By justoneguy

When they start out, they are male calves, hairy creatures with great dark eyes and a bleat that would charm all but the hard of hearing. They’re docile and playful and frisky, a joy to behold as they prance about the farm in a group, fellows with the same excitement and passion for life.

Then, they each approach bovine puberty. That’s when things start to happen on nature’s timetable and under nature’s direction. They grow very rapidly as testosterone cascades through their bodies like a wave of corruption, and suddenly the little tykes are turning into young bulls and becoming something quite different from the frolicking calves of spring.

Bulls are not calves. They are fierce animals weighing half a ton or more with deadly horns capable of punching major holes into anything that irritates them. What's more, bulls are lacking in patience; in fact, some even go so far as to claim they're short tempered in the extreme and cannot be trusted. Bulls like things their own way. They're independent, resolute, and brave. They'll brook no nonsense, tolerate no insult. In other words, bulls are uncontrollable.

Testosterone is the culprit here. This is the stuff that makes bulls bulls. Remove the testosterone and you take away the essence of bull-ness. Since the testosterone comes from the testicles, young bulls are routinely de-balled to produce something called a steer, a docile, spiritless, passive creature sans testicles.

* * *

The former tough guy didn’t really know where he was. But he knew he was not longer a bull. Deep down he knew it, even though his life had suddenly become a blur of distant indistinct activity. The steer felt the cold steal of the table through a thin white paper sheet against his shoulders and butt. And he felt the swish of open air against his chest and in the small hairs on his lower legs every time the men walked around him. He couldn’t clearly make out who the men were. They just passed to and fro around him in burrs of lime green and white.

The steer willed his head to turn this way and that, but he couldn’t focus on his surroundings enough to figure out where he was or what exactly was happening to him. To his mind, each turn of his head was a mighty effort of will, a beginning of his grand design to escape from this place and get back home. But the design was just a vague idea in his head, without detail or momentum. And it was completely improbable. The steer might have felt like a bull gathering his strength for a busting attempt at freedom, but to the green clad doctors around him, the movements of his head were slight, delirious, fevered attempts at movement. They knew he moved his head because it was the only part of his body not bound to the operating table.

They also knew that the painkillers and sedatives in the steer’s system precluded even perfunctory attempts at resistance. They busied themselves with their work, while the young steer moaned, coughed, and mumbled in his delirium.

Not long ago--was it a few hours or a few days, the steer had lived a very different life. He had been a young bull, a tough guy in the neighborhood. But that wasn’t a negative. In his 20 years of life, the young bull had always been a little stronger than his peers, a little stronger of mind. At first this was an accident of nature and genes. But from freshman year on, the bull had worked his body into a powerful form. He was not overly developed 155lbs of muscle on his 5’9” frame. His muscles were defined under his skin, but not chiseled. He was not an action figure. He was even a little shorter than average, he knew. But toughness was also in the mind, and the young bull had honed his attitude and demeanor until those who knew him, friend and foe alike, respected him.

He had been a wrestler in high school, and had the best school on the team. And he had time for others. The younger wrestlers, just skin on bones that were only now lengthening to their adult height, the bull had taken time with them. He taught them the moves he used to take down his more beefy opponents, and he encouraged them in their lifting and strength building. He admired the guys not for their strength, but for their heart and their trying. Encouraging them made him feel like a man. He liked the idea of being a big brother to them, since he was an only child. And when the guys on his team were picked on by others—even other team players—he was always there for their defense. “Lay off of him,” was almost his motto, whether directed at more aggressive teammates eager to look good by dissing a kid two years younger or a guy his age being mocked for his “F” in chemistry.

And the young women noticed his instinct for protection as well. When a female friend was punched by her angry and drunk boyfriend, the young bull had stepped in, shoved the aggressive offender against the wall, and pinned him until his struggles ceased. He had an edge to him—typified by the barbed wire tattoo around his right bicep. But he had a tenderness too, and he was always careful that his lovers were willing—in mind was well as body. One girlfriend once poked fun at him for asking her periodically while he humped on top of her, pumping his bull pole in and out of her with barely controlled abandon: “Are you ok, baby?” The young bull had slept with four different women by his twentieth year, including one one-night-stand, of which he did not regret but was not proud of. The others had been his girlfriends, young women he felt strong attachment and affection towards—not just fire in his balls to bed. The bull was confidently masculine, with well-formed dangling parts between his legs. His genitals were not extraordinary, but basic equipment for any bull. His organs hung down with a healthy fullness when un-aroused. When stirred, his organ stood 6” in length and 5” in girth, neatly circumcised in his infancy. Whether in his lover’s arms, buried inside her body, or walking nude in the locker room with his fellow, the young man was unashamed and confident. After all, he was a bull.

And it was his instinct to defend that ended his days as a bull. He had gone to college on a wrestling scholarship, but came back to the old neighborhood every weekend to help out his girlfriend. Her family ran a halfway house for troubled women, usually battered or abused wives. He knew that, being a strong young buck, he wasn’t the best person to work with women in crisis at the hands of an out of control man. So he usually stayed in the kitchen and scooped soup and handled the rows of dirty dishes. And in the kitchen, hot steam from the dishwasher causing his brow to sweat, he still managed to look like a tough guy. He rolled the sleeves of his T-shirt up onto his shoulders, letting his bushy armpits breath in the heat. The white apron, stained tan in most places from years of use, did nothing to obscure the strength of his back and limbs. Most who didn’t know him probably thought that he only put up with this weekend work to get into his girlfriend’s pants. In fact, he was not even bedding her. She said that she wasn’t ready yet, and that was enough for him. He liked her a lot, perhaps even loved her. And he could wait, as long as she showed signs of serious interest. He still beat his meat every night—he was a bull after all—but he didn’t put pressure on her.

It was two nights ago, while he took out trash from behind the kitchen that he saw his un-doer. She was a woman, thin but not malnourished, against the wall while a big tough guy menaced her. She was wearing a dirty skirt and solid red top. He blond hair was bound in a ponytail. The brute had his meaty hands on each of her thin forearms. She cried out, but not so loud as to fill the alley, and twisted her head from the brute’s hovering face. The young buck didn’t take time to think about the situation. His character demanded his action. He dropped the trash bags he carried in each hand and ran at the brute. He was half a foot taller than the young bull and at least 40lbs heavier. But these facts didn’t influence the young bull’s decision. Someone was in trouble, someone smaller and more helpless than he was. He knew on instinct that he could help, that he could win.

He tackled the guy from behind, knocking him away from the woman, who stumbled and fell into the grim of the alley. For all his size and apparent strength, the brute was a coward. He had no discipline or competence to his fighting. And the young bull humbled him with a few blows. He scurried away like a large bear stung in the nose by a bee. The young bull felt his hot blood rush through him. His muscles felt strained, his skin hot. He felt like a warrior of old, a knight. But these feelings didn’t obscure his real goal in his mind. He turned to the woman, who was sprawled out on the nasty ground. He took her arm in his hand and lifted her to her uncertain feet. She felt like a feather, offering no resistance as his biceps tensed and lifted her up.

“Thank you, oh thank you,” she stumbled and stuttered. She reached to put both her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. And that was when he felt the gab, the tiny spot of throbbing pain in the soft skin of his arm. She had stuck him, and he flinched away. His earnest masculine face twisted in confused pain at the woman, whose lips twisted into a smile. And he fell backward. It felt like someone had slammed him in the back. It was his muscled frame slamming into the paved floor of the alley.

He opened his mouth to question or cry out, but only heard a groan. The slight woman took him by his feet, one held to either of her hips. They felt heavy to the young bull. And he was pulled with five mighty tugs of her feminine body into the dark doorway in the shadows.

The young bull was alert, but confused. His large brown eyes, lazily drifted, trying to understand his surroundings. He felt his clothes shift over his body, wrinkles straighten against his skin as new wrinkles formed. He saw his apron, cut free from his body, and tossed to the side. The woman was over him. She seemed like a tower, her head far away with its blond pony tail sticking out behind. She turned to look at him, and she smiled again. Who was she? Did he know her? Why did his head hurt?

His limbs felt heavy—as if the muscles were too weak to move the bulk of his bull’s body. He felt cool night air on his stomach as the woman pushed his T-shirt up to his chest. He felt her tugs at his belt and zipper as distantly as a dentist working on his numbed mouth. The small woman worked his jeans and boxers over his hips, and the bull felt cold again against his manhood. The young bull’s hanging parts felt heavy against his thighs and taint, as if the weight were pulling the skin of his groin down toward the floor. His ass rested in the damp grim of the dark room. The cold radiance of a streetlight through a high window made the young woman look angelic.

The young bull felt her hands on his genitals. But there was no accompanying pleasure. It was more like a doctor’s touch—foreign, unusual, but not sensual at all. He tried to lift his head to look, but each attempt brought a painful bump to the back of his skull. The muscles of his neck were as helpless as the rest of his body. He felt something cold between his thighs. Cold steal, polished and smooth. His balls no longer felt heavy, no longer pulled at his skin. They were being held up. And then the young bull heard a hard loud snap, like the sound of a staple gun slamming its sharp band of metal into a wall of plaster. At first he felt nothing but confusion. And then the pain hit him. The bull’s mighty muscles spasmed. The wave of blinding pain struck him like a sledgehammer between his legs. “Mmnnuuuuuagghh, mnuhahhgggg!” Visceral, guttural cries bellowed from the bull. Or at least, that is how it sounded to him. To the woman, it was a low whine of terror and pain—much to soft to really bring aid in his need. The bull’s eyes darted in a frenzy, trying to focus on what caused the pain assaulting his body. His mind was awash in a sea of horrified confusion.

As the initial burst of agony subsided, the bull felt two pains, like two white-hot ice picks stabbing up his groin, from between his legs, through his stomach, under his ribs. His limbs twitched; his mouth drooled. The woman continued her work. The bull still felt movement between his legs, but he couldn’t concentrate enough for feel enough detail threw the fog of pain his lower body had become to know what was happening. When the woman pulled the piano wire through the velvety skin of his scrotum and sliced his balls free from his body, the young man retched and vomited. The woman turned his head to the right, so that he didn’t mess up himself too much or breathe in his bile. She was in a hurry now.

The gelded bull hard a door slam behind him, although he could see nothing. He had a brief fantasy, a hope, that the sound of the feet coming toward him would be his girlfriend’s large burly father. He would help him. He would stop this pain and set things right.

“What took you so long,” the woman said. “Did you bring the car?”

“It’s outside,” came the deep baritone voice.

“Help me,” the woman said. And the steer felt his hips being pulled off the ground. He didn’t feel the prick of the needle in his butt muscle. He felt nothing but the throb of pain. The he felt his jeans being pulled up over his hips. He felt his underwear cling again to his butt and sling his genitals. Then, they lifted him up.

The car seat was leather, and felt sticky to his sweaty face and arms. He lay in the back seat, on his side, in the same position as when they had pushed him through the car door. His vision was still dull, and he knew that he was in a car. The lights outside whizzed by and blared into his face. They were people on their way home from work, going to pick up their girlfriend for a date, going to drop off their kid at his friend’s house. They had no idea he was there—no idea he was a steer.

And the gelded stallion didn’t even know he was a steer. Not really. The concept was too specific for his drugged and groggy mind to comprehend. All he knew was the pain, which throbbed between his legs with the regularity of a sunrise. He couldn’t really move, not so much from the drugs anymore, but because the slightest movement sent the ice pick feeling to work between his legs again. But he had managed to shift his arms and cup his hands between his legs. He held his hands there, against the rough texture of the front of his jeans, not really applying any pressure, but as some sort of instinctual defense against the pain he really couldn’t stop. The big burly man in the front seat of the car glanced back a few times, checking on his charge, and snickered to himself. The poor steer looked like a young bull who’d accidentally been hit in his balls while competing in sports. The idea amused him, that young bulls team up with fellows and play out physical events, trying to win, trying to impress the girls who cheer for them, trying to be the best bull on the block. But when they are smacked in their bull balls, they are all equal in their pain and helplessness. So this guy in the back seat was then, feeling the pain, rocking slowly and groaning. But he wasn’t protecting anything or cupping anything. He wasn’t a bull anymore. He was a steer.

But the steer didn’t know it. As his mind started to clear a little, and the feeling his in his fingers and palms became more distinct. And he felt fullness in his crotch, inside his jeans. There was meat there, masculine meat. It felt like it had always felt to his hands. And he could feel the bulge of his underwear against his thighs just like he always had. They hadn’t hurt him; he was all right.

By the time the car door was opened and he was dragged out onto a bed, he was awake enough to know what was happening to him. The men around him were all dressed in green, with white coats and instruments. He knew they were doctors. And he smiled to himself. They would help him. He didn’t resist when they cut his shirt from his body, or when they pulled and tugged on his jeans. But when the pulled his underwear down, he felt the sac of his balls roll over his leg. He looked down in that instant and saw his plump bag of balls fall over his thigh and plop with all their weight onto the table. THUD. His head fell back down onto the bed. He was too tired to cry out, not believing this was possible. He lay in shock, tears dropping from the corner of his eye down to the table.

to be continued….. maybe!