|
Passing The Torch By: Special Clive was barely visible through the thin nylon material of the tent, but I could see his distinct silhouette against the flickering flames as he quietly stirred the last remnants of the small campfire. I couldn’t help but wonder if it aroused him to hear my moaned responses to Jack’s stirring thrusts and licks. I felt the sudden surge of wanton pleasure as Jack’s thrusts became more and more urgent, and my own orgasm neared as I felt the intense swelling of his cock the moment before ejaculation. I shoved back hard to drive him deeper, crying out loudly as my own raging orgasm was triggered by the hot flood of semen pouring into me. It had been absolutely quiet on the river for the last three days, and I was thoroughly enjoying this trip with my boyfriend Jack and our handsome and rugged river guide Clive Baker. Jack was a biologist in search of the elusive giant river otters, and this was almost like a vacation for us. Well as much like a vacation as camping along an unexplored Amazon River tributary can be. Campsites were at a premium, and only the infrequent and very small openings in the dense undergrowth, or the odd sandbar, provided enough room for two tents. Needless to say privacy was almost non-existent, yet Clive never complained nor commented on the sounds of nightly lovemaking coming from our tent. I appreciated that in him, and also the fact that he was the most ruggedly handsome man I’d seen in ages. Watching him bare-chested and dressed only in the briefest of shorts all day certainly had me primed for Jack’s attentions later in the evenings. Clive also possessed the most impressive looking package I’ve ever seen on a man too. I could only imagine what a wonder was concealed beneath those shorts, but I knew it had to be impressive. I couldn’t help but notice Clive’s eyes gaze at my braless state as I returned from my bath in the river. I was dressed in loose khaki shorts, and a white tank-top that was both brief and diaphanous. I knew my nipples glared like headlights through the thin material, and that it had the desired effect. I loved the idea of arousing two men, and my nightly fantasy of enjoying them both had triggered some wildly pleasurable orgasms. I wonder if Clive even imagined my cries in the night were from thoughts of him grunting and rutting with me? As we set out along the river, Clive expertly guided the long canoe along a narrow arm of the main river. He said he’d seen otters here in the past, and there was a sandbar just round the next bend that would reveal any tracks of recent activity. Jack was excited at the prospect. As we neared the sandbar, a slide from the otters entering the water was clearly visible, and before we even struck the shoreline, Jack had decided we would drop him off alone on the sandbar with his camera equipment. He planned to set up a blind, and Clive and I would come for him in a couple of hours. Jack was out of the canoe with his equipment the moment we touched ashore, and moments later Clive and I were alone in the canoe, drifting downstream in search of a place to wait. Two bends in the river later, a small opening in the impenetrable vegetation revealed itself, and Clive eased the nose of the canoe into the soft sand. Clive and I were laying side by side on the soft sand, quietly talking. I was on my back and he was propped on one elbow and leaning toward me. Our little conversation was getting more intimate by the minute when we heard the scream. A bloodcurdling scream that echoed down the river and started a cacophony of shrill warnings and flapping wings from terrified birds. I snapped into a sitting position with a start. “What on earth was that Clive?” I asked excitedly. “I have no idea, but it sounded like it came from Jack’s direction! Come on…hurry!” The outboard motor was at full throttle the moment the nose of the canoe cleared the sand, and we raced upriver to the spot we had dropped off Jack. I was frantic with intense trepidation. I was out of the canoe and calling the moment it touched the sandbar, and Clive was right on my heels, wielding a paddle as a weapon. We called and called but there was no answer, and even the raucous calls of the birds have dissipated. That’s when Clive spotted the blood. There were just a few drops scattered here and there, and all leading to a barely perceptible trail that threaded into the surrounding jungle. The minute path was tramped flat with the unmistakable footprints of barefoot humans. “Oh Jesus Clive, is this a kidnapping or something?” “I don’t know,” Clive replied, “But we’re damn well going to find out!” He grabbed the machete from the canoe and said “Come on!” Ten feet into the jungle everything went black. I remember waking up, hands secured behind me to a rough wooden post driven into the dank earth of the mud-floor hut. I was tightly gagged with remnants of my top, and suffering from a vicious headache. Outside I could clearly hear the voices, and I leaned toward the wall and craned my head to peer out of the narrow slit between the fronds that lined the wall. I caught my breath with a gasp as I saw both Clive and Jack about six feet from the wall, and restrained between similar posts with their arms and legs widely spread. There was a gathering of tall olive skinned women surrounding them, all wearing nothing but the briefest of loincloths and their bodies carefully decorated with a myriad array of colored soil. They were uncommonly beautiful in a savage sort of way, and well built women. They all had large unusually pert breasts topped with dark nipples, and their torso’s all revealed the rippling muscles of well-toned abs. They all seemed to be jabbering at once in an unknown language that sounded like a Spanish influenced dialect of some sort. I understood none of it. The jabber intensified as an older woman approached, a priestess perhaps given her dress. She was wearing a jaguar skin draped across her shoulders, and crowning the mane of long dark hair was a garland of showy flowers and multi-hued feathers from jungle birds. Her only accessories were two bands of gold metal around her upper arm, and the long obsidian shard that could only be a knife. I tried to call out as the older woman approached Jack, but no sound could pass the tight gag. I could barely make any sound at all, and no one heard my mewling cry. The constant chatter ended abruptly as the older woman barked a command to an extraordinarily pretty young woman from the front of the gathering. I watched, concerned yet spellbound as she approached Jack. I saw him struggle in his restraints, but to no avail. He could barely move. I watched as the young woman’s hand lowered and touched Jack’s cock, running the length of it, and then cupping his balls for a moment before returning to rub and grasp the shaft. Within a couple minutes I could see Jack’s cock lengthening and beginning to stiffen. The glazed and far-away look on his face made me immediately think of him as in a drugged stupor. Had he indeed been drugged? Had Clive also? The women were absolutely silent as they watched intently as the young woman teased Jack to full arousal, and his cock slapped against his belly as it sprang from her grasp. The cheering from the gallery was intense and sudden as Jack succumbed to the pleasure he was experiencing, and his copious ejaculate shot all over the young woman’s hand and halfway up her arm. The chatter stopped abruptly again as the young woman milked the very last drops from Jack and stepped aside as the older woman with the knife took her place in front of Jack. I could see an odd look in his eyes as he stared at the woman for a moment, then he closed his eyes and hunched his hips forward as she reached for his loose scrotum. As she moved the knife closer to Jack’s groin, I vainly tried to scream a protest through the gag as I realized what she was about to do to him. I heard only a soft moan from Jack as the knife edge brushed the delicate skin of Jack’s scrotum. The quick gliding slice left a widening slit, and the woman’s fingers manipulated his testicle through the opening. I saw her pull the testicle away from Jack’s body, stretching the thick cord, and the throng of women shared a mutual gasp as the older woman severed the cord and tossed the testicle aside. Jack bucked his hips, but suddenly calmed as the woman reached for his last testicle and began cutting. The age old ritual of a man accepting castration by a woman’s hand slowly played out. Jack hung limply in his restraints, defeated, drained, and empty as the woman completed his emasculation and tossed the last testicle toward the wall I was watching from. A sudden and profound giddiness nearly overwhelmed me as I watched the last drops of blood ooze from the severed cord. I was almost panting with intense desire as the dark spot grew in the light brown clay. I was fully aroused as the young girl moved toward Clive, reaching for the large uncut penis that was already bobbing stiff with anticipation. Instead of beginning the slow stroking that would easily bring him to orgasm, she leaned against his broad chest, her arms wrapping, and one leg curling around his waist. She maneuvered over the thick cock, and settled onto it fully as it touched against the wetness of her crotch. I intuitively knew she had chosen Clive for another purpose. She had selected the man to father her child before his castration. “Earth to Karin. Earth to Karin,” I hear Edith laugh. “You still with us?” “Of course!” “Thought we’d lost you for a second there,” Edith laughed. I suddenly snap from my vibrant and unusual daydream, and look at our smiling client. Howard is a huge bear of a man, barrel-chested, and possessing arms that could snap either Edith or myself in two without breaking a sweat. I see Edith begin to slowly stroke the enormous uncut cock; slowly rolling the foreskin from the huge flaring crown as her other hand lifts the large balls upward. “You ready to begin?” she asks, rolling the large testicles in her palm. “You ready to begin Howard?” I ask. “Yes. Yes I’m ready,” He pants, almost overcome with the familiar desire I see in his clear blue eyes. Edith begins to stroke more rapidly as Howard’s cock stiffens, and I see the familiar flinch at the touch of the scalpel to his scrotum. An ancient ritual indeed I think to myself as I see the skin parting from the thin red line that follows the keen edge. Howard quivers with desire and want as I work both testicles free of the scrotum, letting them rest and dangle at each respective thigh. I see Howard’s eyes close, and the low keening moan of a man lost to pleasure and satisfied need. Aligning the emasculator jaws as Edith strokes Howard’s engorged cock; I see the first drips of pre-cum oozing from the shiny purplish knob, totally flared and swollen with desire. He’s so close to orgasm as Edith pulls and twists up and down the shaft, her fingers circling his flared crown on every upstroke. I spot the initial swelling of his testicles, and both cords thicken and twist as they attempt to pull and lift the large testicles. I begin to squeeze the small handles of the emasculator together as the cord on the left testicle begins to quiver. Howard grunts and begins to shove his hips upward as the jaws bite down viciously, and the accompanying slight crunch of the testicular cord rupturing triggers his violent orgasmic spasms. As Edith pumps the wildly spurting cock, I squeeze the last remaining ball as it swells and pulsates in its final release. I tug the testicle, stretching the cord fully, and readying the emasculator to cut high in the sack. As the last oozing dribble of semen dangles from Howard’s still fully erect cock, I lever the handles. At the crunch, Howard’s hips lunge clear of the table. Edith jerks upward on his cock, and the final jet of semen he will ever spray as an entire man falls just shy of his upturned chin. Howard is a mass of quivers as Edith licks her semen drenched fingers, and I slowly begin to suture the small incisions in Howard’s shriveled and very empty scrotum. He’s panting with the profound satisfaction that only men who’ve been the recipient of such a ritualistic castration can appreciate. An ancient inimitable ritual passed on through the generations of extraordinary women who rob men of their masculinity as they pleasure them with longed for wants. Edith and I are both disciples of those very rituals. We will both one day pass the torch to our own daughters, just as our mothers passed the baton to us. Daughters who will carry on the rite and ritual of cutting the testicles from wanting men. |