'Balls, They Have 'em, I Want 'em'

From a short story I have published on Lulu. More 'non-consenusl' D/s.
http://www.lulu.com/product/ebook/balls-they-have-em-i-want-em/17813936

A little repetitious in terms of setting.

The complete story runs 11,400 words

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Balls, They Have ‘em, I Want ‘em
Copyright 2011
by Chris Bellows

"All comfy?"

The question is somewhat sardonic, yet somewhat relevant. It becomes ironic that after a few weeks in my ‘care’, a boy indeed feels comfortable in good tight bondage. Not in a stress position. Nothing pinches or presses. Just tightness... offering the sense that all mobility is at the discretion of another. And the mind comes to accept it... the subconscious succumbing, sending the message that all significant motion, anything more than the wriggling of fingers and toes, perhaps a slight nod or shake of the head, is at the prerogative of another... me.

In response there comes the slight nod, discernible verbal response inhibited by the penis gag which constantly nags... deeply... forcefully triggering the gag reflex... offering constant aggravation.

"Have the nurses been good to you?"

Another slight nod as I release the right ankle cuff. The leg goes limp, so humbly offering me control. I guide it to the side, lifting it from the padded table top. The thigh muscles knowingly contract, the leg rising as I pull upward to reattach the padded nylon cuff to a cable hanging from the ceiling, just at the level of my boy’s waist. Simple ‘D’ clamps... instantly released... instantly resecured. With my boy’s wrists restrained to his sides, his hands are never in a position to offer himself the moments of liberation that me or the nurses extend during the sponge baths.

I move to the left side and unclip the opposing ‘D’ clamp. Both foot and ankle are equally compliant, thigh rising, another ‘D clamp clipped to a second cable to leave my boy lying well spread, the penis and testicles presented most vulnerably.

I note he begins to quiver and I don’t blame him for the apprehension. But that’s why I keep my boys so tightly bound. Whatever is to happen will happen, he has no choice but to lie and take it... all of it.

I lower the bottom half of the special table. It is hinged just below the buttocks. My boy’s male package now dangles over the newly formed edge. I move to stand between the raised thighs and knees and cannot help palming the massive plums I have been working on for over a week.

"An hour today, they’re responding beautifully," I note with a smile, the gonads having ungainly girth.

I knead the thin warm flesh of the sac with my thumbs, satisfied in feeling that the glands within remain firm. It is important they not become mushy. Too much of my special treatment will do that... either striking too firmly... or for too long an interval. Over the years... many boys... bringing many plums to ripeness... I have become accomplished. Within ten days to two weeks they will be ready for harvest.

"You going to get hard for me like a good boy?" my voice coos as if addressing a toddler, encouraging some otherwise mundane performance.

And sure enough, despite the fear... despite the concern... I note the sizable length begins to engorge. I always feel complimented when a boy I torture day after day greets me with a nice firm erection. The masochism becomes ingrained. Yes, deep within, there is strange stimulation in offering his male bits to a woman.

I smile warmly, my ‘Donna Reed’ matronly look of comfort, and step away to retrieve my special stick of torment. Short, less whippy then a cane, the bamboo is no less effective for the task at hand. I also lubricate my left hand... my boy may as well have some joy in the horror he is about to face.

"Here we go... do try to remain quiet."

I always encourage silence... but never get it. I suppose I am just too masterful... too sadistic.

My left hand wraps about the firming penis. I impart a moment of delight, helping it to a good stand. Yes, a twist then a modest stroke. And then I begin... just a tap with my right hand... but to the scrotum... and the first of dozens of muffled roars erupts into the penis gag as my slight blow causes the massive eggs to swing wildly, every limb spasmodically lurching, fighting in futility the tight straps, cuffs and cables.

The sound of the first splat always brings a smile... from me.

"Oh yes, you take it so well for me. And it’s good exercise for you, pulling so vigorously."

I leisurely let the message of pain subside, knowing that to strike again too soon diminishes the horror. I want the expectation to build. And while pausing I again stroke the penis, a most evanescent stroke, to spur endorphins. This will allow my boy to take so much more without passing out.

Calmness resumes, then I swing again... the splat... same rush of air, same wrenching of hands and feet.

With my torment stick not much longer than a ruler, swatting a boy’s balls requires close work, adequate aim. I do not want too much unsightliness... want to avoid deep hematomas. I just want to imbue trauma... causing the gonads to swell. With repeated treatment... day after day... after day... some degree of swelling will remain to become permanent. My boy is going to have one very large set of balls. And then... well then I am going to have one large set of balls.

Yes, they’ll be harvested. At times I feel like a patient gardener... each and every day weeding and hoeing... swinging away with just the right velocity... the perfect firmness... to bring the swelling I so much desire.

"And another," I advise, a third brisk tap, listening for the rush of air from the hollow penis gag, watching gleefully as the entire body attempts to bound from the table top. Yes such pain, such frustration, such futility.

Yet my left hand detects evidence of the intrepid male sex drive. Yes, the stiff penis thrusts into my grip, a fruitless attempt to frottage to ejaculation. That will not happen of course. I am much too experienced to permit the ultimate male pleasure. No, my boys are kept chaste. True or not, I like to think all that built up gism abets my efforts, accumulating to further swell that which I seek... large... bulbous testes.

My boy begins to sweat. It’s a normal reaction to the intensity of the trauma... physical... emotional. He has by now come to realize the inevitable... that while he so desperately wants the cessation of the daily torture... it will only come when he and his plums part ways. Yes, he knows he’ll be put to pasture... my term for wiling away the remainder of his life as a castrate. Meek, docile, harmless, the memories of me, my hand, my stick, shall never fade. Yes, he will try to recall his virility, the times when he was free to play with his penis, free to relish in the rush of spurting male essence. Yet as he lies and takes a fourth ‘tap’, he knows his organs are doomed.

Yes, I want them... and I shall have them... large, luscious, swelling with ripeness... symbolizing male power.... but when encased and bedecking my trophy room... more symbolizing my power... that of the governing female.

A fifth tap, the rush of air diminishes, but his firmness not. During the pause I tenderly brush my hand over the hairless sac, chemically depilated for many days in preparation. Yes the balls... my balls... are swelling. By hour’s end such will be pressing against his well spread thighs.

With the sixth tap, I sense the erection is wavering. The lurch becomes more of a slight tug. Though the cerebral cortex sends its message of flight, exhausted muscles fail to respond.

"I’ll soon have you yoked and you’ll be otherwise free to frolic," offering words of inspiration.

He knows an impressive shiny steel yoke for neck and wrists awaits the boys whom I have harvested. There will be those who will enjoy sodomizing him, the eventual soft flabby flesh of the neutered male found to be attractive. With hands and wrists restrained, he’ll not offer resistance... instead obsequiously bending and kneeling to accept the potent penetration... feeling the virility of the intact... sensing the intensity of the male thrust... that which I will forever deny to him.

It keeps the intact inmates calmed... easier to command. And the matrons enjoy watching.

Another tap and I am disappointed that most of my boy’s vigor seems to have waned. Yes, there comes eventual acceptance. Even that gush of air from the lungs abates. And I must smile in how facilely the male is tamed. My taps, applied to any other portion of the anatomy, would be felt as mosquito bites.

But not here... not where I choose to ready for collection... choose to evidence the dominion of femininity.

The scrotum turns to a bulbous mass of purple. I note the absence of deep crimson, my expert hand, the precision force, avoiding the discoloration which would require many, many days to heal. Such unsightliness is undesired. Meanwhile the gonads within blossom, my garden analogy seeming so apropos, expanding to press the thin flesh of the scrotal sac, bringing a fascinating sheen to skin stretched to noteworthy smoothness.

But I tap again. Pause. And again. No attempted resistance seen or felt. The penis goes limp, in my mind offering a sense of triumph. My boy now lies in a pool of perspiration, his psyche once again learning of the futility of fighting the tight bonds which serve to offer his nakedness to the whim of my hand and the torment stick.

One more tap and I inspect. The testicles have swollen to three times the size. Overnight, such will shrink... but not return to normal size... not even to the size at the start. No, each and every agonizing session brings a permanent expansion. It requires weeks, but they will soon be the size of grapefruit... and I will pick them.
Before ending there comes a series of brief quick taps, assuring that the entire circumference has endured my handiwork. It emphasizes the vulnerability. Nothing, not an inch of flesh, avoids my attention.

Ending the ordeal, I return the table to its original length then release, lower and resecure the feet. I reach to encourage, tenderly pinching my boy’s cheek.

"Just a few more days and you’ll be yoked and offering yourself to your fellow inmates. The nurses will keep you clean and well lubricated and you’ll learn the joys of prostate manipulation."

My boy docilely murmurs into the penis gag. At some point, I will have to ascertain what it is they want to tell me. I like to think they are humbling offering thanks... the twisted communication of masochist to sadist.

Before departing, I cup the massive plums and lift, offering my boy a view of my efforts while I in turn imagine them adorning my trophy case.

Such a curiously woeful look in return... I do believe he’s offering them to me... so desirous to conclude the daily torment.

"Almost saline time," I proclaim with enthusiasm.

We must ensure that the flesh of the scrotum can accommodate the nice big set of balls I want to propagate. So to add to the physical trauma of my incessant tapping there will next come the mental trauma of a saline infusion of the scrotal sac. Yes, my boy will docilely lie and watch as a tending nurse slips an intravenous needle into the top of the ball sac and supervises as close to a liter of solution very slowly flows to infuse his scrotum, inflamed genitals within, expanding it to something the size of a party balloon.

We must make room for those nice plumped balls of mine.

As I step away, I note the photos and artifacts placed on the wall at easy gazing level above the feet of my supine donor. High above is the waiting shiny steel yoke, a four foot length of polished metal, recently fabricated openings measured to perfectly enshroud his neck and wrists. Below hangs the brief little pink skirt my boy will wear while ‘grazing’ in the prison yard. Really nothing more than the tutu of a lithe ballerina, offering covering for no significant part of the anatomy, instead worn as the symbol of his new status. It won’t impede anal sodomy for even a second... instead being suggestive and rather inviting.

To the right and left of the frilly pink, our dear psychologist has posted a bevy of photos... pairs of inmates... typically a large black inmate and his ‘girl’... a smaller naked and yoked Caucasian. Depicted in the photos are various poses and acts... some poignantly affectionate... others offering lustful scenes of anal coupling... fellatio as foreplay... later tongue and lips cleansing in obeisant aftercare.

There is no doubt that my boy knows what awaits after I have harvested my trophies.

In one of my favorite photos, a virile black inmate demonstrates his sexual prowess, shown deeply penetrating a humble neutered boy who bends with tutu pushed up to his waist. In the background, three smiling matrons can be seen enjoying the scene of sodomy as the inmate shows off.

Yes, they love to watch the daily homoerotic antics we so much encourage.

"You’re young... almost pretty," I suggest in offering words of consolation as I note that my boy also gazes most woefully at the wall which deliberately instills psychological duress.

"You’ll have no trouble being adopted."

Yes, once neutered, yoked, tutu adorning his waist, pierced, urethral valve inserted, my boy will be reintroduced to the general prison population. There will be some arguments... possibly a scuffle or two... but in the competitive jungle of prison life, my boy will end up in the care of some alpha male. The ‘bitch’ of some nicely muscled, well endowed inmate, my boy will soon be licking, sucking, bending then cleansing just as in the photos.

Yoked, someone will need to feed him, his wrists only to be freed for occasional medical care. Plus, there is the ingenious urethral valve, ensuring his capitulation to a man... a real man... intact... one I have not harvested.

Yes, our nurses are most adept. For inserted into the penis tip, cleverly designed with tiny sharp prongs, fashioned such that slipping inward is facile, slipping outward painfully impossible, will be a short metal tube with a valve. Opened only by inserting almost any slim length of metal... perhaps even a tooth pick... my boy cannot.... will not... empty his bladder without assistance. Someone will need to hold his penis and consistently press inward, ensuring that the valve remains open by utilizing a small rod, while my boy empties himself.

So in addition to needing feeding care, he’ll also be begging for assistance with the most basic of bodily functions.

Yes, any homophobia will very quickly be subdued. My boy will have his penis handled by another male several times per day. And I know how he will reciprocate for the tender care.

My thoughts are interrupted as a pretty young nurse enters pushing a wheeled stanchion, a sizable clear plastic bag of saline hanging from a hook, tubing dangling below. She nods at me, assesses my boy then smiles.

"What a nice big set of balls you have waiting for me," she gushes.