The Garden

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Chapter 3

I thought back to the first day that I saw Bob at the Botanical Gardens. I had a slight sense of revulsion that he was eyeing my barely pubescent students the way he was, but I soon learned that he couldn't really help himself. It wasn't the girls as much as it was what was on their feet.

I smile when I think how I had misjudged him. It's hard to hold a man in disdain when you have thoroughly dominated and humiliated him. My best friend, Gayle, enjoyed him too, and he provided us with many evenings of entertainment. But now I needed more.

I called Gayle on the phone, and we discussed the problem. "Gayle, I don't know what to do with Bob anymore. I mean, he's probably the nicest submissive I've ever had. He's so punctual, always polite, he doesn't have any bad habits, -- sheesh, it's even hard to think up things to punish him for -- he really is interested in serving us with out any expectation of favors in return, and all he wants is a little sneaker action. When I think about it, I feel almost guilty, it's so easy to dominate him if you have the right `tools' for the job."

"Well, what do you want from me?" Gayle asked. "I've never dealt with a sneaker-slut before. I have to admit, it though, it's a lot of fun. As you said, just about all we have to do is wear our sneakers and he'll do anything for us. I never saw such an addiction."

I could hear her light up a cigarette and she went on, "And he's so cheap too! Keds! You couldn't ask for a more affordable fetish. I remember one guy who was really into leather. I have some very nice outfits as a result but, boy are they expensive! You don't know how lucky you are, girl."

"Oh yes I do," I laughed, "But what to do with him now? We've gone very far very fast, and although he's not tired of the game, I am."

"Are you thinking of dumping him?" Gayle asked incredulously.

"Oh, no. Of course not," I replied immediately. "It's just that I am running out of ideas to humiliate and punish him. I would like to try something a little more public, which means that it will have to be a little less daring. At least we have one thing working for us on this: women are expected to wear sneakers in public. It's not like we have to dress up in dominatrix gear."

"As if we haven't!" Gayle laughed, "Yes, I see what you mean. Somehow we have to let other women in on his humiliation without letting them in explicitly on his secret. Do you have any meetings with a bunch of women in your future where you might be able to show him off in some way?"

I snickered, "The closest thing I have on my calendar is my girl scout troop's outing for next month. I don't think that we could do much with that."

I could hear Gayle thinking over the phone. Suddenly she burst out, "Have you picked a theme for the outing yet?"

"No, I haven't. To tell the truth, I'm sort of out of ideas there too."

"Well, I got one for you -- `The Sidewalks of New York.'"

"The what??" I muttered. "What's that got to do with Bob and his sneaker fetish, and eight 12-year-old girls?"

"Tell the parents that you are going to recreate the conditions of Brooklyn in the 1950's and show your troop the kinds of games girls used to play then. Remember what your aunt told you about how things were when she was a little girl. I know that some of those moms grew up in that era or had older sisters who did, and would really be excited about it if their daughters experienced just a little of it."

"I still don't see where you are going yet, Gayle. Don't forget, we're dealing with little girls here, we can't do anything kinky."

"I'm not planning on kinky. All I know is that there wasn't a girl in Brooklyn in the 50's who didn't wear Keds. Hell, we grew up in Keds. So, part of the scheme will be that your girls will have to wear Keds and other authentic 50's wear."

"OK, I think I see where you are going with this. We invite Bob to help us out ... Hmmmm ... the more I think about this, the more I like it. Bob will be in a position where he can look, but won't be allowed to touch. You know, this just might work."

-=o=-

I called Gayle a couple of days later. "Gayle, we got a problem. You know that girl scout thing? Well, it's gotten bigger."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean when I started talking it over with the girls' moms they not only thought it was a good idea for their daughters, they liked the idea themselves and wanted to know if they could come along and watch."

"Hmmm, that could be a problem. They might catch on to some subtleties that we might be able to sneak by the girls. Too bad you can't distract them with a more `adult' activity."

It ws my turn to have the insiration, "That's it! -- A dance. A retro-50's party or something like that. We tell the women that when they come to pick up their daughters, that we'll have a 50's party for all, and that they are invited. The best thing is that we can ask them to come in costume also. That will double the number of sneakers Bob will have to drool over."

-=o=-

Gayle and I planned the outing with more thoroughness than the Normandy Invasion. My troop was very excited about learning about the things their moms or aunts did growing up. They'd be so busy that they might not notice what we were really doing.

The day arrived and my girl scouts all showed up on time. They weren't wearing their traditional green uniforms today however. They were dressed in shorts, and skirts, and even jeans (or were they dungarees?) and they had a variety of blouses and sweaters on, but the one thing that united them all was their Keds.

When I looked at their clean and almost innocent faces, and the hairstyles that their moms had prepared for them, I honestly felt like I did step back in time.

The moms had the easy part. All they had to do was prepare one girl. I had to convert my back yard into a New York City Street. I did the best I could despite not having wall-to-wall concrete.

About a week before, I had Bob huff in some cinderblocks so we could build a genuine "stoop." I rollered my driveway with some flat black (washable and biodegradable) paint so we could draw on it with some chalk. I had to find clothes line of the appropriate kind for jumprope. I've never had a legitimate use for the stuff, having always owned a drier. I had to wash it several times to give it that "used' feeling. I even dug up an old girl's bicycle: no bar between the seat and handle bars, one speed, pink basket and balloon tires. I stopped short of clothespinning a baseball playing card across the spokes (boy! did our brothers hate when we did that)!

Stickball was going to be difficult. I had Bob cut out some plywood artifacts -- things that resembled "sewer" covers (I now know that they really belonged to the phone company), and had him place them at appropriate distances along the driveway and yard, On the fences I even hung some car door handles that Bob got for me at a junk yard. I went all over town looking for a mop of an appropriate type. It seemed sacrilegious to cut off the handle from a new mop. I looked around sheepishly as if someone's mom was going to catch me and spank me. Yes, stickball was going to be part of the games. In my neighborhood it wasn't just a boys' game.

Which led me to find some balls to play these games. According to my sources, the only acceptable ball was the pink and rubbery "Spalldeen" (each ball had the word, "Spaulding," stamped on it but we never pronounced it that way). The closest substitute I could find were racquetballs. They were blue, and didn't have a seam, and they didn't proclaim to be a "hi bounce ball," and I wasn't sure if they were official weight and size, and they certainly weren't 25 cents each.

In 1959, 25 cents could be a whole week's allowance. The extreme cost required an unusual insurance disclaimer to protect the investment called "dibbs." Quite simply put, "dibbs" meant that if you hit the ball or up on the garage roof, or down a sewer, you had to buy the original owner a new ball. The worst case for "dibbs" was to hit the ball into mean old Mrs. Green's yard With most of the neighbors, all we'd have to do was climb the fence or yell, "Get the ball, please," and they'd throw it back. Not Mrs. Green; she'd chase us out with a broom! We secretly thought that she collected the balls and sold them back to the candy store.

Nonetheless, the racquetballs had to do. As I examined the ball for suitability, my own girlhood memories came back. I remembered my aunt taking care of me after school and teaching me all the games she played on the streets. I was also struck by the fact that the ball was made of rubber; the very same material as on the soles of my sneakers. I wonder if there were some better uses for it than in little girl games.

Also throughout the month, I thoroughly trained Bob how to deal with the girls. Gayle and I told him about and taught him how to play all of the little girl games, and he, in turn, was required to teach and demonstrate them to the girls.

It was fun watching him explain the intricacies of hopscotch. And I laughed as he bounced on one foot from square to square in my basement watching his penis bounce up and down with each jump. I knew that on game day it would be doing the same thing under his short pants.

-=o=-

As the girls arrived, I had Bob meet the girls as they came in the door. He took their things from them, and escorted them to the living room. We had made a tape using Bob as a demonstrator showing the girls the kinds of games they would be playing. Then we went outside to actually play.

I was on the other end of the rope as we turned it for the girls. Some of them must have had some sort of experience since they were able to "double dutch" -- something Gayle and I failed to teach Bob in spite of weeks of practice. The best he could do is jump rope on his own and turn. At least he learned all of the rhymes and kept the girls in time as he recited them.

Most of the other games were ball games of some sort. Some of them didn't even have names. There was a game played by bouncing a ball under your leg while chanting "A my name is Alice and my husband's name is Al ..." all to the cadence of the bouncing ball. Gayle and I had hours of laughter watching a naked Bob chase the ball all over my basement. To have the dressed-as- a-little-boy Bob demonstrate this obviously all-girl game to my troop was total embarrassment to him. Not a one of my girls failed to giggle at his predicament.

There was another game played by bouncing a ball between two players. The object of the game was to hit the popsicle stick laid about halfway in between and knock it over the next crack in the sidewalk. I actually had to go out to the store and buy popsicles in a box. (At least Gayle and I had fun eating the ice cream). One just doesn't find discarded popsicle sticks in the street anymore. The guy doesn't come around selling ice cream from a truck anymore either.

There was stoop ball; played by hurling the ball into the "stoop" (you non-New Yorkers might call them steps) and having it bounce out into the field of play to be shagged by the other players.

There was box ball, played by slapping a ball into another player's "box" (defined by the lines in the slabs in the sidewalk), and having them return it before it bounced out. The number of players could vary -- limited only by the number of contiguous blocks you can come up with (usually four, but sometimes as many as nine). We played a nine-player version with Bob in the middle.

There was punchball. This was a game like stickball but without the stick. You simply punched the ball. It was played on a much shorter field obviously.

There was Chinese Handball. In regular handball, the objective is to hit the ball off the wall and return it after no more than one bounce off the ground. In Chinese Handball, you played maybe 4 to 6 feet from the wall, and bounced the ball off the floor and then had it hit the wall. You also had your "box" (You guessed it the sidewalk slab) and kept hitting the ball until you decided to slap it over to an adjoining box occupied by one of your opponents.

Then, of course, there was stickball. Bob pitched, my garage wall "caught" and the girls rotated as hitter, runners at first, second, and third, and three fielders. This arrangement left us with only one spare girl per play when the bases were loaded.

Back in the 50's kids did a lot of things with a 25-cent ball and a pair of Keds.

Throughout the day, Bob was deeply involved with teaching young girls how to play girls' games. He was up close and personal with them in a lot of the games (physical contact was inevitable) and was treated to views of flying skirts, bouncing boobs (even at 12, some of these girls were showing some promise) and of course, the sight of besneakered feet hitting the pavement.

He blushed every time they called him "Bobby" (as I instructed them to) and eventually they took him on not as an adult, but as another 12 year old. They even seemed to forget that he was a boy!

Almost every time I checked, Bob had a hard-on. How much the girls noticed, I don't know for sure, but I did catch a couple of them whispering here and there throughout the afternoon. I have little doubt that the news to watch his crotch spread throughout the entire troop.

By the end of the afternoon, Bob was exhausted from playing with the girls. I sent him upstairs to shower and get changed. "Bobby, go upstairs and take your shower!" I didn't notice until I saw the stares from my troop that I didn't ask him -- I ordered him like a little boy, so I continued. "Make sure you put your dirty clothes away, and get dressed in your nice new outfit." Some of my girls giggled at this little tableaux of a grown man meekly taking orders from a woman.

The girls, Gayle and I talked about the events of the day, and they all giggled and chatted about the fun they had. All of them had some sort of anecdote about the funny things Bob did that delighted them to no end.

Bob came down the stairs just as the first of the mothers arrived. He was dressed in his white soda-jerk outfit. I had the women gather in the living room while I had Bob go downstairs to set things up.

By the time I invited everyone downstairs, he had the "malt shop" set up. He treated each one of the women and their daughters as royalty and took there orders. We kept him busy hopping from table to table and back and forth to the bar and the freezer making sundaes and floats.

The conversations at the tables ran from the frivolous to the serious.

In the former category, the women reminisced about their childhood. The boys on which they had crushes, their teachers, and the antics they got into both in school and on the street.

For a while we managed to have a private hushed conversation in one corner of the room as the girls were involved in their own animated and noisy conversation elsewhere. We took this opportunity to dare a few moms to tell us about their first experience with "show me yours and I'll show you mine." As it turned out, most of them didn't have to show theirs, they simply used a little bribery (usually in the form of a candy bar) or a little coercion.

One woman explained that in her neighborhood it was almost a ritual -- a rite of passage for a young girl -- that she wouldn't be anything but a "baby" until she saw her first penis. The older girls on her block set up and supervised these events on behalf of the younger girls using the local boys -- boys usually half-way in age between the girls doing the showing and the girls watching the show. The woman giggled, "It was the funniest thing for the boys, too. Almost every one of them was displayed to the neighborhood girls at one point or other in his life. These were younger girls that the boys eventually grew up to date. I think it kind of put them in their place."

After a quiet sip on her milk shake, she continued. "I know," she giggled, "I married one. I don't want you to think that there was anything sexual involved with these games. It was just something we girls did. I mean, all we did was look. We didn't make the boy do anything, except pee maybe, but that was it. We'd barely touch it, and that was all. Sometimes the boy would have an erection, and sometimes he didn't. That's all there was to it. It was so innocent." She sighed and mused, "It seemed like a tradition passed down from one generation of girls to the next. I wonder if it still goes on." She cast a nervous glance over in the direction of her daughter.

In the serious category were discussions about the world in which their daughters were growing up. Some things had gotten better. Women could realistically expect to get meaningful jobs, and schools were better addressing things like girls' athletics. Some things were getting worse. The world was simply a more dangerous place to grow up in: crime, drugs, STDs, teen pregnancy were all issues that deeply concerned these moms.

One of the constants, however, was men. We all agreed that men were, and still are -- jerks. They all agreed that any program that could teach girls self-esteem was worthwhile. Some of them even suggested that a program to educate and train men would go even further. I made a mental note to contact these women after the event.

The evening went on, and eventually my guests departed. Some of them were so enthused that they wanted to know when we could do it again. One of the women who maintained an affiliation with her daughter's former brownie troop wanted to know if I could do a program for younger girls. Several of the mothers who were active with scouting suggested that I do this program for other troops in the area. This idea had some promise. Bob could only improve with experience.

The evening went on and our guests eventually departed. Nothing was left but the cleanup. The events of the day left Gayle and me in a festive mood. We propped our sneakers up on a chair and sipped on our "black and whites" (chocolate sodas with milk in it). We giggled like a couple of schoolgirls watching Bob's naked ass wiggle as he was on all fours scrubbing the floor.

I looked over at Gayle and she smiled back at me. I took another sip of my soda. "I can't believe how wet I am. We never laid a hand -- or sneaker -- on him." The fire had returned.

--- Mule: mule@tpe.com

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end of female domination, femdom story