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Subject: REPOST: Babysitter I (cbt, F/m)
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The following fiction contains graphic and violent sexual scenes.  If
this might offend you, please read no further.



     The Babysitter


       


      I suppose my parents must have chosen a dominatrix as my
babysitter accidentally.  At least, I can't think of any reasons why
they would want their 6-year-old to be subjected to a babysitter who
believed in female domination: my mother wasn't a practicing femdom by
any means, and as far as I'm aware my father didn't have any
submissive tendencies -- at least none that all men don't have.  So I
think my parents chose Karen to babysit for me only because they
believed she was responsible and competent.  No doubt they were struck
by how sincere she sounded when she professed to love children.   In
fact she did love children -- in a unique way -- but my parents never
had any idea what Karen did with me, and what sort of influence she
had on me.

      I should point out Karen's beliefs in female domination were
coincidental; she believed in being dominant, and happened to be a
woman.  Any philosophical positions relating to female domination were
probably just stilts for her egotism.  I have no idea whether this
sort of claim would hold true for most femdoms. 

      I first met Karen as a six-year-old, on December 31, 1974 -- my
parents' anniversary and New Year's Eve.  She had long, dirty blond
hair, seemed very tall to me (though in fact she's 5'9"), and seemed
as much of an adult as my parents, though she was only 15. 

      Our first sessions were very normal, uneventful.  She was
wittier and funnier than any other babysitters I'd had before, and let
me stay up later.  Best of all, I felt that she really liked me, and
really had an interest in my youthful vision of things.  I had fun
with her, and was always bitterly disappointed when she wasn't
available and I had to have other babysitters.

      Certainly Karen was different from the very beginning.  Rather
than making me dinner, she had me make myself dinner and merely stood
by offering guidance or giving instructions.  

      "Come on, Andy, you're a big boy.  Take it off..."

      When one evening I became frustrated that I couldn't unscrew the
lid on a jar of spaghetti sauce, Karen moved up behind me, her body
pressing against me, and reached around my shoulders; she took the jar
from my hands and effortlessly twisted off the lid.  For a moment I
was embarrassed at her superior strength -- I already had the notion
that boys are supposed to me stronger than girls.   While I blushed,
Karen held me there for a moment, her arms around me, not letting me
move.

      My first experience of female domination that had a pronouncedly
sexual character occurred on Karen's sixth visit at my home.  She told
me she wanted me to make macaroni, and I flatly refused.  I had had a
discouraging day at school and I was in a bad mood.  Generally Karen's
presence was immediately uplifting -- her humor, her playfulness --
but on this occasion my sulky attitude persisted.  I told her I wasn't
going to make dinner.

      "You're not.  Why not, Andrew?"

      "'Cause I don't want to."

      "Andrew, come on.  That's not a good reason."

      "Why should I do the cooking?  You're the babysitter."

      Karen looked at my icily.  "Andy?  Do you think that makes me
your slave?"

      I hesitated.

      "Is that what you think, Andrew?"

      "No."	

      "Then why are you refusing to do as I tell you?"

      I felt myself going red.  I felt ashamed of my refusal to
comply, and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.  "Because
YOU'RE the woman."

      Karen leaned closer to me.  Her voice was almost a hiss.  "What
did you say?"

      Avoiding eye contact, I said, "When Dad's here, Mom always makes
dinner.   That's how it is in all families.  The woman cooks."

      Karen smiled a cold smile, then slowly kneeled down in front of
me.  We were just about at eye level with each other.  Her smile
broadened, and she put one of her hands around my shoulders.  I looked
away from her; despite her smile, her eyes burned into me.  I was
acutely aware of her anger, and it made me shrink inwardly.

      "Andrew, I don't ever want to hear you say something like that
again.  Women choose their own roles for themselves.  If they don't
want to do something, they don't have to.  That was a very stupid,
silly thing for you to say."

      She wanted me to look at her directly.  Still with one arm
around my shoulder, she put her other hand on my chin and turned my
face toward her.  I was trembling.

      "And Andrew, when most men and women have disagreements about
who should do what in a family, and the disagreements become serious
and turn into fights, the women win."

      What she said struck home for me.  I could recall many instances
in which clashes between my parents ended with my mother, through
manipulation or sheer force of will, coming out on top.  Generally
when there were serious fights, the episodes were only resolved when
my father apologized to my mother and pleaded for her forgiveness.
Somehow, while on the surface my father appeared to be the head of the
family, my mother actually wielded the power and set down the law.

      But this was very confusing for me, and seemed to conflict with
the depiction of men and women in cartoons and other TV shows: men
were clearly physically superior to women, and since they were equal
in all other ways, it was obviously men who had the edge.  And despite
what happened between my parents, it was always women who had to
clamor for equal rights; it was men who were presidents and prominent
leaders; it was men who seemed to make things happen in the world.
Women were a presence, but only a subdued one.These shallow
impressions seeped into my mind as Karen laid her eyes on me, and they
must have motivated me when I responded to her: "Women NEVER win.  Men
are who control things.  It's a fact.  Men are more powerful."

      Karen lost her smile.  "Andy.  One day you'll realize that men
are desperately afraid of appearing weak, so they'll do anything to
appear strong.  But in every way, they're slaves by their own nature.
The deepest fear that all men have is of realizing that women are
superior to them.  But when men realize this, they can finally start
to live the kinds of lives that they're supposed to live.  Andy, I'm
going to help you start learning that kind of life now."

      She smile again, and looked at me forgivingly.  "Now go make us
dinner."

      Looking back on it, I'm amazed at my resistance.  I suppose it
was mainly based on a childish impulse to test authority.  Again, I
refused.  My voice was very, very small, but I said, "No."

      Karen's face shadowed over.  Her eyes looked like storm clouds.
Her hand, which was still around my shoulders, slid slowly down my
back to my rear.  She placed her hand over my small buttocks, moved
her fingers gently so as to feel the crack between my cheeks, then
seemed to massage my behind slowly.  She moved her other hand to my
face, and heavily -- mushing up my cheek -- stroked me.

      "Oh, Andy.  You shouldn't've said that."

      After a brief electric pause, her hand glided from my face, down
across my chest -- then to my pants.  Holding me from behind, she
broke open the button of my pants and in a series of powerful, swift
movements, yanked my pants and my underwear down to my ankles, spun me
around, bent me over her knees, and began spanking me.  

      I had never been spanked by my parents.  For some reason I had
the impression that spankings were illegal -- that parents weren't
allowed to do things like that anymore.  I was astonished by Karen's
show of authority, and her seemingly endless series of blows stung my
bottom badly. I began wailing.  I thrashed weakly to break free, but
Karen held me down easily.  

      After an eternity of pain, Karen asked me if I was ready to do
as she said.   Through sobs I cried that I was.  Although she stopped
spanking me, she continued holding me over her knee.  My buttocks were
aching, but they weren't numb, and I could feel, about a minute after
she stopped spanking me, her fingers slowly probe between my small
cheeks.  They moved up to my tiny anus, touching the rim gently, and
rested there.  

      After some minutes, exhausted by my sobbing into quiet
whimpering, Karen lifted me up, still with my pants at my ankles, and
sat me on her lap normally.  She put one arm around my chest, and
although she had just beaten me -- even terrorized me -- I felt deeply
comforted by the feeling of her face next to mine.  I shuddered, and
she held me warmly.  With her other hand, she reached around and
touched my tiny penis and my little scrotum.  

      At first her fingers drifted lightly over my genitals, as if
just measuring their miniscule dimensions.  Then she cupped my little
balls and my penis in her warm palm, and kissed me on the cheek.  

      "Andy?"  Karen's voice was infinitely kind.  She sounded
soothing and wise.   "Do you feel this?  These little things are part
of what make men so different from women.  They're part of what makes
men so weak.  Women don't have to have these things."  

      Her hand rubbed me there -- still gently, but somewhat
assertively.  She probed the seeds of my maleness, shifting my testes
around, toying briefly with my little penis.  Then she delicately held
my left ball between her thumb and her forefinger.

      "Can you imagine, Andy, how easy it is for a girl to hurt a boy
here?  How helpless the boy becomes when a girl can touch him here?"

      I nodded with my eyes closed tight.  Although I was frightened,
I was starting to feel my tiny penis grow stiff, like a brittle twig.
Karen released my nut from her grip.  She lifted me off her knee, then
helped me remove my shoes and slip off my pants and underpants.  She
told me to lift up my arms, and then lifted off my shirt.  Holding my
hand, she guided me into my bedroom, then told me to lie down on my
back.

      After I did, she took off her clothes.  I had never seen a woman
naked before, and her breasts seemed somehow strange and disturbing;
the dark corner of hair at her crotch frightened me -- as if I had
some sort of instinctive response to that place.  Everything about her
body suggested strength and power.  

      I was trembling as Karen moved above me on the bed.  As she
joined me, she again stroked my tiny genitals; then, putting one knee
on each side of my chest, moved her dark patch of hair close to my
face.  

      "This is what women have, Andy: this is where babies come from,
and this makes you mine: this makes men stupid, obedient slaves."

      I could smell her, and I could feel the heat from her body. 

      "Look at it, Andy."

      The complex, dark folds of her flesh reminded me of a jellyfish
hidden in shadowy water.  It looked moist, and seemed huge to me.
Karen moved her crotch over my face.

      "Lick me, Andy."  

      She clutched my hair and pulled my face against this mouth of
hers.  I felt a surge of energy in her body as our flesh touched, and
her vagina overwhelmed me: pinned my body to the bed: drenched me in
its powerful liquids as I licked, and gasped, and licked.  Her body
rocked against my face, and I was terrified that she would injure me.  

      At some point I ended up on my stomach with her lying on top of
me.  I had one cheek on the bed as my babysitter stroked my face.  She
had become calm; her sweat covered me.  She slid her hand under my
body, under my boyish groin, and moved her fingers gently into my
scrotum.  Her thumb rubbed my little penis, which poked like a small
wooden nail against the mattress.

      "I'm going to make you a man, Andy," she whispered in my ear.
"I'm going to train you to be a proper man."

      Karen came to our house about six times after that, and each
time she took me further in our training.  I always pleased her; every
night I spent with her, her vagina feasted on my face.  On our last
night together, she showed me how her clitoris, swollen and moist,
dwarfed my limp little penis.  One evening while we lay in bed she
held my head between her legs and drenched me with urine.  The next
morning I confessed to my parents that I had wet my bed.  

      On two occasions Karen became frustrated with me -- though I
never again defied her as I had that first night that she dominated
me.  On one of these occasions I had been sucking her nipples, and
accidentally nibbled her too hard.  She yelled that I was a brainless
imbecile, then told me to stand in front of her with my legs apart.
We were both naked; she was sitting on the edge of my bed, and I was
standing with my tiny balls dangling, my little penis like a drop of
flesh.  With one hand, Karen held my hair -- firmly, but not tugging
at it; with the other she made a fist.  She told me to look her in the
eyes, then she slammed her fist against my boyish genitals.  I
crumpled to the floor: I wailed: I clutched myself in helpless,
tearful agony.  I had never felt so much pain.

      Karen was especially rough with me as she rocked her crotch
against my face that night.  I ended up with a bloody nose.

      The other time I angered Karen, it was for not being responsive
with my little penis.  Though erect it was only two and a half inches
long, barely long enough to penetrate her at all, she order me to make
it rise.  I couldn't.   She slapped at it with her hand, but that just
brought tears to my eyes.  

      Karen told me to get on my hands and knees.  On her knees behind
me, she put her index finger in my mouth and told me to get it wet.
Then she stuck her other fingers in, and told me that I should make
them slick with spit.  I felt like I was going to choke on her hand,
and tears welled up in my eyes.  

      When she took her fingers out of my mouth, she slid them between
my buttocks and drove them -- first one, then two, then three -- into
my hole.  At first I shrieked -- it felt like my body was being
slashed open by a dagger -- but Karen's blow to the back of my head
silenced me.  Soon her fingers began to feel soft entering me, and
though I felt slashed open, even more vulnerable to her than usual,
the act felt began to feel wonderfully affectionate.  With her other
hand, Karen reached around and fingered my boyhood.

      "See?  I told you I'd make your tiny penis hard."

      Karen pinned me on my back and let her clitoris rub over my
little wand.  Her clitoris continued passionately rubbing me long
after my penis became exhausted.  Disappointed with me, Karen slapped
my face, and spanked me again until my tears soaked my pillow.  She
told me that I would have to learn to keep my little penis hard when
she wanted it to be.  Next time I failed her by letting my penis
soften, she would get a penis of her own -- one so long that when she
rammed it into my hole I would feel it all the way up in my throat.

      Karen had assured me that if I ever told anyone about the
private things she did with me, she would make it so that I would be a
boy all my life -- I would never be able to have children.  Her threat
was totally unnecessary: my obedience to her was complete.  No one had
ever brought so much intensity to my life:  Karen was my best friend,
and the most frightening person I had ever met.  

      Consequently when my parents told me that Karen had stolen
something from their house and that I would never see her again, I was
crushed.  I protested, I tried to change their minds, but they assured
me that it was better that Karen stay away from the house.  They
didn't want her to be a bad influence on me.  I lost touch with Karen
completely.

      By the time I moved away to college, I had become thoroughly
disappointed with women.  Karen created godlike expectations in me
about women, but by misfortune I never encountered any femdoms in high
school.  Vanilla girls -- tame, submissive, spiritually exhausted --
never excited me.  In my third quarter at UCSC, however, I took a
class in women's studies.  When we met for our discussion session --
led by a vivid, commanding female T.A. -- I realized that fate had
given me an extraordinary stroke of luck.  After the discussion ended,
I lingered in the room until all the other students left, then
approached the T.A.  I told her that she had been my babysitter twelve
years earlier.

End Part I

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