.
The child screamed as my mouth turned his cock into a furnace of passion and then, only then, when he had reached the ultimate of desire, did I spread my legs and allow him to sink his virgin maleness into the center of my cunt, letting him drive that powerful weapon again and again into my flower until my thighs drank up the hot love seed and we both fell into the coma of fulfillment.
These joys lasted for a month. These incredible flights of erotic music which joined us mouth to organ, body to mind, and limbs to the structure of a hundred symphonies.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone. The joy, the lust, the music, all were gone. And then, Samuel was gone.
But even now, whenever I hear a certain musical piece, there is a nerve in my body which begins to quiver, and like Pavlov's dog, my lips begin to salivate at the prospect of some child's cock. Perhaps I am an evil woman, but I have had the good fortune of combining the two most beautiful things in the world; great music and the flesh of a child.
How can we clinically assess this strange turn her perversion has taken? It is, admittedly, a difficult problem, but we have certain guideposts we can follow. For one, the reader will notice that the movements of her lips while committing the perversions and the movement of the music were completely synchronized.
In spite of the many explanations she gives for this synchronization, there is no doubt that it is a peculiar form of repression. Her subconscious is still not able to conquer her conscious. In other words, to her mind what she is performing on the boy is still a perversion and not a natural sex act.
Therefore, in order to alleviate her terrible guilt and shame of her actions, she is forced to combine those actions with an art form which she considers the most exalted in the world.
Once this is done, she can continue to satisfy her cravings while deluding herself that she is actually performing almost musical or symphonic acts on the child.
It is one of the most remarkable accounts of such a unique repression, one that may be more common than even the clinical psychologists suppose.