Part I, F/m, mild CBT
The following story contains scenes of violent female domination. If that doesn't excite you, turn back now. Abort! If you're under-age in whatever jurisdiction you're stuck in, wait until you're no longer a minor, then write me a private request. Abort now!
For those of you who've read my previous posts, the following story might seem soft-core. I apologize for this in advance: I wanted to write a story like this, though. If you want to see part II, let me know.
Breaking Him In (Part I)
Men are strength incarnate: they are courage bound up in muscle - the sort of muscle that bulges eternally, in any situation, tirelessly, sweating. Men are combative by nature and heroic by design. They surge with passion, commanding obedience to their will - which erupts bold ideas from the hard terrain of masculine flesh.
They are not weak. They do not give in, surrender, or yield. They defy and rebel by genetic command. Testosterone. Men are grand-scale sperm cells, swimming against the current, writhing with insuppressible force - against the odds - to the elusive egg. Testosterone. Muscle. Power.
Ironically, Terrence would have been the scrawniest wimp to succumb to these stereotypes all his life. And, ultimately, he would have let himself down: would've seen himself flag and flail in the face of the Hercules myth again and again - how can a mere man be a godlike myth? - were it not for the liberation that Shari gave him. No, not gave him: forced upon him. Shari was the elusive egg-cell at the climax of his life: that goal which tells him to stop swimming.
You've made it, Terry. You're here. Now shut up.
Shari effortlessly coiled the collar of dominion around his neck.
Shut up and do your job. Make me happy.
Sometimes Terry wondered if it didn't him less of a man to be submissive. Were submissive men inherently less manly than the commanding, bullyish Man of myth and stereotype? Were all femdoms necessarily the keepers of half-men? Men with the spirit of manliness stripped from them? Men with their testicles reduced to mere ornaments to their dommes' power? Did the societal definition of masculinity and femininity mean that submissive men were no longer "men" at all? Was the notion of female domination of men self-refuting? Or were men ultimately warriors who had to serve a woman's pleasure? A woman's law? The sperm cell that strives toward the egg like something bound on a leash?
In his first encounter with Shari, Terry was ten years old. Shari was a tomboy - a girl who refused to accept girlishness. Terry at the playground, holding the ball. "No, Shari, you can't. Girls don't play this game." He tossed the ball to another boy. "Come on, Shari."
Testosterone. This is how things are done.
Later, in his junior year of high school, Terry was not so certain. He was dating girls, but full of self-doubt. And it was Shari who was rebellious. She had her driver's license before any of the boys. She owned a VW Bug, had a sticker on the bumper that read, "Girls Kick Ass." She asked him out on a date, and he accepted. Shari had a reputation as a "slut," and he - popular, athletic - wanted to get laid. He didn't know precisely how to do this - when to make a pass, when to kiss - but he knew that his body, his genetic make-up, his manly urges - would take care of all this. The reigns would fall into his hands. This is how things went.
Shari drove them; Shari chose the movie. Men shooting men on the screen - blood spilled in jungles, on city sidewalks. Shari put her hand over his. Shari leaned over and kissed him in the movie theatre. They were sitting in the very first row. Some of the kids from their school were behind them. Shari leaned over and kissed him - her warmth seizing him like a doll tossed into a fireplace. His body reacted - he felt a surge pass through him, his penis stiffened - but psychologically he wavered. He pulled away, and watched the men on the screen blow each other to pieces. All that testosterone.
Shari chose the restaurant. He was silenced as they read the menu: under the narrow table she laid her hand on his leg. Enchiladas, taco de rajas, allombre de pachuga.
"I'll have number thirteen, and he'll have number seven. And could you bring two horchatas?"
Over dinner, Terry reminded her of his accomplishments on the school soccer team: his daring play, the praise of his coach. He felt he was losing ground. She eyed him with amusement. She fed him light praise. She poured some hot sauce on his tacos, and he found his mouth burning. He had to stop eating.
"I'm sorry, Terry! Too hot for you, huh?"
Terry observed other couples in the restaurant: Men with their hands upon their women's laps; women looking up at their dates with soft, yielding admiration.
Shari asked him if he wanted to get drunk.
"What do you mean?"
"My sister has an apartment on Fifth Street. She's out of town; she said I could use her place. Whaddaya say?"
Terry hesitated. Shari drove them to her sister's apartment.
Shari made them margueritas - he didn't know what they were – and they sat on the couch. Her eyes never left him as he sipped.
"Weren't you once in a fight, Terry?"
"Back in the ninth grade? Didn't you and Eddy Yuknis get into a fist fight?"
"Oh! Yeah. Jeez, Eddy. What a wimp. He was a bully, though. I beat the crap out of him." He laughed.
"What was it like, beating up a man?"
"It felt great. He provoked me, you know. He said all sorts of stuff, talkin' trash about me behind my back, so I really let him have it."
"How did it happen?"
"It just happened. It's kind of a blur, but I beat the fuck out of him (pardon my language). He tried pretty hard, but I made him cry."
"Did you kick him in the balls?"
Terry froze. "Did I...kick him in the balls? No, no, I just -"
"Made him cry."
"Yeah, but I didn't do any dirty fighting."
"Because that's how to annihilate a man. Land a knee - or a foot, or a fist, or a weapon - in the groin, and a man's finished."
Shari smiled at her date. He turned away.
Quickly the alcohol formed a soothing blanket over Terry's nerves. He felt warmth flow through him. His muscles unwound. He complimented the drink, and she poured him another. As he took a deep drink, Shari put her arm around his shoulders. She tasted lime and tequila as she kissed him.
Terry felt himself shudder as her tongue entered his mouth. He felt the weight of her breasts against him. He smelled her body distinctly, though she wore no perfume: a strong, damp smell that reminded him of the ocean. He felt her hand on his side, stroking over his stomach, touching his firm chest. He felt himself losing ground, like sand washed into the waves. He gasped and grew rigid as her hand slid between his legs. She kissed him feverishly, held her hand firmly over his genitals. He felt passive.
"I want you, Terry - I want you so much."
Her tongue pushed against his, shoved it, writhed against it. She popped the first button on his fly.
"Um, Shari, wait..."
She didn't move away: she kept her hand over his groin. "What's wrong?"
"What...? I'm...Shari, it's too soon."
Shari sounded irritated, "Oh, come on, Terry."
She popped another button on his fly.
"No, Shari, I..."
He tried to rise, but immediately she put her hand on his chest.
"No, Terry. I want you."
Terry felt himself an observer, a passive camera eye. She undid the remaining buttons on his fly, and stroked his limp penis and his balls, bound tightly in his cotton underwear. His reluctance was irrelevant - the realization of this clanged in his mind - and he reacted fearfully. He tried earnestly to pull away; he tried to push her off, but she shoved one of his arms away violently. She plunged her other hand under his underwear and gripped his balls. He heard himself let out a whimper of protest.
"Don't fuck with me, Terry." Shari sounded cross.
"Shari, I don't WANT TO."
With one hand gripping his balls, Shari grabbed his hair with the other, and yanked his head back against the armrest of the couch. "It doesn't look like you have a choice, Terry. Does it?"
Shari pulled his head back against the armrest - hard, banging it. She increased the pressure on his testicles - triggering another whimper - then stared at him. He felt himself quivering.
Shari held him like that - vulnerable, powerless - staring at him silently, for two minutes. Terry shook, staring at her with his head pressed back against the couch. Shari pressed her thumb against his limp penis, driving it against his body.
"Come on, Terry. Come on. Get it up for me."
Terry felt his powerlessness completely. In the haze of his confusion, he realized that - however strange the experience might be – it was, nevertheless, a precursor to getting laid. This wasn't the way things were usually reported to him - with the woman softly gasping in protest, with the man driving through her inhibitions, overwhelming her with the force of his desire - but this was, apparently, a step toward getting laid. In the face of her domination, from which there was no way out but assent, he began to cooperate. He pulled down his pants – she told him, "That's it, Terry, good boy" - then slid his shoes off, and pulled his underwear down to his ankles and over his feet.
She released her hand from his chest, and concentrated on the flesh of his manhood. She held his penis, stroking it roughly, pulling on it. With her other hand, she pumped his balls, lifting his scrotum up, squeezing his nuts, applying pressure to them that made his thoughts crumble into feelings that he didn't recognize and couldn't assimilate: carnal desire driven into a corner, manliness broken down to servitude.
Shari brought her lips to his soft flesh: she held his cock in her mouth, working it with her stronger, more driven tongue. She sucked his balls one at a time into her mouth, introduced them to her teeth, ran her tongue over his scrotum, moved her -
"OK, Terry, lie on the floor." She sounded frustrated. He obeyed her, his knees bouncing against each other nervously, his genitals partly concealed. Standing above him, she drove his legs apart, then planted the ball of her right foot over his groin. She rubbed it against his cock and his balls with angry impatience. His vulnerability frightened him.
"Time to get it up, Terry."
She tapped her toenails into his ball sack, then pressed her heel against his cock.
"Get your dick up, Terry. I'm getting tired of this."
Terry tried to focus his energy; tried to obey her. The scene was so strange; it all seemed so crazy and unthinkable. And his penis failed to respond. He masculinity was hiding somewhere. Or defeated.
"Damn it, Terry."
Shari got down, straddling his waist.
"What's the matter with you, boy? Are you fucking intimidated? Where's your manhood?"
Shari slapped him hard across the face.
"Where's your testosterone, Terry?"
She gripped his balls again: harder than before: the pain made him cry out.
"Are these useless appendages? Do they WORK?"
She released his balls, made a fist, then banged her knuckles against them. He cried out.
"Oh, poor baby. Get your fucking cock up, Terry."
She beat her fist against his balls again - harder. He quivered at his innermost depths. She beat his nuts again, and he felt tears in his eyes. He was crying. With each blow, he felt like his spine was being shattered.
"Oh, shut the fuck up, you little slut."
With full force, she smashed her fist against his testicles. He heard himself balling. He heard her - and felt her - spit on his face. But she didn't hit him again: she wrapped her fingers around his nuts, squeezing, wrenching his manhood into life: his penis was rising.
"Yeah. That's it, Terry. Get your little dick up for me."
His face glowing with tears, Terry felt his cock at its full six-inch length. Shari pressed her hand over his face, grinding his head against the carpet, and mounted him. She screwed him through his tears; when she sensed that he was approaching orgasm, she'd reach behind her and hammer his balls with her fist. When she was fully satisfied, she dismounted. He hadn't come. She lay on top of him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her lips near his ear. "That's it, boy. That's just fine. I'll make a man out of you."
Terry sank into sleep under her weight.
He awoke minutes later. He was on his hands and knees, and he felt her fingers on his balls again. He didn't know what was happening: he felt something - a cord, an elastic cable - snapping around his scrotum, forcing his balls into little spheres dangling from his body.
"No, Shari, please," his voice sounded tearful still, but more pleading - worn out, exhausted. "Let me go, please-"
He had heard of this position. "Doggy-style." He expected her to slither under him so that he could fuck her from behind. It was a position that suggested strong male domination. But she didn't move; she stayed above and behind him. There was a pause after she released his strained balls, then he felt something hard, physically hard press against his ass cheeks. Simultaneously, she grabbed the hair on the back of his head and pulled back sharply. The pain made him cry out. Then he felt the real pain.
As Shari drove the dildo into his rectum - ripping through him, breaking open his body - she reached under him with her other hand and throttled his bound testicles. Terry was shocked with pain: he screamed. He remembered that he was in an apartment building: there were neighbors. If he screamed loud enough, they'd call the police.
Before plunging into him again, Shari drove her fingernails into his scrotum. Terry felt like a shark was biting off his testicles.
"If you make another sound, I'm going to rip these off, Terry. I'm going to make you a fucking eunuch. I'm going to castrate you with my fucking fingernails."
Terry felt sobs heave in his chest.
And she drove her penis into him again. He felt tears spill from his eyes. She gripped his hair with one hand, his balls with the other, and pounded into him. His body rocked under her.
"Not that you'd mind losing these puny little pills. You're not exactly a well-endowed man, Terry. You know that, don't you?"
She freed his balls, then grabbed his penis. She pulled at it fiercely. He felt like it was going to snap off in her grip.
"Six inch little fuck."
Her energy pounded into him; he could feel her penis driving against his insides. Waves of pain shot through him. He felt himself collapsing under her, and wept.
When he hit the floor she continued raping him - continued ripping at his hair - for fifteen minutes, then pulled out. He reflexively curled into a fetal position; trying to hold himself together in an abused bundle of shattered manhood. His body shook convulsively. His hands were between his legs, his fingers delicately poised at his throbbing balls, his string-like penis.
In a moment she was at him again. She forced him onto his back, then pressed her vagina over his face. He felt like she was trying to press his whole head into her. Blinded by tears and the hot wetness of her pussy, he felt her fingernails claw at the band around his balls. She ripped it off, yanking it up abruptly. His balls snapped back against his groin.
"Get it up, Terry."
He felt his body quake with a new explosion of tears.
"Get it up NOW."
He felt her hands tearing at his jewels - his treasures, the seeds of his manhood, the mighty rod of his male power - but this time they responded quickly. His penis rose. Triumphant. Not going to let a girl dominate him. All that testosterone.
While she jerked his cock with one hand, she rhythmically smacked his balls with the other.
When he came - barely catching air in smothered breaths - when his juice squirted forth, his potent male nectar, it was amidst throbs of unrelenting physical pain. His groin felt like a puny ounce of burning hamburger.
When she got off his face tears were dribbling down his cheeks. A puddle of cum lay on his chest, and she fed this to him. Several wet fingers into his mouth, plunging deep - fingernails scratching against his throat. Then the last stringy drops, slippery on four of her fingers, went into his anus. This part of his body had an entirely new identity. She drove her hand into him, her blade-like nails slick with his seed, wrenching against his bruised insides.
"Squirt your scum deep, Terry. Get yourself pregnant. Men are only good for one thing."