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From: zturgeon@aol.com (Zturgeon)
Subject: Repost: Keli Part I (cbt, F/m)
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The following fiction contains scenes of brutal female domination.
Don't read it if you might be offended.  

KELI, part I



      During our first few months of marriage, Tim and I were
annoyingly conventional.  I saw myself slipping into the nightmare of
trite middle-class life that had so thoroughly repulsed me during
college.  My life was becoming a sleeping museum of contemporary
American culture -- a living death.  I quit my job, you see, and was
lazy about finding a new one.  My husband went to work, supported us,
while I lazed around the house, cooking, taking care of the
nothingness surrounding me, ordering it more nicely, disguising it
into something meaningful and emotionally fulfilling.  I was becoming
a zombie: a television person: a housewife.  

      My husband began to really enjoy this.  I was becoming more and
more dependant upon him, hence he was in control.  He liked this.  He
patronizeed me, issued orders only thinly veiled with politeness.

      I couldn't stand it.  

      My husband began spending more time away from home with his
friends and colleagues from work.  When he came home he was often
exhausted, and our sex life suffered.  Finally, I went to a sex shop
and purchased various sex toys -- two vibrators, and two large dildos.
I was embarrassed buying them so I rushed.  It was only when I
returned home that I discovered that one of the dildos I had bought
was actually a strap-on.  An eleven-inch-long strap-on.   Stiff and
black, with little life-like veins and things.

      One night while we ate my husband complained that his steak was
too rare.

      "Maybe you cooked it this rare for yourself, huh?  Your period,
something to do with that?"

      "My period's not for a week, Tim."	

      "The point is, Keli, this is too rare."  He glared at me.
Icily, irritated at his whining, I returned his look.

      "Why don't you just eat it, Tim?  Afraid it's still alive?"

      Tim lifted his hand and pointed his index finger very close to
my face.   "Don't you back-talk me, Keli.  Pick this up off the table,
and put it back in the goddam oven."

      I hesitated; I could feel my face flush with rage.  

      "And I mean NOW."

      The next few seconds seemed to consume hours.  I was aware of
three things: his finger aimed like a gun at my face; the echo of his
bullyish voice reverberating in my mind; and the pounding of my heart
in my chest.  

      Slowly, my hand rose up from my lap -- I saw it move in front of
me like an independent being, not at all under my control.  Then, with
my palm open, I struck my husband across the face: a loud, hollow
slap.  He turned bright red, and looked totally amazed.  His face
shook.  To my surprise, I saw tears glisten in his eyes. 

      Kicking his chair back, Tim rose from the table.  I'm sure if I
hadn't felt a little numb -- if I hadn't been totally amazed at what I
had just done -- I would have been afraid.  But I wasn't.  My vision
focused on the tears dampening the corners of his eyes.And then he was
at my side, sort of hissing at me in a furious, raspy voice.

      "Get up."

      I stared at him, wondering what he was going to try to do to me.
His face was still trembling; his fingers were moving, like they were
gripping then releasing patches of air; struggling to form fists, then
straightening out again.

      "Get the fuck up, you lousy worthless cunt; you little fucking
shit.  Get the fuck up."

      I didn't move.  I felt little drops of spit from his mouth hit
my face.  

      He disgusted me.  

      My husband disgusted me.  

      His language.  His spit.  His silly show of force.

      Then he reached out and grabbed my hair and pulled me up from my
chair.  I cried out; he seemed to be trying to turn me around.  I
kicked at his shins -- I might've hit him, because he began yelling --
then I saw his arms flailing around.  Blurs.  I couldn't tell if he
was trying to hit me, or trying to shove me away.  Then one of his
elbows hit my head, and I got dizzy; things blurred a little, I think
I was crying; I was still trying to kick at his shins, and I tried to
slap him again, then I felt his forearm pound across my breasts.  

      And I suddenly stopped moving.  Everything stopped moving.  I
felt pain.  I was gasping.  Crying.  I looked at him.  He was glaring
at me.  Grinning.  He was grinning.  I couldn't believe it: he was
grinning.  Proud of having hurt me.  

      Again my hand flew out -- instinctively, self-protectively --
this time in a fist.  It cracked squarely into his jaw.  More spittle
flew from his mouth.  I wish I could've seen his expression, watched
his pain.  But my vision went red, and I began beating my husband up.  

      After I felt my fists hit his face and head at least a dozen
times, after my knuckles began to swell up, Tim began weeping,
pleading with me to stop.  He was on the floor, begging, while I --
rather relaxed -- took leisurely whacks at his face.  Enjoying the
power.  Humbling him.  

      He had a black eye; a bloody nose; fattened lips.  I grabbed his
hair -- "how do YOU like being jerked around by the hair?" -- and
pulled him up to his knees.  I pressed his head back against a wall
with my crotch; ground his skull against it like I wanted to turn his
brains to powder.  I Pounded my groin against his face, driving his
head into the wall rhythmically: boom, boom, boom.  

      Then, using his short hair like a leash, I led him toward our
bedroom while he walked on his hands and knees.

      "Why haven't you been in the mood for sex lately, Tim?  Hm?  You
haven't been having an affair, have you?  With one of the guys at
work?  You're not queer, are you, Tim?"

      Tim moped that he wasn't.

      "I'm not sure I believe you, Timmy.  I think you like to take it
up the ass.   I think you're afraid of women.  I think I frighten you;
that's why you're too tired to get it up most nights."

      I must have snapped some psychological cable in him somewhere,
because he tried to escape; he leapt to his feet -- surprising me that
he had that much energy left -- and took a swing at my head.  He was
too close to get much momentum in his swing, and I leaned even closer
to him, holding up my own arm to block his dizzy-headed, limp attack.  

      But I was alarmed that he was still capable of putting up any
fight at all, and I was also a little tired of messing around with
featherweight artillery, so while I stood inches away from him, I
snapped my knee up as rapidly and forcefully as I could.  

      I was at the perfect distance: my knee drove hard into his
crotch, evoking a horrible wail from him, sending him in a desperate
dive to the floor, where he writhed, clutching at his maleness.
Sobbing in pain.  

      Looking at my pathetic, beaten husband -- my toppled, defeated
man -- I became bitter.  Contemptuous.  I realized I had married half
of a man.  A weakling.   Soon I learned that all men are that way --
when handled correctly -- but at that time my husband was the sole
target of my contempt.  

      And I decided to rape him.  

      Quickly, I proceeded to our bedroom -- opened my closet -- and,
stripping down to my panties, I strapped on the eleven-inch dildo.
Then I went back out to the living room where my husband still lay on
the floor, shaking, clutching at his groin, his sobs toned down to
steady weeping.  

      I moved up behind him, and ordered him on his knees.  At first
he stalled, then I kicked him in the side, triggering a deep, gasping
sound from his chest.  

      "Do as I fucking say, Tim."

      He moved jerkily to his knees, his head swaying visibly.

      "Now undo your pants."

      His crying picked up again.

      "Undo your FUCKING pants or I'll slice your balls off with a
paring knife then Fed-Ex them to your goddam parents."

      Timmy undid his belt, then unbottoned and unzipped his trousers.  

      "Now put your hands on the carpet."

      He obeyed.  He was on his hands and knees.  The huge artificial
penis extending from my crotch like a swordfish's spike, I moved up
behind my husband, predatory, ready to ravage his tight little ass.  I
reached around him and gripped his balls; pinched them -- he gasped,
his voice feminine -- and yanked down on them.  Pushing the large,
bulbous head of the dildo up between his legs, I began rubbing his
balls roughly against it.

      "You feel this, Timmy?  This is what real manhood feels like.
Not a little cocktail weiner like yours, Tim; not like your little
nibble-nuts.  This is what a MAN feels like.  You ever felt a man
inside you?  At work, Timmy?  Your boss, maybe?  Ever let him take
you?"

      Timmy wept a denial.

      "Well then, I'm going to show you what a real man does.  Maybe
you can learn from this, Timmy, so that one day maybe you can please
me like a man."

      Then, releasing his little balls, I took my husband's virginity
in a ruthless fashion.  

      "Just pretend I'm one of your little buddies at work, Timmy."  I
speared the dildo between his cheeks, pounded it deep into his body.
"Just pretend this is one of their little peenie-weenies."

      By the time I was finished with him, by the time I thought I had
proved my point to him, my husband's voice was gone from him crying
out so loud, at times screaming.  I had broken several of my
fingernails on the flesh of his buttocks.  While I was screwing my
husband's hole I nailed him in the balls a few more times; at one
point I grabbed his nuts and tried to crumple them up like croutons in
my fist, making him recite the Lord's Prayer while I did so. 

For several days he couldn't walk without limping, for I had badly
bruised his groin in various places with my elbow and my knees.  His
rectum was torn; bloodied.  

      And it took more than a week for the bruises to leave his face.  

      My husband, I determined, was the sort of man who required
discipline from a woman.

      Our relationship became, for a time, a prolonged struggle in
which he attemped to re-assert himself as the dominant party -- in
response to which I inflicted further punishments upon him.  I
realized I had solidly acquired the position of dominance in the
relationship and I had no intent of relinquishing it.  

      The punishment I chose for my husband took a variety of
different forms: some mainly physical, some psychological.  For
example, about a month after I first raped Tim, I coincidentally ran
into a man I had met a couple of times in college.  The guy was still
extremely handsome; I lusted after him in college -- it turns out the
feeling was mutual -- but we had never gone out.   Surprising myself,
I asked him on a date.

      "I thought you were married."

      "I am.  I can still date other people, though."

      "Oh, you mean: your husband wanted to see other women, so you
decided that it'd only be fair if you could--"

      "No.  My husband isn't allowed to see other women.  But I see
other men."

      "Does he..."

      "He knows about it, yes."

      "What does he say?"

      "I haven't asked his opinion."

      A couple of days later, I slept with this man, Jon, in my (and
my husband's) bed.  I had arranged it so that Timmy was lying in the
narrow space under the bed while Jon and I made love on the mattress
above him.  So that he could feel the weight of our loving bodies
against him.

      Jon was an extremely well-endowed, strong man.  Really quite an
ox.  The first time he screwed me while my husband lay silently under
the bed, I found myself moaning and crying out in a way I never had
before.  I couldn't help myself; Jon's immense organ filled me more
than any man ever had before.  He was skillful, sensitive, and
physically commanding.  After about fifteen minutes of sex, I began to
orgasm, and came continually for the next ten minutes.  My body felt
like it had been struck by lightning.  

      His refractory period was almost instantaneous.  After his
copious, thick semen splashed into my vagina, he soon got hard again,
and guided his giant cock into my mouth.  

      "That's it.  Come on, baby, just a little wider..."

      I could barely get it into my mouth; at one point, whimpering, I
tried to pull away from him, but he held my head in place.  

      Before he came, he decided to pull out of my mouth and have me
ride his cock.   My pussy already felt stretched; I was certain I'd be
sore the next day.  But feeling his shaft penetrate me so deeply,
stretch me so wide, I lost my head in ecstasy, and began riding him in
a thrashing, delirious way.

      After he left that evening, I found my husband weeping under the
bed.  I told him I'd be like that with him, too, if he had the
equipment of a real man.  I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him
out from under the bed, then made him suck Jon's semen from my vagina.
My labia, my mons, my clitoris -- everything between my legs was
drenched in his thick seed.  I made my husband lick me clean.  When he
was done, I noticed that he had an erection -- his cock was stiffer,
fuller than I'd seen it in quite a while -- so I told him his little
weenie didn't impress me, then slammed my foot against his balls.  He
collapsed onto the floor, holding his nuts like he was afraid they'd
break off his body and escape.  He wept for at least half an hour.  I
yelled at him to shut the fuck up, but he couldn't control himself.
Finally I had to smack him a few times.

      One evening I talked Jon into letting Tim suck his balls for a
while, while I fellated his (Jon's) cock.  As soon as Tim -- following
my orders -- fell naked on his knees before Jon, he began weeping.  I
slapped him across the face and told him to stop being such a stupid
baby.  

      "Kelianne, I think your husband's afraid to see a real cock up
close."

      "Yeah," I agreed, "but I think it's the balls, too.  His balls
are tiny compared to yours.  Look."  I grabbed Timmy's nuts and pulled
them forward to show Jon.  When I saw that Tim's eyes were closed, I
punched him in the cheek, grabbed him by the hair, then made him look
me straight in the eye.

      "Tim," I told him, "You will never, ever know what's it's really
like to be a real man.  You're not a man at all, Tim."

      I brought my fist into his nuts -- he wailed -- then forced him
to begin licking Jon's balls. 

      Jon enjoyed the scene.  At one point he spat on Tim's head and
told him to be more passionate.  Then he slapped my husband across the
face because Tim couldn't manage to get both of his testicles in his
mouth at once.  

      "You must feel like shit, little man," he talked down at my
husband.  "You're shit in bed, and your wife knows it -- because she's
got me."

      Jon decided he wanted to force his meat into Tim's mouth.  Tears
were streaming down Tim's face as Jon held him by the head --
occasionally slapping his ears -- and reamed his face.  

      Occasionally I acted out with Jon.  It was entirely accidental;
it's like my habitual free-and-easy nastiness with Tim got the better
of me and I accidentally mistreated Jon.  In every one of those
occasions, though, he punished me sternly.  

      Once, for example, Jon hurt me by shoving his huge penis into my
mouth too fast, so I instinctively swatted at his balls.  I only
whisked them with my fist, but it still hurt him, and -- before I
could defend myself at all -- I was on my stomach and he was spiking
me up the ass.  I cried like a baby while he did it; I had never felt
such excruciating pain.  It felt like my lower body was being ripped
apart and sprayed with flame.  My husband sat staring, a confused look
on his pathetic face.  

      Later that night I apologized to Jon, and begged him to forgive
me.   He apologized back for being so rough, but explained that his
testicles were very sensitive, and that he reacted very protectively
whenever they were threatened at all.  He held me in bed for about
half an hour, spooning me, stroking my breasts, reinforcing our
affection.  He let me touch his huge balls -- each as large as a jumbo
egg.  I stroked them gently -- I could almost feel pure masculine
energy emitting from them -- and I wished I had never inadvertently
hit such glorious objects.   

      We ignored my husband, slumped like a trash bag against a wall.

      After Jon left that evening I raped my husband again -- perhaps
more viciously than I had before.   I made him stand above a mirror on
the floor, bent over, while I sodomized him.  I wanted him to see his
own facial expressions -- see his body shake and seize up -- while I
fucked him.  Then I threw him to the floor, and lashed at his groin
with a thick leather belt.  When he tried to cover his genitals with
his hands, I'd direct the belt against his face or chest.  

      I made him spend the night in the back yard -- naked. The whole
time he sat huddled, quivering, clutching himself for warmth at the
side of the garage, where he thought it was least likely that anyone
would see him.

      Eventually my husband seemed to give up the idea of ever being
equal with me in our relationship.  Instead of whining about my
treatment of him -- the way I occasionally woke him up in the middle
of the night by anally raping him, or by stuffing phallic objects
(dildos, carrots, etc.) into his mouth, etc. -- he began threatening
to leave me.  He was "threatening to run away," like a child.  

      I had essentially two kinds of responses that juvenile tactic.
The first was shutting him up -- and hopefully deterring further
idiotic outbursts -- but phsycally punishing him.  

      The second way was by creating a scenerio for him of what would
happen if he ever did indeed run away.  

      "Most likely, Timmy, I'll track you down, bring you back, and
then I'll castrate you.  Clip off your balls like a couple of
kumquats."

      I told him this while we both lay in bed -- he with his hands
tied to one of the bedposts behind him.  I reached under the blanket
and cupped his testicles in my hand.  

      "And I've given it some thought.  I've decided that when --
because I'm sure it'll happen eventually, it's just a matter of when
you piss me off enough -- when I castrate you, Timmy, I'm going to get
it on videotape.  And I think I'll send a copy to your parents.  Don't
you think your mother would love to watch that?  She never thought I
was good enough for you."

      I squeezed my husband's nuts firmly.  He whimpered; his eyes
were tearful.

      I told Timmy I'd make him watch the tape of him being castrated
over and over while I sodomized him with huge strap-ons, phallic
vegetables, etc. on our living room floor.  I'd make him re-live his
emasculation as a daily ritual.  

      And I told him I'd take him out to nude beaches to show everyone
his modification.  I'd guide my eunuch around and chat with strangers
about how pleasant it was to have a sexually void husband to serve me,
and to act as a toy for me and my genuinely male lovers.  I'd let the
strangers examine his scars, and tell them about how he wasn't really
a man to begin with.  

      I mentioned that I might like to castrate him in the desert
somewhere -- or on the grounds of some isolated state park.  I'd let
the blood of his wound seep into the ground.  Later I'd take my lovers
to that spot, for them to screw me where I had terminated my husband's
masculinity.  The disembodied spirit of Tim's maleness would remain at
that spot; hover around us; take part in our sexual encounter.   

      I told Timmy that perhaps I'd dry his testicles and hang them
from leather cords above the doorway to our house as good luck charms.
And, perhaps, with his crotch mostly empty, I'd make him decorate the
space where his nuts once dangled with prettier ornaments: things like
Christmas tree decorations, or beautiful crystals, or bunches of
aromatic herbs.  

      Or maybe I'd videotape myself at the dinner table, eating his
cooked testes with him sitting beside me, watching.  Weeping.  My poor
husband -- I'd even make him do the cooking.  Then I'd reach over to
him with the fork: "Open up, Timmy.  Your turn to take a bite.  Open
your mouth, eunuch: it's your food."

      Maybe after castrating him I'd freeze the testicles, then,
periodically, I'd remove them from the freezer and -- with him tied
firmly, totally unable to move -- I'd throw them, over and over, at
his cheeks, his nose, his eyes.

      "I'll keep smashing you in the groin, though, Timmy -- with or
without your little balls.  I want you to think of that part of your
stupid male body as a horrible fucking weakness, not a source of
strength.  Your groin'll be like a little graveyard attached to your
pathetic body.  One that you can't escape from."

      End Part I


 Positive email comments welcome.


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