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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2014. Please
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Sexual Power for Women
by Georgeann Cross (no address provided)

***

Women, if you tie your partner down so he's helpless, he 
knows his bad-ass act is no longer credible. If you make 
love to him, slowly, giving him time to open up; and you 
look into him deeply enough, you'll find the long-lost 
little boy in him. You'll see it. You'll recognize it. 
(MF, d/s, toys, oral, anal, fetish, orgy, bdsm)

***

*** Chapter 1, In which Patrick is enslaved

It was early Saturday afternoon and Patrick, my lover of 
two months, had just arrived in my apartment. I led him 
to the kitchen and we chatted while I finished putting 
away the dishes, then he backed me up to the counter and 
pressed against me as we kissed. He was horny as I had 
hoped, but I wanted to make doubly sure. I pulled away, 
opened the refrigerator, and got out a bar of Swiss dark 
chocolate. Positioning my behind against the counter 
again, I broke the end of the bar into fragments and 
opened the wrapper.

"Antidote for my omelet," I explained, putting a bit in 
my mouth.

I took a larger piece and fed it to Patrick as he 
pressed against me again. I savored the bitter sweetness 
of the candy, the feel of Patrick's cock straining 
against me through his jeans, my anticipation of what I 
had planned for the afternoon. When we'd swallowed, we 
kissed some more. It made his cock strain harder. I gave 
us each another dose of chocolate. Then another kiss, 
another bite, another kiss, another bite, until he was 
saturated and wouldn't take more.

I pulled away again and put the remains of the chocolate 
back in the refrigerator, then looked down at the bulge 
in Patrick's jeans and ran two fingers along its length.

"I know what you want." I looked up into his eyes. "I'm 
going to tie you up again."

"God! You're kinky!"

He wasn't objecting — had no reason to — had no idea 
just how kinky I was or what he was in for. He expected 
the same thing I'd done each of the other three times 
I'd tied him up, and those three occasions weren't all 
that different from the nine other lovemaking sessions 
we'd shared so far.

"Get yourself comfortable and lie down on the bed."

He headed for the john while I went into the bedroom and 
got out the restraints. The first time I'd tied him up, 
I told him to start with an empty bladder because it 
might be a while before I let him go, and he'd learned 
well. Now he would be gone several minutes; he was too 
aroused to urinate and would have to cool himself down. 
While I waited I undressed.

A few minutes went by and he came in carrying his 
clothes, his cock at rest. I was sitting on the edge of 
the bed.

"You are beautiful!" he said, looking at me briefly. 
Then he busied himself setting down his things.

His clothing didn't really need that much attention and 
I knew he was fussing just to control his lust; he 
wanted to avoid the embarrassment of letting me see his 
cock grow to full erection while he was still standing, 
especially since he knew my propensity for teasing. That 
shyness was one of the things that attracted me to him, 
just as my teasing was one of the things that attracted 
him to me.

"Thank you." I was flattered by his compliment and knew 
he meant it. I don't perceive myself as beautiful, and I 
know I don't conform to the standard of beauty promoted 
by the media, but I've got used to the idea that there 
are men who honestly see me that way and I enjoy it.

Patrick lay down on the bed and positioned himself in 
the middle. He knew the procedure. I took a length of 
nylon webbing and tied it around one wrist, using a knot 
that neither tightens nor comes undone when pulled. I 
took another length and did the same with the other 
wrist. Then I tied each one to a leg of the bed so his 
arms were fully extended to the sides.

I lay on top of him and kissed him, lightly at first, 
then deeply, then lightly again. His cock responded from 
the first.

"I love making love to you when you're helpless like 
this and can't do anything but turn on to me."

I repositioned myself so he could eat my pussy. I 
straddled his face, resting one knee on either side of 
his head, my feet below his armpits, my hands on the 
headboard. I was horny myself and I knew his mouth would 
have to satisfy me for the day, so I was going to get 
all the pleasure I could from it.

Patrick had given me head several times before. Once, 
the last time I'd tied him up, it had been in just this 
position. He always did it well, and on this particular 
afternoon I had more than a dozen orgasms. I let him go 
on much longer than last time, but I doubt that it led 
him to suspect anything. He enjoyed my pleasure along 
with me, telling me sometimes when I came that I was 
beautiful that way, then setting out to make it happen 
again.

When I'd had enough and one more, I moved backward and 
sat lightly on his chest, supporting most of my weight 
on my legs.

"Like my pussy?"

"Definitely. It's the prettiest I've ever seen."

"How would you like to be my love slave?"

"I don't know. What does that involve?"

"Well, let's see... You'll have to be completely 
faithful to me and not have sex with anyone else; you'll 
have to take off as much of your clothing as I tell you 
when we're alone together and let me touch any part of 
your body any way I want; you'll have to touch me any 
way I tell you, or not touch me if that's what I say; 
you'll have to let me tie you up whenever I want; you'll 
have to play with yourself while I watch if I tell you; 
you'll have to tell me all your secrets and fantasies... 
I guess that about covers it, but if I think of anything 
else I'll let you know."

I could feel his heart beat faster and faster as I 
spoke, and he looked absolutely panicked when I 
mentioned the possibility of his having to masturbate 
while I watched.

"Oh, yeah!" I added. "When we fuck, it'll almost always 
be with me on top."

He took a long time to answer, his heart beating so hard 
I could hear it.

"I like the relationship we've been having."

"So do I. It's not my intention to stop doing that. I 
like having you as a friend and companion, and I like us 
to cuddle with both your arms around me instead of tied 
away, but sometimes I want a sex toy I can play with 
just for fun.

"It's way too kinky for my taste. You've got me scared 
half to death just talking about it."

"I can understand your being scared; you'd be giving up 
a lot of control to me. But you know I'm a decent 
person, and you know I love you, and you must have a 
pretty good idea that I'll make sure you enjoy it."

He thought a while.

"Still, I can't agree to that."

"Oh, you'll agree to it. Tied up like this, you don't 
have any choice."

"What are you going to do?" He sounded really worried.

I climbed off his chest and knelt on the floor with my 
upper body inclined across the bed, resting on my 
elbows. I stared at his cock, now just a short way from 
my eyes. It had been frightened back to its resting size 
and position.

"I'm going to play with my new toy here until you agree. 
You know how, once you come, your cock gets real 
sensitive and you need for it to be left alone for a 
while?"

I gave him time to say something, but he didn't.

"Well, first I'm going to make you put on a little show 
for me. I'm going to play with you, and you aren't going 
to be able to help but come, and I'll get a real close-
up view of how your cock does its thing."

It grew and stiffened in response, and started to angle 
upwards. It was still lying against his upper thigh, but 
bigger than it had been, and pointed in my direction.

"I see the idea turns you on. Neat! Well, after you 
come, if you still haven't promised to be my slave, I'm 
going to keep playing with it until you do. I don't 
think it'll take very long to convince you."

I lubricated my index finger in the drop of fluid at the 
tip and slid it over the frenum. His cock jumped and 
came to rest against his lower abdomen, grown again to 
its full size.

"You were trying to hold that back, weren't you?"

Again I gave him a chance to answer, and again he 
didn't.

"See? I know how exciting this is for you. Of course if 
you really don't want to be my love slave — if the idea 
really turns you off — all you have to do is keep from 
coming. After an hour or two I'll get the message and 
let you go."

I got some tissues and knelt alongside his right hip. I 
wiped the end of his cock, then used my thumb and 
forefinger to squeeze the rest of the fluid in his 
urethra out into one of the tissues and wiped again.

"I think you'll agree to it though. When you're ready, 
just let me know and I'll stop what I'm doing. No sense 
torturing you any longer than necessary."

I took his cock between my hands and started milking. I 
knew that the situation itself excited him so much, he 
would come in less than a minute no matter how gentle 
the stimulation, but I wanted to get in a few words to 
make sure we'd be on the same wavelength next time we 
saw one another. "We'll be doing a lot of this kind of 
playing, now that we both know how it turns you on. Next 
time we get together, I'll probably tie your hands 
behind you and drop your pants first thing, then press 
against you and kiss you like we were doing before, 
until your cock is sticking straight out in front of 
you. Then I'll back away and just look at it."

I let go of his cock and stared at it.

"My sex toy!"

He had been breathing heavily, still was, and now his 
cock twitched its enthusiasm for my attention.

"Yummy! Nice fantasy, isn't it?"

I waited for an answer again, still not touching him.

Nothing.

"You're going to have to get used to sharing your 
thoughts and feelings with me. It's part of being my 
love slave."

Still nothing. There was no sense making an issue of it; 
by our next date he would have had an unbearable excess 
of time in which to rehearse the secrets he wanted to 
share with me, and he'd have plenty to say.

"I know the thought of that scene turns you on, even if 
you're not used to admitting it, just like I know you're 
turned on by the idea that I'm going to watch you 
spurt."

I resumed my stroking.

In seconds he was panting. I felt his cock stiffen and I 
knew he was at the point of no return.

"You're losing it, Patty!"

And he did. His panting turned into a stream of short 
cries and he dug his heels into the mattress, lifting 
his bottom off the bed. His cock relaxed for a fraction 
of a second, then stiffened again, sending a gob of come 
splashing onto his cheek.

"Ooh, sperm!"

I continued milking his cock, keeping pace with the rate 
of its throbbing.

"That must feel so good!"

After half a dozen spurts I reminded him, "Now, you just 
let me know when you're ready to make that promise, and 
I'll stop."

I continued stroking at the same rate.

Even before he ran out of fluid, his breathing turned to 
a kind of whimpering, and the sound intensified as he 
realized he needed the stimulation left off. He tried 
twisting his lower body to get his cock out of my reach, 
but I followed along and continued my stroking. Soon he 
was squirming continuously and begging me to stop. I 
didn't answer, just went on doing what I was doing, 
enjoying the sense of power I got from holding him in 
that state, loving him in his helplessness. He endured 
it longer than most men are able, but at last he gave 
in.

"I'll do it! I'll do it! Just stop!"

I let go as soon as the first, "I'll do it!" registered. 
As I'd told him, I saw no sense in torturing him any 
longer than necessary. Besides, trust is essential to 
any good relationship, and I wanted to show him that I 
keep my word.

"Good. I knew you'd see it my way."

I smiled at him, lovingly, the way I felt. He looked 
back at me shyly, trying to compose himself. I could see 
in his eyes how much in love he was, and the 
embarrassment he felt, and his confusion at it all.

"I got to watch your come."

He lay there looking at me for a moment.

"I guess you did. God! I love you. I don't know what to 
make of it, Georgeann, but I love you."

"I love you too, Pat."

I looked into his eyes a while longer, then broke away 
to get a towel.

"Clean you up!" I said, making a display of my 
thoughtfulness.

And I made the cleanup as intimate and affectionate as I 
knew how. First I wiped away the puddles of come, then, 
with short strokes, I dried and fluffed his pubic hair. 
After that, I squeezed the residual come out of his 
urethra onto the towel the way I'd got rid of the 
lubricating fluid earlier, and lastly I wiped the end of 
his cock dry again.

I put the towel aside and admired him, looking at his 
body, gazing into his eyes, just enjoying his company. 
Finally I took hold of his cock again.

"My sex toy!"

"I guess I am. I've never loved anyone this completely."

"Neat! I'll do my best to help you enjoy it."

I undid the knots in the nylon webbing and lay down next 
to him. We cuddled, spoke again of our love, kissed, 
napped.

When we awoke, it was evening and we were hungry. We 
dressed and set out on our customary walk to Francescas 
Pizza, where we shared an agreeable dinner of 
Francesca's simple but honest food. Sitting there 
together, we looked for all the world like a wolf guru 
and his brainwashed waif, except to Francesca, who knew 
me too well to be fooled.


*** Chapter 2, In which the author gives an account of 
herself and this work

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He admitted that he did.

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

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

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

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

Then, to Rena, "Help me get his pants off."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"See how embarrassing it is?" Beth teased. "You 
shouldn't have spied on us."

Rena giggled and gestured toward the boy's cock. "Let's 
play with it till he can't stand it."

Beth licked her lips. "Go ahead!"

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

"It's broken! I'm dying!"

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

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

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

"Let me go! It's broken!"

Beth answered him. "No it isn't. Didn't that ever happen 
to you before?"

He shook his head and said no.

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

He looked where she was pointing and blushed.

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

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

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

As I grew up through my high school and college years, I 
became involved in a series of relationships with young 
men, as any young woman does, and in a few purely sexual 
adventures besides. I met my partners in the usual ways 
— by being in the same classes, through shared 
interests, or accidentally — and until I was twenty my 
relationships were almost completely ordinary. 

They differed from those of other lusty young women only 
in that I contrived to tie up each of my partners at 
least once and sexually toy with him. After all, it was 
my favorite fantasy. I got my partners to go along by 
whatever means necessary, though only a couple seemed 
sufficiently enthusiastic to do it repeatedly. I didn't 
try to sexually enslave these young men, and for a very 
simple reason: I hadn't yet any idea that such a thing 
was possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Some friends took my advice and some didn't. Those who 
did usually told me how it went. Some thought up 
techniques of their own, experimented, and shared the 
results with me. Through years of this sort of vicarious 
experience, I've learned quite a bit about what can 
happen when a woman attempts to take control of an 
established relationship. 

I've learned to predict the success or failure of the 
attempt with reasonable accuracy, I've learned what 
kinds of problems can be alleviated by female 
domination, and I've learned what kinds of problems can 
be caused or aggravated by it. In recent years, several 
of my friends have made repeated attempts to persuade me 
to commit my knowledge to written form so that it might 
be available to any woman who wants it. As you see, they 
succeeded. The result is the book you now hold in your 
hands.

One thing I beg. Before you attempt to use any of the 
advice I offer, please read it all, cover to cover. Many 
important points are presented only once to avoid boring 
you with repetition. Backward references are frequent 
while forward references are almost nonexistent, so 
reading from the beginning is easier than skipping 
around — the first time, anyway. Reading to the end will 
save you from acting on incomplete information; topics 
that seem to have been covered completely are sometimes 
further elaborated after the introduction of new but 
related material. 

More important still, nearly every strategy and 
technique I recommend is unsuited to certain situations 
or types of men, and most of the warnings you need are 
clustered in the later chapters. If you read everything 
before acting, you're less likely to find yourself 
confronted with unexpected difficulty.

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

Gung ho!


*** Chapter 3, In which we examine the Loop

During Patrick's fateful Saturday afternoon visit with 
me, I set up a situation that demonstrates a little-
considered truth about the relationship between the 
sexes — a truth of prime importance to a woman seeking 
sexual power: If a man is horny to begin with, and the 
sexual chemistry between you is such that you naturally 
turn him on, and he's physically unable to resist, you 
can make him have an orgasm; his will alone can't 
prevent it.

It's easy to see why this truth is so obscure. The 
situation doesn't come up in most people's lives. A man 
is rarely put in a position where he's unable to resist 
what a woman might do, and when it happens, it's not in 
the presence of a woman whose intentions are sexual. 
Even among couples who play at bondage the situation is 
rare; when the man is tied up, the woman doesn't create 
in his mind a need to resist the stimulation she offers.

Besides, we've been acculturated to a view of 
masculinity that tells us that men are always eager for 
sexual release. We're not used to thinking that a man 
might be subjected to sexual stimulation and try to 
resist it. This in turn feeds the rarity of the 
occurrence; the situation has so seldom been set up 
because only a few women have thought to do it.

Not all societies share this view. Anthropologist 
Bronislaw Malinowski, in his 1929 tome, The Sexual Life 
of Savages, describes the yausa of the southernmost 
villages of the Trobriand Islands — a ritual sexual 
assault committed upon a man by a group of women. 
According to Malinowski's informants, the group would 
first tear up their victim's pubic leaf, so that he 
would have to go naked afterward and be unable to 
conceal what had happened to him. 

Next they would hold him down and display their genitals 
and stimulate his penis until it got hard; then one of 
them would mount him and fuck him until he came. If that 
didn't exhaust him, another woman would take a turn. 
Eventually the man would be completely worn out. When he 
was, the women would urinate and defecate on him, paying 
particular attention to his face, and often beat him as 
well.

This sort of pastime is a bit much for so gentle and 
fastidious a person as me, and I wouldn't like to see it 
become common in California, but it does prove my point. 
A victim of the yausa, once set upon by the gang, knew 
the script. It was, after all, a ritual, and notorious 
throughout the islands. Still, even though these women 
had destroyed his pubic leaf, even though he knew the 
pollution to which they were going to subject him, he 
couldn't help but get hard when the right sort of 
stimulation was applied, and he couldn't help but come 
when he was fucked. The power of femininity is truly 
irresistible.

There are two reasons it's important to understand that 
you're irresistible. One is that it builds confidence. 
Confidence gives you an even sexier aura and makes you 
even harder to resist — an effect that's magnified still 
further when your man is unable to interfere with what 
you might do. Confidence also keeps you from being 
bluffed off course. If you set up the sort of scene that 
I did with Patrick, especially if you do it for the 
purpose of gaining leverage in dealing with a problem in 
your relationship, many a man will try a bluff to get 
you to stop as soon as he sees what you're up to, and 
he'll do it even while tied naked and helpless. 

He'll ask in a disappointed tone, designed to make you 
feel guilty, whether you're "that kind of person." He'll 
tell you that what you're doing turns him off, hoping to 
stop you before you've had a chance to make your own 
observation of the intensity with which it turns him on. 
He'll tell you you'll never see him again. He'll tell 
you more things than I can warn you about. Whatever he 
tells you, it's best met with a confident demeanor. You 
won't always succeed this way, but almost always. If you 
lack confidence — if you let yourself be bluffed — 
you'll never succeed.

The other reason it's important to know you're 
irresistible is that if you're to control your man 
completely, he has to know he can't resist you, and he 
has to know that you know he knows. It's actually 
necessary to demonstrate this to him, as I demonstrated 
it to Patrick, and to do so repeatedly throughout your 
relationship.

It might not be all that obvious that Patrick was trying 
to resist me. He certainly made no great show of it, but 
that's because if he had, he would have been all the 
more embarrassed when the inevitable finally overtook 
him, and he knew from the outset that it would.

Patrick was trying not to come for several reasons, all 
of which I had given him for the purpose of creating 
resistance that I would defeat. One was that I was going 
to continue playing with his cock, in its state of 
sensitivity, until he promised to be my love slave. 
Continued stimulation would be distressing. 

Being forced to submit and make the promise would be 
embarrassing in itself, and it would also open up the 
possibility that I might use his sensitivity again in 
the future, either coercively as I used it that 
afternoon, or simply as a toy. He had never before had a 
lover who was aware of that possibility, much less 
interested in it, and it made him feel terribly 
vulnerable.

Another reason for his resistance was that I was going 
to watch him ejaculate, and that embarrassed him too. 
Sure, he had come in my pussy a dozen times, but I don't 
have eyes there. Sure, he'd had other lovers, and it's 
certain that some of his previous lovemaking had 
included manual stimulation that led to orgasm. Sure, it 
was obvious from my age and skill that during my life 
I'd witnessed the ejaculations of many men, and many 
times each. Still, on that afternoon, his emotional 
reality — the scene as it felt to him — was that he'd 
been tied up by a curious teenage girl who was going to 
make him have an orgasm so she could watch him 
ejaculate. And she would tease him about it afterward.

There was yet another reason for Patrick to resist, and 
it's the big one: His orgasm would confirm that what I 
was doing to him was indeed an irresistible turn-on. It 
would confirm that he was turned on by the idea of being 
my love slave, by the fantasy of having to stand before 
me with his cock sticking out, by the expectation of 
having me watch him come, by the awareness that I knew 
how sensitive his cock gets after he comes, by my 
intention to play with that sensitivity. All these 
things were running through his mind and, because of 
what I was saying to him, he knew that I knew.

He was embarrassed in the extreme at being so obviously 
turned on by all that, and he was turned on by his 
embarrassment — by the feeling that all my attention was 
on him, that I'd taken control of his body, that I knew 
his most private thoughts and feelings, that he had no 
place to hide, that he was so intimately exposed to me 
in every way.

Stripping the last bit of commentary from that 
explanation, we're left with the simplest possible 
description of the psychological Loop in which a man 
finds himself when placed in that sort of situation: 
He's embarrassed at being turned on and he's turned on 
by his embarrassment. I call it the Loop because that's 
its shape — a self-reinforcing cycle made up of two 
components, each of which fuels the other. The way I 
take control of a man's sexuality is to set up this Loop 
in his mind and feed it, doing this to add to his sexual 
arousal and that to add to his embarrassment.

Reduced to ultimate simplicity, the Loop might sound 
silly, far-fetched. With an appropriate context of 
circumstances and events though, like the circumstances 
and events of the afternoon Patrick promised to be my 
love slave, it becomes quite credible — different, to be 
sure, from what most people are accustomed to, but as 
credible as any obvious truth.

In the coming chapters, you'll find a number of 
scenarios that illustrate the sexual dynamics of female 
domination, and the Loop figures prominently in all of 
them. You'll also find a wide range of technical advice, 
and much of it will be focused on the Loop. Perhaps some 
of the scenarios will be built on circumstances that so 
closely match your own that you'll be able to enact them 
almost as presented, and with good results. 

You'd do better, though, to use the scenarios only to 
help you understand the Loop and its possibilities, then 
steer your own course. Your circumstances, after all, 
are at least somewhat different from those of any couple 
described in this book, your personality is certainly 
different from that of any other woman, and your 
partner's personality is different from that of any 
other man. If you develop a good understanding of the 
Loop, you won't have to follow a recipe; you'll know 
what you're trying to accomplish and you'll be able to 
find your way as you go.

An understanding of the Loop also enables you to feed it 
optimally — to say and do all the right things to 
enhance your lover's perception that you control his 
body, that you know his most private thoughts and 
feelings, that he has no place to hide, that he's 
intimately exposed to you in every way. Of course! If 
you want to create the impression that you know a man's 
most private thoughts and feelings, nothing could 
possible help so much as actually knowing them.

If that were the whole story of the Loop, its potential 
would be awesome enough, but there's more.

First, the Loop has a way of getting burned in — it 
quickly becomes a man's habitual mode of arousal. If you 
press your body against his and kiss him, not only does 
his cock get hard, but he gets embarrassed by knowing 
that you can feel it. Without additional prompting he 
gets further excited by his embarrassment, by knowing 
that you know he's embarrassed, and by imagining what 
you might do with both his hard cock and his 
embarrassment. Even your smile, by itself, teases him 
about the secrets you know and becomes a powerful erotic 
stimulant.

Second, the Loop is addictive. Your lover begins to 
fantasize, even crave, scenarios in which his loss of 
control turns out to be especially embarrassing. His 
fantasies keep him turned on, and his awareness that 
it's you who transforms fantasies into reality keeps him 
turned on to you in particular. As a consequence, his 
need for you is much stronger than it would be in an 
ordinary relationship. Because he needs you, he wants to 
please you. And his addiction to the Loop (and to you) 
can sometimes be made to compete with other, destructive 
addictions he might have, giving you a degree of 
leverage in getting them under control.

Third and best of all, the Loop can make a man love you 
with truly phenomenal intensity. We women have 
traditionally been more in love with our men than they, 
with us. This is because we've opened ourselves up to 
them, shared our secrets, and been accepted. At least 
that's how it was early on, when love was new. 

Later, if things went according to the usual pattern, we 
continued to share what was important to us, and our 
words were barely heard and dismissed as trivial. Not as 
good as what we started with, but a pretty fair 
substitute when you consider the alternatives: it's 
better than being rejected and it's better than feeling 
obliged to keep everything inside as men do.

At the beginning of their relationships with us, men, 
too, open up and share their secrets. Love involves an 
exchange of vulnerabilities, and a relationship that 
doesn't begin with mutual self-disclosure doesn't get 
off the ground. Men, though, are raised to seek mastery 
over everything they encounter, including their women, 
so they soon find it necessary to erect barriers against 
us, hide their vulnerabilities, and do what they can to 
control us. In the process they lose the feeling of 
being in love, and it's a great loss.

(Women who are bitter about being downtrodden will argue 
that men have done immeasurably more harm to women — 
stripped us of our humanity to a far greater degree — 
than they've injured themselves. I don't disagree, but 
the question doesn't interest me. Men don't dominate me; 
I dominate them. And I do it to the good of both and the 
injury of neither. One of the thoughts with which I 
nourished my enthusiasm for writing this book was my 
conviction that few women who take control of their men 
will be so stupid as to follow the male pattern of 
depriving themselves of the closeness that initially 
made their relationships appealing.)

The Loop is a vulnerability that your man has to share 
with you. Unless he goes to the unlikely extreme of 
ending your sexual relationship, he can't avoid the 
Loop; you can make it part of any or every sexual 
encounter. And once you've got him turned on, he can't 
refuse to share his feelings; even if he's as reticent 
as Patrick, his body will tell you everything. When you 
comment on what it does, even if only by saying, "Mm-
hm," he'll know that you know.

It might be less than clear that the Loop is a 
vulnerability. We women are more matter-of-fact about 
such things, but men invariably experience it that way. 
A man is supposed to be in control — of himself, of his 
woman, of his whole world. The Loop is a loss of control 
over his own body and psyche that, unlike passing out in 
a drunken stupor, isn't socially sanctioned. It isn't 
regarded as common, either — at least not yet — so he 
worries that he's perverted. Horrors! He has a dark 
secret! Other people might find out! Maybe it shows! He 
can find any number of reasons to feel vulnerable and 
insecure.

And so there you are, the two of you, and he's sharing a 
significant vulnerability with you. He starts feeling 
that he's in love with you. If you let him know that you 
find the Loop an endearing part of him, if you let him 
know that you don't care that he's perverted, if you let 
him know that his arousal and embarrassment together 
make a neat plaything, if you let him know that you can 
be trusted — that you appreciate being trusted — to give 
him a safe place to enjoy what he's feeling, he'll 
definitely fall in love with you, and in a big way. 
Don't go so far as to tell him he's not perverted, or 
that you wouldn't want to lose such a neat plaything, 
because that will dilute his feeling of vulnerability, 
and with it the feeling of sharing his vulnerability 
with you, and with that the feeling of being in love.

When your man is both habituated to the Loop and in love 
with you, his love becomes a part of the Loop. When you 
say or do something that intensifies his embarrassment, 
he feels a rush of love as well. If you see this happen, 
you can tease him about how he can't help but love you 
for embarrassing him. Do this with acceptance and 
affection, and it feeds the Loop, adding further to his 
arousal, his embarrassment, and his love.

There's another way in which the Loop helps build a 
man's love for you — one that's more primitive. Love is 
nourished by sharp images of the beloved — snapshots 
etched in the consciousness, if you will. That truth is 
probably as little considered as the truth with which 
this chapter opened, but truth it is nevertheless, and 
if you think about it, you'll recognize it as such from 
your own experience.

When you set up the sort of scene I did with Patrick, 
one of the things that happens is that your man pays 
attention to you. He doesn't close his eyes and get lost 
in his own world, as men so often do during ordinary 
sex. He watches you. He listens to you. He builds a 
sharp mental record of everything that happens. When 
it's over, he remembers every word you said, every move 
you made, every detail of how you looked, sounded and 
smelled. And for reasons buried deep in our brain stems, 
it makes him love you.

Patrick continued his relationship with me, as my love 
slave, for twenty-seven months. Obviously the reason 
wasn't that he felt bound by the promise he made while 
tied to my bed. He stayed because I was the most 
sexually exciting partner he'd ever had, because he was 
more intensely in love with me than he'd imagined he 
could be with anyone, and because he felt more loved and 
accepted than ever before. That's what the Loop can do.


*** Chapter 4, In which we examine the anatomy, the 
physiology, and some of the psychology of male sexual 
response, from a practical point of view

If you want to sexually enslave a man, it helps to start 
with a good understanding of the workings of male 
sexuality. In all likelihood you already have most of 
the knowledge you need: you've read other books, 
gathered a good deal of practical experience, and 
refined your skills as a lover. 

Still, there are a few things I feel I ought to mention 
— things that aren't in those other books because their 
authors don't share my perspective — things that may 
have escaped your notice as you accumulated your 
experience, perhaps because the men in your life were 
trying to avoid being known too intimately. I'm going to 
fill in what the other books leave out, and I'm going to 
try to do it without repeating too much of what they 
say.

Let's start by considering a man in the most ordinary of 
sexual states. It's been a while since his last orgasm, 
but not so long that he's starting to get horny again; 
sex isn't on his mind. Still, it's been long enough that 
he'll respond favorably to sexual stimulation; he won't 
feel bothered or pressured by it; rather he'll enjoy it 
and turn on.

Surrounding the neck of his bladder and the upper 
portion of his urethra is the prostate gland. It's 
slowly producing one of several fluids that will be 
mixed together and pumped out the next time he 
ejaculates. The prostate is spongy (though firm) and the 
fluid it produces remains within it until it's expelled. 

Another fluid is secreted by the testicles. This fluid 
carries sperm cells and, unless the man has had a 
vasectomy, travels through two tubes (the vasa 
deferentia) to a pair of reservoirs called the seminal 
vesicles, there to await the next earthquake. The 
seminal vesicles are located above the prostate and 
behind the bladder; their outlet passes through the 
prostate and into the portion of the urethra that the 
prostate surrounds. 

Besides storing fluid produced in the testicles, they 
secrete a fluid of their own. Over time they fill, 
pressure within them builds, and they distend. They're 
drained only by ejaculation.

If the man encounters no sexual stimulation, the 
production of sexual secretions continues at its usual 
slow pace. When enough time has gone by, and enough 
pressure has built up in his seminal vesicles, the man 
starts having sexual feelings and fantasies. He's horny 
— perhaps not extremely so, but definitely horny. What 
seems to happen (though it's unproved by the scientific 
standards of the medical world) is that pressure in the 
seminal vesicles is felt as a need for sexual release, 
as lust.

If, instead of letting this happen by itself, you 
sexually excite the man, the process is speeded up. When 
he's aroused, more fluid is produced in a shorter time 
and the seminal vesicles fill faster. Prolonged 
stimulation also leads to a feeling of congestion 
throughout the reproductive system and a dull ache in 
the testicles. The man becomes desperately horny, often 
in less than an hour, and he'll do almost anything to 
have his lust satisfied. If he's like most men, he'll 
let you tie him up no matter what he fears you might 
have planned, just so it includes emptying those 
reservoirs.

If you stop stimulating him, perhaps because the demands 
of the real world separate you, and if he has things to 
do that take his mind off sex, the feeling of congestion 
and the ache will dissipate, but his seminal vesicles 
will still be full and he'll respond readily to stimuli 
that are even vaguely sexual. 

If he sees a line drawing reminiscent of a nude woman, 
for example, he'll feel a twinge of arousal before the 
cause registers in his consciousness. He'll easily drift 
into sexual fantasy, which will cause another erection, 
accelerate again the overfilling of his seminal vesicles 
and, if continued for any length of time (as is likely), 
bring back the feeling of congestion and the ache.

Prolonged stimulation or fantasy also leads to the 
production of a clear lubricating fluid by Cowper's 
glands, located near the base of the penis. This fluid 
doesn't accumulate, but is secreted into the urethra 
and, if there's enough of it, leaks out the tip of the 
penis without producing any sensation along the way.

Men are highly subject to arousal by psychological 
stimuli, including their own fantasies and the Loop. 
Almost none, though, can reach orgasm through 
psychological stimulation alone. Furthermore, men have 
few erogenous zones, and stimulation of these, though 
arousing, won't induce orgasm. Orgasm is reliably 
brought on only by a specific form of stimulation of the 
penis.

Still, erogenous zones are fun to play with and 
therefore worth looking for. The common ones are the 
scrotum, the perineum, the anus and the nipples. The 
scrotum is best stimulated by lightly running a couple 
of fingers along its surface, parallel to the middle of 
the body, in either direction or both. If the perineum 
is erogenous the technique is the same, likewise the 
anus.

The effects of nipple stimulation vary greatly. Most men 
exhibit a strong erotic response to having their nipples 
played with by hand, sucked or licked. Some don't 
respond at all. A few find any stimulation painful. One 
of my lovers could tolerate only the lightest licking, 
but found that erotic. At the other extreme are men who 
are aroused by having their nipples pinched, bitten or 
even clamped. Experimentation will let you know what 
works best on your man, and you'll have a lot of fun 
finding out; just don't start at the rough end of the 
spectrum or you may undermine your partner's trust.

Though stimulation of erogenous areas other than the 
penis will almost never of itself induce orgasm, it may 
do so when combined with a level of penile stimulation 
that alone would be just as insufficient. If, for 
example, you're fucking your man slowly and with short 
strokes — which you know from experience won't make him 
come unless you keep it up for a long time — sucking his 
nipple at the same time might put him over the edge in 
seconds.

The penis is designed to be effectively stimulated to 
orgasm by friction with the vagina, but the details of 
that design aren't at all simple. The penis is a large 
organ, and only two small parts of the surface have 
sufficient sexual sensitivity so that stimulation will 
reliably induce orgasm. One is the frenum, where the 
glans (or head) meets the undersurface of the shaft and 
seems to be split in two by a continuation of the slit 
in the tip. 

The other is the corona — the protruding ridge at the 
edge of the glans where it flares out from the upper 
surface of the shaft, diametrically opposite the frenum. 
During sexual intercourse, regardless of the position 
used, these two areas are stimulated by the walls of the 
vagina, and it's that stimulation that precipitates the 
man's orgasm. If you're on top, you can control the 
intensity of the stimulation by varying the length and 
speed of your strokes and the tightness of your vaginal 
muscles.

From a physiologic point of view, it doesn't matter 
whether you apply the stimulation with your vagina or 
your hand; stimulation of the frenum and corona induces 
orgasm, and does so reliably.

This is a different matter from the question of how a 
man likes his penis handled. That varies. One likes to 
be gripped tightly and pumped roughly, the skin dragged 
along to rub against the underlying tissue; another 
likes only a fingertip touch along the undersurface. For 
every gradation in between, there are men who like it. 
If I'm involved with a man, I try to learn his 
preference, but it doesn't really matter because most of 
the stimulation I apply is psychological rather than 
physical. When I'm ready to make him come, one of my own 
favorite techniques will always work.

The most effective of these — reliable even when used on 
a man who's only moderately horny — is to lightly 
massage the undersurface of the penis with one hand, 
brushing the frenum with each stroke and sometimes 
running the fingers over the scrotum, while lightly 
massaging the upper surface with the other, brushing the 
corona with each stroke. This approximates the 
stimulation his penis would receive in your vagina. Your 
hands may be synchronized or not, or synchronized some 
of the time, depending on how exotic you want to get.

Another technique — a more effective variant of Rena's — 
is to position the lower segment of your thumb against 
the upper surface of the shaft, crosswise, just below 
the corona; wrap your index and middle fingers loosely 
around the shaft; then move your hand smoothly up and 
down so that with each stroke the thumb slides over the 
corona while the pads of the lower segments of the index 
and middle fingers slide over the frenum. Adding to the 
stimulation, the web of skin between your thumb and 
index finger will naturally tend to brush against the 
protruding ridge on one side of the glans, while your 
fingertips will brush the protruding ridge on the other. 
If you're right-handed and the man is lying on his back, 
this technique is most easily practiced from his right; 
if you're left-handed, from his left.

With either of these techniques, the lubricating fluid 
that the man secretes can become a nuisance. It dries 
partway and gets sticky, interfering with the free 
motion of your hand. This isn't a problem if there's too 
little of it to notice, or so much that it can't dry, 
but most men produce just enough to be troublesome. 
There are two ways of dealing with it. You can squeeze 
it out of the urethra and wipe it away before it starts 
to dry, or you can use a lubricant that overwhelms it, 
such as mineral oil. (Mineral oil packaged as baby oil 
has a scent, even if the label says it doesn't, that 
turns some men on and others off; there are very few to 
whom it does neither.) If stickum becomes a problem and 
you don't want to use mineral oil, you can clean it up 
with a damp cloth or your tongue.

(This seems like a good opportunity to explain why I 
have so little to say about fellatio. I regard it as 
useful for just a few very specific purposes, such as 
cleaning up half-dried male lubricant or inducing an 
erection. Otherwise I avoid it because it limits 
communication: you can't talk; you can't see your 
lover's face nor he yours; you can't even get a good 
view of his cock.)

My third technique for inducing orgasm by hand is the 
least reliable. It works only on a man who is very horny 
and lying on his back, but it has two advantages, one of 
which is that the stickiness of drying lubricant doesn't 
get in the way. What I do is rub my palm against the 
frenum and nearby portions of the underside of the 
penis. The motion of my hand, of course, is parallel to 
the axis of the penis, not crosswise. What makes this 
technique so appealing is that since the man's cock 
isn't held in place, its responses are put on display. 
At moments of particular excitement, its rigidity 
increases and it presses against my hand, which amuses 
me greatly and embarrasses my partner to the same 
degree, especially as I tease him about it. And there 
again we have the Loop.

As a man approaches orgasm, the muscles of his pelvic 
floor contract and his cock stiffens. If stimulation is 
withdrawn as this starts to happen, the man will 
usually, but not always, slip back from the edge; the 
muscles will relax and his cock will lose its extreme 
stiffness and become only ordinarily hard. If 
stimulation is continued, though, orgasm begins. The 
fluids stored in the prostate and seminal vesicles are 
pressed into the upper portion of the urethra. The man 
feels a tingling inside and knows he's coming; he's 
going to ejaculate and there's no longer any way to 
prevent it. Semen starts flowing into the lower portion 
of the urethra — the part that runs from the base of the 
penis to the tip.

At some point the muscles of the pelvic floor relax for 
a fraction of a second, releasing the extreme stiffness 
of the man's cock. Then they contract again, giving the 
urethra a hard squeeze. His cock stiffens again and 
spurts at the same time.

The pressing of the components of the ejaculate into the 
urethra continues until there's nothing left to deliver 
or until the ejaculatory spasms end, whichever comes 
first. The ejaculatory spasms continue for some minimum 
number of spurts if stimulation stops immediately, or 
until stimulation is withdrawn (which may not be until 
long after the supply of fluid has been used up) or, in 
extreme cases, until exhaustion sets in. The spasms are 
spaced four fifths of a second apart. After the first 
spurt, the muscles of the pelvic floor relax again, 
exactly four fifths of a second after they did the first 
time; then they contract again, and a third stiffening 
of the man's cock coincides with a second spurt four 
fifths of a second after the first.

If the man has been trying not to come, but loses 
control and feels the upper portion of his urethra start 
to fill, he can delay ejaculation only so long as he can 
keep the muscles of his pelvic floor contracted, holding 
off that first momentary relaxation. It won't be very 
long. Sometimes he can do it long enough so that some 
semen traverses the entire length of the urethra and 
leaks out the tip of the penis before the first spurt, 
though that doesn't signify a strong effort to hold back 
unless you know it's unusual for that man. Once the 
muscles of the pelvic floor take that first little 
break, the spasms follow each other uncontrollably at 
intervals of four fifths of a second; the man can't 
delay the second spurt as he can the first.

Each of the first few spurts causes the man an intense 
thrill of pleasure. It doesn't matter how desperately he 
may have been trying not to come or why; he'll still 
experience that thrill with each spurt. And (unless he's 
both uncommonly inhibited and in a position to prevent 
continued stimulation) once the first spurt has overcome 
him, he can't help but want to pump out the rest. 

This, too, happens regardless of how hard he was trying 
not to come, or for what reason. Say he got himself in a 
spot like that boy in Maryland, but he has more 
experience. He knows what might happen, and he fixes in 
his mind a determination to maintain control, to 
preserve some measure of dignity. 

First he tries not to come, and of course he fails. As 
his cock stiffens and he feels that tingle, he resolves 
to put on an air of detachment and remain as still as 
possible even as he ejaculates. With the first spurt, 
though, his resolve is obliterated. He arches his back 
and thrusts his hips, overwhelmed by a mad desire to do 
what he must, no matter how embarrassing. 

This desire is separate from the reflex contractions of 
his ejaculatory muscles and separate from the pleasure 
of each spurt. It takes possession of him completely, a 
primeval force that's been around longer than fur or 
feathers, but which is still him, and more genuinely so 
than the complex personality it displaces.

Not only does a man's attempt to hold back his orgasm 
fail to diminish its intensity, it actually makes it 
more powerful. It's like building a bigger dam. When it 
finally bursts, everything in the path of the flood is 
devastated. If a man has been wanting an orgasm as if to 
scratch an itch, it might amount to little more than a 
sneeze in his penis; an orgasm that he's been trying to 
resist will overwhelm him. His whole body will convulse; 
his emotions will go bonkers; his mind will be wiped. 
It's something to see!

At some point during a man's orgasm, fluid stops being 
pressed into the urethra. In some men, this ends the 
process of ejaculation, and continued stimulation of the 
frenum and corona has little or no effect. In most, 
though, it brings only a need to end the process of 
ejaculation, and continued stimulation keeps the reflex 
spasms going, accompanied by a feeling of distress at 
being unable to stop them.

Few women get the opportunity to observe this 
phenomenon; a man whose orgasm has gone on long enough 
is usually in a position to end the stimulation without 
making his partner aware of his vulnerability. Some men, 
though, become so sensitive that when they fuck, they 
need to pull out immediately after ejaculation; the 
continued pressure of the vaginal walls on the frenum 
and corona, even in the absence of motion, is too much 
to bear. 

If you've had such a lover, you've had an unusual 
opportunity to observe the male need to protect the 
penis from prolonged stimulation, though he might never 
have explained what was happening. (Men, as we've seen, 
tend to be secretive about their vulnerabilities, and 
there's many a man who would rather leave you feeling 
puzzled and rejected by his hurry to put some distance 
between you than let you know that his cock is too 
sensitive to leave in your pussy.)

Most men don't become quite that sensitive, but 
continued active stimulation of the frenum and corona 
causes them distress. You'll see it if you're fucking 
your man from above and you hold his wrists down, 
tighten your vaginal muscles, and continue thrusting 
after he's come; or if you tie his arms away as I did 
Patrick's and continue rubbing his frenum and corona 
with your hands after the spurting of fluid stops.

If you want to hold your man in this state — and I 
recommend that you do, at least occasionally — there are 
four things you should know. First, it can't do any 
harm. The distress of continued stimulation isn't pain 
(though some mean may call it that) and it doesn't 
reflect tissue damage — not even temporary damage. When 
you stop, your partner's distress ends immediately, and 
that brings us to point two: When you stop, even for a 
few seconds, the ejaculatory spasms also stop. If you 
resume stimulation, it will have little or no effect, so 
don't take a break until you're sure you're done.

Third, the stimulation you apply must be specifically to 
the frenum and corona. The nerves that end there are the 
only ones that reliably force continuation of the 
ejaculatory spasms; if you milk the shaft alone, the 
spasms will end, comfortably, when the supply of fluid 
runs out. (If your man is an exception, great! But don't 
expect it.)

Fourth, your man's cock itself will give you some help. 
You can feel the continuing spasms and use them to time 
the motion of your hands, which makes for a much more 
effective sort of stimulation than a random beat. And 
for as long as you keep the spasms going, the process of 
detumescence is slowed, giving you a convenient degree 
of resistance to rub against. Usually you can even 
continue fucking if you don't give your partner 
clearance to pull out.

For a period of time after a man has an orgasm, he's 
physically incapable of responding to sexual 
stimulation. The length of this period varies from one 
man to another, and isn't always the same even for the 
same man. It tends to be shorter in younger men and 
ranges from seconds to hours. In my experience, five to 
twenty minutes is typical. During this time, a man has 
no sexual desire and is likely to find any attempt to 
stimulate him irritating, both physically and 
emotionally.

This refractory period is followed by a time during 
which arousal is physically possible, but stimulation is 
still likely to be perceived as an annoyance. The man 
just doesn't want sex. Even if he's tied down and 
normally finds you irresistible, you might not be able 
to make him come. If he isn't tied down and you make 
advances, he's likely to develop a severe attack of 
performance anxiety. 

He gets worried that your continued acceptance of him is 
dependent on his meeting your sexual demands of the 
moment, and that not being horny, he'll fail. That worry 
kills whatever capacity to respond he may have had. 
Perhaps he starts a petty squabble so he can reject you 
over some silly issue of his own choosing rather than be 
rejected himself as sexually inadequate.

I've always taken care that my lovers don't fall into 
this unpleasant state. My method is simple. I don't 
attempt to arouse a man who isn't ready for it. I'll be 
affectionate. I'll cuddle. I'll let him know that I love 
him and that I appreciate his love for me. But I won't 
lick his nipple. I won't take hold of his cock. 

I won't put my pussy in his face, or even suggest he 
play with it. I won't do anything that says, I want sex 
now, until I know he's ready. My reason goes beyond a 
desire to save him from performance anxiety. I want my 
lover always to think of sex with me as something he 
craves, so I keep the supply at least a little behind 
the demand, sometimes way behind the demand. That keeps 
him in the habit of wanting me, and the possibility of 
not wanting me doesn't enter his mind, even though I 
know there are times he doesn't.

What would happen if, for example, I were to have him 
eat me when he was sexually satiated? He would 
experience the sight, smell and taste of my pussy 
objectively, as sexually neutral. I don't want that to 
happen. I want him always to look forward to the 
opportunity to see, smell and taste me, and to find me a 
turn-on every time. I don't want to give him one chance 
to be objective about my pussy because I don't want him 
to learn how.

The obvious question is, What's the good of having a 
love slave if you can't use him as you please?

A simple answer is that I can use him as I please, but 
the relationship will go better and last longer if I'm 
considerate, realistic and sensible in my demands.

A more complete answer is that sexually enslaving my 
partner allows me to manage the relationship, and I can 
manage it better than he can, precisely because I know 
better than to use him without regard for his feelings. 
One of the reasons I advocate female domination is that 
most women, given the opportunity, manage their 
relationships better than men do. We take a more 
balanced approach. We're more mindful of our partners' 
needs and desires even while looking after our own. 

My respect for my lover's need to rest from sex is an 
example of this. If I subjected him to sexual demands 
when he needed to be left alone, he would come to resent 
it, just as many women come to resent the ill-timed 
sexual demands of their men. A relationship controlled 
by a woman who fails to consider her man's needs will 
deteriorate just as rapidly, into just as deep a state 
of misery, as a relationship controlled by a man who 
does the same. With power comes responsibility. 
Inevitably.


*** Chapter 5, In which the reader is invited to take an 
inventory of herself for the purpose of gauging how well 
female domination might suit her

Female domination suits some women and not others. Would 
it suit you? Let's ask first whether it appeals to you. 
We tend to do well at what arouses our enthusiasm.

Some women are so far from enthusiastic as to reject 
female domination outright. Their reasons are diverse, 
but they're all valid. I can assure you that if you know 
female domination isn't for you, you're right — it 
isn't.

Some women are interested — maybe even more than 
interested — but they're committed to relationships so 
nearly perfect as to discourage tampering. If it ain't 
broke, don't fix it. Perhaps, but if your relationship 
is so solid as to be unbreakable, you won't really be 
taking much of a risk; if your interest in female 
domination is strong, acting on it might be worthwhile. 
Maybe your partner even has fantasies of becoming your 
love slave. Perhaps when you met, he sensed that you're 
the sort of woman who's capable of enslaving him and 
that's part of what attracted him to you. Of course it's 
hard to be sure, but you might suspect it, especially if 
he gave you this book.

Women who try female domination usually do so out of 
either enthusiasm or desperation, sometimes both. 
Enthusiasm is simple — That's for me! Lemme at him! 
Desperation is more common. A woman is committed to a 
relationship that her partner is making insufferable and 
she needs a way to overcome his stubborn refusal to 
change. Women who try female domination out of 
desperation are sometimes enthusiastic, but not always, 
and desperation is certainly nowhere near as good a 
predictor of success as enthusiasm. 

A woman who is desperate without being enthusiastic will 
often succeed if she still has some affection for her 
partner, likes sex, has the personal attributes that 
make an effective dominatrix, and is reasonably 
comfortable with both the idea and the techniques of 
female domination. A woman who has come to hate her 
partner, dislikes sex, feels there's something unnatural 
about female domination, or is disgusted by the 
techniques of female domination, won't succeed.

Unfortunately, though revulsion guarantees failure, 
enthusiasm doesn't guarantee success. Enthusiasm makes 
success likely, but it's possible for a woman to believe 
in female domination as an ideal, even fantasize having 
a love slave, yet still find the actual doing of it so 
alien to her nature that she can't. What I'd like now is 
to invite you to assess yourself for the purpose of 
forming a realistic opinion of whether you could succeed 
at sexually enslaving a man. 

Perhaps the results will temper your enthusiasm; perhaps 
they'll overcome your doubts if you're unenthusiastic 
but desperate; perhaps they'll reinforce your doubts; 
perhaps they'll even reinforce your enthusiasm. What I'm 
hoping is that an objective personal inventory will help 
you overcome both the contagion of my own enthusiasm and 
the discouraging influence of society's conventions, so 
that whether you decide to use my techniques or reject 
them, your choice will truly be right for you. The first 
thing to consider is whether you're constrained by a 
taboo that puts these techniques beyond your reach.

Let's look at a couple of taboos.

Some women, even after twenty years of marriage, can't 
walk around naked in their own homes. Can't! Could such 
a woman use the power of her femininity to take control 
of her marriage? Maybe. It depends on what else she can 
and can't do.

Here's a taboo that's more remote, not even sexual: Some 
women (and more men) can't make an honest and 
wholehearted attempt to correctly pronounce a foreign 
language; they have to deform it into the sound system 
of their own. Taboo goes beyond reluctance. It's 
absolute. It makes a behavior not just difficult but 
impossible. If you can't use the techniques of female 
domination, you can't. Sorry.

If no taboo prevents you from using the power of your 
femininity to control your man, there's still the 
question of how you feel about it. Think about what I 
did to Patrick that Saturday afternoon and imagine doing 
the same.

If the idea sexually excites you, or even if it just 
seems like fun, female domination will very likely suit 
you.

If you would feel ridiculous — if the slightest 
difficulty would make you feel like a fool who should 
never have tried such a silly stunt, while a perfect 
performance would make you feel like an actress in a 
play by Georgeann Cross rather than a real woman in a 
real relationship — then you're not ready. You may want 
to practice by doing other things that present the same 
sort of challenge. If you learn to handle them well, 
it's likely that you'll also be able to manage female 
domination.

If it would make you feel like a guard in a Nazi 
concentration camp and therefore bad, you're probably 
bumping up against a dogma that's lodged between your 
feelings and your perception of them. Try to work your 
way around the dogma. You may find it helpful to pay 
special attention to the autobiographical material in 
this book. I'm a dominatrix, but I'm no Nazi — not even 
close. As you get to know me, you'll see where the 
differences lie.

If you have a strong need to be dominated, and playing 
the dominatrix would leave you with a terrible sense of 
loss at having foreclosed the possibility of getting 
that need satisfied, your choice is clear: go for what 
you need. The purpose of this book is to help other 
women (and their men!) develop relationships that will 
make them happy, not lure you into one that will make 
you miserable.

If the idea of playing with a man's cock until he comes 
bores you — if it never interested you very much to 
begin with, and you've done it too many times with one 
man or another to whom you felt obligated, when you 
couldn't bear to let him inside you — putting yourself 
in charge isn't going to make it any less boring. Even 
if it's obvious that you need to do something to take 
control of your relationship, that need won't make up 
for your distaste. Your feelings will be apparent to 
your partner and negate the effect of your attempts to 
turn him on.

If you feel as I do that a man's cock is just about the 
neatest plaything ever invented; if you can't imagine 
ever getting tired of it; if you like the way it 
responds to your touch, the way your play opens your 
partner up to you, the spectacular show when he comes, 
the implicit affirmation that the power of your 
femininity is too great to resist and that that's what 
makes it all happen, then you'll probably derive even 
more pleasure from sharing aloud the understanding that 
this wonderful plaything is truly yours, that the power 
of your femininity really overwhelms him, that you make 
him come.

I haven't covered the whole range, but you get the idea. 
If you honestly find female domination appealing, not 
just as a political ideal but as something to do, you're 
off to the best possible start. Consider now whether you 
have the qualities that make it a realistic option.

Trustworthiness

One attribute that's absolutely essential is 
trustworthiness. We can examine it in either positive or 
negative terms, and though I prefer the positive, we'll 
start by looking at the negative.

If a man distrusts you, he's not going to be your love 
slave, and he'll distrust you if he has reason to 
suspect that you mean him harm. If he distrusts you, he 
certainly won't let you tie him up (unless he's in a 
suicidal depression) and, while you might not want to 
tie him up very often anyway, his acquiescence is 
symbolic of the degree to which he's willing to give 
himself over to you. 

If you want to sexually enslave your lover but he 
doesn't trust you, you'll have to earn his trust or you 
can't succeed. Coercion alone won't work, at least not 
for any length of time. It's certainly a useful tool for 
overcoming a man's initial resistance, but it won't hold 
him. 

True, a token level of coercion may always be necessary 
to keep your relationship from reverting to the 
conventional, but if your lover has any means of escape 
at all, the only way to keep him enslaved over the long 
haul is to lead him to the belief — his own belief!— 
that he's best off as your love slave. He won't believe 
that if he distrusts you.

Let's look at the positive side now — at what you and 
your lover stand to gain if he trusts you without 
reservation. He'll share his most secret thoughts and 
fantasies with you and love you for accepting them, as 
well as for using what he tells you to make your control 
over him all the more complete. 

He'll regard you as a safe haven where he can be loved 
for himself without having to worry about the judgments 
of the world outside. When you make decisions for the 
both of you — the kind that men usually make so badly in 
conventional relationships — he won't feel resentful 
because he'll know you care for him and have his needs 
at heart. If you treat him lovingly and keep his 
secrets, he'll respond with a level of devotion that's 
rarely seen. He'll try to do even more to meet your 
needs than you do to meet his.

Many times a man has told me, as we rested together 
after I'd teased him to exhaustion, "That was so 
embarrassing!"

My answer depends on my mood and on the effect I want to 
create.

"Mm-hm!"

"I know."

"Neat!"

"Wait till you see what I do Saturday!"

Occasionally I answer more seriously. "I'm happy to be 
able to give you a safe place to enjoy it. Thank you for 
trusting me to know you like that." That sentiment is as 
much a part of me as the teasing is, and sometimes I 
feel the need to say it. It always brings a warm 
response, and the exchange affirms the caring and 
respect behind the kinky sex. It's one of the benefits 
of trustworthiness.

Empathy

Another quality you need in fair measure is empathy, so 
you can read your lover's feelings quickly and respond 
to them effectively. You'll be teasing him a great deal, 
and you have to learn what kind of teasing turns him on, 
what kind is perceived as mean, what kind has to be 
avoided because it triggers the recollection of some 
childhood horror unique to him. 

You'll make mistakes, and sometimes you'll have to 
apologize for a hurt and administer emotional first aid. 
Women in general are good at this. The development of 
empathy is part of our basic training; we've always been 
expected to take responsibility for our relationships, 
even when we weren't permitted to control them. If you 
skipped basic training though, and never made it up, and 
now find that you can't always tell whether someone is 
laughing or crying, it will make for difficulties.

From a positive perspective, a high degree of empathy 
enables you to play the Loop perfectly. You'll be able 
to gauge your partner's responses accurately, you'll 
know where his attention is focused, and you'll always 
be sure of what to do and say. Empathy will also make 
your lovemaking more spiritually rewarding; you'll be 
able to read not only the more obvious of your partner's 
responses, but his every fleeting emotion. And you'll 
know that each one is something that you caused — a gift 
of feeling from you to him, perhaps exquisitely subtle 
and complex, made possible by the power of your 
femininity.

How empathetic are you? If empathy is alien to your 
nature, please hesitate, at least, before proceeding. 
If, on the other hand, you're Empathy Personified, a 
relationship that you control should be most gratifying 
to both you and your man.

The ability to communicate effectively

A dominatrix has to be able to communicate well. You'll 
be aiming to produce a certain psychological effect in 
your lover, and this effect is achieved almost entirely 
by a combination of speech, facial expression and 
posture. If you're to succeed, you have to speak well, 
mug well, and carry yourself well. If you talk in a 
monotone, if there are words you can't bring yourself to 
utter, if your face has the blank look appropriate to a 
high-stakes poker game, if you carry yourself as though 
you're waiting in line to be guillotined, then you're 
going to have problems in any relationship and lots of 
problems in one that you try to control sexually.

If you're to feed the Loop, you have to be able to tell 
your man what you're going to do to him, exclaim over 
the reactions of his body, and leave no doubt that you 
know what he's feeling. If you want him to know that 
he's safe with you — that you accept him for the person 
he is — you have to say the words. Whatever you tell him 
will be more believable if your tone matches the content 
of your message, and all your speech will be more 
effective if it's well-modulated.

Your face is also a means of communication. Its 
expression can convey love, curiosity, determination, 
enthusiasm, and a host of other feelings. If you know 
how to control it you'll accomplish a great deal.

Your posture can project confidence or betray fear. It 
can express lust, boredom or hostility. Adjust it 
purposefully and the message your lover gets will be the 
message you intend.

As you take control of the nonsexual aspects of your 
relationship, you'll have to let your partner know what 
you want and need from him, what he must and mustn't do. 
If you fail to do this clearly, then punish him for 
misunderstanding you, he'll develop resentments that 
will undermine the relationship.

Consider how well you communicate. Do people often 
misunderstand you or misread your mood when you think 
you're being straightforward? read you too well when 
you're trying to deceive? If so, it might be a good idea 
to take a couple of courses in communication and acting 
at your local community college before you try the role 
of dominatrix. If you already communicate effectively 
and know it, you're all set to go.

The ability to act strategically

To take control of a relationship, it's necessary to act 
strategically. To maintain control of a relationship 
it's necessary to continue acting strategically. You 
need to gather and remember information about your man, 
implement long-term plans without arousing suspicion, 
and generally do the right thing at the right time.

Let's look at some of the preparation that went into my 
afternoon with Patrick.

During our first two months together, I learned his 
bowel schedule. When I tied him to the bed, I knew he 
could comfortably stay put for as long as I might need.

Until that day, I took care never even to mention any 
form of lovemaking except fucking. That created a 
context in which he was virtually certain to be 
embarrassed at having me bring him off by hand while I 
watched — and not just a little! It also ensured that he 
would find the varied sex play of the following months 
exotic and exciting.

The second time we fucked, I got on top. I wanted to see 
how he liked it, and I found he liked it just fine.

I began our fifth session by telling him I was going to 
tie him to the bed and fuck him. He couldn't feign 
skepticism, because he knew from experience that I could 
manage the female superior position. Happily, he didn't 
argue, panic or ask whether I'm into whips.

It was on that occasion that I first advised him to 
empty his bladder before I tied him. There are three 
reasons I bother with this. 

First, it's intimate, it shows that I'm comfortable 
discussing so personal a detail, and it invites him to 
be comfortable initiating such discussions with me. 

Second, it ensures that for as long a time as possible, 
he won't be distracted by a full bladder. 

Third, it shows that I'm concerned for his comfort, from 
which I hope he'll infer that I'll treat him well while 
he's tied. I didn't pull any surprises, just tried to 
gauge his reaction to the experience. It was all I had 
hoped for. He was excited in the extreme, he couldn't 
take his eyes off me, and his orgasm was the most 
intense we'd yet shared.

The eighth time we fucked, I tied him again. When he 
came, I continued thrusting my hips a little longer than 
I had previously. I kept it up just long enough that he 
started to squirm but not long enough to make him 
suspect I was doing it on purpose. That's how I learned 
he was one of those men who need the stimulation stopped 
when they run dry. I found out without letting him know 
I was interested and without having to make him come by 
hand before I was ready.

I tied him yet again for our tenth fuck and had him 
start by eating me so he wouldn't find it unusual in the 
future. I didn't do anything else that could have struck 
him odd, and I certainly didn't make him squirm again. 
The next two times, he was on top and of course not 
tied.

Ask yourself whether you can manage this sort of thing. 
Are you a natural spy? Do you have the patience to time 
your moves strategically? If so, you'll have much more 
fun with female domination than if not, and most 
everything you try will succeed.

A talent for teasing

Because of the nature of the Loop, you'll find female 
domination easier if you have a natural talent for 
sexual teasing. Teasing can probably be learned, and 
ordinary skill can certainly be perfected to the level 
of an art, but natural talent makes everything easier.

There aren't any objective criteria by which you can 
gauge your talent for teasing, but every woman with whom 
I've discussed the matter knew whether she had it. Some 
who knew they had the talent had a way of using it that 
was too mean to be sexy, but that's a different issue.

Ask yourself whether you're a natural tease. If you are, 
you have much of what you'll need. If not, perhaps 
you'll pick up enough pointers here to do reasonably 
well. If teasing is bad... well, give it another look. 
Maybe, when you've read further, you'll decide it's 
okay.

Attractiveness

What about attractiveness? There's no such attribute. 
Every woman is attractive to some men and repulsive to 
some. A man won't become your love slave unless you turn 
him on, so if you're looking for a man and you know 
you're going to want to enslave him, choose one who 
finds you irresistible.

If you're already committed to a relationship, your 
attractiveness to your partner becomes very much like an 
attribute; it's what you have to work with. Indeed it 
becomes an essential attribute. You can't enslave a man 
who won't turn on to you. But that doesn't mean that 
just because your man doesn't get instantly hard at the 
sight of your body, you should give up without trying. 
We'll explore what it does mean later, when we discuss 
the differences between committed relationships and 
uncommitted ones.

Confidence

After you've considered all the other traits that make 
an effective dominatrix (or better yet, after you've 
read this book all the way through) there's one more 
question to ask: Can I really pull this off?

Confidence at this point reflects a belief, based on 
objective consideration of your other qualities, that 
female domination is for you. Confidence is also an 
asset in itself, making you more difficult to resist. If 
you're obviously confident, your lover won't try to 
rebuff you with a hostile or impassive front. He'll know 
it won't work. He'll know that you know that the power 
of your femininity is too much for him — that sooner or 
later he'll have to submit. It's a loop that feeds his 
Loop. You succeed because you're confident and you're 
confident because you succeed, and he turns on because 
he's embarrassed by his inability to keep from turning 
on.


*** Chapter 6, In which we explore the advantages a man 
may find in being a woman's love slave

If a man doesn't want to be your love slave, he can 
avoid it; and if he doesn't want to be any woman's love 
slave, he can avoid that too. In extreme cases, the 
costs of refusal may be prohibitive, but extreme cases 
are rare. I've sexually enslaved a fair number of men, 
and my friends, among them, have enslaved a large 
number. Almost every one of those men made a voluntary 
choice to remain in a relationship where he knew he 
would be controlled by his partner. They stayed because 
of what the relationships offered them.

The advantages men find in sexual slavery are diverse, 
and the important ones vary from one man to another. 
Let's look at some of the most common.

Sexual excitement

The most obvious advantage of sexual slavery is that 
it's tremendously exciting.

After a while, a man in an ordinary relationship becomes 
sexually bored with his partner and comes to regard 
lovemaking as more duty than pleasure. If he's not 
committed to the relationship, he seeks a new and 
therefore more exciting partner, then repeats the 
pattern until he makes a commitment before getting 
bored. When he gets bored with a partner to whom he's 
committed, he stops making love. If his libido was weak 
to begin with, he becomes impotent. More commonly, he 
delivers brief, mechanical sexual performances devoid of 
emotion.

Many women blame themselves when this happens. Some 
blame their partners. In actuality, blame is 
inappropriate. Men are wired to lose interest in a 
partner who's always available. They can't help it. 
Fortunately they're also wired to turn on to the 
techniques of female domination; they can't help that 
either. And the power of these techniques to excite is 
far greater than the tendency of monogamy to bore. If 
your man can't have you whenever he wants, if he gets to 
experience that yummy little thrill only on your terms, 
boredom never sets in. He remains always a bit insecure, 
always eager to please you, always horny for you.

A love slave spends much of his time in a state of 
sexual arousal. He may find this frustrating at times, 
but always exciting and never boring. I've heard of two 
love slaves in their seventies who were vigorously 
potent, and one of them had given up on sex in a 
conventional relationship fifteen years earlier, 
believing he was too old.

A particularly introspective man might appreciate this, 
as might a man who has been rescued from sexual boredom 
without a change of partner, but a man of ordinary self-
awareness who is sexually enslaved early in a 
relationship will likely attribute his state of 
continuous arousal to his lover's attractiveness alone. 
And so much the better for her!

Love

Like sexual excitement, being in love is a delicious 
feeling. Men, control freaks that they are, rarely seek 
it; they seek sexual flings instead. Nevertheless men do 
fall in love early in their relationships and feel a 
loss when they assert dominion over their partners and 
the feeling goes away. Eventually a man reaches a point 
in his life where he becomes aware that he's no longer 
in love with the woman he married and, unless he ends or 
at least risks his marriage, he's doomed to live out his 
days without ever experiencing that feeling again. Grim.

Female domination saves a man from that. A love slave 
is, first and foremost, in love with his partner, and 
the feeling doesn't go away. Many factors contribute to 
this, among them the same insecurity that keeps him 
sexually excited, her sharing of his vulnerability with 
respect to the Loop, and his eidetic recollections of 
her teasing.

As with sexual excitement, only an uncommonly 
experienced and introspective man will understand that 
his enslavement is what makes him love his partner with 
such enduring intensity. The average man will be aware 
only of being in love. Both will be emotionally 
committed.

Intimacy

Men crave intimacy but fear it. Generally fear wins. A 
woman who sexually enslaves her lover can tip the 
balance so he can enjoy being known by her.

Early in a relationship, when a man is in love, he wants 
to share all his thoughts, feelings, fantasies, beliefs, 
hopes, dreams and fears. He rehearses what he'd like to 
say, but typically can bring himself to voice only a 
small fraction of what's inside. He's learned to keep it 
all to himself, and the learning is of a sort that's 
difficult to overcome.

As the relationship matures, he feels obliged to control 
it. The necessity of confronting his partner as an 
adversary when they have differences (for that's how he 
sees it!) now makes self-disclosure impossible. The 
enemy might learn something she could use against him. 
This is war, and he has to win — has to expand and 
consolidate his control.

From her point of view, the most appealing aspects of 
his personality have disappeared behind an impenetrable 
wall. From his point of view, he's involved in a 
relationship recognized as the ultimate in intimacy by 
his friends, colleagues, church and state, and he's 
emotionally isolated.

Sexual slavery makes it easier for a man to talk openly 
with his partner about matters of emotional 
significance. It does this in several ways.

If she uses her sexual power to take control of all 
aspects of the relationship, making whatever decisions 
there are to be made, he doesn't have to be ready for 
battle. There isn't going to be a battle, so there's no 
tactical disadvantage in having a history of intimacy.

If she considers his needs in making her decisions — and 
she would be foolish not to — he'll learn that it's in 
his best interest to let her know what those needs are. 
He'll learn to prioritize them honestly as well. Some 
things matter to him a great deal, others only a little. 
There are preferences he might insist upon in an 
ordinary relationship that aren't his at all, but 
represent instead what he thinks he owes his family or 
what he hopes will impress his buddies. If she considers 
his stated needs in good faith, her decisions will suit 
him best if he's been honest with her. Intimate self-
disclosure thus becomes a way of getting what he needs 
and wants.

The Loop, by being a significant vulnerability he can't 
help but share, gets him accustomed to being intimately 
known. Other secrets no longer seem so dark as to be 
worth hiding. In time, he learns his partner isn't 
dangerous and he gets comfortable enough to talk openly 
about anything. Eventually he realizes she knows him 
quite well and loves him for who he is, rather than for 
the image he was trying to project when they met or for 
some utilitarian advantage. That's a truly exhilarating 
high — one that the conventionally dominant man will 
never reach.

Because he's in love, he wants to share his thoughts, 
feelings, fantasies, beliefs, hopes, dreams and fears, 
just as at the beginning of a conventional relationship. 
And the love inspired by sexual slavery lasts, so he 
actually has a chance of communicating it all, then 
going on to share the changes that come with maturity 
and age. Happily ever after.

Escape from responsibility

Responsibility is strenuous. Some men, particularly 
those in high-pressure jobs that require them to make 
decisions that have profound effects on the lives of 
others, carry far more than is good for them. Such a man 
often feels relieved if his woman takes control of their 
relationship and assumes all responsibility for the part 
of his life that she shares.

Permission to reject overwork

Some men, once married, spend too much of their lives 
working and too little at home. They do it partly 
because it's a socially acceptable way to avoid the 
terrors of intimacy, partly because they believe their 
wives value the financial rewards of their industry 
above their companionship. A few, sadly, are right. Most 
are wrong but refuse to change their ways no matter how 
their wives beg. A woman who sexually enslaves her 
husband is in a position to require that he spend a 
reasonable amount of time at home. If she states a 
willingness to accept the resultant decrease in his 
income, he has no choice but to believe her. He's almost 
always happy with the results.

Motivation

By way of contrast, there are men who can't motivate 
themselves as they would like; they find it useful to 
have their partners oversee their endeavors, spurring 
them on with sexual rewards and punishments. I've known 
women who used the power of their femininity to push 
their men through a program of weight loss, a course of 
study leading to a master's degree, training for a 
marathon, and the completion of a book of photographic 
essays. The men themselves chose their respective goals 
and were happy for the motivational assistance their 
partners gave them, though they grumbled a bit along the 
way.

This sort of arrangement has an extreme form, 
considerably darker. I've known two women whose husbands 
developed gambling addictions so severe and damaging, it 
seemed suicide was the only way out. When each of these 
men hit bottom, his wife scraped him up, sexually 
enslaved him, and used the leverage that that gave her 
to pull him back to a semblance of sanity. The men 
seemed as happy as those who chose their own goals, if 
only because they weren't abandoned to financial ruin 
and social disgrace when they knew they deserved it. 
Indeed they grumbled less about their treatment, even 
though it was considerably harsher and they had no real 
choice but to accept it. Now back among the living, they 
could free themselves if they wanted to, but neither has 
tried.

Knowing what's expected

A man in a conventional relationship is often troubled 
by the feeling that his partner is unjustifiably annoyed 
with him — that she blames him for neglecting something 
important to her, for somehow failing to meet her needs. 
But she hasn't actually said that, and she certainly 
hasn't given him a list of things he's neglecting. Her 
rule seems to be, It's no good if I have to tell you, 
and he suspects that she changes the secret desideratum 
whenever he comes close to identifying it. He finds this 
frustrating.

The relationship between a dominatrix and her love slave 
doesn't work that way. She tells him clearly and 
truthfully what she needs, wants, and expects of him. He 
delivers it because he loves her. She thanks him. Simple 
and fair. Instead of feeling frustrated he feels 
appreciated.

Avoidance of performance anxiety

A man in a conventional relationship often falls into 
the worry that his partner will be horny when he's not, 
and that she'll react unpleasantly if he's unable to 
fuck her on demand. This worry kills what little desire 
he might have had, setting up a loop that can lead to 
chronic impotence.

A love slave doesn't have that problem — not unless his 
partner is foolish enough to demand sexual arousal from 
him. Instead he has the opposite problem — that he'll be 
embarrassed by his inability to keep his arousal under 
control — and that mind-set precludes performance 
anxiety.

If she finds herself in desperate need of sexual 
satisfaction when he's absolutely incapable of arousal, 
she can always have him eat her or finger her, warning 
him beforehand what he's in for if he lets his cock get 
hard. Afterward she can congratulate him on his rare 
self control. I don't recommend this because it gets him 
used to the possibility of sexual contact without 
arousal, but it does get her needs met without inducing 
performance anxiety.

Altered consciousness

Since time immemorial, we humans have tried to gain a 
perspective on our own nature and our role in the larger 
scheme of things. In pursuit of this goal, we've sought 
ways to escape ordinary reality, retaining just a 
vantage point from which to observe what happens to us — 
who we become — when the world goes weird. The aids most 
commonly employed to achieve such alteration of 
consciousness are botanicals such as marijuana and 
hashish, iboga and ayahuasca, peyote and magic 
mushrooms. Some people get comparable results from yoga 
or fasting; others from such pursuits as skiing, hang 
gliding, rock climbing or sailing.

Sexual slavery can do it too. It splits the personality 
the same way, into the objective observer and the kid 
taking the trip on the ragged edge of the impossible. 
The kid on the trip is out of control, can't say no to 
his partner, can't help turning on, can't help loving 
her. The observer looks on in wonder. Wow! Is this 
really me? I never would have imagined it possible!

Dave was a man with whom I went climbing in Yosemite a 
few times one summer. He liked to lead, while I 
preferred the relative safety of seconding, and we were 
comfortable with climbs of the same length and 
difficulty, so we made a well-matched team. He said that 
what he liked about climbing was that the alien 
environment, the exertion and the risk brought back the 
person he used to be before he grew up — the boy 
exploring the world for the first time, the simple human 
being who had been born and who would someday die. We 
developed a strong mutual affection and a sexual 
relationship that expressed that affection.

Since we always had ropes and webbing at hand, our 
lovemaking was kinky from the start, and I quickly 
discovered that once Dave had been drained of come, his 
cock would go into that wonderful state of sensitivity 
I'm so fond of. Just as quickly, Dave discovered how 
much I enjoy playing with that sensitivity, and what a 
tease I am. One evening, a couple of weeks after we had 
first made love, I tied him down in my usual fashion and 
wondered aloud whether, if I kept playing with him long 
enough, he'd get past the sensitivity and come a second 
time. 

He told me he wouldn't, that it would just hurt, and I 
told him I intended to find out. He pleaded with me not 
to, so I said that if it was going to be so terrible for 
him, he should just not let himself come the first time 
and I'd quit trying after about twenty minutes; but if 
he came once — and I told him I knew he would — I was 
going to try for twice. Actually I didn't expect to be 
able to make him come twice; I wasn't even going to make 
a genuine attempt. I just wanted to show him he couldn't 
resist me and then make him squirm long enough so he'd 
make a serious effort to resist again next time.

I used both hands on his cock and occasionally bent down 
to suck his nipple. Soon he was at the edge of orgasm, 
looking into my eyes with an expression that begged me 
to stop.

"Georgeann, you're really doing it to me!"

I felt his cock stiffen. I was about to say something, 
but —

"Georgeann, noooooooo!"

His hips lifted into the air and the first spurt went 
flying before he had quite finished his protest. He was 
still looking into my eyes. I couldn't look away even to 
watch my toy.

"Georgeann, that's me you're seeing! O, my! That's all 
me! You know me!"

It was all happening at once. He said it as he came, and 
he started to cry as he said it.

I started to cry too.

"It's okay," I said. I continued stroking his cock for 
as long as I knew he really wanted it.

I let go.

"It's okay," I repeated.

Still crying, both of us.

"Beautiful man!"

I untied him as quickly as I could and we lay together 
and talked. He told me what I already knew: I had 
revealed, to Dave and to myself together, the same 
person he sought to know through his climbing — the real 
Dave, who had been born, who would die, who held on to 
life in the form of a little nubbin of rock when holding 
on was impossible but there was no alternative. By 
motivating him to resist his sexual responses, I drove a 
wedge between those aspects of his adult personality 
that thought they were capable of such resistance, and 
the real Dave, who wasn't.

When he came, everything in him that had been trying to 
resist was swept away. All that was left was the male 
human being who couldn't help but want to come all the 
way, couldn't help but want to be completely known by 
the female human being who was making him happen. What 
made him cry wasn't fear, wasn't even embarrassment; it 
was just the beauty of the trip we were sharing, and the 
intensity of the sharing itself.


*** Chapter 7, In which we meet a couple that eschews 
female domination but still makes good use of some of 
its techniques

Francesca and Roy, one of my favorite couples, used to 
have a problem. Francesca had — still has — a chronic 
yeast infection, and fucking aggravates it. (Some of her 
nutritionally knowledgeable friends have advised her to 
go off her diet of pizza and beer, but she craves these 
things, and spends most of her waking hours running her 
pizzeria, so their advice is impractical.) She needs an 
average of a week between times to recover, sometimes 
twice that. If she doesn't wait as long as she needs to, 
the infection flares up to disabling proportions and 
recovery can take a month.

Her appetite for fucking far exceeds what the yeast will 
allow; in fact it closely matches Roy's. They each want 
sex about every other day.

Sex is an issue to Roy. He sees sex as ultimate 
acceptance and its refusal as ultimate rejection. If 
Francesca were to say no to him, he would at best sulk, 
complain he couldn't sleep, and treat her for days as 
estranged from him. At worst, he'd leave her 
immediately, unalterably convinced that it was her own 
wish that he never return. Even if he were only to sulk, 
Francesca would be unbearably distressed; besides, she 
believes that withholding sex in marriage is wrong.

It wouldn't do for Francesca to deny Roy; therefore she 
can't enslave him. A woman who enslaves her man has to 
let him know that sex is available only on her terms; 
she has to use his desire for her as an incentive to 
obedience. Not Francesca and not Roy.

Now, Roy isn't a bad man. In fact he's a very good man. 
He's totally devoted to Francesca, works hard, and never 
even gives another woman a lustful glance. He doesn't 
drink, smoke, gamble or use hard drugs, but he still 
doesn't begrudge Francesca her beer. He respects her 
individuality and isn't at all domineering. He's very 
nearly a perfect husband.

The only thing about him that ever seemed to need 
changing was his unfortunate tendency to aggravate 
Francesca's infection. Even in that regard, he was never 
really villainous. He understands Francesca's problem 
and expressed a willingness to have his sexual needs met 
by oral or manual stimulation, and a further willingness 
to meet her needs by gently licking her clit without 
stirring up the yeast or adding to the irritation.

Unfortunately Roy is powerfully built and easily gets 
carried away in the heat of a sexual encounter. 
Francesca gets carried away too, and finds it difficult 
to hold her determination to resist him. Far too often, 
he fucked her when they'd agreed he mustn't. Even when 
he set out to satisfy her orally, he often let his 
enthusiasm overcome his judgment; he likes to insert a 
finger (or two, or three) into her vagina to massage her 
g-spot, which stirs up the yeast almost as much as 
fucking does.

It was a sad state of affairs, especially for so close a 
couple. Francesca often endured terrible discomfort 
while Roy tormented himself with commensurate guilt. 
Eventually Francesca discussed the problem with me. I 
prescribed female domination much as the physicians of 
my youth prescribed penicillin, which was what she'd 
expected, and I gave her quite an extensive series of 
lectures on the subject. 

She described the problem of Roy's rejection button, 
then went on to explain her view of sexual morality. It 
struck me odd, probably in much the same way that my own 
sexual morality strikes others odd, but I understood it 
and acknowledged that female domination wasn't for her. 
I suggested an alternate approach — one that didn't 
involve ever quite saying no to Roy, but that still 
employed many of my favorite techniques and offered 
their inherent advantages. Francesca liked it, tried it, 
made it work, and fine-tuned it until it met their needs 
perfectly.

The first night, when Roy had started into some heavy 
sexual foreplay, she asked him to wait a moment, got out 
of bed, and retrieved the two lengths of nylon webbing 
I'd given her.

"What's that?"

"Nylon webbing, like mountain climbers use."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Tie your wrists to the legs of the bed, so I can make 
love to you and you won't do anything that will stir up 
my yeast infection."

"You don't have to do that. I'll be careful."

"Maybe. Sometimes it works that way. But if I tie you up 
every time you want to make love, you won't have to be 
careful and I'll get well enough so I can let you come 
inside me."

He looked doubtful.

"I'll make sure we have a good time."

"Okay, I'll try anything once."

She tied his wrists and went back to kissing and 
caressing him, then knelt astraddle his face so he could 
tongue her clit. She found it easy to control the level 
of stimulation so as to get exactly what she needed. 
When he'd satisfied her perfectly, she turned her 
attention to his cock. She played with it, took it in 
her mouth, swallowed his come, then untied him.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No! You're great!"

Two nights later, Roy was ready for more. Francesca was 
pretty sure she's be well enough to fuck after just one 
more night's rest, so she tied Roy down and simply made 
him a present of the same treatment.

The next night, Francesca was indeed well enough, and 
horny besides, and made the first move. They fucked, 
with Roy on top, and Francesca was left as satiated as 
ever, but Roy's lust seemed to lack its accustomed 
urgency. Though that probably contributed to Francesca's 
physical satisfaction by allowing him to keep going 
longer than usual, it still disappointed her.

Three days later, Francesca and I discussed Roy's lack 
of enthusiasm. Was he already so jaded by bondage that 
he couldn't turn on fully without it? Maybe, but we 
decided it was more likely he'd been drained by the 
previous night's play and needed two days to recover.

Undaunted, Francesca undertook to expand her repertoire 
of techniques. The fourth time she tied Roy down, she 
made him come using the two-handed technique that 
focuses on the frenum and corona, and she kept up the 
stimulation until he started to squirm and tried to pull 
away.

"Oh! You can't stop till I let you." She let go. "That 
will be fun to play with."

"Wow!" Nothing more.

She untied him.

Two nights later, she was ready to fuck and she let him 
know. They went at it with Roy on top. He was 
enthusiastic as ever, not jaded at all.

The next time he was horny, she tied him again. She used 
the same two-handed technique and decided to see how 
long he could take it. After he came, he squirmed, tried 
to pull away, started to whimper, and finally realized 
that it wasn't going to end until he admitted to his 
woman that she could be too much for him.

"Let me stop!"

She released his cock, bent down, and gave his nipple a 
quick going over with her tongue. His scream was just 
barely controlled.

"I didn't know you are so sensitive. It makes you so 
much fun to play with."

"You're torturing me."

"No I'm not. And you don't look like someone who has 
been tortured."

She untied him and they cuddled and slept.

Two days later he was horny, but apprehensive about 
letting her tie him down.

"I'm afraid you're going to torture me again."

"I never torture you."

"It hurts when you keep playing with me after I'm done 
coming."

"I don't believe you. You just can't stop till I let you 
and you worry when you have no control."

"Could you just not do it like that?"

"I don't know." I like it, just like you like to keep 
massaging my g-spot so I can't stop. Besides, I never 
turn you down. You can let me have some fun."

"Please!"

"I'll tell you what. I won't make you keep coming 
tonight, but I won't promise for next time."

She tied him down, had him eat her, and went to work on 
his cock. She started with the two-handed technique, 
then changed over to brushing one hand lightly over the 
frenum. His cock rose repeatedly to press against her 
palm, and she exclaimed her delight at its response as 
she kept rubbing. Finally his breathing turned to 
panting and his cock rose with the stiffness of 
impending orgasm. She continued rubbing it until the 
first momentary relaxation of his muscles let it drop to 
the level of his pubic mound, then she quickly pulled 
her hand away.

"What I get to see!"

His cock stiffened and rose again, splashing his chest.

"Oh, nooooo!" His cock plopped down again, then bounced 
back up and spurted a second time.

Again. And again. And yet again. And a few more little 
twitches after that.

When it finally came to rest, she contemplated his 
shamefaced demeanor and decided there was nothing to do 
but confront the obvious.

"You must be so embarrassed!"

"Oh, wow! You know it!"

"I'll bet it will turn you on all day tomorrow, when you 
remember that, and think I may do it again."

"Oh, wow!"

She untied him. He needed to be held. It made her feel 
loved. It made her aware of the intensity of her love 
for him.

I had coached Francesca in detail on that technique and 
its probable effect. It's one of my favorites, and men 
find it embarrassing in the extreme.

If a man comes with nothing holding his cock, it bounces 
obscenely with each contraction of his ejaculatory 
muscles; and if his hands are tied out of the way, 
there's nothing he can do about it. As each contraction 
begins, he feels and sees his cock stiffen and rise an 
inch or two. As it rises it spurts. A thrill of pleasure 
runs through him, accompanied by a rush of embarrassment 
at knowing that the woman next to him is watching him 
with a distinctly feminine mix of curiosity and 
amusement. 

When his muscles relax, his cock falls against his lower 
belly with a wet slap. It all unfolds for him in slow 
motion because the upward and downward movements of his 
cock seem to add to the time taken by each contraction. 
They don't really, and they might not even seem to if he 
weren't so exquisitely aware of the female attention 
focused on him, but the attention is there and each 
contraction becomes a long, slow exploration of the 
depths of sexual embarrassment.

The technique has a useful tuning knob that few 
techniques do. The way Francesca did it that first time 
with Roy, the man's orgasm decays quickly. The number of 
contractions is relatively small and the amount of fluid 
expelled by each contraction (beginning with the third) 
is less than it would be if stimulation were continued. 
The result is that the seminal vesicles aren't drained 
to the usual degree, so it's likely to take less time 
until the man gets horny again.

You have the option, though, of making the orgasm last 
longer, thereby emptying the seminal vesicles more 
completely. Just stimulate some area of the man's body 
that's erotically sensitive — a nipple, perhaps, or his 
scrotum — and he'll keep coming until he's drained. It 
will seem like an eternity to him. He won't keep coming 
after he's drained, as when stimulation of the frenum 
and corona is continued, but it will still be quite a 
show.

Francesca took every opportunity the next day to tease 
Roy in little ways, reminding him what she'd seen and 
how it embarrassed him. She could see that it turned him 
by the time the day's work was done, he obviously needed 
her. Since she was well enough, and half crazed with 
lust herself, she invited him to fuck her. He accepted 
eagerly and did his part with great enthusiasm.

I'm sure a number of factors conspired to make Roy so 
much more enthusiastic after only a day's recovery than 
he'd been the previous time: he hadn't been drained as 
thoroughly; his recollection of the previous night's 
embarrassment excited him; Francesca's continued teasing 
added to that excitement; and he felt that a missionary 
fuck would restore, if only symbolically, the balance of 
power in their sexual relationship.

The next night, in a calmer mood, Roy told Francesca 
they needed to talk about the weird sex they were 
having. He focused on her propensity for torturing him, 
but it was obvious that that was only a small part of 
what was troubling him. She told him that what they were 
doing made it possible to keep her illness under 
control. Besides, she said, she'd taken a liking to it 
and didn't want to stop.

He acknowledged what was really bothering him: He felt 
that this new style of lovemaking was perverted and he 
was afraid Francesca would lose respect for him if he 
continued to go along with it. She assured him that what 
they were doing was a perfectly reasonable adaptation to 
their circumstances, that she appreciated his help in 
dealing with the infection, that his allowing her to tie 
him up made her feel loved and trusted, and that it 
intensified her love for him.

"Remember the other night, when you were so embarrassed 
by the way I watched you come, and you needed me to hold 
you after I untied you? Holding you like that was such a 
loving feeling, like people who have been married so 
long usually don't get."

Roy didn't try to dispute that, but took issue with the 
propriety of a style of lovemaking that involves such 
great embarrassment. She pointed out that it turned him 
on, and he made a face.

"Look, we have both found that being embarrassed turns 
you on. We would be stupid to waste it. We have been 
together a long time. We love each other. We know we can 
trust each other. Will our marriage be happier if I 
don't make love to you a way I like, and you refuse to 
enjoy something that turns you on like when you were a 
kid?"

It was a convincing argument, but that's not why Roy 
bought it. He bought it because it was reassuring. It 
promised him a safe and loving environment in which he 
would be accepted for the man he'd just discovered he 
was, and in which he could freely enjoy being that man.

Francesca chased the last bit of doubt from Roy's mind 
by giving him a magic word that he could use if her 
tortures got to be too much for him — a word that would 
let her know that he needed her to stop immediately. He 
found that reassuring too. It made her tortures less 
worrisome, though I'm sure they haven't become any 
easier to take. And he's never actually used the word to 
stop her.

Eventually there came a day when Francesca was ready for 
a good fuck and hadn't got around to telling Roy before 
he made his own need known to her. She decided to 
complicate his expectations by tying him down in her 
usual fashion and fucking him from above.

"This is neat!" she said as she mounted him for the 
first time ever. "You get to be inside me and I get to 
be on top."

Their sex life settled into a routine, but certainly not 
so dull a routine as most couples live with. When 
Francesca is horny and well enough to fuck, and Roy 
hasn't made the first move, she'll do so herself and 
they'll wind up fucking with Roy on top. He's figured 
this out, and since it's still his favorite way of 
making love, he tries not to make the first move unless 
he's too horny to sleep. If Francesca is ready and Roy 
makes the first move, she'll sometimes let him fuck her 
the same way, but other times she'll tie him down and 
get on top.

If she's not well enough to fuck, and doesn't expect to 
be well enough the next night either, and he makes 
advances, she'll tie him down, have him eat her if she's 
horny, and then bring him off. Sometimes she plays with 
his cock or eats him just until he's comfortably done 
coming. Sometimes she plays with his cock way too long. 
Sometimes she lets go of it when he reaches the point of 
no return and plays with his nipple. Sometimes she lets 
go and just watches. That's what she always does when 
she expects to be ready the next night.

She's determined to keep him from figuring out that part 
of the pattern. If he were to know that she's going to 
be ready on a certain night, he would wait for her to 
make the first move, eliminating the possibility of his 
being tied down for their fuck. For that reason, she 
mixes up the things she does, and he never knows what to 
expect. If she uses her mouth, it doesn't mean she'll 
still be using it when he comes; if she uses two hands, 
it doesn't mean she won't let go when he reaches the 
point of no return. It excites him to consider the 
possibilities as she brings him closer and closer to the 
edge.

They're a very happy couple. Their one big problem is 
solved, they both get all the sex they need and still 
aren't blasé about it, and most impressive of all, 
they're still in love even though they've been through 
years and years of marriage.


*** Chapter 8, In which we consider the logistics of 
bondage

Comfort, food, drink and drugs

The main reason for tying a man up before subjecting him 
to sexual stimulation is to keep him from physically 
resisting you. This presupposes that if you make 
physical resistance impossible, everything will go as 
you like. That's not always the case. Circumstances can 
inhibit a man's sexual responses, and sometimes (three 
hours after his last orgasm, for example) psychological 
resistance is easy. If everything is conspiring against 
you, bondage is futile. Postpone your plans until a day 
when physical resistance is your only potential problem.

Before you set about restraining your lover, be sure 
he's horny — very horny. He should be comfortable too, 
not ill nor in pain, and not troubled by allergies that 
will keep him sneezing or itching. His bladder and 
rectum should be empty and you should have a reasonable 
expectation that neither will fill soon.

The place where he's to be tied should be warm, perhaps 
even too warm. Physiologically, a cold environment 
inhibits sexual response, especially when the 
stimulation offered isn't the cuddly sort. 

Psychologically, bondage can be frightening, and a 
person placed in a situation that's both sexually 
stimulating and frightening has a choice, usually made 
pre-consciously, between turning on and getting scared. 
The close link between cold and fear is part of your own 
experience: it's easier to get scared when you're cold, 
and fright gives you chills. To keep your man from being 
distracted by either of these creepy twins, be sure he's 
warm.

Food can be a problem. A man won't be nearly so 
responsive with a big meal in his stomach as without it.

Alcohol, barbiturates and narcotics are disasters. I 
advise against restraining a man for sexual purposes if 
he's had so much as a single drink. He'll find you too 
easy to resist. His attention is impaired, so he may 
tune you out. At the same time, the nerves that carry 
sensation from his penis to his brain are at least 
somewhat anesthetized. If he succeeds in resisting you, 
it may damage both your confidence and your credibility, 
so it's better not to take the chance. 

Even if he can't resist you, he may later refuse to take 
your interaction seriously, dismissing it as the result 
of his chemical state. And of course, there's the 
obvious objection to engaging in any form of lovemaking 
with a man who'd under the influence of any depressant 
drug: He isn't capable of fully appreciating you and he 
isn't fully present for you to appreciate in return.

Some drugs, on the other hand, enhance a man's 
responsiveness and make you harder to resist. Three that 
deserve consideration are coffee, chocolate and 
cannabis. Coffee contains caffeine, which is a powerful 
nervous stimulant. It enhances both sexual sensation and 
the psychological processes of sexual response. 
Unfortunately it's also a strong diuretic, while the 
substances that give coffee its flavor are powerful 
bladder irritants. 

To top it off, coffee is almost entirely water. The 
result is that a man dosed with coffee will soon 
experience a strong need to urinate, which will cause 
considerable bother if he's tied in place and distract 
him from sex whether he's tied or not. The effect will 
be somewhat mitigated if he was dehydrated to begin 
with, especially if he's young and healthy with a large, 
resilient bladder.

Chocolate is much better. Its active agent is 
theobromine, another powerful stimulant, but not so 
strong a diuretic as caffeine. Chocolate doesn't 
irritate the bladder and is easily consumed without 
water.

Only the strongest chocolate contains enough theobromine 
to be useful as an aphrodisiac. Milk chocolate won't do, 
and most men won't eat baking chocolate because it's too 
bitter. That leaves semisweet, also known as bittersweet 
or dark. Even most of this is inadequate; you have to 
know which formulations really work. The bittersweet 
chocolates imported from Switzerland and Holland are 
excellent but expensive. Most American chocolate can't 
compare, but a few brands can, and at a reasonable 
price. See what's available in your area and try it on 
yourself to make a selection on which you can come to 
rely.

Besides being an aphrodisiac, chocolate is food and 
chocolate is fuel. If a man is hungry, but a meal will 
inhibit his responses, a dose of chocolate will relieve 
his hunger enough so he isn't distracted, but it won't 
fill him up. It will also warm him as it's metabolized, 
decreasing the likelihood that he'll be turned off by 
cold or fear.

An ounce of dark chocolate will make a significant 
difference in the sexual responsiveness of a man of 
average size. Two ounces will make a big difference. 
It's hard to get someone to eat more than that unless 
he's very hungry.

Cannabis, whether in the form of marijuana, hashish, 
hash oil, space cakes or whatever, has one major 
drawback: it's illegal in the United States, though less 
so in some states than others. Despite its illegality, 
it's so readily available that its usefulness as an 
aphrodisiac is worth examining.

Cannabis enhances sensory appreciation. If you subject 
your man to sexual stimulation, his attention is more 
strongly drawn to that stimulation and he feels it with 
greater intensity than without cannabis. Cannabis also 
encourages the belief — usually delusional — that one's 
thoughts and feelings are obvious, and at the same time 
it discourages reality testing. This combination makes 
the Loop inescapable. Once you start teasing him about 
his inability to resist you, a man under the influence 
of cannabis knows you can read his thoughts and 
feelings, and he won't test that knowledge for fear that 
whatever he says will only move the conversation in a 
direction that will embarrass him all the more.

Consider, though, the cliché of the double-edged sword. 
The use of cannabis is traditionally a social ritual; 
you don't administer it but share it. You get stoned 
too, and that can make it difficult to maintain a 
confident demeanor in the face of adversity. If you pull 
a shocker like trying to get your man to agree to be 
your love slave, or telling him for the first time that 
some terrible consequence will befall him if he allows 
himself to ejaculate, he may not take it well. 

Though he's less likely while stoned to make a conscious 
effort to bluff you off course, he may truly be outraged 
or turned off, and not know that if you were to begin 
stimulating him, confidently and teasingly, his 
orientation would quickly and dramatically change. If he 
tells you you're a bad person or makes threats against 
the future of your relationship, you're likely to find 
it exceedingly difficult to remember that he can't see 
how worried you are, and even more difficult to test the 
reality of the situation by going ahead with whatever it 
takes to turn him on.

For this reason, I advise against using cannabis when 
your agenda includes anything new and surprising that 
your man may take badly. If that means you can't give it 
to him either, so be it. There are exceptions of course. 
Some people are so used to cannabis that they can handle 
anything; if you're such a person, you already know that 
my cautionary advice isn't for you. 

Going one step further, you and your partner may be 
sharing a continuously stoned existence. In that case, 
avoiding cannabis before a particular lovemaking session 
would be so unusual that it would become an issue in 
itself, creating more of a problem than anything else 
that may have developed. But again, if you're living 
stoned, you already knew that.

The only other problem with cannabis is that it drops 
the blood sugar way down, causing phenomenal hunger and 
increasing the likelihood that your man will get cold or 
scared rather than turned on. It may also make your 
hands cold enough to shock his skin. All you can do is 
make sure you're in a very warm place and have some good 
dark chocolate on hand to satisfy the munchies. The 
chocolate will raise your blood sugar, keeping your 
hands pleasantly warm; it will raise your partner's 
blood sugar, keeping him from the shivers and the 
terrors; and it will act as an aphrodisiac in itself. 
The combination of cannabis and chocolate, incidentally, 
is great for sex even if you have no interest in female 
domination.

Positions, materials, knots, toys and safety

The position in which I most often tie a man is on his 
back with his arms extended to the sides. Almost always, 
he's on a wide bed, and I tie his wrists to its legs — 
the pair near the head end. Occasionally, outdoors, I've 
tied a man in this position between two trees.

I don't normally restrain a man's legs. Unless he's 
unusually large, strong or flexible, tying his arms is 
enough to keep him from going anywhere or doing 
anything. Tying his legs is even counterproductive. When 
he comes, I want it to be spectacular. I like to see him 
dig in his heels, lift his bottom, and thrust his hips. 
He can't do that very well if his legs are tied. 

If I continue to stimulate him when he's run dry and 
needs me to stop, I want him to be able to squirm and 
thrash about, trying to pull away. It affirms my power 
over him. Most important, I want his orgasm to overwhelm 
him, and if I choose to play with his sensitivity 
afterward, I want that to overwhelm him too. If his legs 
are tied, he can maintain some measure of composure by 
straining against the bonds and concentrating on the act 
of straining. If I leave them loose, he can't do that; 
he gets completely caught up in whatever sensations I 
inflict on him.

Sometimes I put a man in that position and then decide I 
want to watch him masturbate while he's tied. It 
wouldn't do to simply release one wrist; that would be 
the same as untying him completely. Instead I tie his 
ankles to the nearest legs of the bed, not so tightly as 
to cause discomfort but tightly enough, then untie his 
more skilled hand. If I feel the need to discourage him 
from trying to free himself, I tie the hand to the same 
leg of the bed as his ankle, leaving enough slack so he 
can reach his cock but not his opposite wrist.

Sometimes I tie a man's wrists together behind his back 
without tying him to anything.

Occasionally I tie a man's wrists together in front of 
him, then tie them to something overhead so that he's 
standing with his arms extended upward. Usually I use a 
hook that's screwed into one of the studs that support 
my ceiling. When I'm not using the hook for bondage, it 
supports a potted plant in a hanging basket.

If you try such a thing there are a couple of things to 
beware of. First, use only an anchor that will bear a 
heavy load. A hook driven into wallboard alone won't; an 
expansion bolt in plaster won't; a shower head won't. 
Second, the position can be so uncomfortable as to 
inhibit a man's sexual responses; worse, it can 
dangerously interfere with the circulation in his hands 
after only a short time. Leave enough slack in the line 
between his wrists and the anchor so that his feet are 
under his shoulders, his elbows are somewhat bent, and 
the rest of his body is relaxed.

Any number of materials can be used for bondage: 
stockings, neckties, plastic wrap, rope and clothesline 
are some of the most common. Stockings and neckties 
usually have to be tied together and can't be used for 
much else afterward. Plastic wrap should be food grade 
rather than industrial because the latter may contain 
poisons that can be absorbed through the skin; multiple 
layers are needed to ensure resistance to stretching and 
tearing, and it can't be reused. Rope and clothesline 
are almost perfect, but can dig uncomfortably into a 
man's wrists.

My favorite is tubular nylon webbing. I became 
acquainted with it when I took up rock climbing, and its 
suitability for bondage was immediately apparent. It's 
like nylon rope, but flat. Then again, it's different 
from flat webbing too. Flat webbing is truly flat and 
isn't used much in climbing; it's made into the belts 
and straps found on knapsacks and heavy-duty dollies. 
Tubular webbing is shaped like a drinking straw that's 
been flattened. It's softer and more flexible than flat 
webbing, and it's readily available in stores that sell 
climbing gear, as well as by mail. It tends to be 
colorful and comes in a variety of widths; the most 
convenient for bondage is one inch. It's easy to work 
with, and if tied correctly it's quite comfortable and 
doesn't cut into the skin at all.

I buy it in twelve-foot lengths. Twelve feet is long for 
most purposes, but just right for others, and if I have 
to cut someone out of it in an emergency, I still have a 
length I can use. When you buy it, it's cut by being 
pulled across a red-hot wire. If you have to cut it 
yourself, it's a good idea to use a hot knife so that 
the filaments melt together to prevent unraveling. Use a 
worthless knife that you're never going to use for any 
other purpose, because heating will discolor it and 
you'll never get it clean. 

Alternatively you can cut the webbing with a cold sharp 
knife or a pair of scissors and either let it unravel or 
try to seal the frayed end by holding it over a candle 
or stovetop burner. The end may or may not seal 
correctly, but it's sure to release a cloud of noxious 
gas which will somehow aim itself directly at your nose. 
I think it's still worth it; bondage is truly a labor of 
love.

If you want to use the sort of material that has to be 
tied but you don't know much about knots, get a book on 
the subject, study it, and practice. Also study the 
descriptions I'm about to give of my own favorite knots 
and practice those. Use your own ankles to substitute 
for your man's wrists.

You may be tempted to improvise knots rather than 
studying them. It won't go well. For each purpose, you 
need a knot with certain characteristics. To bind a 
man's wrist, for example, you'll want a knot that will 
neither loosen nor tighten when pulled. You won't be 
able to make it up as you go along; you have to know the 
knot. You also have to know your knots well enough to 
untie them. If you manage to invent a knot as you go, 
you won't know what you did and you'll have trouble 
getting it out. It may turn out to be so complex that it 
has to be cut. If you cut knots frequently, you're 
likely to give up bondage because of the expense.

If I want to tie a man's wrist, I take my twelve-foot 
length of webbing and circle the wrist three times, 
taking care that the webbing lies flat against his skin 
for all three go-rounds. The short end of the webbing is 
about a foot long; the long end, about nine feet. I hold 
the short end out straight and I tie a half hitch around 
it, very near the wrist, with the long end. 

This involves pulling nine feet of webbing through the 
loop that becomes the half hitch. I do the same thing a 
second time. The knot in the long end now has a definite 
shape and can slide freely along the short end. (If only 
the short end were held, the wrist would be in a noose; 
the knot would tighten when pulled. If the long end were 
pulled instead, the loops around the man's wrist would 
loosen and the short end would eventually come through.)

I slide the knot so that the wrist can't come out of the 
webbing, but I don't make the loops uncomfortably tight. 
Then I hold the long end of the webbing out straight and 
use the short end to tie a half hitch around it. That's 
it. The knot will neither tighten nor loosen when 
pulled, and no part of it touches the man's wrist — his 
skin touches only the soft loops of webbing.

When I'm ready to secure the wrist to the leg of the 
bed, the first thing I do is see to the man's comfort by 
making sure that the knot lies in the natural path that 
the long end of the webbing will take from his wrist to 
the leg of the bed. His wrist shouldn't be resting on 
the knot, nor should the knot be forced against his 
wrist; these conditions cause discomfort at first, then 
later correct themselves in such a way as to slacken the 
bonds.

When I've rotated the knot to the ideal position, I run 
the long end of the webbing just once around the leg of 
the bed and tie first one half hitch, then another. It's 
not much of a knot, but it won't come out unless untied 
on purpose. When I want to untie it, I can do it 
quickly. I take care to put the half hitches right up 
against the leg of the bed and not leave a big loop. 
Since two half hitches make a noose, a big loop will 
tighten to become a small loop when the man pulls, 
leaving him much more slack than I intended — perhaps 
even enough to get loose.

To tie a man down, it's best to tie both wrists, then 
both legs of the bed. This lets him scratch itches for 
as long as possible. To untie him, it's best to untie 
the legs of the bed first. The knots there come out more 
easily, and once you've undone one, he can help with the 
knots at his wrists.

If I have to tie a man to a bed that's on a platform 
instead of legs (most motel beds are on platforms) I 
take a length of webbing and tie a bowline in each end. 
The bowline is a knot that includes a loop that will 
neither tighten nor loosen under tension. I run that 
length of webbing crosswise under the mattress about 
three quarters of the way toward the head of the bed, 
then use the protruding loops as if they were the legs 
of the bed.

The wooden frame of a futon can be fitted with eyebolts. 
If you sleep on a mattress on the floor, you can screw 
eyebolts or hooks into the wall at the level of the 
mattress. (Find the studs first!) If you own your own 
home and don't value the floor, you can bolt cabinet 
handles to it. When you bring a new partner home for the 
first time, such fittings make for interesting 
conversation.

If I want to tie a man's wrists together, I start by 
tying one of them as if I were going to tie it to the 
leg of a bed. I run the long end of the webbing back and 
forth between his wrists in a moderately tight figure 
eight, then wrap a few loops of webbing around the 
middle of the figure eight in the third dimension, and 
finally tie the loose end with a couple of half hitches.

There are alternatives to learning how to tie knots. One 
is plastic wrap, which sticks to itself so well that you 
don't need good knots. Because multiple layers are 
needed, it's best tied using techniques that rely on its 
tendency to cling, and such techniques are easy to 
improvise. (Quite the opposite of nylon webbing!) Since 
plastic wrap can't be reused, you can cut it when you're 
done and not feel wasteful; indeed you probably won't be 
able to undo it any other way.

Another option is the purchase of ready-made restraints, 
either at your neighborhood adult boutique or by mail. I 
don't use them. First, I don't need to; I'm proficient 
with webbing. Second, webbing feels natural to me, 
probably because I handled so much of it during my rock 
climbing days, while ready-made restraints feel alien 
and would seem to be intruding into my lovemaking. 
Third, I don't want to spook a new lover with hardware 
that's likely to remind him of that mean dominatrix in 
the fetish magazines.

If you're considering ready-made restraints because you 
find knots daunting, the first two of those reasons are 
irrelevant to you. The third will be irrelevant if you 
and your partner have been together a while; he'll know 
that your interest in kink is new. It will also be 
irrelevant if kinky toys are consistent with the image 
you want.

I don't recommend metal handcuffs. They can tighten 
painfully unless double locked and they're uncomfortable 
to lie on. Neither do I recommend anything that the 
wearer can easily remove; many of the toys one finds in 
an adult boutique are just ornaments and suffer from 
this deficiency.

The one toy that's most useful is an apparatus for tying 
your partner to a bed. Typically it consists of two 
wrist cuffs and a length of flat nylon webbing that can 
easily be anchored to the bed. The wrist cuffs are 
usually leather, often padded. They close with either a 
buckle or hook-and-loop tape. The closure is simple 
enough that the wearer could easily undo it if his hands 
weren't separated. 

The cuffs attach to the band of webbing by means of a 
pair of quick-release fasteners. These fasteners take a 
variety of forms, but most commonly they resemble either 
the clip by which a leash is attached to a dog collar or 
the flexible plastic buckle on the waist strap of a 
knapsack. They're secure only because they're beyond the 
wearer's reach when the apparatus is set up properly.

Another useful toy is a pair of soft handcuffs — again, 
usually leather and often padded. If soft handcuffs are 
to be secure, the closures and fasteners have to be much 
more tamper-proof than those on a tie-to-the-bed 
apparatus because anything on the wearer's left wrist is 
within reach of his right hand. The really secure models 
rely on small padlocks.

I never put anything around a man's neck while he's 
bound, nor even allow anything with hazardous potential 
to remain there. (If he's just seen a vampire move, I 
hang his crucifix from my own neck.) I never leave him 
alone for more than a few seconds, nor do I allow a 
locked door to come between us.

I almost always have a pair of surgical scissors within 
reach — the kind with a blunt end. They're sharp and 
they cut well, so if I have to release my partner 
quickly, as in case of fire, I can. The blunt end makes 
it possible to force the blade between his skin and 
whatever material he's tied with, without cutting him. 
Such scissors are a necessity if you use plastic wrap; 
they're superfluous if you use a ready-made apparatus 
with quick-release fasteners.

The most likely emergency is sudden illness. Digestive 
viruses strike with frightening speed. It's unpleasant 
enough to have a bed messed up, but it would be 
devastating to have a man I care about choke to death on 
his vomit while I fumble with my knots. The police in my 
part of the world have encountered kink before and would 
accept my explanation, but I couldn't. Safety first!

When I've settled into a stable relationship with a love 
slave, we agree on a word he can use to let me know he 
needs to be released immediately. Francesca gave Roy 
such a word after tying him down only half a dozen 
times; some couples who set out to experiment with 
bondage agree on a safeword before the first knot is 
tied. I wait longer because when I get involved in a new 
relationship, I like to keep my agenda hidden at first 
and reveal it one surprise at a time. 

Also, a man will normally use his safeword the first 
time a woman plays with the post-orgasmic sensitivity of 
his cock. By the third time, he's learned he can take it 
— and even if he can't, that's not what the word is for. 
I wait until the man is emotionally committed to being 
my slave and knows that that's what he wants more than 
anything else. That's what I think is necessary to 
prevent him from using a safeword frivolously. But when 
we've got that far, I don't wait longer; I make sure we 
have a word.

A safeword shouldn't be one that might be uttered 
accidentally, such as mirror or birthday, nor, 
obviously, should it be something like no or stop; those 
would interfere with the natural flow of conversation. 
Madagascar or periwinkle would be good, but both require 
a degree of composure to pronounce. Rhubarb is just 
about perfect unless you or your partner eat it or grow 
it; likewise smallpox unless one of you is studying it.


*** Chapter 9, In which we survey some of the ways a man 
might be persuaded to accept sexual slavery in a new and 
uncommitted relationship

Getting a man to accept sexual slavery is easier in a 
new and uncommitted relationship than in an established 
and committed one. When the relationship is new, he's 
turned on to you, concerned about pleasing you, probably 
in love with you. You don't have to overcome established 
patterns of interaction that are inconsistent with 
female domination, and he's encouraged by the thought 
that if the experiment goes badly, he can cut his losses 
and flee.

On the downside, there's a much greater risk that the 
mere attempt will scare him away for good. In a 
committed relationship, you'll have to work harder to 
enslave your partner and there's a greater probability 
that you'll fail, but the chance that the attempt will 
end the relationship is slim. In an uncommitted 
relationship, the least likely of the three possible 
outcomes is that he'll refuse to become your love slave 
but remain willing to negotiate some other arrangement.

I enslaved all my lovers early. Since I wasn't 
interested in any other sort of relationship, I didn't 
worry about scaring them off. Only two ran, but don't 
let that encourage you more than it should. Remember, 
anyone can see before getting involved with me that I'm 
a tease. Remember too that I'm rarely attracted to a man 
unless my intuition tells me he's well suited to my 
agenda. If the same number of partners had been assigned 
to me at random, I'm sure at least three would have run. 
What I'm getting at is that my advice is based on the 
assumption that you're not worried about losing your 
man. If you are, be forewarned that I haven't taken that 
into account. You may lose him. Use your priorities, not 
mine, in deciding whether to accept the risk.

The way I invited Patrick to become my love slave is 
just one possibility among many. You would likely set up 
a different scenario. Its exact nature would depend on 
your age and experience, your partner's age and 
experience, quirks of your personality and his, the 
degree to which you're worried about venereal infection, 
and so on. We'll look here at some of the possibilities 
— not all, by any means, but a few that seem generally 
useful.

I'll proceed from the assumption that you're truly 
determined to enslave your man. This will permit me the 
corollary assumption that you're willing to wield the 
one threat that underlies all female domination: Your 
man can't have you except on your terms. You have to be 
willing to make that a rule, make it clear, and enforce 
it. If he won't do as you say, put some distance between 
you and leave him sexually frustrated, accepting your 
own unsatisfied lust as an unfortunate necessity.

We began our survey of invitations to sexual slavery 
with the story of how Patrick was persuaded to accept 
mine. Let's expand our perspective by looking at the 
major crossroads that Patrick and I negotiated as we 
made our way toward his acceptance. The earliest was our 
decision to fuck without a condom. I don't divide that 
into a decision to fuck and a decision to forgo a 
condom, because I never use condoms. If I don't feel 
comfortable fucking a man without a condom, I don't fuck 
him at all. I might enslave him anyway, just as a young 
virgin trying to save herself for marriage might enslave 
her boyfriend, but the techniques I would use, like 
those the virgin would use, exclude fucking.

If a man is wearing a condom, the stimulation inflicted 
on his cock by my pussy is dulled to such a degree that 
he can resist it. I can't make him come against his will 
as I can when he's naked, and once he's come, the condom 
dulls the effect of further stimulation, masking the 
sensitivity that most men experience after orgasm. If my 
sexual relationship with a man includes fucking, it's 
while fucking that I like to find out whether he's 
subject to that sensitivity. I can't do that if he's 
wearing a condom. And once I've found that his cock does 
get sensitive when he comes, I can't play with that 
sensitivity while fucking him through a condom.

The second major crossroads in the unfolding of 
Patrick's enslavement was my discovery that he was, in 
fact, one of those men who can't bear continued 
stimulation after orgasm. Had I found out differently, I 
would have had to change my approach.

The third and last crossroads was Patrick's refusal to 
acknowledge his enslavement that Saturday until after 
I'd made him come. Had he voiced his assent a few 
minutes earlier, the rest of the afternoon would have 
gone at least a little differently.

Those three crossroads aren't the only ones anyone ever 
encounters; they're merely the ones that stand out most 
clearly in my relationship with Patrick. Men often open 
up other possibilities by what they do in the course of 
a developing relationship, or by how they respond to 
what their partners do. We'll look at a couple of such 
twists soon, but first let's explore the alternatives 
arising out of the last two of the three choices we've 
identified in the story of Patrick.

We can start by putting me back where I was that first 
Saturday afternoon: sitting on my lover's chest, 
inviting him to be my slave. What if he says yes? It 
happens quite often; more men have said yes than no.

"Ooh, yummy! I know just how I'm going to have you seal 
that agreement!"

I tie the man's ankles, untie his hand, and tell him to 
play with himself until he comes.

I watch closely. I tease him about the show. I talk 
about how we'll both always remember, to his great 
embarrassment, that I watched him do this. I point out 
that as my love slave, he'll have to give me a repeat 
performance whenever I want, and that he'll always be 
aware of the possibility. I feed the Loop every way I 
can. If his nipples are erogenous, I set to work on the 
nearest one as he approaches orgasm, and I keep playing 
with it until he's done. This adds to the intimacy of 
the experience and prevents him from limiting his 
stimulation to an intensity that won't overwhelm him. 
Through that nipple, I can completely destroy his 
composure.

If he were to refuse to play with himself, I'd warn him 
that he'd get very uncomfortable after lying there a few 
hours, and that if he doesn't prove his willingness to 
be my love slave by doing as I say, our sexual 
relationship is over. Then I'd stimulate him lightly in 
an attempt to make him desperate for release. When I 
evoked some obvious response — a moan, a twitch of his 
cock — I'd say, "You like that, don't you? You're going 
to have to bring yourself off the rest of the way or 
you'll never get to feel me do it again." I've never had 
to go that far. Every man with whom I've gone this route 
has sealed the agreement as I asked, and with very 
little argument.

Now imagine that during my third sexual encounter with a 
man, I start licking his nipple without touching his 
cock, and he starts playing with it himself. It would be 
silly to try to seal a contract of sexual slavery with 
such a man by having him masturbate while I watched; the 
gesture would be meaningless. 

Taking this to its extreme, it's possible to imagine a 
man whom I couldn't invite to be my love slave at all, 
because I wouldn't be able to think of anything I could 
have him to in that role, and if he agreed and kept his 
promise, I wouldn't be able to tell. Fortunately I've 
never had that problem because I'm not attracted to that 
sort of man. Shyness is one of the qualities I need to 
turn me on. It doesn't really impose much of a 
limitation on my choice of partners because almost all 
men have learned at least a little sexual shyness, even 
if they pretend otherwise.

What if my lover turns out to be the sort of man who 
experiences no discomfort at all when I continue to 
stimulate his cock after he comes? What I do then is 
pretty much what I did with Patrick. I get him used to 
eating me while tied down, and I wind up presenting him 
with the same invitation in the same way. If he accepts, 
I tie his ankles and tell him to seal the agreement by 
playing with himself while I watch.

If he declines, I explain that I need him to accept or I 
can't continue our sexual relationship; that's just the 
way I am. Once a man's refusal is confronted in this 
way, there's a good chance he'll reconsider and accept. 
It makes no difference. If he accepts only after the 
choice is put to him in this manner, you can't have him 
seal the agreement by masturbating then and there 
because he'll be playacting. Your teasing will be 
directed not at him but at the character he's portraying 
to satisfy your demands. 

He'll go his way not as your genuinely devoted love 
slave but as a cynical womanizer rehearsing stories to 
tell his buddies about the kinky scenes he's been acting 
out to satisfy your weird tastes. He'll continue his 
relationship with you out of curiosity and because he 
expects you to continue to satisfy most of his sexual 
needs until he finds another woman, not because it 
excites him as he never imagined his own embarrassment 
could, and certainly not because he loves you.

If he claims to have reconsidered — to be willing to 
submit to you — tell him he needs to think about it a 
few days and then you'll get together if he's still sure 
he wants to go through with it. Other than that, don't 
tell him what to expect.

He's still horny, still tied down. Straddle his cock and 
put it in your pussy. Sit still and tell him that if he 
decides not to accept your invitation, this will be your 
last fuck. Embellish your speech with as much affection 
and sentiment as you honestly feel, and by all means 
encourage him to make good his acceptance. Etch in his 
memory a picture of you that he can love while 
considering. Then let your pussy do its thing, and 
enjoy. I went this route with two men. Two friends tried 
it with one man each. One lost the man immediately. Two 
of the men came back to see whether their relationships 
with my other friend and me could continue under more 
conventional protocols. I said no, but the other 
relationship was salvaged. One man came back to me as my 
love slave.

Drew called me at work three days after he initially 
refused, then hastily reconsidered, my invitation. He 
told me he hadn't been able to get me off his mind, that 
he needed me, that he was worried I had already written 
off our relationship. He wanted to see me — that evening 
if possible.

I surmised he was both desperately in love and 
desperately horny. Beautiful!

I was glad to hear from him. I loved him and I was horny 
myself. I regretted that I wouldn't be able to share my 
own orgasm with him that evening, but I knew what had to 
be done. My satisfaction would have to be the solitary 
sort, after he had gone, but at least it would be spiced 
by the fresh recollection of the coming evening's 
adventure and the happy thought that in time I would 
again feel him inside me.

I asked him when he could be over, and he suggested 
picking me up for dinner at seven. I told him I'd meet 
him at Francescas. I had no use for the elaborate 
courtship ritual I was sure he had in mind; I preferred 
the comfort of my own stamping ground, an early evening 
that would leave me rested for the next day's work, and 
a meal light enough so as not to inhibit our sexuality.

I left work more promptly than usual, drove home, walked 
to the pizzeria, chatted briefly with Francesca and a 
couple of other friends, then settled into an empty 
booth. Drew arrived soon afterward. He greeted me 
enthusiastically and told me how happy he was to see me 
again. I assured him I felt the same way. We shared a 
stromboli, playfully cutting bite-sized pieces and 
feeding one another. He drove me home and I invited him 
in.

We took off our jackets and shoes and stood hugging and 
kissing until I could feel the straining of his cock. He 
took hold of the hem of my sweatshirt, making ready to 
lift it over my head.

"Unh-unh," I said, stopping him.

"You don't want to make love?"

"Not until I'm sure you're really into being my slave, 
and love me even if I keep my shirt on."

"What do you want me to do?"

"How about you take off your clothes?"

"If that's what turns you on. Okay."

If he had been dealing with the dominatrix in the fetish 
magazines, the tone of that remark would have earned him 
a whipping, and she would have stomped him with her 
spike heels for good measure. I didn't even comment; he 
would adjust his attitude soon enough.

As he undressed, I sat down on one end of the couch. By 
the time he was out of his clothes, his erection had 
subsided. I invited him to lie down with his head on my 
lap. He did.

"What made you decide to call me? Getting horny?"

"I called you because I love you and I couldn't bear the 
thought of losing you."

"Do you love me even if I keep my shirt on?"

"Yes. I wish you'd take it off, but I love you whether 
you do or not."

"Do you love me enough to give me that toy between your 
legs, to play with as I like, even if I don't let you 
put it in me, or touch me, or even see me naked again?"

It grew just a little.

"Yes."

"Mmmm!"

I smiled affectionately and looked into his eyes 
briefly, then I added an expression of curiosity to that 
affectionate smile and shifted my attention to his cock. 
I watched it with interest. I felt, deliberately but 
genuinely, the affection and curiosity that my 
expression showed.

It's truly awesome what that look does; it's one of my 
favorite examples of the power of femininity over the 
male psyche. His cock grew, angled up, and stood fully 
erect, just clear of the mound, pulsing slightly with 
the beating of his heart.

I kept watching it with the same expression, looking 
briefly into his eyes every few seconds.

He took my hand in his and tried to move it into 
position to relieve his lust.

"Unh-unh." I pulled my hand away.

"You don't want to play with your toy?"

"I want to watch you play with it."

He tried to reckon how much negotiating he could get 
away with. None, and he knew it, but he tried one 
request.

"Would you take off your shirt while I do it?

"Maybe next time."

I put new enthusiasm into my expression of affectionate 
curiosity and stared at his cock again. He wrapped his 
hand around it and began stroking, watching my eyes as 
he did.

When he seemed ready to come, I started lightly rubbing 
his nipple with the back of my hand.

I was still staring at his cock when it erupted, but I 
could see the desperate, questioning look on his face as 
he struggled, through his embarrassment and his 
pleasure, to make sense of what was happening, 
understand its significance to me, guess what it might 
mean to the future of our relationship.

"Big come!" I observed as his orgasm subsided.

I stopped rubbing his nipple.

He let go his cock and lay there, looking at me 
questioningly.

"I do love you, Drew. Don't push to have things your 
way, and we'll have a lot of fun together. Both of us. 
Wait here a minute."

I got a towel, then put my lap back under his head. I 
set about cleaning him up.

"You were horny! That was a big load you had saved up."

"I couldn't get you out of my mind since Saturday. 
Thinking of you does that."

"I can imagine! What were you thinking about me?

"Just loving you, wanting you, missing you, worrying 
about whether we could get back together, wondering what 
it would be like to be your love slave."

"I guess you've had your first taste of that. How do you 
like it?"

"I don't know. It's better than not seeing you, but not 
as satisfying as what we used to do."

"I'm sure some of what we do will suit you."

I'd got him clean and dry. "I'll have to send you home 
now. I have to get an early start tomorrow."

He stood up and started to get back into his clothes.

"Can we get together this weekend?"

"You can call me at work on Friday. We'll see then."

He finished dressing and I led him to the door. We held 
each other for a moment and kissed.

"One more thing before you go. Wait here."

I started back into the apartment as if to get 
something, then stopped about eight feet away and turned 
around. I lifted the hem of my sweatshirt and let him 
see my breasts. Four or five seconds' worth, then I 
covered up again.

"Bye-bye, Drew. I love you."

"Bye-bye, Georgeann. I love you too. And thanks."

What I emphasized in that session with Drew was very 
different from what I emphasized when I enslaved 
Patrick. Patrick knew he was getting into something more 
exciting than he had ever experienced before, so I 
encouraged him in a purely positive way, teasing him to 
help him become acquainted with how his embarrassment 
fed his excitement and his love, and promising him 
unprecedented pleasure in an atmosphere of intimacy and 
acceptance. Drew felt he was being coerced into taking a 
demotion. He suspected I didn't really love him and that 
I was taking advantage of his love for me so I could use 
him for some nefarious purpose. 

If I belabored his embarrassment at having to 
masturbate, he might well have picked up and left, so I 
hardly teased him at all. Instead I played on his 
insecurity about the future of our relationship, 
motivating him to go along in the hope of being rewarded 
the following week or the week after.

I knew, though, what the events of that evening would do 
to him. By the time he called Friday, he would have 
replayed them in his mind countless times. He would have 
come to appreciate how exciting it had been to feel me 
stare at his cock with that smile of affectionate 
curiosity, to know I was watching it get hard, to know 
that I knew it was getting hard because he was 
embarrassed by my staring. He certainly wouldn't have 
lost interest in fucking me — that wasn't part of my 
plan; I wanted to fuck him again as much as he wanted to 
fuck me — but he'd also know he wanted more of what he'd 
had that evening. He'd been led into the Loop, and it's 
addictive.

Of course I fucked him again, and I embarrassed him 
again too, and I did both at the same time. When there 
was no longer any doubt about his being my slave, I 
stopped playing on his insecurity; and as he became more 
secure, I began teasing him openly about his 
embarrassment. And of course we both enjoyed it 
immensely.

***

What do I do with a man who, like Drew, declines the 
initial invitation to become my love slave, but unlike 
Drew, refuses to reconsider when told that the only 
alternative is the end of our relationship? I do the 
same thing. I invite him to get in touch with me if he 
changes in mind and I fuck him good-bye while he's still 
tied down. I do it lovingly and hope he reconsiders. 
Does he? I've tried it exactly once, with a man named 
Chuck, and he didn't. Two friends also tried it, once 
each, and one of the men reconsidered. The other 
relationship ended.

I've said that my relationships go my way or they don't 
go, so if Chuck refused to be my love slave, why did I 
fuck him? Why didn't I just untie him and send him on 
his way.

It wasn't because I hoped that during the days that 
followed he would reconsider, though of course I did. 
Rather it was because I loved him, because I knew he 
loved me, because we were both horny, because it was the 
decent and loving thing to do. We had discovered an 
insurmountable incompatibility between us, one that 
would make it impossible for us to continue, but neither 
of us was to blame for that incompatibility, and it 
certainly didn't necessitate denying ourselves one last 
expression of our love.

Most women have more reason than I do for fucking a man 
with whom they find themselves in such a situation; few 
are as committed to female domination as I am, and most 
don't really want to scuttle an otherwise workable 
relationship for no better reason than that the man 
refuses to be enslaved. If you secretly hope that your 
man, having rejected sexual slavery, will come back and 
ask you to continue in a more conventional relationship 
rather than just disappearing from your life, do take 
care to treat him decently.


*** Chapter 10, In which we continue our survey by 
tracing two unusual routes to female domination

Denise was a gregarious and aggressive young woman who 
had been involved in a series of stormy associations 
with a succession of gregarious and aggressive young 
men. We met during her relationship with Tim and we 
became friendly enough that she freely described its 
difficulties to me. I suggested she might make Tim more 
tractable by using the techniques of female domination, 
and described to her, over time, my ways of controlling 
men. She seemed interested in what I said but 
disinclined to act on it.

Before the last of their many fights split them up 
permanently, I chanced to meet Denise and Tim at a 
party. He was every bit as unpleasant has her most 
antagonistic descriptions, and I took a strong dislike 
to him.

She soon began a similar relationship with Joe, another 
gregarious and aggressive young man, whom I disliked as 
much as Tim. I continued telling her about female 
domination, convinced she would try it eventually. It 
seemed clear that she liked to fight and chose men with 
whom she had that in common. I was curious what she 
might do with my techniques.

Inevitably she broke up with Joe. When she was sure he 
wouldn't be back, she told me, "Next man I get mixed up 
with, I'm gonna do all that stuff you've been telling me 
about."

The next man was Tony. She made sure I met hm early in 
their relationship, and I could see that her new agenda 
hadn't inspired the slightest adjustment in her 
selection criteria. Tony had the same defects of 
character as his predecessors, and I found him just as 
obnoxious.

The beginning of their relationship was unremarkable. 
Denise set out to prepare Tony for enslavement much as I 
later prepared Patrick, and everything went according to 
plan until just after the first time she tied him to the 
bed. He obviously enjoyed it, but the next time they got 
together, he wanted to fuck her in the ass. That didn't 
appeal to her, and she refused. He took the position 
that since he had let her tie him up, she owed him. She 
didn't see it that way, and they wound up shouting at 
one another.

During the course of their shouting match, she told him 
that not only would she never let him into her ass, but 
if he wanted to go on seeing her, he'd have to let her 
tie him up every time they got together. He left mad, 
and when she and I met the next day, she asked what I 
would do in her place.

Curious though I was to see where their relationship 
might go, I answered honestly. I told her I would hope 
he was discouraged enough to stay away, and that if he 
wasn't, I would end the relationship myself. I would 
figure that since he had made such a fuss about it, anal 
sex must be as important to him as female domination is 
to me, and he would never be happy without it. Sure, he 
could be enslaved, and once that was accomplished he 
could be forbidden to make an issue of it, but I like my 
relationships light and easy, and I want my partners to 
be completely happy with me, so I would wish him luck in 
finding a woman who likes anal sex and I would find a 
man who doesn't.

That advice didn't suit Denise. She wanted to win her 
battle with Tony, enslave him, and tease him about never 
getting into her ass. Fine! I could deal with that. I 
would have preferred that he be condemned to a life of 
celibacy, but since that wasn't going to happen, he 
certainly deserved what Denise was planning. I would 
help in any way I could.

Now, Tony was the sort who'd bump a stranger on the 
sidewalk, apologize, then give him the finger after 
getting out of range. We realized that coercing him into 
promising to be Denise's love slave while he was 
desperately horny, or while he was being tortured, 
wouldn't work. He'd feel obliged to renounce the promise 
even if he wanted to keep it, just as a matter of pride. 
What she'd have to do was turn him into her love slave, 
then get him to acknowledge that that's what he had 
become.

After a few days, Tony called her. He apologized for his 
boorish behavior and asked for a date. Denise accepted 
and they got together. When he started making moves on 
her, she reminded him that the only way they were going 
to make love was with him tied to the bed. He protested 
that she couldn't be serious, and she said she was. He 
agreed to let her tie him. She told him to take off all 
his clothes and lie down. When he did, she tied his 
wrists to the legs of the bed, undressed, straddled his 
face, and had him eat her.

When she was satisfied, she sat herself near his hip 
with her legs folded under her.

"You know, some day you're gonna be my out-and-out sex 
slave. You're gonna do every little thing I tell you, 
you're gonna do it my way, and you're gonna be happy 
about it. When that's the way it is, I'm gonna tie you 
up just like this, and sit on that dick, and fuck you 
silly."

"What about today?"

"What about it?"

"I let you tie me up, didn't I?"

"You're a long way from being any kind of slave. I'll 
know when you're ready."

"You gonna untie me?"

"I'm not that mean. I'll give you a good come first. But 
instead of getting to put it in my pussy, you're gonna 
have to let me watch it go all over you."

She made it happen just that way, and she teased him 
about it again as his ejaculation began. "Uh-huh! All 
over you!"

She kept stroking until he tried to pull away.

"Stop!"

She did. "Sensitive, huh?"

He took a moment to collect himself, then lay there 
looking at her.

"You come good?"

"Yeah."

"Good! That means you're gonna be wanting me to do that 
for you again someday."

She untied him and started dressing.

"You know, next time I'm not gonna stop that soon. I'm 
gonna keep playing with you for a good long time, no 
matter what you say."

"You're crazy!"

"That why I'm gonna do it?"

"What makes you think I'll give you the chance?"

"Intuition."

"Fuck you!"

"No, you're gonna be tied up, and I'm gonna fuck you, 
but it's not gonna be anytime soon."

"You bitch!"

"Thanks, but you ain't seen nothin' yet. You're gonna 
find out just how much a bitch I am."

She finished dressing and left.

They had lunch together a couple of times during the 
days that followed, but neither of them mentioned what 
Denise had said. She got the impression that either Tony 
didn't take her seriously, or he was hoping she would 
forget, or he expected her to be overcome by a desire to 
have him fuck her.

The next time they were alone in his apartment, he came 
on to her as always. When the time seemed right, she 
told him, "This isn't gonna go any further without you 
being tied up."

"Shit! You're crazy!"

"Okay, but I told you that's the way it's gonna be. If 
you want, I'll go home right now."

He decided to do it her way.

She tied him to the bed, finished undressing, and sat 
down on his chest, one leg on either side.

"You like looking at this, don't you?"

No answer.

"If you don't, I can cover it up for good."

"I like it."

"I thought you do. Like I told you, it's gonna make you 
my slave. You're gonna do everything I say, just because 
I've got this pussy between my legs and you know what a 
thrill it can give you."

"I'm not going to argue with you."

"Good! I can think of something much better you can do 
with your mouth."

She repositioned herself so he could do it and had him 
go on until she was satiated. Then she sat next to him 
as she had the previous time. His cock was more than 
hard; it was pulsing and dripping. She looked at it with 
obvious interest.

"You do like my pussy!"

"Sure I do!"

"Remember what I told you I was gonna do?"

"You said you were gonna tie me up like this and fuck me 
silly."

"Yeah, I said I was gonna do that some time. Remember 
what I said I was gonna do this time?

"No."

"I told you I'm gonna keep playing with your dick after 
you come and it's all sensitive. You remember now?"

"Yeah."

"That's what I'm gonna do. And next time I tie you up 
I'm gonna do the same thing again, and I'm gonna ask you 
first whether you remember, and if you don't, or you 
don't want to tell me, we're gonna have to do it again 
the time after that. You understand?"

His face looked like he wanted to let loose a stream of 
curses, but his cock kept pulsing.

"Yeah."

"You ought to forget about being mad about all this. You 
knew what was gonna happen tonight. You didn't have to 
invite me up here."

"I couldn't believe you meant it."

"Next time you're gonna know, and you're gonna let me 
tie you up anyway, and then we're both gonna know it's 
because you want it."

She went to work on his cock, and he came in just a few 
seconds.

"Ooh, you know what happens now!"

She milked him until he was in such a pitiful state, she 
felt sorry for him.

"I bet you wish you never even thought about getting 
into my ass."

"I'm sorry. I won't ask you about it anymore."

"That's good. I'm still gonna do this same thing to you 
whenever I feel like, and I'm gonna do it for sure next 
time I tie you up, just like I said."

She untied him.

He tried something new: he thought before speaking.

"I love you, Denise. I didn't mean any harm when I 
wanted to do that thing. Can't we make love again 
without you hurting me?"

"After a while I'll only hurt you sometimes, but first 
you gotta learn your lesson, and you gotta be my slave."

He didn't argue. She cuddled him and he responded 
"almost like he was civilized," as she described it to 
me a couple of days later.

When he started drifting off to sleep, she dressed and 
went home. He asked her to stay the night, but she 
declined. She didn't want to be there in the morning 
when he might be horny enough to want sex but not so 
desperate as to need it on her terms.

The next weekend they went to a football game, then 
wound up in his apartment again. This time he didn't 
start pawing at her.

"I guess if I want to make love with you I have to let 
you tie me up and hurt me again."

"You got it!"

"Okay, I'm ready when you are."

She was tempted to lie down and have him eat her before 
she tied him, so she could relax completely while he was 
doing it, but she knew that that would give him an 
erection, and she wanted to see whether a discussion of 
what she was going to do would have the same effect all 
by itself.

"Good!" she said. "Get those clothes off your body and 
lie down."

She tied him in place. His cock wasn't completely 
flaccid but not really hard either. She was still 
dressed. She sat next to him.

"I'm glad you're learning you have to do things my way. 
How do you like it?— being tied up like this and knowing 
what I'm gonna do to you?"

"Christ! Ain't it enough that I'm letting you do it? Do 
I have to tell you I like it too?"

"You have to tell me the truth. That's part of being my 
slave, and you better get used to it if you ever want to 
get in my pussy again."

He glared at her. "I think this is sick!"

"Maybe it is. How do you like it?"

He glared at her a while longer, but the hostility 
slowly faded from his expression and soon he appeared to 
be simply at a loss for words.

"Do you know how you like it?"

"No."

"Okay, we'll see how you like it."

She looked at his cock.

"You know, with you tied down like this, all naked, your 
dick is mine. I can rub it until it gets hard, and I can 
keep rubbing it and make you come, and I can keep 
rubbing it after that, so you know what pussy power is. 
And all the time before you come, you'll be thinking how 
it'll feel to have me keep rubbing it like that, you not 
being able to stop it, and it'll turn you on so much, 
you'll have to come, and I'll get to watch you hump the 
air like you was fucking, and you'll have to hump, too, 
'cause you'll be coming so good from knowing what comes 
next."

His cock was growing.

"See? You do like it! I'm gonna have to do this 
sometimes after you're my slave, it turns you on so 
much. Won't that be something?— being my sex slave, and 
me knowing you get a hard-on for having your dick rubbed 
and rubbed after you're done coming."

His cock was fully erect.

"You know, next time we're gonna do this same thing 
again, and I'm gonna ask you how you like it, and you 
better give me a straight answer. I mean, if you like 
it, tell me. If you're embarrassed but it turns you on 
anyway, tell me that. But you gotta tell me something. 
You understand?"

"Yeah."

"I better make sure I get something out of this."

She undressed, straddled his face, and took her fill, 
then resumed her seat at his side.

"You start getting used to what I said: your dick is 
mine."

She started stroking it. "Enjoy that as long as you can; 
you know how it's gonna feel once you let yourself come. 
And I get to watch the whole thing!"

In a few seconds he was panting. His cock stiffened and 
he arched his back.

"Ooh, you're gonna be sorry you let go!"

His orgasm was as spectacular as she'd told him it would 
be, and she kept rubbing his cock for as long as she'd 
said too. He seemed on the verge of tears when she 
finally stopped.

She untied him, dried him off, held him in her arms.

"I'm hungry," she said at last. "You gonna buy me dinner 
for doing that?"

He groaned. "Yeah."

Tony treated Denise respectfully after that, without the 
undercurrent of hostility that had so often been 
apparent before. When they made their next date, it was 
clear that he expected her to put him through the same 
treatment. She got the impression he was even looking 
forward to it.

As she'd promised, Denise asked him, once he was tied 
down, how he felt about what she was going to do to him.

"Embarrassed. Turned on at the same time."

"Good! I'm glad you learned to talk about it. What 
embarrasses you about it?"

"I think how you're gonna hurt me after I come, and it 
makes me so I have to come."

"Heavy, huh?"

"Yeah."

"You think you're my sex slave yet?"

"Yeah, I must be, if I'm going along with all this."

"Next time we'll see if you really are. I got some plans 
for you to prove yourself."

"Oh, Jesus!"

She made him come, made him squirm, made him beg her to 
stop, untied him, held him. It was going well.

The next time they were alone together, she had him take 
off all his clothes as soon as the door was closed 
behind them. She hugged him and kissed him until he was 
hard, then backed away and teased him about how he 
looked with his cock sticking out in front of him. She 
told him to lie down.

"You gonna tie me up again?"

"You'll see."

He lay down and she sat next to him in her usual 
position.

"I have my period today. I don't want to even get 
undressed." She stopped talking.

"Oh."

She waited a bit longer, then told him, "What I want to 
do is watch you play with your dick yourself, until you 
come."

He looked like he was thinking about arguing, but he 
didn't. Instead he asked, "Do I get to stop when I'm 
done?"

She laughed. "Whenever you want."

He started stroking his cock.

"You ever done this in front of a woman before?"

"No."

"See how good it is to be my sex slave? You get to try 
something new!"

His breathing was getting heavy.

"How does it feel to have me watching you?"

"Embarrassing as all hell!"

"Ooh, yeah!"

He kept at it a while longer and came.

"Ooh, is that how you do it? You pull the skin back all 
the way and stop, so it feels like you're pushed all the 
way into a woman's pussy."

"It was something!" she told me afterward. "When I said 
that, he had this extra little thrill, kind of like a 
shiver. I saw it go all through him, then he let go his 
dick and just lay there with his eyes closed."

The first chance she got after her period was over, she 
tied him down again.

"What are you gonna do to me this time?" he asked.

"You'll find out. Maybe the same thing we've been doing, 
maybe something new."

She had him eat her as always, then took her usual seat 
near his hip.

"You sure you're my sex slave?" she asked, trying to 
sound as ominous as possible.

"Yeah, I'm sure."

"You want a chance to come in my pussy?"

"Yeah!" He sounded surprised, enthusiastic.

"I'll give you a choice. You know how I've been playing 
with your dick after you're done coming?"

"Yeah?"

"I can do that with my pussy, too. If you want me to 
fuck you, just tell me, and I'll do it, but I'll keep 
humping you like you can't imagine! If you don't think 
you can take it, I'll do you like I've been, but I'll 
stop before it starts hurting."

"Jesus!"

"You gotta make up your mind."

"I want you to fuck me."

"I thought that's what you'd want."

She put his cock in her pussy and fucked him with long, 
slow strokes, keeping her body near his.

"Remember this good; you might have to play with 
yourself ten more times before I do it again."

Soon he was panting. He arched his back, pushed himself 
all the way into her, spurted. She came with him, but 
managed to remember her mission before he was finished. 
She pressed him down to the bed and continued thrusting, 
keeping herself low enough so he couldn't pull out of 
her. He tried, but she had him pinned. She tightened her 
vaginal muscles and kept at it, watching the pathetic 
expression on his face.

"It's something, ain't it? — what a woman can do to 
you!"

"Please stop," he sobbed.

But she couldn't. She was starting to come again and he 
had to take it.

When it was over, she sat up with his cock still inside 
her. She watched him gather himself together — almost — 
then she reached back and tickled his scrotum with her 
fingertips.

"Aaaaaaagh!" That shiver again.

"That's what it's like when I fuck you silly. How do you 
like being my sex slave?

"I like it! Whatever you want!"

"You know, you never will get to put your dick in my 
ass."

"It's all right. I'm sorry I said anything."

"Good! I better untie you."

She climbed off him and undid the knots.

Tony was hers for quite a while. They parted, still on 
good terms, when Denise moved east about a year later.

Tony's path to sexual enslavement took an unusual twist 
because his domineering and belligerent style presented 
Denise with a challenge that she transformed into an 
opportunity. Some men have quirks that are very 
different, but still offer opportunities — often great 
opportunities.

At thirty-one, Stephan was president of his third 
corporation. He'd founded a high-tech company in Silicon 
Valley when he was twenty-three, sold out at a 
tremendous profit three years later, founded another 
within a year, and repeated the process. He was a 
millionaire twice over.

The company was a small one, but its product was a sure 
success, and that was enough for Stephan. He liked 
presidencies and he liked making money, but he didn't 
feel a need to risk everything he had.

Outside his office sat my friend Linda, twenty-seven 
years old at the time, beautiful and uncommonly 
intelligent. Stephan had hired her as a receptionist, 
secretary and status symbol. Though he wasn't explicit 
about it during her interview, he clearly intended that 
she satisfy his sexual needs as well, at least when he 
couldn't spare the time to chase down someone else. He 
was a notorious womanizer. I knew his reputation and had 
told Linda what she could expect.

Inevitably they became lovers. She found him competent 
but unimaginative. He liked to fuck in the missionary 
position and did it well, but he resisted her occasional 
attempts to get on top. Still she liked him and enjoyed 
their relationship. Whatever his reputation as a 
womanizer, he treated her as a human being, not an 
object, and she appreciated it.

She did her job well enough to become indispensable, and 
she was a more interesting and personable companion than 
any of his previous secretaries — probably than any 
other woman he had ever known. In a few months, he was 
in love with her. When she felt sufficiently secure, she 
told him one evening as they undressed that she was 
going to tie him to the bed. He objected, but she said 
it was that or nothing, so he let her.

When she finished tying the knots, he was obviously 
frightened: his heart was pounding and he showed no sign 
of sexual arousal. She straddled his face and had him 
tongue her through one orgasm, then repositioned herself 
to see how his cock was doing. It was ready.

"I see my pussy still turns you on. Neat!"

She straddled his cock, held it in place, and lowered 
herself onto it. As it slid into her, an expression of 
panic crossed his face. For a moment he stopped 
breathing. Then he looked at her pleadingly and 
ejaculated.

"Oh, how embarrassing!" she said, lowering herself all 
the way.

He lay there helpless as his cock continued pumping.

"Wow!" she said, "I can feel every little twitch!"

His chagrin was plainly visible as his orgasm subsided. 
She remained where she was, holding his cock in her 
pussy, looking down at him.

"I know what happened to you. You started thinking how 
embarrassing it would be if you lost control and came 
too soon; and the idea of having me see it happen was so 
exciting, it made you come."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not! I think it's neat!"

She smiled affectionately and thought.

"You know, you'll never be able to fuck me like you used 
to after this, because now that we both know how excited 
you get at the thought of letting me see you lose 
control, you'll get so embarrassed every time you try, 
it'll make you come right away like you just did."

Alarm! "You mean you won't let me make love to you 
anymore?"

"I didn't say that. We'll make love plenty, but we'll 
have to find other ways to do it, especially if I'm 
going to have a chance to come too."

"It was probably just being tied up like this that made 
that happen. All we really have to do is go back to 
doing things normally."

"I'm not sure I want to do things normally. It's fun 
being able to turn you on so much that you can't control 
your come. It'd be a real neat secret for us to share."

He looked worried.

I'll tell you what," she continued. "Let's see what 
happens. Next time I'll let you try making love to me 
the way we've been doing. If it goes the same as always, 
we'll know that it was tying you up that made you lose 
control; but if you come right away, you'll let me 
figure out what to do about it. Okay?"

"Okay."

She raised herself up and untied him.

Linda had developed a good working knowledge of 
Stephan's biological rhythms, so she was able to make 
sure he was especially horny the next time they made 
love. She simply arranged to be unavailable the evening 
she expected him to be ready, so he'd have that much 
greater a need for release the next day; then she took 
care to arouse him as much as possible before they 
finally made their way to bed.

She'd been trying for days to figure out what she could 
do to make him come right away. It would have to be 
something little — nothing as blatant as teasing him 
about what had happened when she tied him up, nothing 
that would give him cause to cry foul, preferably 
nothing that he would even notice. Well, maybe he could 
notice, but certainly nothing he would admit to 
noticing. What she wound up doing was so subtle, she 
herself was never sure it had any effect.

She lay on her back to receive him as always, and when 
he had penetrated her about halfway, she put her palms 
against the outer reaches of his buttocks and pulled him 
the rest of the way in. Her intent was to make him feel 
there was no escape from what her pussy was going to do 
to him.

It might have been a superfluous gesture, but if it 
wasn't, it worked.

The same progression unfolded a second time: the panic, 
the pleading look, "Linda, I..." the splash of his sperm 
against her cervix.

"I get to feel it again! Every little twitch!"

She took his face in her hands. It was an expression of 
love for the helpless little boy inside — she really did 
love him — and it also kept him from avoiding her eyes.

"See? You've really lost it for good."

"Linda, I-I... don't know what happened. I..."

"Yes you do. We both know. You imagined how it would 
feel to lose control like that, with me here to share 
it, and the thought was so exciting, it made you come 
right away."

He looked at her with the same pleading expression.

"Be honest with me now." She was still holding his face, 
looking into his eyes. "Isn't that what happened?"

It was a while before he could bring himself to speak.

"O my God! This is so embarrassing!"

"Well?"

"You know."

"Sure! I knew last time. I told you then, I think it's 
neat that you get so turned on to me."

"Are you still going to let me make love to you?"

"Yes, but maybe not like this."

"What do you mean?"

"Here, let's get more comfortable." She eased him off 
her and he lay on his back next to her. She took his 
hand in hers.

"There are lots of ways to make love," she said. "I'd 
like to show you some of my favorites."

"That sounds like an offer I can't refuse."

"Well, maybe you can. What I want is for you to be my 
love slave. That might scare you."

He hesitated. When he spoke again he sounded scared. "It 
does. What do you mean, be your love slave?"

"I mean, I decide when and how we make love, you don't 
have sex with other women, you answer me honestly when I 
ask you questions about your sexuality — that kind of 
thing. I guess the feel of it is, we both know I can 
turn you on uncontrollably, and it's a lot of fun, so 
you give yourself to me to turn on whenever I want, and 
you trust me to make sure we both enjoy it."

After a long silence, he asked, "Can I think about it?"

"Sure. You'll have to agree before we make love again, 
but take as long as you like."

A couple of days later, Stephan left on a trip to take 
care of an emergency that smelled like a complete 
fabrication. Linda knew intuitively that it was to be a 
sexual adventure, and that his reason for traveling so 
far away was partly so word of his infidelity wouldn't 
get back to her and partly so that if he came right 
away, word wouldn't get around to anyone else. She 
didn't ask him about it, or even let on that she 
understood, and she never had a clue as to whether he 
came right away with whomever he picked as his partner. 
If he did, he decided to return to Linda because she 
accepted him that way and he loved her. If he performed 
normally, he must have found it dull. What was important 
was that when he came back, he gave himself to her just 
has she had asked.

He gave himself wholeheartedly, and their love was like 
something out of a fairytale. Ten months later they were 
married, even though Linda made it clear that she might 
choose never to fuck him again, and indeed they didn't 
fuck during all those ten months.

When they had recovered from the ordeal of the wedding, 
she tied him down and told him, "I guess we're supposed 
to celebrate our marriage by making love the traditional 
way, so I'm going to have you come in my pussy this one 
time."

His cock twitched in response.

"Do you think you can stand a couple of minutes of me, 
or are you going to come as soon as you're inside?"

"I don't know."

"I'll tell you what. After I get you all the way in, if 
you can take one more stroke, I'll let you fuck me once 
more after today. If you can take two strokes, I'll let 
you fuck me twice, and so on. If you come while you're 
just getting in, or before I start moving up again, it 
might be your last come in my pussy."

She squatted over him, put the head of his cock in her 
pussy, and started down. He gasped and came, thrusting 
his hips to get all the way inside her.

"Ooh! Exciting, isn't it?" she teased. Then as his body 
started to relax and the embarrassment showed on his 
face, she added, "I guess my pussy's just too much for 
you."

I spoke with Linda occasionally during the years that 
followed, and when last I heard, she and Stephan were 
still happily married. He was still in love with her and 
still accepted his role as her slave. About once a year, 
near their anniversary, she would tie him down and fuck 
him. He always came immediately and she always teased 
him about it.

Because she was so quick-witted and understood the Loop 
so well, Linda was able to make the most of the 
opportunity presented by Stephan's loss of control that 
first time she tied him down. With only that as a start, 
she built a very comfortable life for herself. She might 
like to fuck a little more often, but maybe not; after 
all, if she really wanted to, she could.


*** Chapter 11, In which we make a microscopic study of 
some valuable psychological techniques

In the scenarios we've looked at so far, we've 
repeatedly seen the use of certain psychological 
techniques that are so powerful as to be indispensable, 
but we haven't yet examined them with the thoroughness 
they deserve. It's time. We'll look at four of these 
techniques, see how they were used in our little 
collection of familiar scenarios, and entertain 
ourselves with a couple of new scenarios that illustrate 
them further. You'll recognize these same techniques — 
and their power — as they make repeated appearances in 
the chapters that follow.

Suggestion

Some experts say that hypnosis consists in one person 
acting out the role of hypnotist while another acts out 
the role of subject, making it, in effect, a play that 
two people perform together. This doesn't mean it's a 
hoax or that it doesn't really work; it does work. What 
the experts are saying is that it works because both 
players know the rules governing their roles. A 
hypnotist gives her subject suggestions — that he'll 
stretch out his arm, brick in hand, and hold that 
position without tiring; that he'll remember the plate 
number of the getaway car; that he'll lose his craving 
for tobacco — and the subject does as directed.

Of course hypnotism doesn't always work. The hypnotist 
has to be competent and confident, the subject has to be 
at least ordinarily suggestible, and the suggestions 
have to be reasonable: they can't go beyond the realm of 
possibility, nor can they violate the core personality 
of the subject. A man can't be made to lift a fire 
truck, permanently lose interest in food and drink, or 
remember the number on a license plate he didn't see 
(though he can be made to believe, incorrectly, first 
that he saw it, and then that he remembers that it bore 
a number suggested to him).

One of the ways a dominatrix controls her love slave is 
through the same kind of suggestion. She tells him what 
he's going to do, how he's going to respond to her, what 
emotions he's going to feel, and he does. This happens 
even though it requires his cooperation, and even though 
he might have started out unwilling. Her confidence and 
the power of her femininity make him accept the role she 
defines for him.

A man can be told what will happen in a few minutes, or 
what will happen in a few days, or what will happen 
whenever certain circumstances arise, or how things will 
be in the indefinite future. Suggestions are given in 
the course of ordinary conversation, with no particular 
preparation or emphasis. They're best stated as simple 
declarative sentences, usually in the future tense, 
sometimes in the present tense: "One evening next week, 
you'll realize you got through a whole day without even 
thinking about having a cigarette," or, "You must be 
getting thirsty."

Suggestions aren't commands and oughtn't be phrased as 
if they were. Commands inspire resistance. If you have 
good control over a man, he'll obey your commands even 
when he dislikes them, but he'll have a negative feeling 
about it. A suggestion, when it works, makes a man feel 
either that he's acting of his own free will or that 
he's lost control of himself; it never makes him feel 
that he's following an order.

You can make a suggestion more powerful by phrasing it 
as a presupposition. To a man in a hypnotic trance, "You 
may notice that you're getting thirsty," is a much more 
effective suggestion that, "You must be getting 
thirsty." The question is no longer, Am I thirsty? but, 
Do I notice? The thirst is presupposed. To a man in a 
state of ordinary awareness, though, the phrasing of the 
suggestion as a presupposition sounds weird. His 
reaction isn't, I'm thirsty, but What's going on here? 
The simpler version is better because it sounds natural 
— a thoughtful and caring remark with no ulterior 
purpose. Presuppositions don't always sound weird, 
though, and when they fit the flow of conversation, they 
can be used to good advantage.

Let's go back to the afternoon of Patrick's enslavement 
and look at the suggestions I gave him.

When I had finished describing what was involved in 
being my love slave and he said, "I can't agree to 
that," I gave him a highly suggestive answer: "Oh, 
you'll agree to it. Tied up like this, you don't have 
any choice."

It worked; he agreed.

When he asked what I was going to do to him, part of my 
answer was, "I'm going to play with you, and you' aren't 
going to be able to help but come."

That suggestion worked too; he came.

The dominatrix in the fetish magazines, by contrast, 
shrieks at her victim, "You can't come without my 
permission! If you do, it's twenty lashes with the 
rosebush!" That suggestion also works, producing the 
opposite effect from mine — the man finds himself able 
to hold off his orgasm until she gives the word, no 
matter how intense the stimulation.

Most men, in the absence of suggestion, can delay orgasm 
but not prevent it. A few can prevent it, while many 
can't even delay it. A suggestion that orgasm is 
inevitable shifts the balance so that almost no man will 
be able to resist completely, and most will come after 
relatively little stimulation, having lost the ability 
to slow their responses. After a suggestion that 
resistance is both possible and necessary, on the other 
hand, many men will be able to resist completely, and 
almost all will be able to manage a delay.

If you want to destroy a man's ability to resist sexual 
stimulation, it's important to use the right kind of 
suggestion. The difference can be subtle, because it 
depends on just what is said and in what tone, rather 
than on the consequences threatened. A gently teasing, 
"I'm going to play with you, and you aren't going to be 
able to help but come, even though I'm going to give you 
twenty lashes with the rosebush afterward," will make 
resistance difficult, while an angry, "We both know you 
can control yourself, and you'd better, because if you 
come I'm going to keep playing with your cock until you 
promise to be my love slave," will make control easy.

Of course neither of these little speeches is credible. 
Let's bring our examples back to reality, still using 
the situation in which you want to play with the Loop by 
teasing your lover about how he can't help coming even 
though he knows you're going to toy with the post-
orgasmic sensitivity of his cock. It wouldn't be a good 
idea to say, "You're going to have to use every trick 
you know to make sure you don't come, because if you do 
come, your cock will get all sensitive and I'm going to 
keep playing with it anyway." 

That suggestion would inspire him to remember one of 
those tricks you so thoughtfully mentioned, and he would 
use it to keep himself from coming. Worse yet, the trick 
is one that normally doesn't work; its power comes 
entirely from your suggestion. A much better thing to 
say is, "I'm going to make you come, and when you're 
done and your cock gets all sensitive, I'm going to keep 
playing with it longer than you can stand." That 
implants in his psyche the belief that the success of 
your agenda is a foregone conclusion and makes him 
cooperate.

I gave Patrick a few more suggestions that afternoon. 
Two were contained in the single sentence, "We'll be 
doing a lot of this kind of playing, now that we both 
know how it turns you on." The first suggestion was, You 
will cooperate in this kind of play, and the second was, 
This kind of play turns you on. Just the mind-set that 
makes a good love slave! And note the presupposition! If 
the suggestion left any question at all in Patrick's 
mind, it wasn't whether my kind of play turns him on.

Then I gave him an example. "Next time we get together, 
I'll probably tie your hands behind you and drop your 
pants first thing, then press against you and kiss you 
like we were doing before, until your cock is sticking 
straight out in front of you."

That prepared him to cooperate with the particular bit 
of play I described, and it ensured that he would 
respond erotically. Again, his response is presupposed. 
There was still a chance he would put up some token 
resistance to letting me tie his hands, but once I'd got 
that out of the way, my pressing against him and kissing 
him was certain to make his cock hard.

"You're going to have to get used to sharing your 
thoughts and feelings with me. It's part of being my 
love slave."

He did get used to it, and much sooner, I'm sure, than 
he would have without that suggestion.

And there was one more: the repeated exclamation, "My 
sex toy!"

Suggestion played an even greater role in Tony's 
enslavement by Denise. Her first suggestion to him was 
that brilliantly worded announcement, "You know, some 
day you're gonna be my out-and-out sex slave. You're 
gonna do every little thing I tell you, you're gonna do 
it my way, and you're gonna be happy about it." It set 
him up not only to accept sexual slavery, but to like 
it. To be sure, most men who are sexually enslaved do 
like it, but Tony wasn't one for liking anything or 
anyone, so telling him, "you're gonna be happy about 
it," was important.

When she'd finished making him come by hand the first 
time, and discovered that he couldn't stand to have the 
stimulation continued, she said, "You're gonna be 
wanting me to do that for you again someday." Though he 
argued with her agenda after she untied him, that 
suggestion helped bring him back for another go.

When she got her next shot at him, she displayed her 
pussy and said, "It's gonna make you my slave. You're 
gonna do everything I say, just because I've got this 
pussy between my legs and you know what a thrill it can 
give you."

When she then made it clear that she intended to follow 
through on her promise to keep playing with his cock 
longer than he liked, and he said he couldn't believe 
it, she said, "I think it turns you on, too, knowing I'm 
not gonna stop and you have to come anyway."

Before she said that, it hadn't occurred to Tony to be 
turned on by that prospect. Though almost all men have 
the potential to be led into the Loop, most are unaware 
of the possibility until the first time it happens. Tony 
wasn't yet turned on by the idea of being obviously 
unable to resist Denise; he was cooperating only because 
he found her extremely attractive and hoped to restore 
their relationship to normalcy. Her little speech 
suggested the Loop — told him what to feel. 

At the time, of course, Denise couldn't be sure that 
Tony hadn't fallen into the Loop himself — that was 
revealed months later, after she taught him how to 
engage in relaxed and intimate conversation — but if he 
had fallen in, what she said was still perfect for the 
situation since it would have fed the Loop by telling 
him she knew what he was feeling. On top of all that, 
she suggested the inevitability of his orgasm by 
presupposition, making it virtually impossible that he'd 
be able to resist.

Immediately after that, she told him (referring to her 
intention to torture him), "Next time you're gonna know, 
and you're gonna let me tie you up anyway, and then 
we're both gonna know it's because you want it." That 
suggested, first, that he was to cooperate with her 
agenda of tying him up yet again, and second, that he 
was to cultivate a positive attitude toward both being 
tied up and having the sensitivity of his cock toyed 
with. He was to develop an appreciation of the degree to 
which the scenario turned him on, and even a conscious 
desire to have it repeated.

When they got together again, it was obvious that Tony 
was no longer a stranger to the Loop. Denise tied him 
down and told him how turned on he was by his 
anticipation of what she was going to do to him, and the 
response of his cock proved her right.

"See? You do like it! I'm gonna have to do this 
sometimes after you're my sex slave, it turns you on so 
much. Won't that be something?— being my sex slave, and 
me knowing you get a hard-on for having your dick rubbed 
and rubbed after you're done coming."

"You do like it!" is just a tease to a man who has 
enthusiastically accepted sexual slavery. To someone in 
Tony's position, especially someone with Tony's 
hostility, it's a suggestion. His inclination might be 
to feel resentful of the way control of his body is 
being taken from him, and he might not infer from the 
reaction of his cock that he likes what's happening. It 
helps to tell him.

Her last sentence implanted in his mind a fantasy that 
he was directed to nurture — just the sort of fantasy 
that makes the day-to-day experience of sexual slavery 
so continuously exciting.

She went on to tell him that when they repeated the same 
scenario yet again, he would be required to answer her 
question about how it made him feel.

"I mean, if you like it, tell me. If you're embarrassed 
but it turns you on anyway, tell me that."

Her coaching suggested the right answer and directed him 
to cultivate a conscious awareness of what was happening 
to him. I'm embarrassed by the way I can't help but turn 
on and by how obviously I keep seeking to repeat this 
scenario, and I'm turned on by the way she embarrasses 
me when I'm with her. Her coaching also demonstrated to 
Tony that the Loop can be spoken, and directed him to 
rehearse his own description so he could recite it to 
her on demand.

If I've repeated too many pieces of the story of Denise 
and Tony, it's because so very much of what she said to 
him was suggestion. It had to be; Tony started with 
almost none of the attributes that make a good love 
slave. Denise turned him into one by implanting a series 
of electrodes in his brain, one at a time, and 
connecting them all together — only she used suggestion 
instead of a drill.

At the other extreme, Linda enslaved Stephan with just 
one suggestion, but it was such a knockout that nothing 
else was necessary except the formality of inviting him 
to be hers.

"You know, you'll never be able to fuck me like you used 
to after this, because now that we both know how excited 
you get at the thought of letting me see you lose 
control, you'll get so embarrassed every time you try, 
it'll make you come right away like you just did."

Suddenly she was the most exciting woman he had ever 
known. Of course, it helped that he was already in love 
with her, that he opened the opportunity by losing 
control, and that she had the presence of mind to 
recognize her chance and think so quickly of the right 
thing to say. Even with all that going for her, there 
was no guarantee that her words would have the desired 
effect; suggestions do sometimes fail. But she had 
nothing to lose and a great deal to gain, and it turned 
out that she succeeded perfectly.

She repeated her suggestion in a shorter version the one 
time they fucked in the missionary position afterward 
("See? You've really lost it for good"), and again just 
after they consummated their marriage ("I guess my 
pussy's just too much for you"), and often enough 
thereafter to ensure that it remained true.

Staging struggles for control

Time and again, we've seen how a man can be made to 
struggle, and inevitably fail, to maintain control of 
his sexual responses. In all but one of the scenarios 
we've looked at so far, the man was one who experienced 
distress if stimulation of his penis was continued after 
orgasm, and he was told that that was just what was 
going to happen if he came. In the last, it was made 
clear that the consequence of premature ejaculation 
would be denial of the privilege of fucking the woman 
who caused it.

Orgasm isn't the only response that can be toyed with in 
this manner. A man can be told that he mustn't allow his 
cock to get hard, that he mustn't allow it to leak its 
lubricating fluid, that he mustn't allow it to twitch. 
The consequences of losing control are limited only by 
the imagination.

The technique itself is simple and straightforward. The 
man is told what it is that he mustn't allow to happen 
and he's told the consequences of losing control. Then 
he's subjected to stimulation sufficient to cause the 
forbidden response, teased about his loss of control, 
and punished as promised.

We've already examined the most obvious reason for using 
this technique — the Loop. If the man is to be punished 
for responding, he'll try not to. When he responds 
anyway, his inability to control himself embarrasses 
him. His embarrassment and his partner's obvious 
enjoyment of it combine to turn him on all the more.

We've seen how this can enhance the intimacy of a 
relationship, how it can intensify a man's love for the 
woman who puts him through it, how it can lead to the 
sort of alteration of consciousness that men have sought 
from time immemorial. But even when all this has been 
explained, many a woman is skeptical. I recommend that 
she occasionally put her lover in restraints and tell 
him that if he lets himself come she's going to play 
with the sensitivity of his cock, then bring him off and 
torture him; and she asks, "How could a man like that? 
Why would he let me do it more than once?"

The answer to the first question is easy. He doesn't 
like it. He finds the idea a tremendous turn-on until he 
comes, even until he's drained, but only until then. The 
continued stimulation afterward is uncomfortable. The 
duration of his discomfort, though, is brief compared to 
the time the idea acts as a turn-on; and it's the idea, 
not the actual torture, that fuels his fantasies between 
sessions.

The answer to the second question is of greater 
complexity, encompassing everything we've already 
discussed and more. To gain an understanding of the more 
— the part of the explanation we haven't yet considered 
— we'll begin by contemplating the doings at our local 
video arcade.

This strange place is inhabited by human beings, most 
young, almost all male, many in a frightful state of 
degeneracy, playing video games. They've come here for 
that purpose and they're paying for the privilege with 
their time and money. The average player concentrates on 
one game, three at most, improving his skill by long and 
repeated practice.

The typical game has two main components — a set of 
goals to be reached (usually a primary goal and several 
secondary goals) and a set of hazards that get in the 
way. Some games have a hero who pursues the goal under 
the player's control and with whom the player can 
identify; others allow the player to confront the 
fantasy world on the screen without an intermediary. The 
hazards can be villains or they can be pitfalls or they 
can be a mix of both. These details of implementation 
don't matter except in that they attract slightly 
different types of players.

The player scores points by reaching the primary goal, 
reaching a secondary goal, or making progress. Being 
overcome by a hazard brings the end of the game closer 
or, if it's already very close, ends the game 
completely. Reaching a goal, even the primary goal, 
doesn't. The player is rewarded with the opportunity to 
try again in a more hostile environment where the goal 
is more difficult to reach, the hazards harder to avoid, 
and the point values of the successes greater.

All the really good video games — the ones the players 
enjoy most, the ones they play over and over and nourish 
with coin after coin — have one important feature in 
common: they don't always play the same. The variation 
is generally in the behavior of the hazards. They appear 
at different times and in different places and they do 
different things, though the times and places of their 
appearance, as well as what they do, are always 
consistent with their nature.

This means that the player can't perfect his strategy by 
rote, but has to conceptualize the hazards and develop 
an understanding of the essence of each — a much more 
interesting type of learning. It also means that a game 
occasionally ends much sooner than the player thinks 
appropriate for his level of skill, owing to an 
unfortunate encounter with a hazard whose behavior was 
unexpected. A player to whom this happens will almost 
always play again right away, hoping to leave a more 
fitting score on the machine.

Video games, especially those that offer variation in 
play, are addictive. They hook the player's need for a 
feeling of accomplishment and mastery. It's that feeling 
that the owner of the arcade is selling, albeit within 
the most limited of contexts. And it doesn't matter that 
the context is so trivial as to appear ludicrous to a 
person with any sense of reality. An addicted player 
still pours in dollar after dollar, hour after hour, day 
after day, for months on end.

So why, I again ask rhetorically, returning to the real 
subject of my discourse, would a man make a habit of 
putting himself in sexual situations where he might be 
subject to treatment that's distressing, embarrassing, 
or both? Why, to continue using my favorite example, 
would he repeatedly allow himself to be tied up by a 
woman who has shown an interest in playing with the 
post-orgasmic sensitivity of his cock? 

Because he's in love; because it's the price of 
continuing in a relationship that offers other sexual 
activities that are more to his liking, as well as a 
variety of nonsexual benefits; because, distressing and 
embarrassing though it may be, it's a tremendous turn-
on. These reasons mustn't be forgotten.

But another factor is his craving for the feeling of 
accomplishment that comes of getting better at the game 
— the game in which his goal is to experience as much 
sexual pleasure as he can, preferably in the course of 
the sexual activities he likes best, while avoiding, 
insofar as possible, such hazards as physical distress 
and embarrassment.

Is he really playing a game? Certainly not in the sense 
of the degenerates who inhabit the video arcade. Sexual 
slavery wasn't his idea, and he wouldn't object if the 
woman he loves were to announce an intention to turn 
their relationship into a conventional one. Still, the 
relationship, strange as it is, offers its benefits, and 
he's in love, and sexual slavery is an incredible turn-
on, so he makes the best of his circumstances. 

Those circumstances include the elements that make a 
good video game so addictive: a goal he craves and 
hazards that are unpredictable within understood limits. 
Making the best of his circumstances means pursuing the 
goal while trying to avoid the hazards, so he finds 
himself in the position of having to play a game with 
addictive qualities, and inevitably it captivates him.

Obviously this would be the case even if video games had 
never been invented. My only reason for discussing them 
at such length is that they embody the addictive 
qualities that interest us, and in a context so far 
removed from reality as to isolate those qualities for 
easy contemplation. For convenience then, and certainly 
with no intent to trivialize human affection, I'll 
continue using the metaphor of the game as we discuss 
the love slave's quest to maximize his sexual pleasure 
while minimizing the punishment and embarrassment his 
partner so often combines with it.

At the outermost level of the game, the love slave seeks 
to induce his partner to choose his own favorite sexual 
activities while trying to avoid either long periods of 
abstinence or activities that are likely to cause him 
discomfort or embarrassment. He seeks to motivate her to 
fuck him without tying him down, and he tries to avoid 
bondage and torture. However wide their repertoire of 
sexual activities, he has his order of preference among 
them, and he always aims as high as he can.

If, on a particular occasion, his partner's choice 
matches his preference — if she leaves him untied and 
fucks him, for example — he counts himself successful. 
If she chooses a direction less promising, the game 
continues at a lower level and he aims for the best 
outcome possible in light of her choice.

If she ties him to the bed, there are still several 
possibilities. Maybe she doesn't intend to torture him; 
maybe she just wants to fuck him while he's tied down. 
Of course she might keep up the stimulation after he 
comes, using her pussy, but at least that would spare 
him the indignity of having an obscene display made of 
his ejaculation. Besides, if she plans to torture him 
with her pussy, he might be able to change her mind by 
talking to her lovingly while she fucks him, so as to 
catch her up in a different mood. No? Maybe she'll be so 
overwhelmed by her own orgasm that she'll stop thrusting 
her hips. Maybe he'll be able to end the torture by 
wriggling out of her.

Even if she ties him down and states a clear intent to 
make him come by hand and then continue the stimulation, 
maybe she'll be overcome with lust and wind up fucking 
him. Maybe he'll somehow be able to keep himself from 
responding and she'll give up and try something more to 
his liking. Maybe he'll manage to talk her into a 
gentler approach, or maybe she'll change her mind 
herself. Maybe her technique will be a little off when 
she tries to torture him — maybe she'll just milk the 
shaft of his cock and miss the frenum and corona — and 
he won't be so distressed as usual. Maybe, whether she 
uses her hands or her pussy, he'll be able to ignore the 
sensations if he counts to himself by thirteens.

If you've paid careful attention to everything you've 
read here, you're probably being nagged by a 
discrepancy. When I first described the Loop, I said 
it's addictive — a man comes to fantasize, even crave, 
situations in which is loss of control turns out to be 
particularly embarrassing. Now I'm in the midst of 
describing a great metaphoric game in which the same man 
has the goal of achieving as much sexual satisfaction in 
as ordinary a manner as possible, while keeping his 
embarrassment to a minimum. I owe you an explanation.

Both things are true. The man is addicted. He does 
indeed fantasize and crave situations in which his loss 
of control leads to extreme embarrassment. On any given 
occasion, though, he dreads the realization of those 
fantasies. He wants to be embarrassed like he wants to 
go to heaven — not right now.

Think of a little boy visiting a zoo and coming upon the 
cage of a particularly exuberant lion. He approaches the 
lion and runs away, but he doesn't go far and he doesn't 
keep his distance. He approaches the lion again, then 
runs again, then approaches, then runs. Often he shrieks 
and laughs; his approaches and flights are fun. He's 
playing and he knows it. And he winds up spending a good 
deal of time near that lion.

The man inevitably becomes obsessed with his partner and 
her diverse erotic possibilities. His mind, when not 
focused on the hardships of daily life, is constantly 
occupied with fantasies of what they might do together, 
and those fantasies keep him horny. That's why a man of 
seventy who has been sexually enslaved exhibits the 
sexual enthusiasm he had at thirty.

When a woman varies the technique and emphasis of her 
lovemaking, her man comes to appreciate how each sexual 
encounter takes its own peculiar twists and turns, 
offering its own promises, raising its own fears, 
imprinting his consciousness with its unique blend of 
excitement, affection, embarrassment, pleasure, distress 
and intimacy. With her in control, and with the 
understanding ever in his mind that his sexuality is her 
toy, no sexual act is ever simple or routine. Each 
becomes, at least in part, a heroic struggle in which he 
hopes to reach his goal without being overcome by 
hazards, and the context is far from trivial. He tries 
to develop his skill.

The major part of developing skill consists in learning 
what motivates his partner's sexual choices. What makes 
her choose to fuck? What makes her choose to tie him up? 
What makes her choose to torture him? What makes her 
choose to leave him sexually frustrated until another 
day?

A man will be able to answer these questions more 
easily, to the detriment of the quality of the game, if 
his partner is using sex to get control over some 
difficult aspect of his behavior — his neglect of 
parenting, perhaps — because she has to tell him quite 
clearly that unsatisfactory behavior will be punished by 
forced abstinence, while his favorite activities will be 
chosen with any frequency only when his behavior has 
been exemplary for a long while. But even if she finds 
it necessary to take this approach, the sexual aspect of 
their relationship needn't be governed by a rigid 
schedule of rewards and punishments. 

She can still leave herself a great deal of flexibility 
in deciding the when and the how of sex, and she can 
inject as much playful variation into their sexual 
interaction as she would if he had no bad habits. This 
keeps him hopeful of figuring out what motivates her 
deviations from quid pro quo, with the result that he 
takes an active interest in the game rather than just 
accepting it as a temporary hardship imposed because of 
his faults.

A woman who isn't using sex to correct her man's 
behavior can base all her sexual choices on her mood of 
the moment, tempered by consideration of her partner's 
needs. This leaves him less sure of what to expect than 
the man who's undergoing a program of reform, and his 
attempts to figure her out and influence her choices 
will be more interesting.

Any man's success at figuring out and influencing his 
partner will depend on her predictability and his 
ingenuity. To keep him from getting bored with the game, 
indeed to keep him from slowly taking control of the 
relationship, it's necessary to do the unexpected often 
and remain ever vigilant against attempts at 
manipulation.

What about the other extreme? Is it possible to behave 
so randomly that a man loses interest? No, and for three 
reasons. First, as we've already noted, the addictive 
nature of our metaphoric game is only a small part of 
what makes the relationship appealing. Second, there's 
more to his play of the game than trying to predict and 
control your choices: he hopes to control his own 
responses. The technique we're discussing, after all, is 
that of making him struggle to control himself, and his 
play of the game overflows into an attempt to influence 
your choices largely because he realizes that he'll lose 
fewer struggles for control of his responses if he 
manipulates you into staging fewer.

When you do stage such a struggle, he recognizes that 
he's no longer at the outermost level of the game. He 
has to keep his body from responding to your femininity 
or be punished. He'll probably try to make you lose 
interest, but he still has to control himself long 
enough to accomplish that, so he has no easy way out. 
When you tell him that if he comes in less than twenty 
minutes, you'll keep playing with his cock in its state 
of sensitivity, he'll try not to come; and when he does 
come, he'll try to find a way to keep the continued 
stimulation from getting to him. Sometimes he'll seem to 
have pretty good control, if only for a while. Rarely 
he'll even succeed, whether at holding off his orgasm or 
at suppressing his discomfort, and these occasional 
successes encourage him.

That brings us to the third point — he doesn't have to 
get better at the game to feel encouraged. Maybe on one 
occasion he manages not to come because he started out 
less horny than you thought. That's an accomplishment, 
but it's a transitory accomplishment because it will 
alert you to the possibility and you'll take care to 
prevent a recurrence. Maybe on another occasion he 
experiences only minimal distress when you keep rubbing 
his cock after he's drained. He had a headache two hours 
earlier and dosed himself with an analgesic that's still 
in his system. He's not aware that that's the reason and 
he won't figure it out. Such happenings encourage him, 
but they don't represent a lasting improvement in his 
ability to control himself.

His attempts to manipulate you are even more subject to 
random success. It's inevitable that you'll frequently 
choose to do what he's hoping for. Often you simply want 
to fuck. Maybe once or twice when you've decided to 
bring him off by hand and torture him, you're so 
overcome with lust that you change your mind and fuck 
him while he's still tied. These little victories 
convince him that he's gaining a measure of skill at 
manipulating you, and they whet is interest and 
encourage him.

What he does is manufacture an illusion of skill. He 
manufactures it from random successes, just as a gambler 
addicted to roulette manufactures an illusion of skill 
from the occasional winning streaks inherent in all 
games of chance. His successes keep him interested in 
the game, but a man who's turned on to you and horny has 
no more chance of resisting the power of your femininity 
than the gambler has of beating roulette over the long 
term. His sexuality is truly yours to play with as you 
like, and he has no choice but to love you for what you 
do to him.

Let's broaden our perspective on this technique by 
looking at another scenario from my relationship with 
Patrick.

Of all that was encompassed in his new role as my love 
slave, what Patrick obviously dreaded most was the 
possibility that he might be required to masturbate 
while I watched. I was determined to put him through it, 
and repeatedly, but I was in no hurry. Months went by 
before the perfect opportunity presented itself.

It began with a sore throat — a sore throat so bad that 
I was driven to seek the services of a nurse 
practitioner. She prescribed a course of antibiotics 
that allowed it to heal but, as often happens when I 
take antibiotics, I developed a severe case of 
vaginitis. When I finally let Patrick visit me, my 
throat was recovered but my pussy was in a sad state. I 
hadn't let him near me in almost two weeks because I 
didn't want to infect him, so he was very horny.

When he arrived, we shared a hug and spent some time 
talking, gradually drifting from the doorway to our 
usual seats at the dining room table. In answer to his 
inquiry about my health, I gave him a sufficiently 
detailed account to let him know that any sexual contact 
between us would have to be limited.

When we'd brought one another up to date on the details 
of our lives, I stood up and headed for the living room.

"Come on in here and get naked! I want to see my toy."

I took a seat at one end of the couch. He got out of his 
clothes, then sat next to me and held my hand. I told 
him to lie down with his head on my lap, and he did.

"Remember when I told you I might want you to play with 
yourself while I watch, and you'd have to do it?"

"Yeah?"

He'd learned that silence wouldn't do.

"Well, this seems like the perfect time."

"I'm really not comfortable with that."

"I know. It would embarrass you more than anything else 
we've done together, but you're going to have to do it."

"It's been a long time since we've seen each other. 
Wouldn't you rather you play with me? We'd be a lot 
closer that way."

"It's a nice thought, sure! But I just want to watch."

"Why?"

"Because it'll embarrass you so much. Because I know 
that if it embarrasses you like that, you've never done 
it for another woman, and it'll be something special 
between you and me. Because I want to be able to remind 
you that you did it, and how you have to do it again 
anytime I want, and see you get all embarrassed and 
turned on."

The Loop. The idea made his cock grow with a little 
twitch.

"Can we put it off for another time while I psych myself 
up?"

"We'll do it another time too, but I'll tell you what."

"What?"

"I'll give you a chance to escape, just for today. We'll 
play a little game to see who has to play with your 
cock. How does that sound?"

"What kind of game?"

"We'll stay here like this for a while, and if I can 
make your cock drip without touching it, you have to 
start playing with it right away and keep going until 
you come and you won't argue any more. If you can keep 
it from dripping for twenty minutes, I'll play with it 
today, but you'll still have to do it another time. 
Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good. It's 7:18.

"Hey, this isn't working out badly at all! No matter who 
wins, I'm sure of getting to see that sexy fireworks 
display of yours, and you get to feel that yummy thrill 
that goes with it."

As I spoke I fixed my gaze on his cock. I loved it. I 
loved Patrick. I let all that love flow through me, and 
at the same time, I wondered what response I would see. 
A smile came to my face — the same smile that had had 
such a powerful effect on Drew in similar circumstances.

Patrick's cock grew rapidly and aimed itself upward.

"Exciting thought, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I really like the way your cock reacts to the 
idea that I'm going to watch it spurt. I mean, it's neat 
that it turns you on, and it's really neat that you 
can't hide that it turns you on."

I continued feeding the Loop with that kind of talk, and 
with almost constant staring at his cock, for eleven 
minutes. That's how long it took for the first drop of 
fluid to make its way to where I could see it. When it 
appeared, I bent my head toward it and stared hard, not 
saying anything at first. Then I turned so we were face 
to face.

"What's that?" I glanced back toward it to show him what 
I meant.

"Nothing!" He said it emphatically but playfully and I 
loved him for it.

"Mm-hm! You're dripping. You know what that means!"

"I guess so."

He did as he'd promised while I continued to tease him, 
and his orgasm was everything I'd been looking forward 
to — a spectacular show that left him totally 
embarrassed.

I rarely make a man masturbate without first staging 
such a struggle. Even as a dominatrix, I see no need to 
be unpleasantly domineering. My partner will agree to 
play that game, or one like it, even after a history of 
repeated losses; and having agreed, he'll pay the bet 
without complaint. He learned about bets long before he 
met me, and he's so deeply committed to their rules that 
everything stays light and easy between us.

It may seem that if a man has promised to be my slave, 
he should do what I tell him without my having to win a 
game, but that's not a practical attitude for me to 
take. Even from my perspective as a confirmed 
dominatrix, playing the game is a lot more fun than 
simply ordering him to masturbate, and it's more fun no 
matter who wins.

But it's not just my own perspective that I have to 
consider. If I want the relationship to last, I have to 
be mindful of my partner's needs, and I have to keep him 
interested in me. If I repeatedly order him to 
masturbate while I watch, it will get old fast. He may 
even start to feel mistreated. Eventually I'll make the 
mistake of ordering him to masturbate when he's less 
than unbearably horny, and he'll refuse and set out to 
find a more exciting and considerate partner.

The game avoids such an unhappy ending in two ways. 
First, it holds my partner's interest, partly by being 
inherently addictive as games are, partly by offering 
the possibility of a reward more to his liking than the 
privilege of having me watch him masturbate. Second, the 
criterion by which we decide that he's lost the game is 
such that when he has to bring himself off, he's horny 
enough that he really needs to. Once he's dripping, he's 
way past the stage where he can walk out in a huff.

Though it would be a poor idea to make a habit of simply 
ordering a man to masturbate, the possibility is 
important because it ensures that he'll play the game. 
It was clear to Patrick that as my love slave he had no 
choice but to masturbate if I insisted, so when I 
offered him the game, he had nothing to lose. That he 
had almost no chance of winning didn't matter; he knew 
he had more chance than if he didn't play.

I played that game with Patrick a number of times 
afterward, interspersed, of course, with other forms of 
lovemaking. Eventually he won one, and I brought him off 
by hand. He lost a couple more and then won another. I 
brought him off by hand again, but this time, I released 
his cock just as he crossed the threshold of ejaculatory 
inevitability. It was a new experience for him and I 
know he would have been terribly embarrassed even if I'd 
done nothing more than watch, but I teased him 
mercilessly all through the show. After that, he never 
won again. Maybe he wasn't sure he still wanted to, 
considering what it might get him. More likely, though, 
his contemplation of the two alternatives that lay 
before him, both so embarrassing, always proved such a 
turn-on that control became impossible.

The ultimate tease

Another interesting feature of those video games we 
looked at: When the player is defeated by a hazard, the 
machine generates sound effects and visuals that rub it 
in. The people who build the games discovered that a 
machine that produces such effects garners more coins 
than one that doesn't.

I use the same principle in my lovemaking. When a man 
has an orgasm under circumstances that make for even a 
little bit of embarrassment, I add to his chagrin by 
teasing him about it, and I do it right then, while he's 
coming. I always tease him if I've given him a reason to 
resist, I usually tease him if I get to watch him spurt, 
and I sometimes tease him even if he comes in my pussy, 
especially if something I've done makes him lose control 
unexpectedly or his experience is more intense than he's 
comfortable with.

I'm not merely trying to emulate a video game, nor is it 
just that I love teasing (though of course I do). I want 
to leave my partner no doubt that I know what he's 
thinking and feeling, and teasing does that. More 
important still, I tease him because I know that later, 
when he's alone, he'll conjure up the memory of what I 
said, the sound of my voice, and he'll relive his 
embarrassment. He'll turn on, if only a little, and love 
me for being such a tease. A man is rarely so open and 
vulnerable as he is at orgasm, so it's the perfect time 
to make a memory.

Time. As we've seen, orgasm isn't compressed into a 
single instant, but spans two distinct stages, each of 
which lasts a number of seconds. During the first stage, 
the urethra has begun to fill with semen and the man 
knows that ejaculation is inevitable, but the thrill of 
the first spurt hasn't yet hit. The second stage begins 
with that first spurt and, just by virtue of being so 
spectacular, offers a great deal of raw material for 
teasing. A man can be teased about having an obscene 
display made of his ejaculation, the intensity of the 
pleasure and embarrassment he can't help but feel, the 
thrusting of his hips, the motion of his cock — there's 
a lot happening!

It's best to start your teasing early — by the second 
spurt if possible. Your partner is most sensitive to it 
then. The first couple of spurts shatter his defenses, 
open him up, keep him from starting to rebuild. Also, a 
good tease will have a profound effect on his emotions 
all through the rest of his orgasm; if you hit him with 
it early, you color the entire experience, including the 
part that's naturally most intense.

It should come as no surprise, then, that the most 
powerful teasing is that which is done during the first 
stage of orgasm, before ejaculation begins. It's not 
just the timing, though. A special kind of teasing 
belongs here — a kind of teasing that blows a man's mind 
completely.

"You're losing it, Patty!"

O my God, she knows!

His effort to hold off his ejaculation wasn't casual. 
His whole being was focused on it, about to be swept 
away by that final loss of control. And even though he 
knew he was coming, he clung to the belief that it 
wasn't over because I didn't know. After all, I wasn't 
in his head; I wasn't in his cock; I hadn't yet seen him 
spurt. As long as he could keep that from happening, he 
had a chance.

Then I teased him and suddenly I was in there with him — 
in his head, in his cock — I had got myself all the way 
into his soul. He was coming and I knew he was coming. I 
was sharing his struggle to hold off the first spurt, 
sharing his tingle, sharing his embarrassment. The 
display of his ejaculation for my amusement would still 
be humiliating, but it was no longer the criterion by 
which we would know I had made him come. The tease 
showed him that delaying the first spurt by a few 
seconds wasn't enough to hide what was happening, not 
even for those few seconds. I knew him too intimately 
for that. I had confronted him with proof, when he was 
least able to deal with it, that I understood the 
secrets of his sexuality better than he had imagined any 
woman ever could.

And then, with all that going on inside him, he lost the 
contraction and spurted. What a thrill!

Though it may be less obvious, the same thing happened 
to Tony the second time Denise tortured him. Just before 
he started to spurt, she hit him with, "Ooh, you're 
gonna be sorry you let go!"

He already knew that. He had clearly consented to 
Denise's agenda, which was that she would bring him to 
orgasm and then torture him. Still, he couldn't help but 
be anxious about the degree of distress and 
embarrassment she might inflict, and her tease was 
directed to that anxiety. Since the anxiety would still 
be there after his ejaculation was under way, she could 
have waited until then to tease him. Indeed the first 
time she tortured him, she had done just that, even 
using a similar line — "Ooh, you know what happens now!"

The lines could have been interchanged without altering 
the quality of either experience. A tease about the 
consequences of a man's failure to resist orgasm is 
effective whether it precedes or follows the start of 
ejaculation. Still the two experiences were different 
for Tony, and the timing of Denise's teasing is what 
made the difference. 

When she said, before he started to ejaculate, "you're 
gonna be sorry you let go," one of the things she was 
telling him was that she knew he had already let go — 
that he was coming and could no longer stop, not even to 
save himself from the torture that she now implied would 
be worse than he had expected. She brought him to the 
sudden realization that she knew him too well for 
comfort, and it added immeasurably to his embarrassment 
and sense of vulnerability. He had prepared himself to 
deal with the rest of the experience, but not this 
twist, and it overwhelmed him.

The first time Francesca let go of Roy's cock as he 
started to come, she teased him about the show he was 
going to give her.

"What I get to see!"

It was a good tease, but it would have been even better 
if it had come a few seconds earlier. The way it 
actually went, she started speaking as Roy's muscles 
relaxed in preparation for the first spurt. She waited 
that long because she wasn't sure she could recognize 
the onset of ejaculatory inevitability and because she 
didn't yet understand how much more intense Roy's 
experience would be if she spoke sooner.

By removing her hand and saying the same thing just as 
his cock reached maximum stiffness, she would have 
catapulted him suddenly into a trip very much like 
Patrick's. Faced with the prospect of having to 
ejaculate with nothing holding his cock, he would have 
made a desperate attempt to regain control. It would 
have been impossible, and he would have had several very 
long seconds in which to experience the conflict between 
his egoistic compulsion to save himself from 
embarrassment and his physical need to ejaculate. 

During that time, he would have been acutely aware that 
his cock was sticking up, not just in a normal state of 
erection but obscenely, and that if he relaxed the 
muscles that held it that way, even for a moment, they'd 
immediately contract again and his cock would bounce 
back up and spurt. Not only that, but he would have felt 
Francesca in there with him the whole time, fully aware 
of what he was going through and intending every bit of 
it.

Though it's valuable to understand all this, there's no 
cause to lament Francesca's actual timing. She did what 
she knew how, and Roy was thoroughly embarrassed and 
loved her for it. Even had she fully understood the 
potential of an earlier tease, she might have chosen to 
do as she did, then adjust her timing on a subsequent 
occasion so as to again give him more than he was 
prepared to handle.

***

Powerful as this sort of tease is, you're unlikely to 
use it often. I don't. It's appropriate only when a man 
is restrained and has a reason to resist coming. Most 
lovemaking — even most of my lovemaking — isn't like 
that. Bondage involves a fair amount of work, and few 
women have Francesca's motivation to do all that work 
every time. Besides, we all like variety and spontaneity 
in our lovemaking and a steady diet of bondage limits 
that.

Usually then, when you tease your partner during his 
climax, it will be after he's started to ejaculate. To 
get a clear picture of the effect this produces, let's 
review the teases of this type that we've seen so far.

As soon as Patrick lost it, I teased him again.

"Ooh, sperm!"

I was confident that I had a good read on his emotional 
reality. He felt as though he had been tied up by a 
teenage girl who was making him have an orgasm to 
satisfy her curiosity about what she would see. My tease 
hooked that feeling. It was just what I might have 
exclaimed if I had actually been a curious teenager who 
had heard a description of the process of ejaculation 
but never witnessed it.

Even if I was wrong about his emotional reality, it was 
a good tease for the circumstances. Not only do I get to 
make you feel this delicious thrill whenever I want, I 
get to know exactly when you're feeling it. Because even 
if you manage to lie perfectly still, you splash that 
white goop all over. My Obvious enthusiasm gave him 
cause to worry that he'd be put on display in the same 
humiliating way again and again.

I wanted Patrick to have a full album of memories by 
which to remember his enslavement, so I heaped another 
tease on top of that.

"That must feel so good!"

Orgasms are like that. Despite his anxiety about the 
impending torture, Patrick couldn't help but feel the 
pleasure I'd forced on him. I knew, and it added to his 
embarrassment.

The first time Denise tied Tony to his bed and made him 
come by hand, she said, "Uh-huh! All over you!"

One of the reasons a man is so embarrassed when you tie 
him down and bring him off by hand is that the wet 
reminds him, at a deep psychological level, of the 
accidents he had during his toilet training. What Denise 
said to Tony was aimed at that association. I don't 
recommend this sort of tease unless you're sure your 
partner won't take it badly. 

It isn't really necessary because he knows he's wetting 
himself whether you mention it or not, so teasing him 
about some other aspect of the scene, such as the show 
he's giving you, is no less embarrassing. If you imply 
that he's soiling himself, he's likely to conclude that 
you regard his semen as dirty. Almost any man will be 
put off by that, the Loop notwithstanding. He'll take it 
as a rejection of his physical self and infer that you 
don't love him or even that you dislike him.

If you know that your partner is turned on by the idea 
of being made to soil himself (some men are), then by 
all means tease him in this manner. But if he's like 
most, or if you're unsure, there's no reason to tread so 
close to the line; there are plenty of teases that carry 
no implication of rejection.

The first time Linda tied Stephan down and he came just 
as she was putting his cock inside her, she commented on 
it right away.

"Oh, how embarrassing!"

She knew it was, and she knew that that remark would 
make it even more so.

"Wow! I can feel every little twitch!"

O my God! Of course she can. She's not moving; she's not 
all worked up; she's just sitting there savoring the 
feel of my cock throbbing in her pussy. She made me come 
before I wanted to, and I'm so embarrassed, and she's 
entertaining herself with my come and my embarrassment 
and teasing me about it.

The next time they fucked and he lost control like that, 
she echoed the same tease.

"I get to feel it again! Every little twitch!"

The first three words let him know that she was pleased 
with the way things were turning out, that she was happy 
that his loss of control was giving her another 
opportunity to relaxedly enjoy the sensation of his 
come. He was embarrassed, and he knew that she knew he 
was embarrassed, and she wasn't doing anything to 
relieve his embarrassment; instead she was making it 
more intense by so obviously reveling in his situation.

She spoke as soon as he started to spurt, so he knew she 
wasn't talking about what she had already felt happen 
inside her, as she had the first time, but she was 
instead expressing enthusiasm for what would inevitably 
follow. Now that you've started to come, I get to feel 
every twitch. You can't stop until you're done, and you 
can't pull out even though you're not restrained this 
time, because it's in your nature that once you start 
coming you want to be all the way inside me even more 
than you want to escape your embarrassment. Besides, if 
you pulled out, I could move myself around to where I 
could watch the rest of your come, and that would be 
even worse.

Did she really think all that when she spoke those nine 
words? Of course not. But every bit of it and more went 
through his head when he heard them, even as he came. It 
made for a truly overwhelming experience and an 
extremely strong bond of affection, and it undoubtedly 
contributed to his decision to spend the rest of his 
life as her love slave.

One more — this one from just after Linda and Stephan 
were married, when she tied him down again, put his cock 
in her pussy once more, and made him lose control the 
same way.

"Ooh! Exciting, isn't it?"

Not every tease has to be a work of creative genius. 
Almost any tease will make a memory, and a tease that's 
reasonably consistent with your partner's thoughts and 
feelings (as this one certainly was) will make him feel 
you've found your way inside all his thoughts and 
feelings.

And that's what teasing is about — making your partner 
feel that he's known as intimately as a person can be, 
and making memories. It works. If you used to think that 
all teasing is bad, I hope you're reconsidering. Teasing 
can be done lovingly, with no trace of hostility, and 
without inflicting pain. It's a natural part of making 
love.

Attention

I live not thirty miles from another woman who, like me, 
fancies herself something of a dominatrix. I've never 
met her, but over the years, her rumor has reached me a 
number of times. My best source was a friend whose lover 
had had a brief liaison with her four years earlier. 
Because my friend knew of my interest in female 
domination, she gathered all the information she could 
and passed it along. Then there was anecdote here, an 
impression there, and I was able to assemble quite a 
clear picture.

Though her nickname might suggest otherwise, Killer 
seems to have no more predilection for violence than I 
do. She chose that quaint moniker because she believes 
that her techniques cause men to fall painfully in love 
with her while she herself remains aloof and unattached, 
changing partners frequently and leaving behind a trail 
of broken hearts.

In actual fact, men hasten to disentangle themselves 
from her even more rapidly than she, from them. They 
find her style of lovemaking unsatisfying and quickly 
come to regard her as a kook. A typical encounter, 
described from the perspective of my friend's lover, 
went like this:

After she tied me to the bed and mounted me, she put her 
hands on her hips and starting bouncing up and down and 
talking about how I was falling in love with her. She 
was saying, "you," but she really seemed to be talking 
to herself, and she was looking straight ahead at the 
wall. I couldn't get into her rhythm, either; it was 
choppy, more like a machine than a woman. I figured I'd 
better try to go along, so I got off by thinking about 
someone else. When I did, she said, "Made you come!" and 
let out a cackle. I guess it was supposed to be a 
giggle, but it was kind of loud and crazy-sounding. She 
was so weird that when she untied me without hurting me, 
I was surprised.

Of course that's a paraphrase, and my friend had to ask 
a few questions to elicit the details, but I'm sure it's 
substantially accurate; it's consistent with everything 
else I've heard about Killer.

Clearly this woman is enthusiastic about female 
domination and derives a great deal of enjoyment from 
her fantasies of being a dominatrix. Just as clearly, 
her relationships with men are so poorly rooted in 
reality that they can't be sustained. Sure, she gets men 
into bed with her, and even into her, but she ignores 
them in favor of her fantasies while preventing them 
from ignoring her. This turns them off. The really good 
ones move on in search of partners with whom they can be 
truly intimate, while the rest find partners they can 
tune out in favor of their own fantasies.

If Killer were less involved in her fantasies, she might 
be an effective dominatrix. More important, some man 
might fall in love with her, as she now only imagines 
they do, and she could get to know him — discover the 
soul behind the body. I'm sure she'd find it much more 
satisfying than what she's been doing.

The key is attention. Attention is an absolutely 
essential technique of female domination. Naturally. 
Attention is an absolutely essential technique of 
everything we do, or at least of everything we do well. 
A Zen master might go so far as to say it's the only 
technique, but I have no more real knowledge of Zen than 
I do of the internal workings of my motorcycle, so I'll 
confine my pontifications to female domination.

Perhaps you suspect that Killer is a caricature I 
invented to illustrate a lesson. Obviously she's a 
caricature, but I didn't invent her. She's real and I've 
described her as accurately as I could. She made herself 
into a caricature by neglecting attention, and I seized 
the opportunity to illustrate my point, though if I 
hadn't heard about Killer, I don't suppose I'd know that 
the point needed to be made.

Attention is necessary to any relationship because it 
allows you to know your partner. That's simple. If you 
don't pay attention to him, you won't know him. If you 
do pay attention, you learn his likes and dislikes, what 
turns him on and what turns him off, and countless other 
details — some useless but lovable, others useful. How 
much time without sex does it take to make him 
obsessively horny? What sort of teasing does he take as 
too mean to be sexy? Which of your behavioral quirks 
does he find particularly endearing? On and on.

He may even let you know, perhaps unintentionally, how 
best to dominate him. His conversation will suggest 
scenarios, and those scenarios will often turn out to be 
the ones that have the greatest erotic effect on him, 
that bond him to you most strongly. One of my lovers, 
for example, told me that as a child he had been 
repeatedly tickled into helplessness by his two sisters. 
It turned out to be a good thing to do to him, and 
highly erogenous, though it isn't a good thing to do to 
most men even if they're ticklish.

When making love, attention enhances the accuracy and 
clarity with which you perceive what's happening in your 
partner's body and psyche. You're better able to gauge 
the effects of your words and actions, and the feedback 
you gather helps keep those words and actions on target.

Your attention can be perceived by your partner as well. 
He knows whether you're focused on him, and his 
experience is more intense if you are. Your attention 
grabs his, and turns what might otherwise be just an 
experience of his own sensations into an experience of 
you, in all your complexity.

Ultimately the Loop itself depends on your attention, 
because your attention is an essential part of your 
partner's embarrassment. Just as nothing can embarrass 
him when he's alone, nothing will embarrass him if he's 
being ignored. It's the feeling that your attention is 
focused on his loss of control that causes his 
embarrassment and his arousal to run away with one 
another.

Consider the technique I used to excite Drew before he 
masturbated for me, the technique I use to make Patrick 
drip when he was trying not to. Attention. Pure 
attention in the case of Drew; attention augmented by 
teasing in the case of Patrick, but pure attention would 
have been enough.

With all that in mind, perhaps we can strike a 
compromise with Zen: Attention is the only technique, 
but we won't neglect the others.


*** Chapter 12, In which we conclude our survey by 
looking at relationships with no history of sexual 
penetration

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

Fewer and fewer sexual relationships begin in such 
circumstances. Often fucking is obviously foolish, and 
even when it isn't, a good case usually can be made for 
substituting some other mode of gratification. Sexually 
transmitted diseases were frightening even when I was 
young: they hurt and left internal scars. Now they're 
worse. There's no completely effective protection except 
abstinence, with monogamy and the use of impermeable 
barriers the only alternatives that come close. 

I don't find any of these acceptable except monogamy, 
and my life just hasn't worked out that way. I'm 
serially monogamous, but that's a long way from safe, 
and my search for a new long-term partner can be an 
epidemiologist's nightmare. When unattached and horny, 
I've occasionally entered into a liaison that I knew 
would last only weeks, and one bad winter I did three in 
a row. 

To improve my chances of staying healthy, I fuck only 
those men with whom I'm in love and with whom I expect a 
lasting relationship. The rest? I have them finger me 
and eat me, and I bring them off by hand. Safe sex? 
Hardly, but not as dangerous as fucking without a 
condom. Maybe my risk of catching something from any one 
man is cut in half.

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

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

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

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

If a man's first love sexually enslaves him, he'll tend 
to prefer similar relationships ever after, even though 
that preference will give each of his partner's 
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 is 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."

"Okay."

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."

"Yeah?"

"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.

"Okay."

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."

"Sure."

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 sweat-suit. 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?"

"Mm-hm!"

"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 hm 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 his 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 non-defensively. I'd seen it 
work for Suzi, I'd felt it in my previous relationships, 
and Steve's openness that very day had made me fall in 
love with him just as he'd fallen in love with me.

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

This is so embarrassing, but it's also such a turn-on 
that I don't want to lose it, and Georgeann doesn't seem 
at all mean. I think I can trust her. Like, I'm 
completely at her mercy and she's asking me in that 
scared little-girl voice to reassure her that we can 
still do this kind of thing, as if what I say really 
matters to her, even now. She must really care about me. 
And I don't want to hurt her. 

Silly thought when I'm tied up like this, but I don't 
want to hurt her. I care about her too. I love her. I 
want to trust her to do this kind of thing, just as she 
seems to want to trust me to know and accept her 
kinkiness. I even want to trust her to know that my 
embarrassment is a turn-on, and her tone tells me I can 
trust her, that she wants to use it in a way I'll enjoy.

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

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

My previous relationships had been rather ordinary. Carl 
and I liked one another right off, became more and more 
intimate physically, grew to love one another and fucked 
many times (I had lied to Steve). We were close and our 
feelings were often intense. Eventually I insisted on 
doing a scene with him that, outwardly at least, was 
very much like today's: he ate me, and then I tied him 
down and played with him until he came. 

I didn't try to enslave him; I hadn't yet decided to try 
that sort of thing at all, and since I hadn't yet any 
inkling of the Loop, it would have seemed silly to try 
to take control of what was already such a loving 
relationship. Silly was Carl's word for the whole idea 
of tying him, and he went along with it only to please 
me. 

His reaction to the experience seemed close to what it 
would have been if he hadn't been tied, but contaminated 
by disdain for the cumber of the bonds. I enjoyed toying 
with him, but I certainly can't say I was emotionally 
overwhelmed. I loved him as always, and I appreciated 
his accommodating me, but that was all.

I'd had a number of experiences like that, and a few 
that were more exciting. The most exciting had been 
purely sexual flings with young men I didn't love. In 
high school, for example, I once got hold of a copy of 
an exam that was yet to be given, and offered it to a 
fellow student in exchange for the privilege of tying 
him up and tickling him. Gene insisted on keeping his 
undershorts on, but once he was tied I cut them off (a 
snip down each side is all it takes) and teased him, 
first about having me see him naked, then about not 
being able to help but get a hard-on, and finally about 
having to let me watch him spurt all over his tummy. 
That was far more exciting than the scene with Carl even 
though I didn't get to come until I returned home. No 
love, of course, but I hadn't expected any.

What made the flings so exciting was that they were 
real. I felt free to do whatever turned me on; I didn't 
have to hold back to avoid damaging the relationship 
because the fling was the relationship. I didn't worry 
with Gene, as I did later with Carl, that he'd reject 
me, or love me less, if I exceeded his tolerance for 
teasing; Gene, after all, hadn't loved me at the start.

Today's fantastic session with Steve combined the best 
of everything. We hadn't begun our sexual relationship 
because we were in love, but at least our mutual 
attraction had led us to become friends. Because of our 
friendship, and because my sexual agenda would take 
longer than a single day to pursue, I was concerned 
about how Steve would react to my kinkiness, but not 
paralyzed by anxiety as I would have been if I were in 
love and already committed to a conventional pattern of 
interaction. It turned out to be an explosive brew, and 
by the time Steve left, we were both in love.

Suddenly everything I ever wanted was right there, all 
together, and it was real. I had a love slave to play 
with as I liked, and he was in love with me and I was in 
love with him. He was really my love slave. There was no 
way it usually is to go back to when our play was over, 
or to fall back on if things went badly. I hadn't 
limited myself with promises of what I would or wouldn't 
do while he was tied up, or at any other time either. 
All he had for security was his trust in my gentle 
nature. I'd done what I wanted, and together we'd 
discovered that my exploration of his sexual responses 
was itself a turn-on. Now I would always know that about 
him, and he would always know I knew, just as we would 
always know that along the way, I'd got worried about 
scaring him off and asked him for reassurance, and he'd 
given it freely and loved me for asking.

I loved Steve for sharing his embarrassment and for 
continuing to offer himself to me. I knew that what he 
felt was more than lust because when I was done 
torturing him and told him I might do it again someday, 
he wasn't horny anymore but he still loved me for it. He 
didn't have to let me know that, but he did, by the way 
he held me, and it made me love him all the more. Our 
time together had been just filled with love, and it had 
been real from beginning to end. End? There was no end, 
not in the sense that there had been an end to my fling 
with Gene or my single venture into kink with Carl. Soon 
Steve and I would be together again and we would 
continue. Not from some dull normalcy, but from where we 
were. It was an exhilarating thought and I could hardly 
wait.

After that, Steve and I spent all the time we could 
together. When we were alone, I almost never let him 
keep his clothes on. It didn't take much to excite him, 
and I was always teasing him about having to walk around 
with his cock sticking up. Most times we were together, 
I had him give me several orgasms, and many of those 
times I choreographed some pretty kinky scenes; but no 
matter what the circumstances, he always did me 
lovingly. I usually made him come too, always teasingly, 
but with affection I couldn't have hid if I wanted to.

I was lucky it was Steve who was my first love slave. 
Not only was he a lot of fun to play with, he was 
uncommonly communicative. If I asked him to describe his 
feelings, he would respond honestly, freely and in 
detail. This allowed me to learn a great deal very 
quickly without having to guess or rely on inferences. 
Steve readily acknowledged, for example, that he was 
embarrassed by his inability to keep from turning on to 
me, that his embarrassment added to his sexual 
excitement, and that he loved me for embarrassing him. 
The Loop was no longer mere conjecture but confirmed 
reality.

He verified much of what I'd suspected about the 
physiology and psychology of male sexual response but 
hadn't previously had anyone I could comfortably ask — 
that pressure in the seminal vesicles is felt as lust, 
or at least as increased susceptibility to arousal; that 
sexual stimulation seems to make the seminal vesicles 
fill more quickly; that there's a high correlation among 
the subjective intensity of an orgasm, the amount of 
fluid ejected and the force with which it's expelled. He 
also cooperated with my attempts to learn things that he 
himself hadn't been aware of; it was on Steve that I 
first learned that the frenum and corona are the only 
parts of the penis whose stimulation irresistibly 
induces orgasm, and that they're the only parts whose 
stimulation causes distress when continued too long.

I nailed down this last bit of information over the 
course of a couple of weeks of experimentation. I'd play 
with Steve's cock until he came and then keep rubbing 
it, after one fashion or another, and he'd let me know 
whether it bothered him. He wasn't tied down, and I 
never tried to prolong his distress, but it was plenty 
exciting for both of us, especially since we both 
understood that the knowledge I was gathering had only 
one possible use.

It was more than exciting.

Half an hour after I'd finished the last of my 
experiments, we were cuddling, satiated, and Steve got 
up to go to the bathroom, then came back and lay next to 
me.

"Well, Yum-Yum, now I know exactly how to torture you if 
you decide to misbehave. How does that make you feel?" 

He considered for a while, to see how he felt, so he 
could give me a real answer. That's how he was, and 
that's how we talked.

"It's embarrassing that you know my body that well, and 
it's embarrassing to be talking about the possibility 
that you might torture me that way, and it's so 
exciting, it's giving me a hard-on even though I just 
came."

I saw that it was true.

"Neat! Doesn't it frighten you a little too?"

He thought it over.

"No, not really. It's you, and I know that even if you 
do torture me you'll do it lovingly.

"You know, sometimes I feel like we're really one single 
piece of God's creation, and we were made to seem like 
two just so we could enjoy loving each other. Looking at 
it that way, being embarrassed makes sense but being 
frightened doesn't. I mean, it's good that I get 
embarrassed because it's a turn-on; and what my 
embarrassment really is, is the feeling of being known 
really well in whatever way we're paying attention to at 
the time. That wouldn't feel good if I thought you 
didn't like what you were knowing about me, but you 
always do, so I wind up grooving on it. 

Being frightened wouldn't feel good like that, so 
there's no use to it. It would be useful if you meant me 
harm; then I could be frightened away from you so I'd be 
safe. But you're not like that. I don't think you can 
really want to hurt anyone, just like I can't; so except 
for being embarrassed, which is a turn-on, I feel 
comfortable with you."

It sank in slowly, all warm and fuzzy. I started to cry 
quietly and he looked over and saw me and slid his arm 
under me and pulled me over top of him so I was looking 
down into him and he up into me and my tears were 
falling on his face and he cried with me like that and 
we knew. We had come a long way since concocting our 
separate agendas, each secretly scheming to use the 
other. It had been a twisted path, but it didn't matter 
anymore. I had never before loved anyone as I loved 
Steve at that moment.

Several days later, feeling playful again, I had Steve 
strip as usual and told him I planned to make him come, 
but only if he could control himself for a couple of 
hours and keep from getting hard until I was ready. As I 
had expected from my understanding of the Loop, his 
erection was more persistent than ever. I asked him for 
an explanation, partly to be sure I had it right and 
partly because I knew that having to talk about it would 
add to his embarrassment.

"Well, first, when you tell me I'm not allowed to get 
hard, I know you're watching, and that turns me on all 
by itself; and second, you know I'm trying to control 
myself, so I get embarrassed by knowing that you know I 
can't control myself, and that turns me on even more. 
It's some trip! You're one exciting girl!"

I had him eat me before I sent him on his way, and I 
told him not to do anything to relieve his lust before 
we got together the next day because I had plans for 
him.

When he returned, he was desperately horny and I 
inflamed his lust still further by having him eat me 
again. Then I tied him to the bed and strongly hinted I 
was going to repeat the torture of that first day as 
punishment for his failure to control his arousal.

I massaged his cock until his ejaculation was 
inevitable.

"You're in for it now!"

I kept rubbing.

He lifted his bottom off the bed and a slight trickle of 
come oozed out the end of his cock. His muscles relaxed 
for one brief instant, then his hips jerked and his cock 
stiffened again, splashing another souvenir onto my 
wall.

"Ooh, yeah! Do it, Steve!"

He did. His hips bucked wildly; animal-like grunts and 
cries came from his throat; he splashed the wall twice 
more.

"Beautiful, Steve! I love you."

He came and came. It took at least a dozen spasms to 
drain him, and he wound up covered with sperm. When he 
finally ran dry, he started to look worried, and when I 
saw that, I stopped. I kept one hand on his cock, 
holding it gently; I wiped the other on the bedding, 
then used it to caress his cheek and rub his shoulder.

"That was exciting, wasn't it, thinking I might really 
torture you again?"

"It sure was! I've never come that hard! Thank you! 
You're so good to me!"

"How do you feel now?"

"Like a little puddle of Steve. Contented. Totally in 
love with you. Wow!"

I smiled and nodded. God! I loved him...

"I'd better get these ropes off you."

I untied one knot and he started to help, twisting his 
body so that 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.

"Two."

"Three."

He didn't even slow down.

"Whoops! There goes your chance to fuck me!"

Then, "Five."

"Six."

"Seven."

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.

"Yeah."

"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?"

"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?"

"Sure!"

"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?"

"No."

"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?"

"What?"

"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?"

"Sure!"

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."

"What?"

"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 recentness 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?"

"No."

"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 hate-mongers 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."

"Okay."

"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.

"Mine!"

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."

"Sorry."

"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?"

"No."

"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.'"

"Really?"

"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."

"Limp?"

"You screamed really loud before, and I told my neighbor 
you stubbed your toe. To justify a scream like that, you 
should have broken it."

He looked at me as though trying to unravel some deep 
mystery, but when I opened the door and we set out, he 
limped.

That was the only time we made love before the next 
meeting of the student senate, so the promise I made on 
Halloween, to have Corbett masturbate at least twice 
more before the vote, turned out to be an exaggeration. 
But then, the vote was also an exaggeration.

On Tuesday evening, I made my way to the auditorium that 
served as the student senate chamber to watch the 
proceedings, as did many of my schoolmates. After half 
an hour of waiting for the meeting to start, and another 
half hour of tedious parliamentary ritual, the matter of 
Stanley West's resolution was called.

"Mister Chairman," said Stanley West, getting to his 
feet.

"The chair recognizes Stanley West."

"I have something of a confession to make. I introduced 
this resolution without having properly consulted the 
leadership of the Young Republicans, and I've since been 
admonished that what I did was rather ill advised, to 
say the least. In fact, I find myself in the sad and 
unenviable position of sponsoring a resolution that 
lacks the support of the organization I was elected to 
represent; and so, if there are no objections, and with 
the chair's permission, I'd like to withdraw it from 
consideration."

The chair called for objections and, hearing none, 
removed the item from the agenda. The audience cheered, 
as did most of the senate, and there was a great crunch 
at the doors as a couple of hundred people all tried to 
leave at once.

It was a brilliant move, I told Corbett after class 
Thursday. The Republican candidates in the general 
election got the chance to mouth off at the expense of 
the college longhairs, and the Young Republicans didn't 
get stuck having to support a position that would make 
it difficult to recruit new members. Stanley West's 
contribution to his party would of course be remembered 
and rewarded, and it was certainly no surprise that his 
withdrawal of the resolution was ignored by the press.

I confessed my chagrin at having reached the full legal 
age of twenty-one without also having attained the 
maturity, the wisdom and, most important, the cynicism 
to predict the end of the story, but at least I'd been 
right about the press coverage, and I was learning. 
Corbett acknowledged, somewhat sadly, that he was 
learning too.

Corbett and I remained lovers until graduation. I 
babysat him through the Law School Admission Test, the 
law school application process, and his distress at the 
necessity of our parting. He had the good sense to 
decline when one of his fellow virgins tried to nominate 
him for reelection to the student senate, and the 
discretion to quietly drop out of Vincent altogether at 
the end of the fall semester. Until his term in the 
student senate expired, he continued to describe its 
proceedings to me. If another issue like the drug policy 
had arisen, I would have taken a real interest, but as 
it was, my stated intent to control his vote just gave 
him an excuse to ramble on in a self-important manner 
about a lot of really stupid stuff. I never again told 
him how to vote; nothing ever came up that deserved my 
attention. Nothing ever came up that deserved his 
attention either, but it didn't seem polite to mention 
it.

Corbett had a great many ideas about how the world ought 
to be, and it was his custom to put on an air of 
judgmental sadness whenever reality disappointed him. I 
found this a drag, and employed two techniques to 
discourage it. First, when he did it, I told him to 
stop. Sometimes that worked and sometimes it didn't. 
Second, when he'd been overdoing it a lot, I punished 
him by playing with the post-orgasmic sensitivity of his 
cock. I tied him down, as I often did even when I wasn't 
planning to punish him, and after he was tied I told him 
what he'd done wrong and what was going to happen to him 
because of it. 

I also told him that his only chance to avoid being 
tortured was to keep from turning on to me. Then I 
milked his cock, teasing him all the while — first about 
how he wasn't going to be able to help but come even 
though he knew what it meant, then about his orgasm as 
it happened, then about his discomfort and embarrassment 
at the torture as I inflicted it.

This regime helped some, but never so much that it 
became unnecessary. Unfortunately, my refusal to marry 
him was one of the ways in which the world disappointed 
him. As graduation approached, he raised the issue with 
increasing desperation and frequency, and often sulked 
at my continued obstinacy. I held fast to my position. 
My relationship with Corbett had taught me — was 
continuing to teach me — that while I could control most 
of a man's behavior, any negativity in his personality 
would find a way to show through. I wanted a man with a 
positive attitude that made him a joy to be with even 
when he wasn't making an effort to please me, and whom I 
could dominate for fun rather than out of necessity. I 
still liked Corbett, but I hated being his parole 
officer.

I fucked Corbett only once more after taking his 
virginity. It was early February, about a week before my 
period. He was tied to my bed and I teased him until he 
wanted me to fuck him so badly that he begged for it. 
Predictably, he decided afterward that I was pregnant 
and made such a fuss about it that I had to torture him 
four times in eight days. That was enough.

While we were together, I did what I could to expand 
Corbett's consciousness and give him a more balanced 
view of the world. I introduced him to my friends — a 
varied lot, especially compared to the limited circle in 
which he'd moved before. He found himself exposed to a 
diversity of races, ethnicities, and drugs of choice, 
and to some unique characters who defied classification. 
His behavior was always impeccable; he was, after all, a 
gentleman, and my friends were eminently decent folk. 

He got to know several and even developed a genuine 
liking for them, but sadly he wasn't able to extrapolate 
from his experience. Though he became friends, for 
example, with a black man and a pothead, he refused to 
recognize the humanity and potential of the world's 
other blacks and potheads. They remained abstractions of 
evil, certainly not possible friends, and too dangerous 
even to be allowed to walk the streets. Because they 
were so bad, there was no limit to the force he was 
willing, even eager, to unleash against them: 

Send the cops out to round 'em up and shoot 'em! 
Presumably his few friends would be in his company 
during the roundup and shooting, and he would have 
sufficient influence with the rampaging constabulary to 
protect them.

His enthusiasm for this sort of violence contrasted 
grotesquely with his gentleness at close range and 
always bothered me. I certainly didn't want to marry a 
man who had that in him, but neither did there seem to 
be any use to making an issue of it. His tendency to put 
on airs of judgmental sadness, his bigotry and his 
advocacy of Nazi-style solutions for the world's 
problems were fixed attributes of his personality and 
would never change. I found it sad that these bits of 
ugliness had attached themselves to so gentle a soul, 
but he was what he was.

Just after graduation, he made one last pitch at 
persuading me to marry him. I refused and he returned to 
his parents' home near the Arizona line to pass the 
summer before beginning law school. I moved on to my 
first job as a technical writer in Silicon Valley. I 
never heard from him again.

Learn what you can from the story of my relationship 
with Corbett, but don't do what I did. It was wrong, and 
it could have got me in serious trouble with the law 
besides. Today, in some states, it could get me a life 
sentence.

What Corbett and I referred to as blackmail was in fact 
criminal coercion, though at the time I somehow deluded 
myself into believing that it didn't quite amount to 
that. I could have been prosecuted for it and I was 
lucky I wasn't. Not everyone who does the same thing can 
expect to fare so well.

The surreptitious recording of a conversation is 
prohibited in some states even it done by a party to 
that conversation. The applicable laws change 
frequently, and it may be that that part of my behavior 
was perfectly legal when and where I did it; but then 
again, it may have been a crime — perhaps even a felony.

Legalities aside, making that recording was wrong, and 
it would have been wrong even if I hadn't used it in a 
blackmail attempt. Similarly, trying to blackmail 
Corbett was wrong, and it would have been wrong even if 
I hadn't made a secret recording to do it. At that point 
in my life, my comical assurance to Corbett 
notwithstanding, I really didn't know right from wrong. 
I had my own ideas of what constituted harm, and I 
believed that I did wrong only if I caused harm as I 
understood it. It took a while longer before I caught on 
to the idea that I should also take care not to do 
another person harm as that other person understands it.

Also, it wasn't until later that I developed a full 
appreciation of the importance of trust in a sexual 
relationship and realized that there's no short-term 
goal for which it ought ever be compromised. When I met 
Corbett, I didn't have much experience getting men to 
accept sexual slavery and I couldn't imagine that 
dishonesty and entrapment were unnecessary. My 
enthusiasm for female domination was so great that I was 
willing to use such means, excusing my behavior by 
telling myself I'd do the man no real harm. Well, in 
retrospect, I did Corbett real harm, and I oughtn't. If 
I knew then what I know now, I probably could have 
enslaved him without doing anything immoral. If I 
couldn't, it's because I shouldn't have been involved 
with him at all; the right woman for Corbett could have 
enslaved him honestly.

What I did was wrong. Criminal coercion is a serious 
matter. So is electronic eavesdropping, at least in some 
states. But a life sentence?

Sexual assault. When I was twenty-one, it was legally 
impossible for a woman to rape a man. Times have 
changed. Most states, if not all, have revised their 
statutes to abolish the ancient crime of rape and 
substitute the new crime of sexual assault, with a 
definition that's gender-neutral. If you restrain a man, 
or overpower him, and insert his penis into your vagina 
or your mouth, or even if you just lick it, over his 
objection, you commit sexual assault. The penalties are 
as severe as the traditional penalties for rape. Not 
worth the risk.

In some states it's also a crime just to touch a man's 
penis against his will. Overpowering a man, even an 
adult, as we overpowered the boy in the bushes, or 
restraining a man by deceit, as I did Gene, and then 
bringing him off by hand as he begs you to stop, could 
get you in big trouble.

I didn't wait for the laws to change before limiting my 
sexual activities to the purely consensual. Corbett was 
the last man I violated in any way, and the last whose 
character I tried to repair. By taking care not to 
repeat the mistakes I made with him, I've tremendously 
improved the quality of my relationships and avoided a 
great deal of unpleasantness.

Hey, wait a minute! I hear someone thinking. Weren't you 
violating Patrick when he begged you to let go of his 
cock and you kept rubbing it? And didn't you try to cure 
him of his reticence? Yes, I did try to cure Patrick of 
his reticence, and I succeeded. But I didn't confront 
Patrick over his reticence, or punish him for it, or 
reject him because of it. It wasn't something I needed 
to change. I would have loved him just as much if he had 
never got comfortable talking about the more 
embarrassing parts of our relationship, and I would have 
shown my love just as freely.

As to the question of whether I violated him, no. A 
dominatrix inevitably becomes involved in a great many 
consensual transactions that look as if they're not; 
it's inherent in the role. Indeed one of the reasons I 
consider empathy an essential attribute of a good 
dominatrix is that empathy is what makes it possible to 
tell the difference between a transaction that will 
truly violate a man and one that will only appear to. I 
could read Patrick well, and I was sure I had his 
consent for what I did to him. In fact, when I told 
Patrick what I was going to do, he didn't object, and 
afterward he didn't tell me I'd done him wrong.

This raises an important point. I've told you that a man 
is likely to try to bluff you off course if you set out 
to do the sort of thing that I did to Patrick. He wants 
to maintain control of the relationship, so he'll object 
to your plans, even while bound, often in very strong 
terms. Your understanding of him will probably tell you 
he's bluffing, and your judgment will probably be right. 
Sometimes you'll be wrong and you'll wind up violating 
him. If after a sexual transaction, a man tells you that 
you violated him, and he really seems to feel violated, 
take him seriously. I can't offer any advice about what 
to do, because that will depend on what sort of person 
he is, what sort of person you are, and the 
circumstances; but please do take him seriously.

The histories of Paula's relationship with Jimmy and 
mine with Steve and Corbett all demonstrate that a woman 
seeking sexual control over a young and inexperienced 
man needs hardly any skill at all to succeed; she barely 
needs to know what she's doing. When a man is older, 
it's more difficult to enslave him (unless he's already 
used to it), and for two reasons. First, he's less 
horny. At any given time his seminal vesicles are 
unlikely to be so distended as to color his thinking, 
and he's become jaded to psychological stimuli. Though 
sexual slavery will restore the enthusiasm of his youth, 
it won't do so until he's actually enslaved; meanwhile 
the effects of aging make him less amenable to 
enslavement.

The second reason is more problematic. A mature man has 
developed a perspective on his love life. He doesn't 
become emotionally committed to a new partner so readily 
as when he was young. If the going gets even a little 
rough, he remembers there are other women in the world 
and starts thinking he might do better elsewhere.

If I'm in love with a man of my own age and sure of his 
health, I enslave him as I did Patrick or Drew. I let 
the sexual aspect of our relationship develop along 
conventional lines, with just a hint of kink, and then, 
when he's had a chance to become emotionally committed 
to me, but before he starts falling out of love or 
taking me for granted, I invite him, in one of the ways 
I've already described, to be my love slave.

If I'm not in love with him, or if I doubt his health, 
I'm not going to fuck him, and that makes it harder to 
enslave him. It becomes difficult to hold his interest 
long enough to get him emotionally committed; his 
inclination is to go looking for a better deal. Still, 
on several occasions I've overcome this handicap and 
persuaded a mature man to become my love slave without 
first having fucked him. I'll tell you the story of one 
such relationship. I've chosen it neither because it's 
typical nor because it's bizarre, but because it 
illustrates some important principles with particular 
clarity.

Bart was a genius I met at work. He'd supervised the 
creation of an operating system for a fault-tolerant 
computer, building the hard parts himself, and it was my 
job to turn his documentation into a manual the 
customers could use. Our working relationship was 
complicated by the fact that Bart thought he could 
write; in his view, he had already given me the manual 
in finished form and I was horriblizing it, using 
something he called George's Instant Horriblizing Cream. 
Truth was, he actually could write; he could probably 
have crafted a more precise commercial contract, with 
fewer unintended loopholes, than ninety percent of 
lawyers. Unfortunately, his writing, though technically 
perfect, was so convoluted that half his own staff 
couldn't read it, so a little horriblizing was clearly 
needed.

Bart had a reputation for going through women quickly. 
We were acquainted eight months before being put on the 
same project, and during that time he was involved in 
three relationships, each of a couple of months' 
duration, as well as numerous one-night stands arranged 
at Richard's, a bar near the office. When we were thrown 
together, we were both unattached and he wanted me and I 
wanted him, but his history of promiscuity led me to 
worry about what impurities might be lurking in his 
bodily fluids.

We often had lunch together, and during these breaks, we 
put aside our work and got to know one another. One 
Friday evening after a couple of weeks of this, he 
invited me to Richard's for drinks and I accepted. We 
drove there separately, met, settled in, and ordered our 
first round — a tequila sunrise for him, cola for me.

"Cola?!" He seemed displeased.

I told him I never drink alcohol. He gave me the hairy 
eyeball and asked why not.

"It's contrary to my religious beliefs."

He seemed to doubt my sincerity and disapprove of my 
theology besides, so I rose to the challenge by adding, 
"I never go to bed with a man who's been drinking 
either, so if you're trying to seduce me, you're using 
the wrong approach."

"What approach would you suggest?"

"It would be awfully hard for you to succeed no matter 
what you do. You have something of a reputation for 
getting around, and the AIDS capital of the world is 
just up the road, so I'd have to be downright suicidal 
to take a chance on you."

"And I'm drinking besides."

"Well, yeah, but that's temporary."

He flashed a predatory grin. "What if I get myself 
checked out by a doctor and bring you a report that says 
I'm healthy?"

"It can take six months for the AIDS virus to become 
detectable. I don't think you're going to wait that 
long."

"I can't believe this conversation!"

"Haven't any of the women you've picked up here before 
had similar concerns?"

"Some of them insisted on using a condom."

"I don't use condoms."

"You don't use condoms," he repeated blankly.

"Contrary to my religious beliefs."

"You won't go to bed with me because you might catch a 
disease, and you don't use condoms because it's contrary 
to your religious beliefs."

"That's right."

"How's that possible? I mean, I could understand if you 
said you don't sleep around, but making snap judgments 
on which guys are risky and which are safe — you're just 
begging them to lie to you. And they will."

"Okay, I don't sleep around. That's really what I said; 
I just worded it different and added a few details."

I watched him replay his recollection of our 
conversation.

"Oh, well!" he said after a moment. "Why don't you tell 
me about those religious beliefs of yours?"

"I don't explain them. It's contrary to my religious 
beliefs."

We shared a good laugh and spent the next hour 
discussing this and that; then he invited me to order 
dinner. I talked him into going to Francescas Pizza 
instead. I told him the proprietor was a friend of mine; 
I told him the food was great; and I told him that just 
then, a pizza with peppers, onions and mushrooms, and a 
salad on the side, was what I wanted more than anything 
else in the world. I also offered to drive him there, 
buy the pizza, and drive him back to pick up his car 
afterward. I could see he was uncomfortable with my 
assertiveness, but he agreed anyway. He seemed not to 
want to antagonize me, and after a chainburger for lunch 
and three tequila sunrises, a good veggie pizza had to 
be irresistibly appealing.

I drove to Francescas and we had dinner. We also had a 
brief visit with Francesca, who stopped at our booth 
just long enough to say hello and meet Bart. After the 
pizza, Bart and I sat and talked another hour; then I 
drove him back to Richard's. When I had set the parking 
brake, he moved to kiss me. I stopped him, told him not 
to move, and gave him a light peck on the lips and a 
teasing smile. I said good night and he got out and 
started toward his car.

When I was ready for lunch the following Friday, Bart 
was involved in a meeting. I went out with one of my 
other colleagues, and when I got back, I found a stack 
of pages on my desk that I'd asked Bart to edit three 
days earlier. As always, I'd implored him to make only 
technical corrections and, as always, he'd been 
overzealous. The pages were covered with proofreaders' 
marks, mostly indicating lengthy insertions written in 
his usual legalese. ("They're all technical 
corrections," he would say if I gave him the 
opportunity.) On top of the stack was a note:

"Dinner this evening?"

I took the note and set out to find him. He wasn't in 
his office, so I wrote a note of my own on the same 
piece of paper and stuck it to his computer screen.

"Francescas Pizza?"

I returned to my office and set to work. After about 
forty minutes, I took a break to use the ladies' room. 
When I came back, the note was on my screen.

Bart, fallen into the habit of editing my writing, had 
inserted an apostrophe into my spelling of Francescas 
and written, "Perfect!" underneath. I took the note and 
went looking for him again. This time I found him.

We agreed to meet at Francescas at 6:30. Then I told him 
there's no apostrophe in Francescas. He didn't believe 
me and I reminded him that he'd seen the spelling 
himself the previous week. He remembered it with the 
apostrophe.

"You want to bet on it?" I asked.

"Maybe. What sort of bet?"

I closed the door. He eyed me warily.

"If you can promise not to drink any alcohol, win or 
lose, I'll be your sex slave for the evening if the 
apostrophe is there, and you'll be mine if it isn't. How 
does that sound?"

He made a brief attempt to think, but he agreed anyway. 
Maybe he didn't want to give me time to change my mind, 
or maybe he got carried away with bravado — maybe both. 
It didn't matter. He agreed.

"Great!" I said. "I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun. How 
about we move up our meeting time to six? That way we'll 
have plenty of time together and you won't be tempted to 
blow this great opportunity by stopping for a drink at 
Richard's."

"Looking for loopholes already! Okay, six!"

I went back to my office, worked until just 4:30, and 
drove home. My plan was to get everything ready and walk 
to Francescas so I could greet Bart when he arrived, 
then ride with him after dinner and direct him to my 
apartment. I knew it would be easy for him to follow me, 
but I wanted to make sure he didn't panic and flee. I 
worried briefly that he'd use the phone book to warn him 
off, or notice the spelling on the directory sign as he 
approached the shopping center and head for the hills, 
but there was nothing I could do about either 
eventuality. If he didn't show, he just didn't.

I arrived at the pizzeria fifteen minutes early and went 
inside to greet Francesca. I explained the situation and 
asked for her help in making sure Bart kept his promise 
not to drink.

"No problem," she said. "I'll wait on you myself. Sit 
there." She pointed out a booth and handed me a little 
sign made out of folded cardboard that said, "Reserved."

I thanked her, put the sign on the table, went back 
outside, and watched for Bart's car.

He arrived almost on time, parked, and started toward 
the entrance. I set out to intercept him, and we shouted 
greetings to one another while we were still some 
distance apart.

"How's the name spelled?" he asked when we met.

"Come have a look!"

I led him toward the pizzeria. The big letters anchored 
to the stucco said only "PIZZA," and it wasn't until we 
were almost at the fire lane that he could make out what 
was painted on the glass.

"Oh, shit!"

"Come on in," I encouraged —"unless you've lost your 
appetite. There's a booth already reserved for us.

I led him inside and we slid into our seats. I picked up 
a menu and showed it to him.

"See? It says the same thing on the menu. It's not a 
mistake."

"Can I ask you a question?"

"As many as you like."

"Why isn't there an apostrophe?"

"Well, Francesca was born in Italy, and when she was 
eighteen she moved to Denmark. She lived there for about 
two years and then she met Roy — that's her husband — 
and he brought her back to the States and married her. 
When she named her pizzeria she left out the apostrophe 
to commemorate her two years in Denmark. She liked it 
there."

He looked as confused as I'd expected, so I told him the 
rest of the story. "In Danish, possessives are formed 
like in English, by adding s, but without the 
apostrophe."

"Oh." He pondered. "How do they form plurals?"

"I don't know."

He studied the menu for a minute or so, then put it 
aside. Francesca came over.

Good evening, George, Bart. It's good to see you again."

We greeted her and she asked whether we were ready to 
order.

Bart asked for a mug of beer.

"No beer tonight," Francesca answered.

"How about a bottle?"

"No," she said with a big smile.

He looked at me and saw the same smile.

"I think you're surrounded," I said.

He groaned theatrically and settled for cola. We decided 
to share the same sort of pizza we'd had the previous 
week and I told Francesca we were curious about the 
formation of plurals in Danish. She gave us a brief 
explanation and left us to ourselves.

"You told her about our bet?" Bart asked, indignant and 
incredulous.

"Just that you weren't going to drink if there's no 
apostrophe. She thinks that's the whole bet."

That pacified him and we had a pleasant dinner. While we 
were eating, he asked about my plans for the evening. I 
told him he was going to drive me back to my apartment 
and come in with me, and he'd find out the rest when we 
were inside.

And that's what we did. He headed for the bathroom 
almost right away, so I didn't have to give him a lot of 
notice of what was coming. When he was done, I led him 
to the bed and told him to take off his shirt, shoes and 
socks. He did. I told him to lie down in the middle of 
the bed. He did that too. I got out my webbing and 
started wrapping his left wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"Tying you down."

"I know I promised to be your slave for the evening, but 
isn't this a little extreme?"

"What did you expect? The same thing you would have 
done? I wouldn't have had to win a bet to get that."

He pulled his hand away. "I'm afraid this is going to 
wind up hurting me."

"No you're not. Maybe you're afraid of not being in 
control, but you can't be afraid I'm going to hurt you; 
you know me too well to believe I'm capable of it. If 
it's any help to hear me say it though, I'm not going to 
hurt you. Now cooperate like a good sex slave and we'll 
both have a real good time.

"I need a drink."

"You definitely don't need a drink."

"How about some grass? I got a couple of joints in my 
shirt pocket."

"You have a fire to light it with?"

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a 
disposable lighter. I took it and put it on the 
nightstand.

"How about a roach clip?"

"They're made with wired papers."

"Okay. Cooperate with me, and the first thing we'll do 
when I've got you tied down is share a joint."

"What about our religious beliefs?"

"No conflict at all. I can't afford to keep a stash of 
my own, given today's prices and political climate, but 
I do like grass, and my religious beliefs certainly 
don't forbid it. Come to think of it, it seems wrong to 
reject a pleasure that God has made available to us."

"Huh?"

"What's the problem?"

"You said drinking is a no-no."

"That's not a pleasure."

"To me it is."

"No it isn't. You just never noticed because you get too 
drunk to pay attention."

He frowned, but he let me finish tying him.

When he was properly secured, I started toward the 
kitchen.

"Wait! Where are you going?"

"To get an ash tray."

On the way, I turned up the thermostat five degrees. I 
brought back a cereal bowl and set it down near his 
armpit, then picked up his shirt, found the joints in 
the pocket, brought one back to the bed and sat next to 
his chest. I lit the joint and shared it with him, 
feeding him alternate tokes, watching him relax.

It was good grass. Before even an inch had burned away, 
Bart's manner of looking at me had turned distinctly 
lustful. Soon his control would be gone completely, 
along with his ability to orient himself socially, and I 
wanted to wait until then before I made my first real 
move. I wouldn't be able to gauge his arousal by his 
breathing because of the ritual of the smoke, but I 
would be able to see when his cock got hard by looking 
through one of the mirrors in the headboard. The trick 
was to time my glances so he wouldn't notice.

Each time I moved the joint toward his mouth, we both 
had to look at it, but he continued looking down as he 
inhaled. Often it was necessary for me to do the same, 
but on those occasions when I was sure there was no 
danger of a hot ash falling on him, I could take a quick 
look in the mirror.

I was still planning my first peek when Bart bent his 
knees. It was such a major change in his posture that I 
could see it without looking, and of course I felt it. 
The reason was as obvious as the move itself: His cock 
was getting hard and he wanted to keep his leg alongside 
it so it wouldn't be so visible.

Now I wouldn't need to look in the mirror. I sucked in 
some smoke and washed it down with a lung full of air. I 
gave Bart a big, affectionate smile and moved the joint 
into position for him. He did his part, and when he 
looked back up, I was still smiling at him the same way. 
I withdrew the joint and set it down in the bowl, then 
ran my fingers through the hair at the side of his head. 
I picked up the joint and took another hit, shook the 
ash into the bowl, looked back at him, smiled, moved the 
joint into position for him, watched as he sucked on it, 
waited for him to signal me with that slight parting of 
his lips, pulled it away.

"Feel more comfortable with me now?"

He struggled to find an answer while I took another 
toke, continued struggling while he took another toke. I 
gave him a questioning look.

"It's kind of complicated."

"I know. You're comfortable enough to turn on to me, but 
you're uncomfortable about not being able to control it. 
You're worried about how you'd handle it if I turned 
around and saw your hard-on."

He had a coughing fit, then started hyperventilating. I 
put the joint in the bowl and moved the bowl to the 
nightstand. He swallowed hard and got his breathing 
under control. I looked into his eyes affectionately.

"If it's any comfort, I'm still not going to hurt you."

"This is embarrassing."

"I know. It's going to get even more embarrassing. If 
you do have a hard-on, I'm going to take your pants off, 
and then you'll be naked with your cock sticking up for 
me to see, and I'll still have my clothes on."

I turned to look. His cock was hard, sure enough — 
confined in the leg of his corduroy pants but still 
quite prominent, its shape accentuated by the ridges of 
the fabric. He wore no underwear. I ran my hand over it 
and felt it strain.

"Mm-hm!" I teased, "You are turned on to me!"

I got up and took off his pants, and his cock sprang to 
its proper position. I inspected it, handled it, swirled 
the lubricating fluid around the head until it twitched 
in response. I sat next to his chest again and smiled at 
him lustfully.

"I don't know how you're going to deal with it — seeing 
me at work every day, still having to guess what my body 
looks like, and remembering I saw you like this. It'll 
be some trip!"

I gave him a chance to speak, but he would have had a 
hard time thinking what to say even without the drug. If 
he thought of something now, he would immediately see 
its potential to make matters worse and keep it to 
himself. I was going to have to carry the conversation 
alone.

"After a few days of that, I won't even have to win 
another bet to tie you up like this. All I'll have to do 
is promise to take off my shirt."

More rapid breathing.

"You could become really obsessed with me. Maybe you 
will wait six months for a chance to get into my pussy."

Still more rapid breathing. I noticed that his lips were 
drying out.

"Your mouth must be awfully dry. I'm going to get you 
something to moisten it. Do you like apple juice?"

"Wow! Yeah!"

I went to the kitchen, poured some into a little glass, 
brought it back, and helped him sip it. He drank the 
whole thing.

"Good?"

"Yeah! Thanks."

I leaned over and kissed him briefly but deeply, running 
my tongue around in his mouth.

"Mm-mm! It is good!"

I gave him another lustful smile.

"Do you like being my sex slave?"

"It's too embarrassing."

"Well, yeah, I'm sure it is. Do you like it anyway?"

"I don't know."

"That's okay. You'll figure it out."

"What if I don't like it?"

"Then it'll be hard for us to have a relationship, 
except for working together. If you're ever going to be 
my lover, you'll have to be my slave the whole time, and 
you'll have to be mine alone."

He thought about it.

"You'll have to be sober, too, though this'll do just 
fine."

He thought some more.

"Can you untie me now?"

"I'm not ready yet. You might be embarrassed, but not 
near as much as I planned. Besides, you're still horny."

He didn't say anything, so I bent over and licked his 
nipple. He squirmed.

I got up on the bed near his left hip and sat facing his 
cock. I started running my right palm up and down along 
the undersurface, brushing the frenum with each stroke. 
It stiffened and rose to press against my palm, relaxed, 
stiffened again.

"That feels good, doesn't it?"

"Yeah?"

When it seemed that his cock was due to stiffen yet 
again I stopped what I was doing and ran the fingers of 
my left hand over his scrotum. His cock sprang up 
obscenely, then relaxed.

"Your sex makes such a neat toy!"

I went back to rubbing with my right hand and his cock 
stiffened against it more and more frequently.

"You know, I've been wondering, talking with you over 
lunch every day, what sort of orgasms you have. I think 
I'm going to keep doing this until I find out."

By listening to his breathing and observing the slight 
but noticeable thrusting of his hips, I was able to tell 
just when it began. His cock pressed itself hard against 
my palm and I knew that the next contraction of his 
pelvic muscles would pump out the first spurt. I pulled 
my hand away.

"Ooh! I get to see! And without my hand in the way too!"

He panted a few times, then his cock relaxed for a 
fraction of a second, seemed to bounce off his pubic 
mound, stiffened and spurted.

I started running the fingers of my left hand gently 
over his scrotum, at the same time using my right hand 
to play with his left nipple.

"Just think, Bart... whatever else happens between us, 
I'll always remember you just like this."

It was an utterly humiliating experience for him, but 
there was nothing he could do; he just had to lie there, 
waving at me with his ejaculating penis, until he was 
drained. When it was over, I let go his nipple and 
rested my left hand on his hip.

"How do you feel now?"

"I don't even know."

"I guess I can understand that."

I looked at him affectionately.

"Don't panic. I'm going to get something to dry you 
off."

I retrieved Thursday's shirt from the laundry bag and 
cleaned him up.

"There!" I said as I finished, "just one more thing 
before I untie you."

"What?"

"I want to tell you something. You think you're ready?"

"Yeah, it's just bird shit on the bridle path now."

I contemplated the metaphor and laughed.

"It's not even that bad. Give a listen; you might even 
like it. Here: You're here because I like you. I mean, 
that's why I brought you home and tied you down like 
this. It's not like I want another notch in my belt or 
something; it's because I really like you and wanted to 
make love to you. I know my way of doing it is a little 
kinky, but it is a way of making love, and if I didn't 
care for you, I wouldn't have done it. You understand?"

We looked at one another for a long time.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Thanks."

In a matter of minutes I had him untied, dressed and 
sitting with me at the dining room table.

"I'm going to have to send you home now. I have to get 
an early start tomorrow."

"What are you going to be doing?"

"I have an aikido class."

"Aikido? Isn't that one of those martial arts things?"

"Yes."

"You break boards with your hands? stuff like that?"

"No, no boards. It's a defensive art — not real big on 
attack."

"You go to class every Saturday?"

"No, just when I don't have anything to do that 
interests me more, but tomorrow my sensei isn't going to 
be there and he asked me to teach. Usually I assist."

"Who assists when you're not there?"

"Sometimes another advanced student, sometimes no one."

"I would never have imagined you doing something like 
that."

"People are complex. You want the other half of that 
joint? I can wrap it in a tissue."

It took him a moment to remember what I was talking 
about.

"Oh! No, keep it."

"I'll get you the lighter, anyway."

I went back into the bedroom and he started to follow 
me. I met him halfway, handed him the lighter, and led 
him to the front door. I stretched out my arms sideways.

"Hug?" I asked.

We must have hugged for a full minute, and with more 
affection than either of us anticipated. Then I opened 
the door and he was on his way.

When I got to work Monday, I went to say hello to Bart 
but found his door closed. He always kept it open unless 
someone was in with him, so I settled into my office to 
finish preparing the next group of pages I would give 
him to edit. I'd learned that it would be best to get 
him started on something new before I did anything with 
the edits he'd returned Friday; he always seemed most 
attached to whatever he'd worked on most recently, and I 
knew he'd argue less about the last batch once he'd got 
into the next.

About ten minutes before our usual lunchtime, I had 
another dozen pages ready. I went looking for him again 
and found his door still closed. I knocked.

"Come in!"

I opened the door and saw him sitting alone at his 
computer, so I walked in, closed the door behind me, and 
greeted him enthusiastically.

"Hi!"

"Hi."

"I've never seen you working alone with the door closed. 
Are you hiding?"

"No, not really."

"Pretending to hide?" I puzzled with mock fascination, 
setting the pages on his desk.

"You know exactly what you're doing to me, don't you?" 
He seemed to be doing an impression of a chemotherapy 
victim.

"Uh-huh!"

"It's really unfair of you."

"Unfair? How?"

"You're toying with me, without any regard for my 
feelings."

"Without any regard for your feelings? How did you 
measure my regard for your feelings?"

"How did...Oh, come off it!"

"I told you the other evening, I care about you. I do. 
Sure, I'm toying with you — that's my style of loving; I 
told you that too — but there's no bad intent in it."

"You have an answer for everything, don't you?"

"Bart, you're a professional logician. You know that 
that's neither a statement nor a question."

That stopped him, so I went on. "You know what I think? 
I think you've been toying with women's feelings all 
your life. You seduce them, you string them along until 
you lose interest, and you do it all with this cynical 
detachment, always in control. Now I'm toying with you 
and you're not in control, and that makes you 
uncomfortable just because you're not used to it. 
Besides that, you worry that I'm as cynical and detached 
as you. It's like you expect the worst because you know 
you deserve it."

He stared at me.

"I don't know what to think."

"Does it really matter? Either you're going to go along 
with it or you're not. Probably you will, just like all 
those women got into bed with you even though they knew 
better. If you do go along, I can tell you I won't be 
cynical and detached like you. If you don't... well, 
either way I'm not going to get pulled into the same 
kind of relationship as those other women, and I'm not 
going to risk my health to pacify you."

"I didn't ask you to risk your health."

"That's right. You didn't."

"Then why did you say that?"

"So you won't feel I'm implying a promise that I'm not."

He regarded me with a pained expression.

"What do you want from me?"

"First I'd like you to look over this next section of 
the manual and see if there are any technical 
corrections that need to be made."

"Okay. Besides work."

"I'd like us to continue getting to know one another. 
I'll be more comfortable if you get yourself checked out 
for every known STD and start turning down opportunities 
to get yourself infected."

"What about the six months it takes for AIDS to show 
up?"

"I guess getting to know one another will have to be 
slow and kinky."

"And I'm supposed to be satisfied with that for six 
months?" he sneered sarcastically.

"If that tone reflected your true feelings, you wouldn't 
be having any problem at all about me. You'd dismiss me 
as a kook and find someone better."

He went back to looking miserable.

"Bart, look: You accused me just a couple of minutes ago 
of knowing exactly what I'm doing to you, and I pled 
guilty. I know you want me; I told you Friday you would. 
I'm not being unfair or cynical about it, and what I'm 
offering isn't just a poor substitute for the kind of 
lovemaking you're used to. 

It's really quite exciting, as you know! It's probably 
even worth the price I want for doing more of it — you 
know, having your health checked and getting yourself 
out of circulation so I don't have to worry about 
catching SDI. But if you don't want any more of my kink 
I can stop. I can't undo what I've already done, and 
you'll have to find your own way of dealing with the 
memories, but you don't have to be subjected to more.

"SDI?"

"Spontaneous Disintegration of the Innards?"

He laughed, thought, smiled sadly.

"Can we get together again soon?"

"Wow! Neat! I'm glad you see it that way. I really am! 
The answer is, promise me you won't get involved with 
any other women, make an appointment to get yourself 
checked out, and then we can talk about it."

"Okay, I won't get involved with any other women, and 
I'll make an appointment."

"Good! Thanks. I won't get involved with anyone else 
either. When you've made the appointment, let me know. 
Maybe I'll tie you up right away! This is exciting!"

"Do you ever make love without all that paraphernalia?"

"It has happened, but don't expect it."

"I don't know why I'm going along with this," he 
muttered with a sigh.

"Yes you do! I made you have the most embarrassing 
orgasm of your whole life, and it was a bigger thrill 
than anything that's happened to you since you were a 
teenager, and you're falling in love for the first time 
again. You can't help it; it just happens that way. 
Besides, you're obsessed with seeing me naked because it 
feels like it'll even things out a little between us. If 
I do let you see me, you'll find out it doesn't do that 
at all, but it'll be such a turn-on, it won't matter."

"You're determined to strip me of every shred of 
dignity, aren't you?"

"If I love you, I will; but don't worry — it'll be just 
between you and me."

A diversity of expressions played across his face.

At last he said, "You do have an answer for everything. 
I'm going to have to learn to be more careful what I ask 
you."

"Lunch?"

"Yeah, sure!"

We spent a pleasant hour at an eatery down the street, 
engaged in the sort of conversation that doesn't have to 
be hid behind a closed door, then returned to work. 
About 3:30 Bart came to my office to tell me he'd made 
an appointment for the following Tuesday afternoon.

"Great!"

"Can we get together again soon?"

"How soon did you have in mind?"

"This evening?"

I smiled, letting him see my amusement at his 
desperation, letting him see I loved it.

"Sure. Francescas at 6:30?"

"I'll be there."

"You know not to drink, right?"

"Yeah."

"I guess I should stop bothering you about it, but don't 
forget, okay?"

"I won't forget."

He turned to go.

"And Bart..."

"Yeah?"

"I'm really looking forward to it."

He smiled at me, naturally and affectionately, the way 
men so seldom do.

"I guess you know I am," he said.

Then he turned again and went.

A couple of points in this tale bear discussion.

Often a man, alone and horny in a big city but fearful 
of disease, will pay a prostitute to masturbate him. The 
woman keeps her clothes on, the man exposes his penis, 
the necessary ministrations are performed, and the pair 
go their separate ways. The man feels no embarrassment 
and certainly doesn't become obsessed with the woman; on 
the contrary, he's likely a bit smug about the whole 
business.

You knew that, but it's probably remote from your own 
experience, or even that of your acquaintances, so let's 
look at a scenario that might be closer to home. In the 
workplace harassment version, a woman is pressured into 
masturbating some man in authority, often repeatedly 
over time, in exchange for the privilege of keeping her 
job. In another variation, a girl or woman is coerced 
into doing the same, in exchange for the privilege of 
escaping forcible penetration. Again, the male is smug 
rather than embarrassed and develops no emotional 
attachment to his victim.

You knew that too, so perhaps you're wondering why, 
unlike the men in these all-too-common horror stories, 
Bart became obsessed with me. Of course the suggestions 
I gave him helped; my talk with Bart was just loaded 
with suggestion, and it had a powerful cumulative 
effect. The big difference, though, is that the more 
common, uglier scenarios are controlled by the male 
aggressor, while that in which Bart became involved was 
controlled by his new girlfriend.

My control enabled me to point out Bart's own lack of 
control and make it a problem for him. With my help, he 
became acutely and then chronically embarrassed by the 
fact that I had seen him naked — even watched him 
ejaculate (and how!)— while my body remained a mystery 
to him. A prostitute won't make an issue of that nor, 
obviously, will a woman whose sexual favors are coerced. 
Bart would have to keep coming back to me until the 
inequity in our sexual relationship had been put right, 
and of course I would see that it never was. Sure, he 
would soon get a good look at my body, but I would 
always be in control, and he would always feel more 
vulnerable than me, and there would always be some 
matter of embarrassment with which I would be teasing 
him.

Then there's the drug. Its influence on our first 
evening of lovemaking was impressive. If Bart hadn't 
smoked, I would have had to physically stimulate him to 
a high degree of arousal while leading him to the Loop 
by suggesting that his situation must be embarrassing. 
Stoned, he fell into the Loop as though it were a black 
hole. All I had to do was notice that it had happened. 
Indeed my first sexual move wasn't even physical; I 
simply made a show of reading Bart's mind. I described 
what was happening to him, I teased him about it, and 
off we went.

Didn't Bart know better than to propose the smoke? Yes 
and no. He was familiar enough with cannabis to predict 
what it would do to him, but he neglected to think. What 
he really wanted was a drink to relax and numb him. 
Since I wouldn't allow that, he suggested a joint as a 
field expedient. That would relax him, but he forgot 
that it wouldn't numb him.

Language shapes our thinking. A man may say, "I could 
use a drink to relax me," and he might even argue that 
alcohol was given to us by God for that purpose, but he 
would never say, "I could use a drink to numb me." It's 
socially unacceptable. The result is that the numbing 
effects of alcohol go unrecognized. In the mind of the 
drinking man, numbness is a part of relaxation — an 
unnamed part. Since Bart was unaccustomed to 
differentiating the two in ordinary conversation, he 
forgot how important the distinction is. He settled for 
relaxation without numbness, and it suited my agenda 
just perfectly.

When I was through with Monday's work, I drove home and 
walked to the pizzeria. I got there five minutes early, 
greeted Francesca, ascertained that Bart hadn't yet 
arrived, and took a seat. Bart came through the door at 
just the appointed time. We shared a pleasant dinner and 
returned to my apartment.

As soon as we were inside, he took me in his arms and 
kissed me passionately, exploring my tongue with his 
mouth. I cooperated and reciprocated, and soon he was 
mauling one of my breasts. I pulled away.

"Yum!" I said. "But if you want to make love, it'll have 
to be my way — kinky."

"Like last time?"

"Mm-hm."

"You're going to keep your clothes on again?"

"Maybe. Once you're tied up I could do anything."

"You're a tease."

"Are you ready?"

"Okay."

"I'll tell you what. I'm going to go to the bathroom for 
a moment. When I'm done, you go, so you'll start with an 
empty bladder in case I keep you tied for a long time. I 
want you to come out of the bathroom completely naked 
and lie down in the middle of the bed. Okay?"

He made an exaggerated groaning noise.

When I finished in the bathroom, he had already taken 
off his shoes, and when he came out carrying the rest of 
his clothes, he found me sitting on the far edge of the 
bed, still fully dressed and holding a length of 
webbing. He groaned again.

"Put your clothes anywhere and get yourself 
comfortable."

He did, and I tied him in place.

I leaned over him.

"It's good to have you back here."

I lay down on him and kissed him, and his cock responded 
right away. We kissed, sometimes lightly, sometimes 
deeply, always lustfully, for at least fifteen minutes.

"This has been a little different from last time," I 
said. "Is there anything else you'd like me to change?"

"Yeah! I'd like you to take your clothes off."

"Mm-hm. Anything else?"

"What are you offering?"

"Nothing that might expose me to SDI, but if there's 
anything you'd like that's safe, you'll have to tell me 
what it is."

"I don't know. You're the kink artist."

"You want me to make you come the same way I did last 
time — let go your cock and watch it bounce around by 
itself?"

"No! Not if you don't have to."

"What do you want?"

"I want you to rub my cock until I'm through coming."

"Uh-huh. What if you can only have one? Say I'm willing 
to take off my clothes or I'm willing to rub your cock 
until you're through coming, but not both. Which do you 
want more?"

His breathing speeded up and his eyes took on a crazed 
look.

"Hmm?"

"I want you to take off your clothes."

"You know, once I let you see my pussy, you're going to 
have to promise to be my love slave for as long as we're 
together."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember I told you that if we're going to be lovers, 
you're going to have to be my slave?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, if I let you see my pussy, I expect you to 
promise to be my love slave. It'd be nice of you to 
promise right away, but it'll definitely have to be by 
the end of our next get-together afterward. Otherwise 
I'll figure you don't want me enough to meet my needs 
and I'll have to find someone else."

"What are the specifications of this job?"

"You'll have to be completely faithful to me, but you've 
already agreed to that. You'll have to undress for me as 
much as I want, whenever I want; you'll have to let me 
touch you any way I want, any part of your body, 
whenever I want; you'll have to touch me whatever way I 
want, whenever I want, and that'll include a lot of 
licking my pussy; you'll have to refrain from touching 
me when that's what I tell you; you'll have to let me 
tie you up whenever I want — wherever I want, too — I've 
done it in some awfully strange places; you'll have to 
play with yourself if I tell you to; you'll have to 
answer all my questions honestly, and I'll probably want 
to know all your sexual secrets and fantasies... it's 
pretty comprehensive. In your case, you might even have 
to quit drinking. I'll have to see if it gets in the way 
of your availability."

"It sure is comprehensive. You've actually gotten other 
men to agree to all that?"

"Sure! I don't think they'd want me giving out there 
names, but there have been several."

"What happened to them?"

"Died. Wanted kids. Moved to Samoa. That kind of thing."

He looked at me questioningly, so I went on.

"None of them ever left because I mistreated him. One 
got crazier than me and took up with a woman who whipped 
him."

"You mean he wanted you to whip him and you wouldn't?"

"That's right."

He looked into my eyes, searchingly, and I looked back, 
opening up to him, trying to help him understand.

"You...know...just... what... you're doing to me. I know 
you know. You've admitted you know. And I still can't 
help loving you for it."

"Mm-hm. Do you want to be my love slave?"

"I think I do."

I kissed him again and we got lost in one another.

"I'll tell you what," I said when we resurfaced. "We'll 
give you a few more days to obsess on my pussy and 
decide whether you really want to be my love slave. You 
want together like this again on Friday?"

"What if I'm ready now?"

"Well, then you'll have to do what I tell you and wait 
till Friday."

"Hm! Okay, Friday."

I sat up on his chest and pulled my shirt off. He looked 
at me. I let my arms rest at my sides.

"You're beautiful," he said.

"Thank you."

I leaned forward, offered each of my breasts to his 
mouth in turn, and savored the sensations he stirred up 
inside me. Before I got too carried away, I climbed off 
him, positioned myself next to his hip, and went to work 
on his cock with both hands.

"If you do decide to be my love slave, this is going to 
be my toy. I get to play with it whenever I want. At 
work, any place we go together — I don't think you can 
imagine how kinky it gets."

I kept at it and soon he was making fucking motions. A 
bit longer and his breathing turned to a kind of 
snorting. A few strokes more and he came, lifting his 
hips into the air, thrusting madly, splattering all over 
himself.

I continued stroking. Soon he was squirming, making 
pained noises, twisting his body in a futile attempt to 
put his cock beyond my reach.

"Stop!" he pleaded at last.

I stopped.

"You're one of those men whose cock gets all sensitive 
after you come. That's a yummy! Fun to play with!"

He gathered himself together. When he was again able to 
meet my gaze, I asked, "Do you still like me?"

"Yes, I still like you."

"Thanks. I like you too. I'm going to get something to 
wipe you up."

I dried him, put my shirt on, undid the bonds, lay down 
next to him. We cuddled.

***

During the rest of that week, we continued to work 
together, continued to have lunch together, and hugged 
and kissed as much as circumstances allowed. Our working 
relationship didn't change. I continued rewriting the 
manual and Bart went on kidding me about my instant 
horriblizing cream. I shared his laughter, read his 
edits, discussed them with him, and incorporated those 
that turned out to be necessary, but only after 
translating them into English. 

It had to be that way. Our boss couldn't let the manual 
go out as Bart had written it, and he would have been 
most displeased if the customers, rather than Bart, 
found all the errors and omissions in my own first 
draft. My goal as a professional was a useful manual, 
not some shortsighted victory over Bart; and Bart's 
goal, despite his kidding, was the same.

Lunchtime Friday we picked up a couple of cheese burgers 
at a drive-thru and took them to the park.

"Ready for this evening?" I asked.

"More than ready. You've got me so horny I can't work."

"Wow! I'm flattered. Are you going to promise to be my 
love slave?"

"I already promised."

"Well, yeah, but that doesn't mean much. I might tell 
you to eat my pussy and you might try it and throw up. 
You're not going to be my love slave that way, no matter 
what you promise. On the other hand, you might come just 
from looking at me. Then it'd be just as silly for you 
to argue that you're not my love slave."

"Did either of those ever happen to you?"

"No, but they've both happened to other women I've 
known."

"They were trying to get the men to be their slaves?"

"No."

I took a bite of my burger and chewed a while.

"Then again, maybe you'll decide you want to try to 
continue our relationship without being my love slave."

"Would you agree to that?"

"No. The next time we got together I'd tie you down and 
torture you until you promised to do things my way."

"I thought you said you weren't into that."

"I wouldn't whip you, but there are other things I can 
do. Like, Monday night I found out how sensitive your 
cock gets once you come? I could make you come and then 
refuse to stop rubbing until you promise."

He was breathing rapidly and neglecting his burger. I 
doubted he would get any work at all done that day.

He didn't. He spent the next few hours in the office of 
a colleague, shooting darts. When the afternoon was 
over, we followed our custom and met for dinner at 
Francescas, then adjourned to my apartment.

I had him strip and tied him down, then leaned over his 
face and kissed him until his cock was dripping. I sat 
on his tummy and took off my shirt, gave him a mouthful 
of each breast, then kissed him some more.

"You want to see my pussy?"

"Yes."

I climbed off him and stood next to the bed. Bart stared 
as I undid my jeans and dropped them around my ankles.

"You...are...just...so...beautiful," he said.

"Thank you."

I stepped out of my jeans, got back on the bed, and sat 
lightly on his chest, my pussy spread in front of him.

"You like me from this angle too?"

"Yes!"

"Would you like to make love to me with your mouth?"

"Just what I've always wanted!"

I straddled his face and lowered myself into position. 
He ate me eagerly, lovingly, without the slightest hint 
of distaste, satisfying me as I had so long been wanting 
him to. When I felt I couldn't come one more time, I lay 
down on him again and kissed him lightly.

"Thanks," I said. "That felt so good! Did you like it 
too?"

"Yes. You're an incredible turn-on."

"Do you want to be my love slave?"

"Yes."

"Are you ready to do whatever I tell you?"

"Yes."

"Okay, we'll see."

I got up and tied his ankles to the legs of the bed. He 
was puzzled, even apprehensive.

I told him not to worry, that he'd find out what I had 
in mind soon enough.

When I was finished with his ankles, I untied his right 
wrist.

"Well, if you really want to be my love slave, we might 
as well get you started with a big bang. I want to watch 
you play with yourself until you come."

"You are determined to strip me of every shred of 
dignity."

"Mm-hm!"

He took hold of his cock and began stroking it.

"Did you ever do this in front of a woman before?"

"Once."

"Is it an exciting memory?"

"Kind of, but I've always had an uneasy feeling about 
how it turned out." He stopped stroking. "Back in high 
school, there was this girl I was friendly with. Her 
parents were extremely overprotective, and she didn't 
know anything about sex, so I didn't chase after her — I 
didn't think I'd get anywhere — but sometimes we'd hang 
out and talk. Somehow she managed to pick up a boyfriend 
in our senior year, and when they were alone, he would 
feel her up through her clothing and want her to do the 
same to him. Well, she wound up asking me to show her 
how I was built so she'd know what she was doing with 
him. 

I figured maybe she'd get turned on to me, so I showed 
her, and there we were — she was staring at my cock and 
asking questions, and I was trying to play teacher and 
answer them. One question led to another and she asked 
me to show her how the sperm comes out, so I explained 
how she could make it happen and told her to give it a 
try, but she wouldn't. She said she wanted me to do it 
myself, so I did. What freaked me out about the whole 
thing was that right after she graduated, she went into 
a convent. I don't know if she stayed with it and became 
a nun, but I sure didn't feel good about where she was 
headed."

"Even if she's a nun, I'll bet she can't keep that 
memory out of her head for more than a few hours at a 
time, just like I know I'll never forget this evening. I 
won't forget any of the other times I make you jerk off 
either, and there are going to be a lot of them, 
especially during the next six months. I won't let you 
forget them either," I smile teasingly and looked at his 
cock, "or let you get out of them."

He groaned and resumed his stroking.

"Poor Bart! You used to put your cock in a new woman 
every week, and now you have to go without for months 
and months, and jerk off on demand as my private porno 
show. You can't even be sure I'll ever decide to fuck 
you, and if I do, you'll be tied down like this so you 
have no control and it all happens my way. What a fate!"

He seemed to be close to the edge, so I started gently 
rubbing his left nipple with the back of my right hand. 
He withstood it for only a few seconds before he came.

"Neat! You are my love slave!"

He had saved up quite a load, and it gave his orgasm an 
intensity that I knew embarrassed him. When it was over 
I withdrew my hand from his chest and lay it 
affectionately on his shoulder, then stroked his cheek.

"Not a shred of dignity," I said. "I told you that's how 
it would be if I loved you; I guess I do."

"I could be really happy to hear that. I want to be 
happy to hear it, but I can't help wondering what it 
means. Do you love the same way other people do?"

"Yes, it's only my way of sexualizing it that's unusual. 
The caring and affection underneath are common to 
gentlefolk everywhere."

I bent over and kissed him, then looked at his tummy.

"I'm going to get something to wipe you up."

I made a move to stand up, then stopped and sat on the 
edge of the bed.

"You know, we've got to be less formal about these 
little errands I run while you're tied down. What I'd 
like is for you not to panic every time I get up to do 
something. I'm never going to hurt you, and I'm never 
going to go further than I can hear, and I'm never going 
to be gone for more than a minute, and I'd like you to 
trust in that without my having to tell you what I'm 
doing each time. Okay?"

"Are you mad at me?"

"No, I'm just asking for what I need. It's important to 
me to be trusted. Obviously you do trust me. You let me 
tie you up, and that takes a lot of trust, and when I 
tell you what I'm going to do, you believe me. But that 
first evening you were here, you panicked when I got up 
to get an ash tray, and that distressed me, so I started 
giving you explanations so you wouldn't panic. That's 
made for an improvement, but what I'd really like is for 
you to trust that I'll always treat you well."

"Being tied up is hard enough all by itself. I trust 
you, but it's scary when you suddenly walk away. I'll 
try to get used to it, but I'm not sure I can."

"I'll tell you what. I'll stop explaining my little 
errands, and you try not to panic, and if you sometimes 
feel I'm frightening you, our I sometimes feel you're 
distrusting me, we'll try to forgive one another. How 
does that sound?"

His eyes misted over as he thought about it.

"Sure," he said. "I love you, Georgeann."

I bent over and kissed him again, then got a towel and 
dried him off. By the time I was done, he had untied his 
left hand, and he set to work on his right ankle while I 
untied the lower left leg of the bed. Soon he was 
completely free and we lay down to our first naked 
cuddle.

We slept together through the night, and in the morning 
I fixed breakfast. When I told him it was almost ready, 
he stumbled out of bed and started pulling on his pants. 
I stopped him and said that whenever we were alone 
together, I wanted him naked. He looked at me groggily, 
dropped his pants on the floor and made his way to the 
bathroom. A couple of minutes later, he showed up in the 
dining room, a bit steadier on his feet and still 
deliciously naked.

After breakfast I showered, then invited him to do the 
same.

"When do you leave for your class?" he asked. "I don't 
want to hold you up."

"I was hoping you could stay the day so I'd get to play 
with you some more."

"Wow! Yeah! I'd like that!" he said eagerly. Then he 
became more thoughtful and added, "You know, I've never 
been in a situation like this. I don't know what I'm 
supposed to say, how I'm supposed to act, anything. All 
I have to go on is what you said, that part of being 
your love slave is answering your questions honestly, so 
that's what I'm trying to do."

"You're doing just fine. Answer my questions honestly 
and be yourself. That way I get the pleasure of knowing 
you, and if I tell you I love you, you know it's really 
you I'm talking about and not some act you put on."

"Wow! Men would have it a whole lot easier if all women 
felt that way."

"It's tempting to let you think I've invented some great 
new approach to relationship, but if the truth be known, 
most women do feel that way. From a woman's point of 
view, the difficulty is getting men to believe it. 
Actually, an even bigger difficulty is getting men to 
pay attention to the message so they can even think 
about it. One of the good things about making you my 
love slave is that it gets your attention so we can talk 
when we need to."

"What do we need to talk about?" he asked defensively.

I groaned silently.

"We needed to talk about how good it is that you be 
yourself. Right now there's nothing pending."

He seemed to recover and I invited him back to bed. He 
followed peaceably.

We played for hours. I'd have him eat me or finger me or 
both until I'd come several times, then we'd cuddle a 
while, then I'd tease him to within a few strokes of 
orgasm, then I'd have him do me again, and so on. By 
mid-afternoon I was lying on my back with my pussy open, 
Bart tonguing my clit while massaging the surrounding 
area with his lips, at the same time rubbing my g-spot 
with two fingers and using his other hand to play with 
my nipples. I let him go on and on until I was satiated, 
and then after another cuddle, I finally brought him 
off. I didn't tie him down — just took his cock between 
my hands and milked it until he came, stopping just one 
stroke short of too much.

We lay together almost an hour, then I told him I needed 
the rest of the weekend for chores and errands. He said 
he had a few of those himself. I offered him the use of 
the shower and he accepted. Then he dressed, we said an 
affectionate good-bye, and he was on his way.

Three days later Bart went for his medical evaluation, 
and by the end of the following week, he had been 
pronounced clean, pending a six-month follow-up for HIV. 
Our relationship continued, happy and kinky, for three 
months. The day the results of his tests came back, we 
finished the manual. Three days later, I was assigned to 
another project, but we continued having lunch together 
three or four times a week, and I would occasionally pop 
into his office to look at my toy and tease him about 
how it responded to my attention. Nights and weekends, 
we were together as often as not.

It seemed like nothing could go wrong, but something 
did. Bart was invited to discuss his work at a military 
development facility in central New York. Leave 
Wednesday morning, back Friday night — simple. Through a 
stroke of good fortune, I was just getting into a 
weekend of intensive aikido training in Seattle when he 
returned. By the time I saw him again, he was in the 
hospital, being devoured by a particularly virulent 
strain of penicillin-resistant gonorrhea.

He told me that Thursday evening he'd gone to eat in a 
diner near his motel, and a few minutes after he was 
seated, an attractive woman — a woman he didn't 
recognize — walked up to him, greeted him by name, 
invited herself to join him, and came on to him. He 
played her guessing game about where they'd met before, 
but he couldn't remember and she never did tell him. He 
said she seduced him. He started developing symptoms the 
next day, but didn't seek treatment until Saturday, when 
he'd got back home and slept a while. The usual remedy 
was administered immediately, but it proved ineffective. 
By Monday he was a genuine medical emergency.

I felt betrayed and told him so. I let him know I would 
visit him regularly in the hospital — even run errands 
for him so his credit rating wouldn't suffer and the 
Department of Motor Vehicles wouldn't assess its penalty 
for late renewal of his registration — but our sexual 
relationship couldn't continue. He was distraught and 
begged forgiveness, but I knew that if he had been 
seduced once, he could be seduced again and I wasn't 
willing to accept the risk to my health. He wanted to 
talk about it, sick as he was, but I told him we might 
as well wait until he was healthier because he might not 
get any healthier and our talk would be wasted.

Intuitively, though, I was sure he would recover, and I 
scrambled to find another job because I knew it would be 
too painful for both of us to go on seeing one another 
every day as we had when we were lovers. Gradually his 
condition improved, and on a Thursday evening, three 
weeks after his so-called seduction, he announced that 
his doctor had told him he might be discharged as early 
as the following Monday.

"Great! That's the same day I start my new job."

"New job?"

"Yes. I found another job. With another company."

"Where?"

"You don't need to know that. We won't be seeing one 
another anymore."

"You said we could talk about it. Can we?"

"I didn't really say we could talk about it, just that 
talking was no use unless you were going to recover. 
Anyway, we're talking. What do you want to say?"

"Will you give me another chance?"

"No."

"Look, I didn't set out to find another woman. I was 
seduced."

"You could have said no and you didn't."

"I made one mistake and I've learned not to make another 
like it. Doesn't it matter to you that I intended to be 
faithful?"

"No, it doesn't matter to anyone. If it mattered, you 
wouldn't have got sick. Your faithful intentions would 
have saved you from the natural laws of contagion. What 
were you going to do if you didn't get so spectacularly 
sick? Tell me on your own that you'd betrayed me? or 
make it worse by keeping it a secret? Were you going to 
let me find out the hard way that you'd picked up some 
ugly bug? Pass your six-month HIV follow-up with flying 
colors, and then we discover ten years down the line 
that we've both got AIDS? What did you have in mind?"

"I wasn't thinking. I don't know whether I was going to 
tell you. You could give me the benefit of the doubt."

"Giving you the benefit of the doubt means recognizing 
that you made a unilateral decision that the price I'd 
have to pay for a long-term relationship with you was 
being increased from six months without fucking to nine 
months. And it's only six for you. That's if your 
betrayal turns out to be a one-time thing. More likely, 
if I give you another chance, you'll figure you can get 
as many chances as you want, and soon we get to where 
you go find someone to fuck every time you get the itch; 
and each time, I have to wait another six months while 
you're getting all you want."

"I didn't know the wait bothered you."

"Do you think I like to go without fucking? I put up 
with it because your history made it necessary and I 
thought you were worth it, just like you pretended to 
think I was worth it. Teasing you about the wait like it 
didn't bother me was play!" The force of my own voice 
startled me, and I began to cry. "It was taking a bad 
situation and finding a way to have fun with it. Now 
even that's shot to hell, because you're not really 
waiting; only I am."

"Please. I wasn't pretending. I agreed to the wait 
because you really are worth it to me. I honestly 
intended to wait. I screwed up. Once. It'll never happen 
again. Please forgive me. I need you."

"Your word isn't worth anything. If you needed me, you 
knew it before you left on your trip; and that one 
screw-up was the one you promised four months ago would 
never happen. All I can expect now is that next time 
you'll try really hard not to get caught, and that means 
you won't tell me when you put my health at risk."

"You're doing this to punish me."

"No, I wouldn't cause myself this much pain just to 
punish you. I'm doing it to save my life because I 
realize how little you value it."

I left him there — left the hospital — and started 
walking. A half hour and I'd be fit to drive home. I 
kicked myself for not shaving Bart's pubic hair. That 
would have given him all the strength he needed to 
resist that floozy. I had already recommended the 
technique to several women with philandering husbands, 
and they'd had good results with it, but I myself had 
tried it only once, when I was considerably younger, and 
its intrinsic violence had offended my gentle nature. 
Besides, I wanted my man's fidelity to be his own 
choice. Still, a shave would have saved Bart from a 
terrible misery. Or would it really?

I thought a bit more and decided that kicking myself was 
useless. There was nothing more to be done about Bart. 
Soon I would meet someone else, and he would be 
different. Two weeks later I did, and he was.


*** Chapter 13, In which we address the ugly problem of 
violence

Bad men

Male violence against women is an old American tradition 
that's never died. A lot of men, even today, see it as a 
natural part of any relationship, and many more see it 
as an option to be kept open for difficult 
circumstances. If you're interested in using the power 
of your femininity to sexually enslave a man, a violent 
response is a possibility you have to consider.

The physical violence that men direct against women 
takes a number of forms, but for purposes of this 
discussion we can lump all but one of them together 
under the name brutality. Brutality includes beating, 
whether accompanied by rape or not; it includes rape 
effected by the threat of force; and it includes gang 
rape even if no other injury is inflicted. Brutality is 
intended to establish male dominance over a woman by 
hurting, terrorizing, degrading or humiliating her. For 
simplicity, we'll also give a name to the perpetrators 
of brutality; we'll call them brutes.

There's one form of violence that needs to be 
differentiated from brutality, so I'll give it another 
name. The name is an oxymoron that may infuriate you: 
gentle rape. Hate it? Good! Please bear with me anyway, 
because that name will help you understand the 
phenomenon and avoid becoming a victim.

There are three ways in which acts of brutality are 
triggered. The first and most common is that a brute 
wants something, sees his partner as an obstacle keeping 
it from him, and vents his frustration by directing an 
outburst of violence at her. What he wants could be 
anything — the use of her body, beer, the silence of a 
crying baby, even her agreement with the abstract idea 
that he's the boss. Often his belief that the 
desideratum is under her control is incorrect — the 
product of a sense of realty as poorly developed as his 
ability to deal with frustration. He can best be 
understood as an ill-tempered two-year-old — a two-year-
old with the body of a grown man and a bad case of 
testosterone poisoning.

Brutality can also be triggered by the feeling of 
vulnerability that results from a greater degree of 
intimacy than the brute can handle. Perhaps he indulged 
in a momentary urge to open up to his partner as he 
might if he were emotionally healthy. Perhaps she 
accidentally discovered something about him he would 
rather have kept hid. However it came about, he 
perceives his exposure as a real-world danger and reacts 
with all the violence that might be appropriate to 
physical threat. It's scary to live with such a man — 
like making one's home on the side of a volcano — but no 
woman has to put herself in that situation. Remember, 
most men aren't like that. The average man may become 
emotionally withdrawn when love is no longer new, but if 
he finds he's made an exception and revealed more of 
himself than usual, or if he's sexually enslaved and has 
to change his ways, he'll handle it well. It's the man 
who can't handle it — the brute — who's dangerous.

Why distinguish brutality triggered by a sense of 
vulnerability from that triggered by frustration? Just 
to be thorough, really. The difference might be of 
professional interest to a psychologist, but it has no 
practical value to a victim, and few brutes care to 
understand their own motivations. Besides, we're not 
even discussing two different classes of brutes, just 
two different ways in which brutality is triggered. The 
men who get violent when they feel vulnerable also get 
violent when they're frustrated.

Brutes can be recognized and, unless you're already 
committed to one, avoided. In fact the easiest and most 
effective way to avoid falling victim to brutality is to 
avoid brutes. Avoid them even if you have no interest in 
female domination.

What if you're married to a brute or strongly attracted 
to one? What are your chances of sexually enslaving and 
taming him? Absolutely none. You can't use my techniques 
on a man who will respond with violence. You'll get 
killed. If you're involved with a man who has ever, even 
once, committed an act of brutality, don't attempt any 
of the techniques described in this book. If you're 
involved with a man who commits acts of brutality with 
any regularity, get out of the relationship! Leave now! 
Go to a shelter for battered women if you have to, but 
get out while you can still walk. You've heard this 
before and it's starting to seem like a recording, but 
that's because it's the best advice anyone can give you, 
and everyone who feels qualified to give advice on the 
subject knows it.

If you're unattached and looking toward your next 
relationship, avoid brutes. Don't imagine that early 
application of my techniques will protect you from later 
brutality. It won't. Avoid brutes.

Brutes are easy to avoid because they're easy to spot. 
The signs are many and varied. Some are so reliable that 
every man who displays one is certain to be a brute, 
though not every brute will display one of these signs. 
Others are less reliable. If I give you even a partial 
list of the more obvious of these, and you apply them 
rigorously, there'll be thousands of innocent men you'll 
have to reject. I'll give it to you anyway; you're 
better safe than sorry, and besides, I know that, like 
Denise, you'll use your own judgment.

Suspect any man who makes disparaging remarks about 
women in general; who's often angry; who expresses 
dissatisfaction through crude, cutting, or sarcastic 
personal insults; who drives aggressively; who hassles 
the help in restaurants; who spits in public places 
(other than wilderness); who pushes to the front of a 
line; who picks fights; who belongs to a football team, 
hockey team, street gang, motorcycle gang or fraternity; 
who is or ever was a police officer; or who punctuates 
his speech with more profanity than is customary for the 
circumstances.

If you're laughing, I'm glad I'm entertaining you. I see 
a bit of humor in that list myself, but don't discount 
its value. Stereotypes based on behavior, unlike other 
stereotypes, are useful. If part of a man's behavior 
conforms to a violent stereotype, it's a good bet — a 
safe bet — that the rest of his behavior will also.

Three signs are so reliable that you should apply them 
rigorously.

Avoid a man who uses the word bitch as a substitute for 
woman in ordinary conversation. If a man calls a 
particular woman a bitch because he feels she's being 
bitchy, or if he says that a whole class of women are 
bitches because he's angry with them, or something of 
like nature, that doesn't signify. It's the unstressed 
use of the word, without emotion, that spells trouble.

How does the man who refers to women as bitches differ 
from the man who merely makes disparaging remarks about 
us? I've told you that the one is a brute for sure, 
while advising you only to suspect the other. Why?

The man who makes disparaging remarks may be joking. He 
may be baiting the proprietors of political 
correctitude, thinking they deserve to be baited and 
that no one else will care. He may be upset from reading 
a newspaper story about a man jailed for a rape he 
didn't commit. He could have any number of reasons for 
mouthing off, and what he says may have no predictive 
value with respect to his treatment of an intimate 
partner. The man who uses bitch in place of woman, 
though, hates women for sure, and his hatred is 
integrated into his psyche at a deep level — as deep as 
his native language.

Some men refer to women as bitches only when talking 
with other men — some only when talking with men their 
own age. This makes the sign harder to detect but no 
less reliable. If you hear it in a man's speech, whether 
intended for your ears or not, stay away.

Avoid a man who hates male homosexuals. His homophobia 
arises out of insecurity about his masculinity, and that 
insecurity will drive him to brutalize you. Because he's 
insecure, he needs to be always proving he's a man, and 
his idea of masculinity is badly twisted or he couldn't 
be insecure about it. (An emotionally healthy man can't 
be insecure about his masculinity because he sees it as 
a simple fact of life, like the color of his eyes. Even 
an emotionally healthy homosexual sees it that way.) One 
of the ways an insecure man will try to prove his 
masculinity is by dominating a woman. He has to dominate 
a woman. 

The world is watching and the woman is watching too, and 
if he doesn't dominate her — if he treats women decently 
— then the world will know he isn't a real man and 
she'll lose respect for him. The best means of 
domination, of course, is brutality. After all, he's 
learned that violent aggression is itself an aspect of 
masculinity, so each act of brutality that he commits 
against his partner goes that much further toward 
proving his manliness.

Before you apply this warning as rigorously as I advise, 
it's important that you understand what hatred of 
homosexuals is and what it isn't. Hatred is the intense 
visceral emotion that we all know by that name; nothing 
less qualifies. A gentle, sensitive, sane and 
exclusively heterosexual man might be so disgusted by 
sexual contact between males that if he were to stumble 
upon two men making love in the woods, he would throw 
up. Being emotionally healthy though, and not insecure 
about his masculinity, he doesn't hate homosexuals — not 
even the ones he threw up over. His feeling is analogous 
to that of a woman who's disgusted by oysters and 
prefers not to watch people eat them, but still can't be 
said to hate those who do.

In some parts of this country — Kentucky, for example — 
a large segment of the population, including some sixty 
percent of the men you might meet, subscribe to a 
conservative religious morality. The prevailing opinion 
is that homosexuality is a sin, that homosexuals seek to 
seduce children and heterosexuals into their depraved 
ways, that toleration of homosexuality promotes evil and 
will bring down the wrath of God on the commonwealth as 
a whole, and that homosexual acts must therefore be 
outlawed and punished. Are sixty percent of the men in 
Kentucky brutes? Hardly. Conservative religious morality 
isn't hatred. Some of the men who subscribe to that 
morality do hate homosexuals, and they most assuredly 
are brutes, but most don't and most aren't.

Let's look at another analogy like that of the oysters.

Utah is probably the only state in the Union that, 
because of its conservative religious morality, will 
never legalize any form of gambling. A majority of the 
people there feel that gambling is a sin, that the 
inexperienced are easily seduced by its availability, 
that toleration of gambling promotes evil and will bring 
down the wrath of God on the commonwealth as a whole, 
and that gambling must therefore be outlawed and 
punished. 

Now, how many people in Utah actually hate gamblers? 
Imagine that a casino executive from Reno decks himself 
out in casual clothes emblazoned with his employer's 
logo, gets in his car with its Nevada plates, and sets 
out on a two-week auto tour of Utah. Along the way, he 
tells everyone he meets what he does for a living. How 
much hostility would he encounter? Would he get beat up? 
refused service and lodging? Really.

Only hatred is hatred. The man to avoid is the one who 
gets all agitated and shouts, "Fuckin' queers! They 
should all be hung!" He's dangerous, and he's more 
dangerous to the woman who puts herself in his company 
than he is to some homosexual down the street whom he'd 
have to go look for. Of course, the man who goes out 
queer-bashing with a baseball bat, claiming he's doing 
God's work and hates no one, is also to be avoided. 
Hatred is hatred no matter what it calls itself, and if 
you spend much time with such a man, he'll soon be using 
that baseball bat on you. Men are often what they seem.

After my soapbox speech about war, I feel the need to 
make one more fine point. A professional politician who 
doesn't hate homosexuals himself, but cynically panders 
to the homophobia of his constituency, is probably not a 
brute (regardless of what else I might think of him). If 
you don't mind his demagoguery, you might want to 
cultivate a relationship with him; like any man 
overburdened with power and responsibility, he's likely 
to respond well to a woman who undertakes his sexual 
enslavement, welcoming the relief she offers from the 
pressures of his work.

The third easily-recognized brute is the man who rages 
at the sight of a couple consisting of a woman of his 
own race or ethnicity and a man of some other race or 
ethnicity.

Why, we might wonder, should this rattle him so?

The enemy! They're stealing our women!

Oh.

What makes this man dangerous is that he sees women as 
chattels — something like valuable purebred dogs that 
might be lured away from their rightful owners with 
offers of meat. If you get involved with such a man and 
do something that annoys him (like neglecting to stock 
enough beer for a three-day binge), he'll strike out at 
you much as he would at a misbehaving dog, and without 
any idea that he's doing wrong.

Some men who exhibit this sign like to give the 
impression that they're fair and consistent about it, so 
they make a principle of the belief that sex between 
people of different races or ethnicities is always wrong 
and profess an equal degree of hostility toward all 
mixed couples. The underlying psychology is the same 
though, so you can be sure that if a man denounces even 
one person for miscegenation, he's a brute. On the other 
hand, a man's acceptance of a mixed couple doesn't 
demonstrate the absence of this sign unless the woman is 
of his own group, and even then it doesn't prove he 
isn't a brute. There are plenty of brutes, including 
many who see women as chattels, to whom ethnicity just 
isn't an issue.

There's one more warning sign I urge you to watch out 
for, though it's far from absolutely reliable. Many 
readers will find it counterintuitive and I don't 
understand it myself, but it's based on stories 
collected from a goodly number of women, and the pattern 
revealed by those stories is unmistakable: Beware a man 
who courts you with flowers. 

I've heard the tales of a disproportionate number of 
battered women whose abusers courted them by giving or 
sending them flowers several times a week. Generally the 
flowers stopped once the relationship had stabilized, 
only to reappear again and again as a means of wooing 
the woman back each time the man got worried that his 
battering had run her off for good. Better 
relationships, more consistently free of violence, 
follow from the more modern approach to courtship in 
which a couple get to know one another by sharing 
activities they both enjoy, avoiding extravagant 
gestures.

No matter how well a man measures up against my little 
catalog of horrors, never ignore the warnings of your 
own intuition. When getting acquainted, be alert to 
hints of violence, duplicity and ulterior purpose. If 
something feels wrong, something is wrong. Always.

I promised to describe three ways in which acts of 
brutality are triggered, and I've only covered two. The 
third trigger is the perceived opportunity to engage in 
that most time-honored of male bonding rituals, 
massacre. This is why any young college woman runs the 
risk of being raped by the football team. All she has to 
do is be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Some women, in fact, are raped by college football 
teams, but nowhere near as many as we might expect. 
There are two reasons for the low numbers. One is that 
most women take care not to be alone with a football 
team. The other is that usually, when a football team 
has the opportunity to rape someone, even if every 
member of the team has such a predisposition, nobody 
thinks of it. Their attention is focused elsewhere and 
the impulse to massacre doesn't spring to the forefront 
of anyone's consciousness. A woman who attempts to apply 
the techniques of female domination, though, is likely 
to be at substantially greater risk than a random 
bystander. Let's see how.

Our heroine is a freshman at a small college in 
Arkansas. She becomes intimate with a classmate and 
attempts to sexually enslave him. Puzzled by what's 
happening, he asks his big brother for advice. Pig 
Bruvver, an offensive throwback on the football team, 
alerts his buddies to the new Menace and they decide to 
neutralize her. How? Massacre, of course. They'll hunt 
her down, or set an ambush, and they'll rape her and 
beat her half to death. Once their attention is focused, 
massacre becomes their whole purpose. Male bonding is 
what matters now, and male dominance. At this point any 
excuse would have served, and though our heroine is at 
greater risk than anyone else on campus, every other 
woman's risk increases as well. To a massacre squad, 
mistaken identity isn't a tragedy to be avoided, but a 
convenience that speeds their mission.

Understand your cultural context. Not every college, to 
continue with the same example, is like the one where 
Suzi recruited her slaves.

Gentle rape is something else. It's not motivated by a 
craving for dominance but by sexual desire. It's 
committed by a man, almost always an acquaintance of the 
victim, who doesn't understand that no means no. His 
misapprehension is sincere. He thinks no is an empty 
gesture required by social convention. So he overcomes 
it. And he does it gently. He doesn't want to hurt his 
victim, and he doesn't hurt her, at least not very much. 
He has to avoid hurting her to preserve his perception 
that he's engaged in a consensual transaction rather 
than a rape. 

He doesn't hit her. He doesn't twist her harm. He may 
hold her arm so she can't use it to fight him off, but 
he doesn't twist it. He may push her knees apart, but he 
does it with little enough force so he can convince 
himself that he couldn't possibly succeed against 
genuine resistance. He doesn't know how much stronger 
than she he is, nor does he appreciate how frightened 
she is.

Many women who have lived through this wonder whether 
they were really raped. They ask themselves, over and 
over, what they did to invite such behavior, how their 
refusal could have been misunderstood. They ask 
themselves these questions because there's no reasonable 
explanation for what happened except a failure to 
communicate. Indeed that's the correct explanation, but 
the failure doesn't lie with the victims.

Does it, then, lie with the perpetrators? They're sure 
they did nothing wrong, that what happened was 
consensual. Accused of rape, they assume their accusers 
are distorting the facts, not that they see the same 
facts differently. Upon learning that the facts aren't 
in dispute, they're genuinely puzzled.

Though it's unfashionable to say so, the simple truth is 
that the perpetrators and the victims were taught 
different rules of communication — given different maps 
of reality. Gentle rape happens by mistake.

Because of this, you can't spot gentle rapists the way 
you can brutes. You're sure your new boyfriend is no 
brute, and you're right, but how will he respond when 
you turn him on and then subject him to a high degree of 
sexual frustration? Will he accept the frustration and 
pay attention to your demands? Will he angrily but 
nonviolently reject you? (He has a right to do that, you 
know.) Or will he use just a little bit of force and 
overpower you? The only way to get any indication ahead 
of time is by discussion. Tell him the story of a friend 
who was the victim of a gentle rape. Make it up if you 
have to. His response is almost certain to give you some 
useful information about him.

Countermeasures

There's one reliable way to protect yourself from 
violence — whether the perpetrators be brutes, gentle 
rapists or muggers — and that's to master the art of 
self-defense. It's hard work and it takes time, but the 
ability to protect yourself is so valuable that I urge 
you to make the investment. There are several martial 
arts that are effective, but my own favorite — the one 
I've chosen to study myself and the one I most highly 
recommend — is aikido. Aikido teaches a set of skills 
that enable the practitioner to avoid harm without doing 
harm, and it teaches a moral philosophy to match. 
Because of this, the study of aikido offers a pleasant 
fringe benefit — the opportunity to meet some truly 
excellent people.

In case you have no experience with martial arts but 
want to learn, I'll offer four bits of practical advice 
on selecting a school. The first three are applicable to 
martial arts generally and the last to aikido 
specifically. Follow them and you won't go wrong.

The first thing to do when you visit a school is ask the 
instructor whether the students compete in tournaments. 
If the answer is yes, or if the answer is that 
competition is optional — indeed if the answer is 
anything other than no — find another school.

If a school competes, it inevitably becomes so focused 
on competition that it winds up teaching its students 
nothing but how to win tournaments. This has 
disadvantages. Tournaments have rules, which brawls 
don't. Boxers, wrestlers, and martial arts tournament 
competitors routinely put themselves in positions where, 
if it weren't for the rules, they would get an ear 
bitten off. Only a school that doesn't compete can be 
relied upon to teach you to stay out of such positions.

Technique is another problem. A school that competes may 
teach, for example, that a crescent kick to the side of 
an opponent's head is a practical move. Even if you can 
execute it, it isn't something you would want to do in a 
brawl; it's too long to be standing on one leg. If 
you're forty-five and out of shape, you simply won't be 
able to learn to kick a standing opponent in the side of 
the head. Don't waste your time with an instructor 
who'll insist on making you try. You don't have to be 
able to do that even to protect yourself from someone 
who can.

Avoid any school or class that's for women only. Such a 
school can't teach you how to throw a big man, but it 
may give you the dangerous delusion that you're capable 
of doing it anyway. There's no way to learn to throw a 
big man except repeated practice. The schools that hire 
big men to play the role of bad guys, covered with lots 
of protective padding, are no good. Real brutes are more 
cunning tacticians than these hirelings, and all men are 
more agile without padding. It's better to practice on 
fellow students who are big and male — more realistic.

Some of the techniques taught by these schools are 
effective but too dangerous for use by a dominatrix. You 
can avoid brutes, so your primary use for martial arts 
is to convince a gentle rapist that no means no. This 
can be done without hurting him, and that's how it 
should be done. Remember, you didn't get involved with 
him because you thought he was the sort of person who 
should be maimed or killed. You got involved with him 
because you like him and it was obvious that he likes 
you. 

It turned out that the two of you learned different ways 
of communicating about sexual issues, so now you need a 
way of showing him what you mean by no. Classes for 
women only, unfortunately, aren't real big on this. They 
tend to be taught by women who see all men as brutes and 
they concentrate on the most dangerous of techniques, 
with emphasis on the potentially lethal. Such techniques 
are good to know, but you need gentler ones too.

When you begin martial arts training, you'll feel sore. 
The mornings after the first couple of classes, you may 
have difficulty moving. For the first six weeks or so, 
you can expect to feel as though you'd been severely 
beaten with a heavy pillow. This is normal. Injuries 
aren't. Dislocations, pulled shoulder muscles, visible 
bruises and bloody knuckles are not a necessary part of 
martial arts training. If your instructor tells you they 
are, or seems to regard them as commonplace, find 
another school.

If you decide to take up aikido, you'll want to study 
good aikido — the sort that's most useful. Obviously 
you're not going to ask the instructor whether he 
teaches good aikido; I'm going to give you a way to tell 
the difference. Observe a class or a demonstration, and 
notice how the instructor throws his opponents. Pay 
particular attention to the way he stands when preparing 
to be attacked. His posture should be natural, as if he 
were walking — upright, relaxed, hands at sides, knees 
just slightly bent; there should be mo more distance 
between his feet than you would expect if he were 
waiting for a bus.

The greater the deviation of the defender's opening 
stance from this natural posture, the less useful the 
aikido will be. If the defender looks like something out 
of a martial arts movie — feet wide apart, knees 
severely bent to bring the body low, hands forward as 
though prepared to deliver a karate chop — the aikido 
will be almost useless, regardless of how well it may 
seem to work when demonstrated. It's intuitively 
obvious. To be useful, a defensive technique has to be 
available without adopting an unusual stance. You have 
to be able to use it from whatever posture you're in 
when you're attacked.

There are two schools of aikido I can recommend by name, 
and wherever you live in the United States, a dojo of 
one or the other is probably in the nearest big city. 
One is Aikido Kokikai and the other is Aikido Shusekai. 
Both regard competition as contrary to the spirit of 
aikido, so neither competes; neither segregates its 
classes by gender; both teach techniques that are 
practical and useful; and you're unlikely to get hurt 
while studying either. According to an apocryphal tale, 
the founder of Aikido Shusekai once ejected a young man 
from his dojo when, after a couple of lessons, it became 
apparent that the student had a subconscious desire to 
hurt women. Excellent people.

Wearing the black belt

Let's fantasize a bit. A few years ago you got fed up 
with brutes, so you studied karate and got a job in 
construction, and now you're ready for Pig Bruvver and 
all his buddies. If they picked you as the victim of one 
of their massacres, there would be very little left of 
them at the end. What should you do?

Obviously you're going to do whatever you want; it would 
take a SWAT team to stop you. What I would recommend, 
though, is that you avoid brutes and treat everyone as 
gently as possible. If you have a lover who needs to be 
shown that he can't make you do what you don't want to, 
show him without hurting him. Use deadly force only if 
attacked by someone who means you harm.

But it would be so much fun to get hold of one of those 
brutes and turn him into my sex slave. Every time he 
threw one of his ugly little tantrums, I'd...

You could do that, but you shouldn't. Sexual slavery is 
a good trip. Every love slave I've ever had, every love 
slave I've ever heard of, took great pleasure in the 
role. Even Tony, who was about as nearly a brute as 
possible without actually being one, liked what Denise 
did to him. The reason you shouldn't use superior 
strength or skill to sexually enslave a brute is that he 
doesn't deserve it. What he does deserve is to be 
shunned by women, cut off from all sexual pleasure, and 
denied any opportunity to reproduce his kind. That won't 
happen soon — certainly not while brutes are still 
permitted to raise their daughters to seek relationships 
with brutes — but we can each do our part and we can 
each ensure our own safety in the process.

Safety? What safety? I can break him in two with one 
hand!

Sure you can. But every now and then, you have to sleep. 
If someone is going to be nearby when you do, make sure 
it's someone you can trust.

So much for fantasy. What's the reality of life after 
martial arts training? I started studying aikido when I 
was sixteen, I was reasonably proficient by the time I 
was nineteen, and I earned a black belt at twenty-two. 
It's given me a great deal of confidence, but I've never 
had to use my skills against a lover or a date.

Let's go back over the situations in which my training 
might have played a role. When Steve was eating me and 
lunged forward in an attempt to put his cock in my 
pussy, I got out of his way. My training helped me move 
faster and more deliberately than I otherwise could 
have, and I knew how to help him toward a position of 
imbalance that increased his disorientation. Did it make 
any real difference? Of course not. If my evasion had 
been clumsy, he still would have got my message and he 
still would have paid attention, especially when I 
scolded him. For that matter, just shouting no would 
have been enough, though I would have lost the dramatic 
effect of implying that my evasion was necessary. Steve 
wasn't a rapist, not even a gentle rapist, no matter 
what I said to him at the time, and I didn't need my 
skills to get him under control.

I thought Corbett might attack me when I blackmailed 
him. I deserved it and he didn't know I could defend 
myself, but he didn't attack me anyway. In that case, 
what my training gave me was the confidence to do wrong. 
More loss than gain, considering how I feel about it 
now, but that's not the fault of my training and 
certainly not what my sensei intended.

And that's it! In all my other relationships, my skills 
played no role at all. I've never even had to resist a 
gentle rape, perhaps because my penchant for bondage 
tends to preclude the development of that sort of 
situation. Not a very impressive collection of stories, 
is it? In effect, I've protected myself all these years 
by avoiding brutes and projecting confidence. Under most 
circumstances, that's enough; but I'm still glad to have 
my training and I've never stopped practicing.


*** Chapter 14, In which we note that marriages are 
different

Marriages and other committed relationships are 
different from uncommitted ones. By definition, they're 
hard to get out of. If you try to enslave your husband 
and fail, there's almost no chance the attempt will end 
your marriage. This offers you a measure of security, 
but it also means that if everything possible goes 
wrong, you can't easily change the history you've 
written. Unless you're making a final heroic effort to 
save a marriage doomed by other difficulties, you'll be 
living with that man and that memory for years and 
years.

There are other differences. You and your husband have 
likely been together a long time, and until now, you 
never considered the possibility of enslaving him, nor 
did he imagine becoming your slave. The two of you built 
your marriage on a more conventional paradigm and you've 
grown accustomed to it. To change, you would have to 
overcome a great deal of habit, and habit is a powerful 
force.

If you've been married more than a couple of years, your 
husband's feelings for you have matured. He's not in 
love with you in the passionate and desperate way he 
once was. He may like you and enjoy your company, and 
we've already established that he's committed to you, 
but his affection lacks intensity. In all likelihood, 
he's also learned to control his lust for you, and 
you're not quite sure you could lead him into the Loop.

The two of you almost certainly live together; setting 
up a common household is a gesture of commitment so 
nearly universal that it seems part of the definition. 
Cohabitation gives the process of sexually enslaving 
your husband a different feel from the process of 
enslaving a casual lover. You can't easily separate from 
him by more than a short distance, nor for more than a 
brief time, so it takes greater determination to enforce 
a prolonged period of abstinence: your own lust will 
tempt you to relent; he can wear you down with almost 
continuous protest; perhaps he'll even retaliate in 
nonsexual ways that make your life difficult.

These factors operate to different degrees in different 
marriages, but invariably they conspire to make the 
average woman reluctant to attempt the enslavement of 
her husband. Still, some try. What does it take? First 
it takes motivation. The woman has to want to enslave 
her husband, and her desire has to be great enough to 
overcome her reluctance. Second it takes a belief — a 
strong belief — that the attempt won't harm the marriage 
even if it fails.

There are four circumstances that give rise to such a 
belief. Your marriage won't be hurt by an attempt to 
enslave your husband if he's in love with you. He'll 
forgive you. If he isn't in love with you but likes you 
a lot, and your marriage is resilient, characterized by 
good humor, with no undercurrent of hostility, the same 
is true. He'll forgive you.

If your husband is so averse to intimacy that he spends 
as much time as possible away from you and seems 
emotionally withdrawn when he's with you, an attempt to 
enslave him won't do any harm unless he has a girlfriend 
on the side. If the attempt fails, his behavior won't 
change whether he forgives you or not. The availability 
of another woman introduces an element of risk because 
he'll be driven to seek comfort from her and he may 
never return. (His aversion to intimacy doesn't preclude 
his having a girlfriend, just as it didn't preclude is 
initial involvement with you, because the circumstances 
of a casual relationship makes it easy for him to limit 
intimacy to a level that's not a problem to him. If he 
were to leave you and commit to her, he would soon 
become as distant and withdrawn with her as he is now, 
but that's no help to you.)

Last and saddest, you can't do any harm if your marriage 
is already doomed and you're considering female 
domination because nothing else can save it.

This taxonomy is subject to the flaws inherent in all 
generalizations. Regard it with caution and skepticism. 
When I advised Francesca to enslave Roy, their 
relationship was so resilient as to appear 
indestructible. It was characterized by a high degree of 
good humor and there was certainly no hostility between 
them. Still, she was sure that if she attempted to 
enslave him rather than just making bondage a part of 
their lovemaking, he would react so badly that she might 
lose him. I think she was wrong, but there are other 
women who perceive their situations similarly and they 
can't all be wrong. Trust your judgment above mine.

I've been using a couple of words whose meanings I ought 
to clarify. When I refer to an attempt at sexual 
enslavement, I mean a wholehearted effort that won't 
admit of failure, not a desultory gesture that's 
intended to be easy to back out of at the first sign of 
difficulty. The vast majority of married men strongly 
resist female domination until they've become accustomed 
to it; a serious attempt expects this resistance and 
confronts it with determination sufficient to prevail. 

If your marriage is a happy one, or your timing is good, 
or you appear to be joking, your husband may agree to 
become your love slave too easily. If you're serious 
about enslaving him, you'll understand that it won't be 
long before he tries to reclaim the control that's 
traditionally his. When that happens, you'll enforce the 
agreement even if he fights hard to back out of it. 
Sexual slavery isn't playacting and it isn't a sometime 
thing. It works only if it's always and only if it's 
real.

An attempt can fail in several ways. You can give up 
prematurely. Your husband says, "My father warned me 
you'd turn out to be a bitch," and you apologize and 
repent. Or he goes into a sulk and you can't bear to 
wait it out. Or he ostentatiously books a tour of the 
brothels of Nevada and you take it as a serious threat. 
If you're going to enslave your husband, I urge you to 
decide at the outset that you won't fail in this manner, 
then stick to that decision. You'd do better not to try 
at all than to make only a token effort and give up.

If you attempt to enslave your husband for the purpose 
of squelching a pattern of behavior so destructive that 
your marriage must end unless it stops, the attempt 
should be considered a failure if the destructive 
behavior continues or resumes.

If your attempt isn't a desperate effort to save a 
doomed marriage and you don't give up prematurely, it's 
still possible to fail. Failure consists in being unable 
to make your husband turn on to you. There are two ways 
in which this calamity can manifest itself. The first is 
less painful. You tell him, "We do sex my way or not at 
all," and he replies, "Well, then, I guess we no longer 
have a sexual relationship," and all goes on with his 
life as if that's the reality he's accepted. 

He may leave you and sue for divorce; he may go on 
living with you, treating you as a dear friend who's 
gone slightly mad; he may do something in between. He 
may develop a novel adaptation all his own. It doesn't 
matter. If he accepts the end of your sexual 
relationship as an accomplished fact, absolutely 
rejecting the alternative of sexual slavery, and if his 
attitude persists over a sufficiently long time that 
you're sure he's not faking, you've failed.

If he accedes to your demand for sexual control but 
doesn't turn on to you, you've also failed. If he lets 
you tie him up but you find you can't make him come 
unless he cooperates, or worse yet, his cock won't get 
hard for you, there's nothing to be done for it. He 
isn't going to be your love slave and you'll have to be 
satisfied with the more conventional commitment he's 
already given you. This sort of failure hurts even if 
you know your partner loves you, but don't blame 
yourself and don't blame him. These things happen.

Some relationships, by their nature, make female 
domination infeasible. You won't be able to enslave your 
husband if you've grown to hate him, or if he hates you, 
or if he finds you physically repulsive, or if you find 
him physically repulsive. Female domination won't work 
in a marriage that's become a battleground. If you and 
your husband are always quarreling, not over one serious 
issue that's threatening your marriage, but over 
everything, you may be tempted to enslave him to put an 
end to the fighting. Not only will the attempt fail, it 
will become yet another subject of dispute that comes 
between you again and again. Spare yourself some 
ugliness. Don't try.

There are seven reasons a woman might undertake to 
enslave her husband. One is that she knows it would be 
an enjoyable and exciting way to handle the sexual 
aspect of the marriage, but she didn't think of it, or 
didn't have the courage to try, before the wedding. 
Another is that she sees it as a gift to her man. She 
wants to relieve him of some of the responsibility he 
feels; she wants to save him from performance anxiety; 
she wants to create a context in which he'll know that 
every little kindness she shows him is given freely and 
lovingly; she knows it's just what he's always hoped 
for. Whatever the particulars, the marriage is a happy 
one and her intent is to make it even better.

A third reason is that she needs control over the sexual 
aspect of the marriage because her partner has been 
managing it badly. Francesca and Roy. She didn't quite 
enslave him, but she did take control of their 
lovemaking, and she did it out of necessity. We've also 
seen elements of this motive in the relationships of 
Denise and Paula. True, Denise was planning to enslave 
Tony anyway, but his insistence on anal sex added 
urgency and focus to the project. An allegation that 
Jimmy was mismanaging his sexual relationship with Paula 
isn't supported by the evidence, but she was 
uncomfortable, and she was able to relax when he agreed 
to be her slave.

Yet another reason a woman might set out to take control 
of her marriage is that her husband has been tyrannizing 
her and she wants out from under. His tyranny might be 
subtle or it might be so ugly as to make the marriage 
insufferable. He might be micromanaging her life to such 
a degree that it's no longer hers; he might be verbally 
abusing her; he might be guilt-tripping her into living 
by the rules of his church. Tyranny comes in many 
flavors.

A woman might also enslave her husband to pull him away 
from a habit that's destroying him. Overeating and 
gambling are two examples we'll see in subsequent 
chapters. In some cases even smoking can be cured. 
Drinking, too, if it hasn't yet become a full-blown 
addiction.

The sixth reason is the one I've seen most often. The 
woman wants her husband's attention. She wants to be as 
much the center of his world as he is of hers, while he, 
emboldened by the depth of her commitment, ignores her 
in favor of other interests.

I've seen this so often because men are raised to fear 
intimacy and seek distance in their relationships with 
women. It's a cultural norm, and so many diversions are 
available that it's easy to conform. A man may devote 
his time and energy to his parents and siblings, to 
other women, to his job, to a club or hobby — the 
possibilities are endless, and it takes only one, 
immoderately pursued, to turn a husband into a stranger. 
The more moderate pursuit of a variety of interests is 
harder to argue with, but no less effective as a means 
of distancing from a wife.

If you want your husband's attention, and you apply the 
techniques of female domination properly, you'll almost 
certainly get it. Indeed you can get it all. This 
presents the often difficult ethical question of how 
much attention you should demand. It would be unhealthy 
for him to have no outside interests.

If your husband is a computer programmer and spends 
every other evening out drinking with his workmates, it 
wouldn't be unreasonable of you to interfere. You'd be 
doing the both of you a service. If your husband is a 
computer programmer and spends one night a week working 
a suicide prevention hotline, let him. You may feel he 
should be spending the time with you, but if you cut the 
hotline out of his life, and then you cut something 
else, and then another thing besides, you'll eventually 
find that you're married to an empty shell. It isn't 
much fun, and there's no easy way to undo the damage.

The issue isn't as simple as judging whether his 
interests have redeeming value. If instead of a computer 
programmer who donates one night a week to a suicide 
prevention hotline, you're married to a psychotherapist 
who does the same, your situation is quite different. 
He's an addict — an addict trained to diagnose and treat 
addiction, for that matter, and to recognize marital 
neglect — and it's entirely appropriate for you to take 
action.

Say your husband likes to go hunting with his buddies. 
You've heard them reminisce about their trips, and it 
gives you a bad feeling. They seem to have been drunk 
much of the time, even while afield with their guns. 
That sounds dangerous. They take a lot of shots that 
miss their intended targets. That sounds worse. You've 
read a couple of stories about the horde of prostitutes 
who converge on the hunting grounds every season to 
service men just like these. You haven't overheard any 
mention of them, but then, you wouldn't. Should you end 
your husband's participation in this ritual? It wouldn't 
be a bad idea. You'd get more of his time for yourself; 
you might save him from being shot; you might save him 
from shooting one of his buddies; you might even save 
the both of you from AIDS.

Now say your husband likes to go hunting alone. He hunts 
remote stretches of wilderness, closed to motor 
vehicles, that most men won't even try to get to. He 
scouts his favorite places in advance of the season, 
studying the terrain and the habits of the wildlife. 
When he hunts, he travels light. He almost always brings 
something back. If it's large, he constructs a travois 
for the purpose and drags it, alone, over whatever 
distance. He never wastes game. He's built a little 
smokehouse and makes his own jerky, with which he fuels 
himself on subsequent trips. He spends about fifty days 
a year on hunting and related activities, and you'd 
rather he spent that time with you.

Even if you've sexually enslaved him because the idea 
turned you on, leave his hunting alone. You'll be able 
to stop him, all right, but the results will be bad. 
He'll change in subtle ways that don't seem to have 
anything to do with hunting. Aspects of his personality 
that you've always loved — little things that defy 
precise definition — will fade away. Bits of ugliness 
will creep in. Give him his fifty days and enjoy him 
when he's with you. With power comes responsibility. 
Don't destroy what you love.

Though I know the stories of eleven women who enslaved 
their husbands to hold their attention, I won't be 
recounting any. They don't have much in common, and no 
single story is likely to offer much that will be useful 
to the average reader. When I wrote out the best two and 
reread them, they seemed long but trivial. Neither will 
I be repeating any stories illustrating the seventh 
reason a woman might enslave her husband — that is, to 
control some aspect of his behavior not subsumed under 
any of the reasons I've already listed. I've known two 
women who enslaved their husbands to make better fathers 
of them, and I can't really argue with that, but all the 
other uses of female domination I've seen in this 
category have been downright petty. Table Manners. 
Household Chores. Gawking at attractive strangers. I 
know we're both agnostics, but he should take the 
children to church. No, no, no.

Yes, you can get away with using the techniques of 
female domination to short-circuit the ordinary give-
and-take of marriage, but only for a while. Then the 
marriage go pookie.

But you promised I'd be able to make all the decisions!

Sure I did, but I also said you'd have to take your 
partner's needs into account. If you set yourself up as 
a petty tyrant, your relationship will deteriorate into 
a state of deep misery. I promised that too.

I'm not saying you oughtn't use the power of your 
femininity to force an equitable division of chores. 
Feel free — if you've enslaved your husband for the pure 
joy of it and the division of chores gets to be a 
problem. But divide only those chores that you need done 
or he needs done, not the ones your parents need done. 
You're grown up now, and you don't have to keep house to 
their standards, or pass along their religious 
traditions either. And if this sort of issue is your 
primary motivation for enslaving your husband, you're 
headed for trouble.

On the other hand, if the only question is which one of 
you is going to be the petty tyrant until you break up, 
it might as well be you.

If you're married to a problem child (a compulsive 
gambler, a petty tyrant, a philanderer), and the 
marriage seems doomed, you have some serious soul-
searching to do before you try to save it by undertaking 
your husband's enslavement. As I've warned, you'll fail 
if you've grown to hate him, and that's probably just 
what has happened. To succeed, you really need to be the 
sort of saint who's capable of loving the sinner even 
while hating the sin. When you fantasize your future 
together, with him as your slave, what are the details? 
If you see a loving partnership in which the issues that 
now threaten your marriage have lost their relevance, 
you have a chance. If you imagine punishing him daily 
for what he once was, you'll fail. Don't bother trying. 
Your marriage is truly doomed. Start the process of 
dissolving it now. Don't give him a lurid story to tell 
the judge about what you tried to do to him at the end.

The other extreme is worse. If you're so desperately in 
love with your problem child that you can't bear the 
thought of losing him no matter what, then you won't be 
able to enslave him because he'll bluff you into giving 
up. It will be easy for him and painful for you, and it 
will be over in minutes. Don't make the attempt. My 
advice about doomed marriages isn't for you; it's for 
those women whose marriages really must end if not 
salvaged by the techniques of female domination. If 
you're willing to pay any price to keep your marriage 
alive, it isn't doomed. Perhaps it would be doomed if 
you had a healthy measure of self-respect, but that's 
not the same. Don't try my techniques — not yet, anyway. 
Your husband will never let you forget the attempt, and 
his needling reminders will be pure torture. You can 
reconsider when he's done enough damage that you're no 
longer afraid of losing him, but don't be surprised if 
you go directly to hating him without passing through a 
period of relative objectivity. Meanwhile see a marriage 
counselor or psychotherapist. Your husband won't go with 
you, so go alone.

You've probably noticed something missing from my 
advice. I haven't told you how to figure your chances of 
success; nor have I told you, if you know your chances, 
how to use that knowledge to choose a course of action. 
All I've told you is that under certain circumstances 
your chances are nil, and I've advised you not to make 
an attempt that's sure to fail.

The omission is intentional. I'm not going to tell you 
how to choose a course of action based on your chances 
of success, and the reason is that no one actually does 
things that way. Women don't take calculated risks with 
their marriages, and I don't recommend that you be an 
exception. When considering the sexual enslavement of 
her husband, a woman asks herself, What's the worst that 
could happen? If the answer frightens her, she doesn't 
make the attempt even if the worst is unlikely. My 
advice recognizes this and gives proper respect to the 
healer's credo, First, do no harm.

Still, I know from proselytizing to my friends that 
women contemplating the enslavement of their husbands 
are generally quite interested in their chances; it's a 
matter they've almost all wanted to discuss, so I feel 
obliged to present at least an overview of the relevant 
factors.

As we've already noted, you have a better chance of 
success if you're enthusiastic about female domination 
than if you're not. It also helps to be empathetic, a 
skilled communicator, a clever strategist and a natural 
tease.

You're more likely to succeed if your husband is in love 
with you than if he isn't. Much more likely. Indeed 
there's a lot to be said for enslaving any man who's in 
love, while he's in love, simply because he's in love. 
It's easier then, and it keeps him from falling out of 
love. It gives you a ready-made handle on any problems 
that may develop later, and it's much friendlier than 
waiting for the problems first and then enslaving him 
out of necessity.

You have a better chance if your husband trusts you than 
if he has doubts. If he actively distrusts you, you have 
almost no chance at all.

To sexually enslave any man, you have to lead him into 
the Loop, and you can do that only if you turn him on. 
When a married woman contemplates the enslavement of her 
husband this is typically what worries her most. If it's 
obvious that your husband finds you irresistible, you 
have an excellent chance of success. More likely though, 
especially if you've been married a while, your erotic 
effect on him isn't all that apparent. The reasons fall 
into three categories.

First and most dismal is a lack of sexual chemistry. 
Perhaps you never turned him on but he married you 
anyway. Perhaps you used to turn him on but he changed. 
Perhaps you changed. It doesn't matter; there's nothing 
for it. A lack of sexual chemistry makes female 
domination unworkable.

Second, he may be bored. Men are wired to be 
progressively less excited by a partner who's always 
available even if the sexual chemistry is there. This 
isn't much of a problem. When you set out to enslave 
him, you'll be making yourself less available and 
introducing some novel and exciting situations. His 
boredom will be relieved and he'll want you with all the 
intensity of the good old days.

Third, he may be deliberately concealing the fact that 
you turn him on. Every man has an idea, gleaned from 
society at large, of how much lust is appropriate in 
marriage, and he learns to control himself to avoid the 
opprobrium of exceeding what's proper. This isn't as 
easy as he makes it look, nor is his control solid. His 
techniques are crude enough to be transparent if you 
know what to look for. He hides his nakedness when 
exposure would reveal his arousal; he looks away when 
the sight of you threatens to excite him; he 
desexualizes the atmosphere, either by dwelling on 
difficult or depressing subjects or by putting you on 
the defensive with petty criticism; he eats, drinks or 
exhausts himself to stupefaction. 

Pick a good time, tie him up, and his control is gone. 
Usually, enslaving him turns out to be easy. He himself 
understands, and has implicitly acknowledged, that if 
you prove your ability to turn him on, your power over 
him is nearly absolute; otherwise he wouldn't be putting 
so much effort into seeming unmoved by your femininity. 
It may have been society that taught him how much lust 
is appropriate in marriage, but it's you he's trying to 
impress.

If your husband doesn't seem to find you a turn-on, 
what's the reason? Lack of chemistry? boredom? a 
deliberate attempt to present a controlled demeanor? If 
you wait until he's exceptionally horny and then tie him 
up and tease him, how will he respond? If you try to 
enslave him, how will he take it? You know the answers 
to these questions. Every woman does. Maybe you're not 
quite sure, but how sure do you have to be?

If I set before you a pathway, a quarter of an inch wide 
and twenty feet long — the edge of a piece of plywood — 
raised four inches above the surface of an empty parking 
lot, and ask you whether you can walk it without falling 
off, you'll be able to give me an answer. If your 
balance and coordination are about average, your answer 
will be no and you'll be right. If we widen the pathway 
to six inches and repeat the question, again you'll be 
able to answer. 

If your balance and coordination are average, you'll say 
yes. That answer will also be right. Contemplating the 
sexual enslavement of your husband is like raising the 
pathway fifty feet. The questions become more worrisome. 
Your uncertainties are magnified. You know it's only 
monotony that makes him seem uninterested in you, but 
what if he really finds you repulsive? You know he's 
easygoing and doesn't hold grudges, but what if you try 
to enslave him and he never forgives you the attempt?

If we're talking about a pathway too narrow for you to 
walk even four inches off the ground — if you're sure an 
attempt to enslave your husband will fail for reasons 
unrelated to your worry — then don't try. If we're 
talking about a pathway you can walk easily — if you 
expect that an attempt to enslave your husband will 
succeed — then take a realistic look at how high off the 
ground the pathway is. If it's only four inches up — if 
the attempt can do no harm — then you don't have to be 
absolutely sure of success. Go ahead and give it your 
best shot. Do it lovingly, and have fun!


*** Chapter 15, In which the first of many young wives 
take charge

When Nora joined the company in June, Ginny and I had 
already been working together five months. The two of us 
were the same age — going on twenty-five — and we had 
become friends in a subdued sort of way, occasionally 
having lunch together or taking an afternoon break in 
her office or mine. We would discuss company politics, 
the public issues of the day, and the ordinary events of 
our lives, but our conversation had never become 
intensely personal.

Nora changed that. Within a couple of weeks of starting 
work, she was gathering us up almost daily and driving 
us to yet another lunching place we'd never tried. She 
liked to break up the day, she liked to drive, she liked 
to hang out. Ginny and I qualified as ideal companions 
by virtue of our gender; Nora believed that her role as 
a twenty-three-year-old newlywed obliged her to avoid 
even professional comradeships with men.

Nora and her husband were in love and, unlike many of 
our contemporaries, Nora wasn't at all embarrassed to 
talk about it. She talked about it often, and her 
romanticism struck Ginny as immature, foolish, even 
dangerous — certain to lead to the same sort of 
disappointment she herself was suffering in her marriage 
of two years to Peter. Ginny hadn't previously spoken of 
that disappointment, but now, whether out of envy or 
altruism or a mix of both, she began to open up, drawing 
on her own experience and that of her friends to 
persuade Nora that men's love is of little value and 
brief duration.

At the time, I was involved in a relationship that was 
to last seven years. Matt and I had been living together 
since the previous November. I had neither concealed the 
nature of our commitment nor gratuitously advertised it; 
there had been no reason to tell anyone what a kinky 
couple we were, so Ginny and Nora both had the 
impression that I was just another young woman living 
with her boyfriend, as indeed I was.

"How was your weekend?" I asked Nora as the three of us 
set out in her car one Monday at the beginning of 
August.

"Real good! We drove up the coast and stayed at a little 
motel in Fort Bragg. You ever been there?"

"Yeah. It's a nice area."

"It sure is! We found this really pretty spot on the 
beach a few miles further up, and we played in the sand, 
and then we watched the sun go down, and then we made 
love right there on the beach for, it must have been two 
hours. It was dark when we finally left, and then we had 
a real fun time finding our way back to the car; it was 
dark dark."

"That does sound good!"

"Jeez, Nora, You're making me jealous. I had to spend 
Saturday afternoon at another one of Peter's drunken 
softball games."

"Did it kill the evening like last week?" Nora asked.

"Oh, yeah! It's never just the game. The team has to 
hang out when it's over, so I got dragged to Sal's again 
for pizza and more beer, and this time all the guys — 
including Peter!— got into clowning around and giving 
piggy-back rides to their girlfriends. The unmarried 
girlfriends, that is — not me and not Kandee."

"In the bar?" Nora asked.

"Yeah. Do you know Sal's? Were you ever inside?"

"No, I'll have to check it out someday."

"There's a lot of room between the tables, especially 
when you push a bunch of them together to seat seventeen 
people. Sal — he's a tough old guy about sixty — he was 
disgusted. He was watching us the whole time, looking 
like he was trying to decide when to throw us out."

"Peter was giving piggy-back rides to the other guys' 
girlfriends?" Nora persisted.

"Yeah, he's a very physical kind of guy — likes to horse 
around. He just forgets about me while he's doing it. I 
guess that's why I'm a little jealous."

"Did you want him to give you a piggy-back ride?" I 
asked.

"No, I didn't want to be there at all. I didn't want him 
to be there either. I would have liked us to be playing 
by ourselves on a lonely stretch of beach."

Nora pulled the car into one of those little strip malls 
for which California was notorious when no other state 
had them, and parked in front of an eatery specializing 
in the kind of lite veggie matter that would soon earn 
us even more notoriety. We went inside, found a table, 
studied the menu, made our selections, and continued our 
conversation.

"Doesn't Peter ever get romantic?" asked Nora.

"No, he doesn't even kiss me hello and good-bye unless I 
initiate it, and he wouldn't even do that except he's 
afraid what I might do if he refuses. He never tells me 
he loves me unless I complain that he doesn't, and he 
never so much as touches me unless he wants sex — and 
then he has to be half crocked."

"That's terrible! Was he always like that?"

"Pretty much. At first he used to kiss me hello and 
good-bye, and he put his arm around me sometimes, but he 
was never very affectionate."

"Why did you marry him?— if you don't mind my asking?"

"I don't mind." She thought a while, as if trying to 
figure it out herself. "He was fun to hang out with — do 
things with, you know. And he asked me."

Nora looked too boggled to ask the next question, so I 
did.

"Is he still fun to hang out with?"

"Well, he's easy to hang out with; we're compatible that 
way. But since we've been married, he seems to put all 
his effort into being fun for the other people we hang 
out with."

"Do you have any idea why he asked you to marry him?"

"I guess he liked hanging out with me, and he was ready 
to get married."

Now we were both boggled. We probably would have gone on 
staring at her stupidly, but the waitress brought our 
lunch at just that moment — three strange-looking 
salads, obviously meant to be appreciated rather than 
enjoyed.

"You know, Ginny," I said, after taking a couple of 
samples from my bowl, "there's something about this that 
doesn't compute."

"What's that?"

"Well, you're the sort of woman that half the men in 
America lust over,—"

"I don't know,—"

"It's true! I've seen the guys at work drooling over 
you; sometimes I've even heard the drooling over you, 
two or three at a time. Right now I'm facing two men 
sitting in a booth. They're trying not to be obvious 
about it, but they keep turning to stare at you."

She started to look but checked herself.

"It doesn't matter. My point is, you are attractive, and 
you're telling us you think Peter married you for 
reasons that have nothing to do with that — that he even 
finds you so unattractive, he can't bring himself to 
touch you unless he's been drinking."

"That's how he acts." She was obviously upset and I 
regretted being so straightforward.

"But men don't do things that way," I said.

"What do they do?"

"They fall in love with women who turn them on, and they 
marry women they've fallen in love with. Usually they 
fall out of love after a while, sometimes even before 
they get married, and often they stop turning on to 
their wives, but it's rare that a man will marry a woman 
who never turned him on."

"How do you know?"

"By paying attention to the men around me, the couples 
around me. Also, I've had a few boyfriends, been 
proposed to a couple of times — I've just developed a 
feel for how the story goes."

The salad was the sort that even a really hungry person 
might pick through, one bite at a time — not really bad, 
but not good either — interesting is the word most 
commonly used. It was a problem; I wasn't hungry anymore 
— too worried about how badly I'd offended Ginny, who'd 
stopped eating entirely. I didn't want to be staring at 
her, so I forced myself to go on taking little forkfuls 
just to keep occupied. I was relieved when she started 
talking again.

"The first time Peter and I ever tried doing it, he 
hadn't been drinking at all. We were over at his place, 
making out on the love seat, and he undressed me, real 
slow, exploring my body — acting like he really liked 
me, like I really turned him on. Well, I got all excited 
and I had this inspiration. There was this big oak table 
in the dining room, really solid — in fact it's the one 
we still use now. 

"Well, I ran over to it and sat on the edge and put my 
feet on a couple of chairs and leaned back on my elbows 
like, Come and get it! So he stands in front of me and 
starts unbuckling his belt, and I remember I said, 'Are 
you going to show me your cock?' and he took off his 
pants and I said, 'You have a big one!' He does! Really! 
It's the biggest I've ever seen! Anyway, he starts 
fingering me some more, and I say, 'Why don't you just 
stick it in?' so he stops fingering me and he gets ready 
to do it, and then he just comes all over me!"

Nora giggled. "You must have turned him on a lot!"

"He was mortified! He kept apologizing. I felt so sorry 
for him!"

"What did you do then?" I asked.

"I told him it was okay, hugged him, sat down with him 
on the love seat again, reassured him the best I could. 
What else could I do?"

"You want to know what I would have done?"

"Yeah?"

"I would have teased him about it. As soon as he started 
to come, I would have said, 'Ooh, I get to see you 
spurt! You must be so embarrassed!'— just like that!"

Nora giggled again.

Ginny gaped at me, blinked repeatedly, finally spoke. 
"You would do that? Why? You always seemed like such a 
nice person."

"It would lay the groundwork for a lot of exciting 
lovemaking in the future."

She gave me a look of astonishment. "How?"

The communicativeness of her face impressed me. She 
could run quite a trip on Peter, mugging like that.

"What do you think was going through Peter's mind before 
he came?"

"I don't know."

"This is going to sound awfully presumptuous, but I can 
tell you."

"Go ahead."

"He was tripping out on the embarrassment of feeling you 
stare at him like that, with his cock sticking out, and 
the embarrassment itself turned him on. It turned him on 
so much that he got worried he might come right then and 
there, so he started imagining that, and how 
embarrassing that would be, and how you might tease him 
about it. And that thought was so exciting, it actually 
made him come." "No...," she said with a look of grave 
doubt.

"Can you think of any other explanation?"

"I guess he was just horny to start with, and then he 
got overexcited by the show I put on and the way I 
offered myself to him."

"Well, sure, he got overexcited! But the details are 
what I told you. Think about it! From his point of view, 
you were teasing him already — talking about getting to 
see his cock, and how big it was."

She looked puzzled again.

"For you, his size was a pleasant surprise; and there 
are some guys who would just be proud of it, but for 
most it's not that simple. Imagine what it was like for 
him when he was fourteen or fifteen, on a hot day when 
everyone was wearing as little as possible, sitting on a 
bus near some attractive young girls who giggle like 
Nora's been doing. They're such a turn-on, he gets hard. 
It's embarrassing! And when he stands up to get off the 
bus... there's no way he can hide one that big, so 
they'll see. And that'll be more embarrassing. And then 
they'll giggle, and that'll be even more embarrassing. 
Things like that must have happened to him hundreds of 
times while he was growing up."

Nora giggled yet again.

"You remember him!" I said to her.

She blushed, choked on her laughter, and answered with 
an exaggerated nod, then buried the lower half of her 
face in her hands and glanced back and forth between 
Ginny and me.

"I still can't believe that's what made him come."

"It's true. And it's consistent with the way he's been 
acting ever since. You've been torturing yourself with 
the idea that, just once, he was so turned on by your 
body and your enthusiasm that he came just from looking 
at you, and that ever since, he's been so turned off to 
you that he can't bring himself to touch you unless he's 
half drunk. And that's impossible! What's really 
happening is that he finds you an overwhelming turn-on 
all the time, just like he did then, but he's scared of 
embarrassing himself again, so he tries to stay out of 
sexually exciting situations unless he's dulled his 
senses with drink."

"Why did he marry me?"

"You turn him on and he fell in love with you. Probably 
he's still in love with you, and he fantasizes that 
you'll figure out how much you turn him on and start 
playing with his sexuality, teasing him about how he 
can't control himself — maybe even make him your love 
slave. But he's also afraid of letting you have that 
much power — you know, afraid you'd misuse it — worried 
that being a woman's sex toy wouldn't be dignified, even 
compared to piggy-back rides at Sal's. 

"Maybe he's even afraid he's a pervert and you'd reject 
him if you knew. So what he's doing is trying to learn 
how to keep from being turned on to you. Right now he 
does it by keeping busy until he's exhausted or drunk. 
If you don't do anything about it — if you let him 
succeed — his fantasies will lose their power and he'll 
fall out of love with you."

"You sound so sure of that, and you've never even met 
Peter."

"No, but I've met other men who are turned on the same 
way. They start out responding to some ordinary sexual 
stimulus, then they get embarrassed about it, then they 
get more turned on from being embarrassed, and so on. 
It's such a common pattern, I suspect there are very few 
men who wouldn't get into it with the right woman."

Nora, who had been listening with obvious fascination, 
said, "George makes sure that happens to every man with 
her."

I laughed. "You're so astute!"

Ginny returned to her salad and I returned to the 
subject of my moral character.

"You know, Ginny, I really am a nice person. There's 
nothing at all mean about the kind of teasing I do."

While Ginny was chewing, Nora asked, "Is Matt your love 
slave?"

"Yes, and so was my previous boyfriend, and the one 
before him, and the one before him."

"How does that work? What does he have to do?"

"He has to do whatever I tell him, but I only tell him 
to do things that are going to be a turn-on or that are 
going to be good for our relationship."

"Why does he do what you tell him?" Ginny asked.

"Mostly because I tell him to do things that are going 
to be really exciting and he's in love with me. 
Sometimes I have to tell him to do something that he 
might be inclined to resist, and then he does it partly 
because I'll punish him sexually if he doesn't and 
partly to maintain our relationship. That comes down to 
the same thing: he finds our relationship exciting and 
he's in love with me."

"How do you punish him?"

I liked the question. It meant Ginny was already 
thinking of using my techniques to improve her 
relationship with Peter, and I was determined to keep 
her interest alive. Unfortunately a completely honest 
answer wouldn't have done that — Matt was such a 
pleasant and easygoing partner, I had never had any 
occasion to punish him. I decided to fudge it, drawing 
on experience from previous relationships.

"I'll refuse to let him come for a few days, or a week, 
and then, before we get back to our usual kind of 
lovemaking, I'll make him masturbate while I watch, just 
to put him through the embarrassment of it. Or I'll tie 
him up and make him come by hand and keep playing with 
him when he's all sensitive and he needs me to stop."

Still another giggle from Nora.

"That sounds pretty weird, but nowhere near as bad as I 
thought," Ginny said. "I was expecting you to tell me 
you whip him or something."

"I don't even own a whip. I'm such a nice person!"

Ginny laughed. It made me feel much better.

"How did you get those guys to go along with something 
like that in the first place?" Nora asked.

"Different ways. With Matt it was easy. We were making 
love one time, with me on top, and I pinned his wrists 
down and gave him a little time to get into the feel of 
it, and then I said, 'You know, I'm going to make you my 
love slave.' And he said okay, so I figured he wasn't 
taking me seriously and I said, 'I mean really. You do 
whatever I say, and I get to do whatever I want to you. 
Always.' And he said, 'I can accept that. You're worth 
it.' And that was it. He's been my love slave ever 
since.

A couple of guys, I let them know early on that the only 
way they could continue any kind of relationship with me 
was by agreeing to be my love slave, and they agreed. 
Then there was one I got with that sensitivity trick I 
mentioned. I tied him up and told him I was going to 
make him come and I wouldn't stop playing with him until 
he promised to be my love slave; then I teased him about 
how he couldn't help turning on to me even though he 
knew what was going to happen."

Nora erupted again. When her giggling had subsided, I 
went on.

"I'll bet that approach would be just perfect for you 
and Peter. You might have to do some follow-up 
enforcement, but probably not a whole lot."

"He'd kill me! I don't know how you got away with it! 
Most men would beat you up if you tried something like 
that, or leave and you'd never see them again."

"He wasn't a violent man. Peter probably isn't either, 
or you wouldn't have married him, and if you'd guessed 
wrong, you'd have found out a long time ago. The reason 
Jerry didn't leave was, what I did to him was the 
biggest thrill of his whole life, and he was in love 
with me. That's why he became my love slave, not because 
he promised."

"He left eventually, didn't he?"

"Yes, but we knew at the beginning he was going to. We 
met while he was doing an internship as part of a work-
study program at the place I worked two years ago, and 
he'd already made an agreement that when he graduated, 
he'd go to work for a company up in Washington where his 
cousin is a development manager."

Ginny looked at her watch with a start. "We'd better get 
back! I have a 1:30 meeting with I've-given-that-a-lot-
of-thought."

"That's too bad," I said, digging for my share of the 
damages.

We littered the table with portraits of dead presidents 
and set out to resume our respective tasks, advancing 
the primitive art of computing. Along the way, we 
discussed the less pleasant qualities of Ginny's boss.

The three of us went to lunch every day that week, 
thanks mainly to Nora's efforts, and our conversation 
kept returning to female domination and its techniques. 
I answered questions from both Nora and Ginny, 
describing what I did and why it worked, trying not to 
proselytize too strongly less I frighten Ginny off. She 
was interested in the possibilities, and that was 
enough. It wouldn't be long before Peter did something 
intolerable, and then I would make my pitch.

The weekend came and went, and then it was Monday. A 
couple of minutes after noon, Nora rounded us up as 
usual and we headed off to lunch. She chose a Mexican 
place that day — a neighborhood restaurant three miles 
away that served food rather than pretense.

"How do you find all these places, Nora?" I asked.

"I look for ads in the newspaper and I read the phone 
book and I scope them out on the way to and from work."

"How do you stay so thin?" asked Ginny.

"The only meal we eat is lunch."

"That sounds like a tough diet to stick to," Ginny said.

"Only at first, then you get used to it. How did Peter 
behave over the weekend?"

"Well, I'll tell you what happened. Saturday afternoon 
he played softball as usual, and his friend Randy was 
there. Randy's uncle is dying of cancer in Utah, and 
Randy had just been to visit him, and on the way back 
through Nevada he picked up all these fireworks. Really 
big ones — the kind they set off over the water on the 
Fourth of July — a couple of hundred dollars' worth; and 
after the game, he and Peter and some of the other guys 
figure out this plan to set them off at the cemetery 
when it gets dark. 

So they buy a bunch of meatball parmesan subs and two 
more cases of beer, and we all drive to the cemetery and 
unload the stuff under some trees, and then Peter and 
Randy and Phil park the cars outside, in case they close 
the gates. When I see the fireworks, I get kind of 
worried about the attention they're going to attract, 
because they're over a foot long, and maybe two inches 
across, and each one has its own launching pad attached 
to the bottom.

"Anyway, the guys come back from parking the cars and we 
all hang out eating subs and drinking beer while it gets 
dark. I just have one beer because I'm worried about how 
drunk all the guys are getting, and somebody's got to be 
able to drive home — I mean, they're getting real 
sloppy, not to mention the trouble I expect because of 
the fireworks — and I notice Kandee's being cautious 
too.

"Well, it gets dark and they decide to start on the 
fireworks. And those things are loud! And when they 
light up in the sky, I'm sure you can see them for 
miles. Well, the guys just keep setting them off, taking 
turns, like they think nobody's going to notice except 
us. After they've done about twenty, they light one more 
and a car comes round a bend and catches us in its 
headlights and just stops. Well, after a few seconds, 
the thing goes off with another bang, and the sky lights 
up with one of those silver and gold willow-tree 
designs, and I think, Uh-oh! And the car turns off its 
lights and backs down the way it came, and Tom says, 'We 
better get out of here! He'll be coming back with the 
riot squad!'

"So Randy, he bends down and starts picking up 
fireworks, and he shouts, 'Yo, Peter! Grab a few! We'll 
set 'em off on the way out!' Well, Randy takes four, 
which is way too many to run with, and Peter takes 
three, and everyone else but Raymond has enough sense to 
let the rest of them be, but Raymond takes three also. 
Once he figures out that he can't carry more than four, 
Randy starts running through the woods toward the exit, 
not real fast, and everyone else runs along with him. So 
there we are — there's nine of us, and we've left about 
a case of beer and maybe twenty of those rockets back 
where we unloaded them.

"Well, the first time we come to a break in the trees, 
Randy drops the fireworks and starts setting one up, and 
everyone else stops, and Peter sets one up, and Raymond 
sets one up, and Randy lights his, and Raymond yells, 
'Hey, I need a light!' And Randy runs over to him and 
hands him some matches while Peter is lighting his, and 
all this time the fuse is burning, and then Randy runs 
back to this thing that's about to go off, and picks up 
the other three sitting next to it and takes off again 
for the gate. It was scary how close we were when the 
first one went off, and then the other two go off just a 
few seconds later, and just as the popping dies down in 
the sky, we come to another open area and Randy stops 
again, but before anyone can do anything, we hear 
sirens. 

"As soon as the sirens start, Peter throws up and it 
gets all over him. I think, shit! But at least he isn't 
going to pick up the fireworks again and I do my best to 
help him. Well, he starts saying he's sorry, and I say, 
'Peter, just get us out of here!" And hallelujah! he 
starts running again. So we make it outside and Peter 
and Tom and Gerhardt get in our car with me driving, and 
Randy gets in his little sports car, and the rest of 
them get in Phil and Kandee's car with Kandee driving, 
and we all start gagging from the smell, but we make it 
back to the park without anyone else throwing up, and 
then I drive Peter home. I don't know how, but the cops 
never did catch us."

"Maybe they weren't trying to," I said. "Maybe they 
weren't even cops. I can't imagine the police responding 
to a call about fireworks in a cemetery in less than 
five minutes. It takes them at least ten for an armed 
robbery downtown."

After a pause, Nora spoke. "You know, that sounds like 
fun. I can see where Peter is the kind of guy a lot of 
people would want to hang out with. If he did the same 
thing without getting drunk and throwing up, it would 
have been a great evening."

"You're right. I used to like that kind of scene too, 
and Peter seemed to generate a lot of them, though there 
was never one quite like that. And his friends don't 
have to deal with the throw-up and the falling-down 
drunk, but I had to take him home and dump his clothes 
out on the porch and then wash them the next day, and he 
crawls into bed without even cleaning himself up and 
wants to get all lovey-dovey. I couldn't take it. I told 
him. I said, 'I don't want to screw a corpse.'"

"How did he react to that?" I asked.

"He said he was sorry and went to sleep. Then in the 
morning, Randy calls and wants him to go back to the 
scene of the crime, and Peter says he'll be over in half 
an hour and hangs up, then tells me it's a done deal. So 
I ask, 'What does Randy want to do there?' And he says, 
'Look for the fireworks and beer we left.' And I tell 
him, 'It's Sunday morning; they're going to be burying 
people.' And he says, 'Not under the trees.' And he gets 
dressed and leaves me to clean up his clothes from 
yesterday. Can you imagine what half-digested meatball 
parmesan and beer smells like?

"Then he doesn't come home until nine at night, and of 
course he's drunk, and I ask him where he's been and he 
tells me Randy was upset about his uncle and needed to 
talk, so they were sitting at Sal's, talking. I didn't 
even argue with him, because it's like I can't win. He 
thinks he did the right thing, and if I don't say 
anything, he'll keep doing it because it's okay; and if 
I do, he'll keep doing it because I'm nagging and he 
wants to get away."

"Did he want sex?" Nora asked.

"No, he just wanted to sleep. And this morning he was so 
hung over, he could barely drag himself out of bed and 
go to work."

"It sounds like he's trying to get used to a platonic 
relationship," I said; "and the scary thing is, if you 
give him a couple of years he'll probably succeed. You 
ought to make him your slave while you still can."

"I'll never get away with it."

"Sure you will! What could go wrong?"

"He'll be so mad, there's no telling what he might do!"

"If he gets mad, you can deal with it, and there's a 
good chance it'll still work. If you make it like he 
doesn't have a choice, he'll probably go along and get 
to like it. If you can't make it work, you can tell him 
you were playacting because you thought it would turn 
him on, then say you're sorry it didn't work out and 
he'll forgive you."

"Maybe. How do you think I should do it?"

"Well, the first thing you should do is make it clear to 
him that the only way you're going to do sex with him is 
if he's completely sober. It wouldn't be a bad idea, 
once you've got him under control, to insist he be sober 
all the time, sex or no; but you can't accomplish 
anything if you let him have you when he's been 
drinking, even if you tie him up to keep control."

"It sure would be an improvement! But how am I going to 
get him to go along with it? I don't think he's been 
completely sober since the time we almost made it on the 
table."

"You tell him he can't have you any other way and you 
keep your knees together. Eventually he'll get horny 
enough to give in."

"It'll be a struggle!"

"Yeah, but the longer it takes, the hornier he'll be 
when you finally get to do it your way."

"What do I do then?"

"You make him promise to be your love slave. After what 
you've told me about him, I think the best way to do it 
would be to tie him up and say something like, 'Now I've 
got you right where I want you. I'm going to make you 
promise to be my love slave for the rest of your life.' 
And go on to tell him what that means, including no 
drinking."

"How do I make him promise?"

"There's always the chance he'll promise right away. 
Then you do whatever you like; just don't untie him 
until you're done and don't go back to having sex on his 
terms. If he doesn't agree right away, I think he'd 
respond best to being told you're going to play with him 
until he comes and he needs you to stop, and then you're 
going to keep playing with him until he gives in. 
That'll get it right out in the open that he can't 
resist you. Do you know whether he gets sensitive after 
he comes?"

"No, we've never done anything except straight 
missionary intercourse."

"You never made him come by hand?"

"No."

"That's great! From what you've told me, he'll be really 
embarrassed at having you watch him come, especially if 
you make a point of being interested in the show and 
tease him about what he's going through. The only 
problem is not knowing whether he gets sensitive."

"How do I find out?"

"Well, I've told you how I find out, but you might want 
to lay the whole thing on him all at once — get him real 
horny without any alcohol to hide behind, tie him up for 
the first time, show him he can't resist you, make an 
obscene display of his orgasm, and make him promise to 
be your love slave right then and there. It would blow 
him away completely!"

"You mean I should do it without knowing whether he gets 
sensitive?"

"You could give it a try. There's a good chance he'll 
agree to be your slave right away, and then it won't 
matter. If he doesn't, you can figure he probably gets 
sensitive; I've only known one man who didn't. You can 
tell him you know all men get sensitive and hope for the 
best. Just remember what I told you about which parts to 
keep rubbing."

"Oh, I remember that. That's the easy part. It's the 
rest of the scheme I'm not comfortable with. It has an 
awful lot of missing pieces, and I don't think I can 
make up for them with just a running start and a flying 
leap."

"You could try any of the other approaches I've told you 
about, that worked for me, but you'd still have to adapt 
them a little. I've never tried to enslave someone I was 
already committed to."

"I have," said Nora.

Holy...! "This weekend?" I asked.

"Friday evening."

"How did it go?"

"Whatever possessed you?" Ginny asked before Nora could 
answer.

"It seemed like it would be a lot of fun, and I thought 
Joel would like it too, and I'd already figured out what 
George said a couple of minutes ago — that if he didn't 
like it, he'd forgive me. He is in love with me, and he 
knows I'm in love with him and I'm not going to do him 
something bad on purpose, so I decided to give it a try. 
It worked. At least so far. That is, he agreed to be my 
sex slave and neither one of us has changed our mind 
yet. It hasn't been very long, but it's been good!"

"Congratulations!" I said.

"How did you do it?" asked Ginny.

"We were starting to make love and I told him I'd 
decided that that's how I want it to be, and he said 
okay."

"That's all?" she asked.

"Yeah. He agreed. And he's gone along with everything 
I've told him since. He's liked it, too."

"What have you had him do that's different from what you 
used to?" Ginny wanted to know.

"As soon as he agreed, I tied him down and had him eat 
me the way you described, George. Then I took him inside 
me while he was still tied down, and right after he came 
I reached back and tickled his ball-sac and he squirmed 
and I teased him about it.

"Saturday we had a bunch of things to do, but we had a 
couple of hours in the afternoon to relax, and I made 
him take all his clothes off and I kept doing little 
sexy things and teasing him about how he turned on, and 
how I got to see. Then in the evening we made love 
again. I let him be on top, but I did another little 
funny when he came — something I learned from a college 
professor I had an affair with when I was twenty and he 
used to do it to me sometimes when we made love. 

"I had my hands on Joel's back, and when he was almost 
done coming, I kind of dug the tips of my fingers in, 
just inside his shoulder blades, with the kind of motion 
you'd use to tickle someone in the ribs, and it had the 
same effect as what I did the night before. I didn't say 
anything, but I made a little teasing noise, like, I 
know."

"You tickled his shoulder blades?" Ginny repeated 
doubtfully.

"Yes! It must be hard to imagine if you haven't 
experienced it, but Henry — that's the professor — got 
me so tuned in to that feeling, he used to be able to 
make me come whenever he wanted, just by pressing his 
fingertips into my back next to my shoulder blade. He'd 
do it in his office, or riding in his car, and I'd just 
come right away. It's powerful!"

"I'll have to keep it in mind," said Ginny. "It sounds 
pretty far out, but so does everything else I've heard 
this past week. Did you have Joel do anything else new 
and different?"

"Sunday afternoon we went to see some friends in 
Monterey and we didn't get started back until after 
dark, so I drove and had him sit next to me and take his 
pants down and I kept reaching over to play with him."

"Weren't you afraid someone would see?"

"It's a dark road and I figured the glare from our 
headlights would keep anyone from looking in — even 
truckers. When we got to where there were a lot of 
street lights, I told him to cover up again. At home we 
made love with me on top, and I told him how much fun it 
is that he's my sex slave."

"I don't know. That all seems so mild compared to what 
you're saying I should do, George."

"It sounds fitting for Nora and Joel, and plenty 
exciting too. If it seems mild, it's probably because 
Nora isn't asking Joel to change very much, at least 
compared with what you'd want from Peter. I mean, look 
at Matt and me. We're a totally unremarkable couple. The 
love-slave trip is all in the head, and a couple can 
share it very quietly. If you were to make Peter your 
slave, most of what you'd wind up doing over the course 
of a year would probably be as mild as what Nora and 
Joel did over the weekend; the only part that's likely 
to be extreme is the big bang when you get started."

"Maybe I can give you a better explanation of why I'm 
doing it," offered Nora. "I like sex to be fun — I like 
to play, I like teasing, I like to let go and enjoy the 
pure sensation of it. But I also like to be treated 
gently and respectfully, and I've noticed there aren't a 
lot of men who can give both. Most of the men I've known 
who are relaxed enough to handle a playful tumble are 
self-centered bastards with twisted moral scruples that 
positively forbid them to care about the feelings of a 
woman. Henry was perfect, but he was married; and even 
if he'd been available, he was old enough so I'd have to 
figure I'd be taking care of him the whole middle part 
of my life. I wound up moving on, but Henry had really 
spoiled me. Other men seemed so inadequate, even for 
just one night.

"Then last summer I met Joel and we both knew we were 
just made for each other. He's always good to me, it's 
obvious that he cares, he's gentle, he's affectionate, 
we can talk to each other, we fit perfectly when we 
snuggle, he smells right, sex with him feels just 
wonderful, and I've been in love with him for as long as 
I've known him — maybe longer. And he feels the same 
about me.

"The trouble was, his attitude toward me and our 
lovemaking was just so reverent and solemn. It was nice 
to be treated so well, and to know he loved me so much, 
but sex was never playful and I wanted it to be — at 
least sometimes. Maybe I should have been able to do 
something about it, like maybe I should have tried 
tickling his shoulder blades a long time ago, but I 
always had the feeling it would be like swearing in 
church, so I didn't.

"Then George came up with that explanation of why Peter 
married you, and I realized that's also why Joel married 
me. Somehow he understood that I can play and I can 
tease and he wanted all that, but he was also afraid of 
it, so he sent me subtle messages that I should suppress 
that part of myself, and I did. Now that I understand 
what was happening, I can choose to do it the other way, 
and I know we'll both like it a lot better. In fact the 
reason I decided to call him my sex slave instead of my 
love slave was to get away from all the reverence and 
solemnity Joel associates with the word love, and let 
him know that what we're going to do is playful. He 
already found out it's still loving but now we can be 
loving without all that baggage."

Ginny and I contemplated that a while, and then I made 
my pitch.

"Georgeann's Snake Oil Balm! Good for what ails you! How 
about it, Ginny? Try a bottle?"

"I'll think about it."

"I'm sure the food in that restaurant was good; at least 
it went down easy. My plate was empty and I wasn't 
hungry, but I couldn't remember eating. As we left, I 
wondered whether I might also have failed to notice 
someone listening in on our conversation. It was amusing 
to imagine what thoughts an eavesdropper might have been 
left with.

Shortly after the three of us sat down to lunch the next 
day, I asked Ginny whether anything new had happened 
between her and Peter.

"Well, when I got home yesterday, he had the barbecue 
set up on the porch with a couple of potatoes baking and 
some kabobs ready to go on, and he was drinking a beer. 
I said hello and he told me when dinner would be ready, 
and then he went back to cooking and drinking. I didn't 
kiss him hello like I usually do, and he didn't seem to 
miss it. That really bugged me, but I must have needed 
it to convince myself that it was time to give him some 
kind of ultimatum.

"Not much happened until we went to bed — we had dinner, 
watched some TV, that's about it. He drank seven beers — 
one and a half while he made dinner, two and a half with 
dinner, and three during the rest of the evening. He 
didn't even seem to notice that anything was bugging me. 
Finally we get into bed, and he starts getting all 
lovey-dovey, and I push him away. So he asks what's 
wrong, and I tell him. I say, 'You've been drinking so 
much, I can't enjoy you anymore. If you want to make 
love to me, do it when you don't smell of beer and you 
know what you're doing.' And he stares at me kind of 
drunkenly and says, 'I just had a couple; it never 
bothered you before.' And I say, 'It's been bothering me 
for two years! Look, even one beer is too many! If you 
want to touch me at all, don't drink!'

"So he starts arguing about that. He says I drink and he 
wants to know why it's okay for me but not him. So I 
tell him the only time I drink beer is when I'm thirsty 
and he's made sure there's nothing else to drink. Like, 
'If you'd let me bring some soda when you play softball, 
I'd drink that, but the five times I asked you last 
year, you acted like it'd give you some kind of 
reputation with the team, so I stopped asking.'

"So he thinks about it a little, and then he says, 'We 
used to have a few beers together before we got 
married.' Well, that's true, but that was before I got 
so turned off by his drinking."

"Did you tell him that?" I asked.

"Yes! And I told him again I don't want him touching me 
when he's been drinking. Even one beer! Even a sip! 
Well, I see him get real worried, so I tell him, 'I'm 
not trying to be vindictive; I just can't enjoy you when 
you've been drinking. You're no fun that way.' And he's 
just sort of lying there in shock, so I figure I might 
as well keep talking and see if it does any good, so I 
say if he has to drink, that's okay; I'll still be there 
the next day. And if he wants sex, he can drink later. 
Well, he still doesn't react, so I say, 'You know, if 
you tried making love to me without drinking, you'd 
probably enjoy it a whole lot more.' And that really 
seems to worry him. So I think, Hey! George is on to 
something! And I say, 'You ought to let me show you how 
much you could enjoy me. If you ever decide you want me 
bad enough to do without your beer, just let me know and 
I'll do something really special for you, but tonight 
the best thing you can do is sleep it off and hope it's 
easier to get up tomorrow than today.'

"I'm starting to feel like I'm going to be able to make 
this whole thing work out."

"I hate to mention this," said Nora, "but what if he 
decides he'd rather have his beer?"

"I've given that a lot of thought," she began, imitating 
her boss's pompous manner, "and I'm sure you're right, 
George. He doesn't like beer more. Some days he doesn't 
drink at all. Remembering back over the last two years, 
he only drinks when he gets with his friends or he wants 
sex, and it has to be because he's afraid what'll happen 
if he tries having sex when he's sober. So your question 
doesn't worry me, Nora; it's the other one — What if he 
decides sex without beer is so scary, he'd rather do 
without?"

"He can't decide that," I said. "He'll get so horny, 
he'll have to do it your way. Right now, while we're 
sitting here, he's thinking about what you said, and 
wondering how much you really understand about the 
reason he drinks, and trying to imagine what special 
something you have in mind for him. And the more he 
thinks about things like that, the hornier he gets."

"I hope so," she said doubtfully.

For Wednesday, Nora found a place called Creepy 
Suzette's, housed in a building made up to look like a 
large wooden shack. I ordered a sandwich called a 
carpenter — a kind of sourdough calzone with a flat 
squarish bottom, the corners folded up so they almost 
closed at the top, with meatballs and sauce inside along 
with the cheese. After some conjecture about the name of 
the establishment, and a bit more about the name of the 
sandwich, Nora asked Ginny how things were going with 
Peter.

"Terrible! He got home two hours later than me, and he 
might have been able to pass a breathalyzer test, but 
he's still lucky he didn't kill himself on the way. He 
started apologizing as soon as he walked in — said he'd 
been thinking all day about my 'something really 
special' and wanted to make love and hoped I would let 
him explain and forgive him.

"I said, 'You're not touching me until you're cold 
sober. I can't enjoy you like this and there's nothing 
you can do to change that.' Then I told him, 'If you 
want me to forgive you, all you have to do is wait for 
tomorrow. I've already forgiven you for yesterday's 
drunk, and I think I'm even patient enough to forgive 
you Thursday for tomorrow. I just can't forgive you the 
same day. I hope you can forgive me for being so 
difficult.'

"So he says, 'Ginny, please! Bob invited me—' Bob's his 
boss —' Bob invited me for a couple of beers so we could 
discuss some plans he wants me in on. I couldn't say 
no.' And I say, 'You could have ordered ginger ale. Your 
side of the discussion would have come out a lot more 
impressive, especially toward the end.' And he says, 'It 
just isn't done that way, especially with Bob. If I ever 
want more responsibility, I have to drink with him.' So 
I say, 'I can appreciate there are times it's going to 
be a tough decision, but it is a decision; you can have 
your beer or you can have me, but you can't have both. 
Maybe you'll do it differently tomorrow.'

"Aren't you proud of me?"

I was too taken aback to answer right away. I'd never 
been cast in that role before, never been asked that 
question, never told any of my lovers that I was proud 
of them, never even been told by my parents that they 
were proud of me, though they'd always exhibited a much 
higher degree of confidence in my ability to run my own 
life than any other parents I'd ever heard of. Still, I 
knew the right answer...

"Yes, and I'm sure tonight will go much better," I heard 
Nora say.

"Definitely! That was an impressive performance!" I 
added.

"Thanks," said Ginny. "What's happening with you and 
Joel? Has he stopped being so serious?"

"Oh, no, I don't expect him to. I don't even think I 
want him to. I've just stopped letting him lay it on 
me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. What was bothering me was that he was so reverent 
and solemn that I wasn't comfortable teasing and being 
playful, because I was afraid he would disapprove. Now I 
can do what I want, and I've found out that he likes me 
to tease and be playful. Like I said the other day, I 
figured out before I asked him, that that was probably 
what would happen but I didn't expect him to change."

Ginny looked puzzled, so Nora offered more.

"Like, the other night we were making love and I'd just 
climbed on top of him, and he wrapped his arms around me 
and held me real tight and he said... well, he told me 
he loved me. And when he let go I propped myself up on 
one elbow and looked at him curious-like, and I asked, 
'Is it a religious experience?' And he said he was kind 
of overwhelmed, and I gave him a little kiss and started 
moving, and then I took hold of his wrists and held them 
down and kept them that way the whole time until we 
came, and then I kept moving, and he started trying to 
pull out, and I said..." She put her hand over her mouth 
and looked around to see whether anyone else was 
listening, then continued in a hoarse whisper, "I 
stopped moving and I said, 'Sensitive cock!' And he just 
looked up at me and caught his breath and told me again 
how he loved me, and he said it as reverent and solemn 
as ever — maybe more!

"So he hasn't changed — I have. And we're both enjoying 
it. We're even more in love than we were before, because 
now he can love me for teasing him and acting playful 
and letting him see that part of me so clearly, which he 
couldn't before because I was suppressing it all; and I 
can love him for accepting me so completely, just the 
way I am, which I didn't used to know he would."

"I want that so badly," said Ginny.

"I'll pray for you," I said.

"Me too," said Nora; then she changed the subject. She'd 
seen a memo at work that was part of a long-running turf 
battle of which she'd been unaware, and she wanted us to 
fill her in. Company folklore carried us all the way 
back to the office parking lot.

Thursday we got off to a late start because I'd spent 
the whole morning in painfully detailed discussions with 
our printer. By the time we left, Ginny seemed ready to 
burst.

"I did it!" she said, even before she was completely 
inside the car.

"He agreed, did he?" I prodded from the back seat.

"Did he ever!" she exclaimed as she and Nora fastened 
their safety belts. "And he came like you wouldn't 
believe! I've never seen a man let loose like that! He 
was really blown away, just like you said."

"I knew it would work out!" Nora said. "Good for you!"

"Was it difficult?" I asked, leaning forward between 
them.

"No, it was easy! He got home at a reasonable hour and 
he was sober. He kissed me hello and told me he wants to 
make love and find out what that 'something really 
special' is, that I promised him, so I tell him we can 
do it even before dinner; all he has to do is take off 
his shoes and strip to the waist and lie down on the 
bed. So he does, and I get ready to tie him down, and he 
puts on this act like I'm one of the Manson girls, so I 
tell him it won't work unless he's tied down and not to 
worry, I won't hurt him; so he lets me tie him down. I 
do just his arms like you said, and then I pull his 
pants off and he helps by wriggling out of them.

"When he's down to his undershorts I say, 'This is going 
to be the beginning of a whole new relationship for us. 
He just says, 'Yeah?' So I say, 'Yeah! Starting today 
your cock is going to be my toy, to play with any time I 
want, and you're going to promise to go along with it.' 
So he says okay, and I tell him he's going to have to be 
naked when I want, and let me tie him up when I want, 
and just be my sex slave any way I can think of. And he 
says okay to that, so I say, 'You know, I'm not kidding. 
If you piss me off with your drinking, I might have you 
lick me every night for a week and then make you jerk 
off twice with me watching before I even think about 
screwing you again. That's also part of being my sex 
slave.'

"When he hears that, he says, 'You're really serious?' 
And I say, 'Yeah, I'm serious!' And he says, 'So your 
"something really special" was just a trick so I'd let 
you tie me down.' And I say, 'No, my "something really 
special" is showing you how it's going to feel, being my 
sex slave. It's going to be the biggest turn-on you ever 
had! I'm going to make you come like a volcano! By the 
time we're done, you're going to want to be my sex 
slave."

"This is a place I've been to before," Said Nora as she 
pulled up to The Hop. "It has a jukebox loud enough so 
we can talk without being overheard."

We piled out of the car, walked in, and got ourselves 
seated; then Ginny continued her story.

"So I tell him he's going to want to be my sex slave, 
and he says, 'What if I don't see it that way?' And I 
say, 'You will. If you don't, you might never get to 
stick your cock in me again, but that's not why you 
will. You're going to promise to be my sex slave because 
I'm going to make you, and then you're going to keep 
your promise because you want to. This is going to be 
every bit as special as I said.'

"He didn't have anything to say to that, so I ask him is 
he ready? And he says, 'I'm not going anywhere, but no! 
I'll never be ready for anything that crazy.' I figure 
that'll have to do, so I tell him. Then I take hold of 
his undershorts and I pull them off. He doesn't help 
like before, but he can't stop me either, so I get them 
off. Then I look at him — at his cock — and I say, 'One 
of the things that's going to be different now is that I 
get to look at you, just like this.' And it gets hard! 
Just from me looking at it! And I think, Hey! This is 
going to be easy! George was right!

"So I say, 'See how exciting it is being my sex toy?' 
and he looks at me and doesn't answer, and I say, 'You 
can't hide it, can you?' so finally he says, 'Of course 
you turn me on! Do you think I'd have married you if you 
didn't? Christ! We haven't done anything in a week! Sure 
I'm horny!'

"'Well, good!' I tell him. 'You been trying for two 
years to act like I don't turn you on, but I'm not going 
to let you get away with it anymore. Anytime I want, 
you're going to let me look at you just like this, 
whether I tie you up or not, and I'll get to see you 
turn on to me.' Then I got really brave and wrapped my 
hand around it and I said, 'This is my toy now, not some 
kind of secret weapon you keep hidden away until five 
seconds before you use it. I get to look at it when I 
want, and even ride it if I want. Tonight I'm going to 
play with it and watch it spurt. I've never had a real 
good look at how that happens, and I don't think that's 
right, seeing as how we've been married two years.'

"So he says, 'You mean your "something really special" 
is a hand job?' And I say, 'What's going to be so 
special is having to come with me watching. I know what 
that's going to be like for you! And another thing about 
getting a hand job when you're tied down like this — you 
can't control how much stimulation you get. I can rub 
your cock so you have an orgasm that completely blows 
you away, and I can keep rubbing when you're done and 
want me to stop. That's how I make you promise to be my 
sex slave, if you don't agree before. I keep rubbing 
until you do.' And while I'm saying that, his cock 
twitches a couple of times, so I say, 'I saw that!' And 
I run my fingertips along the ball-sac and it twitches a 
couple of times more! And I say, 'Hey! You're going to 
be the best toy I ever had!'

"So he says, 'Ginny, okay. You're embarrassing me. What 
is it you really want?' And I tell him, "You. I want you 
to be my sex slave. Nothing ulterior. Just you and this 
toy you've been keeping hidden away except when you're 
too drunk to use it right.' I see he looks frustrated, 
like he doesn't understand, or maybe he thinks I don't. 
So I tell him I love him, I tell him I want him, I tell 
him, 'Look,' I say, 'I even married you, but I can't 
really have you because you're always hiding from me. 
You keep busy with your projects and your sports and you 
hide behind your beer, and I'm not going to let you do 
it anymore. I know I turn you on, and I know I'm 
embarrassing you, making your cock twitch while I watch. 
I mean, you've been hiding from me for two years, just 
to save yourself the embarrassment of letting me see you 
turn on to me. Is it worth it? Think of all the good 
times we could have had in two years, that you hid from. 
Does that make sense?'

"So he gets this real guilty look on his face, and I'm 
thinking, This is outrageous! I can't be getting away 
with it! But I say, 'Yeah! I figured it out. You lost 
control once, and you turned into a control freak. And 
tonight you finally get to stop. You don't have to do it 
anymore, because I'm going to take control of your 
sexuality, and I mean completely.'

"Then he starts shaking! He doesn't look mad or 
anything, but he starts shaking. So I kind of lie down 
with him and try to comfort him — I tell him I love him, 
that it's okay.

"After a while, it seems to help. He stops shaking and 
he looks at me like he did that first time when we were 
making out on the love seat. So I kiss him, and he 
really gets into it. A few minutes later I've got my 
clothes off and I'm sitting on his face like you said, 
and he's licking me. I've got to tell you, that's a 
great feeling! When I'm done, I sit next to him, and 
he's dripping like a faucet, so I tease him about it. I 
say, 'I do turn you on! You've got a puddle on you to 
prove it! All I have to do now is play with you for just 
a few seconds, and you know what happens! There's no way 
you're going to resist, and it's going to be the biggest 
thrill you ever had! Now, remember to tell me when you 
decide you're going to be my sex slave, because you're 
not going to want me to keep it up too long after you're 
done.'

"Well, I start working on him, and he's looking at me 
and breathing hard, and I can feel how his cock keeps 
twitching between my hands, and I say, 'Isn't this 
exciting?' And it gets real stiff and he says, 'I want 
to be your sex slave!' And he comes. And it is like a 
volcano! He lifts his knees up near his chest, and jerks 
his hips, and splashes the pillow, and makes noises like 
I never heard. So I say, 'Yeah! Think how it'll feel, 
knowing I can do this anytime I want!" And he jerks his 
hips even harder and makes this really wild noise, and I 
wish it could go on forever, but he quiets down, and I 
stop rubbing and just sit there holding him.

"After a little while, I say, 'I made you want to be my 
sex slave.' And he says yeah. And I tell him I love him, 
and he tells me he loves me, which he hasn't done on his 
own in I don't know how long, and he says, 'I'm going to 
have to think about this,' and I say yeah and I untie 
him.

"We spend the rest of the evening hanging out and having 
dinner, and I can see he is doing a lot of thinking, but 
he's affectionate too, like he didn't used to be. When 
we finally go to bed, he snuggles up to me, and that's 
something else he never used to do, at least when he was 
sober. So I press myself against him, and he gets turned 
on again, so I get on top of him and put his cock in, 
and we do it, and he's looking at me the whole time. I 
really like it! Before, when he was always on top, he 
used to keep his face buried in the pillow, so I 
couldn't see him. This was so much nicer. We even fell 
asleep holding each other; that's another thing that 
almost never happened before.

"This morning was the usual rush, but he did kiss me 
good-bye, and he slowed down to do it. I think this is 
going to turn out really good for both of us."

"Brava!" exclaimed Nora.

"You know, when he said that — that he wanted to be your 
sex slave — he really meant it. Many of those times he 
had his face buried in the pillow, he was fantasizing a 
scene a lot like what you did last night, and then, all 
of a sudden, there you were, telling him you knew and 
making it part of his real life. That must have been 
some powerful trip for him! I'm sure it'll turn out 
good. Congratulations!

It did turn out good. The next evening set the pattern 
for many that followed. Ginny required Peter to undress 
as soon as they were alone, and when he was thoroughly 
excited, she fucked him from above, making sure they 
could see one another the whole time.

The following Saturday was no miracle, but it was 
progress. Peter played softball as his teammates 
expected and drank beer as the rules required, but he 
didn't argue when Ginny announced her intention to bring 
a supply of soda. She did bring a supply of soda — a 
large supply — and she shared it freely; more than half 
the people there had at least a bottle, and Kandee and 
Tom drank no beer at all. After the game, there was 
another gathering at Sal's, and Ginny, Kandee and Tom 
continued to drink soda, even there. Peter drank about 
half his normal quota of beer, and he managed to please 
the crowd with his antics without sinking into the 
depravity that Ginny had come to dread.

When they got home, neither made any sexual overtures to 
the other, nor did either editorialize on the day's 
events; they just went to sleep. Sunday Peter didn't 
drink, and they shared a pleasant evening of love play, 
controlled by Ginny.

Soon it was time to switch from softball to touch 
football, and Peter took the opportunity to opt out and 
take up running. Freed from the expectations of his 
teammates, he came very close to eliminating beer from 
his life. He ran enough to give a good account of 
himself and stay in shape, but not so much as to deprive 
Ginny of his time and energy. Tom, who had always had a 
talent for recognizing a good opportunity, also quit 
team sports and often accompanied Peter when he ran.

I parted company with Ginny and Nora the following 
winter to accept a more appealing job. Both were still 
enthusiastically using my techniques. Ginny and Peter 
had grown very close, and Peter was developing a talent 
for intimate conversation. I lost track of them soon 
afterward, but I met Ginny by chance almost twenty years 
later. She and Peter were still happily married and they 
had two children, a year apart, the younger just 
entering high school. She thanked me for helping her get 
Peter straightened out, way back when. He hadn't had a 
drink in sixteen years and she described him as 
thoughtful, caring and communicative; indeed he had 
cultivated those qualities to such a degree that he had 
been able to parlay them into a successful second career 
as a labor negotiator.

Curiously, Ginny was no longer using my techniques and 
had long since stopped regarding Peter as her love 
slave. As he became increasingly open in his manner of 
relating to her, she saw less and less need to control 
him, and the techniques by which she had maintained her 
control fell into disuse. For the first few years, she 
would dust them off every now and then, just for fun; 
but that always seemed to remind them of the bad 
attitude with which Peter had begun their marriage, and 
it was something they both wanted to forget, so Ginny 
let the whole venture fade into obscurity.

I can understand the evolution of Ginny's attitude 
toward female domination well enough to explain it (such 
is the nature of my craft), but as a woman who enjoys 
sexual power, I can't relate to it at all. Though I know 
Ginny had no interest in female domination to begin with 
— she just needed to get Peter straightened out — I also 
remember how much she enjoyed it once she got started, 
and I can't imagine how she could choose to stop. No 
matter. I wouldn't have done it that way, but she's 
happy, Peter is happy, and I'm happy to have helped. 
Love is neat, whatever the style.


*** Chapter 16, In which Ralph loses eighty pounds

Eileen and Ralph met in a bicycle club. They fell in 
love and decided they'd rather not have the rest of the 
club along when they went riding, so they became a 
steady twosome. They shared week after week of fun and 
adventure, marveled at their compatibility, married, and 
set about playing house.

That's where their difficulties began — playing house. 
Eileen had been raised in the belief that a wife ought 
to feed her husband well, while Ralph had been raised to 
welcome her cooking as an offering of love. As often 
happens, they overdid their roles and Ralph started 
gaining weight. It wasn't much of a problem at first 
because Ralph, five feet ten inches tall, was a very 
thin 145 pounds when they met, and he was still getting 
plenty of exercise, but that soon changed.

He had been working as a computer operator for a mid-
sized bank and doing an outstanding job of it. His 
talent caught the attention of the chief systems 
programmer, and when Ralph and Eileen had been married 
three months, he was invited to move up to a world of 
sixty-hour weeks — system maintenance nearly every 
weekend, political lunches most other days, more money, 
and the opportunity for further advancement. Naturally 
he accepted. His new duties left no time for cycling, 
and his weight increased at an alarming rate. When he 
and Eileen celebrated their second wedding anniversary 
he weighed 217 pounds.

Ralph's weight was a problem to Eileen. She had always 
been turned off by fat men, and now, if she looked at 
Ralph objectively, she was thoroughly grossed out. 
Usually she managed to avoid complete objectivity, 
distorting her perception so as to see him at some 
intermediate weight. She couldn't do that, though, when 
they fucked. That was a nightmare. Ralph's arms weren't 
strong enough to support the rest of him — not for any 
length of time — and as he got carried away with sexual 
excitement, he'd relax them, crushing Eileen and making 
it impossible for her to breathe. By the time she 
realized what was happening, she often had too little 
air in her lungs to say anything, and she had to give 
Ralph a rough push, or even hit him, to get his 
attention. He was always duly apologetic, but Eileen 
couldn't help feeling that he didn't care about her — 
that he regarded her as a mere implement of sexual 
satisfaction rather than a human being.

On several occasions Eileen tried to avoid being crushed 
by getting on top, but Ralph wouldn't let her. If her 
attempt was purely physical, he repositioned her. If she 
talked about it, he accused her, jokingly, of latent 
homosexuality or trans-sexuality, or of trying to turn 
him queer. Sometimes he said he just didn't like doing 
it that way. Eileen found his protests difficult to 
believe, and when she discussed the matter with me, I 
explained that that was because they were less than 
honest.

Ralph wasn't a homophobe, and he had too solid a sense 
of reality to believe that Eileen's climbing on top was 
a threat to his heterosexuality or that it reflected 
deviance on her part. He pretended otherwise simply to 
keep Eileen underneath, and his reason for wanting her 
there was the sense of control it gave him. Some of that 
control was symbolic but most of it was real. Some men — 
and I'm sure Ralph was among them — resist being fucked 
from above for fear the stimulation will be too intense 
and they won't be able to slow it or control their 
responses. It's not that they're afraid their partners 
are ingenious enough to inflict my favorite torture; 
they worry that they'll be made to come too quickly and 
they dread the embarrassment.

Ralph's refusal to let Eileen get on top wouldn't have 
been a problem if not for his weight; being on top 
wasn't one of her needs. She would have preferred that 
Ralph get his weight under control, and he himself said 
he wanted to. They went so far as to agree that Eileen 
would no longer cook for him so he wouldn't feel obliged 
to eat. For reasons of which she was only dimly aware, 
it was a difficult agreement for her to accept; when 
Ralph proposed it, she took it as badly as some women 
take their husbands' requests that they be permitted 
extramarital affairs. Still, the need was so clear, she 
had to agree. Unfortunately it did no good. Ralph's 
weight soon reached 225 and Eileen could now rely on 
being asphyxiated every time they fucked.

Finally she decided she'd had enough and reacted with a 
vengeance. She bought a digital scale, weighed Ralph 
once, and told hm the rules.

He was going to be her sex slave, and he was going to 
get his weight back down to the 145 pounds it had been 
when they met. (She was tempted to go for his original 
weight — about seven pounds — but she thought better of 
it.) When he wanted sex, she'd weigh him on her scale, 
hiding the reading from his view. Then she'd tie him to 
the bed and he'd eat her. If he hadn't lost half a pound 
since the last time he'd come, that would be it; his 
lust wouldn't be satisfied until he'd lost at least half 
a pound. If he'd lost half a pound but not a whole 
pound, she'd make him come by hand but she wouldn't fuck 
him. 

If he'd lost a pound or more, she'd fuck him but he'd 
have to remain tied while she did; she wouldn't let him 
get on top until his weight was all the way down to 145. 
She wouldn't be sexually available at all during her 
periods, and she also warned him that he'd better not 
try to cheat by playing with himself or he'd be in for 
an unpleasant surprise.

As to how he lost the weight, that was up to him. She 
would refrain from offering him food, but he could eat 
as much or as little as he chose, whenever and wherever 
he liked. He wasn't to use the digital scale, and she 
would keep her readings secret, but he could monitor his 
weight on any other scale, and he could time his sexual 
requests any way he wanted.

She knew that Ralph would accept her rules. He found her 
a powerful turn-on and couldn't possibly choose celibacy 
while living with her. Neither could he easily arrange 
an affair: he was so fat that few women would have him, 
his work kept him too busy to go looking, and all the 
women with whom he regularly came in contact knew he was 
married and were at least somewhat friendly with Eileen.

She gave him the rules on the first day of her period, 
hoping he would accumulate a full-pound loss by the time 
it was over. Indeed she hoped he would accumulate a 
full-pound loss every time she had her period, and she 
had set up the rules with just that in mind, because she 
herself always craved a good fuck right after the 
bleeding stopped. She understood, though, that Ralph 
might not cooperate, and she was determined to stick to 
the program regardless.

Surprisingly Ralph said okay; but in retrospect, that 
was only because he knew Eileen was always horny after 
her period and he expected that when the time came, she 
would conveniently forget everything she'd said. He must 
have figured that if he could get her to make an 
exception to her rules at the very beginning, the 
project would be completely derailed.

Sure enough, as soon as Eileen's period was over, Ralph 
came on to her. It was five o'clock on a Wednesday 
morning, and he had just come home from working all 
night on an emergency. She resisted his advances and 
reminded him how things were going to be.

"Come on, I need you. You can't expect us to give up sex 
until I lose eighty pounds."

"No, we'll have lots of sex; but each time, you're going 
to have to lose at least half a pound to earn it."

"Aren't you horny?"

"Yes, but I can wait if I have to. If you want, I'll 
weigh you right now. Then I'll tie you down and you can 
eat me. What happens then depends on how much you 
weigh."

He agreed to be weighed, then argued some more when 
Eileen refused to tell him what the scale said until 
after he'd eaten her. She wouldn't give in though, and 
he wound up cooperating.

When he'd satisfied her, she gave him the bad news. He'd 
gained half a pound. Now he'd have to lose a whole pound 
just to have her bring him off by hand, or a pound and a 
half if he wanted to fuck. He raged at the unfairness of 
it all, then realized Eileen wasn't going to untie him 
until he calmed down, so he got himself under control. 
She released him and started getting ready for work, 
thankful for the excuse to escape his frustration.

Ralph argued through most of Wednesday evening, Thursday 
morning, Thursday evening and Friday morning. Eileen 
found it a drag, having to hear and recite the same 
words over and over, but she noticed through it all that 
Ralph wasn't eating — at least not so she could see — 
and that seemed promising.

Friday evening, instead of arguing, Ralph asked to be 
weighed. He'd lost the pound and a half, but Eileen 
refused to tell him until he'd eaten her. He resumed his 
arguing, but she held firm, finally pointing out that 
even if he had a reward coming, he wasn't going to get 
it until he was tied to the bed. That convinced him and 
he let her tie him. She straddled his face and warmed 
herself up on his mouth, then straddled his cock, slid 
it into her pussy, and fucked him. It took just four 
strokes to make him come, and it was a big one. "You 
were horny!"

"Yeah, it's been too long."

Ralph didn't argue after that. Sunday evening, after the 
weekend's work, he asked Eileen to weigh him again and 
she did. This time he let her tie him down without 
asking what the scale said. When she'd had enough of his 
eating her, she told him that he'd lost a whole pound 
and rewarded him with another fuck. This time he lasted 
several minutes. His orgasm, while not so overwhelming 
as the previous one, was obviously more intense than any 
he'd ever had in the missionary position.

After the initial loss of water, Ralph settled into a 
slow but steady pattern, shedding about a pound and a 
half a week. He stopped eating lunch, explaining to his 
colleagues that his doctor had predicted is imminent 
demise and put him on a crash diet. He went out with 
them as politics demanded, but he'd have only diet soda 
or mineral water. He stopped eating the pizza, subs, and 
chainburgers his boss ordered during their weekend work 
binges and kept himself going on black coffee. As far as 
Eileen could see, he lived on a single frozen fish 
fillet a day, cooked in a microwave and supplemented 
with enough vitamins to keep him from getting sick.

Sometimes he slipped and Eileen would leave him 
frustrated until he'd lost the requisite half pound. 
Once when that happened, she pretended to fall asleep 
but monitored his movements to see whether he would 
masturbate. She was sure he did, and in the morning she 
saw that his pubic hairs were glued together and a small 
area of the sheet was noticeably discolored and stiff. 
She decided it was time to subject him to her unpleasant 
surprise; she didn't want him evading her beneficent 
influence.

She waited until he'd lost enough weight to earn his 
reward, and then, when he was tied in place and had 
already satisfied her, she confronted him with what he'd 
done and told him he would have to be punished. His 
embarrassment was so plain as to sweep away any 
lingering doubt of his guilt, but he tried to deny it 
anyway. Eileen wouldn't be fooled though, and after some 
back-and-forth, he asked her what she was going to do.

She told him his punishment would consist of two parts. 
One would be that the next time he told her he wanted 
her, and it turned out that he'd lost less than a pound 
but more than a half, he'd have to play with himself 
while she watched. The other would be a surprise, and 
he'd find out what it was when it happened.

He tried to talk her out of it, suggesting that instead 
she ought to have him do something of practical value, 
but Eileen wouldn't hear of it. She said he was trying 
to turn her into a prostitute and she refused to be 
corrupted by her power over him. He kept arguing, so she 
decided to take the opportunity to add a new dimension 
to his enslavement. She was going to show him he 
couldn't resist her.

"All right. I'll give you one chance to get out of the 
whole thing," she began — then went on to tell him that 
all he had to do was keep himself from coming until 
eleven o'clock, twenty-two minutes away. He was still 
trying to figure out what to say when she went to work 
on his cock, and as she toyed with it she teased him 
about how he was going to have to come, even knowing 
that it would mean she'd get to watch him jerk off.

He came at 10:45 and she kept rubbing. He tried to pull 
away.

"Poor Ralph! You need to stop coming and I'm not letting 
you."

He begged her.

"Nuh-uh! This is your surprise." And she bent down and 
sucked his nipple even as she kept rubbing his cock.

He thrashed so wildly, she thought the bed would break, 
but he couldn't escape. At last he gave up and, braying 
like a donkey, yielded to the sensory overload. Eileen 
kept piling it on until his cock no longer twitched, and 
even then she didn't stop; she continued until it 
started to lose its stiffness.

"You're going to know now to take my rules seriously, 
aren't you?"

"You're too much. I guess I'd better."

"And you're still going to have to let me watch you jerk 
off. There's no way now you're going to get out of 
that."

"What if I lose a whole pound every time?"

"You might do that, but I doubt it."

She untied him and they cuddled. He held her more 
affectionately than he had in a long time.

The next time he asked to be weighed, Ralph had indeed 
lost a whole pound and Eileen fucked him. As she did, 
she teased him. First she reminded him that she was 
eventually going to get to watch him masturbate; then 
she pointed out that if she wanted to, she could keep 
fucking him after he came and he'd wind up feeling just 
what he's felt last time. That idea precipitated his 
orgasm, which in turn triggered hers. When they settled 
down, she teased him a bit more.

"That was an exciting thought, wasn't it?"

"You're trying to embarrass me."

"And you love me for it, don't you?"

He sputtered.

"Well, don't you?"

She kissed him lightly.

He looked at her with just the mixture of love and 
embarrassment she was talking about, apparently unable 
to speak.

"I know you do," she said. "And I felt how turned on you 
got by the idea that I might keep fucking you after you 
came. You're really going to be my love slave now, even 
after you lose the rest of that weight. And one of the 
things you're going to have to do is answer questions 
like the ones I just asked you. You do love me for 
embarrassing you, don't you?"

"I guess I do."

"And when I said I might keep fucking you after you 
came, it was such a turn-on, it made you come. Isn't 
that true?"

"Yeah," he said. He choked on it, but he said it.

If it hadn't been for the weight-loss project, Eileen 
would have over-stimulated and teased Ralph almost 
continuously from that moment on, the way I do my 
lovers. She understood, though, that that would be 
counterproductive. Ralph would wind up so horny that 
masturbation would become a necessity, and if he really 
needed to escape detection, he could. So nothing 
changed. Eileen continued to wait for Ralph's requests, 
taking care not to get him too fired up before he was 
ready. Then, when he asked her to, she'd weigh him and 
do as the scale said.

Ralph managed to avoid having to masturbate for Eileen 
until he'd lost forty-two pounds. When he finally made 
the mistake of asking her to weigh him too soon, she 
told him it was time. She enjoyed the show, teased him 
about it, and secretly hoped that the removal of the 
threat wouldn't make him haphazard about his future 
accomplishments. Unfortunately though, Ralph had hit 
something of a plateau; it started to take him twice as 
long to lose each pound. Two months went by before 
Eileen fucked him again, and during those two months he 
lost only six pounds.

Eileen didn't try to tell Ralph how to lose weight 
faster, or even ask about his efforts; she just enforced 
her rules. Ralph himself figured out that since he was 
lighter, his usual activities took fewer calories; if he 
wanted the pounds to come off at the rate they'd been, 
he'd have to exercise. Difficult as it was in his 
decrepit state, he resurrected his bicycle and started 
riding again. He still had no time for it, but now he 
was motivated. Often Eileen rode with him, and though 
Ralph couldn't go as fast nor as far as he used to, they 
both enjoyed it. He found other ways to exercise too: he 
walked to the mailbox and the convenience store instead 
of driving, and sometimes he even did push-ups.

The push-ups were Eileen's idea. She suggested them once 
when Ralph was lamenting the impossibility of exercising 
in the rain. She knew push-ups couldn't take off much 
weight, but someday she would again have to let him fuck 
her in the missionary position, if only to celebrate the 
completion of their project, and she'd developed a real 
fear of being crushed. She wanted him to strengthen his 
arms so that when his weight reached 145 pounds, she 
wouldn't have to carry it all on her ribs.

Somehow the idea took hold and a month later, when 
Eileen attended an office party at the bank, Ralph's 
boss remarked on his new habit of doing push-ups on the 
computer room floor while waiting for the machine to do 
its work.

"It must be the programming," he said. "Every programmer 
I've ever known is crazy, even me."

Whatever its effect on his image, the exercise was just 
what Ralph needed to start the pounds melting away 
again. As soon as he got back into riding, his weight 
resumed its previous dive. At the same time, Eileen's 
teasing had a comparably beneficial effect on their love 
life. During each sexual encounter, she teased Ralph at 
least a little, and she could see in his eyes that he 
really did love her for it. He didn't leave the feeling 
in bed, either. Between times, much more often than 
before, he offered her the little spontaneous displays 
of affection every woman needs. He'd tell her he loved 
her, run his hand through her hair, pat her, give her a 
kiss or a hug. He was treating her as affectionately as 
he had before they were married.

As Ralph struggled with his last fifteen pounds, Eileen 
put a heroic effort into the continued enforcement of 
her rules. She never let Ralph know, but he turned her 
on so much with his again sexy body and his affectionate 
ways that she wanted to fuck him all the time. Finally, 
after fifteen months, the ordeal ended. Ralph asked to 
be weighed one Saturday morning when he didn't have to 
work, and Eileen obliged.

"You did it!"

"I lost a whole pound?"

"No, just seven tenths, but it says 144.9."

"At last! I thought I was getting down there. Does that 
mean we can stop all this nonsense?"

"No, it means I make up a new set of rules where I get 
to decide when and how we make love, instead of always 
letting you decide when and the scale decide how."

"Can't we make love like a normal couple again, like we 
used to?"

"We can do it like missionaries if you want, but we'll 
never be a normal couple. You'll always be my love 
slave, no matter how we position our bodies, and you'll 
always know it — even more than before, because I've 
been taking care not to turn you on too much, so you 
wouldn't be frustrated all the time. Now I don't have to 
worry about that, so I can keep you naked when we're 
home, and I can look at that sexy body, and I can rub my 
pussy in your face and see what it does to your cock, 
and I can do it all as often as I want.

"See?" she pointed, "All I have to do is talk about 
sexually dominating you and it gives you a hard-on. 
Would you like to put it in my pussy this once without 
being tied down?"

In just a few seconds he was fucking her, and they did 
it twice more that day. She had a very pleasant time and 
enjoyed rediscovering how easy, relaxing, and downright 
sexy the missionary position can be when one isn't being 
crushed. Ralph was thin again, and his arms were 
stronger than when Eileen first met him, and it was the 
most enjoyable Saturday she'd had in three years.

Soon she gave him her new rules. She'd make all the 
decisions about their lovemaking and he'd do whatever 
she said. She'd continue to weigh him every few days, 
and she wouldn't fuck him if he let his weight go above 
148 pounds, and he wouldn't be permitted to come at all 
if it went over 150.

For as long as I stayed in contact with Eileen, Ralph's 
weight never again became a problem, but neither did she 
relinquish control over their lovemaking. She varied 
their play imaginatively and impulsively, only rarely 
allowing Ralph to get on top when they fucked. It was 
still his favorite way of making love, but he didn't try 
to insist on it anymore. Part of the reason was 
undoubtedly that he knew it wouldn't do any good; but 
also, he'd learned he didn't need the control the 
missionary position gave him. 

If he was being fucked from above and he came after an 
embarrassingly short time (which happened exactly as 
often as Eileen wanted), the consequence would be some 
affectionate teasing, not the rejection that men in 
conventional relationships dread. Ralph was in paradise, 
or as close to it as a man can come while working in a 
bank, and he knew it was Eileen who had brought him 
there. He repaid her with all the loyalty and devotion 
she deserved.

Had Eileen wanted to, she could easily have done to 
Ralph what Linda did to Stephan. The first time she 
fucked him from above, when he came after only four 
strokes, she could have teased him about it, played up 
his embarrassment, and given him a hypnotic suggestion 
that he'd always come immediately upon entering her; and 
yea, it would have been so. That's not what she wanted 
though, so she handled it differently: she supplied an 
excuse for Ralph's loss of control, and the duration of 
their next fuck was normal. Still, there were times, 
much later, when she wanted to make him come in just a 
few seconds and she wanted to tease him about it. And 
she could.

If your man is horny and you turn him on, not only can 
you make him come, but usually you can make him come as 
fast as you want. Just subject him to a form of physical 
stimulation he can't resist, teasing him at the same 
time about how embarrassed he'll be if he can't delay 
his orgasm at all, and it happens. Unlike what Linda 
did, this is a one-time thing; you do it when you want 
and the effect doesn't carry over.

Linda fixed Stephan for good. That's what she intended. 
That's the way her suggestion was worded. Still, if 
Eileen had given Ralph the same suggestion, not at her 
first opportunity, but three months after he'd lost the 
last of his excess weight, it would have had no effect. 
By then, Ralph had learned he could usually control 
himself, even if sometimes he couldn't, and his 
expectation of control would be difficult to overcome 
permanently, regardless of how quickly he could be 
brought to orgasm on any one occasion.

If Eileen wanted to turn Ralph into a chronic premature 
ejaculator, the time to do it was the first time she 
tied him down. Ralph was disoriented then, both by the 
novelty of the situation and by having been made to come 
so quickly, and his disorientation made him especially 
suggestible. More important, he had no accumulated 
experience that would lead him to doubt a suggestion 
that his loss of control was permanent. He would believe 
it. That belief would add to the embarrassment he 
already felt, especially if Eileen went beyond simple 
suggestion and piled on some heavy teasing. The 
resulting Loop would play in his mind every time he felt 
his cock enter her pussy, making him come immediately.

Women have a diversity of attitudes toward this. A few 
want their men to suffer chronic premature ejaculation 
so they can tease them about it, or to discourage 
affairs, or both. Linda started with no preference; she 
destroyed Stephan's control because the opportunity 
presented itself and she understood how strongly it 
would bond him to her. Most women want to be able to 
fuck at least occasionally. If you're among the majority 
and you're going to enslave your man, take care not to 
dial Linda's magic combination by accident.

Ralph's decline into obesity was no mere misfortune. It 
was required by the script that had been engraved in his 
unconscious, however unintentionally, by his parents 
during his early years. (Many people live by such 
scripts, and several books have been written on the 
subject of scripting.) Ralph's script required that he 
follow in his father's footsteps, and his father had 
been a moderately successful drudge of grotesque 
physical proportions.

Obesity would serve the same purposes in Ralph's life as 
in his father's. It would prove he was successful. If he 
weren't, he couldn't afford to overfeed himself. It 
would prevent him from pursuing distractions, be they 
extramarital affairs or frivolous activities requiring 
exertion. And it would distance him from his wife, 
protecting him both figuratively and literally from the 
common male bugaboo of being swallowed up by her love.

Though his father had passed along a vague dread of 
intimacy as leading to emotional and even physical 
engulfment, Ralph still had to have a wife, and an 
attractive one at that. The old man had a wife, so 
marriage was part of the script. A good-looking wife 
would serve as a highly visible emblem of success, and a 
good-looking wife who remained loyal to a grotesquely 
obese husband would be conclusive proof of success. And 
script or no, fear of engulfment or no, Ralph had the 
usual human needs for love, sex and companionship.

He had to get the wife before he put on the weight. Once 
he was fat, attracting a good-looking partner would be 
nearly impossible. And even if he could find one who was 
interested, courtship (at least among the young) 
involves a degree of physical activity that's difficult 
for an obese person to manage.

That's not to say that Ralph laid a trap for Eileen. If 
a trap was laid at all, it was laid by the script, which 
can be seen as a kind of evil spirit with a life of its 
own, out to ensnare Ralph and Eileen both. A script — at 
least a destructive one — will keep itself hidden during 
courtship because if it didn't, it would frighten away 
any potential partner who became aware of it. 

Even the bearer would take evasive action. Ralph, the 
145-pound cyclist, would have been horrified to think 
he'd wind up with his father's girth, but once he was 
married and the script took hold, he did everything 
necessary to make it happen, and he did it without 
becoming conscious of the script. Eileen, who fell in 
love with a 145-pound cyclist, would have been equally 
horrified — she found fat men repulsive — but she too 
wound up doing her part.

Of course at their deepest levels, Eileen and Ralph both 
knew what was coming. Ralph was the bearer of the script 
and couldn't help sneaking a peek. Eileen had been 
introduced to the script in the form of Ralph's parents, 
and the subconscious understands these things. She went 
along because she had been prepared for her role by her 
own parents. What she hadn't been prepared for was the 
day-to-day reality of Ralph's obesity.

If Eileen hadn't been exposed to the techniques of 
female domination, she and Ralph, like Ralph's parents, 
would have gone through five or six years of bickering 
over hubby's weight, followed by a lifetime of unhappy 
resignation. It might have been a brief lifetime, 
because the more weight a man carries around, the less 
time he's obliged to carry it; but as it happened, 
Eileen did get the opportunity to learn about female 
domination and she used its techniques to defeat the 
script, saving Ralph from premature burial in a piano 
crate.

Not every script can be defeated as easily as Ralph's. 
Scripting is powerful and female domination has its 
limitations. If you become a proficient dominatrix, you 
can use your skills to bring out the best in a man, but 
you can't make him over from scratch. It just doesn't 
work.

There are two reasons Ralph was able to lose eighty 
pounds with Eileen's help. First, on a conscious level 
both Eileen and Ralph wanted it. Eileen wanted Ralph 
slim, and she wanted him slim more than she wanted to 
cook for him. Ralph had felt better — more alive — 
before he put on the weight. Part of him remembered that 
feeling and wanted it back. He even cared, though he 
seemed not to, about the quality of experience he was 
creating for Eileen; he can't have felt good about 
crushing her.

The program would have failed had Eileen's need to feed 
Ralph been stronger, or had she feared that if Ralph 
were attractive she might lose him to another woman. It 
would also have failed had Ralph been pathologically 
afraid of starving, like some survivors of famine.

The second factor that made it possible for Eileen and 
Ralph to succeed is that Ralph knew how to weigh 145 
pounds. He'd done it before. His body knew what kind of 
food and exercise it needed, and how much. All he had to 
do was dust off the pieces, reassemble the machine, and 
plug it in. If he had never been slim, the process would 
have been much more difficult, perhaps impossible.

The story of Eileen and Ralph exemplifies the use of 
female domination to motivate a man toward a goal. It 
falls midway between two extremes. At one extreme, we 
find compulsive gamblers who need to be stopped. At the 
other, we find men who have no real problems, but who 
could use some motivational assistance to see them 
through ordinary projects, and want their wives to use 
the power of their femininity to provide it.

If your marriage is conventional and your husband is 
attempting to earn an academic degree while working full 
time, and he's finding it difficult to focus on his 
studies, you probably aren't going to enslave him for 
the purpose of giving him motivational assistance. Even 
I, fanatic that I am, wouldn't advise it. Enslave him, 
yes! But don't use your power to motivate him unless 
you're sure he'll welcome your efforts. He'll very 
likely resent your intrusion into a part of his life 
that's properly his alone, and you could easily do your 
marriage more harm than good. His goal, unlike Ralph's, 
isn't worth the risk.

When you've already enslaved your husband, things are 
different. If he wants you to help motivate him, you'll 
know it. He'll tell you — if not on his own, then in 
response to your questions about his fantasies. And if 
he does want your help, you'll know how to go about it; 
women in this situation rarely make mistakes.

Most men don't need motivational assistance and prefer 
to run their own lives, and as long as they keep 
themselves a couple of inches back from the edge of 
disaster, they should be allowed to. I've taken charge 
of every one of my relationships since Steve (except the 
two that ended because of my partners' refusal), but 
after Corbett, I've always chosen to limit my exercise 
of control. I control my partner's sexuality and 
whatever else is naturally shared between us, but I 
don't go beyond that core. I'm more comfortable that 
way, and since I've remained single, I've never felt 
obliged to rescue a partner who started making self-
destructive choices. I could leave instead. If you're 
married, that's neither a practical option nor a decent 
one, at least until you've exhausted all the others, and 
one of the others is female domination.

Later, when we consider the story of a compulsive 
gambler — or even now, focusing on Ralph — it may seem 
that the primary value of female domination lies in its 
potential for dealing with difficult and ugly problems. 
Not so. The primary value of female domination is its 
ability to sustain a loving, happy and intimate 
relationship, and the best time to enslave your man is 
when he's in love with you and there's no need. That's 
when it's easiest; that's when it's most fun; that's 
when those difficult and ugly problems can still be 
prevented instead of solved. If you wait, you may 
accomplish wonders; but whatever wonders you accomplish, 
it would have been better to avoid the necessity. Sexual 
slavery always plays best as play.


*** Chapter 17, In which two jealous tyrants are taken 
down just one notch

I met Lisa the week before I enslaved Patrick. Mike and 
I were a technical writing staff of two, faced with the 
task of turning out fourteen manuals in four months. It 
was more than we could handle, so Lisa was brought on as 
a temporary hire to lighten our load.

A year younger than me, pushing forty, Lisa looked 
sometimes like a twenty-year-old in granny glasses and 
sometimes like a sweet little old lady, but somehow she 
never looked forty. For seventeen years she'd been 
exploring the North American continent and acquainting 
herself with its people, supporting herself as a 
freelance writer. She'd turned out a steady stream of 
magazine articles about the places she visited, the 
people she met, even the more unusual episodes of her 
love life. Occasionally she'd stopped long enough to do 
some work for hire — a family history commissioned by a 
Mississippi matriarch, an undercover investigation for a 
Tennessee newspaper — but she always wound up on the 
road again.

She had friends everywhere, but those to whom she was 
closest were a couple in Texas — Nancy and Dan. It was 
they who had received her mail year after year while she 
was traveling and read it to her over the phone; it was 
they who handled her bank deposits; it was in their 
precinct she'd been voting, usually by absentee ballot, 
since leaving her parents' home in Idaho.

She had no quarrel with her parents — she used her 
friends' address mainly to avoid paying state income tax 
— but she'd been back home only four times in twelve 
years because whenever her folks got the opportunity, 
they preached marriage to her. They didn't condemn her 
lifestyle as sinful, or harangue her about the dangers 
of the road, but they were always warning her she'd wind 
up a lonely old woman with no one to care for her. She 
liked the way she was living and didn't want to hear it.

Then, shortly before we met, Lisa realized that 
sometimes, when she looked in the mirror, she saw a 
little old granny lady. Suddenly her parents' warnings 
took on new meaning. She panicked, falling into the 
common fear that age would soon make her unattractive, 
even to men whose experience and maturity were 
commensurate with her own. She decided to find a husband 
before it was too late.

Silicon Valley seemed the ideal place to look. Lisa 
valued intelligence and wanted that quality in a man. 
She aimed to get it by shopping computer companies; the 
computer industry is known for the mental prowess of its 
workers. She expected to support herself during the 
search by picking up short-term writing assignments with 
the very companies she intended to shop. Efficient.

During the four months Lisa and I worked together, she 
added me to her extensive network of friends; she did an 
impressive job on the manuals, especially considering 
she'd never done that kind of writing before; and she 
made the intimate acquaintance of five of my male 
colleagues (not Mike — he was already married). None of 
the men suited her and she moved on to another project 
with another company.

I stayed in touch with her. Every couple of weeks we'd 
have dinner together or go hiking, sometimes with 
Patrick, and she'd describe the progress of her search. 
Her second writing stint didn't turn up anyone 
promising, nor her third, but her fourth did.

The company specialized in computer security. They sold 
consulting services and they built hardware and software 
for data encryption and access authentication — the 
stuff that makes your PIN work in the ATM while keeping 
it secret from the crew inside the bank.

Jason was one of their senior analysts. He designed data 
security algorithms and he went out on consulting 
assignments.

Lisa's relationship with him began with a bang: a whole 
weekend — unplanned — of lovemaking, cuddling and 
intimate self-disclosure. By the time I saw her the 
following Tuesday evening, she was in love. From what 
she said, Jason was too.

Jason, forty-two, had high ideals of what marriage ought 
to be. He believed in commitment, loyalty and fidelity. 
He had been married once before, for twenty-five months, 
to a woman twelve years his junior. The marriage had 
ended in divorce two years earlier. His ex, whose name 
he never spoke, hadn't lived up to his standards.

He married Miss Ex because he was in love and she seemed 
to be too. On that basis alone, he assumed everything 
would be perfect. He was open and honest with her, and 
he allowed her to handle their finances, figuring that 
if she used his working hours to manage the logistics of 
the household, they'd be able to spend all his free time 
enjoying one another.

Before marriage, Jason had no debts except his mortgage. 
His accounting was meticulous, but he handled money 
casually. He had plenty, so when he wanted something, he 
bought it with a credit card, then paid the bills in 
full when they arrived. Right after they married, he and 
Miss Ex opened a joint checking account with a starting 
balance of eight thousand dollars, almost all of it 
contributed by Jason. Another twenty-six hundred went in 
by direct deposit every two weeks when he was paid.

He told Lisa that though the marriage seemed to be going 
well, there were signs that something was wrong. He 
didn't describe them, but he said they were so obvious, 
he was a fool to ignore them. Still, ignore them he did. 
He let Miss Ex fool him until he came down with 
lymphogranuloma venerium. Even then, he ignored the 
initial lesion and sought treatment only when the lymph 
nodes in his groin became tender and inflamed.

Once his doctor explained what was wrong, he could no 
longer pretend everything was perfect. Miss Ex had been 
unfaithful to him, and she'd been lucky enough, or 
unlucky enough, to pick up a sexually transmitted 
disease without developing symptoms. He investigated the 
best he could without alerting her. Their checking 
account balance was nine hundred dollars and their 
credit card debt exceeded twenty-one thousand, with two 
payments overdue. Most of the money seemed to have been 
spent on cocaine. Miss Ex was involved in at least five 
separate affairs, and coke figured in all of them. She 
was fucking two men who supplied her, apparently getting 
a small discount in return, and she was fucking three 
other men she found attractive, each time sharing a few 
lines at her own expense to ensure their continued 
interest.

When Jason's investigation was complete, he closed all 
the credit accounts to which Miss Ex had access, closed 
the joint checking account, and opened an account in his 
own name. Then he filed for divorce.

The confrontation that followed was ugly in the extreme, 
as was the subsequent litigation. Through clever 
maneuvering, her lawyer got Miss Ex almost as much in 
the divorce as she had already stolen, but at least when 
it was over, Jason was rid of her.

By exercising unaccustomed frugality, he dug himself out 
of debt quickly; the last of it had been paid off two 
months before Lisa met him. He still dreamed of a happy 
marriage, but he'd picked up a heavy dose of cynicism 
and regarded it as a good thing. He was determined never 
again to be victimized.

Lisa, hoping to persuade him that she was the One, said 
she had always expected that when she was married, she 
would pay her own way as an equal partner.

"By living on the road? with a man in every town? And 
I'd just be the guy you slept with between trips?"

She was so happy he was talking about marrying her, so 
sorry about the betrayal he'd suffered at the hands of 
Miss Ex, that she overlooked the undeserved hostility. 
She assured him she wanted a traditional monogamous 
marriage as much as he.

He told her his sexual history. It was what one would 
expect, given his age — perhaps a bit more extensive in 
that it included a year-long experiment in communal 
living, back when he was twenty-four.

Difficult to reconcile with such an old-fashioned view 
of marriage, Lisa thought, but he seemed so sensitive on 
the subject, she didn't dare question or comment. 
Instead she drew her own inference — that Jason's 
accumulated experience and observation had gradually led 
him to the conviction that monogamy is the only way. It 
was what she believed too, with a convert's zeal.

She had already told Jason she'd been moderately 
promiscuous on the road, and she interpreted his 
recitation of his own history as a request for the 
details. She started to oblige, but he interrupted her 
and said he preferred not to know.

Monday morning he left on a two-day consulting trip and 
"should be landing in San Jose right about now," she 
said. They already had a date for the following evening 
and Lisa was looking forward to spending the night with 
him.

I next heard from her at four the following Saturday 
afternoon. Patrick and I were cuddling, exhausted, when 
she rang the phone and said she needed to talk. She 
sounded depressed, so I consulted with Patrick and we 
agreed that he'd nap while I tended to Lisa, whom I then 
arranged to meet at her apartment. I showered quickly, 
dressed, grabbed my helmet, and rode over.

I tried to guess what might be the matter, but it was 
impossible. Things had gone way to fast the previous 
weekend. By now, Lisa and Jason might be married and 
separated. I imagined Lisa, living and loving on the 
road and wanting her relationships to have some depth. 
Had she developed the facility of getting all her 
partners to open up so quickly? Was Jason wondering the 
same and feeling manipulated?

I parked the motorcycle, trotted to Lisa's door, and 
knocked.

"Who's there?" She still sounded depressed.

"George."

She opened the door slowly. Everything about her said 
doom.

I stepped inside and she closed the door.

"Hi! What's the trouble?"

"I really screwed it up with Jason."

"I'm sorry if it's going badly."

"I had this idea — I really thought it would turn out 
good, but I just screwed it up."

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

She looked like she didn't, but she'd asked me over, and 
it was the end of the world anyway, so she might as 
well.

"I tied him up."

It was a promising start, but I couldn't see how it 
related to her misery. I waited for more. Three 
seconds...four seconds...

"And he didn't like it?" I ventured.

"I'm sorry. I told you I needed to talk, and I'm not. 
I'll start at the beginning and maybe it'll make some 
sense."

The beginning was Wednesday evening. Jason took Lisa to 
dinner as planned, then to bed as she'd hoped. Thursday 
evening was the same. Lisa would have liked to do it 
again Friday and stay until Monday, but she had too big 
a backlog of chores and errands.

"Besides, I had this idea about tying him up. You 
know..." She studied me as if trying to gauge how far 
she could trust me, then seemed to remember it was 
doomsday so it didn't matter. "I've always had these 
fantasies about tying people up or being tied up myself 
— sex fantasies. A few times I got to do it, but just a 
few, because it takes a lot of trust to do that with 
someone, and I didn't have the kind of long-term 
relationships that build that kind of trust. Maybe I 
could have trusted the guys if I had a regular job and a 
bunch of friends who saw me every day, but living on the 
road like that, if someone decided to do a Jack the 
Ripper on me, it would have been a couple of weeks 
before Dan and Nancy got worried, and then no one would 
know where I'd disappeared from, so I had to be real 
careful."

"You could still tie them up, couldn't you?"

"I didn't want to ask. They had as much reason to be 
scared as I did, with all the serial killers running 
around, and I didn't want to make them uncomfortable. 
Besides, then they could say they wanted to tie me up, 
and it'd be hard to say no.

"Anyway, I thought Jason would go for it. What I was 
hoping was that when he thought about it later, it'd 
sink in that I can be trusted — not just to tie him up, 
but all those other ways he has trouble with."

"Sounds reasonable to me!"

"So I figured I'd give him a rest last night so if I did 
get to tie him up, he'd be horny enough to make love to, 
even if he was a little apprehensive."

"Good strategy!"

"Well, we made up that I'd be at his house at eleven and 
we'd have brunch, and I brought along a bag of stuff for 
the weekend, including some rope. The first thing we did 
after brunch was go to bed, and when we were both really 
turned on, I told him to wait a minute and I got the 
rope and I said, 'Guess what I'm going to do!' And he 
said, 'You're going to spread me out and tie me down?' 
And I said yeah.

"So I tied him down. He didn't try to stop me or 
anything, so I thought it was okay."

"Sure!"

"Well, when I was done tying him, I kind of got on top 
of him and tried to kiss him, but he wouldn't let me. He 
set his mouth so it was all stiff and he looked at me 
with this really grim, stony expression. I just had to 
back off. And then he asked me why it was so important 
to have him tied up.

"I didn't know what to say. The best I could do was tell 
him it wasn't that I wanted him tied up, but that I 
wanted to make love to him while he was tied up."

"Did that help?"

She shook her head and groaned.

"I guess it's an awfully fine distinction for someone as 
badly freaked as he was."

"Oh, it's no distinction at all. I know that. I was just 
trying to play spin doctor and it didn't work."

"What happened?"

"You mean after that?"

"Yeah."

"I untied him."

I looked at her questioningly.

"I was scared I was going to lose him, so I untied him."

I was tempted to ask her how she knew her spin doctoring 
had failed, but I didn't want to be giving her the third 
degree.

"If you don't mind my asking, what were you going to do 
if he hadn't freaked?"

"Make love to him."

"Well, let me tell you the kind of thing I do; then you 
can see if we're on the same wavelength."

That seemed to catch her interest, so I went on.

"I like to tie up my boyfriends too — the ones who are 
into it, anyway. What I usually do is something like 
this: When I've got a guy tied down, the first thing I 
do is sit on his face and have him eat me. That turns 
him on and gives me a reasonable degree of satisfaction 
even if I don't wind up fucking him. Then I sit next to 
him, facing his cock, and I tell him I'm going to play 
with it, say for twenty minutes, and if he can keep 
himself from coming for that long, I'll fuck him; but if 
he can't, I'll keep playing with it a whole lot longer 
than he can stand — you know, most men get real 
sensitive after they come and they can't take that."

She nodded.

"I know how to stimulate a man so he'll come even if he 
doesn't want to, so I go to it, and I tease him about 
how he's turning on to me and how he's going to come 
even though he knows what's going to happen. And what 
that does, is it embarrasses him, and his embarrassment 
starts turning him on too, all by itself — it just works 
that way. So it never takes very long to get him off, 
and then he's been trying to hold back, so it's always a 
big one. And as soon as it starts, I tease him about 
that — maybe about having me watch, or how embarrassed 
he must be, or not getting to fuck me, or how I'm going 
to torture him now — maybe a whole bunch of things 
together. I even tease him while I'm torturing him.

"What he gets out of it is a really exciting trip that 
he'll be fantasizing about for the rest of his life. 
What I get — well, two things. First I get my femininity 
affirmed. I prove that he really can't resist me, and 
it's a good feeling. Second, like you said, I build a 
lot of trust that makes for a really close relationship. 
Once I've done that to a man, he'll trust me to do it 
over and over, and he does trust me to know he's turned 
on by something so embarrassingly kinky. He has no 
choice; I do know it, and he has to adjust. When he 
does, he'll trust me with anything."

"Yeah!"

"If I were to just tie him up and make love to him 
quietly — you know, let him close his eyes and slip off 
into his own world — he'd wind up fantasizing the same 
thing anyway, except then I wouldn't be part of it 
because it'd all be in his head. Maybe his fantasy would 
be a little different — like he's been abducted by 
aliens and they're experimenting on him and they make 
him come — but there'd be something about losing control 
and being embarrassed about it."

My dissertation seemed to revive Lisa considerably, and 
she answered in her own voice rather than the one she'd 
borrowed at the funeral parlor.

"The times I let guys tie me up, that's just the kind of 
fantasies I had. And when I tied them up — well, I did 
let them go off into their own world, and I stayed in 
mine, having fantasies about doing the kind of thing you 
just described. I guess I was going to do the same thing 
with Jason — enjoy my fantasies while he enjoyed his. I 
hadn't thought about making the fantasy real. The main 
thing was to show him I wasn't going to hurt him."

"Well, you did show him that, didn't you?"

"I don't know. I didn't hurt him, but he acted like it 
didn't make any difference. He made me feel I was doing 
something really bad."

"But he does know you didn't hurt him, and he knows you 
care how he feels even when he can't do anything about 
it."

"I don't think that even crossed his mind. He just 
seemed so disappointed in me."

"What happened after you untied him?"

"He said if I'd discussed it with him beforehand, he 
could have gotten into it. I thought we had discussed 
it, but I was too upset to say so. I got dressed and 
asked him if I could come back later. I told him I'd be 
back at seven."

"He didn't say anything else while you were getting 
dressed and ready to leave?"

"No."

"I don't think he wants to lose you any more than you 
want to lose him. He's probably worrying whether you're 
really coming back. I'm sure he'll be happy to see you."

"You really think so?"

"Well, yeah! People don't just fall in love for a week 
and then snap out of it. Sure, he wants to control your 
relationship, especially after what happened with his ex 
— men are like that even under the best of circumstances 
— so when you tied him up, he got worried that you were 
taking control and he did what he had to, to stop you. 
But he can't mean to reject you forever; he just wants 
you to worry about it."

She breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief. "I hope so."

When Lisa returned to Jason that evening, he was indeed 
happy to see her. He comforted her and admitted that, as 
I'd expected, he'd been worried she might not come back. 
They fucked and assured one another of their continued 
love, then stayed together until Monday morning.

Three weeks later she moved in with him. By way of 
preparation, she went through her clips and got rid of 
the ones that described her sexual adventures. She was 
afraid Jason would react badly if he found them. She 
didn't give them to me for safekeeping, or send them to 
Nancy and Dan, even though all three of us had seen 
them. She threw them out.

When her stint with Jason's employer was done, she paid 
a visit to the local animal shelter and adopted a dog — 
a gray female mutt about fourteen inches high with an 
irregular white spot on one side of its back. She named 
it Blotch. Though she hadn't consulted Jason, he didn't 
mind at all. He didn't even suggest a doghouse. Blotch 
became a permanent member of the household.

Lisa convinced herself that the dog had to be cared for, 
so she didn't look for any more consulting assignments; 
instead she went back to freelancing. She thought it 
would be easy, but it wasn't. The road had been a mother 
lode of material that never tapped out. Jason and Blotch 
weren't good for even one article — not an article 
anyone would publish. She found herself having to 
compete as one of many competent but dull writers in a 
buyer's market, scrounging for the occasional idea that 
hadn't yet been done quite to death and trying to make 
it seem interesting to a gauntlet of editors who knew 
better. 

By sheer perseverance, she snared a few assignments: a 
piece on the Winchester Mystery House; another on 
computer fraud, slanted toward women without technical 
knowledge; a third describing the garlic farms of 
Gilroy. It wasn't much. After figuring costs for 
research and postage, she was barely clearing two 
hundred dollars a month. But at least she wasn't doing 
what Miss Ex had done, and Jason seemed pleased even 
though she came nowhere near paying her own way.

About once a week, I'd call Lisa from work just to chat. 
If Jason was going to be out of town on a night I was 
free, I'd try to arrange dinner. Over one such dinner, 
when the future of her writing career looked 
particularly bleak — before she'd sold the piece on the 
Winchester Mystery House — she sadly described the 
limitations imposed on her by Blotch. She couldn't do 
field research that took her away from home for more 
than a few hours, she couldn't ask people for interviews 
and expect them to let her bring a dog, and if she never 
sold another article, she couldn't take a job.

I was tempted to point out that millions of dog owners 
live normal lives, thousands live enhanced lives because 
their dogs serve as eyes or defensive weapons, and only 
four had been reduced to prisoners like her, but I 
thought better of it. I could see that the dog's whole 
purpose was the shrinkage of Lisa's world, and I feared 
that if I made an issue of it, I might never see her 
again. I didn't want that to happen, partly because I 
liked Lisa and partly because I was fascinated by her 
continuing story in much the way one might be fascinated 
by a train wreck. I hastily negotiated a compromise and 
asked why she'd adopted the dog to begin with.

"I always wanted one."

Having moved around so much for so long, and having 
grown accustomed to relying on her friends in Texas, 
Lisa at first made no effort to give Jason's address to 
her correspondents. Most of her mail was still delivered 
to Nancy and Dan, who would open it, telephone her if 
they found anything urgent, repackage it (even the 
junk), and forward it with impressive dispatch. This 
bothered Jason. He felt that by allowing Nancy and Dan 
to open her mail, Lisa was granting them a degree of 
intimacy that should be reserved to him alone. He also 
found their willingness to do all that work, and to pay 
for the calls and postage besides, incomprehensible in 
any context save an ongoing sexual relationship.

Lisa assured him that the relationship wasn't sexual and 
promised to give her current address to everyone from 
whom she received mail. She warned him, though, that it 
might take a while to get Nancy and Dan completely out 
of the loop because every now and then she got a letter 
from someone who hadn't written in years.

"Old lovers?"

"Old friends."

He sulked. She Sulked. Eventually they made up.

That's how it was done between them, over and over — how 
Lisa's world disappeared, one piece at a time. Jason 
never raged at her, never gave her a direct order. He 
didn't need to. All he had to do was be reminded of 
something Miss Ex had done, then suggest that his 
reminiscence had been triggered, however obliquely, by 
Lisa. He'd act hurt, he'd act disappointed, and of 
course Lisa would be hurt too, but in the end it was 
always she who changed to accommodate him.

Somehow she managed not to feel tyrannized. In the 
matter of Nancy and Dan, she brought herself round to 
the belief that it really was inappropriate for them to 
open her mail. When she'd got herself thus straightened 
out, she called Nancy and asked her to forward the mail 
unopened. Nancy agreed and the mail started arriving 
unopened — even faster than before, because Nancy and 
Dan could no longer identify low-priority items with any 
certainty. A month later, just to be sure, Lisa filed a 
change-of-address order with the Postal Service.

Much as she wanted to accommodate Jason, she couldn't 
make herself believe she was sexually involved with 
Nancy and Dan. She knew Jason's suspicion was 
unreasonable — she hadn't been out of California since 
she and Jason met — but she justified his attitude as a 
natural consequence of what Miss Ex had done to him. She 
seemed to accept the idea that she was morally obliged 
to atone for the sins of a coke fiend she had never met 
— that it was fitting and proper for Jason to punish her 
for her predecessor's misdeeds.

To be fair to Jason (and Lisa too), I ought to make it 
clear that Jason was genuinely in love with Lisa and, 
except for his occasional fits of paranoia, treated her 
well. He housed her, fed her, even took her clothes-
shopping and seemed to enjoy it. Their lovemaking was 
always intense and emotional, never perfunctory. They 
seemed to have only one problem — the ghost of Miss Ex. 
Whenever Jason found himself in a situation where Miss 
Ex might stab him in the back, he jumped to the 
conclusion that Lisa had set him up for the same. At 
such times, he refused to remember that Lisa loved him. 
He intentionally forgot that Lisa wanted the best for 
him and for their relationship. 

He told himself that because he was even more in love 
with Lisa than he'd been with Miss Ex, he was that much 
more likely to overlook signs of incipient betrayal, and 
he therefore had to be hypervigilant to protect himself 
from his own proven stupidity. If he hadn't got mixed up 
with Miss Ex first, or if he'd decided to give Lisa the 
benefit of every doubt as he'd given Miss Ex the benefit 
of every doubt, their relationship would have been truly 
idyllic.

(Hey! you ask, How do you know so much about what was 
going on in Jason's head? I know because he was so 
stupidly proud of not being stupid anymore, he told 
her.)

From her side, Lisa didn't feel like her life was the 
train wreck I was watching. The shrinkage of her world 
was so incidental to her relationship with Jason, I 
doubt she was even conscious of it. She enjoyed the love 
Jason gave her, the companionship, the attention — and 
that's how it was most of the time. 

Besides, she believed she could atone for the sins of 
Miss Ex — that if she kept being perfect long enough, 
Jason's paranoia would go into remission and he'd learn 
to trust her. She encouraged herself by noticing little 
improvements — situations in which he'd overreacted last 
month but not yesterday. Since my own impression, based 
on the general flow of Lisa's stories, was that Jason 
was getting worse, I suspected that his little 
improvements represented nothing more than lapses in 
attention.

After five months in this state of bliss, Lisa and Jason 
were married. Two weeks later, on a Saturday morning, 
Dan came between them again. He telephoned to say that a 
jury summons had arrived for Lisa. The envelope was 
marked, "DO NOT FORWARD," so the postman left it with 
him. He hadn't opened it, but it was obvious what it 
was, and he wanted to know what to do with it. He 
certainly didn't want the sheriff showing up with a 
warrant for her arrest and searching the house for her.

Lisa asked him to return the summons with a note saying 
she'd moved to California more than a year ago and 
giving her new name and address. He said he would.

"Who was that?" Jason asked.

"Dan. Called to tell me the mailman delivered a jury 
summons for Lisa Marshall."

"He opened it?"

"No, he knows what they look like."

"I thought you told the post office to forward all your 
mail."

"I did. He said it was marked, "DO NOT FORWARD."

"Why didn't the post office return it?"

"I don't know."

"And I thought you told Dan and Nancy to forward your 
mail even before you told the post office."

"I asked them to, yes; but Dan was worried that if the 
summons wasn't answered, the sheriff would come looking 
for me, and he doesn't want his house searched. That 
happened to a friend of his, when his wife didn't show 
up for jury duty because her mother got sick."

"What's he got there? a bunch of milk-carton kids 
chained to the walls?"

She went into a sulk.

When he saw she wasn't going to answer, he went on.

"Look, I just don't want those perverts calling."

She locked herself in the bathroom and he started doing 
chores. By evening, he was treating her decently and 
she'd stopped sulking, but the issue hadn't been 
resolved.

When she told me the story, I remarked that it was 
unfair of Jason to hold her responsible for Dan's 
calling; after all, she hadn't made the call.

"I know, but after everything he went through with his 
ex, I can understand where he's coming from."

A few weeks later it was time to renew the insurance and 
registration on Lisa's camper van. Jason convinced her 
it was an unnecessary expense and she wound up selling 
the van for four hundred dollars, which made it 
difficult to get around while Jason was at work.

The following month, Jason had to go on a business trip 
that spanned a weekend, and I took the opportunity to 
invite Lisa to join me on a hike.

"No, I don't go anywhere the dog can't go."

"We can bring the dog, you know."

"She's not used to being out in the wild. I'm afraid 
she'll get lost."

I put it as diplomatically as I could. "It seems to me, 
it'd be awfully hard to lose a dog."

"No, I don't want to take the chance."

Ah, well... if Jason could imagine a sexual relationship 
among Lisa, Nancy and Dan across half a continent, he 
could certainly imagine one between Lisa and me alone in 
the hills with only Blotch for a chaperone. No sense 
getting him started! Besides, maybe Lisa's story wasn't 
worth following any further; it was turning downright 
depressing.

But I didn't want to give up on her. If I was ready to 
do that, I might as well try to sell her on female 
domination. At worst, the result would be the same: I'd 
never see her again. At best, she would regain some of 
the freedom she'd had when we first met. I suggested 
dinner the following Monday and she surprised me by 
inviting me over and offering to cook.

I arrived at her house at the appointed time and we 
passed an enjoyable evening fussing over Blotch, 
devouring an imaginatively seasoned roast chicken, and 
talking.

She described a problem that had arisen between her and 
Jason with increasing frequency since their marriage: 
Men initiated conversations with her, and Jason didn't 
like it.

Men had always initiated conversations with her. She'd 
learned to control these interactions while she was 
still in school, and on the road she'd polished her 
skill until it was an art. She could avoid unwanted 
intimacy, and she could manage it easily and gently, 
without giving offense. She knew how to reject a man's 
most urgent advances, and do so repeatedly, yet remain 
on good terms with him.

As a married woman, she had to reject even those men 
with whom she would have eagerly jumped into bed in her 
previous life, but that was easy — as long as Jason 
wasn't around. It was Jason who made things difficult. 
Often a man would chat her up while Jason was watching, 
and he'd always give her grief about it later, accusing 
her of encouraging the man's attentions — sometimes even 
of making a secret date. He could see that none of the 
conversations included physical contact, but that didn't 
help. Lisa assured him that she never gave anyone her 
address, phone number or even her name, but that didn't 
satisfy him either; indeed he often made it obvious that 
he didn't believe her, though without ever quite 
accusing her of lying.

What he wanted was for Lisa to reject men with such 
obvious contempt, disdain and hostility that he could 
see it from whatever distance; nothing gentler would do. 
But rudeness wasn't Lisa's way. It was simply contrary 
to her nature, and she couldn't meet Jason's demands. 
She explained this to him and tried to assure him that 
she was quite capable of guarding her chastity without 
confrontation, but he wouldn't hear it.

Lisa wanted to keep the conflicts in her marriage to a 
minimum, so once she became aware of Jason's problem, 
she tried to discourage men from approaching by giving 
them a wide berth and avoiding eye contact. It might 
have worked but for Blotch. Blotch wanted to meet every 
human she laid eyes on. Running free, she did — easily. 
On a leash it was harder; if she wanted to visit 
someone, she had to pull Lisa along, and Lisa was too 
big. But if she tugged with all her might, and barked, 
and wagged her tail, she could get most people to come 
to her. And since a friendly dog is one of the world's 
most effective icebreakers, any man who found Lisa 
attractive had a perfect excuse to chat. There were also 
a few men who simply liked Blotch and talked with Lisa 
only to be polite, but they made Jason as jealous as the 
others; he couldn't have told the difference even if he 
believed such men existed.

It was because of Blotch, too, that Lisa so often looked 
like she was alone when Jason was nearby. Lisa was 
active while Jason was sedentary. Often Lisa took Blotch 
for a walk on their street and Jason watched from the 
window. When they went to the park, it was Lisa who 
played with Blotch, running from place to place while 
Jason sat and read. Trouble brewed as if by ritual, the 
same way every time. 

A man, thinking Lisa was unattached, or perhaps not 
caring, would greet first Blotch, then Lisa. Lisa would 
exchange a few pleasantries with him, then excuse 
herself and make her way back to Jason, who would scowl, 
sulk, and indulge in an assortment of colorful 
delusions. He would nurse his imagined injuries for 
hours, advising Lisa what she ought to have done and 
telling her that her behavior was proof of habitual 
infidelity. 
Eventually, exhausted, he would say he was giving up 
because he loved her and had no choice but to accept her 
constant betrayals. Later still, they'd tire of sulking, 
remember that they liked one another, and resume the 
part of their relationship that kept them together.

Whatever could I say to all that? Maybe, that's men for 
you! But that isn't men, just the insecure ones, and it 
wouldn't be a helpful response anyway. Let's see... How 
utterly tragic! More honest, but still so unhelpful as 
to be laughable. Jason is a horrible person and he 
should be shot! Thtpfft!

"Did you ever try tying him up again?"

"No."

"Maybe you ought to."

"It would just be another disaster."

"You could even turn him into your love slave. Like, put 
yourself in charge of all your lovemaking so he knows 
that whatever the two of you do is something you really 
want. The when you have sex, he won't be able to delude 
himself into thinking you're just accommodating him so 
he won't figure out how much you're getting from other 
men."

"Huh? That went by kind of fast. I think I missed 
something."

"It's something you could do — make Jason your love 
slave."

"How?"

"You start by tying him up, so he finds out how exciting 
it is when you're in charge."

"His paranoid index would go through the roof if I even 
mentioned that."

"But the time you tried it, he said he could have got 
into it if the two of you had discussed it beforehand. 
And when he said that, you'd already given up, so he had 
no reason to mention it except that he wanted to keep 
the possibility open."

"You've been watching too many lawyer shows."

"Think about it. He wouldn't have said that without a 
reason."

"Maybe he thought tying him up was something I needed 
and he didn't want to lose me if it was."

"If he thought that, he wouldn't have acted so hostile 
that you had to untie him right away."

"Okay, you explain what happened."

"I think he has fantasies of being tied up, but he's too 
paranoid to let it happen. He always needs to be in 
control. Look at the branch of computing he's in. 
Security. Controlling who's allowed to do what. When he 
mentioned the possibility of pre-negotiating a bondage 
scene, it was because his natural self wants to do it, 
but his paranoid self wants to keep control over it. 
Now, we both know that's impossible. He probably knows 
it too, which is why he never mentioned it again, but 
I'm sure he has fantasies. Even right now, he might be 
thinking, If she really loved me, she'd tie me up again.

"That doesn't' mean that if you do, he'll be any more 
cooperative; but it does mean you can overcome his 
resistance and make him enjoy it in spite of himself. 
Just act confident. Refuse to be guilt-tripped. After a 
couple of times, he'll learn he can trust you."

"How do I get him to cooperate the first time?"

"There are two possibilities. One, you can remind him 
what he said — that he could get into it if he had a 
chance to talk about it beforehand — then ask him if 
he's ready because you still want to do it. The other 
is, next time he has one of his fits and you both wind 
up sulking, make an issue of his distrust and refuse to 
make love until he lets you tie him up. Tell him it's 
the only way he can prove he trusts you. Maybe the best 
strategy is to try the first, so he knows you're 
thinking about it, then if you don't get anywhere, do 
the second."

"And how do I get from there to having him be my love 
slave?"

I described what I'd done to Patrick, but without saying 
it was Patrick I'd done it to. She asked the obvious 
question — why a man would continue to cooperate once he 
was untied — and I gave her the complete explanation, 
with three-part harmony.

"It sounds very appealing, very exciting," she said when 
I'd finished; "but I don't see how it's going to stop 
him from acting the way he does every time some guy 
admires Blotch."

"It won't, all by itself. You'll have to use your power 
over him to forbid it. You tell him you're not going to 
have sex with other men, but you'll talk with them if it 
suits you, and he'll have to accept it. Warn him that if 
he gives you a hard time he'll be punished — maybe with 
a period of abstinence, or by being tortured like I 
described, or having to play with himself while you 
watch — you'll be able to figure out the details.

"If he's like most men, he'll wind up so in love with 
you — so addicted to what you do for him — that he won't 
be able to leave you even if you are unfaithful. You 
could bring that right out in the open and tease him 
about it, then say you're going to keep your vows 
anyway, by choice, and it would be decent of him to show 
his appreciation by leaving off his silly and boorish 
accusations."

"Did anyone ever tell you you're crazy?"

"It's a different dynamic from what you're used to with 
Jason, and you haven't rehearsed it, but he hasn't 
figured out how to respond, either, so you can stay 
ahead of him and keep him off balance."

I returned home, typed the evening's events into my 
floppy journal, and went to bed. I was just drifting off 
when the phone rang. It was one of the many incarnations 
of my old friend Crank. As soon as I answered, he hung 
up.

By the time I next spoke with Lisa, the call had been 
relegated to the darkest corner of my memory, but she 
shed some light on it.

Jason had called her shortly after I left and asked what 
she'd been doing. She told him I'd been over for dinner 
and he went into jealousy mode. He seemed to suspect I'd 
replaced Nancy as Lisa's lesbian lover and he asked 
whether I was still there. She said no, but he repeated 
the question several times during their conversation, in 
a low-key but needling sort of way.

"You sure you're alone now?"

"Georgeann's gone home, eh?"

Oh yeah! I thought, Crank!

I didn't tell Lisa about his call, but now I knew the 
reason for it. I was sure Jason would soon arrange my 
final ejection from Lisa's world but I didn't intend to 
make it easy for him. I gave Lisa another call two weeks 
later.

"Hello?"

"Hi Lisa! It's George."

"I can't talk now. I'm up to my elbows in wet scouring 
powder and I don't want it to dry on the tub. Can you 
call me tomorrow morning about 9:30?"

"Sure."

"Thanks. Talk to you then!"

Strange, I thought.

I called the next morning.

"Hello?"

"Hi! It's George again."

"Now's not a good time either. Can you pick me up for 
lunch today?"

"Okay. When?"

"Anytime. I'll be here."

"That's easy! I'll aim for 12:45 so we won't have to 
fight the crowds."

"Good! See you then!"

"Bye-bye."

When I drove up, she was sitting on the doorstep. She 
got up, walked to the car, settled in.

"Hi!" I greeted her.

"Hi. Sorry I sounded so weird when you called, but 
Jason's tapped the phone."

"Really?"

"Yes! Maybe he's even bugged the whole house."

"What makes you think that?"

"There's a locked box in the basement, bolted down in a 
corner where I'm pretty sure there's a modular connector 
for a telephone. At least that's what I remember seeing 
there before the box went in."

"That's something! Where should we go?"

"Mexican. In the opposite direction from Jason's 
office."

"You know a place?"

"No."

"I don't either — not around here. We could be cruising 
a long time. Does it have to be Mexican?"

"Jason doesn't eat Mexican. If anyone hears what we say, 
I want to be sure they never see me and Jason together."

"Did you ask Jason about the box?"

"No, I don't want to escalate his paranoia."

"Do you know when he installed it?"

"Not exactly. Sometime after you were over to dinner. He 
must have done the work in little bits, while I was in 
the shower or out walking Blotch."

"Could it be something innocent, like a backup of the 
stuff he's doing at work or a coin collection or a gun 
or even some dope?"

"If it were innocent, he wouldn't have concealed it from 
me, and he did conceal it. It's not like it was just an 
accident that I missed seeing him put it in, because I'm 
always home. Besides, he doesn't have anything like a 
coin collection, and he doesn't use drugs, and I know 
where he keeps the backup and the gun."

"Crazy! What are you going to do?"

"About the box? I don't know. I do know I want to tie 
him up and make him my love slave, but I'll need a lot 
of moral support along the way."

"You can count on me for that! I'll do anything I can!"

"It won't be easy. I can't talk to you on the phone."

"How about I pick you up every Wednesday at 12:45, like 
today, and we'll do lunch — at least until you get the 
tap off your phone. If there's a week I can't make it, 
I'll call you in the morning and ask you how things are 
going, and you give me some innocuous answer. Then you 
ask me the same thing and I'll give you the same kind of 
answer. That way you'll know not to expect me, and Jason 
will be reassured what boring people we are."

"I feel a little guilty, asking you for so much."

"I'll tell you what! You can repay me by telling me the 
story of how you enslave Jason. I love stories! You can 
give me a new installment every week, like a soap 
opera."

"There's a place!—¡Tres Señoritas!"

"Yeah, thanks! I missed it. I was on automatic."

I parked and we went inside to continue our discussion 
over lunch.

I asked whether she'd got around to telling Jason she 
still wanted to tie him up, and she said she had. She'd 
even reminded him what he said way back when. His answer 
wasn't encouraging.

"I guess what I meant was that I can relate to it as a 
fantasy, but it's not something I'd want to do in real 
life...."

He went on, expounding the distinction as though he'd 
just invented it. When he thought Lisa had been lectured 
to distraction, he reached for his newspaper.

"I want to tie you up in real life," she said.

"I couldn't. I'd be too self-conscious."

"Of course he'd be too self-conscious!" I said, 
interrupting Lisa's narrative. "That's the whole idea!"

I gave her a crash course in suggestion and encouraged 
her to raise the issue again.

"Then, when he refuses, tell him, 'You'll agree to it 
eventually.' Tell him he'll like it, too. If you have 
to, tell him that if you get frustrated enough, you'll 
refuse to make love with him at all until he agrees. And 
if he tells you he'll be too self-conscious, tell him, 
"Mm-hm! And I'll get to see just how self-conscious!' 
That'll set him fantasizing!"

Lisa was staring at me. I realized I'd been ranting and 
decided to ham it up even further.

"Gung ho!" I almost shouted.

She took a quick look around to see what kind of 
attention I'd attracted, then burst out laughing.

By the following Wednesday, Lisa was on strike.

She had put my advice into practice Friday evening. 
Jason didn't agree to be tied up, but Lisa was able to 
launch a steady barrage of suggestion — just what we'd 
expected. Sunday they took the dog to the park and some 
man started feeding it treats out of a bag attached to 
his wheelchair. Lisa exchanged some idle chatter with 
him, then led the dog back to Jason, who did his usual.

"He may be paranoid," I said, sitting with Lisa in Tres 
Señoritas, "but at least he's an equal-opportunity 
paranoid. The wheelchair didn't make a bit of 
difference, did it?"

"I sure would like to write that man's story. His bag is 
covered with campaign ribbons and medals, and his eyes 
look like he's been through about sixty lifetimes. An 
interview would be worth eight hundred dollars, easy — 
maybe even a couple of thousand."

"Did you tell Jason that?"

"Boom! His answer was, 'And what would he get out of it? 
You?' That's what did it, really. I called him on it. I 
told him, 'That's not a real question. You said that 
just to hurt me.'"

"Good for you! How did he take it?"

"He pretended not to hear it. He said, 'Look, I told you 
before, I don't want you flirting.' So I said I told him 
before, I never flirt. I talk with people sometimes, and 
half the people in the world are male, so yes, I talk 
with a man now and then. If I don't talk with a man for 
a while, he starts getting suspicious of the women I 
talk with. But I told him that's not the point. I said, 
'You said what you did just to hurt me.'

"He said he never says anything just to hurt me, so I 
repeated his exact words and asked what else he could 
have meant, and he said the same thing as before — that 
he doesn't want me flirting — so we went round again. 
Then I tried a third time and he snapped —'Why don't you 
just lay off?' So I said, 'I'll lay off as long as you 
like, but we will have to deal with this eventually. I'm 
not going to do like usual and pretend everything's all 
right when I know you're trying to hurt me.' And George, 
I've been as stubborn as I promised. I've been sleeping 
on the sofa for three nights."

"How does Jason take that?"

"He thinks it's a big joke. His idea of a good marriage 
is, we don't have sex with other people and we don't 
look like we might be thinking about it. If we don't 
have sex with each other, no problem!— just so we don't 
do it with anyone else. If we don't talk, that's no 
problem either. He should have gone to India and married 
a tree."

"Did he tell you that's how he sees it?"

"No, but it's obvious."

"Did you tell him that's how he sees it?"

"No."

"About that thing he said to hurt you — and I agree, he 
did say it just to hurt you — what do you want him to 
do? It sounds like you want him to admit he said it to 
hurt you, acknowledge that it was wrong of him, and 
agree to some rules of decency to protect you from 
having the same thing happen again. Is that pretty much 
it?"

"Yes!"

"Did you tell Jason that that's what you want?"

"What could he think I want?"

"Maybe a promiscuity license. And if he admits that what 
he said was inappropriate, that entitles you to one."

"What!?"

"Different people have different styles of arguing. 
Usually they learn them from their parents and never 
examine them critically. Some people have a rule that 
says one person is right about everything and the other 
is wrong about everything. It's a bad rule, best got rid 
of, but most people who are attached to it don't even 
know they believe it, so they're stuck.

"Anyway, from Jason's point of view, the two of you were 
talking about whether you ought to be promiscuous.—"

"We were talking about an article I could have written."

"That's true from your point of view, but Jason is 
what's called insanely jealous. That's not an empty 
phrase. It means he's jealous to such a degree that it's 
obvious to the casual observer that his perceptions are 
out of line with reality. But from that insane point of 
view, you were demanding the right to be promiscuous."

Lisa looked thoroughly bewildered.

"He didn't believe you wanted to write an article. He 
thought it was just an excuse to get some time alone 
with that man. He probably thought you wanted to have 
sex with him; but if he didn't, he thought it was the 
thin end of the wedge — interview the one man so that 
when another comes along who really turns you on, the 
precedent will have been set and you'll be able to sneak 
off with him under the pretext of another interview.

"Now add to that the rule that one person has to be 
completely right and the other has to be completely 
wrong. If you say he was wrong to interject a remark 
that was intended to hurt you, it follows that his 
entire position is wrong and you're entitled to be 
promiscuous."

"But that's crazy!"

"Precisely. Think about that box in the basement — all 
the planning that went into it, sneaking it past you, 
the work of installing it in secret, slinking down there 
every day or two to find out what you've been up to on 
the telephone. A sane person doesn't do that. He's 
crazy.

"What I think you ought to do is sit him down, tell him 
it's okay that he wants you to be faithful, and then 
explain that you see that attack of his as a completely 
separate issue — one that needs to be resolved."

"What good will it do? He'll only accuse me of 
infidelity again and say he doesn't want me flirting."

"He probably will. When he does, keep your cool. Tell 
him you understand. Tell him you agree with him — as far 
as you do agree with him — but don't tell him where you 
disagree. Tell him it's okay that he wants you to be 
faithful; tell him you know you should be faithful; tell 
him you have been faithful. Don't tell him he's being 
unreasonable, at least while the matter of the verbal 
attack is still pending, and certainly don't tell him 
you can be trusted to be faithful."

"What? Why not?"

"Because he has the delusion that you can't be trusted, 
and confronting a delusion directly is a strategy that 
always fails. I learned that from a friend of mine who's 
a shrink. I've tested it on the few real nuts I've met 
since, and it's true.

"You might also want to lead him into an examination of 
his belief that one person is completely right and the 
other is completely wrong. Maybe he'll drop it and 
you'll be able to settle your differences more easily in 
the future. Another thing you might want to examine is 
the idea that arguments can be won. They can't, you 
know. It doesn't matter whether you win and he loses or 
he wins and you lose; your relationship is that much 
weaker as a result.

"Then there's this question of what it means to be 
married. Does he really believe that forsaking all 
others is the essence of marriage, and love, honor and 
cherish is a bunch of empty fluff? It's possible, but 
I'd be surprised; and you seem a little bitter about it, 
so it'd be a good idea for the two of you to talk about 
it. As the saying goes, It ain't the things you don't 
know, what gets you into trouble; it's the things you 
know for sure, what ain't so.

"There's a couple more things to think about, that have 
to do with your offer to tie him up. Like, one of the 
reasons this dispute may have dragged on so long is that 
he's afraid when it's over, the first thing you're going 
to want to do is tie him up. It might help to start your 
discussion by telling him you miss your normal 
lovemaking and want to get back to it, but first you 
need to work out the issue of his verbal abuse. Then he 
won't worry that as soon as the problem's been dealt 
with, you're going to do something terrible to him. That 
approach also helps convince him that you haven't been 
getting your sexual needs met somewhere else.

"And one of Jason's problems with letting you tie him up 
now is undoubtedly that he's worried about the box. If 
the key is hidden, he might be paranoid enough to think 
you're going to torture him into telling you where. If 
he carries it around, which is more likely, he probably 
thinks the first thing you're going to do when you tie 
him up is look for the key and use it."

"I already know he doesn't carry it around. I went 
through his pockets while he was in the shower Thursday 
and Friday, and tried all the keys. None of them fit."

"Then it's hid. It doesn't really matter."

"I guess not. Either way, he'll never let me tie him 
up."

"There are a couple of things you can do. One is, you 
can make a date with him in advance and spend an hour or 
two beforehand lying in bed reading or watching 
television — maybe even take the dog for a walk. That 
way you give him a chance to set up whatever evasion he 
thinks is necessary — like maybe clear out the box and 
leave it open — so he won't have that particular worry. 
Another way to get around it is take a weekend off and 
stay in a motel."

Lisa was wearing a look of utter astonishment. I turned 
my attention to my plate and we ate in silence for a 
while. I expected her to say, It takes one to know one, 
but she didn't.

"What's the use of tying him up if there's nothing I can 
do about his jealousy?"

"It's a fun thing to do. You said it's one of your 
fantasies, and Jason would probably enjoy it too. That's 
enough of a reason right there. Besides, the love slave 
trip might be one of the few things you can do about his 
jealousy."

"But you said he's convinced I want to be unfaithful, 
and I shouldn't confront his delusion."

"Right! But the love slave trip doesn't confront his 
delusion; it bypasses it. First, there's what I told you 
last week: Being tied up gets him used to trusting you. 
Being your love slave gets him used to trusting you. At 
some point he realizes he's so much in love that even if 
you told him you were having an affair, he'd have to 
accept it.

"But there's something else, and it has to do with his 
view of the nature of the sexual experience. Right now, 
to him, sex means fucking — missionary style — and he 
assumes that's what it means to everyone. He sees 
missionary sex as a transaction in which a man claims 
possession of a woman, and the woman gets bonded to him 
as a kind of appendage. If you have a sexual interest in 
another man, the natural thing for you to do is let him 
fuck you, and then he'll be the man who owns you, 
instead of Jason, and you won't be able to help but 
steal Jason's money to pay for his cocaine — not to 
mention that you'll be unspeakably defiled with enemy 
secretions.

"Okay. You start tying Jason up and eventually you get 
into the love slave trip, and now your lovemaking is 
different. You have him eat you; you bring him off by 
hand; maybe you even make him play with himself while 
you watch and tease him about it. Sometimes you fuck, 
but it's almost always with you on top. Along the way, 
you let him know that this style of lovemaking suits you 
a whole lot better. 

Maybe it doesn't, really, but you tell him anyway, and 
you act like it's true, and he believes you — especially 
since you tried tying him up so early in your 
relationship. One of the things you do is play games 
with him, where he has to control himself and he gets 
punished when he can't — like the one where I tell a man 
that if he can't keep himself from coming when I play 
with his cock, I'm going to keep playing with it when 
he's drained and it gets all sensitive — and you express 
lots of enthusiasm for the sense of power you get when 
he always loses.

"Now when he sees some guy saying hello to your dog, he 
doesn't think, That son of a bitch is going to subvert 
my wife. Instead he thinks, That poor devil! What she'll 
do to him if he isn't careful! Instead of seeing the man 
as a competitor, he sees him as a potential victim, and 
it's hard to be jealous of a victim. He might even 
develop a degree of pride in your sexual power, so if 
some man is really attracted to you, you'd be able to 
tie him up and play my favorite control game with him, 
and then brag to Jason that you tortured him so 
severely, he'll never want to see you again."

"You are crazy!"

"Sure! How else could I understand Jason so well without 
ever having met him?"

***

When I saw Lisa a week later, she and Jason had gone 
back to their ordinary ways and fucked a couple of times 
in the missionary position. Lisa had resumed her program 
of teasing suggestion and Jason had had one more fit of 
jealousy; mercifully it didn't drag on. We had a 
pleasant, wide-ranging talk, concentrating mostly on 
communication styles, hidden assumptions, and the 
negotiation of ground rules for discussion.

Six days later, about two o'clock Tuesday afternoon, 
Lisa called me at work.

"Hello, this is Georgeann."

"Hi! It's Lisa. Got a few minutes?"

"Lisa! I didn't expect to be hearing from you. How are 
you? What's happening?"

"I found the key and opened the box and the phone isn't 
tapped, so I figured I'd invite you to dinner this 
evening and tell you how it went when Jason let me tie 
him up. I can pick up some comestibles at the shopping 
center; I want to walk over there anyway to make a copy 
of the key."

"Is Jason out of town?"

"Yes, he left yesterday and he's coming back tomorrow 
evening."

"What was in the box?"

"Ammunition."

"Ammunition?"

"Yeah. A dozen boxes of .38 Special, fifty rounds to a 
box. Nothing exotic — just what he'd normally load in 
his gun. Oh, yeah!— there is a phone connecter inside, 
but nothing's plugged into it."

"Is that a lot of ammunition?"

Considering how much he shoots, I guess so, but not a 
shocking amount. Maybe it was on sale."

On sale? I thought. Maybe in rural Idaho or Texas or 
some of the other places she used to hang out, but this 
is Silicon Valley.

"I guess it's possible. I do want to hear your story. 
What time should I be over?"

"How about seven? That'll give me time to walk both ways 
and cook just about everything."

"Great! I'll be there. See you then!"

"Hasta luego."

About six, while I was running a stack of paper through 
the copy machine, it hit me.

"Hey!" I said, when Lisa and I had greeted one another 
and Blotch was reasonably calm again, "I figured out 
what the ammunition is for."

"Okay, what?"

"It's to justify the box."

"I don't follow."

"It's like this: Jason decides he wants to spy on your 
phone calls, so he finds an out-of-the-way phone outlet, 
builds a lockbox around it, puts some recording 
equipment inside, and whenever it's convenient, he 
changes the tape and listens to what he's got — on the 
way to work, maybe in his office, I don't know. Then you 
start talking about tying him up, and he gets worried 
it's because you've noticed the box and you want to find 
out what's inside, but he has just enough grip on 
reality to know that that's probably not the reason. 

"He hopes you're going to lose interest, but you don't, 
and when he sees he's going to have to let you do it, he 
buys a bunch of ammunition, gets rid of the recording 
equipment, and puts the ammunition in its place. No loss 
there — he's been listening to nothing for three weeks, 
and by now he doesn't even expect to hear anything. 

"Now if you ask him what's in the box, he can tell you 
ammunition; and if you ask where the key is, he can tell 
you that; and if you open the box, you'll see he's 
telling the truth. And since he's so security-minded, 
it'll make sense that if he had that much ammunition, 
he'd want to lock it away so it doesn't blow up if the 
house catches fire, or fall into the wrong hands. The 
only thing wrong is that if his purpose was really to 
secure the ammunition, he wouldn't have built the box 
around a telephone outlet; he would have taken care to 
leave it accessible."

"Come to think of it, when I opened the box I wouldn't 
have seen that outlet, except I remembered it was there, 
so I moved the ammunition to look for it. I'm starting 
to see what you mean about having to be crazy to 
understand him."

Over dinner, Lisa told me the story of her weekend with 
Jason. They hadn't fucked since Tuesday, so he was horny 
and tried initiating sex Friday night. Lisa told him she 
was going to tie him up — he wasn't going to get into 
her any other way. They discussed it at length, and he 
made several attempts to guilt-trip her into giving up 
again, but she wouldn't crumble and he seemed to 
understand he'd have to go along. When he chose to go to 
sleep rather than let her tie him up right then, she 
decided I'd been right about his wanting to protect the 
box, so she gave him plenty of room on Saturday, staying 
as far from the basement as possible to let him make 
whatever preparations he needed.

In the middle of the afternoon, she was sitting in her 
workspace next door to their bedroom, trying to write a 
short story. ("I know I'm a little old to be learning 
such a difficult craft," she'd told me the previous 
Wednesday, "but I've got plenty of material just because 
I'm so old. No research.") For two hours the disc player 
had been shuffling through Jason's collection of albums 
by his favorite pop sex goddess, presumably getting him 
in the mood while drowning out the sounds of his 
subterranean skullduggery. Finally she heard his 
footsteps nearby. She turned to greet him just has he 
entered the room.

"Come to bed?" he asked.

"Want me to tie you up?"

"No, but if you really must, I'll let you."

She led him into the bedroom, had him strip, tied his 
wrists to the legs of the bed.

"Comfortable?"

"Considering."

She undressed, lay on him, kissed him. It went better 
than the first time; at least he didn't set his mouth.

"I want you to lick me before I fuck you."

"I do that even when you don't tie me up."

"I know. It's still what I want."

She sat on his face and he ate her. He seemed to get 
into it, same as always — watching her turn on, watching 
her come. When she decided it was time to fuck, he was 
ready. She impaled herself on his cock, leaned forward, 
kissed him.

He looked skeptical, apprehensive.

"Don't worry. It's only me, and I love you."

She kissed him again.

"We'll see how you like this."

"I already told you."

"Not how you say you like it, how you really like it. 
I'll know. If it doesn't work for us, we won't do it 
anymore, but if you come like the big bang, I'm going to 
make love to you like this every chance I get."

She started thrusting her hips, slowly, looking into his 
eyes, sometimes kissing him. He kept so still, she knew 
he was trying to resist, but it was no use. The 
chemistry between them was too strong, her pussy too 
insistent, his embarrassment too exciting. Soon he was 
making rasping sounds, his face contorted with lust. 
Seeing him like that, knowing it was all her doing, made 
her come. She kept fucking him, riding from one orgasm 
to the next, until at last he let loose a kind of wail, 
lifted his hips off the bed, pushed all the way into 
her, spurted. She sat up on him, pressing him down on 
the bed, and went to work on his nipples with her 
fingers. He wailed again and his hips bucked 
convulsively, making her come once more.

"Untie me!" he gasped, even before the spasms of their 
orgasm had fully subsided. "Please!"

She did. Immediately. As soon as his right hand was 
free, he started tearing at the knot binding his left 
wrist.

When she'd untied the lower ends of both bonds, she 
asked, "Are you okay?"

"That's too scary. I don't want to do it anymore."

She lay down next to him and waited while he finished 
untying his wrists.

"How are you now?"

"I'll live."

"Of course you'll live, silly. Would you like to 
snuggle?"

They did. His heart was beating way too fast. She waited 
some more.

"That was the big bang! I've never felt you come like 
that. Thanks for letting me be part of it. It was 
beautiful."

"It was scary."

"Really? How?"

"I can't explain it."

"You'll get used to it."

"No I won't. I want us to make love like normal people, 
not like the psychopaths I read about in the newspaper."

"Psychopaths don't make love. Maybe they go through the 
motions, but they don't feel what we do. That's what 
makes them psychopaths."

He lay quiet for a moment, then held her tight.

"I love you," he said. His voice was shaking.

"Trust me too?"

"I'm doing the best I can."

"I know. It's okay. I love you."

I offered Lisa my congratulations on the great start 
she'd made, and on the brilliant way she'd lured Jason 
into struggling to control his responses without 
threatening him beyond his severely limited tolerance. 
What she'd done was take the common-sense approach to 
any new experience (try it once, then do it again only 
if you like it) and reframe it as a control game (if 
this makes you come really hard, you're going to have to 
let me do more of it). It was so obvious that the game 
was nothing more than a rewording of the common-sense 
approach to any new experience, Jason couldn't 
reasonably object. If he freaked, Lisa could simply 
point out that what she'd told him is the common-sense 
approach to any new experience, no more menacing than, 
Taste this sliver of cake, and if you like it, I'll give 
you more.

When he cooperated, Lisa accomplished three things. 
First, she got Jason used to control games. On 
subsequent occasions, both the control required and the 
consequences of failure could be escalated until the 
games were like mine or worse. 

Second, when Jason started losing control, he couldn't 
help but be embarrassed. His embarrassment fed his 
arousal, and he fell into the Loop. The Loop is 
addictive, so when he was horny again, he'd want more. 

Third, Jason's attempt at control was just successful 
enough that he didn't come until his sexual tension had 
built to where his orgasm was truly overwhelming. As 
Lisa had warned when she set up the game, the intensity 
of his orgasm would later justify her insistence on 
tying him up again. And though he didn't realize it 
while he was still so shaken, he'd soon find himself 
craving orgasms of that intensity. To get them, he'd 
have to give Lisa control of his sexuality.

I myself had never thought of manufacturing a control 
game out of nothing at all. I would have dismissed the 
possibility on the grounds that no man could take such a 
game seriously. Jason, though, was so frightened of 
losing control that he did take it seriously — at least 
on an emotional level, which is where it really matters. 
Lisa chose the game perfectly. At that point in their 
relationship, Jason couldn't handle the threat of a 
significant penalty for losing; a heavier game might 
have left him unable to trust Lisa further.

I also told Lisa how wise she'd been to refrain from 
discussing their future lovemaking while Jason was 
satiated. Negotiations would go much better when he was 
horny and he'd spent some time fantasizing the pleasures 
of being dominated. Lisa told me that indeed they hadn't 
discussed it further until the eve of Jason's departure.

Sunday had been a good day for them. A persistent 
drizzle kept Jason indoors while Lisa took the dog on a 
series of brisk walks around the neighborhood, 
undisturbed by admirers.

When they went to bed, Jason started into his mating 
ritual. Lisa cooperated until he moved to climb on top 
of her.

"I really ought to tie you up again."

"No! I don't like it!"

"Yes you do. I saw how it made you come and I'm going to 
keep doing it. I can be very stubborn."

"I don't want to argue. I'm not going to see you for 
three days. Can't we make love normally? Talk about your 
need for perversion when I get back?"

"No! I don't like making love normally!"

"You seemed to, for over a year."

"I love you, and you raised such a ruckus the first time 
I tied you up, I thought you really didn't like it, so I 
reconciled myself to giving it up so I could have you. 
Now I know you do like it, but you just don't want to 
admit it. Since we both like it, I'm going to see that 
we do it. I like it much better than missionary sex."

While he was still trying to figure out what to say, she 
wrestled her way on top of him. "I'll tell you what. 
We'll pretend you're tied up this time. We'll do it for 
real when you get back from your trip." She held his 
forearms against the bed and kissed him.

She had to release him to get his cock into her, but she 
pinned him down — pretended to, anyway — all through 
their fuck. She could see he had mixed emotions, at 
least until he came; then he was blown away again — not 
like when he'd been tied down, but definitely second 
place.

Lisa was more determined than ever to make Jason her 
slave. It would take time and effort, she knew, but it 
was worth it. She really preferred the kind of 
lovemaking they'd got into over the weekend; her 
enthusiasm wasn't just put on for Jason's benefit. 
Besides, she needed a handle on his jealousy.

We agreed there was no further need for me to pick her 
up for lunch on Wednesdays; we could go back to talking 
on the phone. Neither of us expected Jason to bug the 
line again, but Lisa planned to check the box every 
morning.

Over the next few months, Lisa steadily increased her 
sexual control over Jason, raising the stakes of their 
games and teasing him incessantly. He became hopelessly 
addicted.

She didn't try to deal with his jealousy until her 
control was solid. Then she told him that what he'd been 
doing was unacceptable and warned him he'd be punished 
unless he stopped. He said he still didn't like her 
flirting, but he promised he'd try to control himself. 
He knew what Lisa could do and how much he needed her, 
so he felt he had no choice.

At first he didn't succeed very well. Whenever he 
witnessed one of her inconsequential little encounters, 
he managed to convince himself there was something so 
outrageous about it, something so different from any 
interaction he'd observed before, that it justified an 
exception to his resolve. Lisa never agreed, and Jason 
wound up taking a great deal of punishment. Forced 
abstinence seemed to hurt him the most; Jason had 
changed radically since the days when he didn't care if 
Lisa spent three nights sleeping in the living room. 
When he couldn't have her, he became so desperate, he'd 
beg just to be allowed to lick her pussy.

Despite the punishment, Jason's thinking didn't seem to 
be changing in the way I'd so optimistically predicted, 
so Lisa decided to give it a nudge. On the particular 
day she chose, their car had been first in line to use a 
section of road narrowed to a single lane by repaving, 
and Jason was having a fit because the flagman had 
struck up a conversation with Lisa.

"What are you worried about?" she asked. "Do you think 
he's going to invite me to tie him up, and I'll decide I 
like torturing him better than you?"

He was so impressed, he stopped talking and thought 
about it (she knew him well enough to tell the 
difference between thinking and sulking). Then, over the 
next few weeks, his displays of jealousy decreased in 
intensity. He didn't really make an honest effort to 
eliminate them; what he did was figure out just how much 
displeasure he could express without being punished. 
When Lisa talked with another man, he'd go exactly that 
far and no further. Lisa knew what he was doing, but she 
left the threshold where it was; she figured he needed a 
safety valve and she preferred not to be punishing him.

I wish I could report an equally happy resolution to the 
matter of Lisa's incredible shrinking world, but I 
can't. Even though she'd told me about most of the 
individual cuts, Lisa never acknowledged that her world 
had in fact been shrunk — perhaps not even to herself. I 
always felt the subject was taboo, so I never mentioned 
it. When last I saw her, more than a year after Jason's 
enslavement, her world was only slightly larger than it 
had been the day before he tapped the phone.

The dog continued to hold her prisoner. She wouldn't 
leave it home alone for more than four hours, she 
wouldn't let anyone else watch it, and the places she 
wouldn't take it were coincidentally the places Jason 
never wanted her to go.

On the plus side, Jason had bought a new car and Lisa 
had been assertive enough to express her displeasure 
with the hardships she'd endured since selling the 
camper van. She asked him not to trade his old one, but 
instead hold on to it for her use. He agreed. He kept it 
filled with gas too. And to be sure she never ran out, 
he looked at the odometer every day or two. Whenever he 
noticed that it had been driven more than a couple of 
miles, he questioned her, so she never forgot how crazy 
he was. Still, emergency trips to the store were no 
longer difficult and she was able to use the public 
library. Once she even met me for lunch near my office.

She didn't go back to writing magazine articles even 
though the car would have made research easier; instead 
she continued her experiments with the short story and 
eventually sold a couple. Her writing kept her busy and 
she was happy to be published again, but her income 
barely covered supplies. Though she'd never expected to 
wind up being supported by a husband, she wasn't unhappy 
with the way things had turned out, and Jason seemed to 
prefer it too. She probably never would have said 
anything about expecting to pay her own way, except that 
she always had, and she thought it was what Jason wanted 
to hear at the beginning of their relationship.

Once I got brave and asked her whether she still had any 
contact with Nancy and Dan.

"Not in a long time," she said. "I've been neglecting 
them terribly."

Lisa's power over Jason was great indeed, but she used 
it sparingly, only for things that were really important 
to her. She knew — wrongly and pre-consciously, I 
suspect — that her marriage depended on her willingness 
to live in a shrunken world. And she adapted. She 
insisted on her own style of communication, but she 
accepted the necessity of dropping all her friends and 
making no new ones. She insisted on having access to a 
car, but she accepted the severe limits Jason placed on 
its use, even convincing herself that his odometer 
inspections were nothing worse than an endearing quirk.

Could Lisa have regained the freedom she'd enjoyed at 
thirty without losing Jason? Probably most of it, but I 
don't think she wanted to. The only credible explanation 
for Lisa's train wreck is that her life was scripted, 
much as Ralph's was. If she lived to forty, she was 
required to marry into a shrunken world, and she 
recognized Jason as well-suited to the complementary 
role. There turned out to be a few burrs in the fit, and 
Lisa used the techniques of female domination to file 
them down. I count this among my vicarious successes, 
but I wish I could have freed Lisa from her script 
rather than just helping smooth the burrs. Unfortunately 
that's not what she wanted, and I certainly wasn't going 
to take it upon myself to force freedom down her throat.

Kathie, another woman with a jealous husband, was 
something else. I'd met her a decade earlier, when I 
took a job with the company she worked for. During my 
first week, I saw her only in passing — a lanky figure, 
six foot two, large hands and feet, long straight hair, 
pretty face, no makeup, faint scars; T-shirts, faded 
jeans, work boots, a tool kit hanging from a men's wide 
leather belt. Her only concession to convention was an 
unneeded bra.

I asked about her and learned that she was the person 
who kept all the office equipment running — computers, 
printers, copiers, everything. The company had a lot of 
it for those days, and Kathie was something of a legend. 
Most of the machines were intended to work together, and 
there had been a time when almost none of them would 
even work separately. They'd been bought from different 
vendors, and every service call turned into a finger-
pointing contest; it took days to get anything fixed, 
and the repairs didn't last. Kathie asked for the 
opportunity to set things right, and the head honcho 
said yes. Contrary to expectations, she succeeded, and 
succeeded quickly. Now all the machinery was hers, and 
she took care of it without help.

On Tuesday of my second week, a few minutes after 
eleven, my office mate headed for the men's room as was 
his custom. Kathie walked in ten seconds behind him and 
closed the door.

"Do you party?"

"I smoke grass when I get the chance, but that's about 
all."

"That's what I got. You want to go out at lunchtime and 
catch a buzz?"

"Sure! Just come get me when you're ready."

And so we became drinking buddies, with an improvement 
on the drinking. We'd go out two or three times a week, 
pick up sandwiches and sodas, then drive someplace where 
no one could see us (Kathie knew a dozen good hideouts 
near the office) and eat our sandwiches, smoke a couple 
of joints, and drink the sodas. When we'd been out about 
fifty minutes, we'd drive back to the office and resume 
our duties. Every couple of weeks I'd buy an ounce from 
her. I used most of it with Matt and our friends, but I 
carried one joint back to work each day so I could share 
it with Kathie and not be a mooch.

As we ate and smoked, week after week, Kathie told me 
about the world in which she lived — a world completely 
alien to me. I picked up quite an education, and it 
struck me more than odd — spiritually significant, I've 
often thought — that the reason all this fascinating 
knowledge came my way was that I was in the habit of 
wearing jeans and T-shirts, and "looked like I party."

Kathie grew up fighting on the streets of Philadelphia 
and fled west by thumb at the age of seventeen, living 
on money she'd made selling dope. Her first week in San 
Francisco, she met Rick, then twenty-two, also a dope 
dealer. She became his live-in lover the same day. Rick 
had a day job in a home-improvement chain store, and 
many of the people who bought drugs from him lived in 
Silicon Valley, so when the chain opened a new store 
here, he applied for a position as manager of the 
automotive department and got it. He moved south, taking 
Kathie, whom he had wed five months earlier, and their 
three-month-old son, Sean.

They settled in the sort of seedy area where endless 
comings and goings would be well tolerated. Kathie, who 
hated pretense and saw it everywhere, was comfortable 
there and got along well with her new neighbors. A few 
of them seemed trustworthy and were willing to take care 
of Sean for a reasonable fee, so Kathie decided to get a 
job. She figured office work would bring her in contact 
with people who needed a reliable source of dope, and 
indeed it did. She also found that she enjoyed the 
novelty of getting a paycheck. By the time we met, 
though, her main reason for working was that she liked 
the responsibility.

She'd started out doing clerical work, but it was too 
easy for her and she got through it so fast that she was 
always left with spare time, which she contrived to 
spend with the techies. There was always at least one 
who was willing to teach her some of his skills and 
jargon, and she wound up learning a great deal about the 
workings of small computers and other office machinery.

After changing jobs a few times, mainly to expand her 
drug clientele, she found her niche, and there she 
intended to stay. She could dress and act as she 
pleased, and she was convinced that no other company 
would have her unless she agreed to become a phony.

Over the years — Sean was nine now — Rick had become 
increasingly jealous. He suspected and hated every man 
with whom Kathie worked. He had never met one, but no 
matter. It was a class war thing, really — the same 
hostility Kathie felt toward women who wore conventional 
business attire — but it was stronger, and it came out 
as jealousy vented in Kathie's direction. It was a royal 
pain (in Kathie's words), especially since she wasn't at 
all inclined to stray and Rick had no evidence on which 
to base his suspicions.

Over lunch she would tell me the stories. I remember one 
that said it all: Kathie was in the habit of showering 
before work. Almost every morning, Rick would come into 
the bathroom and say something like, "Get your pussy all 
scrubbed up, now, so you'll be all nice and sweet for 
Jim and Brian and Sergei. You got a big day of whoring 
coming up." In the evening, he'd follow up with more of 
the same.

It was crude, it was ugly, it was pointless. Unlike 
Jason, Rick never hinted that Kathie might pacify him by 
doing things differently. He was insecure, and he was 
going to take it out on Kathie, and that's all there was 
to it.

In response to Kathie's complaints, I offered first 
sympathy, then my usual prescription. Though I knew less 
about female domination at thirty than at forty, I 
taught Kathie more than Lisa, simply because Kathie and 
I spent so much time together. Kathie usually listened 
with interest, interjecting questions and comments that 
reflected a high degree of understanding, but sometimes 
she became irritated by the suspicion that my techniques 
were based on an affectation of femininity rather than 
on femininity itself. Affectation was anathema to her. I 
did my best to dispel her discomfort, but it returned 
from time to time, and even when she was most at ease 
with my advice, she seemed disinclined to take it.

Kathie might have tolerated Rick's abuse forever, but 
she got word he was having an affair with a woman at the 
store, name of Carol. The rumor was, Rick and Carol were 
getting together whenever they could, but they had a 
standing date for Wednesday evenings. Kathie believed 
it. Rick had been out every Wednesday for three months. 
He'd accounted for the time by saying he was delivering 
drugs, and indeed he might have been, but not for as 
many hours as he was gone.

The next Wednesday evening, Kathie came home to Sean and 
fixed three hamburgers. Kathie and Sean started on two, 
and Rick arrived while they were still eating and had 
the other. As soon as they were done, Sean left to visit 
a friend; then Rick undressed and went into the shower. 
When he came out, he handed Kathie her evening ration of 
abuse.

"You have fun with the jokers at work? Get yourself 
knocked up yet?"

While he was rummaging for clean clothes, Kathie came up 
behind him, reached her right hand between his legs, and 
grabbed him by the testicles. She squeezed just a 
little.

"No! Don't!"

"Real slow now, walk over to the bed. And don't even 
think about getting loose."

When he got to the bed, she changed hands so she was 
holding him from the front. Then, to be sure, she 
brought her right hand around so she had one testicle in 
each hand.

"Okay, turn around and sit down."

He did. She knelt on the floor between his legs.

"Now move back so you're lying down. Keep going till 
your head is all the way to the edge of the bed."

She liked the way he followed her orders. Even more, she 
liked not having to take his usual sarcasm.

"Good!" she said when he'd complied.

He was lying on his back with his legs apart, knees 
bent, feet flat on the bed with his toes at the edge. 
She was kneeling on the floor between his legs, a hand 
wrapped around each testicle.

"Put your pillow under your head. I want you to look at 
me when I talk to you."

He did.

"I'm sick of taking all your shit! Your balls are mine, 
and they're going to be mine! And you're going to show 
me some respect! Am I right?"

"All the way, Kathie! Sure!"

"You're going to stop accusing me of screwing around at 
work. Is that right?"

"I didn't accuse you. I just asked, because I know 
everybody wants you and I get worried."

She tightened her grip.

"Aagh! Okay, I'll stop!"

She released the pressure.

"And you're going to be my sex slave, too, aren't you? 
And do everything I say."

"Yes."

"Good! You can start by jerking off! Right now!"

"I can't! Not with you holding on to me like this!"

She squeezed hard. He doubled over on his side with a 
loud scream, kicking her in the head. She didn't let it 
bother her, or so she said.

"I'll squeeze 'em till they pop, you fuckin' bastard! 
You do everything I say, or your voice is going to be 
higher than mine!"

"Okay," he whimpered.

She relaxed her grip again.

"Now, slow! Get back like you were! I'll give you a 
minute to catch your breath 'cause I'm such a nice 
person — but no more shit or I'll fix you good!"

He rolled onto his back. She waited until he'd relaxed 
as much as he was going to.

"Here, I'll even get you started."

She leaned over and took his cock in her mouth, using 
her tongue to stimulate the head. When she was satisfied 
with the result, she let go.

"Even like this, you can't help turning on to me. Get 
started before I do something that hurts!"

He did it.

"Embarrassing, isn't it?" she teased as he came.

When it was over he cried.

"I'm going to let you go, but don't try anything or 
you'll really be sorry! Don't ever talk to me like 
you've been, either, or think you're going to get out of 
being my sex slave, because if you do, you're going to 
get hurt real bad! Understand?"

"I didn't mean nothin'," he sobbed.

She let go and he turned on his side with his knees 
drawn up, still crying. She went out.

When she returned, he was gone; Sean was back. After a 
few minutes, the boy went to bed; then she did. Still 
later, Rick came in, lay down next to her, and fell 
asleep.

The next morning was like any other, except there was 
none of Rick's usual sarcasm.

"Weren't you worried what he might do later?" I asked.

"No, he knows I can handle him. Back when Sean was in 
first grade he tried something. Got mad and hit me. 
Well, there was this lamp? on the table? made out of 
clay? with a lampshade?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, I picked it up and broke it over his head. Yeah. 
Blood everywhere. Then I drove him to the emergency room 
to get sewed up. That's the last time he ever tried 
anything."

"Oh."

"Yeah, I got three inches on him too. I'll be okay."

The following Saturday afternoon, Sean went out with his 
friends, leaving Kathie and Rick alone. She sneaked up 
on him again and caught him in a hammerlock, then 
fastened his hands behind him with a pair of handcuffs 
she'd borrowed.

"What do you want? I didn't do nothin'," he whined.

"You're still my sex slave, remember?"

"Yeah, okay."

"I like when you can't help turning on to me, so I'm 
going to make it happen again."

"I wouldn't have tried to stop you. What do you need the 
handcuffs for?"

"Oh, I think you would have tried to stop me. Because 
I'm going to lay you down and fuck you, and if you come 
before I say, I'm going to shave off all the hair you've 
got, from your waist to your knees."

"No! Please!"

She backed him up to the bed and pushed him down. He 
started crying again. She could imagine why, but she 
didn't say anything. She worked his jeans off, then got 
undressed, ate him until he was hard, and fucked him. 
I'd told her what to expect, but she was still surprised 
by the intensity of his orgasm.

"I really move you, huh? Maybe it's even worth losing 
your hair for."

She climbed off him and got a pot of warm water, some 
shaving cream, a couple of disposable razors, a towel 
and a washcloth; then she cleaned him up and shaved him. 
Finally she rolled him over and undid the handcuffs. She 
felt bad about the bruises — she hadn't thought about 
that — but she knew that what she'd done was necessary.

During the following week, she heard that Rick and Carol 
had had a couple of big fights and broken up. Rick 
seemed distracted for a while, but continued to treat 
Kathie respectfully.

In no time at all, their sexual relationship settled 
back to its former tedium. Kathie never again reminded 
Rick that he was her slave, nor did she tease him 
anymore. She acted as if nothing had happened, and so 
did he. It makes sense, in a way. Kathie was never 
really comfortable with sexual intimacy. She tried my 
techniques only because they promised to end Rick's 
affair and stop his abuse. When that had been 
accomplished, Kathie's new role became a liability. A 
dominatrix has to talk to her slave, especially about 
sex, and Kathie didn't want to do that. She wanted a 
relationship in which sex would just happen — quietly, 
mechanically and without emotion — often enough so she 
wouldn't have to think about it. 

She didn't want to get horny and be distracted from the 
things that were important to her, and she certainly 
didn't want to fall in love and get pulled into a truly 
intimate relationship with its attendant risks. Indeed 
she had many of the attitudes toward marital sex for 
which men are notorious. Rick had always suited her 
perfectly, satisfying her physical needs without getting 
really close, and she intended to let him continue.

The techniques Kathie used during her four-day career as 
a dominatrix are obviously quite different from mine, 
and I don't recommend them. If the average woman were to 
do what Kathie did, she'd get killed, beat up, or 
arrested for domestic battery. Kathie's position was 
highly unusual. She wasn't going to get beat up because 
Rick knew she could outfight him. She wasn't going to 
get killed or arrested because Rick was a professional 
criminal and had fallen into the habit of evaluating 
every course of action in terms of its potential for 
attracting the attention of the police. Most men don't 
operate under such constraints, and even some who aren't 
brutes will turn violent after a stunt like Kathie's.

But though Kathie's position was highly unusual, it's 
not unique. I'm sure there are other women who can use 
her techniques, who can succeed with her techniques, who 
can succeed only with her techniques, who need her 
techniques. For what it's worth.


*** Chapter 18, In which we contemplate some 
insurmountable obstacles

Not every man is a good candidate for female domination, 
nor is every difficulty amenable to its beneficial 
effects. Let's look at some problems we can't solve, so 
that we'll know better than to try.

Retarded Ejaculation

Any man in sound physical condition can masturbate to 
climax in just a couple of minutes when he's alone, but 
a few — a very few — find it difficult to reach orgasm 
with a partner. These men are said to suffer from 
retarded ejaculation. The details vary. Most have 
difficulty with one particular mode of stimulation — 
vaginal, oral or manual. Some can't come at all unless 
they're alone; others can, but take inordinately long.

There are two head trips that underlie retarded 
ejaculation; any given sufferer may be troubled by 
either or both. In one, the man perceives ejaculation as 
a defilement, usually of himself, sometimes of his 
partner. Men who worry about self-defilement see women 
as dirty. They won't perform cunnilingus and are likely 
to vomit if forced into it. Their reluctance to 
ejaculate is most pronounced during vaginal intercourse.

Men who worry about defiling their partners perceive 
themselves as dirty; generally they have more difficulty 
with fellatio than with vaginal intercourse and more 
difficulty with vaginal intercourse than with manual 
stimulation, though it's not readily apparent how much 
difficulty they have with fellatio because they won't 
admit to trying to come in a woman's mouth.

It may seem that the Loop ought to be able to coexist 
with such feelings, even predominate over them, but 
that's not what happens. Remember, this isn't your 
average man, but one so disgusted by his own or his 
partner's genitalia and secretions that his disgust 
kills his ability to respond even after he's aroused. 
That's a lot of disgust, and it doesn't leave much room 
in his head for anything else. Besides, ordinary arousal 
is half the Loop, so anything that inhibits it will shut 
down the Loop as a whole, even if the other half — 
embarrassment — is fed at the same time.

The other possible head trip may be a surprise. The man 
can't come because he's too embarrassed. Really! Some 
men are like that! Instead of being turned on by the 
embarrassment of being unable to control their arousal, 
they're embarrassed into unresponsiveness, just by the 
awareness that a woman is present. Such a man can reach 
orgasm with a partner only by tuning her out — if indeed 
he can reach orgasm with a partner at all. Obviously you 
can't lead him into the Loop. An attempt to do so will 
not only fail, it will make his problem more severe; and 
the damage will persist.

Retarded ejaculation is rare. If you're young and 
unmarried, and change partners with ordinary frequency, 
you have about as much chance of encountering a case of 
retarded ejaculation as of winning the Utah State 
Lottery. That doesn't help, though, if you're married to 
a man who suffers from it. If the condition is already 
part of your life, that's the reality you have to deal 
with.

My advice is simple. Don't use the techniques in this 
book on a man who suffers from retarded ejaculation or 
on a man who has been successfully treated for it. Even 
if his problem is disgust rather than embarrassment, 
you'll fail. If his problem is embarrassment, or a 
combination of embarrassment and disgust, you'll make 
the condition worse. If he's been successfully treated, 
you'll trigger a relapse.

Because of the high emotional charge associated with the 
feelings that underlie retarded ejaculation, your 
partner may be less than truthful if you ask him its 
cause. He may tell you that the inhibitory processes in 
his head are different from anything I've described, or 
that his problem is physical when he knows it isn't. You 
may then deduce, quite reasonably, that while an attempt 
to apply my techniques is unlikely to succeed, it can at 
least do no harm. Don't try anyway. 

There's a good chance that embarrassment is part of his 
problem, or even all of it, regardless of what he says. 
Maybe he's too embarrassed to tell you. Maybe he thinks 
you'd be offended by his embarrassment because you'd 
take it as evidence of undeserved distrust. If his 
parents are religious fanatics, they may have raised him 
to be so chronically guilty and embarrassed about 
everything, he isn't even aware that that's what he's 
feeling. No matter what he says, no matter how much you 
may like the idea of enslaving him, don't take the 
chance. You're sure to fail, and even if you might 
succeed, the risks are too great.

Childhood abuse

If you try my techniques on a man who was sexually 
abused as a boy, his reaction is likely to be extreme. 
In some cases, he'll respond with uncommon enthusiasm. 
In others things will go just dreadfully. Your efforts 
may trigger flashbacks, panic and dissociation (a 
feeling of depersonalization and psychic fragmentation 
that's difficult to appreciate if you've never 
experienced it). In the short term, such reactions 
inhibit your partner's erotic responses. In the long 
term, they make him uncomfortable with you — wary. Not 
the sort of thing that builds a pleasant relationship.

If you have an intimate knowledge of your man's history, 
you can judge whether it includes anything that will 
make for a bad reaction. The phrase sexual abuse by 
itself doesn't mean much. The prevention, detection and 
prosecution of child sexual abuse, and the repair of its 
damages, have become such a growth industry, it now 
seems everyone is a survivor of abuse; if your partner 
is an exception, there's a licensed professional 
somewhere who, for a sufficient fee, will open up his 
head and implant the necessary memories. 

I'm not going to argue this. I'm outnumbered and 
outgunned, and I've already made enough enemies by 
saying that gentle rape happens by mistake, so I'll 
concede the obviously absurd point that every sexual 
transaction involving a person under the age of eighteen 
has a victim and a perpetrator, and I'll go on from 
there to tell you what kind of childhood sexual abuse 
spells trouble.

Not what happened to Trespassers William alongside 
Beth's pool. Not the masturbation or fellation of a 
nine-month-old baby by his mother to help him fall 
asleep. Not the enticement of a ten-year-old boy into a 
game of strip poker with his sixteen-year-old 
babysitter. The abuse that causes real damage is that 
which creates an irreconcilable conflict in the victim's 
view of the world — abuse in which an authority figure 
secretly and coercively does something that, according 
to the belief system that that authority figure has 
always seemed to uphold, must never be permitted to 
occur.

Nadine is a single mother who lives alone with her nine-
year-old son, Jeff. She's kept her body hidden from him 
for the past six years and answered his few questions 
about sex so minimally and with such obvious discomfort 
that he's stopped asking. She's repeatedly cautioned him 
about the evils of alcohol and warned him against the 
potentially erratic behavior of people who use it. He's 
seen and smelled a few drunks himself, so he's pretty 
well convinced.

Then one evening Nadine goes out on a date, comes home 
drunk and alone, and forces Jeff to eat her. It becomes 
a pattern repeated six more times over a period of 
fourteen months.

If you try to enslave Jeff (years later of course), 
he'll freak out terribly. Even if you don't try to 
enslave him — even if you let him have complete control 
of your sexual relationship — he'll dissociate and 
relive his abuse at least occasionally while making love 
to you, though he'll manage to keep it to himself as the 
traditional male role requires.

If your partner was the victim of heavy sexual abuse as 
a child, I'd advise against trying to enslave him. I'd 
even advise against tying him up. If he was the victim 
of relatively light abuse, handle him with care. Be 
alert to signs of psychological pain and be ready to 
offer aid and comfort as needed.

Unfortunately I can't give you a rigorous set of rules 
for recognizing flashbacks and dissociation, especially 
when they're not severe. A man's behavior changes when 
he's sexually excited; it changes differently when he's 
tied up; it changes still differently when he's tied up 
and sexually excited at the same time; and it changes 
differently again when on top of all that, he has to 
struggle to control his responses. 

If you put a man through that much, and it's all new, 
it's unlikely that you'll suddenly be struck by the 
clear realization that, Hey! That's not embarrassment 
I'm seeing! That's not the outward manifestation of a 
struggle for control! He's dissociating! Still, if the 
two of you have become so intimate that you know he has 
a history of abuse, you'll also know him well enough to 
tell if he's having a rough time.

This brings us round to look at the problem from the 
other end. If your relationship is new, you don't know 
your lover's history, nor do you know him well enough to 
identify dissociation or a flashback before it becomes 
severe. If he was badly abused, your first inkling comes 
when you've tied him up and laid some heavy trip on him, 
and you suddenly find yourself confronted with a full-
scale psychiatric emergency. He may become sexually 
unresponsive, shake, scream, cry, vomit, speak as though 
he were a child, address a person who isn't there, talk 
to you as though you were someone else, or refer to 
events that aren't taking place as though they were. 
These symptoms can occur in any combination. 

Shaking and crying, of course, usually express feelings 
within the normal range (given the intensity of the 
experience you're creating) and therefore don't signify 
by themselves, and screaming is a common response to 
sensory overload, but a major freak-out looks so much 
like a major freak-out that you won't have to break it 
into its elements.

If you're faced with such an emergency, you have to deal 
with it. The first thing to do if your partner is tied 
in place is release him. If he's tied so he's lying on 
his back and he vomits, you must release him immediately 
lest he choke. Under less pressing circumstances, you'll 
want to consider whether he's dangerous. If you're 
scared of him, get help. 

Most major psychiatric hospitals have mobile teams 
they'll dispatch on request, often without charge, and 
the members of the team are bound by the ethics of their 
profession to keep quiet about what they see. If you're 
going to get help, do it right away. If you don't need 
help — and normally you won't — release your partner. Do 
that right away. If you find yourself waiting to see 
what develops, neither calling for help nor releasing 
your partner, you're making a big mistake. Do one or the 
other, or things will get much worse.

Once your partner is free, take care of him. Comfort 
him. Calm him. Unless it's absolutely necessary, don't 
try to explore the memories you've uncovered. Those can 
be dealt with another time — if indeed they're to be 
dealt with at all (it's properly his choice). Remind him 
that you're you, rather than some ghost from his past. 
Remind him — show him — that you can be trusted, that 
you care about him.

Unless it's absolutely necessary? Why would an 
exploration of his memories be necessary? I don't want 
to get into that!

If he's stuck in a flashback, reliving some past 
atrocity, you may have to talk him through it. How old 
are you? Where are you? Who are you with?— that kind of 
thing.

Nightmares like this don't happen often, but they do 
happen. Before you try to enslave a man — before you 
even tie him up — think about how you would handle such 
a scene if it arose. If you don't like your partner 
enough — don't care about him enough — to help him 
through it, and help him lovingly, even when he's just 
thrown up on your bed, you might not want to risk 
creating the situation.

Sex role insecurity

When we discussed brutes, we noted that many of them are 
insecure about their masculinity. Indeed they all are, 
except perhaps a few psychopaths whose violence is cold-
blooded. The converse isn't true. There are plenty of 
men who are insecure about their masculinity without 
being brutes. They've rejected violence but still see 
their gender identity as inextricably linked to one or 
more elements of the traditional male role (drive the 
car, pay the tab, light the charcoal — that kind of 
thing). The link, of course, is arbitrary and 
delusional, and the role elements by which these men 
identify themselves as male have nothing to do with 
masculinity per se, but telling them is useless.

The risk in such insecurity is that if you threaten 
enough role elements to which your partner is attached, 
or even just one that he sees as critical, he may find 
the situation intolerable and leave. When you undertake 
to enslave your partner, you threaten at least one 
element of the traditional male role. Tradition says 
it's the male who initiates and controls all sexual 
encounters, and you'll be saying something different. 
Your partner may have no problem with this even if he's 
insecure about his masculinity. He may be attached to 
other elements of the traditional male role but not 
sexual leadership. 

If such is the case, you'll run afoul of his 
insecurities only if you try to use your sexual power to 
pry him loose of his attachments. (If your partner is 
attached only to elements of the traditional male role 
that you have no inclination to threaten, then for 
purposes of your relationship he's functionally 
equivalent to a man who is secure in his masculinity, no 
matter how insecure he may in fact be.)

Usually though, if a man has insecurities, you'll bring 
them to the fore by seizing control of his sexuality, 
and this is what most often drives a man away when a 
woman introduces female domination into an uncommitted 
relationship. A committed relationship is hard to walk 
away from, but an exceptionally insecure man who feels 
that his masculinity is threatened may leave anyway. 
I've never known a marriage to break up over a woman's 
attempt to enslave her husband when sexual control was 
the only element of the traditional male role she took 
from him, but I do have a sad story to tell, and it 
doesn't even include an attempt at enslavement.

When Joanne married Paul, she was working as an 
elementary school teacher and he was working as a 
physicist in a research lab, as he has ever since. A few 
months before their son Kevin was born, Joanne quit 
teaching to take care of him. When he was twelve, she 
decided to go back to work. Rather than teach again, she 
applied for a job doing product support for a computer 
company. She'd take phone calls from customers having 
difficulties, offer advice off the top of her head if 
she could, and pass the harder problems up the line to 
the technical heavyweights. 

She had little relevant experience, but the support 
manager decided to hire her anyway. She spoke well, she 
listened well, she had a great deal of native 
intelligence, and she had the emotional maturity to 
defuse potential confrontations rather than try to win 
them. That was eighty percent of the job, and he figured 
she would soon absorb enough technical knowledge to 
solve most customer problems without help.

She surpassed his expectations, exhibiting an uncanny 
aptitude for computer technology as well as an uncommon 
understanding of the customers' needs. After four years 
she was managing production and earning considerably 
more than Paul, who could sell his services only to the 
government and had to take what he was offered. Though 
Joanne wasn't at all competitive and regarded her 
earnings as a community resource, Paul found the 
situation demeaning. 

He cultivated the delusion that Joanne was always 
taunting him. When she had to work overtime or travel, 
she was deserting him. When she tried to plan time alone 
with him, she was patronizing him. Even when she had 
their bathroom remodeled, her purpose was to make him 
feel inadequate for not having done so himself before 
she went back to work. He stopped initiating sex and 
rejected her advances with great hostility, accusing her 
of regarding him as a gigolo, bought and paid for. Like 
all insecure men, he refused marriage counseling.

They had been living in this unhappy state for a year 
when Joanne first heard about my techniques. As in the 
case of Nora, I wasn't targeting her; rather I was 
proselytizing to another friend, Trudy, while Joanne was 
present, and Joanne tuned in to the possibilities.

She remembered that early in their marriage Paul would 
occasionally bring home some grass for them to smoke, 
and it always made him horny. Hoping for the same 
effect, she worked out a plan with Trudy to get Paul 
stoned while Kevin was off camping. The plan called for 
Joanne to buy half an ounce of the best and turn it over 
to Trudy, who would then drop in after dinner, rave 
about what great stuff she'd got, share some with Joanne 
and Paul, and leave some more as a present.

It went just so. When Trudy left, Joanne rolled a joint, 
lit it, and followed Paul around, feeding him as many 
tokes as she could. Soon he lay down on the couch and 
retreated into a magazine, then into sleep. Joanne, who 
until then had been thinking in terms of a moderately 
aggressive seduction, decided to tie him in place. She 
worried she would wake him, and she had no idea what she 
would do if that happened, but she went ahead anyway.

It turned out she didn't wake him — not when she took of 
his pants, not when she took off his undershorts, not 
when she dragged one end of the couch out to the middle 
of the living room, not even when she rearranged his 
arms and legs and tied the knots. He wound up with his 
feet on the floor on opposite sides of the couch, ankles 
tied to two of its legs, elbows bent over the other end, 
wrists tied together and to the two other legs.

She undressed.

"Paul..."

No response.

"Paul!"

He made a muffled noise and went on sleeping.

She got an ice cube and rubbed it across his tummy.

She shock woke him instantly. He jerked at the bonds and 
discovered them.

"What the hell is going on?" he yelled.

"I want you. I'm sorry about the ice cube; it was hard 
to wake you. Let me dump it in the sink."

"You're some kind of psycho! Untie me!" he shouted after 
her.

"I've missed our lovemaking," she said when she came 
back. "I want to do that with you."

"You think you own me, don't you?"

"No, I don't own you. I just love you. Maybe you'll see 
that."

She positioned herself face down between his legs and 
went to work on his cock with her mouth, looking up at 
him as he watched her. His cock stiffened and she 
followed it upward, licking until it was hard enough to 
fuck. She got up on the couch and squatted with one foot 
at either edge. She took him inside her, leaned forward, 
kissed him.

He kissed her back.

"I've missed you so much," she said.

She started moving her hips, fucking him. A few minutes 
and they came. Together. The most intense orgasm she'd 
ever seen him have. She cried. He looked "kind of lost," 
is how she put it.

"I love you," she said. "I just love you."

She got up and untied him.

"Come to bed with me?"

He followed her and lay flat on his back, staring at the 
ceiling. She cuddled up to him. He didn't resist or pull 
away, but neither did he reciprocate — just went on 
staring at the ceiling. They fell asleep.

A few days later, while Joanne was at work, Paul moved 
out. They agreed on a no-fault divorce.

Most people to whom I tell this story marvel at Paul's 
stupidity. Joanne was impressed with it too. Many say 
Paul was no great loss, but Joanne didn't feel that way. 
She remembered who he'd been before the insecurity took 
over, and that's who she wanted. For a few moments that 
evening, she thought she'd brought him back — 
resurrected him — but then the insecurity reasserted 
itself and he was gone.

What can we learn from Joanne's story? Not a whole lot; 
it's just one story, and it would have unfolded 
differently with different characters, but it's a good 
jumping-off point for some interesting conjecture.

One encouraging thing we can say is that Joanne and 
Paul's marriage was over before she tied him up, and his 
moving out was just a matter of time. Most everyone sees 
it that way, including Joanne, but there are dissenters. 
The dissenters subscribe to the view that It ain't over 
till it's over. They argue that Joanne hastened the end 
by subjecting Paul to severe emotional trauma. If she 
hadn't, they say, he would have hung around at least a 
few days longer, and during those few days the marriage 
might have been saved.

Maybe. Had I collected a thousand similar stories in 
which the woman never made Joanne's outrageous move, the 
dissenters would surely be right at least once; one of 
the marriages would have been brought back from the 
brink, if only by the miraculously timed bankruptcy of 
the woman's employer. Then again, out of a thousand 
stories that did include the kink, at least one man 
would have wound up falling in love with his wife all 
over again. I wish I could tell you how to predict which 
course will yield the best result, but I don't even have 
enough data to tell you what happens most of the time 
with each approach; all I have is the one story.

The story suggests two more lines of conjecture. The 
first is discouraging but I feel obliged to explore it 
lest I lull you into false optimism. What if Paul's 
insecurities hadn't been tweaked by Joanne's success? 
Suppose Joanne had never gone back to work and Trudy's 
visit came about naturally rather than as the result of 
a conspiracy, but the rest of that evening unfolded much 
as it did. Would Paul have left just because of the 
kink? Based on what Joanne told me about what he'd been 
like during their first fifteen years of marriage, no. 
But some men would. And some men would leave even if 
they wanted to stay.

If I knew a man who left his wife just for tying him up 
while he was asleep and fucking him, I would say he had 
a really strange and unfortunate quirk. Obviously his 
view would be different. He would say his wife had 
violated the spirit of the marriage compact so 
profoundly as to make recovery impossible. And because 
the quirk gives him an idiosyncratic view of the nature 
of marriage, he would be as right from his side as I am 
from mine.

What this means is that before you try to take control 
of the sexual aspect of your marriage, it's important 
that you know your husband well. This book is loaded 
with good advice, but it's about men in general; I don't 
know your man at all.

The remaining line of conjecture is more encouraging. 
What if Joanne had set out to enslave Paul a year before 
she went back to work? He wasn't yet a shell-shocked 
paranoid holed up in a bunker, and we know she turned 
him on, so it's almost certain she would have succeeded.

If that had been accomplished first, what would have 
happened when Joanne's career took off? Most likely, 
Paul would have handled it well. In the process of 
getting used to being Joanne's love slave, he would have 
taken on a different mindset from the one that allowed 
him to get so carried away with his insecurities. By the 
time Joanne's salary became significant, he already 
would have voluntarily given up whatever it was he was 
trying so desperately to defend in their conventional 
marriage. To borrow Bart's metaphor, Joann's financial 
success would have been just bird shit on the bridle 
path. And besides, Paul would have been in love. Again, 
the best time to take control is when there's no need.

Alcoholism

I've known several wives of alcoholics who tried using 
the techniques of female domination to stop their men's 
drinking, and one who tried to help her husband kick 
heroin. None succeeded. I'm convinced it's impossible.

Before I explain why, I ought to delimit the scope of 
this discussion and define the word alcoholic as I'll be 
using it. An alcoholic is a man in the grip of an active 
addiction to alcohol or any other depressant drug. 
Because the other recreational depressants differ from 
alcohol only in vocabulary, means of administration, 
theatricality and speed of the downward spiral, I'll let 
alcohol stand for the lot. I won't address non-
depressant drugs at all; I don't know even one woman who 
tried enslaving her man to get him to quit cocaine or 
amphetamines, and tobacco use is so divisive an issue 
that I'm unwilling to touch it.

We've already met two men who drank to excess, but they 
weren't alcoholics. Bart certainly wasn't, and he'll 
probably never be one. As a young adult he learned that 
drinking was a social obligation; it helped him turn off 
his mind at the end of the workday (all good programmers 
obsess on their craft); and he found it useful for 
lubricating seductions. But at the age of thirty-seven 
he still wasn't drinking at lunch and, given the choice 
between alcohol and me, he usually chose me. In fact he 
always chose me; when he spent an evening doing 
something else, it was never just because he wanted to 
drink.

Peter wasn't an alcoholic either, though he was at 
significantly greater risk of becoming one. If he'd kept 
going at the rate he was, he would eventually have 
pickled his brain, lost control of his drinking, and 
wound up thoroughly addicted. It would have taken years 
though, and Ginny stopped him in plenty of time.

An alcoholic's most important relationship is with 
alcohol. He arranges his life around opportunities to 
drink and avoids situations where drinking is 
inappropriate (or embarrasses himself by drinking 
inappropriately). He can't consistently resist the 
temptation to take just one drink, and he can't reliably 
limit his consumption once it starts. He denies all 
this, even to himself, at least until he's sunk so low 
that the truth breaks through.

Peter wasn't like that. He only pretended to be, because 
his reasons for drinking embarrassed him so. First, he 
drank to dull his lust for his wife, and he certainly 
wasn't going to brag about that — not to her and not to 
anyone else. Second, he drank because drinking — and 
drinking enthusiastically — was part of the role that he 
thought his buddies required of him. He didn't have the 
courage to step out of that role and be himself, even 
though realistically his buddies couldn't have cared. 
His act was so convincing that even Ginny was fooled, 
despite the fact that sometimes, when he wasn't horny 
and his friends weren't around, he didn't drink.

The reasons for Peter's drinking were hard to see, but 
they were there, and I could figure them out from 
Ginny's stories. When you try to account for the 
behavior of an alcoholic, only one explanation fits: 
Nothing matters to him as much as drink. He may be able 
to offer excuses for his drinking, but that's because 
he's arranged his life to provide them. An astute 
observer can almost always tell a reason from an excuse.

Let's lift two sentences out of that little apology for 
Peter's drinking: An alcoholic's most important 
relationship is with alcohol. Nothing matters to him as 
much as drink.

That's why alcoholism is impervious to my techniques. An 
alcoholic's need for alcohol is much stronger than his 
need for sex, love, companionship — anything. Alcohol, 
to him, is a satisfactory substitute — no, a superior 
substitute — for all the things we humans normally need. 
Yes, all the things! An alcoholic may be frostbitten or 
dehydrated and not feel it. Can you imagine needing a 
whole quart of water and not knowing you're thirsty? 
Alcohol does that to people, and there are some people 
to whom alcohol does that every day. You can't compete 
with something that powerful. Alcoholics routinely 
sacrifice good marriages to their drinking. You don't 
stand a chance.

When he hits bottom, you still can't do anything; if he 
stops drinking, he goes into withdrawal and gets so sick 
that sex is meaningless. You have to wait until he's 
detoxified — beyond withdrawal.

Then what?

Alcoholics are notoriously defiant, and detoxification 
doesn't change that. An alcoholic will overreact to any 
attempt to circumscribe his behavior. (That's why the 
twelve steps of Alcoholics Anonymous describe what the 
early members did, not what today's members should do.) 
If you try enslaving a newly detoxified alcoholic for 
the purpose of forbidding him to drink, he's likely to 
resume his drinking out of spite. Don't risk it.

If an alcoholic makes it into recovery, you can regard 
him as a normal man who simply has the good sense not to 
drink. You might want to enslave him just for fun, 
because the two of you love one another and it would be 
a pleasant way to handle your sexual relationship, but 
certainly not to help him stay sober. Though this sounds 
like a good situation (he isn't drinking and he loves 
you), I'd still advise forbearance. It isn't a good idea 
to take any risks with a man newly into recovery. I 
would wait until he's through A.A.'s ninth step at 
least, and he's had a couple of months working the 
tenth.


*** Chapter 19, In which the A-Frame loses a victim

I've studied gambling enough to know that the people of 
Utah have it right, give or take a quibble here and a 
fly speck there. The conventionally religious believe 
that gambling leads to damnation. Well, I've watched 
people gamble, and the only part I don't buy is the 
delay. Those people were suffering the torments of hell 
right then and there, and most of them would carry away 
enough misery to last well beyond next time.

I would no more gamble than drink, and though I'm not a 
Moslem, I find it simultaneously amusing and reassuring 
that both sins are forbidden by the selfsame verse of 
the Qu'ran.

True, I made a bet with Bart to see who would be whose 
slave for the evening, and yes, all my control games 
involve betting of a sort, but that's not gambling.

Gambling is the world's most pernicious addiction. A 
heroin addict knows that his fix won't last; he'll 
eventually need another, then another. Even though he 
says he can quit any time, he understands that the only 
way out is through withdrawal. A compulsive gambler 
knows no such thing. One big win can fix everything, 
make him well for good. He's had a big win before and 
he'll have a big win again. He's due. He knows the game 
better. He's figured it all out. His luck is changing. 
With a positive attitude like that, there's no escape — 
not even through withdrawal.

On the other hand, there's one thing about compulsive 
gambling that makes it amenable to my techniques where 
the chemical addictions aren't. No detox. True, many 
gamblers are also drunkards; but most have only the one 
addiction, and they're ready to be saved as soon as they 
hit bottom — even a relatively high bottom. Indeed I was 
thinking of the compulsive gambler when I wrote that 
peculiar parenthetic clause in my essay on 
trustworthiness: "If he distrusts you, he certainly 
won't let you tie him up (unless he's in a suicidal 
depression)...."

Why would he distrust you? The most likely reason is 
that your relationship has become an adversarial one. 
Perhaps you've been persecuting him about his gambling — 
a pattern you fell into long before you read this book. 
It's a natural reaction to an intolerable situation. 
You're as trustworthy as anyone — more so than many — 
but he remembers your quarrels, knows how badly he's 
hurt you, and expects you to hold a grudge. When he's 
just lost everything and he's thinking of killing 
himself, he doesn't need to trust you. He'll do what you 
say.

Suicidal depressions are common to all addicts. It's 
part of hitting bottom. But if your husband is addicted 
to a chemical, you can't take proper advantage of a 
depression when it hits. Your femininity has no power 
over him until he's detoxified, and by then he's less 
depressed. There's also the problem of his defiance. If 
he feels spiteful enough to resume the downward spiral, 
he can do it easily. He may have no savings and no job, 
but he can scrape together the price of three strong 
doses of his favorite poison, and down he goes. A 
gambler needs money, or at least credit.

Without a stake, he can't gamble. When he's just hit 
bottom, when he's depressed and remorseful, and 
especially when you've just taken charge of his 
sexuality, you can easily get control of any money and 
credit he has left, then dole it out in such small 
portions that he can't gather a stake. If this sounds 
extreme, you aren't married to a compulsive gambler. If 
you are married to a compulsive gambler, you're probably 
wondering what money and credit I'm talking about, 
because they dried up long ago.

Unfortunately you can't stop a compulsive gambler until 
he's done himself (and you) enough damage so that he 
becomes genuinely depressed and remorseful. As long as 
he can take his losses in stride, even if he's upset, 
you can't stop him, not even by taking control of his 
sexuality. The addiction is just too powerful. That 
doesn't mean my techniques have no value. You can stop 
him at the highest bottom he hits — a tremendous 
improvement over the alternative. If you don't stop him 
at your first opportunity (or your next, if that's where 
I've found you), he'll adapt to his new circumstances 
and keep going, probably by borrowing money he can't 
repay. Soon he'll hit an even lower bottom, then a lower 
one still, dragging you down with him the whole way.

People in other states are often surprised to hear about 
the legal card casinos of California. We had them even 
during the twenty-one years that gambling was outlawed 
in Nevada. Back then, the only games offered were draw 
poker, panguingue and bridge. Recently other forms of 
poker have been added, as well as the various Asian 
games, so called because most of the people who play 
them are of Oriental descent.

It's one of the Asian games, pai-gow poker, that's the 
villain of our story. Despite its name, pai-gow poker 
isn't poker and involves none of the deception and 
aggression on which that game is based; it's a game of 
chance that involves only a minimal degree of skill. 
That is, it's possible to play so badly as to ensure a 
loss, but in practice all players quickly learn the 
optimum strategy and play accordingly, so the outcome is 
governed entirely by luck.

There are two factors that work against the player. One 
is the house collection. The casino charges the player a 
fee for each hand played, and the cost adds up. The 
other factor hits the more clever player especially 
hard. Because of a peculiarity of California law, the 
game is banked by the players rather than the house; 
each player in turn is given the opportunity to act as 
banker. The rules give the banker a small advantage over 
the other players; indeed the game's only real potential 
for profit lies in making big bets when acting as 
banker. Of course a big bet can always be lost, and a 
player who repeatedly bets big, even if only when 
banking, risks gambler's ruin — the loss of his entire 
stake. A gambler who bets a thousand dollars at a one 
percent advantage wins ten dollars — in theory. In 
practice, the result depends on chance and on the rules 
of the game, but it will almost always be more extreme 
than a ten dollar win. At pai-gow poker, it could be 
anything from a thousand dollar loss to a sixty-three 
thousand dollar gain. A gambler who bets a thousand 
dollars at a one percent advantage, and does it a 
thousand times, makes ten thousand dollars — again in 
theory. An addict who tries this with a two-thousand-
dollar bankroll loses it all. Invariably. The 
mathematician's explanation is that any other result is 
more than three standard deviations from the mean, and 
since the universe of possibility is contained within 
three standard deviations of the mean, a win is 
impossible. Another explanation is that Satan's top 
priority is recruitment, so only beginners win; the 
compulsive gambler is already committed to sin, so he 
lives the miserable life he deserves while his money 
ensnares the next generation of reprobates. There are 
other explanations as well, equally valid.

It might be that Cindy deserved the misery that Darryl's 
addiction caused her. She was a poker dealer at the A-
Frame, so she was on the Devil's staff, but she was also 
a friend and she didn't seem to deserve it. Then again, 
I didn't see her while it was happening, so I don't 
know. I'd made her acquaintance years earlier, when she 
took an interest in aikido. At the time, she told me 
about her boyfriend, Rubin, and particularly about some 
puzzling things he sometimes said and did. 

It sounded like he had fantasies of being sexually 
dominated and was trying to hint at what he needed, so I 
spelled it out for her in detail, explaining every 
technique I knew, figuring I'd eventually hit on one 
that struck her so exciting, or so foolproof, or so mild 
that she'd try it. She was obviously fascinated, but she 
also seemed to believe, dogmatically, that any man who 
wanted such things done to him wasn't for her. 

After a while, Rubin drifted away. Her next relationship 
left no time for aikido, and Cindy stopped coming 
around, so I didn't hear about Darryl when she met him, 
nor when she married him, but she called me almost a 
year after she enslaved him and we spent several hours 
together, during which she told me their story as it had 
developed to that point.

Darryl was an aircraft mechanic. When Cindy met him, she 
was working as a secretary, but an economic downturn 
vaporized her position, and an uncle helped her get a 
job at the A-Frame, dealing poker on the graveyard 
shift. The hours took some getting used to and the wages 
were minimal, but the tips were good and she wound up 
earning considerably more than she had as a secretary. 
To simplify the logistics of their daily life, Darryl 
arranged to work a compatible shift — three hours 
earlier than hers.

Cindy would go to work by bus or catch a ride with a 
coworker, and Darryl would pick her up at the end of her 
shift. Usually they'd have dinner right there at the A-
Frame (it was one of the few places a good dinner could 
be had in the morning); then they'd drive home, doing 
their shopping and other errands on the way. Darryl was 
never late, but Cindy sometimes had to wait for him 
because she'd been dismissed early for lack of players. 
Darryl noticed this and, ever thoughtful, started 
arriving early. If Cindy was still working, he'd play 
pai-gow poker until she finished.

He played for small stakes and almost always lost. He 
soon realized that, on average, his loss was accounted 
for by the house collection and the tips he gave the 
dealers. He decided that if he was going to pay the 
collection, he ought to get his money's worth, so he 
increased his bets. Since he was playing for real money, 
he started studying the game. This gave him an illusion 
of competence and convinced him that he ought to bank as 
often as possible, betting as much as he could afford or 
more.

He had a couple of big wins and he was hooked. Cindy, 
telling me the story, commented that what made the big 
wins possible was that Darryl was still able to walk 
away from the table when her shift ended. A couple of 
months later, he couldn't. After a profitable hand, he'd 
want to play his rush; it was sure to continue. 

When losing, he'd want to recover. He could leave only 
when he was about even and Cindy was standing over him, 
or when he was broke. If he was losing and Cindy was 
waiting for him, he'd leave when he'd gambled away all 
his cash, then all of hers. If she left, it was worse; 
he'd hit the ATM for their daily limit and max out their 
credit cards. Credit card advances quickly emptied their 
savings account, then devoured all the equity they had 
in their house.

Darryl started playing marathon sessions, failing to 
show up for work. Cindy would leave him at the A-Frame, 
then come in for her next shift, three hours after he 
was due at the airport, and he'd still be playing.

They lost their house and had to sell their furniture 
and one of their cars for a pittance. They had nothing 
in the bank, no credit, huge debts. Using the proceeds 
of the sale of the furniture and car, Cindy put a 
deposit on the cheapest apartment she could find, in a 
neighborhood even worse than the one Rick chose for his 
drug business. They couldn't get a telephone. Darryl, 
remorseful, promised not to gamble anymore; he promised 
not to show up at the A-Frame early, even if he had no 
money.

His resolve held less than a month and he was at it 
again. His third session was another marathon. So was 
his fourth, and it cost him his job. Back to remorse! 
Back on the wagon! At Cindy's insistence, he promised to 
stay away from the A-Frame completely.

He got another job, this one on the day shift. He would 
have no excuse to break his promise. In less than a 
month, he did anyway. He came in after work, while Cindy 
wasn't there, ostensibly to cash his paycheck, and 
stayed to gamble. He did well. It took four marathon 
sessions, spread over eleven days, to empty his pockets. 
When it was over and he returned to the airport, he was 
fired.

That was when Cindy decided to take action.

But wait! I've left out too much. I haven't told you 
anything about the sexual aspect of their relationship, 
and that's what this book is about. I've reduced Cindy 
and Darryl to an economic entity with a gambling 
problem. I haven't even told you how long they were 
married, or how long Darryl's decline took. (He gambled 
twenty months before he started losing precipitously.) I 
probably would have left out even more, but there isn't 
much more to tell. Cindy and Darryl had little in common 
except that they lusted after one another, fell in love 
soon after they met, and maintained their lust despite 
six years of very ordinary marriage and one year of high 
melodrama.

Like most compulsive gamblers, Darryl had always been 
charming, confident and sincere. After the fever hit, he 
was sincere in his confidence when gambling and sincere 
in his remorse each time he hit a new bottom. He was 
charming enough so that when he couldn't leave his game 
at the end of Cindy's shift, he never seemed annoyed 
with her for wanting him to, and always managed to keep 
her from becoming annoyed that he stayed. Rough as their 
life got, Cindy had never stopped loving him.

Sex had always been good, except for one little problem. 
The first few times they fucked, Cindy was disturbed by 
the haste with which Darryl pulled out when he came. She 
needed him to stay longer and felt rejected. Had she not 
been so in love, she might have stopped seeing him. It 
was a difficult subject to bring up for discussion, 
especially so early in their relationship, but there 
seemed to be no alternative, so she asked him about it. 
He told her that once he came, his cock became too 
sensitive to leave inside her. She recognized the 
phenomenon from my description and felt relieved. She 
accepted him as he was, adapted, married him. Since she 
understood the reason for his behavior, it caused no 
further difficulty.

Then, eight years later, he hit that big bottom and 
dragged himself home to her. He told her what had 
happened. He was remorseful. He was depressed. He 
offered to kill himself. He said it might make them both 
feel better. He promised to quit for good. He talked 
some more about killing himself, pointing out that it 
was a way to make sure he quit for good.

Cindy fetched a length of clothesline and tied his 
wrists together in front of him. She took off his boots. 
She took off his pants. She took off his undershorts. 
She took him over her knee and spanked him. Hard. More 
strokes than she could count. His bottom turned red. His 
cock stiffened against her thigh. He cried. He screamed. 
He broke down in sobs. When she found herself worrying 
how long he might take to recover, she stopped.

"Time to get up!" she said.

He didn't move. She stood up and pulled him to his feet, 
forcing him to stand in front of her with tears 
streaming down his face and his cock sticking straight 
out in front of him, dripping. She sat down again, 
wrapped one hand around his cock, reached between his 
legs from behind and took his balls in the other.

"Instead of killing yourself, this is going to be my 
hostage to make sure you quit. You're going to be my 
slave and do everything I say, or things will get even 
worse than today. You understand?"

He nodded and sobbed out a yes.

She got some more clothesline and led him to the chest 
of drawers that held most of their clothes. She fastened 
the clothesline to the figure-eight between his wrists, 
then had him kneel on the floor and tied him to a leg of 
the chest, leaving about a foot of slack. She dragged 
their mattress into position nearby and had him lie on 
his back, his arms pulled alongside his head.

She squatted over his cock and impaled herself.

"You know, this is the last time you're going to feel 
the inside of my pussy for a whole year! And if you make 
even one bet, it'll be at least two years — maybe more — 
if I stick around at all."

"Please don't leave me, Cindy."

"Then do exactly what I say, and don't make one bet. 
Okay?"

"I quit. I really quit. Please believe me?"

"Believe you? I'll see whether you quit! Be happy that 
I'm willing to do that!"

"Okay, I understand."

"A whole year! But you might be just as happy, 'cause 
this time you're not going to be able to pull out when 
you're done. I'm going to keep fucking you until I've 
had enough, and it's going to be just like another 
spanking, except it doesn't start until you come, so 
you're going to try not to, and you're going to find out 
I can make you come even easier than I can make you 
cry."

She started moving and he came in half a dozen strokes. 
He squirmed, trying to pull out. He started crying 
again. He squirmed some more. Then Cindy's orgasm 
overtook her and she couldn't quite make out what he was 
doing, except that she heard a mixture of howling and 
whimpering, and she still had a delicious grip on his 
cock. She knew she did a job on him, the way her hips 
jerked and her pussy throbbed. It was the most intense 
orgasm she'd ever had, and she almost decided to keep 
going for two or three, but she took pity and stopped, 
though she still didn't climb off.

Darryl was still crying. Every couple of seconds she 
could feel his cock twitch weakly in her pussy.

"Think you've had enough fucking to last a year?" she 
teased.

He made an inarticulate noise.

"If you don't, I've still got another come in me. I 
could go for it."

"No. Stop. It's enough."

She climbed off his cock and sat on his chest, letting 
his shirt absorb their mingled secretions.

"It may be hard to believe right now, but you're going 
to get horny at least a hundred times during the next 
year, so before I untie you I'm going to tell you how 
we're going to deal with it. Ready?"

"Please, Cindy. I love you."

"I know. It must be so embarrassing, having to love me 
now, but that's what you get for making such a mess of 
everything. Are you ready for what I'm going to tell 
you?"

"Yes."

"First, you never go off alone and play with yourself. 
You understand that?"

"Yes."

"Good! 'Cause if you come when I'm not with you, you'll 
be punished even worse than today. That doesn't mean you 
never have to play with yourself; I might make you do it 
while I watch. You understand that?"

"Yes."

"What I want you to do is, when you get horny enough so 
you really need a come, and you're willing to do 
whatever I say to get it, you take off all your clothes, 
you bring me these pieces of rope — we'll keep them 
under the mattress — you bring me these pieces of rope 
and you tell me, 'I need a come.' Okay?"

"Yes."

"I might tell you no, and you can try again tomorrow; or 
I might say you have to let me watch you play with 
yourself; or I might tie you up and do something really 
nice for you. I might even get carried away like today 
and not want to stop. But whatever I decide, once you 
tell me you need it, you have to go along with it; you 
can't change your mind because you wanted something 
different. Understand?"

"Yes."

"And I'm going to take care of all our money. If we ever 
get back to where we can put some in the bank, it's 
going to be in my name. I'll try to see that you have 
enough in your pocket to get you through the day, once I 
have some, but you're never going to be able to go on 
another binge, even if we stay together the rest of our 
lives. Are you prepared to accept that?"

"I told you, I'm quitting for good."

"Yes, in the past year, you've told me that at least 
five times. It's easy to quit when there's no money, but 
someday you'll find another job and we might have rent 
money on the twenty-ninth and... So much for quitting!— 
at least that's the way it's always been in the past. So 
this time, quitting isn't enough. You're going to have 
to let me take care of all the money, even what you 
make. If you can't go with that, I can't stay with you. 
I need a clear answer, right now."

"Okay, you take care of the money."

"Good! Don't worry. If you've really quit, everything 
will work out for us."

She got up and untied him. He took off his shirt and lay 
down again. She lay down with him and they cuddled 
themselves to sleep. He was still asleep when she got up 
and went to work. She left him twenty dollars of her 
previous day's tips so he could eat and look for a job.

Gradually they started rebuilding. No one would hire 
Darryl to work on airplanes, but he found a job working 
on cars at a service station in the neighborhood. He 
wasn't the sort of expert one finds at a dealership, but 
neither was the other grease monkey at the shop, or 
their boss either. The pay wasn't what he'd been 
getting, but it was certainly more than he'd been 
keeping. Between them, Cindy and Darryl must have had 
the highest income on their block, as well as the 
biggest cumulative debt.

Before Darryl's first payday rolled around, Cindy 
scraped together a hundred dollars in tips and opened a 
checking account in her own name, with Darryl as trust 
beneficiary in case she died. When he was paid, she had 
him endorse the check and give it to her so she could 
deposit it. Every day she made sure he had a few dollars 
to live on, taking care that he never accumulated enough 
to tempt him.

Over time it worked. They earned money, Darryl didn't 
gamble, their expenses were low, and they made payments 
on their debts. By the time Cindy called me, they were 
dug halfway out. Cindy was starting to fantasize about a 
better neighborhood, but she intended to save a few 
thousand dollars before moving because she understood 
that it would be years and years before anyone was 
willing to extend them credit. Did she want credit? With 
Darryl around, it still scared her.

Underlying their escape from hell was their new sexual 
relationship. During the first few days after Cindy's 
takeover, Darryl made several attempts to seduce her.

Each time, she rebuffed him. It was almost a week before 
he gave up, took off his clothes, brought her the 
clothesline and, with obvious embarrassment, recited the 
formula.

"I need a come."

"You must, by now!"

She told him that for a start, he could make love to her 
with his mouth. She undressed and lay down, and he went 
at it, trying the same stunt Steve had tried on me all 
those years before. She blocked his way and scolded him.

"That's a no!"

He looked at her with a mixture of frustration, remorse 
and fear.

"Go back to what you were doing."

He did, and kept at it until he knew she'd had enough. 
He stopped and held her. They rested.

"Now, for you!" she said, gathering up the clothesline.

She tied his hands behind his back and had him lie on 
them. As an afterthought, she ran the other length of 
clothesline under the mattress and tied one end to each 
of his ankles, forcing them about thirty inches apart to 
be sure that he couldn't get his cock out of her reach. 
She knew the knots would tighten if pulled, but she'd be 
untying them soon, so she didn't expect any damage.

"You shouldn't have lunged at me. You're going to have 
to be punished."

"What are you going to do?"

"Well, I was going to play with you till you came, but 
now I'm going to play with you a little longer."

She could see that the idea frightened and embarrassed 
him. She glanced at the clock and began sliding her 
hands up and down over the head of his cock, allowing 
them to be lubricated by the fluid oozing out the tip. 
There was plenty, and it didn't have a chance to dry. 
Less than twenty seconds went by before his cock 
stiffened in the first stage of orgasm.

"You're going to get it now!"

She kept an eye on the clock. Eight seconds after the 
first spurt, he started squirming and whimpering; at 
twelve he began a serious effort to pull away, twisting 
and bending his body as far as he could. Cindy had to 
wrap one hand around his cock and use the other to push 
his upper body down against the bed. At eighteen seconds 
he begged her to stop, still whimpering, still making 
desultory efforts to pull away; at twenty-four he 
relaxed, giving up on everything but the pained 
expression and the whimpering, still unable to stop the 
little spasms of his cock in Cindy's hand. Twenty-nine 
seconds after the first spurt, he started to cry. Four 
seconds later, Cindy let go.

Twenty-five seconds, she reckoned, that's what he can 
take.

She kissed him lightly, then untied him and held him.

"Feel better now?"

"Yeah."

***

That night, Cindy approached one of her fellow dealers, 
who had once said, half jokingly, that she and her 
husband sometimes used a Polaroid camera to take 
snapshots of their lovemaking. She asked if she might 
borrow the camera and a tripod for the same purpose.

"Sure!" she said with a big smile. "I'll bring them in 
tomorrow. I like your honesty."

"Thanks."

"I've heard some fantastic explanations of why people 
wanted to put that camera on a tripod, but there's only 
one, really."

The next day, Cindy indulged in an extravagance. She put 
a hook in the ceiling and hung a potted plant from it. 
While she was in the hardware store, she bought another 
clothesline.

The following day, she had possession of the camera, the 
tripod and a remote plunger that her friend had 
thoughtfully included. She also had an explanation of 
how to buy film, and instructions on what to do with it 
all. She experimented while Darryl was out, then hid 
everything away and waited.

The next time Darryl came begging relief, she tied his 
wrists in front of him, then lay down as she had the 
first time and told him to eat her. She expected him to 
think his wrists had been tied to prevent him from 
making another attempt to fuck her, but actually she was 
trying to make it impossible to draw future inferences 
based on whether his wrists were tied, or where. Sooner 
or later she'd have to spank him again, and she didn't 
want him to panic and resist when she started tying his 
wrists in front.

When his mouth had satisfied her, she fastened his 
wrists to the hook in the ceiling. She didn't expect him 
to be flattered by her desire to photograph him, so she 
tied a length of clothesline to each ankle and anchored 
one to the chest of drawers, the other to the commode in 
the bathroom, so his feet were pulled apart and he 
couldn't turn away when she snapped the shutter. When he 
was thoroughly immobilized, she set up the camera so 
that it was focused on his cock.

Darryl protested.

Cindy answered as innocently and affectionately as she 
could, saying she wanted a snapshot of his cock doing 
its thing; it would be a nice memento for a wife to 
have. It was the truth, too, or close to it. Of course, 
she also wanted to embarrass him, and she wanted him to 
worry that such a picture existed, but she didn't intend 
to use it for anything but her own enjoyment. Darryl 
continued to object, so she said, "Okay, just don't turn 
on, and I won't be able to get the picture I want."

When she had everything set up, she put her arms around 
him and kissed him until he was hard again. Then she 
backed away, pushed the plunger, and performed the other 
ministrations that the machinery required. When the 
picture was developed, she showed it to Darryl, then set 
it down and kissed him again. She got a chair, sat next 
to him, and went to work on his cock, stimulating it 
until he was just over the edge.

"Let's see if I can catch the first spurt," she said, 
simultaneously taking hold of the plunger, standing up, 
and pushing the chair away.

He gasped, looking at her with an expression that 
combined shame, panic and orgasm. Then his cock started 
pumping and she did her best to time the shot.

"What a memory this'll be!" she said, savoring his 
embarrassment as he continued to ejaculate.

When it was over, she turned her attention to the camera 
and set the picture to developing. Then she snapped one 
more and went through the procedure again.

The second shot was a little blurry, but it was good 
enough, considering that she knew what it was. The third 
was clear and showed Darryl's cock, still engorged, 
pointing downward and dripping come. She showed them to 
him and he asked what she was going to do with them.

"Hide them. Look at them when you're not around. I'm a 
sexual being and I love you."

She hid them, using running water to muffle the sounds 
and slamming more drawers and cabinets than necessary. 
Then she released Darryl. He asked where the pictures 
were and started looking for them. Considering how 
sparsely appointed the apartment was, it was a wonder he 
didn't find them right away. Cindy quickly put a stop to 
the search, warning him that if he continued, she'd have 
to spank him again.

He asked where she got the camera and she told him. He 
asked whether she'd let him take pictures of her and she 
said yes. He used up the rest of the film and she 
cooperated fully, even spreading her legs for a couple 
of shots of her pussy. She knew he'd only use them to 
inflame his lust, and that would make him all the more 
tractable.

Two days later he asked for another come. She had him 
eat her, tied his hands behind his back, and tied his 
ankles around the mattress.

"I'm going to give you some incentive to learn not to 
come so fast when I play with you, okay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. How are you going to mistreat me 
this time?"

"I'm going to play with you till you come. If it takes 
ten minutes or more, I'll stop as soon as you say. If it 
takes less, I'll keep playing with you for twenty-five 
seconds, starting from the first spurt."

"Cindy, why do you want to torture me?"

"It'll be good for you. Besides, last time I kept it up 
for thirty-three seconds and you're still alive, so I 
know you can take it."

He came in less than two minutes and she put him through 
it, teasing him as she did. He squirmed and whimpered, 
but he didn't try to get up and he didn't cry. He seemed 
more stoical, knowing he wouldn't have to endure quite 
as much torture as he had previously.

Darryl presented himself to Cindy again two days later, 
his cock partially hard. She conjectured that he must 
have found her control game quite a turn-on. 
Unfortunately she had her period and felt squeamish 
about having him eat her. She considered repeating the 
control game anyway, but decided she wanted to watch him 
masturbate, partly because she was curious and partly 
because she wanted to subject him to the embarrassment.

She told him to lie on the bed, then sat next to him and 
told him to play with himself.

"I can't"

"You're not allowed to refuse, you know."

"Cindy, please. You're taking this too far."

He offered no resistance when she tied his wrists in 
front of him. She helped him to his feet, led him to her 
chair, sat down, took him across her knee and, ignoring 
his protests, spanked him just as severely as that first 
day. It had the same effect: his cock stiffened and 
lubricated, and he cried like a little boy. She stood 
him up and tied his wrists to the overhead hook. Then 
she took a couple of clothespins and clamped one on each 
nipple. He screamed as each one closed, then went back 
to whimpering and sobbing. She positioned her chair 
nearby and sat looking at him. Tears ran down his cheeks 
and lubricant spilled out of his cock in a slow but 
steady stream. It flowed down the undersurface, 
continued down the scrotum, then dripped to the floor. 
She could imagine how congested he must be, how 
explosively he would erupt at just a little direct 
stimulation.

"Even this isn't going too far. You're my sex slave now, 
and you do what I tell you or you'll be punished 
something terrible. Besides the spanking and the 
clothespins, you'll have to let me watch you play with 
yourself at least twice more after today, before I even 
think about playing with you again, and that's if you 
take back your refusal right now. If you wait a few more 
minutes, what you get is a few more minutes of the 
clothespins, and you might be playing with yourself five 
or ten or twenty times. Are you ready to do what I tell 
you?"

"Yes."

She removed the clothespins, unhooked him, led him back 
to the bed, had him lie down, untied his wrists. His 
cock was still hard.

"Go ahead!"

He looked at her pleadingly, wrapped his hand around his 
cock, slid it up and down three times, and started 
sobbing again as he splattered the pillow, his shoulder 
his chest — all with the first spurt. He stopped moving 
his hand and just lay there, crying, holding his cock, 
looking up at Cindy, pumping his sperm out onto his 
chest and tummy.

"Big come! Embarrassing!"

"What's really embarrassing is having to love you for 
doing this to me."

"Mm-hm!" she teased, savoring the rush of love brought 
on by his confession.

And she wondered. What had made him say that? Was it a 
move to get her to be more lenient? Or alternatively, 
had he wanted to be spanked? Was it an honest readout of 
his feelings, made possible by the stripping away of his 
defenses? Some combination? Did he himself know? 
Perhaps, over time, she'd figure it out. For now, she 
could just enjoy.

***

She was surprised when he asked for another come two 
days later. She expected that since he knew she would 
make him masturbate, he would try to wait — maybe even 
masturbate in secret until she asked why he'd lost 
interest in sex. No matter. She went into the bathroom, 
hid the tampon string in her vagina, and made sure she 
was as fresh as possible. Then she came out, tied his 
hands in front just to mystify him, and had him eat her. 
When she'd had enough, she untied him and told him to 
play with himself. This time he didn't argue. He didn't 
argue the next time either, and she found herself 
puzzling over what she'd do with him the time after 
that.

She was still puzzling two days later when he again 
brought her the clothesline and recited the formula. She 
did what felt right. First she tied his hands in front 
and had him eat her. Then she tied him to a leg of the 
chest of drawers, moved the mattress, laid him down with 
his hands pulled back over his head, and tied his ankles 
apart. When everything was secure, she told him they 
were going to play ten twenty-five — the game whose 
rules she'd already established. He had to resist her 
stimulation for ten minutes or she'd keep rubbing his 
cock for twenty-five seconds after he came.

It took less than two minutes to bring him off.

Two days later they did the same thing, and again he 
came in less than two minutes.

Cindy found herself puzzling less, increasingly sure of 
what she was doing. She understood intuitively that she 
had to keep making Darryl play control games, and he had 
to keep losing. In some way — some way so grotesque that 
it discouraged scrutiny — control games met the same 
need within his psyche that gambling had satisfied 
previously. Where pai-gow poker had extracted Darryl's 
money, Cindy was extracting his tears, sexual lubricant 
and sperm. Instead of suffering the pain of losing at 
the tables, he was suffering the pain of Cindy's 
tortures. Somehow it was the same to him. And 
embarrassment accompanied loss and pain in both 
contexts.

Her understanding reassured her. She liked the idea that 
with this new style of lovemaking, she could keep Darryl 
safe forever. But at the same time, it gave her the 
willies; something about it just seemed so unwholesome.

She tried turning it around — looking at the parallels 
from the other side. Maybe Darryl had always wanted her 
to do this, and he'd turned to gambling as a substitute 
— perhaps even a poor substitute. That was less 
disturbing. It seemed more likely, too, because sex is 
natural and gambling is artificial, and it was fitting 
that the artificial should be the poor substitute for 
the natural. 

Besides, Darryl was thriving on her tortures; despite 
their difficult circumstances, he seemed more relaxed 
than he'd been in years. Had he first been attracted to 
her because he saw her potential as a dominatrix? Had I 
been right about Rubin? Had all her lovers known 
something about her that she herself was just now 
learning? She had to admit she relished her new role; it 
seemed to fit her perfectly. And she'd gone far beyond 
the recommendations she'd got from me, even though she 
once regarded my techniques as extreme.

Darryl continued to ask for relief every other day, and 
each time, for almost a month, Cindy played ten twenty-
five with him. The longest it ever took to make him come 
was two minutes and thirty-four seconds. Once, he 
brought her the magic clothesline two days in a row, and 
she thought he might win because he was less horny, so 
she was tempted to do something different. But his cock 
was engorged as usual, so she played the same game. It 
took a minute and fifty-eight seconds to make him come.

After her next period, with a month's experience as a 
benchmark, Cindy came up with something new. When Darryl 
asked for a come, she started out as usual and tied him 
in place.

"Miss feeling your cock in my pussy yet?"

"Yes, of course I do."

"Want a chance to fuck me?"

"What's the catch?"

"New game. It's called five fifty. You keep from coming 
for just five minutes and I untie you and let you fuck 
me; otherwise I keep rubbing your cock for fifty 
seconds."

He looked dazed.

"If you don't want to take the chance, we can play ten 
twenty-five. You don't get to fuck me that way, and it's 
twice as hard to win, but at least you know you can take 
the torture."

"I'll play five fifty."

"Okay," she said, looking at the clock.

She started rubbing his cock.

"You'll be sorry," she said as she milked him. "You're 
going to come so fast, it'd be embarrassing even if you 
weren't losing the chance to fuck me. You know, I 
wonder... Are you going to cry again like that other 
time I kept going longer than the twenty-five?"

And he came. It had taken fifteen seconds.

"Ooh, yeah! Give it up, Darryl! Show me how much you 
love me!"

Eight seconds. He started squirming, trying to pull 
away.

"Please! Don't do it!"

"You know the rules! Thirty-eight more seconds!"

She milked him mercilessly. He did wind up crying again.

"Embarrassing!" she said when she finally stopped. "And 
I bet you love me, too."

"I do love you. Cindy, what are you doing to me?"

"Just what you need me to."

Darryl started bringing Cindy the ropes more often — 
about five times a week — and almost always, even after 
only seventeen hours' rest, his cock was sticking 
straight out instead of being only slightly engorged. 
She always gave him a choice between playing ten twenty-
five and five fifty, and he always chose five fifty. It 
was a much more exciting game, and he never lasted even 
two minutes. One Thursday he tried to cheat by 
masturbating in secret, but Cindy could tell what he'd 
done by the relaxed state of his cock.

"You'll have to wait until Sunday," she said.

"What?"

"I told you I might tell you, you have to wait. You have 
to wait. Try again Sunday."

He didn't try to cheat anymore.

After two months of five fifty, just before Cindy got 
her period, she invented an even more extreme game that 
she called three fifty. The rules were the same as for 
five fifty, but Darryl had to hold back his orgasm for 
only three minutes. On the other hand, if he lost, she'd 
tie his hands and spank him before he was allowed to 
come again, and she'd choose the time of the spanking. 
Besides that, after being spanked, he'd have to let her 
watch him masturbate, but he could decide when.

He wanted to play it.

It was like the first time he played five fifty; he came 
in only fifteen seconds.

Cindy let three days go by before delivering the 
spanking. Then she told Darryl it was time, had him 
undress, and tied his hands in front of him. He was 
scared, breathing hard, not turned on at all. She tied 
him to the leg of the chest of drawers, moved the 
mattress, and put him in his usual position for their 
control games. He hadn't been expecting that, and it 
scared him even more. She sat next to him.

"What are you doing?" he asked for about the fifth time.

"I want to get you really turned on before I spank you, 
and this is a good place to do it." She leered at his 
cock. "Then again, maybe I won't be able to, and you'll 
get out of being spanked."

She knew he expected her to use her hands — probably 
even felt safe as long as she didn't — but she just 
stared and teased. In less than a minute he was hard; a 
couple more and he was lubricating — his usual slow 
stream.

"You're dripping. I guess that's turned on enough. It 
looks like I'll be spanking you after all."

She untied the tether and led him to her chair, sat 
down, pulled him over her knee and got into it.

He yelped with each stroke. His bottom turned red. He 
started crying. A few swats after the tears began, she 
felt him ejaculate on her thigh.

She jumped up and pulled him along with her so she could 
watch the last few spasms of his cock.

"Shame, shame! You came from being spanked!"

He hung his head, still crying.

"You'll still have to play with yourself, but I don't 
think it'll be today."

Cindy added three fifty to her list of choices, but only 
when she was about to get her period. Darryl always 
chose it over the other two games and always lost. 
Between times, he continued to choose five fifty over 
ten twenty-five and lost at that.

The reason she called me was that she was worried she 
had a tiger by the tail. Darryl's year was up in five 
weeks — close enough to dilute the credibility of their 
games. She was afraid that if they resumed a normal sex 
life, she would no longer be meeting his need and he'd 
start gambling again. On the other hand, she wanted to 
get back to fucking. She missed it.

She had a problem with the spankings too. At first they 
vented her anger over the mess Darryl and made of her 
life, but over the months, she'd developed doubts. They 
made her feel bad about herself. Still she liked the 
control games; she liked torturing Darryl's cock after 
he came; she even admitted that it was a thrill to make 
him come by spanking him.

"Well," I began, "it's obvious that he needs the control 
games, and it seems the only prize that really suits him 
is a fuck that ends just before it becomes 
uncomfortable."

"Yeah..."

"But you could continue meeting his needs without 
depriving yourself of fucking. You could play a game 
just like your ten twenty-five, except that you fuck 
him. If he lasts you many minutes, you climb off him 
eight seconds after he lets loose; if he comes sooner, 
you keep going longer, like that first time you tied him 
up. If he wins, you can even let him get on top next 
time — he'll probably never win anyway."

She nodded.

"You might need a way of choosing among the control 
games, or just a way of deciding when to fuck; but 
you're so inventive, I'm sure it won't be a problem. 
Then again, you can be completely arbitrary too — just 
do what you like, day by day."

While she was reflecting, another thought struck me.

"You know, I'm really impressed with that ritual you 
invented — having him take off his clothes and bring you 
the clothesline. Besides embarrassing him and letting 
you gauge his arousal, it's a perfect metaphor for 
walking into a card club and joining a game, especially 
if his goal is losing."

"I know. I thought of that a few weeks after I invented 
it, and I've been trying to figure out ever since 
whether it was just a lucky coincidence or did I start 
out understanding more than I was willing to admit?"

"Either way, I'm sure you and Darryl are doing what's 
right for you."

"I guess so. What about the spankings?"

"I don't know. I've never spanked anyone myself, and I 
don't know how common Darryl's reaction is. I don't know 
how your spankings fit into Darryl's scheme of things 
either. Does he want you to continue? Does he want you 
to stop? Does he need you to continue? I would guess 
that you ought to go on spanking him, but only as a 
punishment. I would also guess that when you do spank 
him, you ought to go on teasing him about how he can't 
help but sexualize it. But I could be very wrong."

"What I'm afraid of is that if I stop playing three 
fifty, he'll take his paycheck directly to the A-Frame 
again, and get back into that whole thing."

"Like I say, I don't know where the spankings fit. That 
might happen, but it probably won't. If you've got him 
playing control games five times a week, that should 
meet his needs even if the games aren't really extreme. 
Can you arrange your finances so you can afford to take 
the risk one time?"

"And then refuse to fuck him for another year?"

"Back to the old drawing board!"

We sat a few seconds in silence before she spoke again.

"It isn't really very likely, is it?"

"I don't know him, but I don't think so."

I waited a while longer to see if she'd say anything 
else; then I told her I was interested in hearing how 
things turned out. I asked whether I might get in touch 
with her after a few months, and she said it would be 
okay, so we discussed the logistics. We agreed that I'd 
call information and ask for her number, and if she had 
a phone by then, I'd call her. Otherwise, I'd look for 
her at the A-Frame and try to catch her on break or at 
the end of her shift.

Seven months went by before I tracked her down at the A-
Frame on a Sunday morning before dawn. We made a date 
for brunch at my place the following week when she got 
off work. I was a bit worried about the implications of 
her not yet having a telephone, but it turned out she 
did, and she gave me the number in case I needed to 
change our plans; she had decided to get an unlisted 
number after hearing the stories of other dealers who 
had received unpleasant calls from players irate about 
losing.

The following Sunday she arrived on schedule and we 
built sandwiches out of an assortment of fixings I'd 
picked up the day before. I asked her how things were 
going with Darryl, and she gave me a detailed account.

He still wasn't gambling, and he was back at the 
airport, working the day shift.

To celebrate his first year of recovery, Cindy had 
bought a bed. Nothing fancy — no headboard — but a new 
mattress, springs and frame. It was a tremendous 
improvement over the old slab of foam they'd inherited 
from her cousin when they moved.

When she'd put the sheet on it, she turned to Darryl, 
and asked, "Want to fuck?"

"You silver-tongued devil! You talked me into it!"

"You'll have to let me tie you down."

"Why?— if we're agreed on what we're going to do 
anyway..."

"I like it. Besides, I never said I'd stop tying you up, 
just that I'd go back to fucking you. I don't even think 
I want to give up the ritual of you getting naked and 
bringing me the ropes when you want to come. Or the part 
about having to accept whatever I decide; I might not 
want to fuck you every time. The only difference now is 
that when I feel like it, we can fuck."

"Okay, you've got the pussy."

"That's right! Looking forward to feeling it from the 
inside again?"

"Yeah," he said in a gentler tone.

He took her in his arms and kissed her. Soon she could 
feel the straining of his cock.

She pushed him away lightly.

"Come on! Get your clothes off!"

He did. She did. She tied him down properly, with his 
arms out to the sides.

She lay on top of him, kissed him until they were both 
mad with lust, then guided his cock into her pussy and 
lowered herself all the way.

"Like the way that feels?"

"O God, yes!"

"Know what I'm going to do?"

"What?"

"I'm going to come twice before I let you go."

"I can't last that long. You're too much of a turn-on."

"That's okay; I'll do all the work. All you have to do 
is lie here. I know it'll be uncomfortable after you 
come, but you do have a choice; if you wait till I'm 
done coming the second time, I'll stop when you need me 
to."

"You're planning to torture me every time we make love, 
aren't you?"

"Even when our hair is all white. Isn't it great?— 
having a wife who turns you on so much, you have to come 
even though you know you're going to be tortured?"

"Well, yeah! But that doesn't mean you have to actually 
torture me."

"You'd miss it if I stopped, and even if you wouldn't, I 
would. This is fun!"

She started thrusting her hips, abandoning herself to 
the sensations, watching Darryl watch her, watching his 
increasing excitement as she fucked him. They came 
together and she kept going, taking care to stay low 
enough to keep him from pulling out.

"Stop... stop!"

"Uh-uh. Remember, I got the pussy. I don't get tired."

Soon he was crying, and then she came again. Her pussy 
went into spasms, her hips jerked — and every time she 
moved, Darryl reacted as though her hand had just 
smacked his bottom.

When it was over, she lay down on him, one elbow on 
either side. His cock still couldn't stop twitching.

"Welcome back, sexy man!"

With a mighty heave, he pulled out of her.

"Had enough for another year?"

"No!"

"Good! I'm looking forward to doing that again."

When Darryl had regained his composure, he asked, "Can't 
we make love sometimes without you torturing me?"

"Maybe. Maybe I'll invent another game, where you can 
win a chance to get on top.

Darryl didn't believe that Cindy was still going to 
insist on the ritual, so when he got horny again, he 
tried to seduce her. She told him she meant what she'd 
said, so with an exaggerated display of weariness, he 
stood up, fetched the clothesline, and recited the 
formula. She tied him in place.

"You want me to fuck you?"

"Yes, but I don't want you to torture me."

"I'll tell you what. As soon as we've both come, I'll 
stop moving. That way, if you wait for me, you'll only 
get tortured a little."

"Do I get a choice?"

"Do you want me to torture you more?"

"No!"

"Do you want me not to fuck you?"

"Of course I want to fuck!"

"Well, those are the choices."

She lay on him, kissed him, gave him her breasts to 
suck, straddled his face and had him lick her pussy. She 
was almost ready to come when she finally guided his 
cock into her, and she fucked him hard and fast. They 
came together in about half a minute, and when it was 
over she stopped moving.

He kept making little gasping noises timed to the 
twitching of his cock, and she maintained enough 
downward pressure so he couldn't pull out. She was doing 
just what she'd said — torturing him, but only a little. 
He wasn't nearly so distressed as when she kept moving.

"Had enough?"

"Yeh," he panted.

She uncoupled from him with a sudden lurch and lay 
cuddled up to him. They talked a while — about how much 
they loved one another, how good it felt to be fitted 
together again — then she untied him.

Two days later he needed more, and they repeated the 
ritual of the ropes.

"Remember I said I might invent a game where you could 
win the chance to be on top?"

"Yeah?"

"You want to hear the rules?"

"Sure."

"I fuck you, and if you stay inside me — without telling 
me to stop, or hurry up, or anything like that — till 
after I come, then next time I let you get on top 
without the ropes. If you come before me, I keep going 
until I come too, and if you say any of those things, 
then you don't get to be on top next time. If you pull 
out of me, that's cheating, and you don't get to come 
again till I've spanked you."

"What are the other choices?"

You mean right now? If you don't want to play the game?"

"Yeah."

"I fuck you like last time, and you don't get to be on 
top next time even if you would have won. You probably 
don't get spanked either, even if you manage to pull 
out."

He decided to try the game.

She lay on him and kissed him until he was dripping, 
then straddled his cock and put it in. She fucked him 
with long, slow strokes, and he came in less than two 
minutes. She kept going while he squirmed, panted, 
sobbed, whimpered, and finally begged her to stop.

"Uh-huh! As soon as I come."

She let herself go, and she came in another half minute, 
getting off on Darryl's agonized noises and tortured 
look. She relaxed.

She felt him make a slow but forcible attempt to lift 
his bottom off the bed, as he had after their first fuck 
of the year, but this time she knew his plan. If he 
could get a couple of inches of empty space under him, 
he would drop down suddenly and free his cock. She 
resisted and tightened her vaginal muscles.

His cock twitched and he made a pained noise.

"You want me to let you go? Is that it?"

"Yes."

She pulled away quickly, then cuddled him.

"You didn't win, but I'll let you try again. We'll call 
that our fucking game. Maybe you'll like it as much as 
five fifty."

"Untie me?"

"Sure."

She did, then lay down with him. They cuddled and 
talked. He confessed his embarrassment. She told him she 
knew. She told him he'd be embarrassed every time he 
tried to control himself, because he'd never be able to, 
and she'd always know. He told her he loved her. She 
told him she loved him too.

Since then, their lovemaking had consisted almost 
entirely of fucking. They played that game, by Darryl's 
choice, about a third of the time, and he always lost. 
The times they didn't play, Cindy almost always came at 
the same time as Darryl, or nearly so, and she held on 
to Darryl's cock for about half a minute afterward.

Cindy and I marveled at it all. The fucking game wasn't 
a game; it was a ritual. Cindy had it rigged so Darryl 
could never win. When they played, she kept herself from 
coming until he gave up. When they weren't playing, she 
relaxed and responded naturally. The pattern was so 
obvious, Darryl had to understand what was happening, 
but he chose to play anyway.

There could be no doubt that Cindy had been right about 
the nature of Darryl's sexual needs, and about his 
having met those needs by gambling and losing. Now he 
had the fucking game, and he could play it exactly as 
often as he needed to keep him on the straight and 
narrow. Cindy wasn't even really controlling the sexual 
aspect of the relationship — though she could, anytime 
it became necessary. With things going well, all she was 
doing was creating a context in which Darryl could get 
what he needed, and get it in its natural form. He would 
never again have to indulge in that hideous parody that 
had brought them to the brink of ruin. She wished she'd 
figured it out sooner.


*** Chapter 20, In which we look to the future

And that's everything! You know it all!

What now?

I told you my dream. I'd like female domination to 
become so nearly universal that no heterosexually active 
man can escape our civilizing influence. That can happen 
only through the cumulative effort of a great many 
women, but I don't necessarily want you to be among 
them. I want you to do what's right for you. No person 
should be a pawn in another's crusade, however worthy.

Even more than wanting each woman to do what's right for 
her, I want each woman to do right. We have a good 
record so far. We're known for nurturance, not massacre, 
and we ought to keep it that way. The techniques of 
female domination have tremendous potential for good, 
but they also have potential for mischief, whether 
intentional or thoughtless, and I dread hearing the news 
when someone uses the knowledge in this book in a 
hurtful way.

I've agonized over this. I know such news will reach me. 
Not everyone who picks up my techniques will use them 
with care and restraint; I haven't always done so 
myself. Still, I hope for the best. I'd like to believe 
that the young women who study this book will use their 
newfound knowledge the way Nora did in her marriage with 
Joel rather than emulating my own twisted relationship 
with Corbett.

Women in general are decent, especially compared with 
men, but some are angry over past wrongs and some are 
irresponsible. When the techniques of female domination 
become widely known, a small minority of women will 
misuse them. I don't intend it. I don't want it. But I 
can't prevent it. And just a few excesses — even 
imaginary excesses — if widely rumored, will trigger a 
male-supremacist backlash. I don't intend that either, 
or want it, but it's likely. I'm confident, though, that 
the good accomplished through these techniques will far 
outweigh the harm, and someday we'll all be at peace.

Men, by nature, have as much good in them as we do. 
Sadly, most have been taught to keep it hidden — to keep 
up their guard and seek control over others. They've 
learned that good is a sign of weakness and that they 
have to appear strong lest they be abused and exploited. 
The way to appear strong is to act mean. Like many 
women, they haven't figured out that as adults they can 
just say no to abuse and exploitation; they don't feel 
really grown up until they begin to suffer the 
infirmities of old age.

Female domination offers such great hope because it 
gives you a way of nurturing the good in your man, of 
persuading him to leave behind the fears and defenses of 
adolescence, of encouraging him to act in accordance 
with the most noble of his predilections. And it gives 
you a way to get started — a way to find the good in 
your partner.

Early in a relationship, finding the good is easy. 
During courtship, a man lets it shine through, hoping it 
will make you love him. Some men, like Francesca's 
husband Roy, never turn it off; they're comfortable 
being openly and notoriously good all the time. Most, 
though, are guarded except when trying to attract a 
partner. And once they've got a woman committed, they 
aim for distance and control rather than intimacy and 
cooperation. They put on a bad act. The good gets hidden 
away, often forever. I'm not saying they become brutes, 
but they're a disappointment compared with their early 
promise. Ginny's problems with Peter and Lisa's with 
Jason are commonplace. And Peter and Jason weren't bad 
men, just scared.

If you tie your partner down so he's helpless, he knows 
his bad act is no longer credible. If you make love to 
him, slowly, giving him time to open up; and you look 
into him deeply enough, you'll find the long-lost good. 
You'll see it. You'll recognize it. And you'll see that 
with a little help and nurturance, it could cast the bad 
act aside and reclaim its rightful place in the sun. The 
good, after all, is him. The bad act is just a 
collection of mannerisms learned out of fear from other 
bad actors. Acknowledge the good. Nurture it. Encourage 
it. You can make a world of difference.

Good exists in almost all men. The good is lovable. The 
good is loving. The good deserves to be loved. This 
doesn't mean that every man is a fitting lover for you, 
or even that you should be able to like all men. Our 
likes and dislikes are idiosyncratic. That's a fact of 
life and needs no justification. Our sexual preferences 
are even more idiosyncratic. Typically only a small 
minority of the men we meet will be acceptable as sexual 
playmates, even if the play doesn't include fucking.

When I meet a man who doesn't turn me on, or who finds 
me unattractive, there's no problem what to do; we're 
not going to have a sexual relationship. If the 
chemistry is there, I'm obliged to look further before 
making a decision. Can I deal with this man in good 
faith? Can I nurture the good in him? If I can't, I 
oughtn't become involved with him. Somewhere there's a 
woman who can deal with him in good faith — who can 
nurture the good. Spiritually she's a better fit for him 
than I am, and I ought to leave him to her. They'll meet 
eventually, and if I've dealt with him in bad faith or 
tried to punish him for the nits in his character, 
she'll have to repair my damage. Worse still, she'll 
have to dig deeper to find the good in him because I 
will have frightened it further into hiding.

Corbett was a mistake. Years later, when I already knew 
better, I was tempted to make another. A coworker became 
the victim of a gentle rape, and the perpetrator was 
someone with whom I could easily have entered into a 
sexual relationship. I was tempted to do so for the 
purpose of avenging her — make him fall in love with me 
and play with his head. I decided against it. It would 
be better to wait for him to meet a woman who fit him so 
perfectly, he'd fall in love on his own. Then she could 
nurture the good in him, lovingly, until he could no 
longer see his fellow human beings as objects to be 
used. I could help her by writing this book.

Peace and love be with you.

And thanks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life in
any way, shape or form. Anyone tempted to act out any 
of the scenarios in this story should seriously consider
seeking professional help.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Kristen's collection - Directory 80