I meet this girl, Toni, at a party when I'm a junior in college. She's
only a junior in high school. The age-difference is a stretch, but she's
so pretty and disarming and flirtatious that I an't resist. Her breasts
are so firm and her pubic bone so compact pressing against her tight
pants that I can't think of anything all evening except making love to
her. She accompanies me back to my flat, and we neck a little, but the
first time I try to touch her breasts, even with her shirt on, she
deflects me. I'm too aggressive, she explains. The way she was brought
up, females decide everything and males are grateful for the chance to
please them. I ask exactly what she means. She picks up a pad of paer and
starts to sketch as she talks. She tells me to get up off the couch.
"Do you really want to know?" I say Yes.
"I learned everything from mom," she says. "I learned how to draw
and how to dominate males. Why don't you strip and let me draw you?"
It's that matter of fact. I'm confused, but there seems to be
some sex in it somewhere, so I comply. Toni says she'll tell me what to
remove when. When each item is off, she adds, I'm to turn slowly in a
complete circle so she can look me over, make a few quick sketches of
what she sees. "For mom," she says.
"What do you mean, for mom?"
"We'll get to that," she says, "now take off your shirt."
I do it, a little nervously, then do the full turn. Slower, orders.
"Good strong back," she remarks. Shoes and socks next. No need to
do the turn. Jeans - "No, don't just pull them off, shimmy them down your
legs. Movement skills are important."
I shimmy: it feels weirdly feminine to do it. Toni tells me I
"have good movement-skills." They're down, at my ankles, the jeans are
down. I do the turn. While my back is to her, Toni tells me to lower my
briefs over my hips and leave them. "Just some hair visible in front,"
she clarifies. I do it and she tells me to turn. "Good boy," she says.
I'm erect. I was turned on by the girl to begin with, and she's
been flirting and teasing all night, and now this. But I'm embarrassed
too. "Let them down," she says, and I do and my penis springs out. "God,
it's already glistening," she says. "Such an eager boy."
"Did I mention the kneeng part?" she asks. "You're supposed to be
kneeling. Mom says it's more informative about a guy. It's strictly
regulation with us, so do it." I do it, embarrassed but pretty helpless.
Toni sketches away, and I'm starting to understand that mom is going to
be seeing these works of art. Toni begins to explain. Mom is an
illustrator and photographer, dad a businessman. Mom believes that men
are made to serve women. It's that simple. Toni grew up believing it too,
of course. Her father, when he wasn't travelling on business, and her
older brother were always treated as servants. Affectionately, but as
servants. They were naked a lot of the time and simply ordered to do
various household tasks, or to pose for mom and Toni when they needed
models.
The males of the house never had any real privacy. Toni could
walk in on her brother or father when they were peeing or bathing or
anything. On the other hand, her and her mother's privacy were absolutely
sacred. Even as a small girl, she had a distinct sense of her superiority
to males. How could she not, raised this way? Her brother is three years
older. Since he was brought up to have obedient feelings toward females,
he never even thought of protesting. When he was old enough to
masturbate, mom made it clear to him that it was okay, perfectly normal
in a boy his age, but that he had to have permission before he indulged.
A female's permission. It was good manners. He could ask his mom or his
sister, but he had to learn manners. So here is this eight-year old girl
being asked by her big bother if he may masturbate. She usually said yes,
but occasionally, when she was mad at him, she just refused. When she
did, he never argued. He had to do the act with his bedroom door opened
and report to mom or Toni when he was through. This was good manners.
Toni took this boyish masturbation thing for granted. "We have to
let them," her mother explained. It wasn't that interesting to Toni, but
once or twice her brother would approach her for permission while she had
a friend over, and the other girl couldn't help being interested. Toni's
brother didn't seem to mind if the visitor watched. Acceptance of girls'
wishes was part of his training, and he'd go on masturbating without any
self-consciousness. The girl could ask him questions about it and
everything, and he'd be very sweet to her and answer them all. Toni found
it boring after a while. But her friends started visiting more and more
frequently.
Often her father and brother would get erections while doing
their tasks in the nude. Toni took these for granted too. They were just
what her mother said they were and nothing more: signs of male eagerness
to serve. The two males felt no shame if they became hard like this, even
if they were in the room together. It WAS only a sign of their eagerness
to serve.
If the sight of these erect males gives Toni any pleasure, it's
only on this account. She loves the way their bodies are exposed and
helpless. Sexual pleasure always happens in her mind first, she says. She
doesn't start to feel it "down below," she says, "until I'm convinced in
my mind that the guy is my slave."
"My God!" say, kneeling there.
I am her slave. The process was amazingly fast. I kneel, she
sketches. This goes on for a while. When she's done she leans forward and
gives me a kindly stroke along the penis. I get harder. She gives it a
quick squeeze and gets up. "You can empty this when I'm gone," she says.
"Think of me when you do. I'll be seeing you." She's gone before I'm even
up. "I'm your slave," I call out, really loud because she's already
slammed the door. I imagine I hear her call back, "Hey, I know."
Toni comes to my place often. It's always the same routine more
or less. I strip, I kneel, she sketches and teases me a little, and I
tell her I'm her slave. Once in a while, not too often, she allows me to
come for her. I have to lie on the floor, at her feet, and masturbate
myself. When I'm ready to come, I have to plead for permission. "May I
offer you my orgasm?" is the way I say it. Now and then she'll assist by
planting a foot on me, on my balls, or belly, or leg. Two or three times
she condescends to plant her foot right on my penis. I spurt like there's
no tomorrow. But often she lets me get good and aroused and then
announces, "I think we'll postpone that precious orgasm of yours." She
says "orgasm" suspiciously, as though she thinks I invented the word.
One day Toni suggests that it's time for me to meet her mom.
Frieda. I agree to do it because I'm in thrall to Toni, but I'm not
looking forward to it. I have a picture of Frieda as some kind of
monster, a cold, impatient narcissist, getting more and more sadistic and
self-dramatizin as her youth fades. I understand nothing about the real
nature of power. Frieda is gorgeous. She's absolutely stunning. In a
completely unaffected and lively way. She's completely comfortable with
herself. She's trim and shapely and quietly elegant. Her hair is dark and
long and her face is beautiful and a touch girlish. She's obviously still
in her thirties. She is, in the truest sense of the word, lovely. She's
the sort of woman who makes you glad you're a man so you can simply serve
her and not have to envy her. It's a privilege to see her, it's a
privilege to be anywhere near her. To lie at the feet of the daughter
she's borne - even that is a privilege.
Frieda is friendly to me. For a few minutes she makes motherly
small-talk. Then she's down to business, but in a way that doesn't scare
me. She tells me she likes Toni's sketches of me and Toni's general
account of my "demeanor." She uses that word, "demeanor." I feel moved to
thank her. Because I already want to give her anything I can. I want to
pour out my heart. So I begin by thanking her.
Then she thanks me for being willing to pose for her. I say that
it's my privilege. "I'm really grateful, M. ...Ma'am." I suddenly feel
"ma'am" will be the way I address Frieda. She doesn't tell me to be less
formal. "Why don't you undress then?" she says. Yes, of course. That's
the thing I'm here for. Why don't I? I'm nervous, I fumble. "Everything
at once," I ask, "or one thing at a time?" I'm remembering the way Toni
preferred to do it.
"Oh, why not everything at once," Frieda says.
"Yes, ma'am," I say, and feel good about the phrase.
I start to strip. It's a strange sensation, a strange scene.
Toni's standing there, her mom is sitting in her draftsman's chair,
relaxed as can be, watching me disrobe without the least look of
embarrassment. She's not excited, she's not tense. Guys are meat to be
naked for us, I think she's thinking. So I get on with it. Toni watches.
She looks at her mom every now and then and then smiles at me. She's
proud of me. She can tell something. She's recruited a good one.
Now I'm nude, and too nervous to have an erection. I'm unsure
what to do. I'm thinking it's an insult to a hostess not to have an
erection when you strip for her. Or is it an insult to have one before
you're told to? This is a whole new area of etiquette for me. But I feel
I have to explain. "I'm kind of nervous about this, ma'am. That's
why...." "Don't give it a thought," Frieda says. "But why don't you sit
down on the floor here, right in front of me?"
I sit. She's wearing a short, tight skirt and now I'm at
eye-level with the hem. I'm thinking, what a vagina this woman must have.
I want to get a glimpse up the skirt, but I think I'd better avert my
eyes, or raise them to hers.Another problem in "demeanor." Frieda tells
me to fold my knees and rest one leg on the floor and keep the other
upright so my thighs are at right angles and my genitals totally visible
to her. I'm to put my hands behind me and rest my weight on them, so I'm
half-sitting, half-reclining. I obey and all of a sudden feel incredibly
exposed and helpless. More than I would if I were lying flat. Lifting my
upper body toward Frieda gives me the feeling that I'm offering myself to
her, and straining to do it. But I'm still enough on the recline to feel
very passive and defenseless. Now I think I feel my penis stirring. I try
to flex the muscle at its root. The woman notices.
"Toni, did you see?" she asks. Toni missed the little twitch.
"They can't stop worrying about their erections," Frieda remarks to her
daughter. She tells me to stop thinking about my penis. "Let's just sit
and talk," she says, as though "just sitting" is an accurate description
of what I'm doing. Yes, I'm sitting, but I'm also...in love.
Frieda questions me about my body and my sexual habits. Her
manner is easy-going. I can say anything. She won't mind. She won't
reject me. She just wants to know me better, so she can use me better.
She wants details and sometimes I have to think hard before I reply. I
worry about the silences. She mustn't think they're signs of reluctance.
But I look at Toni, and she's looking very pleased with things. She's
quietly sketching while we talk.
Frieda wants to know when I started masturbating, how often I do
it, in which postures I most like do it. I tell her all. She's trying to
get me to speak to her of my body without embarrassment. She tells me to
answer in full sentences. So I have to say, "My penis this, my balls
that...." "I want you to say 'testicles' instead of 'balls' from now on,"
she says. "I want you to be accurate. And always say 'my'
emphatically...'MY penis, MY testicles'." It's funny to hear this womanly
woman use these phrases at all.
I show my learning-ability. I say, "Toni has taught me that my
testicles can take more abuse than I thought. So now I like to have
them...my testicles poked." I say things like this, and Frieda is happy
with my progress. We continue the question period for a long ti. I've
forgotten about it, but at some point I realize my penis is hard. Frieda
hasn't mentioned it.
Still, I'm glad I'm erect. I don't have the world's smallest
penis, so I'm hoping Frieda is impressed, even if she isn't mentioning
it. It's not exactly that I expect to attract her.Even though she's an
artist, I'm pretty sure she doesn't get off on the beauty of men's
bodies. It's our visibility she likes. I'm seeing that. But in some
muddled way I'm still thinking she'll want me around more if my penis is
impressive.
Frieda looks thoughtful. "Tell me what you're feeling," she says.
I'm at a loss for words. Or I just don't want to say. "I'm
feeling pretty good," I say. I'm an ass, I realize, so I emend it. "I'm
feeling wonderful," I say. Frieda says nothing for a while. I realize
she's waiting for more. "This is great," I contribute, nodding my head
emphatically toward my lower body to show that I mean the way I'm naked
there.
"He's not very articulate," she says to Toni. The girl shrugs.
"Let me explain something, boyo," Frieda says. "I want you to
understand what I'm into. You're a young man and I'm a woman. Every
schoolgirl knows men are made to serve her. She knows they're under her
control. That's why they have the organs they do, stuck onto their bodies
in this clumsy way [Frieda gestures toward my genitals] - so she can see
them and arouse them and, if necessary, hurt them. Every schoolgirl
knows, and I don't have to tell you that every boy knows it too. You can
dress, but you can't hide. Isn't that so?"
"That's exactly true, ma'am."
"Everything about you males is made to be visible to us. But I'll
hand it to you. You do manage to get around the plain facts. I mean, look
at your tsticles. With hardly an effort, a woman can cause them
excruciating pain. They say you're only as strong as your weakest link.
Links don't come any weaker than a man's balls. So what do you men do?
You make your testicles your symbol of power, your sign of virility. I
admit it, it takes balls to do a thing like that."
I think, the woman is not only beautiful, she's quick and
brilliant. I wouldn't mind the excruciating pain at all if she were the
one causing it. But she's not done with the lecture. Maybe later.
"The point is, just because you're meant to be out in the open
for us, you dream up these ingenious ways to hide. You put us women to a
lot of trouble. You're full-time work. If we let you up off your knees,
you immediately feel big. We give you an erection, and you say, 'Look at
me!' Quite a bunch. Well, if a girl looks sharp, she can figure out ways
to keep a whole platoon of you under her thumb. Do you think we can't
wait to see you naked? To us, you're always naked. We strip you for your
own sake, not ours. To save you energy, to keep you from wasting your own
time and making US feel sorry for ourselves beause you're all we have.
It's beneath a woman's dignity to have to spell these things out. 'Hey,
fella, stand up straight, you're already see-through, kabish?' So we
strip you down and you look a little silly, but at least you stop putting
on airs you don't look good in."
I gaze down at my penis. "She's talking about you," I think. I do
look silly. A penis and testicles have little to recommend them
aesthetically. They're tools and that's it. Women's tools, but stored on
our bodies because women's bodies are too beautiful to be cluttered with
such things. I also have the thought, as I see my erection quiver, that
Frieda's words ought to be shrinking it, but they're not. It's loving the
abuse, a fact which proves one of her points or another.
"What I ask of a man," Frieda says, "is that he be naked in mind
as well as body. I'm not going to let him show me his hairy body if he's
going to hide his overgrown mind. I want to have a picture window on his
heart. I want him to be thinking, 'Frieda sees. My penis is the least of
it.'"
Suddenly she's giving me a very earnest look. I want to give her
one back, to show her how affected I am by what she's saying, but when I
try to do it my eyes lower. Frieda says, "I want YOU to think this.
Frieda sees." And I am thinking it, I realize, which is why I've dropped
my eyes.
"I can see this is gonna be a long afternoon," Toni interjects.
"I'm outta here, going shopping. Okay, mommy?"
Frieda catches the style. "Go for it, Tone. Your boy and I can
manage things by ourselves."
I don't want Toni to leave. If I can't check out her look, how
will I tell how I'm doing? She hasn't exactly been protecting me, but I
still feel safer with my junior mistress on hand. Maybe I don't really
want Frieda to open all my windows.
"Before you go, honey," Frieda says, "could you get your boy
cleaned up a bit?" Toni says yes and tells me to follow her. "Get up?" I
ask. "Unless you can follow me sitting down," she says. I follow her to
the bathroom. I ask her what gives. "Mom has a theory about people," she
says. "She thinks nature left us all a bit unfinished, but with hints so
we can complete the job. That way we partly make ourselves." I say it's a
good theory.
Toni says, "So we women have hair on our legs, but only a small
amount, not like men. And that means we're supposed to shave our legs but
men aren't supposed to shave theirs. But with pubic hair it's different.
Ours conceals us, and it's a perfect triangle anyhow, and that means
we're supposed to keep it. But yours..." - she gestures toward my pelvis
- "...yours doesn't hide a thing, especially the hair on your penis and
scrotum. So you're supposed to shave it off. Mom thinks your penis and
testicles should be bare and smooth. She thinks the rest should be
thinned out maybe, but not shaved off compeletly because you need to be
reminded what a failure all your ways of hiding are."
Toni's been talking fast. She's in a hurry to leave. I find what
she's said very sexy. I've actually never been shaved, or thinned out, or
whatever, before, and I'm excited by the prospect. She's holding a
disposable razor, and I'm not even afraid of being cut. It's routine to
her, I guess. I ask her if she knows how to do this. Oh, yes, she tells
me, she's been doing her brother for years. She has some translucent
lotion in her palm. She says shaving cream just makes the hairs hard to
see. When she applies the lotion to my penis and balls I find it so
thrilling I think I'm going to add some gobs of my own manufacture. I
groan. I say her name.
"Don't come," Toni says matter-of-factly. "Just don't. It's not a
good idea. You'll see." She gives my penis a special squeeze that's meant
to stop
a man from coming. It usually works - Toni isn't crazy about having me
come - but the lotion makes her grip insecure. It's okay, though. I won't
shoot. I understand that Frieda wouldn't want me to. Toni finally shaves
me. The sides and underside of my penis, then my scrotum, all the way
under to my perineum. She shaves a little from my thighs, a little from
the very top of my pubic patch, and then she runs the razor lightly
across the rest of the patch, thinning it down without actually touching
my skin. She's completely businesslike and I'm rock-hard.
Toni hands me a towel, telling me to go back to her mother's
studio when I'm clean. "I'll be seeing you," she says, her favorite
valediction. I steal a glance in the mirror. My organs look incredibly
naked, even though they themselves don't have all that much hair on them
to begin with. (In Frieda's "theory," that's why they need to be shaved.)
The hair around them is now scant enough to be transparent, and it has
just the effect Toni promised: it looks like a pathetic attempt to cloak
my pubis. I hurry back to Frieda who quickly reviews her daughter's work
and tells me to get back down on the floor just the way I was. We're
alone now, and I feel the difference. The air is full of peril. Usually
you feel more naked in front of two women than in front of one, but this
time it's not that way, because Toni was protecting me. That's how I saw
it, even if she didn't. Now my mistress is gone. I'm stripped of my mistress.
Frieda takes up where she left off. "I'm going to help you be
transparent to me. You may have trouble at first, but I can tell you it's
the most wonderful thing a young man can feel. It's more wonderful than
that erection. It's more wonderful than having your penis stroked...." To
my shock, she leans down and takes my penis in her hand. It's the first
time she's touched me at all. Her hand is beautiful and cool. Her grip is
firm in a way, but feminine. She knows I'm near the edge, so she doesn't
move much, just some light, still pressure. The shaving has made a
difference. My penis feels very bare, as though it's been taken out of
protective wrapping. Frieda strokes it tenderly a few times and lets it
go. I'm sick with yearning.
"I can do what I like with it, can't I? she asks.
"Oh, yes," I say.
"I have you in a fragile state, don't I?" I nod vigorously. I'm
enthralled, a fragile state.
"I know my daughter puts you into this state as well, and you
tell her you're her slave." I nod again, a little less certainly. I don't
see what she's getting at. Is she saying I'm disloyal? But that's not it.
"You're young," she says, "and Toni is younger. A young girl needs to
have men serving her. She needs to see it. I mean in men other than her
dad and her brother. But what does it amount to? She gets you worked up
and you kneel and tell her you're her slave. You obey a few orders and
when she leaves you masturbate. You're young, it's romantic, this
ceremony of enslavement. I did it myself not so many years ago. But I
want, and Toni is going to want, something even deeper. I want to own
your entire being."
Frieda reaches down to my penis again. I see her doing it but I
still jump. She pulls back her hand. "It's at a point where you'd do
anything I ask for just one more minute of that, isn't it?" "Yes," I
whisper. "I'll touch your penis for five more seconds if you crawl across
the floor on your belly," she says. Without a pause I roll onto my belly
and crawl. I crawl back and assume my posture. Frieda reaches down and
strokes my penis and it's heaven. "There," she says, withdrawing her
hand. "Thank you, ma'am," I say.
"But what I want," Frieda goes on, "is to make your whole being
as greedy and grateful as your penis. I want your mind to yearn for my
touch. I want your thoughts and dreams begging for my glance." She looks
thoughtful. There's great feeling in what she's saying. I'm sure she's
said it before to other men, but there's nothing mechanical in it. For a
few moments Frieda is silent, thinking still. I look into her face, her
lovely face, and hope I have it in me to give her what she wants.
At last the words come. But it's as though she's left out a lot.
She's decided it's all too complicated. She'll just give me my orders,
her wishes. She says, "I want you to try to tell me everything that's in
your head right now. That's what I meant when I asked what you're
feeling. But everything. You know how good it felt when you put your male
pride at Toni's feet. You became a better man for it, a more honest man,
a friend of women and their servant. What I'm asking of you will make all
that even deeper and more lasting....Tell me."
I try. I try to do it. Do I even know what I'm thinking. I want
to say the right thing. But I really don't want to lie. "I'm thinking
that you're very beautiful, ma'am."
"What's beautiful about me?" she asks.
"Everything. Everything about you." I get ardent. I mean it.
"Your eyes, your hair, you mouth." I stop. She tells me to continue. I
zero in. "Your skin, your forehead, your beautiful cheek-bones." I'm
going to have to descend from her face soon. I adore her legs, so lithe
in their nylons. Why don't I mention them? They drive me mad. And her
elegant feet in their heels. I'm thinking it but not saying so. Frieda
tells me I'm not letting her see. She asks what I'd do if she allowed me
to touch her. I say I'd kiss her. I would, of course. But the process is
slowly starting to work. I say I'd love to be held naked in her arms
while she stayed dressed. "Deeper," she says, "go deeper into yourself."
I try to go deeper, but it frightens me. "Give yourself to me,"
she says. "I don't care what's in there. Give it." Her words are almost
hypnotic. I want her to keep speaking, to inject me with the truth-serum
of her words. I stammer. "Give me...," she says softly. It's as though
her words are deftly stroking my mind the way her hand did my penis. I
think she wants me to show her the part of me that keeps rebelling
against her power. The male part of me that understands only aggression,
that turns even my slavery into aggression.
"I want to know what your vagina looks like," I stammer. "I want
to kiss your vagina. I want to worship it. Your vagina." I shudder to say
the precious word. My gruff male voice has no right o name the sweet
magic of woman. I'm revealing an unforgivable thing. I'm forcing myself
to say it. I'm risking everything to obey Frieda's command. Yet I truly
am imagining Frieda's vulva, wondering if any man has known the blessing
of planting his lips upon it. "I'm your slave, ma'am...," I say and
hesitate, sick at heart for the desecration on my lips and sure that I'm
damned for it, "because you're a woman and you have a vagina." I pause,
terrified. "Because you have a cunt," I add for good measure. "Please
forgive me."
"Go on," she says calmly. "You don't need to be forgiven. You
just need to go on. To give up all your secrets, to put all your dreams
at my feet. No, I won't fulfill them. But I'll own them. Go on."
Under Frieda's quiet insistence I talk my trash. Little by little
it's having the effect she promised. It's a kind of stripping naked of
the mind and not unlike the baring of the body. In both cases, the woman
remains clothed. I'm mentioning her vagina, I'm wondering aloud about her
pubic hair, about her labia. I speculate about their color, contour. I
sit exposed and erect at the feet of a woman - at the feet, I mean, of a
being whose nature can never, even in stark nakedness, be truly exposed -
and I confess the minutiae of my desires. The desires of any boy, and the
desires of a boy enslaved. I imagine for her the hardness of her pubic
bone. I swear I know the smoothness and compactness of her pussy. It's
trig and tight and doesn't pout. This is a thing I know. Frieda pays
close attention, as she does to everything I'm saying, but her look
reveals nothing. I tell her of her slit, demurely shadowed in the light
hair I've dreamed up for her. I see, I say, her womanly lips. They're
fragrant petals with delicate furrows, and I want, I say, to lap their
moisture.
We are at it a long time. Most of the time Frieda says nothing
besides "Go on, please." Sometimes she presses me r a dl, a
clarification. I am to be absolutely specific. But she herself is
impassive. If I am showing her the mental counterpart of my enslaved
erection, she is showing back the counterpart of her unmoving pubis. I'm
not stirring her one bit, not arousing her. This is about me. Sometimes I
pause because I think my thoughts are too fierce, too ugly. Frieda nudges
me. "I'm here to be told," she says. Maybe she asks for a detail. Maybe
she says, "Go deeper." And her coaxing is as brilliant as a surgeon's
lamp.
I start to feel there's no darkness left in me. Then we turn a
bend, Frieda and I, and I recoil. I think she doesn't expect this
coarseness of me, she doesn't realize. "But I already see you," she
explains. "This is so you will feel seen." I venture to say that this
seems inconsistent with what she said earlier - that she wants to open a
window on my heart. She's not annoyed. She's willing to explain.
It's exactly like bodily nakedness, she says. "I know the truth
about every man I pass on the street, don't I?" she asks. I nod. "I know
that I can harden him, subjugate him, walk right over him and have him
thank me for it. And he knows it too. But he'll only stop fighting it
when it's brought home to him in a way he can't deny. He needs witnesses.
Believe me, it's a task. Like talking to a child. 'That's right, take off
your clothes. Now what are you? Naked, that's right. And what else? My
slave. Aren't YOU bright. Good boy!' It's no mystery to me, but it is to
him. He needs to feel its force. YOU need to feel its force, and the only
way I can help you feel it is by leading you through the details. Yes, I
know what's in your thoughts, because I know what's in every male's
thoughts. But you need to feel me knowing it. Your mind, your feelings,
are no more clever than your penis. I don't need to see it, but you need
to have it seen. Go on."
I go on. In words I unclasp Frieda's bra, I cup her breasts. They
have the feel of breasts, something unique, soft and receptive yet
resistant at the same time. In words I suck them. I stray to lick the
wholesome perfume of Frieda's underarms. I descend once more. My tongue
pries Frieda's clit from its hood. I make calipers of my fingers and try
to hold the skittery darling still. Like womanhood itself, it slips from
my grasp. In words I glimpse the string of Frieda's tampon.
Nothing is unmentionable. I'm beginning to think it's true. I'm
mentioning everything. The effect Frieda predicted is getting stronger.
I'm feeling transparent, flooded with relentless, harsh light. My shadows
are shrinking. I'm describing my desires, my day-dreams, but my will is
shrinking too. Yet every now and then a fear comes over me after I've
spoken. I backslide, imagine Frieda had not expected THIS new
reveleation, imagine a woman's mind cannot comprehend such filth. I
declare my wish to lick her anus. I assure her I know she's pleasant
there. If she would lead me to the bathub and sit me in and contrive
somehow to pee on me - well, if she would, I'd be a made man. I mention this.
I show Frieda all my seedy details. She's asked me to. She has
seated me in this vulnerable posture at her feet and has even stroked my
erection and had my penis shaved. Yet I feel that the obscenity of the
experience is mine alone. And it is, it is. Frieda is guiltless. She is a
woman. She's helping me, restoring my nature. I have a revelation. I've
never understood the shame of sex, though I've felt it keenly. I feel it
now in a way, don't I? Why does an instinct of the body lead to guilt?
Suddenly I understand it. Pouring out my mind to Frieda, I see where
guilt begins. It begins in our brazen male history of lying to women, of
denying to their faces the thing we never truly doubted: that the right
to rule us is theirs from birth. Put yourself in the hands of women, pull
down your vanity for them, trample your pride (or let a woman do it), and
you will no longer feel your desires as shame. The shame is in the
hiding, not in the penis you hide. If you think your penis yours, you're
washed in guilt. Know it to be hers and you're acquitted. You may be
erect and quaking with need, but if you feel the helplessness of it, the
humility, and know that it's the need to serve a woman, your shame will
evaporate. The woman who makes you hard will lend you her innocence.
Frieda is purging me. She's cleaning me up. We talk for a long
time. I reveal, Frieda looks down at me with her penetrating glance and
absorbs it. Once in a while she coaxes me deeper, she spreads some veil
in me and floods the private place with light. She questions me until I
am exact. Then she says, Go on. At many points, I think I have
overstepped. I'm terrified of being expelled from this woman's presence
and denied the gift of her wonderful tyranny. I can imagine fucking her.
I have no right, but I can imagine it. For a few second at any rate. If I
had to choose between fucking her or worshipping her pussy with my mouth,
I wouldn't hesitate to choose the latter. That's completely true. But I
can imagine fucking her and the thought does make my heart pound. So I
tell her. Fucking makes man and woman equal. But I'm a slave and that's
how Frieda wants me. I think I've confessed too much. But I go on about
it, and - this one time! - she interrupts.
I think, that's it. I'm in disgrace. I can vow to carry off her
tampon in my teeth, but saying I want to fuck her is going too far down
the path of arrogance. Frieda interrupts. Her tone is flat, informative.
I'm truly in terror. "There's a little semen on your penis-tip," she
says. "You must make it your business to hold it in." I beg her pardon. I
didn't know I was wetting myself. But she doesn't condemn, she
captivates. "You'll have your chance to drench the place," she says. "Now
go on."
I feel I should clarify what I said about fucking her. I'm a man,
yes, but a man enslaved. I assure her that I love my state. "If I had to
choose," I say...but the reader has already heard me on this subject. I
return to my required revery. I've been over Frieda's body and in and out
of it. I begin again. I drift. I imagine Toni, whom I have never seen
undressed, and my gorgeous sister, Pam. I review the charms of Michelle
Pfeiffer and Christie Turlington and Amber Valletta. I'm nearly empty,
I'm nearly dull. I go on, because Frieda isn't in it for the excitement.
She's not excited. Her only possible pleasure in this can be the
confirmation of her mastery of yet another male. What a delight for a
woman of her accomplishment!
And I feel like a man who, after confessing to several murders, starts
spilling the beans about his deplorable sloth. I have nothing more to
spill. It seems like hours since we started. I've had an erection most of
this time. No erection has ever felt so permanent. I'm in the state of
nature. My mind is in ruins. I feel Frieda, its conqueror, rummaging
through the debris, and a wave of profound happiness rises in me. This is
bliss.
I never want to come. It doesn't matter any longer. Or it does: I
definitely don't want to come. I think I'm not able to want anything.
Frieda - yes, and Toni - can do my wanting for me. Frieda takes the first
step. As it happens, she says that she wants me to come.
"You've done well," Frieda tells me. "For a first day, you've
done well. This is ground we have to go over again and again. Today we've
broken it. It's still full of clods. Week after week we'll revisit it,
break up the clumps." I'm not surprised that she says all this without
enthusiasm. I'm just another male, a boy with a boy's coarse hunger. I'm
a willing slave, yes, I'm desperately eager to please. But to Frieda
that's not a lot of news. "You think you've been raked over today," she
says, then smiles. She's seen a look in me. "You like that image, raked?"
she asks.
"Yes," I squeak.
Frieda gives me a kind smile. "Here," she says, and effortlessly
extends her leg so that the high, slender heel of her shoe comes to rest
above my navel. Smoothly, she draws her leg downward, not too fast, and
her heel scratches its way down my belly, into my thinned-out pubic hair.
I'm hoping it will dig straight into my erect penis and be hindered by my
circumcision, maybe leave a fresh scrape there as it tries to get
unstuck. But in the course of things it knocks my penis aside and goes
skating down my groin. Frieda makes sure, though, that it leans into my
testicles, and they bulge up to meet it. None of this takes long. It's
all an affectionate gesture on her part, a way of being nice to me. It's
condescension pure and simple, the equivalent, in the case of a man
enslaved, of a goodly pat on the head. The proof is that she does me the
qick favor of actually re-positioning her heel deep in the middle of my
scrotum and then prying under each of my testicles in turn. There's
nothing clumsy or approximate about her movements. Frieda is in deft
control. On this woman's foot, a narrow length of heel is an intimate,
fine instrument.
She gives my left testicle a final nudge and withdraws her foot.
I feel even more naked, if such a thing is possible, sitting stock still
as the ache she's caused me in her kindness spreads through my groin.
Somewhere within I sense the impulse to cringe and cover up, but it's
faint, it's weak. I stay as I am, as I've been for hours, leaning
backwards a little, resting on my hands, which are firmly planted behind
me, my legs at right angles, one vertical, one flat on the floor, both
knees bent - the posture of perfect exposure. Frieda sees all of me. She
sees the wonderful, resonant pain in my balls.
"As I say," she resumes as though there's been no pause, "you've
made a good beginning. Each time you visit you'll go deeper. You'll work
for me. Sometimes as a model, sometimes as an errand-boy, sometimes as a
porter. Your payment will be the work itself and the fact that you will
be allowed to perform mot of it naked in the presence of Toni and me.
Sometimes I will display your enslavement to other women and girls,
friends of mine and their daughters, and, on the occasions when I teach a
drawing or photography class, I'll probably employ you there. And if I
do, there's a good chance I'll be very open with my pupils about the
terms of your employment. Frankly, I'm more interested in cluing my
sisters into their power than I am in teaching them how to hold a stick
of charcoal. It doesn't sound like a bad life, does it?"
"Certainly not, ma'am," I say, "It sounds like heaven, at least
for me. Frankly," I venture, "I don't see what's in it for you. I mean, I
guess it's pleasing to a woman to have her power over a man confirmed.
But you've had so much of that. I can tell you haven't a doubt left. And
maybe it's gratifying to bring other women around. I can see that, and
I'd feel privileged to help. You and your daughter have brought me such
happiness, such relief from the lies of masculinity." I'm really pulling
out the stops. My heat is melting with love - for Frieda, for Toni, for
my sister and women-cousins, and for all the self-respecting women on
earth. "Women, women," I want to cry out, "tell me that you know the
truth!" I tell Frieda this is my wish.
"I'll do everything," she says, "to give you the chance."
I thank her earnestly. "But still, dear ma'am," I say, a little
shy that I've attached the uninvited adjective, "still, what IS in this
for you? It seems like sheer charity to me. I gain so much. But you?"
"Men and women are very different species," she says. "YOU see a
woman and her features drive you wild. You go haywire for the legs she
walks on. You stammer at a pair of breasts. I don't have to go on. It's
not exactly your fault. You're made to feel helpless at these things. And
you know my views about the way you look for loopholes. That IS your
fault, of course, but at least we're setting this boy straight. In any
case, a woman isn't that way. Even for the most sheepish woman, if she
sees an erection, what she likes is not the pitiful thing itself, but the
fact that it's for her. A strong woman isn't so different. She just knows
better what 'for her' means." She asks if I'm following all this.
"I am, angelic ma'am," I say. Frieda rolls her eyes at this
effusion of my golden tongue.
"Okay. So I get off on the MEANING of what happens to your body.
I believe I've said all this before. In any case...." She seems to be
stalling. Should she tell me anything more or not? We're getting too
close to something. That's how I read her hesitation.
"Okay," she tries again. "All my life, it's been my power that's
made me wet. Please excuse the vulgarity. My point is that I do have a
body. As a young girl, when I noticed how at will I could make men
squirm, of course it registered in my vulva. When I became more direct
with men, I didn't become less heated. The meaning makes me glisten. Now
as ever, although I admit the lectures I have to give, the tricks I have
to play, have gotten a little wearying. Still, we women are a sex and,
even if our organs aren't as preposterous as yours, we've been given one
little organ capable of bringing us peace. Each woman has to figure out
how to use it for herself. Alas, this usually involves assistance from
one of you. You louts are all we have. We have our tragedies."
I'm enthralled on still another level. With Frieda's complexity,
and with her charm. "Late tonight," I suddenly hear her say, "I will ask
Toni to fetch her dad to my room. He'll strip before his daughter and
she'll lead him to me. Toni will leave us and I will give my husband
various directions. When he's obeyed, I'll have him kneel at the foot of
my bed. At such a time I give no further orders. I can't conceive of
actually commanding a man to be intimate with my body. The trespass must
be all his. But my husband knows what to do and is overjoyed to take the
blame. Without another command from me, he will place his mouth on my
vagina and patiently adore me with it. While he's at it, I'll probably
report to him the highlights of my day with you. To remind him that I
have many servants, and, frankly, to arouse myself."
"Does it not arouse him too, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Ah. That brings me to the final phase of our afternoon. A brief
phase. I mentioned that before I allow Toni's dad to approach me, I ask
certain things of him. Actually I ask only one thing of him, but I ask
him to repeat it until I'm satisfied he's reached capacity. I ask him to
empty himself of every egoistic desire. Even if it's a desire that would
also give me pleasure, I ask him to expel it. I want him to be entirely
an accomplice to my pleasure. I don't want my pleasure to be a
coincidence on the way to his."
I ask her how he can empty himself of such things at will. "It's
actually the simplest thing in the world," Frieda says. "All he has to do
is rid himself of every ounce of semen in his loins. He simply has to
ejaculate and ejaculate again, and to keep on doing it until he's
exhausted. You can imagine."
I can imagine, and I say so. "Of course," Frieda says, "the first
round is usually a pleasure to him, although I do what I can to minimize
it. I mean, I don't behave in a way to arouse him. I don't touch him. I
don't help. I have him stand with his back to me - he has to do it
standing - and to masturbate. I busy myself with other things. I read, I
think. At some point, having not paid much attention to his labors, I
instruct him to come. He does it - he's had years of practice - on the
dot. He'd never dream of letting go on his own. 'Okay, come,' I say, and
out it shoots. There's a receptacle waiting there for it. He's a man. He
makes noise, he cries out. I say, 'That's all right, dear, but save your
energy.' I give him a minute to recover and then have him do it again.
It's harder now for him to do it at the same pace, but he never knows
just when I'm going to call the shot, so he's on histoes. And he IS on
his toes much of the time, because I think it makes the strain that much
greater for him. He comes a second time, a little less festively, and
then I demand it again. And again. He has to exert himself more and more
as his zest for masturbation wanes. When his penis goes dry and his
orgasm thins down, he's ready. By this time he's aching and drenched in
sweat. Then he's allowed to risk some cunnilingus. The only pleasure he's
getting is the pleasure of serving. No erection, no will at all. When
he's serviced me, I usually reproach him for daring to and dream up some
penalty."
Frieda tells me that I will be treated similarly in the future.
I'll have to jerk off when I arrive. She or Toni will probably supervise.
But it won't be a sexy ceremony. I'll have a receptacle and one of the
mistresses will call out when it's time for me to come. She assures me
that they'll be forebearing until I've had some practice. I'll have a
grace period after I'm ordered to spurt. Several seconds. I don't hear
this with a lot of relief. I'll do it again, and again, until my muscles
ache and my penis is raw and I'm drained dry. Only then will I be fit to
work, because I'll be doing it for the sake of working.
But today will be different, Frieda explains. "Today you'll
ejaculate before my eyes so I can gauge your capacity. You'll do it
several times, lying on the floor, kneeling, and standing. That will give
me enough of an idea. It's getting late. But you won't shoot until you're
told."
I haven't wanted this, but it sounds pretty good. Frieda tells me
to lie on my back on the floor at her feet. I've been holding my posture
for so long that it aches a bit to leave it. But stretching out is a
relief. She instructs me to begin, to masturbate the way I normally do.
She's seen all of me, and I find I can do this intimate thing without
much embarrassment. I'm so excited that I doubt that I can hold the first
flood in. I move very slowly, to minimize the chance of uncalled-for
eruption. I'm full of questions at the same time. Should I make sounds?
Should I suppress them? Should I just pump up and down the way women
probably expect a man to masturbate, or should I let go and do the funny
things, like wagging my penis frantically or bending it forcibly from
side to side, that we men use to embellish a private session? I decide
that I must do the job exactly as I would at home. I groan, I squeak, I
slap my penis around a little, I bend it mercilessly against its
inclination, down over my balls and toward each of my thighs.
"Spread your legs wide," Frieda softly commands, and when I've
done it she inserts the point of her shoe under my testicles, pressing it
into the flesh beneath. My balls are resting on the vamp as she digs.
"I'm introducing a new rule," she announces. "I'm sure this won't
be easy. But do it and I'll let you off after your third ejaculation.
Just for today, I mean." I can barely hold myself together now. How will
I obey a hard new rule? I don't raise this point to Frieda.
"I've seen this work with other men," she says. "I will think
well of you if you can do it."
"I'll do everything in my power, ma'am," I promise in my hoarse
masturbator's voice.
"You have no power," Frieda drily reminds me. "But let's see how
you do. When I order you to come, I'll try to goad you with my foot at
the same time. Like this." She goads me. The shock hurries to my
prostate. My penis gives a massive twitch. It's a wonder I don't come
right then. I've really acquired more obedience than I think. I try to
slow the inevitable down by letting up on my penis. Frieda won't allow
it. So I'm at cross-purposes, jerking off as you do when you're aiming to
come, and pulling tight every vague muscle I have a feel of, in the hope
of stalling the gust I haven't been commanded to release.
And won't be commanded to either. Because what Frieda has in mind
is a staggered ejaculation. Each time she goads me, I'll have to let a
single spurt go and then somehow pull back. I wonder if it's possible. I
don't believe it is. I'm so afraid of disappointing her that I express my
doubts aloud. "Don't worry," Frieda says. "I've done it many times. I'm
here to be strong for you."
I go on masturbating and she watches and now and then digs her
shoe into my perineum or under my testicles. It hurts and it's exquisite.
I pray that she'll give me my orders soon. Every time she shifts at all I
jump expectantly. Then she does it. I've expected it to be sudden and
urgent, but it's not. Frieda is in no hurry. I'm the one in need. Yet
she's being ind to me, considering my fragile organism and my fear of
hair-trigger ejaculation. "All right," she says slowly, with great
deliberation. "I'm ready for you. Please give me one jet of semen." The
point of her shoe does its work. Up in my prostate there's pandemonium.
But no defiance of the lovely mistress. The riot is on behalf of
perfect submission. A single rush of semen flies from my penis. Frieda's
shoe retreats and I compress my abdomen furiously. And the spout is
stopped. I can't in the least guess how long I'm lying there, still
masturbating, in suspended ejaculation. The shoe stabs again. Frieda,
offering the help she's promised, says, "Another, please." In my fever I
still discern the sweetness and femininity of her voice. I want no give
between what it utters and what I do. Who on this earth would not want to
answer that voice with perfect obedience at any cost? I release another
jet of semen and se the dam again. I don't know exactly how I'm doing it.
It feels exhausting.
The sweet voice says "Another." It's soft and confident that it
will have its request. It does. My semen follows a splendid trajectory. I
note this and then feel a vague sadness. I'm struggling hard to come and
not to come on command, of course. My feelings may be deranged. But I'm
sorry to recognize that a part of me still wants to be impressive. After
all this. What a cropper! To notice at all the flight of one's stupid come.
"Another," Frieda quietly urges. She presses into me and I
gratefully deliver what she's ordered, no more and no less, on cue.