A Memoir of the New Paradigm  Chapter 7 
by Sunblind - written for DTM / Amy's Conquest



*** The Below is an extended segment from this story, written for us by an
Incredibly talented author, Sunblind, whose other stories you can read here on
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For the Full Story of "A Memoir of the New Paradigm (Chapter 7)", please visit
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Thanks all, and as always, hope you Enjoy! ***

********************

I buried A.J. today.

Actually, I burned him up, and I put him in a jar. And someday, when I die,
our ashes will be mixed and spread across the backyards of our childhood
homes. (We had re-bought the houses when we were in our late-sixties. Not for
this purpose, of course. It was just that we were always sentimental about
"where it all began.")

The memorial service was attended by more than one thousand people, including
dozens of his students, his colleagues, the Swedish and Ghanaian royal houses,
and the sitting, and two former, Treasury Secretaries, and dozens of other
national and international dignitaries

As I sat and listened to the praise of his intellect, and to the wonder of his
achievements, I smiled to myself, and tuned them out. It wasn't his
breakthroughs in economics, or his inventions that changed the world, that
made him great. It was his singular humanity, in a curious world.

He was a most dignified human being who found himself a player in a most
undignified play. He navigated a world that was thrust upon him, and every
other man on Earth, with no warning, and no game plan, as if he'd been raised
to it. Most men folded like tents. Not A.J.

The thing about him. The core of his humanity, and, thus, the framework of his
greatness ... was ... that he held himself to an unassailable standard ...
that he always ... and I mean ALWAYS ... met. He was always a perfect
gentleman. He always, no matter what indignities he was subject to (and as
much as it pains me, I have to admit some of those indignities came at my
hands), did the right thing. Yet, at the same time, he held no one else,
including me, to any standard whatsoever. He just always believed that
everyone was, at all times, trying to do their best ... and that was good
enough for him.

People say that if it weren't for me, A.J. would have been just like every
other man. That he would have come, as is the vernacular, to live under some
woman's tits, and that he would have been just another snivelling man. I have
news. If it weren't for me, then that "some other woman," whomever she turned
out to be, would have lived a great life ... because of A.J. He would have
made sure of it. I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.

And did I ever love him. My god, did I love him. He was everything to me. But
let me tell you something. To say that I loved A.J. more than any woman ever
loved any man would be hubris. To say that A.J. loved me more than any man
ever loved a woman would be stating a fact.

And as I tuned out the speeches, my mind wandered back. Eighty-eight years, to
the first time I ever laid eyes on him. It used to be a lifetime. It still is
for men.

It was a warm fall day in early November. Nancy was off to kindergarten. In
those days, pre-K really wasn't a thing. There was a thing called Nursery
School, but not everybody went. I was almost four years old (my birthday's in
January).

Back in those days, people acted like living in a neighborhood was a
privilege, and when a new family moved in, you dropped by, and brought some
flowers, or a bundt cake. And that morning, my mom was going to drop in on the
new neighbors. A single mom, like herself (pretty scandalous back in those
days), with two little boys. The older boy was in first grade. The younger, a
"stay at home," like me; too little, yet, for school.

I had heard but did not understand that the little boy was not really the
woman's son. His daddy, who had definitely been her husband, had recently been
killed in a car accident. They'd moved to our suburban town, from where they'd
lived in the nearby city, for a fresh start.

When the woman let us in to the house, she was wearing an apron, and the house
smelled of delicious fresh-baked cookies. The moms exchanged pleasantries, my
mom delivered the daisies, and A.J.'s mom immediately suggested tea.

When we got to the kitchen, there he was. Sitting at the kitchen table. His
birthday is in September, so he was already four years old. On a plate in
front of him was a single chocolate chip cookie. A large glass of milk
completed the picture.

As we all breezed into the room, A.J.'s step-mom made a quick introduction as
she headed to the stove for the teapot. (Now, I've known A.J.'s step-mom for
eighty-eight years. She's currently one hundred sixteen years old. The old
broad looks like she's about sixty, and acts like it too. She's also, right at
this moment, sitting next to me. Anyway, my point is that this is a woman who
would have poked out her own eye, rather than not offer a sweet little girl a
fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie. So, I'm guessing she was a bit flustered by
everything, and that is why she went for the teapot, and not for the cookie
jar.)

A.J. looked over at his step-mom. And then over to his cookie. Then he looked
at me. I was sort of hiding behind my mom's skirt. (Back in those days, women
absolutely did not visit in pants.) And I am here to tell you, that boy did
not hesitate. He did not flinch. He did not blink.

What he did was ... he got off that chair, and he picked up that plate. Listen
to what I just said. He stood. Like a gentleman. He picked up the plate ...
not the cookie ... the plate. And he held that plate out to me, like I was the
Queen of England.

And he gave me that wonderful, shy smile of his.

And I thought to myself (at the age of three years, ten months, mind you). I
thought to myself: "Janine. This is the boy you've been waiting for all of
your life."

And he turned out to be. And I loved him. And he loved me. And for that, I am
truly grateful.

We were very lucky. A.J. stayed vibrant and strong pretty much right up until
the end. And that was good, because in addition to loving one another, we also
lusted one another. I know he loved my looks, and my figure. And I'll tell
you, he always made me feel beautiful and desired.

And it wasn't just my opinion that he was gorgeous. Ask any woman. I cannot
tell you the number of times that the women we came in contact with, from my
own mother to the Queen of Sweden, let me know, sometimes with gentility,
sometimes not so much, how beautiful they thought he was.

And what a body. He never lost the lean muscularity of the wrestling years.
Broad shoulders, thick arms, tight abs, a great ass ... and a big cock.

And every woman wanted to nail A.J. Turner. Come on. The guy who invented the
Glove. The guy who invented the Bra. He had a Nobel Prize, and was stupid,
stupid rich. Truth be told, it occasionally made me a little crazy. But for
the most part, it was just another one of those things that we shared laughs
and love about, while everyone else around us was oblivious to our private
joke.

And, boy, did we have fun. I remember on our honeymoon. There was this jetty
that ran straight out into the water from the beach. One morning, after the
buffet breakfast, we had wandered out to its end where it, rather abruptly,
dropped off about ten feet down to the water.

I was wearing a yellow bikini with polka dots. I had a wrap around my bottom,
and I was wearing a straw hat. My hair was loose, and I had a Mimosa that I
was finishing. A.J. was, of course, naked, and even though I had him on the
leash that I had purchased at the gift shop (per the resort rules), we were
walking side by side, holding hands. He was nursing a Bloody Mary.

When we got out to the end, he put his arm over my shoulders, as we looked out
at the sea.

"You know, I actually think it's pretty cool when you "let the Testostrogen
flow". I mean, I really don't mind when you throw me around a little. I know
that you're kind of compelled to do it, and as long as you're doing it to me
... I really," and he bent his head to me and whispered, even though no one
else was around, "think it's very sexy." And he gave me that wonderful, shy
smile of his.

I smiled up at my beautiful husband and, wordlessly, took his now empty glass
from him. I set it down, along with my own, a bit away from us. Still, without
words, I crossed back to him and, at full speed, I bent, and picked his ankle.
And suddenly, faster than he could have possibly followed, he was hanging
upside down, off the edge of a ten foot drop into the ocean.

I smiled down at him as I reached, with my other hand for his penis. "I'm
going to give you ten strokes. If you last, you stay dry. If not, in you go."

He smiled up at me. "Take your best shot, Mrs. Turner. I am in total control.
But if I do last then you have to strip and jump in."

I made a kissy face at him and took him in hand. After one stroke, he was like
iron. After two, he was steel. After three, it was pretty clear that he wasn't
going to make it. After four, he moaned my name. After five, he started
thrashing, trying to escape. (I held him like he was weightless.) After six,
his balls constricted. And after seven, I looked down at him and licked my
lips. He didn't make it to eight.

I held him (his ankle and his cock) until he was finished.

"Say, hi to the fishies." And I dropped him. And then I stripped and jumped in
after him.

That whole scene was pure A.J. He loved me for what I was. Most men are sullen
and cowed by a woman's enhancements. A.J., who was a complete alpha male,
understood that the fact that I was stronger than he was not a threat to his
masculinity. He wanted me to toss him around. To him it was actually a
manifestation of our intimacy.

And while it is true that, early on, I, like most other women, did have some
issues figuring out how to control myself ... if you don't count the Bad Time,
I really lifted a hand to him only once ... the Mrs. Carpenter incident. But I
liked tossing him around a bit, and he liked it, and even more importantly, he
knew that I liked it. So, for fun (sex-fun is the best kind of fun), he'd
often bait me, and then we'd play that I was angry or that he was scared. He
always called it "loving dominance."

I remember once I came out of the en suite bathroom and "caught" him
masturbating. He'd, of course, set himself up to be "caught," because that is
what he wanted. I actually thought that him jerking himself off was pretty
sexy. I know ... I just know ... because he told me ... that A.J. always
thought of me to get himself to the finish line. Maybe I'm weird, but I always
thought that was really sweet. I mean all he had to do was think about me, and
he could make himself cum. I see that as a compliment, and nothing more.

In fact, it turned me on so much that I would often use it as foreplay.

Picture us lying in bed reading. My foot gravitates over to him, under the
covers. A.J. closes his book and puts it on to his night table. Then he
switches of his bedside light. Because I am controlling his movements. "Janey,
come on, I was enjoying reading ... "

He pulled the covers back and brought his right hand to his penis. I continued
to compel him to rub himself. He rubbed and rubbed, but I was goofing around
with him, so he couldn't get to the finish line.

I continued to read as if nothing was going on. Finally, he turned to me.

"Janey, please, let me finish ... or something. Please."

Careful to keep in contact with him, I put my book on my night table, and
clicked off my light. "Good night, sweetie."

I propped myself up on my elbow, and we just looked at one another, as he
continued to rub, with no hope of finishing.

"Are you going to let me cum?"

I smiled. "Actually, I just like to watch you rub yourself."

He smiled. "You are a cruel mistress."

I made a kissy face and made him move his hand away. Then I took over and
finished him. And then, because watching him rub himself had made me sopping
wet, I mounted up on his face and rode him to two orgasms.

The night I came out of the en suite, though, was a different story. He was on
his back. He'd pushed the covers aside and was stroking himself intensely. I
knew immediately that he was playing, because the second I crossed the
threshold, he made a big show of grabbing for the covers to cover himself.

He was naked. I was in simple cotton panties and an everyday bra, all in
white. When I saw him grab for the covers, I stopped and stared hard at his
face.

My voice was stern. "What were you doing?"

"Um. Nothing."

"A.J. Come here."

"Janey, please. I wasn't doing anything."

"A.J." My voice was low and menacing.

He got out from under the covers. He was as big as a house.

I waived my hand in the direction of his cock. "And what exactly was the cause
of that?"

He stood, facing me. We were about four feet apart. I motioned him to his
knees and took a step to him. He wisely remained silent.

"A.J. How many times must I tell you? Your cock belongs to me. You may not
touch it without my permission." I put my hands on my hips and thrust out my
chest. "Now come here and unhook my bra."

He stayed on his knees. "Janey, please. I'm sorry. Look ... I didn't cum ...
so no real harm. Please don't get out your tits. I'll be good. I promise.
Here," and he rose to his feet, "I'll lay down and you can sit on my face, and
I'll lick you, and make you cum ... "

All during this speech, I was slowly advancing, and right when he said "cum" I
was close enough that I put my finger on his lips to stop him.

I looked directly into his eyes and said, intensely and sternly, "Unhook my
bra."'

He actually appeared to deflate. "Yes, Janey."

He walked around behind me and released me.

I turned around to him and, dipping low, put my boobs between his legs and
straightened up. My breasts are so big that they formed a seat that came up
between his legs, such that as he sat on my boobs, his cock was still about
three inches in front of my face ... and about three inches of my breasts
extended past his cute little butt. And because I'm enhanced, my big boobs
easily bore his weight.

He looked down at me. "Janey, please I'm sorry. I won't do it again."

I looked up at him. "A.J. I'm sorry too. Do you think I like disciplining you?
But until you learn that your cock belongs to me, and that you must not waste
your precious semen, I'm afraid you'll have to be taught a lesson."

I jiggled around and allowed his balls to disappeared into the chasm of my
cleavage. Then, my hands still on my hips, I slowly brought my boobs together.
Now, of course, I didn't bring anywhere near the force I'm capable of. I
brought just enough so that the tightness started to be uncomfortable for him.

He squirmed around. He put his hands on my shoulders and tried to lift his
boy-sack out from between my two girl-sacks. This, of course, served only to
pull on his balls ... a different kind of discomfort.

"Janey, please, you're crushing me. Please, honey. I said I was sorry. Can't
you please let me go."

I just looked up at him with mock exasperation. "A.J. You brought this on
yourself. I can't have you wasting semen every time I leave you alone. Now,
I'm going to squeeze you a little more. Try to take it like a man, and maybe
next time you'll think twice before you put your hands on "my" penis, without
asking permission."

So, I squeezed him for about five more minutes, and he moaned and squirmed,
and tried to get away. I just walked around the room a bit, hands on hips,
ignoring his requests for leniency. Eventually, with him still sitting up on
my bosom, I walked over to the bed. Once my boobs were out over the bed, I
"littled" him, and plucked him off my chest, and placed him on to the
mattress.

"Lie down on your back."

"Janey, please. Please put your boobs away. I said I was sorry."

I made my face grim, and said, in the same quiet, menacing voice I'd used when
I told him to unhook my bra, "Lie down on your back."

He did as he was told. And I lowered my big right breast down all the way to
the mattress. I, of course, kept ninety-nine percent of its weight off of him.
Even so, he probably felt like someone had parked a car on top of him. I put
him all the way under it. Then I manipulated myself around so that sometimes
I'd roll back off his head, so he could get some air. But then I'd roll around
again, and under he'd go.

After about five minutes of crushing him under my massive mammary, I rolled
back so that he was completely flattened under me, but his face was sticking
out. It took some doing, because of how big I am, but I managed to arrange
myself so that we could have eye contact.

Once he'd recovered his breath, I looked down at him with great concentration.
"I think you've learned your lesson ... "

"Janey. I have. And I'm really sorry. It won't ever happen again."

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