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.

* * *

She ran her hand along the bull’s body. He was a powerful animal, in his 20th year of life. He had changed a lot over the years, she knew. And he would change in still more ways. Or perhaps the better term would be regress. But for now, the young bull was a phenomenal creature, so different than the woman who admired him—stronger, more powerful, more spirited. The bull was a man.

She couldn’t help admiring him, even though she knew her job was to rob him of the qualities she found so attractive. There was an entire herd of young men in the area—a college town. There were all kinds, of course, and plenty more like this one—fit, handsome, strong, masculine, full of passion and lust for the future. She could have her pick of them when she was done. But this one had been cut from the herd. The ones who had sent her had chosen him. And she would deliver him.

She didn’t know his name. It was best not to know. After all, he was a bull. She didn’t want her attraction to him to muddle her thinking. She didn’t want to get attached. She had him tied up of course. His hands were tied to the ceiling, his feet to the floor. He was standing upright, with the ropes at his hands tight enough to keep him upright. He was wearing a black T-shirt and blue jeans. Aside from the ropes binding him in place and the white cloth gag in his mouth, he looked like any other young man on the way to a weekend party—which is where he was headed before she had intervened. A quick come-on and the promise of sex had been enough to entice this young bull, and now there he was, helpless.

She looked into his eyes, deep brown eyes framed by brown eyebrows. His hair was dark brown cut short around his ears and his forehead. His face was clean-shaven and smelled of aftershave. She wondered whom he was trying to impress that night. Some college girl no doubt. Taking her scissors, she cut the black T-shirt up the back. The young bull bucked and swayed a little in his bonds, but she was careful not to nick his skin. Two quick cuts on the sleeves and his shirt was off. She admired the naked flesh of his back and chest. His skin was smooth, with only the hint of hairs around his small nipples. A trail of brown curls led from his bellybutton, down his flat abdomen, and into his pants. The muscles of his back were strong, firm to her touch. They flexed under the caress of her fingers. The band of his black Tommy boxer shorts stuck out from the top of his pants all the way around his slim hips. He certainly was a bull, stylish in a way to attract young females. She wrapped her arms around him and felt the heat of his smooth skin and the shifting of muscles beneath.

She reached for the front of his pants and unbuckled his belt. His body pulled forward as she tugged on the button of his pants and slid down his zipper. She could tell that fear was starting to overcome the young bull’s mind. It was one thing to be tied and gagged, frightening enough. But now the bull was losing the protection of his clothing. His brown eyes were alert and fearful. They watched her every move. His chest rose and fell with each struggling breath. She felt the fabric of his jeans and underwear shift around his waist as she tugged them down to his ankles.

He looked strangely vulnerable to her then, with his pants around his ankles. It made it look like he was trying to go to the rest room but the ropes held him in place. Or like he had started to undress but remembered too late that he still had his shoes on. There he stood, his jeans and underwear gathered around his feet, covering the ropes that bound him there, his body nude in the open air. She took a moment to appraise him. But while he seemed to look vulnerable in his new state, he also seemed more manly now that his body was laid bear. He was not like some bulls she had seen in the past, whose masculinity is diminished when his male parts are finally exposed, shriveled and smaller than she would have guessed. This young bull was truly a BULL. His balls hung down heavy and full, well above the average in her considerable experience. His soft tube of dangling flesh hung in front of his ample sack as if weighted down by the overly plump pink mushroom tip. It was a substantial organ, slightly above average, but by no means extraordinary. The soft tissues that made the youth a bull hung from a thick forest of dark brown pubic hair. His soft organs filled space between his straining legs. He was a mighty bull.

“I know what you want,” she said. She circled the hanging bull, allowing her fingertips to gently trace lines along his smooth skin. “You want what all young bulls what. You want to mount a female and hump her—to feel that feeling. It’s like a fire inside you, something untamed. Fences won’t keep you out. If another young bull has an eye for the female you’ve claimed, violence will be the result.” She began to press her fingers more firmly against his flesh as she circled. She could feel the firm tension of his muscles and the damp sheen of sweat on his body. “That’s why you were on the hunt tonight. Well, you’re in luck, young bull. I like you, so I’ll let you feel that feeling.” She ended her words when she stood directly behind the bull. And she wrapped her arms around his waist and lowered her hands until she felt what she sought.

The bull’s stiff organ already jutted from his body like a spear of living flesh. His hardness met her hand at full staff and she felt it throb with her first touch. She rested her head on the young bull’s back, feeling the heat of his body against her cheek. She knew that he could feel her long hair against the length of his back, even down to his tense butt, and she knew it excited him. Bulls might look different, some taller, some shorter, some thinner, some fatter, some blond, some brown-headed. But they were all the same in their needs, desires, and fears. Now she felt the young bull’s fear washing away under waves of pleasure as her hands stroked his eager pole. She smiled to herself—perhaps he thought it was just a game now, a prank, a joke set up by his friends perhaps?

She lay against his back, feeling his body tense and sway under the pleasure of her hand. The way she stood behind him, pressed to him, with her arms around to his front, feeling his front, she almost felt like she was him in a way, that she was masturbating as a bull masturbates. She wondered if the bull felt the same way. Her hands were smaller than his own were, for sure. But perhaps it felt the same to him. She allowed one of her hands to encircle his thick member at the base while her other hand stroked up and down the length of his organ. She felt each bump and ridge on his shaft, the tool of his masculinity. She felt its length and its thickness. Her fingertips only just touched as her hand encircled his member. How mighty it would feel inside a woman, how much it would stretch and fill her, to the pleasure of both the bull and the mate. She felt her gripping fingers ride the sloping cone of his plump mushroom head. She felt the edges of the V-shaped ridge under his head separate as they sloped around to form the brim of his organ’s helmet. And with her fingertips she brushed the thin sensitive skin in the cleft of that underside until it firmed and hardened into the underside of his shaft. She felt the underside of his organ become suddenly slick as her reckless stroking captured a bead of pre-cum from the slit of his dick. And as quickly the slickness became sticky. She softened her stroke to compensate, and the bull released a deep groan from his muscled chest into his gag. His hips began to buck as much as they could, given his tight bonds. But she felt his muscled ass grind into her front and thrust forward into her hand, his cheeks tensed and straining to push further. She pulled one of her hands from caressing the tense six-pack of his stomach and placed her palm on the small of his back. The blondish hairs she felt there were damp with perspiration. She could feel the heat of frustration from him in waves, even as a bit of sweat began to moisten the skin of his back. He wanted her hand to jerk his organ faster. She obliged him, knowing that time was very important to her work.

She let her hand drop down the tense crack of his butt, down their curve, and under his straining body. He underside was wet with sweat, and she could feel the root of his organ throb under the soft skin of his taint. The hairs there, long and straggly, tickled her hand and left tiny dots of sweat tainted with the smell of his maleness. Her fingers found their target, and she felt the bull’s velvety skin sack, now sweaty and wrinkled as the pressure in his body built. She allowed her fingers to close around the ample bag, gently juggling the soft fullness of his bull balls with her fingertips. The wet warm bag moved and swayed inside her clawed fingers as the young bull satisfied himself in her hand. She tightened her fingers as the two orbs sucked up tighter to the bull’s body, but always gently, with the lightest touch. Only when the bull threw his head back and the muscles of his back went tense did she gently massage his plump eggs between her fingers, feeling their rough but soft surface and the cords wound with muscle that attached them to his body. She gloried in the feeling of his mighty organ in one hand, his bag of bull balls in the other. She kissed his the smooth skin of his back, between his shoulder blades, and traced the lines of muscle there with her tongue.

“Nnnuuuugghhhhhh,” the bull grunted behind his gag. There was no syllable of language in his guttural cry.

She felt the bull’s entire underbelly—the root behind his balls, the now tight and wrinkled bag of oval eggs, the mighty spear of manhood—she felt his entire underbelly throb in a mighty spasm. Once, twice, three times, a fourth, and a lesser fifth. She felt the rush of fluid along the underside of his cock as each mighty jet of virile seed spewed from his throbbing helmet head, propelled by each spasm of the strong muscles deep inside the bull’s groin. The human seed arching out in front of the panting straining bull only to fall to the floor with the sound of little “thud”s.

The woman released the bull, pealing she skin of her cheek from his sticky back. She wiped her hands on he jeans, knowing that a change of clothes would be coming soon for her anyway. As the bull hung from his bonds, heaving for breath through his nose, the woman retrieved her black bag. She opened it at the heels of the bull’s bond feet. She worked quietly, the sound of the bulls deep moans and quick breaths filling the room. She considered how satisfied the young bull must feel, the tension that constantly builds between his legs released, and by the touch and feel of a woman. No, it probably wasn’t the same as masturbating for the bull, even though she had only used her hands on him. A woman had worshiped his maleness, caressed his potent staff with a firm intent, felt his vulnerable treasures between his legs with a careful touch. Not just physically, but she knew that the bull was fulfill psychologically as well. And that was her moment to finish the job.

It was like a staple gun, silver, with a handle and a trigger form fitted to the woman’s fingers. She pulled it from the front pouch of her bag and quickly set it in place. The bull’s bag was still sweaty, like the rest of his underside, but the eggs themselves that he carried under his body were beginning to loosen from their “firing position” close to his body. As they dropped, fleeing the heat his body put out in waves, the woman pressed the end of the device against the neck of his sack.

The bull wouldn’t have seen the woman or known his danger even if she had not been working from behind him. His eyes were closed tight from the dull echoes of his orgasm that still washed over his body. But the sweat of his body that had been warm with the feelings of and the tensing of hot muscles suddenly turned cold in the air of the room. The bull felt a pang for fear seconds before the woman triggered the device.

In an instant, the bull’s anatomy changed. “Clunk-ckick.” The device did its work with merciless speed and finality. “Nnnnnuuuuuuuuuhhhhhh, nuuuuhhhhhhhhh,” the bull roared into his gag. The veins of his neck, the muscles of his back and legs, all strained in a mighty convulsion. The woman smiled slyly as the bull bucked and twisted in his bonds, and screamed an unintelligible cry of horror and agony. His mind probably didn’t even know what had happened to him. And the woman examined her handiwork. A quarter inch band of shiny black metal ringed the neck of the bull’s ball bag with an impossible tightness. She always marveled that the small ring of metal could compress so much fluffy soft flesh, the cords and the muscles that held them, so completely and finally. No, the bull had no idea what had happened to him. He only had the pain now, welling up from the loins that had provided so much pleasure to him in his young life. The young bull’s body was racked by spasms as he became a steer in an instant.

But the woman still had work.

The impossible constriction of the neck of the bull’s scrotum made his orbs underneath appear all the bigger and more plump. But, of course, it didn’t matter now. The cords that had carried his seed, the muscles that had raised and lowered his orbs to keep them healthy, the veins that nourished his vulnerable but mighty manhood were gone, smashed, crushed by the merciless metal tab. Everything below the cold black ring was as good as dead. Although it was still purple and warm to the touch, it would soon be black and cold. The woman knew she couldn’t let that happen. From the black bag, she pulled the spool of wire and cut a piece for the job. With a practiced work-a-day grace, she looped the thin cord around the bull’s dying bag, below the metal tab, and pulled it tight with a quick strong tug. The bag and the heavy balls within fell between the gelded bull’s legs into the pouch of his underwear that was stretched between his ankles. There was little mess, as usual, since the black band protected the new eunuch from blood lose. The woman retrieved the severed leftovers of the steer’s manhood and placed them in the small Tupperware dish. With a pop, the twin orbs and the velvet sac that had once held them under their owner’s body were sealed with enough dry ice to keep them alive for the journey. A quick jab of the needle in the gelded bull’s rump and she was ready to go. The shot contained a sedative, although it was hardly necessary. The neutered college kid couldn’t have physically resisted her now even if his senses were clear. There was no fight left in him. Only all consuming, all destroying pain.

She walked around to his front and considered what she saw. He was a different creature than the one she had undressed and caressed only minutes before. His strong masculine face was now slack, slobber drooling from the corners of his gag. His eyes were open, but not completely. And they looked out dully on the world around him that had not changed. He had changed, and perhaps he knew it already, based on the lines where tears had streaked down his face. His body knew it of course, but his mind, his intellect was most likely still confused. And perhaps it was for the best. The woman felt a pang of regret and pity in her heart. The bull had been so strong, virile, attractive and healthy. Now, his manhood was cut short forever. Because the shot also contained a cocktail that would eliminate testosterone from his system and prevent it from ever returning. It was important, she knew. The steer's life could never return to what it was, even with the aid of medical science. Eventually, it will be important that he know this—to lessen his will to resist and escape.

For now, the woman knew that she didn’t have the luxury of contemplating her poor victim bull. She had a delivery to make. She pulled his underwear and jeans up. And as the clothes again covered the softening though still surprisingly thick sausage that hung between his legs, the woman allowed a quick fantasy to run through her mind. A fantasy of the coming moment, perhaps a day or two from now, when the now useless tub and its meaty plump mushroom head are clipped from the neutered steer’s body. And as she pushed his sticky sausage into his underwear, she considered the thick bush of brown pubic hair that framed the bulls lost manhood. It had been the sign of his physical maturity. Soon it would be razored off, never to return.

And with his jeans zipped up, the steer looked surprisingly as he had when she first tied him up. Without his shirt and with his muscled skin covered in a drying sheen of sweat, he looked so virile and strong. But he was very different. In the underwear and the jeans that covered them contained no balls. He was a steer.

On the drive to the drop point, the woman glanced behind to the back seat several times. The young steer was laid out in the back, curled as if sleeping. His hands had instinctively come to rest between his legs, pressed against the rough fabric of his jeans. But the face of the steer was serene in sleep. The woman was only an hour away from the drop now, and she had the usual cover story in case she was stopped. Her friend had gotten way to drunk and thrown up all over his shirt. She was taking him home to sleep it off. She almost wished she would be stopped so she could go through the motions of earnestly repeating the lie. She loved the idea that an officer would probably offer a knowing smile to her and a glance of sympathy to they young “man” in the back seat. He had been a young bull once too, before age had mellowed him. He knew the recklessness and powerful drives of young bulls. He would never know the poor kid in the back seat is a steer.

But the drop off was close now, and she knew such an encounter was unlikely. Still, she felt sympathy for the steer. His life was changed forever in a way that would be, from his point of view, horrible and humiliating beyond measure. Earlier that evening when he left his roommates and his dorm room and went out on the prowl for chicks, he was just a regular young bull, with his life of fucking around, finding a nice girl, marriage and kids plotted out in his mind. Now, his gelded body would be laid out on a slab. His pubic hair will be shaved from him never to regrow. The tip of his penis will be clipped off and his sausage shaft removed to the root. And with his headless shaft and the pouch of scrotum skin preserved from his gelding, a new pussy would be made between his leg where he had once been a man. And, when he has healed, his new owner and his family will have him brought for a family dinner in their mansion. Not knowing where in the world he is or how this had happened to him, the young steer will sit at the table as his new owner enjoys his meal. Two breaded testicles and the plump male mushroom that had once headed the steer's bull-spear and brought him the most pleasure of his lost male life.

She thought of the tears that the steer would shed on that night, how he would know he was changed and could never go back. She thought how he would think of his father and his brothers and his friends back at school, and how they were still bulls while he is something else—a steer with a pussy between his legs—now and forever. He had been a bull, living a vigorous life, doubtless pleasing several young woman with the masculine power of his body. He knew what it was to be a man—a bull—even if he only had a few years to enjoy it before it was stolen from him. Now, that was all over for him, as he watched what had been the valued treasures of his manhood eaten by another.

And that night, the master or more likely one of his strong and eager sons would take the steer, force him to lie on the bed, while he is mounted by a bull. And the steer will feel the bull’s hungry and hard prong enter the now pussy between his legs. And he will know first hand what the willing women he had mounted in his previous life had felt when he entered them and grunted in masculine pleasure. And he will feel the power of the bull’s body over him, even as his own strength has left him, and he will feel the prong push deep inside his body. And will feel the rush of seed inside—the same sort of seed that he once could shoot. And the pussy between his legs will throb and arch from the power of the organ that had entered him, but the steer will feel no pleasure. His sexual nerves will have been taken from him and eaten by his master as part of his mushroom sauce. No, he will never feel the pleasure and power of being a bull again. Only a steer. That’s all he is now.

The End

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