A Mistake

A man and a woman did connect in spirit and then in flesh.  The 
relationship that potentially could have developed along a healthy 
and exceptionally promising path instead took a very dark series of 
turns.  The mistakes and the cost of bad judgement were enormous, 
irrevocable, and unwanted.

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Fascination, fetish, obsession, perversion, perhaps demonic 
possession … these and other possible conclusions whirl about my 
mind each day, consuming me with that most natural human desire to 
understand what leads people to do the things they do.   In that 
gray area between sleep and awake when the soul or conscience is at 
its most vulnerable; in the dream-like state where defenses and 
explanations, when rationales and excuses hold no power over the 
spirit: these are the times when I feel the most absurd, guilty, 
and above all, something less than a man.  

The Internet opened to me a world where my seemingly bizarre and 
unique drives are indeed nothing of the sort.  Who knows how many 
men close their eyes and dream of giving absolute power to a worthy 
female, fantasizing of making one the ultimate sacrifices in an 
abject surrender to dark passion.

Last summer, I began corresponding electronically with a female 
whose inner beauty and spiritual power are almost divine in 
nature.  Ten years younger is she, yet this factor lulled me into a 
false sense of security.  Of course, I realized this young woman 
could not possibly have attained my level of self-possession.  
Whatever would transpire between us, I knew that ultimately, I 
would be in control.  Telephone calls lead to a meeting.  Oh, I was 
astounded at the sight of her.  Her physical beauty was more divine 
than any woman I can recall seeing other than certain celebrities.  
I too am fit and attractive, blessed with good genetics and 
appealing features.  Finding sexual partners ceased becoming a 
challenge half my life ago.  Having sought but never finding 
someone with whom I could connect on any deeply personal level, I 
reached out through the Internet, and chanced upon a soul devoid of 
guile.  She is an uncommonly straightforward, honest woman, I must 
give her that.  As it turned out, she is also among the most 
beautiful, and, like me, among the most sadistic.  We spoke of BDSM 
and domination, both ways.  Therefore, it did not seem unusual to 
find myself smiling down at her as she writhed uneasily beneath me, 
she tied spread-eagle to the legs of my upturned coffee table on 
our second date.  Between us, a trust had developed over the 
Internet … and we wasted no time in indulging our most base and 
most restrained urges.

When it became her turn to dominate, she knew exactly how to handle 
me to create maximum excitement.  Our fantasies became more 
elaborate, and, as the relationship grew, so did our boundaries.  
One by one, she and I were experimenting with every deviant sexual 
indulgence that can occur between a male and a female.  To this 
day, I do not know if what I felt was love.  I certainly cannot 
define or easily categorize my feelings for her this night.  Our 
months together were like a dream come true.  I was completely and 
uncharacteristically captivated by this alluring young beauty, as 
though under some kind of spell.  Even as memories of her fade away 
little by little each day, that, I think, best describes my state 
of mind while together.

She knew of my castration fantasy, and would restrain my genitals 
and handle me roughly, coupled with verbal threats, whenever she 
grew weary of our intercourse and sought to put an end to the 
session by bringing me quickly and predictably to climax.  I spent 
my working hours trying to empathize with her, to identify and 
understand how she might have truly felt about me.  I had detected 
a subtle change in our relationship, and could not come to know why 
this barely perceptible shift was taking place.

Kissing me passionately one warm night, she paused for a sip of 
wine, and asked if I would be willing to follow through with the 
castration fantasy.  I looked at her, incredulous.  She offered a 
sly, beautiful grin that I am unable to forget.  “All good things 
must come to an end, you know that, lover,” she cooed, her dark 
eyes mystical in the candlelight.  “I want to know that I am the 
last.  Will you do this for me?  Will you think about this thing 
and give me an answer the next time I ask?”  I nodded, as if in a 
trance, as she pressed her spicy-sweet lips against my mouth, 
inhaling me. 

For two weeks we played like sixteen year-olds, and indeed she was 
artless and innocent as the flowers we paused to enjoy in the 
fields.  I miss her sometimes, like now, as I calmly pen these 
remembrances.  And, although I forgive her completely, just as 
ardently I can never forgive myself for what changes would soon 
take place.

The moon rose full, the night was warm and dry, the insects 
providing the sounds as we laid ourselves together in the most 
electrifying embrace of our relationship.  I was naked, she wore a 
floral print summer dress and black strappy sandals, and some 
incredible perfume that was more sweet than musky.  As she 
straddled my waist and leaned down, she whispered, “I don’t want 
this to end, lover, and it doesn’t have to.”  I blinked, and she 
smiled.  “In a little while it will be nine o’clock.  If you decide 
it has to end, I won’t blame you for leaving.”  All I thought to do 
was to lie still, attempting to absorb clues from her expression in 
the murky light.  I remained silent.  “If by nine you choose to 
give me that gift we spoke of, then I shall bind your hands and you 
will curl up and sleep next to me tonight.  In the morning at 
eight, I will awake you and prep you, and,” she paused, taking a 
deep, sexy breath, “harvest my delicious prize.  If you agree, then 
nothing you can say or do after nine o’clock will stop this.  Do 
you understand, baby?”   I nodded, because I did understand.

I didn’t know what to think, my eyes darting to the glowing analog 
clock on her armoire.  Drunk from her musk as she straddled me, 
pleasuring me orally while riding my nose and face, the tender 
soles of her warm, moist feet cradling my whiskered cheeks as she 
brought me to a new level of excitement and frenzy.  She bound my 
hands behind my back sometime after nine, as I lay in the afterglow 
to which I had grown so completely addicted.  I did not protest.  
Instead, my face cradled against her, my nose under her arm, 
completely enraptured, I lightly dozed.

Consciousness came to me in the form of oral stimulation.  She 
smiled around my thickening member, looking so incredibly perfect, 
skin like buttered velvet, sun streaming across her long dark 
hair.  Suddenly she stopped.  Reaching, taking my arm, she pulled 
me to my feet and began leading me to the bathroom.  I stopped.  
Oh, oh … how the reality hit me all at once.  She was serious, and 
on schedule: the analog clock read 8:06 A.M.  I recall 
grunting, “No, umm, no.  This is a mistake.”

She purred, then bit my shoulder.  “Come on,” she said 
soothingly.  “We’re just going to prep you for now.  We still have 
time.”  At this moment, I could have run.  Albeit naked and bound 
and extremely humiliated, at least I had an opportunity to flee 
this scene, and I thought about it, seriously considering it.  But 
again, that trance, that power of hers … I cannot describe it, no 
one but I could understand it.  I resisted, but gently she pulled 
me toward her immaculate bathroom.  Bathed in incandescent light, 
immediately I spotted shave cream and a bag of pink disposable 
razors.  Hanging from the shower bar was the familiar enema bag 
from our collection of toys.  I resisted, but this time she grabbed 
my testicles firmly, yanking me into motion.

I recall whining and protesting to some degree, but the 
manipulation of my genitals during shaving kept me from kicking her 
and from further thoughts of running.  I guess she sensed my 
growing apprehension, and tied my ankles apart and elevated, 
affixed to the shower curtain.  She grinned while inserting the 
nozzle, and, like some concerned nurse, rubbed my clean-shaven 
belly as the warm, soapy water flooded my guts.  Swabbing my face 
with a warm, wet washcloth, she then stuffed it in my mouth as I 
screamed from the cramps, glancing behind her as if someone could 
hear.  At this point I felt only incredible cramps, not like with 
the mild enema games we had played, and the fixed determination to 
scream as loud as I could give the next opportunity.

Two quarts, and I was in agony.  She held the washcloth in my mouth 
with her foot as she re-filled that pink latex bag and opened the 
clamp, sending me into spasms.  Soothing my genitals with her lips 
and tongue offered some distraction, but truly I had never 
experienced pain to this degree.  Suddenly it was over.  She untied 
my ankles and stood before me as I expelled four quarts.  She held 
my face to her stomach, and I moaned in embarrassed relief into the 
gag, and against her panties.  She tied the washcloth with a pair 
of white nylons, and I was soundless.  She tied my feet a few 
inches apart with another pair of nylons.  Soaping me and hosing me 
clean in the shower, the warm water creating a most incredible 
sensation against my naked genitals, I fell to my knees in her 
shower stall and broke down in tears.  She held me with such 
emotional warmth.  I won’t ever forget.

Wracked with uncontrollable sobbing, I stood upon weak legs as she 
toweled me dry and then lead me to the living room illuminated with 
sun streaming in through closed vertical blinds.  I began to 
struggle, even to attempt escape;  but the bonds caused me to trip 
and slam my head into the carpeted floor, and the vice-like grip 
she then placed around the neck of my scrotum caused me almost to 
faint as I sobbed into the gag, she pulling me to my feet.  The 
coffee table legs stuck straight up like some dead wooden horse, 
and she pushed me down, untied my ankles and, as I had done to her 
on our second date, one at a time she firmly affixed them to the 
legs with duct tape.  With her knee buried in my crotch in warning, 
she untied my hands and re-tied them to the other two legs.  A few 
loops of tape around my midsection held me fast to the rough 
wooden  “operating table.”  Aware now of why I was cleaned inside 
and out, I became cognizant of this look of possessed determination 
upon her beautiful face.  Suddenly and all at once, reality came 
flooding into my spirit like nothing else ever before it in my 
life.  I was about to be castrated.

Vaguely I recall her walking away wearing only panties, but I see 
her standing there, hands on her hips, in a plain brown apron.  I 
guessed that she didn’t want to get my blood on her skin, and this 
caused me to scream loudly, twisting against my restraints.  She 
would not smile again that morning.  It was as though a change had 
come upon her and that I was seeing a different person.  No words 
were spoken as she arranged her items on the end table.  A clear 
glass jar filled with some kind of liquid, a smaller brown jar, 
some gauze, two white plastic ties, two white towels and a long 
sterling silver carving knife – I watched as she arranged these 
around me.  As she positioned the white tie around the top of my 
scrotum, I followed as her gaze met mine, and then she yanked with 
considerable strength as the white tie cinched tightly, actually 
biting into the meat of my most private, sensitive organ.  I 
twisted, and she calmed me with soothing strokes to my penis and 
then my face.  The second tie she wrapped around the lower part of 
my scrotum, forcing the contents into the thinly-stretched bottom 
of the sack as she pulled the tie closed and locked.  The pain 
wasn’t that bad at first, but it did steadily worsen.  I recall a 
certain resolve came over me, to stop crying.  I would assign all 
of my remaining testosterone to at least acting like a man.  
However, reality scared me and thus the sobs came regularly, and my 
beautiful lover comforted me, stroking my forehead.

Straddling me, I could not help but become aroused, once again 
drunk and high from her juices and musk.  I felt cold liquid 
against my scrotum, causing it to contract involuntarily: I 
screamed into her warmth as the muscles in my body fought with the 
white ties, causing extreme discomfort.  I smelled her, commingled 
now with the aroma of a hospital.  As she dismounted, I saw that I 
was painted a yellowish color down there, the jar of Betadine and 
gauze now within my view.  I cannot possible find the words to 
describe my feelings as she grasped that long, shiny, razor-sharp 
knife.  On her lips I thought that I detected a smile, however 
fleeting, but that determined look prevailed.  I shall never rid 
myself of that image.  Her lips closed around the head of penis, 
her tongue swirling … and I just gave in to it.  I felt myself 
going over the edge, occasionally still wracked with sobs, my 
nostrils flaring to take in needed air.  Coaxing me, coaxing me; 
her face so pretty, the sensations of pain and pleasure and 
helplessness blending, the impending point from which no man has 
ever returned …

At the first spurt, still with my penis in her mouth, she grasped 
my purplish sack in her left hand and drew upwards between the two 
white ties, the knife in her right.  It came off easily, and I 
didn’t even scream – just wave after wave of the most poignant 
release and extreme pleasure.  I saw my scrotum in her left hand, 
and I saw her looking at it, and it was then that my head swam and 
the world went black.

I awoke still within the upturned coffee table, but I was no longer 
tied nor gagged.  I noticed my crotch, and screamed, crying.  The 
pain was not overly arresting, not even as bad as that four-quart 
cleansing enema.  But I was changed, and I knew it, scared and 
horrified, depressed and unable to move.  She took care of me for 
days, and I missed a whole week of work.  She made calls for me, 
saw to all the details.  But she would touch my penis never 
again.   She informed my that my scrotum and testicles are in a 
glass jar, but would not tell me where.   And, as I overcame the 
soreness and bruising and healed over the course of six days, I 
walked out of her house and out of her life.  I don’t know what got 
in to me, or then again, maybe I do.