{Estragon} Serving Young Girls (femdom)

[Ole Joe]

From: an35...@anon.penet.fi (Estragon)
Reply-To: an35...@anon.penet.fi
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Serving Young Girls I/6 (femdom)
Date: Sat, 23 Sep 1995 19:17:07 UTC
Organization: Anonymous forwarding service
Message-ID: <192312Z...@anon.penet.fi>

Serving Young Girls, part one

(for adults only)

Back about fifteen years ago, when I was twenty-seven, my wife and I got
jobs on the newspaper of a small New England city. My wife's uncle had a
little feed business in the farm country about fifty miles away and we
began to visit him a lot. He was a widower with two adolescent daughters
whom he'd fathered in middle age. His store was demanding work, more and
more so as he aged, and he was grateful to have his niece and me there to
amuse the girls. The elder of them, Katie, became especially attached to
Helen and me and began to spend weekends with us in town. Jenny, two
years her junior, sometimes joined her as well. (For sisters, the girls
were a remarkable contrast: Katie, brunette, athletic, buoyant, Jenny,
golden blonde, fine-featured and delicate. Both were very pretty,
however, with wholesome, 4-H Club complexions.) The girls liked the
change of scene and the intellectual stimulation we provided, they liked
to eat at restaurants, and they liked joining Helen and me on assignments
- newspaper work struck them as glamorous. Once in a while, they'd bring
a friend along for the weekend: Katie brought a "boyfriend" once when she
was fourteen, and when Jenny was twelve she brought a classmate who
became so homesick we had to ask her parents to come and get her.

The year that Katie was fifteen and Jenny thirteen, we'd planned
a camping-trip for the Fourth of July weekend, and a friend of Jenny's,
Kristin, was due to join us. But at the last minute Helen was given one
of the rare assignments at the paper that required travel, and we called
the girls to cancel our outing. They wanted to visit anyhow, even though
they understood that we would have to stay in town since Helen was the
one with the camping-skills. I was a little uncomfortable about being
their sole host, and I even told them that I'd have some home-work to do
while they were here, but they pleaded not to cancel the visit since they
"really wanted Kristin to meet our cool cousin." So the visit was on, and
I racked my brain for ways to entertain the girls that would live up to
their promise to their friend.

Friday evening wasn't hard to manage: a nice, long dinner at a
restaurant and a late movie made the little ladies feel grown-up.
Dinner-conversation was ebullient, the movie very funny, and I
congratulated myself on having unsuspected paternal skills. Jenny's
friend seemed very comfortable. Kristin was a charmily polite youngster
with bright red hair and porcelain skin. She was tall and slender and
physically mature for a thirteen-year-old, with upright breasts and
sloping hips. She still had a school-girl face - all three girls did,
even Katie - but every now and then one saw a hint of the seductive
womanhood that was still some years off. I'm not attracted to young
girls, actually, except insofar as they give this hint, and even then
it's a mental attraction, but it was clear that Kristin was going to do
deep things to men one day. I had never really seen even Katie as
anything but a child with a few charming, precocious traits. Now, moved
by Kristin's paradoxical adolescence, I had to acknowledge something
feminine in Jenny and Katie too. But it didn't seem a good idea to dwell
on it.

The girls spent Saturday morning at the shops while I worked at
home. They came back for lunch in very high spirits. I told them that I
had a couple more hours of work ahead and then I would be all theirs.
They picked up my phrase. "Do you mean it?" Katie asked. "Do you mean
you'll be all ours?"

"Yes, I do. But what are you getting it?"

There was much giggling and embarrassment, but no answer. "You
said you would," Jenny rebuked Katie as Kristin nodded in confirmation.
"What did you promise?" I asked.

"Okay, okay," Katie said. "Here I go...!" And then the fastest
non sequitur I've ever heard: "It's just that none of us has seen a
grown-up's penis."

"Come again?"

"I mean, I've seen dad's," Jenny said, "but he's a little too
grown-up, oldish, you know, and he's not into it anyhow."

"You're saying I'd be into it, is that what you're saying?" No, I
don't want to make love to teenage girls, but I can imagine being naked
and obedient before them because that's the way I think men were meant to
be before women. But the prospect of being that way with THESE girls made
me very nervous. What if their families found out? And what if Helen
found out? Well, Helen had a dominant streak and might not mind. But why
was I even thinking dominance? All Katie had suggested was an anatomy
lesson. That's what scared me - that my own desires would run away with me.

"I'm not so sure about this," I said with a nervous laugh.

"Someone has to teach us," Katie said.

"We're not getting any younger," the charming Kristin said.

"What are you asking me to do?"

More giggling. "Just show us your penis is all," Jenny said.

"You mean, like, unzip my fly? I don't know. I'd feel like a
flasher near a school-yard. I mean, I want to show you if you want to
see, but...."

"Good," said Katie.

"I said I WANT to, but it makes me awfully nervous, awfully
uncomfortable, unzipping like that. It's coarse." I meant it. Somehow
just exposing my penis seemed dirtier than stripping totally naked, but I
didn't think they were ready for THAT. I imagined that that would be
going too far, getting too serious. They corrected this impression.

"Look," Jenny said, "there's this boy at home, Timmy, he's only
eleven, not very developed yet, but we make him take all his clothes off
for us and just stay that way for hours maybe."

"And we make him do whatever we want and show us everything that
happens to him," Kristin added in a tone of profound sincerity, as though
she were anxious to make a full disclosure.

"So you do get to see a naked guy," I said, disappointed that I
wouldn't be the first, but trying to sound relieved.

"But Timmy's not a grown-up," Katie said. "I measured his penis
with a tape-measure once when he got hard, and it was, like, four
inches." And then her voice got really sweet and girlish, "A grown-up is
bigger, I think, isn't he...aren't you?"

"When I'm not nervous," I said, "yes, I'm bigger than that. But
right now I'm very nervous and I think I'm going to stay this way."

"Goodie," Jenny said. "That would be fun, too. To see your tiny
nervous little thing."

Katie asked me what was making me so nervous, and I couldn't
really say. Fear of being found out, fear of simply doing something that
was wrong, against the law, immoral, I couldn't say. Yet I had absolutely
no intention of touching the girls in any way. All they wanted was a
lesson about the male body. Was that immoral? I couldn't think straight.
Katie made a proposal.

"Why don't we take it slow?" she said. "We have all day. We can
get you relaxed. Get him a beer." I didn't decline the offer. "Get him
some beer." Jenny went off to the kitchen. "You can have some beer and
relax, and maybe...." Her voice trailed off.

"Maybe what?" I asked, my own voice thin and shaky. I
particularly noticed Kristin's smile of pleasure, which my loss of
confidence and trembling voice provoked, I thought. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe you should get part-way naked now, get the process going,"
Katie explained. "You'll get down to your shorts and just stay like that,
have your beer, get used to being not completely dressed. Then you'll
have an easier time getting completely naked."

"You just want me hanging around in my shorts?"

"Sure," Katie said. "We'll chat, talk about the things we like to
talk about. Nothing special. Until you feel completely natural. Then the
shorts will come off and it will feel totally right."

"Is that how Timmy felt the first time?" I asked

"Absolutely," Kristin said. "I mean, once he was actually
undressed down to his underpants." She was so resolutely honest, that
girl. "'Cause it's true he didn't like it when we pinned him down and
stripped him the first time."

"You pinned him down?"

"He's just a little boy, really," Kristin explained. "We planned
it and got him over to my house and attacked. And we had real trouble
pulling off his shirt. He struggled like crazy. But by the time his jeans
were off - he wears those jockey kind of shorts - he had a little...a
little..."

"Erection?" I said. "Hard-on," Katie said.

"Yes, one of those," Kristin continued. "And he started to like
what we were doing. It was a riot. Jenny rubbed him there through his
shorts and he started to squirm and make funny noises. He was down on the
floor, squirming on the carpet in the living-room. We'd take turns
rubbing and squeezing his little thing and he'd be pushing into our hands
with it, and we'd start teasing him by pulling our hands away. And soon
he'de begging for them, and soon he was begging to be allowed to pull off
his underpants, but we said no, maybe we don't want to see any more of
his nastiness. And we weren't exactly lying either. I mean, we wanted to
see our effect on him more than anything else, and we were seeing it, you
know."

"He was so upset when we said that," Katie added, "that he
started crying. He was so frustrated. 'Please, girls,' he kept begging,
'you DO want to see me, don't you? Please let me take off my underpants
and be all naked for you. I'll do anything you tell me.' And we'd just be
commenting to one another about what dirty minds boys had."

I found myself unbuttoning my shirt while she spoke. My fingers
trembled badly as I did it, and I felt a chill come over me. But I knew
that I had to undress for the girls and I made myself do it. I tried to
be casual about it. I was just being a teacher, I told myself. But it
didn't really seem that simple. I understood perfectly what made little
Timmy beg to be naked after first struggling against it. I was having
chills, but I wasn't the "cool cousin" any more.

"So you're doing it?" Jenny asked.

"If you still want me to," I said, reaching the last visible
button and pulling my shirt-front up out of my pants. But Katie lept in
to help. "Allow me," she said, and yanked up my shirt-tails. "Now give me
your shirt," she said, and I obeyed. Her imperious tone thrilled me a
little. She was fifteen. I was twenty-seven.

Katie did most of the directing. She said that she wanted me
barefoot and told Jenny to take off my shoes and socks. I actually had to
lean on the girl to keep my balance while she did it. My shirt was off, I
was barefoot, standing before three young girls, one of whom had just
taken my shirt away from me and was now sitting again, another of whom
had just taken off my shoes and socks and was still standing nearby.
Kristin remained in her chair, smiling sweetly at me. The atmosphere had
changed in the room. "Undo your pants," Katie said in a firm, maternal
tone.

I desperately wanted to obey, but I was also beginning to panic.
The enormity of what I was doing hit me - and it seemed enormous just
because I so terribly wanted to do it. I was afraid that, once I was
stripped and had no hope of concealing my arousal, I would allow terrible
things to happen, things humiliating to me, things that I could never
repair. I fumbled with my belt, trembling like a leaf, a weakling in
front of girls who used to admire me. "Oh, Katie," I sighed, "I'm finding
this harder than I thought."

end of part one

Serving Young Girls, part two

(for adults only)

"Let me help," she said, and with a quick move undid my belt,
pulled it out of the loops and unbuttoned my pants and unzipped them.
"Let's get these off," she said soothingly, competently, nurse-like, "and
you'll feel a lot more comfortable." She tugged my jeans down over my
thighs and I did the rest. "Give them to Jenny," Katie said. "Jenny, give
him his beer." I drank gratefully, standing there in my shorts, taking
refuge in the heat of the alcohol as it entered my stomach. I thought
Katie must be a kind of genius, taking charge of my disrobing, causing me
embarrassment and yet protecting me from it at the same time, giving me
ways to hold on to a little male dignity without letting me retreat too
far from her power. The beer was a brilliant idea at this moment. So what
if I was in my underpants? I was still a guy swilling beer. Yet every
swig made me a little readier to go the distance.

"Tell me more about Timmy," I said, trying to be casual, trying
to take control of the conversation. But I was a nearly naked man in the
presence of three fully clothed girls. I wasn't fooling anyone. And all
the while the girls were changing in my eyes. They didn't seem like
children any longer, except in their refreshing eagerness to see the
novelty of a naked adult male. The balance of their adolescence had
shifted against childhood and in favor of womanhood. I took in Jenny and
Katie's female qualities as though for the first time. They had breasts,
after all, and hips, and their legs and underarms were shaved. Their hair
was the hair of females, carefully washed and brushed. Katie was wearing
a t-shirt and fairly snug denim shorts, Jenny was in a sleeveless shirt
and jeans, and Kristin was in a short, pretty sun-dress. I suddenly
noticed that Jenny and Kristin were wearing lipstick - I just hadn't
taken this in, although, like that of most adolescent girls, their choice
of color was not all that subtle. But the fact that they were wearing
lipstick at all made them seem like radically different kinds of being
from myself. Yes, they were far more like women than like kids. They have
hard pubic mounds under their clothes, I thought, and sweet-smelling
labia. They wear bras. They have periods....

I had become fully erect. Kristin noticed it first. They'd been
telling me more about Timmy - how they tormented him for a long time
before they let him strip for them, how they made him promise that he
would strip for them anywhere and any time if they let him do it then,
and how they once held him to this promise by taking him aside when he
was playing ball with his friends and making him strip completely behind
some shrubbery while his friends called out taunts about his being
pussy-whipped. I imagined that humiliated boy with envy, and then I was
erect. Kristin interrupted Katie's narrative. "Look," she said, pointing
at the prominence in my shorts.

"Then it's time," Katie said. I nodded. She and the other two
took their places on the couch and I was instructed to stand directly in
front of them. I was nervous, excited, very hard and very humble. In a
moment I would be stark naked.

"It's about to happen," Katie said. "Is everybody ready?" We all
murmured yes. "I'm going to lower your shorts slowly," she told me. "I'm
going to give you time to get used to it." She put her fingers in my
waist-band, at the sides, and gently drew my shorts down over my pubic
hair, stopping at the base of my stiff penis. Her hand jogged my organ
and I let out a little cry of pleasure which made the girls laugh.

"He has a lot more hair than Timmy," Jenny said.

Katie began to draw my shorts lower, bending my penis downward
and exposing it one inch at a time. The sensation was exquisite. She left
the glans covered for a few moments - I was so stiff, my shorts just
stayed in place - and ran her finger lightly down the exposed shaft. My
penis twitched, but in its tension couldn't break free of my waist-band.
She invited the other girls to touch "a grown-up penis for the first
time." Jenny made it twitch again. Kristin said it felt like hard rubber
and began to poke it down because she liked the way it tried to bounce
back up. She did this a few times, more and more vigorously, and then,
suddenly, my jigging organ was free of my shorts, which fell to my
ankles, and I was unhidden.

I felt a strange combination of joy and terror. I felt freed and
honest, and humble in the knowledge that the girls recognized only their
own handiwork in the condition I was in. THEY had taken my clothes from
me, THEY had made me erect. THEY could give me any command they wished.
We all knew this instinctively. It was plain in the way I stood before
them. It was plain in their easy postures as they sat gazing at me. I was
enormously excited, but also enormously embarrassed. For a few long
moments nobody did anything. I would have been grateful for orders. If I
could have suggested anything, I would have. But what could I suggest?
"Now that we've done this, what do you kids say to a nice walk down to
the ice-cream parlor?"

I began to fidget visibly, I guess, because Katie suddenly came
to my rescue. She asked if I wanted to sit. I said I didn't. "We have a
lot of questions, you know," she said. "We're just shy to ask them."

"Don't be," I said. "I want very much to answer. I want...." What
I was about to say frightened me. Katie told me to go on, to say it. I
could say anything to them because they loved me, she said.

"I want very much to please you girls," I said, lowering my eyes
in embarrassment.

"Then jump up and down," Jenny suddenly ordered. "I want to see
your things jiggle. Do it. Do jumping-jacks."

I obeyed. I was grateful for the chance. I felt ridiculous doing
calisthenics, and my penis and balls really did bob and slam against my
belly and thighs. The exercise hurt a little. But I loved the girls'
laughter as I thrust my naked body into the air. Eventually Katie told me
to stop. "At ease," she said laughingly.

"I have a serious question," Kristin said. "Is it true that if a
girl pokes you in the balls really hard you'll go down on your knees."

"If a girl TELLS me to go down on my knees, I'll go down on my
knees," I said.

"But I mean because it hurts so much."

"Yes, it's true. Haven't you tried it on Timmy?"

"We have, but I thought because you're a lot bigger, maybe...."

"Well, what happens to Timmy."

"He doubles over and cries. We poke his little balls with sticks
and force him to stand still," Jenny said. "At first it's light, then we
really jab it into him, and he gives a yelp and doubles over, and we make
him stand back up and take it again. I think he's going to pass out some
day."

This description of Timmy's suffering was offered in the sweetest
girlish tones. That's the beautiful thing, I realized, about young girls.
They're cruel without being sadistic, they're innocently cruel, so to
speak, since their only wish is to indulge their still childlike
curiosity - except that the "children" in question are girl children,
still too young to believe in the importance of male feeling. Such was my
train of thought at that moment, and it led me to wish that I myself
could satisfy their harsh curiosity.

I heard my voice, low and hoarse: "Please girls, treat me the way
you treated Timmy."

"I don't feel right hurting you," Katie said.

"It's very right," I whispered, and she whispered back okay.

END PART two

Serving Young Girls, part three

(To be read by adults only.)

It was bizarre. Was I losing my mind? I had just heard myself
begging the three adolescent girls before whom I was standing humbly
naked to hurt me, to assault my testicles the way they said they had done
to their young slave-boy Timmy. It was a crazy wish that made me wonder
how deep my masochism really went. Yet it seemed perfectly logical too.
It seemed right on a dozen scores which I felt I understood but couldn't
really explain. It seemed right because mine were the only testicles in
the house, and people with testicles owed this lesson to people without.
(That still makes sense to me, even if it sounds goofy.) It seemed right
because girls had to learn in a way they'd never forget how vulnerable
and weak males actually are, how easy we are for women to hurt and
defeat. At the same time I felt that the girls were setting up a rivalry
between young Timmy and me, and that I had to prove the truth of what
they'd been saying all along - that a man had more to offer than a boy -
by withstanding their abuse better than the eleven-year old boy had done.
I wanted them to see through the myth of manliness and ro see it in
action at the same time.

And it seemed right most of all because it would give them
enormous pleasure. In the midst of my enthralled excitement, I was still
able to be fascinated by the innocence of their account of the harsh
things they liked to do to Timmy. Of course they knew that they were
hurting the boy and that they had to bribe and enchant him into enduring
it and waiting for more. That was the point. They felt no need to
apologize. They felt no need to conceal the delight they took in merely
indulging their curiosity. They weren't acting out a scene; they weren't
putting on costumes and playing roles. They were themselves, dressed in
their everyday, youthful clothes. They vaguely understood that, despite
himself, the boy enjoyed his ordeal - that they had made a life-long
submissive of him, although even this idea of a sexual role was not in
their thoughts. They were simply themselves, girls of thirteen and
fifteen, doing what they wanted: it was sexual, because they were
adolescents, but in its freedom and simplicity it was childlike too. And
I saw clearly that sex is always richer when that element of childlike
naivete is part of it, when the excitement of elementary discovery
remains alive. Katie and Jenny and Kristin had been busy discovering male
and female natures in their experiments with Timmy - and now they were
doing the same in their investigation of me. They had no preconception of
"erotic, adult" sexual conduct - stroking me seductively had no more and
no less value to them than poking me or making me do jumping-jacks while
my naked organs jigged about - and, even though they were very
affectionate toward me, they had no particular notion of pleasing me. But
they took the fact that I WOULD be pleased if I pleased them for granted.
Later in the day, when we were relaxing together (I still naked, as I was
requested to remain all weekend), I asked the girls what had given them
the boldness to ask me to strip for them in the first place. Kristin's
answer was plain and honest: "You're a man," she said, her eyes wide with
adolescent sincerity, "and we're girls."

They described their sessions with the beleaguered Timmy, and
they responded to their discoveries with me, with the same kind of glee
they might have brought back from a day at the county-fair. They bubbled
with excitement, they competed with one another to describe what they had
seen and done. Timmy and, it seemed, all of us males, were made to amuse
them, a little like daring rides and carnival games. They had not yet
learned, as adult women often do, to see our pleasure as separable from
their own. Of course we got erections, because girls liked causing them.
Of course we agreed to disrobe for them, because it was such fun to see
us get all flustered as we did it. It was just the way men were, enjoying
doing what girls enjoy seeing us do.

And they were right. I DID want them to make free with me, and I
didn't care how much it hurt if only it would show them that their
freedom is a reality, something that they would be capable of exercising
all their lives, on all comers, once they had tasted it with me. The
longer my body remained exposed to them, the more tender my feelings of
devotion to their freedom became. You can say what you like about one
person's freedom over another, but it only becomes a reality when the
person in command feels no self-consciousness whatsoever and is guided only
by her spontaneous desire and natural affection. It seemed to me that it
would be the sweetest thing on earth to be the object of these young
women's total self-indulgence. It might test my powers of endurance, but
it would have none of the dark intricacy of adult sado-masochism.
Probably, in their affection for me, the girls wouldn't even hurt me that
much, but even if they did, it would just be a physical thing and far
outweighed by the joy of having played a part in protecting them (maybe
forever) from that docile reverence for males into which women in our
society often fall.

I was practically in a trance and my legs were feeling very
tired. Of course Katie was quick to show her sensitivity. She stood up
and put one arm around my naked waist. The sensation of renewed contact
with a female limb startled me and I jerked slightly. "It's okay," she
said, "you're just getting a little ahead of yourself. Look...."

She was addressing both me and her companions. Still holding me
steady, she brought a finger of her free hand to the tip of my penis,
where some droplets of fluid had formed. "Look...." The other two girls
leaned forward to see. Katie ran her thumb over my moist glans.

"Is that sperm already?" Jenny asked.

"He's getting ahead of himself," Katie said.

end of part three

Serving Young Girls, part four

(for adults only)

A small, focused movement can be more devastating than a massive assault.
It is like the butterfly that starts the tempest. Kate's thumb did more
than wipe the early semen from my glans. It wiped away the last vestige
of my will to resist, the last trace of male pretense and pride in me. No
gesture could have been more feminine - more delicate or considerate or
poised - yet none could have made me feel more thoroughly conquered,
mastered and owned. I have never understood less about the mystery of
feminine power than I did at that moment, nor have I ever been more
grateful for its existence. To this day, the memory of Katie's confident,
easy gesture, with Jenny's sweet young voice mentioning "sperm" somewhere
in the background, makes my heart melt and my knees go weak. "My god," I
murmured, "my god, Katie!"

"We've really got to slow this man down," Katie said. "Come along."

She wrapped her hand around my penis and more or less yanked me
in the direction of the bathroom. The two younger girls followed. It was
wonderful passing through the rooms of my house this way, a retinue of
princesses escorting their naked captive to some new test, pulling him by
the penis as though this was why he had one. At one point, on a
delightful whim, Kristin reached forward and simply ran her hand lightly
down my side, pausing at my hip, exploring it, prodding it for several
seconds, as though she was looking for something she couldn't find, the
familiar protruberance of bone which only a woman possesses.

But we had reached the bathroom. I had no idea what Katie
intended, but now that we were there I became aware of my bladder and the
beer that was filling it. I mentioned that I had to pee. Did I imagine,
at this point, that the girls would suddenly revert to ordinary etiquette
and leave me alone to urinate? "Of course," they'd say, "pardon us.
Please relieve yourself, and then call us when you're ready to resume
your enslavement. We'll be down the hall." Not at all: this was one of
the things they were waiting for. And for perfectly good reason. People
tend to think of the excretory function of the penis as preempting the
sexual. They even try to make the former more basic than the latter, as
when men try to dismiss the erections they wake up with as "piss
hard-ons," thinking that this explanation proves that we are not the
helpless sexual servants we know we are. My need to urinate, which was
feeling quite urgent, didn't excuse me from a greater obligation: to
please the girls. What better gn of feminine power than the fact that it
can turn even the thing that is supposed to displace the sexual function
of the penis into something sexual in its own right? Katie made this
crystal clear, turning my penis, and me with it, toward the w.c. and
lifting the seat.

Her hold on my organ became more delicate - thumb above, just at
the circumcision line, forefingers below, a few small millimeters from my
urethra.
"Each of us gets a chance to feel the pee flow through you," she
announced. "I mean, each of us except you."

It's said that women have an easier time interrupting urination
than men do. Maybe Katie didn't understand what a task it would be for me
to pull my sphincter closed while one girl handed my penis over to
another. In any event, I realized that I ought to welcome the trial.
Katie aimed my penis toward the water. I was still hard, and extremely
embarrassed too, and the urine was long in coming. I felt I had to explain.

"A man can't pee, you know, when he's really hard," I offered.
"It has to go down first." The girls said nothing. No reassurance, no
"That's okay, take your time," not a murmur. If anything, they allowed
themselves to fidget a little, which I took to be a gesture of
impatience. My bladder was distended with beer and with the by-products
of profound nervousness and excitement, yet I was taking my not so sweet
time about peeing.

"Sorry," I said, "it doesn't usually take THIS long. It has to go
down first, get a little softer. Kind of difficult when a girl's fingers
are holding you." I tried to chuckle.

"Is that a fact?" Katie said.

But I did soften and the urine came. It was a strange sensation
not to be directing it myself. Katie moved my penis about for several
seconds as though it really was a hose and then abruptly commanded me to
stop. It was Jenny's turn. I obeyed, giving myself a colicky cramp in my
pelvis and groin.

"Hold him just like this," Katie explained, holding her thumb and
fingers in the air in the calipers-like position in which she had held
me. "That way you'll feel the pee moving through his penis just under
your finger-tips." Jenny did so and said, "Wow, I feel it," when I
resumed my peeing, and then Kristin did it. "Weird," she said when I was
done, "really weird."

"Now we need a cooling-off period," Katie said. "We don't want to
see any more 'sperm' for quite a while, do we?"

"I guess not," Kristin said without much conviction.

"Believe me, this will be good," Katie said. "This will be fun."
Her hand was once again wrapped around my penis and she yanked me with it
toward the bathtub. "Please get in," she said.

"Into the empty tub?"

"You're catching on," she laughed.

I sat myself down in the ample tub. It was an old-fashioned tub,
with claw-feet, and it was deep and long enough for a fairly tall man
like me to stretch his legs almost fully out and still be reclining
somewhat. But the procelain was cold and I felt very silly besides, even
though I had no desire to resist a single girlish wish. So I sat with my
knees up, looking apprehensively up at Commander Katie.

"Oh, come on!" she groaned. "Legs straight! What do you think?"

Of course I obeyed. Sitting like that, unconcealed, in the empty
tub felt particularly mortifying. I'm not sure why. Perhaps because tubs
with people in them aren't supposed to be empty, so there was a strong
sense of something about to happen, something that I was now compliantly
awaiting although I might not normally welcome it. My docility and
eagerness to please was most pronounced in this circumstance. And so were
my nervousness and imprisonment. Being in the empty tub, hemmed in by its
walls, unable to change my position much even if Katie hadn't forbidden
it, I was a little like a specimen in a case - easy to observe, there for
those who were looking and not at all for myself. My legs couldn't be
opened wide, so my balls sat on my thighs and my once more erect penis
hovered above my abdomen, its delicate underside exposed to my pretty
witnesses.

"In a minute," Katie said, "I'm going to turn on the cold water.
Only the cold water. I won't run it too fast, don't worry. You'll have
time to get used to it. We do need to cool you down, though. So you'll
stay in just the position you're in as the water rises." I winced, I
think. Katie took it in. "It's okay. Don't be afraid. This isn't the
worst you'll feel today, if we give you what you've begged for."

"Katie, you're incredible," Kristin interjected.

"Thank you, my friend," Katie said. And now she was giving me my
orders indirectly, addressing them to her companions, but with many
glances in my direction. "He'll sit in the tub as it fills with cold
water. He'll have to sit totally still. Something interesting will happen
- interesting to us, anyhow. In fact, I have an idea.... Jenny, would you
mind getting all the ice from the freezer? Just bring the trays." Jenny
took off and was quickly back with two full trays of ice.

"Good," Katie said. Now why don't you two just empty them over
him. Afraid of being hit on the head with some of the cubes, I raised my
arms to cover myself, but Katie ordered them down. "At your sides,
please, from now on." Jenny and Kristen stood over me, loosened the ice
in the trays and let the cubes rain down on me, horribly cold and, when
my head or testicles were struck, downright painful.

"Now the water," Katie said. She turned the water on half-way.
The stream still had some force and, despite my preliminary icing, the
cold splashes on my legs made me want to cringe. Yet once again Katie
gave me cause to marvel at the strange combination of unselfconscious
heartlessness and tender affection a young girl is peculiarly capable of
showing.

"You mustn't move," she said, "no matter how unpleasant it gets.
But we're here to give you courage. Don't worry." She took my hand and
somehow got the other girls to rest their hands on some part of me. Katie
crouched by the tub. Jenny knelt beside her and placed her hand on my
shoulder. Kristin remained standing, but bent down a little and placed
her hands firmly on either side of my head. I was simultaneously being
supported and held down.

The water rose slowly, running up the line of my thighs,
eventually reaching my scrotum, which duly contracted to almost nothing.
I squeezed Katie's hand, and she squeezed back reassuringly. Kristin
tightened her hold on my head. Jenny patted my shoulder. "Where do his
balls go?" Jenny wondered.
"Inside," I choked, "inside."

"Yeah," Katie said, "'Cause it's cold outside."

My erection had gone early in this treatment, but my penis had
remained a respectable size. When the icy water reached it, it quickly
shrivelled up. I was shivering with cold by now, and maybe with
humiliation too. When the water reached my nipples, Katie announced that
I'd had enough and made me stand up in the tub. I was shaking and pretty
numb. My organs were tiny, totally unimportant, and we men were made to
be brought down to size this way. The girls were impressed by how
unimpressive I had become.

"It looks like an acorn," Kristin said.

end of part four

Serving Young Girls, part five

(for adults only)

A man learns something when he rises from a tub of cold water, shivering,
dripping wet, his testicles contracted and his penis shrunk down to an
acorn (to use Kristin's discerning comparison), while the three young
authors of this humiliation stand mere inches away, neat and lovely in
their cotton clothes. A man learns that he is even more naked with his
exposed manhood shrivelled than he is with it big and hard. There's less
of you there, you might think you're hidden and a little safer for it,
but in fact something more important than a few more inches of genitals
is being displayed: the pretenses of your male nature. It's as though the
infantile organ is the true you, and the erection some p.r. stunt. (And
it is, isn't it? An illusion of male "potency" pulled off, sometimes by
remote control, by those special-effects people we call women.) We men
are so odd. The very erection that shows a girl that she's in charge of
us also makes us feel "manly." The unequivocal sign of our helplessness
makes us think we're showing our stuff.

Men are capable of feeling humble and brave at the same time.
We're made in a way that lets us feel no contradiction in this. So that
we can be gratifying servants to women, we're made with a simultaneous
capacity for humility and courage - so that we can sink to our knees and
beg a woman or girl to let us show her our strength. The more we tremble
at her command, the less we fear all other forces. The human male has
been "naturally selected" (with the help of human females, I presume) to
live with these paradoxical traits. But, despite the wisdom of nature at
work here, both males and females sometimes find the situation confusing.
That's why girls need privileges of discovery like those my three dear
guests were enjoying with my body that Fourth of July weekend. It's too
bad they're not treated to these things in school.

So new layers of humility shone through me as I stood there wet
and cold and diminutive.

"God," said Jenny, "he's littler now than Timmy. And we call HIM
Tiny Tim."

I'm sure I turned red at this unflattering comparison. But I
found it thrilling too, as I did every utterance of the girls that showed
they'd gained a lasting lesson from exploring me. A male is certainly no
big deal. Jenny understood that now. They all did. Jenny reached out and
pressed a couple of fingers under my taut prune of a scrotum. She pressed
them into my perineum, just behind the sack. Her touch was gingerly but
not feeble. She was testing my fragility. She drew her fingers forward a
little and my scrotum gave in and loosened a little. My testicles
descended at once, and there was Jenny, a little startled maybe, to
receive them. She curled her fingers upward and my balls rose with them,
more prominent than my still diminutive penis. Jenny was now very
absorbed in her obscure investigation. Katie and Kristin stepped
obligingly aside for her and she positioned herself solidly in front of
me, lowering herself slightly and resting her knees on the rim of the
tub. Katie had the idea of holding Helen's make-up mirror, which was
hanging in the bathroom, close to the action and at an angle that enabled
me to see it all if I gazed down toward Jenny. The pair of them resembled
a surgeon and her nurse. But I was mesmerized by the movements in the
mirror, which seemed detached from my body and yet corresponded exactly
with my sensations. I saw balls and fingers, veins and swellings, and
they were mine and they were not, and they both explained the ache that
was growing down there and left it a mystery.

Holding my testicles up and forward with one hand, pressing her
fingers ever more firmly into the flesh behind my scrotum, Jenny extended
the index-finger of her other hand and planted it forcefully between my
balls. The skin of my scrotum turned smooth, as if wanting to be
transparent to a young girl's eyes, and my balls stood out. I had a
squeamish sensation, as though a little more pressure would actually coax
a testicle free from its sack and leave it a souvenir in Jenny's hand.
Amazing how deep our fear of castration goes! But it was wonderful to
feel Jenny's lack of caution as she pressed into me and shifted my balls
about. Now and then, while her fingers made the skin of my scrotum taut
and glossy, one of the other girls would join in to satisfy her own
curiosity, prodding a testicle or running a finger along a capillary or
probing the now squashed ducts and masses that usually add to the
scrotum's fragile feeling. That colicky pain which only a being condemned
to sport testicles can know, excruciating and more than a little
frightening, was welling up in me again. And it would soon BE
excruciating - or, rather, exquisite, and strangely sweet, a welcome ache
which I was ready to bear bravely and beg to feel always. To show my wish
and my cooperativeness, I arched my back a little and pushed my abdomen
forward.

My gesture was acknowledged. Jenny's fingers pressed deeper
still, lifting my balls higher and separating them relentlessly. My skin
down there grew paper-thin. Katie suddenly flicked a finger against a
testicle and the deep, sharp pain of it made me yelp.

"Sor-ry," Katie chirped.

But I was sorry on my own account for my body's protest. I feared
any move on my part that would inhibit the girls in any way. I had
pleaded for the trial and wanted them to conduct it with joy. I had even
seen Katie's intention in the mirror - her hand drawn closer to my balls,
her thumb and finger formed into a circle - but in that strange,
detached, reverse way that made me fail to recognize what Katie was
preparing to do. I realized that, though the girls knew in a general way,
from girl-lore and plain common sense, how fragile testicles are, even
their experiments with Timmy had not taught them how to gauge the precise
damage their different assaults could do. This was the lesson they were
teaching themselves now with me. Katie had taken my cry of pain blithely
enough, maybe even enjoyed the surprise, but she hadn't calculated it.
Now I desperately feared that she and her companions would draw back. To
show my continued complicity, I lifted my abdomen further forward. And to
show my gratitude for the sweet ache they'd caused, my penis rose to
salute its mistresses.

What a well-timed erection! It dispelled any uneasiness my
unfortunate yelp had brought upon the scene. Jenny actually imitated her
sister and flicked the finger that had been parting my balls against one
of them, which she continued to lift tightly upwards with her other hand.
I struggled against the cry of pain, managing to reduce it to a high,
strained squeak. The finger once more settled firmly between my two
balls. Katie snapped her finger against each of them in quick succession.
Two more choked cries from me, followed by my arching my back anew. My
penis, thank goodness, stayed hard and high, proof to the girls, I hoped,
that I was glad to see them, even if I was yelping in pain.

I soon realized that they were getting to like my noise. Until
now, my sounds had been mostly hoarse and hushed, helpless in their way,
but measured. "Your turn to cause a squeal," Katie said to Kristin,
snapping a finger against my testicle once more.

Kristin was clearly uncomfortable about it. But she cautiously
brought her hand near my organs and, sweetly brushing some fingers along
the underside of my erection, asked me earnestly, "May I?"

"Oh, yes, dear mistress," I said. "You own me."

Kristin formed the circle of thumb and forefinger, but there was
a long penis and lots of girl hands in the way and she was having trouble
taking aim. I saw it in the mirror, a delay long enough to make me
anticipate the penetrating blow nervously. Yet I saw how incredibly
beautiful Kristin's hands were. All three girls had lovely fingers -
Jenny's were thin and delicate and still a little girlish, like her
entire person, and Katie's were sensitive-looking and beautifully tapered
- but Kristin had the long fingers of a goddess. Even as I awaited the
profound ache she was going to cause me, I found myself thinking what a
privilege it was to have it done by her glorious hand. Suddenly, Katie
discarded the mirror and that was it. I couldn't tell what was doing now.
"Let me help," she offered Kristin, and pressed my erection up against my
belly. Jenny didn't relax her hold on my balls, but it felt to me as
though she were lifting them in offering to her friend.

Kristin let her finger snap. I gurgled my outcry. Girls laughed.
My penis was released and bounced free. A feminine hand suddenly slapped
it and I cried out in surprise at the smart. But it only made me harder.
I told the girls I loved them dearly. They were encouraged. More flicks
to my testicles, more slaps to my penis. Slaps also to my flank, still
slick from the bath-water, which enhanced the sting. A pair of hands were
once more examining my hips, pressing, prodding, once more searching fo
the missing female protruberance. Jenny finally released my scrotum,
sliding a hand lightly over my penis before retreating. I was suddenly
taken by the waist and guided out of the tub. Katie, of course. She
positioned me against the tub's side and I stood there humbly. My back
hurt from having been arched. Katie unceremoniously slapped my penis
downward, causing it to bob and spring back to her waiting hand, which
struck it a second time.

"Speaking of slapping," Kristin said, "I really love those scenes
in the old-time movies where the actresses slap the actors across the
face. Can I ask you," she said, looking me in the eye, "if a girl did
that to you, would it make your penis move? I mean, I always wonder that
- if it makes the actor's penis move - when the actresses do it to them.
Would it?"

"I don't know," I said. "I've never been slapped. Do you want to
try?" And, though it made me shake to say it, to confess so much to the
innocent creature with the heartless curiosity, I added very shyly, "It
would be a privilege for me if you would."

"Wow," the thirteen-year-old goddess said.

But she slapped me, lightly once and only a little less lightly a
second time. Katie got impatient. "Really!" this member of her school's
volley-ball
team said, and all at once was there, swiping her hand across my cheek.
It smarted, brought tears.

"Tears," Kristin said. "It's so sweet. You're such a sweet man,"
she added, and gave me a serious slap.

"Jenny?" Katie offered. "It's really liberating."

"I'll pass," Jenny said.

"Okay, then I want to do something else with him," Katie said.

"Wait," Kristin said, "let me have one more." She slapped me
again, then brought her hand back to wipe my involuntary tears with her
unearthly fingers.

Now Katie was trying to position me again. She wanted me back in
an arch, apparently against the wall that ran by the tub, but she didn't
want me in the tub. She told me to stand where I was and guided my
shoulders backwards toward the wall. It was a terribly wide stretch, and
the side of the tub restricted any flexing of my legs. It took a while
for me to reach the wall with my head. The other girls helped support me
as I bent. My thigh and abdominal and stomach muscles only gradually made
the stretch. To make it at all, I had to hold my head almost horizontal
against the wall. I could no longer gaze gratefully at the girls while
they tormented me. Only the ceiling was in view, and that only for a few
moments, because somebody threw a towel across my eyes.

Katie instructed me to put my legs far apart. She kept widening
my stance herself, again and again pushing and pulling my thighs until my
legs were just right. The tub-wall kept them stiff so that my upper body
formed a bow. Then Katie asked me to lift my heels high off the floor,
prodding me when I thought I'd reached my limit to raise myself a little
higher, reminding me tauntingly that women customarily wear shoes that
lift their heels much higher. Eventually I became fully convex and taut,
supported only by my toes and my head against the wall. (The side of the
bathtub was actually a source of painful pressure in my calves.) This was
an incredibly humbling posture, and the muscular "burn" and other
evidence of fatigue it caused made me feel still more like an object of
sacrifice. I could see nothing, and all my strength was given over to
staying still in this arduous pose.

Then it was a free-for-all of girl hands. Girl hands all over my
tight, damp, unobstructed torso and limbs. My arms hung in plumb, but now
and then someone lifted one and teased my rib-cage. Someone's hand ran up
my leg and collided with my balls. My penis was repeatedly slapped, from
side to side and up and down, and always it bobbed playfully back to its
young mistress of the moment, a frisky puppy that took no offense. My
testicles were flicked, my pubic hair pulled. Finger nails scraped along
my chest and stomach, and I had a clear mental picture of them as they
did, remembering how charmed I'd been earlier in the day to notice that
Jenny and Kristin were wearing nail-polish as well as lipstick.

Something harsh was being dragged across my stomach. The bristles
of a back-brush. Now they were sweeping through my pubic hair. Now
someone was once again lifting my penis away from my testicles and the
brush was being drawn back and forth across them. The bristles rode down
my thighs, around the back of one leg and then the other, and up again
over my buttocks, only to return to their starting place, my balls. The
bow of my body was fully stretched.

"Higher on your toes," Katie ordered, and, amazingly, I had the
strength to obey. It was the strength of enslavement and loving
sacrifice, a thing not one's own, but a gift quietly infused into one by
the woman one is serving. How generous women are, how generous even my
young half-women were: to demand what our nature makes us yearn to give,
and then to lend us the strength to give it. I stood taller than I could
have on my own. I bent more taut. The bristles rubbed and bumped across
my scrotum, abrading and bruising it, and I didn't feel it as pain. And
then, after a long time, while girl hands danced freely over my
tight-stretched skin, the harsh brush turned upward to my penis,
scrubbing across it from every angle, unforgivingly, scraping away at my
glans, pricking my urthera, plucking across my circumcision. Yet the
organ stayed hard. It, and I with it, were pure objects now, absolute
things, made without compromise to the exact specifications of a certain
trio of girls. The sperm was gathering in the root of my penis. The mass
of pin-like strokes, which should have quieted the storm down there, was
feeding it. In a few seconds I would ejaculate in a heavenly burst unlike
any I had known.

But Katie would not want this yet, and that mattered more.

end of part five

Serving Young Girls, VI

(for adults only)

I blurted nonsense - "Katie, I can't...Katie, it's near..." - and the
girl understood.

"You mustn't," she ordered, "you really, really mustn't."

Nothing meant more to me than to obey her. But deep in my body
the pent-up fluids were reaching a rolling boil. In the blissful torments
to which she and her companions had been treating me, my tight-arched
body had grown as sensitive as a hair-spring. Every stroke to any part of
it was delivered instantly, and with magnified force, to the humbled
nerve-center in my groin. And every such stroke, though it felt as if it
were pushing me to a new depth of slavery, also seemed to double again
the volume of impatient semen inside me. Ejaculation is always premature.
It brings us "relief," but it's not relief we're really after, is it? It
"relieves" us (though only a little, and only for a little while) of the
loveliest sensation we can know: that of pure pliancy to a female's will.
We build toward it slowly as a woman or girl transforms us into an
instrument of her power and then plays upon us until, as they say of the
greatest musicians, the playing becomes light and effortless, and the
instrument so responsive that it seems a mere extension of the player's
self.

The semen builds up in us along with the fervor of
self-sacrifice. We have no better way to acknowledge the sweet, strong
magic of femininity than to dissolve the boundary that keeps our ego
separate from the woman's, even if all that is left of this ego is the
wish to be in her favor. On one level it may be true that we want to be
loved, to be a woman's chosen one. But on a deeper level we want only to
show her OUR love, and in a way that leaves no shadow of a doubt, no
trace of self. We want to lie at a woman's feet, alive to her will but
otherwise incapable of motion, to have no definite shape, no hint of
greed, to be...like liquid! To spill ourselves out until we're empty -
that's what we desire, that alone. And that, as ejaculation looms, in the
moments before the substance spurts from us - that is what we imagine it
will achieve. Not relief, not rest, not a recess from ardor and submission.

Every male reading this will understand what I mean. While the
pressure is growing within you, and even while your penis is letting go
the milky surge, you have a profound sense of sacrifice and hardly expect
to exist beyond the next few seconds. (No wonder orgasm used to be called
"the little death.") While you're coming, it's as if you're crying out to
the woman, "Take me, take me! I really am yours, you see, entirely yours,
and nothing else besides. See how I'm spilling out my life for you, see
how I'm thanking you for allowing me to spill it."

That's the condition we want to remain in forever. Without
relief. An unending state of readiness for sacrifice. As we are just
before the first jet of semen leaves our penis. And it was the state
Katie somehow knew enough about to want to keep me in.

"Everybody stop," she commanded.

The brush-strokes stopped, taunting hands fell away. Katie cupped
my balls and squeezed them hard. "Hold your breath," she urged me. "Hold
it." Time slowed down, but the helpless ejaculation felt too near. I had
the sense that my body, or at least my genitals, were enormous, that the
tubes and ducts were miles long, so that, even though my semen was
already rushing madly through my pipes, it would be hours before it burst
from my complacent glans. I already felt some preliminary liquid slide
out of me, in fact. How could Katie - even Katie, that strong,
resourceful girl - shut down my pump at this late hour? She was squeezing
my testicles mercilessly, and this WAS a downer, I admit. But they had
been through plenty already, and my present excitement was the result.
How could this assault be different?

The answer, as far as I have ever been able to tell, was that
Katie wanted it to be. She wanted the pain she was now causing in me to
stop my sexual processes short, just as earlier she wanted them to grow
with my pain and shape themselves to her and Jenny and Kristin's will.
She would have been disappointed then if I had withdrawn into myself just
because she and the other girls had exceeded my threshold. Then the point
for me was to follow their pleasure instantly, even if it meant my own
severe pain. Pain was a way of guaranteeing that I would have no delight
except in pleasing my mistresses, no goal of my own except to help them
reach theirs. Pain and distress make a man's enslavement unambiguous. A
little goes a long way toward achieving this clarity, but it's almost
impossible to achieve it without any. Now, too, the unrelenting hurt she
was delivering to my balls was a way of commanding obedience, but it
didn't matter this time whether it left me in a state of excitement or
ruin. Katie was pulling my emergency brake, and my whole system groaned
and shuddered to follow her wish and go into reverse.

And she succeeded. I was like a huge engine lurching to a violent
halt. My body and my mind both felt the concussion. My penis released one
light squirt of semen and Katie ordered Jenny to clamp her hands as
tightly around it as she knew how. Jenny was doing it before Katie's
words were out.

"Close it like a tourniquet," she said.

I felt the pump still struggling in my pelvis, beating in vain
against my blocked urethra. I was coming, pulsing as a man does when he
is coming, but nothing more did come. The swell of backed-up semen - or
something else entirely, perhaps - began to combat the waves of orgasm.
The irreversible was being reversed. My body and my mind, each confused
and depleted, were at odds. At the last possible second, my body felt,
something I had earned through long struggle was being wrenched away. It
seemed impossible. But my mind was thankful, seeing beyond the awful
physical frustration of the moment to the continuing, and even
intensified, humility that this defeat of my body assured. Until at last
the lovely spell was broken by orgasm - and the girls certainly meant to
witness a grand ejaculation before their holiday was over - I would from
here on be unbearably, that is, wonderfully, fragile, exquisitely tender,
no part of me resistant to girlish touch or hidden from girlish sight. I
would be Katie's quick machine, and Jenny's too, and Kristin's. They
would have to do next to nothing to control me. Their lightest stroke
would send a shock of surrender through me. I would know how to read
their gestures and obey their eyes, and I would do so with such alacrity
it would make them laugh with pleasure and challenge me with more. And
they would never, for the rest of their lives, beautiful, self-possessed
women, forget the effortlessness with which as girls they ruled a
grown-up man.

My body was still arched over the bath-tub, the top of my head
pinioned to the wall. The towel still covered my eyes. I saw nothing, and
all my perception was inward, bodily and mental. Someone turned on the
cold shower. The icy spray pricked my startled flesh.


end