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Subject: {ASSM} Men Are By Nature {Libertine} (FFF no sex bdsm)
Date: Sat, 17 May 2003 06:10:05 -0400
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"Men Are By Nature" 
   by Libertine
   

Dr. Frieda Strauss, Chairperson of the Department of Women's Studies,
looked up at her visitor with a sense of disgust.  Bambi -- what a
name! -- Bartoldi was so many things which Frieda was not.  Frieda
was tall and taut, physically fit, with icy blue eyes and short
blonde hair.  Bambi was short, curvaceous, and had dark eyes and
cascades of wavy black hair.  Frieda often wondered if Bambi wasn't
some sort of racial mongrel, with her dark complexion and full lips.

"Why did you give me an F on my paper?"

"Because, Bambi, you missed the point entirely. You haven't learned a
thing!"

"Now I can't make Dean's List!  You've ruined my academic career."

"I certainly hope so.  You don't deserve a degree in Women's Studies.
 Why don't you take up something more appropriate to your talents,
perhaps Home Economics?"

"Dr. Strauss, you are not being fair.  You didn't put a mark on my
paper, except the grade. A big, red F. What was wrong with it?" 
Bambi approached the desk and handed the paper to Dr. Strauss, who
did not rise to reach for it.

"It's ridiculous.  I quote: 'Female readers will have a sense of
relief and resolution when, in the last chapter, Stephanie and Brad
are married and experience a glorious wedding night, a happy ending.'
 That's male chauvinist propaganda.  Stephanie suffered the ultimate
degradation, rape."

"Dr. Strauss, I don't see how..."

"Ms. Bartoldi, how many times have I told the class?  All
heterosexual sex is rape.  Men are by nature sadists.  For them, sex
is a power trip.  Therefore, even in marriage, the sexual act is
rape.  They may pretend to be loving and caring, but in their
fantasies, they are raping their partner."

"Perhaps, Dr. Strauss, I should have said that Stephanie finally
found her true vocation, prostitute. In return for Brad's promise to
love, honor, and cherish, to pay for her upkeep, Staphanie sold her
body to him."

"Well, that might have earned you a C-minus."

Bambi slammed the office door as she left, muttering, inaudibly,
"Feminist bitch from hell!"

Dr. Strauss, as Chairperson, had a pretty easy schedule. Her usual
schedule was a ten o'clock class, a workout in the gym from eleven to
twelve, a salad in the faculty dining room, office hours from one to
three. Leaving her classroom at 10:50, she noted with satisfaction
that, after the well-deserved F, Bambi Bartoldi had stopped
participating in classroom discussions. That was good, an additional
reason to give Bambi an F for the semester.

There were snowflakes in the air, as the Chairperson strode briskly
to the gym.  After her usual work-out, limbering up, running, the
weights, even a session with the punching bag, Frieda showered and
went for her salad.

Dr. Strauss had just seated herself when she noticed something very
wrong.  She was becoming sexually aroused.  At first she took a
clinical view, scanning the dining room to see what might have
elicited a sub-conscious sexual response.  Perhaps the student bus-
person, in her trim, white uniform?  No.

Within minutes, the sensation in her crotch was almost painful. It
was more than arousal; it was a real itch.  Her anal orifice itched,
too, and her erect nipples were almost painfully sensitive.  Frieda
abandoned her salad and went to the women's rest room. There is
nothing quite as annoying as an itch one cannot scratch.

Scratching did not help.  Even sitting on the toilet and masturbating
did not help.  It was maddening.

Frieda couldn't go back to her office.  She raced to the faculty
parking lot and headed for her condo.

"Carol," she said out loud as she locked her door behind her, "Why
did you have to go and kill yourself? I need a lover, now!" She
stripped off her clothes and entered the shower.

It was no use.  Even when she put the shower head - - it was on a
long, white hose -- right against her vulva, there was no relief.
Hot, cold, with soap or without, it did no good.  She tried all her
usual masturbatory tricks, even replaying in her mind some of the
times she had made Carol submit to bondage and discipline. It did no
good.

By 4 pm, Frieda was desperate.  She called her doctor, told the
receptionist it was an emergency. Well, she could come in at eight,
if it was really an emergency.

When Frieda dressed, the itch, if it could possibly be so, was even
worse.  She took off her clothes and desperately tried everything she
could.  If only she could achieve an orgasm, she thought she might
get relief.  She hunted through her drawers to find her old vibrator.
 The batteries were dead.  She hunted for a flashlight and took the
batteries from that.  It was no use.  Food was forgotten, everything
faded into insignificance in comparison to the torture of that itch.

Sheila Williams, M. D., gave Frieda a thorough examination, took
swabs to be cultured, and gave her some topical anesthetic ointment,
but it didn't help. "Yes, Frieda," she said, "you have a real
problem.  Your clitoris is engorged, your vagina is bright red, and
it looks to me as if you are on the verge of having an orgasm, but I
don't know why.  It's not, I'm pretty sure, any of the usual
infections; it doesn't look like yeast, or anything else I've seen
before.  I'll give you a call when the lab. results are in."

That night was a sleepless hell.  Frieda tried everything, expending
a set of fresh batteries, even using a cucumber from the
refrigerator.  She tried ice packs, even inserted ice cubes in an
attempt to numb herself, but nothing helped.  Well, one thing helped.
When she douched with alcohol, burning pain replaced the itch, but
the cure was worse than the disease. Baggy eyed and exhausted, there
was no way Frieda could go to the campus the next day, or the day
after, or the day after that.

The lab. tests were all negative.  Three expensive medical
specialists, all women, of course, said they were stumped, and a
psychiatrist said it would take two or three years of twice-weekly
sessions of psychotherapy.  Even then, she couldn't promise a cure.
Frieda spent almost all her savings on non-medical practitioners, not
covered by her insurance.  He had her spine manipulated by a woman
chiropractor, had Rolfing and Swedish Massage, and acupuncture, and
"holistic herbal therapy," even a series of coffee enemas, twice
daily.  The enemas seemed to help her anal itch, but the practitioner
charged double for a vaginal douche with fresh, hot, one hundred per
cent Columbian, and the period of relief was short.  It seemed that
minutes after Frieda had dressed to go home, the itch was back, as
bad as ever.

The Dean called her: "We've missed you."

"I'm not well."

"You've seen a doctor?  Nothing serious, I hope."

"I've seen several doctors, but they can't help."

"It sounds as if you have a bad cold."

"Whatever.  Don't worry, Dean.  I'll come in to file the final
grades."

It was true, Frieda did sound as if she had a bad cold.  It seemed
all her mucus membranes, her nasal passages included, were swollen
and inflamed.  Even her eyes itched.  She was a wreck. She had spent
a lot of time in the bath tub, alternating very hot and very cold,
trying to stimulate herself with something other than the itch.  Lack
of sleep made her hallucinate, and she almost drowned once, when she
slipped into a moment of sleep in the tub.  Her nipples were swollen
and bleeding, where she had pinched and scrubbed them, trying to
achieve some sensation more potent than the itch.  Her anus was also
cracked and bleeding, the result of unsuccessful efforts with a
number of tools, including a bottle brush.

It took an heroic effort on Frieda's part to get dressed -- the itch
was, if that was possible, even worse -- and to drive to campus and
walk, awkwardly, to her office, to file the final grades.  With great
effort, she called up the grades file on her screen and typed an A
after Andersen, Camille.  She had just typed F after Bartoldi, Bambi
when the door opened.

It was Bambi Bartoldi.  "Well, what brings you here, Ms. Bartoldi?"

"I've been waiting for you to show up.  Have you not been well? You
look awful, Dr. Strauss."

"It's nothing that won't go away.  Call it PMS."

"No, Dr. Strauss, call it an itch which will never go away, without
treatment."

"How did you know?"

"Never mind.  I know a woman who can help you, make you forget your
itch."

"I've tried everything."

"Dr. Strauss, you haven't tried everything.  I have Gypsy blood, and
Gypsies know things that modern medical science has never thought
of."

"So who is this woman?"

"I'll take you to her, if you want.  She's in another city.  It will
cost you a thousand dollars, cash, for the travel expenses. Oh, and
you had better change that F to an A after my name."

Dr. Strauss hesitated, while Bambi Bartoldi just stood there, a smirk
on her lips.  After several seconds, during which Frieda had to grit
her teeth trying not to scratch her crotch, she typed A after Bambi's
name.

"OK, where is this woman?  You are sure she can cure me?"

"I absolutely guarantee that she can make you forget all about
your...ah...affliction.  Better hurry filing those grades.  I've
already bought tickets. There's a plane in" -- Bambi glanced at her
watch -- "in about an hour and twenty minutes.  If we hurry, you can
be cured by nightfall."

Dr. Strauss did hurry, and when she had transmitted the grades to the
central computer, Bambi led her to Bambi's Toyota.  They stopped at a
bank machine, where Dr. Strauss emptied her savings and checking
accounts and got a cash advance on a credit card. She handed the
thousand dollars to Bambi.  "I don't know how you know all about
this, and I hate to give in to black mail, but if your friend really
can cure what I've got, I suppose it's worth it.  I've tried
everything else."

The plane to Mexico City was booked up in coach, but Bambi paid to
upgrade the tickets to first class. She made a phone call, and then
they boarded the plane. "I'm glad we are in a hurry, Bambi, but this
is so sudden.  I didn't even pack a tooth brush."

"Not to worry, Dr. Strauss.  Everything you need will be provided."

Frieda fidgeted in her seat the entire flight.  The flight attendant
kept wanting to hang up Frieda's coat, but she kept it on her lap, so
she could surreptitiously put her hand between her legs.  The flight
seemed an interminable hell, and Frieda could neither relieve the
itch nor relieve the constant sexual urge which could not be
satisfied.  She would gladly have paid a thousand dollars for the
relaxation of one good orgasm.

A limousine met them at the airport, with curtained windows and a
uniformed driver.  They drove for what seemed like miles through the
haze of the world's most polluted city and, about dusk, they arrived
at a solid, four-story building with columns flanking the front door
and an eroded inscription, Clinico something or other; Frieda
couldn't read Spanish.  A liveried doorman let them in, no questions
asked.  They were greeted by a tall woman who wore a white lab. coat,
like doctors wear, over a stylish silk suit. Except for the height,
taller than Frieda, she looked as if she could be Bambi's older
sister, or her mother, well preserved.

"You are Dr. Frieda Strauss?" the woman asked, in perfect English.

"Yes."

"We have been expecting you.  You have an affliction, an itch, which
you wish to have cured?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm sure you are anxious to begin the cure. Come this way,
please."

On the top floor, four uniformed nurses, who seemed oblivious to
Frieda's questions, gave her some forms to sign, then assisted her
undressing, handed her a hospital gown, and led her into a curious
room.  It looked like a Nineteenth Century surgical operating
theater.  There were upholstered seats stepped up in concentric
circles around a central area which was under a glass dome, but it
was getting dark outside, and Frieda could hardly see.  There was no
operating table that she could see, only a gleaming arrangement of
metal pipes, shaped like a saw horse.

The nurses took Frieda's skimpy hospital gown and held her against
the horizontal metal pipe.  Wordlessly, two of the nurses pulled her
legs apart, produced leather straps, and fastened Frieda's ankles to
the legs of the horse.  Then the women bent Frieda over at the waist
and began to strap her wrists to the other metal legs, pulling her
forward, so her feet left the floor. The cold horizontal pipe
supported Frieda's weight, pressing painfully against her hips and
pubic bone.  She tried to protest, but the strong, efficient women
had her immobilized in seconds, working together with military
precision.

Frieda's head was upside down, and she found herself looking between
her own widely spread legs.  She saw Bambi take a seat, where she
could look directly at Frieda's exposed anus and vulva. In a flash of
panic, Frieda guessed that something was very wrong.  "Bambi," she
whined, "this doesn't look like any hospital I've ever seen."

"It isn't a hospital, Dr. Strauss.  Oh, it was a century ago, but it
is now a private establishment, serving an exclusive clientele."

"It seems a strange way to cure an itch."

"I assure you, Dr. Strauss.  In a minute, you will have forgotten all
about your itch.  The treatment is very effective.  Of course, it
will have to be repeated, nightly, so you won't be returning to the
university."

"They'll miss me."

"I suppose they will, but there is no way to trace your movements. 
Don't plan on ever going back."

Frieda struggled against the straps which bound her, but it was
useless; it only pressed the hard pipe harder against her lean body.

"You tricked me."

"You had it coming, Feminist Bitch from Hell," said Bambi.

"But how did you know about the itch?"

"I caused it.  I blew some powder into your locker at the gym. Then I
let myself into your condo.  The balcony door is easy to force.  I
sprinkled the stuff in your dresser drawers, on your towels, in your
clothes dryer, in your bed, all over.  No one could live in that
place without getting an itch."

"Powder?"

"You've heard of Spanish Fly?  It's like that, but more effective, a
synthetic."

Just then, bright lights went on, and a spotlight aimed right at the
pipe contraption almost blinded Frieda with the glare.  She could
barely see a dozen or so figures filing into the room, men, taking
seats either side of Bambi, staring at Frieda's exposed genitals and
hanging breasts with an almost clinical interest.

She screamed. "Let me out of here!  I want to go home."  The nurses
promptly gagged her with a perforated rubber ball on a strap. It
filled her mouth, compressing her tongue, but did not prevent her
breathing through the holes.

Frieda still screamed, incoherent noises muffled by the rubber. She
had forgotten her itch.  Her mind was focused on the grim faces of
the men who silently stared at her exposed buttocks and gaping,
inflamed labia. Fleetingly, she recalled images of Carol, whom Frieda
had bound and gagged; it seemed so long ago.

"Dr. Strauss," said Bambi.  "You understand the situation, I think. 
Your performance tonight, and tomorrow night, and, well, forever, I
guess, will finance my college expenses.  You understand, you
androgynous bitch, that men are by nature sadistic."

Bambi's mother appeared to Frieda in the vee-shaped frame of Frieda's
taut, straight legs.  Gone was the lab coat, gone the silk suit.  She
wore high, spike-heeled black boots and a ridiculous black, leather
corset with gleaming metal studs.  The raven-haired woman motioned to
a man, who stepped into the glaring circle of light. She handed him a
long, black whip.


                          -- The End --


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