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Subject: RP Estragon's Memories 6/7 femdom
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RP Estragon's Memories 6/7 Femdom



Of course, after a lot of commotion, I reluctantly agreed to shed my
"blouse." After a while it was time to raise the ante again. Bob was
getting used to paying what Leila asked, and up-front too. 

"You want Erica to show you her BREASTS?" Leila cried in amazement at such
a thought. "My God!" 

I had trouble not similing. Bob said, breasts, for Christ's sake, who
didn't know what breasts looked like. "And we're talking tiny here," he
said.

"Not so tiny you don't want to see them," Leila said. He tried the
professional-theme once more, but we were all pretty tired of it, Bob too.
"Tell me, Mr. Byrrhe," Leila said, "you wouldn't consider it any kind of
insult, would you, if I asked you to let me monitor your professional
deportment during this session?" Bob said he didn't know what she meant.

"Well, you were saying yourself that certain things happen to a man in
these situations that he can't help. Weren't you saying that?" Leila said.

"In a way, yeah...," Bob said. "And?"

"And you must know that young girls like Erica and me, we don't feel
comfortable having things happen that involve us and we have no control
over...."

"Control? How do you propose to take Ścontrol'?"

"Well, maybe that wasn't the best word," Leila said. "Don't get up tight.
Look, Bob, you want my friend to let you take pictures of her breasts,
right?"

"Well, okay...."

"That isn't what you told her last week."

"Things happen at a shoot. You get ideas. I'm creative...."

"Oh, I am too, Bob. I understand. But what I'm saying is, you're telling
Erica that showing you her breasts is nothing special, women do it all the
time for a professional like you, you already know what their breasts look
like, you're even fucking tired of seeing them, right? But for the sake of
the session, etcetera. Well, in a similar way, this whole time Erica and I
have been here, even before she unbuttoned a single button, you've had
this hard-on straining your pants and we've had to look at it. You
practically stuck it into Erica's face a couple of times. Oh, sure, I
know, you're a man, what could you do? So I'm going to tell you what you
can do. Play fair is what. Maybe you can't help it, and maybe you can. How
would I know? But you CAN be honest about it. It would make Erica a lot
more comfortable if she knew you weren't trying to hide the hard-on she's
giving you. I mean, if you're going to have a hard-on at all. Isn't that
true, Erica?"

I nodded emphatically, like a little girl who's finally been given a
chance to admit what's on her mind.

"See?" Leila said. "I mean, if it's just what happens, Bob, and that's it,
then it should just be there...just there in the room like all the other
stuff you've got here. Cameras, tripods, lighting-stuff, hard-on. Like
that."

"So that means...," Bob said slowly.

"Right. That means YOU undress too, Bob. The professional photographer
who's completely on the level with his models. Works in the nude, penis
right out there where the girls can see it, so they won't feel tricked or
abused or anything."

Bob couldn't believe this. I could see he wanted to tell Leila she was out
of her mind. But she stretched herself to yawn as though she didn't care
what he was about to say, a big, generous stretch that happened to bring
her hand into momentary contact with Bob's sex-organs, making him say,
"Oh, shit," in this resigned sort of way.

"For God's sake, Bob," Leila went on, as if she hadn't noticed her
well-timed effect, "you're about to look upon Erica's bare breasts. That's
MAJOR, Bob. That's truly major. I can't believe you don't know that."

"Okay, okay," Bob said, giving Leila a kind of defeated wave of his hands,
as if doing what she asked was going to be no more than a nuisance, not a
heavy humiliation at all, and it was just easier for him to indulge the
bratty girls than to waste time bickering. He had this terribly foolish
expression on his face as he started to unbutton his shirt.

"I assume you mean the shirt too?" he said, a little hostilely.

"I do, yes," Leila said.

Bob preferred not to look at me while he took his clothes off, even though
I had a good side-view of him. Despite his mixed feelings about her, he
found it easier to face Leila. He didn't bother to turn his back on us. He
probably thought it would make the whole business appear to matter less to
him if he didn't seem to have any modesty about it. It was just something
he was doing to get on with it. But all the same, he was erect and getting
more aroused by the minute. A girl was sitting there with her shirt off,
let's remember, and in a while she'd be bare-breasted. He could pretend to
be taking it all in stride, his erection just a thing that "happened to
men," not the real Bob at all, just part of the scene, like the furniture.
But the fact was, he was hard and he was stripping because Leila the girl
had told him to.

A man with a beard and a hairy chest looks absolutely ridiculous
stripping. That's what I learned just then. No wonder he had this
dumb-bunny look on his face. It's like he's coming clean on a big lie -
he's really a furry animal who shouldn't have had any clothes on to begin
with. I don't think I've ever thought any male really beautiful (maybe
this transvestite once, but that's all), but a male like Bob is positively
repulsive - that is, if you think about doing anything with his body
besides dominating it. From the point of view of domination, all that fuzz
right down to the biggish belly just makes the man more male, more
different from us, more lovely to conquer. 

Bob's shirt was off and he was dropping his pants when Leila asked him how
he planned to get them over his boots. So he tumbled onto the floor and
pulled off his boots and started on his socks but she said No, he could
leave them. Bob was wearing briefs, dark blue ones, but they were
loose-fitting for that kind of underwear. There was plenty of fabric to
allow a chunky erection room to wag in. 

So now Bob was down to his briefs, struggling to keep up the casual, bored
air, but really in great pain that one could see a mile away about
uncovering his Fricks. And then, just as he was inserting his fingers into
either side of his waist-band, Leila said, "Wait, Bob. To tell you the
truth, I'm not sure we want to see anything more. Why not stay like this?"


"And I can still take pictures?" Bob said.

"Until further notice," Leila said.

So Bob got busy with his cameras again. There he was, a big man in nothing
but socks and briefs. Maybe the dark and loosish fabric of his underwear
gave a less clear picture of every rise and fall, every jerk and quiver,
of Bob's penis than one could ask of briefs, but Bob's erection was big
and undeniable all the same. Leila really had had a point: now that he was
stripped down, Bob made no effort to conceal a thing, by squirming or
adjusting or brisk behavior. He went back to his business as if erections
were as constant in men as jutting breasts in us, and I think, if he were
honest about it, he'd say that he felt better for being allowed to stand
up tall. 

Almost shyly, Bob mentioned my bra. Maybe I should stand, he said. What
did I think? Should I stand? 

"You're the boss," I told him. It was my way of telling him he wasn't. 





end of part six
Estragon: "Memories of Underdevelopment," VII   (femdom)

(copyright, 1996, 1997 Estragon Productions;
for adults only)



The problem with Bob was that as soon as he felt things going his way, he
went from humility and fawning right back to being a bully. Leila
especially, and I too, were putting a lot into bringing him under, but it
was going very slowly to say the most. Maybe it was his advanced age. We'd
never worked with a middle-ager, remember, a guy who had years of male
bluff behind him. So there he was in his underpants, looking happy to see
us, to use a phrase, and for a while he'd have this clear sense of
reality, which you could just imagine: "Holy shit! They have me!" And he'd
be grateful and flattering and eager to please, knowing he was getting
incredible privileges in the form of me strip-teasing him and the
possibility of Leila being talked into doing it as well. I think he felt
that having peeled down himself made the whole scene somewhat of an orgy,
all of us in it together, especially if Leila was going to give in. That's
when he'd be clumsy and obsequious and ask for our opinion about
everything. Then some kind of shame would come over him and all at once
he'd turn belligerent. One minute it would be, "Do you think you should
stand, Erica? Would you be happier sitting?," and the next, "Lose the
goddamn bra, will you."

At moments like that, it was important to bring him back around quickly.
His attitude was his attitude. He was a fucked-up middle-aged man, like
most of them probably, with the standard male need to give girls their way
and a real problem doing it. Moreover, he knew he didn't stand a chance in
the attraction-area - probably never did stand a chance, even when he was
young, with girls on our level - but he was so attracted to US he'd
practically die for a better look. The money was nothing. When he felt the
need taking over, when he felt a little closer to that imaginary
discovery, that non-existent goal, the naked girl, he'd act any way we
wanted, in order not to stop the flow. So at first the fun for us was less
correcting his attitude than cleaning up his act. We just liked forcing
him to BEHAVE, regardless of what he was feeling. We particularly liked
watching him seethe and swallow hard and be servile just to get on with
it. But after a little of this it would look as if he was actually feeling
servile and humble, as if the real male was coming out. How could he not?
The man was in his underwear! How was he explaining this to himself?
Sooner or later we'd need him that way full time, since we had a goal that
wasn't imaginary but did require a change of attitude in Bob, not just a
fake change in behavior. 

Little by little we were taking charge and taking the illusion of control
away from him. That was probably what made him get hostile in that sudden
way. Whenever he got some tiny distance from his sex-drive, he'd realize
how Leila and I were using it to make a fool of him and then he'd get
pissed and vengeful and oh, so busy with his junk, and he'd try to boss me
around and I'd go stubborn and modest on him and then he'd have to
back-pedal and wheedle until I was ready to give again again and show him
another inch of myself. So we'd reward him for that - another button, a
shirt slipped off, a slow reach for the bra-clasp - and his penis would
drool (as I thought) and he'd be genuinely weak again. God, they must have
been wearing him out, all these changes of heart every two minutes.

"I think she should stay sitting," Leila offered from her chair. She
couldn't have cared less whether I was standing or sitting, but she knew
Bob really wanted me on my feet and wasn't being straight about it because
he was afraid to let any dispute stall the removal of my bra.

I said that if it was really up to me, well, my legs could use a stretch
and I'd be okay standing. I could see Bob was happy about that. Now he
wanted to stare and hold his breath and snap his photos and not let
anything break the spell.

"I really think you should stay seated, Erica," Leila said, for no reason
except to strike a fear into Bob that this meaningless disagreement was
going to cost him the chance to see my breasts. Bob looked totally
exasperated, but managed to hold his tongue. All the while, needless to
say, there was this erection pushing its way through the pouch of his
stupid briefs. 

"Oh, darling," I said sorrowfully to Leila, "I really think my legs are
getting stiff." So, finally, after pretending to give it a lot of thought,
she told me to suit myself.

I got out of the arm-chair, extended my whole body, took my time getting
the kinks out.  "Okay, Bob, get ready," I said finally, and reached back
and undid my bra, with an air of complete indifference, and very slowly,
so that the photographer could get a good, long look at my well-shaved
under-arms. He kept snapping pictures and coughing a lot. "God," he said,
before he could catch himself, when I finally drew away the cups and
showed him my breasts. They're slightly conical puffs, very firm, with
hard, dark nipples that have indented peaks. They're small, yes, but truly
nice. Bob's Adam's apple was sticking out like a second penis.

Forgetting himself for a second, Bob reached over to touch me. It was so
automatic that, even though it was offensive and inappropriate, it told me
how helpless he was. A girl always has to consider this aspect of men's
coarse behavior. Sure it's disgusting and needs to be blocked and
punished, but at the same time it's one more sign of their bondage. We
females are like hypnotists with the world's most gullible subjects: we
just show up and they're under. Anyhow, I slapped Bob back before his hand
made any contact with my breast and this sort of woke him up and he
actually apologized. "Eyes only," I said. 

"Sure, sure," Bob said.

Bob kept shooting away - pictures, I mean, though who could say what was
happening in his underpants? - and pretty soon he was asking me to take
off a little more and a little more. Why not my kilt? I was wearing black
tights, wasn't I? What was the big to-do? It shouldn't even cost extra.
Bob knew better, so he laughed when he said this. I made the same protest
each time: "You said faces, Bob, portrait-shots, that's all, and look how
far I've gone already. Now you want my bra, my breasts, my tights, my...I
can't even say it." But then, after a little time, I'd say okay, and Leila
would decide the extra money, and Bob would agree right away. 

My kilt came off and in that way Bob got to see and photograph my whole
figure, including naturally the bump of my sex-zone under my tights. I had
to stand with my hands on my hips and my pelvis pushed out in this very
arrogant way, which I happened to love, and he crouched down in front of
me and I looked down at him and, half-naked as I was, felt extremely
powerful, and he felt it from me, I knew, and it made him shake and he
could hardly hold the camera still. 

Then we negotiated about my tights. This took quite a while, because it
meant another major strip, right down to my panties. Bob would plead one
minute and the next accuse us of playing games with him. So Leila would
get huffy and he'd take it all back and plead with HER to get me to do it
and also to do it herself, for a big amount of money. She said she wasn't
my keeper, you know, and after all they were my tights. At long last I did
lower them, first a little way and then some more, exposing my abdomen
inch by painful inch, my belly-button, the slight indentation of my pelvis
above my mound, the tops of my panties, the shadow of my pubic hair under
them - slowly, slowly, making Mr. Byrrhe wait it out, torturing him -
until they lay bunched around my boots and I could truly swear I saw Bob's
heart thumping inside his chest the way hearts do in cartoons.  

I was down to my panties. My jutting hip-bones stretched the waist-band
away from my abdomen, which has always been flat and lean, like a plateau
between the sharp mountain-ridges of my hips and the rise of my mound. If
someone stood over me or if I looked straight down my torso, she or I
could see into my pubic valley and get a view of the dark curve of my
hill-side too. My panties clung faithfully to my cunt, which was round as
a bulb. Of course I was waxed, so not a single hair would show past my
crotch; this was probably an unnecessary precaution, though, since my hair
is pretty much concentrated within its shy little triangle. My panties
were simple white cotton ones, but I knew my hair was making a dark V
under them.

There I was, all but naked, and I felt strong and impenetrable, just as
Leila had said I would, as if I were enclosed in a shell that was 
microscopically thin but made of some space-age material that nothing
could crack. Everything that you'd think would be humiliating in it was
the opposite as a matter of fact. The fact that Bob was a shabby specimen
with a body and sex-organs we didn't even want to look at, and that his
head was full of disgusting ideas he couldn't keep hidden - it was all
terrifically empowering to me, not the opposite. It was like he was your
basic man, not prettied up in any way. Our college-boys may have been
younger and handsomer and stronger too, but you could get misled by that
and not see what was basic - which was that anyone with such ridiculous,
tacked-on sex-organs wasn't going to sell on the beauty-market. We call
men dicks sometimes, because penises are so asinine. But when you looked
at Bob, who was a dick, God knows, you didn't even think penis: you
thought of that papery, wrinkled thing with the incredibly ugly, totally
appropriate name, Scrotum. 

So you might think that it would have been humiliating for me to be
displaying my bare skin to this horrendous person, but it was exciting and
strengthening instead, because the more of my beauty he saw, the more he
understood how far apart we actually were, and the more pain he felt. He
could grab and ogle, but those are desperate things to do, little
semi-rapes that all men commit every time they're forced to recognize how
infinitely out of reach we are. And every man on earth is basically
desperate this way, and desperation makes a person unsightly. So Bob was
the basic thing. A crumpled brown-bag, an unsightly scrotum.

My near-naked body was giving him more trouble than ever. He was breathing
loudly and clearing his throat a lot and fumbling with his lights and
tripods. He could hardly hold his camera steady, and of course there was a
big erection shoving out his pants, which he kept trying to adjust without
too much luck, simply calling attention to his male-problem with all that
obscene fuss. He was making various photographic mistakes, I guess,
because he kept muttering "Oh, shit" and "Fuck," and Leila had to remind
him that there were young girls present - "In case you haven't noticed,"
she said.

But my point is that, even though Bob would get discombobulated (excuse my
pun) every time I showed a little more skin, it was more because of what
he imagined he was getting than what he actually got. Sure, he was seeing
a girl's nude body, and that's what he wanted - or thought he wanted, the
way all men do. But really everything he saw just made him unhappy,
unsatisfied, and in a minute he wanted more, and would go on that way,
thinking he was getting something and then realizing he couldn't live
without more and more, until I was stark naked and he still didn't have
everything, didn't have the real thing, the basic, exposed girl. There
isn't such a girl, but men don't get that. There's a basic man, but not a
basic girl. In Leila's opinion, that was why men wanted to strip us in the
first place - and why they loved those hideous magazines with the
disgusting pictures of splayed women and women with their pussies showing
from behind. As if gluing their eyes to these split-beaver-shots really
gave them power over us. All men can understand is what nakedness means to
THEM, how exposed and found-out they feel in their bare skins - and under
their clothes, for that matter. They think it has to be the same for
women, but they're hopelessly wrong. And when they find this out - how
wrong they are - it knocks them for a terrible loop. They become
completely unpredictable.

So it was no surprise that Bob's tone kept changing at this point in the
day even more than earlier. He couldn't help it, to tell the truth. If I
took so goddamn long to get from my tights to my panties, I could spend
years on the next revelation, the grand finale of uncovering my mound.
He'd die waiting; it was totally possible, what with his age and girth.
And how he wanted to see that cunt of mine! That would be it, that would
be his heart's desire, and he'd be happy at last - for a
minute-and-a-half. 

"Erica, I want you to remove your panties now, no dilly-dallying," Bob
said, sounding stern and condescending, like a school-principal. I
expected him to call me "young lady." "We've been here for hours," he
said, fat and erect in his underpants, "and I do have a busy schedule."

"Is it getting late, Bob?" Leila said.

"Yes, it is, as a matter of fact."

"Cut to the chase, then, is it?"

"I wouldn't mind."

"A few muff-shots of Erica and we pack and go?"

"More or less...."

"Well, good then. So I won't be doing any undressing myself?"

"Godfuckingdamnit," Bob said, "don't yank me around, you...you...you GIRL."

"Oh, DON'T yank you around?" Leila laughed. "Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur
Byrrhe. I misunderstood."

Bob buckled. "Please, Leila, please...," he said.

"Hey, Erica," Leila said, "did you ever think about how often we've heard
guys say 'please' to us, so plaintive, so pitiful, just like Bob here?"

I slumped into my arm-chair for the duration. Bob started to say "Hold
it," but he didn't want to distract himself from the bait Leila had set. 

"Please, girls," Leila went on. "Please look at me, please whip me, please
break me in two, please let me grovel and worship your pussy with my
mouth, please...."

"Please stop, Leila," Bob said. "I'm losing it. I can't fight you any
more. I'll pay, I'll do, whatever. I just want to see, take some photos,
that's all...."

"And touch me, feel me up, maybe kiss my cunt...."
 
"Sure, I want to touch you. It's natural. But I won't if you don't want me
to. And I don't want to kiss your pussy, so drop that. I never was a
lecko, okay?"

"Oh, Bob," Leila said, "it's the greatest privilege a man can have. What's
the matter with you? And here I am just thinking...."

Bob made some meaningless sounds.

"If you take heart-medicine, Bob," Leila said, "now's the time to pop one.
Because I'm going to say yes. I'm going to let you have it, everything you
want and something more."

Bob looked excited and suspicious. He already knew how clever Leila was,
and you could see him calculating in his mind, trying to second-guess her.
Oh, but she was way beyond him. In the most business-like monotone you
could imagine, Leila outlined the deal for Bob. A big bunch of money first
of all (we'd already discovered that his wallet was as fat as he was). Bob
said no problem. 

"Well, here's a big problem," Leila said. "I'd rather not go to the bother
of taking my things off myself. I'd rather you did it for me, Bob."

Bob laughed happily. "I don't see a problem there," he said.

"Not done, darling. I'm not done. You see, Bob, I'm a very complicated
girl. Maybe you picked up on that? Very complicated, wouldn't you agree,
Erica?"

"Damn straight," I said.

"Yes, yes...," Bob said, all but panting. "And so?"

"Well, as I say, I truly want you to strip me down, item by item, sweater,
bra, you get it...."

"I get it," Bob said.

"Yes," Leila said, "but what you don't get is that I'm very worried how
I'll feel about it later."

"It's nothing, it's just sex," Bob said.

"Not how I see it, Bob. Maybe it's because I'm a girl, huh? Anyhow, the
way I see it, these are big privileges you're getting, seeing Erica and
now me in the buff - actually getting me that way, wow! - and a girl
doesn't want to feel taken advantage of, or that she's given in too
easily."

"But I'm paying you," Bob said.

"Well, a girl doesn't want to feel like a whore either, you know. No, you
have to pay in something besides money, something that doesn't make us
feel we're just selling our bods to you. Something that makes us feel that
it's all much more important to you than it is to us. Because it is, isn't
it?" Bob said nothing, and Leila repeated, "Isn't it, Bob?"

"Okay, maybe," he said.

"'Okay, maybe?' You want it so bad it hurts, right? Don't guys have that
expression, 'I wanted it so bad it hurt'? Well, my idea is, if you want it
so bad it hurts, it should hurt just as much to get it."


Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

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