She moved away to college and became a registered nurse, but our correspondence never ceased. Over the years passion grew into a very strong love. At one point I even looked my wife and son in the eyes, told them I was leaving but not the real reason. I had purchased a house nearby with the intent of starting a new life with Chrissy. A voice deep inside, perhaps conscience or some spirit within stopped me. Having missed this deadline to move out or she would move on, Chrissy got so angry that the following night she came to my home and revealed herself to my wife and son. It shocked them; obliterated any trust either of them had in me; tore down their respect, dampened if not destroyed whatever positive feelings for me they had prior to this revelation. I held only anger and resentment for Chrissy and did not speak to her for months, but the love I felt for her was real, and combined with the passion most people seek but never find that burned within me for her, I reached out. And we ended up together again.

This cycle repeated itself many more times over the years, of her getting angry and pushing me away, but me reaching out and find ourselves rekindling this unshakable mutual adoration. I once said, “If I cannot end up with you, in your arms every night, then I want no one.” In a moment of understanding my own cravings, I added, “I can’t go through life desiring you this much either. So if we ever break up for good, then I need the desire to end permanently. I want no other. I want you to take away my sex. My balls.”

She seemed to understand this, my little angry Chrissy. “I’m too jealous to even imagine you sleeping with another woman. And I harbor incredible resentment towards you. I was a virgin, you seduced me, made me fall in love with you, and you keep deeply disappointing me. You’re spineless. You’re not a man. You’ll never move out.” But I told her I would, and on we continued in our passion.

During one cycle apart, she tried to transfer the love she felt for me onto a man. I had always been cautious about sex, however she took him inside her five times during their brief relationship. When I reached out to her she took me into the house she had bought during our absence, and as we lay together on her bed, we did not join together sexually, however she complained of an aching stomach. After getting tested days later, the news she dropped on me hit like a hammer: my perfect virgin lover had contracted HSV-2, genital herpes, from another man. I was blown away. A germ-phobe of the worst degree, this news crushed something inside me. I would never be able to taste her again, never feel the silken envelope of her body, skin against skin, without awful latex barriers.

This wall she’d tossed up definitely came between us sexually, though the passion I felt for her was no less intense. In fact, oddly over the years my desire for her only increased. I’d never felt anything like it before. She was like a drug to me, a powerful narcotic that required more and more just to remain stable. Yet I could no longer indulge, feed, and slake my need. Nor did I wish to find another. She had grown very deeply disgusted with my lack of answers and I could not blame her; my absence of commitment to free myself from my long and broken marriage. I sensed this break-up of hers was not one of our typical cycles. I felt that she was pushing me away for good this time. It was breaking my heart, and there was the ever-increasing desire for the most beautiful woman I had ever known. I remembered my promise to give up my sex. So did she. On a Friday night while she worked nightshift at an Emergency Room, she sent a text message asking if I was coming over her house tomorrow. I knew what it meant. I shivered, but steeled myself. It had to be. I replied yes. I would come prepared.

The next day at 1:00, I used the key she had given me to enter her house. She lay sleeping. I awakened her with my footfalls. At first she smiled as she always did at the sight of me, but then as her conscious mind returned she grew serious. “Hold on,” she said as she went into the bathroom, wearing only panties. She could easily pass for an underwear model I thought as she bounded past. I heard the toilet flush and sink running.

“What did you bring?” she asked. From the bag I withdrew a wide-mouthed jar of rubbing alcohol sealed with a lid. On the side I had affixed a label with my name and the dates 2000 – 2010. Long rubber bands. Tape for restraints. Four lengths of soft rope. Gauze. A curved ulu knife with cutting board. I looked up at her. She was staring straight into my eyes.

“I’m scared, but I know this is for the best.”

She nodded. “Yes, it is for the best. I had hoped to have children with you but you can’t even risk a little herpes to give me that. If I can’t have proper sex with the hope of having children with you some day, then yes it’s definitely better this way.”

“What if I get so scared that I back out?”

A small smile crept across her beautiful face. “I won’t let you back out.” I looked at her and shivered a little, and her smile faded. “Get undressed,” she commanded. I did as she said. My cock was sticking straight out. I couldn’t help it. She really is that beautiful, and I loved her with everything in me. She looped a piece of rope around my genitals, placed everything else back into the bag, and lead me down the stairs from her second floor bedroom to the first floor and ultimately down her basement stairs. The ceiling of wooden beams, joists, and cross pieces I could reach by just raising my arms, which she commanded of me to do. She used two pieces of rope to tie my wrists over my head and apart. She removed the rope from my sex organs and tied my feet to a mop handle, wide apart. Then she stood back to admire her handiwork.

“OK, this is how it’s going to go,” she said, standing maybe three feet away from me. “I’m going to milk your cock one time into a vial and freeze it. Maybe one day I’ll still want to have your kid, who knows. Right now I’m just pissed off,” she said, and the expression on her face coincided with her words. “Do you know why you won’t change your mind even a little?”

She stood there hands on hips expecting an answer. “No, I don’t, because I’m really starting to have second thoughts about this whole thing.”

Laughing, she said, “We both knew you would. So I’m going to spend however long it takes causing your balls so much pain that it will be a relief to see them gone. You get it?” With that she unleashed one bare foot into my crotch. My eyes exploded in red and white bursts, pain wracking my body from head to toe. Unexplainable pain to any female. Hard testicle strikes are nauseating and intensely painful. In theory she knew this, but in practice I thought I was going to vomit and pass out. But she did it again, right-handed Chrissy kicking me with all her strength, her right foot mashing my dangling balls up against my stomach with a loud resounding crack. The mop handle prevented me from closing my legs. I was helpless, completely vulnerable. Her punching bag.

At first I yelled out at the top of my lungs, yelled for help, yelled for rescue, screamed and begged for her to stop. No one outside could hear from down in the basement, and she was deaf to my struggles. After perhaps fifty kicks she must have grown bored because she switched over to using her knee, bringing it up, mashing my balls. At one point I did pass out, only briefly, but I came to under the stinging slaps of her hands against my face. She raised a bottle of spring water to my mouth which I gratefully gulped, then after that momentary respite, she grabbed hold of my balls and yanked like she was starting a lawnmower. I screamed, her face inches from mine. Oddly she kissed me hard on the mouth, exploring me with her tongue, and then backed away wearing a satisfied expression. This went on for probably two hours. She was actually getting tired, I could tell. Unleashing one final kick, the strongest of them all, she stood back as I sobbed, tasting the salt of my own tears commingled with the ever-present bile rising. It was the most miserable, painful situation of my life. And still, I loved her so much. I deserved it.

She pressed herself against me, gently cupping my destroyed balls in her left hand, stroking away my tears with her right. “I feel good,” she said. “That felt good.” She kissed me again, and despite the agony my cock swelled to full length. “Are you ready babe? Ready to do the right thing?”

I looked into the depth of her eyes, and in them found my answer. I nodded. She kissed me and said, “Good boy,” then released first my ankles from the mop, then my wrists from the ceiling. I collapsed against her. I had nothing left. She sat me down on the floor and disappeared upstairs for a moment. She came down with a glass vial topped with a red rubber stopper, like for a blood sample, I thought, in one hand; in her other a condom and “Big Blue,” a large battery-powered vibrator I’d given her. Upstairs she want, and lugged down a coffee table. From atop her dryer in the basement she spread some towels over the coffee table. Pulling me up onto the table, again she asked if I was ready. Again I nodded. I really just wanted it to be over, I was in such persistent pain. My balls were killing me. She used the four lengths of rope to secure my wrists and ankles to the table. I looked down and all I could see was my cock sticking straight up. Topless in little jockey panties, long hair spilling down onto my stomach as she tied, I still saw only my dream girl in the flesh.

Using the rubber bands, she yanked my screaming balls down hard and I yelped. She tied one band low where the balls were squashed tightly at the bottom of my bruised sack. She tied the other about half an inch above the other, leaving a pencil-thin tube of purple flesh between them. She surprised me then by engulfing my cock in her mouth making it as hard as it can get, slipped on the condom, grabbed Big Blue, and straddled me. She guided my cock into her sopping wetness and slid down without a struggle. A little satisfied groan escaped her lips. Holding the blue business head of the vibrator against her clit, she rode me, groaning, her eyes going back in her head. I reached up to grab her perfect little tits but the ropes held me fast and I groaned. At that moment, she came. I felt the muscles inside her sweet recesses grip me through the latex. It felt good, and she sounded good, and at that moment like so many times in the past, I gazed up at her beauty and momentarily forgot the entire world. But like all those times, reality flooded back, and I started to thrash and scream, “Let me out! I DO NOT want this, let me go! Let’s do this for the rest of our lives, come on, this is stupid let me go!”

Chrissy laughed. More of a sardonic cackle. “Oh no, mister, not this time. I’ve given you a thousand chances. This is it. See that jar? In a few minutes, your balls will float in there forever.” I screamed. My agony of my body, my mind and my spirit poured forth in an ear-splitting roar. Chrissy dismounted, removed the condom, swabbed my aching genitals with a cloth soaked in some of the alcohol from the jar, then a quick swipe over the knife and the blue head of the vibrator – finally she reached for the ulu knife and cutting board, grinning through all of it this satisfied little smirk.

“Wait!” I said. “I didn’t cum! You said you wanted to fill the vial! If you don’t make me cum, then you have no chance of having babies with me, none,” I reasoned. “So if you can’t make me cum then you have to let me go.”

She was thinking. I was thinking of the next reason when she interrupted my focus: “OK. Fine. I broke your balls for over an hour. I’ll give this another hour. If I can’t make you cum, we’ll try this again another time.” Relief washed over me in glorious golden waves. All I had to do was to sink inside my pain, the waves of pain still emanating from my swollen purple agonized sack below up through my throat and behind my eyes and really throughout my entire nervous system. She positioned the cutting board below my balls, which now rested squarely against the smooth wood. In her right hand she gripped that gleaming hated knife like it was the key to a getaway car. Her mouth swallowed my shaft, bobbing, moist and silken. Her hair, her aroma, seduced me like never before. The sight of her literally perfect body goaded me. Despite the fear, despite the pain, memories of our best moments pushed away the despair and depression, the hopelessness at my hideous situation. The world’s most beautiful girl, my little angry virgin Chrissy, was slowly, deliberately, patiently sucking me into climax.

I closed my eyes. I fought it. Looking at her was much of the problem. I tried forcing an out-of-body experience. No use. I didn’t see that with her left she brought the vibrator up against my sack, lightly pressing it down against the cutting board. I realized it with a jolt when it kicked into life, sending pleasurable tingles throughout my throbbing purple sack. Pain slowly morphed into a sort of numb, pleasant sensation. I opened my eyes to look at the knife thinking that would snap me out of this seduction, but I caught sight of her flat stomach, her moist underarms, her long locks and perfect model face. The first itch of impending climax broiled deep in my prostate. Our eyes met and we mutually recognized what was happening. Through a mouthful of cock, she smiled.

The first spurt jetted into her mouth and immediately she withdrew, holding the vial over the tiny slit of my cock. Over the next ten seconds I groaned as we both watched it fill. Carefully she laid the knife flat against my heaving stomach to stopper the vial and again swallow my still sensitive, still pulsating cock. I closed my eyes in pleasure, then heard the rocking of the ulu and felt a slight twinge of pain down below, followed by powerful sensations of relief from the throbbing testicular pain. I opened my eyes. Chrissy held my severed ball sack in her left hand, swinging it like a pendulum, wearing the most beautiful and satisfied little grin. As she plopped them into the alcohol jar, I passed out.

I regained consciousness in her E.R. with no memory of how I got there. “Chrissy?” I called out, but it was another nurse standing across the room, busy with a chart.

“You know Chrissy?” she asked, shooting me a glance.

“How did I get here?”

The nurse came over and held my hand. “Somebody dropped you off, we don’t know who.”

“What… what happened?”

She gripped my hand. “Well, I have some bad news for you.” The reality crashed in. Ten years of my life - ended badly. The next ten, married to Chrissy, the patter of little feet again, the absolute best sex ever made possible by testosterone patches, more than made up for the awkward transition. Whenever she menstruated or at times when for whatever reasons she doesn’t want sex, she withholds the patches, enabling me to calmly focus on my work and without all of the road-rage and other angry fits that used to bother her. She keeps the jar locked where I cannot find it, but sometimes when we fight and I threaten to leave, to find someone else; she disappears and returns holding it, wordlessly reminding me that no one else would ever have me in this condition. That I belong to Chrissy, forever.