Message-ID: <6299eli$9712101518@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern) Subject: RP Estragon's Aunt Paula 4/5 femdom 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: <19971210163500.LAA09715@ladder01.news.aol.com> A RP in deserved appreciation of the author, who is not the reposter (me). Estragon can be reached through RGT@well.com (comment welcome, but no requests for missing parts please). His stories are all archived courtesy of Mule at http://www.tpe.com/ÿ7EMule Travels with Aunt Paula by Estragon was originally posted in six parts, each with an epigraph. I am preserving all of the original headnotes, but this reposting is in *five* parts, this one 4/5. Aunt Paula deftly syncopated Cal's confusion: spikes of exaltation through his prostate to his penis, spikes of anguish through the stretched skin of his scrotum to his balls - a rushing stream of merged sensations and disordered emotions. Wasn't everything upside-down? The jolts to his testicles causing his elation, the push-button erection bringing him down? Were these sensations, these emotions, even distinguishable? Were they not a single, simultaneous up-and-down? Cal was now facing, at a moment when even boyish words were bound to fail him, the full truth of the religion of woman, something his training until now had only reflected indirectly: when you are hers absolutely, height and depth are one. When you shed your personhood, that tenuous final garment that wraps your manhood in the ambiguous fabric of humanity, you forsake your very will. You and the woman no longer share a common ground. All the ground is hers. You're the interloper, the vagabond, maybe for a time the guest. In any case, she has all the rights. So Cal broke. Beneath the deluge of pleasure-pain, he sagged. Aunt Paula's hand was there to wield him. He was her puppet. Her thumb roamed his testicles, turning or stabbing them as she chose. If she liked, she'd brush his penis, knock it a bit to make it quiver. She drove her other finger deeper into his rectum. Cal did what he could to make his depths reachable. He was an armature, nothing more, from which the cunning tools of female domination hung. He might cry his eyes out. This was ecstasy all the same. The real, true thing. Cal stood outside himself, far more an extension of Paula's nerves and muscles than his own boy. He was less the boy of tears than the woman who found them beautiful. He was Aunt Paula's desire - fulfilled. He had alertness enough to see himself afloat on the high water of a woman's sorcery, but he had nothing beyond alertness: he lacked all greed now, all intention, all will except that things be as they are. When your will is gone, your sense of time deserts you too. A woman's accessory, incapable of intent, you forget the very dimension it's projected into. For Cal, the remainder of the afternoon passed without sequence, everything the cause, everything the effect, of every other thing, a single unending yet undivided moment of tearful erection and ball-breaking joy. Now Aunt Paula's finger slipped out of his anus, and her thumb released his testicles. A thin black-leather belt was trussing them now, lifting them forward and high; now Aunt Paula was closing the buckle at the small of his back. He was reclining against a wall now. Aunt Paula was taking care to position him: only his head touching the hard wall now, Aunt Paula's tabouret wedged behind his buttocks, him bent backwards therefore, his abdomen and belly in strenuous offering to the woman. Now Aunt Paula was forcing his legs apart, saying, "Wider, Cal, wider, my love." A steel canister, very fat, planted now between his thighs, near his crotch, behind and just below his testicles, enforcing a wide, sweet, painful split. Aunt Paula saying now, "On your toes, please, Cal," and Cal already on them. Now she was showing him a pair of long bamboo cooking chop-sticks, tapered, tied together at their wide ends with a thread. With his gaze forced upward by his posture, he was straining now to look. But now the looking was over: she wished his eyes closed and so they were. She was spraying him with cold water from head to toe, front and back, and it was dripping off his face and down his torso now. Little streams of it along his ribcage, down the creases of his groin, down his crack and onto his thighs. Now a harsh swat to his wet penis. Now to his face with its eyes squeezed shut, its jaw jutting upward. He heard his own yelps, his gasps, his sobs of grateful surprise, and in them the satisfaction of the woman's desire. The pointed sticks were jabbing randomly now, his abdomen, his legs, his trussed, uplifted balls. When the last, he shrieked, tried to proclaim his servitude, his breathless need to give Aunt Paula everything. He spoke, but it didn't sound like words. A gruff, misshapen croaking was all. Aunt Paula understood that he was offering his life. But her voice was music. "I'm going to rub a special oil over your penis and testicles now." Aunt Paula wearing latex gloves now. "It will burn you, Cal...." "Glad...," the gaping mouth intoned. Now it was burning as she promised. And something - a hairbrush - was dancing in the flames, fanning them, becoming them, singeing the crown of his penis, consuming his glans. "Auntie," he wailed, a single long and ragged syllable. His penis had never been so thick, so heavy. What was he made for but sacrifice? Strange new paroxysms of surrender were carrying him away and he was going to die now for certain. For Aunt Paula, who was a woman and had the right. Now a wild, lashing rope of sperm shot for her sake from his burning organ. It was his first. "I love you, auntie," he only thought he said. Cal lay quietly in Paula's arms, his tears slowly receding. He had dropped to the floor in one innocent tumble, and Paula had joined him there. "My sweet boy actually swooned for me," she said. Cal rested a careless hand where her breast began to swell. Paula gently deflected it. It found a home on the sharp turn of her hip; the crepe of Paula's dress did little to soften the feminine hardness of that place. Cal thought the other hardness on a woman must be more wonderful still. He wished he might kiss Aunt Paula there, on her beautiful dark triangle of hair. He knew this could never be. As she held her depleted nephew, Paula's thoughts drifted to Dana, her sister, Cal's mother. She remembered how, soon after Cal was born, Dana confided that giving birth to a boy had left her a bit confused. "I mean, don't you think it's bizarre," she said, "that women have no penises but are capable of growing them inside?" "So what do you think it means?" Paula asked. "It means SOMETHING," Dana said. Paula also remembered another conversation with her sister. Dana was home from college and newly in love. Paula was a scornful adolescent. She felt only contempt for males. Love left her cynical. "Believe me, Paula, it's the only good thing in the world," Dana said. end of part five Estragon: "Travels With Aunt Paula," VI/6 (Femdom) (For adults only. Copyright 1996, 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 e 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 this thing 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 sensation 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 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 name. 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 balcruel 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. Whe 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 had permission to do only once, Cal...." "Permission, auntie? From who?" "I don't know how to answer, darling. Not from a person, I mean. Or not from 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 opened the door for him, he thought, and now she had to step aside. And it saddened her to do so, 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. 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. end RP4/5 Vickie Tern@AOL.COM -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |