It scares the hell out of most guys, and I guess it does me too. Well, maybe it doesn't really frighten me anymore, having been up a few times...more like it's a dangerous thrill, like fucking the Sheriff's daughter. I'm happily single so don't worry much about having to explain to somebody if I lose, but always wonder about the guys who do. The ones who lose rarely come back, so I've wondered what their wives or boyfriends or whatever think about it when their man shows up missing some parts.

Tonight my boy Brock wanted to come. He'd just turned twenty-three and had heard of the Corral but never been, and wanted to go. I'm always up for it myself, so we got a little crew together and headed down there.

"So that's where they do it?" Brock asked as we walked in. At the back of the bar was a big plate-glass window, with a chain-link fence a few inches in front so bottles wouldn't break it. Behind that was a bar top, only about two feet deep. There wasn't a game on right now, so it was darkened. The football game was on the TV, and most of the guys in the bar were watching.

"Yeah," I told him. "You stand up there. See those gray metal things?" I pointed out a bunch of metallic devices fastened to the window. "You put your junk in there. When they start the round it tightens up so you can't pull out."

"Sounds uncomfortable," he remarked.

"Not really," I replied, "but I guess when I've been up there it's not what I'm usually thinkin' about." It was true; once I'd get clamped in, I'd be standing, legs spread a bit, cock and balls clamped into the hole, looking around at the other guys, laughing a little from the tension.

We headed up to the bar and got a round of beer, then found a table. "So when's the next round?" Brock asked.

"Every hour, on the hour. Sometimes on the half if it's real crowded." I checked my watch. "Half an hour 'til the next one. You gonna go up there?" I asked him.

"I dunno. First time I'll just watch, I think." Me and Jimmy gave each other knowing looks. A few more beers, we'd get him up there with us. "How many times have you guys been up there?"

"Hell, I dunno," Jimmy answered. "Thirty, maybe?" he looked at me; I nodded - that was about right. We'd beaten the odds so far.

"And you don't worry about it?"

Jimmy and I looked at each other with broad grins. "Of COURSE we worry about it," Jimmy answered him. "It's the thrill of doin' it."

"Yeah," I chimed in. "Nuthin' like not knowing if you're still gonna have your meat in a minute or two, man."

Brock just shook his head and smiled, but his eyes kept stealing over the window. We knew he wanted to go up there; he was just afraid to.

Thirty minutes turned into three rounds, and we were all feelin' pretty good. Everybody in the room shut up when the bartender clanged the bell and called, "Roulette contestants, to the bar!"

Jimmy and I hopped up. "So you comin' or are you a pussy?" I confronted the kid.

"I ain't no pussy," he replied, almost reflexively. He brooded for a moment, his eyes locked on that window, then hopped off his stool. "Alright, I'm goin'."

We got in line with a bunch of other guys, roughnecks all tryin' to show how manly they were. They led us into the backroom, where we stripped down and tossed our shit into wooden cubes along the wall. Everybody checked each other out back here. Even the straight guys would "compare" themselves to each other - not a hard feat considering there wasn't a limp dick in the room. Even Brock's thick ol' sausage was rock-hard.

They turned the lights on behind the glass and we filed in. The bar patrons watched us come out, cheering on and shouting out to their buddies. Each of us got behind one of the silver bits. On the back they had a hole to put your shit into.

"So how do you do this?" Brock asked.

"Like this," I showed him. "Slide your cock into the hole back here..." I pushed in, "until it locks around your balls." There was a faint click, and I pulled back a bit to show how it locked you in. Jimmy pushed himself in, and then Brock.

Once all the guys had their junk in the holes, the bartender rang the bell again. "Here we go!" he shouted.

Outside the glass, the backs of the metal cocklocks flashed a light, each in turn, moving fast down the row and then starting over. We couldn't see which was lit, but the crowd could, and we'd scan their eyes as they turned their heads to follow it.

The light moved slower and slower, the suspense building, and then finally, a click. The guy to Jimmy's right pulled out, yelling, "No, not me!"

The rest of us, even Brock, jerked off furiously, spurting our seed on the glass at seeing this guy cleanly decocked. His balls still hung heavy in their sac, but above them was just a little cauterized stump. He felt it up, eyes downcast, hefting his balls in his hand.

Once we all came, the light flipped back off, and all twenty participants exit the room. Nineteen of us exited proud, with broad victory smiles from having faced danger and escaping unscathed. One man exits, his eyes downcast. "No more fuckin' fer him, huh?" Brock commented as we dressed.

"Not as a top, anyway," Jimmy joked.

Back at the table with a fresh round of beer, Brock was still babbling about it. "Man...that was such a rush! I'm gonna go again!"

Jimmy and I smiled knowingly, having felt the same way after the first time we'd played. Putting yourself in that kind of a risky situation and coming out unscathed would give anybody a rush. Brock just babbled on and on about it.

An hour passed, and Jimmy and I just watched Brock go on the next one. He waved to us behind the glass, his thick meat trapped and in danger, but when the light stopped, it was on a guy down the line. Brock almost looked disappointed, but came back flushed and excited as ever. The bartender announced the 2AM game; there would only be one more.

We waited a minute for Brock to get back from the bathroom, and I started listening to the three guys talking at the table behind me. Rednecks all three, thick and burly, well-muscled from lives of physical labor. "Come on, man, let's try it," one with a handlebar moustache was trying to persuade the others to play. Apparently it was the first time here for all three of them.

A guy with a red bandanna tied around his head answered, "Hell, no. I don't want my dick cut off, man. I like havin' my thick ol' sausage."

"Yeah," the third, a Latino guy with a short black goatee, chimed in. "Why you wanna risk your dick, man? You won't be able to fuck the bitches anymore."

"Aw, come on, only one guy'll lose his dick," Handlebars replied. "Odds are slim it'll be any of us. What are you two, pussies?"

"Man, nobody calls me a pussy," Bandanna growled.

"Yeah, man, fuck you!" Goatee slurred, a little tipsy. "I ain't no pussy."

"Then prove it, man. Go up there with me," Handlebars said to Bandanna, and to Goatee, "and you got nuthin' to bet anyway. I've seen that thing you call a dick, man."

Bandanna growled. "Nobody calls ME a pussy," he grumbled again. "Alright, asshole."

"Little?" Goatee shouted. "LITTLE? My dick was big enough for your mom."

"No, no, don't worry about it," Handlebars worked him. "Just let us go."

"No, fuck you, I'm goin'!" Goatee shouted.

The three marched up and got in line with a few other giddy contenstants. I had been leaning toward skipping this one, but had a weird hunch about those three, so joined Brock and Jimmy for the game. We got in line right behind them, and filed into the backroom to strip down.

Behind the bar they all stand next to each other. I took the spot next to Handlebars, with Brock next to me and Jimmy on his other side. I tried checking out the 'necks and I noticed them looking at the others' erections. Handlebars' dick is bigger than his buddies by a good couple of inches, I would guess, and thicker, too - a real impressive piece of meat. Bandanna was pretty average, but I could see they really weren't joking about Goatee - he did have a real little dick, not much bigger than my middle finger, and balls the size of peanuts. I didn't get much of a chance to look before he shoved it into the metal trap. His face was bright red, probably ashamed about having such a tiny little dick.

The red light came on, and the stragglers all stuck their cocks in the traps. "Here we go," Brock beamed.

The intercome crackled with the voice of the bartender. "Alright, boys, this roulette's gonna be a Fifty-fifty Special."

"Fifty-fifty Special?" Brock asked. "What's that?" Other guys around the room were asking their buddies too. Even I get nervous. I'd heard of this but never been here for it. "They only do it once a month, at random," I explained. "Instead of one guy losing his shit, half of us will."

"Oh, shit," Brock muttered, then got that mischevious smile on his face. He was getting off on the odds, it was clear.

I looked back over to look at the rednecks, who were looking at each other, wide-eyed. "Oh, shit," Bandanna muttered. We all wondered which half of us would leave with cocks, and which half would leave without.

We started hearing the clicks and watching the faces of the crowd outside, now cheering even louder for their buddies in with us. My heart beat faster. "Oh, man," I thought. "I sure hope I don't lose this one." My eyes scanned the row of us, seeing panic in most all of our eyes.

After a few minutes, we hear the clicks. I exhale and open my eyes. Next to me, Bandanna's sobbing, tears running as cum is shooting past him from Goatee, who's only using two fingers to jerk his little weiner. Handlebars is looking down at Goatee with a relieved smile, his thick sausage still spurting all over his newly-dickless buddy's stomach.

I looked over at Brock and Jimmy. Brock, was fondling his balls like mad, trying desperately to cum, rubbing the end of his brand-new cock stump with his thumb. Finally he managed it, slumping against the glass as thick white jizz dribbled out his new stump and ran down his hairy nutsac. I looked up at Jimmy, and saw that he was just staring at my crotch with wide eyes. He still had a cock, still hard and leaking. My heart suddenly sank; I'd been too into Brock and the rednecks that I hadn't even looked at myself yet. Slowly I turned my eyes down, afraid of what I'd see.

There it was. Just a stump, leaking sticky hot cum down over my nutsac. I looked up to see Jimmy, eyes still locked on my crotch, jerking himself off again. Holy shit. I'd finally lost. My cock was gone. I was dickless.

The men started to file out of the room, but I just stood there, a little shocked, staring at my new cockstump. Jimmy patted me on the shoulder. "Look at the bright side - we'll only use half as many rubbers now."

I tried to laugh a little, and filed out with the rest of them. In the backroom we were all checking each other out. Most of the newly dickless men just pulled their pants up and left as fast as they could, but I hung back with Jimmy and Brock, checking the other guys out. Brock seemed almost proud that his cock was gone, checking himself out in the dirty mirror, attracting the glances of a lot of guys turned on by the muscular young guy showing off his truncated stump.

Goatee was taunting Bandanna. "I'm gon' fuck you goooood, dickless," he smiled. Bandanna looked to be on the verge of tears. Handlebars was watching Brock show off in the mirror, rubbing the front of his jeans slowly.

We headed back out to the bar. I could feel my jeans rubbing against the end of my stump...it was turning me on something fierce. "So how's it feel?" Jimmy asked. "It hurt?"

I rubbed my crotch a bit. "Not too bad," I grinned. "Guess I'm gonna be a permanent bottom now, huh?"

"You guys wanna head on out or stick around for a bit?" Jimmy asked.

"Let's stay for another beer," Brock suggested, returning Handlebar's looks. Less than a beer later, Brock had his arm around Handlebars, and told us he'd ride with his new catch.

Jimmy didn't lose his cock that night, but he did a few months later. The three of us still hit up the Corral every now and again, and when we're lucky we get to take a new guy, cheering him on his first time up there, his cock in moral peril.

We're going next weekend. You should come.