Chapter 7

(Name: Jean W. Age: Twenty-six. Place of Residence: Chicago, Illinois. Occupation: Newspaper Editor.)

I wait for the summers. It is then that the newspaper becomes flooded with the young boys, sent to the paper by eager parents-hoping that during the two months of summer they will learn the newspaper trade-hoping that they will participate in the glamorous communications industry.

How funny and how pathetic! There is nothing glamorous in this business, nothing at all. It is hard work and low pay with little chance of advancement. But I say; let them keep coming, let the fourteen and fifteen year olds dash about the office during the summer, running copy and getting endless cups of coffee.

At first I hated them. I hated their innocence and their wide-eyed behavior. But, gradually, as I came to know the erotic situation-as I came to understand my own needs, the situation changed.

The first one was Peter. He was just seventeen years old and his uncle worked in the composing room. The next year he would go to college and he wanted a career in journalism. The editor called me into the office and told me he was assigning Peter to me. I fought against the move but when I saw that the editor was quite stubborn, I realized I would be saddled with him.

For the first few days he followed me like a ghost, butting in everywhere he didn't belong. I had to send him on ludicrous errands all over the city in order to keep him out of my hair. But always he returned, standing in front of my desk like a puppy dog, begging for more work, begging to be initiated into the mysteries of the paper.

Then, one hot afternoon, I was assigned to a murder case. In a moment of softness I asked Peter if he would like to come along. He was a thin boy and his whole body shook as he heard the good news. We grabbed a cab and went to the posh hotel where the murder had been committed. The police photographer was still taking pictures.

There were no clues but the victim had been a notorious high-priced call girl and she had a whole book full of suspects. Peter dogged me across the room-wherever I went-he was there.

When I had gathered all the information-I realized that it was really too hot to go back to the office. I knew a small cocktail lounge just around the corner from the hotel and I was sure it was air conditioned. But what to do with Peter. Finally, I decided to take him because if I let him go back to the paper they would ask him where I was and he was too stupid not to tell them. We sat in a small booth and I had a few martinis and he had a coke.

"Don't you drink?" I asked him, not even bothering to hide the contempt.

He was very ill-at-ease with a woman who drank and cursed and he just flushed and looked down.

"No," he whispered.

"What do you do, Peter?" I asked.

"Nothing much, I suppose."

"But you want to be a journalist?"

"More than anything else in the world," he said, with a fervor and dedication that almost made me vomit. How could they be so idealistic? Didn't they know the whole thing was a sham?

"Do you go out with girls?" I asked, knowing it would make him feel even more uncomfortable.

"I guess I don't."

"Don't you like girls?"

He flushed and wrapped his hands so tightly around the glass that I thought it would break. "Yes, but...."

He just couldn't answer the question. He murmured and stammered and then just gave up on it.

Suddenly a great fatigue came over me. I had to lie down, I had to get away from the whole bizarre world which I had joined-the screaming editors, the naive young children, the roar of the presses. My apartment was only a few blocks away. It was time for a nap-just an hour or two that would refresh me. But what to do with the young nitwit? Finally, I decided to drag him along, to keep his lips sealed. If my boss ever knew I was sleeping on Company time, he'd really have a nervous breakdown. Like a lap dog, Peter followed me to the apartment. I left him alone in the living room with some magazines and books and closed the door of the bedroom. Quickly I undressed and stood under an ice-cold shower. The pouring water was delicious. Then I slipped into a robe and lay down on the bed.

All the windows were open but it was so hot that in a few moments my whole body was covered with sweat. I felt as if I was choking to death from the heat.

From the living room I could hear the sound of the boy flipping the glossy pages of the magazine. I tossed and turned on the bed, trying to fall asleep, trying to find some position that would help me avoid the killing heat. But it was no use-no matter how hard I tried-I became more and more uncomfortable until I thought my skin would be shedded from my body.

I lay on my stomach and pressed my body into the mattress, almost searching for a sexual feeling, for the mattress as a man-anything to give me some comfort.

The heat was affecting my brain. I began to remember all the men in my life and all the dreams that had been shattered. I remembered the night I lost my virginity-in that car-with a cousin. He was much older than I and he was away at college. We were just sitting there-laughing-when suddenly he slipped his hand under my sweater and grabbed my breasts. I was so shocked that I couldn't say a word. I grew tense and stiff. He began to kiss my nipples until a warm feeling went through me and there was nothing I could do. He had somehow touched the center of a young virgin-he had rendered me powerless. I made one gesture to get out of the car but he slipped his finger into my thighs, into the crotch, and I found my legs spreading-spreading as if I wanted to have him; as if I had waited all my life for him. He kissed my crotch until it was wet and then he rammed his hungry young cock in-so fast that I didn't even know what was happening-all I knew was the pain and then the breakthrough ... the feeling as if my body was being sent on a trip.

I turned over on my back and forgot my cousin. That idiot in the living room was still thumbing the pages. Suddenly I felt a hatred for that young boy so powerful that my nails dug into the bedspread.

"Peter, Peter," I screamed.

The door opened and he stood uneasily, perplexed at my sudden cry.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

He wore that look of concern that made me nauseous. His white shirt was buttoned at the collar and his tie was straight. His white handkerchief was sticking out of his suit jacket like the little tin soldier that he was.

"Of course, I'm not all right-otherwise ... why would I call you?"

"Do you want something?"

"Get me a glass of water."

He went into the bathroom and I heard him letting the water run. Then he came back with a glass. I grabbed it from him and drained the water.

The boy stood watching me as if he had never seen a grown woman clad so scantily. I held the glass in my fingers and rubbed it along my cheek. It was cool.

"What are you looking at?" I snapped.

"Nothing, nothing," he said, trying to keep his eyes off my exposed legs.

"You were looking, you stupid little future executive."

He turned to go.

"Stay where you are," I shouted.

It is difficult to describe now my sudden virulent hatred of him and what I knew he would be in ten years time. I felt my fingers moving into a claw, as if by gouging his eyes I could rid myself of all the professional and personal disillusionments I had suffered.

My hatred was so great that the glass suddenly broke in my hand. At first there was no feeling but then a million barbs of pain shot through my fingers. I stared down at my hand and saw the blood oozing out, staining the white sheets of the bed-flowing as if there was nothing in the world that could stop it. I had the sudden sensation that I would die. I had the sudden revelation that my last minutes would be in that terrible heat, being stared at by a young fool.

"Come here," I hissed.

He came quickly to the side of my pain, trembling with the sight of my blood. I picked up the brutalized hand and pressed it against his white shirt-so that the red scar went from his buttons to his waist. Then, without thinking, I rammed my wounded hand into his young mouth and he gagged as the blood poured down his throat. A moment later-the bleeding stopped and I eased my hand out. He was pale and shaken. He kept staring down at his blood-soaked shirt. My hands became prey to a soft, throbbing pain.

With my good hand, I found the largest piece of glass, the edges jagged and wicked looking. I went berserk-quietly and slowly berserk. Slowly, I slid the glass along the inside of my thigh, first spreading the robe apart. The blood flowed-a thin line of redness, coming from between one thigh. The child and I began the macabre dance. I grabbed his tie and pulled his face between my legs. He seemed to know-to understand. His virgin lips pressed against the thigh wound. When he stopped the bleeding, I pushed him deeper, until his frightened child's mouth was buried in my crotch and I kept closing and opening my legs-keeping the pressure on him. He tried to escape but I was too strong. I pushed until his mouth was against the nest and a second later his whole body convulsed as the cunt lips opened. There was nothing for him to do but enter-there was no way out but penetration. I fastened my legs around his head and applied the jagged glass to his neck. A stifled moan and then I was impaled on the bed by his hysterical tongue.

Oh-in and in it went. The child knew nothing but penetration; his tongue knew nothing but awakening; and it wound its way up my wet juicy cunt until the passageway was alive with a thousand thrills-a thousand erotic chills.

He was still clothed and parts of his sleeve rubbed against my ass and I shivered even more. How deep would he go? How deep would the tongue carve and twist?

It was beautiful revenge. It was the wet joy of surrounding a male tongue with my most hallowed nest. I sucked him in. I sucked him in all the way until he could no longer breathe and his body convulsed.

Then, laughing with joy at his pain, I pushed his head away and he exited from the cunt like a shell-shocked man-unable to speak-unable to understand.

I threw my robe to one side of the bed. I arched my back so that my ass was against his face-so that the buttocks were slamming into his mouth and nose.

First, I ripped the buttons from the front of his pants and the strange young cock tumbled out. Then I ripped the glass against my white, quivering buttock and it poured out blood. He wanted me again-he wanted me but he didn't understand. Grabbing each cheek, the blood spurting into my hands, I spread my ass in front of him.

"You fool, you stupid little fool ... you disgusting, little ambitious ass-here's a real ass for you. Take it!"

The blood dripped from the cheek into the anus, winding its way down. His eyes followed each drop and then the shaft was full and pulsing. He was being overcome by his own maleness. He couldn't understand the feelings of need-of desperation. I wriggled so the blood flowed more and the white gates of my ass became too succulent to him. Fully clothed, he climbed up on the bed and with a deep sigh-ramming his child cock into the twisting ass of white flesh and blood, dancing in front of him. His shaft cleaved deep and I moaned and was thrown forward as it went burrowing into my anus-the strength of his repressed young body, driving it like a piston. As he fucked me-I let the glass cut again and again into my buttocks. The bed was drenched with blood. I screamed with each thrust and whimpered as the glass cut again.

He was in all the way-he was home. My ass was rent and splintered. The hot core was wrapped around his maleness and a second later-deep inside me-I felt the seed pour out. I felt a river of hot semen inside my ass. Then I fell forward and the whole room began to spin until it blacked out and all was calm.

"Please, please," I heard the voice say.

He was standing at the foot of the bed, still wearing the blood stained shirt.

"Speak, speak," he kept whispering.

Slowly my eyes began to focus. I could make out the color of the walls and the blood on the sheets. I tried to move and a thousand terrible pains shot through my bruised and cut body. My ass felt as if a red-hot poker had been rammed in, without mercy.

"I don't know what to do," the boy said and then he began to weep.

He sickened me. He sickened me deep down, at the level of everything that he represented. He would grow up to be part of the establishment and make love to his dowdy wife twice a week and probably get a prize for some idiotic journalistic coup and he would never curse like me and his wife would never take it in the ass like me.

"Get out of here," I said, my voice low like the strike of a cobra.

"But...."

"Get out ... and get out of the paper and if I ever see you at the office again, you'll never get a job for any paper."

His eyes were wide with fear. His computer brain was trying to tell him whether I could make the threat good. But he decided not to take the chance. His career came first.

"What did I do to you? Why do you hate me?" he asked, beginning to walk to the door.

"You'll never understand," I said, laughing and mocking him, until the tears began to flood my eyes and I realized there was another level of feeling. Peter was gone-gone from the paper and gone from my memory.

The summer was over and all the children left. What I had done no longer seemed significant to me; it was as if I had went on a bad drunk and did all the sloppy things that women do when they lose control. But the idea that I was wedded to a perversion-never dawned in my mind. Only one thing was peculiar that winter. I avoided sex. A number of old boy friends kept calling me but I wanted nothing to do with them. The idea of sleeping with a man was odious. Nor did I masturbate-it was a complete abstinence; I was like a hibernating animal, nursing some unknown but terrible wounds.

It was a cold winter but I felt a tremendous sense of calm. For the first time at the paper there wasn't the usual combat between myself and the editor. He liked all the copy I turned in and there was even talk of my being nominated for a national award because of a story on City Hall corruption which I researched and wrote.

Yes-it was one of those strange interludes in a person's life where the work become paramount-where everything that used to be annoying and petty suddenly turns around and becomes satisfying. The winter merged into spring and then to summer.

The change was dramatic and sudden. I walked into the office one morning and I saw a line of young boys and young girls standing in front of the door to the editor's office.

"There they are, all bright and dewy eyed," a fellow reporter said, sarcastically.

I had forgotten all about the summer help; I had forgotten Peter completely. When I sat down at my desk and began to type, I realized that my fingers were shaking and I kept hitting the wrong keys. Page after page of useless copy I ripped out and threw savagely into the waste basket. A few minutes later the editor called me into the office. He was smoking and sipping coffee from a soiled paper cup.

"Last summer you gave me a hard time. Let's play it nice and cool this time around. It's something we all have to contend with and there's no reason to make a bad thing worse."

He waited for an answer but I didn't say a word. Finally, he continued:

"I've assigned you the best boy who applied. His name is Harvey and his father is a State Senator. Needless to say, it wouldn't be wise if you abuse him."

"As long as he doesn't interfere."

"He won't. Just give him the chance to learn and let him write a few paragraphs so he can show his daddy how wonderful he is."

"When does he start?"

"Tomorrow."

He returned to the paper cup and I realized that the interview was over. I walked out of the office and returned to my desk. A million memories seemed to flood my mind; memories of pain and broken glass; of savage thrusts into the anus. I was drenched with sweat and trembling. But there was nothing to do.

The next morning he was standing in front of my desk. Harvey was tall and well-built and he tried to maintain a sophisticated front, too sophisticated for a sixteen year old boy.

"Look," I said, the words blurting out of my mouth in a torrent of hate and fear, "if you want to spend a pleasant summer, just listen to what I tell you and do it. You don't know anything and I'm a professional. Do you understand? As you can tell, I don't like temporary help and I particularly don't like starry-eyed young newspapermen."

He had probably never been spoken to like that before, much less from a woman and his calm, cool reserve was completely shattered. He picked up a paper clip from the desk and began, nervously, to play with it.

"I'll let you come on assignments with me and I'll let you do some writing, but I won't suckle you. If you want a tit, go home to your mommy."

He blushed furiously and turned away. I knew that he wished he had never applied for the job.

"Are you ready to work?"

"Yes," he said, quietly.

"Then go get me a container of coffee-black with no sugar."

He just stared at me as if he couldn't believe what I was saying. He couldn't accept the idea of fetching something for somebody, of being treated like a common house servant. I could see the conflict in him growing but then ... he turned swiftly on his heels and went for the coffee. I sat down at my desk and just stared straight ahead. I want-ed to die. Yes, that was the strength of my feeling; I wanted to be dead.

The drama began. Only it was I who was the huntress, and an unwilling one-fighting not against the environment but against my own psyche and conscience.

Each day was a struggle. I couldn't bear the sight of him. I couldn't bear the closeness of his body. His every move-his every word-was like a goad boring into my flesh.

Then, one blazing hot afternoon, the intense feelings expoded with a fury. We were alone in the archives room-sitting up in the sultry stacks of microfilms. We were researching an article on drugs in the City. I kept sending him with slip after slip to the files until he dragged his feet and began to mutter that he didn't come to work for a newspaper in order to be a messenger boy. I grew white with hatred. I tried to scream at him but the words choked back in my throat.

Suddenly I was standing on my feet next to him. He couldn't face my silent wrath and turned away. My hands were like claws. They went to his pants and pulled the zipper down. I didn't know what I was doing; I couldn't stop myself.

It was out of his pants-the whole organ-shimmering with the close heat of the day.

I was so furious that my neck muscles ached and my legs were horribly cramped. Kneeling in front of him, I took the scrotum in my mouth and sunk my teeth into his soft, pliant globes until an animal scream of pain came from his mouth. I tasted the blood and silky flesh-I kept the pressure up-lacerating the gentle scrotum-digging my teeth like a dog into the bone of his cock. Then I let him go and moved away-my whole body trembling-my lips quivering from the taste of his maleness and blood. I realized what I had done and I ran from the room and out of the building. The heat almost knocked me to the pavement. The swirling traffic blasted against my eardrums until I covered my ears, and screaming, ran until I dropped onto a park bench.

I don't remember how long I sat there. But when my wits were recovered-I took a cab home and flung myself on the bed. What could I do? How could I face him the next day. I ran to the sink and kept washing my mouth but the taste of his globes and the blood were forever there. No amount of water could destroy it.

All night I tossed and turned on the bed. My body was burning with a terrible fever. Finally, in the agony of near-insanity-I slipped my fingers in the wet center-into the pulsing cunt-and fingered myself to orgasm. After that I could sleep.

The next morning when I walked into the office, he was already at work. He said nothing and I understood what he was doing; he was playing the game that it never happened; he was trying to preserve his job.

"Get me some coffee, will you, Harvey?" I asked gently, not even taking my eyes from the paper.

Five minutes later he returned with the hot liquid but when he placed the container in front of me, his hand was trembling so hard that some of the liquid spilled over, onto the desk blotter.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"For what?"

"For spilling it."

That simple gesture; that simple act of spilling the brown fluid in front of me-seemed to open the gates. I knew right there and then that it was futile to fight. I knew at that precise moment that I would have the boy in any way I could get him.

Late in the afternoon, when he was about to leave, I asked him to come to my apartment for a few moments, to do some extra work. He was quite willings.

Once within the four walls, once safely in my lair, I acted swiftly, as if every second counted. He was sitting in the living room, on a small divan, leafing through some papers I had given him. There was only a small light off to one side. When he looked up at a strange sound, he saw me half naked, my breasts pointing toward them-the white mounds capped by straining nipples. A second later I stepped out of my undergarments-trembling but assured. I turned round and round in front of him-as if displaying my wares. I spread my legs and squeezed my cunt until it was a flaring beacon. I could see him begin to fall under the spell. I knew he could not withstand me. Moving closer to him, our bodies apart but straining to fruition-I wiped his mouth and face with my tits until he was moaning and chewing.

Then I stepped back and picked up the table lighter. I flicked it and the flame burst into the semi-darkness. I handed him the lighter. His fingers were sweaty as he grasped it. In front of him, I began to undulate, until my rutting female odors wafted gently into his nostrils and I could see them sucking the air. I turned around and around in front of him-thrusting first my cunt into his face and then my ass and then my breasts. His eyes were glazed from the feasts of love. I could see the spittle drooling down his young mouth.

He knew what to do-he knew instinctively what to do. He pressed the lighter and the flame moved out. I stopped, eyes closed, facing him, my hands squeezing the base of my breasts so the nipples were like raw, virgin fruit, waiting to be plucked. The fire went close to my nipples; searing them, sealing the juices until I felt they would explode. He kept bringing the flame back and forth-from one to the other-until they were erect.

The flame went out and he stared at me. I positioned myself closer and my hands crept down to the inside of my thighs, and gently, I spread my cunt for him. I closed my eyes as I heard the lighter start and then the flame licked me raw. Oh God-the beautiful pain-the burning tongue which caressed every inch of my crotch-which crept up to my inner lips-which seared my clitoris until I felt I was entering hell.

I heard a sizzling and then I realized it was my own vaginal juices-my own love liquid meeting with the cock of fire. I pulled my hands away and gave a terrible scream of joy and agony. The lighter flicked off. I was trembling in a pool of my own sweat. I plucked the lighter from him. He stood up. His hands tore at his pants until the bird of love flew out-gross, massive, more like a pole than a young man's penis.

He was coming toward me. I was trembling with anticipation. I urged him on with gyrating ass. I hungered for entry. I hungered for pain and joy and to give him my crotch.

I led him step by step until we were close to the wall and I made my stand there.

I held his cock for just a moment in my hands and tongued it all over-tasting the excitement-tasting the pulsing flesh. Then I glided it into my burned and raw cunt. A moment of repose and then he rammed it all the way in-asserting his terrible need. I went against the wall and then bounced back. It went deep-so deep-thrusting and tearing at the wet tissues which wrapped around it in cunt love.

But I needed more-I needed pain. I needed the joys of the burning cock as well as the male phallus. My fingers nicked the lighter and the flames leaped to my ass. As he pumped, I spread my buttocks and let the flames creep in. There was a cock within and a burning shaft from the other side. He was growing with each desperate thrust-until I was lifted off my feet and I drove the burning lighter all the way in. A moment later I exploded-my body leaping with the joys of total orgasm. He pulled out, and, on my knees, I held the flame under his globes and sucked on the menacing, vibrating shaft of love until he filled my mouth with seed. Then and only then, did I lay back on the floor and weep.

In one of Sigmund Freud's most brilliant essays, FROM THE HISTORY OF AN INFANTILE NEUROSIS (Originally published in 1914, reprinted in THREE CASE HISTORIES, Collier Books, New York, 1963) he writes:

"I believe there can be no difficulty in substantiating the statement that infants only soil with their excrement people whom they know and are fond of; they do not consider strangers worthy of this distinction....I mentioned the very first purpose to which faeces are put-namely, the autoerotic stimulation of the intestinal mucous membranes. We now reach a further stage, at which a decisive part in the process of defaecation is played by the child's attitude to some object to whom it thus shows itself obedient or agreeable." (p.271)

This passage will play a crucial part in our analysis. But first we must lay bear the most important clue in the narrative. The breakthrough in the final relationship between Jean and Harvey occurred because of one simple act, as she herself relates; the spilling of the coffee. Her almost obsessive description of this event with her strange adjectival construction-the "brown fluid"-forces us to make the assumption that her subconscious mind was apprehending the spilled coffee as faeces.

Here is an important breakthrough for sadism and masochism are syndromes usually stemming from some imbalance or disturbance in the anal stage of childhood-that stage where the sexuality is centered on the bowel movements and the anus, itself.

Remembering Freud's dictum, quoted above, that the child gives his faeces only to those he or she loves-we come to a most perplexing part of the case. For, not only did Jean turn the pain onto herself, become the object of masochistic desires (with a few half-hearted sadistic actions upon the young boys), but she was actually bringing them the most precious gift she had as a child; her faeces.

Of course, the desire to give the fruits of her bowel movements was completely hidden-and subsumed under the masochistic delights. If not for that strange incident with the brown fluid, we would have no inkling of it at all.

Her future is not to be a happy one for the paradox of taking pain and giving erotic gifts is one of the most deadly and most painful in the whole lexicon of psychological ailments. She wants to be destroyed, to have the flames scorch her anus because of the hidden repressions from her anal stage. But she also wants to give her partner the most profound love she can muster; the faeces.

Her choice of young boys is a choice of necessity. She needs people who are close to the anal stage-who have not yet reached the peak of adulthood and thus remember, subconsciously, the needs of the anus for erotic stimulation-which are then transformed into genital and vaginal penetration. Jean does not indulge in perverse acts, except for the pain, simply because she cannot add another crushing burden to her psyche. She will not be able to maintain the slow tempo in her seductions. Now, it is only during the summer months when there is a goodly supply of young boys around. But soon it will be beyond the confines of her office and then all year round-and then she will throw everything she has over for one night with a child who will accept her peculiarities. The process is devouring and there is little hope of her escaping her destiny.