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.
Guided Masturbation Stories
I Meet Toni’s Mom
from the net, circa 1995 A college student takes lessons from his girlfriend’s mother.
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.