It is felt, however, that the subject had had such fears of inadequacy – in spite of the fact that he does not appear to have proved himself "inadequate" with Nancy (unless, of course, he is concealing the reason for her "disappearance") – even before his sexual encounter with the young girl. There is even a suggestion, according to the psychoanalyst, that the subject, beneath all the conflicts raging in his conscious and subconscious, might be a latent homosexual.
You can understand my rising panic when she told me she was sixteen. I suggested that we quickly – it was such a nice day – go out and get something to eat.
My first impulse, on hitting the street, was to run. Run till I lost her, and then keep on running. But she took hold of my hand tightly. She talked like, well, like I was the crazy mixed up kid and she was trying to reason some sense into me.
All the time she was talking, my eyes were flicking around guiltily. Everyone we passed seemed to look at us and know that I was a rapist. "What have you been doing, to that poor innocent girl?" they accused. My crime was written all over me. I was Raskolnikov.
"Nancy, love," I finally managed. "What are you trying to do to me? Get me twenty years for contributing to the delinquency of a minor!"
"But we love each other," she cooed. "There's nothing wrong with that."
"There is," I explained with steely control, "if you're only sixteen." We were walking toward Hudson Street, where another friend of mine lived, so I thought I'd give him a jingle and ask if I could use his place for a while.
Sex, mind you, was the furthest thing from my mind. What I wanted to do was get off the streets, I had visions of the Bureau of Missing Persons, the FBI, immigration authorities, and the vice squad all converging on us, and I didn't want to go back to my other friend's place.
So, anyway, the guy said he'd leave the key under the mat, and good luck. I just said thanks, because I didn't want to go into the whole story. The rest of the way, I was trying to figure out how to explain certain things to this young lovely.
When we walked into the place on Hudson, it was hot and muggy as only a badly ventilated apartment in New York can be. I went right to the fridge, and pulled out a cold beer to help me think.
"God, it's hot," I said.
"Can I have one of those?" asked Nancy.
Without looking at her, I said, "You may not. You are sixteen years old. You are a minor. You are not of legal drinking age except in your own home." I slumped into a chair at the kitchen table. "And I have contributed enough delinquency to a minor." I took a long pull on the beer. "And for me, alas, you are definitely not of legal fucking age."
"Oh?" And her tone made me turn and look at her. She was standing naked in the middle of the kitchen, hands on her hips, shoulders back, looking directly at me.
The late afternoon sun, slanting in, caught flashes of purple and gold in her long jet tresses, highlighted a Mediterranean cast of features. Every tiny hair along the muscled furrow of her abdomen was lined. The moisture on each hair of her mons glistened. Titian couldn't have wished for better light.
My eyes fell on the pubescent rise of tummy, then on the firm breasts. I remembered how they looked, the perspective, when I'd had my mouth glued to her cunt. A ball of desire ricocheted in my gut.
"I'm gonna take a shower," I said weakly, "… alone." I went to the bathroom, avoiding the hot stare of her eyes, murmuring to myself, "A cold shower." I closed the door tightly behind, but decided not to lock it.
The shower cooled me off, but didn't quite wilt the hardness from my dick. I considered masturbating, but instead gave it a sharp flick of the finger and it relaxed a little more. Tying a towel carefully around my waist, I went back into the kitchen in a frame of mind to continue my lecture on wayward girls.
That frame was quickly shattered.
Nancy was seated on the kitchen table with her legs spread wide, her feet supported on two chairs about four feet apart. She was smiling at me with that stoned smile.
But what really threw me for a loop was the large flesh-colored dildoe jutting out from her crotch. A thing with a hefty set of rubber balls on the end. With one hand she was slowly twisting the dildoe in her vagina. With the other she rhythmically squeezed a tit.
"A good girl scout is always prepared," she said throatily, and pushed about four inches of dildoe into her vadge. Her hand was busily thrumming a nipple.
"That," I said, "is the boy scouts' marching song – be prepared, as through life we trip along." And damn near fell on my knees.
"When did a young lady like you get a hold of such an instrument?" There was a twinge of jealousy as I compared the thickness of the dildoe, unfavorably it seemed to me, with the proportions of my own organ.
She closed her eyes in sensual pleasure. "I snitched it from a friend's mother." She gave the dildoe a vigorous twist, and then pulled it out with a plop. "God, it makes me feel horny." She eyed the slight bulge in the front of the towel. "But it's nothing like the real thing, though, is it?" Her lustful gaze fixed on my face…
I felt the butterflies start in my stomach, and a surge of lust fill my dick. I heard myself moan.
With her legs still wide apart, she took her buttocks in both hands and began pinching them, hard and leaving white marks where her fingers were. My cock surged again. I wanted those hands pinching me, grabbing me; scratching me, violating my asshole with stiff fingers. Her eyes never left my face.
She began to chant in a singsong, childlike voice, "Jimmy's got a hard on. Nya na na na na naa." She lifted her legs, offering a succulent view of wet pussy and winking asshole, and pushed a slick, shiny forefinger deep into her anus.
"I'm hungry," I said, rising on trembling legs and walking unsteadily toward the refrigerator.
"Me too," she said petulantly. "I never did get my peanut butter and jelly sandwich."
I opened the refrigerator, and heard her padding up behind me on bare feet. "No," I said, not turning around, "you won't have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are for barbarians or for fucked-up kids."
Nancy pressed up behind me, rubbing her warm groin into my thigh, grazing my back with her firm nipples. "What's wrong with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?" she asked, drawing her fragrant forefinger under my nose. "Don't you like peanut butter?" She stuck the finger into my mouth, and pushed it ticklingly between my teeth.
The indignity of it was exquisite. To suffer the contumely of this adolescent's appetite was vaguely pleasurable, but to be abused by her shit-smelling finger was, oddly, sheer heaven. My cock leapt to full stiffness under the towel. It encountered her other hand which had crept around to my front.
"Hot cock," she hissed in my ear, dragging me away from the kitchen toward the couch. She tore off the towel and pushed me back on the cushions. "Hot pussy! Hot asshole," she leered. "You like it." She seized my ears painfully and, gazing down on me with demonic lust, began to lower her crotch slowly onto my face. The thought that I'd left the refrigerator open was almost a physical pain to me.
She sat heavily on my face and wiped her crotch, from mons to coccyx, all over it.
"You liked the jelly, didn't you?" she said, pressing her open labia onto my mouth. "Didn't you?" she demanded.
"Mm-mn," I said.
"And you liked my peanut butter, didn't you?"
"Mm-mmm."
She jammed her asshole against my nose till I thought she'd bend it out of joint.
"Well, peanut butter and jelly are for barbarians!" She lifted her crotch long enough to give me a severe look. "Or for fucked up kids. You said so yourself." She reached behind her and grabbed my throbbing cock in a viselike grip. "And you're not a kid," she said. Still holding my dick she slid down my chest. "So you must be a barbarian." She manipulated the tender head of my cock into the wet gap of her cunt. "So I want you to squeeze my tits while you tuck me like a wild man!" And she sat down on my stiff cock, impaling herself to the hilt.