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                         Strong Women I

                           by Zturgeon

The following fictional story contains graphic scenes of violent sexuality in
which women prevail over men.  Please do not read this if you might be offended
by it, or if nosy government organizations might harrass you because of it. 


My family was extremely violent when I was growing up.  My father used to
drink excessively, and drunkenness made him hostile, destructive, and abusive. 

He was abusive with me and my sister and, to a more limited extent, with our
mother.  She was actually taller than him: she was 6'1", and he was 5'9".  His
violence toward her and to us was quickly curtailed, however, when one evening
her rage, her stored up pain from years of abuse and neglect, exploded against
him with nuclear force.  
Father had been sitting in front of the television drinking bourbon.  It was
past our bedtime, and he was unwinding: he was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of
tight, white briefs that seemed like a fat sock over his hulking genitals.  His
spirit unchained by the bourbon and the sight of his own large cock, he was
getting increasingly rude and noisy.  We couldn't sleep because of his vulgar,
crescendo-ing verbiage.  My sister and I were worried for our mother; we hid in
the hall, peeking around the corner of the doorway; my sister whispered to me
that she would call the police if Dad got too brutal with Mom.  
At one point Dad ordered my mother, "Get over here, ya little slut," and
pointed at the floor at his feet: "Kneel on the floor there."
She paused, staring at him with an injured look.
"Why don't you just beat off," she replied, "You're never going to be able to
please me anyway."  
I was astonished at her defiance.  It seemed to me that the only reason she
was so bold was because she had seen us, and knew that we'd call the police if
he got too rough.
Staring at her, his eyes wide and illuminated by alcohol and indignation, our
father rose unsteadily to his feet.  After hollering at her -- cuss-words,
accusations of infidelity, denigrating remarks about her intelligence -- he
slapped her.  I had seen this happen before.  Usually her reaction was one of
pathetic terror: she'd turn away, tearful, then run into their bedroom only to
be followed in by him and raped.  But that evening something snapped, and her
response astonished me:  she turned around -- her eyes moist -- and slapped him
back.  I still remember the sound of it: a loud, hollow crack.   
My dad was speechless for a moment, his face red, quivering with rage.  Then
he lunged at her with his hands flying out.  After she dodged ineffectively, he
trapped her in a headlock and began to constrict his arms.  This was where her
patience ended, and where his physical respect for her began: this was where
the balance of power in their relationship changed dramatically.  Instead of
whimpering, pleading to be released, or sobbing in his powerful hold, she bit
into his arm, while simultaneously reaching down and grabbing his testicles.  
He was, as I've already mentioned, wearing tight white briefs, and the outline
of his large penis was clearly visible, as were the low-hanging globes of his
testes.  She caught them in her hand, squeezed ferociously, and would not
release.  His arm fell away from her; he began howling; he began flailing his
arms in aimless, desperate motions; he pleaded with her in a whimpering,
high-pitched, garbled voice, but she would not relent.  He began crying more
tearfully and pathetically than I had ever seen her cry at his abuse.  But she
continued to grip his nuts, tugging them sharply downward a few times for extra
effect.  Our mother looked up at us standing in the door way, gaping with
amazement, and smiled victoriously.  My sister turned to me with a look of
utmost joy, exuberant at the triumph of justice.  After about five minutes of
humiliating him in front of his children, my mom dragged my dad -- by the balls
-- across the room, past us down the hall, and into their bedroom.  While he
whimpered, helplessly.
I do not know what she did with him in their, but that his pitiable yowling
continued intermittently at least until I fell asleep about an hour later.  He
did not come out of their bedroom the next day until dinner time; he was trying
to hide a limp, had a bruise across his cheek.  He sat at the table extremely
quiet and well-behaved.  After a while he tried to talk to us about school, in
a fatherly, encouraging way, but there was something very small and meek about
his manner.  His voice was hoarse and frail.
On the occasions that he got drunk and surly after that, my mom would point at
him and tell him sternly to shut up, "Or I'll do it to you again, Tom," and he
would fall silent.  
Occasionally she would pour him more booze, saying, "Go on, have more.  I dare
you to act up again."  But he was not up for the challenge; he didn't dare
oppose his wife again.
A few weeks after that I began to hear him hollering in pain again, his
plaintive voice spilling from their bedroom late at night.  I crept down the
stairs, and found their door ajar.  Their bedside light was on, and I peered in
to see them having sex.  He was lying on his back, and she was mounting him. 
One of her hands was reaching back, gripping his balls and pulling them upward,
as if to pluck them from his groin like plums from a tree branch.   
"Still got your attitude?"  She asked quietly.
"Bitch," he exhaled weakly, "Fucking bitch."  
She dropped his balls, made a fist, and hammered them with it.  He cried out,
his pained voice sounding almost totally unlike his normal voice.  I was amazed
at how transformed he seemed by her domination, but now I have come to realize
how much of ordinary male conduct is posturing, a facade: the real man that
comes out in moments of female domination is much, much different.  She pounded
his balls several more times and he began bawling, then apologized frantically.
She rose up -- I noticed his penis, somewhat full but limp, sagging -- and sat
on his face.  Clutching his hair, she pulled his tearful face up against her
moist pussy. 
After a few moments she released his head and turned around, still keeping her
pussy over his face but getting a better look down at his manhood.  She saw me
peering in the doorway, and I froze: caught, guilty.  
"Look, Tom."  
Her voice sounded pleasantly amused.  He groaned in response.
"Our son is watching us."
He looked up to see me: we made eye contact.  
"Go ta bed," he muttered weakly, barely able to articulate a command to anyone
anymore.  My mother laughed at him, then, making eye contact with me, grabbed
my father's cock by the head, stretched it up, and drove her fist into his
balls.  My father lurched forward, his head colliding with her pussy, and broke
into fresh weeping; my mother smiled at me, and I ran up to my room in shock.  
She wanted me to know that there was a new order in the household.  A new
chain of command, with her, unchallenged, at the top.
My father couldn't deal with this new twist in their relationship; the sexual
revolution left him vanquished, as it did most men.  He left home the next day
in unendurable shame, and we never heard from him again.
My young mother found it very difficult to raise us.  She often resorted to
swift, fierce discipline: bending us over her knee and spanking us,
occasionally slapping us in public.  My sister was more docile, and soon became
a model child -- at least in her obedience.  I had more of my father's untamed
fire, and was sometimes ill-tempered and moody.  My mother often swatted me to
get me to obey her, but as I got accustomed to feeling her pain I became more
immune to it, and more defiant.  
Once when I was ten or eleven, my sister and I were fighting over a toy in the
back yard; my mother demanded to know what the cause of our obnoxious dispute
was; we explained our sides of the conflict, and my mother demanded that I
return the toy to my sister.  I refused.  She yelled at me to obey her. 
Standing motionless, staring silently at the ground, I refused to yield at all.
(I remember the toy now: it was a little gun that shot small plastic discs a
short distance.)  My mother stepped up to me and slapped me across the face. 
Though I felt hot tears in my eyes, the slap was not a particularly novel
punishment.  I refused to reveal my intimidation: I spat on the ground then
stared her in the face.  My mother cocked her head, whispered, "You stupid,
stupid boy," then swung her fist into my crotch.  I fell to the lawn, shrieking
like a girl, clutching myself.  
"Sara, come over and get the toy.  Your brother's finally seen reason."
Sara grabbed the toy from the ground in front of me as my mother walked into
the house.  Sara continued standing there a few feet away, looking down with
peculiar satisfaction.  Smiling.  After my mother went inside, I glared up at
Sara, then hissed, "What the fuck are you looking at?"
She laughed, then walked around me.  A moment later I felt her foot slam into
my rear end.  I gasped at this new pain in my behind, and started scrambling to
my feet to retaliate.  As I reached my knees, she did it again, kicking harder,
her toe striking me beyond the anus, just about where my testicles hung down. 
I fell back to the ground, rocking slightly on my side.  My flow of tears was
refreshed by this new sense of helplessness, defeat, and danger.  Walking back
in front me, Sara threw the toy gun at my face.  
"You little wimp," she said, "A tap on the balls, and little Bobby falls.  Ha,
ha, ha."
"Fuckin' bitch," I replied, my voice about as feminine at that age as hers.  
In a move of unexpected bravery, no doubt fueled by outrage, she pushed me
onto my back and sat down on my legs.  She punched me in the face a few times,
and I struggled to shield my face with my arms.  The pain, the fear of her
violent force, stunned me.  I couldn't believe she could be so aggressive. 
Looking back on it, I realize she was obviously empowered by our mother's
conquest of my father, her swift and complete emasculation of him.  
While I protected my face from additional blows, she unzipped my shorts and
pulled them down.  I wasn't wearing underwear; her hand descended upon my
small, hairless genitals, and -- a lesson learned from our mother -- she
gripped them in her hand.  
"These are a joke," she laughed.  "Boys are so fuckin' lame.  What a dumb
deal, being a male."
Lying there weeping, begging for her to stop, totally at mercy to her because
of my inherent physical inferiority, I agreed with her.  What a dumb deal.  My
sister didn't have the natural stopping point of her own sexual satisfaction;
she did not stop hurting me until she felt that I had been sufficiently
punished.  Since her cruelty was rooted in all the ridicule and nastiness I had
directed at her throughout our childhood together, she showed mercy only very
reluctantly: only when she was utterly bored with humiliating and hurting me.  

I began to despise my own maleness.  I saw it as a terrible weakness during
physical conflicts: any woman who cared to could easily and instantly subject
me to paralyzing physical discomfort.  It took little effort on their part: a
hand to the sac; a knee to the groin; an elbow, a fist to the nuts -- and then
I'd be down, even more vulnerable than before, the charade of male strength
instantly exposed.  
I found my masculinity an impairment to real affection.  During sexual
situations, I would get distracted from love and kindness by my wretched desire
to squirt semen into women, to soil them with my wet thrust.  I enjoyed orgasm,
that's certainly true, but then once it was over I hardly cared anymore.  My
orgasm involved a few minutes of frantic plunging; giving women orgasm involved
caresses, sensual touching.  Moreover, their intimate attentions were not
annihilated upon orgasm.  When my cock deflated, that was the end of sex for me
until my all-too-long refractory period was over.  With women, one orgasm led
to another, and another.  
My sister continued to sexually torment me when we were young, even until
after I had reached puberty.  She would invite her school friends to join her
sometimes, and my mother either ignored their abuse or scolded me for not
"being man enough" to protect myself "from a couple of innocent girls." 
One occasion was particularly embarrassing.  When I was fifteen my sister was
close friends with a sixteen year old girl named Tracy, who was a tall,
athletic, slightly overweight cheerleader at our school.  She had long, blond
hair and bright green eyes.  She often wore tight T-shirts or turtle-necks that
revealed her largely, lusciously curved breasts and her restless nipples.  I
drooled inwardly, envisioning her naked breasts, her bullet-like nipples.  
Tracy slept over at our house one evening, and since their bedroom was next to
mine I heard them laughing with each other late into the night.  On several
occasions I heard them mention my name.  Then, sometime around midnight, they
both rushed into my room while I lay half-asleep.  
"Don't say a fucking word, Bobby," my sister hissed at me in the darkness.  
She grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back.  It was painful, and I was
effectively pinned.  I began shaking with fear, but I knew better than to
protest.  
"Go ahead," she said to Tracy.  Though her expression was one of curiosity and
surprise, Tracy did not hesitate.  She stripped the blanket from the bed,
grabbed the elastic band of my underwear, and pulled them down below my knees. 
My genitals were exposed; my thick growth of pubic hair, my mature balls in
their loose scrotum, and my five-inch flaccid penis.  
Tracy giggled.  "Men are so fucking ugly," she declared, then poked her finger
into my scrotum.  "What a pathetic curse, all this crap."
"They're totally weak," my sister informed her.  "If you show them that you're
willing to hurt them down there, they'll do anything you say."
Tracy looked at my face for confirmation.  
"Isn't that true, Bobby?"  My sister asked, jerking my head around.  
"Mm-hm."  I admitted pitiably, my eyes shiny with tears of fearful
anticipation.  
"I think you're pretty cute, Bobby!"  Tracy said mockingly, jabbing my sac
with her fingers.  "I want you to screw my brains out.  Make a woman out of me.
Show me what my little slit is for."
With that declaration, she hammered her fist into my nuts, and pain tore
through my groin: hot, throbbing, completely mind-numbing.  I writhed, still
gripped by my sister.  
"How'd you like it if we neutered you like a puppy, Bob?"  Tracy grabbed my
testicles, compressing them with her tight fingers until I imagined them
reduced to the size of blueberries by her strength.  
"We should just castrate him," she said to my sister.
"Nah," she replied, "I like to torture his nuts.  I'm learning how to deal
with my future husbands."
"Yeah," Tracy agreed, then slammed her hand down on my limp penis.  
I was terrified of these women; I had no will or stregnth to oppose them, and
they knew this.  They were fiercely exploiting my manhood to their advantage. 
When Tracy told me to lie down on the floor and spread my legs, I really had no
choice at all.  
I had to stoop as I got off the bed because of the pain surging out of my male
organs.  I tried to look pleadingly, pathetically into Tracy's eyes as she
stood above me; I tried to play on pity, but she wasn't moved at all.  She
stepped forward and planted her sneakered foot on my jewels.  
"Wanna have babies?"  She jeered at me.
"Please," I begged her.  
"Shut up!"  My sister commanded, then kneeled down and banged up my cheeks and
eyes with her fist.  
"Wow, you're like rocking your brother," Tracy said, sounding slightly awed.  
"This is how I'll be with all disobedient men.  Why not?  There's nothing to
hold us back."
"Right," Tracy said, leaning her weight on the foot she had planted upon my
testicles.  I felt certain that her abuse would ruin me for life; that these
casually cruel girls would accidentally destroy my balls, leaving me neutered,
allowing my manhood to just slip away.  
My sister lifted up her skirt and lowered her vulva onto my face.  She rubbed
herself over my nose and mouth, then ordered me to please her clitoris.  After
a moment she complained, and then Tracy removed her foot.
"She said please her, you lousy little dick-stalk!"  After yelling, she kicked
me full-force in the groin.  I tried to crumple up into a ball and hide from
them, but my sister pinned my head against the floor with her pussy.  Tracy
wouldn't relent: she grabbed my screaming testicles with her hand and gripped
them while I cried, staring directly into my eyes. 
"How does it feel to be a man, Bobby?  Huh?  Do you like this?  This is what
the war between the sexes comes down to, Bob.  Men are fucking weak little
slaves."
She pulled my balls as far from my groin as she could, then tugged fiercely
several times, repeating, "You're a man, you're a man, another stupid,
defenseless man."
Again I was reduced to a helpless, tearful mess by women.  And not unusually
strong or determined women; just normal women.  They were simply overwhelming. 

Experiences like that trained me to deeply regret being male.  My genitals
made me vulnerable and ugly.  When I began college, I specifically sought out
women who seemed strong, assertive, intolerant and selfish.  Subconsciously, I
may have been hoping they would punish me for being male, because I felt I
deserved such punishment.  And, for the most part, they all did punish me. 
I've found that women have histories of explosive rage sealed up inside them,
and when they decide to tap into it, men are simply not capable of opposition;
we cannot defend ourselves against women's power.  We are too flawed.  Too
weak.   
It wasn't sheer brutality that made women punish me.  They recognized the
uncivilized, stupid, and arbitrarily violent nature of men; they realized what
maleness had done to the world.  When, for example, Shelly Meiker took me with
her on her Feminist Literature class's picnic and kneed me in the balls, in
front of everyone, when I confessed that I had forgotten to bring her Diet
Pepsi instead of regular Pepsi, she was punishing the sex that had fouled up so
much of human history, and oppressed her own sex for so long.  I collapsed on
the ground, clutching myself, while she poured Pepsi over my face and over my
groin.  
She leaned over my face, pitying me, her bra-less breasts hanging down close
to my mouth.  I cried.  I really just wanted to suck her breasts and have her
forgive me.  No man could ever do her justice.  

End Part I
Email the author at zturgeon@hotmail.com


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