The following fiction contains not only castration, but also brutal femdom sex. If you might be upset by this sort of thing, if you might get into some sort of legal trouble for reading it (oh my god), abort now. If you don't like the following story, don't tell me about it: I don't care. If you do like it and would like to see more in this vein, reply to me in an email. Reprint it wherever/however you want.

My relationship with Maria started out normally enough. We dated traditionally a few times before we started having sex, and while I was used to women who had sex early in relationships, I wasn't surprised that she put it off a while: she was a second-generation Mexican- American from a devoutly Catholic family, and I hardly expected her to be sexually daring.

But I was willing to wait: she was extremely beautiful, with long, brown hair, and mesmerizing dark eyes. She was quite lean, but taller than me by about three inches. While I was not athletic, I was still surprised that she seemed my equal in strength.

When we became intimate, I was a little surprised at how assertive she was in bed: though I had made all the first moves the first time we made love, after that she immediately changed, becoming more demanding.

When we got home from dates, she'd quickly cut through the usual make-out period and begin undressing me. She'd hold my five-inch penis in her hand, cup my balls, sometimes squeezing and tugging at them, then tell me to give her head. She'd hold my face over her pussy by gripping my hair, and often tell me how to do things better.

Sometimes when we lay on her bed after sex she became aggressively playful.

"I want more sex," she'd complain matter-of-factly, then grab my genitals: tug my cock by the head, grip my balls in her fingers and massage them roughly, or squeeze them until I gasped in pain.

One evening I was a little moody: I grabbed her wrist while she worked over my genitals, and pulled her hand away. She clutched at my manhood with her other hand, and we began wrestling. It was quite playful at first, but soon became more emotionally charged. She swatted my cock with her palm, and I slapped her ass.

She threw a casual punch at my balls, and I bent over, gasping. When I got my breath back, I was really irritated, so I smacked her breast. Her mischievous smile vanished, and she pulled her knee hard against my nuts. I cried out, turned away from her, and shielded my battered testicles with my cupped hands.

For a while I lay on the bed doubled-up, trying to not let her see my tears.

"I didn't feel much down there," she commented, then went to sleep.

I gave up on trying to command her physically. I knew I would end up losing, so I tried to remain constantly cheerful and yielding with her. We wrestled regularly after that when I couldn't satisfy her sexual hunger, and I tried to remain good-spirited in our grappling. I refused to even try to hurt her, but I admit it was more out of fear of what she might do to me than any sort of condescending male sympathy: I hoped that if I only put up a partial fight she might be more merciful.

But she wasn't. Nearly every time we wrestled, she ended up grabbing my testicles and squeezing them until I begged her to stop. Often she slammed her fist into my balls, damn near knocking the life out of me -- certainly annihilating any notion I might've had about being physically superior to her. Almost invariably she brought me to tears, then made deriding remarks about my "puny little cocklette," or my "micro-balls," my "teeny weenie peanuts," my "wannabe testes."

"You're not a real man, Mark," she once said while we stood in the shower, her hand weighing my genitals. "You're hung like a field mouse. These are the smallest balls I've ever seen in my life."

Yet her abuse only seemed to make me crave her more. I had given myself over to her; she owned my manhood completely, and it gave me a profound sense of release.

If giving up my manhood temporarily through physical defeat and surrender felt good, giving it up permanently through castration was total liberation.

One evening, after I started giving her head, she told me that she had castrated a man before. I looked up at her, my mouth wet with her vagina's moisture.

"You're lying," I said.

She shook her head, smiling a sly smile, then told me to lie on my back. She got up and went into the bathroom.

She was smiling with her mouth closed when she stepped out of the bathroom. She moved on top of my naked body, her large breasts laying softly against my chest.

She pressed her big, glossy lips over mine. Reaching up with her hand, she pulled my jaw down to open my mouth, then parted her lips. I felt two large balls, wet with her spit, drop into my mouth. I was sort of shocked at the awareness of having another man's lost testicles in my mouth. I thought involuntarily of some guy walking around with his manhood erased. Wondering if she had done it against his will, I suddenly felt very vulnerable, and frightened. I felt tears form in my eyes.

"They're bigger than yours. Can you tell? A lot bigger."

While I felt them with my tongue, she reached down and put her hand around my balls.

"I got bored with Jonathan," she said with a chuckle. "So I let him go. I want you now." She squeezed my balls firmly, and I felt a reflexive twitch through my body.

"Ooh, you're so tender down there. My weak little man." Her hand contained the seeds of my manhood entirely; I was totally in her grip.

Maria told me to get on the floor on all fours. She told me to wait there while she went back into the bathroom for a few moments. When she returned she was wearing a large strap-on dildo. While I'm not sure of the exact dimensions, it certainly dwarfed my own manhood. She kneeled down and held her hand under my mouth.

"Give me half of Jonathan," she said.

I felt her dab a finger smeared with lubricant over my anus, then plunge it in to widen me: first one finger, then two or three. Then she pressed Jonathan's testicle inside me, and proceeded to drive it in deeper with the dildo. My rectum hurt terribly; I was sure it was bleeding. I winced, crying silently.

"Oh, poor boy. Try to be a man. Come on now, Mark. Pretend you're a man for me."

She rammed the dildo into me fiercely, then, continuing her thrusts, reached around and gripped my nuts.

"How would you like me to put these inside Jonathan? Or some young girl? Would you like that?"

She jerked at my balls violently; I could feel sharp pains surge up to my abdomen. I couldn't hold my voice any longer; I spat out the testicle then began pleading with her to stop.

Eventually she did. She turned me onto my back and sat down with her huge artificial penis laying over my groin, pinning down my own limp, small cock. I couldn't tell whether Jonathan's ball was still inside my ass.

After a while she went back into the bathroom, and came back with a couple of face cloths. One of them was hot and damp, and she used this to wipe off my balls. She did this gently, lovingly. I began to feel aroused, and my penis rose up straight. She stroked it several times.

"You're such a small man, Mark. Such a strange little cock that never grew up."

She leaned over my penis and bit it. I cried out, and again she squeezed my balls -- this time gently. She massaged them for a while, pressing one of the fingers on her other hand into my anus. I felt totally overcome by her; I was her sexual territory; another victim, and I had no impulse to resist. She removed her finger from my hole.

"Look, Mark."

I lifted my head and saw that she was holding a pair of large clippers with a curved blade.

"I'm going to deball you now."

"No," I pleaded, "No, please, please, please."

She held clippers over my face and let the blades open, then snipped them shut. She did this a couple of times, while saying, "You're going to stop being a man tonight, Mark. Clip, clip! No more manhood."

She pressed the blades lightly against my lips and told me to kiss them. I did, hoping that cooperating completely might change her mind.

It didn't.

She moved the clippers down to where she was holding my balls, and pulled my nuts up as far as she could.

"You're going to worship me forever, Mark. You're going to think of me as the woman who cut you, and you'll worship me forever. Maria? Yeah, Maria's the woman who cut my balls off; she's the woman who castrated me; she's the woman who decided I shouldn't be a man anymore. Look, Mark."

She was holding the clippers by my balls. She poked the tip of the clippers into each testicle, hurting them. Then she rubbed my cock down against my body, and I noticed it was still erect.

"Please, Maria."

"Please what, Mark?"

I was crying. I didn't know what to say.

"Balls are too much for a little boy like you. You don't need them; you're no good with them. And they hurt you, don't they?"

"No," I blubbered.

"No? Well, what about this?"

Dropping the clippers momentarily, she made a fist and slammed it into my nuts. I lurched forward, my groin throbbing. She shoved me back against the floor again.

"See? You don't want to feel that anymore. And you won't. You'll feel this..." She held the metal against my balls again, wacking them with it like a little paddle.

"Look up now, Mark."

I obeyed her, and saw through my tear-blurred vision that the clippers' blades were open.

"Say goodbye, Mark. Come on. Say: Goodbye, Manhood. Do you want to be mine forever? Be my eunuch? Say it."

She stroked the metal against my balls. My voice sounded weak and hoarse: "Goodbye, manhood."

"That's it, boy. Now look down."

I blinked away tears, and saw her put the open mouth of the clippers under my balls. She smiled, brought the blades together, then said, "Ahhh!"

My testicles were gone.



Maria liked to pet my nutless groin after that. Especially in public places: we'd be standing in line at take-out stands, and she'd move up close to me and slide her hand down to where she had cut me, and smile broadly, feeling the smoothness of my groin.

She liked to take me to the beach, and she'd always make me wear extremely tight-fitting trunks, which showed the clear outline of my little cock and disclosed my ball-less state to the other beach-goers.

We still wrestled sometimes, and she still always won, though it didn't hurt nearly as much when she pumped her knee or her fist into my groin. She sometimes dressed me up in women's clothing, and made me wear my balls as earrings.

Most of the time she kept them hanging from the rearview mirror of her car. Sometimes when we drove together, she'd reach up and flick her fingers against them. My balls were her toys.

END