Sexual Power For Women Chapter 12 – B

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!”

Then, “Five.”



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.”

“What’s that?”

“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.”

“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.

“That’s okay.”

“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.”

“Why’s that?”

“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.”

“O God!”

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.”

“I know.”

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.

“Yummy fuck!”

“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.”

“O God!”

“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.”

“Your slave?”

“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.”

“O God!”

“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.”

“Oh, okay.”

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.

“Well, yeah!”

“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.”

“What’s that?”

“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.

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With political activists as parents, Stephanie learned gender politics at an early age and embraced stiletto feminism in high school. As a marketing professional, she’s written for a variety of publications. She founded to be a voice for the sex-positive alpha female.