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Amanda Grows Up – By James P.
Table of Contents:
Chapter One – Roger and Me
Chapter Two – My Aerobics Instructor and Her Hubby
Chapter Three – Supervising Eddie
Chapter Four – College
Chapter Five – Turning the Tables on Dan
Chapter Six – The Complete Enslavement of Dan
Epilogue – My Life Today
Disclaimer: This is a fictitious tale intended solely for adults aged 18 or over. The author does not necessarily advocate the events of this story as a lifestyle preference. If you, or someone you know is in a truly abusive relationship, please seek professional assistance. The author believes all relationships should be based on love and affection. Please do not reprint or republish this story without the express written consent of James P. Thank you.
Author’s Note: The below story was given to me by a woman wishes to hide her actual name. This is her story, in her words, with my very minor and insignificant edits. –James P.
Chapter One – Roger and Me
Hello, my name is Amanda Abigail Andrews and this is my story. I'm 27 years old and a strident believer in female supremacy. It's not that I think women are superior to men. I know they are. Over the past ten years or so, my gal pals and I have proven this beyond a doubt. Thanks in large part to my philosophy, I own real estate in Manhattan, Los Angeles, Miami Beach, the United Kingdom, and France. I’m married to a rich “man.” He works long hours while I don’t work. Every penny he earns goes directly to my bank account. It’s been a long and wonderful journey to reach this point, and that makes it a story worth telling.
I’ll begin in one moment. First I need to emphasize to you, the reader, what makes me tick. Here's a hint without giving it away: It's the little mound that resides between my hips. Need more clues, silly? It's located in the middle of my body at the intersection of my thighs. I think of it often when I'm turning men into stuttering, exploited fools because I know it's always foremost on their mind. To them, it's a more powerful drug than heroin, crack, or whatever a junkie-loser can't help but indulge in. To them, it’s the most delicious biscuit in the world, and it reduces them to slobbering dogs.
In the world today, there are an increasing number of women like me. Millions of us now know that we possess the ultimate power to enslave men, and that power is nestled comfortably between our legs. What a stark contrast to the ridiculous-looking thing that resides between a male's legs - an organ that provides women with an easy and available conduit to a man’s body and soul.
Let me briefly describe myself. I'm from an upper-class suburb. I'm an only child. My father is a brain surgeon and my mom is what you could call a "high society" lady. Growing up, we lived in a beautiful Victorian house in an exclusive suburb in the Northeastern United States. In terms of interests, since my early teenage years, I’ve enjoyed aerobics, photography, graphic art, and women’s literature. In high school, I was a straight ‘A’ student. Outside of class, I was always popular enough and had plenty of girlfriends, but tended to avoid boys. It wasn't that I lacked interest. It's just I thought it wasn't a good time in my life to get involved because, quite simply, they didn't have the maturity level to meet my needs and/or expectations. To get a better understanding of that, you probably need to know more about me - namely the way I look.
This might sound conceited, but I've never had a problem with attracting men. I'm like a small version of a model. Since I was about 15 years old, I've been five feet one inch tall and weighed between 95 and 99 pounds. Never 100! For a time, it bothered me that I was so tiny until I realized that my size has never stopped me from getting exactly what I want. I came to learn, a lot of men are infatuated with petite women. It's probably because they are all perverts at heart, and there's something precious about a little girl. I should add that I have natural blonde hair, penetrating blue eyes, and high cheekbones. Other than my eyes, my facial features are small. I have a teensy little nose and ears, a narrow mouth. Even my teeth are small. In terms of body type, I've been told by more than one person I have an extraordinary figure. I took ballet as a child. I'm naturally thin, with a narrow waistline and high, somewhat prominent hipbones. The one place on my body that might have some cushion is my ass. Don't get me wrong - my pride and joy is small and firm. But it's not flat. I spend plenty of time in the gym making sure it stays in fashion. As for my boobs, let's just say I wear an A-cup. When I stretch out in the gym, you can hardly see them. They are little and it's fine with me. My nipples are tiny and pointy. I have a high-pitched girlish voice, and that’s the way it’s always been. I can lower it or be quite shrill when need be.
So back to boys and high school. As I said, I didn't date much back then. I went to parties and flirted-a-plenty, but I developed a well-earned reputation for being a prude. One time, one of the more popular boys who spent most of sophomore and junior year unsuccessfully trying to get into my panties called me a cock tease in front of his friends at a party, to which I replied, "you're fucking right I'm a cock tease and don't forget it." I don't know why, but the exchange was the stuff of legend in the boys’ locker room at high school. After that, none of them messed with me.
I grew up expecting to be pampered by men. It’s the way I was raised. Blame dad – he bought me a BMW M3 for my 16th birthday and that typified the way I was treated growing up. But don’t think for a moment that I was prissy. I was an all-state gymnast in high school. Gymnastics are hard. I probably could have tried to make the Olympic team as a 16 year old, but fuck that. By then, I was burning out. I didn’t like all the perverted boys and men in the stands eying my body. Our coach was all broken up about it, but I didn’t really care. I officially retired after my junior year and have no regrets.
In terms of dating in high school, there was only one exception to the rule. Two weeks into my senior year, I began dating Roger. He was a 19 year-old kid who went to the local Ivy League college. I met him at a party. At the time, he seemed more mature than the boys in my high school. So I gave him a chance. He was nice enough and we soon began fooling around. I let him kiss me and even allowed him to fondle my nipples from outside my shirt. It felt good. Early on, I made it perfectly clear that I wouldn't be taking my pants off for him. I was too young and not about to let him touch me there. Still, he had a fair amount of charm and he treated me well - at least initially.
I had done enough reading and investigation on my own to develop a pretty good understanding of men and their silly anatomy. My two best friends Debra, Kimberly and I used to talk about boys and how they would make absolute fools of themselves to get their rocks off. It was at that time in my life where I was just beginning to scratch the surface of becoming the dominant, male-controlling woman I am today. But I wasn't there yet.
In time, Roger began to get a little bit pushy about his needs. He told me about his blue-balls and how just being around me, and smelling my perfume would get him all pent up. He said that fondling my tiny nipples put him in a great deal of distress "down there," a detail I secretly found highly amusing. I don't know when it happened, but eventually he convinced me to give him a hand job. At first, I did it from the outside of his pants, but he complained that it made a terrible mess. Writing this now makes me smile. Eventually he convinced me to touch him directly. We developed a routine. He would provide lotion and then whip his floppy “stooge-stick” out. It was quite uncivilized. I would squirt some of his lotion on my tiny hands and pump his hard organ until he exploded. The first time was quite a revelation. After a minute of my careful ministrations, his eyes rolled back in his head. He groaned and then proceeded to blow the contents of his balls all over his own shirt. I couldn't help but laugh hysterically as he lost all control, and casually pumped him to a messy conclusion.
In a short amount of time I became quite the expert. I remember feeling a sense of power over what I could do to him. He would become a panting, groaning mess as I stroked him. I developed a keen understanding of his biorhythms. I knew when he was getting close to orgasm and I would drag things out by pumping him lightly, or stroking the back of his over-sensitive little head. He begged me to "do it right," to which I told him to "let me do it my way or forget it." I remember how quickly he complied with my demand.
Then, one day, I made him beg me to come. I got him right to the edge and then I teased his stinky penis and whispered, "Beg me, Roger. C'mon, beg me to let you cum." Looking back, it was totally natural, the way I gravitated to that teasing style. I remember Roger begged me and I immediately acquiesced and pleasured him the way I knew he wanted me to. The resulting orgasm was even more intense than his previous ones. His whole body heaved and convulsed due to nothing more than the encouragement of my little right hand.
I marveled at how easy it had been. Unfortunately, things changed between us that day. During our next date, Roger was sullen and confrontational with me. I felt uncomfortable the entire date. At some point we went back to his place. His parents were out. Roger had a nice house. It's not quite the mansion I grew up in, but it was suitable enough. We sat on the couch and began to kiss as we often did. I could see Roger's unruly groin-area begin to protrude up against his pants. Suddenly, he reached beneath my skirt and began trying to grope my crotch. I shoved him away. "Roger, what the fuck? You know that's off limits for you," I said.
"But Amanda, please, you have such a hot little body. Just let me touch you down there. C'mon."
I got up to leave. Suddenly, he grabbed my arm and pulled me down on the couch, muttering "c'mon you little prude." I think it was pure instinct, but I flailed with my free arm, making a fist and swinging my arm around. It smashed down onto his lap and I felt it make contact with his stiff organ through his pants. I think the way I punched him almost caused his pole to snap like a twig. He immediately doubled over in agony.
"Oh my gawd," I said, suppressing a smile. "I'd say I'm sorry, but you deserve it."
He groaned in pain. I decided it was time to leave. I walked to the door.
"Wait, Amanda," he yelled. "I'm so sorry. It will never happen again. Please, come here."
I stopped at the door and considered my options. I was furious. But I decided to play along. Looking back, I think I knew I had the upper hand.
"Look," he said. "You're right, I deserved it. I'll never try and touch you again. Now please Amanda, I'm begging you, I need relief."
Can you believe it? The jerk was asking for a hand job after all that? I've always found it amazing what men will do in order get a girl to give their penis some attention. That ugly, dangling piece of flesh is the root of all male stupidity. On this night, it would cause Roger a considerable amount of pain and suffering.
Once again, I decided to play along. "Okay Roger. Let me just go to the bathroom and get the hand cream."
I went to the bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet. There were various creams, all of which would do the trick. Then I noticed the tube of sports cream, the type of stuff that heats and loosens muscle. In my mind, I formed a devious plan.
When I returned, Roger stood waiting with his pants down around his knees. His silly appendage popped out and flopped around as he sat down. Did he realize how foolish he looked? He waited eagerly for me to begin.
By then I had learned exactly how to push his buttons. As I have come to know since then, the learning curve for a young woman is sinfully easy. And once you learn it, it applies to almost all men. It didn't matter that Roger was older than me, and a college boy. I knew I had the upper hand - no pun intended. I squirted a healthy amount of lotion on my right hand and prepared to rub it in, acting as if everything was normal and I was willing to let Roger's recent transgressions go unpunished.
I gripped his balls with my left hand. I breathed through my nose, not my mouth, so I wouldn't be forced to smell Roger's disgusting pig-like odor. With my right hand, I embraced his cock, and stroked it rapidly up and down, rubbing a copious amount of cream into his boner.
Roger reacted as though he'd been poked with a cattle prod. In reality, the cattle prod may have been preferable for him. I was watching his face for a reaction and he did not disappoint. His eyes grew momentarily huge and then he recoiled back and then doubled over. He reached for my hand but it was too late. I had pulled away. Then he bounced off the back of the couch and sprawled onto the floor.
I moved immediately toward the door, but I couldn't resist a couple of parting shots. "Finish it yourself, jackass," I said. "And consider yourself officially dumped."
To my comments, Roger had no response. I believe he was busy racing into the bathroom and trying to find a way to cool off his burning penis. Understandable.
I guess I should have felt bad, or guilty for what I did. But I couldn't summon up those emotions. The only feelings I came away with were a sense of power and purpose. When I thought about what I'd done that night as I lay in bed, snugly dressed in my little jammies, I said, "That was for all the women out there who have been abused or hurt by male lust." I slept with a smile on my face that night.
Chapter Two – My Aerobics Instructor and her Hubby
Senior year in high school was a wonderful time of awakening for me, thanks primarily to my 29 year old Aerobics instructor Roxanne Marlow.
After the Roger incident, I decided to keep a low profile with boys at least until college. I did well on my SATs and got early admission to a prominent Ivy League school. I wasn't necessarily sure it was the best school out there, but I knew it had the name recognition. This meant I'd never have a hard time getting a job and being in a position of authority, both of which were important to me. Nowadays I don't give a fuck about the former, but live the latter on a daily basis.
Now that I was accepted to a good college, I had a chance to focus more on my hobbies. I spent a lot of time on my photography. In fact, I began selling some art on line and had a nice little side business at the tender age of 18. Daddy helped with his contacts. I also spent two hours a day at the gym. I loved staying in shape and making sure my body was strong on the inside and outside. I took an advanced aerobics class that met three times a week. The instructor’s name was Roxanne, and she was an amazing woman. The class was brutal. Only women were in this class - all of them older than me - but nobody older than 35 or so. Most everyone was in exquisite shape. I think I was the youngest. Roxanne had short, dark hair, a super-tight body, and a great sense of humor. She liked to crack jokes when we were doing the hardest exercises. The jokes usually revolved around men. She would say stuff like, "You get through this exercise, men will drool over your bottom!" Or, "Girls - with a body like that you can turn a man into a slobbering dog." Her comments made me think back to my experiences with Roger.
One day, after a particularly difficult class, I was in an adjoining cafe, drinking a smoothie, when Roxanne walked in and noticed me sitting there. She asked if she could join and I said, "of course."
We ended up getting into a conversation about our lives and our interests. I told her I was a senior in high school. She said she had noticed me and was impressed with my dedication and ability. "Most women your age would be completely overwhelmed by my class," she said. I beamed with pride.
Inevitably the conversation turned to men. She asked me, quite forwardly in retrospect, about my experience with boys. At first I was hesitant to share, but for some reason Roxanne was the type of woman I felt comfortable with. I ended up telling her about Roger. She seemed to perk up when I told her about him. Eventually I gave her the entire story, of how he tried to move on me - how I taught him a lesson with sports cream - and then promptly dumped him.
She thought the whole thing was just a hoot. "You are a natural born femdom," she said, smiling brightly.
I gave her a quizzical look. She explained that a "femdom" was short for dominant female. She explained how most men were born to serve women and though I didn't fully realize it, I could use my natural feminine powers to have a life of complete luxury and total power in my relationships with all men.
"Tell me more," I said, sipping on my smoothie, and not flinching.
"You have no idea yet, Amanda," she said, smiling confidently. "How would you like to visit my house? My husband, Eddie, is very well trained. I'm the boss of the relationship. He lives a life of total servitude and does exactly whatever I tell him to do or he is severely punished."
I couldn't believe this! At some point, I had heard there were relationships like this but I thought they all revolved around weird dungeons with leather and handcuffs.
Roxanne set me straight. "Femdom is about women dominating men, nothing more. It's best practiced in the home without any of that bullshit. A nice skirt, or a tight pair of feminine pants is just as effective as a leather dominatrix outfit, if not more. If you're around this Saturday, you should come over for a demonstration."
We agreed to meet at her place Saturday afternoon. I could hardly wait. Roxanne told me to dress in "confident feminine attire." I wore a nice colorful blouse, a sexy miniskirt – just above the knee - along with some comfortable knee-high boots. I always loved wearing boots for the feeling of power they gave me. Even when I was 13, I knew how men loved them. I liked to wear them at family functions and was not ignorant to the stares they would get from Daddy's doctor friends.
Roxanne lived in a nice neighborhood, probably not as exclusive as my own, but nice nonetheless. I rang the doorbell and I'll never forget what greeted me. The door opened and there on his knees was Amanda's husband, Eddie. He wasn't a bad-looking guy at all. He appeared to be in his mid 30s, was fairly lean and still had all his jet-black hair. He was a decent size, maybe six feet tall, just under 200 pounds. He looked like a man, but it was clear from one look that Roxanne had reduced him to her sissy slave.
At the time, I was unaware of that term, but that's the best way to describe Eddie. He wore nothing other than frilly pink panties. He had a special leash that connected his neck and his groin. It prevented him from sitting up straight. Roxanne held an extension of his leash.. She stood behind him proudly with one hand on his head. Eddie held his hands out in submissive posture to me. He said, "Welcome to Miss Roxanne's home, Miss Amanda. I'm slave Eddie and I'll do whatever you, a supreme female, order me to do."
The only thing I could do was burst out laughing and say, "oh my gawd."
"Pretty amazing, huh?" said Roxanne. Then turning to Eddie, she said, "get down on the floor and make Miss Amanda feel more welcome."
"Yes ma'am," he said, and then to my further astonishment, he crawled to my boots and kissed each one. Then he said "Please forgive me, Miss Amanda," for not making you feel more welcome."
"Oh that's ok, I suppose," I said, not completely sure how to react.
"Just ignore him, and come in, dear," said Roxanne. She wore a tight white outfit, and black boots. Her body was incredible. She was taller than me by half a foot. The boots made her even taller. The outfit was something you might see in an equestrian magazine. She looked exquisite.
"Eddie, go get us some beverages," she ordered.
"Yes ma'am," he replied and immediately crawled off to the kitchen while we sat down in front of her coffee table.
While Eddie served us, Roxanne proceeded to tell me how the relationship worked. Even though Eddie was in the room, we talked as though he wasn't there and he did not make a peep. Roxanne told us these were the rules. In her world, men were never to speak unless they were spoken to first by a woman. Eddie was her husband and full-time 24/7 panty slave. He did whatever she told him to do immediately, without any question or backtalk. Eddie worked full-time as a lawyer, 60 hours a week, while Roxanne lived a life of luxury and leisure. She worked less than 10 hours per week as an aerobics instructor. The rest of the time she found creative uses for Eddie's money. Even though he was the bread-earner in the family, his salary was immediately deposited directly into her bank account. He received a very small weekly allowance only after good behavior.
"That's amazing," I said, clapping my hands while Eddie kneeled silently next to his female owner, waiting for instructions. "But doesn't he get resentful about not having any money?"
"He doesn't have a choice, sweetie," Roxanne replied. "You see, I control his penis and his orgasms. So I control him. What he thinks about it is irrelevant, but I can assure you he's comfortable with the arrangement. Eddie, show Miss Amanda your imprisoned little penis."
"Yes ma'am," he said. His face turned red. While I watched astonished, he crawled in front of me and pulled down the front of his panties. His penis appeared to be encased in some kind of hard plastic. It was obvious from one look that the plastic case prevented him from getting hard.
"Oh, wow!" I said, clapping my hands again. "Roxanne, you are an absolute goddess. This is incredible," I said enthusiastically.
"You have no idea how easy it is. When I met Eddie, he was a typical macho guy with a big ego. But I was able to outsmart him and eventually bend him to my will. Isn't that right, Eddie?" she asked.
"Yes ma'am," he said, eyes downcast.
"Yes ma'am WHAT," Roxanne said intently.
"Yes ma'am, you outsmarted me and bent me to your will," he said, resigned.
Incredible, Roxanne!" I said again.
"No actually, it was easy," Roxanne said proudly. "He was five years older than me, and I was just a naive 22 year old girl out of state college. But I knew about the power of the pussy and it's ability to enslave men. Right, Eddie?"
"Yes ma'am," he said, eyes downcast again.
I thought I could detect a bit of frustration on Eddie's part and Roxanne must have picked up on it. "Eddie, I sense you are being a bit fresh with me. Is that the case?"
Eddie suddenly became animated, "No, ma'am. Please no. You are my mistress - superior in every way to me."
"That’s right. Don’t forget it," she said proudly. Then turning to me, "you probably picked up on that too. Occasionally, even with the type of hard training Eddie experienced, their male ego tries to rise up in subtle ways. Don't worry, we'll take care of that later."
Eddie cringed. "Yes ma'am."
Roxanne smiled triumphantly. "He knows. Now crawl to your corner," she pointed to the corner of the room. "The ladies need to finish their conversation."
Eddie crawled away and kneeled obediently in the corner. I continued to smile in complete joyous amazement.
"So as I was saying," Roxanne continued with me, "Amanda, you have all the power you will ever need nestled right in between your thighs. Forgive me for being crude, but I've seen it in the gym. I've seen it in the way you carry yourself. You know you have it. You just haven't been taught the ways of the world yet. Fortunately you have me," she smiled.
With that, we clinked glasses proudly, as young and old(er) dominant women, secure in knowing we had formed a wonderful new friendship.
*****
The rest of that afternoon was a revelation. Roxanne told me about how she enslaved Eddie. The key, so to speak, was gaining control of his penis and orgasms. She told me about male chastity and how she managed to convince Eddie that he was best off in a chastity belt. It made him a much more productive member of society. Roxanne reached into her purse and showed me the key she held which unlocked Eddie's penis. "It's as though I've turned his cock and balls into little trinkets that fit conveniently in my little purse," she said.
I could not stop laughing at the imagery. "That is absolutely glorious," I said. I had heard of women in chastity belts in the middle ages, but never men. I was enthralled by the implications.
"It's easy," she said. "Most men with smaller penises are naturally submissive. I'm talking about any man with a unit smaller than seven inches, like Eddie's teensy little wiener," she raised her voice so he could hear her humiliating words. I giggled again.
"You see, you're a petite young lady," Roxanne said, "but I suspect even a cute little thing like you needs a solid seven to feel like you've been with a real man."
I confessed to her that I was a virgin and proud of it. But I planned on doing it with the right man when I was ready.
"Make sure he's at least a solid seven," she said. "If he's not, he's probably a little sissy at heart and you're best off enslaving him and taking control of his finances."
Later in the afternoon, Roxanne ordered Eddie to take out a hula-hoop. Then, while I watched, she had Eddie jump through the hoop over and over again for our entertainment. The whole time, she sat comfortably in a high-backed chair holding out the hoop and barking out instructions. She badgered him constantly and made him repeat the exercise again and again. Once when he failed, she ordered him to get her whip. Then she pulled on his leash in such a way that forced him to lean forward and exposed his balls from beneath his ass. She then lashed him five times with the whip, causing him to groan. But he still counted them out, as I watched with fascination. She ordered him to jump back and forth through the hoop again. After being disciplined, he showed renewed vigor. I could see him begin to breathe harder and sweat. This was a workout!
A few minutes later, he again failed to get through the hoop, tripping and falling to his knees. This time she offered me the opportunity to punish his balls. She made him lean forward and then pulled up on his leash so his balls again splayed back crudely between his open legs. They made an inviting target. For some reason, I didn’t hesitate for a moment. It felt perfectly natural to me. I loved watching him suffer as I tapped his trapped balls steadily with the end of the whip.
“That’s it,” Roxanne said. “Give him steady discipline, just enough to make him suffer for us.” Eddie groaned each time I tapped him. Every so often I would hit him with a harder shot and he would cry out. “Wonderful job,” added Roxanne. “It amazes me how this comes so natural to your generation of fit, attractive women.”
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