Disclaimer: the following story is a purely fictional account. Any relationship to any real person living or dead is coincidental. The narrative contains non-consensual gay sex and torture. It is intended for mature readers who wish to view such material, and for whom it is legal to do so. The author in no way condones or promotes such acts in real life.
Copyright © 2017 by POW. For spam prevention, an animal name has been added to the author’s e-mail address. Remove the animal name to get the actual address: POWauthor zebra at yahoo dot com. This story may be freely copied and distributed so long as it is copied in its entirety, unchanged, including the author credit information and disclaimer. Other POW stories are available at https://powauthor.wordpress.com. The author welcomes feedback.
Ab-dick-tion!
Hey, buddy, come on in. You have any trouble getting through Logan? Yeah, that airport is a zoo, for sure.
We talked about this online already, but I gotta say it out loud anyway, it’s still illegal to swap money for sex. I know, crazy, right? I mean, so many other things that used to be off limits are now totally legit. But not that. So I can’t sell you any nookie.
But I can sell you a story. Interested? OK, have your iSelf transf… oh, you’re a Google guy? OK have your digitalMe transfer the amount we agreed on earlier. No sex, remember. You’re just buying a story.
I know, you traveled a long way just to hear a story. Especially one you’ve heard before. It’s been all over the net, right, endlessly blogged and tweeted and scooned. I was even on Airette’s show, you know. Twice. I’m sure you knew that; that first appearance was what got the publicity ball rolling. But a story is always better right from the source, one on one, right? Maybe I can fill in some bits and pieces for you that you might have missed or misheard before.
It started almost four years ago now, one night when I visited my favorite nightclub…
“Easy there, buddy. Just relax. This will only hurt for a little bit.”
My head was spinning so badly that it took me a while to process the words he was saying. I mean, I heard the words fine, but they were just sounds, noises. No meaning to them. I was vaguely aware that I had maybe had a sip or two too many down at Corkscrewed. Or maybe there was another bar after that. I couldn’t remember. Honestly it was all I could do to keep my eyes in focus. They kept wanting to relax, which I couldn’t really blame them for because I just wanted to crash myself. I knew it wasn’t a good time for that, there was something important happening even though I couldn’t remember why or what, so I was trying to force my eyes to focus in the hope they would help shed some light on what was going on. At one point, they cooperated enough for me to realize that I was back in my own home, in my own bed. That had to be a good thing, right? I tried to roll over, but my limbs wouldn’t cooperate, leaving me on top of my bed staring up at a blurry blob that was most likely the ceiling, with some deeply-buried part of my fried brain trying to warn the rest of me that something was wrong here.
Maybe it had something to do with the words that guy had spoken? Right – there was a guy. In my bedroom. Who? I had no idea. He must have come home with me, maybe even brought me home because he could tell how smashed up I was. I didn’t remember any of that, of course. My last clear thought was of the blue flashing lights at Corkscrewed washing over the walls, lighting up the dance floor where gorgeous guys writhed and spun, gyrating to the thumping music that was always so loud it was impossible to speak over… Speak… right, the guy had spoken. I replayed the noises he had made. Bit by bit, the sense crystallized, but just as I started to figure out what he had said, I couldn’t pay attention to the words any more. I could only pay attention to the very uncomfortable sensation radiating from my groin.
It started out as a sense of pressure, right at the root of my dick, top side, at the point where it joined the rest of me. Pressure was one thing, but it very quickly shot from pressure to heat to pain. I tried to sit up, curl up, bring my legs in – why were my legs spread apart? “Just relax,” the voice had said. I’d love to relax, but something’s biting my dick, and not in the good way! While I lay there, the pain slid downward, inward, crawling deeper into my body. Damn, it hurt, like being sliced by a knife, the kind of pain where it doesn’t hurt at first, but then your nerves catch up with what has happened to them and they suddenly start all screaming at once, making up for lost time. I started to thrash and shout, but it was like in dreams, where you try to move but you can’t.
“This will only hurt a little bit,” he had said. He lied! This was SERIOUS pain! My whole groin felt like it was being invaded, sliced apart by tiny needles. “Settle down,” I thought I heard him say. “Almost done. Just a little bit more.”
I still couldn’t focus my eyes enough to see what was going on, not even the face of the guy who could explain what was happening. The pain must have been sharpening my brain, though, because it suddenly occurred to me that maybe the groin pain and the unknown stranger were somehow connected. That he might, in fact, be the cause of the sensations I was experiencing?
You, with your un-ethanolically-fogged brain and your sharp perceptions, of course already figured out that I was in Deep Shit. If this was a movie, the ominous music would have been playing for a good while already and the scenes would be flicker-cutting from one to the next – mostly blackness, but with flashes of flesh tones and terrifying glimpses of silver and – worse – red.
But I was living it real-time, and my mind was most definitely alcohol-fogged, and you’ll just have to accept it when I tell you that it was only at that moment, with agony radiating out from my crotch and me powerless to do anything about it, that it dawned on me that the Mysterious Stranger’s actual words were “This will only hurt for a little bit,” and that even though the word “for” only has three letters, it completely changes the meaning of the sentence, and that’s the point where pain and ethanol molecules conspired to deliver a one-two punch to my consciousness, sending it reeling out of the ring. My last thought was of the ref holding their hands up jointly, declaring them the victor of the bout that I didn’t even want to be competing in.
The next morning was too bright. The window shade was open and the sun was pouring in. I was lying on the bed, under the covers. I yanked the pillow over my head, which wasn’t quite throbbing with a hangover but which was exhibiting all the signs that it would start having one at the slightest provocation, such as sudden movement or exposure to light or even the sight of a poorly-positioned tissue box on the nightstand hosing up the room’s feng shui. Guarded by the pillow over my eyes, I fell back to sleep.
It was probably a couple of hours later when I awoke again. I tentatively explored moving my head, just a bit, and it seemed to go well enough. I squeezed an eyelid open. The sun had shifted a bit, coming into the room obliquely now instead of full on. My head found that agreeable enough as well. I ventured to roll over onto my other side, and was pleasantly surprised to find that even that went pretty well. Perhaps I would be lucky enough to escape the worst of The Wrath Of Grapes. I was thinking last night must have been a major bender. I really made an effort not to overdo it that much any more. I mean, I was twenty-eight at that point and I had pretty much figured out where the line was between fun-drunk and hating-life-tomorrow drunk. I wondered briefly what had caused me to blow so far past that line last night.
Ah well. Live and learn. For the moment, it was time to explore novel experiences like standing upright and walking to the bathroom to empty my way-overstuffed bladder. Getting out of bed went smoothly. I took it slowly and stood up like an old man, taking no chances. I shuffled my way into the bathroom, hit the light, went over to the toilet, tugged my boxers aside, and got ready to flop my dick out and let loose. That was the point where the morning took a sudden turn for the bizarre.
My dick wasn’t there.
I’m not sure words can adequately convey the sense of shock and just plain wrongness that this observation caused me. See, I hadn’t felt anything wrong. Nonsensical as it sounds, my first thought was that I must have misplaced it somewhere. Maybe I had set it down on a table at Corkscrewed, where perhaps one of the bartenders had noticed it while cleaning up and had plunked it into the lost-and-found bin where it would sit until I came looking for it. Or it might have fallen, the way my little penknife would sometimes drop out of my pocket while I was driving, and was now lying with the McDonald’s wrappers and mulched receipts on the floor of my car. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but no lie, that’s what I was thinking. I mean, I had no reference point for an event like this, no prior experience, nothing that I could compare this to to say “ah, yes, I’ve encountered this before, and here’s how I dealt with it.” Nada.
My next thought was to inspect it more closely. That was when I found that it wasn’t just my dick that was gone: my balls were AWOL, too. All that was left was a patch of shaved hair (shaved? I never shaved down there!) and a flat, plastic-looking cover over the area where the missing organs should have been. It was almost exactly the color of my skin, and it was stuck on with some kind of glue around the edges. I poked it in its center, gently. It flexed, and I could feel the pressure of my finger inside my body! It was beyond strange, being able to poke myself deep in the urethra, suffering apparently no ill effects in the process. What the hell had happened to me?
And that thought brought the vaguely-remembered events of the night before back in a rush. It was all very hazy – there was no sequence to the images I could remember, just flashing memories of disorientation and restraint and pain in places I never even knew I could feel pain… That was when I knew: implausible as it sounded, whoever that unknown stranger was last night was, the son of a bitch had stolen my dick. I didn’t know how, I didn’t know why, but I was absolutely convinced that was what had happened.
So what to do now? My bladder was still achingly full. I figured I’d have to poke a hole in the patch on my crotch to take a leak through. But where to poke? How could I know where to find the right spot? Somewhere along the center line was plausible, but if I missed up or down I’d be spurting out a red stream instead of a yellow one. Maybe I should go to the emergency room and see if a doctor could do it for me? That didn’t sound like it would be any fun at all… “Well, doc, y’see, there was this guy? And I kinda brought him home with me? At least, I think I must have, only then he he kinda took off with my…, well, you know how it is…”. Nah. That was not a place I wanted to go just yet. The cops, maybe. But before I could do that, I absolutely had to get that bladder emptied.
While I was exploring the patch some more, trying to guess where I should start poking, and wondering what I should start poking with and whether I should try sterilizing it in some boiling water first, that was when I felt it: three distinct taps.
Right on the head of my dick.
This freaked me out more than anything. My dick was very obviously not attached to me, nowhere to be seen, and yet I felt three taps on the head of it! Some kind of phantom limb pain, I wondered, like they say amputees experience? But no, this was absolutely real, there was no way it was my brain playing tricks on me. Someone had tapped me on my dick. And once I stopped to think about it, I had a very good idea of who it was and what was going on. Somehow, whatever he had done to me, my dick still thought it was attached to my body and could communicate signals to my brain. This was very reassuring, because it suggested that whatever had been done, maybe it would be possible to have it undone. It also told me that the dicknapper had some kind of interest in communicating with me, which had to be a good thing. It meant that what would come next would most likely be some kind of ransom demand. As soon as I had the thought, I realized that it didn’t matter how much he asked for – ten thousand dollars, a hundred, a million – I would find some way to get the money and pay him, even if it meant slaving the rest of my life to pay back a loan. When would it come, I wondered, and what would it be? A raspy, disguised voice on the phone, a note pasted together from clipped-out letters from a magazine, an untraceable IM from a spoofed IP?
Or maybe he would just keep tapping on my dick. It was an effective way to communicate with me, though it didn’t allow for a wide range of messages. But how could I signal back? He could tap my dick with his finger, but I had no way to tap his finger with my dick.
A thought occurred to me, one that would kill the two proverbial birds with one stone. I could send him a message, and solve my other problem at the same time. It took a few moments to gather the necessary muscle control, but the pressure upstream made it pretty easy. Within a few seconds, I could feel the flood flowing steadily out of the overstuffed reservoir, through the pipes, and… where? I had no idea, but wherever it was, I hoped the guy responsible for this was finding himself squarely in the center of the flow.
I kept on peeing until there was nothing left to pee. I had sat myself down on the toilet, but it was an unnecessary precaution, because nothing leaked out of the patch covering my crotch while the river was flowing. To all appearances, the urine had just vanished, disappeared into thin air. After it had stopped, there was: nothing. No further tapping, no Morse-code messages tattooed on my wanger. Just me, all alone in my apartment while my dick, presumably accompanied by my balls, were off by themselves somewhere in the wide world, without me to watch over them even though they were far too fragile and helpless to be away from home on their own.
I walked back into the bedroom, at a loss for what to do next. That was when, for the first time, I saw the envelope sitting on my dresser: the ransom note. I picked it up. It had my name on the outside. I opened it up and took it out. A few photos emerged, along with a printed note. I sat down on the bed and glanced at the photos, which showed exactly what I thought they would: my dick and balls in the process of being detached from the rest of me. The one that freaked me out worst was the last in the set, which showed my deflated dick and blobby ball sac lying on the bed next to my bound body. That image sent butterflies through my stomach as if I were in free fall on a giant roller coaster. I set the photos down and began to read the note. As I read it, I realized it wasn’t a ransom note at all. It was something much worse. Here, I’ll read it to you verbatim.
Jonah –
You may or may not have noticed by the time you read this, but I have taken something that belongs to you. If you do not yet know what, I invite you to take a moment to inspect the enclosed photographs, or the interior of your underwear, and then resume reading.
The patch at your crotch is a material called wormhole glass. The name is a bit of a misnomer, in that it’s not glass, and it’s not technically made of wormholes, though that is a close enough approximation. It is actually composed of interwoven closely nested quantum-twinned Rosenberg isolates, but “wormhole glass” is a better term for the layman. If you are not familiar with the concept of wormholes, you may either look them up using your favorite online resource or accept my explanation here: a wormhole is a shortcut through spacetime. The patch consists of countless trillions of these particle pair shortcuts, all packed tightly together with two sheets of monomolecular polymer separating the particles of each pair.
Each set of paired particles act as though they are located right next to each other, even though they may actually be separated by many miles. Whatever one particle experiences – be it a physical, electrical, or chemical sensation – gets immediately conveyed to the other, and vice versa. What this means is that anything your body produces, whether physical like blood or urine, or electrical like neuron impulses, is transmitted from your body to the parts that I have possession of with only an infinitesimal time delay, and vice versa. It is exactly as if your genitals were still attached to the rest of you… except that they aren’t.
It is worth noting that because the connection is via quantum entanglement, there is no conventional signal that can be blocked or distorted. Or traced.
You are probably wondering why I did this to you and what my future plans are. For now, I prefer to let that remain a mystery, but I will tell you this: the process is reversible. Any competent surgeon can do it, assuming he has the parts in his possession. If at some point I decide to return your genitals to you, you can schedule an appointment to have the surgeon align the pieces and then remove the wormhole glass, and after a few days’ recovery, you will be as good as new.
But that is a matter for a hypothetical future. For now, here is what I expect of you.
1) You will learn to control your bladder. You are permitted to urinate during four fifteen-minute intervals during the day. The intervals start at 7:00 AM, 11:00 AM, 4:00 PM, and 9:00 PM. If you empty your bladder during any time other than these specified windows, you may be subject to punishment.
2) Outside of the scheduled windows, there may be occasions when I will tap you three times on the head of your penis. When you feel three taps, you will urinate, even if you have only a few drops in you.
3) You will check the following site (and here he gave the address) at a minimum of two times each day. Use “jonah” as the user name and “HrtMyB@llsS!r” as the password. Much of the time there will be nothing there for you. Other times there will be instructions waiting, which you will follow. I receive a notification each time you access the site; I advise you to never let more than twelve hours elapse between logins.
That will suffice for now. You will no doubt rise later than usual in the morning while you sleep off the drug that I gave you to make you cooperative. I will periodically tap your penis until you respond by urinating. That will let me know that you are awake and have read this message. We will spend the next few days working on your bladder control, and then proceed to the next stage.
– S
Well.
I read the note three times. With each reading, the realization sank in deeper that I was no longer in control of my own life. This slimy rat bastard had stolen something very dear to me and because of that, he now had power over me. I didn’t like that one bit.
It was a fortunate turn of events that I tried to douse the douchebag with my piss when I felt those taps. In one sense, I was relieved, because it didn’t take too much imagination to guess what he might mean by “subject to punishment”. There was really only one thing he had the power to punish me with, and I had no doubt that it would be an effective tool. There’s a reason why the phrase “had him by the balls” was invented. Angry as I was at him, I had no particular desire to test him, not yet. So I would comply with his demands, at least for now. I had my iSelf set reminders for the four daily piss breaks and hoped that I would be able to handle such a regimented schedule.
On the other hand, though, the way the morning had turned out made me feel a perverse sense of power. Clearly he had expected me to read the note first thing on waking up and behave accordingly. He had scripted out how my morning would go, but I had done something different, and he didn’t know that things hadn’t gone the way he planned. Granted, the deviation was minor – I had still done exactly what he wanted me to do. But he had no idea that it was totally by accident, which made me realize that the scumbag was not omniscient. He couldn’t see and control everything, and that gave me a small hope that one day I might be able to outwit the son of a bitch and get my dick back.
The next thing I did was go and check that site (and believe me, I did not like the implications of that password one bit). It was a very old technology, plain old secure FTP. I actually had to type in the credentials by hand. I could guess why: the newer systems of the global net have huge amounts power and vast capabilities, but everything is tied in with real identities, either through iSelf or digitalMe or the open-source equivalents. Everything is traceable, nothing is anonymous. Since his site was original internet, all I could ever learn about it was an IP address, and that was probably chained through at least one anonymous proxy; there was no way I could ever track him that way. I had my iSelf look up the address, anyway. It was registered to “Domain Routing Solutions”, which was nothing more than a holding company based out of Tuvalu: dead end, as expected.
There was only one thing on the site: a plain text file that said “You have successfully accessed the site for the first time. Return frequently.”
I got some coffee and a couple pieces of toast, then went about my day. Ordinarily, I would have checked in with some friends, found something to do to fill up the day. This day, though, I didn’t feel like leaving the apartment, even though within half an hour I was pacing around like a caged lion. There was nothing I could do, and yet I felt like I should be doing something! I just stomped back and forth, reliving last night over and over again, trying to think of what I could have done differently (and don’t think “bash the bastard’s head in with a brick” was far from the top of the list), mulling over possible ways to both get back what was mine and deliver what the dick-napping thief had coming to him. I’m not a violent person, usually, but being victimized like this really sent my mind spiraling into places it had never gone before, which kind of freaked me out. I was picturing what it would be like to do to Slimy Rat Bastard what he had done to me, only I’d skip the drugs so he could be awake for every second of it. And then, what I would do with the pieces once they were detached… I didn’t have a meat grinder at my apartment, but my mom had one at her place that she used every once in a while to grind her own pork for sausage, and I was sure she wouldn’t mind if I borrowed it…
My iSelf reminded me that four o’clock had arrived. My bladder wasn’t particularly full, but this would be my last chance until evening, unless he gave me the three-taps signal, which I couldn’t count on. So I waited another minute to be sure I was safely in the specified window, then let loose. I tell you, it felt completely bizarre, standing there in my living room while draining the snake. Every instinct I had kept shouting “No! You’ll soak the floor!” but of course any potential mess was whisked away through trans-dimensional null space to reappear in parts unknown. And if his note was to be believed, there was no way to follow the trail.
I paced around the apartment for the rest of the afternoon, ordered some delivery from the Thai place for dinner, then made some half-hearted attempts to repair the places where I had tried to put my fist through the walls during my earlier pacing. I hadn’t been very successful… these walls were stronger than they seemed. Still, I had made some dents that I tried to smooth over. After a bit of trying, I decided that this was not so much a repairman’s job as a redecorator’s, and soon enough, two pictures had been moved to two new locations, forming an artfully asymmetric pattern that was pleasant enough on the eye.
My 9:00 piss break came and went. I figured I’d try to go to bed shortly afterward – tomorrow would be Monday and I’d have to be back at work in the morning. Unfortunately, Slimy Rat Bastard had other plans. A minute or so after the stream stopped flowing, I felt a warm hand wrapping itself around my balls, then another one fondling my dick. Man, it was downright spooky! There I was, fully dressed, all alone in my own home, and some freak was feeling me up! I jumped, reflexively trying to pull my junk away from him, but of course nothing changed – me yanking my pelvis away had no impact on the parts of me that were in their captor’s clutches. He probably didn’t even know I had tried.
I made a half-hearted attempt to avoid it, but I knew there was no hope: one way or another, he was going to get me hard. It didn’t even take that long – within a minute, Willie was standing up saluting the flag. Then the stroking started in earnest. He must have paused to get some lube, because soon he was holding my nuts in one hand and pumping his closed fist up and down my shaft with the other, making sure to rub the head good and firm with every stroke. Damn, it felt good! I mean, I still hated the slimy rat bastard 100%, but my dick had a mind of its own and it was very happy with the attention that was being paid to it. I tried to hold back, to not get swept up in it, but again, there was no hope. Eventually I gave in and figured I’d play along.
But even that was frustrating, because I had zero control over the encounter! It didn’t matter what I did – I pumped my hips, I flexed my legs and arched my back, and it had no impact at all on his deliberately-paced stroking. I couldn’t slow him down, I couldn’t speed him up… this guy had total control over the sensations I received, and I had no choice but to receive what he sent me.
Eventually, I could feel the point of no return approaching. My balls started churning, tensing up, my dick swelled even stiffer, anticipating the orgasm to come, and then…
… nothing!
Slimy Rat Bastard stopped stroking, and I felt the hands unwrap themselves from my dick and balls. Oh, I was so close, too! I absolutely ached to shoot my load, and there wasn’t a flippin’ thing I could do to make it happen! My hands were down at my crotch, fumbling at area around the empty spot, trying to recapture the moment that had been so close at hand a few seconds before, but was now slipping away like water through a sieve…
I gave up. It was too late. I could feel my dick softening, with no stimulation left to keep it up. And that was it. The end.
It occurred to me that I should check the FTP site again, so I logged in and sure enough, there was another plain text file waiting there, timestamped just a minute ago, which would have been right when he stopped stroking me. All it said was: “Orgasms are a privilege that must be earned.”
Well, crap.
The next day was a Monday, so I was up at 6:45 and had to remind myself that it would be OK to have breakfast before a bathroom break, the reverse of my usual order. The reminder from my iSelf popped up while I was halfway through my toast and cereal. By happy coincidence, I was also feeling the urge to make some number two – this was something that had worried me, in that my bowel timing was never something I had given much thought to. What if, for instance, I took care of number one on schedule, then an hour later felt the urge from the other end? I was pretty sure I wouldn’t have enough control to let things out the back door while keeping the front firmly closed. Ah well. For today, it wasn’t a problem, and I actually had to use the flush handle on the toilet for the first time since the day before yesterday. On the way back to the table, I checked the FTP site: nothing new.
Work was a surreal experience. On the one hand, it was a day like any other day. I scheduled training sessions for clients, answered messages, sat through a staff meeting, all perfectly normal stuff. On the other hand, my dick was gone!!! And what could I do about it? Nothing.
He started stroking me again around 1:00. It proceeded just like last night, only this time I was at work and trying to concentrate on the training session I was recording. Didn’t matter: I stiffened up and had to struggle to keep a bored expression on my face while under my desk I was getting a thorough (and dammit, very enjoyable) hand job. Like before, he brought me up very close to the edge, then backed off. After the last go-around, I was expecting it, but that didn’t make it any easier to deal with. I sat there biting my lip with the frustration of it.
All afternoon, he kept fondling me, and I could feel him picking my dick and balls up, carrying them around, moving them, but I couldn’t tell just from the sensation of touch alone what he was doing with them. Was he tucking them into his pocket? Setting them down on a sofa or a counter? Wearing them as a pendant around his neck? My imagination went to some pretty far-fetched places trying to explain what I was feeling. Twice more that day, he got me hard again and brought me close to the edge, but I never had any delusion of hope for reward.
Once, around 3:00, at a time when my cock had been allowed to go soft, I felt the three-taps signal. Like the well-behaved Pavlov’s dog that I was, I dutifully let the stream flow. I wondered, briefly, what the arrangements at the far end were – did he store my valuables hanging over a toilet or something during my 15-minute windows, or aim them out a nearby window? Surely he didn’t stand there holding them. I figured he must have something set up, but I truly had no idea what.
By evening, I was beyond horny, and wanted to shoot a load more than anything. Well, more than anything except wanting my junk back, that is. I checked the FTP site: nothing. Rage and frustration and despair and thoughts of vengeance all warred for first place in my attention, and all had to just take turns. I won’t lie: by the time I fell asleep Monday night, there were wet stains on my pillow, and while I’d love to say they were just drool, they weren’t.
Tuesday I somehow slept through my alarm, and by the time I woke up, it was 7:25. And the first thought that flashed through my head was not that I would be late for work, it was that I had missed my piss window, and that there was no way I would make it until noon. I looked on SRB’s site for any reference to my missed opportunity, but there was nothing there.
Sure enough, I didn’t make it. I tried, oh man, did I try, but I just couldn’t do it. Slimy Rat Bastard started groping me around 9:30, the same drill as before, he took me window shopping but I wasn’t allowed to buy. That didn’t help. But mostly it was the unrelenting pressure on my bladder that just kept getting worse and worse as the morning wore on. What finally did it was a mounting pressure from the other end – I needed a #2 as well, and a little before 11:00, it became clear I wasn’t going to last another hour.
I was able to wait for a time when I hadn’t felt his touch for five minutes or so and things were nice and soft, then headed for the bathroom. The brown part came out first – I had been straining so hard to keep the front floodgate closed that it didn’t want to open at first. Once the back gate had made its delivery, though, the front one finally relaxed enough to let its contents pass through. I let the stream flow for about ten seconds, and then all of a sudden…
… WHAM!!!
I saw stars, and had no idea why. It took half a second or so before I even figured out that the massive pain I was experiencing was radiating from my balls. Thankfully, the bathrooms at the office are single-occupancy, so I didn’t have any neighbors in adjacent stalls to wonder why I suddenly shouted out an obscenity. I would have doubled over from the pain if I hadn’t already been hunched over, sitting on the can. A second wave of pain, and I realized what was happening: Slimy Rat Bastard was punching me in the nuts! Or slapping me with a paddle or something, I had no idea what. All I knew was that the most tender part of me was getting brutalized and I had no way to stop it.
Needless to say, my stream got choked off right away. I tensed up so tight that it didn’t matter how much liquid remained in my bladder – there was no way it was coming out now.
A third blow came, and by then I was down on the floor curled up in a fetal position. It seemed like it should feel better to be all wrapped up like that, but it didn’t help a bit. The position provided no safety; the next pounding hurt just as bad as the others. So did all the rest after that.
I lost track of how many times he hit me, but he did eventually stop. I climbed slowly to my feet, desperate to enfold my balls with my hands and soothe their flaming agony but totally unable to. I washed my hands, straightened out my clothing, and rinsed my face off. When my next window opened at noon, I waited one minute just in case his clock wasn’t completely synchronized with mine, then finally, finally, was able to get some relief from the constant pressure.
Message received: Never, ever, EVER take a leak outside of the permitted times.
He didn’t touch me the rest of the day. That afternoon, when I got home, I posted my first message on his site. It only said:
“Please give back what is mine.”
Wednesday and Thursday passed without a word from him. I got occasional gropes until I was hard followed by the typical stroking to not-quite-orgasm, and two three-tap signals, which I responded to without hesitation. But there was no response to the message I had posted and no other word from him. All I could do was go about my day, hovering in my weird halfway state between normality and total emasculation. I was depressed and angry and so filled with impotent frustration that even Reena, who sits at the desk across from mine, couldn’t help but notice. Usually we try to give each other some privacy during work hours, politely ignoring each others’ personal calls and snack breaks and such, but by the time 2:00 rolled around on Thursday she suggested that maybe I should ask to take the rest of the day off, go relax, blow off some steam, because, if I didn’t mind her saying so, I looked awful. I really couldn’t explain to her that the expression on my face was because I had just been edged for the two-dozenth time in five days with the prospect of several hundred more repetitions looming ahead of me.
But her suggestion to go blow off some steam did register, and later in the afternoon it dawned on me what I could do to relieve some of my stress. I resolved to head on down to Corkscrewed, because if there was one place in this town where I could unwind, it was there. As long as I could make sure to avoid a repeat of what happened during my previous visit…
So that night, I got dressed and made ready for a night out. I briefly considered packing my crotch with a sock to simulate the absent bulge (and yeah, I did consider making it an extra-thick woolen winter one, or maybe two, while I was at it), but eventually I decided to go au naturel. I wasn’t looking to hook up with anyone, for obvious reasons, so it was none of anyone’s business what I may or may not be packing in my pants.
Thursday nights are the start of the weekend for the Corkscrewed clientele. There wasn’t quite the crowd that a Friday or a Saturday night would have drawn, but it was busy enough. I recognized maybe a third of the guys there, by face if not by name. I had one beer to loosen up, then kept it to ginger ale after that, and I made damn sure never to let my drinks out of my sight. I danced, I hung out with some guys I sorta knew, I drank in the music and the flashing lights and let them wash the frustration of the day… the last week… away. At one point around 10:30, SRB intruded on my fun with another edging session, but I was lost mid-dance then and it was actually fun to incorporate his movements into mine. I’ve gotten hard on the dance floor before, but this was the first time I ever actually got stroked while dancing. When he stopped, I stopped too and headed over to the bar for another ginger ale.
I got back home around one. The night out at the club had done the trick; I was feeling relaxed and refreshed and had managed to forget for a little while the fact that my cock was being held prisoner. The beer and ginger ale had worked their way through me by then, and I really needed to jettison what was left of it. I actually walked into the bathroom before getting into bed, all set to take a normal piss, when I reached down to aim it and the whole thing came crashing back. It occurred to me at that point that I had a problem on my hands.
You can imagine how my thoughts went… one part of my brain says “Time go take leak now.” Another part replies “No! Ouch!” The first part says “But me have to.” Second part says “But me can’t!” And back and forth and back and forth.
The outcome was never really in question, because there was no way I could make it until morning. It took me ten minutes to work up the nerve to do it, but at long last, I let loose.
Nothing happened.
I mean, I got relief for my overstuffed bladder, but aside from that, nothing happened. No punishment, no acknowledgment that I had broken the rules.
Unless, of course, he was biding his time. Perhaps the punishment would come later, and be all the worse for the anticipation. I dismissed that thought almost as soon as it entered my head – there was no point in punishing myself by anticipating what he might do to me. Sure, I could spend the next two, three, twenty-four hours waiting for a ball-beating that might or might not ever come, but if I did that I’d only be playing his game for him. So I made a conscious decision to put it out of my mind, and drifted off to sleep.
Friday, 6:45 AM, with the alarm going off. You would not believe how annoying it is to be roused from a totally sexy dream with a raging hard-on, but to have no way to do anything about it! Grinding my pelvis into the sheets did nothing, because my dick, wherever it was, didn’t move along with my hips, and there was probably nothing near it for it to rub against anyway. Thanks to the dream, which was at this point fading into a jumbled mixture of muscled flesh tones and improbable positions, I was sooooo clooooooose to being able to nudge myself over the edge. But the magic moment kept staying just beyond my reach until at last I gave up with a shout of frustration and got out of bed.
A check of the FTP site turned up a note. When I saw it, my heart leaped up into my throat. But when I read through it, there was no mention of last night’s transgression. All it said was:
“If you have any plans for this weekend, cancel them. You’ll be spending the time with me.”
The day went OK. I was nervous that Slimy Rat Bastard would start something, but I didn’t let it get to me. It wasn’t until right after my lunchtime pee break that I felt SRB at work. It wasn’t painful, but he was definitely doing something to my berries, though I couldn’t figure out what. It wasn’t until I was ready to knock of for the day that I realized what was going on: he had attached some kind of squeezy thing to my balls and was v-e-r-r-r-r-y s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w-l-y forcing it shut. With my nuts in between.
Was this punishment for poorly-planned peeing? Or was this his plan for the weekend all along? I had no way to know. And while the gadget clamped to my junk did not bode at all well for later, for the time being it didn’t hurt. It just felt the way I feel when I’m wearing tight jeans and things could use an adjustment – there at the edge of consciousness, but nothing that needed urgent attention. I figured I had at least a few hours before things started getting really uncomfortable, so I accepted Reena’s invitation to join the group at the Union Square Diner, where the food is greasy and salty, but it’s cheap and there’s lots of it.
The evening didn’t quite recharge my batteries the way the previous night at Corkscrewed had, but it was a fun time all the same, only slightly marred by my attempts to not think about what was slowly happening downstairs. I mostly succeeded at not thinking about what the next two days would bring, but it was tough, and the prospect threw a bit of a buzzkill on hanging with the work chums.
By the time I got home, the squeeze on my nuts was starting to become noticeable. It still wasn’t painful, but I found myself constantly reaching down to loosen things up, only to find time and again that there was nothing there to loosen. It seemed like the guy was cranking the thing tighter every fifteen minutes or so, but that didn’t seem right because I never actually felt it getting tighter. And yet it must be tightening because if I compared what I was feeling to the way it had been 30 minutes or an hour before, I could sure tell the difference.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t checked the FTP site since that morning. There was a video there. It was a short snippet, only about 15 seconds long, and it showed my cock and balls all locked up in the device that I could feel squeezing my grapes. I could see in the clip why I never felt him tightening it… the dang thing was motorized! There was a drive shaft connected to a constantly-running motor that was geared way down so that the shaft was turning only infinitesimally slowly.
I played the video twice, then went to bed. Might as well try to sleep while I could before things got really, really bad…
I woke up at 3 AM to some very sore nuts. The two halves of the vise had most definitely come close enough together to be past the point of discomfort and into the realm of pain. The left was feeling it worse than the right for some reason – a difference in the squeeze, or perhaps Lefty was naturally a millimeter larger than Mr. Right and thus more vulnerable? I had no idea. I just knew I wanted to make it stop. Ball pain is, needless to say, the worst thing anyone can inflict on a guy. I’ve learned since this incident that there are some twisted dudes in this world who actually get off on the sensation for reasons I will never understand, but I am most emphatically not one of them. There wasn’t a single pleasant thing about the experience.
I’m describing it calmly now, but in the throes of it, it was absolutely awful and I was a gibbering wreck. I lay there in bed, tossing and turning, moaning and groaning and trying to focus on anything except the relentless pain that kept slowly building as the hours wore on. There was nothing I could do, no distraction diverting enough to pull my attention away. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a migraine or anything like that that’s kept you up all night, but that’s what it was like. I would lie there for what felt like hours and hours, then look at the clock to learn that exactly eight minutes had passed since my last clock check, and then it would begin again. That was easily the longest night I’ve ever lived through. Nothing was enough to distract me, not videos, not music, not games, not pounding my head with my fist, nothing. My entire world began and ended with my nuts.
When the morning came, at exactly 7:00, I got a brief moment of relief – he must have suddenly unwound the screw that was crushing my nuts. I thought at first that he had taken it off completely, but realized when I thought about it that he had only loosened it; it was still attached. My iSelf reminded me that it was time for a piss break, so I took one, then figured I’d get up and check the FTP site. There was a note there, with a time stamp of just two minutes ago.
“That was one cycle. There will be several more. Each one will progress a little bit further before reaching the retraction step. On the final cycle Sunday night, they won’t stop until there’s only 10 mm between the plates. Make sure to check the site at 9:00 after the last cycle ends.”
Well. I know you paid for the whole story, but honestly, there’s only so many different ways I can say “ow”. True to his word, his device tightened imperceptibly slowly, then would release all of a sudden, then start squeezing again, each time getting tighter and tighter before the pain would abruptly change. I say “change” because when the pressure was suddenly removed, the pain didn’t just stop. Instead, it actually grew for a minute or so, then faded. I don’t honestly know why it worked that way. The best comparison I can make is it’s like when your arm falls asleep from having it in one position too long, and when you move it around and the sensation comes back, for a minute or so it feels worse than it did when it was numb. That was what it was like. And on the later cycles, I found that the pain never really ended, it only lessened. I wasn’t sure if it was because he wasn’t retracting the device as far, or if my balls were trying to swell up and just making their problem worse, or what.
In any case, that was my weekend: ow, OW, OW!, OWW!!! OWWWWW!!!!!, repeat. I didn’t sleep at all, I barely ate because the pain in my groin was leaving me too nauseous to keep food down, I just stood, sat, lay, paced, stomped around and swore a lot. Hour after agonizingly long hour.
Come Sunday night, right around 8:55, it ended, as promised. I was in the middle of screaming, when all of a sudden, the device unwound and I could feel him taking it completely off. There was a minute or two of that blood-rushing-back-in sensation, which I screamed some more during, but after a few minutes it faded away, leaving only a residual achiness. Two days ago, I would have described that residual achiness as debilitatingly painful; now it barely registered. 9:00 came and I dutifully emptied myself out. Then I remembered that I was supposed to check the FTP site. There was a note waiting for me:
“Tell me how that felt to you. Make a video, at least two minutes long. Talk about what you experienced and how it made you feel. Post it to the site. If it’s good enough, I’ll let you come. If not, you won’t come, but there will be no further punishment. You have until 9:30. If you don’t post your video by then, the device goes back on at the 10mm setting until tomorrow morning.”
While I was reading the note, the stroking started, slow and gentle. It kept up that way all the time while I was making the video, which I made without hesitation. Honestly, I was so sore and un-horny at that point that I doubted he’d be able to get me off even if my production was “good enough” and he tried, but I absolutely did not want that mousetrap going back on my googlies again. I finished my first take with plenty of time to spare, so I looked it over before uploading it. I was surprised at how awful I looked – I hadn’t felt like showering all weekend, so my hair was matted and spiked, my face was sheened with oil and sweat, and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about trying to clean up first and try another take, but then realized that in SRB’s sick, twisted world, my prisoner-chic look was probably a good thing. If I could have filmed myself chained up and filthy in a medieval dungeon set, that’d probably be enough to win me a trio of orgasms, the Academy Award of his school of psychotic filmmaking. So I sent the video as it was.
I’ll spare you the suspense: he liked it. My tale of woe and agony was evidently sufficiently pathetic enough for him. He took his sweet time about it, of course, teasing me and bringing me up to the edge five times before letting me cross it. The first buildup took a long time – I was light years away from feeling anything sexual after my ordeal. But eventually the hormones kicked in and nature took its course. When I was finally close and he stopped, I was, of course, crushed. When he started up again my hopes rose along with my dick, only to come crashing down again a few minutes later. Repeat, repeat, but on the fifth time, I could tell it was different. I started to get close, expecting SRB to pull off like he had done so many times before, but it became clear that he was going to take me all the way. The pressure built and built and pretty soon I knew that even if he stopped stroking right that instant, the momentum was so strong that I’d be able to finish the job no-handed. But he didn’t stop, and I stayed poised on that edge for one more infinitely long moment before I convulsed in a surge of ecstasy, squirting out an entire week’s worth of pent-up juice. It was absolutely glorious and it went on for weeks. Months, even. And even though he kept stroking long after the point that I wished he would have stopped, even that wasn’t enough to ruin the experience.
Goddammit, for a few seconds, I was actually grateful to the goat-sucking son of a worm.
I slept deeply and dreamlessly that night for the first time in days.
Monday came and went, as did Tuesday and Wednesday. There were no messages for me on the site. He mostly left me alone, and I for my part made sure to only pass my water at the designated time. My bowels, interestingly, seemed to have adapted to the new routine. I had never paid much attention to my daily crap schedule before, and it made me feel old to realize that every day, about ten or fifteen minutes before my four o’clock window, I would start to feel the buildup of pressure there, nicely timed to be emptied out when the top of the hour came around. I was “regular”, a condition that gentlemen twice my age took medications to achieve.
Thursday, though, I had trouble. Whatever I had eaten the day or two before didn’t all work its way out at once, and around 6:00 I needed to make another trip. Have you ever tried to let go from behind while keeping Uncle Dick’s mouth shut? It’s not easy. I lost control for about three seconds and cringed, waiting for a response. It didn’t come right away, but about five minutes later, just when I was thinking I had gotten away with it, I got the reaction I had been dreading: more punches to my poor nuts. He slapped them around for a long while, and I shoved my face into a pillow so my shouting wouldn’t disturb the neighbors.
When he was through, my balls felt like they had just starred as the clappers in the ringing of the carillon at Notre Dame. But he wasn’t through. I next felt a new pain, this one right at the tip of my dick. It hurt sharply for about two minutes, and then kind of faded into a general background discomfort. I still felt it, but only if I concentrated on it. It was a whole lot easier to take than the punching bag treatment had been, so I let it go…
… until 9:00. My iSelf reminded me that it was time for my bedtime leak, so I tried to take one. It didn’t work. I tried to relax, but that didn’t work. I tried to force it through, to the same lack of success. I started to get a hunch that I knew what was going on, and figured I should go check the FTP site in case there was an answer waiting there.
As it turned out, there was, in the form of a photo of my dick… with a clothespin pinching the tip shut. That explained the odd sensation there – it wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but it sure was tight enough to block anything from flowing through. I took one look at the photo and realized I was well and truly screwed. Nothing was leaving my bladder until Slimy Rat Bastard decided to grant his permission.
Have I mentioned the emotions of rage and frustration and despair before? Well, figure I was living them again that night. Fortunately, there wasn’t much in my bladder, thanks in part to the dribble that had come out at suppertime and the pure chance that I had had only felt like drinking half the tea that had come with my curried shrimp takeout. But the nature of the system was such that it would fill up, quickly or slowly, one way or another, until I would be reduced to pleading with him via ASCII text file.
I could have lost myself in the anger and the despair, and I probably came close, but what got me through was remembering back to that first morning, when I realized that he didn’t know everything. Slimy Rat Bastard might control one part of me physically, but the only control he could have over my mind was what I gave him. I could beat him, if I played smart.
So I spent the next fifteen minutes composing some notes, gave them suitably appropriate, increasingly desperate-sounding filenames with good ol’ .txt extensions, then set my iSelf to wake me at 2:00 and went to bed. At 2:05, I woke up the laptop, accessed the FTP site and sent file #1, then rolled right back over and went to sleep. 3:12, same deal with file #2, and so on through morning. I never quite fell back to sleep after the 4:44 mailing (trying to keep the times irregular so he wouldn’t notice a pattern) and tossed and turned until the usual 6:45 alarm went off. I got out of bed and reviewed the messages I had sent, all of which had gone without response from SRB, which was good because if he had ever responded, it would have meant I would potentially have had to revise any of the pre-written notes that came after his response.
#1: Please. My bladder is starting to feel full. I don’t think I’ll be able to make it to 7:00. Please take the clothespin off and let me pee.
#2: I’ve really gotta go, man. I can’t take much more of this. Please?
#3: What can I give you in exchange for takign it off? you want money or something? I’ll pay you ti take it off. please… please…
(Did you like the misspellings? I thought they added a nice touch of desperation.)
#4: Dude, i’m serious. If you don’t take it off soon, my bladders gonna burst and I’ll be dead and you wont have your toy to play with anymore. Take it off.
#5: Please.
I had #6 cued up, but he actually replied to #5 at 6:50 with a terse “Ten more minutes.” So I sat there, eating my breakfast with a bladder that was no more than moderately full, until I felt him fumbling with my babies. I immediately started pushing so there’d be a forceful stream waiting for him, and while I couldn’t see the result, I suspect it came up with a suitable splatter.
I had outsmarted him.
You doing okay there? I’ve been talking a while, think I’m gonna go get something to wet my throat. You want another soda? You sure? OK.
So where was I…? Well, actually, I think we’ve reached the point where the story starts to become a lot of “more of the same”. He hurts me, I react, he hurts me, I react, on very rare occasions he lets me shoot a load.
It lasted four months. That’s how long he held on to my dick. Four months, during which I experienced five orgasms. And I won’t lie, every single one of them was a mind-blowing, earth-shaking, spooge-splattering rocket launch. I never again want to go through the denial and teasing that he put me through, but I have to admit that it had the effect he wanted, of getting me so massively revved up and keeping me there for so long that when the release finally came, it was an atomic-bomb-level climax. He even used his mouth once, and I will confess that no blow job before or since has even come close.
But no thanks. Fantastic as the money shots were, the price was too high. That guy was into some seriously sick stuff.
And so are you.
Nah, don’t deny it! I could see it all over your face as I was talking earlier. Some guys come here, want to hear my story, they’re interested in the details but it’s like a car crash to them – they want to watch, but from a distance, that’s close enough for them. They don’t need to get close enough to see the blood and the broken bones. They want to hear the rough stuff in my story, but only in passing, on the way to the good parts at the end.
But you. You’re the kind who thinks the rough stuff is the good stuff.
No, it’s OK. Sit back down, it’s cool. Cripes, you’re blushing like a schoolgirl! Settle down! Look, I’d say more than half of the guys who come here are just like you. I’ll tell you up front: I’m not. I don’t get into that kinky stuff at all. Doesn’t turn me on a bit. But it does turn you on, and that’s totally OK. Not a problem at all.
So I’ll just make sure the rest of the story includes more than a passing glimpse of the car crash. We’ll circle the wreck site in loving detail as we go by. Here’s one prime example…
So I had outsmarted the guy by faking a fuller bladder than I actually had. It was a victory, but a small one. It didn’t change how the next week passed, or the week after that: unfulfilling stroking sessions alternating with scrotal abuse. The weekend in between, though… that was much, much worse. That was my first experience with what turned out to be one of his favorite things to do: play with electricity. Throughout the whole ordeal, the electro sessions stand out in my memory as the worst of the things he did. I hated it more than anything else he inflicted on me. And that second weekend was the worst of the electro sessions because it was the calibration session.
As I learned later from guys who know about this stuff, electricity interacting with human skin is insidiously nasty. There’s a control box to send out signals and two wires leading out and back with the target zone in between where the wires touch the skin. I’ve seen videos – when the current is off, you see a pair of balls, each with a wire running out from it. And when the current is on, you see… a pair of balls, each with a wire running out from it. They look exactly the same. And yet, one doesn’t hurt and all and the other is like holding your danglers two inches above an octogenarian’s birthday cake.
So here was SRB’s problem that first electro session: he couldn’t see or hear me!
He had no way of monitoring my reactions. He was unwilling to set up a real-time video link because it would have made him traceable; he would only operate via one-time file drop. So during the session, at any given moment he couldn’t tell if I was feeling a tiny tickle or a massive jolt. He could make a guess based on the setting of whatever control box he was using, but he had no way to be sure exactly how much pain he was causing me. So he had me calibrate the settings the first time. He told me to sit in front of my camera and record myself. I had no idea what he was planning to do. He instructed me to start filming a little before 10 AM, and at exactly 10:00 I was to say the time out loud, which I did.
Nothing happened. I sat there in my chair, growing increasingly bored while nothing continued to happen.
Then, right around 10:05, I felt my first tingle. It was totally unlike anything I had ever felt before (though I felt it plenty in the following weeks). It was focused on my balls, just the slightest strange sensation, and I couldn’t tell what it was he was doing. It felt a little like a caress, only there was no direction to it and it kept going constantly with no change in the sensation. Then it disappeared.
A bit later, it came back, and then the intensity ramped up slightly. Now it was like an itch. And then it grew again, and at that point I realized what was happening. I may have uttered a few choice words directed at my remote tormentor at that point, which I instantly wanted to edit out of the video before sending it to him, but his instructions had been clear: send the whole thing from start to finish. Afterward, it was clear why: he would use the time to correlate the settings on his end to the reaction on my end, and thus be able to estimate in future sessions what kind of punishment he was inflicting. Yeah, well. He would just have to cope with hearing me call him a nasty name near the 10:07 AM mark. It probably made him smile, actually.
Well, over the course of fifteen minutes he took that dial through every setting up to a hundred. The last time I paid attention to the time it was 10:11. After that I really couldn’t spare the consciousness for tiny details like clocks. The way he did it was he would stop the current, then rack it back down to zero, turn it on, and crank it up over the course of several seconds through all the ground we had covered before, plus one more notch. So the first five minutes, when nothing was happening, he was doing cycles of 0 – 1, then 0 – 2, and 0 – 3, and so on. Eventually, the ending number got high enough that I could feel it. Shortly after that, it was high enough that I had no choice but to react. From then on, he would be able to tell by the expression on my face and the pitch of my screams how bad off I was hurting each time. Over and over he did this, until he maxed out the gadget he was using.
I was hoarse by the time it was over. I was almost glad I couldn’t see my nuts, because I couldn’t imagine them as anything but a smoking, charred ruin, with burned skin peeling off of bubbling, liquified testicles. That was how bad it hurt. Thankfully, he never took me up that high again – I would have known if he did.
After it stopped, I couldn’t move. I was completely paralyzed from the ordeal, and could only slump on the floor where I had at some point fallen. It must have been ten minutes before I could get up, shut down the recording, and pack it off to his FTP site. I can only hope that some lingering shred of humanity in Slimy Rat Bastard’s soul was what caused him, after seeing the wreck he had reduced me to, to leave me alone for the rest of the weekend.
Later on, he sent the video back to me, edited to splice in the view from his own camera. Here, let me bring it up… I’m sure you’ll get off on it.
There. You can see on the left side my disembodied dick and balls, resting on a table with the wormhole glass surface down, my dick flopped over to the left and my balls off to the other side. That rope there is loosely tied around my balls to hold them separated, and each nut has a thick black wire wrapped around it, carefully positioned to not touch the other wire. Guys who know about this stuff tell me the wire is conductive rubber, but I always thought rubber was an insulator? Oh well, like I said, I’m no expert on this.
There in front is the control box. See the numbers? Slimy Rat Bastard trimmed the video so it starts around setting 30, which is the level where I started feeling the sensations. On the right is my face. You can see I’m looking bored. That changes very soon.
Soon, as in right about now. You can tell, I’m feeling it now.
He cuts ahead to where the cycle goes zero to 50 now. This is where you can start seeing the thing that still amazes me every time I watch this. That face is the right is clearly suffering… but the balls on the left are just sitting there. Not moving, not twitching, not clenching, not erupting in flames or getting flattened by hammers even though that’s what they feel like is happening. There’s no visible effect on them. And yet… that face on the right… we can turn the volume down if the screaming is too loud?
Oh. OK. Yeah, sure, you can turn it up if you want. But, uh, I’m just gonna step out to the kitchen for a sec? I’ll be back in a bit. Nah, it’s OK, keep watching. I’ve seen this enough times already. Feel free to… you know… if you want to. A lot of guys with your tastes do when they watch it. I’ll be back in a bit.
All done with the video, then? Nice. You need a tissue, maybe? Oh, you didn’t shoot? OK, that’s cool. Saving it for later, I guess. There’s still more to the story.
So… yeah, I got my eggs poached a couple dozen times over the next few months. He varied it up a lot. Sometimes it would be a session that would run for hours, and I’d be a total wreck after one of those. In fact, the one time he was gonna let me come and I just couldn’t do it was after one of those four-hour oyster-frying sessions. After shutting the current off for the last time, he started jacking me. He stroked and stroked, but I was just so spent I fell asleep before he finished. From his point of view, my dick probably just want limp at some point and couldn’t be revived no matter what he did to it. There was no further “punishment” for failing to squirt, thankfully. Besides the four hours of hell, of course.
Other times he’d do an occasional jolt out of the blue. I’d be sitting at work or at a friend’s place or, once, in a dentist’s chair, and all of a sudden my nuts would sizzle for three seconds, then it’d stop as abruptly as it began. I’d leap and shout, of course, and have to make up all sorts of implausible explanations for why I was suddenly hopping around like a frog in a frying pan.
Still other times he’d warn me. A note on the FTP site would say “Three 5-second jolts at level 60, some time between 9:30 and 9:35 PM tonight” or “10 seconds, level 45, 2:07 PM”. I still haven’t made up my mind whether it was better or worse to have the warning. On the one hand, I spent the hours leading up to the specified time thinking about the pain to come, over and over. But on the other hand, once it was done, there was this sense of relief. See, he never lied about it, like giving me four jolts when his note said there would be three, or zapping me five minutes earlier than he said, or giving me a bonus blast two minutes later or anything like that. So once one of the scheduled zaps was done I knew he wouldn’t hit me out of the blue for a while.
Let’s see, what else did he do? Oh, yeah, there was this: one day I woke up with my dick and balls cold as ice. Could not feel warm down there even though I was buried under blankets. I checked the site and found that Slimy Rat Bastard had posted a photo of his refrigerator. Orange juice, butter, eggs, some leftovers in tidy little plastic containers… and my shriveled-up genitals, marinating in water in a glass bowl. Ah, they shrivel up all over again just thinking about it! He left my junk in there for three whole days, only taking ’em out for my piss breaks, then dunking ’em right back in the bowl again. Three days. Nothing I did warmed me up, not running, not biking, not a scalding-hot shower, not piling a whole heap of blankets on top of me. All the heat I could generate felt like it was getting sucked right out through those wormholes into SRB’s fridge.
Then it got worse. The night of the third day, after my last scheduled toilet trip, he moved the bowl to the freezer. It sat there all night. The photo he sent in the morning showed a crust of ice on the top of the bowl, but the water underneath was still liquid because the heat of my body was all pouring into it. My blood would shoot out through the arteries into my dick and balls, lose about twenty degrees as it circulated through, then return to me needing to be brought back up to normal temperatures. I didn’t sleep a wink all night, or all the next day either. There was no cum-shot reward after that session, either. No. Instead, he took ’em out of the freezer, cracked through the ice crust, lifted them out of the ice bath, and plunged them into a pot of hot water.
That one actually disturbed the neighbors. He caught me completely off guard around 7:00 at night. I was buried under the blankets, playing Jeebies on my iSelf and trying to stay warm, when all of a sudden it felt like my ‘nads were melting. I couldn’t keep the scream inside, it hurt so bad. And it kept hurting for five long minutes until the skin finally adjusted to the temperature. And while it kept hurting, I kept screaming. Gradually quieter as time went on, but the neighbors on one side pounded on the wall and the other side actually came to my door to ask what was wrong. I feigned severe diarrhea and abdominal cramps and they reluctantly, disbelievingly, went away.
There was mind-game stuff, too. Once he sent me a video clip of myself walking down a street full of people. A normal, everyday scene. It’s a candid shot, so I’m not looking at the camera or anything, but you can make out my face as I go past and it’s definitely me. It was taken from inside a car parked by the curb. And in the foreground, sitting on the guy’s upturned palm while he filmed, were my dick and balls. I walked by, passing within six feet of my missing jewels, and had no idea until he sent me the clip that night. Slimy. Rat. Bastard.
He sent other videos and still pics, too, but I’m pretty sure they were ‘shopped. I mean, I suppose it is possible that a small part of me went on a tour of famous sites around the world, including the Eiffel Tower, the Great Wall, the Kremlin, and that giant statue overlooking Rio. But I seriously doubt it. It would have been much easier and cheaper for him to fake the photos. But I couldn’t be certain of that at the time, and it sure made me feel even more helpless than ever to think that the prize I was seeking was an entire continent away, and constantly moving.
Things finally changed about ten weeks in. That was my tipping point. Up until then I had been falling deeper and deeper into a funk. I couldn’t focus at work, forgetting about things I had agreed to do, making all sorts of careless mistakes… and my boss and colleagues were starting to notice. I was one more major blunder away from getting fired. Outside of work, Reena and Joel and my other friends all wondered why I never went out with them any more or returned the messages they left.
I had called in sick to work – again – after a night spent being edged. By two AM I had lost count of the number of times I had been brought this close to orgasm, only to be left hanging. When morning came and SRB finally left off the with the rosy-palming, I couldn’t think straight, but I couldn’t go back to sleep either. Morning came and I turned on the screen and started watching whatever came on as the hours passed by – golf, cooking shows, some old movie that made no sense at all, a telenovela in Spanish, which I don’t speak a word of… and then one of those crappy daytime talk shows, where people who crawled out from the bowels of a trailer park air their incestuous dirty laundry for the whole world to see.
And that’s when it hit me… why shouldn’t I do the same thing?
I had been keeping my ordeal secret from everyone. Watching that show, it dawned on me that there was no real reason do to that. It was just a reflex, nothing more, because I’m not the kind of guy to go spilling all my thoughts out for all the world to see, or at least that’s how I was at the time. But maybe this particular secret needed to be shared, because I sure was going nuts trying to deal with it on my own.
I rummaged around until I found SRB’s original note to me and re-read it. I don’t know why I thought this, but I would have sworn there was something in there about “don’t go to the police or you’ll pay” or some crap like that. But there wasn’t. There was no mention of this being my private problem and only mine. And it was then, while Saundra Kay was scratching at Moleen’s wig with her two-inch-long fake fingernails as the talk show bouncers were called in to keep them from drawing any more blood than would be good for ratings, that I realized: keeping this secret was only benefiting Slimy Rat Bastard, not me.
It was time to blow the lid off this pot.
I’m sure you’ve seen video clips. It was hard to get any attention at first – no one believed me when I called or wrote, even when I sent pictures. What finally got things moving was an in-person trip to a dinky little NBC station here in Boston, WBTS, still quaintly churning out over-the-air broadcast television. I walked into the station office, told the receptionist that I had a story for them. When she stonewalled me, I just dropped trou and waited. You’d be amazed how quickly those busy reporters suddenly found free time on their calendars. The little blurb they put together got noticed by someone on Airette’s staff, and next thing I knew I was on a plane to LA, where she fit my story in between an interview with President Thich’s former press secretary and a heartwarming segment on a Beatles tribute band that donates all their proceeds to fight childhood cancer.
Things snowballed quickly. Before the week was out, I was booked on Helga, and on Werner’s World, and also on MSNBC and Yahoobly but those were only with bot-journalists. Bloggers, vloggers, and memerasts picked up the story, and suddenly I was everywhere. The click-bait headlines practically wrote themselves: “ALIEN AB-DICK-TION!” and “WHERE’S BALL-DO?” and “FREE WILLY!”. My favorite was an animated image of a milk carton with the label “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?” above a set of cartoon ‘nads, complete with forlorn-looking eyes on the head of the shaft. My buddy Ted printed that one out onto an actual milk carton – it’s over there on the shelf if you want to take a look.
A week after that, the news cycle moved on, like I knew it would, but that was OK – I got what I needed.
My employer offered me an “accommodation” under the Americans with Disabilities Act, which really helped because I got an unlimited bank of paid sick time to draw from whenever SRB starting playing one of his games, and I could work at night or on weekends if those times were better for me. I could stop making up excuses to avoid my pals, all of who were totally cool with my “condition”. Once they got past the initial “can I see?” question (which all but three asked), it was No Big Deal, and they handled me like they did Lynnda with her insistent but not militant Wiccanism, or Luke with his on-again, off-again vegetarian streak that makes it hard to pick a restaurant, or Joel with his insistence on paying cash for everything, never using his iSelf even though he has one. My situation was just one more oddity to work around.
The next few weeks were a lot easier. Slimy Rat Bastard kept torturing me and offering very rare moments of very intense pleasure, and I still wanted my dick back more than anything, but the situation became much more bearable. I assume he saw the story – he would have had to be living under a rock not to. But he never said a word about it in his notes to me, and I never mentioned the publicity either.
Then, a few weeks later, things changed again.
The first thing I noticed came one night, four months after my ordeal started, when my wandering wiener tried to stiffen up while I was sleeping. It couldn’t, and in my groggy state I figured it was just trapped under my body, so I shifted around to give it some space to expand. That didn’t help of course, but I still kept on shifting a few more times until I woke up enough to remember why that particular strategy wouldn’t work.
My cock was still straining to stiffen up, though, and it was starting to get very painful, because it was pressing on my balls somehow, and every extra bit of space that my dick tried to occupy seemed to mean that much less was available for my balls. I finally woke up enough to distract my brain enough that it stopped trying to create a boner that just clearly was not going to happen; things became much more comfortable; I went back to sleep.
The next morning there was a note in the FTP site. It said this:
Jonah –
I wanted to let you know that I am through borrowing your cock and balls. You may have them back if you wish.
It has been an enjoyable time, but I find I am starting to grow bored with you. Like an old married couple, you and I have settled into a routine, and the magic has gone out of our relationship. It is time to move on.
I have left your property in a place where you may be able to find it, with a little effort. It is in the Florida keys. Your urination schedule is hereby lifted. Feel free to piss whenever you wish.
I’m sure I will think of you fondly from time to time in the future. Due to the circumstances, I suspect you might think of me somewhat more often.
– S
That was accompanied by a photo… this photo. That is clearly Miami in the background. The thing in the foreground, sitting on Slimy Rat Bastard’s palm, is a round metal cage the size of a baseball, with my cock and balls inside.
Let me tell you, I just about hit the roof when I saw that. I had imagined about a thousand different ways in which this scene would end, some better than others, but I never anticipated something like this. My cock was out of my reach, trapped in a steel prison, small enough to prevent me from getting hard, and every time I tried, I squashed my own balls. And it was somewhere – somewhere! – in the Florida Keys, which stretch for a hundred and twenty-seven miles!
Let me tell you, I hit the first four stages of grief in order: denial (“This can NOT be happening!”), anger (“THAT FUCKTARD!”), bargaining (“Look, go ahead and torture me for another month if you want, I promise I’ll react better, just PLEEZ give them back when you’re done!”), depression (“I am never going to get another hard-on ever again in my entire life”). It took about 10 days. That’s ten days of frustrated discomfort every time my dick tried to get hard, and let me tell you, that put a real damper on my life.
See, by then, after word of my condition had got out, I had started to develop quite a sex life. All kinds of guys wanted to get it on with a guy whose relevant bits were off in parts unknown. What a novelty, eh? Can you imagine?
Yes, I suppose you can, heh heh. You’re here, aren’t you?
While I would have preferred to have things be a bit more reciprocal, I could still make good use of my mouth and my back door, and I was starting to enjoy the attention. But now I had to avoid anything that would turn me on or I would suffer the painful consequences – so no sex, no dancing at the clubs… I even had to give up surfing for porn because it just made me too uncomfortable.
Still, every night my brain would try to open the floodgates down there while I was sleeping and I would wake up with some very achy nuts. If I could have just shot a load, it would have given me some relief for maybe a day or two, but load-shooting was looking like something that was never, ever going to happen again. Which only increased my depression.
Then I got to what is supposed to be the last stage, acceptance, and ya know what? I decided not to accept any such thing. Because I had devised a plan.
Money was a bit of a problem. I drained my own savings dry, but that wasn’t quite enough. Fortunately, I had enough name recognition to call attention to a Fundations campaign. I put word out that my tormentor had finally tired of abusing me and had abandoned my dick, leaving me to go hunt for it. I needed gas money to get me from Boston to Miami, I needed lodging and meals while hunting, I needed to hire a boat and a pilot, and I needed a few other miscellaneous supplies, oh yeah, and one of them was rather expensive.
See, I had figured out a few things based on the sensations. The package I was looking for was almost certainly outside and above ground – I could feel wind. It was not underwater, which was a thought that terrified me the first time it crossed my head – how would I ever find it if he had sunk it? I had not felt any rain, which meant either that it hadn’t rained yet or the package was in a sheltered location. I had let plenty of pee flow, so the package must be some place far enough from any neighbors that a flood of urine wouldn’t bother anyone. Because you’d think someone would notice that, right?
So my hunch was: it was underneath one of the support pillars of the Overseas Highway. Or – even more likely – it was under one of the older, now-unused support pillars of the previous highways.
Soon enough, I was riding with a total stranger who just happened to need to get from New York to Miami and was willing to split the cost of gas and the driving, so I met up with him in Yonkers. We took turns behind the wheel while the other daydreamed or napped (and one of us regaled the other with this way-out-there story of why he needed to get to the Keys so badly), and we made it to Miami in just over 16 hours. I dropped him off and two hours later, I was entering the Conch Republic. Did I mention this was taking place in March? From Boston’s grey slush to sunshine and pearly sand in the course of a single day, I was thinking there was no reason to ever go back home!
I checked into my room in Key West, then met up the next morning with my boat crew. That was Kevin and his partner Bubbles. Kevin was the pilot, a no-nonsense guy, all business, wiry build, mostly-grey hair buzzed close to his scalp, skin leathery from years in the tropic sun. Bubbles’s skin was much smoother. He was about as beefy and bear-like a man as they come, 6-feet-plus of solid, hair-covered muscle, but he was no stranger to lotions and scented oils and loved wearing lace and makeup and boas whenever he got a chance to. There’s not a lot of room in most of the US for a guy who’s built like a marine but feels like a duchess; I guess people like Bubbles tend to gravitate toward the edge places like Key West.
I spent a lot of time with them over the next two weeks, and they couldn’t have made the experience any easier. I would say that they would loan anyone the shirt off their backs, but I only saw Kevin wear a shirt once, when I took them out to what passes in Key West for a high-end restaurant afterward so it might be the only one he owns, and, well, it wouldn’t be fair to ask Bubbles to part with one of his dirndl blouses, ’cause they’ve gotta be tough to find in that size, y’know? Two terrific, real good-hearted souls who agreed to take me out hunting, and all they asked for in return was whatever I could chip in for gas and food. I gave them a down payment up front and more as the days went by, but honestly, I think they were just looking for an excuse to take their boat out. They would have been happy to help me in my quest just because it was such a romantic, tilting-at-windmills kind of adventure, reuniting two star-crossed lovers.
So off we went. The current flows west-to-east there, the headwaters of the Gulf Stream. Kevin drove the boat, Bubbles operated the Geiger counter, and I drank.
Heh. I always like to see the look in the eyes when I get to that line in the story. A little moment of blank “huh?” at the words “Geiger counter”, followed by a faint condescending curl of the lip at “I drank”. Hey, it’s cool, I phrase it that way to get exactly that reaction. But that was what the plan called for.
Let me ask you… how would you go about solving this problem? Your dick is somewhere in the Keys. You don’t know where. You think maybe it’s somewhere along the highway, but you don’t know that for sure. Would you manually inspect every single bridge support along the entire 127-mile-long, sometimes-parallel-span distance, looking for a baseball-sized package hidden somewhere in one of them, probably in a dark recess up underneath the roadbed? Good luck to you.
As pleasant as riding with Kevin and Bubbles was, I didn’t want to spend months searching. I wanted results faster than that. So I downed glass after glass after glass of water laced with bright orange food coloring and Technetium-99. That’s the material used in medical scanners, a mildly radioactive element that decays quickly. The particular version I had ordered was chemically bound to a substance that the kidneys extracted quickly, so it didn’t stay in my body long. Both the isotope and the dye were then promptly shunted to my bladder and excreted… which meant they would then be found somewhere in the neighborhood of wherever my dick was. Thus the Geiger counter, to tell us when we got to the right general area, and the orange dye to hopefully provide a visual clue once we got close. For once, I had figured out how to use the one-way communication properties of the arrangement Slimy Rat Bastard had set up to my advantage.
There was risk, I knew going in. Would there be enough radiation to set off the counter? Would there be enough dye to be visible? Or would it all get diluted in the vast ocean? The only way to find out was to try it. Also, I was going to get as much radiation in the next few days or weeks as I would in a decade or two of dental X-rays, but it was totally worth it, in my opinion.
So off we went, starting at the east end and working our way slowly west, me pumping out dye and technetium while Bubbles scanned the waves listening for pings of radiation and we both kept our eyes peeled for any traces of orange. The first few days my spirits were high… surely it would be any minute now, right? But that kind of enthusiasm is hard to maintain for long, and gradually the routine of bloating myself with water just to pee it out again really started to wear on me. It’s hard to chug that much H-two-O! I was pissing it out again every half hour or so, and refilling the tank as fast as it emptied, but man, that experience got old fast.
By day four, I had to cut back. I just couldn’t force myself to drink that much. And though we had had a lot of dings from the counter and sightings of orange in the distance, none of them panned out. But we kept on plugging. After a week, we found ourselves back in Key West with noting to show for our time and effort, and I was a miserable bastard indeed.
We took a weekend off to recover a bit: me, Kevin, Bubbles, and my abused kidneys. Then we went back out again and made a second pass, this time going more slowly and taking a more winding route to cover more territory. And on our second day out, day 9 after I arrived in Key West, we got a hit.
The counter started pinging consistently. Not much – the signal was barely over the normal trace of background radiation, so faint I was sure it was another false positive. But it was consistent, which it had never been before. We were under Seven Mile Bridge, a stretch of open, empty space between Marathon and the western keys. It was an area we had canvassed before, but we were going more carefully this time. The counter’s signal was enough to let us narrow down the search to maybe twenty bridge pilings. I looked for a confirming orange tint but could not see one anywhere. It would have been nice if I could have seen a bright orange waterfall jetting gracefully and extravagantly visibly down from one of the structures, but that was not to be, though I kept pounding the water back and trying. Still, twenty pilings was a small enough number to inspect by hand.
Kevin would hold the boat steady next to one of the pilings. Bubbles would hold the base of the ladder. And I would climb up and look around, getting screamed at by shorebirds for disrupting the natural order of their universe.
On the fifth piling, I found a small metal cage and I knew this had to be it. It was built of pencil-thick curved bars with a layer of fine mesh like a window screen filling in the gaps. Very thoughtful of Mr. Bastard – protecting the contents from both large, strong predators and small, vexing ones. And inside, as hoped, was one precious set of dick and balls, complete in every detail. Man, you cannot believe the wash of sheer joy and relief that bathed me from head to toe. It was carefully positioned over a kind of gutter attachment that ran down the side of the piling, and when I saw the arrangement it made sense: so no busybodies would wonder why a jet of liquid would occasionally come streaming out from the top of the concrete. The gutter ran down into the water, quietly dispersing its contents invisibly below the surface, which explained the lack of orange on the surface: the color got too diluted before it reached the surface.
I unclipped the cage from the fastener that held it to the piling and shouted down to Kevin and Bubbles, and they both started whooping and hollering right along with me to the point that the ladder started shaking so much it almost dumped me in the drink. But I did not care, I had the ball in my hot little hand and I was not gonna let go of it no matter what.
I climbed back down the ladder, carefully negotiating each step. Back on deck, it took me only a moment to unhook the clasp – Slimy Rat Bastard hadn’t locked it, which made sense, why would he? I rapturously lifted my prize out from the metal shell, and prepared to shout my victory to the entire world, but then the first hint that all was not right began to darken my elation.
See, I wasn’t feeling anything. I could feel the dick and balls in my hand, but I began to notice that I couldn’t feel the hand on my dick and balls. Had they gone numb? Was the wormhole effect somehow broken now because I was too close? Had I killed my ‘nards off from too much radiation? A zillion thoughts ran through my head all at once, not a single one of them good, and they must have been written all over my face because Bubbles suddenly said “pull down your shorts”.
When I said nothing but just kept staring at the lumps of tissue on my palm, working my mouth with no sound coming out, he reached over, gently lifted them away and said again “pull ’em down”. So I did. He held the dick up near my waist. After a week on the water, sporadically remembering sunscreen, most of my body was either tanned or red and peeling. But I hadn’t done any nude sunbathing, so my upper thighs still had my Boston-winter pallor. “Dude, this ain’t your color,” Bubbles said.
My mind was so wobbly that at first I thought he meant the shade of my dick didn’t suit me, like, as long I was still looking for one I should maybe consider something in burgundy or perhaps with blond highlights. But then I realized what he meant: the skin tone of the junk didn’t match the skin tone of my trunk.
This was not my package.
All three of us gaped at each other as we realized the implications. I was not the SRB’s only victim; he had had at least one other. Maybe more? Maybe lots more? My own junk was out here, somewhere, almost certainly nearby… but how many others were here too?
At least I didn’t have to hang in suspense much longer. We decided to do a quick scan of the pilings from a distance, looking for gutters. They were almost the same color as the concrete, but it was still possible to see them from a ways off, which made the searching go a lot faster. Four pilings later, we found another one, and at the top was my very own swizzle stick, tucked under the unused roadbed, safely out of the sun and rain. This time when I pulled it out of the cage, I knew immediately it was the right one. Rapture, joy, elation, all over again, and this time it lasted.
We searched for three more days. It went a lot faster now that we were reasonably certain that the gutters were the giveaway. We found six more gutters but only one more cage. Sadly, this one was empty except for a scrap of decomposed tissue and one half of a piece of wormhole glass. To this day, I have no idea who it might have belonged to or where the other half of the glass might be. I assume the guy on the other end must have died, but sometimes, late at night when I can’t sleep, I think of other, more horrifying possibilities…
So. Happy ending, right? I got my tonsil tickler back and that night, back in Key West, Kevin and Bubbles helped me celebrate, very tactfully offering to give the two “reunited lovebirds” some alone time but indicating they’d be happy to join the party if they were invited. So I invited them.
Actually, there were four of us at the party that evening. Earlier, still out on the boat, I pointed the mystery dick out over the ocean and tapped three times on the head. About ten seconds later, a pale yellow stream tinkled out into the ocean. It was only as I watched the stream fall that I realized what the guy on the other end of that limp shaft must be thinking: that Slimy Rat Bastard had brought him out of retirement for an encore performance. The thought made me sick to my stomach, what he must be going through because of my idle experiment!
Practical Kevin suggested what to do: keep tapping. I couldn’t use the contact code for my iSelf, because those are 32 hex digits long, way too complicated to try to communicate by a tapped-out code. Kevin’s idea was to use his mobile phone, a quaint little hand-held thing that needed only ten digits to identify it, none of them hex. Unfortunately, it had a limited range, so he gunned the engine and we headed back to Key West. While we traveled, I started tapping out the ten-digit number on the head of the other dick. It was tough, because two of the digits were zeroes. I tried leaving a pause for those, but after a few repetitions, Bubbles suggested actually drawing the circle shape might be less confusing.
I must have repeated the tapping a couple dozen times. At one point, Kevin said we were close enough that he had a signal, so his phone would be able to receive calls. But none came in. Still, I kept trying. We reached the port; Kevin and Bubbles set about stowing the gear away; I kept tapping and tracing circles, waiting for the gadget next to me to do something.
Then it made a jangling noise. Kevin heard and came over in two bounds. He tweaked something and started talking right away. “Hi, if you’re calling this number because you got it via tapping, I want you to know your property is safe and we will get it back to you just as quickly as we can. Is that the case? Yeah? OK, one sec, I’m gonna hand you over to the guy you want to talk to.”
So I spoke with Philippe from Montreal. When I was finally able to convince him that this was not one more sick joke by SRB, he broke down in tears he was so elated. We compared stories. They were remarkably similar, except he never went to the media. I told him we were in Key West, but that I would be heading home to Boston and we could arrange to meet up either there or somewhere halfway between us. Man, was he stunned! His dick had been locked in that tiny prison for over a year because he had no idea how to even begin to go looking for it. A year, man… I can’t even think about it…
So yeah, he joined the party that night. It was clear that Philippe’s plumbing was a bit rusty compared to us other three. Things didn’t work quite as smoothly as maybe they once did. But eventually, fireworks went off up there in Montreal, a thousand miles away from the soft night breezes of the Florida Keys.
So here I am, back in Somerville, Mass, all parts of me happily reunited under one roof. Mostly. And my money troubles are behind me, because I can now focus full-time at work, and then I’ve got this little side gig selling, uh, stories.
See, I decided not to rush into getting the reattachment done right away. I mean, SRB said that any competent surgeon could do it, but I really had no reason to trust that he was telling the truth, or that he even knew what he was talking about. There was no rush – substances both excretory and amatory came out just fine. So I figured I’d wait a week, or a month, or however long it took until I found a doctor I knew could do the reattachment without screwing anything up. And now it’s a little over four years and I still just haven’t gotten around to having it done.
I’m kind of glad I waited, actually. I heard from Philippe a couple of times after we did the handoff. He went for the reattachment right away and it didn’t go so well. He’s not sure what went wrong, maybe a bit of misalignment? Whatever it was, there’s some nerve damage. He’s only got about 60% sensation there, which means he can pee just fine, but getting a hard-on and doing anything with it is really tough for him. Shooting a load is possible, but it takes him a long time and a lot of effort to get there.
So I’m in no rush. And you know what? It’s actually pretty convenient not to have to tote the family jewels around everywhere I go. Instead, I leave them locked up here where they’re safe. I store them on a hook I’ve got hanging over the commode. It’s very convenient; if I feel like sleeping in on a cold January morning but my bladder is full up? Doesn’t matter – I let loose without having to haul myself out from the toasty warm covers. Ditto if I’m on the dance floor and have been enjoying a few beers – long line for the men’s room? Not for me, I don’t even have to stop dancing. I just flush next time I happen to be in the bathroom.
I don’t have to worry about my boys getting squashed by tight pants, or caught between me and a bike seat, or accidentally elbowed on the T. I can jump feet first off a high board into a pool. I can play a game of softball and take a pitch straight to the crotch – that actually happened.
Oh, and besides all that? I can blow myself.
Yeah. Think about that. I can pick up my own cock and shove it as far down my throat as I can take it. I can give myself the. Best. Blowjob. Ever, because I know exactly what it feels like on both ends. I know when to pull hard, when to ease off and tickle the head with my tongue; I know when to pull away to breathe and when to just keep at it even though my lungs are aching for air because I’m only seconds away from shooting a hot, juicy load straight down my own throat. I’m telling you, it’s tough to beat.
Oh, and the same principle applies on the other end. I can reach behind me and plug my ass with my own stiff chunk of wood and plow it in and out until I fill my own hole with my own seed. Or I can stick it up on the shower wall with a suction cup attachment and impale myself that way. That’s fun, but it’s a hard pose to actually shoot in. See, when I get close to coming, I like to straighten my legs and thrust my hips forward to help get myself over the edge, but that’s exactly the wrong thing to do in the shower because it pulls my schlong out of my ass. But I’ve made it work a few times, just for the novelty of being able to say “honey, been there done that, and lemme tell you, I’m better at it than you’ll ever be” when someone tells me to go fuck myself.
There are drawbacks, sure. I have to make sure to keep track of it because there is no way in hell I am ever going to risk losing control of it again. And even though it’s nice to take a leak without leaving the cozy blankets, there are times when I wake up in the middle of the night with a stiffy, you know the kind, that achingly hard, brief-busting boner that you know just can’t get any fuller? And I just want to stroke it off and drift back to sleep, only it’s all the way over in the bathroom! So about half the time I get up and take care of things, and half the time I just lie there until it softens up on its own, then get mad at myself in the morning for being such a lazy bum.
Sometimes I put the thing on and wear it around like a normal guy. I attached some little loops to the wormhole-glass side and that lets me fasten it in all sorts of ways, either to me or to handles or other objects. If I want to wear it, I use a strap-on dildo harness. It holds things in place very nicely, very comfortably.
I think of Slimy Rat Bastard from time to time. I’ve actually reached a point where I’ve forgiven him. I mean, I would never, ever allow myself to be put in a position of vulnerability around him again. But I’ve gotten past the want-to-bust-his-face-in phase. If I were to see him again, I could manage to be stiffly cordial instead of a flaming rage rocket. Hating only hurts the hater, right?
Anyway. I think I’m rambling now. That’s it. That’s the end of the story. I hope you feel like you got your money’s worth?
Ah, good. You want another soda, maybe some chips? It got awful late while I was talking, didn’t it?
You know what? I like you. You have a nice smile, sweet eyes, good firm handshake… good firm ass. I could definitely get into a guy like you.
You wanna get it on?
Nah, this is totally above board. You bought a story, remember? I’m offering the sex not for money but because I think you’re hot, and because even though I am now the number one expert sucker of my own cock, I like to spice things up with a little variety. Keep it changing, keep trying new things.
Now, if you were a guy with more vanilla tastes, like about half the gents that come through that door, I would suggest that I blow you while I’m fucking you. My dick up your ass; my mouth on your cock. At the same time. Then, because I’m really big on that reciprocity thing, we could swap places. You fuck me while sucking on my dick. Picture how that would work? Now, it’s possible you’ve done one or both of those things before, because ever since word of my situation went viral, wormhole-glass body modification has become popular among a small group of enthusiasts, but I guarantee it’s not an experience you’ve had with many other guys.
But your tastes run in other directions, so here’s what I’m going to propose we do instead. I’m going to tie you up. Well, chain you up, actually, but no one uses the word “hogchain”, and that’s the position I want you to be in. I want to hog-tie you right there, on the bed. I want to lock your wrists together, lock your ankles together, then fasten all four with short chains. Not too tight, because I plan to keep you locked up that way for a few hours at least. And during those few hours you are going to suck me off.
Yeah? You’re liking this idea, I can tell. Your pants give you away. Oh, I forgot to mention: having to hide an inopportune erection is just one more nuisance I no longer have to worry about.
And for this scene? No reciprocity, not for the bondage. I’m sure you can understand, I just don’t know you well enough to risk letting you tie most of me up and then abscond with the rest of me. Maybe if we get to know each other better, some day. But not today. Today, you are going to lie bound on that bed and blow me. Interested? Well, get on up there, then.
Shirt off please. Pants and undies too. That’s it. Now, hands behind you. Good. You know, this whole bondage, S&M thing really does not work for me. Ankles now, please. I mean, I don’t have anything against it, it just doesn’t do anything for me. Lift ’em up now, closer to your wrists. Yeah, that’s it. Guys like you really get off on the restraint, I know, or sometimes the pain, and I’m totally cool with helping you indulge that. I just have no interest in being on the receiving end. OK, try getting out. Not too tight? Not too loose? Great.
OK, now, open up, please. This gag is going in. These rubber bits are gonna fit between your molars and prevent you from closing your mouth too far. Speaking of which, I’m gonna need something. Hang on, I’ll be right back.
Here we go: exhibit A, one twig with matching berry pair. Sorry it’s not stiff yet, but that’ll change as the night progresses. Now, this is going into your mouth. It should fit nice and easy now while it’s soft. There… we… go. Mmm, I like the feeling of my balls pressed up against your chin. That short beard you wear is deliciously raspy on them. And now that dick isn’t so soft any more, is it? I’m just going to tighten this strap now behind your head… there. All set. You can breathe OK? Great, because that dick is not coming out of your mouth until I decide it’s time.
One more thing. This hood is going to ensure that you don’t see anything or hear much, so you can focus on those nice, satisfying feelings of restraint that you crave. Oh, and on pleasuring my dick.
OK, there we are. Last chance to make any adjustments. Everything OK? Nod if you’re all set.
Great. Now, here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to head on down to Corkscrewed. It’s about 10:30 now, so things are just starting to get going there. I’m going to have a drink or two, which I will monitor closely like I always do these days. I’m going to dance. I’m going to work up a sweat with those hot guys there in that club. I’m going to press my shirtless chest right up against the back of some well-muscled hunk and feel our sweat slide between us. I’m going to grab some random stranger and make out with him. I’m going to squeeze some fat, meaty tits and maybe grope a groin or three.
And while I’m doing all that, you’re going to be here in this apartment concentrating on making my dick happy. At some point, maybe while I’m grinding my empty crotch up against some guy’s ass, I’ll probably shoot a load down your throat. Do whatever you want with that load, swallow, spit, dribble, rub it all over your gums and lips. I’ll most likely head back to the bar then, have another drink, relax a bit, then take another spin back out on the dance floor and do it all over again. I’m not as young as I once was, but I think I can manage two loads tonight. The second one might take a little longer, hope you don’t mind working for it.
Eventually, in a few hours at most, I will be back to let you loose. And I’ll go this far with reciprocity: if you haven’t shot your own wad from humping the sheets by the time I get back, I will make sure to give you a helping hand before undoing the chains and gag. Fair enough?
All right, I’m heading out. See you in a while.
Mmmmmm… that tongue sure feels good…
POW's Fiction - Gay S&M Stories 