Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: From: rgt@well.com (Estragon) Subject: Estragon revised: "Travels With Aunt Paula," VI/6 (femdom) Estragon: "Travels With Aunt Paula," VI/6 (Femdom) (For adults only. Copyright 1996, 1997 Estragon Productions.) "Pain is a flower, Like that one, Like this one, Like that one, Like this one...." Cal was wrestling with a difficult dream. He was in Doctor Barbara's waiting-room. The other patients were all women and girls, of course; some of the women were pregnant. Cal was naked, except for his penis, which was wrapped in a sleeve woven of pliable wicker. It was one of those toys they called The Ancient Babylonian Finger Torture. You fitted it onto your finger only to discover that whenever you attempted to remove it, it tightened in place and refused to budge: the more you pulled, the tighter it bound. Now Cal had one of these around his penis and it angered the other patients that he should be trying to conceal his organ from them, especially in the office of Doctor Barbara, the woman who had made him "extra naked" to begin with. They didn't understand that Cal himself desperately wanted to remove the thing. It hurt his feelings that the women and girls should think otherwise. "But, but...," he kept saying. He'd tug at the evil device and it would close painfully around his organ, elongating it as it constricted, the tough fibers cutting into his flesh. "Don't you see?" he would plead. He looked everywhere for Aunt Paula, but he was on his own. "It's an outrage," a woman said. "A boy in this place and not willing to show his penis." "Please, don't you see?" Cal said. He was in tears. He stood up in front of them and gave the torture-device a hard pull. The lattice of straw cut into his irritated skin and made him cry. A pregnant woman gave him a disgusted look. "You're not trying," another woman said. With that she took hold of Cal's penis and wrenched it sharply. The Ancient Babylonian Torture instrument tapered and squeezed and held its ground, extorting from Cal's penis a single jet of semen which struck his helpful fellow-patient squarely on the breast. "Look at this sticky custard," she exclaimed. "From such a little boy....If I had any idea...." Indignantly she slapped Cal across the face and then, without a moment's hesitation and no reduction of force, slapped him again across the balls. He collapsed in excruciating pain at the woman's feet. Other women were laughing. "That should do it," one of them said. Cal thought it should too: his abraded penis, his aching testicles - these should make him shrink to the point where the wicker sleeve would simply drop off. But then the scene was being repeated. One of the pregnant women was yanking at the device now and once again Cal was spurting. "At this rate, he'll make us all pregnant," one of the women said. "He's just a little slave-boy," said another. A nurse appeared to investigate the commotion. "I'll ask Aunt Paula to milk him dry before she sends him next time," the nurse said. "Now that we know...." "What about the button inside him?" a woman asked. "That'll make him naked in a hurry." "I don't love him any more," the pregnant woman he'd soiled said. "You have to love them to put your finger up them." "Maybe the doctor will do it," the nurse said. "The doctor will do it," the other women said. "MAYBE she will," they amended, grotesquely exaggerating the word "maybe," but nodding confidently to one another as they did. It was early morning. Cal was in his bed. Somehow Aunt Paula had gotten him there. A kind of poultice swaddled his dejected member. The inflammation stung despite the gauze and balm. Cal touched his testicles. There was an echo of pain in them, a memory really, that didn't grow disagreeable under pressure. On the contrary, the touch of his finger-tips seemed to confirm a sensation already present and, though it was a vaguely painful sensation, Cal's testicles were grateful to have it revived. His sore penis hardened inside its wrapping. It was moist and Cal imagined Aunt Paula daubing it in aloe, her invariable remedy, and binding it while he slept. The thought of her hand soothing his raw penis made the suffering organ still harder. The erection worsened the pain, yet the pain fortified the erection. What was it that Aunt Paula had accomplished the day before, this conjunction of injury and excitement that now left him hungering for the very thing that made him cringe? The confusion of pleasure and pain wasn't merely, it seemed, the chaos of that hectic interlude, but a lasting effect. Cal's testicles had acquired a new taste, a yearning for the acrid clip of a woman's finger against their resonant surface. Nothing, in a way, is more fulfilling than a jolt to the testicles. Your insides quickly reverberate with it, while your balls themselves feel the strange relief of having suffered at last the onslaught they were made for and perpetually await. Sensations in themselves are only the most tentative of forces, timid suggestions of pleasure or pain, gratification or distress, awaiting the authoritative ruling of some higher power than that of the unstable nervous system to settle their identity. The palate learns to relish the hint of bitterness, the ear the note gone flat. A stench becomes delectable when its origin is cheese. The doctor, a man, thrusts his finger up my arse and I cringe to obstruct him; the doctor, a woman, performs the same examination and I cringe to keep my hard-on out of sight. Situation, intention, meaning - these determine the quality of feelings far more than our nerve-endings do. In any case, the male sexual system is so greedy, it can't evaluate its sensations anyhow. Men crave intensity alone, regardless of its basis in pleasure or in pain. And each increment of sensitivity teaches it a new impatience with everything milder, everything modest. Man's body demands a richness of feeling, an exquisiteness, even if that feeling should turn out to hurt. It is this insatiableness without discrimination that enables women to conquer us. Cal was learning this earlier than most. Wanting a taste of the dark sweetness Aunt Paula had served him the evening before, Cal poised his finger as she had, on the sprocket of his thumb. Then he froze. The moment of bitter contact was too awful to contemplate. Much as he wanted to fire the shot, Cal shrunk from the prospect of hurting what was already sore. "I am going to do it now," he thought repeatedly. "Now I'm going to let go. Fire the shot. I'm going to now...." He counted down; he winced, he held back. "But this is it. This is for real. I'm doing it. Afterwards it will hurt. But that will be afterwards, when it's too late. One second and it's too late and then it can hurt all it wants. The thing is to get to where it's too late." Cal held his breath, boosted his pelvis a little and let his finger fly. The pain was terrible. He made a great shelter of his hands and placed them hurriedly over his genitals. He turned onto his side and drew up his legs. He had deliberately hurt himself and he was suffering for it and his occluded penis, which had troubles of its own, got hard all the same, nourished on the gall. Cal searched his unready mind for the logic of it. Nothing seemed simpler than the difference between pleasure and pain, yet - in a boy in any case - there was nothing clear about this distinction at all. Certainly it had to do with his being a boy, he thought. Words like "pleasure" and "pain" didn't have the same meaning when applied to exclusively boy-things. A toothache or a scraped knee were just plain painful because girls could feel them too. But anything you felt in your penis or testicles couldn't be described that simply: everything that happened there had some element of both sensations, or something completely unlike either. You had to wonder why it mattered so much to you to be seen and touched. Wasn't being seen a kind of pain, a shock to your mind not so different from Aunt Paula's jolt to your balls? Wasn't that what the humiliation was all about? And being touched at all, even gently - wasn't it on the way to being hurt? A squeeze, a scratch, a gingerly roll of your precious bulbs - weren't these but sly hints of more ferocious deeds that amounted to unbridled versions of the same acts? The real question was why you had such a need to have this ridiculous appendage of yours stroked and pressed. Or why you had an appendage that seemed stuck on for no other purpose than to BE stroked and pressed. And why, then, was it attached at such close quarters with those sheepish, shrinking symbols of masculinity that any laughing girl with her mind on something else could bring in a second to red ruin? Cal remembered how the flame in his penis had burst and spread under the influence of Aunt Paula's searing oil and bristle-brush. Soon he couldn't tell his penis from its ignited surroundings. Yet without that penis he'd have felt none of it, without that burning, circumcised, erectile object he'd have been as cool and as safe as a girl. He remembered how sure he'd been, as he rose to his very first ejaculation, that what was about to happen was death, that he was going knowingly to his death, and proud and elated to be doing so for the sake of a beautiful woman in a short black dress. "What makes Aunt Paula a beautiful woman?" Cal asked himself. In his thoughts he repeated the phrase "beautiful woman" a number of times, slowly, as though lingering patiently over the words themselves would divulge the secret of the being they named. But you couldn't explain Aunt Paula, or any woman's, beauty: it wasn't one thing, but it wasn't a list of things either. Soft hair, breasts, hips, the face of an angel, the pubis of one - they revealed her beauty, but they didn't create or explain it. Cal didn't know the meaning of the word "redundant," but he had the thought that the phrase "beautiful woman" was redundant. It was just a long way of saying "woman," he thought. He quietly contemplated this for a time. A day at school lay ahead, so Cal gently shifted his reflections from Aunt Paula to his female teachers and school-mates. Miss Dunn and Mrs. Berman and Miss Eccles - they were all about Aunt Paula's age and they were beautiful women too. That is, they were women. He thought of slender Miss Dunn, whose breasts were firm and high and whose hip-bones stuck out of her dress like shoulder-blades. He tried to imagine the demure triangle of hair that must eternally conceal her nakedness. Mrs. Berman's triangle must be very dark, but Miss Eccles's was probably red. And his class-mates - they hadn't breasts or hip-bones or triangles yet, not as far as he knew, but they would one day. He thought they were beautiful all the same, even now: skinny Debbie with her curly dark hair, Christy with the big eyes and the gap between her teeth, Leila, compact and blond and always amused, Sarah with her intricate corn-rows and her grown-up banter, and many others besides. What a privilege, Cal thought, to spend the day among them. Some had seen him naked, a few any number of times. Debbie and a girl in his class named Kate had seen him circumcised four years ago. Now he imagined showing them all the new depth of slavery he had achieved. He imagined his teachers and the girls in his class putting him through the paces Aunt Paula had introduced him to. He would probably have to beg them to go further, to push him to the breaking-point. He would have to reassure them, to banish their fear of causing pain. The prospect of begging for the ache and flame stirred him deeply. He unwrapped the poultice and cautiously planted his hand around his martyred organ. The moisture of the aloe caused a slight slippage which his penis found pleasant despite its raw condition. The girls would be shy about slapping his penis and flicking his testicles, he thought in his hardness. Perhaps Miss Eccles, or maybe Mrs. Berman, would reassure them. "Don't you want to see him cry?" Miss Dunn might say and give his balls a cruel squeeze. "It's so easy, girls," she'd say. Just as he imagined bold Sarah stepping forward with a pair of bamboo sticks that had suddenly materialized, Cal came, shooting long jets of semen whose steep trajectory caused them to fall back onto their producer's face and chest. The warmth of his semen surprised him. His penis hadn't required much exercise: the pressure of his hand and the greater pressure of his sweet fantasy had been enough to make him spurt. Yet it had happened too soon: he had meant to lie there, quietly absorbed, his hand almost motionless, for a very long time, as he plotted out the scene of his immolation. In this way, only hours after discovering his male hunger for that feverish ache, he made a further discovery, one which sooner or later dawns on every man: of the short-circuit that is our orgasm, the swindle we call "relief." At breakfast Aunt Paula was all anxiety and solicitude. Was Cal feeling all right? Was there a lot of pain in his testicles? What about in his groin, his penis, his legs? He had been so brave yesterday, as a man ought to be. She made much of the word "man." She felt his brow for fever. She asked to examine his scrotum and penis. "I'll take the dressing off," she said. "Not the thing to wear to school." Cal said that he had already done so. "Oh, my darling, was it making you uncomfortable during the night?" Cal wished he could reassure his auntie and decided that telling her the truth would have that effect, even though he had some fear that she would not have wished him to masturbate. He told her he had removed the poultice in order to stroke his penis. "I just needed to, auntie," he said when she asked him why. "I hope you don't mind." "Did you shoot sperm, darling?" Aunt Paula said. "I mean, if you did...." Cal said that he had. "I kept thinking about the lesson, auntie, and how happy it made me to be growing up." "And it makes me happy as well, sweetheart. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with you...touching yourself and making yourself...the word is 'ejaculate,' darling. When a boy...or a man...no, really only a man, and that's the proof that you are one...when a man's penis sends out the sperm that his testicles make...the way yours did, darling...we call that 'ejaculation.' And it's fine if you want to touch your penis...the word is 'masturbate,' sweetheart...if you want to masturbate and make yourself ejaculate. But you must always tell Aunt Paula when you wish to do it. You must always ask permission to masturbate, and you must always tell Aunt Paula when you have ejaculated. I mean, when you're doing it alone, darling. If other girls ask you to do it, then you have permission - their permission - don't you?" Cal nodded. He sensed a note of distress in Paula's words, almost a note of sorrow. She said that he'd better pull down his pajama pants and let her check his penis and testicles now. It was getting late. Aunt Paula knelt and gently palpated Cal's scrotum, front and back, and his groin and thighs. Her touch was tentative, gingerly. So too her examination of his penis. She was anxious to know if any of these soft, clinical strokes was causing him pain. They were, of course, but not in a way that demanded her concern. His penis stiffened for his beautiful aunt. Paula broke into tears. "My sweet darling love," she said, "it's late and this isn't the moment I intended to say this. But you have to understand. What happened to you yesterday will happen to you many, many times in your life. I hope it will. It's the most beautiful thing that can happen between a woman and a man. And I saw with my own eyes how beautiful YOU could be, Cal, and I don't think either of us will ever forget what we saw and felt. If you stay faithful to our beliefs and if you devote yourself to serving girls and women with all the strength of a man, you will have the happiness of making this sacrifice again and again. I can promise you that." "I'm glad, auntie," Cal said. "That's what I want." "Yes, darling, I know. But don't you see what I'm getting at? It's this, my sweetheart, it's just this: Aunt Paula will never again be the one to...don't you see?...to...stir the ache in you the way she did last night. That was a thing Aunt Paula was allowed to do only once, Cal...." "Allowed, auntie? By who?" "I don't know how to answer, darling. Not by a person, I mean. Or not by another person....You could say from myself, from nature maybe, from the fact that I am almost your mother, that you are my sister's child....Do you understand?" Cal nodded. He did understand. He understood how Paula could feel this way. Paula, who loved him and had only one purpose: to teach him the way to an honest life. But for himself, nothing mattered except the incredible fact that there were women on this earth and that Paula was one of the loveliest and strongest of them. Why shouldn't he live in a state of constant sacrifice to her? "I understand, auntie," he said. She had just opened the door for him, he thought, and now she had to step aside. And it saddened her, which somehow proved that it was right. Cal was languid and thoughtful as he dressed for school. A remarkable sense of life's perspective began to form in his mind, the very thing young people are particularly incapable of seeing. But Cal was seeing clearly. It was as though he was looking back upon events that were still to occur. The process cheered him. He imagined his schoolmate skinny Debbie and her rich dark hair again, but older now, with a more womanly body, with little breasts and sharp hip-blades that shone through a black sheath-dress like the one Aunt Paula had worn to make him ache. One day - and very soon, too - Debbie would make him ache, or Christy, or some beautiful girl-turned-woman he was yet to know. His sadness over Aunt Paula would never lift, but this new, jubilant foresight of the beautiful submission that lay ahead now fell across it like a protective mantle, assuring the precious life of what was already a memory. Several weeks passed. Cal had to ask for permission to masturbate many times during this period. Aunt Paula always granted it, requiring only that Cal ejaculate in such a way that his semen would land on some part of his body. Then he had to return to her naked and stand at attention while the plashy places slowly trickled. Sometimes, whether it was lesson-day or not, Paula would use the occasion to give Cal a lecture. The theme was always the same now. The importance of sacrifice. His semen was a sacrifice, she explained, a gift a male offered to a female to show her that his very substance belonged to her. But it was her gift to him - her sacrifice of time and attention - to allow him the privilege of making this offering. So an even greater gift, an even greater sacrifice, a man might make to a girl or woman was another kind of wetness. In his tears a man conveyed the fullness of his gratitude and the willingness of his pain. "A boy may not understand how much it can mean to a girl to see him hurt for her. You saw how even your Aunt Paula's eyes got wet that day to see you cry. Yes, partly it was sympathy for you and sorrow, but partly - oh, Cal, I know this is hard to understand, but please, please try - partly it was joy. Joy in seeing my total power over you, so effortless and yet so deep, joy in seeing your beauty as you yielded, as you accepted your destiny as a man. Yes, Cal, a boy can be beautiful too, though maybe a better word is 'brave'. Imagine, my sweetheart, what that joy is like when a girl feels it for the first time in her life. Imagine how wonderful it is for a little girl, or even an adolescent, to see a boy's tears and know that she is the cause of them - her acts, her hands, her will." "I think I can imagine, auntie. I don't know. I mean, it can't be anything like what I feel." "No, my dear, of course not. You have to imagine it. Perhaps you can't. But you've seen many, many times how girls (even girls a lot bigger than you) enjoy it when you undress for them. They love to see your penis and testicles just hanging there in full view, because, for a girl, the fact that they're just out there like that means that you have no choice but to show them. And when you were smaller and got a little erection for them, they thought it was the most adorable thing in the world. Aunt Paula has wanted you to get used to such things, and you have, my darling, you wonderfully have. "But for some girls this isn't an everyday matter. They don't get to see that many well-behaved, cooperative boys. So when they do get the chance, they're fascinated. Somewhere inside they feel that a thing they've always suspected is true - they see it in your naked penis and your sweet, helpless little balls - they see how vulnerable you are, how fragile and, yes, Cal, yes, this is what it's all about, I'm afraid - they see how very easy you are to hurt. You and I and many grown-up ladies, we take this for granted, but you have to remember that lots of younger girls don't - even if their mothers wish them to. Girls without brothers or boy-cousins...or respectful friends like you. Cal, you can't believe how wonderful it is for a girl to make a boy cry for her by doing the things I've done to you. By doing even a few of them - because, you know, there's something in girls that makes them shy, something that makes them hesitate to use their power. "Aunt Paula was a lucky girl. I had a boy, the big brother of one of my friends, as matter of fact, who used to undress for me and kneel in front of me and truly beg me to prod and squeeze his testicles. And I WAS shy at first, believe me. I was so young I don't think I was even having periods yet. But this boy squirmed and pleaded and even, well, cried: one day, without so much as asking my permission, he just ripped off his clothes and begged me with tears in his eyes to punish him. I was four years younger than he was and had no idea what to do. I was even afraid of his big penis and balls and all the hair around them really put me off. I told him honestly that I didn't want to touch his bushy things, and you know what he did, Cal? Right away? He said, 'Come with me, Paula, please come,' and he pulled me to the bathroom and had me watch while he covered himself in lather and shaved off every last wisp. He looked as if he'd been skinned, all bare and raw from the razor. I loved it. I loved that he did it. His testicles looked the way yours do, Cal, the way yours always will, too, if you shave them once you get pubic hair. So unprotected and slack. Just asking to be terrorized. I squeezed him, I slapped him, I made him kneel, I did other things. Cautiously at first, then, after a while, freely. He was so grateful, but the fact is, I owe that boy a lot. Now I want other young girls to have the same advantages." Paula beckoned Cal toward her and drew the naked boy into her arms. She gave him an earnest hug. "And, because of what's happened between us," she said, "I know that I can give this to girls, with the help of my wonderful nephew." One day, some weeks after this conversation - school was out for the summer now - Aunt Paula called Cal to her studio, where he found her in the company of a very pretty teenage girl whose long dark hair struck Cal as exceptionally womanly for someone so young. Paula introduced her as Lia, the daughter of a dear friend, one of her professors at college, on the west coast. Lia's father lived nearby and Lia had come to spend the summer with him. Cal hadn't expected a female guest, but he was quick to recover from the surprise. He opened his pants and lifted up his shirt. "Do you know why, Cal?" Paula's tone was patronizing - for the girl's sake, Cal thought. "Do I know why what, auntie?" "Do you know why Lia has come all this way to spend the summer?" "Her dad, didn't you say?" Cal was undoing his pants now and Lia turned her head away politely. Could she be embarrassed? She looked completely together in her sleeveless shirt and snug jeans; her high-heeled sneakers, Cal knew, were the latest thing. But she was young after all, and shy, and Cal thought he understood why Paula was asking him that question. He wanted desperately to summon back Lia's attention as he shimmied his pants toward his ankles: "No," he wanted to exclaim, "don't look away. This is for you to see." Of course he kept still. Cal concentrated on undressing. He bent over to remove his shoes and socks so that he could climb out of his pants. He could sense the girl's discomfort even then. He understood that she must feel like an intruder. This bending and unlacing and pulling took a while and was strangely intimate. Cal was used to undressing like this in the presence of females and he did it now without self-consciousness. Not mechanically, of course, for desire and danger and instinctual shame always attended the process, coloring his skin and badgering his heart. But Paula had taught him that even these things were simply part of the natural drama of being a boy. They were the rule, not the exception, and Cal learned to expose them to "ladies" as easily he did his boyish body. To Lia, however, he thought he must look as natural and unhurried as if he were undressing in private. (Paula's work too: "You are not putting on a show," she would repeatedly explain. "You're simply showing ladies what you're really like.") Of course she would feel ill-at-ease. Aunt Paula interrupted Cal when he was down to his shorts. "Stop there, darling," she said. "Lia and I are going to have a chat." Cal understood. He picked up his clothes. Lia shifted uneasily and withheld her glance. "Pleased to have met you, ma'am," Cal said. It took the girl a moment to realize that it was she he was addressing. "Oh, yes," Lia said, perforce looking his way and getting immediately flustered for her pains. "My pleasure too, that is,ŠCal." Aunt Paula and Lia talked privately together for a long time. For so long that Cal began to wonder if the girl's visit did have anything to do with him after all. He had to admit he hoped so. Back in his room, in his shorts, Cal let himself imagine once again experiencing the shocking assault, the sweet, cramp-ridden devastation, his aunt had taught him to love, but this time at the hands of a beautiful teenager who would be tasting her rightful power for the first time. His penis swelled in his shorts. Aunt Paula had impressed upon him the need girls have to make boys cry. Cal wondered if shy, polite Lia would be capable of reducing him to tears. He devoutly wished it, but he could only meet the girl half way. He couldn't fake it. Break me, Lia, he prayed, and I will fly, choking, into your arms as I did into my Aunt Paula's, burying my face in your womanly hair, soaking the sweet-smelling strands with my tears. Paula must be instructing the girl right now, he thought. She must be covering every detail. Maybe Lia has ideas of her own and is presenting them for his aunt's approval. Or maybe she's having cold feet. Cal's heart didn't have time to sink at this thought because Paula was finally calling to him. Cal raced to his aunt's studio, a flapping erection still visible in his shorts. Aunt Paula and Lia were standing. Lia smiled nervously at Cal. He noticed that his aunt was holding the pair of bamboo sticks, about to turn them over to the teenager, who was already in possession of the thin black belt. Lia held the snaky object awkwardly, as though she were afraid it might come to life. "Yes, Aunt Paula?" Cal said. His aunt motioned the boy to be still. Planting her hands on Lia's shoulders, Paula gently urged the hesitant girl toward Cal. "Lia, my dear, Cal is all yours," she said. "I've told you how much I love him and how proud he has made me in the past. Go with him to his room and let him show you why. Don't be afraid. You are a woman, Lia. Believe me, you are. And Cal is a worshipful boy. You saw how willing he was to undress for you. That was only the beginning. Ask anything of him. Cal wants to deliver...wants...and needs...to sacrifice. But he IS a boy, and you must help him do the thing he needs. Bring him to tears if you can and he will touch your heart. I've taught him to be brave. But I've made him strong, Lia, only so that you can be stronger. He exists to show you your power. Meet his courage with your own." Paula put the bamboo weapons into Lia's hand, closed the girl's unsteady fingers around their harmless threaded ends and turned decisively away. end -- Story Submission: Newsgroup FAQ: Archive site: (Not pretty yet)