Strap-on Sex, Feminization, Small Penis Humiliation
I always had a hunch there was something slightly deviant about Susan. She tried to conceal it; I suppose she worried it would frighten me to glimpse her true self. But one evening she lost control; she ripped through the veils imposed on people (especially women) by polite society and unleashed a ferocious side of her libido. No doubt it was a great experience for her: liberating, fulfilling. For my part, my attitude towards sex and women would never be the same.
When Susan became intensely turned on she sometimes got extremely demanding. I noticed this pattern early in our relationship, but this one night she became downright dictatorial. I had cooked dinner for us, we had had a few drinks — she drank more than usual — and we had started watching a videotape. After a few minutes she began making out with me, tigerishly defying my flimsy efforts to stop her and focus on the film. We decided to postpone the movie in favor of some savage fucking.
In the bedroom we stripped nude and began making out on the bed. After a few moments I began gently, teasingly sucking on her left nipple, and making small circles around it with my tongue. Abruptly Susan ordered me to put on her panties. I was startled at first, but found her whim amusing. The panties covered virtually nothing; my cock stuck out boldly from the little slip of sheer fabric as if to say, Even if HE’S going to be subservient, I’M not. Susan ordered me to strike various poses for her, and I obliged. She laughed at me uproariously, and I started to find the situation humiliating. When I began stripping the panties off, though, she grabbed my wrist and insisted, “No! No, I want you to keep them on.”
I did what she wanted. Later I was surprised that I was so amenable to her instructions: I barely even protested when she made me strap on a bra, for example, and then put a short, short dress over the lingerie. I was flustered; I was beet-red, aflame with embarrassment. I felt like I was being yanked out of the role of the man, the assumptive dominator, and being forced not only into submission, but into a very strange act in which I had to basically flaunt my submission.
When I donned her dress, Susan ordered me to dance for her sensually. This was when she really began to surprise me with her aggressiveness: I refused to dance for her and explained while women often indulge men with things like that, “Men just don’t so that sort of thing for women.” I had never seen Susan as explode like she did at that moment; she leapt off the bed — stark naked — glared at me with a smoldering look — it made me turn away — then slapped me in the face. Hard. It actually hurt me, and — I guess I was also totally surprised — I began to feel hot tears in my eyes.
“You are going to dance for me right now, you little shit. Now!”
I guess it was my instinctive stubbornness that made me refuse one more time. Whatever it was, I muttered, my voice muted with anguish, “Like hell I will.”
At that point she grabbed me by the hair and hurled me onto the bed. I fell flat on my face. Right away she jumped on top of me, straddling me, and proceded to spank me. I found the whole situation bizarre and upsetting. There she was, giving me orders to do things I didn’t want to do, and when I refused, she began wailing on my ass. I got really flustered, and while she spanked me mercilessly — she must’ve whacked me more than fifty times, occasionally hammering me with her fist rather than her palm — I began weeping.
At first she was annoyed by this, and only began striking me more viciously. This, in turn, made me cry harder, and finally I was hollering in pain and humiliation. This was the end of the rope; she decided to really lay into me: she plunged her sharp-nailed fingers into my cherry-virgin asshole and told me to stop fucking moping or she’d really maul me. To make the threat more tangible, she reached under me with her other hand and grabbed my balls — damn near popped them in her fist. I shut up instantly, except for a high-pitched whimpering, and this really seemed to entertain her and to make her feel delightfully powerful. She turned me over on my back, lifted up my dress, ripped off my panties, and hissed down at me contemptuously, “Get hard, you pussy wimp: NOW.” When I failed to show signs of arousal instantly, she clutched at my scrotum again, and I had to obey. Susan rode me for the rest of the evening — through countless orgasms — both my cock and my red, puffy face. I had to acknowledge it: she had beaten me up. There was nothing “manly” about me that night. Occasionally these thoughts went through my head while she was riding me, with the consequence that I began to go flaccid, or began to cry again. Whenever either happened, Susan squeezed my nuts or smacked my face some more. For a few days I refused to see her; I refused to answer her calls. I realized — deepening my humiliation even more — that I had become extremely afraid of Susan. I was terrified of her, in fact. Remarkably, that made her all the more exciting. I had never felt so sexually spent as at the end of that evening; I felt like I had been reduced to sexual rubble: like all of my sexual urges had been reduced to dust, and the dust had been blown into oblivion. When I woke up the morning after — in my own house, alone — I masturbated three times, reliving and revelling in the memories of my total subjugation. I felt like I could’ve kept on masturbating until my penis wore away to nothing.
But although it finally dawned on me that I found my liberation from my former, stereotypically conceived “manhood” quite exhilarating and profoundly exciting, my fear of this new, formidable Susan continued to guide my actions, and I continued to ignore her calls and avoid her.
Finally one evening she got fed up. If I had known what she would do that night, I never would’ve distanced her for so long.
Looking back on it now, I still believe Susan was excessively cruel. I’ve become quite a connoisseur of my own pain and humiliation — I’ve come to realize that my sexual purpose is to serve Susan’s whims absolutely, without hesitation or self-interest — but still I feel she was unnecessarily hard on me that night. Even to this day, once in a while she’ll reach out at me and an instantaneous recollection from that evening will flash through my head, causing me to wince or cower. This usually makes her laugh.
What happened? I was cooking dinner — it was hot out, and I was wearing jogging shorts and a T-shirt — when Susan knocked on the door. I had no idea when I opened it that it was her. Instantly, before I could do anything but gawk and notice that there was a large gym bag on the step beside her, she reached out, grabbed my hair, and — with astonishing strength that was fueled by nothing short of rage — she turned me around, bent me backwards so that I was almost falling on my ass — and hammered her fist into my balls. I yelped –I remember it quite clearly: I sounded like a puppy being swatted with an oar — and she did it again and again while I crumbled the floor, sobbing.
Susan was mad, and wanted to teach me a lesson about dissing her.
As soon as I was on the floor clutching at my pulverized nuts, she ripped off my shorts and began kicking my ass. She was wearing her Doc Martin’s, so obviously this was a hellish experience, and I hoped that the neighbors would hear me sobbing and come to my aid. She must’ve gotten this thought herself: with a thick strip of cloth I assume she removed from her gym bag she gagged me, tightly pulling my head back as she knotted it. I could hardly make a sound. My eyes stung with tears, and I trembled with terror: after she gagged me, there was a moment when nothing happened. I was too scared to try to run from her — not to mention I could certainly never walk with the ache in my manly region — and I realized that in a full-out struggle, she’d easily get the better of me.
Even if I weren’t gagged, even if she hadn’t gotten a first shot to my crotch, and even though I did possess superior upper-body strength, I knew that in a fair fight Susan would have me on the ground crying uncle. I realize now that if they weren’t held back by societal programming about their inherent weaknesses, their inferiorities, their obligations to be dainty, etc., women would in general get the upper hand over men in all struggles.
After several moments went by in which nothing happened, I turned around to look at Susan. She was completely undressed, and was doing something with the contents of the bag. She caught me glancing back through my tears, and instantly screamed at me not to look, and slammed the top of her bare foot into my groin. The blow knocked my whole body forward. I wailed through the gag, shedding a new river of years, collapsing there on my hardwood floor with my hands clutching desperately at my Manhood. I felt my balls in my fingers; still hard, loose in their very soft scrotum, aching like they were about to implode to nothing. I felt my poor cock: it was limper than I’d ever felt it before, and must have been reduced to about four inches long. I felt like third-grade school boy who had just been pummelled by an eighth grade young woman.
After a few moments, Susan grabbed me by the hair, tugging my head off the tear-wettened floor. She ripped off the gag, and instantly she grabbed at my lower jaw, pulled my mouth open, and shoved a massive, thick dildo into my face. The thing was HUGE; it must have been twelve inches long, and she had to hammer it into my mouth like a crucifix into the ground. She shoved me hard onto my back and, with her hips over my face, pounded that awful dildo into my face again and again. When I began weeping like an abandoned baby, she began punching me in the face. This just made things worse — didn’t silence me at all — though she gave me a black eye that lasted for more than two weeks, so she spun around into a 69 position and pulled apart my legs.
For a moment she stared down silently at my Manhood, then she burst into laughter. No doubt it was smaller than she’d ever seen it; no doubt my testicles were hiding inside my body like frightened cockroaches.
I felt her spit on my nuts.
“You know what I’m going to do, boy?” She taunted me, all the while hammering the dildo rhythmically into my mouth, “I’m going to take your little tiny balls into my mouth and I’m going to bite them off with my teeth. Then I’m going to spit your teeny-weeny testes into the toilet.” She laughed again, and struck her tongue down on my tender groin.
I remember being hysterical when she sucked my balls up into her mouth. I remember trembling, nearly convulsing while she began to apply her teeth to the little cords leading from my nuts to my body.
But she didn’t do it. I was surprised by this, and I realized then that she wanted me to be able to maintain the illusion of my manliness, so that she could again and again, thoughout our lives, tear it down in front of me. My balls were the ultimate symbol of my manliness, and she wanted me to continue being a Man, because she knew that made me inferior to her.
Susan released my nuts from her mouth, then drew the dildo out of me.”You know, boyfriend,” she said, position the dildo down my groin, “I want to point something out to you.”
She grabbed my hair from behind, and made me look forward.
“You see this?” She tapped her twelve-inch dildo into my groin.
“You see? This is what a Real Man looks like. Long. Hard. And now look at you.”
She reached down and, using her fingernails, clutched at my limp Manhood. It was all of four inches long.
“You’re not a man,” she hissed at me. “Look at this! Look!” She poked her penis against mine, compared them, and laughed at me while I wept.”You barely even have a cock! You’re not a Man! You don’t even have real balls: yours are tiny: they’re barely as big as golf balls. That’s what real men are like, though, aren’t they? Lots of cheap posturing. When it comes to the moment of truth, all men are Soft and Tiny. No balls, no brains.”
She squeezed my testicles again, causing me to whimper once more, then spat hot spit on my little Manhood.
“Roll over, you little fucking man.”
I obeyed immediately, and without any consideration for my pleasure — without any lubricants, for example — she began raping me. She plunged her penis into my poor asshole mercilessly, and I could do nothing to stop her. After a few thrusts, she reached down under me and gripped my genitals with her right hand while she shafted me. She held me like this, stabbing me with her superior cock, holding my tiny Manhood in her strong fingers, for nearly an hour, before beginning to feel pity for me. I was bleeding out of my ass. I had lost my voice entirely.
She took her penis off, turn me on my back, and sat with her Vagina within reach of my tongue.
“Tell me, now. Are you the so-called Man, or am I?”
I stared up at her blankly, incapable of thought.
“You are,” she informed me. “You’re the man. And I don’t want you to ever forget what being a man feels like.” She reached behind her, once more striking my injured balls. Then she shoved her pussy over my face.
“Now eat me well. Eat your natural master.”
I obeyed. And I’ve obeyed her ever since, because when I don’t obey her, I am nothing.
Men aren’t meant to be nothing. They’re meant to be slaves.