By hughgee
The young man stood with his karate gi unfastened, loose and open, in the private mini-locker room of his martial arts studio; he could have his own locker room. Given the budding weakness which threatened his prodigious young career, he needed it. He needed the privacy. He’d had the partitions put up just for this purpose—to avoid the mortification of having…of having…of having to put THIS on. Standing bent-backed, head down, examining his lower extremities, he exhaled mightily as he tightened the Velcro straps around both thighs and his waist. It had to be tight, extremely tight or it might not work. And he couldn’t have that. He knew that feeling. He didn’t want to go even go there. Not THERE again. Stunned, stupefied, abdomen full of killing nausea and his rectum all dilated-feeling, pupils most definitely dilated, open mouthed, his opponent standing over him, triumphant. So defined pectoral muscles went to work, flexed and relaxed, flexed and relaxed, under the open top to the gi, the bottom pants hanging down around his knees, knees bent, bowed out to hold them up as he worked away with two strapping and likewise well-defined arms.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK.
A high-piping female voice on the other side of the locker room door, a tad impatient-sounding: “Are you done in there yet?”
“Almost,” the young man said, a bit annoyed himself. He sported a dark brown flat top, and dark, imposing eyebrows which furrowed themselves together into an easy angry wrinkle across his suntanned forehead, and a dimple in his chin also became accentuated with any display of emotion, or just plain old disdain. He looked a bit like Henry Rollins, he fought a bit like Bruce Lee, so they said.
He’d had the new cup two months now and already this was getting inconvenient. Still, he knew that without it, he might not be doing this at all. He’d been training in the martial arts since he was a boy and had won all kinds of championships before anybody gave him a shot—he was in fact a kind of young phenom on the AKA circuit—karate and aikido trophies festooned all shelves of his bedroom back home—so successful at such a young age was he that now, at the age of 23, he’d been the owner of this successful studio in the posh sector of Ebor City for some two years. Business was booming. He’d gotten married at 21 to a cute, heavily pulchrituded-out student of his from the very first class he taught, and it was she who helped instruct the very many classes of students his studio now hosted. That was her just now on the other side of the door.
Velcro strapped in, strapped down with straps the tensile strength of automobile seat belts, pinching off the circulation to the legs more than a bit—dammit—the young man bent and flexed and exhaled heavily one last time as he lastly slipped the all-too-generous helping of gonads nature went and stuck him with into the markedly distended silver cup. More than distended it was. The oversized hunk of protective convex NON-plastic was different from standard protective cups not just in material make up—it was solid metal and therefore somewhat heavier—it was also shaped strikingly different—this accounting for great distension. It was in fact shaped, anatomically, on special order from the Kelso Industries Orthopedic Co. of Denver, Co., in the exact shape of a man’s descending, not compressed, testes. His testes—which meant the thing was big. Very big.
A suck of air, a prolonged puffing exhale, muscles on one forearm flexed strong with ripping tendrils as it pulled downward on the metal crotch contraption, the man’s fingers on his other hand gently, carefully, exactingly deposited their precious cargo in the yawning, pitcher-like gullet of the cup—and letting go, it snapped disconcertingly snugly onto his pelvis. But he felt fine, felt protected, at least: his legs may have been turning blue but his balls were safe and sound and oh-so-cushioned. (The inner lining of the cup, just for good measure, consisted of 2.5mm of ballistics foam, the stuff they use in football helmets). Pelvis of chrome protuding, pulling up the pants of the gi, tying the sash around his top, one last self-check of the handsome, imposing profile, and,
“Ready!” he yelled assuredly.
“About time,” said the muffled female voice behind the door.
A quick kiss. Time to get down to business. A noontime martial arts class of about 20, mostly housewives. They were a young couple just starting and bills had to get paid.
It had been his sports doctor’s recommendation about the unconventional cup; it had been a joke of his wife’s to get it made out of 100% titanium when stainless steel would have done just fine.
Thanks honey. Real funny.
The problem really started at around the age of 19 or 20, he recalled. Of course as a boy, in PE lockers undressing and dressing at school, he’d always thought he’d noticed he was just a bit bigger “down there”—not where grown up guys said “it counted,” but rather under. Underneath. He was big in the balls. He’d always had big balls. Okay, ever since he could remember, so he’d thought. But it wasn’t until post-adolescence that they became a problem. A very real problem.
That was when his martial arts opponents started catching on to how this was the one way—the one and only way—to beat this guy on the mat. This guy just didn’t seem to recover from the normal “groin shot” like other guys did. Okay so it’s not like the other guys recovered quickly at all, either—let’s get real here—but this guy, opponents soon inadvertently found, this guy took an INORDINATE amount of time to collect his senses back, to get his legs back under him. Hell, even to stand up again. Forget about it: The lightest hit or swiping graze of a foot would send him off, send him down, put him out of commission for huge chunks of an hour. Once opponents found this out, well, it was open season on his nuts, no messing around. Concerned with suffering this string of surprising, unheard-of setbacks in martial arts competitions he’d formerly dominated, our hero at last went to see a doctor about it, and the doctor, there in his office, had been taken aback for a second.
“Yeah,” came the heavy admission of the doc, “those are big, all right.” She was a heavy-set Indian woman with a thick Bengali accent, wire-rimmed spectacles, peppery-black hair tied back in a bun and, of course, the pasted-on round dot on her forehead like a huge third green eye. She filled up the room with her matronly bulk, and the way she kind of stepped back in surprise when he’d dropped his drawers in front of her had been, for a split second, nothing less than alarming. Making a mental note to kick himself in the ass when he got home for not waiting until his regular “man doctor” was available, this was about the precise moment when the young man gulped and asked if there was something wrong with him—something wrong with…them.
“No, no, not that,” the doctor had hastened to reassure. “Nothing wrong. Just… those are big, all right. Yes, I see.”
“Is it normal?” asked the still-scared young karate-master. “Are they—are they okay?!”
He’d wondered why he’d waited so long to see a doctor about it. The woman squinted, thinking it over, then stated, “Well, you’re about at the limit of what might be considered normal, I see. You see, normally a man’s testes would measure, oh,”—she made span of width between pudgy thumb and forefinger—“anywhere from like this—2-and-a-half, 3 inches. That’s all.”
He gulped again.
“You’re just a bit over that, I see…about…about the size of a chicken egg, you see?”
“CHICKEN?!"—big, dry gulp here--"Is that BAD?!”
“No, no,” she calmly reaffirmed. “You are just a bit over, you see.” The woman put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, steadying him, then chuckled. “You are fine. Nothing wrong with you. You are big and strong.”
“Yeah, but…” he cut himself short, not really all that crazy about saying it.
She looked at a clipboard she’d picked up, then up at the patient again with raised eyebrows, waiting. “Mm-hm?” she prodded him.
“It’s just that—it’s like—well, I’m a martial artist. I can’t—I can’t stand to be hit down there.”
She laughed heartily. “What man does?” she asked rhetorically, making a few diagnostic notes on the clipboard.
“No,” he said, gaining the courage that comes out of pure frustration, and seething humiliation. “You don’t understand. I get kicked down there, it’s over. One hit and I’m done. Like, for the whole day. It just kills me.”
“Mmm,” she mumbled, then set her clipboard down on the counter behind her, then turned to face him again. Both fat brown hands were placed on his shoulders as he sat sullenly on the examining bench. Advice time. Time to share some. “I see,” she began, continuing in clinical fashion, “what you are experiencing is most common for men of your age. For you, just a little bit worse, maybe. For you are bigger, that is why.”
She could tell she’d lost him after “I see,” so she continued further. “When a man is sexually peaking, at his peak for sex age, then you see his testes get real hard.” She made another span of measurement between her thumb and forefinger. “Big hard means very, very sensitive. I see you will see many years from now, when at the time of middle age, then your testes will grow softer. For you not too small still, but soft. And soft mean less sensitive, less sensitivity to hits.” She laughed, propping him up at the shoulders as he sagged with the news. “Though it still hurt then too. I suggest you don’t try too much getting hit there. It don’t feel too good. Not ever.”
Tell me something I don’t know, he thought. Then—a panic came on. His “peak sex years”—were they not also his peak athletic years?! Was this true?! Were men at their strongest also at their weakest? Was this true?! He felt vulnerable, humiliated. His voice was high and riddled with anxiety. “You mean I’m ALWAYS gonna be this way—till I get old?!”
She frowned a bit and nodded, reluctantly and to one side. Forgetting his “Are they all right?” fears of a moment ago, this to him now confirmed his worst nightmare.
“But—but—how’m I gonna compete?!” His breathing began to become accelerated. She’d removed her arms and took a step back, standing there. This to him, this perfunctory gesture, in his suddenly heightened state of anxiety felt like she was telling him, It’s your problem now, buddy boy.
“No! This can’t be! I have to compete! It’s what I do for a living!” Odd for him to be reacting in such a melodramatic fashion, she thought. Did not all men have the same problem as he? Why such a fuss.
“Man, this is bullshit!” he protested, shaking his head, his legs dangling off the table and his pants down around his ankles. “Bullshit!” he yelled, more vigorously still. “I’m gonna get a second opinion!”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “You can do that. They tell you the same thing, you know.”
His mood changed again, on a hairpin turn, back to despair. “Why?” he sobbed. “Why me?” He even began to cry a little. And still the breathing which had accelerated was accelerating still. Squinting at him, clinically-diagnostically through the one open and educated eye, she concluded the patient was on the verge of hyperventilating.
Not in her office, she thought. No situations in the office. She worked hard to get where she was at; off the boat from
“Now let me see,” she said. “Let me check these things here.” The two were face to face, and his face was all agog at hers as she poked and prodded, pushed and pulled, down there at his privates. When all she was doing was shutting the patient up, averting the possible hyperventilation, avoiding the “scene” which she was sure would send her “back on the boat.” She was always sensitive to that, irrational as it was, educated as she now was, she never forgot those boat days. Those poor days. Nobody could ever send her back. Never give nobody an excuse for that. Make patients safe, you run a good business, they come back. Nothing bad ever happening in the office. So she would make sure this boy with the big balls, he no make no incident for her to have to explain. So she was now squeezing the life out of his balls to shut him up, and pretending it was part of the examination.
“These here, they feel good to me,” she breathed right into his face, drying out the man’s unblinking, unfocusing eyes. “Whatchoo think when I do this?” she said, pressing down on the convex end of one big testicle.
“Ooo-Hoo,” came the involuntary emission, like air being squeezed past his lips. He couldn’t swallow; she took note of it. Focusing on the one for what felt to him like forever, her four fat and brown fingers cradled the underside of the chicken-egg-testicle while her thumb ran roughshod over the top, rubbing and examining, oh-so-rudely examining. She was a doctor; she’d studied anatomy; she knew the names of every nerve-ending she was deliberately bruising.
“Ooo-Hoo.”
“Yes, these feel very, very good to me. Very, very healthy.”
“Ooo--A-Hoo.”
Her thumb kept going, rubbing, hurting, pressing, at the place she knew to be vital. The point where nerves most of them are, most are bundled up together, where they tie to the testicle. No man can stand, no man can stand, can’t stand that, not there, she told herself. No longer dry, water welled up; she saw, in her patients roundly open eyes. The eyes don’t blink still, she noted.
Somewhere inside him where his real self had fled, where it hid crouching, fearful of the pain being inflicted on him, chased there by a fat woman’s brown thumb, his real self asked the rest of his self what the hell was going on. Ain’t I a martial arts master? Ain’t I? Why can’t I DO anything?
“Ooo-Hoo,” was the only outward response the rest of his self—his physical body—overcome with paralysis—could muster. Every tiny massaging motion of The Thumb played hell on him; like a moose let loose on a flower display, each and every movement caused damage, more damage.
”Ooo.”
The spot she had chosen—that bundle of nerves!—how she knew what she was doing!—don’t move again!…don’t move it again!—Don’t!
“Aaa!—Ooo-Hoo,” said his rounded, wide-open mouth like a monkey in heat. “Ooo!”
“You appear fine to me, young man,” she at last announced, and more importantly, at last letting go her examining damaging hand. She’d have him subdued for awhile, she knew. Instructing him to get dressed, she noted with amusement how he left her office bow-legged and hunch-backed but yes, very, very subdued. He no cause incident in this here my office, she thought. No sir. M-hm. My patients, happy patients. No problems. Nutting, nutting, nutting. You go home, put some ice on them. Make you feel better. Maybe you smart you stop fighting. Not good for balls your size. No sir. M-hm.
Our hero was sure, quite sure, he’d gotten a thorough examination. He was even more sure he wanted no part of anymore doctors. Not like this. Not these guys. No more general doctors. So he went to see an orthopedist about his problem—a few days later when he could walk normally again. He told the guy the whole story—thank goodness, a guy this time—how it was getting to the point where he couldn’t fight anymore. A blow to the balls, just a tiny hit, was devastating, threatening to put him out of work. The orthopedist was a kindly, attentive old man with two gray puff balls of senile hair behind each ear and Coke-bottle glasses. Whatever else the guy was, maybe because he also had balls, the guy was a lot more sympathetic to the cause.
It was as a result of that meeting then that a plan was hatched, measurements were made, and corporations were consulted. Weeks and meetings, correspondence and more and more consultations. And more measurements too. Embarrassing measurements—Kelso Industries sending company reps out, spending a lot of time on their knees, and him naked, standing there, like going to a series of tailors all single-mindedly concerned with his inseam. At last the climax of mortification - he stood and let them take a plaster cast of his nuts. But finally the thing was made, at last it has been delivered, this Frankenstein’s monster of a cup. The damn thing, the high-tech super cup, had cost a pretty penny too. But it was worth it. He fought—and beat—his opponents on the mat, and taught in his studio his amateur, flailing-limbed students, with the same old reckless bravado and impunity.
The young couple walked side by side in matching gis down the hall away from the locker rooms. He, straight and strapping, about 6 feet tall, square-shouldered; she, a full foot shorter, voluptuous as all get up on top and bottom, powerfully built in a feminine way, melon-breasted and bucket-assed but athletic-looking for all of that. They were just about to round the corner leading into the gym when the young man’s wife playfully flicked out the back of her hand and rapped it against the cup which was painfully visible under his gi. He jostled her on the shoulder and she laughed, he protested a bit; an ongoing joke they had—or she had, at least—ever since he’d first gotten it. She got a kick out of the look on his face; she knew he was already terribly self-conscious of the big protuberant rounded-off tent in his trousers. But his resilience, his ability to take her jibes—this was important to her, being a bit of a rabble-rousing fun-lover kind of a person, a “life of the party” type of gal. It was key to her maintaining respect for him. And for him, for the young husband, this raucous, fun-loving quality she evinced was the last straw that had attracted him, had really sealed the deal, for his own personality was quite the stern and stoic, strong-but-silent opposite. So yeah, she was always goofing around and lately, just lately, with the advent of “the Cup,” his balls were the butt of many a catty jape.
Class went off as usual. She lead the stretching and taught the absolute beginners while he worked with those with a little experience, practicing kicking and striking techniques, making the most use of momentum during routine flips. Later both classes combined again and finished up with a brief regimen of strength training on free weights. She watched him out the corner of her eye: he was her man, authoritative and handsome and strong was he. She loved him. She’d been a bit worried over the whole “balls” thing, how it cost him his confidence—even left him depressed there for a bit—but here he was, back to his old glaring, graceful, tutoring self. For his part, he always kept one eye on his lovely young wife over there on the other mat during class.
They were a young couple, all right: still seeing hearts, feeling Cupid’s arrow, exchanging furtive and effusive smiles and looks of lust. She had a short, thin, ski-ramp of a nose and thinnish slivered lips, thinned-out eyebrows and wide oval brown eyes. Her husband would wipe perspiration from his forehead, and he’d look, and he liked the way her short, brunette bob-cut bounced, those behemoth breasts of hers bounced, whenever she’d show the class a strike or a hopping movement of any kind. Girls with big tits. They always had bob-cuts. Shows their boobs more, he’d tell himself. That first ever class, she’d caught his eye—right away. He was young but he knew women—and he didn’t think she’d amount to anything in the martial arts; seemed to be the case with voluptuous women, they somehow lacked the grace. It was as though when their body did one thing, moved one way, struck or pivoted, the rest of their body needed a second or two to catch up. To stop jiggling. To get realigned. He was SURE a girl with breasts like that, breasts the size of mid-sized cantaloupes, would have problems moving around, maneuvering. But she proved him wrong, she got better, she didn’t let the jiggling and shifting of her bodily accessories bring her down, though it was, at times, a challenge (“Thank you, sports bra!”); she’d even won a few tournaments after he’d taken it upon himself to “tutor” her privately. Marriage was inevitable.
After class, in the private locker room, the young man grunted and rubbed his tingly legs and it was taking a bit longer—again—than his impatient young wife and business partner would have liked. She’d been finished and was standing outside his private “ball sanctuary,” hearing him groan and moan and sigh as he released himself from his protective crotch-casing. The KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK came before he’d even begun to unfasten the Velcro and the titanium (yes, those too) buckles.
“Aren’t you DONE yet?!”
“All right, all right,” he said. He hated being rushed.
The door flew open. She caught him one leg up on the locker bench, one leg down. This was perfect as she was in another frisky, jovial mood of hers. Caught him with his pants down.
“Hey—Sweetie,” he tried to protest. “—you know this is my place.”
“Pshh—YEAH! This is your BALLS’ place,” she jibed. “C’—MON!” she said, deftly sauntering into his partially unclothed, spread-legged stance and bringing her hand up quickly into his groin.
A metallic ringing CLINK—partially muffled from the cotton covering of the gi of his sleeve as he belatedly tried to block the shot—resounded through the tiles and showery acoustics of the locker room. Her husband clutched his chrome crotch and dropped to his knees, his head hanging limp at the end of his swaying, unresponsive neck. She stood over him, looking down, fully dressed in street clothes save for bare feet on bathroom tiles. At her side in one hand hung the two-and-half pound free weight plate she’d gotten and grabbed up from the weight room that she’d hit him with—tapped, she would insist.
“Metal on metal,” she boasted, giggling, “Ha-HA! They’re STILL not safe.” She paused. She waited. She set her other hand anxiously on her hip—she had plenty of hip for it—and she waited some more.
”Oh, come on,” she finally said. “You can’t be hurt THAT bad.” She bent over at the waist, and what would have been a thick waist on most other girls appeared as a thin wasp-like segment on her, given her other proportions, the way both breasts were dangling like hammocked udders in a loose-necked purple Angola sweater, and the black skirt bulged at the sides and the back like something equestrianly powerfully was lurking underneath. She put a finger under his chin, then it took two fingers, then three, and finally, she lifted up his face for her to see. His mouth was dumbly open and his eyes were in La-La land, not even trying to focus.
“Shit,” she muttered, and let her fingers away. She sat on the bench beside him, him still on the floor, hanging over, beaten, defeated, she set the little weight she had down on the bench, and she looked at her watch. She huffed. She began counting the minutes, looked at her watch again at intervals. Her mind drifted off. This was getting ridiculous. At last—somebody home again.
“Thank God!” the wife cried, the young man was moving, making an effort to get up and stand again. She had to help him, and when they both figured out, more or less at the same time, that sitting would be the better option still, she helped him to sit on the bench next to her.
“That was four minutes.”
Her husband gave a dumb look of disbelief.
“FOUR minutes, and I barely TAPPED you.”
“I know, I know,” he motioned, seemed to motion her away with one hand though she still was right beside. His other hand stayed fast to his shining big groin. The cup still wasn’t off.
“What am going to do with you?” she said in exasperation. “I can’t even play around with you, I swear.”
All at once he found words. “That was METAL!” he cried.
“SO?!”
“So you know what that DID?!”
“What?!”
“It made it VIBRATE.”
She chortled out loud then said, in a voice mocking his, a voice like an utter wimp, “OH! It made it VIBRATE!” And she clutched herself at her groin and made like she was going to all curl up, then straightened herself a second later on the bench and sat proudly, sticking the big chest balloons out.
“Gimme a break—I got THESE things to watch out for. You don’t see ME being all wimpy about it.”
“Yeah but you got a sports bra,” her husband said feebly.
She laughed again, in strictest disdain. “SO?! I still get hit there!”
“Yeah, but…”
“Yeah but what?”
“Nothing,” her husband sobbed. “Just leave me alone.”
“Fine. I will,” said the young wife. “I’m gonna go grab dinner. Guess your balls don’t want to eat.” She unceremoniously exited the locker room, slamming the door, leaving her hapless husband alone on the bench with his balls, thinking to herself, The next time I hear some guy say, “He’s got BALLS” or “That dude’s got BIG BALLS for doing that” I’m just gonna laugh my head off. I’m married to big balls. I married big balls. And they don’t mean SHIT.
No comments:
Post a Comment