Babysitter Femdom

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Babysitter Femdom

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
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