In the female run future corporal punishment will be considered a cornerstone of society. Specially trained women will operate in squads correcting errant males. For minor offenses like jaywalking men are taken to the nearest station bound and whipped. The slave’s Mistress Owner is notified normally leading to additional punishment when the male returns home.
For more serious crimes against the Matriarchy the male appears before a Mistress Justice who orders a more complete and intense series of punishments.
Trained spankologists earn extra money with their skills. Busy women often hire them to provide maintenance spankings that the Mistress Owners are too busy to provide themselves.
This is the system of justice developed by the Matriarchal state to help inferior males be mindful of their lives as slaves and menials.
Women should have their male slave worship them in the kitchen.
Actually the slave should show adoration and humility to his Mistress in every room in the house.
Every room should offer memories of his self-abasement. The male slave expressing its knowledge that the woman is superior. Men by their complete inferiority are born to serve and obey. Males have no rights, no freedoms. They are objects for woman’s use.
As my relationship with Grace 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 Grace became my domme. 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 dissordered perspective.
I had a small part (as is suitable for males) in the avante 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 marvellously changed was by serving Grace 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 reigns, 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 Grace’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.
Grace spent quite a lot of time lifting weights herself, and she loathed me – when we first met – for being somewhat flabby.
“Too many submales,” she told me, “Are ugly, pot-bellied, sloths. It’s an insult to their dommes. And by no means will I tolerate that from you, David.”
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.
Grace 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, David.”
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, David! 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, David. 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, David.”
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, David. 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!”
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, Grace had me clear all of the furniture out of the living room, remove all the decorations, leave it utterly bare. That evening, Mack 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.”
Mack glared at her. I could tell he was steaming. Grace removed her pants and her shirt — stripped down to a tight sportsbra and underwear. One of our advance agreements was that no-one would wear shoes; that they could be used as weapons, which were forbidden. Mack 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 Grace: worried that after we subdued her, Mack 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, Grace stepped up to Mack 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 sheilds. 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 Grace continuing to clobber Mack 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 Grace 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 proceded to wail on me with her fists which, like Mack’s face and my own – were now bloodied.
And then Mack rejoined the struggle, in what would prove to be the very last effort either of us men could manage. He moved up silently behind Grace, and punched her in the back of the head. But he was weak – really already defeated by Grace’s clear superiority in face-to-face fist-fighting – and his blow was ineffectual.
Grace bounded off me, spun around, and landed the five finishing blows to Mack’s chest and face. Mack tottered vertiginously, then toppled backwards onto the carpet. His body shook in massive, heaving sobs.
“Get on your knees, Mack,” Grace ordered him.
With his voice garbled by tears and a swollen mouth, he replied, “Fuck you!”
She sat with her childhood photo album, occasionally stripping away the plastic sheet to remove a shot.
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.
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. She 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 -
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:
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 Polaroids of me sitting there. She put the Polaroids in her photo album, replacing the old pictures of the men she had ripped up.
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. And 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. I felt, looking back on it, 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: “David, 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 awakeness. 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, David? 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, David? 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, David. 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, David. 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 lept 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, David! 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, David! 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, David?” 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, David.”
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 Mack – you know, Mack from the gym – do you think you would’ve won?”