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From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: NEW: Estragon's "Pommel Horse" 2/? Femdom
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NEW: Estragon's Pommel Horse 2/? Femdom

This posting in two parts contains the complete text thus far,
but the opening segment of Estragon's Part Two has been attached 
instead to the end of Estragon's Part One because of AOL's 
posting requirements.
                                                
The author of this story is Estragon (RGT@WELL.COM) and NOT the person
posting it.  Praise where praise is due.













There was no trading with girls, no negotiating. Not really. That
stinginess of theirs again. They were always ahead, they already had what
they needed from you - your obsession with them - and so they never ran any
risk. Sure, obviously they could resist you and reject you and play with
your feelings and what could you do but hope they'd turn nice. But it
actually wouldn't hurt them to BE nice. They'd lose nothing by that. The
game was set up so that they couldn't lose, no matter what they did, no
matter what the boys did. (The only edge males had was in physical
strength, and even though that could get pretty ugly, it wasn't really an
edge at that, because nine times out of ten a girl who wasn't brainwashed
into fear could still get control of a guy with a few easy moves.) So it
was nothing but stinginess, gleeful stinginess, if girls kept boys
begging or just yearning inwardly, as was the case with Benjie. For
instance, Benjie sometimes had the idea that it would be gratifying to
start a collection of well, locks of hair freely bestowed by girls and
women. Let's be totally clear about this: locks of okay, PUBIC hair. Locks
of pubic hair. Little samples of the secret growth females have where their
legs meet. He'd have to request them, of course. That would not be easy,
given that old stinginess. But why couldn't he plead meekly for this small
favor? It would mean so much to him, and ask so little of her. The hair ,
it would grow back just like that. Anyhow, her triangle wouldn't miss it:
he wouldn't expect a large donation. A favor a girl could do him without
much cost to her, and no real need for embarrassment. He wouldn't make the
snip himself. He wouldn't even watch, if she didn't wish him to. It would
be enough to know that she was doing it, gathering the sample, pulling it
taut, carefully shearing it, so near the moisture of her lips and clitoris.
He'd keep each girl's hair in its own air-tight plastic envelope, with her
name and maybe her age, and the date, printed in the tiniest letters on the
label. It would be for him alone: he'd have this duty to his benefactress.
Eventually he'd collect quite a few, in all colors, and what harm would
there be in that? He'd study them, lovingly imagine the demure patches from
which they came, the soft, concealing muffs, the elusiveness of girls. Was
providing a boy with a permanent reminder of that such a bad thing? But
just imagine proposing it to any girl whatsoever!

And Benjie had a feeling that, even with all this power girls knew they had
and which they carefully conserved, they still didn't come close to
realizing its full extent. He remembered hearing his mom say something to
this effect to some woman-friends years before. "I don't think we have a
clue," she'd said. The others listened with interest, nodded thoughtfully,
tentatively. "I think," she'd said, "that for every man whose eyes we know
we've caught, for every man we know we've made a little goofy, there are
probably dozens and dozens we don't even know are there. Poor, enchanted
men - don't ask enchanted by what? that's my point, girls - men who know we
haven't noticed them, who're going to spend the rest of the day doing in
fantasy what they're too shy to offer us in person." All the women shook
their heads. They couldn't fathom it. They were just typical women, not
glamor-pusses. But his mom must have been right, because little Benjie
himself thought she and her friends were awfully pretty, especially in
their lip-stick and their stylish hair, and he loved to plant himself, as
if absorbed in something else, in a corner of the room they sat in, where
he could steal glances freely. (A couple of them had seen him naked when he
was smaller, and he was sure when they looked his way the recollection of
that sight was the reason they smiled.) "Men don't require as much
perfection as we think," one of the women sagely concluded.


So a roomful of girls, plus of course Miss Ashley and whoever was going to
assist her, were going to see him naked. See him, touch him, observe how he
reacted when they swatted his penis and jolted his balls. Why did people,
including himself, make such a thing of situations like that? He was a
boy-person willing to help a bunch of girl-persons out. That was it. Yes,
he had mixed feelings about it, but the biggest thing in the mixture was
that he had to admit (though he'd never do so, as he now felt, to another
living boy) he wanted to play this role. Why ARE people so ashamed of being
seen naked? He had always been - ashamed and, if the witness was female,
despite himself glad. Everyone knows what everyone has. But we don't act
that way, we don't DRESS that way. We treat it as a great secret, one that
gets out once in a while but somehow still basically stays a secret. We
cover ourselves-that's the big fact. We cover ourselves to...what? To
pretend that there's nothing down there, or that we're all the same down
there, or at least that there's no way except stripping someone naked to
know for sure what they have and what they are. Sex organs are so weird. A
boy's are truly weird; they seem tacked on and totally awkward. Like they
don't really belong anywhere and are put where they are just to make them
parallel to a girl's. But then a girl's are weird because they're nothing
like a boy's; they're sort of not there at all. Boys are weird for having
them, and girls for not having them. In some magazines, they go to so much
trouble to make it look as if girls have big, raucous organs just like men.
They have to spread them apart and bend them upside-down and backwards to
do this, and usually the women have to keep their vaginas open by hand, and
then maybe it does look as if girls' organs are THINGS. But it's total
distortion, it's not true: you don't see girls in school or out in the
world doing contortions. The girls in Playboy are truer to life where poses
are concerned, and they look much more like the girls at school, except for
their tits in most cases, and that's the better way, although Playboy goes
too far in the other direction, shaving pubic hair into silly little spikes
and generally leaving girls looking like they're made of polymer. Anyhow,
Playboy doesn't show much vagina at all, which is really too bad. The
pictures Benjie liked best were:

1. The girl in her panties, the fabric (simple cotton was just fine)
stretched clean and smooth over her mound, maybe a hint of indentation,
maybe not, but the wonderful round protrusion itself silently scorning all
the jut and dangle he and every other boy had down there.

2. The girl just standing there naked, looking at you, looking as
comfortable as if she were clothed, that neat triangle of hair on her
otherwise bare torso keeping her privacy, except maybe for the scant shadow
of her slit, or maybe not even.

3. The girl comfortably reclining, as if alone in her room, with her thighs
parted just enough to give one a gentle glimpse, amid her soft lower tuft,
of her delicate minor lips just emerging for some air. As for her clitoris,
Benjie would welcome a clear view of that, but all his pictorial prowling
had left him quite uncertain about whether he'd ever caught sight of the
mercurial organ or not.

He didn't understand why anyone would like to imagine girls as gluey
bundles of flaps and folds. You could look in the mirror and distort your
familiar old face until you looked like a gargoyle, but even though there'd
be nothing there besides your face, it wouldn't be your face either. And
that's what some mags did with women's cunts. Made them into things nobody,
looking at a pretty woman walking down the street, could really imagine
concealed there between her long, lank legs. Benjie had an opinion as to
why males might imagine girls this way: it made them feel a little better
about truly having the most embarrassing and vulnerable things in the world
hanging down there between their own legs, "protected" (if that was the
word for it) by nothing more than a swatch or two of thin cloth.


Sometimes, MOST times, he thought that the difference between girls and him
had to be the most important thing in the world. Not just the difference
you'd express by saying they have this and I have that, but the big
difference that I have things they don't have, things that they can see and
touch and cause to change (even without touching), even when I have my
clothes on, while there's absolutely nothing like that I can do to them.
What could be more important than this embarrassing difference? But then,
sometimes, he told himself that it hardly mattered at all, that it was just
the way things were and people were just people, whether they were boys or
girls, and the difference between them shouldn't be made any bigger than
the sex organs themselves, which were pretty small compared to our total
size. This position didn't usually remain convincing for long, however: one
of his thousand daily erections, more often than not in public
circumstances (read, "teeming with girls") would always make him forget its
bland arithmetic.


Even though officially your penis went along with other features that were
supposed to be advantageous, it had always been pretty clear to Benjie that
girls felt superior for NOT having one. (Why even get into what it meant
NOT to have balls? They were an unmitigated handicap, no matter that we
made them a symbol of virility.) He thought he would never in all his life
forget a certain afternoon when he was five, an episode of horrid
humiliation as far as he was concerned, though he could see that nobody
else present found it anything other than humdrum. He was at the beach with
his mother and two of her "girl-friends," young women who didn't yet have
kids of their own. They were lazily getting ready to pack it in for the day
and, as she always did, his mother was towelling Benjie off, brushing away
as much sand as she could before dressing him for the ride home. He hated
this moment, because of the abrasive effect of the sand as his mother
rubbed, but also because he knew that at a certain point his mother would
pull down his bathing-trunks and briskly continue the process over his
buttocks and front and her woman-friends would see all of him. Apparently
this shouldn't matter to him, since it didn't seem to matter to anyone else
- the two women didn't even look away - but all the same it did matter,
vaguely, though he'd learned to accept it and swallow his chagrin when his
mother actually seemed to put him on display, boy-parts forward, and a
little mutinous stiffness might form in his penis. (From the very first
time mom had done this, Benjie lived with the idea, I have been seen by
ladies, the fact that I have a penis has been seen. A shameful knowledge
that nonetheless could cause arousal now and then.) On this particular
afternoon, a trio of young girls, probably not a lot older than Benjie,
came ambling by just as his mother was lowering his trunks, and the sight
stopped them in their tracks. They stood a few feet off and simply stared.
No disguise, no apology. Benjie's mother saw nothing in the arrival of an
audience to warrant modifying her activity. She went on burnishing the boy.
She even smiled at the visitors. Benjie gave her an importunate look,
whined a wordless plea, but this only brought a chuckle in response.
"Benjie," his mother remonstrated, "you can't blame girls for being
curious." She smiled once more at the girls. "This is Benjie," she said.
"He's a little sand-magnet." "Okay," one of the girls said, and all three
began to giggle. "Girls!" his mother said tolerantly, addressing her two
friends. The towel, guided by two fingers within its folds, descended into
Benjie's groin, nudging aside his testicles and making them and his little
acorn penis jig. This humiliation could never happen to a girl. That much
was clear to Benjie in his submission. Each girl's bathing-suit plumped her
young labia into a smooth, tapered cushion of poised penislessness. "They
know I'm Benjie," Benjie thought. "They know it's Benjie's things they've
seen. They'll always know." It was a thought to make him wretched - and to
make his mischievous member fill.


Being seen, having been seen, having been seen long years before, in
another world, at a younger age - to be male is to be male, at five, at
fifteen, at fifty too no doubt - this was the defeat, but also the origin
of the desire FOR defeat, that Benjie, in honesty with himself, had
recognized for a long time as the essence of sex for him. To be seen is to
be known. To be seen is to lose that little bit of ambiguity that clothes
and masculine manners (which means, of course, the absence of manners)
provide. To be known unambiguously, to have it shown beyond the shadow of a
doubt (and not merely by a fair preponderance of evidence) that one is a
boy, a male, with the vulnerabilities peculiar to boys, the visible needs
that weaken them and make them ready zanies and thralls to girls.

Simplest was to be stripped naked. But in the course of time Benjie had
begun to appreciate all kinds of virtual bareness, the subtler nakedness of
being known beneath one's camouflage. Wasn't the external, not to say
protruberant, nature of the male parts designed for just this kind of
round-the-clock, anywhere-at-all stripping? Weren't the thousand-and three
erections they casually launched in the course of a day the very thing
girls got such amusement from? All those manifest disturbances in men's
pants? And then there was the universal fact of gender that made one man's
nakedness every man's. Often, in museums, a nude male statue before him and
a cluster of girls or women nearby, Benjie would feel the quick connection
of his maleness to that of the exposed man of stone  -  and be certain that
the smiling females were observing the same fusion. How could they help
thinking, "That boy over there, we might as well be seeing through his
clothes"?

If Benjie ever heard a woman or girl mention the male body-parts, he'd take
it personally, he'd feel personally exposed, found out. The girl who said
"penis" knew everything already. There was almost no point in keeping his
clothes on after that. She knew what he was smoothing over by wearing them.
Her knowledge undressed him. To think of those girls who saw their dads or
brothers naked regularly - they had x-ray vision, as far as Benjie was
concerned.

The shame of feeling denuded in this way was exquisite. Can there be such a
thing as wonderful shame? Heady and dazzling shame. Implacable desire
combined with a wish to be swallowed whole by the genderless earth.  But
later, alone in his room, Benjie would lower his pants and masturbate to
the recollection of the girl who'd said "penis," who'd said "balls," or
who, even more triumphantly, had inserted the killer pronoun into the
phrase. And the sound of that light, feminine voice addressing him with
"YOUR penis, Benjie,...YOUR testicles, yes, I'm talking about YOURS, boy" -
the sound would echo mercilessly in his mind's ear and Benjie would
masturbate in a fever of remembered shame, wretched and excited by a
conviction that the girl had intended his total humiliation from the
beginning and must have taken pleasure in the ease with which she'd
achieved it.

To some extent a boy could do the same thing to a girl - Benjie loved the
thought of saying "vagina" or even "cunt" within a female's hearing - but
the effect couldn't, he thought, match hers on him. At most, some
embarrassment, he thought. Girls were very stingy with their bodies. They
didn't want you to see up their skirts or down their shirts - unless they
DID want you to. They liked to tease boys, and that involved keeping things
back. But that wasn't the same as being in danger, like a male, of being
mortified by a knowing word. Oh, how much Benjie wanted to see a real
vagina! He'd give anything just to be allowed to stare quietly at the
bashful slit. He dearly wanted to know what the hair looked like around it,
what it looked like when it wasn't shaved into rabbit-ears. And what it
felt like: it must be much softer than his own, he thought. He would be
grateful to know this for sure. Benjie was obsessed with female pubic hair,
which he never thought he'd seen in its honest form. He thought it must
bother girls a lot when it started to grow on their bodies. It must feel
like a cheat. Here they were, becoming women, expecting to have fine,
smooth womanly skin all over, with nothing masculine about it, and then,
all of sudden, there's a puff of hair on your bump, wiry, curly hair. If he
were a girl, he'd feel tricked, he thought: I'm smooth here, and here, and
here, but wait! Not here! On the other hand, real pubic hair made this
perfect triangle on girls, and helped keep their private parts private and
mysterious. So girls must be glad about that; otherwise, wouldn't they
shave their mounds the way they do their legs and underarms?  And the
famous smell of a woman - it was supposed to be like nothing else, and he
couldn't imagine what it was like, and he desperately wanted to learn. But
what made these needs so awful was his belief that a girl could satisfy
them, give him the long look he wanted, and the other sensations too,
without any great trouble to herself. He'd see her naked, sure; he'd see
her cunt. In the most respectful way he'd bring his finger-tips to her
pubic hair, just for one or two gingerly seconds. He'd allow his reverent
nostrils one shy sampling of her girl-scent, say thanks for the good time
and go. None of this could hurt her at all. She'd still keep all her
secrets. He'd have nothing on her. No power over her. Why? Because he
couldn't make her dick stand up, and he couldn't make her spurt - and,
also, he couldn't break her balls. She'd leave the scene as well-off as she
came. So you couldn't get more out of saying "vagina" to a girl than you
could out of seeing the thing itself. Because "vagina" was something hard
to expose: as much as anything, it meant "no penis here, everything tucked
away," and that was the secret most likely of the imbalance of power
between females and males.


Benjie was startled from his revery by the sound of the locker-room door
being unlatched several aisles away, and by young female voices getting
nearer. For a moment he forgot his situation and called out in alarm to the
still unseen females, "No, wait! This is the boys' locker you're in."

"Benjie?" one of the voices replied. "Where on earth are you? This place is
so complicated." Laughing, she addressed the second girl, "Are we going to
have to go down every row of lockers, for God's sakes? Benjie, speak up!"

"Yes, I'm here. I'm Benjie. You're coming to get me, I guess, huh? For Miss
Ash ." The girls appeared at the end of the aisle. A blonde in a short
plaid skirt and crisp white blouse, and a very long-haired brunette in a
t-shirt and bluejeans. Benjie's heart chilled to see them. They were
classmates of his: Megan and Amanda, ninth-graders like himself. Somehow
the fact that they were older than the girls in Miss Ashley's class, and
had known him for years in other settings, deepened Benjie's mortification.
The girls were trying to act low-keyed and businesslike, but an air of
superiority and privilege came through, and sometimes they broke out of
their pose entirely to enjoy their adolescent importance unabashed. Their
arrival made the events ahead grippingly real. In his imagination, Benjie
could mitigate the embarrassment of being naked for the seventh-graders
with a bit of condescension. He was the big boy giving them a look, maybe a
feel, maybe even cluing them into the fact that, as a boy, he had
vulnerable parts. But how could he maintain that rationalization with girls
his own age, girls with unmistakably womanly bodies, with breasts, with
hips  -  his equals if not (given the greater maturity of girls) his
superiors? Now he was getting an inkling of how far actuality would differ
from anything he'd anticipated. He knew deep down that all the days of
trying to see ahead, all the rehearsals and contingency-planning, had been
far in spirit and content from the waiting reality.

Benjie was uncertain what move to make, so he remained seated across the
bench. Amanda, the girl in the bluejeans, straddled the bench and casually
planted herself on it, facing Benjie with not many inches between them. The
bench was low and anyone seated on it was bound to spread his or her knees.
Amanda let it happen: her legs were as wide open as Benjie's own, though
girls, normally so protective of their secret regions, so quick to cross
their legs or tuck in their skirts, girls will make an exception when
they're wearing jeans. The soft blue fabric clung smoothly to Amanda,
forming a wide, supple triangle which tauntingly displayed the sweet,
empowering lack between her thighs. She knew the effect on Benjie: try as
he may, he could not raise his eyes from the manifest evidence of Amanda's
birthright over him.

"Benjie, up here!" Amanda said. When the boy lifted his guilty eyes he saw
that Amanda was pointing to her own. "I know I'm fascinating down there,
but head up now," Amanda said. "We'll be taking you upstairs soon. Are you
- pardon the expression - up for it?"

I could be sullen or I could be tractable, Benjie thought, in so many
words. It could go either way. But he was wrong once again to think himself
free. "I think I'm ready," he said softly, a new wave of erection-prompted
obsequiousness having demolished his pride.

"Did you prepare the way Miss Ashley ordered?" Amanda asked.

"Shaved your pits and cockatoo?" Megan added.

"And your wrinkly little sperm-bank?" Amanda said. "And you remembered not
to wear a jock, right?"

Red with shame, Benjie nodded miserably, feeling his genitals shrink in
futile flight from the girls' knowledge of them.

Now Megan asked him to stand. He was appalled to be given orders by a girl,
but of course he craved such humiliation as well. He started to lift a leg
over the bench but Megan told him she wanted him to straddle the plank.
Benjie's legs were necessarily parted as he stood. He faced the girls.
Amanda remained seated while Megan, standing beside her, moved closer to
the boy, who tried by lowering his eyes not to meet her forward stare -
only to see Megan's hand, a long string looped around her finger,
approaching his thigh. Before he understood what he was seeing, Megan had
slipped her hand up Benjie's shorts and seized his penis, which, despite
its previous case of nerves, had erected for her instantly. Her cool, lithe
fingers imperiously chilled his kindled organ. Sexual clouds were bursting
in his head.

"Oh," the boy squeaked, "oh, Megan, God, oh, please, how can you ."

"Not 'Megan,'" the girl chided coolly. "Miss Ashley prefers that you
address us all as 'Miss.'"

"Miss," Benjie pleaded. "Help me, miss," he whispered desperately. "Your
hand ." His voice fell and rose and fell again. He was Miss Megan's slave.

"It's nice to be appreciated, Benjie," Megan said, "but get a grip, will
you.."

"You know what I think?" Amanda said.

"What's that?"

"I think Mr. Benjie's Bean-Stick has never been touched by a girl before."

"I think you're right," Megan said. "Is she right, Benjie?"

Yes, it was Benjie's first time, this muddled moment in the locker-room,
the first contact of his penis with a female hand - and how firm that hand
was, how commanding its grasp, how deliriously overpowering as it fiddled
inside Benjie's shorts, joined now by Megan's other hand, somehow getting
the loop over his penis and tightening it, lasso-fashion, just behind the
rim of his glans. ("Circumcised," Megan reported. "Miss Ashley said so,"
Amanda said.) Dark-eyed Amanda watched it all with amusement, her cunt's
smooth secrecy still patent. She pointed to the place where the tip of
Benjie's penis would be palpable beneath his shorts. He'd released a
droplet of early sperm and it had seeped unhindered through the threadbare
fabric, forming a rich, dark circle which wouldn't dry soon.

"That's a nice touch," Amanda said, pointing to the stain.

"Oh, isn't it," Megan said, withdrawing her hands  -  "No, please, please
leave it," Benjie whimpered, unable to repress a request he knew to be
absurd  -  and with it the free end of the string she'd tied to Benjie's
cock. Benjie was mortified to have begged for her touch.

"You probably know, Benjie," Megan said, "that we girls menstruate every
month . You knew that, didn't you?" The puzzled boy nodded minimally. How
could she be mentioning this intimate thing? Because. He thought, her power
over him couldn't be compromised now.

"Well, when we do," the girl continues, "we have to put these tampons into
our vaginas, you know. And the tampons have these white strings hanging
from them, right down from our vadges . I imagine you've never seen a real
girl naked, huh?"

"Pictures, magazines," Benjie said.

"Yeah, well it's not the same. Anyhow, this string is so we can pull the
tampon out again. But what I wanted to point out is that this string
running down your leg, it looks like a very long tampon-string. And my good
friend Amanda has another one for you just like it. Your turn, Mandy."

So Amanda  -  and it turned out she'd been holding a similar miniature
lasso  -   reached both hands up the ample leg of Benjie's shorts. But it
was his balls she was after: she meant to rope them into her little loop,
and she achieved this with remarkable alacrity for a young girl working
blind. With one hand she nudged his hard-on upward and found the hinge of
his scrotum, over which she closed her fingers so that the entire sack
formed a firm little parcel. Then she slipped on the loop and, keeping it
securely above the boy's testes with the fingers of one hand, she pulled it
tight with the other, and Benjie's balls were snared and softly aching.
Amanda's hands left Benjie's shorts, drawing the free end of the second
string with them, so that now the girls had the exhilaration of seeing what
appeared to be two innocent lengths of string descending well down Benjie's
legs, and there, like a bull's-eye in his shorts, were the pushy remains of
his erection and a deep, viscous stain.

"I think we're ready," Megan said. "Time to march, dear boy." Benjie lifted
a leg over the bench and stood at what he hoped would pass for attention
without making too irreparable a show of his subordination. Facing him with
a faint smile, Megan reached down for the end of the string she had
installed on his dick. With this movement, Megan snappily raised Benjie's
shorts-leg and jerked his organ up and outward. The string held sharply to
the rim of Benjie's glans.

By now Amanda had posted herself directly behind the boy and was reaching
between his legs (her hand carelessly brushing his thighs in a way that
thrilled him despite himself) and taking hold of the string she looped
around his balls. Up went a second leg of his shorts, this time even more
disconcertingly for being lifted behind him - and Amanda was gamely
stretching back his balls so that Benjie had to part his legs slightly to
accommodate them up against his perineum, the merciless length of twine
cutting in between his testes and filing its way between his buttocks
before finally taking some air.


Now he was marching like a prisoner between his classmates, one girl in the
lead, one girl at his back, his female guards. Submissiveness
notwithstanding, he didn't like the prisoner feeling. But he could do
nothing to break out of it; the girls weren't hurrying, and they were
crowding him besides, and their string-work was making certain that he
would not assume anything resembling normal gait. He was shuffling, despite
himself, like...yes, like a prisoner, with a distended, semi-erect penis
fore and clinched and cramping ballocks aft.

They passed single-file, a fifteen-year-old boy and his fifteen-year-old
girl escorts, through a small door that opened on the staircase that would
take them to the gym above.

"Dead man walking," Benjie thought.



End of part two


Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

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