By James X Pendergrass

Copyright 2013 All Rights Reserved

Disclaimer:  To me, and many other people, it’s an exciting fantasy, nothing more.  Some people engage in this sort of lifestyle and I offer no judgment on their character.  However, I believe that no man should subject himself to the fictitious female character(s) in this story.  That said, enjoy!

Part I – When I thought I Finished him off

Hello, my name is Miss Nicola. I'm 23 years old and I abuse men for a living.

If you’re expecting some kind of eccentric character sketch then I hate to disappoint you. I learned early on that in this world it pays to be very good at one thing. I’m pretty much a one-trick pony. And I absolutely love my life.

You’re probably wondering about the name. I was born in France. My father was a textiles salesman who moved us to the United States when I was an infant. When I was 11, he met a younger woman and left me and my mom to fend for ourselves. Eventually my mother was able to track him down and gain the support to which she was entitled, but not before we suffered through some difficult times, both emotionally and financially. I don’t think that this experience turned me into a “man-hater.” However, I do suspect it did help form me in many ways. Mostly it taught me that this is a dog-eat-dog world and that Darwin was pretty much right about everything.

Although I am French in name, and was raised by French parents, there’s actually very little French about me. In fact, I believe it was fate that I came to this country because I am an American girl at heart. In my early days, whenever my parents became frustrated with my stubbornness, which was often, they would complain that I was switched with their real daughter in the hospital maternity ward.

When I was a little girl, I never dreamed my life would be like this. I never had any grand sweeping ambitions, other than that I knew I wanted to be wealthy and do what I wanted when I grew up. I never harbored any silly fantasies of becoming an astronaut, or Miss America. I suppose I wanted to marry a prince-charming type and live a life of leisure because that’s what young girls were conditioned to want. As soon as I discovered what men are really like, I began to realize my true calling. Now I'm happy to say I have the perfect job, which is to say that I do what I want and answer to nobody.

Although I plan on discussing the personal satisfaction I gain from my profession, ultimately it is all about the money because I have better things to do than sit at a desk job all day. So instead of wasting money on a worthless college degree, I took a different direction in my life. When I think of what I may have passed up, I can’t help but laugh. After four years in college, I would have taken a low-level office job reporting to some middle-aged male putz who would spend his time drooling over me when he wasn’t busy trying to be cool. I can visualize how this would play out. He’d be a nice guy for a few months before becoming annoyed when I displayed no interest in him. Eventually he would become bossy and annoying. Things would further degenerate. No, I don’t think so. I answer to nobody but myself.

I was the type of student in school who excelled at test taking, but never applied myself. It drove my parents and teachers crazy. “She has so much potential,” they would say in their exasperated tone. I was a voracious reader who inhaled three or more books per week. I received a near perfect score on my SATs.

You might wonder how I discovered this lifestyle. Well, I was lucky in that I had a wonderful aunt who introduced me to Female Domination when I was 14 and she spent a weekend at our house while my parents were on vacation. She was 32 at the time, recently divorced, and had no filter. I remember her telling me how beautiful I was and asking me a million questions about how I related with boys. She went onto tell me that she had finally discovered her sexual power and that she had her 51 year old boss at work (she was a paralegal) regularly on his knees in the office, serving her, and lavishing money and gifts on her. And all he wanted was to be stripped, exposed, humiliated, etc.

I was totally enthralled. This was in 2005 and you can imagine how much literature was available on line by then. I spent hours doing research and by then my entrepreneurial mind was already in the initial stages of plotting my future. Meeting my Aunt Claire was probably the best thing that ever happened to me. At the time I was on the verge of giving up my virginity to this jerky football playing upperclassman and instead I discovered my power and self-worth.

Let me get this clear right from the start. I have ZERO REMORSE about what I do to men. I can't stress that enough. As far as I'm concerned, I'm giving these losers what they want and in their own perverse way they are using me. The few that are lucky (and let's face it, a little unlucky) enough to meet me in-person are having their pathetic fantasies realized. They are privileged to occupy the same space as I am for as long as I allow them to, and you better believe I'm going to milk them (actually they gladly do it themselves. Do you think I have any interest in touching these perverts?), manipulate them, and take them for everything I can.

The vast majority of my revenue comes from on-line losers who pay me to humiliate them. My recordings are great because I don't have to make any effort and my bank account fills with loser cash, which is automatically converted to winner cash once it’s in my possession ;). I used to do more phone humiliation, but it got annoying. I kept raising the rate. It's now $4.99/minute. But I still get more calls from losers than I care to speak with, so I don't answer most of the time unless I'm really bored. In fact, come to think of it, I think I’ll raise the rate to $9.99/minute.

Guys like this are a dime a dozen. Sometimes I call them slaves, pigs, jackasses, fucktards, etc. There are a million insults that are perfectly suitable. Ultimately though, nothing compares to the word “loser” when you want to deliver the truth in as most painful and clear way possible. I wield this word like a weapon, always making sure to pronounce it very clearly and louder than the rest of my words because I know how much it cuts to the core.

You have to understand, these guys are all ultimately the same to me. Sure, there are minor differences from one loser to another, but for the most part they all want the same thing. It makes me happy when I think there are hundreds of these compulsive masturbators throughout the world who fantasize constantly about me and my tight little body. They sit there helplessly, the image of me imprinted on their feeble brains, focusing their attentions on their swollen penises with zombielike intensity, while I'm off spending their money. You can be sure I'm not thinking about them. My clients are all older than me, never truly physically fit, and the biggest group of ass-clowns you could ever imagine, paying me to destroy them. They are the sum of their stupid, dangling genitalia and it's little more than a numbers game at this point. I do admit to garnishing some amusement when I think of their frequent “dates” with “Rosy Palm,” and the endless cycle of addictive self-gratification. This reality -- the reality of their “lives” -- is something they desperately need to be reminded of and I happily do it since it deepens their addiction to me.

Men are nothing more than vessels designed in such a way that young women like me can easily use as ATMs. I'm convinced it's nature’s design. I’m more evolved than all men and most young ladies. Girls like me rule the world. I know that every time I put on a skirt, or form-fitting pants, or show a hint of cleavage, or run my fingers through my hair that these men become weak. I possess the ultimate power and I am not the least bit hesitant in deploying it for my advantage. Grown men are not innocent creatures. The men that pay me to sexually humiliate them fully deserve to be categorically exposed, humiliated, punished and ultimately destroyed if need be.

Now before you conclude that I’m some psycho bitch, ironically if you met me, you’d find me super sweet and charming. My girlfriends describe me as sassy, sharp-witted, and of course super cute. They aren’t just being nice. I’m a great dancer and can happily discuss almost any pop culture subject. Countless older men tried to convince me to become an actress when I was in my teens. But I wasn’t interested. Why would I want to suck some Jewish producer’s little dick in order to land the starring role?

More about me: I’m little! I’m about 5’4” in heels and I don’t know what I weigh, nor do I care. I only I’m proud of my body. I don’t think it’s conceited to say that I know I’m beautiful. People tell me I’m beautiful every day. It’s a simple fact. I’m more slender than skinny. I was recruited for ballet (“You have the perfect body for it, dear,” my Aunt from New York used to say) countless annoying fucking times.

I used to prefer sports. I played varsity field hockey in high school and led our team in goals both in my junior and senior year. Most of the girls I played against were bigger than me, but I had a single-minded determination and I’m quite competitive. In my best game, a fat butch chick playing defense on the other team called me a “little prissy twat” and I went on to score five goals in the game at the fat girl’s expense. Some people succeed because they are afraid of losing. Not me. I succeed because I love the taste of victory. I’ve been used to it from a young age. I don’t like to merely prevail; I like to destroy my opponent. It’s always been that way with me. I have a bit of a mean streak.

Now my contact sports days (depending upon what you consider a contact sport), are behind me. I run six times per week, usually five miles at about a seven-minute mile pace, nothing spectacular, just enough to keep my body and mind fit. Oh, I have dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, and when I’m amused I issue what could be described as half smirk, half pout, and it makes my little nose crinkle adorably or so I’m told. I love butterflies, the beach, and blackjack in moderation. I think Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone and that vampires don’t exist. I try to read at least one “serious” book per week. It’s something I promised myself I’d do since I decided to skip college. I enjoy reading about philosophy. My favorite book is Machiavelli’s The Prince. Right now I’m reading Naomi Wolff’s Vagina: A New Biography, and it confirms many of my subconscious theories about what it means to be a woman. I’m strictly vegan, with one exception: fois gras. It’s the only French thing about me.

Anyway, the fact of the matter is, I love my life. I find it a great joy that I have the power to dominate male losers, the power to strip them of their money and their dignity.  It’s pure Darwinism and it’s good knowing that I am one of the fittest and not only surviving but thriving. And it gets better every day. Just take yesterday as the perfect example. I can’t imagine how anyone could have had more fun than me. Let me tell you about it.

XXXXX

Yesterday Afternoon

I’m wearing a gray, pinstriped skirt suit, matching tights and white Steve Madden high heels. Normally I never use my expensive pumps during appointments because I don’t want them touching male junk. I told the loser I’m visiting to be ready for me at 3:30, but that I might be as late as 4:30. I like giving myself a window and that’s the way it should be since losers do things on My Time. The way I’m dressed I could be going to work at a downtown firm, if I were so unlucky. But I’m happy to oblige this loser’s request to dress formally because I love dressing this way. What girl doesn’t like to look good?

Stu is a moderately successful (read: not that successful) 40-year-old banker who pays me to come to his mediocre condo and watch him jerk his below average-sized penis, “force” him to eat his cum, and then kick his scrotum all over his apartment. Each time I have visited him, I have added a few little innovations, and also reduced the time I’ve had to spend around his pathetic ass. The visit will last no more than 35 minutes. 35 minutes = $500. It’s decent money and destroying Stu is quite fun. I’ve gotten it down to a science.

Some may wonder how I can treat a human being (it’s debatable) with such contempt. When I first began “training” Stu, he confessed to me that he and his loser friends love to talk trash about hot little “pocket rocket” blondes like me, and that he felt ashamed about the things he said. I made him confess the details of his disrespect and told him that he deserved to feel ashamed and that I’d make quite sure he paid for his transgressions. To make sure he understood, I took his chin in my hand: “But don’t think your punishment, however severe, absolves you for what you are, loser.” I always make sure to properly enunciate my favorite insult word and elevate my voice a few decibels so it really hits home. When I say it in my girlish voice, it sounds like lewwwwwser. Ha!

Something about Stu's confession rubbed me the wrong way. There are certain losers that are easier to hate and Stu most definitely falls into this category. Having been around Stu a few times now, my instinct tells me he has sub-conscious misogynistic tendencies. I know he views me as an object that helps him live out his bizarre role-reversal fantasies and I have become increasingly determined to make sure that he suffers and develops a deep realization of his complete inferiority to me.

At 4:07 PM (I check my iPhone before I go inside – always need to make sure I don’t waste any more time than necessary with these losers) I enter his unlocked condo, per my instructions Stu is lying on his back in his living room, naked as the day he was born, wiggling his ass and grunting like a pig. With one hand he finger-fucks his ass and I’m sure you can guess what he’s doing with the other one (hint: jerkjerkjerk!). I mean, can you believe this freaky fucking loser?

While it is true I’m giving Stu what he wants, or at least what he thinks he wants. He always has regrets when the rubber meets the road. Me? I always get what I want and I have zero regrets.

I have trained him to be prepared to squirt his mess soon after I walk in. I’ve explained to him that I don’t like standing around watching him act like a pig when my time could be better spent kicking the shit out of him, so after expressing my (genuine) disgust for what I see, I take some tissue out of my purse and throw it at him.  “Get it over with, loser.”

To make sure he understands the time constraints I’m imposing, I take a seat on his couch and thumb open up the timer app on my iPhone. “You have three minutes.”

That is more than enough time for Stu, especially when a female that he is totally obsessed with is watching him debase himself. Within 30-seconds, he is making those disgusting frog grunts that these all losers like to make and he’s squirting his goo into the tissue that I provided. I’m always amazed at how much jizz these dummies can produce. Stu seems

“Disgusting,” I say, as he loses all control. “EWW! Gross! What a fucking perverted PIG you are!” Even though I know Stu loves to be insulted this way, my words are not contrived or forced. I mean what I say.

Time to make him slurp it all up. He’d prefer me to force feed it to him but I already told him I don’t get that close to male filth and so this is how it works with us. I make the rules.

Although losers like Stu love to be forced to eat their own slime, it’s something I still enjoy presiding over. After ejaculating, males tend to temporarily lose their interest in their own perverted fantasies and so it does give me some feeling of accomplishment to make sure they gobble up every last chunk. I stand over Stu and make him look me in the eyes while he eats. My authority over him is further cemented during moments like this. It’s one of many humiliations I will visit upon him and probably the least painful one for him. However, I make sure that the experience is as unappetizing as possible for him with my highly detailed set of eating instructions, which include making him chew on his goo while smacking his lips. His willingness to do so only repulses me further and it helps increase my resolve for what is to come next.

Now that the preliminaries are over with, I stand and carefully smooth over my skirt and clear my throat. I fold my arms over my breasts. I’ve discovered this is an instinctual self-protection maneuver a Woman makes when she is close to something that repulses or scares her. You know which one applies to me. I can feel my jaw harden and my eyes narrow on my prey. It takes all my willpower not to lick my lips.

“I’m going to fucking destroy you.”

With that, I begin kicking the shit out of him. I kick him in the ribs and the ass, but of course most of my energy is forced on his genitalia. I do this for five or ten minutes, taking my sweet time, circling him. I don’t like to move any faster than I have to. I do enjoy physically dominating something larger and stronger than me. He’s hairy and overweight. He must weight close to 200 pounds, but God only let Stu grow to be 5”7” and bestowed upon him a small penis. Such is his “life.”

You have to understand how much I love the art of ball kicking. There’s a certain interplay between Female and loser that I find quite fascinating. It’s like a choreographed Female-led dance that leads to a deeply satisfying conclusion. I have seen videos of me engaging avidly in my favorite job/hobby and I’m always thrilled with how beautiful my body looks as I plant my foot and deliver punishment. I love trying to nail both balls with one kick. It’s a great test of foot/eye coordination and it always gets my endorphins flowing. I recently set my iPhone with a recording of this loser groaning right after I kicked him in the scrotum. When he calls, his ring-tone is the sound he made when I polished him off during a session a few months ago. It's a hilarious and gratifying sound. My girlfriends are always making me play it for them when we’re out having drinks.

Now that Stu has been properly tenderized, I order him to get on all fours so that I can kick him from behind. This is by far my favorite scrotum-breaking angle. From here, he’s just a piece of livestock that happens to be the best muse a girl could ever have. I greatly enjoy the visual my foot as it accelerates into the gap between his ass cheeks. Me and my gal pals call this the “Ass Up!” ballbusting. It's the perfect angle for a girl to kick a loser's gonads right into his pelvis. Recently a gal pal took a video of me destroying a scrotum in this fashion and it really is quite a wonderful visual spectacle. I absolutely love the way these losers willingly spread their legs and stick their fat asses up in the air. Think of the power involved in this dynamic, the willing compliance.

Now every kick has him sprawling and reaching his ball bag, which I can assure you, swells rapidly during the ass-up phase. I’m always amused at how these losers always reach for their bags after each kick. It’s this weird self-consolation ritual. Think of how owned these losers are. In a moment’s time I’ll be ordering Stu to remove his hands from his genitals and of course the complete fucking jackass will willingly expose himself for more hard core feminine discipline. The whole thing makes me roll my eyes with contempt, while at the same time marveling at the awesome power of the Pussy.

“Holding them won’t make them feel better, you stupid fucking loser. Now take your hands away. I’m ready to kick you again. Ass up!”

In all, I probably make him get up 10 or 15 times. This particular loser is good at taking abuse. He has what I like to call, "battered scrotum syndrome." Since I've known him, I've kicked his nuts several hundred times. His pain receptors are dull, but fortunately a well-placed kick with appropriate force is still enough to send him sprawling in agony. At one point I kick him at only half speed. He pitches forward and begins to squeeze his thighs as the groin/stomach pain hits him, but he's too late; I step forward and bury my foot perfectly between his pathetic ass cheeks and let out a sigh of pleasure as the bridge of my foot acts like a battering ram and annihilates Stu's sack. Now Stu clenches his thighs and falls onto his side in agony, his nuts, his bag, and his penis contorting in angles they were not built to contort in. It takes him almost a minute to recover from this one. The kick makes me hungry for more, so I just stand there, tapping my high heel on his hardwood floor. I know for a fact the sound is intoxicating to losers like this guy. Can you just imagine the difference in self-esteem between me and this loser? “I don’t have all day,” I say as he struggles with the pain. “Get your ass up!”

But he’s not listening anymore, so I kneel beside him and take his chin in my hand and slap him hard in the face. I don’t like to do this because my hands are delicate, but it’s the best way to get a loser’s full attention. “Back into position, loser!”

And up he comes. By now, what's left of his package is swollen and discolored. It's a striking difference in color from his pasty white thighs and comical hairy fat ass. The immediate area around his junk is redder in color, but his scrotum has become an alien-like appendage that this loser probably wishes wasn't so attached to his body and his very psyche. What a liability, LOL. Stu swells beautifully and I can tell he’s probably just about had it, but he is powerless to resist my orders and he wearily gets back on all fours and submits himself to his Female superior. My power over him is absolute.

This is what it’s all about. I’m smiling as I size up his bloated junk. I have always found this moment to be the ultimate embodiment of Female Superiority. I stand tall, legs together, taking the time to savor the moment. Stu’s feet are trembling, as he anticipates the additional dose of severe pain I’m about to administer. His thighs are obediently spread and there’s no reason I couldn’t cook him in his current position, but I take great pleasure in seeing my commands followed to a tee. The devil is in the details, they say.

“Stick your NAKED ASS UP in the air as high as you can. Arch your back! Make it as easy as possible for me. Now BEG me to kick your pathetic junk! Do it now.”

“Please, Miss Nicola, please kick my pathetic junk.”

“You need to be more convincing than that. Also, I don’t want you sprawling after one kick. You need to hold your position so that I can kick you twice. Do you understand?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

“Now beg, loser! BEG like your entire worthless existence is dependent on me kicking your balls in.”

“Please, Miss Nicola, please kick my pathetic jun-OOOF!”

I plant my foot and drive my foot halfway up Stu’s ass. His scrotum is soft and cushiony now. The sound is wonderful. Stu groans in agony and clenches his thighs. He pitches forward, but then his training kicks in and just before I deliver a second, harder kick, his legs part slightly and his hideous bulb drops straight down at the precise moment my foot invades. This second sound is like a small explosion, as the bridge of my foot meets the center of Stu’s shame and sends it to oblivion.

Double-splat! I watch, with great satisfaction, as Stu lets out an extra loud loser grunt and his entire body goes rigid before he flops down onto his side and then his back.

Before he can react I step down on his nuts like I’m trying to kill a june bug that has caught me off guard. Stu howls and flops like a fish, quickly covering up, but the damage is done.

“Please, Miss Nicola,” he whimpers, half crying. “I can’t take anymore. Please, finish me off.”

Stu has passed the time where he is enjoying feminine discipline, but this is important for me. You can’t allow a guy to top from the bottom, not that that was ever an issue for me. I play for keeps. “Open your legs so I can see your balls.”

He does, reluctantly. I pretend to go in for the kill again and he flinches wildly and cries, “Please!”

LOL. I always get really happy at the end of sessions like these, once I have incurred some serious damage. And sure enough his scrotum looks worse than I have seen it yet, which is to say even better than I hoped. Scrotums only have so much resilience and Stu’s is showing the effect of hundreds of violent appointments with my foot.

“Get up.” It hasn’t even been a half hour since I walked in and it’s time to finish him off. “You know what to do. Assume the position.”

I walk over to the table next to the front door where Stu has left me an envelope with $500 in it and a McDonald’s Supersize Coke.

I permit myself a small sip of a Coke. It’s amazingly heavy and it always disgusts me that people drink these things. It’s 42 fucking ounces! They have since discontinued it, but Stu has a souvenir cup. I found it during an earlier session and ridiculed Stu for having it. Then I came up with an idea of how I could add to his humiliation and make his defeat even more comprehensive and epic.

Stu has positioned himself on a step stool on the edge of his closet. Inside his closet he has set up a large cardboard trash bin with a big liner and tons of garbage. When I came up with this idea I instructed Stu to make sure it was properly filled with leftovers and throwaways from all the shitty fast food he eats. Sure enough when I peak over Stu’s shoulder I’m satisfied to see all the fast food cartons in there along with old casseroles and other foul-smelling garbage. I have trained him well. He stands spread-legged, and he leans forward toward the trash, which he will soon be the biggest part of. He knows to lean forward as far as he possibly can without falling into the trash. His head is down between his ankles. Only his hand braced against the door prevents him from falling in. In this position, his scrotum makes the most tantalizing target. It dangles sweetly between his obediently spread thighs, a sacrificial swollen plum, waiting to get punted. There is no more enjoyable object in the world to kick.

His entire body is now quivering in anticipation of the conclusion to the ball-kicking, as well it should be. This promises to be an extremely unpleasant moment, and subsequent evening for him. You have to understand I’m a professional man destroyer through and through. Stu’s junk has already been permanently altered by me and it will only get worse for him the more times he needs to see me. I’m not a nice girl and I don’t give a shit about the losers dumb enough to pay me to abuse them. The more I hurt them, the happier I am. It’s the god’s honest truth. There’s something truly fabulous about launching male losers into painful, eternal oblivion. And I’m highly confident that physical and psychological impact of what I’m about to do is permanent.

Do you know what makes it even better? From Stu’s position he gets to witness his own destruction. The truth is that he wants to see a beautiful young Woman finish him off. But I also wouldn’t have it any other way. I want my image forever etched in his feeble male brain. I know he will think about me all the time. He will obsess over me so much that he’ll want to give me even more of his money.

“Time to take out the trash,” I say, sounding as bored as I possibly can. This was a line Stu asked me to recite and what the fuck do I care? It’s funny, so I humor him. I give myself several paces and lick my lips. I get up some momentum and put my hips and ass into it....

SPLAT!

I never get tired of that sound, but it is quickly replaced by the grotesque sound of Stu screaming like he just got shot in the knee cap. He’s so fucking loud that I can’t hear my own satisfied groan, but I feel it, in my lungs and my navel. I do thrill at the feel of a well-delivered kill shot, and the way all that flesh feels as it splatters between my shoe and his pelvis. This one is especially punishing, as I feel the bridge of my foot make perfect contact. As instructed, Stu launches himself ass over teakettle and plummets into the garbage.

What happens next is the hilarious conclusion to our one-sided dance of Female Supremacy. Stu somersaults awkwardly forward and becomes part of the trash. It looks like a painful landing, as his head and shoulder plunged steeply downward before his momentum flips him onto his fat ass, but he seemingly couldn’t care less, so focused is he on the pain I’ve delivered to his scrotum. He’s trying to get into a fetal position but he can’t because he’s embedded in garbage and because he’s an uncoordinated dipshit who fails at everything. I inform him of this, as I enjoy his impromptu show. He is groaning loudly with each labored breath, while predictably holding on to what’s left of his scrotum. He’s rocking his body back and forth, but his legs are still spread wide open and because his ass is so deeply embedded in the trash, he can’t really move much at all. For now, I allow the self-grope. I want him to realize just how badly he’s been violated, so I leave him to his own devices, such as they are, while I take the time to pretty myself up.

I take five minutes to do my make-up. I put on some red lipstick and I carefully do my long eyelashes. Stu is making these stupid groaning noises not entirely unlike the noises he makes when he masturbates. It’s really quite annoying.

“Stop grunting, loser! It’s gross. Save it for when I’m not here.” I pause and add, “I think I’m going to charge you $600 the next time you beg me to come here, if you even want me back. Something tells me I still haven’t heard the last of you.”

Sure enough, he clams right up. I smile with pride at my ability to control his world in his own apartment. I linger over my eyelashes, smiling at how beautiful I look, smiling at the entire situation. I’m convinced that I blossom after a great domination session. The silence highlights the feeling of serenity that has come over me and I take the time to savor the moment. I’ll savor it even more in the car after the task at hand is 100% completed. We’re only about 97% of the way there, but what fun is completion without a good, thorough process? I believe what happens next separates me from most other Dominas. I love to rub my losers’ nose in their own defeat.

“Well, my work is just about done.” I gather my purse from the couch. “There’s just one more thing.” I take the huge cup of Coke and walk slowly and deliberately back to the horrors of the closet for the endgame.

The sight that greets brings a rather girlish and instinctual gesture from me, as I put my hand over my mouth to hide my smile. But it doesn’t prevent me from bursting into laughter. “OMFG…look what I did to you.”

It turns out Stu played a part in his own pathetic demise, by landing into a rather large tin of macaroni and cheese. His hair and forehead are covered with it. I didn’t even instruct the loser to do it. There’s other trash, he appears to have sit in a bunch of mashed potatoes and cole slaw. There must be a dozen old fast food cartons and half-eaten leftovers. It doesn’t smell good either. I secretly appreciate the effort this submissive loser has made to entertain me.

“You put that there all by yourself? Such a dedicated fucking loser. Although..." My eyes settle on the loser’s face. "It looks like you’re having second thoughts about all this. Well I’m sorry loser. It’s too late.”

His eyes have this far-off look that conveys a sense of resigned defeat coupled with disbelief at how much pain I’m sure he is in, judging from the way he is writhing back and forth. There’s one thing about his position that I don’t like, so I put the edge of authority back in my voice: “Take your hands off your junk, loser.” There is no fucking way I would allow this loser to hide his shame from me, not when I intend to make his humiliation as comprehensive as humanly possible.

When I see the spectacle that Stu’s genitals have become, once again I’m covering my girlish smile. I can’t help but issue a full, “Oh my god.” His scrotum is bigger than I have ever seen it, bigger than a tennis ball, and more purple than red. His battered testicles are so swollen that they are pressing against his scrotal skin, creating a bulb-like appearance. I’m immediately reminded of something my girlfriend Suzy once told me. She said a client of hers said when his balls get busted badly enough they tend to ache for an extended period of time. “He said his testes swell so badly that they run out of room and begin pressing against one another,” she explained. “Isn’t that hilarious? Given how thorough you are, I figure it’s information you can put to good use.”

Suzy was right. The way Stu is writhing in pain suggests that his nuts are, in fact, working against one another, denying each other the space they need to hang freely. Having been muzzled by my earlier command, Stu continues to writhe silently in pain, squeezing his ass cheeks again and again in a futile attempt to relieve the agony, his ruined bag rising and falling with each squeeze. I’m pretty sure I have inflicted permanent damage. His penis looks especially tiny nestled up against his fucked up ball bag, the perfect metaphor to the vanquished piece of worthless meat it’s attached to. What a demolition!

I put down the Coke and take out my iPhone so I can take a photograph of this. I suppose I could interrogate him right now. I usually like asking these losers how they feel and making them reflect on the fact that they have been so thoroughly debased by a young, petite Woman, but he’ll be doing plenty of reflecting after I’ve moved on. It’s a waste of time and I don’t feel like hearing his boring responses. So I let my camera do the talking, making sure to get a few close-ups of the swollen bulb (Suzy, Natasha, and I will share a good laugh and a high five when I show it to them at the club later) before taking a wider shot angle of the whole mess, including his face. “I want you to listen very carefully to me, loser. If you ever show even the slightest hint of disrespect to me ever again, I won’t hesitate to post these photographs on my website and show the whole world what happens to jerkoff losers that cross my path. Do you understand how real this is?”

“Yes, Miss Nicola,” he grunts.

“Good.”

You know what happens next. I casually pick up the Coke and proceed to pour about half of it on his ruined junk and the other half on his face and head. Then I drop the cup on his forehead. “Have a nice fucking life, loser.”

The best part about this loser’s coke bath is that he hardly reacts to it. His lack of any discernible reaction is another subtle moment of pleasure for me. I can feel myself grin as it occurs to me that his brain is totally focused on the pain in his most prized area. He’s finished.

But I’m not. The thing you have to understand is that when it comes to destroying losers I’m a perfectionist. As I walk proudly to my car in short measured strides so that I keep my balance in my high heels, a thought occurs to me about how I can make this loser’s destruction even more comprehensive! You see, to girls like me and my gal pals, it’s virtually impossible to cross the line when it comes to these compulsive masturbating losers. If you think Stu’s day wasn’t already bad enough, I’m about to put the cherry on top of his annihilation sundae.

Since I first paid cash for my Lexus six months ago I have yet to empty the substantial ashtray in the center console. I suppose I’m not always the neatest girl in the world, which is why I have a cleaning service deal with my condo every week. Anyway, the ashtray is full of cigarette butts smoked by myself and my gal pals. There must be 50 fucking cigarettes in there, along with a shitload of ash. The best part is that most of the butts have lipstick rings on them. Just think of the symbolism!

With pep in my step and a smile on my face, and a gross full ashtray in my hand, I’m returning to Stu’s condo to administer a final degradation. During the last part of this recap, I prefer to refer to Stu as “it” rather than he. No explanation required. I make it a point to walk somewhat stealthily to its door. That’s because I suspect that it will be engaging in its favorite activity now that it thinks I’m gone. Sure enough, as I open the door I can hear the telltale rustling from the closet. I can feel my resolve strengthening. This loser thinks he can just wait until I leave and then do whatever he wants without additional punishment? More proof that you can never be too vindictive or sadistic when it comes to these losers.

I tiptoe over to the closet and there’s today’s biggest loser right where I left it, only it’s tugging on its raw penis. It’s swollen ball-bulb jiggles back and forth against some macaroni and cheese. It’s scrotum is even more swollen than it was a few minutes ago as the grim reality of the blunt trauma is setting in. It looks like a science experiment gone wrong. I can feel the pleasure surge through me as I again recognize that it is the victim of my handiwork. It’s still unaware it’s been caught diddling itself. And then it occurs to me: by jerking off, it may actually be able to relieve some of the pain caused by his gonads competing with each other for room! That’s not going to happen. Not on my watch. Stifling the urge to LOL, I harden my girlish voice: “This is not what I had in mind when I left you here, loser. I’m deeply disappointed.”

When it hears my voice its entire body recoils and it immediately puts its hands compliantly by its side. “I’m sorry, Miss Nicola,” it groans. “I couldn’t help it. Please. I couldn’t help it!”

"Shut the fuck up, loser! I know you couldn't help it!” I pause and allow the brief silence in the air to cement my dominance. I can feel this need taking over me, the need to truly abuse this loser and leave him in the most pathetic state imaginable. For me, humiliating these losers is an art form and I am getting a vision for how I want to leave things with it. “How DARE you insult me like this? I expected you to lie here and think a bit about your position in life and how you could better serve me and give me more of your money. It’s a good thing I came back.”

I clear my throat and enunciate my words clearly and in a way so it thinks I’m a little bit angry. In truth, I’m anything but angry. This is loads of fun. I’m glad I caught it jerking. It justifies what’s about to happen and it only enhances the sense of fulfillment that I will have when I’m finally finished with it.

“I’ve decided to make things a bit more challenging for you for you. You see, loser, I’ve been meaning to clean out my ashtray for months, but until now I hadn’t found a suitable trash receptacle. When I was walking back in here I was telling myself 'Nicole, you're being too cruel,' but after catching you jerking I obviously had the right instinct. That’s disrespectful."

I lean forward and show it the ashtray. “Look, loser. It’s mostly Marlboro Lights and Virginia Slims. Almost every cigarette has a lipstick ring on it. And you’ll be doing me and my girlfriends a big favor by taking care of it. Well, it’s actually not that big of a favor at all. But you will be taking care of it for us, won't you?”

I make direct eye contact with the loser: “You do want to please me, don’t you? You do want to be the tiniest bit useful to me, don’t you? Or, if you’d like, I’ll just put it next to you in the trash. I’m willing to do that, but you should know that if you accept that alternative I’ll never speak to you again. Nod if you understand me.”

It nods its head.

“I don’t want to hear you speak unless you are groaning uncontrollably, so I’ll make this really simple for you. Either close your mouth if you can’t handle it, or open it much wider and show me how committed you are to serving me.”

It’s a tiny bit hesitant until I lean over so my face is close to its, making sure not to touch any of the filth. I smile and stare deep down into its soul. “C’mon loooser. Obey your princess.” My eyes drift to its groin and I chuckle. “Look at your stiff little boner loser. There's a reason I have all your money. Wake up, retard. It's no accident that you're lying in the trash with a busted up scrotum. Remember, loser? I PUT YOU THERE. And now...I'M GOING TO use your mouth as a fucking ashtray so I can get rid of these cigarette butts. It’s over for you. You NEED this. Think of how GOOD it feels to give in to me. Now stop wasting my time and open your fucking mouth.”

To my great delight it opens wide, but it has the nerve to think it can close its fucking eyes.

“That's what I thought, LOSER. Now open your eyes. You do want to stare at my pretty face as I humiliate you one last time today. Don’t you?”

Sure enough, it does. And now my goal is just about achieved. Its eyes are glazed over, but the pupils convey an intense awareness of its predicament.

“Now don’t move an inch.” I then proceed to carefully to dump the contents of the ashtray in its mouth. I also make sure to dump some on its eyes and hair, which is sticky with coke. It closes its eyes instinctively, which is probably good because I want it to stare at the ceiling when I’m gone. It begins to choke but I warn it not to spit the butts out and it manages to comply, breathing through its nose.

I’m giggling now, looking down at it and feeling that familiar power surge. “Open your eyes again, you pathetic fucking loser,” I say. “I want you to see this.”

Very carefully sucking in my waist so that my clothing does not so much touch the cardboard trash receptacle (god forbid!), I lean over it so that the ashtray is positioned over its groin. There’s tons of ash left in the tray and I’ve had an epiphany. With that I carefully tap out the remaining ash, making sure to get every loose bit remaining onto the loser's dicklet and ball bag, which become beautifully coated with the ash. Because of the Coke treatment I had given it earlier, the ash sticks to every single pore and crevice. Not only is this abjectly humiliating, it serves a wonderful purpose.

I pause again and let the silence reflect my command over it. Its mouth is open and its eyes have reverted to the glazed-over look that I prefer. It seems to be managing all the butts, although I can hear him making a slight choking noise. In time, he’ll probably throw up, but I won’t be here to witness that spectacle, thank god. I lower my voice to a more soothing level and speak more slowly and deliberately than before. “That’s it. Stare right at the ceiling and get into a good trance. Clear your mind of every other thought except me. When I’m not here, you are to continue to stare at the ceiling and think of. Trash doesn’t move. It waits to get hauled to the DUMP. So just lie motionless with your hands by your side and contemplate what I have done to you. Just stare at the fucking ceiling you fucking loser and think of me and how you ended up in this position.”

“Oh, and one more thing: Spread your legs. I know it helps the pain when you squeeze them shut like that, but I WANT you to feel the pain. And I want that pathetic junk on full display. That’s it. See how much better that is? Now your bag has more room to get even more swollen. If you think you're in pain now, just think of how you'll feel in a couple of hours. Contemplate THAT, loser.”

I straighten my body and look directly down on it so that our eyes meet. “Okay. I’m finished with you for now. I can’t say this clearly enough. Do not move a muscle. Keep your mind on me. Also, when you get tempted to jerk your dicklet you should know there’s a slight chance I’ll be checking on you with my girlfriends later on (this is a lie – I’m finished with him). And I swear if I find you not lying just as you are now, and if your dicklet is not neatly and evenly covered with ash, then I'll know you were once again unable to control your base impulses against my wishes and I will never speak to you again.”

I take out my iPhone for one final humiliating photograph. I have created something so disgusting and pathetic that in a perverse way, it’s beautiful. Just as I’m about to snap another photo I realize I can even do better than that and I take a 30 second video of the entire disgusting trash can. Of course I take extra time to focus on its cigarette filled mouth and its eyes. It's in a complete trance now, yet it appears to be in peace, as it has taken its rightful place in the annals of loserdom. My camera pans down and focuses on its little nub of a penis resting against his swelling bag. My superiority is complete.

“The girls will love this! They will be soooo glad that their cigs have been disposed of properly. Give them one final grunt of defeat please. Make it a good one, nice and loud."

"Uhhhhhhhhhhhh."

“Perrrrfect! They'll love it! And I think I found my new ringtone for when you come crawling back to me in a few weeks. B-bye, loser! Thanks for the good laugh."

I check my iPhone as I close his door for the final time that evening. It’s 4:42. Sliding my phone into my handbag and pulling out my keys, I glance at my neatly-manicured fingernails (pink) and smile to myself when it occurs to me that I have become, in every sense of the word, a Woman.

As I take my seat behind the wheel, my mind drifts to my crotch. I glance down and smile happily. This is all part of nature’s design. I can’t help but smooth my skirt with my fingers and adjust my butt so that I can feel the power rush between my thighs. Men get destroyed by Women all the time. It's part of nature's design. But I can't help but wonder if I just perpetrated the greatest violation in the history of Womankind.

Just before I pull into traffic, I glance at my face in the rearview mirror. I can’t stop smiling. I am the picture of beauty, grace, and dignity. I am a modern feminine warrior. You want women’s lib? This is Women’s fucking lib.

End of Part One.