Message-ID: <5682eli$9711181126@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: zturgeon@aol.com (Zturgeon) Subject: Repost: Francie (cbt, F/m) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-Id: <19971118053201.AAA13826@ladder02.news.aol.com> The following fiction contains violent and graphically sexual scenes. If this might offend you, please stop reading. FRANCIE AND LARRY I can remember the first time I crushed a guy's balls very vividly. The guy was Larry Smith. We were both seniors in high school -- a really raunchy, redneck sort of high school in Virginia. Whatever our real talents were, we were acting out stereotypes at that point in our lives: he was a weight-lifting, beer-drinking, barroom-brawling auto-mechanics student. I was a rebellious tough chick who did nothing in school but smoke cigarettes, chat with other rebellious chicks, pester teachers, and occasionally tease guys. I got this reputation for being kind of loose, which I resented; whenever people made jokes about me being a slut, I laid into them real hard -- grilled the hell out of them and really tried to hurt and embarrass them. Consequently I got a reputation for being a hard-ass. And Larry? He had a reputation for being a brutal motherfucker who beat people up for fun when he was drunk. You could say we were a perfect match. Even so, Larry didn't ask me out until Spring of our senior year. I remember the morning: I was hungover with an awful headache, which was normal for me, but even though I felt sort of half-dead I was still ragingly horny. This was also normal. I told Larry I thought it'd be cool if we went out, so the next day he and I cut out of school between classes and went to a lake where kids in our area went -- usually at night -- to get drunk, make out, fight, fuck. We went there because it was the place to go, but it was strange to see it during the day; all the broken glass, all the bottles, the trash, the spray paint graffiti.On the way there we talked a little -- mostly him asking questions, trying to sound interested in me, and me making sassy remarks back at him. He seemed to like it when I talked mean. He said gutsy chicks turned him on. We went to a place we couldn't get to during nighttime -- a sort of rocky peninsula made of sand and large boulders that you had to hustle over with lots of dexterity. From that spot no one on the shore behind us could see us, but we could look out over the whole lake. There wasn't too much room to move around in; just about the size of a boxing ring. I leaned back against a huge, flat-sided boulder like a cement wall and looked at the water, and felt the breeze flow across the surface at me. Larry leaned beside me, facing me, grinning. He was wearing this tank-top to show off his huge muscles and his body hair. He had jeans on with tears at the knees, and a dull leather belt. He was standing real close to me, grinning. Then he kissed me. And I thought, you know, he likes it when I'm argumentative, when I ridicule him a bit -- maybe he'd like the same thing from me physically. So I sort of shoved him away from me, and told him, "Cut it!" "Oh, come on," he said, not fazed at all, and began pressing my head back against the boulder with his big lips. I shoved him again, and hissed, "Fucking jerk." But to tell you the truth, I just wanted him to get riled up; I really wanted to ride this guy's cock. "Hey!" he grunted, then pinned my arms back and stuck his tongue into my mouth. To tell you the truth, I kind of liked his roughness. But instead of getting rougher when I let him pin me back, he got all soft again. So I decided to get a little risky: I lifted my kneecap along his legs, then up to his groin. Gently, at first, nudging at his crotch. I could feel his dick sticking out -- thick, throbbing against his jeans. He cupped my right breast in his hand, and gave it a gentle squeeze, then began massaging it. I wanted him to get rough, dammit! With one of his hands rubbing my breast, he left one of my arms free, so I reached around his waist and grabbed left ass-cheek. I squeezed it tight, tried to drive my fingernails into his skin. This just seemed to puzzle him; he kind of stopped in mid-kiss. This irritated me, his passivity, so I really went on the offensive: with one motion I slipped my hand down low, kind of between his ass cheeks, and tried to lift him up by his ass, tried to jerk his ass into the air -- and drove my kneecap hard into his nuts. He grunted real loud and sort of tottered. Leaning forward, moaning, he came close to kneeling a couple of times. Then he stood straight and swung his right hand upside my face. Bam! My whole world shook. I saw stars in my vision. The lake in front of me seemed to tip diagonal. "Watch where you put your knee, you fucking little cunt!" he boomed at me. Then, after I held my face for about a minute, I felt him slap me again: on my right breast. My tit flew up into the air. Then he slapped my other breast: it bounced up. Then he whapped the first one again. My chest ached; I felt like he was going to hit my breasts so hard they'd rip off. The pain, I must say, was sobering. Or maybe it was my rage at this big fucking cowardly male beating a woman. Whatever it was -- the pain, my rage -- I got my senses back real quick. When he stepped up to beat my tits again, I took a step toward him and threw my knee up like a hammer into his balls. He cried out -- this time more shrill than grunting -- and fell right to his knees. Once again I threw my knee forward, but this time into his face. To my surprise, he fell backward, landing on the sand. The way he landed, his legs, folded at the knees, were wide-open. Making a quick dance step to get power, I drove my right foot into his nuts. He let out a winded howl, then seemed to start gasping for air; his lungs, like his pride, had been deflated. I danced over to his upper body, then nailed him in the head three times with my foot. That's when he started bleeding, and that's when he started crying. My rage, strangely, wasn't placated by dominating him like that. It was like my rage only grew when I found that I could actually vent it, rather than having to keep it pent up, like women usually have to do in life. While Larry held his hands over his head and face to protect what little brains he had, I unsnapped his jeans and pulled down his pants. He wasn't wearing underwear, the motherfucker. Clearly he had expected to get into my pants in a hurry. I looked down at his thick, long semi-hard 6" cock, and his large, agonized balls. The cradle of his maleness; the testosterone headquarters; the jewels and tool of his manhood. I grabbed up his big, hard balls in my hands and squeezed. His protests reached a new, frenzied, babbling climax, but I didn't listen: I had him by the balls: he was the most vulnerable creature in the world, and I could do whatever the fuck I wanted with him now. As if to prove it, I twisted his scrotum around, trying to make it like the head of the possessed girl in the Exorcist. He yelped and pleaded with me, but I ignored his whining; I squeezed, twisted, tugged at his vulnerable genitalia; I made him beg shamelessly. I released his full, hard balls and -- with one hand pinning his cock down against his body by the glans -- I made a fist with my other hand and hammered at his shaft. I pounded it and pounded it -- at least thirty times -- until I was satisfied that it would bruise deeply. Then I made a fist: I lifted it high and swung it low, my knuckles colliding directly into his right testicle. Larry wailed, his body jerking in pain, his tortured, masculine cries carrying over the surface of the pond. Then, like he did with my breast, I nailed his left testicle. Then his right one again. By a combination of tearing at his hair -- which was kind of hard to do since it was short -- and smacking him in the face, I got him to sit on his hands and knees, like a pooch. I can't believe, looking back on it, that I was so zealous -- but it was almost like I was high: my head seemed really so clear, my thoughts so pure and elevated. It was like I was doing something both divine and instinctive. I felt like my mind was a fabulously clean, smooth machine obeying a deep, irresistible, gut-level urge to take this man down hard: to strip him entirely -- spiritually, mentally, and physically -- of his manhood. To smash his notion of male superiority to dust. When he was in that position, I scanned the peninsula around us, and soon found what I was looking for: an empty beer bottle. It was ironic: this very bottle could well have been tossed there by Larry on one of his nocturnal drinking and fucking sprees. I told Larry to think of all the women he had probably date raped in his evening excursions to this lake. Then I rammed the bottle into his anus. The neck went in pretty easily. Larry's head was down, and he was sobbing. His body was shuddering. It was hard to get the bottle into his hole above the neck, though -- that took some real effort. When it eventually went in, it almost immediately shot out -- almost like a missile -- from the tension of his sphincter. I rammed it home again -- pressing it further, harder, trying to get his anus to entirely swallow the bottle. Trying to drive it up fully into his intestines. Larry began collapsing onto his stomach, so I reached around and grabbed his balls. I jerked them up and threatened to kill him if he didn't stay on his hands and knees. And then, holding his firm, large testicles -- the levers God created to let women utterly dominate men -- I decided to try castrating him. Since I didn't have a knife, I looked around for something else to use. I quickly found the perfect devices: two fist-sized, heavy rocks. Standing above him, I told Larry to spread his legs wider. When he hesitated, I slammed the top of my foot up against his male fruits. He wailed, but obeyed me. I kneeled down behind him, and held the rocks on either side of his testicles. With all my strength, I slammed them together. The collision was so strong it caused my wrists to sting a little. The rocks only actually touched each other at one small point, creating a loud tapping sound that echoed off of the boulder behind us and travelled out over the lake like an incomplete SOS for Larry's lost manhood. I felt the resistance of his balls as the hard, rough stones collided; I could feel his testes lose their roundness between the rocks. Flatten. Smush. Darn! Larry's body reared up a couple of times -- violent, brief seizures. Rasping, wild sobs escaped his chest. I wanted to soak up his pain; I wanted to feel the spirit of his ruined manhood rise up into the air. Hungrily, I tossing the rocks into the water, I flipped him onto his back, and stripped my pants off. Naked from the waist down, I mounted his crushed groin; I rubbed my dominant clitoris against his now eternally unloaded cock -- his broken little sword. I pressed down on his shoulders with my hands, and stared at his face. He had black eyes, and his lids were almost swollen shut. I glared at him -- he was watching me, gasping -- then spit on his face. "How does it feel to not be a man anymore, Larry? Hm? How do you think you'll feel going through life knowing that a woman half your size stripped you of your masculinity? That you were castrated by an angry bitch, and that you didn't even manage to put up a fight in self-defense? You're such a chicken-shit wimp. You never really had balls to begin with." I plunged my tongue into his mouth, and drove it repeatedly against his palate like a phallic thrust; like he had done to me with his tongue. Under me, on my labia, I could now feel a warm liquid. I knew that it was blood from his demolished testicles: the precious stones of his former manhood. Excited, I began rubbing my genitals against his shattered balls; raping them, relishing their destruction -- my vagina drinking up the blood of his castration. I laughed at him, called him my poor little eunuch, my sexless puppet, and I rode him until he passed out. Then I left him there. 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