By justoneguy

I was back at may seat a few minutes later, feeling a little nervous and a little giddy. I wasn’t sure what to expect now. The words of Nikos in the VIP lounge had sent my mind racing. The Association was known to geld members of its own, for either their own or their family’s gross incompetence. But was the Middle East disaster, as bad as it was, a mistake important enough to warrant castration of those responsible? Lars was a man of some means, and his son was generally seen as a rising star among the association’s young men. Would they pay the price for the dead and monetary lose that the Association had to bear from the disaster?

On thing was for sure, I’m sure Nikos’s son Boden would be sorry he missed the rest of the night at the club. Given how much he seemed to enjoy the idea of the young American marine’s emasculation, I’m sure he would be turned on by seeing the other two young bulls (potentially) being emasculated on stage. But Nikos had firmly told him to go home and deal with the pussy steer problem back at the estate. That at least showed a little good parenting. Eighteen year olds are just too young to be at the club on nights when the Herd is Thinned.

And now, as the lights in the club dimmed once more, and the crowd settled back down against the rails or on their stools, the anticipation began to mount for our third bull of the night.

“And now, ladies and gentleman,” came the familiar announcer’s voice. And we all knew that it was time now, time to see if another strong bull would become a steer. “A special surprise. You just saw the young American Marine, Ethan, emasculated on this stage. Now, our next bull of the evening is one of the men responsible for putting him on the stage tonight…”

My heart raced. I sat up on the edge of my seat, staring up at the large plasma screen closest to me. But it was still dark. Who would it show? Would it be Lars? It was a terrifying thought. Would it be his son? The poor lad!

“Captured at the same time as the young American marine, please welcome his commanding officer, a strong bull, Lieutenant ALAN, of the USMC!”

My heart and my body sank back into my chair. The crowd cheered, going wild and pumping their hands. I understood why. The castration of another American was always a treat. And a soldier at that. But the words of Nikos had sent my mind racing, too far in front as it turned out. The idea of an Association member losing his balls (possibly), had been such a confusing and exciting idea in my mind that the prospect of another marine corp castration seemed anti-climactic. But, I shouldn’t have gotten all worked up. After all, castrating an Association member on the club stage? It had never been done. If my hopes had been raised, I only had myself to blame.

I glanced over at Nikos. No doubt this was the pleasant surprise he was talking about. Nikos especially relished the castration and deflowering of Americans. His taste in this regard is well known to everyone, which is why the fate of the young American marine already castrated tonight was pretty predictable. Now, another marine to possibly lose his balls? Nikos had only pulled one of his cables so far in the night. The chances were pretty good he would have at least one more tug to use on this poor American stud.

As I contemplated these things, the screen sprang to life. And I saw something interesting and certainly unique. I saw a USMC lieutenant, half-laying, half sitting on a bed. His clothes were disheveled, but still on. And a herder’s hands were all over him. The strong Marine bull had a hard look. His shoulders where broad and muscular. His hair was cut military style, very short on the sides, with a little length on the top. And it was dark. His dark eyebrows hung over brown earnest eyes. His mouth was fixed and stern. He was clean-shaven, but a slight gray hint of shadow still clung to his chin and the sides of his face. I guessed that he was in his late 20’s or early 30’s, a strong man, mature, but still youthful. His shirt was wrinkled and pulled; his pants were unbuckled. But he was pulling away from the herder’s eager hands. She touched him all over, running her soft hands over his clothes, over his legs, over herself. But he pushed away, at moments almost giving in, then pushing his strong body away from hers. He rolled away from her, to the other side of the bed, the strong lines of his face tense.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he would say with heavy breath. “I’m married. I can’t do this. I can’t.”

There was a montage of similar scenes as they played out over the weeks of this soldier’s incarceration. Always, the strong Marine bull seemed so close to giving into his body’s need for pleasure, his instinct to bed a willing woman. But he always won out, controlled himself. The herder became more desperate in her attempts to woe him. After all, his refusal to bed her was a reflection on her abilities in her job. She knew that the main purpose of her actions were to produce this video for the club and for the bull’s turn on the stage. If she couldn’t bed him, she would be humiliated in front of her peers. But the strong bull wouldn’t give in. He told her about his wife, perhaps as a way to further buttress his resistance. After all, if he kept his wife on his mind, even though she was far away, it would make her seem closer. After one session, when the herder had managed to get the marine bull’s shirt off and as well as her own, the strong marine had to pick her up and literally throw her onto the bed to keep her away. He went into the bathroom for a cold shower. Amazing. He was the most faithful man in the world, it would seem. (Aside from those of us in the Association, who were always faithful to our women. Of course, we always had our pussy steers.)

But the herder became more and more desperate. Finally she yelled at the confused and resistant bull. “You idiot, don’t you know that this is your last chance to fuck a woman? You want to go out without feeling it one more time?”

At that, the doors of the room burst open and two large male guards grabbed the herder. She didn’t resist. She knew that she had broken the rules. Her days as a herder were most likely over forever. The last few scenes in the video showed the strong marine bull talking to well-dressed representatives of the Association. They assured him that he would be released as soon as their government cleared everything up. The bull seemed relived, thanking the men and telling them about his wife and two children. He seemed so clean cut, so relieved, so faithful.

The screen continued to show a montage of the strong marine bull. It showed him watching TV; it showed him showering. And the announcer’s voice boomed into the cramped club once more. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this next young bull is a fine specimen. He is married with two sons, aged 10 and 8. At age 28, he was the commanding officer of the recent American assault on our positions in the Middle East. He was a personal friend of the young enlisted man, Ethan, who was gelded only moments ago—a sight that was witnessed by his commanding officer. This Young American Marine Bull was specifically requested and offered by our guest and VIP, Nikos.”

The crowd roared their approval. A bright stage light beamed down at Nikos. Seated in his fine leather chair, he grinned and waved to the applauding crowd. Then waved the light and applause away in a humble gesture. What a master, I thought. He played to the crowd like an expert. Poor Lars and his family. They would be no match for Nikos, I thought. There would be no way the common members of the Association would choose to blame Nikos for the Mid East disaster, not when he was so generous with his money and prisoners.

The light dimmed and the announcer continued his speech. “Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this American Lieutenant is one of the only Young Bucks to ever rebuff our lovely herders. In all the time of his confinement, he has remained faithful to his wife and family.”

The screen promptly changed to a close-up of the strong marine bull’s face. He was clearly involved in a conversation with one of the finely dressed Association gentlemen that reassured him of his future release. By the open and earnest look on the strong bull’s face, I took it that he believed what the men told him, and that he was opening up to them in a sense of common ground. He seemed to stare right into the camera, although I am sure he didn’t know he was being recorded. His strong square jaw was set, but his lips curled into a sly male smile. His eyes were bright and relieved under his black eye brows. “Yeah., I don’t mind telling you how hard it was to keep her off of me. I’ve been in the desert a while now. Eight months since I left base. Eight months away from my wife and boys.”

“You’ve not been with a woman in eight months?” a voice off screen asked him with a jovial hit of empathy.

The strong bull’s smile seemed to melt into a longing downward stare, as if remembering loving nights with his only mate in the safe bedroom of his house so many months ago—with his two boys asleep in their rooms down the hall. “No,” he said flatly.

“That is a long time to go without a woman, my friend,” the voice replied with a chuckle.

“Without anything,” the strong marine bull said with a weary smile. “Can’t do that kinda stuff in the barracks. Not in the desert anyway. And here in this place, I guess I’ve been too distracted. Too nervous.”

“Perhaps we arrange something special for you, my friend.”

“Nah, no. I’ll be fine. I’m just so damned relieved.” And the screen faded to black.

The murmur of the club died down with the unexpected darkness in the room. The dark glow of the plasma screens seemed eerie in the quiet. And then the light BLAZED into their glory, wheeling with abandon on the stage, casting silver flashes from the polished metal of the two “crutches” in the center of the stage. And the plasma’s burst into color—the flesh color of a human bull undressed and on a bed.

The strong marine bull was lying on top of the sheets in his hotel room prison completely naked, except for the large black combat watch he wore on his left wrist. A camera from across the room was capturing this intimate moment for him—a moment by himself, for himself. Several pillows under his shoulders propped up his head and upper body. His broad strong shoulders pressed hard into the soft white pillowcases, creasing them as his chest, shoulders, and biceps flexed and strained. My god, his chest was broad and strong, with muscles honed more from strenuous physical activity and genes than by weekends at the gym. His face and shoulders were completely hairless, making him look younger than his 28 years. But his chest displayed a wide triangle of curly black hairs, starting at his collarbones and tapering down between his pecks. From there, the line of tiny black hairs lead to his belly, where it opened and spread until climaxing in a broad dense tangle of black sex hair. His nipples were the size of nickels and hairless. A light dusting of black hairs adorned his thighs and his taint, and his forearms. I noticed a tattoo on the side of his left shoulder, the emblem of his unit perhaps? His strong face, serious in tone, looked down toward the camera, but he was not looking at the camera.

He was looking between his legs. His horny pole stuck up from his hairy groin. His right hand was wrapped around it, his thumb and his index finger just touching. The strong bull looked at his organ in his jacking hand. His had a childish look of awe about them that wasn’t quite at home on his chiseled masculine features. His jaw was set, his lips fixed firmly together, drawn in a tight line. His balls were a tight bag under his dick and his jerking hand. They were large eggs in a wide bag that was noticeably darker in color than his fleshy-white thighs and shaft. They stuck out over his taint, under his upturned pillar. His hand never really touched them in its bouncing. His bag and his jewels, so indispensable to his act, seemed forgot by their owner. His eyes and his focus were on his organ, which by the look in his eyes and the tenseness of his face must have been sending strong signals of pleasure through his body.

As his hand moved up and down his organ, he pulled his little finger off, pointing it out from his organ. It was like a dog’s leg twitching as he is scratched. I watched that little finger, considered its size compared to his mature organ. The strong marine bull’s cock was around 6.5” long, with a respectable but still average thickness. It jutted from his maturely masculine body like a pink and flesh rocked—as if it were being held down to his groin by his grasping hand. I thought for a moment of the amazing proportions of the male body. As the strong marine reclined on the bed, his body was a mass of muscles, bones, and flesh. But for all his mass, for all his muscles, for all his hairy body, it was his manhood that jutted up like a skyscraper towering over the city skyline.

“Nnah, huh, huh,” he breathed. He breathed out a deep rumbling whisper. “Yeah, yeah, baby. Huh. Yeah, make it last. I’ll make it last for you.”

His voice was so low, so different from when he had struggled with the herder or when he had joked with the Association men. It was a window into his private world, into the bedroom of his home far away in the states. It was how he talked to his wife when he was in the throws of pleasure with her. Until then, she was the only one who had heard him that way—certainly since he was married. The sound of it and the sight of him holding back, the strain in his eyes as he kept his pleasure at bay, enmeshed me in the scene, in the moment. I noticed then that his hand never touched the pink spearhead of his cock. He jacked up and down, over the scar of his newborn circumcision, down to the hairy base of his manhood. But he purposefully neglected the tapered head of his tool and its sensitive underside. He was making himself last for her, even though she was not there. Being a good husband, a good man, meant holding out, making himself last, like would with her, even though she was not there.

I felt my on pants tighten as my own erection filled them. This was a stud to respect, truly a man. It was so easy to imagine him with his woman, humping her missionary style, on top and in control, as I’m sure he though a man should be in the bedroom. But I imagined him rolling over and letting her ride him—just because he knew she liked it. He would lay on his back, as he was in the video, his pole sticking up and into the pussy that had birthed his two sons. And he was struggle to hold himself back, making sure her pleasure came first. Did he look at her with those eyes? With that look of awe and strained struggle? With a rocking of my legs under the table, I forced the fine silk fabric of my underwear to rack the underside of my own stiff organ.

The strong marine stud slowly, as part of his stroke, pushed his organ back, pointing it away from his chest and out between his legs as far as the strong muscles and tendons of his groin would allow. And I noticed a slight change in his grip. He now drew his little finger around his wide shaft and allowed his hand to graze the underside of his organ and the rim of the head.

“Hof, hof, yeah, let it go. Yeah, leg it go,” he breathed out in a husky whisper. And his lips parted, letting his mouth hang open ever so slightly.

And then it happened. His jaw dropped, making his thin pink lips from an “o” of surprised pleasure. And his eyes rolled back in a moment of overwhelming ecstasy. I knew what was happening at that very moment. The strong, hidden, inner muscles of his groin was tensing and contracting, massaging his prostate internally, moving the seed of his body inside the inner male plumbing between his legs. “Hhhhuuuuaaaaa,” he breathed. His eyes stared forward, but it was as if they weren’t seeing anything. His entire being was blinded by the pleasure between his legs, in his pole, behind his balls. And then, with a deep rumbling grunt, his body expelled a thick rope of white seed from his male prong. “Uuurrraaaahhh, uuuurrrahhhhh,” his gravely grunts were timed to each contraction and wave of seed that spurted out between his legs, plopping silently on the bed sheets. That was his seed, the virile product of his male fruit. His body had squirted white spunk just like that into his wife and made his two boys. At about the fifth spurt, the fluid came with much less force, and remained a sticky glob on the underside of his head and his index finger. His face relaxed from its tightly pinched strain. And he pressed his head firmly back into the soft pillows. The waves of intense pleasure in his body were receding. “Oh, I love you baby,” he whispered to himself. His strong broad chest heaved with is deep breaths. The small hairs there were damp with sweat. You could tell it had been a long time for him, a long slow build up of fluid and tension in the lower parts of his male body. The final shot was of the mature marine lieutenant motionless on the bed, his large form exhausted from the self-made strain, his eyes closed softly and content, his legs wide and his hand slack around his rapidly softening manhood.

I moved my hand next to the third handle on my table. I knew for sure how I would cast my vote.

The plasma went dark once more. And with a fanfare and flourish, the lights of the stage pointed to the ramp. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, here he is, the third young bull of the night, ALAN!”

And there he was, walking down the ramp, his flesh blazing in the bright light of the stage, a herder on each arm. His eyes were wide. They seemed to dart this way and that, as if they expected to see something familiar or friendly in the crowd. But no one here tonight was his friend. A sheen of sweat already covered his body, matting the thin curly carpet of hair to his chest. Now, with the hands of the herders on him, I realized just how much more mature and large this young bull was than the previous two. His biceps bulged as he tugged and pulled at the herder’s grip. He tried to drive his heals into the stage, but the hard wood offered no assistance. The strong marine bull twisted the weight of his body and nearly fell over. But the herders were on him, and pulled him upright. They literally dragged him to the center of the stage. The twin crutches had to be raised for this bull. I watched as the herders planted the hairy bushes of his armpits on each of the padded beams, raising the bull until his toes just touched the ground. The soft skin under his arm bulged as his pits too almost all his weight. His large powerful body, with his muscles and his mass, dangled uselessly from the crutches. The big bull blinked his eyes in the bright light. His face seemed so open, so scared. His organ was soft, and it hung down over his plump sack like a link of sausage. The slight hit of dark shadow over his lip, around his mouth, on his chin made him seem so strong and mature. But the bright terror in his eyes, the wide stare into the crowd and at the cords the herders hooked around his sack, that made him seem like a kid afraid of what might be in his closet.

I glanced at Nikos and he was beaming. I saw men reach around his chair and pat his shoulder in affectionate thanks. His hand was already on the ivory handle of his third gelding cable. I looked back at the strong mature bull. God, the odds were against him. He was already sweating; his face was already pleading. There were no angry demands, no curses of defiance like the young private’s. The lieutenant had seen his soldier gelded; he knew nothing like that could save him. He just pleaded.

“Now, ladies and gentlemen, let me call your attention to our guest herder, someone you will recognize right away, SASKA!"

I tall woman, dressed in the tight black suit of a herder, walked with deliberate command down the ramp to the stage. She was raven haired, her long locks pulled back into a ponytail. Around her waist was the scarlet sash of an Association commando. She smiled to the crowd and tossed her head back. And I did recognize her. She was the herder from the bull’s video, the one who had become so frustrated with his resistance that she blundered into error. My suspicion was correct. This woman, Saska, was now a soldier in the Association Corp—no doubt an officer of some rank given her herder training. But she was no longer a herder, and that fact could not be read in any way other than a demotion. Yet there she was, on the stage. I wondered what kind of strings she had to pull to get up there that night, with that bull. I naturally glanced at Nikos, but his face wore an impenetrable grin.

The herder walked around the bull, moving her hips, pulling the scarlet sash at her waist through her clenched hand making a wisp of air on the bull’s leg hair. He looked at her, recognizing her. He turned his eyes to follow her, then, when she vanished behind him, he whipped his head to the other side and waited for her to appear again.

“Please, please,” the strong bull said with a breathy, husky voice. Not unlike when he stroked himself in bed.

Saska hushed the roar of the club with a sharp slice of her hand. She was a professional. I hadn’t seen her in my visits to the club before. But she must have been an expert herder. What a shame to have lost her skills to a single mistake.

“The bull seems confused,” she said to the crowd. “He thinks I can help him.” The accent of her voice was proud, like a baroness of the Old World. My god, she was a stunning women. I decided then that I might have to take my wife to bed that night. She whipped her head back to the bull. His shoulders stuck up around his neck as his weight hung on the crutches. “I’m sorry bull,” she said. “But I’m afraid you already refused the only help I could offer.” And as the last words rolled from her tongue, she sashayed across the stage with a flick of her scarlet sash.

The crowd roared with approval. Saska turned and walked behind the bull once more. “And from what I have seen, it was my lose as well as yours,” she said. As I pumped my legs under the table with renewed enthusiasm, I moved my eyes to the plasma screen above me. It showed the reverse of the stage, the side I couldn’t see. And I saw Saska rub her fingers across the broad smooth skin of the bull’s muscled shoulders.

The strong marine bull turned his face toward the sky, but saw only the lights and the ceiling. “Please,” he said, to himself it seemed. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his muscled neck.

As Saska came around on the bull’s right, he fingers still traced on his skin. She made a little circle with her index finger around the tattoo of his military unit on his shoulder, and then rubbed her hand across his chest. She paused to spread her fingers in the curly hairs of his chest. The strong bull, his jaw quivering and his eyes moist, looked straight at her. “Please,” he said. It was like the vain begging of a boy for a too expensive treat. How was it possible for this bull to seem so mature and yet so young at the same time? He was 28 years old, a young dad, a loving husband. His whole life was ahead of him. Or at least it had been before the desert fight.

Saska’s hand followed the trail of hair down his front to the thick bush of his pubes. I had been looking at the bull’s face, at his eyes, following Saska’s hand. But now I saw that the strong marine lieutenant had a raging erection. His organ jutted out from his bull body, above average in every way, the circumcised head flared and ready. But Saska didn’t touch it. She curled his black pubic hair in her fingers for a moment, and then withdrew her hand. She turned her back to him, and with a dramatic flare, she stepped to the corner of the stage. Smiling at the crowd, she toyed with a few curly black hairs she had snatched from the tangled jungle around his sex. “You saw what happened to your young soldier, the boy who had been under your command? You saw his balls come off. You saw him gelded.”

The strong bull closed his eyes tight, as if to force the memories of his friend and comrade, the young enlisted man who doubtless had looked up to him as a commander and as a man, being emasculated on the stage. I saw the first tear of the bull squeeze from his lid and roll down his chiseled cheek.

“Well, that is not all that will happen to him. Do you know what comes next? They clip off his little wiener. It was a little wiener,” she said, tossing the curly black hairs from her hand. “But he used it well, while he could.” She turned back to face to strong marine bull, who opened his eyes and looked at her. “But they will clip it off. And they will use it to make a pussy. They'll make a pussy for him here!” And as he spoke, she leaned over and took the big bull’s budging bag of plumps in her hand. She was quick and a little rough, but careful. All the muscles, all the mass of the strong bull shuttered as he felt his bag of jewels in the hand of this woman—this woman not his wife. But she didn’t touch his straining, raging pecker. “And when they finish making his new pussy for him, men will fuck him.”

“Yeah, Nikos!” That lone shout in the silent club brought a rumble of laughter from the crowd. Saska was not happy, I bet, but she didn’t show it.

“Yes, men will fuck him. They will fuck that strapping young soldier you commanded in his pussy, like he was a woman. They will fuck him with one of these!” And the twisted away, causing the long dangling softness of her scarlet sash to twist around the bull’s rigid pole, rubbing the hard surface of his rod as she pulled away from him.

“Hhhuh, huh,” the big bull breathed through his mouth. And I realized how over stimulated he was, with that woman walking around him, touching his body, but not his prick—not with her hands. He had been without a woman for so long.

Saska turned back to the bull. “You think, when those men are pumping your young soldier friend with their seed, they’ll sound anything like this?”

And the plasma screen flashed on again, with the footage of the bull’s solitary jacking, now zoomed in closer, showing his face, then his hand on his prick, then his face with his tense look of controlled desperation. And the audio was LOUD. Every slide of his hand on the tight skin of his pole, every hint of his breathing, every deep whispered word was pumped up loud and clear.

“’Yeah, yeah baby.’”

The sound of his hand on his tool, the sandpaper sound of his fleshy palm pulling over the skin of his hard cock, filled the room. And the bull’s mouth hung open, panting for breath. Saska walked behind him again, tracing his muscular ass with her hand. There were little black hairs there too, a light dusting on his butt cheeks and a denser triangle of black hairs at the top of his crack. Saska drew her index finger along that line, among those little hairs, until she slipped the tip of her finger ever so lightly in the crack where his butt cheeks separated. “When they stick their dicks into that young privates pussy, do you think it will feel like this to him?” she said into the bull’s ear.

“’Yeah, make it last.’” The hiss of the enhanced whisper on the audio rolled through the quiet crowd. I pumped my legs, feeling the inside of my underwear grow slick from the release of precum from me hard member.

“Ta, hae, hae,” The strong bull sobbed. Tears now rolled freely down the strong lines of his face. “Oh god, Ethan, I’m so sorry.” He whispered.

Saska walked around to his from again. Her hand never left his skin now. She traced over his arm and down his flank. “Oh god, your such a MAN,” she whispered loudly to him. Her scarlet sash twisted and fluttered around his straining pole once more. And I saw a clear line of fluid stretch between the fabric and the throbbing eye of his manhood. It gleamed in the light like a spider’s web before silently snapping. Oh god, that bull wanted to come. He had been so good, had kept himself faithful to his wife. But now it was the end of his manhood, and his body wanted to cum even if his mind didn’t. On the screen, I saw how he jacked his cock, how he avoided touching the head and the underside until he decided to cum. His plump purple knob must be so sensitive. That scarf must feel like a cloud enveloping it and then blowing away.

“’I’ll make it last for you.’”

The sound of the strong bull’s self-pleasure, the whimpering sobs of his fear now on the stage! I reached my free hand under the table and rubbed the underside of my hard pole through my pants.

Saska walked up to him again, taking his chin gently in her hand. “Tell me, do you think the young soldier will like being a woman?” She smiled at him, almost flirting. “Are you going to like having a pussy between your legs?”

“Oh god, please,” the big bull panted his plea. Saska turned and walked to the far corner of the stage once more. “I have a wife,” he sobbed. “I have two boys. Two sons. Please, they need me. They need me to be their dad. My wife needs me to be her husband. They need me to be a man!”

“’Hof, hof, yeah, let it go’”

The strong bull moaned with his breath in the video. I heard him choke down a sob on the stage. As the intensity of his moans and of his sobs swelled, my free hand serviced my own raging manhood. God, the bull on the stage was so hot, so strong, such an impressive piece of manhood. He was a husband. I thought of his broad chest rubbing against his wife’s breasts as he humped his massive body over her small frame. I thought of his plump balls, hanging tight under his straining cock just as they did on the stage. I thought about them shooting his seed into his woman. And making his two boys. His sons, his sons jumping up on his strong back. Him carrying them, tossing the ball with them.

Saska crossed the stage again and knelt in front of the bull. She leaned in. His wide muscular body towered over her, his small nipples erect, his hairy male body moist with sweat. His face, his strong masculine face with its wild-eyed look of scared innocents stared down at her. His long hard prick jutted in front of him, curved up slightly in the intensity of its desire. Saska leaned in and blew a single hot breath, a blast of moist warm air from her lips, over the throbbing knob of his anxious pole. And it throbbed in response, begging for more, for a tiny touch of friction to trigger the strong muscles deep inside his male body to throb and spasm out his seed.

The bull’s mouth hung open in an “O” of incredible tension and desire. God, to be so scared, to be so hard, to be so strong a bull denied.

Saska lowered her plump ass to the ground and wrapped her arms around the bull’s muscled leg. Her breath caused the black hairs of his calf to flutter. She looked up at him, eyes bright with mock affection. “Did you like being a man, soldier boy? Because you’re not going to be one much longer, I think.”

The strong marine bull’s face tensed, his eyes squinted with desperate insane panic. “Oh, god, don’t. Please don’t. Pllleeeaase!”

“’Yeah, leg it go.’” The audio blasted the grunts of the stud. They sounded so amazed and surprised, like a boy just discovering the pleasure his body could make.

Saska looked out into the crowd. It seemed like she looked right at me. Her face twisted into a mask of hatred and rage, even as her hands caressed the sweaty leg and thigh of the strong young bull. “Yeah, men, Let It GO!”

Each of us, all four of us, jerked with a mighty force. All four of the strong cables leading to the stage, leading to the bull, leading to his ripe and plump, his futile bag of twin orbs, went taut with the force. And between the strong bull’s legs, right next to Saska’s folded knee and her the ends of her scarlet sash, the marine lieutenant’s bag of balls dropped with a mighty THUD.

“’Hhhhuuuuaaaaa.’” The bull grunted on the audio.

The strong bull’s body tensed and convulsed. His mighty muscled slackened and quivered. His bright pleading eyes rolled into the back of his head. But he made no sound. All I head was the slap of his hand on his shaft—and the breathy moans as he grunted out the orgasm on the bed.

“’Uuurrraaaahhh, uuuurrrahhhhh.’”

And I was suddenly choking back the grunt of my own orgasm and my underwear filled with my own seed. But I didn’t close my eyes. I stared at the freshly gelded marine steer on the stage. The young, strong steer that had been such a man. His erection was deflating slowly, unsatisfied and now unmanned. A drooling line of cum hung from his member, his last unfulfilled load. As my pants grew warm and slick with my own cum, I stared at the strong marine steer, thinking of the sperm still boiling deep in his body, between his legs. In his prostate and in the male plumbing of tubes that once served to make his two sons. It would stay there inside him forever now, being absorbed by his emasculated body, lost to him forever.

I sank back in my chair. I didn’t realize I was on the edge of it until that moment. The plasma screen had frozen on the image of the strong marine bull nearly asleep, exhausted and fulfilled on the bed after what, it turned out, was his final orgasm. What a contrast to the convulsing emasculated steer that hung on the crutches on the stage.

Saska rose from the floor, leaving the marine lieutenant’s leg to quiver and convulse without her holding it. As she stood, she picked up the bundle from the floor, the sac of balls that had hung between the strong stud’s hairy legs. With a sweeping pull, she yanked her scarlet commando sash free from her waist and twisted it into a thin tight line. She tied this bright cloth rope around the puckered neck of the lieutenant’s severed bag and yanked the knot tight. Then she went behind him, swinging the warm sack around his neck like a metal, tying it behind his meaty neck. I heard his heavy back of balls plop against the hard sweaty skin of his chest with a SLAP. “There you are, stud.” She smiled at him and kissed his cheek, pressing her lips to the streaked lines of his tears. “I hope it was as good for you as it was for me."

The crowd roared for her as she strode from the stage, most likely for the final time.

I just sat there, committing the moment to memory. The regular herders were already scurrying about, removing the four used gelding cables. But the strong marine steer just hung there, his sharp broad shoulders framing his exhausted and defeated face. Around his neck he must have felt the heaviness of his balls. They must have been so much heavier their than they had been when hanging between his legs. He had been used to feeling their weight there. For 28 years he had carried them there. But around his neck, that was a new feeling. The tan skin of his sac stood out against the pale flesh of his chest. His warm heavy sac of family jewels now hung now rested at the point between his muscled pecks, right under the triangle of hair that covered his chest.

And then the bidding started. I had forgotten about it. But when Nikos blurted out the first bid loudly over the roar for the crowd, I knew what I had to do.

“One thousand Dricmarks!” I shouted over the crowd.

Nikos countered. But I was determined. I would not let him have this one. Nikos had gotten the young marine steer. In a few weeks, his mighty prick would be penetrating the poor steer like he was a woman. Not this stud. Not this father of two boys. Not this bull who had traded away his last fuck with a woman out of loyalty to his wife. He was a bigger man than the young marine steer, with a bigger prick, bigger shoulders, and more masculine hair. But his eyes now had the same tired emasculated emptiness that the young private’s had when he was auctioned off the block. To my right, old Garson sat remote and uninterested. Havous said nothing. It was up to me. But Nikos wasn’t letting up. No doubt he wanted to reunite the two emasculated bulls, the younger soldier and the more mature lieutenant, in his bed.

“Ten Thousand Dricmarks!” The crowd in the club gasped at my bid. It was a LOT of money. And paying it would probably keep me from the VIP chair for six months at least.

Nikos’s jaw went slack. But the moment passed and he collected himself. He waved his hand. The gesture was dismissive, as if he hadn’t really been interested in the fresh steer.

When the announcer boomed my name as the winner, I smiled broadly. I had plans for this strong marine steer.

As you can see, my disappointment when the third bull of the night was announced was pretty unfounded. The wet oval stain that was spreading then in the front of my pants was proof enough of that. But as I reclined in my chair, a napkin over my lap to hide my guilty pleasure, the main thing in my mind was that the night wasn’t even over—that there was still one more bull to take the stage.

To be concluded…………………….

* * *

ASIDE

Since some time has passed, and my story of my night at the club is not yet over, I will take a moment and tell you what I did with my winnings of that night. I had the strong marine steer’s bag of testicles preserved and turned into a necklace. I don’t wear this necklace, mind you, but I do keep it hung in my house as a reminder of that night at the club and of the bull who had owned them.

Most in the club probably took it for granted that I had the strong marine turned into a pussy steer. But I didn’t. I chose another option—the road VERY MUCH less traveled. I chose to release the steer. A plain took him back to the Middle East, and he was thrown from a car, drugged and stupefied, near an American base. But he was “tagged,” as we in the Association say. The local operatives under my authority in America have kept an eye on him and reported to me how his life has unfolded.

The military debriefed him, believing that he was the only survivor of his unit lost in the desert some time ago. Obviously, the locals had made sport of him and emasculated him as a cruel form of psychological warfare. The military was more than willing to hush this up given the affect it would have on moral if his condition became known—not to mention the fact that he seemed to have hallucinated a crazy scene with a hotel and a club while out in the desert.

He was honorably discharged and sent back home to his family. Of course, thanks to the cocktail of drugs that the herders pumped into his system that night at the club, no amount of testosterone or Viagra could make his penis harden. His wife cried her eyes out for him, clinging to him and insisting that she would stand by him no matter what. My sources in the military hospital that treated him over time inform me that, for a time, he still desired sex with his wife. And he was given a strap-on dildo to simulate those intimate moments with his mate at the government’s expense. But, as time passed, he no longer asked for toys. And his penis shriveled to an unused nub of a mushroom nestled among the thick black bush of his pubes.

The poor marine steer did keep most of his masculine frame, becoming more like an un-muscluar, somewhat fat man rather than a traditional eunuch in appearance. That was at least a comfort to him I bet. He still looked mostly masculine when clothed, but he would never change clothes with his two sons in the locker room or at the swimming pool. He couldn’t bear them knowing that their father wasn’t a man anymore.

About six months after returning to the US, I should also note that the marine steer paid a personal visit to the parents of Ethan, the young private that had been “killed” under his command. His parents were weary and sad, but they were proud of their boy. And they still had pictures of him all over their wall—his 2nd grade school photo, his picture from the senior prom with his arms around the waist of his smiling date, his official picture in his dress uniform looking stern and mature. The steer didn’t tell them about the club or about their boy’s emasculation. He didn’t tell them about the pussy their strong young soldier now had between his legs, or about how he had by that time surly been fucked like a woman by many horny men. He didn’t tell them any of that, although he knew it was all true. He just comforted them and told them about how strong and confident their boy had been in the desert, and that he went out like a man, fighting for all he was worth. That at least was true.

And that is how things stand with the poor strong marine steer as I write this. He is living his life with his wife (whose loyalty, although strong, was not as strong as her husband’s had been.) And with his two boys (who, although only lads not yet into puberty—with only tiny grapes in their sacks between their legs—are still more male and more manly then their impotent steer of a father will ever be again in his life.) And life continues on for them.

And there probably won’t be any more to tell about them until his oldest boy turns 18 years old. On that day, a package will arrive at their house by special courier. It will be addressed to he older son. And inside will be the necklace of his father’s sack and balls. The proof that their dad, the husband of their mother, was emasculated in the desert so many years ago. How will he explain it to his boy when he holds in his hand the preserved sack that had hung between his fathers legs and had made him in a moment of passion 18 years before. And how will the steer’s wife react when she sees for the first time in so long a time the two orbs that had powered the masculinity she had loved and had pleasured her so much in her youth? My god! I can’t wait to find out. After all, as I write, I’m staring at the plump necklace right now.

NEXT----- YOUNG BULL 4: THINNING THE HERD, THE FINAL PART