Slave Sex Games

I have put on a wig of short dark hair. Fake eye lashes that are long and thick. Red lips and very severe makeup. I have my slave collar on and I am in a patent leather corset. I have also had breasts attached to me and they are covered by pointed patent leather covers that snap on and off.

My body of course is now completely shaved and I have on patent leather stockings, gloves and patent leather black shoes with stiletto three inch heels. I have pierced my nipples and underneath the fake full tits is a chain that runs from them down to a dildo that has been put up my ass.

My ass is covered but there too are snaps so that the bottom can be removed. My shaved cock hands out of the outfit.

Marlayna is her slave bitch self. on my hands and knees i await a male and a female slave….

Both of them enter and Mistress plays with them first. I am in the cage in the closet waiting. Mistress opens the door to the cage and I walk out with her on a leash. I am thinking we will go to New York and you can put me on a leash in public. I would like to go out as Marlayna on a leash in public. OOOO that would be fun.

We inspect the two of these slaves. Mistress can inspects the male, but I must inspect both of them. The first thing I do is have them stand up and not move. I walk around them and I lick my fingers I play with their nipples I touch there lips. I order them each to open their mouths just a little and then I kiss the boy and I French kiss the girl I slide my tongue deep inside her and I slide my middle finger inside her. At this point Mistress goes to a large throne and she sits in it. She wants to watch…….

I slide my middle finger in and out of the bitches pussy and I kiss her. The male slave stands there. He moves a little and I walk a way and get a paddle and I tell him never to move without Mistress?s approval. I take the paddle and give him five sharp whacks on his cute ass.

Then I walk around and say thank Mistress Marlayna. He says thank you but, I am not convinced. I pinch his nipples and I say no really thank me. He stares at me with a blank expression and I say wow are you stupid.

I walk around and I spank him once and say to thank me ….. (then I hit him again) ……. I want you …….. ( then I hit him again) ….. suck…… ( then I hit him again) ……. my bitch cock>>> OOOOO I walk around and smile at him.

Now do it fast and the slave drops to his knees and sucks on my cock. I pinch the nipples of my little female slave and I tell the bitch to watch him. does she like this? She says yes and I kiss her. I slide my tongue down her throat and I play with her nipples as the cute boy deep throats my organ. I stop kissing her and I tell her to get in position and I bend her over while the boy sucks on me I give the little slave bitch twenty little smacks on the ass. Then I tell the slave to stop sucking my dick and stand up.

I step away and I tell the naked slaves to come together and kiss each other and make each other very excited. I go over and kneel in front of my Mistress and kiss her fingers and lick her feet for giving the opportunity to warm up these two worthless slaves. Mistress now has me go over and get a strap on dildo for the female slave and I crawl over and get it.

I put it on and then Mistress says that she owns the three of us. And would like to be amused. It is time to pleasure Marlayna and make her suffer. She tells them that Marlayna loves women. God how she loves women, but it is important to pleasure her and torment her at the same time. So Marlayna loves to be fucked by women and she loves to be treated like a woman so we will honor this request and ……

She doesn?t really like to be touched by a man so the logical thing would be to have Mistress bring the male slave over and fuck Mistress while Marlayna fucks our little female slave. Mistress says this may be the logical thing but not as much fun so I want the male slave to climb up on this little table and play with himself. Get very hard and you little female slut stand up across from him and lubricate that long dildo. Marlayna I want you to please me and pleasing me is knowing that your going to do something for Mistress that makes you very uncomfortable crawl up on the table very slowly and suck on the cock of this male slave. I look at Mistress in horror I thought I did well.

She laughs and Marlayna immediately climbs up in between the two on all fours and deep throats the male slave. His shaved organ is large and red and Marlayna takes it all. Mistress walks over and turns on the video machine and sits in her throne….

Marlayna is sucking the cock of the slave she tormented, and then Mistress says okay my little slave bitch fuck poor Marlayna in the ass. She loves to fuck women so fuck her and the bitch rams the large black cock deep in my pussy. Mistress is laughing…. She says look how fun this is. She watches this seen and plays with herself.

My Teacher, My Wife

A young female teacher once slapped my face in 5th form – for being cheeky to her in class. Looking back on it now, I thoroughly deserved it and didn’t really find it all that painful. Much more painful was the severely onerous quantity of lines she had me write out for her after school as a further punishment.

As I spent hour after hour writing the lines for her, I couldn’t stop thinking of her and that faceslap. Perhaps it was the fact that she was so gorgeous and sexy, I began to fantasize about her giving me a really good face slapping.

Later in life, I was fortunate to marry an equally gorgeous teacher who loves to slap my face in simulated classroom scenarios. We have set aside a room in our house as her classroom where she takes me and warms my cheeks when the mood takes her. She dresses in the classic pencil slim mini skirt and stiff white blouse for these occasions. The session consists of the teacher examining the pupil orally, and all incorrect answers are punished with a stinging slap across the face.

My wife affirms that she particularly loves the sound of her beautiful hand landing full force on my cheek. Unfortunately, just like my teacher who gave me my first faceslap, my wife also loves giving me lines to write out as a punishment. Though I hate having to write lines – its the price I have to pay to have her beautiful hands repeatedly slap my face.

Originally posted 2009-04-04 17:59:21.

Femdom Cruelty

Available now at Divine Bitches: Sex and Cruelty

Mistress Gia Dimarco is pure sex and evil in this intense dungeon scene! Long time Divine Bitch slave, Jason Miller comes back to test his limits again after long hiatus. Mistress Dimarco goes from 0 to 60 within seconds of this kinky scene. Tough suspension bondage, water torture, caning, chastity, ass worship, tease and denial, strap-on ass fucking in suspension bondage and more!

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Marriages Based on Female Superiority

Matriarchal Marriage & Male Immaturity

Charlotte wrote:

I have believed in matriarchy and female superiority since I was too young to know these words. I now for many years have been the head of a female led family; my wonderful, fully domesticated and devoutly submitted husband, our two daughters and our son. I was a single child and brought up by a single mother so I did not at home experience any of the in many ways undesirable male behavior. My husband was raised by a single mother but he had three sisters so he grew up fully adjusted to female norms and values and also with a good sense of male inferiority. You can imagine that he was easily trained and is happy and content with me in control.

Naturally there are aspects of a marriage and of adult life that should never take place in front of children but I have never tried to hide from our children what my values and convictions are. From they were small they have heard me telling their father what to do, reminding him sternly, reprimanding him. They also at times when it just came natural saw me slapping him in the face or on his clothed bottom. They heard and saw this because that is how we live and it would be wrong to play act in front of the children and then have our real life behind closed doors when the kids were in bed. They always knew that I made most decisions, that I had the final say in all matters and that their father in most matters had no say at all. As they grew up I spoke with them about gender roles, matriarchy, male immaturity, female superiority and all these things in a way they at their age at the time could comprehend. They never saw or hear about their father wearing chastity device and they never saw or were informed of him being caned or strapped but they knew when he was grounded and when he was sent to bed early as punishment.

Our daughters are now 10 and 15 years old and our son is 14. They are all happy and good children, doing well in school and helpful and polite at home. To them there is nothing strange or mysterious in me being in charge and their father having to do as I say, it is for them the most natural thing in the world and they seem all three to have fully grasped and embraced the matriarch values and outlook on life. The girls are eager to discuss female supremacy with me and they try to view everything they come across in school and the news and other places from a matriarchal viewpoint. From our discussions but also from many of the essays the girls have written at school I can see that the matriarchal viewpoint is always important to them and they use every opportunity to point out how wrong things always go in a society led by men and the primitive and childish masculine values.

Our son seems to fully understand and accept that he as a boy must have stricter and more restricting rules than his sisters. At the age of 14 he now naturally want to be a man but it is a well-behaved and obedient man like his father. Actually I think my son is scare by the thought of not having the care and protection that is provided in a female dominated and led community.

Now the oldest girl and the boy are teens it will not worry me if they one day should hear the sounds of the strap or cane and their father’s bawling from the bedroom; surely they will understand that if I punish him that way it is because he deserves it.

She and other dominant woman wrote many things in the ongoing comments to Train Male Children to Be Submissive

Femdom Pain Slave

All my life I have longed to be a total slave to a dominant woman or group of women who daily take delight in a nearly nonstop onslaught of extreme sexual abuse on my person. Each day begins with me being bound underneath their toilet seat and forced to consume any wastes, liquid and solid as they pour out of the orifices. To ensure that I satisfactorily accomplish this, one domme is always posted between my legs with her fingers gripping my cock and balls, squeezing and slapping as needed to ensure full and enthusiastic compliance on my part.

Often, a domme will elect to sit directly on my face and force her shit out into my mouth and up into her ass crack, then make me lick her asscheeks clean and swallow everything. Likewise, I’m forced during the day and night at any moment to apply my open mouth to any proffered cunt to gulp and totally consume a load of hot piss.

Frequent genital whippings, extreme cock and ball torture, including piercing and electro torture would be an ongoing part of each day, and interjected would be whippings, paddlings, spankings, plus savage and prolonged asshole rape, fisting, and rough deep insertions of huge dildos, vegetables and other objects calculated to cause great pain and stretching of my anal tissues.

I would frequently be placed underneath a female sub/slave in 69 position with my cock in her mouth and my mouth opened wide over her cunt. Then her lips would be sutured to the flesh around the base of my cock, and my lips would be sutured to her cunt lips. Our nipples would be sutured together then so that any movement by either one of us would result in severe pain to the sutured tissues.

My wrists are then bound to her ankles, her wrists to my ankles, and spreader bars affixed to hold our limbs wide apart. Next, males slaves would be brought in to ass rape the girl while the dommes take turns doing my ass with their fists and strapons. After several of the male slaves have ejaculated into the female slave’s asshole, their combined cum and her shit begin leaking out, running down her ass crack and into my mouth, seeping between our sewn together lips. Each time a domme pulls out of my asshole, their strapon or fist is wiped clean on the female slaves face and the male slaves wipe their cocks clean on my face.

Naturally all the pumping in and out at our assholes makes for a lot of movement and severe pain in our sewn together parts. During all of this, other dommes are alternating in whipping, paddling and electro torturing each of us at unexpected times and places on our bodies so that we are constantly jerking, convulsing, and moaning with pain and terror.

This torture scene goes on for hours, and occasionally the female slave and I are flipped over so she is underneath me, exposing my back and ass to the whips and paddles. When we are both pushed to utter exhaustion and about to pass out from the extremities of our tortures, each of us is filled with a full gallon enema of saved up piss laced with lots of lemon juice to induce severe cramping. Then our assholes are securely plugged and we are left to suffer for another hour, at which time we are placed in an inflatable wading pool, our ass plugs are removed and a replaced with short flexible plastic tubes which are inserted between the sutures into our mouths and the enemas released. Our instructions are to swallow everything we can, and since that proves to be impossible due to the force and fury with which the enemas are expelled, we find ourselves wallowing helplessly in an increasing depth of our own liquid wastes where we are left for the next few hours, relieved only by those of our tormenters who choose to come piss on us, shit on us, spit on us, jeer at us and humiliate us by naming us as filthsluts and human toilets.

Originally posted 2008-12-25 11:59:57.

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Femdom Fiction Stories

Wanted stories, vignettes focusing on:

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Originally posted 2011-11-05 14:59:40.

Cuckold Wife’s Comments on Sissy Husband

Every one of these classic drawings is worth a considered caption! One in particular (among so many to choose from) is the one of the couple on the couch filming the dancing boy. I’d picture the dialogue going something like this:

“Oh, Big Burt! Isn’t my little Billy just the most adorable, swishy, prissy, cutest lil’ ole thing EV-UH? You were asking me how a girl like me would ever marry a boy like him, and to answer your question I wanted to show you his gentle, vulnerable, sweet-as-molasses, tender-as-a-tulip side. He’s as graceful and feminine as a prima ballerina in the role of Swan Lake’s Odette. My little dolly just brings tears of joy to my eyes, he does.”

“Ha ha, yeah babe, he brings tears to my eyes too – tears of laughter, that is. I’m sorry, but I just don’t get where you’re coming from. You tend to see the very best in people, but I’ve always been a dead-eyed realist. To be brutally honest, your Billy-boi looks like a sissy fag doing uber-girly ballet moves in dance shoes and a tutu – with even a rose in his bright-red lipsticked mouth for cryin’ out loud!”

“He’s not attracted to men, so he’s not a sissy fag. No, Billy’s my sissy cutie. Big Burt, you do know the reason I sleep with you, right? You’re the manliest rock-hard ten-inch tumescent titanic titanium towering stud I’ve ever been rammed by. There’s a place in me that only you fill – both literally and emotionally – that my poor sweet femmy sissy Billy with his two-inch Certs roll cockette can never even come close to fulfilling. Try to be empathetic enough to put yourself in his satiny beribboned pointe ballet slippers for just a moment, Big Burt.”

She continued, warming to her topic, “You pump iron or rebuild transmissions or add on rooms to the house or play tackle football or chop firewood or go hunting or watch sports with your buddies – or RAM me! – in order to relieve stress and have fun. By comparison, what is our poor Billy stuck with for recreational activities? Well, for self-relaxation he has his crocheting, knitting, floral arranging, sewing, and embroidery. With me and the girls he has shopping ‘therapy’, club tennis, spa and salon days, and dance lessons. My point simply being this, Big Burt. Your world is not his. He sees in you all of the things, all of the masculinity, all of the strength and power and drive and manly self-assurance that he craves but cannot possess. He sees the way society respects you, at night in his cold lonely bed he hears the way that my basest animalistic urges of involuntary primordial lust respond to you, and the poor green-eyed monster of jealously just eats the poor little fella apart. He is truly to be pitied.”

She continued her well-considered oratory, “But for all that overabundance of testosterone (not that I’m complaining about THAT, mind you!), you have a good brain and an even-handed personality. You’re no apelike mindless knuckle-dragger, Big Burt. If you were, then I’d simply enjoy a single one-night stand with you before sending you packing. But if we’re actually going to make this new family dynamic work for the long haul, then I can’t have you constantly berating my Billy in that ugly way. Teasing him a good bit is great – hey, I like to do a lot of that myself – but don’t go over the line. If you do, I will actually defend him, believe it or not. He may never get to the point of actually liking you, although I’ve made it clear to him that I really want him to – but you had better make a better effort of at least appearing to like him, even if you can’t at all respect him. Figuratively, I expect you to be Billy’s daddy while I’m the mommy. Be firm (not tyrannical) in disciplining him, but you need to be fair too.”

Burt looked a little surprised. “And here I was thinking you were getting ready to divorce his sissy pantied ass, since it sure doesn’t look like you respect him. I mean, you put him in a tennis dress and insist he play ladies’ doubles on public courts with you and your two sisters. You four have a standing weekly appointment at the salon for a roller set and comb-out, followed by marathon clothes and shoe shopping. I built that add-on room and put in the dance barre and lined the walls with floor-to-ceiling mirrors so that you and your sisters could put him in leotards and tights and teach him ballet – which he seems to have picked up rather easily. He’s a sissy, no doubt, but even I have to admit he’s an exceptionally lithe, limber, well-coordinated sissy with excellent balance and cardiovascular endurance. And holy cow, you even shaved his body, made up his face, painted his nails and rouged his nipples too? Give him a vagina and a pair of tits and he’d be every bit as girly as even you and your knockout sisters!”

She giggled involuntarily, but was no more successful in restraining her laughter than she was in feigning anger as she slapped Big Burt playfully, “You’re horrible, and hush up! Seriously, don’t be so loud. He’ll hear you, and the poor dear is already self-conscious enough as it is. This has been a very rough year for him, what with you moving into the master bedroom and him moving out into the spare room that I redecorated with the rose wallpaper, pink shag carpet, white frilly canopy bed with lavender bedspread and all my old dolls and stuffed animals arranged in and amongst my rather girly-girl childhood bedroom set.”

Burt grinned, “Yeah, and not to mention all your hand-me-downs that stayed in that spare room’s closet and you’re now insisting he make use of “just to save money”. It was kind of tough to take him as a serious base-running threat when he came up to bat in softball at the company picnic in your old blue short-shorts with the white star print, plus your old midriff cami top with the red-and-white horizontal stripes.”

“Hey, it was the 4th of July, and when he made a catty, snide, uncalled-for remark about you having been a Marine … well, I simply felt that it was my duty as a patriotic American to re-instill some basic pride in his country and for the people – like you – who served so valiantly in our armed forces.”

Burt laughed aloud, “Oh yeah baby, you’re SOOOO noble!” They high-fived and laughed aloud together as the classical music snippet finally stopped playing. In silent exhausted misery, Billy finished the dance solo his wife and sisters-in-law had painstakingly taught him, step by miserable emasculating step. He knew better than to unfreeze from his finished routine-ending position until his wife said he could.

She was smiling and clapping, “Great job, Billy, you’ve come so far! There’s just a few rough spots we need to clean up and iron out before you’re ready to perform it (in one of my old G-rated dance recital costumes, of course!) in front of everyone at the family reunion next month.”

As Burt’s immensely big and incredibly strong massaged her groin with firm yet surprisingly gentle ministrations, Billy’s wife continued, somewhat flushed and out-of-breath. “Sweetie-pie, mommy and daddy need to spend some grown-up time alone. Take this tripod and camera into the dance room and set it up for a wide angle shot in the corner. For at least an hour, I want you to film yourself practicing your leaps, pirouettes and plies en pointe. I’ll view the film later and critique you at that time … now GO, and DO NOT disturb us!”

Patti’s comment on Jean Hervé Vane’s Sissies

FemDom Predator

Available now at Divine Bitches: FemDom Predator

Maitresse Madeline is a predator who hunts random naive boys in random men’s restrooms. Imagine if you will you are taking a piss and there she is, Maitresse Madeline herself seductively behind you grabbing onto your cock while you finish your piss. She has you under her spell and takes control of you using you for her amusement. She spanks your bare ass because you have been such a naughty boy. She covers your head with a plastic bag and does whatever she wants with you. The breath play gets you so high you are helpless under her control. She sits on your face smothering you with her perfect cunt and sweaty ass. Finally she straps it on and pounds you right there with your face down on the dirty bathroom floor. And, without warning she fists your ass so deep that your prostate milks uncontrollably and you spill your filthy load all over. This is EXACTLY what happened to Jesse Carl and all he was trying to do was take an innocent piss.

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Brutal Wife Cuckolds, Castrates Slave Husband

Wife Enslaves, Beats Up, Cuckolds Her Inferior Husband

wife-beats-up-her-husband.jpg

During our first few months of marriage, Justin and I were annoyingly conventional. I saw myself slipping into the nightmare of trite middle-class life that had so thoroughly repulsed me during college. My life was becoming a sleeping museum of contemporary American culture — a living death. I quit my job, you see, and was lazy about finding a new one. My husband went to work, supported us, while I lazed around the house, cooking, taking care of the nothingness surrounding me, ordering it more nicely, disguising it into something meaningful and emotionally fulfilling. I was becoming a zombie: a television person: a housewife.

My husband began to really enjoy this. I was becoming more and more dependant upon him, hence he was in control. He liked this. He patronizeed me, issued orders only thinly veiled with politeness.

I couldn’t stand it.

My husband began spending more time away from home with his friends and colleagues from work. When he came home he was often exhausted, and our sex life suffered. Finally, I went to a sex shop and purchased various sex toys — two vibrators, and two large dildos. I was embarrassed buying them so I rushed. It was only when I returned home that I discovered that one of the dildos I had bought was actually a strap-on. An eleven-inch-long strap-on. Stiff and black, with little life-like veins and things.

One night while we ate my husband complained that his steak was too rare.

“Maybe you cooked it this rare for yourself, huh? Your period, something to do with that?”

“My period’s not for a week, Justin.”

“The point is, Uma, this is too rare.” He glared at me. Icily, irritated at his whining, I returned his look.

“Why don’t you just eat it, Justin? Afraid it’s still alive?”

Justin lifted his hand and pointed his index finger very close to my face. “Don’t you back-talk me, Uma. Pick this up off the table, and put it back in the goddam oven.”

I hesitated; I could feel my face flush with rage.

“And I mean NOW.”

The next few seconds seemed to consume hours. I was aware of three things: his finger aimed like a gun at my face; the echo of his bullyish voice reverberating in my mind; and the pounding of my heart in my chest.

Slowly, my hand rose up from my lap — I saw it move in front of me like an independent being, not at all under my control. Then, with my palm open, I struck my husband across the face: a loud, hollow slap. He turned bright red, and looked totally amazed. His face shook. To my surprise, I saw tears glisten in his eyes.

Kicking his chair back, Justin rose from the table. I’m sure if I hadn’t felt a little numb — if I hadn’t been totally amazed at what I had just done — I would have been afraid. But I wasn’t. My vision focused on the tears dampening the corners of his eyes.And then he was at my side, sort of hissing at me in a furious, raspy voice.

“Get up.”

I stared at him, wondering what he was going to try to do to me. His face was still trembling; his fingers were moving, like they were gripping then releasing patches of air; struggling to form fists, then straightening out again.

“Get the fuck up, you lousy worthless cunt; you little fucking shit. Get the fuck up.”

I didn’t move. I felt little drops of spit from his mouth hit my face.

He disgusted me.

My husband disgusted me.

His language. His spit. His silly show of force.

Then he reached out and grabbed my hair and pulled me up from my chair. I cried out; he seemed to be trying to turn me around. I kicked at his shins — I might’ve hit him, because he began yelling — then I saw his arms flailing around. Blurs. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to hit me, or trying to shove me away. Then one of his elbows hit my head, and I got dizzy; things blurred a little, I think I was crying; I was still trying to kick at his shins, and I tried to slap him again, then I felt his forearm pound across my breasts.

And I suddenly stopped moving. Everything stopped moving. I felt pain. I was gasping. Crying. I looked at him. He was glaring at me. Grinning. He was grinning. I couldn’t believe it: he was grinning. Proud of having hurt me.

Again my hand flew out — instinctively, self-protectively — this time in a fist. It cracked squarely into his jaw. More spittle flew from his mouth. I wish I could’ve seen his expression, watched his pain. But my vision went red, and I began beating my husband up.

After I felt my fists hit his face and head at least a dozen times, after my knuckles began to swell up, Justin began weeping, pleading with me to stop. He was on the floor, begging, while I — rather relaxed — took leisurely whacks at his face. Enjoying the power. Humbling him.

He had a black eye; a bloody nose; fattened lips. I grabbed his hair — “how do YOU like being jerked around by the hair?” — and pulled him up to his knees. I pressed his head back against a wall with my crotch; ground his skull against it like I wanted to turn his brains to powder. I Pounded my groin against his face, driving his head into the wall rhythmically: boom, boom, boom.

Then, using his short hair like a leash, I led him toward our bedroom while he walked on his hands and knees.

“Why haven’t you been in the mood for sex lately, Justin? Hm? You haven’t been having an affair, have you? With one of the guys at work? You’re not queer, are you, Justin?”

Justin moped that he wasn’t.

“I’m not sure I believe you, Justin. I think you like to take it up the ass. I think you’re afraid of women. I think I frighten you; that’s why you’re too tired to get it up most nights.”

I must have snapped some psychological cable in him somewhere, because he tried to escape; he leapt to his feet — surprising me that he had that much energy left — and took a swing at my head. He was too close to get much momentum in his swing, and I leaned even closer to him, holding up my own arm to block his dizzy-headed, limp attack.

But I was alarmed that he was still capable of putting up any fight at all, and I was also a little tired of messing around with featherweight artillery, so while I stood inches away from him, I snapped my knee up as rapidly and forcefully as I could.

I was at the perfect distance: my knee drove hard into his crotch, evoking a horrible wail from him, sending him in a desperate dive to the floor, where he writhed, clutching at his maleness. Sobbing in pain.

Looking at my pathetic, beaten husband — my toppled, defeated man — I became bitter. Contemptuous. I realized I had married half of a man. A weakling. Soon I learned that all men are that way — when handled correctly — but at that time my husband was the sole target of my contempt.

And I decided to rape him.

Quickly, I proceeded to our bedroom — opened my closet — and, stripping down to my panties, I strapped on the eleven-inch dildo. Then I went back out to the living room where my husband still lay on the floor, shaking, clutching at his groin, his sobs toned down to steady weeping.

I moved up behind him, and ordered him on his knees. At first he stalled, then I kicked him in the side, triggering a deep, gasping sound from his chest.

“Do as I fucking say, Justin.”

He moved jerkily to his knees, his head swaying visibly.

“Now undo your pants.”

His crying picked up again.

“Undo your FUCKING pants or I’ll slice your balls off with a paring knife then Fed-Ex them to your goddam parents.”

Justin undid his belt, then unbottoned and unzipped his trousers.

“Now put your hands on the carpet.”

He obeyed. He was on his hands and knees. The huge artificial penis extending from my crotch like a swordfish’s spike, I moved up behind my husband, predatory, ready to ravage his tight little ass. I reached around him and gripped his balls; pinched them — he gasped, his voice feminine — and yanked down on them. Pushing the large, bulbous head of the dildo up between his legs, I began rubbing his balls roughly against it.

“You feel this, Justin? This is what real manhood feels like. Not a little cocktail weiner like yours, Justin; not like your little nibble-nuts. This is what a MAN feels like. You ever felt a man inside you? At work, Justin? Your boss, maybe? Ever let him take you?”

Justin wept a denial.

“Well then, I’m going to show you what a real man does. Maybe you can learn from this, Justin, so that one day maybe you can please me like a man.”

Then, releasing his little balls, I took my husband’s virginity in a ruthless fashion.

“Just pretend I’m one of your little buddies at work, Justin.” I speared the dildo between his cheeks, pounded it deep into his body.

“Just pretend this is one of their little peenie-weenies.”

By the time I was finished with him, by the time I thought I had proved my point to him, my husband’s voice was gone from him crying out so loud, at times screaming. I had broken several of my fingernails on the flesh of his buttocks. While I was screwing my husband’s hole I nailed him in the balls a few more times; at one point I grabbed his nuts and tried to crumple them up like croutons in my fist, making him recite the Lord’s Prayer while I did so. For several days he couldn’t walk without limping, for I had badly bruised his groin in various places with my elbow and my knees. His rectum was torn; bloodied.

And it took more than a week for the bruises to leave his face.

My husband, I determined, was the sort of man who required discipline from a woman.

Our relationship became, for a time, a prolonged struggle in which he attemped to re-assert himself as the dominant party — in response to which I inflicted further punishments upon him. I realized I had solidly acquired the position of dominance in the relationship and I had no intent of relinquishing it.

The punishment I chose for my husband took a variety of different forms: some mainly physical, some psychological. For example, about a month after I first raped Tim, I coincidentally ran into a man I had met a couple of times in college. The guy was still extremely handsome; I lusted after him in college — it turns out the feeling was mutual — but we had never gone out. Surprising myself, I asked him on a date.

“I thought you were married.”

“I am. I can still date other people, though.”

“Oh, you mean: your husband wanted to see other women, so you decided that it’d only be fair if you could–”

“No. My husband isn’t allowed to see other women. But I see other men.”

“Does he…”

“He knows about it, yes.”

“What does he say?”

“I haven’t asked his opinion.”

A couple of days later, I slept with this man, Mack, in my (and my husband’s) bed. I had arranged it so that Justin was lying in the narrow space under the bed while Mack and I made love on the mattress above him. So that he could feel the weight of our loving bodies against him.

Mack was an extremely well-endowed, strong man. Really quite an ox. The first time he screwed me while my husband lay silently under the bed, I found myself moaning and crying out in a way I never had before. I couldn’t help myself; Mack’s immense organ filled me more than any man ever had before. He was skillful, sensitive, and physically commanding. After about fifteen minutes of sex, I began to orgasm, and came continually for the next ten minutes. My body felt like it had been struck by lightning.

His refractory period was almost instantaneous. After his copious, thick semen splashed into my vagina, he soon got hard again, and guided his giant cock into my mouth.

“That’s it. Come on, baby, just a little wider…”

I could barely get it into my mouth; at one point, whimpering, I tried to pull away from him, but he held my head in place.

Before he came, he decided to pull out of my mouth and have me ride his cock. My pussy already felt stretched; I was certain I’d be sore the next day. But feeling his shaft penetrate me so deeply, stretch me so wide, I lost my head in ecstasy, and began riding him in a thrashing, delirious way.

After he left that evening, I found my husband weeping under the bed. I told him I’d be like that with him, too, if he had the equipment of a real man. I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out from under the bed, then made him suck Mack’s semen from my vagina. My labia, my mons, my clitoris — everything between my legs was drenched in his thick seed. I made my husband lick me clean. When he was done, I noticed that he had an erection — his cock was stiffer, fuller than I’d seen it in quite a while — so I told him his little weenie didn’t impress me, then slammed my foot against his balls. He collapsed onto the floor, holding his nuts like he was afraid they’d break off his body and escape. He wept for at least half an hour. I yelled at him to shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t control himself. Finally I had to smack him a few times.

One evening I talked Mack into letting Tim suck his balls for a while, while I fellated his (Mack’s) cock. As soon as Tim — following my orders — fell naked on his knees before Mack, he began weeping. I slapped him across the face and told him to stop being suck a stupid baby.

“Uma, I think your husband’s afraid to see a real cock up close.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “but I think it’s the balls, too. His balls are tiny compared to yours. Look.” I grabbed Timmy’s nuts and pulled them forward to show Mack. When I saw that Tim’s eyes were closed, I punched him in the cheek, grabbed him by the hair, then made him look me straight in the eye.

“Tim,” I told him, “You will never, ever know what’s it’s really like to be a real man. You’re not a man at all, Tim.”

I brought my fist into his nuts — he wailed — then forced him to begin licking Mack’s balls.

Mack enjoyed the scene. At one point he spat on Tim’s head and told him to be more passionate. Then he slapped my husband across the face because Tim couldn’t manage to get both of his testicles in his mouth at once.

“You must feel like shit, little man,” he talked down at my husband. “You’re shit in bed, and your wife knows it — because she’s got me.”

Mack decided he wanted to force his meat into Tim’s mouth. Tears were streaming down Tim’s face as Mack held him by the head — occasionally slapping his ears — and reamed his face.

Occasionally I acted out with Mack. It was entirely accidental; it’s like my habitual free-and-easy nastiness with Tim got the better of me and I accidentally mistreated Mack. In every one of those occasions, though, he punished me sternly.

Once, for example, Mack hurt me by shoving his huge penis into my mouth too fast, so I instinctively swatted at his balls. I only whisked them with my fist, but it still hurt him, and — before I could defend myself at all — I was on my stomach and he was spiking me up the ass. I cried like a baby while he did it; I had never felt such excruciating pain. It felt like my lower body was being ripped apart and sprayed with flame. My husband sat staring, a confused look on his pathetic face.

Later that night I apologized to Mack, and begged him to forgive me. He apologized back for being so rough, but explained that his testicles were very sensitive, and that he reacted very protectively whenever they were threatened at all. He held me in bed for about half an hour, spooning me, stroking my breasts, reinforcing our affection. He let me touch his huge balls — each as large as a jumbo egg. I stroked them gently — I could almost feel pure masculine energy emitting from them — and I wished I had never inadvertently hit such glorious objects.

We ignored my husband, slumped like a trash bag against a wall.

After Mack left that evening I raped my husband again — perhaps more viciously than I had before. I made him stand above a mirror on the floor, bent over, while I sodomized him. I wanted him to see his own facial expressions — see his body shake and seize up — while I fucked him. Then I threw him to the floor, and lashed at his groin with a thick leather belt. When he tried to cover his genitals with his hands, I’d direct the belt against his face or chest.

I made him spend the night in the back yard — naked. The whole time he sat huddled, quivering, clutching himself for warmth at the side of the garage, where he thought it was least likely that anyone would see him.

Eventually my husband seemed to give up the idea of ever being equal with me in our relationship. Instead of whining about my treatment of him — the way I occasionally woke him up in the middle of the night by anally raping him, or by stuffing phallic objects (dildos, carrots, etc.) into his mouth, etc. — he began threatening to leave me. He was “threatening to run away,” like a child.

I had essentially two kinds of responses that juvenile tactic. The first was shutting him up — and hopefully deterring further idiotic outbursts — but phsycally punishing him.

The second way was by creating a scenerio for him of what would happen if he ever did indeed run away.

“Most likely, Justin, I’ll track you down, bring you back, and then I’ll castrate you. Clip off your balls like a couple of kumquats.”

I told him this while we both lay in bed — he with his hands tied to one of the bedposts behind him. I reached under the blanket and cupped his testicles in my hand.

“And I’ve given it some thought. I’ve decided that when — because I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, it’s just a matter of when you piss me off enough — when I castrate you, Justin, I’m going to get it on videotape. And I think I’ll send a copy to your parents. Don’t you think your mother would love to watch that? She never thought I was good enough for you.”

I squeezed my husband’s nuts firmly. He whimpered; his eyes were tearful.

I told Justin I’d make him watch the tape of him being castrated over and over while I sodomized him with huge strap-ons, phallic vegetables, etc. on our living room floor. I’d make him re-live he emasculation as a daily ritual.

And I told him I’d take him out to nude beaches to show everyone his modification. I’d guide my eunuch around and chat with strangers about how pleasant it was to have a sexually void husband to serve me, and to act as a toy for me and my genuinely male lovers. I’d let the strangers examine his scars, and tell them about how he wasn’t really a man to begin with.

I mentioned that I might like to castrate him in the desert somewhere — or on the grounds of some isolated state park. I’d let the blood of his wound seep into the ground. Later I’d take my lovers to that spot, for them to screw me where I had terminated my husband’s masculinity. The disembodied spirit of Justin’s maleness would remain at that spot; hover around us; take part in our sexual encounter.

I told Justin that perhaps I’d dry his testicles and hang them from leather cords above the doorway to our house as good luck charms. And, perhaps, with his crotch mostly empty, I’d make him decorate the space where his nuts once dangled with prettier ornaments: things like Christmas tree decorations, or beautiful crystals, or bunches of aromatic herbs.

Or maybe I’d videotape myself at the dinner table, eating his cooked testes with him sitting beside me, watching. Weeping. My poor husband — I’d even make him do the cooking. Then I’d reach over to him with the fork: “Open up, Justin. Your turn to take a bite. Open your mouth, eunuch: it’s your food.”

Maybe after castrating him I’d freeze the testicles, then, periodically, I’d remove them from the freezer and — with him tied firmly, totally unable to move — I’d throw them, over and over, at his cheeks, his nose, his eyes.

“I’ll keep smashing you in the groin, though, Justin — with or without your little balls. I want you to think of that part of your stupid male body as a horrible fucking weakness, not a source of strength.

Your groin’ll be like a little graveyard attached to your pathetic body. One that you can’t escape from.”