I love fucking him because he always needs more.

Hard on him, of course, but a gift for the men who get to bed with him. That's why it had been done to him.When he was seventeen he'd got into a heavy set up with a much older guy who'd set out to train himself a new sex-slave, and a few weeks after they'd been together the bastard flew the youngster off to a surgeon friend in Cologne and had his cock removed. Between the two of them they'd cut the kid's dick right out from the root, going back to the ligaments at the pubic bone, and then made doubly sure they'd fixed him good and proper by severing and cauterising all the nerves which had fed the still-growing genitals.

They did a clean job, though. They'd not been butchers.

And they'd got exactly what they'd wanted because when they'd finished with him and everything had healed, what was left was a seventeen year old with an intact pair of balls churning out testosterone like there was no tomorrow, hanging form a crotch so numb and dead that the poor little sod could never, ever get off. They'd taken his prick and all the sensitivity and feeling and left him no way to relieve the sheer, mounting randiness of being seventeen. Christ, I remember having to wank myself off three times a day! Well, that's what the older guy had wanted and that's what he came back from Germany with. His boy never said no, you see, and it was only the kid's arsehole that allowed the boy any sexual pleasure.He quickly became insatiable and couldn't really concentrate on much apart from the physical, and everytime he got his arse fucked, or sucked off yet another battering cock (his older partner made sure his own friends were well serviced.

It was part of the way he had things running) he just felt more need and frustration. He'd literally drop from exhaustion some nights, he said, before he could stop. It eventually made him ill, but he couldn't stop, and the older man wouldn't have let him stop, anyway. Things fell apart later on though - the dominant guy got bored, I think, and recruited and cut himself a new boy a few years after - so our youngster was on his own at twenty-two not having cum a load in five years. His arsehole, so massively abused by then that you can still make out some faint scarring, was left as sensitive as ever, like I said, but he tells me that makes it worse since it's the only way he feels his sexual pleasure physically and it just builds up the need to orgasm, which he can never acheive. Later, the frustration made him violent and there was a bit of trouble with the law, nothing much, but he got some help and couselling.

He'd been left way beyond any hope of re-constructive surgery. And he refused, flatly, to grass up the sadist who'd done this to him. It also meant that those unrelieved, pent-up balls had driven him through the dives, public toilets and saunas of a dozen cities by the time he was thirty. I see him regularly, and we may become a more permanent thing, who knows. I'd like that. And the sex is unbelievable. He's pretty worked out now.

His mutilation fascinates me and having him suck me off, fucking him or just getting him to give me a little hand-job, my cum running over his fingers, just gets me off in a special way just because he can't ever feel it, and needs it so much. He'll scoop up my spunk and rub it over his numb scrote, moaning, eyes screwed shut, while he lives those fantasies nobody can share with him. He says that for months after he'd been cut he'd tried to wank off as best he could, rubbing, pinching and eventually cutting at the deadened flesh with its little scar just above the soft ball-sac, trying to feel something, anything, that might help him cum just once more. All totally useless. And the older men had laughed at his efforts, knowing from the experience of their other boys the futility of trying. They always did try, though, and watching the pathetic fury of their little efforts was half the pleasure the men got out of doing these penectomies.

Anyway, this chronically frustrated, cockless man is thirty-eight, now. His balls hang down, slightly swollen and mis-shapen, shorn of their outpipe, the little piss-hole the German surgeon opened just above them hidden by the thick, dark, pubic hair which always smells faintly of piss, but which he can't help. And very occasionally, he says, though it's not happened in the months I've known him, he'll leak out a great gob of cum in his sleep. This is the worst of it, apparently, since the strength of it wakes him up, soaked with the finally-released build-up of months of semen, but he always misses the orgasm itself, so there's no real relief. But the weirest thing for me is that I've still never heard him say anything against the cruel, selfish gits who did this to him. Still, all cocks enthrall him and it makes him a damn good lover. Something about necessity and invention, I suppose.