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From: rgt@well.com (Estragon)
Subject: Estragon revised: "Travels With Aunt Paula," V/6 (femdom)


"Travels With Aunt Paula," V/6  (Femdom)


(For adults only.
Copyright 1996, 1997 Estragon Productions)



"What we love in other human
beings is the hoped for satisfaction
of our desire. We do not love
their desire. If what we loved in them
was their desire, then we would 
love them as ourself."



"Yes, darling, that's the way. Press your penis up against your belly. Oh,
sweetheart, Aunt Paula's gone and made it red." She gave her hand a
reproachful look. Cal studied it too, but there was sweet admiration in
his eyes. Such lovely long fingers, tapering to slender tips and the most
exquisite, shapely nails. Could a thing so fine and elegant and feminine
really have caused this lingering pain in the headquarters of his
maleness? Yet she had only struck a womanly blow: a slap, a swipe of her
open hand, a caress with a dose of fury in it. No burly fist, no cutting
chop, no man-like brutality. A thing of beauty, rather, a woman's palm,
her fingers, deepening a male's ache.

"Now, darling, with your other hand I'd like you to press your scrotum
forward." Cal placed his fingers behind his testicles and pushed them
outward, away from his thighs. The sack tightened at its owner's touch.
"No, darling, don't let your balls recede. Imagine that you're giving them
as a gift to Aunt Paula. You want her to own them now, and you want to
show her all their nice features. Try."

Cal maneuvered the underside of his scrotum, trying to loosen it by
jostling its tangled contents. The skin thinned out, stretching against
constricted testes. Cal pressed the fragile apparatus away from his body
and toward his aunt. Paula leaned forward in her chair, seemed to accept
his offering. She gently ran a finger-tip over the surface of his scrotum
and, gliding to its underside, stroked Cal's own fingers, still dutifully
offering his testes. Her touch brought a cry of surprise from the boy. Cal
had been naked before his aunt innumerable times. At lessons he had often
handled his own organs as she instructed. But Paula had not herself
touched Cal's penis or testicles since the days she bathed him as a small
boy. Other females, yes: a small army of girls and adolescents had freely
satisfied their curiosity with Cal, and of course there was Doctor
Barbara, who would always make a joke when he got erect at check-ups:
"Well, I'm glad to see you've forgiven me, Cal."

The sensation Aunt Paula was causing by this unprecedented scrutiny of her
nephew's balls ravished the boy. Paula the woman was putting Paula the
aunt into total eclipse. Luckily Cal had the obligation of pinning his
penis hard against his stomach, and in this way his hand was able to
create a subtle rhythm. Paula's finger exerted a slight, focused pressure.
Though it was she, Cal's new-found enchantress, the irresistible goddess
who used to be Aunt Paula, her touch was not seductive but clinical. She
was merely gauging her boy - he sensed this but didn't care; her
objectivity added to the thrill - becoming acquainted for the first time,
really, with some of his less visible attributes. 

For Cal's part, acts of obedience and service had always increased his
impression of intimacy with his aunt, though also with all the other women
and girls whose bidding he did. But Paula regarded her relation with Cal
as sexual only in the most generic sense. It stood to reason for her that
intimacy should be a one-way street: intimacy was only honesty, only the
shedding of pretensions and defenses. Of course a boy would feel the
civilizing process - for to Paula male submission was no more than that -
as a deepening intimacy with his teacher, at any rate if she were
diligent. Humility, nakedness, service: what were these but extensions of
common courtesy, more forthright, and ultimately more useful, realizations
of those gestures expected of men in society and still sometimes called
chivalry? Holding the door, relinquishing the seat, wielding the luggage. 

Paula loved Cal dearly. She made no secret of that. (And so she could be
sure that Cal's enslavement was mostly the result of the self-knowledge
she had helped him to, and not of the fear of losing a guardian's measured
warmth.) But this was a love that preceded sex, or transcended it, or
somehow wound around it - a love, in any case, that would have moved Paula
to put Cal's needs before her own even if she'd had such needs as a mere
boy could satisfy. She hadn't though. Paula was a charming woman, and, as
we know, beautiful: reverent gentlemen aplenty were votaries of her
cult.   


"Did you know, darling," Aunt Paula said, "your scrotum looks a lot like a
basil-leaf? Feels like one too." Her finger traced one of Cal's scrotal
creases, descended firmly between his testes, lingered there a moment and
then slid lightly down to the soft and baggy underside below Cal's own
rigid fingers. These strokes not intended to be strokes worked their
unwitting magic on the boy. He closed his eyes. He wobbled a bit. Slavery
to a womanly woman in a short black dress and heels, this was the only
thing that counted on earth. Submissiveness engulfed him like a whirlpool.
All the same, he stood, because that was true submission - the woman's
wish, clearly expressed a little while ago through the soft redness of her
lips. But his heart, his life, was at her feet. 

A spasm as precise as the clap of a bell went through him. A ping at
first, a little sickly, the snap of a slender finger against a testicle,
and another, and one more to the other nut, all while he was lost in her
and unprepared, then colic and recoil, and the need to crouch, denied.
(Paula stood up and thrust her slender arm around Cal's waist. Wouldn't
she prefer to watch him crumble, defeated by what for her had involved so
little? Instead she braced him with her woman's arm, a thing stronger than
his legs, stronger than the griping pain within.) The penis, so durably
hard this day, now wilted. Then muffled tears.

"My darling," Aunt Paula said, "I think I understand. I think I do. But do
you know what the very best thing you could do now would be? Shall I tell
you? But, Cal my sweetheart, I only want you to do it if you think you
can. Aunt Paula isn't requiring it. She's just offering some advice to her
brave boy. Do you understand? Only if you feel you're able. And if you do,
then I think it would make you feel much better, much stronger."

"Tell me, auntie, please." Cal's voice was reedy. 

"Only if you feel you can do it, yes?" The boy offered a weak nod. His
mind was elsewhere - on his lingering cramp, and on the stunning and still
incomprehensible revelation of a woman's power to hurt. This Paula, this
woman, this aunt - he could never doubt her love. How, after all these
years of tender care, could he dream of doing so? Even now, having treated
him to this appalling pain, she was all pity and solicitude. She had good
advice for him, if he could only bring his mind around to her words and
take them in. Her arm was still steadying him and the fabric of her dress
was once more riling his skin, but Cal now studied Paula through a long
glass. She was worlds away, her female nature a terrible capacity sown at
the farthest reach of interstellar dark. A stranger of consummate beauty
and insoluble mystery. And this male, this Cal - might he not have been as
awful a stranger to her, but that his mystery had been torn from him and
hitched between his legs, a perpetual offering to travelers from her star?
"Please, auntie, tell me," he said.  

"Then, Cal, the very best thing you could do right now is to ask Aunt
Paula for another. If you feel brave enough, and grateful
enough...grateful, yes, Cal...because ladies get no pleasure from being
cruel. None whatsoever, I swear. Only the knowledge that a man's love is
shallow unless it is accompanied by unstinting sacrifice...only that gives
us the strength to hurt. It's not the pain we want to see, but your
courage in facing it, and the tears of love it draws. Look how I'm
sweating, my darling. Look at Aunt Paula's watery eyes. We ladies need
courage too."

Cal looked. But the signs of her emotion troubled him more in a way than
the vision of her terrible remoteness. Paula mustn't weaken. Cal
understood that somehow. Whatever exactly the lesson of this hard day, it
must be thoroughly delivered before his teacher relented toward either her
pupil or herself. Her power chilled him, but he wanted it absolute: he'd
pledged as much, and even now, shocked to discover what he'd consented to,
he wished despite his trepidation to be broken. Until now in his
submissive life, he realized, he'd been no more than toyed with - teased,
reduced, enslaved, as much by the menace of something kept back as by
humiliations freely granted. Even the dreadful circumcision which was
Cal's introduction to women's rule was only an intimation, really, of
their devastating force of will. Yet in loving and serving women and girls
throughout his boyhood, wasn't Cal fundamentally in love with this
half-hidden cruelty of theirs, this thing they'd flash his way but weren't
ready yet to flourish? Now, today, Aunt Paula would at last bring this
long-suspected, long-feared power out of the shadows. Pity him though she
might, as mother, as sweet lady, the pure female stranger in her would
show him the other side of pity: an implacable demand for his pain. At
last the ache of beauty would be nourished, and inflamed. 

"Thank you, ma'am," Cal said, with ardor again. "May I have another?" In
expectation he once more pressed his testes forward.

"My brave man," Aunt Paula said. "You may. But let Aunt Paula do all the
work. Well, almost all. You just hold your penis out of the way. Good,
yes, I think it gets hard just hearing me mention it." It felt good to
laugh a little, she thought. To steel her mind she rehearsed the thoughts
that had led her to this moment: she might have spared herself the anguish
of performing these acts herself by sending Cal to an expert; well, Paula
was an expert, but that was different - that was with grown men,
worshippers who knew what they were in for; she could think of many women
who understood exactly how to impress a boy with their strength and his
own fragility, who could make him feel the pain of total defeat - make him
cry his eyes out - and view it all impassively, knowing they had done his
body no permanent harm and his soul lifelong good; but she knew, too, that
if she'd given Cal the choice - though how could he understand its
meaning, pain being no easier to foresee than to remember? - then he
certainly would have wished his beloved aunt to be his torturer. 

"Now stand still, darling. I want this to be just right for my brave boy."
Paula inserted two of her fingers in back of Cal's scrotum and pressed.
"Spread your legs, dear. Wide as you can, please." Her fingers went
higher, almost to the perineum, then dug in, forward and up, lifting the
boy's testes while exerting pressure on them from above. With his legs
spread wide and his aunt's fingers steadying his balls, Cal might have
believed that these "essential" male glands hung where they did by sheer
accident. Some harried small-time angel who didn't think it that important
- "It's just a boy, for Chrissakes," she'd explain later, "what's the
bleep-bleep fuss?" - had slapped them into place with a gob of glue.
("Yeah, doll, mucilage. They fall off in a month...? Hey. We're not
talking titties here.") Uncomfortable though they were, Paula's fingers
felt proper in this place. How stupid testicles feel just hanging there.
When your legs are apart and you've nothing on, you know for certain that
you're made to be messed with. You're a person, as it happens, with a
nervous system and a pulse, but first of all - just look at your stuck-on
balls, look at your flapping dick - you're a dime-a-dozen,
not-worth-fixing toy. If a girl or woman grows attached to you, just be
grateful for feminine caprice.

Paula was taking her time. "Cal, let's see how hard you are. The harder
your penis, the easier this will be. Just let it go for a minute." Cal
lifted away his hand and his penis sprung out, hard again. There was
something to Paula's theory that it stiffened when she mentioned it. For
that matter, Cal could never hear a female person allude to the organ, his
or any male's, without feeling forcibly exposed and aroused. 

Aunt Paula held her free hand up to Cal's view, the nail of her index
finger sprocketed against her thumb. Cal stared at the tense little
circle: as a gesture it meant "bullseye." But here it was a weapon, and
Cal's fragile bulbs its unmissable target. "See, Cal, this is all it is.
Just my finger flicking against your scrotum. A little 'ping,' and it's
over. No damage done, no danger. Okay, lift away your penis. Try to stand
still. Really, try not to flinch. Deep breath. I'll take one too...and
then it's just, you know, a flick, darling, like this...."

Cal cried out. Was it a second before or a second after Paula's finger
snapped against a testicle with the shattering curtness of a ball-peen
tapping glass? Paula hurriedly reminded Cal not to move. The pain of her
little blow flared quickly, a suffocating cramp opening into his abdomen
and back like a fault-line. Cal wanted to fold up. It was his only need.
He fought it by stiffening his limbs. This increased his blossoming
spasms. He dropped his penis, let his arms fall, but otherwise stayed
rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut. Nonetheless he wept. He tried, at least,
to do so noiselessly. There too he failed. Through his weeping he thought
he heard Aunt Paula say something, whisper it rather. He kept trying to
make out her words, but failed. As her finger snapped once more against a
testicle, he succeeded. "Cal, I have to," she had said.

"Please hold me up, auntie, can you?"

"Oh, yes, sweet darling. Let me just...." Without lessening their
pressure, Paula slowly drew her fingers away from Cal's scrotum and along
his perineum to the cleft of his buttocks. She pushed her forefinger
firmly against his sphincter. His body, already rigid, tightened against
her. 

"Cal, let me, please.... I can hold you up, you see...." Cal was sobbing
and sure to buckle. Paula's finger would not relent. "Cal, it would be
better. Cal, it would."

"I can't," the boy cried. "Auntie, help me."  

Stretching her free arm wide, Paula delivered a second stinging slap, this
one to her nephew's cheek. "No, auntie...," he shrieked. And at once his
anus gave. 

Paula inched her finger up toward Cal's prostate. She maintained the
pressure, holding her nephew upright by an act of impalement. Cal was
crying openly now, abject but relaxed. Paula was bearing much of his
weight as if on her finger-tip. Her presence in his rectum increased his
colic, but also turned it into something victorious and satisfying. All
Cal had to do was yield: capitulate with frank, full tears to the pain and
invasion, recoil at the slaps, double over with the colic, flower with the
fullness in your bowel. 

Paula stretched her thumb back across Cal's crotch, sinking it nail-first
between his balls. The boy was incapable now of stiffening his limbs. His
weight felt spread across the narrow arc between Aunt Paula's forefinger,
snug against his prostate, and the sharp crescent of her thumb-nail. His
cramp was permanent now, filling his groin and belly, choking his solar
plexus. The woman's finger was cracking steadily against Cal's testicles
now and the quick staccato was getting to feel like an uninterrupted
current. Breathless with tears, the boy could only gasp an importunate
word: "Auntie...." But could he have said just what he was begging for? 

Each convulsion as Cal sobbed refreshed the radiant pain. But it also
deepened his conviction of being helpless and possessed beyond any boyish
dream of submission. He'd been invaded - not simply entered, but invaded -
and now Aunt Paula's finger was rousing his penis through some strange
remote-control hidden inside him. She knew more about it than he. And her
thumb was digging into his testicles, pinioning them so that with the
finger of her other hand she could repeatedly set off those little
explosions that shot an agony no woman could imagine down the whole length
of his being. "Auntie...." Had he been able to form a sentence then, what
would Cal have begged for - that Paula release him from these torments or
worsen them? Like an old paradox , the question undoes itself. Cal yearned
for both and neither: only if his torments were unbearable would it
signify slavery and love to bear them; yet only if he shrunk from them
would he prove them worthy after all.

Paula expected Cal to break. She had seen it in older males countless
times. Why shouldn't it happen to a boy? She had only to persist, to keep
her pity in check. She owed him the happiness of it. Of making him
incapable ever after of denying the pathos of his sex. For a man, she
knew, a little arousal goes a long way. It's a rich essence of which the
merest hint in a confusion of feelings is enough to impart its quality of
pleasure to the whole. Pain may be terrible, but tinge it ever so lightly
with sex and it will become ecstasy for a man. "Pathos" was the word that
came to mind.  

Aunt Paula deftly syncopated Cal's confusion: spikes of exaltation through
his prostate to his penis, spikes of anguish through the stretched skin of
his scrotum to his balls - a rushing stream of merged sensations and
disordered emotions. Wasn't everything upside-down? The jolts to his
testicles causing his elation, the push-button erection laying him low?
Were these sensations, these emotions, even distinguishable? Were they not
a single, simultaneous up-and-down? Cal was now facing, at a moment when
even boyish words were bound to fail him, the full truth of the religion
of woman, something his training until now had only reflected indirectly:
when you are hers absolutely, height and depth are one. When you shed your
personhood, that tenuous final garment that wraps your manhood in the
ambiguous fabric of humanity, you forsake your very will. You and the
woman no longer share a common ground. All the ground is hers. You're the
interloper, the vagabond, maybe for a time the guest. In any case, she has
all the rights.   

So Cal broke. Beneath the deluge of pleasure-pain, he sagged. Aunt Paula's
hand was there to wield him. He was her puppet. Her thumb roamed his
testicles, turning or stabbing them as she chose. If she liked, she'd
brush his penis, knock it a bit to make it quiver. She drove her other
finger deeper into his rectum. Cal did what he could to make his depths
reachable. He was an armature, nothing more, from which the cunning tools
of female domination hung. He might cry his eyes out. This was ecstasy all
the same. The real, true thing. Cal stood outside himself, far more an
extension of Paula's nerves and muscles than his own boy. He was less the
boy of tears than the woman who found them beautiful. He was Aunt Paula's
desire - fulfilled. He had alertness enough to see himself afloat on the
high water of a woman's sorcery, but he had nothing beyond alertness: he
lacked all greed now, all intention, all will except that things be as
they are. 

When your will is gone, your sense of time deserts you too. A woman's
accessory, incapable of intent, you forget the very dimension it's
projected into. For Cal, the remainder of the afternoon passed without
sequence, everything the cause, everything the effect, of every other
thing, a single unending yet undivided moment of tearful erection and
ball-breaking joy. Now Aunt Paula's finger slipped out of his anus, and
her thumb released his testicles. A thin black-leather belt was trussing
them now, lifting them forward and high; now Aunt Paula was closing the
buckle at the small of his back. He was reclining against a wall now. Aunt
Paula was taking care to position him: only his head touching the hard
wall now, Aunt Paula's tabouret wedged behind his buttocks, he bent
backwards therefore, his abdomen and belly in strenuous offering to the
woman. 

Now Aunt Paula was forcing his legs apart, saying, "Wider, Cal, wider, my
love." A steel canister, very fat, planted now between his thighs, near
his crotch, behind and just below his testicles, enforcing a wide, sweet,
painful split. Aunt Paula saying now, "On your toes, please, Cal," and Cal
already on them. Now she was showing him a pair of long bamboo cooking
chop-sticks, tapered, tied together at their wide ends with a thread. With
his gaze forced upward by his posture, he was straining now to look. But
now the looking was over: she wished his eyes closed and so they were. She
was spraying him with cold water from head to toe, front and back, and it
was dripping off his face and down his torso now. Little streams of it
along his ribcage, down the creases of his groin, down his crack and onto
his thighs. Now a harsh swat to his wet penis. Now to his face with its
eyes squeezed shut, its jaw jutting upward. He heard his own yelps, his
gasps, his sobs of grateful surprise, and in them the satisfaction of the
woman's desire.

The pointed sticks were jabbing randomly now, his abdomen, his legs, his
trussed, uplifted balls. When the last, he shrieked, tried to proclaim his
servitude, his breathless need to give Aunt Paula everything. He spoke,
but it didn't sound like words. A gruff, misshapen croaking was all. Aunt
Paula understood that he was offering his life. 

But her voice was music. "I'm going to rub a special oil over your penis
and testicles now." Aunt Paula wearing latex gloves now. "It will burn
you, Cal...."

"Glad...," the gaping mouth intoned. 

Now it was burning as she promised. And something - a hairbrush - was
dancing in the flames, fanning them, becoming them, singeing the crown of
his penis, consuming his glans. "Auntie," he wailed, a single long and
ragged syllable. His penis had never been so thick, so heavy. What was he
made for but sacrifice? Strange new paroxysms of surrender were carrying
him away and he was going to die now for certain. For Aunt Paula, who was
a woman and had the right. Now a wild, lashing rope of sperm shot for her
sake from his burning organ. It was his first.   

"I love you, auntie," he only thought he said. 



Cal lay quietly in Paula's arms, his tears slowly receding. He had dropped
to the floor in one innocent tumble, and Paula had joined him there. 

"My sweet boy actually swooned for me," she said.

Cal rested a careless hand where her breast began to swell. Paula gently
deflected it. It found a home on the sharp turn of her hip; the crêpe of
Paula's dress did little to soften the feminine hardness of that place.
Cal thought the other hardness on a woman must be more wonderful still. He
wished he might kiss Aunt Paula there, on her beautiful dark triangle of
hair. He knew this could never be. 

As she held her depleted nephew, Paula's thoughts drifted to Dana, her
sister, Cal's mother. She remembered how, soon after Cal was born, Dana
confided that giving birth to a boy had left her a bit confused. "I mean,
don't you think it's bizarre," she had said, "that women have no penises
but are capable of growing them inside?" "So what do you think it means?"
Paula asked. "I¹m sure it means SOMETHING," Dana said. 

Paula also remembered another conversation with her sister.  Dana was home
from college and newly in love. Paula was a scornful adolescent. She felt
only contempt for males. Love left her cynical. 

Dana disapproved of cynicism just then, and she very much approved of
love. "Believe me, Paula, it's the only good thing in the world," she
said. 



end of part five

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