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She Wins
by Zturgeon (zturgeon@aol.com)

***

A guy becomes involved with a woman with a really 
dominate personality and soon begins to regret it, but 
is sexually intimidated and intrigued at the same time. 
(Fdom/M, MM-bi, reluc, oral, anal, huml, v)

***

When I first met Patti, what excited me about her was 
her brashness; her uninhibitedness; her powerful self-
will. I don't know why that attracted me, but it did. 

We dated in the glorious mutual thrill of a new couple 
basking in lust and infatuation for about four months. 
That was a long time to me. It was a record. 

Our first fights were over meaningless things, and their 
duration tended to reflect that. We both seemed to have 
perspective about the things we fought over, so we never 
became fierce with each other. At least not at first.

We had little in common, now that I look back on it. We 
shared few interests. One thing we did share was our 
appetite for love-making, and our aggressive approach to 
sex: I was positively ravenous, and she matched my 
starved hunger. In fact, she sometimes exceeded it: I, 
after having my second ejaculation - at her strong, 
knowing hands; her daring, deep mouth; or her oven-like, 
commanding vagina - was often spent... but I could tell 
she wanted more. And I couldn't give it to her with my 
penis, usually: two or - on a good day, three - 
ejaculations wore me out. Left me as limp as a soggy 
six-inch french fry. 

I'd try my best to take her to town with my tongue, my 
lips, my hands - whatever she wanted. I always felt 
slightly inadequate on those occasions, and I noticed 
that she never pretended to be totally satisfied: she 
wasn't the type of woman to put up with lies. She was 
dissatisfied too, and she let me know it - with her 
eyes, her facial expressions, her body language.

When I moved away to grad school in Oregon - we had 
lived in Nevada - she came to visit me several times. 
The distance put a strain on our relationship. Moreover, 
when she came to visit me, she was sexually starved; we 
had agreed not to see other people, and so our normally 
powerful appetites were almost insatiable. At least, 
hers was: I found - and maybe it was because I was so 
busy with school, my energy was depleted - I found I was 
still totally satiated with two orgasms (or, on good 
days, three). She usually wasn't. I would cum, I would 
cum again, then collapse. She would lie there staring at 
me. Expectantly. Sometimes with obvious disappointment 
(which I tried to ignore). 

Occasionally, while I flopped on the bed beside her, 
she'd grow impatient; she reach over and cup her hand 
over my genitals: she'd tug lightly on my penis, flick 
my balls around with her fingers, even slide a finger up 
to my anus and prod gently. I'd moan in defeat; try to 
convey my exhaustion. And usually she'd let it end at 
that. Usually.

One Sunday afternoon she wasn't so easy on me. When I 
collapsed into utter tranquility after my second orgasm, 
she was still driven with libido: her body lay beside me 
like a neon question mark - not in the least bit 
placated. Her sex had soaked up everything I could 
provide it with, but she was still light years from the 
threshold of gratification. She reached over, forcibly 
separated my partially closed legs, and put her right 
hand over my testicles. She didn't just lay her fingers 
on them; she held them like a pair of dice about to be 
tossed onto a backgammon board. She actually shook my 
balls, and I jumped in response.

"Eric! Come on, Eric! You're not dead yet."

With her other hand, she trapped the head of my penis 
between her thumb and her first two fingers, and 
squeezed.

"Ouch! Whaddaya mean, I'm not dead yet?"

She gently tugged my balls toward her. 

"I mean, I know you can get it up again. You've gone 
three rounds with me before, remember? Come on, baby, 
you just have to try!" 

She tugged me harder, and I gasped vocally. This made 
her laugh.

"Ooh, poor boy!" 

She pressed her finger into the tender rope that extends 
beyond my penis. I felt myself grow slightly harder, and 
she drove me on: wrapping her fingers around my 
testicles like little pythons, gripping my penis like a 
dead microphone, thrusting an occasional finger at my 
anus. I felt like I was a scare-crow being raped, but 
her aggression gave me a new burst of erotic energy: my 
penis rose: and she got up and rode me to a third 
orgasm. 

Now I was finished. Over with. Kaput. I felt like I had 
ejaculated barely half a teaspoon into her, but I was 
spent. I looked over at her, and smiled in dizzy 
gratitude; she had hauled my manhood to a level that - 
at that time - I hadn't expected it to reach. Looking at 
her, to my disappointment, I saw she was still 
unsatisfied. 

"Is that it?" She asked.

"'It?'" I responded.

"Is that all you're good for?"

"Is that ALL? Patti, that was three orgasms! If you're 
not satisfied with that, you're..." I didn't know how to 
finish.

"I'm what?" She moved closer to me, her breast pressing 
against my tired chest. "I'm what?"

"Nothing."

Once again - this time with her eyes focused on mine - 
she placed her hand over my balls. Once again, she held 
my nuts - as if they weren't even a part of me - as if 
they were things that belonged to her, like toys that 
had failed to work as advertised.

"Tell me, Eric. What am I?"

I'd had enough. I pulled away from her. To my horror, 
she still gripped my balls: I couldn't move back. I 
heard myself utter a sound - I don't know, a gasp, 
maybe, or a groan, a sort of masculine whimper - then, 
sort of desperate, I tried to pull away again. This time 
she let me retreat. But as I walked away - to the 
bathroom, to take a shower - I felt her eyes drilling 
into me. "Sorry I wore you out," she said. 

I felt myself blush, and didn't reply. 

In the shower, with the bathroom door locked, I looked 
down at my penis. I tried stroking it, just to see if I 
could get it up again. I stroked it, I coaxed it, I 
yanked it a little - but it couldn't go hard. She's 
demanding too much, I thought. Stupid woman. Stupid 
goddamn cunt. 

The rest of the day we hardly spoke. Oh, she said a lot, 
but not through words. She wouldn't let me forget that I 
had let her down. Whenever we walked past each other, 
she'd rub into me - at first discreetly, letting her 
hand brush against my waist - but then more obviously: 
she'd walk up behind me, and run her hand lightly over 
my ass. 

Later, when I was walking out of the kitchen after 
preparing some of the ingredients for dinner, she 
blocked me in the doorway. I tried moving to the left, 
and she moved to the left: I tried moving to the right, 
and she moved to the right. 

I told her, "Excuse me," in a kind of pissy voice, and 
she smiled pityingly at me, then let me by. But as I 
walked past her, she ran her fingers over my crotch. Not 
just brushingly: she plunged her middle finger deep 
between my legs, raced it over where my anus was, then 
lifted my testicles with her palm as she pulled it back. 

She stared me in the face. I tried to totally ignore 
her: I had never known her to be this hostile before. I 
just moved on - sat at my desk and stared doing my 
homework, pretending she hadn't just worked me. She 
stood there, staring at me, then laughed. 

I ignored this. 

"Oh, Jeeesus," she said, then, walking into the kitchen, 
concluded with, "You're pathetic, Eric." I didn't 
respond. I felt myself blushing again, and she left me 
alone. Sitting there, I envisioned my penis, hanging 
between my legs - my manhood: a tiny piece of flesh, 
unable to get hard enough to satisfy her. Taunted by 
her. A limp little thing. 

I became anxious toward bedtime. We still hadn't spoken, 
but I knew that we would have some sort of confrontation 
in bed. She would want me to have sex with her, but I 
was wounded; I felt like she had totally humbled me - 
buried my masculinity in inferiority. And I didn't know 
how to approach her. How could I be aggressive now? I 
was obviously not the sexually dominant party. And how 
much could I deliver anyway? But if she made moves on 
me, I would feel like I had to redeem myself. 

I felt like my sexuality wasn't enough for her; after 
the work-out earlier in the day, how could I possibly 
fulfill her now? Her vagina would devour me, and I'd 
just leave her unsatisfied again. What would she do 
then? She had gotten really impatient with me earlier; 
what if she got more impatient now? I recognized two 
kinds of feelings in myself now: Anger at her for 
belittling me, even if it was deserved: and fear. 

For the first time, I recognized that I was afraid of a 
woman. She had the power to make me feel totally 
inadequate. There was no way I could take away her 
femininity, but she - a strong woman - could strip me of 
my masculinity with just a few moments in the sack. 

Looking back on it, I felt that when she stopped me into 
the doorway and rubbed her hand from my asshole across 
my balls, pressing them against my body with her palm, 
that she was telling me: "Eric, when you couldn't handle 
me earlier today - when I gripped your useless little 
nuts - I castrated you. I castrated you." Getting ready 
for bed - the two of us still in silence - I felt like a 
eunuch.

She lay in bed, naked. The only light on was my reading 
lamp. I stood at the side of the bed, and realized that 
if I didn't take off my boxers, it would be stupid. I 
would look ridiculous - I always slept naked, as did 
she. So I pulled down my boxers. As I reached for the 
light - before getting into bed - I saw her staring at 
my crotch. At my flaccid penis. She had a look of 
hostile disappointment. 

I lay on my back, rigidly. I began to think she was just 
going to let me go to sleep, without trying to have sex 
with my again. But then, while my mind slowly dissolved 
into sleep, while I lay on my side facing away from her, 
I felt her turn over, and she banged her knee against my 
ass. I was jolted into fearful awareness. Although she 
had definitely kneed me - definitely wanted me to hurt a 
little - I didn't say anything. 

I wanted to pretend it hadn't happened. But then it 
happened again: harder. And - maybe it was the darkness, 
maybe it was my total confusion about what was going on 
- I felt tears well up in my eyes. I prayed that she 
would just think, OK, I've punished him enough; I'll let 
him sleep. But then she did it again - this time making 
sure to drive her knee evenly between my buttocks (but 
mercifully not striking my balls). Against my will, I 
cried out.

"What's the matter, Eric? Hm?"

She moved up to me, pressed herself against me. I could 
feel her firm breasts pushing into my back. She made a 
couple of little thrusts against my ass with her pelvis, 
then reached around my waist for my testicles.

"Something wrong, little baby?"

I instinctively pressed my legs together, trying to 
prevent her from touching my balls. I sandwiched them 
between my legs hard -- it hurt, but I felt safer. She 
instantly recognized what I was doing, and yanked 
ferociously on my penis. Again letting the illusion of 
"masculinity" slip away, I cried out. She laughed, and 
tugged me more. But I realized she could wail on my 
penis all she wanted; it was, compared to my balls, 
invulnerable. I kept my legs closed, even if crushing my 
nuts slightly. 

She would have none of it. Of course my scrotum was 
still partly exposed, and she drove her fingernails into 
it, until I had to yield to her. I was starting to cry; 
I opened my legs for her, and she was not in the least 
bit merciful because I surrendered: she grabbed my nuts 
in her fist and chuckled. 

"Are you going to fuck me now, Eric? Are you going to 
pretend to be a man and satisfy me, or am I going to 
take the broomstick from the closet, gag you with a 
fucking towel, then ream you until you bleed all over 
the floor?"

I heard myself whimpering, and I heard her laughing. 

"You're such a little wimp, Eric. I should never have 
gotten involved with a boy as dickless as you. I could 
eat your little nuts for a snack."

I heard myself weeping. She held me around the waist, 
gripping my weak masculine flesh - utterly dominating 
me. 

"If only some of your boyfriends were over, Eric. Maybe 
then I'd get satisfied; I'd screw them all one at a time 
- hell, two at a time - then make you slurp their cum 
from my asshole, then fuck you silly with them all 
watching what a dickless little twerp you are." 

She laughed, then bit my on the back of the neck. I 
cried out; I felt like she broke skin, made me bleed. 

"Wait!" she shouted, "Wait a minute here. Men are 
supposed to be stronger in battle, aren't they? Men are 
supposed to have greater upper body strength than women. 
And if you forget their little nuts" - she gave mine an 
extra squeeze, making my insides jump - "they've got a 
HUGE edge over women, don't they?"

She leapt off the bed, then commanded me to get to my 
feet. When I lay there quivering, afraid to move, she 
slapped my face with her palm, HARD. 

"Get on your feet, stupid boy! Get on your fucking 
feet!" 

And what happened after that is still sort of a daze. 
she told me she wanted me to engage in hand-to-hand 
combat with her, to prove whether women were really 
superior to men, or whether I was just a bad example of 
man. She promised me she wouldn't use my groin against 
me, and ordered me to use everything within my power to 
beat her up. If I could beat her, she would never, ever, 
speak or act disrespectfully toward me again. And, with 
that preamble, she engaged me in combat. 

She circled me - I was still rather dazed - and took a 
couple of swipes at my head. They landed, but I didn't 
feel any worse for it; I felt like I had already lost, 
and was just waiting for her to take me down and 
obliterate me. She grabbed me by the arm, twisted it 
behind me, put her foot around my ankles and tripped me 
to the floor. When I was down, afraid to get back up, 
she slammed her foot into my rear end four times in 
rapid succession. I howled in pain and humiliation. Then 
she bent down and slammed her fist into my mouth: 
instantly I tasted blood, mingled with tears. 

"Oh, you're lost, boy! You're just like all men, Eric! 
You're a puny, wormy little coward!" 

I felt her trying to drag me to my feet - no doubt she 
hadn't had enough fun with me yet. She got me standing, 
then pounded my shoulders a few times. I felt myself 
swaying this way and that, nearly falling over. 

"Take a swing at me, Eric! Go for it! Try to hurt me, 
little man! I dare you."

I was already defeated; I was crushed; rendered as 
useless as any man confronted with the natural 
superiority of womanhood. I knew she was going to ruin 
me before the evening was up, so I decided to obey her; 
maybe if I tried a swing at her, she'd get mad and get 
my torture over with, whatever it was. So I swung a lazy 
fist at her.

To my dazed amazement, I hit her on the side of the 
face, and she toppled. She let out a pathetic moan, and 
had to support herself on a chest of drawers. And 
suddenly I was alive again. Suddenly, I was a man again. 

Before she could recover, I hit her again: one more fist 
to the face. And one more. And one more. And then she 
was on the floor, crying like a fucking little baby. I 
stood over her body - she was covering her head with her 
arms, sobbing - and I spat on her breasts. I kicked her 
in the side, then put my bare foot over one of her 
breasts, and pressed on it. And that's when I had an 
idea.

I grabbed her feet from the floor, lifted them up, and 
spread her legs apart. She was too weak, too stunned, to 
resist. And I laid the ball of my foot over her snatch. 
Then I began wriggling my toes into her filthy little 
slit. And I burst into laughter, because I had never 
heard of a man foot-fucking a chick before. I was 
treading on her like she had trampled on my manhood. But 
this was fair: this was the way of nature: man rules, 
woman serves. And pressed all of my toes into her 
snatch, and started shoving my foot inside her. At first 
she screamed, then she began pleading. Then it was all 
over.

I didn't see it coming. I didn't know how it happened. 
She suddenly freed one of her feet from my grip, then 
pounded it into my stomach. All of the air was knocked 
out of my body, and I was doubled over, kneeling on the 
floor. And then she was all over me like a fucking 
wildcat; her nails scratching my back, my shoulders, her 
fists pounding my head and my face. 

She grabbed me by the hair and yanked my onto my back 
with a thud, then hammered her fists against my head 
like drumsticks. Then her pussy, which moments before 
had been at my mercy, was suddenly gagging my face - she 
had it over my mouth and nose - and she beat her fists 
against my chest and my stomach. 

I gasped for air; I felt dizzy; I became extremely weak, 
and thought I would black out. 

"See, Eric?" she shrieked at me, "Who's on top in the 
end? Huh? And I didn't use your male weakness against 
you, did I? DID I?"

She pounded my chest some more, then reached below her 
belly batter my chin, and reached behind her to thump my 
head with her fist. 

"But you tried to rape me, didn't you? You tried to fuck 
me with your foot. You tried to hurt my sexuality. Well, 
now I'm going to do that to you, Eric."

And, holding her hands in a double-fist, she swung them 
like a jack-hammer against my balls. Not once. Not 
twice. She hammered my groin repeatedly like a layer of 
rock to be smashed through to get at valuable mineral 
deposits. I was weeping again; I was sobbing again. My 
last memory of the evening was feeling her lips suck up 
my balls into her mouth; I began to feel her molars 
grind against them. 

Weeks later, after she had begun to train me to serve 
her absolutely, she asked me if I had ever doubted that 
she would conquer me. I asked her, in turn, if I had 
been too easy for her - to little a challenge. I asked 
her, "If you had to try dominating me and my friend Paul 
- you know, Paul from the gym - do you think you 
would've won?"

She looked at me, and smiled. 

"Want to find out?"

"Man."

She sat with her childhood photo album, occasionally 
stripping away the plastic sheet to remove a shot.

"Man..."

Wearing tight, white Fruit-of-the-Loom underwear - and 
nothing else - I scrubbed the hardwood floor of her 
apartment. I heard the sound of another photograph being 
ripped up.

"Man."

She tossed the shredded bits of Fujifilm paper onto the 
floor, and I hustled over to collect them, and put them 
in the trash bin. She didn't like her place to get messy 
- even when she was creating the mess.

I looked at the fragmentary images as I gathered them 
from the floor: her father, her uncle, her older brother 
- whom she used to routinely beat up - her step-father, 
an old boyfriend...

"If only I could've known then," she said, "What I know 
now."

I was silent. I could just imagine her, a sixteen-year-
old, sitting in a car with some poor, love-struck chump: 
he - his hand trembling - reaching over to kiss her - a 
shy, inexperienced boy - and she plunging her tongue 
into the full depth of his mouth, pressing her hand into 
his crotch, gripping his balls and demanding, "Big 
enough for me, boy?" -his surprised whimper mingling 
with her full, proud laugh. S

he mounting his erection, pounding her hips against his 
prone body, tugging his hair back to see his face of 
submission. Moments later smacking him around for 
ejaculating too soon - beating him to tears for not 
satisfying her. Grabbing him by the balls, demanding one 
good reason why she should let a flaccid twerp like him 
go on pretending to be a man - in her world. Why she 
should!

"You idiot!" She yelled at me: the buzzer in the kitchen 
had gone off. I felt myself begin shaking. I scrambled 
to my feet to take her cake out of the oven. I tried to 
get into the kitchen as fast as I could, but she bounded 
off of the bed and intercepted me at the kitchen door. 
"I told you not to let it burn, you fucking moron!"

I was shaking; I felt myself go pale.

"I'm sorry: I was... I was trying to clean a spot off 
the floor, so I..."

"That's no fucking excuse!" She reached around my head 
and grabbed the back of my hair. She jerked my head back 
violently - I heard myself let out a cry - then she 
smacked my cheek with her palm. My face stung. "You 
brainless, fucking coward! You miserable, stupid goon! 
How dare you ignore my demands!"

I quivered: I knew that wasn't the end of it. She 
slammed her fist into my stomach, and - gasping for air 
- I doubled over. Gripping my hair with both of her 
hands, she held my head right in front of her pussy. She 
pounded the back of my head with her hand three times, 
then held my face there -- right in front of her pussy -
- for about a minute. Then she spoke again. "Put your 
hands on the floor."

I felt tears well up in my eyes: I knew what was coming. 
Dutifully, I touched my fingers against the floor while 
keeping my legs straight. I stayed like that - bent over 
- while she went to the closet. About two minutes later, 
I heard her footsteps move up behind me. 

She stripped down my underwear. I was crying; I heard 
myself beg: "Don't," I was saying, "Please don't, Ma'am, 
please don't - I'm not so bad, Ma'am... please don't..."

She wasn't listening. She was smearing jelly on the 
twelve inch dildo strapped around her waist. While I 
continued my whimpering, she reached around my waist and 
grabbed my testicles. "You fucked up again, boy."

With my masculinity being crunched in her fist, I felt 
the tip of her rod between my cheeks.

"You need to be reminded."

I couldn't stop shaking. She held my balls with one 
hand, and a lock of my hair with the other. Pulling back 
my head, she slammed into me: she broke the gates of my 
body, and laughed as I tried to muffle my scream. On the 
first thrust, she hammered the dildo into me to the 
hilt. I felt like I was being ripped apart inside - my 
whole backside hurt terribly, almost up to my stomach. 
She pulled half way out, then pounded into me again. I 
heard myself wailing as she pulled out, then impaled me 
again; pulled out, then drove into me again... 

When she finally got bored of me weeping and begging, 
she pulled out all the way. I fell to the floor, 
clutching at my body. After she removed the strap-on, 
then grabbed me by the arm and forced me to lie on my 
back, facing up at her. She yanked my legs apart, 
exposing my limp, limp cock. My jelly-like balls. And 
she moved down on me, laying her hot, moist vagina 
against my genitals. 

She grabbed a lock of my hair, forcing me to make eye 
contact with her, then slapped me across the face. She 
pounded her mons against my penis, then reached down and 
yanked at my testicles, only releasing them right 
before, I'm sure, they were about to come off. She spat 
at me: "Man."

She made me get hard, then she raped me. When she was 
done, she made me finish cleaning the floor.

By the time I was done cleaning the floor, the cake was 
completely burned. She took it out of the oven; she 
removed it from the pan, set it on a plate, then placed 
it on the floor. Its charred surface still smoking, she 
made me sit on it - nude - for thirty-five minutes: the 
exact time it should have been in the oven.

While the cake burned against my ass and my scrotum, she 
took several pictures of me sitting there. She put the 
pictures in her photo album, replacing the old pictures 
of the men she had ripped up. 

As my relationship with Patti became increasingly one of 
service and submission, my self-definition evolved 
dramatically: I no longer thought of myself as a 
solitary creature with a finite, rather average amount 
of power with which to exploit other solitary creatures 
randomly encountered in life. Life was no longer a 
series of potential attacks and conquests, whose only 
meaning came from ephemeral emotional entanglements and 
transient pleasures. 

I began to approach life from a more oblique angle when 
Patti became my dom. The ordinary experiences of life 
lost their importance; the everyday struggles lost their 
urgency. My perspective was much more elevated - 
allowing me to reject much of typical human life - in 
two ways: first, I felt I was taking part in a sublime - 
though somewhat underground - movement to serve women as 
the pioneers of a True Civilization. The modern world 
was characterized predominately by male "rationality" 
and the typically male instinct to smash anything in 
nature that is incomprehensible or seems uncooperative 
with the witless male conception of social order. 

That modern, male-smudged world has failed. It has been 
a crushing disappointment, and - with the help of my dom 
- I could see that the race needed to disengage from 
that old disordered perspective. I had a small part (as 
is suitable for males) in the avant-garde of a new, 
female-dominated world order. This gave me a tremendous 
sense of meaning.

The other way my view of the world had marvelously 
changed was by serving Patti as an individual. She was 
the voice and the embodiment, in my life, of what was 
best in human nature. I surrendered to her because her 
vision of things was clearer than mine - magnificent and 
illuminating - and by stepping into my life and taking 
the reins, she improved me vastly. I felt an insatiable 
need to repay her. I wanted to do this through total, 
unflinching slavery. She deserved nothing less. 

This isn't to say I didn't resist her at times. I 
resisted quite frequently, because the notion of male 
independence - even male superiority! - was deeply 
ingrained in my mind. I needed constant reminding and 
constant discipline. 

My need for discipline meshed nicely with Patti's 
fondness for a physically fit male. She designed a 
rigorous exercise regiment for me, and occupied me for 
much of the day with laborious chores and errands. It 
was important that I spent every moment of my life 
pursuing activities for her benefit; nothing I did any 
longer was for my own betterment, entertainment, or joy 
- except in the long run. 

Patti spent quite a lot of time lifting weights herself, 
and she loathed me - when we first met - for being 
somewhat flabby. 

"Too many subs," she told me. "Are ugly, pot-bellied, 
sloths. It's an insult to their femdoms. And by no means 
will I tolerate that from you, Eric."

She found, however, that often when I lifted weights or 
did push-ups, the blood coursing through my veins, the 
air pumping in and out of my lungs, seemed to charge my 
testosterone level up: seemed to make me cocky. As if 
subconsciously I thought that by improving my body I 
could approach her excellence. As if by polishing my 
physique, I could transcend my inherently soiled, stupid 
male nature. 

Patti had various ways of counter-acting my testosterone 
surges. One morning while I was doing my push-ups she 
stepped up behind me, planted her bare heel on my ass, 
and shoved me down hard. My chest thumped to the floor 
under the strength of the steel muscles of her leg. 

"Push up, Eric."

I tried to surmount the force of her thrust, I strained, 
my forehead dripping sweat, but couldn't overcome her. 
She shoved her heel against the crack between my cheeks. 

"Get up, Eric! Can't let a woman overpower you, can you? 
Get up!" 

I tried again, but my muscles were fatigued and sore. 

"You're such a pathetic weakling..." She pressed the 
base of her heel down against my testicles, pinning them 
to the floor. I gasped; she nudged her heel against them 
several times, grinding them against the floorboards. 
Each time making my groin throb explosively, each time 
making me gasp closer to the verge of tears. 

"You did well, though, Eric. You did real well, and I 
think you deserve an applause." She stripped off my 
shorts, exposing my behind to her, then told me to 
separate my legs, wide. I obeyed her, and she kneeled 
behind me in the space between my legs. 

"Now do one final encore push-up, Eric."

As I raised myself from the floor, my balls - their 
scrotum loose and sweaty - hung low from my body. 

"Here's your applause, Mr. Universe."

She clapped her hands together several times - clapped 
them hard, smashing my testicles between them. She made 
me stay raised up in the air, weeping loudly, while she 
"applauded" my herculean efforts. 

Once when I lay on my back bench-pressing her weights - 
which she usually made me do naked - she came up to me 
and grabbed my penis by the head. She held it still, 
gripping the glans tightly with her nails, clutching it 
like a pair of toothed pliers. As I became more and more 
tired, she tugged it harder; as I slowed down, she 
pulled on it with greater ferocity -- never relenting, 
but as one long tug, as if trying to yank it from its 
socket like a carrot from the soft loam of a garden. 

When I couldn't, for the life of me, press the weights 
one more time, she - still stretching my cock long - 
slammed my taut penis with her other hand. My body 
lurched forward involuntarily as I cried out. She 
pounded on my solar plexus with her fist - knocking the 
wind out of me - then yanked my penis up to her again, 
and bit down on it with her molars. 

I heard myself scream a garbled, winded scream; the room 
was blurred with tears; my whole body was shaking. Then 
she straddled me, and said, "Get your cock up, Eric. 
Gimme a goddamn erection or I'm going to drop a ten 
pound ball-weight from six feet onto your groin."

Under her power, my body would do anything; I managed an 
erection, and she rode it until it she came, then 
dismounted. "Get back to your weight-training now, boy."

Once when I was bench-pressing her weights, she walked 
over to me, grabbed my balls in her fist, then squeezed 
- a vice-like, throbbing squeeze - so tight that my legs 
began jerking about. She released my nuts, spat on my 
face, then pumped her fist into my groin. When I 
clutched at my aching man-parts, she screamed at me, 
"Did I say you could stop lifting weights, you mindless, 
fucked-up ninny? Get back to your work!" She slammed her 
fist into my jaw.

One evening while we lay in bed, she held me in her 
arms, stroking my hair, my bare back, my ass. She seemed 
happy, and I felt like I was glowing; her approval was 
an intoxicant for me.

"You're getting into pretty good shape, Eric. You're 
getting big and strong..."

I asked her - making sure to chuckle at myself while I 
spoke -if she ever worried that I'd become so physically 
powerful she'd no longer be able to dominate me. She 
laughed, then explained that physique is irrelevant to 
the female/male dominant/submissive relationship: men 
are submissive by nature; they are like drones, and 
cannot exist without a queen. 

Their inherently confused minds, their constant need for 
sexual reinforcement -- both of these things establish 
their submissiveness as something rooted in male 
chemistry. They need to be given directions in order to 
function properly - directions which cannot come from 
other inherently addled creatures - and they need to be 
reminded of their status in the world by the regular 
degredation that male orgasm entails: the feeling of 
being spent, of squirting out in an ugly, thick, aimless 
spray the only thing that makes you useful to the 
continued existence of the race. 

Patti told me that, aside from that, men were too slow-
witted, too sluggish and bulky as fighters to pose a 
serious threat to her."Take your friend Paul, for 
example," she said, "Do you think you two - ganged up 
against me - could win?" 

Though I didn't say so, my answer was Yes. Paul was 
someone I'd known since junior high school; we had been 
close friends. While I had gone into track, he - being 
stockier, heavier-set - had joined the football team. 
But I didn't say anything. I didn't want to challenge 
her, because regardless how she'd fare against me and 
Paul she could have her way with me any day of the week. 
She was stronger, quicker, and smarter. 

"What do you think? You and Paul?"

"Oh, I-I... dunno."

"You don't know? Well, what do you THINK?"

"I-I'm just not sure..."

"So you think there IS some way you and Paul could beat 
me up?"

"Well, I mean..." I heard my voice quivering, "I guess 
it... depends on how rough you played."

She stared at me; her eyes flashed.

"You mean if I agreed not to exploit your pathetic male 
weakness; if I agreed not to bash either of you in the 
balls, you think you'd win as a team?"

I was afraid to answer her. 

"Tell me! Yes or no?"

I hesitated again, and this irritated her: she grabbed a 
handful of my hair then yanked my face right up to hers; 
she moved her other hand over my ass, jammed two of her 
fingers into my anus, plunged them in deep, then yelled, 
"Answer my fucking question!"

"Yes," I squeaked, terrified. 

"Yes, you think you two could beat me up?"

Feeling tears of anticipatory fear well up in my eyes, 
feeling her fingers drive roughly into my unlubricated 
hole, I nodded. 

And the next day she had me call my old friend, tell him 
that I had become the slave of a woman - her personal 
human doormat - and explain the situation to him. He 
accepted her invitation, and the next day, Patti had me 
clear all of the furniture out of the living room, 
remove all the decorations, leave it utterly bare. That 
evening, Paul showed up at the house of the woman I 
served. 

"I don't know who the hell you are, Miss, but I find it 
personally disgusting what you're doing to my friend. 
That's why I'm accepting your invitation to a three-way 
duel. I'm not going to fucking toy with you cause you're 
a lady, I hope you understand. I'm personally offended 
at how bad you've pussy-whipped my friend; I think you 
degrade his masculinity; I think you..."

"He HAS no masculinity, buddy, and from the looks of it, 
neither do you. Now shut up and let's get it on."

Paul glared at her. I could tell he was steaming. Patti 
removed her pants and her shirt -- stripped down to a 
tight sports bra and underwear. One of our advance 
agreements was that no-one would wear shoes; that they 
could be used as weapons, which were forbidden. Paul 
pulled off his boots. 

"I see you're trying to psyche us out with your pretty, 
feminine bod. Pretty slick, babe, but I can do the 
same."

He removed his T-shirt, and stripped down to his 
underwear: black jockey shorts, which strained to 
support remarkably large balls and a thick, lengthy 
cock. I undressed last, feeling my manhood diminished by 
comparison to his. 

For a very brief moment, the three of us stood still. My 
head was swimming; I felt nervous about what might 
happen. I was worried for Patti: worried that after we 
subdued her, Paul wouldn't be able to control himself. 

If she hit him even once, would I be able to restrain 
hold him back? I had fit into my role as a sub really 
comfortably; would I be able to continue serving a dom 
who I had taken part in physically dominating? Could her 
speeches about male inferiority continue to ring true 
for me after I'd seen her getting beat up and raped by 
an old friend of mine?

As these thoughts criss-crossed in a silly maze in my 
head, Patti stepped up to Paul with an expression of 
utter stillness and threw a flurry of punches - at least 
five - that landed on his right cheek, his left eye, his 
mouth, and his solar plexus. He was rocked backwards - 
totally taken off guard. He groaned, bend forward with 
his arms now up as shields. 

My dom turned to me briefly, and pounded my jaw with a 
right hook that felt like a ton of cement. I fell to the 
floor. I turned back, and through the lights glimmering 
in my vision I saw Patti continuing to clobber Paul with 
lightning-fast combinations. He was staggering; he 
wasn't able to fight back at all, he was just holding up 
his arms in a flaccid effort to try to deflect her 
blows. This hardly worked, though; his arms couldn't 
cover all of the targets she found as her combinations 
became fancier, more resourceful. 

In a few seconds she had him up against the wall; she 
was thoroughly drilling him, and I began to hear deep, 
masculine sobs come from him. And something in me broke, 
seeing my old buddy trashed like -this strong, muscle-
bound male figure being ravaged by this slender, cunning 
woman. I became enraged: I lurched across the floor, 
grabbed Patti by the legs, and pulled her onto the 
floor. 

After a few quick seconds of wrestling - in which she 
drove a knee into my stomach, pounded an upper-cut into 
my nose causing it to squirt blood - she had me pinned 
to the floor, and proceeded to wail on me with her fists 
which, like Paul's face and my own - were now bloodied. 

And then Paul rejoined the struggle, in what would prove 
to be the very last effort either of us men could 
manage. He moved up silently behind Patti, and punched 
her in the back of the head. But he was weak - really 
already defeated by Patti's clear superiority in face-
to-face fist-fighting - and his blow was ineffectual. 
Patti bounded off me, spun around, and landed the five 
finishing blows to Paul's chest and face. Paul tottered 
vertiginously, then toppled backwards onto the carpet. 
His body shook in massive, heaving sobs. 

"Get on your knees, Paul," Patti ordered him.

With his voice garbled by tears and a swollen mouth, he 
replied, "Fuck you!"

Patti stepped up, grabbed the elastic belt of his 
shorts, then pulled him up onto his hands and knees. 
Paul swatted behind him to brush her away, and she 
swooped low to hammer her knee into his ass. His body 
lurched forward from the weight of the blow. She told me 
to come over, which I did. She told me to pull down his 
shorts - which, reluctantly, I did. His balls were huge; 
the size of hens' eggs. His soft penis was extremely 
thick, and at least six inches long. 

"Now fuck him up the ass, Eric."

Paul groaned.

"Shut the fuck up, you scum!" Patti kicked him in the 
head, silencing him. "Do it, Eric!"

I was too frightened to defy her; I had never seen her 
batter anyone like she battered us that day, so I had no 
intention of disobeying her. She became impatient 
though: she stripped down my underwear and grabbed me by 
the testicles.

"Get it up right now, or I'm going to rip these off and 
stuff them up your friend's nose."

I grew rigid, and she made me kneel behind Paul. She let 
me put my saliva on my cock; I could hear Paul crying 
softly with fearful anticipation. And then I penetrated 
him. 

I could tell Paul had never been fucked up the ass 
before. He wailed, his voice booming so loud that Patti 
had to beat him some more. I plunged into him with my 
full length, feeling my medium sized balls swing forward 
and collide against his huge balls. I felt like he was 
my junior; I was second-in-command below my dom. I was 
an agent, or a tool of her will: teaching him a lesson. 
And it felt good. 

When I was about to come, Patti reached from behind and 
took my testicles in her hand. I shot my sperm into Paul 
with my dom pumping my balls. Paul folded onto the 
floor. I could tell he was exhausted; I could tell he 
was humiliated. And then Patti ordered us to switch 
places. 

To my surprise, Paul had no trouble at all getting an 
erection. I didn't see it; I didn't want to see it, 
knowing it would dwarf mine; but after he briefly 
stroked spit onto it, I could feel it slam into me -- 
and I knew right away it wasn't as long as the cocks my 
dom wore when she wanted to rape me. I estimated it was 
nine inches. 

Paul plowed into me with a vengeance, though; I could 
tell he hated me for hurting him, and was determined to 
hurt me just as much. The most hurtful thing for me was 
feeling his gigantic testicles swing like iron weights 
beyond my spent nuts into my stomach. 

I was astonished at how big they felt, pounding up into 
my body with each thrust of his cock. I realized that as 
a man, he truly outclassed me. But I knew when he grew 
limp before coming that it was because he recognized 
that he wasn't hurting me. And this made him feel 
frustrated and impotent.

"What's the matter, boy? Did I say you could stop?"

Patti was all over him. I smiled secretly. My dom was 
going to put this insolent man through the ringer. 

"Did I say you could go limp?"

He didn't say anything. I turned around to watch, and 
him sitting on the floor, his bruised, blood-stained 
face looking chumpish and defeated. She shoved him onto 
his back, kicked his legs apart, then planted her foot 
on his genitals. 

"When I tell you to do something, boy, I expect you to 
complete the job."

She laid her weight onto her foot, crunching his nuts 
against his body. He howled, and she laughed. She 
reached down and grabbed his long, thick cock. He 
mumbled something, incoherent and desperate, about 
calling the police. This made her laugh even louder, and 
she rewarded his wit by slapping him across the face a 
few times, then plunging her fist into his well-endowed 
groin.

"Go ahead, call the police when I'm through with you. 
Tell them you and a male friend of yours were beat up 
then raped by a woman. But in the meantime, get it up 
for me, or I'm going to rip it off, bronze it, and stick 
on the wall as a trophy."

She grabbed his testicles - had to use one hand for each 
- and worked them over: gripping, squeezing, tugging, 
banging them together - until he got a full erection. 
She mounted his tall, thick penis, and rode him for an 
hour. I could tell she enjoyed it thoroughly: the raw 
physical thrill of having such a huge cock inside her 
was made even more delicious by the fact that she had 
physically conquered another male. 

When Paul ejaculated and went limp, she beat him some 
more - driving her elbow into his groin several times, 
threatening to have me rape again - until he regained 
his erection. Then she drained him thoroughly, hammering 
out the last shred of his macho-maleness like an 
exorcist.

**

Paul moved out of town; I never saw him again. That 
event - our defeat at the hands of my femdom - lingered 
in my mind for two reasons: it was further proof of 
women's physical control over men, and it was something 
that Patti occasionally brought up to me: how superior 
Paul's cock was to mine; how puny my testicles were in 
comparison to his; how she wished I was endowed better. 

"You're inferior in so many ways," she said once. "But 
of course, ultimately all men are."

The End

I read comments in Email. If you'd like more writing 
like this, you might be able to talk me out of some. 

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 69