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This story is my own work, and is based loosely on the writings of one of Nathan's works, The Tricutter. [b]Editor's Note: Nathan has given his permission to have his characters used in this tale, which is not written by Nathan, author of the fabulously popular Ayzintion City Series. - [i]Paolo [/i][/b]- My name is Jody. I’m a slave in Ayzintion City, the same red haired teen so cruelly deballed by the Tricutter, as Nathan has told you the tale. She had no right! The evil Tricutter had no right to take my big boy’s balls! No right to rip out my manhood with her soft feminine hands, clutching and crushing the vulnerable innards of my testicles as she laughed right in my face, her laughter and her mocking smile cruel and cutting as a bird of prey. So I fought her. I struggled to keep my balls. When I first saw her looking at me with that gloating smile, I knew she was a no good bitch, so I told her so. I spit on her. I raged at the taught cords restraining my hands and feet, stopping me from getting at her. I would have gouged out her eyes with my thumbs until there were no more mocking smiles, until her laughter drowned in her own dying blood. That’s how much my fear made me hate her. I was as exposed and helpless as a cocky young man can be, and I was terrified. I remember the brilliant sun shining from a blue cloudless sky, and the drab sand of the arena, so soon to be brightened by the red blood, pearly white semen, and pink discarded balls of the prancing young males who had been herded there like bulls, only to leave as defeated steers, with their heads hung low, and their once-bright eyes vacant, and their now limp dicks wiggling with futile invitation between their thighs. So sad, the sight of all those plump balls abandoned in the dust, so many thousands of luscious fucks never had, so many grunting triumphant orgasms now only dead dreams, so many unborn sons never there to steal peeks at the bulge of my package and wonder if they would ever grow balls to rival their father’s! Yes, I felt exposed and helpless in the arena. The brilliant sun let the crowd in on every secret of my body. Men and women, boys and girls, their pitiless gaze weighed my balls, caressed my dick, and poured like syrup over all of my lean teen muscles. I was strong for my age, with big balls and a 9-inch cock-stand, but the crowd turned my strength against me, for all my masculine ripeness was meat for their feast, and they devoured me with their hard staring eyes. My arms stretched above my head, exposing my sculpted underarms, and showing to advantage the curve of my heavy chest, rising and falling with my panic. The muscles of my back were taut, as were the round sculpted curves of my buttocks, with the deep dark hairy cleft between. I writhed in torment, desperate to break my bonds, but this only added to the show, causing my cock and balls to wave provocatively, as if I were doing a seductive dance for the avid mob. My buttocks pumped, they opened and closed, my thick balls swayed, and all that I accomplished was to incite the lust of the mob to see my manhood crushed. The mob howled with a mad desire they scarcely understood. They yearned to see my manly hopes torn out in front of them and left bloody in the arena dust. My piteous cries made them feel their power. There was no mercy from the women, only a deadly malicious wish to avenge through my deballing all the insults ever inflicted on them by men. Each time their husbands abused them for years to come, they would think of my deballing and smile Mona Lisa’s smile. Under their chaste matron’s robes, the women rubbed their thighs together and shuddered with hidden orgasms, imagining it was their husband’s balls clutched by the Tricutter, feeling their cunts juice as the Tricutter spilled the blood from my balls. The Tricutter was the freest woman they knew. Each woman wished she could slash her way through fields of rolling heavy testicles, like the Tricutter, bathing in hot harvested sperm, a queen who made even the strongest men plead in terror. Great beasts of men with thundering voices and heavy beards, accustomed to using women as disposable receptacles for the eruptions of their massive balls, would cower and beg – “O, please, Mistress, spare my precious balls! Leave me my manhood!” But the women would only laugh and trample the big balls under foot like so many luscious grapes for wine, watching the delicious loads of come spurt as the men’s voices changed from bull’s bellow to little girl’s shriek. Such were the women’s evil dreams as they stared at me in the arena. There was no fellow-feeling from the men. For them, seeing the balls ripped off a young man and hearing him squeal the castrato’s squeal of terror only confirmed the superiority of their own manhood. Each of them thought, “Because this young buck has been brought low, there will be more fucking for me. I have survived with my balls strong and whole, ready to grunt my huge loads into the clutching pussies of beautiful women and the hot assholes of lesser men. I am the masculine god incarnate. Unman the red headed teen so that my penis becomes totally free.” Young men like me were sexual rivals of the men in the mob. They knew that our balls lusted for the same soft women and the same virile men. If a rutting young male like me got to keep his balls, soon I would be sniffing around their daughter’s thighs or even their son’s crinkly little asshole, and any sweet hole would do to empty the sac of my balls. “No! Stop that young bull before he grunts his foaming load into my son’s hot ass, before he and my son look into each other’s eyes as they share the fountaining ecstasy of manhood fulfilled! Since I can’t do it to him, no one else should be allowed! Bust his balls!” The girls in the crowd were frankly curious, groping my body with greedy eyes, and storing the memory for the long nights of masturbation while they stayed chaste to protect their reputations. The girls were uncomfortable when teen boys undressed them with hot stares, the boys circling and waiting for the moment they could relieve the urgent pressure that welled up in their quivering balls and their pulsing dicks. The girls feared and resented these attentions, so they delighted to see the tables turned on a strutting young stud, just the kind who was always embarrassing them with smutty remarks. Now I would pay for men’s insolent lust. Now the big balls that made me such a threat would be torn from me, and the big juicy prick that used to swell the front of my pants, making the girls blush, would be reduced to a limp and impotent nonentity. The girls all wanted to stare in my face as I spent my boyish glee for the last time; they all wanted to stare in my face as I screamed out my vulnerability, my anguish, and my despair. The girls were only sorry they could not rush into the arena themselves and shred my swinging manhood with their talon-like fingernails. They were intoxicated with the smell of my heavy male musk, which reached them even in the stands and drove them to frenzy. The boys were no better. I was bigger and stronger than most of them, just the kind of cock-proud young bull that had ridiculed them in the locker room for their wee willies and their balls like marbles. I was already almost a full-grown man! Many times, the younger boys had surrounded me, gaping in awe as I stroked my juicing rod, watching the plum-like head spasm as I threw back my face, bared my teeth, and grunted in savage victory as I pumped out my thick fragrant load of come. The boys had felt frightened and inadequate, but unable to tear their eyes away. How I lorded it over the smaller boys! I forced one to smell and chew the stinking crotch of my briefs, others I smacked in the face or ass with my big swinging dick, just like a third arm, and I never missed a chance to saunter nude before them, fondled the huge balls of which I was so proud and letting them fear my rippling muscles. Oh, I was King Cock, the rooster in the barnyard, cock-a-doodle-doo, and all the smaller boys knew it and secretly hated me for it. Today they would have their revenge. The boys were quiet, but they glowed with eagerness, savoring my fear and my weakness and my pain, reduced at last to what they had been. They laughed to see how the Tricutter broke my balls, slowly, but slowly, sawing open the sides of my hanging scrotum, as sheer terror brought me to orgasm, and displaying each ball outside the scrotum. I was truly in the hands of my enemy, pumping out great arching spurts of boy semen and trembling as I bellowed out huge grunts, even while the Tricutter, like some demon from hell, cut away the very essence of my life as a man. What good did those mighty balls do me now? They made me a better show for the crowd, everyone thinking, “there they are at last boy, your jiggling scum-rich testicles that you were so proud of, now don’t you look funny with your big balls hanging out so unprotected, not even your empty sac to save you from the crushing pulling grip of the Tricutter.” The boys were in heaven, most of them coming in their pants, some for the first time in their lives. These boys would never forget my castration. They would need to see such spectacles again and again, because for them, sex was now all about the taking of a young stud’s balls. To the shame and horror of their rich families, some of these boys even volunteered to become slaves and to be deballed. For them, no experience could be greater than what they had seen me endure in the arena that day, and they longed to be the center of attention, not just spectators. So we in the arena were not the only ones to lose our balls. The Tricutter didn’t know it (or maybe she did), but her power over the young men became so great that many of them later gave up their balls just to have her touch them. Because I hated the Tricutter – how could I not? – I had spit at her. Now my balls paid the price. What had once been the source of my strength and my joy, my tender rolling testicles bursting with sperm, had now become the source of my weakness and my undoing. Above all, I had relished my manhood, and the very heft and thickness of my balls was what made it easy and tempting for the Tricutter, egged on by the mob, to savage me now. Oh, you young wastrels, delighted with your endless spouting cock-flows of scummy pleasure, think on me and wish yourself small, with balls that will not tempt the Tricutter’s wrath. For it was not enough for her to cut open my scrotum, exposing my balls to the shrieking crowd. Now she grasped them in her wicked kneading fingers, slowly, slowly building the pressure, taking advantage of my defenseless manhood to grind and crush, working my balls relentlessly, not with a lover’s caress, but with the pitiless touch of some machine set to squeeze the juice from an exotic fruit. I screamed, the mob roared, the Tricutter laughed her unkind gloating laugh. She demanded that I beg for it, that I beg for her to castrate me! How could I, even in such terrible public agony, agree to do it? Oh, how could I? Well, the Tricutter knew a way. The tip of her castrating knife penetrated one of my balls, just the tip, and she began to turn it, boring into my big helpless testicle like a drill. The agony was climactic! The world spun. I knew only a pain greater than anything I had ever imagined, and a horror that it might get worse. At the edge of consciousness, with everything made suddenly simple – my big ball and the nightmare tip of that digging knife, searching for the uttermost depth of my naked and defenseless manhood – I screeched the words I thought I could never say, “Please castrate me! Please! Castrate me!” And then it was over. The Tricutter actually ripped my balls off my body, breaking the cords through brute force, and darkness closed in on me. I did not weep at the sight of my stolen balls, tossed in the dirt at my feet. Later, the Tricutter’s hounds would feast on my treasure, licking their chops and slobbering over the juicy balls. I did not weep at the sight of my last load of scum, pumped grunting from my dying balls. Later, the old man who cleaned the arena would take the still-warm sand mixed with my load, hold it to his nose, and inhale deeply and slowly, sighing his pleasure at the powerful aroma. He would chuckle quietly and his big dick would swell inside his pants, the last erection that day in the now silent and dark arena.
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