Castle of Anhedonia
In this sprawling castle of mine, from the sky-gazing ramparts to the abyssal depths of its dungeons, I, Queen Anhedonia, have severed so many puckered penises from the reluctant bodies of their male counterparts, that I could build a lopsided ziggurat which would scrape the tip of the very heavens. I have torn them off with pincers dipped in lacerating oils until their steel glows imperial red. I have gripped at them with pliers and tugged and heaved until the flesh has unfastened at the very stem. From my armoury, I have selected glistening blades – the fatal curve of the scimitar, the deadly gleam of the katana, the rapier, the broadsword – and have lopped off penises while my goddess-sisters have gripped the elasticated foreskin in between thumb and forefinger. With pistols and rifles, I have aimed all my malice at that most hated organ, and with a feather-light flick of the trigger and the swollen, cacophonous roar of the projectile’s release, I have blasted members clean off. The gun crackles, the victim squeals. And I have had legions of my male slaves put to labour as carpenters, where they have fashioned miniature guillotines for the ceremonial purposes of slicing off the quivering cocks of their brothers – a decapitation much more frightening to the male of the species, I daresay, than taking off the thing upon their shoulders.
And what of the testicles, that laughable man-purse of fragile orbs? I have presided over the crushing of scrotums in their thousands. I have administrated over the ushering in of a colony of whimpering eunuchs. When my name is spoken among the males, their testicles instinctively tighten, their penises shrivel as though to creep up surreptitiously inside their bellies, to hide from the agonies I dispense upon such feeble instruments. I have crushed them under the stiletto heel of my latex boots, the dagger-tip of the heel piercing the balls, the broad flat underside trampling and destroying the fleshy remainders. I have tied coarse ropes around the testicles and have had them dragged by spluttering horses across the emerald fields which border my castle. I have trained my martial sisters and daughters in the sublime arts of ballbusting. Punches like furious comets shatter their nuts; snap-kicks whip into their delicate centre like a lion-tamer’s serpentine cord; elbows and knees collide with all that sensitive flesh, ending in tremors felt in their deepest sex, like earthquakes rumbling the lower-regions of their stomachs. And simple castrations with old-fashioned implements from the rolling farmlands, yes: I adore clasping their nuts in-between the monstrous teeth of the castrator, and squeezing slowly, inch by inch, until the jaws close and the balls burst! Orchestral are the screams which come floating from their mouths.
In the moon-dappled glade to the south of my fortress, there lies a village of my sorcerer-witches: young and pale-skinned, their eyes glimmer from the accumulated powers of occult lore. They brew miasmic potions of swamp-green and bright lime, some the colour of quicksilver, others the deep purple of cloudless night. Their mellifluous incantations drift across the open spaces to reach my listening ears when I stand astride the ramparts and gaze at the ever-widening eye of my empire. These witches, clad in diaphanous robes and wearing crowns of nature’s materials scavenged from the depth of the forests… these witches have concocted spells with which we delightfully torment our male captives. Primitive pyromancies that set their genitals ablaze and cause sweat to flood their every pore. Simple transmutations which wilt their penises until they are no larger than an infant’s thumbnail while, in shame and embarrassment, the males mourn the loss of their existential compass. Among my favourites are a priapic transmogrification, whereby the male’s penis stiffens and swells, growing larger and thicker, bloating and congesting with blood until the fragile vessel can no longer hold the torrents of turgid lust and explode. Or a few magniloquent phrases which, uttered in the sorceress’s unique lilt, place a hex upon the target’s balls – should so much as a single thread of opalescent climax spill from his urethra against our wishes, the testicles twist and mangle exquisitely, causing the male to fall to the ground, clutching his wounded parcel and baying for relief! How many mischievous males we have caught via this curse, and after neglecting them to a prolonged epoch of writhing torments as their haggard lips brush the crumpled earth, their balls are sentenced to a further flogging. Once, deliciously, I listened to male beg and plead for mercy, as one of my novitiate clerics swung a Morningstar at his penis and balls, impaling the flesh and tearing it from his body. He was a rapist, and his judgement was – by the standards of our reprisal in the Castle – swift and merciful.
And so, on this languid Summer evening, with the sun melting into the distance and brushstrokes of bright pink enflaming the sky, I repair to my palatial chambers. I strip myself of my gauntlets, my battle-scarred armour. Perfectly naked, I lay down upon silken sheets, cherishing their graceful touch on my skin, grateful for the fugitive breeze that blows in from the window and cools my bare feet. In this interval I have before my plaything for the evening will be summoned before me, I allow myself to slope into a half-dream, a reverie. Visions of ceremonial slaughter slink along the inner darkness of my shuttered eyelids and my fingertips ghost along the curve of my hips, playfully seeking my vulva, drenched and hot and pink. I slip my finger inside myself. I drip with honey as a phantasmagoria of my ball-crushing crusades flit in the lightless theatre of my unconscious. Hypnagogic imagery coalescing into magnificent paintings, coiling into ancient symbols, waxing and waning, all this accompanies me as I finger myself, descending into ecstasies of quiet moaning. When I merely brush my clitoris, the vibration has the power of tectonic plates shifting across centuries to form new landscapes. I am the mistress of such erotic magic, I succumb to my wolfish lusts and in a protracted moment of bliss, all images dissolve into a heavenly light: I fuck the air with my hips in an uncontrollable paroxysm, my pussy slurps up the stray, cool breeze which wafts in from the outside world. I have the sensation of consuming ravenously, drinking from the very soul of this planet. I come and come until my inner thighs glisten. I exhale dramatically, pouring out all the elemental essences I have breathed in. Then, as the last rays of the sun are absorbed by the encroaching nightfall, I hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stone staircase which lies outside my chamber. My plaything has arrived.
The door opens and two young maidens enter the room. They are angelic, as near to twins as possible, with their golden braids and their cerulean eyes, my perfect little girl-servants who will one day grow to be ferocious warriors, learned spell-casters, champions of my Empire. I found them when we quested to a land of mist-shrouded peaks and, immediately charmed by their feminine grace, their proximity to godliness, knew that I should have to bring them home with me. The girls have brought my plaything for the evening: he, the fallen prince, has a collar of bronze around his neck, and they drag him by a short chain. He crawls on all fours, like an animal. He is naked and his body glows with pink slashes and cuts, from where he attempted to resist submission to my generals. The girls intone together in their seraphic voices: “Mistress Anhedonia, our Queen, we have brought this pathetic male before you for your delectation this evening. When he was summoned to the torture chambers, the generals found they did not have to take the branding iron to his feeble penis. He immediately began to cry and gave away the hidden locations of his rogue encampments. The generals intend to march on them tomorrow at dawn. He is therefore of no further use to the generals and they send him to be disposed of as is your royal wish.” I smile as these obedient girl-servants drag the whimpering male to the centre of the room, wherein I have installed a chair of humiliation: the male is made to lie down upon his back, his feet securely fitted into stirrups such that his thighs are spread as widely as possible, his asshole available for inspection, and his penis and balls face the ceiling. His collar is clipped into the chair so that he is unable to move and his hands are pinned behind his head. The posture is that of absolutely vulnerability to my whims. Ordinarily, given his high rank among the Patriarch regiments, I may have taken him out upon the royal balcony, and raped him in front of my hundreds-strong legion of female fighters. I would have made a morbid spectacle of him. The crowd would have cheered with each thrust of my strap-on and clapped to each fuck as I ploughed his virgin asshole. But tonight, such theatrics do not suit my mood. I shall dishonour him in private. Holding the girls gently by their fingers, I kiss their foreheads and dismiss them. When I hear the door close quietly behind me, I open my cabinet of implements and pull out a six-inch midnight-black strap-on, which I sling over my hips and adjust, turning to point its vicious tip at this disgraced male captive.
I have no need for words this evening. I am beyond speech. This reprisal will be dealt wordlessly, and its only accompanying sounds will be the porcine grunts of this ravaged male, and the steady percussion of flesh striking flesh. As I hear mumbles of apology and oath-taking begin to tumble from his mouth, I imagine for a second that the sounds are coming from his anus. The little circle, so afraid, has been desperately clenched with what little energy he has remaining in his exhausted body. It is easy to imagine that these half-swallowed protestations are coming from the asshole itself, as his face and mouth are obscured to me from my vantage. I pour warm oils on the tip of this surrogate penis and, with steady steps, I approach the chair of humiliation. My scarlet-painted fingernails bite shallow grooves into his calves as I grip him and prise his buttocks apart. I stand on the tips of my slender toes, raising the horizontal exclamation mark of the dildo until it is level with his sensitive, forbidden aperture. Arching my hips and pushing out my buttocks, I allow the black tip of the dildo to fumble along the cleft of his wide, manly butt, brushing with blind idiocy against the opening. Then, drawing myself back, I plunge into his resisting asshole with one hateful stroke. Listening to his jagged gulps of air, I make his anus swallow all six inches of the strap-on until it is buried to the hilt and I can feel the hot flesh of his body against the exposed regions of my crotch and thighs. My palms travel to the undersides of his thick thighs, where I grip them powerfully for balance, and with a malicious giggle, proceed to peg this poor prince.
Summoning all my strength, I bang into him, over and over again, withdrawing the cock and then plunging it in, furiously delivering the tip in quick, short strokes, and then ploughing the full length into the depth of his interior. His long, limp penis, with a dazed expression, begins to bounce up and down from the impact – as though, I think to myself, it is doing star-jumps! what an absolutely pathetic organ! The balls bounce with each pump and thrust and the steady smack! smack! smack! of my hateful pumping proposes the beginnings of a natural rhythm to which I faithfully adhere. I pull the dildo from his anus, which slips loose with an audible pop! and leave him to his ragged breathing for a moment. I register that beneath this strap-on, my pussy has flooded again and trails of glorious juice trickle down my thigh. When I return to the spread-eagled prince his face is contorted into an expression of abject misery even though his penis has now, against his wishes, stiffened into a brainless salute. I clamber on top of him and, briefly loosening the strap-on, slip his engorged penis into my dripping cunt. I ride him as though I am bouncing on the saddle of a horse in a sunlit meadow. My beautiful, pale butt-cheeks flatten his balls as I furiously consume every inch of his manhood. I rise up onto my toes, so that the head of his penis is the only thing peeking its single slit-eye inside me, and then I bash myself down with force gulping up the whole organ. A mixture of pleasure and pain rouses the features of the pitiable prince. The male organ is not designed for such furious displays of feminine consumption. While it’s inside me, I can feel how ultimately weak it is when facing up against the superior strength of my vagina and the muscles of my thighs. I bash down again and again, pulverising his testicles with each downward motion and gripping his manhood in my vagina like a clenched fist. The wet walls of my insides immure his penis and choke the life from it. When I feel his cock begin to spasm inside me, as though it is at the precipice of spurting the content of his battered balls, I summarily slide off him with a wet plop! and leave the penis shivering, the stalk dancing back and forth, unable to achieve climax. Meanwhile, I am nearing another rush of ecstasy and re-adjusting the strap-on, I straddle him and plunge back into his delicate anus. With each fuck and thrust, the friction of the dildo sparks against my clitoris, and so I fuck and fuck and fuck while his unsatisfied penis begins to wilt away with a string of pre-ejaculate softly webbed to his stomach. I fuck and fuck, and as I feel the rush my orgasm building explosively inside me, I crash into him with all my might, piercing to the very centre of his body and causing a sudden bursting of wails to fall from his blistered lips. With a final triumphant thrust, I began to come and the prince’s stupid penis twitches as ejaculate lamely drools out of its flaccid tip at the very same moment.
The rituals of shame are complete. Summoning my girl-servants I order the raped prince to be freighted off to the milking factories, where no doubt Mme Lilith and Samantha have concocted new inventive tortures for these revolting males. When they are done with their experiments, he will no doubt be castrated in front of an audience of his tearful former sycophants. The male is removed and, sleepily, my body glowing with a thin veil of perspiration from my exertions, I head down the staircase to the medicine room, where my loyal sisters are preparing a gorgeous, fragrant bath and a four-handed massage with soothing, scented oils. Males, fear my reign. My conquest is ceaseless and shall only end when each last heathen male is brought within the orbit of my matriarchal empire.














