Lesson at a Feminist Gathering

There's a cute little art gallery in our town which my wife and I visit occasionally whenever there's a wine-and-cheese exhibit opening, usually featuring a local artist. The owner is an attractive, middle-aged woman - herself an artist - who is a prominent member of the town's lesbian community. Since my wife is an arch-feminist, she loves to spend time chatting with the artist-owner's circle of friends with whom she has a lot in common on the issues of the role of women in today's society. I sometimes feel a very left out as I roam the exhibit alone while the wife engages in animated conversation with a sort of coven of man-hating harpies, who seem to smugly and privately comment on others in attendance at the gallery. I always imagine that they are making snide observations, either about the men, whom they find pathetic and laughable - or straight couples, about whom they whisper criticisms that reflect their alternate sexuality.

On this many suchoccasions, i spent some time glancing sidelong at them while I pretended to views the artworks on exhibition. I recall little isolated details -- like the black tights on one woman, that outlined her perfectly contoured thighs, calves and buttocks. On another attendee, whose back was to me, I caught a glimpse of a behind, which was beautifully outlined in skintight, pale bluejeans. A small, slim beauty in a short, pencil skirt wore stiletto heels in black patent leather. A college age brat wore dungarees with long gaping holes, with large stretches of pale flesh exposed through windows in the fabric; and stood on worn-looking Doc Martens boots. I had to steal these peeks one at a time so as to avoid being caught at staring. Nevertheless, I occasionally met eye to eye with one observant woman or other who cast a cold glance back at me.

Near the conclusion of one such gathering, my wife invited the group of women, with whom she had been chatting, back to our apartment. She told me to precede her back home to make sure the place was all spiffy to receive guests and to prepare a pot of tea and make sure there were enough cups and saucers set out for our guests. I was to pick up anything found lying around, vacuum quickly, fluff the sofa pillows, and put something interesting on the CD player. I rushed home to comply with my wife's wishes and awaited their arrival. She followed shortly after and oversaw my housekeeping efforts.

While I went about the chores she had assigned me, I tried to make conversation so as to distract from the rather demeaning situation I had accepted by carrying out the parlor preparations while my spouse looked on and issued direct and specific instructions.

"Pick that up!" and "Don't leave that like that!" and "Close that!" and "Open this!" were shouted at me as I tried my best to carry out her commands.

"Who was that new girl I saw you talking to? The one with the blond dreadlocks?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Oh, she teaches at the college," the wife replied. "Teaches Feminist History. She quite the charming conversationalist."

"And the shapely brunette? I've seen her before at the gallery.

"She just joined my aerobics class at the gym. Aren't you the observant little man?" she added sarcastically. "Keeping a close watch on the ladies, aren't you?"

"Well, you have to expect that as a man, I've got an eye for attractive women," I replied.

"Don't worry. They haven't the least interest in whether you find them attractive."

"I know that. I'm just saying. And who was that Goth chick - or was she a punk rocker? the one with the black mohawk and all the tattoos. I've never seen her before."

"She's an art student at the college. She's sleeping with the blond I caught you staring at.. Bet you'd like to be a fly on their bedroom wall, wouldn't you?" my wife teased. Indeed, I would.

"There was that old bag from the other gallery across town. She comes to all of these exhibits," I said, trying to show that not all the women held a fascination for me.

"There was a WHAT?" my wife replied sharply. "What did you call Georgina? A what...?"

"Uh-oh," I thought. I had made an indiscreet remark, or so it seemed from the reaction it got.

"Say it again," the wife commanded.. "What did you call that nice women? Not that it matters. Nice or not, you are to speak respectfully whenever you speak of women -- any woman!" The wife was angry. I didn't want to say the words again, 'old bag' but I knew that I was in hot water.

"Let me hear you say it!" My wife walked closer and pulled the dust brush from my hand. Her clear, blue eyes -- inches from mine -- drilled into me. "Say it!"

At this point I had no choice but to comply. "Old bag," I croaked hoarsely, my mouth suddenly dry, and I momentarily held my breath, trying to exercise control so as to not look totally intimidated. My lower jaw dropped and my mouth opened into the shape of an oval as I sought to find the courage to inhale.

My wife then reached up and gripped my face, her thumb on one cheek and her fingers on the other cheek, then squeezed my cheeks together so that they met in the middle, creating what I knew was a completely ludicrous facial expression and at the same time making it impossible for me to reply or even to protest. Above all, I couldn't comply with the order to pronounce the objectionable term 'Old bag.'

"Don't. Ever. Let. Me. Hear. You. Say. Such. A Disrespectful. Thing. About. A. Woman. Ever. Again!" she exclaimed, shaking my face and my whole head with each syllable she uttered. I tried nodding in agreement even as she maintained a grip on my face, but couldn't say a word with my lips distorted into a tight figure-of-eight. She released me with a final, "Did you hear me?"

"Yes" I replied. "And I'm sorry. I apologize."

"You haven't heard the last of this." With that, she placed the dust brush back into my hand and told me to quickly finish.The doorbell was ringing and the guests were arriving.

First to arrive was a blond, executive looking woman about forty wearing a light blue sweater that highlighted the twin peaks of her forward-thrust breasts, almost like those of a 1950s pin-up model. Right behind her were a couple of rather "butch" women. One had a dark, black Elvis-type pompadour and faux sideburns created by letting wisps of the close-cropped hair of her temples to lay loosely on her soft, feminine cheeks. The other had a head of platinum hair that was thick on full on top, but sharply tapered to a peach-fuzz stubble in back and on the sides. After them came the gallery owner, Lidia, slender and attractive at fifty-plus years of age and shoulder length, wavy, salt-and-pepper hair. She was followed by the mohawk-tressed punk who wore a tattered, white, sleeveless concert tee-shirt that had generous arm-holes where the sleeves should have started, such that one could look right inside to behold the outer sides of each breast. She smiled wryly when she noticed my doing so. The fabric of her shirt undulated in waves with the swaying of her unsupported, ample breasts.

Several more arrived, one in the super-tight pale bluejeans and fancy ankle-high black leather boots; another with a tight, pencil skirt that stopped well above her knees, and wearing smoky, sheer, black stockings, leaving me ardently hoping to be seated across from her at some point. She had a full head of shoulder-length light brown hair and librarian-type, old-fashioned, horn-rimmed eyeglasses.

Without so much a introducing me, my wife bid them welcome and asked them all to first be seated and then second, to tell "him" (that would be me) how each wanted their tea prepared.

Some asked for some asked for lemon, some for milk, some for sugar or sweeteer Each lady told me to how make her a tea. None seemed in the least bit uncomfortable or surprised to be treating me like a servant. I wondered if my wife hadn't already prepared them to understand the situation that way.

After I had served each their tea, there was no place for me to sit.

"You can go to your room," my wife suggested. "Or if you want to stay here, you can sit there," she added, pointing to a place on the floor. Since that would provide me the much desired view for which I was hoping, I took my place on the floor.

The conversation that these women engaged in centered mainly around the stupidity and boorishness of men they encountered at work, in school, and in their families. Occasionally, when discussing some particularly egregious male behavior, one or more of the guests would dart hostile looks in my direction, as if I shared the guilt of somebody's bullying boss or chauvinist professor. The topic turned to offensive speech. Each guest had their own story of a male acquaintance who liked to offend by taking down to women; or a repulsive jerk who talked about his intimate anatomy as if a woman should want to hear about; or a fool who engaged in "man-splaining" when his ignorant explanations were consistently stupid. I grew increasingly uncomfortable because I sensed what was to come. After each of these women had her say, it was time for my wife to speak up.

"Take this dick-head," she began, pointing directly at me. Why don't you tell these women what you called Georgina a few minutes ago?" I felt my face blush hot with rosy color, and my heart began to race.

"Aw, come on." I told you I was sorry."

"What did he say," asked one after the other. "What did he say?" each chimed in.

"Go ahead. Tell them," she commanded. I couldn't bring myself to comply, mainly because I had lost my voice.

"Okay, then I'll tell them. He called her an 'old bag.'"

Groans of anger and disappointment rose from the gathering, followed by "no!" and "How dare you?" and "You didn't!" and other expressions of condemnation.

"Stand up," my wife ordered. "Better still, get on your knees and beg each one of of here to forgive you. You heard me. Start right now. Go around on all fours and apologize for your vile and stupid remark to each and every woman sitting here."

I got up on all fours and turned to the woman seated closest to me, the butch lesbian with the Elvis hairdo who had a look of utter contempt as I approached her sneakers.

"Kiss them. Kiss her sneakers. And say you're sorry."

I began to place kisses on her black and white, canvas lace-up sneakers. Her chubby partner with the platinum hair began to laugh a cruel and mocking laugh. I moved to her and briefly kissed the workman's oxford shoes she was wearing. I professed to be sorry and crawled over to the next lady.

It was the feminine-attired thirty-something woman in patent leather black high heels and sheer, smoky black stockings. This was going to be a treat. I gazed up to peek under the short, tight skirt. Her knees were parted sufficiently for me to see that she was wearing -- not pantyhose -- but thigh-high stockings that ended three-quarters of the way up her thighs and were held in place by snaps issuing from short black straps of a garter belt. Higher still was the plump delta of her crotch, clothed in a pale pink "V" of nylon. It had to be a thong undergarment because at the lower corner of the triangle, lit left exposed the small, crescents of each partly exposed buttock.. She was seated with her arm around the shoulders of the mohawk-coiffed punk girl. Both of them looked down at me, then back at each other, starting to chuckle in derision at my stunned facial expression. I went right to work, kissing the high heel shoes ardently, mumbling "sorry, sorry" as I rubbed my lips on them. After giving this treatment to the toe of each shoe, I felt compelled to move my lips up and onto the top of her left foot, where pale pink flesh showed through the sheer nylon of her stocking.

"Hey!" she exclaimed, when my lips made contact with her foot, immediately placing the heel of her right shoe right on top of my head, pushing me away as she did so, inflicting pain on my scalp as well. The two embraced ladies laughed aloud, and I withdrew a few inches, uttering "sorry, sorry," shamefully and with downcast eyes. With that, she lifted the left foot sharply, striking my lips with the toe of the shoe, almost causing me to bite my tongue.

"Who told you you could put your filthy male mouth on my foot? Huh, Mr. Macho man?" said the angered lady with the librarian-style eyeglasses. With that, she stood up, towering over me in her full, feminine magnificence. I glanced up her skirt once again, but couldn't see as far up as when she was seated.

"Did you have a nice look?' asked her still seated, mohawk-punk companion. "We saw you peeking up her dress. What a pig!"

"Is that what he was doing?" asked my wife angrily. "Looking up your dress?"

"He sure was." both ladies chimed in more or less simultaneously. I received groans of disapproval from each and every woman seated in the room.

"Well, I think we're going to have teach hubby a little lesson, don't you think?" my wife spoke to the gathering. Then to me she said, "Go fetch the switch" referring to a sort of antique wooden walking stick, quite slender and smooth, that she used from time to time to discipline me. Sheepishly, with downcast gaze, I shuffled off to the closet where the switch was kept. It was of light-colored wood and had a shepherd's hook type of handle. I took it off the hook from which it hung and handed it over to my wife, wondering just how far she was going to go with this proposed "lesson."

Taking it in her right hand just below the curved handle, she began tapping it against the palm of her left hand menacingly. Some tittering giggles were heard coming from the onlookers who were now seven in number.

"Pants down," ordered my wife. When I made a face, shook my head silently and hesitated, she growled, "NOW!" When she speaks to me in a such a dictatorial tone, I feel compelled to obey, no matter how reluctant I feel. So I immediately started unbuckling my belt and the fly of my pants. I glanced around the room to assess, by how many female onlookers were present, how horrible it would be to strip naked in front of them, but I avoided eye contact with any of the amused and giggling crowd.

"Down. Pull them down," my wife commanded. "That's far enough," she concluded when the pants were wrapped around my ankles. "Now the undies, too! Down! I want them all the way down," she stated.

I was shaking with the anxiety of complying with something that ran so hard against normal civil behavior. But I hesitantly and in slow, stop-and-go fashion pulled my underpants down to my ankles.

Cries of "Eww!" were issued in disgust by many of the spectator guests. The Stocking and high-heel clad lady sat down, distancing herself from my exposed three-piece set. I was ashamed, but somehow, perversely gratified by the scorn these ladies expressed about my maleness.

"Assume the position," commanded my wife. I knew what to do, having been spanked with the switch by her many times before, but never before an audience. I went on all fours.

"How many strikes of the switch do you think he should get?" asked my wife of the crowd. "Two," said one lady. "Ten," said another. ""Two for the 'old bag' remark and ten for peeking up Gloria's skirt," said a third lady.

"Well we can decide later. Right now let's get started. I'll start us off with five good ones," said the wife, and with that she landed the first sharp, stinging smack on my bare behind. I tried to keep from screaming, so I just grunted when it was struck. A chorus of giggles went throughout the room. As a second, third and fourth blow was struck, I began to emit pained cries of "Ow!" after each one. This resulted in humorous mimicking of my cries from many onlookers as well as outright laughter.

"Who else wants to take a turn?" asked the wife. There was a moment of hesitation, then the mohawk-punk stood up and extended her hand to take over possession of the switch. I couldn't see her facial expression from my position of all fours on the floor, but she stood to my left and I looked in her direction to observe how her closest foot was shod in a shiny, black, thick, gum-rubber-soled boot. It seemed to most beautiful and sexy element of clothing I had ever laid eyes upon. That is, until she began to take swipes on my butt with intense, cruel abandon. I was now crying out with each smack.

"Count them out loud!" my wife demanded. "That was number eight. Keep going. Let us hear you. Come on. Say nine. Come on. Ten."

I began to count out each blow with a pained yelp each time, half the name of thenumber and half a cry of pain. This sent the gathering in to waves of almost hysterical laughter which rose and fell in rhythm with each spank and the cry which followed it. At around the twentieth, my wife took the switch back and, commenting on the redness of my buttocks, bade me stand back up.

"Turn around and show the ladies your butt," she ordered. I began to slowly twirl to display my sore behind when the crowd began to notice something.

"He's got a fucking erection!" cried on observer. "Look at that," chimed in others. "The pervert has gotten turned on by the spanking!"

"Turn around this way. Let me see that," barked my wife in a tone of outrage. "Hands on your head!"

When I turned to face her, she extended the tip of the cane to touch my stiff and throbbing hard-on.

"Why in the world is it pointing up at us like that?" she asked half angry and half joking. She placed the tip of the stick under my balls and lifted the ball sack and its contents up high under the erect penis. I was terrified that she would strike my balls, but she didn't. Instead she began to poke my three piece set with the switch, this way and that, pushing first the penis, then the balls, side-to-side, up-and-down, back-and-forth as if they were a toy. On response my erection surged into higher height which brought forth more mirth from the ladies.

"Well, well," exclaimed my wife. "What do we have here? The absolute nerve of you getting hard in front of us. We can take care of that." With that she turned to point at the coffee table.

"Everybody clear the table. Take your cups and saucers. Put hem on your lap or somewhere. He needs to get up onto the table." A little commotion followed amidst the soft rattling of the cups and saucers being cleared from the coffee table.

"Now you," she went on. "Finish removing your pants and undies." I did. " Now get up on the table. On all fours again."I climbed up on the table and assumed the position she commanded.

"I think this goat needs to be milked. What do you think, ladies?" she announced into the room. All present took on looks of happy astonishment. My wife walked up to the table and reached under my belly, gripping the fabric of my shirt in order to push it up to my chest, affording all onlookers a view of my erection, now pointing more or less downward toward the surface of the table.

"Here we go!" she announced, grabbing the rigid shaft of the erect penis in her right hand. Up and down, she began tugging on it. I could only stare at the floor as giggles and catcalls were the response from the room. Then they began chanting in unison like cheerleaders at an athletic event.

"Do it! Do it! Do it!" they chanted amidst raucous laughter. "Shoot! Shoot! Shoot it out!" Some leaned forward to get a better look. Some women paired off into couples, hugging jubilantly as they took part in the mockery of my situation. After several minutes of this, I began to feel the climax building up. I concentrated mightily to hold back in order to avoid further humiliation, but in vain.

Soon long ropes of white semen issued forth out on to the glass table top as I cried out repeatedly with grunts of excruciating relief as the the crowd called out for more. My arms and legs were shaking and I nearly collapsed when the orgasm was all over. By then some of the ladies had keeled over in exhaustion onto their sides, as thy tried to catch their breath, still overcome with laughter.