His arms, already tired from holding himself up for so long, flailed uselessly as he alternately tried to lash out and push himself upwards. When I leant in to kiss him on the sofa he froze like a shop window mannequin. Even when I slid my hand up his leg he remained inert. I stopped and asked him if he was alright, because, I said, I would get as much of a response from a china doll. He was sitting on the bed, so I took the shorts and laid them on his lap, squeezing him and kissing him again.

I wondered how far he would let me go before showing some assertiveness. How much more shame could he take? Would he let me do anything to him? You're making this really awkward," I say. "Why don't you give me a proper reason, like you're insecure about your masculinity? Hmm? Or uncomfortable with your sexuality?" Like many women of my age I have a sense of resignation about my prospects of finding a life partner. Unlike some, I believe that I have found something more satisfying.I asked him what he was afraid of. There is never any answer other than that they just don't want to. I could feel my orgasm building and held onto him tightly, controlling the rhythm as I needed it. As I spilled over I stared at him. His flushed face was turned to the side and his mouth lolled open. I hadn't noticed whether he had come or not and I didn't care. They are defensive, and tonight's was indignant. He declared that he didn't want to wear the clothes precisely because he was not a sissy.

I was sighing too, delivering my monologue in shortened breaths. "You're loving it... dressed in your delicates... leading me on... panting... panting... panting like a sissy whore."I concentrated on my needs, turning myself on while I humiliated him. "You played it all shy... pretending you didn't like being all girly... but look at you now." Oh darling," I said, stroking his cheeks before kissing him gently. "It's not the clothes that make you a sissy, it's wanting to wear them. You don't want to wear them, right?"

He cried out for me to stop but whether it was my continued stroking or the effect of the sexy lingerie he stayed in the same position, accepting his role as a passive sex object. I began to lose my train of thought as I found my rhythm. I looked down at his pitiful body and felt pulses of pleasure as tears rolled down his crimson cheeks. I squealed and heard him squealing too, his face contorting as he lost his fight to control his orgasm. My own orgasm rolled in waves. I threw myself forward and embraced him till the intensity subsided.His shame was all-consuming but I refused to be embarrassed for him. My primary feeling was annoyance. "Come on then," I said. I took him to my bedroom and told him to take off his clothes, although I was so impatient that I took most of them off him myself. I instructed him to fondle himself while I got a condom. He was ineffectual even at this so I pulled aside the bottom of the leotard and took him in my hand while telling him what was expected of him as a ballerina. "Do you know the basic positions for ballet?" I asked him. I couldn't honestly remember them so I made some up while telling him how well suited he would be. I leave them to take off their clothes in the bedroom and emerge from my bathroom in a nightdress and with a box for them to open while I clear away their clothes. The box tonight contained an ensemble of floral satin and white lace: a camisole and shorts and a delicate silk dressing gown. You do look demure, darling, but I know you can take this." I thrust in my finger deeply, twisting it on its way out and adding a second for the next round.