In which we conclude our survey by looking at relationships with no history of sexual penetration
Before I made any move to enslave Patrick, we fucked and, as is my custom, we did it without a condom. We were in love, not just trying to have a good time, so we wanted our first sexual communion to be as intimate as possible; each of us wanted to completely know the other and each wanted to be completely known. Fucking is perfect for that, and our age and experience made anything else seem unnatural, especially since we were sure of one another’s health.
Fewer and fewer sexual relationships begin in such circumstances. Often fucking is obviously foolish, and even when it isn’t, a good case usually can be made for substituting some other mode of gratification. Sexually transmitted diseases were frightening even when I was young: they hurt and left internal scars. Now they’re worse. There’s no completely effective protection except abstinence, with monogamy and the use of impermeable barriers the only alternatives that come close. I don’t find any of these acceptable except monogamy, and my life just hasn’t worked out that way. I’m serially monogamous, but that’s a long way from safe, and my search for a new long-term partner can be an epidemiologist’s nightmare. When unattached and horny, I’ve occasionally entered into a liaison that I knew would last only weeks, and one bad winter I did three in a row. To improve my chances of staying healthy, I fuck only those men with whom I’m in love and with whom I expect a lasting relationship. The rest? I have them finger me and eat me, and I bring them off by hand. Safe sex? Hardly, but not as dangerous as fucking without a condom. Maybe my risk of catching something from any one man is cut in half.
Though my approach has limited value, I recommend it, and for the most selfish of reasons: If I use it, and my latest lover’s previous partner also used it, my risk of catching anything from her is cut by three quarters. It’s something to think about.
When I’m turned on to a man but not really in love, I’m more comfortable limiting our activities to exclude fucking, and I’m sure I’d feel this way even if there were no sexually transmitted diseases to fear. There’s many a man with whom I can happily engage in sexual play, but fucking him would be inappropriately intimate. I’ve discussed this with other women, and most feel as I do, though if they don’t apply the techniques of female domination, they almost all wind up succumbing to pressure and fucking men they oughtn’t.
I’m over forty. If I’m interested in a sexual relationship with a man but I don’t want to fuck him, I have to be tough about it, and so I am—though in my own gently teasing way. If you’re eighteen, you have other options because your youth makes them credible. You can be a virgin saving yourself for marriage; you can have a severe case of body shyness; you can be inhibited by parental injunctions; your behavior can be circumscribed by the rules of a cult that promises nirvana at the end of this lifetime. And if none of it is true, you can pretend and you’ll still be believed.
If you’re young enough that you’ve just recently become sexually active, I have a particular interest in reaching you. You’ll probably be the first love of at least one young man and possibly several. Because our sexual tastes are largely determined by our early experiences, you’re in a perfect position to make a real difference for the better in the way men of your generation relate to women throughout their lives.
If a man’s first love sexually enslaves him, he’ll tend to prefer similar relationships ever after, even though that preference will give each of his partners tremendous leverage in controlling his nonsexual behavior. Indeed he’ll come to relish, in a good-humored sort of way, the control women can exert over him, much as a macho drunkard relishes his hangovers and jokes about them. The sexual enslavement of even a quarter of a generation of young men will do more to destroy patriarchy as a social institution than will passage of the entire wish list of feminist legislation. Legislation changes only written rules; sexual slavery changes men, giving them, somehow, a genuine concern for the interests of women.
Just how does a woman go about enslaving a man she’s never fucked? It depends on her age and experience, and on his as well. The techniques I use now are different from those I used when I was twenty. Let’s look first at some techniques that are suited to youth.
I never met Paula. I didn’t even hear very much of her story—certainly not the steamy details—but what I did hear is worth repeating. She was the cousin of a friend to whom I had advocated female domination, and my friend passed along some of what I told her.
Paula was young, inexperienced, shy but curious, and seriously in love for the first time. Jimmy was equally inexperienced and returned her love with a tragic intensity. They’d spend hours kissing, gazing into one another’s eyes, and confessing the depth of their feelings. They did a fair amount of groping too, but Paula limited it because she was scared. She feared that sexual penetration would hurt; she dreaded pregnancy; she worried more about disease than Jimmy’s inexperience warranted; she was frightened by the loss of control inherent in sexual excitement.
Their petting sessions often ended with Paula going into a panic, pushing Jimmy away, and rolling herself into a ball. Jimmy was visibly hurt when this happened. He was a genuinely decent and sensitive young man who acknowledged Paula’s right to set limits with which she could be comfortable, and he felt he deserved to be trusted not to harm her.
Their last aborted grope session took place on a Friday evening after they’d already made plans to get together the following afternoon. Their difficulties left them frustrated and insecure, but still needing one another. Come Saturday, Paula told Jimmy she had an idea for how they might avoid such upsets in the future. She proposed that he agree to be her love slave, and explained that it would allow her to get comfortable with his body by exploring him at her own pace while remaining in control. He agreed and the arrangement worked well. Paula got a good practical education in male anatomy and physiology, she became comfortable with Jimmy’s body, and she stopped going into panics. Jimmy was no longer hurt by those panics and discovered that the sexual aspect of the relationship became more satisfying and less frustrating.
Not every man can be sexually enslaved by merely inviting him to accept the role. The technique can work if a man is young, inexperienced, and in love in the simple way that’s possible only for the young and inexperienced. It can also work if a man knows that his own preference is for sexual slavery. In all other cases it will fail. Either the man will refuse or he’ll only pretend to accept, just to see what develops. Even with such a limited range of applicability, the technique has one impressive advantage over all others: it requires very little effort and no skill. And within its limited range, it works.
In high school I became friendly with a girl whose sexual appetites were similar to my own. We used to swap stories, fantasies and insights into male sexuality. We went on to different colleges, but not far apart, and we kept in touch until we graduated and for over a year afterward.
In college Suzi developed an outrageous but successful technique for recruiting love slaves. She advertised. Not in the student newspaper or on the bulletin boards, but by making loud and frequent mention of her sexual preferences as she talked with her peers in the cafeteria, in coffee shops, and in other public places where small groups gathered.
“We missed you at the meeting yesterday,” an acquaintance might remark.
“Oh, I went with Michael to watch them tear down the old Samson building.”
“How was it?”
“He wanted me to go to bed with him, but he wouldn’t let me tie him up, so he still doesn’t know me as well as he’d like.”
Suzi was sufficiently entertaining that the young lady who had missed her at the meeting usually wouldn’t mind being used as a foil, but a few of her colleagues positively hated her.
Some young man might invite her to a movie, and she’d answer, loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the vicinity, “Okay, but if you want me to come back to your room, you’ll have to give me your key and let me tie your hands behind you before we go in.”
When she succeeded in recruiting a love slave after being without one for a few days, she’d tell those of her acquaintances who knew him, taking her usual care to be overheard, “Jeremy agreed to be my new slave.” Those who didn’t know him were told, “I have a new slave. His name is Jeremy. Do you know him?” Since they didn’t, she’d have to bring him around and introduce him. “This is Jeremy. He’s my slave.” Acquaintances who were initially unfamiliar with Jeremy were thus played for two ads apiece, and rumors of Suzi’s sexual preferences spread rapidly. After all, Jeremy wouldn’t last forever, and one of today’s passersby might turn out to be his replacement. When Jeremy finally moved on (it usually took about seven weeks for her trivialization of his feelings and motives to become intolerable), Suzi would lament his departure loudly enough to attract the notice of his successor, greeting each of her acquaintances with the same tragic announcement: “I broke up with Jeremy. I need a new slave.”
The only environment in which this strategy can succeed is a large urban college. For one thing, that’s the only environment in which one finds a sufficient concentration of the sort of men on whom it will work—young men who are inexperienced, shy, curious, and quick to fall in love.
In that environment, though, Suzi’s brand of advertising is surprisingly effective. Young men are horny, and Suzi’s kind of chatter makes them more so. Many are curious and inexperienced besides, and they’ll accept almost any terms that promise the satisfaction of their lust and curiosity. A man who can resist today, whether out of pride or some preconceived idea of what a relationship ought to be, may succumb when his fantasies have been nourished by a month or a year of constant exposure.
Suzi’s advertising reached a large audience; passersby heard her little speeches all the time. When she attracted a man’s interest, he would talk with her. She had invited him, so he could proceed even if he didn’t think of himself as a skilled conversationalist.
Indeed one of the great things about advertising is that it makes even the shiest of men willing to attempt an approach, and these were the men Suzi most wanted to attract. In general, their shyness had kept them from intimate physical relationships, and their inexperience had in turn fed their shyness, since they’d had no opportunity to develop confidence in skills they’d never tried. Suzi was looking for inexperience as much as shyness because she found that inexperienced men are uncommonly susceptible to sexual stimulation; most of them would get hard and drip at nothing more than the sight of her bare breasts, and there wasn’t a one who was ever able to keep from coming when she wanted a porno show.
Shyness offered advantages too, inexperience aside. A shy man knew that he had a tremendous obstacle to overcome in his search for a new relationship, so he would choose to endure Suzi’s constant insults far longer than a man with ordinary social skills. Better yet, shy men fell in love with Suzi. What did it was the way she spoke so lightly and freely about her sexuality, her emotions, the problems and joys of her everyday life. Men whose early training in the male role had driven them to the opposite extreme—those for whom that kind of talk was impossible—were overwhelmed by her openness, by the vulnerability they saw in that openness, by the way she seemed to trust them with what ought to have been secrets. They couldn’t help but want to give themselves to her.
Suzi didn’t fuck her slaves. She believed that her virginity had to be preserved so she could exchange it for a wedding ring, and in fact she made such a trade shortly after she earned her degree. She married a man who wasn’t at all shy and whom she claimed to respect for his cynical attitude toward her style. In her relationship with him, she used none of what she knew about female domination, and their marriage was unhappy and brief. It confirmed my attitude toward the blessings of convention.
Before her commitment to convention did her in, though—while she was still recruiting slaves in college—Suzi’s advertising included frequent affirmations of her virginity, often coupled with lamentations over the necessity of guarding it. Prospective slaves knew she was determined not to fuck them, but they were intrigued by the mystique she wove by so often wishing aloud that she could. Each hoped that something about him would overcome her determination, and though none of them ever did get into her, each took tremendous pleasure in the sexual and emotional intimacy of being her slave. Indeed her slaves probably enjoyed Suzi more than they enjoyed the women they eventually fucked, and more than the man she married enjoyed her.
Suzi’s style went far beyond the pale, and there are only a few women who could comfortably adopt it; I certainly couldn’t. Outrageous as it was, though, she maintained a certain modicum of decency. When she said she needed a new slave, she’d talk about her desire to tie him up, and having recruited Jeremy she’d introduce him as her slave, but she’d never make public mention of tying him up in particular nor describe any other details of their lovemaking. She wouldn’t talk about his sexual or emotional quirks and she wouldn’t make disparaging remarks about him even after they broke up. She would never have more than one slave at a time.
Though Suzi took care to be discreet even as she reveled in notoriety, she did share her stories with me, and she taught me a great deal for which I’m eternally grateful. It was she who led me to understand that sexual slavery might be a lasting arrangement on which a couple could agree. I had long enjoyed sexually toying with the young men in my life, but my indulgence had been limited to seizing an opportunity here and an opportunity there, encapsulated in otherwise ordinary relationships. Suzi showed me the possibility of insisting on a rule that made it my right at all times. All I had to do was disentangle her principles and techniques, which I’ve been using and refining ever since, from her outlandish style.
It was Suzi who introduced me to the simplest way I know to encourage fidelity in a man who might be inclined to stray, and it was she who introduced me to the technique of letting go of a man’s cock just as his ejaculation becomes inevitable. She told me about both as part of the same story.
Barry was a virgin and Suzi wanted to keep him that way, but when he’d been her slave for three weeks, she noticed he was spending a great deal of time in serious conversation with a woman named Maureen. Displays of jealousy weren’t part of Suzi’s style, and she certainly wasn’t going to raise a ruckus, but she was determined to protect her interests.
What she did was tie Barry to the four corners of her bed and say, “I’ve decided that from now on, you’re going to be my little boy.” She got out a pair of scissors, a safety razor and a can of shaving cream, and added, “I’ll have to take off your pubic hair so you’ll look like a little boy.”
She cut the hair short, then shaved it down to the skin, rinsed off the residual shaving cream with a wet towel, and admired the effect. She found it quite a turn-on. Shaving does make a man’s cock look bigger, and there’s something incredibly sexy about the curve of a bare mound. She told him he’d have to keep himself shaved for her, that if she ever found his hair growing back he’d be sorry.
She straddled his face and had him eat her, then pulled her jeans back on. She untied his wrists from the bed and tied them together in front of him, untied his ankles, and told him to stand up.
“See, little boy? I got you naked and now your pee-pee is sticking out and I get to look at it.”
She had him stand with his back to the wall, just under a hook she’d placed a few inches below the ceiling. She stood on a chair and fastened his wrists to it.
“I get to play with it, too.”
She sat on the chair and milked him, using one palm on the undersurface of his cock and the other on top.
When she knew his ejaculation was inevitable, she said, “I think something’s going to happen.”
She let go.
Barry panted and gasped, his cock sticking up at a forty-five degree angle. Suddenly it dropped almost to horizontal, then sprang back up as it spurted.
“I made you wet! Your pee-pee is doing its thing!”
It bounced and spurted several times more, then came to rest, still erect, pointed just a little downward. She tweaked his nipples with her fingers and it bounced again.
“Oh! Little boys’ nipples are connected to their pee-pees just like girls’.”
She watched his cock as it shrank.
“You must be so embarrassed, having to stand here all naked in front of a girl, with your pee-pee dripping like that, remembering how I watched it bounce up and down while you wet.”
“What a trip!”
“You know, some day when you grow up, you’ll have a wife to fuck whenever you want, and you’ll wish that instead, she’d tie you up just like this and play with your pee-pee. Too bad you’ll be too embarrassed to let her know.”
“Maybe it’ll be you.”
“Just because you’re in love with me, that doesn’t mean I’m going to marry you. Here. I’ll untie you now.”
She stood on the chair again and released him from the hook, then got down and untied his wrists.
Barry didn’t spend nearly so much time with Maureen after that. He kept himself shaved and Suzi never left off teasing him about being her little boy. He probably never suspected that Suzi was even aware of Maureen’s existence. What he did know was that if he undressed for Maureen, his missing hair would be difficult to explain. Besides, Maureen couldn’t possibly turn him on as Suzi did, no matter what liberties she might allow. No woman could. As it turned out, his relationship with Suzi lasted fourteen more weeks, for a total of seventeen. That was ten more weeks than average and thirteen more than could have been expected if she hadn’t shaved him, so the shaving trick really impressed me.
The technique of letting go of a man’s cock as he reaches the point of no return became one of my favorites. The variant I learned from Suzi is even better than the one Francesca used with Roy; the show is more spectacular when the man is standing, so his embarrassment is greater. His cock sticks out farther from his body; it swings through a wider arc, splashing its goop across the room; and it’s left dripping obscenely at the end. The reason I don’t use it so much now as when I first learned it is that my partners are older. They’re not so readily turned on as younger men, and they’re easily distracted from their lust by the discomfort of being tied in a standing position. I have a policy of never trying anything that may fail, lest my partner’s belief in my irresistibility be eroded, but when I’ve got a man horny enough, I still sometimes tie his wrists to the hook in my ceiling and put him through the rest of it. He always loves me for it.
A few days after Suzi told me the story of Barry, one of my friends invited me to a party celebrating her brother-in-law’s acquittal on a charge of demonstrating against the Vietnam War or, as the prosecutor had called it, trespassing on government property. The party was at the house of a friend of the former defendant, and the host had hired a rock band to entertain. I found the drummer extremely attractive and struck up a conversation with him during the first break.
His name was Steve and his parents owned a store that sold musical instruments. He spent much of his time working there, especially during the hours when people our age were most likely to come in; his father thought that Steve’s ability to speak with young people in their own language was good for business. Playing in the band interested him more, but since he and two of his three colleagues were too young for the bar scene, gigs were hard to get; the band was pretty much limited to playing parties, and parties thrown by people who knew them didn’t come along that often.
I resolved then and there that I was going to use Steve as a proving ground for the ideas I’d picked up from Suzi. I was going to enslave him, and I was going to do it without fucking him. If I succeeded… well, I’d play it for all it was worth.
I chose Steve mainly because he turned me on, but there were other reasons besides. He wasn’t one of my schoolmates, and we didn’t seem to have many friends in common, so if everything possible went wrong, I still wouldn’t pick up a reputation that would make future relationships difficult, at least in my usual circles. His being a rock musician made me even more certain of that, because it led me to infer that he had already had more sexual partners than he could remember; he would dismiss me without a second thought if I wound up offending him. I also regarded him as a challenge: I knew I had no idea what I was doing, and I thought it would be a great accomplishment to start by sexually enslaving such a connoisseur while refusing to fuck him.
As it turned out, I overestimated Steve’s experience. He’d done enough heavy petting so he knew how to give a woman a great deal of pleasure, but he was a virgin. His parents had kept him under fairly tight rein, partly out of an old-fashioned view of morality, but mostly out of the paranoid fear that some young lady would set him up for a shotgun wedding so she could get control of the family business. Steve had too good a sense of reality to buy into their delusions, and he was pleased that I approached him at the party. He saw me as an opportunity to pursue his own objective—getting cured of his virginity.
Of course I learned all this only after Steve and I were deeply involved. We made our opening moves laboring under the greatest of misapprehensions, our respective agendas tucked well out of sight, each pretending to be interested only in enjoying the other. So it goes.
The conflict between our goals was such that it would take time to surface; it would remain hidden until Steve made a move to fuck me or I made a move to enslave him. Indeed the sexual aspect of our relationship developed normally for about three weeks; our exploration of one another’s bodies became increasingly intimate and we allowed ourselves greater and greater degrees of arousal. The usual.
One afternoon, we had progressed to where we were lying in bed naked, his hand doing delicious things to my pussy while I played with his cock. We were face to face on our sides, sometimes kissing but mostly just watching the reflections of the yummies we were giving. When he thought I was horny enough, he moved closer and positioned his cock so that it was pressed against the outer lips of my pussy, ready to enter me. I kept my legs together while he tried to make some sort of headway, and of course he couldn’t.
“I’d like you to keep playing with me, and I’d like to keep playing with you, but you’re not going to put that in me.”
We went back to what we’d been doing, and after a couple of minutes I said, “I think I’d like to just relax and enjoy what you’re doing for a while, then take a turn playing with you.”
He went along with that and fingered me through several orgasms, obviously enjoying the show. When I’d had enough, I let him know and we spent a few minutes cuddling and kissing, then I told him to lie back and relax. I knelt alongside him and stroked his cock until he came, then a little more until he was done. Then some more cuddling, kissing, and the pleasant sort of talk that naturally follows a good come.
By the next time, he’d engineered a fiendish little strategy around that scenario. He encouraged me to lie back and relax while he fingered me, then he moved down and ate me. Soon I was soaking wet at the edge of orgasm. He lunged forward and tried to get in.
I managed to avoid him, and by the time he reoriented himself I was off the bed.
I told you, you’re not going to put that in me!” I scolded.
“Why not? It’s only natural.”
“Because it’s my body and I say no! I’m tired of guys trying to use me. My last boyfriend tried to do the same thing, and the one before him too. Nobody cares how I feel about it.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you tried to use me like that.”
“That’s you, and you probably haven’t really thought about it anyway. We were having such a good time. Why did you have to mess it up?”
“I didn’t think I was messing it up. I didn’t think it’d upset you.”
“Well, it does. It really turns me off.”
I started dressing. Steve watched me with a hopeless sort of sadness, then did the same.
“I’m really sorry I upset you,” he said when we were dressed. “I made a mistake. I wish there were some way I could fix it.”
I shot him an exasperated look and thought a moment. I tried to look like I was considering what he’d said, but what I was really doing was trying to figure out how to steer the conversation so as to get him to agree to be my love slave.
“It’s probably just as well you can’t fix it. If you could, you’d just look for another opportunity to try to rape me.”
“I didn’t try to rape you. I’m not like that. I thought you wanted the same thing I did.”
“I told you last time, I don’t want that.”
“I thought you changed your mind.”
“If I’d have changed my mind, I would have told you.”
“I didn’t know that. Look, I am sorry I upset you, even if there isn’t a way to fix it.”
I knew this was the best opportunity I was going to get. If I was going to make anything of it, I would have to be as outrageous as Suzi. Now or never, George! Palms sweating, heart racing…
“Maybe you can fix it. Something you said gives me an idea.”
“What did I say?”
“You said you wouldn’t mind if I tried to use you like that.”
“Okay, so how about we make an agreement that I use you instead of you trying to use me? We’ll say that you’re my love slave and I’ll control all the touching we do. You touch me when and how I want, and only when and how I want, and I touch you when and how I want, and you don’t argue about it.”
He looked kind of like the movie version of Bob Cratchit, in the scene near the end where Scrooge tells him he’s going to raise his salary.
I felt a tremendous sense of relief myself, though my hands were still clammy and my heart went on pounding. I’d been sure Steve was going to tell me I’d set up the whole situation for the sole purpose of coercing him into accepting my perverted agenda (which of course I had), and I’d worked myself up into a bad case of the terrors. Now that he’d given his assent so easily, everything was right again.
But relief lasted only a moment. Then I started having doubts. Was he really unaware what I’d done, or was he just playing along? Perhaps he was putting me on, still scheming to get his own way. How could I be sure? I couldn’t. But Steve looked so bewildered, I decided to put my worries aside. If he became difficult, I could deal with it then.
I realized I had to say something—I was in charge—but what? I certainly wasn’t going to pick up our lovemaking where we left off; my anxiety had squelched my desire and left a most unkissable taste in my mouth.
“How about coming over tomorrow at the same time? That’ll give me a chance to get over being mad at you and also finish some work I need to get done for my lit class.”
He was usually more talkative—probably afraid of making another mistake.
“Maybe then I’ll show you one of the things that can happen to a love slave who misbehaves.”
“Umgawa! I don’t think I want to know.”
He waited for a response, but I just smiled.
“You know, I haven’t even had time to misbehave since agreeing to be your love slave.”
“Well, maybe I won’t show you. I’ll see whether I still need to work out my annoyance over today.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he shrugged, and he was gone.
I wondered about his not having tried to kiss or hug me on the way out. Had my anxiety left me smelling that bad? Was he being careful not to break my rule against touching me unless I told him to? Had he stopped liking me? I had exchanged my familiar world for a new one, and I didn’t know how to navigate anymore.
The next day, Steve showed up in a sweatsuit. It was just perfect for acting out one of the fantasies that had been running through my mind that morning, and I told him so. I led him to the bed and sat down. He made a move to do the same.
“No, just stand here in front of me.”
I hooked my fingers into opposite sides of the collective waistband of his sweatpants and undershorts and pulled them both down to his knees.
“Umgawa! What are you doing? You didn’t even kiss me hello!”
“I know. Kissing turns you on, and then by the time we get your clothes out of the way, you’re all hard. I want to watch you get hard.”
“Wow! It looks like being your love slave sure is going to be different!”
“I’d have to be crazy, not to have some fun with it.”
When I first exposed his cock, it was already bigger than when he’d got dressed after the last time I made him come, and now it grew and stiffened rapidly as I watched. Soon it was sticking up at an angle, fully erect.”
“How does it feel to have me watch that happen?”
“It’s exciting! I can’t wait to see how you use me next!”
I had him finish getting out of his clothes, then I got out of mine.
“Come lie down with me.”
We kissed, we cuddled, he made love to my breasts with his mouth. He fingered my pussy, then moved down to suck and tongue my clit while he stimulated my nipples with his fingers. I came repeatedly.
“Come on back up here and let’s cuddle some more,” I said at last.
He did as I said and we wrapped our arms around one another. I delighted in the urgency of his excitement; the pulsing wetness of his cockhead affirmed the power of my femininity and boosted my confidence.
“That felt so good, Steve! I really like the way you do that.”
“Thanks. I like the way you like it. It’s groovy seeing you so turned on.”
“I believe it. You’re dripping on my tummy.”
I sat partway up. “Here…” I took hold of his cock and swirled the slippery liquid around the head with my thumb, studying it as I did. I spread the little slit between my thumb and forefinger and examined that, then tried sliding the tip of my thumb back and forth in it.
“I know what I want to do!”
I jumped up and heard Steve ask, “What?” as I retrieved a tangled heap of rope, webbing and carabiners.
“Guess,” I answered, undoing the tangles as fast as I could.
“You’re gonna tie me up?”
“Sufferin’ succotash!” he exclaimed, affecting a Looney lisp. “I don’t know what to say! This is so sudden! Nobody’s ever taken such an interest in me before! My gosh, I haven’t a thing to wear…!”
He went on like that, but I missed most of it—some because I was concentrating on the tangle and some because I was laughing so hard at the bits I caught.
When I had enough ends free, I set about tying him to the bed. I used climbers’ knots to secure first his wrists, then his ankles (I hadn’t yet perfected the knots I use now, nor had I realized that there’s no advantage to binding a man’s legs, but I’m sure my clumsiness did no harm). It was a while before I was satisfied with my work, but his cock was still hard.
“How does it feel, being tied up like that, knowing I can do anything I want to you?”
“It’s exciting! At least, so far it is.”
“Aren’t you a little worried about what I said yesterday—that you might get what you deserve for lunging at me?”
“A little. But you might decide to be nice to me. I think that’s the kind of person you are, and I’ve promised to be nice to you.”
“Maybe I should show you what might happen if you’re not nice, just to be sure you don’t change your mind.”
“I’ll be nice to you. I won’t even try to tell you what to do; I’ll just be yours, like we agreed.”
“Okay, I’ll think about that. Meanwhile I want to find out what turns you on.”
I explored his body, lightly caressing in turn his thighs, ears, neck, cheeks, lips, nipples and scrotum, watching his cock for a response. I didn’t get much, so I started massaging his cock with both hands, and that increased his arousal considerably. When I thought he was close to orgasm, I stopped and stroked his thighs. Nothing. I rubbed his cock some more, then kissed him teasingly on the mouth and tried his ears, neck and cheeks again. Nothing there either, so I went back to his cock to warm him up for another go. When he was in the same state as I had him before, I stopped and ran a couple of fingers along his scrotum. His cock gave a little jump.
“Ooh, that’s something!”
“Yeah, it excites me.”
“It didn’t do anything before.”
“It excited me then too, but I wasn’t turned on enough so you could see it.”
I did it again, and his cock stiffened and relaxed the same way, still more noticeably. The thought occurred to me that he must be terribly embarrassed by what we were doing; I knew I would have been, had our roles been reversed. I was tempted to ask him about it but decided not to. I was happy to be getting such a good education, and I was worried that inviting him to complain about his embarrassment might bring a response that would oblige me to slow down.
I went back to stroking his cock, and when he was all fired up again, I stopped once more.
“I wonder…,” I said, and I ran both index fingers around his nipples in tight circles.
He reacted even before I touched him, pulling at all the bonds at once and jerking his hips. Once I made contact, a broken groaning noise began deep in his throat, his cock started bouncing, and his hips bucked twice.
“That’s really something!”
I continued circling his nipples to see what would happen. His cock kept twitching, but less often and with less force, and his hips were still. The noise in his throat stopped when he ran out of air. He swallowed hard and his breathing became more regular.
I withdrew my hands and waited for him to regain his composure. He closed his eyes.
How did that feel?
He opened his eyes again
“Exciting! I don’t think I can describe it.”
I couldn’t resist any longer; I had to say it. “I’m glad you told me you don’t mind if I use you, ’cause otherwise I might worry how embarrassing this must be.”
“I guess you were right when I said that; I never really thought about how it would feel if something like this happened. I never thought something like this could happen. This is embarrassing, but it’s still exciting.”
“Suppose I tell you, being my love slave is always going to be this embarrassing. Are you still going to be my love slave?”
I had set out to project confidence, and I don’t think I got off to too bad a start, but I wound up sounding like I needed reassurance, and in fact I did. It meant so much to me to have him there, tied naked and helpless for me to play with, that I couldn’t bear the thought that he might not give himself to me like that again, that his embarrassment might make him quit after this once.
He closed his eyes again and stayed like that for a long time, then looked at me.
“It’s an embarrassing question, too,” he said.
And suddenly I knew he was in love with me. It had come over him just then, as he lay there. I could see it in his eyes. A softness, a caring—there was no mistaking that look, especially since it didn’t match our conversation in any way that I could yet understand.
I was drunk with power. Wow! I made him fall in love with me! Onward! First, all the men of this little city! Then Montréal!
By the grace of God, the feeling passed in a moment.
Then I needed to understand. What just happened here? What, precisely, did I do?
But no, that could wait. Steve was more important. Here he was, in love with me, and I didn’t know what I had done, didn’t know what I was doing. It would be so easy to hurt him now, just by being careless, just by mistake, and it would be so horribly wrong.
He swallowed again. “I’ll still do it.”
I realized I was looking back at him the same way he was looking at me, not just toying with him as I’d planned but genuinely loving him. I hadn’t expected such intensity of feeling and it seemed incongruous with the situation—with his being tied up like that—but I couldn’t deny what was happening to me.
I’d puzzle it out later. Now I had an agenda to follow, a role to play, an opportunity too rare to pass up.
I managed a smile. “Neat! I’ll try to see that you enjoy it. Most of the time, anyway. Today I might still want to pay you back for what you did yesterday.”
I took hold of his cock again and rubbed it with both hands until he came. The previous time had been nothing, compared to the show he put on for me now. He let out a stream of forced guttural noises, his hips jerked wildly, and he seemed to unload more than an ounce of fluid, and with such force that some of it splattered on the wall behind him.
“Wow! Big one, isn’t it?”
He raised his head, looked into my eyes, and nodded slightly. “Uh-huh.”
Orgasm had convulsed his face into something beautiful, his left cheek splashed with come. I appreciated how much effort he put into answering me in that state, how he must have craved the intimacy of that little gesture. I nodded in response and I knew he could see the love I was feeling.
Soon it was over. His hips settled down, his breathing grew quieter, and the throbbing of his cock became less forceful and ejected no more fluid. Confused though I was by the complexity of my feelings, I was determined to hold to my plan. I kept up my stroking. I knew that most men need the stimulation discontinued at this point but I wasn’t yet sure about Steve, which is why I’d told him only that he might be subjected to some sort of ordeal rather than promising it as a certainty. Now, though, I was finding out. His breath started to catch in his throat again and he squirmed and tried to pull away.
“Ooww! Let go!”
“Unh-Unh,” I teased, following the twisting of his hips with my hands and milking him steadily. “I warned you something like this might happen. See? This is one of the things I can do if you misbehave like yesterday. I tie you up, and I play with you until you have an orgasm, and I don’t let it end.”
He was thrashing as much as the bonds would permit, bucking his hips frantically. I wondered whether it was all an attempt to pull his cock out from between my hands, or whether it was a reflex response to the stimulation, or whether it was some of each. He made the most piteous noises the whole time, and at last he took a deep breath and let out a long, mournful, “Ooooooowww!”
“Okay, I’ll stop.”
I let go, studied him affectionately as he tried to pull himself together, saw the love in his eyes when he was finally able to look into mine, watched him grope for words.
“I don’t know what to say.”
It was funny, in its way, and I appreciated the humor; I also liked the honesty and precision of it.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just relax. I’ll untie you.”
I undid the bonds, retrieved an old shirt from the laundry bag and dried him off, then got into bed and cuddled him.
“You’re a lot of fun to play with. I’m going to like having you as a love slave.”
“I think I’m happy to hear that. I love you. I want to keep seeing you. I didn’t know that until today. I figured I’d just try to get to know you and see how things went, but I do love you. Only I don’t know how much of this treatment I can take. It hurts.”
“Well, I don’t think I’ll do it too often. I don’t even think I’ll tie you up very often, and some of the times I tie you up, I’ll stop playing with you when you need me to. Of course sometimes I’ll do it just like today, and when I first tie you up, you won’t know which it’ll be.”
“Oh, wow!” He held me tight.
After Steve had gone, I took an inventory of the pieces I had of the puzzle. I wouldn’t be able to rest until I’d assembled them into at least a partial understanding of what had happened, and then I would have to see whether anything was missing—anything I still needed to discover if I was to grasp it all.
What, in our brief interaction, had had such a powerful effect on Steve? Why had he fallen in love with me? I could identify two possible causes. One was his embarrassment at my exploration of his sexual responses; the other was my peculiarly phrased request for reassurance. I suspected that each had played a part.
Embarrassment. When Steve knocked on my door that day, I had no understanding of its power. The possibility of the Loop had never occurred to me. All I knew, beyond what any woman knows, is that men can’t resist sexual stimulation. That knowledge had fueled my most enjoyable fantasies and shaped some memorable sexual encounters, but I had no idea that a man’s embarrassment at his loss of control could itself be a turn-on. Now I had two pieces of evidence that made it seem likely, and I was on my way to my earliest understanding of the Loop.
When I’d exposed Steve’s cock, it got hard just from his knowing I was watching. I hadn’t expected that. I thought I’d have to stimulate it if I wanted to see it get hard, and I was impressed by the way it grew and stiffened in response to my gaze alone. The obvious conclusion was that what turned him on was his self-conscious awareness that I would get to witness his arousal—his embarrassment at being put on display to satisfy my feminine curiosity. Whenever I had seen an erect penis before, I could find some other explanation for the excitement it reflected. Even when I reminisced about that summer day in Maryland, I had always assumed that what so aroused the boy in the bushes was the sight of our naked female bodies. Now I wondered. Sure, all those erections could be explained otherwise than by embarrassment, but perhaps some of those explanations were incomplete. Maybe a few were even wrong.
Then there was that fascinating remark Steve made when I asked him whether he would still be my love slave even though he found it embarrassing. It was while considering that question that he was struck by Cupid’s arrow, and what he said when he looked at me so lovingly was, “It’s an embarrassing question, too.”
That utterance didn’t make a whole lot of sense when first I heard it, but I was sure there was meaning in it and I was determined to find it. I pondered long, trying to figure out where Steve was coming from, trying to imagine what state of mind could be reflected in those words. Why was it an embarrassing question? I could come up with only one explanation.
My question was embarrassing because Steve was turned on by his embarrassment, and he felt that an affirmative response would let me know that. Admitting to being turned on by his embarrassment would be embarrassing in itself because he thought it would mark him as a pervert and because it would encourage me to embarrass him all the more in the future.
There was an obvious flaw in this reasoning. He might be embarrassed by my toying and not be turned on by his embarrassment—indeed he might even find it unpleasant—but still be willing to accept it because our relationship was important to him. So an affirmative response didn’t necessarily let me know that he found his embarrassment exciting, but his state of mind was such that he didn’t see that; if he had seen it there would be no credible explanation at all for his remark. I could easily relate to that state because of my own experience the previous day, when I had been so anxious in my certainty that Steve was about to accuse me of setting him up to be coerced into sexual slavery. Realistically I had no reason to expect he would react badly even if he knew for sure. We human beings are like that; we tend to think that others know where we’re coming from. Usually they don’t, and that takes some getting used to.
But wait a minute! Maybe Steve understood that. Maybe he didn’t think I knew where he was coming from. There is a credible explanation for his remark in that case, after all. Maybe he wasn’t afraid I would know he was turned on by his embarrassment. Maybe he wanted me to know it, even if it might mark him as a pervert, either because he hoped I would use the knowledge to turn him on in the future, or because he had fallen in love with me and wanted me to know him that intimately, or (most likely) both. Wow!
Of course, I had no way of knowing whether he feared my understanding or desired it or (again) both; but in any case, the Loop seemed a certainty.
Then there was my request for reassurance. I hadn’t intended it to come out that way. The words were going to be different and the inflection stronger, but I turned a weak phrase, spoke too softly, and let my pitch rise too steeply. It sounded just pathetic.
What did it say to Steve?
I know I seem really kinky, and playing like this embarrasses you, but I hope you like it well enough, like me well enough, trust me well enough, to want to continue sharing it with me. Right now you’re tied down so I can toy with you, but that doesn’t mean I can disregard your feelings; they matter to me, and I need you to reassure me about how you’re taking all this. Yes, I’m kinky. I’m also a lot more, just as you’re all that you are, and I hope you’ll accept me, that you’ll want to go on knowing me, that you’ll say something to encourage me right now so I can get over this worry and get back to enjoying you.
That’s powerful stuff, I realized, and I was glad I’d lost control of my voice and said it. Though at that age I might not have been able to express it as clearly as I can now, I’d begun to understand that nothing arouses love quite so strongly or reliably as sharing our vulnerabilities freely and nondefensively. I’d seen it work for Suzi, I’d felt it in my previous relationships, and Steve’s openness that very day had made me fall in love with him just as he’d fallen in love with me.
I thought about how the Loop and my request for reassurance might have reinforced one another, and I tried to reconstruct what went on in Steve’s mind as he lay there on my bed with his eyes closed, deciding how he was going to answer me.
This is so embarrassing, but it’s also such a turn-on that I don’t want to lose it, and Georgeann doesn’t seem at all mean. I think I can trust her. Like, I’m completely at her mercy and she’s asking me in that scared little-girl voice to reassure her that we can still do this kind of thing, as if what I say really matters to her, even now. She must really care about me. And I don’t want to hurt her. Silly thought when I’m tied up like this, but I don’t want to hurt her. I care about her too. I love her. I want to trust her to do this kind of thing, just as she seems to want to trust me to know and accept her kinkiness. I even want to trust her to know that my embarrassment is a turn-on, and her tone tells me I can trust her, that she wants to use it in a way I’ll enjoy.
I still didn’t know whether he believed that agreeing to continue as my love slave would itself confirm that he was turned on by his embarrassment and felt that it would be stylistically better to confess it up front, or whether he told me what he was feeling because he wanted me to know and figured that that was the only way. It was something to wonder about, but it really didn’t matter anymore. There was a far more interesting question to consider, and I turned my attention to that.
What had given the day’s play such a high emotional charge?
My previous relationships had been rather ordinary. Carl and I liked one another right off, became more and more intimate physically, grew to love one another and fucked many times (I had lied to Steve). We were close and our feelings were often intense. Eventually I insisted on doing a scene with him that, outwardly at least, was very much like today’s: he ate me, and then I tied him down and played with him until he came. I didn’t try to enslave him; I hadn’t yet decided to try that sort of thing at all, and since I hadn’t yet any inkling of the Loop, it would have seemed silly to try to take control of what was already such a loving relationship. Silly was Carl’s word for the whole idea of tying him, and he went along with it only to please me. His reaction to the experience seemed close to what it would have been if he hadn’t been tied, but contaminated by disdain for the cumber of the bonds. I enjoyed toying with him, but I certainly can’t say I was emotionally overwhelmed. I loved him as always, and I appreciated his accommodating me, but that was all.
I’d had a number of experiences like that, and a few that were more exciting. The most exciting had been purely sexual flings with young men I didn’t love. In high school, for example, I once got hold of a copy of an exam that was yet to be given, and offered it to a fellow student in exchange for the privilege of tying him up and tickling him. Gene insisted on keeping his undershorts on, but once he was tied I cut them off (a snip down each side is all it takes) and teased him, first about having me see him naked, then about not being able to help but get a hard-on, and finally about having to let me watch him spurt all over his tummy. That was far more exciting than the scene with Carl even though I didn’t get to come until I returned home. No love, of course, but I hadn’t expected any.
What made the flings so exciting was that they were real. I felt free to do whatever turned me on; I didn’t have to hold back to avoid damaging the relationship because the fling was the relationship. I didn’t worry with Gene, as I did later with Carl, that he’d reject me, or love me less, if I exceeded his tolerance for teasing; Gene, after all, hadn’t loved me at the start.
Today’s fantastic session with Steve combined the best of everything. We hadn’t begun our sexual relationship because we were in love, but at least our mutual attraction had led us to become friends. Because of our friendship, and because my sexual agenda would take longer than a single day to pursue, I was concerned about how Steve would react to my kinkiness, but not paralyzed by anxiety as I would have been if I were in love and already committed to a conventional pattern of interaction. It turned out to be an explosive brew, and by the time Steve left, we were both in love.
Suddenly everything I ever wanted was right there, all together, and it was real. I had a love slave to play with as I liked, and he was in love with me and I was in love with him. He was really my love slave. There was no way it usually is to go back to when our play was over, or to fall back on if things went badly. I hadn’t limited myself with promises of what I would or wouldn’t do while he was tied up, or at any other time either. All he had for security was his trust in my gentle nature. I’d done what I wanted, and together we’d discovered that my exploration of his sexual responses was itself a turn-on. Now I would always know that about him, and he would always know I knew, just as we would always know that along the way, I’d got worried about scaring him off and asked him for reassurance, and he’d given it freely and loved me for asking.
I loved Steve for sharing his embarrassment and for continuing to offer himself to me. I knew that what he felt was more than lust because when I was done torturing him and told him I might do it again someday, he wasn’t horny anymore but he still loved me for it. He didn’t have to let me know that, but he did, by the way he held me, and it made me love him all the more. Our time together had been just filled with love, and it had been real from beginning to end. End? There was no end, not in the sense that there had been an end to my fling with Gene or my single venture into kink with Carl. Soon Steve and I would be together again and we would continue. Not from some dull normalcy, but from where we were. It was an exhilarating thought and I could hardly wait.
After that, Steve and I spent all the time we could together. When we were alone, I almost never let him keep his clothes on. It didn’t take much to excite him, and I was always teasing him about having to walk around with his cock sticking up. Most times we were together, I had him give me several orgasms, and many of those times I choreographed some pretty kinky scenes; but no matter what the circumstances, he always did me lovingly. I usually made him come too, always teasingly, but with affection I couldn’t have hid if I wanted to.
I was lucky it was Steve who was my first love slave. Not only was he a lot of fun to play with, he was uncommonly communicative. If I asked him to describe his feelings, he would respond honestly, freely and in detail. This allowed me to learn a great deal very quickly without having to guess or rely on inferences. Steve readily acknowledged, for example, that he was embarrassed by his inability to keep from turning on to me, that his embarrassment added to his sexual excitement, and that he loved me for embarrassing him. The Loop was no longer mere conjecture but confirmed reality.
He verified much of what I’d suspected about the physiology and psychology of male sexual response but hadn’t previously had anyone I could comfortably ask—that pressure in the seminal vesicles is felt as lust, or at least as increased susceptibility to arousal; that sexual stimulation seems to make the seminal vesicles fill more quickly; that there’s a high correlation among the subjective intensity of an orgasm, the amount of fluid ejected and the force with which it’s expelled. He also cooperated with my attempts to learn things that he himself hadn’t been aware of; it was on Steve that I first learned that the frenum and corona are the only parts of the penis whose stimulation irresistibly induces orgasm, and that they’re the only parts whose stimulation causes distress when continued too long.
I nailed down this last bit of information over the course of a couple of weeks of experimentation. I’d play with Steve’s cock until he came and then keep rubbing it, after one fashion or another, and he’d let me know whether it bothered him. He wasn’t tied down, and I never tried to prolong his distress, but it was plenty exciting for both of us, especially since we both understood that the knowledge I was gathering had only one possible use.
It was more than exciting.
Half an hour after I’d finished the last of my experiments, we were cuddling, satiated, and Steve got up to go to the bathroom, then came back and lay next to me.
“Well, Yum-Yum, now I know exactly how to torture you if you decide to misbehave. How does that make you feel?”
He considered for a while, to see how he felt, so he could give me a real answer. That’s how he was, and that’s how we talked.
“It’s embarrassing that you know my body that well, and it’s embarrassing to be talking about the possibility that you might torture me that way, and it’s so exciting, it’s giving me a hard-on even though I just came.”
I saw that it was true.
“Neat! Doesn’t it frighten you a little too?”
He thought it over.
“No, not really. It’s you, and I know that even if you do torture me you’ll do it lovingly.
“You know, sometimes I feel like we’re really one single piece of God’s creation, and we were made to seem like two just so we could enjoy loving each other. Looking at it that way, being embarrassed makes sense but being frightened doesn’t. I mean, it’s good that I get embarrassed because it’s a turn-on; and what my embarrassment really is, is the feeling of being known really well in whatever way we’re paying attention to at the time. That wouldn’t feel good if I thought you didn’t like what you were knowing about me, but you always do, so I wind up grooving on it. Being frightened wouldn’t feel good like that, so there’s no use to it. It would be useful if you meant me harm; then I could be frightened away from you so I’d be safe. But you’re not like that. I don’t think you can really want to hurt anyone, just like I can’t; so except for being embarrassed, which is a turn-on, I feel comfortable with you.”
It sank in slowly, all warm and fuzzy. I started to cry quietly and he looked over and saw me and slid his arm under me and pulled me over top of him so I was looking down into him and he up into me and my tears were falling on his face and he cried with me like that and we knew. We had come a long way since concocting our separate agendas, each secretly scheming to use the other. It had been a twisted path, but it didn’t matter anymore. I had never before loved anyone as I loved Steve at that moment.
Several days later, feeling playful again, I had Steve strip as usual and told him I planned to make him come, but only if he could control himself for a couple of hours and keep from getting hard until I was ready. As I had expected from my understanding of the Loop, his erection was more persistent than ever. I asked him for an explanation, partly to be sure I had it right and partly because I knew that having to talk about it would add to his embarrassment.
“Well, first, when you tell me I’m not allowed to get hard, I know you’re watching, and that turns me on all by itself; and second, you know I’m trying to control myself, so I get embarrassed by knowing that you know I can’t control myself, and that turns me on even more. It’s some trip! You’re one exciting girl!”
I had him eat me before I sent him on his way, and I told him not to do anything to relieve his lust before we got together the next day because I had plans for him.
When he returned, he was desperately horny and I inflamed his lust still further by having him eat me again. Then I tied him to the bed and strongly hinted I was going to repeat the torture of that first day as punishment for his failure to control his arousal.
I massaged his cock until his ejaculation was inevitable.
“You’re in for it now!”
I kept rubbing.
He lifted his bottom off the bed and a slight trickle of come oozed out the end of his cock. His muscles relaxed for one brief instant, then his hips jerked and his cock stiffened again, splashing another souvenir onto my wall.
“Ooh, yeah! Do it, Steve!”
He did. His hips bucked wildly; animal-like grunts and cries came from his throat; he splashed the wall twice more.
“Beautiful, Steve! I love you.”
He came and came. It took at least a dozen spasms to drain him, and he wound up covered with sperm. When he finally ran dry, he started to look worried, and when I saw that, I stopped. I kept one hand on his cock, holding it gently; I wiped the other on the bedding, then used it to caress his cheek and rub his shoulder.
“That was exciting, wasn’t it, thinking I might really torture you again?”
“It sure was! I’ve never come that hard! Thank you! You’re so good to me!”
“How do you feel now?”
“Like a little puddle of Steve. Contented. Totally in love with you. Wow!”
I smiled and nodded. God! I loved him…
“I’d better get these ropes off you.”
I untied one knot and he started to help, twisting his body so the come dripped down his side and onto the bed. I got a towel.
“Here, lie back a minute. I’ll wipe you up.”
I did the best I could and we finished undoing the knots; then I lay next to him and we held one another a long time.
It was after that, that I asked Steve about his sexual history and learned he was a virgin. The surprise, besides giving me a good lesson in the folly of stereotyping, led me to reflect on his skills. I had always regarded him as a good lover, and now I was even more impressed. He was much better, at least at what I had let him do for me so far, than men of considerably greater experience. The reason, I reflected, was that he cared about his effect on me—cared about the quality of the experience he was creating for me—so he paid attention to what he did and he paid attention to my responses. It wasn’t just that he was on his best behavior because he was afraid I would torture him or because he hoped one day to fuck me. He cared about his effect on everyone and treated even strangers with as much kindness as they would allow.
I loved Steve deeply and I wanted to fuck him. At the same time, I wanted to wait—even though I had satisfied myself that, yes, I was capable of enslaving and holding a man I refused to fuck. I expected to be spending the rest of my life with Steve, and while I knew I couldn’t allow him to remain a virgin for long, I also knew that this portion of our time together would be our only opportunity to explore the special kind of anticipation and teasing that his virginity made possible.
Something I particularly wanted to try was the bondage trip Suzi had run on Barry, and I created the opportunity one unusually warm day in early spring when I led Steve to a secluded spot in one of my favorite woods. I found a big pine tree with a fallen log under it, tied Steve’s wrists together in front of him, took a length of rope and tied it loosely to the loop of plastic that kept the top of my water bottle from getting lost, then threw the bottle over one of the lower branches of the tree. I untied the bottle and instead fastened the end of the rope to the figure-eight between Steve’s wrists, then pulled the other end until his arms were extended upward, and finally lashed the free end to the tree trunk. I undid Steve’s belt and dropped his jeans.
“I’ve been wondering, Steve, whether you could get your ejaculation under control and stop coming after just a couple of spurts if you tried really hard. What do you think?
“Of course I couldn’t. Remember how you did all those experiments on me? And proved that I can’t stop until you let me?”
“What if I stopped rubbing as soon as you started to come, and I just held your cock without doing anything?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I don’t think I could stop anyway.”
“Well, I want to find out, and I want you to try really hard to stop, so I’m going to offer you a big incentive to succeed.”
“Uh-oh! Are you going to torture me again if I can’t do it?”
“Oh, no! Nothing like that! What I had in mind was that if you can stop, in three spurts or less, then sometime in the next few days I would help you get rid of your virginity.”
“Umgawa! What if I can’t?”
“Well, then you’ll just have to go on living with it.”
His cock had become hard as we talked, and now I sat on the log and went to work on it. I rubbed it gently between my hands, one on top and one on the bottom, making sure to brush the frenum and corona with each stroke. When he seemed about twenty seconds from coming, I repeated the rules of our game. “Now remember, you have three spurts to get it under control. The fourth one means you might be a virgin for a long time.”
I milked him until I was sure the first spurt was inevitable, then let go. “There, Steve, I won’t even hold on.”
He answered with a kind of broken sobbing. “You’re going to watch…”
His voice gave out as his pelvic muscles started pumping. His cock swung down, then sprang back up and spurted.
“One,” I counted.
He didn’t even slow down.
“Whoops! There goes your chance to fuck me!”
The seventh spurt was really the last, though his cock twitched hard two more times before settling into the gentle pulsing with which it shrank and softened.
“What an exciting display! Your sex makes such a neat toy!”
“I’m glad you like playing with me. You’re one imaginative lover!”
“Thanks. You know, I have one more thing planned for you while you’re still tied like this. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I want to hear how you felt when you pumped out the fourth spurt.”
“Ooo-eee! I have to think about how to explain it.”
I waited, watching as a drop of residual come caught the inside of his thigh and trickled slowly down, leaving a thin strand of viscous fluid connected to the tip of his cock. Everything around us was so wonderfully green, smelled so wonderfully green.
“Well,” he began, “the whole thing was really embarrassing and really exciting because I knew you wanted to watch my cock move like that and I had to let you. I mean, when you let go, it was too late to keep from coming, and I couldn’t hold my cock still while I came, or make it move only a little, so I had to let you see it move a lot, and it’s really embarrassing, having a girl watch that. At the same time, each spurt felt really good, same as it always does; that’s just the way a guy’s orgasm is.
“I really wanted to hold back the fourth one, but I couldn’t. It was just part of coming, and since you wanted to know, it looks like I can’t get it under control once I start; it just has to die down by itself.
“How I felt… I felt like I was telling you how I felt, just by spurting, and you could hear me. It was like I was saying, Here, I need to move my cock for you to see and I need to let you know how much it embarrasses me. I love you and you turn me on so much that I need to give you everything you want, right now, even if it means I don’t get to ball you.”
His words were somehow permeated with the green smell. Turned on as I was, I felt strangely peaceful, almost spacey.
“Really?” I asked.
“That’s beautiful. I love you too, Steve. I hope you know that.”
“Yeah, I do. It’s nice to hear you say it. Thanks.”
I stood up and unhitched the rope. He lowered his arms. I untied his hands. We hugged, then walked back to civilization.
I had more teases planned for Steve’s virginity, but I never got to them. He was drafted. He showed me the notice and the world ended. What would he be when he came back? a corpse? a vegetable? a psychopathic killer? No, never a psychopathic killer, no matter what they might do to him; at least I knew that about him, but the other possibilities weren’t much better.
We had a month before he was due to report. I decided, first of all, that he was going to lose his virginity to me, not to some whore surrounded by a mob of drunken soldiers; second, that we were going to wait for one another, write to one another, and continue our relationship when he returned home—if he returned home; third, that my panic wasn’t going to make me release him from his promise to be my love slave. I wanted that to be forever.
It all happened as I decided. We promised to wait for one another; we promised to write; I kept control of the relationship. I fucked him nine times before he went in. The first time, I tied him down and surprised him; the other eight, I didn’t tie him, but I was on top anyway.
When he completed training, he came home and we spent whatever time we could together. I mourned the loss of his hair, but I didn’t mention it to him. He was still the same person and I loved him dearly, hair or no. I told him I’d wait for him, he told me he’d be faithful to me, we promised to continue writing, and I fucked him eight more times.
Then he was shipped to Vietnam. In three weeks he was dead.
If, back then, the wives of enough congressmen had known the techniques described in this book, I have little doubt that they would have prevented the bloodbath that took Steve away from me. Women are universally distressed by the slaughter of their children, unlike men, who are distressed by it only when they can’t exact vengeance. We’re also distressed by the slaughter of other women’s children. Men, with only a few exceptions, seem to revel in it; massacre is a male bonding ritual.
For the most part, I think I have a realistic idea of what I can accomplish with this book. My aim is to empower women sexually, one at a time, and I expect that that will happen—a goodly number of women will be sexually empowered by reading this. I hope that each of those women will use her newfound power to improve the relationship she’s in, or her next one, and that her partner will benefit as much as she. I expect that even that will happen—maybe not in every case, but often. Beyond these expectations—expectations I regard as realistic—I have a dream. Perhaps it’s a grandiose dream, but I want to share it with you anyway.
I’d like to empower women as a gender so that among us we’ll have enough leverage to make basic human decency a guiding principle of society. I’d like my skills to become so widely known and practiced that no heterosexually active man can escape them. I’d like every young man falling in love for the first time to have to face the certainty that the young women he loves knows how to use the power of her femininity to make him her slave—the certainty that if she loves him, she will make him her slave. I’d like so many women to take control of their men that female supremacy becomes the accepted social norm, much as male supremacy was the norm in the nineteenth century. Ultimately my dream is of a world in which we, as women, can see to it that love stories don’t have to end so sadly as the one I just told; a world where children, women, and even men are no longer murdered by testosterone-crazed psychopaths; a world of peace and mutual respect.
Sharing my grandiose dream isn’t going to make it come true, but sharing my skills may, so I’ll step down from my soapbox and, thanking you for your indulgence, get back to what I know best.
I got Steve to agree to become my love slave by leading him to believe that under no other circumstances could our sexual relationship continue. That’s a fairly simple and straightforward approach, and it often works. In fact the only thing unusual about the way I enslaved Steve is that I did it so artlessly. When we’ve seen this approach before, the details have generally been more elaborate.
The techniques for sexually enslaving a man can be reduced to three basic approaches, which can then be regarded as the corners of a triangle and combined in various ratios to fit the circumstances. One of these approaches is the one I took with Steve back in the days of the troglodytes. It’s the same one I took with Drew years later, the one Denise took with Tony and the one Linda took with Stephan.
We’ve seen one of the other approaches as well—that of leading your man, without coercion, to believe that being your love slave is what he himself wants. That’s how I enslaved Patrick and how Paula enslaved Jimmy. The case of Paula and Jimmy can hardly be debated. When she asked, he simply gave himself to her. He did it out of love, and with the expectation that the arrangement would be pleasant for both of them. Sure, he wanted Paula to stop going into panics, but her panics hadn’t been strategically staged as a form of coercion; they were real panics. Jimmy’s wish that the panics would end was an aspect of his love, and Paula’s relief from the unpleasantness of the panics was a part of his gift.
It may not be so clear that Patrick wasn’t coerced. Obviously he was coerced into promising to be my love slave, but he could have renounced his promise when I untied him. If he had, I certainly would have let him know that our relationship couldn’t continue unless my conditions were met, but I didn’t have to go that far; by the time he was untied he wanted to be my love slave. Perhaps he wouldn’t have argued if I told him we would go back to doing things as before, but neither did he argue about the kinkier path I actually chose.
(Suzi’s advertising is a blend of the two approaches, and its most novel feature is that it was applied so early: We can begin a sexual relationship if, and only if, you’ll agree to be my slave. Will you?)
If a man is to be held in sexual slavery for any length of time, he has to be made to like it. Coercion may be necessary to get him to accept the role initially, and a nominal degree of continued coercion may be necessary to keep him from reasserting his view of normalcy, but coercion alone can’t keep him enslaved for long. If a man finds nothing pleasant in sexual slavery, the amount of coercion needed to hold him will keep increasing and he’ll eventually free himself, even if it means ending the relationship and even if ending the relationship involves great hardship.
It’s especially important to keep this in mind when taking the third approach to sexual enslavement. This approach, of which we’ve not yet seen any examples, consists in the use of coercion whose subject goes beyond the discontinuance of the sexual relationship. It’s appropriate only in the context of a marriage that’s become intolerable, but whose sexual aspect is still worthwhile, where a man may do almost anything to avoid divorce because the nonsexual costs are too great. It isn’t of much use in the sort of relationship that’s easily dissolved, but I have had one occasion to try it myself. The story is a weird one, and I certainly can’t say I’m proud of it, but the times were such as to drive people to extremes, and my emotional state was heavily influenced by my recent loss of Steve, so I hope you won’t judge me too harshly.
I met Corbett at the start of our senior year of college, when we both enrolled in the same advanced class in expository writing. He was a short-haired conservative and had his sights set on a prestigious eastern law school. To improve his chances of acceptance, he had got himself elected to the student senate by an organization called Vincent, chartered the previous year as a peer support group for virgins who chose, as a matter of principle, to resist the temptations and pressures of the recently begun sexual revolution.
We talked some, and he found himself drawn to me in much the same way that so many young men were attracted to Suzi. I was friendly, I was open about my feelings, and he couldn’t help but like me. At the same time, my politics, indistinguishable from those of the vast majority of our fellow students, were from his point of view scandalous.
As my contemporaries will remember, those were strange days indeed. A young person typically adopted a large cluster of beliefs en bloc, along with a matching style of dress and grooming. That was the Rule, no matter that the clustered beliefs were unrelated and even logically inconsistent, and no matter that the universally recognized matches between philosophy and style were arbitrary. The Rule made it possible to infer a great deal about a person from very little information, and when such an inference was obviously wrong, it was drawn anyway, with the public blessing of the vice president of the United States on the one side and his bitterest enemies on the other.
Corbett couldn’t make sense of me. I believed in personal liberty and social welfare, opposed the war in Southeast Asia, and smoked dope. At the same time, I worked hard at my studies, presented a pleasant demeanor even to people whose politics were anathema to me, bathed frequently, and never used the words for sexual acts as expletives. He regarded me as exotic and became fascinated.
I told him how I’d lost Steve, and it drew him to me even more strongly. He regarded Steve as a hero, and though it didn’t matter, he was probably right. He regarded me as a trauma victim, and there he was certainly right; but he took it too far, attributing all my beliefs and preferences to my bereavement. He saw my politics as excusable, even deserving of his indulgence, but best got over and replaced with the authoritarianism that would match both my civility and my status as a war widow.
I liked Corbett. He was pleasant company and the sexual shyness that had kept him a virgin for so long was a turn-on. Still, I had only a little more respect for his beliefs than he, for mine: I didn’t try to explain them away, but they were definitely in need of fixing. I decided I was going to enslave him and make the necessary repairs. If I couldn’t change his views, I would at least take control of his vote in the student senate. Right now, I can’t explain why that was important, but it made perfect sense at the time.
It was easy to ask Corbett about his sexual philosophy early on. Vincent had about thirty members and only three were men, so his position as an officer of the group invited that sort of discussion. He admitted to having joined for the purpose of getting himself elected to the student senate because it would look good on his record, but he also insisted he was a genuine virgin and professed the belief that that’s what everyone ought to be until marriage. His reasons were a mix of old-time religion, economics and public health policy, with a peculiar twist added on: He said he wanted the woman he married to be a virgin so she would be all his, and it seemed that the same should apply to him. I was sure it was all a smokescreen for his shyness, but since he had to conceal that, even from himself, I was also sure he believed every word of it. I was able to learn that he had no objection to sex play that didn’t include penetration, as long as it took place in a context of affection, and I certainly found that encouraging, but he was evasive about his own experience.
“I don’t know,” I said when his explanation was done… “It sounds awfully strange to me. But I shouldn’t be too critical; my tastes are pretty strange too.”
“Really. You’d be shocked.”
“Would you tell me about them?”
“I don’t know. Are you sure you want me to?”
“Yeah, you’ve got me curious.”
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.
“Back when I was fourteen, I was visiting a girl who had a backyard pool. There were four other girls there too, and we all stripped to go swimming.—”
“Are you going to tell me you’re queer?”
“No—not like you mean it, anyway. Much more shocking than that.”
He studied me intently.
“You want to hear more?”
“Well, while we were there, somebody noticed that there was a boy in the yard, hiding in the bushes, spying on us. He must have been about as old as me—probably curious about what girls’ bodies look like, you know. We passed the word around and kind of surrounded him, but we were careful not to let on until we were real close. Then we all rushed him and grabbed him and wrestled him down. When he stopped struggling we told him how uncomfortable it made us feel to be spied on like that. Then we said that to show him how it felt, we were going to take off his clothes. He tried to struggle some more, but he couldn’t stop us and we stripped him. He must have been excited from seeing us all naked, because he had a hard-on, and one of the girls wanted to play with it, so the rest of us kept hold of him while she did.”
I paused. I could tell Corbett was turned on. We were sitting on opposite sides of a granite table with a chessboard embedded in the top, so I couldn’t see whether his cock was hard, but he was breathing faster, his lips were fuller, and his nostrils and pupils were more dilated than when I’d started.
“What happened then?” The words caught in his throat.
“He had an orgasm, with all of us watching. Then we got dressed, gave him back his clothes, and warned him not to tell anyone what had happened or we’d say that he’d broken in, pulled down his pants, and masturbated; and he’d probably wind up in an institution.”
“That’s some story!”
“Yeah, I guess it is. Anyway, it left me with a taste for that kind of thing. What I like to do with my boyfriends is tie them down and play with them.”
“Tie them down?”
“Well, yeah… I can’t hold them down like I could when there were six of me, because there aren’t six of me anymore.”
“Do you whip them? stuff like that?”
“No, that kind of thing doesn’t interest me at all. I can’t even understand why anyone would want to do it.”
“You’re not a virgin, are you?”
It took me a moment to make the connection.
“No, most of my relationships have been real ordinary, except once in a while I’d tie the guy up—if I could get him to let me. Men are so paranoid about that kind of thing; they won’t go along with it until they’re real comfortable in a relationship, and that usually means we have to have fucked a few times first.”
“You do say that!”
“Huh? Say what?”
“You said fuck.”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure I did. I say it when I talk about fucking. I don’t use it as an expression of negativity because I have a positive view of sex and I don’t want to cooperate with the conspiracy to give it a bad name.”
Corbett shook his head in bewilderment. The world wasn’t like this. Women like me didn’t exist, and here he was falling in love with one. Another of life’s many tragedies was under way.
We took to spending a fair amount of time together, mostly talking. He tried to get me to understand his view of the world, and he tried to learn mine well enough to prove it wrong, but I wouldn’t be reduced to a political philosophy, nor would I be tricked into reducing him to one. I stubbornly remained a complete human being with feelings, dreams, vulnerabilities and all manner of complexity. He would bait me intellectually and I would pull him into my depths and he couldn’t help but loving me for it, a little more every day. Sometimes, when the feeling overwhelmed him, he would put his arms around me and kiss me, and I would put mine around him and kiss him back, and his cock would get hard and press against me, and I’d back away and pat it affectionately through his clothing and say, “Someday I’m going to tie you up and have some fun.” Then he’d blush and pull me close again, pressing his cheek against mine so I couldn’t see.
I knew it was only a matter of time before he agreed, and I wanted to be prepared, so I set aside four pieces of nylon webbing and kept them ready—that is, I didn’t tie them for use as climbing slings and I didn’t let them get tangled. What I did instead was work out the knots I would use. I had become pretty sure that I could improve on my climbers’ knots and it turned out I was right. I designed the knots I’ve been using for bondage ever since, and I practiced them every day.
There was one other preparation I needed to make.
By asking just about everyone I knew, I managed to inherit an old headboard from an acquaintance of an acquaintance who was moving. With a little help, I got it to my room. I bought some tools, a gallon of wall patch and a quart of paint that was almost the color of my wall. When I had everything I needed, I cut out the piece of wallboard that bore my souvenirs of Steve. Then I did a bad patch-and-paint job and hid it behind the headboard. Now I was ready for Corbett, my memento safe. I sanded its edges until they were smooth, then sat and looked at the faint splash-and-drip pattern on the pale beige background for more than an hour, crying the whole time. Eventually I was able to get a frame for it and I cried a lot more, but that was months later.
(Yes, I still have it. The discolorations are almost invisible now, but I can still pick them out if I look closely. And yes, I still cry over it.)
Over the course of a couple of weeks, my suggestion to Corbett evolved from, “Someday I’m going to tie you up and have some fun,” to, “Let me know when you’re ready,” which had the advantage that it could be used as a casual farewell even when he wasn’t excited.
Then, one day in early October, I took him on a picnic in the woods, choosing a spot where I was sure we’d be alone. I kept him turned on the whole time, and I did it in a way that suggested my kind of kink. I sat on his chest with one knee on either side of him. I unbuttoned his shirt. I pinned his wrists to the ground and teased him. I kissed him, licked his nipples, teased him more about the way he shivered in response as they stiffened, kissed him again, and on and on for hours.
When the temperature started to drop, I brought him back to my room. He seemed frightened but too dazed to take evasive action. I sat him on the edge of the bed and took off his sneakers, then his shirt. I got out my four lengths of nylon webbing and tied one to each wrist. I laid him down and secured his arms. I pulled off his socks, pants and undershorts. I secured his ankles but left a fair amount of slack in the webbing. His breathing was rapid and shallow, his cock shrunken. I sat next to him.
“You’re terribly frightened, Corbett. Do you know why?”
“That’s hard to imagine, but somehow I believe you.” I studied his anxiety. “Have you ever been naked in front of a woman before?”
He seemed to have trouble breathing. “N…not…not since I was a little kid.”
I looked into his eyes and nodded. “Thanks for trusting me to be the first. And thanks for trusting me to know I’m the first. And for trusting me to tie you up. I don’t think this’ll mean much if I just say it, but there’s really nothing to be frightened of. I’m not going to hurt you; I just couldn’t. I think you already know that or you wouldn’t be here. We’ve talked a lot. Two hours ago we were kissing in the woods.”
He was starting to look better.
“Do you remember all that?”
He took a deep breath. “Yeah.”
I waited to see whether he’d say anything more.
“I’m just nervous I guess.”
“That’s okay. I’ll just start kissing you again, and you’ll remember who I am and how much we like each other, and we’ll both have a real good time. And if you don’t remember, that’ll be okay too; I’ll untie you and I’ll still like you.”
I gave his shoulder a squeeze and he responded with a brave little smile and a slight nod. At least he wasn’t terrified anymore. Apprehensive, but not terrified.
I sat on his tummy, one knee on either side. I looked at him a few moments with a mixture of affection and lust, then lay down on him and kissed him. He smelled of anxiety but I could deal with it. I had to deal with it; he was so fragile, I didn’t dare let on. I lifted myself so my face was about four inches from his and I looked into his eyes and smiled. I kissed him again. This time he kissed me back. I raised myself up for another smile. He was relaxing and turning on. Three times more and he was returning my kisses urgently, trying to raise his head to follow me when I pulled away. His breathing too had taken on the urgency of heavy lust.
“Remember me now?”
He nodded as much as his posture would allow. “Yeah, thanks.” He smiled. There was sadness in his smile, embarrassment too, but it was a real smile.
I smiled back at him, playfully, and quickly bent to lick his nipple. I watched the shiver echo through his body as I sat up.
“You do have sensitive nipples. Here, I’ll let you see mine.”
I pulled my shirt up over my head and let it fall on the bed.
He was transfixed. He lay there for the better part of a minute, just staring at my breasts, breathing heavily. Then he glanced at my face and realized I’d been watching him stare.
“Sorry, I just—”
“It’s okay. I intended for you to look. I’m glad you like me.”
“You’re just so beautiful!”
I doubted that it was so much my beauty that made him stare as his curiosity, but it didn’t seem decent to say so. Besides, I liked the attention either way; it was what I’d been hoping for.
“Thank you. It makes me feel good to hear you say that.”
I looked down at my chest, then back at Corbett.
“Would you like to feel them in your mouth?”
“Yeah. C…could I?”
I leaned forward and positioned my left breast so the nipple was almost touching his lips. He licked it, then raised his head and sucked it. I lowered myself further so he could relax his neck, and he tongued the nipple inside his mouth while sucking gently. The feeling made my hips move and I rubbed my pussy against him through my jeans. I gently pulled the one breast away and gave him the other. He mouthed it the same way and my hips responded again. I slowly sat upright.
“Yum! You made me wiggle. Nice feeling!” I patted his ribs. “Wait here.”
I climbed off the bed and noticed that his cock was hard. I’d expected it to be, of course, but I’d also feared that it might not. I stood facing him.
“You did remember how much we like each other. I get to see you naked with a hard-on, just like Trespassers William.”
“The boy hiding in the bushes near the pool.”
“His name was William?”
“Oh, I don’t know. That’s just a name I gave him. I got it out of a book my father used to read me when I was little. Winnie the Pooh. Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard the title, but that’s all.”
“I’ll have to show it to you sometime when you can turn the pages. Right now I have something else for you to look at.”
I undid my jeans and stepped out of them as Corbett stared. A couple of times, out of the corner of my eye, I saw his cock twitch.
“You’re staring again. I’ll have to give you a closer look.”
I got back on the bed and sat on his chest, high up this time so he could get a good view.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I can think. I know you’re beautiful, and I like looking at you like this.”
“You know what I’d like you to do?”
“I’d like you to mouth my pussy like you did my breasts.”
He raised his head. “I can’t reach.”
“Let me show you something first.”
I stood up with my feet apart, near his armpits, holding the top of the headboard with my left hand for balance, then squatted partway down and spread the lips of my pussy with the second and fourth fingers of my right hand. I bent the third finger to show him my clit.
“This little thing I’m pointing at with my middle finger is the most sensitive spot. It’ll feel like a little button that’ll kind of play hide and seek with your mouth. Sometimes it’ll seem to go away completely, but everything near it is pretty sensitive too, so don’t worry that you’re doing it wrong. If I need you to change your focus, I’ll move around to make it happen. Okay?”
“I think so.”
I sat on his tummy as I had at first, and leaned forward to kiss him again. He looked puzzled.
“We’ll do that soon. I just want to give you another look at the part of me you already know, so you don’t think of my pussy as something separate.”
He gave me a little nod. I kissed him, raised myself up a few inches and looked into his eyes, kissed him again, raised myself for another look…
“I love you,” he said.
“I know. I’ll try to do what I can to make it pleasant for you.”
We kissed again, then I gave him my breast and he made me wiggle. I straddled his face so he could eat my pussy.
It was delicious. I came repeatedly for about fifteen minutes. Whenever I looked down, Corbett was looking up at me, and I knew he was loving me just for letting him share my pleasure and my femininity. Delightful as it was, I eventually reached a state of exhaustion and slowly lifted myself away.
I lay on top of him, resting my elbows on either side of his neck and looking into his eyes.
“Yummy!” I said, “You do love me! Thank you so much!”
“Can you really tell by the way I did that?”
“Yes. There’s a feeling of total acceptance that comes through. It’s different from skill, just separate. Unmistakable. Again, thanks. I really appreciate it.”
I kissed him again. He smelled and tasted of me. Underneath, the odor of anxiety was gone.
“Before I untie you, I want to play with your cock like I said.”
I knelt on the bed next to his hip and ran my fingers lightly along this scrotum toward his cock. It reacted with a jump.
“Nice!” I said. “I think it’s real neat that men are built so they can’t hide their responses. Like when you have your orgasm, I’ll get to see you splash all over the place; and each time you spurt, I’ll know you’re feeling a little thrill of pleasure at just that moment. It makes for a real strong connection between us.”
I took hold of his cock and started stroking it.
“I’m glad you like it. You can do this to me anytime you want.”
“It’ll have to include tying you up,” I warned.
“Great! I’ll take you up on that.”
I kept stroking, looking sometimes at his cock and sometimes at his face. He seemed to be watching my eyes almost the whole time, glancing only now and then at my breasts. As his excitement increased, his breathing grew more labored, then turned to gasping. Finally he ejaculated, thrusting his hips with each spurt.
“Isn’t it thrilling to know I’m watching?”
It was. There was a little more force behind the next couple of thrusts.
I stroked him all the way through it, then just enough more to find out that he needed me to stop but not so much that he knew I was doing it on purpose.
When we came to rest, I was smiling at him affectionately, gently patting his cock, and he was looking back at me, covered with sperm, breathing irregularly, trying to pull himself together.
“You’re so in love,” I teased.
He nodded, then swallowed and licked his lips as if about to speak. I waited for him to catch his breath.
“I can’t help it,” he said, “I know it shouldn’t be this way—our values are completely different, everything—but I can’t imagine feeling this way about anyone else.”
“You can try to puzzle it out if you really want to bother, but meanwhile you might as well enjoy it. It can be a really good feeling.”
He looked like he needed to answer me but couldn’t think of anything to say. It was obvious that he was philosophically uncomfortable, and I figured he deserved it. If I didn’t release him soon, he’d be physically uncomfortable as well, and that was a no-no.
“I’m going to duck down and untie the knots.”
And I did, leaving only the ones he himself had tied in his head.
I half expected Corbett to cop an attitude next time he saw me, rejecting both me and the part of himself that loved me, but he didn’t. We were still friends, we continued our political and philosophical debates, we touched, we hugged, we kissed. Before long we had another opportunity to make love.
We undressed one another, and he did me before I tied him down. He did me lovingly and well, and he was happy for the opportunity to explore me with his hands as well as his mouth. I was happy too; it’s much easier to lie back and enjoy than to do all the work of being eaten from below. When I finally stopped him, we cuddled a bit; then I got out the webbing.
“You know what comes next!”
Indeed he’d been expecting it, and he cooperated fully. I’d given him the idea that his being tied down was essential to my enjoyment of his pleasure. It wasn’t true, but it was what I wanted him to believe, and I was pleased with how easily he accepted it. I made love to him slowly and teasingly, watching every helpless response of his body, until once again he emptied that little reservoir of lust, splashing its contents all over himself.
I prepared for our next date by scrounging a tape recorder, the right sort of microphone, and various other odds and ends, which I then set up concealed in my room. When I brought Corbett home, I activated the assembled equipment while he was using the john.
When he was done, we hugged and kissed until the stimulation had had its predictable effect.
“Whoops! You have another hard-on! We’ll have to tie you down and do something about that!”
“Like I said, anytime you want.”
“You’ll have to get naked first. Here, I’ll help you!”
I undid some of the buttons on his shirt while he worked on the others, then I got out the webbing while he finished undressing. I told him to lie down and began the process of tying him.
“Oh, yeah,” I said as I worked, “We’re invited to a Halloween party at All Things Good and Natural. Do you want to go? It’s for the employees and their friends, really. They’ll be closed for the evening.”
“When is it?”
“Night before Halloween. Week from today at 8:30.”
“Are there going to be drugs there?”
“No, never in the store. And certainly not three days before the election. Nobody can get anything anyway.”
“October heat. All the incumbents try to show what a good job they’re doing by staging drug busts. Everyone expects it, so nobody keeps anything around. Do you want to go?”
“Sure, if you do.”
“Great! We’re on!”
I finished the ritual of the webbing and lay on top of him. We kissed for a long time, then I pulled away so my face was a few inches from his.
“I’m glad you like being tied up like this. It’s such a neat way of making love to you.”
“Likewise. Something like likewise, anyway.”
I sat up on his tummy and pulled off my shirt. I leaned forward and kissed him again, gave him a breast to suck, kissed him some more, gave him the other, kissed him yet again. He was breathing hard, trying to follow my breast when I pulled it away, trying to follow my mouth when I pulled that away.
I rolled off him and got out of my jeans, then sat on his chest so he could look at my pussy.
“Remember this part of me?”
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
“I don’t think so either. Want to taste it again?”
I straddled his face and let him eat me until I’d come twice. Then I pulled away, lay down on him and kissed him again. I supported my upper body on my elbows and looked into his eyes.
“I think you know what comes next.”
“Your kinky little girlfriend fucks you.”
“But…but you can’t.”
“Sure I can. You know how it’s done. I squat over your cock, I guide it into my pussy, I lean forward on my arms, and I make fucking motions so you slide in and out of me. You get a delicious sexy feeling all through you, and it makes you push way up into me and pump out your come. Sound familiar?”
“But I don’t want to.”
“Sure you do! Otherwise you wouldn’t be here like this. I’ll tell you what—I can’t fuck you if you don’t have a hard-on, so there’s an easy way for you to stop me if you really don’t want to.”
I did it just as I’d said. I sat up, squatted over his cock, and guided it in. I leaned forward and looked into his eyes. I wanted to see everything that happened in there, and I wanted him to know I was watching. And I wanted him to see into me the same way and remember.
I fucked him with long, slow strokes, looking into him the whole time. I saw feelings more complex than he could handle, among them the feeling that he couldn’t handle any of this. I saw that he needed to hide—hide his utter nakedness, hide his shame, hide his soul from my unrelenting gaze—and yet he never could quite bring himself to close his eyes or look away; he was too much in love to break the connection and there was too much he needed to see. He needed the reassurance of seeing my gentleness and affection; he needed to capture the sights and sounds of this precious memory; he needed to see deeply enough into me to understand—at least try to understand—who was doing this to him and why.
His breathing went ragged.
“Feels good, doesn’t it? I teased.
“O God! I can’t help it.”
A few more thrusts and I had him completely. It showed in his face as his cock stiffened. He sobbed, becoming aware of how much his orgasm was opening him up, and then suddenly he needed to open up, needed me to see into him as deeply as possible, needed to feel that he had no secrets, that he had no place to hide, that he was all mine. He raised his bottom off the bed, pushed all the way into me, spurted, spurted again…
“I made you want to, didn’t I?”
I did what I had to, to trigger my own orgasm, and I came along with him; then I sat up with his cock still in my pussy and my eyes still locked to his. I wiggled against his pubic mound, against the upper surface of his cock near its root, and came again, my breasts jiggling as he watched.
“God forgive us!”
“I don’t feel like we’ve done anything wrong, but if God wants to forgive us I won’t argue. Come to think of it, I won’t argue either way.”
“You’re a heathen.”
There was no reproach in his voice, no admiration either, just a flat kind of wonderment.
“I’m at least as religious as you. I just leave out the middlemen and the politics.”
“What happens now?”
“I untie you, same as always. We cuddle, kiss, whatever we like.”
I sat a few seconds longer, looking at him affectionately, feeling his cock shrink inside me, enjoying the knowledge that I had, in fact, taken his precious virginity, made him love me for it, made him come.
“I have a souvenir of you that I get to keep, right in here.” I patted my tummy just above the pubic mound.
I uncoupled from him, got down on the floor, and released him, surreptitiously killing the microphone while pretending to fumble with the first of the knots. When we’d got him free of all the webbing, I lay down on him again and he put his arms around me.
“I got your cherry. Now I know you’ll never forget my pussy.”
I’d longed to tease him about that while I was doing it, but I couldn’t because of the tape. I wanted the tape to give the impression that we’d fucked before and that the bonds were at least as much Corbett’s preference as mine. I wasn’t sure at that moment how it had turned out, and I thought I might still have to tape another session, but I’d finished making the one tape, and I hadn’t yet started making the next, and the recorder was turned off, and I was going to enjoy teasing Corbett about his stolen virginity. Not only did I want to, but I knew I had to exhaust the subject before making a second tape lest he destroy its value out of his own need to talk about what I’d done.
“No, I never will,” he acknowledged. “Not your pussy, not your breasts, not your face, not your voice, not your stories, not your ideas, not anything about you. But I wouldn’t have forgotten even if you hadn’t done that.”
“I guess you wouldn’t, but it sure must have been a thrill to find yourself being fucked and having to come.”
“You raped me.” His voice was calm, his touch still affectionate. “I feel like everything I ever believed was just taken away from me. It’s true that I couldn’t keep myself from coming; I can’t help loving you either, but that doesn’t make it right. It just makes it that much harder to deal with.”
Teasing him was turning out to be less fun than I’d expected. I was even starting to worry that I was losing him. I decided to risk a desperate move, knowing it might turn him off, but needing to put an end to my insecurity.
“You know, unless we break up, I’m going to do the same thing again. Maybe even worse.”
“Yes, I know. And I know I’m going to let you. Just like you developed a taste for this sort of thing because of your experience with Trespassers William, I’ve developed a taste for it because of my experience with you. It was really unfair of you to do that to me. You knew that the incompatibilities between us are insurmountable and we’re going to have to go on to separate lives, and you knew I’d get hooked on you and your kind of lovemaking. You knew it from your own experience. How am I going to replace you? How am I going to find a wife? There aren’t a whole lot of women out there who want to do the kind of thing you’ve taught me to need.”
“I guess it’ll be a problem.”
Then the obvious rebuttal struck me.
“But you would have had the same problem even if we hadn’t fucked. You were already into my kind of kink from what we were doing before, and you really liked it. How does fucking make it worse?”
He looked at me as if he thought the answer was obvious. I looked back as if it wasn’t. It wasn’t—at least not to me.
“Because fucking was an exciting fantasy—something to look forward to. I thought I’d meet the right woman, and we’d get married, and we’d fuck, and it would be so new and exciting that it would overshadow everything else I’d ever done—even the stuff with you. Then she and I could enjoy a normal relationship happily ever after, like God intended. That was one of the reasons I wanted to be a virgin when I got married. Now it can’t happen like that. Normal sex just can’t be as exciting as what you did, and I’ll never get over my need for your kind of kink.”
“I guess you’d better get all you can while we’re still neighbors.”
“You just don’t care, do you?”
“I do care! If I could, I’d fill the world with enough kinky women to meet your needs for the rest of your life.”
The look on his face told me that that didn’t help.
“Can you tell me what I should do to make it right?”
I felt his heart pound as he settled on an answer.
“You could take a less adversarial view of my philosophy and marry me.”
It was a difficult moment. I was outraged by the indecency of his proposing so soon after Steve’s death and horrified at how much less than Steve he was asking me to accept, but I felt I had to keep it inside so as not to hurt him. I forced myself to think, trying to calm myself, trying to justify him. He couldn’t know that his proposal would be such an unwelcome shock; I’d never told him I was planning a lifelong partnership with Steve, and it was all too obvious that I hadn’t been troubled by the recency of Steve’s death when I decided to fuck him. It didn’t seem the same to me, but perhaps it was. I knew, too, that I oughtn’t blame Corbett for faring so badly when I compared him to Steve. Why should he expect a comparison? Besides, he couldn’t know what I’d seen in Steve; he didn’t even understand what I saw in him.
I wondered at my concern for his feelings. By Corbett’s reckoning, I had already done him a terrible wrong; and on top of that, I had just made a tape that I intended to use for something very much like blackmail. By most standards, screaming my outrage and horror would have been nothing in comparison. By mine, though, it would have been much worse; it would have been a gesture of violence, and whatever it might accomplish could better be accomplished gently. Corbett, after all, even while condemning what I had done, was speaking softly and holding me affectionately. That gentleness, I realized, was something we both valued and to which we were both committed; it was one of the few things we had in common, though we had never discussed it and probably never would.
My ruminations were dragging on, taking too long. But then, Corbett couldn’t have been expecting a snap decision. Indeed when I turned him down, he would probably think I hadn’t deliberated long enough. For a moment I tried to convince myself that our shared commitment to gentleness warranted a lengthier and more indulgent consideration of his proposal, but I knew it didn’t.
“No,” I said at last, “I couldn’t. Can you suggest something less extreme?”
He thought for a long while, making several false starts at an answer. Finally he gave up.
“No, I guess not.”
“Looks like we’ll just have to deal with things day by day.”
He sighed in resignation. “Okay.”
“I’m going to have to send you home now. I have a bunch of things I have to get done.”
I lifted myself away from him and got up. He roused himself slowly and followed.
“Try not to resent me too much, Corbett. Remember, I have a part of you inside me now.” I patted my tummy again.
He shook his head. “What if you’re pregnant?”
“I’m not. I’m on the pill.”
“Nothing is foolproof.”
“I know. Fools are so ingenious.”
He seemed to be waiting for me to say more, but I couldn’t think what.
“What if you are?”
“I’ll go to New York and get an abortion.”
“That would be murder.”
“You poor dear! In less than an hour you’ve found out first that your girlfriend is a rapist and then that she’s a murderer.”
“It isn’t funny. None of this is funny.”
“Yes it is—some of it, anyway. None of it is as tragic as you’re trying to make it, and the funny parts are your attempts at tragedy. If you’re determined to make yourself miserable, I can’t stop you, but you’re not going to drag me down with you. As long as we’re lovers, I’m going to enjoy you, even if I have to laugh at your posturing.”
“You’d really have an abortion.”
I reminded him of my need to work, pointed out that he could sulk just as well in his own space, and sent him on his way.
When I was sure he was gone, I listened to the tape. I was pleased with it and glad I wouldn’t have to make another. The next day, Sunday, while preparing my lessons, I made four copies, then hid each one in a different place.
We next met in class on Tuesday. I arrived late, so we held our greetings until the end. It was the last class of the day for both of us.
“How are you?” he asked with an air of concern that left no doubt that he was referring to the progress of my imagined pregnancy.
“Fine!” I replied cheerfully. “I threw up before breakfast yesterday, and again this morning, but a quick shot of heroin fixed me right up both times. How are you?”
He didn’t like having his agenda derailed, but he couldn’t help loving me for the way I did it. He knew I was really asking whether he was willing to leave off sulking so we could enjoy one another, and he found it such a difficult question that there was a long pause before he finally mustered a resigned okay.
We started walking and I steered him toward my room. Along the way he mentioned that he had a meeting of the student senate in two hours. I already knew that, but it seemed as good a topic of conversation as any, so I asked what was going to be discussed. He said he hadn’t heard, but he expected the usual, which he went on to describe in painful detail.
When we got to my room, I dug out a xerographic copy of my favorite passage from Malinowski.
“Here!” I said, “You might want to read this. Just in case you think what I did Saturday was too terrible or unique, this’ll let you know you’ve got company, and worse things have happened to other men. It’s from a 1929 book by an anthropologist named Bronislaw Malinowski—The Sexual Life of Savages. Maybe it’ll even turn you on.”
I handed it to him and added, “I’ll be right back. I have to go change my tampon.”
He stared at me blankly.
“I got my period this morning.”
His expression didn’t change.
“Are you disappointed?”
Still no change.
“It’ll be over by Saturday. If we fuck again right away, you can go back to your sulk for a whole twenty-four days—if you really want to.”
He shook his head in his usual gesture of disapproving wonderment. I put my arms around his neck, smiled, pulled his face to mine, and slurped my tongue between his lips.
“Right back! Read that!”
I came back with a big hi! and asked, “How’d you like the yausa?”
“It’s bad,” he replied somberly.
“I’ll bet it turned you on.”
“It’s just bad.”
“Didn’t it turn you on?”
“How can you ask me that?”
“We’re lovers. I want to explore your feelings and I want you to share mine. It’s one of the neat things about having a lover.”
“But you’re trying to degrade me.”
“No I’m not. If the yausa turns you on, it just does. Even if the yausa is bad, the fact that it turns you on doesn’t make you bad. It doesn’t even mean you want to be a yausa victim. It just means the idea turns you on.”
“Does it turn you on?”
“The sexy parts do. The violence and excremental assault don’t; they turn me off and shock my conscience.”
“I guess I feel the same way.”
“You answered me! And you’re still alive! You don’t even look degraded.” I peered at him melodramatically. “At least I don’t think you look degraded; I’m not really sure I know how to tell. Wasn’t that easy?”
“No, it made me really uncomfortable.”
“But I did all the work. Would you like to try again without any help?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“You don’t want to tell me how your cock responded to each sentence as you read it?”
“You are trying to degrade me.”
“Maybe next time you’re here, I’ll tie you down and read it to you out loud and see how your cock responds to each sentence.”
“I know!” I exclaimed, feigning sudden inspiration, “You can spend the next few days worrying about how it would feel, just in case I do it.”
I put my arms around his neck and slurped his mouth again, then looked into his eyes with an affectionate smile. “Remember me?”
He looked back uneasily. “I don’t know. You’re different every time.”
I didn’t see Corbett again until Thursday afternoon, but on Wednesday I heard rumors of the student senate meeting, and I read about it in Thursday morning’s paper—not the student newspaper, the city newspaper. Someone named Stanley West, representing the Young Republicans, had introduced a resolution calling for the adoption of a policy that would require any college employee, and particularly any dormitory proctor, who became aware of the use or possession of any illegal drug on campus, to notify the police. This was in marked contrast to the established practice of ignoring recreational drug use unless it created a real problem. Indeed it was usual, except during the month preceding the general election, to smell burning cannabis whenever one visited the dormitories or certain other public areas of the campus. The proposal, not surprisingly, was most unpopular and had no chance of passing, but its few supporters, through parliamentary maneuvering, had got it scheduled for a vote at the next meeting of the senate.
After class Thursday, I began a discussion of the matter with Corbett. We talked until just a few minutes before the start of his Vincent meeting, then continued after class Friday, talked until two, and still weren’t done. Our discussion went on to fill most of Saturday evening, including the time we spent at the party; and when the party broke up, we still hadn’t reached agreement.
My position was that if Stanley West’s resolution passed, many decent young people, including some of my dearest friends, would have their doors kicked in during the early hours of the morning and be dragged off to jail, there to be unspeakably brutalized by drunken sadists. The resolution, I conceded, had no chance of passing, but Corbett, by voting for it, would be ratifying every Establishment atrocity, past or future, committed during the entire course of the Hair Wars, and I made it clear that I intended to save him from thus deeding his soul to Satan.
Corbett’s position was that the existing policy of toleration had created an environment so completely dominated by the counterculture that students who wanted to live according to traditional values felt intimidated; Stanley West’s resolution would merely even the balance. He agreed that it had no chance of passing, but he didn’t want to be on record as opposing it, especially with a newspaper watching; he was afraid his vote would wind up in a dossier that would get him rejected by his chosen law school.
I argued that even with the newspaper watching, he could simply vote no without joining the debate and nobody would notice; his vote would be just one small pebble in a landslide. But, I also pointed out, the newspaper wouldn’t be watching. The newspaper had reported the introduction of the resolution because it had been set up to do so—maybe even enlisted to do so—by the Republican Party, which had timed Stanley West’s move so their candidates would be able to rouse the electorate and garner votes by decrying the shameful state of moral turpitude into which the college had sunk. Indeed the comments of those candidates had been gathered with such dispatch that they were included in the very issue of the paper that carried the story, some as part of the story. By the time the student senate got around to voting on the resolution, the general election would be over and neither the Republican Party nor the newspaper would care what it did.
Corbett, exhibiting shocking naïveté for a future lawyer, insisted on believing that the newspaper had carried the story solely because it was newsworthy, and he was convinced that the vote would be reported for the same reason. He found nothing odd in the fact that not even one day had passed between the running of the story and the publication of the candidates’ comments, nor in the fact that this was the first time in his recollection that the city newspaper had taken the slightest notice of the student senate.
We repeated these arguments many times each, but it still wasn’t enough to fill the eighteen hours we wasted on our debate. Much of what we said was considerably less germane but carried a much higher emotional charge. I recited a great many stories of police abuse and planted evidence and jailhouse rape, he described the anguish of parents watching their children turn into surly dope fiends, and so on in like manner ad nauseam. During the whole ordeal we dealt with only one issue that had any bearing on our relationship: I assured him that as long as he could be expected to be a frequent visitor in my room, I’d keep it clean of illegal drugs, and I also assured him that I wouldn’t carry any while in his company, so he wouldn’t be risking his future by associating with me. For what it’s worth, I kept my promise.
As we said our tired and cranky Saturday night good-byes, I invited Corbett to come over the following afternoon. He accepted and we were all set for round four. When he arrived, we greeted one another pleasantly and I asked whether he had yet decided to vote against Stanley West’s resolution.
“You know I can’t do that,” he answered; “I’ve been explaining it to you for three days.”
“Dire consequences will befall you if you don’t,” I warned, giggling.
Dire consequences was a phrase I’d picked up from newspaper stories about Cold War diplomacy; it always struck me funny, and for a number of years I used it every chance I got. Corbett had already heard it several times, always accompanied by the same giggle.
“What sort of dire consequences?”
“At best, the sort of feeding frenzy that befell Julie White last year…”
He looked puzzled, so I interrupted myself.
“You don’t remember her?”
“Editor of the school newspaper? Arranged free advertising for her brother’s copy shop?”
He started to nod in recognition.
“Set upon by a pack of hungry hyenas? Tried to point out that she was getting the paper more in free services than the advertising was worth, but nobody wanted to hear it? Torn to shreds? Banished in disgrace from further association with the paper?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Student politics is like that. If someone finds a way to challenge your integrity, it gets real ugly—like a piranha attack.”
“How’s anyone going to challenge my integrity?”
“Then again, it could be even worse,” I went on, ignoring his question. “You could become a victim of the yausa—you know, like you read about last week—and maybe even more than once.”
“For voting in favor of that resolution?”
“For voting on behalf of an organization whose by-laws don’t allow you to be a member.”
He stared at me.
“I have a tape of what we did last Saturday.”
He wasn’t a violent man, but I gave him my full attention for a moment to be sure before I went on.
“The tape makes it sound like we’d done the same thing before, but even if that was the first time, you were obliged to resign from Vincent by Thursday’s meeting.”
“Your tape could have been made after Thursday.”
“No, it has an invitation to a night-before-Halloween party a week from today, so it was made October twenty-third. Would you like to hear it? I have two copies. You can even keep one as a souvenir of your first fuck.”
He was starting to look sick.
“O God! What do you want from me?”
“I don’t know whether you’re asking me or God, but neither one of us wants you to give your soul to the Devil.”
“How can you speak for God?”
“Why not? We have a very close relationship—first-name type of thing. Besides, right-wing hatemongers do it all the time. Do you think God does want you to give your soul to the Devil?”
For a moment he tried to think of an answer; then he remembered he had a real-world problem to deal with.
“Never mind. Okay, what do you want from me?”
“I want you to be my complete slave until we go our separate ways.”
“Yes, you do everything I tell you.”
“Cut classes? neglect my work? use drugs? steal?”
“I’m not going to tell you to do any of those things. I already promised not to bring you into contact with drugs, and I’ll keep that promise.”
“What are you going to tell me to do?”
“I might tell you to do anything.”
“That’s double talk.”
“No, it isn’t. I might tell you to do anything, but I’m me. I have reasonable limits of my own. I know the difference between right and wrong. I have a positive desire to avoid harming people in general, and I care a great deal for you in particular. Can you understand that?”
“How can you say you have reasonable limits, know right from wrong, and want to avoid harming me, when you raped me, made a secret tape of it, and now you’re blackmailing me?”
“I guess it does kind of damage my credibility a little, but it’s still as true as it can be, considering. Besides, I am blackmailing you, so you’ll have to go along because the alternative is worse.”
“What is the alternative?”
“I get together with a few of the more radical women I know on campus, one at a time, and explain to them that you and I had a real kinky relationship but I decided to break up with you because I couldn’t deal with your fascist hypocrisy; I play the tape for them; I show them the write-up of the yausa if they’re not already familiar with it, and suggest that it might be a fitting way to deal with you. Word gets around that you’re not really a virgin even though you’re representing Vincent, and some radical in the student senate makes an issue of it—probably charges that Vincent was organized for the sole purpose of giving the fascists one more vote. Eventually enough really depraved women find each other, and they rape you for real. Then they make sure word of that gets around too. Maybe it even snowballs to where you get raped several times, or other fascists get raped—guys like Stanley West.
“Aren’t you afraid it’ll backfire?”
“No, not a bit.”
He stared at me. I stared back.
“I have to do whatever you say?”
“That’s pretty much it.”
“What kind of things are you really going to tell me to do?”
“Well, obviously I’m going to tell you how to vote in the student senate, but mostly I’ll tell you to do real kinky things that’ll be fun for both of us.”
“Are you going to make tapes of them? take pictures?”
“It’s tempting to let you worry about it, but no. I won’t make any more tapes and I won’t take pictures unless you want me to.”
“Does that mean you’re going to be my slave?”
“Yeah, I don’t suppose I have much choice.”
“You’re going to vote against Stanley West’s resolution?”
“Yeah, I’ll vote against it.”
“Great! It sure is nice not to be faced with the prospect of talking about it anymore. That was such a drag. Now we can have some fun.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Something kinky. Something really kinky, so I’ll know whether you really mean it when you say you’ll do what I tell you. You can start by taking off your clothes.”
He did. When he was naked, I hugged him and kissed him until his cock was hard, then backed away, looked at it, took hold of it.
I told him to lie on the bed and tied him down. I took off my jeans, straddled his face, and had him eat me. When I was satisfied, I pulled my jeans back on, then unhitched the leg of the bed to which his right wrist was tied and instead fastened the webbing to the same leg to which I had secured his right ankle, leaving an excess of slack.
“I want to watch you make yourself come.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Yes you can. Do you have to consider the alternative again?”
He did it.
“Ooh, embarrassing!” I said when he started to spurt.
I was expecting the kind of show I’d seen when it was I who made him come, and I was disappointed. He ejaculated a goodly amount of fluid, but he still maintained a controlled demeanor the whole time. Something would have to be done about that, and I was going to experiment until I found out what.
“That makes another first you’ve shared with me—the first time you ever did that with a woman watching.”
“The last, too, I hope.”
“No, I’m going to make you do it at least twice more before the vote. It’s interesting. I’ve never had a chance to watch before, and now that I’ve got a man who has to do it when I say, I’m going to make the most of it. I’ll probably even make you do it now and then after the vote.”
“What about the other kinds of kink you were interested in?”
“Maybe we’ll get back to those after you’ve proved yourself. First you’ll have to vote against Stanley West’s resolution and play with yourself a few times more.”
I wiped him up and untied him, then got into bed and cuddled him.
“Aren’t you going to undress?”
“After you’ve proved yourself.”
We rested a while, then went out for a walk.
We saw one another several times that week, and we talked, hugged and kissed, and I teased him, but we didn’t make another opportunity to be alone until the following Saturday, when I led him through an almost exact reenactment of the masturbation scene, with just one change. I put myself to his left, and when he started to come, I lowered my mouth to his nipple and sucked it.
His control was blown completely. He jerked his hips, thrashed, wildly, screamed. Really screamed. Loud. I raised my head and watched him as he calmed down.
“See? I remembered how sensitive your nipples are and made you lose control. You had a real orgasm this time.”
“That’s Who designed it. Thanks, God, for giving us such yummy pleasure to share.”
Corbett gaped at me for a moment; then there were footsteps in the hall and a knock on the door and he panicked. His eyes bulged, he gasped, he pulled frantically at the webbing. I made a gesture to quiet him.
“Who’s there?” I shouted, walking toward the door.
“Adrian, your neighbor. Are you all right?”
“Oh, yeah. My friend just stubbed his toe.”
I walked back to the bed.
“Adrian is the ultimate loner. You had to scream really loud to get him to come investigate.”
“It was no problem to me—it was worth it to make you come like that—but that knock on the door gave you quite a scare.”
I was drying him off.
“How do you suppose you would have felt if instead of my neighbor, that had been the police? And instead of knocking they kicked the door down and charged in here waving their guns and shouting obscenities, and you were lying here naked, tied to the bed, with come all over you?”
I started undoing the knots. He didn’t say anything, so I went on.
“I don’t think it would have helped even if they hadn’t found anything to charge you with; even if we were lucky and they forgot to bring any dope, or smoked it all up during their lunch break; or even if they had the wrong address, as they so often do. Now you know what I’m trying to save my friends from when I tell you to vote against that man of sin, Stanley West, worthy of your utmost hatred. Maybe now that the dread knock on the door isn’t just an abstraction to you, you’ll understand where I’m coming from.”
I could tell he was impressed; he wasn’t helping with the knots.
“You’re a heck of a teacher, Georgeann,” he said with a sigh. Then, after a moment’s thought, he asked, “Man of sin? Worthy of your utmost hatred? Where did you get that monologue?”
“Oh, didn’t you ever hear that before?”
“It’s from The New England Primer. It was a book used to teach children the alphabet back in Puritan times. It said, ‘P is for that man of sin, the Pope, worthy of your utmost hatred.’”
“No, I just made it up.”
“But…but you couldn’t have.”
“Okay, I made it up Wednesday and I’ve been saving it.”
“But… Oh, never mind.”
“It’s from The New England Primer. Even back then, the leaders of society knew that they had to teach hatred early, just like you were taught about the evils of marijuana before you could think up any hard questions to ask. Why do you think it has a Mexican name?”
“I already promised you I’d vote against the resolution.”
“I know, but since you’re going to be hanging out with me for a few months anyway, you might as well get your view of the world expanded a little.”
I got into bed and cuddled up to him. We fell asleep. When we awoke, it was evening and I had a craving for Chinese food. I suggested we go get some and Corbett agreed. We took turns going to the bathroom; he dressed; we were ready to leave. I stopped with my hand on the doorknob.
“Since you’re my slave, there’s one more thing I want you to do for me today.”
“When we walk out of here, limp until I tell you to stop.”
“You screamed really loud before, and I told my neighbor you stubbed your toe. To justify a scream like that, you should have broken it.”
He looked at me as though trying to unravel some deep mystery, but when I opened the door and we set out, he limped.
That was the only time we made love before the next meeting of the student senate, so the promise I made on Halloween, to have Corbett masturbate at least twice more before the vote, turned out to be an exaggeration. But then, the vote was also an exaggeration.
On Tuesday evening, I made my way to the auditorium that served as the student senate chamber to watch the proceedings, as did many of my schoolmates. After half an hour of waiting for the meeting to start, and another half hour of tedious parliamentary ritual, the matter of Stanley West’s resolution was called.
“Mister Chairman,” said Stanley West, getting to his feet.
“The chair recognizes Stanley West.”
“I have something of a confession to make. I introduced this resolution without having properly consulted the leadership of the Young Republicans, and I’ve since been admonished that what I did was rather ill advised, to say the least. In fact, I find myself in the sad and unenviable position of sponsoring a resolution that lacks the support of the organization I was elected to represent; and so, if there are no objections, and with the chair’s permission, I’d like to withdraw it from consideration.”
The chair called for objections and, hearing none, removed the item from the agenda. The audience cheered, as did most of the senate, and there was a great crunch at the doors as a couple of hundred people all tried to leave at once.
It was a brilliant move, I told Corbett after class Thursday. The Republican candidates in the general election got the chance to mouth off at the expense of the college longhairs, and the Young Republicans didn’t get stuck having to support a position that would make it difficult to recruit new members. Stanley West’s contribution to his party would of course be remembered and rewarded, and it was certainly no surprise that his withdrawal of the resolution was ignored by the press.
I confessed my chagrin at having reached the full legal age of twenty-one without also having attained the maturity, the wisdom and, most important, the cynicism to predict the end of the story, but at least I’d been right about the press coverage, and I was learning. Corbett acknowledged, somewhat sadly, that he was learning too.
Corbett and I remained lovers until graduation. I babysat him through the Law School Admission Test, the law school application process, and his distress at the necessity of our parting. He had the good sense to decline when one of his fellow virgins tried to nominate him for reelection to the student senate, and the discretion to quietly drop out of Vincent altogether at the end of the fall semester. Until his term in the student senate expired, he continued to describe its proceedings to me. If another issue like the drug policy had arisen, I would have taken a real interest, but as it was, my stated intent to control his vote just gave him an excuse to ramble on in a self-important manner about a lot of really stupid stuff. I never again told him how to vote; nothing ever came up that deserved my attention. Nothing ever came up that deserved his attention either, but it didn’t seem polite to mention it.
Corbett had a great many ideas about how the world ought to be, and it was his custom to put on an air of judgmental sadness whenever reality disappointed him. I found this a drag, and employed two techniques to discourage it. First, when he did it, I told him to stop. Sometimes that worked and sometimes it didn’t. Second, when he’d been overdoing it a lot, I punished him by playing with the post-orgasmic sensitivity of his cock. I tied him down, as I often did even when I wasn’t planning to punish him, and after he was tied I told him what he’d done wrong and what was going to happen to him because of it. I also told him that his only chance to avoid being tortured was to keep from turning on to me. Then I milked his cock, teasing him all the while—first about how he wasn’t going to be able to help but come even though he knew what it meant, then about his orgasm as it happened, then about his discomfort and embarrassment at the torture as I inflicted it.
This regime helped some, but never so much that it became unnecessary. Unfortunately, my refusal to marry him was one of the ways in which the world disappointed him. As graduation approached, he raised the issue with increasing desperation and frequency, and often sulked at my continued obstinacy. I held fast to my position. My relationship with Corbett had taught me—was continuing to teach me—that while I could control most of a man’s behavior, any negativity in his personality would find a way to show through. I wanted a man with a positive attitude that made him a joy to be with even when he wasn’t making an effort to please me, and whom I could dominate for fun rather than out of necessity. I still liked Corbett, but I hated being his parole officer.
I fucked Corbett only once more after taking his virginity. It was early February, about a week before my period. He was tied to my bed and I teased him until he wanted me to fuck him so badly that he begged for it. Predictably, he decided afterward that I was pregnant and made such a fuss about it that I had to torture him four times in eight days. That was enough.
While we were together, I did what I could to expand Corbett’s consciousness and give him a more balanced view of the world. I introduced him to my friends—a varied lot, especially compared to the limited circle in which he’d moved before. He found himself exposed to a diversity of races, ethnicities, and drugs of choice, and to some unique characters who defied classification. His behavior was always impeccable; he was, after all, a gentleman, and my friends were eminently decent folk. He got to know several and even developed a genuine liking for them, but sadly he wasn’t able to extrapolate from his experience. Though he became friends, for example, with a black man and a pothead, he refused to recognize the humanity and potential of the world’s other blacks and potheads. They remained abstractions of evil, certainly not possible friends, and too dangerous even to be allowed to walk the streets. Because they were so bad, there was no limit to the force he was willing, even eager, to unleash against them: Send the cops out to round ’em up and shoot ’em! Presumably his few friends would be in his company during the roundup and shooting, and he would have sufficient influence with the rampaging constabulary to protect them.
His enthusiasm for this sort of violence contrasted grotesquely with his gentleness at close range and always bothered me. I certainly didn’t want to marry a man who had that in him, but neither did there seem to be any use to making an issue of it. His tendency to put on airs of judgmental sadness, his bigotry and his advocacy of Nazi-style solutions for the world’s problems were fixed attributes of his personality and would never change. I found it sad that these bits of ugliness had attached themselves to so gentle a soul, but he was what he was.
Just after graduation, he made one last pitch at persuading me to marry him. I refused and he returned to his parents’ home near the Arizona line to pass the summer before beginning law school. I moved on to my first job as a technical writer in Silicon Valley. I never heard from him again.
Learn what you can from the story of my relationship with Corbett, but don’t do what I did. It was wrong, and it could have got me in serious trouble with the law besides. Today, in some states, it could get me a life sentence.
What Corbett and I referred to as blackmail was in fact criminal coercion, though at the time I somehow deluded myself into believing that it didn’t quite amount to that. I could have been prosecuted for it and I was lucky I wasn’t. Not everyone who does the same thing can expect to fare so well.
The surreptitious recording of a conversation is prohibited in some states even if done by a party to that conversation. The applicable laws change frequently, and it may be that that part of my behavior was perfectly legal when and where I did it; but then again, it may have been a crime—perhaps even a felony.
Legalities aside, making that recording was wrong, and it would have been wrong even if I hadn’t used it in a blackmail attempt. Similarly, trying to blackmail Corbett was wrong, and it would have been wrong even if I hadn’t made a secret recording to do it. At that point in my life, my comical assurance to Corbett notwithstanding, I really didn’t know right from wrong. I had my own ideas of what constituted harm, and I believed that I did wrong only if I caused harm as I understood it. It took a while longer before I caught on to the idea that I should also take care not to do another person harm as that other person understands it.
Also, it wasn’t until later that I developed a full appreciation of the importance of trust in a sexual relationship and realized that there’s no short-term goal for which it ought ever be compromised. When I met Corbett, I didn’t have much experience getting men to accept sexual slavery and I couldn’t imagine that dishonesty and entrapment were unnecessary. My enthusiasm for female domination was so great that I was willing to use such means, excusing my behavior by telling myself I’d do the man no real harm. Well, in retrospect, I did Corbett real harm, and I oughtn’t. If I knew then what I know now, I probably could have enslaved him without doing anything immoral. If I couldn’t, it’s because I shouldn’t have been involved with him at all; the right woman for Corbett could have enslaved him honestly.
What I did was wrong. Criminal coercion is a serious matter. So is electronic eavesdropping, at least in some states. But a life sentence?
Sexual assault. When I was twenty-one, it was legally impossible for a woman to rape a man. Times have changed. Most states, if not all, have revised their statutes to abolish the ancient crime of rape and substitute the new crime of sexual assault, with a definition that’s gender-neutral. If you restrain a man, or overpower him, and insert his penis into your vagina or your mouth, or even if you just lick it, over his objection, you commit sexual assault. The penalties are as severe as the traditional penalties for rape. Not worth the risk.
In some states it’s also a crime just to touch a man’s penis against his will. Overpowering a man, even an adult, as we overpowered the boy in the bushes, or restraining a man by deceit, as I did Gene, and then bringing him off by hand as he begs you to stop, could get you in big trouble.
I didn’t wait for the laws to change before limiting my sexual activities to the purely consensual. Corbett was the last man I violated in any way, and the last whose character I tried to repair. By taking care not to repeat the mistakes I made with him, I’ve tremendously improved the quality of my relationships and avoided a great deal of unpleasantness.
Hey, wait a minute! I hear someone thinking. Weren’t you violating Patrick when he begged you to let go of his cock and you kept rubbing it? And didn’t you try to cure him of his reticence? Yes, I did try to cure Patrick of his reticence, and I succeeded. But I didn’t confront Patrick over his reticence, or punish him for it, or reject him because of it. It wasn’t something I needed to change. I would have loved him just as much if he had never got comfortable talking about the more embarrassing parts of our relationship, and I would have shown my love just as freely.
As to the question of whether I violated him, no. A dominatrix inevitably becomes involved in a great many consensual transactions that look as if they’re not; it’s inherent in the role. Indeed one of the reasons I consider empathy an essential attribute of a good dominatrix is that empathy is what makes it possible to tell the difference between a transaction that will truly violate a man and one that will only appear to. I could read Patrick well, and I was sure I had his consent for what I did to him. In fact, when I told Patrick what I was going to do, he didn’t object, and afterward he didn’t tell me I’d done him wrong.
This raises an important point. I’ve told you that a man is likely to try to bluff you off course if you set out to do the sort of thing that I did to Patrick. He wants to maintain control of the relationship, so he’ll object to your plans, even while bound, often in very strong terms. Your understanding of him will probably tell you he’s bluffing, and your judgment will probably be right. Sometimes you’ll be wrong and you’ll wind up violating him. If after a sexual transaction, a man tells you that you violated him, and he really seems to feel violated, take him seriously. I can’t offer any advice about what to do, because that will depend on what sort of person he is, what sort of person you are, and the circumstances; but please do take him seriously.
The histories of Paula’s relationship with Jimmy and mine with Steve and Corbett all demonstrate that a woman seeking sexual control over a young and inexperienced man needs hardly any skill at all to succeed; she barely needs to know what she’s doing. When a man is older, it’s more difficult to enslave him (unless he’s already used to it), and for two reasons. First, he’s less horny. At any given time his seminal vesicles are unlikely to be so distended as to color his thinking, and he’s become jaded to psychological stimuli. Though sexual slavery will restore the enthusiasm of his youth, it won’t do so until he’s actually enslaved; meanwhile the effects of aging make him less amenable to enslavement.
The second reason is more problematic. A mature man has developed a perspective on his love life. He doesn’t become emotionally committed to a new partner so readily as when he was young. If the going gets even a little rough, he remembers there are other women in the world and starts thinking he might do better elsewhere.
If I’m in love with a man of my own age and sure of his health, I enslave him as I did Patrick or Drew. I let the sexual aspect of our relationship develop along conventional lines, with just a hint of kink, and then, when he’s had a chance to become emotionally committed to me, but before he starts falling out of love or taking me for granted, I invite him, in one of the ways I’ve already described, to be my love slave.
If I’m not in love with him, or if I doubt his health, I’m not going to fuck him, and that makes it harder to enslave him. It becomes difficult to hold his interest long enough to get him emotionally committed; his inclination is to go looking for a better deal. Still, on several occasions I’ve overcome this handicap and persuaded a mature man to become my love slave without first having fucked him. I’ll tell you the story of one such relationship. I’ve chosen it neither because it’s typical nor because it’s bizarre, but because it illustrates some important principles with particular clarity.
Bart was a genius I met at work. He’d supervised the creation of an operating system for a fault-tolerant computer, building the hard parts himself, and it was my job to turn his documentation into a manual the customers could use. Our working relationship was complicated by the fact that Bart thought he could write; in his view, he had already given me the manual in finished form and I was horriblizing it, using something he called George’s Instant Horriblizing Cream. Truth was, he actually could write; he could probably have crafted a more precise commercial contract, with fewer unintended loopholes, than ninety percent of lawyers. Unfortunately, his writing, though technically perfect, was so convoluted that half his own staff couldn’t read it, so a little horriblizing was clearly needed.
Bart had a reputation for going through women quickly. We were acquainted eight months before being put on the same project, and during that time he was involved in three relationships, each of a couple of months’ duration, as well as numerous one-night stands arranged at Richard’s, a bar near the office. When we were thrown together, we were both unattached and he wanted me and I wanted him, but his history of promiscuity led me to worry about what impurities might be lurking in his bodily fluids.
We often had lunch together, and during these breaks, we put aside our work and got to know one another. One Friday evening after a couple of weeks of this, he invited me to Richard’s for drinks and I accepted. We drove there separately, met, settled in, and ordered our first round—a tequila sunrise for him, cola for me.
“Cola?!” He seemed displeased.
I told him I never drink alcohol. He gave me the hairy eyeball and asked why not.
“It’s contrary to my religious beliefs.”
He seemed to doubt my sincerity and disapprove of my theology besides, so I rose to the challenge by adding, “I never go to bed with a man who’s been drinking either, so if you’re trying to seduce me, you’re using the wrong approach.”
“What approach would you suggest?”
“It would be awfully hard for you to succeed no matter what you do. You have something of a reputation for getting around, and the AIDS capital of the world is just up the road, so I’d have to be downright suicidal to take a chance on you.”
“And I’m drinking besides.”
“Well, yeah, but that’s temporary.”
He flashed a predatory grin. “What if I get myself checked out by a doctor and bring you a report that says I’m healthy?”
“It can take six months for the AIDS virus to become detectable. I don’t think you’re going to wait that long.”
“I can’t believe this conversation!”
“Haven’t any of the women you’ve picked up here before had similar concerns?”
“Some of them insisted on using a condom.”
“I don’t use condoms.”
“You don’t use condoms,” he repeated blankly.
“Contrary to my religious beliefs.”
“You won’t go to bed with me because you might catch a disease, and you don’t use condoms because it’s contrary to your religious beliefs.”
“How’s that possible? I mean, I could understand if you said you don’t sleep around, but making snap judgments on which guys are risky and which are safe—you’re just begging them to lie to you. And they will.”
“Okay, I don’t sleep around. That’s really what I said; I just worded it different and added a few details.”
I watched him replay his recollection of our conversation.
“Oh, well!” he said after a moment. “Why don’t you tell me about those religious beliefs of yours?”
“I don’t explain them. It’s contrary to my religious beliefs.”
We shared a good laugh and spent the next hour discussing this and that; then he invited me to order dinner. I talked him into going to Francescas Pizza instead. I told him the proprietor was a friend of mine; I told him the food was great; and I told him that just then, a pizza with peppers, onions and mushrooms, and a salad on the side, was what I wanted more than anything else in the world. I also offered to drive him there, buy the pizza, and drive him back to pick up his car afterward. I could see he was uncomfortable with my assertiveness, but he agreed anyway. He seemed not to want to antagonize me, and after a chainburger for lunch and three tequila sunrises, a good veggie pizza had to be irresistibly appealing.
I drove to Francescas and we had dinner. We also had a brief visit with Francesca, who stopped at our booth just long enough to say hello and meet Bart. After the pizza, Bart and I sat and talked another hour; then I drove him back to Richard’s. When I had set the parking brake, he moved to kiss me. I stopped him, told him not to move, and gave him a light peck on the lips and a teasing smile. I said good night and he got out and started toward his car.
When I was ready for lunch the following Friday, Bart was involved in a meeting. I went out with one of my other colleagues, and when I got back, I found a stack of pages on my desk that I’d asked Bart to edit three days earlier. As always, I’d implored him to make only technical corrections and, as always, he’d been overzealous. The pages were covered with proofreaders’ marks, mostly indicating lengthy insertions written in his usual legalese. (“They’re all technical corrections,” he would say if I gave him the opportunity.) On top of the stack was a note:
“Dinner this evening?”
I took the note and set out to find him. He wasn’t in his office, so I wrote a note of my own on the same piece of paper and stuck it to his computer screen.
I returned to my office and set to work. After about forty minutes, I took a break to use the ladies’ room. When I came back, the note was on my screen.
Bart, fallen into the habit of editing my writing, had inserted an apostrophe into my spelling of Francescas and written, “Perfect!” underneath. I took the note and went looking for him again. This time I found him.
We agreed to meet at Francescas at 6:30. Then I told him there’s no apostrophe in Francescas. He didn’t believe me and I reminded him that he’d seen the spelling himself the previous week. He remembered it with the apostrophe.
“You want to bet on it?” I asked.
“Maybe. What sort of bet?”
I closed the door. He eyed me warily.
“If you can promise not to drink any alcohol, win or lose, I’ll be your sex slave for the evening if the apostrophe is there, and you’ll be mine if it isn’t. How does that sound?”
He made a brief attempt to think, but he agreed anyway. Maybe he didn’t want to give me time to change my mind, or maybe he got carried away with bravado—maybe both. It didn’t matter. He agreed.
“Great!” I said. “I’m sure we’ll have a lot of fun. How about we move up our meeting time to six? That way we’ll have plenty of time together and you won’t be tempted to blow this great opportunity by stopping for a drink at Richard’s.”
“Looking for loopholes already! Okay, six!”
I went back to my office, worked until just 4:30, and drove home. My plan was to get everything ready and walk to Francescas so I could greet Bart when he arrived, then ride with him after dinner and direct him to my apartment. I knew it would be easy for him to follow me, but I wanted to make sure he didn’t panic and flee. I worried briefly that he’d use the phone book to warn him off, or notice the spelling on the directory sign as he approached the shopping center and head for the hills, but there was nothing I could do about either eventuality. If he didn’t show, he just didn’t.
I arrived at the pizzeria fifteen minutes early and went inside to greet Francesca. I explained the situation and asked for her help in making sure Bart kept his promise not to drink.
“No problem,” she said. “I’ll wait on you myself. Sit there.” She pointed out a booth and handed me a little sign made out of folded cardboard that said, “Reserved.”
I thanked her, put the sign on the table, went back outside, and watched for Bart’s car.
He arrived almost on time, parked, and started toward the entrance. I set out to intercept him, and we shouted greetings to one another while we were still some distance apart.
“How’s the name spelled?” he asked when we met.
“Come have a look!”
I led him toward the pizzeria. The big letters anchored to the stucco said only “PIZZA,” and it wasn’t until we were almost at the fire lane that he could make out what was painted on the glass.
“Come on in,” I encouraged—“unless you’ve lost your appetite. There’s a booth already reserved for us.
I led him inside and we slid into our seats. I picked up a menu and showed it to him.
“See? It says the same thing on the menu. It’s not a mistake.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“As many as you like.”
“Why isn’t there an apostrophe?”
“Well, Francesca was born in Italy, and when she was eighteen she moved to Denmark. She lived there for about two years and then she met Roy—that’s her husband—and he brought her back to the States and married her. When she named her pizzeria she left out the apostrophe to commemorate her two years in Denmark. She liked it there.”
He looked as confused as I’d expected, so I told him the rest of the story. “In Danish, possessives are formed like in English, by adding s, but without the apostrophe.”
“Oh.” He pondered. “How do they form plurals?”
“I don’t know.”
He studied the menu for a minute or so, then put it aside. Francesca came over.
“Good evening, George, Bart. It’s good to see you again.”
We greeted her and she asked whether we were ready to order.
Bart asked for a mug of beer.
“No beer tonight,” Francesca answered.
“How about a bottle?”
“No,” she said with a big smile.
He looked at me and saw the same smile.
“I think you’re surrounded,” I said.
He groaned theatrically and settled for cola. We decided to share the same sort of pizza we’d had the previous week and I told Francesca we were curious about the formation of plurals in Danish. She gave us a brief explanation and left us to ourselves.
“You told her about our bet?” Bart asked, indignant and incredulous.
“Just that you weren’t going to drink if there’s no apostrophe. She thinks that’s the whole bet.”
That pacified him and we had a pleasant dinner. While we were eating, he asked about my plans for the evening. I told him he was going to drive me back to my apartment and come in with me, and he’d find out the rest when we were inside.
And that’s what we did. He headed for the bathroom almost right away, so I didn’t have to give him a lot of notice of what was coming. When he was done, I led him to the bed and told him to take off his shirt, shoes and socks. He did. I told him to lie down in the middle of the bed. He did that too. I got out my webbing and started wrapping his left wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Tying you down.”
“I know I promised to be your slave for the evening, but isn’t this a little extreme?”
“What did you expect? The same thing you would have done? I wouldn’t have had to win a bet to get that.”
He pulled his hand away. “I’m afraid this is going to wind up hurting me.”
“No you’re not. Maybe you’re afraid of not being in control, but you can’t be afraid I’m going to hurt you; you know me too well to believe I’m capable of it. If it’s any help to hear me say it though, I’m not going to hurt you. Now cooperate like a good sex slave and we’ll both have a real good time.
“I need a drink.”
“You definitely don’t need a drink.”
“How about some grass? I got a couple of joints in my shirt pocket.”
“You have a fire to light it with?”
He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a disposable lighter. I took it and put it on the nightstand.
“How about a roach clip?”
“They’re made with wired papers.”
“Okay. Cooperate with me, and the first thing we’ll do when I’ve got you tied down is share a joint.”
“What about our religious beliefs?”
“No conflict at all. I can’t afford to keep a stash of my own, given today’s prices and political climate, but I do like grass, and my religious beliefs certainly don’t forbid it. Come to think of it, it seems wrong to reject a pleasure that God has made available to us.”
“What’s the problem?”
“You said drinking is a no-no.”
“That’s not a pleasure.”
“To me it is.”
“No it isn’t. You just never noticed because you get too drunk to pay attention.”
He frowned, but he let me finish tying him.
When he was properly secured, I started toward the kitchen.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“To get an ash tray.”
On the way, I turned up the thermostat five degrees. I brought back a cereal bowl and set it down near his armpit, then picked up his shirt, found the joints in the pocket, brought one back to the bed and sat next to his chest. I lit the joint and shared it with him, feeding him alternate tokes, watching him relax.
It was good grass. Before even an inch had burned away, Bart’s manner of looking at me had turned distinctly lustful. Soon his control would be gone completely, along with his ability to orient himself socially, and I wanted to wait until then before I made my first real move. I wouldn’t be able to gauge his arousal by his breathing because of the ritual of the smoke, but I would be able to see when his cock got hard by looking through one of the mirrors in the headboard. The trick was to time my glances so he wouldn’t notice.
Each time I moved the joint toward his mouth, we both had to look at it, but he continued looking down as he inhaled. Often it was necessary for me to do the same, but on those occasions when I was sure there was no danger of a hot ash falling on him, I could take a quick look in the mirror.
I was still planning my first peek when Bart bent his knees. It was such a major change in his posture that I could see it without looking, and of course I felt it. The reason was as obvious as the move itself: His cock was getting hard and he wanted to keep his leg alongside it so it wouldn’t be so visible.
Now I wouldn’t need to look in the mirror. I sucked in some smoke and washed it down with a lung full of air. I gave Bart a big, affectionate smile and moved the joint into position for him. He did his part, and when he looked back up, I was still smiling at him the same way. I withdrew the joint and set it down in the bowl, then ran my fingers through the hair at the side of his head. I picked up the joint and took another hit, shook the ash into the bowl, looked back at him, smiled, moved the joint into position for him, watched as he sucked on it, waited for him to signal me with that slight parting of his lips, pulled it away.
“Feel more comfortable with me now?”
He struggled to find an answer while I took another toke, continued struggling while he took another toke. I gave him a questioning look.
“It’s kind of complicated.”
“I know. You’re comfortable enough to turn on to me, but you’re uncomfortable about not being able to control it. You’re worried about how you’d handle it if I turned around and saw your hard-on.”
He had a coughing fit, then started hyperventilating. I put the joint in the bowl and moved the bowl to the nightstand. He swallowed hard and got his breathing under control. I looked into his eyes affectionately.
“If it’s any comfort, I’m still not going to hurt you.”
“This is embarrassing.”
“I know. It’s going to get even more embarrassing. If you do have a hard-on, I’m going to take your pants off, and then you’ll be naked with your cock sticking up for me to see, and I’ll still have my clothes on.”
I turned to look. His cock was hard, sure enough—confined in the leg of his corduroy pants but still quite prominent, its shape accentuated by the ridges of the fabric. He wore no underwear. I ran my hand over it and felt it strain.
“Mm-hm!” I teased, “You are turned on to me!”
I got up and took off his pants, and his cock sprang to its proper position. I inspected it, handled it, swirled the lubricating fluid around the head until it twitched in response. I sat next to his chest again and smiled at him lustfully.
“I don’t know how you’re going to deal with it—seeing me at work every day, still having to guess what my body looks like, and remembering I saw you like this. It’ll be some trip!”
I gave him a chance to speak, but he would have had a hard time thinking what to say even without the drug. If he thought of something now, he would immediately see its potential to make matters worse and keep it to himself. I was going to have to carry the conversation alone.
“After a few days of that, I won’t even have to win another bet to tie you up like this. All I’ll have to do is promise to take off my shirt.”
More rapid breathing.
“You could become really obsessed with me. Maybe you will wait six months for a chance to get into my pussy.”
Still more rapid breathing. I noticed that his lips were drying out.
“Your mouth must be awfully dry. I’m going to get you something to moisten it. Do you like apple juice?”
I went to the kitchen, poured some into a little glass, brought it back, and helped him sip it. He drank the whole thing.
I leaned over and kissed him briefly but deeply, running my tongue around in his mouth.
“Mm-mm! It is good!”
I gave him another lustful smile.
“Do you like being my sex slave?”
“It’s too embarrassing.”
“Well, yeah, I’m sure it is. Do you like it anyway?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s okay. You’ll figure it out.”
“What if I don’t like it?”
“Then it’ll be hard for us to have a relationship, except for working together. If you’re ever going to be my lover, you’ll have to be my slave the whole time, and you’ll have to be mine alone.”
He thought about it.
“You’ll have to be sober, too, though this’ll do just fine.”
He thought some more.
“Can you untie me now?”
“I’m not ready yet. You might be embarrassed, but not near as much as I planned. Besides, you’re still horny.”
He didn’t say anything, so I bent over and licked his nipple. He squirmed.
I got up on the bed near his left hip and sat facing his cock. I started running my right palm up and down along the undersurface, brushing the frenum with each stroke. It stiffened and rose to press against my palm, relaxed, stiffened again.
“That feels good, doesn’t it?”
When it seemed that his cock was due to stiffen yet again I stopped what I was doing and ran the fingers of my left hand over his scrotum. His cock sprang up obscenely, then relaxed.
“Your sex makes such a neat toy!”
I went back to rubbing with my right hand and his cock stiffened against it more and more frequently.
“You know, I’ve been wondering, talking with you over lunch every day, what sort of orgasms you have. I think I’m going to keep doing this until I find out.”
By listening to his breathing and observing the slight but noticeable thrusting of his hips, I was able to tell just when it began. His cock pressed itself hard against my palm and I knew that the next contraction of his pelvic muscles would pump out the first spurt. I pulled my hand away.
“Ooh! I get to see! And without my hand in the way too!”
He panted a few times, then his cock relaxed for a fraction of a second, seemed to bounce off his pubic mound, stiffened and spurted.
I started running the fingers of my left hand gently over his scrotum, at the same time using my right hand to play with his left nipple.
“Just think, Bart… whatever else happens between us, I’ll always remember you just like this.”
It was an utterly humiliating experience for him, but there was nothing he could do; he just had to lie there, waving at me with his ejaculating penis, until he was drained. When it was over, I let go his nipple and rested my left hand on his hip.
“How do you feel now?”
“I don’t even know.”
“I guess I can understand that.”
I looked at him affectionately.
“Don’t panic. I’m going to get something to dry you off.”
I retrieved Thursday’s shirt from the laundry bag and cleaned him up.
“There!” I said as I finished, “just one more thing before I untie you.”
“I want to tell you something. You think you’re ready?”
“Yeah, it’s just bird shit on the bridle path now.”
I contemplated the metaphor and laughed.
“It’s not even that bad. Give a listen; you might even like it. Here: You’re here because I like you. I mean, that’s why I brought you home and tied you down like this. It’s not like I want another notch in my belt or something; it’s because I really like you and wanted to make love to you. I know my way of doing it is a little kinky, but it is a way of making love, and if I didn’t care for you, I wouldn’t have done it. You understand?”
We looked at one another for a long time.
“Yeah, I think so.”
In a matter of minutes I had him untied, dressed and sitting with me at the dining room table.
“I’m going to have to send you home now. I have to get an early start tomorrow.”
“What are you going to be doing?”
“I have an aikido class.”
“Aikido? Isn’t that one of those martial arts things?”
“You break boards with your hands? stuff like that?”
“No, no boards. It’s a defensive art—not real big on attack.”
“You go to class every Saturday?”
“No, just when I don’t have anything to do that interests me more, but tomorrow my sensei isn’t going to be there and he asked me to teach. Usually I assist.”
“Who assists when you’re not there?”
“Sometimes another advanced student, sometimes no one.”
“I would never have imagined you doing something like that.”
“People are complex. You want the other half of that joint? I can wrap it in a tissue.”
It took him a moment to remember what I was talking about.
“Oh! No, keep it.”
“I’ll get you the lighter, anyway.”
I went back into the bedroom and he started to follow me. I met him halfway, handed him the lighter, and led him to the front door. I stretched out my arms sideways.
“Hug?” I asked.
We must have hugged for a full minute, and with more affection than either of us anticipated. Then I opened the door and he was on his way.
When I got to work Monday, I went to say hello to Bart but found his door closed. He always kept it open unless someone was in with him, so I settled into my office to finish preparing the next group of pages I would give him to edit. I’d learned that it would be best to get him started on something new before I did anything with the edits he’d returned Friday; he always seemed most attached to whatever he’d worked on most recently, and I knew he’d argue less about the last batch once he’d got into the next.
About ten minutes before our usual lunchtime, I had another dozen pages ready. I went looking for him again and found his door still closed. I knocked.
I opened the door and saw him sitting alone at his computer, so I walked in, closed the door behind me, and greeted him enthusiastically.
“I’ve never seen you working alone with the door closed. Are you hiding?”
“No, not really.”
“Pretending to hide?” I puzzled with mock fascination, setting the pages on his desk.
“You know exactly what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” He seemed to be doing an impression of a chemotherapy victim.
“It’s really unfair of you.”
“You’re toying with me, without any regard for my feelings.”
“Without any regard for your feelings? How did you measure my regard for your feelings?”
“How did…Oh, come off it!”
“I told you the other evening, I care about you. I do. Sure, I’m toying with you—that’s my style of loving; I told you that too—but there’s no bad intent in it.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Bart, you’re a professional logician. You know that that’s neither a statement nor a question.”
That stopped him, so I went on. “You know what I think? I think you’ve been toying with women’s feelings all your life. You seduce them, you string them along until you lose interest, and you do it all with this cynical detachment, always in control. Now I’m toying with you and you’re not in control, and that makes you uncomfortable just because you’re not used to it. Besides that, you worry that I’m as cynical and detached as you. It’s like you expect the worst because you know you deserve it.”
He stared at me.
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Does it really matter? Either you’re going to go along with it or you’re not. Probably you will, just like all those women got into bed with you even though they knew better. If you do go along, I can tell you I won’t be cynical and detached like you. If you don’t… well, either way I’m not going to get pulled into the same kind of relationship as those other women, and I’m not going to risk my health to pacify you.”
“I didn’t ask you to risk your health.”
“That’s right. You didn’t.”
“Then why did you say that?”
“So you won’t feel I’m implying a promise that I’m not.”
He regarded me with a pained expression.
“What do you want from me?”
“First I’d like you to look over this next section of the manual and see if there are any technical corrections that need to be made.”
“Okay. Besides work.”
“I’d like us to continue getting to know one another. I’ll be more comfortable if you get yourself checked out for every known STD and start turning down opportunities to get yourself infected.”
“What about the six months it takes for AIDS to show up?”
“I guess getting to know one another will have to be slow and kinky.”
“And I’m supposed to be satisfied with that for six months?” he sneered sarcastically.
“If that tone reflected your true feelings, you wouldn’t be having any problem at all about me. You’d dismiss me as a kook and find someone better.”
He went back to looking miserable.
“Bart, look: You accused me just a couple of minutes ago of knowing exactly what I’m doing to you, and I pled guilty. I know you want me; I told you Friday you would. I’m not being unfair or cynical about it, and what I’m offering isn’t just a poor substitute for the kind of lovemaking you’re used to. It’s really quite exciting, as you know! It’s probably even worth the price I want for doing more of it—you know, having your health checked and getting yourself out of circulation so I don’t have to worry about catching SDI. But if you don’t want any more of my kink I can stop. I can’t undo what I’ve already done, and you’ll have to find your own way of dealing with the memories, but you don’t have to be subjected to more.
“Spontaneous Disintegration of the Innards?”
He laughed, thought, smiled sadly.
“Can we get together again soon?”
“Wow! Neat! I’m glad you see it that way. I really am! The answer is, promise me you won’t get involved with any other women, make an appointment to get yourself checked out, and then we can talk about it.”
“Okay, I won’t get involved with any other women, and I’ll make an appointment.”
“Good! Thanks. I won’t get involved with anyone else either. When you’ve made the appointment, let me know. Maybe I’ll tie you up right away! This is exciting!”
“Do you ever make love without all that paraphernalia?”
“It has happened, but don’t expect it.”
“I don’t know why I’m going along with this,” he muttered with a sigh.
“Yes you do! I made you have the most embarrassing orgasm of your whole life, and it was a bigger thrill than anything that’s happened to you since you were a teenager, and you’re falling in love for the first time again. You can’t help it; it just happens that way. Besides, you’re obsessed with seeing me naked because it feels like it’ll even things out a little between us. If I do let you see me, you’ll find out it doesn’t do that at all, but it’ll be such a turn-on, it won’t matter.”
“You’re determined to strip me of every shred of dignity, aren’t you?”
“If I love you, I will; but don’t worry—it’ll be just between you and me.”
A diversity of expressions played across his face.
At last he said, “You do have an answer for everything. I’m going to have to learn to be more careful what I ask you.”
We spent a pleasant hour at an eatery down the street, engaged in the sort of conversation that doesn’t have to be hid behind a closed door, then returned to work. About 3:30 Bart came to my office to tell me he’d made an appointment for the following Tuesday afternoon.
“Can we get together again soon?”
“How soon did you have in mind?”
I smiled, letting him see my amusement at his desperation, letting him see I loved it.
“Sure. Francescas at 6:30?”
“I’ll be there.”
“You know not to drink, right?”
“I guess I should stop bothering you about it, but don’t forget, okay?”
“I won’t forget.”
He turned to go.
“I’m really looking forward to it.”
He smiled at me, naturally and affectionately, the way men so seldom do.
“I guess you know I am,” he said.
Then he turned again and went.
A couple of points in this tale bear discussion.
Often a man, alone and horny in a big city but fearful of disease, will pay a prostitute to masturbate him. The woman keeps her clothes on, the man exposes his penis, the necessary ministrations are performed, and the pair go their separate ways. The man feels no embarrassment and certainly doesn’t become obsessed with the woman; on the contrary, he’s likely a bit smug about the whole business.
You knew that, but it’s probably remote from your own experience, or even that of your acquaintances, so let’s look at a scenario that might be closer to home. In the workplace harassment version, a woman is pressured into masturbating some man in authority, often repeatedly over time, in exchange for the privilege of keeping her job. In another variation, a girl or woman is coerced into doing the same, in exchange for the privilege of escaping forcible penetration. Again, the male is smug rather than embarrassed and develops no emotional attachment to his victim.
You knew that too, so perhaps you’re wondering why, unlike the men in these all-too-common horror stories, Bart became obsessed with me. Of course the suggestions I gave him helped; my talk with Bart was just loaded with suggestion, and it had a powerful cumulative effect. The big difference, though, is that the more common, uglier scenarios are controlled by the male aggressor, while that in which Bart became involved was controlled by his new girlfriend.
My control enabled me to point out Bart’s own lack of control and make it a problem for him. With my help, he became acutely and then chronically embarrassed by the fact that I had seen him naked—even watched him ejaculate (and how!)—while my body remained a mystery to him. A prostitute won’t make an issue of that nor, obviously, will a woman whose sexual favors are coerced. Bart would have to keep coming back to me until the inequity in our sexual relationship had been put right, and of course I would see that it never was. Sure, he would soon get a good look at my body, but I would always be in control, and he would always feel more vulnerable than me, and there would always be some matter of embarrassment with which I would be teasing him.
Then there’s the drug. Its influence on our first evening of lovemaking was impressive. If Bart hadn’t smoked, I would have had to physically stimulate him to a high degree of arousal while leading him to the Loop by suggesting that his situation must be embarrassing. Stoned, he fell into the Loop as though it were a black hole. All I had to do was notice that it had happened. Indeed my first sexual move wasn’t even physical; I simply made a show of reading Bart’s mind. I described what was happening to him, I teased him about it, and off we went.
Didn’t Bart know better than to propose the smoke? Yes and no. He was familiar enough with cannabis to predict what it would do to him, but he neglected to think. What he really wanted was a drink to relax and numb him. Since I wouldn’t allow that, he suggested a joint as a field expedient. That would relax him, but he forgot that it wouldn’t numb him.
Language shapes our thinking. A man may say, “I could use a drink to relax me,” and he might even argue that alcohol was given to us by God for that purpose, but he would never say, “I could use a drink to numb me.” It’s socially unacceptable. The result is that the numbing effects of alcohol go unrecognized. In the mind of the drinking man, numbness is a part of relaxation—an unnamed part. Since Bart was unaccustomed to differentiating the two in ordinary conversation, he forgot how important the distinction is. He settled for relaxation without numbness, and it suited my agenda just perfectly.
When I was through with Monday’s work, I drove home and walked to the pizzeria. I got there five minutes early, greeted Francesca, ascertained that Bart hadn’t yet arrived, and took a seat. Bart came through the door at just the appointed time. We shared a pleasant dinner and returned to my apartment.
As soon as we were inside, he took me in his arms and kissed me passionately, exploring my tongue with his mouth. I cooperated and reciprocated, and soon he was mauling one of my breasts. I pulled away.
“Yum!” I said. “But if you want to make love, it’ll have to be my way—kinky.”
“Like last time?”
“You’re going to keep your clothes on again?”
“Maybe. Once you’re tied up I could do anything.”
“You’re a tease.”
“Are you ready?”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m going to go to the bathroom for a moment. When I’m done, you go, so you’ll start with an empty bladder in case I keep you tied for a long time. I want you to come out of the bathroom completely naked and lie down in the middle of the bed. Okay?”
He made an exaggerated groaning noise.
When I finished in the bathroom, he had already taken off his shoes, and when he came out carrying the rest of his clothes, he found me sitting on the far edge of the bed, still fully dressed and holding a length of webbing. He groaned again.
“Put your clothes anywhere and get yourself comfortable.”
He did, and I tied him in place.
I leaned over him.
“It’s good to have you back here.”
I lay down on him and kissed him, and his cock responded right away. We kissed, sometimes lightly, sometimes deeply, always lustfully, for at least fifteen minutes.
“This has been a little different from last time,” I said. “Is there anything else you’d like me to change?”
“Yeah! I’d like you to take your clothes off.”
“Mm-hm. Anything else?”
“What are you offering?”
“Nothing that might expose me to SDI, but if there’s anything you’d like that’s safe, you’ll have to tell me what it is.”
“I don’t know. You’re the kink artist.”
“You want me to make you come the same way I did last time—let go your cock and watch it bounce around by itself?”
“No! Not if you don’t have to.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to rub my cock until I’m through coming.”
“Uh-huh. What if you can only have one? Say I’m willing to take off my clothes or I’m willing to rub your cock until you’re through coming, but not both. Which do you want more?”
His breathing speeded up and his eyes took on a crazed look.
“I want you to take off your clothes.”
“You know, once I let you see my pussy, you’re going to have to promise to be my love slave for as long as we’re together.”
“What do you mean?”
“Remember I told you that if we’re going to be lovers, you’re going to have to be my slave?”
“Well, if I let you see my pussy, I expect you to promise to be my love slave. It’d be nice of you to promise right away, but it’ll definitely have to be by the end of our next get-together afterward. Otherwise I’ll figure you don’t want me enough to meet my needs and I’ll have to find someone else.”
“What are the specifications of this job?”
“You’ll have to be completely faithful to me, but you’ve already agreed to that. You’ll have to undress for me as much as I want, whenever I want; you’ll have to let me touch you any way I want, any part of your body, whenever I want; you’ll have to touch me whatever way I want, whenever I want, and that’ll include a lot of licking my pussy; you’ll have to refrain from touching me when that’s what I tell you; you’ll have to let me tie you up whenever I want—wherever I want, too—I’ve done it in some awfully strange places; you’ll have to play with yourself if I tell you to; you’ll have to answer all my questions honestly, and I’ll probably want to know all your sexual secrets and fantasies… it’s pretty comprehensive. In your case, you might even have to quit drinking. I’ll have to see if it gets in the way of your availability.”
“It sure is comprehensive. You’ve actually gotten other men to agree to all that?”
“Sure! I don’t think they’d want me giving out there names, but there have been several.”
“What happened to them?”
“Died. Wanted kids. Moved to Samoa. That kind of thing.”
He looked at me questioningly, so I went on.
“None of them ever left because I mistreated him. One got crazier than me and took up with a woman who whipped him.”
“You mean he wanted you to whip him and you wouldn’t?”
He looked into my eyes, searchingly, and I looked back, opening up to him, trying to help him understand.
“You…know…just…what…you’re doing to me. I know you know. You’ve admitted you know. And I still can’t help loving you for it.”
“Mm-hm. Do you want to be my love slave?”
“I think I do.”
I kissed him again and we got lost in one another.
“I’ll tell you what,” I said when we resurfaced. “We’ll give you a few more days to obsess on my pussy and decide whether you really want to be my love slave. You want together like this again on Friday?”
“What if I’m ready now?”
“Well, then you’ll have to do what I tell you and wait till Friday.”
“Hm! Okay, Friday.”
I sat up on his chest and pulled my shirt off. He looked at me. I let my arms rest at my sides.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
I leaned forward, offered each of my breasts to his mouth in turn, and savored the sensations he stirred up inside me. Before I got too carried away, I climbed off him, positioned myself next to his hip, and went to work on his cock with both hands.
“If you do decide to be my love slave, this is going to be my toy. I get to play with it whenever I want. At work, any place we go together—I don’t think you can imagine how kinky it gets.”
I kept at it and soon he was making fucking motions. A bit longer and his breathing turned to a kind of snorting. A few strokes more and he came, lifting his hips into the air, thrusting madly, splattering all over himself.
I continued stroking. Soon he was squirming, making pained noises, twisting his body in a futile attempt to put his cock beyond my reach.
“Stop!” he pleaded at last.
“You’re one of those men whose cock gets all sensitive after you come. That’s a yummy! Fun to play with!”
He gathered himself together. When he was again able to meet my gaze, I asked, “Do you still like me?”
“Yes, I still like you.”
“Thanks. I like you too. I’m going to get something to wipe you up.”
I dried him, put my shirt on, undid the bonds, lay down next to him. We cuddled.
During the rest of that week, we continued to work together, continued to have lunch together, and hugged and kissed as much as circumstances allowed. Our working relationship didn’t change. I continued rewriting the manual and Bart went on kidding me about my instant horriblizing cream. I shared his laughter, read his edits, discussed them with him, and incorporated those that turned out to be necessary, but only after translating them into English. It had to be that way. Our boss couldn’t let the manual go out as Bart had written it, and he would have been most displeased if the customers, rather than Bart, found all the errors and omissions in my own first draft. My goal as a professional was a useful manual, not some shortsighted victory over Bart; and Bart’s goal, despite his kidding, was the same.
Lunchtime Friday we picked up a couple of chainburgers at a drive-thru and took them to the park.
“Ready for this evening?” I asked.
“More than ready. You’ve got me so horny I can’t work.”
“Wow! I’m flattered. Are you going to promise to be my love slave?”
“I already promised.”
“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean much. I might tell you to eat my pussy and you might try it and throw up. You’re not going to be my love slave that way, no matter what you promise. On the other hand, you might come just from looking at me. Then it’d be just as silly for you to argue that you’re not my love slave.”
“Did either of those ever happen to you?”
“No, but they’ve both happened to other women I’ve known.”
“They were trying to get the men to be their slaves?”
I took a bite of my burger and chewed a while.
“Then again, maybe you’ll decide you want to try to continue our relationship without being my love slave.”
“Would you agree to that?”
“No. The next time we got together I’d tie you down and torture you until you promised to do things my way.”
“I thought you said you weren’t into that.”
“I wouldn’t whip you, but there are other things I can do. Like, Monday night I found out how sensitive your cock gets once you come? I could make you come and then refuse to stop rubbing until you promise.”
He was breathing rapidly and neglecting his burger. I doubted he would get any work at all done that day.
He didn’t. He spent the next few hours in the office of a colleague, shooting darts. When the afternoon was over, we followed our custom and met for dinner at Francescas, then adjourned to my apartment.
I had him strip and tied him down, then leaned over his face and kissed him until his cock was dripping. I sat on his tummy and took off my shirt, gave him a mouthful of each breast, then kissed him some more.
“You want to see my pussy?”
I climbed off him and stood next to the bed. Bart stared as I undid my jeans and dropped them around my ankles.
“You…are…just…so…beautiful,” he said.
I stepped out of my jeans, got back on the bed, and sat lightly on his chest, my pussy spread in front of him.
“You like me from this angle too?”
“Would you like to make love to me with your mouth?”
“Just what I’ve always wanted!”
I straddled his face and lowered myself into position. He ate me eagerly, lovingly, without the slightest hint of distaste, satisfying me as I had so long been wanting him to. When I felt I couldn’t come one more time, I lay down on him again and kissed him lightly.
“Thanks,” I said. “That felt so good! Did you like it too?”
“Yes. You’re an incredible turn-on.”
“Do you want to be my love slave?”
“Are you ready to do whatever I tell you?”
“Okay, we’ll see.”
I got up and tied his ankles to the legs of the bed. He was puzzled, even apprehensive.
I told him not to worry, that he’d find out what I had in mind soon enough.
When I was finished with his ankles, I untied his right wrist.
“Well, if you really want to be my love slave, we might as well get you started with a big bang. I want to watch you play with yourself until you come.”
“You are determined to strip me of every shred of dignity.”
He took hold of his cock and began stroking it.
“Did you ever do this in front of a woman before?”
“Is it an exciting memory?”
“Kind of, but I’ve always had an uneasy feeling about how it turned out.” He stopped stroking. “Back in high school, there was this girl I was friendly with. Her parents were extremely overprotective, and she didn’t know anything about sex, so I didn’t chase after her—I didn’t think I’d get anywhere—but sometimes we’d hang out and talk. Somehow she managed to pick up a boyfriend in our senior year, and when they were alone, he would feel her up through her clothing and want her to do the same to him. Well, she wound up asking me to show her how I was built so she’d know what she was doing with him. I figured maybe she’d get turned on to me, so I showed her, and there we were—she was staring at my cock and asking questions, and I was trying to play teacher and answer them. One question led to another and she asked me to show her how the sperm comes out, so I explained how she could make it happen and told her to give it a try, but she wouldn’t. She said she wanted me to do it myself, so I did. What freaked me out about the whole thing was that right after she graduated, she went into a convent. I don’t know if she stayed with it and became a nun, but I sure didn’t feel good about where she was headed.”
“Even if she’s a nun, I’ll bet she can’t keep that memory out of her head for more than a few hours at a time, just like I know I’ll never forget this evening. I won’t forget any of the other times I make you jerk off either, and there are going to be a lot of them, especially during the next six months. I won’t let you forget them either,” I smiled teasingly and looked at his cock, “or let you get out of them.”
He groaned and resumed his stroking.
“Poor Bart! You used to put your cock in a new woman every week, and now you have to go without for months and months, and jerk off on demand as my private porno show. You can’t even be sure I’ll ever decide to fuck you, and if I do, you’ll be tied down like this so you have no control and it all happens my way. What a fate!”
He seemed to be close to the edge, so I started gently rubbing his left nipple with the back of my right hand. He withstood it for only a few seconds before he came.
“Neat! You are my love slave!”
He had saved up quite a load, and it gave his orgasm an intensity that I knew embarrassed him. When it was over I withdrew my hand from his chest and lay it affectionately on his shoulder, then stroked his cheek.
“Not a shred of dignity,” I said. “I told you that’s how it would be if I loved you; I guess I do.”
“I could be really happy to hear that. I want to be happy to hear it, but I can’t help wondering what it means. Do you love the same way other people do?”
“Yes, it’s only my way of sexualizing it that’s unusual. The caring and affection underneath are common to gentlefolk everywhere.”
I bent over and kissed him, then looked at his tummy.
“I’m going to get something to wipe you up.”
I made a move to stand up, then stopped and sat on the edge of the bed.
“You know, we’ve got to be less formal about these little errands I run while you’re tied down. What I’d like is for you not to panic every time I get up to do something. I’m never going to hurt you, and I’m never going to go further than I can hear, and I’m never going to be gone for more than a minute, and I’d like you to trust in that without my having to tell you what I’m doing each time. Okay?”
“Are you mad at me?”
“No, I’m just asking for what I need. It’s important to me to be trusted. Obviously you do trust me. You let me tie you up, and that takes a lot of trust, and when I tell you what I’m going to do, you believe me. But that first evening you were here, you panicked when I got up to get an ash tray, and that distressed me, so I started giving you explanations so you wouldn’t panic. That’s made for an improvement, but what I’d really like is for you to trust that I’ll always treat you well.”
“Being tied up is hard enough all by itself. I trust you, but it’s scary when you suddenly walk away. I’ll try to get used to it, but I’m not sure I can.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll stop explaining my little errands, and you try not to panic, and if you sometimes feel I’m frightening you, or I sometimes feel you’re distrusting me, we’ll try to forgive one another. How does that sound?”
His eyes misted over as he thought about it.
“Sure,” he said. “I love you, Georgeann.”
I bent over and kissed him again, then got a towel and dried him off. By the time I was done, he had untied his left hand, and he set to work on his right ankle while I untied the lower left leg of the bed. Soon he was completely free and we lay down to our first naked cuddle.
We slept together through the night, and in the morning I fixed breakfast. When I told him it was almost ready, he stumbled out of bed and started pulling on his pants. I stopped him and said that whenever we were alone together, I wanted him naked. He looked at me groggily, dropped his pants on the floor and made his way to the bathroom. A couple of minutes later, he showed up in the dining room, a bit steadier on his feet and still deliciously naked.
After breakfast I showered, then invited him to do the same.
“When do you leave for your class?” he asked. “I don’t want to hold you up.”
“I was hoping you could stay the day so I’d get to play with you some more.”
“Wow! Yeah! I’d like that!” he said eagerly. Then he became more thoughtful and added, “You know, I’ve never been in a situation like this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, how I’m supposed to act, anything. All I have to go on is what you said, that part of being your love slave is answering your questions honestly, so that’s what I’m trying to do.”
“You’re doing just fine. Answer my questions honestly and be yourself. That way I get the pleasure of knowing you, and if I tell you I love you, you know it’s really you I’m talking about and not some act you put on.”
“Wow! Men would have it a whole lot easier if all women felt that way.”
“It’s tempting to let you think I’ve invented some great new approach to relationship, but if the truth be known, most women do feel that way. From a woman’s point of view, the difficulty is getting men to believe it. Actually, an even bigger difficulty is getting men to pay attention to the message so they can even think about it. One of the good things about making you my love slave is that it gets your attention so we can talk when we need to.”
“What do we need to talk about?” he asked defensively.
I groaned silently.
“We needed to talk about how good it is that you be yourself. Right now there’s nothing pending.”
He seemed to recover and I invited him back to bed. He followed peaceably.
We played for hours. I’d have him eat me or finger me or both until I’d come several times, then we’d cuddle a while, then I’d tease him to within a few strokes of orgasm, then I’d have him do me again, and so on. By mid-afternoon I was lying on my back with my pussy open, Bart tonguing my clit while massaging the surrounding area with his lips, at the same time rubbing my g-spot with two fingers and using his other hand to play with my nipples. I let him go on and on until I was satiated, and then after another cuddle, I finally brought him off. I didn’t tie him down—just took his cock between my hands and milked it until he came, stopping just one stroke short of too much.
We lay together almost an hour, then I told him I needed the rest of the weekend for chores and errands. He said he had a few of those himself. I offered him the use of the shower and he accepted. Then he dressed, we said an affectionate good-bye, and he was on his way.
Three days later Bart went for his medical evaluation, and by the end of the following week, he had been pronounced clean, pending a six-month follow-up for HIV. Our relationship continued, happy and kinky, for three months. The day the results of his tests came back, we finished the manual. Three days later, I was assigned to another project, but we continued having lunch together three or four times a week, and I would occasionally pop into his office to look at my toy and tease him about how it responded to my attention. Nights and weekends, we were together as often as not.
It seemed like nothing could go wrong, but something did. Bart was invited to discuss his work at a military development facility in central New York. Leave Wednesday morning, back Friday night—simple. Through a stroke of good fortune, I was just getting into a weekend of intensive aikido training in Seattle when he returned. By the time I saw him again, he was in the hospital, being devoured by a particularly virulent strain of penicillin-resistant gonorrhea.
He told me that Thursday evening he’d gone to eat in a diner near his motel, and a few minutes after he was seated, an attractive woman—a woman he didn’t recognize—walked up to him, greeted him by name, invited herself to join him, and came on to him. He played her guessing game about where they’d met before, but he couldn’t remember and she never did tell him. He said she seduced him. He started developing symptoms the next day, but didn’t seek treatment until Saturday, when he’d got back home and slept a while. The usual remedy was administered immediately, but it proved ineffective. By Monday he was a genuine medical emergency.
I felt betrayed and told him so. I let him know I would visit him regularly in the hospital—even run errands for him so his credit rating wouldn’t suffer and the Department of Motor Vehicles wouldn’t assess its penalty for late renewal of his registration—but our sexual relationship couldn’t continue. He was distraught and begged forgiveness, but I knew that if he had been seduced once, he could be seduced again and I wasn’t willing to accept the risk to my health. He wanted to talk about it, sick as he was, but I told him we might as well wait until he was healthier because he might not get any healthier and our talk would be wasted.
Intuitively, though, I was sure he would recover, and I scrambled to find another job because I knew it would be too painful for both of us to go on seeing one another every day as we had when we were lovers. Gradually his condition improved, and on a Thursday evening, three weeks after his so-called seduction, he announced that his doctor had told him he might be discharged as early as the following Monday.
“Great! That’s the same day I start my new job.”
“Yes. I found another job. With another company.”
“You don’t need to know that. We won’t be seeing one another anymore.”
“You said we could talk about it. Can we?”
“I didn’t really say we could talk about it, just that talking was no use unless you were going to recover. Anyway, we’re talking. What do you want to say?”
“Will you give me another chance?”
“Look, I didn’t set out to find another woman. I was seduced.”
“You could have said no and you didn’t.”
“I made one mistake and I’ve learned not to make another like it. Doesn’t it matter to you that I intended to be faithful?”
“No, it doesn’t matter to anyone. If it mattered, you wouldn’t have got sick. Your faithful intentions would have saved you from the natural laws of contagion. What were you going to do if you didn’t get so spectacularly sick? Tell me on your own that you’d betrayed me? or make it worse by keeping it a secret? Were you going to let me find out the hard way that you’d picked up some ugly bug? Pass your six-month HIV follow-up with flying colors, and then we discover ten years down the line that we’ve both got AIDS? What did you have in mind?”
“I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know whether I was going to tell you. You could give me the benefit of the doubt.”
“Giving you the benefit of the doubt means recognizing that you made a unilateral decision that the price I’d have to pay for a long-term relationship with you was being increased from six months without fucking to nine months. And it’s only six for you. That’s if your betrayal turns out to be a one-time thing. More likely, if I give you another chance, you’ll figure you can get as many chances as you want, and soon we get to where you go find someone to fuck every time you get the itch; and each time, I have to wait another six months while you’re getting all you want.”
“I didn’t know the wait bothered you.”
“Do you think I like to go without fucking? I put up with it because your history made it necessary and I thought you were worth it, just like you pretended to think I was worth it. Teasing you about the wait like it didn’t bother me was play!” The force of my own voice startled me, and I began to cry. “It was taking a bad situation and finding a way to have fun with it. Now even that’s shot to hell, because you’re not really waiting; only I am.”
“Please. I wasn’t pretending. I agreed to the wait because you really are worth it to me. I honestly intended to wait. I screwed up. Once. It’ll never happen again. Please forgive me. I need you.”
“Your word isn’t worth anything. If you needed me, you knew it before you left on your trip; and that one screw-up was the one you promised four months ago would never happen. All I can expect now is that next time you’ll try really hard not to get caught, and that means you won’t tell me when you put my health at risk.”
“You’re doing this to punish me.”
“No, I wouldn’t cause myself this much pain just to punish you. I’m doing it to save my life because I realize how little you value it.”
I left him there—left the hospital—and started walking. A half hour and I’d be fit to drive home. I kicked myself for not shaving Bart’s pubic hair. That would have given him all the strength he needed to resist that floozy. I had already recommended the technique to several women with philandering husbands, and they’d had good results with it, but I myself had tried it only once, when I was considerably younger, and its intrinsic violence had offended my gentle nature. Besides, I wanted my man’s fidelity to be his own choice. Still, a shave would have saved Bart from a terrible misery. Or would it really?
I thought a bit more and decided that kicking myself was useless. There was nothing more to be done about Bart. Soon I would meet someone else, and he would be different. Two weeks later I did, and he was.