I meet this girl, Toni, at a party when I'm a junior in college. She's only a junior in high school. The age-difference is a stretch, but she's so pretty and disarming and flirtatious that I can't resist. Her breasts are so firm and her pubic bone so compact pressing against her tight pants that I can't think of anything all evening except making love to her. She accompanies me back to my flat, and we neck a little, but the first time I try to touch her breasts, even with her shirt on, she deflects me.

I'm too aggressive, she explains. The way she was brought up, females decide everything and males are grateful for the chance to please them. I ask exactly what she means. She picks up a pad of paper and starts to sketch as she talks. She tells me to get up off the couch.

"Do you really want to know?" I say yes.

"I learned everything from Mom," she says. "I learned how to draw and how to dominate males. Why don't you strip and let me draw you?"

It's that matter of fact. I'm confused, but there seems to be some sex in it somewhere, so I comply. Toni says she'll tell me what to remove when. When each item is off, she adds, I'm to turn slowly in a complete circle so she can look me over, make a few quick sketches of what she sees. "For Mom," she says.

"What do you mean, for mom?"

"We'll get to that," she says, "now take off your shirt."

I do it, a little nervously, then do the full turn. Slower, she orders. "Good strong back," she remarks. Shoes and socks next. No need to do the turn. Jeans - "No, don't just pull them off, shimmy them down your legs. Movement skills are important."

I shimmy: it feels weirdly feminine to do it. Toni tells me I "have good movement-skills." They're down, at my ankles, the jeans are down. I do the turn. While my back is to her, Toni tells me to lower my briefs over my hips and leave them. "Just some hair visible in front," she clarifies. I do it and she tells me to turn. "Good boy," she says.

I'm erect. I was turned on by the girl to begin with, and she's been flirting and teasing all night, and now this. But I'm embarrassed too. "Let them down," she says, and I do and my penis springs out. "God, it's already glistening," she says. "Such an eager boy."

"Did I mention the kneeling part?" she asks. "You're supposed to be kneeling. Mom says it's more informative about a guy. It's strictly regulation with us, so do it."

I do it, embarrassed but pretty helpless. Toni sketches away, and I'm starting to understand that mom is going to be seeing these works of art. Toni begins to explain. Mom is an illustrator and photographer, Dad a businessman. Mom believes that men are made to serve women. It's that simple. Toni grew up believing it, too, of course. Her Father, when he wasn't travelling on business, and her older brother were always treated as servants. Affectionately, but as servants. They were naked a lot of the time and simply ordered to do various household tasks, or to pose for Mom and Toni when they needed models.

The males of the house never had any real privacy. Toni could walk in on her brother or Father when they were peeing or bathing or anything. On the other hand, her and her Mother's privacy were absolutely sacred.

Even as a small girl, she had a distinct sense of her superiority to males. How could she not, raised this way? Her brother is three years older. Since he was brought up to have obedient feelings toward females, he never even thought of protesting.

When he was old enough to masturbate, Mom made it clear to him that it was okay, perfectly normal in a boy his age, but that he had to have permission before he indulged. A female's permission. It was good manners. He could ask his Mom or his sister, but he had to learn manners. So here is this eight-year old girl being asked by her big brother if he may masturbate. She usually said yes, but occasionally, when she was mad at him, she just refused. When she did, he never argued.

He had to do the act with his bedroom door opened and report to Mom or Toni when he was through. This was good manners. Toni took this boyish masturbation thing for granted. "We have to let them," her mother explained.

It wasn't that interesting to Toni, but once or twice her brother would approach her for permission while she had a friend over, and the other girl couldn't help being interested. Toni's brother didn't seem to mind if the visitor watched. Acceptance of girl's wishes was part of his training, and he'd go on masturbating without any self-consciousness. The girl could ask him questions about it and everything, and he'd be very sweet to her and answer them all. Toni found it boring after a while. But her friends started visiting more and more frequently.

Often her father and brother would get erections while doing their tasks in the nude. Toni took these for granted, too. They were just what her mother said they were and nothing more: signs of male eagerness to serve. The two males felt no shame if they became hard like this, even if they were in the room together. It WAS only a sign of their eagerness to serve.

If the sight of these erect males gives Toni any pleasure, it's only on this account. She loves the way their bodies are exposed and helpless. Sexual pleasure always happens in her mind first, she says. She doesn't start to feel it "down below," she says, "until I'm convinced in my mind that the guy is my slave."

"My God!" I say, kneeling there. I am her slave. The process was amazingly fast. I kneel, she sketches. This goes on for a while. When she's done she leans forward and gives me a kindly stroke along the penis. I get harder. She gives it a quick squeeze and gets up. "You can empty this when I'm gone," she says. "Think of me when you do. I'll be seeing you." She's gone before I'm even up. "I'm your slave," I call out, really loud because she's already slammed the door. I imagine I hear her call back, "Hey, I know."

Toni comes to my place often. It's always the same routine more or less. I strip, I kneel, she sketches and teases me a little, and I tell her I'm her slave. Once in a while, not too often, she allows me to come for her. I have to lie on the floor, at her feet, and masturbate myself. When I'm ready to come, I have to plead for permission.

"May I offer you my orgasm?" is the way I say it. Now and then she'll assist by planting a foot on me, on my balls, or belly, or leg. Two or three times she condescends to plant her foot right on my penis. I spurt like there's no tomorrow. But often she lets me get good and aroused and then announces, "I think we'll postpone that precious orgasm of yours." She says "orgasm" suspiciously, as though she thinks I invented the word.

One day Toni suggests that it's time for me to meet her Mom. Frieda. I agree to do it because I'm in thrall to Toni, but I'm not looking forward to it. I have a picture of Frieda as some kind of monster, a cold, impatient narcissist, getting more and more sadistic and self-dramatizing as her youth fades. I understand nothing about the real nature of power.

Frieda is gorgeous. She's absolutely stunning. In a completely unaffected and lively way. She's completely comfortable with herself. She's trim and shapely and quietly elegant. Her hair is dark and long and her face is beautiful and a touch girlish. She's obviously still in her thirties. She is, in the truest sense of the word, lovely. She's the sort of woman who makes you glad you're a man so you can simply serve her and not have to envy her. It's a privilege to see her, it's a privilege to be anywhere near her. To lie at the feet of the daughter she's borne - even that is a privilege.

Frieda is friendly to me. For a few minutes she makes motherly small-talk. Then she's down to business, but in a way that doesn't scare me. She tells me she likes Toni's sketches of me and Toni's general account of my "demeanor." She uses that word, "demeanor." I feel moved to thank her. Because I already want to give her anything I can. I want to pour out my heart. So I begin by thanking her.

Then she thanks me for being willing to pose for her. I say that it's my privilege. "I'm really grateful, Mrs... Ma'am." I suddenly feel "ma'am" will be the way I address Frieda. She doesn't tell me to be less formal.

"Why don't you undress then?" she says. Yes, of course. That's the thing I'm here for. Why don't I? I'm nervous, I fumble. "Everything at once," I ask, "or one thing at a time?" I'm remembering the way Toni preferred to do it.

"Oh, why not everything at once," Frieda says.

"Yes, ma'am," I say, and feel good about the phrase.

I start to strip. It's a strange sensation, a strange scene. Toni's standing there, her Mom is sitting in her draftsman's chair, relaxed as can be, watching me disrobe without the least look of embarrassment. She's not excited, she's not tense. Guys are meant to be naked for us, I think she's thinking. So I get on with it. Toni watches. She looks at her Mom every now and then and then smiles at me. She's proud of me. She can tell something. She's recruited a good one.

Now I'm nude, and too nervous to have an erection. I'm unsure what to do. I'm thinking it's an insult to a hostess not to have an erection when you strip for her. Or is it an insult to have one before you're told to? This is a whole new area of etiquette for me. But I feel I have to explain. "I'm kind of nervous about this, ma'am. That's why..."

"Don't give it a thought," Frieda says. "But why don't you sit down on the floor here, right in front of me?"

I sit. She's wearing a short, tight skirt and now I'm at eye-level with the hem. I'm thinking, what a vagina this woman must have. I want to get a glimpse up the skirt, but I think I'd better avert my eyes, or raise them to hers.

Another problem in "demeanor." Frieda tells me to fold my knees and rest one leg on the floor and keep the other upright so my thighs are at right angles and my genitals totally visible to her. I'm to put my hands behind me and rest my weight on them, so I'm half-sitting, half-reclining. I obey and all of a sudden feel incredibly exposed and helpless. More than I would if I were lying flat. Lifting my upper body toward Frieda gives me the feeling that I'm offering myself to her, and straining to do it. But I'm still enough on the recline to feel very passive and defenseless. Now, I think I feel my penis stirring. I try to flex the muscle at its root. The woman notices.

"Toni, did you see?" she asks. Toni missed the little twitch. "They can't stop worrying about their erections," Frieda remarks to her daughter. She tells me to stop thinking about my penis. "Let's just sit and talk," she says, as though "just sitting" is an accurate description of what I'm doing. Yes, I'm sitting, but I'm also... in love.

Frieda questions me about my body and my sexual habits. Her manner is easy-going. I can say anything. She won't mind. She won't reject me. She just wants to know me better, so she can use me better. She wants details and sometimes I have to think hard before I reply. I worry about the silences. She mustn't think they're signs of reluctance. But I look at Toni, and she's looking very pleased with things. She's quietly sketching while we talk.

Frieda wants to know when I started masturbating, how often I do it, in which postures I most like to do it. I tell her all. She's trying to get me to speak to her of my body without embarrassment. She tells me to answer in full sentences. So I have to say, "My penis this, my balls that..."

"I want you to say 'testicles' instead of 'balls' from now on," she says. "I want you to be accurate. And always say 'my' emphatically... 'MY penis, MY testicles'." It's funny to hear this womanly woman use these phrases at all.

I show my learning-ability. I say, "Toni has taught me that MY testicles can take more abuse than I thought. So now I like to have them... MY testicles poked." I say things like this, and Frieda is happy with my progress. We continue the question period for a long time. I've forgotten about it, but at some point I realize my penis is hard. Frieda hasn't mentioned it.

Still, I'm glad I'm erect. I don't have the world's smallest penis, so I'm hoping Frieda is impressed, even if she isn't mentioning it. It's not exactly that I expect to attract her. Even though she's an artist, I'm pretty sure she doesn't get off on the beauty of men's bodies. It's our visibility she likes. I'm seeing that. But in some muddled way I'm still thinking she'll want me around more if my penis is impressive.

Frieda looks thoughtful. "Tell me what you're feeling," she says.

I'm at a loss for words. Or I just don't want to say. "I'm feeling pretty good," I say. I'm an ass, I realize, so I emend it. "I'm feeling wonderful," I say. Frieda says nothing for a while. I realize she's waiting for more. "This is great," I contribute, nodding my head emphatically toward my lower body to show that I mean the way I'm naked there.

"He's not very articulate," she says to Toni. The girl shrugs.

"Let me explain something, boyo," Frieda says. "I want you to understand what I'm into. You're a young man and I'm a woman. Every schoolgirl knows men are made to serve her. She knows they're under her control. That's why they have the organs they do, stuck onto their bodies in this clumsy way [Frieda gestures toward my genitals] - so she can see them and arouse them and, if necessary, hurt them. Every schoolgirl knows, and I don't have to tell you that every boy knows it, too. You can dress, but you can't hide. Isn't that so?"

"That's exactly true, ma'am."

"Everything about you males is made to be visible to us. But I'll hand it to you. You do manage to get around the plain facts. I mean, look at your testicles. With hardly an effort, a woman can cause them excruciating pain. They say you're only as strong as your weakest link. Links don't come any weaker than a man's balls. So what do you men do? You make your testicles your symbol of power, your sign of virility. I admit it, it takes balls to do a thing like that."

I think, the woman is not only beautiful, she's quick and brilliant. I wouldn't mind the excruciating pain at all if she were the one causing it. But she's not done with the lecture. Maybe later.

"The point is, just because you're meant to be out in the open for us, you dream up these ingenious ways to hide. You put us women to a lot of trouble. You're full-time work. If we let you up off your knees, you immediately feel big. We give you an erection, and you say, 'Look at me!' Quite a bunch. Well, if a girl looks sharp, she can figure out ways to keep a whole platoon of you under her thumb. Do you think we can't wait to see you naked? To us, you're always naked. We strip you for your own sake, not ours. To save you energy, to keep you from wasting your own time and making US feel sorry for ourselves because you're all we have. It's beneath a woman's dignity to have to spell these things out. 'Hey, fella, stand up straight, you're already see-through, kapish?' So we strip you down and you look a little silly, but at least you stop putting on airs you don't look good in."

I gaze down at my penis. "She's talking about you," I think. I do look silly. A penis and testicles have little to recommend them aesthetically. They're tools and that's it. Women's tools, but stored on our bodies because women's bodies are too beautiful to be cluttered with such things. I also have the thought, as I see my erection quiver, that Frieda's words ought to be shrinking it, but they're not. It's loving the abuse, a fact which proves one of her points or another.

"What I ask of a man," Frieda says, "is that he be naked in mind as well as body. I'm not going to let him show me his hairy body if he's going to hide his overgrown mind. I want to have a picture window on his heart. I want him to be thinking, 'Frieda sees. My penis is the least of it.'"

Suddenly she's giving me a very earnest look. I want to give her one back, to show her how affected I am by what she's saying, but when I try to do it my eyes lower. Frieda says, "I want YOU to think this. Frieda sees." And I am thinking it, I realize, which is why I've dropped my eyes.

"I can see this is gonna be a long afternoon," Toni interjects. "I'm outta here, going shopping. Okay, Mommy?"

Frieda catches the style. "Go for it, Tone. Your boy and I can manage things by ourselves."

I don't want Toni to leave. If I can't check out her look, how will I tell how I'm doing? She hasn't exactly been protecting me, but I still feel safer with my junior mistress on hand. Maybe I don't really want Frieda to open all my windows.

"Before you go, honey," Frieda says, "could you get your boy cleaned up a bit?" Toni says yes and tells me to follow her. "Get up?" I ask. "Unless you can follow me sitting down," she says. I follow her to the bathroom. I ask her what gives. "Mom has a theory about people," she says. "She thinks nature left us all a bit unfinished, but with hints so we can complete the job. That way we partly make ourselves." I say it's a good theory.

Toni says, "So we women have hair on our legs, but only a small amount, not like men. And that means we're supposed to shave our legs, but men aren't supposed to shave theirs. But with pubic hair it's different. Ours conceals us, and it's a perfect triangle anyhow, and that means we're supposed to keep it. But yours..." - she gestures toward my pelvis - "... yours doesn't hide a thing, especially the hair on your penis and scrotum. So you're supposed to shave it off. Mom thinks your penis and testicles should be bare and smooth. She thinks the rest should be thinned out maybe, but not shaved off completely because you need to be reminded what a failure all your ways of hiding are."

Toni's been talking fast. She's in a hurry to leave. I find what she's said very sexy. I've actually never been shaved, or thinned out, or whatever, before, and I'm excited by the prospect. She's holding a disposable razor, and I'm not even afraid of being cut. It's routine to her, I guess. I ask her if she knows how to do this. Oh, yes, she tells me, she's been doing her brother for years. She has some translucent lotion in her palm. She says shaving cream just makes the hairs hard to see. When she applies the lotion to my penis and balls I find it so thrilling I think I'm going to add some gobs of my own manufacture. I groan. I say her name.

"Don't come," Toni says matter-of-factly. "Just don't. It's not a good idea. You'll see." She gives my penis a special squeeze that's meant to stop a man from coming. It usually works - Toni isn't crazy about having me come - but the lotion makes her grip insecure. It's okay, though. I won't shoot. I understand that Frieda wouldn't want me to. Toni finally shaves me. The sides and underside of my penis, then my scrotum, all the way under to my perineum. She shaves a little from my thighs, a little from the very top of my pubic patch, and then she runs the razor lightly across the rest of the patch, thinning it down without actually touching my skin. She's completely businesslike and I'm rock-hard.

Toni hands me a towel, telling me to go back to her Mother's studio when I'm clean. "I'll be seeing you," she says, her favorite valediction. I steal a glance in the mirror. My organs look incredibly naked, even though they themselves don't have all that much hair on them to begin with. (In Frieda's "theory," that's why they need to be shaved.) The hair around them is now scant enough to be transparent, and it has just the effect Toni promised: it looks like a pathetic attempt to cloak my pubis. I hurry back to Frieda who quickly reviews her daughter's work and tells me to get back down on the floor just the way I was.

We're alone now, and I feel the difference. The air is full of peril. Usually you feel more naked in front of two women than in front of one, but this time it's not that way, because Toni was protecting me. That's how I saw it, even if she didn't. Now my mistress is gone. I'm stripped of my mistress.

Frieda takes up where she left off. "I'm going to help you be transparent to me. You may have trouble at first, but I can tell you it's the most wonderful thing a young man can feel. It's more wonderful than that erection. It's more wonderful than having your penis stroked..." To my shock, she leans down and takes my penis in her hand. It's the first time she's touched me at all. Her hand is beautiful and cool. Her grip is firm in a way, but feminine. She knows I'm near the edge, so she doesn't move much, just some light, still pressure. The shaving has made a difference. My penis feels very bare, as though it's been taken out of protective wrapping. Frieda strokes it tenderly a few times and lets it go. I'm sick with yearning.

"I can do what I like with it, can't I? she asks.

"Oh, yes," I say.

"I have you in a fragile state, don't I?" I nod vigorously. I'm enthralled, a fragile state.

"I know my daughter puts you into this state as well, and you tell her you're her slave." I nod again, a little less certainly. I don't see what she's getting at. Is she saying I'm disloyal? But that's not it. "You're young," she says, "and Toni is younger. A young girl needs to have men serving her. She needs to see it. I mean in men other than her Dad and her brother. But what does it amount to? She gets you worked up and you kneel and tell her you're her slave. You obey a few orders and when she leaves, you masturbate. You're young, it's romantic, this ceremony of enslavement. I did it myself not so many years ago. But I want, and Toni is going to want, something even deeper. I want to own your entire being."

Frieda reaches down to my penis again. I see her doing it but I still jump. She pulls back her hand. "It's at a point where you'd do anything I ask for just one more minute of that, isn't it?" "Yes," I whisper.

"I'll touch your penis for five more seconds if you crawl across the floor on your belly," she says. Without a pause I roll onto my belly and crawl. I crawl back and assume my posture. Frieda reaches down and strokes my penis and it's heaven. "There," she says, withdrawing her hand. "Thank you, ma'am," I say.

"But what I want," Frieda goes on, "is to make your whole being as greedy and grateful as your penis. I want your mind to yearn for my touch. I want your thoughts and dreams begging for my glance." She looks thoughtful. There's great feeling in what she's saying. I'm sure she's said it before to other men, but there's nothing mechanical in it. For a few moments Frieda is silent, thinking still. I look into her face, her lovely face, and hope I have it in me to give her what she wants.

At last the words come. But it's as though she's left out a lot. She's decided it's all too complicated. She'll just give me my orders, her wishes. She says, "I want you to try to tell me everything that's in your head right now. That's what I meant when I asked what you're feeling. But everything. You know how good it felt when you put your male pride at Toni's feet. You became a better man for it, a more honest man, a friend of women and their servant. What I'm asking of you will make all that even deeper and more lasting... Tell me."

I try. I try to do it. Do I even know what I'm thinking? I want to say the right thing. But I really don't want to lie.

"I'm thinking that you're very beautiful, ma'am."

"What's beautiful about me?" she asks.

"Everything. Everything about you." I get ardent. I mean it. "Your eyes, your hair, your mouth." I stop. She tells me to continue. I zero in. "Your skin, your forehead, your beautiful cheek-bones." I'm going to have to descend from her face soon. I adore her legs, so lithe in their nylons. Why don't I mention them? They drive me mad. And her elegant feet in their heels. I'm thinking it but not saying so. Frieda tells me I'm not letting her see. She asks what I'd do if she allowed me to touch her. I say I'd kiss her. I would, of course. But the process is slowly starting to work. I say I'd love to be held naked in her arms while she stayed dressed.

"Deeper," she says, "go deeper into yourself."

I try to go deeper, but it frightens me. "Give yourself to me," she says. "I don't care what's in there. Give it." Her words are almost hypnotic. I want her to keep speaking, to inject me with the truth-serum of her words. I stammer. "Give me... ," she says softly. It's as though her words are deftly stroking my mind the way her hand did my penis. I think she wants me to show her the part of me that keeps rebelling against her power. The male part of me that understands only aggression, that turns even my slavery into aggression.