Standing behind her lectern at Featherview University, Dr. Bella Ramble was nothing if not impressive. Her eyes were dark violet--nearly black--and they perfectly complimented her shoulder-length black hair and bangs. Over six feet tall in the spike-heeled pumps she favored, she seldom smiled, but she knew she had the face of an angel, and the figure of a goddess.
That bothered her in younger days--since she generally despised men-- but since then, she had learned how to use her beauty as a weapon. Dressed in a tight purple suit and skirt, she took a special delight in the squirming discomfort of the few young men who had managed to last until the end of the semester.
Of course, most of her students were female--hard-core feminists who eagerly gobbled up her man-bashing Feminist Lit seminar. Most of their wardrobe was ordinary--the standard melange of T-shirts, jeans and sweats--but a few of them were picking up the art of power-dressing, which gratified the 28-year old Dr. Ramble.
"In sum," Bella said, "history is the story of woman's exploitation by man. Men fear us--they see in our vagina the wound of castration, and they see in our womb the power of creation which they lack--and that is why they seek to enslave us. But patriarchy is an aberration--a quirk of history shifting the locus of power away from the fertile Earth Mother, and into the sterile impotence of bankrupt, male-dominated ideology. This is a condition our generation will correct, and those who oppose us will be emasculated accordingly."
Pausing dramatically, Bella took a secret pleasure in the squirming discomfort of the young men--unwittingly lowering their hands to shield their genitals.
"That is all. Have a nice summer."
A moment later, the young women arrayed before Bella erupted in applause, and she absorbed their acclaim with token modesty. Inwardly, she was pleased to be in her element--influencing the minds of impressionable young people--and she let them continue applauding for several seconds before she finally stepped out from behind her lectern to take a bow. The clapping let up after that, and the students began to drift out the twin exits.
It was only then that Bella noted a familiar figure rising to stand up from a seat near the back of the room. It was Lydia Wilder--the dean of the School of Feminist Studies--and Bella frowned slightly at her dress and demeanor. For a woman in her late forties, Lydia was not bad-looking--she had curly-red hair and a figure that was classically Rubenesque--but Bella found her wardrobe excessively feminine, currently comprising a navy-blue skirt and blouse, with cork-soled sandals. But what was worse, some of the young men actually paused to speak with Lydia-- something they never did with Bella.
"I see you're fraternizing with the enemy," Bella said, coldly, after the students were gone.
"Oh, Bella," Lydia said, approaching the front of the class, "sometimes, I think you take your militant feminism a little too seriously."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Bella said; "I wasn't aware the male patriarchy had been overthrown during my lecture."
"Well, I'm not saying you're not popular with the students; I just wish you'd tone it down a bit. I was looking at your syllabus, and your lecture titles are a little strong, don't you think? 'Castration as a Theme in World Literature'? 'Impotence as the Impetus of Modern Society'... ?"
Bella crossed her arms, shook her head, and sighed.
"I see that women of your generation don't understand the modern dialectic. You seemed to think that burning your bras, and marching for the ERA, was somehow going to magically overthrow the male power structure. I say this is a war between the sexes, which must be fought accordingly."
Lydia shook her head, half-awed by Bella, and half-shocked. It was no wonder that Bella's boyfriend was a nervous wreck; Lydia had only met Bernie Wigglebottom once, but the mild-mannered banker almost fainted when Bella started talking about how small his penis was. Of course, Lydia could understand Bella's attraction to Bernie--the ultra-feminist Bella was not overly fond of being deeply penetrated.
"Well, anyway," Lydia said, "I was wondering about your plans for the summer. Going off with Bernie somewhere?"
"Please," Bella said, "that worm already benefits enough from my presence. No, actually, I was planning on visiting Bountyville."
"Bountyville? What, that polygamist town out west?"
"I see you've heard of it--a wicked den of pro-male proselytizing."
"What do you mean? I heard it was just a farming community..."
Sighing, Bella reached into her book bag and pulled out a novel. Lydia recognized it, of course; 'My Pussy, My Friend', was written by Hera Decopolis--a former professor at Featherview University.
"This pathetic work," Bella said, "illustrates the danger of Uriah Bounty. As I'm sure you know, Ms. Decopolis produced this gushing, pro-male pabulum after being brainwashed by Uriah Bounty. I understand she's even had six children by the bastard..."
"Well, so what?" Lydia said. "Hera always was pretty uptight. If Uriah's half as well-hung as they say he is, I can almost see why she'd want to stay with him."
Bella was appalled.
"Please say you're being facetious."
"Okay, so I'm being facetious. Now what is it about this novel that's got under your skin?"
"This novel," Bella said, shaking the book accusingly, "is nothing less than a bald indictment of Uriah Bounty's corruption of countless innocent women. Unfortunately, since it's a fictional account, it doesn't carry any legal weight, but I intend to remedy that. I intend to gather the evidence necessary to bring Uriah to trial for bigamy, then be there when they hang him by his balls from the nearest tree!"
"You know," Lydia said, "I'm no lawyer, but I don't think that's a legal punishment."
"We'll see," Bella said, tossing the book back in her bag.
"Perhaps I'll just castrate him myself."
At first, Bella wasn't sure quite how she should dress for her trip west; if nothing else, she expected a lot of dust and dirt, but she couldn't quite pull herself away from the look of a cultivated bitch she had worked so hard to achieve. Thus, Bella settled for a loose black blouse, tight blue jeans, and a (relatively old) pair of black leather pumps, polished up to a shiny finish.
She knew the look--complimented with dark sunglasses--was effective when she saw a male gate attendant at the airport shift his pants with an obvious erection. She knew she looked good, and that was gratifying; although she was certain that Uriah Bounty must be personally repulsive, he was still a man, and ought to be influenced by her appearance.
Unfortunately, there was little real information available about the current state of Bountyville, but Bella had managed to reach the proprietor of the "Happy Lamb Hotel" by phone a few weeks earlier, and learned that there was at least one room available. The proprietor--a woman named Sarah--seemed surprised at first by Bella's interest in tiny Bountyville, but then appeared suddenly understanding when Bella dropped a reference to Hera Decopolis's novel.
"Oh, yes, I've read that," Sarah said; "but really, it's not quite as perfect here as the book makes it seem."
"Still," Bella said, "I'm curious about your little community. Do you suppose I could actually see Mr. Bounty himself?"
Sarah just chuckled at that.
"Oh, I'm sure he'd be glad to see you," Sarah said, "if he can get away from all us girls."
Bella wasn't sure quite what to make of that, but she was soon winging her way west aboard a 767, taking the opportunity to work on her laptop revising a paper addressing the sword wound as a vaginal symbol in Shakespeare. A few hours later, she landed at the airport closest to Bountyville, then headed into the desert in a rental car. There was no doubt the country was starkly beautiful--jagged mountains were soon visible jutting up beyond the desert plains--but Bella's thoughts were dark and brooding. Switching off the radio (and the blathering commentary of some right-wing fanatic, on the only channel that came in clearly), she drove in silence, remembering her numerous unhappy connections with the opposite sex.
Bella's first lover--if that was the word--had been Bobby Bredwell, her high school's star quarterback, and already the father of several children by the time he turned his attention to her. In their senior year, Bobby laid on the charm with the sole objective of spearing Bella's virgin pussy, but Bella was loathe to be penetrated, even then. It was not until the night before the homecoming game that Bobby finally got through to her. Plying her with beer, Bobby pleaded with Bella to "go all the way" for the good of the team--if Bobby was out on the field the next day, thinking about how he hadn't been able to fuck her, he might actually blow the game.
Of course, that was silly, but Bella figured that was as good a time to get laid as any, and she duly lifted her skirt and spread her legs for Bobby in the back seat of his father's car. In the event, however, Bella was startled when she saw how small Bobby's cock actually was--no more than five inches long, fully erect! Somehow, drunk as she was, Bella managed to keep her giggling in check while Bobby pushed his cock inside her and popped her cherry, but it really was funny to realize that the big strong quarterback had such a tiny penis. Despite herself--even as Bobby started humping her--Bella started chuckling.
"What's so funny?" Bobby asked, pausing in his ardent sucking of Bella's 38D-cup breasts.
.... There is more of this story ...