Theodore Stickles: Prisoner Of Lust

Paula knew she was dreaming. But even this knowledge did nothing to help. It was hot, it was hard, it was male, and, most importantly, it was in her. She lay helpless, caught up in the throes of passion, hating it, loving it, unable even to make a token gesture or croak a hoarse "No!" as he pushed it in her, pulled it out, pushed it back in again, churning her insides into a passionate pudding of pink-frothed lust.

God damn him! She knew who it was-knew just as clearly as if she could see his face. It was the most vivid dream she could remember in years. Damn! She hadn't felt this turned-on since-since something she didn't like to think about.

This goddam job was getting the best of her. She ought to quit-but out and go back to something safe like teaching, preferably in some all-girl school. Lately she'd been turning positively paranoid. It was bad enough having to deal with them all day, to look into their burning eyes and know exactly what they were thinking, feeling, planning for her. How could she have not known what they were thinking-after all, what could they be thinking after months or years in that place, locked up and away from even the sight of a woman?

But could they really see it in her face too? Could they read her mind, read her lush, unused body and know how long since she-how she ached and burned, lusted in the lonely silence of her darkened room?

God damn him! God damn the dream that was racking her empty body! God damn a god who created a full-blown woman's body with full-blown desires-and then dumped her into a place in society where she could not gratify those desires.

Oooooohhhh god damn it all-god damn everything! She could feel that great hot thumping lump of maleness humping her, driving a dick indefatigably in and out, in and out, filling her to bursting, leaving her panting and empty for a brief instant before once more stuffing her-like a sausage-like a Christmas goose! God damn it! She wasn't a sex object-something to be fucked and forgotten. She was a woman-an intelligent, sensitive, needful woman. She had a college education. She had looks. She was still young and had her health. She had everything she needed-job, home, car-everything except a man's hot, hard hammer sliding tirelessly into her, out of her, back into her every night.

Something had to give. She couldn't put up with this insomnia forever. And when she did finally manage to sleep it was worse. All she could dream of were those hungry eyes with their naked need that made her feel naked as they studied her statuesque blondness, mentally peeling off her severely tailored clothes, pulling hairpins from her chignon to send a cascade of blond hair almost to her small taut waist.

In the dream those hungry lusting eyes never looked into hers, looked only at the full firmness of twin peaks that peeped through a cascade of blond hair, pointing outward like twin headlights, their rigid pink nipples betraying her need, her shame, her inability to stop thinking about those hungry men with the hungry eyes, with the hungry insatiable need that raged in their bellies.

God damn it! She was a modern, educated woman. Liberated! Liberated-shit! What did liberation mean if her body, her belly remained in some dark, prelogical era where all it asked for was not intellectualizations or rationalizations-all her belly wanted was that prodigious prod sliding slowly in and out, in and out, pumping her full of pregnancy, pumping her full of male chauvinism, pumping her full of the peace-piece-pumping her full of the joy that passeth all understanding.

God damn that dream! Her whole body was reacting-reacting to a goddam dream-and she wasn't even fully asleep. She knew she was dreaming. After all, hadn't she been having the same goddam dream every night, the same goddam faceless man crawling silently into her bed, not even coming manfully in on top of her like a conquering hero, but sneaking stealthily up under the covers from the foot of her bed, slinking along with his head between her legs, between her thighs, doing his bungling, stiff-pricked best to sneak up on her and get it into her while she slept…

It was degrading. Without ever even seeing her face or exchanging a word, civilized or otherwise with her, he was just sticking his maleness into her body like some animal-using her with no more compunction than he'd use a piece of Kleenex. A piece of toilet paper, she decided, would be more apt.

And what good was her college education doing her? He wasn't raping her mind. He wasn't raping her body either. That was the humiliating part of it. She could live with a rape fantasy, Paula knew. That was something outside her, not a part of her. But to lie there passive, ready, waiting, willing, just to lie there while he crept into her bed like a thief in the night, lie there without a struggle. She ought to kick, scream, fight. Instead, she was not even offered the consolation of terror.

If only she could lie there too frightened to move, paralyzed by the sudden presence of a man in her narrow bed… But even that small consolation was denied her. Modern, college-educated, thoroughly liberated Paula was nightly subjected to the ultimate humiliation in her fantasy world. Instead of being assaulted and abused by some stiff-pricked King Kong, she lay there passive and waiting, not at all the master of her body nor captain of her soul, lay there waiting for some timid sneak-thief to scurry into her bed, up between her legs, to work ever so carefully at teasing her drowsing body into missionary position, knees flexed and thighs spread wide so that he could slip it gently into her, holding his frightened breath and struggling to perform the impossible, to fuck a lusting, deprived woman without waking her up. For Christ's sake!

And night after night she burned, ached, raged at her weakness, at her shame as night after night she felt her thighs spread, felt her body quiver and burn in anticipation of this shameful concession to her femininity. God damn it-why must she be so weak?

A vacation? She'd just gotten back from one only five weeks ago. It hadn't helped a bit. She'd gone fishing, clad herself in flannel shirt and Levi's, hip boots, every masculine, unglamorous accoutrement she could think of. She had stood ass-deep for hours in near freezing waters trying to catch a big fish, knowing somewhere deep in her mind even before she had decided on this abortive fishing expedition that a big fish-pesce grande, her grandmother would have called it-was old-fashioned Italian slang for a king-sized cock. And thank you, Hen Doktor Freud.

Vacation-shit! She was going to have to quit this job, throw her career away, forget about emancipated woman and new frontiers, stow herself safely away in some comfortable woman's hole of a job and leave those haunted, lusting eyes that saw through the severe tailored suits she wore, saw through jacket, saw through blouse, saw through bra, saw the rock-hard, throbbing nipples on that pair of full firm thirty-nines that had been her cross to bear, that had turned heads and had turned off minds, making her rage because all the time she was trying to argue a point and make somebody listen to sweet reason all that person could see was a pair of tits, full, firm, appealing, totally unliberated behind that bra, totally nonverbal and convincing that person not that she had a mind, only that she had a body, that it was a sin not to use, exploit, that body.

And she had a body, Paula knew. Damn, did she ever have a body! She was tall for a woman, almost five eight. She was a little on the heavy side too-a hundred thirty-five. But it was distributed with a totally non-intellectual symmetry above and below a twenty-four-inch waist-a full firm ass atop long straight legs, balanced by a firm bust and a pair of jugs that would have made an ordinary girl seem top-heavy.