Wednesday, October 15, 2008


There are other episodes during the era of my adolescence which exemplify my innate psychological submission to women, my psyche of subservience. None come to mind as vividly as being held down and made to beg for release. The memories of visits to the doctor’s office, romping about naked before curious girls my age, are fuzzy but understandably remain in the forefront of any endeavor to explain my penchant, as one can imagine.

But there is a tale from my teen years. The younger sister of a friend, a rather vivacious girl, executed a plan to hold me captive for a time. For her it was just mischief (I think). But for me, with my ingrained awe and adoration for women and their perceived superiority, the encounter became more memorable.

Down the street, my friend lived in a capacious house. Many rooms, including a finished basement playroom, gave rise to good times. Therefore it was not unusual to stroll the half block, knock on the door and ask for my compatriot, unannounced, just ‘dropping by’.

Well, on one Saturday afternoon, ‘L’, my friend’s younger sister by two years, seemed to be waiting for me.

"‘M’s’ in the basement."

A logical location. There was a pool table convertible to ping pong. A TV room. Many other diversions. I thought nothing of descending the stairs to greet my friend and plan an afternoon of hanging out. I did not think much when ‘L’ closed the basement door behind me and I heard it latch. But within moments I did think about it when there was no ‘M’. He was not to be found. He was not at home. A girl, ‘L’, had set me up.

I was trapped in her basement and only ‘L’ and a friend, name long gone from memory, were at home.

I demanded to be let out. I was denied release. I became enraged but there was little I could do. An alternative hatch door leading to the outside was a possibility. But when I tried to push it open it would not yield and I heard giggling. The two girls were sitting on it. Their combined weight made it impossible to push it up and open.

Two young women held me captive. I was tricked. I was used. The odd frisson returned. I found myself powerless once again. And once again there came the deep inner sense of arousal. I was angry. I was embarrassed. But there came this sexual excitement in being made to yield, being placed under control. This time, in my teen years, it spurred masturbation. When the girls finally tired of their game, laughing with my entreaties for release, they ran off, allowing me to push open the hatch door. I returned home and stroked myself. Their manifestation of feminine governance stimulated me.

Once again, my vulnerability, having to yield to a perceived superior feminine power, brought an odd sense of composure and inner sense of peace in being under the authority of a woman... however young... however diabolical the motive. A feminine hand brought the frustration of restraint. A feminine hand granted freedom... but only at their caprice. There came a strange sense of having rightfully been put in my place, despite the protest and entreaties for release.

I served on that afternoon. I provided amusement.

What would the girls have done to me, done with me, given unfettered access and time?
They had me. I could not escape.

‘L’ was vivacious, as noted but also devilish. How long had the girls plotted my incarceration I do not know. But I unwittingly walked into their plot and played the price of the humiliation of being held captive.

They told all their friends of the incident.

I often wonder what became of ‘L’. She certainly had possibilities of dominance. She very much enjoyed the hour or more of feeling my labored attempts to push open that hatch door. I exerted myself to no end... complete futility while she and her friend sat and laughed.

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