For about thirty seconds she whipped some of the snappiest cunt to me I'd ever had in my life. In, out, up, down, back and forth, and around and around. She whipped it to me so fast and hard I damn near lost my tight grip on her tits. What was worse, she almost tore my dick off.
I was gritting my teeth and groaning in delicious agony, when suddenly. I started to lose rigidity. I lost just enough so that, on one particularly bone-jarring fuck stroke, my cock slipped out of her cunt on the upswing and jammed head on against her perineum when she came down.
The neighbors must've heard the sharp cries that came from both of us, cries of pain and delight. If they did, they gave no sign. And the two of us lay there for a minute on the couch in a kind of numb, aching bliss. I really do think Nancy must've had a small orgasm. Me, I'd been too bent out of shape – almost literally to come very near a climax. But there was a strange, suffusing pleasure in lying there with my palpitating prick feeling like it had run into a closed door. My God, I allowed myself to think for the first time, I'm a masochist.
"Now I really am hungry," she purred, snuggling against me. "And you don't really have to fix me it peanut butter and jelly sandwich if you don't want to." Apparently, a little stab of pain every now and then relaxed her, too.
"I'll see what there is," I said, getting carefully to my feet and going to the open refrigerator. I noticed little dribs of semen were oozing from the eye of my half-hard dick. And I knew that, despite the small ache in my privates, I was extremely aroused.
I rummaged in the refrigerator again. Eggs, bread, sliced ham, ketchup – ketchup! I knew Mort, my friend, liked good food, but I wouldn't be caught dead with ketchup on the table. And… what's this? Could it be…? Yes, by God, hollandaise sauce.
"By God," I said. "Hollandaise sauce. We can have eggs Benedict!" I grinned from ear to ear. "Mort, I love you."
"What's that?" Nancy asked guardedly.
"Mort's the guy who lives here."
"No, no. The other. Whose eggs?"
I explained to her, but she made a face at the hollandaise sauce.
"You'll like it," I said.
I whipped up two orders of eggs Benedict and set them on the table. All the time I was cooking, she kept staring at my semi-rigid cock, and fingering her clit and breasts.
"I usually sprinkle a bit of thyme or herb fines on top," I said. She was standing by my side at the table. "Do you want some?"
"No," she said. "I want some of this." And she grabbed my cock firmly, held it over the table, and milked several large drops of semen onto one portion of hollandaise sauce. "There," she said in the tone of a master chef.
"That's yours," I sighed. But inwardly I thrilled at her degenerate audacity. We ate everything up in about two minutes, but all during the meal my cock kept throbbing and oozing. I could feel the food being rushed through my digestive tract to be turned into come as fast as I swallowed it.
With each bite she took, expressions of wicked joy flitted over her face. "Umm, yum yum. Come. Umm. Come. Yum yum."
I reflected that a few weeks ago I might well have been taken physically ill by such a performance. And here, in the space of one short afternoon, this pubescent Messalina had turned my head around enough so that I was actually digging it. It was really turning me on.
The two of us clinked wineglasses in a silent toast – yes, I'd not stopped contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I felt like Tom Jones and his mother. Or she felt like Tom Jones and his-her-father. Or something.
"Eggs Benedict and wine for breakfast," I reflected aloud. "There's something decadent about it, something fin-de-siecle."
"Was this your breakfast?" she asked with a mild surprise that irked me. Obviously, she didn't feel decadent. She didn't feel fin-de-siecle. She was young and innocent. Well, young anyway. She was healthy, happy. Never mind that she'd turned my stomach with her request for peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Never mind that she'd forced me to flee my friend's comfortable apartment with her dumb sixteen years of age. Anyone who had breakfast in the late afternoon deserved her reproof.
She observed my silence, and it made her uncomfortable. "Now, fuck me," she insisted, taking my hand and pulling me from the table. "Now you have to fuck me like a wild man, like a barbarian. Became only barbarians eat eggs Benedict for breakfast at night."
Night? Not even dusk yet, and she calls it night.
But her spontaneity was infectious. My cock rose to a happy, healthy erect state proper for fucking sixteen-year-old girls who liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
She lay on the couch, stretching languidly like a houri preparing herself for a hard night, and holding, I noticed for the first time, the small bottle of Chianti. She poured a thimbleful into her generous, copper-toned belly button and said, "Drink first. Then eat. Then fuck."
Oh, yes, I intoned mentally. Order me around, you sweet, young dear. The young darling was a mind reader. I could've licked her grubby little toes, had she ordered me to.
I knelt beside the couch, resting my reverent gaze on the wine-filled pucker of navel, the firm belly, the gentle, black-haired rise of mons. I sucked and licked the wine up. As if drawn by a magnet, my tongue ran along the downy furrow of belly to the thicker hair above the pussy, then down to the fresh, pulpy sweetness of her slit.
She was being surprisingly tender. Or maybe she was holding herself in. She wound her fingers gently in my hair. She slowly eased one leg around so I could get in some good licks at her entire crotch. I stuck a couple inches of tongue firmly up her asshole and felt her come to life a little. She grasped my hair more tightly, pulling it a little.
"Oh, God," she wheezed. "Fuck me now. Fuck me!" Pulling me by the hair and arm, she drew me on top of her.
She threw one leg up and over the back of the couch. Her slit was spread wide, inviting the gorged head of my cock to violate it.
I shoved it in all the way with one stroke right to the hilt, delighting in the feel of my balls slapping wetly against her crotch. She grabbed my ass in tight fists, sinking her nails in and bunching the flesh.
"Oh, shit, yes!" I groaned. "Grab it! Pinch it! Scratch it!" I humped and bucked in delirious joy.
She caught my enthusiasm. She scratched my ass, pinched my buttocks, bit my shoulder, squealing and almost sobbing in her venery.
Abruptly I felt a new sensation, like she was trying to spank me, which was fine by me. "Oh, yes, do it," I yelled. So she did it harder. And suddenly I realized what it was she was doing.
She'd picked up her big rubber dildoe and was flailing me on the ass with it. "Come, come, come, come," she chanted.
With a groan and sob of relief, I felt long knots of come spew into her. Her pussy gaped and sucked audibly. We rocked and humped for endless seconds, and finally rested.
After a few moments, feeling relieved and fulfilled for the first time in weeks and overcome with generosity, I said: "I think Mort's got some peanut butter and jelly. Want a sandwich?"
She smiled gratefully.
A valid prognosis at this early stage of the subject's therapy cannot be presented; however, if he accepts several of the potential psychological problems that he is subconsciously beset with, there is no reason to be pessimistic about the outcome of his therapeutic sessions with the psychoanalyst.
CONCLUSION
Five drops in an ocean, five winks in eternity, five cases out of the millions that have gone and the millions that will go unrecorded, cannot bring a conclusion of any legitimate stature. Both masochism and sadism appear to be permanent features of man's overall character. History bears this point out. Samuel G. Kling, in his Sexual Behavior and the Law, unequivocally states (in reference to sadism).