"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 -
[Note: this story is protected by international copyright law,
all rights not expressly waived are reserved by its author.]
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