Female Led Relationships

Grace stepped up, grabbed the elastic belt of his shorts, then pulled him up onto his hands and knees. Mack 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 at least six inches long.

“Now fuck him up the ass, David.”

Mack groaned.

“Shut the fuck up, you scum!” Grace kicked him in the head, silencing him. “Do it, David!”

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 Mack. She let me put my saliva on my cock; I could hear Mack crying softly with fearful anticipation. And then I penetrated him.

I could tell Mack had never been fucked up the ass before. He wailed, his voice booming so loud that Grace 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, Grace reached from behind and took my testicles in her hand. I shot my sperm into Mack with my domme pumping my balls. Mack folded onto the floor. I could tell he was exhausted; I could tell he was humiliated. And then Grace ordered us to switch places.

To my surprise, Mack 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. Mack 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 hurful 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?”

Grace was all over him. I smiled secretly. My domme 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 mummbled 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 Mack 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.

Mack moved out of town; I never saw him again. That event – our defeat at the hands of my domme – lingered in my mind for two reasons: it was further proof of women’s physical control over men, and it was something that Grace occasionally brought up to me: how superior Mack’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

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!”

Continued ….

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, David. 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.

Grace 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 Mack, 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. Mack 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 Mack she could have her way with me any day of the week. She was stronger, quicker, and smarter.

“What do you think? You and Mack?”

“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 Mack 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 handfull 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.

Continued …

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!”

She slammed her fist into my jaw.

Continued …

“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. 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 -

“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 Polaroids of me sitting there. She put the Polaroids in her photo album, replacing the old pictures of the men she had ripped up.

Continued …

Males Will Obey Females

1. The female makes the rules.
2. The rules are subject to change by the female at any time without prior notification.
3. No male can possibly know all the rules. Attempts to document the rules are not permitted.
4. If the female suspects that the male may know some or all of the rules, she must immediately change some or all of the rules.
5. The female is never wrong. If the female is wrong, it is because of an egregious misunderstanding which was the direct result of something the male did, said, did not do, or did not say.
6. If rule 6 is invoked, the male must apologize immediately for having been the cause of the misunderstanding without any clues from the female as to what he did to have caused the misunderstanding. See rule 13.
7. The female may change her mind at any time for any reason or no reason at all.
8. The male is never permitted to change his mind or under circumstances without the express written consent of the female which is given only in cases where the female wanted him to change his mind but gave no indication of that wish. See rules 6, 7, 12, and 13.
9. The female has the right to be angry or upset for any reason, real or imagined, at any time and under any circumstance which in her sole judgment she deems appropriate. The male is not to be given any sign of the root cause of the female’s being angry or upset. The female may, however, give false or misleading reasons to see if the male is paying attention. See rule 13.
10. The male must remain calm at all times, unless the female wants him to be angry or upset.
11. Under no circumstances may the female give the male any clue or indication whether or why she wants him to be angry or upset.
12. The male is expected to read the mind of the female at all times. Failure to do so will result in punishments and penalties imposed at the sole discretion of the female.
13. The female may, at any time and for any reason, resurrect any past incident without regard to temporal or spacial distance, and modify, enlarge, embellish, of wholly reconstruct it in order to demonstrate to the male that he is now or has in the past been wrong, insensitive, pig-headed, dense, deceitful, and/or oafish.
14. The female may use her interpretation of any past occurrence to illustrate the ways in which the male has failed to accord her the consideration, respect, devotion, or material possessions, he has bestowed on other females, domestic pets or barnyard animals, sports teams, automobiles, motorcycles, boats, aircraft, or coworkers. Such illustrations are non-rebuttable.
15. If the female is experiencing PMS, Post-PMS, or Pre-PMS, the female is permitted to exhibit any manner of behaviors she wishes without regard to logical consistency or accepted norms of human behavior.
16. Any act, deed, word, expression, statement, utterance, thought, opinion, or belief by the male is subject to the sole, subjective interpretation of the female, other external factors not-withstanding. Alibis, excuses, explanations, defenses, reasons, extenuation, or rationalizations will not be entertained. Abject please for mercy and forgiveness are acceptable under some circumstances, especially when accompanied by tangible evidence of contrition.