Saturday, August 11, 2007

Strong Women

by Zturgeon

My family was extremely violent when I was growing up. My father used to drink excessively, and drunkenness made him hostile, destructive, and abusive. He was abusive with me and my sister and, to a more limited extent, with our mother. She was actually taller than him: she was 6'1", and he was 5'9". His violence toward her and to us was quickly curtailed, however, when one evening her rage, her stored up pain from years of abuse and neglect, exploded against him with nuclear force.

Father had been sitting in front of the television drinking bourbon. It was past our bedtime, and he was unwinding: he was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of tight, white briefs that seemed like a fat sock over his hulking genitals. His spirit unchained by the bourbon and the sight of his own large cock, he was getting increasingly rude and noisy. We couldn't sleep because of his vulgar, crescendoing verbiage. My sister and I were worried for our mother; we hid in the hall, peeking around the corner of the doorway; my sister whispered to me that she would call the police if Dad got too brutal with Mom.

At one point Dad ordered my mother, "Get over here, ya little slut," and pointed at the floor at his feet: "Kneel on the floor there." She paused, staring at him with an injured look.

"Why don't you just beat off?" she replied, "You're never going to be able to please me anyway." I was astonished at her defiance. It seemed to me that the only reason she was so bold was because she had seen us, and knew that we'd call the police if he got too rough.

Staring at her, his eyes wide and illuminated by alcohol and indignation, our father rose unsteadily to his feet. After hollering at her -- cuss-words, accusations of infidelity, denigrating remarks about her intelligence -- he slapped her. I had seen this happen before. Usually her reaction was one of pathetic terror: she'd turn away, tearful, then run into their bedroom only to be followed in by him and raped. But that evening something snapped, and her response astonished me: she turned around -- her eyes moist -- and slapped him back. I still remember the sound of it: a loud, hollow crack.

My dad was speechless for a moment, his face red, quivering with rage. Then he lunged at her with his hands flying out. After she dodged ineffectively, he trapped her in a headlock and began to constrict his arms. This was where her patience ended, and where his physical respect for her began: this was where the balance of power in their relationship changed dramatically. Instead of whimpering, pleading to be released, or sobbing in his powerful hold, she bit into his arm, while simultaneously reaching down and grabbing his testicles.

He was, as I've already mentioned, wearing tight white briefs, and the outline of his large penis was clearly visible, as were the low-hanging globes of his testes. She caught them in her hand, squeezed ferociously, and would not release. His arm fell away from her; he began howling; he began flailing his arms in aimless, desperate motions; he pleaded with her in a whimpering, high-pitched, garbled voice, but she would not relent. He began crying more tearfully and pathetically than I had ever seen her cry at his abuse. But she continued to grip his nuts, tugging them sharply downward a few times for extra effect. Our mother looked up at us standing in the doorway, gaping with amazement, and smiled victoriously. My sister turned to me with a look of utmost joy, exuberant at the triumph of justice. After about five minutes of humiliating him in front of his children, my mom dragged my dad -- by the balls -- across the room, past us down the hall, and into their bedroom, while he whimpered, helplessly. I do not know what she did with him in there, but that his pitiable yowling continued intermittently at least until I fell asleep about an hour later.

He did not come out of their bedroom the next day until dinnertime; he was trying to hide a limp, had a bruise across his cheek. He sat at the table extremely quiet and well behaved. After a while he tried to talk to us about school, in a fatherly, encouraging way, but there was something very small and meek about his manner. His voice was hoarse and frail.

On the occasions that he got drunk and surly after that, my mom would point at him and tell him sternly to shut up, "Or I'll do it to you again, Tom," and he would fall silent. Occasionally she would pour him more booze, saying, "Go on, have more. I dare you to act up again." But he was not up for the challenge; he didn't dare oppose his wife again.

A few weeks after that I began to hear him hollering in pain again, his plaintive voice spilling from their bedroom late at night. I crept down the stairs, and found their door ajar. Their bedside light was on, and I peered in to see them having sex. He was lying on his back, and she was mounting him. One of her hands was reaching back, gripping his balls and pulling them upward, as if to pluck them from his groin like plums from a tree branch.

"Still got your attitude?" She asked quietly.

"Bitch," he exhaled weakly. "Fucking bitch." She dropped his balls, made a fist, and hammered them with it. He cried out, his pained voice sounding almost totally unlike his normal voice. I was amazed at how transformed he seemed by her domination, but now I have come to realize how much of ordinary male conduct is posturing, a facade: the real man that comes out in moments of female domination is much, much different.

She pounded his balls several more times and he began bawling, then apologized frantically. She rose up -- I noticed his penis, somewhat full but limp, sagging -- and sat on his face. Clutching his hair, she pulled his tearful face up against her moist pussy. After a few moments she released his head and turned around, still keeping her pussy over his face but getting a better look down at his manhood. She saw me peering in the doorway, and I froze: caught, guilty.

"Look, Tom," her voice sounded pleasantly amused. He groaned in response. "Our son is watching us." He looked up to see me: we made eye contact.

"Go ta bed," he muttered weakly, barely able to articulate a command to anyone anymore. My mother laughed at him, then, making eye contact with me, grabbed my father's cock by the head, stretched it up, and drove her fist into his balls. My father lurched forward, his head colliding with her pussy, and broke into fresh weeping; my mother smiled at me, and I ran up to my room in shock.

She wanted me to know that there was a new order in the household. A new chain of command, with her, unchallenged, at the top. My father couldn't deal with this new twist in their relationship; the sexual revolution left him vanquished, as it did most men. He left home the next day in unendurable shame, and we never heard from him again.

My young mother found it very difficult to raise us. She often resorted to swift, fierce discipline: bending us over her knee and spanking us, occasionally slapping us in public. My sister was more docile, and soon became a model child -- at least in her obedience. I had more of my father's untamed fire, and was sometimes ill tempered and moody. My mother often swatted me to get me to obey her, but as I got accustomed to feeling her pain I became more immune to it, and more defiant.

Once when I was ten or eleven, my sister and I were fighting over a toy in the back yard; my mother demanded to know what the cause of our obnoxious dispute was; we explained our sides of the conflict, and my mother demanded that I return the toy to my sister. I refused. She yelled at me to obey her.

Standing motionless, staring silently at the ground, I refused to yield at all. (I remember the toy now: it was a little gun that shot small plastic discs a short distance.) My mother stepped up to me and slapped me across the face. Though I felt hot tears in my eyes, the slap was not a particularly novel punishment. I refused to reveal my intimidation: I spat on the ground then stared her in the face.

My mother cocked her head, whispered, "You stupid, stupid boy," then swung her fist into my crotch. I fell to the lawn, shrieking like a girl, clutching myself.

"Sara, come over and get the toy. Your brother's finally seen reason." Sara grabbed the toy from the ground in front of me as my mother walked into the house. Sara continued standing there a few feet away, looking down with peculiar satisfaction. Smiling.

After my mother went inside, I glared up at Sara then hissed, "What the fuck are you looking at?" She laughed then walked around me. A moment later I felt her foot slam into my rear end. I gasped at this new pain in my behind, and started scrambling to my feet to retaliate. As I reached my knees, she did it again, kicking harder, her toe striking me beyond the anus, just about where my testicles hung down. I fell back to the ground, rocking slightly on my side. My flow of tears was refreshed by this new sense of helplessness, defeat, and danger. Walking back in front me, Sara threw the toy gun at my face.

"You little wimp," she said, "A tap on the balls, and little Bobby falls. Ha, ha, ha."

"Fuckin' bitch," I replied, my voice about as feminine at that age as hers. In a move of unexpected bravery, no doubt fueled by outrage, she pushed me onto my back and sat down on my legs. She punched me in the face a few times and I struggled to shield my face with my arms. The pain, the fear of her violent force, stunned me. I couldn't believe she could be so aggressive.

Looking back on it, I realize she was obviously empowered by our mother's conquest of my father, her swift and complete emasculation of him. While I protected my face from additional blows, she unzipped my shorts and pulled them down. I wasn't wearing underwear; her hand descended upon my small, hairless genitals and -- a lesson learned from our mother – she gripped them in her hand.

"These are a joke," she laughed. "Boys are so fuckin' lame. What a dumb deal, being a male." Lying there weeping, begging for her to stop, totally at mercy to her because of my inherent physical inferiority, I agreed with her. What a dumb deal. My sister didn't have the natural stopping point of her own sexual satisfaction; she did not stop hurting me until she felt that I had been sufficiently punished. Since her cruelty was rooted in all the ridicule and nastiness I had directed at her throughout our childhood together, she showed mercy only very reluctantly: only when she was utterly bored with humiliating and hurting me.

I began to despise my own maleness. I saw it as a terrible weakness during physical conflicts: any woman who cared to could easily and instantly subject me to paralyzing physical discomfort. It took little effort on their part: a hand to the sac; a knee to the groin; an elbow, a fist to the nuts -- and then I'd be down, even more vulnerable than before, the charade of male strength instantly exposed.

I found my masculinity an impairment to real affection. During sexual situations, I would get distracted from love and kindness by my wretched desire to squirt semen into women, to soil them with my wet thrust. I enjoyed orgasm, that's certainly true, but then once it was over I hardly cared anymore. My orgasm involved a few minutes of frantic plunging; giving women orgasm involved caresses, sensual touching. Moreover, their intimate attentions were not annihilated upon orgasm. When my cock deflated, that was the end of sex for me until my all-too-long refractory period was over. With women, one orgasm led to another, and another.

My sister continued to sexually torment me when we were young, even until after I had reached puberty. She would invite her school friends to join her sometimes, and my mother either ignored their abuse or scolded me for not "being man enough" to protect myself "from a couple of innocent girls."

One occasion was particularly embarrassing. When I was fifteen my sister was close friends with a sixteen year old girl named Tracy, who was a tall, athletic, slightly overweight cheerleader at our school. She had long, blond hair and bright green eyes. She often wore tight T-shirts or turtlenecks that revealed her largely, lusciously curved breasts and her restless nipples. I drooled inwardly, envisioning her naked breasts, her bullet-like nipples.

Tracy slept over at our house one evening, and since their bedroom was next to mine I heard them laughing with each other late into the night. On several occasions I heard them mention my name. Then, sometime around midnight, they both rushed into my room while I lay half-asleep.

"Don't say a fucking word, Bobby," my sister hissed at me in the darkness. She grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back. It was painful, and I was effectively pinned. I began shaking with fear, but I knew better than to protest.

"Go ahead," she said to Tracy. Though her expression was one of curiosity and surprise, Tracy did not hesitate. She stripped the blanket from the bed, grabbed the elastic band of my underwear, and pulled them down below my knees. My genitals were exposed; my thick growth of pubic hair, my mature balls in their loose scrotum, and my five-inch flaccid penis.

Tracy giggled. "Men are so fucking ugly," she declared, then poked her finger into my scrotum. "What a pathetic curse, all this crap."

"They're totally weak," my sister informed her. "If you show them that you're willing to hurt them down there, they'll do anything you say." Tracy looked at my face for confirmation.

"Isn't that true, Bobby?" My sister asked, jerking my head around.

"Mm-hm." I admitted pitiably, my eyes shiny with tears of fearful anticipation.

"I think you're pretty cute, Bobby!" Tracy said mockingly, jabbing my sac with her fingers. "I want you to screw my brains out. Make a woman out of me. Show me what my little slit is for." With that declaration, she hammered her fist into my nuts, and pain tore through my groin: hot, throbbing, completely mind numbing. I writhed, still gripped by my sister.

"How'd you like it if we neutered you like a puppy, Bob?" Tracy grabbed my testicles, compressing them with her tight fingers until I imagined them reduced to the size of blueberries by her strength.

"We should just castrate him," she said to my sister.

"Nah," she replied, "I like to torture his nuts. I'm learning how to deal with my future husbands."

"Yeah," Tracy agreed then slammed her hand down on my limp penis. I was terrified of these women; I had no will or strength to oppose them, and they knew this. They were fiercely exploiting my manhood to their advantage. When Tracy told me to lie down on the floor and spread my legs, I really had no choice at all.

I had to stoop as I got off the bed because of the pain surging out of my male organs. I tried to look pleadingly, pathetically into Tracy's eyes as she stood above me; I tried to play on pity, but she wasn't moved at all. She stepped forward and planted her sneakered foot on my jewels.

"Wanna have babies?" She jeered at me.

"Please," I begged her.

"Shut up!" My sister commanded, then kneeled down and banged up my cheeks and eyes with her fist.

"Wow, you're like rocking your brother," Tracy said, sounding slightly awed.

"This is how I'll be with all disobedient men. Why not? There's nothing to hold us back."

"Right," Tracy said, leaning her weight on the foot she had planted upon my testicles. I felt certain that her abuse would ruin me for life; that these casually cruel girls would accidentally destroy my balls, leaving me neutered, allowing my manhood to just slip away.

My sister lifted up her skirt and lowered her vulva onto my face. She rubbed herself over my nose and mouth then ordered me to please her clitoris. After a moment she complained, and then Tracy removed her foot.

"She said please her, you lousy little dick-stalk!" After yelling, she kicked me full-force in the groin. I tried to crumple up into a ball and hide from them, but my sister pinned my head against the floor with her pussy. Tracy wouldn't relent: she grabbed my screaming testicles with her hand and gripped them while I cried, staring directly into my eyes.

"How does it feel to be a man, Bobby? Huh? Do you like this? This is what the war between the sexes comes down to, Bob. Men are fucking weak little slaves." She pulled my balls as far from my groin as she could, then tugged fiercely several times, repeating, "You're a man, you're a man, another stupid, defenseless man." Again I was reduced to a helpless, tearful mess by women. And not unusually strong or determined women, just normal women. They were simply overwhelming.

Experiences like that trained me to deeply regret being male. My genitals made me vulnerable and ugly. When I began college, I specifically sought out women who seemed strong, assertive, intolerant and selfish. Subconsciously, I may have been hoping they would punish me for being male, because I felt I deserved such punishment. And, for the most part, they all did punish me. I've found that women have histories of explosive rage sealed up inside them, and when they decide to tap into it, men are simply not capable of opposition; we cannot defend ourselves against women's power. We are too flawed. Too weak. It wasn't sheer brutality that made women punish me. They recognized the uncivilized, stupid, and arbitrarily violent nature of men; they realized what maleness had done to the world.

When, for example, Shelly Meiker took me with her on her Feminist Literature class's picnic and kneed me in the balls, in front of everyone, when I confessed that I had forgotten to bring her Diet Pepsi instead of regular Pepsi, she was punishing the sex that had fouled up so much of human history, and oppressed her own sex for so long. I collapsed on the ground, clutching myself, while she poured Pepsi over my face and over my groin. She leaned over my face, pitying me, her bra-less breasts hanging down close to my mouth. I cried. I really just wanted to suck her breasts and have her forgive me. No man could ever do her justice.

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 successful 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 judgments, 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 lovemaking 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."


"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 my 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 uppercuts 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 upper 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 them 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, exhilarated, "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.



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