This is chapter 13, part 3 of the Pleasing María novel. If you are under 18 years of age, or are offended by explicit descriptions of sexual activity or violence, or by strong language, please exit this site immediately. To view the Table of Contents of the novel click here. To go directly to the first chapter, click here. To read the latest novel post, click here. This is a rough second draft.
Chapter 13 – Part 3, María will Castrate Me
I awoke when María returned that night, happy but cautious. U&P was spooked by the evening’s events. He had never fucked another woman so intimately, never another man’s wife, certainly not in the presence of her husband, and most certainly had never been invited to crush the husband’s genitals. When I passed-out, my eyelids fluttered, and my eyeballs rolled up into my head. U&P freaked and jumped off the bed. He thought he was killing me.
He explained to María he was widowed, not divorced. He discovered his wife in an affair, and it took him almost a year to convince her to end it. When she tried to break it off, her lover killed her, then killed himself. He moved his family to Guanajuato to escape the scandal. Now he was skeptical about affairs with married women, lovers, separation, and so on. María overwhelmed him so quickly. What he really wanted was a normal, nice, decent wife who would love him and help him with his girls.
He would like to see María more and try to understand her and her relationship with her ex-husband. He was cautious, and didn’t want to move too fast or get too weird, even for a woman as exceptional as María. María said she told him she was ready for him, she would leave me immediately and divorce. But he was cautious, he didn’t want to move too fast.
He was a normal, nice and decent guy. He had been an excellent lover for María, alternating between tender cariños and aggressive fucking. I wondered why his wife cheated on him. Why wasn’t he enough for her? Maybe, in the conventional penis morality, she was a puta, like María. Or maybe, like María, she lived outside the conventional penis morality, a free woman.
We stayed up all night talking. We had played our sexual roles for so long we thought they were normal. This was a wake-up call for us, we realized how far we had drifted into bizarre sexuality. We realized what a deviant life style we had, and how bizarre and immoral it must seem to regular folks. And we drifted away from our rules. My humiliation perversion corrupted María and I until we were actively trying to destroy our marriage and my testicles, all for my humiliation sickness. I blamed myself completely. I forced myself on her, buried my face in her vulva, cried and asked her forgiveness. She forgave me, but she still wanted U&P, and was terrified we scared him away. I swore I would get him back to her. María said,
“He will never castrate you – if U&P still wants me, will you give me up without that?”
“No, if he doesn’t want you badly enough to fight for you, to castrate me and take you from me, then no.”
“I love you but I’m in love with him. I want him.”
“That’s not enough, he must take you from me by crushing my testicles.”
“I’ll do it. I’ll castrate you. I’ll do it because I will fight for him, I want him badly, badly enough to castrate you and go with him.”
I thought about María destroying my testicles – the ultimate humiliation. My wife and whore of so many years, the mother of my son, the whore that wants another man so much she’ll castrate me, her husband. There could be no greater humiliation. I wanted it now. I twisted up.
“Yes, let’s do it now!”
“No, not now, I don’t know if he still wants me after what we did tonight. As soon as I know he wants me, I’ll do it.”
We had gone right to the edge, right up to the point of no return – back off or keep going? We decided to cross the edge. I would get my castration, and María would get a new man.
I complimented her on how easily she manipulated us into the testicle crush. I was easy – put on a exaggerated show of outstanding sex with another man, have him handle her hair, and I became a crippled, pathetic man, begging to be hurt. The pills probably helped. U&P was almost as easy – stroke his macho ego, invoke the old Mexican anti-gringo prejudices, raise his testosterone and adrenaline levels through sexual excitement and he was ready to to hurt the man that stood in his way of taking María. We decided the same strategy would work again and again.
We talked about how María would castrate me when the time came. It would be much easier, since no deception or sexual manipulation would be needed. She didn’t think she had sufficient strength and endurance in her hands, and her hands were small. U&P had gradually increased the pressure on my testicles so I adapted to the pain levels, and didn’t fight back before I passed out. A blow or sudden squeeze would cause me to reflexively fight to defend myself. However, a sudden crush, if sufficiently strong, would paralyze me with pain and knock me out, so the destruction of the testicles could proceed without resistance.
The extent of the testicle destruction was also an issue. I insisted my testicles should be completely destroyed, reduced to mush by repeated crushing and kneading by the hands – they should require complete surgical removal. If they were simple ruptured, they might be repaired instead of removed. We discussed this quite coldly, as if we were talking about a cut of beef, not my testicles.
I also insisted U&P should be present, even if not participating in the castration. He should know what she’s doing and why. The word ‘castration’ had to said at least once, and he could be told it was voluntary – I would say that. He needed to know what I was voluntarily giving up so he could have María.
Recognizing María’s lack of hand strength, we decided on three safe possible procedures:
1) María would tie me down and gag me, to give her the flexibility and time to complete the castration. We thought U&P would react poorly to this method.
2) María would start the pressure slow and gentle, as U&P had done, then complete the crushing when I passed-out. We weren’t sure she could successfully complete this.
3) María would incapacitate me first with a blow to the testicles. A well placed knee from behind would work. I would wear the bangle, one or both testicles might already be ruptured from the blow, and the crushing would be easier.
María favored option two; I favored option three. I dropped my briefs, slid on my bangle, and said, “Let’s practice your option.” María took my swollen testicles and fumbled, trying to enclose them completely in her fist and position them against each other. I suggested she squeeze them against the bangle, but her hand wasn’t large enough to encompass everything. I pushed and poked at my scrotum until she had a decent grip. She squeezed gently, exquisite pleasure, and I said, “Yes, this should work.”
She pushed me back on the bed, began kissing me around the neck, ears and face as she increased the pressure. I wanted this, had always wanted this. I said, “Don’t stop now. He still craves you, he’ll marry you now if you crush me. Kiss me deep and crush me.” She kissed me, and the pain of knowing this was my last kiss with her was greater than the pain in my groin. I held her hair, pulling her mouth to mine while I grasped her hand and squeezed with her. I said, “I’m ready, finish it!” My body rose as my back arched and legs stiffened. I lost her kiss as my neck jerked backward. If man on earth can experience heaven, I had arrived, watching María liberate me from testosterone sin from several feet above her.
Pain slammed me as my body collapsed flat on the bed. I curled up like a fetus, rocking and moaning. María shook her hand and cried, repeating, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t do more, my hand gave out.” She lay on top of me, cried, and caressed my hair as I rocked. She said, “I’m sorry, I tried, I really wanted to do it.”
After several minutes of laying there together, I turned on my back and stretched out my legs. I felt a new pain, deep within my testicles, different like something torn. She had damaged me. She watched me from the side, caressing my chest, and said, “I love you, how could we have done this? Are you ok?”
“No, I’m hurt, I can feel it, I’m damaged. We almost made it. You can’t leave me halfway like this. If you’re going to go with him, you have to finish me, or you have to stay with me.”
She cried hysterically, unable to talk. I could see her choice in her eyes. I struggled to turn over, up on my knees, and opened my legs, “You know what to do, my option, do it now and don’t stop until I’m finished.” She moved behind me, her hands on my hips, crying. She lay over my back, crying and great shaking sobs.
I feared she’d lose courage, “It’s now or never. You have to win your new husband. Do it …”
I awoke hours later, the whiteness of the clinic room blinding me. María sat on the side of the bed. I asked, “What happened?”
“You’re OK. You have badly bruised testicles, maybe internal ruptures, but the doctor thinks you’ll be OK. I couldn’t do it, I hit you once badly, but I couldn’t do it.”
María started crying, and I pulled her down to me and stroked her hair, “You can still keep me?”
“I’m leaving with U&P tomorrow.”
“You know you’ll have to finish this before I give you up?”
“No, if you want castration, you’ll have to do it yourself. I’m done with all that.”
“Ok, we’ll see. How can we get out of this place?”
* * *
María was going to see U&P the next afternoon, and he would say how he wanted to proceed. I wanted to dress her and make her up special, but she said she wanted simple, not exotic, not erotic, just casual sexy. Like the beautiful, sexy wife of a normal, nice guy. She was already imagining her life with him, her new husband, with her new girls.
In the morning, she got up early, dressed, packed a one-day bag, and was ready to meet him by 10:00 AM. Their meeting was at 4:00 PM, and she wandered through the house listless and anxious. I suggested we go out for a walk and café.
This was one of the best days of our life. Our last real day of married life together. We were on our best behavior, attentive to each word and nuance of the other. It’s what the phrase ‘quality time’ was meant to convey.
Oops, none of the above happened. We walked together holding hands from sheer force of habit. We didn’t even notice until we cleared Calle Alonso, and headed into the Jardín. She started, smiled, raised my hand, we looked at each other and kept going. We had always held hands since the first day of our life together, and were OK to do it until the last. I always did it to show off what I had that other men didn’t, ha ha ha.
But María was mentally elsewhere, already into her new life with her new family, holding hands with U&P on one side and her daughters on the other. I was elsewhere also, imagining my life without María, an endless void. We greeted people on the street, but their voices were echoes from far away. I think I said the right greetings, no one seemed to be offended. They probably couldn’t see the terror on my face.
I walked hand-in-hand with one of the few truly extraordinary women in the world, I should have been in nirvana. Instead, I was dying. Plotting my death. My entire existence would leave me in a few hours. I sorted through all the methods of killing myself, and decided it would be easy, I could decide and act at the moment. I made mental lists of what I needed to do today, tomorrow, and whenever, attempting to compress it all into the fewest hours possible. I realized I couldn’t kill myself until the transition completed: divorce, sharing of assets, custody of Brett and so on. I thought about the lawyers, María, Brett – how can they be so selfish, to deprive me of my last solace?
We walked a long ways, returning around 3:30 to the house. She went to freshen-up. It was time, she was ready. As she opened the door to leave, she turned to me, a question on her face. I wanted to tell her if U&P didn’t want her, even hesitated about her, I’d take her back unconditionally. But I couldn’t say that, I had sworn she’d be his. Instead, she said, “I need you to swear something to me, something very important, sacred – will you?”
“Of course, anything for you.”
“Swear you won’t hurt yourself. Swear now on your knees.”
We both knew exactly what she meant. Could I have been that transparent? She knew me. How could any couple so meshed with each other ever separate? Of course, she knew me too well – that’s why she was leaving me. I had no choice, I knelt and swore. Peaceful death would be replaced by miserable life. I swore it and I would keep the oath. Even separated, I would please María.
She went out to her new life.
* * *
I sat on the couch numb, flipping channels mindlessly on the TV every few seconds, anything to not have to think or feel. I got up a couple of times, searched the kitchen for any kind of alcohol, but María had not bought any between searches.
Brett stormed into the house around 6:00 PM, throwing his schoolbooks around and fighting back tears. He yelled at me, snapped me into coherence, and said,
“I just saw that puta María sitting in the café, dressed-up like a cheap puta waiting for her lover. How can you be so stupid to not know your wife is a total puta, fucking half the men in town!”
“What!?! You saw María alone? Don’t you dare call her a whore! What was she doing?”
“My mother is the biggest puta in town. You think I don’t know what she’s been doing? I’ve seen her in the Presa with other men, kissing in restaurants, coming out of hotels. Now she’s whoring right in the center of town, in plain sight of the whole world. All my friend have seen her, they know my mother is a puta, they make fun of me, I can’t live like this!”
“She’s not a whore, you don’t understand. Where is she? Is she alone?”
“She’s in the café in the Benito Juárez plaza. She sitting there with her skirt up to her waist, trying to attract another man to fuck her. Daniel and Roberto said maybe they’d fuck her, if she paid them. She crying. Maybe she wants a quick fuck, and no man wants a puta anymore. I never want to see her again. We have to leave this town …”
“Shut up! If you every call her a whore again, you’re not my son anymore! I know about María, we have an arrangement. I’ll explain it all to you later. She was crying?”
“Yes, crying, showing her legs to the whole world, like a cheap …”
“Stop! You left your mother alone crying … how dare you! Get out of here, go back to your place and I’ll talk to you later. I have to go get her.”
I dressed and waddled to the plaza, five minutes away. I went in the café. María was still there, head on the table, crying gently, arguing with herself. I pulled her skirt down and paid her bill, four expressos. I asked the barista what happened. He said a kid came in and gave her a note. She read it, started crying, and had been like that for two hours. Two teenage boys came in, felt-up her breasts and legs, and she did nothing. He ran them out then asked her if she needed help, if he could take her home. She said she had nowhere to go.
I took her arm and got her up, I had to support her. There was a torn note on the table covered with coffee, sugar and tears, which I stuck in my pocket. I held her up and walked her to the house, my testicles screaming at every step. She buzzed with caffeine, angry and depressed beyond what I had ever seen. At the house, Brett was gone. We got on the bed fully clothed and I hugged her, spooned, kissed her hair and face, but didn’t say anything. She mumbled to herself in language I didn’t understand. I felt horrible – I failed her again. I promised to get him back for her and I failed. My testicles ached.
I stroked her hair continuously, it seemed to sooth her – it certainly made me feel better, calm. She fell asleep, and I continued to stroke her hair, twisting my fingers through her curls. I thought about U&P stroking her hair the night before, how her curls must have felt to his fingers. He stroked her hair with raw desire, I now stroked it with cariño and love. She said she had nowhere to go. She sat there alone for two hours crying. Alone, no one to turn to. This hurt me deeply – why did she think she couldn’t come back home to me? I wanted to tell her I’d always want her back, why hadn’t I said that?
I went to read the note. It read (translated from Spanish):
“I was in love with you. I thought you loved me. I talked to a friend about you, asked him for advice, and he said you were a puta. He had sex with you himself and knew of several other men that had sex with you. He described you and what you did with your husband, I knew it was true. How could you have been so cruel? I was crushed. I had already told my daughters I was bringing home a new mother for them. They were so excited. They’ll be crushed also.
You betrayed me with this sick, perverted game you played with your husband. You both need professional help.
I’m sorry, I’ll never see you again.”
I started reading the note in a slow burn and was in full boil when I finished. I shook, how dare he dump her! I wanted to grab him by the neck and shake him to his senses. How could he judge her, what did he really know about her? I read the note again and again, and cooled down. He hadn’t insulted her. He was direct but respectful. I felt his hurt flowing through the words in spite of his anger.
I read the note once again, then shredded it, but immediately regretted that. I should have discussed it with María and helped her understand. He heard the gossip a few days too early. If he would have taken her a few days before, he would have defended her, protected her. And in exchange, she would have liberated him and the girls. It would have been an awesome family. He was Mr. Unique and Perfect for her. And I failed her.
I felt sorry for him, he was a fool. I wanted to go beat some sense into him. He threw away a new life that would be rich and exciting beyond his understanding, not only for him but for his daughters. What had they missed growing up with that free, extraordinary woman? He listened to others instead of trusting her. And now he would never know what he threw away. At the end of his life, would he ponder the tragedy of his daughters floundering in a penis world? Would he think back, remember María, and regret what he had done? I felt sorry for him.
End of book content.
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