Master Your Erection? You Wish

My partner and I have another drink, dance a little, chat with the hostess and most of her friends. 'I'm not sure I could have done what you just did! I don't think I could have! I would have been sooooo embarrassed! What was it like for you? Had you done this before? Didn't you just die? Your pussy! People will be talking about you now. You'll be infamous, eh, famous!' And so on. The college slut is what they meant to say. I sensed condemnation, admiration, envy... every emotion you, dear reader, can name in this context. And more, because, again, we are talking about the seventies, when life wasn't as sexualised as it is today.

We've caused quite a stir. We feel it and our hostess confirms. But this battle won, I am hardly aware I started a war. Or rather, the opposite of war, but not peace... I didn't realise that I crossed a line, then. I had transformed and come out an exhibitionist -- from butterfly to caterpillar.

That was ten years ago and I never stopped exposing myself. I didn't suffer any ill effects, apart from not being popular with the self-righteous and the prudes.

Back to the present! Another party, an experienced me and a loser.

________________________________________

I feel strangely charged as I stand in front of him, the Master of Erections, a little away from the sofa he is lying on. He is bottomless and his penis is flaccid again.

I start to dance. The music is hard and fast. I like the excitement and nervousness of the people around me as they focus their attention on me, on my body. What nervousness I feel inside me -- still, still! -- is well balanced by my excitement. A lovely, inflammable mixture. I focus not on him -- he is, yes, dirt to me and destined to lose -- but on the audience at large. They will all desire me, me and my body. I don't care which.

I step out of my shoes and kick them under the sofa. Barefoot, I continue. Hard and fast: I dance in tempo, shaking my head, swaying and rolling my hips, my bosom, still covered. Sometimes I switch to half-tempo, the music moving on quickly and I completing seductive slow movements amidst this forest of sound. I look intensely into his eyes. From time to time, I lower my gaze to his cock, sufficiently slowly and deliberately to make it clear to him and everyone else that I am actively watching him and his cock, that his cock is not escaping.

I look him straight in the eye as I unzip my skirt and lower it to the floor by shaking my hips. My panties, red (a signal), shine through my black fishnet tights. Pantyhose is not what strippers wear, for obvious reasons, and I'm not going to ruin the spell I'm casting by awkwardly struggling out of them. Thankfully, my girlfriend is standing nearby. Of course. Where else? I whisper to her to get me a pair of scissors. I'm not sure she understands what I need them for. I think she is confused, she is in awe, but she gets the message and faithfully fetches the scissors for me.

To the pulsating beat of the music, I cut the waistband of the tights at the front. And next, the same at the back. Having removed the main obstacle, I drop the scissors at my feet. I rip the tights in half, a trick I've never seen a stripper employ. But the sound of destruction and the idea of a woman ripping her clothes to expose herself leaves a big impression. Beautiful! Now I'm wearing two ragged stockings. Balancing on one ragged leg, I slowly pull the first half off the other leg. And repeat the process, standing on the bared leg. (Are you following me?)

My target has held up well - kept his appendage down, if you like. His method is to avoid looking at me. My warm stockings, I thrust them in his face. He looks at me, startled. He is well aware of my presence now.

And I? I turn introspective and lose my awareness of him. My body is what I perceive. I am a body. My mind is a mere extension of my body. A supremely confident body. A graceful, vibrant, moving and swaying, a gyrating body. I am glorious, victorious. My energy is boundless. I am larger than life.

He? He is under my spell and no longer master of his mind, let alone his prick.

Time has lost its meaning. My body is the rhythm of the music. I swing my upper body from left to right, right to left, and again, again, as I unbutton my blouse, slowly. My hips follow a counter-movement, from right to left, from left to right.... big, exaggerated movements, while my cupped breasts become visible. I toss my blouse aside and shake my breasts vigorously, shaking my torso, shoulders forward, breasts jiggling in their encasement.

For contrast, to shock, I now stop moving and stand still as I reach for the clip of the red bra matching my panties and undo it. I shake the bra loose and there they are, freed from their bonds, my ample breasts, lush, round and ripe. I set up a heaving rhythm, bending through my knees, stretching, bending, stretching. My breasts bounce, my hair just brushing my nipples, stimulating me to go on and on.

I feel primitive and perform a ritual mating dance. A narcissistic mating dance, with no one but myself.

And he? He can't resist my curvaceous woman's body, moving, beckoning... My hips, my face, my chest, and, movement within movement, my breasts on my chest, my hair around my face all following their own rhythm.... My eyes are the firm, piercing points.

Has he become hard? Did I hear muffled whispers indicating such? I am not sure. I am barely conscious. I've given up consciousness being supremely confident -- I can't really care.

My panties... My job is not yet done... I pull myself into consciousness to complete it. Not a professional stripper who might be able to do this elegantly -- I've never seen one, to be honest, I've only heard about them -- I'm not taken by the idea of fumbling out of them. Anyway, one for dramatic effect, I pick up the scissors that lie at my feet. From my bent position I lift my head and look at him, swaying, my breasts dangling.... He is lost, he is hard. I could stop here and now, but why? I want to finish. For my own sake.

I rise and stand tall. I look around, smiling triumphantly. The crowd is frozen, their eyes fixed on me. Has the music stopped? I stand still for a long time, basking in the admiration of my subjects, that feel a slight confusion - is this really happening? Finally, I insert a cold scissor leg between my hip and the waistband of my panties. And cut. Part of my naked vulva appears. A second cut on the other side lets the panties fall to the floor. And I am naked - my shaved vulva is completely exposed.

[Shaving was still rare back then, in the eighties (that is: with the exception of the avant-garde porn stars), so I was considered exceptionally naked.]

Nothing moves.

Finally, my girlfriend comes up to me, touches my arm, hugs me.

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Did he spend the rest of the night naked on the sofa? I guess. Who cares? I didn't care to make sure. He must have felt less of a man indeed, if he stayed, tied to the sofa, and had to witness us dancing when the music resumed, when my friend and some other women stripped naked as well and joined me. (No naked men joined us... why, oh, why?)

________________________________________

When my girlfriend and I had had enough, we got dressed, left and walked home (myself without panties and pantyhose and bare of pubic hair, allowing the evening breeze to stroke me there.)

All alone? What do you think? We had taken our pick of the men - indeed, we did -, whom we had commanded to look after us. How could they deny us our every whim?

We had a satisfying night.