Part 1

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. 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.

* * *

It is a social event I enjoy. I mean, really enjoy. It is a guilty pleasure. The club is open every night, but I only attend on the first Monday of every month. Anyone can attend—anyone in the Association that is. But I only like to attend when I can participate. And, with the club’s rotating schedule, I can only participate once a month. If I can’t participate, I’d rather not see what I’m missing.

This last Monday as my day. I arrived at the club at about nightfall. The lights were already dimmed and the floor was packed. Men and women lined the bar. They laughed and talked with animated hands. The dining area was below the bar. A short flight of stairs led to a floor of small round tables. Each could seat only two or three people, and they were all packed. I stood at the rail that lined the bar area and overlooked the dining floor. Cigar smoke obscured the light from the tiny lamps on each of the tables. The dining floor looked dark and dank, a crush of people pressed together talking too loud and smoking too much. But the center of the dining room was bright and open. There was the stage. It was about four feet squared. Spot lights above blasted hot white light onto the wooden panel surface. In the center of the stage are two stands. They looked like wooden poles, strong and straight, about chest high. The tops of the poles were wide padded hooks—like the tops of crutches. A raised wooden ramp led to the far corner of the stage. But the other end of the ramp was veiled in darkness. Of course, I knew that in that darkness stood the focus of tonight’s entertainment—five strong young bulls.

From the bar rail, I spotted my table. It was one of four identical tables set apart from the other dining tables by ornate table clothes and large comfortable leather chairs. One of these tables was set on each side of the square stage. The table was reserved for me on this Monday night, just as it is every first Monday of the month. And I have to tell you, it is not cheep.

The show was about to begin, so I pushed my way down the crowded stairs to the dining floor. The cigar smoke immediately saturated my clothes. It was only a short walk to my table, but with the pressing of people jockeying for a good seat and with several friends and acquaintances (and hangers-on) reaching out their hands for a shake, it took no less than 10 minutes for me to cross the room.

But when I finally rested in the cool smooth leather of the chair of honor, I knew it was worth it. The view of the stage was perfect, and I had won the draw that placed my table at the front of the stage. I hate being in the back of the stage. Being on one of the sides is OK, but the front is the best.

I only had time to order my first drink before the announcer’s voice thundered over the din of the room. “Ladies and Gentlemen, will you please take your seats. The show is about to begin. May I draw your attention to the main screens. The Kin-trian, The Thinning of the Herd, is about to begin!”

The room burst into applause as the screens lit for the first time of the evening. From the ceiling over the stage hung four large wide-screened plasma TV screens. There was a screen for each side of the stage so that everyone would have a good view of what was happening, even if their table was not the best. The opening graphics and music are always the same, and I downed my first drink as announcements were made and guests introduced.

As my name was called and my face blasted onto the widesceens, I smiled and gave a thumbs up to the crowd. Many people know me here and respect my family within the Association. And they like the decisions I make on most of the bulls. So, I am pretty popular.

The other men sitting at the tables of honor were introduced in turn. The man on the left side of stage was named Garson. He is an older gentleman who has retired from the Association. He used to be a regular in the club when I first started coming, but has slowed down as his body aged. He has thinning gray hair now, and is perhaps a little too frail to be in this claustrophobic and loud environment. But who’s to say, in forty or fifty years I’ll probably be him and some guy in his early thirties will be thinking that its time I was put out to pasture.

The man seated at the table behind the stage was Havous. He is a young man, in his early twenties. His father died relatively young, so the young man has inherited a powerful position within the Association at a young age. He smiles and waves to the crowd as his name is announced. His hair is slicked back and he is wearing the finest suit in the club, by far. The fact that so many people were packed in the tables circling behind the stage is a testament to his popularity (or perceived influence). Havous really is an up and comer.

And the final guest of honor, sitting to the right of the stage, was Nikos from the valley. A roar of applause greeted his name, which was ironic given his reputation within the Association. Nikos’s father, although getting very old, is still a very powerful man in the Association. As he has aged, the old man has given more and more of his duties over to his elder son, Nikos. But, truth be told, many in the Association (including myself) are more impressed with his younger brother Joran. Joran is steady and reliable—not particularly imaginative, but thorough to a fault. In truth, Joran is much more like his loved and respected Old Man than Nikos, the heir. Nikos, now entering his late 30’s, is generally seen as a hot head, a man too driven by his gut instincts and base desires. I wouldn’t be surprised if on day Nikos runs afoul of the Association one too many times and takes a pretty shattering fall. Lots of people would be a lot happier with Joran in charge of his family’s vast holdings. But, in the club, the very instincts and ruthlessness that make many uncomfortable with Nikos make him a god. People love to watch him play the game, to thin the herd.

When all our names were announced, the lights on the stage started to blink and swing from table to table, focusing on one eager (and perhaps somewhat drunk) face after another. The Herders walked out onto the stage to finish the preparations. The Herders are two young women, both brown hair and wearing tight black body suits to show off their assets. They might look like lithe young vixens, but in truth they are deadly fighters and strong as bulls, thanks to the chemical enhancements provided by Association training. The two Herders go to each of the four VIP tables, swinging their hips for the crowd as they go. At each table they left behind the Gelding Cables.

If you’ve never been to the club you might not be familiar with the Gelding Cables. Basically, a gelding cable is a thin line, thinner than a standard power cord, but strong as steal. They stretch from each of the VIP tables to the stage. Since the night always has four bulls in the herd, each VIP table has 4 gelding cables. When the herders were finished laying out the lines, the stage was ready for the herd. As I said, each VIP table has four lines, and since the four VIP tables are each on a different side of the stage, the square stage has sixteen lines, four on each side, stretching out about twelve feet into the crowd. I looked at the four cables on my own table, lined in a row on a special wooden holder. They were labeled one through four. And with them I would make my picks amongst the herd. I wonder which of the four I will pull.

“This is the moment Ladies and Gentleman. May I present the first bull of the herd. A young man of 19 years old. From Valencia, Spain. Please welcome SENON!”

The crowd went wild, hooting and hollering. The widescreen TVs blazed to life and the face of young Senon filled the screen. The images showed a young lad fucking a woman. This is a very important part of the program. Like the other bulls in the herd, this poor lad was picked up on the street by one of the Association’s collectors. Mostly women, these deadly vixens prowl the globe looking for suitable young bucks for the Association’s needs. Not all the captured bulls come to the club of course. Some are made pussy-steers and still others are recruited into the Association’s commando units. But this poor young bull, along with the three others yet to be seen, was picked up and brought to the club. Lucky him. At least he has a chance. The young bulls that are immediately turned into pussy-steers wish they were that lucky.

The entire herd is kept in isolation for two weeks. Given food and water, they are kept in comfortable rooms, but are unable to leave. There, they are videotaped constantly. I’m sure there are endless hours of video in the archives of young bulls screaming and demanding to be let out. Most were simply stuck with needles or other drugs and knocked out—only to awaken in these strange rooms. The only contact there are given during this time is a single female herder. She brings him food and wine—and very good food and wine, to be honest. It is not a prison. These rooms are a proving ground. At first the herder pretends not understand the young bull's words to her. She speaks only in the secret language of the Association, which the bull cannot understand. But she is tender with him, smiling and trying to be helpful at every turn. She is not dressed in her form fit body suit during this part of the drama. She is wearing casual nurse’s outfits, which only add to their soothing affect on the young bulls. Finally, near the end of the two weeks, the herder will, in broken speech, begin to talk in the language of the young bull. Having grown very frustrated, the bulls usually demand answers and sometimes threaten the herders (who can certainly take care of themselves). But, seeming innocent with her broken speech and sexy body, the bulls are invariably charmed by the woman. The herder then offers herself to him, her body to his, as a comfort to him in his time of need. The young bulls, in my experience, always accept. Bulls are bulls, and they have needs. And the herders are experts at playing on their emotions and exploiting their desires.

And so, the video of the bull’s sex act. As I watched the young Spanish lad on the screen fucking his heart out on top of the sexy young herder, I was struck by how completely the video did its job. On the one hand, the young bull was debasing himself. All those raised in the Association are conditioned and required to mate with only one woman. That is why we need so many pussy-steers. So, with the young bull wantonly screwing the sexy young herder, he was showing that he is an animal—not a civilized member of the Association. At the same time, the young bull was showing his virile and primal passion. He was showing that he is a strong bull, full of desire and the ability to satisfy it, both for himself and for the young vixen in his bed.

Some of the bulls are very tender with the herders. Some are rougher; some even seeming to rape them. (But, of course, the herder allows whatever the bull does, sort of threatening her life. They can almost certainly hold their own with a bull. And help is always outside the door.) The herders are instructed to respond naturally to the bulls. So if a bull is nor particularly skilled in his mating, you can tell by looking at the herder. But if the bull is a true stud, it is always amazing to watch the herders writhe and squeal as they orgasm.

This particular youth, Senon, was basically flopping on top of his vixen like a dying fish. His brownish-red Spanish skin contrasted sharply against the herder’s cream colored complexion. The herder looked bored, just going through the motions as she clutched to the young bull. I bet that was the lad’s first time. His frame was thin. He looked far younger than 19, although the information on the herd is never wrong. It really was an inept show. And by the time the poor young bull grunted his load into the vixen, she has long since lost interest. The herder patted the bull’s bony shoulder blade with her hand, and he rolled off of her. His face, with its boyish softness, looked satisfied and content. And then the screen went dark.

The announcer’s voice booms out once more. “Here he is, the first bull of the night, Senon!”

The lights on the stage swung wildly, casting thin beams of light through the thick cigar smoke. And the two herders escorted the poor young bull down the short ramp from the dark smoky shadows at the edge of the room to the blaring lights of the stage. The poor young bull looked scared. The two herders grasped each of his upper arms, which seemed thin and boy-like even in the grip of feminine hands. The lad didn’t try to struggle. His innocent face looked around the dark club with the open stare of an infant. He must have been so confused.

The young bull was nude. As he got to the center of the stage, the lights blared down on his light brown skin. His black hair shined under the glare. The crowd was cheering for him, but I was not particularly impressed. The lad’s muscle build was weak at best. His stomach was flat, but his ribs showed more than his muscles. His arms and thighs were underdeveloped for a bull of 19 years. The thick black curls surrounding his manhood was compact. His uncircumcised penis hung down thin and weightless in the open air of the club, and his balls were a tight hairless bundle of skin under his body. But the time he was positioned, I had already made my decision.

The herders led the dazed young bull into the center of the stage, positioning him between the two wooden poles. They put each of his arms in the soft clothe covered hooks at the top of the poles, and then raised the poles until they were tight under his arms. They then secured his legs, which were still touching the floor but not enough to get any leverage, one to each pole. The young bull looked like a man on crutches standing in the middle of the stage. The crowd all around him roared and cheered in the excitement of it all. The bull didn’t know it, but his fate was about to be decided.

The herders took their end of 4 gelding cables, one reaching out to each of the VIP tables. And, going around the poor immobilized bull, they hooked the metal end of the cables around his compact balls. The hot lights of the stage are designed to get the bulls balls to hang freely, but this particular bull’s balls were still pretty tight against his underside. Still, the herders had little trouble getting the 4 thin metal hooks around his soft vulnerable manhood.

Now, these hooks controlled the fate of the young bull. They were special cables, computerized. We, the guests of honor at each of the four VIP tables, now controlled the manhood of the poor bull on the stage. If we decided, for whatever reason, that the young bull should be gelded, we picked up the handle at our table and gave it a mighty pull. The metal ring around his balls and attached to our cable would then pull on his manhood. Now, here is the trick. The cables only work then they are used together. I sat at the front of the young bull. If Havous, the man sitting behind the bull, pulled his cable as well, the young bull would be gelded. And if the two men sitting on the right and left pulled their cables together, the young bull would be gelded. But if only one of us, or one from the side and one from the front of back, pulled their cable, nothing would happen and the young bull would be spared.

Once a pair have pulled their cable, the metal hooks at the end, around the bull’s sac, go to work. The motion of the pull, the force of the player’s arm as he makes his decision to castrate the young bull, pulls the blades against the tender flesh of the bull’s helpless manhood. When the two blades come together, in that instant, they super heat, cauterizing both the wound under the bull’s body and the top of the now severed bag. It really is a simple and genius way to castrated the poor bulls. Of course, the wound under the new steer’s dick isn’t as final or neat as the doctors will later make it, but it does prevent any bloody mess on the stage, spoiling the show for the club guests.

And there was a further complication, just to make the game more fun. Each of us VIPs don’t know how many pulls on the cables we are granted. It might be only one; it might be four pulls. The number is drawn at random before the event, but we are not told. This is a failsafe, so that a player won’t simply pull the cable on every bull. A player must really WANT to castrate the bull for him to reach for the cable. If nothing happens, if the partner on the opposite side of the stage does not also pull, then a tug has been wasted. If that was the only tug granted to the player, then he is out of luck for the rest of the game. No one knows while the game is on. And it makes every calculation count.

Because of the lights blasting in my eyes, I couldn’t see Havous’s face as he sat behind the young bull. But I could see Nikos on my left and Garson in my right. Both of their faces were stone cold. I took this to mean that Garson was uninterested in gelding the scrawny young bull. But Nikos is known for his poker face. He could castrate ten men and never break a smile. I wondered briefly what Havous was thinking, since he and I had to pull our cables together to castrate the lad. I wondered if he would waste one of his pulls on the thin Spanish bull.

“And now it the time,” the announcer boomed as the herders swung their hands and the Spanish bull jerked his head like a scared rat. The room erupted in even more screams, some to spare the young bull, some to castrate him, some for more drinks. Mostly the crowd wanted to sway out discussions. But nothing would change my mind on this one. “Annndddd………………..NOW!!!!!!!”

And nothing happened. The lights dimmed and the room quieted. They young bull was spared. The plasma TVs showed the choice of each play—no pulls for the Spanish bull. The young lad looked relieved when the herders unhooked his scared and shriveled balls from the gelding cables. He was shaking like a fish. Of course, he got to stay a man, but it said something about him that none of the players had pulled their cables on his small tight stones. I thought of his cock thrusting into that herder on the night of his passion. I thought of his long thin prick poking into her. It had good length, probably over 6.5”—maybe even 7”, but it was thin, with no meat on it. It wasn’t very manly. Just like the frame of his own body. Come to think of it, I’m not even sure that Spanish Bull should be the way I think of him. More like Spanish Calf. Of course, he didn’t care, and as the herders lead him off the stage, his manhood still hung between his legs, his thin soft sausage dangling down in front of his tight little balls. But they were still under him. He might be a calf. But he was still a male calf. And with the years to come, he might yet fill out into a mighty bull. And he would now be released out into the world, back to his home country, as if this experience were all some strange dream to him. I guess he can thank his small balls and his inability to please a woman for his continued “manhood.”

As for the other three young bulls in the night’s herd. They were not all as lucky. But with no pulls yet on the cables—and Nikos as a player, I bet you didn’t need me to tell you that.

To be continued………