Chapter 2,

In which the author gives an account of herself and this work

There was a time when acetylsalicylic acid and penicillin were called drugs and a woman who exercised, ate a moderate and balanced diet, and avoided alcohol and tobacco was said to be looking after her health.  At that time, if one had been permitted to talk about such things at all, I might have been called a dominatrix.

The old words have since been taken over by the hard stuff, so that only the likes of heroin and cocaine are called drugs, while people take care of their health with such medications as acetylsalicylic acid and penicillin if they haven’t followed a wellness program or it has somehow failed them.

A dominatrix wears a costume of black leather with metal studs.  It includes an uplift bra and spike heels.  She has a severe hair style and carries a whip that she uses with terrifying frequency, apparently because she’s always angry.  She ties her victims into the most uncomfortable of postures and subjects them to hideous tortures.  To top it off, she gets paid for all this.  By the people she mistreats!  It’s beyond strange.

That’s not me.  I don’t look like that, I’m seldom angry, and I don’t beat or torture people, though I do use the word—sometimes as a playful exaggeration and sometimes as a convenience.  I don’t own an unusual amount of leather, little of my clothing is black, and I favor neither black nor leather when I anticipate making love.  I rarely wear a bra and almost never high heels.  I don’t have a whip.  I’m in my forties, slim, of moderate height.  My breasts are small; my hair hangs a bit below my shoulders; I keep my nails short; my ears have never been pierced.  I usually wear jeans and sneakers with a T-shirt in summer or a sweatshirt in winter.

I’m gentle by nature, friendly, easy to talk to.  I don’t like to hurt people.  I’ve never even spanked any of my lovers.  I drive courteously and with regard for the rights and safety of pedestrians, even when visiting the Great Northeastern Megalopolis.

And I’m an amateur.  I’ve never been paid for sex, nor has anyone ever offered to pay me.  If someone did make such an offer, I wouldn’t respond favorably.  That sort of transaction shocks my conscience, though I don’t presume to judge the people who do things that way.

Am I, then, really a dominatrix?  The word is convenient, so I’ll continue using it whether I’m entitled or not.  Genuine dominatrix or mere pretender, I’m a woman who enjoys sexual power, and this book is offered so that you, and other women like you, may be empowered in the same way if you so choose.  I’m including this account of myself so you’ll be able to judge whether my advice is worth considering.

I was born, raised, and educated in California.  I’ve worked my entire adult life in the computer industry of Silicon Valley, writing technical manuals.  I’ve never married, partly out of a determination to remain childless and partly because I rebel against allowing the state to license my living arrangements and love life.  I’ve had a number of relationships with men, one at a time, and some of those relationships were very much like marriages in closeness, intensity and duration.  They ended because of my fear of parenthood or because of my partner’s need to move to another part of the world or for other ordinary reasons.

The only real difference between my relationships and those of so many other women is that I openly took control of the sexual aspect of each one and, just as openly, used the leverage that that gave me to direct the relationship as a whole.  As more women read this book and discuss it, the pattern will become common.  When I took control of my first relationship, though, there was no book to guide me.  I got started differently.

It’s commonly recognized that our sexual appetites are shaped by our earliest adventures, and it was a chance occurrence at the age of fourteen, before I had any real sexual experience, that sparked my interest in female domination.

I was spending a few summer weeks visiting a friend who had moved to Maryland the year before.  One afternoon we were at the home of her neighbor, Beth, along with a few of Beth’s other friends.  There were six of us in all, fourteen to sixteen years old, and we were skinny-dipping in the enclosed backyard pool as we’d done a couple of times previously.  At some point my friend approached me in the water and quietly told me that our hostess had noticed a boy hiding in the bushes near the garden hose, spying on us.  Beth wanted us to close in on him slowly, pretending not to have observed his presence, then grab him.

I don’t know how well we pretended not to notice him, but we did manage to get hold of him and pin him to the ground.  He was about my age.

Beth asked him why he was hiding in the bushes and he said he didn’t know.

“Yes you do.  If you didn’t know why you were doing it, you wouldn’t have gone to all the trouble of getting in here and hiding.  You wanted a chance to see us without our clothes on, didn’t you?”

He admitted that he did.

“I’ll bet you were going to brag to your friends about it afterward, and then they’d all be teasing me for the rest of the summer.”  She thought a moment.  “We’re going to show you how it feels to have someone staring at you when you’re naked.”

She bent down and removed his shoes and socks, then told Rena, who was sitting on his chest, “Let’s get that shirt off.”

The two of them unbuttoned it and I made sure that his right hand, which I’d been holding against the ground, didn’t get loose when we bent his arm and slid the sleeve down.

When the shirt was off, Beth grinned at him and said, “Soon you’ll be as naked as we are.”

Then, to Rena, “Help me get his pants off.”

They pulled the pants down slowly.  He was wearing undershorts and they were pushed up in front like a tent by his stiff cock.  I couldn’t wait to see it uncovered.  My pussy was congested and I could feel the pulse beating in it.

Beth and Rena got his pants clear of his feet, Beth supervising to make sure neither of his legs got loose of the girls holding them.

Beth looked at the tent in the undershorts, then up at the boy’s face.  “You have a hard-on.  You’re really going to be embarrassed when those shorts come off and we all get to see it.”

The two of them took hold of the elastic waistband of the shorts and slowly pulled them down.

I still remember every detail of how his cock came into view—the glimpse I got by peering between the waistband and his body as they lifted the elastic clear; the frantic effort he made to free his wrist from my grip as he realized that if he couldn’t stop us, six girls would see, the way it stood so stiff, as I now know only a young boy’s does, when the shorts were down below his bottom.  I remember everything about it—its color, its texture, the way the few strands of hair sparkled in the sun.  It was the first erect penis I’d ever seen and I was utterly transfixed.

Soon the shorts were pulled over his ankles and every inch of the boy’s body was bare.

“See how embarrassing it is?” Beth teased.  “You shouldn’t have spied on us.”

Rena giggled and gestured toward the boy’s cock.  “Let’s play with it till he can’t stand it.”

Beth licked her lips.  “Go ahead!”

Rena took it between her thumb and forefinger and began stroking it with a milking motion.  The boy struggled a bit, then gave up.  His breathing turned into a heavy panting, and then, all at once, about twenty seconds after Rena had started, his whole body seemed to convulse and his cock spurted.

“It’s broken!  I’m dying!”

He struggled again to free his arms even as he bucked his hips and continued to ejaculate.

I watched, fascinated.  I had read descriptions of the male orgasm, but I’d never seen it happen.  I hadn’t expected that the amount of fluid was so great, or that it was expelled with such force.

When the fireworks were over and Rena withdrew her hand, the boy was half crying, a bewildered expression on his face.

“Let me go!  It’s broken!”

Beth answered him.  “No it isn’t.  Didn’t that ever happen to you before?”

He shook his head and said no.

“Well, that’s what happens when a girl plays with your thing.”  She pointed at the white liquid on his chest.  “You wet all over yourself.”

He looked where she was pointing and blushed.

“I guess we might as well let you go now.  Don’t tell anyone you were even here, or we’ll say you took your own pants down and played with yourself in front of us.  Then they’ll think you’re a real sickie and put you in an institution.”

We let him up, we all got dressed, and we escorted him out.

Sex, for me, became that scenario.  When I was horny, what I fantasized wasn’t conventional courtship and the sort of passive lovemaking that was expected of girls in those days, but my rendering some boy helpless and teasing him sexually.  (In fact I still enjoy replaying my recollection of that day in Maryland and, understanding now that our sexual tastes really are shaped by our early experiences, I get a particular kick out of thinking that somewhere in this world there’s a man my age whose favorite sexual fantasy is his recollection of how he was held down and made to have his first orgasm by six curious teenage girls, one of them me.)

As I grew up through my high school and college years, I became involved in a series of relationships with young men, as any young woman does, and in a few purely sexual adventures besides.  I met my partners in the usual ways—by being in the same classes, through shared interests, or accidentally—and until I was twenty my relationships were almost completely ordinary.  They differed from those of other lusty young women only in that I contrived to tie up each of my partners at least once and sexually toy with him.  After all, it was my favorite fantasy.  I got my partners to go along by whatever means necessary, though only a couple seemed sufficiently enthusiastic to do it repeatedly.  I didn’t try to sexually enslave these young men, and for a very simple reason:  I hadn’t yet any idea that such a thing was possible.

Then, during my junior year of college, I met the man who was to become my first love slave, and my preferences set the tone of all our lovemaking.  That relationship showed me what was possible, and since then I’ve sought to sexually enslave every one of my lovers.  I’ve almost always succeeded too, and I’ve become so sure of my power that I simply won’t continue seeing the occasional man who refuses to do things my way.  I know what I need and I know I can get it.

Over the years I’ve learned a great deal.  I’ve learned the anatomy and physiology of male sexual response, and its psychology as well—especially what happens inside a man’s head when a woman takes control and toys with his sexuality.  I’ve learned technique and developed it into an art form.

What does all this mean?  What does my history tell you?  What use can you make of the knowledge I’ve gathered?

At one extreme, you know that female domination isn’t for you.  It involves taking on a role that’s somehow contrary to your core personality.  I can’t dispute that—you know your own nature—but I invite you to continue reading anyway.  You’ll find out how it is for me and for other women like me, gain some insight into men, perhaps even pick up one or two techniques that turn out not to make you uncomfortable.

At the other extreme, this book is just what you’ve always been looking for.  You’re as enthusiastic about female domination as I am, and you’re going to use the techniques I recommend, along with any others you hear about or think up, to take control of any relationship you get into.  You’re reading this as a technical manual and it won’t disappoint you, even if it doesn’t tell you how to be the dominatrix in the fetish magazines.

Most likely you’re at neither extreme.  You’re committed to a relationship, perhaps a marriage, and its sexual aspect is nothing at all like the sexual aspect of my relationships.  You’re interested in the potential value of my advice but you’re skeptical, and well you should be.

To start with, I seem to have gone to school in a different world.  I told you I arranged to sexually toy with every one of my high school and college lovers, and that seems unlikely.  When you were that age you knew any number of young men with whom such behavior would have been unthinkable.  I knew them too.  There were only a few of them.  They avoided me or I, them.  I have a confident manner and a natural talent for teasing.  That attracts men who are psychologically well suited to my agenda and repels most of those who aren’t, though unfortunately it also attracts the sort of man who has a need to become involved with a woman he regards as a bitch and beat her into submission.  I have an instinctive dislike for thugs and an intuitive ability to recognize them, so I’ve always managed to avoid men who might react to me with violence.

If you’re sure none of your male schoolmates could have been maneuvered into that kind of scene, it’s probably because you’re unaccustomed to considering the possibility, or because you were taken in by their macho posturing and bluff.  Most of them could have been, and most grown men can too.

Even if you grant that, you still have good reason to be skeptical.  I’ve told you my rule is that my relationships go my way or they don’t go; I’m willing to take the risk that a new lover will reject me as too kinky.  Your priorities are different.  Your existing relationship is important to you and you suspect that if you tried doing the things I’ve done, the consequences would be disastrous.  It’s certainly something to consider.  There are indeed relationships that would be irreparably damaged by an attempt to apply my techniques, and men who would react with the ferocity of a cornered animal.  Contraindications are almost always obvious though, and if you heed them, you can pretty well avoid serious risk.

Besides telling you how—and why—to take control of your partner and make a devoted love slave of him, I’ll be telling you how to recognize situations in which it’s better not to make the attempt, and I’ll even show you how it’s possible to use my techniques to improve a relationship without going as far as I do.

Though it might seem that my gung-ho attitude and limited stylistic repertoire should have given me little opportunity to learn such subtleties, that’s not at all the case.  Over the years I’ve made a great many friends.  Some have been men, two have been celibate (one finds everything in California) and a few have been consistently happy with their partners.  Most, though, have been involved in at least one difficult relationship with a man at some time during our friendship.

Whenever one of my friends told me of a problem she was having with a husband or lover, and the problem seemed to be one she could solve by using the power of her femininity, I’d describe my qualifications (if she didn’t already know them) and offer advice.  If she was interested, I’d give her all the gritty details she needed to bring her man under control.

Some friends took my advice and some didn’t.  Those who did usually told me how it went.  Some thought up techniques of their own, experimented, and shared the results with me.  Through years of this sort of vicarious experience, I’ve learned quite a bit about what can happen when a woman attempts to take control of an established relationship.  I’ve learned to predict the success or failure of the attempt with reasonable accuracy, I’ve learned what kinds of problems can be alleviated by female domination, and I’ve learned what kinds of problems can be caused or aggravated by it.

In recent years, several of my friends have made repeated attempts to persuade me to commit my knowledge to written form so that it might be available to any woman who wants it.  As you see, they succeeded.  The result is the book you now hold in your hands.

One thing I beg.  Before you attempt to use any of the advice I offer, please read it all, cover to cover.  Many important points are presented only once to avoid boring you with repetition.  Backward references are frequent while forward references are almost nonexistent, so reading from the beginning is easier than skipping around—the first time, anyway.  Reading to the end will save you from acting on incomplete information; topics that seem to have been covered completely are sometimes further elaborated after the introduction of new but related material.  More important still, nearly every strategy and technique I recommend is unsuited to certain situations or types of men, and most of the warnings you need are clustered in the later chapters.  If you read everything before acting, you’re less likely to find yourself confronted with unexpected difficulty.

My fondest wish is that this work will affect people only to the good—that relationships between women and men will be improved, that individual women and individual men will be happier, and that no harm will come to any person or any relationship.

Gung ho!