Serving Young Girls by Estragon, more here. Back.

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 charmingly 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'd be 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 tat 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."

Part two

"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 sundress. 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 ban 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 too 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.

Part 3

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 to 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 wern'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-conscious 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 sociy often fall.

I was practically in a trance and my ls 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.

Part 4

A small, focused movement can be more devastating than a massive assault.

It is like the butterfly that starts the tempest. Katie'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 sign 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 ny'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.

Part 5

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-fier 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 quashed 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 kw 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 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 seching for 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.

Part 6

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 o 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 assaut 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

sto 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 astress 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

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