Message-ID: <7949eli$9804161534@qz.little-neck.ny.us> From: sheshlam@aol.com (Sheshlam) Subject: NewStory: Strong Women II (Fm cbt castr) 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: <1998041608321000.EAA20616@ladder01.news.aol.com> Strong Women II by Zturgeon The following fictional story contains graphic scenes of violent sexuality in which women dominate men. Please do not read this if you might be offended by it, or if nosy government organizations might harrass you because of it. My last sexual relationship was with a woman named Jessica. I met her through my work in real estate several years after college; she was a highly successful, motivated, and extremely attractive woman. She had very short black hair, cut in a rather boyish style, which she often decorated with hair clips and tiny ponytails. She was tall, slender, and had B-cup breasts, compact and elegant. Although she was only slightly older than I was, she was far more successful than I had been -- and far more successul than many men who had been at work in the field for more than a decade. Jessica was highly controlling. I learned this almost immediately -- she would tell me what to wear before we went out to gatherings, she would tell me not to repeat certain things about myself; she told me how to interact with her, how to treat other people at work -- she even told me what sort of answering machine message I should have on my personal phone. I had implicit trust in her assessment of things, and I was often insecure about my own judgements, so almost without exception I followed her advice. Jessica was also quite controlling in bed. She would decide how long I should give her cunnilingus before I penetrated her, and then she would decide when it was time for us to switch positions. Often when I was on the verge of ejaculating she would seize my testicles and squeeze them or force me to stop moving; this way she would interrupt my sexual gratification, and force me to go on longer. I found my need for her growing as she made more and more decisions in my life. I was afraid of becoming dependent upon her only because I was worried that she would see me as clingy, or needy, and resent me for this; in truth, I would have relinquished all of my autonomy to her if she wished me to. Serving someone as magnificent as her provided me with a rich sense of meaning, and true inner happiness. I was not much of a man in our relationship -- not in the stereotypical sense -- but I realized she had a better nature for being in the dominant position. Later I realized that most women do, in fact, belong in the dominant position in relationships; men's thinking is poor, flighty, shallow; their interests are narrow-ranging. And they're simply weaker creatures.A temporary rupture occurred in our relationship after I had moved into her home. One evening I came home from her office late -- I was redecorating it for her, and only worked after-hours so as not to interrupt her business -- and I caught her engaged in intercourse with one of the adult male students from a brokerage class she was teaching. It was a horrible thing for me to witness; it truly hurt me, and it took me a long time for me to understand my feelings about it. I had seen his car parked in our driveway; I had heard their voices as soon as I entered the hall leading to our bedroom; I had even seen his coat tossed on our living room sofa. It seemed to me at first that the lack of concealment suggested that their love-making was entirely spontaneous. But later I realized they didn't bother hiding anything because Jessica was simply not frightened by how I might react. I wasn't a threat to her. Moreover, she wanted me to know. Wanted me to see. See her in the act: riding his long, thick cock while he lay naked on our bed, her bare breasts swinging from the frenzied motion of her hips; pulling deliriously at his chest hairs, eyes fluttering, gasping quickly, ecstatic at the wonder of a penis so large entering her body. I stared at the two of them, their magnificent bodies transported with sexual pleasure; I listened to their passion, and felt like my masculinity, my ego, and my pride were simultaneously dissolving. I was hurt. For a moment, I felt anger rise up like poisonous acid inside me. "You disgust me," I spat at her. He looked up at me standing in the doorway, then turned to the woman on his penis. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at me. "Bobby, meet Brad." She turned back to the man under her, and again rose up on his magnificent cock, then eased snugly down on it. She exhaled passionately, and combed her fingernails through his dense, dark chest hair. Even aware that I was watching, she was unwilling to stop satisfying herself with this gorgeous male specimen. "Is he your husband?" He asked her. "Boyfriend, sorta." "Sorta?" "He's not all you'd want from a boyfriend." "What?" I hissed at her. "What the fuck did you say?" "Look, Bobby," she turned to me again. "Look at this." Momentarily she lifted off of her stud, and pointed her open palm down by his groin. "Look at how he's hung: a cock like a sledge-hammer; balls three times the size of yours. He's a masterpiece of manhood. A REAL man. Why don't you just sit down and watch him fuck me? See how it's done? Do what I tell you, Bobby, and maybe thus young hunk can teach you how to be a man." She mounted Brad again, and then really got into it. Brad looked up at me, smiling, as Jessica's body shuddered, quivered, shook, nearly detonated from the deep piercing of his cock. After that evening Jessica continued to date Brad while I was still living with her. Soon she stopped using my penis inside her vagina, though she still told me to orally please her. I became resentful, and began routinely ignoring her requests. At some point I told her about the incidents from my childhood, and she decided that the only sort of discipline that I would respond to was harsh physical discipline. I was becoming more and more marginalized in the triangle. I was not her boyfriend anymore, though we lived together; Brad was her boyfriend. "He's the real man in my life: the ONLY man in my life," she once told me. I was there only as a convenience for their pleasure, incapable of making any real demands of my own. Occasionally Jessica reminded me of my place in our relationship by humiliating me, squashing my feelings, belittling my manhood. If she got bored giving Brad head, she would tell me to lie on my back facing up at her crotch while she kneeled in front of his cock. I was instructed to lick her genitals as she pleasured her man. She would rub her pussy against my face, occasionally allowing herself to urinate on my head. Sometimes for her own excitement at seeing two men erotically engaged, sometimes merely to punish and humiliate me, she would make me lick Brad's balls, or stroke his cock. Sometimes she made me dress in her clothing and fellate him while she masturbated, and ridiculed me: "Bobby sucks co-ock, Bobby sucks co-ock." She would ask Brad how I was; if I wasn't completely satisfactory, she would make me fellate a huge latex dildo she strapped around her own waist: She'd yank my face back by the hair and drive that rod into my mouth, slam it against my throat. Sometimes she would swing it against my balls before strapping it on, like some vicious sport of pain. If I snatched it from her, she would grab my testicles until I began to whine or scream. Occasionally I grew rebellious toward her -- that old paternal fire -- and extremely resentful toward Brad. On one occasion Jessica was giving Brad head, and forcing me to watch while I sat on the floor naked. She commanded me not to touch myself or talk. She then abruptly stopped, and told me to come over and lick his huge cock. I was sulking, and refused, telling her I'd bite off his cock if she made me lick it. "Oh, really?" He asked, amused. "You think you'd be able to hurt me?" "You'd better not try it, boy," she added. "He's much more of a man than you are." "Oh, that's fucking bullshit," I said. It was the only thing I could think of to say. "Look," she commanded me, "Look at his balls." She gently held them in her hand, and raised them up. They were extremely large, I couldn't deny it. "And now look at your little nuts, boy." She stepped over to me, bent down, and grabbed my testicles roughly, pulled them upward. I made an indistinct exclamation of pain. "His balls are immense; yours are puny. He's a man; it looks like you've barely reached boyhood with these tiny nibblets." She squeezed me balls, and I begged her to stop. "He'd beat the fuck out of you, boy. Admit it: Say, `He's more of a man than me.'" My jaws clamped shut. Still clutching my little balls with one hand, she slapped me across the face. "Say it!" "He's more of a man than me," I intoned woefully. "Now say: `Brad's got the balls; my scrotum's totally empty.'" Once again I resisted, and once again she punished me. She clamped down on my nuts, and started trying to drill her fingernails right into them like toothpicks into hors d'oeuvres. I cried out, then spewed, "Brad's got the balls; my scrotum's totally empty." Brad laughed at me, and Jessica, clutching a lock of my hair, pulled my face over to his cock. Over to his balls. And I, the boy with the nearly empty scrotum, did as I was told. I couldn't resist that woman; she owned me. On another rebellious occasion, she told me to kneel in front of Brad and lick his balls while she sat back and masturbated. Brad stared down at my groin, and frowned. He commented on his own cock -- that blessing of male flesh, nearly eight inches erect, and thick -- then nudged at mine with his toe: three and a half inches, flaccid. I exploded with anger: I grabbed his testicles just as I had seen my mother do to my father, and tried to squeeze them to paste. Immediately he cried out, and Jessica ran up behind me and slammed her foot into my groin. I collapsed on the floor, releasing Brad's balls; weeping hysterically, I clutched desperately at my own. If my scrotum had been a football, I thought, its flight would have cleared fifty meters against strong winds with Jessica's brutal kick. When Brad's lesser pain subsided, he pulled me onto my knees then sodomized me. My anus bled; the pain caused me to scream. Jessica walked up to me, punched me in the face, then told me to shut the fuck up. Brad reached around my legs while his impressive cock rammed into me and locked my nuts in a fierce grip, squeezing, harder than I could possibly have done to him. I don't think I breathed in again until he released me. When they finished with my punishment, I collapsed on the ground, feeling paralyzed, my body aching with pain spreading from my groin to every cell in my body. I could not walk immediately after that; when they ordered me into the house, I crawled in, lamely, like a dog nearly killed by a speeding car. Then they bathed me, and explained to me that I had done wrong. I wept, promising I would never try to hurt either of them again, and they both kissed me, agreeing that I was probably sincere. I was extremely grateful for that. But in actuality, I was probably not wholly sincere; I did not appreciate my role in the relationship, and did not understand it. I had an urge, like most egotistical men, to be the power in the relationship. What entitled me to such pretenses, I don't know; I never thought about it. I just naturally strove for supremacy. I had my principles, reflected in my pledges, but again and again I'd do things against my own best interest. My body drove me against my soul. This profound inner conflict was, I now realize, a function of my male hormones. Being a man -- that is, an unrefined man, a man in his testicled, primitive state -- I was destined to misbehave again. It was shameful, really; I always picked the most idiotic moments to attempt my petty revolts. One afternoon I was reading a novel in the garden, lying back on a bench. It was an extremely hot day, and I was wearing diving shorts, hoping to get a solid tan. Brad walked past me toward the garage. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt. "Bobby," he called to me. I looked up, without answering him. "Mow the lawn today, would you? Instead of just sitting around reading?" I stared at him for a moment, then turned back to my book. I had accepted his instruction; mow the lawn I would. "Hey!" He called out to me again. I turned back. "Answer me, Bobby." "What the fuck?" I asked, hotly. "Excuse me?" "I said, what the fuck? You want me to mow the lawn, I'll mow the lawn. I know my place around here." "I don't think you do," he said sternly, walking toward me. I began trembling; I looked down at his feet to avoid his eyes.When his feet were about two paces from me, he said, "Sit up." I did, and stared at down at his sneakers. "Look at me," he said, and I looked up. With our eyes glued together with a mixture of emotions -- fear, anger, a touch of sadness -- he slapped me across the face. I felt hot tears fill my eyes instantly. And once again, my reaction surprised me. It was barbaric; pure hostility, and I had no idea where it came from, what hideous cavern in my soul bred such treacherous impulses. What I did was rise to my feet and snap my knee up into his groin. He fell to his knees, clutching himself, while I began pounding his head with my fists. I swung upper-cuts into his face. I began kicking him. Unlike me, with my propensity for weeping and pleading when I knew I was losing a fight, Brad didn't show any real emotion. I took this as a sign that I was not gaining enough ground against him; that I wasn't really hurting him. I found the metal rod used to turn on the sprinkler system, and struck him across the back with it. Brad groaned in pain. "Hey!" I spun around; my jaw dropped. Jessica was running out of the house toward me. "Drop that fucking rod or you're dead," she ordered me. Perhaps by that point I was overjoyed at my own success against Brad; perhaps it was my male nature, stupid and bold. Instead of dropping the rod as I should have, I held it up like a baseball bat, ready to swing it against her stern, beautiful, female face. "One more time," she said, standing about five yards away from me, "Drop the rod, Bobby. Now." I shook my head, grinding my teeth together. "You'll have to take it from me, lousy bitch. I'm sick of your fucking abuse." Without a moment's hesitation, Jessica charged at me: a blur, a streak of color in my direction. Surprised at the immediacy of her response, I swung the rod, but she had stopped dead in her tracks just out of my range. The force of my swing took me off balance, and as I shifted my feet to steady myself, she lunged onto me. With her left hand she grabbed my hair, tugging my head back; with her right hand she clamped onto my balls, fiercely twisting them downward through the tight, thin fabric of the shorts. I cried out in pain, and the rod fell from my grip onto the lawn. And then so did I, as Jessica pulled me onto my back. As soon as I was down, Jessica slammed the sole of her foot into my crotch. While I sobbed, leaning forward to try to cover my balls with my whole upped body, Jessica stepped over to my head and kicked me hard above the ear, knocking me out completely. When I came too, I was lying on one of the beds. My ankles were tied to the posts. Since my shorts were off, my groin was exposed to sight and, I knew, to abuse. I began crying as soon as I woke up, even though I was in the room alone. I was terrified; I had been very, very bad, and I knew that they would punish me proportionately. Smiling, Brad stepped into the room from the hall when he heard my crying. "Jessica," he called into the hall, "Bobby-Boy's awake." Before she entered, Brad began undressing. He whistled while he did so, some ominous classical-sounding melody. Jessica entered the room holding a couple of knives from the kitchen. I recognized them; I had used them making dinner for Brad and Jessica. "Well, Bobby," Brad said, walking over to me. His large testicles swung attractively between his legs; his thick penis became quickly erect, and looked like a fountain of flesh. All the components of his manhood were so large in comparison to my own that they seemed almost like independent creatures. "It's time for you to change your insubordinate ways." "What're you gonna do?" I asked nervously, my voice slurred, my head groggy from Jessica's kick. "We're gonna castrate you," Jessica said, her tone bright and cheerful. I groaned, my head rushing with blood, a sense of doom enveloping me. "That's right," she said, "We're gonna neuter you. Get rid of your manhood once and for all. We need a more devoted servant, not some misbehaving little pseudo-man." Brad climbed onto the bed beside. On his knees, he moved his groin over to my face so that I could look at his impressive genitals. "No more of these for you," he said, stroking his balls. "He never really had 'em to begin with," Jessica quipped, grabbing my smallish balls and pulling the toward her. "He had the puny physical units, but never really had balls in the manly sense." "Too bad," Brad said. "Most men are like that," Jessica opined. "It's like they're renting balls for reproduction, but keep them well beyond the point where they're useful. Sort of like overdue books, but the person who checked 'em out never actually learned to read." Listening to Jessica talk, Brad lifted his rigid cock above my face, then released it. It swung down, banging against the bridge of my nose. "Which knife do you think I should use?" She asked, looking up at Brad. Brad chuckled ambiguously, then Jessica turned to me. "You have any preference, Bobby? I mean, fair is fair, right? We're cutting off your little balls, so maybe you get to be consulted." "He's busy," Brad informed her, then pinched my nose. Running out of breath, I had to open my mouth. He lowered his balls over my mouth. "Lick 'em. Suck 'em. They're the only balls you'll know from now on, Bobby." His testicles, wrapped tight in his hairy scrotum, bounced against my lips: large, heavy, loaded with potency. I extended my tongue, tasting the sweat on his sac -- salty, mingled with the pungent flavor of his manhood -- then brought one of his balls into my mouth. I only had room for one. "Look down, Bobby," Jessica instructed me. She was pulling my little balls toward her with one hand, while holding a sharp, lean, softly curving veal knife against them with her other hand. I noticed there were tears in my eyes again. I felt dehydrated. Weak. I moaned. "That's good," Brad said, "Hum like that; make vibrations. Feels good on my balls." I moaned some more for his pleasure; I wept some more for my vanishing manhood, and for the pain Jessica was inflicting on my nuts. "Tomorrow you'll be a new person, Bobby," Jessica said, "And we won't miss the old you at all. Now feel this..." My testicles! My crying climaxed into wailing; Brad pulled his balls out of my mouth, worried that I would accidentally, or in a fit of childish rage, bite down on them. I had threatened things like that in the past. Jessica slapped me a few times to try to shut me up. After a while she grabbed my cock, and threatened to slice it off, too, if I didn't stop whining. I soon lost consciousness. During my testicled period, every orgasm felt like a release; the blood would drain from my penis afterwards, and my cock would dwindle in size and lose its usefulness as a sexual instrument. At the point of orgasm my interest in sex would vanish temporarily. Each orgasm, it seemed to me, was nothing more than a rehearsal for castration. Finally the real performance had come. And with castration came clarity. I became the facilitator for Jessica and Brad. They had created the new me, and I was overjoyed at my role. I didn't have to compete with Brad for Jessica's attention; I didn't have to aspire to some absurd, barbaric notion of manhood as anything other than a subordinate position to womanhood. I felt extremely important in our threesome. In a way, I was the heart of it; I had sacrificed more than either of them; I had changed my very nature in order to make the three-way relationship perfect. And they appreciated me for it, that was very clear. During sex, I was sort of a referee, a cheerleader, and an audience all in one. But I was also very much involved: I made sure they were both getting plenty of pleasure, stimulating Jessica's clitoris in various ways, massaging Brad's large testicles with my tongue, playing with their anuses. I was often on the floor, around their legs. I slept with either of them, or we all slept together, secure in our very distinct roles. They never fought with me anymore, though they occasionally fought with each other, because I was supremely submissive. I simply followed orders; my identity transcended ego. I was the heart of their relationship, and many times I kept us all together. Sometimes I wanted Brad to make a similar sacrifice. Holding his balls, rubbing them gently in my hands while strumming his glans with lips, I'd get an urge to cut him. Company in my eunuch-hood sounded fun from time to time, and I knew Jessica would be tickled to be served by two neutered men: two human beings who had radically changed in their psychological, sexual, and physical nature out of respect for her awesome womanhood. But I decided it would be arrogant for me to rush things: Jessica was the one who should make the decisions for us all. She was the woman. And I noticed -- with sympathetic pain, but also a bit of delight -- that she was getting a little impatient with Brad's masculinity, just as she had with mine. For example, one evening we were watching television. She had left the remote controller by the bookshelf, and told Brad to get up and change the station. Brad rose without protest, staring fixedly at the screen. He hesitated for a moment. "Switch it, Brad!" She ordered, sounding a little irritated. "Hold on..." He continued to stare at the T.V. screen; an interview with a sports figure was just wrapping up. "Now, Brad!" "Just...just a sec." Jessica, not making a sound, rose to her feet, stepped up behind him, and threw her arm around his waist. He cried out as her fingers snapped onto one of his large testicles -- like the mouth of some fierce alien reptile -- and squeezed it tight; shook it violently, wildly. His usually smooth, deep masculine voice turned into a shuddering, high-pitched whine. She rammed her knee up into his ass, then dragged him to the floor by the balls. "Next time I tell you to do something," she ordered down at him, "Just do it." She looked down at him, lying on the floor, covering his balls with his hands. She lifted her eyes briefly and saw me smiling at her. She smiled back, then nodded down at Brad. As if taking a telepathic order, I walked over and lifted Brad's arms, pulling his hands away from his groin. "No. No, Jessica," He begged to her, trying to press his legs together. "Spread your legs, or I'll cut your balls off. Little punishment or big punishment." "Oh, oh my god." His knees quivered badly as spread his legs wider. Jessica stared directly into Brad's eyes, her face strong, gleaming with the narcotic rush of female superiority: his face pathetic, tearful, trembling with a man's awareness of his innate inferiority. Then she slammed her foot into his balls. Brad wept. "Wow," she said, exhilirated, "Why don't more women take on their men like I do?" Smiling peacefully, at ease in her power, she sat back down on the couch. "Eunuch!" She commanded me, "Time for my hourly orgasm." "Yes, it is," I said. "And I'm happy you reminded me." I rushed over, kneeling, eager to satisfy the woman who had sliced off my balls. She, my master, had freed me from the pathetic state of manhood, allowing me to ascend a notch closer to womanhood. And I loved her for it. End. Email the author, if you like: zturgeon@hotmail.com -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |