Sexual Power For Women Chapter 12 – A

Before I made any move to enslave Patrick, we fucked and, as is my custom, we did it without a condom.  We were in love, not just trying to have a good time, so we wanted our first sexual communion to be as intimate as possible; each of us wanted to completely know the other and each wanted to be completely known.  Fucking is perfect for that, and our age and experience made anything else seem unnatural, especially since we were sure of one another’s health.

Fewer and fewer sexual relationships begin in such circumstances.  Often fucking is obviously foolish, and even when it isn’t, a good case usually can be made for substituting some other mode of gratification.  Sexually transmitted diseases were frightening even when I was young:  they hurt and left internal scars.  Now they’re worse.  There’s no completely effective protection except abstinence, with monogamy and the use of impermeable barriers the only alternatives that come close.  I don’t find any of these acceptable except monogamy, and my life just hasn’t worked out that way.  I’m serially monogamous, but that’s a long way from safe, and my search for a new long-term partner can be an epidemiologist’s nightmare.  When unattached and horny, I’ve occasionally entered into a liaison that I knew would last only weeks, and one bad winter I did three in a row.  To improve my chances of staying healthy, I fuck only those men with whom I’m in love and with whom I expect a lasting relationship.  The rest?  I have them finger me and eat me, and I bring them off by hand.  Safe sex?  Hardly, but not as dangerous as fucking without a condom.  Maybe my risk of catching something from any one man is cut in half.

Though my approach has limited value, I recommend it, and for the most selfish of reasons:  If I use it, and my latest lover’s previous partner also used it, my risk of catching anything from her is cut by three quarters.  It’s something to think about.

When I’m turned on to a man but not really in love, I’m more comfortable limiting our activities to exclude fucking, and I’m sure I’d feel this way even if there were no sexually transmitted diseases to fear.  There’s many a man with whom I can happily engage in sexual play, but fucking him would be inappropriately intimate.  I’ve discussed this with other women, and most feel as I do, though if they don’t apply the techniques of female domination, they almost all wind up succumbing to pressure and fucking men they oughtn’t.

I’m over forty.  If I’m interested in a sexual relationship with a man but I don’t want to fuck him, I have to be tough about it, and so I am—though in my own gently teasing way.  If you’re eighteen, you have other options because your youth makes them credible.  You can be a virgin saving yourself for marriage; you can have a severe case of body shyness; you can be inhibited by parental injunctions; your behavior can be circumscribed by the rules of a cult that promises nirvana at the end of this lifetime.  And if none of it is true, you can pretend and you’ll still be believed.

If you’re young enough that you’ve just recently become sexually active, I have a particular interest in reaching you.  You’ll probably be the first love of at least one young man and possibly several.  Because our sexual tastes are largely determined by our early experiences, you’re in a perfect position to make a real difference for the better in the way men of your generation relate to women throughout their lives.

If a man’s first love sexually enslaves him, he’ll tend to prefer similar relationships ever after, even though that preference will give each of his partners tremendous leverage in controlling his nonsexual behavior.  Indeed he’ll come to relish, in a good-humored sort of way, the control women can exert over him, much as a macho drunkard relishes his hangovers and jokes about them.  The sexual enslavement of even a quarter of a generation of young men will do more to destroy patriarchy as a social institution than will passage of the entire wish list of feminist legislation.  Legislation changes only written rules; sexual slavery changes men, giving them, somehow, a genuine concern for the interests of women.

Just how does a woman go about enslaving a man she’s never fucked?  It depends on her age and experience, and on his as well.  The techniques I use now are different from those I used when I was twenty.  Let’s look first at some techniques that are suited to youth.

I never met Paula.  I didn’t even hear very much of her story—certainly not the steamy details—but what I did hear is worth repeating.  She was the cousin of a friend to whom I had advocated female domination, and my friend passed along some of what I told her.

Paula was young, inexperienced, shy but curious, and seriously in love for the first time.  Jimmy was equally inexperienced and returned her love with a tragic intensity.  They’d spend hours kissing, gazing into one another’s eyes, and confessing the depth of their feelings.  They did a fair amount of groping too, but Paula limited it because she was scared.  She feared that sexual penetration would hurt; she dreaded pregnancy; she worried more about disease than Jimmy’s inexperience warranted; she was frightened by the loss of control inherent in sexual excitement.

Their petting sessions often ended with Paula going into a panic, pushing Jimmy away, and rolling herself into a ball.  Jimmy was visibly hurt when this happened.  He was a genuinely decent and sensitive young man who acknowledged Paula’s right to set limits with which she could be comfortable, and he felt he deserved to be trusted not to harm her.

Their last aborted grope session took place on a Friday evening after they’d already made plans to get together the following afternoon.  Their difficulties left them frustrated and insecure, but still needing one another.  Come Saturday, Paula told Jimmy she had an idea for how they might avoid such upsets in the future.  She proposed that he agree to be her love slave, and explained that it would allow her to get comfortable with his body by exploring him at her own pace while remaining in control.  He agreed and the arrangement worked well.  Paula got a good practical education in male anatomy and physiology, she became comfortable with Jimmy’s body, and she stopped going into panics.  Jimmy was no longer hurt by those panics and discovered that the sexual aspect of the relationship became more satisfying and less frustrating.

Not every man can be sexually enslaved by merely inviting him to accept the role.  The technique can work if a man is young, inexperienced, and in love in the simple way that’s possible only for the young and inexperienced.  It can also work if a man knows that his own preference is for sexual slavery.  In all other cases it will fail.  Either the man will refuse or he’ll only pretend to accept, just to see what develops.  Even with such a limited range of applicability, the technique has one impressive advantage over all others:  it requires very little effort and no skill.  And within its limited range, it works.

In high school I became friendly with a girl whose sexual appetites were similar to my own.  We used to swap stories, fantasies and insights into male sexuality.  We went on to different colleges, but not far apart, and we kept in touch until we graduated and for over a year afterward.

In college Suzi developed an outrageous but successful technique for recruiting love slaves.  She advertised.  Not in the student newspaper or on the bulletin boards, but by making loud and frequent mention of her sexual preferences as she talked with her peers in the cafeteria, in coffee shops, and in other public places where small groups gathered.

“We missed you at the meeting yesterday,” an acquaintance might remark.

“Oh, I went with Michael to watch them tear down the old Samson building.”

“How was it?”

“He wanted me to go to bed with him, but he wouldn’t let me tie him up, so he still doesn’t know me as well as he’d like.”

Suzi was sufficiently entertaining that the young lady who had missed her at the meeting usually wouldn’t mind being used as a foil, but a few of her colleagues positively hated her.

Some young man might invite her to a movie, and she’d answer, loudly enough to be heard by everyone in the vicinity, “Okay, but if you want me to come back to your room, you’ll have to give me your key and let me tie your hands behind you before we go in.”

When she succeeded in recruiting a love slave after being without one for a few days, she’d tell those of her acquaintances who knew him, taking her usual care to be overheard, “Jeremy agreed to be my new slave.”  Those who didn’t know him were told, “I have a new slave.  His name is Jeremy.  Do you know him?”  Since they didn’t, she’d have to bring him around and introduce him.  “This is Jeremy.  He’s my slave.”  Acquaintances who were initially unfamiliar with Jeremy were thus played for two ads apiece, and rumors of Suzi’s sexual preferences spread rapidly.  After all, Jeremy wouldn’t last forever, and one of today’s passersby might turn out to be his replacement.  When Jeremy finally moved on (it usually took about seven weeks for her trivialization of his feelings and motives to become intolerable), Suzi would lament his departure loudly enough to attract the notice of his successor, greeting each of her acquaintances with the same tragic announcement:  “I broke up with Jeremy.  I need a new slave.”

The only environment in which this strategy can succeed is a large urban college.  For one thing, that’s the only environment in which one finds a sufficient concentration of the sort of men on whom it will work—young men who are inexperienced, shy, curious, and quick to fall in love.

In that environment, though, Suzi’s brand of advertising is surprisingly effective.  Young men are horny, and Suzi’s kind of chatter makes them more so.  Many are curious and inexperienced besides, and they’ll accept almost any terms that promise the satisfaction of their lust and curiosity.  A man who can resist today, whether out of pride or some preconceived idea of what a relationship ought to be, may succumb when his fantasies have been nourished by a month or a year of constant exposure.

Suzi’s advertising reached a large audience; passersby heard her little speeches all the time.   When she attracted a man’s interest, he would talk with her.  She had invited him, so he could proceed even if he didn’t think of himself as a skilled conversationalist.

Indeed one of the great things about advertising is that it makes even the shiest of men willing to attempt an approach, and these were the men Suzi most wanted to attract.  In general, their shyness had kept them from intimate physical relationships, and their inexperience had in turn fed their shyness, since they’d had no opportunity to develop confidence in skills they’d never tried.  Suzi was looking for inexperience as much as shyness because she found that inexperienced men are uncommonly susceptible to sexual stimulation; most of them would get hard and drip at nothing more than the sight of her bare breasts, and there wasn’t a one who was ever able to keep from coming when she wanted a porno show.

Shyness offered advantages too, inexperience aside.  A shy man knew that he had a tremendous obstacle to overcome in his search for a new relationship, so he would choose to endure Suzi’s constant insults far longer than a man with ordinary social skills.  Better yet, shy men fell in love with Suzi.  What did it was the way she spoke so lightly and freely about her sexuality, her emotions, the problems and joys of her everyday life.  Men whose early training in the male role had driven them to the opposite extreme—those for whom that kind of talk was impossible—were overwhelmed by her openness, by the vulnerability they saw in that openness, by the way she seemed to trust them with what ought to have been secrets.  They couldn’t help but want to give themselves to her.

Suzi didn’t fuck her slaves.  She believed that her virginity had to be preserved so she could exchange it for a wedding ring, and in fact she made such a trade shortly after she earned her degree.  She married a man who wasn’t at all shy and whom she claimed to respect for his cynical attitude toward her style.  In her relationship with him, she used none of what she knew about female domination, and their marriage was unhappy and brief.  It confirmed my attitude toward the blessings of convention.

Before her commitment to convention did her in, though—while she was still recruiting slaves in college—Suzi’s advertising included frequent affirmations of her virginity, often coupled with lamentations over the necessity of guarding it.  Prospective slaves knew she was determined not to fuck them, but they were intrigued by the mystique she wove by so often wishing aloud that she could.  Each hoped that something about him would overcome her determination, and though none of them ever did get into her, each took tremendous pleasure in the sexual and emotional intimacy of being her slave.  Indeed her slaves probably enjoyed Suzi more than they enjoyed the women they eventually fucked, and more than the man she married enjoyed her.

Suzi’s style went far beyond the pale, and there are only a few women who could comfortably adopt it; I certainly couldn’t.  Outrageous as it was, though, she maintained a certain modicum of decency.  When she said she needed a new slave, she’d talk about her desire to tie him up, and having recruited Jeremy she’d introduce him as her slave, but she’d never make public mention of tying him up in particular nor describe any other details of their lovemaking.  She wouldn’t talk about his sexual or emotional quirks and she wouldn’t make disparaging remarks about him even after they broke up.  She would never have more than one slave at a time.

Though Suzi took care to be discreet even as she reveled in notoriety, she did share her stories with me, and she taught me a great deal for which I’m eternally grateful.  It was she who led me to understand that sexual slavery might be a lasting arrangement on which a couple could agree.  I had long enjoyed sexually toying with the young men in my life, but my indulgence had been limited to seizing an opportunity here and an opportunity there, encapsulated in otherwise ordinary relationships.  Suzi showed me the possibility of insisting on a rule that made it my right at all times.  All I had to do was disentangle her principles and techniques, which I’ve been using and refining ever since, from her outlandish style.

It was Suzi who introduced me to the simplest way I know to encourage fidelity in a man who might be inclined to stray, and it was she who introduced me to the technique of letting go of a man’s cock just as his ejaculation becomes inevitable.  She told me about both as part of the same story.

Barry was a virgin and Suzi wanted to keep him that way, but when he’d been her slave for three weeks, she noticed he was spending a great deal of time in serious conversation with a woman named Maureen.  Displays of jealousy weren’t part of Suzi’s style, and she certainly wasn’t going to raise a ruckus, but she was determined to protect her interests.

What she did was tie Barry to the four corners of her bed and say, “I’ve decided that from now on, you’re going to be my little boy.”  She got out a pair of scissors, a safety razor and a can of shaving cream, and added, “I’ll have to take off your pubic hair so you’ll look like a little boy.”

She cut the hair short, then shaved it down to the skin, rinsed off the residual shaving cream with a wet towel, and admired the effect.  She found it quite a turn-on.  Shaving does make a man’s cock look bigger, and there’s something incredibly sexy about the curve of a bare mound.  She told him he’d have to keep himself shaved for her, that if she ever found his hair growing back he’d be sorry.

She straddled his face and had him eat her, then pulled her jeans back on.  She untied his wrists from the bed and tied them together in front of him, untied his ankles, and told him to stand up.

“See, little boy?  I got you naked and now your pee-pee is sticking out and I get to look at it.”

She had him stand with his back to the wall, just under a hook she’d placed a few inches below the ceiling.  She stood on a chair and fastened his wrists to it.

“I get to play with it, too.”

She sat on the chair and milked him, using one palm on the undersurface of his cock and the other on top.

When she knew his ejaculation was inevitable, she said, “I think something’s going to happen.”

She let go.

Barry panted and gasped, his cock sticking up at a forty-five degree angle.  Suddenly it dropped almost to horizontal, then sprang back up as it spurted.

“I made you wet!  Your pee-pee is doing its thing!”

It bounced and spurted several times more, then came to rest, still erect, pointed just a little downward.  She tweaked his nipples with her fingers and it bounced again.

“Oh! Little boys’ nipples are connected to their pee-pees just like girls’.”

She watched his cock as it shrank.

“You must be so embarrassed, having to stand here all naked in front of a girl, with your pee-pee dripping like that, remembering how I watched it bounce up and down while you wet.”

“What a trip!”

“You know, some day when you grow up, you’ll have a wife to fuck whenever you want, and you’ll wish that instead, she’d tie you up just like this and play with your pee-pee.  Too bad you’ll be too embarrassed to let her know.”

“Maybe it’ll be you.”

“Just because you’re in love with me, that doesn’t mean I’m going to marry you.  Here.  I’ll untie you now.”

She stood on the chair again and released him from the hook, then got down and untied his wrists.

Barry didn’t spend nearly so much time with Maureen after that.  He kept himself shaved and Suzi never left off teasing him about being her little boy.  He probably never suspected that Suzi was even aware of Maureen’s existence.  What he did know was that if he undressed for Maureen, his missing hair would be difficult to explain.  Besides, Maureen couldn’t possibly turn him on as Suzi did, no matter what liberties she might allow.  No woman could.  As it turned out, his relationship with Suzi lasted fourteen more weeks, for a total of seventeen.  That was ten more weeks than average and thirteen more than could have been expected if she hadn’t shaved him, so the shaving trick really impressed me.

The technique of letting go of a man’s cock as he reaches the point of no return became one of my favorites.  The variant I learned from Suzi is even better than the one Francesca used with Roy; the show is more spectacular when the man is standing, so his embarrassment is greater.  His cock sticks out farther from his body; it swings through a wider arc, splashing its goop across the room; and it’s left dripping obscenely at the end.  The reason I don’t use it so much now as when I first learned it is that my partners are older.  They’re not so readily turned on as younger men, and they’re easily distracted from their lust by the discomfort of being tied in a standing position.  I have a policy of never trying anything that may fail, lest my partner’s belief in my irresistibility be eroded, but when I’ve got a man horny enough, I still sometimes tie his wrists to the hook in my ceiling and put him through the rest of it.  He always loves me for it.

A few days after Suzi told me the story of Barry, one of my friends invited me to a party celebrating her brother-in-law’s acquittal on a charge of demonstrating against the Vietnam War or, as the prosecutor had called it, trespassing on government property.  The party was at the house of a friend of the former defendant, and the host had hired a rock band to entertain.  I found the drummer extremely attractive and struck up a conversation with him during the first break.

His name was Steve and his parents owned a store that sold musical instruments.  He spent much of his time working there, especially during the hours when people our age were most likely to come in; his father thought that Steve’s ability to speak with young people in their own language was good for business.  Playing in the band interested him more, but since he and two of his three colleagues were too young for the bar scene, gigs were hard to get; the band was pretty much limited to playing parties, and parties thrown by people who knew them didn’t come along that often.

I resolved then and there that I was going to use Steve as a proving ground for the ideas I’d picked up from Suzi.  I was going to enslave him, and I was going to do it without fucking him.  If I succeeded… well, I’d play it for all it was worth.

I chose Steve mainly because he turned me on, but there were other reasons besides.  He wasn’t one of my schoolmates, and we didn’t seem to have many friends in common, so if everything possible went wrong, I still wouldn’t pick up a reputation that would make future relationships difficult, at least in my usual circles.  His being a rock musician made me even more certain of that, because it led me to infer that he had already had more sexual partners than he could remember; he would dismiss me without a second thought if I wound up offending him.  I also regarded him as a challenge:  I knew I had no idea what I was doing, and I thought it would be a great accomplishment to start by sexually enslaving such a connoisseur while refusing to fuck him.

As it turned out, I overestimated Steve’s experience.  He’d done enough heavy petting so he knew how to give a woman a great deal of pleasure, but he was a virgin.  His parents had kept him under fairly tight rein, partly out of an old-fashioned view of morality, but mostly out of the paranoid fear that some young lady would set him up for a shotgun wedding so she could get control of the family business.  Steve had too good a sense of reality to buy into their delusions, and he was pleased that I approached him at the party.  He saw me as an opportunity to pursue his own objective—getting cured of his virginity.

Of course I learned all this only after Steve and I were deeply involved.  We made our opening moves laboring under the greatest of misapprehensions, our respective agendas tucked well out of sight, each pretending to be interested only in enjoying the other.  So it goes.

The conflict between our goals was such that it would take time to surface; it would remain hidden until Steve made a move to fuck me or I made a move to enslave him.  Indeed the sexual aspect of our relationship developed normally for about three weeks; our exploration of one another’s bodies became increasingly intimate and we allowed ourselves greater and greater degrees of arousal.  The usual.

One afternoon, we had progressed to where we were lying in bed naked, his hand doing delicious things to my pussy while I played with his cock.  We were face to face on our sides, sometimes kissing but mostly just watching the reflections of the yummies we were giving.  When he thought I was horny enough, he moved closer and positioned his cock so that it was pressed against the outer lips of my pussy, ready to enter me.  I kept my legs together while he tried to make some sort of headway, and of course he couldn’t.

“I’d like you to keep playing with me, and I’d like to keep playing with you, but you’re not going to put that in me.”


We went back to what we’d been doing, and after a couple of minutes I said, “I think I’d like to just relax and enjoy what you’re doing for a while, then take a turn playing with you.”

He went along with that and fingered me through several orgasms, obviously enjoying the show.  When I’d had enough, I let him know and we spent a few minutes cuddling and kissing, then I told him to lie back and relax.  I knelt alongside him and stroked his cock until he came, then a little more until he was done.  Then some more cuddling, kissing, and the pleasant sort of talk that naturally follows a good come.

By the next time, he’d engineered a fiendish little strategy around that scenario.  He encouraged me to lie back and relax while he fingered me, then he moved down and ate me.  Soon I was soaking wet at the edge of orgasm.  He lunged forward and tried to get in.

I managed to avoid him, and by the time he reoriented himself I was off the bed.

I told you, you’re not going to put that in me!” I scolded.

“Why not?  It’s only natural.”

“Because it’s my body and I say no!  I’m tired of guys trying to use me.  My last boyfriend tried to do the same thing, and the one before him too.  Nobody cares how I feel about it.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you tried to use me like that.”

“That’s you, and you probably haven’t really thought about it anyway.  We were having such a good time.  Why did you have to mess it up?”

“I didn’t think I was messing it up.  I didn’t think it’d upset you.”

“Well, it does.  It really turns me off.”

I started dressing.  Steve watched me with a hopeless sort of sadness, then did the same.

“I’m really sorry I upset you,” he said when we were dressed.  “I made a mistake.  I wish there were some way I could fix it.”

I shot him an exasperated look and thought a moment.  I tried to look like I was considering what he’d said, but what I was really doing was trying to figure out how to steer the conversation so as to get him to agree to be my love slave.

“It’s probably just as well you can’t fix it.  If you could, you’d just look for another opportunity to try to rape me.”

“I didn’t try to rape you.  I’m not like that.  I thought you wanted the same thing I did.”

“I told you last time, I don’t want that.”

“I thought you changed your mind.”

“If I’d have changed my mind, I would have told you.”

“I didn’t know that.  Look, I am sorry I upset you, even if there isn’t a way to fix it.”

I knew this was the best opportunity I was going to get.  If I was going to make anything of it, I would have to be as outrageous as Suzi.  Now or never, George!  Palms sweating, heart racing…

“Maybe you can fix it.  Something you said gives me an idea.”

“What did I say?”

“You said you wouldn’t mind if I tried to use you like that.”


“Okay, so how about we make an agreement that I use you instead of you trying to use me?  We’ll say that you’re my love slave and I’ll control all the touching we do.  You touch me when and how I want, and only when and how I want, and I touch you when and how I want, and you don’t argue about it.”

He looked kind of like the movie version of Bob Cratchit, in the scene near the end where Scrooge tells him he’s going to raise his salary.


I felt a tremendous sense of relief myself, though my hands were still clammy and my heart went on pounding.  I’d been sure Steve was going to tell me I’d set up the whole situation for the sole purpose of coercing him into accepting my perverted agenda (which of course I had), and I’d worked myself up into a bad case of the terrors.  Now that he’d given his assent so easily, everything was right again.

But relief lasted only a moment.  Then I started having doubts.  Was he really unaware what I’d done, or was he just playing along?  Perhaps he was putting me on, still scheming to get his own way.  How could I be sure?  I couldn’t.  But Steve looked so bewildered, I decided to put my worries aside.  If he became difficult, I could deal with it then.

I realized I had to say something—I was in charge—but what?  I certainly wasn’t going to pick up our lovemaking where we left off; my anxiety had squelched my desire and left a most unkissable taste in my mouth.

“How about coming over tomorrow at the same time?  That’ll give me a chance to get over being mad at you and also finish some work I need to get done for my lit class.”


He was usually more talkative—probably afraid of making another mistake.

“Maybe then I’ll show you one of the things that can happen to a love slave who misbehaves.”

“Umgawa!  I don’t think I want to know.”

He waited for a response, but I just smiled.

“You know, I haven’t even had time to misbehave since agreeing to be your love slave.”

“Well, maybe I won’t show you.  I’ll see whether I still need to work out my annoyance over today.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he shrugged, and he was gone.

I wondered about his not having tried to kiss or hug me on the way out.  Had my anxiety left me smelling that bad?  Was he being careful not to break my rule against touching me unless I told him to?  Had he stopped liking me?  I had exchanged my familiar world for a new one, and I didn’t know how to navigate anymore.

The next day, Steve showed up in a sweatsuit.  It was just perfect for acting out one of the fantasies that had been running through my mind that morning, and I told him so.  I led him to the bed and sat down.  He made a move to do the same.

“No, just stand here in front of me.”

I hooked my fingers into opposite sides of the collective waistband of his sweatpants and undershorts and pulled them both down to his knees.

“Umgawa! What are you doing?  You didn’t even kiss me hello!”

“I know.  Kissing turns you on, and then by the time we get your clothes out of the way, you’re all hard.  I want to watch you get hard.”

“Wow! It looks like being your love slave sure is going to be different!”

“I’d have to be crazy, not to have some fun with it.”

When I first exposed his cock, it was already bigger than when he’d got dressed after the last time I made him come, and now it grew and stiffened rapidly as I watched.  Soon it was sticking up at an angle, fully erect.”

“How does it feel to have me watch that happen?”

“It’s exciting!  I can’t wait to see how you use me next!”

I had him finish getting out of his clothes, then I got out of mine.

“Come lie down with me.”

We kissed, we cuddled, he made love to my breasts with his mouth.  He fingered my pussy, then moved down to suck and tongue my clit while he stimulated my nipples with his fingers.  I came repeatedly.

“Come on back up here and let’s cuddle some more,” I said at last.

He did as I said and we wrapped our arms around one another.  I delighted in the urgency of his excitement; the pulsing wetness of his cockhead affirmed the power of my femininity and boosted my confidence.

“That felt so good, Steve!  I really like the way you do that.”

“Thanks.  I like the way you like it.  It’s groovy seeing you so turned on.”

“I believe it.  You’re dripping on my tummy.”

I sat partway up.  “Here…”  I took hold of his cock and swirled the slippery liquid around the head with my thumb, studying it as I did.  I spread the little slit between my thumb and forefinger and examined that, then tried sliding the tip of my thumb back and forth in it.

“I know what I want to do!”

I jumped up and heard Steve ask, “What?” as I retrieved a tangled heap of rope, webbing and carabiners.

“Guess,” I answered, undoing the tangles as fast as I could.

“You’re gonna tie me up?”


“Sufferin’ succotash!” he exclaimed, affecting a Looney lisp.  “I don’t know what to say!  This is so sudden!  Nobody’s ever taken such an interest in me before!  My gosh, I haven’t a thing to wear…!”

He went on like that, but I missed most of it—some because I was concentrating on the tangle and some because I was laughing so hard at the bits I caught.

When I had enough ends free, I set about tying him to the bed.  I used climbers’ knots to secure first his wrists, then his ankles (I hadn’t yet perfected the knots I use now, nor had I realized that there’s no advantage to binding a man’s legs, but I’m sure my clumsiness did no harm). It was a while before I was satisfied with my work, but his cock was still hard.

“How does it feel, being tied up like that, knowing I can do anything I want to you?”

“It’s exciting!  At least, so far it is.”

“Aren’t you a little worried about what I said yesterday—that you might get what you deserve for lunging at me?”

“A little.  But you might decide to be nice to me.  I think that’s the kind of person you are, and I’ve promised to be nice to you.”

“Maybe I should show you what might happen if you’re not nice, just to be sure you don’t change your mind.”

“I’ll be nice to you.  I won’t even try to tell you what to do; I’ll just be yours, like we agreed.”

“Okay, I’ll think about that.  Meanwhile I want to find out what turns you on.”

I explored his body, lightly caressing in turn his thighs, ears, neck, cheeks, lips, nipples and scrotum, watching his cock for a response.  I didn’t get much, so I started massaging his cock with both hands, and that increased his arousal considerably.  When I thought he was close to orgasm, I stopped and stroked his thighs.  Nothing.  I rubbed his cock some more, then kissed him teasingly on the mouth and tried his ears, neck and cheeks again.  Nothing there either, so I went back to his cock to warm him up for another go.  When he was in the same state as I had him before, I stopped and ran a couple of fingers along is scrotum.  His cock gave a little jump.

“Ooh, that’s something!”

“Yeah, it excites me.”

“It didn’t do anything before.”

“It excited me then too, but I wasn’t turned on enough so you could see it.”

I did it again, and his cock stiffened and relaxed the same way, still more noticeably.  The thought occurred to me that he must be terribly embarrassed by what we were doing; I knew I would have been, had our roles been reversed.  I was tempted to ask him about it but decided not to.  I was happy to be getting such a good education, and I was worried that inviting him to complain about his embarrassment might bring a response that would oblige me to slow down.

I went back to stroking his cock, and when he was all fired up again, I stopped once more.

“I wonder…,” I said, and I ran both index fingers around his nipples in tight circles.

He reacted even before I touched him, pulling at all the bonds at once and jerking his hips.  Once I made contact, a broken groaning noise began deep in his throat, his cock started bouncing, and his hips bucked twice.

“That’s really something!”

I continued circling his nipples to see what would happen.  His cock kept twitching, but less often and with less force, and his hips were still.  The noise in his throat stopped when he ran out of air.  He swallowed hard and his breathing became more regular.

I withdrew my hands and waited for him to regain his composure.  He closed his eyes.

How did that feel?

He opened his eyes again

“Exciting!  I don’t think I can describe it.”

I couldn’t resist any longer; I had to say it.  “I’m glad you told me you don’t mind if I use you, ’cause otherwise I might worry how embarrassing this must be.”

“I guess you were right when I said that; I never really thought about how it would feel if something like this happened.  I never thought something like this could happen.  This is embarrassing, but it’s still exciting.”

“Suppose I tell you, being my love slave is always going to be this embarrassing.  Are you still going to be my love slave?”

I had set out to project confidence, and I don’t think I got off to too bad a start, but I wound up sounding like I needed reassurance, and in fact I did.  It meant so much to me to have him there, tied naked and helpless for me to play with, that I couldn’t bear the thought that he might not give himself to me like that again, that his embarrassment might make him quit after this once.

He closed his eyes again and stayed like that for a long time, then looked at me.

“It’s an embarrassing question, too,” he said.

And suddenly I knew he was in love with me.  It had come over him just then, as he lay there.  I could see it in his eyes.  A softness, a caring—there was no mistaking that look, especially since it didn’t match our conversation in any way that I could yet understand.

I was drunk with power.  Wow!  I made him fall in love with me!  Onward!  First, all the men of this little city!  Then Montréal!

By the grace of God, the feeling passed in a moment.

Then I needed to understand.  What just happened here?  What, precisely, did I do?

But no, that could wait.  Steve was more important.  Here he was, in love with me, and I didn’t know what I had done, didn’t know what I was doing.  It would be so easy to hurt him now, just by being careless, just by mistake, and it would be so horribly wrong.

He swallowed again.  “I’ll still do it.”

I realized I was looking back at him the same way he was looking at me, not just toying with him as I’d planned but genuinely loving him.  I hadn’t expected such intensity of feeling and it seemed incongruous with the situation—with his being tied up like that—but I couldn’t deny what was happening to me.

I’d puzzle it out later.  Now I had an agenda to follow, a role to play, an opportunity too rare to pass up.

I managed a smile.  “Neat!  I’ll try to see that you enjoy it.  Most of the time, anyway.  Today I might still want to pay you back for what you did yesterday.”

I took hold of his cock again and rubbed it with both hands until he came.  The previous time had been nothing, compared to the show he put on for me now.  He let out a stream of forced guttural noises, his hips jerked wildly, and he seemed to unload more than an ounce of fluid, and with such force that some of it splattered on the wall behind him.

“Wow! Big one, isn’t it?”

He raised his head, looked into my eyes, and nodded slightly.  “Uh-huh.”

Orgasm had convulsed his face into something beautiful, his left cheek splashed with come.  I appreciated how much effort he put into answering me in that state, how he must have craved the intimacy of that little gesture.  I nodded in response and I knew he could see the love I was feeling.

Soon it was over.  His hips settled down, his breathing grew quieter, and the throbbing of his cock became less forceful and ejected no more fluid.  Confused though I was by the complexity of my feelings, I was determined to hold to my plan.  I kept up my stroking.  I knew that most men need the stimulation discontinued at this point but I wasn’t yet sure about Steve, which is why I’d told him only that he might be subjected to some sort of ordeal rather than promising it as a certainty.  Now, though, I was finding out.  His breath started to catch in his throat again and he squirmed and tried to pull away.

“Ooww! Let go!”

“Unh-Unh,” I teased, following the twisting of his hips with my hands and milking him steadily.  “I warned you something like this might happen.  See?  This is one of the things I can do if you misbehave like yesterday.  I tie you up, and I play with you until you have an orgasm, and I don’t let it end.”

He was thrashing as much as the bonds would permit, bucking his hips frantically.  I wondered whether it was all an attempt to pull his cock out from between my hands, or whether it was a reflex response to the stimulation, or whether it was some of each.  He made the most piteous noises the whole time, and at last he took a deep breath and let out a long, mournful, “Ooooooowww!”

“Okay, I’ll stop.”

I let go, studied him affectionately as he tried to pull himself together, saw the love in his eyes when he was finally able to look into mine, watched him grope for words.

“I don’t know what to say.”

It was funny, in its way, and I appreciated the humor; I also liked the honesty and precision of it.

“You don’t have to say anything.  Just relax.  I’ll untie you.”

I undid the bonds, retrieved an old shirt from the laundry bag and dried him off, then got into bed and cuddled him.

“You’re a lot of fun to play with.  I’m going to like having you as a love slave.”

“I think I’m happy to hear that.  I love you.  I want to keep seeing you.  I didn’t know that until today.  I figured I’d just try to get to know you and see how things went, but I do love you.  Only I don’t know how much of this treatment I can take.  It hurts.”

“Well, I don’t think I’ll do it too often.  I don’t even think I’ll tie you up very often, and some of the times I tie you up, I’ll stop playing with you when you need me to.  Of course sometimes I’ll do it just like today, and when I first tie you up, you won’t know which it’ll be.”

“Oh, wow!”  He held me tight.

After Steve had gone, I took an inventory of the pieces I had of the puzzle.  I wouldn’t be able to rest until I’d assembled them into at least a partial understanding of what had happened, and then I would have to see whether anything was missing—anything I still needed to discover if I was to grasp it all.

What, in our brief interaction, had had such a powerful effect on Steve?  Why had he fallen in love with me?  I could identify two possible causes.  One was his embarrassment at my exploration of his sexual responses; the other was my peculiarly phrased request for reassurance.  I suspected that each had played a part.

Embarrassment.  When Steve knocked on my door that day, I had no understanding of its power.  The possibility of the Loop had never occurred to me.  All I knew, beyond what any woman knows, is that men can’t resist sexual stimulation.  That knowledge had fueled my most enjoyable fantasies and shaped some memorable sexual encounters, but I had no idea that a man’s embarrassment at his loss of control could itself be a turn-on.  Now I had two pieces of evidence that made it seem likely, and I was on my way to my earliest understanding of the Loop.

When I’d exposed Steve’s cock, it got hard just from his knowing I was watching.  I hadn’t expected that.  I thought I’d have to stimulate it if I wanted to see it get hard, and I was impressed by the way it grew and stiffened in response to my gaze alone.  The obvious conclusion was that what turned him on was his self-conscious awareness that I would get to witness his arousal—his embarrassment at being put on display to satisfy my feminine curiosity.  Whenever I had seen an erect penis before, I could find some other explanation for the excitement it reflected.  Even when I reminisced about that summer day in Maryland, I had always assumed that what so aroused the boy in the bushes was the sight of our naked female bodies.  Now I wondered.  Sure, all those erections could be explained otherwise than by embarrassment, but perhaps some of those explanations were incomplete.  Maybe a few were even wrong.

Then there was that fascinating remark Steve made when I asked him whether he would still be my love slave even though he found it embarrassing.  It was while considering that question that he was struck by Cupid’s arrow, and what he said when he looked at me so lovingly was, “It’s an embarrassing question, too.”

That utterance didn’t make a whole lot of sense when first I heard it, but I was sure there was meaning in it and I was determined to find it.  I pondered long, trying to figure out where Steve was coming from, trying to imagine what state of mind could be reflected in those words.  Why was it an embarrassing question?  I could come up with only one explanation.

My question was embarrassing because Steve was turned on by his embarrassment, and he felt that an affirmative response would let me know that.  Admitting to being turned on by his embarrassment would be embarrassing in itself because he thought it would mark him as a pervert and because it would encourage me to embarrass him all the more in the future.

There was an obvious flaw in this reasoning.  He might be embarrassed by my toying and not be turned on by his embarrassment—indeed he might even find it unpleasant—but still be willing to accept it because our relationship was important to him.  So an affirmative response didn’t necessarily let me know that he found his embarrassment exciting, but his state of mind was such that he didn’t see that; if he had seen it there would be no credible explanation at all for his remark.  I could easily relate to that state because of my own experience the previous day, when I had been so anxious in my certainty that Steve was about to accuse me of setting him up to be coerced into sexual slavery.   Realistically I had no reason to expect he would react badly even if he knew for sure.  We human beings are like that; we tend to think that others know where we’re coming from.  Usually they don’t, and that takes some getting used to.

But wait a minute!  Maybe Steve understood that.  Maybe he didn’t think I knew where he was coming from.  There is a credible explanation for his remark in that case, after all.  Maybe he wasn’t afraid I would know he was turned on by his embarrassment.  Maybe he wanted me to know it, even if it might mark him as a pervert, either because he hoped I would use the knowledge to turn him on in the future, or because he had fallen in love with me and wanted me to know him that intimately, or (most likely) both.  Wow!

Of course, I had no way of knowing whether he feared my understanding or desired it or (again) both; but in any case, the Loop seemed a certainty.

Then there was my request for reassurance.  I hadn’t intended it to come out that way.  The words were going to be different and the inflection stronger, but I turned a weak phrase, spoke too softly, and let my pitch rise too steeply.  It sounded just pathetic.

What did it say to Steve?

I know I seem really kinky, and playing like this embarrasses you, but I hope you like it well enough, like me well enough, trust me well enough, to want to continue sharing it with me.  Right now you’re tied down so I can toy with you, but that doesn’t mean I can disregard your feelings; they matter to me, and I need you to reassure me about how you’re taking all this.  Yes, I’m kinky.  I’m also a lot more, just as you’re all that you are, and I hope you’ll accept me, that you’ll want to go on knowing me, that you’ll say something to encourage me right now so I can get over this worry and get back to enjoying you.

That’s powerful stuff, I realized, and I was glad I’d lost control of my voice and said it.  Though at that age I might not have been able to express it as clearly as I can now, I’d begun to understand that nothing arouses love quite so strongly or reliably as sharing our vulnerabilities freely and nondefensively.  I’d seen it work for Suzi, I’d felt it in my previous relationships, and Steve’s openness that very day had made me fall in love with him just as he’d fallen in love with me.

I thought about how the Loop and my request for reassurance might have reinforced one another, and I tried to reconstruct what went on in Steve’s mind as he lay there on my bed with his eyes closed, deciding how he was going to answer me.

This is so embarrassing, but it’s also such a turn-on that I don’t want to lose it, and Georgeann doesn’t seem at all mean.  I think I can trust her.  Like, I’m completely at her mercy and she’s asking me in that scared little-girl voice to reassure her that we can still do this kind of thing, as if what I say really matters to her, even now.  She must really care about me.  And I don’t want to hurt her.  Silly thought when I’m tied up like this, but I don’t want to hurt her.  I care about her too.  I love her.  I want to trust her to do this kind of thing, just as she seems to want to trust me to know and accept her kinkiness.  I even want to trust her to know that my embarrassment is a turn-on, and her tone tells me I can trust her, that she wants to use it in a way I’ll enjoy.

I still didn’t know whether he believed that agreeing to continue as my love slave would itself confirm that he was turned on by his embarrassment and felt that it would be stylistically better to confess it up front, or whether he told me what he was feeling because he wanted me to know and figured that that was the only way.  It was something to wonder about, but it really didn’t matter anymore.  There was a far more interesting question to consider, and I turned my attention to that.

What had given the day’s play such a high emotional charge?


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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.