Chapter 2 – Part 2, A Sacred Whore Goddess

This is chapter two, part two 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.


Chapter 2 – Part 2, A Sacred Whore Goddess

I met her at a Van Morrison concert in a big open field close by Amsterdam. We sat next to each other on the grass, and when I pulled-out bread and salami to make a sandwich, she screwed-up her vegetarian face. “How can you eat that, not only meat, but garbage meat poisoned with chemicals?” She wasn’t pretty but had a nice smile, reminding me of a girl I fucked frequently in college, a strange, intense girl that never managed to find a steady boyfriend – probably because she had the largest afghan dog I had ever seen sleeping in her bedroom. This Dutch girl was thin with prominent kneecaps showing through her skimpy dress; she would have a bony pelvis at the top of her vulva, the type that bangs you hard, maybe even leaves bruises when you fuck her. I made a big flourish of slicing the salami just to annoy here, and she offered to share her lunch so I wouldn’t poison myself. We sat side by side on the grass eating veggie and fruit wedges and cheese chunks. I had never realized how conceited and arrogant Van Morrison was until that concert. His conceit was even in his voice, but we enjoyed the sunny day.

We talked between songs and she had an enchanting accent in English. Soon, she sat between my legs, reclining against me. She was not a slut tourist but a local. I had never had a Dutch woman before, so I needed to proceed carefully. I had heard that the Dutch were uninhibited about sex, but I knew nothing of their seduction culture. I was determined to stick my poison salami into her that very night. I would fuck her for 2-3 days then dump her and fly away. She would be my goodbye European score.

She snuggled back into me until her back hit my erection, then she backed-away – not a good sign. I leaned forward, formed a cushion with my arms and shoulders for her to lean back against, and I nuzzled her hair, then her ears and neck. As the evening cooled off, I enveloped her more in my arms. We shifted from time-to-time from the discomfort of sitting on the ground. In one of those shifts, I ran my hand down her abdomen until I felt the top of her vulva, then scooted her body back, and she snuggled again, this time my erection settled firmly between her butt checks. My nuzzles became small kisses, her hair smelt great on my face.

During a romantic song with a slow beat, we began swaying with the beat. I returned my hand to her abdomen, and with each sway, pushed my hand lower over her vulva until it was cupped in my hand. She pulled the blanket over her lap for cover, and the swaying became the exploration of her labia. The dress was thin, her panty thinner, and the swaying became the stroking of my fingers around her labia. The inner labia and clitoris were large, protruding through the outer labia. Her wetness penetrated the dress, and my erection must have doubled in size. She adjusted her position again pressing harder against my penis, turned her head back and we kissed deeply – I was ready to take her right there on the grass. I heard another spectator say in English, “Come-on guys, get a room!”

When the concert finished, Martine rode me back to town. Her ride was a bicycle powered by pedals and a Solex gas engine that fit over the front tire. I offered to pedal and she sat on the crossbar snuggled into me as we lurched and wobbled across Amsterdam’s cobble stones along the canals. We arrived at her place, the third floor in an ancient building overlooking a canal. She rented a open loft from an old lady, so we had to sneak up the stairways.

Her bedroom was a thin mattress in the middle of the loft floor – we decided to forgo showers and proceeded to bruise my abdomen with her bony pelvis. She was energetic and kinky, and after the standard stuff, she gave me my first ever lessons in bondage – I tied her in several positions and fucked her again, mouth and vagina.

After a shower and nap, she showed me a different bondage position with her legs tied open wider than I had ever thought possible, and she held my head kissing her vulva – I wouldn’t say it was delicious, but was certainly pleasant, with the faint perfume scent I had detected at the concert. I finished with the hands-off power-fuck. She seemed satisfied.

Then it was my turn. She cinched me up securely and promptly went to sleep. In the middle of the night, I nudged her awake and asked her to release me so I could go to the bathroom. She told me not to wet the mattress, rolled me off onto the floor, and returned to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, I was cold, laying in a small pool of urine, and she had gone to school. By the time she returned early afternoon, the urine pool was bigger, and I was parched, hungry, and furious. I yelled as she entered the loft, and she shushed me – the old lady would hear!

She came as if to untie me, but instead gagged me, wiped up my urine mess, then sat on my belly and began to teach me about pain, testicle pain. My shock and outrage quickly turned to acceptance and submission – when a hand is wrapped around your testicles, you quickly learn to take orders. The first order was not to scream, yell or make noise, and she removed my gag and gave me water. We talked, and she explained what she was going to do to me, and she did it. Different variations of pain for different effects: bucking, rocking, vibrating, stretching and straining, arching, bouncing, flopping, jerking, doubling, and various combinations. I don’t know how she controlled my body so effectively, I just felt intense pain as she squeezed and twisted and pulled at my testicles. Each session lasted for several minutes. She varied the pain, slowly increasing in intensity, from pleasurable up to the very edge where I’d pass out. After the first hour, she untied my knees and feet and led me to the bathroom to urinate. She fed me, we rested for an hour or so, then we started all over again.

This time from different positions: face down, face up, on my side, on all fours, squatting, crouched. I obeyed her completely, if only because she punished the slightest hesitation. Lesser pain levels caused me to become erect. She sat on my penis, reaching between her legs to squeeze my testicles, and she passed another hour or so in different positions, fucking herself on my erection as I strained in pain – I felt nothing of her pleasure, no chance of ejaculating, only my pain. I was physically and psychologically exhausted. She untied me and let me sleep.

In the morning, I awoke to find myself bound again, and she was gone. I rolled off the bed to urinate, and waited. I couldn’t make sense of any of this. I had always been in control, handling and fucking the girls as I pleased. At the moment, I didn’t feel so “righteous,” but I didn’t have the will to fight her. She had tortured me for 2-3 hours – I felt broke, she had broken me so easily.

Martine returned in the early afternoon. She untied my legs, led me to the bathroom, cleaned me, and fed me. Back on the mattress, she pulled my head back, and gently bit my neck across my windpipe. She pulsed with her teeth, and licked my neck between her teeth. This must be what a vampire’s kiss would feel like, erotic and deadly. Her stroking of my penis hurt – I was so hard my penis ached. She nipped up and down my penis the same way. Between nips, she asked me if I loved her, if I wanted her, if she should hurt me. “Yes, yes, yes!”
“Should I hurt you?”
“Yes, hurt me, hurt me good!”

She affixed a apparatus around my scrotum between the testicles and the penis. It was just two small ovals of thin plywood hinged with small hooks and rings, with additional rings on the unhinged sides. To the rings, she attached cords. The cords from the lower plywood fed through a ring on the upper plywood and continued up my body front and affixed taut around my neck. The cords from the upper plywood fed through an eye-ring on the lower plywood and continued under my groin, up through my butt crack, up my back and were affixed to a leather headband around my forehead. When she pulled on the cord, it pulled my head back and closed the space between the plywood pieces so they squeezed my testicles. Satisfied with her engineering, she pulled the cord taut, pulling my head back and arching my back, squeezing my testicles. The strain on my back and neck was excruciating, and as I tried to straighten to relieve the pressure, the plywood pieces crushed my testicles. I seesawed back and forth, arching my back to relieve my testicles, then relaxing my back but crushing the testicles. Martine just sat comfortably and watched. I don’t know how long I lasted, it seemed forever, but probably within a minute I passed-out from the testicle pain.

When I came to, she apologized for the ordeal and said it had been barbaric. She had changed the trusses. The upper cords were looped through the rope binding my hands, looped through the rope binding my feet bent behind me at the knees, then tied to a ceiling beam. The pressure squeezing the plywood pieces against my testicles was easily adjustable and I lay on the floor on my belly in relative comfort. Neither my lower legs nor hands were strained by the tautness of the cords. However, if I moved either my arms or feet, the pressure increased on my testicles. She sat next to me in a chair, reading and drinking coffee, and varied the pressure by pulling and pushing with her foot on the cord. This varied from moderate to intense pain, sexual pain and arousal. I was erect, hard, laying on top on my erection with my penis head sticking out from my body. I felt I could endure this forever, if only she would fuck me. Between my gasps and moans, I told her that I loved her, that I would do anything she wanted, be anything she wanted, I gave myself to her, I would be her slave. And I begged her, “Please fuck me.”

Martine asked, “Why do you say ‘fuck’ so much? Isn’t that an obscene word in English?”

“Not how I use it in a neutral, descriptive sense. American English is very poor for sexual language, probably due to religious inhibitions. In its sexual sense, “fuck” can indicate a noun or a verb, and as a verb, be correct in every person: I fucked her, she fucked him, you fucked me, they fucked Martine, we fucked, they fucked. As a noun: it was great fuck. The Americans have made it a dirty word, but don’t provide a neutral word. I can’t say I copulated you, or I coitused you, or I intercoursed you or I sexed you. So I use it in a neutral sense, and once you get over the puritan shock, it’s quite natural. I never use fuck in the other sense of damage or screw-up, like ‘I fucked up’. And so … Aeiiiii!”

She had interrupted me with a push on the cord, and it took a minute or two to recover from the pain surge. She said, “You were saying … ?”

“Before I was so painfully interrupted, that Americans have salted the language with words to disguise their shame and confusion about sex, like screw and shag and cunt and cock and blowjob, and …”

Martine plucked the cord with her toes, sending a jolt of lightning through my body, and the jerk of my body produced another burst of pain. She plucked the cord continuously like playing a one-string cello, and my jerks cause more jolts, then more. She stopped but I continued jerking, vibrating like my body had found its natural resonance frequency. I felt nothing but sexual pain and pleasure intensifying until the top of my head blew out. I ejaculated, squirting onto the floor at Martine’s feet. My body bucked with the climax, and I lost consciousness.

When I came to, she was squishing my penis head between her toes. She said, “That was the most amazing climax I have ever watched.” She showed me her foot, her toes were glopped with rose-tinted semen. “You have blood in your semen.”

I said, “We have to stop now, my testicles are damaged.”

She responded by tightening the cords, increasing my pain until I begged her to stop. She said, “If you really love me, really want me, then you should crush your testicles and castrate yourself.”

“You’re insane, that was the best climax I’ve ever had – how will we repeat that if I have no testicles? No way! Do you really love me? How do I know you’ll keep me? No other woman will ever want me! We have to stop now and let my testicles heal.”

She didn’t stop. She continued that evening until late and she never once untied my hands. She fed me and took me to the bathroom, and cleaned and bathed me, then strung me up in different combinations of tension with my head, hands and feet, always crushing my testicles between plywood. At the end of each session, she pulled my mouth into her vulva, and held me there until I licked her to climax.

When she finally said she was through with me, I begged her to keep me, to continue with the pain. I was addicted to pain. She tightened the cord again, and I nearly blacked-out. “The body has many sexual pain areas. I’ll show you all of them. Will you castrate yourself for me? Do you really love me?”

She tightened the cord again, until I screamed, “Yes, yes, I’ll do it, please, no more.”

She loosened the tension on my testicles, and placed about three inches of paper-back books half-under each side of my hips. She re-tightened the cords until I cried out, then said she was going out to see her boyfriend. When she left, I should jerk my body off the books. My testicles would be crushed flat, ruptured, between the plywood pieces. She left.

I tried to think through the pain. What life would I have without testicles, a eunuch. No other woman would have me, Martine would be my entire future – did I want that? She wasn’t that pretty, but she was an energetic fuck, and her sadism had revealed my masochism. I had never felt such intense sexual energy before.

I jerked my body, and remembered nothing else.

When I came-to, I was untied, laying on the mattress. My testicles were screaming bloody murder but were intact. There was a gauze pad taped to my scrotum. Under the pressure of my weight, one of the hooks twisted around and released the ring, and the plywood slipped off my testicles. The hook cut into my scrotum.

Martine bubbled excitedly in Dutch and English, she was ecstatic that I had attempted self-castration for her. Without the adrenaline and testosterone pumping through me, I wasn’t so pleased I had almost lost my testicles.

I popped her bubble, “You don’t really want me, you seduced me just to torture and castrate me. How many other men have you done this to?”

“I didn’t seduce you, you seduced me! To think I had actually admired how you had decisively handled my vulva at the concert. I didn’t grab you, you grabbed me! And I crushed your testicles because you wanted it. How many others? Just you. The others left with the first squeeze. I did it to you because you wanted it, and it was exciting. I’ve always dreamed about castrating a man, and I knew you were the one when you allowed the first testicle squeezes.”

“You’re a dangerous, psychopathic slut!”

“And your a hypocritic, macho slut.”

“Men can’t be sluts, that a cheap woman thing.”

“Oh, if I grab a man at a concert and fuck him, I’m a slut. But if you do the same, you’re a macho man. Sorry, it doesn’t work that way.”

She said she had to make a trip to Rotterdam on the train that morning and would return in three days. She had to move there for advanced courses in a week. She asked me if I’d move with her, stay with her. I said I was out of money for traveling and she said she’d support me. I asked,”Will you take my testicles?”
She responded, “You will give them to me. Now you’re free to leave, to choose.”

Back in the hostel, I crawled in my bed, covered myself and didn’t leave the bed except to go to the bathroom and eat junk food. My testicles were swollen and ached continuously. The next evening, I boarded a flight for the USA – I had decided I didn’t want to lose my testicles.
On the 11 hour plane ride, I covered my head with the small blanket to sleep and protect me from a babbling blond sitting next to me who kept rubbing her legs against mine. My testicles were still swollen and I needed to massage them but couldn’t. I thought of Martine, only of Martine. The ‘righteous penis’ had been cut down to a groveling, broken slave, begging to be hurt. I told her I loved her as she crushed my testicles. I re-lived over-and-over sitting on the grass, embraced, caressing her vulva, the perfume of her wetness coating my fingers through her dress. Why did she want my testicles? What kind of woman wants a castrated man? What kind of woman would castrate a man?

I jerked upright in my seat, the answer a blow to my testicles.

A goddess. A goddess always has eunuchs to serve her. Inanna, Ishtar, Astarte, Isis, Ostera. Isis. Martine was a goddess, a sacred whore goddess!

Why hadn’t I seen that, why didn’t she tell me? I could have traded life with a goddess for my testicles! There’s no shortage of testicles in the world, they wouldn’t have been missed. I needed to go back and serve her, she would keep and save me. I had to get some money and get back to her. I realized that I didn’t know her last name, nor any of her contact information. If she moved to Rotterdam, I would have no chance of ever finding her.

Something had alarmed the babbling blond, and she asked the stewardess for a seat elsewhere. The plane vomited me out in Atlanta, where an ex-girlfriend waited for me. It took me three days to get sufficiently hard to fuck her, and she said it was a miserable fuck. I was back, stuck in the land of vacuous, vapid sluts, legs spread, hoping to hear that nasty four-letter L-word. I wasn’t a happy camper.

End of book content.


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