Case History 8

SUBJECT; Cynthia AGE; Twenty-one

INTERVIEW ONE

The only word to describe Cynthia would be 'Regal'. She was a stunning woman, with long and straight black hair. This contrasted sharply to her milky skin.

These two elements combined with her great height to make her look like some model for an East Side boutique. She looked much more mature than her age would have suggested. Not that she didn't have a youthful bloom in her face, but at the same time she had the sophistication and charm of a woman with much more experience.

She wore a basic black dress that was clinging to her slender and well-formed body. I could see her erect nipples outlined by the folds of soft fabric.

It was most out of place that in our first interview, with all of her other presumptions at elegance, her palms were sweating profusely.

Well, Doctor, I finally dragged myself here. I know that my family would die if they knew that I was coming to see you. Then again they would die if they knew anything about my sexual fantasies and experiences.

I was brought up in just the right way. We used an etiquette book from 1911 as the arbiter of good taste in our household. We had servants who would say things like, "Madame is not receiving any visitors today."

And the thing was, I always fit right in with that whole scene. I instinctively knew which fork to use and I always said the perfect gracious thing, even when I was a little girl.

There was only one time that I can ever remember my father beating me. My nanny had taken me for a walk in the park and I had seen a number of words scrawled on the walls.

"What does 'fuck' mean?" I asked.

Nanny slapped my hand and said, "You must not say that word!"

I gave one last glance at the wall and then I went on down the block with my nanny.

When I got home that evening I took my crayons and I wrote the words I had seen all over my drawing pad.

In huge multi-colored letters I wrote, 'Fuck', 'Cock' and 'Cunt'.

My mother came into my room to tell me to come downstairs for dinner. I did not know that what I was writing was bad, but as soon as my mother saw the words, she grabbed me by the hand and she grabbed up my writing pad in the other hand. She rushed down the stairs so fast that she was virtually dragging me off behind her. My feet did not even have the time to touch the steps.

She took me into my father's study which was always very heavy with cigar smoke. She merely showed him the words that I had written on the pad. My mother was shaking as if something very upsetting had occurred.

I was frightened as I stood in front of my father. I didn't know what I had done wrong, but I knew that both of my parents were upset.

Father glared at me through a haze of cigar smoke. "Where did you learn these words?"

"They were written in the park, sir."

"Have you ever heard these words?" He asked in the voice of a brutal prosecution attorney.

"No sir." I would never have lied to my father.

"As far as I can see you have done no wrong." He mused for awhile, and then he continued, "But you must be taught that what you have done is wrong."

He motioned for me to climb up on his knee. He lifted my skirt. Since he had not spanked me before this I really did not know what he was doing.

I was shocked as I felt his large hand reach into the back of my panties and pull them down. I cried out as his open palm slapped hard against my naked ass.

"Those are bad words!" He shouted and drowned out my sobs. "Bad, bad words!" Each time he said the word 'Bad' he hit my sensitive bottom.

When he gave me permission to leave the room, I ran up to my bedroom and shut myself in. I hated my father for the punishment he had given me. If these were words that could be written in the park, why couldn't they be written in my pad?

But, even more than the hatred that filled my heart, there was a great curiousity there. I wondered what the words meant. What could those words have been that had caused such a violent reaction in my otherrwise sedate father?

All through the rest of my childhood I was always the model little girl. I could go to a picnic all dressed in white and come home with an absolutely clean dress.

It was an easy life for me. All of my other friends were from families similar to mine. We all assumed that everyone had chauffeurs and nannies and maids and butlers. None of us ever stopped to think that the maids and the butlers did not have maids and butlers.

When I finished finishing school I had no desire to go to college. There was nothing that I wanted to be except a society matron, so I figured that the sooner I began that career the better.

Carlyle Danforth Tate asked me to marry him and I did. It was not totally because of his family name and his money. Carlyle was a very handsome young man, with blonde hair and broad shoulders. I must add though that I would not have married a man who did not have the money to live in the style to which I had become accustomed.

It was during our honeymoon that I first had contact with the thing that I had so desired. Forbidden dirty words!

Carlyle and I had been married for just five days and we were still having sex every day. Carlyle had his big cock shoved inside of me. I was lying on my back on the bed and I had my legs thrown around his back.

His face was tangled in my hair and my lips were next to his ear. I don't know what made me do it, but I suddenly began to whisper, "Fuck me. Fuck my hot cunt with your big cock!"

He stopped his movements and he pulled his cock from my overheated vagina. He looked at me as if I had just said something subversive.

"What was that all about?" He asked.

I never blush because I always keep my composure, but in this instance I blushed bright crimson as I said, "What's the matter?"

"What's the matter?" He repeated my words in an incredulous tone. "I married a lady, not a gutter slut."

As he climbed out of the bed he pulled on his pajama bottoms. I was truly shaken up. I was shaken up because of Carlyle's reaction and I was also shaken up because of what I had said in the first place.

"Why are you going?" I mumbled.

Carlyle raised his nose in the air as he said, "You are obviously a bit over-excited!" Then he marched out of my bedroom.

I was careful in the future never to use the dirty words, but they were constantly on my mind. Whenever Carlyle would fuck me, my mind would keep repeating, "His cock is fucking my cunt. His cock is fucking my cunt." That would excite me.

Then, one night I had a strange and exciting experience.

Carlyle was working for a nationwide banking house and he often went on the road for a week at a time. He knew that I slept late in the mornings and that I was usually bustling around town all afternoon, so he knew that the best time to reach me was late at night.

One night about midnight as I was watching the color television in my bedroom, the phone rang. I knew that Carlyle was the only one who would call me at that hour.

I picked up the phone and said, "I'm glad you called."

The voice on the other end said a muffled, "Hello."

"You sound funny," I said.

There was a pause and then the voice said, "I have a cold."

"What are you taking for it?"

"Taking?"

"Do you have a temperature?" I had learned to get rather motherly toward Carlyle in our months of marriage.

"I don't have a temperature."

"I hope you used a rectal thermometer, they're more accurate."

"Rectal thermometer?" The voice sounded put off. "Can you talk?"

"Of course I can talk," was my reply.

"What do you have on?" he asked.

"Just some old movie on the late show. I've seen it a million times."

"No! What do you have on?" He persisted.

"I told you," I repeated, "just some old movie. It's that one where the English girl becomes a hooker and meets the flyer she used to love."

"What are you wearing!? " He was nearly shouting now.

"My nightgown!" I shouted back.

His voice became softer as he said, "What does it look like?"

I paused to look down at myself and see which nightgown I was wearing. "It's the pink one," I said, "it has little flowers around the neckline and it comes to just above my knees."

"And are you wearing anything else?"

"No, I'm not."

"Well, why don't you touch your hot pussy lips and make believe that my big cock is there to fuck the shit out of you?"

"Carlyle," I shouted, "Is that you?"

"Spread your hot twat and shove your finger up your pussy slit. Come on, baby, play with that cunt meat until you start oozing all your hot pussy juice all over your fingers!"

I knew then that it was not Carlyle. I had received an obscene phone call and I had kept the caller on the line thinking that it was my husband calling.

He continued speaking in a low breathy tone. "Don't you wish you had a hard cock there? Don't you wish you could get your cunt fucked by a big stiff piece of prick meat?"

It was bad enough that I hadn't yet hung up the phone. Somewhere out of the depths of my diaphragm, I found myself saying, "Yes! I want a cock fucking my pussy!"

There was a startled silence on the other end of the phone.

I hung up the phone.

It began ringing again, but I refused to answer it. I reached down and felt my cunt. I had been dripping pussy juice just listening to the dirty words that the obscene man had spewed forth.

When the phone stopped ringing I took it off the hook. The next day I had my number changed.

INTERVIEW TWO

When Cynthia arrived for her second interview she wore more casual clothes. She obviously felt comfortable enough in my presence to be able to drop her regal veneer. Yet, even as she was she still had the look of a royal lady.

Her hands were not sweating this time. At least they weren't until she got to the end of her story.

I had always gotten sexually aroused by dirty words. As a girl, when I used to finger-fuck myself, I never even imagined the pictures of cocks and cunts together. I just had to speak the words.

When Carlyle came back from his business trip, I told him about the obscene phone call. He was shocked and horrified that a lady should have to hear such horrid things. Of course I did not tell him about the embarrassment in my mistaking the obscene phone caller for him, and I did not tell him about the last thing I had said to the caller.

He insisted that I report the call to the police. A nice young officer came to our house and took down my version of the phone call. I kept staring at his handsome body as I told him all of the nasty and luscious words that the midnight caller had said to me.

Once again I edited out my own response about wanting a cock to fuck my pussy.

I felt my pussy juicing up as I spoke to the policeman. When the two of us rose up so that I could escort him to the door, I noticed that there was a bulge in the front of his pants. He was embarrassed as he tried to casually readjust his pants so that I would not notice his erection.

If he could only have seen how moist my panties were, he would not have been embarrassed about his hard cock.

The trouble with my life was that I wanted to use dirty words, but I was not in any position to use them. I could be snotty and difficult to clerks in stores, but I could not sink to the level of pornography that I so desired.

I passed bookstalls that sold sexy novels. My cunt would burn up as I would think to myself, "How often is the word 'fuck' used in those books?" If only I could have bought one of those books. All I would have needed was one, so that I could just see the words in print.

I could have frigged all night just staring at the words 'Fuck', 'Cunt', 'Pussy', 'Cock', 'Prick' and all of the others. I felt the soft lips of my twat quiver as I let the words die silently on my lips.

With all of my servants and my husband and my family and friends there was no way that I could have gotten one of those wonderful erotic novels into my home and kept it hidden.

So I had to keep these words in my mind, or at the tip of my lips. They were as forbidden for me now as my father had made them when I was a little girl.

There was one time when I was driving to a meeting of the museum board-and I passed a row of condemned buildings. The word 'Fuck' was scrawled all over the buildings.

I thought that I was going to cum right there in the driver's seat of my classic European car.

If only Carlyle would let me speak the word, everything could be so simple! If only he didn't have to be such a prude about things!

It happened that while I was driving back home from the meeting of the museum board my car began to make some rough, rasping noises. It actually stalled. Just because the car was a classic did not mean that it wasn't also a headache.

I was able to start the car up, but it stalled at the next stoplight. I was able to start the car once more, but it kept sputtering and it was hardly moving. Fortunately, there was a gas station on the other side of the stoplight. The lights were still on and I pulled my car up onto their lot.

There was a bulky man in the process of turning out the lights. I motioned for him to come over to my car as it died once again and came to a wheezing stop.

He looked in my direction and then he ignored me. He continued about his business of turning out lights and locking things.

Finally I got out of the car. I was furious that I had to do that since I was wearing a beautiful designer dress. I did not want to risk getting any oil or stains on it, since I had just paid over seven-hundred dollars for it.

"Hey you!" I shouted as I approached the man.

He turned slowly. He was a big, swarthy looking brute, with black hair cut very short and a trimmed moustache. He pointed to the name tag on his filthy coveralls as he said, "The name is "Tommy', not 'Hey you'. "

"Tommy, my car is stalled," I said.

"So?" He said as he turned away from me and went about his business.

"So?" I said, "I want you to do something about it, that's what!"

"Lady," he said in a perfectly calm voice that was beginning to infuriate me, "there is a pay phone over there. If you want to call for a taxi to take you home you can do that. We can then do something about fixing your car in the morning when you come back."

"I want something done now!" I shouted. It was an unsavory neighborhood and I didn't want to be stuck there.

He kept his calm and even tone of voice as he said, "You can also go to that pay phone and call a towing service that works twenty-four hours. You can have them tow your car somewhere where they can work on it."

"And what about you?" I was determined to hold my ground.

"I get paid to work here. I have worked here all day. I am not working now."

"I can pay you!" I said, as if that were a piece of news.

"I been here since seven o'clock this morning, lady." His voice no longer maintained the calm and sure quality that it had before. It rose to a scream as he continued. "And I been workin' here since seven this morning. But you wouldn't know nothin' about that. What did you ever do for your money except get fucked?! "

My lips were moving, but I could not speak. There were a combination of jolts to my system. The first was that Tommy had spoken the truth. I really had never earned any money in my life and the money I had was due to my marriage to Carlyle. Or, as the garage mechanic so succinctly put it, it was due to my getting fucked.

I was not used to being spoken to this way. In the boutiques and shops that I usually frequented I was used to being much ruder to the personnel, and none of them ever expressed their anger in this way.

Then, on top of all that, he had triggered something inside of me. He had used that special word that always had an affect on me. He had said 'Fuck'. It was in a strange context, but I could already feel my cunt dripping.

When I finally spoke it was to say, "How dare you speak to me that way!"

He glared at me and said, "You rich piece of cunt. Who the hell do you think you are? Who do you think you're talking to? You're nothing but a stinkin' piece of pussy and you need a good fuckin' to straighten you out!"

Tommy stopped as he looked at me and saw how shaken up I was by what he had said. He reached out a greasy hand and put it on the soft fabric of dress. His hand touched my soft breast.

I pulled back. This may sound strange, but I actually was thinking that he was leaving a grease spot on my dress. I wasn't worried about his touching my tit as much as I was about his messing my expensive dress.

"Maybe I was wrong, but a minute ago you looked like you wanted to get your pussy stuffed full of prick meat." His eyes kept studying me.

My panties were soaking wet. Yes! I did want to get my pussy stuffed full of prick meat! Yes! I loved it when he spoke to me that way!

He walked toward the garage. When he got to the door to turned and stared at me. Then he walked through the door.

What was it that made me follow him through that door? He had no chains on me. He had nothing to hold and control me. There was nothing except the fact that his filthy language had gotten me hotter than I had ever been in my whole life.

I walked through the door and saw that he was unbuttoning his coveralls. In the moonlight that was streaking in through the high glass windows that were in the top of the garage doors, I could see the black hair that was amassed on his chest.

As he continued to unbutton, he revealed the top of his white jockey shorts. They contrasted so sharply with his darkly-haired belly and his grease stained body and coveralls.

He pulled the coveralls down his legs and said, "Come on, cunt, I ain't got all night!"

Just when I was about to turn and leave, he called me 'Cunt' and that made all the difference. My dress slid from my body. I didn't even care that the seven-hundred dollar dress fell to the grease-soaked floor.

The two of us moved toward each other. The lump in the front of his jockey shorts pressed hard against the silky front of my panties. His filthy hands were staining my bra as he pushed me down to the floor.

He literally tore the underclothes from my body. Then he was viciously brutal as he fucked my tight pussy slit.

Tommy was constantly talking throughout this whole fucking.

He would say, "I'm fucking your hot pussy. My big cock is digging deep into your hot piece of cunt."

And I would keep mumbling in his ear, "Fuck me! Shove your hard meat deep up my cunt! I want to feel your big prick fucking my hot cunt!"

Then when I felt the throbbing wetness splash out of his huge hunk of meat, he was screaming into my ear, "I'm shooting all of my hot load up your hungry pussy!"

I screamed along with him, telling him, "I want all that wet and hot cum shoved deep inside my cunt. I want to feel your big cock cum up my tight cunt!"

Finally, he finished.

I have seen Tommy on a few occassions since that time. We meet in some out of the way motel where they have thick walls and we can keep shouting dirty words to our hearts content.

I don't know whether I should go on with this. I am finding it very hard to deal with my husband knowing that I am seeing this other man. I also find that I sometimes get very disgusted with Tommy. He is very abusive in his talk.

Although the abusive language turns me on sexually, when I stop to think about it I wonder if the abuse isn't real!