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Subject: REPOST: Marissa (cbt, F/m)
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 The following fiction contains scenes of violent female domination
after scenes of brutality against a young woman.  If you might be
bothered by reading this, don't.  

MARISSA 


      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 carress 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 revelled in
his sense of power.  

      "I asked is your pussy getting wet, goddam 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 repurcussions 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 whle 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 malenesss.  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 ferociousy.   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 foetal 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 practised 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 harrassing 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 dominace 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

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