From: an356608@anon.penet.fi

   Reply-To: an356608@anon.penet.fi

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

   Subject: Corrected post:I Meet Toni's Mom, I

   Date: Wed, 20 Sep 1995 02:53:52 UTC

   Organization: Anonymous forwarding service

   Message-ID: <030302Z20091995@anon.penet.fi>

   I Meet Toni's Mom, part one

   I meet this girl, Toni, at a party when I'm a junior in college.  She's
only a junior in high school.  The age-difference is a stretch, but she's
so pretty and disarming and flirtatious that I can't resist.  Her breasts
are so firm and her pubic bone so compact pressing against her tight pants
that I can't think of anything all evening except making love to her.  She
accompanies me back to my flat, and we neck a little, but the first time I
try to touch her breasts, even with her shirt on, she deflects me.

   I'm too aggressive, she explains.  The way she was brought up, females
decide everything and males are grateful for the chance to please them.  I
ask exactly what she means.  She picks up a pad of paper and starts to
sketch as she talks.  She tells me to get up off the couch.

   "Do you really want to know?" I say yes.

   "I learned everything from Mom," she says.  "I learned how to draw and
how to dominate males.  Why don't you strip and let me draw you?"

   It's that matter of fact.  I'm confused, but there seems to be some sex
in it somewhere, so I comply.  Toni says she'll tell me what to remove
when. When each item is off, she adds, I'm to turn slowly in a complete
circle so she can look me over, make a few quick sketches of what she sees.
"For Mom," she says.

   "What do you mean, for mom?"

   "We'll get to that," she says, "now take off your shirt."

   I do it, a little nervously, then do the full turn.  Slower, she orders.
"Good strong back," she remarks.  Shoes and socks next.  No need to do the
turn.  Jeans - "No, don't just pull them off, shimmy them down your legs.
Movement skills are important."

   I shimmy: it feels weirdly feminine to do it.  Toni tells me I "have
good movement-skills." They're down, at my ankles, the jeans are down.  I
do the turn.  While my back is to her, Toni tells me to lower my briefs
over my hips and leave them.  "Just some hair visible in front," she
clarifies.  I do it and she tells me to turn.  "Good boy," she says.

   I'm erect.  I was turned on by the girl to begin with, and she's been
flirting and teasing all night, and now this.  But I'm embarrassed too. 
"Let them down," she says, and I do and my penis springs out.  "God, it's
already glistening," she says.  "Such an eager boy."

   "Did I mention the kneeling part?" she asks.  "You're supposed to be
kneeling.  Mom says it's more informative about a guy.  It's strictly
regulation with us, so do it."

   I do it, embarrassed but pretty helpless.  Toni sketches away, and I'm
starting to understand that mom is going to be seeing these works of art.
Toni begins to explain.  Mom is an illustrator and photographer, Dad a
businessman.  Mom believes that men are made to serve women.  It's that
simple.  Toni grew up believing it, too, of course.  Her Father, when he
wasn't travelling on business, and her older brother were always treated as
servants.  Affectionately, but as servants.  They were naked a lot of the
time and simply ordered to do various household tasks, or to pose for Mom
and Toni when they needed models.

   The males of the house never had any real privacy.  Toni could walk in
on her brother or Father when they were peeing or bathing or anything.  On
the other hand, her and her Mother's privacy were absolutely sacred.

   Even as a small girl, she had a distinct sense of her superiority to
males.  How could she not, raised this way?  Her brother is three years
older.  Since he was brought up to have obedient feelings toward females,
he never even thought of protesting.

   When he was old enough to masturbate, Mom made it clear to him that it
was okay, perfectly normal in a boy his age, but that he had to have
permission before he indulged.  A female's permission.  It was good
manners. He could ask his Mom or his sister, but he had to learn manners.
So here is this eight-year old girl being asked by her big brother if he
may masturbate.  She usually said yes, but occasionally, when she was mad
at him, she just refused.  When she did, he never argued.

   He had to do the act with his bedroom door opened and report to Mom or
Toni when he was through.  This was good manners.  Toni took this boyish
masturbation thing for granted.  "We have to let them," her mother
explained.

   It wasn't that interesting to Toni, but once or twice her brother would
approach her for permission while she had a friend over, and the other girl
couldn't help being interested.  Toni's brother didn't seem to mind if the
visitor watched.  Acceptance of girl's wishes was part of his training, and
he'd go on masturbating without any self-consciousness.  The girl could ask
him questions about it and everything, and he'd be very sweet to her and
answer them all.  Toni found it boring after a while.  But her friends
started visiting more and more frequently.

   Often her father and brother would get erections while doing their tasks
in the nude.  Toni took these for granted, too.  They were just what her
mother said they were and nothing more: signs of male eagerness to serve.
The two males felt no shame if they became hard like this, even if they
were in the room together.  It WAS only a sign of their eagerness to serve.


   If the sight of these erect males gives Toni any pleasure, it's only on
this account.  She loves the way their bodies are exposed and helpless. 
Sexual pleasure always happens in her mind first, she says.  She doesn't
start to feel it "down below," she says, "until I'm convinced in my mind
that the guy is my slave."

   "My God!" I say, kneeling there.  I am her slave.  The process was
amazingly fast.  I kneel, she sketches.  This goes on for a while.  When
she's done she leans forward and gives me a kindly stroke along the penis.
I get harder.  She gives it a quick squeeze and gets up.  "You can empty
this when I'm gone," she says.  "Think of me when you do.  I'll be seeing
you." She's gone before I'm even up.  "I'm your slave," I call out, really
loud because she's already slammed the door.  I imagine I hear her call
back, "Hey, I know."

   Toni comes to my place often.  It's always the same routine more or
less. I strip, I kneel, she sketches and teases me a little, and I tell her
I'm her slave.  Once in a while, not too often, she allows me to come for
her.  I have to lie on the floor, at her feet, and masturbate myself.  When
I'm ready to come, I have to plead for permission.

   "May I offer you my orgasm?" is the way I say it.  Now and then she'll
assist by planting a foot on me, on my balls, or belly, or leg.  Two or
three times she condescends to plant her foot right on my penis.  I spurt
like there's no tomorrow.  But often she lets me get good and aroused and
then announces, "I think we'll postpone that precious orgasm of yours." She
says "orgasm" suspiciously, as though she thinks I invented the word.

   One day Toni suggests that it's time for me to meet her Mom.  Frieda.  I
agree to do it because I'm in thrall to Toni, but I'm not looking forward
to it.  I have a picture of Frieda as some kind of

   monster, a cold, impatient narcissist, getting more and more sadistic
and self-dramatizing as her youth fades.  I understand nothing about the
real nature of power.

   Frieda is gorgeous.  She's absolutely stunning.  In a completely
unaffected and lively way.  She's completely comfortable with herself. 
She's trim and shapely and quietly elegant.  Her hair is dark and long and
her face is beautiful and a touch girlish.  She's obviously still in her
thirties.  She is, in the truest sense of the word, lovely.  She's the sort
of woman who makes you glad you're a man so you can simply serve her and
not have to envy her.  It's a privilege to see her, it's a privilege to be
anywhere near her.  To lie at the feet of the daughter she's borne - even
that is a privilege.

   Frieda is friendly to me.  For a few minutes she makes motherly
small-talk.  Then she's down to business, but in a way that doesn't scare
me.  She tells me she likes Toni's sketches of me and Toni's general
account of my "demeanor." She uses that word, "demeanor." I feel moved to
thank her.  Because I already want to give her anything I can.  I want to
pour out my heart.  So I begin by thanking her.

   Then she thanks me for being willing to pose for her.  I say that it's
my privilege.  "I'm really grateful, Mrs. ...Ma'am." I suddenly feel
"ma'am" will be the way I address Frieda.  She doesn't tell me to be less
formal.

   "Why don't you undress then?" she says.  Yes, of course.  That's the
thing I'm here for.  Why don't I?  I'm nervous, I fumble.  "Everything at
once," I ask, "or one thing at a time?" I'm remembering the way Toni
preferred to do it.

   "Oh, why not everything at once," Frieda says.

   "Yes, ma'am," I say, and feel good about the phrase.

   I start to strip.  It's a strange sensation, a strange scene.  Toni's
standing there, her Mom is sitting in her draftsman's chair, relaxed as can
be, watching me disrobe without the least look of

   embarrassment.  She's not excited, she's not tense.  Guys are meant to
be naked for us, I think she's thinking.  So I get on with it.  Toni
watches.  She looks at her Mom every now and then and then smiles at me. 
She's proud of me.  She can tell something.  She's recruited a good one.

   Now I'm nude, and too nervous to have an erection.  I'm unsure what to
do.  I'm thinking it's an insult to a hostess not to have an erection when
you strip for her.  Or is it an insult to have one before you're told to?
This is a whole new area of etiquette for me.  But I feel I have to
explain. "I'm kind of nervous about this, ma'am.  That's why...."

   "Don't give it a thought," Frieda says.  "But why don't you sit down on
the floor here, right in front of me?"

   I sit.  She's wearing a short, tight skirt and now I'm at eye-level with
the hem.  I'm thinking, what a vagina this woman must have.  I want to get
a glimpse up the skirt, but I think I'd better avert my eyes, or raise them
to hers.

   Another problem in "demeanor." Frieda tells me to fold my knees and rest
one leg on the floor and keep the other upright so my thighs are at right
angles and my genitals totally visible to her.  I'm to put my hands behind
me and rest my weight on them, so I'm half-sitting, half-reclining.  I obey
and all of a sudden feel incredibly exposed and helpless.  More than I
would if I were lying flat.  Lifting my upper body toward Frieda gives me
the feeling that I'm offering myself to her, and straining to do it.  But
I'm still enough on the recline to feel very passive and defenseless.  Now,
I think I feel my penis stirring.  I try to flex the muscle at its root. 
The woman notices.

   "Toni, did you see?" she asks.  Toni missed the little twitch.  "They
can't stop worrying about their erections," Frieda remarks to her daughter.
She tells me to stop thinking about my penis.  "Let's just sit and talk,"
she says, as though "just sitting" is an accurate description of what I'm
doing.  Yes, I'm sitting, but I'm also...in love.

   Frieda questions me about my body and my sexual habits.  Her manner is
easy-going.  I can say anything.  She won't mind.  She won't reject me. 
She just wants to know me better, so she can use me better.  She wants
details and sometimes I have to think hard before I reply.  I worry about
the silences.  She mustn't think they're signs of reluctance.  But I look
at Toni, and she's looking very pleased with things.  She's quietly
sketching while we talk.

   Frieda wants to know when I started masturbating, how often I do it, in
which postures I most like to do it.  I tell her all.  She's trying to get
me to speak to her of my body without embarrassment.  She tells me to
answer in full sentences.  So I have to say, "My penis this, my balls
that...."

   "I want you to say 'testicles' instead of 'balls' from now on," she
says. "I want you to be accurate.  And always say 'my' emphatically...'MY
penis, MY testicles'." It's funny to hear this womanly woman use these
phrases at all.

   I show my learning-ability.  I say, "Toni has taught me that MY
testicles can take more abuse than I thought.  So now I like to have
them...MY testicles poked." I say things like this, and Frieda is happy
with my progress.  We continue the question period for a long time.  I've
forgotten about it, but at some point I realize my penis is hard.  Frieda
hasn't mentioned it.

   end of part one