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From: an356608@anon.penet.fi (Estragon)
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Date: Fri, 15 Mar 1996 05:52:34 UTC
Subject: rpst: "Travels With Aunt Paula," V/6 (Femdom)
Lines: 419
Xref: news.primenet.com alt.sex.stories:140202 alt.sex.femdom:27609




"Travels With Aunt Paula," V/6  (Femdom)


(For adults only.
Copyright 1996, Estragon Productions)


"What we love in other human
beings is the hoped for satisfaction
of our desire. We do not love
their desire. If what we loved in them
was their desire, then we would 
love them as ourself."



"Yes, darling, that's the way. Press your penis up against your belly. 
Oh, sweetheart, Aunt Paula's gone and made it red." She gave her hand a 
reproachful look. Cal studied it too, but there was sweet admiration in 
his eyes. Such lovely long fingers, tapering to slender tips and the most 
exquisite, shapely nails. Could a thing so fine and elegant and feminine 
really have caused this lingering pain in the headquarters of his 
maleness? Yet she had only struck a womanly blow: a slap, a swipe of her 
open hand, a caress with a dose of fury in it. No burly fist, no cutting 
chop, no man-like brutality. A thing of beauty, rather, a woman's palm, 
her fingers, deepening a male's ache.

"Now, darling, with your other hand I'd like you to press your scrotum 
forward." Cal placed his fingers behind his testicles and pushed them 
outward, away from his thighs. The sack tightened at its owner's touch. 
"No, darling, don't let your balls recede. Imagine that you're giving 
them as a gift to Aunt Paula. You want her to own them now, and you want 
to show her all their nice features. Try."

Cal maneuvered the underside of his scrotum, trying to loosen it by 
jostling its tangled contents. The skin thinned out, stretching against 
constricted testes. Cal pressed the fragile apparatus away from his body 
and toward his aunt. Paula leaned forward in her chair, seemed to accept 
his offering. She gently ran a finger-tip over the surface of his scrotum 
and, gliding to its underside, stroked Cal's own fingers, still dutifully 
offering his testes. Her touch brought a cry of surprise from the boy. 
Cal had been naked before his aunt innumerable times. At lessons he had 
often handled his own organs as she instructed. But Paula had not herself 
touched Cal's penis or testicles since the days she bathed him as a small 
boy. Other females, yes: a small army of girls and adolescents had freely 
satisfied their curiosity with Cal, and of course there was Doctor 
Barbara, who would always make a joke when he got erect at check-ups: 
"Well, I'm glad to see you've forgiven me, Cal."

The sensation Aunt Paula was causing by this unprecedented scrutiny of 
her nephew's balls ravished the boy. Paula the woman was putting Paula 
the aunt into total eclipse. Luckily Cal had the obligation of pinning 
his penis hard against his stomach, and in this way his hand was able to 
create a subtle rhythm. Paula's finger exerted a slight, focused prssure. 
Though it was she, Cal's new-found enchantress, the irresistible goddess 
who used to be Aunt Paula, her touch was not seductive but clinical. She 
was merely gauging her boy - he sensed this but didn't care; her 
objectivity added to the thrill - becoming acquainted for the first time, 
really, with some of his less visible attributes. 

For Cal's part, acts of obedience and service had always increased his 
impression of intimacy with his aunt, though also with all the other 
women and girls whose bidding he did. But Paula regarded her relation 
with Cal as sexual only in the most generic sense. It stood to reason for 
her that intimacy should be a one-way street: intimacy was only honesty, 
only the shedding of pretensions and defenses. Of course a boy would feel 
the civilizing process - for to Paula male submission was no more than 
that - as a deepening intimacy with his teacher, at any rate if she were 
diligent. Humility, nakedness, service: what were these but extensions of 
common courtesy, more forthright, and ultimately more useful, 
realizations of those gestures expected of men in society and still 
sometimes called chivalry? Holding the door, relinquishing the seat, 
wielding the luggage. 

Paula loved Cal dearly. She made no secret of that. (And so she could be 
sure that Cal's enslavement was mostly the result of the self-knowledge 
she had helped him to, and not of the fear of losing a guardian's 
measured warmth.) But this was a love that preceded sex, or transcended 
it, or somehow wound around it - a love, in any case, that would have 
moved Paula to put Cal's needs before her own even if she'd had such 
needs as a mere boy could satisfy. She hadn't though. Paula was a 
charming woman, and, as we know, beautiful: reverent gentlemen aplenty 
were votaries of her cult.   


"Did you know, darling," Aunt Paula said, "your scrotum looks a lot like 
a basil-leaf? Feels like one too." Her finger traced one of Cal's scrotal 
folds, descended firmly between his testes, lingered there a moment and 
then slid lightly down to the soft and baggy underside below Cal's own 
rigid fingers. These strokes not intended to be strokes worked their 
unwitting magic upon the boy. He closed his eyes. He wobbled a bit. 
Slavery to a womanly woman in a short black dress and heels, this was the 
only thing that counted on earth. Submissiveness engulfed him like a 
whirlpool. All the same, he stood, because that was true submission - the 
woman's wish, clearly expressed a little while ago through the soft 
redness of her lips. But his heart, his life, was at her feet. 

A spasm as precise as the clap of a bell went through him. A ping at 
first, a little sickly, the snap of a slender finger against a testicle, 
and another, and one more to the other nut, all while he was lost in her 
and unprepared, then colic and recoil, and the need to crouch, denied. 
(Paula stood up and thrust her slender arm around Cal's waist. Wouldn't 
she prefer to watch him crumble, defeated by what for her had involved so 
little? Instead she braced him with her woman's arm, a thing stronger 
than his legs, stronger that the griping pain within.) The penis, so 
durably hard this day, now wilted. Then muffled tears.

"My darling," Aunt Paula said, "I think I understand. I think I do. But 
do you know what the very best thing you could do now would be? Shall I 
tell you? But, Cal my sweetheart, I only want you to do it if you think 
you can. Aunt Paula isn't requiring it. She's just offering some advice 
to her brave boy. Do you understand? Only if you feel you're able. And if 
you do, then I think it would make you feel much better, much stronger."

"Tell me, auntie, please." Cal's voice was reedy. 

"Only if you feel you can do it, yes?" The boy offered a weak nod. His 
mind was elsewhere - on his lingering cramp, and on the stunning and 
still incomprehensible revelation of a woman's power to hurt. This Paula, 
this woman, this aunt - he could never doubt her love. How, after all 
these years of tender care, could he dream of doing so? Even now, having 
treated him to this appalling pain, she was all pity and solicitude. She 
had good advice for him, if he could only bring his mind around to her 
words and take it in. Her arm was still steadying him and the fabric of 
her dress was once more riling his skin, but Cal now studied Paula 
through a long glass. She was worlds away, her female nature a terrible 
capacity sown at the farthest reach of interstellar dark. A stranger of 
consummate beauty and insoluble mystery. And this male, this Cal - might 
he not have been as awful a stranger to her, but that his mystery had 
been torn from him and hitched between his legs, a perpetual offering to 
travelers from her star? "Please, auntie, tell me," he said.  

"Then, Cal, the very best thing you could do right now is to ask Aunt 
Paula for another. If you feel brave enough, and grateful 
enough...grateful, yes, Cal...because ladies get no pleasure from being 
cruel. None whatsoever, I swear. Only the knowledge that a man's love is 
shallow unless it is accompanied by unstinting sacrifice...only that 
gives us the strength to hurt. It's not the pain we want to see, but your 
courage in facing it, and the tears of love it draws. Look how I'm 
sweating, my darling. Look at Aunt Paula's watery eyes. We ladies need 
courage too."

Cal looked. But the signs of her emotion troubled him more in a way than 
the vision of her terrible remoteness. Paula mustn't weaken. Cal 
understood that somehow. Whatever exactly the lesson of this hard day, it 
must be thoroughly delivered before his teacher relented toward either 
her pupil or herself. Her power chilled him, but he wanted it absolute: 
he'd pledged as much, and even now, shocked to discover what he'd 
consented to, he wished despite his trepidation to be broken. Until now 
in his submissive life, he realized, he'd been no more than toyed with - 
teased, reduced, enslaved, as much by the menace of something kept back 
as by humiliations freely granted. Even the dreadful circumcision which 
was Cal's introduction to women's rule was only an intimation, really, of 
their devastating force of will. Yet in loving and serving women and 
girls throughout his boyhood, wasn't Cal fundamentally in love with this 
half-hidden cruelty of theirs, this thing they'd flash his way but 
weren't ready yet to flourish? Now, today, Aunt Paula would at last bring 
this long-suspected, long-feared power out of the shadows. Pity him 
though she might, as mother, as sweet lady, the pure female stranger in 
her would show him the other side of pity: an implacable demand for his 
pain. At last the ache of beauty would be nourished, and inflamed. 

"Thank you, ma'am," Cal said, with ardor again. "May I have another?" In 
expectation he once more pressed his testes forward.

"My brave man," Aunt Paula said. "You may. But let Aunt Paula do all the 
work. Well, almost all. You just hold your penis out of the way. Good, 
yes, I think it gets hard just hearing me mention it." It felt good to 
laugh a little, she thought. To steel her mind she rehearsed the thoughts 
that had led her to this moment: she might have spared herself the 
anguish of performing these acts herself by sending Cal to an expert; 
well, Paula was an expert, but that was different - that was with grown 
men, worshippers who knew what they were in for; she could think of many 
women who understood exactly how to impress a boy with their strength and 
his own fragility, who could make him feel the pain of total defeat - 
make him cry his eyes out - and view it all impassively, knowing they had 
done his body no permanent harm and his soul lifelong good; but she knew, 
too, that if she'd given Cal the choice - though how could he understand 
its meaning, pain being no easier to foresee than to remember? - then he 
certainly would have wished his beloved aunt to be his torturer. 

"Now stand still, darling. I want this to be just right for my brave 
boy." Paula inserted two of her fingers in back of Cal's scrotum and 
pressed. "Spread your legs, dear. Wide as you can, please." Her fingers 
went higher, almost to the perineum, then dug in, forward and up, lifting 
the boy's testes while exerting pressure on them from above. With his 
legs spread wide and his aunt's fingers steadying his balls, Cal might 
have believed that these "essential" male glands hung where they did by 
sheer accident. Some harried small-time angel who didn't think it that 
important - "It's just a boy, for Chrissakes," she'd explain later, 
"what's the bleep-bleep fuss?" - had slapped them into place with a gob 
of glue. ("Yeah, doll, mucilage. They fall off in a month...? Hey. We're 
not talking titties here.") Uncomfortable though they were, Paula's 
fingers felt proper in this place. How stupid testicles feel just hanging 
there. When your legs are apart and you've nothing on you know for 
certain that you're made to be messed with. You're a person, as it 
happens, with a nervous system and a pulse, but first of all - just look 
at your stuck-on balls, look at your flapping dick - you're a 
dime-a-dozen, not-worth-fixing toy. If a girl or woman grows attached to 
you, just be grateful for feminine caprice.

Paula was taking her time. "Cal, let's see how hard you are. The harder 
your penis, the easier this will be. Just let it go for a minute." Cal 
lifted away his hand and his penis sprung down, hard again. There was 
something to Paula's theory that it stiffened when she mentioned it. For 
that matter, Cal could never hear a female person allude to the organ, 
his or any male's, without feeling forcibly exposed and aroused. 

Aunt Paula held her free hand up to Cal's view. The nail of her index 
finger sprocketed against her thumb. Cal stared at the tense little 
circle: as a gesture it meant "bullseye." But here it was a weapon, and 
Cal's fragile bulbs its unmissable target. "See, Cal, this is all it is. 
Just my finger flicking against your scrotum. A little 'ping,' and it's 
over. No damage done, no danger. Okay, lift away your penis. Try to stand 
still. Really, try not to flinch. Deep breath. I'll take one too...and 
then it's just, you know, a flick, darling, like this...."

Cal cried out. Was it a second before or a second after Pula's finger 
snapped against a testicle with the shattering curtness of a ball-peen 
tapping glass? Paula hurriedly reminded Cal not to move. The pain of her 
little blow flared quickly, a suffocating cramp opening into his abdomen 
and back like a fault-line. Cal wanted to fold up. It was his only need. 
He fought it by stiffening his limbs. This increased his blossoming 
spasms. He dropped his penis, let his arms fall, but otherwise stayed 
rigid. He squeezed his eyes shut. Nonetheless he wept. He tried, at 
least, to do so noiselessly. There too he failed. Through his weeping he 
thought he heard Aunt Paula say something, whisper it rather. He kept 
trying to make out her words, but failed. As her finger snapped once more 
against a testicle, he succeeded. "Cal, I have to," she had said.

"Please hold me up, auntie, can you?"

"Oh, yes, sweet darling. Let me just...." Without lessening their 
pressure, Paula slowly drew her fingers away from Cal's scrotum and along 
his perineum to the cleft of his arse. She pushed her forefinger firmly 
against his sphincter. His body, already rigid, tightened against her. 

"Cal, let me, please.... I can hold you up, you see...." Cal was sobbing 
and sure to buckle. Paula's finger would not relent. "Cal, it would be 
better. Cal, it would."

"I can't," the boy cried. "Auntie, help me."  

Stretching her free arm wide, Paula delivered a second stinging slap, 
this one to her nephew's cheek. "No, auntie...," he shrieked. And at once 
his anus gave. 

Paula inched her finger toward Cal's prostate. She maintained the 
pressure, holding her nephew upright by an act of impalement. Cal was 
crying openly now, abject but relaxed. Paula was bearing much of his 
weight as if on her finger-tip. Her presence in his rectum increased his 
colic, but also turned it into something victorious and satisfying. All 
Cal had to do was yield: capitulate with frank, full tears to the pain 
and invasion, recoil at the slaps, double over with the colic, flower 
with the fullness in your bowel. 

Paula stretched her thumb back across Cal's crotch, sinking it nail-first 
between his balls. The boy was incapable now of stiffening his limbs. His 
weight felt spread across the narrow arc between Aunt Paula's forefinger, 
snug against his prostate, and the sharp crescent of her shapely 
thumb-nail. His cramp was permanent now, filling his groin and belly, 
choking his solar plexus. The woman's finger was cracking steadily 
against Cal's testicles now and this quick staccato battery was getting 
to feel like an uninterrupted current. Breathless with tears, the boy 
could only gasp an importunate word: "Auntie...." But could he have said 
just what he was begging for? 

Each convulsion as Cal sobbed refreshed the radiant pain. But it also 
deepened his conviction of being helpless and possessed beyond any boyish 
dream of submission. He'd been invaded - not simply entered, but invaded 
- and now Aunt Paula's finger was rousing his penis through some strange 
remote-control hidden inside him. She knew more about it than he. And her 
thumb was digging into his testicles, pinioning them so that with the 
finger of her other hand she could repeatedly set off those  little 
explosions that shot an agony no woman could imagine down the whole 
length of his being. "Auntie...." Had he been able to form a sentence 
then, what would Cal have begged for - that Paula release him from these 
torments or worsen them? Like an old paradox , the question undoes 
itself. Cal yearned for both and neither: only if his torments were 
unbearable would it signify slavery and love to bear them; yet only if he 
shrunk from them would he prove them worthy after all.

Paula expected Cal to break. She had seen it in older males countless 
times. Why shouldn't it happen to a boy? She had only to persist, to keep 
her pity in check. She owed him the happiness of it. Of making him 
incapable ever after of denying the pathos of his sex. For a man, she 
knew, a little arousal goes a long way. It's a rich essence of which the 
merest hint in a confusion of feelings is enough to impart its quality of 
pleasure to the whole. Pain may be terrible, but tinge it ever so lightly 
with sex and it will become ecstasy for a man. "Pathos" was the word that 
came to mind.  

Aunt Paula deftly syncopated Cal's confusion: spikes of exaltation 
through his prostate to his penis, spikes of anguish through the 
stretched skin of his scrotum to his balls - a rushing stream of merged 
sensations and disordered emotions. Wasn't everything upside-down? The 
jolts to his testicles causing his elation, the push-button erection 
bringing him down? Were these sensations, these emotions, even 
distinguishable? Were they not a single, simultaneous up-and-down? Cal 
was now facing, at a moment when even boyish words were bound to fail 
him, the full truth of the religion of woman, something his training 
until now had only reflected indirectly: when you are hers absolutely, 
height and depth are one. When you shed your personhood, that tenuous 
final garment that wraps your manhood in the ambiguous fabric of 
humanity, you forsake your very will. You and the woman no longer share a 
common ground. All the ground is hers. You're the interloper, the 
vagabond, maybe for a time the guest. In any case, she has all the 
rights.   

So Cal broke. Beneath the deluge of pleasure-pain, he sagged. Aunt 
Paula's hand was there to wield him. He was her puppet. Her thumb roamed 
his testicles, turning or stabbing them as she chose. If she liked, she'd 
brush his penis, knock it a bit to make it quiver. She drove her other 
finger deeper into his rectum. Cal did what he could to make his depths 
reachable. He was an armature, nothing more, from which the cunning tools 
of female domination hung. He might cry his eyes out. This was ecstasy 
all the same. The real, true thing. Cal stood outside himself, far more 
an extension of Paula's nerves and muscles than his own boy. He was less 
the boy of tears than the woman who found them beautiful. He was Aunt 
Paula's desire - fulfilled. He had alertness enough to see himself afloat 
on the high water of a woman's sorcery, but he had nothing beyond 
alertness: he lacked all greed now, all intention, all will except that 
things be as they are. 

When your will is gone, your sense of time deserts you too. A woman's 
accessory, incapable of intent, you forget the very dimension it's 
projected into. For Cal, the remainder of the afternoon passed without 
sequence, everything the cause, everything the effect, of every other 
thing, a single unending yet undivided moment of tearful erection and 
ball-breaking joy. Now Aunt Paula's finger slipped out of his anus, and 
her thumb released his testicles. A thin black-leather belt was trussing 
them now, lifting them forward and high; now Aunt Paula was closing the 
buckle at the small of his back. He was reclining against a wall now. 
Aunt Paula was taking care to position him: only his head touching the 
hard wall now, Aunt Paula's tabouret wedged behind his buttocks, him bent 
backwards therefore, his abdomen and belly in strenuous offering to the 
woman. 

Now Aunt Paula was forcing his legs apart, saying, "Wider, Cal, wider, my 
love." A steel canister, very fat, planted now between his thighs, near 
his crotch, behind and just below his testicles, enforcing a wide, sweet, 
painful split. Aunt Paula saying now, "On your toes, please, Cal," and 
Cal already on them. Now she was showing him a pair of long bamboo 
cooking chop-sticks, tapered, tied together at their wide ends with a 
thread. With his gaze forced upward by his posture, he was straining now 
to look. But now the looking was over: she wished his eyes closed and so 
they were. She was spraying him with cold water from head to toe, front 
and back, and it was dripping off his face and down his 
torso now. Little streams of it along his ribcage, down the creases
of his groin, down his crack and onto his thighs. Now a harsh swat to
his wet penis. Now to his face with its eyes squeezed shut, its jaw
jutting upward. He heard his own yelps, his gasps, his sobs of grateful
surprise, and in them the satisfaction of the woman's desire.

The pointed sticks were jabbing randomly now, his abdomen, his legs, his 
trussed, uplifted balls. When the last, he shrieked, tried to proclaim 
his servitude, his breathless need to give Aunt Paula everything. He 
spoke, but it didn't sound like words. A gruff, misshapen croaking was 
all. Aunt Paula understood that he was offering his life. 

But her voice was music. "I'm going to rub a special oil over your penis 
and testicles now." Aunt Paula wearing latex gloves now. "It will burn 
you, Cal...."

"Glad...," the gaping mouth intoned. 

Now it was burning as she promised. And something - a hairbrush - was 
dancing in the flames, fanning them, becoming them, singeing the crown of 
his penis, consuming his glans. "Auntie," he wailed, a single long and 
ragged syllable. His penis had never been so thick, so heavy. What was he 
made for but sacrifice? Strange new paroxysms of surrender were carrying 
him away and he was going to die now for certain. For Aunt Paula, who was 
a woman and had the right. Now a wild, lashing rope of sperm shot for her 
sake from his burning organ. It was his first.   

"I love you, auntie," he only thought he said. 



Cal lay quietly in Paula's arms, his tears slowly receding. He had 
dropped to the floor in one innocent tumble, and Paula had joined him 
there. 

"My sweet boy actually swooned for me," she said.

Cal rested a careless hand where her breast began to swell. Paula 
gently deflected it. It found a home on the sharp turn of her hip; the 
crepe of Paula's dress did little to soften the feminine hardness of 
that place. Cal thought the other hardness on a woman must be more 
wonderful still. He wished he might kiss Aunt Paula there, on her 
beautiful dark triangle of hair. He knew this could never be. 

As she held her depleted nephew, Paula's thoughts drifted to Dana, her 
sister, Cal's mother. She remembered how, soon after Cal was born, Dana 
confided that giving birth to a boy had left her a bit confused. "I mean, 
don't you think it's bizarre," she said, "that women have no penises but 
are capable of growing them inside?" "So what do you think it means?" 
Paula asked. "It means SOMETHING," Dana said. 

Paula also remembered another conversation with her sister.  Dana was 
home from college and newly in love. Paula was a scornful adolescent. She 
felt only contempt for males. Love left her cynical. 

"Believe me, Paula, it's the only good thing in the world," Dana 
said. 



end of part five


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