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There was only one reason Carla ever let me reach orgasm. This became my secret, the secret that let me think I was still a man even after the Tricutter ripped out my manhood and laughed over my final load in the arena dust. It began with Carla worrying about the safety of my balls. “Oh Jody,” she would say, “Men are so easily hurt. What if you lose your balls before we ever marry? What if someone snips them off and mails them to me in a box before we can have children?” I could see she was really worried about this, and it made me chuckle with surprise. I told her that such crimes were too rare to consider, unaware even as it was happening to me. But she would not be consoled. She began to fret and wonder every time I saw her whether my balls and my semen would be there for her on our wedding night. Exasperated at last, I asked her what I could do to set her mind at rest, for her constant reminders of my vulnerability offended my male ego. It was then that she proposed a plan which seemed too fantastic to believe, a plan to which I reluctantly agreed, if only to appease her. We hired the services of a master sculptor and glazier, renowned for his artistry in glass. We swore the old craftsman to secrecy, and, to my profound embarassment, let him preserve the form of my genitals in finest glinting crystal. While Carla and the craftsman watched, she with prim distaste, he with frank curiosity, I had to lower my trousers to my knees and bare my tackle for the old man to make a model. Carla wanted the shape of my erection and my swollen balls captured forever at the trembling peak before orgasm. Too shamed for an erection, I hung my head. But the old man came prepared for this emergency. All business, he brought out a tube of ointment, applied it to my limp penis, and began a rhythmic kneading and stroking. I was shocked, but my flesh betrayed me. Under the old man’s relentless massaging and sensual tugging, while he murmured encouragements in a deep low voice and put his free arm around my shoulders, my penis slowly rose to full erection and beyond. The calm strength of the old man’s strokes had me moaning and shuddering at the brink of a powerful orgasm. It was then that the old man interrupted his sinful caress and, using the tools of his craft, made a model of my straining penis and testicles. Carla watched all this with approval, but made no move to bring me satisfaction. Forgetting all pride in front of the old man, I begged her for the one soft touch that would bring me peace, but that touch was not for me, and I wept and raged in my frustration, actually striking my head against the wall until blood flowed and I sank to the floor in dizzy exhaustion, my trousers still bunched around my knees. Carla and the old man seemed unconcerned as I sobbed at their feet.
When it arrived a few days later, the old man’s glasswork copy of my cock and my balls was exactingly realistic, made according to Carla’s specifications. Every dimple and bump of my scrotum was reproduced, and every vein on my bulging penis. So far, Carla was pleased. But the next stage of her plan was the most important. You see, the glass copy of my manhood was hollow inside. The knob of the glass cock unscrewed, turning the glass cock and balls into a bottle. It was my job to fill that bottle with my thickest and richest semen. Carla wanted only the first spurt from the one ejaculation she allowed me each day. Otherwise, I was forbidden to waste any of my precious output of cream. Carla fed me aphrodisiacs to make thick rivers of semen gush. She made me watch hours of pornographic videos while I breathed in the scent of her clothes. If Carla went out, I was chained, lest in my desperation I touch myself and unlock the reservoir in my balls. I would have no relief from my lingering erotic agony, except as Carla willed it. I was nothing but a sperm factory, manufacturing high quality scum wads for Carla’s glass toy. Of course, Carla would still not touch me, even to fill the crystal phallus. Once a day, Carla led me naked into a large elegantly furnished salon filled with her formally attired lady friends. No one paid me much mind, as if naked young studs with throbbing dripping hard-ons regularly mingled with society ladies at their cocktail parties. This setting made me acutely conscious of my nakedness and my panting hairy masculinity. What a rough beast I was with my muscled lusting manflesh shambling around in a room of icy beauties. At the sound of a chime, all the ladies took seats in a semi-circle around me as I stood. They just glanced at me with silent indifference and awaited my performance. Doing as Carla had previously instructed, I began to slowly excite my penis with my hands. This was the only time in a day Carla allowed anything to touch my penis. This was the only time I got to grunt out a huge foaming pent-up load of my ball juice. Oh, what a fucking wad! Half of me was ashamed before the distant ladies, wanting to hide and shrink my erection to a socially respectable limpness. As I stroked my bursting prong and moaned, I felt the gaze of the ladies slicing me like a thousand razors, every part of me, down to my lusting masculine soul, laid open and defenseless before their cool critical evaluations. Was my cock big enough? Did they approve of my body? Would it be rude of me to spread my legs and rend the perfumed and delicate air of the salon with my climactic grunts? Would they be impressed with the size of my load? Shame and pleasure and a strange defiance swirled through my brain. For along with the shame came a hidden wish to jolt the haughty ladies, to show them cock triumphant in spurting bliss such as they had never dreamed. I wanted those ladies to flee before the conquering lunge of my erection, my orgasm a wave that surged up their dresses and bathed their pink pudendas in the ocean of my thick rich male essence as they squealed in terrified delight. The very air would be a forceful masculine wave, penetrating the secret slopes and curves of their bodies in ecstatic communion, making the very pores of their skin pregnant. Oh, what a fucking wad! Of course, Carla had to make her presence felt. Just as I was nearing orgasm, Carla would place a clear plastic jar in my unused left hand. With this, I had to capture the first explosion of my wad. What clever wicked glee for Carla to do this. Just moments before, I had been floating entranced by erotic rapture, knowing only my sexual exultation and the watching ladies of refinement. Then Carla reminded me of who and what I really was: a circus monkey in chains, pulling its little pud and shrieking as the crowd chuckled and threw peanuts. At the moment of my culminating ecstasy, Carla let me know my balls belonged to her. Yes, I shot a massive load of come, but my joy was scarred with soul-corroding shame as I saw that everything I was and everything I did was only for Carla’s amusement. Carla’s burning cunt didn’t surround me with its moist tugging welcome, nor did her pubic bush tickle and tease my groin; there was only the palm of my hand and Carla’s plastic jar. Carla kept me at my daily chore until the crystal cock and balls were full to bursting. She harvested my thickest richest male loads during the week I was spread open before her friends. Carla’s physician had given her a potion to add, a touch of which would keep my bottled semen fresh and flowing indefinitely. “Now I feel safe,” said Carla. “I can hoard your semen forever, enough to give me all the children I want; and I’ll always have your shining crystal cock to remind me of what a man you were. Even if mad dogs in the street chew off your balls,” she laughed. This sort of talk made me uncomfortable, but Carla said that now we could marry. Then hell broke loose. My father had been among the wealthiest merchants in the city, trading in spices and silks. Suddenly, inexplicably, his debts soared and his cash vanished and he was bankrupt overnight. Our homes, our slaves, our luxuries fell into the hands of my father’s creditors. My mother’s silken undergarments were pawed by grubby rag dealers. My father’s pleasure slaves, the strong girls and sweet boys who eased his load when my mother “had the vapors,” were sold weeping to filthy backstreet bordellos. It wasn’t enough. Even after selling all our worldly goods, we still had stacks of unpaid bills. The laws of the city were harsh. If a man could not pay his debts, he would be enslaved by his creditors and castrated. Carla’s father was my poor dad’s best friend. He said he could not afford to lend my father any money. He advised my father to save himself by throwing me to the creditors. “Save yourself,” he said to my father, “It takes only one fuck to get another son.” So that was what my father did. He wept and pleaded for my forgiveness, saying he was too weak to bear enslavement, hoping I would understand. Fool that I was, I said I understood and tried to comfort him. The creditors gave assurances, my father said, that I would be treated gently. They would let me keep my balls. They even said that a strapping lad like me might be put to stud, plowing the fields between slave girls’ thighs and planting my seed to make new slaves for the masters. So that’s how it happened. I became a slave to pay my father’s debt. Within 24 hours of my enslavement, rough hands shook me awake, bound me in chains and stripped off my clothes. I was outraged and demanded to see the master. Coarse jeers were my only reply. I used to be a peacock, proud of my fine clothes. Now, as I stumbled naked, pulled through the busy streets on my way to the arena, I blushed with shame as my heavy cock and balls swung for all to see. Men, women, and children met me with bold greedy stares. There was no need to look away from a mere slave. A crowd followed me down the street, excited by my naked vulnerability. The children whooped and danced and threw small stones at me. One boy tried to poke my rectum with a stick. The women teased me, moaning in pretended heat and begging me to fuck them as they chuckled at my terrified limpness. A fierce young punk who had been one of my rivals for Carla ran up, seized my balls in a two-handed grip, and began to pull, shouting “Why wait for the arena? We can do the job on this cock sucker right now!” His eyes seemed to burn as he faced me. Once, his eye lids had fluttered as my knowing caresses unlocked his soul. Now, he raged for my emasculation. He bared his teeth and his eyes rolled back in his head as he tightened his grip and began to pull hard. He shouldered me and I fell, my balls still clutched in the hollow crushing place between his large hands. For one second I hung in mid air, my scrotum bearing the whole weight of my body, my arms fanning the air in panic, searching for a helping hand that wasn’t there. I screamed and might have fainted, but the guards intervened, saying I was wanted in the arena, and it wouldn’t do “to rip them off too soon.” My rival smiled when he saw my terror. Until that moment, I hadn’t known my fate. I screamed and struggled to get away. “No! You have no right! You can’t do this! Please! Please! Please!” My voice rose higher and higher, first raging, then begging, then shrieking. The young punk who had been tormenting my balls held my head between his hands and kissed me with tender mockery on the mouth. He grinned in triumph, while the crowd hooted and hollered. A few of the men undid their pants and waved their cocks at me, cupping their balls and shouting “Hey girlie! Look at what you won’t have no more!” One of the men had a grim souvenir: the large testicles of a recently castrated slave. He had fastened each to one end of a soft spring, and the spring’s center to the end of a pole. As the crowd cavorted in glee, he paraded before me, the two big testicles bouncing at the ends of the spring, just like the heavy-hanging nut-sack of some carefree young boy speeding to his lover for a long-awaited blow-job. But the balls had been plucked from that weeping teen boy, and now his sacrifice wiggled on springs, and gave pleasure only to the crowd. My eyes locked onto those big balls. First, despair, and then a crazy thought: I would eat the balls and gain their manly power. I would break loose and devour the balls of all the big men who had ever threatened me, chewing and sucking all of their masculine essence into my self. I would grow so strong that no one could hurt me. No fear, no castration, if I sucked the life-force out of the rough hairy men whose hard muscles and bulging sweaty crotches made me weak and afraid. This was only the fantasy of a doomed young man, a fool whose balls had been sold by his weakling father. Well, you know what happened next. They brought me to the arena and took my balls. I knew no more until weeks later, when awareness began to return. To be continued.
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