I suppose my parents must have chosen a dominatrix as my
babysitter accidentally. At least, I can’t think of any reasons why they
would want their 6-year-old to be subjected to a babysitter who believed
in female domination: my mother wasn’t a practicing femdom by any means,
and as far as I’m aware my father didn’t have any submissive tendencies —
at least none that all men don’t have. So I think my parents chose Karen
to babysit for me only because they believed she was responsible and
competent. No doubt they were struck by how sincere she sounded when she
professed to love children. In fact she did love children — in a unique
way — but my parents never had any idea what Karen did with me, and what
sort of influence she had on me.
I should point out Karen’s beliefs in female domination were
coincidental; she believed in being dominant, and happened to be a woman.
Any philosophical positions relating to female domination were probably
just stilts for her egotism. I have no idea whether this sort of claim
would hold true for most femdoms.
I first met Karen as a six-year-old, on December 31, 1974 — my
parents’ anniversary and New Year’s Eve. She had long, dirty blond hair,
seemed very tall to me (though in fact she’s 5’9″), and seemed as much of
an adult as my parents, though she was only 15.
Our first sessions were very normal, uneventful. She was wittier
and funnier than any other babysitters I’d had before, and let me stay up
later. Best of all, I felt that she really liked me, and really had an
interest in my youthful vision of things. I had fun with her, and was
always bitterly disappointed when she wasn’t available and I had to have
other babysitters.
Certainly Karen was different from the very beginning. Rather
than making me dinner, she had me make myself dinner and merely stood by
offering guidance or giving instructions.
“Come on, Andy, you’re a big boy. Take it off…”
When one evening I became frustrated that I couldn’t unscrew the
lid on a jar of spaghetti sauce, Karen moved up behind me, her body
pressing against me, and reached around my shoulders; she took the jar
from my hands and effortlessly twisted off the lid. For a moment I was
embarrassed at her superior strength — I already had the notion that boys
are supposed to me stronger than girls. While I blushed, Karen held me
there for a moment, her arms around me, not letting me move.
My first experience of female domination that had a pronouncedly
sexual character occurred on Karen’s sixth visit at my home. She told me
she wanted me to make macaroni, and I flatly refused. I had had a
discouraging day at school and I was in a bad mood. Generally Karen’s
presence was immediately uplifting — her humor, her playfulness — but on
this occasion my sulky attitude persisted. I told her I wasn’t going to
make dinner.
“You’re not. Why not, Andrew?”
“‘Cause I don’t want to.”
“Andrew, come on. That’s not a good reason.”
“Why should I do the cooking? You’re the babysitter.”
Karen looked at my icily. “Andy? Do you think that makes me your
slave?”
I hesitated.
“Is that what you think, Andrew?”
“No.”
“Then why are you refusing to do as I tell you?”
I felt myself going red. I felt ashamed of my refusal to comply,
and I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Because YOU’RE the
woman.”
Karen leaned closer to me. Her voice was almost a hiss. “What
did you say?”
Avoiding eye contact, I said, “When Dad’s here, Mom always makes
dinner. That’s how it is in all families. The woman cooks.”
Karen smiled a cold smile, then slowly kneeled down in front of
me. We were just about at eye level with each other. Her smile
broadened, and she put one of her hands around my shoulders. I looked
away from her; despite her smile, her eyes burned into me. I was acutely
aware of her anger, and it made me shrink inwardly.
“Andrew, I don’t ever want to hear you say something like that
again. Women choose their own roles for themselves. If they don’t want
to do something, they don’t have to. That was a very stupid, silly thing
for you to say.”
She wanted me to look at her directly. Still with one arm around
my shoulder, she put her other hand on my chin and turned my face toward
her. I was trembling.
“And Andrew, when most men and women have disagreements about who
should do what in a family, and the disagreements become serious and turn
into fights, the women win.”
What she said struck home for me. I could recall many instances
in which clashes between my parents ended with my mother, through
manipulation or sheer force of will, coming out on top. Generally when
there were serious fights, the episodes were only resolved when my father
apologized to my mother and pleaded for her forgiveness. Somehow, while
on the surface my father appeared to be the head of the family, my mother
actually wielded the power and set down the law.
But this was very confusing for me, and seemed to conflict with
the depiction of men and women in cartoons and other TV shows: men were
clearly physically superior to women, and since they were equal in all
other ways, it was obviously men who had the edge. And despite what
happened between my parents, it was always women who had to clamor for
equal rights; it was men who were presidents and prominent leaders; it was
men who seemed to make things happen in the world. Women were a presence,
but only a subdued one.These shallow impressions seeped into my mind as
Karen laid her eyes on me, and they must have motivated me when I
responded to her: “Women NEVER win. Men are who control things. It’s a
fact. Men are more powerful.”
Karen lost her smile. “Andy. One day you’ll realize that men are
desperately afraid of appearing weak, so they’ll do anything to appear
strong. But in every way, they’re slaves by their own nature. The
deepest fear that all men have is of realizing that women are superior to
them. But when men realize this, they can finally start to live the kinds
of lives that they’re supposed to live. Andy, I’m going to help you start
learning that kind of life now.”
She smile again, and looked at me forgivingly. “Now go make us
dinner.”
Looking back on it, I’m amazed at my resistance. I suppose it was
mainly based on a childish impulse to test authority. Again, I refused.
My voice was very, very small, but I said, “No.”
Karen’s face shadowed over. Her eyes looked like storm clouds.
Her hand, which was still around my shoulders, slid slowly down my back to
my rear. She placed her hand over my small buttocks, moved her fingers
gently so as to feel the crack between my cheeks, then seemed to massage
my behind slowly. She moved her other hand to my face, and heavily —
mushing up my cheek — stroked me.
“Oh, Andy. You shouldn’t’ve said that.”
After a brief electric pause, her hand glided from my face, down
across my chest — then to my pants. Holding me from behind, she broke
open the button of my pants and in a series of powerful, swift movements,
yanked my pants and my underwear down to my ankles, spun me around, bent
me over her knees, and began spanking me.
I had never been spanked by my parents. For some reason I had the
impression that spankings were illegal — that parents weren’t allowed to
do things like that anymore. I was astonished by Karen’s show of
authority, and her seemingly endless series of blows stung my bottom
badly. I began wailing. I thrashed weakly to break free, but Karen held
me down easily.
After an eternity of pain, Karen asked me if I was ready to do as
she said. Through sobs I cried that I was. Although she stopped spanking
me, she continued holding me over her knee. My buttocks were aching, but
they weren’t numb, and I could feel, about a minute after she stopped
spanking me, her fingers slowly probe between my small cheeks. They moved
up to my tiny anus, touching the rim gently, and rested there.
After some minutes, exhausted by my sobbing into quiet whimpering,
Karen lifted me up, still with my pants at my ankles, and sat me on her
lap normally. She put one arm around my chest, and although she had just
beaten me — even terrorized me — I felt deeply comforted by the feeling
of her face next to mine. I shuddered, and she held me warmly. With her
other hand, she reached around and touched my tiny penis and my little
scrotum.
At first her fingers drifted lightly over my genitals, as if just
measuring their miniscule dimensions. Then she cupped my little balls and
my penis in her warm palm, and kissed me on the cheek.
“Andy?” Karen’s voice was infinitely kind. She sounded soothing
and wise. “Do you feel this? These little things are part of what make
men so different from women. They’re part of what makes men so weak.
Women don’t have to have these things.”
Her hand rubbed me there — still gently, but somewhat
assertively. She probed the seeds of my maleness, shifting my testes
around, toying briefly with my little penis. Then she delicately held my
left ball between her thumb and her forefinger.
“Can you imagine, Andy, how easy it is for a girl to hurt a boy
here? How helpless the boy becomes when a girl can touch him here?”
I nodded with my eyes closed tight. Although I was frightened, I
was starting to feel my tiny penis grow stiff, like a brittle twig. Karen
released my nut from her grip. She lifted me off her knee, then helped me
remove my shoes and slip off my pants and underpants. She told me to lift
up my arms, and then lifted off my shirt. Holding my hand, she guided me
into my bedroom, then told me to lie down on my back.
After I did, she took off her clothes. I had never seen a woman
naked before, and her breasts seemed somehow strange and disturbing; the
dark corner of hair at her crotch frightened me — as if I had some sort
of instinctive response to that place. Everything about her body
suggested strength and power.
I was trembling as Karen moved above me on the bed. As she joined
me, she again stroked my tiny genitals; then, putting one knee on each
side of my chest, moved her dark patch of hair close to my face.
“This is what women have, Andy: this is where babies come from, and
this makes you mine: this makes men stupid, obedient slaves.”
I could smell her, and I could feel the heat from her body.
“Look at it, Andy.”
The complex, dark folds of her flesh reminded me of a jellyfish
hidden in shadowy water. It looked moist, and seemed huge to me. Karen
moved her crotch over my face.
“Lick me, Andy.”
She clutched my hair and pulled my face against this mouth of
hers. I felt a surge of energy in her body as our flesh touched, and her
vagina overwhelmed me: pinned my body to the bed: drenched me in its
powerful liquids as I licked, and gasped, and licked. Her body rocked
against my face, and I was terrified that she would injure me.
At some point I ended up on my stomach with her lying on top of
me. I had one cheek on the bed as my babysitter stroked my face. She had
become calm; her sweat covered me. She slid her hand under my body, under
my boyish groin, and moved her fingers gently into my scrotum. Her thumb
rubbed my little penis, which poked like a small wooden nail against the
mattress.
“I’m going to make you a man, Andy,” she whispered in my ear. “I’m
going to train you to be a proper man.”
Karen came to our house about six times after that, and each time
she took me further in our training. I always pleased her; every night I
spent with her, her vagina feasted on my face. On our last night
together, she showed me how her clitoris, swollen and moist, dwarfed my
limp little penis. One evening while we lay in bed she held my head
between her legs and drenched me with urine. The next morning I confessed
to my parents that I had wet my bed.
On two occasions Karen became frustrated with me — though I never
again defied her as I had that first night that she dominated me. On one
of these occasions I had been sucking her nipples, and accidentally
nibbled her too hard. She yelled that I was a brainless imbecile, then
told me to stand in front of her with my legs apart. We were both naked;
she was sitting on the edge of my bed, and I was standing with my tiny
balls dangling, my little penis like a drop of flesh. With one hand,
Karen held my hair — firmly, but not tugging at it; with the other she
made a fist. She told me to look her in the eyes, then she slammed her
fist against my boyish genitals. I crumpled to the floor: I wailed: I
clutched myself in helpless, tearful agony. I had never felt so much
pain.
Karen was especially rough with me as she rocked her crotch
against my face that night. I ended up with a bloody nose.
The other time I angered Karen, it was for not being responsive
with my little penis. Though erect it was only two and a half inches
long, barely long enough to penetrate her at all, she order me to make it
rise. I couldn’t. She slapped at it with her hand, but that just brought
tears to my eyes.
Karen told me to get on my hands and knees. On her knees behind
me, she put her index finger in my mouth and told me to get it wet. Then
she stuck her other fingers in, and told me that I should make them slick
with spit. I felt like I was going to choke on her hand, and tears welled
up in my eyes.
When she took her fingers out of my mouth, she slid them between
my buttocks and drove them — first one, then two, then three — into my
hole. At first I shrieked — it felt like my body was being slashed open
by a dagger — but Karen’s blow to the back of my head silenced me. Soon
her fingers began to feel soft entering me, and though I felt slashed
open, even more vulnerable to her than usual, the act felt began to feel
wonderfully affectionate. With her other hand, Karen reached around and
fingered my boyhood.
“See? I told you I’d make your tiny penis hard.”
Karen pinned me on my back and let her clitoris rub over my little
wand. Her clitoris continued passionately rubbing me long after my penis
became exhausted. Disappointed with me, Karen slapped my face, and
spanked me again until my tears soaked my pillow. She told me that I
would have to learn to keep my little penis hard when she wanted it to be.
Next time I failed her by letting my penis soften, she would get a penis
of her own — one so long that when she rammed it into my hole I would
feel it all the way up in my throat.
Karen had assured me that if I ever told anyone about the private
things she did with me, she would make it so that I would be a boy all my
life — I would never be able to have children. Her threat was totally
unnecessary: my obedience to her was complete. No one had ever brought so
much intensity to my life: Karen was my best friend, and the most
frightening person I had ever met.
Consequently when my parents told me that Karen had stolen
something from their house and that I would never see her again, I was
crushed. I protested, I tried to change their minds, but they assured me
that it was better that Karen stay away from the house. They didn’t want
her to be a bad influence on me. I lost touch with Karen completely.
By the time I moved away to college, I had become thoroughly
disappointed with women. Karen created godlike expectations in me about
women, but by misfortune I never encountered any femdoms in high school.
Vanilla girls — tame, submissive, spiritually exhausted — never excited
me. In my third quarter at UCSC, however, I took a class in women’s
studies. When we met for our discussion session — led by a vivid,
commanding female T.A. — I realized that fate had given me an
extraordinary stroke of luck. After the discussion ended, I lingered in
the room until all the other students left, then approached the T.A. I
told her that she h0nad been my babysitter twelve years earlier.
I suppose I was so bored with women after Karen because none of
them could give me the total experience that she gave me — the experience
of utmost surrender, of losing oneself to another’s pleasure, of having
ones own self eclipsed by another person’s will. When Karen had me
sexually, I was utterly engulfed by her. I can barely describe it; it was
like merging with another person then disappearing into her pleasure,
which I was only a replaceable isntrument for. Karen picks up the
instrument, laughs at it, then smashes it on the ground; from that moment
on I can only be made whole again by her putting me back together.
Ironically, this happens from her sexually tearing me apart.
As I grew into adolescence and young adulthood, I looked back on
my experiences with Karen and missed her painfully. When I realized in my
discussion section at U.C.S.C. that the short-haired, dyed-haired, lean,
quick-speaking, somewhat haughty woman T.A. was my former babysitter, my
head began buzzing. My scrotum formed a tight fist. I nearly fainted
or…or cried out, rushed up to her and knelt down, smothering her feet
with kisses.
When I came up to re-introduce myself to her — after all the
other students had left the room — I suffered my first disappointment.
Karen spoke small talk to me; though I told her who I was, she addressed
me like she might address any other student. I was crushed.
Desperate to spark some warmth in her, I told her how much she had
meant to me; how all women after her were like smudges of diet vanilla
ooze, only worthy of being wiped off with a napkin; how my last twelve
years were lived in mystery because she began to explain the relations
between the sexes to me only to be cut short in her lessons. I even told
her that because I had found her again that day, it was the most important
day in the last twelve years of my life.
She looked at me silently, without appearing in the least bit
flattered.
“You’re still a sweet boy, Andy.”
She smiled a plastic smile, then gathered up her folders and
walked out of the room.
I lurched after her in the hallway, like a pathetic beggar for
affection. I had abandoned all dignity by this point; I had become again
the little boy pinioned to the mattress under the weight of her body,
terrified at her strength, desperate for her approval. I pleaded with her
to have lunch with me.
“Andy…”
Karen sighed and shook her head. She unlocked the door of her
office, and stepped into the small cubicle.
“I’m not a babysitter anymore, Andy. I’m a T.A.”
Standing in the doorway, I stared at her as she laid her things on
the small aluminum desk. I was confused. This woman, who I had
fantasized about for twelve years, who had given me the most intense
moments of my life, was brushing me off like a spec of dandruff.
“You’re not a babysitter anymore? Do you…do you mean I’m still a
baby? I’m not sure what you mean.”
Karen looked up at me. She had pierced her nose on both sides;
on one there was a ring, and on the other a stud.
“Yeah. You’re still a baby.”
Karen and I stared at each other. I was hurt, and my pain burned
into rage.
“I don’t fucking believe this.”
“Excuse me, Andrew?”
“You’re fucking…you enter my life, you twirl my reality around
your finger like a fucking ribbon, then you do THIS to me? You’re fucking
unbelievable.”
Karen’s hand shot forward: she slammed the door shut behind me,
causing me to jump. Karen stared at me with a look of detestation; her
eyes riveted me against the wall.
“You stupid, stupid boy. I am NOT here to fullfil your brainless
expectations. Don’t you even get it? I was never your fucking
babysitter. I was raping you, Andrew. I had you by the balls for my own
pleasure. If you fell in love with me, that’s your own stupid fault. I
don’t give a shit about you and I never did. You were just one more
juvenile cock for me to play with. I don’t give a fuck about you, you
little twerp, and I never did. You are NOTHING to me. You are
WORTHLESS.”
Karen’s words were like bullets pounding into my chest. She was
right; I had fallen in love with my memories of her, but to my old
babysitter I had been nothing but a cheap toy.
I felt tears pool up in my eyes. I turned away from Karen, but
she saw my eyes beginning to glisten. She stared at me in horrified
amazement.
“You little fucking crybaby!”
“Karen, please…”
“You little brainless fuck! You coward!”
“Karen, you meant so much to me…”
Tears spilled from my eyes about a second before Karen’s spit hit
my nose and my mouth. She spit on me again — this time it hit my eye. I
was nonplussed, shattered, and I began to cry aloud.
“Shut up, you fucking little baby. Shut the FUCK up!”
I couldn’t control myself; I was weeping. I realized that any
student standing outside of the office door would be able to hear my
childish whimpering, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Andrew,” Karen’s voice was venomous, “Shut the fuck up right now.”
“I can’t, Karen,” I slobbered over my words, “You were a goddess to
me, and now you’re just treating me like shit.”
Karen grabbed my hair and yanked my face to within two inches of
hers.”You ARE shit, you stupid little dick. You’re a worthless, brainless
shit.”
Gripping my hair, she slammed my head against the concrete wall.
I broke into a sob, and this made Karen lose her patience: she made a
first with her right hand and slammed it into my face, then drove her knee
into my groin. I doubled over, gasping, and Karen grabbed my head and
wrenched my body onto the floor.
For about ten minutes Karen kicked me in the ass. Literally: she
pounded her clogs into my buttocks, and occasionally the front of her
shoes — by accident or on purpose — aimed low and cracked my balls.
At some point Karen kicked me in the head, and I lost
consciousness.
When I regained consciousness, it was late at night. I was alone
in Karen’s office, and I was naked from the waist down. My jeans and my
boxer shorts were on the floor next to me. My penis was taped, with about
twenty strips of masking tape, against my balls. The strips of tape went
up between my buttocks to my lower back. I had no recollection of Karen
taping me up. It took me more than half an hour to remove the tape. The
process was painful, causing much of the hair on my scrotum to be ripped
out.
There was a note for me on Karen’s desk, telling me that she
wanted me to do something for her the following day. Her address was on
the note.
As I walked down hall out of the building, I limped. My groin
ached. There was a bump on my head from where Karen banged it into the
wall. I was scared. I had never been battered like that before.
I was scared.
Karen told me — some weeks later — that there was no
philosophical basis for “femdom.” Saying that women are inherently
superior to men was an absurdity: a vulgar, nonsensical notion — just one
more twisted form of elitism. If women are superior to men, why,
throughout history, have they been the more submissive sex? If it’s
because of their moral superiority — their reluctance to engage in
brutality comparable to men’s — how does their superiority continue
despite “femdom,” which involves blatant physical abuse — and hence must
eliminate any claim to moral superiority?
“Women aren’t inherently superior to men, Andrew,” Karen told me,
“But in every way, I’m superior to you.”
I disagreed with her, but I kept quiet: I felt — and still feel
By Sturgeon