Slut wins

As my relationship with Patti 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 Patti
became my dom. 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 Patti 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 Patti'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.

Patti spent quite a lot of time lifting weights herself, and she
loathed me - when we first met - for being somewhat flabby.

"Too many subs," she told me, "Are ugly, pot-bellied, sloths.
It's an insult to their femdoms. And by no means will I tolerate that
from you, Eric."

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.

Patti 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, Eric."

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, Eric! 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, Eric. 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, Eric."

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, Eric. 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.

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, Eric. 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.

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

"What do you think? You and Paul?"

"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 Paul 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.

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, Patti had me clear all of the furniture out of the
livingroom, remove all the decorations, leave it utterly bare. That
evening, Paul 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."

Paul glared at her. I could tell he was steaming. Patti
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.
Paul 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 Patti: worried that after we subdued her, Paul 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,
Patti stepped up to Paul 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 Patti continuing to clobber Paul 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 Patti 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 Paul's face and my own - were now
bloodied.

And then Paul rejoined the struggle, in what would prove to be
the very last effort either of us men could manage. He moved up
silently behind Patti, and punched her in the back of the head. But
he was weak - really already defeated by Patti's clear superiority in
face-to-face fist-fighting - and his blow was ineffectual. Patti
bounded off me, spun around, and landed the five finishing blows to
Paul's chest and face. Paul tottered vertiginously, then toppled
backwards onto the carpet. His body shook in massive, heaving sobs.

"Get on your knees, Paul," Patti ordered him.

With his voice garbled by tears and a swollen mouth, he replied,
"Fuck you!"

Patti stepped up, grabbed the elastic belt of his shorts, then
pulled him up onto his hands and knees. Paul 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, Eric."

Paul groaned.

"Shut the fuck up, you scum!" Patti kicked him in the head,
silencing him. "Do it, Eric!"

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

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

To my surprise, Paul 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. Paul
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?"

Patti was all over him. I smiled secretly. My dom 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 Paul 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.

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

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