In terms of dating in high school, there was only one exception to the rule. Two weeks into my senior year, I began dating Roger. He was a 19 year-old kid who went to the local Ivy League college. I met him at a party. At the time, he seemed more mature than the boys in my high school. So I gave him a chance. He was nice enough and we soon began fooling around. I let him kiss me and even allowed him to fondle my nipples from outside my shirt. It felt good. Early on, I made it perfectly clear that I wouldn't be taking my pants off for him. I was too young and not about to let him touch me there. Still, he had a fair amount of charm and he treated me well - at least initially.

I had done enough reading and investigation on my own to develop a pretty good understanding of men and their silly anatomy. My two best friends Debra, Kimberly and I used to talk about boys and how they would make absolute fools of themselves to get their rocks off. It was at that time in my life where I was just beginning to scratch the surface of becoming the dominant, male-controlling woman I am today. But I wasn't there yet.

In time, Roger began to get a little bit pushy about his needs. He told me about his blue-balls and how just being around me, and smelling my perfume would get him all pent up. He said that fondling my tiny nipples put him in a great deal of distress "down there," a detail I secretly found highly amusing. I don't know when it happened, but eventually he convinced me to give him a hand job. At first, I did it from the outside of his pants, but he complained that it made a terrible mess. Writing this now makes me smile. Eventually he convinced me to touch him directly. We developed a routine. He would provide lotion and then whip his floppy �stooge-stick� out. It was quite uncivilized. I would squirt some of his lotion on my tiny hands and pump his hard organ until he exploded. The first time was quite a revelation. After a minute of my careful ministrations, his eyes rolled back in his head. He groaned and then proceeded to blow the contents of his balls all over his own shirt. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically as he lost all control, and casually pumped him to a messy conclusion.

In a short amount of time I became quite the expert. I remember feeling a sense of power over what I could do to him. He would become a panting, groaning mess as I stroked him. I developed a keen understanding of his biorhythms. I knew when he was getting close to orgasm and I would drag things out by pumping him lightly, or stroking the back of his over-sensitive little head. He begged me to "do it right," to which I told him to "let me do it my way or forget it." I remember how quickly he complied with my demand.

Then, one day, I made him beg me to come. I got him right to the edge and then I teased his stinky penis and whispered, "Beg me, Roger. C'mon, beg me to let you cum." Looking back, it was totally natural, the way I gravitated to that teasing style. I remember Roger begged me and I immediately acquiesced and pleasured him the way I knew he wanted me to. The resulting orgasm was even more intense than his previous ones. His whole body heaved and convulsed due to nothing more than the encouragement of my little right hand.

I marveled at how easy it had been. Unfortunately, things changed between us that day. During our next date, Roger was sullen and confrontational with me. I felt uncomfortable the entire date. At some point we went back to his place. His parents were out. Roger had a nice house. It's not quite the mansion I grew up in, but it was suitable enough. We sat on the couch and began to kiss as we often did. I could see Roger's unruly groin-area begin to protrude up against his pants. Suddenly, he reached beneath my skirt and began trying to grope my crotch. I shoved him away. "Roger, what the fuck? You know that's off limits for you," I said.

"But Amanda, please, you have such a hot little body. Just let me touch you down there. C'mon."

I got up to leave. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the couch, muttering "c'mon you little prude." I think it was pure instinct, but I flailed with my free arm, making a fist and swinging my arm around. It smashed down onto his lap and I felt it make contact with his stiff organ through his pants. I think the way I punched him almost caused his pole to snap like a twig. He immediately doubled over in agony.

"Oh my gawd," I said, suppressing a smile. "I'd say I'm sorry, but you deserve it."

He groaned in pain. I decided it was time to leave. I walked to the door.

"Wait, Amanda," he yelled. "I'm so sorry. It will never happen again. Please, come here."

I stopped at the door and considered my options. I was furious. But I decided to play along. Looking back, I think I knew I had the upper hand.

"Look," he said. "You're right, I deserved it. I'll never try and touch you again. Now please Amanda, I'm begging you, I need relief."

Can you believe it? The jerk was asking for a hand job after all that? I've always found it amazing what men will do in order get a girl to give their penis some attention. That ugly, dangling piece of flesh is the root of all male stupidity. On this night, it would cause Roger a considerable amount of pain and suffering.

Once again, I decided to play along. "Okay Roger. Let me just go to the bathroom and get the hand cream."

I went to the bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet. There were various creams, all of which would do the trick. Then I noticed the tube of sports cream, the type of stuff that heats and loosens muscle. In my mind, I formed a devious plan.

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