Message-ID: <17923eli$9812100428@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/17923.txt> From: umbisag@aol.com (Umbisag) Subject: Story: Personal History (fdom cbt) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Authentication-Warning: philabs-gw.philabs.research.philips.com: smap set sender to <umbisag@aol.com> using -f 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: <19981209152032.17353.00000225@ng40.aol.com> The following is fiction. It it also explicitly sexual and violent (femdom, ball-busting stuff). If you're not interested, or if you're a minor, don't read or reprint it. A few days ago a woman in my American History class argued that essentially American history -- and all history, really -- has been such a continuous series of betrayals, cruelties, and horrors because it's been shaped so exclusively by men. This woman believes that men are more inclined towards cruelty than women. Men dominate; women nurture. Men are naturally insecure, and to compensate for that they're hyper-aggressive. Women, however, are generally more in tune with the world, and the cycles of nature, and are therefore more at peace with themselves and with the world -- hence they are far less combative. I wanted to argue with this raging feminazi: I wanted to tell her, Look, in my own experiences, women are every bit as aggressive and competitive as men. In fact, they're often more brutal than men. If I had tried to make this case to her, I could've mentioned the twelve -- I'm not exaggerating -- twelve times in my life that women have committed violence against me. All of them went right for the weakest point in my male anatomy: my genitals. Many of them attacked me absolutely without provocation. Since I didn't have the nerve to confront this raging feminist in person, I'm going to make part of the argument here -- just to get it off my chest. To avoid redundancy, I'm only going to mention four of the cases in which women battered me. If you want to hear about the other cases, ask me in email. It would probably be therapeutic for me to narrate them. The first of the episodes I'm going to describe occurred while I was a student at junior college. I was taking a nighttime biology class which ended at 9:50pm, and at about 9:55 one night I was in the recreation room in the biology building buying a Pepsi from the vending machine. I couldn't see anyone else there, and of course it was normal for the building to be deserted at that hour. What happened was, the Pepsi machine ate my money. This had happened before, and it frustrated me to no end. Getting my 45 cents refunded by the administration required waiting in line for sometimes half an hour. Anyway, I was tired and grumpy, so I whacked the Pepsi machine with my hand a couple of times. It wasn't that I expected the blows to make my money come out; I was just venting my frustration. At that moment a young woman walked out of the restroom. I recognized her instantly: she was in my biology class, a really tall athletic type -- I'd say 5'11" -- who talked every night. She was smart, a little sarcastic, and seemed like a really ambitious type of person. "What's your problem?" She demanded. "It took my money." She contorted her face in a really sarcastic overly-sympathetic way, then said, "Oh, poor little baby. Do you need a lollipop? Will that make you feel better?" I was really stunned, and really irritated. "What the fuck are you mocking me for, bitch?" I wasn't about to be ridiculed by some pushy woman. I expected her to shut up and walk away, but she did not. Instead she took a couple of quick steps up to me, then, with her face inches from mine, said, "What the fuck did you call me?" I felt my guts turn to jelly: I had never been approached as assertively by a woman before. I wanted to take back what I said, but I could not. "I said don't mock me." I answered quietly, hoping she'd see that my tone was conciliatory. She paused for an instant, then slapped me across the face. "You called me bitch!" She hissed. I was stunned; my face was burning up. I leaned over, staring down at the floor; I didn't want her to see the tears in my eyes. I couldn't believe that that happened. "Oh, poor, poor little boy." She said again after a minute. She was laughing this time. Suddenly enraged, I straightened up and swung my palm at her face, hoping to slap her back. Instead she swayed back, my hand fanning the air in front of her face, then stepped toward me and brought her knee up into my balls. I fell to my knees. Gasping. Bending over. My open hands positioned protectively over my groin. "Why don't you think about who you pick your fights with," she said from above me. Then, as if to rub my face in her superiority, she stepped into me. I mean, she moved the front of her pants so that her delta was right against my forehead, and nudged me a little. "Poor, poor little boy," she said again. She brought her fist down on the back of my head, causing me to see stars, then left. I stopped going to that class, afraid to see her again, and eventually flunked out. That wasn't the first time a woman had hit me there. The first time -- at least, that I can remember -- was in the fourth grade. It was very simple, and totally shocked me. I was with my cousin, who was in my grade, and we were lying on the carpet in her room drawing with crayons. "I need this one," I said, grabbing one of the dark reds she had on the floor next to her paper. "Don't," she whined, "I was using that." "I need this one," I said a moment later, grabbing a green away from her. "Stop it!" She was becoming increasingly frustrated with my possessiveness. After all, they were her crayons. "I need--" As I grabbed at another one, she slapped my hand. I slapped at hers back, and then we began wrestling. I wasn't really any bigger than her, and as I recall I was either considerably weaker than her, or far less determined to win the match. That would make sense; I had been taking the crayons playfully, trying to provoke a humorous reaction. She, however, took it really seriously. She was seriously upset. At any rate, we wrestled for a little while, I'm not sure how long, and eventually she ended up on top of me. I tried to struggle out from under her, but couldn't. Probably out of frustration at losing to her, I reached up pinched her chest, right where I expected her nipple to be. She gasped, then leaned back, and slammed her fist into my groin. I was wearing swimming shorts, and her fist hit my little genitals full-force. I burst into tears, wailing. She remained on top of me, staring down at me with quiet fascination. After a while I quieted down, and she did it again: rammed her fist into my nuts. Finally my mother came in and rescued me, demanding that I pull down my trunks to inspect me for damage. I tried to avoid visiting my cousin after that. When I was twenty-one I was into physical fitness. I used to spend a lot of time at the beach. One afternoon after sunbathing for about an hour, I walked toward the surf. It was a warm day; I was dressed in speedo shorts that revealed my large, low-hanging balls and the shape of penis, which, I admit, was semi-erect. How could I help myself? There were beautiful women everywhere. One of them in particular caught my eye. She was on her hands and knees laying her towel out on the sand, and I was transfixed by her. She was short, but had very large breasts. Her nipples seemed huge, and very erect in her shiny red bikini top. "Well," she said alluringly, "What do you think you're looking at?" She lay on her back, her legs slightly apart. Her tone sounded seductive to me, so I stepped towad her. "Ma'am," I said, "I have only one thing to say: Wow." She smiled at me, and I thought, I've got this one. I stepped over until my ankles touched her toes. "I wish I could say the same," she said, her eyes clearly fixed on my package. This hurt my feelings, and as I usually do when I'm emotionally hurt, I got angry. "I meant, `Wow, how foul looking.'" She stared at me for a moment, then her foot shot up and hammered my genitals. I fell backwards onto the sand, groaning in agony. I clutched at myself, trying to still the pain shooting through me. My vision was blurry with tears. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them she was standing next to me. "How does it feel, Mini-dick?" I was sitting on my ass with my legs still apart, my hands over my nuts. I didn't respond to her, and she kicked me there again. Although my hands shielded my balls form the full force of her strike, they were already hurt, and the second blow made me suddenly nauseous. I fell onto my side, puking, and she grabbed my speedos, yanking them off me. As I writhed naked on the sand, she took off. I was arrested a few minutes later for indecent exposure, and the cops said it would be pointless to press charges since they did not have a suspect. My first real girlfriend took real liberties with my male vulnerability. She was a real whip-crakcer; she wore thepants in our relationship, no question about it, and when I pissed her off, or, as she put it, "disobeyed" her, she punished me swiftly and sternly. It's amazing to me that I lasted in that relationship for so long. The first time she smashed my balls it was because I was making an unwanted sexual advance against her. We were lying in bed at -- it must've been -- about three A.M. I woke up with a raging hard-on, consumed by horniness, and I began kissing her breasts while she slept. "Don't," she muttered, but I only stopped for a minute. I figured if I could just give her the right combination of stimuli, there was no real way that she could resist. So I kept kissing her breasts. At first I thought my strategy was working; her fingers stroked against my penis briefly - - it's long, hard underside -- then went down to my balls. Instantly I realized I had misinterpreted her: her fingers encircled my balls, and then clamped down. Hard. "Ooooooh," I whined, my voice surprisingly high. Her grip on my nuts was excruciating; I was really terrified, because I thought my nuts were going to burst. My body began shuddering, like a little epileptic seizure. I was whining semi-humanly. "Are you going to pay attention when I tell you no?" She asked. I could only cry in response. "I'll take that as yes." After a final squeeze, she released my balls. I lay there trembling and weeping, the pain still ripping through me. I felt totally devastated by her. She got up and went to the bathroom while I lay there recovering. I was in a very strange emotional state which I knew only too well: vanquished, broken, my manliness torn assunder by a woman. And not a particularly butch woman, or a lesbian: just a normal woman. I think many men -- if not most of them -- learn to feel squashed by women. "Are you okay?" she asked, coming out of the bathroom. I just groaned a little, ambiguously. "Let me see," she said, pulling my legs apart. I instinctively moved my hands down toward my aching testicles, but she brushed them away, saying, "No." She stared at my balls for a second, then looked my in the eyes. "Do you know why I did that?" She asked sternly. I nodded. "Are you going to do that to me again?" She asked. My eyes turned down, I shook my head. My face was still drenched with tears, so I wiped at them with my wrist. "Do you know what I'll do if you ever try to coerce me to have sex with you again?" She asked. I don't know why, but I shook my head. I meant to imply, I guess, that I would not try to make her have sex with me again. But I guess she interpreted my gesture as meaning, `No, I don't know what you'll do to me.' "I guess you learn slow," she said, then pumped her fist into my balls. Not just once, but five times, very quickly and very forcefully. Her knuckles hit my balls dead-on, and the pain was unbelievable. I was instantly sobbing, doubled-up on my side. The word castration kept going through my mind: what if she's wrecked my balls, what if I'm castrated from those blows. She lay behind me, spooning me with her body, and after a few moments she pulled my hands away from my crotch and put her fist next to my balls. I was verging on unconsciousness, I think, but I have a foggy recollection that she lectured me for about fifteen minutes on how I should not fuck with her. She was in charge, she said; I needed a strong woman. She wasn't going to take my macho crap, my male-superiority complex. Next time, she said, you get it a lot worse. I put on a dildo the size of a horse-cock and rape you up the ass till you can't walk, boy. Teach you the meaning of theword penetrate. That's just four examples. My point, my conclusion: Women are every bit as capable of cruelty and belligerence as men. If not more so. End -- +----------------' 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>