Suddenly, she reached down and slapped me across the face. Hard. I looked up at her, suddenly very angry. I had done nothing to warrant that slap.
"Unless you are told otherwise," she explained, "you will crawl from place to place. On all fours. With your buttocks sticking up."
For some reason, her explanation eliminated my anger. I had done something wrong and I had been punished. I understood.
At her command, I started with her feet and began to lick up her body. She tasted like lemons. I don't know why, she just did. And wonderful. I was so excited by what I was doing that I had to restrain myself from grabbing hold of my own cock and pumping it.
"Slowly, I moved up her body. She'd turn occasionally when she wanted some particular area worked on, like behind her knees. I heard her grunt slightly as I worked as best I could with my tongue."
The amazing thing about this whole thing was that I had never liked to lick before. I always found it distasteful, even with my own wife. But here I was, totally enthralled by what I was doing.
Finally, joyfully, I got to her crotch. Her pubic hair was scented and scratchy. I buried my face in it, reveling in the smell, the feel and the taste. I ran my tongue deep into the hair, twirling it around.
And then she arched herself slightly to give me access to her pussy. Again the taste, the feel and the smell almost overwhelmed me. I wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of my life with my tongue inside her, taking care of her. Performing for her. Serving her.
She held the back of my head towards her and moved slowly to a chair. She sat down and opened her pussy wide for my mouth and tongue. I was like a starving man. I wanted to devour that cunt. But at the same time I wanted to do what she wanted me to do.
If she wanted me to lick gently, I would lick gently. If she wanted me to work so hard that my jaw ached – even fell off – I'd work that hard. Anything she asked.
The euphoria I was feeling didn't last long, however. Suddenly, she pushed me away. I fell back on the floor, and watched from that position as she got up and walked away from me.
She slipped her robe on and then went to the bar. She fixed three drinks, one of which she gave me and told me to drink. Straight down. I did it.
"Stand," she said. When I was upright next to her, she handed me the other drinks. "Follow me," she said as she walked towards the hallway.
I followed her down several closed doors. Then we arrived at what I guess was the master bedroom. The door was partially closed. Clarissa knocked.
Charles was inside. "Come in," he said. His voice was deep-pitched and smooth.
I followed Clarissa in. Charles was stretched out naked on a huge bed. Larger even than a king-sized. He, like Clarissa, had a magnificent body. And his sexual equipment, stretching now soft down his thigh, was huge. Charles made me feel somewhat inadequate.
I was told to get to my knees and offer Charles a drink. I did.
He leaned over casually and took the drink. While he was taking several sips, Clarissa was taking off her gown. Then she lay on her back on the bed.
Charles leaned back and adjusted some pillows behind his back so he could now sit up. He scooted back, adjusted himself until he was comfortable, and then picked up the book he had been reading. His drink had been placed on the night table.
Clarissa was lying about five feet from him. Totally flat, not even a pillow under her head. She had her legs slightly spread, and she was caressing her breasts. Charles seemed not even to be looking at her.
He read for a short while, totally ignoring both Clarissa and myself. My knees began to ache, but I didn't complain. All I could do was stare at Clarissa, watching as her nipples became aroused. She was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen in my life.
Suddenly, I glanced up. The ceiling was totally covered with a mirror above the area of the bed. When I looked back, Charles was glancing at me. "A nice touch, don't you think?" he asked. There was no humor in his voice. No emotion whatsoever.
"Yes, sir," I said.
Again the room was silent. Charles returned to his book, and I returned to staring at Clarissa. My cock by this time was sore. It had been in a state of arousal for so long. I wanted to grab it, to masturbate. But I didn't.
Finally, then, Clarissa began to moan. Very softly. Apparently, she had worked herself up to a state of excitement.
Charles glanced at her. Then he looked at me. "All right, Paul," he said, again in that emotionless voice, "fuck her."
I couldn't have been more shocked. I don't know why I should have been, but I guess it was the tone of his voice, or something. It just seemed so obscene for him to be so casual, so unfeeling.
I got to my feet, rubbing my knees a little to regain the circulation. I moved to the other side of the bed. Clarissa's side. I stood over her and looked down. My mouth was completely dry. My heart was beating wildly. She was so Goddamned beautiful.
I put my hands down on the bed, one on each side of her. Then I climbed up on the bed and slowly let the weight of my body descend on her. A thrill raced through my whole body as I felt her breasts pressing up against my chest. Another thrill ran through me as I put my whole weight on her, my cock pressing down on her belly.
Instantly, her legs wrapped around me. Her eyes were closed and she was still moaning softly. I reached down and felt her pussy. It was wet and the hairs were matted. I tried to insert my finger.
"No," she gasped. "Your cock."
"I raised myself and got my cock into position between her thighs. Clarissa smelled entirely of sex. I was like a male dog after a bitch in heat. I jammed my cock into her, wanting to hurt her, I think. But she wanted all I had and more. She pulled me to her, forcing me even farther up inside her. She clawed at my ass and my back. She writhed around on the bed, pulling me into her, milking me. I was lost. Totally and completely absorbed. I had never had such a total feeling in any fuck before."
Paul I. is what might be called a psychopathological adventurer, a victim of voluntary boredom, a gambler with (to him) the unknown challenges of sexuality – although it is more likely that he knows (or suspects) much more than he admits – and, somewhat inadvertently, a masochist. In short, he is a most pathetic psychological misfit, an escapist from what might be termed the reality of survivalism for no other reasons than those advanced by his intellectual anemia or cowardice and the subconsciously chosen irresponsibility toward himself as well as others. Terminally, he is an unconscious disciple of Thanatos.
There is nothing in his childhood or adolescence that suggests any trauma or abnormal leanings, anything, in other words, that could be held responsible for his present psychopathological, if not psychotic, state, yet it is not in the least surprising that Paul is, in fact, courting death at the young age of twenty-eight. Although there is disagreement among the different schools of thought regarding the relationship between the sexual urge and the death instinct, especially such a relationship within the contextual problem of masochism, one must needs but follow the progressive thread of sexual development in Paul's case to see that, unless the sexual urge is rechanneled, it will lead the subject nowhere else but to the realm of Thanatos.
Considering that there appears to have been no traumatic event in the subject's life that could have accounted for his masochistic tendencies, one must seek the answer to the subject's present psychopathological condition elsewhere. The clue is glaringly apparent in the very first sentence of Paul's narrative: "I guess it was the normalcy of my life that made it so Goddamn boring." The word boring is the master key to the subject's life, if it can be called that.
Boredom is a temporary condition of the mind that can be an intellectual impetus or an intellectual decay mechanism. It can be the sire of genius or the foster father of idiocy – and the term idiocy as used here is meant to approach less insanity and more stupidy, although the latter often leads to the former. Boredom is the feeling of an exceptionally bright person caught in the midst of stagnation of those less bright; it is also the feeling of an exceptionally dull individual caught among those who manifest genius, or at least a median of intellectuality.