My desire to inflict pain on my testicles surfaced during puberty. I would go off alone somewhere and jack off while fantasizing that I was tied up and immobile with someone hammering away on my balls. I would tie a string or shoelace around them and them pop myself with a stick or shoe as hard as I dared. I liked the way it heightened my senses, gradually building until I finally shot my wad, after which the pain would radiate exquisitely through my whole lower body.

My only regret during this time was that I couldn’t bust myself hard enough. I wanted to be reduced to a quivering mass of jelly, rolled up into a ball desperately clutching my abdomen, knowing my balls were going to swell to twice their normal size but I always chickened out and pulled my punches before reaching that level.

The solution was obvious; I needed a helper so I coerced a younger kid into busting me. He was just ten or eleven and his nuts hadn’t yet dropped and he didn’t want any part of it, but I’d seen him shoot the neighbor’s cat with his BB gun and threatened to rat him out if he didn’t help. We went off into the woods to a secluded spot where I shed my pants, stroked myself hard, and then got down on my hands and knees with my legs spread wide. The plan was that he would pop me gently at first then progressively harder until I shot off or cried uncle. I was faced away from him so I couldn’t see them coming and it was going to be the ultimate experience. It was indeed. He was supposed to use his open hand or fist but instead the little shithead hauled off and kicked me so hard that I went ass over teakettle. I could hardly breathe, and I puked, and I couldn’t straighten out for almost an hour.

He ran off and left me there, certain that I was mortally wounded, and I finally stumbled home and went to bed. By that night my balls were black and blue and huge and my dad took me to the emergency room. I lied about what had happened, of course, and everyone bought my story about falling from a fence and landing astraddle of the rail.

That incident, and my discovery of girls put a temporary end to any remaining ballbusting inclinations that I may have had. I dated all through high school, and I suppose my score was about as good as anyone else’s. I was considered a sensitive and gentle type of guy, but in reality I was horny as hell and that was just an act I used to get laid. I liked it a little on the rough side but not many high school girls are willing to hurt someone whom they think loves them. I dropped out of college and went to work, and eventually got married.

There wasn’t any ballbusting during this time; just lots of good sex to start with, then a little bit of bad sex, then finally no sex, with each other anyway, until we had finally succeeded in breaking all of our marriage vows as well as most of the ten commandments. There were no children to consider and few possessions to split, and we both walked away without undue acrimony.

I didn’t remarry but did continue to fuck around, so as to speak, although I never asked a partner to get rough with me. I also honed my interest in hunting and fishing and made a month long expedition every fall hunting deer and game birds. It was during one of these outings that I returned to ballbusting.

Several buddies and I had camped in the canyon lands around the Snake River. My companions were all married and obviously missed their wives. I was single and missed the opportunity to jack off when ever I felt like it, so I headed off one afternoon hunting by myself. I hiked about a mile up a rough creek bottom, occasionally shooting at the quail and partridges that flocked near the water holes. I was daydreaming about something or another, and the next thing I knew I felt myself getting hard. I was all alone so I dropped my pants and settled down on a rock and went to work on the problem. It was warm out and I was hot from the climb, and my balls hung low, sagging down onto a protrusion on the rock on which I was sitting. I worked my hand upwards along my shaft and brought it down hard, bouncing my balls against the rock with a sharp but enjoyable pain.

On an impulse I reached over and grabbed my shotgun, an anemic little 20-gauge autoloader that I preferred for quail. I released the safety and placed the buttstock on my thigh and pulled the trigger. The recoil seemed manageable so I pulled my legs tightly together to trap my balls against my thighs, put the stock against my scrotum and pulled the trigger again. I immediately had the biggest orgasm of my life, the two-week accumulation of semen flowing from my cock like water from a hose.

It took less than ten minutes for the pain to subside, and then I slowly worked my way back to camp. My companions seemed none the wiser when I complained of a sore back and retired early. I awoke with an erection the next morning. My balls were pleasantly large but not discolored or unduly sore and I felt totally invigorated.

Getting my rocks off was all I could think about for the next week. That might have been normal for a fifteen year old, but I was forty-eight and was supposed to have outgrown such adolescent foolishness. I held out until the last day of our hunting trip then headed back up the canyon alone.

Every guy knows that bigger is better, so on some pretext or another I left the little 20-gauge in camp and took my other gun, a 12-gauge double with three inch chambers and a trigger for each barrel. I was hard before even reaching the rock and once there I quickly dropped my pants. I knew what to expect this time, so after fondling myself for a few minutes I let my balls sag onto the hot rock, placed the butt of the gun an inch above them, and pulled the trigger.

The roar of both barrels discharging at once was pushed from my mind by the blinding, debilitating pain that followed. I had not only accidentally pulled both triggers but had also neglected to change the powerful magnum loads for the lighter ones that I had intended to use.

My partners had heard the unusually loud retort of the gun, and shortly before dark they came looking for me. Except for having rolled off of the rock I hadn’t moved. They said later that it took two of them to pry my hands away from my balls, which they described as being ‘the size of a grapefruit and black as old Coalie’s ass.’

They got me to a hospital but by then it was too late. In addition to my testicles being severely bruised the connecting cords and tissues had been crushed between the butt of the shotgun and the rock on which I had been sitting. I had given myself the mother of all vasectomies.

The physical pain of the emasculation was nothing compared to the humiliation I felt at having nutted myself, and as soon as I could travel I moved to the East Coast. I tried hormone shots and patches for a while, but even though the drug enabled me to get it up I knew I was still basically an impotent eunuch, so I quit using them and just learned to live with my shame, and even though my balls are long gone I still feel a sympathetic twinge down there when I see some guy get busted in the ‘nads.