Message-ID: <6255eli$9712101233@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) Subject: RP Estragon's Memories 5/7 femdom Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19971209183101.NAA19951@ladder01.news.aol.com> RP Estragon's Memories 5/7 Femdom When we got home, with Richard piled up with our bundles, we would try on our new things. First, we'd have him strip. By then he had the bend-when-you're-hard rule like a habit. We wouldn't have to say a thing. We'd turn our backs and look again and there was naked, swollen Richard, in a submissive L-posture. At this point we might remind him of how the day was sure to end with a close encounter between soft male and hard female. We'd have him open our bags and hand us things, and we'd change into them right in the room, with our backs to him of course. He'd get to see our bra-straps and sometimes our panties from behind, and if it was underwear we'd bought, then he'd see our naked backs and even our buttocks. But he'd pay for these incredible privileges later on with some truly painful, very focused cracks of a ruler or spoon or whatever implement seemed promising to his penis and balls. Sometimes we resorted to our tried and true pepper-sauce-followed-by-a-stiff-brushing technique, which had made such a strong impression on the younger lads. This treatment made Richard ejaculate great gushes of sperm which Leila and I sometimes had to dodge, it came jetting out so suddenly. Then we'd end the day with a kneeing, which he took all the harder because he was already worn out and milked, and because, since it had gotten late, we couldn't allow him a lot of recovery time. Richard told us that for days after such treatment his penis would be so raw it was a torture for him even to have clothes on. He couldn't even touch it to pee, let alone to jerk off, despite the fact that it got hard. When he had to pee, he said, he'd just hang over the toilet-bowl pretty much the way he bent low for us, so that his penis would be aimed downward. Once we knew this, naturally we'd force him on such days to masturbate for us: he'd do it with tears in his eyes, but he'd shoot plenty of gunk all the same. Over the space of a couple of months we satisfied years of curiosity with Richard's help - or helplessness - and that of another college-boy we also gave time to, Danny, a big bruiser with a hairy body (until we smeared it all over with Nair) who fell for us hard (I mean literally, once we got our knees up) and who had a hilarious curved penis, the poor thing. But I can't get started on that here, I'm sorry to say, because the story of Bob still has to be told, and that was the original point of all this other stuff. Suffice it to say that, between Richard and Danny, Leila and I got to experience just about all the things we contemplated in our private "If you had a penis" game. I even got my piggy-back ride on a naked male's shoulders, and more than once too. It meant so much to the fellows to feel my hardness resting shamelessly against their necks, digging in, making them bend their heads beneath my strong, irresistible mound. Leila never ran out of ideas, but maybe her most brilliant idea was the "solid gold enema." This was as close as we'd come to truly fucking a guy, filling HIM with liquid of ours, she said. We'd collect our pee in the douche-bag. We had to do this before Richard or Danny showed up. We'd make sure to have lots of liquids, juice, coffee, water, and then we'd pee it all into a big bowl with a pouring-lip. Leila would hold the bowl under me, and then I would hold it under her. We genuinely enjoyed peeing this way in front of one another. We'd make jokes about the color and the sound of the pee as it rose in the bowl. Then we'd fill the douche-bag with it. When Richard showed up, we'd have him undress and we'd stick his penis up against his abdomen with a narrow strip of duct-tape. Then he'd have to lie face-down on the floor, but with one of those fuzzy, sisal doormats under his middle. This way the underside of his penis and his balls would be able to enjoy the wonderful irritating sensation of the doormat pricking and pressing into them. Then Leila would sit on his thighs and I would straddle his back facing her. We'd push down on his buttocks a few times to make sure the doormat was digging in and chafing him. Then Leila would insert the nozzle of the douche-bag up Richard's ass - the fat, long douche-nozzle too, not the cute little enema spout - and start to fill him up with our very superior four-star gold-pale pee. The sweet girl-liquid streaming into him always made him press his middle downward, by reflex I guess, because this only brought the prickly mat to his pained attention and he would then lift himself back into the nozzle, which reminded him that being fucked was no treat either. When the bag was empty, Leila would stop up Richard's hole with the butt-plug and advise him to squeeze himself tight and "feel Erica and me sloshing around your insides." "Isn't it a beautiful thing, Richie," Leila would say, "to feel the gift of the girls you love deep within your body?" Richard would give a dutiful thanks, which Leila wouldn't pay attention to. "Isn't nature beautiful and mysterious?" she'd say. "What profound joy it must be giving you, Richie Rich, to have our precious fluids churning up all this new life inside you. Soon, sweet boy, you'll be having...you'll be having...our pee, by God! It makes me so proud." Richard was too uncomfortable to agree, but we could hear the watery groan inside him. "It burns," he whispered. "Don't think about it, darling," Leila said. "Dig into the mat, why don't you? Feel those fibers against your manly parts. That should get you through." We'd keep sitting on him and enjoying the sight of his writhing and the amusing ride we were getting from it. Every squirm, every twitch and cramp, made Richard feel like a boat tossing on a girl-made sea. After a long time, as his agony grew and his heaving became more and more violent, we'd let him race off to the bathroom in a mad, twisted sort of dash, his buttocks and thighs squeezing for dear life. "But it IS beautiful," Leila said softly to me while Richard was gone. "To have him like this, to have done this.... You have to look at it the right way. As a wonderful, good thing. What could be wrong about it? Richard is so happy in his pain, so sure it's the way things are meant to be, and he'll remember it all his life, just as he says he will. Some day, when he's married and has children, little girls maybe, he'll be watching them play and his mind will drift back to us, the little girls who weren't so little who put the damage on him. Whether he wants it or not, his mind will come back to us. I'm so happy to have done it, Erica. And to have you with me doing it." She took my hand and brought it to her lips. "Life is beautiful," she said. I noticed her eyes. They were shining, and totally sincere. end of part five Estragon: "Memories of Underdevelopment," VI (femdom) [Author's note: Nobody is more surprised than I at the expansiveness of Erica's story. I was sure it would be done with the present chapter, but as it happens there's another to come. Girls are so resourceful, and they have such an eye for detail. I suppose that's part of being feminine. Let's remember, too, that Erica is almost twenty-four now, and more willful than ever. And what is the humble author to do then but follow her wishes?] (copyright 1996, 1997 Estragon Productions for adults only) One day Leila said, "If we keep this up much longer we'll turn Richie's Fricks into fricassee." Leila was getting interested in cooking around then. We'd been roughing up college-boys several times a week for a couple of months now. The challenge was gone, the surprise, and our confidence about our ability to control any male was at an all-time high. We weren't really worried about the damage we were doing to anyone's balls. First of all, we didn't care one way or the other terribly much. But we also knew we were within safe range. Leila showed me this book she'd found in a "special store" one day - I don't know how they let a minor like her into the place, but there they were, one copy for me, one for her. It was called, "Letters To Jane: Advice to a Young Lady on the Training and Testing of the Other Sex." It was fresh and smelled of ink, but it was designed to look old. On the cover was a drawing of an older man kneeling before a pair of very young girls in riding-clothes, and there were many similar drawings inside - of men kneeling or lying at the feet of girls, but also close-up drawings of various techniques girls could use on men, including several illustrating what the book called "Knee Culture," drawn from various angles and at various stages along the way, a little like freeze-frame close-ups. One drawing, for instance, showed a man's testicles just at the point when a girl's knee is going into them, all crushed and spread out around her knee-cap on every side. Leila and I undressed and lay across her bed in our usual way, and she held a copy of the book above our heads and turned the pages, stopping of course to read aloud and comment frequently, while I rested my hand on her mound and ran my fingers through her pubic hair and let one of them slip in and out of her vadge. "They actually sold you this?" I said. "They were reluctant," she said, "but I called attention to the title and the obvious age of the girls in the pictures and pointed out that I was a young lady if ever there was one, and I even told them my name was Jane. So finally they said okay." The book dealt with the question of injury to a guy's mommies, going into all sorts of detail about it and what does and what doesn't cause it. But it also said (I have the book right here, I still keep it in my secret box, along with photos of Leila in the nude and other such things) - it also said that "The principal purpose of knee culture is to emancipate a young lady..." - Leila said "emancipate" was a pun - "to emancipate a young lady from every solicitude..." - we had to look that one up - "...from every solicitude for man's comfort and safety, so that, strictly speaking, the possibility of injury to him should be of no concern to her." But then it went on to give all kinds of guidelines and signs to watch for if you wanted to, but the bottom line was that, if a guy was still having hard-ons and shooting sperm afterwards, things were all right. And our guys were having and shooting a-plenty. So that wasn't an issue. The truth is, we were getting into a rut. There was no avoiding it. The great fun is in the first stages of pussy-whipping, when the male is still confused and ashamed, and you set him to fighting on your side against himself. (That's what the Jane-book said too.) Where's the actual pussy-whip, to bring up that old question again? HE - the guy - he's the whip. And little by little he humiliates himself for you, and then maybe you pile it on a bit, testing him, pushing the envelope, raising the ante, whatever. But sooner or later you're there. He's all yours. For a while, especially if you're fifteen like Leila and me, you use him to satisfy your curiosity about this and that - like, you make him masturbate standing on one leg, trick stuff of that kind - but after a while it becomes a routine, with more in it for him than for you. And that's when you have to drop it. "Enough of these guys," Leila said. "That's cool," I said. So we sat Richard down - I mean, we let him undress first, his last exposure to his fantasy-girls - and told him it was over. He asked was there anything he could do, anything at all? We told him he could get down on his knees and beg, and when he did we took some photos of it. Then we told him if he didn't disappear totally from our lives we'd make sure the photos circulated at his college. He said we could circulate them wherever we liked, that would be fine ("fine" was his favorite word), if only we'd keep him as our slave. But we said no way, not interested, good-bye. We didn't thank him or tell him it was great or any such thing. Just asked him to leave now. "Good-bye, Richard," Leila said. We did the same with Danny and then we were free. We felt terrific about it. For a long time, weeks and weeks, we'd just do things together, shop, go for walks and to coffee-shops and to shows, even pay a visit to the music store and tease up the lads. Maybe once we brought a young one home with us and caused him to respect us, but mostly we stuck to ourselves. We had plenty of sex with one another, and for a time cunnilingus seemed the only thing worth living for, and vadges and clits the only sex-organs on earth. Other than breasts, that is. Breasts were things of unbelievable beauty. Who could have imagined them, yet there they were in all their pride and perfection, and it was a privilege to have them. As to have vagdges and the rest, of course. But penises were just what they looked like: not real organs, but items stuck on at the last minute that you couldn't take seriously. For a time we didn't even play our "If you had a penis game" when we nuzzled one another's folds and annies. (Annies, as anyone could guess, is what we started calling our anuses, and from that we ended up calling them our Orphans - which was very apt, because at that time we were so caught up in cunnilingus that every now and then we had to call one another's attention to our neglected rosebuds.) We were happy in our world of female things and in one another's complete attention and love. "It must mean we're lesbians," I said one day. "Do you think?" "Who cares?" Leila said. And that was true. But by mid-winter we drifted back into the penis-game. Not at the expense of our other doings, but it was back again all the same. We'd lie side by side, flicking one another's clit, and imagining aloud certain desirable acts with older males and even reminiscing about "great moments in college-sports." But we weren't hectic about it. We'd proved ourselves. When the time was right, we could mobilize our forces in a flash. There was no hurry. Some time early in February I was in a camera-shop, wanting to get myself a Polaroid like Leila's. But the clerk wasn't very helpful and didn't want to explain the different models, and I was thinking about taking my business elsewhere when this customer everyone in the place seemed to know interfered. He was probably around forty-five, definitely older than my dad anyhow, with a little too much hair on his head and face, all of it turning gray. His skin, what I could see of it, was leathery, what I would call out-doorsy. He wasn't that thin either, but he had an active look - leather jacket and jeans and cowboy boots - and he was wearing a big-time camera around his neck. "I know all about Polaroids," he told me. "I use them for test shots." So he helped me pick out a camera, and then he told me I was awfully beautiful and ought to be on the other side of the lens and that he was the one to arrange it if I ever wanted to be. Then he pulled out his card, which proved he was a professional photographer - "Bob Byrrhe Studio, Faces, Fashion and Figures," it said - and he remarked that my face was truly beautiful and exotic and he would love to photograph it. I was in a short fur jacket, jeans that made it obvious I was a girl and high winter boots, and his eyes kept dropping to my mound-level while he went on about my delicate features. "I've always thought Chinese women the most beautiful in the world," he said. I told him actually I was Korean and he said, "Well, I meant...,you know,...Asian women. Chinese, Japanese, Korean....Ah, Vietnamese also,...and Ties, Thighs...from, you know, Thailand.... I meant Asian." He said he'd pay me a hundred dollars for a couple of hours, which seemed like a lot to a kid like me. He told me to think about it, and said that I wouldn't have to come alone, that it was normal for there to be a chaperone, that that was how professionals did it. "Even your mom," he said, "your mom would be okay, or your sister, whatever." But maybe not a male, he said. He found that male chaperones made models - he really stressed this word, all professional and flattering - he should only have known what it meant to Leila and me - male chaperones made models uncomfortable. "Even face-models?" I asked with some disbelief, and Bob said, "Oh, sure." "I'll discuss it with my mom," I said. I discussed it with Leila. We agreed that Bob probably was hoping to snap some shots of other things than my face. We weren't taken in at all. We didn't think Bob was going to make me a big star or any such thing. "Even though you're gorgeous enough," Leila said, throwing her arms around me, then running her hand softly over my hair and face and right down across my breasts. "You should talk, Miss Knockout," I said, and kissed her on the lips while I reached a hand down to her vadge. Soon we were on the bed, our usual conference-place. The question, Leila said, was what was in it for us - aside from the money, of course, which by the way wasn't nearly enough, in Leila's opinion. But what was in it was a new level of power, with a middle-aged man, a little heavy-set and..."Didn't you say hairy?" Leila said. "The whipping of our dreams," I said. "But I have to clear my thoughts about humiliation going the other way. I mean, I'll just be a naked girl, and there'll be pictures and, come on, what do men do with pictures of girls?" "Worship them?" Leila said. "Reminisce about how sweet it was to be pussy-whipped by the Korean goddess in the picture...and her...ah, chaperone?" As for the nakedness itself, Leila said women shouldn't think about it in the same terms men do. Of course it would be a world-class privilege for Bob Byrrhe to see it, but he'd certainly pay with more than money. But it wouldn't be humiliating to me as long as I remembered that it was part of my girl-power. That was something Leila kept drumming home. Nakedness reveals a man's helpless nature completely, which means it puts him under the control of the person he's naked for. Males always want to see naked females because they imagine that it will get them past the mystery of femininity, that they'll find out the big secret and have their own share of control too. They know it doesn't work, but they keep trying. It's just an extension of their staring-mania. But a female is never naked the way a male would be, even when he's staring right at her, trying to enter her with his eyes. We don't have anything to betray us. And, for that matter, we don't have anything to betray. She ticked off the factors. What if he DOES finally see you without your clothes? Do you have an erection? He does, just seeing you, but do YOU? Do your balls hang there waiting to be cracked? Your breasts turn out to be as mysterious naked as covered. He has nipples too, but his just look funny and wrong, whereas yours are beautiful. "And what does Œbeautiful' mean," Leila said, "except, ŒI can't explain it, I can't penetrate it, it just wipes me out'?" Your vadge and things are folded away and covered by your triangle anyhow. He gets to see your triangle, but what does that do except make him realize how poorly protected he is compared to you? So you're naked, but you're not - not the way he means it. He's just as baffled and just as frustrated as ever - more maybe, because where's he going to go from here? Leila said for that matter she didn't think stripping was such a degrading thing for a woman to do for a living, the way some people thought. "I mean, bunches of men are gawking at you, just sitting there with big eyes and wide-open mouths, looking ridiculous and thinking, ŒShit, she's giving me a hard-on. I'd better give her money.'" As long as you remember who's controlling who, Leila said, there's nothing humiliating about posing nude. "Whatever a guy thinks he's going to get, it's going to be a more wicked tease-up in the end. You'll be just as far away, more far away, than if you were dressed. He'll get hard, his pants will bulge, he'll sweat and stutter, and fifteen-year-old Erica, without any clothes on, will be cool and powerful and totally hidden." It sounded good. So I called up Bob after a few days of making him wait and said yes, I'd pose, but there would have to be more money, twice the amount anyhow. And he was so happy to hear that I'd do it, he was slurring his words in his watering mouth, and he said, Sure, two hundred, whatever. So I said "Whatever" too, and we made the date. Both Leila and I chose our clothes carefully, with every eventuality in mind. I went for the school-girl approach - white shirt, plaid kilt, tights, but my favorite boots with heels - while Leila, who was sexier than me in all honesty, did up her charms in a close-fitting sweater and jeans so tight they came within a tenth of an inch of separating her lips. And Leila's boots had higher heels than mine. Both of us wore the same kind of underwear now - very simple, very effective - white cotton bikini-panties and matching bras. We hated frilly things underneath: we thought they catered to men's fantasies of girls as frail little petals you could pinch between two fingers. We wanted panties and bras that brought out our femaleness, not our feebleness. Anyhow, whenever either of us dressed in front of the other, we'd always linger a while after putting on the underwear, simply because we loved the clean, sexy look of these things clinging perfectly to our contours, lean but strong, just like us. So that's how we dressed for our visit to Bob Byrrhe. Bob's studio was a loft filled with tripods and lights and reflecting-umbrellas. There was a short platform at one end and a high white partition in back of it hung with long, fat rolls of paper, or something like it, in several colors, black included, like so many swollen window-shades. The roll of white paper was pulled down and practically covered the entire platform. Of course there were cameras of all kinds, big accordion-style cameras and little thirty-fives, several set up already facing this skinny arm-chair waiting for me right in the middle of the platform. Bob was dressed pretty much the way he'd been the day we met: workshirt, jeans, cowboy-boots. It didn't look as if he'd gotten a hair- or beard-cut in the meantime. It was clear he was nervous. Leila was sure he'd been masturbating all week in anticipation of what might happen today. Now here I was, his Asian beauty, and here was her chaperone, who was a total bombshell (which he probably didn't expect), a fifteen-year old girl-kid who looked and acted as if she was carrying around all the power of all the beautiful women in the world in her little slim body. Leila affected Bob. She scared him and attracted him, and she was in ultra-bitchy mode besides - that was the plan - so they fell right into a sparring relationship. Leila stayed cool, but Bob kept shifting with her from hostile to obsequious and back. He got her a chair at the edge of the platform and asked me to sit in the arm-chair. He fussed a lot, kept saying, "Okay" and "That should do it" and "Just another minute, girls." He fiddled with lights and kept finding excuses to touch me, "To get the best angle, bla-bla-bla." He didn't hide the fact that when he did touch me - my head, for instance, or my face - he was in no hurry to let go. He even commented, appreciatively as they say, on my various assets. And he'd always be stealing glances at Leila, who was making a point of smiling at me and scowling at him, even when Bob gave her chicken-shit grins in return and offered her stuff to eat and drink. Between touching me and being fascinated and disturbed by Leila, Bob was getting pretty oafish. But he did manage to get some pictures taken, starting off sedately at a distance from me, using the big view-camera, and eventually getting closer, hovering over me, even spreading his legs and crouching practically on top of me, right over my thighs, so he could get "a high angle," talking professional-photographer mumbo-jumbo while I stared straight into the unprofessional erection he was getting from being so close. Sooner or later - big surprise! - Bob suggested I undo one or two buttons of my shirt. I gave him an indignant look, like the confused teen-ager I wasn't, and said I had thought, etcetera, etcetera, and he said, "It IS just a portrait, Erica, but, you know,...no offense now...but you're looking a little stiff, formal, you know." I glanced questioningly toward Leila and she said, "Just two, no more. Oh, and ten dollars a button." Bob looked truly surprised. He'd already handed over the two hundred because we insisted, and he'd put on this insulted look as he did it. Now he gave Leila and me the look again. But he wanted those buttons opened as if they'd give him a head-on view of my cunt itself, so he forked over the twenty dollars and I very shyly undid my shirt, making sure to keep the placket from spreading. That wasn't what Bob wanted, of course, so he asked me to show a bit more neck, and then a bit more - "Come on, Erica, work with me" - and, what do you know, there appeared just within view the very top of my bra-cups. What a nice surprise for Bob! I pretended to be disconcerted by what I'd let him see, and Bob kept trying to tell me it was cool and didn't amount to much. But soon he was asking for a little more bra and another opened button, and Leila was answering my hesitant expression by saying, "Just remember, Bob, buttons get more expensive as you go down." Bob complained a little, but not much. >From time to time I'd say, "I don't know about this," but soon I was entirely unbuttoned, and now the issue was how much for taking off the "blouse," as Bob called it. "I really don't know about this," I said. "I mean, this isn't what we talked about." "Erica, dearie, don't insult me," Bob said. "I'm a professional. I look at girls and women all the time. Do you think I haven't seen dozens of kids like you in their bras? In less?" Leila called Bob over to her. It was wonderful. She just reached up and planted her hand on his bulging penis. "Very professional," she said with disgust while Bob gasped. "Erica, let's go." So then Bob started apologizing profusely and pleading with us to stay. Then he shifted from apologizing to justifying. Men got erections around pretty girls. So what? It wasn't voluntary and there was nothing he could do about it. So what did that mean, that he should give up being a photographer? Maybe only faggots should be allowed to photograph girls? Guys who didn't care for them much. Would that be better? And so on. Then he started apologizing profusely again, sounding full of remorse. Then he offered Erica a "sweet deal" if she wanted to pose too. It was altogether clear that he was hung up on her, that hard, cool bitch-goddess who scared the shit out of him and made him crazy with sex. She wasn't Chinese, or a Thigh from Thailand, but he was wild and on the way to helplessness over her. Between her incredible looks and watching her work the room, it was making me wet too. Leila smiled wanly at Bob's offer and said nothing. And the session continued. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |