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Subject: RP Estragon's Aunt Paula 3/5 femdom
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Travels with Aunt Paula by Estragon was originally posted in six parts,
each with an epigraph. I am preserving all of the original headnotes,
but this reposting is in *five* parts, this one 3/5.
"But I don't know how to say it, auntie. I mean, when I look at you - the
way you are right now, all beautiful and...you know... "at your feminine
best" - or when I look at other ladies or girls when they're pretty and
their hair is nice and they have pretty clothes on, then...I don't know,
Aunt Paula, I can't say what it is...I just feel so weak, you know? I
just feel, like, I don't know, like I owe it to you to take my clothes
off and kneel and be your slave. I guess I can't explain it...."
"But you are explaining it, darling. You're saying that our beauty makes
you do it, makes you HAVE to do it. Aren't you saying that?"
I think I am, auntie."
"And it's a good answer, my darling. A smart answer from my wonderful,
smart boy. Beauty, my darling. You boys and men...you have your wagging
penises and your delicate, hurtable testicles...and we girls and
women...we have our beauty. Starting with the greatest beauty of all: the
hard, empty place where, if we were men, we'd have those silly organs
too....Oh, Cal, don't be insulted, darling. Today's a day for honest
talk. Today you learn why boys are made so easy to hurt and why...oh,
Cal, this part I wish I didn't have to say...why sometimes they have to
be shown just how easy."
"If I have to be, auntie, then I want to be." Cal spoke with sudden
ardor. As though Paula's mere utterance of the word "beauty" had set
loose some great surge of desire long restrained. It was a word of deep
adulthood, not like Cal's boyish word "pretty." "Beauty" had in it all
the implications of man's surrender and thralldom, anguish and
self-sacrifice, that were for Cal the obscure but real truth of sex. As
always, Aunt Paula already knew.
"You showed me your testicles before, Cal, and pointed out how delicate
they are. Any little girl, didn't we say, can make them ache with a flick
of the wrist. And you know about girls' wrists...and even ladies'.
They're so slender, Cal. So weak, you'd imagine. But so wonderfully
beautiful to look at. A girl's slender wrist, Cal, can cause you more grief
than any man's muscles. She can hurt your poor little balls with it, but long
before that she's already planted an ache in your heart. Her beauty is
the ache. The first hurt a woman ever causes a man. Do you understand, Cal?"
"The words are hard, auntie, but I think I do understand. Because it's all
inside me, auntie....How badly I want to kneel to you now....May I?"
"I'd rather you didn't, Cal. You'll see why. I know, my darling, what's
happening to you. That's why I'm saying the things I'm saying. Try hard
to understand."
Cal said that he intended to. Paula said, "The reason you can understand
these difficult things is that women's beauty is an ache you were born
with, Cal. You sense the truth of what I'm saying from within, even if
you can't put it into words. Beauty is a peculiar male ache. Women are
free of it. We have our needs and wishes, yes, but nothing like this.
Only a man hurts from the beauty of what he desires. It's your doom, your
slavery. It's at the heart of everything you'll ever be. Sometimes men
imagine they can ease the pain. 'If I can just stare,' they tell
themselves, 'with nobody to scold me, then I'll be soothed. If I can
touch, examine, press, kiss, taste...," the 'if's' go on, Cal,...'then
the ache of beauty will go away.' It never will, Cal- even though, like
all men, you'll try these things yourself one day. One day a woman will
give you the privilege, and you'll try. You'll go searching for her
beauty. You'll think, 'It's in her eyes,'
and you'll study them, and she'll toss her head and you'll be alone
again. Or in her breasts, and you'll touch them and find out nothing
except that you ache all the more. And sooner or later you'll make the
stupidest mistake of all, as all men do: you'll imagine that it's deep
inside her, beckoning at the end of her secret passageway. A sweet smell
will lure you there, a scent so haunting you'll confuse it for the cause
of your ache - and for the cure. The beautiful woman who permits you to
follow it will also be laughing at you as you try. Afterwards, when
you've clearly failed and the ache is no softer than before...afterwards,
if that woman is strong, and if she loves you enough, she'll transform
her laughter into something more generous, Cal. She will humble you in
her own special way. She'll hurt you, Cal - the day has come, I'm afraid,
to tell you this - out of love she will hurt you. I beg you, my darling,
never fight her. There's a thing she knows and wants to teach you. She
knows that the ache of beauty truly longs for one thing, and that thing
isn't relief. This ache at the center of your male life, Cal...it longs
to be made worse."
The zeal of Paula's words persuaded Cal that he understood them all,
though this was hardly possible. What he did understand was that Aunt
Paula was embarking on a new lesson, and what he comprehended of it
frightened him and made him eager at the same time. He desired a
consummation he couldn't name. A greater intimacy than that he knew.
Paula was his aunt, and for a heady moment or two he wished this wasn't
so. Why? Something might happen then, he vaguely thought, something that
shouldn't happen between nephew and aunt. Yet, whatever this something
was, he wanted it to happen with the most beautiful woman he knew...and
that was indeed Aunt Paula. Look at her now in her short black dress. Her
legs, her stockings and heels, her bright red lips. She was absolutely
what beauty is about. Cal felt that she in particular, this magnificent
aunt of his, she was his sweet, eternal ache. His head spun, his knees
were ready to give. His penis grew fiercely stiff.
Paula was speaking. "Attention, Cal. Not just your penis, thank you.
Listen, please. This is a hard day for Aunt Paula, a day she's been
dreading for a long time."
"But why, auntie? You've been teaching me beautiful, true things today."
"I know that, darling. But words are not enough...."
"That's good, Aunt Paula. I'm glad they're not. I want to show you...I
don't know...what a good learner I am..., and how much I love you, auntie."
"But do you understand what I've been saying, Cal? Do you understand what
you must do now...now that you're big...." Paula gestured toward her
nephew's genitals. His erection, she reflected, had not flagged in many
minutes. "...What you must now do to show your love."
"I do understand, auntie. You don't think so, my darling auntie, but I
understand better than you think."
Cal's ardor surprised Paula. She felt that he must understand, and that
he must be eager too. "You see, then, darling, that stripping naked and
kneeling and running errands and all - these are wonderful proofs of love
and humility in a young boy? But...it's like Alice, Cal, remember? Keep
running if you want to stay in place. Now that you're bigger, you have to
do more just to demonstrate that you are as enslaved as ever."
"I'll do it, auntie. I want to."
Paula's voice caught. "But, you see, darling....Oh, help me, God. Why did
you have to be born a boy, Cal?.... Don't you see that Aunt Paula is
talking about...forgive me, Cal...I don't make the rules...Aunt Paula is
talking about...having to...to hurt you, you know."
"I knew you meant that, auntie," Cal said in a small voice. "But the
things you've been saying....You're so beautiful, auntie....Don't be mad
at me for speaking to you like that....I know I'm just a boy...."
"A big boy, Cal. Of course I'm not mad. Aunt Paula wanted to make herself
as beautiful as possible today...to make it easier for you, darling....
The things I've been saying...tell me."
"I think I do understand them, auntie. About beauty and the ache it makes
me feel...your beauty does, auntie...other ladies' too, but yours
especially...and all I want is to be allowed to look at you, and then I'm
not afraid." Cal was trembling in fact, afraid of the hurt he was
welcoming, and full of desire for it.
"Oh, my sweet little boy, you're trembling. You are my sweet, wonderful,
trembling, frightened angel, and I love you deeply. I wish I could just
cradle you like a child again, Cal. I can't. You could say I'm not
allowed. But we are going to go through it together. I promise, I swear,
to explain everything to you as we go. And, no matter what it feels like,
don't let yourself forget that every single thing I do to you will come
from love, not anger. I won't lose control, I won't be carried away. I'll
be slow with you and careful."
"Will I cry, auntie? Will it be okay if I do?"
"Yes, my darling, it will be okay. Of course it will. And - oh, it makes
me so sorry, so sorry I have to do this - if only you weren't a boy, Cal,
if only I werteaching a girl how fragile boys are instead of having to
teach that lesson to you - and, yes, I won't lie to you, you may cry. And
maybe Aunt Paula will cry with you."
"Why, auntie? Why would you cry?"
"Because you will be showing me such love, my darling. And because the
nephew I adore will be in pain."
"But I will have to be, won't I, auntie?"
"Yes, Cal, but it will make me sad all the same."
"But you're a lady, Aunt Paula, and ladies shouldn't have sympathy with
men." Cal felt braver, calling himself a man.
"Shouldn't, sweet boy, and can't. Not if sympathy means knowing what's in
your heart as I...as I...do the things I must to you. But pity's a
different thing. It's my sorrow, Cal, that we can't sympathize, that we
must be what we are, a woman, a boy. It's what I return to you for your
humility, what every woman returns to every man. Oh, Cal, my pity for you
IS my love."
"It's so strange, auntie."
"Love is unfathomable. Do you understand that word? It means, too deep to
measure, too deep to know. Come closer, Cal. I want to give you something
and then, when I do, I want you to tell me what you think of my gift."
Cal nodded, puzzled. He felt suddenly shy. He became aware of his
erection and wondered how long it had been there. All at once Paula,
moving her arm in a wide arc, gave his penis a single stupefying slap.
"Auntie!" The boy cried out his pained surprise. Then he recognized the
crazy fact: this blow that made his eyes water and his penis smart, this
was Aunt Paula's "gift."
He knew what to say. Not merely to please the woman, but because it was
the truth in his heart. "Thank you, auntie. It was a beautiful gift." Cal
believed that his confirmed erection would prove his sincerity. Paula had
certainly caused him pain, but it was a kind of pain that stirred rather
than dampened his ardor. A kind of pain? No, sensation itself didn't
decide it. Meaning did. It was the kind of pain a woman dispenses in
order to enable a man to make an offering of his love. The throbbing in
Cal's penis - what was it but the glowing ache of a woman's beauty
ignited for its bearer's sake into gallantry and courage? It was a gift
indeed.
"Show Aunt Paula your testicles now," the most beautiful of women said.
end of part four
"Travels With Aunt Paula," V/6 (Femdom)
(For adults only.
Copyright 1996, 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 prssure.
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
folds, 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 upon 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 that 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 it 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 down, 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 Pula'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 arse. 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 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 shapely
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 this quick staccato battery 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.
end rp3/5
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM
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