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.
Originally posted 2014-08-23 18:00:04.