Message-ID: <6299eli$9712101518@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year97/6299.txt>
From: vickietern@aol.com (VickieTern)
Subject: RP Estragon's Aunt Paula 4/5 femdom
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-Id: <19971210163500.LAA09715@ladder01.news.aol.com>


A RP in deserved appreciation of the author, who is not the reposter (me).
Estragon can be reached through RGT@well.com (comment welcome, but no
requests for missing parts please).  His stories are all archived courtesy 
of Mule at http://www.tpe.com/ÿ7EMule


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 4/5.










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 
bringing him down? 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, him 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 
crepe 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 said, "that women have no penises but 
are capable of growing them inside?" "So what do you think it means?" 
Paula asked. "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. 

"Believe me, Paula, it's the only good thing in the world," Dana 
said. 



end of part five

Estragon:
"Travels With Aunt Paula," VI/6  (Femdom)


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



"Pain is a flower,
Like that one,
Like this one,
Like that one,
Like this one...."



Cal was wrestling with a difficult dream. He was in Doctor Barbara's 
waiting-room. The other patients were all women and girls, of course; 
some of the women were pregnant. Cal was naked, except for his penis, 
which was wrapped in a sleeve woven of pliable wicker. It was one of 
those toys they called The Ancient Babylonian Finger Torture. You fitted 
it onto your finger only to discover that whenever you attempted to 
remove it, it tightened in place and refused to budge: the more you 
pulled, the tighter it bound. Now Cal had one of these around his penis 
and it angered the other patients that he should be trying to conceal his 
organ from them, especially in the office of Doctor Barbara, the woman 
who had made him "extra naked" to begin with. They didn't understand that 
Cal himself desperately wanted to remove the thing. It hurt his feelings 
that the women and girls should think otherwise. "But, but...," he kept 
saying. He'd tug at the evil device and it would close painfully around 
his organ, elongating it as it constricted, the tough fibers cutting into 
his flesh. "Don't you see?" he would plead. He looked everywhere for Aunt 
Paula, but he was on his own.

"It's an outrage," a woman said. "A boy in this place and not willing to 
show his penis."

"Please, don't you see?" Cal said. He was in tears. He stood up in front 
of them and gave the torture-device a hard pull. The lattice of straw cut 
into his irritated skin and made him cry. A pregnant woman  gave him a 
disgusted look. "You're not trying," another woman said. With that she 
took hold of Cal's penis and wrenched it sharply. The Ancient Babylonian 
Torture instrument tapered and squeezed and held its ground, extorting 
from Cal's penis a single jet of semen which struck his helpful 
fellow-patient squarely on the breast. "Look at this sticky custard," she 
exclaimed. "From such a little boy....If I had any idea...." Indignantly 
she slapped Cal across the face and then, without a moment's hesitation 
and no reduction of force, slapped him again across the balls. 

He collapsed in excruciating pain at the woman's feet. Other women were 
laughing. "That should do it," one of them said. Cal thought it should 
too: his abraded penis, his aching testicles - these should make him 
shrink to the point where the wicker sleeve would simply drop off. But 
then the scene was being repeated. One of the pregnant women was yanking 
at the device now and once again Cal was spurting. "At this rate, he'll 
make us all pregnant," one of the women said. "He's just a little 
slave-boy," said another.

A nurse appeared to investigate the commotion. "I'll ask Aunt Paula to 
milk him dry before e sends him next time," the nurse said. "Now that we 
know...."

"What about the button inside him?" a woman asked. "That'll make him 
naked in a hurry."

"I don't love him any more," the pregnant woman he'd soiled said. "You 
have to love them to put your finger up them."

"Maybe the doctor will do it," the nurse said.

"The doctor will do it," the other women said. "MAYBE she will," they 
amended, grotesquely exaggerating the word "maybe," but nodding 
confidently to one another as they did. 

It was early morning. Cal was in his bed. Somehow Aunt Paula had gotten 
him there. A kind of poultice swaddled his dejected member. The 
inflammation stung despite the gauze and balm. Cal touched his testicles. 
There was an echo of pain in them, a memory really, that didn't grow 
disagreeable under pressure. On the contrary, the touch of his 
finger-tips seemed to confirm a sensation already present and, though it 
was a vaguely painful sensation, Cal's testicles were grateful to have it 
revived. His sore penis hardened inside its wrapping. It was moist and 
Cal imagined Aunt Paula daubing it in aloe, her invariable remedy, and 
binding it while he slept. The thought of her hand soothing his raw 
penis made the suffering organ still harder. The erection worsened the 
pain, yet the pain fortified the erection.

What was this thing Aunt Paula had accomplished the day before, this 
conjunction of injury and excitement that now left him hungering for the 
very thing that made him cringe? The confusion of pleasure and pain 
wasn't merely, it seemed, the chaos of that hectic interlude, but a 
lasting effect. Cal's testicles had acquired a new taste, a yearning for 
the acrid clip of a woman's finger against their resonant surface. 
Nothing, in a way, is more fulfilling than a jolt to the testicles. Your 
insides quickly reverberate with it, while your balls themselves feel the 
strange relief of having suffered at last the onslaught they were made 
for and perpetually await.  

Sensations in themselves are only the most tentative of forces, timid 
suggestions of pleasure or pain, gratification or distress, awaiting the 
authoritative ruling of some higher power than that of the unstable nervous 
system to settle their identity. The palate learns to relish the hint of 
bitterness, the ear the note gone flat. A stench becomes delectable when 
its origin is cheese. The doctor, a man, thrusts his finger up my arse 
and I cringe to obstruct him; the doctor, a woman, performs the same 
examination and I cringe to keep my hard-on out of sight. Situation, 
intention, meaning - these determine the quality of sensation far more 
than our nerve-endings do. In any case, the male sexual system is so 
greedy, it can't evaluate its sensations anyhow. Men crave intensity 
alone, regardless of its basis in pleasure or in pain. And each increment 
of sensitivity teaches it a new impatience with everything milder, 
everything modest. Man's body demands a richness of feeling, an 
exquisiteness, even if that feeling should turn out to hurt. It is this 
insatiableness without discrimination that enables women to conquer us. 
Cal was learning this earlier than most.

Wanting a taste of the dark sweetness Aunt Paula had served him the 
evening before, Cal poised his finger, as she had, on the sprocket of his 
thumb. Then he froze. The moment of bitter contact was too awful to 
contemplate. Much as he wanted to fire the shot, Cal shrunk from the 
prospect of hurting what was already sore. "I am going to do it now," he 
thought repeatedly. "Now I'm going to let go. Fire the shot. I'm going to 
now...." He counted down; he winced, he held back. "But this is it. This 
is for real. I'm doing it. Afterwards it will hurt. But that will be 
afterwards, when it's too late. One second and it's too late and then it 
can hurt all it wants. The thing is to get to where it's too late."

Cal held his breath, boosted his pelvis a little and let his finger fly. 
The pain was terrible. He made a great shelter of his hands and placed 
them hurriedly over his genitals. He turned onto his side and drew up his 
legs. He had deliberately hurt himself and he was suffering for it and 
his occluded penis, which had troubles of its own, got hard all the same, 
nourished on the gall. Cal searched his unready mind for the logic of it. 
Nothing seemed simpler than the difference between pleasure and pain, yet 
- in a boy in any case - there was nothing clear about this distinction 
at all. Certainly it had to do with his being a boy, he thought. Words 
like "pleasure" and "pain" didn't have the same meaning when applied to 
exclusively boy-things. A toothache or a scraped knee were just plain 
painful because girls could feel them too. But anything you felt in your 
penis or testicles couldn't be described that simply: everything that 
happened there had some element of both sensations, or something 
completely unlike either. 

You had to wonder why it mattered so much to you to be seen and touched. 
Wasn't being seen a kind of pain, a shock to your mind not so different 
from Aunt Paula's jolt to your balls? Wasn't that what the humiliation 
was all about? And being touched at all, even gently - wasn't it on the 
way to being hurt? A squeeze, a scratch, a gingerly roll of your precious 
bulbs - weren't these but sly hints of more ferocious deeds that amounted 
to unbridled versions of the same acts? The real question was why you had 
such a need to have this ridiculous appendage of yours stroked and 
pressed. Or why you had an appendage that seemed stuck on for no other 
purpose than to BE stroked and pressed. And why, then, was it attached at 
such close quarters with those sheepish, shrinking symbols of masculinity 
that any laughing girl with her mind on something else could bring in a 
second to red ruin? 


Cal remembered how the flame in his penis had burst and spread under the 
influence of Aunt Paula's searing oil and bristle-brush. Soon he couldn't 
tell his penis from its ignited surroundings. Yet without that penis he'd 
felt none of it, without that burning, circumcised, erectile object he'd 
have been as cool and as safe as a girl. He remembered how sure he'd 
been, as he rose to his very first ejaculation, that what was about to 
happen was death, that he was going knowingly to his death, and proud and 
elated to be doing so for the sake of a beautiful woman in a short black 
dress. 

"What makes Aunt Paula a beautiful woman?" Cal asked himself. In his 
thoughts he repeated the phrase "beautiful woman" a number of times, 
slowly, as though lingering patiently over the words themselves would 
divulge the secret of the being they name. But you couldn't explain Aunt 
Paula, or any woman's, beauty: it wasn't one thing, but it wasn't a list 
of things either. Soft hair, breasts, hips, the face of an angel, the 
pubis of one - they revealed her beauty, but they didn't create or 
explain it. Cal didn't know the meaning of the word "redundant," but he 
had the thought that the phrase "beautiful woman" was redundant. It was 
just a long way of saying "woman," he thought. He quietly contemplated 
this for a time. 

A day at school lay ahead, so Cal gently shifted his reflections from 
Aunt Paula to his female teachers and school-mates. Miss Dunn and Mrs. 
Berman and Miss Eccles - they were all about Aunt Paula's age and they 
were beautiful women too. That is, they were women. He thought of slender 
Miss Dunn, whose breasts were firm and high and whose hip-bones stuck out 
of her dress like shoulder-blades. He tried to imagine the demure 
triangle of hair that must eternally conceal her nakedness. Mrs. Berman's 
triangle must be very dark, but Miss Eccles's was probably red. And his 
class-mates - they hadn't breasts or hip-bones or triangles yet, not as 
far as he knew, but they would one day. He thought they were beautiful 
all the same, even now: skinny Debbie with her curly dark hair, Christy 
with the big eyes and the gap between her teeth, Leila, compact and blond 
and always amused, Sarah with her intricate corn-rows and her grown-up 
banter, and many others besides. What a privilege, Cal thought, to spend 
the day among them. Some had seen him naked, a few any number of times. 
Debbie and a girl in his class named Kate had seen him circumcised four 
years ago. Now he imagined showing them all the new depth of slavery he 
had achieved. He imagined his teachers and the girls in his class putting 
him through the paces Aunt Paula had introduced him to. He would probably 
have to beg them to go further, to push him to the breaking-point. He 
would have to reassure them, to banish their fear of causing pain. The 
prospect of begging for the ache and flame stirred him deeply. He 
unwrapped the poultice and cautiously planted his hand around his 
martyred organ. The moisture of the aloe caused a slight slippage which 
his penis found pleasant despite its raw condition.

The girls would be shy about slapping his penis and flicking his 
testicles, he thought in his hardness. Perhaps Miss Eccles, or maybe Mrs. 
Berman, would reassure them. "Don't you want to see him cry?" Miss Dunn 
might say and give his balcruel squeeze. "It's so easy, girls," she'd 
say. Just as he imagined bold Sarah stepping forward with a pair of 
bamboo sticks that had suddenly materialized, Cal came, shooting long 
jets of semen whose steep trajectory caused them to fall back onto their 
producer's face and chest. The warmth of his semen surprised him. His 
penis hadn't required much exercise: the pressure of his hand and the 
greater pressure of his sweet fantasy had been enough to make him spurt. 
Yet it had happened too soon: he had meant to lie there, quietly 
absorbed, his hand almost motionless, for a very long time, as he plotted 
out the scene of his immolation. In this way, only hours after 
discovering his male hunger for that feverish ache, he made a further 
discovery, one which sooner or later dawns on every man: of the 
short-circuit that is our orgasm, the swindle we call "relief." 


At breakfast Aunt Paula was all anxiety and solicitude. Was Cal feeling all 
right? Was there a lot of pain in his testicles? What about in his groin, 
his penis, his legs? He had been so brave yesterday, as a man ought to 
be. She made much of the word "man." She felt his brow for fever. She 
asked to examine his scrotum and penis. "I'll take the dressing off," she 
said. "Not the thing to wear to school." Cal said that he had already 
done so.

"Oh, my darling, was it making you uncomfortable during the night?"

Cal wished he could reassure his auntie and decided that telling her the 
truth would have that effect, even though he had some fear that she would 
not have wished him to masturbate. He told her he had removed the 
poultice in order to stroke his penis. "I just needed to, auntie," he 
said when she asked him why. "I hope you don't mind."

"Did you shoot sperm, darling?" Aunt Paula said. "I mean, if you did...." 

Cal said that he had. "I kept thinking about the lesson, auntie, and how 
happy it made me to be growing up."

"And it makes me happy as well, sweetheart. And there's absolutely 
nothing wrong with you...touching yourself and making yourself...the word 
is 'ejaculate,' darling. Whe a boy...or a man...no, really only a man, 
and that's the proof that you are one...when a man's penis sends out the 
sperm that his testicles make...the way yours did, darling...we call that 
'ejaculation.' And it's fine if you want to touch your penis...the word 
is 'masturbate,' sweetheart...if you want to masturbate and make yourself 
ejaculate. But you must always tell Aunt Paula when you wish to do it. 
You must always ask permission to masturbate, and you must always tell 
Aunt Paula when you have ejaculated. I mean, when you're doing it alone, 
darling. If other girls ask you to do it, then you have permission - 
their permission - don't you?"

Cal nodded. He sensed a note of distress in Paula's words, almost a note 
of sorrow. She said that he'd better pull down his pajama pants and let 
her check his penis and testicles now. It was getting late. Aunt Paula 
knelt and gently palpated Cal's scrotum, front and back, and his groin 
and thighs. Her touch was tentative, gingerly. So too her examination of 
his penis. She was anxious to know if any of these soft, clinical strokes 
was causing him pain. They were, of course, but not in a way that 
demanded her concern. His penis stiffened for his beautiful aunt. Paula 
broke into tears.

"My sweet darling love," she said, "it's late and this isn't the moment I 
intended to say this. But you have to understand. What happened to you 
yesterday will happen to you many, many times in your life. I hope it 
will. It's the most beautiful thing that can happen between a woman and a 
man. And I saw with my own eyes how beautiful YOU could be, Cal, and I 
don't think either of us will ever forget what we saw and felt. If you 
stay faithful to our beliefs and if you devote yourself to serving girls 
and women with all the strength of a man, you will have the happiness of 
making this sacrifice again and again. I can promise you that."

"I'm glad, auntie," Cal said. "That's what I want."

"Yes, darling, I know. But don't you see what I'm getting at? It's this, 
my sweetheart, it's just this: Aunt Paula will never again be the one 
to...don't you see?...to...stir the ache in you the way she did last 
night. That was a thing Aunt Paula had permission to do only once, Cal...."

"Permission, auntie? From who?"

"I don't know how to answer, darling. Not from a person, I mean. Or not 
from another person....You could say from myself, from nature maybe, from 
the fact that I am almost your mother, that you are my sister's 
child....Do you understand?"

Cal nodded. He did understand. He understood how Paula could feel this 
way. Paula, who loved him and had only one purpose: to teach him the way 
to an honest life. But for himself, nothing mattered except the 
incredible fact that there were women on this earth and that Paula was 
one of the loveliest and strongest of them. Why shouldn't he live in a 
state of constant sacrifice to her? 

"I understand, auntie," he said. She had just opened opened the door 
for him, he thought, and now she had to step aside. And it saddened 
her to do so, which somehow proved that it was right. Cal was languid and 
thoughtful as he dressed for school. A remarkable sense of life's 
perspective began to form in his mind, the very thing young people 
are particularly incapable of seeing. It was as though he was looking 
back upon events that were still to occur. The process cheered him. 
He imagined his schoolmate skinny Debbie and her rich dark hair 
again, but older now, with a more womanly body, with little breasts 
and sharp hip-blades that shone through a black sheath-dress like the 
one Aunt Paula had worn to make him ache. One day - and very soon, 
too - Debbie would make him ache, or Christy, or some beautiful 
girl-turned-woman he was yet to know. His sadness over Aunt Paula 
would never lift, but this new, jubilant foresight of the beautiful 
submission that lay ahead now fell across it like a protective 
mantle, assuring the precious life of what was already a memory.


end RP4/5
Vickie Tern@AOL.COM

-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/><http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>