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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