By justoneguy

The young marine steer was half carried, half dragged up the ramp until his the smooth skin of his back and the pale skin of his butt vanished into the gloom. As I sat at my table and watched the freshly gelded steer, I tried to shake my feelings of pity for him. His strong masculinity had doomed him, just as the Spanish bull’s amateurish show had saved his. But, as sad as it was, that is how the game is played. And the young marine’s manhood had been the prize won.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, please take a few minutes to relax while the stage is set for the second half of our show,” the announcer’s voice boomed into the hall.

I heard some scattered boos among the din of the rowdy club. The crowd never likes to wait. But this was “half time,” as it were, a chance for the stage to be cleaned up and for more drinks to be poured. The club needed to get its concession money, after all. And people rarely turned to the bar when a young bull is on the stage. I stood from my chair and stretched. Then, I made my way through the crowd, stopping to shake a few hands along the way, to the door to the green room.

This was a room set aside for the VIP players of the night, clean and quite, with a table of refreshments and drinks just for us. I was the last to arrive. Garson was already resting his old bones on a plush brown couch on the far wall. His gray hair was thinner than the last time I saw him here at the club, but his eyes were sharp. Although, at the moment, he only had eyes for on of the cream cheese cakes from the desert table. Havous was sitting on the arm of the couch on the opposite side of Garson. And towering over him, gesturing firmly as he spoke, was Nikos. In the pleasant light of the room, I can see that age is creeping up a little on Nikos. His hair is perhaps a little thinner than in his earlier years, and his middle was starting to thicken a bit. But his shoulders were still broad and strong. And the way he stood over Havous as he spoke implied power and position.

I’m sure that was the point. Havous was a rival, an upstart, as far as Nikos was concerned. After all, he was ten years Nikos’s junior, but he already held the supreme power in his family. As long as the Old Man was alive, Nikos was still just the heir apparent. And Havous was starting to gain a following in the Association.

“I hear it was a real disaster,” Havous was saying.

And Nikos was forceful in his answer. “It was a disaster. And I can assure you, I’m getting to the bottom of the situation. If Lars were not such a fool, the operation would never have turned out this way. I should never have let him take operational control of the district. But I’m in personal command now. I plan on going to the scene tomorrow.”

“After your night at the club,” Havous said slyly.

“Hey,” Nikos laughed. “You know how long it takes to get VIP tickets here.”

I didn’t need to be told what the conversation was about. Nikos had been in charge of several Middle Eastern districts of Association business. A few weeks ago, some of our operations—drug smuggling, prostitution, coded bank accounts—began taking some heat. This was not unusual for the Association. Although our existence is hardly understood in its true being, our operations usually conflict with legitimate governments and interest. Of course, Nikos had sent a commando team to deal with the problems let by Lars, another up and comer, not as wealthy and important as a major family, but well known and liked. Things had gotten botched, and Nikos was loudly and clearly blaming Lars for everything. This was probably a smart move, since the only other one to blame was Nikos himself.

Havous just smiled and nodded. I remember wondering to myself who started the conversation.

The door swung open, and two herders entered the room. They were even more beautiful up close, as many have observed. Their skintight outfits clung tight to their perfect lines, their thin and deadly bodies. Their eyes glistened in the lights of the room, a look of alertness and strength. It was an odd combination of femininity beauty and bullish spirit. And between them stood the Spanish bull.

It is customary for the young bulls from the first half to join the program to join the VIPs in the green room, if the players requested a meeting. But who the hell would have wanted to see that stupid Spanish bull? He was wearing white boxer briefs now, but his brownish skin still had a sheen of sweat from the stage. He stood in the room with a grin on his face as the four of us, the ones who hadn’t even tried to take his manhood, looked at him a little perplexed. We each looked to the other to see who had asked for his presence.

Nikos finally spoke up. “Get that trash out of here. Shouldn’t he be on a plane by now?”

Havous chucked. The Spanish bull just kept smiling. He had seen what had happened to the American marine, and knew that, whatever was going on, he had been spared a fate worse than death. He just nodded his head and said over and over again “thank you” in Spanish.

The four of us returned to our conversation as the Spanish bull was led away. (Or should I say the two of us, since Nikos and Havous were the only ones talking.) More talk about politics and this disaster in the Middle East. I so didn’t care. It won’t affect me in any way. Of course, seeing Nikos squirm a little was well worth it. And I could see that Havous agreed, since he isn’t letting the topic drop.

“That Spanish lad really did perform pathetically. But the American bull, now that was a prime bull. I’m just sorry I didn’t win the bid for him,” Havous remarked.

Nikos smiled. “I am certainly glad to have won him. In fact, I am the reason he was on stage to begin with. He was one of five American soldiers we captured in the Mid East troubles last week. I guess the operation wasn’t a total lose. I told the capture teams to pick from the lot of five for tonight’s event. The other four will most likely appear on stage at some point as well. But, I have to say, that first was a prize. And, not to ruin the surprise, but there will be even more surprises on the stage tonight.”

I smiled at this, and so did Havous. We knew exactly what Nikos was doing, exactly his motive. He had “donated” the captured Americans to save face. After all, the Mid East operation WAS a complete disaster, not matter how many pussy steers are made from it. That Nikos, always trying to get a leg up in any situation.

As I chuckled to myself and pondered the naked pandering Nikos was doing in front of Havous, the door swung open yet again.

A smart looking lad, dressed in a fine suit entered the room. He seemed in a hurry, and rushed over to Nikos, tapping him on the shoulder in a very eager and forward fashion. This was a surprise, and a break in protocol. I was sure that Nikos would brush the lad aside and angrily demand that he be fired from the club. But he didn’t. His face burst into a look of recognition and surprise. That is when it hit me. The lad and Nikos looked so much a like—it had to be Boden, Nikos’s elder son. I kicked myself for not realizing who the lad was at first. I had known the boy in his younger years. I had instructed him as part of Association sponsored schools. But he was grown up now, 18 years old, as broad chested as his father, although less filled out in his fine tailored suit. He was even an inch or too taller than his father, although his face was still bright and young. It was only then that I noticed how the years were starting to age Nikos, with a few gray hairs stuck in the thick black hair at his temples.

“What are you doing here,” Nikos said to his son. He was so surprised to see the lad there at the club that he didn’t totally hide the sound of alarm in his voice. Was the Middle Eastern problem worse? Had something happened to his father, the Old Man?

“Sorry, father, but Joran told me to find you right away. The pussy steer you had brought to the house last week has taken very ill. Stearon was very concerned. He wants to take the steer to the hospital in town. But Joran said that he was your steer, so he couldn’t order it on his own. That was when he told me to find you.” The young man’s voice was eager, excited. He was no doubt happy to have been given this assignment, since only those over 21 were generally allowed in the club (unless they were on stage.)

I saw Nikos’s face drop with annoyed relief. That is what was so important? A pussy steer? He composed himself, his cheeks flushing red in anger at the sign of surprise he had given when his son entered the room. Weakness in front of Havous—that is how he would see it. “A pussy steer. What’s wrong with him?”

The son’s face now flushed red—oddly bright red given his olive complexion. “His pussy was torn. It probably happened on the first night.”

That is when I realized what must have happened. Nikos had taken the virgin steer and torn his pussy during that first time.

Nikos’s face brightened at this news. Now that was a show of strength in front of Havous. A real man, a strong mature bull, whose hard tool was too much for a tight pussy steer to take? What could be a more potent show of strength? He shook his head and chuckled. “Well, I guess I really did bust that steer’s cherry.”

Havous grinned back at him, but Garson just shifted his old bones on the couch and sniffed with slight contempt.

Nikos turned to his son. “You tell that steer Aaron that our facilities at the mansion should be good enough. There are always more pussy steers. If this one dies, he dies.”

The lad nodded.

And the door swung open yet again. And it was the herders, two of them, and in their arms they carried the Marine steer through the door.

My god, the steer, this former marine bull, was carried in—dragged in really—with the herder’s feminine hands under his arms. His body had been cleaned, washed in a shower no doubt, and his wounds had been tended. His brown eyes under their strong brown brows were open, but slightly vacant. It was like he was in a dream, cloudy and achy—and not quite real, not quite real. I’m sure he clung to that hope. His body was so tall. He was not on his feet, which drug behind as the two lithe herders pulled him into the room. But I could tell that the mass of his body was far stronger than the two females who carried him. He was a natural bull, thin but muscled, tall but heavy with lean muscle. But he was a steer now, and soon that would begin to disappear—along with the person he had been. And, as further proof, one of the herders held the new steer’s balls in her hand, displaying the still warm sack of dismembered testicles to the players. The soft skin of the sack was still a little pink, but turning blue. I looked at the twins that had once hung between the strong marine’s legs, that had made him a bull, a soldier, a man. God, what a sight.

I could tell that Boden was a little shocked. 18 was a bit young to be allowed in the club. His face hung slack as he saw the un-man dragged into the room, naked, his creamy white skin shining in the light of the room. The steer’s groin was bandaged, but his penis still stuck out from his bushy pubes, a tight tube with all its mass compacted into a small sausage. It had been a man’s organ, but no more. It would never grow hard again. It was just some flesh waiting to be clipped. And Boden seemed shocked.

I laughed a little and spoke up, hoping to cut the awkward moment and make young Boden more at ease. “What’s the matter, lad? Never seen a steer before?”

But that statement only made the poor lad flush a deeper crimson.

“Sure he has,” Nikos said, slapping his son on his solid shoulder. “Why, my boy here was put to his first pussy steer just a few months ago. A natural, if I say so myself.” Nikos beamed with pride.

His son twisted from his father’s hand in a boyish fashion that made him seem younger than his eighteen years.

“If you behave yourself, and get on home, I might let you have this one when he is healed up,” Nikos said, enjoying the moment of parental authority he got to show in front of the rest of us.

“They have to clip his dick first,” Boden said. And then he did something that shocked me. I have to say, I would never have expected it, not in a million years. The lad reached over and gave the young marine steer’s dick a flick with his finger. The tight sausage shook from side to side like a small hot dog being tossed on a bun. The pale pink of the mushroom tip vibrated; it was framed perfectly by the dark brown sex hair of the steer. Boden chuckled to himself. And suddenly, with him standing a few inches from the drooping and exhausted Marine steer, he seemed all the more manly—all the more bullish. His shoulders broad, his stance confident. “It’s such a little sausage,” he said slyly. “It’s so funny looking with the sheath cut away from the tip. I wonder why the American’s do it.”

Nikos laughed deeply. He slapped his boy’s shoulder again.

But I felt my face tense. It was one thing to make a steer of the marine bull. He was, after all, and enemy. But to disrespect the man he had been seemed low class. Had this lad Boden ever made a woman orgasm? Much less a trained herder? He was no more than a just matured calf getting his first taste of pussy—and not a woman’s, just a steer’s. I was surprised. I had never seen young Boden say such a thing. He had been such a quiet, smart student. Perhaps this was a window into the man he was maturing into—no doubt under his father’s instruction. I don’t know what came over me, but I spoke up. “Hold on there a minute. This steer was quite a stud, quite a bull. He’s a steer now, but you should show respect for what he was just a few minutes before. He was a bull, just like you are now.”

Havous chuckled, as if it were part of the joke, but I was serious. I liked this Boden kid, had known him for a long time (although I hadn’t seen him since he got his growth.) I didn’t like seeing him go down the wrong path. I suddenly wished I were his father instead of Nikos.

As for Nikos, he sneered at me with such contempt that I realized what most of his servants (and pussy steers) must go through. I admit, it is wrong to discipline someone else’s son. But I was a little angry and Nikos was doing nothing but encouraging him.

“I only wish we could get that idiot Lars in here at the club, or his son. He’s of age now. Maybe he should pay for his father’s incompetence—up there, on the stage,” Nikos said. His voice was deep and bitter. This problem in the Mid East really had him angry—or perhaps a little worried about his position. Then he grinned. “Like I said, there will be a lot of surprises on the stage tonight.”

And his son, taking a cue from his father’s attitude and words, snatched the severed sack of balls from the herder and held them for a moment. “Yeah, those idiots. If they can’t be trusted with a simple hit job, they don’t deserve to be bulls at all.” And, taking the marine steer’s slack jaw in his other hand, he stuffed the still warm sack into the steer’s mouth, pushing the firm wide oval past the steer’s wet lips.

I was stunned. The steer just hung there, his head weak and wobbling. “Mmmnnnhmmmmm,” he mumbled a moan through the skin of his balls. The sac stuck from between his lips like a man who has stuffed too much bread in his mouth. The steer was feeling the skin of his scrotum against his tongue, feeling the long thin hairs of his sac against the top of his mouth. Each of his two fat orbs, filling his mouth as they might have once filled his girlfriends as she gently pleasured the sensitive plumps of his manhood with her mouth.

But Nikos just laughed a booming, overly loud laugh. And his son giggled as a lad who had gotten away with saying a dirty word.

“Enough!” A firm commanding voice boomed into the room. And I realized it was Garson. The old man was on his feet, his eyes alert and piercing. His face seemed suddenly sharp and beaming with authority. It a window into the commanding image he had been before he retired, an old bull of the Association. And he had had enough.

Nikos and his son stopped laughing at once. Nikos remained smiling, but Boden’s face dropped with disappointment. Perhaps he thought such a display would earn him respect. But not from me, and apparently not from old Garson.

Garson walked with remembered poise to the middle of the room, between Boden and the marine steer, who whimpered and moaned into his nutsack-gag. “This steer was a bull once. He has lost more than you will ever know. When he has a pussy, he may be fucked. That is the life he has earned by allowing himself to be captured. Respect what he was and what he will soon become. He is beneath you. But you show your own worth in how you treat those like him.” Then he jabbed his finger at the 18-year-old bull. “And don’t joke about a member of the Association being gelded. It is not something that happens often, but when it does, it is a matter of respect. Those who lose their balls sometimes deserve to lose them. And sometimes they must accept losing them because of something someone else did.”

But Nikos and Boden just kept smiling. I didn’t understand it. I knew that Boden knew the man Lars. He knew the man’s son, whom he was just joking about being turned into a steer. Boden and Lars’s son had been good friends in the class I had taught. To speak so casually of emasculating him and stuffing his balls into his mouth, that was not the act of a friend, even in jest.

And that was when the thought struck me, like a thunderbolt of awareness. Perhaps Nikos HAD said too much. Perhaps he knew something I didn’t know, and felt completely free to joke about Lars or his son losing his manhood. Perhaps there were to be more surprises tonight on the stage.

To be continued…………..