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		Strong Women II

		   by Zturgeon

The following fictional story contains graphic scenes of violent sexuality in
which women dominate 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 last sexual relationship was with a woman named Jessica.  I met her through
my work in real estate several years after college; she was a highly
successful, motivated, and extremely attractive woman.  She had very short
black hair, cut in a rather boyish style, which she often decorated with hair
clips and tiny ponytails.  She was tall, slender, and had B-cup breasts,
compact and elegant.  Although she was only slightly older than I was, she was
far more successful than I had been -- and far more successul than many men who
had been at work in the field for more than a decade.
Jessica was highly controlling.  I learned this almost immediately -- she
would tell me what to wear before we went out to gatherings, she would tell me
not to repeat certain things about myself; she told me how to interact with
her, how to treat other people at work -- she even told me what sort of
answering machine message I should have on my personal phone.  I had implicit
trust in her assessment of things, and I was often insecure about my own
judgements, so almost without exception I followed her advice.  
Jessica was also quite controlling in bed.  She would decide how long I should
give her cunnilingus before I penetrated her, and then she would decide when it
was time for us to switch positions.  Often when I was on the verge of
ejaculating she would seize my testicles and squeeze them or force me to stop
moving; this way she would interrupt my sexual gratification, and force me to
go on longer. 
I found my need for her growing as she made more and more decisions in my
life.  I was afraid of becoming dependent upon her only because I was worried
that she would see me as clingy, or needy, and resent me for this; in truth, I
would have relinquished all of my autonomy to her if she wished me to.  Serving
someone as magnificent as her provided me with a rich sense of meaning, and
true inner happiness.  I was not much of a man in our relationship -- not in
the stereotypical sense -- but I realized she had a better nature for being in
the dominant position.  Later I realized that most women do, in fact, belong in
the dominant position in relationships; men's thinking is poor, flighty,
shallow; their interests are narrow-ranging.  And they're simply weaker
creatures.A temporary rupture occurred in our relationship after I had moved
into her home.  One evening I came home from her office late -- I was
redecorating it for her, and only worked after-hours so as not to interrupt her
business -- and I caught her engaged in intercourse with one of the adult male
students from a brokerage class she was teaching.  It was a horrible thing for
me to witness; it truly hurt me, and it took me a long time for me to
understand my feelings about it.  I had seen his car parked in our driveway; I
had heard their voices as soon as I entered the hall leading to our bedroom; I
had even seen his coat tossed on our living room sofa.  It seemed to me at
first that the lack of concealment suggested that their love-making was
entirely spontaneous.  But later I realized they didn't bother hiding anything
because Jessica was simply not frightened by how I might react.  I wasn't a
threat to her.  Moreover, she wanted me to know.  
Wanted me to see.
See her in the act: riding his long, thick cock while he lay naked on our bed,
her bare breasts swinging from the frenzied motion of her hips; pulling
deliriously at his chest hairs, eyes fluttering, gasping quickly, ecstatic at
the wonder of a penis so large entering her body.  I stared at the two of them,
their magnificent bodies transported with sexual pleasure; I listened to their
passion, and felt like my masculinity, my ego, and my pride were simultaneously
dissolving.  I was hurt.  For a moment, I felt anger rise up like poisonous
acid inside me.
"You disgust me," I spat at her.  He looked up at me standing in the doorway,
then turned to the woman on his penis.  She glanced briefly over her shoulder
at me.
"Bobby, meet Brad."  She turned back to the man under her, and again rose up
on his magnificent cock, then eased snugly down on it.  She exhaled
passionately, and combed her fingernails through his dense, dark chest hair. 
Even aware that I was watching, she was unwilling to stop satisfying herself
with this gorgeous male specimen.
"Is he your husband?"  He asked her.
"Boyfriend, sorta."
"Sorta?"
"He's not all you'd want from a boyfriend."
"What?"  I hissed at her.  "What the fuck did you say?"
"Look, Bobby," she turned to me again.  "Look at this."  
Momentarily she lifted off of her stud, and pointed her open palm down by his
groin.  
"Look at how he's hung: a cock like a sledge-hammer; balls three times the
size of yours.  He's a masterpiece of manhood.  A REAL man.  Why don't you just
sit down and watch him fuck me?  See how it's done?  Do what I tell you, Bobby,
and maybe thus young hunk can teach you how to be a man."
She mounted Brad again, and then really got into it.  Brad looked up at me,
smiling, as Jessica's body shuddered, quivered, shook, nearly detonated from
the deep piercing of his cock.  
After that evening Jessica continued to date Brad while I was still living
with her.  Soon she stopped using my penis inside her vagina, though she still
told me to orally please her.  I became resentful, and began routinely ignoring
her requests.  
At some point I told her about the incidents from my childhood, and she
decided that the only sort of discipline that I would respond to was harsh
physical discipline. 
I was becoming more and more marginalized in the triangle.  I was not her
boyfriend anymore, though we lived together; Brad was her boyfriend.  "He's the
real man in my life: the ONLY man in my life," she once told me.  I was there
only as a convenience for their pleasure, incapable of making any real demands
of my own.  
Occasionally Jessica reminded me of my place in our relationship by
humiliating me, squashing my feelings, belittling my manhood.  If she got bored
giving Brad head, she would tell me to lie on my back facing up at her crotch
while she kneeled in front of his cock.  I was instructed to lick her genitals
as she pleasured her man.  She would rub her pussy against my face,
occasionally allowing herself to urinate on my head.  
Sometimes for her own excitement at seeing two men erotically engaged,
sometimes merely to punish and humiliate me, she would make me lick Brad's
balls, or stroke his cock.  Sometimes she made me dress in her clothing and
fellate him while she masturbated, and ridiculed me: "Bobby sucks co-ock, Bobby
sucks co-ock."
She would ask Brad how I was; if I wasn't completely satisfactory, she would
make me fellate a huge latex dildo she strapped around her own waist: She'd
yank my face back by the hair and drive that rod into my mouth, slam it against
my throat.  Sometimes she would swing it against my balls before strapping it
on, like some vicious sport of pain.  If I snatched it from her, she would grab
my testicles until I began to whine or scream.    
Occasionally I grew rebellious toward her -- that old paternal fire -- and
extremely resentful toward Brad.  On one occasion  Jessica was giving Brad
head, and forcing me to watch while I sat on the floor naked.  She commanded me
not to touch myself or talk.  She then abruptly stopped, and told me to come
over and lick his huge cock.  I was sulking, and refused, telling her I'd bite
off his cock if she made me lick it.  
"Oh, really?"  He asked, amused.  "You think you'd be able to hurt me?"
"You'd better not try it, boy," she added.  "He's much more of a man than you
are."
"Oh, that's fucking bullshit," I said.  It was the only thing I could think of
to say.
"Look," she commanded me, "Look at his balls."  She gently held them in her
hand, and raised them up.  They were extremely large, I couldn't deny it.  
"And now look at your little nuts, boy."  She stepped over to me, bent down,
and grabbed my testicles roughly, pulled them upward.  I made an indistinct
exclamation of pain.  
"His balls are immense; yours are puny.  He's a man; it looks like you've
barely reached boyhood with these tiny nibblets." 
She squeezed me balls, and I begged her to stop.
"He'd beat the fuck out of you, boy.  Admit it: Say, `He's more of a man than
me.'"
My jaws clamped shut.  Still clutching my little balls with one hand, she
slapped me across the face.
"Say it!"
"He's more of a man than me," I intoned woefully.
"Now say: `Brad's got the balls; my scrotum's totally empty.'"
Once again I resisted, and once again she punished me.  She clamped down on my
nuts, and started trying to drill her fingernails right into them like
toothpicks into hors d'oeuvres.  I cried out, then spewed, "Brad's got the
balls; my scrotum's totally empty."   
Brad laughed at me, and Jessica, clutching a lock of my hair, pulled my face
over to his cock.  Over to his balls.  And I, the boy with the nearly empty
scrotum, did as I was told.  I couldn't resist that woman; she owned me.  
On another rebellious occasion, she told me to kneel in front of Brad and lick
his balls while she sat back and masturbated.  Brad stared down at my groin,
and frowned.  He commented on his own cock -- that blessing of male flesh,
nearly eight inches erect, and thick -- then nudged at mine with his toe: three
and a half inches, flaccid.  I exploded with anger: I grabbed his testicles
just as I had seen my mother do to my father, and tried to squeeze them to
paste.  Immediately he cried out, and Jessica ran up behind me and slammed her
foot into my groin.  I collapsed on the floor, releasing Brad's balls; weeping
hysterically, I clutched desperately at my own.  If my scrotum had been a
football, I thought, its flight would have cleared fifty meters against strong
winds with Jessica's brutal kick.  
When Brad's lesser pain subsided, he pulled me onto my knees then sodomized
me.  My anus bled; the pain caused me to scream.  Jessica walked up to me,
punched me in the face, then told me to shut the fuck up.  Brad reached around
my legs while his impressive cock rammed into me and locked my nuts in a fierce
grip, squeezing, harder than I could possibly have done to him.  I don't think
I breathed in again until he released me.
When they finished with my punishment, I collapsed on the ground, feeling
paralyzed, my body aching with pain spreading from my groin to every cell in my
body. I could not walk immediately after that; when they ordered me into the
house, I crawled in, lamely, like a dog nearly killed by a speeding car.  Then
they bathed me, and explained to me that I had done wrong.  I wept, promising I
would never try to hurt either of them again, and they both kissed me, agreeing
that I was probably sincere.  I was extremely grateful for that.  But in
actuality, I was probably not wholly sincere; I did not appreciate my role in
the relationship, and did not understand it.  I had an urge, like most
egotistical men, to be the power in the relationship.  What entitled me to such
pretenses, I don't know; I never thought about it.  I just naturally strove for
supremacy.  I had my principles, reflected in my pledges, but again and again
I'd do things against my own best interest.  My body drove me against my soul. 
This profound inner conflict was, I now realize, a function of my male
hormones.  
Being a man -- that is, an unrefined man, a man in his testicled, primitive
state -- I was destined to misbehave again.  It was shameful, really; I always
picked the most idiotic moments to attempt my petty revolts.  One afternoon I
was reading a novel in the garden, lying back on a bench.  It was an extremely
hot day, and I was wearing diving shorts, hoping to get a solid tan.  Brad
walked past me toward the garage.  He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt.  
"Bobby," he called to me.  I looked up, without answering him.
"Mow the lawn today, would you?  Instead of just sitting around reading?"
I stared at him for a moment, then turned back to my book.  I had accepted his
instruction; mow the lawn I would.
"Hey!"  He called out to me again.  I turned back.  "Answer me, Bobby."
"What the fuck?" I asked, hotly.  
"Excuse me?"
"I said, what the fuck?  You want me to mow the lawn, I'll mow the lawn.  I
know my place around here."
"I don't think you do," he said sternly, walking toward me.  I began
trembling; I looked down at his feet to avoid his eyes.When his feet were about
two paces from me, he said, "Sit up."
I did, and stared at down at his sneakers.
"Look at me," he said, and I looked up.  With our eyes glued together with a
mixture of emotions -- fear, anger, a touch of sadness -- he slapped me across
the face.  I felt hot tears fill my eyes instantly.  
And once again, my reaction surprised me.  It was barbaric; pure hostility,
and I had no idea where it came from, what hideous cavern in my soul bred such
treacherous impulses.  What I did was rise to my feet and snap my knee up into
his groin.  He fell to his knees, clutching himself, while I began pounding his
head with my fists.  I swung upper-cuts into his face.  I began kicking him.  
Unlike me, with my propensity for weeping and pleading when I knew I was
losing a fight, Brad didn't show any real emotion.  I took this as a sign that
I was not gaining enough ground against him; that I wasn't really hurting him. 
I found the metal rod used to turn on the sprinkler system, and struck him
across the back with it.  Brad groaned in pain.  
"Hey!"  I spun around; my jaw dropped.  Jessica was running out of the house
toward me.
"Drop that fucking rod or you're dead," she ordered me.  
Perhaps by that point I was overjoyed at my own success against Brad; perhaps
it was my male nature, stupid and bold.  Instead of dropping the rod as I
should have, I held it up like a baseball bat, ready to swing it against her
stern, beautiful, female face.  
"One more time," she said, standing about five yards away from me, "Drop the
rod, Bobby.  Now."
I shook my head, grinding my teeth together.  "You'll have to take it from me,
lousy bitch.  I'm sick of your fucking abuse."
Without a moment's hesitation, Jessica charged at me: a blur, a streak of
color in my direction.  Surprised at the immediacy of her response, I swung the
rod, but she had stopped dead in her tracks just out of my range.  The force of
my swing took me off balance, and as I shifted my feet to steady myself, she
lunged onto me.  With her left hand she grabbed my hair, tugging my head back;
with her right hand she clamped onto my balls, fiercely twisting them downward
through the tight, thin fabric of the shorts.  I cried out in pain, and the rod
fell from my grip onto the lawn.  And then so did I, as Jessica pulled me onto
my back.
As soon as I was down, Jessica slammed the sole of her foot into my crotch. 
While I sobbed, leaning forward to try to cover my balls with my whole upped
body, Jessica stepped over to my head and kicked me hard above the ear,
knocking me out completely.  
When I came too, I was lying on one of the beds.  My ankles were tied to the
posts.  Since my shorts were off, my groin was exposed to sight and, I knew, to
abuse.  I began crying as soon as I woke up, even though I was in the room
alone.  I was terrified; I had been very, very bad, and I knew that they would
punish me proportionately.
Smiling, Brad stepped into the room from the hall when he heard my crying.
"Jessica," he called into the hall, "Bobby-Boy's awake."
Before she entered, Brad began undressing.  He whistled while he did so, some
ominous classical-sounding melody.  Jessica entered the room holding a couple
of knives from the kitchen.  I recognized them; I had used them making dinner
for Brad and Jessica.  
"Well, Bobby," Brad said, walking over to me.  His large testicles swung
attractively between his legs; his thick penis became quickly erect, and looked
like a fountain of flesh.  All the components of his manhood were so large in
comparison to my own that they seemed almost like independent creatures.  "It's
time for you to change your insubordinate ways."
"What're you gonna do?"  I asked nervously, my voice slurred, my head groggy
from Jessica's kick.
"We're gonna castrate you," Jessica said, her tone bright and cheerful.  I
groaned, my head rushing with blood, a sense of doom enveloping me.
"That's right," she said, "We're gonna neuter you.  Get rid of your manhood
once and for all.  We need a more devoted servant, not some misbehaving little
pseudo-man."
Brad climbed onto the bed beside.  On his knees, he moved his groin over to my
face so that I could look at his impressive genitals. 
"No more of these for you," he said, stroking his balls.
"He never really had 'em to begin with," Jessica quipped, grabbing my smallish
balls and pulling the toward her.  "He had the puny physical units, but never
really had balls in the manly sense."
"Too bad," Brad said. 
"Most men are like that," Jessica opined.  "It's like they're renting balls
for reproduction, but keep them well beyond the point where they're useful. 
Sort of like overdue books, but the person who checked 'em out never actually
learned to read."
Listening to Jessica talk, Brad lifted his rigid cock above my face, then
released it.  It swung down, banging against the bridge of my nose.  
"Which knife do you think I should use?"  She asked, looking up at Brad.  Brad
chuckled ambiguously, then Jessica turned to me. "You have any preference,
Bobby?  I mean, fair is fair, right? We're cutting off your little balls, so
maybe you get to be consulted."
"He's busy," Brad informed her, then pinched my nose.  Running out of breath,
I had to open my mouth.  He lowered his balls over my mouth.  "Lick 'em.  Suck
'em.  They're the only balls you'll know from now on, Bobby."
His testicles, wrapped tight in his hairy scrotum, bounced against my lips:
large, heavy, loaded with potency.  I extended my tongue, tasting the sweat on
his sac -- salty, mingled with the pungent flavor of his manhood -- then
brought one of his balls into my mouth.  I only had room for one.  
"Look down, Bobby," Jessica instructed me.  She was pulling my little balls
toward her with one hand, while holding a sharp, lean, softly curving veal
knife against them with her other hand.  I noticed there were tears in my eyes
again.  I felt dehydrated.  Weak.  I moaned.
"That's good," Brad said, "Hum like that; make vibrations.  Feels good on my
balls."
I moaned some more for his pleasure; I wept some more for my vanishing
manhood, and for the pain Jessica was inflicting on my nuts.
"Tomorrow you'll be a new person, Bobby," Jessica said, "And we won't miss the
old you at all.  Now feel this..."
My testicles!  
My crying climaxed into wailing; Brad pulled his balls out of my mouth,
worried that I would accidentally, or in a fit of childish rage, bite down on
them.  I had threatened things like that in the past.
Jessica slapped me a few times to try to shut me up.  After a while she
grabbed my cock, and threatened to slice it off, too, if I didn't stop whining.
I soon lost consciousness.
During my testicled period, every orgasm felt like a release; the blood would
drain from my penis afterwards, and my cock would dwindle in size and lose its
usefulness as a sexual instrument.  At the point of orgasm my interest in sex
would vanish temporarily.  Each orgasm, it seemed to me, was nothing more than
a rehearsal for castration.  Finally the real performance had come.
And with castration came clarity.  I became the facilitator for Jessica and
Brad.  They had created the new me, and I was overjoyed at my role.  I didn't
have to compete with Brad for Jessica's attention; I didn't have to aspire to
some absurd, barbaric notion of manhood as anything other than a subordinate
position to womanhood.  
I felt extremely important in our threesome.  In a way, I was the heart of it;
I had sacrificed more than either of them; I had changed my very nature in
order to make the three-way relationship perfect. 
And they appreciated me for it, that was very clear.  During sex, I was sort
of a referee, a cheerleader, and an audience all in one.  But I was also very
much involved: I made sure they were both getting plenty of pleasure,
stimulating Jessica's clitoris in various ways, massaging Brad's large
testicles with my tongue, playing with their anuses.  I was often on the floor,
around their legs.  I slept with either of them, or we all slept together,
secure in our very distinct roles.  They never fought with me anymore, though
they occasionally fought with each other, because I was supremely submissive. 
I simply followed orders; my identity transcended ego.  I was the heart of
their relationship, and many times I kept us all together.  
Sometimes I wanted Brad to make a similar sacrifice.  Holding his balls,
rubbing them gently in my hands while strumming his glans with lips, I'd get an
urge to cut him.  Company in my eunuch-hood sounded fun from time to time, and
I knew Jessica would be tickled to be served by two neutered men: two human
beings who had radically changed in their psychological, sexual, and physical
nature out of respect for her awesome womanhood.  But I decided it would be
arrogant for me to rush things: Jessica was the one who should make the
decisions for us all.  
She was the woman.  
And I noticed -- with sympathetic pain, but also a bit of delight -- that she
was getting a little impatient with Brad's masculinity, just as she had with
mine.  
For example, one evening we were watching television.  She had left the remote
controller by the bookshelf, and told Brad to get up and change the station. 
Brad rose without protest, staring fixedly at the screen.  He hesitated for a
moment.
"Switch it, Brad!"  She ordered, sounding a little irritated.
"Hold on..."  He continued to stare at the T.V. screen; an interview with a
sports figure was just wrapping up. 
"Now, Brad!"
"Just...just a sec."
Jessica, not making a sound, rose to her feet, stepped up behind him, and
threw her arm around his waist.  He cried out as her fingers snapped onto one
of his large testicles -- like the mouth of some fierce alien reptile -- and
squeezed it tight; shook it violently, wildly.  His usually smooth, deep
masculine voice turned into a shuddering, high-pitched whine.  She rammed her
knee up into his ass, then dragged him to the floor by the balls.
"Next time I tell you to do something," she ordered down at him, "Just do it."
She looked down at him, lying on the floor, covering his balls with his hands.
She lifted her eyes briefly and saw me smiling at her.  She smiled back, then
nodded down at Brad.  As if taking a telepathic order, I walked over and lifted
Brad's arms, pulling his hands away from his groin.  
"No.  No, Jessica,"  He begged to her, trying to press his legs together.  
"Spread your legs, or I'll cut your balls off.  Little punishment or big
punishment."
"Oh, oh my god."
His knees quivered badly as spread his legs wider.  Jessica stared directly
into Brad's eyes, her face strong, gleaming with the narcotic rush of female
superiority: his face pathetic, tearful, trembling with a man's awareness of
his innate inferiority.  Then she slammed her foot into his balls. 
Brad wept.  
"Wow," she said, exhilirated, "Why don't more women take on their men like I
do?"
Smiling peacefully, at ease in her power, she sat back down on the couch.
"Eunuch!"  She commanded me, "Time for my hourly orgasm."
"Yes, it is," I said.  "And I'm happy you reminded me."
I rushed over, kneeling, eager to satisfy the woman who had sliced off my
balls.  She, my master, had freed me from the pathetic state of manhood,
allowing me to ascend a notch closer to womanhood.  
And I loved her for it.


End.
Email the author, if you like: zturgeon@hotmail.com


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