FABLES OF ANHEDONIA

I curate some erotic images from the themes of female domination, ballbusting, male humiliation and so on. I also occasionally post crafted psychosexual tales in the S&M genre which are set it an alternate universe where females rule over male testicles and discipline and punish their balls in imaginatively humiliating and painful ways. Please write to me for more details or if you would like me to post more stories.

[fablesofanhedonia]

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.

[fablesofanhedonia]

Sorority Girls vs. Rugby Players

The following story contains gratuitous descriptions of sexual violence. Those of frail constitution are advised to scroll on.

 Throughout the quaint university town, “The Boars” possessed a reputation of dark renown. Across its magnificent oak-lined streets and, in the corridors of the Edwardian-era departments which constitute its various campuses, they were lionised as latter-day gladiators, champions of the rugby field upon which they were rarely defeated. So too, one would hear whispers sotto voce, of their drunken adventures after a successful match, in which the fifteen-strong team would lurch from fraternity house to drinking hole, leaving in their wake a trail of inglorious destruction which was the insignia of their celebration. Over the years, the small town – hemmed in by sublime forests at all its borders with a single highway cutting though the deep, emerald green – became accustomed to the celebratory upheavals. It was not without reason that the team had eventually taken on the colloquial nom de guerre of “the Boars”: burly and broad, the eighteen and nineteen-year old boys were possessed of porcine manners, ravenous appetites, and a sense of grunting self-indulgence. These were rough-hewn boys, fortresses of flesh, most standing well above six feet tall; they were old enough to know better, but coddled on account of their superstardom in the discipline of rugby (that most brutal, primitive of sports), they each believed they could get away with anything; that there was no boundary which could stand in the way of their singular desires. This is the story of three brave girls who stood up against the Boars, one fateful evening, and brought their arrogant reign of supremacy to a most humbling end.

                   It was in the midst of a quintessential autumn: the pavements were carpeted in damp leaves displaying a spectrum of seasonal yellows: burnt umber, deep orange, butterscotch. Every so often a howling wind would course down the narrow streets, whipping up splinters of bark and droplets of rain into harmless tornadoes, depositing these earthy materials here and there. Under the dim glow of the streetlamps, the roads appeared slick from the gentle rains of the night before. Hours earlier, the Boars had travelled the single highway to a neighbouring university, where they were scheduled for a particularly gruelling match. They played with their classic intensity, and at the moment of their victory, as their supporters let out a low roar of satisfaction, they were plastered with mud, their clothes swollen with sweat, and their bodies exuding the soupy, masculine odours of exertion. Returning to town as the last rays of sunlight sank behind the mountain, they had already spent most of the journey swilling foam-capped golden lagers, addling themselves with drugs, and beating their chests in the illiterate passion of their self-entitlement.

 We shall not dwell needlessly upon the details of their sins that evening, dear readers. It will suffice to say that the boorish Boars tore through the streets, in an access of ancient male feeling, shattering windows, fighting with other males, wolf-whistling and baying at the scarf-swaddled girls with pretty figures who they found across their exodus, eventually settling upon a sorority house, which we shall simply mark as x. Here, five members of the team – The Captain (Brett), the Lock (Bobby), the first Prop (Chad), the second Prop (Brad), and the Hooker (Troy) – parted from the rest of the group and indulged themselves in an act of heresy whose minutiae I shall not rehearse: they gang-raped two sweet, innocent seventeen-year old undergraduate girls, best-friends, during an hours-long rampage of criminality, in which they gave vent to their most disgusting lusts, high-fiving each other and laughing, as though the girls who fell beneath their terror were mere objects put on earth to satisfy their cravings. They left them naked on their floor, shivering in the post-midnight chill. And after the ordeal, the girls received no succour from the local policemen who, believing the girls to be mere sluts and liars seeking to sully the reputation of the local sporting heroes, advised the girls to hush and keep their mouths shut if they knew what was best for them. Such a revolting sequence of events… it stings the eye to recall that such hidden depravity is a feature less uncommon than civilisation would like to believe. It was for this reason that the girls approached the counsel of three older, post-graduate sorority sisters, who promised them that justice would prevail. These girls will hereafter be known as the Circle of Three.

 Those five Boars mysteriously disappeared the following afternoon. And although the journalists and the police-officers trawled and sleuthed for weeks, no closure was ever found. I, however, will reveal to you, in secret, the fate of the vanished five. They awoke, bleary-eyed, in the basement of an old, abandoned farmstead. As the tranquilisers began to wear off, they had no awareness of the previous day, their memories strained and dissolved under the pressure of recollection. Each of them was stripped entirely naked and fastened with broad, thickly-knotted ropes; each player roped to a single chair, hands locked behind their backs and thighs splayed open, feet pointing in opposite directions. Outside, they could hear the soft, percussive sounds of raindrops against a corrugated iron roof. The room, a chamber of impenetrable darkness, had only two sources of illumination: one, a small, barred ventilation window through which a poured a wan light; and two, an array of small white wax candles, whose shivering flames cast ominous, flickering shadows against the concrete walls. Their mouths were gagged with old, blood-smeared panties, so they wheezed through their nostrils in profound, uncomprehending fear.

 Now I shall describe the five players to you, in their present form. The Captain (Brett) was a statuesque, muscular male, with washboard abdominals, bulging pectorals, arms and legs bounded in bloated muscle. He had a short crop of dishwater blonde hair, eyes of cerulean blue, and - do not think I would omit this crucial detail - a large, circumcised penis, thick and long, with a drooping bag of balls the size of small apricots. With his legs splayed apart, his equine penis hung down over his testicles, and the uncovered head was bulbous and pale pink. The two props, Chad and Brad, could not have been more different in physique from their Captain. They, being twins, shared the genetic quality of being squat and stocky, with protuberant pot-bellies from years of alcohol abuse, and faces which distantly resembled that of hammerhead sharks. They had broad shoulders and military hairstyles shaven a mere half-inch from the scalp. They too, amongst the blubber and mass, were possessed of a great deal of muscle. Everything about their physiques spoke of decadence; everything that is, except for their genitals: in their flaccid forms, both brothers had short penises with thick trunks. The remarkable girth of their manhoods would remain unchanged when they were sexually aroused, and their cocks would grow perhaps an inch each when facing the skies – squat, semi-powerful penises, not dissimilar from the castles on a chessboard, they were funny to look at, amusing to see these little appendages propped up on the elephantine testicles underneath, and laying between two enormous pairs of thighs. To look at Chad and Brad, one imagined that the brute names their parents have given them could not have suited the young men they would grow into any better: ugly, with their foreheads like blank chalkboards and their cruel, razor-thin lips.

 Next, I shall describe the fourth member, the team’s Lock (Bobby). Here again, a semi-handsome individual, if one ignores the foolish man-bun into which he pools his brown hair. His stomach is carved into an eight-pack, and he is well developed in his manliness: large, muscular biceps, thighs and calves thickly-corded with veins, and (at least when unexcited, as we presently survey him) a five-inch penis with a semi-retracted foreskin, revealing a vulnerable, champagne pink glans underneath. He also sports a moustache and vague beard. And as for the fifth and final member, the Hooker Troy, he is the darkest-skinned male amongst the five collected. Tall and half-handsome perhaps, but astonishingly, between his legs, one finds little more than an undeveloped micropenis surrounded by a shadowy ring of matted fur. His testicles are bristly from recent shaving, with large egg-like testes hanging in the scrotum, and although his arms and legs are large and powerful, the little thing attached to his groin gives off the image of infantile delicacy. Finally, one must note the excesses of testosterone which had already, by the age of eighteen, caused characteristic male-pattern baldness, such that his close-cropped black hair only begins much further up on his sweat-glistened pate, leaving him looking prematurely-aged. These, as I have described them to you, are the five members of the rugby team, and they are arranged in a semi-circle of chairs in this dimly-lit basement, their thighs splayed open, their manhoods uncovered to each other, and their bodies powerfully captured by ropes such that none can move even an inch. They are each tilted back in the chairs, such that their buttocks are completely visible, their puckered assholes and butt-cheeks exposed. And now, groggily waking up, confused and hurting, they squint in the darkness and see that they are not alone.

 In the left corner of the room, the moaning semi-circle of boys glimpse the outline of a small, circular table, on which sit two glasses of crystal-clear cocktails. Seated at the table, wrapped in cashmere turtlenecks and loose-fitting, comfortable sweatpants, are the two seventeen-year old victims of their debauchery, whose true identities we shall conceal by referring to them by the nom de plumes, Liliana and Lahela. The girls, looking positively relaxed, are chatting among themselves and giggling. Liliana fishes a thin sliver of gin-soaked cucumber out of her glass and places it delicately on the top of her tongue, where it almost dissolves. Her mouth curves into a glorious smile. It has been 48 hours since their ordeal, but nurtured and comforted by the Circle of Three, their bodies have already begun healing themselves; their splintered spirits are in the process of repair. As a murmuring chorus of moans begins to escape the lips of the captured boys, Liliana and Lahela turn their eyes to glare at them, wordlessly. And this is when, in the faint half-light of the candle-glow, the boys notice another three women in the room. These, dear reader, are the Circle of Three, whose names we shall mark as the young Anhedonia and her closest companions, Amber and Eve. Anhedonia, is tall and lithe, with a fashionably jagged t-shirt, slashed at the arms and mid-riff, hanging over her luscious, agile, powerful body. Her impenetrably black hair – the complexion of primordial midnight – is tied up in a ponytail, and in the gloom of the basement, her eyes shine with vampiric whiteness, equally seductive and terrifying. Amber wears a seashell-coloured coat to ward off the chill (the autumnal chill which has withered each boys’ penis to a trembling state of shrunken lifelessness). Her exquisite feet are clad in brown leather boots and her loose, flowing mane of hair resembles nothing so much as tendrils of magma coagulating around her shoulders. And, at last, Eve, with her boyish mop of platinum blonde and her mischievous eyes… she wears a varsity jacket in the palette of crimson and charcoal which represents that of the university’s official colours, a final fuck-you to the delinquents assembled in the basement, and gaspingly awaiting their terrible destinies. Before the Circle of Three stands a small table, and upon the table the boys note: a rough-looking pliers with handles of red rubber; a pair of long-snouted scissors; a hunting knife, recently sharpened, its deadly edges speaking of a sinister history; a prodigious mallet traditionally used to drive chisels into concrete; and, finally, an assortment of butt-plugs, strap-ons and  large vibrators, whose purpose is immediately apparent to the five assembled rugby-players, causing the lot of them to begin sweating profusely, until their entire bodies are slick and glistening with fear.

 Now Amber approaches the Captain and delicately brushes the tip of her index finger against his pink asshole, tickling him, inducing shivers of ambiguous arousal throughout his crotch. “You poor little thing,” she whispers, with a hint of mortal venom in her voice. Returning to the table of instruments, she selects a squat turquoise plug, perhaps three inches in length, and begins to brush it with oils from a nearby bottle. Then, once more, she approaches the Captain, brandishing the plug like a medieval implement of torture, and teasingly, she caresses his anus with it. Harrowed gasps can be heard from the Captain’s muffled mouth (“mmmm! Mmmm!”), his head furiously shaking left and right, and his sphincter clenching with all the strength he can summon. “Now, now, you pathetic male,” Amber soothingly intones. “If you can give, then you must surely have the courtesy to receive. When you defiled our sisters with your heathen behaviour, you did not think to ask their permission, so why should I ask yours?” With that, she slowly begins to impale the Captain’s asshole, first the inaugural inch, and then the second, forcefully, against his squirming and resistance, until finally, locating the magic spot, the Captain yields and his asshole gulps up the final inch of the candy-coloured plug to the hilt, and he lays there, trapped in a tapestry of coarse rope, with his virgin asshole violated. “Mmmmm-mmmm!” is the prolonged sound of alarm that attempts to escape his underwear-stuffed mouth and Amber smacks him with a fatal, stunning power across his face and tells him: “Silly little boy, we are alone for miles in every direction. Not a human soul can hear your crying, so shut your fucking mouth or you will be made to swallow the thing in your anus.” Promptly, the Captain’s whining ceases, but, to his great shame and embarrassment, his whimpering team-mates notice that with his asshole corked with three inches of surrogate penis, the Captain’s own monstrous member begins to rise to half-mast, a semi-erection now dangling between his legs.

 Now young Anhedonia steps with great, purposeful strides into the centre of the semi-circle and, eyes viciously passing across each of the boys, she scolds them: “You pathetic mongrels! You deplorable rats! Do you see what we have made of your leader? Not a single one of you will be spared. Rapists! Rapists, violators and animals! I hope that dear Liliana and Lahela will take great nourishment from watching the justice we will mete out this glorious day.” She spits at them. “What a disgusting, pitiable creature is the male of the species. You know no law except that which dangles between your legs. Your morality is prey to your corrosive lusts. If possessing a penis is a such a burden to you, then we shall graciously relieve you of this burden!” Raising her finger, militaristically, she points at the Captain’s tumescent penis and creamily instructs Amber: “dear Amber, decapitate this pathetic specimen.” The Captain begins to thrash wildly in his chair, but so extensive is the depth of his bondage – raw rope cuts deep into his flesh – that he is unable to move as Amber consults the table of instruments and raises the hunting knife, her finger gently trailing the edge of its serrated blade. She holds the knife up ceremonially – for brief second the only sound in the room to be heard is the suppressed cacophony of sobbing and moans coming from the sealed-up mouths of the males – and then she turns around, arrow-quick, and leaps across the room, grabbing the Captain by the base of his penis, squeezing mercilessly. In a single, irrevocable flash, the blade arcs downward and slashes off the bulging penis three-quarters of the way down the shaft! The Captain twists and writhes; every part of his body appears to scream from the torsion of his agonies. Amber grabs the severed appendage and throws it onto the floor (splat!) and stomps on it with her boots until it is little more than a limp, bloody, pulverised mess. Where the Captain’s manhood once stood, there is now nothing besides a fountain of spurting blood and pair of lonely, withered testicles underneath. (“Aieeee! Aieeee!”, the Captain appears to be shrieking and crying with a mouthful of panties) Unable to withstand the pain, the Captain, eyes rolling back into his skull, passes out, his consciousness succumbing to the white noise of transcendent pain.

  “Who’s next?” asks Anhedonia, and the males all shake their heads, desperately wishing for the panties to be pulled from their mouths so their cascades of apologies and begging can be heard by the women. Amber and Eve glance at each other playfully and then survey the brothers, Chad and Brad, the powerfully squat Props, whose thick, short penises are quivering with anticipated horrors. The girls repair to the table of instruments and proceed to remove the bottom half of their apparel: off come the boots, the socks, the pants and the panties, until they are exquisitely naked from their waists down to their adorable toes. The remaining rugby players, full of nervous energy, watch as the girls fasten harnesses around their hips, attaching supreme dildos to themselves: for Amber, a seven-inch, gently curving member painted a luminescent yellow; and for Eve, an eight-inch straight cock in the shade of a hot neon pink. Enhanced by these tortuous accoutrements, the girls slowly approach Chad and Brad, with devilish mirth. In perfect simultaneous motions, the girls each produce a vial of alkyl nitrites, and wave them under the gaping nostrils of the brothers. Strong draughts of mesmeric fumes waft into their brains and their desperately contracted assholes begin to dilate; the blood rushes to their heads and their muscles slacken and release from the intoxicating power of the chemical. Now, again in perfect unison, Amber against Chad, Eve against Brad, the girls mount the males and slip their artificial penises deep inside their assholes. “Hmmmmmmm!” the boys begin to protest, as their drugged-out brains feel the invasive force of the dildos penetrating the most intimate, forbidden interior of their bodies. The girls are close enough to touch each other. They each extend their arms outward and interlace their soft fingers together, and then, slowly and rhythmically peg the Props, whose faces burn red and lower-regions explode with unimagined pain. “Isn’t this fun?” asks Amber, grabbing hold of Chad’s thick penis and crushing it between her fingers while she fucks him. Anhedonia, watching lasciviously from close proximity, says: “You rapist thugs are getting a taste of your own medicine! How does it feel, boys?” Amber and Eve work steadily, their hips spiralling sensually together, the dildos sliding deep into the recesses of the boys’ assholes, sliding out again, pushing deeper and deeper. “Nice and slow, is that how you like it, faggot?” Eve asks Brad as she grabs hold of testicles and mercilessly squeezes them.

 It was truly a sight to invert the order of man’s universe. These hulking, heavy males in a state of cowering submission; these delicate, long-limbed and sensual girls overpowering them, with their fingers interlaced, and with their other hands, grasping the penises and testicles in an iron clasp, squashing the life out of these terrified boys. “Now,” commanded Anhedonia, “increase your tempo, my sisters. These boys must be raped, not made love to!” And with this instruction, Eve and Amber began to thrust and fuck, harder and harder, pummelling the assholes, grunting and groaning from the exertions, small droplets of perspiration swaying from their brows like morning dew on a blade of grass. Their fingers interlocked firmly, they fucked and fucked, banging against the broad buttocks of the boys, their stomachs occasionally flattening the genitals from the impact. Chad and Brad had ascended into a galaxy of torment. The dildos felt rapier-like and scorching, burning their insides; they could almost feel the lava-like excruciations of these invading organs in their intestines. “Mmm! Mmm! Mmm!” shouted Chad and Brad, meaning “no! no! no!”, but their words were garbled by mouthfuls of dirty panties. Eve and Amber began to fuck as hard as they could, smashing into the assholes, punching the testicles and slapping the penises. They let loose each others’ fingers and gripped the thighs of the boys to steady themselves, leaving claw-marks from their nails bitten deep into the flesh. They fucked and fucked and thrust and thrust, faster and faster, and more and more powerfully for what seemed like an eternity, until at last, exhausted and satisfied, they pulled out, leaving the yawning, corrupted assholes of the boys alone. Chad and Brad cry furiously, tears streaming down their faces.

 Assholes ravaged, the two Props grunt and heave, trying to recover from the assault on their forbidden places. But Amber and Eve have a final, parting demonstration – the deliverance of the fatality, if you will. Amber returns to the table of instruments and selects the broad-headed industrial hammer. She walks over to Brad and with a single tug, pulls the panties from his mouth, asking him: “Cock or balls, you worthless maggot?” Brad’s parched lips can barely move; he swallows painfully, and with a voice like a young boy, almost imperceptibly, moans, “Mommy... I want my mommy.” Amber turns to the female audience who laugh uproariously at this exhibition of vulnerability. “That’s not an answer,” admonishes Amber, “I suppose I will have to choose for you, whimpering male.” Gripping the hammer in her right hand, she draws it back in a long, underhanded arc, and then swings in one powerful stroke fatally aimed at Brad’s scrotum. The hammer mashes into his balls and both testes shatter on impact with a considerable sound, not dissimilar to the ringing of cathedral bells. A grunting wail, like a wounded warthog, pierces the air, and Brad’s misshapen scrotum goes slack, and his penis wilts into oblivion. Amber turns to Chad, whose rapidly-dancing eyes communicate a terrible fear. Once again, she swings the hammer, and in a single, powerful stroke, the implement pulps the brother’s genitals and his frightened penis dwindles into nothingness, the ball-bag beneath robbed of its frail assets. Chad throws his head back, shaking it left and right like a whinnying horse, and from his flared nostrils he expels gusts of exhalation, struggling to stay conscious as the pain falls like a deepest shadow across his brain. Both brothers’ testicles annihilated, Amber turns around to face the clapping and cheering ensemble of girls, and performs a mock-curtsey. Only two rapists remain.

 Bobby has been fated to suffer his reprisal next. The sanguinary spectacle has made him woozy, and he passes out, only to awake as Liliana angrily splashes the remainder of her ice-cold cocktail in his face, spitting at him and barking at him to stay awake. Through bleary eyes, he sees Eve approach him, her eight-inch dildo bounding with each step, like the tongue of an excited puppy. She pushes apart his large, muscular buttocks, and without so much as a syllable, she penetrates his anus, pushing the strap-on in up to the hilt. Settling in to his asshole, she grabs both of his ankles and uses them as stabilisers, while she steadily pulses the surrogate penis, in and out, in and out. The sound of silicone hitting naked flesh, percussively fills up the cavernous, empty spaces of the basement. Eve absolutely dominates the whimpering male, slapping his face and punching his balls as she fucks him. “Your penis, your scrotum and your asshole belong to me,” she seethes with each fresh round of fucking. “Your manhood is mine to do with as I please.” Perversely, Bobby’s penis grows large and stiff from having his asshole pegged. His foreskin retracts and the shining glans peers out in a five-inch salute. The penis bounces from the impact of the Eve’s bloodthirsty pegging, and suddenly, it starts to spurt white-hot torrents of come from its tip, shooting and spluttering until at last, a long, translucent thread of come, like an animal’s drool, dangles from the tip of his phallus. Eve is utterly aghast and grabs his man-purse aggressively, strangling the breath from his lungs. “You disgusting animal!” she screams at him. “Did I give you permission to enjoy this?!” Swiftly pulling the bubblegum-coloured dildo from his anus (pop!), she unfastens the harness allowing it to fall to the floor. Cheeks burning red with rage, she marches to the table of instruments and grabs the rubber-handled pair of pliers. “You’ll pay for that, you filthy pig!” she promises. Liliana and Lahela are on the edge of their seats. When Eve is appalled, as she clearly is now, there is no telling to what depth of torment she will subject this recently-ejaculated male. Eve yanks open the teeth of the pliers and roughly grabs the unshod glans of Bobby’s penis, while he moans in pure horror. The weak manhood firmly grasped by the pliers’ teeth, she begins to tug and pull with all her strength. The penis, waning in length after spilling all its agitated seed, begins to stretch and, through a mouthful of panties, Bobby begins to yowl and scream. Eve pulls and tugs, the muscles across her body tightening from her escalating power. She pulls and tugs and with a final monumental exertion of power, she prises the penis clean off the male’s crotch, tearing the rapist’s tool at the very stem. Blood thickly drips from his mortal wound while Eve waves the offending organ, still gripping it within the teeth of the pliers, in front of his face, taunting him and slapping him across the face with his own severed penis, leaving streaks of fresh blood across his cheeks. Faced with his own separated phallus pendulously swinging before his protruding eyes, Bobby’s eyes roll back into his head, and a deluge of protests and moans comes out of his mouth.

 And now, with a final rapist to be ushered into the annals of justice, Amber and Eve descend on swarthy Troy, with his micropenis shuddering in anticipation of the penalty to come. Amber selects the final instrument from the table: the long-nosed scissors, its polished blades gleaming. She surveys Troy with surgical curiosity, while Eve, with her thumb and forefinger, causes the gag of frill-edged panties to come tumbling from his mouth. “Please,” he splutters. “Please, don’t hurt my penis and balls, please, I beg you…” Amber, brandishing the pair of scissors like a six-gun, begins to twirl the weapon in her fingers, eyeing Troy’s micropenis with a malicious smirk. “Such a pathetic little manhood… no, boyhood, between these legs. I doubt you’ll even feel it if I were to snip them off.” Troy’s panting grows quicker, the thudding of his heart threatens to eclipse him altogether. Amber prods his testicles with the scissors, loosening the handles so that the blades, shear-like, part and show the dagger-sharpness of its silver tips. She traces a blade down the centre of his ball-bag, and then slices the scrotal sac clean down the middle, so that the satchel of wrinkled skin yawns wide open, and the delicate man-orbs within come tumbling out, each hanging by a thin thread of flesh. Troy yells until his voice breaks and only hoarse, desperate gasps sluggishly pour from his tortured throat. Amber twirls the scissors once more and this time rudely grabs the micropenis between the blades. She holds it there, the tiny, pathetic thing, unable to believe that this cursed male had the gall to turn such a vulnerable thing against a female, transformed such an easily wounded strip of flesh into a weapon. Liliana and Lahela shout in delighted unison: “Snip it off!” And in a single flash, the blades zigzag together and the penis is lopped off and falls to the ground with a wet splat. Now, the girls begin to cheer and celebrate, hugging each other, tears of joy spilling from their beautiful, feminine eyes. The celebrations are loud and triumphant. Retribution is theirs. The rapists shall be left to die of their wounds.

 Look, dear reader, upon that semi-circle of carnage one final time: the rapists have had the testicles mashed, their testes torn out of their ball-bags, their assholes deeply ravaged, their penises mercilessly ripped-off at the stem… their faces glisten with snot and tears, on the bodies one smells the vulgar dried sweat of their defeat. And the expression on their faces – somewhere between remorse, regret and self-loathing. Gone is their patriarchal arrogance. Its totem has been stolen from between their thighs. Disappeared is their posture of power and dominance: legs spread, genitals mutilated, virgin assholes defiled, the rapists have been made to slurp of their own bitter tonic. And outside, the autumnal patch of cloud parts to honour the rolling farmlands with a beam of purest sunshine. The girls dance nude in the fields, cherishing the grass beneath their bare feet, the sunlight which warms their awesome bodies. Let this be a lesson to all males who would use their precious apparatus against a woman. When true justice is delivered, you will wish you had never been born with a penis between your legs.

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[fablesofanhedonia]

Punishment at the Gloryhole

At first, it was nothing more than a mere hole, through which one could glimpse an infinite darkness, a nothingness. But then, a small penis came drooping through, and beneath them, a small, exquisitely hairless set of testicles, unblemished by even a single wisp of blonde hair. The scrotum was tight, its testes swaddled firmly within the smooth bag of flesh, and as for the penis – well, it was such a tender, pathetic little thing, perhaps no more than two inches in its droopy, flaccid state. The foreskin was like a shrivelled cowl, and to the eyes of the audience, the penis seemed almost tragic. It had a lifeless expression, like a thing which held no pride in itself, a thing incapable of thought and reflexive only to the dumbest, primal impulses. So, on this languid Summer afternoon, Mistress Anhedonia and her two gorgeous younger companions, Amber and Eve, gazed at this single male organ, as it peered through the gloryhole, in silent expectation of its fate. As for the irrelevant male to whom this appendage was attached, he was sequestered on the other side, and in ritual fashion, his mouth was muffled and his body firmly fastened against the cool plaster of the intervening wall. The gloryhole was small in size, such that even though this penis was, by any measure of the male anatomy, a tiny thing, it fit snugly in the portal, so that the penis rested upon the balls underneath, and the balls themselves were squeezed cosily against the wall. Thick shafts of sunlight poured in through the ornate, panelled window-frames which stretched across the east-wing of the room, but the male, sealed in his chamber, would have known only darkness, for not a ray of sunshine penetrated his dwellings. In the afternoon, Anhedonia, Amber and Eve, gazed at the penis one final time, before their coming administrations of pain and terror. The penis was soft, such a delicate little apostrophe of flesh: how was it possible that such an insignificant tool could, during the reign of the patriarchs, become a weapon which visited suffering and vexation upon their Sisters?

                   Let us pause to describe Amber and Eve, for all those who read these fables are acquainted with Anhedonia and know that she wore the shape of a goddess; that even the sight of her bare feet were so mesmeric to the male temperament that the mere wiggle of her toes would cause their penises to rise in blind adulation. As for Amber, she was first found as a young farm-hand in the Northern milking factories, with a mane of crimson-red hair which tumbled across her shoulders, and eyes of the most piercing emerald green. Young, with perfectly pale skin, she was immediately recognised for her skill in the arts and divinities of pain-infliction, and was swiftly recruited by Anhedonia as one of her inner circle. This afternoon, she appeared tall and naked and the observant eye would mark that the knuckles of her right hand sported blushes and bruises for reasons that shall soon become apparent. Eve, we have met before, with her close-cut crop of blonde hair and her playful demeanour. She serves as Anhedonia’s right hand, her general of agonies, and the body-count she has amassed during her reign alongside Anhedonia makes males cower and their balls retreat deeper within their body, as though a sudden surge of frost has infiltrated the air. This afternoon, Eve wore a pair of glistening black heels, the stilettoes of which were, harkening to their etymology, like blades for cutting and dismemberment. Her strong calves and powerful thighs were bare, and one almost gasped when glimpsing the pure delta to be found between her legs: bordered on top by a delicate patch of golden hairs, her slit was of a perfect pale pink, and only the slightest sliver of its delicious interiority was to be seen. Should your eyes pass upward, you would find her torso bare, her mid-riff with its softly-sculptured abdominals and her belly-button begging to be kissed, and then, concealing her breasts, a gleaming latex bustier, in the colour of deepest midnight, with two straps curving over her shoulders. Bustier and boots and bare besides. The three goddesses arranged themselves before the hole of punishment – three statuesque glories, three paragons of the female form, and between them, mousily hanging from the hole, the small penis and shorn bag of balls. How pathetic and vulnerable it looked alongside these powerful exemplars of the female of the species!

                   “Sisters,” Anhedonia intoned in her magisterial voice, “this pathetic male organ we see hanging here before us is that of a common rapist. The male to whom this paltry appendage is attached used this thing as a weapon to defile a female while satiating his own incoherent lusts. Can you imagine such a deed, my sisters, being performed by so inconsequential a speck of the male anatomy? I, myself, am almost tempted to arouse this frightened penis to see to what lengths it grows, for in its present humility I would wager it has all the hurting power of a blunt pinprick. Nevertheless, this male used his strength to overpower one of our sisters and inserted this thimble of his seed within her. Despite her thrashing and protestations, her proceeded to victimise her until his vital energies came coursing out from its tip. And I am told the whole assault lasted less than ten seconds, so riled and brain-altered was this male from the need to dispense his semen. I am told she even pushed him in the final moments as he gasped and puffed, and the tip of his penis was pulled from her, and the seed began to burst and splatter all over her thighs – what an appalling act, such a craven disposition! but, sisters, we have seen men driven to viler deeds when piloted by their penises… I hope that he enjoyed himself in his act of sacrilege; I do hope that those transient moments of primitive pleasure were worth the price of admission. For this afternoon, my sisters, we are assembled here for the purposes of vengeance. It has been said that the punishment shall fit the crime and we shall apply this dictum unflinchingly. We shall target the very weapon he used to commit his crimes and we shall certainly ensure that this “weapon” shall never strike at the innocent again…” With these last few words, the drooping penis, almost imperceptibly, began to tremble, as though it had at last come into a terminal awareness of its destiny. It trembled and twitched as Anhedonia turned her gaze to Amber: “Amber, my dearest, my beautiful charge, my noble young companion. Eve and I wish to offer you the pleasure of exacting revenge on this male’s penis and testicles. If he cannot learn that to use his penis properly, then we must teach to him to do so, and if throughout this dreadful tutelage, his weapon cannot withstand the fury of your methods, then it must be obliterated entirely.”

                   “I would be honoured, my Mother,” replied Amber with a sinister flickering in her ocean-green eyes. Anhedonia grabbed the penis with rough power, strangling it in his grasp. The girls imagined the terrified male on the other side desperately standing on his tip-toes to avoid having his penis plucked clean off from the almighty strength of his antagonist’s grip. Still squeezing furiously, Anhedonia announced: “Male! I will give you a single minute, as its customary in this castle of mine, to make your penis stand erect while Sister Amber aims her fists at your scrotum. Should you be unable to rise to the occasion, she will simply pulverise your penis along with your balls. The decision, pathetic male, is yours to make.” With that, she swiftly released the penis which, glowing the colour of a magnificent sunset, lay limp and unmoving. The women waited for any signs of motion, but the penis was incapable, frozen in its flaccid form as currents of the most plangent fear lurched through the male’s stomach. Amber began to giggle, pointing at the tiny, scared little thing, and soon, her infectious giggles had the three women laughing out loud. Amber blurted, in-between tears of mirth, “what a sad and shameful little thing! It almost looks like the penis of a little boy! I think I’ve seen new-born infants with bigger cocks than his!” She addressed the male on the other side: “You fucking loser! You must have lived your whole life in such embarrassment. Thinking of yourself as a big, strong male, but hiding the shame that dangles between your thighs!” Anhedonia considered the penis and then replied, philosophically, “It has now been demonstrated beyond a shadow of doubt, by our various psychosexual experiments on the male, that males with small penises often rape out of a sense of shame – that, feeling unmanly, which is in their patriarchal arithmetic the greatest of all subtractions, they lash out at the female; they hit woman, they call her names, they force themselves upon her, they attempt to lavish themselves with accoutrements to make up for these missing inches, but no matter what they try, they cannot redeem their pathetic, paltry penises. They will always remain small-cocked, short-dicked men. No matter how artificially they grow their pectorals and train their biceps, no matter how tall they grow in size and how many kilograms’ worth of muscle they wrap around themselves like a protective blanket, the penis remains small and shameful. They cry at night, and all the insults they’ve ever heard assail them in their dreams. No, they may force themselves on woman, but they can never repair themselves of their dreaded fate.” And even after all this time was mercifully given to the male to do nothing more than acquire a simple erection, to perform no higher task than let a few gushes of blood travel to his penis, so that ultimately it could stand out of the way while his balls were pulverised, the penis did not move. And so Amber resolved to smash it all into bits and pieces.

                   Amber assumes the posture of a pugilist before the target. She raises her fists and bares her exquisitely bruised knuckles, while Eve swirls her mane of bloodred hair into a high ponytail. Amber, with a deep exhalation, begins to meditate on the penis and testicles before her: she imagines this very penis violating her, penetrating her against her wishes; she imagines her poor sister who fell victim to a disgusting invasion by this pitiful alien creature. Slowly, her fists begin tremble with the electric wrath of all the women who have ever fallen foul of this ceaseless masculine indulgence – to take what is not theirs in the name of this vulgar organ. A phantasmagoria of rape and sin flashing alongside the outer rims of her eyelids, she lets out a low, leonine growl and with lightning intensity her fists dart out and begin to pulverise the male. Her right fist crashes into his penis, sending the poor thing flying up, dazed, allowing her to follow through, knuckles biting into the soft, sensitive testicles cowering underneath (whack!). Her left fist thunders immediately afterward, sending the penis flying to the left, while her delivery smashes the male’s nuts with a whopping blow (thud!). Her arm arcs at the elbow and her right fist launches out again, powerfully mashing the penis and testicles (whack!), and her left fist, clenched with all the concentrated power of a rocket, ploughs into the rapist’s pathetic cock and, sending it reeling, follows through into his balls (thud!). Left and right, left and right, without so much as a single-second pause, Amber unloads the entirety of her vengeance and anger upon his defenceless genitals. The penis goes flying up and down, left and right, and the testes are radiant with pain, shining with perspiration, and swollen from the assault. Left and right (whack! whack!), left and right (whack! whack!) followed by two deep left hooks (thud! thud!), followed by a jagged uppercut (boom!), and then a full minute of merciless punches, jabs and hooks, and even, once, the force of her bent elbow crashing into his nuts. From the first volley, the women hear a muffled wailing from the other side of the wall, as the male begins to scream and cry from the deepest of agonies emanating from the very centre of his sex. Amber shows not the slightest inkling of remorse, nor is her concentration distracted by his crying. Instead, her anger feeds on the tears, slurps them up and is powered by them. The male’s cries begin to rise in pitch until he is screaming like a nine-year-old girl; a long, drawn-out sobbing, as the air is knocked out of his lungs and his penis and testicles become corroded with a sublime, unimaginable pain. Left and right, and left and right, and left and right and whack! whack! whack! whack! whack! The male is groaning in the register of a castrato, veritable music is spilling from his sealed-up lips as Amber sends out a final series of testicle-destroying punches, screaming at him in a sudden access of passion: “Never again, never again! Never again, you pathetic rapist pig! Fuck you and fuck these balls! You will never harm another woman in your life, you cowardly rapist animal!” And as she screams out that final line, each syllable soaked in primordial animosity, she draws her fist back, closes her eyes, and delivers the mortal blow. With a single strike, possessed with all the crushing capability of an ancient warhammer, she pulverises both of his testes (they explode into wet nothingness with a dramatic pop!) and his scrotum turns misshapen and limp.

                   Now, from the other side of the wall, a low, haggard coughing and crying is all that can be heard. Amber returns to her senses after this last flurry of agonies to the cheers of Mistress Anhedonia and Eve; they applaud her, and holding her knuckles to their lips, they kiss and give worship to her powerful hands; they hug her – jubilation and congratulations fill the empty space of the room. Meanwhile, the castrated male, pulling in deep gulps of air to his overdriven brain, sees lights flashing before his eyes, and with a last chorus of sobbing and crying, passes out completely, consciousness vanishing and plunging him into a transient world of emptiness. Thus does justice reign in the Castle of Anhedonia. The rapist has been taught the most brutal of all lessons.

[femalemusclelvb]

[no-zuo-no-die-blog]

[fitnessua]

[fablesofanhedonia]

females will fuck you up in one second. your strength is a patriarchal myth cultivated through centuries of oppressive social organisation

[fablesofanhedonia]

The Milking Factories

The sleek, ocean-green Jaguar, curved like a shark’s snout up front, sailed through the northern country along thin strips of tarmac which cut into the sides of the mountain. Anhedonia, and her traveling companion, Mistress Eve – enigmatic eyes, short-cut of blonde hair – were enveloped in the luxurious glow of the backseat: sumptuous tan leather, burnished wood detail, spacious. Eve slipped her window down, and an oblong of dark morning sky hung outside, distant stars spattered in clusters and fragments above them. She blew out a long, elaborate plume of cigarette smoke and the warm smell of burnt cloves lingered in the air.

She turned to Anhedonia. “Are you excited, Annie?” she asked. An intrigued smile appeared on Anhedonia’s face: “I am, very excited in fact,” she replied. “It is rare honour for two young women to be invited on a personal tour of a male milking farm. I have heard so many triumphant stories of milking factories, harvesting the resources of the male organs for the coming society, and experimenting on them to gain occult carnal wisdom. I wonder what we shall see and do this morning. Hopefully, we will get to select some thick-dicked, big-balled stud from the stables and milk him ourselves. But I would also like to see the milking-machines. I’ve heard rumours of complex mechanical systems our sister engineers have created to automatically milk and process the male seed. Not to mention any new disciplinary techniques they favour in the North.”

Eve nodded in agreement, adding: “they say our sisters on the other side of the mountain favour shock therapy and the electric current on the testicles as a maximum form of everyday dominance. I hear males in the suburban districts always have remote-controlled torture devices wrapped around their balls, and that their Mistresses can zap their nuts at leisure, forcing them into perfect, slavish obedience. I would love to see a man rebel against me, or threaten me, and be able, at the flick of a secret trigger, to begin cooking his balls right there. Imagine them sizzling and the look on their faces. Apparently, these devices have customisable charges, so depending on how you want to control your male, you can send a series of little sparks through his balls, maybe making him cry or cower, or you could let a tidal flood of electricity flow along his manhood… pardon me, I’m getting distracted, clearly,” Eve whispered, her mind moist with imagination at all the males she had humbled in her twenty-five years, and the males whose balls she still wished to seek out and claim revenge against. The headlamps of the car cut into the fogged, semi-gloom of the awakening morning and the car rolled smoothly on. Anhedonia closed her eyes, dreamt.

They arrived, and the sky had turned into a pleasant, grey morning, shafts of light coming through the ragged quilt of cloud-cover. The land was bucolic; farming-land, with wide emerald pastures and lime-coloured fields of grass and plants rolling over the hills around them. Amongst the farmland, old colonial-style farmhouses and derelict factories and warehouses had been converted into the heart of the male milking operation. “Welcome,” announced Madame Lilith, strolling in tall strides across the field to meet them. She carried a pair of binoculars in her right hand, the leather ribbon of the strap pooled around her pale fingers. She was elegant, full and motherly in her demeanour, perhaps forty-five years old.

“Mistress Anhedonia, it is a pleasure to meet you,” she said. “We have all heard the legends of your insurgency against the patriarchs, and we have heard of the most creative tortures you have deployed in your humiliation of the testicles and your humbling of the masculine ego.” Anhedonia embraced her, said her gratitude was impossibly handsome – but of course, all who knew Anhedonia knew that in her twenty-six years, she accomplished an exquisite aegis over males and their balls, that brought great hope to her sisters and friends for the coming society, the society after the patriarchs had been emasculated.

Mme Lilith turned to face the other visitor, “And you must be Eve, a pleasure to meet you, daughter.” Eve smiled, nodded. “I am so proud of our work here,” Mme Lilith continued, “that I personally want to show you what we’ve been working on for the last twelve years. We have milking stables, we have laboratories for psychosexual experiments on males, we have efficient castration chambers and there is a eunuch re-education programme in L’loth, our closest town (of course, during and after the castration, the male is also made to undergo some severe identity crises, stimulated by our choice of drugs and sadistic counsel, which helps him along in his emasculated identity-building, later on). Here,” she said, offering the binoculars to Anhedonia, who slipped them over her neck and peered through.

In the distance, she could see a small animal pen, with wooden fences and a trough, and inside she spied – one, two, three… twelve males. All were completely naked, and all were on their hands and knees. They all wore humblers, metal devices which sat snugly in-between the thighs and locked around each male’s nuts: if he tried to stand up or close his legs, his balls would come under a tectonic pressure, a vice-like grip crumpling his tender man-purse. These males all learned to privilege their penis and balls first, for surely no male could inflict that kind of torment against his own sensitive sausage, the thought alone would make his dick shrivel, as it had done in moments of terror for centuries.

So, Anhedonia saw twelve males, all crawling around on their hands and knees, naked, with their nude plums dangling high up and black humblers fixed between their legs, causing them excruciating pain, right in the heart of their poisonous gender, their bad sex. “Lovely!” Anhedonia exclaimed, passing the binoculars to an enthusiastic Eve. “The males who come here to be milked go through all sorts of selection programmes, endurance training and re-conditioning practices. These twelve will be kept like the male pigs they are for ten weeks, feeding at the trough, unable to touch their balls or open their legs. Our women work those fields perfectly nude – the erections the males get make them howl, and yet they can’t look away for their balls are so bloated with come. They stare at the women and their balls go insane. They lie there with distant hard-ons they cannot touch, whimpering with the pain of the pressure it places on their man parts."

"We will keep these males like this for another three weeks, and then, after they have begun to internalise their degradation and learned to control their ejaculation, we will milk them. The pleasure for some males is so intense, that they openly cry to our sisters, and sometimes, when the sisters have a sympathetic ear, they will let the trembling male tell them all the stories of his insecurity and his self-loathing of his masculinity, and his memories of some incidental humiliation his balls went through when he was a boy, and he will sob there while the woman vigorously tugs his penis until it explodes with white come into the plate underneath, and some males, I promise you, cry the hardest and thank their milk maid so genuinely, at that moment of climax.”

Eve had finished looking through the binoculars at the comic-grotesque sight of these animalised males, with their soft, pink balls all locked up in the humblers, and their penises also restricted, so that each erection was a masochistic curse. Eve had a smile on her face. “Let’s begin,” Mme Lilith was saying, moving them off toward her car. “I will tell you one thing, though. Once, a few years ago, one of the male pigs we humbled and made crawl around in that pen did a most remarkable thing. One of our girls, Samantha, came strolling to the edges of the pen to feed them. She was a young girl, perhaps eighteen years old, and has left us to pursue bolder dreams, but she had enormous, pillowy breasts and a large, plump butt and she marched to the troughs wearing only a pair of black boots."

"One male pig, particularly desperate, had a throbbing erection and could not contain himself, having not had his balls milked in months. His humbler was slightly looser than the others, perhaps his Mistress had taken some mercy on his poor balls, which sometimes glow like hot coals after they’ve been trapped in a humbler for so long. Anyway, he managed to lower himself close enough to the ground that his thick shaft touched the earth. His face was red with pain, his balls were clearly in unimaginable agonies from the pain he had to go through to dip down with that restricting humbler on his nuts. The male whimpered in pain (“ooh-ooh-ooh-oooooooh-oh-ooooooooh”), his balls practically in a vice, and still, he was so desperate with the mania of his testicles, that he managed to rub his cock against the ground three times and a hot, thick and plentiful stream of come burst out of his dick, while he cried from the release, the satanic pain in his nuts, the transcendent pleasure pouring out of his penis, and then he collapsed from the orgasm, and the humbler shattered his balls instantly; there was a fleshy pop between his legs, a long and wounded cry from his mouth, and then he lay there and where there was a manhood before, then there was nothing.”

They strolled among the well-lit central aisle of the stable, and to the left and right of them ran two long sets of wooden enclosures, about fifty in total, in which, on rough piles of hay, slept naked males, all lying in prayer posture on their knees with their fists clenched up underneath their foreheads, their bare balls and butts on display to the inspecting party of Anhedonia, Eve, Mme Lilith, and one of the young girls who worked the stables: red-haired, green-eyed, pale, her hair tied up in a ponytail, her body dressed in a bottle-green overall, snugly cut at the hips; her hands were feminine, but strong, adapted to her labours.

Each male had a thin black cord wrapped around the base of his nuts, a disciplinary device: disobey, cause trouble, misbehave, and his balls would flail up and down with sharp electric currents. “We have two major stables here,” explained the Madame, “the alpha and the beta. Here at alpha, as I’m sure you can see, we keep the bigger males, the specimens with more stamina, bigger cocks and balls and hardier physiques.” Anhedonia glanced around her at the male cows – most of them had big balls, and you could tell who had been recently milked and who had gone through a long, dry spell, for the hanging balls were either swollen with lusts or relaxed (for now). Some of the penises were nice, thick – things she could play with, others were small and flaccid, functional things that probably grew monstrously when aroused; and then there were a few males who sat there with raging hard-ons quietly quivering at attention as Anhedonia walked by.

Even though they were displayed butts-forward, their eyes lost on the walls of their pen or the ground before them, some of the male’s cocks seem to feel her feminine presence in the atmosphere, gently rising in a stupid salute as she walked pass. Some males peered backwards at Anhedonia’s feet as she walked by, their view obscured by their dangling penises which stiffened in response for a better look. “You are free to choose your favourite male for a hands-on milking tutorial later,” Mme Lilith voluptuously called after her. Eve trailed nearby. “Help me choose,” Anhedonia suggested to her, “and we can milk the male together”.

They walked up and down the rows inspecting the genitalia on show at the alpha: some thick shafts, some large, droopy testicles, a few aroused members wagging up and down like a dog’s tongue at the sound of the Mistresses’ conversation; there were males of a few different races, mostly between the ages of eighteen and thirty. Eventually Anhedonia and Eve settled upon a young, dark-skinned male, athletic and tall, with a comfortable pair of testicles and an average, flaccid penis which became thick and long when it sprung into arousal, so big that it had enough surface for two hands to work. They were seduced by the picture of the dark male sitting there with his plump butt raised up to greet them and his balls and penis neatly lying there for their inspection.

“A fine choice,” the Madame was saying, then telling the stable-girl: “Have this male washed and prepared and bring him to him to the alpha milking quarters this afternoon at 1 PM.” The girl nodded, “yes, Mother Lilith”. The girl pulled what appeared to be a pink dog leash off a hook, and then looped the tightened tip around the male’s cock and balls, and leading him by his precious male parts, while he crawled on his hands and knees, she took him for his preparations, his balls wagging behind him as he crawled, his hard dick bobbing, delighted at being chosen to be milked.

“You know,” Mme Lilith was saying, “females have tended to prefer males with slightly larger genitals, after all, it was what we selected after millennia of evolutionary selection. But it was males in the age of patriarchy who, believing their dicks to be a magic wand, ultimately fed the mass delusion of monstrously-sized appendages as the institutional standard. At alpha, I don’t only collect men with horse penises, although I do have a special interest in studying the larger genitals and what kind of psychosexual effects this plays on the male imagination. My attitude is that a woman should be able to enjoy any penis she wants, if she wants to, from the introverted and plain to the enormous and proud…” She was trailing off, lost in her philosophy.

They were shown the modern milking facilities. Naked men, their thighs splayed apart and fixed to the edges over the hospital gurneys on which they lay, were hooked up to six-foot machines alongside them. A tube and machine was fixed onto the erect penis, and with pneumatic power, it jacked their stiff dicks over and over again, until the penis could resist no more, and a powerful stream of ejaculate burst out the tip and ran through a clear tube which coiled and retreated back into the machine. Perhaps ten males were being automatically milked this morning, and a few women attendants strolled about with clipboards, taking notes, having clinical conversations with the males (who responded, exhausted and distracted, but obedient, dog-like), or manipulating the machines.

The first male, with a large white penis and furiously clenched balls (the plump undersides of his butt visible underneath, along with the cryptic isthmus of his perineum), had a look of supreme agitation on his face. “Some of these males are forcibly milked nine or ten times a day, so you can imagine that his penis very quickly becomes his worst possible nightmare. When the penis is reduced to an instrument of labour, as it is here, when the male no longer has control of the female to arrange his carnal desire as he pleases, he discovers that the power of the penis was only activated by the oppressive regimes of the patriarchal age. Now, the penis becomes a vulnerable, sensitive, little thing needing care – but here, we prioritise inquiry, so we test the balls and their capacities and brute uses in many extreme ways."I see these kinds of programmes as steps toward the future, where we will have mastered the full manipulation of male energies as a subservient force to the true spiritual reign of the feminine.”

Eve glanced around her: ten males, ten penises trapped in futuristic milking machines, the rhythmic sound of these males being jacked off, and the tune sometimes interrupted by a male moaning once, or whimpering as his attendant raised the speed and intensity of his machine. And his penis stood there stiff, warm and strangely pleasurable, frightened and gently throbbing, the machine travelling up and down the shaft of his penis and stimulating it with oils and a powerful grip. Mme Lilith beckoned one of the attendants over. “What are we testing this subject for this morning?” she asked, pointing at the third male, whose milking machine was relentlessly sliding all over his penis, while a look of dim terror languished in his eyes. He had a muscular body, shaven, with a wide chest and large parted thighs, and round calves.

“This male is part of a withdrawal series we are conducting,” she replied. “He is told that he must refrain from ejaculating or his testicles will be crushed. We have been subjecting him to the most accelerated and unforgivable speeds, and he is so desperate to keep his balls that he manages to hold off from coming, even though you can see he’s always at the precipice of it. We are testing the limits of this subject’s stamina. So far he seems to able to resist the machine while his brothers shoot into it hotly and often.”

Anhedonia took three steps closer to the male subject, looked into his eyes, saw the mix of pleasure and pain he was trapped in, saw how desperately he wanted to come and how desperately he did not want his nuts crushed, saw his open thighs, with the bare balls underneath, the penis consumed in the milking machine – and she caressed his ball-bag with one light stroke of her finger, and the man came instantly, his man-purse crumpling with release, and warm torrents of come firing out (once, twice, thrice, four times!) of his dick and shooting up (five times!) the tube to be stored (coming again and again and again, his penis bucking).

“Noo-hh,” the man dimly moans. “Looks like the experiment has come to a close,” Anhedonia laughed with a sinister smile. “I guess you should castrate this pig.” Mme Lilith applauded the idea, looking for a celebratory pair of balls to crush in honour of Anhedonia’s visit and two attendants grabbed the male, he was limp after his orgasm, everything drained from him.

They dragged him outside, where a nearby flock of naked males were standing, receiving physical instruction from their glorious Mistress, doing star-jumps, their tattered penises and balls bouncing ludicrously. The males watched as their freshly-milked brother was made to squat on a work-table with an industrial vice fitted to its left edge. His eyes straining shut, they lowered him, so that his testicles were dangling within its two columns. And they twirled the handle, round and round, the columns closing in his balls, pressing against them, cool and deadly touch of iron, getting harder and harder, applying pressure, locking the balls in, squeezing them, the balls straining, the man yelping loudly and wildly.

And then! with a swift and merciless crush, his balls are destroyed, in a single moment his anatomy stands out, flexed across its entire expanse into a muscular cowering, his man-purse robbed of its belongings. Anhedonia and Eve demurely clap their hands, while the castrated male, his balls busted to oblivion, squats there squealing in terror, rough, porcine groans escaping from his lips, and nothing he can do to repair the magnificent carnage dripping between his legs.

A wan light comes through the windows of Mme Lilith’s private chambers, where the stud has been prepared for his double milking with Anhedonia and Eve. A long leather seat, not unlike a weight-lifting bench, has been assembled in the centre of the room. The male lays upon it on his stomach. His groin hangs at its edge, and his penis and balls – they are all thick and swollen with excitement, the come storming within – dangle away.  The Madame has given Anhedonia a pair of pale latex gloves, which she slips over her slender fingers, and Eve fixes each latex finger on her own with a tight snapping sound. She flexes her gloved fingers. “I wonder what this latex feels like on their balls,” she wondered out loud. “Some males, when they’re touched with clinical gloves, spurt immediately. It’s like there’s something so deliciously evil about their being treated as a medical object, or an animal, they can’t control their little dicks with the excitement,” Mme Lilith told her.

The stud was breathing heavily. His thick, dumb dick pointed downward in a stiff arousal, and his plump balls were vast; Anhedonia had to remind herself she was to milk this male, and not bite his balls and trample them with her bare feet, because there were something so immanently fragile and loathsome about them. A metal plate was placed underneath the male’s dick and Anhedonia and Eve took their places in comfortable, plush salmon couches alongside the male, his dick and balls suspended at such a level as to be within easy grasping distance.

“You know,” Mme Lilith began, garrulous and falling into a chaise longue in the corner of the room, “when I was younger, I routinely used to select males from the alpha stables for my feminine pleasure. I would ride their thick, fat dicks in my bedroom until I came over and over again. If any of them could not satisfy me, I tied his balls up with rope and beat them blue. But these days, I find myself far more drawn to the pleasures of the feminine physique. When I look at these cocks, these balls, things that once would have made me wet, I now just see stupid organs, stalks of flesh, objects I manipulate and harvest. There is no more erotic territory for me to explore with the male. The male is a most limited sexual accessory.”

From Anhedonia’s vantage, she could see the male’s butt, big, soft wide cheeks, and his sensitive perineum, the line where his two cheeks met (Eve gently pried his cheeks apart, looked at his asshole, and then allowed them to fall shut again), and then the corpulent sac of testicles. Their gloves sprayed with lubricant, the women took the male stud in their hands and began to play. The male’s shaft was thick and long, and throbbed rhythmically in anticipation. Anhedonia’s latex-d fingers wrapped around the base of the shaft, reaching about mid-way down, and Eve took the rest of it in her hand, her fingers settling over and exploring his bell-curve, slick with his sexual dripping.

Then, two hands gripping the cock, they began to mutually tug downward together, pulling the foreskin up, and then sliding down together, sending pleasurable shivers of friction through the man’s cock, as his skin slipped down over the organ, and it was hard and stiff and totally focused on the fingers which stroked it. Anhedonia began to tug faster, hearing the wet, sloppy sound of their lubricated fingers sending skin of the man’s penis sliding up and down, up and down, in long slow strokes and then swift quick ones.

Eve would just take the head in between three fingers and then quickly tug at it, while the balls jiggled with pleasure and the male stud moaned long and desperately. “Don’t you dare fucking come yet!” Mme Lilith ordered him from her comfortable posture on the chaise longue. “I want you to let them milk you like a cow for ten minutes at least, before I see a drop of your milk spill out of that big, dumb thing.” The male whimpered in response, in an alien voice, not one accustomed to speaking much anymore: “sorry Mistress, my pathetic penis will not come or you will chop it off, Mistress.”

The girls continued to tug at his thick manhood, and heard that wet sound smacking as their fingers travelled over it, the balls bouncing and the male almost crying with happiness. “How much more can you take, you big, dumb stud?” Eve asked the male, who struggled to keep his body still as his penis was being slid up and down between dextrous and expert female fingers; the cold feel of latex made him so much more grateful for the hand-job, as though this was no gesture of love or intimacy or sensitivity, but a brute, practical milking, and he was glad for anything that would let his restless come shoot out of his tip in rumbles and waves.

The shaft slid, oily, up and down, up and down, slick, wet and sliding underneath their fingers, dripping with lube and pre-come, getting wetter, slicker, going faster and faster, the cock hanging there, being tugged at mercilessly, no man could resist the double-milking of beautiful Anhedonia and sexy Eve – “I’m gonna cooooome!” the male shouted in surprise as he realised he could not hold off any longer or his balls would give up, and as they continued to pump at his penis, he came. He came and came and they pumped away, and a pool of come came flooding out of him while he wailed and cried, sobbing, “Thank you, thank you Mistresses, thank you, my poor balls thank you. I worship at your wet vagina, I submit myself to your clitoris and your womb. I will kiss your vagina and your feet forever, thank you Mistress,” and then he began to openly weep, while a thread of come drooled from his snorting penis.

“That was quicker than I hoped,” Anhedonia murmured, while Mme Lilith, a look of major embarrassment over her face, scolded the male for not being able to behave his balls for longer. “That was pitiful,” she told him, “not what I’ve come to expect from you.” She slid her legs off the chaise, and strolled to a nearby drawer, from which she produced a small, ornate silver device – the handle was like that of an antique pair of slim, steel scissors, into which the user could place her fingers, and the instrument then had a long snout and two cups, like a double garlic crusher.

“Do you want to crush his balls?” Mme Lilith asked nonchalantly, spinning the nutcracker between her fingers. Anhedonia and Eve glanced at each other and shared a wolfish giggle, while the man began to whimper, his thick dick beginning to shrink into its puerile flaccid shape. His balls were trembling, he broke into full sobs: “Please, Mistress, no male could ever survive the milking of these two gorgeous and holy women. Their hands on me, both at the same time, my pathetic penis could never manage that, no male is worthy. Please, have mercy on my testicles. I have a large penis which you can use to your heart’s content if your desire, just please, don’t castrate me, Mistress, please, I love my testicles so much, thank you for milking me, thank you for milking me…”

Anhedonia turned to Mme Lilith, “I was planning to let this male keep his balls, but after that display, I’m afraid he’s sealed his fate. You should have kept your mouth shut, you coward,” she said. “Nooo!” the male cried, realising that the destiny of his balls had just been decided by his mewling. “Nooo- please I didn’t know, please! I’m sorry!” The Madame brought the nutcracker over to Anhedonia, who fixed the two metal cups onto the male’s terrified balls. “Look at his big man-ass, shaking like that because it’s so scared,” Eve laughed. The male’s buttocks were trembling with fear, the big cheeks were quaking in anticipation. Anhedonia clutched his balls in the metal cups and then began to apply pressure while the male howled and cried, and then with an audible pop, his balls were crushed and he screamed in transcendent male agony.

[fablesofanhedonia]

Wife: A Husband’s Humiliation (Part 1)

Wife / like or repost to see part 2

Hannah comes home that languorous Saturday afternoon, to discover that her husband hasn’t finished cleaning up the kitchen. She immediately summons him to the centre of the room, and he begins to blurt out, “Hi honey, did you enjoy cocktails with Tammy-”, but she silences him. He is naked, as they agreed, as a punishment, and she loses all hope of sympathy when she sees his flaccid, pale penis, the small and sniveling example of a manhood she has had to make do with for two years. She puts on a well-rehearsed tone of condescension and says, “M-, we had an agreement, didn’t we?” The husband nods his head, his palms instinctively reaching to protect his shameful nudity. “Don’t cover up your penis, M-,” Hannah giggles, “it’s not like I haven’t seen that pathetic thing a hundred times before.” The husband averts his eyes to the ground, because he can’t bear the humiliation of looking at her: Hannah, 24 years old, six feet tall, with a beautiful, milky complexion and light freckles, long, wavy brown hair- she is wearing a light green jersey which accentuates the small dimples of her breasts, and a pair of tight jeans which marvellously complements her round, soft butt. How could the husband disappoint this goddess of a Woman anymore than he already had? “I’m sorry, Hannah,” he began mumbling. “I thought I left enough time over to clean up like you asked me to, but I didn’t know you’d be back so early…” his words drift off and he looks up at her, but Hannah is staring at him with a malevolent boredom, eyes unwavering. He lets his hands fall to side, bearing his small penis and his tight, little scrotum for her to see, acting defiant in spite of how small she makes him feel with her penetrating stare. “So…” he begins, when it becomes clear she will not respond. “So,” she replies icily. “So what? So, another disappointment from you.” She lets the words linger in the air, while his penis shrinks in embarrassment from its symbolic emasculation. “Can’t you do anything to please me?” she continues. “Can’t you get anything right? I mean, it’s not like that thing” – she points at the flaccid penis and the husband feels a fresh flood of shame rush through body – “can please me. That tiny thing,” she begins to laugh. “What did I expect from you, though, to be honest? With a penis that small, you’re not a man. You can’t be expected to do anything. With a little baby penis like that…” The husband feels a hot shame burning in his cheeks as he realises his futility: he has nothing to protest against her vindictive words, his manhood lies bare and limp for her to see, his small and sensitive little parcel of testicles dangling beneath. But then, as the hotness of the shame courses through his face and spreads across her shoulders and pours down his chest, he feels the humiliation create a sad, warm sensation in his penis – a dip, like the feeling of inertia on a swing – and in spite of his wife’s harsh words, embarrassingly, he feels the blood rush to his penis and it begins to stir.

When Hannah, still recovering from her hateful giggles, notices that her mute husband’s tiny penis has started to grow, she bursts into disbelieving laughter: “It that thing fucking honestly getting stiff, oh my God M-, do all males have no shame or is it just you? I was just talking about how pathetic that thing, and what, is it rising in salute to show me how proud it is despite what I think of it? Shame, M-, your dick is like the Little Penis that Could.” The husband simply stands there watching as his penis, slowly, steadily, begins to fill with heat and rises. He cannot say anything, he is to ashamed at the betrayal of his penis, the dumb thing that is now going to reveal its shameful erect size. “Am I right, M-?” Hannah was asking. “Are you going to show me that you are a real man? Is that why you’re getting hard? To show your wife that you’re a real man?” What could the husband do but nod his head as if to say, yes, that’s why I’m getting hard for you, honey, I love you so much and want to show you that I can be a real man for you. “Come on, then” Hannah smiled, “let’s how big that little baby penis gets, husband.” She bent down to adjust the laces on her black suede boots, with a thick five-inch wedge heels. Then she folded her arms and watched him with a knowing smile on her face, waiting for the penis to grow to its full erect size. They stood in silence for about 20 seconds. The husband stood there intently and for all his most desperate willing and wishing, the penis only grow to two and a half stout inches, a laughable little appendage, so small in comparison to the rest of his body, dwarfed by the large, manly, thighs and his round pectorals. Hannah glared at the tiny little penis standing to attention, a baby-erection. She unfolded her arms. “Is that all? Shame, baby, I think I’ve made my point,” she says. “Are you proud of that little penis?” she asked him, mockingly. She laughed and shook her head looking at it, and her husband felt desperate, wounded. He replied: “I’m proud of my manhood, Hannah, it’s what I’ve got to please you with. I am a man and I try my best,” he said, but as he utters these last lines his voice breaks and reveals his vulnerability, as he stands there before his wife with his petty erection on display.

At this sign of his weakness, when his voice breaks like an eleven-year old boy, Hannah is disgusted. In one swift motion, she steps across the room and aggressively grabs him by his bare balls. (to be continued in Part 2)

[fablesofanhedonia]

female superiority, the expression on her face is sublime in its indifference

[coolblogofgifs]

[fablesofanhedonia]

She would crush your pathetic nuts in one second

[cbtcouple-deactivated20170110]

[paridaida]

[fablesofanhedonia]

three strikes, and thus crumbles the male

[fablesofanhedonia]

My Husband’s Last Ride

My husband sits on the lemon-coloured couch, with his legs spread apart, and my eyes wander over his smooth, large thighs and the paltry conjugal apparatus he has between them: his penis is small and thin, with a little ridge near the head, and it droops down making a sad little configuration of manhood along with his two small testicles. I strip off my clothes, and my eyes remain intensely gazing at his flaccid dick. As I drop them off – the t-shirt, the black panties, my socks – and step onto the cool tiles, feeling their icy contact on my bare soles, his penis begins to rise in its dumb salute to his arousal. But it rises such a short space, and now it sits there stiff, a little two inch thing arrogantly pointing up at the ceiling, hungry and wild with a tight scrotum bunched up beneath. He must be so embarrassed.

“So sad that it doesn’t grow any more than that,” I say with a disappointed voice. On his face I can see the distant patriarchal fierceness, of a male who believes deep down, in the fiction that he is a fucking-machine, that his penis and testicles are the dominant in the sexual equation. But it is more an echo, the desperate reverb of his male defence mechanisms. More closer to the surface of his features – the nervousness in his eyes, the semi-trembling lip – I can see his fear and his vulnerability, and his long-cultivated shame, as my eyes can see all that he is, all that represents his maleness, and it is this short prick, these small fragile testes, that have never satisfied me in our six months of marriage.

I have told my husband that this is his last ride. I demanded a male stud for our six-month anniversary as my well-deserved present. He could hardly argue with me, when I presented the force of my case. I told him that his marital “treasures” were worthless to me; that I had enjoyed males of much greater talents and prowess than he; and that to have married him and endured six months of his premature ejaculations and sexual tameness, to have put up with his ambiguous hard-ons and sacrifice all those evenings when I went to bed orgasm-less with my inner thighs wet with heat… that this was no destiny for a female like myself. I made sure to tell him when he had just come out of the shower, so that I had address him in his nakedness, and I could see his palms drifting to cover his embarrassed, flaccid penis while I spoke. I laughed at him, when he hid his shameful manhood.

In the end, he fought back with all the ingloriousness of his meek masculinity. He said he would fuck me again, that he could make me come. And I told him that he had one last chance to prove himself, or I would be finding myself a more satisfying male to entertain me. So, I stand before him, looking at his desperate, stupid, small penis – lying there, an idiotic exclamation mark. How on earth would that thing satisfy me? I mount him, placing my knees on the tops of his thighs, placing my left hand firmly on his shoulder and, taking his little manhood gently between my forefinger and thumb, slipping it into my wet vagina. I push my butt down so that I swallow all of him. And he is inside me, without fanfare, barely a sensation, a pathetic scraping at the thresholds of my sexual wanting. I run my hands across the tight bag of balls underneath the plump curves of my butt and it is desperately tight, his thighs are straining. Even this charitable sip of me is almost too much for my husband to endure.

I begin to ride him, while his eyes grow larger with panic. With my legs spread, my butt pushed out and my bare feet against his legs, I begin to pump myself up and down. On the fifth pump, I can feel my husband’s small penis slip out of me. He has no real shaft, no length for me to slip up and down on, building myself into the delirious thickness of wanting. I drop down and pump again, feeling almost nothing. “You have your work cut out for you, little man,” I tell him, “As usual, I can’t even feel your little thing inside me. Shame, your poor pathetic penis...” As soon as I have said this, he starts to pump his penis into me more wildly, and a look of deep despair comes across his face as he tells me, “oh no, please, I think I’m going to come already!”

I promptly slip myself off his penis and as I see his dick spurting with waves of premature come, I begin to smack him in his balls in an access of unbridled vengeance. I punch him in his balls while he comes, moaning and screaming. On his face I can see the most ecstatic confusion: in that whimpering moment of pleasure and pain, I can see my husband registering the betrayal of his penis, almost like he has been forsaken by his own body. I exalt in that moment of masculine powerlessness; I live to bring him into a recognition of the worthlessness that his whole sex dare not confront.

[fablesofanhedonia]

Orphan Patriarch: pain

The creativity of the male scream when its testicles are under conditions of torture is unique among all the atonal symphonies of human pain. No organ was ever more ambiguous among the species: its spectacular capacities for pleasure and its ruinous vulnerability to hurt. This fearful mix of promise and threat that men carry between their thighs at all times must be the root of the volatile, the perversely defensive psychosexuality of the male. As a Crusher of Testicles, as a torturer of all dimensions of the human consciousness but one most artfully versed in drawing out the most gratuitous pain from the penis and scrotum, she had an intimate relationship with the cadences of male suffering. When a man is, say, having his arm sawed off he will scream in one, long hoarse-throated howl, he will perhaps beg, but eventually, a dull inevitability sets in and the victim is resigned to his loss. Males display no such atrophy of sentiment when their manhood itself is the sadist’s target. She had slammed a velvet black stiletto into a man’s balls and listened to him yelp like a vulture, she had thrust a bare foot and audibly crunched a man’s testicles repeatedly, and listened to his whimpering, his “oooooh-s”, his drawn out moans of pain; she had heard men shriek, their voices slipping free of screams into piercing notes of childish agony. Once, memorably, her soft heel had pushed down upon the tense scrotum, isolating a testicle within it and flattening it to a delirious point of torment, pushing it to a near-popping intensity without destroying it. The male had squeaked under the insanity of the pressure. Long yells pierced the atmosphere, and as his exhausted lungs were emptied and refilled with staggering inhalations of air, he yelled again and again; she didn’t relent, keeping the pain fixed at its infinite horizon. There is at point at which the body cannot tolerate the amount of pain firing in its synapses and a numbness, an insensate carapace, spreads throughout the body and denies all feeling, the full spectrum of sensations, surging in the real world around it. She sought out the vertiginous moment before the wash of natural anaesthesia rescued the victim from the frailties of his sex. There was no merciful condition of neurogenic shock providing a comforting white noise against the torment at play. She was trained in the discipline: seek the highest thresholds of pain and stay there, focus, meditate – draw out the whole horror of the male physique, its dumb and comical design; seduce from its pathetic origin the full scale of its masochistic purpose. She stamped on the small, plump penis and soft sack of testes at her feet, and the man’s mouth exploded in a lilting squeal of rapid-fire cries. This, male, is your manhood; this is the true pathetic nature of your cock. Men had squealed and whined before her, and begged to her to leave their precious manhoods alone, to sever anything but that vital organ, the member through which they process the whole of the Earth, and in whose image they have erected whole metropolises, jagged sky-reaching testaments to their worship of their own genitals. She sought to expose its occulted weaknesses.

[fablesofanhedonia]

The Chair of Humiliation, part 1 of 3

/please “like” and “reblog” the following S&M/ballbusting story if you enjoy it. If I get a sufficiently interested audience, I will post the second and third parts, in which Anhedonia utterly humiliates and obliterates the male’s pathetic testicles/

Each male carries a fragile cargo between his thighs, and from the earliest memories of boyhood learns to protect this vulnerable treasure, which trembles and shivers at even the mention of its pain. Each man’s little dangling thread is the conduit through which he experiences the whole of the Earth. A vital and sensitive membrane which swallows pleasure through its tip and floods the head with the arrogant delirium we now name as “masculinity”.

Yet at the same time, it is also the most superb organ of pain and humiliation, a craven symbol of the power it was made to represent in patriarchal society. To each male, his penis and testicles are from birth a proposal, an ambiguity that offers vertiginous carnal ecstasy, at the same time that, should they fall into the wrong hands, will turn into the male’s most dire regret, his worst possible fear.

She knew this, as her eyes glanced across the male slave’s quivered shape: he strapped front-facing into a chair, with a discrete oval cut out of the wooden back, from which the male’s humble sexual parcel was glimpsed, fearful and yet still erect, standing to a meagre four or so inches. She, young Anhedonia, stared more openly at her musical instrument, all the exposed flesh of his male genitalia was hers with which to conduct an atonal symphony of male pain: the taut, terrified bag of a testicles was a dissonant harp in her hands, she had made men squeal like prepubescent boys for their mothers at her cruel and determined touch; from the penis, whether or limp or erected to express its lupine avarice, she could coax howls and whimpering, softened notes when the male was at the edges of begging for mercy; and rougher, galloping yelps when she removed her shoes and socks, stretched her herself, standing on her toes, readying her divine nude feet, and snap-kicking the male repeatedly in the testicles as he roars and moans a unique orchestral wave of ultimate pain; humiliation and dread clouding through his senses, rushing him into a minor swing of unconsciousness, then drowsily dragging him back into his wounding, into the unalterable sensation (his hands fastened tightly behind his back) of his precious and vulnerable manhood, his testicles, his jewels, his pathetic little man-purse, being pulverised endlessly by the expert martial feet of young Anhedonia, the beautiful, black-haired Mistress: gloriously, divinely barefoot.

           So Anhedonia, young and wolfish of shape, with a perfectly straight flood of dark hair dripping to her shoulders, was barely twenty-six years of age but superbly inducted into the sadistic and spectacular arts of her discipline – that is to say, the punishment and milking of male slaves on behalf of the wives of these enfeebled husbands, who, whether on account of their flaccid and wilting penises which could not satisfy their wives, or the paltry size of their natural organs  had been deemed deficient in their maleness (she had seen men with cocks like a child’s half-crumbled crayon, things so small and precious that one felt suspicious at using the harsh syllable “cock” to describe it at all; perhaps “penis”, that slothful and humble appellation with which we sometimes call the object is most appropriate to its melancholy visage).

These were incomplete males, men who were not enough, and in her brief while on earth she had surrendered many of them to be treated for their masculine failures and impotences, the natural embarrassments of possessing so volatile and ridiculous a part of the anatomy. The males she had treated ranged across all types – young and old, white and black, men with considerably portioned male parts which greedily came as soon as they were lovingly touched, as though the organ was so desperate for any mercy or affection for its suffering that it could only weep immediately in humiliating gratitude; men who could pump with boyish abandon and accomplish nothing close to a sliver of fugitively-grasped pleasure, and so on.

Each time, the wife of the male would call the young Mistress and deliver her plea: for example, “my husband is absolutely worthless. He does not offer me a fraction of the ecstasies of my sex and femininity. His penis is an afterthought, a mere scribble. It cannot reach inside me. During a disastrous attempt to make love to me on our third anniversary last weekend at a tranquil beach resort on the fringes of the eastern coast, he was so humbled by my expectant tone and the vastness of my demands, that his manhood remained a mournful curl for four days and could not be aroused on account of the most voluptuous exhibitions for his stimulation. I have told this male that I am sending him to you for the administration of appropriate punishment to his penis and testicles until you, in your mastery of the discipline of humbling the male, can tell me that he has learned his lesson and will not allow his come to tremble so pathetically from his tip again. Do as you must. Honestly, if you cannot teach this male to resist orgasm, you have my most gracious request that you castrate him and give me his man-purse to carry around in my own.”

She had received requests from a mazy multitude of sources. Sometimes the humbled husband himself would arrange the meeting: “Mistress Anhedonia, my wife Jessica has taken to putting up magazine cut-outs and printed pictures of nude men all around the house - above the toilet, on the back of the door to my study – all these men have penises that she says could satisfy her, noble and proud penises that make mine look small and humble (Anhedonia murmured with laughter at this mention). She makes me go around our apartment nude on the weekends. And if she feels that the house is not in order, or if I displease her in some way, she asks me to turn around and spread my legs. I am then made to stand in a moment of trembling suspense while she hurls all sorts of insults at my pathetic manhood, and hurts my testicles with words of past pleasures mounted upon males of more blessed stature than me. She says that those wide-chested, big-balled males in the photographs are probably far more capable of satisfying her, to judge from their girth alone. I close my eyes as she recounts the degrading litanies of my failure as a man. At any moment, I hear her emerald slingback heels slipping off, the powerful three-inch wooden heel makes a punishing click against the kitchen tiles (she has often held up that heel against my limp penis and forced me to acknowledge which instrument is closer toward what she needs as a woman).

“She begins to takes her frustrations and aggressions out on the poor dangling sack between my thighs. I have sometimes wished it would just disappear for all the marital justice my wife has waged against them. Her bare feet volley into my soft treasure and she bashes them into a terror, over and over, while my sack tenses up and pain shoots throughout my abdomen and spreads like the curse of my sex throughout my balls and thighs in a dim fury of pure hurt. She barks at me to “stand up,” if I drop to clutch my wounded maleness. “Stand up and take it like a man if you can’t fuck like a man, do that at least,” she orders me and I obey for she is so gorgeous and I cannot lose her. Mistress,” the man might trail on, “she has not allowed me to come for two weeks now, and has told me, she’s so gracious, that I may visit you for you to milk all the agitated fluid from my bulging balls, please Mistress. My testicles are so desperate, I want to come so terribly.”

And this would be the gambit to her ritualised administration of pain to a male at the very centre of his sex, the sensitive manifestation of his ego. The male would be delivered, the punishment meted out upon the full length of his penis and testicles, (and also thighs, buttocks, back and chest). Sometimes, when the male was arrogant or showed any signs of resistance, Anhedonia would gape apart his thighs and fix his ankles to the floor, with his knees touching the cold ground. He would lie there, in begging position, prayer posture, virgin ass tilted upward to the sun, balls hanging in vulnerable surrender, penis tense with fear and plumes of blood and testosterone helplessly flooding to defend the master organ.

She would let warm oil pour down between his cheeks, slip a delicate finger inside while he moaned in confusion at a scared new semi-pleasure, and then with an artificial organ strapped to her, slip inside him and teach him what it means to submit. Now and then she would flog his paltry testicles should his cries become laced with too many submerged ecstasies; she would coax out the scrambling of his male identity, draw from him the most outrageous whimpers and hysterical wails, all gratuitously administered through the man’s testicles and penis. Such empoisoned gifts of nature.

I desperately wish to dip my hot balls in ice-cream to soothe them. I fugitively imagine myself standing astride a small tub of white vanilla gently melting to a soft and creamy texture. I squat above this merciful antidote and gently lower myself until my throbbing nuts are immersed in the arctic coolness. At first there will be a soft stinging sensation, but my balls are so grateful to be treated that they relax and the white heat of the pain, the dull throbbing in my obliterated balls, is calmed. I want them to be nurtured, to be cared for, I think with what little of my will is not enmeshed in fighting off my male agony, breathing in deep gulps of air, amidst my own sobs.

* * *

           The male is in a posture of servitude: exhibited for his tortures nude, with his hands restrained behind his back, his ankles clasped by locks to the ground; and seated back-facing upon an antique chair, where a discrete oval has been carved for his penis and testicles to be accessible to Anhedonia’s disciplinary whim. Around his neck is a slim collar which links to the head of the chair and completes the male’s immobility – regardless of all stimulation, he is fixed in place and can only endure via tensing himself, releasing his excess pains through his mouth in howls and faithless begging, humble whimpering, whispering and groaning, depleted. His two primary defence mechanisms have been withheld from him. Anhedonia has seen to it that the male’s legs remain open at all times; he is unable to close them to defend against the assaults on his private parts. And his hands are clasped tightly behind him, resting at his lower back, forcing him to push himself outward, give all of his penis through the portal that has been carved to honour it. He cannot defend his balls with quivering palms or gently stroke the humbled things with soft finger-strokes, dreaming of a mother’s tender touch. The penis is still erect with fear, all four inches of it, and the scrotum underneath tense and bunched, the testicles clutched protectively by a weak membrane. The male cannot resist his arousal. The sight of Anhedonia, with pillowy lips, a nervous armful of breasts, draws all the blood from his extremities into a concentrated tip. He is drunk with lusts, his body sensate with imagined horrors. “I prefer males when they are hard,” Anhedonia tells the male, smiling at his stubborn erection. “An erection under these conditions proves the ultimate stupidity of the male genitalia,” Her voice is boyish, feminine, but also full of a submerged mirth; it’s playful, relaxed. “When your little penis stands at attention like that, it means it’s not hanging down and obscuring your balls from me,” she continues. “It means that when I take these shoes off and kick them, there won’t be an irritating accessory dangling in front of my bulls-eye.” At this, Anhedonia closes her eyes and smiles to herself. The male is gagged, but from his muted mouth one could hear a canine whimpering, like a dog who hopes his pathetic display will spare his punishment. His eyes are wide with fear at the regicide of his masculinity, his body tensed; his exhibited penis is stiff and excited. “They say that boys don’t cry,” Anhedonia says, “but I think I know how to make boys cry. I’m going to make you cry now. I’m going to make you wish you had never been born with testicles and regret every orgasm you’ve ever had. You would sacrifice all the Caligulan pleasures of all your life if it meant you would never have to go through what you’re about to experience. You will condemn your sex and deliriously exalt the superiority of the female form when I’m satisfied with your humiliation.” The penis dips gently, as though cowering in to protect itself. She runs the ghost-touch of her index and middle fingers up and down his manhood in a delicate grip, softly stimulating it from top and bottom in slow and gentle drags. The penis stiffens again, it succumbs easily to her touch. “That’s a good male,” she says. “Keep that pathetic thing nice and stiff while I pulverise your useless balls. If it drops into my way, I’m going to have to find some way of restraining it.” The male is drowsy with fearful anticipation. His balls belong entirely to Anhedonia.

           She recalls how the male came into her possession, how he found himself arrayed before her with his male parts in an ecstatic confusion and his thighs spread around the back of a chair, forced into a total submission. A woman named An, the same age as Anhedonia, and possessed of an equal seductiveness of voice, had called her one quiet autumn evening, as a squall of wet leaves gathered and flapped along the narrow street that she gazed out upon from her second-storey window. Her male, she said, was well below satisfaction. She was a graduate student and had taken him as a plaything from her criminology class (she had also taken another plaything, a shy virgin girl, twenty-one years old and fragile, and she made this open to the male. He, realising his sexual antagonist did not have a penis, glibly felt himself unaffected by this knowledge. Perhaps, he thought that her moment of bisexuality granted him more credits in the sullen ranks of patriarchal prestige. Perhaps he dreamed of possible threesomes. She made sure to tell him one afternoon that it was only this shy girl who had made her come in recent memory and that it was a feeling of total bliss, while the male hid from his face the shame that his penis was the inferior and superfluous element of the equation). She was tall and beautiful, cryptic, elegant and far superior to him. Her complaint was principally, that his balls were ungrateful. “I am a superbly beautiful woman, well beyond what he is capable of attracting. Each time I want to fuck him, he can’t even get hard. I would find it okay if he had something worthwhile I could put in my mouth and play with, or something big enough to rub against myself, because I am hot and electric with wanting to come. But when he is flaccid, his thing is small; it looks premature, like a young boy’s parts. I have never told him this; I have never had the chance to see if it gets any bigger when he’s erect, because in spite of all his arrogance and posturing I have never seen it full. So I have never told him because I don’t want to embarrass him further, but of course I tell all my friends. I can tell, although he remains stony faced about his male shame, that he goes around scared that girlfriends of mine look at him pass them by and then whisper jokes to one another about the shameful manhood that droops between his legs. When I told one friend, she said that she knew many men who couldn’t ‘rise to the occasion’ on their first time and she laughed at him. I go to bed with heat between my thighs every night. A woman of my beauty expects to always sleep after having taken all my pleasure from a male.” Anhedonia extracts all the most shameful details of the wilted boyfriend’s sexual misadventures, already beginning to conjure appropriate tortures suited to the male’s specific failures. “All males need to be humbled,” Anhedonia explains in a phantom voice to her caller. “This one sounds like he is feigning a defensive arrogance to mask his true humiliation at his malfunctioning male organs. He should be pleading for your sympathy, but I would be honoured to coax those undignified pleas from him as your surrogate.” An murmurs in agreement.

“But what will you do with him?” she asks. “I have spent four awkward months with him and I am done with him. I have already found other, fuller males to satisfy my desires. I don’t want you to castrate him. Rather, I want you to punish his testicles as comprehensively as you can.”

           “He will keep the testicles as a souvenir of a shame that he will remember for a lifetime,” Anhedonia replies. “His balls will carry the imprint of his humbling and he will forever more relate to his manhood as an accursed inheritance. He will tread as a humbled male. He will know that at any moment, a female can bring him to a psychosexual reckoning with a swift kick to the balls. He will know that every time he is invited to display his poor balls to a woman, he puts his safety in her hands, the trust of his identity in her guard, for should she choose to, within seconds, he could be maimed and squealing.” An says that this sounds like a suitable arrangement. The male is handsome, and attractive in his own gloomy way, but it is his self-professed intelligence that persuade him he can behave any way he likes. It seems that a humbling of the testicles, via bare feet and leather belts, through the swift smack of an open palm to the crunching grip of merciless feminine hand, would be the perfect antidote for this male. Anhedonia and An end the conversation with a few details of the Mistress’s past emasculations. “I think of the penis and balls as a musical instrument,” she semi-joked. “A small flute with two nuts from which I need to encourage the male to make music from his throat. The best sound I have achieved from a male was when I grabbed his ball-bag in a tight grip and squeezed as hard as I could. First I grabbed and released his nuts in a quick rhythmic motion causing him to yell in singular bursts, and then I applied pressure with my oiled hands without letting go for thirty full seconds, while the male was singing “yeeeeeeeeeeeeee-” until he passed out. It was a most ridiculous sound and something only balls could produce in a human.” The reign of the Mistress’s design over a male’s testicles is exquisite. It is an expression of the ultimate female justice against savage centuries of sexual and spiritual exploitation under the patriarchal epoch.

Between my legs, my balls feel like two eggs, the shells soft and fragile, and now splintered apart into a hail of fine pieces, the yolk within my testicles spilling out onto a frying pan and being swirled with milk and salt; inside my mind I can feel that she has turned my balls into scrambled eggs while they still hang helplessly clinging to me by sensitive threads of flesh. I wish that I did not have balls, I cannot face the thought of castration to lose my penis as a male is to lose the reason for my petty dominance, the tool of my everyday oppressions, I cannot bear the thought of my precious balls and my penis being taken away from me; but without these testicles it would not be possible to experience this soul-shattering torment, as though my balls are my being, my balls externalise my essence, and she has shown my manhood and the testosterone-fuelled bravado of all males, for what it is: a cowardly acting out. I am desperate and humbled and loathe my testicles and loathe the lie that balls are strong and males are strong. The female is the superior. The feminine is suppressed into a descendant phase.

* * *

[destroycuckold]