Saturday, August 11, 2007

Strong Women

by Zturgeon

My family was extremely violent when I was growing up. My father used to drink excessively, and drunkenness made him hostile, destructive, and abusive. He was abusive with me and my sister and, to a more limited extent, with our mother. She was actually taller than him: she was 6'1", and he was 5'9". His violence toward her and to us was quickly curtailed, however, when one evening her rage, her stored up pain from years of abuse and neglect, exploded against him with nuclear force.

Father had been sitting in front of the television drinking bourbon. It was past our bedtime, and he was unwinding: he was wearing a T-shirt and a pair of tight, white briefs that seemed like a fat sock over his hulking genitals. His spirit unchained by the bourbon and the sight of his own large cock, he was getting increasingly rude and noisy. We couldn't sleep because of his vulgar, crescendoing verbiage. My sister and I were worried for our mother; we hid in the hall, peeking around the corner of the doorway; my sister whispered to me that she would call the police if Dad got too brutal with Mom.

At one point Dad ordered my mother, "Get over here, ya little slut," and pointed at the floor at his feet: "Kneel on the floor there." She paused, staring at him with an injured look.

"Why don't you just beat off?" she replied, "You're never going to be able to please me anyway." I was astonished at her defiance. It seemed to me that the only reason she was so bold was because she had seen us, and knew that we'd call the police if he got too rough.

Staring at her, his eyes wide and illuminated by alcohol and indignation, our father rose unsteadily to his feet. After hollering at her -- cuss-words, accusations of infidelity, denigrating remarks about her intelligence -- he slapped her. I had seen this happen before. Usually her reaction was one of pathetic terror: she'd turn away, tearful, then run into their bedroom only to be followed in by him and raped. But that evening something snapped, and her response astonished me: she turned around -- her eyes moist -- and slapped him back. I still remember the sound of it: a loud, hollow crack.

My dad was speechless for a moment, his face red, quivering with rage. Then he lunged at her with his hands flying out. After she dodged ineffectively, he trapped her in a headlock and began to constrict his arms. This was where her patience ended, and where his physical respect for her began: this was where the balance of power in their relationship changed dramatically. Instead of whimpering, pleading to be released, or sobbing in his powerful hold, she bit into his arm, while simultaneously reaching down and grabbing his testicles.

He was, as I've already mentioned, wearing tight white briefs, and the outline of his large penis was clearly visible, as were the low-hanging globes of his testes. She caught them in her hand, squeezed ferociously, and would not release. His arm fell away from her; he began howling; he began flailing his arms in aimless, desperate motions; he pleaded with her in a whimpering, high-pitched, garbled voice, but she would not relent. He began crying more tearfully and pathetically than I had ever seen her cry at his abuse. But she continued to grip his nuts, tugging them sharply downward a few times for extra effect. Our mother looked up at us standing in the doorway, gaping with amazement, and smiled victoriously. My sister turned to me with a look of utmost joy, exuberant at the triumph of justice. After about five minutes of humiliating him in front of his children, my mom dragged my dad -- by the balls -- across the room, past us down the hall, and into their bedroom, while he whimpered, helplessly. I do not know what she did with him in there, but that his pitiable yowling continued intermittently at least until I fell asleep about an hour later.

He did not come out of their bedroom the next day until dinnertime; he was trying to hide a limp, had a bruise across his cheek. He sat at the table extremely quiet and well behaved. After a while he tried to talk to us about school, in a fatherly, encouraging way, but there was something very small and meek about his manner. His voice was hoarse and frail.

On the occasions that he got drunk and surly after that, my mom would point at him and tell him sternly to shut up, "Or I'll do it to you again, Tom," and he would fall silent. Occasionally she would pour him more booze, saying, "Go on, have more. I dare you to act up again." But he was not up for the challenge; he didn't dare oppose his wife again.

A few weeks after that I began to hear him hollering in pain again, his plaintive voice spilling from their bedroom late at night. I crept down the stairs, and found their door ajar. Their bedside light was on, and I peered in to see them having sex. He was lying on his back, and she was mounting him. One of her hands was reaching back, gripping his balls and pulling them upward, as if to pluck them from his groin like plums from a tree branch.

"Still got your attitude?" She asked quietly.

"Bitch," he exhaled weakly. "Fucking bitch." She dropped his balls, made a fist, and hammered them with it. He cried out, his pained voice sounding almost totally unlike his normal voice. I was amazed at how transformed he seemed by her domination, but now I have come to realize how much of ordinary male conduct is posturing, a facade: the real man that comes out in moments of female domination is much, much different.

She pounded his balls several more times and he began bawling, then apologized frantically. She rose up -- I noticed his penis, somewhat full but limp, sagging -- and sat on his face. Clutching his hair, she pulled his tearful face up against her moist pussy. After a few moments she released his head and turned around, still keeping her pussy over his face but getting a better look down at his manhood. She saw me peering in the doorway, and I froze: caught, guilty.

"Look, Tom," her voice sounded pleasantly amused. He groaned in response. "Our son is watching us." He looked up to see me: we made eye contact.

"Go ta bed," he muttered weakly, barely able to articulate a command to anyone anymore. My mother laughed at him, then, making eye contact with me, grabbed my father's cock by the head, stretched it up, and drove her fist into his balls. My father lurched forward, his head colliding with her pussy, and broke into fresh weeping; my mother smiled at me, and I ran up to my room in shock.

She wanted me to know that there was a new order in the household. A new chain of command, with her, unchallenged, at the top. My father couldn't deal with this new twist in their relationship; the sexual revolution left him vanquished, as it did most men. He left home the next day in unendurable shame, and we never heard from him again.

My young mother found it very difficult to raise us. She often resorted to swift, fierce discipline: bending us over her knee and spanking us, occasionally slapping us in public. My sister was more docile, and soon became a model child -- at least in her obedience. I had more of my father's untamed fire, and was sometimes ill tempered and moody. My mother often swatted me to get me to obey her, but as I got accustomed to feeling her pain I became more immune to it, and more defiant.

Once when I was ten or eleven, my sister and I were fighting over a toy in the back yard; my mother demanded to know what the cause of our obnoxious dispute was; we explained our sides of the conflict, and my mother demanded that I return the toy to my sister. I refused. She yelled at me to obey her.

Standing motionless, staring silently at the ground, I refused to yield at all. (I remember the toy now: it was a little gun that shot small plastic discs a short distance.) My mother stepped up to me and slapped me across the face. Though I felt hot tears in my eyes, the slap was not a particularly novel punishment. I refused to reveal my intimidation: I spat on the ground then stared her in the face.

My mother cocked her head, whispered, "You stupid, stupid boy," then swung her fist into my crotch. I fell to the lawn, shrieking like a girl, clutching myself.

"Sara, come over and get the toy. Your brother's finally seen reason." Sara grabbed the toy from the ground in front of me as my mother walked into the house. Sara continued standing there a few feet away, looking down with peculiar satisfaction. Smiling.

After my mother went inside, I glared up at Sara then hissed, "What the fuck are you looking at?" She laughed then walked around me. A moment later I felt her foot slam into my rear end. I gasped at this new pain in my behind, and started scrambling to my feet to retaliate. As I reached my knees, she did it again, kicking harder, her toe striking me beyond the anus, just about where my testicles hung down. I fell back to the ground, rocking slightly on my side. My flow of tears was refreshed by this new sense of helplessness, defeat, and danger. Walking back in front me, Sara threw the toy gun at my face.

"You little wimp," she said, "A tap on the balls, and little Bobby falls. Ha, ha, ha."

"Fuckin' bitch," I replied, my voice about as feminine at that age as hers. In a move of unexpected bravery, no doubt fueled by outrage, she pushed me onto my back and sat down on my legs. She punched me in the face a few times and I struggled to shield my face with my arms. The pain, the fear of her violent force, stunned me. I couldn't believe she could be so aggressive.

Looking back on it, I realize she was obviously empowered by our mother's conquest of my father, her swift and complete emasculation of him. While I protected my face from additional blows, she unzipped my shorts and pulled them down. I wasn't wearing underwear; her hand descended upon my small, hairless genitals and -- a lesson learned from our mother – she gripped them in her hand.

"These are a joke," she laughed. "Boys are so fuckin' lame. What a dumb deal, being a male." Lying there weeping, begging for her to stop, totally at mercy to her because of my inherent physical inferiority, I agreed with her. What a dumb deal. My sister didn't have the natural stopping point of her own sexual satisfaction; she did not stop hurting me until she felt that I had been sufficiently punished. Since her cruelty was rooted in all the ridicule and nastiness I had directed at her throughout our childhood together, she showed mercy only very reluctantly: only when she was utterly bored with humiliating and hurting me.

I began to despise my own maleness. I saw it as a terrible weakness during physical conflicts: any woman who cared to could easily and instantly subject me to paralyzing physical discomfort. It took little effort on their part: a hand to the sac; a knee to the groin; an elbow, a fist to the nuts -- and then I'd be down, even more vulnerable than before, the charade of male strength instantly exposed.

I found my masculinity an impairment to real affection. During sexual situations, I would get distracted from love and kindness by my wretched desire to squirt semen into women, to soil them with my wet thrust. I enjoyed orgasm, that's certainly true, but then once it was over I hardly cared anymore. My orgasm involved a few minutes of frantic plunging; giving women orgasm involved caresses, sensual touching. Moreover, their intimate attentions were not annihilated upon orgasm. When my cock deflated, that was the end of sex for me until my all-too-long refractory period was over. With women, one orgasm led to another, and another.

My sister continued to sexually torment me when we were young, even until after I had reached puberty. She would invite her school friends to join her sometimes, and my mother either ignored their abuse or scolded me for not "being man enough" to protect myself "from a couple of innocent girls."

One occasion was particularly embarrassing. When I was fifteen my sister was close friends with a sixteen year old girl named Tracy, who was a tall, athletic, slightly overweight cheerleader at our school. She had long, blond hair and bright green eyes. She often wore tight T-shirts or turtlenecks that revealed her largely, lusciously curved breasts and her restless nipples. I drooled inwardly, envisioning her naked breasts, her bullet-like nipples.

Tracy slept over at our house one evening, and since their bedroom was next to mine I heard them laughing with each other late into the night. On several occasions I heard them mention my name. Then, sometime around midnight, they both rushed into my room while I lay half-asleep.

"Don't say a fucking word, Bobby," my sister hissed at me in the darkness. She grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head back. It was painful, and I was effectively pinned. I began shaking with fear, but I knew better than to protest.

"Go ahead," she said to Tracy. Though her expression was one of curiosity and surprise, Tracy did not hesitate. She stripped the blanket from the bed, grabbed the elastic band of my underwear, and pulled them down below my knees. My genitals were exposed; my thick growth of pubic hair, my mature balls in their loose scrotum, and my five-inch flaccid penis.

Tracy giggled. "Men are so fucking ugly," she declared, then poked her finger into my scrotum. "What a pathetic curse, all this crap."

"They're totally weak," my sister informed her. "If you show them that you're willing to hurt them down there, they'll do anything you say." Tracy looked at my face for confirmation.

"Isn't that true, Bobby?" My sister asked, jerking my head around.

"Mm-hm." I admitted pitiably, my eyes shiny with tears of fearful anticipation.

"I think you're pretty cute, Bobby!" Tracy said mockingly, jabbing my sac with her fingers. "I want you to screw my brains out. Make a woman out of me. Show me what my little slit is for." With that declaration, she hammered her fist into my nuts, and pain tore through my groin: hot, throbbing, completely mind numbing. I writhed, still gripped by my sister.

"How'd you like it if we neutered you like a puppy, Bob?" Tracy grabbed my testicles, compressing them with her tight fingers until I imagined them reduced to the size of blueberries by her strength.

"We should just castrate him," she said to my sister.

"Nah," she replied, "I like to torture his nuts. I'm learning how to deal with my future husbands."

"Yeah," Tracy agreed then slammed her hand down on my limp penis. I was terrified of these women; I had no will or strength to oppose them, and they knew this. They were fiercely exploiting my manhood to their advantage. When Tracy told me to lie down on the floor and spread my legs, I really had no choice at all.

I had to stoop as I got off the bed because of the pain surging out of my male organs. I tried to look pleadingly, pathetically into Tracy's eyes as she stood above me; I tried to play on pity, but she wasn't moved at all. She stepped forward and planted her sneakered foot on my jewels.

"Wanna have babies?" She jeered at me.

"Please," I begged her.

"Shut up!" My sister commanded, then kneeled down and banged up my cheeks and eyes with her fist.

"Wow, you're like rocking your brother," Tracy said, sounding slightly awed.

"This is how I'll be with all disobedient men. Why not? There's nothing to hold us back."

"Right," Tracy said, leaning her weight on the foot she had planted upon my testicles. I felt certain that her abuse would ruin me for life; that these casually cruel girls would accidentally destroy my balls, leaving me neutered, allowing my manhood to just slip away.

My sister lifted up her skirt and lowered her vulva onto my face. She rubbed herself over my nose and mouth then ordered me to please her clitoris. After a moment she complained, and then Tracy removed her foot.

"She said please her, you lousy little dick-stalk!" After yelling, she kicked me full-force in the groin. I tried to crumple up into a ball and hide from them, but my sister pinned my head against the floor with her pussy. Tracy wouldn't relent: she grabbed my screaming testicles with her hand and gripped them while I cried, staring directly into my eyes.

"How does it feel to be a man, Bobby? Huh? Do you like this? This is what the war between the sexes comes down to, Bob. Men are fucking weak little slaves." She pulled my balls as far from my groin as she could, then tugged fiercely several times, repeating, "You're a man, you're a man, another stupid, defenseless man." Again I was reduced to a helpless, tearful mess by women. And not unusually strong or determined women, just normal women. They were simply overwhelming.

Experiences like that trained me to deeply regret being male. My genitals made me vulnerable and ugly. When I began college, I specifically sought out women who seemed strong, assertive, intolerant and selfish. Subconsciously, I may have been hoping they would punish me for being male, because I felt I deserved such punishment. And, for the most part, they all did punish me. I've found that women have histories of explosive rage sealed up inside them, and when they decide to tap into it, men are simply not capable of opposition; we cannot defend ourselves against women's power. We are too flawed. Too weak. It wasn't sheer brutality that made women punish me. They recognized the uncivilized, stupid, and arbitrarily violent nature of men; they realized what maleness had done to the world.

When, for example, Shelly Meiker took me with her on her Feminist Literature class's picnic and kneed me in the balls, in front of everyone, when I confessed that I had forgotten to bring her Diet Pepsi instead of regular Pepsi, she was punishing the sex that had fouled up so much of human history, and oppressed her own sex for so long. I collapsed on the ground, clutching myself, while she poured Pepsi over my face and over my groin. She leaned over my face, pitying me, her bra-less breasts hanging down close to my mouth. I cried. I really just wanted to suck her breasts and have her forgive me. No man could ever do her justice.

My last sexual relationship was with a woman named Jessica. I met her through my work in real estate several years after college; she was a highly successful, motivated, and extremely attractive woman. She had very short black hair, cut in a rather boyish style, which she often decorated with hair clips and tiny ponytails. She was tall, slender, and had B-cup breasts, compact and elegant. Although she was only slightly older than I was, she was far more successful than I had been -- and far more successful than many men who had been at work in the field for more than a decade.

Jessica was highly controlling. I learned this almost immediately – she would tell me what to wear before we went out to gatherings, she would tell me not to repeat certain things about myself; she told me how to interact with her, how to treat other people at work -- she even told me what sort of answering machine message I should have on my personal phone. I had implicit trust in her assessment of things, and I was often insecure about my own judgments, so almost without exception I followed her advice.

Jessica was also quite controlling in bed. She would decide how long I should give her cunnilingus before I penetrated her, and then she would decide when it was time for us to switch positions. Often when I was on the verge of ejaculating she would seize my testicles and squeeze them or force me to stop moving; this way she would interrupt my sexual gratification, and force me to go on longer.

I found my need for her growing as she made more and more decisions in my life. I was afraid of becoming dependent upon her only because I was worried that she would see me as clingy, or needy, and resent me for this; in truth, I would have relinquished all of my autonomy to her if she wished me to. Serving someone as magnificent as her provided me with a rich sense of meaning, and true inner happiness. I was not much of a man in our relationship -- not in the stereotypical sense -- but I realized she had a better nature for being in the dominant position. Later I realized that most women do, in fact, belong in the dominant position in relationships; men's thinking is poor, flighty, shallow; their interests are narrow ranging. And they're simply weaker creatures.

A temporary rupture occurred in our relationship after I had moved into her home. One evening I came home from her office late -- I was redecorating it for her, and only worked after-hours so as not to interrupt her business -- and I caught her engaged in intercourse with one of the adult male students from a brokerage class she was teaching.

It was a horrible thing for me to witness; it truly hurt me, and it took me a long time for me to understand my feelings about it. I had seen his car parked in our driveway; I had heard their voices as soon as I entered the hall leading to our bedroom; I had even seen his coat tossed on our living room sofa. It seemed to me at first that the lack of concealment suggested that their lovemaking was entirely spontaneous. But later I realized they didn't bother hiding anything because Jessica was simply not frightened by how I might react. I wasn't a threat to her. Moreover, she wanted me to know. Wanted me to see. See her in the act: riding his long, thick cock while he lay naked on our bed, her bare breasts swinging from the frenzied motion of her hips; pulling deliriously at his chest hairs, eyes fluttering, gasping quickly, ecstatic at the wonder of a penis so large entering her body. I stared at the two of them, their magnificent bodies transported with sexual pleasure; I listened to their passion, and felt like my masculinity, my ego, and my pride were simultaneously dissolving. I was hurt. For a moment, I felt anger rise up like poisonous acid inside me.

"You disgust me," I spat at her. He looked up at me standing in the doorway then turned to the woman on his penis. She glanced briefly over her shoulder at me.

"Bobby, meet Brad." She turned back to the man under her, and again rose up on his magnificent cock, then eased snugly down on it. She exhaled passionately, and combed her fingernails through his dense, dark chest hair. Even aware that I was watching, she was unwilling to stop satisfying herself with this gorgeous male specimen.

"Is he your husband?" he asked her.

"Boyfriend, sorta."


"He's not all you'd want from a boyfriend."

"What?" I hissed at her. "What the fuck did you say?"

"Look, Bobby," she turned to me again. "Look at this." Momentarily she lifted off of her stud, and pointed her open palm down by his groin. "Look at how he's hung: a cock like a sledge-hammer; balls three times the size of yours. He's a masterpiece of manhood. A REAL man. Why don't you just sit down and watch him fuck me? See how it's done? Do what I tell you, Bobby, and maybe thus young hunk can teach you how to be a man." She mounted Brad again, and then really got into it. Brad looked up at me, smiling, as Jessica's body shuddered, quivered, shook, nearly detonated from the deep piercing of his cock.

After that evening Jessica continued to date Brad while I was still living with her. Soon she stopped using my penis inside her vagina, though she still told me to orally please her. I became resentful and began routinely ignoring her requests.

At some point I told her about the incidents from my childhood, and she decided that the only sort of discipline that I would respond to was harsh physical discipline. I was becoming more and more marginalized in the triangle. I was not her boyfriend anymore, though we lived together; Brad was her boyfriend.

"He's the real man in my life: the ONLY man in my life," she once told me. I was there only as a convenience for their pleasure, incapable of making any real demands of my own.

Occasionally Jessica reminded me of my place in our relationship by humiliating me, squashing my feelings, belittling my manhood. If she got bored giving Brad head, she would tell me to lie on my back facing up at her crotch while she kneeled in front of his cock. I was instructed to lick her genitals as she pleasured her man. She would rub her pussy against my face, occasionally allowing herself to urinate on my head.

Sometimes for her own excitement at seeing two men erotically engaged, sometimes merely to punish and humiliate me, she would make me lick Brad's balls, or stroke his cock. Sometimes she made me dress in her clothing and fellate him while she masturbated, and ridiculed me: "Bobby sucks co-ock, Bobby sucks co-ock." She would ask Brad how I was; if I wasn't completely satisfactory, she would make me fellate a huge latex dildo she strapped around her own waist. She'd yank my face back by the hair and drive that rod into my mouth, slam it against my throat. Sometimes she would swing it against my balls before strapping it on, like some vicious sport of pain. If I snatched it from her, she would grab my testicles until I began to whine or scream.

Occasionally I grew rebellious toward her -- that old paternal fire – and extremely resentful toward Brad. On one occasion Jessica was giving Brad head, and forcing me to watch while I sat on the floor naked. She commanded me not to touch myself or talk. She then abruptly stopped, and told me to come over and lick his huge cock. I was sulking, and refused, telling her I'd bite off his cock if she made me lick it.

"Oh, really?" he asked, amused. "You think you'd be able to hurt me?"

"You'd better not try it, boy," she added. "He's much more of a man than you are."

"Oh, that's fucking bullshit," I said. It was the only thing I could think of to say.

"Look," she commanded me, "Look at his balls." She gently held them in her hand, and raised them up. They were extremely large; I couldn't deny it. "And now look at your little nuts, boy." She stepped over to me, bent down, and grabbed my testicles roughly, pulled them upward. I made an indistinct exclamation of pain.

"His balls are immense; yours are puny. He's a man; it looks like you've barely reached boyhood with these tiny nibblets." She squeezed my balls, and I begged her to stop. "He'd beat the fuck out of you, boy. Admit it. Say, `He's more of a man than me.'" My jaws clamped shut. Still clutching my little balls with one hand, she slapped me across the face.

"Say it!"

"He's more of a man than me," I intoned woefully.

"Now say, ‘Brad's got the balls; my scrotum's totally empty.’" Once again I resisted, and once again she punished me. She clamped down on my nuts, and started trying to drill her fingernails right into them like toothpicks into hors d'oeuvres.

I cried out then spewed, "Brad's got the balls; my scrotum's totally empty." Brad laughed at me, and Jessica, clutching a lock of my hair, pulled my face over to his cock. Over to his balls. And I, the boy with the nearly empty scrotum, did as I was told. I couldn't resist that woman; she owned me.

On another rebellious occasion, she told me to kneel in front of Brad and lick his balls while she sat back and masturbated. Brad stared down at my groin, and frowned. He commented on his own cock -- that blessing of male flesh, nearly eight inches erect, and thick -- then nudged at mine with his toe: three and a half inches, flaccid. I exploded with anger: I grabbed his testicles just as I had seen my mother do to my father, and tried to squeeze them to paste. Immediately he cried out, and Jessica ran up behind me and slammed her foot into my groin. I collapsed on the floor, releasing Brad's balls; weeping hysterically, I clutched desperately at my own. If my scrotum had been a football, I thought, its flight would have cleared fifty meters against strong winds with Jessica's brutal kick.

When Brad's lesser pain subsided, he pulled me onto my knees then sodomized me. My anus bled; the pain caused me to scream. Jessica walked up to me, punched me in the face then told me to shut the fuck up. Brad reached around my legs while his impressive cock rammed into me and locked my nuts in a fierce grip, squeezing, harder than I could possibly have done to him. I don't think I breathed in again until he released me.

When they finished with my punishment, I collapsed on the ground, feeling paralyzed, my body aching with pain spreading from my groin to every cell in my body. I could not walk immediately after that; when they ordered me into the house, I crawled in, lamely, like a dog nearly killed by a speeding car.

Then they bathed me, and explained to me that I had done wrong. I wept, promising I would never try to hurt either of them again, and they both kissed me, agreeing that I was probably sincere. I was extremely grateful for that. But in actuality, I was probably not wholly sincere; I did not appreciate my role in the relationship, and did not understand it. I had an urge, like most egotistical men, to be the power in the relationship. What entitled me to such pretenses, I don't know; I never thought about it. I just naturally strove for supremacy. I had my principles, reflected in my pledges, but again and again I'd do things against my own best interest. My body drove me against my soul. This profound inner conflict was, I now realize, a function of my male hormones. Being a man -- that is, an unrefined man, a man in his testicled, primitive state -- I was destined to misbehave again. It was shameful, really; I always picked the most idiotic moments to attempt my petty revolts.

One afternoon I was reading a novel in the garden, lying back on a bench. It was an extremely hot day, and I was wearing diving shorts, hoping to get a solid tan. Brad walked past me toward the garage. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt.

"Bobby," he called to me. I looked up, without answering him.

"Mow the lawn today, would you? Instead of just sitting around reading?" I stared at him for a moment then turned back to my book. I had accepted his instruction; mow the lawn I would.

"Hey!" He called out to me again. I turned back. "Answer me, Bobby."

"What the fuck?" I asked, hotly.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, what the fuck? You want me to mow the lawn; I'll mow the lawn. I know my place around here."

"I don't think you do," he said sternly, walking toward me. I began trembling; I looked down at his feet to avoid his eyes. When his feet were about two paces from me, he said, "Sit up." I did, and stared at down at his sneakers. "Look at me," he said, and I looked up. With our eyes glued together with a mixture of emotions -- fear, anger, a touch of sadness -- he slapped me across the face. I felt hot tears fill my eyes instantly. And once again, my reaction surprised me. It was barbaric; pure hostility, and I had no idea where it came from, what hideous cavern in my soul bred such treacherous impulses. What I did was rise to my feet and snap my knee up into his groin. He fell to his knees, clutching himself, while I began pounding his head with my fists. I swung uppercuts into his face. I began kicking him.

Unlike me, with my propensity for weeping and pleading when I knew I was losing a fight, Brad didn't show any real emotion. I took this as a sign that I was not gaining enough ground against him; that I wasn't really hurting him. I found the metal rod used to turn on the sprinkler system, and struck him across the back with it. Brad groaned in pain.

"Hey!" I spun around; my jaw dropped. Jessica was running out of the house toward me. "Drop that fucking rod or you're dead," she ordered me. Perhaps by that point I was overjoyed at my own success against Brad; perhaps it was my male nature, stupid and bold. Instead of dropping the rod, as I should have, I held it up like a baseball bat, ready to swing it against her stern, beautiful, female face.

"One more time," she said, standing about five yards away from me, "Drop the rod, Bobby. Now." I shook my head, grinding my teeth together. "You'll have to take it from me, lousy bitch. I'm sick of your fucking abuse." Without a moment's hesitation, Jessica charged at me: a blur, a streak of color in my direction. Surprised at the immediacy of her response, I swung the rod, but she had stopped dead in her tracks just out of my range. The force of my swing took me off balance, and as I shifted my feet to steady myself, she lunged onto me. With her left hand she grabbed my hair, tugging my head back; with her right hand she clamped onto my balls, fiercely twisting them downward through the tight, thin fabric of the shorts. I cried out in pain, and the rod fell from my grip onto the lawn. And then so did I, as Jessica pulled me onto my back.

As soon as I was down, Jessica slammed the sole of her foot into my crotch. While I sobbed, leaning forward to try to cover my balls with my whole upper body, Jessica stepped over to my head and kicked me hard above the ear, knocking me out completely. When I came too, I was lying on one of the beds. My ankles were tied to the posts. Since my shorts were off, my groin was exposed to sight and, I knew, to abuse. I began crying as soon as I woke up, even though I was in the room alone. I was terrified; I had been very, very bad, and I knew that they would punish me proportionately.

Smiling, Brad stepped into the room from the hall when he heard my crying. "Jessica," he called into the hall, "Bobby-Boy's awake." Before she entered, Brad began undressing. He whistled while he did so, some ominous classical-sounding melody. Jessica entered the room holding a couple of knives from the kitchen. I recognized them; I had used them making dinner for Brad and Jessica.

"Well, Bobby," Brad said, walking over to me. His large testicles swung attractively between his legs; his thick penis became quickly erect, and looked like a fountain of flesh. All the components of his manhood were so large in comparison to my own that they seemed almost like independent creatures. "It's time for you to change your insubordinate ways."

"What're you gonna do?" I asked nervously, my voice slurred, my head groggy from Jessica's kick.

"We're gonna castrate you," Jessica said, her tone bright and cheerful. I groaned, my head rushing with blood, a sense of doom enveloping me. "That's right," she said, "We're gonna neuter you. Get rid of your manhood once and for all. We need a more devoted servant, not some misbehaving little pseudo-man."

Brad climbed onto the bed beside. On his knees, he moved his groin over to my face so that I could look at his impressive genitals. "No more of these for you," he said, stroking his balls.

"He never really had 'em to begin with," Jessica quipped, grabbing my smallish balls and pulling them toward her. "He had the puny physical units, but never really had balls in the manly sense."

"Too bad," Brad said.

"Most men are like that," Jessica opined. "It's like they're renting balls for reproduction, but keep them well beyond the point where they're useful. Sort of like overdue books, but the person who checked 'em out never actually learned to read." Listening to Jessica talk, Brad lifted his rigid cock above my face then released it. It swung down, banging against the bridge of my nose.

"Which knife do you think I should use?" She asked, looking up at Brad. Brad chuckled ambiguously then Jessica turned to me. "You have any preference, Bobby? I mean, fair is fair, right? We're cutting off your little balls, so maybe you get to be consulted."

"He's busy," Brad informed her, then pinched my nose. Running out of breath, I had to open my mouth. He lowered his balls over my mouth. "Lick 'em. Suck 'em. They're the only balls you'll know from now on, Bobby." His testicles, wrapped tight in his hairy scrotum, bounced against my lips: large, heavy, loaded with potency. I extended my tongue, tasting the sweat on his sac -- salty, mingled with the pungent flavor of his manhood – then brought one of his balls into my mouth. I only had room for one.

"Look down, Bobby," Jessica instructed me. She was pulling my little balls toward her with one hand, while holding a sharp, lean, softly curving veal knife against them with her other hand. I noticed there were tears in my eyes again. I felt dehydrated. Weak. I moaned.

"That's good," Brad said, "Hum like that; make vibrations. Feels good on my balls." I moaned some more for his pleasure; I wept some more for my vanishing manhood, and for the pain Jessica was inflicting on my nuts.

"Tomorrow you'll be a new person, Bobby," Jessica said, "And we won't miss the old you at all. Now feel this..." My testicles!

My crying climaxed into wailing; Brad pulled his balls out of my mouth, worried that I would accidentally, or in a fit of childish rage, bite down on them. I had threatened things like that in the past.

Jessica slapped me a few times to try to shut me up. After a while she grabbed my cock, and threatened to slice it off, too, if I didn't stop whining. I soon lost consciousness. During my testicled period, every orgasm felt like a release; the blood would drain from my penis afterwards, and my cock would dwindle in size and lose its usefulness as a sexual instrument. At the point of orgasm my interest in sex would vanish temporarily. Each orgasm, it seemed to me, was nothing more than a rehearsal for castration. Finally the real performance had come. And with castration came clarity. I became the facilitator for Jessica and Brad. They had created the new me, and I was overjoyed at my role. I didn't have to compete with Brad for Jessica's attention; I didn't have to aspire to some absurd, barbaric notion of manhood as anything other than a subordinate position to womanhood. I felt extremely important in our threesome. In a way, I was the heart of it; I had sacrificed more than either of them; I had changed my very nature in order to make the three-way relationship perfect. And they appreciated me for it; that was very clear. During sex, I was sort of a referee, a cheerleader, and an audience all in one. But I was also very much involved: I made sure they were both getting plenty of pleasure, stimulating Jessica's clitoris in various ways, massaging Brad's large testicles with my tongue, playing with their anuses. I was often on the floor, around their legs. I slept with either of them, or we all slept together, secure in our very distinct roles. They never fought with me anymore, though they occasionally fought with each other, because I was supremely submissive. I simply followed orders; my identity transcended ego. I was the heart of their relationship, and many times I kept us all together.

Sometimes I wanted Brad to make a similar sacrifice. Holding his balls, rubbing them gently in my hands while strumming his glans with lips, I'd get an urge to cut him. Company in my eunuch-hood sounded fun from time to time, and I knew Jessica would be tickled to be served by two neutered men: two human beings who had radically changed in their psychological, sexual, and physical nature out of respect for her awesome womanhood. But I decided it would be arrogant for me to rush things: Jessica was the one who should make the decisions for us all. She was the woman.

And I noticed -- with sympathetic pain, but also a bit of delight -- that she was getting a little impatient with Brad's masculinity, just as she had with mine. For example, one evening we were watching television. She had left the remote controller by the bookshelf, and told Brad to get up and change the station. Brad rose without protest, staring fixedly at the screen. He hesitated for a moment.

"Switch it, Brad!" she ordered, sounding a little irritated.

"Hold on..." He continued to stare at the T.V. screen; an interview with a sports figure was just wrapping up.

"Now, Brad!"

"Just...just a sec." Jessica, not making a sound, rose to her feet, stepped up behind him, and threw her arm around his waist. He cried out as her fingers snapped onto one of his large testicles -- like the mouth of some fierce alien reptile – and squeezed it tight; shook it violently, wildly. His usually smooth, deep masculine voice turned into a shuddering, high-pitched whine. She rammed her knee up into his ass then dragged him to the floor by the balls.

"Next time I tell you to do something," she ordered down at him, "Just do it." She looked down at him, lying on the floor, covering his balls with his hands. She lifted her eyes briefly and saw me smiling at her. She smiled back then nodded down at Brad. As if taking a telepathic order, I walked over and lifted Brad's arms, pulling his hands away from his groin.

"No. No, Jessica," he begged to her, trying to press his legs together.

"Spread your legs or I'll cut your balls off. Little punishment or big punishment."

"Oh, oh my god." His knees quivered badly as spread his legs wider. Jessica stared directly into Brad's eyes, her face strong, gleaming with the narcotic rush of female superiority: his face pathetic, tearful, trembling with a man's awareness of his innate inferiority. Then she slammed her foot into his balls. Brad wept.

"Wow," she said, exhilarated, "Why don't more women take on their men like I do?" Smiling peacefully, at ease in her power, she sat back down on the couch.

"Eunuch!" She commanded me, "Time for my hourly orgasm."

"Yes, it is," I said. "And I'm happy you reminded me." I rushed over, kneeling, eager to satisfy the woman who had sliced off my balls. She, my master, had freed me from the pathetic state of manhood, allowing me to ascend a notch closer to womanhood.

And I loved her for it.


Andy’s Strange Girl

by Youngballs

Andy's freshman year in high school had just started, and he was still desperately trying to absorb everything new. The classes were no problem; he was a virtual boy-genius. Of course, he would never let anybody know that. Andy wasn't a nerd; he had a quiet intelligence that he chose not to expose to most people. Socially, however, Andy knew he would have more problems. For instance, he had never had a girlfriend or kissed a girl in his life, and he never seemed to meet any girls that understood him.

In his last mod study hall, Andy had been placed beside an attractive, yet dark and brooding, senior girl. Andy was in the far back left-hand corner of the room, and the girl, Christina, was to his immediate right. Christina never said anything, and didn't seem to have any friends. This was very strange for a girl as attractive as her. There seemed to be a constant emotional struggle going on in her big, dark eyes.

After a couple of days, Andy noticed that Christina was constantly looking at him. This took him by surprise. He didn't know it, but most girls considered him extremely cute, just too shy. He was about 6 feet tall; he had very dark brown hair and big dark eyes. He was thin - the kind of thin that came from a boy who was used to constant movement and playfulness in his youth, and his body was very well defined.

The second week of school, something strange happened. Andy was already sitting in his desk (one of those chairs that is connected directly to the desk). Christina walked in with only her history book, which she held loosely in her right hand. As she turned to sit in her desk, she dropped the book (Andy presumed accidentally) directly into his sitting lap. The bottom of the vertically standing book hit him directly in his balls, which were protected only by a light pair of soccer-style shorts and his briefs.

Christina gasped in surprise just as Andy gasped in pain, and her hand went immediately to retrieve the book. Instead of securing the book and lifting it up, Christina appeared to have some trouble getting hold of it, as she mistakenly ground it hard into Andy's freshman gonads. Finally, she grasped the book and lifted it up, but not before grinding Andy's nuts against the bottom of his chair. Andy had never really been hurt in the balls before, so in the shock of it faint traces of tears welled up in his eyes as he clutched the front of his desk. His knuckles became white, but he didn't want to follow his instinct and hold himself where it hurt, because it would have embarrassed him. During the whole experience, Christina had never really appeared as if she were paying attention.

She began to sit down with her book, when she said, almost as an afterthought, "I'm sorry, did I pinch your leg?" Andy was amazed, but a little relieved that Christina wasn't aware she had just been smashing his nuts.

Andy winced in pain, and then answered, "Yeah, but it's OK." Christina smiled back at him. Now, for the first time, Andy began to concentrate on the dull aching in his nuts. Then a much more familiar feeling came to him. Blood was rushing to his dick as he developed a raging boner. He thought of how hot Christina was, and how she had almost been touching his genitals, and how she had inflicted such pain on them ... Fortunately his tight briefs kept his 5 inch penis in check; it wasn't visible as more than a small lump in his soccer shorts.

Andy pretended to read a book, but was really thinking about how much he liked what had just happened. It was his first ballbusting experience, and he was now desperately praying that it wouldn't be his last. After 20 minutes, his erection hadn't gone away, and the pre-cum had soaked through his briefs and made a fairly noticeable wet spot on his glossy shorts.

During this time, Christina had been writing on a piece of paper. Now, she was finished. She folded it up and looked around the class to make sure that nobody was looking back in their corner. Everyone was busy studying or engaged in conversation. She took the folded piece of paper and reached over to Andy's crotch. She slowly slid it up the left leg of his little shorts, and let it rest there. Her hand kept moving, slowly. It found the faint outline of Andy's balls. It squeezed... hard.

A new wave of pleasure pain resonated throughout Andy's crotch. Christina was not letting go, and Andy took the pain in absolute silence. Or at least enough silence that his girlish wincing wasn't heard over the relatively loud roar of the classroom conversation. The squeezing intensified, and Andy buckled as he rest his head on his desk. He was concentrating with everything he had not to yell out. Christina persisted, and Andy was now feeling the worst pain of his 16 years of living. Andy ground his teeth as he pretended to put his head against his desk to sleep. He slowly reached under the desk; he realized he had to end this before they made a scene. Just as Andy realized that he couldn't breath anymore and his eyes teared up from the strain, he removed her hand from his nuts.

He immediately let go of Christina's hand and covered his head with both arms as he tried to deal with the pain. Before completely withdrawing her arm, Christina's hand moved to the bulging outline of Andy's hard penis. She gave it a few quick pumps through his shorts, and Andy absolutely exploded. This was one of the most intense orgasms Andy had ever had; it reminded him of the very first time he had masturbated. The long orgasm alleviated some of the pain in his nuts. The crotch of Andy's shorts was now completely soaked. He remained curled up, his head on the desk, trying to slow his breathing after the amazing pleasure. In the meantime, Christina had started reading her history book, as if nothing had happened.

Andy looked up, and heard somebody whisper, "Was her hand in his crotch?" Oh shit, Andy thought, and he immediately put his head back down. Everyone was going to know about this. He quickly wrote a note to Christina: "Tell the teacher that I was suddenly sick and had to leave." He passed the note to her and bolted out of the room, holding his books entirely over the enormous wet spot on his crotch.

He felt the note that Christina had put up his shorts begin to slide out. He quickly grabbed at it, and ended up putting his hand right in between his legs as he walked out of the classroom. There was a faint giggle from part of the left-hand side of the classroom, where the door was. He put the note in his books to read later, and got the Hell out of the school.

Part 2

Andy got home and read the note: "I want to feel every part of your hard freshman body, and I want to suck your hard freshman dick. - Christina" Andy was about to change his shorts, but decided to take a cold shower instead.

That had been Monday. Christina completely ignored Andy until Friday, when she passed him another note: "Come to my house tomorrow night. My parents are away." She included the address of her house.

The next day, Andy prepared to make this visit. He was nervous, but incredibly excited. He wore a pair of tight black bikini briefs under his jeans. He had gone to the store and bought a condom ... just in case. He had always been so shy; he could barely contemplate losing his virginity while he was still a freshman.

Andy arrived at Christina's house. He rung the doorbell, and she answered wearing only kinky lace underwear. Andy's dick immediately raged in excitement. He followed her upstairs to her room.

"Let me help you," she said seductively, as she removed Andy's outer clothing, leaving nothing on him but the black briefs. Christina shivered. "God, you are so sexy." She jumped completely on top of him, and they began making out. Andy was completely relaxed, and he didn't resist when she slipped both of wrists into cuffs at the head of the bed. In fact, he became more excited. He was expecting a wonderful blowjob, but instead Christina produced a wooden paddle. Andy smiled, not the least bit disappointed with this turn of events. Christina went to work ...

Five devastatingly hard blows later, and Andy WAS more than disappointed; he was shivering in absolute agony. She brought the paddle high above her head again ... and brought it down with all of her force directly into Andy's young balls.

"OH GOD!" he screamed out, as the tendons in his neck strained as he writhed against his constraints. Amazingly, his dick was harder than ever. Another blow. Andy felt like his balls were exploding and the pain was flowing directly to every other part of his body. Smack. He began to convulse. Only after 10 full-force blows did Christina stop. By this time, Andy's erection was completely gone; he was temporarily no longer man enough to maintain it. Every muscle in his body stood out as he sobbed like a baby. The tears streamed down his face in torrents, and his body continued to jolt around involuntarily. Christina bent down and kissed Andy's balls through his underwear. She went to the closet to put the paddle away, and brought out a heavy leather whip.

"Please God no," Andy pleaded. "You don't understand; you are going to break them!"

"Don't be silly. Testicles are amazingly resilient. These little fellas will provide us both plenty more fun."

"Christina, please," he begged.

"God, you are so fucking cute, Andy. I dream about crushing your little nuts with my bare hands. DAMN, I love you already."

Andy was saying, "Please stop this" just as Christina was bringing back her whip for the strike. "Please," he desperately began again as a horrifyingly loud snap was heard as the whip connected solidly with Andy's balls, which were a neat target in his tight underpants. He screamed like a girl, and didn't worry about holding anything back. Christina hit him again, exactly the same, as hard as she could. The screaming went up a pitch, as Andy's manliness went down about fifty.

She struck him again. Even Christina winced as Andy girlishly squealed with an almost pre-pubescent zeal. Andy's body was jerking madly about, and he had untucked and untidied all of the sheets on Christina's bed with his writhing. He was coughing and drooling on himself as his feet tried to run away, not able to go anywhere, sliding the mattress down the bed a bit. A fourth blow, and his body went limp and his screams became voiceless. He could no longer struggle. Only the gushing tears evidenced his pain. The fifth blow. Andy became the embodiment of pain. His head was full of it. He could feel every nerve in his nuts sending electric volts throughout his body. The leather had lacerated his scrotum, and blood began to flow out of his bikini briefs. They felt unbelievably tight as his nuts struggled to expand against them. Christina put the whip away.

She came back and noticed a pool of blood had formed on her sheets, underneath the tight bulge that was Andy's tortured manhood.

"You are ruining my sheets, you pussy! I thought you'd be tougher." Andy only groaned. Christina shook her head. "You have a small dick AND you are weak. You're like a 6 year-old boy, you fag."

The bleeding in Andy's sack had begun to subside, and Christina got a wet cloth to wrap it in. After completely wrapping up Andy's defeated nads, she took the rest of her clothes off. Despite his state of utter agony, Andy began to get horny again. Christina climbed over top of him, putting her legs on either side of his limp body. Unlike that young body, Andy's dick was no longer limp. She began to stroke it lightly. Then she moved down and gently licked the head of it. Andy's nuts throbbed as his penis became fully erect. Christina reached over into a drawer beside her bed, and she pulled out a condom. She unwrapped it and carefully placed it over Andy's dick.

"They really don't make these things for small boys like you," she said, as she noticed the amount of excess material at the base of his penis. Suddenly, she mounted Andy. His penis slid into her body. Andy moaned in sheer ecstasy, while his nuts were in sheer agony. He couldn't do any of the work; Christina humped him with all of her energy. He moaned girlishly in pleasure as Christina was screaming out. They both approached orgasm ... and from the sounds of it, explosive orgasm.

When Christina sensed that they were both coming, she controlled herself enough to reach for Andy's balls, which were still wrapped in a cloth. 20 more seconds of intense humping. Christina squeezed Andy's balls with all of the strength her exhilarated body could produce. She had an orgasm that was ten times as powerful as anything she had ever felt before. She used the sheer energy what was happening to her to put an unnaturally tight grip onto Andy's nuts. She could feel him coming too. He was coming in unbelievable amounts, and it was flowing out the bottom of his condom. They orgasmed together for what seemed like an eternity, and Christina virtually squeezed the life out of poor Andy's balls. Flattened and drained, they were a shell of what they had been before this encounter had occurred. When the pleasure of his orgasm finally subsided, Andy felt nothing but pain. Pure excruciating agony. He feared that he might be dying. His body shivered horribly, and he felt cold and wet. Finally, he passed out, a puddle of blood and semen near his sack.

It was the most intensely erotic experience he had ever had in his life. He eventually woke up and went home to allow his nuts to recover. His nuts felt very much like a lifeless slab of meat for a while.


Andy and Christina saw each other frequently for most of the rest of the year. They would always play violent games and then have sex. It was the greatest time of both of their lives. Unfortunately, Andy was a freshman and Christina was a senior… and the year was coming to an end. Christina was going off to college where she would explore more adventures, and Andy would be without his kicks (literally) for 3 years.

After Christina’s graduation, she had a party. Very much later that night, everyone had left the house but her and Andy.

“I want to do something special tonight, since this is the end of our school days together,” Christina said seductively. Andy liked the sound of that.

They were in the living room, and Christina moved over to where Andy was on the couch and kissed him while lightly brushing his crotch with her hand. Andy usually wore sweatpants with no underwear, as that is how Christina liked it. His dick was quickly bulging straight out.

“Grab that sheet,” she said as she indicated a folded sheet that lay on the couch. As Andy grabbed the sheet, she grabbed Andy’s balls. She was pretty rough, but Andy was used to it by now. He only winced as she said, “Follow my hand.”

Of course Andy had no choice. He moved with her into the kitchen. When he didn’t move at the right pace, she tugged violently downward and outward. Andy buckled at the waist a few times as he tried to follow. He did his best to conceal his sounds of pain. They approached the kitchen table. Just as Andy got very close to one of its hard wooden corners, Christina got behind him and shoved him into it with all of her might. The corner was crotch level, and Andy’s crotch was leveled. His body bent immediately and he leaned over on the table and gagged. Christina began caressing his ass…

Another violent shove to his midsection. Andy was trapped into the corner, and his light sweat pants offered no protection. His eyes turned red, and his upper body went limp on the table. Christina supported his lower body, which was still angled neatly about the corner of the table. She ran her hands intensely over Andy’s tight ass, groaning in pleasure the whole time. Andy was groaning in pain. Christina mounted Andy’s limp, bent body from behind and drooled onto the back of Andy’s neck. Then, she planted her feet on the ground while still on his body.

“I wonder if this is what it is like to be a guy,” Christina said wryly, as she began furiously humping Andy’s ass. Each jerk propelled his tender nuts directly into the corner of the table. It was a complete role reversal: Christina humping and Andy sounding a lot like a girl in the meantime.

“Ohhhhhh,” he screamed out in agony. Every time Christina played her games, he wished she would stop, but always wanted more later. He wondered how long his nuts would survive that kind of indecision in a relationship. From how he felt right now, he guessed not long. The table was wet wear his face was, as everything was leaking out fluids from his torment. He face contorted in enormous sobs as Christina enjoyed her ride.

Finally, she got off. She stood Andy up straight, but kept his swelling balls aligned against the hard corner. She used her feet to adjust his feet, and spread his legs out further. Her hand moved up in-between his legs; she wanted to know exactly where his balls were. Then, from behind, she kneed him as hard as she could.

“Fuck!” she screamed as her kneecap made painful contact with the table. Andy was screaming too, but at this point it was nothing comprehensible. His midsection convulsed as he finally slid completely off the table and onto the floor. As Christina nursed her knee, she observed a glazed look in his eyes.

“This is for my knee!” she trampled his nuts violently. The screaming ceased. Andy remained conscious, but he was frozen in the absolute agony of this situation. He could do nothing but feel the horrible sensation.

Christina stopped the trampling, and she walked back and forth a few times to see if her knee was OK. She felt that it was, and she began unfolding the sheet on the table. She covered the entire surface and then inspected it.

“OK, time to get back up.” She hoisted Andy’s body up against the same corner again. She grunted as she finally completed her task, and then rammed his midsection into the corner again for good measure. Andy instantly puked on the sheet.

“Well, glad I had that there,” Christina said with a smile. Then, she moved his body the rest of the way on the table. He offered no resistance or assistance whatsoever. He was temporarily a vegetable. She turned him on his back and spread him out, respreading the sheets after the disturbance. The bulge of Andy’s package showed through his sweat pants.

“My, I do think you have been growing down there since I met you.” She patted the bulge as a grandma might pat her grandson’s head, but it was enough to cause Andy to emit a small shriek, although he couldn’t even move his lips anymore. Christina gently pulled off all of Andy’s clothes and tossed them aside.

“You see,” she began, “I can’t leave my precious Andy without taking a little… souvenir. Well, two little souvenirs… in your case, very little.” A look of absolute terror was in Andy’s eyes, but he was powerless to move. Christina laughed giddily, “I like that look!” and pointed at Andy’s face.

She went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a knife. A few moments later, she had her souvenirs. The last thing Andy saw before he went to sleep was his girlfriend putting his bloody nuts into a jar …

The End.


by Xorcyst

If you ever saw any of the Ilsa "She Wolf" movies, this should provide a pleasing mental image. Did I spell Ilsa correctly?


Mistress Ilsa walked adjusted her black leather bustier as her enormous breasts nearly popped out. She adjusted her firm, smooth bosom and then picked up the riding crop and proceeded into the dungeon.

She first saw a male bound and gagged to a large wooden cross. He was only dressed in black briefs. She said to him "I don't want to know your name because it doesn't matter to me" then she reeled back and slapped him across the face. He moaned but the panties crammed into his mouth muffled the sound. Then she slowly traced the riding crop across his stomach, teasing him with the tip then she raised the crop and brought it down hard on his crotch. The slave jerked in pain but the sting made him hard and erect. Ilsa saw his bulge getting bigger and was angered. "How dare you raise that thing in my presence" and she proceeded to whip his cock with the riding crop again and again. Finally she jabbed his aching tool with her 5-inch black leather heel and then used her shiny boot heel to rip his underwear off revealing his sore penis.

She then whipped his dick with the riding crop over and over again and his penis swung as the crack of the leather raised welts on his manhood. Then Ilsa reached over and grabbed his balls. "How do you like this" she demanded and she squeezed unmercifully on his testicles. The slave's muffled screams made Ilsa laughed as she crushed his balls in her hands then she twisted and pulled.

Then she stood right in front of him and thrust her knee into his testicles. He slumped forward but could not fall because he was still bound. Seeing that he was too weak to fight back, Ilsa undid his cuffs and the slave fell to the ground. She made him lie on his stomach so then Ilsa put her boot on his ass and dug her heel into his cheeks. Then she slid the tip of her boot down the crack of his ass until she got to his genitals which were pressed flat against the floor. Then with an evil grin, she brought her shiny black patent leather boot down onto his dick and squashed it with her sole like a cigarette against the cold cement floor. She kept grinding away at his abused penis and gave an occasional kick to his balls. Ilsa would also lean over and wail the slave on his ass with the riding crop. She could hear the slave crying and whimpering as her shoe crushed his cock and balls and she loved every minute of it. She leaned more and more of her weight on his testicles, his screams became more and more intense and she felt the tender flesh of his scrotum spreading beneath her shoes.

Ilsa reaches down and pulls the slave by his hair; he gets up to avoid having his locks yanked. She forces him down again but this time facing her, she makes him sit flat on the floor. She puts a small pedestal beneath him with a flat metal bar, about 6 inches long and two inches wide, with two wing nuts on either end, close to the edge. She takes his balls and runs them beneath the bar then puts it down so the bar pushes his testicles forward as it clamps down at the base of his scrotum. Ilsa tightens the wing nuts on each side of the bar so his scrotum is compressed and his balls are forced into the sack as far out as possible and laying on the cold metal surface of the pedestal.

Ilsa spat into the slaves face and just laughed as he shook his head to try and shake off the saliva. Then, without saying a word, she put her boot down on his balls and pressed hard. He screamed and howled as she increased the pressure, his testicles were bound by the flat bar and were held in place so Ilsa could squash them with her sole with ease.

She carefully placed the point of her heel on his right testicle and then applied her weight to it, the slave tried to jerk away but she increased the pressure, her heel crushing his ball, flattening it under the small area of her stiletto. The man screamed for mercy, begging her to stop, but she wouldn't, instead she balanced herself perfectly and slammed her heel all the way down, piercing his testicle with her heel, tearing and crushing the flesh as blood mixed with semen gush out all over her heel. A high pitched scream filled the room and Ilsa kept grinding her heel into the mangled testicle, she raised her foot, blood dripping from the heel, and smashed it down on his entire scrotum, she could feel the other testicle crunching beneath the sole of her boot, she now stood with alll her weight on his balls as blood poured from his destroyed manhood and the most agonized, tormented, sounds of absolute atrocious pain reverberated as the slave cried in utter shock.

She jumped up slightly to finish flattening his testicles, grinding away, and stomping her foot down repeatedly until his balls looked like chopped meat on the pedestal. She kneeled and examined that mutilated organs and just laughed, she took out a knife and severed his scrotum from behind the bar and thus completing the castration, he just fell over, she wasn’t' sure if he was dead or just passed out. She loosened the clamp and then collected the bloody, tortured, mess that was his balls into a plastic bag.

Nurses came in and carried the man away in a stretcher, stopping the profuse bleeding from the arteries that were once connected to his testicles. Ilsa walked back down the hall carrying her mutilated prize and laughing.

The End

A Ball-Hunter's Beginnings: The Diary Revealed

by wrinkledup

Many postings here have asked how I got my start as a ball-hunter. I looked over my diary the past few days and decided to relate my first experience. I've been getting ready to deal with Mr. Payback and Sam and I'll let you know how those encounters work out. I've been emailing with wrinkledup since his (her?) postings are so inquisitive so he and I are working together on this story. So without further delay, here is how I started it all.

My cousin, Toni, from Texas was visiting me when I was about young. Toni was a good-looking girl a few years older than me at that time. We were talking about boys because I knew she knew more about them than I did. Toni asked me, "What do you know about boys, I mean as far as their bodies are concerned?"

I answered, "I know they are different in between their legs, why?"

Toni said, "Well, it's time you learned a thing or two to prepare yourself when you are around them. You're starting to fill out and soon boys will be grabbing at you and calling you names." She was right, last week at school I felt somebody reach out and grab at my chest during the period between classes. The hall was so crowded and I wasn't suspecting that to happen to me. Now I carry my books up around my chest within my closed arms. I was too embarrassed and humiliated to tell anyone about what happened to me. I was kinda angry although I didn't know who did it so I couldn't vent my anger.

After thinking a bit I said "Toni, tell me how to defend myself against a boy who's trying to take advantage of me, okay?"

Toni said "I've got something better in mind. Let me get back to you this Saturday. Don't plan anything for the whole day. When I call, meet me at the old vacant River Gulch ranch. You'll find your answers there." For the next two days my mind raced with curiosity and I had trouble sleeping wondering what all the mystery was about. Little did I realize what Toni planned for me.

Saturday morning the phone rang and it was Toni. Speaking to me in an anxious mood she told me to meet here at the ranch at 10:00 AM. I agreed and started my trip. When I arrived Toni met me at the door and said, "Listen; I've gone through a lot of trouble for you today. In that back room, I've got a boy all tied up waiting for you. At the dance last week this young punk put his hand between my legs from behind and then laughed along with his friends. I tried to punish him there but he had too many friends around. Today is payback."

I was shocked at what she told me. It reminded me of that day when someone grabbed at my chest. I started feeling something I hadn't felt before. We walked to the other room. Opening the door I saw a boy tied to some old posts. He was scared and already crying. The only thing he had on was a towel wrapped around his waist.

Toni said, "I'll not say very much to you, I want you to find out what you can all by yourself. I will tell you that that water hose over there is hooked up to the solar water heater and can supply warm water if you need it. Sometimes warm water can make things change their shape." She was smiling that impish smile she could make; I wondered what she meant.

Toni said, "I'll just stand back and watch for awhile. I'll try not to interrupt. My older sister gave me this kind of lesson when I was about your age. I think you'll be suitably impressed with your discoveries."

Walking over to the boy I said, "Look at what you got yourself into. I'm going to..."

The boy interrupted and said, "Let me out of here you bitches. I'll beat your asses when I'm free!" I was a shocked by what he said and stepped back away from him in apprehension.

Toni stepped up behind me and I turned to her, "That boy is rude. He called you and me a dirty name."

Toni said, "So how does that make you feel?"

"I'm mad", I responded.

Toni started, "There is no need to ever feel threatened by a guy. Today you'll discover why. Why not go back over there and see what you can do to change his mind?"

I said, "But he's a boy! He’s bigger and stronger than me and he's angry. I'm afraid to approach him."

Toni said, "Turn your back to him a moment. I want to say something to him and I don't want to influence you." As I turned to face away from the boy, Toni went over to him. All I heard was this grunt as she told him to be quiet if he knew what was good for him.

Toni came back to me and said, "I think you can go over there now. He changed his mind about talking back." I walked over to the boy. A sort of pained expression was on his face. Funny that mere words could affect him that way, I thought. But wait, his towel was not completely covering him up now. It was open a bit at the front overlap. Maybe it had been moved as he twisted around in his bindings. Using my right hand I removed the towel from his body exposing him fully to Toni and me and set the towel on the table. What a sight! I had never seen a naked boy before. Here was this short shriveled up piece of flesh.

I turned to Toni and said, "What's that?"

Toni said, "That's a male's penis. Most men give it more importance than it has." What a funny name I thought.

I reached over to touch it and Toni interrupted. "If you're going to touch the penis, make it brief. Men like to have their penis touched by a women and your not here to give him pleasure are you?"

"No way!” I replied. Turning back to the boy I gave his penis a slap.

The boy cried out "Ow!" My first punishment of a male registered its impressions on my brain. I looked at his face; he had winced in pain, but restored his composure very quickly. I slapped his penis again, a little harder. This time a sharper cry of pain came out. Then I noticed that his little penis was moving around and expanding and the shrinking a bit. I giggled at that sight. Staring at his shortened penis as it moved to the side momentarily, I saw another part of his anatomy underneath where his penis had lay. It looked all wrinkled up and tight.

"What could that be, Toni?"

Toni laughed and said, "That design of Mother Nature is the best thing that ever happened for women. That area of skin is called a scrotum. It looks kind of strange and vulnerable doesn't it? I mean look at how it stands out front of the legs. No place to hide."

I wondered why would the scrotum need to hide? I needed to find out. I reached towards the scrotum and the boy gasped. Not letting him affect my train of thought, I grabbed the scrotum in my hand. I was surprised to feel the contents of something within it. I couldn't feel too well because the skin was so tight. What could I do, I wondered. I said, "Now don't tell me anything, Toni. I want to work this out for myself." Hmmm, Toni's pretty clever. She must know what I would be doing because she went through this herself. I reached back to the scrotum and squeezed my fingers in an attempt to feel what was there. The boy screamed in pain. I squeezed again and he screamed again; but this time I held my grip as I used my fingers detecting two objects sliding around under my fingers. "These feel like balls!” I said.

Toni laughed out loud and said, "You're absolutely right. They are called balls in a situation like this, but the real name is testes or testicles depending on which tissues you're speaking of."

"Whatever they're called, they sure are sensitive. I hardly pressed at all and look at how he cried out!"

Toni simply replied, "Mother Nature has her reasons. She must have figured men need a kick in the balls from time to time."

"What did you just say?” I asked.

Toni replied, "Oops. I didn't mean to say that." I turned back to the boy. His face was sullen, almost pleading.

He said, "Please don't do it. It hurts too much." If ever there was motivation for the unknown I thought to myself. The kick landed right under the pouch. What a howl that boy gave out. Yeah, I'd have to say from his reaction that it must hurt pretty much. Good thing I don' have any balls.

Toni said, "How does that make you feel looking at what you just did?" "I fell pretty strong inside and my anger has been greatly dissipated. I feel like I can control him using his own body against him. Do all guys react this way when they are kicked in the balls?"

Toni said, "Yep. The older and stronger you get the more pain you can inflict with a kick or knee to the groin.

"Wow! I just learned a new word, 'groin'. I kneed the boy to see what that did. He hadn't even recovered from my kick and so he howled even harder than the kick cause him. It's as if his pain was accumulating with each blow. But it was hard to maintain his howl; his breathing was very short and erratic. His hands were trying to grasp at something too; perhaps his balls? It was hard to tell since they were tied up against a beam.

"What would he be doing if we didn't have him tied up?” I asked.

Toni said, "After what you did, he would have fallen to the ground with his hands holding his balls and rolling back and forth on his back from side to side." I said, " I saw that happen to a boy at school last month but I didn't know the circumstances. All I heard was a girl yelling that she had 'kicked a guy where it hurts'. I thought no matter where you kicked a boy it would hurt. "But this is great!"

Toni said, "Let's take a break for a while. Let the boy recover otherwise he doesn't show the pain as much if you keep hurting him like that too quickly. I've brought along some sandwiches and pop so let's go eat. We can still hear him moan while we're in the other room. You'll see how long it takes for him to stopping grunting in pain. We'll be done eating about the time he's ready."

"Okay, I just want to take a quick close look at his scrotum and penis. They seem pretty red right now. Say, there's a clear drop of fluid right at the tip of the penis. Is he trying to pee after getting kneed in the balls?"

Toni laughed and said, "No, that's the result of another gland in his body. Usually only that drop appears when a guy is excited. I'll tell you more about that later. Do you want to taste it?"

"Are you crazy", I said.

Toni said, "Well, you're a little young for that experience. Don't mind me if I don't pass up the opportunity though." And with that she took her finger and let the drop transfer to her skin from the tip. Then she wiped the drop across her tongue and said, "It's sweet tasting and it's always taken from a guy in this kind of position." The food sure tasted good. Toni said that I was learning a bit faster than she did. Maybe because she slipped out the words, 'a kick in the balls'. She told me she hadn't discovered that until after finishing her explorations of the scrotum.

I asked her, "What else is there to know about the scrotum other than there are two real sensitive balls inside a tight bag of skin?"

Toni replied, "I'll let you figure that out for yourself. Suffice it to say that there is something else you've overlooked." When we entered the room the boy started pleading to be released. Toni started to approach him, but I stopped her. Instead, I went over to the boy and looking him straight in the eyes, I grabbed his scrotum. Just as I started to squeeze, he tried to pull backwards from me. I noticed a slight tug in my hand at the same time he winced again in pain.

I didn't think about that right away but squeezed a little harder and said, "We don't want to hear any more words from you except when you cry out in pain. Understand?” as I emphasized my question with harder palm pressure. He could barely speak from the pain so he nodded his head in agreement. I stood back a few feet pondering what I should do next with the scrotum. It's awfully tight and not too easy to hold the individual balls. I bent down to look at them and noticed they had loosened up a bit, but not a lot.

"Hey", I said to Toni, "His scrotum is not the same shape as before. It's not as tight and wrinkled as before." "I think you're on to something", Toni replied. The words 'changed shape' reminded me of what Toni had said earlier. She said that warm water can change shapes. Putting things together quickly in my mind, I turned on the warm water and brought the hose over to the boy. The water was very warm. I directed the slow-velocity stream of warm water over the boys groin and scrotum in particular. Immediately his scrotum started to relax and lower itself. As it descended the balls visibly turned back and forth inside. After a couple minutes, the bag was really hanging low and both balls were clearly identifiable hanging at the bottom. Taking the towel I slowly wiped the water from the groin area. He was really exposed and vulnerable now.

Toni spoke and said, "Don't kick or knee him in the balls now or he will throw-up all over and pass out, okay?"

I said, "Sure, I hadn't been planning that anyway." I was thinking about the slight tug a few minutes ago and the boy’s almost imperceptible response of pain. Maybe his balls didn't like to be relocated from their position in space and time. I put my hands around each teste and discerned its entire shape. I felt upwards from each teste and could feel cords and muscles leading from them up to the top of his scrotum and beyond.

Toni said, "Those are called testicles when you're dealing with those attachments and the balls themselves. What do you think about them?"

"I'm not thinking about them very much, but I want to try something for effect," I responded. Reaching my right hand around his limp scrotum right above the descended testes, I cupped the balls in my hand. Then lifting my hand but turning the fingers downward as I lifted, I could feel the cords bind against the arc of skin between my thumb and index finger. The more I twisted my fingers parallel to the floor, the more the tension on the cords could be felt. I had to find out the answer to my thoughts. I lifted the scrotum up into his abdomen and concentrating on the sensation of those two cords, I pulled down very quickly. I wanted to know if it was only the pressure in the balls that causes pain or if stretching only the testicular cords was painful as well. As the scrotum maxed out its length I felt the two cords tighten and push into my flesh. Right as the boy screamed in pain, I felt the cords slip down a little during the last phase of stretch. Apparently I had slightly torn the internal attachments of the cords at the upper end in the abdomen. I never heard such screams of agony in my life. Letting go of the scrotum, it and his balls tried to ascend but could not go all the way up tight and wrinkled-up as before. The breakdown of his cord tissues must have weakened due to his injury and they couldn't pull up all the way. Surely, this would take days to heal.

It was some distance from the ranch before we could no longer hear his scream of anguish, but our contented smiles lasted all the way home. Never again, would I fear any boy. Little did I know how dedicated I would become as the years rolled by; and how many male entities would be added to my portfolio. Thanks Toni and Mother Nature too.