Men are strength incarnate: they are courage bound up in
muscle – bulging eternally, in any situation,
tirelessly, sweating. Men are combative by nature and
heroic by design. They surge with passion, commanding
obedience to their will – which erupts bold ideas from
the hard terrain of masculine flesh.
They are not weak. They do not give in, surrender, or
yield. They defy and rebel by genetic command.
Testosterone. Men are grand-scale sperm cells, swimming
against the current, writhing with insuppressible force
against the odds to the elusive egg. Testosterone.
Muscle. Power.
Ironically, Terrence would have been the scrawniest wimp
to succumb to these stereotypes all his life. And,
ultimately, he would have let himself down: would’ve
seen himself flag and flail in the face of the Hercules
myth again and again – how can a mere man be a godlike
myth? – were it not for the liberation that Shari gave
him. No, not gave him: forced upon him. Shari was the
elusive egg-cell at the climax of his life: that goal
which tells him to stop swimming.
You’ve made it, Terry. You’re here. Now shut up.
Shari effortlessly coiled the collar of dominion around
his neck.
Shut up and do your job. Make me happy.
Sometimes Terry wondered if it didn’t him less of a man
to be submissive. Were submissive men inherently less
manly than the commanding, bullyish Man of myth and
stereotype? Were all femdoms necessarily the keepers of
half-men? Men with the spirit of manliness stripped from
them? Men with their testicles reduced to mere ornaments
to their dommes’ power?
Did the societal definition of masculinity and
femininity mean that submissive men were no longer “men”
at all? Was the notion of female domination of men self-
refuting? Or were men ultimately warriors who had to
serve a woman’s pleasure? A woman’s law? The sperm cell
that strives toward the egg like something bound on a
leash?
In his first encounter with Shari, Terry was ten years
old. Shari was a tomboy – a girl who refused to accept
girlishness. Terry at the playground, holding the ball:
“No, Shari, you can’t. Girls don’t play this game.” He
tossed the ball to another boy. “Come on, Shari.”
Testosterone. This is how things are done.
Later, in his junior year of high school, Terry was not
so certain. He was dating girls, but full of self-doubt.
And it was Shari who was rebellious. She had her
driver’s license before any of the boys. She owned a VW
Bug, had a sticker on the bumper that read, “Girls Kick
Ass.” She asked him out on a date, and he accepted.
Shari had a reputation as a “slut,” and he – popular,
athletic – wanted to get laid. He didn’t know precisely
how to do this – when to make a pass, when to kiss – but
he knew that his body, his genetic make-up, his manly
urges – would take care of all this. The reins would
fall into his hands. This is how things went.
Testosterone. Power.
Shari drove them; Shari chose the movie. Men shooting
men on the screen – blood spilled in jungles, on city
sidewalks. Shari put her hand over his. Shari leaned
over and kissed him in the movie theatre. They were
sitting in the very first row.
Some of the kids from their school were behind them.
Shari leaned over and kissed him – her warmth seizing
him like a doll tossed into a fireplace. His body
reacted – he felt a surge pass through him, his penis
stiffened – but psychologically he wavered. He pulled
away, and watched the men on the screen blow each other
to pieces. All that testosterone.
Shari chose the restaurant. He was silenced as they read
the menu: under the narrow table she laid her hand on
his leg.
“I’ll have number thirteen, and he’ll have number seven.
And could you bring two horchatas?”
Over dinner, Terry reminded her of his accomplishments
on the school soccer team: his daring play, the praise
of his coach. He felt he was losing ground. She eyed him
with amusement. She fed him light praise. She poured
some hot sauce on his tacos, and he found his mouth
burning. He had to stop eating.
“I’m sorry, Terry! Too hot for you, huh?”
Terry observed other couples in the restaurant: Men with
their hands upon their women’s laps; women looking up at
their dates with soft, yielding admiration.
Shari asked him if he wanted to get drunk.
“What do you mean?”
“My sister has an apartment on Fifth Street. She’s out
of town; she said I could use her place. Whaddaya say?”
Terry hesitated. Shari drove them to her sister’s
apartment.
Shari made them margueritas – he didn’t know what they
were – and they sat on the couch. Her eyes never left
him as he sipped.
“Weren’t you once in a fight, Terry?”
“A fight?”
“Back in the ninth grade? Didn’t you and Eddy Yuknis get
into a fist fight?”
“Oh! Yeah. Jeez, Eddy. What a wimp. He was a bully,
though. I beat the crap out of him.” He laughed.
“What was it like, beating up a man?”
“It felt great. He provoked me, you know. He said all
sorts of stuff, talkin’ trash about me behind my back,
so I really let him have it.”
“How did it happen?”
“It just happened. It’s kind of a blur, but I beat the
fuck out of him (pardon my language). He tried pretty
hard, but I made him cry.”
“Did you kick him in the balls?”
Terry froze. “Did I… kick him in the balls? No, no, I
just…”
“Made him cry.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t do any dirty fighting.”
“Because that’s how to annihilate a man. Land a knee –
or a foot, or a fist, or a weapon – in the groin, and a
man’s finished.”
Shari smiled at her date. He turned away.
Quickly the alcohol formed a soothing blanket over
Terry’s nerves. He felt warmth flow through him. His
muscles unwound. He complimented the drink, and she
poured him another. As he took a deep drink, Shari put
her arm around his shoulders. He tasted lime and tequila
as she kissed him.
Terry felt himself shudder as her tongue entered his
mouth. He felt the weight of her breasts against him. He
smelled her body distinctly, though she wore no perfume:
a strong, damp smell that reminded him of the ocean. He
felt her hand on his side, stroking over his stomach,
touching his firm chest. He felt himself losing ground,
like sand washed into the waves. He gasped and grew
rigid as her hand slid between his legs. She kissed him
feverishly, held her hand firmly over his genitals. He
felt passive.
“I want you, Terry – I want you so much.”
Her tongue pushed against his, shoved it, writhed
against it. She popped the first button on his fly.
“Um, Shari, wait…”
She didn’t move away: she kept her hand over his groin.
“What’s wrong?”
“What? I’m… Shari, it’s too soon.”
Shari sounded irritated, “Oh, come on, Terry.”
She popped another button on his fly.
“No, Shari, I…”
He tried to rise, but immediately she put her hand on
his chest.
“No, Terry. I want you.”
Terry felt himself an observer, a passive camera eye.
She undid the remaining buttons on his fly, and stroked
his limp penis and his balls, bound tightly in his
cotton underwear. His reluctance was irrelevant – the
realization of this clanged in his mind – and he reacted
fearfully. He tried earnestly to pull away; he tried to
push her off, but she shoved one of his arms away
violently. She plunged her other hand under his
underwear and gripped his balls. He heard himself let
out a whimper of protest.
“Don’t fuck with me, Terry.” Shari sounded cross.
“Shari, I don’t WANT TO.”
With one hand gripping his balls, Shari grabbed his hair
with the other, and yanked his head back against the
armrest of the couch. “It doesn’t look like you have a
choice, Terry. Does it?”
Shari pulled his head back against the armrest – hard,
banging it. She increased the pressure on his testicles
– triggering another whimper – then glared at him.
Drilled her eyes into his head. He felt himself
quivering; his vision shook. He was frightened of her,
and he knew that she could tell. The myth of male
superiority – male sexual dominance – was totally dead.
Shari smiled broadly, then said, “Aw…Terry’s afraid of
me? A woman got your balls, Terry?”
Shari held him like that – vulnerable, powerless –
staring at him silently, for two minutes. Terry shook,
staring at her with his head pressed back against the
couch. Shari pressed her thumb against his limp penis,
driving it against his body.
“Come on, Terry. Come on. Get it up for me.”
Terry felt his powerlessness completely. In the haze of
his confusion, he realized that – however strange the
experience might be – it was, nevertheless, a precursor
to getting laid. This wasn’t the way things were usually
reported to him – with the woman softly gasping in
protest, with the man driving through her inhibitions,
overwhelming her with the force of his desire – but this
was, apparently, a step toward getting laid. In the face
of her domination, from which there was no way out but
assent, he began to cooperate.
He pulled down his pants – she told him, “That’s it,
Terry, good boy” – then slid his shoes off, and pulled
his underwear down to his ankles and over his feet.
She released her hand from his chest, and concentrated
on the flesh of his manhood. She held his penis,
stroking it roughly, pulling on it. With her other hand,
she pumped his balls, lifting his scrotum up, squeezing
his nuts, applying pressure to them that made his
thoughts crumble into feelings that he didn’t recognize
and couldn’t assimilate: carnal desire driven into a
corner, manliness broken down to servitude.
Shari brought her lips to his soft flesh: she held his
cock in her mouth, working it with her stronger, more
driven tongue. She sucked his balls one at a time into
her mouth, introduced them to her teeth, ran her tongue
over his scrotum, moved her.
“OK, Terry, lie on the floor.” She sounded frustrated.
He obeyed her, his knees bouncing against each other
nervously, his genitals partly concealed. Standing above
him, she drove his legs apart, then planted the ball of
her right foot over his groin. She rubbed it against his
cock and his balls with angry impatience. His
vulnerability frightened him.
“Time to get it up, Terry.”
She tapped her toenails into his ball sack, then pressed
her heel against his cock.
“Get your dick up, Terry. I’m getting tired of this.”
Terry tried to focus his energy; tried to obey her. The
scene was so strange; it all seemed so crazy and
unthinkable. And his penis failed to respond. He
masculinity was hiding somewhere. Defeated.
“Damn it, Terry.”
Shari got down, straddling his waist.
“What’s the matter with you, boy? Are you fucking
intimidated? Where’s your manhood?”
Shari slapped him hard across the face.
“Where’s your testosterone, Terry?”
She gripped his balls again: harder than before: the
pain made him yelp.
“Are these useless appendages? Do they WORK?”
She released his balls, made a fist, then banged her
knuckles against them. Tears flooded his eyes.
“Oh, poor baby. Get your fucking cock up, Terry.”
She beat her fist against his balls again – harder. He
quivered at his innermost depths. She beat his nuts
again, and he began sobbing. With each blow to his
groin, he felt like his spine was being shattered.
“Oh, shut the fuck up, you little slut.”
With full force, she smashed her fist against his
testicles. He heard himself bawling. He heard her – and
felt her – spit on his face. But she didn’t hit him
again: she wrapped her fingers around his nuts,
squeezing, wrenching his manhood into life: his penis
was rising.
“Yeah. That’s it, Terry. Get your little dick up for
me.”
His face glowing with tears, Terry felt his cock at its
full six-inch length. Shari pressed her hand over his
face, grinding his head against the carpet, and mounted
him. She screwed him through his tears; when she sensed
that he was approaching orgasm, she’d reach behind her
and hammer his balls with her fist.
When she was fully satisfied, she dismounted. He hadn’t
come. She lay on top of him, her breasts pressing
against his chest, her lips near his ear. “That’s it,
boy. That’s just fine. I’ll make a man out of you.”
Terry sunk into sleep under her weight.
He awoke minutes later. He was on his hands and knees,
and he felt her fingers on his balls again. He didn’t
know what was happening: he felt something – a cord, an
elastic cable – snapping around his scrotum, forcing his
balls into little spheres dangling from his body.
“No, Shari, please,” his voice sounded tearful still,
but more pleading – worn out, exhausted. “Let me go,
please-”
“Shut up.”
He had heard of this position. “Doggy-style.” He
expected her to slither under him so that he could fuck
her from behind. It was a position that suggested strong
male domination. But she didn’t move; she stayed above
and behind him. There was a pause after she released his
strained balls, then he felt something hard, physically
hard press against his ass cheeks. Simultaneously, she
grabbed the hair on the back of his head and pulled back
sharply. The pain made him cry out. Then he felt the
real pain.
As Shari drove the dildo into his rectum – ripping
through him, breaking open his body – she reached under
him with her other hand and throttled his bound
testicles. Terry was shocked with pain: he screamed. He
remembered that he was in an apartment building: there
were neighbors. If he screamed loud enough, they’d call
the police.
Before plunging into him again, Shari drove her
fingernails into his scrotum. Terry felt like a shark
was biting off his testicles.
“If you make another sound, I’m going to rip these off,
Terry. I’m going to make you a fucking eunuch. I’m going
to castrate you with my fucking fingernails.”
Terry felt sobs heave in his chest. Silently.
And she drove her penis into him again. He felt tears
spill from his eyes. She gripped his hair with one hand,
his balls with the other, and pounded into him. His body
rocked under her.
“Not that you’d mind losing these puny little pills.
You’re not exactly a well-endowed man, Terry. You know
that, don’t you?”
She freed his balls, then grabbed his penis. She pulled
at it fiercely. He felt like it was going to snap off in
her grip.
“Six inch little fuck.”
Her energy pounded into him; he could feel her penis
driving against his insides. Waves of pain shot through
him. He felt himself collapsing under her, and wept.
When he hit the floor she continued raping him –
continued ripping at his hair – for fifteen minutes,
then pulled out. He reflexively curled into a foetal
position; trying to hold himself together in an abused
bundle of shattered manhood. His body shook
convulsively. His hands were between his legs, his
fingers delicately poised at his throbbing balls, his
string-like penis.
In a moment she was at him again. She forced him onto
his back, then pressed her vagina over his face. He felt
like she was trying to press his whole head into her.
Blinded by tears and the hot wetness of her pussy, he
felt her fingernails claw at the band around his balls.
She ripped it off, yanking it up abruptly. His balls
snapped back against his groin.
“Get it up Terry!”
He felt his body quake with a new explosion of tears.
“Get it up NOW!”
He felt her hands tearing at his jewels – his treasures,
the seeds of his manhood, the mighty rod of his male
power – but this time they responded quickly. His penis
rose. Rampant. Not going to let a girl dominate him. All
that testosterone.
While she jerked his cock with one hand, she
rhythmically smacked his balls with the other.
When he came – barely catching air in smothered breaths
– when his juice squirted forth, his potent male nectar,
it was amidst throbs of unrelenting physical pain. His
groin felt like a puny ounce of burning hamburger.
When she got off his face tears were dribbling down his
cheeks. A puddle of cum lay on his chest, and she fed
this to him. Several wet fingers into his mouth,
plunging deep – fingernails scratching against his
throat. Then the last stringy drops, slippery on four of
her fingers, went into his anus. This part of his body
had an entirely new identity. She drove her hand into
him, her blade-like nails slick with his seed, wrenching
against his bruised insides.
“Squirt your scum deep, Terry. Get yourself pregnant.
Men are only good for one thing.”