From: an356608@anon.penet.fi

   Reply-To: an356608@anon.penet.fi

   Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories

   Subject: I Meet Toni's Mom, IV/4 (femdom)

   Date: Sun, 24 Sep 1995 03:11:03 UTC

   Organization: Anonymous forwarding service

   Message-ID: <031302Z24091995@anon.penet.fi>

   I Meet Toni's Mom, IV

   (for adults only)

   "You've done well," Frieda tells me.  "For a first day, you've done
well. This is ground we have to go over again and again.  Today we've
broken it.  It's still full of clods.  Week after week we'll revisit it,
break up the clumps." I'm not surprised that she says all this without
enthusiasm.  I'm just another male, a boy with a boy's coarse hunger.  I'm
a willing slave, yes, I'm desperately eager to please.  But to Frieda
that's not a lot of news.  "You think you've been raked over today," she
says, then smiles.  She's seen a look in me.  "You like that image, raked?"
she asks.  "Yes," I squeak.  Frieda gives me a kind smile.  "Here," she
says, and effortlessly extends her leg so that the high, slender heel of
her shoe comes to rest above my navel.  Smoothly, she draws her leg
downward, not too fast, and her heel scratches its way down my belly, into
my thinned-out pubic hair.  I'm hoping it will dig straight into my erect
penis and be hindered by my circumcision, maybe leave a fresh scrape there
as it tries to get unstuck.  But in the course of things it knocks my penis
aside and goes skating down my groin.  Frieda makes sure, though, that it
leans into my testicles, and they bulge up to meet it.  None of this takes
long.  It's all an affectionate gesture on her part, a way of being nice to
me.  It's condescension pure and simple, the equivalent, in the case of a
man enslaved, of a goodly pat on the head.  The proof is that she does me
the quick favor of actually re-positioning her heel deep in the middle of
my scrotum and then prying under each of my testicles in turn.  There's
nothing clumsy or approximate about her movements.  Frieda is in deft
control.  On this woman's foot, a narrow length of heel is an intimate,
fine instrument.  She gives my left testicle a final nudge and withdraws
her foot.  I feel even more naked, if such a thing is possible, sitting
stock still as the ache she's caused me in her kindness spreads through my
groin.  Somewhere within I sense the impulse to cringe and cover up, but
it's faint, it's weak.  I stay as I am, as I've been for hours, leaning
backwards a little, resting on my hands, which are firmly planted behind
me, my legs at right angles, one vertical, one flat on the floor, both
knees bent - the posture of perfect exposure.  Frieda sees all of me.  She
sees the wonderful, resonant pain in my balls. "As I say," she resumes as
though there's been no pause, "you've made a good beginning.  Each time you
visit you'll go deeper.  You'll work for me.  Sometimes as a model,
sometimes as an errand-boy, sometimes as a porter.  Your payment will be
the work itself and the fact that you will be allowed to perform mot of it
naked in the presence of Toni and me.  Sometimes I will display your
enslavement to other women and girls, friends of mine and their daughters,
and, on the occasions when I teach a drawing or photography class, I'll
probably employ you there.  And if I do, there's a good chance I'll be very
open with my pupils about the terms of your employment.  Frankly, I'm more
interested in clueing my sisters into their power than I am in teaching
them how to hold a stick of charcoal.  It doesn't sound like a bad life,
does it?" "Certainly not, ma'am," I say, "It sounds like heaven, at least
for me.  Frankly," I venture, "I don't see what's in it for you.  I mean, I
guess it's pleasing to a woman to have her power over a man confirmed.  But
you've had so much of that.  I can tell you haven't a doubt left.  And
maybe it's gratifying to bring other women around.  I can see that, and I'd
feel privileged to help.  You and your daughter have brought me such
happiness, such relief from the lies of masculinity." I'm really pulling
out the stops.  My heat is melting with love - for Frieda, for Toni, for my
sister and women-cousins, and for all the self-respecting women on earth.
"Women, women," I want to cry out, "tell me that you know the truth!" I
tell Frieda this is my wish. "I'll do everything," she says, "to give you
the chance." I thank her earnestly.  "But still, dear ma'am," I say, a
little shy that I've attached the uninvited adjective, "still, what IS in
this for you?  It seems like sheer charity to me.  I gain so much.  But
you?" "Men and women are very different species," she says.  "YOU see a
woman and her features drive you wild.  You go haywire for the legs she
walks on.  You stammer at a pair of breasts.  I don't have to go on.  It's
not exactly your fault.  You're made to feel helpless at these things.  And
you know my views about the way you look for loopholes.  That IS your
fault, of course, but at least we're setting this boy straight.  In any
case, a woman isn't that way.  Even for the most sheepish woman, if she
sees an erection, what she likes is not the pitiful thing itself, but the
fact that it's for her.  A strong woman isn't so different.  She just knows
better what 'for her' means." She asks if I'm following all this. "I am,
angelic ma'am," I say.  Frieda rolls her eyes at this effusion of my golden
tongue. "Okay.  So I get off on the MEANING of what happens to your body. I
believe I've said all this before.  In any case...." She seems to be
stalling.  Should she tell me anything more or not?  We're getting too
close to something.  That's how I read her hesitation.  "Okay," she tries
again.  "All my life, it's been my power that's made me wet.  Please excuse
the vulgarity.  My point is that I do have a body.  As a young girl, when I
noticed how at will I could make men squirm, of course it registered in my
vulva.  When I became more direct with men, I didn't become less heated. 
The meaning makes me glisten.  Now as ever, although I admit the lectures I
have to give, the tricks I have to play, have gotten a little wearying. 
Still, we women are a sex and, even if our organs aren't as preposterous as
yours, we've been given one little organ capable of bringing us peace. 
Each woman has to figure out how to use it for herself.  Alas, this usually
involves assistance from one of you.  You louts are all we have.  We have
our tragedies." I'm enthralled on still another level.  With Frieda's
complexity, and with her charm.  "Late tonight," I suddenly hear her say,
"I will ask Toni to fetch her dad to my room.  He'll strip before his
daughter and she'll lead him to me.  Toni will leave us and I will give my
husband various directions.  When he's obeyed, I'll have him kneel at the
foot of my bed.  At such a time I give no further orders.  I can't conceive
of actually commanding a man to be intimate with my body.  The trespass
must be all his.  But my husband knows what to do and is overjoyed to take
the blame.  Without another command from me, he will place his mouth on my
vagina and patiently adore me with it.  While he's at it, I'll probably
report to him the highlights of my day with you.  To remind him that I have
many servants, and, frankly, to arouse myself." "Does it not arouse him
too, if you don't mind my asking?" "Ah.  That brings me to the final phase
of our afternoon.  A brief phase.  I mentioned that before I allow Toni's
dad to approach me, I ask certain things of him.  Actually I ask only one
thing of him, but I ask him to repeat it until I'm satisfied he's reached
capacity.  I ask him to empty himself of every egoistic desire.  Even if
it's a desire that would also give me pleasure, I ask him to expel it.  I
want him to be entirely an accomplice to my pleasure.  I don't want my
pleasure to be a coincidence on the way to his." I ask her how he can empty
himself of such things at will.  "It's actually the simplest thing in the
world," Frieda says.  "All he has to do is rid himself of every ounce of
semen in his loins.  He simply has to ejaculate and ejaculate again, and to
keep on doing it until he's exhausted.  You can imagine." I can imagine,
and I say so.  "Of course," Frieda says, "the first round is usually a
pleasure to him, although I do what I can to minimize it.  I mean, I don't
behave in a way to arouse him.  I don't touch him.  I don't help.  I have
him stand with his back to me - he has to do it standing - and to
masturbate.  I busy myself with other things.  I read, I think.  At some
point, having not paid much attention to his labors, I instruct him to
come. He does it - he's had years of practice - on the dot.  He'd never
dream of letting go on his own.  'Okay, come,' I say, and out it shoots. 
There's a receptacle waiting there for it.  He's a man.  He makes noise, he
cries out.  I say, 'That's all right, dear, but save your energy.' I give
him a minute to recover and then have him do it again.  It's harder now for
him to do it at the same pace, but he never knows just when I'm going to
call the shot, so he's on his toes.  And he IS on his toes much of the
time, because I think it makes the strain that much greater for him.  He
comes a second time, a little less festively, and then I demand it again.
And again.  He has to exert himself more and more as his zest for
masturbation wanes.  When his penis goes dry and his orgasm thins down,
he's ready.  By this time he's aching and drenched in sweat.  Then he's
allowed to risk some cunnilingus.  The only pleasure he's getting is the
pleasure of serving.  No erection, no will at all.  When he's serviced me,
I usually reproach him for daring to and dream up some penalty." Frieda
tells me that I will be treated similarly in the future.  I'll have to jerk
off when I arrive.  She or Toni will probably supervise.  But it won't be a
sexy ceremony.  I'll have a receptacle and one of the mistresses will call
out when it's time for me to come.  She assures me that they'll be
forebearing until I've had some practice.  I'll have a grace period after
I'm ordered to spurt.  Several seconds.  I don't hear this with a lot of
relief.  I'll do it again, and again, until my muscles ache and my penis is
raw and I'm drained dry.  Only then will I be fit to work, because I'll be
doing it for the sake of working. But today will be different, Frieda
explains.  "Today you'll ejaculate before my eyes so I can gauge your
capacity.  You'll do it several times, lying on the floor, kneeling, and
standing.  That will give me enough of an idea.  It's getting late.  But
you won't shoot until you're told." I haven't wanted this, but it sounds
pretty good.  Frieda tells me to lie on my back on the floor at her feet.
I've been holding my posture for so long that it aches a bit to leave it.
But stretching out is a relief.  She instructs me to begin, to masturbate
the way I normally do.  She's seen all of me, and I find I can do this
intimate thing without much embarrassment.  I'm so excited that I doubt
that I can hold the first flood in.  I move very slowly, to minimize the
chance of uncalled-for eruption.  I'm full of questions at the same time.
Should I make sounds?  Should I suppress them?  Should I just pump up and
down the way women probably expect a man to masturbate, or should I let go
and do the funny things, like wagging my penis frantically or bending it
forcibly from side to side, that we men use to embellish a private session?
I decide that I must do the job exactly as I would at home.  I groan, I
squeak, I slap my penis around a little, I bend it mercilessly against its
inclination, down over my balls and toward each of my thighs.  "Spread your
legs wide," Frieda softly commands, and when I've done it she inserts the
point of her shoe under my testicles, pressing it into the flesh beneath.
My balls are resting on the vamp as she digs.  "I'm introducing a new
rule," she announces.  "I'm sure this won't be easy.  But do it and I'll
let you off after your third ejaculation.  Just for today, I mean." I can
barely hold myself together now.  How will I obey a hard new rule?  I don't
raise this point to Frieda. "I've seen this work with other men," she says.
"I will think well of you if you can do it." "I'll do everything in my
power, ma'am," I promise in my hoarse masturbator's voice. "You have no
power," Frieda drily reminds me.  "But let's see how you do.  When I order
you to come, I'll try to goad you with my foot at the same time.  Like
this." She goads me.  The shock hurries to my prostate.  My penis gives a
massive twitch.  It's a wonder I don't come right then.  I've really
acquired more obedience than I think.  I try to slow the inevitable down by
letting up on my penis.  Frieda won't allow it.  So I'm at cross-purposes,
jerking off as you do when you're aiming to come, and pulling tight every
vague muscle I have a feel of, in the hope of stalling the gust I haven't
been commanded to release. And won't be commanded to either.  Because what
Frieda has in mind is a staggered ejaculation.  Each time she goads me,
I'll have to let a single spurt go and then somehow pull back.  I wonder if
it's possible.  I don't believe it is.  I'm so afraid of disappointing her
that I express my doubts aloud.  "Don't worry," Frieda says.  "I've done it
many times.  I'm here to be strong for you." I go on masturbating and she
watches and now and then digs her shoe into my perineum or under my
testicles.  It hurts and it's exquisite.  I pray that she'll give me my
orders soon.  Every time she shifts at all I jump expectantly.  Then she
does it.  I've expected it to be sudden and urgent, but it's not.  Frieda
is in no hurry.  I'm the one in need.  Yet she's being kind to me,
considering my fragile organism and my fear of hair-trigger ejaculation. 
"All right," she says slowly, with great deliberation.  "I'm ready for you.
Please give me one jet of semen." The point of her shoe does its work.  Up
in my prostate there's pandemonium. But no defiance of the lovely mistress.
The riot is on behalf of perfect submission.  A single rush of semen flies
from my penis.  Frieda's shoe retreats and I compress my abdomen furiously.
And the spout is stopped.  I can't in the least guess how long I'm lying
there, still masturbating, in suspended ejaculation.  The shoe stabs again.
Frieda, offering the help she's promised, says, "Another, please." In my
fever I still discern the sweetness and femininity of her voice.  I want no
give between what it utters and what I do.  Who on this earth would not
want to answer that voice with perfect obedience at any cost?  I release
another jet of semen and set the dam again.  I don't know exactly how I'm
doing it.  It feels exhausting. The sweet voice says "Another." It's soft
and confident that it will have its request.  It does.  My semen follows a
splendid trajectory.  I note this and then feel a vague sadness.  I'm
struggling hard to come and not to come on command, of course.  My feelings
may be deranged.  But I'm sorry to recognize that a part of me still wants
to be impressive.  After all this.  What a cropper!  To notice at all the
flight of one's stupid come. "Another," Frieda quietly urges.  She presses
into me and I gratefully deliver what she's ordered, no more and no less,
on cue. 
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
-