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.

* * *

One hundred young bulls lined the central walkway of smooth brown stones that led from the airstrip to the conference center. All day, small private plans had landed and taken off at the dusty little strip. Each carried a high level member of the Association to the annual meeting. The walkway was broad. Fifty young bulls were tied to their platforms on either side of the road. The sun beat down on their naked skin. But since it was only 10:00 am—and they would all be safely out of the sun by noon—their skin was still unblemished and unburned by the bright rays. The line of them stretched into the distance, on either side, one after the other, with the diplomats wandering and chatting on the broad path between the rows. In the distance, the dome of the conference center gleamed silver and copper in the distance. The line of secured nude males was broken only occasionally by a large old tree. The knurled branches would shield those lads lucky enough to near them from the sun. But nothing could shield their vulnerable male bodies from the piercing gaze of the officials as they walked by.

One particular Association member was attending his first conference. His name was Gaffum. And while he was already in his mid forties, he had only recently attained a rank important enough to walk the famed Broadway. Even so, he was bitter as he walked up that bright road that day. His latest projects had all been failures and his family was hemorrhaging money fast. No doubt this would be his first and last visit to the conference. His only son had been forced to join the commando units because he could not produce enough income for the Association. He hadn’t seen the lad in two years. Now he heard that he had been injured in the desert campaign and had lost both legs. If he lived, he might be home in another six months. If he lived. His heir, his blood, the only one to bare his name into the future—mostly likely already dead. To make matters worse, his daughter—a homely woman of 27—had shown no interest in men and was most likely a lesbian. Because of their poor rank, none of the Association noble families had been particularly interested in arranging a marriage when the girl was still too young to make her on decision. So now it was unlikely she would ever marry and produce a new generation with his genes. But even if for some reason she did, they would not have his name.

And then there was his wife. Gaffum’s wife was never particularly pleasant. Gaffum’s father had arranged their marriage when he was only a small boy. The girl’s family had been modestly successful—certainly more so than his own who were barely official members of the organization. But around the time of the marriage, the girl’s family had been disgraced and removed from the ranks. The young woman was understandably bitter about the fate of his father and three brothers—public castration and life service in the pussy steer brothels for the commando soldiers. But she also resented the fact that her new husband could not provide the type of life that she had grown accustomed too. Gaffum soon found that he couldn’t stand to be around her. They produced their children and raised them. But the woman as she aged became an unmanageable shrew. She spent more money than they had and complained about everything. She stopped sleeping with him fifteen years before. And since the Association has the strictest laws against adultery, and since he could no where near afford a pussy steer for his own home, he had used his own hand for fifteen long years. And now, as his stomach expanded and his hair receded over his drooping and flesh face, his organ was starting to give out. His erections were weak and his orgasms took an hour to achieve. With a bitter frown he brooded on his problems as he walked up the long path. His son’s likely death, the disappointment of his daughter, his wife’s constant barbs and nags, and the knowledge that his own middle-aged physical and sexual decline had begun in earnest. He wasn’t smiling that day.

He hobbled alone up the path. His leg arched already, and he wasn’t halfway to the conference center. Most of the other Association diplomats walked in clumps of laughing and talking groups. They seemed to advance up the path in napoleonic squares. They were talking business, talking family, talking current events with their fellows. But Gaffum didn’t know anyone. He was not important enough for anyone to curry favor with. And most of his business friends had quietly started to avoid him, fearing that their own projects would get associated with his failures. So he walked alone. But as bad as he felt, he knew that the young bulls that lined the road must feel worse.

Each of the 100 bulls stood tied to a small wooden platform—fifty on each side for the stone road. Their backs were pressed against a wooden pole, with a rope securing their shoulders to the wood under their chest. The pole “T”ed at their shoulders. And their arms were wrapped around that pole with their hands tied at the end. Their feet were on the surface of the wooden platform, but tied securely as well. There was no way for them to move or escape. And they had been tired there for at least an hour already.

Each of the 1000 diplomats at the conference was given a small gold colored key. At the edge of each platform was a small lock that fit the key. And, once the key turned the lock, a wooden handle would be released. The handle was attached to a wire that hung between the young bull’s legs and ringed the neck of his naked sack and balls. When the handle was pulled….

But there was a catch—as there always was in Association events, Gaffum snorted. Only 80 of the 1000 keys would open a lock. So, out of the thousand visitors, only eighty could geld the bull of his choice. All the others would try of course, but their key would simply not work. Win or lose, the lock stripes the key so that it can’t be used again. Out of the 100 young bulls lining the road that morning, only 20 would sleep that night as a masculine bull. The other 80 would be steers. A digital panel above the lock would show the new steer’s fate. Sometimes it would read “RETURN”, which meant that the fellow would be dropped back on the corner his was taken from, sans his balls, to live out his life as best he could in his home country. More often, the panel would read “BROTHEL”, in which case the former fellow would be turned into a pussy steer and sent to the commando brothels to be fucked as a woman for their shore leave. Wealthy Association members had the option to buy the steer they geld for their own needs. If the steer was available for purchase, a ticket would print out from the panel giving the price, which was almost always extremely high. The twenty who remain whole are always released—on the street corner where they were caught—as if nothing had happened.

Gaffum knew the rules of this little game by heart. He went over them again and again in his mind as he fingered his golden key in his pocket and ruminated on the misfortunes of his life. He focused on the figures of manhood that lined his way. They each came into focus and were then passed by as he walked. Some of the platforms were already empty. The young bull who had been tied their earlier in the morning was already neutered and probably well on his way to getting a pussy between his legs by then. The bulls were not gagged, but they made little noise. The event had gone on long enough for them all to know what would happen to them if one of the strangely dressed men tried to use his key on their platform—and it worked. They tended to stare straight ahead and breath deeply and evenly, trying to avoid anything that would draw attention to them.

Gaffum took stock of the young bulls as he walked. There were all shapes and sizes and colors of young human bulls on display that morning. Up ahead, he saw that a small crowd had gathered. He heard a faint strangled cry of agony and a cheer from the crowd. Someone’s key had worked. Those walking near Gaffum quickened their pace, trying to get closer to the action before it was all over. But Gaffum just kept shuffling on. He knew that there would be nothing to see by the time he got there. It was his luck to miss what would probably prove to be the only gelding of a young bull on his long walk to the conference center. It was just his luck.

As all these thoughts swirled in his mind, Gaffum’s pace slowed to a stop. He heard the distant cheering and the distant guttural screams and the distant clapping. He heard the wind whirl around his ears in the open day. He heard birds chirping in the grand old trees along the path. And he suddenly realized that he was alone—that none of the other diplomats or VIPs were walking near him anymore. He looked around. And on one side of the road there were three platforms, each with a good looking white man tied to it. All of them were looking up at the sky. He knew that they knew he was standing there. But they were trying to ignore him. The platforms on either side of this trio were empty. One had a sign saying it was out of order. The other was simply empty. The bull who had been on it was not a castrated steer. So Gaffum knew that they three young bucks knew what could happen to them on that platform. They must have seen their former neighbor nutted earlier that morning. He smiled to himself. And walked to the edge of the path.

“Hello there young men,” he said in his wheezy deep voice. He saluted the trio with his fleshy arm. They three did not move. But the one at the end trembled a bit in the breeze. That was enough to make Gaffum’s mind pick him out of the three. He walked to the right most platform. The nude young man stood there, tied and helpless. His eyes darted down at the out of shape forty-year-old, then darted away. He was trying so hard to keep his cool. Gaffum just ignored him. Instead, he leaned over to the little sign that stood beside the platform. This sign had a laminated flier tied to it giving the personal information of the young bull.

Samuel – “The Virgin Bull”

18 years old

USA

Freshman in University

Major: Computer Sciences

5’11”, 143 lb. Brown Hair; Brown Eyes (Corrective lenses)

Single, Straight, Virgin.

Penis: 7.1” long; 4.9” around; 2.1” across; circumcised

Gaffum stooped his bulk to read this information. He looked up at the lad, and saw his tall thin body twitch in the open air and the tension of his stare. This virgin bull was completely nude except for his glasses—wire thin frames with somewhat oval lenses that were the fashion with American youths. He had always been a somewhat shy young man, with a small circle of friends and no major girlfriends. He liked girls—liked them A LOT. But he had always been a little too shy to be aggressive in the cutthroat society of American high school. He was a computer guy, a geek, a thin tall guy whose body type didn’t match naturally with the major high school sports. He was not effeminate; his musculature was just not as developed as most of his peers. His body was they type that, given a few months of weight training, would fill out quickly and completely. He just never got started. But things were starting to change for him. Now that he had gone to college, he was starting to come out of his shell. He had trimmed up his skater hair cut into a more sensible wave and had started to dress a little more stylishly. He had even asked a few girls out, but had yet to bed with any of them. And something else had given his confidence a shot in the arm since starting at college. For the first time in his life, Samuel had been in a locker room setting where male actually walked around nude. He and some of his college friends played a lot of basket ball between classes, and they often showered quickly in the locker room rather than walk all the way back to the dorm. And when he showered in common with a couple dozen other guys, Samuel quickly learned that what he had—the meat that swung between his legs that he assumed all other guys had—was actually very unique.

Gaffum looked up at that meat and assessed it. The virgin sausage hung down from a thick patch of brown sex hair like the ringer in a bell. The pink helmet head seemed to weigh the flesh tube down, pulling it between his thighs, making it his third leg. That soft mushroom was wide and flared, even flaccid. The organ itself, taken alone, was one of the most mature and masculine pieces of flesh Gaffum had ever seen. The contrast between it and the slight, somewhat immature looking frame from which it hung was amazing. Samuel had always thought that when other guys talked about their “dick” that they were talking about 4.75” inches of soft white flesh dangling under their body. But, after a few trips to the shower, he realized all the other guys had 2 or 3-inch tubs sticking out from their hair. Suddenly, his view of his own masculinity matured—and he couldn’t wait to show his mighty staff to a girl, to push it inside of her body for the first time, and see what she thought. Suddenly, despite his thin frame and lack of athletic skill, he felt like a stud.

And now he stood on that platform—still a virgin, but still hung. His ball sack of a tan bundle held close to his body. Gaffum could see the twin ovals outlined in the tight skin of his ball bag, but there was no real hang to his sac. His two testicles hugged the underside of his body. But the effect only served to accent the dangling impressiveness of his penis. The organ hung down so much longer than his balls. And with the thinness of his frame, the Virgin Bull was definitely an interesting sight. Gaffum smiled at him as he looked over his nakedness. “Still a virgin, eh? With a tool like that? What’s wrong with you boy?”

The virgin bull’s eyes darted. It was obvious that he was TRYING not to look at the man, trying to pretend that the entire situation was not happening. “Maybe your tight little balls don’t make you enough of a man to get all that rubber meat hard?” Gaffum said with a laugh.

“Leave him alone,” the middle bull said sternly.

Gaffum looked over at him, and the middle bull’s eyes were looking hard at him. The eyes were disgusted, worried, and weary. And then the bull turned his head away and stared into the sky again. It was clear to Gaffum that these three young bulls had arranged this, to look out and not make eye contact, not draw attention to them. And now they were trying hard to carry out their strategy. The middle bull had just gotten mad for a moment. And now he struggled to tamp down his feelings and return to the plan.

With a cruel smile, Gaffum took two steps to the middle bull’s platform and leaned over to read his sign. “Grraoooowww,” he exhaled and exaggerated grown as his stomach compressed with his bend. The sign read as follows:

Matthew – “The Young Husband”

28 years old

USA

Married for 4 years.

Occupation: Computer Graphics

6’0”, 155 lb. Brown Hair; Brown Eyes

Married, Straight.

2 Partners prior to wife.

No Children. (The couple is “trying”)

Penis: 5.5” long; 4.7” around; 1.5” across; circumcised

“No children yet? Not working hard enough?”

Gaffum looked up at the married bull. His frame was strong but not professionally developed. Tough football and pick-up basketball had built some fitness, but office work and beers were starting to take the tone away. His untrimmed pubic bush followed a heavy trail up to his navel, and small brown hairs dusted his stomach. His small pink nipples were ringed with thin brown hairs. And his broad chest was starting to develop a fatherly crop of hair. His face was clean-shaven, but had the shadow that comes after a young man grows a full beard a couple of times to test out the mature look. His brown hair was cut in a professional style. Even though he was nude, Gaffum could definitely imagine him as the kind of young man who had to wear a suit or a button shirt to work, but looked a little ruffled and wrinkled none the less. He was a domestic male, mowing the lawn, building a deck for the couple’s friends to grill out, still buying the latest music and still keeping up with his old college football team’s record.

No doubt, prior to being nabbed off the sidewalk in his first-time home owner cookie cutter community, the married bull was feeling a little nervous about the life changes that would come with the children his wife was so eager to start having. She wanted at least three, she said. And for the last seven months she has timed her periods and mapped her fertility. But, so far, no luck. Gaffum was disappointed that the bull did not respond to his words. He was having fun now, talking with these guys. He knew the chances of him actually being able to emasculate one of them with his key were remote. But taunting these unfortunate bulls made him forget his own troubles, even if it was just for the moment.

This older bull was an amazing contrast with the Virgin bull to the right. The married bull’s skin was not as pale, and his hair was a little darker. His body had filled out and widened with late developing muscle and some modest fat. And he was more hairy. But his genitals were also a contrast. The married bull’s penis did not hang like the younger bull’s did. It stuck out from the untrimmed bush with a firm slant. The circumcised pink was surrounded be tiny folds of skin, like the inside of a flower. And under that 2.8” softy hung a loose but full bag of balls. The young husband’s balls were a little bigger than the virgin’s, and they hung down with a natural maleness. But the effect was the reverse from the virgin. The husband’s bigger fuller balls just made his pointy dick seem less impressive. They were big enough to make a baby, Gaffum thought. He smiled and tried again. “What’s the matter, big man? You’re baby-makers not making enough batter?” Gaffum reached over and twanged the cruel wire that ran up between the bull’s legs. And the bull felt that wire jiggle his balls. There was no real danger. The key had to release a pulley in the platform before the wire could unman the bull. But the fear suddenly became more real. The young husband gasped. Gaffum smiled.

“Or maybe your needle is just too short to in inject it far enough into your honey.”

The married bull’s eyes flash and his nostrils flared. His neck muscles tensed. And Gaffum knew the bull was struggling not to scream out at him in his frustration. He might be in the horrible situation, but somehow, the thought of his wife back home—and the many loving nights of sex together—made it worse. He had to get back to her. He would. All he had to do was be calm.

But Gaffum was hitting his stride now. “You want to be a father so much. I bet you’d be a good one. Look how you are looking out for this young buck.” He nodded toward the trembling youth. “You’re, what, ten years older? Not quite old enough to be his dad, not in years anyway. But in mind, in maturity, and knowledge. You are probably closer to this lad’s dad than you are to him. By the looks of what his genes caused him to grow, his dad didn’t have any trouble shooting his seed far enough.” Gaffum chuckled cruelly. The married bull’s jaw tensed. But he didn’t speak. “What do you think? That boy over there is a virgin. His flesh hasn’t ever touched to inside of a woman. I bet you could tell him a lot about that—how good it feels, what techniques are the best, what positions are the best. You’re little spear’s been in a woman hundreds of times, I bet. Just never to much effect, huh. What do you think? Think the virgin over there could shoot his seed far enough into your woman? Think his fuckin’ rod could stretch her wide and ram her deep enough to spurt his batter into your wife’s womb? Bet he would make her scream his name on his first time. Bet he would make a son on his first spurt.”

“Shut the fuck up!” the married bull blasted out at Gaffum. His body twisted against the ropes not so much to escape but to get his hands around Gaffum’s throat. But it was, of course, useless.

“Hahaha,” Gaffum laughed, holding his belly.

“Don’t let him get to you. He is just a fucking fat ass.” It was the third bull, the one to the left. Gaffum’s smiling fat face turned to him expecting to see the angry eyes of the bull. But he was just staring forward, out into the sky, not shaking, not struggling. Just staring.

“And what do we have here,” Gaffum said. He hiked up his belt and stepped to the third bull. The lad did not acknowledge his presents. He just stared forward like a statue. Gaffum read his sign:

Tommy – “The Wrestler”

21 years old

USA

Junior at University.

Major: Business Administration

5’8”, 165 lb. Blond Hair; Blue Eyes

Single, Straight.

4 Partners

All state wrestling champion in High School.

Scholarship student.

Penis: 6.1” long; 5.5” around; 2.4” across; circumcised

“A young wrestler, huh. And look at you here. They even have a photo of you.” The sign had a picture from some sort of sports magazine showing Tommy in his singlet, crouched as if ready to wrestle the reader, his hand up and fingers spread to grapple. The red and sliver singlet complemented his healthy white skin tone, and the tightness showed of the ripples and bulges of his muscles. And, between his legs, stretching out against the elastic fabric, was his mound of manhood. His thick noodle was pulled to one side, but Gaffum could easily discern the flared edge of his flared helmet. And underneath, much more prominently, were this twin round hills formed by his bulging balls. The photograph, mostly likely for a college wrestling preview or press book, had obviously been taken in a common pose—showing off a promising young sportsman just entering the prime of his skill. But the pose had not counted on his physical attributes being so naturally visible. Whoever took the picture hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Tommy had taken a lot of ragging from the guys at the dorm about the photo, but he had taken it with good humor. He knew, after all, that the guys were just kidding with him—and perhaps some of them were laughing a little because they knew they couldn’t fill out a singlet that well. Even some women on campus had commented slyly about the image. And he had even scored a one-night stand a few months later with a young woman who wanted to see if the picture had been doctored. It hadn’t.

Tommy was a good-natured young bull, from a good family, and a good town. He never got into too much trouble. And he chased girls, but not aggressively or annoyingly enough to cause trouble. He was the first of his family to go to college—with the help of a wrestling scholarship. And he was making good grades, making a lot of friends, dating a lot of women. The American Olympic committee had even met with his coach about him trying out. It was a long shot, but he was excited.

And now there he was on that platform. The wrong drink drunk at the wrong party. And a herder had him in her car. Three days later, there he was. And there Gaffum was, staring up at him. The wrestler bull was an amazing specimen of a young man. He was shorter than the other two bulls, but broader and much more muscular and fit. His skin was smooth and unblemished, with no hair on his chest. The muscles of his arms bulged as they twisted on the wooden “T”. His chest was broad and strong, with dime-sized nipples ornamenting the rolling hills of muscle. His stomach was tight and firm; his legs wide and strong. The entire look of his body showed the weight room work the young bull had perfected in junior high and high school. Even if the sign had not said so, Gaffum would have known that he was a wrestler—or at least a football player. But, the young bull was not over developed. His neck, while thick and strong, did not overpower his head. His natural frame and features were not drowning in muscle. He was simply in top condition for a human bull in his early twenties. His hair was clipped short and framed his deep eyes and strong jaw in golden blond. His brownish-blond pubic hair was trimmed neatly. It was bushy enough to cover the skin of his groin and make his crotch look hairy, but was clipped to give his hanging manhood the cleanest and sharpest appearance. His body was groomed like a man who knew he some woman might see it on any night.

And his genitals were just as impressive as his body. Tommy’s bull goods hung down between his strong legs. His balls were big and bulging—easily the biggest of the three trapped bulls. His sac was a golden tan, broken only by slight wrinkles or folds. The orbs within were fat and filled the edges of his soft sac from end to end. Those two hen eggs hung down between his legs strongly and heavily. The cool breeze blew the little clipped hairs that dotted his sac—but no wind was strong enough to move those heavy boulders and make them sway. But Gaffum guess that the did sway quite a bit in the bull’s pant when he walked, or in the locker room, when those wet eggs would bounce and swing under their owner from shower to locker. And his penis matched his nuts. It was not as large as the virgin bull’s—his organ was truly unique. But that did not take away from the firm masculinity of the wrestler’s hanging knackwurst. It hung down in front of his bulging sac 3” good long—average, but impressive—and with a thickness to envy. Tommy’s piece was wide, giving it a weight and substance that other organs near its size (such as Matthew’s married cock) could never achieve. The head was purple and plump, with a bold circumcision scar and folds of sensitive pink skin to match it.

If taunting the married bull hadn’t put Gaffum in such a good mood, he probably would have added the comparison of the wrestler’s body and manhood to his own forty-five year old frame to his list of depression. But he was in a good mood now, and so he simply looked the young man over and whistled. “Wow, you are an impressive piece of meat,” he said, his jowl jostling.

The wrestler bull didn’t respond. He stared out, his face hard and impassive. He seemed like a soldier to Gaffum, a captured soldier enduring interrogation with angry resolve. Refusing to be moved by the fat man’s taunts or threats was the only victory he could achieve. Not much, but it was all he had. But Gaffum was washing his own sorrows away, and he wasn’t about to give up. “Come on stud, I bet you beat all those other guys, manhandling them through the ring, man-on-man, fighter to fighter. It must really piss you off that you are there and I am here. How long would it take you to smack me down, if your arms and legs were free? But here I am, and there you are.”

The wrestler bull did not move. He didn’t even seem to breathe. The married bull was still enraged and struggling. His hanging balls shook and his Vienna sausage dick bounced above it. If only he could get to the fat man and smack that smile off his face. But his limbs were getting tired. And the ropes were tight. But the wrestler bull didn’t move a muscle or make a sound. And Gaffum was getting irritated.

“And I bet you wrestled pretty good with the ladies too, eh boy? Between the sheets, skin on skin? Bet you fuck a lot better than this married old man.” He meant the comment to refer to Matthew, the married bull.

But Tommy thought that the fat man was talking about himself as the old married man. And he cracked a slight smile. “No doubt,” he said flatly.

And Gaffum was satisfied for a small victory. But he wanted more. He wanted to slap that stone expression from the strong bull’s face. He reached up and touched the bull’s hanging meat. “Yeah, I bet she fondled your thing, telling you how big it was and how beautiful it was.”

Tommy’s body stiffened at his touch. No man had ever laid a hand on his penis, not even a doctor.

“Did she tell you how thick it was? Could her fingers not wrap all the way around it? Did she whisper for you to be gentle as you eased it inside of her?” These were all personal fantasies of Gaffum, to have a woman respond to him in that way. For him, it had been and would forever be a fantasy. But he had little doubt that the wrestler bull had experienced those scenes, perhaps with minor variations. The fact that his organ thickened and stiffened in his hand seemed a confirmation.

Tommy’s face squinted; his cheeks pinched and his eyes squeezed shut. Through force of will, he was trying to stop his body’s involuntary response. His dick was growing hard, but he was feeling no pleasure. It was just happening, feeling the touch and hearing the words, which really were close to his true experiences. But it was the fat man touching him! My god, it was a nasty fat old man. “Get your fucking hands of me you fucking fat fag!” the wrestling bull croaked out.

Gaffum smiled and laughed. In fact, he had never been interested in homosexual relations. It was pussy he loved, even if he never got it. But he had stumbled on a tool to try to humiliate this stud, and it seemed to be working. His chiseled face was no longer impassive and calm. It was now squinted and strained as his mind tried to block out or change the reality of the situation. “Hahaha,” fat fag am I? I’m not the one with the huge boner, am I boy? Look at that meat of yours. That hard thick pole. You must really like my chubby little fingers, eh boy? They feel as good as your girlfriends? When you wrestled all those guys, you ever get a boner when the cupped your package? Bet you did, as big and as hard a one as you got now.”

Tommy’s face flushed blood red. It wasn’t true, of course. But to be tied there, helpless, with his rod in the hands of that nasty old man, raging hard against his will! He looked down at Gaffum with a mask of rage. Then, his face softened again. “Yeah, I can fuck a lot better than you, old man. I make my women moan my name and beg me not to stop. I bet you’ve never even made a woman fuckin’ cum.”

Gaffum pulled his hand away the throbbing member, which bounced and bobbed out in front of the tied bull like an impossibly thick stinger. And his fat cheeks creased into a frown. The young bull had hit a nerve. He had never, in fact, made a woman cum with his dick. And Gaffum was not as good as the bull at hiding his feelings.

The old man pointed at the bull and wagged his finger with an angry scowl. “What did you call me bull? Fat fuck? Well, I guess that is true enough.” Gaffum took his belly in his hands and jiggled it for effect. “But that is more than you will be if you are unlucky. You know, 80% of all the guys in this line are going to end up steers today. If you’re not careful, you will end up one of them.”

“Steers?” the virgin bull down the line said in a coarse whisper. With Gaffum humbled by the wrestler’s comments, he seemed to recover some courage.

The married bull looked over at the youth and shushed him. But the wrestler’s instincts were more focused. Years of matches in on the mat had taught him never to pass up an opportunity to gain advantage. “Yeah,” he said coarsely, his face staring forward but with a slight smirk. “You figure that virgin dude down there can already fuck better than you? Even if he’s never done it?”

The virgin bull laughed a little—a laugh a little to boyish to come from an 18-year-old male. But the fat man did not seem as scary anymore. And the wrestlers bobbing boner seemed to make him seem less imposing. After all, he had just gotten a stiffy from another guy touching him. Samuel, the virgin, suddenly felt a little manlier. He, after all, didn’t get a stiffy from guys.

But the laugh stung Gaffum, and he hobbled his body back down the line. The married bull’s eyes followed him as he passed. And then he glanced over at the wrestler bull with a look that was at once disapproving and admiring. He might have just cost that 18-year-old virgin his manhood. But they were all on the line, weren’t they?

Samuel hadn’t stopped snickering his nervous snicker when Gaffum returned to his platform. And when he saw the man standing in front of him again, and the rage on the man’s fat face, his own smile vanished. Gaffum pulled his golden key out of his pocket. He held it up to the lad, then stuck it into lock. The virgin bull croaked out a cry of sudden terror, more like the cry of a boy lost in the supermarket than a man rushing into battle.

“Don’t worry,” the married bull said to him, but his voice betrayed his own nervousness. “Only 80 out of all these people’s will work. Nothin’ will happen to you, man, nothin’ will happen.”

The wrestling bull just stared forward, his eyes fixed on a distant cloud, his mind trying to blank out. But he could still hear.

Gaffum heard the married bull’s words and knew that they were correct. A rush of fear washed over him. The key probably wouldn’t work. And then the three fucking bulls would have a laugh at the impotent fat man, who can’t do anything to them and who would just have to walk away. He knew it would happen. Bu there was nothing he could do. He was committed.

He turned to key in the lock and felt the click. The wooden handle, hanging from the cold and merciless wire, dropped down. “Huhhhh,” Gaffum snorted in astonished delight. He grasped the handle and looked up at the lad.

Samuel looked down at him, but his expression was quizzical—like a puppy who didn’t understand why his master had rolled up the newspaper.

“Oh God!” the married bull whispered hoarsely as he realized what was about to happen to the poor kid.

Gaffum grinned. “I guess we’ll never know how well you could fuck with that big meat of yours, will we.” And he jerked the handle hard.

The wire twanged and tensed. And in a second the virgin bull’s tight little package of balls fell to the platform with a thud like lead. “Ggguiuaaahhhhhhhh,” the virgin steer screamed out, throwing his head back, hitting it against the wood behind that he was tied too. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he screamed and thick drool rolled onto his chest. His body shook and spasmed, and a stream of urine trickled from his long sausage like and elephant’s trunk squirting water.

“Oh, hehe. Haha,” Gaffum chuckled to himself like a schoolgirl as it happened. The digital screen over the lock flashed “BROTHEL,” and the fat man nearly fell over with laughter. “Well, I guess we are going to see how well you GET fucked, though,” he said with an uncaring giggle.

“Oh god, oh god,” the married bull whispered in horror for the young lad. He closed his eyes in sympathetic terror as the 18-year-old steer’s body convulsed and he screamed in the agony of his emasculation.

The wrestler bull just stared forward, trying to block it out, as he had done when the fellow beside him had been emasculated an hour before.

Gaffum wipe a little spittle from the corner of his mouth as the fit of laughter receded. It had been fun, and emasculating the young man had cheered him up. But he knew in the back of his mind that his old life was still waiting for him. Of course, he was better off than that newly gelded steer, still shaking and squeaking as the pain of his emasculation shot through his body. A new life of being fucking in the pussy by any commando of the Association awaited the virgin steer. But Gaffum’s old life waited for him. He reached out and pulled his golden key from the lock—and to his astonishment, it came out whole and undamaged. The lock was suppose to strip it, tearing the edges so that the key would only work once, win or lose. But it was whole. Gaffum held it up into the sunlight and looked at it, his eyes blinking like a man roused from sleep. He turned his head from side to side. No one was around. No other diplomats or conference goers. No one. Suddenly, with a pivot of his wide hips, Gaffum hobbled to the left.

The married bull’s eyes were downcast. His mind was consumed at once with relief that the big man’s key had not been used on him but also with sorrow and guilt that the young man to his left had been mercilessly emasculated. Then Gaffum entered his line of sight again. The fat man’s face gleamed with pride and power. And he pushed his key into the married bull’s lock.

“Oh god, oh god,” the married bull whispered in a hoarse throat. The knowledge of his peril exploded in his lower stomach. The key had worked. It would work on him no question. This was the moment; this was the end. “Oh God, Oh god,” he said out louder, his eyes locked on Gaffum with sheer terror.

Gaffum turned the key and felt the click. The handle dropped into his reach. He rasped it in his chubby hand.

“OH GOD, OH GOD,” the married bull screamed out.

The wrestler bull, who had all this time been looking forward and blocking out what was happening to his left, now turned his head. And saw the fat man with his key in the lock and his hand on the handle. His stone jaw dropped.

“Guess you really won’t ever become a papa,” Gaffum said smugly, and pulled the handle with all his weight.

“OH GOD, WAAIT! AAGGguguguuuuuhhhhhhhhhh!” The married bull’s ball and sac dropped to the platform in an instant, along with the slack wire that had stolen them from his body. The young husband’s body convulsed. A drooling line of clear liquid leaked from his soft sticking penis and joined to his thigh as the organ bobbed back and forth in its shaking. The new steer’s head bobbed down, and his glazed, bloodshot eyes saw the mass of his meat on the floor of the platform, still, detached, dying like a bloom cut from a flower. They had been his manhood, his baby makers, the twin factories that had produced his own manhood and might have made him sons. Now they were gone. “They’re gone,” he whispered coarsely in his agony. “Oh god, they’re gone.”

Gaffum pulled the key once more. “Hah,” he exclaimed. Once more, it was perfectly undamaged. The married steer’s digital pad scrolled his fate. “BROTHEL.” “Excellent!” Gaffum exclaimed. And the married steer knew what he meant. Drool began to run from his mouth. But Gaffum did not notice or care. He was already hobbling away.

The wrestling bull watched him approach with his jaw slack and hanging. His mind race. He had deflected the fat man to the kid. He should have bought himself some time and, as it turned out from the unfortunate kid’s screams, eliminated one of the 80 good keys. But now the married man was a castrated babbling and drooling steer right beside him. A victim of the same key the fat man held in his hand. He had his cool when he woke up in this strange place. When they had stripped him and tied him to the pole, he hadn’t screamed and cried and cursed like most of the bulls (the married man and the virgin kid included especially). And, when each of the dried up or fancily dressed fellows walked down the path, he had kept his head and not drawn attention to himself. Of course, he was after all Tommy, with a great body, a striking face, and the wrestling picture on his sign, so no less than 4 other Association gentlemen had tried their keys on him already that day. But none of them had worked, and the strong young wrestler had kept his composure the entire time, confident that the law of averages would save him. But this was different. He knew this key would work, and no matter what the guards or the other poor guys herded with him had said, this key was working more than once. And he knew the fat man would use it. His strong, confident, almost arrogant masculine mind took a turn. His jaw quivered and his eyes began to burn and water. And for the first time, his arms began, on instinct, to twist at his bonds.

“Well, well, well,” Gaffum said as he gently slid the key into the lock. “It looks like your fucking days are as over as mine are. Or perhaps not. Those other two will be sent to the brothels, so that fine young studs like you can fuck their new pussies as if they were women. So, when I turn this key, I guess your fucking days are probably not going to be over—or at least, they will be a different kind of fucking.”

The wrestling bull looked down between his legs. His erection had long faded once the fat man’s playing fingers had left it. But the erection had caused his balls to ache a little with congestion. He hadn’t cum in several days, and as he looked at his hanging masculinity between his legs, the thought screamed in his mind that he never would again.

Gaffum smiled. “That’s right, bull. Right there, right between your legs where you have that tackle hanging, that is where your pussy is going to be. That is going to be a hole like a woman’s. That is where the big strong bulls are going to stick their fat cocks and open you up and shoot into your insides. How do you like that, eh? Do you like that very much?”

Tommy’s mind raced. He knew there had to be some way to get out of this, something to say, something to do. There had to be some sort of strategy. But his mind was moving too fast with fear. His ears where filled with the fat man’s taunting, almost musical, words. It was going to happen; it was really going to happen. “Please,” he said in a choked whisper.

Gaffum saw the desperation in his eyes. The confidant, insulting, stone-faced young bull who could have been a British Royal Guardsman for his impassiveness, had melted away into a driveling, begging child-man. How he loved it! “Please, what?” the fat man said.

Tommy started to cry. “Please, just don’t do it,” he whispered again. He squinted his eyes closed, trying to compose himself.

“Do what?” Gaffum shrugged. But the young man did not respond. He just stood with his eyes closed now, trying to suck back in his sniffles. Gaffum knew that he was getting over the initial shock. And he didn’t like it. He turned the key. And the click caused the young bull to jerk his eyes open again in fear. “Don’t do what?” Gaffum said firmly.

“Don’t do it; don’t do it!” Tommy said in fearful exclamation.

“Don’t… Do… What?” Gaffum said, gripping the handle.

“Don’t cut them off.”

“Don’t … Cut… Off…. What?”

Tommy was almost hyperventilating now, his mighty wrestler’s chest heaving and pressing into the tight rope under his pecks. “My balls, my balls, don’t cut off my balls, pleaaasse.” His voice was high pitched now, pleading, like a little child.

“Say it louder,” Gaffum stated hardly.

“Please don’t cut off my balls!”

“Louder!”

“PLEASE DON’T CUT OFF MY BALLS!” Sniff, sniff.

“Say: ‘I want to be a man.’”

“I WANT TO BE A MAN! Please, please god!”

“Say; ‘I don’t want to have a pussy. I want to be a man.’”

“OH GOD, I WANT TO BE A MAN! I DON’T WANT TO HAVE A PUSSY! PLEASE OH GOD, I WANT TO BE A MAN! DON’T TAKE THEM! DON’T CUT THEM OFF! PLEASE, PLEASE. I WANT TO BE A MAN.”

Shhlthhhic! THUD!

“AAHHUUUUuuu GAAUUUDDDDDDD!” The eunuch wrestler’s emasculated cry echoed down the road. His smooth skin turned pink and all the veins on his strong muscles stuck out in his castrated twitch. And he sobbed like a little boy.

Clap, clap, clap, clap! Gaffum jumped and, looking around, he suddenly realized that a crowd had formed behind him. The poor bull’s loud screams had drawn nearly everyone who had walked down the road since he had first put his key in the lock. They were all smiling at him now and clapping and a few patting him on the shoulders.

“You sure showed that sassy young bull,” one particularly wealthy looking man said to him.

Gaffum blushed, taking in the applause. He pulled the key from the lock, and it stripped at once. But he wasn’t disappointed. With all these people around, it meant that he had nothing to explain. Then the digital pad read its verdict. “SOLD”. A little paper receipt printed then, Gaffum tore it off. It read:

Young Bull Number 119-345

Sold to VIP 3456-0998

Price: 100,000

Paid in Full

Balance: NONE

Present ticket at counter 1-C

Gaffum nearly fainted, but the renewed clapping of the crowd brought him to his senses. He had him, the wrestler steer, he owned him. He would be made a pussy steer and delivered to him at the conference. For nothing. For no payment. He looked at the shredded key. What kind of crazy malfunction had it had? He just smiled and pocketed the worthless but priceless piece of metal. Then he reached for the severed ball sack that had once hung so fully and proudly between Tommy the wrestling stud’s masculine legs.

“Hear, hear,” the rich looking man in the crowd said to him. “Whomever nutted these other two have left their sacks behind. Guess they meant to leave the bags for the brothel too. But you were such a good chap and provided us with such a show, why don’t you take them?”

And he picked them up, the severed sack of the married steer and the virgin steer, and put them in Gaffum’s hand.

The fat man’s cheeks blushed again. “Thank you, thank you,” he said. Then he turned to the crowd and said, “Thank you all.” And then hobbled away.

He walked down the street, his feet feeling light and not weighed down by his hefty middle-aged girth at all. His cheeks were twisted in a bemused smile. And his eyes beamed forward as the conference center dome grew bigger and bigger with each step closer. The lines of tied up young bulls passed him by. But they were just part of the back ground to him now. His mind danced with possibilities, how the wrestling steer would be with him when he got back home. How for the first time in fifteen years he would have a pussy to fuck. He would have to buy some Viagra, just in case his lazy organ was not up to the task. Perhaps he could sell the six testicles in his hands to a vendor for the money. The three sacks were still warm in his hand. He felt their soft wrinkled skin and hard firm orbs against his palm. In one hand, the smaller balls of the virgin, balls that had made the poor kid a man but that he never got to properly use. Also in that hand, the fuller sac of the married man. Those balls that had tightened up around the man’s underside as he shot his load into his wife so many times. But they had never made him a son, and now they never would. Those two sets of balls, from those two very different bulls, he held him in his right hand, the four orbs pressed against each other. And in his other hand, the fat full bag of the college wrestler. He thought of the singlets and the jock straps those balls had been held in, and the expensive American underwear and jeans. He thought of the mighty testosterone that had pumped from those two big orbs into the wrestler’s strong body, that had made him strong and focused. They were in his hand now, they were his.

One thing he knew for sure, he might sell the six balls, but he was for sure not going to sell the sacs. He was going to have them made into change purses for him, little bags to keep his money when he traveled down the road on business. He suddenly felt like his luck was about to change.

THE END