His Domme Owner has been satisfied with the slave man’s behavior. He is consistently humble. He obeys promptly and without unnecessary questions. Always his natural act is to do whatever pleases her best.

As a reward she permits him to kiss and lick her feet for a few minutes.

Looking at my pathetic, beaten husband — my toppled, defeated man — I became bitter. Contemptuous. I realized I had married half of a man. A weakling. Soon I learned that all men are that way — when handled correctly — but at that time my husband was the sole target of my contempt.

And I decided to rape him.

Quickly, I proceeded to our bedroom — opened my closet — and, stripping down to my panties, I strapped on the eleven-inch dildo. Then I went back out to the living room where my husband still lay on the floor, shaking, clutching at his groin, his sobs toned down to steady weeping.

I moved up behind him, and ordered him on his knees. At first he stalled, then I kicked him in the side, triggering a deep, gasping sound from his chest.

“Do as I fucking say, Justin.”

He moved jerkily to his knees, his head swaying visibly.

“Now undo your pants.”

His crying picked up again.

“Undo your FUCKING pants or I’ll slice your balls off with a paring knife then Fed-Ex them to your goddam parents.”

Justin undid his belt, then unbuttoned and unzipped his trousers.

“Now put your hands on the carpet.”

He obeyed. He was on his hands and knees. The huge artificial penis extending from my crotch like a swordfish’s spike, I moved up behind my husband, predatory, ready to ravage his tight little ass. I reached around him and gripped his balls; pinched them — he gasped, his voice feminine — and yanked down on them. Pushing the large, bulbous head of the dildo up between his legs, I began rubbing his balls roughly against it.

“You feel this, Justin? This is what real manhood feels like. Not a little cocktail wiener like yours, Justin; not like your little nibble-nuts. This is what a MAN feels like. You ever felt a man inside you? At work, Justin? Your boss, maybe? Ever let him take you?”

Justin wept a denial.

“Well then, I’m going to show you what a real man does. Maybe you can learn from this, Justin, so that one day maybe you can please me like a man.”

Then, releasing his little balls, I took my husband’s virginity in a ruthless fashion.

“Just pretend I’m one of your little buddies at work, Justin.” I speared the dildo between his cheeks, pounded it deep into his body.

“Just pretend this is one of their little peenie-weenies.”

By the time I was finished with him, by the time I thought I had proved my point to him, my husband’s voice was gone from him crying out so loud, at times screaming. I had broken several of my fingernails on the flesh of his buttocks. While I was screwing my husband’s hole I nailed him in the balls a few more times; at one point I grabbed his nuts and tried to crumple them up like croutons in my fist, making him recite the Lord’s Prayer while I did so. For several days he couldn’t walk without limping, for I had badly bruised his groin in various places with my elbow and my knees. His rectum was torn; bloodied.

And it took more than a week for the bruises to leave his face.

My husband, I determined, was the sort of man who required discipline from a woman.

Our relationship became, for a time, a prolonged struggle in which he attempted to re-assert himself as the dominant party — in response to which I inflicted further punishments upon him. I realized I had solidly acquired the position of dominance in the relationship and I had no intent of relinquishing it.

The punishment I chose for my husband took a variety of different forms: some mainly physical, some psychological. For example, about a month after I first raped Tim, I coincidentally ran into a man I had met a couple of times in college. The guy was still extremely handsome; I lusted after him in college — it turns out the feeling was mutual — but we had never gone out. Surprising myself, I asked him on a date.

“I thought you were married.”

“I am. I can still date other people, though.”

“Oh, you mean: your husband wanted to see other women, so you decided that it’d only be fair if you could–“

“No. My husband isn’t allowed to see other women. But I see other men.”

“Does he…”

“He knows about it, yes.”

“What does he say?”

“I haven’t asked his opinion.”

A couple of days later, I slept with this man, Mack, in my (and my husband’s) bed. I had arranged it so that Justin was lying in the narrow space under the bed while Mack and I made love on the mattress above him. So that he could feel the weight of our loving bodies against him.

Before he came, he decided to pull out of my mouth and have me ride his cock. My pussy already felt stretched; I was certain I’d be sore the next day. But feeling his shaft penetrate me so deeply, stretch me so wide, I lost my head in ecstasy, and began riding him in a thrashing, delirious way.

After he left that evening, I found my husband weeping under the bed. I grabbed him by the hair and dragged him out from under the bed, then made him suck Mack’s semen from my vagina. My labia, my mons, my clitoris — everything between my legs was drenched in his thick seed. I made my husband lick me clean. When he was done, I noticed that he had an erection — his cock was stiffer, fuller than I’d seen it in quite a while — so I told him his little weenie didn’t impress me, then slammed my foot against his balls. He collapsed onto the floor, holding his nuts like he was afraid they’d break off his body and escape. He wept for at least half an hour. I yelled at him to shut the fuck up, but he couldn’t control himself. Finally I had to smack him a few times.

After Mack left that evening I raped my husband again — perhaps more viciously than I had before. I made him stand above a mirror on the floor, bent over, while I sodomized him. I wanted him to see his own facial expressions — see his body shake and seize up — while I fucked him. Then I threw him to the floor, and lashed at his groin with a thick leather belt. When he tried to cover his genitals with his hands, I’d direct the belt against his face or chest.

I made him spend the night in the back yard — naked. The whole time he sat huddled, quivering, clutching himself for warmth at the side of the garage, where he thought it was least likely that anyone would see him.

Eventually my husband seemed to give up the idea of ever being equal with me in our relationship. Instead of whining about my treatment of him — the way I occasionally woke him up in the middle of the night by anally raping him, or by stuffing phallic objects (dildos, carrots, etc.) into his mouth, etc. — he began threatening to leave me. He was “threatening to run away,” like a child.

I had essentially two kinds of responses that juvenile tactic. The first was shutting him up — and hopefully deterring further idiotic outbursts — but psychically punishing him.

The second way was by creating a scenario for him of what would happen if he ever did indeed run away.

“Most likely, Justin, I’ll track you down, bring you back, and then I’ll castrate you. Clip off your balls like a couple of kumquats.”

I told him this while we both lay in bed — he with his hands tied to one of the bedposts behind him. I reached under the blanket and cupped his testicles in my hand.

“And I’ve given it some thought. I’ve decided that when — because I’m sure it’ll happen eventually, it’s just a matter of when you piss me off enough — when I castrate you, Justin, I’m going to get it on videotape. And I think I’ll send a copy to your parents. Don’t you think your mother would love to watch that? She never thought I was good enough for you.”

I squeezed my husband’s nuts firmly. He whimpered; his eyes were tearful.

I told Justin I’d make him watch the tape of him being castrated over and over while I sodomized him with huge strap-ons, phallic vegetables, etc. on our living room floor. I’d make him re-live he emasculation as a daily ritual.

And I told him I’d take him out to nude beaches to show everyone his modification. I’d guide my eunuch around and chat with strangers about how pleasant it was to have a sexually void husband to serve me, and to act as a toy for me and my genuinely male lovers. I’d let the strangers examine his scars, and tell them about how he wasn’t really a man to begin with.

I mentioned that I might like to castrate him in the desert somewhere — or on the grounds of some isolated state park. I’d let the blood of his wound seep into the ground. Later I’d take my lovers to that spot, for them to screw me where I had terminated my husband’s masculinity. The disembodied spirit of Justin’s maleness would remain at that spot; hover around us; take part in our sexual encounter.

I told Justin that perhaps I’d dry his testicles and hang them from leather cords above the doorway to our house as good luck charms. And, perhaps, with his crotch mostly empty, I’d make him decorate the space where his nuts once dangled with prettier ornaments: things like Christmas tree decorations, or beautiful crystals, or bunches of aromatic herbs.

Or maybe I’d videotape myself at the dinner table, eating his cooked testes with him sitting beside me, watching. Weeping. My poor husband — I’d even make him do the cooking. Then I’d reach over to him with the fork: “Open up, Justin. Your turn to take a bite. Open your mouth, eunuch: it’s your food.”

Maybe after castrating him I’d freeze the testicles, then, periodically, I’d remove them from the freezer and — with him tied firmly, totally unable to move — I’d throw them, over and over, at his cheeks, his nose, his eyes.