Master Your Erection? You Wish

Here's two short stories for the price of one!

Both have me taking my clothes off facing a sofa and a young man upon it, watching me. In one case a friend, in the other a foe.

The first story, framing the second one, plays when the woman-protagonist (I) is all of twenty-eight years old, a psychotherapist too! She subjects a cocky young man at a party to an embarrassing instance of exhibition. No apology needed, he asked for it. And she facilitates his embarrassment by exhibiting herself, to no embarrassment on her part. Why not? Because she is a seasoned exhibitionist. How so? Well, the second story, in the middle, explains how she got started. You guessed it, she first exhibited herself at a party, about ten years earlier, in her first year at college.

Hope you don't get confused. You won't! I am confident a reader of your stature can handle what I offer here, the way I offer it. Above all - enjoy!

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I am twenty-eight years old when all this happens, a bout of frolicking at a party. An experienced, self-possessed woman -- I have entertained an estimated one hundred men in the flesh and many times that number through casual teasing. I operate my own practice as a psychotherapist. During working hours, I am a serious and focused professional and in my spare time a player. Any serious playing, such as the frolicking in the story that will follow, I never do in my own city, but only out of town, in other cities. Unfortunately, society expects exemplary behaviour from its psychotherapists, even in their spare time. I carry out an avoidance strategy, i.e., take myself elsewhere.

Ever since I left home, I have been a naughty girl. That is, from the moment I went to university to study psychology. And I continue to be naughty as a young practising psychotherapist. Now, I said society demands exemplary behaviour. Would you say it is morally okay to help people take care of their mental health and still privately play games that don't conform to societal norms? My own stance is this. There is method and control in both my madness and my work, so, yes, to me it is okay. The norms that would make it unacceptable are merely societal constructs made by weak, scared men. Yes, by men, as opposed to women. By men scared of women, certainly. The balance of power is changing, but societal norms are largely man-based. My playing and teasing... Women shouldn't be bold and assertive, in control! That is still what society at large thinks. Whatever, I couldn't care less!

Men are a weak, pitiful species, don't you think? OK, I love them, I need their company, I need them inside of me from time to time, I need them to lick me, handle me, slap me occasionally. I really do. Blowjobs, okay, you have to give and get, but I don't greatly care for them per se. And cunnilingus is underrated. From a woman's point of view, certainly. Men have to step up! But we'll never agree on that, me and these men.

Men are a pitiful species, I said. Well, okay... let's say there are men and men. The latter simply can't control themselves, just as bees can't resist honey (and flies can't resist shit, if you prefer.) Bad news if you're a woman who doesn't happen to need the attention of such a man. The better kind of men, I can live with. I have no trouble admitting that some of my friends are that kind of man. I love that kind dearly.

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The following is a short story in which a man of the pitiful kind plays the starring role. The setting is a party. Before you misinterpret the above and get the impression that I am a downright man-hater, please note that I left the party with a specimen of the other kind of man and that he gave me a very good time indeed. I guess my companion did too, but you have to ask him. I generally try my best, but I never ask how I did.

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I was visiting a friend in a faraway city for a few days. As I said, I was strict: wild nights could only happen far from my home city. Away from home, upholding my reputation as a psychotherapist is of no consequence.

On the night in question, my friend took me to a party she had been invited to. The more the merrier, she said. My friend was (is) a ton of fun, so I was happy to tag along. The crowd were in their twenties and thirties, our age group, and artists, wannabes and hangers-on. My kind of audience, because art as the key to the meaning of life is very close to my heart, and, no less important, the artsy folk have a great tolerance to any kind of behaviour.

I didn't know anyone there except my girlfriend. So, it was a great opportunity to meet people. I am not shy.

I acted with restraint initially, chatting here and there about this and that, with women and with some interesting men, dancing a bit, with some of the men and with my girlfriend and her friends. Then I got talking to this macho jerk who claimed to be an erotic master and able to control his erections with precision.

Wow! What a feat! I was impressed! (No, I wasn't. A) It's a useless act. B) I was sure he couldn't.) What it was for me, was an opportunity to play.

'Master your erection,' I said. 'You mean being able to move your cock from flaccid to erect and back again at will?' 'Yes,' he said, 'that's what I mean.' 'Without touching it and regardless of what is happening around you?' 'Yes,' he said. I said that he would not be able to keep his sword down at will. I could certainly raise his cock again, regardless of his will. He was cocky and boisterously insisted that he could erect his organ or, on the contrary, keep it down, regardless of what I did. Yes, he could. No, he couldn't. Yes, he could. (He was also drunk, a point that could have helped his claim). Our discussion -- I was at polite-conversational volume, he was rowdily loud -- began to attract some onlookers.

Would he please prove it? He appeared keen and invited me to follow him to the toilets. 'No,' I said, 'Thank you very much, but I decline the invitation on the grounds that I want everyone here to see your great achievement. And, of course, I don't trust you.'

I urged him to drop his trousers there and then. This proposal raised applause from all sides. 'But what,' he asked, 'if he should win?' Should he stay down, I promised him, he could have me for the night. Should he fail - and I gave him an advantage by promising not to touch him - he was to remain naked and tied to the sofa, the laughing stock of the partygoers who would be able to incite and monitor his member's movements for the duration of the night.

His pride was not at its peak, half-mast, so to speak, but he gave in. Maybe he was already getting cold feet, but what could he do? I was committed and he was drunk. His head low, he dropped his trousers. And sat down on the sofa. Bottomless. A flaccid member in a bed of unkept pubic hair.

'Alright! Now first the easy part of the challenge. Lift your penis without me or anyone seducing you. Let us see.'

He looks a little tense, but he ventures inside himself and concentrates. Lo and behold, his member stiffens slowly. Wonderful. A good size, I must say. Slightly tilted to the left -- his signature.

But it takes much longer for his thing to go limp again. He has to concentrate very hard for that. Or un-concentrate.

But I look around, see people nodding, and we'll grant him a win. For Part One of the challenge.

'Well done! Not bad!

'And now the more difficult part of the challenge. You must stay limp despite my temptations. Believe me, I will try to achieve the opposite.

'Ready?'

He tries to pull a tough face. 'Sure, bring it on.'

The real challenge can begin! Bring on Part Two.

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As I said before, I was twenty-eight years old when all this happens, this carrying on at the party. Now, as I am documenting the party story, I am suddenly thrown back to a story from ten years earlier, when I was eighteen or nineteen, my first year at university. Since leaving home, I had become a terrible tease. To a fault, to the point of obsession.

With one of my male friends, I had gone to see a film in the student union. Late 1970s. A French film. The film featured a scene of a party taking place in a huge warehouse or factory. Mostly shrouded in shadows. I think the main characters were two or three young men meandering around the city. During the party something happened that changed my life and gave me a world of ideas.

A man with a big, classically French moustache and an old-fashioned leather pilot's cap, with matching goggles on his forehead, was reclining on a chaise longue. He had been talking to a young woman (blonde, in her twenties?) and wanted to challenge her for some reason. Based on a conversation they were having? I don't remember if it was made clear at all... He said something like 'laissez tomber votre jupe, s'il vous plaît' ('please drop your skirt'. Forgive me my poor French - that's how I remember it). She did and then she stood there in top, panties and pantyhose.

The scene began to attract the attention of the rest of the crowd. The pilotman ordered her to drop the rest of the clothes she was wearing, one by one, until she stood stark naked in front of him. I don't remember what happened afterwards. Perhaps the 'master' simply lost interest in her and she was left in humiliation to pick up the pieces. Or our group of young men simply moved on.

(I can't for the life of me remember the title of the film, the director or any of the actors. If my description rings a bell for any of my readers, please let me know. It has had a huge impact on my life!)

The Great Insights, for me, were these: there is such a phenomenon as 'naked in public', there were men and women who cared about someone else taking her clothes off for them, and others who cared about getting naked in public. There were voyeurs and 'masters' and exhibitionists and 'submissives'. It blew my mind. And changed my life. I became an exhibitionist myself, and a switch.

Within five minutes after the film ended, my boyfriend and I decided to play copycat at the next appropriate party and have him order me to strip. It turned out there was a suitable party two weekends away.

The party in question was thrown by a girl we both knew. A girl of wealthy parents who dressed provocatively but was, by all accounts, stuck-up and "frigid", i.e.: she teased like hell, until someone responded, whence she retreated in her shell. Who knows? I was strictly straight back then. Besides, I didn't care whether she was frigid or not. She was nice to me.

The setting was her lavish bungalow, the ground floor of which had no end and contained four or five sitting areas. Her parents would have gone on holiday, of course.

I had dressed for the occasion. Lots of layers. My partner in crime wore black leather trousers, as a pioneer-imitator of Jim Morrison, and a black silk blouse. And a pair of aviator sunglasses.

We arrived at ten and were greeted by our hostess. She looked stunning! Her jet-black hair was pinned up. Her eyes heavily kohled, in keeping with the style of the times. What she was wearing was sexy as hell. Black pantyhose and a red dress that looked painted on, with plunging neckline and so tight you could see every detail of her underwear and, below, her nipples and even her belly button were very apparent. She looked to be the archetype of a stylish slut - forgive me - but we were led to believe otherwise.

In comparison, I was no such fabulous beauty. My sex stats were still a work in progress at the time, but by my standards I was successful, having slept with a dozen guys and said no to several others since I left home. So, I felt I was attractive. Tall for a girl, green eyes - my biggest asset, long hair, dirty blonde, a fringe, athletic. Self-conscious as a teenager, back then I considered my shoulders weak, my tits small and legs spindly. The first week at college, I took matters into my own hands, joined the athletics team and built up some muscle in the weaker areas. My tits - fuck him, who doesn't like them! Ten others, instead of him - I quickly considered my C's more than big enough and nicely shaped.

We hugged and kissed our hostess. My partner in crime did not lose a beat.

'We're going to do a little action for everyone to see, something we saw in a film a few weeks ago. Do you mind?'

'No, no, that'll be great. From a film... Wow! Yes, entertain my guests. Nothing wrong with a bit of excitement! But don't stretch it. My guests shouldn't be bored.'

'We won't be boring and you won't be bored and they won't be bored. Thank you!'

It took us an hour to drink away what little uncertainty we had left - three mojitos for me; it was my first time, don't forget. Then my partner in crime shoved a couple of people off the sofa he had in mind ('Stand up! Please be so kind and disappear! We need this for half an hour. OK?') and I took my place facing the sofa, in the centre of the room, a good distance away.

'Hello, friends! Listen up! Vita and I are going to do something. We're doing it for us, but we hope... -- no, we think you'll like it. We're sure you will, actually.'

Murmuring... 'No, no, yes, yes, go ahead, feel free, don't mind us, who cares, whatever...' No objections, no strong objections, some vague acclaim...

Wow!! We're going to go ahead!

As you are well aware, because I have told you, I've never done anything like this before. I was developing as a tease and seductress, but I didn't know the first thing about exhibitionism (I didn't even know the word at the time of that first 'performance' - it was years before I learnt it) and my own tendencies in that direction. OK, I had done skinny-dipping and was often naked between one or two friends, at my place or theirs. But a performance? No. I felt butterflies fluttering in my stomach.

My partner in crime sits down and assumes a reclining position. No, he doesn't wear a pilot's cap, but he has memorised the position of the man in the film well. He has kept his sunglasses on.

'Ma chèrie, laissez tomber votre jupe, s'il vous plait.'

Remember, the film was French and we trying to be sophisticated.

'Quoi, monsieur?'

I play along.

'Laissez tomber votre jupe, s'il vous plait!'

I didn't describe my wardrobe. I just said that I put on a lot of layers.

My skirt is a wrap-around skirt in purple velvet. I undo the double buttons on the left side. And I unwrap myself! And drop the garment on my feet, kick it aside. I look back at him, behind his sunglasses.

'Your cardigan, if you would'. He is out of French.

The cardigan is mohair and orange. (Remember, this was the seventies. I apologise in retrospect for the world's bad taste). I undo the two buttons that are closed, shake the garment off my shoulders, take hold of it and let it drop by my side.

I'm now standing in front of my partner wearing knee-high black boots, white tights, through which one can see my pink panties, and a brown jumper, three-quarter sleeves, wide-open neck, with a tight cut. Still dressed, no bare skin to be seen. But the pink panties make promises...

'Jumper, if you please, my dear.' He is obviously enjoying his role.

I pull the jumper up, over my head and off. I drop it onto the pile that is developing. No major change, as I wear a camisole.

'Boots, Vita, both of them.'

OK, boots off. There is no elegant way to take off zipped boots such as these. It's a balancing act. Good thing my crotch is still well covered. Damn, I get down, sit on the floor and take the boots off that way. I toss them aside in turn and stand up again, now on my bestockinged feet and, alas, three inches shorter.

'Camisole, please!'

It's pink. Faux silk, polyester in reality. (Again, this part of the story is set during the seventies.) I yank out each arm in turn and lift the garment over my head. There... -- I show the first bare skin. My upper body is dressed in my bra only. White, simple, cotton, no padding in those days, thus with nipples poking through.

I won't deny that I got myself going at this stage. So, my first exhibition did turn me on. Noted.

Oh, I'm going to be naked!

What's next? What was next in the film, the tights or the bra? Did he memorise that fact?

I feel a minute pass. Feels like a long, long time.

'Bra, Vita!'

Blimey, my tender breasts are to be on display first and will jiggle whenever I move, when I take the rest off. Well, let them jiggle. Let's see if I care. I'm fearless. I hope.

I undo the clasp, push my shoulders forward and catch the bra in my hands. I drop it onto the pile. And stand to attention again. Bare-chested and proud. I look around me and see everyone's attention focused on me and my breasts. My partner is aware of this and allows me to enjoy the moment. To be in the moment, then an unnamed concept. Yes, I am in command - it is a novel but great feeling for me and, yes, there is a bit of fear too - and he, the facilitator, is aware of his important supportive role. So, I stand and he waits.

Finally, he starts the end-game and calls out,

'Tights, when you're ready. Take it slow.'

It's not easy to gracefully pull off the white pantihose either, but I concentrate, manage it because I keep my balance throughout and don't shuffle too much. Conscious of my jiggling breasts and my crotch, still covered, I bend down and pull the hose down the first leg, and then switch to the second. And stand at attention once more, panty-clad only. My panties are simple and bright pink and tiny in size, as was popular at the time. But with butt cheeks. Thongs came much later.

The audience is really spellbound and breathless now, waiting for the final command. Remember, this was before internet and porn mags were for lonely, dirty ol' men. So, a naked girl was a rare commodity.

My partner is holding out. His command won't come for a while... a long while... I wait, we all wait endlessly...

'Panties, Vita, and you will be seen in all your glory. OK, folks... Hope you can handle this. Vita, I hope you can...' And he sniggers.

My companion has been with me under the sheets, but I don't think he's had a chance to study me naked, being relatively new to my universe. That is not what people did at the time, you know, study each other shamelessly.

I slip out of my panties, toss them aside and stand naked in public for the first time in my life. My bush is on display. Ahead of fashion, I think, I am wearing a trimmed bush. Full shaving was not done in those days, if my little research is correct, and no one I knew even trimmed it to the extent that I did. I cut my pubic hair with scissors as close to the skin as possible and shaved the loins. As it is, the contours of my sex are clearly visible. All eyes are on it, as I can tell by looking around the room, my eyes wide open, self-conscious. A super-rare view, remember!

The audience stares at my crotch, my partner and I lock eyes -- we have done it! Nobody moves...

... until our hostess can't stand it anymore. She hollers, 'Thank you, Vita, for a wonderful show' and leads the audience in rapturous applause. My partner comes up to me, kisses and hugs me. Without thinking, I decide to get dressed again. Why, actually? I could have revelled in my nudity, milking the attention. OK, no one talked about anything else for the next half-hour.