From: an356608@anon.penet.fi

   Reply-To: an356608@anon.penet.fi

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

   Subject: I Meet Toni's Mom, III

   Date: Thu, 21 Sep 1995 05:42:50 UTC

   Organization: Anonymous forwarding service

   Message-ID: <054337Z21091995@anon.penet.fi>

   I Meet Toni's Mom, III

   Under Frieda's quiet insistence I talk my trash.  Little by little it's
having the effect she promised.  It's a kind of stripping naked of the mind
and not unlike the baring of the body.  In both cases, the woman remains
clothed.

   I'm mentioning her vagina, I'm wondering aloud about her pubic hair,
about her labia.  I speculate about their color, contour.  I sit exposed
and erect at the feet of a woman - at the feet, I mean, of a being whose
nature can never, even in stark nakedness, be truly exposed - and I confess
the minutiae of my desires.  The desires of any boy, and the desires of a
boy enslaved.

   I imagine for her the hardness of her pubic bone.  I swear I know the
smoothness and compactness of her pussy.  It's trim and tight and doesn't
pout.  This is a thing I know.

   Frieda pays close attention, as she does to everything I'm saying, but
her look reveals nothing.  I tell her of her slit, demurely shadowed in the
light hair I've dreamed up for her.  I see, I say, her womanly lips. 
They're fragrant petals with delicate furrows, and I want, I say, to lap
their moisture.

   We are at it a long time.  Most of the time Frieda says nothing besides
"Go on, please." Sometimes she presses me for a clarification.  I am to be
absolutely specific.  But she herself is

   impassive.  If I am showing her the mental counterpart of my enslaved
erection, she is showing back the counterpart of her unmoving pubis.  I'm
not stirring her one bit, not arousing her.  This is about me.  Sometimes I
pause because I think my thoughts are too fierce, too ugly.  Frieda nudges
me.  "I'm here to be told," she says.  Maybe she asks for a detail.  Maybe
she says, "Go deeper." And her coaxing is as brilliant as a surgeon's lamp.


   I start to feel there's no darkness left in me.  Then we turn a bend,
Frieda and I, and I recoil.  I think she doesn't expect this coarseness of
me, she doesn't realize.  "But I already see you," she

   explains.  "This is so you will feel seen." I venture to say that this
seems inconsistent with what she said earlier - that she wants to open a
window on my heart.  She's not annoyed.  She's willing to explain.

   It's exactly like bodily nakedness, she says.  "I know the truth about
every man I pass on the street, don't I?" she asks.  I nod.  "I know that I
can harden him, subjugate him, walk right over him and have him thank me
for it.  And he knows it too.  But he'll only stop fighting it when it's
brought home to him in a way he can't deny.  He needs witnesses.  Believe
me, it's a task.  Like talking to a child.  'That's right, take off your
clothes.  Now what are you?  Naked, that's right.  And what else?  My
slave. Aren't YOU bright.  Good boy!' It's no mystery to me, but it is to
him.  He needs to feel its force.  YOU need to feel its force, and the only
way I can help you feel it is by leading you through the details.  Yes, I
know what's in your thoughts, because I know what's in every male's

   thoughts.  But you need to feel me knowing it.  Your mind, your
feelings, are no more clever than your penis.  I don't need to see it, but
you need to have it seen.  Go on."

   I go on.  In words I unclasp Frieda's bra, I cup her breasts.  They have
the feel of breasts, something unique, soft and receptive yet resistant at
the same time.  In words I suck them.  I stray to lick the wholesome
perfume of Frieda's underarms.  I descend once more.  My tongue pries
Frieda's clit from its hood.  I make calipers of my fingers and try to hold
the skittery darling still.  Like womanhood itself, it slips from my grasp.
In words I glimpse the string of Frieda's tampon.

   Nothing is unmentionable.  I'm beginning to think it's true.  I'm
mentioning everything.  The effect Frieda predicted is getting stronger. 
I'm feeling transparent, flooded with relentless, harsh light.  My shadows
are shrinking.  I'm describing my desires, my day-dreams, but my will is
shrinking too.  Yet every now and then a fear comes over me after I've
spoken.  I backslide, imagine Frieda had not expected THIS new revelation,
imagine a woman's mind cannot comprehend such filth.  I declare my wish to
lick her anus.  I assure her I know she's pleasant there.  If she would
lead me to the bathub and sit me in and contrive somehow to pee on me -
well, if she would, I'd be a made man.  I mention this.

   I show Frieda all my seedy details.  She's asked me to.  She has seated
me in this vulnerable posture at her feet and has even stroked my erection
and had my penis shaved.  Yet I feel that the obscenity of the experience
is mine alone.  And it is, it is.  Frieda is guiltless.  She is a woman. 
She's helping me, restoring my nature.

   I have a revelation.  I've never understood the shame of sex, though
I've felt it keenly.  I feel it now in a way, don't I?  Why does an
instinct of the body lead to guilt?  Suddenly I understand it.  Pouring out
my mind to Frieda, I see where guilt begins.  It begins in our brazen male
history of lying to women, of denying to their faces the thing we never
truly doubted: that the right to rule us is theirs from birth.  Put
yourself in the hands of women, pull down your vanity for them, trample
your pride (or let a woman do it), and you will no longer feel your desires
as shame.  The shame is in the hiding, not in the penis you hide.  If you
think your penis yours, you're washed in guilt.  Know it to be hers and
you're acquitted.  You may be erect and quaking with need, but if you feel
the helplessness of it, the humility, and know that it's the need to serve
a woman, your shame will evaporate.  The woman who makes you hard will lend
you her innocence.

   Frieda is purging me.  She's cleaning me up.  We talk for a long time. I
reveal, Frieda looks down at me with her penetrating glance and absorbs it.
Once in a while she coaxes me deeper, she spreads some veil in me and
floods the private place with light.  She questions me until I am exact. 
Then she says, Go on.  At many points, I think I have overstepped.  I'm
terrified of being expelled from this woman's presence and denied the gift
of her wonderful tyranny.

   I can imagine fucking her.  I have no right, but I can imagine it.  For
a few second at any rate.  If I had to choose between fucking her or
worshipping her pussy with my mouth, I wouldn't hesitate to choose the
latter.  That's completely true.  But I can imagine fucking her and the
thought does make my heart pound.  So I tell her.  Fucking makes man and
woman equal.  But I'm a slave and that's how Frieda wants me.  I think I've
confessed too much.  But I go on about it, and - this one time!  - she
interrupts.

   I think, that's it.  I'm in disgrace.  I can vow to carry off her tampon
in my teeth, but saying I want to fuck her is going too far down the path
of arrogance.  Frieda interrupts.  Her tone is flat, informative.  I'm
truly in terror.

   "There's a little semen on your penis-tip," she says.  "You must make it
your business to hold it in." I beg her pardon.  I didn't know I was
wetting myself.  But she doesn't condemn, she

   captivates.  "You'll have your chance to drench the place," she says. 
"Now go on."

   I feel I should clarify what I said about fucking her.  I'm a man, yes,
but a man enslaved.  I assure her that I love my state.  "If I had to
choose," I say...but the reader has already heard me on this subject.  I
return to my required reverie.  I've been over Frieda's body and in and out
of it.  I begin again.  I drift.  I imagine Toni, whom I have never seen
undressed, and my gorgeous sister, Pam.  I review the charms of Michelle
Pfeiffer and Christie Turlington and Amber Valletta.  I'm nearly empty, I'm
nearly dull.  I go on, because Frieda isn't in it for the excitement.

   She's not excited.  Her only possible pleasure in this can be the
confirmation of her mastery of yet another male.  What a delight for a
woman of her accomplishment!

   And I feel like a man who, after confessing to several murders, starts
spilling the beans about his deplorable sloth.  I have nothing more to
spill.  It seems like hours since we started.  I've had an erection most of
this time.  No erection has ever felt so permanent.  I'm in the state of
nature.  My mind is in ruins.  I feel Frieda, its conqueror, rummaging
through the debris, and a wave of profound happiness rises in me.  This is
bliss.

   I never want to come.  It doesn't matter any longer.  Or it does: I
definitely don't want to come.  I think I'm not able to want anything. 
Frieda - yes, and Toni - can do my wanting for me.

   Frieda takes the first step.  As it happens, she says that she wants me
to come.

   end of part three