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o o
o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
o They have been submitted by people from all over the world. Also o
o from alt.sex.stories (Newsgroups). There is no particular order o
o other than offering them to you in alphabetical directories. o
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o All works are copyrighted to the author and may not be used for o
o profit without obtaining the author's permission in advance. o
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o Lest we forget!!! This story was produced as adult entertainment o
o and should not be read by minors. o
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o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o o
Francie (cbt, Fm)
by Zturgeon (zturgeon@aol.com)
(c) Nov 1997
The following fiction contains violent and graphically sexual scenes.
If this might offend you, please stop reading.
FRANCIE AND LARRY
I can remember the first time I crushed a guy's balls very
vividly. The guy was Larry Smith. We were both seniors in high
school -- a really raunchy, redneck sort of high school in Virginia.
Whatever our real talents were, we were acting out stereotypes at that
point in our lives: he was a weight-lifting, beer-drinking,
barroom-brawling auto-mechanics student. I was a rebellious tough
chick who did nothing in school but smoke cigarettes, chat with other
rebellious chicks, pester teachers, and occasionally tease guys. I
got this reputation for being kind of loose, which I resented;
whenever people made jokes about me being a slut, I laid into them
real hard -- grilled the hell out of them and really tried to hurt and
embarrass them. Consequently I got a reputation for being a hard-ass.
And Larry? He had a reputation for being a brutal motherfucker
who beat people up for fun when he was drunk.
You could say we were a perfect match.
Even so, Larry didn't ask me out until Spring of our senior
year. I remember the morning: I was hungover with an awful headache,
which was normal for me, but even though I felt sort of half-dead I
was still ragingly horny. This was also normal. I told Larry I
thought it'd be cool if we went out, so the next day he and I cut out
of school between classes and went to a lake where kids in our area
went -- usually at night -- to get drunk, make out, fight, fuck. We
went there because it was the place to go, but it was strange to see
it during the day; all the broken glass, all the bottles, the trash,
the spray paint graffiti.On the way there we talked a little -- mostly
him asking questions, trying to sound interested in me, and me making
sassy remarks back at him. He seemed to like it when I talked mean.
He said gutsy chicks turned him on.
We went to a place we couldn't get to during nighttime -- a sort
of rocky peninsula made of sand and large boulders that you had to
hustle over with lots of dexterity. From that spot no one on the
shore behind us could see us, but we could look out over the whole
lake. There wasn't too much room to move around in; just about the
size of a boxing ring.
I leaned back against a huge, flat-sided boulder like a cement
wall and looked at the water, and felt the breeze flow across the
surface at me. Larry leaned beside me, facing me, grinning. He was
wearing this tank-top to show off his huge muscles and his body hair.
He had jeans on with tears at the knees, and a dull leather belt. He
was standing real close to me, grinning. Then he kissed me.
And I thought, you know, he likes it when I'm argumentative,
when I ridicule him a bit -- maybe he'd like the same thing from me
physically. So I sort of shoved him away from me, and told him, "Cut
it!"
"Oh, come on," he said, not fazed at all, and began pressing my
head back against the boulder with his big lips.
I shoved him again, and hissed, "Fucking jerk." But to tell you
the truth, I just wanted him to get riled up; I really wanted to ride
this guy's cock.
"Hey!" he grunted, then pinned my arms back and stuck his tongue
into my mouth. To tell you the truth, I kind of liked his roughness.
But instead of getting rougher when I let him pin me back, he got all
soft again. So I decided to get a little risky: I lifted my kneecap
along his legs, then up to his groin. Gently, at first, nudging at
his crotch. I could feel his dick sticking out -- thick, throbbing
against his jeans. He cupped my right breast in his hand, and gave it
a gentle squeeze, then began massaging it. I wanted him to get rough,
dammit! With one of his hands rubbing my breast, he left one of my
arms free, so I reached around his waist and grabbed left ass-cheek.
I squeezed it tight, tried to drive my fingernails into his skin.
This just seemed to puzzle him; he kind of stopped in mid-kiss. This
irritated me, his passivity, so I really went on the offensive: with
one motion I slipped my hand down low, kind of between his ass cheeks,
and tried to lift him up by his ass, tried to jerk his ass into the
air -- and drove my kneecap hard into his nuts.
He grunted real loud and sort of tottered. Leaning forward,
moaning, he came close to kneeling a couple of times. Then he stood
straight and swung his right hand upside my face.
Bam! My whole world shook. I saw stars in my vision. The lake
in front of me seemed to tip diagonal.
"Watch where you put your knee, you fucking little cunt!" he
boomed at me. Then, after I held my face for about a minute, I felt
him slap me again: on my right breast. My tit flew up into the air.
Then he slapped my other breast: it bounced up. Then he whapped the
first one again. My chest ached; I felt like he was going to hit my
breasts so hard they'd rip off.
The pain, I must say, was sobering. Or maybe it was my rage at
this big fucking cowardly male beating a woman. Whatever it was --
the pain, my rage -- I got my senses back real quick. When he stepped
up to beat my tits again, I took a step toward him and threw my knee
up like a hammer into his balls.
He cried out -- this time more shrill than grunting -- and fell
right to his knees. Once again I threw my knee forward, but this time
into his face. To my surprise, he fell backward, landing on the sand.
The way he landed, his legs, folded at the knees, were wide-open.
Making a quick dance step to get power, I drove my right foot into his
nuts. He let out a winded howl, then seemed to start gasping for air;
his lungs, like his pride, had been deflated.
I danced over to his upper body, then nailed him in the head three
times with my foot. That's when he started bleeding, and that's when
he started crying.
My rage, strangely, wasn't placated by dominating him like that.
It was like my rage only grew when I found that I could actually vent
it, rather than having to keep it pent up, like women usually have to
do in life. While Larry held his hands over his head and face to
protect what little brains he had, I unsnapped his jeans and pulled
down his pants. He wasn't wearing underwear, the motherfucker.
Clearly he had expected to get into my pants in a hurry.
I looked down at his thick, long semi-hard 6" cock, and his
large, agonized balls. The cradle of his maleness; the testosterone
headquarters; the jewels and tool of his manhood. I grabbed up his
big, hard balls in my hands and squeezed. His protests reached a new,
frenzied, babbling climax, but I didn't listen: I had him by the
balls: he was the most vulnerable creature in the world, and I could
do whatever the fuck I wanted with him now. As if to prove it, I
twisted his scrotum around, trying to make it like the head of the
possessed girl in the Exorcist. He yelped and pleaded with me, but I
ignored his whining; I squeezed, twisted, tugged at his vulnerable
genitalia; I made him beg shamelessly.
I released his full, hard balls and -- with one hand pinning his
cock down against his body by the glans -- I made a fist with my other
hand and hammered at his shaft. I pounded it and pounded it -- at
least thirty times -- until I was satisfied that it would bruise
deeply. Then I made a fist: I lifted it high and swung it low, my
knuckles colliding directly into his right testicle.
Larry wailed, his body jerking in pain, his tortured, masculine cries
carrying over the surface of the pond. Then, like he did with my
breast, I nailed his left testicle. Then his right one again.
By a combination of tearing at his hair -- which was kind of
hard to do since it was short -- and smacking him in the face, I got
him to sit on his hands and knees, like a pooch. I can't believe,
looking back on it, that I was so zealous -- but it was almost like I
was high: my head seemed really so clear, my thoughts so pure and
elevated. It was like I was doing something both divine and
instinctive. I felt like my mind was a fabulously clean, smooth
machine obeying a deep, irresistible, gut-level urge to take this man
down hard: to strip him entirely -- spiritually, mentally, and
physically -- of his manhood. To smash his notion of male superiority
to dust.
When he was in that position, I scanned the peninsula around us,
and soon found what I was looking for: an empty beer bottle. It was
ironic: this very bottle could well have been tossed there by Larry on
one of his nocturnal drinking and fucking sprees.
I told Larry to think of all the women he had probably date
raped in his evening excursions to this lake. Then I rammed the
bottle into his anus. The neck went in pretty easily. Larry's head
was down, and he was sobbing. His body was shuddering. It was hard
to get the bottle into his hole above the neck, though -- that took
some real effort. When it eventually went in, it almost immediately
shot out -- almost like a missile -- from the tension of his
sphincter. I rammed it home again -- pressing it further, harder,
trying to get his anus to entirely swallow the bottle. Trying to
drive it up fully into his intestines. Larry began collapsing onto
his stomach, so I reached around and grabbed his balls. I jerked them
up and threatened to kill him if he didn't stay on his hands and
knees. And then, holding his firm, large testicles -- the levers God
created to let women utterly dominate men -- I decided to try
castrating him.
Since I didn't have a knife, I looked around for something else
to use. I quickly found the perfect devices: two fist-sized, heavy
rocks. Standing above him, I told Larry to spread his legs wider.
When he hesitated, I slammed the top of my foot up against his male
fruits. He wailed, but obeyed me. I kneeled down behind him, and
held the rocks on either side of his testicles.
With all my strength, I slammed them together. The collision
was so strong it caused my wrists to sting a little. The rocks only
actually touched each other at one small point, creating a loud
tapping sound that echoed off of the boulder behind us and travelled
out over the lake like an incomplete SOS for Larry's lost manhood. I
felt the resistance of his balls as the hard, rough stones collided; I
could feel his testes lose their roundness between the rocks.
Flatten. Smush. Darn!
Larry's body reared up a couple of times -- violent, brief
seizures. Rasping, wild sobs escaped his chest. I wanted to soak up
his pain; I wanted to feel the spirit of his ruined manhood rise up
into the air. Hungrily, I tossing the rocks into the water, I flipped
him onto his back, and stripped my pants off. Naked from the waist
down, I mounted his crushed groin; I rubbed my dominant clitoris
against his now eternally unloaded cock -- his broken little sword. I
pressed down on his shoulders with my hands, and stared at his face.
He had black eyes, and his lids were almost swollen shut. I glared at
him -- he was watching me, gasping -- then spit on his face.
"How does it feel to not be a man anymore, Larry? Hm? How do
you think you'll feel going through life knowing that a woman half
your size stripped you of your masculinity? That you were castrated
by an angry bitch, and that you didn't even manage to put up a fight
in self-defense? You're such a chicken-shit wimp. You never really
had balls to begin with."
I plunged my tongue into his mouth, and drove it repeatedly
against his palate like a phallic thrust; like he had done to me with
his tongue.
Under me, on my labia, I could now feel a warm liquid. I knew
that it was blood from his demolished testicles: the precious stones
of his former manhood. Excited, I began rubbing my genitals against
his shattered balls; raping them, relishing their destruction -- my
vagina drinking up the blood of his castration. I laughed at him,
called him my poor little eunuch, my sexless puppet, and I rode him
until he passed out. Then I left him there.
END
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