MARISSA

by velvein

Warning: The fiction below contains vivid descriptions of non-consensual intercourse between human beings of the opposite sex. If you are threatened by the notion of female sexual domination, read no further.

I don't believe in stereotypical cock-and-ball torture. It's too ritualized, too unnatural -- using straps, buckles, snaps, elastics, and so on -- they're too much of a hassle for me. You might accuse me of being lazy, but that's not it: I think all the accoutrements of stereotypical CBT dignify the penis (and the man) too much, and derate the natural strength of the dom. No doubt it makes men feel flattered, but that's never been one of my aims. If he gets the notion that I need all that torture equipment to be deadly that undermines my power. Anyway, it's untrue.

I don't consider every example of inflicting pain on a man by striking his groin CBT. Torture denotes inflicting pain as a means of having some influence over someone, or for the sheer pleasure of it. Sometimes women strike men's reproductive organs in self-defense or by accident. Let me give you an example.

When I was thirteen I was already more mature than most girls my age. I was developing breasts quickly; I already had quite a womanly chest, and a shapely form to go with it. The boys my age were immensely confused about their sexual identity and responded to my maturation in bizarre, uncivilized ways. There was a group of three boys in particular who were incredibly obnoxious and frequently taunted me. We lived on the same street, and would all get off the bus together and walk to our respective houses. Those thirty yards from the bus stop to my house were sheer hell.

The breaking point came when one of the boys -- Tommy – began making some obscene gestures at me with his tongue. I made some comment -- I don't remember the exact form of it -- suggesting that his sexual insecurities were rooted in his awareness of having a dwarf cock. Tommy blanched. His friends went silent. His face suddenly filled up with blood, then he rushed up to me, shoved my back against a tree, and slapped my face: first one side, then the other. I felt tears spilling out of my eyes; the sides of my face stung. It all seemed hazy and unreal, like it wasn't happening; like it was some strange nightmare. I was so terribly afraid of what he was going to do; I think I must have had adrenaline surging through me, sort of paralyzing my mind.

Bad as it was, it got worse: Tommy spit on my face -- some of his saliva even got into my eyes, causing me to blink hard – and then he reached out and clutched at my breasts. He didn't caress them, didn't stroke them: he squeezed them hard, and they hurt.

"How does it feel, cunt? Hm? Your pussy getting wet?"

By this point I was crying. Almost sobbing. And he reveled in his sense of power.

"I asked is your pussy getting wet, goddamn you. You want me to stick my cock into it? Hm? You want me to do this..."

He shoved one of his index fingers into my gasping mouth then began rapidly sliding it in and out. I think I was so afraid -- though, in reality, I had no reason to be -- that I would have tolerated even this. If Tommy had done nothing more, I would've let him walk away and I would've probably kept quiet about the whole thing out of fear of repercussions from him and his friends at school. But instead, he took it a step further. While he was pronging my mouth with his finger, he reached down and began sliding his other hand up my skirt. And that's as far as he got.

As I said, the whole scene appeared unreal. My reaction to that took no thought at all -- it was like an unconscious reflex. I shoved his hand away with my forearm, moved forward slightly, then snapped my knee up into his crotch. It was a powerful, hard blow, and Tommy collapsed onto the ground and began yowling and clutching desperately at the core of his maleness. I stared down at him for a moment -- still not thinking, just mindless with rage -- and kicked him some more. I kicked at his hands covering his balls; I kicked his chest; I stepped around him, then kicked at his anus ferociously. Now he was crying in addition to wailing, but I wasn't satisfied. I began kicking his face.

And that's when one of his buddies -- they were both standing right there the whole time, stunned -- rushed over to his defense. Note well: neither of Tommy's buddies had rushed over to MY defense, or had even spoken a word to deter their sadistic, fucked-up friend. But now this guy -- Jeff, I think -- rushed over to try to shove me away. He didn't succeed. When he came within reach, my foot launched out and -- in what I now have perfected and call a flying jump kick -- I nailed him between the legs. He too sank to the ground. Another male hero, fallen: the two of them heaped on the grass, lamenting their crushed nuts. Jeff was in a fetal position, which gave me a nice shot at his asshole: my foot found it like a bull's eye, and the blow shook his body. He yelled out a prolonged nonsense syllable, and I briefly did him some more damage, before noticing the third guy -- Tony -- running off. Men. They're so courageous.

I had a therapeutic time with the two boys I had taken down. I thought since Jeff had intruded when I was trying to kick Tommy in the head, I ought to kick Jeff in the head. I did, and – quite accidentally -- I knocked him out with the first blow. This left Tommy. He had loosened up a little, so I was able to land a good blow to his solar plexus, which left him completely breathless. He seemed really drained, really weak: I was able to pin him down on his back pretty easily, then I sat on his face and faced down at his groin. I pushed his legs apart, assuring him I'd kill right then and there if he resisted me. Sitting comfortably on his gasping face, I unbuckled his pants, pushed them down along with his boxers, and exposed his manhood.

His penis was about four inches, very flaccid, and uncircumcised. His scrotum was loose; the heat from him gripping them had relaxed them. I peeled down his foreskin, gripped his glans hard, then pulled his penis firmly toward me. I held it in that position with my left hand -- leaving his scrotum fully visible -- then raised my fist high in the air -- triumphant, mighty -- then swung it down like a sledge hammer against his balls. His legs sort of flew out; his body rocked; his fingers leapt back over his endangered male seeds; his face, under my pussy, began making desperate sounds. I hissed at him to shut up, or I'd cut his throat. I tugged hard at his penis and pumped his stomach with my fist a few times, telling him to move his hand away. When he did, I slammed his nuts again. And the pattern repeated several times: it was like Lucy pulling the football away from Charlie Brown, causing him to fly in the air and land flat on his back, winded and humiliated. That, it seems to me, symbolizes the essence of the female/male relationship when it's practiced right.

Right before I stopped mauling Tommy, I got a funny impulse. I changed my position: I positioned my pussy instead of on his face, on top of his penis. I rubbed my clitoris against his embattled male organs. I stroked my pussy upon his smashed balls. I felt myself shudder with orgasm, then I left.

But that wasn't quite the end of the experience. You see, I now had to get Tony. I sincerely believed that he should have stopped his friend from sexually harassing me. By doing nothing, he was partly responsible.

I saw him at school a few times every day, but I didn't want to randomly assault him. I didn't want to get caught, for one thing. But I soon found an ideal opportunity for revenge. We, along with a couple of other students, were still in one of the school corridors after the period bell rang, and -- to my delight -- Tony dashed into the boy's room. After the other people cleared out of the hall, I slipped into the boy's room after Tony.

I found him standing in front of a urinal, facing the wall.

As I stepped up quickly behind him, I noticed that he had undone his button fly jeans, rather than just a zipper. This made things easier as I pressed against him, reached around and grabbed his testicles.

"Remember me?"

"Marissa! No, no...don't!"

I squeezed him as hard as I could, even driving my nails into his balls. I found myself liking his balls as I hurt them; they were big, solid balls; firm and good-feeling.

"Why shouldn't I?" I tugged his testicles sharply outwards, then down, then up, then down again. I began jerking them around wildly, while Tony began crying in my arms. I stepped back, turned him around, threw him back against the wall, then rammed my knee into his groin. Tony fell forward onto his knees and began sobbing. His hands reached down under him to hold his balls; his cheek was pressed against the tile floor. I knew with him bawling like that it was only a matter of time before someone walking by came in to investigate, so I had to act fast. I kneeled behind him, pulled his pants down further, yanked his boxers down from my ass cheeks, then took a thick outliner pen, and impaled his ass with it. It was hard to get it in with the cap on, so I took that off and then managed to shove the pen into him. I figured this was sufficient torture for the boy (or at least, it was all I felt I could get away with given the circumstances). Before getting up and leaving, I reached around Tony one more time, and gripped his large balls one more time. I was amazed -- I was thrilled – at how easy it was to use these to gain total dominance over men. I know now that there are countless other ways -- many more subtle and lasting, certainly -- but none easier, more dictatorial. I gave his nuts a final squeeze, then left him in a broken mass on the floor. I remember as I opened the door to leave, I turned back and said -- casually, as if to a friend --"Okay, bye, Tony!"\

End.