Estragon revisited: I Meet Toni's Mom, IV/4

[Estragon]

I Meet Toni's Mom, IV

(Copyright 1996, Estragon Productions
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 most 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 cluing 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 heart 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 cunt. 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 forbearing 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 raise 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.

end